A Market for Murder

by Rebecca Tope

  But Drew couldn’t have him yet – not by a long way. The ambulance men were shaking their heads, and explaining to Sally, still clinging to the dead hand, that it wasn’t a job for them. Peter would have to be taken to the mortuary at the Royal Victoria Hospital, once the police had finished examining the scene.

  The police had initially assumed that Sally was Mrs Grafton, and it took them some time to ascertain that not only was she ‘just a good friend’ but that the real Mrs Grafton was presumed to be somewhere in Yorkshire, because her father was in hospital there and she’d gone up some days ago to be close to him.

  It emerged that Karen was the only person who had seen the impact of the bolt, which was by this time confusedly understood to have been fired from a crossbow. The word crossbow was circulating through the crowd, to universally raised eyebrows and rounded mouths. Karen was asked to describe exactly where Peter had been standing and precisely which way he’d been facing. The missile had approached him from in front. He had been facing Karen; therefore the bowman must have been somewhere in Karen’s direction. Behind her, she concluded, after a moment’s consideration.

  She and the police officers scanned the scene behind her stall. They carefully noted the clump of trees on the right, the public lavatories behind the tidy little hedge, the pedestrian route to the car park – little more than an alleyway – and then, on the left, a bank and a cycle shop, both with residential flats on the first floor. The windows of these flats overlooked the site of the market. ‘I didn’t see anybody running off.’ She frowned at the man questioning her. ‘It can’t have been an accident, can it?’ she concluded. Reconstructing the exact angles was almost impossible. The bolt could have come from a surprisingly wide arc, it seemed. Peter could have turned slightly at the critical moment. And, of course, nobody had examined the body very attentively yet. Undertakers would have to come and transport him to the mortuary before that happened. The police surgeon, expected at any moment, would merely confirm sudden and suspicious death. A photographer would capture angles and environs, distances and debris.

  The market stallholders were anxious to take down their stands and go home, shaken and sickened by what had happened, but the police wouldn’t let them. Everything had to be left exactly as it was, so the Scenes of Crime people could make their measurements and search for significant clues. Geraldine Beech dithered uncharacteristically. ‘How long will that take?’ she asked.

  ‘Best part of the day,’ came the laconic reply.

  Karen’s gaze kept returning to the inert covered length of Peter Grafton, dead on the ground in a sea of blood, trying to make sense of the attack on him. The bolt must have severed an artery; but he had died too quickly for loss of blood to be the cause. Perhaps his spinal cord had been in the path of the missile, or maybe the appalling trauma was in itself enough to close down vital functions. In any case, he hadn’t had much time to suffer; for that, she tried to persuade herself, they should all be thankful.

  It seemed indecent to leave him there so long. Sally Dabb had been led away, weeping now, but still wide-eyed.

  Suddenly, into the picture walked Den Cooper, a head taller than anyone else present, his long stride and calm manner giving him a natural air of authority. ‘Karen?’ he said, looking round. ‘What the hell’s happened?’

  ‘Peter Grafton’s been shot. He’s dead. I saw it.’ And something all of a sudden clicked. She saw it reflected in Den’s eyes. ‘They won’t think it’s something to do with me, will they?’ she gasped. ‘After the supermarket on Saturday as well?’

  ‘They’ll have noted it,’ he said neutrally.

  ‘And Mary – Mary Thomas was there, too. And here,’ she babbled disjointedly. ‘Where is she?’ Karen slowly looked at the people still lingering in the vicinity. ‘She’s gone.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘They told everybody to stay, but she’s gone. Why are you here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I saw the squad car, and the tape. Old habit made me curious. I’m supposed to be somewhere in a minute.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘There’s an old man that nobody’s seen for a week or so. They wanted me to go along, when they break down the door. I always seem to get that job.’

  Karen grimaced sympathetically. ‘It’s all happening, isn’t it. Even in sleepy little Bradbourne.’

  ‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘But a shooting’s well out of character. A street shooting, anyhow.’

