Rooted in Evil:

by Ann Granger

  Damn, Guy thought. ‘Yes, you were quite right to tell him, Derek.’

  Derek looked relieved. ‘I told him you wasn’t gone long.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Guy reassured him. ‘I should have mentioned it to them myself.’ Yes, I should, he thought. Then it wouldn’t have looked suspicious. Now it does.

  ‘I’ll be off!’ said Derek, and promptly departed.

  Guy went back to the kitchen and found Tessa making ready to leave.

  ‘We’ve had visitors, I hear,’ he said to his wife.

  Before she could answer, Tessa said, ‘Walk me out to my car, Guy, will you? Come on, Fred!’

  When he was standing by the jeep, Guy said to Tess, ‘Everyone’s keen to talk to me before I talk to Hattie. What’s been going on, Tess? Derek said a man and woman had been here and made trouble.’

  ‘They did. Some girlfriend of Carl’s turned up with a man friend in tow.’

  ‘Natalie?’ asked Guy sharply.

  ‘That’s the one. You do know her, then?’ Tessa looked at him in surprise. ‘Hattie didn’t. They barged in and wouldn’t leave. Hattie said they were throwing accusations around like confetti. The woman said you’d had a scrap with Carl at his place in London. You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. But it was a while ago, last September.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tessa. ‘Well, Hattie managed to signal to Derek she needed help, fortunately, and he had the nous to phone the police.’

  Guy heaved a sigh. ‘OK, Tess, I’ll deal with it.’

  ‘She’s very – very – depressed about it all,’ Tessa said in warning.

  ‘I know. But I’ll handle it, OK?’

  ‘Just don’t start barking orders at her. It wouldn’t take much to make her fall apart completely.’ Tessa gazed out at the same view Carter had stood before earlier. The light was already fading and the landscape was now under a dull veil. ‘It seems,’ said Tessa, ‘as if there’s no end to the amount of trouble Carl caused. But Hattie was very fond of him, you know. He could do that – be charming – if he wanted. He and Hattie were great pals when they were young; you’ve got to admit it. Hal had no time for him.’

  ‘Hal?’ Guy was puzzled.

  ‘My ex-husband. You never met him.’ Tessa paused. ‘I told Sergeant Morton, when he turned up at my place, that I had no idea where Hal Briggs is these days. That’s not quite true. He’s living just outside Bath. I couldn’t give you the address or contact number, but different people have told me that’s where he is, running an animal-feed business. I wonder if he’s heard about Carl?’

  Tessa was still gazing out at the landscape. ‘Hal was keen on Hattie once, when we were all young, probably keener on her than he ever was on me, if the truth’s told! I sometimes used to wonder if he married me so that he’d see Hattie around the place when she came over to visit me.’ She turned her head and grinned at Guy unexpectedly. ‘I was never pretty.’

  Guy said impulsively, ‘You’re a brick, Tess!’ He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  ‘I’ve got my uses,’ said Tessa.

  Guy waved her off and walked slowly back to the house. He went to the kitchen where they’d all been sitting but it was now empty. That meant he’d find Harriet in the sitting room, once her father’s study. It was where she retreated to every time when there was any kind of trouble. But now that had been invaded by Natalie Adam, it might not offer Hattie the same kind of sanctuary.

  But she was there, huddled in her father’s chair, waiting. She said nothing when he entered and didn’t look his way. Mindful of Tessa’s words, Guy sat down near her and said, ‘I’m sorry, Hattie, that I didn’t tell you I had a – a bit of a scrap with Carl at his place in London.’

  She turned her face towards him then and he was shocked by the desperation in her eyes. ‘Oh, Guy, what’s become of us? You don’t tell me what you do, and I don’t tell you what I do. We tell each other lies. Well, you didn’t lie about going to see Carl in London but – but—’

  ‘I was a lie of omission,’ Guy said. ‘I shouldn’t have kept it from you.’

  ‘Why did you go to see him, anyway?’

  ‘I knew he was bothering you for money again and making you unhappy. I hadn’t planned to go and see him. I went up to have lunch with a couple of old army pals. I told you that, and it was true. But lunch ended rather earlier than I’d expected and I had a bit of time on my hands. Going to see Carl was an impulse. Never act on impulse, they say.’ Guy gave a wry smile.

