DISCLAIMER: Murder in Suburbia and its characters are the property of ITV. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To ralst31[at]yahoo.co.uk
Suburban Romance
By ralst
Part One
The sound of waves crashing against the pier invades my ears and make it nearly impossible to hear the SOCO's report. Something about blunt force trauma and blood pools from what I can tell, although I'll have to wait until I've taken a look at the written report before I'll know the particulars. Suffice it to say he met a grizzly end and not by his own hand.
"Ash?"
Scribbs' hair is a mess and she's looking at me as if I'm personally responsible for the salt water eating away at her shoes. I'm sure she'll let me know the extent of her irritation as soon as we're in the car and away from these yokels; the outskirts of Middleford are like another country, the suburbs giving way to a mile or two of seaside tawdriness.
"Ash!"
I'm tempted to stay quiet a little longer just to see how pissed off she'll get, but my professional side would never allow it.
"What is it Scribbs?"
"I spoke to the ice-cream seller and she said that this area was clear at dawn, when she walked her dog, which leaves about a three hour window of opportunity." She consults her notebook, and I can tell from the frown on her face that she's working herself up into a rant. Nothing annoys Scribbs more than being out of her depths; well, that and men, but she's hardly unique in that respect. "She also said something about tides and the distance from the moon and all this nautical mumbo-jumbo; half of which I think she made up on the spot."
"Did she know the man?"
"What?"
God, crashing waves might be fine for romantic backdrops, but they play havoc with murder investigations. I motion Scribbs towards the car park before miming writing a report at the SOCO, which either means he'll send me the report or add me to his Christmas card list.
By the time I'm safely ensconced in the car, Scribbs has already started the engine and begun her diatribe about the inadequacies of seaside locations.
"...and what's the point of candy floss? Three bites and you've a face of pink sugar and gunk all over your fingers. I had a boyfriend once who thought it was romantic to dangle globs of the stuff in front of my face and expect me to let him feed me like some Roman emperor."
"Empress."
"So I'm standing there, my mouth wide open, while he tries to choke me to death with two pounds of fluffy sugar."
I don't think I've ever heard Scribbs tell a boyfriend story that doesn't end badly. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn't just give up on men altogether and save herself some heartache.
"Did she know the man?"
"No, and the CCTV camera on the corner confirms that she didn't go anywhere near the beach after she finished walking her dog." Scribbs puts the car in gear and begins edging out of the tight space. "As usual the camera failed to capture anything useful."
"Think of it this way," I tell her. "If the CCTV cameras ever did live up to their potential and film an actual crime or two, we'd be out of a job."
She's not appeased; her date last night must have gone worse than I thought. I'm tempted to ask her about it but I'm not sure I want to hear all the gory details. It was either an utter disaster that ended an hour or two into the evening, or a sordid little affair that managed to get to the bedroom before dissolving into a farce. The first one I wouldn't mind but I really don't want to have to listen to Scribbs describing some man's inadequacies and exactly how far he got before she kicked him to the kerb.
"Are you listening to me?"
"I'm thinking, Scribbs, and you know what I always say about interrupting me while I'm thinking."
Scribbs rolls her eyes but I decide to ignore it.
"There was no sign of his car in the vicinity and the nearest train station is over three miles away."
"And by the looks of his belly he wasn't exactly the jogging type," she mocks.
"Which means that the killer probably arrived with him in a car and then drove away after he was dead." Which removes all the blind, three foot one suspects from the list, or in other words is about as useful as a eunuch in a fertility clinic. "So they could have come from anywhere in Middleford."
For the first time in hours a smile breaks out on Scribbs' face and her foot attacks the accelerator with renewed vigour.
"Back to civilisation," she mutters, as if calling the suburbs civilised made the slightest bit of sense.
"Any progress?" Sullivan asks by way of a greeting.
"Yes Boss." Scribbs is rather too pleased with herself. "The victim's name is John-Paul Thornton. Apparently he's some bigwig solicitor and founding member of half the Conservative organisations in the county." She lets loose one of her cocky half-smiles and I am a little disconcerted to see Sullivan succumb to its charms. "Rumour has it he used to provide special services for Maggie Thatcher during the eighties."
How Scribbs manages to make even Maggie Thatcher sound like a debauched harlot is beyond me, but I hope to hell she never uses that tone to describe me. I look to Sullivan to share an Oh that Scribbs roll of the eyes but he's looking at her as if she's actually funny. He's not meant to be doing that. I'm the one he's meant to be sharing inappropriate looks with; there's half a tonne of graffiti in the ladies' loos testifying to that fact.
"Good work Scribbs."
"Thanks Boss."
My God she's beaming at him now. I don't know why she doesn't go the whole hog and give him a lap-dance.
"Ash?"
Oh, so now he remembers I'm here. "We were on our way to visit the widow." I grab for my bag and start walking to the car before I'm subjected to any more of their friendly banter. "Come on Scribbs."
