Twelve Days: the Eighth

[avevale_intelligencer]

EIGHT

Again, for Tig

"All right, Franks, what have we got?" Detective Inspector Tim Ferdinand threw his raincoat in the general direction of the wall as he stalked into the incident room at Jariscombe Lucy police station. There was no hook there, had not been for two years, but Ferdinand did not stop to rescue the fallen Burberry.

"Eight suspicious deaths, sir," said Sergeant Franks at once. "All in one week."

"Remind me never to go on holiday again," Ferdinand said heavily. "You've made some progress, I hope?"

"Well, we've gathered as much information as we can, sir." Franks sounded defensive. He was young, and not long on the job.

"Let's have it, then."

"All the victims were female, between twenty and forty-two years old," Franks said. "All were due to take part in the Jariscombe Lucy Dairy Pageant, celebrating the village's chief industry."

"Yes, I saw the sign as I drove in, Franks. Rather a coincidence, surely?"

"Not really, sir. They were all patients at the St. Dymphna's care home here in the village, which was putting in its own float, and they were all going to be on it." Franks moved to one end of the long whiteboard and indicated the leftmost of the eight photographs. "First victim. Sarah Pawtrell. Diagnosed with severe depression and chronic apathy syndrome. She was found hanging from a decorative cornice outside the window of her room. At first it was put down to suicide. But then—" He moved on. "Daphne Carfax. Grieving for her husband, killed in a hit and run accident, drunk driver. Smothered with her own comforter. At this point the director of the home called us in."

"So the other six murders happened while we were actually on the case," Ferdinand said. "Not exactly a glowing recommendation."

"Tina McBane," Franks continued doggedly. "Self-esteem issues, apparently. Worked for a local minicab firm, till it went bust; apparently her boss was generally abusive. Tied up and buried alive in the vegetable garden. Eileen Gorse. Paranoia, focussing on what she saw as local miscarriages of justice. Used to make a nuisance of herself writing to the police, the council, the free paper, anyone who would listen. Drowned in the pond."

"Someone has a sense of humour," Ferdinand commented.

"Sir?" Franks looked blank.

"Think about it," his superior advised him. "Who's next?"

"Frederica Vines," Franks went on. "Animal rights activist, had a house full of waifs and strays, taken into care on hygiene grounds. Killed with an overdose of ketamine. Valerie Tandy. Haphephobia, resulting from a rape while still at school—"

"Haphephobia?" Ferdinand echoed testily.

"Sorry, sir. A fear of being touched, particularly in a sexual manner. Very religious as well, I believe."

"How was she killed?"

"She was given a large dose of some sort of hallucinogen—we're still waiting on the toxicology report—and jumped out of her third-floor window."

"Thinking she could fly, I suppose."

"No, sir," Franks said. "According to the witness reports at the time, she was shouting about finally seeing God."

"All right," Ferdinand said. "And the last two?"

"Genevieve Knight, sir. Crippling fear of confrontation. Apparently she was a sort of compulsive mediator." Franks coughed. "This one actually happened while everyone was watching Ms Tandy at her window. Ms Knight was, er, crucified. First drugged, and then nailed up to the wall of her room in the, er, classic position."

"Did we not have anyone watching these women?" Ferdinand exploded.

"It all happened so quickly, sir," Franks said, the defensive note back in his voice. "And the Jariscombe Lucy station's unmanned most of the week, sir, so—"

"Yes, yes, never mind, Franks, I don't need excuses. What about the last one?"

"Olivia Cruwys, sir. Worked in the council offices. Got summarily dismissed after she blew the whistle on some dodgy goings-on behind the scenes at the town hall. Had a bit of a breakdown after that, which is why she was here. Same method as Ms Pawtrell."

"And you still don't see what's going on here?" Ferdinand shook his head, grinning. "Never mind, Sergeant, you'll get it. Right, then. Common factors?"

"Just one, sir," Franks said. "Ms Pawtrell was married to one Stephen Pawtrell. Prominent local businessman, pillar of the community and so on. One of his ventures was the minicab company that employed Ms McBane."

"That's it?"

"We've been a bit busy, sir." Franks was openly aggrieved now.

