Episode 22 - Conclusions

Monday December 14 then Tuesday morning

Cleo had had the foresight to organize child care, so it was quite early when she and Gary left for HQ on Monday morning. Cleo had prepared a six-pack of commercial smoothies with poppy seeds bought recently to put in a cake. If you didn’t know it was not ground fruit stones, you might be convinced that it was. The plan was for them all to drink some, in the hope that Mrs Barclay would react. It was a long shot and only taking the woman they still thought of as Peel by surprise would work, if at all.

***

Peel was brought in.

“Did you sleep well, Mrs Barclay?” said Gary. “Those cell beds are not very luxurious, are they?”

“Who’s looking after Pensioner’s Paradise?” the woman wanted to know.

“A guy called Arthur Mills seems to have everything under control,” said Cleo.

Mrs Barclay looked anxious, as well she might. Gary and Cleo were glad that Dorothy had provided them with valuable information about the guy’s connection to Peel. They had had no time to catch up on all his biography.

“That man is a gangster,” she said.

“What makes you think that?” said Gary.

Peel did not think before saying “He was blackmailing me.”

That was an astonishing admission in the circumstances and it was clear that Peel was already regretting it.

“So that’s why you invited him to live in your premises, did you?” said Gary. “Hardly a normal reaction to blackmail.”

Cleo thought Peel might have been planning to dispose of the blackmailer, given that she had probably had plenty of practice.

Nigel was sitting at the back of the room assiduously writing down what was being said. He had not recovered from his ordeal at gunpoint and would have preferred not to be in the room. The snide glances Peel awarded him sent shudders down his spine.

“Why was he blackmailing you?” Cleo asked.

Peel said nothing.

“We did our homework, Mrs Barclay. Mills is a journalist, isn’t he? He knows something about your past that you do not want known, doesn’t he?” Cleo said.

“What if he does?”

“What was so interesting about your early life that is worth something to a blackmailer?”

Mrs Barclay felt trapped, and she was. Gary and Cleo felt that theorising in front of the cottage fire was starting to be déjà vu. The case of Agnes Peel was the most theoretical Gary had ever experienced and to be truthful, he did not share with Cleo the feeling that Peel could weaken and admit to anything, let alone three murders, or four ifyou counted Barclay’s first wife, none of which had been proven.

***

“Before we talk about your earlier life, let’s drink something,” Cleo proposed. “ I don’t suppose your breakfast was very 5 star, was it? Even mine wasn’t this morning.”

Cleo fetched the crate of smoothies and took one out, shaking it vigorously so that the poppy seeds would be better visible. Peel saw that and pursed her lips, but did not comment. Cleo saw her opinion that Peel was a tough cookie confirmed.

Observing people’s body language is one of the ways of understanding what’s going on in their minds, so Cleo merely watched closely while Gary shook his own smoothie and then took a large swig from the bottle.

“I’m not going to drink it,” Peel said. “I don’t like smoothies.”

“Of course you do, Mrs Barclay, and you need the vitamins. Drink up,” said Gary in a jovial voice.

“I don’t fancy it,” she said.

“Is it because of the little black dots?” said Cleo.

“What are they?”

“Well, I always grind the whole fruit in my shake mixer. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do, Mrs Barclay, and do you know what? I’ve brought you here to arrest you for murdering your husband. Don’t you want to ask me which one?”

Nigel thought fondly of Agnes Plimsoll and her cryptic puzzle clues and reflected that he was more out his depth here and now than he would have been faced with the most cryptic of messages.

“Which one?” said Peel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“We have a choice of three, Mrs Barclay. Let’s take the nearest and dearest, shall we?” said Cleo.

“The forensic report says that the condition of Mr Barclay’s blood gave rise to anxiety about the cause of death,” said Gary, who had printed various documents, some relevant, some not. He fetched one from his desk and waved it around, even offering it to Peel to read. She refused, saying that she had no idea what they were talking about. Since Gary was now improvising, he had taken a risk with the document, which happened to have nothing to do with the Peel case though it was scientific. Cleo thought what Gary was doing was questionable and unworkable, She decided to take an more active role in worming out Peel’s confession.

