“Where?”
“I don’t care! Anywhere but here. The field, or something. The farmer’s barn.”
“I don’t think that they regard him as a suspect.”
“Doesn’t matter. It will distract them, get them off our scent at least,” he shuddered. “I don’t need them poking their noses in and around my life.”
“Why don’t you plant it?”
“I’ll take care of the journalist. I know where the newspaper is.”
“And I get to sneak around in the freezing cold, doing all the dirty work,” I scoffed. First, the laptop and now this.
“What exactly do you think I’ll be doing at the newspaper?” He asked darkly.
“You won’t kill her?”
“Of course not, don’t be stupid. We just need her notes, that’s all. I’ll go this evening when the place is empty. And you,” he pointed a finger at me, “you find a suitable place to plant it.”
“Someone will see me, creeping around at night with a great big hammer.”
“Then be discreet. More so than you were down at that sodding river.” He stood up, buttoning his coat, “we finish this tonight. If we both get our jobs done, they’ll be too interested in everybody else and you and I,” he almost snarled, “can be on our merry way. Alright?”
“It would make sense,” I argued, “if we did this together. One of us can keep a lookout.”
“And that wouldn’t be suspicious? If someone saw the two of us together?”
“We could cover for that, but two sets of eyes are better than one, especially if the detective and his sidekick are still here.”
He shook his head dismissively. “They’ll have gone by now.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he fell in the bloody river. He’ll need a change of clothes, somewhere warm.”
He stood by the window, breathing deeply, and eventually gave a slow nod. “Fine. We’ll do this together, but I’m not touching that thing.”
“Fine,” I snapped back, standing up and pushing the chair away, “I’ll do that.”
He followed me back outside, the wind groaning through the nearby trees. I’d hidden it around the back, stuffed under one of the overgrown bushes that crawled up the wall, wrapped in a ratty old sheet. I was careful not to touch the hammer, clutching it by the sheet and tucking it inside my coat.
“Let’s go.”
The farmer had a few barns around his land, old brick buildings that leant against one another. A few lights were on in the farmhouse, the windows lit up. Faint noise rang from the house, clattering and talking. The family would all be inside. This wasn’t the sort of night for dallying around out in the yard.
“The door’s open,” he muttered, “that one there.”
We crept towards it. It must be an old storage shed. Rusty tools laid around, and parts on an old car gathered dust. There was an open barrel in the corner, trails of webs crawling over it. I carefully unwrapped the hammer as he stood in the door and lowered it in. Should have cleaned it more thoroughly, bleach or disinfectant or something. But those weren’t things you could pop to the corner shop and buy without people taking an interest. This village was too small, really, to have any privacy. I wouldn’t be sad to take my leave, then the day came. I’d gotten most of the blood off, but it wormed its way into the wooden handle, stuck between the grains. If nothing else, I had worn gloves before.
“Come on,” he hissed at me. I bundled up the sheet and skirted towards him, following away from the farm, out into a small lane, and we crept our way through hedges and over fences to where his car sat, waiting. There was no sign of the detective and his lackey. They must have taken off after all.
“Get in,” he ordered, sliding in himself and turning the ignition. We set off, gliding away from the village, and I watched it vanish in the mirror. His phone rang a few times as we drove, but he ignored it, muttering under his breath. Someone wanted to get in touch.
When we reached the city, the streets fairly quiet and brightly lit, he pulled over, and we walked the rest of the way, taking a shortcut through a snickleway to the building that I assumed to be the paper. It was a good read, The Post, better than some other local papers, and its location suited it. An old building, long windows, the bricks kept clean so that the sandstone gleamed yellow in the glow of the streetlights.
The windows were all dark, saving one or two on the lower levels. The receptionist remained there too; the man still hunkered at the desk.
“How exactly,” I asked as he checked his phone, frowning at whoever had been calling, “are we supposed to get in there?”
“We’ll wait for them to leave.”
“And then what? Just break in? What do we know about breaking in? What if they have an alarm?”
“Do you have any clever suggestions?” he hissed.
I sighed and looked back at the building. “They must have a back door.”
It was worth looking. We couldn’t very well stand here in the courtyard until the place fell dark.
“Down there?” I pointed to the small alley that ran along the side of the building.
He shoved his phone away, pulled his scarf up and started walking. We stayed close to the edge, in the shadows from the neighbouring buildings, ducking down the tight passage. A small door was there, posters for upcoming circuses and previous firework displays plastered to the brick wall around it. He reached out, trying the handle. “Locked.”
“It looks like an old door. Can you pick the lock?”
“With what? Do I look like I carry hairpins?”
“You’re wearing a tie.”
“And?”
“Tie pin might do the job.”
He grumbled again, bending down and removing the pin, fiddling with the lock for a few moments whilst I kept an eye on the alley. There was a click, and it gave way, the door creaking open a fraction.
“We need to be quick,” he whispered. “Out by the time they’re out.”
I nodded, and we wandered inside, up the stairs to the large room, like a factory room, littered with desks.
“What was her name?” he whispered as we crept along,
“Jeannie Gray.”
