Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Marsh took a sip from coffee that was at best tepid, while Wild shuddered a little. “Go and book in your evidence and then we’ll have a team review. I think we’re gonna need a bigger whiteboard.”

  * * *

  Wild treated himself to a vending machine visit after booking in the shotgun and one of his precious darts. Booking in all three was a step too far and he expected — well, hoped — that Edwin Causly would let the matter drop. Thankfully it wasn’t his best set of darts. Tungsten was too good for Causly.

  As he reached his desk with a hallowed cup of coffee, he saw Sergeant Galloway and Marnie Olsen approaching from the opposite direction. He cracked a smile and she barely acknowledged him, following the sergeant’s lead to DI Marsh’s office.

  They went straight in and the door closed quietly. Clearly, they were expected. Wild sipped his coffee and tried to read the situation. Olsen had been her usual focused self but there was something else, a sense of tension that hinted at triumph or disaster. Maybe this was the royal handshake after the London debacle. Why Marsh, though, and why not say something to him beforehand?

  Wild tapped his desk rhythmically to accompany his thoughts. Logically, it had to be connected with the Porter investigation. Maybe he’d missed something or screwed up somewhere down the line? “Nah,” he assured his darkened reflection in the screen, “you’ll be fine.”

  A few minutes later, to no surprise at all, a hand poked through Marsh’s office blinds and beckoned him. He didn’t bother knocking, especially as they’d have company. A man had his pride if nothing else.

  “Ma’am?” He nodded to Sergeant Galloway and then Olsen, whose flicker of a smile suggested it wasn’t a bollocking party for one with guests.

  “Sit down, please.”

  He pulled a chair in from one of the cube walls.

  DI Marsh turned to Olsen. “You have the floor.”

  Olsen blushed but quickly regained her poise. She spoke aloud to the room, although Wild would have laid money on this being the repeat performance for his benefit. “On Sergeant Galloway’s instructions, I have been looking into known collectors of firearms across the county — including some who prefer to purchase with no questions asked.”

  Sergeant Galloway gave a chuckle, and Wild glanced his way, remembering their conversation on the first day after Porter’s murder. Collectors — a byword for dealers and fences of illegal weapons. Clever girl though, sharing the credit for her progress report with her sergeant. Wild awaited the good news and she awaited his full attention.

  “We put inquiries out in all the usual places and the search drew a blank. It didn’t help that we lacked a picture of the weapon.”

  That rankled with Wild a little, but he was in mixed company so he let it go.

  “However, having become aware that Mr Porter’s firearms cabinet had been ransacked, I wondered if the shotgun had actually been there when the burglary took place.”

  Wild nodded, having shared the same conclusion with her at Porter’s house. He couldn’t blame her — when he was a uniformed PC, he took every opportunity to blow his own trumpet. How else was he supposed to trade up to plainclothes, hard work aside? He realised that Olsen was still talking.

  “. . . So, I made some other inquiries through gunsmiths. On the day of the murder, Mr Porter’s antique shotgun was being cleaned and refurbished. I struck lucky.”

  DI Marsh beamed. “You did more than that. You thought like a detective and applied some lateral thinking, thereby tracing the weapon to a gunsmith over the border in Dorset. Wouldn’t you agree, DS Wild?”

  “I would, ma’am.” He didn’t begrudge Olsen her moment in the spotlight, especially as it validated his early theory that the murder weapon may have belonged to someone.

  Marsh gave a heavy sigh. “Our Dorset colleagues are meeting us halfway. Sergeant Galloway, perhaps you’d be willing to collect the evidence?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Right then, that will be all. But I’m very impressed, Marnie. I’ll be keeping my eye on you in future.”

  Wild watched them file out from the comfort of his seat. He figured Marsh had invited him in for more than that. He wasn’t disappointed.

  She removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Did you and Ben Galloway have a little man-to-man chat before you went up to London? While you were away, he asked to see me and talked about putting in for a transfer. Is that your doing?”

