by Sally Rigby
‘Where the body was left is interesting because although it wasn’t placed in a highly populated area for everyone to see, it wasn’t buried either. Also, it was left in such a way as to indicate the killer was sending a message. We need to find out what.’
‘But the body was found quite quickly,’ Whitney said.
‘Who found it?’ Matt asked.
‘A jogger on his early-morning run.’
‘In this weather?’ Frank said.
‘Not everyone’s a fair-weather exerciser,’ Matt said.
‘Some people don’t exercise at all,’ Doug added. ‘Do they, Frank?’
‘What’s this? Get at Frank day?’
‘You can take it,’ Doug said, grinning at him.
Frank sat back in his chair and banged his hands on his stomach. ‘This is all bought and paid for,’ he said, laughing.
George joined in. She enjoyed the banter that went on between this close-knit group of detectives. She’d got to know Ellie, Frank, and Matt well during the last case. Doug and Sue she knew a little but hoped to get better acquainted with as they worked together.
‘Enough hilarity, if you please,’ Whitney said, drawing it to a close. ‘George, do you have anything else to add?’
‘Nothing, other than to agree with you. The investigation should focus on people known to the victim.’
‘Thanks,’ Whitney said. ‘We have—’
The door opening interrupted her, and Detective Superintendent Tom Jamieson, Whitney’s immediate boss, walked in.
Whitney’s face changed from smiling and relaxed to tense and on alert. Although following the arrest of the campus murderers he’d been a little easier on her, George knew Whitney believed it to be only a matter of time before he returned to how he was before. They clashed at every turn. As Whitney was so fond of pointing out, he’d come in through the Fast Track scheme, and for her that meant he was totally inexperienced in the parts of policing which mattered most.
‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ Jamieson said. ‘I’ve heard a body’s been found. What have you done about it, so far?’
‘We have a white male in his early forties, found on the waste ground next to the racecourse on the edge of the city,’ Whitney said.
‘And we’ve ascertained it’s murder already?’ Jamieson asked.
‘We’re awaiting the post mortem results from Dr Dexter, but we’re assuming so, as the body had been mutilated.’
‘In what way?’ Jameson asked.
‘He’s missing his genitals,’ Whitney said.
Jameson grimaced. ‘Has he been identified?’
‘I thought I recognised the victim. We’re checking records to confirm. If I’m correct, we’ll inform the family.’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t come with you as I’m due in a strategic planning meeting shortly,’ Jameson said.
Whitney’s lips turned up in a slight smile.
‘Not a problem, sir. I’ll take Dr Cavendish with me. Under the circumstances, it might be useful to have her assistance when visiting the family, as it’s such an abhorrent crime.’
‘Good idea. Report to me later on how we’re doing. In the meantime, I want it solved PDQ. Dr Cavendish, are we to expect more murders, or is this a one-off?’
‘Too early to say. This type of murder is extremely personal, but as we have no idea of the motive, we can’t close ourselves off to the possibility there could be more,’ George said.
‘True. Right, I’ll see you later.’ He directed his words at Whitney.
Everyone was quiet until he walked out of the incident room, and once the doors shut, the noise started.
‘You lucked out there, guv. Thank goodness for the strategy meeting, otherwise you’d have had to spend time with him,’ Frank said.
‘That’s the DSI you’re talking about,’ Whitney admonished, but with a grin on her face so they all knew she didn’t mean it as a reprimand.
‘Guv, I’ve got the information you need,’ Ellie said.
‘Great.’
‘The licence was renewed last year, so the photo is current,’ Ellie said.
George followed Whitney over to Ellie’s desk. On the screen was Russell Atkins’ driving licence, showing his photo.
‘I was right. The victim is definitely him,’ Whitney said.
‘You want me with you when you speak to the family?’ George asked.
‘I would, but I know you’re busy. I only said it to pacify the DSI. Unless you’re able to come with?’
Should she? She didn’t have any classes or tutorials, though she’d actually planned on running through her presentation to make sure all the PowerPoint slides were accurate. She could do it in the evening. She had plenty of time. When you lived on your own, you could do exactly what you wanted. She’d lived with someone for a few months last year, and it turned out to be disastrous in so many ways. Now she didn’t have that issue, there was nothing stopping her. She’d come up with an excuse if anybody from work questioned where she was.
‘Yes, I can,’ she said.
‘Good. Ellie, if you could quickly get me contact details. Frank, I want you to access all the CCTV footage around the area and look for anything suspicious. Sue, you’ll need to help him. Matt, as soon as Ellie has some background information, I want you to head to his workplace and find out if anyone has a grudge against him. Doug, I want you to check to see if any sexual offenders have been released into the area recently. We have to cover all possibilities. I’m hoping by the time George and I have been to see the family, we might have something to work with from Dr Dexter. In the meantime, everyone, keep in touch. Let’s hope this is an isolated incident, because we don’t want any more mutilated men turning up on our patch.’
