Slaughter in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Well, from my objective viewpoint, it sounds to me as if Galton’s been very clever in shifting the blame onto Lister, just as Lister was clever in blaming your dogs for the worrying. They’ve both got what they wanted, anyhow, at your expense.’

  She puzzled it through, trying to test the probabilities all over again. ‘That’s crazy,’ she concluded. ‘Sharon was there as well – defending Lister. It was definitely him. There’s no more to be said about it. Henry was kind and sweet about it. You just don’t like him for some reason. I suppose he got better marks than you in his A-levels.’

  Phil snorted at this. ‘He didn’t, as it happens. But he did steal Hilary Tomkins from me.’

  ‘Aha! I knew there was something,’ she crowed.

  ‘It was a bitterly fought battle,’ he recalled. ‘But in the end she married Roger Rowlands, which served us both right, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you have to take my word for it that Lister shot the dogs. He wouldn’t even deny it, if you asked him. My only worry now is how I’m going to tell their owners.’

  ‘They could turn nasty,’ he warned. ‘Refuse to pay you, and press charges against their killer.’

  She sighed. ‘I refuse to even think about it any more. Freddy and Basil were dear sweet dogs, but they did kill those sheep – Henry convinced me of that. They didn’t mean any harm, but it was an awful thing, all the same. They couldn’t have stayed here, whatever happened. It just goes to show,’ she ended vaguely.

  ‘What does it go to show?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know. The way things can turn out, I suppose. I was so sure they were innocent, at the beginning of the week.’

  They were both uncomfortable, with each other and with the way the conversation had gone. ‘Well, let’s focus on the layby killing,’ said Phil. ‘I just wish we had a bit more hard evidence.’

  ‘Evidence,’ she repeated. ‘That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it. With all this DNA and CCTV and satellite surveillance, we still don’t have any evidence for this killing.’

  ‘We might have done if the rules had been properly observed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way Webster’s body was handled was pretty dodgy. Human nature reared its ugly head, I’m afraid.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It was raining hard, you remember. Nobody likes to squat in a mud puddle with rain pouring down their neck staring at the contents of a man’s crushed head. So they didn’t take very good note of how the body was lying before it was moved. The police doctor certified life extinct, and that was about it. Then the post-mortem was a joke. The way the skull was broken was consistent with heavy pressure from above, end of story. Large person jumped violently onto victim’s cranium and caused massive trauma to the brain in several places.’

  ‘That sounds clear enough to me.’

  ‘Except your sister mentioned a stick or cudgel or some such thing. She talked of kicks to the body. She couldn’t account for forty-five minutes in the middle of the whole episode. She knew Webster. It would be nice to have supporting evidence to explain away these niggles.’

  ‘You don’t believe anybody, do you? Emily, Galton, Peter – they’re all liars in your eyes.’

  ‘Well, somebody killed that man. Until we find who it was, it doesn’t make much sense to trust anybody.’

  It felt like going over stale old ground, and Thea gave up her questioning. She wanted him to get out of the car and go away. There was too much feeling flowing between them for comfort. Sensing the hiatus, Hepzie pushed her way between the seats and pawed at Phil’s sleeve. ‘Hello, old girl,’ he said, fondling one of her long ears just the way she loved. ‘How are you getting on with that nasty parrot, then?’

  Thus encouraged, the dog came all the way through and flopped down on his lap, staring at him adoringly. ‘Stop it, Heps,’ muttered Thea, realising for the first time that if Phil and his two dogs went out of their lives for good, the spaniel would feel the loss.

  It seemed Phil was having similar thoughts. He lifted the dog off himself, and opened the car door. ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ he said. ‘Stay there, Hepzie, there’s a good dog.’ He looked quickly at Thea. ‘I can’t give you any more guidance on what to do, but if only for your sister’s sake, I think you’d do well to try and help.’

  She gave him a look that contained none of the bridling resentment that most women would manifest. The look was soft and sad, and very slightly reproachful. ‘We all want the same thing, I suppose,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll do what I can, for us all. And that includes poor Ariadne.’ Then she thought back over the past year. ‘You don’t seem very concerned for my safety,’ she added. ‘If you’re right that Peter did do that to Sam Webster, it wouldn’t take much to finish me off, if he wanted to.’

  Phil winced, as he straightened up – whether from his back or her words, she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I gave up telling you to be careful some time ago,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming you won’t provoke him or threaten him or go off alone with him into dark deserted country lanes.’

  ‘With those beautiful blue eyes, there’s no knowing what I might do,’ she said, starting the car engine. It was more than she had intended to allow herself, but the satisfaction was considerable, as she drove away.

  She indulged herself in the shops of Stow, where expensive gourmet food was the norm – cheese, bread, organic vegetables – and it all ate up money. If the Angells decided to withhold part of her payment, due to the loss of their dogs, she was going to be significantly out of pocket. But Thea Osborne had never been one to worry about financial matters, mainly because she had little interest in buying things. Her laptop computer had been the single biggest purchase for the past two years, and now Phil had gone off her, the prospect of a surprise holiday in Greece or Morocco had disappeared. She might as well eat and drink lavishly, she decided – and added a bottle of locally made wine to the basket.

