Animal Instinct (6 page)

*****

D.C. Katy Jones was a member of Massey's team. Despite being a detective constable for several years, promotion never seemed to beckon. She referred to her static position as her ‘gender problem’. Although there was an Equal Pay Act and new laws against discrimination in the workplace, litigation on such controversial grounds would be more a product and a concept of the next decade, indeed the next century.

She was now twenty-eight years old, good-looking and well liked at the station, but for some reason she was always considered as one of the lads. Nobody ever made a play for her even though she was quite open about her sexuality and thereby obviously heterosexual. Nevertheless, her colleagues considered her a damn good copper, reliable, trustworthy and always dependable when the going got tough.

The young detective waylaid Massey and Turner as they entered the police station with their booty from the tip. She followed them into Massey's office. Turner left immediately to hand the bin liner and its contents over to forensics.

“I thought you were out checking hospitals and the like,” said Massey.

“I was with D.S. Roker, but that photograph's been bugging me. I think I know her.”

“Who, the victim?”

“There's a boutique in the shopping mall called Chic-Chat. I'm sure she worked there. If not, she has a double.”

“We'll go round there now.”

“I've already tried. It's closed on account of the bank holiday.”

“Do we know who owns it?”

“I've done some checking up. It's part of a group. There's a manager, but he lives near Northwich.”

“Do you have a contact number?”

“I've tried it. No reply.”

“Bloody marvellous! There's emergency contact numbers for every unit in the mall. It would be all the same if it was on fire or some low-life had knocked it off. Is it a home number or mobile?”

“Both. I suppose I could drive over there. You never know they may be in the garden having a bar-b-q or something. By the way, I really enjoyed yours yesterday.”

“Thanks,” said Massey rather dismissively. “Tell you what. I need to have a chat with forensics. Take D.C. Turner with you and update me with the situation as soon as you arrive there. I take it you have the address.”

“The manager's a Donald Kimberley. He lives on the new estate between Northwich and Hartford. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks. That's good detective work. Let's hope your hunch is as good as mine.”

“What was that, sir?”

“I'm sure D.C. Turner will tell you all about it on the way since it was his fork which kick-started this little sequence of events. Don't forget to be back here before the D.C.I.'s deadline.”

“Fork?” asked Jones. “I'm confused.”

“Don't ask. All will be revealed in good time, hopefully in more ways than one.”

The detective constable left the office to meet up with Turner. Massey called in to see D.C.I. Wainwright to sweeten him up with the potential good news.

*****

Turner decided to take the quieter country route through Whitegate to avoid any bank holiday traffic on the main route to Northwich. He crossed the dual carriageway trunk road from Manchester to North Wales before driving into the rapidly expanding village of Hartford. Fifteen minutes after leaving Winsford police headquarters, he pulled up outside twenty one Cherry Crescent, the home of Donald Kimberly.

The house was a new detached dormer style residence with open-plan frontage. It was set back from the road beyond a neatly mown lawn. The driveway led towards a double garage and a gate, which appeared to give access to the rear garden. All the windows were closed and at first glance, one would have assumed that there was nobody at home.

D.C. Jones stepped from the vehicle and rang the front door bell. There was no answer. She turned towards Turner, shrugged her shoulders and tried again…still no response. A neighbour appeared at the house opposite.

“They're away for the weekend,” she called out. “Can I help?”

Turner walked over to the woman and fished out his warrant card. “We need to contact Mr. Kimberley rather urgently.”

“Can I help? I work for him at the boutique but I'm presently on maternity leave. Is there a problem?”

Turner's eyes involuntarily focussed on the woman's enlarged anatomy and embarrassed by his action turned towards Jones who had crossed over the road to join them. He pulled the photo of the young girl from his pocket.

“Do you know this young lady?”

“Oh yes,” replied the woman. “That's Lara, Lara Crawford.”

*****

D.I. Massey was still with John Nuttall in forensics when he received Turner's phone call. He immediately checked the electoral roll to find the address of the Crawford family to be in Moulton and arranged to meet up there with his two detective constables. Before he left the laboratory, he asked Nuttall to contact him as soon as he had a definite match from the items in the bin liner.

