by LJ Ross
Ryan could hardly see any difference between the swelling on the ankle in comparison with the rest of the body but he trusted that Pinter would explain the distinction.
“You can see that the flesh is starting to distend. Decay is most active around the open wound areas but the bruising around this area of swelling on the ankle could not have occurred post-mortem.”
“Which means it was twisted before she died?”
“Yes, that’s most likely,” Pinter agreed. “It’s sprained and the blood had to be circulating to pool in that area, which means it happened ante mortem.”
Ryan searched the skin for signs of other bruising and, this time, he saw beyond the discolouration to the darker patches.
“And the bruising here?” Ryan’s gloved finger hovered over the remaining skin of Alice’s upper arms.
“Yes, that’s quite telling.” Pinter came to stand beside Ryan, while Phillips kept a safe distance. “You can see quite clearly there are deep imprints on the upper arms, in a circular formation that I would normally associate with aggressive handling.”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest and thought of Alice Chapman’s last moments, spent in fear.
“I’m still running blood tests and I’ll put together my full report but I thought you’d want to see this straight away.”
Ryan gave Pinter a grateful slap on the back.
“You were right. Let us know as soon as the DNA results come in.”
He looked over his shoulder to where Phillips stood, a little green around the gills, and smiled fiercely.
“Looks like we’ve got a stupid killer on our hands, Frank.”
“Oh, goody. They’re my favourite kind.”
CHAPTER 19
Lowerson told himself not to be put out by the fact Melanie Yates had just achieved something unprecedented. She had worked her magic on an uncooperative compliance officer at Victor Swann’s bank, who had just sent through reams of personal account records without requiring a warrant of any kind. A mere thirty minutes earlier, Lowerson had ended a protracted phone call with the very same man without any success whatsoever.
Typical.
“Let’s have a look-see,” he declared, wriggling his fingers and then clicking open the files on his computer. He noticed Yates following suit at the desk cubicle beside him and they settled down to pore over Swann’s accounts.
The numbers only covered the last three months but Yates had been promised more backdated accounts later in the day. Even looking at the most recent data, the neat little columns made for interesting reading.
For a start, they confirmed what the team already suspected of Victor Swann’s character; namely, that he was a spendthrift, to the point of being completely profligate with money. Every week, there had been new luxury retail purchases—last week, he had spent over three thousand pounds on his costume for the party alone. That included a handmade suit, cut to the old Victorian style specifications, handmade Italian shoes, a Hermes silk tie and a bespoke hat from a well-known milliner in London. He’d also bought smaller trinkets, including expensive aftershave and toiletries she’d seen advertised in Vogue and recognised from the inventory taken at Victor’s house. Then there was fancy fine dining, antiques and flashy membership of a local spa and golf resort.
That was just the tip of the iceberg.
Yates thought of the average pensioner in their seventies or eighties, of winter fuel allowance and supermarket coupons, and wondered how it was that the man had been able to spend so much. That led her to track the deposits into his account, which also made for interesting reading. While he had been paid a generous salary by the Gilberts, it was nowhere near enough to fund the kind of lifestyle Victor Swann had enjoyed.
However, when they added up all the regular cash deposits, that more than made up for the shortfall. Several times a month, deposits had been made into his account ranging between £500 and £2,000 a pop. The dates varied and, because they were made in cash, there was no account listed as the source.
She looked up and across to where Lowerson sat, his face trained on the computer screen. Yates opened her mouth to speak but found herself watching him for a moment longer, liking the way the sunshine fell on his dark hair, casting his face into a stronger profile than she’d noticed previously.
She promptly told herself to get a grip.
“Hey, Jack, did you see those cash payments last week?”
“Yeah,” he replied, still preoccupied with the figures. “There are similar payments the week before and pretty much every week before that.”
Yates got up and wandered over to his desk, sipping a bottle of sparkling water that had gone warm and flat sometime during the morning.
“Where was he getting all that cash?” she wondered aloud. “Do you think he had some kind of cottage business?”
“I definitely think he had something going on but I doubt it was above board. The question is, what was he selling?”
“If his finances do relate to how he died and one of the people working on the estate was involved, we really need to look at their accounts to match up withdrawals with the cash deposits here.”
“Mm, yeah, we should contact the financial investigation unit first. We need to ask them to check their database to see if there are any suspicious activity reports listed against Swann.”
“Or any of them,” Yates added.
Lowerson nodded.
“Definitely. We can’t use any of it without a warrant or a production order, but it would be a good start if they could point us in the right direction.”
“I’ll get onto the FIU right now,” Yates offered.
“Check the National Database too,” Lowerson told her, and surprised himself at how quickly he was taking to the whole mentoring malarkey. “You never know, there might be a marker on there for one of them.”
“Will do, guv.”
Lowerson almost burst with pride at being called ‘guv’ for the first time in his professional career but he managed to keep a lid on it.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to have a look at the old boy’s mortgage papers, insurance and pensions documents, everything we found at his house. If he had that much cash flowing through his account, he might have tried to launder some of it elsewhere.”
