Murderous Secrets, page 4
Bea was used to her husband’s eccentricities by now. She’d long since stopped trying to change him. What right did one person in a marriage have to try to change the other anyway, or to mould them to fit their requirements? Odd shapes might not slot together perfectly but that didn’t mean they couldn’t exist harmoniously side by side.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Aubrey asked, feeling the teapot to see if it was still warm. Bea had forgotten to put the cosy on it. She sighed. He said this to her most mornings. You’d think he’d have caught on by now that she was practically an insomniac. She never rose later than half past six. It was now almost seven thirty. If anything, she’d slept in.
“Oh, Aubrey. How can you ask me that? Besides, when do I ever sleep?”
He kissed the top of her head. “I know, love.” She knew he knew. After forty years of married life, it wasn’t what they said that mattered. It was what they understood to be true. Words were just words.
“Didn’t sleep much myself, after — you know. All the upset.”
Bea didn’t bother to point out that he’d seemed dead to the world all night. She didn’t think he’d been pretending.
“The murders, you mean.”
“Well, yes, if you want to put it like that.”
“Does savage, brutal killings sound any better?”
Aubrey was tipping the lukewarm tea down the sink. He paused for an instant then got rid of the rest. Bea watched him pour boiling water into the pot and swirl it around, four times exactly. As always. Her husband was a fastidious man.
“I wish they hadn’t reported the murders quite so graphically on the local radio this morning,” she said.
“It won’t be good for business, that’s for sure.”
“Aubrey!”
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. Some people like that sort of thing.” It was Blue. She’d wandered into the kitchen and must have overheard. “Think how many people like to read about serial killers. There’s a Jack the Ripper tour in London. They even named a pub after him, briefly. People complained. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re overrun with bookings in the coming weeks.”
“I hope you’re not going to suggest we change the theme of that yurt to cash in on the horrible murder and mutilation of that poor young woman,” Bea said.
“Mum!”
“Sorry, love. I’m still in shock. Have you seen Soren this morning? He was a hero last night.”
Blue looked worried. “He shouldn’t have gone chasing after the killer like that. He could have ended up a victim himself. What was he thinking of?” She placed a hand on her swollen belly. Instinctively, Bea reached out to comfort her. She pressed Blue’s shoulder and pulled out a chair for her to sit down, but Blue remained standing, her cheeks blushing pink. Bea knew that her daughter was attracted to Soren. He was a good-looking man — despite the blond dreadlocks.
Bea wished Soren was the father of Blue’s child. Unfortunately, it was impossible; eight months before, Blue and Soren hadn’t even met. The identity of the baby’s father was like a state secret. When Blue had informed her family that she was pregnant, she’d qualified her announcement with: “You don’t need to know who the father is. So, don’t ask. Ever.” They all knew Blue well enough not to press her. Bea lived in hope that one day her daughter would relent, but she wasn’t holding her breath.
It was impossible to gauge what Soren thought of Blue. Soren revealed little about the inner workings of his mind to those around him, let alone his heart. He didn’t talk about what he’d done in the past much, either. Whenever anyone asked, he was vague, or evasive. He was a closed book, or rather a closed library; if he ever opened up, Bea was sure the story of his life would run to several volumes, not all of them with happy endings. She’d seen the scars, even though he went to some effort to hide them.
Bea wondered whether he had a secret in his past that he didn’t want to talk about, some kind of trauma, perhaps, or some personal tragedy. One thing she did know for certain about Soren: he had saved the life of her son, Monty.
It had been seven months ago. Monty had gone to London to a brewing conference. Near his hotel in Bloomsbury, he had been set upon by a man in a mask brandishing a knife. When Monty tried to defend himself, the man had stabbed him in the arm. Monty was convinced he’d got off lightly, that the man had been aiming for his chest.
Soren, who had been sleeping rough in a shop doorway, spotted a man following Monty from the Tube station and had come to his rescue. He’d seen off Monty’s assailant in a couple of swift moves and then used his phone to call an ambulance.
The following day, Monty sought out his Good Samaritan. He’d located his shop doorway to find only a rolled-up sleeping bag stuffed with old newspapers against the cold and a tattered paperback. He’d installed himself in a café across the street and waited patiently for Soren to return. When he did, Monty crossed the road with a coffee and a sandwich. Then, he sat on the pavement next to him. “One good turn deserves another,” he said.
And that was how Soren had ended up at Northfields Farm. They had been talking about taking someone on for a while before his arrival. Apart from the fact that Blue’s pregnancy meant she had to avoid the heavier work, the business had been doing so well that there was more work than the family alone could handle, particularly in the summer months when the yurts were always occupied.
Soren had slept in one of the yurts for his first week. A cancellation had come through and rather than take a last-minute booking, Bea had insisted on Soren occupying it. From there, he had moved into Bea and Aubrey’s old caravan, which was parked in the field behind the farm. It was too old-fashioned to be used as a holiday let, but it was watertight, and was connected to water, electricity and gas.
Soren seemed more than content with his accommodation and, though Bea wished she could offer him a room in the farmhouse, she contented herself with the knowledge that at least he was no longer sleeping rough.
