1.43pm Friday 13th December
Tilly was driven home from the police station. They had brought her there to take her prints so, they told her, that she could be eliminated from their investigation. Not wanting to appear guilty of anything, Tilly had agreed.
When she returned to her basement flat she was relieved to find Yuki, her flatmate, sitting on the sofa and talking fast in Chinese on the phone.
Yuki’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose when a police officer escorted Tilly inside.
‘The DCI will probably want to ask you more questions, miss.’ The officer stood tall in his high-vis coat.
‘That’s fine.’ Tilly sank into the sofa next to Yuki and started to rub her temples. ‘Thank you.’
The officer nodded before letting himself out.
‘What you do?’ Yuki had hung up the phone and turned her full attention to Tilly. She was wearing a grey fluffy onesie, which swamped her small figure.
‘Mr Wade, the bookshop owner, I found him this morning dead in the shop.’ Her memory of the image made her well up again. ‘He killed himself.’
‘You what?!’ Yuki put her slender arm around her friend. ‘Poor Tilly. Awful. Why you not call me?’
‘I didn’t know if you were awake. You were sleeping when I left.’ The excuse sounded feeble, but it was the only one she had.
‘I so sorry Tilly. I would come.’ Her poker-straight black hair shimmered like satin in the low winter light that forced its way through the grubby window.
‘I know.’ She sniffed. ‘I need a drink.’ Tilly looked down at her shaking hands.
‘I get whisky from shop.’ Yuki sprung up out of her seat and darted for the door.
‘No, no need. There is some vodka in the cupboard. That will do.’
‘No.’ Yuki was insistent. ‘Whisky good for shock.’
Tilly smiled at her petite flatmate, suddenly very grateful for her company.
‘The vodka will be fine.’
Yuki, realising that she’d lost this time, shrugged and returned to the sofa.
‘I never seen dead person.’ Her grasp of the English language left a lot to be desired.
‘No, me neither,’ Tilly said reaching for a glass and pouring herself a healthy measure of vodka. ‘You want one?’ She held the bottle up to Yuki, who giggled behind her hand at the thought.
‘No. Too early for me.’ Yuki held her hands up.
‘Well normally it would be too early for me too…’ Tilly glugged the cold vodka and then wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you have anything on today?’
‘Cooking. Friends come for food later.’ It was the answer Tilly had been dreading.
‘I teach you Chinese cooking?’ Yuki was doing her best to be a friend.
‘Do you know what…’ Tilly smiled. ‘That would be great.’
‘You no have job now. Maybe you be chef.’
‘Not sure it’s quite my thing.’ Tilly paused. It hadn’t dawned on her that her job was in jeopardy but, of course, there was no way that the shop would open again any time soon. She gave a small shudder. ‘So what are we cooking then?’
‘I show you how make dumpling.’
‘Pork?’
‘No pork. Lamb.’ Yuki went over to the fridge and removed a white plastic bag full of raw meat.
The sight of it instantly reminded Tilly of the dead body that she had seen hanging only two hours earlier. Dennis Wade had looked like an animal carcass in an abattoir. Putting her hand over her mouth to stop the vomit spilling onto the floor, she dashed towards the bathroom leaving Yuki standing in the kitchen looking confused.
When Tilly returned, five minutes later, she looked worse than she had when she’d entered the flat, escorted by the policeman.
‘You sick?’ Yuki stood holding a knife.
‘Just the vodka.’ Tilly swallowed down another wave of sickness, the taste of bile still fresh in her mouth. ‘I think I’m going to go and lie down.’
‘Okay. I save you dumpling.’ Yuki returned to chopping up Chinese leaves.
‘Thanks,’ Tilly said, her throat raw from vomiting, as she went into her bedroom and closed the door.
It was cold in their basement apartment, so Tilly got into bed, fully clothed, and pulled the covers up around her face. She needed the job at Ashton’s Bookshop so she could afford to study. The realisation that this was now being threatened left her miserable.
