Helen Fields studied at the Inns of Court School of Law in London, and was called to the Bar in 1993. She practised for thirteen years in family and criminal law. Having extensively prosecuted and defended, she is an avid believer in the right to a fair trial, and in the invaluable role that juries play in the British legal system. Cases ranged from lengthy drug conspiracies to car ringing, from white collar crime to armed robberies, and from murder and manslaughter to rape and indecent assault. As well as the usual Crown and Magistrates Courts proceedings, Helen also acted at inquests on behalf of grieving families and in Courts Martial, defending servicemen being tried within the military system.
After Helen’s second child was born, in order to spend more time with her young family, she decided to assist her husband David with his film production company, Wailing Banshee Ltd. Having always been involved as a company director, it was an opportunity to fully develop her directing, producing and script-writing skills. Writing had been a life-long interest and always a feature of Helen’s career, whether composing speeches for juries, scripts for pharmaceutical companies to obtain US Presidential backing, or writing TV and radio general election political broadcasts. After having a third child, Helen began writing novels, drawing on her previous legal career, and in particular her interest in forensics, criminology, profiling and psychiatry. Her hobbies include karate, indoor sky diving and obsessively reading/watching the news and politics.
Helen writes the “Perfect Series” about a half-French detective, Luc Callanach, set in Edinburgh. Five books in that series are already published - Perfect Remains, Perfect Prey, Perfect Death, Perfect Silence & Perfect Crime. The next instalment, Perfect Dark, comes out in February 2020. After that a standalone thriller, also set in Edinburgh, will be published in late 2020, followed by another Luc Callanach book. In addition, Helen has published Degrees of Guilt under her pen name HS Chandler. This is a psychological thriller & courtroom drama, about coercive control. The ebook has already been released and the paperback will follow in September 2019.
Helen can be found on Twitter at @Helen_Fields and @HSCinkpen and on Facebook as Helen Fields Author.
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Chapter 1
Edward Bloxham lay face down in a pool of blood and sunshine on the stone-tiled kitchen floor. He hadn’t moved or made a sound for several minutes. Maria stared at his body as she folded the newspaper that had been left on the kitchen table, and deposited it in the recycling bin. Slowly wiping a tea towel around the inside of a mug, she wondered how she was going to get the stains out of the pale grouting. Leaving a second mug in the sink, she picked up the chair leg from where it had been resting on Edward’s head, and poked her forefinger into the tangle of human tissue caught around the protruding metal bolt. The sturdy wood had proved a remarkable makeshift weapon. Even in the absence of medical training, there was no mistaking the greyish-tan mess of brain displaced from inside her husband’s skull. The vertical crack in the back of his head was four inches long, a bubbling stream down his neck. It was time to call the authorities, but her garden looked so idyllic through the kitchen window in the mid-afternoon light that it was hard to motivate herself. She performed a rough mental calculation. The number of gardening months per annum – eight in a good-weather year – twenty days of gardening per month, four hours per day. Multiply that by the fifteen years since she’d stopped working, and Maria had clocked up some ten thousand hours bending the earth to her will, producing the only colour and beauty in her life. Now it would go to ruin. Perhaps that was the most appropriate ending, anyway. Husband deceased. Plants dead. The predictable seasons of her life disappearing.
Maria ran her hands, one after the other, up and down the chair leg, drinking in the sensation of Edward’s life-giving cells ebbing between her fingers. For nearly two decades he had been the dominant force in her life. Now, just one week before her fortieth birthday, she had caused his death, soon to be celebrating that milestone as a single person. Behind bars, most likely, but single.
There really was an awful mess on the floor. After pressing a tea towel into the wound, she stepped over his body, gently knocking the pantry door shut with her elbow as she walked into the hallway where Edward’s jacket hung from the hat stand. Sliding a sticky hand into his inner pocket, Maria withdrew his mobile, marvelling at how sleek it was compared to the cheap plastic block she had hidden away. There was no need to bypass any of his personal security settings. Edward had never needed any. Maria was the only person in the house with him, and at work it was just his secretary. Simple and routine. That was the world he liked. The world he had liked, she corrected herself, as she dialled the emergency services.
