TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense Page 8

  Russell nodded nervously, looking confused.

  ‘You see, I think we do pay you enough. I think we’re more than generous when you take everything into account. Wages, bonuses, loyalty rewards. It all adds up, Jimmy. You earn more here than a brainless gimboid like you could expect anywhere else.’ Sorrento paused. ‘I had a look round the area where you live earlier. A bit grubby, isn’t it? I hear you’ve got debts with one of the local dealers. That’s not a direct problem for us, Jimmy, but it explains why you’ve been palming off some of our money.’ He leant across the desktop and pointed his finger a few inches from Russell’s face. ‘I fucking hate thieves. Fucking vermin. Even worse, druggy thieves. Sewer rats. How much, Jimmy? We reckon that it’s about two and a half grand. I want it back, so you’ve still got a job for the next few months while you pay us what you’ve thieved. Don’t even think about doing a runner because I’ll find you and I’ll break both your legs. What you do when the debt’s paid is up to you, but until then you’re mine. Understood?’

  All the remaining colour had drained from Russell’s face. He said nothing.

  ‘Oh, and that dealer who you owe? I had a quiet word with him and he won’t be bothering you for a couple of months. He might come looking for his cash after that, but that’s between you and him. He might look like a tough nut to you, Jimmy, but he’ll do exactly what I tell him. Now get out of my fucking sight.’

  Sorrento watched Russell leave the room, then turned to Barber. ‘We’ll take three grand off his wages over the next four months. That should leave him with just enough to live on. Once it’s paid off, I couldn’t give a running fuck what happens to him. Just get rid of him.’ He stood up. ‘It should never have got this far, Toffee. You should have spotted it earlier, and dealt with it sooner. I’ve got better things to do with my time than sort out your problems. Things aren’t easy now that Phil’s dead. Wayne’s much too unpredictable and I have to watch over him all the time. I might have to pay a visit to Ricky Frimwell in prison to pick up some tips.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He ran a similar setup for a long time, and Phil was a pal of his. That side of Frimwell’s operation ran tickety boo, but he was also into much darker stuff. That’s what nailed him. I’ve been thinking for some time that we could make a move on some of his outfits, but Phil’s illness put paid to those plans. I’ve got more influence over Wayne, so it’s a good time to make a move. If it comes off, Toffee, there’ll be a place for you in the setup, so keep quiet for now. Okay?’

  Barber nodded. ‘Yeah, of course.’

  * * *

  Sorrento drove the short distance to the Rising Moon pub. The Woodruff family had owned it for many years and it was still used as the headquarters of their business empire. The nerve centre was a group of offices on the upper floor, including one each for the three current leaders of the venture, Sorrento himself, Justin Griffiths and the surviving Woodruff son, Wayne. A smaller office was used by Gordon Mitchell, their legal expert. The largest room, previously occupied by Phil Woodruff, had been empty since the patriarch’s unexpected death the previous month but no one yet felt powerful enough to claim it, not even Phil’s son, Wayne.

  ‘Okay, Tony?’ Wayne called from his open door as Sorrento passed along the corridor.

  Sorrento decided it was time to discuss his expansion plans with the nominal leader. He switched direction and walked into Woodruff’s office, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ he replied. ‘Listen Tony, there’s something I was talking to Phil about just before he fell ill, but we didn’t move on it because he got bad so quickly. You ought to know about it because I think it was a great idea and would add to our reach.’ He sat down opposite Wayne and waited.

  ‘Okay, tell me.’ Wayne leant back in his chair, removed his reading glasses and scratched his bristly skull.

  ‘We’ve got the five pubs, the three nightclubs, three massage parlours and the casino club. Plus the hotel. We were talking back in the winter about ideas for expansion, remember?’

  Woodruff nodded. His face gave little away so Sorrento rarely knew exactly where he stood. He'd always got on well with old Phil, but his son was far more unpredictable. And moodier with it.

