Sean O’Riordan saw life differently. He was in his mid-twenties, a period in anyone’s life when they are full of optimism and derring-do. To him, life offered endless opportunities, and he was a person who saw the world brightly, even at six in the morning. Apart from his police duties, he was studying for a Master’s degree. He already had a Bachelor’s, but it would not suffice if he wanted to become a detective superintendent.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Keith asked.
‘The ring that you recovered. What does it tell us?’ Sara asked. Keith had placed it on the table; it was still in the plastic evidence bag.
‘Only that it belonged to Ingrid Bentham. As I said yesterday, there is an engraving on the inside.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Not much, certainly not an address as to where to send it in the case of loss.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘“With love, M”. That’s all.’
‘So, unless we can tie it in, it doesn’t give us very much,’ Sara said.
‘You know it does. What did they teach you at police training college? Every little piece of information helps, even when it seems irrelevant,’ Keith said. He immediately regretted the put-down of a fellow DI. He had to admit that Sara was handling their latest case with the required professionalism. He would apologise later.
Sara chose to ignore his comment. ‘What have we done to find Ingrid Bentham?’
‘The usual,’ Keith replied. ‘Description out to all police departments, watching the airports, railway and bus stations for the woman. She’ll not be easy to spot.’
‘Why do you say that, DI?’ Sean asked.
‘You’ve seen her picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me, what did you see?’ Keith asked.
‘An attractive blonde woman, twenty-four to twenty-six years of age, medium height, slim.’
‘No distinguishing features, tattoos, scars?’
‘None,’ Sean replied.
‘Keith’s right,’ Sara said. ‘Statistically, Ingrid Bentham fits the norm for at least half the white females in this country; at least in that age group.’
‘Apart from the hair colour,’ Sean said.
‘Bottle of hair colouring will sort that out soon enough,’ Keith said.
‘Sean, what can you tell us about the recording you recovered?’ Sara asked.
‘Northern accent, nothing more, but the recording is clear enough. I’ll get someone to analyse it today.’
‘Fine. Keith, can you concentrate on the ring. Long shot I know, but it may help. See if you can ascertain where the ring was purchased.’
‘Police databases?’ Keith asked.
‘It’s always a possibility. This woman’s deranged. We need to find her soon,’ Sara said.
‘Why do you think that, guv?’ Sean asked.
‘She murders Gregory Chalmers, almost kills his wife. Then she showers, cleans herself up, dresses in some of Stephanie Chalmers’ clothes and walks out of the door.’
‘And then she returns to her apartment, packs her belongings and leaves,’ Keith added.
‘Not the act of a normal person,’ Sean conceded.
‘Correct. Most people, if they kill someone in anger, will panic, rush out of the door, leave clues as to where they are, but with this woman, nothing. It’s as if she knew what she was doing; as if she had killed before,’ Sara said.
‘The number 2,’ Keith said.
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘That’s more important than the ring,’ Sean said.
‘The ring is still important. More pieces of the puzzle,’ Sara said.
Chapter 5
Behind the scenes, a full department was focussing on the death of Gregory Chalmers. People were collating information, preparing cases for the prosecution, filing the evidence, and looking for the prime suspect.
Bob Marshall had complete faith in Sara to handle the case, although his superiors were not so sure. As usual, the media were speculating, especially the more scurrilous. Apparently, they had found out about the mysterious blonde, the ‘blonde in the bed’ as she was referred to. Sara realised that information could have only come from the aggrieved wife, now a widow, but why?
Nobody appreciated their dirty laundry being hung out in public, and the most scurrilous rag was emblazoned with headlines alluding to the unusual arrangement in the Chalmers’ household, speculating as to whether it was a lovers’ tryst, whether all three enjoyed the bed together, and if the children were safe in the house of Stephanie Chalmers.
Unfortunately, Sara realised, if you want irresponsible reporting, then the newspapers in the United Kingdom were supreme.
Stephanie Chalmers was sitting up in bed when Sara entered her room at the hospital. ‘Are you better?’ Sara asked, realising that it was not the most appropriate question considering that her husband had just been murdered. Still, the woman had smiled when she arrived. Around the room, there was a collection of ‘get well soon’ cards, and someone had sent flowers.
‘Fine, although I’m probably doped up on drugs,’ Stephanie said.
‘I was here the other day.’
‘I remember. Detective Inspector Stanforth, isn’t it?’
‘Sara Stanforth, as you say. Are you able to answer any more questions?’
‘I don’t want to remember, but I suppose I must.’
‘Tell me about your relationship with your husband.’
‘Gregory was a good man, a good father, but…’
‘Why the hesitancy?’
‘He couldn’t help himself.’
‘Women?’
‘Not often, but every month or so there would be the signs. The late nights, the smell of perfume, the dash for a quick shower to wash off the evidence – a
