by Joyce Cato
When he’d finished, his face was flushed with excited enthusiasm for the project, even now. He seemed almost totally unaware of the breadth and scope of the offences he would have been committing, let alone the consequences of being found out. But his poor mother began to rock silently on her chair, hugging her middle, and shaking her head helplessly from side to side.
‘So let me get this straight,’ Causon said calmly, not wanting to frighten the boy into silence by reading him the riot act. ‘Mr Greeves approached you, and asked you to hack into the company’s records and plant evidence that would implicate Tristan Jones in financial improprieties?’
‘Yes. That’s why I went to the cricket match earlier on. Like I said, we’d arranged to meet so that Lorcan could give me the latest passwords and the access codes I’d need.’
Marie shook her head. ‘I knew it. I knew he was involving you in something bad. That’s why I tried to warn him off,’ she moaned.
Mark reached out and put his hand over hers. His fingers squeezed hers gently. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. Really. But it would have worked. We had it all figured out. Tris would have been prosecuted for tax evasion and insider dealing. And he wouldn’t have been able to wiggle out of it this time – his daddy wouldn’t have been able to step in and save his skin, like he always does. He’d have lost his licence for sure, and maybe even gone to jail for a bit. I know that’s what Lorcan was hoping for. Me too, I guess,’ he added, not quite so confidently now. Then he looked across at the inspector. ‘So you see, Lorcan and me, we already had our plans ready. We didn’t have any reason to want him dead,’ he pointed out with growing confidence. ‘You see that, don’t you?’
Causon nodded. He saw all right. And Jenny could see that, like herself, he was reasonably convinced that the boy had been nothing but a dupe for Lorcan Greeves. But he didn’t seem so convinced that Lorcan Greeves was out of the frame yet.
There had been something very brutal and emotional about the killing of Tristan Jones. She’d felt it instinctively. And although she wasn’t sure if the inspector thought of it in those terms, (or would admit it, if he did) she was sure that he felt, as she did, that whoever had killed the handsome young man, had done so with real feeling. And Lorcan Greeves was an emotional sort of individual.
Then the inspector’s face became heavy, and he glanced thoughtfully across at Marie Rawley. He stiffened his shoulders, getting ready to do something deeply unpleasant, and Jenny, suddenly aware of just what that was, began to feel sick.
‘Mrs Rawley, I’m afraid I have some more bad news for you …’ he began gently.
But Marie held up a hand. ‘You don’t need to say it,’ she put in bitterly. ‘You’re arresting us. Both of us,’ she said miserably. ‘I just don’t know what Chris is going to say,’ she wailed.
But Causon shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that, Mrs Rawley, although criminal charges may be made against you, further down the line.’ He felt impelled to be honest. ‘No, I’m very sorry. But this is about something else entirely. And I’m afraid it’s bad. Very bad,’ he warned her gravely. ‘It’s about your father.’
‘Granddad?’ Mark Rawley said, his young voice breaking on the last syllable, as if he sensed, way before his mother, just how bad the news was going to be. ‘Why? What’s happened to Granddad?’ he demanded.
Causon sighed heavily, and reluctantly began to speak.
CHAPTER TEN
It was every bit as bad as they’d thought it would be, of course. How could it be otherwise when you had to tell someone that a member of their family had been irrevocably taken away from them? And in such a cruel and devastatingly unpredictable way?
And although Inspector Causon had been as gentle as anyone could be, nevertheless, when they left the house, barely a quarter of an hour later, both mother and son were still in tears. But a next-door neighbour, a kindly, middle-aged woman who had a competent air about her, had been called in, and seemed to be coping admirably. She’d also dispatched her own son to go to the allotments to bring back Christopher Rawley, who was working on his plot there, and the local family doctor was on the way.
‘That was awful,’ Jenny said glumly to Causon, as they tramped to the top of the playing field, and once more had to give their names to the constable on duty there, before they could re-enter the sports ground.
