Death on the Levels

by David Hodges

  Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘Stripping a scarecrow?’ she echoed, wincing as the offside wheel of the old car found a deep pothole in the road, then bounced out of it again. ‘That’s a new kind of perversion anyway.’

  He threw her a sideways glance. ‘Very funny, Lewis,’ he retorted, finally losing his cigarette somewhere in the gloom of the footwell. ‘Thing is, he’s a bit of a joker, this one, as you’ll see.’

  There were a couple of marked police units and what Kate recognized as a local CID car drawn up in the lane beside the allotment. She caught sight of torches probing the patches of rotting vegetables beyond the perimeter hedge as they climbed out of the Civic.

  A dark-haired young woman, dressed in an anorak and slacks, approached them from a gap in the hedge.

  ‘DC Mandy Herbert, guv,’ she said to Roscoe by way of introduction, then turned slightly. ‘This is Mr Harold Grey. He reported the incident.’

  A short, tubby man in a sweater and jeans stepped through the gap after her and nodded to Roscoe.

  ‘Bloody queer, what he done,’ he commented. ‘And in broad daylight too.’

  Roscoe sniffed, staring around him in the gathering murk.

  ‘Nicked the clothes off your scarecrow, did he?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Grey replied, turning back through the gap so that they could follow him. ‘But what he did after that was even dafter.’

  There was a wooden shed to the right of the track they were following and just beyond it, Kate spotted the scarecrow. It was leaning over at a sixty-degree angle, maybe three or four yards behind the shed.

  ‘Used to be vegetables in here,’ Grey explained when they reached the patch of ground into which the scarecrow’s supporting pole had been driven. ‘Haven’t bothered to take the thing down yet, but look at that.’

  Kate was already looking, however. The scarecrow may have been stripped of its original garments, but it was fully clothed now – in a long black coat and a matching Fedora hat.

  *

  ‘So, no idea where he went?’ DCI Hennessey asked a couple of hours later from behind her requisitioned desk in the SIO’s office.

  Roscoe shook his head, chewing on another wad of gum. ‘The witness – Grey – couldn’t help us with a more detailed description either,’ he said. ‘Just a tall, slim figure making off across the allotment towards the fields bordering the Glastonbury road.’

  ‘Dressed in a blue raincoat and grey cloth cap?’

  ‘Nicked from the scarecrow, ma’am,’ Kate confirmed.

  ‘And a full search of the area was carried out?’

  ‘Just before the mist really came down, yes. There was no point continuing it after that. We could hardly see a thing.’

  ‘We have the clothing he left behind?’

  ‘With SOCO as we speak. They’ll arrange for a full examination of it by the lab tomorrow to see if they can capture any DNA traces that will achieve a match with what’s held on our database. SOCO have also given the shed a thorough going over, but they haven’t reported back yet on that or the Mabel Strong crime scene.’

  Hennessey’s expression was noticeably gloomy. ‘Waste of time anyway. Same as the scenes of crime search of Elsie Norman’s bungalow will turn out to be.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘Well, according to Mabel Strong’s carer, the assailant was wearing gloves, but everything’s worth a try and we have to go through the motions regardless.’

  Hennessey nodded. ‘I accept that,’ she said, ‘but a possible future sighting of our man is all we seem to be left with, and after going to all the trouble of putting out a description of a suspect wearing a long, dark coat and Fedora hat, we’re now looking for someone dressed in a blue raincoat and grey cloth cap.’

  ‘For the moment, it seems like that, yes.’

  Roscoe shook his head. ‘I don’t reckon the arsehole will be wearing that gear for long anyway. He’ll be looking for another change of clothes from somewhere – maybe a charity shop or an unattended washing-line.’

  ‘More than likely, Ted,’ Hennessey agreed. ‘So what about that E-FIT you were to arrange? Maybe we will be able to produce a good enough facial of our man after speaking to Mrs Strong or her carer.’

  ‘All in hand,’ Roscoe replied with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘It’s set up for tomorrow morning with the carer.’