"Well, let's see if we can't extend the list a little. Get on the computer, Franks, come on, chop chop." Ferdinand got up and began to pace as Franks took his seat in front of the machine. "It's a safe bet that if he abused his secretary he also abused his wife, so that's good as far as that goes. Why did the cab company go bust?"

Franks dabbed tentatively at the keyboard. "Says here—" His eyes widened. "The boss was arrested for vehicular manslaughter and driving well over the limit, sir. Fined for the latter, other charge dropped due to lack of evidence."

"And the victim's name?"

"Roly Carfax." Franks blinked, glanced involuntarily at the board.

"Daphne Carfax's husband. Very good, Franks." Ferdinand began to pace. "It's safe to assume, if he was in the habit of belling along these roads while drunk, that he mowed down a good deal of local wildlife, thus outraging Ms Vines. Being a pillar of the community—knowing what that phrase means around here—it could also be assumed that he has a lot of clout on the council, enough to pull strings and get an inconvenient manslaughter charge quietly dropped, and more than enough to lose an uppity junior clerk her job if she tried to call attention to his chicanery. Exit Ms Cruwys, and probably Ms Gorse as well. And I'd be willing to bet he went to the same school as Ms Tandy, at about the same time."

"What about Ms Knight?"

"I don't know as yet, Franks, but I'm sure there'll be something. Something in his or her past that put her on his death list. While they were all separate it was no problem—not one of those people knew anything that could hang him, so to speak. But once get them all together, in one place where they could compare notes, and he wouldn't have stood a chance. He had to silence them all."

"Right, sir." Franks considered a moment. "Being a bit obvious about it, wasn't he?"

"Well, he's obviously a nutter, Franks," Ferdinand began. "You don't murder eight women if you're entirely rational." He stopped. "No, that's Lestrade thinking. You're right. Check his movements, see if he's got an alibi. One thing is certain. Somebody killed those women, and I think it was one person, and I think the motive revolves around Mr Stephen Pawtrell."

*

"You were right, sir," Franks reported back some hours later. "We went to his house. She'd actually posted her note there. Relying on us to be treating him as a person of interest, presumably, and looking at his mail."

"Olivia Cruwys," Ferdinand mused, leaning back in his chair. "A woman of considerable resource. Strong enough to fake the suicide of Ms Pawtrell, not to mention overpowering Carfax, McBane and Gorse, clever enough to steal the drugs for Vines, Tandy and Knight, and then to fake her own suicide to look like one of the earlier murders—" He shook his head. "There was never any intention to cover her tracks. She wanted to be found out, but only after we'd followed her pointing finger to Stephen Pawtrell. Whom we can't get on anything criminal, but whose career as a pillar of the community is pretty much over."

"You sound as if you rather admire her, sir," Franks ventured.

"I'm sorry, Detective Sergeant, I didn't quite catch that," Ferdinand said.

"Just clearing my throat, sir."

"Her motives, honourable as they may be, don't excuse her actions, Franks. She may, as her suicide note says, have gone to each of the women in turn and got their assent in principle to do 'whatever was necessary' to trip Pawtrell up, but I'm quite sure they never agreed to be murdered." Ferdinand stretched and got up out of the chair. "Well, it's done, anyway. Olivia Cruwys is beyond the reach of earthly justice, and her plan seems to have worked, insofar as it could."

He picked up his raincoat from beside the door. Outside the rain had evidently set in for the night. "Shame about the float, though," he said. "I've always liked milkmaids."

And, jamming his hat on his head, he went out into the storm.

Four to go. I can do it...

Originally posted on http://avevale_intelligencer.dreamwidth.org. Comment here or there or both if you wish.

Comments

[eintx.livejournal.com]

But she wouldn't have buried someone _alive_, would she?
I'd like to think she would have done it less cruelly.

Apart from that: Of course you can do it!

[zanda-myrande.livejournal.com]

The toxicology report on the bodies finally came in, and apparently Ms McBane was in fact sedated before being buried; but she had to be alive. After all, as Ferdinand pointed out when explaining it all to Franks later, you can't inherit anything, even earth, if you're dead.

[eintx.livejournal.com]

Inherit?
Öm, I'm afraid I'm lost. Could you discreetly explain the story to me, please, by mail? :)