The Lily Branch

By Carole Pitt

“Elizabeth stared at Jerome. Even in death, she appeared to be posing for the camera.”

In the midst of tackling her personal problems, DI Elizabeth Jewell investigates her biggest case, the murder of top fashion model Lily Jerome.
After a second body turns up on an isolated farm, Jewell searches for a link between the crimes, aided by newspaper editor Nick Calbrain.
For Jewell, pursuing the killer will change her life forever. With her career in jeopardy for breaking too many rules, she has nothing to lose, except maybe her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carole Pitt
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476094465

Carole Pitt

Carole Pitt has been involved in the fashion industry for many years. As a designer, manufacturer and also in sales promotion. Currently working on a third Jewell/ Patterson investigation. Second in the series, 'Wilderness Lodge' is now available on Kindle Carole also contributed two short stories to 'Pop Fiction: Stories Inspired by Songs'. Also available on Kindle and in paperback.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘For Christ’s sake woman, get your act together!’

Frustration was getting the better of Miles Keaton. He watched the model struggling to balance on the lichen covered wall and felt like walking away. Explaining to her the effect he was trying to achieve had exhausted him and she still wouldn’t shut up and concentrate.

‘You try standing still on this damned thing in four inch fucking stilettos,’ she screamed.

Keaton looked around anxiously to see how the group of onlookers had reacted to the foul-mouthed outburst. Judging by the applause and cheering, they’d quite enjoyed it. As he attached a wide angled lens to the Nikon, he shook his head and remembered the days when models were better mannered.

The girl finally conquered the wall and secured her position on the crumbling masonry. She struck a pose. A breeze caught the organdie sleeves of the dress and the satin skirt moulded to her narrow thighs.

Keaton waited until the composition was perfect and the shrieking harpy became a vision of elegance and beauty.

Oliver Stevens rescued the model and checked the time. As assistant photographer, one of his duties was to remind Keaton when they were behind schedule. ‘Let’s reduce the rest of the itinerary,’ he suggested, after sensing Keaton’s mood. ‘There’s enough material to do the spread; if necessary we can fill in with the back-ups.’

Keaton had planned to photograph the historic graveyard without the models. His study of English country churches was almost ready for publication and the images of St. Andrews would be included. His instructions to the Warden, that spectators weren’t welcome, had gone unheeded. Every day a large crowd gathered to watch the proceedings, turning the tranquil setting into a festival site. Now, realising the spectacle was nearly over, they began to drift away, leaving behind a mess.

He handed Stevens an umbrella strobe to enhance a giant sundial. It looked incongruous amongst the graves, but he needed help with the final shots. ‘Half an hour to get this wrapped up and she’s not here. What the hell is she playing at?’

‘I’ll go and find her,’ Stevens said.

‘Tell her if she’s not back in five minutes, she doesn’t get paid.’

Stevens headed for the Town Hall on the corner of the main street, hired as a temporary base for the wardrobe, hair and make-up technicians. Lily Jerome always put perfection before punctuality.

Lily was the most beautiful woman Keaton had ever photographed. Staying in love with her had been the hard part. If only her temperament had matched her looks, it might have been easier. He had learned that behind the striking face, turmoil and deep depression lingered; none of which she’d ever resolved. The result was another spoiled and difficult woman, who used her power to manipulate anyone who might further her career. Years ago, Keaton had fallen prey to her charms. That she still affected him deeply made him bitter and resentful. In an attempt to shake off the memories, he wandered towards the War Memorial. Lily was already there, reading the names carved into the stone.

‘Where the hell have you been? Stevens is looking for you.’ Keaton couldn’t disguise the anger in his voice.

‘I must have missed him when I went inside the church. I needed time to think.’

‘Well think about this, you stupid bitch; we have approximately fifteen minutes left to complete this assignment. So if it’s alright with you, I would like to get on.’

‘Don’t start Miles. I feel ill.’

‘Well now, there’s a surprise. What is it this time? Uppers, downers, a line of dodgy coke, or have we been up all night chasing the dragon?’

