Midsomer Murders - 'The Collected Hurts of DS Jones' - 4/?

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Title: The Collected Hurts of DS Jones
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Summary: 5 times DS Jones was whumped and 1 time he wasn't.
Main Characters: DS Ben Jones, DCI John Barnaby, Sarah Barnaby and Kate Wilding.
Disclaimer: Created and based on the characters and books by Caroline Graham. A Bentley production for ITV.
Spoilers: Set during season 14 and 15.
Word Count: 7,858
Status: Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story.

4. The Not Needed but Wanted Illness
Summary: DS Jones finds it difficult working with a non-cooperative case of the flu, the illness wanting more attention than he has time to give.




Taking a deep breath, chest aching with the effort, detective sergeant Jones stepped into the front living room of the small cottage. The room itself was immaculate, obsessively clean, furniture old, decorative colours pale. The only thing out of place was the body nailed to the wall, open fireplace to its left, cross-stitch pictures of cats to its right; body seemingly a part of the decor.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Crime scenes never were but this one was particularly bad, the killer methodical in his efforts; the victim on display like a piece of macabre art, gruesome in all its details. What looked like dozens of concrete nails kept the body in place, hung up on the wall like an ugly crucifix; arms stretched outward, ankles crossed. Blood, now dark and congealing, had soaked into the carpet below.

If the victim were alive when nailed to the wall . . . it would have been a slow and painful death.

The nauseating crime scene was not the right way for Jones to continue what was already a bad day. He swallowed down the rising bile but the sight and smell of the victim only made things worse, his stomach deciding to head for the hills, screaming as it ran. He wasn’t able to get outside, to create a safe distance between himself and the crime scene. Finding a quiet corner in one of the other rooms, Jones’s stomach evicted its contents without further notice. Nothing more solid than spit and bile, his appetite lacking for the last few days.

He felt bloody awful, body dead and in need of a quick burial, his mind refusing to accept the inevitable. A zombie walking amongst the land of the living, trying to lead a normal life even though his body wasn’t being cooperative. Headache, nausea, sore throat, fever, chills, chest pain, ear pain, he had everything. This wasn’t just the flu; it was a slow and painful death, much like the poor sod nailed to the wall.

Dying would be a lot easier but he no longer had that option. Now caught up in the middle of a murder investigation, Jones didn’t have the time or the patience for the flu, the illness demanding more attention than he was able or willing to give. Checking his watch, Jones realised it had only been a couple of hours since he’d taken his last dose of over-the-counter flu medication. Not that they were working, about as useless as a sniffer dog with sinus problems. Deciding that topping up on the flu medication might actually be a good idea, Jones popped four pills from the blister packet he kept in his jacket pocket and swallowed them dry.

Another deep breath, pain catching in his chest, Jones made his way back to the crime scene, body language relaying his reluctance to return. In the few minutes he was gone, SOCO had invaded the living room, men and woman ogling the victim, forensic side of the crime fascinating. Jones couldn’t really find any fault in their attitude toward their job; removing a body from a wall not an everyday occurrence for them. Or the victim. When Kate Wilding entered the crime scene, Jones muttered a polite greeting and not willing to watch the prodding and probing, the removal of the body, he walked out of the room in search of the person who had found the body.

It didn’t take Jones long to find him, a uniformed PC pointing him toward the back of the house. Jones made his way along the hallway, moving close to the wall, solid support in case he needed it. More cross-stitch pictures lined the walls, cats of every variety, at least a dozen of them. Reaching the end of the hallway, Jones stepped into a kitchen that looked brand new. White cabinets, gray bench top and silver appliances. It was out of place in a cottage that was at least eighty years old.

A man, on the wrong side of middle age, his gray hair receding, sat at a large wooden kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Sugar cubes, stacked high on a small plate, sat on the table in front of him. The man looked as bad as Jones felt. Face Ashen, flesh clammy, hairline sweaty, eyes bloodshot. Shock no doubt. Finding a body nailed to a wall would do that to a person.

Jones moved into the man’s line of sight and once he had gained the man’s attention, he removed his warrant card from his jacket pocket, displayed it for the man to see, and said, “Detective sergeant Jones, Causton CID. I understand you found the body?”

“Yes.”

“And you are?”

“Michael Alberton,” the man said as he swallowed a strangled sob, clenched fist against his mouth as he tried to hold back his emotions. Lowering his hand, he gripped his cup of tea, knuckles white, hands shaking so badly the tea spilt over the edge of the cup onto his hands; liquid not hot enough to scold flesh. Alberton then gathered a small handful of sugar cubes, tossing them into his mouth, sucking and chewing, the sugar crunching between his teeth. “They say sugar is supposed to help.”

Watching with growing curiosity, Jones placed his warrant card back into his pocket. “Are you okay, Mr. Alberton?”

