Gone Too Soon Read online

  ‘…to d-die like that?’ Tess finished eventually, her cheeks colouring. ‘I mean, if you wanted to top yourself, there are easier ways…’.

  ‘Indeed there are, DC Martin.’ Charlie’s tone was all strong affirmation and eye contact. Moran silently commended his DI.

  ‘As DC Martin has pointed out, it’s hard to imagine that anyone,’ Charlie continued, ‘would voluntarily submit to being buried alive. And, as DC McConnell and the guv have already noted, Ms LaCroix’s missing finger raises a number of supplementary questions.’ Charlie took another photo from the fold-up table and stuck it to the board. There was a collective wincing and intake of breath. ‘Sorry, it’s not pretty, I know.’

  The room fell silent as the officers studied Michelle LaCroix’s remains.

  Someone had their hand up.

  ‘Yes, DC Allen?’

  ‘I heard there’s a recorded suicide note?’

  ‘Yep. We have the audio team checking it out as I speak, but I have a copy so you can all hear for yourselves.’

  Charlie went to her laptop, called up a file, adjusted the volume until she was satisfied that the wall-mounted speakers were working, stood back, folded her arms. The room fell silent as Michelle LaCroix’s voice began its strange confession.

  There was silence at the recording’s conclusion. It didn’t take much imagination to know what was going through the officers’ minds:

  Young. Successful – or about to be – attractive, and yet this?

  Moran thought of a recent photograph he’d seen, taken by some opportunist in an unguarded moment; Michelle, sitting in a bar, her head in her hands, staring into the distance. On the verge of a glittering career, yet the camera lens had caught her looking troubled, unhappy. Until the truth came out, the image would continue to haunt him.

  ‘OK, let’s get the work allocated.’ Charlie’s voice cut through the low buzz of conversation. ‘First on the list is to interview our primary person of interest – the boyfriend. He’s expecting us this morning.’ She pointed the marker pen at Neil Butterfield’s photo. ‘And I want to know about everyone who had anything to do with Michelle – family, friends, enemies, confidantes, professional contacts, ex-boyfriends–’

  ‘Crazy fans,’ George McConnell piped up.

  ‘Yes, those too. And I want someone to talk to the verger again, all the church personnel, actually. Wait – I’ll take that. And we want to check out regular visitors to St Swithun’s, OK? People pop into the cemetery every day. Somebody might have seen something. DC Odunsi and DC McConnell will co-ordinate. Any questions?’

  ‘Forensics?’ Bola Odunsi raised his hand.

  Moran looked at his watch and spoke up. ‘Any time now. I’ve convened a meeting at three. I’ll feed back anything of interest as soon as.’

  ‘That’s it for now, people.’ Charlie clapped her hands. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  As the officers dispersed Charlie approached Moran, laptop cradled in the crook of her arm. Her troubled expression and the fine lines around her eyes showed the strain she had been under; the paramilitary attempt on the Duchess of Cambridge’s life had very nearly succeeded, and for that, Moran knew full well, Charlie felt personally responsible. Tess Martin’s timely intervention had saved the day, but at a personal cost that was all too evident. It had been Charlie’s decision to send Tess in, and Moran had asked himself many times over whether he wouldn’t have done exactly the same under the circumstances.

  Such were the burdens of seniority: sometimes you had to go with the least favourable option because it was the only option. Charlie was an excellent DI and Moran had given her his one hundred percent support during the inevitable official enquiries – which, Moran knew, had been expertly stage-managed by MI5. The spooks had their man and all was well at Thames House, so a quiet word in the ears of certain high-ranking members of the enquiry board had brought matters to a speedy, if unsatisfactory – in the board’s view, at least – conclusion. No scalps taken, but nevertheless a shadow had fallen across Charlie’s career. She knew it, and Moran knew it. A good result here was what was needed; the proverbial ray of sunshine after the storm.

  Moran conjured his best, cheery, smile. ‘And so it begins.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlie’s expression was a poor mirroring of his own. ‘Guv, I was wondering–’

  ‘–If I fancied having another poke around St Swithun’s with you?’ Moran’s tongue was in his cheek. ‘Just try and stop me.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Posh enough around here, eh George?’ DC Bola Odunsi remarked as he guided the car into Pangbourne village’s central car park. ‘Get a load of those.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Bentley showroom opposite. ‘Over a hundred grand for a motor! I mean, who…?’

