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  ‘I am, yes. But I’m not obsessive about it. Like everything, it has its place. Don’t get caught up in the sexiness of profiling, Rob. That’s my advice to you. It can go terribly wrong. But, in small doses, I do find it helps,’ she said.

  Rob watched his boss. She was so different to Mia. Kelly Porter was confident, commanding and a little intimidating. She was athletic, strong and had an air of confidence, in her tailored skirt and loose, green blouse. Her auburn hair, tied to the side as always, shone in the sun, and it was tinged with blonde at the front. She wore sunglasses and concentrated on the traffic. Her face was always focused on one thing, and her jaw intimated that she didn’t suffer fools: her time was too precious. Mia, by comparison, was slight and gentle; homely and open. Rob couldn’t imagine getting close to Kelly Porter and he wondered if she allowed anyone in. But that was the point: they were at work, and she only had eyes for the case, and she was exactly the kind of detective that he wanted to become.

  Chapter 15

  Inglewood Hall Country Club and Spa was one of the best in The Lakes, and it sat half way between Ullswater and Penrith: the perfect retreat in which to luxuriate indoors, or visit the lakes and mountains of the National Park. James Tate obviously had expensive tastes, and Kelly got the impression that Moira didn’t complain about it, but that someone close to her did. Neither Kelly nor Rob had been there, but they’d looked it up and seen pictures.

  As Kelly drove, Rob read aloud from the coroner’s report, as he’d been instructed to do. It was mostly dull, talking about lateral this, anterior that, and various weights of organs that would never catch their killer. Occasionally, Kelly stopped him and made him repeat something, then she’d fire questions at him and either nod or tut.

  ‘Rob, this afternoon, I want you to throw everything in to finding out who Moira Tate was. It’s clear that she was targeted for a reason. I want to know her habits, her routine, her friends, her style, and her views. Understand? Classic victimology. Messages don’t usually get left with strangers.’

  ‘Yes, Guv. What about the scene reconstruction?’ Rob wanted to watch and learn from his boss, and he’d like to spend the whole day with her; there was an energy around her that kept him charged, but she was the boss and he’d do as he was told.

  ‘I’ll go to Watermillock and do that. I need you to get to know Moira. I’ll get to know our killer.’ Her mind was made up. In her head, she had specific roles for everyone. Rob was lucky to be assisting in such a small team: he was seeing much more than a regular DC in a major city would. Their team was so small that each member had the luxury of witnessing developments as they happened. In London, only the SIO joined all the dots. DCs found them.

  They approached the driveway entrance and Kelly slowed the vehicle. She proceeded up the long driveway and their first glimpse of the residence was impressive. Trees lined the paths, and a great fountain stood in front of the grand entrance. The splashing water sparkled in the sunlight and gravel crunched as Kelly followed the signs to the car park. It reminded her of period dramas, in which Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson ran, in Edwardian dresses, in and amongst the trees, carrying baskets of fruit and flowers.

  The house had once been a stately home. Sold off long ago, it commanded six hundred pounds per night, for some suites. Kelly wondered who could afford it. Mr James Tate for one. Her mind went back to Moira’s jewellery, and the fact that she’d ruled out robbery; but looking at Inglewood Hall, and the money needed to stay there, maybe the motive was money, but just lots more of it.

  ‘Rob, make a note to check Moira’s bank accounts for large withdrawals,’ she said. He put down the coroner’s report, that he’d finished reading fifteen minutes ago, and got his notepad ready. They parked up alongside Mercedes, Range Rovers and a few Bentleys.

  As they came to a halt, they couldn’t help taking in the imposing stone, pillared entrance. They got out and their feet left imprints in the tiny stones. A concierge in uniform opened the door for them. Inside, it was cool, and Kelly removed her sunglasses. Rob did the same. She slipped on her thin jacket and took in the surroundings. Walking regalia was available in the foyer for guests to borrow should they have arrived under-prepared.

