Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 9

Morecambe’s skies were overcast, but the clouds weren’t pendulous. A narrow gap was permitting some sunlight onto the seafront’s beaches; sadly, not enough to give any holiday makers a sense there was a coastal fun vibe. The reduction in sunshine didn’t bother Ameera: she was actually glad of it. Pools of water that hadn’t receded after last week’s downpour here were perfect reflectors for this light. DC Jahil didn’t like the glare, so she had no cause to moan about the lack of blue skies above. The secondary cause of her less than agreeable mood was the choice of music coming from the car’s DAB radio. Right now, it was tuned to a genre radio station that centred on one type of music: this one was for jazz lovers. Suzanne seemed to have developed a rich fondness for it, but Ameera was longing for some melodies representative of her own culture. Nothing, not even a vintage recording of Duke Ellington could sway her into giving this musical genre a chance. A cat darted from the row of guest houses Suzanne’s car was passing by and headed over to the promenade. The feline’s kamikaze dash nearly instigated a sudden slamming of the brakes, but the occurrence was swift and the cat had completed its short journey before there was any danger of a vehicle hitting in whilst in motion.

“Near miss kitty” said Suzanne dryly. There was a tongue-in-cheek element to her remark, laced with a hint of innuendo. Ameera’s sense of humour didn’t extend to animals getting less than respectful treatment and didn’t revel in the use of levity the way DI Andrews did.

“Here’s the place” said Suzanne.

The front of Bauer’s guest house was an architectural throwback to the 1970’s. The name of this sort of holiday residence relied on lettering also from that decade. Its typography was identical to the style once employed in the packaging for Spangles, a fruity sweet no longer manufactured. Neither police officer thought it suitable for attracting visitors. It was too entrenched in an era since past. They quickly labelled their dual opinion as a distraction, veering them off from being receptive to the details of this old case. It was therefore deleted from their mindsets. Bauer briefly glanced at his visitors from the dining room window and he was almost at the door between the first and second ring of the doorbell, only to be beaten to it by a woman with a facial complexion of someone who’d just turned twenty.

“We’re not taking any reservations for the next few weeks.”

“That’s fine” said DI Andrews, “I’m here to see the man stood behind you – DCI Bauer.”

He slid between his employee and his guests, just as she said, “I didn’t know you were a police officer” directly to him.

The former DCI’s hair was the only part of his body that had aged. His physique and skin tone told an opposing tale. Even in his seventies, he still boasted reasonable health. On first glance, Suzanne was able to conclude he had a detective’s eyes: the kind that scrutinise crime scenes and people’s faces three times as much as any conventional CID officer. The other skill that was detectable to DI Andrews was the way his facial expressions asked questions without the necessity for speech. He addressed the member of staff who’d opened the front door to them as Cindy and instructed her to check the storeroom to see if there were sufficient alcoholic beverages to last the week. She obliged, but Ameera picked up on some romantic frisson that was being channelled back and forth, and she saw Bauer’s left hand wander over to her left hip. Cindy was permissive in her response and did not raise any objection to him softly but firmly stroking it, as if it were a reward for her compliance. Both Suzanne and Ameera couldn’t view this behaviour as publicly acceptable, but it was done on his property, legitimising his actions. Cindy was obviously willing, and she didn’t particularly appear uncomfortable. It didn’t seem right to Suzanne, even with the young lady’s exhibited approval for her boss’s affections. The smaller the age gap there was between two consenting adults, the less sleazy it felt.  Her opinion of it was perhaps a little judgemental, but being a DI lowered her tolerance for senior citizen falling for women young enough to be their granddaughters. The question of whether Cindy was of an age where she knew her own mind didn’t prevent the existence of her dismay at someone she believed ought to know better. But who Bauer pointed his carnal urges towards wasn’t an important detail in helping to catch Ms. Williams’ killer. Watching him getting overly familiar with one of his employees was easy to forget, and her mind did a cartwheel back to whatever Bauer’s own insight into his own investigation could reveal.

“Where’s the most secluded and private place in your guest house, Mr. Bauer?”

“The dining room, DI Andrews”

“Surely that’ll be busy at this time of day” stated Ameera.

“Not in my establishment. I blame those fast food places” said Bauer. “They advertise food in a way that makes people want to have breakfast there, instead of at my guest house. At least here, they can get cereal – much better for them if you ask me than eating the crap they serve at McDonalds.”

“I couldn’t agree more” said Ameera.