For the first time since discovering the body, she realised what she needed to do was call home and hear the sound of her mum’s voice. Reaching out from beneath the warmth of the duvet she picked up her mobile phone and dialled her parents’ number.
‘Hello?’ The soothing tone of her father’s voice echoed down the line.
‘Dad, it’s me.’ Tilly felt the tears welling up again.
‘How are you, my love?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a rough morning.’ She didn’t want to frighten him.
‘What’s up, kid?’
‘Well, my manager, I went to work this morning and I found him dead.’
There was a pause on the phone while her father absorbed the unexpected information and Tilly found herself biting her nails, something she hadn’t done since she was young.
‘You poor child. How awful. What happened?’
Tilly proceeded to explain and her father listened silently, occasionally letting out a small gasp.
‘You should come home. You should not be in the city dealing with this by yourself.’ Her father had always lived in villages his entire life and never really entertained the idea of city living. This would only help to encourage his distrust.
‘I’m okay, Dad. I just needed to hear your voice. Is Mum there?’
‘She’s out walking the dog, but I can get her to call you as soon as she comes back. Why don’t you come home for a bit? Just leave Cambridge a few days early.’
‘I can’t,’ Tilly admitted, ‘the police need me to stay around for some reason.’
Again, her father paused. ‘Why? That’s the daftest thing I’ve heard in a long time.’ She imagined her father standing holding the phone with his chest puffed up. ‘Why do you need to be stuck there without your family because he decided to kill himself? It’s preposterous!’
For the first time since finding Dennis Wade’s body it dawned on Tilly that perhaps it wasn’t suicide. That would explain why the police needed her to hang around. The realisation did not sit well with her. ‘I don’t know, Dad, but I can’t just run home every time something bad happens. I want to stand on my own two feet. I’ll be okay, I promise.’
‘Your mother and I can come to you. Just say the word.’
‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll be okay. Please get Mum to give me a call when she’s back.’
‘Of course I will.’ She could hear the concern in his voice and began to regret making the call.
‘I’ve got Yuki, remember. It’s not so bad.’ But in truth she wished she could jump in her small aging Ford hatchback and drive, without stopping, back to the comfort of home, her family and Ilfracombe.
‘You call, if you need anything. Promise me you will. We love you.’
‘I know. Thanks, Dad.’
‘That’s what dads are for.’
Back at Parkside Police Station, which overlooked the famous Parker’s Piece where the first game of football with recognised rules was played, Elly Hale was busily tracking down the people who worked at the bookshop. The young sergeant, who was instantly recognisable because of the vampire red lipstick she wore, and her black-rimmed glasses, had been part of Barrett’s team for a few years and was making a name for herself as someone who was hard working and diligent.
While she tapped away at her laptop, in between making calls, her brow was furrowed. This was the second largest murder case she had worked, and it concerned her that is was so soon after the Book Club Murders that the team had investigated only months earlier.
Thankfully that case had ended with an arrest, yet the trial had yet to begin.
Cambridge, from the outside, appeared to be a calm and tranquil place, but like any city it had its underbelly and Elly was gradually learning how grim it could be.
Although the Book Club Murders had involved violent crimes, this new case – and the missing finger of the shop manager – was not something any of them had come across before. As a result, despite the incident room being a flurry of activity, everyone was strangely quiet. It wasn’t lost on Elly Hale that both cases were linked to the book world.
‘Only in Cambridge,’ she spoke to herself, under her breath, as she waited for the CCTV control room to answer the phone.
Eventually a gruff voice answered the call, ‘Control room.’
‘Hi, this is Sergeant Elly Hale from Parkside Police Station. We need you to send over footage from the camera on Trinity Street, near Ashton’s Bookshop, from last night.’ She checked her notes. ‘From after 9pm up until 9am this morning as a matter of urgency please.’
‘Will do. Might take a little while though.’
‘I understand,’ she said, although she didn’t. ‘If it would be quicker, I can send an officer over?’
