Suspicion Points Read online

  SUSPICION POINTS

  A Detective Novel

  By

  Joanna Stephen-Ward

  Popham Gardens Publishing

  November 2013

  Copyright © Joanna Stephen-Ward 2013

  The right of Joanna Stephen-Ward to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  This book is dedicated to three special people:

  Kerry Conroy my sister

  Ethel Curnow my aunt

  Peter my husband

  1

  APRIL 2008

  Saturday Morning

  ROBERT

  The phone began to ring as I opened the front door. Apart from a wrong number there would only be two reasons for a phone call after midnight – a family emergency or a crime. In spite of the grim options I was grateful for the distraction.

  I picked up the phone. ‘Trevelyan.’

  It was a murder. There had been an arson attack on a house and a man and his baby son were dead. I wrote down the address and went back to my car to pick up Sharon. No, not Sharon anymore. Detective Inspector Richardson. Her recent promotion had destroyed any chance we had of being friends. It had changed her from being endearing and comradely to someone who was domineering and bossy. Four of us had applied. Sharon was the only woman. Despite the fact that I was sure she’d been given the job because of her gender, I’d tried to be gracious about her success, but she’d immediately made it clear that she was in charge and I had to obey her orders.

  If neither of us had been promoted, we could have been friends even though our backgrounds were very different. When she’d told me she’d grown up on a sink-estate I’d been amazed. She wasn’t ashamed of her East End background, and she spoke grammatically and clearly with a wide vocabulary. Her honesty was one of the reasons I had admired her.

  We’d both moved to Cornwall two years ago. She’d moved three months before I had, and was well on the way to establishing herself where we worked. She had helped me settle in by introducing me to the rest of the staff, explaining the dynamics, and making sure I was included in the invitations to the pub after work.

  When I got to the car I took the street directory off the back seat and looked up the directions to her house in St Austell. As I put the car into gear it struck me that even going to a murder scene with Sharon was preferable to spending a sleepless night in Dolphin Cottage. An empty house in suburban London or an empty cottage in Cornwall overlooking the sea – the feeling was the same. Until three years ago I’d never lived alone and had sometimes wondered what it would be like. Now I knew. It was depressing. No matter how attractive I had made the inside of the cottage and no matter how beautiful the view, the atmosphere of desolation was always present.

  Sharon looked pale and exhausted when I arrived, but I knew any comment from me, however well meaning, would be met with an acerbic reply. Her house was small, and when we were on friendly terms she’d told me that it had two bedrooms and a patio garden and had cost less than her tiny one bedroom flat in Hackney. I wondered if she would buy something bigger now she was earning more money.

  ‘I suspect this is a random arson attack,’ I said as I started the car.

  ‘Let’s talk to the neighbours before jumping to conclusions,’ she said sharply.

  When we arrived at Farrier Way the ambulance was just leaving. The firemen told us that from the seat and spread of the fire it was clear that an accelerant had been used. Someone had pushed rags soaked in turpentine or petrol through the letterbox. The neighbours had all gone to the last house in the row. The street was attractive with terraced houses on both sides. It was surrounded by forest and looked as if the houses had been built in a clearing. Trees and hedges in the front gardens mostly screened the windows on the ground floor from the houses opposite, but anyone looking from an upstairs window might have seen something.

  Sharon and I went to the end house to interview the neighbours. There were six of them in the basement kitchen. I could tell from Sharon’s expression that she took an immediate dislike to them. I hoped she wouldn’t antagonize them.

  2

  SHARON

  In their luxurious dressing-gowns they all looked as if they were at a nightwear party. If we hadn’t been in a kitchen in Cornwall the four younger ones could have been backstage at a fashion show in London or Paris waiting to parade on the catwalk.

  I thought about how my mum and dad would look if they’d been dragged from their beds in the middle of the night. Dad wouldn’t have his teeth in, he’d be smoking and have bad breath and a hangover. He’d have grabbed his cigarettes and left his teeth behind. Mum’s dressing-gown would be shabby and too short and she’d either be barefoot or in flip flops showing her yellowing toenails and bunions. She’d have bad breath too, but not from smoking. It was from poverty and decayed teeth because she couldn’t find an NHS dentist.

  My parents were in their fifties. So was the woman who owned this house. And she looked twenty years younger than they did. She hadn’t told us her age, but said she’d lived in this house since she got married thirty years ago. I tagged her as the socialite. Nicknames help me remember the witnesses and suspects. When we arrived she busied herself making tea.

  ‘Sorry there’s no coffee, but it gives me migraines. I love the smell so much if I made it for anyone else I’d give in to temptation and suffer agony for the next three days.’

  I hate tea so I asked for a glass of water.

  ‘Still or fizzy?’ she asked.

  ‘Just out of the tap, please.’

  ‘Would you like a slice of lemon in it?’

  As much as I felt like reminding her that this was a murder investigation not a party I made myself smile and say, ‘No thanks.’ I finally got my water.

