Multi level murder a cos.., p.1
Multi Level Murder: A Cosy Mystery (The Wronged Women's Co-operative Book 8), page 1
Multi Level Murder
The Wronged Women’s Co-operative: Book 8
T E Scott
Copyright: Tania Scott 2024
Chapter 1: Bernie
Chapter 2: Walker
Chapter 3: Liz
Chapter 4: Mary
Chapter 5: Bernie
Chapter 6: Walker
Chapter 7: Liz
Chapter 8: Mary
Chapter 9: Bernie
Chapter 10: Walker
Chapter 11: Liz
Chapter 12: Mary
Chapter 13: Bernie
Chapter 14: Walker
Chapter 15: Liz
Chapter 16: Mary
Chapter 17: Bernie
Chapter 18: Walker
Chapter 19: Liz
Chapter 20: Mary
Chapter 21: Bernie
Chapter 22: Walker
Chapter 23: Liz
Chapter 24: Mary
Chapter 25: Bernie
Chapter 26: Walker
Chapter 27: Liz
Chapter 28: Mary
Chapter 29: Bernie
Chapter 30: Walker
Chapter 31: Liz
Chapter 32: Mary
Chapter 33: Bernie
Chapter 34: Walker
Chapter 35: Liz
Chapter 36: Mary
Chapter 37: Bernie
Chapter 38: Walker
Chapter 39: Liz
Chapter 40: Mary
Chapter 41: Bernie
Chapter 42: Walker
Chapter 43: Liz
Chapter 44: Mary
Chapter 45: Bernie
Epilogue
Afterword
Chapter 1: Bernie
It was ten minutes before the start of the Scotland versus England rugby match and Bernie Paterson had decided it was the perfect time to hoover the living room.
“Are you kidding me?” her husband Finn said, lifting his feet as she jabbed the hoover underneath them. Her son, Ewan, grunted in displeasure as she did the same to him.
“It needs done,” Bernie snapped.
Finn reached over to turn up the volume, but it was already on full blast. “Look, just leave it and I’ll hoover after the game.”
“Promise? And under the sofa as well?”
“Sure.”
Bernie left the hoover behind and exited the room without letting Finn see the smile that tugged at her lips. He fell for it every time, she thought happily as she went to put the kettle on.
Now that the chores were taken care of, she put her laptop on the kitchen table and opened up the folder for her private investigation business.
It was the start of April which meant that the last couple of weeks had been a miserable slog getting their tax records sorted. Liz Okoro, one of Bernie’s partners and the team’s financial expert, had insisted that every spreadsheet needed to be perfectly in order. Although Bernie had initially found this chore tedious, she had enjoyed learning exactly where and how the Wronged Women’s Co-operative had made their money. Last year had been a profitable one, with each member taking home a decent wage as well as leaving some money in the business to tide them over for leaner times.
There had, however, been some anomalies. Despite her claims of frugality, Mary Plunkett’s expenses had trended upward. Bernie still didn’t understand why she needed to consume quite so much cake when on stake-outs, but she was willing to let it slide. Especially when the spreadsheet had revealed that Mary brought in considerably more money than she cost.
Bernie knew this because she had forced Liz to write her a formula. A productivity equation, where ‘cheeky blooming expenses’ were put in a ratio with ‘new cases brought in’ and ‘actual useful leads’.
When they did the maths, Mary’s multiple came out at 7.2. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Mary’s flaky attitude to work and life seemed to bring in results. Liz Okoro, even though she was responsible for a lot of the behind-the-scenes work, still scored a respectable 5.8.
Bernie had only scored 2.5. She had made Liz check the results three times, but it was still the same. She hadn’t told Mary about it and Liz had been sworn to secrecy. Bernie wasn’t normally one for introspection, but it didn’t please her that according to the maths, she was the least effective member of the Wronged Women’s Co-operative.
Ever since those results she had re-doubled her efforts in the business. She had left flyers for their services everywhere she could think of and had made sure to personalise them to each particular clientele. At the women’s gym she had left a load of cards stating their ability to chase down errant husbands and child support. She had persuaded Liz to email around a bunch of her business contacts offering their services in corporate investigations and fraud, an avenue that was proving to be particularly lucrative. And at the care home where she used to work Bernie had put up a poster offering a service for contesting wills, something that was always popular with disgruntled relatives.
The thing that her equation for ‘who’s the best worker’ failed to notice was that Bernie’s main role was leadership. Without her, she was sure that Liz and Mary would be utterly lost. She just had to make sure they realised that.
Bernie was adding some posts to the local social media sites when the doorbell rang. Knowing that there was no way Finn would be moving from the screen, she closed her laptop and made her way over to open the front door.
A woman in her seventies with blond hair and bright pink lipstick stood on the step.
For a second, Bernie couldn’t say anything.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Her mouth wouldn’t work and just as her lips were forming the word ‘no’, the woman sailed past her on a cloud of expensive floral perfume.