The slap that landed on his left cheek made Keaton stagger backwards. ‘How dare you criticise me, you washed up old alcoholic. Unlike you, I’m not desperate for the money from this assignment. I’m doing it because they promised me the cover. Otherwise, I’d tell you to stick your camera up your arse. Just tell me where you want me to stand.’

They finished the shoot just as the light was fading. Pink and mauve tinged clouds drifted across the sky giving it a mottled appearance. Keaton was mesmerised. It reminded him of the tie-dye T-shirts he’d worn as a student. That was it, a tie-dye sky.

Lily was still furious and not prepared to let the argument drop. She stormed over to where Keaton was packing up his equipment. ‘You’re an egotistical bastard Keaton and you will never speak to me like that again.’

Keaton noticed her dilated pupils and wondered what the current drug of choice was. He could drink for England but drugs terrified him. ‘I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have and I’ve seen beautiful women come and go. How old are you now, thirty? That’s another mystery, none of us actually knows for sure. Well, let me give you a bit of advice sweetie. If you don’t drastically change your life style, that perfectly chiselled nose of yours will end up as a gaping hole in the middle of your ravaged face. If you believe the fashion world gives a shit then think again. Do you know why? Because there are thousands of stunning sixteen year olds out there who are lining up to fill your shoes. As for me; this time tomorrow I’ll be on a plane to Portugal and hopefully won’t ever have to see you again.’

At this point, Stevens turned up looking flustered. ‘Sorry, the Vicar nabbed me, he wanted his money, and I couldn’t get away from him.’ He glanced at Lily who seemed oblivious to his presence. Her naturally pale complexion had turned into an unearthly pallor and she was shaking violently.

She glared at Keaton and her voice was low and menacing. ‘You’ll pay for this you bastard. I’ll bloody well make you pay.’

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Stevens asked.

Keaton felt drained; he asked Stevens to gather up all the equipment and headed for the hotel. He needed a drink urgently. When he reached his hotel room, he downed a couple of large vodkas. Lily’s parting words had unnerved him. He paced the room, then stood at the window and looked out over the churchyard. What had she meant by making him pay? Did she mean money, or something else? Either way her threat amounted to blackmail. She’d ruin all his plans, the months of hard work and meticulous organisation. He felt shaky and exhausted but sleep was out of the question, he needed to find out exactly what she knew. Keaton picked up his mobile and made several calls, none of which helped ease his mind. What he needed most was oblivion; he took two sleeping pills and stretched out on the bed.

Three hours later, he got up, showered and changed into fresh clothes. The noisy, crowded bar added to his anxiety. While he queued for a drink, Stevens came towards him holding a glass. ‘I’d better slow down a bit,’ he slurred, ‘this is my fourth pint. Where’ve you been anyway?’

‘Sleeping,’ Keaton picked up his vodka. He couldn’t see any empty tables so made his way to the side exit. Stevens followed. ‘Lily hasn’t put in an appearance yet, do you think she’s alright?’

‘Do I look as if I care? I’m going for a smoke. Get me another one mate,’ Keaton said.

By the time he got back, Stevens was flirting with Debbie Creswell, the youngest model. They’d given up on beer and had started drinking from a bottle of Remy Martin. Both were on the wrong side of sober. Preferring solitude, he collected his second vodka and went back outside.

He stared at the shrouded churchyard. Night altered the perspective lending a sinister atmosphere to the place. He wished he had his camera with him. Peering into the darkness, he sensed shapes and fleeting movements. He flicked his cigarette butt and watched the smoke curl along the gutter. Just for a moment, he was convinced there was someone out there.

Chapter 2

Anyone seeing the solitary hooded figure near the lych gate around midnight might have felt intimidated. Sixteen-year-old Ritchie Blakewell was a master of disguise and on the night in question, he might easily have been mistaken for an unusually tall monk. He looked around satisfied the village street was deserted. The conditions were perfect for what he was about to do. As he dug the knife into the wood, he remembered a previous incident when the Reverend had discovered him vandalising the lych gate’s supporting beams. Accustomed to dispensing forgiveness on a daily basis, the Reverend didn’t call the police. Instead, he quietly lectured on the importance of preserving the unique architecture. Blakewell had also learned the purpose of the lych gate. It was to shelter the coffin and mourners while awaiting the clergyman to conduct the cortege into church. Even now, two years on, the imagery played on his mind. During the previous week, he’d begun enlisting support for his latest mission. He told a small and doubtful audience the operation needed meticulous planning. Zeno, world famous for his daring escapades spraying the New York subway trains, organised his missions with military precision. All efforts to impress had failed. Left with two unsuitable volunteers he felt disappointed and insulted. Worse still, neither possessed any skill with the spray can.

