“Do you have a photograph of your husband?” Saint asked.
Her mouth gaped open as she considered the question. “I…of course, why do you need one?”
“We have an artist’s impression from witnesses.”
“You can’t possibly think…” She stood up now and placed her palm against her forehead, thinking. “For goodness’ sake.” She seemed to come to some kind of decision and stomped across the room to the unit. Opening a drawer, she pulled a photo album from it and opened it, holding it out for Whitton to take.
With it in her lap, both Saint and Whitton peered at the picture. A smiling man on his wedding day. A beautiful bride, glowing with happiness. Saint pulled the drawing from his pocket and laid it down flat next to the picture. Galahad Benson was dark-haired, tall and stocky.
They both looked up at Jewel. “We need to speak to your husband,” Whitton said as calmly as she could before looking back at the images.
~Grave~
The squad room was buzzing with activity. A new board had appeared, and Galahad Benson’s face was central. Black marker pens had scrawled what little information they had on him. Whitton’s instructions to dig deep and find out every single thing about him were being taken seriously by Bowen and Branson.
“I’m getting nothing on this guy,” Bowen said with his pen in his mouth. “It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Name change, it’s got to be. If he was born Galahad it would be the easiest record to find. If it’s not there, then…” Branson shrugged. “Seriously, who would have called their kid Galahad?” he laughed.
“I heard that Tanner called his kid Tyche, after the Greek God.”
Branson’s nose wrinkled and the left side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “Really? Tikey?” he said, looking away from the monitor.
“Ty-kee! Fucking Ty-kee Tanner.” They both laughed.
Bowen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Getting back to Sir Galahad, I wonder why he changed his name.”
Flicking at a few more keys of his keyboard, Branson grinned. “Because, he was born Derek Galahad Benson.” He twisted the monitor so that Bowen could read. “And Derek Galahad Benson is a naughty boy.”
Whitton looked up. “I’m going to bring in Jewel Benson.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Whitton sat back in her chair and stared at the woman sitting in the seat opposite. They’d been here for less than fifteen minutes. Jewel Benson remained silent.
She felt Saint fidget next to her. He was getting restless already; the room was stifling. Whitton was a patient woman when she needed to be. She could sit here all day if she had to, but Saint was a different prospect. Any minute he was going to blow, and if she was honest, Whitton was looking forward to it. Jewel Benson was probably a little complacent now, content with her silence. She wasn’t a woman easily intimidated.
The loud knock on the door interrupted Whitton’s thoughts. She stretched her neck and rounded her shoulders before nodding for Saint to open the door. He took the direction and jumped up so fast that his chair screeched back against the floor. Whitton watched as Benson flinched a little before quickly composing herself.
“I don’t know what you expect to achieve with this,” Jewel said. She was twisted slightly and staring at the “no smoking” sign. “I’ve done nothing wrong; you can’t keep me here forever.”
“You can walk right out of here anytime you want,” Whitton replied nonchalantly. “As long as you tell me the whereabouts of your husband.”
“I don’t know, okay?” she finally relented. “He hasn’t been home for a few days.”
“When did he leave?” Whitton sat forward and picked up her pen, waiting. “All I want to do is talk to him. If he has nothing to do with this then I can rule him out and move on, but right now, Mrs. Benson, right now all I have is a photofit that looks like him and three victims connected to you both. So, the best thing you can do for him is tell me where he is.”
She was about to reply when the door opened and Saint returned. “Can I have a word, Guv?”
Outside in the corridor, Saint grinned at her and waved a file in the air. That boyish grin told her they had something.
“Go on, out with it.”
“Right, so first of all, we know he was born Derek Galahad Benson in Whitstable, Kent. He grew up there, dropping the name Derek.” He grinned again. “When he was 18, he moved to London where he worked as a plumber. He got involved in petty thieving, but mostly it was drunk and disorderly stuff until…” He held open the file to her. “He spent five and half years in Scrubs for manslaughter.”
