Authors: Patricia Scott
Linda wasn’t attacked at random out on the street, although it had been a sexual assault. Her murderer had made a hit on her in her own home.
‘He needs to be caught and soon,’ Lawrence remarked sharply breaking the silence that had built up. ‘Just a suggestion but you could put it on Crimewatch. That could pull in some help from the public.’
Peterson chuckled dryly rubbing the back of her neck with her hand. ‘I don’t think that would go down so well with the town council. It’s not the kind of publicity they would be looking for at this time but it’s a thought.’
‘Who bloody cares? We’ve got to put the fear of God into the bastard who did this,’ the examiner exclaimed brusquely. ‘And catch him before he kills again.’
Peterson nodded. ‘You’re right. Crimewatch it is then. Can you arrange it for me please, soon as
...? Nick?’
‘Will do.’
Trask brought in the evening paper, absently stroked Duke the family golden Labrador and sat down at the table with a smile for his wife Sue as she brought in the evening meal. ‘Sorry I’m so late. Things to do.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about Linda?’
She patted him on the shoulder. ‘I know, love. How could I not? You must be gutted.’ She shook her head. ‘Still can’t believe it. Eileen won’t be coming in for the next few days, possibly weeks, poor soul. That’s only to be expected. They must be devastated. Who could have done it? Any ideas yet?’
He pushed back the fuzz of fine fair hair from his wide forehead with his stubby fingers. He didn’t want to discuss what had happened not even to his wife and it showed on his pleasant features. It was still so unbelievable and raw. His head was buzzing and aching already. He hoped he wasn’t in for another attack of migraine. This was the wrong time to be out sick.
‘They’ll bring in all the local sex offenders and question ‘em to start with,’ he said helping himself to a thick slice of Yorkshire ham and another home grown tomato from their greenhouse. ‘The usual suspects I suppose. But this is not the usual crime. We’re looking for a psycho, I think. This is a real nasty.’
Sue sat down with a cup of tea as he attempted to eat his meal. It looked good, but he hadn’t much of an appetite.
‘Peterson said she’ll go on Crimewatch with it.’
‘Really! She’s dead keen then.’
‘Yeah, keen as mustard - she should do all right. Farmer’s not so happy about her tagging along. Wishes she’d leave it to us to tackle it. But she’s new to the place still. Farmer knows her well apparently.’ He stirred the sugar in his tea briskly. ‘We don’t know yet what Linda was doing last night. But looks like she stayed in. She’d turned down a date with Nick Farmer. That’s where the killer found her. The bastard sexually assaulted her before she was strangled and battered some time after her death.’
Sue looked thoughtful. Nick Farmer with his strong handsome features was divorced, unattached, and frankly rather gorgeous but it was well known that Linda could be picky; and she probably didn’t want to be another notch on his bedpost. He must be feeling pretty rough right now.
‘Let’s hope she’s not going to be a forerunner of other victims. It must be a psychopath who did those horrible things to Linda.’
He put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate away with a rueful look. ‘Sorry - I can’t eat it, love. Haven’t much of an appetite.’ He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it’s happened, you know. Can’t believe she’s dead, Sue. Can’t believe I won’t see her as usual tomorrow at work. She was such a lively personality and a good kid. The station will seem quiet without her.’
‘Have a shower and relax if you can. Let it all go till tomorrow.’ She poured out another cup of tea for him.
He took a drink and said solemnly, ‘Tom Handley came to identify her. He looked so bad. The poor devil. What if it happened to Adele or Claire, Sue? One of our girls? What if it happened to one of them?’
She leant over and closed her hand firmly over his on the table top. ‘Stop it, Geoff! It’s not going to happen. You won’t let it. You’ll catch him.’
‘So how went your day, son?’
‘Not good. Rotten to tell the truth. Couldn’t expect anything else I suppose. You’ve heard about Linda?’
Calder hung up his casual jacket in the hall, walked into the open space living-room with the evening paper and affectionately pushed the sleeping grey tabby cat out of the easy chair to sit down.