  The town was not crowded, but there were plenty of people on the pavements, stopping to chat to friends, many of them with old-fashioned baskets on their arms. Thea suspected that most of them did their main shopping at a big supermarket somewhere, but topped up with chutney and olives and organic ice cream in a deliberate effort to keep the small local shops in business. She would silently converse with Carl at times like this, keeping him informed of the way society was going, highlighting anything that confirmed his passionate interest in environmental matters. Now things were apparently over with Phil, she found herself reverting more and more to Carl as her companion.

  Is this healthy? she asked herself, wondering why there had to be a man, even a dead one, in her life.

  She watched the faces approaching her, hoping to see someone familiar. She had met a number of local people over the past fifteen months – it wasn’t unreasonable to hope to meet one of them here in the main town of the area on a Saturday.

  But nobody emerged from the crowd. She bought her extravagant provisions and went back to the car, where her dog waited patiently for her. She had found a space quite close to the main square, on the kerbside, Stow being unusually capacious when it came to parking places. A man was standing unnaturally close to her vehicle, his face pressed to the front passenger window, the dog barking hysterically inside, jumping at the glass. ‘Hey!’ Thea called. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  She’d known who it was from twenty paces away. The man who had given far more cause for suspicion than Peter Clarke or Henry Galton. A man who seemed to relish causing worry and pain. A nasty little man she would have preferred never to see again.

  Mike Lister slowly lifted his head and grinned at her. ‘Just amusing your dog,’ he said easily. ‘You shouldn’t leave her in a hot car like that.’

  ‘It’s in the shade,’ she pointed out. ‘She’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Something about his sly expression made her quiver inwardly. A knowi
ng look, suggesting a secret that would shake her to the core if she knew it. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that some people adopted this sort of look simply to make themselves feel superior. It was a learnt trick, amply reinforced by the anxiety it caused in other people. What could he possibly know that would worry her? What more could he do to her, now that Freddy and Basil were dead?

  ‘Your sister—’ he said. ‘I hear she’s the one who found that dead man.’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘That’s old news now. So what if it was her? What’s it to do with you?’

  ‘It just seems odd, that’s all.’

  ‘It isn’t remotely odd, you stupid man. Why shouldn’t it be Emily as well as anybody else?’

  She had gone too far. It was like the moment when the miller’s daughter guessed the name of Rumpelstiltskin. Lister actually stamped his foot, albeit lightly, at being called stupid. ‘You’re going to be sorry you said that,’ he threatened. ‘I’ve heard things that would be bad for your sister if they came out.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If you really know anything about it, you should tell the police. Emily and I have nothing to fear. In fact we both want nothing more than to find who killed Sam. It’s horrible to think there’s such a violent killer out there, roaming free.’ She gave him a very direct look, hoping he could read her implication that the killer might be somebody very like himself.

  He grinned again, his rage successfully battened down. ‘Not so many as there were a week ago, thanks to me,’ he said. Thea took a few seconds to understand him.

  ‘You mean Freddy and Basil,’ she gasped. ‘You want to gloat about killing them.’ She remembered Sharon’s efforts to justify Lister’s actions, and wondered why she’d gone to the trouble.

  ‘Had to be done,’ he said.

  ‘So why do you have to go over it all again?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he nodded carelessly. ‘Far more important to discover who killed that Oxford bloke.’

  ‘I don’t believe you know anything about it.’ Thea held his gaze, finally staring him down. He took a step away from her, and said nothing. ‘Do you?’ she insisted.

  ‘I know one thing,’ he hissed. ‘You are one stuck-up piece of work, thinking you’re so much cleverer than everybody else. Always knowing better, aren’t you? Well, maybe you ought to have listened to me last weekend.’

  ‘What difference would that have made? By the time I met you, the dogs had escaped. And you were glad. I could see it in your face. You didn’t want them caught and kept safe. You saw it as a chance to get at poor Cedric.’

  ‘Oh – aye. Been talking to friend Henry, I see.’ He narrowed his eyes, and Thea remembered the way Sharon had so casually ridden away in Galton’s truck. Something else going on there, she suspected.

  But it was none of her business, and she felt weary of village scandal. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lister. As you say, it’s warm in the car and I should make sure my dog’s all right.’ Brushing past him, she unlocked the car and got in, without giving him another glance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hepzie took some time to calm down, jumping all over Thea and whining, preventing her from starting the car and driving away. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed the dog. ‘Poor old you. This isn’t much fun, is it? No decent walks, nobody to play with. Not what we expected at all, as far as you’re concerned.’

  The long silken ears flapped as the spaniel expressed her pent-up feelings with continuing vigour. The soft coat, which was overdue for a trim, brushed Thea’s face. The undocked tail, with its curly fronds, wagged frantically. ‘Hey, hey, put me down,’ Thea laughed, hugging the animal tightly. ‘Let’s get back to the ranch and have some lunch – OK? Then we’ll go for a walk, I promise.’

