Blood in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  Gladwin shook her head. ‘All I know is that Mr T-P is the twin brother of Janey Holmes. And we couldn’t find an address for him, just some credit card records.’

  ‘I can help you there, at least.’ Phil produced the Warwick address, which Gladwin copied onto her digital notebook. She looked up. ‘It’s not easy to know where to stop questioning,’ she admitted. ‘Without an identity for the victim, it’s all smoke and mirrors. Nobody from the village seems to be missing, and yet the way they’re behaving, you at least have to start with the assumption it’s got something to do with the Pritchetts and Temples.’

  ‘That’s not evidence, of course,’ he reminded her gently. ‘It’s still just as logical to think the body and its killer were total strangers to the village.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It all feels a bit too deliberate and planned for that – don’t you think?’

  ‘I do,’ she agreed. ‘It might be different if we were talking about a young girl, with her killer driving across the country to evade the hue and cry. This one isn’t like that at all. The man was properly buried, as if that was all part of the process.’

  Phil was impressed, and then embarrassed at himself for assuming Gladwin would not be capable of such clear thinking.

  She showed no sign of noticing his thought processes. ‘I’ve ordered up DNA tests,’ she went on, ‘to compare as many as possible of the locals with the body. It didn’t go down too well with some of them.’

  ‘Which ones have you asked? I mean, where do you stop?’

  ‘I decided the two families – Pritchetts and Temple-Pritchetts had got themselves in the spotlight, for a start. If we can eliminate them, then I’ll widen it out to everybody who’s lived in the village for five years or more.’

  ‘Expensive,’ said Phil. ‘Doesn’t it feel a bit over the top to you? Especially given that nobody except Giles Pritchett has been reported missing.’

  ‘And not even him, officially.’

  ‘Right. But I can see there’s not much else you can do.’

  ‘It’s clutching at straws, I know that. But without an identity we’re completely stuck. You know as well as I do – better, probably – that even if there was no question of homicide, we’d have to do everything in our power to find a name for the deceased. It’s natural human dignity, as well as getting everything tidy.’

  ‘That’s true, of course. And it would obviously be a big help to know whether the dead man shared some genetic material with long-term residents of the village.’

  ‘And besides all that,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘we’re meant to grab any excuse to augment the database – isn’t that right?’

  Phil mirrored her grimace. The DNA database was on target to capture samples from every single UK citizen, an aim which many police officers believed would be counter-productive. Phil already knew of several mistakes that had been made in acquiring and analysing samples. ‘But they’re not cooperating? Is that what you mean?’

  Gladwin nodded. ‘Mrs Holmes flatly refused. Mr Pritchett was OK about it, though. The Temple-Pritchetts are in Italy, so we’ve set them to one side for the moment.’

  ‘I’ve got some strands of Giles Pritchett’s hair,’ Phil remembered. ‘You’re welcome to take that. His father gave it to me quite willingly.’ Only then did he remember that once Pritchett had been assured the dead man was not his son, he could well have changed his mind about volunteering a sample. ‘Assuming I can find them,’ he added.

  Gladwin gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Actually, we can get hold of Mrs Holmes’s and her brother’s, if we want to. There’s a legal case going on, to establish their paternity, and decide what the implications are for the estate. Samples of DNA already exist as central pieces of evidence. We can ask for read-outs of their profiles.’

  Phil nodded, feeling slightly grubby, knowing what Thea would say if she could hear them. ‘Go on then,’ he advised. ‘It can’t do any harm, after all.’

  After she’d gone, Phil realised he had no idea what became of Holmes, who had presumably married Janey and fathered the doomed Alethea. One of those fleeting husbands that the world seemed full of, he supposed.

  Thea was giving the plants a final bedtime drink, humming contentedly to herself. Phil wrestled with a sense of guilt at being so uninvolved in the police investigations. The sky was still a daytime blue, and a glance at his watch revealed that it was only half past seven. Would it be excessive, he wondered to himself, to suggest they go out again to eat. Thea had showed no sign of wanting to cook anything, and he knew how much she liked to explore the countryside.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘So what did she say about the way he died?’ Thea was curious to know.

