Grave Decisions

by Claire Highton-Stevenson

  “Are you ever going to chuck that?” Dale said, jutting his chin towards the pocket containing the bag.

  “Probably,” she replied. “So, you alright now? Hissy fit over?”

  He caught up with her. “It wasn’t a hissy fit,” he refuted, but with no real enthusiasm.

  “Yes, it was. But I won’t tell anyone.” She leaned towards him and whispered as two uniforms passed. “Oh, by the way, are you free at the weekend?”

  “Might be, depends what the offer is and whether I get to go on the next jolly-up.”

  Whitton laughed. “A day out with me isn’t ever going to be a jolly-up, is it?”

  “Fair point. What do you want me to do?”

  She stopped them as they reached the door, letting two officers out as she held the door open. “Rachel’s moving out of the cottage.”

  “Bout fucking time. Gives me the creeps knowing she’s still in there,” he said without thinking. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine, gives me the creeps too. Anyway, she’s moving…in with me.”

  He laughed, his head flung back. “I knew it wouldn’t be long. All that shit about not rushing it after Yvonne.” He grinned at her. “I’m happy for ya, Soph. Yvonne was alright, but Rachel…she gets you. I’ll be over about 10, that okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Dale.”

  ~Grave~

  Molesden was a picturesque village in rural Kent. It had the quintessential cricket green and thatched-roof pub. St. Saviour’s Church had been built in the 17th century and was tiny in comparison to its 11th century neighbour, Canterbury Cathedral, just 12 miles away to the east. Colleen O’Leary pulled her car into the small side road and parked.

  “Hard to believe anything sinister could happen somewhere like here, eh?” she said, looking out of the windscreen as she switched the engine off. The scene looked like a puzzle box picture.

  “According to TV, these kinds of places are a hotbed of evil, wrongdoing, and murder,” Whitton said pushing the file she had been reading back into her satchel. When she glanced across at Colleen and found her staring blankly, she added. “Midsummer? Touch of Frost?” When Colleen shook her head, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Vera?”

  “I don’t really watch TV. Mike prefers a movie, so we have those cinema cards where you can go as many times as you want.”

  “Right. Well, anyway. Shall we go in and meet DI Wilcox?”

  Standing in the graveyard beside the well-kept tomb they’d all come to see was a tall man. His hair was greying, matching the colour of his well-worn suit. He waved a hand in their direction and both women walked towards him.

  “DI Whitton.” He held out a hand and she shook it.

  “Yeah, this is O’Leary. Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “How could I not? This case has bothered me for years, and now there’s a chance we might solve it,” he said seriously.

  “That’s the plan. So, what can you tell us?”

  “Well…” He turned around and pointed down at a headstone. It was made of black marble and looked quite new in terms of many of the others.

  Kevin Maxim

  12th May 1967 – 4th Aug 1992

  Rest in Peace

  “Kevin Maxim was the local simpleton, for want of a better word. He was the kid that did any dare. Like a sheep, he followed the gang, and it was always him that got caught for anything.”

  Whitton listened as O’Leary took notes.

  “He broke into a house in the village, for a dare. Came face to face with the owner, Brian Pickford, and panicked, pushed him out of the way and unfortunately Brian toppled down the stairs.”

  “So, you arrested him? How did you know it was him?” Whitton asked.

  “He owned up. Like I said, simpleton. Not a bad lad, just led astray. We charged him with manslaughter.”

  “But he got off?” O’Leary piped up while still scribbling the information.

  “His brief argued that he wasn’t of sound mind, and to be fair…” He shrugged his shoulders, lips set in a firm thin smile. “Who were we to argue? We all knew he was an idiot.”

  He started walking, and Whitton and O’Leary followed around the side of the building to a shadier part of the cemetery. Here was another headstone, this time a granite one, beautifully chiseled with an angel on the top corner and the words:

  Brian Pickford

  23rd Dec 1937 – 9th June 1992

  Always remembered.

  Always loved.