‘Which service do you require?’
Odd to think of what was about to descend as a service. The word suggested help or usefulness. It was too late for that.
‘I’ve killed my husband,’ Maria replied. ‘So whatever you think is best, really.’
The woman on the end of the line didn't miss a beat. Credit to her. She took Maria’s name and address, then launched into a series of questions about Edward’s current physical state.
‘He’s lying on the floor completely still,’ Maria said. ‘I haven’t moved him since. He’s face down.’
‘Is he breathing?’ the operator asked.
‘I split his head open,’ Maria replied. ‘So no.’
‘The police and ambulance are on their way. I need you to ensure that the doors are unlocked. Do you have any dogs at the property?’
Maria sighed. No, no dogs. Nothing that might require any of her love or time. Nothing that might have loved her back.
‘Just me,’ she said, walking to the front door and opening it wide. Birdsong and the smell of freshly mown grass distracted her. She watched gulls swooping through the sky towards the Somerset coast, smiling at the knowledge that her husband would never again complain about them damaging the paintwork on his Volvo. In the distance, sirens sang their two-tone song as the police navigated the lanes to the house. Maria wondered where she ought to be. It seemed wrong to be standing over her husband’s body as they arrived. The sitting room seemed too distant; how callous to be found lounging in an armchair amidst so much drama. The driveway seemed more logical. She stepped through the front door, untroubled by the neighbours. Leylandii hedges had long since ensured privacy from both sides, and the generosity of the plot their picture-perfect, five bedroomed house occupied meant they never heard or saw the people living either side.
The gates. She hadn’t considered them. Walking back into the hallway, Maria pressed the button. Edward had another gate controller on his key set, but that would be in his trouser pocket and she wasn’t prepared to start rummaging there. Returning to the driveway, she watched the last of the gates’ progress. They stood fully open, impressive wrought ironwork forming swirling scrolls that Edward had been so proud of. Maria remembered the day they’d been installed. The man who fitted them had handed her the electronic key fob delightedly, offering her the chance to be the first to close them. They had swished together over the gravel driveway in perfect synchronisation.
‘There, that’ll keep you good and safe,’ the man had said.
Just like that, her cage had closed. She could see out, of course. The road beyond still meandered into the distance. The neighbours’ houses still sat in the centre of their well-tended lawns. Birds still flew overhead, nesting where they chose. Nothing had changed, except that her world had shrunk imperceptibly more, and she hated her life to an even greater degree.
A police car swerved onto the driveway as another drew up outside the gate, followed by an ambulance. Maria watched as a policewoman exited the nearest vehicle and began walking cautiously towards her.
‘Are you Mrs Bloxham?’ she called.
‘Yes, hello,’ Maria said.
‘Ma’am, I need you to put down the item you’re holding,’ the policewoman instructed, keeping her distance.
Maria raised her hand. The chair leg rose before her face as if magically attached to the end of her arm. A few strands of Edward’s hair fluttered in the breeze.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn't realise I was still holding it.’ She placed it gently at her feet on the gravel. ‘Edward’s in the kitchen.’
Another police officer appeared at the policewoman’s side and they walked towards her together, then two paramedics climbed out of the ambulance.
‘I’m PC Mull,’ she said. ‘We need to get inside to your husband, Mrs Bloxham. Can you confirm if anyone else is in the property?’
‘I’m all alone,’ Maria said.
‘And are there any other weapons we should know about?’ PC Mull asked.
