Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 8

Suzanne tapped into her reserves of patience. They only dried up once in every blue moon. Their benefit lay in being the tonic by which she could deal with Laura’s plodding pace. It was slowing down the procedure of writing down information on the statement sheet provided. Allowances had to be made for Laura’s grief – an emotion she’d been unexpectedly propelled into – but DI Andrews had to deal with the professional pressure that comes with adhering to any work-related schedule. She only had the luxury of exhibiting limited sympathy; demonstrating the full amount was not possible. Suzanne had to balance the time constraints with the accommodation of Miss Blackwell’s feelings. Laura was a sentence away from completing and signing her statement when she asked “Can I see my real mum?” She didn’t look Detective Inspector Andrews in the eye when putting forward her request. A second wave of inner turmoil was distracting her from engaging anyone in eye contact.

“I’ll get one of the constables to accompany you” said Suzanne.

“I’d like to go in there alone.”

“Only if Dr. Grimes gives the go-ahead”

Laura resisted defensiveness when it came to accepting a condition. DI Andrews waited until there was a prime opportunity to confer with her superior. It flew in the face of protocol to take matters like that into her own hands, so she wasn’t even going to try. DCI Andrews’ office door had enough of a gap for her to pick up the tail end of what was being said. Suzanne’s answer automatically prompted a phone call lasting no more than a minute to okay such a proposition. Because one of Amanda’s subordinates answered the phone, Josephine and her authority to override one of the staff members in the mortuary, in case they seemed keener to follow Dr. Grimes’ orders than hers. The phone conversation ended with Laura’s request being permitted. Barely a minute elapsed before Miss Blackwell was filled in what one call had achieved.

“Only for a minute” was DCI Andrews’ sole stipulation. A reasonable degree of concurrence was promised by the young lady. She had used up her temporary quota of requests that dug into internal procedures.

The mortuary staff hadn’t left, but they were trying to keep their presence discreet and in the background, so that she didn’t feel as if she was under surveillance. The sheet covered up all parts of Samantha’s stiff body, apart from the head and the feet. Laura’s eye movement became static as she stared hypnotically at the toes, and it was then she noticed that they only added up to nine. She recounted, but the total was the same: the under-side of each foot’s digits were smooth, almost polished. A pedicure had to have taken place sometime in the last few weeks of Samantha’s life. There was another explanation that danced around her brain: their shiny sleekness might be as a result of some cosmetic enhancement. This could not possibly the case, however. Making the feet look like they belonged to some Hollywood starlet was unnecessary for a body that was about to enter the ground in a coffin. Unless she had to lie in state on the altar prior to the funeral, but that courtesy was specifically given to royalty.

Laura then found herself struggling to get her mind off the missing toe. There was no sign of any surgical removal. The area between the absent little piggy and the next one along was an increased gap. It was as twice as wide as the partitions between the other toes. With her time in the mortuary nearly up, Laura had to find a rapid way of saying hello and goodbye in one go: she could not include the word ‘love’ in her brief monologue. There hadn’t been, and now would never be, any bond of affection that would justify such a term of endearment being used, and she wasn’t very good at making final farewells. Out of options, and time, Laura resorted to an odd physical gesture. She lightly stroked the top of the white sheet from shoulder blades to the thighs, and back again. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her left ear; an act that was out of sync with her location. The bleak, sterile atmosphere of the mortuary got to her fast, and she kept her eyes on the entrance door as she walked away from where the post-mortems are carried out.

Olivia was stood next to Suzanne when Laura re-entered the floor where all desk-bound detection happened. The weight of Mrs. Blackwell’s stare altered Laura’s stance on what CID procedural confines would permit. The instant Olivia notified DI Andrews she was heading back to Kendal, Laura slotted in another request, without venturing to worry whether it would get approval.

“I want to stay at my real mum’s flat.”

Suzanne was open-mouthed at the new demand. DCI Andrews, on the other hand, rustled up her firm but fair, diplomatic tone.

“It’s still a crime scene, so my answer must be no, until such time that it can’t provide any more clues to help solve this murder. I’m sorry, Miss Blackwell – I can’t rewrite the rule book on that.”

Josephine’s daughter assumed the mantle of rescuer here. She took a few steps closer to Laura and said “What about sharing my living space for a bit, until Samantha’s apartment becomes accessible to civilians – namely you – again.” There was no need for further persuasion. Laura gradually nodded and wiped away what she thought was a tear. She had no idea what had prompted it: her grief wasn’t all encompassing, so the emerge of tears was an anomaly within her current state of mind. Without a bond that commonly strengthened people related in that way, that brand of emotional expression was not usual. Yet, she was edging towards a tenuous readiness for that. Suzanne observed the tear too, but she was more interested in appeasing Laura’s current need to be somewhere that could be considered near enough to Samantha’s place. It wasn’t a few blocks away, but it was in Manchester. That was the type of close proximity DI Andrews could persuade Miss Blackwell to accept for now.

