The Winter Killings, page 5
Robert shrugged. ‘Nothing in particular. In retrospect, it was a stupid suggestion. Hardly a prank smashing my car window, eh?’
‘Still, could you think of anyone that would do this? Someone you’ve offended, perhaps?’ Gardner asked.
Robert shook his head and looked at his wife. ‘No… can you, love?’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘We don’t have enemies. In fact, we’re the opposite. We’re churchgoing and are part of several social groups.’
‘Maisie?’ Robert sat up straight.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert,’ Cassandra glanced at her husband and gave a dismissive shake of her head.
‘Who’s Maisie?’ Gardner asked.
‘Maisie Bright,’ Robert continued. ‘Our neighbour. She came round the other week. We had a fall out about our tree overhanging her garden. She always jumps nought to a hundred in two seconds flat, and I’d got a headache. I didn’t mince my words when I told her she needed to sling her hook. She’s a widow. You know we’ve bent over backwards over the years to help that woman out. Taking food around, bins out, but you know, enough was enough—’
Cassandra cut her husband off by putting a hand on his leg. She looked at him with concern. ‘Maisie didn’t smash our car window and plant an actual skull in your car.’
‘I guess,’ Robert said, now looking rather embarrassed. ‘I was just trying to think of someone we fell out with.’
‘What’s her full name?’ Gardner asked. ‘We’ll check it out—’
Cassandra fixed Gardner with a stare. ‘She’s eighty-five.’
Gardner moved her eyes to Robert, trying to fathom if his bumbling fool behaviour was down to shock, alcohol, or well-honed acting skills.
Robert noticed the stare and looked embarrassed. ‘My wife’s right. Sorry. Looking back, I was probably rather too harsh on Maisie.’
‘I’d say. Eighty-five is quite an age, sir,’ Rice said.
Gardner stared at Rice. Don’t. When she looked back at the couple, she saw Cassandra was glaring at Rice, too.
Still not quite feeling ready for her big reveal on the note, Gardner turned her attention to Cassandra – she was yet to be questioned at any length over the events at Blind Jack’s. ‘Mrs Thwaites, could you please recount the events of the evening in case any important details were missed?’
‘Of course.’
Gardner and Rice made notes. In due course, Gardner would compare back to her earlier interview with Robert, but no discrepancies stood out at her now. They described how they parked in a space behind the library and went for a pre-performance drink in Six Poor Folk. Robert had explained earlier that they knew the landlord well, and he’d be happy to confirm their presence there. When they returned to the vehicle to retrieve their props, someone had smashed the rear left passenger seat window with a brick, and the alarm was blaring.
‘Glass all over the back seat,’ Cassandra said.
‘So, why exactly do you think your car window was smashed?’ Rice asked.
Cassandra finished her wine and put the glass down at her feet. ‘The main case was on the back seat. It was too big to be dragged out of the passenger window. We assumed the thief only realised this after they smashed the glass. Obviously, we now know different. Someone put that skull in there.’
‘Did you not think to check the contents of the case before the performance?’ Rice asked.
‘We did,’ Cassandra said. ‘There was nothing missing. Or at least, we thought nothing had been taken. We checked inside our cases but, we didn’t go as far as to look inside the treasure chest.’
Robert groaned. ‘Wish we had done.’ He rubbed at his temples, mumbling, ‘Bloody hell. No one is ever going to book me for an event again.’
Potentially the least of your problems right now, Robert, Gardner thought. Anyone who saw fit to do this to you might take a bolder approach next time.
‘Maybe it’d have been best to call the police at this point,’ Gardner said.
Cassandra sighed. ‘In fairness to Robert, he wanted to. He said it may affect the insurance claim if we didn’t. When I pointed out that the excess made this pointless anyway, at least compared to what he’d be earning for his show, we both decided to press on with going to Blind Jack’s.’
‘And you were happy to leave your car open?’ Rice asked.
