by Granger, Ann
Chapter 10
This time, when Phil Morton arrived at the five-barred gate marking the frontier between the Colleys and the rest of the world, no one appeared. When he got out of his car and listened, not only was there no Grandma Colley to reassure him the dogs were penned, no barking could be head either. Morton opened the gate, got back in his car and drove on to the property. He halted so he could close the gate, all the while listening, at first in nervous anticipation and then in puzzlement. Where were the faithful hounds? He drove on slowly along the track until he reached the jumble of buildings, glancing at the dog compound as he passed by. It was empty. Wherever they were, the dogs were loose and it wasn’t a comforting thought. But they weren’t in this yard. That appeared as eerily deserted as the Marie Celeste.
Morton tapped the horn lightly twice. In response, Tracy Colley appeared at the cottage door, scowled in his direction, and plodded across. She was dressed as before in unflattering leggings and a voluminous smock top. She had done something to her hair. It was now streaked with scarlet. She surely didn’t imagine it made her look any better? They ought to get Tracy on one of those make-over programmes on the television, thought Morton. She’d present them with a real challenge.
‘What do you want this time?’ enquired Tracy inhospitably.
‘To see your brother, is he here?’
‘Whaffor?’ demanded Tracy.
‘Just a chat. Is he here?’
‘Round the back with his horses,’ Tracy admitted. She indicated the rear of the cottage with a backward jerk of her thumb.
‘Thanks,’ said Morton drily. ‘And the dogs?’
A malicious grin flickered across Tracy’s doughy features. ‘You don’t have to worry about them. Dad’s taken them for a run across Shooter’s Hill. They wouldn’t hurt you, them dogs. You don’t need to be afraid of ’em. They only bark. That’s their job, innit? To let us know we’ve got visitors.’
Morton wondered how many visitors the Colleys got. No one who didn’t need to come here on business as he had, he fancied. Under Tracy’s scornful gaze he got out of the car for the second time and made his way to the rear of the property. Gary was feeding his horses some fodder in a bucket.
Morton called his name. Gary turned and, identifying him, came towards the fence. Both horses followed: when he got there, they formed up to flank their owner on either side so that the trio stood in a row to stare at Morton enquiringly.
‘Got time for a word, Gary?’ asked Morton pleasantly. One of the horses blew noisily down its nostrils at him.
‘What’s up?’ Gary showed no sign of leaving the field and the conversation was obviously to be conducted across the fence. The effect of this was to put Gary very much on his own ground, with his equine supporters. Morton was an outsider in every sense.
‘I’ve been making a timetable of events that day when Mr Bickerstaffe found a body at Balaclava House.’
Gary said nothing, his dark eyes watchful.
‘And it doesn’t quite work out,’ Morton went on. He paused for comment.
‘How’s that, then?’ mumbled Gary.
Morton took out a notebook and flipped it open. He didn’t need to consult it, but the action made Gary visibly nervous. Good, that was what Morton had intended.
‘Let’s see,’ he began. ‘Following the discovery of the body, the local police arrived first on the scene, uniformed officers. Then the police doctor. A little later, Inspector Campbell and myself arrived.’
‘The red-haired bird.’
Morton ignored this though he did slightly emphasise Jess’s rank when he continued, ‘Inspector Campbell took Mr Bickerstaffe outside to where you were talking to one of the uniformed officers. You had asked what was going on and added that the officer wouldn’t tell you. Is that correct?’
Gary frowned. ‘Yeah, I guess so. It looked to me like you were arresting poor old Monty.’
Morton, still ostensibly consulting the notebook, went on, ‘You then left the scene, claiming you were on your way into town.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ The horses sensed their owner’s unease. They tossed their heads and moved a little away from him, ready to flee any threat.
‘So . . .’ Morton was beginning to feel a glow of satisfaction. There was something particularly annoying about Gary and it was good to know he was rattled. ‘At that point of time, you knew nothing of a dead body in the house.’
