'You're the police,' he stated.
'Sergeant Carmody,' Carmody said, seeing no reason not to admit it, no longer surprised that people recognized his calling at a glance, though he couldn't see how they did it. His feet were no bigger and no flatter than the next man's, he practically never went around saying 'Ullo, ullo, what 'ave we 'ere, then?' But people knew, invariably.
'It's the look, love,' Maureen said comfortably. 'You've got that way of looking at folks.'
He knew what she meant: he recognized it in his mates, that searching, non-committal look they all developed through the need to know, and the effort not to judge. Cynical, some thought it.
He looked now at Hodgson, who said he was a garage mechanic himself, but that was by the way, he was here as a member of the local conservation society. 'And we're not just a load of old Nimbys, neither. Some of us have real principles,' he stated belligerently, and repeated that there was something the sergeant ought to know about, that would interest him very much.
Carmody decided to humour him and followed him across the site and through a smashed stretch of fencing to a large piece of land whereon, enclosed within a flattened barbed wire fence and surrounded by fields of meadowgrass, stood the remains of what had once been Forde Manor, now nothing more than rubble. A fourteenth-century listed building, according to the Advertiser, reporting its spectacular collapse, an unlucky casualty of the storm which had arisen on the night Nigel Fontenoy had died. Pictures of the house in its prime had appeared in a central spread devoted to 'Lavenstock's Night of Mayhem'. Many-gabled, timber-framed, with twisted chimneys and roofs sweeping to the ground, lattice windows peering from under the eaves, the house was said to have had a solar and a priest's hole, a spere-truss – whatever that might be – in the hall, and God knows what else. It had been a unique and irreplaceable example of medieval cruck construction. But derelict and dangerous for years, its floors and ceilings collapsed, its walls cracked, its foundations shaky. Like the Cedar House tree, it might have been struck by lightning, or the wind might have simply shaken it to bits. Whatever had caused it, it had gone down, collapsed into a mighty heap of rubble – hammer-beam roof, linenfold panelling, dog-leg staircases and all.
'It could've been restored, made into a showplace. Now it's just a bit more of our national heritage gone,' Hodgson mourned bitterly.
A pity, Carmody agreed. You didn't like to see part of the past disappear. On the other hand, maybe it had outlived its usefulness. Everything comes to an end. 'Act of God?' he suggested, though having guessed by now what was coming.
'God acted bloody conveniently for somebody, then! For the person who wanted it down to build a hypermarket. D'you know who owns this site? Jake Wilding, that's who! As well as that across the road. Must be laughing like a bloody drain.' Hodgson balled his fists into his pockets as if otherwise he might punch the first thing handy. 'Look at that!' he said, withdrawing his hand and pointing.
Carmody studied what the press photograph, taken from the front, hadn't shown: two sets of wide tyre-tracks, deeply bitten into the mud, leading to the rear of the house, and back to the building site.
'Are you making a complaint, sir?'
'Not yet, but we shall be. Our society's meeting tonight to decide tactics. But I'll tell you something: this house has weathered storms as bad as that for nigh on six hundred years. It was shored up, there was no reason why it should've collapsed – not unless the props were knocked away, deliberate. That way, it'd have gone down like a house of cards. There was a preservation order on it but that's no protection against a man with a JCB.'
'It'd be a daft thing to try. Dangerous, on a night like that.'
'Depends how much you want to build a multi-million pound hypermarket, doesn't it?'
Funny how often the very word 'hypermarket' was enough to send some people's blood pressure up to danger level. 'Would one be a bad thing, out here? What about service to the community – to the folks that live over there?' Carmody ventured, indicating the extensive spread of small, new houses which lay behind them, forming the Ashmount Estate, built right on the edge of the green belt. 'It's a long way out of town. Not many shops, I should think.'
Hodgson said, 'That's where I live. And I can tell you, this community needs another hypermarket like we need a hole in the head. What's another mile or so to pick up the shopping? We've all got cars. What we soon won't have is peace and quietness, a bit of real country, somewhere safe for the kids to play, if places like this are gradually being eaten into.'