  Honouring her promise, and trying to forget all about Phil Hollis, Mike Lister and everybody else who made her feel anxious, which included her elder sister, she set out with Hepzie on a lead, just before two o’clock. The sun had broken through, and a light breeze was blowing. Perfect for a lengthy stroll, she decided. They’d stay out for most of the afternoon, exploring the countryside and recapturing what was most lovely about the Cotswolds. Plenty of time to forget the crime reconstruction that evening, and the anxiety it threatened to cause within her.

  Not being entirely confident of her map reading ability, she opted to use the big well-marked footpaths that converged on the Slaughters. The Macmillan Way became Monarch’s Way and then Heart of England Way. Covering a distance of three or four miles it struck northwards through Upper and Lower Swell, and Thea aimed to get as far as Upper Swell before turning back. A close examination of the map revealed a short path skirting Lower Slaughter to the south, although it was going to be necessary to traverse part of the village itself, before heading into open country.

  The rhythm of walking was conducive to peaceful thoughts, nothing forced or uncomfortable. She tried to remain alert to the beauties all around her: the undulating ground, the glimpses of the river Dikler, the patches of woodland and occasional old house blending effortlessly into the scenery. It was a privilege, she acknowledged, to have the time and freedom to spend an afternoon in such a way. Once out of Lower Slaughter, she released Hepzie from the lead, knowing the dog would keep her in sight, sniffing cheerily into rabbit holes and other points of interest. She could not permit the disaster of Freddie and Basil to affect the way she treated the spaniel. The footpath was well away from any roads until it reached Lower Swell. Nothing bad was going to happen on such a lovely day.

  Regular consultations of the map ensured that she stayed on the correct path. Away to the right she could see the tower of the church in Stow, and she realised she had walked almost the same distance as she had driven that morning, which came as quite a surprise. An hour and a half had passed in easy calm reflection, walking at an unhurried pace, recovering her spirits after the turbulence of the past two weeks.

  She had encountered precisely three other walkers during the afternoon: a couple in late middle age, with walking sticks and sensible boots, striding out competitively; and a young man with a rucksack and a haunted look in his eye. Walking had become an end in itself, an activity that just about everybody claimed to find interesting. No longer a simple means of moving from one point to another, but a virtuous practice that made you slim and fit and somehow superior. Thea hated to be thought part of this odd business – she was unashamedly aimless in her walking, unless it was to exercise her dog – but she was at least taking the time to appreciate the landscape.

  Every few minutes, this landscape altered. At one moment it would be framed between large trees, the glitter of water completing the picture of patchwork fields and jumbled elevations; the next there’d be a broad uphill sweep with a handsome wood breaking the line of the hedges. The map showed three long barrows, a disused quarry and two tumuli within a single square mile – all of them evidence of human habitation and activity going back into the distant mists of time. The thing about the Cotswolds, she explained to herself, was that they combined a sense of space and sparse habitation with a tightly packed history that added rich significance to every single feature. Long before the Romans made their own particular mark on the region, there had been people living and working and dying here. She slowed her pace even further, to examine the edges of the path, trying to imagine how many millions of feet had passed over the identical stretch, since the dawn of time.

  It would be better, she thought, to find a different route back. A circular walk was always preferable to a straight there-and-back. But it seemed from the map that the only viable alternative was to use roads, and however quiet they might be, the constant need for vigilance for traffic did not appeal to her. She’d have to stick to the same footpaths she came on, and watch out for different vistas and landmarks on the return.

  But the prospect of another ninety minutes or so without a drink was a worry. She had forgotten, as she usually did, to bring a bottle of water with her. There was a pub marked on the ma
p, in Lower Swell, but whether it would be open at four in the afternoon was doubtful. Otherwise, she could see nothing until she returned to Lower Slaughter.

  The Golden Ball pub had an instant appeal. It was on the main road, clearly open and moderately busy, to judge from the vehicles in the car park. By Cotswold standards it seemed slightly down market, which suited Thea perfectly. She and Hepzie went in, with nothing on their minds but the need to slake their thirst.

  She ordered lemonade and lime for herself and a bowl of water for the dog, both of which were provided without question. A man standing at the bar looked down at the eagerly lapping spaniel and said, ‘Best not let her drink too much at once. It’ll give her colic.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ smiled Thea, wondering how she was going to stop the process without her dog feeling hard done by.

  Before the man could elaborate on his theory, there was a diversion.

  ‘You’re following us, aren’t you,’ came an accusing voice, from a table by the window. More heads than Thea’s turned towards the speaker.

  Ariadne and Peter were looking at her unsmilingly.

  Thea picked up her drink, and leaving the dog to her own devices, crossed the room to her friend. ‘I promise you I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’ve been walking all afternoon and got thirsty, that’s all. This seems to be the only place to get a drink for quite a distance.’

  Peter Clarke was slumped on the wooden bench, looking tired or even possibly ill. Ariadne laid a hand on his arm, a look of pain on her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Thea asked her. ‘Is there something wrong with him?’ She thought of malaria, or sleeping sickness or even, despite his denials, AIDS. People brought all kinds of sickness back from Africa with them, the atavistic taint of the Dark Continent, even now.