Murder of Convenience

by Carrie Marsh

  Gilding grinned. “We should outsource – we're getting used to using you for everything.”

  “Indeed,” the doctor said thinly. “In which case, if you can leave me to my job? I have three fractured ribs to record here, and damage to the spinal column...to say nothing of some blood tests to get sent off to Norwich later in the day.”

  Gilding laughed. “Very well, doctor. I'll leave you to your work. I suppose I have to make a start on mine,” he added firmly.

  “Where are you going to start?”

  “Finding out whatever we can about the vehicle,” Gilding said insistently. “If we can do so much as find a trace of paint on the two cars, we can at least establish whether or not the same vehicle rammed them. That'll give us some idea if there is a maniac ramming cars on the national road...” he sighed, running a weary hand through his hair. “In the meanwhile, I'll have to close the road.”

  The doctor blinked.

  “Alright, I know. There's only one road to Stowe and I also know that it's that one. Don't tell me. The council will hate me, and I'll be lucky if I keep my job outside of a week. But if people keep dying on that road, I don't think the outlook is any rosier.”

  “Quite,” the doctor nodded. He looked impressed. “I admire your courage, detective.”

  Gilding snorted. “My downright stubbornness, more like,” he said. “Well, doctor, if you find anything, even something tiny...”

  “I know where to go,” the doctor agreed. He was bending over the body, examining some bruising in minute detail, and Gilding turned away, knowing the doctor was engrossed in his work.

  “See you, Hargreaves,”

  “Cheerio, detective,” he called pleasantly.

  The door swung shut behind Gilding as he left. His visit left him with few answers and a vast barrage of questions. Which meant he had to get to work, and soon.

  Running a hand through his short, dark hair, trying to fight the headache that pressed down on him and made his temples ache, Randall Gilding headed up the hallway to his office. And the first of the day's tasks.

  Outside, the rain dripped from the trees and the cold gray of the morning gave way to dawn.

  The day would fill up with tasks, so Randall decided to make a start before anything new claimed him. He headed up to have a look at the car with Ginsberg.

  The results were surprising. Most surprising was that, while the front seat-belt in Hiddingh's car worked perfectly well, the front seat-belt in the car belonging to Janet was jammed. It had clearly not worked for quite some time.

  I wonder, Gilding thought, feeling decidedly disturbed, who knew about it?

  CHAPTER TEN

  CALL FOR HELP

  CALL FOR HELP

  The light leaked slowly through the thick curtains of Marcie's bedroom. She opened her eyes wearily. It had taken hours for her to fall asleep that night, and she felt stiff and sore. She rolled over and glanced at where Harry lay behind her, the coverlet pulled over one shoulder, eyes closed, face still with sleep. She smiled.

  How many times have I looked at that face? Lying asleep, his face was vulnerable, the years drawing back and leaving him innocent, free of cares.

  “I love you,” she whispered. He seemed to hear her, because he stirred slightly and his breath deepened.

  She rolled over to face him. He gave a deep breath and his eyes, pale sky blue, fluttered open. Marcie whispered to him.

  “Hello.”

  He smiled, eyes still unfocused, only half awake, he blinked at her. He slowly became aware of his surroundings.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She rolled over to lie beside him and he wrapped his arms around her and they lay as they did each morning, content and safe in their shared closeness. As he always did, Harry stretched ten minutes later and sat up. He always went to make their tea. The bed rose on the one side as he slipped out to open the curtains. He slid on his robe and she heard him heading over to the table where the electric kettle stood. She smiled.

  While she waited for her tea, she sat up against the cushions, looking out of the window at the uncertain blue of the sky. The sound of the kettle mixed with the dawn chorus, the music of her mornings for as long as she could say.

  Harry stepped into view on her left five minutes later, steaming tea in two china cups.

  “Thank you,” she said .

  He passed her the tea and then slid into bed, setting his down on the side table beside him.

  “A long day planned?” Marcie asked as she waited for the tea to draw.

