BLIND SPOT - AND TWO OTHERS

DEATH IS FOR THE DYING - EPISODE THREE

CHAPTER NINE

Kimberley sipped her tea.

  “Why would Mr Andrews be running Miss Gere?”  DI Silver’s tone was chilly.  She’s no longer Kimberley.

  “I’ve no idea,” she answered while looking at me.  She started to cry again but there was anger and beneath it was rage.  Beneath it all, was grief that hurt so much, that it was physical. “I was in the kitchen.”  She looked bewildered, her eyes still on me as if I might save her.

  DI Silver continued to question her, while she now stared at the Detective Inspector without blinking, her eyes turning and furious, thoughts flickering like static.  She’d never been through anything like this before.

  “What were you doing in the kitchen?”

  “Getting things ready for Archie’s birthday party.”  Her eyes were hot and resentful at being questioned like this.

  “So Mr Andrews had gone out to get some more food for the party?”

  “I’d ordered it online, and he had gone to collect it.”  Her voice was shaking badly and tears were spilling.  “The local Oxmarket store now does click and collect.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Just after lunch,” she replied.

  Paula reached across for the box of tissues on the coffee table and handed her a paper handkerchief. Kimberley wiped the ruined makeup off her eyes and face.

  “This is a nightmare.  Please let me wake up from it.”  She was back staring at me again.

  “I took a look at the apiary at the bottom of the garden,” I said suddenly.  “How long had Archie been keeping bees?”

  “Long before we met,” she replied.  “It was a hobby.  I never went down there.”

  I already knew the answer, but it was DI Silver who asked the question.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m allergic to bee stings.”  She told him.

  “Where is all his bee-keeping equipment?”

  “In his shed,” she said.

  “And you know live here permanently now?”

  “Almost,” she said, looking at me as she answered.  “I’ve sold the cottage, and I am just waiting for contracts to be exchanged.”

  My heart sank.  We had bought the cottage together about two years ago.  It held a commanding view of the North Sea, and you could only descend to the beach, by a single, long, tortuous path which was steep and slippery.  At the bottom of the path lay a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide was in.  Here and there, however, there were curves and hollows which made splendid swimming pools which the dog loved to jump in and out of.  The beach extended for some miles in each direction except where Oxmarket broke the line.

  It was secluded and what we thought we had wanted.  But it turned out to be a metaphorical albatross round our necks and when I moved out Kimberley looked almost relieved when I had gone.

  Now, I was questioning her about her involvement in the unexplained death of her boyfriend.  What a bizarre turn of events our lives had taken.

  My mobile vibrated in my pocket, it was a text message from Kira.

  ‘Finished with post-mortem.  Need to see you and DI Silver. Come to the mortuary, ASAP xxx.’

  I replied, ‘Okay.’  I replied as I heard the Detective Inspector continuing with the questioning.  ‘We’re on our way. Xxx.’ I ended our dialogue.

  “Dr Reed needs us,” I said interrupting.  In a way I wanted to protect Kimberley, by cutting the interview short. I still felt responsible for her welfare.

  “Did she say what she wanted?”  He asked.

  “No, afraid not.”

  “We will continue this later,” he told Kimberley and on our way out ordered WPC Softly to remain with her.

  A warm breeze was circulating beneath a sky so clear and bright it was almost colourless, as we turned out of the driveway and into Wash Lane. We were immediately met by a horse, sedately chopping along.  A small child, wearing a velvet riding hat and jodhpurs, bobbed on the vast leather saddle.

  Becoming aware of the car, the little girl skilfully eased her mount on to the grass verge and gestured with calm authority for us to pass. 

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few miles, which was broken when we had to stop at a set of roadwork traffic lights.  “Do you think Kimberley had anything to do with Archie’s death?”

  “No,” I answered truthfully. “But whatever happened to Archie Andrews has something to do with whatever he was running from.  Can we stop somewhere on the way?”

  “Where?”

  “To see the victim’s estranged wife.”

CHAPTER TEN

Two miles outside Oxmarket, we pulled into an opening guarded by a ten-foot-big iron gate hinged on stone pillars.  On either side, a perimeter wall stretched through the trees.  It was topped with broken bottles that sprouted from the concrete like jagged flowers.

  The gate had an intercom box.  DI Silver pressed a button and waited.  Linda Andrews answered.

  “Who is it?”

  “Is that Mrs Andrews?”

  “Yes.”

  “DI Silver.  Oxmarket CID.”

  “Is that John Handful with you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I dipped my head and looked through the windscreen.  A CCTV camera was perched on a metal pole twenty feet above the gate.  She was watching us.

