Tainted Ground

by Margaret Duffy

  Forgetting everything I had been taught.

  I was swept off my feet from behind, a hand over my mouth, and borne bruisingly into the lean-to. Several spiders’ webs later everything came to a halt and somehow, still off the ground, I was turned in the grasp until we were face to face. I did not need to see who it was, nothing was said and I had no intention of uttering a sound even though I could feel something small blundering around in my hair.

  Patrick dumped me back down on my feet and then, like Macavity, suddenly wasn’t there. I stayed right where I was, hardly even daring to breathe in case someone heard me.

  Aeons went by and I could hear muffled voices and scuffing sounds coming from within the barn, the light flickering as people moved backwards and forwards in front of it. I remained motionless, but was eventually driven to carefully catch hold of the thread of a large spider as it abseiled past my face and wind it, very securely, around the handle of a nearby wheelbarrow I could just make out in the gloom.

  It was obvious that they were trying to turn over the trough, a lot of gasping noises and swearing were emanating from the building, the occasional loud crack and exclamation suggesting the breakage of a piece of wood or something similar. Then, after a crescendo of grunts and groans, there was a heavy thud and someone cheered. Predictably, several seconds later when the horrible truth dawned, it was a different story and, predictably again, they suspected one another. They would not have noticed if the Camel Corps had marched in now, bawling accusations at one another, still less see the approach of the officer of the law.

  ‘You’re under arrest!’ I heard Patrick shout, the kind of delivery that at one time would have withered with terror those under his command.

  In the next moment or so there was the roar of a shotgun, both barrels, followed by a terrible screaming. The headlight of the bike went out and then the screaming stopped.

  Choking with shock I crept into the barn on all fours. Then, outlined against the expanse of sky between the widely opened doors opposite, I saw a figure, fleeing, awkwardly, as though not accustomed to running. It was not one of the Tanner brothers. Or Patrick.

  I risked all. ‘Patrick?’ I yelled. ‘Patrick!’

  ‘I’m here,’ his voice said from somewhere or other. ‘Stay where you are. Got your phone?’

  ‘Yes. Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Call in, get some people here.’

  This proved to be unnecessary as moments later a vehicle swept into the yard, swiftly followed by another: police cars. In the illumination they provided I got to my feet and, ducking low, ran towards where I thought I had heard Patrick’s voice. I found him half under the bike, which had fallen over, its light not out but covered by debris. I shoved this away with one foot in order to see.

  ‘Someone got them from behind at almost point-blank range,’ he said matter-of-factly, flat on his back.

  I quickly glanced over to see the two bloodied corpses, finding myself praying that they were corpses now with such ghastly injuries and not going to suffer further.

  Patrick pushed and I heaved at the bike and he emerged from beneath it. There was blood on his coat.

  ‘I think I stopped a couple of pellets,’ he muttered, sitting down on the floor after using his torch to check the two bodies for signs of life. ‘But those poor bastards took the full brunt of it. God, who was it? Who could have possibly known what was going on?’

  Carrick, apparently beside himself with a feeling of helplessness, had called out an armed-response vehicle, just in case. The crew were from Bristol and had lost their way because, we discovered later, local youths had turned round a couple of signposts in the maze of lanes. Finally they had met up with the patrol car and arrived together.

  Patrick, in his turn beside himself, but with bitterness and fury, refused to go to Accident and Emergency to have the four shotgun pellets removed (three in his left shoulder, one in his upper arm on the same side), and asked the paramedics to do it there and then, arguing that as his GP had done the same twenty years previously there was no reason why it could not be done now. Fortunately the pellets were not at all deep, a couple just below the skin. He thought they had ricocheted off the bike, which he had knocked over diving for cover.

  Holding his hand, and he only swore once with the pain, I thought that another few inches the other way and he could have been blinded.

  ‘Still angry with me?’ I said quietly.

  Patrick turned to me in surprise. ‘I’m not remotely angry with you.’