  She put a tin of chocolate biscuits on the table. Even if my mum had a packet of digestives in the cupboard she wouldn’t have thought about the social niceties.

  For the first hour I let Robert do things his way, so I could prove to him that his soft tactics were a waste of time. And as I had been deeply asleep when the call had come, I felt sluggish. I’m not one of those lucky people who can survive on four hours sleep a night. I need at least eight. A cup of coffee would have made me feel more awake, but I’d only had time to pull on my clothes, splash water on my face and comb my hair before Robert arrived.

  ‘How did you get here so quickly?’ I’d asked.

  ‘I’d only just got home when the phone rang. Were you asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’ The admission made me feel boring. I wondered where Robert had been. Out to dinner with a girlfriend? With a group of friends? In his bottle-green cords, black brogues, tweed jacket over a jumper and thick cotton check shirt he looked like a country gentleman. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d turned up in a dinner-jacket. He seemed the type to go to posh balls, parties and society weddings. He supported the ban on fox hunting, otherwise I would have put him down as a hunting, shooting and fishing type.

  Robert started off with a friendly chat. We’re just here to make sure you’re all okay and not traumatized by the fire, approach. He maintained it was the fastest way to get information without asking questions. Treat them like innocents and their guard will drop. Once you’ve gained their trust they won’t see the traps you set.

  During that
hour we’d learned that the two blokes, who looked about thirty, were clothes designers. That didn’t surprise me. Their hair was perfectly groomed and they wore silk dressing-gowns and pyjamas and leather slippers. Neither had stubble on their faces. Were they so vain that they had shaved, combed their hair and slapped on aftershave when the firemen told them to leave their houses? One had lived in Cornwall all his life. The other one was French. They had a shop in town and were married to the two girls. That mystified me. I’d have sworn the two blokes were homosexuals. The socialite was a widow. I wondered what had happened. Cancer? Accident? Or had he been a lot older than her?

  Robert looked at ease with them. They were his sort. All comfortable and smug. They’d eat their five portions of fruit and vegetables a day. They’d shun the smokers standing outside pubs and preach about lack of willpower and lung cancer. I bet this lot never had to worry about being evicted because they couldn’t afford their mortgage repayments.

  One of the girls called Robert ‘Inspector’. His pause was deliberate and I cut in with, ‘I’m Inspector Richardson. This is Sergeant Trevelyan.’

  Even though there were eight of us in the basement kitchen it wasn’t crowded. There was a table and chairs in the middle and units with granite worktops around the perimeter. Although the style was simple I knew it was expensive. I’d seen stuff like this four years ago when I was doing up the kitchen of my flat in Hackney. Even at heavily discounted prices I couldn’t afford them.

  The socialite started fussing over the pregnant girl who was French. She looked it too. Roses were embroidered on the lapels of her pink satin dressing-gown, and her slippers were burgundy velvet. Suspended from the pearls around her neck was a ruby and diamond cross. They could have been chips of glass, but she looked the sort who wouldn’t wear fakes. The lace hem of her nightdress was visible. Her dark hair was cut in a gamine style and her ivory skin was smooth. Even at seven months pregnant she looked wonderful. Expectant mothers are supposed to glow, but she more than glowed.

  I’ve never glowed in my life. If I was ever pregnant my hair would be sure to fall out and my skin would probably break out in a rash.

  Even the old lady was glamorous. Her grey hair shone and her towelling dressing-gown was snowy white and looked new. She kept asking, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t faulty wiring?’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ said Robert. ‘The fire was lit deliberately.’

  ‘What’s happening to the world?’ she moaned.

  Same thing that’s always happened, I thought. Hate, jealousy, human nature and greed.

  No one looked upset. I wondered what Robert, with his passion for instinct, gut feelings and psychology, made of that. There were ten houses on this side of the street and I wanted to know where the rest of the neighbours were.

  ‘The two places for sale,’ I asked, after being told that two of the families were on holiday. ‘Are they empty?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the socialite. ‘They’ve both gone into homes – they were elderly.’

  Thanks for that, I thought. Why else would they go into a home? ‘Did you like them?’

  ‘Yes. We visit them. We were terribly sad, but they’re better off in a home.’

  ‘I meant the victims. The ones who burnt to death,’ I snapped.

  Robert winced. Before he could smooth things over I repeated my question.

  ‘Well,’ began the socialite. ‘They hadn’t been here long.’

  Even Robert picked up on the evasion. ‘What were they like?’ he asked with a smile.

  She bit her lip. ‘They didn’t really fit in.’

  He looked as if he understood. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, these houses are . . . they wanted to do awful things. They were going to chop down the tree in the front garden because they didn’t want bird mess on their car.’

  Who does want bird mess on their car? I couldn’t understand their outrage, but at least we were getting somewhere.

  The socialite continued. ‘And they were going to dig up the yew tree hedge in the front. We told them it was at least a hundred years old, and Bridget said, “It’s about time it came out then”.’

