Weep Willow, Weep : A DI Stella Cole Read online

  Weep, Willow, Weep

  A Stella Cole short story

  Andy Maslen

  For Jo, again.

  ‘If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.’

  William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar Act 3, Scene 2

  Contents

  1. Weep, Willow, Weep

  Copyright

  Also by Andy Maslen

  About the Author

  Afterword

  Weep, Willow, Weep

  January 2009, London

  Detective Inspector Stella Cole rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Why was it always 3.00 a.m.? Why couldn’t murderers wait until daytime? Even before Lola, she’d never been any good at early starts. But with a needy thirteen-week-old disrupting her nights, being the on-call DI was a special kind of hell.

  She squatted beside the body and observed, as she had been taught. She saw an adult white male, somewhere in his mid to late fifties, wearing a black silk dressing gown embroidered with golden peacocks over sky-blue pyjamas. He was lying at the foot of the white-carpeted stairs. She corrected herself. No. Not lying. Sprawling.

  His arms were outflung as if he’d died trying to pull himself to the front door. His head lay at an awkward angle and, though she would wait for the pathologist to pronounce definitively on cause of death, she thought his neck looked broken.

  He a large bruise on his right cheek, presumably from the fall. Horn-rimmed glasses lay against the skirting board, the right lens starred. At the back of his head, she saw a patch of congealed blood.

  CSIs were moving in and out of view as they dusted for fingerprints, stuck lengths of tape to the carpet and trudged up and down the stairs.

  Stella stood and went back to the sitting room. The woman who’d called 999, a large lady in her late sixties or so, was sitting being comforted by a female uniform while taking regular sips from a snifter of what, to judge from the smell, was brandy.

  The uniform stood, ‘Ma’am,’ and left the two of them alone.

  Stella introduced herself, still not quite believing she was giving her rank as inspector. Being on the fast-track was one thing, running her own murder cases at 31 as a newly promoted DI, quite another.

  The woman turned to look at her. Close-up, she looked older than Stella’s first impression. She revised it upwards by a decade or so. Spidery eyelashes clogged with mascara fluttered above tear-filmed eyes, which were large and a deep-brown. Her lips, somewhat thin, and lined vertically, were coated in red lipstick. Had she put makeup on before calling the cops? High spots of colour stood out on her cheeks and her chest was heaving.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’ Stella asked, her pen poised over her notebook.

  The woman looked at her, and frowned.

  ‘Are you a real police officer, darling?’ she asked in a breathy voice. Her accent, while not quite posh, carried a hint of an earlier era, when BBC news announcers wore tuxedos and bow ties. ‘You look awfully young. And what on earth are you wearing? Is that a bike jacket?’

  Stella smiled. She’d been questioned like this before. It wasn’t her fault if her ponytail and unlined complexion made her look younger than she was. Although she was sure Lola’s present of permanent bags under her eyes must have added a few years on.

  ‘It is. I rode here.’

  ‘Don’t they give you a car?’

  ‘They do, but it’s sometimes quicker to come by bike. Let’s start with a few simple things, and first I want to say how sorry I am for your loss.’

  Stella meant it. But at the same time she couldn’t help feeling a thrill racing round her system. Without dead people, she wouldn’t have a very exciting job. Drug deals and bank blags were all very well, but murder was what she’d joined the police for, what got her pulse racing faster than working out or running.

  The woman sniffed, producing a lace-edged handkerchief from the regions of her generous cleavage, which was displayed to great effect by a baby-pink silk nightgown. The soft fabric outlined a sturdy figure running to fat, though Stella could see that at one time its owner would have been voluptuous.

  My name. Yes, well, officially, it’s Jean Muggeridge. I suppose that’s the name you’ll need for your records.’

  Stella noted the name. ‘Sorry. You said, “officially”. What do you mean?’

  The woman dabbed at her eyes. The she pointed across the room. Stella followed her gaze and found she was looking at an ornate white and grey marble fireplace. With its back to a gilt-framed mirror was a gold statuette. Just over a foot tall, the figurine stood on a brown wooden plinth. She recognised it, of course she did. Who wouldn’t? Yet she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

  She turned back to the woman ‘officially’ called Jean Muggeridge.

