John Eider
Not a Very Nice Woman
Chapter 1 — The Cedars
Tuesday
‘A woman dead, you say?’ asked Inspector Graham Rase of his Sergeant, Cornelia Smith as she drove them through the midmorning traffic, back from their earlier appointment out of town.
‘Yes, a resident of the Cedars.’
‘Tell me again why we’re going there?’
‘This is the second death at the Cedars in a month, and so it flagged up.’
‘But it’s an old people’s home.’ He didn’t mean to be insensitive, but… ‘Have we any reason to think there’s foul play?’
Yet he knew the drill as well as she, and so prepared himself for the minor tragedy awaiting: the relatives, the friends, the carers accepting the inevitable.
‘Anyway,’ she added as they nearer the building, ‘the Cedars isn’t an old people’s home, it’s a trust run privately on behalf of the residents.’
Who all happen to be elderly, thought the Inspector, who knew the place and passed it often without ever being inside. Indeed so close was the building to the police station that as they approached he wondered whether he might have better advised his Sergeant to park back at base and accompany him there on foot. But his thoughts were interrupted as they joined the Crescent that shared the building’s name.
Cedars Crescent was a quiet road between two thoroughfares, as silent as a London square and dominated by the clutch of trees that gave it its name and which had resisted the development all around them to remain within the Crescent’s shallow arc. The trees drew the eye from the unassuming block of apartments opposite. The building was a smart one, and one which, even for all the times he must have passed it, Grey had not fully appreciated. Two storeys high excluding the ground floor and dominated by six large windows running along each, the building was perhaps the width overall of four large houses put together. It was of simple design but all the more elegant for that, and finished — for decorated was hardly the word — with jade marble panels linking each window with those above and beneath it and which over time had weathered to match the foliage of the trees across the road.
‘Not much activity outside,’ observed Grey (as he was commonly known) as the car turned off the Crescent and pulled in along the service-road that ran beside the property toward the carpark at the rear. Grey noticed then for the first time that there was no door at the building’s front.
‘No, here they all are,’ said Cori (for she too found her name rounded down with use) surprised at the hidden activity at the back of the building as she pulled in to park beside an ambulance and a marked police car.
‘Inspector,’ a Constable all in white overalls greeted them upon seeing their arrival. ‘She’s up on the second floor. The room’s open now, scenes of crime have finished.’
‘Not a routine visit then?’ Grey clambered out of the car with renewed vigour, Cori feeling the same twinge as she saw his brow furrow.
At the rear of the building, which Grey suspected was normally even more silent and secluded than the front, was a small fenced garden with benches, miniature trees and a burbling water feature; beside these a carpark not recently tarmacked, and hidden by a hedge a small unit of garages. The back of the apartment block was less decorated than the front, plain brick interrupted by intersecting ivy-vines of drainpipes; yet its startling features were the continuous strips of glass that ran horizontally along each level and seemed little more than sheltering for the linking walkways that extended within the back wall.
Only on the ground floor was this different, where between several different windows and doors and for half the floor’s length extended a conservatory so large it seemed a room in itself. It had patio doors that in warmer months would open up to join the lawn; though it was surely still too early in the year for this feature to be utilised. As for now it was closed to the elements, windows steamed, and so seemed occupied.
‘What do we have, Constable?’
‘The victim is a Mrs Stella Dunbar…’
‘ Ms, ’ interrupted a serious-looking woman meeting them at the door from the main building. ‘ Emm-Ess. She was always very strict on that point, that you shouldn’t judge a woman on her marital status. A point incidentally with which I happen to agree.’
‘Then I hope not to forget that in our dealings,’ answered Grey he hoped diplomatically.
‘Rachel Sowton, Duty Manager. You’d be the Inspector?’ She extended her hand to shake.
‘Yes, and this is Sergeant Smith.’
‘Do you want to go straight up?’ she offered without joy.
‘Thank you, but there’s just a few things I need to know first.’ He urged the Constable on go on.
‘ Ms Stella Dunbar, sir,’ he resumed warily. ‘Seventy-one years old and resident here for twenty-four years…’
‘Forty-seven when she arrived?’ thought Grey aloud. ‘She’d have been young then, for this place?’
The Duty Manager answered, ‘Stella was one of the existing residents who formed the Cedars Trust sixteen years ago. They were simply private flats before. At Fifty-five she’d have been no younger than the others in the agreement.’
‘You were here then?’
‘I was hired by the Trust at its formation. Surely we can sort these details out later, Inspector?’
‘Quite right. So,’ he turned back to his colleague, ‘when was Ms Dunbar last seen, and when was she found?’
But again it was the lady who answered,
‘Well I can tell you that, as it was I who found her.’
Grey saw her shudder saying this, evidently not entirely the controlled profession she was attempting to be even in these circumstances.
‘Then I hope you don’t mind us asking.’
But she quickly shook her head, saying, ‘I might also have been the last to see her alive: last night at around eight o’clock, returning to her room after the walk she liked to take around then.’
‘Though there’s talk of a visitor after that,’ added the Constable.
‘Yes, one of the first floor residents thought they saw a young girl running down the stairs and leaving the building at around ten, though I was on the stairs myself soon after so I think it must have been shortly before then.’
‘Do we know who this was?’
‘He thought she might have been a girl he’d seen here before, one of those from the Southney School who Stella tutored — she used to be a teacher, you see — but obviously they’re never here that late, straight after school being their normal slot.’
‘And did she had an appointment that afternoon?’
‘I don’t know. You may find a diary up there with times.’
‘And then she took a walk?’
‘Around seven or eight, yes. That was always her time to take the air you see, after her students had gone and she’d fixed her evening meal.’
‘Thank you, so what of this morning?’
‘One of the other residents went up to see her: Charlie Prove. I think they were supposed to meet downstairs for breakfast.’