Suzanne was more inclined to defer her evaluation on these food outlets. It was consigned to a hiding place amidst all the thoughts this visit was generating.

Walking into the dining room proved it was as vacant as Bauer had claimed. There was not a single sign of any guest house patrons having had the first meal of the day at any of the tables. Suzanne, Ameera and the retired officer moved to a table that was wedged against a smaller one where all the plastic cereal containers were situated. Their levels were still near to the top brim.

“Do you have the original case files with you?”

“Only a handful, DI Andrews”

“Where are they?”

“In my bedroom on the top floor – I’ll get Cindy to fetch them for you. She knows precisely where to look.”

Like movie subtitles, the phrase “I’m sure she knows her own way there” flashed across her vision. It had a churlish ring to it, but it was another sign of her private disapproval of whom he was sleeping with, and she felt she had some justification in her standpoint in this issue.

“I’ll go with her” said Ameera.

Her offer exposed curiosity being expressed for the wrong reasons. Bauer’s reaction was common of a man who knew subtlety is hard to employ when confronted with the surface of an awkward situation. There was no trouble with him finding an intelligent response.

“If that were a chess move, you’d lose that game” Bauer said to DC Jahil.

Suzanne’s comment was more obvious. She whispered to her “Talk about ham-fisted.”

“Sorry” said Ameera in an even quieter tone than DI Andrews’.

“Let’s get this matter out of the way before I share with you what I know. Yes – Cindy and I are in a relationship; and yes – we are having sex; no – I don’t care about the age difference and neither does she.”

“Just how old is she?” enquired Suzanne, undaunted by Bauer’s words on this topic.

Rather than saying “That is private”, Bauer proved he wasn’t ashamed of who he was coupled with by revealing Cindy was 22 – a couple of years older than she had appeared to be. This statement made it less dubious in the eyes of the law, but Suzanne still didn’t think Cindy was mature enough to ignore her own moral guidance regarding her romantic circumstances.

“I’m also planning to propose to her in a few weeks time.”

His dispensing of this nugget of information was voluntary. Bauer wanted the whole topic out in the open, so there would be no lingering queries ready to interrupt the actual reason he was speaking to these two female CID officers. Similar in tone to a full-stop at the end of the sentence was the stern announcement “Now to business.”

 

Cindy was carrying a well-worn cardboard box when she re-entered the dining room. From out of it, she took several files that were just as sorry-looking as the container they had spent years inside. Their age left them with a musty odour, and the paper housed within them generated the most potent aspects of the smell. The 3^rd file to be removed was of the most interest to him, and not a second was wasted in sharing with Suzanne and Ameera what motivated his selection.

“This file had all the details I was about to write about the two days that preceded Helen Stephenson’s disappearance.”

He handed it solely to Suzanne. She read the report slowly at first. She wasn’t skipping a single word. Just absorbing two or three together kept the cohesion of his handwritten account solid. The upper half of page one hovered around Ms. Stephenson’s version of events given as an official statement to the police. On completing the reading of the first page, Bauer’s suspicions of Helen’s account transferred measurably to Suzanne’s consciousness. The alibi imparted by Ms. Stephenson created the most doubt for the ex-DCI in her innocence. Sylvia’s set of revelations backed up this emphasis. They dually pointed to the eye witnesses who had confirmed Helen’s alibi as subjective. Straight away, Bauer couldn’t possibly view them as ironclad testimonies.

“One of them – a Mrs. Folkston – seems to be the most convinced of Helen’s presence in the pub at the time of Alice’s murder” declared DI Andrews.

“I tore it apart when I questioned her for a second time” confirmed Bauer proudly. “By her own admission, she was three pints away from being pissed out of her mind.”

Alcohol was the common impairer of human faculties. Suzanne had no problem in seeing this as one of the loose foundations that caused the alibi to crumble.

“The alibi may have been easy to deconstruct, but there was never any proper forensic evidence to link her to the murder.”

“And yet, Mr. Bauer, she was still your chief suspect.”

“Yes, DI Andrews – that must have been her trick.”

“I’m not with you – what trick?”

“My bid to get enough to charge Helen was the window she needed to abscond by.”

“So, she used that weakness in the investigation against you.”

“I’d have thought that was obvious, DI Andrews. There was no other meaning to what I was talking about.”

“You’re not a DCI anymore, Bauer – I can do without pompous lectures!”

“Moving on,” he said in order to avoid an argument “when the forensic team had done their complete sweep of the crime scene, they didn’t discover anything useful to ensure Helen could be charged with Alice’s killing.”

