BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns Page 7

  ‘Mum’s just popped out for a few minutes. She won’t be long.’

  ‘Who else is home, Karen?’

  ‘Just Paul and me. But we’re okay, honestly. Do you want a scone? Mum’s just made some and they’re lovely with her strawberry jam on.’

  Theresa looked around the room. Everything safely tucked away, with no apparent hazards, she noted. ‘No thanks, I’m going out for a meal tonight with my boyfriend. I can’t afford to ruin my appetite, can I?’

  Karen looked at her. ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘I think so. Otherwise he wouldn’t be my boyfriend. Where has your mum gone? Did she say?’

  ‘Not really. She just said that she had an important message to give to someone. She made sure the doors were locked.’

  ‘So, how has today gone? You’re looking a bit better. Did school go quite well?’

  ‘I think so. I was telling Mum I still think people are talking about me, but my form tutor talked to me again at lunchtime and I suppose I don’t feel as bad as I did.’ She paused. ‘It’s okay as long as I don’t think about it.’ She shuddered. ‘I held that hand, those bones. I could feel them, all cold and wet. And to think that the rest of the body was down there too. Ugh.’

  She didn’t cry. This was a first in Theresa’s experience.

  ‘Shall we go through and see your brother?’ she suggested.

  They walked through to the lounge to join Paul, who was intently watching the latest instalment of an adventure series on television. Without taking his eyes off the flickering screen he reached out and took a jam-covered scone from the plate Karen held out to him.

  ‘Are you okay, Paul?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, that’s alright then.’

  Karen rolled her eyes at Theresa. ‘He’s always like this when the telly’s on. It’s like talking to a robot.’

  Theresa looked around the room. It was the first time she’d been able to do so in the absence of one or other of the Freeman parents. Family photos were displayed prominently on several surfaces, along with a few ornaments. They all looked happy enough in the photos. They had always appeared to be a close-knit family when she’d talked to them, but was that just a careful deception? Had Jill, the mother, always been slightly distant? Even if that was the case, was it relevant to the reason why she, Theresa, was here? She would mention her concerns to her bosses, but she couldn’t see how her observations could affect the case.

  Ten minutes later she heard the front door open, and Jill’s head appeared in the lounge doorway. She put her hand to her mouth when she saw Theresa sitting with the children.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘You’re much earlier than usual.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jill. I’ve only been here a short while.’ Theresa gave the mother a reassuring smile. ‘They were safe. Karen is very sensible and knew what she had to do. You weren’t being negligent, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Even so, it must look bad.’

  ‘Compared to some of the things I’ve seen on my home visits? You have no idea. I said don’t worry, and I meant it.’

  ‘I only popped out to the shops for a few minutes.’

  ‘Okay. Karen’s looked after me, and even offered me scones and jam. You’ve been busy in the kitchen then?’

  ‘Yes. I took most of the afternoon off so that I could be here for when they came home from school. They usually go to friends’ houses for an hour or so, but I wasn’t sure that would be for the best at the moment. It’ll only be for this week, though.’

  She was calm again, Theresa noticed. She tried to remember what Jill did. It was something managerial, she was sure. That would explain how she regained her composure so quickly. What had she been doing when she went out? There were no shops anywhere near the street where Theresa had spotted her, and Karen had told her that her mother was out giving someone an important message. Why the change of story? Theresa was intrigued, but said nothing. It was probably not relevant, anyway. As Jill went to make a pot of tea, two pairs of eyes followed her. Both held doubt and suspicion.

  Chapter 9: Six Avenues

  Late Wednesday afternoon

  Sophie Allen and Barry Marsh stood in Dorchester Hospital’s Pathology laboratory looking down on two white examination benches. On the sterile surface of each bench a set of small skeletal remains were arranged. During the two years they had been working together, they had become used to visiting Benny Goodall on his home territory. They had seen numerous bodies in various states of decay spread out before them, but this was different. Two children. Each skeleton was complete, each a perfect example of a young human’s bone structure.

  ‘Well, Benny, is there anything more you can tell us, now you’ve had the scans done?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m still not certain. There are no definite marks, no healed fractures or lesions. No obviously suspicious scar marks that would indicate physical violence, but there are a few shadowy areas that I can’t quite make out. The girl’s cheekbones. The front of a couple of ribs on the boy. The problem is we don’t know how much these might be due to natural degeneration, with them being in the ground so long. It can’t be used as direct evidence that would stand up in court, it’s all too unreliable.’

  ‘What about their ages?’ asked Marsh.

  ‘We think they were both about seven when they died. A couple of forensic bone specialists have been in to see them, and they thought so too. Interestingly, they both also thought they might have been twins. Apparently there are clues in the shape of the skull and some joints. This is only conjecture, of course. The DNA profiles will provide definite proof and you won’t know the results of that until, when?’

  ‘Next week,’ Sophie replied, her eyes on the two skeletons. ‘So there’s nothing much for us to go on at the moment?’

