We paused in front of the door. There was a leaking water butt to the right of it, and to the left the window. One or two toe-prints tripped towards it from the porch.
‘You’ve been to look at the hole in the glass?’ I asked.
‘I had a peep inside. He’s lying against the grate, with a shotgun leaning next to him against the wall. The hole looks new.’
‘So we go round to the right.’
‘It’s the way we went.’
The side wall was blank brick that had been cement layered, but chunks of it had fallen off and made a rough surface beneath the snow. We walked round to the back.
There were two doors, and a small window beyond the second one. The first door was a plain coalhouse type, easily opened with a finger through the hole. The second door also had a finger hole, but beneath it there was a mortice lock. Brason’s efforts had taken the plate from the jamb, but the lock’s brass tongue was still protruding and intact.
We went into the kitchen. The floor was blue brick, damp and cold. There was an earthenware sink beneath the window, with no draining board and only one tap, which was dripping dismally. In the back left-hand corner was an ancient boiling copper, with a round lid on top. I lifted it. In the spherical boiler there were a dozen empty beer cans and several screwed-up packages, two of them for light bulbs. When I replaced it, Ken at once put the carrier on the top, and I added the two flasks.
‘I just asked for sandwiches,’ I told him. ‘What’ve they given us?’
Ken reached inside. ‘Cheese and pickle, and egg. By the look of it.’
‘I’ll try the egg. Straight through, is it?’
He nodded, his mouth full.
There was no door in the doorway between kitchen and living-room. The blue brick floor became red quarries. We were standing in a large room, maybe fifteen by twelve, which had a small, low door to our immediate left, I guessed to a between-wall staircase. Dominating the right-hand wall was an iron fireplace, now almost red-brown with rust, with an oven on each side.
We were getting a little light from the doorway behind us, and not much more from the window — the one with the hole — which was facing us. Four feet to its left was the front door.
Ken said: ‘Take a look.’ He waved his sandwich.
The man was sprawled on his back, head and shoulders against the cold grate, his legs tangled as though he’d tripped when he fell. Beside him, leaning against the wall, was the shotgun Ken had mentioned. In the squalor of the room, the gun seemed shining and clean. I could see it was an over/under model.
The floor around him was black with dried blood. It had flooded onto his clothes, so that the flannel .shirt was almost unrecognisable, a check or two peeping out here and there. The anorak was caked with it. He was wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, and blue and white sports shoes, so filthy that I barely recognised them from Mrs Trowbridge’s description. At a rough guess, I’d have said he’d been dead for two or three days.
I raised my head, and realised the light was dying. ‘Isn’t there any bloody light?’ I demanded, ridiculously, because we wouldn’t have been able to use it anyway.
‘The electricity’s on.’
‘In a deserted cottage?’
‘The meter’s in the kitchen,’ he said tonelessly, his reaction to my anger. ‘The company’s seal’s been broken, so he probably shorted it out with a bit of wire.’
‘We’ll find out. Later.’
I finished the sandwich. I stood in front of the body. Not wanting to, I nevertheless tried to get an idea of his height. Six feet — perhaps five-eleven. And yes. Peer a bit closer, and I could see that what hair was still clinging to his skin was blond or white.
‘Where the devil’s Brason got to?’ I demanded savagely. Ken raised his eyebrows. He said nothing.
Where there had been a face there was now a mess of mangled flesh, with slivers of bone standing whitely against it. Very little of the skull was left, just enough for the bit of hair to hang on.
Ken’s guess of murder had to be correct. How could it have been more than a guess, from a glance through the window? That amount of massive damage couldn’t have come from less than both barrels, and he’d had his hands up to his face when they were fired. The blast had shattered both hands on the way through, leaving little more of them than tatters of flesh clinging to the hones.
‘Seems your guess was right, Ken,’ I conceded.
‘Guess?’ he asked. He nodded towards the gun. ‘If he’d shot himself, who leaned that against the wall?’
I should have realised it at once. My brain was slowing. I usually got there, but I had to have time.
