Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 5

Warrender Lane lay at the furthermost point of Kendal’s outskirts. It wasn’t densely-housed, though; in fact, Suzanne only counted six individual homes. They were scattered around three other buildings: a sorry-looking youth hostel, a cafe and a tourist gift shop for visitors who might pass this way. That 3^rd building was the largest. Pulling into the kerb against a spindly street, too narrow for two people to walk along side-by-side, Suzanne glanced at the address for Laura’s family again and memorised the house number.

“Number four, Warrender Lane – right!”

She made a flawless three-point turn and manoeuvred her vehicle so it was in the right position to go down the side road leading to her destination. The view ahead of a road boasting natural landscapes on either side changed to a poorly-maintained one with a pair of cattle grids locked within that surface. For motorists, this type of terrain was challenging. To lessen the impact of the juddering, she raised her bottom off the seat by an inch and moved her back away slightly from the vertical part of the driver’s seat. When the car had cleared both grids, she felt the upper part of her body relax and retain the most comfortable position for her whilst driving. All the while she was making her final approach to the house in question, she wondered if this journey could be a waste of time. The possible realisation it might be was an occupational hazard. On the other hand, she didn’t want to discard the certainty her journey hadn’t been taken for nothing. It had to be too much of a coincidence that Samantha burst on 14^th February, the day Laura was born. It then tied itself to the business of making an expenses claim. Hers would undoubtedly be centred on the money needed to reimburse her for the cost of petrol. Replenishing her car’s fuel supply in the course of an investigation justified employing that procedure. As Ameera made plain to her, she was going quite a way to see if this development panned out. The obvious fact was that the longer the journey, the more she would be required to claim. This opened up the thornier part of this issue; namely, the tightening of the purse strings. Suzanne saw at once how this could be problematic. Her intuition was in nagging mode. It was steering her thoughts towards more than one trip here being necessary, and DI Andrews was forced into wondering whether her mum would permit this spate of expense claims to cover the fuel costs to these excursions. Budgetary constraints had to be taken into account every bit as much as methods of solving cases, and the rash of complaints from the public that were expected as a result of their efforts.

She was also highly aware she was venturing somewhere that officers from Greater Manchester Constabulary had no official jurisdiction in. That was why she had no plans to go to any other area of Kendal. Hers was a flying visit. Talking to the Blackwell family was her sole purpose. Once she’d done it, whether the trip was fruitful or not, it was back to base for her – no detours.

A quick check outside the car demonstrated there was nowhere else to park in this vicinity but the gift store’s forecourt. Because of the way the six houses were positioned, it was going to involve an extra few minutes being spent trying to reach there. Ordinarily, she would walk along a street to locate an address that she might be compelled to visit, but nothing resembling that existed here.

Number four was located directly behind a tree and the ground floor of the building was hidden by a tall, thick hedge. As soon as she bypassed the large oak, she saw the front gate to the property. The top of it was arched and a portion of the hedge was cut to an identical shape to accommodate what had been inserted into that gap. There was no road to cross between the house and the rear of the tree, just a small field. The only areas where traffic had passage through were to the right and left of where she was walking. She looked momentarily at the left of the house and saw a lorry hurtle down this way. The driver of this leviathan didn’t care if his trip was causing sufficient amounts of air and noise pollution. Craning her neck a little to see more of this small road, she saw that there was a route where cars belonging to more occupants of the house could drive into the grounds. She followed the turn-off and the aspect of the house’s exterior that caught her eye the most were the hexagonal windows on the 2^nd floor and the pebble-dash walls lower down. All the stones concreted in bore different colours. They were vibrant, but the outer decor wasn’t to DI Andrews’ taste: the visual concept served to clarify what happens when creativity goes unchecked. It was the phoniest attempt to introduce natural objects into the general construction, and thereby give the house an organic ambience. Suzanne couldn’t be sure whether it was the family who asked for it or if it had been there before they moved in. That was the kind of pot luck all residents faced when seeing their new home for the first time.

Her study of it caught the attention of a woman who had been staring out the window at the tree. She had platinum blonde locks and facially was in her forties. Age-lines were beginning to make a permanent home around her lips and near the forehead too. Suzanne didn’t become aware of her features until she was joined outside by that same woman.

“I thought I told you lot to piss off!”

Without much brain work, DI Andrews knew this comment stemmed from having to see off a particular sort of unwelcome visitor who’d called round some time before. The acidic tone of the lady who’d emerged from 4, Warrender Lane exposed her sheer annoyance that they never took the hint, and kept coming around whenever they felt like it.

“I’m not a Jehova’s Witness. Here, this should tell you who I am.”

Suzanne’s wallet was snatched from her hand, demonstrating that her assurance that she didn’t belong to that religious organisation wasn’t being taken as red. A prolonged stare of disbelief highlighted this. When read, DI Andrews’ identification was handed back to her several seconds later.

“Why does an officer from Greater Manchester Police want to talk to me?”

“I need you to clarify your surname: is it Blackwell?”

“Olivia Blackwell, yes”

“And does Laura Blackwell live here?”

“Why do you want to know about her?”

“If you could just answer the question, please”

“She does, but she isn’t here at the moment: won’t be until this evening.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s at university.”

“Which one”

“The one in your neck of the woods”

“Salford”

“Yeah”

“It’s a long way for her to travel.”

“I make sure she gets an early start.”

“Was she born on the 14^th of February?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

Self-revealing responses weren’t a common factor when engaging in police enquiry-related conversations with the public. DI Andrews didn’t focus on their rarity, though. She was concentrating on Mrs. Blackwell’s body language. It gave away more than what she was saying. Whether or not it was timely to do so, the photograph in which Laura and Samantha were sitting on the same couch was produced.

“Do you know this woman sat next to Laura?”

“Yes. It’s Samantha Williams – Laura’s godmother.”

“Are you sure that’s all she is?”

“Come again?”

“Is she a blood relative?”

“Of course she isn’t!” snapped Mrs. Blackwell defensively.

“How long have you known Samantha?”