  ‘There’s an easy route to double our holdings without much effort and I mentioned it to your dad. He was thinking about it just before he died, but didn’t get to consider it in detail. He was interested and cautious at the same time, and I can understand why.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We take over some of the places that Ricky Frimwell owned. Phil knew him and Charlie Duff, but steered clear of them for obvious reasons. The thing is, Wayne, Duff won’t ever get out. He’ll die in prison. Ricky got twenty years. He’ll be an old man when he’s released. I got Gordy to trace the current legal owners of their properties, and the details were all over the place. But he stuck at it, and apparently it’s Frimwell’s mum who owns the main interest nowadays through some kind of trust, and she’s a bit doolally. Those cafes are in prime locations. They’re a bit rundown now but if we bought them we could really do something with them. We might get them at a knock-down price.’

  Woodruff paused. ‘Yeah, I do remember it being mentioned. I’m not sure, Tony. They’re a bit tainted, aren’t they? And what about the other stuff? The sex shops? The car workshops? The hotels?’

  ‘We only buy what we want and what we think we can cope with. And only if it adds value to what we’ve already got. I was thinking that I could go visit them in gaol. Find out a bit more and talk them round if we decide to run with it. Frimwell’s mum would probably do whatever he told her. It would double the size of our operation and wouldn’t cost us that much. It’s you and Sue, me and your mum to decide, Wayne, and I think it’s worth looking into a bit more. I’m happy to do the leg-work but I need your agreement.’

  ‘Why would they want to sell?’

  ‘Frimwell’s mum’s a bit low on ready cash at the mo, and this might cause her to start selling up. But she’ll probably only do it if she gets the nod from him. I might be able to talk him into it. I knew Ricky years ago.’

  Woodruff thought for a few moments. ‘It can’t do any harm to do a bit of digging, can it? Okay. But keep a low profile while you’re doing it. Those two bastards were nasty, sadistic even, and I don’t think we should be making too many ripples on the local pond. I don’t want the cops to notice us. That might ruin everything.’

  Tony grimaced. ‘Come on, Wayne. You know me. We’ve got our nice friendly insider who’ll let us know if we pop up on the cops’ radar. It’s all sweet.’

  CHAPTER 12: Mind Probe

  Monday Afternoon, Week 2

  Barry Marsh decided that Rae should continue with the visits to friends and family of the Armitage couple while he did some of his own checking. The name Woodruff, mentioned by the boss, meant something to him, he knew, but he couldn’t remember any details. It came from the dim and distant past, maybe as far back as the days when he was a newly appointed detective, working in Poole. Bob Thompson, now a DS in Bournemouth, had been his work partner. Would Bob remember more? He’d been second-in-command in DI Kevin McGreedie’s unit for several years now, and would probably have access to local intelligence.

  He called Thompson and asked if he remembered the name Woodruff.

  ‘Not that I recall, Barry,’ came the reply. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll ask around, but don’t hold out any great hopes. Could it be from somewhere else? Didn’t you spend a year or so in Weymouth on the beat? Maybe there?’

  Marsh wasn’t convinced. True, no local Woodruff had shown up on the central criminal database, but he still felt that the name was somehow familiar and, for some reason, had a Bournemouth link. He walked to the coffee machine and made himself a cup. The problem was, the more he thought about it the less likely it was that he would remember. He needed to switch to a different task and maybe then the memory would come back into focus, when it wasn’t being forced. He gazed out of the window
across to the trees on the opposite side of the road, looking for inspiration. None came so he returned to his desk in order to follow up the next line of inquiry, the quirky story of the Armitage couple’s funeral mix-up. Rae had been unable to gain any details from the son but had reported the incident. The two detectives had identified a possible week in late April when it could have occurred. He phoned Poole Crematorium, but to no avail. The administrative officer didn’t seem to understand his request. Finally, in frustration, he decided to visit the place and look through the records himself. It was only a twenty-minute drive and he needed to get out of the office for a while. Some fresh air would do him good. He’d check the calendar in the Armitage bungalow before driving to the crematorium.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ the secretary said. ‘How could anyone attend the wrong funeral? We print out a list of the ceremonies each day and post it outside in several prominent positions.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out,’ Marsh replied. ‘I’m looking for the name Georgie Palmer. Do you have a record for a funeral in that name for April the twentieth?’

