Cruel Justice (DI Lorne Simpkins (Book one)) (12 page)

"I have an idea. Why don't you come over and see the match at our house, we'll pick up a few beers on the way and I'll knock up some food before the game starts?"

"That'd be outstanding, boss! You sure Tom won't mind?"

"He'll be chuffed to bits to have someone else in the house who knows the offside rule as well as he does." She laughed as she crunched into gear and headed for the off licence on Drake Street.

The Gunners lost unfortunately. Arsene Wenger said the team were going through a transitional period. The team just looked disjointed to Lorne.

After drowning his sorrows, a little too deeply, Pete ended up spending an uncomfortable night on Lorne's sofa.

Chapter Twenty

Henry woke Pete at seven the next morning.

"Get off me, mutt," he mumbled, shifting stiffly.

Lorne came bounding into his makeshift, bedroom, fully-clothed and ready for work. "Morning, Pete. Sleep well?" she asked, loudly, with a devilish glint in her eye. She had little sympathy for anyone suffering from a hangover.

"Can you keep the decibels down this morning, boss? And to answer your question, I can't remember if I slept well or not." He steadied himself by gripping the back of the sofa as he rose. Henry jumped up at him. "Oh, no … the room's starting to sway," he said, dropping back down onto the sofa. "Just give me a minute or two to wake up properly will you, there's a good boy?"

 Henry barked his agreement.

"You've got five minutes. Come through to the kitchen when you're able to stand up, breakfast won't be long." She suppressed a chuckle.

"Black strong coffee will do, and plenty of it." This time he stood up successfully and staggered his way up to the bathroom.

The tempting smell of bacon wafted its way through the house and when he appeared in the kitchen, Lorne thrust a full English breakfast on the counter in front of him.

"Guess coffee looks different in my house," he said. "Don't order me to eat this, boss."

"Get it down your neck, it'll do you good. Christ it's like having another kid around the place when you stay over."

"Remind me not to stay over next time if this is how you treat your guests. Force feeding ain't very hospitable, now, is it?"

"Two minutes and counting, Pete," Lorne folded her arms and glanced up at the clock on the wall.

She backed down when she saw how much he was enjoying his breakfast. Ten minutes later they were on their way to Cornwall.

It took them almost four hours to get to Callick Oil. Pete slept most of the journey, giving Lorne the opportunity to mull over Oliver's motives. She was still having trouble convincing herself that Oliver was the killer. But until they had another suspect in mind, it was a necessary avenue they had to explore.

They reached the top floor by the glass lift that rose on the outside of the building. The view over the rolling hills was breath-taking. But the speed of the lift had a detrimental effect on Pete's stomach. Against the odds he somehow managed to hang on to his breakfast.

Oliver's secretary was a smartly dressed, well-spoken, middle-aged woman who was surprised by their unannounced visit.

"I'm afraid you've wasted your time, Mr Greenaway
never
sees anyone without an appointment," she said, guarding his office as if it contained the crown jewels.

Pete grabbed the woman by the shoulders and guided her back to her desk. "He'll see us, darlin', we're old friends."

While Pete distracted the secretary, Lorne took the opportunity to step into Oliver's office. He appeared stunned by the intrusion.

"Detective Inspector, what can I do for you?"

"We were in the area," Pete blurted out, barging into the office behind her.

"I tried to stop them, but he manhandled me," the secretary whined over Pete's broad shoulders.

"It's okay, Trisha. Hold all my calls for the time being, will you?" Oliver stepped around the desk to shoo the woman out the door.

"She's a bit of a Rottweiler, thought you executive types went for curvy dumb blondes for secretaries," Pete said.

"She's usually capable of keeping the wolves from the door," Oliver bit back obviously disliking Pete's tone.

Lorne interjected, "We need to ask you a few questions about your mother if you don't mind, Mr Greenaway?"

"I thought I'd answered all your questions already." He returned to his chair and motioned for them to sit down opposite him.

"What about the will?" Pete blurted out. Lorne shot him one of her
back off
looks and he shuffled his feet sheepishly.