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t a gun,’ she elaborated. ‘It looks as though it was a crossbow.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Den. ‘I hate those things. I always think anyone keeping a crossbow must be a bit twisted.’

  They were standing outside the police tape, close to the shop owned by the butcher who took exception to the farmers’ market. ‘Me too,’ Karen agreed. Jumbled thoughts skirled through her head.

  She turned to gaze at the window of the butcher’s shop: could he have done it, from his own doorway? Maddened to the point of murder by the competition and the disruption? But why Peter? Much better to shoot Oswald, if you didn’t want people selling meat, or Joe Richards, with his expensive organic Aberdeen Angus beef.

  ‘Did you know the chap?’ Den was speaking softly, as if aware that it was not his place to be asking the questions.

  ‘Peter? Yes, a bit. He was one of the originals, like me.’

  Den cocked his head sideways. ‘Original whats?’

  ‘Stallholders. He did the apple juice. Not just apple – pear, apricot, blackcurrant, as well. Lovely stuff.’

  ‘Right.’ Den stopped her. ‘I thought …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t think he’d be a market trader.’ He scratched the slight groove between his eyes. ‘Why didn’t I?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Karen let irritation season her words. A headache had taken hold, jabbing sharply on one side of her brow. ‘Look, I’m going home. I can’t take any more of this now. When are they going to move that body?’ Her voice was growing shrill.

  ‘Hey, hey. Don’t get in a state. The undertaker’s men will be here any minute now, and take him off to the mortuary. They had to wait for the photographer and the police doctor and the SOCO people. What time did it happen, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Elevenish, I suppose. Maybe ten past.’

  ‘Well, it’s only half past now. They haven’t been hanging about.’

  ‘Half past? Half past eleven?’ She stared at him. ‘It can’t be.’

  He smiled his understanding. ‘Time can do funny things,’ he said.

  Drew sat down heavily, as the full import of Karen’s story sank in. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, untruthfully. She was hardly going to make something like that up.

  ‘It’s true,’ she assured him. ‘Peter Grafton, the apple juice man, was shot dead in the middle of Bradbourne farmers’ market, and I saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Thank God you didn’t have the kids with you this time,’ he said thoughtlessly.

  ‘This time?’ she echoed. ‘You think I deliberately make a habit of being there when people are trying to kill each other?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be stupid. It’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘I know that. What else could it be?’ She fixed him with a savage glare. ‘And it’s not just me, anyhow. Mary Thomas was there both times.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But she’s got more sense than me. She managed to make herself scarce before the police showed up – both times. There’s only my word for it that she was at the supermarket.’ She stopped for a second’s reflection, before adding, ‘Unless she had someone in the car with her.’

  Drew took a deep breath. ‘Well, I just hope this is the end of it,’ he said. ‘My nerves won’t stand much more.’

  ‘Den was there this morning,’ she offered, in a calmer voice. ‘Just happened to be passing. Maybe that’s all it was with Mary. Bradbourne’s a small place, after all.’

  ‘True,’ Drew agreed, before the phone rang and Karen left him
to it.

  Childcare had been a difficulty for Drew and Karen when Stephanie was small, but the gradual emergence of a genuine community structure in the cluster of local villages had provided a solution. Karen left both children with Della Gray, another North Staverton mum, on Tuesdays and Fridays, in return for having Della’s Finian and Todd on Mondays and Thursdays. No money changed hands, and the kids remained the best of friends – or so their mothers liked to believe. ‘Why isn’t everyone doing it like this?’ Karen wondered, over and over. ‘Instead of all that hassle with day nurseries and minders?’

  ‘Because most people work full-time, and this sort of set-up wouldn’t solve the problem,’ Maggs told her crisply. Much of what Maggs said carried a subtext of Surely you already know the answer to that!

  ‘Yes, but they could work part-time, which suits most people better anyway,’ Karen had argued weakly. Arguing with Maggs was seldom a good idea.

  ‘Round here, maybe,’ the girl nodded. ‘But this isn’t typical.’ And then she’d lost interest, leaving Karen to finish the debate in her own head.

