TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense Read online

  ‘So when did you last see them, sir?’ Warrander asked. He saw a flicker cross Armitage’s face.

  ‘Sometime last week. Can’t remember exactly. I called round.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, the usual stuff. Were they okay, was I okay? And Mum lent me some cash. I needed a bit to tide me over.’

  ‘And this was after your sister went on holiday?’

  ‘Yeah. I didn’t see much of Dad. He spends most of his time in the garden. It’s his hobby. Can’t see the point, meself. Waste of bloody time.’ He laughed.

  ‘So was it the first week of your sister being away or the second? Try to remember.’

  Rod looked blank for a moment. ‘Probably the first week. Mebbe near the start?’

  Probably a day deliberately chosen if he was cadging money from his parents, Warrander speculated. It would maximise the time between the cash being borrowed and his sister returning, with him hoping that his mother wouldn’t mention it to her, or possibly even to his father. That had probably been the truth of it. But at least Rod had been honest enough to tell him about the loan. He could have kept quiet about it and who would have known?

  ‘Did you phone? Did you speak to them last week?’

  There was a telling pause. ‘Don’t think I did. Too busy, wasn’t I?’

  Warrander nodded. ‘What do you do, Mr Armitage?’

  ‘General stuff. I help out my mates when they need an extra hand. You know, a bit of labouring, some painting and decorating for my Uncle Pete. He's got a decorating business. I never got any qualifications, see. Waste of time, I think.’ Rod looked across at the young constable.

  ‘I’m not judging you, Mr Armitage. I’m just trying to build a picture that might help us to trace your parents. As you say, they’re probably fine. But we can’t afford to take any chances, can we?’

  Rod shook his head, then took another swig from the beer can that sat on the table in front of him. ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve already reported it to my boss as a potential missing persons case. It’ll be up to her as to what happens next. She’ll probably already be at your parents’ house talking to your sister. I expect you’ll be needed again so don’t hide away, will you?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Rod looked mystified.

  ‘I was only joking, Mr Armitage. Is there anything else you think I should know about? Anything out of the ordinary that you can remember?’

  Rod shrugged. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘I’ll be getting back to the bungalow then. You’ll hear from us as soon as we find out anything. Okay? Call us if you remember anything that might be important. Are you likely to be out most daytimes?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m working for my uncle at the moment.’

  Warrander made his way out of the tiny apartment and into the outside world. It was pleasant to be in the fresh air, even with its slight misty drizzle, after the stale, slightly foetid atmosphere in the flat. Who would have thought that the neat and efficient Dr Giroux would have a brother who appeared to be such a total waster?

  * * *

  Warrander had a few minutes to chat to his sergeant, Rose Simons, before he went off duty.

  ‘She’s a bit up herself, isn’t she?’ Rose said.

  ‘I didn’t think so. She’s a GP remember, boss, and has two young children. That’s a lot for anyone to cope with.’

  ‘Hmm, you might have a point. I reckon the brother’s probably right, though. The chances are that they’re off somewhere, gallivanting around the country or gone to London to see a show and decided to stay over. Why anyone would stay in a backwater like this when they could be off enjoying themselves beats me. I’d be off like a shot if I wasn’t tied to this sad excuse for a job and to my snotty-nosed kid. I pray every weekend that my lottery ticket comes up. Never happens though.’

  He chose not to answer. Whatever he said, he’d be walking into a potential minefield. Sergeant Rose Simons could sometimes be a cynic of the first order, and he thought it wise to refrain from comment when she was in a mood like this. Better to remain silent.

  ‘So where do we go from here, boss?’

  ‘A couple of detectives from the illustrious Missing Persons Department will turn up tomorrow morning. They’ll look at our reports, drink some tea, visit those two peculiar offspring, drink some more tea, go to the pub, then piss off back to headquarters. More importantly they’ll take this case off our hands completely. With a bit of luck the parents will turn up before things get too heavy. Then I can go back to thinking about my long overdue lottery win.’ She winked at him.

