Her Dying Mind: A British Murder Mystery, page 17
But today, the first morning that had gone according to plan, the incident room smelled like a barista’s paradise. She was sitting at her desk when the first of the team arrived, who, of course, was Chapman, wearing a knitted cardigan and a floral blouse, and carrying her handbag in much the same manner as Queen Elizabeth II. She was young in years but old in soul – a trait Freya admired. Along with old traditions came virtues and morals that so often seem to have been waylaid.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said, only one of two who insisted on calling Freya ma’am instead of boss.
“Morning, Chapman,” Freya replied, as she sipped at her espresso and continued to finish reading Gillespie’s email.
“Today’s the day, then,” Chapman said, as she fired up her computer and arranged her desk to start the day right.
“For what?” Freya replied, without looking up.
“It’s day two, ma’am. It’s the day when things usually get a little heated.”
“In what way?” Freya said, intrigued.
“I mean, if you think about all the investigations we’ve worked on, it usually takes a day for us to go over the basics, and then sleep on them before we come up with a solid plan. The first day is always a write-off, really. But day two, that’s when things get real. Things become exciting. What I’m trying to say is that I’m expecting an interesting briefing this morning. No doubt, you have a plan in mind, that’s all, ma’am.”
Freya beamed inwardly at the young woman’s intuition and keen insight, although she couldn’t help but feel she was about to disappoint her. The fact was, until she heard the accounts in detail from Gillespie, Gold, and Nillson, she couldn’t even think of making a plan.
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” she said by way of avoidance. Thankfully, the double doors opened and in walked Nillson, Anderson, and Gold, the latter with her head hanging low and rings around her eyes like the tyres on Freya’s Range Rover. “Good morning, ladies. I hope you’re all as keen as Chapman and I?”
“Keen?” Nillson said, hanging her jacket over the back of her chair. “Keen for what, boss? A day free of men?”
She indicated the empty space where Gillespie, Cruz, and Ben usually sat, smiling like the cat who’d got the cream.
But before the idea of a fantastic day of feminine harmony could be enjoyed, the doors opened once more, and, in a rush of long coat tails and hair, Gillespie entered, bringing with him the odour of cheap aftershave.
He tossed his coat onto a spare chair and flopped down into his own, all arms and legs, before slapping his laptop bag onto his desk. It took a few moments to realise that everybody was looking at him, and he froze with his fingers on his keyboard. His eyes travelled between each of them the way an antelope might assess an encircling pride of lionesses.
“What?” he said slowly. “What is it?”
The three women all looked towards Freya for a response, but she let him hang there for a few moments longer, prolonging the man’s misery and anxiety.
“Nothing,” she said eventually. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Have you smelled that coffee?” Cruz said, as he too entered the room in a flurry, already removing his jacket and fighting to shake a sleeve from his arm. “It’s like somebody took a load of mud from that dyke in the field, dried it out, and left it in the kitchen. What a stench.”
He plopped down in his seat and then set his laptop up with a little more grace than Gillespie, though not much more.
Eventually, he must have sensed Freya’s abhorrence. He looked up at her, naive in almost every way.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Gillespie told him. “Apparently nobody is talking this morning. It’s going to be one of those telepathic briefings, so I think you can handle this one. My psychic powers aren’t as sharp as they used to be.”
“Eh?” Cruz said, his face screwed into a look of absolute bemusement. And as if a stage manager was positioned outside the door leading the cast on with timely cues, Ben entered.
Freya downed the rest of her espresso and moved to sit on the edge of her desk where she could address them all and write on the whiteboard.
All eyes were on Ben as he opened his laptop, sighed at the idea of even attempting to turn it on, and then sat back in his seat with a trusty notepad and pen.
“Are we doing this?” he said, which pleased Freya by reminding her of just one of those hundred differences between him and most other men.
“We are,” she said, sensing a lull. “You have five minutes to get coffee and use the washroom.”
“Coffee?” Cruz said. “Can we get some decent stuff? I’m not sure my stomach can handle that sewage some idiot has brought in. I tell you, it’s like whoever got that stuff has no sense of taste.”
“Unlike you?” Gillespie countered. “A man who wears his woolly sweater over his shoulders like a nineteen-thirties cad. And whose idea of date night with his girlfriend is a watching a pirate copy of the latest marvel movie and sharing a bag of chips.”
“I’ll have you know I do not watch pirate movies–”
“Alright, alright,” Freya said, clapping her hands three times to regain control. She checked her watch. “Four minutes. If you want coffee or a comfort break, then I suggest you do it now. Something tells me this will be a lengthy briefing and I want you all on form.”
Nillson and Anderson filed out, whispering shared jokes which Freya presumed were at Gillespie and Cruz’s expense.
“Are you not getting a coffee?” Gillespie said to Cruz.
“No,” Cruz replied. “Besides, if I stand up to get a coffee, no doubt you’ll ask me to make you one and I’d prefer not to start my day bowing and scraping.”
“I believe there’s some of the coffee that Standing left behind,” Freya said. “If I recall, I saw it in the cupboard at the back.”
“Oooh, good shout, boss,” Cruz said, and he eased himself out of his chair, eyeing Gillespie as if he might suddenly launch an attack.