  The DCI frowned. ‘Can’t it be done any earlier than that? Time is of the essence here.’

  Roscoe’s smirk faded and he shook his head. ‘Earliest we can do it is tomorrow,’ he said brusquely. ‘But neither Mrs Strong nor the carer are going anywhere in the meantime, so it won’t hurt to wait a few hours.’

  As it turned out, however, Roscoe was horribly wrong about that.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kate was not looking forward to going home after the last episode with Hayden. She was deeply hurt and she didn’t really want to see her husband while she was feeling this way. She hadn’t made any effort to find or speak to him since overhearing that devastating phone conversation. For his part, he had secreted himself in another office somewhere else in the building, deliberately avoiding any contact with her while he ostensibly carried out his trace inquiries on the journalist, Leslie Brookes. He’d obviously realized he was under suspicion and did not relish the prospect of a further grilling, which meant that it was unlikely he was looking forward to going home either.

  But it had been a long, tiring day and as far as Kate was concerned, bed had become an essential requirement if she wasn’t to fall asleep at her desk. Even so, she didn’t leave Highbridge police station until well after eleven, having wasted another couple of hours fruitlessly surfing the net for any new scrap of information she could find on Talbot Court.

  Then, following the rear lights of Hayden’s Jaguar as he left the station just ahead of her, she drove slowly back across the moor. Her mind was in partial limbo, but it was alert enough to make sure she didn’t follow him too closely. She wanted to allow him ample time to get indoors and find somewhere as much out of her way as was possible in their small cottage before she put her own key in the door. When she finally did pull into the gravel drive behind his Jaguar, the lights were already on in the upstairs bedroom and she was not surprised to find him curled up in the big double bed with his head buried beneath the sheets.

  She felt him tense slightly when she climbed in beside him, but she said nothing and he seemed to relax when she turned away from him on to her right side, feigning sleep as she tried to stem the flow of tears that welled up in her eyes the moment her head touched the pillow.

  She had no recollection of drifting off, but she must have done so and when she awoke at just after eight in the morning, she was surprised to find the bed empty beside her – Hayden had broken the habit of a lifetime and got up before her. He was not downstairs either and a glance out of the window confirmed that his Jaguar was gone. There was a brief note on the kitchen table, telling her that he had had to go out, but no explanation as to why or where.

  Sitting down heavily on the breakfast bar stool with a mug of coffee once more cupped in her hands, she tried to marshal her thoughts. She knew she would have to have it out with him sooner or later, but that opportunity had now been taken out of her hands by his early departure to heaven alone knew where and she guessed he would not be in a hurry to return home, but would only reappear when he had to report for duty at Highbridge police station later in the day. That way, he knew that the presence of other colleagues would prevent her buttonholing him with embarrassing questions.

  How long would he be able to keep up this avoidance strategy, however? Sooner or later they would both find themselves together again at home. What then? How would Hayden be able to avoid facing those awkward questions in a small, five-roomed cottage? And there was an even bigger problem. How would she herself be able to find the courage to tackle him face-to-face about her suspicions if that meant learning the unpalatable truth and precipitating the end of their marriage?

  The mug was shaking
in her hands now and in trying to set it down, she spilled some of the contents on the work surface. She was in the process of mopping up the mess with a cloth when the telephone rang.

  She snatched the phone from its cradle, but before she could say anything, a hesitant female voice blurted her own query.

  ‘Hayden? Is that you?’

  She had the good sense to say nothing and the voice became even more agitated.

  ‘Hayden, why aren’t you here yet? You promised.’

  Kate took a deep breath and gritted her teeth to force herself to keep control.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said softly.

  The phone went dead.

  For a few moments she just stood there, the telephone receiver gripped tightly in one trembling hand as the full implication of the call sank in. This was the evidence she had been seeking and yet had most dreaded – the final proof of what she had already suspected. Hayden was having an affair. He was knocking off another woman. Her Hayden!

  Forcing down her shock, she dialled the BT 1471 number and wrote down the details the automated voice gave her on the pad beside the telephone. Then, with hardly a pause she dialled the number herself, waiting for a response with bated breath.