  ‘The select few, that’s who,’ George replied with a shake of his head. ‘I wouldn’t buy a motor car with that kind of dosh. I’d buy an apartment.’

  ‘Not around here, you wouldn’t.’ Bola grinned and killed the engine. ‘A hundred grand might buy you an up-and-over garage with a tin roof, but that’s about it.’

  They left the car park and walked towards the station.

  ‘So,’ George said, ‘we’re to assume, I suppose, that young Mr Butterfield struck gold with Ms LaCroix. Hence, the postal address.’

  ‘Guess so,’ Bola replied. ‘You reckon he’s a beneficiary of her will? I’ll bet she doesn’t even have a will.’

  ‘All the easier for him to make a claim as her significant other at the time of death, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I’d lay money on it. Butterfield’s guilty as hell.’

  ‘Ah, ah. Unproven as yet.’ Bola wagged his finger. ‘It could still be assisted suicide.’

  George snorted. ‘We’ll see. Fame and money – magnets for bad guys. Trust me.’

  Bola shrugged. ‘Let’s keep an open mind, eh?’

  They continued under the railway bridge and George consulted his iPhone. Butterfield’s address was bang opposite The Swan, the popular Thames-side pub. The roadside properties overlooked the river, a few run-down and in need of renovation, but most, like Butterfield’s, enjoying a new lease of life as exclusive refitted apartments. You’d have to have way more than a six-figure income to consider even a short-term lease. That kind of money, in George’s experience, always attracted trouble. And how many famous people led truly happy lives in any case?

  ‘Pangbourne’s no stranger to celebrity,’ he told Bola. ‘See up there, just past the pub?’

  Bola craned his neck.

  ‘That’s Jimmy Page’s old house,’ George explained. ‘One of the biggest stars in Pangbourne’s historical firmament.’

  ‘Jimmy who?’ Bola gave him a blank look.

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re not seriously telling me you’ve never heard of Jimmy Page? Led Zeppelin? Remember them? Did quite well in their day, I recall.’

  Bola made a noncommittal gesture. ‘Sure, I’ve heard of them. Not my bag, though.’

  ‘And George Michael? Lived just down the road there.’ George waved his arm in the direction of Streatley and Goring. ‘Another sad success story.’

  ‘Michelle LaCroix was gonna be just as big, for sure,’ Bola said. ‘Her last album sold in spadefuls. Not quite Adele, but nippin’ at the lady’s ankles, no doubt about that.’

  They crossed the road to get a better view of the large, sombre houses facing the river. ‘Not my cup of tea,’ George said, half to himself. ‘But each to his own, I guess. That’s Butterfield’s apartment – first floor.’

  Bola was looking at The Swan. ‘Bet he’s a regular. Might be worth a quick ask around after we’ve seen him.’

  ‘Any excuse,’ George said, as they crossed the road and approached Butterfield’s address. ‘Shall we?’ His finger hovered over the buzzer. The label had been abbreviated: 4. B’field.

  The door opened abruptly. It wasn’t Butterfield. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, on her way out.

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nbsp; ‘Oh!’ She looked them up and down. ‘You made me jump.’ She placed a hand on her bosom. ‘Police, I assume. Who are you after? Neil, I suppose?’

  ‘You know him?’ Bola showed his ID.

  ‘We’re friends, that’s all. I’m a bit further along – just round the corner from The Elephant. The hotel.’

  ‘Is Mr Butterfield in?’ George asked.

  ‘Yep. Go on up. First floor’s his. He told me the news. I’m afraid he’s handling it rather badly.’

  ‘All right if we pop over for a chat sometime?’ Bola asked.

  George shot Bola a sideways glance.

  ‘Really? I can’t tell you much,’ the woman said. ‘But if you must. Anyway, you’ll find me at The Elephant. If you want me.’ She looked at Bola.

  ‘Thanks,’ George said. ‘We’ll be in touch, Ms…?’