‘Nah, we’ll get on it.’
Elly knew that the control room hated having CID peering over their shoulders and that as a result they would now spring into action.
‘I appreciate it. Please send the file over to the major incident room. You have the email address?’
‘Yeah, yeah, we’ve got it.’ The man on the other end of the phone sounded bored.
‘Great, thank you. We look forward to receiving it. Bye.’
Elly hung up and blew her dark brown fringe off her forehead. Why were these things always like pulling teeth?
After gathering some papers together, Elly straightened her pencil skirt and made her way towards Barrett’s office, which was on the far side of the room overlooking the snow-covered green. From the window she could see families outside enjoying the snow and for a moment she felt a Christmas glow, but it was snuffed out as she opened the door to Barrett’s office.
Her boss sat on his chair with his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the rest of the room.
‘Sir, I thought you’d like to know we’ve managed to track down the address of Mr Wade’s wife’s sister.’ Elly checked her notes, wanting to avoid eye contact. ‘Mrs Francesca Woodcock lives in Yoxter, Somerset. I have a phone number; or will you be sending a car?’
‘Call the Somerset local branch and tell them to send a squad car over to see Mrs Wade,’ Barrett barked. ‘We need her back in Cambridge as soon as possible. And we need the addresses of everyone who works at Ashton’s.’
‘Yes, sir, I’m working on it.’ Elly excused herself and returned to her desk. She’d just about got used to Barrett’s manner, but it didn’t mean she appreciated it. Every single member of the team felt the pressure when a big case arose. She only wished he would be a little more polite.
On the other side of the room, Palmer and Sergeant Singh were trying to track down information about the main employee of Ashton’s. What they had learnt was that Dennis Wade was not only the manager but also the owner of the shop. It had been in his family for nearly a century and he had taken over running it when his father had retired in the 1980s.
Palmer had given himself the task of contacting the company accountant, Marcus Goldman, so that they could check the financial situation the shop was in. Money was often a motive for murder.
DI Palmer sat back in his chair, clicking a biro as he searched the Internet for an address and number for the accounting firm, even though he knew he couldn’t attempt to reach Marcus Goldman until the next of kin had been informed about the death. But Palmer wanted to have all his ducks in a row; so that once Mrs Wade had been told about her husband’s murder, he would be free to crack on with talking to Mr Goldman. The same applied to everyone who worked at the bookshop. Being organised and ready was part of the job and half the battle. And although Palmer wasn’t the most organised individual in the team, his desire to have the case wrapped up by Christmas meant that he was going to do his very best to be on top of such details.
After hanging up the phone to Broadbury Road Police Station in Somerset, Elly sauntered over to Palmer’s desk. She’d always found him attractive and enjoyed his company. She knew only too well that he was a family man, but she figured a little bit of harmless flirting never killed anyone.
‘Somerset Police have a local office to Yoxter, are they’re going to talk to Mrs Wade,’ Elly informed Palmer, while perching on the corner of his desk. He may have been ten years her senior, but she was not intimidated by him.
‘Good. It will be a while before they can get her back to Cambridge, which is a pity.’
‘Yes. Poor woman, having the news broken to her like that. Makes you feel grateful for what you’ve got,’ Elly mused.
‘It does indeed, sergeant.’ Palmer scratched the light stubble on his chin while thinking about his eight-year-old son and wife, who were likely out in the fields by their house building a snowman.
‘The finger is unusual,’ Elly probed, wanting to hear if Palmer had any theories at this early stage.
‘Very odd. The digit hasn’t been found at the scene.’
‘Do you think the killer took it with them?’ Elly’s eyes widened with horror.
‘Too early to say, but…’
‘You think it might be a trophy?’ She realised where his train of thought was going.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Palmer had a slight twinkle in his eye but kept a straight face.
‘If it was a trophy then…’ Elly let the statement hang in the air unfinished.
‘Yes quite, sergeant. That is what I’m worried about.’