‘Try the cheese,’ said Ken. ‘They’re quite good.’
‘Not just now, thank you.’
In the right rear corner of the room there were several cardboard boxes. I glanced into them. Tinned food mainly, condensed milk, sugar, powdered coffee. A number of larger cardboard crates had been squashed into a shape vaguely resembling a bed. There were two army blankets on it, with a kit-bag as a pillow.
The only thing that could have been used as a table was a tea chest, the only seat a five-gallon oil drum, so rusty it could have been rescued from outside, with another army blanket folded on it as a cushion.
There was a saucepan on the hob of the grate, and a black kettle in front of it on the floor.
‘How anybody could exist like this…’ I shook my head.
‘I don’t think he’s a tramp. A drop-out, perhaps?’
‘When he almost fortified the place? No.’ And who the hell was going to have to tell her? ‘Where the devil’s that forensic van?’
‘Give ‘em time,’ said Ken soothingly. ‘The weather’s bad.’
‘I made good time.’
‘Not my impression.’
I glanced at him. ‘Don’t you start. I’ve had one session already, with Merridew.’
Ken poured coffee into plastic cups. ‘Oh yes?’ Casually.
‘I think we might expect a visit from Donaldson.’
‘Has it got to that?’
‘It has.’
It seemed to satisfy his worry about my evil mood. I allowed him to absorb the assumption, watching his shoulders relax.
There was a cough behind us. Brason stood in the rear doorway.
‘Come in,’ said Ken. ‘Don’t bother to knock. Squared the missus, have you?’
We joined him in the kitchen, and he at once investigated the plastic bag. ‘Nobody wanting the egg?’ he asked.
I was worried about the forensic team. ‘Did you see any sign of a large black van?’
‘No, sir.’ Brason poured himself coffee. There was less than half a cup.
I picked a bit of hard-boiled egg from the corner of my mouth. ‘Better finish that other flask, or that forensic lot’ll clear us out.’
Ken and I walked back into the living-room.
‘They’ll have to give special attention to fingerprints,’ I told him. ‘It’s about all we’ve got for identification. And I’ll want a special check on that window latch, Ken.’
‘Yeah. I had the same idea myself. Somebody could’ve reached in through that hole and opened the window.’
‘We’ll see. Opened it to get in, and closed it when they left. Perhaps. I don’t like the look of that shotgun. I suppose it’s been fired?’
I went over and had a sniff at the barrels.
‘Been fired right enough,’ I decided. ‘Both barrels, I’d say.’
‘And it would’ve taken both barrels,’ Ken said, sticking out his lower lip in disgust.
‘That’s always assuming he was killed with this gun. Maybe he fired both barrels, at somebody coming, say.’ I shook my head. ‘Then why would he place it so carefully against the wall, probably not even reloading it, if that somebody was just about to stick another shotgun through that hole in the window and blast him? There’s something that doesn’t make sense. And another thing — that hole. Where’s the glass splinters, if it was done
recently? Can’t see any on the floor, can you? So perhaps the hole wasn’t bashed in — or even blasted in — from outside.’
We advanced to the window. Ken said softly: ‘You’re rushing it, Richard.’
By that time the light was poor. We bent together, and obligingly, standing in the doorway behind us, Brason put on the overhead light.
I turned on him angrily. ‘Touch nothing!’ I snapped. Brason held up his ball-point pen meekly, indicating he’d used only the end of it. His smile was weak, and fading fast.
I relaxed. ‘Oh Lord, lad, d’you want to give me a heart attack! Can’t you find something to do?’
‘I could go and wait for your van,’ he suggested. ‘They might miss the entrance.’
‘Yes. Good idea.’
He was turning away. ‘And anyway,’ he added, ‘Henry Rennie might be along.’ It was a remark he obviously expected would make a favourable impression.
‘Wait!’ I caught him in half-turn. ‘What the hell did that last remark mean?’
‘It’s just...while I was on the phone I thought I’d call Rennie and ask him to come and check it’s his gun.’ Brason was frowning. I could hear Ken humming quietly to himself. ‘Sir...’ Brason said questingly.