“Who was in charge of forensics?” asked DC Jahil, taking over from Suzanne.

“Professor Harold Grahame.”

“How can we reach him?” continued Ameera.

“You can’t – he passed away in 2006.”

Suzanne re-established the lead in coming up with questions. Her next one was aimed at Helen’s then state of mind.

“What about psych evaluations? Was one ever made concerning Ms. Stephenson?”

“No. It was the mid-Eighties. That practice wasn’t as regular as it is nowadays.”

For a split-second, Suzanne broke off from direct eye-contact with Bauer and looked up to her left. Cindy was standing there. Bauer had omitted to ask her to leave them. It was up to DI Andrews to ensure she did.

“I don’t mean to sound rude but what we’re discussing is police business.”

The hint was simple for her to take. Cindy didn’t like being treated as an inconvenient presence, but a small peck on the cheek, courtesy of Bauer, made it bearable. When she’d gone, he turned back into the experienced plain clothes detective again. His romantic sentimentality had been extinguished for the rest of this covert conference.

“Tell me about the murder of Samantha Williams, DI Andrews.”

Suzanne didn’t start her account with the body being discovered. She saved that for the midway point. Her beginning focussed on how she drew out the truth about Laura Blackwell’s true parentage, moving onto the connection that knitted the lives of Sam, Olivia and Sylvia together through their university years several minutes later. Bauer exhibited the gracious side of his personality by helpfully introducing elements of his original enquiry that DCI Andrews’ team weren’t privy to. Shades of disappointment he didn’t get the vital evidence soon enough to curtail Helen’s plan to go on the run were heavily thematic. He was effectively stung by the knowledge of Ms. Stephenson’s escape counting itself as one of his professional failures. Suzanne wasn’t interested in Bauer’s regret, though. All she’d asked for, in terms of the memories of his investigation had been expertly received. The accounts of both murders blended well and any emotional sides to them were merely icing.

“Walk me through the bit about what you said about your murder victim in employment alongside Sylvia Hendry.”

Bauer’s request highlighted how free Suzanne had been over using surnames in her description of the circumstances contained in the investigation. All the dots had to be exposed before they could be joined up. This dot was fixed to the present’s link to the past.

“Samantha was economical with the truth about her age when writing up her CV, and on the day she was strangled and her tongue removed, she was on an errand for her robotic employer.”

“Drop your opinion of him, DI Andrews.”

“It wasn’t just an opinion. His manner convinced me of that.”

“And this ties into where Miss Williams’ corpse was found?”

“I’m 99% certain, Mr. Bauer.”

“If I were you, DI Andrews, I’d look deeper into the victim’s work history and that of Sylvia Hendry’s.”

“Do you think it might turn up something new?”

“It always did with me. It’s a combination of digging and relying on the life stories of people connected with the case to throw some light on hidden information.”

“You and my mum should compare notes on solving cases.”

“Huh.”

“My mum’s a DCI. Her detective skills helped me track you down to this address.”

“So, she still holds the apron strings in your life.”

“No she doesn’t – I flew the nest years ago.”

“Physically maybe, but if your work for your mother, this won’t be the case.”

A grimace came forth when Suzanne considering whether there was any wisdom on how he saw her situation. Having a stranger make it matched a feeling which mirrored specific digestive problems. There were definitely experiences the gut never liked.

“So, DI Andrews, is there anything else you need from me?”

“Just one thing – your case files.”

“Take them with my blessing – my police file reading days are over.”

Suzanne was fit enough to ferry them, but Ameera applied her own vitality and level of athleticism in carrying the box they were fetched in. DI Andrews’ car boot needed some brief reorganisation before it could be stored in there. Ameera found a few of the items were fiddly, however – they weren’t exactly compatible with how well she could handle things she had to lift. She foresaw that it was going to be the same when she would be in charge of the weekly shopping, and that her future husband (whoever her parents had lined up for her to marry) would end up in a fierce argument with her. It made her a tad melancholic but she was able to cover it up with one of her smiles.

“Don’t take too long, Ameera. We need to get back to Manchester ASAP. I have to see Sylvia Hendry’s work file for myself.”

“And Miss Williams’ too” added DC Jahil.

“No, I just want to study hers. Then I’m going to coordinate with the DCI.”

“What are you hoping to find in Mrs. Hendry’s CV?”

“Something that occurred to me as we were leaving Bauer’s guest house”

“I tell you, I’m going to need a shower after being there.”