‘It was Linda Handley, wasn’t it?’ Ralph Calder
asked. ‘It came as a shock to hear it was one of your officers. Couldn’t believe it, not at first.’ He carried on laying the table for the evening meal. ‘Mrs Terrill, next door, told me this morning.’
‘Mrs Terrill? She’s an awful old gossip. Never misses a trick. How did she find out?’
‘Her son works for security on the pier and he heard about the murder quite early on. Bad news doesn’t take long to get round here you should know that, son.’
Calder nodded. ‘I suppose not.’
‘You must all be feeling bad about it. She was a really nice girl. Reminded me a lot of your mother when she was young, she did.’
Brian Calder got up abruptly
, went into the kitchen brought in a can of beer from the fridge, sat down and opened up the evening newspaper. ‘It’s in here, Dad. Nicely handled by that journalist Mel Goring. She was Linda’s friend. She’s kept it short, only two paragraphs.’
‘I’m glad of that. The Handley’s won’t want a great fuss of it made in the papers. They must be in terrible shock.’ Ralph Calder’s face went blank for a moment. ‘They didn’t expect this to happen to their girl, did they? Nobody could. You’ve got to catch the evil brute that killed her, Brian. You owe it to Linda. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’
Calder opened the can and took a swig of the beer and nodded. ‘Sure. We’re all going to miss her in the station.’
His father was bringing in the dishes and putting the meal on the table.
‘Nick Farmer was keen on her, wasn’t he? I noticed that they were pretty much together when they came to your mother’s funeral.’
Calder frowned. ‘He liked Linda, liked her a lot according to Geoff. But we all did. Nick’s a bit of a loner. Divorced two years ago and for the best according to him,’ he said pulling out his chair and sitting up to the table. He put his fork into the cold chicken slices. ‘Looks good, Dad.’ He smiled. ‘Beats the canteen food any time.’
‘Had plenty of practice, son.’ Ralph Calder sat up to the table. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up for the work ahead.’ He looked with fond approval at his young son. ‘Your mother appreciated everything I put before her, didn’t she?’
‘She never gave you the secret ingredient for her apple crumble though, did she?’ Brian chuckled. ‘I miss that. You’ll have to try a lot harder to beat hers.’
He saw his father’s face collapse rapidly. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking, Dad.’ He got up immediately and went round to pat his father’s shaking shoulder.
After a moment or so his father took the hand away from his face. ‘It’s all right, son, I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine.’
‘Dad - you can’t stop me from doing that. Of course I worry, it’s early days yet. It’s my fault - I forget and then I upset you. So what have you been doing with yourself today? Anything interesting?’
Ralph Calder’s face cleared. ‘I’ve repaired that clock for Bill Williams from the Sea Cutter pub. And the museum phoned me this morning.’
‘The museum - what did they want?’
Brian sat down again and proceeded to eat his meal with his eyes still on his father.
‘They asked me to take a look at the antique clock collection they have. Give them a going over. The pay won’t be much. But you know it’s the kind of work I really want to do. It’ll keep me busy for a while so I’m doing all right.’
‘The clock collection, eh!’ Brian looked impressed. ‘Well that’ll keep you out of mischief for a while,
won’t it?’
Ralph poured out the tea. ‘By the way I’m going to take up angling again. Vic Goring has persuaded me to have a go at it. So I must look out my rods and lines and gear. I shall need some new stuff I expect. It’s been ages since I’ve tried it.’
‘That’s good. It’ll get you out of the house a bit more.’
Ralph Calder nodded. ‘More healthy for me.’ He shook his head. ‘
’Fraid I’ve become a bit of a couch potato watching TV soaps a lot these last few weeks. Haven’t known what else to do with myself. I’ve hardly known what day of the week it was. And it’s all got to change, son. It’s all got to change. Your mother wouldn’t like it I know.’
‘It’ll get better.
You’ll have some quality time for yourself at last now, Dad.’