“Since we started junior school; she befriended me the first day I went through the school gates.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Over a month ago”

“Did she say ever say anything about someone called Helen Stephenson?”

“No. Look, I thought you were asking about Laura. Why are you suddenly so keen to ask me about Samantha?”

“Can we go inside first, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“No, tell me out here why you changed the subject from my daughter to Sam!”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Laura’s godmother is dead.”

“Did she commit suicide?”

“I really think we ought to continue this inside.”

“Come into the kitchen – it’s the quietest part of the house.”

 

The L-shaped area of Olivia’s home was as pristine and fresh-looking as those sorts of fixtures and fittings constantly paraded around TV adverts. Suzanne was immediately envious of how plush the opening of the drawers and cupboard doors were: they were equally so when being closed. The ones in her kitchen didn’t perform this function as smoothly. They had already seen better days. Suzanne’s prediction concerning the length of time her kitchen was due to last had been wrong by a few years. She forecast twelve, but after half that period, she began noticing structural problems with it, more and more.

“Coffee, Detective Inspector”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure? After what you’ve just announced, I could do with one myself!”

“Go on then. Is your husband at home?”

“He’s at work, which has become more appealing to him than bothering to be at home.”

Mrs. Blackwell was rubbish at hiding her resentment. Her voice gradually became bitterer halfway through her reply.

“What’s his profession?”

“He’s a prominent member of Cumbria County Council.”

“Is that how you see him?”

“It’s more how he sees himself.”

“Why did you ask whether Samantha had taken her own life?”

“She had specific emotional issues.”

“Well, she didn’t, Mrs. Blackwell. She was strangled by an unknown assailant.”

“Unknown? I thought you said Helen Stephenson killed her!”

“I never said such a thing. What I asked was whether she’d shared any details about this Helen Stephenson with you.”

“Since I never heard that name until you told me about it, I thought it would’ve been obvious to you I’m not, and never have been, familiar with this person.”

“Fair enough, you don’t know who she is – I’d prefer it if you didn’t get so defensive. These questions are connected to Samantha’s murder. They’re not meant to be personal.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that this will hit Laura hard. She was fond of her.”

“How fond”

“Very, Detective Inspector Andrews”

“Is Laura your only child?”

“No, I have any daughter from a previous marriage.”

“What’s her name?”

“Charlotte Myers.”

Inspiration for Suzanne’s next question came from the picture used to verify that Olivia knew the victim. She had to establish who had captured this moment on film.

“Do you know who took the photograph I showed you?”

“I ought to – it was Charlotte.”

Olivia’s reply was too stagey. DI Andrews imagined Mrs. Blackwell rehearsing it repeatedly, waiting for the right person to put forward the kind of question that could trigger that answer. A veneer of sincerity placed it just within the bounds of possibility of it being true.

“Can I see Laura’s room?”

“I’ll bring your coffee up to you. It’s the first room on the left when you reach the top of the stairs.”

This staircase was devoid of any carpeting, the smell of varnish and the customary presence of a banister. Each step was made of some sort of material combining plastic and metal. There were gaps that permitted whoever was climbing the stairs to see the floor below.

Lettering that dictated whose room this was had been attached to the door. Inside, the three stages of life before adulthood’s arrival were plainly represented. Though the books on the set of shelves were geared to the mindset of a young woman undertaking further education, there were a few that could be thought of as guilty pleasures. Laura’s quilt cover on her bed was milky-white and printed onto it was one of those art-deco style clocks. They were positioned in the way chessboard squares were stacked. In the course of observing it from all sides of the bed, Suzanne’s shoe tips bumped into something dense and wooden underneath it. She knelt down and viewed what was hidden here. A light brown box with red wavy lines all around its upper edges was dragged out. It was fastened by a hook that fitted into a tiny horizontal brass ring. DI Andrews dislodged it and lifted the lid to see what Laura considered precious and private enough to hide here. Under the lid was a copy of Bunty from the 1960s laid out flat. Suzanne’s first conclusion, as she gently handled it, was that it must be a keepsake from someone who inhabited an older generation of her family. She couldn’t accept that young women of Laura’s age would consider this comic a cool one to read. Below that was a pile of letters, still in their envelopes – but the upper edge had been cut with a sharp implement, as opposed to the sealed flap being ripped open the finger-and-thumb way. Directly to the right of them was a recently-purchased hardback on the subject of multiple personalities.

“Weird thing for a girl to read”

Suzanne then remembered Laura was at university. There were bound to books she’d start reading that were absent from bestseller lists and more likely to be found in the wide variety of non-fiction category sections. All the same, it was an odd publication to have as a cherished possession.

“Give me a Sophie Kinsella novel any day” she said softly.

Behind her, Olivia entered with DI Andrews’ coffee. She was alarmed to see Laura’s ‘treasure chest’ being defiled.

“What are you doing, Detective Inspector? That’s Laura’s private box!” said Mrs. Blackwell as she put down the beverage she’d fetched.

“If there is a connection to the murdered woman in this chest, it means that none of the contents are private any longer.”

Suzanne reached in for the stack of letters, bound together by a rubber band. Olivia’s current pose generated her disapproval. It didn’t stop the DI from perusing through the letters. She remained of the opinion that this breach of confidentiality was warranted under the circumstances.

Olivia felt an abundant degree of helplessness as Suzanne set about reading each letter. There were eight altogether, but the Detective Inspector read just three. She harboured very little doubt that the emotion-led sentiment would be present in the other five. The three she’d examined were carefully returned to the interior of every envelope. Laura’s box hadn’t given up all its secrets, however – one more was ready to see the light of day. Beneath the letters was another photograph of Laura. This time, she was stood by herself. She was all smiles and was holding a sheet with all her exam results. The toothy grin educated Suzanne in the knowledge they were all favourable.

“Did you take this photograph, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Yes, that was a happy day.”

Again, Olivia had infused her answer with staginess. It was simple to see straight through it.

“At the risk of sounding bolshie, I think you lied just then, Mrs Blackwell.”

