Murder on the Commons (A Davies & West Mystery Book 4)

by Will North

  Adam wasn’t sure he could believe her, but he carried on. “The GTI’s been among the top ten cars in the world every year since it was first built, like, thirty years ago. Gets the same ratings in the American car magazines. Its nickname is ‘the pocket rocket.’ The car’s a monster. Looks like a boring Golf hatchback, but it is pure race car under the shell. It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Amazing German engineering. We should have them in the force!”

  “Not in my lifetime, or even yours, I suspect. But give me a spin sometime.” She registered his passion and wondered if he, too, were a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She had the sense that they were only beginning to comprehend Novak’s strengths.

  They reached the entrance to Poldue Manor and Adam expertly pointed the Corsa through the stone gates in a four-wheel power slide, barely braking.

  “Let’s not spin just now, Adam, shall we?”

  “Under control, ma’am,” he said, slowing as they approached the wide gravel forecourt.

  Beverly Cuthbertson met them at the door and led them along the foyer toward the kitchen.

  “I suspect you’d like a spot of tea this morning, and I’ve also made some currant scones. Jan will be down in a moment, though I can’t imagine what more she can add. She says she’s already told you everything she knows about finding that poor man’s body.”

  “I can’t either,” said a voice at the kitchen door. “This only brings it all up again. Why aren’t you people looking for whoever did this?”

  Jan was wearing tight black jeans, a quilted olive Barbour vest over a crisp white blouse, and suede ankle boots the color of a deer’s coat. The boots had two-inch heels that somehow accentuated her haughty attitude as well as her height. It was clear she meant to be heading out.

  Beverly brought the tray of tea, milk, and fragrant scones and set it on a bright floral placemat in the middle of the stripped-pine kitchen table. She poured a cup for Morgan and sat beside her. Adam remained standing.

  “Thank you, Beverly,” Morgan said, reaching immediately for a scone.

  ‘You know this person?” Jan demanded. She was still in the doorway, her right hand on her hip.

  “This person, Jan, is Detective Inspector Morgan Davies. She and Artie have been helping me with your father.”

  Adam pulled out a chair for the girl.

  “Please join us, Jan,” Morgan said. “We’re just trying to tie up a few loose ends.”

  The young woman did so, but refused tea.

  “What is it, then?” she snapped. “I have someplace to be this morning.”

  “This should not take up much of your time, Ms. Cuthbertson,” Morgan said, smiling a smile she did not feel. “Just a few follow up questions about that evening when Detective Sergeant Terry Bates and Detective Constable Novak here interviewed you about what you’d found.”

  Jan shrugged. Her face was a mask of indifference.

  Morgan nodded to Adam to take the lead. He opened his notebook.

  “If my notes are correct, you came straight home after calling the police about the body you found?”

  “It was getting dark and a mist was closing in. I had to hurry.”

  “You were concerned for your safety, even though you know the moor better than most?”

  The girl rolled her eyes, less brown and more green in the kitchen’s warm light. “Yes. When the mist closes in you can lose your way. It was moving in fast. You have to be careful. Bodmin Moor can be dangerous. Plus,” she added with an unconvincing toss of her head, “I worried whoever had done that might still be out there.”

  Novak looked up from his notebook. “Was there any sign that someone else was around? The moor is so open you would certainly have seen anyone.”

  “Not if they were on Rough Tor. There are nooks and crannies in that rock formation you can hide in. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  Adam smiled. “No, of course not. Very wise. Now, when you got home—correct me if I am wrong—your parents had gone off to a Landowners’ Association meeting at the Old Inn in St. Breward. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Beverly Cuthbertson said, speaking for the first time. “We meet there monthly.”

  Morgan, sitting next to her, pressed Beverly’s hand into her chair cushion. This was Jan’s interview.

  Adam continued: “And had your parents left you supper?”

  “Yes, but I had no appetite for it. I drank some scotch instead to steady myself. I wasn’t hungry after seeing that…thing.”

