A Cold Death Read online

  A Cold Death

  Crane and Anderson crime thriller 5

  By

  Wendy Cartmell

  © Wendy Cartmell 2019

  Wendy Cartmell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Wendy Cartmell

  This kindle edition published 2019

  By Wendy Cartmell

  All my books are available for sale and to borrow on Amazon.

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  Check out my website and blog, where I review the very best in crime fiction.

  Wendy Cartmell

  What if the killer the police are hunting was your son?

  You hear a story about a murder. But do you believe it? Your son is involved. Do you tell the police?

  When a mother reports her son to the police, the least Crane and Anderson can do is to take the case and find the truth. But where are the bodies? Who are the killers? And why did they kill a harmless, old couple?

  And so begins Crane and Anderson's first cold case, or rather a new case with old roots that they must follow to its final, gripping conclusion.

  Table of contents

  By Wendy Cartmell

  Table of contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  Deadly Steps

  Solomon

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  1

  ‘You want us to do what Guv? Investigate a possible murder, that might have taken place 10 years ago. But we have no evidence and no bodies?’

  ‘Yes, Derek, that’s about right.’

  DI Anderson of Aldershot Police sat down heavily in the chair opposite his boss, DSupt Grimes. He straightened his mustard coloured tweed jacket and smoothed down his tie, which clashed with his shirt which was once pink and was now a shadow of its former self. Anderson wasn’t known for his debonair attire. His wife had tried for years to update his wardrobe, without any success.

  ‘But we don’t do cold cases.’

  Grimes was quick to retort, ‘Well it’s not really a cold case is it, Derek? It’s more a new case that has old roots.’

  ‘Old Roots?’ Derek hadn’t a clue what Grimes meant by that.

  ‘Is there something wrong with my voice, Derek? Or your ears? You aren’t listening to me. Your team WILL look into this. Am I clear? Capiche? Entiende?’

  Anderson knew things were serious when Grimes started speaking in tongues.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Guv, how am I supposed to sell this to the team?’ Anderson ran a hand through his wispy grey hair, causing it to stand up from his scalp. ‘A case that might not be a case. A murder that may or may not have been committed. And suspects who aren’t living in the UK and that you think live in Spain? Oh, and all reported by an old woman who got a drunken phone call from her son – let’s not forget that titbit. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit of a stretch, Guv.’

  Grimes sighed and leaning over his desk, loomed in front of Anderson. He had considerable bulk and was certainly intimidating to Anderson who, whilst undeniably putting on weight, was only half the man the boss was.

  ‘You’re supposed to order them, Derek, or is discipline so lacking in your team that they’ll do whatever they like? Are Holly and Ciaran picking up bad habits from you and Crane?’

  Anderson hated it when Grimes mentioned Crane. Good news and Crane never went together as far as their boss was concerned.

  ‘Of course not.’ Derek sat up straighter, looking deeply shocked that Grimes could even mention such a thing. The fact that it was true was neither here nor there.

  ‘Well off you go then, brief your team and arrange to interview Mrs Beadle.’

  ‘Mrs Beadle, who is a friend of yours?’

  ‘She’s a friend of my wife’s.’

  ‘Ah, now I understand. She who must be obeyed.’

  Derek had worked under Grimes for enough years to know all about his boss’ occasionally frosty treatment from his wife. None of which did any of them in Major Crimes any good at all. If Grimes got frosty treatment from his wife, you could safely bet that the temperature in the office would become decidedly artic.

  ‘Exactly, Derek, now piss off and do as you’re told, otherwise it will be the cold shoulder for me tonight, including a cold supper.’

  2

  Jean Wilder stopped for a moment and looked around the room. The packing case was half empty and newspaper was scattered around her as she unpacked the crockery. The kitchen needed some updating but was deliciously quirky and Jean would rather have quirky than cold and impersonal, which was the impression she got from many of the modern kitchens these days.

  It was moving-in day and Jean still couldn’t believe her luck at getting the house she wanted, at a price she could afford to pay. She stopped her unpacking, savouring how good it felt. It made her want to sing out loud and run around the rooms like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

  This was her time. Time for a new start. A fresh start. After her husband’s death a couple of years earlier, she had been devastated for so long, but now she was coming out of the darkness and into the light. The sun streamed through the large windows, filling her house, and her heart, with sunshine.

  Importantly, the house was near her daughter Ellen and her granddaughter Strike. Strike was a bloody strange name. She wouldn’t have called a child that, but hey times they are a changing, as the song went. Jean would have been happier with a more old-fashioned name, but had to admit it made Strike very, well, striking! An out of the normal name seemed to be reflected in an out of the normal granddaughter. Strike was very perceptive for a 7-year-old. She seemed to know when nanny was depressed and gave her extra cuddles and told her everything would be alright. The love and concern coming from Strike had made many a day worth living lately, dispelling any dark thoughts Jean was having, just by her mere presence.

