The Detective Frank Miller Mysteries Read online

  THE DETECTIVE FRANK MILLER MYSTERIES

  James Whitworth

  © James Whitworth 2019

  James Whitworth has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH’S DISCIPLE

  THE EVE OF MURDER

  BIDDING TO DIE

  DEATH’S DISCIPLE

  For Lisa

  Table of 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

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The plan to murder Mabel Downing had been finalised three days earlier. Now all that was needed was the book.

  Gloved hands lifted the box from its hiding place on top of the wardrobe and placed it on the dressing table.

  Slowly, with exaggerated care, the box’s lid was opened and a paperback novel was taken out. An index finger slowly traced the individual letters of the title: D–R–A–C–U–L–A.

  Outside the window the figure of Mabel Downing could be seen making her way along the driveway towards her house. The old woman – seventy years old that very day – had been watching the winter sun set behind the ruins of Whitby’s Abbey.

  Two hours later, Charlotte Sanderson was walking down the same path that had taken Mabel from the Abbey to her front door. As she walked her bobbed hair bounced in time to her methodical stride. Although only in her early thirties she dressed in what Frank called a ‘classical’ style. One night, in the still warm afterglow of making love, he had told her that the way she let the vagaries of fashion pass her by made her seem timeless.

  She would normally have laughed at such a fanciful idea, but that had been before she had found herself falling in love with him.

  Charlotte stamped her feet in a vain attempt to dispel both the cold and thoughts of Frank.

  Yet for all the buffeting of the wind, she still felt reluctant to go inside. Shivering, Charlotte ran her right hand over the sling that held her left arm tightly to her body as she looked up at the imposing façade.

  Curlew House was a solid, if uninspiring, Victorian residence. Situated high above Whitby’s east cliff, it enjoyed exceptional views both north over the town and south along the coast towards the picturesque resort of Robin Hood’s Bay. Its only neighbours were the Abbey ruins, farmers’ fields and a small coastguard station.

  Charlotte opened the front door, feeling the usual discomfort at letting herself in. Hanging her coat up, she headed for the lounge where she knew the Downing family would be dutifully gathered for their mother’s birthday.

  “Charlotte!” Mabel cried, extending an unsteady hand. “I’m pleased to see that new man of yours lets you out of his grasp now and again. But who can blame him?”

  Mabel smiled and as she did so, lines spread across her face. Her hair was now fully white. The striking brunette that she had once been mocked her from photographs on the walls. Liver spots were unwelcome interlopers on her still fastidiously manicured hands and worse of all, Charlotte thought, the striking eyes that even black and white photographs could not dim were now dull and yellowed.

  Mabel said, “Age is an awful thing. I’m not sure ‘celebration’ is the right word to describe reaching seventy.”

  “Nonsense,” Charlotte said, “seventy’s hardly old nowadays and you’ll probably outlive us all! So, are you ready for the onslaught of presents?” she added as she sat down between Mabel’s two sons.

  “I’m ready,” Mabel said. “But how about you? How’s your arm?”

  “Don’t worry about me, it’s just a sprain,” Charlotte said. “It would have taken more than that to make me miss your birthday.”

  Charlotte was surprised to find herself enjoying the party. Mabel’s eldest son, Henry was being less stuffy than usual and his wife, Jennifer, was managing to stay almost sober – unlike Mabel’s daughter, Stella, who was leaning heavily on her boyfriend Charlie’s arm.

  The only person who was not enjoying the evening was Mabel. Her growing sense of unease was hard to shake, and she was finding it hard to concentrate. Her mind drifted back to a chance meeting in the town a few days earlier.

  *

  Leaving the post office on Church Street, Mabel bumped into an old acquaintance. Mrs. Davenport, dressed fussily in too much fake fur, was married to a member of what was rather grandly known locally as the ‘golf set’.

  Mabel suggested they go to into the Walrus and Carpenter Teashop to escape the cold.

  “How long is it since Harold died?” Mrs. Davenport asked once the pot of coffee had been deposited on their table. Mabel said it was ten years – that very week, as a matter of fact.

  “Really?” Mrs. Davenport said.

  “That’s the problem,” Mabel said. “People assume that when you lose your husband, you spend the first few weeks in shock and then the rest of the first year in what used to be called mourning. After that, the world moves on and people assume so do you.”

  “But you don’t?” Mrs. Davenport asked, speaking through a mouth filled with fresh scone.

  “No. You try to of course, but that’s what no one tells you. The raw pain may go, but it’s replaced with a deep longing for the person who’s gone. If you’re lucky, you have a family around you; but however loving they are, they’re not your husband are they?”

  Mrs. Davenport mumbled something that sounded like agreement.

