DC Gallan watched as the paramedics did their thing and confirmed what he already knew. They were going through the motions but it was clear to everyone that they were hours too late. The nurse seemed to be in a state of shock, as well she might be. This wasn’t ideal for anyone. She looked like hell too, and had given him some garbled story about dead birds and falling down the stairs and some strange woman pitching up in the dead of night. She’d said she’d found the old man dead just minutes before they’d arrived, and he believed her, but knew Kelsoe didn’t. Kelsoe could be a pain in the ass sometimes – she had no subtlety and was staring at the woman like there was no need for a judge and jury. He’d sent her off to make tea, much to her disgust.
Though he believed the woman, something was off about the scene and, given the reason for their early-morning visit, his senses were on high alert. Too many things were happening in too short a time around this house and, for Gallan, every red flag was flying like semaphore for dead wrong.
One of the paramedics gestured at him to leave the room and, once out of earshot of Maura Lyle, said, ‘Something’s off about this. We’re going to contact the GP, but I think he’s going to want the coroner involved.’
Gallan sighed and nodded. His gut told him to believe Maura, but the dead man, with his staring eyes, clawed hands and blue mouth, told him something different, as did the bruises and scratches on Maura Lyle. They only had her word she hadn’t bumped the old guy off during a struggle, and despite the tale she’d told, there was no dead bird. He was finding it hard to fit her with a motive, but evidence was evidence no matter how apparently circumstantial, and his gut had failed him before.
Kelsoe was backing through the baize door with a tray of tea, looking so grudging it was almost painful to see. He really didn’t like her, but didn’t get to choose his colleagues, and he reckoned she only put up with him because she fancied Poole. She dumped the tray in the room where Maura said she’d slept on the sofa. Gallan followed her in. ‘She was right about the doctor coming out last night. There’s a prescription with yesterday’s date on it pinned to the fridge,’ Kelsoe said. ‘I reckon she was covering her ass by calling him out – there’s a whole heap of meds out there prescribed for Estelle Hall and it looks like that’s what she’s been feeding him. I’ve bagged it up.’
Gallan could tell – she still had her gloves on. ‘So, you think she bumped him off?’
Kelsoe pulled a face. ‘Pfffft… course she did. Have you seen the state of her? He went for her, she lost it and put a pillow over his face. Bleeding obvious. Don’t tell me you bought that bullshit about the bird in the bloody attic?’
Gallan shrugged and reached for a cup of tea. ‘Best see what the boss thinks after the coroner’s been, I think. GP’s on his way, so until we get the say-so, we sit tight, ply her with tea and just take a statement, OK?’
Kelsoe rolled her eyes at him.
‘Oh, and take those gloves off. She’s not stupid and we don’t want her on the defensive.’ If looks could kill Kelsoe would have been doing ten consecutive life sentences. He felt reasonably forgiving of her attitude most of the time; he’d been young and full of the same zeal once. Now he was counting down the days to retirement. ‘Fetch her in then, and don’t let her touch the body.’
Kelsoe paused at the door. ‘Have you told her about the other one yet?’
Gallan shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ He hadn’t had chance to tell her why they’d been on the doorstep at 8.30 on a Sunday morning, and somehow he figured that the murder of a woman they believed to be Estelle Hall in a holiday cottage in Suffolk wasn’t going to be her priority that day.
Maura wasn’t stupid, and it didn’t take long for her to figure out that Gordon hadn’t slipped peacefully away in his sleep. Or to realise that all fingers were pointing at her. She had the impression that Kelsoe would have arrested her on suspicion of existing, let alone murdering a vulnerable old man. Gallan was a little less enthusiastic, but he was still looking at her as if she was the love child of Harold Shipman and Beverly Allitt.
As more police arrived, followed by a knackered-looking Dr Barrow and, shortly after, someone from the coroner’s office, she began to realise that she was in deep shit. When the men in paper suits started to pour in, she started to feel she might implode from the injustice of it all. Not that she wanted Gordon’s killer to go unpunished; she just wanted them to aim their dirty, judgemental looks at the right person.
