Cruel Justice (DI Lorne Simpkins (Book one)) (6 page)

"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Timmins smiled, and motioned for them to take a seat.

"We're here about Miss Fishland, we wondered if she's turned up yet?" Lorne asked, notebook at the ready.

"You mean you haven't found her?" Timmins snapped back unexpectedly.

"Not yet. We'd like a few more details to further our enquiries."

"Like what? I told the fraud squad everything I know. The bitch ran off with ten grand, what other information do you need for Christ's sake?"

Lorne's suspicion grew along with his aggression. "Personal details, like her height and weight. Do you happen to have a staff photo of her?"

"Surely, you should be asking her family questions like that?" Timmins appeared bemused.

"I'm asking you, Mr Timmins. We haven't managed to locate any of her family up till now. So, do you have one?" She lied convincingly.

He pointed to a group staff photo hanging on the wall. "That's her in the middle."

"It's not very clear, do you have another one?" Lorne's patience was beginning to falter.

He wandered over to the filing cabinet, retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket and opened the third drawer down. After locating the missing woman's personnel file, he relocked the drawer and returned, file in hand to his desk.

The photo he showed them bore no resemblance to the body lying in the mortuary. This woman was much taller and much stockier in build. Pete and Lorne exchanged a knowing glance. Lorne asked for a copy of the photo, despite knowing it would be of no use to their enquiries.

"I want that bitch
caught
, Inspector."

"Do you always speak of your staff so highly, Mr Timmins?"

"
She
stole from this bank, and guess what, it's me who's left with the tarnished record. The quicker you find her and that money, the quicker I can return this bank to where it belongs — top. Before this happened, this branch was number one in the region. Since the bad publicity in the local press, the customers are departing in droves and it's all thanks to Miss Fishland."

"It looked pretty busy out there to me," Lorne said.

"Yes … well, you happened to catch us on a busy day." Timmins' face coloured up.

"Well, we won't hold you up any longer. Thank you for your assistance, Mr Timmins, we'll be in touch should Miss Fishland pop up any time in the near future."

As he showed them out, Pete couldn't help whispering to Lorne, "He probably misses his Friday night bonking session in the storeroom with her. He's shagging her, it's a dead cert, that's why he's so pissed at her."

The same thought had occurred to Lorne, but she would never voice such an opinion. Especially when the person she was insinuating it of was less than ten feet away, but that was Pete for you.

"That I believe, leaves us with just one option," stated Lorne as they headed towards her car.

"Yup, Belinda Greenaway, she's a widow. Her sister informed us of her disappearance. She has a son who lives about two hundred miles away."

"Does the sister live nearby? Perhaps we've got time to drop in on her before we have to swing by Arnaud's office for the PM report."

"About half an hour away." Pete glanced at his watch.

"You can fill me in on the way, it'll take your mind off my driving." She poked his chubby midriff.

"With respect, boss, as long as I'm in the passenger seat of your car
nothing
will take my mind off your driving." He opened the door and squeezed his large frame in. "Apparently Belinda was due to attend her niece's daughter's christening. There was no family dispute or anything like that, and the family grew more anxious the longer she was gone. It was her favourite niece you see, there was no way she would have missed it."

"What's the woman's background?" Lorne asked as they ground to a halt in a traffic jam.

"Widowed four years ago, husband Jack died in a crash. Nothing else showed up on file except that she was a housewife," Pete said, slamming his notebook shut.

"That's not very PC of you, Pete," she teased as she crunched through the gears.

Pete cringed. "PC, what the heck is that?"

"Political correctness. I believe the terminology for the skill is a domestic engineer. Nowadays, there is no such term as a housewife."

"Housewives, domestic engineers," he grumbled, as he watched the green, wide-open spaces of the countryside whiz past his window. "It all amounts to the same thing, don't it? They all sit on their arses watching daytime TV all day long and then just before the old man is due home, they rustle up a meal in twenty minutes that they've just been watching on
Ready, steady cook
, pretending it took them three hours to prepare. While the breadwinner is out some twelve to fourteen hours, five days a week, busting a gut so
they
can have a cushy lifestyle."

