The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “Ma’am,” said PC Abbott. “Do you still need me? Only I’ve got a mountain of paperwork.”

  Lesley remembered that, and knew that it had only got worse in the twenty years since she’d been a PC. “You’re fine, PC Abbott. Thanks for your help.”

  She clapped her hands. “Come on, then! Everybody bugger off out of my office.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Lesley. Come in.” Detective Superintendent Carpenter closed his laptop and sat back on his chair. “How was your first day?”

  “Fine, Sir.”

  “You don’t have to be so formal, you know. Sit down.” He gestured at the chair she stood behind.

  Lesley sat and smoothed her hands on her skirt. Truth was, she was tired and her head pounded. But she wasn’t about to tell her new boss that.

  “So how’s it going with the Weatherton case?”

  “We’re making good progress. Forensics have been helpful, we’ve interviewed the three people who shared a house with the victim. Tomorrow I’ll be visiting his wife.”

  “She’s a suspect?”

  “She lives in Bristol with her eleven-year-old daughter, so it’s unlikely. I’m looking for background, on her husband.”

  “I’d heard you were all about the evidence. Building a case.”

  “I am, Sir.” She didn’t tell him she’d had to remind her team of this twice today.

  “But you’re looking for background?”

  “We need to identify who might have had a motive to kill him, Sir. But that’s only one angle. We—”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “It sounds like you’ve got it all under control. Question is, can you handle a murder inquiry so soon into your posting?”

  “I have years of experience of this kind of case. Many far more complex and dangerous. In the West Midlands force—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure we’re small beer compared to what you’re used to. But you were sent here for a slower pace, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Sir. But like I say. I’m more than up to leading a murder inquiry. We’ve got potential suspects coming out of our ears, I’m sure we’ll pin it to one of them soon.”

  He frowned. “Make sure you choose the right one.”

  “We’ll go where the evidence takes us.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She shifted in her chair. Carpenter’s office was bright and modern, large windows to one side and three almost identical pieces of anodyne modern art on the wall behind him. The sun filtered through Venetian blinds and hit her face, making her squint.

  “Is that all, Sir?”

  He opened a file on his desk. “You’ve been summoned.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Back to the West Midlands. They want you to—”

  “But I’ve only been here one day.”

  “Let me finish. They want you to attend a meeting with a Superintendent Rogers. Wednesday morning.”

  “That’ll be a case I was working on.”

  “They need you to go all the way back to Birmingham? Can’t you do it over the phone?”

  She swallowed.

  Carpenter would learn about this eventually: best coming from her.

  “Superintendent Rogers is from Professional Standards. He’ll need me to give a statement clearing up a case I was involved with.”

  “You were investigating police corruption?”

  “I can’t talk about it I’m afraid, Sir. But I’ll make sure my team have work to do before I go. I’ll be on the first train back.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He closed the file. “I’ve heard good things about you, Lesley. I hope you live up to them.”

  “As do I.”

  “Indeed.” He surveyed her. The informality he’d insisted on when she’d walked in was gone. Was it the mention of Professional Standards?

  “Dismissed.” He opened his laptop.

  Lesley left his office, her muscles tight.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Laila slid down the stairs from her bedroom, her limbs aching. She’d spent most of the afternoon lying face-up on her bed, memories of what she’d seen in that tent flashing through her mind.

  Crystal was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. They’d all had a day off, with the police taking over the site, but Crystal had gone down there anyway. She was determined to make sure they didn’t damage anything.

  Laila eased onto the bench behind the kitchen table, saying nothing. Crystal hummed to herself as she cooked. Laila watched, wondering about Crystal and Archie’s relationship. They’d known each other before this dig, but Archie hadn’t told her how well.

  “Crystal?”

  Crystal dropped the wooden spoon she was holding and turned.

  “Bloody hell, Laila. How long you been sitting there?”

  “Five minutes, maybe?”

  “It was a rhetorical question. Give me a hand, will you. I need someone to cut the bread, lay the table.”

  “Does the table really need to be laid?” Back home, Laila’s mum had just plonked food onto a plate and left Laila to decide what to do with it.

  “Yes, the table needs laying.” Crystal snapped a tea towel at her. “Come on, it’ll do you good to do something useful.”

  Laila pushed herself up and opened the pine dresser where they kept plates and cutlery. She placed three settings on the table, her chest tight.

  She stood back and gazed at the empty space where Archie’s plate should be.

  Crystal put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it, eh? I’ve made bolognese, that’ll cheer you up.”

  “I’m vegetarian.”

  “No you’re not. You ate Archie’s chicken wings last week, didn’t you?”

  Laila shrugged. She’d been thinking about going veggie for a while, but Archie had discouraged her.

  Maybe now was the time.

  She sat down. “Did the police talk to you?”

  Crystal tensed, her back to Laila. “They did. After they’d trampled all over the dig site.”

  “We trample all over it, all the time.”

  Crystal turned. “We know what we’re doing. If they damage something important...” She frowned. “No wine?”

  Laila looked at the table she’d laid: glasses, but nothing to drink. “It didn’t feel appropriate.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Crystal reached into the fridge and brought out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She slammed it on the table. “Drink some. Pour some for me, while you’re at it.”

