We were using our own vehicle, a Range Rover, Patrick having not been issued with official transport, something he would not have wanted as his cars – except those he might use for a very short journey – have to be adapted due to the lower part of his right leg being man-made following the serious injuries he sustained during the Falklands War. This meant that we did not have to pick our way on foot through all the deeply rutted mud in the lane or get stuck in it, as Carrick’s car appeared to have done, instead driving between all the other parked vehicles, through the gateway and right up to the front door. Through the uncurtained windows the now familiar figures of forensic personnel wearing white protective clothing could be seen moving about.
‘What the hell’s happened out there – have they been making a film about the Great War?’ Patrick demanded to know of the constable on duty by the front door, jerking his head in the direction of the mired lane.
‘Apparently an oil-delivery lorry going to the cottage farther up got stuck there a couple of days ago, sir, and so did the recovery vehicle for a while.’
‘Have you seen the DCI?’
‘He’s in the yard somewhere, sir.’ He pointed around the side of the house.
Carrick and Lynn Outhwaite were examining the interior of what appeared to have been an open-fronted cart shed, latterly used for tractors judging by the oily patches on the earthen floor. Hay was stacked up against the rear wall. Lynn spotted our approach and waved a discreet greeting.
‘Any luck at the mill?’ Carrick said to Patrick.
‘No, insofar as no one seems to have heard or seen anything suspicious on Thursday night, but not everyone was at home. We’ll have to go back. I’m not hopeful, the place was redeveloped in such a way as to keep neighbours’ noise to a minimum. There were a few insights into the murder victims, though. I’ll write it all up for you.’
Carrick made no reply, going down on his haunches to have a closer look at the floor. ‘This looks as though it’s been disturbed.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t know, it could have been done by an animal.’ Rising, he said to Lynn, ‘I know this place is on the market but why has Brian Stonelake moved out already? Most people would live here to keep an eye on it.’
‘Unhappy memories?’ she hazarded.
‘Perhaps he needed the money from the sale of the furniture,’ Patrick offered. ‘We went to talk to him, by the way. He told us that he was keeping a weather eye on the place.’
Clearly, Carrick tried to find a reason for objecting to the visit and I began to see the real depth of his resentment at Patrick’s presence. There was more to it than that; perhaps weakened by his injury and haunted that he might never be able to indulge in the first love of his life, playing rugby, he somehow felt emasculated. Then being required to work alongside another high-octane male was probably just about the worst thing that could have happened to him.
‘Any theories on Stonelake?’ he asked grudgingly.
‘He could have had a hand in the murders. He’s shifty. But in all fairness that might only be because he’s seen his sisters off for the proceeds of the sale. Anything interesting indoors?’
‘Not yet, but we’ll see what forensics turn up. I’ve told SOCO to take up a few floorboards.’
‘Fancy a pint tonight?’
Carrick hesitated. ‘Er – no thanks. I think I’ll have to work late.’
‘I could give you a hand, if you like.’
‘Thanks. I’ll give you a ring if I need you.’
We split up and Patrick and I spent the rest of the afternoon, wearing wellies, walking over practically every inch of the farm. We found nothing of interest to a criminal investigation even though the exercise did us good. No one appeared to have been digging holes either.
It seemed that Patrick was required to work no longer than a nine-to-five day, and having heard nothing from Carrick – after towing his car out of the mud – we returned to the rectory at a little before six.
‘You know, I can’t work like this,’ Patrick said, slamming the driver’s door on our arrival and speaking for the first time on the journey home.
‘No, well, in recent years you’ve always been in charge so any awkwardness could be sorted out, pronto,’ I said.
‘Awkwardness apart, in D12 days you and I would have simply put our heads together, worked out what we would do next and gone ahead and done it.’
Well, sort of and some of the time, I thought. I said, ‘And tonight we would have probably broken into Brian Stonelake’s bungalow when, no doubt, he goes out for a pint or two, and looked for evidence. We can’t do things like that now, the cops don’t work like that.’
Patrick simmered all the way indoors.
‘Things still difficult?’ Elspeth said, after a glance in his direction as we entered the kitchen. ‘Well, it was never going to be easy, was it?’
‘It’s like being back at school,’ Patrick complained. ‘I’m not used to being sent home for the night. He didn’t even want to go out for a drink!’
‘I should imagine James was relieved to be left to get on with the case.’
Patrick turned to her and I did not imagine the flare of anger in his eyes.
‘You know perfectly well he didn’t want you,’ Elspeth went on. ‘But I don’t think you really realized what it would mean.’
‘This man is a friend of mine,’ Patrick whispered.
‘It makes no difference,’ she pointed out equally softly. ‘Besides which—’
‘What?’ he asked when she stopped speaking.
‘I’m not too sure you know what real friendship means.’
There was a silence and then Elspeth said, ‘How many friends do you have, Patrick?’
Even I was shocked at this. It went right to the heart of something of which I have always been aware; Patrick has many comrades, brothers-in-arms and loyal subordinates who have served under him and would probably gladly die for him tomorrow. But genuine friends outside that specialist world?