“So, he has killed before?”
Saint nodded.
“Okay, let’s see if Mrs. Benson knows anything about this.”
“One more thing.” He touched her arm as she began to turn back into the room. “Jeff found some CCTV from the pub where Trevor Hayes was last seen. There’s a bloke on it, looks like a plumber. He evades most of the cameras, but on one he is clearly seen walking into the pub. Then later, he comes back out, with his arm around what looks like a drunk.”
“Okay, get Jeff to follow it up.”
“He did; landlord doesn’t know anything about it. Guv, he’s stocky, tall, and wearing a blue boiler suit.”
“Alright, let’s see if we can find out where the elusive Galahad is hiding.”
Jewel Benson looked up at them both as they entered the room again. “What?” she said, noting the knitted brows on both faces.
Whitton took a seat but Saint stood, taking off his jacket and making a show of placing it around the back of his chair. “Mrs.…Benson, we have come into some information that I’d like to run past you.”
“Is he okay? Did you find him?” she asked urgently. “I don’t…it doesn’t look good that he isn’t here, okay.” She seemed to have had a change of heart on remaining silent.
“Doesn’t look good?”
“To the clients, if he has…if Galahad has…he did it once before, when we lived in Kent.” When Whitton and Saint didn’t speak, she continued. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “He started drinking again. Took himself off to London and slept on a friend’s couch.”
“And that’s where you think he is now?”
She nodded. “If it got out that the very person inspiring others not to drink was a drunk, what do you think would happen to our funding?” Whitton didn’t care much for the woman, but she did understand the problem she found herself in. It wasn’t Whitton’s choice of therapy, but if it worked for some then there was a place for it in Woodington.
“And where does your funding come from?”
“We have a very generous benefactor, actually.” She smiled at them both. “Dr. Lydia Robinson and her husband…”
“Jonas?” Whitton asked, her head tilting at the new information.
Jewel Benson looked surprised. “Yes, Jonas helps us when we need legal advice.” Whitton noted the information down and waited for Saint to continue with the questioning.
“Mrs. Benson, when you married Galahad, I assume you knew that he had changed his name by deed poll?” he asked.
Her forehead creased, brows knitting tightly together. “What are you talking about?”
Dale smirked. “I am assuming you knew when you married that Galahad had changed his name as well as his lifestyle?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t believe you; he would have told me...he…” Her voice tailed off as Whitton opened the file and slid out a photo of a much younger Galahad Benson facing a police camera and holding a sign with his name clearly written: Derek G Benson. “I don’t understand.”
“Derek Benson is a convicted killer. He was given a ten-year sentence in 1988. He served five and a half years before he was released on probation,” Whitton explained as she turned the paperwork around for Jewel to read.
“I don’t…that’s not the man that I married.” Her eyes glistened now as she looked up imploringly at the detectives. “It can’t be…t
here has to be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake, Mrs. Benson,” Saint assured her. “It’s possible that during his time in prison, he straightened himself up, but Galahad Benson and Derek Benson are one and the same.”
Jewel pressed her finger against her lip and nibbled at the skin there. “What do you want me to do?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Whitton had her head in her hands, elbows on the desk as she read through the half inch thick file on Derek Benson. Her stomach grumbled about missing lunch again. Dinner with Rachel tonight couldn’t come soon enough. Remembering Dr. Westbrook’s words, she picked up her phone and went online. Scrolling through the options, she picked one and paid for it. If she was going to change, then she needed to start somewhere, and today, it seemed, was the day.
“What’s got you smiling?” Dale asked, plonking down onto the corner of her desk.
“Just sending Rachel some more flowers,” she answered, head back in the file.
“Shit, is it her birthday?” He flustered and jumped to his feet.
Whitton looked up at his concerned face. “No, don’t you ever just send flowers to Becky?”
His eyebrow raised. “No, she’d think I was after something.”