  The gate let out a hollow click and swung inwards.

   “He doesn’t look much like a gardener,” DI Silver said.

  “He’s ex-military,” I told him.  “See how he stands.  He doesn’t advertise his strengths.  He keeps them under wraps until he needs them.”

  “What did this Archie Andrews do for a living?”  He asked me.

  “Some sort of entrepreneur, I think.”  I replied.  “Quite well known and respected in London.”

  “And he owns this house and the other house he’s shacked up with Kimberley?”

  “Apparently so,” I said. “He was divorcing his wife for irreconcilable differences, and she recently countered that with adultery.”

  “Doesn’t mean nothing now, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agreed.

  One side of the double doors opened and Linda Andrews appeared from within.  She was dressed in a cashmere cardigan and khaki slacks.  She didn’t offer her hand.

  “I expect you’re here to discuss my husband?”  She asked.

  “Yes,” DI Silver replied.  “We are sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” she said disdainfully.  “That philandering lying bastard doesn’t deserve any respect or sympathy.  Would you like to come in?”

    “Thank you,” DI Silver said, answering for both of us.

  As if by magic, a plump woman in uniform appeared at the door.  There must have been a hidden bell at Linda Andrews’ feet, beneath the rug or tucked down the side of the armchair.

  She issued instructions and the maid disappeared.

  “Can you tell me when you last saw your husband, Mrs Andrews?”  DI Silver asked, opening the conversation.

  “The other day in Mr Handful’s office.”

  “Excuse me?”  DI Silver glanced angrily in my direction.

  “Mr Handful very kindly had helped me build a case so that I could counter my husband’s divorce settlement.”

  “Which was?”

  “Insignificant now,” she said. “Unless he changed the will.  Which I know he hasn’t.”

  “What do you get from his death, Mrs Andrews?”

  “This house and the benefits from his life insurance policy,” she replied.  “I expect his tart will get the other place.”

  She blinked.  Sadness was like a moist sheen over her pupils.  It’s as much emotion as she was going to show.

  “Has your husband had many affairs?” I asked bluntly.

  “Yes,” she said, “none of them meant anything until this latest one.  She was definitely the one.”

  “Did your husband have many enemies?”  DI Silver quizzed.

  She shook her head fiercely, as if trying to clear my questions from her ears.

  “My husband could charm the monkeys out of the trees,” she replied, a little less sure of the world.  “He was a very popular man to do business with.  Everybody liked Archie.”

  Suddenly, the room wasn’t big enough to hide the awkwardness of the moment.  The air had become cloying and harsh.

  The maid returned with the tray.  The teapot and china cups seemed too delicate to hold boiling water.  Mrs Andrews poured, almost willing her hands to be steady.

  “Do you have milk or sugar?”

  “Milk,” DI Silver replied.

  “Straight from the pot for me,” I added.

  She stirred without letting the teaspoon touch the edges of her cup.  Her thoughts seemed to drift away for a moment before returning to the room.

  “How did my husband die?”

  “The investigation is still ongoing, I’m afraid,” DI Silver replied.

  “So you don’t know yet.”

  “I didn’t say that,” the Detective Inspector shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “A witness saw him running to the house just before he died.”

  “Running?”  She looked surprised.  “What on earth was he running from?” 

  “We don’t know,” I said.

  She laughed.  Her fever of uncertainty was replaced with sudden understanding.  “Archie never ran away from anything.  He was fearless.  Whatever it was frightened him beyond belief.  Beyond anything, I can think of.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We pulled into the underground car-park of the recently refurbished Oxmarket mortuary, which had been modernized in the last six months. DI Silver was careful not to scrape the sloping nose of his car on the concrete ramp, and abruptly we were in shadows and the air through the vents was cooler. 

  DI Silver parked in a reserved spot several spaces away from Kira’s dark blue Ford, and pushed through the double doors like a football fan looking for a fight.

  “When were you going to tell me that you had been investigating her husband?”  He said angrily.

  “I wasn’t,” I responded.  “I try and respect client’s confidentiality.”

  “Don’t give me that s**t,” he snarled without looking at me.  “I am in the right mind to charge you for withholding evidence.”

  “But you won’t,” I told him.

  “I will do, if you ever do that to me again.”

  We carried on walking in silence. The place always made me feel queasy.  Maybe it was the clinical efficiency of it all:  the stainless-steel tables with their drainage outlets; the jars and specimen bottles.  Or the way the entire operation resembled too closely the skills seen in any butcher’s shop – the carving and filleting of the corpse.  A reminder not only of mortality but of the body’s animal engineering, the human spirit reduced to meet on a slab.

