by Liz Evans
We both gave a gasp of shock as the garden was lit up with a flash of vicious light and the cottage shook to an ear-drum rattle of thunder. As one, we took a hop sideways and landed in the relative safety of the hall. And discovered the small pile of junk mail and newspapers that had been pushed back when I swung the door. Vetch checked the dates on the papers.
‘Saturday and Sunday. Looks like he’s away for the weekend.’
‘And didn’t lock up?’
‘Some people are delightfully casual about such things. Now, where’s that lavatory?’
Halfway down the short hallway, we both smelt it - not the lav, but a distinctive putrid aroma.
‘Is that... ?’
Vetch was scenting the air delicately. ‘I’m afraid it is. It seems to be strongest over here.’
‘Here’ was the door at the end of the hall. Neither of us wanted to open it, but one of us had to. In the end, Vetch did the honours.
It was the sitting room. An ugly open fireplace and high plastered ceilings making it feel unwelcome, but saved by the mismatched furniture that had the air of being carefully chosen and cared for over the years.
At present a lot of it was liberally daubed with blood. The detached part of my mind noted that it had smeared thinly where it touched rather than soaked in pools. The stains had already dried brown over the red velvet upholstery of an old chaise-lounge, the rugs and floorboards, and the length of the two streaks down one wall - the imprint of the separate digits showing where he’d attempted to drag himself upright.
A copper umbrella stand that had been caught by the opening door rolled forlornly away, and broken glass fragments scrunched under its progress.
I tried to assess the situation coolly, but it’s very difficult when a bloke you last saw alive, well, and chatting you up is lying at your feet with the tip of a spear protruding obscenely through his breastbone and several feet of shaft sticking out of his back.
The exceptionally warm weather and the fact that all the windows and doors had been closed had speeded up the decomposition process. His face and neck were a sickly shade of greenish red, and there was a festering blister on one cheek. When a beetle crawled out of his partially open mouth, I knew I had to get out of there - fast - before I started whimpering.
In the end I huddled on the porch with Vetch’s mobile and had my second chat of the day with the local CID office.
19
‘Last person to see the victim is usually the murderer. It’s common knowledge.’
‘Then I’m not surprised you’ve heard of it. You can’t get much commoner than you, Rosco.’
If he’d been on duty in time to catch my dawn-slot skinny- dipping adventure a few days ago, then Terry Rosco should have been off duty at nine o’clock on a Sunday evening. But of all the gin joints in all the world, Rosco kept strutting into mine.
‘And I think you’ll find that’s the last person to see the victim alive, Terry. Otherwise the maximum-security wings would be full of undertakers.’
‘You saying you had nothing to do with it, Smithie?’
‘Should you be questioning me about the murder?’
‘Who said it was murder?’
‘Well, if it wasn’t, it was the strangest way of committing suicide I’ve ever seen.’
‘Stabbed, they reckon ... ?’
There was an interrogatory note in his tone and a hopeful gleam in his eyes that he was doing his best to hide.
‘Haven’t they let you go and play with the big boys, Terry?’
He straightened the immaculately pressed jacket. Peacocks had tail feathers; Terry Rosco had creases you could cut cheese on and a shiny cap peak that touched the bridge of his nose. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on the suspects. See you don’t do a runner.’
‘Tsk, tsk,’ Vetch reproved. ‘I thought we were simply witnesses assisting the police with their enquiries. Now I find I’m a suspect. Should we complain about this confusion to the Chief Inspector, do you think, Grace?’
The flush on Terry’s face darkened. He knew he’d blundered (he should do - he got enough practice), but he didn’t want to apologise to me. On the other hand, Vetch was a different matter. Vetch always gave the impression he KNEW PEOPLE.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Terry muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Slip of the tongue. I’m sure Mr Jackson’s grateful for your patience.’
We hadn’t really been given much choice. Impatience would have left us in exactly the same position - viz., stuck in one of the spare rooms in the Bell that Keith Benting had put at the police’s disposal.