He nodded, and we parted, checking the names on the desks. I found it eventually, over the window, the desk immaculately tidy.
“Here.” I waved him over.
I wrenched open the little boxes on her desk as he emptied the paper tray, flicking through sheet after sheet. Nothing. The drawers were next, all of them fairly untidy.
“Hurry up,” he snapped.
I rolled my eyes and emptied the drawers out onto the desk, the contents clattering onto the floor. We sifted through the mess.
“What are we looking for?” he asked.
“A drive, most likely.” I picked up a small box and opened it up. “Aha! Here!” I showed him the tightly packed collection of memory sticks and cards I had just uncovered.
“Bring it,” he said, and I slipped it into my pocket.
“Anything else?”
It all seemed fairly useless: random, illegible scribbles of names and places, first drafts and scrapped pieces, scrawled over angrily.
“We should do something else,” he muttered.
“Do what?”
“Leave a message. Make sure she knows to keep out of this.”
“Leave a message? What are you thinking?”
The journalist had a small toy blackbird sitting by her monitor, the symbol of the paper gracing the front page. He picked it up, looking at it closely as he turned it in his hands. He picked up a pair of scissors and clipped its head off, leaving them on the desk. And for good measure, he wrapped his hand in his scarf and slammed it into the computer screen, the glass splintering and cracking, small pieces falling out onto the desk.
“Feel better for that?” I asked him. “Nice and loud, for everyone to hear?” I glared up at him, the idiot, then my eyes darted to the stairs, half-expecting someone to come sprinting up.<
br />
“Let’s hope she latches on, takes the hint, and buggers off.”
“Was that necessary?”
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this,” he sneered down at me, “but we might get caught and thrown in jail. And I do not,” he prodded me hard, “want to go to jail. So yes, this was necessary. Just like going for the detective was necessary and just like, if it also becomes necessary, taking care of you will be. Now bring that,” he pointed to the box, “and let’s get out of here.” He spat through his teeth, turned on his heel, and strode from the room.
I recoiled from him, clutching the box tightly. I flashed a glance at the ruined computer, the decapitated symbol, the ruined mess of papers, pens and trinkets that were now strewn across the floor and the desk. Necessary, was it?
I walked after him, standing on the small snow globe he had knocked to the floor. It shattered under my boot, leaking into the carpet. Lifting my chin high, I stalked away, down the stairs, and into the alley where he waited. He shut the door and held his hand for the box.
“You take half, I’ll take half,” he said, divvying the contents up.
“What about the hammer?”
“I’ll call it in once we’re both at home. Make sure someone sees you tonight, stop and say hello, but not like that.” He grimaced at my slightly ruined clothes and filthy boots. “Change first. Shower maybe, make it seem like you’ve been in all night.”
“Alright,” I said, taking my share of the memory cards. She was a busy girl, that much was for sure, and seemingly exhaustive in her research. Another long night tonight.
He drove us back to the village, far away enough that nobody noticed me creep back in. I showered and changed into clean clothes, leaving my hair a little damp before taking myself out for a drink.
People saw me, a few nods and wary smiles. I hoped my face was blank as I sat and sipped at my drink. My phone flashed after some time.
“Done,” was all it said. The tip-off, that must be. It wouldn’t take them long, I doubted, before they filed in here, blue lights flashing in the hills. I’d make sure I wasn’t here when they did. I stayed a little longer, ordered another drink, and then, making sure many people saw me do so, made my way back, seeking my bed.
The memory cards sat on my desk. A very long night indeed, I thought unhappily, sitting down and picking up the first one. I was on the fourth one, looking at the detailed notes from a previous case done by DCI Thatcher, when I finally called it a night. The police pulled into the village eventually, but I was beyond caring by then. It would be a long night for them too, and the farmer especially.
I tried to feel bad, but needs must, as I knew. It all had to be done.
Twenty-One
Thatcher
The shock of the night wore off after a few more pints, and I lumbered home in the dark, collapsing onto my bed, every bone and muscle in my body aching. At Mills’s request, I’d pop in to see Lena at some point, since I’d refused to go to the actual hospital. Nothing hurt that bad. My back was fine with a few painkillers, and I could breathe without trouble. He’d looked very concerned when we parted ways outside the pub, the tab was taken care of by him. I was in for it with Sharp this morning. I knew that much. Her name flashed up on my phone a few times, but nothing that I couldn’t deal with until I got there.
I took my time, awkwardly stretching an arm around my back to slather on some more cream, dressing and eating slowly, meandering around in the early autumn light. Mills was outside when I left the house, leaning against his car, two cups of coffee in hand, a slightly stricken look on his face.
I took the coffee he offered and sighed. “Morning, Mills.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Tell me what’s happened, then.”
He indicated the car, and I climbed in, waiting for him to get and drive.
“Call came last night, sir. Another tip.”
“To what?”
“Apparently, someone had seen something suspicious on the property of Mr Goodwin. Uniform went out to check last night, found what looks to be our murder weapon. Sledgehammer, somewhat clean, but it’s been in forensics, trying to match a blood sample.”