For a few minutes more, Ameera and Suzanne continued comparing notes on how much it grossed them out that a man in his elder years was in love with someone who was barely past the label of jailbait. Then, DC Jahil sought an answer as to what had occurred to DI Andrews during their exit from the building. Suzanne looked as if she were pouting when she said “The length of time Sylvia Hendry spent working for C3PO.”

“What will that tell you?”

“I won’t know that until I have those details.”

 

Mr. Cullen had his arms folded even tighter as DI Andrews read through Mrs. Hendry’s personnel records. His whole face reflected his stiff haughtiness.

“I thought your last visit established the employment history of Miss Williams! What possible reason could you have for possessing any interest in Mrs. Hendry’s? I do not need further distractions fouling up everybody’s work schedules.”

“Please stop going on about your priorities: try considering mine for a change.”

“Schedule is paramount here.”

When she thought he couldn’t get any starchier, Mr. Cullen outdid himself in that respect. Suzanne was hoping that a third visit to his premises was not going to be necessary. Sylvia’s work record details confirmed the suspicion she suddenly harboured whilst in Morecambe.

“According to Sylvia’s file, she was employed here before Samantha was. Did Mrs. Hendry get her a position here?”

“No, Miss Williams applied for it like everyone else. All the people working here are selected on their abilities, not on associations. I detest favouritism.”

“That certainly doesn’t surprise me.”

Recalling whom to ask where Sylvia could be found inside the office floor of Mr. Cullen’s business, Suzanne made her way over to the coffee machine. The member of staff wasn’t expected to guide her to Mrs. Hendry, though – Sylvia was there too.

“What are you doing with my employment record, Detective Inspector?”

“Acquiring a fact I knew I’d find in here. You were the one who told Samantha there was a job opening here.”

“Yes I was.”

“Was that out of charity or because of Helen Stephenson having evaded justice thirty years ago?”

“The second reason”

“I thought so.”

Suzanne now had a full set of basic reasons that acted as the cement in the foundations for Helen being the prime suspect. The last of them was given to her via this micro-conversation with the third most important woman in the whole enquiry.

“We need a new coffee machine” Sylvia said to DI Andrews.

Mrs. Hendry had botched her bid to make small talk. There were leaden hints of boredom on her current expression. She was no flesh and blood commercial for the phrase “Life begins at forty”. During a bout of uncomfortable silence common here, Suzanne looked round at all the faces in the office. There was definitely an epidemic of this specific mood: a complete absence of joy in what they did. It tainted the outlook all the workers had on the profession that insured their income: it was each individual’s ball-and-chain. Suzanne momentarily pictured herself as one of the members of Mr. Cullen’s staff. Because of what she was envisaging, the atmosphere gradually drew on facets of an Orwellian-style dystopia. It wasn’t a tasteful thought, but DI Andrews wondered if Miss Williams had had a lucky escape when she was being murdered. She was in the grip of a fanciful exaggeration, and she dismissed her own notion of inviting homicide if she were one of Mr. Cullen’s employees. Nevertheless, the thought did place a higher value on the job she was in. She had one last trace of where her imagination had led her – the digging of an escape tunnel to free the ‘oppressed’ members of staff. A glut of hopes that all the employees were granted their early paroles washed around her mind. She didn’t, however, feel a courtesy like this could be genuinely extended to Sylvia. Mrs. Hendry fell into a brigade of women that Suzanne saw as judging friendships on how convenient or dismissible they could be. The nearly illegal omissions Suzanne got her to admit to, simply served to inflate this character flaw. Neither did she believe that this was the only glitch in her personality. This certainty wafted in her direction when Sylvia had been in the interview room with her and it hadn’t yet dissipated. Walking away, Suzanne heard Sylvia mumble about the business of getting tonight’s dinner from the supermarket. It wasn’t usually something DI Andrews would go all out to overhear, but it was an addition to the reasons why she wanted her association with Sylvia to be at an end. She was also through with thinking that being around Samantha’s friend was not going to unearth any more leads.

 

The return to her flat gave Suzanne the surprise of her life. Laura was in the process of showing off a talent that the Detective Inspector hadn’t a clue she possessed – cooking! If there’d been any evidence she had culinary abilities the night before, DI Andrews would’ve permitted her to take over the kitchen, eliminating the need for bringing back a pizza. The aroma of chopped onions and garlic were carried to all corners of the kitchen by the steam rising from the frying pan. It hadn’t been out of the pots and pans cupboard since she bought it two years ago, making it clean and unlikely to cause any problems, hygiene-wise. Rather than remark about her cooking skills, Suzanne asked what Laura was making.