I'm sitting in the car and silently fuming by the time Scribbs decides to join me.
"What's up with you?" she asks, as if I was the one with the problem.
"There is nothing 'up' with me." I wait for her to start the car but she makes no move to comply. "If you choose to throw yourself at the boss that's your business."
"Throw myself? What are you talking about?" She has the nerve to look indignant. "I'm not the one who's been acting all weird around him. I mean, so what if you snogged him in front of the entire CID, that was months ago."
I've told her a hundred times that she's never to mention that day. Ever.
"Most people have probably forgotten all about it by now."
"Forgotten!" I snap my head back so I'm facing forward. I promised myself I wouldn't get drawn into a discussion about that day and I'll be damned if I'm going to let Scribbs' change in subject break that promise. "Haven't you seen the graffiti?" Shit.
"It's not as if you had to kiss him." She sounds angry but at this point I can't tell what about. "There were plenty of other people around to help with your little demonstration."
As if kissing the custody sergeant would have made things any easier. "What, should I have kissed you instead?" I wait for her sarcastic reply but one never comes. "Scribbs?"
"At least if you'd kissed me I wouldn't be getting a bollocking for flirting with the boss."
There is a flaw in her logic but I don't think either of us are in the right frame of mind to discuss it at this point. I give her the address of our widow and we both remain uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the trip.
The widow is guilty. Maybe not of murder but she's definitely guilty of something; she's wearing cheap lipstick and an expensive raw silk blouse, the two clashing in a way that almost hurts the eyes. I can tell Scribbs doesn't like her, which is yet another nail in her coffin, and one that will surely have my colleague gunning for her conviction.
"Do mind the carpet," Mrs Thornton chastises, as if we're recalcitrant children and not officers of the crown. I try not to notice Scribbs scuffing her feet and motion the tear-free widow into the living room.
"I'm sorry to have to intrude on your grief -" Scribbs pulls a face and I have a hard time restraining a smirk "- but we need to ask you some questions about your husband's movements over the previous twenty-four hours."
"How should I know?" She reaches for her handbag and begins rooting around in the bottom. I expect her hand to emerge clasping a handkerchief or tissue but instead she produces and pack of cigarettes. "Was it a heart attack?"
Scribbs waves at the smoke in her face. "Do you think they'd send two detectives if it was a heart attack?"
"He was murdered," I interrupt, hoping to stop the argument I could see brewing. The animosity I could sense from my partner far exceeded the snooty widow's actions; I'd have to reprimand her for her attitude later but for now I want to get this interview over with as soon as possible. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Last night." She blew another lung full of smoke in Scribbs' direction. "He's been sleeping in the spare room - his snoring was keeping me awake - so I didn't notice what time he left."
"Did he have a girlfriend?"
"Scribbs!"
"Boyfriend?"
The widow and I are both staring daggers at my sergeant by this point.
"My husband was devoted to me," Mrs Thornton insists. "He would never dream of cheating."
Scribbs and I share a look and, for the first time in hours, we're in total agreement - he was definitely playing away from home. Not that I could blame him. If I was married to someone like her, I'd be shagging around too.
"Did your husband have a secretary?"
"Yes." She looks as if she wants to spit. "Miss Phillips."
"Young, is she?" Scribbs asks.
Mrs Thornton bristles. "What are you implying?"
"I'm sure Sergeant Scribbins didn't mean anything by the question," I placate, motioning for Scribbs to leave. "In the meantime if you think of anything useful, please contact me on this number." I pass her one of my business cards and quickly follow Scribbs to the car.
The second I'm in the car I turn to give Scribbs one of my more chastising looks. "What was all that about?"
"All what?"
She knows exactly what I'm talking about. "Baiting the widow."
"I wasn't baiting her." Turning in her seat, she starts backing us out of the widow's driveway. "I was just asking questions."
"You were implying that her husband was having an affair."
"Wouldn't you?"
"I don't bait victim's families."
"No. I mean wouldn't you be knocking boots with someone else if you were married to her?"
I can't imagine any scenario where I'd willingly become entangled with someone like Mrs Thornton, so I can't see how the question is relevant. "I'm not the one who married her."
"Yeah, but say you get married, have a couple of kids, and then turn around to see that your wife's turned into an old shrew. Wouldn't you be looking to get lucky on the side?" She turns one of her cheeky grins in my direction. "Especially if you came to work every day and got to spend all your time with a charming and buxom blonde who'd be more than willing to soothe all your troubles."
I can feel my cheeks going red at the thought but manage to control myself long enough to give her a withering look. "That would never happen."
Scribbs merely shrugs, her smile disappearing as she manoeuvres her way through the town centre's one way system and secures us a parking spot relatively close to Thornton's former place of business. Hopefully she'll manage to get through the next interview without sharing her affairs theory with the dead man's secretary or we're soon going to run out of people willing to speak to us.