  Guests sat in comfy chairs sipping coffee and reading papers. Flowers sat arranged on every table, and the receptionist smiled sweetly, as she’d no doubt been taught on a very expensive course, at a Holiday Inn, off the M6. The pair attracted attention; their garb was not typical summer attire and they looked too dour and practical to be tourists: business partners perhaps. It was in the way they looked around, as if looking for something.

  A great atrium allowed the sun to flood in above them, but open windows allowed a breeze, too. The receptionist found Mr Terrance Johnson, the Day Manager, and he strode towards them. He was immaculately turned out, as one would expect from such an establishment. They shook hands.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ said the manager, quietly. Kelly was mindful that he’d want to keep the murder of one of his guests as quiet as possible. He looked like the kind of man who’d be terrible at keeping secrets, and Kelly wondered what the staff had already discussed before her arrival. He whispered just a little too loudly, and he smiled inappropriately, given the nature of the call. Kelly decided that he was enjoying the fuss.

  ‘Can we go somewhere private?’ she asked. The manager guided them to a conference room and they sat down. Rob took out a pad. Terrance Johnson ordered coffee without asking if they wanted any. He wafted his hand to a waif-like waitress, and she scuttled away. The manager was a little eccentric and was probably hired because of it. Lots of Americans stayed here and enjoyed the quintessential English quirks on offer.

  ‘So, Mr Johnson, Mrs Tate was booked in for how long?’ Kelly began the interview. Terrance Johnson was nervous and kept looking at the door. Kelly noticed that his shoe looked around size seven: small for a man, but not uncommon. His manner was nervy, and his strong hands were pressed tightly together. His suit was beautifully pressed and accessorised with a handkerchief, gold wristwatch and strong cologne. Kelly had extensive knowledge of the gym, and she could spot muscle tone from miles away. This guy was strong.

  ‘Her husband had paid for three weeks,’ the manager said, fiddling with his hands. Every now and again, he’d look at Rob and lingered a little too long.

  ‘Cash, up front?’ Kelly was surprised. She noted his wandering eye. So did Rob.

  ‘Yes. We deal with the high end of the industry,’ Johnson smiled smugly. Kelly didn’t like him. But that didn’t make him a murderer.

  ‘How did you find Mrs Tate? Her character, her habits, her routine. What was she like? What did she do?’ It was a lot of questions, but Kelly knew that this man’s mind was whirring around all of them: he was highly intelligent, and therefore capable of contriving a story very quickly.

  ‘She was friendly. She liked to show off, you know, she gave large tips and spoke about expensive things to other guests. It was quite embarrassing.’

  ‘Why is that embarrassing?’ Kelly wanted to know what made the manager so uncomfortable about somebody displaying their wealth. It happened all the time, it wasn’t unusual or a cause for alarm, especially in an establishment such as Inglewood Hall, but, to this man, it was significant. Surely the wealthy were his bread and butter.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t hers was it? I mean, all of them are the same, the money comes from either Daddy, or sugar daddy.’ Kelly didn’t like the way that Terrance Johnson was smirking. She made up her mind very quickly that he was, in fact, a prize bitch who loved to gossip. Kelly wondered who else, among his guests, he’d taken a dislike to.

  ‘Do you have a lot of rich ladies on their own staying with you, Mr Johnson? Any others who you don’t particularly like?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I didn’t like them. More, I’m not fooled by them. But they tip well, so I smile and get on with it.’ The coffee arrived. Johnson wafted again, and the waitress poured.

  ‘And did Mrs Tate get along wi
th the other guests, or was it just you who had a distaste for her?’ Kelly asked, her face unmoved. Johnson looked offended. The question was timed to perfection; the waitress stared at him and kept her head down. Kelly surmised that Johnson’s staff were not exactly afraid of him, but wary.

  ‘Did you ever hear her argue with another guest?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think we’ll see her room now.’

  ‘Don’t you want coffee?’ Johnson asked.

  ‘No thank you,’ Kelly said. She wanted to make an enemy of this man to see how far she could push him. It worked. The manager took affront and stropped away, coming back with a card key.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he said, sassily.