 

A three-quarters-of-an-hour pit-stop was made at the pizza parlour Samantha had made her home above. Suzanne wasn’t going there for police business: the short visit was merely another way of avoiding cooking once more. Inside the ground floor of the building, DI Andrews and Laura stared towards the illuminated board where the take-away prices were listed.

“Meat or veggie”

“Meat, Detective Inspector – I swap between both food types. Olivia wants me to be more vegetarian than carnivore, but I tend to be half-and-half.”

Laura was trying not to be that scathing to her adopted mum, but her tone seemed to be working independently of Miss Blackwell’s thoughts. Her betrayal-led anger was still closeted in her voice, and was probably going to stay there, until she was of a mind for some form of reconciliation.

“You don’t actually have the figure of someone who is overweight, Miss Blackwell.”

“Neither do you.”

When they had finished exchanging factual compliments, they saw that the woman who stepped forward to serve them was blonde but tanned. The browning of her skin had come from the most natural of sources, and not from some place that issued artificial tans by the bucket-load.

“Collection or delivery”

“Collection, please” said Suzanne. “What meat pizzas do you have?”

“Spicy pepperoni with cheese, spicy salami with cheese & olives, ham, cheese & olives, and the house special”

“What’s the house special?” enquired Laura.

Miss Blackwell was already in the first stage of salivation trying to picture this variety of pizza. Her tongue was soaking up some of her drool to prevent it running down her chin.

“Sausage, pepperoni, salami, mushroom, olives, ham, anchovies, chicken and cheese: it comes in 9 and 12 inch sizes. If you get two 12 inch ones, you get two garlic breads the same size absolutely free.”

The female staff member was no skilled salesperson, but she’d taken it upon herself to endorse the most filling and supposedly delicious pizza on offer. This test was passed with flying colours, as Suzanne said “A pair of 12 inch house specials then.”

“It’s a customer favourite. The woman who used to live in the flat upstairs ordered it every week.” The employee then moved her eyes slightly to Laura and remarked about the facial similarities between her and Miss Williams.

“That’s interesting” said Suzanne aimlessly. “The young woman with me happens to be the biological daughter of the apartment’s previous occupant.”

A man stood in the queue behind her cleared his throat to display his intolerance of unnecessary waiting. DI Andrews moved onto the point she was trying to make.

“Did Samantha Williams make this particular order once a week or on more occasions than that?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I’m investigating her murder” Suzanne said, remembering to show the woman serving her the identification that guaranteed her complete cooperation.

“Just once a week; it was usually for herself, but the last time she placed the order, it was for two.”

“Did she say who the 2^nd pizza was for?”

“We’re not after that sort of info.”

This was as good as the answer no: DI Andrews saw that it would be unrealistic to judge this individual as having anything more to add. She dropped the police tone and re-established her position as a customer – it enabled her to ask if she was meant to pay now or wait until collection without retaining a single fragment of her on-duty manner.

“Cash on collection.”

The staff member’s answer sounded like a line from an amateurish photo-slide commercial that used to be flashed on cinema screens before the main programme started. In terms of drumming up business, her attitude made her a model employee. Suzanne’s order was soon plonked on the counter. She took hold of four boxes: the fastening of the outer packaging guaranteed the pizzas within remained piping hot for as long as possible. The dominant odour surrounding the containers emanated from the ones with the garlic breads inside. Their smell descended, masking the meaty whiffs coming from the boxes marked ‘House Special’. Ten minutes after returning to her flat, Suzanne and Laura doubled their indulgence to incorporate channel-hopping Laura worked her through two pizza slices and one portion of the 2^nd garlic bread before she thanked the Detective Inspector for handling what they were going to have for dinner.

“You’re welcome” replied Suzanne. The acknowledgement of Laura’s gratitude was muffled by her own enjoyment of the pizza that had the same toppings as her flat guest’s. When flicking through the large number of television stations became boring, Laura asked a question she hoped would lead to her hostess opening up about the particulars of the enquiry into her natural mum’s killing.

“Have you learned what happened in my mother’s last hours?”

“You’re going to have to be more subtle than that, Laura. I can’t discuss any details concerning the case.”

“But I’m the victim’s daughter.”

“In terms of the investigation, Laura, you being revealed as Samantha’s kid can’t be a passport to you getting to know the ins-and-outs of this case. Don’t take that personally...it is part of the procedures I have to follow.”

“I’m stuck as to what I can talk about!”

“That’s easily settled. How about filling me in on what life is like at Salford University.”

“It’ll bore you more than channel-hopping, Detective Inspector.”

“I’ll take my chances with that outcome.”