  Wild felt a familiar adrenaline rush. No more histrionics in work time though — that was his deal with himself. He gave himself some breathing space before responding, and stuck as close to the truth as he needed to. “Yeah, I did have a chat with Ben a few days ago. I think this case is a little too close to home for him. He went to the same school as half the suspects and his family knows Mrs Henderson at one of the solicitors. It wouldn’t hurt him to get some distance once this case is concluded.”

  “When I want your help with staff management I’ll let you know, okay?”

  He knew not to reply. It was her show and her stage.

  She put her glasses back on. “I need to know I can rely on you, Craig. No more stunts like the one you pulled in front of the team before you buggered off to see old friends, or delaying sharing vital evidence — and yes I do realise we’d not have that diary without you — or giving puncture wounds to suspects. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Right, what’s your assessment of Mr Causly? And before you start, his brief has already spoken with me and in light of the fact that Gordon Elleth has decided not to pursue a complaint against him . . .”

  Wild sneered. He knew what was coming.

  “. . . After thoughtful discussion, we have decided that it’s not in anyone’s interests to take any further action over the events at the farmhouse today.”

  “I’d still like to interview him about the family situation. It might have a bearing on the Porter case.”

  “Agreed. After the case review, then. I want to make sure everyone is up to speed on developments, especially you. Shall we?”

  Chapter 34

  The team gathered in the only room large enough to house two moveable whiteboards, plus an array of chairs and tables. Other notes had been stuck to fixed boards with magnets. DI Marsh took centre stage, her slinged arm reminding Wild of Admiral Nelson in his latter days.

  The DI reached behind a whiteboard with her good arm and retrieved a bamboo cane. “Okay, settle down, people.” She waited all of fifteen seconds before speaking to the room. “What do we know?” After a momentary silence she tapped a whiteboard with more force than needed and waited expectantly.

  Wild lurched into the breach. “Alexander Porter, aged sixty-eight, found dead in one of his own fields. Superficially, the crime scene looked like a suicide.” He paused to make a point. “However, we quickly established this was a murder.” He glanced around. Incredibly, some of the team were writing this down.

  Ben Galloway saw his moment. “No weapon found at the crime scene — no great surprise there,” he paused for laughter, “and also no obvious mode of travel to the field.” He stopped talking.

  Marsh cast him a weary smile: C for effort. “Given the location, we know he didn’t walk there and — thanks to DS Wild and PC Olsen — we also know he ate at the George on the night he died. The only witness so far to confirm he was there is the landlady.”

  There was disappointment in her voice and Wild welcomed it with open arms. Maybe if he’d been a local, then the pub clientele might have been more forthcoming. However, he seriously doubted that. He tapped the top of a pen on the table in front of him. “The place where Porter died marks this out as personal. We still don’t have a clear motive, but the perpetrator is someone who knows Porter or knows about him.”

  Marsh received the pass and ran with it. “You can see our list of suspects on the board: Nathan Porter, son of the deceased — racked up debts that his father was helping to pay off. Although Nathan was down
from Scotland on the day his father died, they had a row and Nathan’s phone confirms he was heading north when Alexander Porter died. We are awaiting CCTV from the airline in case any smart alec wants to suggest his phone went home without him.”

  Marsh’s bamboo cane moved across the whiteboard. “Jeb Walsh, went to the same school as Nathan Porter although a couple of years older. Jeb lent both father and son money at different times. Had a fight with Nathan, presumably over money, but the best of pals now. A shady bastard, not a suspect — especially since the unexplained demise of his grandfather, Dr James Walsh, which we are treating as related. Incidentally,” she looked directly at Wild, “I forgot to mention that Dr Bell confirmed the bruising on Alexander Porter’s body was due to his medical condition and not the result of an assault.” She did him the courtesy of a three-second hiatus. “As you suggested. Also of note, Pauline Henderson — Jeb’s girlfriend — works at Hollings and Gresham, so she may have known about the first will. May have.”

