Whitton turned to him. “It never makes sense.” Turning back to Barnard, she asked, “What time’s the post mortem?”
He turned his wrist, pulling back the elastic cuff to find his watch. “I suppose I could get it done tonight. Shall we say nine p.m. for the PM?” He chuckled at his play on words.
Whitton half-smiled before turning and walking away. She ducked under the police cordon and was set upon instantly by one of the local hacks.
“What can you tell us, is it another Doll Maker?”
“Fuck off,” she snarled, already pulling her phone from her pocket. She found the number she needed at the top of her last-called list and sighed with relief the moment she heard the cheerful “Hello!” loud and clear through the handset.
“What? Come on Whitton, give us something to go on,” the reporter continued to shout at her from his place behind the line, but she ignored him and concentrated on the call.
“Hey, I won’t be home until later tonight, PM with Barnard at nine,” she said, sucking in a breath and releasing it slowly. Rachel was fine, she was okay. “You still coming round?”
Rachel sighed. “Yes, I guess I will just have to entertain myself until you get here, won’t I?” Sophie Whitton felt the flush of desire wrap her cells as her lover’s voice dropped an octave and continued to inform her of the things she might do while she waited for Whitton to get home.
She turned away so that her words weren’t carried on the breeze and into earshot. “So, you’ll wait up for me then?”
“You know I will, Detective,” her girlfriend purred seductively into her ear. She felt relieved that she would see her, lay hands on her, before the day was out.
Whitton hung up. Biting her lip, she let the arousal disperse before Dale noticed and made some corny, dirty little quip. He seemed to have grown some balls since the Doll Maker, a newfound confidence around her. She liked it, but she wouldn’t encourage him by letting him know it. She owed him a debt. He’d saved Rachel.
Reaching the car, she held her palm out. “Keys?”
He dug into his pocket and tossed them to her while he pouted. “You know I can drive in both directions.”
Smirking, she opened the door. “I know, and when you learn to put your foot down and get us where we need to be in a timelier fashion, I might consider letting you. Till then, buckle up, Buttercup.”
He snorted. “One day I’m gonna report your blatant disregard for the speeding laws.”
“Go for it.” She half-smiled and pulled the car out of its parking space, increasing speed and turning into the road with barely a moment to stop and check for traffic. She noticed him stiffen and prepare for an impact. Of course, that wouldn’t happen; she had already seen in her peripheral vision that the road was clear, but it was kind of fun to torment Dale when she could. “And then you’ll be lumbered with some snotty-nosed arsehole that won’t let you get away with half the stuff I do.”
He grinned. “Fair point.”
Chapter Three
Duncan Simmons looked defeated. He was sitting in an armchair, face ashen and staring off into space. His brown cardigan was not quite pulled around his shoulders right, as though he had dressed in a hurry that morning and not had time to straighten himself out.
“He’s been like that since we told him,” PC Watson explained in whispers. “He answers yes and no to questions, but pretty much in shock I think.”
“You called a doctor in?” Whitton asked, her voice a whisper also.
“Family Liaison have organised it. They will be here as soon as they can.” He shrugged. They both knew that resources were thin with FL and any doctor on call would be inundated already.
“Can you make us some tea? I need to speak to him.”
Watson nodded and left the room.
Whitton looked around. The room was pretty big; they were doing well for themselves. The house was in an affluent part of town with a big drive out front that allowed for the two four by fours registered in their name. Only one was parked out front though.
“Mr. Simmons, my name is Detective Inspector Sophie Whitton. This is my colleague, DS Saint. We’re sorry for your loss.”
He glanced up at her, his eyes sweeping her face as though trying to find some kind of recognition, but he said nothing before returning his attention back towards the wall. Whitton followed his gaze. There was a framed photograph on the shelf of a middle-aged couple smiling at one another. They were dressed for a wedding or some other fancy celebration, champagne flutes in hand. To the outside world, this was a couple very much in love. That didn’t always mean that it was true, and Whitton would keep an open mind like she did with everything. Many husbands had done the old woman in and then played the part of a shocked and devastated lover.
“Mr. Simmons, I wonder if you can tell me what Anita was supposed to be doing today? Where she was earlier? Where she was going?”
He said nothing. Dale raised his brows, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and then he blew out a breath,
“Did she work?”
Still nothing.
Whitton took a couple of steps and sat down on the sofa, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Mr. Simmons, I want to assure you that we are going to do all we can to find out what happened to your wife.” His head turned at that and his eyes bore into her. “But, if I am going to do that, then I need you to help me, help her.”
His jaw tightened; there was a rapid twitch in his cheek and his eyes filled with tears. “You people ruined her life,” he hissed. “Trumped up charges, dragging her name through the mud. It was an accident and all you lot could do was try to ruin her.”
Whitton let him get it out. He was angry, she understood that. His wife was dead and he needed someone to blame.
“No, she wasn’t working. They sacked her and nobody else would touch her,” he continued, his face reddening with anger.
Whitton kept her tone calm and continued the questions. “What did she used to do?”