  “Perfectly understandable under the circumstances,” Adam said. “Now, DCI Penwarren dispatched DS Bates and me to talk to you later that evening about your unpleasant discovery. I gather he knows your family and was especially concerned about this incident and your welfare.”

  “Yes, Artie is a family friend, by divorce. From my aunt.”

  “Yes, so we understand. Now, when DS Bates and I turned into your manor drive that night, we met a Range Rover exiting to the main road. Do you recall us mentioning that?”

  Jan Cuthbertson’s eyes scanned the kitchen, as if trying to remember that moment. She shook her head vaguely. “I’m afraid I do not. It was a pretty traumatic evening and, as I mentioned, I had been drinking.”

  “Well, perhaps I can refresh your memory,” Adam continued. He flipped a few pages in the narrow notebook. “Ah, here it is. You said that the car was probably your parents going off to that landowners’ meeting. Do you recall saying that?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  Adam smiled. “I was quoting you. It’s here in my notes. But the thing is, your parents would already have left for their meeting by then, isn’t that correct?”

  “I honestly don’t recall the timing… and, frankly, I have to be off for an appointment.”

  Novak paused, giving her time. She did not rise from her chair.

  “The timing notwithstanding, is it not a fact that your family does not own a Range Rover?”

  She looked at her mother but got only a lifted eyebrow. It unnerved her. She realized she was alone in a lie of her own creation.

  “Yes, that is so. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake. It was dark, after all.”

  Morgan sat up in her chair and leaned forward. “Or perhaps you did, Ms. Cuthbertson.”

  “I don’t know what you are implying.”

  “Oh, I suspect you do, luv,” Morgan said, her voice gentle, almost maternal. “As Adam noted, your parents were away. Let’s say you were upset because of your discovery. Who wouldn’t be? Finding yourself alone, is it not reasonable that you might have asked someone, a friend or neighbor perhaps, to come and help you through the shock—someone whom you did not wish to reveal that night? Or, for that matter, today?” Morgan nodded to Adam.

  “Is that not the case, Ms. Cuthbertson? That you had a visitor?”

  “It’s none of your business!” Jan cried, glaring at them both.

  “I’m afraid, Jan,” Morgan said, still gently, “that in the case of murder—and that’s what this is, by the way, not some accident, but murder—that everything henceforward is our business.”

  “I have nothing more to say,” Jan said, rising.

  “Sit down, Jan. Now!” her mother ordered. “And stop being a stupid cow. You’re too old for that routine anymore. What happened that night?”

  “I’m leaving,” Jan announced, and without another word, she turned and stalked out of the kitchen, her heels cracking like gunshots on the foyer’s marble tiles as she fled to the front door.

  Beverly rose to stop her but Morgan held her arm and made her sit again. Outside, in the forecourt, they heard Jan’s BMW roar to life and scatter gravel as she sped away.

  “It’s all right, Beverly, we’ll get this all sorted. You have other things to worry about. Clearly, something matters to your daughter more than the truth. We’ll have her down to the Bodmin Hub to be interviewed, perhaps under oath. I don’t for a moment think she’s implicated in that man’s murder, but there’s no question she’s hiding something
—or someone. We need to find out who and why.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Artie. This is getting a bit complicated.”

  “Of course. And I’ll let him know.”

  THE MIST HAD turned to rain and Adam steered the Corsa back to Bodmin through lanes so overtopped by trees he felt the need for headlamps to be safe in the filtered darkness. Autumn was upon them and he skidded once on wet leaves.

  “Let’s not try to kill ourselves, Detective Constable.”

  He eased off the accelerator. “Yes, ma’am. In control.”

  “So, what’s your take on that interview?” Morgan asked.

  “Sex.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She’s having an affair with someone.”

  “That’s neither unusual nor illegal.”

  “Except that I suspect it’s someone her parents would not approve of if they knew. Maybe some chap who works for them.”

  “Do they have farm hands?”

  “A farm manager is all. Much older chap—aren’t they all anymore? Gotta be seventy, if not more. Fixes fences and gates, moves the sheep from field to field, or up onto the moor with his dog, arranges for shearing by traveling shearers. Nothing much else to do.”