  ‘And you had a fight?’

  ‘Hardly that, just a bit of a push and shove, playground stuff. Boys never grow up, you know.’

  ‘It wasn’t nice learning about it from her,’ his wife said quietly.

  ‘No, of course not. Wretched woman. She was there when I went to see him. I hadn’t expected that. I rang the bell at street level and he let me walk up – and in on the pair of them swigging champagne and having a good time. It made me really mad. If that was the lifestyle he wanted, he should have funded it himself, not expected you to sub him. The Adam female had absolutely no business coming here!’ Guy scowled. ‘Bitch!’ he said.

  ‘Do you think she really was Carl’s girlfriend?.’

  ‘I doubt it was serious. She’s pretty sharp, I’d say, and wouldn’t waste serious time on a loser like Carl. Normally, he’d be well out of her league. But he was probably fun to be with if he chose. I’d say she’s the sort of woman who’d enjoy a good time with him, if she fancied him, but she’d never let it go to her head.’

  ‘Poor Carl,’ said Harriet quietly.

  After a moment, Guy said, ‘Yes, I suppose you have to feel a bit sorry for him, silly sod.’

  Jess had missed all this, because she had driven to Stow on the Wold. She took a cross-country route. Later in the year it would be a delight to the eye. But as yet there were few, if any, indications of spring on its way. The hedgerows remained dank and colourless in a winter sulk. The trees stretched out bare arms across the verges. But Stow is a busy market town all year round, so she took the precaution of leaving her car in the first official car park she came to. The dental surgery was not hard to find. The receptionist looked up as she entered and smiled.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’

  Jess took out her ID and showed it. ‘I believe you have a dental hygienist called Sally Grove working here today?’ The receptionist looked dismayed, so Jess added quickly, ‘It’s just a routine matter. I wondered if I could grab a few words with her between appointments.’

  But she had mistaken the reason for the receptionist’s dismay. ‘But you can’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s not here. She should be, of course, but I thought, being the police, you’d know!’

  ‘Know what?’ Jess asked quickly.

  ‘About the accident. Poor Sally was knocked off her bicycle last night. She’s in hospital. It was a hit and run. The driver just drove off and left her there.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Jess told her. ‘I’m not in traffic division. Where did this happen?’

  ‘As far as we know, she was cycling home from the centre of Weston St Ambrose to the little cottage she rents just outside. It was quite dark, I believe, although it wasn’t late in the evening – about six-thirty, we understand. I know Sally is a very careful cyclist,’ the receptionist went on earnestly. ‘She’s got all the right gear – helmet, reflective body brace, all that sort of thing. But she was hit just outside the town. Sally was flung into a deep drainage ditch. She could have been there all night! But a farmer driving home on his tractor noticed, from where he sat high up, that there was something in the ditch, so he stopped to see what it was. Thank goodness he did. Sally’s still unconscious. We’re all terribly distressed.’

  Outside the surgery, Jess got on her mobile to Phil Morton. ‘Phil, Sally Grove’s had an accident, possibly a hit and run. It happened early yesterday evening, just outside Weston St Ambrose. After she came off her bike, she was found in a ditch by a farmer. I’ve had an a
ccount from the receptionist in the surgery where Sally was expected today. But I suspect it’s garbled and not reliable. See if you can get hold of the original report and then find that farmer and hear what he has to say. It may be a genuine accident, the driver might not even have seen her, but we have to check it out. She was in the woods on the day of the murder and it’s possible she has information without realising it.’

  Phil Morton looked at the leading cow and the cow looked at Phil. It lowered its head and uttered a long, drawn-out sound like a deflating set of bagpipes. Behind it, a herd of others bunched up and filled the narrow track leading to the farm. There was a stone wall between him and the field beyond. Phil wondered if he should scramble up and over it. The animals were clearly impatient; and they were very large and smelly.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted a voice from somewhere behind the bovine throng. ‘You’re stopping them. You want to get out of their way!’

  ‘I’m trying to!’ shouted back Phil. ‘Are you Mr Biddle?’

