She nodded. “I did, yes.” She picked up the coffee cup and pulled off the plastic lid to sip it.
“So?”
“I’ll think about. It’s not something to take lightly…it’s…it’s an honour, Dale. Thank you for thinking of me.”
He grinned at her, fully expecting her reaction. “Well, we talked about it, and both of us agreed we wanted you.”
Before she could answer, the phone rang. Snatching it up, she growled into the handset, “Whitton.”
~Grave~
Gina Ashcroft screamed down the phone line and into Whitton’s ear. She was making no sense. Saint could hear the noise from three feet away and turned towards her, concerned.
“Gina, calm down, okay? I can’t…” She pulled the phone away from her ear as another torrent of high-pitched screeching came at her. “Gina!” she shouted louder, and for a second there was an intake of breath, but that soon turned into sobs.
“Who would do such a thing?” Whitton finally understood something she said. Gina continued to wail.
She perched on the corner of her desk and held the phone back to her ear. “Gina, take a deep breath and explain to me what exactly has you all upset like this.”
“Yesterday was Darren’s…funeral.” The wailing began again, and it took all of Whitton’s self-control not to roll her eyes. “Someone…on his, someone died and it’s not fair.”
“No, I know. Darren’s death was…”
“No!” Gina screamed. “You don’t understand, not Darren. Someone else. Someone else is dead…on Darren’s grave!”
~Grave~
Dale Saint struggled to keep up with Whitton. She all but marched from the car before it finished screeching to a halt. The office had gone haywire once Whitton understood what it was that Gina was telling her. Saint, Bowen, and Branson were all on her tail as she flew out the door, shouting instructions to them. Barnard was called and was on his way but right now, they needed to secure the area.
“It’s Trevor Hayes,” Branson confirmed from a quick glance. “Fucking blood everywhere.”
“Right, everyone back up till the Scenes of Crime lot get here,” Saint instructed.
“This is downright under our noses,” Bowen complained as they stood a few feet from the body. Uniform officers were already putting up a cordon and blocking entrance to anyone trying to enter the cemetery. “How did he get here and do this? The funeral was only yesterday.”
Whitton remained silent. Hayes’ body lay on top of the grave. The flowers that would have been there had been moved to one side, that much was obvious, but she would get confirmation from Gina. She swiveled on her heels and located the woman. Head to toe in black, she dabbed at her makeup-smeared face with a tissue. PC Watson looked as bored as hell while he stood next to her, attempting to be sympathetic and doing a reasonably good job of it.
Whitton listened; eyes closed. Chattering coppers filtered out as sounds around her took centre stage: birds twittering in the breeze. The sound of three vehicles pulling in one after the other onto the gravel and parking, doors opening and slamming shut, alerted her. Barnard had arrived.
She waited.
The giant of a man stood beside her and appraised the scene too. “Well, isn’t this fun?” he said, the hint of a smile on his lips. “He isn’t wasting any time, is he?”
“No. Let’s hope his eagerness left something behind.”
Dr. Tristan Barnard set to work, clambering into his oversized coverall while he ordered his technicians to do the tasks that needed doing. They began to sweep the perimeter, checking for any clue that might have been left behind, no matter how minuscule it might be.
He passed Whitton a coverall and waited until she was clad like he was, complete with white booties and a blue material hat. “Let me guess, stab wound to the thigh?”
“Better be careful, Doc. They’ll all be wanting the lottery results if you prove to be psychic.” She smirked and squatted down to look at the wound while she pulled latex gloves on her bony fingers.
“Single stab wound to the left thigh,” he said, poking the area with a gloved finger. “What’s remarkable is that it’s a direct hit. No other attempt to stab him, just the artery. That says to me that we could be looking for someone with a medical background or at the very least a good knowledge of anatomy.”
“Alright.”
“And somebody physically strong.” He looked the body up and down. “Trevor Hayes wasn’t a heavy guy but still, it would take some doing to force him here.”