  Phil shook his head. ‘Nothing unusual. A powerful blow to the head with something pointed, like your Bible woman and her tent peg.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You sound disappointed.’

  ‘No. Only that I was sort of hoping there’d be something a bit more ritualistic. Something out of one of Janey’s saint stories. Take no notice. I’m just being fanciful.’

  ‘You don’t like Gladwin so much now, do you?’ he noted. ‘And after she tried so hard, poor lass.’

  ‘Too hard. That’s the problem. She’s not genuine. The first time, I fell for it completely. But now she just trots out the same spurious sympathy for me having to put up with you being so distracted. She doesn’t really mean it at all. It’s something she’s taught herself to do.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s right. I’m much more inclined to think it’s more that she’s under a lot of strain. She might simply be following the training, because she’s too nervous to be herself.’

  ‘What training? The bit that teaches you how to gain the public’s confidence by showing them you understand how they feel? I don’t think Jess has done that module yet.’ Thea had been conscientious in keeping up with her daughter’s police training, as well as unable to resist arguing with much of it.

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘If she had, I doubt if she’d tell you. She’d know what your reaction would be. It’s only common sense, after all. Gladwin’s going to be keen to keep me sweet, since we’re sure to be working together a fair bit. I vote we give her the benefit of the doubt for a while longer.’

  ‘Well I abstain from voting at all. The election’s rigged, if you ask me.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘We could go out for supper?’ he offered, a few minutes later. ‘Somewhere a bit swanky. So long as their chairs aren’t too low, I think my back could cope.’

  ‘Do you have somewhere in mind?’

  ‘Well, there’s Winchcombe not far away. We could see if there’s a place there.’

  Thea went to her car and extracted a map. As she turned it to the right section, she sighed. ‘Look at all these woods and footpaths and ruins. Hailes Abbey. Breakheart Plantation. Sudeley Castle. Even a Roman villa in Spoonley Wood. A person could spend months just exploring all this.’

  ‘Breakheart Plantation? Sounds like Brokeback Mountain. Show me.’

  She pointed out a patch of green to the south west of Winchcombe. It had quarries on every side, with steep contours rising and falling crazily all around. ‘Looks dramatic,’ he agreed. ‘We’ll go there one day, I promise. There’s plenty of summer left for jaunts like that.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m here now,’ she complained in frustration. ‘At least, for another two days.’

  ‘Two days?’ He looked at her in alarm. ‘Is that all it is? I thought you were having two weekends.’

  ‘Tomorrow and Saturday. Archie arrives on Sunday. I’ll have to be out of his way sometime during the afternoon. He’ll be wanting my bed.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘Where did the week go?’ he mourned. ‘No wonder you’re feeling so frustrated.’

  ‘So, we’ll go for a drive,’ she said, suddenly invigorated by the prospect. ‘We can head for Winchcombe and see if we see a
likely place to eat. Somewhere with a west-facing garden,’ she added, with a glance at the sun, shortly to vanish behind the trees of Temple Guiting.

  They shut Hepzie in the house, changed into fresh clothes and set out in Thea’s car. ‘Oh drat,’ she said, as she was turning on the gravel. ‘I forgot to shut Shasti’s window.’

  ‘It can wait,’ said Phil, who was still trying to convince himself that the car seat was not jeopardising his back. ‘It isn’t going to get cold until the small hours, and even then it won’t be enough to matter.’

  ‘OK,’ said Thea slowly. ‘I suppose it’ll keep. It’s just – Miss Deacon did say I should keep her firmly shut in.’

  ‘She’s in the cage,’ Phil said. ‘Stop worrying.’

  Driving to Winchcombe was less pleasant than anticipated, thanks to the sun shining right into Thea’s eyes. She pulled down the visor, but there were moments when she was completely blinded. ‘I can’t see if anything’s coming,’ she said on one bend. ‘Can you?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said tightly. ‘I find it helps to keep the windscreen clean.’