“No. Not really,” said Mr. Alberton

Jones nodded, not at all surprised by the answer. “Must have been quite a shock finding the body like that?”

“Yeah, imagine my surprise.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Jones, the abrupt change in emotions obvious. He let it go, people dealt with trauma in different ways. Legs suddenly weak, muscles turning to jelly, Jones pulled out a chair and sat down before he fell down. His body heavy with fatigue, Jones slumped in the chair and removed his notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Did you know the victim, Mr. Alberton?”

“Jacob Alberton. He was my brother.”

The victim’s head had been slumped forward, face hidden from Jones, resemblance between victim and brother not so obvious. Jones reacted automatically, not necessarily emotionally, relaying his condolences to Mr. Alberton.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Alberton.”

“No need to be, sergeant. My brother was a sodding wanker.”

“Disliked only by you or disliked by many,” said Jones.

“Hated by everyone he knew, including me. I suppose that’s going to make your job more difficult.”

Jones smiled. “Did you kill your brother, Mr. Alberton?”

Alberton smiled in return. “If I did, it’s not something I’m going to admit.”

“Should we consider you a suspect?”

“I have an alibi.”

“I haven’t given you a time of death,” said Jones.

“I was in Oxford for the last two days. Got back half an hour ago. That alibi enough for you.”

“It will be once I confirm it.” Something about Alberton was beginning to bother Jones, an over indulgent itch that he couldn’t scratch. A puzzle he couldn’t solve. “I’ll need a name and number for anyone who can corroborate your alibi.”

“You can’t take my word for it?”

“No.”

Alberton hesitated, throwing another small handful of sugar into his mouth, taking too long to gather his thoughts. It suggested to Jones that Alberton was either trying to hide something, or thinking up a plausible lie. Calculating a plan, adjusting it as he went. The man was looking guiltier with every passing moment, with every word that came from his mouth.

“Mr. Alberton?”

“I spent the weekend with Mary Alberton. My brother’s wife.”

Eyebrows rising, Jones failed to keep the surprise from his face.

“Don’t look so shocked, sergeant.”

“Not exactly shocked, Mr. Alberton. What’s one more case of adultery? Common practice in Midsomer apparently.”

“You don’t understand, Sergeant Jones,” said Alberton. “We love each other. Have done for years.”

“Did your brother know about you and his wife?”

“Not that I’m aware, no.”

“Where is his wife now?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last see her,” said Jones.

“It was here, when we found the body.”

“She was with you?”

“Yes.”

“She finds her husband nailed to a wall and she just leaves?”

“Yeah. She saw the body. Ran from the house and drove off. Haven’t seen her since. I thought . . . as much as I hated him, I couldn’t leave him like that. I had to call 999.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“No,” said Alberton. “I’m sure she’ll show up . . . eventually.”

The nagging itch grew out of control, becoming irritating, tickling at his instinctive nature. Something was seriously wrong here. Alberton was watching him, eyes narrowed, forehead creased with suspicion. Jones decided to change direction, asking questions about Jacob Alberton, gathering background information on the victim, writing everything down in his notebook. The simple effort of conversation was draining for Jones, his throat becoming dry, his headache growing worse. He could feel the moment the chill in his bones morphed back into a fever, body becoming overheated once again, his entire being ready to collapse into an exhausted heap.

“Are we done, sergeant?”

“Where did you spend the last two days, Mr. Alberton?”

“The Old Bank Hotel on High street.”

“Did you leave your room at all? See anyone during your stay that can confirm you were there?”

“Apart from the hotel staff?” said Alberton. “No. You can call them. They’ll tell you that I checked in on Saturday morning and checked out this morning.”

“All due respect, Mr. Alberton, you could have easily left out a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, drove back here, killed your brother and then returned to Oxford.”

“I didn’t hear any respect in that statement, Sergeant Jones.”

“I didn’t hear any denial in your response, Mr. Alberton.”

“I didn’t come back here and kill my brother. Can I go now?”

“Did Mrs. Alberton leave in your car or hers?”

“My car.”

“Car and registration, please?”

“A red 2005 Rover 75. I don’t know the registration off the top of my head. I’ll have to find the papers.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Alberton?”

“I live in the cottage next door.”

“That must have been convenient for you.”

Alberton narrowed his eyes, anger showing for the first time. “We loved each other.”

With the itch becoming more painful, Jones removed a card from the inside of his jacket pocket. He placed the card on the table, pushing it toward Alberton.

“If Mrs. Alberton contacts you, please call me.”

“Am I suspect, Sergeant Jones?”

“Think about it, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “You hated your brother and you were having an affair with his wife.”

“You think I killed my brother.”

“If I did, it’s not something I’m going to admit.”

Alberton nodded, a sneer crossing his features. He took the card from the table and after giving it the once over he stood up and left the room, pausing in the doorway. “I didn’t kill my brother.”