There wasn't much to be done about it, though, Carmody felt, now that it was a fait accompli. 'I take your point. But they can't make him put it together again.'
'Can't they just? I wouldn't be too sure. There have been precedents.' After a moment's thought, however, Hodgson was forced to agree. 'You're bloody right, not a feasible proposition, is it? Not a job like this, something of this age and condition. A fine that he'll pay out of his petty cash is probably about all they can do. One thing you can be sure of, though. He won't damn well profit by it! Not if I and the members of my society have anything to do with it.'
Carmody left him, staring gloomily at the ruin, brooding.
He was on his way home, but before starting out, he used his car radio to ring in to the station and speak to DI Moon, asking for permission to have vehicles on the building site checked by Forensics. 'Think we might've struck gold,' he said laconically. 'There's a Bedford pick-up with a wooden floor and some stains on it that look a bit suspicious. Covered with brick dust and cement and plaster until I'd brushed it away. Might be paint, or rust, but might not.'
It might, of course, be blood which had got there quite legitimately. Of its nature, the building trade was a rough one, a hard hat trade, with accidents an occupational hazard. Bricks could fall on your head, trap your toes, Carmody reasoned. Take one unwary step and you could fall off a scaffold, he had no doubt. Cuts and abrasions, skinning your hands, must be a regular occurrence, of as little concern as a flea bite.
'All the same,' Abigail said, 'we want it checked. And the Accident Report book as well, to be going on with.' She listened carefully to what he had to say about the house. 'Any indications what time it was knocked down – if it was?'
'Not much doubt about that. This guy Hodgson claims that he and one or two other people heard what they thought was an almighty clap of thunder about half past one, quarter to two.'
'Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Ted?'
'If you're thinking Jake Wilding could've been lying about times and did it himself after topping Nigel, then yeah, I am.'
'Unlikely. Wouldn't the house have been the last thing on his mind?'
'Well, if it was knocked down deliberate like, to make it look like an accident, it must've been the storm that gave somebody the idea. And if Wilding was hyped-up after doing the murder, well -'
Yes, Wilding's judgement might well not have been as cool and clear as it ought to have been – and if that much money was at stake, maybe he'd thought it was a risk worth taking.
It was a complication they didn't need, she thought as she drove home. But one way or another, it looked as though it was only a matter of time before they had Wilding sewn up.
A name slid into her mind and she thought of the interview she and Mayo had had with Callaghan earlier in the day, and suddenly she didn't feel quite so certain about Wilding.
14
The cottage where Abigail lived was barely three miles out of Lavenstock, in an unconsidered backwater that was neither suburb nor what Hodgson would have called real country, and in bad and therefore affordable condition when she'd bought it. It sat surrounded by flat fields and the uncompromising bulk of a big, bare hill to the rear, halfway down a rutted track which led to a farm round the back of the hill. It was square and solid, built of Victorian stock bricks with a slate roof, four windows at the front and a door to the middle, like a child's drawing. The garden was yet to be. It was not beautiful but Abigail loved it to death
.
By the time she'd paid the deposit and forked out for the repairs necessary to make it habitable, and it had been pronounced sound in wind and limb, there hadn't been much money left, so it had been furnished by raiding her parents' attic and with bits and pieces found in second-hand shops. She'd discovered a solid, old oak dining table that she'd stripped of its tacky old varnish and which was now gradually responding to the coats of polish she gave it when she had time, and a big, shabby, comfy old sofa her mother was planning to help her recover. She'd put up some bookshelves and hoped they'd stand up to the weight of her books, bought a bed and acquired a wardrobe, and that was more or less as far as she'd got. She didn't mind waiting for the right pieces to turn up, because she hoped the cottage would be a long-term thing.
A can of soup and a warm granary roll for supper hadn't been what she'd had in mind when she first came to live here. She'd promised herself proper, civilized meals, but she'd underestimated the strength of will needed to cope with cooking after a gruelling day, not to mention remembering to shop for the raw materials. There was always something she'd forgotten, or else whatever she chose needed slicing, grating, pounding, plus four hours in the oven. In any event, cooking took second place, as did everything else, when she was working on a case. And every one else, too, it had to be said. All or nothing, that had always been Abigail, no half measures.