‘It always is,’ Causon grunted moodily. ‘I’ll have a family liaison officer go over there as soon as possible. We’ll need to question them further at some point, about who they think might have wanted James dead. It’s just possible that they might know of someone with some sort of independent grudge against Cluley.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Not that I expect I’ll get much joy there. I can’t help but think that the old man was murdered as a direct result of the Tris Jones killing.’
Jenny nodded her head in silent agreement.
They paused at the top of the field and looked around them. And although they’d been gone less than an hour, obviously things had been moving fast in their absence. There were more emergency vehicles in the car park, and the spectators and cricketers alike seemed to have been shepherded into more defined groups by uniformed men and women.
SOCO, distinctive in their white suits, were swarming behind the pavilion, and in the cow parsley-bedecked stand of trees. Causon regarded this with a happy yet resigned air.
‘Well, better late than never, I suppose,’ he grumbled under his breath as they set off back towards the bottom of the field. But Jenny knew that his superiors would be hearing just what the inspector thought about being left so short-handed for many months to come yet. And probably for a lot longer than that, if there was an official inquiry launched.
That Sergeant Lane was also back from escorting Lorcan Greeves to the nearest police station was immediately apparent, for as they approached the cricket pavilion, he briskly descended the wooden steps and walked forward to make his interim report to his senior officer.
‘Sir! The medicos have given the go-ahead to remove Tristan Jones’s body, but they’re still processing Mr Cluley. More men have arrived as you can see, and we’re just starting to get back some preliminary interview reports. I also sent two teams to do a quick visual survey of everybody on the premises, but no one is wearing any obviously blood-stained clothing. The search of the changing rooms has also revealed no hidden blood-stained clothing, either, and just before you arrived, the teams I sent out to do an initial search of the grounds have come back, and they say they can’t find any blood-stained clothing hidden anywhere.’
Lane paused for breath, which gave Causon time to scowl ferociously.
‘What?’ he barked, looking clearly thunderstruck. ‘But that’s not possible. James Cluley was killed after the exits were all covered, so no one could have left. Someone, somewhere, must be either covered in blood, or have hidden some bloody clothing.’
He was so agitated that he didn’t notice the way that, by his side, Miss Jenny Starling suddenly stiffened, or the look of intense enlightenment that came suddenly into her bright blue eyes.
‘I know that, sir,’ Lane said, sounding slightly aggrieved himself now. It was not, after all, his fault. ‘Which means it has to be Greeves, doesn’t it?’ he slipped in urgently, before his boss could really get the bit between his teeth. Nobody knew better than he did that Causon, in a bellicose mood, could be extremely wearing on the nerves. ‘I mean, he’s the only one we’ve found with blood on him,’ he finished with a shrug.
‘Yes,’ Causon said slowly. But he didn’t sound particularly convinced. It was almost as if the solution was so obvious that he couldn’t bring himself to trust it. ‘And what about Greeves?’ he prompted heavily. ‘Everything went smoothly, I trust?’
‘Yes, sir. I had someone at the station make it a top priority to remove his clothes and get them off to the lab, but the forensics boys probably won’t get back to us with the results of the blood tests until tomorrow at the earliest. Not that that’s a problem – we’ve got plenty of time to hold on
to him,’ Lane said with satisfaction. ‘And once forensics confirm that some of the blood on him is James Cluley’s, we’ll be able to charge him.’
‘I don’t suppose he’s confessed?’ Causon asked dryly, and without much hope.
‘No, sir,’ his sergeant confirmed ruefully and just as dryly. ‘When I called the station ten minutes ago, he was still waiting for his solicitor to show up and still wasn’t saying a word.’ Then he brightened, and said inquisitively, ‘And just what did Mrs Rawley have to say?’
But before the inspector could start to fill Lane in about his recent interview and all the latest revelations that it had thrown up, Jenny sidled up to him quietly and put a soft hand on his forearm.
‘Excuse me,’ Jenny said meekly. ‘Inspector, I just want to go and have a word with somebody. I won’t be a moment.’