  We found Kira sitting at a table in a vast space of stainless-steel wall sinks and workstations.  Natural light filled one-way glass windows and high intensity lamps blazed above us.  She was wearing a shapeless gown and purple gloves with matching shoe covers and to me, she still looked attractive.

  Her workstation is the closest one to the refrigerator, and on a counter next to the sink was a computer screen, keyboard and mouse covered with a waterproof membrane.  As we stood behind her, the screen divided into quadrants and before our eyes, images of Archie Andrews appeared.

  “He was stung repeatedly,” she clicked the plastic-covered mouse and more autopsy photographs appeared.  “Before Mr Andrews’ had succumbed, his skin would become flushed, accompanied by a burning pain and generalized itching.  He would have tried to flee from his attackers.  Became disoriented pursued by the swarm.  There was no indication of vomit on his shirt or around his lips and chin, although Mr Andrews had surely ached from abdominal cramps, nausea.  His blood pressure would have dropped, creating a feeling of weakness.  The throat shows signs of swelling, preventing him from swallowing or calling for help.  Alterations of heart rate followed, as well as difficulty breathing, and probably a notion of impending doom.  Then, as if slipping past a trapdoor, he had collapsed onto the lawn and became unconscious, dying, remarkably with eyes wide open.”

  “Anaphylaxis?” I asked

  “Looks like it.”

  “But he was a beekeeper,” DI Silver said.  “Had been doing it for years.”

  “Well, they certainly turned on him.”  Kira responded.

  I leant forward and put my hand on the table next to hers.  She brushed mine with her own, a reminder of the other night. A gesture of intimacy.  I glanced quickly at the Detective Inspector who hadn’t seemed to notice.

  Kira logged out of her computer, joined a Manila folder, and then we followed her down a corridor until she stopped before a large steel door.  Pulling down on the handle, she opened the door, breaking the airtight seal with a soft hiss.  Lights were triggered automatically, and I felt a breath of frigid air.  Four cadavers were on trolleys beneath white sheets.  Three rooms had metal drawers where bodies lay within.

  Kira checked a nameplate and tugged a handle.  Another hiss as the seal broke and Archie Andrews slid into view on metal runners.  His joints were stiff with rigor mortis and his skin marbled by lividity.

  Kira stood over the body.  His bare feet and legs were pale and as I moved closer, I could sense the chill of refrigerated dead flesh.  She lifted the sheet and when the Detective Inspector saw his genitals we looked at each other and winced.

  He had a ring-style curved barbell that entered through his urethra and exited through the top of the glans.  I wondered if the piercing gave Kimberley pleasure or pain, and what the healing time was after Archie Andrews had got it.

  “I’m glad he didn’t remove it,” Kira said.

  “Why is that?”  DI Silver asked.

  “It’s an awkward item to return with someone’s personal effects.  Unless it’s a precious metal or someone makes a specific request I leave it alone.”

  “Yet one more example of not being able to judge a book by its cover,” I observed.  “Beekeeping and body piercing.  You don’t find out who somebody really is until they end up here.”

  Kira moved up his torso, double-checking his arms and legs and when she got to the head lifted it slightly.

  “He fell backwards,” she said.  “The bruising and depression on the back of head were caused by the impact when he hit the ground.  He was probably already dead.  He didn’t live long enough to have a vital response.”

  Kira opened the folder and withdrew a forensic report.

  “We pulled forty-two full or partial prints from the crime scene.  Most of them match with the victim and Kimberley.  We’re looking more closely at those that don’t match.”

  She slid Archie’s body from view and opened a folder of crime-scene photographs.  The first showed Archie lying on his back.  The second image was a close up of the marks on his body.

  I took the second photograph from Kira, and studied the position of his body.

  “What would make his bees attack him so violently?”

  “No, idea.”  Kira said.

  “A neighbour stated that she saw him running frantically towards the house,” I said.  “That would be the bees swarming around him.”

  “Possibly,” Kira acknowledged.

  “Look,” DI Silver said suddenly.  “We’re getting nowhere with this.  How about we call it a day and reconvene in the Waggoners’ Rest.”

  “Not for me,” I said.  “I’ve made plans.”

  “Nor me,” Kira said quickly.  “I want to finish up before I go home.”

  “There is one more thing,” I said as he made to leave.

  “What was that?”

  “Can you get some background checks done?”

  “On the victim,” I continued.  “The ex-wife and the neighbour.  Financial details, social media, things like that.”