‘Well, it wasn’t open. Not as such. Nobody would’ve been able to open the door. We covered the back seat with a stash of shopping bags to protect it as best we could from the snow. But, yes, I get your point. It was risky, but my husband’s shows are very important to him.’ Cassandra looked at him. ‘And me.’ Gardner saw the admiration in her eyes that she’d witnessed earlier in the evening when she’d been mouthing the words he was speaking like a superfan at a concert.
Robert looked at his wife apologetically.
Cassandra looked down at the bottle and glass at her feet, sighed and reached down to refill.
The vigorous fire alongside Gardner crackled. She looked over in time to see the cascade of sparks burst from a split log. Her eyes rose to the mantelpiece where a picture of a woman with windswept red hair and sunglasses stood in the foreground on the Sydney Harbour Bridge with the elegant, sail-like Opera House in the background. It was a destination that had always appealed to Gardner.
A destination that had never felt so far away, considering her current financial situation and family circumstances.
‘Our daughter,’ Cassandra said, clearly noticing Gardner staring at the photograph. ‘Ruby May. She lives in Sydney. Has done for nearly ten years.’
‘Must be nice for holidays.’
Robert nodded. ‘Yes. We’d like to get there more often, but the shows are doing so well of late.’
Gardner noticed Cassandra lowering her head. A source of disagreement, perhaps? Work commitments keeping them away from their daughter?
‘It seems everyone wants to book a show in winter, which is when we most want to go,’ Cassandra said. ‘Storytellers by a crackling fire on a cold eve, I guess.’
How romantic… Her thought reminded her of how unromantic her own evening had been.
‘Mind you, the summers are no better. Awash with festivals,’ Cassandra added, taking another mouthful of wine without raising her head.
Robert put a hand on Cassandra’s leg and looked at her apologetically again. ‘But Ruby is yet to have children,’ Robert said, momentarily coming from his morose stupor, ‘but as soon as she does, wild horses won’t stop us. She’s thirty-three, and happily married – won’t be long now.’
Gardner made a note to contact Ruby in Australia.
‘You clearly love your job,’ Gardner said to Robert. ‘To still be working so hard in retirement.’ She didn’t think it necessary to add, while possessing such wealth. After all, the house had made that obvious.
Robert beamed. ‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to tell stories. Always.’
‘You’ve a lot of talent, Mr Thwaites,’ Gardner said. ‘I watched you tonight.’
‘I know… I saw. It’s kind of you to say so. I’m sorry it had to end… so… unexpectedly.’
Me too. I was in the middle of a rather significant situation with Lucy.
‘I’ve never been so happy, professionally. I retired from law in 2013 when I was fifty-five. I just couldn’t handle the day job any more. The creative calling was too much.’
Great option if you’ve got it, Gardner thought. Some of us have bills to pay. You clearly didn’t have that concern.
‘Not that I’m ungrateful for the opportunities I had as a solicitor. I’ve been able to provide well for Cassandra and Ruby. But still, it’s only now I feel truly blessed to be able to do this, day in, day out.’
Gardner noticed now that Robert was coming more and more alive. It seemed the earlier shock was starting to settle, and the whisky had finally delivered its medicinal kick.
‘Are you still involved with your old company?’ She looked down at her notes. ‘Long, Oakes and Thwaites Ltd. Is that correct?’ Gardner asked.
‘Yes,’ Robert said and smiled. ‘I still have some shares. I’m still good friends with Arthur and Reg. They thought I was bonkers walking away at fifty-five, but they get it now. Age is sobering. You realise how little time remains. They, too, have found more things they enjoy, and I’m glad for them.’
‘You must have worked on behalf of lots of businesses during your time as a commercial solicitor?’ Rice said.
‘More than I can remember. And many of the big ones too. Three years before I left, we were the most in-demand company in the country. As you can imagine, the work-life balance was a disaster zone. I barely came up for air. I wanted to spend more time with Cassandra.’ He reached over and took her hand. ‘And I wanted to tell stories. A lot of stories.’ He smiled.
Again, Gardner thought, a simple move to make when you were rolling in money, as you most certainly were.