  At first it seemed that she was going to be disappointed. The telephone rang for several seconds without being answered. But then, just as she was about to give up on the call, there was a ‘click’ and a bored male voice responded.

  ‘Yes? The Loft?’

  Kate was taken aback for a moment. ‘The what?’ she said.

  ‘The Loft Private Hotel,’ the man replied impatiently. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘That depends. Where are you?’

  ‘Well, I’m here and you’re there.’

  Kate felt her anger rise and she controlled herself with an effort. ‘Look, I’ve … er … been given your number, but I need to know exactly where the hotel is situated first—’

  ‘Uphill, Weston-super-Mare, love. Any good to you?’

  ‘Oh no, sorry, a bit too far from where I want.’

  ‘Where do you want?’

  Kate quickly put the phone down without answering the question.

  A private hotel in Weston? Was Hayden’s bit of stuff staying in a hotel or was she just staff?

  There was only one way to find out. Abandoning her coffee and going back upstairs to quickly shower, dress, and run a comb through her hair, she grabbed her car keys and left the house.

  Half an hour later she was in Weston-super-Mare. She found the dingy-looking redbrick hotel tucked away in a side street behind high hedges. Even without the wooden sign screwed to an entrance pillar she would have known it was the right place. Hayden’s red Mk II Jaguar was parked directly outside.

  *

  Patient 174 was glad to be rid of the smelly raincoat and cap that had previously adorned the scarecrow’s angular frame, even though the coat’s long pockets had been ideal for accommodating the bottle of sherry Larchfield’s former resident had selected as an appropriate ‘calling card’. Those garments now lay in the bottom of a plastic wheelie bin at the back of the isolated farmhouse George had stumbled upon after fleeing the allotment.

  The elderly farmer had not expected someone like George Lupin to come a-calling, nor had his middle-aged daughter. Neither of them had expected to be dead by the evening either, but George couldn’t afford to leave witnesses behind for the police to interrogate and be provided with a description of the green wax coat (similarly equipped with a convenient long pocket) and black woollen hat the psychopath had taken from the clothes peg in the hall.

  George had throttled the farmer while he was dozing in his armchair in the sitting room – the old man should have locked the front door, shouldn’t he? And that had been a lot easier than killing the buxom daughter. She had walked in at precisely the wrong moment and had turned out to be imbued with the sort of raw strength that comes from the constant physical effort of managing a mixed pig and sheep farm. In the end, after an exhausting struggle on the floor of the stone-flagged kitchen, George had had to resort to using a carving knife snatched from a plate of cold beef on the kitchen table to slit her throat from ear to ear.

  The double killing had had the effect of stimulating the old appetite, and the escapee had polished off the whole plate of beef, together with the remains of a bottle of local cider standing beside it, even before the woman’s blood had begun to congeal on the quarry tiles.

  Then had come the onerous task of disposing of the bodies and cleaning up the blood-spattered kitchen. Discovering the slurry pit in the farmyard had been a stroke of luck – obviating the need to dig holes in the ground – but though George was able to carry the old man out to the yard draped over one shoulder and tip him over the low concrete wall into the pit’s yawning maw, the woman had been a different proposition, requiring the use of a rickety wooden bin trolley from an adjacent barn. In the end, however, she went the same way as her father, gurgling obscenely as she disappeared below the surface.

  On the return to the house, George was smiling with satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that it was likely to be quite a while before the corpses were found – if they were ever found at all – and after using a mop and bucket borrowed from the rear porch to thoroughly clean the kitchen floor and cupboards, which had been sprayed with blood from the woman’s severed carotid artery, there was even time to sit down in front of the television to watch the local news.