  George Warrander was not much impressed with his boss’s attitude, but he knew better than to mention it. She was a good copper underneath the bravado. Or was it just that nothing very challenging ever happened in this sleepy little town?

  CHAPTER 2: Bad Moon Rising

  Tuesday, Week 1

  Sharon Giroux had been reassured by the attitude of the young PC — what was his name? Warrander? She had been less impressed by his superior, the world-weary sergeant. And as for the duo of detectives interviewing her this morning, well, they didn’t appear to be taking her concerns seriously at all.

  ‘We deal with missing persons cases a lot,’ stated the overweight detective sergeant, Stu Blackman, nibbling at his third biscuit. They were meeting in her office at the medical centre during a late morning lull, after her pre-noon surgery sessions had finished and before she started her house calls. ‘I can reassure you that there’s nothing to worry about. Everything points to them having gone away somewhere, what with the passports not being in the house.’

  ‘But they never take the car when they plan to fly anywhere, not that they’ve been abroad for ages. Mum hates flying and Dad hates airport car parks. The few times they’ve done it, they’ve gone to the airport by train or bus or even taxi.’

  ‘Maybe they booked the car onto the shuttle. They’ve gone to France on the train using the tunnel. That would have solved your mum’s flying worries, wouldn’t it?’ This was the junior detective, Phil McLuskie, older, thinner and seemingly more alert than his boss. Why was he still only a detective constable? Sharon mused. His skin had a slightly yellow sheen to it, probably jaundiced, she thought. Heavy drinker, maybe? She was glad she’d slipped into the jacket of her dark business suit just before she’d greeted the two men. The eyes of the older detective were all over her.

  ‘Look, why do I keep having to convince you people? You’re coming up with guesswork all the time. These are my parents. I know them. I know what they do and what they don’t do. And I can absolutely assure you that they wouldn’t do any of the things you’ve suggested without letting me know. They would have phoned me or sent a text message. And there’s the other thing. When they have gone abroad, they’ve taken their passports and medical cards but they leave that pink plastic wallet behind. It’s too big, too awkward. So why is it missing?’

  McLuskie shrugged. ‘Maybe they were in a hurry.’

  ‘There you go again. Everything I bring up that doesn’t fit with the way they do things, you just shrug and say, well it could be this reason or that reason, because other people may have done things that way. But these aren’t other people. They are my parents and I know the way they do things. And nothing fits.’ She paused. ‘Are you treating their house as a potential crime scene? Have you arranged for fingerprinting?’

  Blackman pursed his lips. ‘I have to be convinced a crime’s been committed before we arrange for that, and we’re not there yet. There’s no sign of a forced entry of any kind. Your parents had a safety chain at the front door. How could anyone have got in against their will? And anyway, what would be the motive? They weren’t wealthy, were they? You’ve said that yourself.’

  Sharon shook her head. ‘This is mad. Something has happened to my parents, I can assure you of that, and I’m deeply worried.’

  ‘Your brother isn’t,’ Blackman said.

  ‘He’s clueless,
as you should have worked out by now. He wouldn’t recognise a problem if it was staring him in the face. I told the uniformed lot I spoke to last night, you can ignore anything he says. It’ll all be unreliable and made up on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Are you implying he might know more than he’s letting on?’

  She was aware that he was watching her carefully. ‘Christ, no. I can’t stand the little toerag, but even he wouldn’t harm them in any way. He’s not that bad.’

  ‘At least you don’t think he is,’ added McCluskie.

  ‘Oh God, this is getting ridiculous. Is this the best you can do? Treat me as if I’m some kind of irrational obsessive worrying over nothing, then when you do start thinking that I might have a point, you home in on the easiest target imaginable? I don’t believe it.’ She held her head in her hands. ‘Rod is too stupid to have done something and left no clue, trust me. He’s totally inept when it comes to using his brain. In fact I sometimes wonder whether he actually has one. He doesn’t even drive. Last time he tried, he crashed the learner car into a parked van, a telegraph pole and a wall. The instructor refused to take him out again.’ She paused to gather breath. ‘And why would he do anything to them? They’re not insured for any massive sum.’

