Sharp would be annoyed with me, I knew that. I’d focused too much energy on Renner and Johnson, and right now, the image of the sledgehammer in my mind, I couldn’t really remember why. They were strangers, businessmen. What care had they for the politics of a small country village?
The roof door opened, and a pair of feet made their way to my side. I bowed my head, shoulders caving in.
“Dr Crowe told me you might have come up here, sir,” Mills said quietly. “She filled me in on your conversation with her.”
“The wheelbarrow?”
“Yes, sir, and the sheet. It makes sense.”
“Doesn’t it just? If you saw a man like Johnson in a village like that, pushing a wheelbarrow around, you’d pay attention.”
“I would, sir.”
“So why do I feel like we’ve been wasting our energy looking at the wrong people?”
“Apparently, HQ have been wondering the same.”
“They called?” Took them long enough. Thought they have simply pitched up themselves, in all their annoying glory.
“Just as you left, Sharp came in to tell me.”
“And what did they have to say about all this?”
“As far as they can see it, the murder weapon was found in possession of the man whose land was where the victim was found. Case closed, in their eyes.”
“None of his DNA on the hammer. Only Hughes’s.”
“That’s what Sharp tells them, and that we’re following every lead.”
“Bet they didn’t like that.”
“Not according to her.” Mills shook his head sadly. “We don’t have long, sir. If we don’t find something concrete to prove Goodwin or lead to someone else, HQ are coming in, taking the case.”
I muttered a curse, kicking at the leaves that had collected by my feet. “They’ll arrest him.”
“Goodwin?”
I nodded.
“There’s no hard evidence for that either.”
“No hard evidence for anything, Mills,” I said exasperatedly, at last turning to look at him.
He was looking out over the city as well, eyes tracing the roads. He pointed. “Can see my family’s house from here.”
“Mills?”
“I say we keep going, sir. I trust your instincts. I think we were going down the right path. Plus,” he pulled out his notebook, “I found this. A note I made when I went to see Mr Johnson for the first time.”
“What did you notice?”
“He had several books on cricket, and a ball, laying on his desk.”
“Cricket?”
“Yes, sir,” he said pleased.
“Cricket,” my question turned into a statement as I realized what Mills was on about.
“You said yourself whoever threw that rock had a good aim.”
“Never liked cricket all that much.”
“Me neither, sir. Doesn’t half drag on.” Mills shrugged. “My dad loves it.”
“Should have guessed you came from a cricket family,” I muttered.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Somewhat. Right!” I pulled my hands from my pockets, clapping them together. “Let’s play this in the principle that Crowe’s little wheelbarrow theory is correct. That would leave marks, trails, wouldn’t it? From the woods, into the field. Lots of people have wheelbarrows, but nobody reported one being stolen or borrowed. People like Goodwin,” I pointed to the floor below us, “would not let their wheelbarrows go rusty. The amount he uses it, I’d say he keeps it in good nick, gets a new one fairly regularly.”
“So, we should scout around for an old wheelbarrow. A rusty one.”
“Why not? If we’re going to the village to check for tracks, scout around a bit more, might as well. I want to figure out logistically how Hughes got from the woods into the fire.”
“It might be worth taking Goodwin with us,” Mills suggested, flipping his notebook closed. “He knows the land better than anyone else. If we can clear his name, we can take him along, see if he can notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“Good man. Clearing his name, first and foremost. Alibi from the fifth?”
“Working the bonfires, then his family claims he was with them all evening, got home and apparently,” he double-checked his notes, “passed out on the sofa at around ten. His wife had to wake him up, make him go to bed.”
“Those places get busy, and in the dark, it’s not always easy to see when someone steps away,” I noted. “But if he were the killer, and he stepped away after the bonfire was lit, I’d say he’d have gone to light his own.”
“Or at least move the body.”
“Right.”
“We can only go so far on the words of his family, sir. But there are the three of them, and the men in the fields.”
“I’ll speak to his family,” I decided. “You get the names of those men, double-check their claims. The sooner we get him out of here and get HQ from breathing down all our necks we can go to the village, connect a few of these dots.”
“Will Sharp give us the go-ahead on all that? Leaving the station?”
“Crowe’s done as much as she can with the hammer,”
“She has the rocks, now. Was quite excited about them, too.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Well, either way, whether she finds something or not, she has our numbers, doesn’t she?”
“And Jeannie, sir?”
“She can stay here with Smith until things get squared. I’ve been told to stay off that case, anyway. Surely I won’t be told off for following orders.”
“Surely not sir. Shall we?” He opened the roof door.
“Let’s.” I marched through, determination coursing through me. I’d see this case through if it bloody well killed me.
Twenty-Three
Thatcher
Mr Goodwin’s family sat along a row of armchairs, patiently waiting. They’d been given tea, offered some food, but they sat there, seemingly content to wait. The boy, the son, I took it, leant against his mother’s shoulder, playing with a small car. The daughter lounged across two chairs, her feet in her mother’s lap. She sat up as I approached, shuffling closer to her.
