17. A Conclusion

I've drawn this to an ending sooner than I planned It's this weather: it's so draining!

THE BODY IN THE BED

17. A Conclusion

A complete and simple solution had formed in DI Ian Bincott wife’s mind, but for himself he liked to examine evidence bit by bit until the series of events leading to a crime being committed was clear and unambiguous. So he had ordered the two officers, the DC and the DS, who were working with him on the case, to return to the house at thirteen Conehill Crescent and collect a few items that might be included in evidence. In particular. He mentioned waste bins that might need emptying, which made both officers shudder.

While they were gone he had the woman who was now his chief suspect brought to the interview room and he sat facing her. In between them but rather closer to her client sat the duty solicitor, a young and brightly upcoming member of the Bartlet team in Brumpton

“What do you know about mascara. Ms Salmon?” he asked jis suspect who sat there moodily yet occasionally wiping an imaginary tear from her eyes.

She blinked theatrically. “You mean make-up?” she asked, “just look at me: do you see much in the way of make-up? Here you are, asking daft questions about lippy and stuff while my own son lies dead in the hospital and I ought to be there, weeping like all good mothers do for their dead sons…”

“So you were told that he died? Passed away during the night?”

“I knew when I saw him in that state… they said they might bring him round, but I knew they wouldn’t?”

The solicitor cleared her throat. “Is this line of questioning any more than a fishing expedition, hoping that my client will trip herself up?” she asked.

“Your client has been very clever,” he replied, “and the entire story will be revealed very soon.”

The young solicitor looked uncomfortable but remained silent.

“You like wearing mascara, Ms Salmon, don’t you?” persisted Ian, “black mascara from a little bottle sealed with some sort of foil or plastic, and you like opening it by stabbing it with something sharp, don’t you? Now let me see, what might you have at hand when you’re at home that fits the bill? Something that’s nice and pointed and sharp?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about. So can I go and weep for my little boy, the son I brought up with so much care that the love I gave him will last in the world for ever?”

“I’m sure it will. Tell me about the syringe?”

Eileen suddenly looked troubled and he knew he’d hit home with a simple question.

“I ain’t got no syringe!” she declared.

“Ah, but uou have…” smiled Ian, and as if orchestrated to the nearest second the interview room door opened and DC Megan Braintree poked her head in, holding a plastic bag and smiling whilst nodding her head.

“Bottom of her bin,” she said quietly, “with one or two other little things I’ve collected.”

“Good girl,” beamed Ian, quite oblivious, it seemed, of the presence of his prisoner and her duty solicitor, “take them to Doctor Grimm for finger-printing and any other magic he can do, then bring it back.”

Megan nodded, smiled at him, and departed.

“In that plastic bag, the one my detective constable was holding, was a syringe that she found in your kitchen bin,” explained Ian, “you see, I sent her to your house to take a final look around because we know what you did. Your poor son, the one you say you’re so keen to weep about, was set up by you as the killer of your ex-husband and the man you perceive got in the way of your present lover’s happiness years ago, the town mayor, using one of a surviving set of triplets as a complex red herring.”

“What tosh is this?” demanded Ms Salmon, and, turning to her solicitor she hissed “the fool can’t prove any of this.”

Ian stood up and shook his head. “I’m tired of all this,” he said, “so Eileen Salmon, as you choose to be known, or Eileen Shrimpton, as you are in the town register, I am arresting you for the murder of your son, David Shrimpton on the understanding that more charges will follow, enough to ensure that you’ll never be a free woman again.”

The young solicitor stood up to face him. “This isn’t exactly regular,” she said as firmly as she could, “what evidence do you have? And what motive?”

“You’ll get a detailed outline of the prosecution’s case soon enough, Mabel,”” he said somewhat sharply.

“Then when you deliver it please remember my name’s Lily,” rejoined the young woman, “Lily Bartlet of Bartlet and Bartlet. I’m the younger Bartlet.”

Ian felt suitable corrected and smiled at her. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Bartlet,” murmured soothingly For a moment he had forgotten that Don Bartlet’s son had married Lily Spencer and himself had nothing to do with the legal profession at all.

“I mean Mrs,” he corrected hmself

Then he excused himself from the interview room and a uniformed officer took his place. As far as he was concerned his job was done.

The woman had murdered her son, her ex husband and her new partner’s surviving brother as we;; as growing suspicion on her ex’s first big love and a mayor that dearest Joshua hated. And in doing that she had contrived to make that son of hers believe it was he who had fired the gun that had taken two lives.

He turned briefly to face Mss Salmon.

“Joshua’s on his way back as I speak,” he said, “how are you going to explain all this to him, I wonder? I mean, his brother? More together even than the closest of twins, I believe… what will he make of that?”

It seemed that defiance and all fight had left her. “Don’t tell,” she whispered, “please don’t… I did it for the best.”

THE END

© Peter Rogerson 15.06.23

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