"What about it?"

"Were you aware that your mother changed it a short time ago?"

"Totally aware, thank you."

"Can we ask why your mother would cut you out of her will?"

"She didn't. If you had bothered to do your research properly she left me ten per cent of her savings plus the house. Which amounts to a very tidy sum."

"Up until two months ago you were the sole beneficiary, were you not?" Lorne asked, studying the man's reactions carefully.

"That's correct."

"I repeat, why would your mother change her will like that?"

"Actually, it was my suggestion," he admitted, surprising the two detectives.

"Oh?"

"You look shocked, Inspector. Yes, my mother was a very wealthy woman, but then, I'm a very wealthy man."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr Greenaway. You gave up your mother's millions because you already have millions of your own?"

"Half correct. I gave up the capital but kept the house that's worth around three million pounds. Forgive me, Inspector, but have I broken a law somewhere that I'm unaware of?"

"Why?" Lorne asked for the third time.

"Aunt Doreen needed the money more than I did. You saw the way she was living. I thought my mother should've helped her out more." He picked up his gold fountain pen and passed it through his fingers.

"Why didn't your mother help her out when she was alive? She could've arranged private medical care for Doreen to help with her hip replacement." Emotion crept into Lorne's voice.

"They were both stubborn. Mum was too stubborn to offer and Doreen was far too stubborn to ask for any sort of hand-out. Pride and stubbornness, it's a family trait.

"So, when Mum started going on about what I'd inherit one day, I told her I didn't want it. I felt Doreen needed it more. Mum was livid — she said I was being ungrateful. It took me ages to get back in her good books."

"Why didn't you just accept your mother's wishes and make provisions for your aunt?" Lorne asked as it dawned on her that her initial feelings about this man were correct. She was certain he had nothing to do with either death.

"I knew I could talk my Mum round, but not Doreen."

"Okay, that makes sense, but why did you leave town so soon after your aunt's death?"

"Yeah, that's what I want to know?" Pete piped up, eyeing his chief suspect with growing scepticism.

"I'm in the process of negotiating a rather large contract. I checked with Colleen if she could cope and she assured me she could. I plan on returning in a couple of days once the bodies have been released, to sort out a joint funeral." His eyes misted up and he cleared his throat before continuing, "Right, I've taken the time and trouble to answer your questions, Inspector, now you can answer one for me."

"What might that be, Mr Greenaway?"

"Am I a suspect in my mother's and aunt's murders?"

"We're just covering all the bases. No one is accusing you of anything sinister, I assure you. Thank you for your help, we'll keep you informed of any progress we make." Lorne rose from her chair and offered her hand. Pete stood up too but planted his hand deep in his pocket.

Oliver Greenaway shook her hand and held her gaze for the briefest of moments then he uttered quietly, "I'm a victim in this crime, Inspector, not the perpetrator."

"I know, Oliver. We'll get the person who did this, I promise."

She meant every word of it.

"I'll leave it in your capable hands, my 'Rottweiler' will show you out," he said smiling.

"You fell for it, didn't you?" Pete asked in disbelief when they entered the lift.

"If you're asking if I believe him, then yes, I do. We'll have to start looking in another direction, Pete, because as I said right from the beginning, I'm ninety-nine-point-nine per cent certain Oliver Greenaway did not kill his mother. Or his aunt for that matter."

They stepped out of the building into the warm lunchtime sun with Pete vigorously shaking his head in disapproval, and Lorne vigorously nodding hers in contradiction.

After filling up with petrol and grabbing a quick sandwich at a motorway service station, they headed back up to London. The traffic was worse than anticipated because of road-works on the M4 and they arrived back in the office at just before six.

Lorne sensed something was wrong the second they stepped into the incident room. She saw the chief's outline through the frosted glass window to her office.

"What's up?" she whispered to Tracy, as she swept past her desk.

"They've found the missing girl."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"She turned up at an allotment, two miles from Chelling Forest. She's dead, ma'am."

Shit. When was this bloody nightmare going to end? 

Chapter Twenty-One

Monday 4
^th
October.

