by Rebecca Tope
‘No, madam, we’re not arresting you, but you must be aware that there is a murder inquiry going on. Three people have been killed within half a mile of this spot, in recent weeks. The existence of this camp, so close by, is something we must take seriously. We need to know exactly who has been here; when; for how long. If you would be kind enough to help us with our enquiries, I’m sure it will in everybody’s best interests.’
Cappy sighed. ‘Well, could we get on with it, then? And could we first tell my husband that I’m all right? Where is he now, anyway?’
‘He went in the other direction, with our sergeant. I can contact them, if you’ll just give me a moment.’ He unhooked a small mobile phone from his belt and tapped its buttons. Before he spoke, he walked some paces away, but Cappy could still hear that the signal was poor, and the voice at the other end very crackly.
She looked at Phoebe and Elvira. They were standing apart, Phoebe looking ill and bewildered, Elvira pale and frightened. What have I done? Cappy wondered. Why on earth did I get myself involved in this? She moved towards them. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Better get moving.’
With a sudden shriek, Elvira backed away from her, before turning tail and running into the deepest part of the woodland. In an astonishingly short time, she was lost from sight. Heart in her mouth, Cappy realised that she was heading right for the cannabis patch. ‘Catch her!’ she screamed at the stolid policemen. ‘Go after her!’ She danced up and down in her anxiety, stopping only when Phoebe went up to her and clapped a hand on her shoulder, shaking her roughly.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you so keen for her to be caught?’
Cappy ignored her, still frantic, watching two of the men begin to give chase. The third one finished speaking into his phone, and began to tap in new numbers. ‘How far can she go?’ he asked Cappy.
‘A long way,’ she said. ‘It comes out over by Roadworthy Cross, in that direction. Assuming she goes in a straight line, that is. She seems to know her way around. You could get someone to head her off …’ She faltered. It was too difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know the area. There were tiny lanes and tracks, nameless in most cases, criss-crossing the woodlands and surrounding fields. Elvira would be at a huge advantage.
‘We’re not doing any good here,’ decided the man. ‘Would you both come with me, please?’ He led the way purposefully and almost accurately, back to the main path through the woods. Cappy saw Jonathan fifty yards away, coming towards them, and ran to meet him, flinging herself in his arms.
‘I’ve been a fool,’ she said breathlessly, before anyone could come close enough to hear. ‘But let me do all the talking, will you? It’ll all be a ghastly mess otherwise.’
The policeman came up behind her. ‘Mr Mabberley, would you please take your wife home? We’d like you both to stay there until we can sort things out here. I’ve called for reinforcements and another vehicle, so we can take you all in for questioning. But my priority must be to examine that hideaway. Can I rely on you, sir?’
‘Of course,’ said Jonathan, easily. ‘Come on, darling. We’ll go and get some breakfast.’
Cappy smiled up at him, acting the innocent, then looked at the policeman. ‘We’ll be waiting for you at the house,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think you’ll find anything important there. That poor girl isn’t right in the head, you know. She wouldn’t do anybody any harm.’ She looked back at Phoebe. ‘She’s ill,’ she added, in a low voice. ‘Don’t be hard on her. She hasn’t done anything, either.’
The man did not smile. ‘We’ll be along for you in a little while,’ he said, and nodded at Jonathan to take her away.
* * *
Amos met the Mabberleys in their yard. He could see that something strange was going on, and it came to him with total certainty that it had been Cappy he had seen walking along the road at six-thirty that morning.
‘Where’s Phoebe?’ he said, surprising himself at the question. Cappy’s answer was even more of a surprise.
‘She’s gone with the police,’ she said. ‘They want to question her.’
‘High time,’ he growled. ‘They should lock that woman up.’
Cappy wouldn’t be drawn. Her flurry of concern had burnt itself out, and she no longer cared what happened to the Winnicombes. ‘Well,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t know how we can help you.’
Amos gave Jonathan a pleading look. He could see himself through their eyes: old worn-out clothes, and the body inside them not much better. ‘Will ye listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve things to tell.’