She looked back over her shoulder towards the car park. It wasn’t a huge cemetery, but newer graves were towards the back. It was certainly a distance. She stood up and looked to the ground. Footprints were few in the dried earth and grass. The hard-baked soil held just remnants of scuff marks, mostly from their own feet and those of Darren Barton’s mourners. But something caught her eye in the short, patchy grass. There was an indent into the ground and another parallel to it. Head and shoulders bent forward, she moved slowly and found another. Just the one this time, in a shallow dip.
“Nobody moves,” she called out, reaching for a marker and placing it down next to the three marks. Barnard stood up and held his hand up, indicating that his staff remain still. “He uses something with wheels. Here and here…” She pointed down to the floor. “Indents of wheels carrying something heavy.” She turned back and moved her hand back and forth where it was more earth than grass. “He’s brushed them away here, it’s too clean. This area should be covered in footprints from the mourners, but it’s not.” Now she moved forward, following the direction of the lines. Stopping each time, she picked up the trail and marked it. Within a few minutes they knew the path he had taken and where the car must have been parked. The gravel had been ground down and flushed away over the years to leave a sandy base exposed and in it, the perfect print of a tyre.
“Not that fucking smart, are you?” she said to herself as she waved over the tech nearest to her. “Get a mould and photographs of that.” As she turned to walk away, she threw a quick “Thanks” over her shoulder at Barry before looking around for Tweedle Dee. Perkins wasn’t here to letch over her, thankfully.
Ducking back under the cordon to head to her car, she saw a group of journalists closing in. Reporters from local newspapers and TV stations were all shouting questions at her as she passed.
“DI Whitton, have we got another Doll Maker?!” the nearest one to her shouted. When she ignored him, he continued. “Whitton, when ya gonna put a stop to this?”
She didn’t miss a step. She was used to the press hounding for details at a crime scene.
“Come on Whitton, you’re not fucking this one’s sister too, are ya?” someone from the back shouted.
“Fuck off,” she snarled, twisting round to see who said it. The voice disappeared into the throng. Saint touched her arm and guided her away.
“Ignore him.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sitting inside the chief’s office, Whitton waited quietly while he finished a call. She thought she knew what was coming. When he finally placed the handset back down into its cradle and looked up, she was sure of it.
“I want you and Saint to do a press conference. See if we can get a heads up on this with the public.”
“Yes, sir.” She sighed. She hated these. She didn’t want to be the public face of anything, and she especially didn’t want to deal with journalists who would just sensationalise everything.
“Everything’s arranged. Local hacks and TV will be here in an hour. Have a statement prepared, and let’s see if we can finally get something on this so-called Judge and Jury.”
Nodding, she stood and walked towards the door.
“By the way Whitton, how are things now, with…” he probed gently. The mental health of his best detective was important to him.
“I’m feeling much better, Sir. Dr. Westbrook is…well, I’m working through some things still, but…”
This time it was him that
nodded, his cheeks reddening a little. “Good, good. Keep it up.”
~Grave~
Whitton sat next to Saint behind a long table in a small room with an abundance of lenses looking back at them. Four microphones sat on the desk in front of them, and flashbulbs intermittently went off, blinding them both for a moment.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for attending today,” she began. Be nice; keep them sweet. “We would like to ask the public for any help they might be able to give. As you may be aware, we are involved in an ongoing investigation into the death of Anita Simmons. We are now linking that death to that of Trevor Hayes, whose body was found most recently. We have also managed to link the deaths of George Herring and Paul Crawford. Both of those deaths are historical but still open cases.”
The bulbs flashed with more intensity now. She took the opportunity to sip some water.
“We would like to speak to anyone who may have any information regarding these deaths. We can be contacted here, at Woodington Police Station. A number has been set up especially for this case and details will, I am advised, appear on the screen.”
“Detective, is this a new Doll Maker?” the voice called out from the back, and Whitton spotted the same guy from the cemetery.