  “This is where we found Kevin. Laid out neatly. His neck broken.”

  “Gotta say, it matches ours to a tee. Did you have any suspects?” Whitton asked.

  Wilcox smiled sadly. “Nope, I was the lead on the case back then. New to the job and that but, I’d grown up around here; I knew Kevin. He wasn’t a bad lad. If anything, his mates should have been the ones charged, but we all know the law, right?”

  Both women nodded.

  “Thing is, we had no idea what it was about. Assumed it was some kind of retribution from someone Brian knew, but with no real evidence and nothing much else to go on, it slipped into the cold case pile.”

  Whitton’s interest was piqued. “No real evidence? You mean you did have something?”

  Wilcox chuckled. “Kevin had someone else’s DNA under his index fingernail.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The drive back from Kent felt like the longest journey of Whitton’s life. She floored the accelerator and exceeded the speed limit by just enough that she wouldn’t get a ticket. O’Leary held on with one hand and tried again to get hold of Saint.

  “Nope, no signal out here. I’ll try again when we hit the motorway.”

  Whitton checked the time on the dashboard. It was 2.15 p.m. “Don’t worry about it. We should be back in an hour if the traffic plays fair.”

  “True, and it’s not like we can do anything with it. Kent needs to send it through to Barnard, and then we still need someone to match it to.”

  A blue Volvo sped past and Whitton honked her horn at it. “Bloody idiot. It’s not like I’m driving slowly,” she complained. The country lanes were bendy and barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, but she was confident enough to navigate them safely. She’d been on enough driving courses, after all. “If we find him in a ditch up ahead, I’m not stopping.”

  O’Leary chuckled and put the seat back. “Wake me up when we get back.”

  Whitton eased off the accelerator a little, keeping one eye on the sat nav for the turning that would lead them down onto the M20. Colleen was already snoring lightly when it came, and Whitton took the turning slowly so as not to wake her.

  While the car did all of the hard work, Whitton let her mind wander over the case. She thought about each set of victims. How would anyone come into contact with them all? She guessed that there were newspaper reports, and in the case of Kevin Maxim, a small village where everyone knew everything. The more she thought about it, the more she leaned towards someone in the medical field, or someone closely attached to the emergency services. They had to have inside information somehow. She thought about Rachel; maybe the suspect was married to a nurse? A paramedic? A copper even, maybe they were a copper? She shook her head. Hayes’ murder was too precise; it had to be someone with medical knowledge.

  She sighed as red lights on the cars up ahead all began to light up together. Traffic; just what she didn’t need.

  ~Grave~

  The four-car pile-up on the M20 had delayed them by almost two hours. Whitton’s phone battery had died, and O’Leary was annoyed that her phone still wouldn’t pick up a signal.

  “I’m going to bloody well take this back. It’s only a month old. It’s supposed to be the latest thing out there,” she complained as Whitton pulled into the yard. She had a headache brewing, and Colleen’s constant chatting since waking 20 minutes into the traffic jam was starting to grate. “And you don’t have a charger? I’m going to get you one. Everyone needs a charger,” she continued on, and Whitton cricked
her neck one way and then other before she pulled into her spot and yanked the handbrake.

  She climbed out of the car and stalked off, leaving Colleen to call after her that the car wasn’t locked. The loud beep made Colleen jump as Whitton held the fob over her shoulder and pressed the lock button.

  When she reached the office, she found Branson with his feet up on the desk and Bowen perched on the corner. They were laughing over a cup of coffee.

  “Comfortable?” she asked, staring down at them as Branson pulled his feet from the desk and sat up.

  “Guv.”

  “I’m out of the office for one day and you all think it’s a day off?”

  Colleen bustled into the room and dumped her bag on her desk. Her phone suddenly sprang into life and notifications beeped as several came through now the phone seemed to have service. Whitton ignored it. Her glare held on the two men in front of her. “Where’s Saint?”

  “Interview room,” Bowen said quickly. “Galahad Benson, he’s interviewing him.”

  Her brow rose and arched. “How did that happen?”