  “Okay,” he accepted.  “I’ll probably get all that information by mid-morning, tomorrow.  I’ll sift through it first, myself and then if there is anything glaringly strange, I will let you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

  “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he said.  “Have a good evening, whatever you’re up to.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kira offered to drive me home, and we stopped halfway and walked in silence near the estuary. An early evening mist shrouded the North Sea where fishing boats were groaning against their lines.

  She looked like a woman trying to escape from an affair.  I was not surprised, and I didn’t disapprove.  Who am I to judge?  Had I asked for honesty?  No.  The truth can sometimes be an overrated quality.  Lies can make a dull world more interesting, as long as they don’t hurt anyone.  They take things in unexpected directions.  They add complications and layers off texture.

  “Was he married?”  I asked her.

  She was silent for a long time.  I watched her body language, looking for signs of outright deception or omission.  There was none.

  “Yes,” she said eventually.

  Another silence, longer this time.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “He says he is.”

  “And now you’re feeling trapped.”

  She looked up at me and back at the estuary.  “Pretty much.  That’s why I’ve ended it.”

  We had reached a turn in the path.  There was a pub ahead showing some signs of life.

  “Fancy a drink and something to eat?”  I asked.

  “Okay.”

  I pushed against her and kissed her clumsily, my hand slipping inside her coat to find her breast.

  It was the sort of kiss I would have taken for granted a few years ago – deep and unhurried – but now it felt like a rare gift.  Pushing me away gently, Kira looked past my shoulder and I had the sensation that she could see someone behind us, watching us in the dusk.

  “You’re a wonderful man, John,” she said.

  “But?”

  “I hope you realize what you are letting yourself in for?”

  “So do I,” I said smiling.  “Let’s go and have something to eat.”

  The Estuary Inn was probably the best place to eat in Oxmarket.  It was where the tourists went every evening, along with the wealthier locals, who raved about the local produce to their friends.  It was a bit pricey for the farming community if it wasn’t a special occasion.  The restaurant was small and the tables were close together, but thankfully it was quiet tonight.

  I ordered a bottle of red wine to accompany our main course. For the starter I chose grilled tomatoes stuffed with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon while Kira selected baked eggs with ham in tomato and garlic sauce.  For the mains we had both chosen sirloin steak with a Gorgonzola and pink peppercorn sauce.

  “Why did you and Kimberley split up?”  Kira asked sipping the wine from a large glass.

  “Don’t forget you’re driving,” I reminded her.

  “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” she said, dismissively.  “Anyway you’re avoiding my question.”

  “Which was?” I teased.

  “Why did you and Kimberley split up?”  She repeated.

  “What she wanted, I couldn’t offer her,” I said truthfully.

  “What did she want?”

  “Commitment.  A family.  Things like that.  She had a miscarriage nine months ago and how we both reacted was really the beginning of the end for us.”  I paused while the waitress took our order.  “I wanted children when I was younger, but Zoë was very career minded and the subject never really came up.  My mother and father were both thirty-seven when I was born and when I went to school my parents seemed so ancient compared to the other children’s mum and dads.  I loved football, but Dad struggled to kick a ball around with me because he suffered with a bad back, high blood pressure and diabetes.  My mum was in and out of hospital all my life and they both eventually succumbed to cancer.”

  I could feel the emotion rising inside me and tried to suppress it even though I knew it showed it my eyes.

  “Did you try and explain that to Kimberley?”

  “Yes,” I said.  “But she didn’t understand that I didn’t really want to be a middle-aged father with young children. I know this is a terrible thing to say, but I think deep down I was relieved when she had the miscarriage.”

  The waitress came with our food.  I didn’t recognize her, although she was about my age, and she sounded local.  I was preoccupied for a moment trying to place her.

 “I’ve left him before,” Kira said suddenly.  She had already started eating.

  “Have you?”  The statement shocked me.  She wanted me to understand.

  “I’ve always gone back to him,” she went on, “like an addict.  It must be the same for alcoholics, trying to give up drinking.  Or a drug addict going cold turkey.  You think you’ve got it cracked, one glass or one more snort won’t hurt.  Then you’re hooked again.  But this time it’s forever.”  She gave a little laugh.  “Sorry to sound so melodramatic.  He’s still texting me, three, four times a day.”

  “Have you texted him back?”  I asked.

  “Only once,” she said with pride.  “Today, I told him I’d met someone else.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “I don’t know,” she smiled.  “He hasn’t replied since.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The main course arrived and it was so delicious we both ate in silence. When the waitress took our empty plates away she took our orders for dessert and coffee.  I liked my coffee strong and black, while Kira ordered a Latté.  The desert I had selected was grilled vanilla peaches with a butterscotch sauce.  Kira settled for strawberries with amaretto and yoghurt.