  Without a word, Thea activated her screen washer, which effectively blotted out all residual visibility as the dry wipers smeared dead flies and country dust across the glass. ‘Bloody hell!’ she said, squirting more fluid and setting the wipers at full speed. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Watch out!’ cried Phil, pressing a phantom brake with all his strength. When the car stopped as if he had indeed managed to control it by magic, the panic did not abate; indeed it almost consumed him. ‘You’ve hit somebody,’ he gasped, entirely superfluously. Not until he reached for his door handle and seat belt catch did he realise the consequences of the impact on his delicate spine. ‘Aaghh!’ he groaned.

  ‘Shut up, shut up,’ Thea muttered, as she opened her door and left the car in a single movement. ‘I couldn’t see, could I?’ she flared back at him. ‘You know I couldn’t.’

  All that Phil could see was Thea’s white face, and great tragic eyes like a melting waxwork. Voices screamed at him inside his head: Take charge, you idiot, you’re a policeman. If you hadn’t said what you did about the windscreen, this would never have happened. If somebody’s dead, Thea could be charged with manslaughter. Careless driving, at the very least. Jesus, my back hurts.

  He finally thrust open his door, and rolled out of the seat. Clinging desperately to the door frame he tried to see what they had hit. Initially there was only a piece of yellow cotton visible on the other side of the car. Standing taller, he managed to locate a fair head and a bare arm.

  ‘It’s that girl, Soraya,’ said Thea, in an oddly normal voice. ‘She doesn’t look too badly damaged. Oh dear, I am so sorry,’ she said more loudly. ‘What on earth have I done to you?’

  Never admit fault, the voice in Phil’s head insisted, forgetting his police role in his instinct to protect Thea.

  There was no reply, and Phil inched agonisingly around the front of the car for a better view. The girl was pushed into the grassy verge, the car’s front wheel still touching her leg. He remembered how very abruptly Thea had stopped, how violently he had lurched against his seat belt as a result. Even so, the car must have carried its victim several yards.

  ‘My leg,’ came a small voice. ‘It hurts.’ Soraya’s little face looked at Thea. ‘I was trying to get out of your way, but you came right at me. Were you deliberately trying to kill me?’

  ‘Of course not! I couldn’t see you. The sun was in my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing. At least I was going slowly. You don’t look too badly hurt. I’ll call for an ambulance.’

  ‘Oh no,’ the girl dissolved into sudden childish tears. ‘Dad’s going to be furious if you do that.’

  ‘Well, that’s his problem. Isn’t it, Phil?’ For the first time Thea sought out her companion. When she understood his plight, she frowned fiercely. ‘Oh, God almighty – I’ve hurt you as well, have I? This is bloody ridiculous.’

  The expletives left him in no doubt as to her stress level. He was being asked for support, assistance, reassurance, and all he could do was to remain in an upright position without fainting or vomiting. The pain was as bad as it had been on Monday morning, thanks to the jerk of Thea’s braking and his own efforts with the phantom pedal.

  ‘I’ve got a phone,’ he said, wondering who he should call. An ambulance was almost certainly going to be required, but first he ought to assess Soraya’s injuries. If she was only bruised, it might turn out to be embarrassing. On the other hand, the thought of calling aid for himself, summoning strong hands and warm red blankets trussing him tightly onto a purpose-built back board, was very sweet. The flaming punches that his muscles were throwing at him every time he moved were sapping not only strength but logical thought.

  ‘How badly hurt is she?’ he managed to ask.

  Thea looked at the girl, still huddled in the long grass, white flowers appearing to crown her fair hair. A nymph, thought Phil wildly. A hedgerow nymph, weeping for the sorrows of the world.

  ‘Can you stand up?’ Thea asked, holding out an encouraging hand. There was very little space to move between the hedge and the car. As Soraya began to gather herself, they all heard an approaching engine.

  ‘There’s room for it to pass,’ said Phil. The lane was narrow, but not quite single vehicle width. Besides, Thea’s car was mostly on the verge.

  ‘It’ll stop to see what’s happening, though,’ said Thea. ‘Anybody would.’

  Soraya squawked at that. ‘Dad’s going to be so cross,’ she whined. ‘I should have been home by now.’