‘What? Oh, yes, go ahead,’ Causon said abruptly, waving a vague gesture of dismissal her way.
Jenny smiled briefly at them both, relieved that the inspector was too preoccupied to care about what she was up to, and moved off towards a group of villagers who were chatting to one another by the deckchairs. So far, it didn’t seem as if news of James Cluley’s death had filtered down to everyone, and Jenny was glad. It was bound to cause both panic and real dismay. For whilst it seemed to her nobody was much mourning the death of Tristan Jones, she had a feeling the same would not be said of the old groundsman.
And she didn’t want anyone to realize what she might be on to just yet. Not until she was even more sure of her ground.
It didn’t take Jenny long to find someone who’d lived in the village all their life. And once she’d found him – an elderly gent, who’d been enjoying the cricket and a quiet nap before all the excitement – it only took her a few moments to ask him one simple question.
He looked a little surprised by it, and then quietly speculative, but he was able to give her a full and comprehensive answer, with a few added descriptive hand gestures, and a pointing finger thrown in for good measure.
She thanked him profusely, and warned him that he would almost certainly have to make another statement to the police a little later on. She further asked him not to mention it to anyone until then – not even his closest friend – and then left him looking a little pleased at the thought that he’d suddenly become someone of even mild importance.
As Jenny approached the cricket pavilion, where Causon and Lane were just mounting the steps prior to going inside, she saw Erica Jones walking up from the right hand side, and then hesitate as she spied the policemen. She then idled by the edge of building, waiting for them to pass fully inside before climbing the wooden steps herself.
Clearly, she was not about to risk another run-in with the abrasive inspector.
So it was that Jenny had caught up with her, and was right behind her, as they stepped into the main changing room.
Caroline and her friend Ettie were already in situ. Obviously a number of the regulars had given their statements and been allowed back inside, and they had, of all things, opened some of the bottles of wine, and were busy pouring several glasses. Not that Jenny could really blame them. It was getting on for evening now, and she could have done with a stiff drink herself.
She guessed that the two policemen had retired to the kitchen for some privacy, and began to make her way there herself. As she passed Erica, she saw the Lady of the Manor reach into her bag and extract a small vial of expensive perfume. Jenny vaguely recognized the packaging as belonging to one of the more exclusive French fashion-designers and the redhead elegantly sprayed a fine mist of exquisite perfume, that had probably cost a three-figure sum per ounce, behind each ear, and then at each wrist. She hesitated for a moment, gave a shrug, and then squirted some more down the column of her throat and along her sternum, which was, Jenny thought, coughing just a little as she walked into a misty patch caused by the atomizer, rather over-egging it, somewhat.
Apparently she wasn’t the only one to think so, because she distinctly heard Caroline whisper cattily to her friend, ‘Why doesn’t she just bathe in it?’ To which Ettie gave a slightly nervous giggle, in reply.
Jenny too hid a smile, and watched as Erica Jones shot the two women a dirty look before slipping the perfume bottle back into her bag, before sitting down in her favourite deck chair in the doorway. The elegant redhead was now, Jenny noticed, sitting in the full sunlight, but was once again wearing her long-sleeved blouse. She crossed her elegant, trouser-clad legs, and once more reached into her bag, this time to withdraw a nail file. And with short, sharp, angry strokes, she proceeded to vigorously attack one of her scarlet-tipped nails.
Jenny watched her for a moment or two, then turned away.
In the kitchen, she did indeed find the two policemen, and was happy to see that Sergeant Lane had had the good sense to tuck into some of the leftovers.
‘Try the Bakewell tarts,’ she advised him happily, as he polished off a cheese and onion mini-flan. And that reminded her – with evening approaching, she had a barbecue to prepare for.
‘Thank you, I will, they look delicious,’ Lane mumbled around his savoury mouthful. He turned back to Causon, saying ‘About those preliminary interview reports we’ve got back, there’s a couple of things that are interesting. The lad who interviewed the Wilsons is sure they’re hiding something. Or at the very least, not being particularly truthful. He says he got the distinct feeling that they’d been colluding beforehand, and they insisted on giving their statements together instead of one at a time.’