  “The wife called about an hour ago, said he had turned up and you wanted to know about it. Dale and Ansu went and got him. They’re both interviewing him now.”

  “Great, go down there and get a DNA swab,” she ordered. “Get it sent to Barnard ASAP.”

  Branson stood, his eyes narrowing at her. “Guv?”

  “He wasn’t always this clever.” She grinned.

  ~Grave~

  Galahad Benson was a tired man. He slumped in the chair they made him sit in and tried to focus. The past few weeks had exhausted him, but finally he had his head together.

  Now though, as he sat across from the two coppers, he wondered if he had made a big mistake. He was just grateful that Jonas Robinson was sitting beside him.

  They’d been pummeling him for over an hour. Where had he been? Could anyone vouch for that? He’d literally just walked through the door when Jewel had launched at him, screaming about murder and god-only-knows what. And then there was banging on the door and before he knew it, he was being handcuffed and led away. It brought back memories of a time he had tried to forget. Maybe it was useless, maybe he would never forget; that was probably the truth of it. He couldn’t outrun his past. He couldn’t change who he was. The man he had become was because of the past, but it still haunted him.

  When the door opened and a black guy poked his head around it, Galahad took the opportunity to close his eyes and enjoy the reprieve from the constant inane questions.

  Last week had been a blur. All he remembered was turning up at the pub. Such a brave thing to do, daring in fact. In his own back yard and where anyone could have seen him. Now look where that had got him.

  The one in charge waffled something about the interruption, for the tape. Then he stood up. The legs of the chair scraping against the floor hurt Galahads teeth, and sucked in his cheeks. All he needed to do was just sit still and stay quiet.

  When Saint returned, he had a box in his hand that he put to one side before continuing on with the interview, Ansu doing the usual reminders for the tape.

  “Tell me about Anita Simmons,” Saint asked casually.

  “She used to come along to Mutare,” he acknowledged. “After one of her clients introduced her.”

  “Which client?”

  “I don’t know.” He rubbed his face and scratched at his stubbled chin. “Tall woman, Connie or something.”

  “Constance Martin?”

  “Yeah, that might be it. Look, what does this have to do with me?”

  “We will get to that, Mr. Benson. I just want to clarify that you knew Anita Simmons, Constance Martin, and Paul Crawford?”

  His face scrunched up in confusion. “Paul? What does Paul have to do with anything? He’s dead.”

  Sharp knuckles rapped against the door, and Saint stood to answer it.

  “For the tape, 16.34, DS Saint has left the room,” Patel said aloud. They sat in silence and waited.

  Saint returned a couple of minutes later. Closing the door behind him, he grinned as he stared across the room at a disheveled Benson and his solicitor, Jonas Robinson

  “You’ve lived in Kent too, haven’t you?” he said, crossing the room and taking his seat. “See the thing is, Mr. Benson, we have cause to believe that you might be responsible for a little vigilantism, not just here in Woodington, but in Kent as well.”

  He waited for Benson’s reaction and got none. Robinson stayed quiet too, but he was much more alert now, sitting up in his chair and adjusting his collar.

  “What exactly are you accusing my client of?”

  “Murder, Mr. Robinson.”

  Benson surged forward and roared, “What? You’re not fitting me up again!” Robinson reached an arm across his chest and eased him back in his seat. “This is a fit up.”

  Ignoring his client’s protests, Robinson asked, “I assume that you have evidence to back this ridiculous claim up?”

  Saint pulled a photo from the file. Placing it on the desk, he turned it with his fingers and slid it towards Benson. “This man is someone we believe is connected to the murder of at least three people here in Woodington.” He looked across to Robinson. “As you can see, there is a very good likeness to Mr. Benson.”

  “He looks a lot like me too,” Robinson laughed. “This isn’t proof that the man in the photo is indeed my client.” He smirked now. “And secondly, even if it were, you have nothing to link him to an actual crime. Unless looking like somebody is a crime these days?”