Over time, she had come to accept that Soren’s past, like the identity of her coming grandchild’s father, would have to remain a mystery for now. It wasn’t as though the Stratfords were strangers to keeping secrets.
“Come on, love, have a cup of tea and some porridge, or at least a slice of toast. Or how about some scrambled eggs?” Bea’s eyes flitted to Blue’s bump, then swiftly away. The one time she’d suggested that her daughter wasn’t eating enough for two, she’d got such a roasting from Blue that she’d never dared broach the topic again. Her urge to fuss this morning was probably a reaction to the events of the previous evening.
Blue sat down at last. To Bea’s surprise, she said, “Maybe some porridge, then. You can tell me about last night properly.”
Blue had missed all the drama. She’d spent the day helping with last-minute preparations for the dance and overdone it. She had left the barn at eight, complaining of backache and fatigue. She’d slept soundly through all the commotion, only learning about the tragedy when she encountered Bea on the landing outside the bathroom earlier that morning.
Aubrey put a mug of tea in front of his daughter. “I dread to think what state Ingrid will be in when the police are finished with her,” he said.
“For goodness’ sake, Aubrey. Two people are dead and all you can think about is that bloody ambulance.” Bea knew how much the ambulance meant to her husband, but sometimes he needed to be reminded about priorities. Her hand shook as she stirred the porridge.
“Mum’s right, Dad.” It wasn’t often that Blue took Bea’s side over Aubrey’s. His eccentricities were a source of humour for Blue and Monty. Normally Bea found her husband exasperating and endearing in equal measures, but not today. Today, she wanted him to be more like Soren. The sort of person you could depend on in an emergency.
“No fry-up?” Monty stood in the doorway. “I suppose this isn’t a normal Sunday morning.”
“Sorry, everyone,” Aubrey said. “Don’t feel much like cooking.” Bea’s heart went out to him. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. Even if he gave the appearance of being more concerned about that old ambulance than anything else, he, too, was shaken by the events of the previous night.
“It’s okay, Dad. I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it this morning, anyway.”
Bea ladled porridge into four bowls and put them on the table. Blue wobbled to her feet and fetched some spoons from the drawer.
“So, where were you when Soren was almost getting himself killed last night?” she asked her brother.
Monty glared at his sister. “I wasn’t driving the pigs to market.”
“I don’t snore!”
“Do too.”
Bea closed her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for sibling squabbles this morning.
“I was in the barn, helping the police keep people calm and helping to collect contact details from the guests. I didn’t get to bed until four in the morning.”
“None of us did,” Aubrey pointed out. “Police have been here all night. That DI told us they’d be here for a while, maybe days or even weeks. You can expect a raft of cancellations in the next few days, Bea.”
“Yes, well. As Blue said, some people are attracted by the macabre.”
“They’re not the sort of people you’d want staying on your land,” Monty pointed out.
“I want to hear the whole story,” Blue said. Bea sighed. It was left to her and Monty to put Blue in the picture. Aubrey seemed determined to focus on his porridge, contributing not so much as a grunt.
When Blue had been brought up to date, Bea said, “The police will be here soon. They’ll want to question everyone. I don’t think there’s any need to mention what we all came here to get away from, is there? Can we all agree on that?” She looked around the table, noting with a mixture of anxiety and satisfaction that Aubrey was engaged at last.
He looked up from his porridge and stared at her. Then, he nodded. For a few moments, it was so quiet in the kitchen you could have heard their collective hearts beating a little faster.
Chapter Six
DI Short ensured that Neal hit the ground running by bringing him up to speed on the killings at Northfields Farm in graphic detail. Neal’s heart had skipped a beat when he heard the bit about Ava Merry approaching the yurt with the killer still inside. It was her job, and Ava knew how to handle herself, but it still made him shudder to think of her facing such a dangerous situation. Whoever this Soren Hunter was, Neal felt he owed him a debt of gratitude for being there with her.
Neal was aware that this was precisely the kind of thinking that he couldn’t afford to pursue if he wished to maintain a working relationship with Ava. If his feelings for her — and Neal was now at a stage where he could acknowledge that he did have feelings for her — got in the way of either of them being able to do their jobs, something would have to give.
Ava wasn’t the sort of woman who would allow a man’s protective instinct to come between her and her ambitions. She was an excellent detective and would go far, but not if he held her back because he feared for her safety. It was a dilemma that he could see no way of resolving. And it was his problem to deal with, not hers.
It wasn’t as if he was a rookie. He’d seen it happen to others, and he’d sworn to never be so idiotic as to become romantically involved with a colleague.
DI Short congratulated him on having two such dedicated officers as Ava and Tom on his team. “It’s rare to encounter people who are ambitious and dedicated, and who also seem to work together without any apparent rivalry or discord,” she said. Neal knew she was right, but for once it gave him no joy. It was one more reason for preserving the status quo. Tom would feel pushed out if he thought Ava and his boss were an item.
What Kerry had said about a lack of rivalry between Tom and Ava wasn’t entirely true; ambitious people would always regard their close colleagues as rivals and Tom and Ava were no different. Still, they seemed to like and respect each other.