“No, I told you, I took the photograph.”

“Not your husband then or Charlotte.”

“Charlotte wasn’t there, nor was Brian. His council work took priority, as it always fucking does!”

“So you maintain it was you who took that photo of Laura holding up her exam results for the camera.”

“Yes I do! Have you got a problem accepting I’m telling you the truth?”

“I do have one, Mrs Blackwell, yes – the plain fact of the matter is that you are lying when you say you took that snapshot. So, I am asking you again: who took that photo?”

“I’m starting to get pissed off by you accusing me of lying!”

“Well, there is one way to end your suffering, and that’s to tell me who really took that photo!”

Suzanne’s growing bullishness was putting pressure on Mrs. Blackwell. Olivia’s face exhibited her inability to ride the storm the police officer was whipping up. Finally, the pent-up feelings broke free.

“Okay, okay! Shit! It was Samantha; she fucking took it! She’s her mum – not me! You satisfied now!”

Olivia’s body recoiled like a rifle after it had been fired. The outburst was so potent and emotionally painful that the subsequent motion mirrored the discharging of a weapon. She swayed a little, as if she’d been temporarily disorientated, and then put her head in her hands, bursting into tears a few seconds after. Suzanne’s mood re-instigated a more sympathetic aura as she tried to walk Mrs. Blackwell over to one of the four edges of Laura’s bed so she could sit down. Olivia wrenched her left shoulder away.

“I can manage without your fucking help, Detective Inspector!”

“I’m sorry to have to confront you with that.”

“I couldn’t give a shit whether you’re sorry or not! It’s me who has to look at her daily, knowing she isn’t my flesh and blood!”

“What about Laura herself – does she have any idea about her real parentage?”

“She doesn’t exactly know that particular truth, but I think sometimes she has suspicions about me being her mother. I don’t want her to, but recently she’s beginning to notice how much she looks like Samantha than the resemblance she bears to me.”

“That’s something of a burden for any stand-in parent.”

“Do you have a husband or any kids?”

“No, Mrs. Blackwell, I don’t.

“Then spare me the condescending, pretentious psychobabble!”

DI Andrews took Olivia’s dislike of her comment on the chin. Mrs. Blackwell was right to hate it. Suzanne’s response reeked of a patronising attitude. That self-acknowledgement on the CID officer’s part didn’t alter that there was another unpleasant duty looming which she had to perform. Highly regrettable as it was, she had to make Olivia aware of it.

“As you’ve effectively revealed Laura to be Samantha’s next of kin, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell her who her real mum is and that she was murdered.”

“Can I break it to her? She’ll hate me for the rest of her life if she hears it from somebody else.”

“There are two conditions of me letting you do that.”

“Which are?”

“Firstly, I want you to get Laura to come to headquarters at some point tomorrow. I’ll phone her university, and explain why she needs to be absent.”

“What’s the second?”

“There is a detail about Miss Williams’ murder I want you to keep to yourself for the moment,”

“And that detail is...?”

“Someone cut out her tongue after death and deposited it in her throat.”

The description of this act forged a rapid flare of recognition in Olivia’s eyes. It summoned an available memory.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” bellowed Olivia. “It’s bad enough you force me to draw on something I find painful to discuss, and now you’re bringing up that incident at Lancaster University as well!”

“Wait – what incident?”

“You clearly used your detective skills to unearth that Laura is not my daughter, so you’ve obviously found about this too.”

The impression that the honesty train was in motion couldn’t be more apparent. Olivia had let slip an event that DI Andrews would never have learned about if she hadn’t travelled here.

“Are you saying that have information that could explain why Samantha’s tongue was cut out?”

The sympathy had dissipated quickly. A harder tone resonated in Suzanne’s voice.

“It happened a long time ago; and why should I believe that you haven’t discovered it yourself. It was local news at the time, you know!”

“In Lancaster, maybe, but not in my neck of the woods, as you put it”

Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 4

The time display on Josephine’s bedside alarm read about 5:54am. She glanced at it as the beeping continued. Her eyes were only half-open; it was still a struggle to get them to open fully. Eager to cut off the shrill, irksome noise it was making, she tried to press the button to switch it off, but her fingers kept missing their target. It consequently took two or three goes to bring silence back into her bedroom. She didn’t have a headache, but her means of being woken up at the correct time could easily bring one on. Sharp sounds were frequently the catalyst. The only cure to bring her out of dreamland was a shower. Taking off her night gown, she headed in the direction of the appropriate room. The diagonal streams of hot water invigorated every part of her body. Her scalp received the most benefit. Hot water seemed to awaken her mental processes, which needed a jump start at such an early hour. Her coordination had improved too. She was striding instead of stumbling. Eating breakfast and dressing were compartmentalised into two quarter of an hour periods, making sure there was a gap in which her stomach started doing its job. The routine had a regimented feel to it, but the outcome was decent time-keeping, and she’d kept this domestic rule in place for the past seven years. She was applying dark pink lipstick when the doorbell rang twice. This was an indication that her daughter was calling by on her way to work. One of her firmer house rules was for any visitor to sound the bell once and wait for the occupant to open the door. Judging it as too fastidious, Suzanne regularly ignored this rule. On this occasion, Suzanne pushed her luck a little further and gave the doorbell a third ring. It then swung open and Josephine’s expression was somewhere between her asking the question “Why are you here so early?” and a glance radiating disapproval.

“Aren’t you going to let me in, mum?”

Josephine backed away from the door, giving her daughter free passage into the hallway. DI Andrews had to wait until the front door was shut again before a comment could be made pertaining to her arrival.

“You usually visit here on Saturday. Why are you choosing to call round during the week?”

“Because I got a name relating to Samantha’s mysterious comment: a Helen Stevenson.”

“How did you come across this name?”

“I learned of it over a meal with Mrs. Hendry. I don’t think they were friends outside work, though. She wasn’t that sympathetic to Miss Williams’ state of mind – made her out to be a bit paranoid.”

“Does that mean she thought her friend was being over dramatic about this Helen Stevenson?”

