Grave Decisions

by Claire Highton-Stevenson

  “Same as you, getting coffee.”

  Rachel grinned at the remark. “God, I need it, too. This heat seems to bring out the worst in people. Three fights resulting in a stabbing already this morning. The surgeons are whining like bitches about it.” She grinned and reached across Sophie to grab an apple, placing it alongside Dale’s sandwich on the tray.

  Sophie Whitton pushed her tray along as the last person in front of her finished paying and moved on. She ordered three coffees and readied to pay the elderly woman on the till; her name badge read Gladys and said that she was a volunteer. Whitton smiled at her and got a half-hearted grin in return.

  “Are you joining us?” Sophie asked Rachel as she caught sight of Dale approaching out of the corner of her eye. She handed over a ten-pound note and waited for her change with her hand out as she turned back to face Rachel.

  “No, I need to get back. But I’ll see you tonight, right?” She grabbed the apple and took a cup of coffee.

  “Maybe…” Sophie teased.

  Rachel licked her lips. Capturing the bottom one between her teeth, she grinned. “Oh, there will be no maybe about it, Detective.” And with a wink, she turned and walked away, the sway of her hips very much in Whitton’s line of sight.

  Whitton plonked the tray down on the nearest free table, narrowly avoiding spilling either coffee. The liquid ebbed and flowed across the expanse of the cups but only licked at the edges. One by one she took the items from the tray and placed them down on the table. She then filled the tray with the dirty plates and packaging from the last resident of the seating area; people were just so lazy. Twisting around, she saw the metal cage that housed trays with dirty dishes and took hers to it. Sliding it into the space, she wiped her hands down her trouser legs and stalked back to her seat. Dale was now sitting opposite, his sandwich already unwrapped and a large bite missing from one half.

  “So, what d’ya think?” he asked, a mouthful of food churning like a tumble dryer.

  “Dunno.” She shrugged and brushed her hand through her short hair, pushing the long fringe from her face. “It all just feels…off.”

  He swallowed down the last of his sandwich and took a mouthful of coffee. “I thought moving here would mean a quieter life. Somewhere safe to bring the girls up. Instead it’s like Serial Killer City.”

  Whitton grinned. “You should copyright that and sell it to the hacks at the Chronicle.” She tossed the remainder of her muffin down on the plate. “You ready? Let’s go talk to this Diane Boyce.”

  Chapter Eight

  Diane Boyce lived at Number 12 Manchester Gardens. Her home was immaculate. Even as Whitton walked up the path, closing the soft-shut gate behind her, she could tell this was going to be a home with nothing out of place. The small patch of grass was manicured to within an inch of its life. Perfect edges and weed-free borders lined a swept and mopped tiled pathway to the door.

  The door opened without either of them having to knock. A short woman with greying hair, dressed in a housecoat, smiled at them. Whitton wasn’t sure the last time she had seen anyone wearing a housecoat, and she was pretty sure that Saint wouldn’t even know what one was.

  After introductions had been made, Saint and Whitton were invited in. With the kettle boiling and Mrs. Boyce otherwise engaged with making the pot of tea (because it would be a pot of tea, that much Whitton was certain of; Mrs. Boyce didn’t strike her as the one-cup teabag kind of woman), Saint took a seat on the plastic-covered sofa and winced as he almost slid right off. Whitton stifled a laugh and took the opportunity to look around. Shelving behind glass cabinet doors housed lots of miniature china ornaments. Not a spot of dust anywhere. The walls were dotted with photographs of loved ones. Everything had a place.

  “Here we go.” The joyful voice of Mrs. Boyce rang out before she had even entered the room. Her cheery face soon caught up though, and a tray with three cups and saucers, plus a china pot, came into view. “Tea for three.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Boyce,” Dale said as he carefully slid forward to help her settle the tray down on the coffee table. Ironic, thought Whitton. Why were they never called tea tables?

  “One for you. DI Whitton, did you say?”