‘’Sright,’ Gary agreed.
‘About an hour later, Mr Bickerstaffe was driven away by a relative. They passed a petrol station on the main road, owned by Sebastian Pascal – ’
‘Old Seb . . .’ Gary sounded resentful, perhaps sensing his present predicament was in some way due to the garage owner.
‘Mr Pascal recognised the occupants of the car. He phoned you on your mobile number to ask if you know what was happening. You told him a body had been found at Balaclava House. This is where I have a problem.’ Morton closed his notebook. ‘You see, Gary, how did you know that? The body was still inside the house. No one had told you it was there. It was not until very much later that, according to your father, your grandmother walked up Toby’s Gutter Lane and saw a private ambulance with its darkened windows leave Balaclava. That, according to your dad, was how you all learned that someone had died. But you knew much earlier. You see my problem?’
Gary didn’t meet his gaze. After chewing his lower lip for a second or two, he burst out, ‘OK, look, I’ll tell you what happened.’
Morton opened the notebook again. ‘You’re making a statement, right?’
‘Well, yes, if you like. After I saw old Monty put in the cop car, I didn’t go into town, like I said I was going to. I did mean to, right? I was telling the truth to your inspector. But I changed my mind. Anyone can change his mind, can’t they?’
He paused hopefully for confirmation and, when Morton said nothing, was obliged to go on. ‘I started off to walk down the lane towards the main road, just like I said, and then I thought I ought to find out what was going on. Old Monty’s a neighbour,’ Gary added virtuously. ‘I was watching out for him. After all, you lot wouldn’t say why you wanted him. I had to find out myself, didn’t I? I doubled back over the fields and came up at the rear of the gardens, Balaclava House’s gardens. Only they’re so overgrown you can hardly call them that. Anyway, I climbed over the wall there and sneaked up through all the bushes to the house. It wasn’t difficult. There’s plenty of cover. I could hear the two coppers outside talking. One said, they ought to look for tracks because the body must have been carried or dragged into the house. A dead man is quite a weight, the other one said. So I knew they’d got a stiff on their hands. I didn’t want them to catch me, if they were planning to search, so I set off home to tell Dad and the rest of the family what I’d heard. Before I got there, Seb rang me. It was lucky he didn’t ring me five minutes earlier, when I was snooping around in them bushes. The coppers would’ve heard the ring tone and come looking for me.
‘A lot later, Grandma went up the lane, just like she said she did. She saw the van leave, with its blacked-out windows. She knew it for a hearse. That’s the truth. But I couldn’t tell you, could I? I couldn’t tell you I’d been eavesdropping on the cops?’ Gary ended on a plea.
Jess Campbell will be pleased to learn she was right about Gary doubling back, thought Morton. But the question is, is the blighter telling the truth this time?
‘You’re not going to change this story of yours again, are you?’ he asked Gary.
‘No, that’s what happened. I swear it.’
‘Prepared to sign your statement?’
‘Yeah, if you want.’ Gary eyed the notebook as if it might explode.
‘You realise that by your actions, creeping about the grounds, you were possibly contaminating the scene of a suspicious death?’
‘I didn’t know anything about a suspicious death, did I? How could I know when you wouldn’t tell me about anything?’ countered Gary.
H
e scored a point but Phil continued over it, ignoring it.
‘Plus, by not coming clean about this straight away, you’ve made it necessary for me to make a second trip out here to interview you. Think I’ve got nothing better to do? You’ve been wasting police time, Mr Colley, and that’s an offence.’
‘What?’ yelled Gary. Both horses wheeled away and cantered off to the far end of their paddock. ‘You’re not going to charge me over this?’
‘It will all be reported to Inspector Campbell, and it will be up to her.’
He left Gary Colley a very unhappy man. A few minutes later, as Morton prepared to turn out of the Colleys’ gateway into Toby’s Gutter Lane, he was forced to wait and let a vehicle coming from Sneddon’s Farm drive by. He recognised the driver as Rosie Sneddon. Morton followed her car down the lane. Rosie joined the main road and Morton, at a discreet distance, did the same. Rosie’s car didn’t travel far, just to Pascal’s petrol station, where she turned in.