“That’s the impression I got. Although...no, it’s probably nothing.”

“No, out with it, DI Andrews”

“I kind of got the feeling she’s left something out of what she told me. Mrs. Hendry said that Samantha burst into tears during a Secret Valentine for the officer workers. Her take on it was her blubbing was because of someone she was, or has been, seeing. She didn’t give me much background info. In cost me the price of two meals, two drinks and a cab fare.”

“I hope you didn’t exceed the legal limit!”

“FYI, I didn’t have a single alcoholic drink. Mine was an orange juice and tonic.”

“If you think she was holding back on vital details, you should talk to her again as soon as you get a chance to.”

“Staying on this subject, mum, I don’t think Miss Williams was being paranoid. My reading of Mrs. Hendry is that she’s a one-way friend.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“She expected interest in her life to be shown by Samantha, but I don’t think she ever returned the favour.”

“If that is what you are presuming, your previous theory about Mrs. Hendry hiding something is wrong.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, think about it – if she was that blasé about her friend’s life, she wouldn’t have noticed anything momentous for her to keep from us.”

“Perhaps I’m reading her wrong” admitted Suzanne.

“Sussing people out can still be hard to do, even if you’re proficient in that skill.”

“Yeah, I get it – people are complex!”

“Sometimes they are; the rest of the time they’re obvious, shallow and stupid.”

DCI Andrews wasn’t lacking in any conviction when she delivered her assessment. She had plenty of stories to tell where she had come across behaviour that was dumb. There was one example that was almost comical. An eighteen year-old from one of the council estates had decided to mug several people. Unfortunately for him, he’d shown a sharp drop in intelligence and a high level of ill-advised vanity. The young criminal demonstrated it by taking photos on his mobile of him and what he’d stolen. This was back in 2003: a year that saw her ascend to the position of Detective Sergeant and one when mobile phones were at a certain level of sophistication, and had yet to gain a higher one. Oddly, this was a memory attached to her police career she hadn’t shared with Suzanne.

“What did you have there?”

“Here we go!” said Suzanne sourly. “Are you in charge of the food police too?”

“Can’t I just be naturally curious?”

Josephine’s tone was almost pleading. She had been hoping for something she’d said not to prompt an argument, but it was slightly irrational to want that. They were adults and the comfort to be derived from prohibiting her daughter to answer back or argue her corner wasn’t there anymore. Rows – be they small or excessive – were one of the pitfalls of her only child growing up.

“You’re never naturally curious, mum.”

“No I’m not – are you?”

“Exactly: it’s the detective we take home with us. It always pushes us into asking questions with a purpose.”

“Okay, Suzanne – I get your point. I have an agenda for asking you about your evening meal, I admit it!”

“Gammon, chips and a fried egg”

“Vegetables”

“Peas and a small quantity of salad”

“What happened to that sudden burst of enthusiasm for making a home-cooked meal?”

“It deserted me.”

“One of these days I’m going to temporarily suspend my ‘hands-off-your-life’ rule and make you a proper meal. I’ll bet your oven hasn’t been used for a year. Am I right?”

“Half-right – eight months.”

The DCI pulled herself out of the conversation, as she remembered to check the time on her mobile phone’s display screen. Suzanne instinctively copied her mum’s action, movement-for-movement.

“We’ll be late if we don’t set off now.”

It wasn’t Josephine who came out with this announcement, but Suzanne. She had pre-empted her mother’s bid to ensure punctuality. They both entered their vehicles. DI Andrews’ vehicle was the first to set off.

 

Suzanne and Pickford approached a door that was situated to the left of the pizza parlour’s front window. A police car pulled up, and out got the two constables the officers required to assist them. DI Andrews was about to take out the set of keys that had belonged to Miss Williams, when the manager, who’d seen Suzanne’s car pull up to the kerb outside, came rushing out.

“That door’s out of bounds to...”

He was about to say “customers”, but he saw two constables approach them. Non-compliance was no longer a matter of choice. A question occurred to Suzanne which hadn’t materialised in her head until this minute.

“When was the last time you saw Samantha Williams?”

The owner of this pizza take-away business had been caught off-guard by the query. He rummaged around in his thoughts to forge a response that didn’t make him sound like a twat.

“She’s dead?”

“Murdered; strangled, to be exact.”

“You’re not pulling my chain!”

“Would we be here if we were messing you about?”

The question came from a special breed where once asked it answered itself. This prevented any chance of the pizza parlour’s proprietor from putting his foot in it even more.

Further conversation was suspended as the officers and constables carried on with their intention to enter and search Samantha’s apartment for whatever information it might give up. DI Andrews took out the key to the flat’s front door. It was the first thing to be found whilst Miss Williams’ body was being photographed. She kept hold of it as she, Pickford and one of the constables went on through. The owner of the fast food business tried to go through the open door with them, but a WPC who was, due to orders issued earlier, meant to stay outside, guarding this doorway stopped him.

“The flat’s above my pizza shop. I have a right to go with you.”

“What for, sir?”

“To see if any mail meant for me was delivered to Miss Williams by mistake.”

The WPC assigned to keep nosy members of public at bay didn’t buy that explanation for a second. She’d heard that excuse before, and it sounded just as implausible this time around. Inside, the staircase that took the three of them up to where Miss Williams resided was the victim of mediocre carpeting. Cack-handed cutting was in evidence where it was meant to be neat and screwed down securely, but DI Andrews felt where it was the baggiest with the tips of her shoes.

“Accident waiting to happen” said Suzanne without caring whether or not it would warrant a response. She got one, nonetheless, from the man who was a CID rank below her.