  She turned and smiled slowly at the mention of her name, taking the cup and saucer offered. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Mrs. Boyce pointed to the plastic-covered armchair and indicated that she should sit there. Whitton glanced at Dale, his brow raised in mirth as he waited for her to understand just how slippery it was. She squatted slowly and perched on the edge as best she could without falling off, grateful for a strong core of musculature that kept her in place.

  “What can you tell us about Anita Simmons?” she asked as the older woman found a spot next to Dale. Clearly, it was her spot. The seat, though perfectly new underneath the plastic, had a slight indentation in the padding where someone obviously sat frequently.

  “She was a nice woman, did her best; we all did…but I think…” She stopped speaking and placed her cup down. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. I still can’t believe she is, to be honest; she was making such progress.”

  “Mrs. Boyce, anything you can tell us, it might seem insignificant, but it could help us work out what happened to Anita,” Whitton said softly, always knowing the right tact to take with witnesses.

  Diane exhaled loudly. “Anita joined our team, oh, maybe 13 or 14 years ago. She fit right in; kindness ran through that woman’s heart. But it wears you down, that kind of work. The things you see and hear – it’s shocking what humans can do to one another in the name of love.”

  Whitton smiled and nodded. She understood that all too well.

  “Obviously, you know what I mean. The things you both must see.” She shook her head and visibly shivered. “We all liked to unwind, sometimes after work, mostly at the weekend. A drink here and there to talk about the day, decompress I think they call it.” She smiled at the memory. “Anita…she seemed to decompress a little more than the rest of us. After-work drinks turned to a quick tipple at lunch and well, several of us saw…in her bag, those little bottles of spirits?” She made out the size with her fingers.

  “So, she was drinking at work?” Dale asked, to be clear and to write the answer in his book. Diane Boyce nodded.

  “Yes, it all came to a head one afternoon when a victim we were working with killed herself. We’d taken her abuser to court, but the court had thrown it out; lack of evidence. Anita took it hard, she felt like she had let the woman down. That was the day that she drove home and…well, I am sure you know what happened.” She shook her head. “That poor boy.”

  Dale placed his cup back down on the saucer. “In your opinion, Anita had been drinking that day?”

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  “What happened next?” Whitton asked before taking a sip of tea.

  “Well, she was suspended from work obviously. She had been arrested and charged. There was an investigation, and to be honest, I thought it was a little unfair.”

  “In what way?”

  “They investigated and made a decision before the trial had even begun. She was sacked without ever being found guilty of anything. In my opinion, she needed help.”

  “Did you ever speak to her after she left?”

  Diane nodded. “Yes, often. We would have coffee together maybe once a month. I remember being really pleased for her that she was getting help. She confided in me that she hadn’t touched a drop since the accident. She swore that she wasn’t drunk, she had had one small vodka before she left, but that wouldn’t have been enough to impair her driving or to have failed the breath test.”

  “So, getting off on a technicality was a blessing for her then?”

  “I suppose so. She was remorseful, Detective. Not a day went by when she didn’t think of that poor boy. She even started working at the help group she attended. She said she wanted to help others come to terms with the things that upset them and turned them to drink or other self-de
structive coping methods.”

  Whitton sipped her tea. “Did she speak about her husband? Duncan?”

  “Often.” She smiled again. “She loved that man. Said he was her rock.”

  The DI frowned. “And yet, he doesn’t know about her drink problem.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. Anita wasn’t proud of it, she hid it from us as best she could. It was easier to hide it from Duncan and the girls, and it wasn’t like she was a real drinker, just the odd one or two here and there.”

  Whitton placed her cup down, half a cup of tea still swilling around. “Well, thank you for your help.” She stood, and Dale followed suit. “Oh, just one thing…do you know where the self-help group was?”

  “Yes, it’s called Mute Air, or something like that. A woman named Jewel runs it, strange names if you ask me.” She smiled a warm, gentle smile.

