Condemned, R.C. Bridgestock [most romantic novels TXT] 📗

With no interruptions or other questions forthcoming, Charley carried on, ‘The second body, the male, has been dead possibly only weeks. A bullet hole found in the back of his head made the pathologist suggest that the cause of death was nothing short of an execution. If we’re lucky, the shell might be rolling about inside his skull like a marble when he’s opened up. The location of this corpse is relevant to the enquiry, and you’ll see why.’ Charley’s nod was to Neal Rylatt who ran through the footage from the outer scene, and the graveyard in his capacity as senior CSI, and then concluded with the inner scene, a close-up of the body, followed by pictures of inside the tunnels.

Charley went on, ‘Crownest has, for as long as I’ve known, been called Murder House because of its infamous past. A brief of its nefarious history compiled from research so far, for those interested, is available from Ellen Tate, Office Manager.’ Charley beckoned the middle-aged woman, known as Tattie to her friends, to stand up from her chair at the desk she had chosen by the window, where she had placed her beloved green plants on the windowsill. Ms Tate was easily identifiable owing to her nest of frizzy sandy-coloured hair. She then sat as quickly as she had stood.

Wilkie Connor mimicked the tipping of a hat in her direction. ‘Good egg, that one,’ he said, nudging the detective sitting next to him. ‘She’s always got a stash of goodies in her drawer,’ he said with a wink, before reaching for a handful of biscuits from the plate in the middle of the briefing table.

‘All relevant information will be on display boards around the room for easy reference very shortly,’ continued Charley.

Charley looked towards the door. ‘We were supposed to be joined by two members of the cold-case team who are looking at the Dixons for various unsolved crimes.’ She sounded a little annoyed. ‘They must have got delayed.’

Wilkie chuckled to himself. Old-timers Ben and Terry from the cold-case team had never been ones for rushing to a job, but were well known for letting others go before them.

On that note, Charley closed the briefing. ‘Every line of enquiry you are given to investigate is a priority. Don’t hesitate to ask, or to share anything with me or Mike.’

The briefing over, it was nine o’clock. A tired, but adrenaline-charged Charley retreated to her office with Mike, to allow the identified team leaders to further instruct their teams on specific tasks. ‘Where the hell are Ben and Terry? You’d think this would be a priority for them, too, given what we suspect about the Dixons.’

Chapter 14

The next morning Charley was standing at her office window next to her door, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. The window looked immediately into the main office, part of which now formed the Incident Room. With the initial briefing over, there was a lull in activity. This was because the majority of the team, with the exception of Wilkie Connor, who was still doing administration on light, part-time duties following his convalescence, and Tattie, who was based in the building as the office manager, were out and about to trace, interview and eliminate people from enquires. Interestingly, Ricky-Lee Lewis was also still in the office.

Transfixed, Charley watched the younger, tanned, athletic-looking detective constable frantically search his locker, then his desk drawer. Her eyes widened to see him crouch down and crawl right under the four desks in the central reservation. Charley giggled to herself for she knew exactly what he was looking for – and she knew that his search was futile. The tightly-rolled, well-thumbed, heavily-marked Racing Post newspaper was in her waste bin.

Next, not surprisingly, came the teasing and jeering from Wilkie. Then Tattie, who patience was finally lost, stood squealing at Wilkie for silence. How could she possibly prepare the budgets with such a din?

The arrival of the cold-case team officers soon after couldn’t be mistaken. Jovially, they pushed and shoved each other to enter the Incident Room doorway at the same time. Taken by surprise by the noise, Ricky-Lee lifted his head quickly and accidentally slammed his face into the steel filing cabinet.

Two pairs of strong arms swiftly lifted the dazed-looking Ricky-Lee off all fours, to his feet. However, the agonising pain appeared to be short-lived when he recognised the men. Charley continued to observe as Ben and Terry stopped briefly at Ricky-Lee’s desk. With a slap on the back and a ruffle of the detective’s hair, Ben counted notes from his wallet into the palm of Ricky-Lee’s hand. There was no mistaking the face of a gambler.

Again, Charley’s eyes found the racing paper protruding from her rubbish bin, the newspaper that she had plucked from Ricky-Lee’s jacket pocket this morning when he was making a brew.

When she glanced back in the direction of the Incident Room, she saw Ricky-Lee shaking Terry’s hand with vigour, then he grabbed Ben’s face in his hands and kissed him forcefully, on the lips. When Ricky-Lee sat, Ben clipped him round the back of his head and the pair left him counting his money, to walk the short distance to her office. There was a loud, confident rat-a-tat-tat at her door.

‘Morning gents,’ she said, on opening the door for them to enter. ‘Better late than never.’ Wilkie Connor followed them to the door. Overhearing her curt welcome, he withdrew grimacing. He knew that tone, and being greeted by the boss in that way had never ended well.

His hand rested on the door handle. ‘Can I get anyone drinks?’ he said. Charley nodded. ‘I don’t think there are any biscuits left.’ His eyes flew backwards to the empty tin on his desk, ‘but maybe Tattie might have some in her drawer,’ he said, looking for Tattie’s confirmation, but his unspoken plea was met with a slow shaking of her head.