BLIND SPOT - AND TWO OTHERS

DEATH IS FOR THE DYING - EPISODE TWO

CHAPTER FIVE

On my second case I met Kimberley Ashlyn Gere.  I will never forget the first time we met.  She was waiting in my office with DI Silver and hired me to carry out a discreet investigation at the Government run laboratory she worked for, over the theft of a revolutionary new cancer drug. I was almost immediately attracted to her and a romance blossomed, and we got engaged and planned to marry.

  But then, nine months ago, she had a miscarriage and that for a while seemed like the end of the world.  I’d tried not to show how much that hurt me.  I hadn’t wanted Kimberley to feel that I loved her any less, or blamed her for the loss of the baby.  Of course, I blamed myself.  Myself and the weight of expectations.  I’d felt that almost physically, pictured it as a crushing pressure, which made it almost impossible for the baby to survive.  It would have been a boy.  The pregnancy had been sufficiently advanced for us to know that.  There would have been another Handful to carry on the family line.

  Perhaps I’d played the role too skilfully.  Perhaps Kimberley though I really didn’t care.  Though surely, she must have known me well enough to realize it was an act for her benefit.  It was from the miscarriage that I charted the breakdown of our relationship.  Kimberley grew grey and distant.  I spent more time working.  When I came home to find all my worldly possessions packed into three large boxes, it was almost a relief.  Now she was getting married to a beekeeping business entrepreneur once his divorce came through.  A divorce that wouldn’t go exactly how he had planned it as I had been hired by his estranged wife to see who he was having an affair with.  Emotionally, it was probably the hardest case I had even undertaken, when I’d discovered the woman was Kimberley.

  I switched on the kettle to make tea and stuck sliced bread under the grill and fished butter and home-made blueberry jam from the fridge.

  As I ate, I read the previous morning’s mail – a thin airmail letter from a former colleague in London who’d decided in her late twenties that she needed to see more of the world.  She was working as a teacher in South Africa.  With her words, she conjured up dusty roads, exotic fruit, smiling children.  Why don’t you come to visit? When I was twenty-one, I’d loved her. I thought I probably still did.  But then I’d loved Zoë when I’d married her and started a relationship with Kimberley.  Emotionally incontinent.  A phrase I’d picked up from somewhere. It was the sort of thing Kimberley might have said.  Horrible but probably appropriate.  I leaked unsuitable affection.  Already, I felt protective towards Linda Andrews, an almost overwhelming pity for her plight.  And I was supposed to be detached.

  I rinsed the cup and plate and set them on the draining board and paused at the telephone beneath the stairs and lifted the handset and immediately heard the signal which meant there were messages.  Three of them in fact. The first was from my friend Grahame and was timed at eight-fifteen last night.  Grahame was in the Waggoner’s Rest, a pub overlooking the harbour, and was calling from his mobile. In the background I heard the resident band Turntable and laughter.  If you’re free come along, and I’ll buy that pint I owe you.

  The second message was from my sister, Isobel.  She didn’t bother to identify herself.

  I thought you’d be interested to know that I’m going to be a grandmother. Lacey is expecting.  Isn’t that wonderful?  Phone me sometime.

  I recognized a suppressed excitement in her voice.  Lacey was her only child and had married a nice lad from Norwich.  He had a good job, and they lived nearby in a lovely bungalow. I found it impossible to decide how I felt about the news.  Panic?  Depression?  Delight?

  The third message was from Kira.  She wanted to see me again and arranged another night for a date. The day after tomorrow.

  Feeling slightly more cheerful, I went upstairs, showered and dressed and walked the short distance to my office.

  When I opened the door to my office, it was warm and there were four envelopes on the floor inside.  I tossed the mail on to the desk and opened the blinds.  Morning light erupted in, revealing photos of Zoë everywhere.  In one, my favourite, we were in a deserted coastal town in Morocco, sand sloping away to the sea, jellyfish scattered like cellophane across the beach. In the fading light, she looked beautiful.  Her eyes flashed blue and green.  Freckles were scattered along her nose and under the curve of her cheekbones.  Her blonde hair was bleached by the sun, and her skin had browned all the way up her arms.

  I sat down at my desk and pulled the picture towards me.

  Next to her, my eyes were blue, my fair hair close-cropped, stubble lining the ridge of my chin and areas around my mouth.  I towered over her at six-two.  In the picture, I was pulling her into me, her head resting against the muscles in my arms and chest, her body fitting in against mine.