  Collecting Stephanie and Timmy from Della’s was one of her favourite moments. She would walk the mile through the village, and out the far side, into a quiet lane where her friend lived. It was rare for a vehicle to pass her on the walk. North Staverton was on a road that led to nowhere but a few farms before eventually looping south-westwards to the main road. Even the main road wasn’t as busy as it used to be, with the M5 attracting much of the traffic, a few miles to the south.

  North Staverton had a large farm in the middle, a church and a pub. Cottages and farmhouses dotted the perimeter and a row of four connected houses dating back two hundred years formed the core of the village. Opposite them were two larger detached houses with generous front gardens. In recent years, three more homes had been built on pockets of available land, with very little opposition from the existing inhabitants. The Slocombes’ house had been the property of Drew’s great-aunt, who had left it to his mother on her death. His mother’s generous refusal to take rent from him and Karen was the single factor that had enabled him to set up his burial ground and concentrate on establishing it as a business. The eager involvement of Maggs Beacon, a mixed-race eighteen-year-old who had done work experience at the undertaker where Drew had been a bearer and coffin-maker, clinched the whole matter. She had worked for peanuts for two years, at the end of which time Drew fulfilled his promise to make her an equal partner in the operation he founded.

  The walk took Karen around the edge of the yard of Staverton Farm, where a hundred or more Dairy Shorthorns stood about after being milked. The cows always made her pause, if only for the welcome relief from the ubiquitous black-and-white Holsteins and Friesians on other farms. These were all shades of red-brown, some with mottling, some with the richest deep mahogany coats. Two collies would always come to greet her, their feet muddy, ears and tails often spiked with bits of hay. Once in a while Mrs Westlake would come out for a brief word, between her tasks of feeding calves or shepherding cows back to their night-time quarters.

  Today, it was evident that the farmer’s wife had been watching out for Karen. She came trotting across the yard, wiping her hands on the faded dungarees she always seemed to wear.

  ‘Heard you was there when that chap was shot,’ she opened, without ceremony.

  ‘That’s right,’ Karen said. ‘It was dreadful.’

  ‘The apple juice man, from over to Lower Huntley, they say.’

  Karen nodded.

  ‘And no one saw who shot ’un? Proper strange, must have been.’ She spoke breathlessly, as if the words had been straining to emerge for some time.

  ‘I still haven’t really come to terms with it,’ said Karen, knowing this was quite the wrong thing to say. Mrs Westlake would prefer gory details, emotion, drama. ‘Coming to terms’ with something would mean very little to her.

  ‘Why’d somebody do that, then?’ the woman pressed on, as if Karen could obviously answer this question if she chose to.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Karen flatly. ‘I must go. The kids’ll be waiting for me.’

  Della’s house was big and airy, with all the doors thrown open. Karen heard voices in the garden at the back, and went to watch for a moment, unobserved, as the children played.

  Stephanie was at a remove from the three boys, her back to Karen. She was sitting on the lawn, pulling violently at tufts of grass. Her movements were jerky, and her head hung down. It was a picture of an unhappy sulking child; a picture that Stephanie very seldom presented. Her nature was to address difficult feelings, to express anger or hurt with no prevarication. Sulking was not her style at all.

  Without conscious thought, Karen crossed the garden to her daughter. ‘Hey, Steph? What’s the matter?’

  The child whirled round, the look on her face an unsettling mixture of guilt and fear. ‘Mummy,’ she said, her voice full of relief. ‘Timmy’s got a bad knee.’

  ‘Oh? How did that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stephanie said with heavy emphasis. Karen knew she was lying, and had no idea how she ought to react

  ‘I’ll ask him then, shall I? Where’s Della?’

  ‘Here I am!’ sang a cheery voice. ‘Are you early, or are we late?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m early.’ Karen examined Della’s face, hoping for some explanation for Stephanie’s odd behaviour. ‘Have they been all right?’