“Of course you didn’t, Mr. Alberton.”

Each man knew the other was lying, tone of voice betraying his thoughts.

When he was sure Alberton had left, Jones allowed his body to sag further down on the chair, head resting against the back of the chair. It wouldn’t hurt to take a few moments to think about the words spoken, the body language displayed. He knew Alberton was lying, was sure the man had killed his brother. He had the motive. Kill the brother. Take the wife. He had the opportunity. Leave the hotel, come back to Midsomer, nail his brother to the wall and then return to Oxford. But something wasn’t right. Jones had the nagging suspicion that Mary Alberton was also dead.

Despite the uncomfortable chair, Jones began to relax, eyelids heavy with exhaustion closing, sleep impending . . .

“Jones?”

Jones’s body jerked in surprise. He stumbled up onto unsteady feet and turned around, bum against the edge of the table to keep himself upright. John Barnaby, wearing an expression Jones easily recognised, stood in the doorway waiting for an explanation as to why his sergeant was sleeping on the job. Unwilling to tell Barnaby that he felt like he had died two days ago from a nasty bout of the flu, Jones stood silently, body language awkward under Barnaby’s scrutiny.

“Everything all right, Jones?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones, pointing toward the doorway. “I was just speaking to the victim’s bother.”

“And?”

“He killed him.” No point in beating about the bush.

Barnaby smiled. “And what brought you to that conclusion?”

“Gut feeling, sir.”

“Are you sure your gut feeling isn’t just . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a hangover perhaps?”

“Sir?”

“You look like crap,” said Barnaby. “Go home and sleep it off.”

“I’m not hung over . . . sir.”

Not waiting to see if Barnaby would follow him, Jones walked out of the kitchen – knees wanting to buckle beneath him with every step – down the hallway and back to the crime scene. Just in time to hear the sound of a nail pulling away from body and wall. Jones turned away from the sight, gagging on the bile rising in his throat. Gaze downward, Jones placed his hands on his hips and took a deep breath to settle his stomach, the ache in his chest becoming sharp, a grimace of pain appearing on his features.

“Jones?”

Barnaby had snuck up on him again. Expecting a reprimand, Jones looked up and waited. Barnaby stared back at him, inquisitive gaze wondering over Jones’s face, then his body. He knew that if his boss looked long enough, hard enough, he would see something unsettling, send Jones home. But Jones wasn’t ready, or willing to go home. He had a lead and he was going to run with it.

Turning around, his back to Barnaby, Jones watched as someone, unrecognisable in a pair of blue disposable overalls, removed another nail from the victim. When Barnaby stepped up beside him, Jones crossed his arms hoping that his boss would get the message; he wasn’t open to questions that weren’t about the job.

“Would you like to fill me in on what’s going on?”

He could do that.

“Victim’s name is Jacob Alberton. Thirty-eight years old. Ran his own business in Causton. Everyone, including his brother, who, as it happens, found the victim, hated him. The brother, Michael Alberton was having an affair with the victim’s wife. Alberton claims that he and the wife, a Mary Alberton, spent the last two days in Oxford, only arriving back about forty-five minutes ago. He also said the wife was with him when he found the victim but she ran out of the house and drove off in Michael Alberton’s car. He hasn’t seen her since and doesn’t know where she is.”

“And what makes you think he killed his brother?”

“He’s iffy,” said Jones. “I also think he killed Mary Alberton.”

The sound of nails scraping through skin, bone and plasterboard was becoming too much for Jones, his face becoming paler, stomach feeling like it was boiling over.

“Because you think he’s . . . iffy,” said Barnaby. “CPS will love that.”

Jones turned to face Barnaby. “You think I’m jumping to a conclusion?”

“You spoke to the witness for what? Five minutes? And now you think that not only did he kill his brother, he also killed his brother’s wife.”

“I don’t need a psychology degree to know when someone’s lying, sir.”

Barnaby looked away, his expression neutral, body language unreadable. Jones knew he was out of line but he wasn’t going to apologise, tired of being second-guessed. He turned back toward the body on the wall, watching the removal of another nail; much like someone pulling teeth with a pair of pliers.

“Explain to me why you think Michael Alberton killed his brother,” said Barnaby.

Jones hesitated, trying to think of what he could say that would lead Barnaby to the same conclusions. Brain working overtime, his gaze followed the members of the SOCO team as they moved quickly and efficiently around the room. Their blue suits made his eyesight swim, the colour an eyesore. Kate Wilding stood with her back to the room, supervising the removal of the body; another nail tugged from the wall, metal covered in blood and muscle. He couldn’t watch this any longer. He turned his head away, his gaze resting on Barnaby, his boss staring back at him, waiting.