  Ben Galloway fidgeted a little until he found the courage to speak up. “What about this email business?”

  Marsh flicked the end of her cane at Galloway. “Thank you, Ben. Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is where things take a turn for the strange.” She handed out a stack of papers to the person nearest to her. “Pass them on, please.” She didn’t bother waiting. “For those of you who aren’t up to speed, this will help. Jeb Walsh learned that in 1944 May Constance Elleth got pregnant by an American GI, who later died, and was persuaded to pass off the baby’s father as Peter Causly, who died at Normandy.” She paused and stared over her glasses. “Obviously, this goes no further than this room and if I hear otherwise there will be severe repercussions.”

  The room turned to stone. Ben Galloway managed to break the spell.

  “No, that can’t be right. Constance Elleth was married to Peter Causly. There’s one headstone for the pair of them.”

  Wild craned across the table. “That’s just it, Ben — she wasn’t. Constance took his name and moved into the Causly household before the birth, as if they’d been married. The Causlys welcomed her with open arms. Why wouldn’t they? And I suppose the locals fell into step.” He sat back in his chair. “Is this a motive to murder Alexander Porter over seventy years later?”

  Ben Galloway stopped speaking and looked at the printed page. Something that passed for recognition swept across his face. “Did Alexander Porter know? I can’t see as anyone has anything to gain from this getting out, especially all this time later, although the Causlys wouldn’t like it. Nor the Elleths, I imagine. What with both families being church folk and all.”

  Wild blew out a breath. Galloway had a point, relatively speaking. He looked up at the whiteboard, where three names awaited attention: Gordon Elleth, Edwin Causly, and Aaron Kravers — a relative of the very late GI. “What about the Elleth and Causly families? Extended families, I mean.”

  Marsh turned teacher. “The Elleths use agricultural labour for the hard graft on the farm, although Gordon likes to keep his hand in. Sergeant Galloway interviewed Edwin Causly for us while DS Wild was in London. Incidentally, Edwin Causly stuck to the same script as Gordon Elleth – that of not seeing Alexander Porter in the George on the night he died. It’s all in the notes.” She flicked through a couple of pages. “Now, where was I? Right, there is a Causly heir, but unless he arranged an assassination from Canada, he’s out of the frame. There’s a second cousin as well,” she waggled her cane, “or something like that, who helps with the harvest. Otherwise it’s a mixture of regular and seasonal labour. Oh, and a daughter, although she apparently has no interest in the farm.” Marsh eased herself around to face the board.

  Wild nodded to the back of her head. Neatly done. “What about Aaron Kravers?”

  Marsh drew a question mark beside the name. “He’s the curiosity. I mean, he has a reason to want Porter dead . . . sins of the father and all that. Plus, it would fit DS Wild’s profile of this being personal.”

  Wild decided not to mention it had been Olsen’s idea. “Where would he get a shotgun from, given that he’s been here for, what, a couple of weeks?”

  One of the silent wonders Wild had been forced to consider teammates cleared his throat. Harris, if Wild remembered correctly.

  “At our last review, after DS Wild had to leave suddenly,” he shot Wild a glance like an arrow, “you said Porter’s house was probably broken into after the murder in order to find his gun? That means the killer had to know he had a gun.” He sat back and folded his arms.

  Wild could feel the stripes’ envy from across the room. “You’re assuming the killer and the burglar are connected. Who’s to say word about Porter’s death didn’t get around sooner than we think and someone chanced their arm? Especially as we now know Porter’s shotgun was a valuable antique. Other people might have known that.” Wild dropped his pen on the table with a satisfying rattle. Chew on that, Harris.

  Three staccato raps on the door broke the tension. Olsen stepped in and handed DI Marsh a piece of paper. As she turned to leave, Marsh called her back. “Why don’t you sit in and join us, Marnie?”

  Harris kicked a seat out for her, and Olsen deftly moved past it to find a space by herself. Wild found himself smiling.

  Marsh glanced at the paper and passed it back. “Marnie, perhaps you’d share what you’ve learned.”

