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  LAST BREATH

  SALLY RIGBY

  Copyright © 2020 by Sally Rigby

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations or places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is almost entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Emma Mitchell of @ Creating Perfection.

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache of Books Covered

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  A word from Sally

  Read more about Cavendish & Walker

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Detective Chief Inspector Whitney Walker frowned at the computer screen. Should she start with the overtime figures and review expenditure in line with their objectives, or address how well her team had been doing against their key performance indicators? All of which needed completing by the end of the month, and she had to force herself to do. It wasn’t that she didn’t see the point of all the reporting and analysis. Of course she did. But they weren’t her favourite jobs. She much preferred to be out in the field, planning and monitoring the front-line operations and working with her team.

  Recently, her boss, Detective Superintendent Jamieson, had been struggling with issues at home, and so had asked her to deputise for him at various functions, and to comment on reports which he’d been tasked to do. She had to admit, her reasons for helping weren’t exactly selfless. She didn’t want his commitment questioned as it could lead to him being passed over for promotion. No way would she sit back and let that happen. As far as she was concerned, the sooner he moved on the better. He’d come into the force on the fast track scheme and was intent on making his way to the top in record time. They butted heads most of the time, and she’d be more than happy to see him on his way.

  The phone on her desk rang. ‘Walker.’

  ‘It’s Matt, guv,’ her detective sergeant replied.

  ‘This better be important. I’d allocated the morning to get through my admin and didn’t want disturbing.’

  ‘Sorry, guv, but I think you’ll agree this is an exception. A woman’s been found murdered in her house in Pennington Grove.’

  She tensed. Not another murder. Every city had their fair share, but sometimes she felt they were being given someone else’s allocation on top of their own.

  ‘What else do we know?’

  ‘She was found by her cleaner … bound and gagged, and she appears to have been strangled. But we won’t know for certain until we have confirmation from the pathologist.’

  ‘Right. We’ll go there straight away. Make sure pathology and scenes of crime officers have been informed.’

  She ended the call and closed the document she’d been working on, pleased to have an excuse to park it for a while. After throwing on her jacket, she picked up her handbag from the back of the chair.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked once she’d walked into the incident room to collect Matt.

  ‘Yes, guv. Pathologist and SOCO are on their way.’

  They drove to the address which was in a smart area of the city, and when they arrived a uniformed officer was stationed by the wrought-iron gate.

  ‘Were you first on the scene?’ she said to the officer, who she recognised as PC Timms.

  ‘Yes, guv. PC Carson and I were on duty close by when the call came in at nine o’clock this morning.’

  Whitney glanced at her watch, it was already nine forty-five.

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘The cleaner. Sandy Griffiths.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘Inside with Carson.’

  ‘Do we have a name for the victim?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Mrs Celia Churchill,’ the officer replied.

  ‘Where did she find the body?’

  ‘In her bedroom.’

  ‘Is the pathologist here yet?’

  ‘No, guv.’

  ‘Okay, you stay here and keep the crime scene log, while we go inside and interview the cleaner. SOCO are on their way.’

  They walked up the long drive to a three-storey, red-brick monstrosity with annexes to either side, one of which included a triple garage.

  The front door was open and they entered a large, square reception hall with stone flooring and a huge set of French doors at the rear which looked out onto the manicured back garden. Broken glass was scattered over the floor. The entry point?

  ‘Wow, this must be worth millions,’ Matt said, his eyes wide.

  ‘And some,’ Whitney said. ‘Let’s go and find the cleaner.’ They headed down a short corridor in the direction of voices and entered a large open-plan kitchen which had a sitting area in one corner overlooking the garden, and a large dining table in the other. Sitting on the sofa was a woman in her fifties and next to her, on an easy chair, was PC Carson. He stood as soon as they came over.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Whitney Walker and this is Detective Sergeant Price. I understand you found Mrs Churchill,’ she said to the cleaner.

  ‘Yes. It was awful.’ Her face crumpled.

  ‘Would you be up to answering some questions?’ Whitney asked gently.

  The woman nodded.

  Whitney turned to PC Carson. ‘You can leave us now. Go and stand with PC Timms at the front gate. We’re waiting for the pathologist and SOCO to arrive.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ he said.

  ‘Please can you tell me what happened?’ Whitney said, sitting on a chair opposite.

  Sandy Griffiths stared at her, a glazed look in her eyes. She swallowed hard. ‘I came in at half-past eight, as usual. Everywhere was quiet. Sometimes Mrs Churchill is in bed, and sometimes she’s out when I get here. I have my own key. I went upstairs to see whether she was there, so I could change the sheets, and—’ She gulped and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  There was a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of them, and Whitney slid it over to her.