  ‘Yes, we do. At four in the afternoon.’ She pointed at the list for the date in question. ‘You can see that the previous service was an hour earlier. Did they get the time wrong?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. They arrived a bit early, that’s all I’ve been told. And this is the complete record for that day? There’s nothing missing?’

  ‘Ah well, you see, this is for the full-length ceremonies. We slot in short committals as and when we can if they’re needed in a hurry. You know, if someone has a church funeral and just needs five minutes here. They don’t go on the main list that we pin up outside.’

  ‘But there’s still a record? There must be, surely, if someone’s cremated?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The short committals are very quick because they’re not always cremated at the time of the ceremony. It’s often done later or the next day. There might have been one because of the hour gap before the Palmer funeral.’

  She checked her computer records. ‘Yes, there was. It looks as though there was a five-minute committal that day. Let me check the name.’

  Marsh waited.

  ‘Here we are. Philip Woodruff.’

  ‘What?’ He leant across the desk to look at the screen. There it was, in clear lettering. ‘I want every single detail associated with that ceremony printed out. Who organised it, who booked it, who paid for it. Nothing missing. Do you understand? And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  * * *

  ‘What does it mean, ma’am? It’s so unexpected. I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘Nor do I at the moment, Barry. Let’s not speculate too much until we have more facts, so we need to follow it up in more detail. And you still can’t remember where you came across the name years ago? Or the context?’

  Marsh shook his head. ‘I thought it was in Bournemouth, but Bob Thompson thinks otherwise. It’ll come to me soon enough, particularly when we start digging.’

  ‘Let’s check over what we know. In late April the Armitage couple went to a funeral at Poole and ended up attending a committal by mistake. A few weeks later they’re found dead, apparently a case of suicide. I spot someone behaving suspiciously near the scene, and his car is registered as being owned by a company that shares the same name as the deceased person at the mistaken funeral. It could be dismissed as coincidence if the name were a common one like Smith, but Woodruff? How likely is that?’ She paused. ‘Go and see both the Armitage offspring. We need to push them to remember every detail about that odd funeral mix-up, particularly Rod. What his parents told him will be in his brain somewhere. It’s a pity we can’t insert a mind probe and download the information direct. Stuff gets completely mashed up in that fuzzy brain of his.’

  ‘Sounds too sinister for me, ma’am. I don’t know whether I’d want to be in the police if we could do that. Imagine the other stuff we’d come across at the same time if someone’s brain was being wired up.’

  ‘We’d see all their erotic daydreams, I expect. Fascinating.’

  He looked horror-struck.

  ‘Only joking, Barry. You shouldn’t take everything I say quite so seriously. By the way, Dave Nash called in with an interesting snippet. There was no trace of a reel of tape, either inside the car or outside on the ground.’

  ‘So it proves they didn’t tape the hosepipe to the exhaust themselves?’

  ‘It’s the kind of mistake that’s so easy to make. Someone made what they thought was a really good job of it all, but the devil is in the detail and that’s what they’ve mucked up on. Whoever it was taped the pipe and pocketed the reel afterwards rather than leaving it lying around. A simple error, but it gives us confirmation. Dave’s team has combed the whole area and nothing has shown up.’

  * * *

  Matt Silver, Sophie’s boss at headquarters and now a chief superintendent, visited in the late afternoon accompanied by Bob Thompson, a detective sergeant from Bournemouth who was in line for promotion to DI rank. Sophie guessed that Silver was visiting the various investigation units around the county in order to find a home for Thompson once he’d gained his promotion. Would this create a knock-on effect? Would it create a situation where she might lose Barry? She fervently hoped not, but she guessed that Kevin McGreedie, the current DI in Bournemouth, wouldn’t want to wait too long before filling the vacancy created by the loss of Thompson. Her own position was a rare one. The rank of DCI was slowly being phased out. Heaven knows what she’d do when they got around to examining her role. She chatted with the duo for several minutes in front of the incident board, before heading to the canteen to buy a drink. She spotted George Warrander sipping a coffee, alone at a table, so she went to join him. He attempted to rise as he spotted her, but she waved him down.