Morton drove on past the place, frowning. Now then, Rosie, he thought, you told me you bought petrol the day the body was found. It was Pascal who told you the news. So, why are you stopping there again? Unless you’ve done a heck of a lot of driving in the last couple of days, you shouldn’t need to fill up again.
There was probably an innocent explanation. Perhaps Rosie wanted the minimart. The petrol station was the nearest place she could shop. She might emerge carrying a packet of biscuits and a newspaper. Phil had other things on his mind than Rosie Sneddon and drove on.
Rosie had been aware of a car following her down the lane but she, too, had other things on her mind. She drew into the forecourt of Pascal’s garage and switched off the engine. As she got out of the car, the shaven-headed boy who worked for Seb saw her and came towards her, wiping his hands on a rag and grinning in a way she didn’t care for.
‘Want some help?’ he asked. His front teeth were chipped. She’d never noticed before. But she’d never taken much notice of him before. She wondered vaguely if the damage was the result of a childhood accident or an adolescent punch-up.
‘I can manage, thanks.’ She flipped open the cap on the tank and unhooked the nozzle. But the youth was still there, grinning in that disconcerting way.
‘Something bothering you?’ she asked sharply.
‘Police have been here,’ he said. ‘They came about that business at Balaclava House. You know?’ he prompted.
‘Yes, of course I know. They came to the farm as well and spoke to my husband.’ Rosie was trying to concentrate on the reading on the pump. She didn’t need fuel. She should have gone straight inside and bought some grocery item, then she would have avoided this encounter altogether. She wasn’t thinking straight; she needed to get a grip and not do anything stupid.
‘Seb reckoned he didn’t have anything to tell them. Seb’s not here,’ the garage hand was saying.
If Seb had been there, this lout wouldn’t be hanging round, wasting time, and bothering her. Rosie thought she remembered the lad’s name as being Alfie. She said firmly, ‘I don’t need to see Mr Pascal and haven’t you got any work, Alfie?’
Alfie ignored the heavy hint. ‘Your old man, he didn’t have anything to tell the cops, then?’
Exasperated, Rosie turned to face him. ‘No. We don’t know anything about Balaclava House.’
‘You must know old Monty.’
‘Yes, of course we know Mr Monty. But we don’t know anything about the dead man, how should we?’
‘You didn’t see anyone hanging about?’
‘No! Why on earth—’ Rosie realised she’d raised her voice and broke off. What did he want her to say? Perhaps the way to get rid of Alfie was to tell him something, anything. ‘Pete told them about the burned-out car in the quarry, that’s all.’
Immediately, she was sorry. She should just have told him to clear off, he was bothering her. Instead, she’d given way to his insistence. Blast Seb for not being here!
Alfie’s expression had sharpened. ‘What car is that, then?’
‘Someone torched a car . . . a stolen car, I suppose. We’ve had stolen cars dumped on our land before now. Pete gets pretty fed up.’ She replaced the nozzle of the petrol hose.
Alfie gave her a slow, chipped-tooth smile. ‘You bought petrol here the other day; the day they found the dead bloke. You didn’t need to stop by today, did you? Not really.’
But he’d overstepped the mark and Rosie had got his measure now.
‘Excuse me, I have to go and pay.’ She marched into the minimart and up to the counter. Maureen, who worked there, gave her a sympathetic look.
‘Alfie bothering you? Don’t worry, I’ll put him right. He won’t do it again.’
Rosie almost burst out, ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ But she managed not to. ‘He’s interested in the murder,’ she said instead. ‘It’s normal I suppose, at his age.’
‘Alfie’s interested in anything that’s not to do with his work,’ said Maureen sapiently. She passed Rosie’s credit card and receipt to her. ‘I’m his auntie,’ she added.