Elspeth said, ‘Forgive me for saying this, but if you had real regard for James you wouldn’t have agreed to the posting.’
‘But I thought I could help him!’ he protested.
‘It’s not as simple as that and well you know it! Two men like you two together at work are like two stags circling one another, all horns and balls, frankly.’
Patrick’s jaw dropped, not surprising really as Elspeth does not normally express herself thus. Then he gave her a look that I can only describe as agonized and left the room.
‘Perhaps that was a bit unfair,’ Elspeth said. ‘After all, he had a terribly worrying time when James was shot.’
‘Something along those lines was going through my mind earlier,’ I told her. I did not add that only mothers are allowed to be that blunt.
‘And if John hadn’t been ill it wouldn’t have happened because Patrick would have done his stint somewhere else. Oh dear, but at least I’ve made a steak-and-kidney pie for dinner. Do please see if there’s a decent bottle of red wine in the rack, or even two, Ingrid. What do they call it in the navy? Damage control?’
She need not have worried, for there was no ill-humour on anyone’s part following her remarks. We had just finished eating and I was making a brew of coffee when Patrick’s mobile rang where he had left it on the hall table.
‘I’ve got to go out,’ he said round the door a couple of minutes later.
‘I’ll drive,’ I said. ‘You’re well and truly over the limit. What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found the victims’ cars and Carrick wants me to fill in for him until he gets there.’ Patrick was grabbing jacket and outdoor shoes as he spoke. ‘I’ve just been given an OS reference but no one quite remembered to issue me with any maps when I started this lark so I hope to God it’s on one of those we have in the car.’
Luckily we did have the right one and I headed in the direction of Frome.
‘How were they spotted?’ I asked. ‘I mean, we’re going out into the sticks and
it’s pitch dark now.’
‘There was a search underway for a missing child – who was eventually found safe and well at a friend’s house,’ Patrick replied. ‘Police and others were looking around some waste ground, an old industrial site, just as it was getting dark and came upon two cars in a small disused quarry. They’ve been torched but one number plate is still readable.’
‘Is James hoping to recover them tonight?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. It’s obviously very important but would be much better undertaken during daylight. There can’t be much, if any, forensic evidence if they’ve been set on fire.’
‘So why are we going there?’
‘I expect he’s just being careful. Who knows, we might find other bodies inside them when we take a closer look.’
I got lost on all the wasteland, but eventually, after bouncing over acres of boulder-strewn terrain and broken-down fences, spotted the lights of another car. I was aware that Patrick was enjoying himself hugely and he alighted before the Range Rover had come to a complete standstill, like a sheriff in a Western dismounting from a still-moving horse. He went over to the crew of the area car, at a guess from Frome. I followed.
‘Gillard,’ he said. ‘Are the vehicles easy to access?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he was told. ‘The quarry’s virtually a walk-in job.’
‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to lend me a good light.’
A bright beam came to rest on me. ‘And the lady, sir?’
Well, I was wearing a long woollen skirt with sparkly bits on it, mostly on account of the cold draughts in parts of the rectory.
‘Miss Langley’s under training and was called out without having had time to change. Come on man, the torch!’
It was handed over and he plunged off into the quarry, the trainee having to hurry over the rough ground in order to keep up and suddenly remembering that there was a tracksuit that fitted me in the car.
‘If I hold your arm will we be reported for inappropriate behaviour?’ I said.
Patrick snorted derisively but slowed down a bit.
Trees and rocky outcrops loomed on either side. Very soon we had to take things very carefully and pick our way over and around increasing amounts of rubbish; old fridges and washing machines, chunks of concrete, bricks and split plastic bags containing rubble, some of it looking like broken asbestos tiles.
‘I’ll get the Environment Agency in to have a look at this lot,’ Patrick said under his breath. He flashed the torch around, the beam illuminating a cliff face ahead of us. Among piles of scrap wood were the remains of the two cars.
I said, ‘They couldn’t have been driven in here so they must have been pushed in from up top.’
‘It might pay to come back in the morning and see what’s up there. A set of tyre tracks or some other traces would go down a real treat right now in this case.’
The vehicles were severely damaged where they had crashed down, one upon the other, the top one seemingly having then slid off into some bushes, which had subsequently been consumed by the flames. Amongst the blackened stems and twisted metal was a blob of melted plastic, perhaps the container in which petrol had been carried to start the fire.
There was nothing recognizable inside the cars. Patrick gave me the torch and endeavoured to lever open the boots of both with a length of angle iron he had come across lying in the grass but the heat had buckled the metal and they were jammed. He then re-acquired the light and spent several minutes searching the floor of the quarry, moving in increasingly wide circles.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s too much to expect that one of the killers would drop his wallet …’
The twin beams of car headlights swung across the cliff, revealing for an instant a lot more dumped rubbish, so presumably James Carrick had arrived. We waited for him.
‘There’s not a lot to see,’ Patrick called to the approaching light from a flash lamp. ‘Watch out for that glass.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lynn Outhwaite’s voice. She joined us. ‘I told Chief Inspector Carrick I’d check to see what would be required to recover the vehicles.’