Should Mrs Barcley stay as closed up as a clam, Gary would have to rely on circumstantiual evidence that still had to be gathered in the first two husband cases. The most likely case to be solved was Barclay’s death, but she and Gary were acting on theories. Cleo was not certain that there was a way forward with the Peel woman. She had sewn up two murders and was about to sew up the third. It would take more that suble references to get her to talk.

A phone-call interrupted the confrontation at that moment.

It was Chris with the report that had up to now been fantasy, but whose words confirmed the cyanide theory. Barclay had still had digitalis in his blood, but that could have been from the previous night and genuinely medicinal.

“That will be all for the moment, Mrs Barclay,” said Gary, and Cleo detected relief and a look of triumph in Peel’s face. She was herself quite surprised, but of course she did not question Gary’s decision. He had his reasons, presumably due to the phone-call.

“Take your smoothie with you, Mrs Barclay,” said Cleo. “You need the energy.”

“The hell I do,” said Peel.

***

“Wow,” said Cleo. “What are going to do now? She thinks she’s in the clear.”

“I don’t think she does. She’s no fool. She was relieved that I was ending the questioning, but anxious about that phone-call. She’ll pour the smoothie away and hope she’s on the verge of being released. She’ll be even more cautious about what she says when we next meet.”

“I’ll give her another smoothie,” said Cleo. “I’m going to ring Dr Mitchell now. If someone’s dead he does not need to keep that person’s medical record a secret.”

***

“Dr Mitchell, nice to hear your voice….No, the babies, born and unborn, are fine. I just need to know something about poor Mr Barclay ….You know who I mean. The deceased manager of the OAP home. Did you keep records of the tragedy?””

It took a while to search through the files for Barclay’s medical record. Since Cleo had not told Gary why she was making that phone-call, all he could do was wait to hear what it was about.

“I just need to know if he was prescribed digitalis in any form.”

Gary nodded in appreciation. Cleo was always thinking of details that had escaped him. It infuriated him, but he knew better than to protest.

A short pause followed while Dr Mitchell looked through his records. After thanking him profusely for the information, Cleo rang off and looked rather pleased with herself.

***

“Go on then. What did he say?”

“As I thought. Barclay did not need digitals. He had the heart of an athlete.”

“So someone else dosed him with it,” said Gary.

“I wonder who?” said Cleo gratuitously.

***

Peel, alias Mrs Barclay, was not pleased to be called up to Gary’s office again. She had hardly settled in her cell before the guard received instructions to bring her back. Her hope of being released into Middlethumpton’s afternoon shopping crowd was dashed.

“What the hell are you playing at,” she spat.

“Did you enjoy your smoothie?” Cleo taunted.

“It went down the drain,” Peel said.

“Oh dear. You’d better drink this one then,” said Cleo, offering Peel another bottle after shaking it vigorously. “Or does it remind you of something?”

“What do you mean?” snapped Peel.

“Tell us why you are so averse to this drink. It’s perfectly harmless.”

“It may not be.”

“You are cautious, aren’t you? What could be wrong with it, Mrs Barclay,” said Gary.

“There may be something in it. You may be trying to poison me.”

“What makes you think that?” said Cleo, deciding that she was dreaming the dialogue. Or was it that Peel was so sure of her clever murder weapon that she could not envisage anyone else of having thought of it.

“Those black spots could be ground up fruit stones,” she said.

“So what?”

“They are poisonous.”

Cleo went close up to Peel, disturbing her comfort zone.

“How do you know that, Mrs Barclay?” she asked.

“I just know.”

“Is it because you’ve used ground fruit stones to ... Let’s put it gently … help husbands along?” said Gary.

Cleo and Gary had not been expecting the reaction they got to those words.

Peel swooned, yes swooned. Nigel stood up, astonished. Paramedics were called and Mrs Barclay was taken off to hospital, still unconscious. Nigel was obliged to escort her. She was not to be left without a guard. If she was going to have to stay in hospital for any reason, there would have to be a rota.

“You couldl mention her predeliction for digitalis or some other drug she must have brought in. We didn’t provide her with any.”

“You did have searched either, did you?” said Cleo.

“They did. They didn’t find anything.”

