Grave Decisions

by Claire Highton-Stevenson

  Whitton felt the hairs stand up on her arms. “Keep going.”

  Dale pressed fast-forward again. The images skipped here and there where CCTV was lost and then picked up elsewhere. She was about halfway between leaving the last store and where she had disappeared.

  “Shit, look, right there.” The man was right behind Anita as she came into view. “It can’t be coincidence. He is following her.”

  “Looks like it, and his appearance fits with Nian’s description.”

  “Keep looking, print off as many images as you can. Maybe we will get lucky,” she said grabbing her bag.

  “Where you going?”

  “Barnard, I wanna check in and keep him up-to-date.”

  ~Grave~

  Once again Whitton found no parking space outside of the lab. She drove around the block and swore under her breath as every space was snatched up before she could get there. She swung the car left, intent on going around again, and got stuck behind an ambulance as it unloaded a patient. She put the car into park and waited, her window wound down to allow a slight breeze to flow inside at least. Glancing to her left, she saw Perkins and his team heading out. They would be freeing up a space.

  Finally, the ambulance moved. She swung the car back around and headed for Perkins’ spot. He was sitting inside the vehicle faffing around with paperwork. He glanced up quickly and noticed her waiting, but did nothing to speed up his process. She gave him a quick bib of the horn and a thumbs up to indicate that she wanted his space. His response was to wave back, grinning inanely at her.

  “For fuck’s sake,” she muttered and rubbed at her face. A minute later Barry crossed in front of her and jumped in beside Perkins. She couldn’t remember his last name, but he was another dick. “Tweedle fucking Dum and Dee,” she muttered to herself.

  They finally pulled out, and Whitton waved them off before reversing into the space. A loud bang on the side of the car made her jump. Barnard’s face grinned in at her.

  “Jesus, Tristan.” She pushed the door open and almost hit him with it as he roared with laughter. “You’re a shit.”

  “I know, but still, it was quite funny.”

  “Whatever, anyway why are you out here in daylight and without your minions?”

  “I was trying to catch Clive.”

  Whitton looked down the road at the van as it disappeared into the distance. “Perkins has a first name?” She knew he did, not that she ever intended to use it.

  “Don’t we all?” He smiled.

  They crossed the car park and headed towards the morgue. “Most of us have a personality too. Not Perkins.”

  “Oh, now Whitton, that is mean. True, but mean.” He nudged her with his arm. “What brings you here anyway?” He grabbed the handle to the door and yanked it open, holding it for Whitton to pass through before he followed and let it soft close behind him.

  “Not sure, I wanted to go over the reports for Trevor Hayes and Anita Simmons.”

  “Alright, always happy to oblige you, Sophie.” They continued down the corridor that led towards the labs and then on to Barnard’s office.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Whitton perched, as always, on the edge of the antique chair. Barnard poured the tea and she waited patiently. She remembered the first time she had been invited into the sanctuary that was Barnard’s office. She had been reprimanded for her brashness and disregard for the finer things in life. She had learnt quickly, never needing a second lesson in anything in life.

  With his ritual over, he pushed the delicate china cup and saucer in her direction and took a seat. His eyes roamed her face as he waited for the inevitable questions and summations. He quite liked it that it was always him that she came to when she wanted to talk something through.

  “I’ve been reading up on the reports in all of the Graveyard Killings,” she said, her fringe flopping down over her face as she reached forward for the cup. A bony finger slipped into the handle and lifted it to her lips. It was hot; steam still rose from it, and she blew gently. Small ripples ebbed effortlessly. “It’s all just… too clean!” she exclaimed, blowing once more before trying a tentative sip.

  “Yes, that is something I would agree on. Whoever this chap is, he knows his stuff.”

  “One of us?” she asked, sliding back into the chair and finally getting comfortable.

  “It’s always an option. We like to think of ourselves as honest folk. It’s always a disappointment to discover we are just as flawed as the natives.”

  “Hmm. We’ve got a lead.” She watched him perk up, a slight grin upturning the edges of his lips. “Tall, stocky white guy was following Anita.”

  “Is it Perkins? Please tell me it is and I can finally rid myself of him.” The grin grew wider.

  “If it is, then I’ll buy the first round of drinks. He creeps me out,” she admitted.

  Barnard tilted his head. “That surprises me. I didn’t think anybody could creep you out.”

  She smiled in return. “Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m only surly and stubborn on the days I don’t have my period.”

  He laughed and poured himself another cup of tea. “How does Rachel tolerate you?”

  “She knows what buttons to push.” The thought of her lover sent a shot of unexpected arousal straight to her core. She fidgeted. “Anyway, if we can get back to the business of murder? We have a man on video following Anita, and he is wearing blue overalls and a cap.”

  “Well, that is something. So, what can I do for you?”

  “Find me something to link him when I catch him.”

  He nodded. “I’m waiting on lab results. As you know, we found an oily substance on one of Anita’s sleeves. As soon as I know what it is, you’ll know. We did find blue fibers on both Anita and Trevor’s clothing. Bring me the overalls and I will tell you if they match.”

