Open Writing

Nuneaton - West police station is a dump. It’s scruffy and peeling, blue paint clings precariously to rotting, seventy-year, old woodwork. Once- pristine brickwork is smoke stained and caked in filth from the incessant flow of traffic just a few feet from the front door.

The clock on the tower has said ten minutes past three, for as long as any one can remember.

Partioned to oblivion on the inside, the building tries in vain to provide sufficient accommodation to get the job done. Computer screens flicker and stare, looking out of place on ancient desks. Papers and files lie thickly on every, available surface, ledge and shelf.

The struggling occupants are sick of waiting for the promised new station. Three, plain clothes, policemen are crammed into Detective Sergeant Jack Kingsley's tiny office. The walls a dingy, pea green colour are relieved by one small net-curtained window, which looks onto the car park. Kingsley opens a new file and speaks to his assisting officers.

“Sadie Cresswell aged 43, mother of two is missing. She hasn’t been home for four nights and her husband, Eric Cresswell, phoned here in a state, yesterday morning. Apparently, she’s on a loose rein at home and goes out clubbing two or three times a week. She’s stayed out all night before, which is his explanation for leaving it for four days before getting round to telling us.

"He’s worried to death about her, says he fears the worst, and has agreed to come to talk to me here this afternoon, OK? I’m going down to the interview room, in a few minutes, to see what else he has to say. We have a search warrant and a house key and I want you two to go over to his place now and see what you can come up with. Cresswell could be involved in some way; it wouldn’t be the first time, as we all well know. Any questions?”

“Should we be going in the house when he’s not there?” Tranter asks. “I’m a bit uncomfortable with that, I have to say. We really need him there to show us where things are kept, particularly his wife’s personal stuff. Don’t you think so Jack?”

“That’s a good point David, but I’ve already cleared it with him and there’s no problem. I’ll keep the interview to half an hour here and then he’ll come straight to you. Unless something unusual comes up, he should be with you sometime around three. Alright?”

Constables David Tranter and Phil Hatch, both bright guys in their thirties, are new to CID and love the new environment. Kingsley is keen to keep them well motivated. The brief meeting ends with a decision to meet again later that afternoon around five.

Cresswell was waiting for him in the basement interview room when Kingsley got down there just after two o’clock. He was agitated and white with fatigue.

Clearly he’d had little or no sleep in the last few days. His dishevelled jacket and shirt looked as though they had been thrown on. Kingsley felt sorry for him.

“Fancy a cuppa before we get started? I wont keep you long Eric, I want you to get back home, to give my officers a hand. We may just find something there that give us a clue to where your wife is.”

He collects two coffees from the machine outside, sits down opposite, and offers Cresswell a cigarette. This is not the moment to share his thoughts that Sadie may already be dead.

“Just to recap, you say that Sadie left the house around eight and her last words to you were that she’d be back around midnight, or just after. She’d get a taxi home as usual. You haven’t seen or heard from her since then and the next day, that would be Thursday, you telephoned five or six friends that you had numbers for but no one had seen or heard from her. After that you made calls to hospitals. In other words, you drew a complete blank. You’ve had no word from her or anyone since. Is that a fair summary of what you told me yesterday?”

Cresswell pulls deeply on the cigarette, choking to hide his emotion and agrees that this was the way things had happened. Kingsley is aware that the man across the table is close to breaking point. He decides to get into one last tricky area.

“I’m a married man Eric and I just can’t understand why you’ve been encouraging your wife to go to nightclubs by herself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure we’re going to find Sadie alive, but it does seem to me to be looking for trouble, this kind of carry on. Had you both agreed to go your separate ways or something?”

He pauses not expecting a reply.

Cresswell finds difficulty in making an answer. He pulls on the fag and drains the last of the coffee from the paper cup.

“Sadie loves dancing and pop music.” His speech is laboured. “I’m not bothered, never could dance any way. She always meets her old girl friends in these places and says she only dances with them, so I haven’t seen the harm in it. She’s a good mother to the kids and our relationship seemed to be as good as most. After fourteen years of marriage it seemed OK. I went to the pub, she went clubbing. We were both happy in our own way, I suppose.”

Cresswell's chest begins to heave and Kingsley decides to end the discussion there. If Sadie is dead he is pretty certain that it’s not her husband that has killed her.

“OK Eric, I’m all done with questions for the time being. Thanks for coming in, I know it’s a tough call for you. If you help my two DC’s to look for clues at your place that would be great. They’re really nice guys, - David Tranter and Phil Hatch. They’re waiting for you at Hopefield Avenue right now. Are you in the
car? I can get you a lift down there if not.”

Kingsley had taken a liking to Eric Cresswell. He didn’t like to see people going through the mincer.