“No, we do not believe that the person responsible for these deaths is a serial killer.”
“And yet, they’ve killed at least four people. Surely one more and they officially become a serial killer? Is Woodington safe?”
This time it was Dale who spoke. “Woodington is very safe. Otherwise I wouldn’t live here with my family.”
“Is it true that DI Whitton’s partner is the sister of the Doll Maker?”
Whitton’s eyes scanned the crowd and found the face. A sly grin stared back at her. She recognised him; one of the local journos whose nickname among the ranks was Gutter Gob.
“DI Whitton isn’t here to discuss her private life. Nor are you,” Saint threw back. “If that’s all.” He stood and waited for Whitton to join him. “Just ignore it,” he whispered as he leant in to her.
“Getting sick and fucking tired of him asking that question.”
They left the cameras behind them and exited the room. “I know. It's Gutter Gob, he couldn’t find a story if we wrote it for him. He just likes to fuck with us.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah, you're right.”
~Grave~
Barry waved at them as they parked the car outside of the pathology block. He was heading out and carrying medical bags and supplies for the van. “What is his name?” Whitton asked as she nodded an acknowledgement. If he expected a smile, he was sadly disappointed.
“Barry?”
“Yeah, I meant his surname. I can’t keep calling him Tweedle Dum. One day I’m going to say it out loud.” She climbed out of the car and adjusted her shirt; it was sticking to her in the heat.
Dale chuckled. “I think it’s Walker, but I might be wrong. To be honest, I don’t really care,” he said, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “He’s a knob.”
She nodded. “Me either, but I should at least appear to be bothered by such things. I might have to write him into my report, and then what do I say? 'On March 12, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee arrived on scene to collect the remains of…'” She laughed, and so did Dale. “Where is Tweedle Dee anyway, don’t they usually end up working the same shifts? I don’t think I’ve seen them apart more than a handful of times.”
“You spoke too soon,” Dale said, jutting his chin forwards and towards the approaching figure of Dr. Clive Perkins. His step seemed to quicken at the sight of them, and a grin appeared.
Whitton groaned. “Miss your ride? He just left,” she said loudly in his direction.
“Ah, yes. That’s because I have somewhere else that I need to be,” he said, coming to a stop in front of them. His eyes roamed Whitton’s chest again. “Nice to see you though, DI Whitton.”
She felt her skin crawl. Maybe it was the heat, or the injustice that three people were on her murder board, or maybe she just didn’t like him, but without a thought her palm thrust forward and pushed him hard in the chest. Launching him against a car, she pressed hard and leaned in close. “Maybe if you didn’t stare at my tits every time I met you, it would be nice for me too.”
Dale’s eyes widened and he choked back a laugh, but he didn’t intervene.
“I…that’s…” Perkins stammered, and she enjoyed it, making him squirm for a change. She glared a moment longer before releasing her grip and taking a step back.
“I’m not that tall that your line of sight can’t move a few inches upwards. Am I clear?”
He made a noise that sounded like a harrumph and walked away quickly, his cheeks blushing a deep red.
“Yeah, I think he got the message, don’t you?”
Now Dale chuckled. “If he didn’t, he’s a fool.”
“Come on, let’s see what the doc has to say about Trevor Haye’s autopsy report.”
~Grave~
Tristan Barnard stood to his full height at the window in his office, looking down at the car park. He witnessed the altercation between Whitton and Perkins, and grinned. It was about time someone dealt with the irritating man, but the fact that it was DI Sophie Whitton somewhat aroused him. He continued to stare out across the car park until he heard the light knock on his door announcing Whitton’s arrival.
“Detectives, what brings you here?” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Other than to assault a member of my staff.”
Whitton titled her head at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you see anyone assaulted, Dale?” she asked, turning her attention to her partner.
He shook his head. “Nope. I did witness sexual harassment though, is that what you meant?” His smiling eyes landed on the doctor.