  Physically, I’m the same now.  Since Kimberley and I had split, I work out when I can.  I take more pride in my appearance. I’ve stopped drinking so heavily and watch what I eat. I still want to be attractive.  But maybe, temporarily, some lustre has rubbed away.  And, like the clients I deal with, some spark in my eyes too.

  I spent most of the day sitting at my desk.  The telephone rang a couple of times, but I left it, listening to it echo around the office.  Today was the anniversary when Zoë had been carried out of our house on a stretcher.  She died seven hours later.  Because of that, I knew I wasn’t in the right state of mind to consider taking on any work, so when the clock hit four, I started to pack up.

  That was when DI Silver arrived.

  “Where did you think you’re going?”  He asked.

  “Home, I hope.”

  The Detective Inspector shook his head.

  “Sorry, I need you.”

  “What is it?”  I asked.  “What’s wrong?”

  “We have an unexplained death at River House.”

  My heart was pounding in my chest.  River House was where Kimberley now lived with Archie Andrews.

CHAPTER SIX

River House was a huge, four-storey, granite and slate Gothic heap from a fairy tale with a turret at one corner.  It was built into the slope of the hill and sheltered from the prevailing winds.  There was a walled woodland on one side of the house, mostly scrubby sycamores growing in the shelter if the valley, but the only trees for two miles.  I remembered when I’d first seen the house.  I had followed Archie and Kimberley one night when I was gathering evidence for Linda’s divorce case.

  Driving towards the house, I saw that Kimberley was on the river bank with Charlie and breathed a sigh of relief. She was throwing sticks into the water, and he was bounding into the stream trying to retrieve them.  As I drove through the big stone gateposts I lost sight of her and the dog on the beach and parked by the front door.

  Crime scene tape encircled the property, threaded through railings, barring the large wooden front door.

  I noted a silver Peugeot parked on the gravel driveway with the boot open.  Cartons of fruit juice, the apples, grapes, bananas, and boxes of cereals, bags of crisps were scattered everywhere.  Cans of tuna had rolled across the stones and rested not far from my feet and honeydew melons were cracked and oozing sweet juice that I could smell.  A jar of salsa was shattered, and I detected its spicy odour too.  Flies were showing interest, alighting on spilled food warming in the sun.

  I ducked under the tape and walked towards the already erected large white tent.  It was enough for the pathologist to work while shielding the body from prying eyes.  But even though it prevented rubbernecking the temporary shelter also signalled a potential crime scene and wouldn’t prevent interest from the press and media.

  I had seen Kira Reeds car parked nearby.  She was already inside the tent.  Gathering evidence.  She needed time to work and think.  I counted six uniformed policemen drafted in from neighbouring forces posted at the perimeter.  They were making sure no one unauthorized entered the scene.  I recognized two SOCOs’ who couldn’t do much until Kira was done.

  DI Silver appeared next to me dressed in white overalls and handed me some similar some overalls packaged in cellophane.

  “Archie Andrews just dropped dead carrying shopping from his car.”

  I worked the overalls over my clothes and then the boot covers, standing on one foot at a time.  Suiting up is an art.  I’ve witnessed seasoned investigators put things on backward or lose their balance.  Then, accompanied by the Detective Inspector, I was escorted into the tent.

  Archie Andrews’ body was face-up on the lawn, his legs straight out, the left one only very slightly bent.  His arms were loose by his sides.  He hadn’t stumbled, and he hadn’t tried to catch himself when he fell or move after he did.  He couldn’t.

  There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony.  His drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.

  Kira was kneeling by the body.  Her hard expression softened when our shadows fell upon the corpse.

  “Post-mortem changes have begun,” she said matter-of-factly, “but now escalated because the temperature is 16 degrees Celsius, the air dry with a cool breeze, and he’s fully clothed.  His body temperature is 34 degrees and rigor mortis is setting in.”

  “Cause of death?”  I asked.

  “Difficult to say at the moment,” she replied.  “Nothing is jumping out at me so far.”

  “Natural causes?”  DI pressed, hopefully.  I think he was praying for the day that he had a straightforward case to solve.

  “I’ll know once I get him back to the mortuary,” she said.  “But by the way, he fell, it doesn’t point towards a heart attack.”

  I noted that there was a set of car keys near the body and two carrier bags with their contents.  He had the key and two bags in hand when he went down like an imploded building.  I looked at the body closely while Kira continued with her examination.