“Let’s check her things again, Gary. I’ve got a hunch. There lots of places to conceal pills. The Medici put it in jewelry. Lipstick cases are empty if you take the lipstick out. Did you do that?”

“I didn’t search her, but I doubt if the search was more than routine. They weren’t looking for anything in particular.”

“I don’t suppose they were. Knives and Guns are really what guys carry around in self-defence.”

“This incident is very unconventional,” said Gary. “I’ve never had a suspect pass out in my presence before.”

A thorough search of Peel’s handbag revealed a box of digitalis tablets, found by Cleo. They were tucked in under the lining but not sewn in..

“An old trick,” said Cleo.

“How many old tricks do you know, my love?”.

“Quite a few. I should have asked Dr Mitchell about Peel,” said Cleo. “It never occurred to me that the woman might have a heart condition. And what if the woman took those tablets to commit suicide? We haven’t considered that possibility, either.”

“We’re now asuming she has a heart problem,” said Gary.

“Why else would she carry those tablets around? They weren’t really concealed; just in a safe place.”

“But obviously safe enough to fool the woman who searched her, Cleo.”

“So we are talking about taking pills along in case you need them, and they would not be in her bag if they weeren’t for her, would they?”

“Meaning?”

“Emergency suicide or a heart condition. Take your pick.”

“We can assume that Peel dosed her husband with cyanide and helped it all along with the digitalis she kept at the ready for herself,” said Gary. “Those two must have had their wires severely crossed.”

“Peel’s wires are congenitally crossed,” said Cleo. “But how can a guy marry a woman who killed his first wife?”

“If he wanted it that way, he would not think there was any danger. He can’t have known much about Peel’s past, or if he had heard about it, he laughed it off. Peel seems to have a fascination for men that I don’t share,” said Gary.

“So thinking aloud: Peel might have administered digitalis as a form of insurance in case Barclay did not drink enough of his deadly smoothie. We still don’t have a confession or even the evidence that Peel administered either digitalis or one of her laced shakes. And we have no idea what killed Barclay’s first wife. That case was closed as well, wasn’t it?”

“We’ll never know what befell Moira Freedman,” said Gary. “Her death was superbly disguised – if it was a disguise - as a suicide. She even left a note and the case was shelved. That much was in Barclay who’s who, compiled because he was going to manage an OAP home. A routine check on respectability. You don’t get that sort of job if you have a police record.”

“So he was as clean as a whistle and Agnes Peel was an ordinary employee and wuold not need such a check, meaning that Barclay would not know anything about her previous llife unless she told him.”

“Sometimes you are sure of a solution, but it can’t be proved and you have to move on. I hope this case is not going down that track.”

“Exactly my point. Our speculations were off track up to now. We were decoyed by the deaths of the first two husbands. For us, thel drama only starts with the meeting of Barclay and Peel and their decision to stay together at the first Mrs Barclay’s cost.”

“I hope Peel lives long enough to fill in the story gaps,” said Cleo.

“Her survivial probably depends on how many tablets she swallowed in her cell,” said Gary. “Fainting was probably going to be her way out ofa critical situation. She might even have been intending to fake it and taken digitalis to calm her nerves. I just hope she didn’t overdose herself.”

“So you suspect that the coma was induced.”

“Don’t you?” said Gary.

“I don’t wish her dead,” said Cleo. “But it would gratifying to see her in the dock.”

“I quite agree.”

***

At the cottage, after hugs and stories had been exchanged, Gary phoned Robert Jones with an order, since he had no desire to go out again and he knew that Robert took every opportunity to see Cleo. Robert would have preferred Cleo to call. He could not believe that she was happy with a cop and the houseful of children he feared had been thrust on her. Gary knew exactly what was going on in Robert’s mind, so he did not let himself in for any chitchat.

Following the call, Gary announced to Cleo that he was going to the shop to collect the order rather than wait for Robert to bring it and hang on for a chat so as to be near Cleo for a bit longer. Cleo was to be spared the melancholy resentment Robert Jones projected when he delived an order to the cottage. Things had not improved when he heard via the grapevine that the family was taking over a large villa that had hitherto only been a crime venue, as far as he knew.