Jonathan shifted uneasily, holding Cappy close around the shoulders. ‘My wife’s had a shock,’ he said feebly. ‘I ought to get her into the house.’
‘Shock?’ echoed Amos harshly, and put a hand to the wound on his head. ‘Shock, is it?’
‘Honestly, my friend, I don’t think we’re the people you should speak to. It’s the Beardons, or the police, don’t you think? I can see you’re troubled about Phoebe. And Elvira seems to be in some trouble …’ He glanced at Cappy for confirmation, but she did not respond. ‘Anyway, it’s all in the hands of the police now.’
Amos turned to leave. ‘This the quick way to Redstone?’ he queried, indicating the track down to a gate and across the fields; the one Lilah had used on the night of the barbecue.
‘That’s right,’ said Jonathan.
The chase through the woods did not last long. Den’s long legs soon gained on Elvira, despite her superior knowledge of the terrain. She was wearing only socks, which did not effectively shield her feet from the many sharp and prickly plants in her path. He caught at her arm as she hesitated on the edge of a dense patch of brambles, and pulled her to a standstill. She screamed and punched at his chest, but he held on. His colleague was soon holding her other arm, and together they started walking her back the way they’d come.
‘You can’t, you mustn’t,’ she wept, hanging heavy between them like a baulky toddler. ‘I bain’t going with you.’
‘Come on, Elvira,’ said Den. ‘Don’t you remember me? We used to go on the same bus to school.’
She squinted up at him. ‘I never went to your school,’ she said.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But you went on our bus.’
‘Hmmm,’ she grunted. He could see her trying to remember, and in the process forgetting to obstruct their progress. He kept up his amiable chatter.
‘Nice camp you’ve got there. Must have been fun, ’specially in the nice weather.’ She grinned, but said nothing. ‘Got yourself a boyfriend then? Is that right?’ he pressed on.
‘Getting married, I am,’ she agreed.
She was walking with them now, yelping occasionally when something stabbed at her feet. ‘Forgot your DMs,’ remarked the other policeman. ‘Look like new ones, too.’
‘He gave ’un to me. For a present,’ she simpered. ‘Ma said I couldn’t have any, so he bought ’un. Shows he loves me. He do love me,’ she repeated earnestly. ‘Really and truly.’
‘I should hope he does,’ said Den, and found himself meaning it.
They stopped at the camp, giving Elvira time to put her Doc Martens on and gather up her bag. Then they drove her to the police station. She became agitated in the car, turning to look out of the back window, watching the road behind them intently.
‘Is she fit to be interviewed?’ the desk officer asked when they arrived.
‘We’ve got no choice,’ said Den. ‘I think she’ll be okay if we’re gentle.’
‘Gentle!’ repeated the man, but a more careful look at Elvira gave him pause. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Poor little bitch. Should we get a woman to do it?’
Den considered briefly, then shook his head. ‘She seems all right with men,’ he said.
Den was asked to sit with Elvira while a senior detective interviewed her. She seemed at first not to need him, striding into the room in the clumping boots for a minute or two, before plonking herself down on one of the chairs. Den realised th
at she must have been sent for assessments of various sorts for much of her life, and had grown accustomed to strange rooms full of strange people. She waited quietly for something to happen.
‘Please tell us your full name,’ began the interviewer.
‘Elvira Mary Winnicombe,’ came the prompt reply.
‘And your address?’
The reply to this was equally forthcoming. Encouraged, the man moved swiftly on to the main business. ‘Would you tell us, please, Elvira, if you know anything about the way Mr Guy Beardon died?’
She narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. ‘Never heard nothing,’ she said, and then frowned doubtfully.
‘You do know who I mean? The man who fell into the slurry pit.’
Elvira giggled, and folded her arms tightly across her chest. ‘He never fell in,’ she said.
The room went still and silent and the interviewer read Elvira the convoluted wording of the newly-revised police caution.