  He had short hair that was receding and a rugged face with a strong prominent jaw hinting at an under-bite.  Clean-shaven, he was of average height, slender and extremely fit-looking.  I put him at five-feet-eight, seventy kilos, someone youthful for his age.

  I watched Kira bend the victim’s fingers to feel the rigor mortis forming in his small muscles.  She began to unbutton his shirt and discovered tattoos.  A British Bulldog on the left of is chest and on his right shoulder was the logo of Leicester City football club.  She then inserted a long thermometer.

  “Hello?”  She said with curiosity.  “What have we here?”

  I crouched down next to her.  My overalls rustling in the process.  She had pushed his head slightly to one side, and we stared at his neck in utter amazement.  Just below his left ear were at least half a dozen angry weal’s which curved round under his chin.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

I backed out of the cool shade of the tent.  Kira was now photographing him from every angle.  She had deduced from her preliminary examination that he scarcely had vital responses at all.  He was dead by the time he had hit the ground.

  “Whatever killed him, killed him instantly.”  Kira announced.

  “In broad daylight with people around?”  DI Silver asked.

  “It’s amazing what people don’t see or hear sometimes,” I said.  “He obviously died in anguish.  As she said, Dr Reed will know more when she gets him back to the mortuary.”

  I looked around.  Some neighbours were outside loitering on the pavement, in the street, and every car that passed slowed to a crawl as people gawked.

  Kira crouched back inside the shelter of the crime scene tent and taped small paper bags over the hands and a larger one over the head to preserve possible trace evidence.

  She reappeared at the entrance and motioned to her two assistants, who headed immediately towards her as she packed up her crime scene case.  Wheels rattled past me as they rolled the stretcher.  Piled on top of it where white sheets and a neatly folded black body bag.

  “You want to take a look inside the house?”  DI Silver asked me.

  He wanted my company.  He usually did.

  “Come on then,” I agreed, and I followed him inside the house.

  We ducked under the crime scene tape removed the old overalls and were handed a fresh set to prevent a cross-contamination. 

  The hallway was extremely grand with a thick flower-patterned carpet.  Fixed to a wall was a stylish and modern black powder coated gun cabinet.  Beyond this, the staircase swept imposingly up to the next floor, the balustrade thick and strong with twisted spines.

  I followed the Detective Inspector upstairs, taking special care in avoiding touching the bannister which was thickly coated with aluminium powder.  He led me to the master bedroom and through the silvery bloom of SOCO dust, a couple of white suited members of the team were busily photographing and gathering evidence.  The room boasted a single pair of double doors leading to a wide balcony. I unlocked and opened these doors and stepped outside.

  I looked at the white tent directly below and wondered whether Kimberley had seen anything.  I also noticed the proximity of Archie’s apiary.

   After a few moments I moved back into the bedroom.  There was a king-sized bed surrounded by cloudy draperies which had gathered and fastened into a gilded metal crown attached to the ceiling.  The ivory headboard was enlivened by pastoral scenes in delicate pastel shades.  Nymphs and shepherds cavorted in meadows of spring flowers beneath the eye of their Olympian overlords.  Centaurs lapped from a ripping stream.

  I moved into the bathroom to be greeted with more sch lock.   A false marble floor and starry ceiling, copper coloured mirror glass walls.  The whole place shimmered in bronze light.  There was a vast triangular forget-me-not blue bath with high arched golden taps, the handles made to resemble multi-petalled chrysanthemums.  Every possible flat surface in the room was covered with jars and bottles and tube and aerosols.  Kimberley had certainly made herself at home.

  I opened a drawer in the appropriately named vanity unit.  Rows of neatly arranged lipsticks.  Annoyed with me for time-wasting, I surrendered to a compulsion and counted them.  Seventy-three.  Dear God, seventy-three.  Just laboratory testing this lot would prove to be a lifetime’s occupation.

  There were around a dozen boxes of perfume and after-shave.  One of the after-shaves had the lid open.  I smelt it and then took a handkerchief out of my pocket and sprayed it.  The scent was quite nice.  I looked at the label.  It was not one I knew, and it looked expensive.  I wondered whether that was Archie’s birthday present.

  I drifted back out into the bedroom and crossed to the white and gold fitted wardrobes that ran all down the facing wall, sliding the nearest door open.  The ball bearings rumbled sweetly.  Soft falls of velvet and lace, drifts of sparkling georgette, neat outlines of wool and linen and tweed were conjured, concealed and revealed again.  The clothes were so tightly packed I would have struggled to slide my Visa debit card between any of them.