The sad truth is that although Robert had ostensibly cleared the battlefield and left Cleo to his rival, he had never really stopped thinking of Cleo as his wife. Cleo had given up telling him not to live in the past. She had told him to get off her back and a find a playmate of his own, knowing that his attempts had hitherto been fraught, but Robert was waiting for the day Gary would phone him and announce that he could have Cleo back. It kept him tied to Upper Grumpsfield and allowed him to forget his own duplicity that had forced the issue in the first place. Robert was a mixed-up guy.

***

While Gary was out shopping and taking the big twins for an airing at the same time, Cleo phoned Nigel at the hospital to get his opinion of Peel’s survival prospects.

Based on what he had overheard, Nigel announced that the woman would probably live, but it might be a good idea to visit her that day, just in case. He had heard from Mia. Her husband Mike would take over the watch up to midnight, by which time a rota would be in place, should it be needed.

“That sounds macabre,” Cleo said.

“It is,” said Nigel. “I don’t remember anyone shirking a confession by passing out.”

“Did you look into Moira Freeman’s death, Nigel?” Cleo said, not quite sure why she was changing the subject at that moment.

“Who’s that?”

“Barclay’s first wife.”

“Oh her. I found a bit of documentation. Shrouded in mist, I thought.”

“Did you make a copy of the report?”

“What there is of it. The homicide squad seems not to have been interested in the woman’s fate. Freeman was cremated after a very short stay in the HQ lab. She does not seem to have had any relatives. No one claimed her and no DNA testing was noted.”

“I thought it was routine. The death was quite recent.”

“About 6 years ago. You can’t blame forensics for neglect. It all costs money, Cleo, and if the dead person is judged to have died of natural causes, no case is passed on to anyone officially. Unless someone is exceedingly curious, the case is shelved.”

“I thought curiosity was part of a cop’s natural instinct.”

“Ressources is the magic word. We need to use them for investigations that promise to lead to arrests.”

“My agency would not make any money at all if we thought along those lines. I’ll phone Chris and ask about Freeman,” said Cleo.

 “Happy hunting. Remember that the case was not classed as murder.”

***

Cleo was uneasy about the way no one had taken an interest in Moira Freeman at the time. Of course, Peel would not be the first to dispose of a rival by killing her off. Very often the husband did not even know what was happening. It was too late to quiz Mr Barclay on this, though he could have had a hand in the disposal of his first wife if he was speculating on Peel’s part-ownership of the former hotel and he had known about it. Was there anyone on the staff of Pensioner’s Paradise who had been there at the time and could shed light on the incident? A brain-storming phone-call to Dorothy might help, so Cleo made one.

“Why don’t you ask Robert?” was Dorothy’s suggestion. “He delivered meat there long before the seniors moved in.”

“Wow,” said Cleo. “Can you ask him?”

“You could ask him yourself,” said Dorothy,” but I know you don’t like talking to him. I’ll phone him now, shall I?”

“He’s probably in the shop, Dorothy. Gary’s gone to collect our order.”

“Will do, and thanks for including me again. We enjoyed Bath. I haven’t heard from Gary yet. He want to give us something new to do, Cleo. Do you know what?”

Cleo was reluctant to jump the guns, especially after the sarcastic remark about being included, but Dorothy would know that she knew, so she explained about Miss Plimsoll’s brother.

“That sounds like a Tuesday job,” said Dorothy. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Get Gary to tell us what to do. I won’t say we already knew about the new mission.”

“He’s a bit put out that Mrs Peel passed out at her questioning.”

“You don’t say! I always thought the woman had a few tricks up her sleeve. What she did with that first wife of Barclay’s was never established either, was it?”

“You’re so right, Dorothy. I was just thinking about that. What a coincidence!”

“Mark my words, Cleo, her death holds the key to the Peel case.”

“I’ve missed your hunches, Dorothy.”

“And I’ve missed being asked for my opinion,” Dorothy retorted, gratified that she was being appreciated.

“We didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s no bother, Cleo, and I’m not retiring, either. Vera says I shouldn’t.”

“I’m glad about that, Dorothy. Gary thought it was a silly idea anyway.”