After that it was easy. For Den, it felt too easy. They didn’t even have to trick her into telling the whole story. He wanted to stop her, to say, ‘Hasn’t anyone warned you not to tell us all this?’ She seemed to feel no caution, no hesitation about revealing what had happened. It was disconcerting and more – like a very young child confessing to evil deeds, with no sense at all of having done something wrong. As she went on, Den found it almost unbearable.
At last, the important question came. ‘Who told you to do this, Elvira? Who said you should push Mr Beardon into the muck?’
‘Somebody,’ she said, abruptly switching into a cunning demeanour. ‘Don’t you ask me that.’
‘All right,’ agreed the man. ‘I won’t. Now, what about the other man? Sam Carter. Somebody shot him, didn’t they? Do you know how to shoot a gun, Elvira?’
Her laughter was genuine. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘’Tis easy. He fell in the nettles.’ She laughed again and Den’s skin crawled.
‘How did you get the gun?’
‘I went into his room when he was milking. They was all busy, even the missus. Then I kept ’un till ’twas needed.’
‘And then you went back to Redstone?’
‘He was bad, that Sam. Taking things not his’n. I knew I should shoot’n, so I did. He was talking to me, then he got running, so I shot’n. By the nettles.’
‘But—’ The man bit back his puzzlement. His question would have been beyond her understanding.
She ignored the interruption. ‘Then I threw it away and ran back to the hideout.’ Den tried to visualise the scene of Sam’s killing, but failed. Surely the man could have snatched back the gun, or talked her out of her intention.
‘Were you all by yourself?’ he asked, before he could stop himself.
The cunning look came back and she clamped her mouth shut. Then she nodded. ‘I pulled both the triggers,’ she said. ‘One first, then the other. Triggers, they’re called,’ she repeated cheerfully.
‘That’s right,’ confirmed her questioner. ‘They certainly are.’
There was little enthusiasm for further questions after that and Elvira herself seemed to have exhausted her supply of information. They took her fingerprints, and escorted her to a cell, giving her a generous breakfast. Nobody rejoiced when the prints were found to match those on the gun which had killed Sam. Neither did they when the muck-covered trainers were found to be Elvira’s size, with marks inside matching the impressions of her toes found in the Doc Marten boots.
‘Means, opportunity, confession, evidence,’ listed the man who had interviewed her. ‘All that’s missing is motive.’
‘And for that, we need to locate this chap who says he’s going to marry her,’ said Den. ‘And that shouldn’t be too difficult. If anybody wants me, I’ll be at Redstone.’
Lilah was waiting for news. She had seen a third police car speeding towards the Mabberley woods only a few minutes before the milking was finished, as she went out to send a heifer in. Tim Rickworth was there for the later stages of the milking; he was now sloshing water about, brushing out the parlour, whistling foolishly as he worked. She had to admit, though, that he had been a big help. The cows were sent back to their field, Roddy appearing to follow them up and shut them in.
‘Breakfast time,’ Lilah announced, and she and Tim kicked off their boots at the back door and went into the house.
‘What a time for a visit!’ remarked Miranda, glancing out of the window as she stood over the toaster. ‘What on earth does he want? You’ll have to talk to him, Li. I’m too busy.’
Lilah shook her head, unable to see anyone through the window. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s here?’
‘He’s crossing the yard now. And before he knocks – I hope you haven’t forgotten I’m going to Nottingham.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ said Lilah, pulling a face. ‘I still think you’re mad.’
‘Well, think what you like. Now you’ve got Tim, you can manage without me, and with the offer of a lift, it all works out perfectly.’
‘What time’s he coming?’
‘Not sure exactly. Ten or eleven. It was very nice of him to offer, and if you’re here, you can come and meet him. He is your half-brother, after all. Aren’t you curious to see him?’
‘I am,’ offered Roddy.
‘I don’t mind seeing him. Later on, I’ll be happy to get to know him. It’s just …’ Lilah stopped. How could she explain the sense of overload, of struggling from hour to hour, deliberately closing her mind off to anything new? Any distraction now might make her release her hold on the work, the sense of danger, her own sanity.