  ‘No need, George. I thought I’d join you for the chat I promised you. How are you getting on?’

  ‘I’m really enjoying my job, ma’am. It’s been great so far.’

  Sophie sipped her peppermint tea. ‘No regrets, then? You must have taken a salary hit.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure it will even out in the long run. Anyway, there’s no comparison in terms of the value of the job, so I don’t have any regrets, not yet anyway.’

  Sophie noticed that he still had the same spiky hair style, albeit slightly shorter, that she remembered from two years earlier, when she’d interviewed him during the Donna Goodenough investigation. ‘Did you follow the trial?’

  ‘Yes, as much as I could. And the next big one you were involved in, that Duff character. It must have been a strain for you.’

  She nodded. ‘But everything worked out well in both cases. That’s all we can ask for, isn’t it? I’m glad you seem to have made such an impressive start, George. I know that Rose can appear to be a bit of a cynic, but she’s got a heart of gold underneath that hard-bitten exterior. Why don’t you pop up to the incident room sometime in the next day or two? Rae, our DC, has almost finished putting together what we know so far. You and Rose, as the first squad involved, may have some suggestions. I’ll let Barry Marsh know.’

  ‘That would be great, ma’am. Thanks. I’d better go. The sarge will be expecting me in a minute or two. I really appreciate your help, ma’am.’

  Sophie sat pondering for several minutes, sipping her tea, then returned to her office. It had been a good day. The Armitage deaths were now confirmed as murder rather than suicide, which gave her team something substantial to work on. She now needed some thinking time, to consider how the newly discovered facts fitted in with her mental picture of the events surrounding the Armitage deaths. She knew little about the small town of Blandford Forum, so she had an early evening walkabout of the Georgian town centre, admiring the buildings grouped around Market Place. The buildings looked their best in the sunshine.

  ‘It looks beautiful when it’s like this, doesn’t it?’ Sophie turned to see Pierre Giroux. ‘I sp
otted you admiring our little town, so I thought I’d come across for a chat.’

  Sophie smiled at him. ‘Yes. I was reading about the history of the big fire here. It must have been terrible when it happened, but the result is an attractive town centre like this.’

  ‘I’m an outsider, and even I love it. You ought to visit the museum sometime. It’s fascinating.’

  ‘How’s Sharon? Many people go and see their GP when they’ve lost their parents in a tragedy, but she’s hardly likely to do that, is she? I hope one of her colleagues is keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘I think so, and I do my best, Chief Inspector. We talk, but there’s not much more I can do. She’s taken it hard and isn’t sleeping at all well, but I suppose that’s to be expected.’

  ‘You just have to give her time, Mr Giroux. But then, the same will be true for you and your children. You’ll all be in shock still.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s all too unreal. I keep thinking, this can’t be true, this can’t have happened. But it has. Once we’ve had time to calm down, I plan to take them on a short break to France to stay with my family. We all need some normality, even if only for a short time.’

  CHAPTER 13: Smarties

  Tuesday, Week 2

  ‘Now, Georgie boy, don’t go getting yourself into any bother out here in the wilds. I’ll be back later in the morning to check up on you, and I don’t want to find you asleep under a bush.’

  The two uniformed officers were back at the Morden Bog Nature Reserve, where George Warrander was scheduled for a morning guarding the incident site. Not that there was much left to guard. The final clear-up of the scene was planned for later in the day, with the removal of all barriers to public access. The car had been taken away, along with all other debris found in the vicinity. In reality he was merely watching over the lengths of "Crime Scene Do Not Cross" tape that still encircled the area and were flapping gently in the breeze. Good job it wasn’t raining. That would have turned boredom into misery.