by Peter Helton
‘The gate is shut. Could you run and pull it open?’
‘Why’s the bloody gate shut? It’s never shut,’ she said but jogged towards it anyway.
First to arrive was a tiny police car and soon afterwards two uniformed officers walked towards me, with agonising slowness it appeared to me. They had only just reached me when the ambulance arrived.
‘Right, can we have you out of there please,’ said one of the officers. ‘Let’s make room for the ambulance. Is the victim alive?’
‘I think so,’ I said and climbed out.
‘If you would come over here,’ he said and led me aside. ‘My colleague is a trained first-aider. In the meantime I’ll need to take some details …’
Police love details. I gave him all of mine. Who I was and why I was where I was when I was, though I was distracted by the ambulance crew arriving. When I saw the oxygen mask go on to Rachel’s face I felt relieved; they tend not to bother with dead people. The other police officer fiddled with the energizer and took down a section of the fencing. The sheep saw their chance and, despite a half-hearted ‘shoo’ by the officer, made a successful bid for freedom. While the paramedics lifted the unconscious Rachel up on to a stretcher, the sheep were pursued by police but they cleverly split up and the PC gave up. He came walking back. Then he stopped. ‘Hey Colin?’ He beckoned to the other officer. ‘Over here a minute.’
‘Stay here, please,’ I was told. The two stood on the opposite side of the pen and squatted down, looked left and right, talked into their Airwave radios, then stood up and then both looked at me. Of course. And chatted among themselves a bit more. Then they both came up but one strode off towards the car park while the other took me gently but persuasively by the arm and led me further away into the shadow of the next sculpture, a rusty menacing slab of steel. I hate being gently led. ‘We’ll need to secure this area,’ he explained. ‘Now, I’d like you to go over the events again, but first, do you have any ID on you?’ I showed him my laminated name badge. ‘Not really sufficient but it’ll do for the moment.’
The other officer came back and started fluttering caution tape spelling Police Line Do Not Cross all around the area, using the sculptures to fasten it on. Dawn, who had been standing and watching nearby, was no longer alone but was explaining to Claire, Anne and a gathering crowd of students whatever she knew.
‘Can I just get my bag from where I left it?’ I asked.
‘’Fraid not, nothing must be removed from the area.’
‘It’s just my drawing stuff in there.’
‘Sorry. We have reason to believe this is a crime scene and it could be evidence.’
Crime scene? Evidence? But none of my questions were answered; instead I was cordially invited to go through it all again and was almost relieved when the familiar figure of Superintendent Needham appeared on the lawn, the jacket of his suit flapping open and perspiration beading on his brow.
‘Thank you, Constable, I’ll take over from here,’ he said to the officer, waving away his offer to fill him in about my ‘details’. ‘I’m familiar with this one.’
‘Over-familiar,’ I said as he grabbed me by the arm and led me even further away. I hate being led, did I mention that?
‘Why am I not surprised to find you here?’ he asked.
‘Because you knew I was invited here by the late John Birtwhistle?’
‘I mean next to a crime scene. Now stand there, say nothing and touch nothing until I get back.’
I was slowly beginning to get narked off. Stand here, stand there, tell me all, say nothing, don’t touch. The metal sculpture I stood next to was radiating heat, there was not a cloud in the sky, and I was wasting one of the last fine days of the year watching Avon & Somerset’s finest moving very slowly. More and more of them arrived, too, including forensics who wandered about in moon suits and inspected everything, including my bag. This narked me off particularly, especially when they dropped the whole thing into a clear plastic bag, then labelled and sealed it. People were coming and going between the sculpture sheds and the pen. After an age Needham came back and I pretended to be asleep.
‘Let’s find some shade somewhere,’ he said. ‘And some coffee. Lead the way.’
I did, past the crowds, towards the studio. Anne Birtwhistle rushed across to try and cut off our retreat. ‘Inspector …’
‘John’s daughter, Anne,’ I filled him in.
