Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  “Well, it’s not that he came in here often, and would hardly give me the time of day when he did. Bought a few cigarettes at times, and a few cans of beer when the pub was closed. Ma Olive does their shopping. Trundles that big, old-fashioned shopping trolley of hers all the way from their place every day. They don’t have a fridge, though she likes to make out that their old carriage is a mini-palace. Anyway, she said only the other day that she was worried – this isn’t evidence is it, Inspector?” Hole assured her that while anything she could say to help him in his difficult task would be appreciated, that same anything was not evidence, being hearsay. Mrs C had heard of hearsay evidence often enough in her favourite crime films.

  “Good. Thought so, but thought I was better to check. What Ma Olive said, and I can only tell you what she told me, mind, ‘cos I can’t vouch for whether it’s true or not, but what she told me was that she was real worried that Den was going to get himself in trouble by babbling on about things he shouldn’t have. ‘Only get himself into trouble’ were her very words to me and more than once. Of course, I asked what it was. Asked if she thought it would be any help to her to tell a friend about it. A trouble shared is a trouble halved is what I always say. Don’t you agree?” Hole nodded agreement. He didn’t want the reminiscent flood to dry up. He looked, if possible, even more interested than he really was. Encouraged by his acknowledgement of her cultural wisdom, the shop owner went on.

  “She was reluctant to talk at first. Well, you would be wouldn’t you? ‘But it’s not as though you are talking to a stranger’, I said to her. ‘Nor to the police, neither. But if it helps?’ And she said it did because she didn’t know what to say to him to make him see sense. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if it really is something important to do with a crime, well then,’ I said, ‘he should go to the police. That’s what he should do. And that’s what you should be telling him.’ ‘A lot of good that would do’ she said.” Hole could acknowledge that he and his uniformed colleagues were mainly responsible for that attitude, but too late now.

  “To the police, I said, whatever. But no. He wouldn’t, she said again. Well, I said, how serious is it do you suppose? ‘He saw something.’ That’s what she then said, as true as I’m standing here in my own shop. Behind this very counter. Says he saw something, somebody, at the time, the very time she said, that Alan Tewkes was shot. Someone, he told her to her face, who he had never seen there before and was quite taken aback to see there at all. Especially that early in the morning.”

  Hole tried to take all this in, and then to apply some direction to this flow of recall if he could, without putting Mrs Carmichael off her stride.

  “He, sorry, she, Ma Olive, didn’t say who it was? Or if it was a man or a woman? Or, and this is important, if he heard a shot at the same time.”

  “Not to me, she didn’t. Just went on about what might happen if he went on babbling about it and telling people. Well,” and here she paused for dramatic effect, “that’s what I reckon has happened. Whoever he saw got to hear him and has bumped him off to keep him quiet. That’s what I think, anyway. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ma Olive says that she’s sure he knew who it was.”

  “But he, she, wouldn’t or couldn’t say if there was any idea who. A local? A stranger?”

  “Like as not a local, if you ask me. But that’s only my opinion. Who else would he recognise? And who else would be around to kill him? Is there a job for me in your department?” The DI assured her that everything she had said would be carefully considered, and begged her to try and worm out of Ma Olive, next time she came into the shop, any other scrap of news, however unimportant it might seem to be.

  “Every little helps!”

  Mrs Carmichael sniffed at a rival’s catch phrase. Hole hurried on.

  “Maybe she’ll feel freer to talk, now Den has gone. And don’t be upset “– as if she would be! – “I’m not asking you to spy. Whether she tells you or not, I shall have to go and see her myself again. It might help her, however, if she has already got it off her chest once. I’m afraid that she is as hesitant about speaking to us as Den was.”

  They chatted a bit longer. About his daughter, Amy, married and teaching in New Zealand, and about their son Mark who, also taking after his wife – “never me!” – had used his Botany degree to land a good job in Kew Gardens. But all this digression didn’t help bring the retailer’s mind round to any more information about Den’s boasting of what, or whom, he had seen.