  Deciding to take a short break, Jean went out into the garden, turning to look back at the red-bricked Victorian house that was now hers. The warmth of the brick and the solid proportions of the building exuded a feeling of home. Of having arrived. Of being in the right place. She could see her reflection in the window and was surprised at what she saw. Having lost a lot of weight after her husband died, she had now put on a few kilos and it suited her. Her shoulder length hair was scraped back into a ponytail which accentuated her cheek bones and made her wonder what it would look like if she had it cut short. Her face, having filled out, looked much better and a lot less wrinkly and maybe it would take a short cut better than before.

  But updating her hair style and perhaps buying some new clothes were activities for another day.

  She turned her attention to the garden. It was a wonderful space, just right for Strike to play in. And the dog, of course. Her little white Bichon Frise who followed her everywhere and was the one who had comforted her during her husband’s illness and then death. When she couldn’t raise the energy to get out of bed, Lulu would lie next to her. A warm body next to hers instead of acres of empty, cold sheets. She dashed away sudden, unwanted tears at the memories and looked for Lulu. The dog was poking around in the flower beds and Jean called her back from under the trees at the very end of the garden. Surprisingly flowers grew well there, which was unusual as that flower bed was mostly in the shade of the pine trees overshadowing it. She’d have to do some research into plants that grew well in the shade, as her knowledge of gardening was severely limited. But she was happy to learn. The garden was a good project for her to get her teeth into and she was sure Lulu would enjoy helping to dig over and weed the flower beds.

  She turned and went back into the kitchen, Lulu at her heels, determined to finish unpacking the kitchen, after which she could take a break with a cup of tea.

  3

  Walking back to his office, Anderson mulled over the Superintendent’s request, alright his order, to brief the team and interview Mrs Beadle. He decided to do things slightly differently, he wouldn’t brief the team just yet, just Crane.

  As they were coming to the end of their shif
t and Holly and Ciaran started packing up and closing down computers, Derek emerged from his office and nodded to Crane, indicating that he should speak to him before leaving.

  Crane limped into the office.

  ‘You alright?’ Anderson asked, although he knew what the answer would be.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Crane snapped.

  ‘Alright, just asking, no need to bite my head off!’

  ‘Sorry, Derek,’ Crane conceded as he sat down and stretched his bad leg out. ‘Bloody knee has been playing up something chronic.’

  ‘Must be the weather,’ said Anderson, looking out of the window at the rain which had been falling steadily all day. ‘The wife always moans about her ankle in this weather. You know, from when she broke it last year.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s fine tomorrow then,’ grumbled Crane as he rubbed his kneecap. ‘Anyway, what’s up?’

  Anderson quickly gave Crane what little information he had and asked him to go with him to see Mrs Beadle. ‘I’ve already called her, and she is waiting for us at her home in Ash.’

  Crane looked sceptical, so Derek piled on the pressure. ‘Which is on your way home, Crane, so you wouldn’t be too late getting back to your son. It shouldn’t take long, maybe 15 minutes max.’

  Crane grinned. ‘You don’t need to keep going on, trying to persuade me, Derek. I’m intrigued already. Come on then, let’s go.’

  Anderson grabbed his trusty raincoat off the coat rack and Crane slipped on his black suit jacket and dark overcoat. The two men walked through the now empty offices, as different as chalk and cheese in their attire. Anderson all crumpled and well-worn and Crane ramrod straight and still smart, despite the lateness of the hour and the pain in his leg.

  They parked their cars outside the red brick home of Mrs Beadle in Ash, which was just a few doors down from the Victorian brick building that housed the Infants School. Traffic was heavy, being rush hour and they both had to wait until there was a large enough gap in the stream of vehicles, so they could open the doors and alight from their cars. At least the rain had abated.

  Meeting at her door, Crane gave way to Anderson who stepped forward and knocked. It was answered after several locks could be heard being undone and a chain being attached.

  The door opened just a few inches, a pair of eyes appeared, a flash of white hair, with a tremulous, ‘Yes?’ accompanying them.

  ‘Mrs Beadle, I’m Derek Anderson from Aldershot Police, we spoke earlier today.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, hang on.’

  The door was once more closed and after much fumbling at the chain, it opened fully. ‘Sorry about that,’ Mrs Beadle said. ‘It’s just that…’

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ Derek finished for her. ‘No problem,’ he assured her. ‘May we come in?’

