The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1) Page 5

  She jabbed her pen into Laila’s name. “She found him. We don’t know much more yet, she was in a right state.”

  “Maybe cos she killed her fella,” Johnny Chiles suggested.

  “Maybe indeed,” Lesley replied. “We don’t have any concrete evidence pointing to her as a suspect just yet. But we have to assume she could have done it.”

  “The injury to his head, Ma’am,” said Mike. “I mean boss, sorry. D’you think she was strong enough?”

  “The FSM reckons – sorry, CSM, I’ll have to get used to your local jargon. Anyway, she reckons he was taken by surprise, given the position he was in and the fact that it looks like only one blow. Someone could have entered the tent, he turned, they walloped him and he went down. With the right instrument, no reason it couldn’t have been a woman.”

  “You’ve spoken to the forensics team?” Dennis asked. “That’s something I normally—”

  “I went back to the scene last night. Didn’t get much of a look earlier on, what with Laila looking like she might faint and me having my daughter in tow.”

  Dennis frowned. “You met Gail Hansford at the crime scene?”

  Lesley turned to him. “She told me you’d sent everyone home. Not sure who gave you authority to do that.”

  “With respect, Ma’ am...”

  She raised an eyebrow. He took a breath. “Boss. We already covered this yesterday. You weren’t in post yet, and you needed to get your daughter home. You left me in charge.”

  “And you left a murder scene unprotected.”

  He eyed the constables. Johnny was sitting back in his chair, legs out in front of him, arms folded. His gaze was on the DS. Mike, by contrast, sat with his feet tucked beneath his chair and his eyes down.

  “I’d appreciate it if we could have this conversation later, boss,” Dennis said.

  Lesley met his gaze. The man had a point. Leaving a crime scene unattended was a bloody inept thing to do. But she didn’t need to tell him that in front of the rest of the team.

  “Fair point.” She turned to the board. “So we’ve got Archie and Laila, and an archaeological dig. We need background on Archie, whether he’d pissed anyone off recently. Who else was involved in this dig, and what are relations like. Any tensions. We have an address…”

  “Boss.” Legg attached a card to the board. It held an address in West Street, Corfe Castle.

  “This is Laila and Archie’s address?” Lesley asked. She’d been there when PC Abbott had noted it down the day before. But she wasn’t yet familiar enough with the local towns and villages for it to lodge in her head.

  “The whole dig team, from what I’ve heard,” said Johnny. “Bunch of hippies got themselves a commune. Probably all hopping in and out of each other’s beds.”

  Mike smirked. Dennis suppressed a smile.

  “Wow, you lot really are from the dark ages, aren’t you?” Lesley said, ignoring Dennis’s pinched expression. “A group of colleagues shares a house and you’re all imagining soft porn.”

  “Sorry, boss,” muttered Mike.

  “I want open minds about these people. I don’t care that you lot don’t take to folks from the outside world. Yes, one of them could be our killer. But they might not. Archie might just have pissed off a local farmer and—”

  “Come on, boss,” said Dennis. “It’s wise to have an open mind about rural communities too, I think. Including the farming community.”

  Lesley licked her lips. The sergeant had a point. She’d never met a farmer in her life, and she was sure they had exactly the same propensity for violence as anybody else. Maybe.

  “OK,” she said. “So we need to know who else Archie had dealings with. We still don’t have a murder weapon, but I’m hopeful the post-mortem can narrow that down.”

  She remembered what Gail had told her about the pathologist. Hopeful was the right word. She would prefer confident.

  “We’ll regroup later today to look at other leads we can be following.” She jabbed her pen into Laila’s name. “But first I want to talk to the dig crew. Johnny, you find out who we’re dealing with here. I want names, professional backgrounds, relationships if possible. Do any of them have a record, you know the drill.”

  “Err….” Johnny looked at Dennis.

  “Mike normally does that kind of thing, boss,” said the sergeant. “Johnny comes out with me to do the interviews.”

  “Well we can give each of you lads an opportunity to stretch a different set of muscles, can’t we? “Lesley replied. She spotted Mike’s small smile.

  “Come on, you two. I want to get statements off these people before they’ve had too long to agree on a story. I’ll drive. Johnny, phone the sarge with information as soon as you have it.”

  “Will do, boss.” Johnny looked from her to Dennis. He was waiting for the DS’s permission, she realised.

  Lesley clapped her hands. “Let’s move, fellas! We may be in rural Dorset, but the clock ticks at the same pace it does everywhere else.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As they left her office, Lesley spotted PC Abbott at her desk. She called over.

  “PC Abbott, are you busy right now?”

  The constable turned in her chair, her gaze going from Lesley to Dennis and back again. “Well, I’m... but I can be available, if you need me.”

  “Good. You have access to a squad car?”

  “Yes.”

  “You go with Mike here. I’ll drive the sergeant.”

  “Mike?” PC Abbott asked.

  Mike Legg gave the PC a pointed look and pointed at himself, drilling his finger into his chest.

  “DC Legg, Constable,” Dennis told her.