  ‘That’s me! Who are you, then?’

  ‘Police! DS Morton!’

  ‘I already spoke to the p’lice! You an’t got a dog with you, have you?’

  ‘Dog? No!’

  ‘Because they don’t like dogs! You just stand back by the wall and they’ll go on by.’

  Morton supposed he could only trust Mr Biddle. He certainly didn’t trust that leading cow. It had a very dodgy look in its eye. He pressed back as much as he could against the wall, the rough, uneven surface of its blocks jabbing his spine. Mr Biddle whistled and shouted. The herd lumbered forward. Phil was reduced to standing on tiptoe to avoid his feet being crushed as hairy bodies bumped into him. He’d stink of cows for the rest of the day. Last of all came Mr Biddle, now revealed to be an elderly sunburned man in dark blue overalls and a tweed cap.

  ‘I’ll just take ’em down to the gate,’ he said, as he passed by. ‘When I’ve let them through, I’ll come back and talk to you. Won’t take me long. You go on down to the house.’

  Phil obediently walked down the lane to the farmyard, making a zig-zag progress because the departing cows had left plentiful evidence of their presence. The yard was also thick with mud, and more cow dung. There was a door open in the house. Morton peered in and saw a large kitchen, but no smiling farmer’s wife presiding over a teapot, as he’d hoped. The only living creature in the kitchen was a brown chicken standing on the table. At the sight of Morton, it took up a combative stance, stretching its neck, flapping its wings and finally lowering its head in readiness to drive off the intruder.

  ‘What’s that dratted thing doing in there?’ demanded Mr Biddle, who had returned and was looking past Morton. ‘If the door’s left open, they bloody hens always gets in. Go on, get out of it!’ he roared at the chicken. The bird fluttered past Morton in a flurry of wings and uttering a discordant squawk. More sociably, the farmer added, ‘I’ll just take off my boots. You might like to wipe your feet – boot scraper over there.’ He indicated an antique cast-iron device by the door.

  Morton obeyed and Mr Biddle gestured him forward into the kitchen.

  Morton took out his ID to show Mr Biddle, who peered at it and said, ‘I an’t got my reading glasses but I dare say you’re what you say you are. The other copper what came here, he wore a uniform. He wasn’t dressed ordinary, like you.’

  ‘I’m CID,’ explained Morton.

  ‘Are you now? Like on the telly? Oh, well, you come about that lass I found in the ditch, I dare say. How’s she doing, do you know?’

  ‘She’s in hospital. Would you mind if I recorded our conversation, Mr Biddle?’

  ‘Funny old business, that,’ said Mr Biddle. ‘Hospital will put her right, I dare say. Record what I say, eh? You don’t take no notes any more, then, pencil-and-paper job? The copper what came – the one in uniform – he wrote it all down.’

  ‘In CID we find the recorded word is useful, should there be any difference of opinion later about what was said. I have read the original report of the officer who attended the scene and it does appear to have been a hit and run. I believe you told the officer you saw the driver speed off. So, lucky you spotted her in the ditch, sir.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ returned Mr Biddle. ‘I spotted the other one first.’

  Morton felt the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. ‘Other one, sir? I understand you saw the vehicle involved being driven away. But are you saying there was a third person at the scene, other than the injured cyclist and the motorist?’

  ‘The driver was what I meant,’ said Biddle, frowning. ‘Perhaps I didn’t describe it proper when I was talking to the other officer.’

  Phil drew a deep breath. ‘Take your time, Mr Biddle, and tell me everything you observed, even anything trivial.’

  ‘Observed, eh?’ repeated Mr Biddle, rolling the word round his mouth appreciatively. ‘Let’s see, then. I come along the road on my tractor – that one out there in the yard. It had got pretty dark. There was a moon, but quite a lot of cloud, so it didn’t help much. Up ahead I saw there was someone by the side of the road, standing half in the ditch and half out of it, one leg down in it and the other bent and higher up, do you follow? He seemed to be bending over something, down in the ditch.

  ‘There was a stationary vehicle further down the road, but I couldn’t tell you what make it was because it was just a dark shape. Anyhow, any fool could see there’d been some kind of an accident. Then I spotted the bike, lying in the road mostly but the front wheel tipping into the ditch, twisted. The light was bad and it was all of a muddle.’