“Only if you watch where you’re going”

She partially glanced back at him because she thought his tone was antagonistic.  That was a definite mistake. Suzanne almost tripped, and was steadied by Pickford and the male constable. She had fallen down a flight of stairs twice before she joined the police force: both occasions were painful enough to make her cry. She was glad she hadn’t, on this third instance, exposed a frailty that embarrassed her. The top of the stairs had only one direction they could go – directly to the left. The corner of her left eye viewed the front door, behind which awaited information about Samantha that visiting her boss and her colleagues hadn’t turned up. The key was thrust into the crooked crevice to the right of the letterbox and one clockwise turn led to a gentle push of the door completing their entry to this apartment. The interior was an amalgamation of three rooms, including the kitchen but excluding the one where the bed was supposed to go. That piece of furniture doubled as a sofa: its outward structure camouflaging its alternate function. A visual sweep for any photographs of the murdered woman detected just one. There were others, but even stood in the middle of the apartment, Suzanne could make out they all were of Laura. Pickford, meanwhile, was more interested in some of the bank statements that he’d took the trouble to find. He was looking for motive and he’d opted to begin with examining the probability of a financial angle existing. It may’ve been the 21^st century, but money still ranked as one of the top reasons why people resorted to taking someone’s life. Suzanne returned her attention to the sofa/bed. She spied something sticking vertically upwards from the left-hand side, where one of the seating cushions had been replaced during the last ever morning Samantha would live to see. Its pointed edge showed it to be a pad used for keeping a journal. Under normal circumstances, DI Andrews would never stoop to reading someone else’s private thoughts in written form, but she had to be objective: the nature of Samantha’s demise had stripped away any issues of discretion. These details, together with the contents of the personnel file she’d borrowed from Mr. Cullen’s office, had turned into viable clues. The right to secrecy no longer existed. Suzanne’s mindset had shifted towards the journal being evidence, and any insight into this murder victim’s life could not be ignored.

Noticing the desk to the right of the TV, DI Andrews walked across the one-room flat to get a closer glance. She tried all the drawers on either side, beneath the desk’s surface, but there were only bank statements. Not one document veered away from the monetary considerations she had to deal with before her death. Acknowledging Pickford’s momentary obsession with Samantha’s financial records, she removed all the bank-related documents and took them over to him.

“More of your favourite read.”

She placed the ones she’d located in his right hand. He folded them up collectively and slid them into the neat pile he’d made on the coffee table. Situated several inches short of the room’s centre, this piece of furniture suddenly aroused Suzanne’s interest. The reason being was that it was devoid of anything resting on it, and had been for probably over a twelve-month period. There were no thick, dark brown circular stains from where coffee cups had been, and a year’s worth of dust had accumulated around its pointed corners and the borders of the table itself.

“What about her passport? Did you find it in her desk drawers?”

“I didn’t, DS Pickford. It wasn’t in the...oh, hang on a minute.”

She crossed to the kitchen. It only took her a matter of seconds to see a row of cookery books on the left-hand side of the kitchen’s surface. Instinctively fingering the publication in the middle, she picked it out and opened it. DI Andrews was following the line of logic in which people hide the possessions that can lead to them being financially worse off, especially in places where they believed them to be safe from burglars. Suzanne knew that the opposite happened, but she wasn’t here to secretly comment on how to keep one’s belongings safe. Her hunch paid off. Whilst flicking through the pages, the passport and another photo fell out onto the kitchen floor. Leaving the book on the surface, she picked them up, using several pieces of kitchen roll, in case they had Samantha’s fingerprints all over them already.

“One evidence bag needed – like right now, Pickford!”

He feverishly fumbled in his left-hand pocket, pulling one out after a few seconds. With the hand that was free, she took it off him, opened it using her index finger and thumb, and deposited both items into it, without touching them. Suzanne’s palms felt a little sweaty afterwards. The diligence required was the culprit for the perspiration stains on the amount of kitchen torn off. She ran the tap, and washed away the greasiness from her open palms, drying them on a tea towel. It wasn’t the most hygienic thing to do, but there was nothing else to hand she could use. She was about to tell Pickford that they were done here, for the moment, but she rapidly recalled the single photo of Samantha on display, and DI Andrews again commanded him to issue her with another clear plastic pouch to house evidence. He was quicker in complying this time. Once the additional item was safely stored away, DI Andrews said “We’re finished here” to Pickford and the PC. The constable thought this meant him too, but Suzanne instantly added “I need you to stay here and keep watch on the flat’s interior, PC Hammond. We’re only done here for the time being, but there is a good chance we’ll be coming back here. I’ll have WPC Wiseman and PC Shore take-over this afternoon.”

Hammond was mono-syllabic in his acknowledgement of Suzanne’s order. All that came out of his mouth was “ma’am”. He took up a standing position similar to that of a Buckingham Palace guard, preparing himself for over seven hours of being stood in one spot.

A detour was taken back to the front window of the pizza parlour. Looking in, Suzanne saw the proprietor checking the contents of the cash register. She knocked on it to get his attention. He paused what he was in the middle of and came to the door, pointing to the ‘closed’ sign. From within, he said “We open at five-thirty!” Suzanne had to raise the level of her voice when informing the man inside that the two constables here needed lunch.

“I can give them a slice of pizza each!” he replied through the glass.

A quarter of an hour after DI Andrews and DS Pickford had returned to headquarters, the solitary photo depicting Samantha in her twenties was stuck to the board’s precise centre. Its positioning was both strategic and psychological. A new set of arrows pointing away from the photograph had been put down, with fresh but brief notes between them. DI Andrews only glanced at them for a second or two. She was trying to get a firm sense of what the picture of Samantha seated next to Laura was subtly relaying. The one obvious fact about it was where she had retrieved it from. It had to be of immense sentimental value, which she judged as strange, considering Laura was merely her god-daughter. Suzanne had another face to store away in her mind, but it was consigned to an area of it that promised swift access if it were needed to be remembered urgently. Jumping on the expression Samantha had whilst staring at Laura, DI Andrews hurried back to her desk and re-examined the list of addresses and birthdates she’d amassed yesterday afternoon. The index finger of her right hand descended the piece of paper. It came to rest on one that was near the bottom and tapped on it twice. It wasn’t the address that prompted her selection of it, but the D.O.B underneath. She murmured the date low enough for it not to reach anyone’s ears, “14^th February 1995. In a split-second, she saw the connection between that date and Mrs. Hendry’s account of Samantha shedding tears on Valentine’s Day. The notion of there being a lousy boyfriend somewhere in the background was brusquely swept aside. Suzanne was on the verge of telling her mum the conclusion she’d just entertained, and rose from her desk. In a flash, she changed her mind. She worked out a specific plan in her brain for when she reached the address she believed to be the one where the victim’s god-daughter resided. DI Andrews managed to summon Ameera to tell her mum that she was going to the address she had copied down onto another spare sheet of paper. The DC immediately wrote it down in her own notepad. She then noticed that the location of the address was Kendal in the Lake District.