“His shock seemed genuine at first, physically and emotionally but he snapped out of it pretty quickly. He wasn’t leaking information but . . . it was as if he was trying to play a game with me. The old, ‘I know something you don’t know’ game. When I suggested he put out a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and came back to Midsomer to kill his brother, he didn’t deny it. Not at first. Too concerned about the accusation. He only denied it when I told him that he hadn’t denied it. And he dropped a couple of hints.”

“What kind of hints?”

“He said that he didn’t know where Mary Alberton was, that she would show up eventually and he put an intentional pause before the word eventually. As though he knew where she was, but it was up to us to find her. When he spoke of their love, he used the past tense and I don’t think it was because he no longer loved her. Besides all of that, she just leaves after she finds her husband nailed to a wall. I don't buy it, sir. I mean, who does that? I know he’s lying, sir. I’m sure of it.”

“Lying doesn’t make him guilty of murder.”

“I know that, sir,” said Jones, a sigh of frustration escaping. “It’s just . . .”

“How sure are you?”

“Sir?”

“Are you sure enough to take the lead on this case?”

Jones let his surprise show, eyebrows rising, head tilting forward, left hand unconsciously adjusting his tie. But his surprise quickly turned to confusion; he’d become delirious, fever taking control of his brain because John Barnaby did not just ask him if he wanted to take the lead on what Jones believed was a double murder case.

“Sir?”

Barnaby smiled, “Is there something about this situation that’s confusing to you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones. “The part where I thought you said I should take the lead on this case.”

“I did say that you should take the lead, Jones,” said Barnaby, letting out his own sigh of frustration. “But only if you’re sure Michael Alberton killed his brother.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then you’ve got the lead,” said Barnaby, raising his left arm, offering Jones the crime scene.

Jones nodded, glanced at the scene and nodded again. “I’ve got the lead?”

“Yes.”

He knew Barnaby was looking at him the same way he looked at a suspect, his gaze studying Jones, his psychology degree trying to understand him. Jones could feel the pressure to be right building and hoped he wasn’t wrong in his assessment of Michael Alberton. He’d jumped to conclusions on other occasions, not trusting his instinct because he’d been too eager to please the new boss, looking like a complete fool as a result. He can’t make that mistake again. If he were wrong, he would never get another chance to prove himself.

“Right then,” said Jones, nodding again as though to make sure. “You take the body. I’ll go outside and make some calls.”

Jones waited for Barnaby’s protest, a subtle suggestion that it would be better if Jones stayed with the body. Barnaby remained silent however, simply staring back at him. Jones used the moment of silence to escape the nauseating crime scene. With his stomach ready to erupt, head splitting open and his body overheating, Jones left the room, rushing to the front door, making it outside with time to spare. Nodding to the uniformed officer who stood outside the front door, Jones made his way to the side of the cottage, leant over, hand on the wall for support and vomited into the garden.

Still nothing but spit and bile, remnants of the flu medication he’d taken earlier. His gut, not willing to give up so easily, continued to go through the motions, stomach muscle spasms, the gagging becoming repetitive. It took minutes for his stomach to realise there was nothing left to eject, his body now lacking the energy to stay upright. He had to sit down before he fell down. Barnaby would love that. Put Jones in charge only for Jones to collapse under the pressure. It wouldn’t matter that he was sick, flu so bad it felt like he was dying, death certificate already in the mail. It would only matter that he had failed . . . again. But that wasn’t going to happen, Jones now too determined to give up.

Fever returning to a chill cold enough to make his bones ache, Jones moved down the side of the cottage in search of somewhere more private to sit and rest, allow his body a few minutes to get over itself. Finding a garden bench seat at the back of the house, he sat down; his body not yet ready to be thankful. Upper body collapsing forward, Jones rested his elbows on his thighs. Afraid that his head, feeling too heavy for his body, would fall from trembling shoulders, Jones supported his head in the palms of his hands.

He didn’t think he could have felt worse, but he did. Chill once again switching back to the heat of a fever, the sweat building at the edges of his hairline, the back of his neck. His stomach muscles ached with too much use, his chest felt tight and painful, breath becoming quick and harsh. Still feeling bloody awful, Jones was beginning to wonder if he were suffering from something much worse than the flu; something so bad, death was standing on his doorstep, bones knocking on his front door.

And just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, his aches and pains began to ease, his breathing becoming less harsh. Feeling better, if only slightly, Jones sat up, the sudden jolt of blood rushing past his ears leaving him feeling faint. The moment passed just as quickly, as though it had never happened. Taking in a deep breath, pain no longer sharp, Jones glanced over the back yard. Garden filled with statues – large and small – of cats; not the kind of place Jones would want to spend a lazy day. The sun on his body left him feeling overheated, lethargic, his body sweating beneath his suit. He leaned back, head resting on the back of the bench, and closed his eyes . . . just for a minute . . . only a minute and then he would call the station, get the investigation moving.

“Jones?”