  ‘I understand,’ Morton encouraged him.

  ‘There’s a young girl I’ve passed before on that road, cycling along. I thought maybe it was her bike and the one bending over was her was the motorist – only I couldn’t see for sure it was that girl in the ditch, not then, you understand?’

  Biddle paused for reassurance and Morton again told him he followed and to please go on.

  ‘Like I was saying,’ Mr Biddle recommenced, ‘I called out to ask if she was hurt bad. Then, it was a funny thing.’ He leaned forward and an odour of cows struck Morton, who tried not to flinch. ‘That one leaning over her made not a word of reply, just scrambled out of the ditch and ran like a streak of lightning down the road away from me, jumped in the other vehicle, whatever it was, and drove off! It didn’t have no lights on,’ the farmer added censoriously. ‘No wonder there’s accidents if folk drive round after nightfall without lights.’

  ‘But you must have seen the running figure in the headlight of your tractor. Was it a man or a woman? You’ve been saying “he”.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t rightly say. They all dresses the same in winter, don’t they, trousers and them padded anorak things? Whoever it was, wore one of the woolly hats, pulled right down over the ears, down to the eyebrows. Couldn’t see no hair. Someone fairly limber, though, to run off at that speed.’

  Biddle paused for thought, frowning. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘I climbed down from the tractor and picked up the bike to put it out of the road, before it was struck by some other vehicle coming along. Then I saw that there was someone in the ditch and she was hurt. That made sense, because if the other one, the one I spotted first, had a car, this must be the cyclist! So I scrambled down beside her and saw it was that girl – don’t know her name, but she lives down in the old cottages. So I got out my phone and called the ambulance and the police to come quick. She was out cold, unconscious, but she was breathing. I didn’t want to move her, not knowing how bad she was hurt, but I took off my jacket and put that over her to try and keep her a bit warm. I was worried because down in the ditch like she was, she was getting wet. Lot of stagnant water in the bottom, this time of year. I sort of forgot about the other one, I suppose, when the first police came. I was more worried about the ambulance coming, and getting that poor lass out of the ditch and off to the hospital.’

  Biddle peered at the sergeant. ‘It was a bit of a shock, you see, and
I was bit confused when I spoke to the other officer.’

  ‘I understand,’ Morton assured him. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Biddle, you’ve been—’

  ‘There’s something else,’ the farmer interrupted. ‘Not sure if I should mention it, because I could be wrong.’ He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  Morton managed to stay patient. ‘Anything at all, Mr Biddle, tell us about it. We’ll decide if it’s relevant.’

  Biddle nodded. ‘It was all so quick, you see. Me seeing there was a car stopped and someone in the ditch, then seeing the bike in the road. Then me calling out and the one I told you about running off like that. It all happened so fast it was nigh on a blur. So I could be wrong.’

  ‘Even so,’ encouraged Morton, finding patience more difficult to hold on to.

  ‘Well, then, it was more of an impression, you understand. When I saw there was someone bending over the girl my first thought was, the motorist had jumped out and run back to help. But afterwards I got thinking about it, and the way that motorist was moving his hands – supposing it was a man – it looked more like, well, like he was searching the body. Reckon he was after a wallet? Shocking thing, if he was.’

  No, thought Morton, probably not a wallet, but something very important, important enough to take the risk of running down Sally Grove in a desperate effort to get hold of it.

  ‘You don’t never know, do you?’ said Mr Biddle.

  ‘No, sir, you certainly don’t,’ agreed Phil Morton.

  Chapter 12

  ‘It is, of course, terrible news,’ declared Gordon Ferris.

  The Countryside Artists had gathered that evening in an emergency conclave at the home of Mike and Debbie Wilson. The normal lively chatter was absent, no one talking about his or her latest work. They sat round in near-silence, broken at last by Gordon’s words. His voice had boomed out unnaturally loudly. The others stared at him. Debbie, who had been sniffling into a hanky, wiped her eyes and then blew her nose. She pushed back her lank brown hair and sat up straighter.