Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Causly sniffed, as if looking for a bad smell, sat down and turned to the door. The patch on his head moved in an irresistible arc. Wild heard words being exchanged outside and felt his shoulders fusing together. Ben Galloway had a lot to learn.

  The solicitor entered next, greeted Wild and took his place beside Causly. They both seemed relaxed, which surprised Wild because last time he’d seen Corey he’d had him marked down as a cocky sod. Maybe he’d been working on his deskside manner.

  Ben Galloway closed the door and sat down, hands folded in front of him. Wild hit the switch, explained that Causly was under caution and free to leave at any time. Causly glanced to his brief, a faint smile on his lips.

  “Thank you for coming in today, Mr Causly. As you know, we are still investigating the death of Alexander Porter.” He paused to see how that landed. It didn’t. Causly remained stone-faced. “However, as you know, there was an incident today — a misunderstanding — that we think may have a bearing on the case.”

  Causly leaned back until his brief laid a reassuring hand on his arm.

  “Mr Causly, how would you describe your relationship with Gordon Elleth?”

  Causly looked confused. “Well, he’s family. Constance, my late mother, was Gordon’s older sister. Yes, the Elleths and the Causlys have farmed side by side for generations.”

  Wild let the statement hang there for a moment or two. The solicitor scribbled a note and Causly nodded to him. Galloway stared ahead like a border collie awaiting instructions. Wild went in gently for the kill.

  “I don’t wish to be impertinent, Mr Causly, but who was your father?”

  Causly swivelled to face his brief. “Do I have to answer that?” The brief whispered something in his ear and Wild let it go because he knew the answer.

  “Mr Causly, what would you say if I told you that evidence has come to light which strongly suggests your biological father was a man called Melvin Kravers — an American GI stationed here during the war?”

  “No comment.”

  Wild coughed. Bloody hell, no comment in a voluntary interview — a new low. “I mention all this as it may have a bearing on the death of Mr Porter. We now have credible information that suggests Mr Porter’s father may have helped conceal the death of Melvin Kravers back in 1944—”

  The solicitor opened his mouth to speak but Wild headed him off at the pass. “And a relative of Melvin Kravers has been trying to research his family history. Has Aaron Kravers been in touch with you recently?”

  Causly’s face contorted. “He came up to the house. Bloody cheek of it. Insisting we were related and talking some ole nonsense about him matching a DNA sample on the internet. I couldn’t make much sense of it so I sent him packing.”

  “But not before you put two and two together? Perhaps you spoke with your, er, daughter?”

  Causly folded his arms. “Well, I took in some of what that Yank said and the more I dwelt on it the more certain I was that the Elleths were at the bottom of it. And I remembered, see, how it was between my mother and her family. We only saw them in church — till my mother stopped going — and on Boxing Day. Rarely otherwise, unless it was farming business. When my mother,” he touched his sternum, “God rest her soul, became ill, her parents wanted nothing to do with her. Only at the end did her father come down with his Bible verses and his black cross . . .” He stalled, seemingly lost in memory.

  Wild brought him back to the present. “Alexander Porter also had one of those crosses on his wall.” He saw the way Causly’s eyes enlarged. “What’s that all about?”

  Causly’s chest lifted. “At the end of the war, the people in our parish held a renewal of faith. The vicar ordered iron crosses from a blacksmith—”

  Wild fought the urge to smirk: iron crosses at the end of the Second World War.

  “—To raise church funds and help some of those who had suffered with their menfolk being overseas or lost. Most of the old families round here will have them. Them’s as still believes, anyhow.” He turned back to his brief, who started to put on his coat. “I’ve answered your questions, Detective Sergeant, them as were fit to ask in the first place. Can I go now?”

  Wild stretched his hands behind his head. “Thank you for your time. One last thing. Were you aware that Mr Porter made a new will, superseding the one naming you as the main beneficiary?” He stared at Causly’s face, hoping for a flicker of emotion — rage, shock, sadness — he’d take anything on offer. There was nothing, and that could only mean this wasn’t new information.