I gave Mills a nod, and he skirted away to find the numbers and make those calls. I dragged a chair from a random desk over the family, sitting down in front of them, hoping my glower had faded enough that they’d bear with me.
“Mrs Goodwin?” I addressed the woman holding the boy’s hand, her brown hair windswept around her face, huddled in a large knitted cardigan, her coat draped across her knees.
“Yes. You’re the detective?”
“Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself with a smile, “and these must be your children.”
“Yes. This is Frank and Jess.”
“Thank you for being so patient, all of you, it’s much appreciated.”
“Is our dad alright?” Jess demanded.
“I saw him a few minutes ago, he’s alright,” I assured them all.
“You should let him out, you know,” she insisted earnestly. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“Jess!” Her mother took her hand, tucking her into her side to quieten her. “What can we do for you, detective? And will he be much longer? I am worried.”
“I hope not, so please try not to worry. That’s why I’m here. I think if we work together, we can find what we need to get your husband out in a few hours. I’m in need of his assistance too.”
“You know he’s not done nothing?” the boy muttered.
“Not done anything, Frank,” Mrs Goodwin corrected him gently.
“I believe as much, yes.”
She breathed in deeply and nodded, lifting her chin higher. “What can we do then, detective?”
“If we can, in some way, find some strong, physical evidence of Mr Goodwin’s whereabouts on the evening of the fifth, we can move this whole process along much faster. And it is a process,” I said to the children. “We have a lot of protocol we have to
go through.”
“What kind of evidence?” Mrs Goodwin asked.
“Anything. A receipt from the pub, security footage, it can be all sorts.”
“We have a security camera at the house,” she answered, “but getting the footage would take some time.”
I straightened up. “Does the camera look over the yard? The barns?”
She shook her head sadly. “Just the front door. My father-in-law was a little paranoid when some new familiar moved in,” she tutted. “Course they’re very good friends of ours now.”
“Would a picture work?” Jess asked, picking at her chipped pink nail polish.
“A picture?”
“Of dad, at the fireworks.” She started rooting through her pocket, pulling out her phone. “I took quite a lot,” she said.
“Jess wants to do photography,” her mother added proudly.
The girl scrolled through several images, landing on one before she thrust her phone in my face. It was indeed Mr Goodwin, standing beside his son, holding sparklers. It was also, I noted, a smartphone, and the date and time of the image were noted.
I grinned. “This is excellent. May I?”
Jess nodded, and I flicked through a few more. The whole family, a few neighbours, and Mr Goodwin there, present in several of them. Most of them timed at around six, but a few were earlier, a few later as the family lumbered home.
“This is perfect, Jess. May I take your phone to my chief? So, she can see?”
“It will help dad?”
I nodded. “It will. Especially if we can be cheeky and borrow a few of these photos.”
Jess beamed, nodding enthusiastically. “Take it!”
“Will you need it for long?” her mother asked. “Because we can come back for it tomorrow if necessary?”
“I doubt that. It’ll be another hour or so,” I told them as I stood up. “Paperwork mostly, but your dad will be out soon.”
“Thank you, detective.”
“Thank your daughter, Mrs Goodwin. Very good work, Jess, and lovely photographs.”
The girl beamed with pride as I walked away, Mills joining me.
“Who knew you were so good with kids, sir?”
“Imagine having one of these at that age,” I muttered as we strode for Sharp’s door. “Any luck with the other men?”
“All confirming exactly what they told us.”
“That’s good. We have what we needed, anyway.”
I nodded on Sharp’s door.
“Come in,” she called out.
I walked to her desk silently, sliding the phone over to her. She pushed her glasses on, bending over the phone, swiping from one picture to the other, noting the date and time of each. Then she looked up, took her glasses off and nodded.
“Good. Mr Goodwin’s free to go. Just find the actual killer now, Thatcher.”
“They did this on purpose to turn our eyes, distract us,” I pointed out.
“And waste our time.” She sighed. “Better get on it then.”
“I want to go back to the village, with Mr Goodwin this time,” I informed her. “Have another look around his property.”
“Very well. Be careful, though, Thatcher. You’re taking him?” She nodded towards Mills.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Sharp focused on me. “And, Thatcher? No more diving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Off you go, then. Time is of the essence.”
I cleared my throat. “I’d like to take another officer. to check on something else while we’re there.”
Sharp raised an eyebrow, no doubt shocked that I was actually asking for backup of sorts. “Very well. Take Smith.”
I hesitated. “Is she not with Miss Gray?”
“Miss Gray has left, Smith will come with you.”
I straightened, resisting the temptation to turn and look at my office. “She left?”
“Yes.”
“Is that safe?”
Sharp gave me a withering look that had Mills taking a step behind me. “An officer has been stationed outside the newspaper office, and she will be returning to her sister’s house until the matter is settled.”
“I see.”