  “The thing no one tells you is that it actually gets worse. The pain is less defined; it’s more of a dull ache that won’t go away. But when you’ve spent forty years with someone, you’re never going to replace that are you?”

  That was one question too many for Mrs. Davenport, whose intention had been more gossip sharing. She excused herself soon after and had left Mabel on her own.

  *

  Jennifer’s generous measures and the increasingly terrible weather were helping give the gathering at Mabel’s party a feeling of companionable solidarity.

  Stella was regaling the company with the story of how she had first met her boyfriend, Charlie, when his phone rang.

  “It’s the owner of the White Horse,” he said. “He says it’s chaos in town; there are trees being blown over, roads closed, flash floods …”

  “Charlie will have to stay,” Stella said to Henry, managing not to slur too many of the words. “He can’t be the only one who has to go out into this gale.”

  “Of course he can stay,” Mabel said.

  “Let’s have a nightcap,” said Peter, Mabel’s second son. “Then I think we’d better head off to bed. I’m sure mother must be shattered.”

  Mabel smiled warmly at her younger son. “I must admit I do feel rather tired, Peter. I’m sure I’ll be better after a good night’s sleep.”

  Henry looked through the conservatory windows. “If any of us can get a decen
t night’s sleep with all this going on.”

  The lights from the conservatory were casting shadows over the line of trees that bordered the southern side of the house. They were being blown backwards and forwards by the strong winds, making them look as if they were engaged in some unnatural, demonic dance. Mabel found their jagged movements unsettling and suddenly she felt afraid.

  “I can’t believe your mother still hasn’t installed another bathroom,” Jennifer said as she undressed in her cramped room. “It’s like Regatta Week in the hall.”

  “Oh, must you, Jennifer?” Henry said without any real irritation as his wife – now dressed in layers of woollen nightclothes – opened the bedroom door. “Don’t you feel like you’re sleeping in a fishbowl? Anyone can see in.”

  “It’s just the family, Henry, and it’s not as if there’s much chance of us scaring the horses is there?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It never is,” Jennifer said, “and besides, you know how claustrophobic I get.”

  “Fine,” Henry said, “I’ll be off to my room. Sleep well.”

  Jennifer watched Henry head along the corridor. All the rooms had single beds, something that always made Jennifer feel that she was sleeping in a dormitory. Of course, if Henry had really wanted they could have shared her single bed, but she hadn’t asked and nor had he.

  Jennifer was sitting in front of the dressing table mirror, rhythmically running a brush through hair that was now the same colour as Henry’s, which had receded into truculent greyness. Had anyone asked, grey would have been how she would have described her life; but, of course, no one did. There may have been a time when people were interested in her, but now all they saw was the grey hair, the bank manager husband and the lines that covered her face like roads on a map that didn’t lead anywhere.

  Later, as Jennifer applied a final round of cream, she caught sight of a garishly clad figure pass her bedroom door on the way to the bathroom.

  Stella, Jennifer thought, is the only person I know with the nerve to wear something so gaudy. It looks like the proverbial accident in a paint factory.

  She giggled to herself at her wit and in doing so brought on a round of hiccups.

  A few minutes later, the colour explosion appeared in Jennifer’s mirror heading back to her bedroom.

  “Night, Stella!” Jennifer said, and received a raised hand in silent acknowledgment.

  “Not so chatty now?” Jennifer said between hiccups, not without a little sympathy.

  Thirty minutes later, Charlotte stopped in the doorway.

  “I’m just after a drink of water. I was going to ask if you wanted a glass …” she said, trailing off as she noticed an open hipflask.

  “It helps me sleep,” Jennifer said.

  The storm had now reached a crescendo. The panes were rattling and freezing North Sea rain lashed against the windows. Jennifer shivered and lifted the hipflask to her lips to take one more sip, but froze with the flask before her open mouth. The wind was screaming around the house. To Jennifer it was a desperate, empty sound. There it was again, but it was now coming from inside the house. Jennifer stood, steadying herself on the back of her chair. She walked towards the corridor and then she heard it again. This time there was no mistake. It wasn’t the wind. Someone was screaming.

  Jennifer left her room and paused at the foot of the spiral staircase that lead to Mabel’s attic bedroom. To her right, at the end of the short corridor, she could see Charlotte kneeling down on the floor over a crumpled shape. As Jennifer’s poor eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that the shape was Mabel Downing; and as she took a tentative step towards Charlotte, she was in no doubt that her mother-in-law was dead.

  Suddenly there was a burst of noise, as the family, followed by a disorientated Charlie, all appeared simultaneously behind Jennifer.

  “We should call an ambulance; mother’s had a … a heart attack?” Henry said.

  “I don’t think so, …” Jennifer said slowly as she put her hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

  “What do you mean?” Henry said without stepping any closer.

  “What is it?” Peter said, pushing past his brother.