‘That’s nice,’ said Rosie, meaning the exact opposite.
Maureen read the true meaning and sighed. ‘I know. Seb only gave him the job because I asked. I thought Alfie might buckle down and make something of himself.’
Fat chance, thought Rosie. Aloud, she only said, ‘Thank you!’ She walked out of the shop. Alfie, thank goodness, had taken himself off. Rosie drove home, unsettled.
Jay Taylor had lived in a flat at the top of a very beautiful early nineteenth-century house in Cheltenham. The flat had been created from the former attics. This gave an eccentric form to the rooms, the ceilings slanted in parts steeply beneath the gables. The dormer windows let in restricted light. The living area, combined with the kitchen, was reasonable in size but the other rooms were tiny, token versions. So Carter and Jess found out after they had toiled up several flights of stairs.
‘Living in a garret has come on a bit since writers were supposed to starve in then,’ Carter puffed. ‘But it’s still living in a garret, just a very expensive one.’
They had wondered how they’d gain entry and if they’d need to force the door. But here Terri Hemmings had proved unexpectedly helpful.
About an hour after they had parted from Billy Hemmings, they had a call from him. He had broken the news to his wife, he said. She was very ‘cut up’ about it. He had mentioned to her that probably the police would want to take a look at Jay’s place. Terri had told him Jay used the services of the same cleaning company as they did. ‘Except Jay only had them come to his place once a month, Terri says,’ Billy informed them. ‘But I got to thinking, if you haven’t got his keys, the company keeps all the keys to the properties on their list.’
A visit to the office or the cleaning company in question had produced, after some little argument, the key to Jay Taylor’s flat.
It was pretty obvious, when they went in, that Jay hadn’t bothered much between the monthly visits of the cleaners. To say the flat was untidy hardly described it adequately. The tiny bathroom was a jungle of dried washing hung on a line strung across the bath. The kitchen area was scattered with an assortment of mismatched coffee mugs, all used, some on the draining board awaiting attention; others in wavering towers on top of the microwave oven. Yet more mugs, plates, sweet wrappers, crisp packets littered the flat. Presumably when Jay had run out of crockery completely, he did something about it but not before.
Central to the whole place was Jay’s computer on its table and all around it, evidence of his work. They had found about twenty notebooks, all full of Taylor’s near-indecipherable scrawl interspersed with pages of shorthand, before they stopped counting. There were boxes of taped conversations with his subjects. Then there were the scrapbooks filled with newspaper cuttings, mostly dealing with various well-known names in the world of sport or entertainment.
Jess thought it sad that everything seemed to be about other people, professional contacts past or pe
rhaps future. There was a sterile impersonality about it all. The sole exception was a small scuffed black leather photograph album of family snaps, mostly showing an unsmiling, plain-looking woman and a small boy, also unsmiling. Jay and his mother? They were the usual mix of seaside holiday locations and school sports’ days. Jay, if it were Jay, had been a Wolf Cub . . . but apparently hadn’t progressed to the Scouts. Pity, thought Jess. He might have cheered up.
‘Given time and a bigger house,’ Carter remarked, sweeping an arm across the scene, ‘Mr Taylor would have ended up living like Monty Bickerstaffe!’
But Jess had taken a seat on the sagging leather-covered sofa where she was sifting through the notebooks, stopping occasionally to make a cross-reference.
‘This is his reference library,’ she announced suddenly. ‘It’s not as chaotic as it looks. Each notebook only refers to one book, one subject. The scrapbooks are a different thing. Jay never knew when he might get a call from someone wanting him to ghost a book by a celebrity, someone in showbiz, perhaps, or a sports star. So he kept anything he found containing articles on well-known people’s lifestyles or interests. It’s his background material. He was obsessive about other people’s lives – people who were successful, that is, and in the public eye. They were his raw material. Even his hanging round racecourses takes on a different aspect. He wasn’t just there to watch the horses. He was people-watching, too.’