He went over Short’s report before calling Ava and Tom into his office. Both looked ragged around the edges; clearly they’d had little sleep.
“Thanks for your good work last night,” he said. “DI Short has briefed me, but I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts.”
Tom spoke first. “The victims were killed separately, but Dr Hunt thinks the time of death for each of them was pretty close. We don’t, as yet, know which of them was murdered first, although we observed someone fleeing the yurt, quite probably the killer, so Nick Winter was likely attacked before his girlfriend. Cause of death for each was the same. Massive trauma due to blood loss. The killings were brutal. The victims were stabbed over and over, including in the heart.”
“As if the killer was in a rage,” Ava added, somewhat unnecessarily. “Both scenes were gruesome. Complete overkill.”
“So I understand,” Neal said. “What do we know about the victims?”
“Nick Winter and Samantha Benrose. They hadn’t been together for very long. A couple of months. They’d booked the yurt for a romantic Valentine’s weekend when they read about the 1940s dance.”
This piece of information seemed to lend an even sadder note to the murders. Neal, fresh from Maggie and Jock’s wedding, nodded in sympathy. “Have their families been informed?”
“Yes, sir. They were visited by someone from their local force in the early hours of the morning.”
“Nick and Samantha lived in Nottingham. They weren’t killed in their own territory,” Tom said. “For their killer to be someone they knew, he or she would have had to have been aware of their trip and planned the whole thing in advance. Either that, or we have a psycho on the loose.”
Neal grimaced. His mind turned on logic and on making meaningful connections, looking at motive, means and opportunity. Anything else was chaos — and Neal detested chaos. He cleared his throat. “What do we know about the Stratford family. Are they local?”
Ava filled him in. “No. At least not Stromfordshire born and bred. They moved here from Brighton. Aubrey was an engineer. He worked abroad a lot in the past.”
“And Bea Stratford?”
“She worked as an accountant for a firm based in Brighton. They’d always planned to retire early — escape the rat race, set up some rural business or other. You know the sort of thing.”
He did. Stromfordshire, a largely rural county, attracted people like Aubrey and Bea. People who liked yurts and yoga, alpacas and rare breeds of sheep, making their own pottery and rescuing donkeys. Traditional farmers were having to embrace some of that stuff nowadays just to make ends meet.
“They run a glamping business?”
“Among other things,” Ava said. “The kids, Monty and Blue, run a micro-brewery. There are also alpacas. Not sure if they’re part of the business package or just kept as pets.”
Neal nodded. He’d been right about the alpacas. “And this Soren Hunter?”
“There’s a bit of a story there,” Ava said. “Apparently he saved Monty’s life when he was the victim of a random knife attack in London. The family was so grateful that they offered Soren work and accommodation at Northfields. Previously, he’d been living on the streets.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. From what he’d heard of Soren Hunter’s actions last night, it seemed unlikely that he was the type to end up on the street. He’d shown himself to be resourceful as well as brave. He sighed, acknowledging his own prejudices. Everyone who ended up homeless and living rough had once been someone else.
“We need to know more about him,” he said.
“There were a lot of people on the Stratfords’ land last night,” Tom said, sounding a bit weary. Neal knew what he was saying. The list of potential suspects could be a long one.
“Do we have a list of names of the people who attended the dance?”
“Yes, sir. The tickets were numbered, in case anyone forgot them on the night.”
Neal nodded his approval.
“We also took down people’s contact details before we let them leave the barn.”
“They’ll all need to be interviewed. In particular, we need to know whether anyone saw anything suspicious prior to those kids mucking about with the ambulance. Maybe someone went outside for a smoke and saw someone hanging about — someone who obviously wasn’t there just for the dance. You know the sort of thing. And I believe there was a charity committee, wasn’t there? They’ll need to be interviewed, too. I’ll get PJ to start arranging for uniform to visit and take statements.” Neal paused. “Where is PJ, by the way?”
Ava and Tom exchanged a look.
“She phoned in to say she’d be a bit late,” Ava said.
“Right,” Neal remembered that PJ had been at the dance with Ava, and guessed the reason for her tardiness. “Tom, I’d like you and DC Jenkins, when she arrives, to visit the families of the victims and anyone closely associated with them. Find out who knew where Nick and Samantha were going for their weekend break.”
A flicker of something — resentment? — showed briefly on Tom’s face. Did he believe he was being assigned the lesser task in not revisiting the farm with Neal? It made Neal question his choice. Did he want Ava with him for the right reason? Dammit. This was just the sort of dilemma he had always avoided in the past. He couldn’t afford for things to get messy at work.
But this wasn’t the time to stress about it. He turned to Ava. “We’re going to speak with the Stratford family and Soren Hunter.”
* * *
It was inevitable that Ava would ask about the wedding on the drive out to Northfields. Neal answered her questions curtly, with no unnecessary embellishments. He was aware that he must be coming across as distant, unfriendly, even. By the time they drew near to the Stratfords’ property, Ava had fallen silent. Was she annoyed with him? He feared he might have driven a thicker wedge between them. Maybe it was for the best. One thing was certain: this wasn’t the time to think about it. Neal nodded at the uniformed officer stationed near the front door.