Whitton chuckled and shook her head. “Maybe you should show her that you’re not.”
“But I would be.” He waggled his brows suggestively.
“Oh, gross.” She laughed and tossed a pen at him. “Make yourself useful and fill in the info on the boards. It needs updating.”
He left the room and she went back to the file. The more she read, the more interested she became in Derek Benson, AKA Galahad Benson, and his whereabouts now. She made notes of anywhere he might be: places he grew up, went to school, worked. Most of the South East.
“Time to rattle off some emails,” she mumbled to herself as she fired up the computer and went through her memory banks for the names of officers who might be able to dig a little and help.
Opening her inbox, the first thing she noticed was an email from Barnard.
Subject: re Tox results from oily Substance/Anita Simmons/Trevor Hayes
Diflucortolone valerate – Found in Nerisone cream. It’s a Corticosteroid used for reducing inflammation in the treatment of dermatitis or eczema.
That’s all for now.
Tristan
She printed it off and added it to the board.
~Grave~
Swigging from her bottle of water, Whitton climbed out of the stuffy car and locked it. There was something different about Rachel’s cottage. It was perfectly neat and tidy; the grass was cut and the windows gleamed in the early evening sunlight. Then she spotted it: the for-sale sign.
She downed the last of the water and lifted the recycling bin lid, tossing the plastic bottle in before closing it and opening the gate.
Slipping lose another button on her shirt, she rung the bell before sliding her key into the lock and letting herself in. A brow raised and a smirk appeared on her face as she looked around the familiar place and noted how tidy and clean it was. Rachel had a habit of dropping things as she moved around the house. Her coat invariably ended up on the banister rather than the hook on the wall specifically for it. She would kick her shoes off as she walked through to the lounge rifling through her mail, leaving the envelopes and bills on a side table – the side table that now held a vase filled with fresh flowers.
When Whitton finally laid eyes on her, her breath was taken. She stood with her curvy hips clad in blue jean shorts, her ample cleavage covered in just a bikini top, hair scooped up in a messy ponytail. Sophie’s eyes travelled the length of her, taking in the bare feet at the bottom and the gentle lip-biting higher up.
“Before you speak…” Rachel said, walking towards her. When she reached her, she placed a gentle finger against Sophie’s lips and smiled. “I have made some decisions these past couple of days, grave decisions, and yes, I probably should have spoken to you about it, but…” She took Sophie’s bag from her and placed it down on the sofa. “I should have done this months ago. Whether I move in with you or not, I am selling the cottage.” Green eyes stared at Sophie as she waited for a reaction.
“Did you wear this because you wanted to butter me up?” Sophie grinned.
Rachel laughed and twirled. “No, this…” she said, undoing the string at the neck, “…this is for the flowers.” She smiled seductively as Sophie’s gaze drifted lower, taking in her naked chest. “I thought maybe we could fool around a bit...” The strings behind her back were loosened. “…and then you can take me out to dinner, and then…” She trailed off as she dropped the flimsy material to the floor and reached for the buttons on the shorts. “You can spend however long you want…” Shimmying her hips, she let the bulkier material fall to the ground. “…doing whatever you want with me.”
“Anything, huh?” Whitton smirked again, enjoying the sight of Rachel’s naked form: every curve, the slight roundness to her tummy, thicker thighs than any of her previous lovers. Rachel turned her on. She glanced up finally and studied her face, with its soft, full lips and those eyes that just saw right through her. Whitton had no doubts, not anymore. “Move in with me.”
Rachel’s head cocked to one side. She stepped out from the pile of clothing and moved toward Sophie. “Is that what you want?” she asked as the corner of her mouth lifted into the beginnings of a smile that she daren’t allow just yet.
Sophie nodded, her dark fringe flopping forward and hiding her eyes. Rachel pushed it away to cup her cheek. She stroked the soft skin there with her thumb and smiled when Sophie’s palms gripped her waist and tugged her closer. “And not because I used to see your body at a crime scene, not because I used to panic about not saving you, not for any other reason than I just love you.”