“I didn’t hear you come in, Detective Inspector. I’m making some pasta and bolognaise. Olivia made this from time-to-time. I watched her do it, and when I was learning domestic science at school, I picked up the process pretty fast.”

“You’ve certainly more enthusiasm for it than I have. How come you didn’t offer to cobble together a meal last night?”

“Would’ve been too cheeky a gesture; it’s your apartment, so I buckled down and let you call the shots.”

“Gracious of you, I admit, but I can’t help thinking it would’ve been better if you intervened and saved me from resorting to ordering another take away pizza.”

“It was delicious, though” replied Laura, skipping over the unintentionally ungrateful tone Suzanne had accidentally employed.

“Too delicious: my mum’s on at me to make my own meals, but I’m not too hot on seeing that task through. I usually get as far as getting the ingredients out, and a minute later, I put them back where I got them from.”

Laura’s efforts weren’t necessarily invigorating Suzanne to consider trying to follow her example. She couldn’t move beyond cooking being her one deficiency in living as a woman of independent means. The easier Miss Blackwell made the process look, the harder Suzanne imagined it would be to actually carry out. She was jealous of Laura’s confidence in dealing with hobs, heated pans and sizzling fare. The largest portion of her self-assuredness was displayed through the way she gently shook the peseta jar from side-to-side. The thick, orangey red concoction poured out casually. These ingredients were proficiently integrated into one another with a single stir every couple of minutes. The last time Suzanne had seen such a skill in action was on Nigella Lawson’s TV show. It was plain Laura was sturdily adept in producing decent meals. Suzanne didn’t have to wait for more than thirty minutes. The first mouthful of the dinner Miss Blackwell had prepared upgraded DI Andrews’ palate to appreciate meals that required some work to put it into its preparation.

“Delicious” said Suzanne in the course of savouring the first morsel. The pronunciation trebled the sole ‘e’ in that word, so her enjoyment at tasting Laura’s Italian meal was easily acknowledged. “Is that one of your future goals?”

“Is what one of my future goals, Detective Inspector?”

She was about to enlighten Laura, when five knocks on the door dislodged Suzanne’s attention from explaining what was in the foreground of her question. That number of knocks pushed away all doubt as to who they belonged to.

“I’m coming, Joan.”

“How do you know that’s who it is?”

“The amount of knocking – that’s her trademark.”

Callers to her flat weren’t in abundance, so there was no blockage preventing Suzanne knowing the identities of the people who came round for a visit. As Joan moved through into the living room and out of the corridor, she was offered a hot drink.

“No, thanks, Suzanne, I can’t stop long.”

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

“Beyond temptation tonight, but thanks any road!”

“Why the flying visit, Joan?”

Laura’s eyes had already panned down and saw the engagement ring slotted onto the appropriate finger. She held off sharing her awareness of it, and allowed Joan to take the lead in talking, until Suzanne’s eyes drifted in the direction she was gazing at too.

“To ask you something, Suzanne”

Joan was careful with her build-up to revealing what this question was. The moment for enlightening DI Andrews had to be ripe.

“Ask away, Joan!”

She showed her friend the front of the hand her fiancé had slipped the ring onto. It caught the overhead light magnificently: the multiple glinting making illusions of rain gushing down a window pane.

Joan only endeavoured to wheedle out an introduction to the third person present in the flat when Laura tried to retreat to the kitchen, after issuing the unexpected visitor with a low-level hello. Miss Blackwell didn’t know Joan from Adam, and she didn’t want to spend the rest of the time Joan planned to be here to be in a position where eavesdropping was too easy a likelihood. Suzanne was too wrapped in studying the diamond engagement ring: feeling whether Laura viewed herself as being in the way went out the window.

“Where did he propose, Joan?”

“By the Queen Victoria statue in Piccadilly Gardens”

Joan’s emotions were turbo charged when she recounted where her bloke had asked for her hand in marriage. Suzanne was in no way convinced of this setting having any romantic overtones, but if Joan sensed them, that was the best reason to increase the celebratory mood now present.

“That reminds me, Suzanne” continued Joan, “Ever since he proposed, I’ve been searching for someone to be my chief bridesmaid – and now I reckon I have.”

“Amy?”

“No – you, Suzanne”