‘Ah, Ms Birtwhistle,’ he said genially without stopping. ‘It’s “superintendent”, and I shall speak to you in a little while. Please don’t leave the premises.’ He closed the French doors of Studio One behind us.
‘Really,’ I could hear Anne say through the glass. I let Needham sniff around the paintings while I went and made two mugs of supermarket instant that in vileness rivalled any cop shop coffee I’d had inflicted on me at Manvers Street police station. Revenge is a cup best served not quite hot enough with brown bits floating on top.
Needham took one sip, then nearly spat it out. ‘Jesus, Chris, what is this muck?’
‘It’s a crime, that’s what. You can thank Anne Birtwhistle, the new management, when you interview her later. I want her charged for crimes against this and that. What do you think happened to Rachel?’
‘Let me ask the questions. When you went down there, what were you looking for?’
‘A quiet place to draw in the forest.’
‘But you saw the woman lying in there with the sheep.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you went to have a look. You climbed inside? How did you do that?’
‘I pole-vaulted. How do you think? The fence is three foot tall and I’m no midget.’
‘You didn’t touch the wire?’
‘Why would I? It’s an electric fence, Mike.’
‘Well that’s good, because a minute earlier it had two hundred and forty volts running through it.’
Involuntarily I crossed my legs when I remembered how I had blithely stepped across it. ‘Blimey. That can kill, you know.’
‘No shit, Sherlock. We think it was meant to. Someone ran a cable from the nearest sculpture shed through the long grass to the pen. So who is this woman?’
I explained about the anniversary exhibition and about the ‘site-specific’ installation Rachel had planned.
‘Someone here disliked her enough to want to frazzle her. Who?’
Who didn’t? Kroog loathed her and her work and had probably infected her students with it too; Alex came to mind. Dawn obviously resented her for all sorts of reasons. ‘I couldn’t say off-hand,’ I lied.
‘The next question is: how did they know she would climb inside? I mean, did she always do that? She must have turned off the current at the battery thing …’
‘Energizer,’ I supplied.
‘Then climbed into the enclosure. Someone observing her, probably from the sculpture shed, then kindly plugged the fence into a high-voltage socket meant for running beefy stone drills. When she climbed out and held on to the wire to swing her legs across, she had two hundred and forty volts pass through her body. Someone must have seen her do it like that before and got an idea of how to get rid of her.’
‘Perhaps.’ I was pretty certain I knew why she climbed inside; a crumpled piece of paper was trying to burn a hole in my pocket but I wasn’t going to mention it until I’d had a chance to see what, if anything, was written on it.
Needham looked unhappy. ‘“Don’t know, couldn’t say, not the foggiest and perhaps”? You’re being very unforthcoming and that usually means you have something on your mind. Something you ought to share with your friendly neighbourhood bobby.’
It was hard to imagine anyone less likely to be recognized when described as a ‘friendly neighbourhood bobby’ than Mike. Superintendent Needham looked slow and needed to lose a few stone but he had the temperament of a grizzly bear – attracted to chocolate bars but not at all cuddly.
‘No, honestly, I’m as baffled as you are.’
‘Speak
for yourself; I’ve never been baffled in my life.’
‘Really? I often read in the paper that “police are baffled”.’
‘That’s media revenge for when we refuse to tell them anything so they can’t blurt it all over the front page.’ The sand-coloured figure of Needham’s sidekick appeared at the French windows: DI Reid, an Airedale terrier in a suit. ‘Enough chat. I’ll see if Reid has rounded up someone useful for me to interview.’ He opened the French windows and nodded at Reid. To me he said: ‘I might want to chat with you again before the day is done, so don’t go anywhere.’
‘Sure,’ I said and wondered if the heart of Summerlee Wood counted as ‘anywhere’. Then I took out the crumpled note I had found next to Rachel and smoothed it out.
FOURTEEN
It was handwritten and in French and since it wasn’t a menu I had no idea what it meant, even though I could read and pronounce it. Yet there was a clue: it was dated 1793 and the name Marat was prominent and underlined. I took out my mobile, called my in-house translator and read it to her.