Benting was having the place refitted, and services such as running water, electricity, and flushing loos were only available on an erratic basis. Hence we had the deserted Bell to ourselves whilst Kelly’s dad chalked up some Brownie points with the local law-and-order brigade.
I stood. Terry moved into his aggressive-barrier mode. ‘Where you going?’
‘To get some air. Any objections?’
‘Mr Jackson said—’
‘That we should keep ourselves available. Well, I can be just as available on the doorstep as in here. Now shift it.’
He sidled a few inches sideways, forcing me to squeeze past.
No doubt he thought I’d enjoy the experience. Despite all my efforts to dissuade him, Terry Rosco still lived under the delusion that he was God’s gift to those born with a genetic ability to breast-feed.
Overhead, the first stars were emerging, together with a pale sliver of waxing moon. The storm had passed an hour ago, leaving behind it cooler air and dripping gutters and leaves. The lights in the Royal Oak opposite were already blazing through the leaded windows and reflecting in puddles on the oily black road surface. Down to the left, the stronger white headlights of the patrol car blocking the access to Cowslip Lane illuminated the few sightseers still waiting patiently for the next stage of the entertainment. Most had wandered into the pub, where they could keep an eye on things in considerably more comfort.
I watched the angle of the beam change as the car rolled forward just far enough to let out the van that appeared a few moments later.
Luke Steadman’s departure from St Biddy’s was a sad contrast to the last time - all the power and energy of that sports car replaced by the sedate crawl of the plain white mortuary van as it set off to deliver what was left of Luke to the pathologist.
Drawing a deep breath of the air that was laden with the smells of wet earth and damp vegetation, I took a few steps down the road and felt the wetness seep over the soles of the stilettos. Goosebumps zipped up and down my arms. The stifling heat of the day had been trapped inside the Bell, but outside the night was beginning to feel chilly. I couldn’t even beg the loan of a car blanket from Vetch. They’d made us leave his vehicle parked up by the cottage whilst the forensic team swept it.
At least talking directly to the head of CID had bypassed the initial stage of a uniformed officer arriving to look over the scene and agree that a body with several feet of metal and wood stuck through its upper torso did indeed qualify as a suspicious death.
Jerry Jackson had turned up himself with the troops to find me and Vetch in the hall watching the shrubs bending under the onslaught of the storm. We’d shut the door to the sitting room and left the front door open, but the smell still seemed to be permeating everywhere.
They’d taken initial statements from us at the cottage and then we’d been driven up here, the patrol car’s windscreen wipers struggling to cope with the downpour, as it crawled close enough to the Bell for us to dash inside.
I wanted action. It was, therefore, a relief to see other figures emerging from Cowslip Lane. I thought I could make out Jerry Jackson and a female detective sergeant he’d had in tow. With any luck we could stop being ‘available’ and head back to Seatoun soon.
The spectators at the edge of the lane sensed the action was moving away from the cottage as well. They started a drift in my direction. One seemed familiar. It wasn’t until he got within
a few yards that I realised why. My stomach did its second loop-the-loop of the day as my subconscious reminded it of our last encounter with Harry Rouse Senior. Surely with all these uniforms around he ought to be re-enacting the St Valentine’s Day Massacre any minute.
‘Hello, Atch,’ I said loudly.
He looked up, blinking underneath his tweed cap. And then smiled tentatively. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
‘It was last time I looked.’
‘You come up the farm the other day.’ He shuffled forward a few more steps. ‘I scared you.’
‘You can say that again, Atch.’
‘I’m sorry. I ... I ... forget, you see. How things are. Times and places. They all get muddled inside my head. I’m that sorry. Blast this thing.’ His fingers fumbled uselessly at his jacket buttons. It was unevenly fastened, one side of the coat low and the collar twisted. He looked ashamed as he assured me he could do it.
He wasn’t scary any more. Just a frightened old man. ‘It’s getting chilly out here, I expect your hands have got cold. Let me.’ I bent over and rapidly unfastened and realigned the buttons.