  “Of course. Sorry. Yes, give me five minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later they’d left the Wareham bypass behind and were on the A351 heading towards Corfe Castle. The road was flanked by wide fields filled with gorse. Clouds sat low on the horizon ahead but right here, the sun was out.

  Lesley wasn’t used to being able to see the weather approaching. It made her uneasy.

  “Why did you want PC Abbott to bring her panda car?” Dennis asked. “Surely we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “It’ll bring the neighbours out. Can you imagine, a narrow street like that? We need all the eyewitness reports we can get.”

  “Surely we can achieve that by knocking on doors.”

  “I want them to know we’re taking this seriously.”

  They were approaching the castle. The sun was behind them and the ruins were illuminated, details of the battered walls picked out by the bright light. The road ran around its northern side, so close that it felt like the castle was on top of them. As they climbed the hill into the village, the sergeant’s phone rang.

  “Frampton… yes… good… OK… that should make things simple… Thanks.”

  “That was Johnny,” he told Lesley. “There are – were – just four permanent staff on the dig, supplemented by a revolving crew of students.”

  “Names?”

  “Archie and Laila we already know about. The head honcho is a woman called Crystal Spiers. And there’s a fella called Patrick Donnelly. All living at the same address.” He gave her a pointed look but didn’t mention communes. “Johnny wanted to know what else he should be getting on with.”

  Lesley turned to him. They were entering what looked like a former market square, stuck behind a car that was attempting to reverse into a parking space. The old guy at the wheel looked harassed.

  “Surely Johnny can work that out for himself?” she said.

  “He can. But you’ve been giving the orders so far. I wanted to be sure we were doing what you wanted.”

  The car finally made it into the space and Lesley pressed down on the accelerator. She wasn’t sure which was more frustrating: the leisurely Dorset traffic, or her even more leisurely colleagues.

  “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”

  “We know about the dig team. We still don’t know i
f the deceased had family, or if there were any personal or professional issues back home.”

  “Bingo.” She turned once again into West Street car park. She had a feeling she was going to become familiar with this place. “Give him a quick call and make sure he’s not twiddling his thumbs, will you Dennis? While you go and get us a parking ticket.”

  “You’ll need to join the National Trust,” he said as he opened the car door.

  “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

  “They own most the car parks on Purbeck. Beaches, too. It was bequeathed to them along with the castle.”

  “Someone owned all this?”

  He gestured back towards the castle. “Bankes family. Local legends, or at least one of their ancestors is.”

  She screwed up her nose. “They just gave it away?”

  “Would you want the bill for upkeep of that place?”

  “I thought that was the whole point. Ruined castle.”

  “I’ll educate you one day.” He left the car.

  “Please don’t,” she muttered. She got out of the car and walked to the squad car. It was parked on a verge: PC Abbott had no need for parking tickets or National Trust membership.

  “I’m afraid there was nowhere to park outside the house, Ma’ am,” the constable said. “Double yellows all the way along West Street. So we’ll have to leave it here.”

  Lesley surveyed the tourists leaving the car park for the castle. It was a Monday morning in term time and not one of them was under the age of sixty. Brightly coloured waterproofs, grey hair, tasteful jewellery. A few of them looked sidelong at the squad car but no one approached.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “This isn’t Chelmsley Wood.”

  “What’s Chelmsley Wood?” PC Abbott asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  DC Legg emerged from the squad car. Dennis returned with the parking permit. Lesley looked between them, wondering if she could pinch herself and go back home.

  “Come on then you lot,” she said. “We’ve got witnesses to interview.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Susan Weatherton ended the call, her heart racing.

  Tony wasn’t supposed to call her at home. He wasn’t supposed to call her when she was with her daughter. And mostly, he stuck to that rule.

  Today had been different.

  She clutched the phone to her chest and stepped inside through the patio doors, unaware of the rain that plastered her fringe to her forehead.

  “Mum! where’s my reading book?”

  Millie.

  Susan pushed down the guilt at allowing herself five minutes to step outside not only the house, but her role as a mum. She cleared her throat and shoved the phone into a drawer.

  “It’s right here, sweetie.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen.” The book was on the table, right next to her.

  Millie barrelled onto the room, the pigtails Susan had pulled her hair into already messy.

  “I’ll get into trouble.”

  “No, you won’t.” Susan grabbed the book and waved it at her daughter. “Where’s your bag?”

  Millie frowned. “I thought you’d know.”

  Susan pushed down her irritation. She pointed to the bag, which had been slung into a corner last night.

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  Susan smiled. Millie was eleven years old and in her final months at primary school. Sometimes she was like a teenager already, worldly and dismissive. But other times, like today, it was Reception class all over again.

  “Don’t forget your lunch,” Susan said. She nodded towards the lunch box on the counter.

  “Yeah.” Millie stuffed it into her rucksack, not caring that she’d be squashing the library book that had just been thrown in underneath it.

  “Ready?” Susan grabbed her keys. The school was a mile away, a pleasant walk through Clifton, one of Bristol’s most desirable suburbs. This house had belonged to Susan’s parents. Her husband Archie was always broke, he’d never have been able to put a roof over their heads. Despite having a good job at the university.