  ‘Is that – ’

  Jean smiled and Stella caught a ghost of the beauty she must once have been.

  ‘Best Supporting Actress, Nineteen Fifty Four. I was twenty three. I played a femme fatale.’

  She pronounced the last two words with an exaggerated French accent, batting her eyelashes.

  Stella rose from her seat and went over to the mantelpiece. This close, she could see that the Oscar bore signs of its age, the polished golden surface dulled here and there where the plating had thinned.

  Imagine that! She was looking at a real Oscar. A piece of Hollywood history. Richard, still sleeping in the marital bed, was such a film buff he’d wet himself when she told him. She stowed it away for later. A little detail to embellish the potted case history she’d share over dinner. And wine. Yes, wine. How lovely to be able to drink again, now she’d finished breastfeeding Lola.

  She read the inscription engraved in plain capitals onto a curving gold plate affixed to the cylindrical wooden base.

  ACADEMY FIRST AWARD

  TO

  DEANNA DEL REY

  FOR

  BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

  IN

  LIE TO ME, MY DARLING

  1954

  Beside the statuette, a small silver photo frame lay on its side. Yawning, Stella righted it, seeing a beautiful young woman with raven hair and soft dark eyes beneath heavy black eyelashes. Other frames crowded together along the narrow marble shelf held black and white studio publicity shots, and more candid pictures.

  In the latter, the same young woman pouted or flashed a bewitching, full-lipped smile at the camera, or gazed adoringly up into the eyes of a handsome older man in a dinner suit. A series of cocktail frocks and ballgowns with plunging necklines struggled unequally with the task of containing her dramatic bust, which Stella, possessing a more modest endowment, regarded with frank admiration. Deanna must have had a hell of a good bra under there.

  ‘Is that you?’ she asked Jean, returning to sit beside her on the sofa.

  Jean smiled. And in a flash Stella saw the younger version beneath the layer of fat, the shock and the inevitable effects of ageing.

  ‘It was Bernie’s idea. He was my agent. He was such a lovely man. I can remember his words as if they were yesterday. “I should find such a Latin lovely in Croydon! You need a name that will drive the punters wild with desire and, bubbeleh, Jean Muggeridge ain’t it!”. So he changed it. Simple as that. One day I was plain Jean Muggeridge from south London, the next, Deanna Del Rey from the sultry streets of Havana. It’s what they did in those days. We were just property.’

  Stella nodded and made another note. Amazed that, even at this time of extreme emotion, Jean could find something to smile about. But now it was time to drag her back to the unpleasant reality of the here and now.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Jean’s chest heaved and she pressed the hankie to her nose. She blinked
.

  ‘It’s like I told the other officer. I was fast asleep. I take a pill, you see, on account of Tony’s – Oh!’ As she said the name she burst into tears. Loud, snotty crying that turned her voice into a clogged warble that grew louder as she wailed. ‘Our hearts were bound by a silken thread. We were meant to be together for all eternity. Now he’s gone! Murdered!’

  The outburst startled Stella. Bit theatrical, she thought. Then told herself off for lacking charity. Poor woman’s just lost her husband. A CSI just passing the open door to the sitting room looked in, eyebrows raised in the narrow gap between mask and hood. Stella shrugged. The CSI shook their head and walked on, out of view.

  ‘Are you all right to continue, Jean?’ she asked softly. ‘I know how hard this is for you, but the sooner you can tell me what happened, the sooner I can start investigating properly and catching your husband’s – ‘ She stopped short of uttering the word ‘killer’ fearing another deluge. ‘He was your husband?’ she added, realising she’d jumped to a conclusion she had no right to.

  ‘Y-yes, dear. Ten beautiful years we had together. Not my first, that was dear Alvin. He died of a heart attack in ninety six.’

  ‘So, you were asleep. Then did something wake you up?’