  ‘What about the house? Would he inherit half of that?’ Blackman asked.

  ‘Yes he would, but I told you. He might annoy me to bits, but he’s not that evil, for pity’s sake.’ She shook her head in frustration and looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Look, I have to start my house calls in a few minutes and I need to go to the loo first. Please take me seriously. Think over what I’ve said, and do something.’

  They left and she sank back into her chair, wanting to scream.

  * * *

  ‘You’re looking miserable, Rod. Too much of the old wacky baccy and booze last night?’

  Rod Armitage stopped in his task of sanding down the old window frame and looked across at his temporary employer and uncle, Pete Armitage, a local painter and decorator. Should he tell Pete what he really thought of his job? He hated any form of systematic work with a vengeance but had always tried to hide this fact from Pete, who’d proved to be a reliable source of work when he, Rod, had ever needed some extra cash. The additional money was useful, particularly since he’d managed to rupture relations with most of the other local builders and decorators through no real fault of his own. It was just unrealistic for them to expect him to start work at such god-awful times in the morning and he’d let them know his opinion in no uncertain terms. Pete had been the only one who’d been adaptable enough to allow him some flexibility, permitting him to start an hour or two after everyone else. He even let Rod finish work early if he needed to, although even he’d been a bit grumpy about it recently. Why couldn’t bosses be more flexible? That’s all he wanted, a bit of adaptability. He despised rigidity. Take life as it comes, that was his motto. Even Pete had never understood his point of view when it had been offered. ‘Can’t run a business like that, Rod,’ he’d said. ‘When people hire me they want the work done quickly and at prearranged times. I can’t just turn up to start a job when I feel like it. My reputation would go down the pan right away and the business would fold. Good quality work, on time, quick and efficient, that’s the way I keep my head above water. It’s a cut-throat business nowadays with all the overheads being so high.’

  Rod finally responded to Pete’s overture. ‘It’s that bloody sister of mine. She’s been having a go again. She’s only gone and got the police in because Mum and Dad weren’t at home when she got back from holiday. Stupid cow. They’ve obviously gone away for a few days but she can’t stand the fact that they did it without telling her. She says it’s all my fault for not keeping an eye on them. She bossed me around as a kid and is still trying to do it now.’

  Pete frowned and rubbed his nose, his dark eyes glaring at Rod. ‘You shouldn’t talk about Sharon like that. She’s as much my niece as you are my nephew, and I think a lot of her. We’re all working class folk and she’s done brilliantly to get herself where she is. She’s never let me and my family down in anything. You ought to be proud of her instead of running her down. If she’s worried about your parents, then maybe you should show a bit more concern. Ted’s my brother, for God’s sake. I had no idea that he and Sylvia had gone missing.’

  Pete asked more questions about the missing couple but Rod had become even surlier. Suddenly he put down his sander, turned tail and stalked off. Pete was left scratching his head in bewilderment. His nephew was fast becoming totally unemployable. He’d only agreed to take him on as a favour to his sister-in-law, who was worried that her son’s life was disintegrating into a shambolic mess of drink and drugs. His standard of work was, at best, mediocre and his attitude was often surly and uncooperative, as it had been this morning. Well, if Rod didn’t return before the morning was out, that would be his job over. He’d walked out once too often, leaving Pete in the lurch. He looked at his watch. Maybe he should give Sharon a call to get the facts. It wasn’t like Ted and Sylvia to wander off without telling anyone.

  * * *

  Back at the local police station the two detectives investigating the disappearance of the Armitage couple were checking flight records and ferry bookings. So far nothing had shown up but it was early days, and they’d only examined details for fairly local points of departure: the airports at Bournemouth, Southampton and Bristol, and the ferry terminal at Poole. Even so, Phil McCluskie, the older of the two, was mildly surprised. He was midway through checking recent departures from the larger airport at Gatwick and still nothing had shown up, nor had there been any car park bookings made in the couple’s name. He would have expected something by now if they had gone abroad. If nothing showed up at Gatwick, then that really only left London’s main airport at Heathrow, and the daughter had assured them that her father would never fly from there, having had luggage vanish on a trip some decades earlier, never to be seen again. It tended to point to his original feeling, that they’d gone for a short break within the UK.