Bloody hell. Why did Barnaby keep sneaking up on him? Lacking the energy to be surprised, Jones lifted his head and opened his eyes. Barnaby stood over him, hands in his pockets, a look of irritation on his face. Jones waited for Barnaby to make the first move, say the first word. He didn’t have to wait long.

“If it’s not a hangover, Jones,” said Barnaby, “what is it?”

Not what Jones had expected.

“Late night, sir.”

It wasn’t a lie. Unable to sleep, a possible side effect of the over-the-counter flu medication, Jones had spent most of the night watching infomercials. He now knew more about food preparation devices than he had ever wanted or needed to know.

“Anyone I know.”

“Not that kind of late night, sir,” said Jones.

“What other kind is there?”

“It’s nothing, sir. Really.”

Barnaby pulled his hands from his pockets and sat down on the bench next to Jones. His gaze roamed the garden, taking in the ugly cat statues, before finally settling on Jones.

“Someone has a cat obsession,” said Barnaby.

“But no real cat.”

Knowing that his boss would try to read him like an open book, Jones refused to look at Barnaby, keeping his own gaze on a particularly unpleasant cat statue that stood a few feet away. Once black, now fading toward a sickening gray, its eyes white, tail looking as though it had been broken and glued back together on more than one occasion.

“Is everything all right, Jones?”

Jones knew beyond a reasonable doubt that if he admitted to Barnaby that he was sick, he would lose the opportunity of a lifetime. He now had the chance to prove he was capable of solving a case, of proving he had the aptitude required to become a detective inspector. He wasn’t as quick with the deductive reasoning as Barnaby but if left to it, he would solve the case; it would take longer, but he would solve it. But he couldn’t solve it if he was taken off the case and sent home where he would sit in a corner, feeling sorry for himself while he waited for death – no longer knocking – to kick in his front door. Instinct screaming at him that Michael Alberton killed his brother, Jones decided to continue with the lie.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes, sir. Just tired.”

Barnaby, his frustration showing in his body language, said, “Jones, I have a psychology degree. I can tell when someone is lying to me.”

Jones hesitated, as Alberton had earlier, his brain faltering as he tried to think of something to say that would keep him on the case. He could continue the lie or he could replace one lie with another. He was taking too long, his boss becoming agitated. The lie began to form in his mind, Barnaby’s prior statement fuelling the tall tale. But he had to consider the consequences. What would Barnaby do when he found out that his sergeant had deliberately lied to him? Jones decided he didn’t really care, the need to prove himself stronger than the respectful fear he had for his boss.

He had to do it right though, look the part. Jones had seen it done, an accused person’s body language changing from confident to vulnerable when proven guilty. He allowed his body to sag further down on the bench seat, the position uncomfortable. Letting out a deep sigh, Jones hoped that Barnaby would think he was giving in, ready to admit to the lie, wanting to tell the truth. Jones turned his gaze toward his boss and hoping his lie would pass muster, he said, “The last time you found out I was dating someone you used the knowledge to blackmail me. Sir.”

“Ah,” said Barnaby, his gaze quickly finding an interesting spot in the garden. “Yes. Sorry about that.”

“What did Kate have to say, sir,” said Jones, shifting the conversation back to the investigation before Barnaby could ask questions about his not-so-truthful love life.

“Something very interesting, Jones. Jacob Alberton died about an hour ago.”

Body and skull heavy with flu, Jones waited for Barnaby to continue but his boss stared back at him with an expression that was capable of irritating the crap out of Jones. Barnaby knew more than he was saying, but instead of explaining what was going on, he was waiting for Jones’s brain to shift into gear, for his sergeant to come to his own conclusion. Fighting through the fog that filled his skull, Jones figured it out.

“There’s too much blood. He was alive when his killer nailed him to the wall. And he was on that wall for more than an hour. How long?”

“According to Kate, the amount of blood, the position of the nails, no vital organs hit, he’d been on the wall for at least six hours. But she can’t confirm it until she opens him up.”

“The poor bastard,” said Jones, the thought churning his stomach, cooking it until it was once again ready to boil over. “It took five hours . . .”

“There’s more.”

“Do I need to know?”

“Being nailed to the wall didn’t actually kill him,” said Barnaby.

“What?”

“The victim was nailed to the wall alive. Left for five hours and then killed with a nail through the heart. The killer wanted the victim to suffer before he died.”

“Or the killer cocked it up, sir,” said Jones.

“The killer mistakenly left the victim alive? I don’t think so, Jones.”

“How about this, sir. Michael Alberton plans the murder, premeditated. It would be interesting to know how far in advance he booked the hotel. Once there, they do what couples who commit adultery do. Sometime during the early hours of this morning, he puts out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. He then sneaks out of the hotel, returns to Midsomer. They’re in the living room. Alberton uses . . . what,” Jones pauses to think, “a nail gun. Nails his brother to the wall, hides the murder weapon and returns to Oxford. When they arrive back here, he realises his brother is still alive, gets the murder weapon, puts in the final nail, killing his brother. Hides the murder weapon, which means it’s somewhere close. His cottage? Then he calls the police thinking that we would be stupid enough to believe the victim had been dead for hours.”