  ‘That’s alright, we’ll find our own way, if you give us directions,’ she said. He did so, albeit unwillingly, and they went to find the lift.

  ‘If looks could kill,’ said Rob, when they were in the lift.

  ‘I know, I bet he knows all sorts of secret goings on from these corridors. Bitter, isn’t he?’ Kelly said.

  ‘I wonder what’s eating him,’ said Rob.

  ‘Jealousy probably, he finds it hard to be around all this money, and none of it finds its way to him. But maybe it did. From Moira.’

  They found the room and went in. It smelled pleasant: like a woman. The bed was made and the curtains open. The view was spectacular: they could see the mountains in the distance and Kelly reckoned that Mr Tate had paid a premium for it.

  ‘I wonder why she was so pissed off that her mother was giving away her inheritance, when she was clearly well off enough anyway,’ Rob vocalised his thought process.

  ‘But that’s her husband’s money, isn’t it?’ Kelly said. ‘Her inheritance would’ve been hers in her own right, and the old girl was worth around four hundred grand.’

  ‘Enough to go it alone?’ asked Rob.

  ‘Maybe, but not in the style to which she’d become accustomed. There’s more to it. We need to find Warren.’

  They rummaged around the room, but found nothing of any interest. There was no handbag, phone, lap top, iPad, or anything that would have given them a link to Moira alive. They looked through her clothes and jewellery and, as expected, they were suitably expensive, and if the room had been gone through before their arrival, anything distinguishable would have been taken. A newspaper sat on the dressing table and was dated Monday July 8th. Satisfied that they’d seen enough, they left, and found Terrance Johnson talking to a female guest. She threw back her head and laughed. They wondered how much he earned in tips and if it topped up his salary significantly. They approached him, and he excused himself.

  ‘Mr Johnson. Did Mrs Tate order a newspaper every day?’

  ‘Yes. Every day. Always.’ Johnson was serious again.

  ‘So didn’t you think it strange when she failed to order one on Tuesday?’

  ‘I wasn’t at work on Tuesday.’

  ‘What did you do on your day off?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘I went walking.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked.

  ‘I did the three Dodds. Not much.’ He was vague.

  ‘Could you write that down for me? I’m not familiar with the fells, I don’t like walking much,’ she said. Rob didn’t move his face. Kelly handed Johnson a card and turned it over, she also offered him a pen. Johnson took it and did as he was asked, but he looked at the detective oddly. Before he could question why on earth she would want the names of three of the most famous Wainwrights in the park, he’d handed it back to her.

  ‘Thank you. Can anyone confirm that you were out walking all day, or were you alone?’

  Johnson looked uncomfortable. ‘I was alone.’

  ‘Right.’ Kelly held his gaze until he looked away first. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ Kelly gave him a new card. ‘Maybe next time we’ll have time for that coffee,’ she said and smiled. ‘Oh, and Mr Johnson, what is your shoe size?’

  He looked down at his feet, and like all men with small feet: he lied. ‘Size eight,’ he said.

  Kelly took a long time to look at his shoes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, these are a seven and a half, but…’

  ‘Do you live on site, Terrance?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I have a room here.’ Kelly noticed a few beads of sweat on his brow that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind allowing us to have a look around, so that we can eliminate you from our enquiry, you understand?’

  ‘Me?’ he said, a little too loudly.

  ‘Like I said, to eliminate you.’ Rob was impressed; it was Hobson’s choice. Johnson was thinking. Finally he nodded and beckoned them.

  ‘This way,’ he said. They followed him through the hotel to the back, near the kitchens. Behind a door was a corridor of first floor rooms, which were not as well decorated as the rest of the hotel they’d seen so far. Paint was scuffed off the woodwork, and wall paper peeled off the walls. Food smells wafted from the kitchen, and it was uncomfortably warm. He stopped at a door, and took out a key. He opened it and went inside. The room was light and tidy, and Kelly could see from the door, that it was small and just big enough for its sole occupant. The single bed was rather forlorn and Terrance’s cheeks burned.

