THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Read online

  When George walked into the meeting room, he realised very quickly that there was nowhere to hide. There was almost nowhere to sit. He was still swigging at his coffee. There were a lot of voices all talking at once and it took the entrance of John Whittaker to silence the excited detectives. Whittaker stood at the end of the table, talking into his mobile phone. He soon pushed it back into his pocket and looked straight at George.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Whittaker said, before addressing the room as a whole. ‘People, I asked for the timeline. I’ll be five minutes with Inspector Elms and then I’ll be back. I need to have this timeline up and visible to everyone, okay? Let’s get it done, please.’ He led the way out of the door and towards his office. George followed.

  ‘What the hell happened to you, old boy?’ Whittaker called everyone old boy. He had risen to the rank of Major in the British Army before moving to the police. He still spoke like he was on the parade ground.

  George did his best to look indignant. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You look like rat shit, man. I’ve seen men come back from a tour of Afghanistan looking more up for it than you. What’s gone on? Emily said she couldn’t get you by phone.’

  ‘I was on a day off. I booked it—’

  ‘I know what you were, George. Major Crime, however, can’t always recognise a day off. Seems some selfish bastards are still content to shoot at one another on down days. You need to be contactable by phone at least.’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss, I know. I had a shit day and I turned my phone off. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You must be sorry, calling me boss.’

  ‘Major, then. Sorry.’ George called him Major when they were in the right surroundings. He found it funny; Whittaker didn’t seem to.

  ‘What’s the matter with you? You were seeing the wife, right? She’s out of hiding. Did she not turn up?’

  ‘She turned up, sir.’

  ‘I might have known. I’m always pretty distraught when my wife turns up too. Every time she pops out to go shopping I live in hope.’

  George managed a weak smile. ‘She wants a divorce.’

  ‘And I suppose lucky bastard is not the response you are looking for?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Fine. Well, look, George, I know this is big for you but I don’t have time for one of my legendary pep talks where I tell you to dust yourself off and get back to work, okay? So I’ll just say that you need to dust yourself off and get back to work. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, you look like shit and you smell worse. Did you drink it or bathe in it?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Jesus, George, of all the days.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. It was a blowout, I needed it, but I’m fine now.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so. I just got off the phone with a patrol sergeant. Totally separate to this whole mess. He’s at an address on the outskirts of Canterbury. He has a body up there, sus circs. I’m going to need you to go up there and fly the flag for Major Crime. Everyone else is tucked up with this other job from yesterday. Murder victims, they’re like London buses.’

  ‘You don’t want me involved in that? In the shooting?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did, but that was yesterday. It’s actually worked out with this other thing coming in. It means I have a volunteer to send.’

  ‘Well, I guess I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘It won’t do you any good. I have CSI on the way. Uniform will hold the scene. I’ll call the sergeant back and let him know to expect you around ten.’

  George glanced at his watch. ‘The outskirts of Canterbury, you said? I’m only twenty minutes away.’

  ‘That’s right. So that gives you time to go via your home. Get a shower, George. Comb your damned hair and maybe find a shirt you’ve actually ironed. I need you switched on up there. I can’t spare the usual team. You’re it — for now at least.’

  ‘What do we know? Is it a good job? What makes it suspicious?’

  ‘The job number is fifty-two of today if you want a look at the log. I have a printed copy somewhere. It has what we know up to this point — which isn’t much. The suspicious element is a shotgun wound to our dead woman’s gut. Suspected robbery, elderly couple, that’s a brief summary.’

  George stiffened up a little. ‘A proper job then.’

  ‘Sounds that way. Now get yourself presentable. I feel bad that we can’t send the full team to these poor saps. I think I should at least send someone who is sober.’

  Chapter 6

  George hadn’t seen the point in Whittaker sending him home to freshen up. Now he was glad he had. He felt much better — almost normal.

  He was back to work and moving through the village of Elham. It was a beautiful smudge of green and brown set mostly in an area of outstanding natural beauty. Its closest civilisation was the equally beautiful city of Canterbury. It had extended patches of wild fern meadows and trees on either side of the road shedding their leaves as if George was part of some ticker-tape procession. He had found a detective who hadn’t been sucked into the Dover investigation to keep him company, an old friend — Paul Bearn. He was a good detective, once part of George’s team before George seriously injured him in a moment of noise and confusion. Paul was damaged forever, but it had done nothing, it seemed, to damage the strength of their friendship. Paul was in the passenger seat and he was reading out loud from the printed 999 call.

  ‘So, 4 a.m. this morning, or just before, we get the call from a panicked male saying his wife has been shot. There’s lines of input here where they’re trying to get some sense out of him and then just a summary from the uniform patrols when they turn up. Looks like a group have turned up and tried to rob them and it’s gotten out of hand. Looks like the murder weapon might have belonged to the couple.’

  George scowled. ‘This is gonna need some piecing together.’

  ‘Lucky you brought me, then.’

  George grinned. ‘I heard something about your latest light duties being as some sort of analyst, right? I thought you might appreciate a day out.’

