Chapter 11: Putting the Pieces Together

1100 hrs. Saturday 6th April 2019. Thurston Hall

Day 6

For several moments I just gazed blankly at the PC screen with my mouth open in amazement. There was no mistaking what I had observed. Betty Smith had got into a car driven by Eloise Donizetti. I was still staring at the frozen screen when Sammy entered the cubicle.

“Good morning, Sergeant. I have a detailed report of Mel’s --”

Her voice trailed away as she saw me staring transfigured by what I saw on the PC screen.

I tore my eyes from the monitor and addressed her.

“Sammy, this is camera footage of Betty Smith getting into a car driven by Eloise Donizetti, the person who reported Kate Hodge missing. Kate Hodge had business card of Camper and Down, the solicitors where Betty Smith worked and it had her name and telephone number written on the back We need to interview Missus Donizetti immediately and --” I stopped abruptly. Sammy was looking crestfallen at my apparent disinterest in what she had discovered from her interviews with Mel Reynold’s work colleagues.

“Sorry, Sammy. That Betty Smith should be such an intimate acquaintance of Missus Donizetti has somewhat thrown me. So, what did you find out from your interviews at the Co-op?”

I saw her face lighten and she pulled a notebook from her handbag and flipped it open.

“The first thing is that Ryan Cooper was probably the only person in Bury St Edmunds who didn’t know Mel was going to spend the night with him. All her colleagues knew as Mel had been telling them for weeks she was going to give Ryan a birthday treat by wearing Anne Summer’s lingerie. I didn’t know what they meant, but when I asked the girls they laughed and said something about ‘naughty knickers’.”

“It’s sexy underwear; Basques, garter belts, crotch-less -- “ I saw that Sammy was blushing. “Never mind. So, it was no secret where Mel was going that evening?”

“No, Mel even told customers about her plans for the night when checking out their purchases.”

“Anything else?”

“There were no incidents reported of suspicious-looking men with funny eyes hanging about the Co-op, and any stalkers would be seen off by Security at the entrances. Oh, and Mel’s birth name is Amelia but only her mother calls her that. Mel detests the name although I think it rather nice myself.”

Something stirred in my memory but I was too full of seeing Betty Smith and Eloise Donizetti together to call it to mind and pursue the thought. Instead, I brought Sammy up to date with what Bill and I had discovered concerning Linda and Dawn’s disappearances.

“You suspect that all the girls, other than Betty, have been abducted in a Vivaro van by the same persons?” Sammy said.

“Yes I do, and we will need to have an area trawl through County Highway Authority camera footage for the van seen in Ipswich. It was broad daylight, and the van was heading for the Ipswich Ring Road that has plenty of traffic cameras so we could get lucky and track the van to its lair. I will request the DCI to authorise such a search.”

“It will take a lot of man-hours, Sergeant.”

“I agree, but it is the only clue we have, other than Betty getting into Eloise Donizetti’s Mercedes. Which is why I want to interview her sooner rather than later.” I called the switchboard and asked for an outside line to Fowler’s Funeral Home.

Gwen, the pleasant voiced receptionist at the Funeral Home, informed me Missus Donizetti was supervising a funeral at the West Suffolk Crematorium and could not be reached.

“She will be at home from four pm this afternoon, Sergeant. I could ring her and make an appointment for you after four this afternoon?”

I agreed to that and Gwen promised to get back to me as soon as she had contacted Eloise.

“You best go to lunch now, Sammy. We may have to work late this evening. You can accompany me to Missus Donizetti’s if we get to interview her. Meantime I have to write a report for DI Warren incorporating your information regarding Mel and all the information I’ve learned about Betty Smith and Kate Hodge.” There was something niggling away at me but I couldn’t pin it down and I was still hyped up with what I had seen on the camera footage from Bury St Edmunds and Ipswich. I grabbed a BLT sandwich and an Americano for lunch and then sat in my office/cubicle and reviewed all the information gleaned since I had started work on Monday morning.