  As Hole turned to leave, Mrs Munday came in. They exchanged greetings.

  “Glad I caught you, Mr Hole. You asked me to let you know. Flossie Winterton and Elsie Marsh are back from our RSPB members’ weekend. Wonderful it was, they say. Lovely films, good speakers, and interesting people to meet from all over the country. And what accommodation these students live in these days! They thought living on a university campus would be roughing it. All mod cons according to them. Anyway, I saw them last night and said that you might be round. To ask them about that visitor with the Rolls Royce.”

  Hole hadn’t forgotten that task, nor to ask Mrs Farmer the same question. For the moment it was a low priority. He had to push on exploring what he and Maitland had gathered and, he very much hoped, what uniform and the Transport Police between them might have gathered concerning Den’s death.

  Thanking her, he left the shop, to find Maitland cruising down the road from the direction of his house,

  “Thought you were lost, sir. The Chief Super’s been trying to get you on your mobile.”

  Hole switched it on.

  “Chatting to the shopkeeper. Didn’t want to be disturbed”, he said as he directed Maitland back to the house in order to put the milk safely away.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I rather think that God is in indeed in his heaven, for the moment, and that the Chief Super’s world is suddenly all right. He wants us both in toot sweet.” His French needed polishing.

  “Right.”

  “Asked if you had been bumped on the head by a goose.” Maitland gave a knowing grin.

  “Goose? What does he mean? Got that nursery rhyme on his brain! Not on mine.”

  “I had to ask him what he was getting at. When you didn’t answer and he got through to me, he asked me to find out if our murderer had hit you over the head with a goose. A goose. Seems, the goose he meant is some sort of iron that tailors use to smooth out clothes. Dashing away with the smoothing-iron sort of thing.”

  Hole had had enough of nursery rhymes. He made no further comment as they drove headquarters-wise a little faster than the law allowed.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  etective Chief Superintendent Davis did indeed look as though his world was in good order. He made no more comment about switched-off phones or goose irons. He did, however, ask whether Hole had been putting his morning to good use. Digger told him of his talk with Mrs Carmichael.

  “Needs a lot of following up, sir, I know, but on the face of it, what she reported finally writes Reed out of the picture. He may yet be found to have had some influence on events, but I don’t think we can get him for the shootings, accepting that both killings were by the same person.” He gave Maitland a glance. “If Ma Olive’s reported comments have any credibility, it was not a stranger that Den saw.”

  “Nor, sir,” said the sergeant candidate for an Inspector’s course, “could it have been Farmer. If, as you say, it was someone who Den was surprised to see at that hour in that area.”

  “You’re probably right, but I wouldn’t jump too quickly to that. If I recall aright, it was not all that unusual for Farmer to be up and about as early as he says, and his wife says, he was. But, all right, I’ll buy that for the moment. Based on this hearsay.”

  Hole decided then that the interviewing of the two extra RSPB helpers could wait; Mrs Farmer, maybe not.

  “What we have got is some real progress,” said Davis, beaming. “Which do you want first, Dig
ger, the good news or the good news?” God certainly was in his heaven!

  “The second best first, sir. I’m one of those who always leaves the cherry on top of the cake until last.”

  “Right then! We have found the gun. And it is the killer weapon. And it may produce some DNA.” Davis’ voice rose with each ‘and’. “Depends how careful the killer’s been.” With that, he sat back in his chair bestowing as satisfied a smile as could be imagined on the two officers seated before him.