Detective Chief Inspector Wainwright was able to make only a brief statement to the assembled media surrounding the steps outside the entrance to Winsford police headquarters. Despite the information gathered by D.C. Turner and D.C. Jones, they were unable to confirm any formal identification without first tracing her next of kin.

The local telephone directory listed the Crawford name, but that avenue had brought no reply. Although he held little hope of finding the family at home, Massey still left to meet up with the two detective constables. If there were no response at the house, maybe a friendly neighbour would be able to point them in the right direction. A call on his mobile from Turner resolved that issue as he approached the address in Moulton.

Roses round the door, thought Massey as he stopped the car in the courtyard outside the picturesque Crawford cottage. Turner spotted him from the open entrance door and met him by the car.

“No sign of the family, just a friend of the daughter who's staying the weekend. She's seen the photo and confirmed that it's Lara.”

“How's she taken it?”

“D.C. Jones is with her in the conservatory. Predictably, she's rather distraught. I thought I'd hang around out front to put you in the picture.”

“Do we know where the family is?”

“According to the young woman, Fiona Wilson, the mother's somewhere in Derbyshire with Lara's younger brother. Unfortunately she doesn't have an address, but reckons it's a pub run by an Aunt Caroline.”

“Have you checked address books or diaries and the like in the house?”

“Thought I'd wait for you.”

“Let's see what we can sniff out,” said Massey heading for the open doorway. “You can make a start but be careful what you handle. I'd like a word with the girl. Get forensics up here smartish. It's probably not the crime scene if her friend has been here, but it might be worth checking over. If she was murdered shortly after breakfast, it can't be ruled out until we eliminate it. If you see Nuttall before I do, tell him to focus on any metal objects or any traces of that strange smell and to look for any evidence of semen. In other words, tell him to go through this place with a fine toothcomb. I want evidence or its total elimination as a possible crime scene.”

He stepped into a tiny entrance hall, which led into a farmhouse-style kitchen area. “It shouldn't be difficult. This place looks immaculate, unless someone's done a clean-up.”

Turner smiled. Massey had moved up a gear.

An open pine staircase separated the kitchen from the main living room, where dark oak-stained beams contrasted with the magnolia ceiling and walls. A wooden plate rack encircled the room. A Royal Doulton plate collection depicting historical figures adorned the wooden shelving. The plates displayed a series of characters, The Squire, The Falconer, The Jester, The Parson and several other reputable personages of a bygone era. A small Welsh dresser exhibited more bone china ornaments and figurines. An oak cabinet displaying other curios furnished one corner of the room. A television and video recorder, modern appliances incongruous with the ambient, elegant air of antiquity furnished but spoiled the other corner.

Beyond the living room in the conservatory, he found D.C. Jones seated on a cane sofa where she was endeavouring to console Lara's close friend, Fiona Wilson. Passing through double oak-panelled doors glazed with leaded lights, Massey stepped down onto a flagstone floor and introduced himself.

“I'm deeply sorry that we are the bearers of such regrettable news, Miss Wilson. I offer my sincere condolences, but I'm afraid I really do need your assistance. Are you composed enough now to answer a few questions?”

Fiona nodded, wiping away tears from her reddened eyes. “I just can't believe it's true,” she stammered. “Who would want to hurt Lara? She's such a lovely, caring person. She's absolutely beautiful. Who could do such a thing?”

“With your help, we hope to answer those questions,” replied Massey quietly, desperately trying to mask his own anxieties. He was aware that the news of Lara's death would spread like a bush fire as more local inhabitants recognised her photograph. Now that her identification had been doubly verified, it was vital to contact her family before the media descended in droves. They would plaster the story on every front page and flash it across numerous television news channels.

“Would you like some tea?” asked D.C. Jones, gently touching Fiona's tightly clenched hands.

“A glass of water would be fine, thanks.”

Jones headed for the kitchen. Massey sat on a cane chair opposite the young woman and leaned forward intently. “When did you last see her?” he asked first.

“Early on Thursday morning. She brought me some tea in bed and left before I got up. I imagine that she caught the bus to Winsford.”