  ‘Would you like a cup of sweet tea? It will help with the shock.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Matt could you do the honours. A cup of sweet tea for Sandy, and I’ll have a coffee. Do you mind if I call you Sandy?’

  ‘No. That’s what everyone calls me.’

  ‘This is a lovely house. Have you worked for Mrs Churchill long?’
Whitney decided to take a different approach to ascertaining the facts, so it wasn’t so painful.

  ‘I’ve been here for five years.’ She gave a weak smile.

  ‘And what are your duties?’

  ‘I come in three times a week… on a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I do the cleaning, the laundry, and any other jobs Mrs Churchill needs doing.’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. It just doesn’t seem real.’

  ‘What about the garden?’

  ‘There’s a gardener who comes in once a week.’

  Whitney pulled out a notepad from her pocket and started jotting down some details.

  ‘When you arrived this morning, did anything seem out of the ordinary?’

  Sandy sat upright and sucked in a loud breath. ‘No. My first job is always to tidy up the kitchen. Mrs Churchill had been out to a charity gala last night, so there were no dinner plates or pans to wash. All it needed was a general wipe around.’

  ‘I thought you said you went upstairs to see if Mrs Churchill was there and to change the sheets?’ Whitney clarified.

  ‘Usually I do the kitchen first, but today I went to see if she’d gone out so I could get the washing on straight away.’

  ‘What are your hours?’

  ‘Eight-thirty to two-thirty, though sometimes I stay later if Mrs Churchill is entertaining, to help her get everything ready.’

  ‘Are you up to talking to me about what happened when you went into the bedroom and found Mrs Churchill?’ Whitney asked, anxious to move on.

  ‘Yes,’ Sandy said with a sniff.

  ‘Was the bedroom door open or closed?’

  ‘It was open. Definitely.’ Sandy nodded.

  ‘When you saw that, what did you think?’

  ‘That she was out, because when she’s in bed the door is shut.’

  ‘Did you notice whether her car had gone?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t, because she keeps it in the garage, and I don’t go in there.’

  ‘If she was to go out at this time of day, where would it be?’

  ‘She’d go out early if she was going to London, shopping. Or sometimes she’d go to an exercise class, but she hasn’t recently because she twisted her knee and was waiting for it to recover before she went again.’

  ‘So, this morning you saw the door was open and, because you assumed Mrs Churchill wasn’t there, you went into the room with a view to stripping the bed,’ Whitney said, continuing to write notes.

  ‘Yes. I was going to take the sheets and towels and wash them,’ Sandy said.

  ‘Can you talk me through what happened next?’

  ‘I think so,’ Sandy faltered, her face pale.

  ‘I know it’s going to be hard, but just take it steady.’ Whitney gave an encouraging nod.

  ‘I walked in and the curtains were drawn, which I thought was odd because usually she opens them once she’s up and dressed, and ready to go out. I headed over to the window and opened them. I turned to go over to the bed and then I saw her.’ Her hand flew up to her chest. ‘She was lying there in her nightie with her eyes open and staring up at the ceiling. Her ankles were tied together and so were her hands. A pink scarf was tied around her neck. It was … It was…’ Her voice cracked, and she began to sob.

  Whitney moved from the chair and sat beside her. She rested her arm around Sandy’s shoulders. ‘You’re doing really well. You’ve had a huge shock. Take some deep breaths. Is there anyone we can phone to take you home later?’

  ‘My husband’s at work. I’ll be fine to drive myself.’

  Matt came over holding two mugs. He leant forward until they were hovering above the table.

  ‘Stop,’ Sandy called out. ‘We need coasters. Mrs Churchill is very particular about it.’ She took two coasters from the stack in the centre of the table and put them down so that Matt could put the mugs down. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,’ she said, blushing.

  ‘No problem,’ Matt said. ‘It’s the same in our house.’

  ‘Sandy, what did you do after finding Mrs Churchill?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘I screamed, but no one could hear me.’ Her hands were clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white. ‘I had to pull myself together. So, I used the phone by the side of the bed and dialled 999. After I’d told the operator how I’d found Mrs Churchill she calmed me down while they were getting the police to come. It’s all a bit of a blur.’ She shivered.

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ Whitney said to reassure her. Her heart went out to the woman. Seeing any dead body was traumatic, but to find a murder victim was even worse. Whitney had grown a hard shell when it came to coping, but Sandy wouldn’t have. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The nice police officers arrived and brought me down here to wait for you. There was nothing else I could do.’ She shook her head.

  ‘You did everything you should’ve done,’ Whitney said. ‘A lot of people panic and can’t even pick up the phone. I’d like to ask you some more questions about what’s been happening recently at the house, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sandy nodded.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Churchill’s husband?’