  “Mute Air? Okay, thanks very much.”

  Outside, Whitton pulled the keys from her pocket. “Let’s get back to the office and find out what we can about this place, then I wanna take a visit.”

  Chapter Nine

  A fan had appeared in the office Monday morning. It gently whirred left and right, circulating stale, warm air around the room. Mugs with dregs of cold coffee were now strategically placed on desks, holding paperwork down.

  “Mutare!” Saint read from the website he had found. “It means ‘change’ in Latin.” He scribbled the word and its meaning down on a notepad. Rubbing his face with his hands, he yawned as he twisted the pad around to show Whitton.

  “What else does it say?” she asked, peering over his shoulder to look at the website. His aftershave was light and fruity. She wondered how Becky had finally convinced him to change. It was certainly a better option than the overpowering men’s spray he had used in the past.

  Deft fingertips moved the mouse around the screen until it hit the word About, and then he clicked and opened up the page.

  “Here at Mutare, we hope to bring a change to your life. With our guidance, we can lead you through the darkness and bring you everlasting peace.

  A new way forward.

  Are you ready to stop hurting yourself?

  Let Jewel and Galahad show you the way.

  Call in for change, Mutare is the only way.”

  “Galahad? That’s got to be made up, right?” Dale asked, a tone of disbelief wrapped up in a chuckle.

  Whitton raised a brow and smirked. She straightened up and stretched out her spine.

  “Mu-tar-re,” Saint repeated in his best Italian accent. He leant back in his chair triumphantly and grinned up at her.

  “You ever been to Italy?” She turned and perched on the corner of his desk.

  “Spent two weeks in Sorrento with Becky before the kids were born. Was very nice. You should take Rachel. Very romantic as I recall.”

  She grimaced at him. “I’d rather you didn’t recall anything about romantic times with Becky, thank you.” She smirked at him again and pushed off from his desk. “Gimme ten minutes. We can go and take a look around Mu-tar-re.”

  ~Grave~

  The address given on the website for Mutare was a small semi-detached ex-council house near the centre of Woodington. Nothing about it stood out, apart from the two disheveled-looking men standing outside on the street. Beside them a nervous-looking woman in a business suit fidgeted about, checking her watch every twenty seconds. Whitton looked around at the house next door. A curtain twitched back into place, the observer no longer observing quite so obviously.

  Whitton turned her attention back to the building that housed Mutare. The garden was much like the first two men in the queue outside, a little unkempt and untidy. The small patch of grass was uncut and full of wildflowers, or weeds; she didn’t know the difference. It didn’t look like it had had a trim all summer. Two rose bushes and an abundance of more obvious weeds lined the path. Some of the weeds were quite nice, beautiful flowers hanging off them as they pushed through the unwanted plants around it, the ones that would suffocate and kill anything that got in their way. It was the green bin that caught Whitton’s eye next. Someone had cello-taped a laminated sign on the front of it.

  Take the first step.

  Leave the crutches of life behind.

  Whitton lifted the lid and peered inside; the stench was unreal. Empty vodka bottles filled most of the space, with the odd medicine bottle or pill packaging poked out from between. But where bottles had smashed against one another and broken, any liquid left had mixed to create a potent stench of alcoholic punch. “Jesus, that’s rank.”

  Saint wafted away the stink with his hand. “I bet the neighbours ain’t too pleased with this,” he stated, his line of sight on the window where the curtain-twitcher had been. He tugged at his shirt, pulling it back and forth in an effort to cool his skin. There was no letup from the summer heat, which would only exacerbate the concoction boiling away in the bin like a rancid chemistry lesson.

  “Would you be?” she scoffed, knowing full well he wouldn’t. She dropped the lid shut again. “Come on, let’s check it out.”

  They wandered up to the gate. The two men paid barely any attention to them, disinterested, but the woman stared wide-eyed and checked her watch again. The action caused Whitton to do the same. Two minutes to one.