Ken turned away diplomatically, and began to examine the floor beneath the hole in the window pane. I took a breath.
‘Something you’d better understand, Brason,’ I told him evenly. ‘I’m in charge of this investigation. So far, anyway. I’m the one who gives the orders around here. Is that clear? Right. Now...I do not intend to allow civilians in here, to look at guns or otherwise. Nobody’s going to touch it until the forensic wizards have been over it, and it’ll take ‘em a day or two. Am I getting through?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now you’ve landed yourself with the job of heading off Rennie, and telling him he can’t put a foot on his own property. If that embarrasses you, that’s too bad.’
‘I’ll do that, sir.’
‘You will, indeed. And now you’ll come over here and get a close look at this gun.’ It brought him very close to the body. ‘That’s right, keep clear of the legs. Put your head down. Down, lad, and take a good look at the maker’s name engraved on the plate.’
Brason straightened. He was pale. ‘Seen it, sir, Remington.’
‘We’re progressing. How many over/under shotguns d’you reckon there are around here?’
‘Well...Mr Rennie’s...’
‘And? Come on, an honest guess.’
‘I’d say — none.’
‘Good. Then can I assume — would you say —just as a working hypothesis, that this weapon could be the one he reported missing?’
Brason lifted his chin. ‘I should say so, sir.’
‘So you see, there was no point in getting him to have a look at it. Not yet. Slow down, Brason, and don’t go jumping the gun.’ I winced, not having intended that. ‘So to speak.’
He turned to leave. ‘I’ll go and look for the van, sir. And Rennie.’
‘And if you’re not feeling too well, try to be sick outside the boundaries of this property.’
‘Sir.’
We stood by the window, watching him stomp up the path. Ken stirred, and glanced at his feet.
‘Can’t see any signs of glass,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’ll get ‘em to run a vacuum over it. Have you noticed, Richard, how clean the floor is? No dust. No footprints.’
I grunted. Things were bad enough without Ken noticing that. I agreed to the vacuum. They’d find the smallest of traces. ‘But have ‘em look under the snow outside,’ I said. ‘But gently, Ken, gently.’ I glanced sideways at him. His face was impassive. ‘I was too rough with him, wasn’t I?’
‘Not really. He’s too eager.’
But Ken was being quietly reproving. However disturbed I was, Ken knew that I’d never been in the habit of dispersing my anger around. Lucky it hadn’t been Donaldson, though, who’d have torn Brason apart. Mind you, I had to admit that Brason wouldn’t have put on the light for Donaldson.
‘There’s no room in the force for idealists and romantics,’ said Ken. Was that how he saw Brason?
I merely nodded, recalling my own idealistic and romantic beginnings, and every detail of the painful compromises I’d had to make. The force had nearly broken me.
Not many minutes later the forensic team turned up, but there was no sign of Brason. The wind had eased, and the sky glowed in the west behind the scattering clouds. The MO formally pronounced death, and took the body away as soon as the photographers had finished with it. They were now all working with floodlights, hooked to the generator in the van.
I went outside to stand in the back garden snow for a quiet smoke. My feet were cold and my brain feverish. I knew Ken had it in hand, so I relaxed to the sunset spreading through the sky. The glorious death of one more of my days! Then Brason came up quietly to my elbow and cleared his throat for action.
‘Took you a while,’ I said. But I was calm now, and it came out placidly.
‘I drove down to Rennie’s place, sir, to cut him off before he set out. He was...difficult.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Wants his gun back, of course.’
‘He’ll get it. When we can prove it’s his.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s his. I noticed a notch in the stock, and he identified that. I told him he’d have it in due course, sir.’
‘Good. Nice observation. So now we know where we are. Ever fired an over/under shotgun, Brason?’
‘No, sir.’
I was getting a ‘sir’ with every sentence, now.