‘It’s very formal, old-fashioned French and it more or less says “My unhappiness is enough for you to owe me kindness” or some such drivel. The death of Marat. It’s the note from the woman who stabbed him. In the painting he’s lying dead in the tub, holding it. Don’t be cryptic, Chris, why do you want to know?’
‘Rachel, one of the exhibitors, got electrocuted, the one with the sheep pen. Someone connected her to the national grid.’
‘Nasty. Is she dead?’
‘She was alive when I found her but unconscious and she had this crumpled note.’
‘Mysterious.’
‘Not really. At the funeral party someone came as Marat, bathtub and all. Rachel probably saw the bit of paper had blown into the sheep pen and climbed in to pick it up. Grabbed the wire and zap.’
‘And the electric fence had high voltage going through it? Could that have been an accident?’
‘No way.’
‘Someone deliberately tried to electrocute her? Your Mrs Kroog talked me into giving a spiel on my work up there but I’ve gone right off that place. It’s creepy and crumbling and right by the forest. I bet the trees move by themselves. And I don’t like the sound of your wild man of the woods, either. Be careful up there, hon.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m a painter. What could possibly go wrong? Anyway, the place is crawling with police. Needham is here. Already grilled me a bit. But I’m only half done, apparently.’
‘Do they suspect anyone?’
‘Everyone.’
‘Do you have any suspicions?’
‘Loads but nothing concrete. I’ll give you a hundred to one, though, that I’m the only one without an alibi for when it happened.’
‘We already have a bet running, don’t forget. I’m looking forward to a month of luxurious breakfasts in bed. I’ve already written a list of what I want.’
‘A list? You mean you want different stuff each day?’
‘What do you think? And there’s no cornflakes on that list.’
‘Thought not. Oh and guess what? Forensics confiscated my drawing gear; I’d dropped the bag by the sheep pen. There’s tons of drawing material around though so it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.’
Just how wrong can a man be? Stick around and find out.
But until then I would go and find Kroog and see if she had any ideas or suspicions. I found her in the staff room, along with everyone else. Kroog, Claire, Dawn and Dan the potter were on the sofa, Petronela the model was stirring pot noodle at the kettle, Hufnagel was sitting at the table flicking through a magazine and Stottie, as everyone called Catherine Stott behind her back, was perched at the other end, looking peeved, which, I decided, was her normal expression. This was not the moment for confidential talks. The only person not there was Anne.
‘Helping the police with their enquiries,’ said Kroog. ‘Was it you who found her?’
‘Yes. Looks like it was done deliberately. Someone must have been watching Rachel from the sculpture sheds and thrown the switch at the right moment.’
Stottie made a contemptuous noise. ‘And the police would like us all to “remain on the premises”. Students, too. Presumably we’re all under suspicion. It’s preposterous; I was barely acquainted with the woman.’
‘A little goes a long way with Rachel,’ Dawn said.
‘But why would we want to kill her?’ Hufnagel said, slurping instant coffee. His eyes were following Petronela around the room; I suspected they were actually following her pot noodle. ‘I can’t be a suspect anyway, I’ve never met her.’
‘I think is very scaredy,’ said Petronela, staring wide-eyed into her instant snack. ‘Big house with mad electrocutioner on the loos.’ She gave a theatrical shiver.
‘I was downstairs stocktaking when it happened,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll need to order more clay soon.’
‘Ah, but can anyone confirm that?’ said Claire, who seemed to quite enjoy the intrigue.
‘Can, as it happens; I had a student with me, Abbi. She was chatting to me about her latest ideas for ceramic sculpture.’
Kroog chewed on her unlit pipe. ‘Hurrah, one convert,’ she said.
The door opened and Anne walked in, looking grave and businesslike. Behind her followed Needham with DI Reid, who closed the door behind him and stood as though guarding it against a mass break-out. Needham gave me a critical look, as though he’d rather I wasn’t there.
‘We’ve been concocting our alibis,’ I said, perhaps too cheerfully. ‘How is Rachel?’ I added quickly. ‘Any news?’
