‘Yeah – DI Caffery,’ he mumbled.
‘There’s another.’ It was Turnbull. ‘Came in this afternoon. First attending thought it was a suicide and sent it over to the Royal United, but someone in the call centre got thinking about it after work and – bright spark – put it together with our job, did a Crimesnitch number and picked up the phone. It’s the same MO. They found her in her car – pills, knife, same shit as before.’
For a moment Caffery didn’t answer. The doctor had stopped his work and was standing at the head of the bed, arms folded, eyebrows raised at the sign on the wall – a picture of a phone with a line through it. Caffery held up his thumb, giving him a bear-with-me-I-won’t-be-a-minute look, and stuck his finger in his left ear.
‘Yeah, go on. Who is it?’
‘Woman called Lindermilk.’
‘Lindermilk? I’ve seen that name somewhere.’
‘Ruth Lindermilk? Lives out near Farleigh Hall in one of those hamlets we were searching. She was kind of a recluse. You’re going to love who her niece is. Was, mind.’
‘Let me guess. It was Mahoney.’
‘No. It was Hopkins.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yes, and Lindermilk had an appointment at the Rothersfield clinic this morning. Surgeon’s name?’
‘Gerber. That’s where I saw her name – in his records.’
‘And meantime,’ said Turnbull, ‘while they’re giving it duhs at the site they found her, another call comes in. Lindermilk’s house has been screwed. Place is trashed.’
‘From when Gerber killed her?’
‘Don’t think so. From her body it seems like she went without a struggle. We’re thinking this happened afterwards. He did her, then went back and screwed her house. Just like with Mahoney, ’cept not as discreet.’
‘Who found it?’
‘Lindermilk’s son. He hears what’s happened to his mother and – get this for the calibre of human being we’re dealing with here – because she’s got some property or other he wants before the police seal the place off, he goes straight over and lets himself into the place. He’s got a key apparently. Except when he gets there, someone’s beaten him to it. Nearly catches them too. He hears them jumping out of a window at the back. That’s how close he came.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Two or three hours ago.’
‘Then it can’t have been Gerber.’
‘Lindermilk’s got some history of pissing off the neighbours. Couple of disputes there. Maybe it was one of them.’
The doctor, apparently at the end of his tether, walked out of the cubicle, leaving only a half-stitched wound, a few syringes in the kidney bowl, a blood-soaked sheet and a little sway of the curtain to prove he’d been there.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Turnbull said.
A huge wave of tiredness came over Caffery. He didn’t think he had it in him to get up and keep going. He wanted to eat, drink and sleep. Nothing else. ‘Dunno,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘Up at the mortuary. We’re waiting to hear when the PM’s going to be. The CSI are heading down to the house now. Do you want to have a look at it?’
Caffery inched his legs around, easing them carefully off the bed. He waited a moment or two for his head to stop spinning, then looked around for the call button. ‘I’ll be there, just as soon as I can find a doctor in this place.’
67
The first thing Caffery noticed was how near to Farleigh Park Hall Ruth Lindermilk’s place was. In fact, now he thought about it, he remembered driving past the hamlet only a few days ago. He got a rush of adrenalin as he pulled off the road and parked behind the marked police cruiser outside the bungalow. No way Misty Kitson could have been on Gerber’s list too? No. That would be too, too neat. Wouldn’t it?
First things first. Check out the burglary. Then think about Misty. He looked around. The scene-of-crime guys’ cars were lined up by the bottom of the road and one or two neighbours were standing in the dark lane, arms folded, coats over their shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on inside. Someone had put screens outside Lindermilk’s front door. Maybe that was why the rest of the village were so interested.
He’d been given an antibiotic shot, packets of hospital pharmacy tramadol and codeine. They’d send him to sleep so for now he was sticking to ibuprofen 400s and a top-up of paracetamol. Giving into a rare burst of professionalism, he’d stopped at his cottage to dump his suit in a bag for the CSI guys. Now he was in black jeans and a black nylon warm-up jacket, but the limp still gave it away. That, and the swollen nose and the way his face creased every time he put weight on his foot. The district officer waiting for him in the house came forward, hands out instinctively to help him along the path.
‘’S OK.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s OK.’
Pulling on the gloves the CSIs gave him, Caffery followed the officer along the tread plates into the little lighted dining room where a stubby, thick-bodied man dressed in a grey polo neck sat at the polished oak table. He was in profile, his chin resting on his fist, his mouth pursed. In front of him on the table was a brass telescope.
‘Mrs Lindermilk’s son,’ the officer muttered. ‘Steve. I think the reality’s just hitting him now.’
‘You coping there, mate?’ Caffery stood in the doorway. ‘You all right?’
Steve Lindermilk’s face was very red. ‘Not really. I should’ve done something – I never saw it coming.’
‘You’ve been asked if you want to speak to a family liaison officer?’
‘Yeah, I have. Don’t need it.’
‘They’ve been assigned already. You can change your mind.’
‘No, thank you. But could you have someone speak to the neighbours? The ones gawking at us?’
‘Sure.’
Caffery glanced down the hallway at the yellow crime-scene tape slung across the entrance to the living room, then back at Lindermilk. ‘You know why I’m here?’
‘To ask me questions?’
‘And to look at the house. We need to find out if the break-in was connected to her death.’ Caffery’s head and leg were hurting like hell, in spite of the painkillers. ‘Do you understand?’
Lindermilk nodded.
‘Are you OK about that?’
‘I’m OK.’ He got up and followed Caffery along the tread plates. They stopped in the living-room doorway, leant over the tape and peered inside like visitors to a stately home. It looked to Caffery as if Ruth Lindermilk hadn’t been a good housekeeper to start with, but this was something else again: every cupboard, every shelf, had been emptied in a pile on the floor. An angry break-in? With those they usually took time out to shit on the floor. Or on the beds. This one looked more as if they had been searching for something. In the kitchen a window stood open, the locks prised off. It looked professional. A cat jumped on to the window ledge, paused when it saw the visitors and balanced for a moment, all four paws tight together, staring at them.
‘Look at that,’ Lindermilk grunted. ‘My mum encouraged that behaviour. Didn’t have much in the way of boundaries.’
‘When was the last time you were here?’
‘Couple of days ago.’
‘And the place didn’t look like this, I take it, the last time you were here?’
‘No, it bloody well did not,’ Lindermilk said. ‘Those pictures on the wall – the ones of the animals – that’s what was pissing people off round here. I’m surprised they never took those, if it was one of them did this.’
‘We’re looking at every possibility.’
Lindermilk shrugged. ‘Tell you what, when you’re done here can I have them photos? I’m going to burn them all.’
‘Speak to the CSI men. It shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘There’s some stuff on the outside I want to take too. Those things on the roof. I don’t want the neighbours coming through here and making a laughing-stock of us.’