  Bridget. Interesting. The fireman had told us that two bodies had been found. One was a man. The other was a boy aged about two. He had been in a cot in the smallest bedroom. The fire brigade had been called at thirty minutes past midnight on Saturday morning, so I’d assumed the man was separated or divorced, and had custody of his child at weekends.

  ‘What was the man’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘Declan Murphy,’ said the socialite. ‘I can’t remember the baby’s name . . . something Irish, I think.’

  ‘Were Bridget and Declan a couple?’ Robert asked.

  ‘They are . . . were married,’ said the socialite.

  The pregnant girl yawned. Her husband touched her arm. Something about the gesture struck me as being wrong, but I didn’t know why.

  The French clothes designer spoke. ‘They have no taste. They were going to have that . . . LVC, is it?’

  ‘UPVC,’ said the socialite.

  ‘Yes, that, and new doors and windows. We told them the houses were listed so they would not be able to put in one of those hideous doors.’

  ‘They checked and found it wasn’t true,’ said the old lady.

  Good for them, I thought.

  ‘And they were going to concrete over their front garden so they had room for their cars,’ said the French girl.

  The old lady looked disgusted. ‘They’ve only got one car, but they were going to get another one.’

  ‘What a terrible thing,’ I said.

  They were unaware of my sarcasm. Robert wasn’t, of course. He deplored my methods. I deplored his. It was one of the many differences between us.

  ‘You said they were going to,’ he said. ‘Did they actually do any of it?’

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ said the Cornish clothes designer.

  Was the motive for this murder because new neighbours, of the wrong class, wanted to modernize their house? Having doors and windows that didn’t let in draughts made sense to me. I had bought a house that already had replacement windows and doors in UPVC. Who wants freezing wind blowing through cracks?

  ‘We’re all into gardens here,’ said the socialite. ‘We’re members of the RHS.’

  ‘RHS?’ I asked.

  ‘Royal Horticultural Society. We’ve tried to get the houses to go to people with the same interest.’

  ‘My house belonged to my great-aunt,’ said the girl who was married to the Frenchman. ‘Unfortunately the old man next door to us had no close relatives and when he died Bridget and Declan bought it before we could ask our friends or advertise it at the RHS.’

  ‘We were terribly lucky with Phoebe and Stuart,’ the socialite chipped in. ‘We didn’t know them before, but they’re delightful – and they love gardening and nature.’ She sounded as if this was a neighbourly gathering for morning tea.

  ‘Who are Phoebe and Stuart?’ I asked.

  ‘They live next door to Bridget and Declan,’ said the socialite. ‘She’s a writer and he’s an artist.’

  I tried and failed to sound friendly. ‘And where are they now?’

  ‘At a party.’

  I looked at my watch. It was four-thirty in the morning. ‘A party?’

  ‘At the commune – it’s not a commune really, but we call it that because – ’

  ‘Mrs . . . ’ I checked my notebook. I’d forgotten her name already.

  ‘Call me Alice,’ she said, looking as if she was doing me a favour.

  Robert said, ‘Is that the commune at Pengelly House?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘It caused quite an upset in the beginning, but that was before we got to know them. We were all at the party.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said the old lady. ‘I was invited, but it’s my sister’s birthday.’

  ‘I left just before midnight,’ said Alice.

  ‘We left earlier,’ said the Frenchman. ‘At eleven. F
leur was tired so we came home.’

  I wondered if all the information they were giving was suspicious or if they were just people who talked too much. Perhaps they thought that every detail of their lives was fascinating.

  ‘The party was for Phoebe – her first book’s about to be published,’ said the socialite.

  Gritting my teeth and wanting to put a stop to all the social chat, I looked at my notes and addressed the Frenchman. ‘You raised the alarm?’

  ‘No, no. I was in bed asleep and the doorbell – it ring . . . like someone was needing help. They kept their finger on it until I answered. It was a man and he was shouting about the house next to us being on fire. Then he ran off and I ring the fire brigade. They came quick. They said to get out of our houses, the ones that were near the fire, so we came down to this one . . . it being the furthest away.’

  The front door was open. One of the firemen called out. I ran up the stairs and went down the hall to the front door. He told me the fire was out and that it was safe for people to return to their houses. Before they left we gave out our contact details.

  Then Robert said, ‘If there’s anything you remember please get in touch immediately. Because it’s so late there are bound to be things you’ve forgotten. Even if you think it might be trivial, it could be an important clue.’

  It was almost five o’clock when Robert and I went out to his car.

  As we were doing up our seat belts I said, ‘Married or not, those clothes designer blokes are poofs.’ His expression was predictable. ‘Oh dear. Have I offended your politically correct sensibilities, Sergeant?’

  He didn’t reply. His silence needled me. He needled me. He was a mystery. A well built, tall, gorgeous bloke with thick chestnut hair and hazel eyes. He rarely smiled and he never made conversation just for the sake of it.