  ‘For coming back, I mean.’

  ‘I had an idea you would. I heard you coming several miles away.’

  DI Bromsgrove, he of the earnest brown eyes, arrived to assist and as he was obviously fully experienced Patrick put him in charge of the crime scene. By this time it was just after two in the morning.

  ‘Right now I feel like kicking in Vernon Latimer’s front door,’ Patrick said. He had his arm in a sling, a temporary measure to help prevent more bleeding.

  ‘But you’ve not one iota of evidence, so we’ll politely knock on it in about seven hours’ time,’ I said.

  ‘I could do that for you, sir,’ suggested Bromsgrove, who was busy writing notes nearby and had overheard. ‘He’s a suspect, I take it.’

  ‘Only insofar as we’re trawling through potentially iffy locals,’ Patrick told him. ‘I’ll talk to him unless I’m on a life-support machine by then. And, Jonathan …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Not one word to the DCI that I’ve been winged – he has enough on his mind.’

  ‘That might be difficult, sir.’

  ‘Look, call me sir when anyone else is around but Patrick when we’re working together. And if Carrick asks just tell him I hurt my shoulder a bit getting out of the line of fire.’ He could have added, but did not, that after almost having had his leg blown off in the Falklands a few bits of shot were a mere bagatelle.

  Latimer lived in one of a group of ‘executive’ houses in a close situated at the opposite end of the village to where the railway station had once been. John had told us he was retired, but I had expected an older man than the frowning individual who answered the front door. He was of medium height, and had an unhealthy sallow complexion and lumpish, pear-shaped figure. It occurred to me that he could easily be the man I had seen making his escape from the barn.

  ‘This is not remotely convenient,’ Latimer snapped when Patrick had introduced us and explained the reason for the visit. ‘You’ll have to come back later.’ And he actually started to close the door.

  Patrick stepped smartly on to the front step and winced as the door hit his shoulder. ‘I don’t think you heard me correctly. Two men were murdered last night and it would appear there’s a connection with an existing murder inquiry. I’m actually investigating another incident at the rectory which we believe is also connected and should like to ask you a few questions about your own presence there yesterday.’

  ‘I was there for a PCC meeting, for God’s sake!’ the other shouted furiously.

  ‘I sincerely hope you were,’ Patrick replied, annoyingly taking the remark at face value. ‘May we come in or do you want me to take you kicking and screaming to Bath police station in front of all your fascinated neighbours?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m a respected member of the community,’ Latimer countered, boring to the last.

  ‘All you have to do then is prove it.’ This with a death’s head smile.

  Icily, Latimer stood aside to allow us to enter and we went through an archway into a large living room. Afterwards I could not remember a single feature of the decor, only that it was wishy-washy.

  ‘Do you own a shotgun, Mr Latimer?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m a member of the local clay-pigeon-shooting club.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘It’s in a cupboard in my study.’

  ‘Lead on, then,’ said my husband encouragingly.

  Latimer stood there for a moment lo
nger, seething, and then stalked from the room. We followed.

  A woman wearing a dressing gown, of wishy-washy colour, was coming down a flight of stairs as we filed down the hall. She completely ignored the three of us, went into what I just glimpsed to be the kitchen and slammed the door.

  The study appeared to be a euphemism for a storeroom, boxes piled everywhere, just leaving sufficient space for a computer standing on a cheap DIY unit, a chair, a metal filing cabinet and a sturdy steel cupboard. Latimer went to this, unlocked it with a key that was on a bunch in his pocket and opened the door.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘All properly licensed and stored. This safe cost me a damned fortune.’

  Inside were two shotguns and an air rifle with telescopic sights. They were individually secured.

  ‘Does your wife shoot?’ I asked.

  ‘Carol! God, no. She’s useless at anything like that. The older gun, the Purdey, belonged to my father. I don’t use it – it needs attention.’