Causon grunted. ‘There’s really nothing particularly sur-prising in that,’ he said. ‘Hubby wanted to make sure that his wife didn’t say anything about having an affair with the victim. He looked like the sort who would always be careful to take care of his own skin,’ he added darkly. In his view, if a man was capable of captaining a cricket team, he was probably capable of anything. ‘And not only that, he looked like he thought a lot of himself anyway, and no doubt it would bruise his ego to have all and sundry knowing that his wife had strayed on him.’
Lane nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I think you’re spot on there. The lad who took their statement said they were both acting decidedly antsy anyway. Mrs Wilson kept shooting daggers at her husband but she was careful not to contradict anything he said. I daresay he can be a bit of a bully, and she’s probably used to towing the line. But that’s not the really interesting bit, sir. There was one other thing that I thought you’d want to know about straight away.’
‘Oh?’ Causon looked distinctly interested now.
‘Yes. Several people noticed, earlier on, that our murder victim—’
‘Which one?’ Causon interrupted grumpily.
‘Tristan Jones, sir.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, they say they saw Tristan and his father arguing.’
Causon blinked. ‘His father? Arguing?’ Whatever he’d expected his sergeant to come up with, this was obviously taking him by surprise. ‘What, fighting-arguing as in coming-to-blows arguing, or just talking in an animated fashion?’ Causon asked, a shade cautiously.
Whilst it certainly sounded interesting, he was too old a hand at this sort of thing to get too excited just yet.
And apparently his lack of real excitement seemed to communicate itself to Sergeant Lane, who had to reign in a strong desire to roll his eyes. ‘They were definitely having hot words, sir,’ he clarified patiently. ‘One witness says Sir Robert looked really steamed up about something, and that rather than soothing his ruffled feathers, his son seemed hell-bent on goading him. Anyway, most agree that they didn’t seem to part on the best of terms.’
‘Hmm. But no one actually saw Sir Robert go behind the pavilion with his son? Or any time after that, on his own?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ he confirmed regretfully. ‘But it’s something new, isn’t it?’ he persisted hopefully. ‘And Sir Robert was very careful not to mention anything about it when we questioned him, wasn’t he?’
C
auson heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, that’s true enough. Not that it seems all that likely that we’re dealing with a case of filicide here. I can think of quite a number of reasons why the man wouldn’t have mentioned it. He was still in shock and it might genuinely have slipped his mind. Or he might simply have found it too painful to think about, let alone confess to strangers. Or, like Max Wilson, it might have been his sense of pride that kept him silent. No man likes to admit he can’t handle his own offspring.’ He smiled grimly, thinking of his own children, who could run rings around him. ‘Still, I suppose we’d better get to the bottom of it. All right, go and fetch his nibs, will you?’ he ordered, pulling out a wooden chair and slumping into it.
And before Lane could reach for it, he nabbed the last of the Bakewell tarts and began stuffing it into his maw.
‘Sir,’ Lane said wearily.
Without a word, Jenny reached into a tupperware box and handed him a strawberry scone.
The sergeant smiled his thanks at her.
When Sir Robert stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, Causon didn’t look particularly happy to see that Lady Jones was following on right behind him. But then, Jenny thought, from her prime vantage point sitting right by the open pavilion doorway, there had been no way that Erica could have missed the spectacle of seeing her husband being rounded up by the sergeant and brought in for questioning.
And the redhead obviously felt solicitous of her husband’s wellbeing – or at least, wanted to appear to be so. For she made sure that he was sitting down comfortably, before taking up a position standing possessively behind him, with one hand laid protectively on his shoulder.
Absently, Sir Robert reached up and laid his hand briefly across hers in a gesture of acknowledgement before letting it drop listlessly once more into his lap. The stockbroker still looked ill, Jenny noticed with a pang, and had a flushed look to him that almost certainly had little to do with the oppressive heat. His colour wasn’t particularly good, either, she noticed.