  She laughed. “Let’s assume he’s out. What’s he called?”

  “Bishop. No one calls him by anything else. It’s his surname. Met him, and his border collie, at the Old Inn by accident while having Sunday lunch with Terry. Old age pensioner. Discovered we are distantly related. My mother’s side of the family. He’s wiry and tough, but no longer spry. Don’t know how he even carries on.”

  “Then who?”

  Adam smiled. “Reckon you’ll get that out of her at the nick. You have a way of squeezing out the truth.”

  Twenty

  DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR Waggoner was in his glassed-in office Wednesday morning, staring out at the Mersey just beyond the massive brick bulk of the Albert Dock. When he’d joined the force, these old Liverpool shipping warehouses had been nearly derelict. Now, twenty-odd years on, they’d become posh condominiums, a Beatles Museum, a branch of the Tate Art Museum, and Lord knew how many trendy restaurants and bars. He considered himself lucky. His office in the Special Branch was on the sixth floor, high enough that he could see beyond the brick warehouses to the river beyond, blue today under a clear sky. The river, once so filthy it was called “an affront to the standards of a civilized society,” was now clean enough for fish and otters. He’d seen it all. In the glass, he also saw the reflection of the small man standing behind him and put a hand to his forehead.

  “Jesus, Bert, what have you got us into? What’s the use of you?”

  “My use, Ralph, is like grease in a big machine,” Bert Doherty said. “Like you, I’m just a cog, though maybe the drive wheel. I keep things running smoothly for you and the boyos across the water, eh?”

  Waggoner turned to face him. “You call bringing in Lugg keeping things running smoothly? That imbecile’s probably put the Cornwall branch of the business, and me, in serious jeopardy!”

  “That dead imbecile.”

  “Even worse. Was he your idea of the perfect local courier? An addict and a thug?!”

  Doherty raised his hands. “Not mine, the boys in Cork. Their choice. They were fans. I only arranged it.”

  “Then they’re idiots, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be too public with that opinion if I were you. Might be harmful to your personal safety, if you catch my drift.”

  Waggoner scowled: “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not. We need you too much. Use your noggin’. You’re close to retirement, yeah? Might be wise to be careful a little longer, get out with a clean nose and a solid pension. Get kudos from the boyos across the water, maybe a nice stipend to help support your, um, lifestyle as thanks for your service, no one the wiser.”

  Waggoner rubbed his temples. Doherty, much as he detested the little weasel, was right. He’d got into this arrangement for the money. His mistress, a blond beauty from Ukraine, middle aged now, but still lush and eager, had expensive taste. So did his wife, come to that. His DCI’s salary didn’t support them both and his pension wouldn’t either. He needed the “boyos across the water.” He was merely the local cover for a much larger enterprise—and what could be a better cover than a detective chief inspector in Liverpool’s finest? Doherty was their man, not his, he knew. But he was in it up to his neck. Doherty knew it too.

  “And by the way,” he continued, “your lame attempt to frighten off that girl from Cornwall in the hotel car park wasn’t successful, was it, Bert? She was back here with her boss in a matter of days.”

  “That was your idea, the CONFI agreement.”

  “I had no alternative. I couldn’t completely stonewall them. Thankfully, our man Winterbourne dithered them to death and they got almost nothing. Unless they manage to get something from the Garda.”

  “Which they won’t.”

  Waggoner sighed. “All right, how much do you know about this chap O’Dare?”

  “An Irishman to the core. He’s our anchor down there and our warehouser. Ferries the goods from Cork, sorts them, and gets them sold. Has old family connections to the cause back home. Completely reliable, so far. Efficient and practically invisible. Lugg was his man on the street.”

  “Did he kill Lugg?”

  “Haven’t a clue. We only know Lugg’s dead. And we only know that thanks to Cornwall CID.”

  “And your ‘completely reliable’ man, O’Dare, didn’t tell you?”

  “No. But he hasn’t missed this week’s pickup and payment. I will be paying him a visit shortly.”