“I study, attend lectures, compare notes on how well I’ve been educated with my mates. That really covers everything! The finer details will send you right off to sleep, and no mistake.”

“I just said I’ll take my chances. Anything’s better than pointlessly searching for something to watch on the telly.”

“I thought you’d be watching Alibi!”

“Is that a TV channel?”

Suzanne’s unintentional ignorance of this specific broadcasting company motivated this question to be thought of and then asked. When she last was in a position to search all functioning TV channels, she flicked through them so quick that she didn’t get a proper look at the ones that fell out of her mind once they’d been viewed. There were so many of them that she stopped registering each one by the seventh channel her TV received.

“Yeah, Olivia likes to watch it.”

The continual reference to Mrs. Blackwell’s first name was already jarring, like a joke that got less funny with each time it was told. Suzanne was concerned Laura would begin enjoying it too fervently.

“How long are you going to hold this grudge?”

Laura didn’t address the issue the question raised. She was too wrapped up in consuming the pizza. As she lifted the 3^rd slice, the melted cheese became gangly and resembled ultra-thin tentacles, stretching out from one portion to another. The nail on her right thumb detached the sticky, straggly concoction and it was gone in five or six munches. Suzanne and Laura finished off their pizzas and garlic breads while watching a TV station that deals with a specific genre of programme. This one was all to do with military history: a topic that fascinated DI Andrews more than Miss Blackwell. Suzanne’s temporary apartment guest Laura found the tone of the programme too cod and uninspiring...and too Americanised, but she tolerated it because it wasn’t her television set. That stole away from her the right to request another channel, but Laura did not look as if she possessed an interest in having that freedom anyway.

Suzanne’s carelessness in removing all traces of her former flames led to Laura spotting a photo of the Detective Inspector’s last relationship in the cupboard for all things porcelain and photographic. A lame TV advert that was cheesy and self-contradictory was the invisible push prompting Laura to turn round, away from the set.

“Are you two together?”

“Having pizza with me doesn’t earn you the right to pry into my personal business!”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be Laura – we’re not BFFs as they say in the movies.”

Miss Blackwell didn’t feel at all wounded by this remark. She had a slight admiration for people who kept certain circumstances close to one’s chest.

“Who are your BFFs, Detective Inspector?”

“I have three: Hannah, Alice and Joan.”

Suzanne didn’t relay any more details about these three women, either as teenagers or as adults. She was aware that being inscrutable on parts of her private life was going to limit any conversation Laura and her might be involved in over the next few days. Nonetheless, she preferred to be more open in the company of people she knew longer than a year. Her nature dictated these terms, and Suzanne was happy to go along with them.

Sleeping arrangements were easily sorted. Laura had no problem with using the couch as a bed. She’d done it whenever she slept over at one of her friend’s houses. Spare pillows were used instead of cushions. They were large enough to rest her head on, but Suzanne chose pillows that were softer. Laura only required one, so the other was used to prop up her feet. This measure resulted from her body height exceeding the length of the sofa itself. Her descent into slumber was coupled with Suzanne carrying out the final lot of nightly duties before going to bed herself. She carried a cup from her bedroom to the kitchen sink. Laura heard DI Andrews washing it out, but the sharpness of the noise emanating from the kitchen didn’t jolt her from her tiredness. Sleep was about to catch up with her, and Suzanne witnessed the moment it did.

“There’s a coffee on the floor next to the sofa” were the words coming out of the mouth of a gorilla that had a supporting role in this dream. However, recognizing the voice as Suzanne’s made her wake up. Laura leaned over and picked up the mug from the floor. Miss Blackwell’s eyes ascended Suzanne’s body from her feet to her head. The DI was skimpily-dressed again: just a loose-fitting T-shirt and a pair of panties. Tossing the cover aside with the only hand free, Laura revealed that she had on a pair of thin blue pyjamas. Her toes kept getting snagged in the bottom half of her leggings, and she nearly tripped twice, once slipping on a magazine Suzanne had forgotten to remove from the floor.

“What time is it, Detective Inspector Andrews?”

“You sound like you’re addressing a teacher. I’m not on duty, so I don’t mind if you call me Suzanne for a short spell.”

“How informal – I thought we weren’t BFFs!”

“It’s a speedier greeting and less of a mouthful, especially at this time of day.”

“You didn’t say what time it is.”

“Eleven minutes to eight. I’ve already had my breakfast, so I suggest you get yourself something rapid. We’re both leaving my flat at the same time, so I need you to be ready.”

Without meaning to, she was starting to sound like Olivia Blackwell. Laura was against the idea to say something because that comparison somehow made her feel awkward. She also observed Suzanne drifted between solitude and outgoingness. It was dividing up two emotionally-based social statuses, instead of merging them. Mixing them up was what Laura liked to do, and being in DI Andrews’ presence did make her feel as if she’d entered a foreign country for the first time.