  Goodall shook his head. ‘No. If they were murdered, it wasn’t down to any hard blows. And I don’t think they were badly mistreated, not over a prolonged period of time anyway. The bone density is good, so they were both well fed and probably had good general levels of fitness. If they were killed deliberately, it was due to soft tissue damage. But let’s face it, most child murder is by smothering, strangulation or the like. We can’t rule those out, nor can we rule out poisoning. What I mean is, the pathological evidence gives no direct clues as to the cause of death. Sorry.’

  Sophie didn’t reply. She was thinking about all those things that make a child’s life so special, so unique in the memory. Was there anyone alive who still mourned for these two poor souls, who still remembered them as infants and toddlers? She looked at Barry.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I feel it too.’

  She sighed. ‘Okay. You’ve done what you can, Benny. We should get going. We’ll need to think of other avenues that might lead us to their story.’ She reached out and, with a gloved finger, briefly touched the forehead of each skull in turn, as if making them a silent promise.

  * * *

  Back in the incident room, Rae Gregson had been working on a chart that listed the occupants of Finch Cottage, stretching back to the middle years of the twentieth century. Linked to it were similar charts that showed who had lived in the two neighbouring properties. This had been easy for the house to the west of the cottage: the couple still living there had owned the attractive, detached house since 1980, and had been very helpful in identifying many of the residents of Finch Cottage itself. They had never had a good view of the garden, though. Tall shrubs and trees close to the fence had always obscured their view. The list of residents for the cottage on the east side had several gaps. The chart for Finch cottage itself was nearly complete, but it had one yawning gap: a four month period at the start of 1995. The only thing the neighbours had been able to remember was that the occupiers during those few months were reclusive. They’d only met the mother twice and had seen children on just a couple of occasions. They’d assumed that the father worked away from
home.

  Rae’s task had not been made any easier by the fact that the estate agency that had handled the cottage rental had long since gone out of business. It had proved impossible to find any paperwork for that period. The people renting the property during those months had never registered on the voters’ roll. Council tax had, of course, been paid by the landlord. The knowledgeable neighbour had told Rae that she thought all administrative work for the property lettings had been carried out by the agency. The owners, whoever they’d been, would have known next to nothing about the occupants.

  Rae got up from her chair and walked to the window. She stared out through the trees, across the Weymouth Road to the large public car park opposite. There’s got to be a way around this, she thought. But what? She watched as a family crossed the road into the car park. The parents were loaded down with shopping bags, desperately trying to keep hold of their two children. Seeing the youngsters triggered a thought: maybe she should temporarily give up trying to trace the house’s occupants, and start work on the local schools. She would start with the local primary school. Rae reached for the phone.

  * * *

  ‘You’re asking a lot, aren’t you?’ The head teacher looked at Rae over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. ‘That’s a long time ago. There’s nobody left on the staff from those days, not even the school secretary.’

  ‘There’s a chance they might have been twins. That’s why we wondered if someone might remember. It might have stuck in someone’s mind. You wouldn’t still have any records dating back that far, would you?’

  ‘No. It probably predates the time when we computerised our data, so the records would have been on paper. Anyway, we’re not allowed to keep data that long, computerised or not. It would break the Data Protection Act, wouldn’t it? We get rid of it all every couple of years, which is what the law requires. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  As Rae left the office she was waylaid by the secretary. ‘You might want to speak to Tina Wroughton. She’s the senior dinner lady, and has been here for more than twenty years. She knows a lot of the children really well. It’s worth a try before you go. You’ll find her clearing up in the kitchens.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’ve probably got about ten minutes before she leaves.’

  Rae hurried across the small playground to the kitchen. She could hear the clatter of cutlery being sorted and put away.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Tina Wroughton? Hello?’

  A fair-haired lady in her late fifties came to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. Rae explained why she was there.

  Tina frowned. ‘Goodness, that was a long time ago and my memory isn’t what it was. But Pat, the secretary, was right. I suppose I have been here a long time. Probably too long. And I do get to know a lot of the kiddies. You can’t help it, serving up their lunches day after day. Clearing up the mess they leave.’ She laughed. ‘But twenty years ago? I’m not sure. Do you fancy a cup of tea? The kettle’s just boiled, and it might help to get my brain working.’

  They sat in the kitchen sipping from mugs, while Rae watched the frowns criss-crossing Tina’s face. At last she looked at Rae.

  ‘You know, I think there was. A boy and a girl. Twins. I couldn’t say how long ago, but it was ages. They were here, then they were gone. Very sudden, I think. That’s all I remember. George Bramshaw would have been headmaster at the time. He retired about five years ago. He might remember.’

  ‘Do you know if he lives locally?’

  ‘No. He moved back to Salisbury when he retired. It was where he came from originally. I suppose he’ll still be there.’

  Rae thanked Tina for the tea and information and left. Salisbury. It would be, wouldn’t it? She knew she’d end up back there one day, but it could have waited a bit longer, surely.