  ‘Crossley-Holland – Gill. Please excuse.’ She hurried off towards the village centre, and didn’t look back.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ Bola said, giving George a nudge. ‘Did you see that look?’

  ‘What look?’ George frowned.

  ‘The body language.’

  ‘Must have blinked. Sorry.’

  ‘There’s your problem, George, right there. You gotta tune in, man, pay attention to the signals the ladies are givin’ you.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ George said. ‘But can we try to keep our minds on?’

  ‘Sure.’ Bola grinned. ‘After you.’

  The hall was bright and modern, the exposed wood of the staircase fine-grained and expensive. A tall pot plant stood guard by the banister. The look and feel lay firmly in the ‘no-expense-spared’ tier of property restoration.

  ‘I can smell the money,’ Bola said.

  ‘I can smell something else.’ George’s nostrils were twitching: it was a familiar scent. They reached the first floor. It was wide and uncarpeted except for a plush Persian rug directly ahead. It felt wrong, somehow, to sully its perfection with their feet; they skirted it and made directly for the apartment door. A brass plate immediately to its right read No. 4. Butterfield.

  The door was partially open.

  George and Bola exchanged glances.

  They took one side each, Bola to the left, George to the right, backs to the wall. It paid to be cautious. George rapped twice and the noise echoed sonorously around the landing.

  ‘Mr Butterfield? Thames Valley Police. Can we have a word?’

  They went in.

  A man was sitting at a small table in the bay window. He appeared not to notice their arrival. His attention was fixed on some distant point outside.

  ‘Mr Butterfield?’ George approached cautiously. Something wasn’t right. Bola followed, casing the room and the three visible internal doors for signs of movement. The smell was stronger, all pervasive. Weed.

  George reached the table. The man looked up. He was dressed in a plain, white t-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Thames Valley Police.’ George showed his warrant card. ‘You are Mr Butterfield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Butterfield was a thin, pale young man in his late twenties. His fair hair was long and unkempt, his bare arms tattooed with swirling, colourful patterns and designs. A name stood out from the artwork: Michelle. He was good-looking, in a malnourished, sultry kind of way. One eyebrow was pierced by a large gold ring, making his head appear curiously lopsided as he struggled to focus on his unexpected visitors.

  Out of his head, George cursed inwardly.

  Bola emerged from a bedroom and signalled the all-clear.

  George looked at Butterfield. The young man’s eyes were glazed, full of nothing. No one home in there, either.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Butterfield.’ George pressed on, reluctant to give up without at least trying. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ Butterfield appeared to notice Bola for the first time.

  George pulled up a chair and Bola did the same.

  George produced a photograph of Michelle LaCroix, taken, Charlie had told him, from her publicity portfolio. LaCroix was smiling in the photograph, hair braided, eyes sparkling with life. This was going to hurt, but it might jolt Butterfield out of his stupor.

  ‘You know why we’re here, Mr Butterfield,’ Bola encouraged gently. ‘We need to know when you last saw Michelle alive.’

  Butterfield seized the photograph, held it up. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she? Always beautiful. First time I saw her, I thought, nah, she’ll never be interested in the likes of you, Neil. Never.’

  George and Bola exchanged glances at this unexpectedly articulate observation.

  ‘Was she depressed, Neil? Upset about something?’ George pressed on with fresh optimism, but Butterfield’s attention was still firmly fixed upon the photograph.

  ‘See that smile?’ Butterfield held up the image. ‘That’s what did it for me.’

  George nodded sympathetically. ‘She was very attractive.’

  Butterfield made a disparaging noise in his throat. ‘Attractive? Attractive? She’s Venus on earth, mate, that’s what she is. What she was…’

  ‘Neil,’ Bola began, ‘I know this is hard for you–’

  Butterfield’s fist came down onto the tabletop with a crash. ‘Hard? You have no idea what hard is. I can’t believe she did it.’ His lips quivered as he appealed to each detective in turn. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘So, she’d talked about suicide before?’ Bola asked.

  There was a long silence. Eventually Butterfield looked up.