  “That’s the second best?” Hole couldn’t contain himself. Davis couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Well, maybe I’ve cheated a little. Maybe you’ll find the second bit of news not quite so startling. But as it’s the more dramatic, I’ll excuse myself for putting the gun news ahead of it. Absolutely splendid work by the Transport Police and the rail authority at Wolverhampton. Enderby was right. The train that went past as he heard what we take to be the shot that killed Den Bracegirt was indeed carrying open wagons-full of scrap iron. Odds are that, deciding the gun was too obvious a thing to hide any more – maybe the killer had heard Enderby coming or knew that his escape route was likely to be under observation – he decided to chuck it. Seeing the piles of metallic scrap gently trundling by as he dropped back down the side of the bank away from the Warburton grave, he took what must have seemed a quick and easy way to dispose of the incriminating weapon. Just threw it into one of the wagons where, indeed, it might have escaped attention for ever and ended up with the rest in some great crusher. If the churchwarden hadn’t alerted us to that train, and had that train unloaded any earlier, we might never have come across it. Thanks to the messages to all stations twixt here and Wolverhampton, care was taken, a good search was made, and bingo! We’ve got the gun.” Once more the DCS sat back rocking gently to and fro with the contented smile of the cat with the cream that, no doubt, he could also have quoted a rhyme about.

  His audience sat in silence. Hole broke it.

  “You’re sure it is the one?”

  “The very one that killed both Alan Tewkes and Den. Beyond doubt. It was rushed down by motorcycle and into the lab as fast as you can say ‘Jack Robinson’.” His juniors awaited as though for a follow-up song and dance act. The smile continued. It seemed destined to last much, much longer than the Cheshire Cat’s.

  Hole spoke again.

  “What is it? Twelve bore, we know, but any guide to ownership?”

  The smile did abate.

  “Model called a Harrier. Not seen it as yet myself. No fingerprints, of course. We are awaiting more detail. They are being very thorough. No immediate information as to where it might have been registered. A wider search of records is under way. I’m not unhopeful that it will turn up on somebody’s books.”

  “Maybe I can ask Thornley if he knows anything about a Harrier twelve bore.”

  “No need for that. Our experts will soon enough have all the information we will need.”

  “No doubt. I’d like to ask him just the same. As soon as we leave here, in fact. I would like to see his reaction. Before the information gets out into the public domain.”

  “Very well. If you want to. Who knows what might come up.”

  “On top of this splendid news, sir, did the train driver or anyone see anybody on the embankment?

  “Yes. Not much use, I fear, but the driver did see a boy. Probably a boy. Someone, moving along there. He says that all crew members are aware of the risk of trespassers near the line at that spot. As Enderby would confirm.”

  “Only the one?”

  “He’s reported as saying one,” the Super checked his notes, “but I don’t suppose he was pressed on that point.” Davis drew breath. He seemed to be about to rest on his acquired laurels. It took the Sergeant to jog him into further revelations.

  “You mentioned a second, a better, piece of news, sir.”

  “Yes. Well, as I said, a little less dramatic. Didn’t need outside help to come up with it. Came from that very efficient Muriel Sanders and her team.” Hole recalled the Woman Police Sergeant who had been set to work in the graveyard. Whatever it was she had turned up was going to be germane to the tracing of the murderer. The Super’s face couldn’t hide it. The DI joined his sergeant in the jogging process.

  “I was pleased to see her in charge. Thorough.”

  “And observant. I think you put to her, Digger, the need to look for broken branches and the like?”

  “Seemed an outside chance of some scrap of clothing or, even better, a trace of blood or skin from a passing scratch.”

  “Indeed. Not yet a DNA source, more’s the pity, though that might possibly still be provided. Yet freshly cut – note, cut, not snapped – branches on a couple of small trees and bushes in the vicinity of the grave. So we’ve not given up hope, any more than we have of finding a trace on the gun.”

  Hole hesitated before taking up the news, but knew that there was no way out.

  “Both Annie and Galina Foxley were cutting greenery for use in the church that morning. Very likely to be one of them that did it.”

  “Then you can add them to the Thornley interview. Get them to take you to exactly where they say they cut things. Make sure you get clear in your mind, from Sgt Sanders before you do, exactly what she found and where. I’ve asked her to wait in the canteen until you are free from here. Annie and Mrs Foxley. As you say. And both shoot!” There was a twinkle rather than a smile in Davis’ eye as he put this to the DI. Hole had to respond.