  ‘I should like to see them both,’ Patrick said. Sans sling this morning, he went to put on forensic gloves and then gave them to me. ‘You handle them, my left arm’s a bit weak this morning.’

  ‘I resent this,’ Latimer ground out, sorting through his keys.

  ‘And next you’ll say that the Chief Constable is a personal friend of yours and you’ll be making a complaint about me,’ Patrick said. ‘Go on, man, it’s in quite a few of Agatha Christie’s whodunnits.’ After a short silence he went on, ‘When you were at the rectory for the PCC meeting and left the room after coffee was it to visit the downstairs cloakroom?’

  ‘Of course. Where the hell else d’you think I’d go?’

  I am a reasonable shot and familiar with shotguns and it was John himself who had taught me how to use one. I removed the weapon nearest to me, the Purdey, from the securing device that Latimer had just unlocked and broke it while wondering why he did not have it repaired as they are just about the finest money can buy. It smelt of gun oil. I replaced it.

  I took the second, examined it and caught Patrick’s eye: it had been fired recently.

  Thirteen

  I gave the gloves and then the shotgun to Patrick and he took the weight of it on his right arm.

  ‘Don’t you clean it when you’ve used it?’ he asked mildly, looking down the blackened interior of the barrels.

  ‘Normally, yes, but I was in a bit of a hurry this morning and forgot.’

  ‘Where were you last night, Mr Latimer?’

  ‘Here, of course.’ He flared up. ‘Look, I’m not your bloody murderer!’

  ‘It was bloody all right,’ Patrick whispered. ‘Why did you fire this weapon?’

  ‘I went out into the field behind the house.’ Here he waved wildly in the direction of the window. ‘That one – and gave both barrels to some pigeons that have been eating my vegetables.’

  ‘That should be easy to check up on, someone must have heard you.’

  ‘I didn’t fire close to the houses. Over by that oak tree you can see down there.’

  ‘So you crawled across the field?’

  ‘No, I just walked very slowly along by the hedge.’

  ‘I happen to know enough about country matters to be aware that pigeons are highly alert birds and would have flown off before you got into range.’

  ‘Most of them did. I didn’t hit any.’

  Having just met the man I had to admit to myself that I could picture it. But I had an idea no creeping about had taken place, he had merely noticed the pigeons in his winter cabbages, snatched the gun, raced out into the field and let fly at the fleeing culprits. But that did not mean the weapon had not been used prior to that, in the early hours of the morning. In fact the recent firing could have been intended as a cover-up.

  Patrick said, ‘I shall impound this for forensic testing. You’ll get a receipt. Now, when you left the rector’s study yesterday and crossed the hall, did you see anyone else?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Please think carefully. It’s very important.’

  ‘No, I didn’t see a soul.’

  ‘And when you returned?’

  ‘The same. No one. Not that I can guarantee that I looked both right and left on each occasion.’

  Patrick gave him a smile. ‘Thank you. Tell me about the time you were in Malaya.’

  Charm and then pounce.

  Stonily, Latimer said, ‘That is nothing to do with anyone, not even you.’

  ‘And if I tell you that the cases I’m working on would appear to involve piracy in the South China Sea …?’

  Latimer shook his head. ‘My little spot of bother was in Singapore. Banking. Nothing whatever to do with pirates.’

  I decided that more might be learnt elsewhere and excused myself from the room. The kitchen door was still shut but I did not knock. Who the hell knocks at kitchen doors? Who the hell closes them?

  The woman whom we had seen coming down the stairs was within, giving every sign of being overwrought, drinking whisky neat, straight out of a small bottle.

  ‘What the hell d’you want with me?’ she shrilled, ramming on the top and shoving the bottle in a drawer. ‘Shouldn’t you be talking to that sanctimonious old fart in there?’

  ‘Mrs Latimer?’ I asked. I went to the window and looked out over the back garden. No vegetable patch. To make sure I opened the back door and went outside. There was nothing in sight that could be classed as edible, not by people anyway.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said, much more quietly. ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘We’re checking on legally held shotguns in case any were stolen and used in a serious crime last night.’ This was not actually a lie as it is standard police procedure. I went on to introduce myself and then said, ‘Who, or what, did your husband fire his shotgun at this morning?’