‘I don’t mean disrespect, but I guess that over the years, working with a lot of companies, and against companies and individuals, you may have upset people?’ Rice looked at his own notes. ‘Some more powerful than your elderly neighbour, Maisie Bright?’
Robert sneered at Rice’s sarcasm. ‘Yes. But it was a job. People on all sides of that fence understand that. Business is business.’
‘They say that in the mafia too,’ Rice added.
Gardner glared at Rice and then glanced back at Robert. ‘Do you think there’s any possibility that what happened tonight is linked to your old life?’
‘I doubt it very much.’
‘It may help us if you had a think on it,’ Gardner added.
‘I will,’ Robert said and smiled.
Gardner fixed him with a stare. ‘You see… there was a note, Mr Thwaites. Left for you. In the jaw of the skull. I guess whoever staged this intended for it to fall out when you picked it up. I’m sure they wanted you to see it.’
‘A note? I don’t understand… I saw nothing…’ He leaned forward on the sofa, throwing a quick glance into his tumbler, perhaps to check if there was enough of the good stuff left for what was about to be unleashed on him. ‘What did it say?’
Gardner flicked her eyes between Cassandra and Robert, wishing to gauge both reactions. ‘It said: why don’t you tell a true story, Robert?’
Gardner held her breath and waited, hoping for a sudden realisation from either of the two individuals on the sofa in front of her.
But there wasn’t one.
Just silence.
And the more and more Gardner watched them, the more and more obvious their emotional state became.
Dread. Cold dread.
The splitting of a burning log punctuated the silence. Gardner breathed in the sudden scent of pine and asked, ‘Does the note mean anything to you?’
Cassandra drank her wine and slumped back on the sofa. Robert looked down into his glass, swirled the amber liquid and then looked up, fixing Gardner in his stare. He shook his head.
‘Nothing?’ Gardner asked.
‘No,’ Robert said. ‘I can’t think what it could mean. It sounds… ridiculous…’
Cassandra nodded beside him.
Gardner made a note and then glanced at Rice, who was clearly thinking the same thing.
A lie.
The great storyteller had returned.
12
After they were back in the car, Gardner looked at Rice, and opened her mouth to voice her concerns.
‘I know,’ he said, getting there first. ‘He’s a right wolf in grandma’s clothing.’
‘I’ve never heard that before.’
‘I think I just made it up,’ Rice said, proudly, brushing snow from his hair.
‘Well, my mother always said, never trust a pirate,’ Gardner replied, smiling.
‘Really? She said that?’
‘No.’ Gardner laughed. ‘When did she ever know a pirate? When does anyone?’
He laughed. ‘So, we agree that Robert Thwaites knows why that skull is there?’
‘Yes, for once we’re agreeing,’ Gardner said. ‘And it’s connected to something in his past.’
‘They’re in their sixties. That’s a lot of past. Murky, too. Capitalism. Full of big business and the rats that thrive there.’
‘Your favourite topic.’ She gazed out over the black and inky Nidd. ‘But somewhere in the murk lies that true story, and we’ll get to it.’
‘Well, we best crack on. That rich, secretive couple is in danger… it’s clear to see. I dread to think what anyone who’s got the gumption to stitch someone up with an actual human skull is capable of.’
‘I’ll ask Marsh to have him watched.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘Yes, she likes to make it clear that manpower is at an all-time low.’
‘Just add some spice. Tell her that the next skull recovered could very well belong to Charles Dickens in there.’ He pointed at the house. ‘She won’t want to risk that.’
Rice had made a fair point. Robert may have been lying out of desperation. To protect himself. However, what if the person who left him that skull wasn’t threatening him, but merely teasing him, before their next move? Which was, as Rice said, to take his head.
‘Okay.’ She took her phone out. ‘First, Marsh, and then, we need to get in touch with this Ruby May Thwaites. Find out if everything is hunky dory in Oz.’
Maybe there was a reason she’d opted to live on the opposite side of the world to Mummy and Daddy. A reason concerning them.
Rice smiled. ‘You know, boss, I think we’re moving in sync.’