  Jean arranged herself on the sofa, turning to plump up a cushion and easing it down behind the small of her back. ‘Sciatica, dear,’ she said with an apologetic moue that pushed her lips into a wrinkled pout. ‘I’m a martyr to it. Whatever you do, love, don’t get old. It’s a bloody pain. Literally,’ she said, her accent slipping a little back towards the south London suburb that had been her home before her rebirth as Deanna Del Rey.

  ‘You heard something?’ Stella prompted.

  ‘I did. It was Tony. He was shouting. He said, “Hey, you, what the – then he used a rather coarse word I don’t care to repeat – are you doing?” I opened my eyes and I saw this dark figure rushing from our bedroom. Tony chased him onto the landing, I heard more shouting then a loud crack and, and – ’ her lower lip quivered and Stella braced herself for another bout of dramatic wailing, ‘ – he pushed my darling boy down the stairs.’

  Stella nodded, thinking ‘boy’ was pushing it a bit for a man nearer sixty than fifty. Then she reproved herself for this uncharitable thought. Love was blind, after all.

  The lace-edged hankie was almost transparent with tears, and Stella didn’t see how it could be of any further use. She offered a paper tissue from a packet she always carried to murders. Jean took it and dabbed at her eyes, sniffing. It came away streaked and spotted with black smudges.

  ‘What happened then?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I heard the front door slam. I knew he must have gone so I put this on,’ Jean plucked at the sleeve of her nightgown, ‘and went to see what had happened. I saw him lying there and I rushed back to the bedroom to call the police. We have an extension up there.’

  ‘Did you touch the b– , I mean, did you check whether Tony was still breathing?’

  ‘After I called 999. I could see it was too late, dear. His neck, you know. I was a first aider, you see. In the war. Only fifteen but we all had to do out bit.’

  She drained her glass and gestured to a decanter on a modernistic chrome-and-wood drinks trolley that might have come from a film set itself. ‘Would you mind?’

  Stella poured a generous measure into the snifter.

  ‘Can you describe the assailant? You said he was dark. Do you mean he was black?’

  Jean shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want you jumping to conclusions. I meant the room was dark. And he was wearing dark clothes, and a face mask of some kind. You know, like they do in the movies. A shadow.’

  ‘Tall, short?’

  ‘Oh, definitely tall. Quite a big man.’

  Did he say anything when Tony shouted at him?’

  ‘No. He just ran, as I said. Then I heard them fighting, and then, well, you know the rest.’

  Stella nodded and closed her notebook. ‘We’ll need you to come down to the station to make a proper statement but that can wait until later today. Is it all right if I have a look around?’

  Nodding, Jean flapped a hand. The gesture looked sloppy to Stella. She wondered how much brandy Jean had consumed before she’d got there. As she left the room, she saw Jean lifting the glass of brandy to her lips. Poor old thing. Nothing very glamorous about having your nice mews house invaded by the cops at four in the morning.

  ‘Is there someone you can go to, Jean?’ she asked. ‘Only, we’re going to be a while, and you’d probably like to be with someone you know. Until the Coroner and the pathologist and the forensics people have done what they need to, I’m afraid your whole house is a crime scene. You can’t really stay.’

  Jean nodded. ‘I’ll go next door. Mariam and Roman are very kind. Old friends.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to go with you.’

  ‘Thank you. They’re at number nine.

  Having seen Jean into the capable care of an older male sergeant who escorted her to the neighbours, Stella returned to her initial walkthrough of the scene. Fearing she might damage the pristine white stair carpet, Stella pulled a pair of nylon booties over her bike boots before ascending.

  The bedroom, when she found it, revealed the couple’s tastes, which tended to the ritzy. As she looked, she revised that opinion. The room reflected Jean’s tastes. Had to. More fluffy white carpet, and a four-poster bed draped with swags of a pale-pink gauzy material Stella suspected might have a name like organza or tulle. Something her mother would know but she didn’t.