"God, you bloody MCP, you can be so infuriating at times. You missed your vocation, you should've been a caveman. You're forgetting one thing, though." He glanced over at her and she took her eyes off the road momentarily. "What about Tom? You've just insinuated he sits around all day doing nothing. I'd like to be there when you ran through that little scenario with him, you wouldn't leave my house in one piece, mate."

"Shit, I forgot about your Tom." He looked suitably embarrassed.

"Oh I get it, so it's different for men. They can find something useful to do with their time, is that it?"
Here comes another battle of the sexes row
.

"He's just finished putting in a brand new kitchen for you, hasn't he? Not that you use it much," he added, disrespectfully, under his breath.

"There're plenty of women out there who enjoy DIY, in fact they probably get most of their tips off daytime TV. And no, I don't use my kitchen much because like
you,
I work twelve, fourteen, sometimes even sixteen hours a day. But unlike you, I don't have to rely on take-aways as I have a loving husband at home who thinks enough of me to ensure I eat healthily every day."
Stick that in your caveman pipe and smoke it.

"All right, all right, boss, you've made your point," Pete admitted, holding up his hands.

Lorne smiled smugly and mentally stroked the air with a finger,
another strike to me.
Poor Pete — he always started arguments about equality but very rarely won them. She constantly reminded him not to jump to conclusions especially where people's status in life was concerned. One day, he just might listen to her.

She chuckled as a mental image filled her mind of him in a loincloth, dragging a woman by her hair, wooden club in hand, ready to ward off predators after
his woman.

"Do you want to share the joke with me?"

"Not really," she said, as they pulled up at their destination.

Chapter Eight

The cul-de-sac was made up of immaculately cared-for retirement bungalows, each with its own miniature Chelsea garden at the front. It thrilled Lorne to see all the rose bushes engorged with buds even at this late time of the year.

It made her feel ashamed of her own shabby garden that bore the scars of a near-teenager and a dog rampaging through it. The lawn regularly looked as if a Premiership football team had kicked nine months of shit out of it. She and Tom had decided a while back the quaint country cottage garden they had yearned for, would have to be put on hold for a few years, until Charlie was much older.

"What's the woman's name, Pete?" she asked ringing the bell.

"Doreen Nicholls."

He's still in a huff.
She wanted to tell him to grow up.

They listened as three dead bolts were slid back, and a safety chain was put on. The door opened six inches and a frail voice asked, "Who is it?"

"Mrs Nicholls, I'm DI Lorne Simpkins and this is my partner DS Pete Childs. Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions about your sister?" As she spoke, Lorne thrust her ID through the gap in the door. The woman took it, studied it and handed it back before opening the door fully to let them in.

"You'll have to excuse the mess, dears, I've not long come out of hospital. Come through to the sitting room." The smell of Vicks menthol
greeted them as they followed the woman, who leaned heavily on a stick, slowly made her way up the hallway.

It was as if they had just gone through a time warp. Weaving its way through the bungalow was a brown swirly patterned carpet that must have been en vogue sometime back in the early seventies. Lorne guessed the home hadn't seen a paintbrush or roller in years.

The focal point of the lounge was a 1940's tiled fireplace, complete with what was most likely an original gas fire from the same era. The brown carpet clashed horribly with the red bold pattern of the threadbare velour sofas, the thick chunky wooden arms dated the furniture to thirty years or more.

"Would you care for some tea and scones? I've just this minute taken them out of the oven," the old lady asked, in a high squeaky voice. "Even a busted hip can't prevent me from baking."

Lorne declined, but Pete jumped at the chance of making his belly bigger. The woman trundled off to the kitchen, leaving them to wander around the room.

"This must be the daughter," Lorne said quietly, picking up the photo standing proudly on top of the TV.

"Can't see any of the sister on show anywhere," Pete said.

The woman returned with a tray, the contents rattling precariously in her thin, weak arm. Pete gallantly rushed to rescue the tray and placed it on the coffee table in front of one of the sofas.