  He stood next to Jennifer and then suddenly recoiled as his eyes followed Charlotte’s fixed gaze.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Mabel Downing was lying on her back, her feet pointing in the direction of the corridor. Her face was horribly contorted. The ugliness of death rampant about her grey-lined features. To her side lay a paperback novel, seemingly dropped during her vain struggle with a murderer who must have possessed far greater strength.

  Her scarf had been pulled so tightly around her neck that it had cut into the skin.

  “She’s been …” Peter stuttered.

  “Strangled,” Charlotte said speaking for the first time.

  “Oh, please no …” Henry said, his voice thin and breathless.

  Charlie stepped slowly forward.

  “I think,” he said softly, “we should call the police.”

  “The phone’s downstairs,” Stella said, making a move towards the staircase.

  “I’ll go,” Charlie said, putting out an arm and gently stopping Stella. “For all we know,” he said quietly to Henry, “the killer may still be in the house.”

  Chapter 2

  Detective Inspector Frank Miller was standing on his small balcony, looking out over the terracotta roofs of the North Yorkshire coastal town of Whitby.

  As he surveyed the damage the previous night’s storm had wreaked on his adopted hometown, his mobile phone rang again.

  He glanced at the screen and grimaced at the sight of Sergeant Riddle’s name.

  Miller knew he was due at the murder scene. Overdue, in fact. His new sergeant would already have taken initial statements and would be waiting for Miller’s arrival. There would be Scene of Crime Officers to confer with and the pathologist’s preliminary report to dissect. The machinery of a murder enquiry would already be in motion. The only thing missing was the Senior Investigating Officer.

  Yet he continued to hesitate.

  A chill wind blew mercilessly across the town’s west cliff. Miller turned from the balcony to the comfort of his centrally heated living room.

  Slowly, with long delicate fingers, he retrieved a small blue jewellery box from the debris of the previous day’s newspapers and slipped it into his pocket.

  Miller then paused to look at his reflection in the mirror. He stared at the round features. Thin hair, which was nearer to a light tan than its original blonde colour, flopped disconsolately on his shoulders. Bright blue eyes looked back at him and he thought, not for the first time, that he could do with losing a little weight.

  Zipping up a favourite jacket that had grown tighter over the last few months, Miller reluctantly left the warmth of his third floor apartment and walked down the stairwell before emerging into the bitter chill of a late January morning.

  The town of Whitby is split in two by the river Esk that runs from the North Yorkshire Moors into the town’s harbour before joining the North Sea. This natural divide has created two distinct sides to the town – the west side where Miller lived is known as the new side, despite being largely Victorian; the east side – the old side – is home to the cobbled streets and dark alleyways that help give the town the ancient charm that attracts so many tourists.

  Feeling a need for fresh air and exercise, Miller decided to leave his car in its garage.

  Crossing the road with a quick glance to the cliffs opposite where Curlew House stood, he made his way down the hill to the harbour front.

  At the foot of the hill, Miller turned right and walked past the amusement arcades and made for the swing bridge that linked the east and west sides of the town. Turning left after crossing the bridge, he made his way over the cobbles of Church Street towards the foot of the famous one hundred and ninety-nine steps. From here it was a short, if steep accent to the church and then Curlew House.

&nbs
p; The initial telephone call had been logged at 12.42am. Two officers from the local station had been on the scene within twenty minutes. With little doubt they had a murder on their hands, they had called in the CID. Sergeant Paul Riddle had received the call in the guest bedroom of the starter home he shared with his wife on the new development outside Ravenscar. He had just moved to the area and his first impressions of his new home were a combination of stark beauty and freezing temperatures.

  After being brought up to speed by the local constables, he had given the Scene of Crime Officers their instructions, taken preliminary statements from the family and had explained that the officer who would be leading the inquiry was on his way. That had been hours ago and still there was no sign of his new boss. Riddle took out his mobile phone for the third time and was half way through dialling the Chief’s number when he caught sight of Miller walking to the murder scene.

  “Sergeant Riddle,” Miller said, as he strode through the door, “I assume everything has been done.”

  Riddle bit his tongue. Everything done! He meanders up the path three full hours after he’s been called and then has the bare faced nerve to ask if everything has been done.

  “Yes, sir,” he said out loud.

  If Miller noticed the barely suppressed anger in his sergeant’s voice, he made no sign.

  “Who have we got then?” Miller asked.

  “The murdered woman, a Mabel Downing, was seventy. She has lived here alone for the past ten years since her husband died. It was her seventieth birthday yesterday and the whole family was here for a celebration. They all stayed the night due to the storm.”

  “Just the family?” Miller asked.

  “I was coming to that. It wasn’t just the family,” Riddle said, “in fact it wasn’t a member of family who found the body … or was found with the body.”