Maria cocked her head. The officer meant the chair leg, of course. It hadn’t occurred to her that it was a weapon. A while ago it was just a broken piece of furniture awaiting repair. Now it had assumed a new purpose. What a dramatic change, she thought. Rather like her. From housewife to murderess – that’s what the papers would call her when they got hold of it – in one swift move. Then there would be Edward’s obituary. Prominent ecologist, an expert on climate change, champion of British wildlife and seabirds – the credits rolled on and on – author, broadcaster, local hero. They would report that he’d been bludgeoned to death in his own home. Bludgeoned. Such an onomatopoeic word. She’d never considered it before hearing the sound of wood upon skull today.
‘Mrs Bloxham?’ the police officer prompted, taking a step forward.
‘Absolutely, no,’ Maria said. ‘No other weapons.’
‘Good. I’m going to ask you to raise your hands now, ma’am, and please don’t move as I approach,’ PC Mull said. The words weren’t spoken unkindly but they were an order. Maria knew one when she heard it. Raising her hands slowly, she caught sight of her crimson palms and realised she looked frightful. PC Mull stepped close and patted her down. Satisfied there was nothing concealed beneath her clothes, the policewoman nodded at the paramedics who swiftly entered the house accompanied by a further officer from the car that had parked beyond the gates. ‘Thank you. Now I’d like you to bring your hands behind your back. I’m going to handcuff you. The cuffs will feel tight but you should tell me if they cause you any pain.’
They were all being terribly polite, Maria thought, given what she had confessed to. A man lay dead on her kitchen floor and here she was being respectfully referred to as ‘Mrs Bloxham’. That wouldn’t last long. Not when they saw his body.
‘I’m going to ask you to remain here while I go inside. My colleague, PC McTavish, will hold you. I have to instruct you not to move, or attempt to move. Do you understand?’ PC Mull asked.
‘I do,’ Maria replied.
Another car pulled up, this one unmarked, as PC McTavish took hold of Maria’s cuffed wrists. A man climbed out, his clothing as anonymous as the vehicle he’d arrived in. He pulled on gloves, looking left and right as if he was sniffing the air, Maria thought. Catching the scent of blood. He opened the back door of his vehicle and took a bag from the seat, walking directly towards Maria without making eye contact. Bending to the ground, he inspected the chair leg.
‘Photograph it,’ he called back to a woman who had alighted the vehicle after him. She plodded heavily up the driveway, camera banging her chest from a strap around her neck, and did as she’d been told. Ten or more snaps later, the man giving the commands picked up the chair leg and placed it inside the bag. ‘Label it and start an evidence log’ he said, handing it to the photographer who began walking back to the car. The policeman giving the orders took his time acknowledging Maria, checking his watch first and greeting the police officer who was restraining her.
‘Sir,’ PC McTavish said deferentially.
‘McTavish,’ the senior officer nodded. ‘Has she resisted at all?’
‘No trouble as yet, sir,’ PC McTavish confirmed.
Maria kept her face as straight as she could. The concept that she could be regarded as any sort of threat in resistance terms was both laughable and oddly pleasing.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Anton. Was it you who called the incident in?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Maria said. ‘What will happen next?’
‘We’ll be assessing the scene,’ Anton replied.
‘Where will I be taken?’
Anton stared at her. She lowered her eyes to meet his. He was five feet five inches tall, she decided, wondering if his below average height for a man had hampered his progress in the police force. He was looking at her strangely. Maria glanced away.
‘Mrs Bloxham, you told the emergency operator that you’d killed your husband, is that right?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ Maria said.
DI Anton paused. ‘You seem very calm.’
‘Do I?’ Maria asked, meeting his eyes again.
‘Would you turn around for me, please?’ Anton asked.
PC McTavish released her so that Maria could comply. She did so, noting that the roses along the driveway border needed pruning. She wouldn’t get the chance now. No one would care for them like she had. If they weren’t cut back hard enough, the blooms would be depleted next spring. She felt the weight of regret setting in and tears formed unexpectedly in her eyes.