  The front door clattered open and a gust of air rushed through to the kitchen. Crystal rolled her eyes. “Back from the pub.”

  Patrick stood in the doorway. “Smells good.”

  Crystal gave him a dark look. “It was supposed to be your turn.”

  “Ah hell, I’m sorry.” He stepped towards the stove. “Here, I’ll finish off.”

  Crystal slapped his hand away from the pan. “I’m almost done. You can cook tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Patrick turned to Laila. “How’s our waif and stray doing?”

  “I’m fine.” Laila huddled over the table.

  “Those detectives talk to you?” he asked as he took the seat opposite. She shuffled along the bench, not wanting to meet his eye. He leaned back. “They were pleasant enough, though. The fella in charge didn’t seem to think I could have done it.”

  Laila winced. How could he be so casual?

  “It wasn’t a fella in charge,” Crystal corrected him. “It was a woman. A DCI, no less.”

  “Only woman I saw was a uniformed lassie. Pretty young thing.” He rearranged the cutlery in front of him.

  “Paddy, I’ll thank you not to talk about women like—” Crystal began.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m a dinosaur. So shoot me.” He winked at Laila, who knew he was a lot worse than a dinosaur. She pulled her feet under the bench, shrinking away from him.

  “Grub’s up.” Crystal placed two pans on the pine table: the spaghetti and the sauc
e. “Where’s the bread, Laila?”

  “Sorry.” Laila shuffled out from behind the table and fetched the bread she’d already sliced.

  Crystal sat on the bench, spooning spaghetti onto her plate. “I bloody need this, after the day I’ve had.”

  “Sitting on yer arse watching the coppers,” Patrick commented.

  “Preserving the dig site. It took me sixteen years to get—”

  “Yeah, yeah. We all know the sob story. Poor Crystal, spending half her life fighting the bleedin’ National Trust. Save it.”

  Crystal eyed him across the table. Laila shuffled a little further away. She was going to fall off the bench if she wasn’t careful.

  “What’s got into you?” Crystal asked Patrick. “You normally hide your obnoxiousness behind a veneer of Irish charm.”

  Laila held her breath. She knew Crystal and Patrick had worked together before. Years ago, Crystal had been Patrick’s junior on other digs. Now, she was in charge.

  Patrick laughed. “And I do a damn fine job of it.” He shovelled spaghetti into his mouth, giving Crystal a wide-eyed look. He swallowed then turned to Laila.

  “So who d’you reckon did it? Was it you?”

  Laila clutched her knee under the table. “What?”

  “Leave her alone, Paddy,” Crystal said. “If she’s guilty, that’s for the police to get to the bottom of.”

  Laila stared at her. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Course you didn’t, love. Neither did I. And neither did Paddy here, if you ask him.”

  “Weren’t me, officer.” Patrick raised his hands.

  “There you go,” Crystal said. She leaned forward. “But somebody did, didn’t they? I know I’ll be locking my bedroom door tonight.”

  The air in the room shifted with the implications of what Crystal had said. Laila looked between the other two, who were staring back at her.

  “I’m not hungry.” She pushed her plate away and squeezed out from behind the table, wishing she hadn’t sat this side. “I’ll be in my room.”

  “Archie’s room, too!” Patrick called after her as she climbed the stairs. “Police’ll want to search it, I bet.”

  She closed the bedroom door behind her. When she’d caught Patrick snooping in here, he’d shown none of his usual bravado. He never did, on the rare occasions they were alone.

  She shuddered. Don’t think about it. Archie’s things were still here. They wouldn’t be for long. Even if the police didn’t want access, his wife would turn up to take everything away.

  What had Patrick been looking for? Had he found it? His hands had been empty when he’d confronted her at the top of the stairs.

  Laila took a deep breath and opened the top drawer of Archie’s bedside cabinet. She had to know.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lesley slid her grubby shoes onto the floor and sank back into the sofa.

  She wasn’t used to days like this. In Birmingham she’d spent much of her time behind a desk since becoming a DCI. But here, with less staff and no DI reporting to her, she was back to working in the field. She reckoned she’d enjoy it, as long as she could persuade her team to behave themselves. Especially Dennis.

  She peeled the lid off the takeaway curry she’d grabbed on the way home and picked up her phone to call home. It rang out four times.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sharon, love. I was expecting your dad to pick up.”

  “He’s gone out. Some work thing.”

  Lesley paused, her fork in mid-air. “You on your own?”

  “I’m fine, Mum. You let me get a train all the way home from Bournemouth, didn’t you?”

  The girl had a point. “Thanks for your text.”

  “You wanted to know when I got back. I’m more reliable than you give me credit for. Dad’s pissed off about it, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. He thinks you should have set me up as an unaccompanied minor, or something. So they’d keep an eye on me.”

  “I didn’t even know they did that.”

  “Me neither. Dad was at New Street when my train got in, though. Messaging me every two minutes after the train left Rugby. He’s worked out WhatsApp, you know.”