She had little idea how long she’d lain on the kitchen floor the night before. It had clearly been long enough for the woman to do something terrible, but the more she told the story, the more they all looked at her as though she was a fantasist. Though no one had said directly that she was under arrest, she could see Kelsoe was itching to give her the spiel that would constitute her rights. When DS Poole arrived, and the whole place had been turned into a crime scene, she felt as though her fate had been sealed. And the minute he walked into the morning room and nodded at the uniformed officer who was “keeping her company”, she knew that was it. He didn’t even need to say the words. Of course they thought it was her. Who else could it be? It was clear they hadn’t believed her about the woman, and the bird was gone.
As she walked out to the waiting car she wondered just how long he’d been waiting to get his own back on her, and just how happy this day must have made him. The final insult was added when he placed his hand on her head and pushed it into the car before slamming the door.
Twenty-three hours in custody, four sessions of taped interviews, what felt like thirty cups of tea, and one sleepless, uncomfortable night for all concerned hadn’t made a bit of difference. Maura Lyle was sticking to her story.
Poole and Gallan were looking through the video recordings again, trying to pick up some nuance, some subtle hint that she was lying, but neither of them could spot a thing. The Forensic Medical Examiner had poured water on it in the first few hours, stating that, in her opinion, Maura Lyle’s injuries were not consistent with defensive wounds, but were consistent with a fall down stairs. Kelsoe had argued it and pointed out the scratch on their suspect’s face, and the claw marks and bruises on her arms. She’d wound her neck in when Gallan reminded her that the injuries had been there prior to Gordon Henderson’s death. The scratches on her arms were older than a few hours. A small infection had set into one, proving they weren’t an artefact of Gordon’s death. Kelsoe hadn’t wound it in so far that she didn’t try and make that into a motive, though. In private, Poole and Gallan had agreed it would be a good thing when Kelsoe moved on; all that zeal (when not backed up by common sense) became wearing. Poole would have liked to say it to her face, but could live without the accusation of sexism, even though he’d have readily admitted that Kelsoe had bigger balls than he did, and his were just fine.
‘What’s the verdict then, boss? We can only hold her for another hour and I can’t see we have grounds for an extension. We either have to charge her or let her go.’
Poole sighed and rubbed his tired face with the palms of his hands, as if the action would iron out the lines and erase his exhaustion. ‘The DI’s waiting on path results: there was skin under his nails and fibres in his mouth. We know he was asphyxiated, but we don’t know yet whether it was her who did it. All we really have, given she isn’t going to confess to it, is a load of circumstances.’
Gallan agreed with a solemn nod. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think she did kill him.’
‘Neither do I, but that’s not a good enough reason to let her go at the moment. Someone killed him. And don’t let Kelsoe hear you say that – she’ll have us pegged for fools.’
Gallan chuckled. ‘Already has, hasn’t she?’
‘Probably,’ Poole mumbled as his mobile began to ring. He turned away from Gallan to take the call and was glad he had because he was aware of his jaw dropping. When the call ended he turned towards his colleague. ‘Preliminary results are in. The fibres in the victim’s mouth don’t match anything Maura Lyle was wearing, or any fabrics we found in her possession, or that were in the house. Looks like they came from something woollen, like a scarf.’
Gallan pulled a surprised face. ‘This woman she kept going on about? I can’t recall her mentioning a scarf.’
Poole shook his head. ‘She didn’t, but did say she was feeling faint and dizzy at the time and hadn’t taken much in.’
‘True. What about the DNA? The DI ordered a rush job, didn’t she?’
Poole nodded. ‘She did, and here’s where it gets really interesting. The skin scrapings from under Henderson’s nails don’t match anyone in our database, and they definitely don’t match Maura Lyle.’
Gallan threw his hands up. ‘Great, so she’s off the hook and we have no bloody idea who we are looking for!’
Poole held a hand up. ‘Whoa there. You didn’t let me finish. The DNA doesn’t match anyone we have on record, but it does match with the remains that were found on the building site.’
This time it was Gallan’s jaw that dropped.