“That’ll take you all day to get there” said Ameera.

“If I set off now, I should be back by this afternoon.”

“More like the evening. It is miles away from the Greater Manchester area.”

“I can’t help that. Tell my mum that I’ll fill her on my reasons for going so far out of my way when everybody’s busy!”

“What if you don’t find out what you’re hoping to learn?”

Suzanne smiled but declined an answer to Ameera’s question. She felt a little guilty for doing that, but if she’d replied, any kind of answer would have made her seem too overconfident – and that in no way correctly represented how she was feeling about this excursion. She had put two and two together, but it could still be a likelihood her arithmetic might let her down here. Suzanne automatically made the decision to say as little as possible about the nature of her journey to anyone other than Ameera for the moment.

Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 3

Every pane of glass that helped make up the outer frame of Josephine’s office offered the assurance that nobody outside could hear what she and Suzanne were talking about. All the other officers viewed the dual sets of lips moving. DI Andrews had only been speaking to her mother for a minute or so, but Pickford could tell by the way they were posing that the conversation blended personal and professional considerations. He was a first-class reader of these situations. It was a matter of seconds, though, before DCI Andrews realised he was transfixed on her and her deputy. She softly tapped her knuckles on the glass to get him to cease staring. He switched the focus of his interest to what was lying on his desk.

“So we have a name and a rough idea of how she spent her final hours” stated Josephine. “What else have you found out?”

“Her pal at work, Mrs. Hendry, confirmed that Mr. Cullen sent Samantha out to get his car washed. There was no muck on it when the body was found, so I can only presume that she was strangled after she’d done this chore. I can’t offer any certainties that this scenario is the right one. We don’t have a motive yet, and there is the problem – which I learned when I was in the mortuary – concerning the removal of her tongue.”

“Which couldn’t have been done in broad daylight”, Josephine declared emphatically.

“And it couldn’t have been carried out in the red car itself. I didn’t see any traces of blood.”

“If that’s so, DI Andrews, the main question becomes where was it done?”

“There are a couple of unusual factors I came across whilst Mrs. Hendry was giving me the lowdown on Samantha.”

“What are they?”

“The age she gave Mr. Cullen when her work record was being compiled doesn’t correspond with how old she is in real life.”

“You’d have thought Samantha Williams’ employer would have spotted that – I’m surprised by that.”

“I’m not. There’s not a lot of associating going on between him and his staff at Stalag Cullen.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m honestly not! When I talked to him in his office, he locked the door from the inside. He’s weird!”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it, Suzanne. Now, what is the other oddity you uncovered?”

“It’s more to do with what Mrs. Hendry heard Samantha saying under her breath as she came out of the toilet.”

“Any chance of me being told what Mrs. Hendry overheard”, said Josephine impatiently.

“She’s re-emerged from the dead.”

“She’s re-emerged from the dead?”

“That’s what she overheard.”

“Rather a vague comment!”

“Samantha must’ve meant something by it.”

“Well, we’ll make that one of our main points of the enquiry. What about the mundane facts you established?”

“She’s un-married, always has been. Nothing to indicate she has any living relatives. The personnel file did, however, say she has a god-daughter, Laura Blackwell. I’m going to check through records of all births registered in the general Manchester area to see if I can find Laura’s birth certificate. That should give me her parents’ – if she has any – home address.”

“Dr. Grimes was suggesting the mutilation Samantha underwent could be symbolic.”

“She’s not a detective, mum. I don’t know why she would make such a statement.”

“She was just venturing an opinion, that’s all. Besides, I think she has a point.”

“Seriously”

“The removal of a tongue is hardly the feature of a standard murder. I myself originally baulked at the idea of it being symbolic, but thinking about it some more made me see it has possibilities as a line of enquiry.”

“I so hope you’re not going to say that at any press conferences!”

“Like I would: I completely lost faith in newspaper reporting ten years ago”

“The tabloids or the broadsheets”

“Both!”

“I wondered what happened to my copy of The Guardian when you came round to my flat a few months ago.”

“I wouldn’t become a stand-up comedian.”

“Seriously, though, The Guardian is above reproach.”

“No paper is above reproach!”

“If you don’t think that much of the press, why do you constantly agree to holding conferences where they’re invited?”

Josephine kept DI Andrews waiting for an answer. She had one ready, but was to keen to re-jig it to make the reply more rational.

“Their fabrications can prove useful. I’ve known cases where a half-baked story has caused people being pursued for specific crimes to panic, giving the game away. I was a DC during one of these instances.”

Suzanne decided to backtrack to her mum taking on board the idea this killing had a touch of symbolism. It was apparent to her that DCI Andrews was working up some enthusiasm in Amanda’s belief. She wasn’t fully convinced that it could go anywhere, but it didn’t actually seem unreasonable to entertain the suggestion.

“Okay, let’s gather the team and start filling the board!”

“Phrase-stealer”

“What do you mean?”

“That was Gregson’s motto.”

“It’s part of my inheritance.”

“Crime scene photos?” said Suzanne, mentally shrugging off her mum’s clever-dick remark.

“Crime scene photos” confirmed DCI Andrews. “I’ll collect them from Amanda. You’re in charge of assembling the officers.”

“Do you want me to put the photocopies of the victim’s employment record on there as well as the forensic pictures?”

“Yes I do, DI Andrews. Good thinking, by the way.”

“I’m full of sensible suggestions” said Suzanne, half-jokingly.