  Causly stood up, arms limply at his side until Corey helped him on with his coat. “Is that a fact?”

  * * *

  Wild checked his watch as Causly and his solicitor left the building and loitered together in the car park. Forty-five minutes from start to finish. And what did they have to show for it? Causly had no-commented, deflected and obfuscated. But Wild could smell blood now, he was sure of it. He let the door swing shut and went upstairs to see Ben Galloway.

  He found him at his desk, puzzling over some paperwork.

  “Someone’s keen!”

  Galloway looked up, startled. “Sorry, Skip, I thought you’d be a few minutes. This is another case.” He blushed. “Well, not a case exactly. I was speaking to some of the lads in the canteen and a few of them have had their cars scratched, like yours. No one’s bothered to make a formal report but I thought I’d see what I could do with it. Common denominators and the like.”

  Wild felt the moisture evaporate from his mouth. “Don’t, er, spend too long on it, commendable though your initiative is.” He tried not to sound like he was taking the piss. “Low-level vandalism like this is notoriously difficult to prove. That’s why I didn’t report mine. How far have you got, anyway?”

  Galloway lifted his arm reluctantly, the way a schoolboy shares hard-won test answers. “I got four cars noted, plus yours.”

  “Any common factors?”

  Galloway huffed under pressure. “Other than it’s all coppers? Not really.” He looked back at his handiwork. “The only thing is that it’s all happened in the past few weeks.”

  Wild leaned closer. “Since I arrived at the station.”

  Galloway seemed flustered. “Yeah, I suppose so. And I’m not implying anything, Skip. No offence . . .”

  He patted Galloway on the back. “None taken. I’d be interested in anything you come up with — if you’d like some feedback?”

  “Nice one, Skip. That’d be very helpful.”

  Wild didn’t breathe easily until he got back to his own desk. No more evening drives for a while, even though he had one more copper on his list. Win some, lose some. As he logged back in, he wondered how Marsh and Olsen were faring together on their road trip. He thought about texting Olsen for a laugh. Then his personal phone started ringing.

  “Craig speaking.”

  “Cheer up, might never happen! It’s Caitlin — from the café? I’m, er, free tonight if you fancy a rematch? Takeaway curry and darts practice,” she laughed. “What do you reckon?”

  He freed up his tongue. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great. See you at mine, say seven fifteen?”

  “Right you are, then.”

  * * *

  Olsen paid close attention to the DI. How she spoke, her use of language, even the way she sat. The solicitors had kept them waiting for fifteen minutes and DI Marsh had stayed poised and focused, devoid of small talk.

  “Ma’am, what should we be asking?”

  Marsh looked at her kindly. “Well, I’ll be asking how Mr Porter first contacted the solicitor and when. And I’ll ask the wildlife trust the same questions.”

  Olsen glanced up at the reception desk, where a woman in a tweed suit had just arrived. The woman turned to meet her gaze, raised a hand in greeting and approached them.

  “Hello, you must be the police. I’m Becka Desai. Sorry to keep you waiting, a meeting overran. Come on through.” She carried on talking as they cleared the shiny metal doors and passed alo
ng the corridor. “Tragic news about Mr Porter. An interesting client, actually. I offered to see him at home because I was in the area and he wouldn’t hear of it. Insisted on coming to the office the following day.” She turned a handle. “We’re in here. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

  Marsh answered on autopilot. “No thanks, we’re fine. You said on the phone that there was a matter you wanted to discuss, regarding the will?”

  Becka sighed. “It’s a little embarrassing actually. Mr Porter added a codicil that if a mobile mast were to be placed on the land then any rental income should be paid to his son, Nathan. As you can appreciate, that complicates matters somewhat. One of our junior staff — now no longer with us, for reasons that will become obvious — pre-empted that eventuality by contacting a mobile network company. I think it was an honest mistake. They were probably trying to show initiative by prospecting for future business. Anyway, a network representative went out to look at the land and was chased away by a rather angry farmer with a shotgun.” Her smile shattered in the fierce light of Marsh’s gaze.

  “And was Mr Porter informed of this?”