Chapter Five
‘We’ll take my car,’ Whitney said once they had Atkins’ contact details. His next of kin was listed as Diana Atkins, his wife. ‘I’m glad it’s you and not Jamieson coming with me. Just because he’s being reasonable, I still don’t trust him. He’s out for himself and his own promotion. If I get in the way or do something to damage it, he’ll soon change. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet he’s giving me.’
‘Good idea. Make the most of it,’ George said.
She glanced at George in her well worn jeans and jumper. Her short blonde hair was a little messy, probably from pulling the sweater over her head. It made her look much younger than her thirty-four years. She’d never seen George dressed like it before. The couple of times they’d been out in the evening, she’d worn something smart. Whitney was quite envious of the doctor’s sophisticated air.
‘If the village Russell Atkins lives in is anything to go by, he’s obviously done very well for himself. According to Ellie, he’s a strategy consultant for an international consulting firm.’
Maidenwell village was ten miles out of the city, and she didn’t visit often as it was relatively crime-free. It was typically upper-middle class and full of the county-set who sent their children to private school and kept horses at the local stable.
‘I don’t know it,’ George said.
‘I’m sure you’ll feel at home because they’re all your type.’ She cast a quick glance at George, hoping she’d taken her comment the way she’d intended.
‘My type? Talk about déjà vu. Didn’t you mention my type when we first met?’
‘Yes, but now I’m saying it affectionately. Unlike before, when I was being mean. For which I apologise.’ She grinned at her.
‘Apology accepted. I thought the victim went to your school?’ George asked.
‘He did, but he must have made plenty of money along the way to afford one of the houses in Maidenwell. I bet even the smallest one is five times the size of mine. Anyway, tell me about this job you’re going for. It surprised me when Claire told me, because you hadn’t said anything.’
Whitney hadn’t intended mentioning it to George because she didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. It was George’s decision if she
didn’t want to tell her. But if this new job was going to impact their working relationship, surely she had a right to ask?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be interested. I know your view on academia and how it doesn’t mix with the real world.’
Previously, it would have been a correct assumption to make, though Whitney had come to the conclusion some of the stuff George came out with made sense. Not that she’d admit it to anyone.
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. You’re my friend, and of course I want to know if something exciting, like a new job, is happening.’
‘I’d hardly call it exciting.’ George shrugged.
‘Any new job is exciting, or is this you being your usual calm, logical, and unemotional self?’
‘I’m being realistic. Associate Professor is the next step and a solid achievement for someone my age. It will look very good on my CV. Obviously, there’s an increase in salary, though not a huge amount. For me, it’s more an acknowledgement of how proficient I am at my work. I’m not excited as such, but I do expect to be offered the position, as I’m already working at the university, thought of highly, and everyone has indicated the job’s mine for the taking.’
Years ago, Whitney’s promotion to Inspector had been stymied by a particularly nasty DCI, so she knew firsthand how things didn’t always turn out as expected. She wasn’t sure whether to say anything, as she didn’t want to upset her friend. Then again, knowing George, she wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
‘I don’t want to put a damper on it, but don’t take what they said as gospel. I know from experience how quickly things can change.’
‘I won’t,’ George said. ‘Anyway, that’s all there is to tell. As I said earlier, today was the familiarisation and next week it’s the presentation and interview.’
‘What are you presenting on?’ She glanced at George, who looked a little uncomfortable and kept her eyes focussed on the windscreen.
‘Working with the police, and helping with the investigation of the Campus Murders and the arrest of Henry and Harriet Spencer.’
Whitney tensed. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell me? Because of Tiffany?’
‘Not exactly. I’m not mentioning anyone by name. Nobody knows Tiffany was the twins’ fifth victim, and I won’t disclose it either. With hindsight, I didn’t tell you because it was such an awful time, I didn’t think you’d want to relive it.’
Whitney let out her breath. ‘It’s okay, I understand. But next time I’d rather you didn’t keep it from me.’
They drove out of the station car park and headed onto the main dual carriageway towards Maidenwell. After twenty-five minutes, they drove into the village and down a long country avenue lined with huge oak trees. Every hundred yards or so were large wrought-iron gates leading to houses which couldn’t be seen from the road.
‘We’re looking for number forty-four, which should be coming up on the left,’ Whitney said.
She stopped by the gate, leaned out of the window, and pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice came through the speaker.
‘DCI Whitney Walker and Dr Cavendish to see Mrs Atkins.’
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No, she isn’t. We’re here on a police matter.’
After a few seconds, there was a buzz, and the black gate slid open. She drove up the long drive, which was lined with small, very well pruned, circular bushes. It looked like something from a stately home.
‘How the fuck can Russell Atkins go from North Lenchester Academy to this?’ Her eyes were on stalks as she absorbed the grandeur of the house in front of them. It was a large, two storey, red brick Georgian building, with an imposing dark green door in the middle and four windows either side. It was enormous.
‘It’s certainly arresting,’ George said.
‘I suppose you lived in something similar growing up,’ Whitney said.
‘I admit my family home is large, but don’t hold it against me.’