As the church clock struck the half- hour after midnight, he spotted them, slumped against a wall outside the Rosedene Hotel. Blakewell felt a twinge of apprehension, he’d half hoped they would bottle out.

In order to leave an impressive legacy to a nineteen sixties extension, the local builder had carved arched recesses into the blocks of limestone. Each one housed a single cherub. Growing up in the village, the twelve heavenly beings had terrified Blakewell since his toddler days. Delving into his rucksack Blakewell chose black paint hoping to impress the dark side. He wasn’t completely sure who or what the dark side really was, but he knew The Jedi Knights had spent centuries trying to defeat it. Cherubs, he decided, stood little chance against such a formidable force. He gave the instruction to trash them. Once he heard the paint canisters hiss, he left them to it.

Blakewell’s destination was the War Memorial. He intended to add one more name, his own. As he drew closer, he sensed something was wrong. Two days before, he’d noticed a grave being prepared. After the work was completed, the diggers had covered the excavation with a canvas sheet. Standing at the edge, he shone the torch downward and noticed it had fallen inside. Never one to miss an opportunity, Blakewell decided to have it.

He swung his long legs over the edge and dropped into the pit. At first, he couldn’t understand why the tarpaulin felt strange. Inching himself forward in the blackness, he tried moving the obstacle beneath him. When his hand made contact with skin, he screamed.

Chapter 3

Saturday 17th June 2 am

The Saab 9-3 turbo covered the twelve miles to Broadhampton in ten minutes. Detective Inspector Elizabeth Jewell liked to drive fast on the winding country roads, which was why her sergeant had remained silent throughout the journey. She parked outside the entrance to the hotel and offered a half-hearted apology. ‘Sorry if I made you nervous.’

‘You say the same thing every time. We’re detectives Liz, not fire fighters,’ DS Patterson stated. ‘And you’re on a double yellow line.’

‘Who is going to care? I’ll find the car park in a minute. Do you think the Blakewell boy’s telling the truth?’

Patterson wiped his palms on the plush seat. ‘Before we left the local cop phoned. He only managed a few words with the lad before the parents caused a scene. The Father especially, he works in senior management for the District Council, which he seems to think gives him the right to order us about. They’re refusing to take young Ritchie to the Station until their Brief turns up.’

‘Did all three lads watch the fashion shoot?’

‘Before the parents shut him up, Blakewell admitted persuading his mates to bunk off school to plan the evening’s graffiti. Apparently, they hung around the churchyard figuring out where to start. The stupid git thinks he’s the next Banksy.’

Elizabeth thought for a few seconds. ‘It’s still weird though, looking in the grave. Maybe he’s a ghoul.’

‘More likely wanted the tarpaulin to practice on with the spray cans. Seeing her must have given him one hell of a shock.’ Patterson replied.

‘If he hadn’t, she might not have been found until much later. Any idea when the old man’s funeral is?’

‘Sunday, according to the local PC, whose name I’ve forgotten.’

The Rosedene Hotel, built in the Palladian style stood on the site of an old coaching inn. Elizabeth turned into a cobbled lane leading to the original and newly refurbished stable block. The car park was behind; she felt relieved when she saw a police vehicle. Two detective constables had already arrived to take statements from guests and any staff still on duty. Even if the hotel wasn’t full, she knew it would be a laborious task. Patterson got out of the car and stretched. After a hot day, the air was still and humid, soft clouds trailed across a ripening moon. Patterson removed his jacket and threw it onto the passenger seat.