  ‘Yeah see, that’s a common error. Most people don’t realise the importance of analysing crime trends in urban areas. But what would you say if I told you that I can now show, statistically, that more crimes occur in areas that are the most densely populated? What would you say to that?’

  ‘That I could have told you that before you started the study.’

  ‘Exactly what I told them. Honestly, they’re running out of things to ask me to do. I’m terrified to finish one job because I know the next will be worse!’

  ‘Well, today at least you can do some real police work. You’re wasted in there, Paul. I meant what I said about you coming into Major Crime.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. If you can square it then I told you, I will.’

  ‘Excellent. The department really needs a good tea maker.’

  ‘Wanker!’

  Both men laughed. George suddenly slowed the car, his eyes right. He read the house name out loud: ‘Kismet.’ It was etched in a solid slab of oak that was nailed to a thick tree trunk. A farm-style gate next to it was jammed open. George could only see a drive stretching away from them, he couldn’t see any part of a house. He swung into the drive.

  ‘Kismet. Means fate, right?’ Paul said.

  ‘It certainly did for these people.’ They drove in silence, the atmosphere instantly less jovial. George took the time to contemplate what had happened here just a few hours earlier. He couldn’t imagine the fear and the panic that the couple must have been through.

  Apple trees lined the drive and were dotted across the wide lawns. A low, double-wire perimeter fence wrapped around the estate. There was woodland on the other side, thick rows of mature trees reaching over and beckoning in the breeze. The drive turned gently to the right then straightened up. A large and very traditional-looking farmhouse stood in front of them. It w
as immediately imposing in a way that only buildings that had stood for hundreds of years could be. There were three marked police cars and a marked police van that had Forensic Investigation emblazoned down its side. They were all parked in the gritted expanse at the front of the property. To the right of the house was a substantial double garage. One of the doors was lifted and George could see the rear of a smart-looking Range Rover. Someone stepped out through the big front door that was dead centre on the ground floor of the main house. They were dressed in a white paper suit, blue boot covers and a blue mask covering their mouth. She pulled her mask off and the hood on her suit down as George’s car approached. She flicked a long, dark ponytail free from a hair net and beamed a smile. Allesandra. George was always glad when he turned up at something serious and she was the one in the suit. She had an excellent eye for detail and more importantly she was always cheery.

  ‘Hey!’ George stepped out. Allesandra was beaming.

  ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘This is true. It’s been a little quiet recently. Someone must have said that out loud a couple of days ago, I reckon.’ George referenced the age-old superstition among police officers that saying the word quiet would swiftly invoke the opposite. To police officers, ‘not busy’ was always referred to as just ‘Q.’

  ‘I know, it’s gone crazy all of a sudden. I checked on my phone earlier, it’s not even a full moon.’ George smiled broadly.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘That’s where we are these days, isn’t it? We want to know if the moon is out so we consult our smart phones!’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. Paul Bearn you know and love, of course.’

  Paul walked round to join them. Allesandra pecked him on the cheek. Her eyes fell to his left arm, it was tied off in a sling. The nerves had long since shrivelled and died in it and he no longer had any movement in it at all.

  ‘Hey, Ali.’

  ‘How come he gets a peck on the cheek?’ George complained.

  ‘Because he’s special.’

  ‘I see. What do we have here, then?’

  ‘We have a murder, George. I don’t think we can be any more certain about that. Single gunshot wound to the abdomen. Looks close range but far enough away not to be self-inflicted. Ian Banks is the patrol sergeant. He’s assigned the front here as the common approach path. Seems a van of some sort has driven to the rear of the house in the early hours of the morning. We’ve got tracks I can recover at the back. There’s another drive that leads to another gate back out onto a side road. It’s normally padlocked but it’s been snipped. The lock was tossed but I’ve recovered that already. I’ve only just moved inside. The husband is still in there. I managed to get him out of the main rooms at least, but he won’t leave the house. Not until his wife does. She’s still in situ.’

  ‘Sounds grim. How’s he doing?’

  ‘Not good — as you can imagine.’

  ‘What are your first thoughts around him?’

  ‘You mean, did he shoot his wife in the belly with his shotgun? That’s a brave call, George. Luckily it isn’t mine.’

  ‘He might have done then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not for a minute. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more devastated. It didn’t stop me seizing his clothes and swabbing him for gunshot residue. Be gentle with him.’

  ‘So you stripped him and swabbed him, and now you’re telling me to be gentle with him?’

  ‘Yes. The difference being that I have a way with people. I don’t just look at them and they think I’m accusing them of something. We actually talked a little. He wasn’t massively engaging, but he told me enough for me to know that I was wasting my time.’

  ‘Wasting your time how?’

  ‘He will be covered in residue. He was firing his guns just a few hours before. He’s fairly regular with them, even at his age. I think he does it for a bit of sport now. Whatever the reason, evidentially any residue found on him will be easily explained.’

  ‘That already gets me suspicious.’

  ‘Because you’re a police officer. You people see the guilt and then work backwards. Like I said, be gentle with him, he’s had quite a night.’