  On a delicate wooden dressing table, she saw an array of cosmetics, bottles of perfume and a large black-lacquer jewellery box. Its red-velvet-lined lid was open and from its interior spilled strings of pearls, glittering ear-rings and necklaces and delicate watches, their jewelled faces twinkling in the moonlight.

  The room was freezing. Cold air was flowing in through narrow French doors. In front of them, a floor-length net curtain billowed inwards on the icy January wind. Stella stepped out onto the balcony and looked across the cobbled Kensington street. Facing her was a row of smart townhouses. She looked left, to the mews entrance, where a night bus trundled past, its sickly interior lighting revealed a handful of tired passengers. And right, to the house at the end, a double-fronted villa that she thought must be worth well into seven figures.

  Gripping the cold iron railing, she leaned over. Below her, she saw the sweeping outlines of some seriously expensive cars. She’d always been into bikes, but you couldn’t work around male cops or even be married to a male human rights lawyer without learning the difference between a Maserati and a Lamborghini, an Aston Martin and a Bentley. In the street, she saw all four.

  Not a bad locale for a burglar looking to make a serious killing. She tightened her mouth. There she went again. It was almost as if her brain was making mischief, finding macabre puns when she should be concentrating on the job.

  She scanned the brick frontage of the house, looking for a burglar alarm box. She didn’t see one. Odd, for the residents of such a swanky address. But not everybody had them. She turned to face the bedroom. Put herself into the shoes, and the mind, of the burglar.

  I’ve climbed up, so I’m fit and agile. Her mind snagged on the detail immediately. Jean said he was tall and big. Cat burglars tended to the small and agile type of frame. Gymnasts rather than rugby players. She filed it and moved on. I’ve slipped inside. Lucky for me these rich types don’t secure their balconies. Saves me the effort of picking the lock.

  She crossed the room to the dressing table, glancing to her right at the bed. Fast asleep like good little children. Although not like little babies. She looked down at the open jewellery box. Nice little haul here. Is that a Cartier? Are those real diamonds or just paste? She noticed a photo frame lying face up. The young and glamorous Deanna Del Rey on the arm of another wickedly good looking man. She frowned. Damn, I knocked the bloody picture over!

  She turned to the bed. Shit!
The man of the house is awake. He’s seen me. Run or fight? He’s shouting. ‘Hey, you! What the fuck are you doing?’ Run!

  Stella left the room, heading for the top of the stairs. He’s right on my heels. He grabs my shoulder and spins me round. Now I do fight. I hit him with a cosh. He’s going down already and I speed him along with a good hard shove. He’s falling, tumbling, smack, smack, snack, all the way to the bottom. His arms are out, windmilling as he tries to stay alive but it’s too late. His head hits the floor and whack, game over.

  She descended the staircase, stepping around a CSI working on the carpet, and continued to the bottom. The on-call pathologist had arrived. Stella recognised her.

  ‘Hi, Yasmin. What do you think?’

  The pathologist, fine-boned, almond-shaped eyes, looked up from the body, which was now lying face-up. She’d unbuttoned the pyjama jacket, exposing a chest grizzled with white, curling hair and a sizeable paunch.

  ‘It’s interesting. What did the witness say had happened?’

  ‘Burglar surprised them while they were asleep. The husband chased him out onto the upstairs landing. The burglar hit him with something and pushed him down the stairs.’

  Yasmin frowned. ‘OK, that’s not what I’m seeing.’

  She pointed to the bruise on the dead man’s right cheek.

  ‘This is the only mark on his face. Unconscious bodies in motion rotate unpredictably, especially in stair-falls. We would expect to see a random distribution of contusions, abrasions and lacerations,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, if the victim is conscious, he’ll stick out his arms, trying to arrest his progress. We tend to see impact injuries concentrated on the extremities, especially elbows, wrists, knees and ankles. Breaks are not uncommon. This man has none.’

  Stella looked again. ‘If he was conscious, you’re saying it’s odd there are no broken bones. And if he was unconscious – ’

  ‘Where are the other facial or torso injuries?’

  Stella pondered the options for making sense of a body with the wrong sort of injuries for the situation in which it had been found.