“Tea?” He didn’t wait for a reply before he began the ritual of making a pot. “I suppose you want to know about Trevor Hayes?”
“Yes,” she said, taking a seat. Saint followed. ”Tell me you found something, anything!”
He poured the boiling water over the leaves and then stirred gently. “I can tell you that he was injected with ketamine. It’s a sedative and would have rendered him unconscious or at the very least, extremely pliable!”
Saint sat forwards. “That will explain how he managed to get him to the cemetery then.”
“Indeed. We also found an oily substance much like the one found on Anita Simmons. I should have the results back on that any time,” Tristan said, bringing the pot to the table. “And we found blue fibers.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dr. Westbrook was still with a client when Whitton arrived for her next appointment the following afternoon. She chewed on the inside of her mouth as her leg bounced on a nerve. This was the worst bit, the waiting around. Westbrook always overran. She considered just arriving 5 minutes after her scheduled time, but being late wasn’t in her nature unless it was unavoidable. Or maybe she just used that as her excuse when she wanted to avoid something. Her ex, Yvonne, would agree with that.
The door opened and a dark-haired man in his twenties shuffled out, head bowed and hands in his pockets. He looked like the kind of person she arrested, but she said nothing and examined her fingernails instead.
“Ms. Whitton, you can go in now.” The soft voice of Anne broke her from her thoughts. She smiled at the older woman on reception and got up, blowing out a breath of hot air in the process.
It was cool inside the office. A glass of water sat on the coaster as usual, ready for her to drink when her mouth dried up and her throat constricted with emotion.
“Good afternoon, Sophie. How are you today?”
“I’m good,” she said, reaching for the glass. She took a small swig, placed it back down on the coaster, and wiped the condensation from her hand onto her leg.
Dr. Westbrook leant back in her seat. She had one of those expensive ergonomic leather chairs that tilted, and she
rocked gently in it as she composed her next question. Sophie stretched out a leg and yawned. “Not sleeping?”
“I sleep fine, mostly. Last night was a late night, that’s all.”
Dr. Westbrook smiled. “That’s good. Anything you want to tell me?”
Sophie narrowed her eyes at her. She was never quite sure how she did that, how she knew when Sophie had something specific she wanted to talk about. She ran her fingers through her hair and leant back. Her chair didn’t recline unless she pulled the lever. “I talked with Rachel about you and the flashbacks.”
“That’s good, that’s progress, Sophie.”
She nodded and bit her bottom lip. “I think I scared her; I know that I scared me.”
“Go on,” Dr. Westbrook encouraged, and Sophie felt almost compelled to just spill it all. But then she remembered what she would need to tell, and it embarrassed her. It made her feel awkward. “I’m not here to judge, Sophie,” Westbrook reminded her.
“Fuck,” Whitton mumbled as she pulled herself up and onto her feet. She paced the room, running her hand’s through her hair again. When she came to a halt in front of the window, she looked out at the blue sky. Barely any clouds, just a blue expanse.
“It isn’t even that recent, I don’t even know how many days ago. I just can’t get past it. I can’t even…sometimes she wants me to…” She rubbed her face in her hands, searching for the right words that would explain it, but nothing poetic seemed to come. “She likes things a bit rough…in bed,” she finally forced out. “She likes me to be…she says there are two of me.” Turning back to face the doctor, she wrapped her arms around herself as she fought with her own mind what to say and how to explain it.
“There’s Sophie who makes love to her, respects her, and cherishes everything about her.” Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath. “And then there is Whitton. Forceful, unashamed and unrelenting. And she likes it, I know that, but this was different.” She rubbed her neck and stared back out of the window as an elderly couple slowly walked down the road, hands joined between them, the outer hands holding onto walking sticks. “I had this need to consume her. To be inside her and…I was relentless. I just kept thrusting and thrusting. It wasn’t…I didn’t feel anything; it was like I was numb to it.”
Grave Decisions Page 10