  His boss, the wheezing Detective Sergeant Stu Blackman, thought otherwise. ‘Abroad,’ he’d stated, as if it was a concrete fact. ‘Or an internal flight. The passports are missing. It’ll be one or the other. Trust me.’

  McCluskie sighed. Trust in the judgement of this overweight joke of a DS who temporarily headed up the unit? Who was he kidding? Christ, he needed a drink. He imagined the warming bite of whisky trickling down the back of his throat. He’d have to do something soon, maybe see a doctor. He’d noticed the way Sharon Giroux had looked at him when they’d spoken to her earlier at her surgery. She’d probably spotted the signs and had already written him off as a waste of space. No wonder she’d seemed angry. Two detectives assigned to the case, one with a drink problem and the other as mentally sharp as a pigeon. He turned back to the job in hand, completing the Gatwick check. Nothing.

  * * *

  Sharon Giroux opened her front door, entered, dropped her keys onto the nearby shelf and her bag on the hall floor. ‘Hi,’ she called. ‘I’m home.’ She sniffed the air and the welcoming smell of her husband’s chicken casserole.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ he replied. ‘Cup of tea ready for you, my sweet.’

  She walked through and hugged the tall, dark-haired man wearing a crimson apron. ‘Pierre, you’re the perfect man to come home to after one hell of a day.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you madly. The children?’

  He waved a spoon in the direction of the doorway to his left. ‘In the study, doing their homework. At least that’s what they claimed to be doing when I checked last.’ He set the spoon down and poured out two mugs of tea. ‘Any news?’

  Sharon shook her head. ‘Nothing. Two detectives came to interview me this morning and when they went away I felt more despondent than before. To say I was unimpressed by them would be an understatement. Let’s hope they’re more thorough and open-minded than they appeared to be.’ She sighed and sipped her tea. ‘Uncle Pet
e called me this afternoon. Rod had told him about Mum and Dad, and he was worried. He agrees with me. It’s just not the kind of thing they do, disappearing like that without telling anyone. With me not around, one of them would have told him, that’s what he says. He saw them the day after we went on holiday, apparently. He called round with some paint that Dad had asked him for. They never mentioned the possibility of going away to him. In fact, the exact opposite. Dad told him how much he wanted to get done in the garden before the weather gets too warm. All his bedding plants were ready to go out, he said. I think I might go round again tomorrow afternoon to check on that, to see if he’d transplanted them. He wouldn’t have gone away and left them, not Dad. You know how keen he always is to have the best flower display in their street.’

  Pierre frowned and shook his head. ‘I took a walk around there this afternoon. There are no summer flowers out in the front garden yet, just the spring ones.’ He put his arm around his wife. ‘This is a puzzle. You are right to be worried, ma chérie.’

  * * *

  George Warrander, the uniformed officer who had first called on Sharon the previous evening, slid his mobile phone back into his pocket. He’d just called the missing persons unit and was disappointed that the inquiry seemed no further forward than when he’d first logged the disappearance with the official channels. He walked across to Rose Simons who had just appeared in the station foyer, ready to go out in response to a reported pub brawl.

  ‘There’s still no information about that missing couple, Sarge. The tecs haven’t found anything yet.’

  Rose turned to face him. ‘Will you just give it a rest? I told you to leave it to the unit, and I meant it. We’ve handed it on to CID and they make the decisions now. It’s not our problem anymore, so forget it, will you? You, Georgie Warrander, need to learn when to let go. Now, let’s go out and catch us some lowlife.’ She pretended to sniff the air. ‘Bad moon rising. Hang on to your six-shooter, deputy. This could be a real showdown.’