  ‘That I cannot argue with. Is there somewhere we can speak to him where we don’t have to suit up? It’s not ideal trying to build up a rapport when the subject gets the impression he’s ET.’

  ‘You want to speak to him first or do you want to see the scene?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him first. The scene isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Okay. Well, yeah, there is then. They have a living room at the front here. The door was shut throughout with no suggestion anyone’s entered there. I’ve processed it already. It’s where he’s sat. If you go through the living room and turn hard right you’ll see him in there with Sergeant Banks.’

  ‘Perfect, thanks.’

  ‘And don’t go in any other rooms. Not any!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  George recognised the sergeant who stepped towards him as he entered the living room. He was a big man, tall and imposing, even more so in his size twelve boots, body armour and vest with his cuffs and spray attached. The radio lit up suddenly on his chest then faded back to black. George didn’t know him well; he had seen him at a few incidents before, maybe. Certainly he had seen him around the police station.

  ‘Sergeant Banks.’ George extended his hand. The sergeant took it up but not with any vigour.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. Even in a whisper George could sense the acid in his tone. George was maybe a little sensitive to it now. He knew his past meant that he wouldn’t always be a popular figure with some colleagues. He had become more in tune with it since his promotion. He still didn’t really give a shit.

  ‘How is he?’ George nodded towards the elderly man sat on a large sofa. He was leaning forward, looking down at the floor, his elbows resting on top of his thighs, hugging himself almost, like it might be providing a crumb of comfort. He had to be the husband.

  ‘You can see for yourself. The poor fella’s had a rough time. We all have actually — sir. We were night turn. Due off three hours ago. Any chance you can stand me and my people down? Early turn have the scene. It’s just us left in here. They are sending someone over to sit with him, but really we should only be waiting for Major Crime to arrive.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. There’s no need for you to stick around. We’ll be here a while I reckon anyway.’

  ‘Thanks. Early turn have the scene log. CSI are happy for you to stay in here but I don’t think anywhere else is open yet.’

  ‘No, we spoke to CSI on the way in. I understand you set the common approach path as the front, right?’

  ‘Yeah. We’ve taken initial accounts. It’s been hard. Stanley there isn’t really talking too much. He’s not being obstructive — I just don’t think he can speak at the moment. I’ve never seen anyone so bad. But all the action was at the back of the house. Mrs Wingmore is still lying in the rear porch.’

  ‘Rear porch?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s like a boot room, I suppose. It leads into the kitchen. I think they use it as the main door.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll need a copy of your pocket books before you go off-duty. Can you throw them at someone in the office in Major Crime? Then get yourself off to sleep, yeah?’

  ‘Will do.’ The sergeant nodded at his two colleagues, they moved silently out of the room.

  ‘Paul, can you get on the phone, make sure we’ve got a FLO assigned for this. They need to be here sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’ Paul Bearn turned away, already clutching for his phone. A FLO, or Force Liaison Officer, was someone assigned to work with most victims of major incidents, and always where murder was suspected. They were sold as support for the victims of crime — or their surviving relatives at least. They did fulfil this function, but really they were a key part of gathering intelligence around the family when trying to identify suspects.
They could still be with family members after some time had passed and when guards might have dropped.

  George approached Stanley Wingmore. He hadn’t moved — not even turned his head to see who the new people were in his front room. George thought maybe it didn’t matter to him now. Nobody here was going to be able to change what had happened. There was a sofa directly opposite him.

  ‘Mr Wingmore, I’m Detective Inspector George Elms. Do you mind if I sit for a moment, sir?’

  The man raised watery eyes. George guessed that he was in his seventies. He looked in good shape, not an ounce of fat on him — that was certain. Maybe a little too thin. He wore a green suit with sewn patches on the arms, a chequered shirt underneath with a thick tie pulled tight against his scrawny neck. George had seen on the call log that CSI had already seized his clothing from him, a set of blue and white pyjamas. They had been described as stained red. Despite everything that had gone on, the man had still made the effort of changing into a day suit. He looked every bit the gentrified farmer that his surroundings suggested.

  ‘Please, Inspector.’ He gestured with a wrinkled hand. George took the invitation, but perched on the edge.

  ‘Call me George. There’s nothing formal about today, Mr Wingmore. And I have come to really hate the sir thing.’

  ‘Stan.’

  George smiled warmly. ‘Stan. Thanks. I know you probably don’t want to be talking to the likes of me, Stan. I know I wouldn’t. But I need to talk to you about what happened last night. About all of this. I’m so sorry you got caught up in it. I’m so sorry for what’s happened. I’ve been a cop a long time and every time something like this happens I know deep down that we’ve failed. I’m sorry we couldn’t have been here.’

  ‘There was nothing you could have done. Nothing I could have done either. I’m too old and too feeble to even protect my own wife. Have you any idea how that feels? They laughed at me, George. That’s evil. How could they do this . . .?’ He petered out, his voice quieter, but there was no sign it was breaking. George had seen it before — his expression, his demeanour, his body language. He was empty, devoid of any emotion. A combination of shock, denial and not being able to even contemplate what had happened. This was all going to get a lot worse before it got any better.