The two Detective PC’s were back at the station by twenty to five and ready to brief their boss on findings at the Cresswell’s house. Kingsley called them in and over more coffee from the machine, opened the second meeting of the afternoon on the Cresswell missing person case.

“Eric was in a real state when he left here. If his wife is dead, I don’t believe he had anything to do with it. I got no new information out of him, other than that he seems totally naïve about his wife going out to nightclubs. It’s unbelievable to me. How did you get on at the house?”

Det. PC Phil Hatch spoke up.

“We’re amazed how little progress we made actually boss. If she’d planned to stay away, she took very little with her. Obviously she had money and credit cards but as far as Eric could tell she hadn’t taken other clothes or made obvious plans to leave. There were no notes anywhere. We looked at letters and cards, Sadie had saved, but nothing. The only thing that struck us as unusual was a watch we found, almost hidden at the bottom of her jewellery box. It’s a Gucci and it looks expensive, very definitely not a Thailand look alike. The rest of her stuff was nice but not in the Gucci class. We both got the impression that Eric hadn’t seen it before. I nearly asked if we could bring it back here. I wish I had now; there could be a lead of some sort there. Other than that, that’s all we got.”

“Thanks Phil, you did well there. I think you’re right; we should look at the watch again. I don’t like the fact that Cresswell didn’t recognise it. We need to find out where it came from. That was well spotted.”

Kingsley knew that a more experienced team would have grilled Cresswell further on the point and brought the watch in for an expert to look at. He decided to let it go. They weren’t an experienced team and that was no fault of theirs.

“Right then, let’s sum up and call it a day, I’d like to make an early start tomorrow. Sadie Cresswell is now officially on the missing persons list. I’ve made a short statement, with Eric’s approval, to appear in tonight’s Courier and with a bit of luck, we should have a few calls by morning to take this case forward one way or the other. Write your reports up and then you can go. See you in here at eight sharp tomorrow.”

After the police had left his house in Hopefield Avenue, Cresswell took out the Gucci watch and looked at it more carefully. He was already on the edge and what he saw finally tipped him completely over.

The engraving on the back of the gold case read, ‘To Sadie with all my love. Your darling John’

Jack Kingsley didn’t have to wait until morning to receive a phone call. The station duty Sergeant Fred Matthews rang him at home at ten past eleven that night.

“Sorry to disturb you Jack, but I’ve just had a call from Eric Cresswell. He says he’s desperate to see you tonight. He’s at 43 Caudle Drive on the Fairfax Estate and it’s very urgent. I could get a patrol over there but he says he only wants to talk to you.”

“OK, leave it with me Fred, I’ll get over there now. Can you get a car here pretty quick; I’ve had a couple of Scotches so I can’t risk driving. Thanks”

The houses on Caudle Drive were for the successful. Large, stone built mansions with huge gardens overlooking Brantford Park at the back. Professionals' houses the estate agents call them.

As their car drew towards No 43, Kingsley could see that the front door was wide open. Things were not as they should be. He asked Jim, the driver, to be on standby but to wait in the car for the time being.

As he entered the spacious hallway, he saw Cresswell sitting at the bottom of the stairs. His head was slumped forward on his chest and he was sobbing. The man was in agony. Kingsley was alarmed to see blood on his shirt and hurried forward to see if he was injured. Eric Cresswell waved a trembling arm.

“Upstairs! For Gods sake, she’s upstairs. They’re both up there.''

Kingsley ran back to the car.

“Jim, I think you’d better come in. There’s something seriously amiss here. Keep your eye on the guy on the stairs. I’m going to see what’s going on. He says the woman we’re looking for, his wife, is upstairs. Don’t take your eyes off him and don’t let him leave.”

Having absolutely no idea what to expect, Jack Kingsley makes his way past Cresswell and up the wide staircase to the first of two upper floors. The master bedroom is to his right on the first floor. The double doors are wide open and music is playing from a radio or player somewhere in the room.

As Jack turns the corner he sees a woman spread eagled across a huge black leather settee and recognises her immediately as Sadie Cresswell. Her mouth is hanging open and she is very obviously dead. She appears to have been strangled with the yellow, silk stole knotted around her neck. Save for the stole, Sadie is naked.

To Jacks left, the imposing Napoleon style bed is covered in bloodstains. Blood, from a ten inch knife slash across John Elwood’s throat, has soaked the white, silk sheets. Apart from expensive, striped boxer shorts, Elwood too is naked.

The rusty knife, seemingly an old craft knife, has been precisely placed on the bedside table, where a Tiffany lamp has been knocked sideways. Blood stains on the cream thick pile carpet lead out of the bedroom and inexorably to Eric Cresswell, still weeping in the hallway.

Kingsley is about to leave the room to call for a maximum emergency response, when something in the huge fireplace catches his eye. A watch has been hurled with such force at the slate panels that it is smashed beyond repair. He can see that it is the Gucci.