  It was nearly an hour before we left the restaurant and walked arm in arm back to Kira’s flat.  I had refused her offer of sharing the bill in exchange for a night-cap back at her place.

  Kira lived in a listed Georgian terrace converted into six flats and backing on to the River Ox.  Her flat was on the ground floor and has a walled garden with trellises and a small patio dotted with terracotta pots.

  After giving me a tour of the garden, she pointed to the sofa, and we sat, sipping wine.  In the next breath she put her arms around my neck and pushed her stomach against my thigh.  Next thing she pressed my hand between her thighs and I reacted like a man dying of thirst who had crawled a hundred miles across the desert to be there.

  The kiss continued as Kira pulled me up.  Standing and kicking off her shoes, she edged me towards the bedroom.  Breathlessly, we toppled backwards on to her bed and she landed on top of me with a grunt.

  “Ow!”

  “What?”

  “Your elbow.”

  “Sorry.”

  Kira slipped her fingers beneath the elastic of her knickers, pushing them over her thighs.  I tried to negotiate the zip of her dress.

  “My hair!  It’s caught!  Don’t move.”

  She sat up on my thighs and reached behind her to loosen the zip.

  “It’s jammed!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She laughed.  “Don’t worry.  It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ll just use your bathroom,” I said embarrassed.

  Rolling off the bed, I escaped for a moment, feeling the cold tiles through my socks.  The bathroom was nicely renovated, with a wall-to-ceiling mirror.  There were shelves of shampoos, pastes, powders and moisturizers, which she appeared to be stockpiling.

  I studied myself in the mirror.  My mouth was smudged with her lipstick.  I’m not a perfect human being.  Since Zoë had died, I knew more about feelings than I do a physical world.  I think that was probably the real reason why Kimberley and I had split.  It was easier for me to understand passion than to experience it.

  Kira had brought another bottle of wine and glasses to the bedroom.  She was also now wearing sexy lingerie, lying self-consciously, trying to show herself to best effect.  I took off my clothes and lay down next to her.  She didn’t linger and pulled me next to her.

  Then she straddled me, squeezing me between her thighs, her breasts against my chest.  I ran my hand down her back and traced a finger over her curves.  Her lips pressed against my ear, whispering what she wanted.

  The love making was slow, more deliberate than the other night.  Less urgent, better.  The only sound in the room was of Kira gently moaning.  She guided my hands to her breasts and I found her n*****s were hard.  I watched her rise and descend, inch by inch, accepting my surrender, seeking her release and summoning.  Then when it happened, she cried out involuntarily, while I was lost in the smell of her hair and the beating of her heart.

  In the morning I woke to the sigh of Kira doing her stretching exercises.  She was doing those yoga-like poses with names that sounded like Indian squaws: ‘Babbling Brook’ met ‘Running Deer’.

  She was combat ready by 6.30 a.m.  Nothing like me.  I’d seen Archie Andrews’ dead face all night in my dreams.

  When she saw that I was awake, she padded barefoot towards me wearing a decent by nightdress about an inch.  She bent over to kiss me.

  “You had a restless night.”

  Pressing her head against my chest, she let her fingers go tap-dancing up my spine until she felt me shiver.  She was reminding me that she was starting to understand every inch of me.

  “Come back to bed?”  I pleaded.

  “I’m hungry,” she laughed sliding away.  “I’ll get breakfast.”

  She got dressed.  White bikini pants slid along her legs and snapped into place.  Then she raised her nightdress over her head and shrugged her shoulders into the straps of a bra.  I knew she wouldn’t risk giving me another kiss.  I wouldn’t let her go next time.

  “By the way,” she said standing at the door.  “I hung your shirt and trousers up in the bathroom.  That scent on that handkerchief in one of your pockets is a bit potent, isn’t it?”

  “Kimberley bought that for Archie for his birthday,” I replied.  “He hadn’t changed his cologne for years, apparently.”

  “That’s interesting,” she said, and then she was gone.  I stayed in bed listening to her move through the flat, her feet hardly touching the floor.  I heard the kettle being filled and the milk being collected from outside the front door.  I heard the fridge door being pushed shut and thought it was about time I got up myself.

  After showering, I emerged into the kitchen and watched Kira make plunger coffee and put posh jam on a piece of wholemeal toast.

  “Boiled eggs, okay?”  She asked as I tried to nibble her ear.

  “How did you know?” 

  “Kimberley told me ages ago that you loved boiled eggs for breakfast.”

  I was impressed by her ingenuity.

  “How do you like them?”  She asked.