  “Not really,” Harry said peaceably. “I thought to head into the town. Talk to Richard. The funeral's happening tomorrow. I thought we should offer our respects.”

  “Yes,” Marcie agreed, trying her tea. She frowned, thinking of the funeral. “It was remiss of me not to do it earlier. It slipped my mind,” she added quietly. The tea was just as she liked it – scalding and strong and fragrant. She blew the steam off the top and had another sip.Harry sighed and eased the stiffness from his lumbar spine. “Don't worry, dear. I should have thought of it too. We'll send something over – like a card or something. Service is tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Marcie said dolorously. “I should take something over – sandwiches or the like. They'll need plenty of that sort of thing and I'm sure Richard doesn't feel like organizing it.”Harry turned to smile at her. “Trust you to think of it, dear.”

  “I should have thought of it ages ago,” Marcie said, regretting the oversight. She finished her tea in silence and then slid briskly out from under the covers, stretching her spine. “I'll get ready and head into town to the bakery. If you could talk to Richard about our plan to have Tamsyn visit us? I want to get provisions for that, too...” Marcie said, voice trailing off as she headed the few paces up the hall to the bathroom.

  She slid the door shut behind her and took off her silk nightgown, running a scalding hot bath. Slipping in under the scented water she let the steam and heat soak into her as she thought about the day's plans.

  She would head to the village bakery to organize some catering for the service, and order some cake for when the child visited. After that, she would visit the library and then head through to the gym in Norwich – it was time for her weekly training. She looked down at her slim, fragile body under the bubbles. It wouldn't hurt to get herself stretched out from some of the stiffness. It was a relief to be warming up now as it was after such an uncomfortable, restless sleep.

  She heard the phone downstairs, and hoped Harry was up already. “We do have an answering machine, Marcie,” she told herself. “It's okay.” As it was, she heard the ringing stop early. Harry must have answered it.

  Twenty minutes later, washed, and with her hair styled in a chignon, she headed downstairs.

  In the sitting room, Harry was sitting in his chair, pipe lit, paper untouched on the table beside him. Marcie shook her head and frowned. He looked miles away, his face utterly blank.

  “Harry?” she called out. Marcie felt a sudden stab of worry. “Harry?”

  He looked up, eyes empty. “Marcie?” he said. “That was Gilding on the phone. He wanted to come round later. It's terrible. It's happened again. And they think its murder.”

  “Murder?” Marcie stared at him. “What are you saying, Harry? Who has been murdered?”

  Harry swallowed. “It isn't just who. It's how. Another car accident. Only this time it's Grant.”

  Marcie felt her blood go cold. “Another accident? Grant Hiddingh? You mean...”

  Harry inclined his head gravely. “Yes. Janet's lover.”

  “Oh...” Marcie felt her heart thump again and put her hand on it, worried about the sudden stabbing pain. It was the shock, she knew.

  Because Janet's death was not an accident after all.

  And now the killer had struck again.

  Marcie sat down heavily in her chair, feeling her vision blur and then refocus. She had to do something...but what could she do? Murder had come to Stow
e and she felt powerless to do anything – except perhaps to discover who had done it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DISCUSSIONS WITH A DOCTOR

  DISCUSSIONS WITH A DOCTOR

  The man lay on the table. He was looking up, sightless, at the ceiling, dark eyes open, handsome face slack and surprisingly tranquil. His skin was grayed. His body, below the cover over his chest, was a wasteland of broken bones, ragged-edged, and bloodless, torn flesh.

  Detective Gilding swallowed hard, glad it was only a photograph this time. He flipped the image onto Eustace Hargreave's desk in front of him and tried, harder, not to be sick. For the third time that week, he found himself looking at things he wished not to see, even in his nightmares.

  “...just thought you'd be interested to notice the break of the third rib there,” Eustace was saying. He pointed to the picture where it lay on the desk, indicating something in the ruined flesh. “It tells us about the angle of impact with the ground, the way the three have broken with the break of the first and second rib closed, and the third open, there where the jagged edge of the bone can be seen...”