He sighed, all the fight seeming to dissipate. “She was a…” He choked up and stammered the words out. “A s-social w-w-worker. She…she worked with kids and…and families, people in need.” He rubbed at his face, smearing the tears across his cheek. “All she ever did was try and help people, and look how they treated her.”
Watson appeared, carrying a tray with three mugs of strong tea. He placed it down on the coffee table and waited a beat to see if Whitton needed anything else. When she glanced up and nodded towards the door, he got the message and left quietly.
“So, the accident? Can you tell me what happened?” She moved one of the mugs towards him while Saint made a lunge for one for himself.
“Like you don’t know,” he sneered. “Made your minds up about her already.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Simmons, my mind is open. I have only skimmed the basics. I’d like to hear your side.”
It was hot in the room. The heat of summer was ramping up now that May was hurtling towards June. The heatwave would last a few more days, according to a multitude of weather reports across the TV networks that Rachel watched.
“They had a tough case. A sexual abuse case; it usually was.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it had taken its toll on them all, and finally, they got the restraining order and the bloke was hauled off by you lot. But he got away with it.” He reached for the cup and took a sip, wincing at the taste. “It’s got sugar in it.”
“It’ll do you good,” Saint said quietly. Duncan stared through him like he wasn’t there.
Turning back to Whitton, he continued. “On the day they went to court, the team invited her to have a drink, commiserate, you know?” Whitton nodded and noticed Saint jotting it all down. “Next thing, I’ve got you lot banging down the door. On her way home she’d had an accident, a kid ran out in front of her and she couldn’t stop. Hit him.” He wiped his eyes again. “She did the right thing, called an ambulance. The police turned up and breathalysed her.”
“It’s s
tandard procedure for anyone involved in an RTA,” Whitton explained.
“Well, this machine was broken. Cos it came up with a false positive and she was arrested for driving under the influence.” He laughed ironically. “She didn’t drink!”
Whitton looked back towards the photograph. Two champagne flutes. Hers was half-empty. Saint followed her gaze, noted the same thing, and jotted it down.
“So, the kid? What happened to him?”
Duncan Simmons glared at her now. “He died.”
Chapter Four
The murder board was wiped clean, just the 10 x 10 photograph of Anita Simmons stuck to the centre with four blobs of blue tac. Whitton held the dry marker in her left hand. She scribbled the name and DOB under the image. “Right, what do we know?”
Dale flipped open his notebook and read aloud. “Married to a Duncan Simmons of 4 Digna Place, Woodington. They have two kids, both girls. Cassandra and Josie.”
He sat back and picked up his mug. Wincing at the almost cold brew, he put the cup back down and watched as Whitton continued to add the information to the boards.
“What was she arrested for?” Andy Bowen asked.
Dale tapped a few keys and brought up the report he’d already read. “Says she was involved in an RTA on Ashton Lane. Hit a kid called Adam Whitman. Killed instantly. Test said she was over the limit. Charged initially, but it seems there was a technicality and the CPS declined to take it further.”
“When?”
“A year ago, almost to the day actually.” He stood. Picking up his cup, he moved across the room to the kettle and flipped it on.
“The accident or the technicality?” Whitton asked, following the movement.
Saint looked up at her. “Both. Something to do with the machine that measured her initial breath test not being calibrated. By the time they took a second reading, she was below the limit and it was argued, successfully, that the original reading could have been similar, and therefore without a certificate to prove the machine was calibrated and in working order, it would be unfair to punish her.” He shook his head. “Other than that, she has never been in trouble. Not even a parking ticket.” He spooned coffee into two mugs.
Whitton read each board, moving onto the next and reading it carefully, then back to the previous, reading again. Saint watched. He was in awe of her most of the time, the way her brain connected the dots before most of them had even realised there was a dot to join.
“Coffee,” he said, placing a mug down on the table. She turned briefly to acknowledge him before her attention was drawn back to the board in front of her. “We should get moving soon if we’re going to the PM.”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing at her watch. One more look across the boards and she turned, picked up the mug, and took a sip. “I’ll drink it on the way.”
~Grave~
The pathologist’s suite was still buzzing with activity even this late into the day. Forensic scientists worked just as hard as any other member of the judiciary. Whitton would forever be grateful for these people who worked tirelessly in order to bring them the evidence they needed to put the bad guys away.
It was a little past nine when she pushed the door open to Autopsy Room Four and entered. Barnard raised a hand and pointed to the microphone, indicating that it was on and he was recording his findings. He already had the Y incision done. The victim’s organs were laid out tidily to the side, already examined, weighed, and recorded. He held what appeared to be her heart in his hand, ready to give his conclusions.
“…early signs of cardiomyopathy.” Whitton raised a brow at Saint. Barnard continued on and recorded the details of weight on the chart before he switched off the microphone. “Detectives, nice of you to join us.” He indicated the corpse.
“What have you got for us?” Whitton asked, ignoring his sarcasm.