Six days I had been with EAC and it seemed more like six weeks. I had met the woman of my dreams, though unfortunately she was beyond my reach, temporarily I hoped. I had been propositioned by several tasty female colleagues, been in a winning pub quiz team, had watched untold hours of traffic camera footage, and still hadn’t told anyone, bar the daughter of my landlady, that I was no longer affianced. I had developed an unprofessional attraction to someone who could be a suspect in a kidnap case, and had the hots for my landlady, who was also a stupendous cook. All in all it had been a busy week, and there was still one day to go!

I got a call from Gwen at Fowler’s Funeral Home much earlier than expected. ‘Mrs Donizetti will be at home between two and seven pm when she will be leaving to attend a meeting in Cambridge’. I said I could be in Little Saxham in thirty minutes and Gwen rang back to confirm my appointment for 2.30 pm. I took Sammy with me, more for protection than for anything else, as I had qualms about meeting Eloise Donizetti in her home on my own.

I had Eloise’s card with her address and postcode, the latter I punched into the sat nav in Molly’s Juke and was directed, via the A14, to the hamlet of Little Saxham, which I recalled was where Eloise’s ancestor had started the funeral business. Was that why she lived in The Grange, the house that might have once been the home of her great-grandfather’s employer? En route, we drove through the village of Westley, a village only a mile or two from Little Saxham, and from where Dawn Sturrock had disappeared.

The Grange was a modest two-story building that was obviously Georgian. The gambrel, or Dutch roof, was red-tiled although in this part of the country thatched rooves were quite common. The symmetrical windows with 6 over 6 window panes and the triangular pediment over the porch only reinforced my opinion, garnered from my Open University course in ‘British Architecture and its impact on British Society’, that The Grange had been built sometime between 1720 -1790. I noticed the Mercedes car seen on the camera footage was parked to the side of the building.

I gave the lion-headed brass knocker on the solid oak wood front door a good thumping and within seconds the door was opened by Eloise Donizetti.

“Punctuality is the politeness of princes and the courtesy of kings, Ajay, and I am pleased to see the East Anglian Constabulary are practitioners of that virtue.” She noticed Sammy standing behind me. “What a shame you have brought a companion. I had hoped for an intimate tête-à-tête with you in my boudoir, but no matter. Please come in.”

If her greeting was meant to disconcert me it did the trick. Sammy shot me a glance that was a mixture of surprise and alarm.

Eloise led us into a small anteroom. “This is my office, and as I assume this to be an official visit it is the proper place to discuss whatever it is you are here for. Please sit down.” She indicated a pair of cushioned straight-backed chairs by the side of a desk that looked to be genuine Sheraton, while she sat in a black leather G Plan swivel chair. Eloise was dressed much the same as when I had interviewed her the previous day although I doubted that her suit or blouse would have been the same as worn then. She had removed the jacket of her suit before she sat down and her blouse had the top three buttons undone giving an enticing view of her cleavage and the tops of her full breasts. The skirt also revealed more of her than was necessary. As Eloise swung her legs up onto a footstool in front of the swivel chair the skirt had slithered to her mid-thigh. Eloise saw where I was looking and smiled, but made no effort to cover up.

“Two visits in two days, Ajay. I will think you are so besotted with me that you just can’t keep away, although I see you have brought an attractive associate with you so you cannot be contemplating jumping my bones at the moment. Hopefully, it will be later after you have sent her home?” Eloise was continuing to embarrass and unbalance me and was succeeding as I had a sudden, searing, image of Eloise and me rolling about on the thick shag pile carpet in a writhing love knot of carnality. Training took over from lusting and I opened with a question designed to unsettle her.

“Why did you sell your Vivaro vans, Missus Donizetti?”

Bull’s eye! Her eyes narrowed, and her demeanour changed instantly from coquette to vixen.

“I told you, Ajay, I will only reply to questioning if you address me as Eloise. If you insist on being such a stiff-necked Jobsworth then you can leave immediately.”