“And what did you think?” asked Dorothy.

“I thought you might come to your senses.”

“Well I have. I’ll phone Robert now and call you back, shall I?”

“Please do.”

***

Dorothy soon called back.

“Mrs Watson was in charge of the kitchen, Cleo. Ask her about Moira Freeman. Oh, and Robert sends his love.”

“Thanks, Dorothy, but I don’t need Robert’s love. He never gives up, does he?”

“We need everyone’s love, Cleo, but we don’t need it thrust on us by people we don’t care for.”

“I hope you did not tell Robert that.”

“Good gracious no. It’s not my business. But did you know he’s been seeing Molly Moss from the pub in Hundlecourt Minor?”

“Wow.”

“He held the fort there.

“Good for him,” said Cleo, who could not imagine how Robert could cope with the immensely attractive pub manageress.

“I think he’s keen on her,” said Dorothy. A discussion of Robert’s new flame was not what Cleo wanted at that moment.

“I’ll phone Mrs Watson now,” said Cleo, putting an end the stream of chitchat Dorothy had embarked on. “Bye now!”

***

Mrs Watson was run off her feet, or so she said. Moira Freeman had been a receptionist at the hotel, and a good one. Then she had married Mr Barclay. She had beaten all the other candidates to the altar. Perfect timing, they'd call it on the Telly. What was the plot. It was like a soap opera. Wife gone; replaced by the other woman; marriage a bit later; just like one of those American films, but Mr Barclay had been a philanderer before that and probably until his death. He liked a bit of skirt, especially wrapped round a bit of young flesh. “I wouldn't have touched him with a bargepole,” she told Cleo. “Did you know all that?”

“No, Mrs Watson. I wasn’t here six years ago.”

Mrs Watson said that Miss Freeman had never taken on Barclay’s name.Peel hadn’t either – officially. Walls have ears. They had quarrelled about that. It was Peel’s just dessert that she was in prison. She had had a hand in Miss Freeman’s death, but no one had believed what Mrs Watson had told them. Peel had not wanted anyone to know that she was Mrs Barclay and went by the name of Mrs Peel, though there had never been a Mr Peel.

All in all, Mrs Watson was a witness you could only dream of. She had kept eyes and ears open, and only kept silent because she needed her job. Revealing her opinion to Cleo had been a blessede release.

***

Cleo cast a eye on the reports and notes in the HQ files, to which she had on-line access, and which she seldom needed since most of her cases had not reached HQ, and most of them were unlikely to.

The Freeman report that Nigel had promised to send was not informative and had not been written by Nigel who was in the traffic squad at that time. Suspicion had not fallen on Barclay for long, and Peel was not even mentioned in the documentation.

Had Roger’s team slipped up in the Freeman case? Six years previously Gary had still been head of the road patrol team and Nigel had been an unwilling part of it. Gary had seen Nigel’s predicament and rescued him when he took over Roger’s job as head of the homicide squad five years previously. So Gary was not accountable for any oversight. If there had been one, it was high time to correct the error.

***

Cleo’s next move was to phone forensics.

“Just checking,” Cleo started. “Does forensics have a record of Moira Freeman’s death?”

“Who are we talking about, Cleo?”

“Barclay’s first wife.”

“I’ll look. Hold on, please,”  said Chris. He was used to Cleo’s requests and did not ask her any more questions. She always had a good reason for tappinto forensic findings.

After several minutes Chris came back to the phone.

“The brief report is on my laptop.”

“I’ve seen it. Did you get to see the corpse?”

“No. I think that was last time I took a week off so someone else examined, or didn’t get to examine the corpse.”

“That is very unfortunate. No DNA then?”

“As I said, I’m not sure if the woman got as far as forensics. The hospital usual takes care of things. Only if there is a genuine suspicion do we get a corpse here and it’s usually been sent by the cops called out to the incident.”

“That figures. Don’t you have a secret haul somewhere?”

“Of corpses?”

“Not corpses, material clues.”

“I’ll look, Cleo, if you think it will be of any use. It wasn’t my case.”

“Peel, that is Mrs Barclay, passed out at her questioning and is in the hospital after swallowing digitalis pills.”