The fire had taken hold by the time she was ready to eat, and the logs crackled comfortably, the flames leaped and threw interesting shadows on the wall. She was free for what was left of the evening. No bills in the post to think about. No messages left on her answering machine. She took a tray and sat on the rug in front of the fire. After a stiff gin and tonic, the scratch meal tasted all right. But she couldn't relax and turn her thoughts off. She was wound up and the mechanism wouldn't run down.
The telephone rang. It was Ben Appleyard, the new editor of the Advertiser. Late thirties, a fast talker, dynamic. 'Abigail, how are you? Great evening, that dinner last week, wasn't it? Shall we do it again? And sooner rather than later, huh?'
Abigail felt herself smiling. 'I'd love it, Ben, but I'm on a case right now -'
'I know. The Fontenoy job. I'm not here to pressure you, love, but watch this space as soon as you're free.' In her head, she visualized him: very tall, thin as a whip, dark, narrow face, humorous eyes. Her toes curled up with pleasure. He asked suddenly, 'What are you having for supper tonight?'
'Filet de saumon en croûte with asparagus and new potatoes. Champagne délice to follow.'
'I knew you wouldn't be eating tinned soup,' he came back with uncanny accuracy, and a laugh in his voice. 'One of these days, I'll teach you to cook properly for yourself. Bet you haven't climbed that hill behind your house yet, either?'
'You're a bully.'
'So I am. Look, I wouldn't have disturbed you but I have something that might interest you about Tom Callaghan.'
'And why should you think I'd be interested in Tom Callaghan?'
'You know what they say about little birds and journalists.'
'OK, Ben, what is it?'
He was immediately serious. 'About five or six years ago his daughter walked under a bus. On purpose, according to the bus driver. He swore at the inquest that he saw her step off the pavement quite deliberately. He slammed his brakes on but he was too late. Witnesses confirmed that he hadn't a chance, poor sod. She was only sixteen.'
Sixteen! God. 'Anything to suggest why she might've done it?'
'Nothing at the inquest, but afterwards there was talk about a man, a much older man. She wasn't pregnant or anything, but a whisper from one of her friends later said she was badly depressed over the affair.'
'And the man?' Abigail asked, with a sense of inevitability.
'Not a certainty you'd wager your best silk knickers on, but a name did come up. Nigel Fontenoy.'
'Fontenoy? One of Callaghan's best friends, I suppose you realize? He played golf with him right up to last Sunday.'
'Perhaps Callaghan never heard the rumour. Perhaps he's been biding his time.'
'And perhaps the rumour was malicious gossip.'
'Perhaps. But it wasn't the first time Fontenoy had been mentioned in connection with a young girl.'
'Where did you hear all this, Ben?'
'Have a word with our Nan, she'll put you in the picture.' Nan Randall was the leading feature writer on the Advertiser, a mine of information on everything pertaining to Lavenstock. Abigail promised she would.
'Well, that's it,' Ben said, 'that's why I rang. I'll leave you in peace now, love. Don't forget to keep your door locked to strange men. Sweet dreams.'
'Sweet dreams. And thanks, Ben.'
'Think nothing of it.'
When he'd rung off, she checked both doors, though she knew she'd locked them. There was a name for that. But she liked living alone, she reminded herself. She'd nearly made a big mistake in that direction once, and not so long ago, either. A mistake she didn't intend to repeat, one that wouldn't have done her career much good, though her decision to end the affair had ultimately been to the advantage of both of them. The man in question, a married man, a DC junior to her in rank, had since mended his marriage and moved away. In future, any man in her life would be well outside her professional sphere. How far outside it could Ben Appleyard be considered? Or come to be considered as the man in her life? She was comfortable with him, they shared the same sense of humour. He made no demands, and wasn't likely to. He'd never married but was demonstrably heterosexual. He too was ambitious, maybe a bit ruthless, but what of it? They looked at life in the same way, she thought, pleased with the idea, as she made sure the curtains were drawn tight.