‘You might need a crane from up there,’ Patrick said, pointing skywards. ‘Or a tow truck to winch them out through here. I take it Carrick’s not with you. There’s no real need for his presence.’
‘He was coming but wasn’t feeling too good – worn out, really – and went home. You may as well do the same – we can’t do anything until morning.’
When we had taken our leave of Lynn and were on the outskirts of Hinton Littlemoor, Patrick said, ‘Go past the rectory and drive by Stonelake’s place slowly, would you? You never know …’
By this time it was just before midnight. The night was fine and cold, the roads almost empty of traffic. We went past the church and downhill to the old railway station and goods-yard site, actually quite close to Hinton Mill. It had not been fully redeveloped as the builder of the bungalows, which were rightly regarded as ‘cheap and nasty’, had gone bankrupt.
Stonelake’s rented home was on the right-hand corner as one turned into the small estate and I drove by, turned in the cul-de-sac at the end and then approached it again, slowing right down, switching off the headlights. But for the sickly glow from one of the orange street lamps that had so exercised some of the residents in this heritage area the bungalow was in darkness.
‘Stop, would you?’ Patrick requested.
I pulled up and turned everything off, opened my window and there was silence but for a breeze rustling the leaves in the adjacent beech hedge. We sat there for a while – in this game you have to possess the patience of a cat – and then heard the distinct sound of a nearby dustbin lid clattering, a thump and, a couple of seconds later, the slam of a door.
‘Down!’ Patrick hissed.
On his side of the car footsteps approached and went by. As soon as they had gone past we sat up again and cautiously looked round. It was Stonelake, his dog with him on a lead, a shotgun crooked over his arm, walking quickly in the direction of where we had just turned the car.
Then, man and dog some thirty yards from us, Patrick quietly got out and disappeared down the sideway from where the man had just emerged. Almost immediately he was back.
‘I had an idea it was something like a whisky bottle that just went in the bin and I was right,’ he reported. ‘Shall we break all the rules and have a look round this place?’
‘No, I think we should follow him,’ I said.
There was a short silence and then he said, ‘It’s a real opportunity to see if he’s got anything illegal in there. We might even find the murder weapon!’
‘Patrick, you can’t poke around in this man’s house without a search warrant,’ I said through my teeth.
‘Ingrid—’
‘You’ve had rather a lot to drink this evening and you’ve stopped thinking!’ I was really angry now.
I could tell, even in the dark, that he was offended by this for, in truth, he had not overindulged. But it seemed better to use that as an excuse than to throw in his face the real reason for his bad judgement, which was that he had not yet adjusted to what I shall call the new rules of engagement.
‘It’s been a long day,’ was all he muttered before shutting the car door and setting off in the direction Stonelake had gone. I went to follow, remembered the tracksuit again, changed into it in the street and caught up with him.
When we reached the cul-de-sac we saw there was a wide gap between the bungalows where, presumably, it had been planned that the road would continue for the second phase of the development. A couple of yards of concrete petered out into churned-up mud and last year’s dead weeds. There was no moon and after leaving the street lights behind we were walking in almost total darkness. Neither of us was suitably shod, or dressed, for silent tracking, our only aid Patrick’s tiny ‘burglar’s’ torch, which he now switched on briefly to examine the ground.
‘He has the dog with him,’ he whispered. ‘It
’ll hear us and keep looking round.’
‘He might be too drunk to notice unless it barks,’ I whispered back.
We maintained silence after this and kept going almost blindly but seeming to be following a meandering path of sorts. I was expecting at every second to be challenged by Stonelake or even fired on by him.
Then, up ahead, some hundred and fifty yards away, Stonelake switched on a torch. We instinctively crouched down but the beam was not being shone in our direction: he was merely using it to light his own way. Which, of course, was exceedingly useful to us. We watched the light jump around as man and dog negotiated a stile and then the illumination became obscured by trees.
Patrick walked a little faster and went on slightly ahead as now there was not sufficient room on the path for us to go side by side. I preferred it like this: he has had a lot more practice at this kind of thing than I.
We went on, gently upwards, and quickly came to the stile. It was a rickety affair with a barbed-wire fence on either side but we succeeded in getting over it without damaging either skin or clothing. Then I saw the notice: HAGTOP FARM. NO TRESPASSING.
A couple of hundred yards farther on we came to a gate, climbed over it in case the hinges squeaked and then entered woodland. Still the light from Stonelake’s torch wavered in front of us, sometimes disappearing momentarily as he wended his way between the trees.
In order not to stumble over tree roots or brain ourselves on low branches it was necessary for Patrick to use his torch, fleetingly, every few yards, and then all we had to do was memorize what we had seen. I proved to be less than perfect at this and tripped, going headlong into a small thicket. By the time I had extracted myself and pulled out a thorn from my hand, by feel, Patrick had gone. Then, somewhere up ahead, I saw the momentary tiny flicker of his torch.
One could only advance with extreme caution. This went on for rather a long time, too long, and having lost all sight of Patrick I was thinking that I ought to give up and wait for him, or for something to happen, when something did.
Tainted Ground Page 6