“Granny!” Ewan leapt up and gave the woman a hug. Finn gave Bernie a sharp look as he clicked off the television, but Bernie pressed her mouth shut.
“I didn’t know you were coming over, Deborah,” Finn said, as he allowed the woman to hug him.
“Neither did I until this morning. I thought I would surprise you all.”
Bernie still hadn’t found a way to speak. It wasn’t that she was afraid of offending the woman. Her mother knew exactly what she thought of her. But even Bernie wasn’t the sort of person to rip her apart in front of her grandson.
“Can I speak to you in the kitchen,” Bernie said finally just as the woman looked like she was going to settle down on the sofa.
Deborah gave Ewan a little wink that made Bernie’s blood pressure rise.
“Whoops, looks like I’m in trouble. I’ll see you in a minute, Ew-bear.”
Bernie was pleased to see her son flinch at the babyish nickname and followed her mother into the kitchen where the woman had already clicked the kettle on.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Bernie said. “You’re not staying.”
“Well, that’s nice isn’t it,” Deborah replied, the lines appearing around her lips when she pursed them. She was the sort of woman that people said was ‘well-preserved’ for her age, although that preservation had a little help from a bucket load of face powder.
The kettle hissed in a crescendo. Reluctantly, Bernie placed two mugs on the counter. “A quick cup of tea and you’re off. You remember our agreement.”
“Oh, I remember.” Deborah pouted. “I’m not about to forget the discussion where my daughter wouldn’t allow me in her house without an appointment.”
“It’s not just me,” Bernie said, unable to resist the urge to correct her. “Every one of your daughters feels the same. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“That you’ve poisoned them against me,” Deborah replied, with a theatrical wobble of her bottom lip.
Bernie gulped down her tea even though it was still scalding hot. “Did you just come here to have the same argument again?”
“Well, actually I –” Deborah broke off as a streak of fur bolted into the room past her and jumped up on top of the fridge, hissing as she did so.
“What in God’s name was that?” Deborah said, smoothing down her hair.
“That’s Witch,” Bernie said, picking her up and giving the cat a scratch between the ears. “She’s an excellent judge of character.”
“What do you want with a cat? You always hated animals.”
“You always told me I did.” When Bernie put her down, Witch sensibly decided she had had enough and made her way out of the cat-flap in the back door.
“How is Ewan doing at school?”
“Brilliantly,” Bernie snapped. “Anything else?”
Deborah pouted again. “Come on, Bernadette, I’m allowed to ask about my grandson.”
“You’re allowed to see him too. I never tried to stop you from doing that. But you haven’t shown much interest there, have you?”
“I’m here now.”
“Because you’re in trouble.”
Deborah huffed. “Why would think that?”
“Come on, you’re only here because you want something,” Bernie said. “I’m not an idiot.”
For a moment, Bernie thought that her mother was going to deny it and then the other woman laughed.
“All right, you just have to show you’ve won, don’t you Bernadette? There you are then, you did it. You worked it out. I’m here because I’m in a tiny little bit of trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
Deborah leaned forward so that Bernie could see where the makeup had clumped on her cheeks. “I’m being framed for murder.”
Chapter 2: Walker
A dog barked in a nearby garden when Sergeant Owen Walker arrived at the home of Holly Moore, recently deceased.
“Forensics are just finishing up,” Detective Inspector Macleod said when Walker arrived at the front door. They had set up the conspicuous white tent outside where men dressed in white paper suits were collecting evidence.
“There’s no doubt it’s a suspicious death, then?” Walker asked.
“No. We’ll wait for the post-mortem, of course, but judging by the blood and the state of the body, we’re looking at blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”
“Any suspects?”
“No one obvious. The neighbour reckons she was separated from her husband.”
“A bad split?”
Macleod shrugged. “Could be, we don’t know yet. But if you’re thinking he’s going to be our top suspect, then it’s not going to be that easy. He was at work until an hour ago and the Doctor reckons she’s only been dead for three or four hours max. We’ll question him of course, but we know there are at least a dozen people that saw him at his desk during the entire night-shift. He’s on his way over.”
Sergeant Neil Michelson walked out of the front door. “They’ve got the rooms ready for you now, sir,” he told Macleod.
“Do you want me inside?” Walker asked hopefully as Macleod turned towards the door. It wasn’t a given that he would be allowed to enter the crime scene. Once the officers from the Major Investigation Team turned up – which they would as soon as it was confirmed as an unlawful death – he would be fighting to be allowed on the team.
“Aye, but check out the garage first. The forensics lads have been in and they reckoned someone has been at the car.”
Intrigued, Walker made his way over to the garage which was attached to the left-hand side of the house. He couldn’t miss Holly Moore’s car, that was for sure.
A bright pink SUV was parked in the garage and it was so clean that it shone. But there was something a little odd about it. Walker walked closer to see what had caught his eye, then he worked it out. Down one entire side of the car was a series of jagged lines, scraped into the paintwork.
“Someone didn’t like the colour,” Neil Mickelson said, appearing at Walker’s side.