“Goodwin?”
“Brought in, sir. Sharp’s waiting for you.”
“Blimey. That’s a way to start the day, isn’t it?” I muttered. A potential murder weapon in possession of the old farmer we had crossed off our list.
“What are you thinking?” I asked Mills.
“I didn’t hold any suspect to Goodwin, but so far,” he shrugged, a reluctant look on his face, “the last tip we had was right.”
“True,” I agreed, though this one didn’t sit right with me either.
“There’s more,” he added glumly, watching me closely.
“Oh, good.”
“There was a break-in last night. About an hour before we got the call.” I looked at him, confused.
“Since when do we handle break-ins?”
“Since it was the Post that was broken into, and Jeannie Gray’s desk that was ransacked,” he said carefully. I blinked, Jeannie?
“Is she alright?” I demanded.
“Haven’t heard, sir. Smith said she’d be there when we arrive.”
I let out a long sigh, dragging my fingers through my hair. “What did they take?”
“Her drives, apparently.”
“Must be looking for her notes,” I realised.
“That’s what I think, too, sir.”
“Bloody hell, Mills,” I muttered, “I barely know where to start.”
“I can talk to Jeannie while you question the farmer,” he suggested, “get all the details down.”
I wanted to say no, leave Jeannie to me. But Sharp would have something to say about that. The murder weapon came first, and for all we knew, Jeannie’s desk was broken into by any number of disgruntled paper readers or story subjects. She wasn’t exactly diplomatic in all of her pieces.
We pulled up to the station and Sharp waited inside, commandeering us quickly along the hallways.
“Ma’am.”
“Mr Goodwin was brought in with the weapon,” she explained. “Dr Crowe and her team are working on it, making sure that the blood matches that of Samuel Hughes.”
“Did he make a statement?”
“Nothing official, yet, but he seemed shocked, according to Smith. Says it’s not his, never seen it before. The usual.”
“Where is he?”
“Interrogation. I’ll be joining you. Mills?”
“Ma’am,”
“Jeannie Gray is here.” She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Go and speak to her, take some details.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to us both and scurried off.
“What are the odds that this is connected?” Sharp asked as she glanced back at me. “Jeannie’s office being robbed and this little murder investigation you dragged her into?”
“High, but that rather depends on this murder weapon, doesn’t it?”
We paused outside the room, Sharp’s hand frozen on the handle. “You wrote him off, said there was no motive.”
“None that I could see.”
“I trust you, Thatcher. So, what can you see?”
“Someone’s upset we have the phone and the laptop, wants to keep us off their scent.”
“Dragging him into this does that,” she remarked, “and you and I will be having words about that laptop, Max Thatcher.”
“I expected as much.”
She gave me a once-over, fixed my shirt collar, and opened the door, following me into the room. I smiled dryly at the farmer who waited for us, twisting his cap in his hands. He was dressed in his tweed jacket, his sun-kissed face a lot more pale and interesting than when I last saw him. He looked up as we sat down, his eyes pink and watery, his feet shuffled under the table, and his eyes didn’t stay still. They focused on us, the door, the mirror, his feet, his hat, his hands, and back.
“Morning, Mr Goodwin.”
“Inspector.”
“This is Chief Superintendent Sharp. She’ll be joining us.”
“I swear to you, Inspector, that I’ve never seen that hammer in my life. I don’t know how it ended up there, I--”
I cut him off with a wave. “Tell me about last night. Did you go out into the barn?”
“I was there that morning, with my boy,” he recounted. “Fixing an old car, we are, one that belonged to my old man. In there most of the day. Went in for dinner and it was a cold night, so we stayed in. Watched a film, went to bed.”
“Did you lock the door to the barn?”
“No. Never do. Don’t need to, or at least I didn’t think I needed to. Nothing in there of any use to anyone in the village.”
“Do you own your own sledgehammer?”
“Aye, but it’s in another shed. That one I lock,” he held up his hand, “to make sure the little ones don’t go in. It’ll be in there. I know it will.”
If he left his barn door open, there was nothing stopping anyone from sneaking in and placing the hammer there.
“You were in the barn with your son?” Sharp clarified.
“Yes, miss? Ma’am?”
“He can confirm whether or not he saw the hammer in there,” she said.
“He can.”
“Well, Mr Goodwin, we’ve taken your fingerprints, so once we’ve established whether or not there’s a match, you’ll be staying put. Is that alright?”
He nodded, hair flopping. “Long as needed,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Sharp gave him a rare, sympathetic smile and jerked her head at me. I followed her out into the next room, where we watched Goodwin through the glass.
“He’s certainly capable of killing a man and lugging his body into a bonfire,” she remarked, taking in his broad build.
“Strong enough, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s capable.”
“Thatcher--”
“What reason would he have?” I asserted. “And why would he put him in a bonfire in his own field that wasn’t likely to ever be burnt?”
“I thought we’d established that this isn’t exactly a genius killer, Thatcher.”
Unusual Remains Page 18