The A46 from Stroud to Cheltenham sliced the village in half. Every day the traffic thundered along the narrow road then late at night petered off. Elizabeth stepped into the road without looking. A dark medium sized van without lights accelerated out of the sharp bend and swerved towards her. Patterson lunged forward pushing her sideways, his body at a forty five-degree angle. Unable to keep his balance he crashed to the ground taking Elizabeth with him. Her full weight landed across his chest knocking the breath from his lungs.

He eased himself from under her and stood up, breathing heavily. ‘That bastard couldn’t have come up the main road, we’d have heard him. Jesus he nearly killed you!’

‘Not far to carry me, if he had,’ Elizabeth sat up and pointed to the churchyard.

After helping Elizabeth to her feet, they headed towards a Cotswold stone bus shelter and sat down on a wooden bench.

‘I suppose that’s your idea of a joke?’ Patterson wheezed.

‘Shut up for a second. Did you get the number?’

‘All I can remember is a W, a three, a seven.’

Elizabeth leaned her head on the windowsill. The bus shelter was large with a pitched roof. Through the back window, she saw the crime scene lights flickering between the trees. Crime scene tape sealed off the churchyard and she was surprised to see only a handful of curious residents on the street. Others watched from their open windows and front doors.

Patterson noticed Elizabeth’s bag lying in the road and went to retrieve it. The soft leather had scuffed on the tarmac and everything had spilled out. He carefully replaced the contents and gave it to her. ‘Do you believe in Fate?’

Patterson rubbed his chest. ‘Like everything is planned, there’s no control over your destiny? I don’t honestly know.’

Elizabeth held her bag tightly against her. ‘Times like now I do.’

‘That’s because you’ve just cheated death.’

They sat in silence for several minutes before entering the churchyard through the lych gate. The white forensic tent stood close to the nave, the largest part of the church. Inside, the pathologist was speaking into a digital recorder. He acknowledged them and gave a grim smile. ‘We had to take her out of the pit after the lads finished. My knee locked up when I tried getting in, so they erected the tent over this tombstone. Sorry it’s a tad small; our Liz doesn’t like getting too close.’

‘Cut it out Joe, I’m not in the mood. When will the crime scene techs be done with Jerome’s room?’

‘No more than an hour. I need them to finish up here.’ Elizabeth put her glasses on. ‘What have you got so far?’

Grayson bent over the body. ‘The tarpaulin used to cover her up is on the way to the lab. Loads of fingerprints, they’re all over it. I could actually see muddy ones. The thing must have been years old. Right now, I’m collecting soil samples from the victim. We need to know if they’re from the grave or from elsewhere.’

He moved away leaving space for them to get closer. Elizabeth’s first impression was she was staring at a display mannequin or a waxwork. Lily Jerome, fashion model and celebrity, posed in death as she had been in life, for the camera. There was no doubt as to her identity.

Elizabeth wondered if Grayson had positioned her deliberately out of respect. The model lay with her arms by her side and ankles neatly crossed. A plaited rope of hair fell across her neck; Elizabeth wanted to move it away. Without thinking, she touched the model’s hand. Strangely, she felt no revulsion. ‘Poor woman,’ she whispered.

Grayson peeled off his latex gloves and beckoned to follow him. Outside he pulled a packet of crisps from his pocket and started eating. When he eventually spoke, his tone was more serious. ‘No obvious signs of any injuries. The lighting’s crap so until I get back to the morgue I can’t be certain. I know she definitely vomited and the residues indicate she’d ingested something toxic. From her temperature, I guess she’s been dead about four hours. Earliest possible time, ten o’ clock. But you know how unreliable we scientists are.’

The pathologist’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Elizabeth who remembered Grayson’s handling of a recent suicide. ‘You deserved criticism on that occasion.’

Grayson continued. ‘My one mistake and I’ll never live it down. Right, I’ve two theories until I perform the autopsy. Either a self-inflicted overdose or someone else gave her a very nasty cocktail. If the latter proves to be right then that someone wanted her to die an extremely painful death.’

‘My God,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Did anyone hear her cry out? What about the Vicar and his wife?’ Or people living in the nearest houses?’

Grayson paused to finish a mouthful of crisps. ‘Slow down Liz, she lost consciousness quickly. She still smelled strongly of alcohol when we arrived. Her stomach rebelled but she didn’t wake, she couldn’t shout for help. What about the lad that found her? He’s your best bet.’