  George treated the screen to a contemptuous sneer when the description of the murder suspect was broadcast. Apart from the long, dark coat and Fedora hat, and the gold-coloured spectacles and blond hair, it was obvious that the police had very little to go on, while the anticipated E-FIT of ‘the man they wanted to interview’ was, as yet, conspicuous by its absence. There was, however, a reference to the suspect as having dead, soulless eyes. George had not been personally aware of this characteristic before, and found the observation quite intriguing, until a check in the nearest mirror confirmed the fact and prompted a frantic search of the house for sunglasses. Luckily, a nice silver-framed pair turned up in a drawer in one of the bedrooms, resolving that particular problem, but another identifying feature – the escapee’s striking blond hair – called for more drastic action.

  In the absence of any trace of hair dye, George had to resort to using a pair of scissors and a cutthroat razor from the bathroom instead. Two hours and many oaths later Patient 174 was appraising a perfectly shaved head in the bathroom mirror, the lean, pallid face wearing a satisfied smile, despite the number of very visible and very sore-looking abrasions that the razor had left behind.

  ‘All done,’ Larchfield’s AWOL patient murmured, returning to the television in the sitting room with a mug of coffee and a slice of fruitcake from the pantry and dropping into the armchair previously occupied by the old farmer.

  No one would think of looking for a wanted murderer in a place like this, would they? And it sure as hell beat the pants off the damp, draughty barns that had provided temporary shelter since breaking out of Larchfield. George took a sip from the mug and stared through the window at the Land Rover Defender parked outside and the patchwork of fields beyond, stretching away to the misty horizon. Yes, the place would make an excellent hideaway from which to pursue the business that still had to be completed, and the police were unlikely to show any interest in a farmer dressed in a green wax coat and cap, innocently chugging across the Levels in a beaten-up old Land Rover, were they?

  *

  Kate had parked her car in a small entranceway, a few yards from the parking spot Hayden had chosen for his Jaguar, well out of sight of the hotel where he was evidently meeting up with the other woman. She had intended breaking in on their little tête-à-tête, once she had found which room he was in, but with the driver’s door half open and her right foot already feeling for the tarmac driveway, she was stopped in her tracks by a sharp voice.

  ‘I hope you don’t intend parking here?’

  The
rotund, balding man in the short-sleeved pullover and flannels was bristling with indignation as he emerged from behind the car.

  Kate automatically reached for her warrant card, but then stopped herself in time. She wasn’t on police business and identifying herself in that way would have caused her nothing but grief if a complaint were to be made.

  ‘Sorry, but I will only be five minutes—’ she began.

  ‘You’ll be nothing of the sort,’ the man cut in. ‘This is private property. Move the car or I’m calling the police.’

  It was useless trying to argue. Kate knew she was on a hiding to nothing. With a grimace, she slipped back behind the wheel and slammed her door shut, scowling at the man as she started the engine and pulled back out on to the road. She was looking for somewhere else to park when she saw Hayden’s Jaguar pull out of his parking spot and head off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Damn it!’ she breathed, and swung on to double yellow lines behind a parked van, staying low in the seat in case her husband saw her in his rear-view mirror. But there was no tell-tale flash from his brake lights, which might have indicated his reaction to a glimpse of her car, and then he was gone.

  For a while Kate just sat there, her heart pounding. Hayden had appeared to be alone in the Jag, which meant his ‘bit on the side’ had to be still in the hotel. She chewed her lip, thinking about what to do next.

  The safest option was to drive away and tackle Hayden when he got home that night, but what if he simply denied it all and made up some cock-and-bull story about the phone call and why he was parked outside the hotel? The other option was to approach the hotel reception desk to try and find out who he had been visiting, then confront the woman concerned in her room. But that meant concocting some plausible story of her own to justify her interest and being prepared for the ugly scene that might result.

  She continued to sit there weighing things up for several minutes, but in the end her innate curiosity, heightened this time by a desperate emotional need for answers, won the day, blinding her to the possible consequences. Climbing out of the car, she locked up and walked quickly towards the hotel entrance, a determined set to her jaw, but with her plan of action still only half-formed in her mind. Whether she would have managed to persuade the reception clerk to divulge the information she was seeking remained unknown, for she was denied the opportunity. Within feet of the hotel entrance the shrill voice of her mobile phone stopped her in her tracks.