Dusk was descending as they arrived at the allotment. Large drops of rain had started to fall, making the ground muddy underfoot.

Since leaving the station, Lorne had been in a foul mood. Her meeting with the chief hadn't gone well, and her call home had gone even worse.

The red mist surrounding her warned Pete that any of his usual wisecracks wouldn't be welcome and to keep a low profile.

The forensic team were already on site. Cameras clicked and people shouted
be careful where you're stepping!
The victim, Kim Charlton, was lying face down on the wooden floor of a shed situated on the edge of the allotment. Arnaud had a scalpel in his hand and was gently taking samples of blood and soil from the victim's back.

"Why are you bothering to do that here, Doctor?" Lorne asked as she watched him put the samples into perspex tubes.

"Ah, Inspector Simpkins, we really must stop meeting like this."

"I can assure you, Doctor, it's unintentional on my part," she snapped and regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

 Arnaud nodded his acceptance and continued with his work. "I'm taking the samples here because the body is transported facing upwards to the mortuary. This means that any trace evidence found on the victim's back would become smudged or possibly wiped off, when the body is placed in the body bag."

"I see. Why can't they transport the body the way they found it?"

His willingness to hold a proper conversation with her for a change intrigued her.

"Because of lividity."

"Lividity?"

"More commonly known as
Livor Mortis.
It's when the heart stops pumping the blood, the red blood cells settle according to gravity, this produces a maroon hue to the skin, we call this the 'colour of death'.

"Funeral directors try to prevent lividity wherever possible. They say it causes loved ones unnecessary grief. Since the high profile case of O.J. Simpson in the States, a directive has been issued that if the body has to be turned over, then samples must be taken from all exposed areas at the scene."

"You mean, when they failed to take samples of the traces of blood found on Nicole Simpsons' back? Yes, I remember it well. The police came in for a lot of stick on that one."

"Rightly so! And so did the forensic team. Some of them were morons. They traipsed through the blood of the victims with no protective shoe coverings. Was it intentional? I don't know. But that night basic forensic and police protocol was ignored, proving to be detrimental to the prosecutor's case. I do my utmost to prevent that kind of mishap from happening in this country," he said, as he walked over and stood beside her.

She suddenly felt awkward as his six-foot-four frame towered above her.

"Was there something else, Inspector?" His voice was soft and he gave her a devastating smile.

She'd never seen this side of him before and was unsure how to react. Lorne's sudden discomfort baffled her.
Jesus, get a grip woman.

She cleared her throat before saying, "I know it's early days, but do you think we could be looking at the same killer?"

"You know how much I dislike conjecture, Inspector. However, yes I believe there is a connection."

"Oh, fuck," Pete cursed, peering at the girl's naked body over Lorne's shoulder.

She turned and pushed Pete back outside the shed. "What did the owner of the shed have to say?" Relieved to be outside, she didn't have a clue why.

"The paramedics are giving him the once over, he's in shock. Keeps saying that's his favourite fork sticking out of her vagina. Poor sod."

 "Was the shed locked?"

"Yeah, he said he found the broken lock on the floor outside."

"Did he touch anything?" Lorne surveyed their surroundings for possible access and getaway routes. She could only see one from where she stood.

"No, he saw the body and rushed out shouting for help. One of his gardening buddies came over, saw the girl's body and called 999 straight away. Our boys and the ambulance arrived within minutes."

"What's his name?"

"The guy who owns the shed is Jim Wilkinson and his mate is Frank Gee."

Wilkinson was sitting on the steps of the ambulance, shaking uncontrollably despite the paramedics wrapping a fleece blanket around his shoulders. Gee was leaning against the vehicle's door. Both men looked stricken with shock and the colour had drained from their ageing faces.

"Mr Wilkinson, I'm Detective Inspector Simpkins. I understand what a shock this must've been for you, but are you up to answering a few questions?"

The poor man's hand shook as he placed the oxygen mask that had been lying in his lap over his nose. His eyes nervously darted in every direction. Finally, he nodded and looked up at his friend for reassurance.