“Are you not having any coffee this morning, Gillespie?” Freya asked.
“Me? No, boss. I’m all coffeed out. I’ve been up since half past seven.”
“Half past seven, wow. You night owl, you.”
“I know. That’s why I sent you that email. I had to get it all down while the details were clear in my head.”
“Well, in that case, would you mind doing me a favour and popping downstairs to see Sergeant Priest? Ask him when he plans on pulling resources from the crime scene for me, will you?”
“Aye, boss,” Gillespie said. “I need to see if the expanded search came up trumps anyway.”
He slipped from the room, leaving just Ben and Gold seated before Freya. Ben was drawing something, which, if Freya knew him as she thought she did, would be a tree of the contacts and the connections between them, which he could then annotate during the briefing.
Gold, however, was staring into space.
“Is there something you want to say, Gold?” Freya said. “Before the others come back?”
She blinked a few times and wiped her eyes with the corner of a tissue, and then seemed to sigh to herself as if the idea of revealing her deepest thoughts was the very last thing she wanted to do.
“It’s Tammy Plant, ma’am. She’s gone under again this morning,” Gold said, a sadness in her eyes.
“I presume you managed to speak to the doctor?” Freya said. “Did they give any indication of an outcome?”
Gold nodded, using the tissue to dab at her nose.
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve been at the hospital all night with her mother. The family has been torn apart by this. It’s absolutely heartbreaking to see. I’m running on adrenalin right now.”
She took a few moments to compose herself and then closed her eyes for a second or two.
“She’s undergoing a nine-hour procedure today, ma’am,” Gold said. “If she pulls through, then her chances are good.”
“But if she doesn’t?” Ben asked, but that particular question needed no answer, which was just as well, as Cruz entered the room carrying a cup of Standing’s foul coffee.
He dropped into his seat, taking a large mouthful, and finishing with an exasperated sigh.
“Is everything okay, Cruz?” Freya asked. “You look like you also had a night from hell.”
“Also?” he said, with a laugh. “I doubt anybody had a night as rough as mine. I forgot to get Hermione a birthday present, so I was up all night looking for something on lingerie websites. I tell you; I wouldn’t wish a night like that on anybody.”
“No,” Freya said, pleased to see Cruz’s naivety had at least neutralised the downward curve of Gold’s lips. “No, that really must have been awful for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Right then,” Freya said, as the girls and Gillespie filed back into the room. “In a moment, I’ll be asking each of you to provide a brief account of your findings. Please do keep them brief and keep to the major points. I’m keen for us to get out there and make some real progress today. Once we’ve built a better picture of where we are, I’ll be assigning tasks for the day, which will then feed into this afternoon’s debrief. I’m not a fan of meeting for the sake of meeting, but as it stands, a man died more than twenty-four hours ago and we’re still no closer to understanding who he is or why he was in Alice Glass’s house.”
“I think we can help there,” Nillson said, and she glanced at each of them as if apologising for the interruption. “Mind if we go first?”
“Be my guest,” Freya said, reaching for a pen, something Ben had noticed she always did, like an ex-smoker occupying their hands.
“Well, we did as you suggested, boss. Locks Wood Farm. It’s about a mile south of Navenby by road,” Nillson began. “To be honest, it was easy. They have fourteen temporary visas but only thirteen guys on site.”
“So, they’re a man down?”
“They are, yeah,” Nillson said. “A guy called Maxim Baftiroski.”
“Why didn’t you message me last night?”
“The agency manager had his passport. He didn’t send the copy through until this morning, and I didn’t really want to be the one to raise false hopes,” she replied. “It would only add to the confusion.”
“Fair enough.”
“But he fits the bill perfectly. Same height, same build, same approximate age. All we need to do is get him formally identified.”
“Is the agency manager prepared to ID him?” Ben asked, seeing a need for his farming experience to play a role. “I’m guessing none of his family are here and we’ll need somebody who can prove they knew Maxim well enough for his word to have any substance.”
“That’s something I hadn’t considered,” Freya said, an odd admission of an oversight on her behalf.
“Nillson, can you pass whatever you have to Chapman?” Freya said. “Chapman, before we venture down the path of having CPS throw the case out before we’ve even started, can you contact whoever it is you need to see if he had any relations here? I’m not familiar with the cultural habits of Eastern Europeans, but many cultures like to bring more of the family over.”
“The home office, ma’am?” Chapman said. “I’ll get onto them right after the briefing.”
“Good, thank you,” Freya replied. “Nillson. Good work. Anything else to report?”
“That’s the big one, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid. You might not realise it, but you just found our corners. Now all we have to do is find the edges.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” Freya said, realising the analogy she and Ben had used hadn’t yet been shared. “Chapman, when you’ve made contact with the home office, can you please run some background checks on this Maxim Baftiroski?”
“Ma’am,” she replied.
“Gold, you should stay in the office today. Call round the local hospitals to make sure Baftiroski isn’t simply lying in a hospital bed somewhere.”
“Ma’am, I told Tammy’s mother I’d be back.”