‘Yes, this is much better than usual.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looked genuinely offended. She decided to add humour to the situation, best to keep him onside. ‘Have you forgotten about your earlier inappropriate comment regarding my appearance?’
‘Boss, it was bloody positive!’
‘Using my beauty to give me worth?’
‘So modest!’ He guffawed. ‘You can’t call yourself beautiful!’
‘I didn’t.’ She pointed at him and gave him a wink. ‘You did.’
He was red-faced. She did enjoy winding him up!
‘You can’t take my compliment after bloody berating me for it!’ he hissed.
‘And stop swearing, too.’ Gardner smiled. ‘Cassandra almost choked on her wine.’
Her phone rang. It was Barnett.
‘Ray?’
‘I know I’m quick, but this was ridiculous,’ Barnett said.
Gardner sat up straight. ‘You know who switched the skulls in the back of the car, don’t you?’
As he told her, she watched the moonlight dance on the murky Nidd.
13
The crumbling terraced house in Starbeck stood in stark contrast to the Thwaites’ residency on the Waterside.
ID ready, Gardner knocked on the door. While they waited, she glanced at the patched-up cracked front window. It reminded her of her own home as a child.
A woman in her mid to late thirties opened the door, smoking. Her hair glowed a bold purple, a stark contrast to her drab habitation. Despite being clean, her clothes had clearly faded with age, and clung to her curves in a way which suggested that they may have fitted better in her leaner younger years.
‘Mrs Ann Midgely?’
‘God… not again.’ She blew out a stream of smoke. ‘How many sodding times?’
‘DCI Emma Gardner and DI Phil Rice. Are you Mrs Midgely?’
‘Yes… what’s he done?’
Gardner suspected she was referring to her son. The only other known occupant of the house. ‘Is it possible we could come in and talk? It’s freezing out here.’
‘Only when you tell me what my little shite has gone and bloody done this time… he doesn’t mean it, you know. He’s sodding impulsive. I’ve told you lot this. I’ve got the documents upstairs. He can’t always help it. ADHD. Is it a bike? Has he nicked another sodding bike?’
‘Ma’am,’ Rice said. ‘You wouldn’t have police inspectors on the doorstep for that.’
Her face, which until now had been firm, paled slightly. She took a hard drag on her cigarette.
Okay, soften your tone, Rice. This isn’t uppity Cassandra Thwaites. Adapt to your bloody audience and don’t start a bonfire.
‘Is Sam in at the moment?’ Gardner asked.
Ann turned and shouted into the house. ‘Get here you little shite…’ Then, she looked back at Rice. ‘Met a few like you before.’ She exhaled and sneered. ‘Smug bastards, like… Lord of the Manor… until they’re pissed in the corner of a pub, lonely, desperate for some attention.’ She winked.
Well, can’t say you don’t deserve it, Phil…
Gardner knew Rice wouldn’t let that stand, so she spoke first, hoping to cut him off. ‘Still best we come in and chat to you both, Ann.’ She used her first name now, attempting to break the ice. ‘It may be a misunderstanding. We just want to clear this matter up and leave you to it.’
‘Might as well,’ grunted Ann. ‘He ain’t going to come to the door. He’s only just rolled in through it thirty minutes back and plonked himself in front of the TV. He ain’t moving for love nor money.’
Puffing on her cigarette, she led them through a hallway that was clean. The carpets weren’t new, but they looked freshly hoovered. There was also a pleasant scent in the air. Gardner felt reminded of her childhood once again. Her parents had often struggled, but they’d remained house-proud. Always stoic in the face of adversity.
And they’d been forced to face a lot of adversity over the years with her brother, Jack, as he became more and more withdrawn, deviant and at times, dangerous.
It seemed like Ann Midgely had her fair share of challenges, too.
Fourteen-year-old Sam Midgely was sitting on a sofa, feet up on a coffee table, smoking.
‘Oi, you cheeky little shite,’ she said, snatching the cigarette from his mouth. She reached down to the ashtray to put it out but opted to put the end of hers out and continue with the one Sam had nicked instead.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said, blowing out smoke. ‘When I see them, I just can’t help it.’