The cottage was very isolated, her mother had said doubtfully – what about a dog, but who needed guard dogs when they had the Fossdykes and Fido at the end of the lane?
The Fossdykes lived in a white bungalow at the end of the lane, an elderly, white-haired couple, so alike they resembled a matched pair of garden gnomes. They wore track suits in primary colours and woolly hats, and kept an animal as big as themselves: huge, black, woolly-coated, with a baying bark like a bloodhound, said to be a dog, but arguably a bear.
Because of cows which grazed in the field, the gate had to be kept shut and because of the dog the ways of getting through without either Fossdyke pouncing on her with offers of help and information on settling in every time she passed were already many and devious. But her neighbours were kind, they were elderly and didn't see many people and Abigail hadn't the heart to brush them off too often, even when she'd had a long day or was about to start another.
Tonight, with Ben's warning still echoing in her ears, she was actively glad of their presence, not to mention the dog's. She poked the fire, an impulse she'd discovered to be deeply satisfying and quite irresistible, not only to herself but apparently to everyone else who visited the cottage. She curled up beside it, thinking about what Ben had said about Tom Callaghan, and the interview with him.
He hadn't been pleased. Being interrogated by the police formed no part of Callaghan's image. They'd found him working in his apartment, informally dressed in slacks and a black cotton sweater, his papers spread over the extensive matt-surfaced teak desk placed so that it overlooked the river and the hills in the far distance.
He made no bones about having left the message on the answerphone. Yes, he'd called Nigel, he said impatiently. Yes, possibly he had forgotten to leave his name, he couldn't remember whether he had or not, but Nigel was familiar enough with the sound of his voice, for God's sake, after all these years. The message had only been to confirm their more or less regular Sunday morning golf date.
Callaghan then relaxed, smiling apologetically, once more the media person. 'Sorry if I'm a bit edgy. I'm on my usual deadline for the programme. And shattered about Nigel, naturally. It's not every day you hear one of your best friends has been murdered.' Smoothing back his wavy white hair, he leaned back and crossed outstretched legs. He was shorter
than he appeared on TV but tougher looking, the sweater stretched over a taut body that was evidently kept well in trim. His apartment, too, was at odds with the warm, sympathetic man projected to the public each week, its furnishings Spartan to a degree. For a man of his profession, there were surprisingly few books, no pictures and only one photograph, prominently displayed, which Abigail now realized must have been of his daughter.
'How long have you known Mr Fontenoy?' Mayo had asked.
'Since we were at school together. It was a shock when I heard he was dead, I can tell you. Makes you aware of your own mortality, though hopefully most of us will be spared that.'
'How did you get on with each other?'
'I've told you, we were friends.'
'That was when you were at school together. People change.'
'Indeed they do.' Callaghan answered smoothly, 'but not us. Not in that way. We kept up our friendship.' He smiled again, the famous, all-purpose smile, embracing everyone, directed at no one. The eyes that twinkled so charmingly from the small screen were, in real life, as cold as agates.
Abigail knew intuitively that he was lying. Glancing at Mayo, she'd seen that he knew it, too. To protect the nice guy image was what they'd then suspected, but however concerned he was to conceal it, he hadn't been particularly enamoured of Nigel Fontenoy. Abigail also knew now, after her conversation with Ben Appleyard, that it was more than that, much more than mere dislike: that Callaghan really had something to hate Nigel Fontenoy for. If any man had a reason for wishing Nigel Fontenoy off this planet, that man was Tom Callaghan. Moreover, he was a cold fish, and it was odds on that he wouldn't hesitate to stick the knife in, physically as well as metaphorically.
But there remained the matter of his alibi. He hadn't been at home that night. There was a girl, he said, a researcher on the programme, they'd had dinner straight after it finished, he'd stayed the night with her. Well, she'd be sure to confirm it. Callaghan would hardly have given her name, otherwise.
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