“Now, get out of my office, Thatcher,” she ordered. “You can take Goodwin with you. I’ll handle the paperwork.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She waved her hand dismissively, and we backed out of the room, shutting the door gently. I turned to Mills.
“Did you know she had left?”
“Might have,” he answered sheepishly.
“Didn’t want to tell me, eh?”
“You seemed bothered enough,” Mills explained. “Knew you’d be happy that she’d accepted the uniform, though.”
On the contrary, the only reason Jeannie would have deigned to have police protection would be if she was scared. Quite scared.
“I’ll drive, sir,” Mills said. “You can call her on the way.”
“I don’t need to call her,” I replied, grabbing my coat, “and I’m not getting in your car again until you’ve given it a damn good hoover.”
“Yes, sir.”
We passed Goodwin’s family, and I paused. “Chief Superintendent Sharp is working on your husband’s paperwork. If I may, can we head to the field?”
“Of course,” his wife said. “I’ll have him meet you there.”
“Thank you, Mrs Goodwin.”
She smiled again, and Mills and I headed down to my car. We met Smith by the door, determined to get out to the village before the ominous clouds in the distance made their way over.
“How much are you expecting to find, sir?” Smith asked from the backseat.
“Tracks.”
“Been a lot of rain,” Mills pointed out. “Might be hard to find.”
“Might be. Which is why you, Smith,” she looked up, meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror, “will be looking for a wheelbarrow.”
“A wheelbarrow?” she repeated.
“Yes. Probably a very old one, rusty, most likely still covered in mud.”
“You want me to check the whole village for a wheelbarrow? Don’t I need a warrant for that?”
“I want you to go to the hotel,” I told her. “Ask if maintenance keep any wheelbarrows on the property and ask to see them.”
“The hotel, sir?”
“Yes. If it’s not there, then you come to us in the field, and we go from there.”
Smith looked confused, but she nodded. “Hotel. Got it, sir.”
“Good. I’ll drop you off there, when you walk back to us take the main road, got it? No taking trips across any fields or woodland.”
“Understood, sir.”
“I mean it, Smith,” I said sternly. “Do not go off the path.”
“I won’t,” she replied in a similar tone/ “I’ll avoid the river too, sir.”
I glared at her in the mirror as Mills sputtered on a laugh. She looked back innocently, a small smile on her face.
“Should have brought someone else,” I muttered. “Someone more respectful.”
“You hate it when people are respectful,” Mills reminded me.
“Better than being made fun of.”
“I’m only teasing, sir,” Smith said. “We all think it’s very brave what you did, actually. And very heroic of Mills,” she sat forward, rubbing his shoulder, “saving your life.”
“Thank you.”
“Like the Little Mermaid.”
“Alright,” Mills leant forward, turning the radio on as we laughed.
It seemed we couldn’t outrun the clouds. They followed us from the city, out into the village, hanging over the trees.
“Do you think it’ll rain?” Mills asked. He stood by the field, having left Smith at the hotel, pulling on a pair of gloves, his head tipped back to the sky.
“I hope not. Hope it’ll pass us over but knowing our luck we’ll be thrown into a full-on thunderstorm.”
“My mum says when
you get a storm in winter, that means it’ll be a cold one.”
“Sort of thing mum’s say,” I replied. “Come on.” I climbed over the gate, dropping into the field. Goodwin had, thankfully, not done anything with the land yet, and the remnants of the bonfire were still scattered around, buffeted by the wind.
“Good thing he hasn’t ploughed,” Mills commented as we walked towards it.
“Good thing, indeed. Or planted anything.” I kicked at a clump of soil. It was rather damp. I wasn’t sure what would grow happily in here.
The rain we’d had recently had done its work, the gathering streams of rain shifted the earth and moved the debris around. Nevertheless, since no one had come through with any farming equipment, there was still a chance to find something.
I walked over to where the bonfire had sat, squelching through the thick mud. Short, sparse tufts of grass and weeds sprouted out from the ground, caked in dirt. I stopped by the base of the fire and looked across it, where the edge of the woodlands brushed the edge of the fields. It was rather densely packed, the trees close together, the hedges along the field thick with brambles. Not much of a space to get a wheelbarrow through, let alone two people, a dead body, a satchel and a sledgehammer.
“I thought there’d be a gap,” Mills muttered, following my line of sight, “or at least, enough of one to get through.”
“So did I.”
“They would have had to go round,” he said, following the lines of the field to the upper gate, attached to the farmer’s yard.
“To go round would mean passing through Mr Goodwin’s land.”
“If nobody was in the house, or on the farm, it’s possible.”
“Most things are possible, Mills. It would make sense that they knew they had a chance of hiding the weapon there if they’d already passed through.”
“And to why nobody saw them doing it, the road goes along there.” Mills pointed to the car. “Up there’s not exactly common ground for wayward walkers or cyclists, is it?”
“Gentlemen!” Mr Goodwin waved at us from the gate, striding across, looking far more at ease than earlier. A rickety Land Rover carried on down the road, Jess’s face pressed against the window.
Unusual Remains Page 20