  * * *

  ‘So, as far as I can see we have six avenues open to us, though we’re still waiting for the results of three of them. That’s the children’s DNA, the skull and possible facial reconstruction, and the forensic examination of the grave area. That last one should be in soon I would think, though I don’t know what it will be able to tell us. Meanwhile, we have Rae’s chart of previous occupants, these poems and this retired head teacher, if he’s still around.’ Sophie was perched on the corner of a table, summarising the day’s developments.

  ‘He is, ma’am. I managed to track him down just now and phoned him. He’s available tomorrow morning. In Salisbury, where he lives.’

  ‘Can you take that, Rae? Phone the locals to let them know that you’re in town. Maybe do that just now? Didn’t you used to work in Wiltshire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sophie saw her expression. ‘Rae, if you’re not happy about it, I can get someone else to do it.’

  ‘No, ma’am. Leave it with me. I’ll be fine, honestly.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘Barry, can you chase up the forensic people? They should have sifted through all that soil by now. It’s Wednesday, for God’s sake. They’ve had the stuff since Saturday.’

  ‘It’s what you said, ma’am. It’s not a current case, so it’s probably been pushed further back in the queue. And I don’t think Dave Nash would have made that decision. Someone higher up decides the priorities.’

  ‘Well, if something doesn’t come in by the end of the week, I’ll start complaining. That leaves these poems.’ She pointed to the plastic wallet. ‘I’ve been thinking about them since we left the vicar’s house. I’ve been trying to recall the lessons I had at school on analysing poetry. In terms of their technique, I’d guess they’re competent at an amateur level, but aren’t the work of a serious poet.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Marsh.

  ‘They lack subtlety. They’re too . . . in your face. The most important thing for the writer was letting out his or her emotions, maybe after years of suppression. They had more of a therapeutic than a literary value. That’s my guess.’

  ‘But some of the words sound quite technical, ma’am.’

  ‘Arsenous in the second poem. Containing arsenic. Clever, I thought. Particularly as a counterpoint to sulphurous, which comes immediately before it. They’re certainly not written by an ignoramus, that’s obvious. The author is most definitely knowledgeable about poetry. And the imagery and feel is very twentieth century. Were they written by the person we’re looking for? I’d say yes, probably. The mention of rugs and parcels, death and babies. It’s just too close. So how do we go about using them?’ She paused, thinking. ‘Barry, can you identify any local poetry or writing groups? We’ll probably be looking for someone who was living on this side of Dorchester since they chose the local parish newsletter, but we can’t be absolutely sure. Someone middle-aged or older I’d guess, but not necessarily so.’

  Just then Theresa Jackson came into the room. She stood, rather nervously, just inside the door. Sophie beckoned to her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something for you only, ma’am,’ she said. She followed Sophie into her office, where she told her about Jill Freeman’s strange behaviour.

  ‘You were right to tell me, Theresa, and well spotted. It probably has no bearing on the case, though. In fact I can’t see how it can be connected. But you do need to bear it in mind, as the family liaison officer. If she’s seeing someone and it comes out into the open just now, with that young girl in such a state, you may have your work cut out. Do a check on the car registration so that we have it on record but don’t follow it up any further, okay? Please let me know if the situation changes.’

  As the young constable left the office, Sophie’s phone rang.

  It was Louisa Mugomba. Sophie listened carefully, asked a few questions, then replaced the handset. She stared at it for a while, then walked to the main incident room.

  ‘I’ve just had Louisa Mugomba on the phone,’ she told Barry and Rae. ‘And she’s come up with a real puzzler. She fed all the dimensions from both skulls into her software, and they indicate the strong possibility that the two children
were at least partly Asiatic. Apparently there are clues in the shape of the cheekbones. She warned me that some experts dispute that racial background can be accurately identified from the skull shape, but we now have to consider the fact that the children were not of European origin.’

  ‘But does that alter anything, ma’am?’ Rae asked.

  ‘Of course not. But if it’s also suggested by their DNA profiles, it may help us to identify them more easily. And that’s still our first priority. Once we know who they were, we can begin to puzzle out what happened to them.’

  Chapter 10: Salisbury

  Thursday morning

  Rae changed down a gear, rounded the tight bend and started the descent towards the village of Coombe Bissett, nestling cosily in the Ebble valley. She always thought Salisbury started here, with the cathedral spire visible even from this far away. It felt weird coming back. She’d spent almost a year in Salisbury, as a very unhappy, apparently male detective battling against the demons of gender dysphoria. She would have preferred to forget this part of her life, but here she was. Salisbury is one of the most beautiful cities in the country. The people are friendly and cheerful, showing that amiable, gentle approach to life that is so typical of the West Country. Rae’s feelings about the place were entirely due to her own history, and to the small-minded personality of one of her bosses. The man hadn’t even been local. ‘That tosspot from Swindon,’ as some of the local beat officers had described him. Where was he now? She’d heard that he’d moved on, and was a Chief Superintendent somewhere. God help the poor souls who worked under him.

  The traffic slowed to a crawl for the last mile or so, but the delay was almost worth it. The stunning bulk of the cathedral dominated the city centre and its glorious spire glinted in the morning sunshine. For me it even beats the nearby Stonehenge, thought Rae. This is the more perfect example of humanity’s creative genius.