She wasn’t surprised, but curious why George now lived in a small Victorian terrace. Although it was immaculately decorated and filled with expensive antique furniture.
‘No, I definitely won’t. Let’s go and see Diana Atkins and break the news.’
They got out of the car and headed towards the stone steps leading up to the front door. Whitney lifted a large brass knocker and tapped several times. Within a few seconds, the door opened.
‘Mrs Diana Atkins?’ she asked.
‘I’m the housekeeper. I’ll find Mrs Atkins for you.’ She held open the door for them to step inside.
George and Whitney exchanged glances as the woman walked off.
‘A housekeeper,’ Whitney said. ‘It’s all right for some.’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ George said.
She glanced around the large open hall, admiring the wood panelling which lined the lower part of the walls and the high ceilings with ornate ceiling roses and coving. On the walls were large oil paintings of country scenes, and although they weren’t to her taste, she nonetheless recognised as being good-quality art.
‘Mrs Atkins is in the drawing room, if you’d like to come with me,’ the housekeeper said on her return.
They followed her down the hall to one of the doors on the right. The woman knocked and opened the door for them to enter. The room was large and square, with antique furniture and long flock curtains with a huge pelmet. Floor to ceiling shelves full of books lined one of the walls. There were three large sofas and a single chair facing the large open fireplace, beside which logs were stacked with great precision.
Diana Atkins was sitting in the chair holding a newspaper, an Irish terrier at her feet. The woman got up as they walked into the room, folding the paper and placing it on the table next to her. She was striking, in her early forties, much taller than Whitney, and immaculately dressed in a calf-length, straight, navy skirt, a soft pink blouse, and navy court shoes. A string of pearls hung around her neck. Her glossy, straight, shoulder length dark hair was tucked behind her ears.
‘Good morning, Mrs Atkins. I’m DCI Whitney Walker and this is Dr George Cavendish. We’re from Lenchester CID. We’d like to talk to you about your husband.’
‘My husband isn’t here at the moment. He’s away on business. I’m expecting him back on Saturday morning,’ she said, smiling.
‘Please sit down. We have some news for you.’
The smile froze on her face, and she did as she was asked. Whitney and George sat on the sofa closest to her. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, this morning we found a body on the waste ground near the old racecourse, and we believe it to be your husband,’ Whitney said.
Colour drained from the woman’s face, and her lips pressed together. ‘My husband? No. That can’t be. He’s away in London working. Are you sure?’ Her hands were clenched tightly together in her lap.
Whitney drew in a breath. She’d never get used to this. ‘We need you to formally identify him, but we are certain it’s Russell.’
She stared at the woman. How would she react? In her experience, it ranged from hysterical crying, to disbelief, to absolute shock and an inability to speak. Or acting like they’d just been told something totally inconsequential and were trying to remain in control. Judging by Diana Atkins’ rigid face, it was the latter. Probably a case of stiff upper lip, which posh people seemed to value.
‘How did he die?’ the woman uttered, her voice hardly above a whisper.
‘We’re treating the death as suspicious, which means the coroner has ordered a post mortem. At the moment, Russell is with our forensic pathologist. Once we have her report, we’ll know more, and of course we’ll keep you informed,’ Whitney said, avoiding answering her question outright.
‘You mean he was murdered?’ The woman drew in a loud breath, and she leaned back in the chair.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t tell you anything else at the moment. Not until w
e’re sure.’
‘You say he was found near the old racecourse, but what would he be doing there?’ She shook her head.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Is there anyone we can call to be with you? Family? Friends?’ Whitney asked gently.
‘Thank you, but there’s no one close by. I’d rather be on my own.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am. When do you need me to come and identify him?’
‘We can do it later today. First of all, we’d like to ask you some questions, if you’re up to it.’
‘Yes, of course. If you could wait a moment.’ She rang the brass bell on the table beside her chair. Within seconds, the housekeeper appeared.
‘Isobel, please bring me a glass of water and a pot of tea for three. Would you both like tea?’ she asked.
‘Coffee for me, please,’ Whitney said.
‘I’ll have tea,’ George said.
‘Make that a glass of water, tea for two, and a coffee. You were saying,’ she said to Whitney once Isobel had left the room.
‘I know this is a huge shock, but in order for us to find out what happened to your husband, we need as much information from you as possible.’
‘I understand,’ she said softly. ‘Whatever I can do to help.’
‘Do you come from around here?’ Whitney asked.
‘No. I come from Northamptonshire. A small village called Chapel Brampton.’
‘How did you meet Russell?’
‘We met at the Pytchley Hunt one Christmas Eve fifteen years ago. He was there with a friend.’
‘He liked hunting?’
‘He loved anything to do with horses. We keep our own horses here in the stable. Why does it matter?’ she asked, frowning.
‘We’re trying to get a picture of what he was like. Tell me, did he work away from home often?’
‘Yes, in his line of work he has to travel an awful lot.’
‘He must have been doing very well to afford a place like this,’ Whitney said, gesturing with her hand around the room.