‘Bag her hands, PC Cooksley, ’ Anton instructed the photographer as she reappeared. Cooksley pulled bags from her pocket and slipped one over each of Maria’s hands, fastening the tops with tape. ‘We’re preserving the evidence, Mrs Bloxham, in the event that you have any defensive wounds or debris under your fingernails. Do you believe you have any injuries the paramedics should attend to?’
DI Anton was fishing. There was no concern in his voice.
‘No,’ Maria replied. ‘I’m unhurt.’
PC Mull appeared from the front door, calling DI Anton over. The pair disappeared into the house. Maria didn’t care what the police did inside. It was bricks and mortar, just a conveniently arranged shelter from the elements, devoid of sentimental value. She could happily walk away from it and never set foot inside again. It didn’t matter how beautiful the architecture was, or how many bedrooms there were. Deep pile carpets and triple glazed windows didn’t make a home. The generous square footage had only ever provided additional space for her to clean and extra walls to stare at.
A bead of sweat left a tickling trail from the corner of her left eyebrow down her cheek. Maria waited until it descended to her jaw then raised a shoulder to wipe it away. DI Anton would enjoy seeing her sweat. It would tick all those stereotypical criminal behaviour boxes – guilt, fear of discovery, the subconscious desire to confess her wrongdoings. Maria would save them the drama. She had no intention of saying anything other than that she had killed Edward. Deliberately, too.
DI Anton reappeared and walked to stand directly in front of her. ‘Mrs Bloxham, I am placing you under arrest. You will be transported to a police station where you will be given an opportunity to consult with a lawyer and later questioned regarding the attack on your husband.’
‘I already told the lady on the phone what I did,’ Maria said. ‘I don’t think I’m going to need a lawyer.’
‘I’m cautioning you, and it’s important that you listen.’ DI Anton raised his voice a notch. Apparently he didn’t like being interrupted. ‘The paramedics will be exiting your house in a few minutes and we need to remove you from the vicinity before that happens. Do you have any medication that you need us to collect from the house? I can’t guarantee when you will be able to re-enter.’
‘No,’ Maria said. ‘I don’t need anything from inside. I’m finished with that place.’
‘What about your husband? Any pre-existing medical conditions we should know about?’
‘He was perfectly healthy until today. I’m sure his GP can confirm that,’ Maria said.
‘Sir,’ an officer called from the doorway to the house, ‘the helicopter’s three minutes off. They’re just establishing a clear landing area.’
‘Right, we need to move you now, Mrs Bloxham. If you could start walking towards the police car just outside the gates,’ Anton said.
‘Is the coroner coming by helicopter?’ Maria asked. ‘I was wondering when they would arrive.’
‘The coroner?’ Anton frowned. ‘The helicopter is an air ambulance, Mrs Bloxham.’
‘That seems like a waste of time in the circumstances.’
‘Presumably you’d prefer we didn’t bother,’ DI Anton commented, checking his watch again. ‘We have to go. You are under arrest for attempted murder and I’m taking you into custody immediately.’
‘What?’ Maria asked.
‘Mrs Bloxham, I’m going to have to insist that you move towards the police car right now,’ Anton said.
‘You said attempted murder,’ Maria replied. Beneath her feet, she could feel every shard of gravel through her slippers. The day was suddenly sweltering.
DI Anton raised his eyebrows. ‘Sorry, I obviously wasn’t clear enough. Your husband’s still alive, Mrs Bloxham, although having seen the injury I can understand why you assumed otherwise. A surgical team is waiting to operate immediately.’
She shook her head, tried to reach out for something to steady her, succeeding only in tightening the handcuffs around her wrists. ‘No,’ Maria whispered as her knees forgot how to keep her upright. DI Anton ordered the other policeman to help him catch her, and she felt them take the weight of her body before she hit the ground.
‘Please be too late,’ Maria murmured, as darkness took her.
(C) HS Chandler 2019