  I worked my way through the first two chests of drawers.  Cashmere jumpers, all in pastel shades, flimsy underwear and scarves, a Paisley shawl.  There were also dozens of unsealed packets of leggings, pale tights and stockings with black or cream lace tops.  As I expected there was nowhere I could find clean and used hosiery. Kimberley rarely wore anything twice.  There was also a leather jewellery case full of quite dazzling jewellery that I knew only too well, as I had bought her some of them.

  Kimberley also had a positively obsessive relish for footwear.  There were strappy numbers with slender heels, brightly coloured slip-ons in glove soft leather, court shoes, suede flatties with thin gilt chains looped across the tongues, pearly evening sandals sparkling with rhinestones.  There were some expensive trainers, and some serious walking boots and Wellingtons.

  Once I’d finished, I turned to face the Detective Inspector who had been watching me from the other side of the room.

  “Are you okay with this?”

  “Of course I am,” I replied unconvincingly.

  “What next?”

  “I want to look round outside”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where Archie dropped dead.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

A narrow shingle path ran down the side of the garage to the rear of the house.  I crunched along and entered a somewhat neglected garden.  This was encroaching on to the patio, a pleasant if unimaginative arrangement of multi-coloured slabs. It held parched begonias in smart Chinese pots, a barbecue, still full of ashes, and a large, blue and white daisy-patterned hammock.

  Across the garden, there was a small allotment, an apple orchard and six bee hives standing neatly like odd box-shaped soldiers and a small pond ordained by a beautiful willow tree, that hung over a moored rowing boat tied to a post.

  I looked up as the local yellow Oxmarket to Oxupland bus went down the lane that ran parallel to the bottom of the huge garden and the river.  The ten or so passengers peering over the immaculately trimmed hedge at the crime scene with expressions of shared incredulity.

  I walked towards the apiary, strolling effortlessly down the garden pathway, past the wild daffodils and the herb beds, past the deep purple buddleias and the giant thistles curling upwards, inhaling all the while; a light breeze and I savoured the crunching sounds made by my shoes.  If I glanced back over my shoulder just now, I knew the house would be obscured behind four large pines.

  Ahead, where the path ended, stretched an undivided pasture enriched with a profusion of azaleas, laurel and rhododendrons, beyond which loomed a cluster of free-standing oaks.  And beneath the oaks were the bee-hives.

  The bees were calm, the hive serene.  There now no swarm, no agitated activity at the entrances to the hives. Nothing out of the ordinary.  Furthermore, not a single bee hovered near us.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I admitted.  “How’s Kimberley?”

  “Beside herself with grief.”

  “May I see her?” 

  “Of course.”  He replied.  “As long as you feel okay with that?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know.”

  Kimberley Ashlyn Gere was dressed in a figure hugging pansy print dress. 

  She didn’t offer her hand, she just motioned to the sofa, wanting me to sit down and then took a seat on the sofa opposite, tucking her hands in her lap.  On the arm of the sofa was a hardback copy of the multi-million bestselling thriller The Sound of Marcie’s Feet by J.A. Lawes. On the wall behind her was the picture A Man Selling Bananas by Eileen Riches.  On the spare cushion of the sofa where I sat was a copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal.

  Everything about Kimberley’s demeanour was closed and defensive. A woman experiencing the shock of sudden grief, her cheeks tear-stained, her eyes wet with pain.  She was half-sitting, half-lying on a chaise-longue.  There was a small table with a glass and bottle beside.  She was drinking Pinot Grigio.

  When she saw me she, she half stood, then fell back on to the seat.

  “John.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Kimberley.”  I said genuinely.  “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Of course not.” 

  She was accompanied by WPC Mel Softly and another woman I had never seen before.  The stranger was astonishingly pretty, if a trifle artificial-looking for my taste.  She wore hardly any jewellery except for an expensive looking gold watch on her left wrist. I silently appreciated, the rosy glistening mouth.  Nearly always the two halves of a top lip are imperfectly matched but here was absolute symmetry even to the perfect Cupid’s bow.  The bottom lip was fuller than I would have expected, giving an impression of sensual generosity.  She had wide set greyish-green mischievous eyes with long curling lashes and warm, blushing apricot cheeks.  Looking more closely, I realized the shape of her mouth had been very skilfully realized by a pencil and I thought I could discern, beneath its lush contours a narrower rather less seductive outline.  Her hair curling round her ears as delicate and translucent as little shells, was as fair as to be almost white.