  Becka looked away for an instant. “No, the senior partners felt that it would not have reflected well on our practice and showed a lack of professionalism, hence the dismissal. The mobile network company agreed not to pursue the matter because they recognised they had inadvertently trespassed.”

  Marsh stood up. “Thank you for your time, Becka. I think we’re done here. PC Olsen will collect whatever paperwork you can release, and I’d appreciate any printed or electronic correspondence pertaining to the mobile mast miscommunication.”

  Olsen waited by the reception desk while DI Marsh stood at the door. She received a small bundle of paperwork and followed the DI out to the car.

  Marsh had a look of sublime satisfaction spread across her face. “There’s your motive, Marnie — in black and white. The question is: whose motive?”

  Chapter 36

  Wild took the call, realising as it progressed that he couldn’t remember the forensic officer’s name. No matter, as long as he heard something useful.

  She spoke quietly and precisely, as if she were used to being heard and simultaneously misunderstood. “It took longer than expected to match the residue in Dr Walsh’s tissue sample.”

  He translated that to ‘the victim.’ “I don’t suppose you found traces of iron? An educated guess.”

  “Iron residue? No, I think we would have identified that relatively easily.” Her voice raised at the end of her sentence in the way he hated.

  He smiled, amused at being patronised by someone who sounded half his age. “And your findings?”

  “I confirmed the presence of dimethyl siloxane, dimethicone, and other compounds commonly found in spray polish. I’ll email you over the results. That material taken from the wound was a fleck of dried blood from a previous injury, nothing significant.”

  He doodled a tick on his notepad. “Thanks. And can I take your details again in case I have any further queries?” He opened a desk drawer and took out an indexed book, flipping the pages to F where he wrote forensics and her number. “Okay, Eloise Palmer, thanks again.”

  “Any time.” She cut the call.

  He added her name to the page, checked his emails and then followed it with her email address. And to think he’d scored poorly on interpersonal skills at his last performance evaluation. Piece of piss. The report provided enough details to satisfy a scientist or a prosecution team. A chemical analysis laid it all out, along with a graph for the linguistically impaired. Iron would have been a better fit for his emerging theory, but spray polish could be just as instructive with a little more detective work.

  He printed off the report and took a stroll to the second whiteboard to add the highlights under Dr James Walsh, late of this parish. Then he checked in with DI Marsh. He heard the background roar of road travel.

  “Hold on, Craig. We’re in the car on our way back. Right, you’re on hands-free. Go.”

  She sounded buoyant, which unnerved him a little. He tried his theory on for size and he liked the fit. “When I informed Edwin Causly that there’d been another will after his, he didn’t react — this wasn’t news to him. Suppose Edwin Causly and Gordon Elleth got talking some time about farming and money and Alexander Porter. If Gordon Elleth had mentioned he was a beneficiary, all Causly had to do was ask when that will had been made and he’d know who was first in the queue.”

  Marsh murmured, “Aye, until the new will was made, anyway. Cui bono, as they say, is no help to us this time. It’s not about who benefits . . .” She paused.

  He knew what she meant but he allowed her the moment. It’d be a shame to waste her education.

  “. . . But who doesn’t benefit? In this case, either of them.” Now it was her turn to grandstand, and she talked him through their meeting with Becka Desai.

  “Causly did say I wasn’t the first person he’d taken a shot at.”

  “That’s not proof, though. Listen, we’ll be with you in about twenty minutes. Anything else to report?”

  He stared at his screen. “Whatever was used to assault Dr Walsh had been recently polished.”

  “Come on, Marnie, put your foot down. Sorry, Craig, you mean like an ornament in the house? That would tend to preclude premeditation.”

  “Depends whose ornament it was.”

  “Hmm . . . okay, I’ll see you in my office in twenty and I expect a risk assessment and a plan.” There was no smile in her voice.