The penultimate word of that last remark broke the flow of this discussion in half. A memory of the DI as an eight year-old girl had been accidentally triggered. Its connection with this present moment was to do with common sense being used. The sudden emergence of adult behaviour was unusual for someone that age. It’d manifested itself because she was confronted with peer pressure to participate with her friends in something slightly naughty. Comprehending it was wrong, she resisted the temptation. It didn’t make Suzanne popular with her mates, but it had made her mother proud. This random channelling into the past only occurred if there were some correlation between recollections and reality. The latter overrode it and her thoughts slid back nicely to concentrating on this case.

“Sorry...I fazed-out there for a bit” said Josephine hazily. “What was I saying?”

“You were praising me for suggesting I add photocopies of Samantha’s personnel file to the crime scene photos.”

“Which I don’t yet have, so hop to it: and when you’re done with that, get our officers together, and inform that I require their undivided attention.”

The order was gruffly delivered, but Suzanne had learned to acclimatise herself to it. These surroundings were not her family home. There was no point in expecting motherly cuddles here.

 

By twelve minutes past five, all of the officers who made up this district’s CID division were assembled. Suzanne was standing at the right-hand end of the line of her colleagues. All were facing their superior. DS Pickford felt the most hemmed-in of the lot. He found himself sandwiched between the other Detective Sergeant – Gareth Fitchley – and the three Detective Constables: Ameera Jahil, Rob Newall and Molly Anderson. Their combined attention spans focussed primarily on the wide see-through board and on the mixture of crime scene images and the pages of Miss Williams’ work records now decorating it. Within the spaces separating them was writing that chronicled the most obvious details. The most interested of the assembled detectives was DC Jahil.

Ameera was by far the youngest officer here. She’d beaten the record set by Pickford. He was twenty-three when he swapped his uniform for casua; clothing, but Miss Jahil was a couple of years younger when this transition in her constabulary career happened. However, no-one outside HQ who managed to catch sight of her believed her to be that youthful. She had the face of a thirty-something woman, but remained naturally pretty. Her complexion was so fresh that her looks were in no danger of fading.

DCI Andrews opened her briefing with the single word “Right”. As she said it, she glanced at the board. The gap of a few seconds before she next spoke was the only pause Josephine would permit in order for her audience to be primed to listen.

“Our victim is one Samantha Williams. Here is what we know about her so far. She is in her forties, but her work records present her as ten years younger than this. The reason for this anomaly is unclear – as is the exact moment she was strangled. As pointed out by Dr. Grimes, this killing could well have been symbolic; she sees it as having that ring to it. Miss Williams’ tongue was mutilated: half of it was severed. The weapon used remains a mystery for the time being, until we receive information leading to it being identified. The portion of the tongue that was cut away was deposited into Samantha’s throat, so her assailant might’ve done it under the twisted delusion that one of her misdeeds, if she committed any, should receive a punishment to fit the crime. In this instance, I suspect the symbolic act is connected to a possible secret someone would do anything to prevent being revealed. I refer to the probability of psychotic behaviour because my previous deduction is speculative. We haven’t yet established a real motive, so I am keeping my assumption in the mix. According to Dr. Grimes, gloves were used to throttle her, so forget looking for any fingerprints and matching them to women-hating loonies with previous convictions. DI Andrews learned that Samantha is alone in the world, with one exception: she has a god-daughter – a Laura Blackwell. Suzanne is going to take a look at her birth certificate to find out where she lives. Her family won’t be blood relations of Miss Williams, but we need to speak with them nonetheless. Our main priority, though, will be establishing whereabouts precisely she was killed. We know her murder didn’t take place in the car where she was found. All we do know regarding her location was that she took her boss’s car to be washed, but we have no details as to her movements during and after that. Uncovering what they were is top of the list of things that we have to do. This responsibility is to be shared by all officers. My deputy and DS Pickford will be conducting a thorough search of Miss Williams’ flat tomorrow. We need the widest picture possible of Samantha’s life to be drawn up. Everything that is worth knowing about her is to form part of this murder investigation. There is also a curious statement that she was overheard making by a work colleague, namely “She has resurfaced”. We don’t know what she meant by that, but it is vital we find out its meaning in our bid to apprehend the killer. In the meantime, go home and recharge your batteries. I want you all here by eight in the morning, so remember to set your alarms for an hour or so before then. The reason for an early start is that we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, including watching CCTV footage from the multi-storey, amongst other locations, and examining Samantha’s mobile phone to check all incoming and outgoing calls in the past month, so expect some overtime.”

Josephine didn’t close the briefing by saying goodnight. She deemed it too cosy a parting gesture for her colleagues. One by one, the CID officers sauntered back to their desks to collect their belongings to take with them to their houses or apartments. The only two whose departures DCI Andrews delayed were Suzanne’s and Pickford’s. She secured their attention by repeating the word ‘motive’, but without including it in a sentence.

“I need you two to remain here a little longer.”

“Why?” enquired DS Pickford.

Suzanne had no need to ask that question for herself. She already knew why she was being kept behind for a short period.

“Because I need a private word with you, Detective Sergeant”

Josephine led the way into her office cubicle. Pickford’s expression dictated the belief that he thought some reprimand awaited him. As a pupil, he had made a few trips to the head teacher’s office, and this situation felt like that memory. He looked back towards Suzanne, so he could ask her whether the DCI had confided in her about the reason for the random summons. DI Andrews, however, was busy with ascertaining where Laura Blackwell’s residence could be located. Three minutes on the internet came up trumps for her. The downside was that perusing through the official website for all birth and deaths registered turned up no less than 45 Laura Blackwell’s, complete with the same number of different addresses and dates of birth. Three of them were way outside of Greater Manchester’s geographical parameters. DI Andrews looked up briefly at the behind-closed-doors conversation to see if there were any signs that it was coming to an end, but they were still talking after five minutes, so it was easy to conclude there was no possibility of interrupting the discussion until it had run its course. She continued with the task her mum had previously saddled her with and wrote down all the addresses that came up when she entered the name of Samantha’s god-daughter into the relevant database. All of them were potential destinations for her over the next few days, but as there were so many, she was nudged gently into the prediction it would take more than a working week to visit them all. Choice didn’t enter into it, though. They were lines of enquiry, and it was necessary to pursue them. When she wrote down the last address, she glanced upwards to see how Pickford’s and her mother’s discussion was going, but the DS was no longer in the enclosed office. DCI Andrews was seated at her desk by herself, perusing through a file she’d just taken out. The gaping window in Josephine’s schedule was Suzanne’s opportunity to reveal her intention to narrow down the one Laura Blackwell who absolutely figured heavily in this investigation. She knocked three times and waited for her mother to permit her entry.