They waited for the knock on the door, and then Miranda went to open it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Amos looked wearily round the crowded kitchen, and seemed overcome. For several minutes he said nothing, his head hanging, the picture of misery. ‘Everybody out,’ Miranda suddenly ordered. ‘Leave this to me. There are too many of us in here anyway. Roddy, take Tim and get the calves done. Lilah, you must have things to do.’
‘I’ll just finish my toast first,’ she said calmly. ‘Then I’ll go and see if Jezebel’s calved yet. She didn’t come in with the others this morning.’
Left alone, several minutes later, Miranda sat down with Amos, pushing yet another mug of coffee towards him. ‘Have you come to tell us something?’ she said.
Amos shook his head helplessly.
‘You didn’t come from home just now, did you?’ she pressed him. ‘You came from the wrong direction. Where have you been?’
‘Up there.’ He nodded towards the Mabberley land. ‘They’ve had trouble there. I saw her – early – walking. The police came.’
‘Yes, Lilah said she’d heard them. Do you know what’s been going on? Have they found somebody?’
‘Phoebe! They’ve arrested Phoebe. I know about that. The Mabberleys told me.’ He was suddenly eager, animated. ‘I came to explain to you, why she did it. Why she had Isaac killed, so that that girl of hers would have to come and live with me.’ He paused, and rubbed his head, all around the swollen bruise. ‘At least …’ He subsided as suddenly as he’d revived. ‘Yes, that must be it,’ he frowned. ‘She wants the girl to live with me, and have my money when I go. It’s my daughter, you see.’
Miranda sat down opposite him, and put one hand on his arm. ‘Amos? Say that again, would you?’
‘Elvira. Phoebe’s girl. The simple one. She’s mine.’
‘Oh my God.’ Miranda wanted to take him in her arms and rock him, but had the sense to resist the urge. But pity rushed through her, in a confused torrent. Pity for Amos, for Elvira and for herself.
* * *
Lilah walked briskly through two fields in search of the missing Jezebel, who was another first-time mother. When one of the heifers was due to calve, it would be brought down to join the herd a few days ahead of her time, to become accustomed to the new regime and her new sisters. Then the calving would take place in the company of older animals, which s
eemed to have a calming influence. It was usual for the new arrival to be found by whoever went to fetch them in for milking, morning or evening. Lilah had heard Guy labelled old-fashioned for this laissez faire system, many a time, but he insisted that it worked, and calving difficulties were rare. The heifer, unlike cows on their second or third calf, would sometimes scarcely seem to notice when her baby was removed from her, and she was added in at the end of the milking session, and given quantities of feed to boost her milk yield. It was a source of some self-satisfaction to Lilah that she had accomplished all this herself, in the midst of all the turmoil, when little Endurance had been born.
Lilah wondered whether Miranda’s lift had turned up yet. The road snaked around the perimeter of this field, and two or three cars had passed within the last few minutes; perhaps one of them was Terry, she thought. Perhaps after she’d found the heifer, she could climb out onto the road and wait there to wave. Having said goodbye to her mother, she was in no hurry to return to the house and go through it all over again, even if that did mean she could have met her half-brother.
The animal she was seeking came into view amongst the trees. It was standing, head down, sniffing at a blur of pale brown. ‘Ah,’ Lilah said to herself. ‘Too late!’
The calf was dry, probably born the previous evening, and it stood up quite competently when she came into sight. The huge black eyes turned apprehensively towards her, and its mother turned to face the intruder. Lilah could see already that the calf was a bull. From long habit, she sighed. Another trip to market, selling him at a few days old for cat meat. There was no animal so redundant as a male Jersey calf. Though perhaps he was lucky not to be wanted for veal. At least his end would be quick.
He looked a good size, and Lilah doubted whether she could carry him the whole distance back to the yard. The simple way to get him and his mother back would be to pop him into the link box on the back of the tractor and drive slowly home with the heifer following anxiously behind. But that entailed walking back, starting up the tractor, driving up to the field again … quicker, probably, to see whether she could manage him now.