“If you have another day like yesterday, Gold, you’ll be no use to man nor beast. Arrange for the doctor to call with any updates.”
“Ma’am, I’ll be okay,” she replied regretfully, but she’d committed. “I’d like to go if I can.”
“Boss?” Cruz said, raising his hand like a schoolboy with a curveball question.
“What is it, Cruz?”
“I was just thinking, that’s all,” he began. “You see, I know you might think I’m being a bit over cautious–”
“For heaven’s sake, Cruz, will you just come out with it?”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a bit funny that Tammy Plant, the woman who found Alice’s body, was involved in an accident not far from the crime scene?”
The room held its breath, as seven minds processed what he had said in their own ways.
“What are you saying?” Freya said.
“Well, what if it wasn’t an accident, boss? What if she saw something else?”
“She was acting oddly,” Gold said. “I mean, she was a bit shaken up, but still.”
“Aye, I told you she was a wee bit twitchy,” Gillespie said. “She came to the crime scene. Nervous as hell, she was.”
“Are you suggesting that somebody made an attempt on her life, Cruz?” Freya asked.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Aye, if this was nineteen-fifty and it was Michael Corleone driving the truck,” Gillespie said.
“Michael Corleone was a fictional character, Jim,” Nillson said. “You mean Al Capone.”
“No, no, he has a point,” Freya said, dismissing the inevitable argument that was about to erupt. “It might be prudent to put a uniformed officer in there.”
“That’ll be Lincoln HQ,” Ben said.
“I could go,” Gold said.
“No, I want you here. You’ve barely slept a wink. Find somewhere quiet and call the hospital, will you?” Freya told her. “I’ll talk to Detective Superintended Granger and make the arrangements for a guard. Well done, Cruz.”
“Eh?” Gillespie said, as Gold sipped from the room with her phone in her hand. “Well done for being paranoid?”
“Well done for being pragmatic,” Freya replied. “You should try it sometime. In the meantime, I’d like to hear what you two discovered yesterday.”
“Aye well,” Gillespie began, sitting up in his seat. “We took the old man–”
“Mr Benson?” Freya said.
“Aye, him. Mr Benson. We took him around to Alice’s house when CSI had finished up. You know, just to see if anything was out of place or missing.”
“Don’t say it like it was your idea, Gillespie,” she said. “I told you to do it.”
“Aye, I know, but everything was in order.”
“Nothing was moved? No cupboards emptied, drawers rifled, furniture moved?”
“Nope,” he said. “It’s just your average, run-of-the-mill pensioner’s home. Not a speck of dust to be seen and not a thing out of place.”
“How disappointing,” Freya said to herself, but loud enough for the team to hear. “Perhaps Mr Benson wasn’t as familiar with Alice as he let it be known?”
“He seemed it, boss. He knew what was in every cupboard, where she kept her photos, her money, her coffee and the like. Nothing creepy, like, but just as you would if you’d been in the house often enough.”
“Her money? And I presume there was nothing missing?”
“All there,” Gillespie said. “Only a wee bit of cash like. Kept it in an old coffee tin behind the soup. I mean, he did say it was odd that she hadn’t got her bills ready–”
“Her bills?”
“Aye,” Gillespie said. “Apparently, she didn’t quite trust herself, so at the beginning of each month, she’d put money in wee envelopes to give to the window cleaner and house cleaner. That type of thing. She usually kept them on top of the microwave, but there was nothing there.”
“My gran used to do that,” Chapman said. “She didn’t keep them on the microwave, but she’d organise her monthly payments like that so that she knew how much she had left.”
“Aye, I mean, I don’t know when pension day is, but maybe she just hadn’t got around to organising them?”
“And I suppose one of those payments would have been for her hair appointment?” Freya said, and she stared at him, more than disappointed.
“Aye, I suppose so,” he said with his usual nonchalance. And then it hit him. “Oh aye. It would have been.”
“And I suppose we have no way of knowing how many envelopes there might have been?”
“I don’t suppose we do,” Gillespie replied.
“Alright then,” she said. “What else? Why were you summoned to the search? Don’t tell me, they found nothing except an old hammer with blood on the handle which you thought insignificant?”
“No, boss,” Gillespie said. “No items were found, as such, so we broadened the search area. You know, just to make sure nothing was missed–”
“Again, one of my requests,” Freya said.
“Aye,” he said, faltering in that clumsy fashion she found quite endearing. “But they did find something a wee bit odd. You see…”
He paused as if struggling with his words, which was unusual for Gillespie who typically managed to verbalise the minutest of detail, even if his tone and use of adjectives could portray an Akoya pearl as a pebble scraped from the bottom of a manhole.
He stood and walked over to where Freya was perched, then gestured to the whiteboard.
“Mind if I…” he said, nodding at it.
She relinquished the marker with visible intrigue and folded her arms as he set about drawing three adjoining squares. In the first square, he wrote the name George Benson. In the third square, he wrote the name Alice Glass.
Opposite the three squares, he drew a much larger square, giving the far edge a squiggly line, and adding an X to the left-hand edge.
“Is this a film, book, or play?” Gold asked, as she re-entered the room and took her seat. She nodded to Freya to confirm the call had been a success.