  Lesley chuckled. She couldn’t imagine her tech-averse husband on social media. He didn’t even have a Facebook account.

  “What you doing?” she asked her daughter.

  “French exam in the morning. Revising. Je suis, tu es, vous êtes.”

  “I hope your vocabulary goes beyond that.”

  “It does Mum, don’t worry. Don’t expect too much of me with French though, will you?”

  Lesley swallowed a mouthful of her Chicken Jalfrezi. “You have too little confidence in yourself, sweetheart.”

  “It’s called realism. I’ve always been crap at French, always will be.”

  Lesley was about to comment on Sharon’s language, but the thought of Dennis stopped her in her tracks.

  “You want to know how my first day went?” She’d been hoping to share this with Terry. She needed familiarity right now.

  “Sorry Mum, but I really have got a mountain of revision to do. Tell me quickly.”

  Lesley sighed. She eyed the takeaway carton; she should fetch a plate.

  “It’s OK, love. You get back to your work. Give your dad a hug from me, yeah?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Lesley laughed. “Tell him hello, then. Get him to call me.”

  “Will do.” The line went dead.

  Lesley gazed at her curry. It was bland and watery, unappetising. What did she expect, from a rural town like Wareham?

  She took it to the kitchen and put it in the fridge, which was all but empty. Just a carton of milk and a multipack of Mars Bars. She’d take a couple of those into work tomorrow, keep her going if she had to spend another day out of the office.

  She’d noticed a pub a few doors down from the takeaway: the Duke of Wellington. It was only a two minute walk.

  Five minutes later she was huddled at a corner table, a glass of red wine in front of her. She’d wanted to order a pint but the way the barman frowned when she pointed to the taps had put her off. So it was this glass of bitter Merlot instead. She wondered how long the bottle had been open.

  She sipped her drink and watched the pub’s clientele. It was quiet, the fact it was Monday trumping the fact this was Dorset in June. Two men sat at a table in the far corner, talking quietly over pints of cider. They had weather-worn faces and their hair looked wind-dried. Beyond them, a young couple sat at the bar. The man was skinny, with blotchy red skin and short blond hair. His hand kept darting out to touch his girlfriend: her knee, her elbow, her shoulder. The girl, for her part, was plump with long brown hair and bright green eyes that danced every time he touched her. Lesley guessed that this pair hadn’t slept together yet, but that they soon would.

  She finished her wine and went to the bar for a second. Maybe a bag of crisps too: the hunger had returned. Terry liked to make hints about her eating more healthily, maybe even going on a diet. She ignored him: none of his damn business what she ate.

  The barman had been replaced by a woman. She held a glass up to the optics, her back to Lesley. Her hair was thick and wavy, almost black and hanging just past her shoulders. Lesley ran a hand through her own hair, short, blonde and thin.

  The barmaid turned and placed a glass of vodka in front of the young couple. She glanced at Lesley, her eyes crinkling. She was older than Lesley had expected, with laughter lines and faint crows’ feet.

  “What can I get you?” she asked as the couple left the bar and found a table.

  “Large red wine and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, please.”

  “You sure about that? Lethal combination.”

  Lesley laughed. “I’m made of stern stuff.” She patted her belly. This woman was probably a couple of years older than Lesley, but there was something about her that made Lesley feel ancient.

  “You on holiday?” The
woman placed a glass and the bag of crisps in front of Lesley. “You don’t look like a tourist.”

  Lesley was still wearing her peach skirt and cream blouse, plus the muddy shoes. She should have changed.

  “Here for work. Just moved in round the corner.”

  The woman smiled. “Maybe we’ll see you again.” She walked away to serve a group of three women who’d just entered.

  Lesley watched her for a moment. Was it worth trying to make friends here?

  No. And if it was, befriending a barmaid was a bit of a cliché.

  She took her glass and crisps and returned to her table. She’d make this her last: she needed to be alert tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lesley opened her office door. “Dennis?”

  The DS and the two DCs looked up. It was 8:30am and she’d been impressed by the fact that Dennis and Mike had been here when she’d arrived ten minutes earlier, with Johnny not far behind.

  She took her chair behind her desk. Dennis entered and sat opposite her.

  “What’s the plan of action for today, then?” she asked.

  “Witness interviews. Susan Weatherton is available this morning. We need to find out more about Laila’s movements on Saturday, and establish alibis for the other two, if they have them.”

  “I want to talk to Archie’s boss at Bristol University, too.”

  “No problem. Johnny’s got her details.”

  “We might as well hit the road then. How far to Bristol from here?”

  “Two hours, with decent traffic. But if it’s all the same to you, boss, I think it’s best if I stay behind. I should be co-ordinating the interviews in Corfe Castle, we can’t leave the DCs to it on their own.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll take Johnny, you have Mike.”

  “I was thinking—”

  “Johnny has the information on the Bristol interviewees.”

  “Well, I don’t think—”

  “Dennis. If you rein in your urge to argue with me every time there’s a decision to be made, you and I will get on a hell of a lot better.”

  His hand went to his pocket but he didn’t pull out his notebook. That goddamn swear book. Could Lesley curb her language, if he could put a lid on his contrariness?