“It’s plausible,” said Barnaby. “But we--”

“I know, sir,” said Jones, nodding, regretting the movement when the pain bounced around the inside of his skull. “We have to prove it.”

“Then you know what you need to do.”

“Call the hotel, make a verbal confirmation that Alberton was actually there for the last two days. When he checked in and when he checked out. Ask them if they have CCTV and if they do, have them send me a copy. If they don’t I’ll send them a photo for a visual confirmation. Ask if it’s possible for a guest to leave and enter the hotel during the night without the staff noticing them. And, as a last resort, if needed, I go to the hotel and talk to them. If there is proof he left the hotel early this morning, I apply for a warrant to search his cottage.”

“Anything else?”

“I need to find out the registration of Alberton’s car,” said Jones. “Once I’ve done that, put an APB out on the car. Get a picture of Mary Alberton and put an APB out on her. And background checks on Jacob Alberton, Michael Alberton and Mary Alberton.”

“That’s what you would do Jones, but you’re now the primary on the case. You need to ask yourself what I would do.”

“Leave the grunt work to your sergeant while you wondered off to talk to witnesses, suspects, anyone that might have gossip on the Alberton’s. But I don’t think like you, sir. Not having a psychology degree and all that.”

Barnaby made an expression that said he was getting tired of Jones throwing his psychology degree back in his face. “No, but you’re not so thick that you can’t put two and two together, Jones.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones, grimacing, he would apologise later, when he was feeling less irritable. “Point taken, sir.”

“What else?”

Oh, please don’t say it. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him, but today, his stomach wouldn’t be able to cope with . . . he could feel the colour draining from his skin at the thought, the bile burning in his throat.

“Autopsy, Jones.”

“Go to the autopsy, sir” said Jones, wondering if it were possible to fob it off to his boss. Barnaby had made him primary, the position giving him the opportunity to delegate.

“I’ll make the calls,” said Barnaby. “The hotel, APB’s, background checks and such while you go and do . . . Barnaby things . . . without a psychology degree.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jones contemplated getting up in front of Barnaby, knowing all too well that his body could give up on him at any moment. Last thing he wanted to do was to fall flat on his face in front of his boss. Barnaby, of course, would first show concern but would then ask him what kind of girl he was dating. Finally, something went Jones’s way, his mobile going off in his jacket pocket. Under Barnaby’s curious scrutiny, Jones answered the call.

“Jones.”

“Sir, got something you might be interested in.”

“What is it?”

“We got a call from Causton General Hospital. They have a suspected attempted suicide. Name of Mary Alberton. The address on her driver’s licence matches the address given for your victim.”

“Thanks,” said Jones, hanging up and turning to his gaze back to Barnaby. “They’ve found Mary Alberton.”

.
.
.

It had been an exhausting effort to hide his illness from Barnaby during the hours it had taken to gather enough evidence to gain a warrant for Michael Alberton’s arrest. But now, the legwork over, sitting in the cold interview room, a scrutinising gaze was enough to give away the fact that Jones was as sick as a cow dying on the side of the road, legs in the air, starving flies salivating at the thought of dinner. Fever flushed his cheeks. Sweat cooled on his heated flesh, his body shivering with the occasional chill. Jones was so exhausted he felt like he could sleep for a month, hibernating like a fat man after eating too much at Christmas.

But the day wasn’t over. Not yet. With Barnaby at his side, it was up to Jones to close the case, entice a confession from Alberton. They had all the information, statements, the evidence. The confession would be the last nail in the coffin. Throat dry, stomach aching like it’d been punched one too many times, lungs on fire and his head feeling like it had grown to twice its size, Jones began the interview.

“We found Mary Alberton.”

Alberton, body filling with emotion, leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “And you want me to identify the body.”

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Alberton. Mary Alberton identified herself . . . verbally.”

“She isn’t dead?”

“Why would you think she was dead?”

Alberton fell back into his chair, shoulders slumping in defeat, confidence quickly leaving his body.

“She told us an interesting story, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “I could tell it to you, or you could tell it to me.”

Alberton shook his head.

Knowing that many suspects talked just to fill an awkward silence, Jones waited, giving Alberton the chance to tell his own story. As the seconds passed, Jones could feel the sweat soaking the back of his shirt, the feeling sending a shiver up his spine and into his skull, brain buzzing as a result.

When Alberton stayed silent, refusing to talk, Jones continued, “Why don’t I start at the beginning. Mary Alberton wanted to end the affair, return to her husband.”

Barnaby shifted forward. “You didn’t like that. Did you Mr. Alberton?”

“I thought the weekend away would change her mind.”