  At the thought of Archie, her gaze went to the drawer where she’d hidden her phone. Her thoughts switched to Tony, and her insides softened.

  She opened the drawer and plunged the phone into her skirt pocket. “Let’s go.”

  Millie paused at the mirror in the hall, trying in vain to straighten her hair.

  “Maybe I should do it the minute before we leave the house,” Susan said. But even that wouldn’t be enough. In reality, she should leave it till they were at the school gates, if she wanted her daughter to start the school day looking presentable.

  She opened the front door. Two men were walking up her path, wearing dark uniforms.

  Susan’s hand flew to her throat.

  “Hello?” she croaked. “Can I help you?”

  The older of the two policemen gave her a concerned look.

  She knew that look. She felt her stomach slide.

  Millie banged the front door shut. “Mum?”

  Susan grabbed the sleeve of her daughter’s cardigan, her eyes on the two police officers.

  “Is your name Susan Weatherton?”

  She nodded.

  “Is there any chance we can come in?”

  She looked up and down the street. Old Mr Gill next door would have spotted the police car parked a few doors along. He’d be at his front window, peering through those dusty lace curtains.

  “I have to get my daughter to school. We’re running late.”

  The constable’s eyes crinkled. His expression shifted from concern, to pity.

  Oh God.

  Susan’s grip on Millie’s cardigan tightened.

  “It’s about your husband, Mrs Weatherton. I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

  Susan could barely breathe. There was only one reason the police would come knocking at this time of day.

  She swallowed. “You’d better come in.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The archaeological dig team occupied a flat-fronted terraced cottage on West Street. The front wall of the building abutted the narrow pavement, where Lesley and Dennis now stood, occasionally having to move aside for passers-by, as they waited for someone to open the door.

  “Maybe there’s no one in,” suggested Dennis.

  Lesley pointed upwards. “I saw that curtain move when we got here.”

  “Right.” He hammered on the door.

  Lesley winced. The young woman they were here to see was a witness, for now. She’d been through an ordeal. And from what Lesley had seen of her yesterday, she was emotionally fragile.

  At last the door opened. Lesley gestured to Dennis, who held up his ID.

  “I’m DCI Clarke, this is DS Frampton,” she said. “You and I met yesterday.”

  Laila stared back at her. Her skin was less pale than it had been at the crime scene, but she still had an ethereal quality, with her flowing white-blonde hair and stick-thin limbs. If this woman had murdered her boyfriend, Lesley thought, then she’d never have been able to move him. It fitted with Gail’s theory.

  “How are you, Laila?” she asked.

  “Better. They discharged me quickly.”

  “Good. Can we come in?”

  Laila looked back inside the cottage, then back at the detectives. She shrugged. “Course.”

  “Thank you,” Dennis said. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Laila to move aside, then walked past her into the house. Lesley followed, her eyes on Laila’s face.

  Laila closed the front door and stood next to it, tugging at the sleeve of her floral blouse. “Sorry. It’s a bit...”

  The room looked tidy, to Lesley. A newspaper lay on the floor next to a threadbare green armchair and there was a half-finished plate of toast on the sofa. Apart from that, the room held just a narrow dresser and a low stool with books piled on it. There was no coffee table: no space. And no TV either.

  Lesley shunted around t
he sofa and took a seat on it. She shifted the plate of toast onto the stool of books. Dennis took the armchair. A door behind him led into a small kitchen and another doorway to the side had a steep flight of wooden stairs beyond it.

  “Cosy,” Dennis commented as he shuffled in his chair.

  Lesley patted the sofa next to her. Laila was still by the door, chewing her wispy hair.

  “We won’t bite,” Lesley said. “You can sit down.”

  Laila gave her a tight smile and perched at the other end of the sofa, next to Dennis’s chair. He picked up the newspaper, folded it and placed it on the arm of his chair. Lesley frowned at him.

  “They’re all out,” Laila said. “Crystal went down to the Rings. That’s the dig site. Patrick... I don’t know where Patrick is.”

  “That’s OK,” Lesley told her. “It’s you we wanted to talk to.”

  Laila gripped her sleeve tighter.

  “I know this is hard, Laila. But I need you to describe what happened yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you start by telling us why you were at the dig site?” Lesley nodded to Dennis who pulled out his notepad and started to write.

  “I wouldn’t normally be, on a Sunday.” Laila’s voice was shaky. “But I’d... I’d had an argument with Patrick.”

  “Patrick Donnelly?” Dennis asked.

  “Yes. I came home from the shops. He was in my room. Mine and Archie’s room. Going through things.” She sniffed. “He had a go at me about the mess.”

  “He had a go at you?” Lesley asked. “Not the other way round?”

  “You found him snooping in your room,” Dennis pointed out.

  Red spots had appeared on Laila’s cheeks. “I came back downstairs before he saw me. I made lots of noise so he’d know I was here, then I went back up. I didn’t want a confrontation.”

  “Had you seen Mr Donnelly going through your belongings before?” Lesley asked.

  “That’s just it. He wasn’t going through my stuff.”

  Dennis looked up. “You’ve just said...”

  “He was going through Archie’s things,” Lesley suggested. “Wasn’t he, Laila?”