  They sat in silence, sipping tea she didn’t like. When she had drunk enough that she considered it polite to leave, she placed the cup and saucer gently back down onto the table and pushed it away.

  ~Grave~

  Back at the station, Saint had updated the murder board. Now there were two images, artist impressions that looked similar enough to consider they were the same person. He had dark brows and a scowl that would frighten off most people. His hair was covered with a cap, eyes wearing sunglasses. Whitton thought back to Barnard’s joke about Perkins. There was definitely a similarity.

  “He looks familiar,” Dale said, coming closer to stand beside her. His head tilted one way and then the other.

  “Perkins,” she stated without emotion. “He looks like Perkins.” And someone else, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Fuck me, he does.” Saint laughed. “You don’t think?”

  “Barnard already checked his roster; he was working when Anita was killed.” She turned to him. “Did you find anything else on the video?”

  His blonde head shook slowly. “No, nothing.”

  “Right, grab some copies of those and let’s see if we can find anyone that might have seen them.”

  ~Grave~

  The street was quiet. It was late afternoon, and most of the residents were either at work or school. Dale Saint parked the car and they both sat staring at the house opposite. The aircon was cool; outside was like a furnace. Diane Boyce was in the garden, knelt down on a foam mat, pulling up weeds.

  She looked up from under her hat as the car doors slammed shut. Recognising them, she pulled off her gloves and struggled to her feet, an arthritic knee giving her gip.

  “Officers,” she acknowledged as they made their way up the path towards her.

  “Mrs. Boyce, I wondered if maybe you could take a look at this and tell me if it’s anyone you recognise?” Whitton asked as Dale held out the A4 piece of paper with the photofits side by side: two images, the same face, give or take a few discrepancies.

  She took it from him and studied it. “I don’t think I do. I’m sorry,” she said, handing it back to him. “W
e get a lot of people coming and going, and I am usually quite good at remembering a face. But not his.”

  Whitton smiled. “No problem. It’s always worth asking.”

  “Is he?” She left the question open, but they all knew what she meant by it.

  “We don’t know. He is a person of interest, that’s all we can really say right now.”

  Diane nodded. “I still can’t believe it, you know. You never think anything like this will happen to anyone you know.”

  Whitton and Saint said nothing.

  “It’s the funeral I dread most. Always reminds me of when I lost Frank.”

  Whitton’s lips pursed. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It’s been a few years now, but you never quite…” She tailed off before shaking her thoughts. “Anyway, if I think of anything else…”

  “Please, even if it feels insignificant, just call.” Saint smiled and handed her another card with his number on it.

  They turned and wandered back down the path, watched all the way by the older woman as she pulled her gloves back on.

  “So, where next?” Saint asked, reaching into his pocket for the keys.

  “Duncan Simmons, Gina Ashcroft, the pub. Everywhere.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The team sat around the room at the desks, chairs turned towards Whitton. She had lost O’Leary and Patel to a domestic. A woman had finally had enough and killed the husband, so Whitton was left with Saint, Bowen, and Branson.

  “Let’s start at the beginning. Dale, I want you to look into Paul Crawford.” She tossed a file in his direction. “Andy, take Simmons.” Another file landed on the desk. “Jeff, follow up on Hayes.” He was closer and held out a hand for the files. She flashed him a grin and picked up the remaining file. “I’ll do the dirty work and deal with Herring. I want to know who they knew, who they were talking to or hanging around with, anyone that stood out as suspicious. You know the drill.”

  The three men stood in unison. “Guv?” Dale said as she watched for Bowen and Branson to exit the room. “I wondered, ya know, if you’d thought any more about...?”

  “Yeah, I’d be honoured, Dale.”

  His face lit up. “Yeah? That’s great, Becky will be chuffed. Me too.” He laughed nervously. “This little one couldn’t ask for a better godmother.”

  She nodded, biting her lip and holding his gaze. “I will do my best.” He nodded back, and she watched him leave before picking up the file and flicking through it. “Time to delve deeper,” she mumbled to herself.

  George Herring liked little boys, that much was clear. There was a stack of interviews all typed up describing every horrible little detail about Herring, but only Constance Martin had been brave enough to stand up and face him. Unfortunately, the CPS didn’t think one person’s evidence would be enough, and they were right. Whitton had seen it all too often. Her mind flashed to Rachel, another of life’s victims when it came to deviants. Somehow Rachel had made a life for herself and dealt with the demons from her childhood. Her brother had not, and they had seen how that had turned out.

  Thinking of Rachel brought a smile to her lips, and she nudged the mouse on her desk, waking the computer. She found the search engine and pulled up options for flower delivery, inputting the details she finished with a final poke of the enter button. A bunch of beautiful flowers would make their way across town to Rachel while Whitton was digging into George Herring’s life.

  He had met Constance, Martin as she was then, at the local drama club. He was teaching and Constance attended. So had most of the boys, now men, that he had abused. She ran her finger down the list of names of other men the police had spoken to and stopped at one. The name stood out; it was unusual, but it was also a name she had heard before. Galahad Benson.