Yates blew out a long breath.
“We’ve stumbled onto something big here, haven’t we?”
Lowerson recognised the tone of voice, which was a mix of awe and gratitude at being able to get stuck into some real detective work.
“Let’s get cracking and see just how big.”
* * *
MacKenzie arrived back at Cragside to supervise what was supposed to be a simple forensic process, along with Tom Faulkner who came armed with a job lot of buccal swabs. He and his team of CSIs had returned for another day at Cragside to continue sweeping the area where Alice Chapman’s body had been found the day before, as well as the uppermost tower room where she had spent most of her working day. It should have been an easy task to take half an hour away from his ordinary duties to swipe the inside of each person’s cheek, having already obtained their voluntary consent on condition that the record would be destroyed afterward if it proved irrelevant to their investigation. Instead, they were met at the door by a smug-looking Martin Henderson, flanked by what could only be his solicitor. After so many years in the business, MacKenzie had learned to spot one at fifty paces.
“Good morning,” she said mildly, reaching for her warrant card.
It was thoroughly inspected.
“I have an appointment at nine-thirty to take DNA swabs,” she continued, in a no-nonsense tone. “Is everybody assembled?”
“I’ve told them all to get on with work as usual and you certainly can’t disturb the Gilberts because they’re resting,” Henderson sneered. “I’ve discussed it with my solicitor and she tells me that the detective constable had no right to coerce our consent yesterday.”
The solicitor bobbed her brassy bl
onde head and gave MacKenzie what could only be described as a very female look.
Her Irish hackles went up.
“There was no coercion involved whatsoever, and I resent the implication. Detective Constable Lowerson was fully within his rights to seek voluntary consent,” MacKenzie shot back.
“Ah, but the consent isn’t valid if we’re bullied into it,” Henderson told her. “Besides, you need to arrest me before you can take a sample. I know a bit about the law, you know. I did a night course.”
“Well done,” MacKenzie crooned, wondering if it was obtained from the University of Moronic Behaviour. “Would you like a medal?”
“Did you hear that?” he almost shouted at the woman standing silently beside him, racking up billable hours. “She antagonised me. I’m starting to feel harassed.”
MacKenzie gave him a withering look.
“You know, I’m really starting to wonder why you’re the only person raising obstacles to this enquiry,” she said, ever so softly. “It makes me wonder what it is you’re hiding, Mr Henderson.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he spat.
MacKenzie held his skittish gaze for a moment, measuring the man, then smiled pleasantly.
“In any event, it’s very convenient your lawyer is here. Since you are now repudiating your consent, that leaves me no choice but to enforce section sixty-three, sub-section four of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. Thanks to your extensive legal knowledge, I’m sure you’re already aware, Mr Henderson, that it empowers me to take a non-intimate DNA sample prior to charging you with an offence where it will tend to disprove…or prove your involvement in a recordable offence.”
His face lost colour and he turned to the woman standing beside him like a dummy.
“Melissa? Say something!”
“I’ll be happy to stay on for an extra hour,” she said, consulting an expensive watch on her bony wrist. “There’ll be a surcharge, of course.”
MacKenzie gave them another smile as she swept into the house.
“I’m so pleased we were able to clear up that little misunderstanding.”
CHAPTER 20
Thanks to Henderson’s interference, it took MacKenzie forty-five minutes to locate the eight people who had agreed to give a DNA sample. Having followed the advice of a seemingly legitimate solicitor and influenced by their officious estate manager, the staff had gone about their ordinary business. Unfortunately for the police, that took them to all corners of the vast estate and cost the investigation valuable time.
Which was surely the intention.
The Gilberts were the easiest to find. Cassandra and Lionel kept to their rooms upstairs while they recovered from the flu virus which, by now, was starting to spread to the rest of the household. Maggie, the housekeeper, was on hand to take care of them and had begun to develop a sniffle herself. Henderson had stormed off immediately after his cheek had been swabbed and hadn’t been seen since. Charlotte Shapiro had been found in the nursery with all six under-gardeners, discussing plans for an undeveloped area in the north-west gardens. There were no other staff members on site while the estate remained cordoned off and the forensic work continued.
MacKenzie finally found Dave Quibble in the drawing room, where he was crouched beside a table near the door poring over a large porcelain lamp with a painted shepherdess on the side.
“Sorry to disturb you,” MacKenzie said. “We’re ready to take the swab from you now, Mr Quibble.”
“Ah…” He stood up straight and turned to greet MacKenzie, whom he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting before.
He didn’t know what he had expected from a female detective inspector, but it certainly wasn’t an attractive redhead with direct green eyes and an Irish accent that could have melted butter.
“Very pleased to meet you,” he said, a bit flustered.
MacKenzie dutifully shook his hand.
“This should only take a minute, Mr Quibble—”
“Dave.”