  They followed Mrs Beadle into the house. From her nervous reaction to their knock on the door, Derek was afraid that Mrs Beadle could turn out to be a bit doddery and possibly not in full control of her faculties. But the white hair and anxious disposition were rather misleading. She strode ahead of them into the sitting room and once there turned to face them. He could see that the white hair was cut in a jaunty style, she was wearing a little make up and her clothes were classically cut, all giving the impression of a confident older woman, enjoying her retirement. After all, Derek reasoned, being a friend of Mrs Grimes, Mrs Beadle was bound to be cut from the same cloth.

  It took a while to begin the interview, as once Mrs Beadle had let them into the house, she then fussed over making a pot of tea. Crane carried the tray into the front room for her and he and Derek sat on the edge of overstuffed armchairs with cups and saucers balanced on the arms.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me about the phone call from your son?’ Derek asked.

  Mrs Beadle took a deep breath and held her hand to her chest. ‘Well, as you might know, Ronald lives in Spain. He and his wife Christine have been there for about 7 years, I suppose. He rang me a couple of nights ago, clearly drunk, asking for money.’

  ‘How much did he want?’

  ‘He said several thousand would be ideal, but I don’t have that sort of money. My husband, Ron’s father, died three years ago now and I’ve not had much of anything since. I told him that, but he got increasingly anxious and, well, manic really, you know? He was incoherent most of the time, prattling on about how much he hated Christine and the people and the heat.’

  Mrs Beadle grabbed her cup and saucer which rattled alarmingly as she tried to take a sip. Crane leaned over and took the saucer from her, so she only had the cup to contend with.

  Once she’d finished having a drink of tea and returned the cup to the tray, Derek asked, ‘Do you think you can continue, Mrs Beadle?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, it’s just that it upsets me to hear him like that.’

  ‘I’m sure it does, that’s perfectly natural. How did the conversation go after you told him you had no money?’

  ‘I asked him again to come home. Come back to England, get a job and find somewhere to live. Near me would be wonderful, of course, but I don’t want to presume or be a burden on anyone. But he said no, he couldn’t come back. When I pressed him, he got really upset again and said it was because Christine’s parents where dead and didn’t I see that? He started to cry. But I had to try and find out what on earth he was talking about, so I quizzed him some more.

  ‘Well that’s the first I’ve heard of it, I said, and he got really angry then. He screamed that Christine did it. Did them in, were his words. It was all her fault. He was stuck there because she’d murdered them. He hated her. He hated the heat, the Spanish, the English abroad, his dad for dying and me for having no money. At which point he put down the phone and I haven’t heard from him since.’ Mrs Beadle dashed away her tears and took several deep breaths.

  ‘Are you worried about what might have happened to your son since the phone call?’ asked Crane. ‘Because we don’t have any jurisdiction in Spain, although we do work with our Spanish colleagues from time to time.’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m not really worried about him. He won’t have done anything to himself, he’s too much of a coward and was obviously on one of his drinking binges, which to be honest from what I hear, are becoming more frequent. I’m actually more worried about Mr and Mrs Cleaver, Christine’s parents.’

  ‘You think he was serious then? About his wife’s parents having been murdered?’ asked Derek, putting his cup back on the tray. For once he’d really enjoyed the cup of tea, it being nice and strong without too much milk. Too often people were distracted by the visit from the police when making tea, which as a result was pretty much undrinkable.

  Mrs Beadle paused to think. ‘Well I haven’t actually seen them for years, probably not since the wedding if I’m honest. But just out of interest I rang the telephone number I had for them, but it was unobtainable.’

  ‘Well they’ve probably moved,’ Crane said. ‘People do.’

  ‘Yes, they do and there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for them no longer being at that number. But what if Ronald is right? What if Christine did kill her parents? Don’t you think we owe it to them, as human beings, to try and find out?’

  Derek could only agree with that sentiment. As far as he was concerned Mrs Beadle was a very credible witness. It looked to him like their first cold case had just begun.

  4

  ‘There you have it.’

  Crane had just finished telling Ciaran, their young detective constable and Holly, their computer wizard and analyst, about the visit to Mrs Beadle the previous night. They were all drinking coffee at the cramped meeting table in Derek’s office. A pile of snacks and chocolate goodies were in the middle of it, along with several empty wrappers.

  ‘So that’s why you opened your goodie drawer, Guv,’ said Ciaran.

  ‘I’m hurt you think I would try and bribe you!’ Derek quipped.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘But I am, of course I am. Would you rather me relay the message from DSupt Grimes?’

  ‘Go on, give us a laugh,’ urged Holly.