Chapter 69
Three days later, Henderson was on his way to interview his witness in the Alma Brookland case when he received a call from Beth, the family liaison officer. Stephen was constantly ringing her or emailing or texting with remembered ‘facts’ that he thought might be relevant.
‘He wants me to let you know that he’d forgotten to mention before that he had to tell his wife off a few times for being rough when shifting his mother’s position in bed, and that she handled her as if she really resented her,’ said Beth, coming through loud and clear on speakerphone. ‘I’ve emailed you the details.’
‘Okay, I’ll add it to my notes.’ He was convinced that Stephen Brookland’s whole existence at the moment was concerned with raking up – or inventing – mud bombs to sling at his estranged wife. It didn’t sit well with Henderson to have to include such deranged witterings, yet he had a duty to. Then again, Brookland was losing the plot so much, the more he said, the more he contradicted himself.
‘I’ve had ten phone calls today from him,’ said Beth. ‘I’m going to persuade him to get some medical help. I really think he might have been better with a male FLO. He’s very dismissive of women in general.’
That didn’t surprise him one bit. In the interviews, Brookland had barely acknowledged Chloe Barrett’s existence. Even when she asked him a question, more often than not, he would direct the answer at Henderson.
‘He’s bought himself a new car just so he can follow his wife without her knowledge, did you know? He’s really not helping himself at all and I’ve tried to tell him as much but . . .’ Beth didn’t need to finish off the sentence.
‘Thanks, Beth. We’re just going in to interview a witness at her home so let me know if anything else crops up,’ said Henderson.
‘As it will,’ came the resigned reply. ‘Bye, Bill.’
‘Doesn’t say much about him as a son if he thought his wife was abusing his mother but allowed it to continue,’ said Barrett, signalling left. ‘Hardly a detail that you’re likely to forget, either, is it?’
‘Nope,’ said Henderson. From all accounts, Alma Brookland was a large woman; tall and broad. Even accounting for her frailer frame at the end of her life, she still must have been a weight for the slender Bonnie Brookland to lift. ‘Pull in here, Chloe. It says something if he’s managing to wear Beth down,’ he continued. ‘She is one tough cookie.’
Mrs Katherine Ellison had agreed to be interviewed at her home, a substantial bungalow in the middle of an estate of equally large detached residences. All of them with neat lawns and herbaceous borders.
‘There’s some serious coin around here,’ remarked Barrett.
‘Wealthy retired,’ replied Henderson. ‘You could end up here if you climb up the career ladder. Four bedrooms, summer house and a stone fountain.’
‘And gnomes, don’t forget the gnomes,’ said Barrett, looking out at a colony of them peeping out from bushes and fishing in the ornamental pond of Mrs Ellison’s neighbour.
They walked up the long path and Barrett rang the bell. Mrs Ellison appeared before the echoes of it had died; evidently she’d been watching out for them from the window.
‘Mrs Ellison? Detective Sergeant Henderson and this is Detective Constable Barrett.’
‘Come in,’ said Mrs Ellison, moving out of the way so they could enter. It was definitely a ‘shoes-off-at-the-door’ place, so the detectives left them neatly on the doormat and followed the house-owner into a large square lounge with a very pale beige carpet on the floor and many framed family photographs on the walls.
Mrs Ellison had prepared a tray of tea. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she said, handing Henderson a very fancy patterned saucer and cup with a tiny handle that he couldn’t stick his large finger through. He took a couple of sips and then rested it on the nearby coffee table before opening his notebook and clicking on his biro.
‘I apologise if this is upsetting for you,’ said Henderson. ‘It must be dredging up a lot of memories.’
‘It’s certainly a shock,’ said Mrs Ellison. ‘But I deliberately didn’t say too much to Stephen when he came round to tell me what had happened.’
‘Mr Brookland’s been round to see you then?’ asked Henderson, though he wasn’t surprised.
‘Yes, and I’ve never seen him so animated,’ said Mrs Ellison with a frown.
‘What exactly did he tell you?’ asked Barrett, reaching for a Jam Ring from a plate of assorted biscuits. She was on a diet and hadn’t had breakfast. The biscuits would offset the sugar deficiency currently making her limbs feel shaky. In other words, she told herself, they were essentially medicinal.
‘He came to the house last Friday. About teatime. He said that new evidence had come to light that Alma hadn’t died naturally and I should be prepared for a visit from the police because it appeared that Bonita might have murdered her. He was very dramatic. I couldn’t talk for long as I had visitors, but I assured him that I would, of course, be available to you and would supply you with any information that you needed.’
‘You weren’t shocked by what he said?’ asked Henderson, thinking what a top-class shit-stirrer Brookland was.
Katherine Ellison didn’t miss a beat as she poured milk into her cup. ‘Not at all. I’ve always presumed that Alma’s death wasn’t a natural one.’
Barrett’s Jam Ring dropped into her tea.
*
‘Mr Harley, I am delighted to tell you that Mr and Mrs Kruger have put in an offer,’ said the estate agent with a tone in his voice that said he didn’t believe it either. ‘I think this has to be the quickest sale I’ve ever done.’ It was the easiest commission he’d make all year. All decade, probably.
Despite the house being priced at below its market value, Mr and Mrs Kruger had still offered five thousand pounds less.
‘Tell them I’ll take it, but I’m not an idiot, nor am I desperate and if they try to gazunder, the deal’s off,’ replied Lew.
‘I will, of course. He’s a solicitor so I’ll be honest, I imagine things will run pretty smoothly.’
Lew could feel the estate agent’s grin down the line. It was burning his ear. He texted Charlotte with the good news. She didn’t reply.