“If you’d like to follow me to the staff room.”
As they walked down the long gallery towards the main stairwell, MacKenzie tried to put him at his ease by asking some basic questions.
“I understand you’re the conservation manager,” she began. “That must be a lot of work.”
“Oh, it never feels like work,” he said. “I love my job, especially the electrics in this place. Absolutely fascinating.”
MacKenzie had done a bit of research on the old house.
“I understand everything operates on hydro-power, as far as possible.”
“Yes, that’s right. You just caught me trying to figure out how on earth the fuse was blown the other night.”
“And, have you figured it out yet?”
“Well, we’ve been looking around the house now that the CSIs have finished inside the main rooms to see where the problem lies, although I suspect I’ll have to call in an electrician. I happened to notice that one of the old lamps had a frayed cord and there’s a wine spillage on the carpet nearby. I wonder if somebody spilled a drink on it and managed to blow the fuse.”
MacKenzie thought back to the statements she had taken on Sunday and of Charlotte Shapiro, but said nothing.
“I hope you get to the bottom of it,” she murmured.
* * *
Following the completion of the DNA swabbing, Faulkner instructed one of his junior staff to transport the samples back to their lab and to press on with testing against the samples recovered from Alice Chapman’s body. Afterwards, he took a short break and wandered around the side of the house and up into the rock gardens, which were impressive. Sandstone boulders covered the sloping hillsides to the west and south of the main house, interspersed with heathers, alpine plants and a couple of quaint waterfalls. He made his way to a boulder overlooking one of the smaller cascades and sat down to soak up the atmosphere before he returned to the less appealing task of sweeping a crime scene.
Charlotte Shapiro found him sitting there and was reminded for a moment of Bilbo Baggins in the Shire. Faulkner’s scruffy-looking hair had been left to tangle in waves around his round, open face and he wore plain clothing that mirrored her own dark green canvas trousers and well-worn leather boots.
“Hello,” she called out and watched him nearly topple off his perch.
“Oh, hello. Are they asking for me at the house?”
Charlotte shook her head and made her way along the footpath to join him. It wasn’t yet noon but it was another sunny day and the temperature was already heating up.
“No, it seems we both had the same idea about where to come for a walk,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”
Faulkner couldn’t think of a thing to say, so watched mutely as she parked herself beside him. He looked across at the cascades and reminded himself that she was, at the very least, a material witness and it was important they should not discuss the case.
“So, how’s the search going?” she asked brightly.
“Um, I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss an active investigation with you,” he replied stiffly, and she was delighted to note that the tips of his ears were burning a fiery red.
When his neck began to turn the same colour, she was suitably chastened.
“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I suppose I just want to know that you’re doing all you can to find out what happened to Alice.”
Her voice dipped low, thrumming with emotion, and Faulkner felt all the worse for not being able to reassure her of their progress.
“Ryan will get to the bottom of this, you can rely on it,” he said, with conviction.
“Yes, he does inspire confidence,” she said and her brows furrowed into a frown as she followed the lazy path of a bumble bee from one heather bush to the next.
“How did you come to be a CSI? Or am I not allowed to ask?”
She fixed him with a winning smile and his ears burned again.
“I, well, I sort of fell into it, I suppose. I did a chemis
try degree when I was younger and there was a workshop on careers in forensics. I thought it sounded interesting.” He paused, but when she didn’t show any signs of becoming bored, continued tentatively. “I was always a big fan of Sherlock Holmes and of Conan-Doyle, of course. Back in those days, it was really the inception of my line of work. They were starting to look at blood spatter and trace evidence more systematically to deduce what had really happened at a crime scene.”
“Aha, so you wanted to be a real-life Sherlock Holmes.”
He looked to see if she was making fun of him but all he could see was genuine warmth.
“Yes, I suppose that’s right,” he grinned. “I’m a big kid at heart.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Faulkner forgot the time for a moment and asked her the same question in return.
“Why did you become a gardener?”
Charlotte looked away, out across the beautiful rock terraces where she could name every single plant, explain its origins and how long it was likely to survive.
“When I was growing up, we didn’t have a big house,” she began quietly, wondering how much to say. “It was just a little terraced place with a yard at the back but my mam and dad used to take me and my brother on the bus up here to Cragside or some other place in the country whenever they could.”
She closed her eyes briefly, remembering.
“I’d never seen so much greenery,” she recalled. “And when I found out this entire valley used to be flat and empty, I could hardly believe it was possible to create so much texture and beauty from a blank canvas.”
“It sounds as if it’s a kind of art to you,” he said.
“I think it is,” she smiled, happy that he understood. “I started growing little tomato plants on the window sill at home, or herbs. It was the start of a love affair that has lasted a lifetime.”
Faulkner could appreciate the sentiment entirely and was content to sit for another minute watching the water until it was time to leave.
“It was…nice talking to you,” he offered.
Charlotte smiled and watched him make his way back through the rocks to deal with death.