  * * *

  Wild stared at the guidance notes for inspiration. Neither Gordon Elleth nor Edwin Causly were flight risks. They both had shotguns, though. Maybe he’d need to carry a second set of darts! He heard himself laugh, a hollow cackle that belied the sense of terror he’d felt at the sight of Causly’s firearm in the farmhouse kitchen. Always listen to your instincts . . . He added a few lines on the page, changed the font to Arial 13 so the text took up more space, and then turned his attention to the plan. Two suspects who seemed to have a strange symbiotic relationship, stranger still given their family dynamics. In his considered opinion both men needed to be questioned again and potential evidence seized from their homes.

  He rested his hands on the desk. As plans went, it was weaker than a day-old kitten, but no doubt Marsh would knock it — and him — into shape. He shut his eyes for a moment and thought about the gaps, the things he still didn’t know — even if they didn’t have an obvious bearing on the cases. He was still writing out a list when he heard Marsh’s voice as Olsen held the door for her.

  “Craig, the fact that you aren’t already in my office suggests you are still working?” She breezed past into her office, Olsen trailing in her wake. “If you’re ready?”

  He printed the document, gathered his notes, and prepared for scrutiny. Inside, he passed the paperwork over and Marsh clutched at it like a straw, while Olsen looked on in bewilderment. Wild cast her a sideways glance, as if questioning her presence. It was a look that Marsh did not appreciate.

  “I thought Marnie’s psychology training might provide some insight.”

  He nodded, realising simultaneously that Marsh had changed her tune and that it wasn’t his place to point it out.

  Marsh’s head rocked from side to side as she read his notes. “Hmm, rudimentary. I’ll work it up.” She took out a pen from a desk drawer. “Now, this is more promising.” She held up Wild’s unanswered questions as if looking for a watermark and read out each point slowly and deliberately.

  “1. Aaron Kravers said he found a DNA match on a website, just as Jeb Walsh predicted. Whose DNA did Jeb put online and how did he obtain it?”

  “2a. If Gordon Elleth or Edwin Causly killed Alexander Porter, why would the other one provide an alibi for the night of the murder?”

  “2b. Who else could corroborate or refute their alibi?”

  “3a. Why was Dr James Walsh killed?”

  “3b. If it was accidental, why confront Dr Wa
lsh in the first place?”

  “3c. Dr Walsh murder weapon — blunt object, heavy, polished.”

  Marnie — your thoughts please. There are no wrong answers.”

  Wild knew that was patently nonsense, but he was curious to see what Olsen came up with. She rubbed at her neck and blushed a little.

  “It would make sense to arrest Elleth and Causly simultaneously.” She swallowed. “Assuming there’s enough evidence. And best to have paramedics on standby.”

  Wild wasn’t sure whether he was still part of the conversation, so he thought he’d find out. “First thing tomorrow morning would be favourite. Gives us time to organise, and it’s not as if they’re going anywhere.” He smiled for an instant, although probably not for the reason that Marsh smiled back. If his shift ended on schedule, he’d still make it for dinner with Caitlin and perhaps more.

  Chapter 37

  Wild had planned for all eventualities. He’d managed to find the spare set of darts that hadn’t seen the light of day since Steph moved out. Not the good ones, obviously. There were two local takeaway menus to choose from, ready and waiting on the table. He had even stashed a bottle of white wine in the fridge beside two cans of beer. Choc ices lay in wait in the freezer. And last but not least, he’d bought a packet of condoms — not because he thought he was God’s gift to women but, as his mum used to say, fortune favours the brave.

  Caitlin phoned around six thirty so he ran through the menus with her. Not exactly Shakespeare, or foreplay, more of a tension breaker. Curry house delivery and meals selected, he said his goodbyes, put on his least offensive aftershave and played a couple of 501 games to steady his nerves.

  The food arrived before she did, by design, and after plonking everything in a warming oven he went through his meagre collection of CDs and put on The Very Best of Simply Red. With Mick Hucknall as a wingman he wouldn’t go far wrong.

  The doorbell rang at a quarter past, on the dot. Caitlin radiated warmth, her face a sunshine smile of blusher and glitter. The next thing he noticed was her cheesecloth blouse and then he tried to pretend he hadn’t. As he lowered his gaze, he spotted her tightly laced purple pixie boots and decided not to invoke the shoes-off rule.