"I brought in a cup for you too, dear, just in case you changed your mind." She lifted the china teapot and poured the oak-coloured liquid into two cups.

The temptation proved too much for Lorne. A nice cup of English tea, perfectly stewed, and poured from a bone china teapot into fine bone china cups, was her idea of heaven. "I'd love a cup, Mrs Nicholls, thank you."

"Do call me, Doreen, please. Now, you mentioned something about my poor sister? Have you found her?" The woman asked, handing a cup and saucer to Pete.

His eyes lit up when she also handed him a small plate with a scone spread thickly with butter, and strawberry jam.

Pete peered at the cup and saucer as if it had come from outer space, but took it without saying a word.

"Not yet. We wondered if you had any idea why she might have gone missing the way she did?" Lorne asked, before sipping her tea.

Doreen Nicholls' withered hands nervously scrunched up her flowered apron as she said, "She often goes off gallivanting but she's never been gone this long before. She usually contacts someone in the family if she's delayed on a trip."

"Forgive me for asking, Doreen but did she have any enemies?"

The woman laughed. "Belinda, enemies? You must be joking. She was well liked in her community. Even when Jack died four years ago her social life never dwindled. Most women curl up in a shell when they lose their partner, but not my Belinda." Sadness filled her eyes as she spoke.

Lorne suspected Doreen was also a widow and her heart went out to her. "What sort of work did her husband do?"

"He was a high flyer. Chairman of an oil company — travelled the world he did. But Belinda never minded as long as the money kept coming in. It didn't bother her that he was never around. That's why their marriage lasted as long as it did. He died in a helicopter crash. Terrible accident, it was taking off in a storm on one of the rigs in gale force winds and went crashing into the sea. Poor things, they didn't stand a chance, four men died that day. Belinda was well cared for, mind, if you know what I mean."

"Insurance?"

"That's right, dear. Two million pounds. That's why she's able to go off at a moment's notice."

"Does that bother you, Doreen?"

"Not in the way you mean, dear. I'm not envious of her money, although it upset me when I had to wait for over a year to have a hip replacement operation on the NHS. No, I suppose I'm envious of her zest for life, the fact that she's able to go all around the world at the drop of a hat. Surely, all siblings find themselves envious at one time or another. Even twins, I suppose it's worse when they're identical like us …"

Chapter Nine

"
You're twins
!" Pete said.

"That's right, I have a photo somewhere. Now, where did I put it? The memory takes a little longer to engage at my time of life." Doreen got up and rifled through the drawers of the 1970's oak bureau.

After locating the scruffy, obviously well-loved family album, she returned to her seat on the sofa alongside Lorne. Pete stood behind them, rudely looking over their shoulders, much to Lorne's annoyance.

There it was. The resemblance was startling. From babes in arms through the generations, conclusive evidence they were carbon copies of each other. Although to be fair, Belinda had aged more kindly than Doreen had, but Lorne put this down to Belinda's more affluent lifestyle.

Unfortunately, there was no disguising it, from the woman's build Lorne was one hundred per cent certain they had just identified the mystery body lying in the mortuary. She groaned inside. How the hell was she going to find the right words to tell this frail old lady her sister had been brutally murdered beyond recognition?

Doreen was still leafing through the album, offering a little anecdote to every page she turned.

"And this one was taken on the dodgems at Battersea funfair, nearly thirty years ago." Doreen's concentration seemed to slip momentarily. "This is going to sound strange but I'm going to tell you, anyway. The day we realised Belinda was missing, I had a weird feeling inside."

"In what way, Doreen?"

"I don't know if you're aware, but some identical twins can be linked psychically to the other, symbiosis I think it's called. For instance, when I was in labour with my daughter Colleen, Belinda felt every contraction I had, at precisely the same moment."

"How often does this kind of thing happen?" Pete asked in an 'I don't believe a word of it' tone.

"It happens pretty regularly — usually Belinda is the one who feels my pain but on the odd occasion, it's reversed. She had a tooth pulled out when she was sixteen which had crumbled. Anyway, I was the one who ended up taking the pain killers for the day, instead of her."