‘Thanks.’ He took my hand trustingly and stood waiting. The next move was plainly up to me. Even if I’d wanted to walk him home, there was no way I could have made that farm track in these shoes. Finding him another minder seemed my best option.
‘Why did you come into the village, Atch?’
‘For a pint.’
‘Good plan.’ I started towards the Royal Oak, but Atch didn’t budge. He was looking at a uniformed PC who was talking to one of the spectators a few hundred yards away. I found myself tensing, hardening my grip on him to take control if there was another panic attack.
But Atch simply swung our linked hands like a lively toddler and said: ‘They’re not looking for me, are they?’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Are they looking for the others?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Dad!’
The other half of the Harry Rouse duo was approaching in an awkward half-trot, half-walk, his Wellington boots slapping and squelching as he hurried past the knot of approaching CID officers and arrived in a shower of water that splashed over my bare legs.
‘Watch it.’
‘Sorry. Oh, it’s you!’
‘Hi. Tied up anyone interesting recently?’
‘No. Look, I explained that. Said we were sorry. What more do you want?’
‘She’s having a joke with you, son,’ Atch interrupted. ‘Can’t you tell a joke when you hear one?’
Harry didn’t look convinced by his dad’s assessment of the situation. But since I didn’t contradict him, he turned the pent- up nerves on Atch instead. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. I told you I’d fetch you down the pub when I’d finished up at the farm.’
‘I don’t need to be fetched. Been coming here for over fifty years.’ His fingers twisted in mine and his lips acquired a mulish pout.
The CID officers had been following him up the lane and were now in earshot. The woman was wheeling Grannie Vetch’s pride and joy.
‘Does this mean I can go?’ I asked, ignoring her and speaking directly to Jerry Jackson.
‘Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Miss Smith. In the meantime, I’ll send someone down to drive Mr Vetch’s car up here.’
He was staring at the Rouses. Introductions were plainly expected.
‘This is Harry Rouse. And his dad. Also Harry, but known as Atch. They own a farm up the road. Detective Chief Inspector Jackson.’
Jerry nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you both.’
For the first time Harry seemed to notice that things were not as usual in downtown St Biddy’s. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re investigating, sir. A suspicious death. At Brick Cottage. Did you know the occupant?’
‘Eric Groom? He’s dead. Died last winter.’
‘We were told the name was Luke Steadman.’
‘Twenties,’ I prompted. ‘Blond streaked hair, gorgeous eyes. American accent.’
‘Oh, him.’ Harry’s tone was dismissive. ‘Flash prat. Always burning the tyres off Eric’s old car. I know who you mean, but I can’t say I knew him. Just saw him around sometimes. What’s happened to him?’
‘As I said, sir, we’re investigating. If you live locally, I’m sure one of my colleagues will be calling on you.’
It came out before I could stop it. ‘Best make it a plain-clothes one.’
‘Why’s that?’ Jerry asked.
Atch was oblivious to the danger; his son’s eyes, however, had become large with alarm. I saw the unspoken plea in them. A couple of days had dulled my initial anger. I dropped Harry a reassuring wink. ‘Getting to their farm involves at least three changes of direction. I doubt uniform could cope with the navigation.’
It wasn’t very original, but it was the best I could come up with at short notice. I got a tight-lipped smile from Jackson and the bike from the female officer.
She wasn’t getting me that easily. I indicated the outfit. ‘I’m not dressed for it. You couldn’t drop it off in Seatoun, could you?’
‘No. We couldn’t.’ She wheeled it forward a further few inches.
‘I’ll take it.’ Harry reached for the handlebars. ‘I’ll stick it in the truck. Be coming into town in the next couple of days. What’s the address?’
I opened my mouth. And then shut it again. Normally I’d have given the agency’s, but I was supposed to be a student as far as Harry was concerned. However, after yesterday’s adventures in vandalism, there was no way I was spreading my home address any thinner. ‘Can you leave it up at the farm? I’ll collect it tomorrow.’
‘My pleasure.’ He took the cycle with one hand and retrieved his dad with the other. ‘Good night, then.’