  ‘Fine. Timmy’s got a bruise on his knee – did he tell you? I’ve an awful feeling that Finian did it. Timmy’s being very loyal, saying it was just an accident. I didn’t like to argue with him. I’m afraid Finian’s getting very bossy these days. He likes to pull rank, being the eldest. Is he like that with you?’

  ‘A bit,’ Karen said. ‘I think he’s ready for school.’ She should know – she had been a primary school teacher until motherhood persuaded her to abandon it.

  ‘Roll on September, then,’ laughed Della.

  ‘What have you done today?’ Karen turned her attention back to Stephanie.

  The little girl shrugged clumsily. ‘We went to the shops – sort of. Played in the garden. Della did scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Your favourite! Lucky you.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  When Della made no mention of the shooting, Karen assumed she knew nothing about it. With four under-fives swirling around her all day, there’d be little time for keeping up with local news.

  Timmy edged up to her, looking tired and grubby. He wrapped an arm around her legs and leant against her.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a bad knee?’ Karen said and rolled up the leg of his trousers for a look. A purple bruise covered the whole of his kneecap.

  ‘Oh, Tim! That looks very sore,’ she said. ‘Does it still hurt?’

  The child nodded solemnly. ‘When I walk,’ he modified.

  ‘Did you put anything on it?’ Karen asked Della, fighting to keep the accusation out of her voice.

  ‘What? Oh, no. Sorry. I didn’t think it was anything. It wasn’t bleeding. Kids bruise easily, don’t they.’

  ‘Where did it happen? Did he fall on it, or did it get kicked?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. He was out here and I was in the house. He was very brave about it.’

  Karen looked to her daughter for assistance. ‘Steph? Did you see what happened?’

  Stephanie cast a quick glance at Finian. ‘He fell over,’ she said.

  Karen closed her eyes for a moment. Was it possible that a child of four could be suspected not only of bullying, but of arranging for his crime to be covered up? That Finian had somehow exhorted Stephanie to lie about the incident? She’d seen it a thousand times in children of eight and nine during her career as a teacher; but under fives were always so transparent. Or was Stephanie herself protecting Finian for some reason? Had Stephanie pushed Timmy? Did it matter?

  ‘Well, never mind,’ she asserted. ‘Lucky we’ve got the buggy. You won’t have to walk at all,’ she told T
immy. ‘And when we get home I’ll put some ointment on it, and it’ll feel better.’ In the morning, the whole leg would probably be stiff, she thought. He might even have a cracked patella. Drew was going to make such a fuss about it. Drew had once been a nurse and clucked over his children’s health abominably.

  She shouldn’t blame Della, she told herself. Kids had skirmishes all the time. It was just that Finian was four and a half, and Timmy was still some way short of three, and small for his age. If this sort of thing was going to happen, Karen would be forced to reconsider the arrangement with Della. Especially as the woman seemed so unconcerned.

  ‘You haven’t heard what happened today, then?’ she said, as she fitted Timmy into the buggy and Della handed her the bulky bag of assorted possessions.

  ‘No – what?’

  ‘Peter Grafton – you might not know him – was shot this morning, in Bradbourne. At the farmers’ market.’

  Karen sensed Stephanie tensing beside her, and wished she hadn’t said anything. Della’s reaction only made it worse.

  ‘Peter?’ she squealed. ‘You’re joking. Of course I know Peter. He was my first boyfriend. He used to work with Bill, until just a little while ago. Nobody would want to shoot Peter. How badly hurt is he?’

  Karen tried to indicate with a meaningful look that it was a bad idea to upset the children. In vain. Della was pressing her palms to her cheeks, in unmistakable distress. Karen could see no alternative to finishing the story now. ‘Well, actually,’ she tilted her head away from Stephanie, somehow hoping the child couldn’t see or hear her if she did that, ‘actually, it was – well, fatal.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ The sensible capable Della suddenly became a limp string puppet, her legs folding up beneath her.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Karen muttered, her arms impossibly full of frightened children.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Maggs was quick to form the same conclusion as Karen had. ‘The Grafton chap’s sure to be buried here, isn’t he?’ she said to Drew. ‘Organic to his toenails, from what I hear.’