  “Eustace?” he said thinly. “I think I'll head off. Got a phone call to make. You don't need me here, I think..?”

  Eustace, grinning, looked up cheerfully and wiped some hair out of his eyes. “No, Randall. Go ahead. Just wanted you to see the pictures of the accident, actually – always nice to have someone to corroborate some of my statements. Saves me thinking I've gone mad.”

  “Thanks,” Gilding sighed. “Remind me to leave you to question yourself next time. Might save me heaving up breakfast.”

  Hargreaves chuckled. “Sorry, old boy. I'll remember it. Didn't know you had a queasy gut.” His chuckle filled the room.

  “And a migraine,” Gilding said thinly.

  “Oh, no. Poor devil.”

  “Quite. I think I'll make that call, and then fall asleep...for a thousand years, ideally.”

  Hargreaves chuckled again. “Don't you dare, old boy. I need someone to talk to.”

  Gilding gave Hargreaves a pallid grin, then headed up the corridor. He reached his office, leaned back in his desk, and looked up at the ceiling. He had not been exaggerating: he felt miserable and exhausted.

  He reached out for the phone, suddenly hesitant. He considered phoning the manor again, asking if he could push his visit forward. Right now would be good. He had already called, taking Harry Winston-Browne up on the offer of refuge. At this moment, he needed it.

  “I don't think I can take much more of this.” The deaths, the tragedies...they all brought back his own loss. And the confusion was not helping his migraine at all, either. Nothing about either of these cases made a lot of sense. He sighed. All I can do is get on with it.

  He reached over the desk to where Ginsberg had placed the photographs from the first accident. He riffled through them, looking for the ones that showed the surface of the street and the resulting skid-marks. He frowned at them, drawing his own conclusions. He wanted to talk to Eustace about them, but hesitated to disturb the man. He didn't think he could take much more of his witty dialogue that morning.

  If I can ask HQ for one thing, Gilding thought sadly, just one thing to make life easier, it would be for an expert witness that isn't Eustace Hargreaves

  He knew in his heart that he didn't mean it. Yes, Hargreaves was difficult, a know-it-all, and often downright patronizing, but Gilding had to admit, that, for everything from medical investigation to accident reconstruction, he knew what he was doing. And besides, he liked the man. When he had first arrived here, he had been his greatest help.

  Gilding reached for the second folder. This one had the reports: the ones Hargreaves had made, the reports from the lab on sample results, his own report. He hoped that if he read through them again, some new information would leap out at him. He read the topmost report aloud as he scanned Hargreaves neat squarish handwriting.

  “Cause of death: Broken cervical spine sustained due to collision with the windshield. The blood samples show no markers indicative of intoxication, medication, or poison which may have impaired driving ability. Additional minor injuries include bruising to the head and...”

  At that moment he heard a voice in the corridor.

  “How's the headache, detective? Any improvement?”

  Gilding closed his eyes. “It was improving until about...two seconds ago?” He raised a brow at Eustace, who stood, white-coated and tousle-haired, in the door. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were still busy on the case?”

  “Point taken, young man,” Eustace said affably. He flopped into the office chair opposite the desk uninvited, and reached for the folder. “I'm finished for the moment – bloods from our current case are still at the lab. I can't do any more until they get back to me. Progress so far?”

  Gilding ran a hand through his dark hair. “Not as such. I'm not sorry you're here,” he added. “I can read you my observations, too. Maybe you'll see something I haven't.”

  Eustace raised a dramatic brow. “You mean you might just trust my opinion?”

  Gilding breathed out. “Yes, Eustace. I might just do that. Goodness alone knows why, but sometimes I rely on it. A fresh pair of eyes might mean I won't go batty.”

  Eustace chuckled wryly. “You need a break, young man,” he sighed. “Go on. You could at least take lunch somewhere. You'll feel better when you've gotten away for a while.”