Nick Farmer, watching the local TV news, ate his evening meal; a green salad and a fresh dressed crab in the small flat he rented over the Mermaid antique shop. Black beamed and whitewashed, dating back to the fifteenth century it flourished on the high cobbled stone pavement of East Ore street, amongst the other antique shops and second hand bookstores that predominated the oldest part of Harling, close to the busy fish market, cockle stalls, pebbled beach and fishing boats. He loved it. At the end of the day, he felt he could leave his work behind and keep his life private here.
He had struck lucky two years before. Not long after he’d first arrived in Harling, a robbery had taken place in the shop below. Some valuable antique furniture had been stolen. Larry Pearson and Tim Bailey, the two men who owned it, after he was instrumental in catching the thieves and getting back the stolen goods, thought it would be handy to have cop living there.
They’d offered him the flat for a reasonably moderate rent when they had moved out into a house they’d had built further out of town.
I
t had suited him nicely at the time. Still did. He didn’t need to think of anyone else and he’d really thought he was fine with that until he’d seen Mel Goring again this morning. Mel had stirred up feelings in him that he’d thought had lain dormant for a long while. Trouble was she didn’t seem to like him. She’d made that only too obvious. He smiled. She was one tough cookie. But perhaps she had to be, a young soldier’s widow left with a kid to bring up while trying to become a rising star in the newspaper trade.
He read Mel’s article carefully. It was succinct and short. She had kept her promise so far. He was pleased. Mel Goring had not let them down,
she’d made no wild guesses on the next police moves, though it was clear she would be keeping an eye on them. He expected she would be latching onto the daily reports given out by Chief Superintendent Inspector Peterson and haunting the station from now onwards. In a way this pleased him despite having to keep up the hard front he wore especially for her.
He forked out the brown meat from the crab’s claw, watched intently by the shining golden green eyes of the enormous smoke grey tabby cat sat on the dining chair opposite him at the table. He’d been rescued by Nick as a frightened, stray kitten he’d found hiding behind his dustbin in the back alley with a sparkling firecracker attached to his scrawny tail late one Bonfire night two years ago.
He’d christened him Squib. He was so small to start with but now he was a veritable Goliath who kept the flat and shop below free of any mice invaders.
He finished his crab and green salad, leaving nothing of the tasty shell fish on his plate and ignored the cat’s loud wailing protest around his legs as he got rid of the pieces of crab shell into the waste bin.
‘No, Squib - forget it. It’s not good for you, feller. Just be content with the delicious piece of chicken I’ve put down for you.’
God! He grimaced shaking his head. It really must be getting to him living on his own he thought; he was holding conversation with Squib like an old Mother Hubbard.
He relationship with Pam, his ex-wife had seemed good to him till he’d allowed his work to play a major role in his life so soon after they were married. She’d wanted kids and he hadn’t, not at first. He had been much too keen on work and getting a promotion.
It was too late when he’d become used to the idea of becoming
a father, by then she’d decided to play ‘Happy families’ with Ben Wales, a probation officer she’d worked with. It had been a bloody awful time for him and he’d found himself hitting the bottle hard. He’d sorted himself out since then but he hoped Linda’s death didn’t put him back into a similar situation. She’d been a good buddy and colleague.
Linda had been
pleased with herself when she had managed to discover that the barman Connell at the Orchid Club had a sexual record, when she tracked him down as a visitor to the dead Temple woman’s flat before her death. Could Connell have resented it enough to kill Linda? Connell had said that he went to the dead woman’s flat on business for Erik Kaufman. That alone was enough to make the death seem suspicious. And there had been no suicide note found but her brother, a local Vicar, had confirmed at the inquest that she was terminally ill with cancer and very depressed.
His thoughts once again returned to Linda. She’d been hit viciously about the head with the chunk of rock after she was brought down onto the beach. After the rape and strangulation her killer had given vent to a ferocious attack on her after death. But why was she taken there? Whoever did it must have known that the tide wouldn’t take her. Or cover her body permanently. Was there something else that they were missing?