Jones nodded. “She was insistent though, even after your weekend getaway. You decided if Jacob was dead, Mary wouldn’t have a husband to go back to.”

Alberton stared back at Jones.

“We checked with the hotel. They confirmed what you told us. They also told us there was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on your door from Saturday evening until you checked out this morning at 7 am. You told me you didn’t leave your room during your entire stay. A staff member claims to have seen you coming back into the hotel around 6 am this morning.”

“That’s a lie,” said Alberton.

“They have CCTV. I have an officer looking at it right now and I’m sure he’ll confirm the witness’s statement.”

“I went out for an early breakfast.”

“That much physical activity can make a man hungry,” said Jones. “Was there physical activity, Mr. Alberton or did the two of you just talk.”

Alberton folded his arms, turning an angry gaze away from Jones and toward the wall behind Jones’s shoulder. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Barnaby smiled, and said, “That’s your right, Mr. Alberton.”

“On top of the CCTV and the witness statement from the member of the hotel staff, Mrs. Alberton told us that you left your room at 12:15 am this morning. Where were you during those six hours, Mr. Alberton?”

Jones pretended to be preoccupied with the notes sitting on the table in front of him, making it look as though he were giving Alberton time to answer the question. In truth, he needed a moment. He felt like he had just passed over, joining relatives long dead. He wanted to leave the room, find a quiet corner and collapse, refusing to get back up until he was ready. The pain in his chest sharpened, his breathing becoming unstable. In his peripheral, Jones could see Barnaby fidgeting in his seat, his boss willing to take over, but Jones had to finish the job.

“Did you go home and nail your brother to the wall of his living room, Mr. Alberton,” said Jones. “It would take a lot of anger and hate to do that to a person. Did you hate your brother?”

“A lot of people hated my brother.”

“Yes, you told me that this morning,” said Jones. “Did you intentionally leave your brother alive?”

“He was alive? Did he suffer--”

“You tell me, Mr. Alberton. You’re the one who nailed him to the wall.”

“Why would I want him to suffer?”

Jones, ready to drop, let out a sigh. “There you go again, Mr. Alberton. I claim that you killed your brother and you don’t deny it.”

It was as though Barnaby had read Jones’s body language, taking up the interview, giving Jones a break.

“Our pathologist,” said Barnaby, “told us that your brother hung on that wall for five hours, still breathing, still feeling everything. He suffered Mr. Alberton. He suffered more than you can imagine. In fact, he was still alive when you and Mary Alberton returned home.”

Jones leaned over sideways, reaching for the object lying on the floor next to his chair. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, shifting his balance, tilting his body to the side. With trembling fingers, he gripped the bag and sat up, darkness forcing its way through the edges of his vision. Jones waited, the feeling passing. He dropped the evidence bag holding the nail gun onto the table.

“Were you smart enough to wear gloves when you used this,” said Jones. “Were you smart enough to wear gloves when you used it the second time to kill your brother?”

“I didn’t kill my brother.”

“A little too late with the denial, Mr. Alberton.”

Barnaby pushed the evidence bag a little closer to Alberton. “The evidence says otherwise, Mr. Alberton. Your fingerprints are all over the nail gun.”

“I use it all the time.”

Jones wanted it all over and done with. “Why don’t we move on to Mary Alberton? She claims you killed her husband. She saw you, Michael. She saw you put the nail gun against your brother’s chest and pull the trigger. That’s why she ran from the house. But you followed her. Caught up to her and dragged her back into the house.

“You threatened to kill her the same way you killed your brother. But you loved her, so you gave her a choice. Sleeping pills or a death so painful . . . She agreed to the pills. When she was unconscious, you put her in the car, drove her to a secluded place and left her there to die. But she didn’t die.”

“I love her,” said Alberton. “I wanted her to leave him but she wouldn’t.”

“You killed your brother so you could have her to yourself?”

Alberton stared at Jones, his face collapsing into a puddle of regret. “Yes. Mary told me last week that she wanted to be with Jacob. That she wanted her marriage to work. I tried to talk her out of it. But she insisted it was over. That’s when I decided to kill him. I booked the hotel, asked her to go with me, one last chance at patching things up. She didn’t want to go of course but I told her I didn’t expect anything physical, just to talk and give us a chance.

“She agreed. And just as you guessed, I put the sign on the door to cover my tracks. Didn’t think I would be seen, didn’t even consider there might be CCTV. I went to Jacob’s, woke him up and told him about Mary and me. I knew he would be angry, that he’d start a fight. I didn’t intend to use the nail gun, to kill him that way. He said some things, and I snapped. The nail gun was there on the coffee table and I shot him.”