Rachel sucked in a breath and held it as she contemplated Sophie’s invitation. “I am going to say yes. And not because I can’t bear to be in this cottage alone, or because I need you by my side to feel safe, but because I love you and I want to live with you, wake up with you.” She kissed the corner of Sophie’s mouth. “Cook dinner for you.” Another kiss, tugging Sophie’s lip between her own. “Mess up your tidy shelves with all the tat I’m going to buy when we go on holidays.” She giggled, and this time Whitton took charge, lifting Rachel over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift, taking the stairs as speedily as she could before depositing her laughing lover unceremoniously on the bed.
“Absolutely, all of your tat.”
Rachel wiggled backwards and lay against the pillows, looking up at Whitton as she pulled her clothes off and tossed them aside without care. When Rachel reached a hand down between her own thighs, she was sure she heard Whitton growl.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dinner had been nice, a romantic table for two complete with candles and a bottle of wine that Rachel enjoyed more than Sophie. They’d just ordered dessert when Whitton’s phone buzzed and vibrated against the table. She sighed and mouthed a rueful ‘sorry’ across the table to Rachel as she picked up the intrusive device and answered it.
“Whitton.” She wasn’t on call as such, but the team knew to call her night or day with anything that might even be a sniff of a lead. This was just that. O’Leary was on the other end of the call.
“Sophie, I just took a call from a DI in Kent. Seems he saw the press conference and got in touch.”
Whitton straightened in her seat, staring ahead as she took in the information. “Go on.”
“There’s another one. Another grave killing,” she added to clarify. “Happened in a place called Molesden, tiny little village outside of Canterbury.”
“Okay, I’m on my way in.” She was already standing, dropping the napkin that had lain across her lap onto the table. She looked at Rachel. A thin-lipped smile said it was fine, but she hated doing it.
“Fine, I’ve got the details. But Guv? It’s not new.”
“What do you mean?”
“This one happened 17
years ago.”
Whitton sat back down and picked up her glass. She swirled the liquid in the glass before putting it back down on the table and leaning forward, her elbow on the table as she ran her fingers through her hair.
“Alright, can you email me what you have? I’ll read it tonight, and then tomorrow me and you will be heading to Kent.”
O’Leary seemed to perk up at that news. “Road trip? Great, I’ll bring a packed lunch.”
“Okay. Don’t forget to email.”
“I am doing it now.”
Whitton hung up and placed the phone down onto the table. It instantly beeped a notification of mail.
“If you have to go, it’s okay,” Rachel said just as the waitress reappeared with dessert. She looked down at the cheesecake Sophie had ordered. “I can get that take-away.”
Whitton looked down at the cheesecake too. It looked delicious. Shaking her head, she picked up the spoon and heard Dr. Westbrook’s words in her head. You have to decide if she is worth it to you, and if she is, then you are the one that has to put her first. “No, it can wait. I’m spending the evening with you.”
Rachel’s smile told her all she needed to know. It was the right decision.
~Grave~
Dale Saint met Whitton in the car park when she arrived the following morning. He didn’t look happy as she dropped her cigarette butt and ground it out. He stalked across to her as she bent down and picked it up. “Why is O’Leary going with you today and not me?”
She stood up and looked at him. His face flushed a little when he realised how churlish he sounded.
“No reason. She called with the information and I said she could come with me. I was hoping you’d step up while I was gone and deal with things from this end but, if you’d rather that I leave Colleen in charge and you come for a drive…”
“No, that’s…” He ran a hand through his short, fair hair. “You’re leaving me in charge?”
“That’s the plan. I figured you could organise the troops and chase up the CCTV around the church with Jeff.” She started to walk towards the office as she shoved her cigarette litter bag back into her pocket.
Grave Decisions Page 13