“Forty-five matches for Laura Blackwell: are you sure?”

“Yep”

“And they’re all in the Manchester area?”

“All but three”

“You still need a photo, DI Andrews – which means that you can’t find the right Laura Blackwell until we have a photograph. You’ll have to get one from Samantha’s flat. The Blackwell family’s identification of our victim is a key point we must use in this enquiry.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Makes a change from when you were hovering between 14 and 15.”

“I was hormonal.”

“And now you’re in control of them, I hope.”

“Complete control.”

Josephine shied away from inflating her comment. She didn’t care for acknowledging the sarcasm in her daughter’s voice. Some of their former domestic issues had yet to be washed away and forgotten.

“Well, DI Andrews, you’d better get off. Any plans for this evening?”

“Attempting to cook – probably badly”

“I’ll see you at the agreed time.”

 

Retrieving her car was an endeavour almost scuppered by a constable. He was taking over from another of his uniformed colleagues and assumed she was a nosy member of the public, or worse – a journalist. She was compelled to display the proof that she had the right to enter an area that was a crime scene. He apologised and gave her back the right to reach her vehicle.

One car journey later, Suzanne was making good on her statement relating to her evening meals and what she needed to do to prepare them. In one corner of the kitchen, a cookery book was open at a page that had clear instructions for a recipe she was having a bash at making. The ingredients were already out and assembled in a way that ensured they were close at hand. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten even as far as measuring the quantity of the first ingredient required. DI Andrews stared at them for a moment before clearing them all away off the kitchen surface. Without delay, she checked her wallet and found sufficient cash to pay for dinner out. This was a common nocturnal pattern for her. It was either restaurant food or ready meals with easily-prepared side dishes. Both choices reflected her bachelorette existence. She inserted two credit cards into a pair of vacant slots within her wallet and exited her flat. This particular option was free of the hassle of having to make her own dinner. She’d tried rising to the challenge, but had, for the umpteenth time, fallen at the first hurdle.

Suzanne was about to press the unlock symbol on her keypad when her mobile rang. By answering it, she faced the prospect of being dragged back into police work: the voice saying her name happened to be Mrs. Hendry.

“I’m off-duty. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know The Swan & Turtle?”

“Yeah I do.”

“Can you meet me there?”

“Do they serve pub meals?”

“Only for another ninety minutes or so”

“Why do you want to meet me?”

“You left me your number to ring you if I had something new to tell you.”

“So?”

“Well, there is something I forgot to mention, and I feel I ought to share it now.”

“Why now?”

“Because it is information that’s rather delicate”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to give a statement through the normal channels?”

“Not really.”

“Ah, I see – you don’t feel comfortable about disclosing this information publicly.”

“That’s the size of it, Detective Inspector.”

It took a few minutes for the two women to choose something from the menu and there was a further wait of nine minutes before the dishes arrived and were placed on the mats in front of them. Neither occupant of the thick-set wooden table approved of one another’s selection. Suzanne’s dinner was indicative of the type of meat dishes she enjoyed the most. She wasn’t fond of fish and Mrs. Hendry had the same feelings about red meat in general. The gammon taking up over half the plate was cooked to liking, and it possessed a filling chunkiness that would take away any pangs of hunger. After over two minutes of joyfully tucking into it, she took a momentary break to find out the purpose Mrs. Hendry had for wanting to speak to her.

“Now, what is it about Samantha Williams you wanted to divulge?”

“I think she was in a toxic relationship.”

“What do you mean by toxic relationship?”

“She was seeing someone who I thought was a bastard!”

“Why did you think that?”

“Unknown to our boss, we devised a Secret Valentine.”

“Like Secret Santa.”

“Yeah, like Secret Santa. Anyway, a group of my work colleagues were discussing the anonymous Valentine cards they’d got, and I saw that Samantha had tears welling up in her eyes.”

“And you reckon this was because of her boyfriend troubles.”

“That’s the impression I got.”

“Do you know the name of this man?”

“No, she never said anything to me about the situation.”

“Well, how do you know her woes were boyfriend-related?”

It then dawned on Mrs. Hendry, as she took another mouthful of the breaded haddock she’d ordered, that her information might well be based on a misguided assumption. Suzanne’s mind then leapt a few paces back to one of the things her fellow diner had mentioned previously.

“You said, Mrs. Hendry, that she told you that someone had resurfaced”

“That’s right, yeah.”

“What do you think she meant by that?”

“I didn’t think anything of it, Detective Inspector. To be quite honest, she may’ve been a workmate but I do reckon she was going through the menopause. My guess was that it made her a bit paranoid, a bit loopy.”

“So you have no idea who this person was or even if she existed at all.”

“No, I...wait a minute...actually she did give me a name.”

“When did she do this?”

“At Patsy Medford’s 35^th – she got bladdered and revealed it to me.”

“How about revealing it to me? If you’ll do, I’ll pay for your meal as well as mine, plus a round of drinks. I’ll even pay for your taxi home.”

The attempt to make the bargain a serious one won Mrs. Hendry over. She nodded, accepting the terms Suzanne had offered.

“Helen Stephenson.”

There was no chance of it ringing any bells for DI Andrews. In spite of that, it was a name: one she could chase up and one which held a good chance of gaining some more information she could then use to open up the enquiry.