  “We haven’t met,” she said.  “I’m Paula Rust.  I thought Kimberley needed someone with her.”

  “Of course.” I said and then made a probing statement without making it sound like one.  “A time like this she’ll need her friends.”

  Paula looked at me thoughtfully.  “We’re not exactly friends.  I live next door, but I couldn’t leave her alone at a time like this.  I was imagining how I’d feel if I’d lost my loved one.”

  “You’re married, then?”  I enquired.

  “Divorced,” she said

    I sat down opposite Kimberley and I told her that we regretted not having any further information at the moment.  I wanted to find a way to make her relax.  I felt constrained; perhaps because I knew her so well.  But it wasn’t just that, but she had the air of anxiety, unhappiness that she now carried round with her.  Her tension was contagious and when I rubbed my hands nervously together I saw that my hands were trembling slightly.

  “Would you like me to leave you alone?”  Paula interrupted.

  “No, stay,” Kimberley made an extravagant gesture.  “Please stay.  I know I have only known you for a few months, but it feels like we have been friends for ages.”

  “A few months?”  I was still finding it hard to come to grips with the relationship between these two. 

  “I live next door.  I only moved in recently,” Paula explained.

  “I see,” I said and then turned back towards Kimberley.

  I repeated how sorry I was for her terrible loss.  I said all the right things as she started to cry again and this was exactly the way that DI Silver wanted it to go.  I’m the consulting private detective who is here to try and piece the puzzle together.  I’m not here to accuse at the moment, I am here to help.  With Kimberley, I know exactly how to assert myself without violating any boundaries.

  “You didn’t kill him, John,” she interrupted.  “You’re just doing your job.”  The words sounded brusque, but I thought she was abrupt only because she was so nervous.

  “We’ve got it from here,” DI Silver told WPC Softly.  “Make none of the reporters out there get any closer.”

  “Excellent, sir.”  The WPC replied, watching me pull off my shoe covers and gloves and dropping them into a biohazard bag by the door.

  I wasn’t wearing any protective clothing now, just jeans and a T-Shirt.  I returned to the chair opposite Kimberley and Paula Rust got up from sitting next to me when her battered mobile sprung into life.

  “Excuse me I must take this call,” she said discreetly. “I’ll make some tea.”

  Paula shutting the door behind her startled Kimberley, and she gasped and held a tissue over her nose and mouth, her eyes bloodshot and smeared with make-up.

  “Can you tell me when you last saw Archie?”  I said noticing DI Silver had his notepad out.

  She blinked.  I noticed a moist sheen over her pupils. 

  “When he left to go to the local village stores, to get some food and drink for the barbecue.”  She said.  “We were supposed to be having a party tonight.”

 “What did you get him for his birthday?”                    

She looked at me as if puzzled.  Those indigo pools slowly drawing me in.

  “Some cologne.”                Her eyes dropped momentarily in reflection.

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “Angelo’s in the town centre,” she replied.  “It was Paula who recommended it. In fact, she went and bought it for me.  I paid her back of course, but it was expensive. Said her ex-husband used to wear it.”

  “Did he like it?”

  “Yes.”  She answered as if it was a stupid question.  “It was a different scent.  He had used the same one for ages.”

  “Is that the bottle opened upstairs in the bathroom?”  I asked

  “Yes,” she replied and then asked, “Did anyone see what happened?”

  When I didn’t answer she became more agitated.

  “Did anyone try to help him?”  She persisted.

  “He died rapidly,” I selected my words carefully.

  Tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, streaking her make-up, the flesh around her eyes was smeared with mascara.

  Paula came into the room with a tray containing four mugs, a sugar bowl and some biscuits.  She laid the tray on a coffee table and handed them out.

  When she handed me mine, I asked, “How well did you know the deceased?”

  “Hardly at all,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  “I never actually spoke to him.  As I said earlier, I’ve only moved in recently.  I think I saw him twice.  When I first moved in and this morning?” 

  “This morning?” DI Silver quizzed.

  “I told your Sergeant, that I saw Archie from my bedroom window just before he died,” she said when she gave the Detective Inspector his tea.  “My bedroom overlooks part of their garden and the front of the house.”

  “What was he doing?”  DI Silver asked.

  “Running.”

  “Running?”  I quizzed.

  “Yes,” she replied.  “With the shopping.  But it looked like he was running from something.”