  “They don’t open till one.” The deep voice of one of the men came from behind her. She swiveled on her heel, searching him out with her eyes. Tall and lanky, he held her gaze with confidence.

  “Right, thanks.”

  “First time?” he asked. She pulled her cigarettes from her pocket and opened the pack. His eyes moved towards them swiftly and lingered. Pulling one out, she lit it and took a deep pull on it.

  “Yes, first time.” She held the packet towards him and he reached out. Shaking fingers picked one and slid it out. She offered the pack to the other man, but he shook his head.

  “No thanks, one addiction’s enough for me.” He grinned, and she noticed his lack of front teeth. The first man leant forwards towards her lighter and sucked in a toxic breath just as she had.

  “So, what’s it like?” she asked nonchalantly as they smoked.

  The first man looked back at the house, his hand shaking as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more. “It’s alright, better than some of the other groups I’ve tried.” He leant in casually and spoke in a lower tone. “She’s a little cuckoo if you ask me.” He winked and grinned as he stepped back and took another pull. “But, most of what she says hits home. She doesn’t hold back, and if ya think you’re going to get an easy ride…well, think on. I’m Jim, by the way.”

  “Right. Actually, I’m not here for the program.” Jim’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. His eyes were fixed on her, and the muscle in his cheek twitched as he considered what that meant. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her warrant card, holding it up for him to see.

  “Go on.”

  “Anita Simmons? What can you tell me about her?”

  “Not much, kept herself to herself. Very kind and helpful is Anita. If you need information or help with anything on the computer and stuff, she’s the one to ask.”

  “What about you?” Whitton said, turning now to face the nervous woman.

  “Me?” She raised a manicured nail and pointed to herself. Whitton nodded and kept her eyes on the woman. She fidgeted about and checked her watch again. “I don’t know her. I mean, I’ve seen her…here, but I don’t know her.”

  “Okay, and what is your impression of her?

  “I don’t know, she’s like the rest of…” She looked around before lowering her voice. “She’s like all of us. On the wrong path and looking for an answer.”

  Whitton appreciated the candour. She lowered her own voice and stepped forward. “So, you’re here for the program too?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s my lunch break, I try and fit a class in as often as I can.”

  The woman didn’t look like an addict, not in the ste
reotypical sense, but Whitton knew from experience that that wasn’t always the way addicts presented. “It’s helping?”

  “Yes, I haven’t had a drink for over six months. Not since I threw the bottle I kept in my bag into that bin,” she answered, pointing towards the bin. “That’s why I remember her. She said she had been the same. Secret drinking, you know?”

  Saint jotted the information down.

  “Anita was found dead Friday afternoon,” Whitton announced loudly enough for all to hear.

  Two more men had joined the queue. Movement from the left indicated that the doors were now open as Jim and his friend moved off from the gate and started up the garden path.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help Officer, I have to go.” She checked her watch again. “Important meeting later and I can’t be late, or miss this one.”

  Dale Saint leaned against the car, just watching. Whitton joined him and both of them took notice of the people who arrived and left over the next hour. Those that left appeared to give them a wide berth, eyes either avoiding contact altogether, or openly glaring at them.

  “I’d say we’ve made our presence known,” Dale said, nudging her with his elbow, chin jutting back towards the curtain twitcher.

  “Yeah.” She opened the door. “Drop me off in town. Then pick me up from home around six. We can come back here and see what this Jewel has to say.”

  Chapter Ten

  The lights were on inside the home that housed Mutare. It was darker now, but still light enough to see up and down the street. The curtain twitched next door, but it was pretty quiet on the whole.

  “Come on, let me lead you up the garden path.” Dale snickered. Opening the gate, he held it open for Whitton as she rolled her eyes at him. Each window had a blind drawn, the light of the room creeping out from around the edges. There was music coming from inside – not loud, but audible as they got closer. A gentle swishing of waves and rainfall intermixed with a soft panpipe that was clearly indicative of meditation. “Got ya zen ready?”