‘Single trigger, you know, unlike most of the side-by-sides. There’s a special selector, so that you can choose which barrel you want to use. But it does mean you can only fire one barrel at a time, not both with one good squeeze. It worries me. Can you see why? It’s the separate firing I’m getting at.’
I was hoping that a fresh and younger mind might rescue me from a rather horrible thought I was stuck with. But he seemed uneasy and restless, no longer trusting himself. I waited quietly, wondering whether he could bounce back. At last he fished tentatively.
‘Is this on the assumption it was the Remington that killed him?’
‘It’s been fired. It’s a distinct possibility.’
‘But the cottage was fastened up tight.’
‘Not quite tight. There’s a hole in the window pane, and it’s right beneath the latch. You could stick a hand through from outside...’ I tailed it off, letting him absorb the thought.
He took a breath. ‘Or somebody could’ve stuck another shotgun, instead of a hand, through that same hole?’
When he became involved with an idea, he forgot the ‘sirs’. His face was caught in an orange glow, jaw muscles deeply shadowed. A young man of mature purpose.
‘Yes...I see,’ he went on. ‘I see. I don’t know too much about shotgun wounds, but that...that mess in there — hands and face — it’d have to be both barrels, I’d guess.’
‘The pathologist will no doubt tell us. It seemed so to me.’ ‘But if it is, and the over/under did it, then....’ He hissed through his teeth. ‘Then it would’ve taken two separate and deliberate shots. Yes, sir, I see what you mean. Nasty. Kind of vicious.’
‘And yet...it does look as though that was what he was expecting, doesn’t it? Something nasty. He made a fortress of the place, trip wires and all.’
Brason moved his head. He suspected a trap. ‘If you think so .
‘But?’
‘He could’ve hidden out here for months, and nobody know it. Not till the spring ploughing, anyway. No need to make a fortress of it. The whole farm’s been deserted for five years.’
‘Hidden, yes. But he was afraid, Brason. Terrified. Hence the trip wires and the shotgun. So he expected to be traced.’
He was doubtful. ‘But all the same...Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s another explanation for using both barrels. Something less vicious.’
<
br /> ‘I’d be pleased to hear it.’
‘Identification. It could’ve been meant to hide who he is.’ ‘With the place full of his fingerprints? With his clothes to work on? And with the rest of his body intact?’
‘It was a thought.’ He pondered. ‘One shot for the face, one for the hands.’
I looked sideways at him. Was this the Brason whom Ken had described as a romantic idealist?
‘Does that make it better?’ I asked.
‘More...well, practical, sir. Less vicious.’
I couldn’t find an answer to that. Either way, I found it difficult to accept.
Then Ken came to tell me they’d found particles of glass beneath the front window, outside. I said absent-mindedly that I’d be round in a minute. Ken grunted and went away.
I was turning my mind to something else. ‘Five years, did you say, it’s been deserted? Did they chuck them all out together, farmer, labourers...’
‘Not all together, sir. This one’s been empty for six or more years. Since the old lady died. Mrs Kendall, that’d be.’
‘Kendall! Did you say Kendall?’ I swung to face him, and he looked startled.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Now, I need to get this straight. Did this Mrs Kendall have a son called Clive?’ My heart was tripping.
‘That raping bastard — that’s him! Born and bred here, but fortunately he’d been gone from this district for...oh, three years, before he started his nasty habits. Fortunately for him.’
I guessed him as around twenty-five. ‘But you weren’t in the force then, surely.’
‘My father, sir. He’d got the patch then. But I can tell you — if he’d had the arresting of Kendall...well, now, perhaps there’d have been an unfortunate accident.’
‘Hmm! But as it happened, it was me. Arrested him.’
Then, while Brason was staring at me in indecision, a throat was cleared, and Donaldson was standing at my elbow.
5
‘Well now....’ Donaldson was holding himself stiffly, almost in defence. ‘How’re things going, then?’ There might have been half a smile in the corner of his mouth, and he had his head cocked beneath the felt trilby he always wore. ‘Perhaps you’d better bring me up to date, Inspector.’
Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton) Page 6