  Olsen sat up straight, aware that all eyes were on her. “As you thought, ma’am, there was a third will, superseding the one that benefited Edwin Causly. It was made over a year ago in Chippenham, so the solicitors weren’t local. In the event of Mr Porter’s death all his land goes to a wildlife trust.” She reread her own notes and tried not to stumble over the words. “There’s a stipulation that the middle field — Fortune’s Field — is left undisturbed. They can grow wildflowers there and treat it as a nature reserve as long as they don’t do any digging. The other two fields,” she squinted at her own scrawl, “can still be farmed.”

  Marsh beamed. “There you go then.”

  Wild stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

  “Why would Porter have left land first to Elleth and then to Causly? Come on people, what do we know about him?”

  Wild felt her eyes boring into him. “He’s skint.”

  “Bravo, DS Wild. Okay, so hypothetically he has borrowed money from them in the past, presumably offering the land as a payback, so he could settle some of Nathan’s debts or his own. It’s a pound to a penny that there are other debts we haven’t uncovered yet.” She fixed her gaze on Galloway. “Ben, go back to Porter’s bank and see if you can match up any payments to when the first two wills were made, and any unusual transactions immediately before or afterwards.”

  Ben Galloway got up and headed for the door. Marsh stared at him, incredulous, and then looked to Wild who slowly shook his head. She could humiliate him another time. Besides, he had something else to say.

  “What about Dr Walsh’s demise? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  Marsh pointed to the second whiteboard where a timeline had been established. She put down her cane and took off her glasses, flicking them from side to side like a cat’s tail. “Jeb Walsh lends money, so could it be some other debtor?”

  Wild felt like they were the only two people in the room. “The timing is key. We had Aaron Kravers in custody. I don’t fancy Nathan Porter for this — no way . . .” He stalled, all out of ideas, and his attention drifted to the other whiteboard where Porter’s life and death were revealed in a series of photos, documents and marker pen lines. “What about the farming families?”

  Marsh snapped to attention. “The men are both in their seventies . . . Harris, look into the actual farmers, and the daughter. See if you can track her down.”

  Harris took flight as if she’d kicked him up the backside, scraping back his chair in his eagerness to do her bidding.

  “That’s us for now. I’ll go see this third solicitor in Chippenham. Marnie, I’d like to see you in a couple
of minutes — will you wait for me outside? DS Wild, I need a word.”

  The room cleared, leaving Wild and Marsh together. Wild came up to the front. He could see Olsen lurking outside. “Pet project, boss?”

  “I need a driver and yes, why not? By your own admission she hauled your arse out of the fire in London.” She arched an eyebrow as if it were a weapon. “Here’s what I think you should concentrate on when you speak to Edwin Causly . . .”

  Chapter 35

  Wild galloped down the stairs. Marsh had given him some direction and he intended to listen to most of it. The sharp-suited solicitor, Corey, had agreed to come straight over from Santers in order to support Mr Causly, and Ben Galloway — Causly’s designated driver — would be riding shotgun in the interview. It promised to be a fun-packed hour.

  Ben Galloway was waiting by the swing doors when Wild descended the last flight. “Mr Causly is having a quick chat with his brief. He told me in the car that he’s happy to cooperate in any way he can.”

  Yeah, Wild thought, short of telling the truth.

  “One more thing.” Galloway’s face grew as serious as a child’s. “He’s pretty self-conscious about the injury he sustained at the Elleths’ place. Best not to mention it. And no need to, I suppose, as no one is pressing charges.” His voice carried all the gravitas of a school nativity speech.

  Wild smiled and nodded, the way he did with old people when he wasn’t really listening. “Give them a knock and tell them we’re in interview room four when they’re ready, and wait outside to escort them.”

  The first sight that greeted Wild, as he stared at the door from his uncomfortably spongy seat, was Edwin Causly’s head, sporting gauze and plasters. He felt the urge to laugh and pushed his tongue against his bottom teeth to give his face something else to do.