Miss Phillips isn't blonde. Nor is she buxom. And, from the way she's flirting with Scribbs, I'd say the chances of her having a clandestine affair with her boss are less than zero. Not that she isn't pretty, I suppose, and wouldn't have caught his eye if it was prone to wandering, but he would have to have been blind to think she'd be interested in him or any other man, for that matter.
"His wife used to drop by the office at odd hours of the day, hoping to catch him doing something he shouldn't, is my guess. Not that he'd ever have the balls to try anything on." Miss Phillips's laughter is highly inappropriate considering we've only just informed her of Mr Thornton's demise. "Totally hen pecked," she whispers to Scribbs, as if she's sharing secrets with one of her girlfriends at the beauty salon.
"Did he have any business worries?"
She looks at me as if I've just interrupted a private conversation and Scribbs' scowl isn't any more inviting.
"No." She turns back to Scribbs before divulging anything useful. "He invested heavily in that new golf course they're building out on Mason Common and from what he told me, they're making a killing, now that the zoning has gone through."
I open my mouth to ask another question but little Miss Phillips has suddenly decided that whispering in my sergeant's ear is acceptable behaviour in a murder investigation. From Scribbs' arched brow I can only assume she's told her something of use, although the way the woman's skirt is oh-so-innocently crawling up her thigh, I highly doubt it.
"Did Mr Thornton have any enemies that you know of?" Scribbs asks, her face still dangerously close to the suspect's. I don't know what she's playing at but I don't like it.
Miss Phillips shrugs with indifference. "He was a boring old fool who spent most of his time chairing committees and working out ways to stop people having fun or making money. I can't imagine he'd inspire enough passion in anyone to make a real enemy." I think she just winked at Scribbs. "Unlike some people."
"Thank you for your time, Miss Phillips, we'll see ourselves out." I hastily hand her one of my business cards and push Scribbs in the general direction of the door.
"My pleasure, detectives," the woman croons and it takes all my willpower not to turn around and stick two fingers up at her.
Sometimes I think we spend more time in this car than we do in our own homes but, for whatever reason, it's become the site of nearly all our more interesting conversations.
"What was all that about?"
"Didn't we just have this conversation?"
"Scribbs."
She starts peering into the rear-view mirror as if we're in the midst of a car chase and not travelling thirty miles per hour through near non-existent midday traffic. If she thinks that's going to deter me she's got another thing coming.
"Scribbs?"
Her smile is too pleasant. "I don't think she was sleeping with him."
"That's patently obvious." I wait for her to fill the silence but she remains glued to the road ahead and unusually tight lipped. "And the whispering?"
"Oh that." She looks relieved. "Apparently the head of the council's planning office was a personal friend of Mr Thornton's and, although she has no proof, she thinks he might have been given a little sweetener to speed up the application."
"Not something he'd want exposed." I pause to let her think the matter's been dropped before switching tack. "She was very friendly."
"Yeah."
More peering in the rear-view mirror and fiddling with dials indicate her discomfort.
"At least with you."
She shrugs. "I didn't notice."
Whether or not Miss Phillips, the tramp, was flirting with Scribbs is neither here nor there as far as the investigation goes, so there is no need for me to pursue the subject. "She fancied you."
Her smile is once again too innocent to be real.
"And you fancied her!"
God, I can't believe she was attracted to that wanton trollop.
"No."
I'm half expecting her to laugh at the idea that she'd be attracted to a woman but no such denial materialises and I'm left wondering what that means. Not that it's any of my business. I've said, more than once, that Scribbs should swear off men for good, so I can hardly say anything if it turns out she's considering taking that advice. But Miss Phillips?
"She was all over you like a rash and you let her do it."
"I did not."
"Did so."
"Not."
She's behaving like a child.
"Did."
"What's your problem? First you have a go at me because I'm too rude and now you're doing the same thing because I was friendly." Her hands bang down onto the steering wheel. "I can't win."
"There is a difference between friendly and practically drooling."
The car swerves onto the pavement and once I've regained my equilibrium I'm faced with a pissed off looking Scribbs. It's a totally inappropriate thought but I can't help noticing how the fury brings out the colour in her eyes.
"I do not drool."
I could mention the time I found her asleep and drooling all over her case files but I don't think it's prudent at this junction.
"But you do flirt."
She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "Nice of you to finally notice."
"What does that mean?"
She's been flirting with nearly everybody in sight all day, starting with Sullivan and ending with that trollop in Thornton's office. Hell, the only person she hasn't flirted with, beside the widow, is me. Not that I want her to flirt with me but at least I'm not a suspect in a murder case she's been assigned to investigate.
"Forget it."
She guns the engine and before I know it we're pulling into the station car park and I'm left watching as she storms into the building.
To Be Continued