  Now it was Saint’s turn to smirk. “Actually, we might.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Galahad Benson fidgeted in his seat. “I’m not giving you my DNA.” He shook his head at the swab that Saint had pulled from the almost-forgotten box.

  “Then tell us where you have been all this time. The sooner you give us something we can corroborate, the sooner you are out of our line of inquiry,” Ansu Patel said, his dark eyes boring into Benson. “It’s a bit of a coincidence that you are missing at the same time not one, but two people are murdered in Woodington, isn’t it?”

  Benson continued to stare back at him. Finally, he leant in to his brief and spoke quietly. Robinson nodded.

  “My client is happy to make a statement on one condition.” Saint stared impassively until he continued. “My client would prefer that whatever he tells you now remains between us and that his wife doesn’t find out.”

  “We will do our best; however, should Mr. Benson be charged with anything, then I cannot guarantee that the CPS and future prosecution representatives won’t use it against him.”

  Robinson smiled confidently and then nodded at his client.

  Benson cleared his throat. “I was in London. Visiting a friend.” His face flushed and he looked away.

  “And this friend’s name would be?” Pen poised, Saint peered up at him.

  Benson glanced across at his brief once more. Receiving the affirming nod, he continued. “Sally, Sally Taylor.” He sighed and rubbed his face.

  “I see, and Ms. Taylor can confirm that you were there for the entire time that you have been missing.”

  He nodded and licked his lip. “Yeah. Look, I…Jewel, you know she’s the love of my life, but sometimes…” He shrugged. “I lose my way from the path.”

  “You don’t need to explain that to us. I’ll need a number and details of the address so that I can confirm,” Saint said as both he and Patel prepared to finish the interview. “Oh, and Mr. Benson, I still need that DNA sample.”

  ~Grave~

  Flopping into the chair opposite her, Dale Saint exhaled loudly. “It ain’t him.”

  Whitton stopped what she was doing and leaned back in her chair to listen. “Why not?”

  “He’s an old drunk getting his end away. Twenty quid says that DNA comes back negative.”

  “Then we’re back to square one again.”

  Saint grinned. “Are you sure it ain’t Perkins?”


  Whitton laughed and picked up her pen again. “If only.” She started writing again. “Barnard said he was working when Anita was killed, so unless he’s working with a twin?”

  “Bugger. Right, well I am going home. Unless you want me to do anything else?”

  She checked her own watch; it was nearing seven, “Nope, get lost. I’m just typing this up and then I’ll be following.” She watched him leave, waving over his shoulder. Colleen had gone a while ago. Jeff was taking the DNA sample over to Barnard, and Bowen hadn’t been in today; dentist’s appointment. Patel was still typing at his desk, so the office wasn’t empty, but it felt quiet, which was why it felt loud when her email beeped a new message.

  Sender: JUdGeAnDExecuTioNer@Hotmail.com

  Subject: You’re wasting your time.

  DI Whitton. If you lot did your job better, then I would not need to clean up after you. These are grave times and the unpunished must be taken to task. You’ll never find me. Nobody else has.

  I am the law.

  “Oh, That’s just great. Now you’re taunting me,” she mumbled to herself as she picked up the phone to call IT.

  “Nobody else has ever found me? Well, let the challenge begin.”

  ~Grave~

  Whitton walked into the internet café on Grafton Street and looked around. Clearly the place had once been a retail shop, some of the shelving still up along the wall on the left with computers and secondhand games for sale. Neon signs flashed in the window, and the low hum of dance music could be heard coming from a stereo somewhere. Small desks lined the centre of the room, back to back and pushed up close against one another with a wooden wall between each one for privacy.

  Most were empty. The odd head could be seen, bowed down as someone typed or played a game, but nobody looked up. She walked the entire length of the shop, noting one camera in the back and one up front.

  “Bingo,” she mumbled to herself as she strolled over to the guy with headphones on behind the till. He had his eyes closed as his head bobbed rhythmically to the music he was listening to. Using her index finger, she tapped him twice on the forehead, making him jump.