  ‘Yeah, but you know, she was always pretty dark. Her art was important to her…’ Butterfield’s voice caught. ‘But, you never think, you know…’

  ‘We’re trying to help,’ George said, ‘trying to establish–’

  Butterfield raised his hand, jabbed his finger in the air, first at George, then at Bola. ‘You want to help? Well, you sodding well find out who’d be sick enough to help her go through with it. I have my bloody suspicions, I can tell you.’ His face collapsed as grief got the upper hand. He covered his face and began to sob.

  ‘Nice place, this.’ Bola changed tack. ‘Been here a while, have you?’

  Butterfield looked up and rubbed his swollen eyes. George bit his lip, put his next question on hold. Grief was an ugly thing, always made him feel uncomfortable. This guy was genuine, surely? But he’d know something, even if he didn’t know he knew. They just had to be patient.

  ‘Since last summer, if you must know,’ Butterfield said, almost in a whisper. ‘Michelle bought the place on the strength of Rivers charting.’

  ‘Brilliant song,’ Bola said. ‘I bought the album when I heard it.’

  ‘Everything she did was fu– sorry – brilliant,’ Butterfield said, trying to recover his composure but making a poor job of it.

  ‘So, she lived here. With you?’ George asked. He hadn’t seen much evidence of female occupation. The bathroom was a state, as was the bedroom.

  ‘Nah. Crash pad, this. Near the station, right? So I can get up to London and back easy.’

  ‘So, where did Michelle live?’

  ‘She lived everywhere and anywhere, mate,’ Butterfield replied. ‘Free spirit.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Now she’s really free, yeah?’

  ‘But she must have a flat of her own somewhere, an apartment, a house?’ Bola pressed the question.

  Butterfield sighed. ‘Earls Court. Tiny place. Rutherford Square. That was her crash pad.’

  ‘So, you had a fairly … open relationship?’ George was looking at the walls. No pictures. No posters, nothing. Plain. Blank.

  ‘Open? What?’

  ‘You both had your own space, is what my colleague is trying to say,’ Bola said. ‘Didn’t tread on each others toes.’

  ‘Right. Exactly.’ Butterfield began to fidget with his cigarette lighter.

  ‘So. When did you last see Michelle?’

  ‘Couple of days ago. Up the Smoke.’

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p; George nodded. ‘At her flat?’

  ‘Nah. Some bar in the West End. We’re recording an album, see? Studio near Greek Street. Michelle was recording backing vox for us.’

  ‘She was what?’ George looked blank.

  ‘Backing vocals,’ Bola helped him out.

  ‘Ah. OK, so you recorded, went for a drink? Who else was there?’

  ‘Just the band. No, wait. Steve wasn’t – the drummer. He had a meet somewhere. So, me, ‘Chelle, Robbie and Jacko. That’s it.’

  ‘And what did you do after your drink?’

  Butterfield sniffed. ‘‘Chelle said she was tired, went back to hers. We hit the studio, put some more keys down.’

  ‘What was the name of the bar, Mr Butterfield?’

  Butterfield scratched his chin. ‘No idea, mate.’

  ‘Location?’

  ‘Somewhere in Soho. Near Wardour street. On the corner, I dunno. We sat outside. Look, there’s no chance you made a mistake, eh? I mean, it is ‘Chelle, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Butterfield. I’m sorry.’ George stood up. ‘Please don’t stray too far. We’ll probably need to ask you a few more questions in due course.’

  ‘Whatever. What’s it matter now, anyway?’

  ‘Was she in good spirits when you saw her last, Mr Butterfield?’ Bola asked him.

  ‘She was her usual. Could be a bit up and down, you know. She had a difficult childhood.’

  Bola made a note. ‘And would you say she was depressed? Anytime over the last couple of months?’

  ‘She was up, mate. That’s what I thought, anyhow. It was all starting to happen for her.’

  Bola nodded. ‘Any idea who might have been…’ he searched for the right word, ‘crazy enough to go along with Michelle’s plan?’

  Butterfield laughed incredulously. ‘So many friends, hangers-on. Everyone loved ‘Chelle.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘You tell me. You’re the detectives. I don’t get it. Oh God. She did it? Really did it?’ He looked up again, red-eyed, appealing.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Bola said.

  They made as if to leave.