  “Have you at least spoken to him?”

  “No. I want to surprise him, catch him off balance.”

  “Sounds to me like you don’t fully trust him.”

  “I don’t fully trust anyone.”

  “What’s he doing right now?”

  “Carrying on as per usual is my guess. He’s well compensated for his unusual service. And that’s my recommendation for you, too, chief. Stay above the fray and keep us all protected as you have all along. In short, ‘Keep calm and carry on’.”

  Waggoner turned back to the river. “You’re dismissed.”

  Doherty passed Detective Sergeant Gloria Stephens as he left Waggoner’s office.

  Stephens winked. “Disciplinary session, Bert?”

  Doherty smiled. “In a sense.”

  JAN ROLLED OFF Ronnie’s chest and lay on her back, exhausted. She’d been shagging her lover in his ornate antique four-poster bed for nearly an hour, through multiple orgasms. His stamina amazed her. She was spent.

  “I think I could be very happy here with you at Davidstow,” she murmured into the pillows.

  He rolled on top of her and propped himself up on arms that were slender but ropey.

  She laughed. “Oh no, Ronnie, give me a moment…”

  He ignored her and entered her again but then kept still. Her eyes widened.

  “Tell me more about that proposition you mentioned Sunday at the pub,” he demanded.

  “Interested, are you?” She flashed a lascivious smile. “Okay, here’s the story. I’ve discovered Poldue is nearly bankrupt. My father hasn’t been on top of the estate’s finances for a few years now and they’re a shambles. Mother doesn’t know how bad things are. On the other hand, my father is apparently dying, thank God. And there’s no way my mother could manage the estate. I’ve been thinking it will soon be a great business opportunity.”

  He thrust once, deeply, and she gasped. He grinned and ceased. Despite herself, she writhed beneath him. He owned her.

  “There’s just this one problem,” he said.

  “This doesn’t feel like a problem,” she purred.

  “The land, my sweet, the land.”

  “What about it?”

  “Like mine, it’s in a bloody Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. AONBs can’t be developed. What use would Poldue be to me?”
/>   Jan pulled her hips away from him and sat up, a Cheshire grin on her lips.

  “And that’s where you’d be wrong, darling.”

  WHEN SHE TURNED her BMW south on the narrow lane from Davidstow Manor toward Poldue later that afternoon, sated and excited all at once, Jan did not notice Randall Cuthbertson on his favorite horse, motionless on the ridge overlooking the Davidstow estate. He watched her race along the lane, kicking up dust, and struggled to make sense of it. He sat there for several minutes until the horse, sensing his confusion, turned and walked slowly back over the moor toward Poldue.

  Twenty-One

  WEDNESDAY EVENING MORGAN let herself into Calum’s bungalow and followed her nose to a kitchen redolent with the aroma of cooking onions, garlic, and rosemary. Kaitlin was at the island counter in the middle of the kitchen dicing peeled carrots. Her younger sister, Megan, was at the sink peeling Maris Piper potatoes. They were both wearing aprons so out-sized Morgan guessed they must have belonged to Calum’s late wife. Calum was at the gas cooker stirring butter, onions, herbs, and garlic in a deep cast iron skillet.

  She threw her suit jacket over a chair at the kitchen table where they all ate. There was a small dining room, but they never used it. The kitchen was their gathering place.

  “Calum! You cook?”

  “Of course I do,” he said without turning. “How do you think I’ve kept my girls alive?”

  “Okay, fair enough. But how come I’ve been doing it all these past couple of weeks?”

  “You may recall my heart tried to stop.”

  Morgan slipped behind him, pressed her breasts against his back, and kissed his neck.

  “Oooh…” Kaitlin teased, looking up from the cutting board. Megan giggled and dropped a slippery potato into the sink.

  “Get over it, you little beasts,” Morgan said. “I’ve become rather fond of this idiot father of yours.”

  “We’re making shepherd’s pie tonight,” little Megan piped. “It’ll go in the oven and get all yummy! It’s my favorite.”