  ‘We don’t have to come in, Terrance, I just need a pair of your trainers,’ she said. He was now at her mercy having agreed to open his door to her, and he walked to his single wardrobe and took out his only pair of trainers. He handed them to her and she took them and smiled.

  ‘Thank you so much, we’ll get them back to you as soon as we can,’ she said. ‘If you’ll show us back to reception,’ she said. Terrance locked his door and took them back the way they’d come. In the foyer, Kelly stopped and looked at the day manager.

  ‘Thank you, Terrance. Goodbye for now,’ Kelly said.

  Terrance Johnson watched the two officers leave knowing they hadn’t believed him.

  Chapter 16

  Watermillock had almost gone back to normal after being invaded by press, police dogs, forensic teams in plastic suits, yellow tape, and groups of residents and tourists, standing around theorising about what might have happened to the woman in the churchyard.

  Kelly and Rob had eaten sandwiches from Waitrose at the M6 services. They’d drunk coffee and cold water. Holidaymakers came into the shops and cafes, happy, tanned and relaxed, and looking forward to the final leg of their journey. It was a hub of activity and one of the best gateways into the Lakes.

  She dropped Rob back at Eden House and carried on to the A66. He would have to sit at his desk making phone calls this afternoon, like most of the others. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him with her, it was always good to bounce ideas from person to person, but she just couldn’t afford the officers. She didn’t have an endless pit, and if they were all to go home at night and get some rest, she had to spread them thinly. She knew he wasn’t impressed, and neither would she have been at his age. Rob was good company and he was keen to learn. There was often much to acquire from a young fresh pair of eyes, which saw things that tired ones missed. But she’d made her decision, and had come to Watermillock on her own. Her team knew that she tried to give equal experience to everyone, but that experience included number crunching and screen time. Cane wasn’t about to yield more officers yet; she’d have to unearth some critical evidence first.

  Kelly parked as close as she could to the church gates. The building was typical of the Lakes: sandstone craftsmanship coupled with quiet serenity. It had almost returned to peaceful calm once more and Kelly thought back to the last time she’d been here. Since then, fifty-two statements had been taken, turning up very little of interest.

  The graveyard was full and Kelly could see, without going up close, that most of the headstones were hundreds of years old. Some of them lolled to the side, others crumbled away, and some were covered in vegetation, relatives having passed long ago. Several benches were dotted around and Kelly wondered if Conrad Walker had be
en to that of his wife recently. She hoped so. The place was arrestingly soothing, like many churchyards, but with the trees bouncing gently in the soft breeze, and the smell of Ullswater close by, it was a place of singular beauty, and this struck Kelly as important. She walked around the back, looking for possible ways that a body (a hefty one at that) could have been transported here. The trainer print had been found in the mud, by the gate. They had no guarantees that it belonged to a killer, as opposed to a member of the congregation, but it had looked fresh, and so it was a lead.

  The imprint of Terrance Johnson’s shoe was not a match.

  Uniforms still manned the spot where Moira had been found, but the tarp, tape and markers would be soon gone. This was Kelly’s last chance to replay the scene in her head, in peace, without being disturbed. There was only one road in to the village, so she had to assume that the body had been transported by car. It would’ve had to have parked. She looked around. There were no street lights in a churchyard and, sadly, no CCTV.

  Kelly calculated the closest place where a car could have parked, and it was pretty much where she had parked herself. She measured it: it was twenty-three feet away. Moira weighed over two hundred pounds. Kelly had once squatted ninety kilograms in the gym, egged on by three male colleagues, whose testosterone levels would challenge those of the Marvel team put together, and she’d managed two repetitions. She’d been twenty-six at the time.

  She looked around, and confirmed there were no cameras, houses, or shops in the line of sight. There was no play area, pub, bench, or bus stops nearby. Kelly’s heart sank when she contemplated the endless list of options presented in the Lakes to a killer who wanted privacy, isolation and tranquillity. It had it in spades. Once out of Watermillock, the killer could have driven east or west. East led back to Penrith, and west, deeper into the Lakes National Park.