“She was on her way to work?”

“No, she was on a week's holiday. That's why I'm staying over with her. We were housesitting, ‘ cos her mum and her brother are spending the Easter holiday with an aunt in Derbyshire. I told all this to the other policeman.”

“If she wasn't going to work, where was she heading?”

Fiona took a sip of water and looked beyond the conservatory windows as though she was expecting Lara to appear, thereby ending the nightmare. She turned back towards Massey, placed her glass on the table and wiped more tears from her eyes.

“She wanted to keep it secret but I suppose that it doesn't matter now. She was pregnant and had arranged to have an abortion. She was on her way to a clinic in Northwich.”

“You said that it was a secret. Were any others in on this secret?”

“No, only I knew.”

“What about the father of the child?”

Fiona hesitated slightly, wondering how she should reply. “I assumed that it was Andy, her boyfriend, but only Lara knew the truth. I don't think that she had any other men in her life; she was too fond of her freedom. Even Andy was only a whim. She refused to tell anyone that she was pregnant, even her mother. That's why she had arranged it for this week. Her mother's in Derbyshire and Andy's in Spain.”

“Why did she confide in you?”

“I suppose that she needed to talk to someone and I think she was a little afraid.”

“Afraid?” asked Massey. “Afraid of whom?”

“Afraid of the abortion, you know, frightened that something might go wrong. That's why I'm still here. She promised to phone if she needed me.”

“But she never called? Were you not concerned that she had not contacted you since she left here?”

“Not really. Lara was like that, always unpredictable. I assumed that everything had gone according to plan and that maybe she had met someone in Northwich. With Lara it's always no news is good news. I never thought that.…” Fiona buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Massey stood up, crossed to her and patted the distressed girl's shoulder. “I'm sorry. Thank you for talking to us. Will you be staying on here, because we'll be around for some time in the course of our investigation?”

Fiona looked up. “I'd prefer to go home, if I may. I can leave you the spare keys if you like.”

“As you wish but just one final question Miss Wilson. Where can we find her boyfriend, Andrew and do you know his surname?”

“Davenport, Andrew Davenport.”

Ah, the watch, thought Massey.

“He lives with his parents in one of those new houses on Moorvale Lane but I think that he's still in Spain,” continued Fiona. “Can I go now?”

“If you could leave your contact details with D.C. Jones before you leave and once again, thank you for your help under such distressing circumstances.”

The young woman went upstairs to collect her belongings before leaving. Turner approached Massey, holding a small book in his hands.

“I think I may have found what we need.” He opened what looked like a well-worn address book to a page displaying the letter ‘F’. “Finch, Caroline Finch, The Beacon, near Hayfield, Derbyshire,” he read aloud. “What d'you reckon?”

*****

The Beacon pub restaurant between Chapel-en-le-Frith and Glossop had been busy for most of the day, but fortunately had quietened as the evening wore on. The Peak District was a favourite haunt on Bank Holiday weekends for walkers and day-trippers from the Greater Manchester conurbation and beyond. Nestling in the rolling hills and rocky outcrops at the southern end of the Pennine Way, the pub was in a perfect location for those who trekked across the heather-laden moors and tumbling mountain streams. Set back slightly from a main road with an adjacent car park, it was also an ideal venue for those who preferred to take in the spectacular landscape by car or hired coach.

During reasonable weather, lunchtime food sessions became an all day event. Most local hoteliers and restaurateurs welcomed the additional trade as there were many lean times in the area, particularly during the winter months. Easter weekend as with other bank holidays, therefore, always appeared like an oasis in a desert of anorexia devotees.

Local police officers often used the Beacon for bar snacks, as its remote location was also handy for the occasional quiet drink and chat away from it all. Consequently, when two plain-clothes detectives from Cheshire initially introduced themselves, their arrival came as no surprise to the licensee, Caroline Finch, younger sister to Diana Crawford. Far prettier than Lara's mother, she seemed well suited to her profession both by her appearance and her personality. Her greeting was warm and genuine. Only when they added that their visit was business not pleasure did she become concerned.