  ~Grave~

  Mutare was closed this early in the morning, not quite 11 o’clock as Whitton was dropped off by a patrol car. She thanked the PC and waved her off, as there was no need for her to wait around. Whitton would call in when she needed picking up.

  She stood outside and looked at the drab building, which had been built in the fifties along with most of Woodington. After the war, towns like this popped up all over, concrete jungles surrounded by row upon row of identical new builds. Now, every space had a block of flats built on it. The high rise was yet to make it to Woodington.

  As gardens went, this was one of the scruffiest, but at least the pathway was clear and the bins were tidy. She pushed the gate from its latch and stepped onto the property, already halfway up the path before she heard it clang shut behind her.

  The fake smile that greeted her when Jewel Benson opened the door was almost convincing until she remembered Whitton as being a police officer and not a potential new client. She sighed audibly and tilted her head. “I really can’t help you with anything more to do with Anita.” The sickly smell of incense wafted out and threatened to make Whitton gag.

  “Fine, I’m not here to see you. Galahad Benson, he lives here, right?”

  The perfectly arched brow rose as Jewel looked down her nose at Whitton. “Of course he lives here.”

  “Go and get him then, please.” She kept her cool, but patience was thinning with this woman. There was no reason for the attitude, and that pricked Whitton’s attention. What was she hiding?

  “He isn’t here,” Jewel said quickly, pressing her lips together into a thin smile. “Popped to the shops.”

  “I see, did you pass him my message to call?”

  A slight blush covered the redhead’s cheeks and highlighted her freckles. “I…no, sorry, I forgot.”

  “When will he be back?” Whitton asked, turning slightly at the sound of a car door closing.

  “I expect…this afternoon?”

  Whitton narrowed her eyes and studied the woman. “You don’t seem too sure.” The clang of the gate caught her attention and she looked back along the path. DS Saint was walking towards her, eyes narrowed and questioning.

  “Guv?” A deep furrow set in between his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking back and forth between the two women.

  “Trying to speak to Mr. Benson,” she answered, “What are you doing here?”

  “Paul Crawford.”

  She watched as the woman’s eyes widened and her face paled. “What about him?”

  Dale turned to Jewel as he spoke. “He was Mrs. Benson’s brother.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Whitton and Saint both sat on the sofa now, side by side, watching as Jewel Benson fidgeted with the rings she wore on her left hand. She was an attractive woman, late forties maybe, but life was starting to catch up with her. Her face was freckled but slightly anemic-looking, and up close you could see the pockmarks of an acned youth. Whitton decided, again on closer inspection, that the red hair was most likely a dye job, but a good one, nothing out of a bottle.

  “I’m going to be frank, Mrs. Benson, but this is all a little suspicious to me.” She looked towards Saint, whose sandy-blonde head nodded sagely. “Constance Martin and Anita Simmons both attended here, and Paul Crawford is your brother. All three are part of my investigation. Now, that’s either a very big coincidence, or there is something else going on here.”

  “There isn’t,” she said quickly, eyes darting between the pair of them.

  Whitton ignored her and sat forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Let’s talk about Paul, your brother.”

  There was a visible tensing of her jaw, and the cords in her neck were rigid. A small bead of sweat dripped from under her fringe to slowly slide towards her cheek. The muscle there twitched as it felt it stroke across the nerve. “What am I supposed to say?” She shrugged and the corners of her mouth turned downwards. “He was my brother, he was trouble, and he got himself killed in a hit and run.”

  “With his body placed on top of the grave of his own victim,” Whitton added to the story.

  “How would I know that?” Her indifference was clear.


  “You have no knowledge of the circumstances surrounding your brother’s death?” Saint interjected.

  She glared at him. “I run workshops for those wanting to free themselves from the burden of addiction and life’s upheaval. How do you think it would look if I had my brother hanging around, behaving the way that he was?”

  “I imagine it would look like you cared about him and were trying to help, even if he didn’t want to help himself.” Whitton sneered a little at her. “But Paul wasn’t an addict, or depressed, was he? He was just trouble, liked to steal cars and drive really fast?”

  Jewel cut her eyes at Whitton and looked away. “I couldn’t help him.”

  “You couldn’t help him, because he wasn’t a drunk, right?” Saint asked. “If he had been, you’d have opened your arms to him, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s what I do,” she bit back.

  “People like Anita?” Whitton continued.

  “Yes,” she said with a hiss. “Anita I could help. Anita and the people she brought with her, they needed to be fixed and we…”

  “You and your husband?” Whitton broke in.

  Jewel pressed thin lips together and forced a frustrated smile. “Yes, Galahad is a marvel.” Her smile was now real and lit up her face as she continued. “He shares his own experiences and allows them to feed off of his energy. It’s amazing to watch the transformation.”

  Whitton caught Saint’s brow raise in amusement. “So he shares his experiences with the group?”

  Stuttering, she said, “His-his alcohol a-abuse experience, yes.” She was fidgeting with her rings again and stopped abruptly when she caught Whitton looking down at her hands.

  “And they share their experiences with him?” Dale continued.

  Jewel’s head moved back and forth between them before eventually she nodded.