Walking around the body, he stopped at the feet. “Well, this is interesting.” He lifted the left foot. “As you can see, the victim has several abrasions, cuts, and marks on the soles of her feet, indicative of someone running or walking on rough terrain. There is also a lot of gravel and detritus embedded in the epidermis, but…” He held a finger in the air and placed the foot back down, picking up a crime scene photograph. “As you can see, she was found wearing her shoes. She also has a broken nose.”
The shoes were now on the side table, wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag alongside the victim’s clothes, all waiting to be examined and processed. “So, she made a run for it and he punched her?”
Barnard shrugged. “Who knows if she made a run for it? The broken nose, however…I’m not sure it came from a punch. It’s more a line across the bridge as though her face was hit with something like a thin bar? I can also confirm two fractured tibias and a fractured skull. All of her injuries, bar the head wound, occurred post-mortem but very quickly after death.” He glided around the autopsy table once more and lifted the woman’s brain, pointing out the large puncture mark. Whitton moved forward to take a closer look, while Saint found something else to look at. He looked a little green around the gills now they were in the morgue.
“Alcohol levels?”
Barnard nodded. “High; she would be considered over the limit.”
“The husband said she doesn’t drink,” she interjected.
Exhaling, Barnard stiffened at the notion he might be wrong. “Well, she drank today. It will all be in my report.”
“Not doubting you, Doc. Just thinking out loud,” she said. Turning to Saint, she added, “Make a note to speak to the husband again, and track down the people she used to work with.”
~Grave~
The office was empty when they got back near 11 p.m. Whitton flopped into her chair and woke the computer up. She input all the new information regarding Anita Simmons, listed the questions she had, and made a note of her early theories.
“You might as well knock off, Dale,” she said across the desk to her partner.
“Yeah,” he replied, stretching out his arms and yawning. “I guess it would be nice to see Becky for more than the few minutes as we pass each other in the mornings.”
“Go, I won’t be too far behind.”
He grabbed his jacket and switched off the computer, patting himself down to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “Right, see you in the morning then.”
“Night.”
He hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when the phone rang. She answered with a brusque, “Whitton.”
“Ah, Detective Inspector, it’s PC Carol Gardner. We’ve got a scene, we need someone from…”
“On my way, text me the details.” She put the phone down and pulled her jacket from the back of the chair. Her phone beeped and she noted down the address. A pub in town.
Chapter Five
The town centre had bustled with what felt like half the population of Woodington earlier in the day. Maybe it was the summer sun and the unexpected heatwave that was slowly melting the tarmac drawing everyone into town, or maybe it was the newly laid square with its spouting fountains that entertained the kids. But whatever it was, it was busy. It was an opportunity for the beggars, who were lying about in shop doorways with their hands out to capture a few coppers in a polystyrene cup. There was less traffic on the road as people decided to walk to work rather than drive, and everyone seemed more likely to be polite.
Smiling children of all ages ran back and forth shrieking with delight, trying to dodge the meter-high stream of water that shot upwards in a random pattern while parents sat around on the concrete benches and caught up with one another over a takeaway coffee and a cigarette.
The sun seemed to bring out the best in people, but the heat brought out the worst in them. Now, as the night time air stilled and suffocated the daylight from existence, bars and pubs were full to bursting with everyone using the heat as an excuse to sneak a cheeky beer after work. The prospect of no work the next morning sent people on a bender of exuberance that often spilled over into chaos an
d carnage.
DI Sophie Whitton was now witnessing the aftermath of that from the periphery of the crime scene. The beer garden to the King’s Head Pub in the centre of town was now empty of its usual clientele. Only the detritus of an abandoned night out remained in situ. And of course, Barnard’s minions had made it past the tape, but it wasn’t them that she was watching and listening to. With her eyes closed, she focused in on the sounds around her: the hushed voices of lab techs as they worked to comb the area for all the evidence on offer. The crowd surrounded her, people milling around wondering what had happened, others explaining the drama in all of its gory detail. She doubted any of them had actually witnessed anything, but uniform was all over it, interviewing everyone in the vicinity. She felt herself calm as she immersed herself in the environment.
Her head cocked to the right as she heard the loud baritone voice of Dr. Tristan Barnard cut through the cacophony, accompanied by the fluttering of the blue and white tape in the light summer breeze. She opened her eyes and searched him out. He was taller than everyone else by almost a foot; it wasn’t difficult to find him as they exchanged glances and a simple nod of acknowledgement. He stood beside DC Jeff Branson, dwarfing the handsome detective.
It was humid, and the heat was still stifling. Not for the first time today was she grateful to be in short sleeves, but even that was doing little to stop the clammy night air from making her uncomfortable. The crime scene Tyvek coverall was only making things worse. She couldn’t wait to finally get home and cool off with a cold shower.
A loud scream pulled her from her thoughts and she turned quickly to her left, just in time to catch sight of an overweight blonde woman being held back by an officer in uniform. Despite the heat, she wore a faux fur white leopard skin coat and a leather skirt that barely covered her backside as she launched herself at the PC, desperate to get past him. “Darren, Darren!” she screamed as tears dragged the remnants of mascara down her ruddy cheeks.
Grave Decisions Page 2