‘She remains in a serious condition in hospital,’ said Needham.
‘She’s still unconscious,’ said Anne.
‘I’m glad you all gave some thought to where you were when the incident occurred,’ said Needham. ‘Mr Honeysett called the emergency services at ten fifteen precisely and says he saw Rachel Eade walk towards the pen perhaps ten minutes earlier, fifteen on the outside. This could, of course, be a student prank that went too far. Perpetrated by someone who had no idea what damage high voltage can do.’
Reid’s phone rang and he went outside to answer it.
Kroog spoke up. ‘All my students would know exactly what electricity can do; we have safety talks each year.’
‘And where were all the students at the time, do we know that?’ he asked.
‘I was giving a lecture,’ Kroog said, pointing at the ceiling.
‘And all the students were there?’
‘Quite a few of them.’
‘Can you give me a list of who was and who wasn’t at the lecture, please?’ Needham said.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Oh? Don’t you know?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest, Inspector.’
‘How come? And it’s Superintendent, by the way.’
‘But,’ Anne blustered, ‘surely all you have to do is consult the register.’
Kroog wasn’t the only one to smile at this. ‘This isn’t a primary school, miss,’ she said. ‘Not only do we not keep a register, but students walk in and out of lectures for all sorts of reasons – to go to the loo, because they’re bored or because they’re gasping for a fag.’ She slapped the bowl of her pipe into her palm.
‘Can you remember if anyone left and who?’ Needham wanted to know.
‘I was giving a good old-fashioned slide talk. With the lights out,’ she added. ‘And I have never been interested in the students who walk out, only in the ones who stay.’
‘Well, from now on all tutors will keep a register,’ said Anne. ‘We need to know where everybody is at all times.’
‘What would be the point in that?’ Stottie asked.
‘That’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?’ Anne said. ‘We wouldn’t be having this discussion at all if proper attendance sheets were kept. Claire, I want you to devise an attendance sheet, make copies of it and distribute them to all the tutors.’
DI Reid came back into the room, hol
ding his mobile out to Needham. The superintendent took it and said: ‘DSI Needham … yes … I see … will do … thank you.’ He handed the phone back to Reid, then drew himself up and took a deep breath. ‘Rachel Eade has died in hospital. They suspect she may have had a weak heart.’
Everyone expressed surprise and regret in some way, except Dawn. ‘I’m surprised she had one at all,’ she murmured next to me.
‘This is now a murder inquiry,’ Needham continued, ‘and that changes everything.’
Suddenly everyone was falling over themselves to volunteer their whereabouts at the time of the attack. ‘I was out for a walk with my sketchbook,’ Dawn said.
‘And what were you sketching?’ Reid wanted to know.
‘Clouds,’ Dawn said.
‘And why would you go for a walk to sketch clouds?’ Reid asked. ‘Surely clouds look the same from outside your door as from anywhere else you could walk to?’
Dawn spoke as to a child who had annoyed her. ‘It’s not about what clouds look like, but how I experience them. Otherwise I would use a camera and be done with it.’
Hufnagel said he had been looking for props in cluttered store rooms and all over the building.
‘What kind of props? What do you mean?’ Reid asked.
‘For my next painting. I’ll be painting it in Studio One, as an educational demonstration to interested students.’
‘I am in Hufnagel’s painting,’ said Petronela proudly. ‘I will be angel. Educational angel for students to look.’
Reid’s eyebrows flickered.
Dan repeated his assertion that he had been in the basement with his student, Abbi. I, having no witness and having found the victim, was of course highly suspect. If Needham hadn’t known me so well I would have been top of his list, since, in a surprising number of cases, the person saying they had found the murder victim did in fact commit the murder. Claire had been in the admin office, with no witnesses. Stottie had been alone upstairs, ‘sorting out the shambolic print room’. Good – at least I wasn’t the only one without an alibi.
‘We will need to set up an incident room,’ Needham said to Anne.
‘What about it?’ asked Anne irritably.