‘He’s with his parents; they’re still waiting for their solicitor to show up before we can formally interview him. He’s said very little.’

‘Hasn’t dobbed his mates in either,’ Patterson added.

‘Ah, a word of warning about witnesses,’ cautioned the pathologist. ‘Before you hammer on the vicarage door the Reverend and his Mrs are in a bad way. PC Wainwright asked the local doctor to take a look at them after he’d dealt with our celebrity.’

Elizabeth’s body was starting to ache. She walked over to the crime scene photographer who was about to leave. ‘Did you get all the damage to the church?’

‘Yup,’ he replied. ‘I’m off now unless there’s anything else you want me to do.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘Across the road,’ he said.

‘I’ll come with you for some exercise, if I don’t move around I’ll seize up.’

‘Don’t forget Keaton’s cameras.’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘I’ll make sure they go straight to the lab. If he refuses I’ll get a warrant.’

‘You realise the magazine will go nuts when they find out.’

‘I doubt it,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Once the news gets out sales are bound to soar, especially when Vogue publish Jerome’s last pictures.’ Walking back, she felt spooked by the larger tombs. Some, she knew dated back to the 16th century. Most of the simple headstones leaned at precarious angles, their engravings so badly worn it was impossible to decipher any names. The church clock chimed, scattering the squawking jackdaws from their steeple haven. Elizabeth watched the black shapes fly off and shivered.

Grayson looked up when she entered the tent. ‘You were lucky the lad found her.’

‘Maybe he killed her,’ Patterson said.

Grayson rarely offered opinions on potential suspects. For some reason he commented. ‘Somehow I doubt it.’

‘I’d wait for your results before making assumptions.’ Patterson said.

Elizabeth sensed an argument brewing between her sergeant and Grayson. It was time to leave. ‘When will you do the post mortem?’

‘If you want a thoroughly professional one, after I’ve had a decent sleep.’

Chapter 4

3 am

Miles Keaton woke to a disturbance in the corridor. As he stumbled out of bed, there was an urgent knocking on the door. He opened it to find his assistant Oliver Stevens talking to the hotel manager. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He demanded.

The manager’s tone was deferential. ‘The police are here and they want to talk to you immediately. It’s about Miss Jerome.’

‘Tell the law I’m unavailable and I’m sick to death of her fucking antics.’

Stevens put his hand on the doorframe. ‘Sorry Miles but they insist. Something’s happened but they won’t say unless you’re present.’

‘Give me five minutes then,’ Keaton slammed the door in their face. He picked cargo pants and a t-shirt off the floor and dressed quickly. The adrenaline had started pumping round his veins. The vodka bottle had one good measure left; he didn’t bother with a glass.

He arrived in the main hallway as people were being shepherded into the restaurant by uniformed officers. The hotel’s main doors were open wide and outside two police cars blocked the road, their emergency lights flashing. Standing by the reception desk was a slim woman with medium length dark hair and a tall blonde man talking to Stevens. Keaton raised his voice as he approached. ‘What’s she bloody done this time?’

Elizabeth paused for a second before speaking. This aspect of her job never got any easier however many times she did it. She spoke clearly and without emotion. ‘DI Jewell and this is DS Patterson. I’m very sorry to have to inform you Miss Jerome has been found dead.’

Keaton stared in disbelief. ‘No, you must have made a mistake. She was fine a few hours ago.’

‘We need to know her next of kin. Would that be you?’ Patterson asked.

Keaton turned away and banged his head twice against the wall. ‘My God I don’t believe this,’ he cried.

Stevens led the photographer to a chair and sat him down. He marched back and spoke directly to Patterson. ‘Leave him alone, you can see he’s devastated.’

Elizabeth intervened. ‘Then perhaps you could tell us who to contact?’

Stevens kept his eye on his friend while he answered. ‘You lot don’t waste any time. Where’s your consideration? Sorry I forgot, that word doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.’

Keaton sat with his head in his hands. ‘Just get it over with, tell them.’

‘We have no information about any family. She never spoke about them.’

Patterson pressed on. ‘What about brothers or sisters?’