  Phil forced his mind to function. He tried to assess how far they had come from Hector’s Nook – he thought not more than two or three miles. Probably less, given the small roads. ‘Do you live close by?’ he asked.

  The new car had come into view, travelling slowly. ‘He can’t see, either,’ Thea realised. ‘I hope he doesn’t hit us.’

  The he was a she, who stopped alongside the fracas and wound down her window. ‘Gosh – what happened?’ Phil thought he had heard the voice before.

  ‘The sun was in my eyes, and I hit Soraya,’ said Thea succinctly. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Of course. She lives just up the road. Hi, Sory. Are you badly damaged?’

  ‘Huh, Fiona,’ came the indifferent reply. ‘I’m just trying to stand up. I think I’m all right. She pushed me into the hedge so I’m a bit scratched.’

  Fiona – Janey’s friend. The historian who liked saints as much as Janey did. ‘She doesn’t seem too badly wounded,’ came the quick assessment. ‘But you two look rather shell shocked.’

  Phil tried to smile at her. ‘We are rather,’ he admitted. ‘These things always come like a bolt from the blue, don’t they.’ It was a dopey thing to say, weak and unprofessional. He tried to gather himself. ‘The sun was in Thea’s eyes.’ He remembered that Thea had already said that.

  ‘Tell me about it. You’d think they could invent better shields against it, wouldn’t you?’ Fiona’s tone was in no way accusing, which was something to be thankful for.

  ‘You don’t appear to be at all well,’ she observed. ‘In fact you look worse than Soraya, if anything. Poor old you,’ she addressed Thea. ‘Surrounded by crocks. Lucky I came along. I can take Soraya home, if you like. Her dad doesn’t like her to be out for long.’

  Phil had heard such remarks a thousand times, but in a very different context. Asian families kept a tight rein on their daughters, fathers worrying themselves into acute anxiety states at the hazards a girl faced in this wicked society. But Soraya – despite her exotic name – was no Asian. She was as pink-skinned as the purest Saxon, and her father likewise.

  ‘It isn’t that simple, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘She might press charges against Thea.’ He gave his girlfriend an apologetic glance, which she ignored.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. She’s tougher than she looks – aren’t you, pet?’

  Soraya managed a grin. She was standing uprig
ht by this time, swiping a hand down the front of her yellow dress, and brushing at her bare knees. Phil noted how old-fashioned and childish she looked, dressed like that. He couldn’t recall when he’d last seen a girl her age in a frock.

  ‘Where were you going?’ Thea asked, apparently noticing the same thing. ‘You seem to be dressed up for something special.’

  ‘Oh! No, not really. I’ve been taking the cows back after milking, that’s all.’ Soraya paused, sucking in her lips. Then she added, ‘I thought I’d have a look at the house martins at Fairoaks. The people aren’t there, so I can stay and watch them for a bit.’

  ‘Milking?’ Thea stared around as if looking for cows. ‘I didn’t think there were any dairy farms left here.’

  ‘We’re organic,’ said the girl, as if that explained everything.

  ‘They’ve got a hundred shorthorns,’ added Fiona. ‘As you can see.’ She pointed a short way down the road behind them, where two field gates stood opposite each other. The road was splattered with manure. ‘She crosses them over after milking.’

  ‘Gosh! Lucky I didn’t turn up when they were crossing,’ groaned Thea. ‘I might have ploughed right into them.’

  ‘Well you didn’t,’ said Fiona. Something about the look she gave Thea, combined with the managerial way she had taken charge of Soraya, sowed a flickering idea in Phil’s mind. He watched her more closely as she ushered the girl to her own car.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Soraya said, turning to address Thea. ‘I’m really not hurt. But I will have to tell Dad about it – he’ll notice the scratches.’

  ‘Well, tell him I’m awfully sorry,’ said Thea. ‘And thanks, Fiona, for taking her home. You’ve been very helpful.’

  As a distraction from his worries, Phil was entertaining nostalgic thoughts of farm girls on a summer evening, slow-swaying cows, flittering house martins and perhaps a barn owl for good measure. Stop it, he told himself. You’re getting delirious.