‘Night.’
I watched him wheeling the thing into the Royal Oak, as if I really cared that someone might steal it. Jackson touched my arm. His fingers were cold on my flesh and I gave an involuntary jump.
‘You seem nervous, Miss Smith,’ Frosty-face remarked.
‘This isn’t nerves. This is hypothermia.’
‘Won’t be much longer, Grace,’ Jackson said, steering me back towards the Bell’s front door. ‘Do you mind if I call you Grace?’
‘You always do, Jerry.’
Mind you, I didn’t normally call him Jerry. But I couldn’t resist putting it across to Frosty-face that I was on intimate terms with her boss. I’ll bet she had to call him ‘sir’; there was no way I could imagine anyone ever calling Jerry ‘guv’nor’ or ‘boss’.
He installed me in a corner of what had been the lounge bar before they started taking up the carpets and running wires under the floorboards. Ms Frosty-face perched on a spare stool within earshot. Slipping off his wet coat, Jerry removed his suit jacket and held it out to me. ‘Here. Try this. I’ve only got a few more questions.’
Whilst I snuggled in polyester warmed by his body, he read rapidly through a set of handwritten notes.
‘According to your statement, you called at Mr Steadman’s to collect your bike ... ?’
‘Yes.’ Despite the fact I liked Jerry Jackson and I’d always sensed he was one of the few senior police officers in the area who liked me, I felt all my old resentments at the representatives of my former career hardening inside me. Part of me wanted to help Jerry out, but the devils were already whispering, ‘ Stuff it... Let them sort it out themselves ... They won’t believe a word you say anyway….’
‘Despite the fact you aren’t able to ride it in that outfit?’
I looked down. ‘That outfit’ seemed to be shrinking by the minute. ‘It was a failure of communication between me and Vetch. I thought he was going to carry it on the car; he thought I was going to ride it back. That’s why we went into the cottage. Luke fitted the bike on his car before - I thought he might do it again.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Hardly at all. I met him h
ere the other day and he gave me a lift into Seatoun.’
‘But he offered to keep your cycle for you?’ Frosty-face said. I had to admit he hadn’t exactly offered. I’d just dumped it in the garden and hoped he’d understand.
‘Was he the understanding sort?’ she asked.
‘How would I know? I’ve told you, I scarcely knew him.’
‘You didn’t have a more intimate relationship with him?’
‘No.’
‘And yet you were worried he was being unfaithful to you.’
‘You what?’
‘We found his mobile in the bedroom. There’s a message on it,’ Jerry Jackson said, reclaiming the initiative. ‘It sounds like your voice, Grace.’
I remembered. The call Annie had made me make after my little romantic fiasco with Rainwing/‘Daniel’. I’d made some flippant remark about Luke staying true to me.
‘It was a joke, right? Luke asked me out. I was accepting. A little light-hearted banter, OK?’
I found myself talking to Frosty-face despite the fact Jerry had picked up the questioning. She asked me to define my relationship with Luke.
‘How many more times do I have to say it? Our “relationship”, as you put it, was confined to fifteen minutes of conversation between here and Seatoun.’
‘But you were prepared to date him. Why was that?’
‘Well, let’s see. He was tall, good-looking, in terrific physical shape.’ I ticked them off on my fingers. ‘He had a great car. He seemed to find me attractive. Nope, it’s a mystery, isn’t it? Why on earth would I want to go out with a man like that?’
‘I can imagine you might,’ she agreed calmly. ‘And if he wasn’t keen - or was messing you around, perhaps - well, these things can escalate, can’t they?’
‘What things?’
‘An argument. Not even that. Differences in the way you saw things, perhaps. Blokes can be like that, can’t they? They can say, or do - or not do - something that turns your whole world upside down, and not even know they’ve done it. It was just a big laugh to them. No big deal. Can’t understand what you’re making such a fuss about.’
I couldn’t believe it. Now she wanted to play the all-sisters- together card? She had to be kidding. I looked at Jerry. ‘What the hell is she talking about?’