‘Again, she never mentioned them. The only thing I can suggest is she kept an address book. She took it everywhere with her.’

Elizabeth turned to Patterson. ‘Get someone to find it.’

Patterson gestured for a private exchange.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and moved away.

‘They look and sound as if they’re hiding something,’ Patterson whispered.

‘It’s too early to know. Elizabeth walked towards the main door. Keaton and Stevens had gone outside and were talking quietly. As she approached, they stopped and Keaton lit a cigarette.

‘We do need a formal identification as soon as possible,’ she told them.

‘I’ll do it,’ Stevens offered.

‘When?’ Keaton asked.

‘When everything is ready someone will collect you and take you to the morgue. Right now I have a few more questions.’

Stevens gave Elizabeth a contemptuous smile. ‘I’m taking Miles to the bar first. We could both do with a drink.’

A restful atmosphere pervaded the Residents Lounge. Subtle lighting, leather couches and a display of modern paintings gave the room style and comfort. Elizabeth was surprised it was still open. Under the circumstances, it was better to contain the sleepless guests in one area, rather than have them wandering around. A young man in a retro evening suit stood behind the bar ready to serve Stevens.

‘When was the last time either of you saw Miss Jerome?’ Elizabeth asked as she accepted a glass of orange juice.

Stevens answered. ‘About four yesterday afternoon, not long before we finished the shoot. It’s for Vogue and a very important job. We were due to leave today.’

Elizabeth took a sip from her glass. ‘I’d like both of you to go through the events of yesterday. Sergeant Patterson will take notes so please be as concise and accurate as you can.’

Keaton drank the vodka in one gulp. ‘You start,’ he told Stevens. ‘I’m going for a refill.’

Elizabeth knew the more Keaton drank, the more he’d likely let down his guard. That suited her as long as he didn’t get too drunk, then, he’d waste their time.

Oliver Stevens settled his back against the chair. ‘Just like any other day, full of crap and arguments. Miles got pissed off with Shelana and Lily.’ Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I suppose you’ll want the images from yesterday?’

Keaton was on his way back and overheard. ‘No way, we don’t turn over copyrighted material.’

Elizabeth explained that forensics would need to examine them. The two men exchanged a furtive glance that bothered her. Then Stevens got back to Friday afternoon. ‘Lily was late and Miles told me to look for her. He said to say she could forget her huge fee. I went over to the Town Hall but she’d already left.’

Keaton continued. ‘When she turned up she was in a strange mood, one I wasn’t used to. I put up with her moaning in case she flounced off, which she did when she couldn’t get her own way. I told her Shelana and Kimmi had finished all the complicated shots. I tried to be nice, asked her what was wrong, did she have a touch of flu. Then she said she didn’t feel well.’

Stevens glanced at Elizabeth. ‘She regularly used her ailments as an excuse.’

Keaton slurred his words slightly. ‘When we finished I came straight here. Lily stayed behind to sign a few autographs and talk to the locals, so she couldn’t have been that ill. I didn’t see her anymore and I didn’t want to. The hotel staff must have spotted her when she got back. Sometimes she held court in the bar. People flocked to see her all the bloody time. I fell asleep and then came downstairs to the meal and booze up. Lily didn’t show all night.’

‘Were you having a relationship?’ Elizabeth watched his body language.

Keaton seemed unfazed by her question. ‘I was too old for her. She liked young men, the younger the better.’

‘Was she currently involved with anyone? Could a problematic affair have caused her to be depressed?’

‘Her affairs never lasted long enough. She couldn’t commit to anyone or anything,’ Keaton said. ‘But to answer your question, yes, she’d been seeing someone but ended the relationship a few weeks ago.’

‘We need a name,’ Patterson said.

Stevens answered. ‘Julian Renwick, for the record he treated her like dirt.’

‘The fashion designer,’ Elizabeth was surprised. ‘Surely he’s years younger?’

Keaton nodded and emptied his glass again. ‘Take note, Renwick abused her. I tried to find out more, but she wouldn’t talk.’

‘Let’s get back to yesterday,’ Patterson turned to Stevens. ‘What’s your job exactly?’

‘I’m a photographer but not anywhere near as good