It was not the retort I expected, but I knew I had given her a jolt. “Fair enough, Eloise. Why did you sell... ?

“Cymbeline!” Her reply was even more disconcerting than her greeting.

“Pardon?”

“Fowler’s is a member of Cymbeline, an international association of firms of funeral directors. Cymbeline buys in bulk and gets huge discounts on the many items used in the funeral trade such as caskets, candles, embalming fluid, stationery and vehicles. Our prime movers were over eight years old and we had a good deal when buying the Chevrolets as replacements. In fact, the Chevrolet is an ideal prime mover as it has rear door access.” She saw my look of bewilderment and explained. “It is much easier to load and unload caskets and body bags from the rear than from the side. Cymbeline’s headquarters is in Montpelier, which is why...”

“Montpelier, as in the state capital of Vermont?” I asked.

“You surprise me by your geographical knowledge, Ajay, but yes, that Montpelier. As you have been there you will know what a delightful city it is, and set in a beautiful state. The skiing in Vermont is superb, far better than Aspen or St Moritz...”

“I haven’t been there, Eloise. I just happen to know the names of the state capitals of the fifty states of the USA.”

She stared at me in astonishment. “How extraordinary. Why on earth would anyone want to have that rather esoteric piece of information at their fingertips?”

Eloise had asked a pertinent question to which I had no logical answer. “I suppose it’s an Anorak, nerdish, sort of thing like train spotting,” I confessed.

“My brother Ashby is autistic and has been a train-spotter since the age of ten so I know what you mean. I believe all men are autistic to some degree, which explains their peculiar and extensive range of fetishes, hobbies, and interests.” She eyed me suggestively. “It would be interesting to delve into any other peculiar interests you may have, Ajay, and for you to delve into me and mine.” Eloise paused for effect, grinning at the look on my and Sammy’s faces. “But I was telling you about Cymbeline. We joined the association ten years ago when they were expanding into Europe. There are over fifty affiliated UK firms now but we do not poach each other’s clients and have designated territories. Of course, non- Cymbeline firms are fair game.”

“Does the name of the company have any connection with Shakespeare’s play of the same name, Missus Don -- Eloise?” Sammy’s question had me bamboozled but had Eloise beaming.

“Yes, it does --” Eloise stopped abruptly and looked at me with a frown on her face. “You failed to introduce your colleague, Ajay. Your very attractive, erudite, and intelligent colleague.”

I made the belated introduction. “Detective Constable Sada Kaur Samir.”

Eloise made the Namaste and turned a sneering smile on Sammy. “You are the Pure One, partnered with the Invincible; your offspring would be Invincibly Pure!” Her laughter held a note of malice and mockery, and Sammy face flamed in anger and embarrassment. “But you are correct, Sada, Shakespeare’s lesser-known play contains a song/poem with a verse that is probably a true reflection of how we in the funerary business regard our profession. As I recall the piece goes something like this.” Eloise then recited the passage in a clear, well-modulated, and surprisingly melodious voice:

as chimney sweepers come to dust.”

She finished and smiled at the look of stupefaction on my face. “The logo of the company is a dandelion. ‘Dandelion’ is the English corruption of the French name of the plant dent de lion, lion’s tooth, describing the flower’s leaf.”

l was still baffled as to why a company engaged in the funeral business should have a flower, or a weed according to many gardeners, as its logo.

Eloise saw me puzzling and explained more fully. “Shakespeare was using the dandelion as a metaphor for death. ‘Golden girls and boys’ was the name dandelions were given in his time, or at least in his home area of Warwickshire. They were, and are, known as wet-the-beds in other areas of England, taken from the common French term for the plant piss- en- lit, due to the diuretic property of the plant. The single stem of a dandelion in its post-flowering state, with the downy covering of its head intact, was known as a ‘chimney-sweeper’ because of its resemblance to a sweep’s brush. When you blow the dandelion ‘clock’ the seed heads disperse like floating dust. Hence, all people, the highest and the lowest --golden and base – die and come to dust. A comforting thought don’t you think?”