  “I'd like to,” Gilding nodded. “But to be honest, I'm afraid to put my head out of this place. It's the funeral tomorrow, Eustace. For Janet. Everyone in the village will be looking at me with big accusing eyes, practically pinning the deaths on me. I can't face it.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, face stiff.

  Eustace sighed. He reached across the desk and patted the man's hand. Gilding looked up, surprised.

  “I know what it feels like,” Eustace said quietly. “Man, I'm a doctor. Do you think there haven't been times when I've looked down at someone who's suffering and thought I could have fixed it, if only I wasn't so useless? Or had the family telling me that?” He sighed. “It isn't true, you know. Sometimes there genuinely is no way of preventing what happens. All we can do is work with what is here, now. No one can change the past. It's a useless exercise to wish we could.”

  Gilding looked at him. “Thanks, doc,” he sighed. The words meant a great deal.

  “Don't mention it,” Eustace squeezed his hand again before withdrawing his touch. “Now, let's look at the evidence. Before I decide you actually like me and get disappointed because there's no one left to barney with.”

  Gilding huffed a laugh. “No chance of that, doc,” he grinned. “I'm always up for a barney.”

  “Hurrah,” the doctor said thinly. Gilding laughed. Together they looked over the papers again while someone made coffee in the next room and the sun came out from behind the clouds.

  “Okay,” Gilding sighed. “The way I see it, someone knew Mrs. Fleet was coming up the road then. He lay in wait for her and drove into the rear of her car at speed, pushing her off the embankment. It was deliberate. Perhaps the same person – perhaps someone else, we don't know yet if the paint is a match – drove into Hiddingh the next night. Perhaps the two deaths are not even related? Until we have the results on the paint, who knows?”

  Eustace leaned back, rubbing his chin, lost in thought. A solid man, broad and tall, the thoughtful gesture seemed at odds with him.

  “Two points,” the doctor said after a moment. “First, due to the damage on these two cars, and the pattern of skid marks, here...” he marked a point on the photograph from the first accident and then the second, “...and then here, we can estimate that the vehicle that hit them was about the same mass. It was a great big thing, probably more like a truck than a car. Second,” he paused, “you know as well as I do we have had one accident, maybe two, on that road in the last five years. Then we have two in the same night? Seems odd.”

  Gilding sighed. He knew Eustace
was right. He just did not want to believe that the tiny, peaceful village of Stowe had seen two killings in as many days. This was Stowe, the village where nothing happened! How could there be murder here?

  “Okay. I agree. As much as I don't want to. Now, if we accept the two deaths are linked, and performed by the same person, what can we deduce? That there's a serial killer in the village, lying in wait for unwary, long distance commuters?” he laughed, though it held a desperate note.

  “Well,” Eustace frowned. “Let's not get too dramatic about it. Before we write the Ballad of the Stowe Murderer, we could consider that the two deaths are the only two, linked by a common motive. Why would someone wish to kill both Mrs. Fleet and Hiddingh?”

  Gilding blinked. “I don't want to mention it, but it's obvious. Because she was running away? With Grant?”

  Eustace raised a brow. “Yes, I agree. On the surface it is that simple. But if she was running and we are presuming Hiddingh was running with her, then why was Hiddingh not waiting to meet her? He was at home at the time she fled. We have witnesses to attest to it,” he added. “If they had been together they would both have been killed or at least dangerously wounded in the first accident.”

  Gilding leaned back. He knew that. He just hadn't wanted to dismiss the easy answer. He had thought his headache had receded, but now it was there again, filling his head like the sound of wasps swarming on a warm evening.

  “Eustace. Remind me not to talk to you. My life would be much easier without indulging in that particular pastime.”

  Eustace guffawed a laugh. “I would remind you, except that I would miss your company. Far too much. But you have to consider what I said. You know it's right. This isn't a crime of passion, Gilding”

  Gilding put his hands over his eyes. He felt better when it was dark. “We don't know that,” he said lightly. “All we know is that both victims weren't in the same car.”