  “Galina Foxley has a gun, though we now know it not to be the killer’s one. We’ve no firm evidence that she has kept up her shooting since leaving the family home at Wickton. I say ‘firm’ as Marcia Tewkes’ loaded, spiteful comments at table the other day did go so far as to, oh so very indirectly, hint that she was something of a hot shot still. As for Annie”, and he carried on although Chief Super Davis waved his arm in a dismissive fashion, “Annie does indeed keep up her skill from time to time. With a local shooting club. Using point two-twos, guns all kept at the club. We’ve never had one, of any calibre, at home.”

  “Of course! Of course! You get my drift, though. We have got somewhere. I’ll chase up the developments on the lab study of the gun. You go ahead with your suggestion. See what Thornley knows about such a model, and how he responds. Then take up, with both ladies, the whats and wherefores of their harvesting in the graveyard. Off to the canteen you both go! Muriel Sanders awaits. Call back in at the end of the day. Mobile phone will do, if, that is, you can remember how to use it.”

  Hole acknowledged the jibe, but had not quite finished. Throughout the valuable briefing, his mind, turning as it had to in the direction of Galina Foxley, albeit tentatively, had also focused once again on that servant of hers.

  “One other thing, sir. Bit delicate. More your level than mine.”

  Davis neither smiled nor twinkled. He was attentive. He knew his DI.

  “Could an immigration, or work permit, check be made on the woman who works for Galina Foxley at Fox Lea? Something, I sense, is not altogether right there. I may well be wrong about this. Softly, softly for certain. But I would like to know where she comes from and what it is she is supposed to be doing. Seems out of place, somehow, in the role we have seen her play.”

  Davis’ ‘Will do!’ was sufficient. Hole and Maitland set off for coffee and Sanders.

  To keep up the momentum, Hole decided that he would go and tackle Thornley alone while Maitland toured the churchyard in the company, ‘one at a time’ he strictured, as though the sergeant needed such direction, of the two flower arrangers. As a contribution to that viewing, he rang his wife at school, a thing he tried very hard to avoid, and fixed a time when she would be free to help the sergeant.

  “You can fit in Mrs Foxley as and when you best can.”

  Arriving at the Grange, Digger was once more lucky. The great man was at home. Hole had especially hoped this would be the case. He felt increasingly that speed of investigation was ever more of the essence,
as the phrase has it, though the essence of what he was not sure. On the whole he found that using, and hence thinking, in conventional phrases helped him when getting the confidence of those he had to interview. Not that he had to lull Thornley into a state of co-operation.

  “You again! What now? You’d better come in this time. Going to get wet if we stand around here”, with a glance at the darkening sky. Hole accepted the invitation.

  “Not still a suspect am I? Oh, don’t try and soft soap me! I wasn’t born yesterday you know.”

  Hole recognised that he wasn’t the only one to fall back on standard modes of speech.

  “Of course I didn’t want, still don’t want, that blasted duckery to get in the way of what was a very respectable wildfowling area. But if needs must, then there are others. Antonia White tells me there’s a lot of local support for it. And growing. All part of the signs of the times, I have to accept. Despite all that, or because of it if you will, I did not shoot Alan Tewkes. As I told you last time, I might have had a pot shot at that poacher Bracegirt under different circumstances, but not on Holy Ground.”

  The DI acknowledged all that with a polite smile, and, having been ushered into the drawing room and seated, he went at once to the reason for his visit.

  “Would like your advice again. Pick your brains. About guns.” That, as he knew it would, got the older man’s complete and serious attention. No more barbs about police or their beliefs.

  “Have you ever heard of a twelve bore called a Harrier?”

  “Harrier? Harrier? Yes, I have. Allow me.” The Squire moved Hole aside from where he was sitting in front of a book case and, after a moment or two’s picking up and returning books, lifted one out and signalled the policeman back to his perch. He opened at the index, and then swiftly turned the pages to the one he needed.