“Why did you nail him to the wall,” said Jones.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Alberton, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t realise he was still alive. Not until we got back. I thought having Mary with me would give us both a good alibi. But he was still alive. I told her to go outside and call the police. I finished him off while she was gone, while I thought she was gone. I didn’t know she was watching me. I didn’t want to kill her but she’d given me no choice. I’m glad she isn’t dead. I really do love her. Have done since I first met her.”

“Ever read the bible, Mr. Alberton,” said Barnaby.

“You shall not covet your neighbour’s wife.”

“Or your brother’s,” said Jones.

Alberton’s reaction was unexpected. He burst from his chair, momentum moving him up and over the table toward Jones, his anger controlling his actions. The PC standing close to the door was too far away to react. Jones, his body sick, his mind too tired to comprehend what was about to happen couldn’t get out of the way quick enough. Barnaby, moving at a speed no one would consider him capable, attempted to pull Alberton from the table but the man was too strong, too angry. Not slowing, Alberton slammed into Jones, knocking both the chair and Jones backward, Jones’s skull bouncing off the floor. Alberton raised his right arm, closed his fist and punched Jones in the chest, a heavy blow to the sternum. The weight on his chest left as quickly as it had arrived, Barnaby pulling Alberton away from Jones, passing the suspect off to the uniformed officer. The PC escorted Alberton – kicking and screaming – from the room, leaving Barnaby alone with Jones.

Diaphragm seizing, Jones was unable to take a breath. Panic would do him no good, but trying to stay calm when you couldn’t breathe wasn’t an easy thing to do. Jones rolled onto his right side, chair behind him, wall of the interview room in front of him. Exhaustion overrode the pain, causing his eyes to close, his body grateful it was no longer upright. He could sleep. He wanted to sleep. Pass him a pillow, a thick blanket and leave him the hell alone. Pain, sharp and nagging, fought its way through the fatigue. It caused his anxiety to erupt, his struggles to breathe distressing.

Barnaby, suffering his own bout of panic, rushed to Jones’s side, “Jones!”

Jones could feel Barnaby’s hands on his shoulder, pulling him over and onto his back. Head spinning out of control, diaphragm still refusing to work, lungs struggling for breath, Jones attempted to gain control of his emotions, a panicking Barnaby not helping. His diaphragm had stalled, not died. It would start up again. He just had to wait.

The pain in his chest grew, escalating to a level that made his eyes water. It felt as though a knife had gone through his flesh, stuck between his ribs. Opening his eyes, Jones lifted his head off the floor, glancing downward. Nothing. Shirt still white, tie gone . . . when had that happen. Jones let his head fall back, the soft thump loud in the interview room.

“You know what’s going on, Ben. We’ve been through this before. Breathe. Just breathe like you would normally. You’re diaphragm will catch up. Just give it a minute.”

Yeah, well, last time he wasn’t suffering from a bout of flu so bad he felt as though he had passed his use-by-date.

Diaphragm finally kicking in, a feeling of relief flooding his body, Jones took a deep breath, pain stabbing through his chest, his lungs. Another breath, pain refusing to let up. His only consolation, the only thing getting him through it, was that he knew the case was over. He could go home, sleep it off, allow Barnaby to prepare the case for the CPS.

“Jones, you’re making the room look untidy,” said Barnaby.

It was an event just to push himself up onto his elbows, Jones too weak to go any further. Barnaby took his left arm, pulling him up, too fast. Jones’s head spun out of control, stomach rolling downhill at a pace he found difficult to stop. Darkness dug away at his vision, breaking it up. He closed his eyes, his body lethargic, heavy with fatigue. He needed to sleep.

“Ben?”

Suddenly, Jones found himself up against the wall, his body supported, Barnaby’s hand against the side of his face. Opening his eyes, Jones let out a sigh, Barnaby’s touch cool against his heated flesh. If he could move, he would flinch away from the anger on Barnaby’s face, the slight slap against his cheek before his boss removed his hand telling Jones how angry Barnaby was.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You did a good job today,” said Barnaby, sitting on the floor in front of Jones.

Again, not what Jones had expected.

“I got lucky, sir. If Mary Alberton had died the case would have been more difficult.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re sick. Flu?

“Yes, sir.”

When Barnaby looked away, Jones knew he was gathering his thoughts, wanting to say more. Jones waited, not sure what his boss was going to say. Barnaby turned back, gaze hard, face neutral.

“If you deliberately go out of your way to lie to me like that again, our collective partnership will be over.”

Knowing the statement was more of a threat than a promise, Jones said, “It was a passive lie, sir.”

“I’ll have to think of a passive punishment then, won’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll drive you home. I don’t want you back until you’re over it.”

The last of his energy gone, Jones could only nod. He knew he had gotten off lightly. He wouldn’t test his boss’s patience again. Not after what Barnaby had said. Collective partnership. Barnaby thought of him more of an equal than a subordinate. He would start acting like an equal; prove Barnaby’s judgment of him was correct.

Turned out, it wasn’t such a bad day after all.





Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five


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