“How could she get them at HQ?”

“She carries them around with her for some heart complaint or other. We found them after she had passed out.”

“Don’t arrestees get searched?" said Chris.

“Good question,” said Cleo. “There are too many open questions in the Peel case.”

“Better start answering some,” said Chris.

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Only joking. I’ll help where I can. But maybe you should find out who her doctor is. What about Mitchell? His surgery is round the corner from the OAP place. He might know something.”

“You’re right. I’ll phone him now. I hope he’s still available. It’s past surgery hours.”

“GPs are always working, Cleo. They are a dying race.”

***

Dr Mitchell was at available, but he knew nothing about Mrs Barclay’s state of health. He suggested working through the list of doctors in Middlethumpton. Some people were funny. They wanted medical care at surgeries where they would not meet people who knew them otherwise. Digitalis? Could be a cardologist treating her, but most of them worked at the hospital.

“I suppose you know that digitalis does not have to be prescribed,” Dr Mitchell added.

“The tablets looked official,” said Cleo.

“Health food shops sell them.”

“Oh boy. In other words, a doctor would not necessarily know about them.”

“Exactly.”

“You can get them on the internet too, Miss Hartley. You’re flogging a dead horse trying to trace the origin of those pills.”

***

Cleo and Gary had spent a quiet hour gazing into the flames thrown by a fresh log on the fire. They had tried not to discuss Peel. Gary was depressed because the prospect of solving the case to his satisfaction seemed remote. Cleo wondered if Chris had searched for a sample of Freeman’s DNA in every nook and cranny of the lab. She remembered that testing was a question of finance, but saving a sample just in case did not cost much.Chris’s colleague could have reasonably expected to be asked to test a sample if asked to. She remembered Chris telling her that it was compulsory to take samples from any corpse that passed through the lab doors.

Chris must have been thinking along those lines when he cut short his evening with friends to return to the forensic lab and search once more for the specimen of Freeman’s DNA that he had possibly overlooked. His devotion to duty paid off.  Chris's phone-call to the cottage followed just before midnight.

“Nick left unchecked samples,” he told Cleo. “I can’t think how I missed them. Admittedly they were at the back of the big storage fridge, but I should have come across them. Nick did not leave a digital list of untested samples, unfortunately. Ned is more efficient. I’ve found a sample that could belong to Freeman. It’s about 6 years old, and might be registered on a handwritten list somewhere because it has a number on it. I’m looking for that list now.”

“That is terrific news.”

“Not just yet, Cleo. I would still need confirmation that it is the right sample. It also has the letters MFR written on it.”

“That must be her name,” said Cleo. The initials match.”

“Not necessarily. Nick seems to have had a weird catalogue system.”

“Let's ask him then.”

“He isn’t around anymore.”

“Let’s find him.”

“He was killed in a water-skiing incident, Cleo.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll phone you back when I know more,” said Chris and rang off.

***

“Let’s get some sleep, Cleo,” said Gary, as Cleo followed him into the bedroom. We aren’t usually tis late getting to bed.

“You heard what Chris said. How can you consider sleep when we are on the verge of a breakthrough?”

“I’m prepared to wait for that to happen.”

“I’m not. I’m going to make fresh coffee and wait for Chris’s next phone-call.”

“More fool you to spurn my warm duvet.”

“Our warm duvet. Want some coffee?”

“No thanks. Put the light off, please.”

***

In the end, Cleo slept fitfully on the sofa in front of the fire, ready to pounce on the phone. It did not ring till six . Chris had found the list, identified samples of DNA and blood and had done a quick analysis of the latter that indicated cyanide content.

I’ll send the sample to the central testing lab and they will no doubt confirm my result. It must have been a massive dose,” he reported.

“As I expected. Thanks a million. I’ll tell Gary. He’ll have to charge Peel now, though she will probably deny having anything to do with Freeman’s death.”

“I’ll get a report out and send it,” said Chris. “Then I’m going home to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

***

By ten the child care had been organized. Gary and Cleo drove to the hospital. Mia was asked to join them. A patrol car was called.

“So we’re going in for the kill, are we?”

“I hope the woman has survived to experience it,” Cleo replied.

***