  ‘They’re divorced. It was very messy. They were only married for a short time. I’m surprised it lasted that long.’

  Whitney started at the aggressive tone in the cleaner’s voice. ‘Can you explain what you mean?’

  She sat upright in her chair and looked directly at Whitney. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened between them, but he was only in it for her money, that much was obvious. He was a lot younger than she was. She met him on a cruise and they got married quickly. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but she had a very strange taste in men.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jason Allen. I never liked him.’

  Whitney wrote it down. Murders were usually committed by someone who knew the victim. He’d be one of the first they interviewed.

  ‘Had she been married before?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure how many times. At least three, to my knowledge. I’ve only known two of them since I’ve been working here.’

  ‘Does Mrs Churchill have any children?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘She has a daughter, Natasha, who lives in Bristol.’

  ‘We’ll need to inform her what’s happened to her mother. Do you have her details?’

  ‘No. You should find them on Mrs Churchill’s phone. They phone and text regularly.’

  ‘Has anybody been hanging around outside the house recently? Someone acting suspicious?’ Whitney asked.

  Sandy paused for a moment. ‘Not as far as I know. It’s usually a very quiet street.’

  ‘What about the gardener? What’s his name?’

  ‘Dave. I don’t know his surname or his number. He works on a Friday morning.’

  Whitney pulled out her card and gave it to her. ‘You’ve been really helpful, thank you. If you think of anything that might help us, please let me know. You can call me on this number any time.’

  ‘Can I go home now?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘If you could just wait for our scenes of crime officers to arrive before you leave, so they can take your fingerprints, that would be helpful. We need them to eliminate you from our enquiries. Which reminds me, when you were in the bedroom … did you touch anything else other than the curtains and the phone? Did you touch Mrs Churchill at all?’

  ‘No.’ Sandy shook her head. ‘That’s what they asked me when I phoned the emergency services.’

  ‘Well done. That makes our life easier. I’ll leave you with DS Price for now.’

  She took a large swallow of coffee, replaced the mug on the coaster, and left the room as she wanted to view the crime scene before the pathologist arrived.

  Chapter Two

  Whitney made her way to the reception hall so she could go upstairs. Before she could get there, Dr Claire Dexter, the pathologist, turned up. Claire was the best pathologist in the
county, if not the country. But she was extremely particular when doing her job, and she wouldn’t want Whitney getting in the way.

  ‘Hello, Claire. How are you?’

  ‘Early starts aren’t my thing. Why this body couldn’t have been found later in the day, I don’t know.’

  Whitney smiled. Claire, as usual, was wearing her unique blend of outlandish clothes. She hadn’t yet put on her coveralls, so her green and white striped, wide-legged trousers were on show, as was the navy and white polka-dot blouse, tied with a bow at the neck. Her short red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush that morning, and in her ears she wore a pair of red plastic hoop earrings. Claire was one on her own when it came to fashion choices.

  ‘I haven’t yet been up to the crime scene. I’ll come with you,’ Whitney said.

  ‘Providing you make sure to keep out of my way.’

  They walked up the open light wooden staircase to the next floor and along the wide hall until arriving at a door with a yellow cordon across it. Claire placed her bag on the floor and pulled out some white coveralls and disposable gloves, which she put on. Whitney also put on some gloves.

  ‘I’m going in first,’ Claire said.

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll follow.’

  The room was huge and in the centre was a four-poster king-size bed. There were two doors off the bedroom, both of which were open, one leading to an en suite bathroom, and the other to a walk-in wardrobe.

  Whitney looked over at the victim. She was, as the cleaner had described, still in her nightwear and bound. She was also gagged. Around the woman’s neck was a pink chiffon scarf.

  Claire took out her camera, strode over to the bed, and started taking photographs of the body.

  ‘Strangulation, would you say?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘You know better than to ask me that. I’m not drawing any conclusions until I have the body back at the lab, and can do my tests. All I will say is the scarf is tied tightly around her neck, and there are ligature marks. But that doesn’t mean that’s what killed her. I’ll tell you more once I’ve completed my investigations.’

  Whitney moved over to the dressing table. Sitting on top was an antique silver brush and comb set. Also there were photographs of the victim standing next to a younger version of herself. Her daughter? Celia Churchill was a very attractive woman, slim with blonde hair, large eyes, and an angular jawline. Her daughter was the same. She picked up the photo and put it in an evidence bag. She then went into the walk-in wardrobe and gasped. Rows and rows of clothes were lined up, according to the season, and at the back, taking up the whole wall, were racks of shoes. More than she’d ever seen.