  ‘God knows. Nothing, probably. We’d had a row and he just went outside and blasted off. He does sometimes, just to try to scare me.’

  It appeared that he had succeeded: she had been crying and her reddened eyes were like those of a frightened rabbit. She had been attractive at one time, even beautiful, but self-neglect was now all-apparent.

  ‘Was he here last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. We have separate rooms.’ As she spoke she was twisting one of the free ends of her dressing-gown tie with fingers as tiny as those of a child.

  ‘D’you mind telling me what the row was about?’

  She sat down heavily on a pine bench. ‘The same thing we always row about – his insufferable behaviour. Nice as pie outside this house, bending the knee in church, collecting around the village for charities, on the local council, this committee and that panel, you name it, Vernon’s there wearing his best pious face. But underneath he’s quite different – horrible to me – and I’ve got to the stage where I just don’t know what’s going on. He despises all these people really.’

  ‘Despises them?’

  ‘Yes, I think it gives him a feeling of power, you know, by pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. Sort of holding them in contempt while wheeler-dealering behind their backs to get his own way with things.’

  ‘Is money involved?’ I asked.

  ‘It could be,’ she replied dubiously. ‘I’ve no proof but I’ve seen people come to this house who I know have put in planning applications – I follow it up and they always seem to get permission.’

  I had an idea I had opened the wrong can of worms here but was prepared to press on anyway. Before I could say anything, though, Carol Latimer went on, ‘You know, he’s actually written to the bishop to complain that the rector’s past it now he’s been ill and we ought to have a younger man. Vernon doesn’t like him for some reason, but it’s probably because the Reverend Gillard’s acute enough to know what he’s really like and prevents him getting his own way all the time. Vernon’s good on revenge. Oh, I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s good on revenge
?’ I asked.

  She bit her lip indecisively, and I wondered if she was regretting what she had said. ‘Years ago Vernon got into trouble in the Far East – when he was a lot younger, before we met. Someone ratted on him – his words, not mine – on some slightly dodgy deal or other and he was sent to prison for two years. Vernon bragged to me that he’d got his own back but he wouldn’t say how. And he got into a row in the Ring O’Bells one night. We’d gone in for a meal and someone was a bit drunk and obnoxious. Vernon reported him to the police because his tax disc was out of date. He gets his own back on me too …’

  ‘Is he violent?’

  ‘No, just – intimidating.’

  I was trying to work out why she was still married to this man. ‘Do you know who it was he had the row with in the pub?’

  ‘Someone did say but I can’t remember his name. I think they said he lives in one of the new flats at the mill.’

  ‘Was it Keith Davies or Christopher Manley?’

  ‘It might have been the first one. They were the ones murdered, weren’t they? No, sorry, I simply can’t be absolutely sure.’

  I spotted the kind of wooden case that might contain chef’s knives on the worktop and opened it. ‘Who does the cooking?’ I asked, surveying the very expensive and seemingly razor-sharp contents.

  ‘I do now. Those are Vernon’s. Once upon a time he cooked most of our evening meals but he’s lost interest lately.’

  ‘Do the names Jethro and Vince Tanner mean anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Latimer replied without hesitation. ‘But they might to Vernon. He knows loads of people.’

  ‘Brian Stonelake?’

  She thought for a moment or two. ‘He’s a farmer, isn’t he? I don’t actually know him but I think Vernon’s had some dealings with him. Shooting rights or something like that. Vernon’s a great one for shooting, it makes him feel like a real man.’ This last comment was uttered in a flat, utterly bored tone. Then she fixed me with a surprisingly keen gaze. ‘You know, I’m really glad you came here this morning. Talking about everything has made me realize that I’ve got to go and get myself a life before it’s too late.’