“You’re not kidding,” Walker said, running a gloved finger along the scratch. “It’s gone into the bodywork, not just the paint.”
“Could have been kids. Or those weird Extinction Rebellion people. I mean, that car offends me and I vote Tory.”
“Maybe. Have forensic taken a look?”
Neil nodded. “Yeah, they’ve taken samples and prints. If there’s anything relevant, they’ll get it.”
The two police officers walked back outside to the front of the house.
“Bit posher than our usual neck of the woods,” Mickelson remarked, looking up at the crisply rendered building.
“Aye, it is that,” Walker replied. The last time they were at a similar scene it was for a homeless guy who had passed away under a bridge, nothing to show he had been there except for some cardboard boxes. This new build with its anthracite windows and gravel driveway was definitely a step up.
A white Range Rover pulled into the drive and an agitated civilian male got out. At least Holly Moore had someone to miss her, Walker thought. It had taken them two weeks to find anyone who could identify the homeless guy and there had been more social workers than family at his funeral, the poor soul.
Walker shook his head to clear it from such maudlin thoughts and went over to meet the man getting out of the car.
“It’s true then,” the man said, running a trembling hand through his hair. He was mid-thirties with dark brown hair that was just starting to recede from his temples. Tanned, tall and with expensive-looking clothes, he seemed to match the upmarket house quite nicely.
“Are you Mr James Moore?”
“That’s me,” the man said. “Is it true that she’s… that Holly is inside?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The other man hissed in a breath. “I never thought she’d actually do it, the poor cow.”
Walker frowned. “Do what?”
“Well… kill herself. I mean, she’d threatened before, but I always thought she was just trying to piss me off, you know? I would say I was leaving, then she would scream and shout and say she would slit her wrists, that sort of thing.”
Walker wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to let the husband know any information that might jeopardise the case. After all, until they discovered otherwise the partner of a murder victim was always the most likely suspect. But he didn’t want the man telling everyone it was a suicide either.
He settled for being noncommittal. “We have yet to determine a cause of death,” he said.
“But…”
Walker touched his arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to get you to come to the station with me. We’ll have to take a statement, that sort of thing. Is there anyone you would like to come with you? Any family members?”
“No. I don’t… I’ll be fine by myself. But someone will have to tell the wife’s sister. Oh god, her parents as well, they’re going to be devastated.”
Walker nodded. “We’ll take care of that,” he said, glad that it would be a more junior officer that would have to do that particular task.
The man was starting to look a bit unsteady on his feet, so Walker called over one of his Constables.
“PC Flint here will take you to the station.”
“Can’t I… I can’t go inside?”
Walker shook his head. “Sorry, no.”
“All right.” Shock was making the man compliant and he got into the car with a glassy expression on his face.
“Keep an eye on him,” Walker said to Flint as he got into the car.
Flint nodded. He understood that the instruction was two-fold: they needed to look after the man and make sure that the effects of shock weren’t too severe, but they also had a duty to consider James Moore a suspect, at least until his alibi had been proven unbreakable. And there was always the chance that he had been involved in his wife’s death even if he hadn’t struck the final blow himself.
Walker stared up at the house. There was money there, that was for sure, and money was always a motive for murder. He stopped at the forensics tent to pull on the scratchy paper suit that was required in these situations then went inside to find Macleod.
He discovered the DI chatting with one of the forensics team in the front room. Judging by the patch of dried blood on the grey carpet, this was where the late Mrs Moore had been discovered.
“Who found the body?” Walker asked, realising he hadn’t heard.
“We got an anonymous call this morning. A woman’s voice. Said that they thought someone was ‘hurt’ at this address. Constable Flint went to check it out and saw the victim through the window. He broke in, but rigour had already set in so he called the station.”
“He did well not to disturb the scene,” the forensics technician said. “Not all cops are quite so neat.”
Walker and Macleod shared a knowing look. Forensics seemed to think that you could enter an active crime scene without touching anything. Walker guessed they wanted you to levitate.
“When can I have a report?” Macleod asked the technician.
“I’ll give you a very basic interim report tomorrow morning, but you’re looking at a few days before we can get through all this stuff. By the looks of things, she liked to entertain. There are plenty of empty bottles in the bins and fancy food in the fridge. And there are hundreds of prints to go through, probably from a dozen people or more.”
Macleod groaned. “Bloody typical. I’ll get you the ex-husband’s prints as soon as I can and I want you to check for them. They were meant to be separated, so his prints shouldn’t be anywhere near the place. If you find evidence he was here then we might just have something.”
The technician nodded and hurried away.
While Macleod took out his phone and relayed some messages to the station, Walker took a proper look around the room. It was very clean – apart from the stain on the floor – and the white leather couches looked brand new. The bay window at the front had two armchairs in it and a table with a laptop on it. That would be bagged up and brought back to the station, Walker knew, and he was looking forward to seeing if there was anything on it that might give them a clue to her murder.
