by Amy Myers
‘The Mesola family supported the Partisans and suffered greatly during the war from starvation and deprivation, but the farms of Kent are not like those of the Apennine mountains. Sofia chose to return to Italy, as I believe I told you. She died two years later.’
‘Of an illness?’
I don’t know what made me ask that, but in any case he did not reply.
He looked tired. I blamed myself and began to creep away.
‘By the way,’ he called after me. ‘I’m still not selling the Hop and Harry. I’ve told Andrew, I’ve told the Makepeaces and I’ve told the police. And what’s more,’ he added, ‘neither will I sell this car.’
I continued on my way, and he didn’t even notice me leave this time. He was still staring at the Alfa Romeo.
By the time I reached the road again and was about to cross over to rejoin the fête, it was alarmingly clear that something was wrong in the village. A police car raced through, followed by an ambulance. I could see George Makepeace standing at the entrance to the car park field so I crossed the road to talk to him. Even by the time I reached him, however, I could almost see news spreading round the fête – people were stopping, gathering in groups, some hurrying past us towards new Plumshaw.
‘What’s up?’ I asked him, aware that he was looking very shaken.
‘The Hop and Harry,’ he growled.
‘Again? Another fire?’
‘Not this time. Andrew Lee.’
‘He’s hurt?’ What more could go wrong for this family?
‘Dead. And not natural neither. Strangled.’
THIRTEEN
Strangled? Andrew? I couldn’t get my head round this. George must have got it wrong, a misheard word, blown up into a certainty. Andrew and his wife had left the Hop and Harry over a week ago and their possessions – such as had escaped the blaze – were now safely elsewhere. It would be a giant step to believe that someone was killing off the Comptons and their supporters one by one, and even if by some ill fortune Andrew was indeed dead, murder seemed way off the mark. Rumours spread quickly and notoriously change with each of the relay players, and that was surely the case here.
Nevertheless, I still found myself striding along the road to what used to be the pub, half preoccupied with that and half still battling with what I had learned from Peter Compton. I tried to put that aside. I had to deal with the present situation first. The nearer I drew to the ruins of the pub the more obvious it became that there was indeed another major incident. Police cars and vans stood outside and a cordon was already in place. If I still had any doubt that George had been mistaken, it vanished when I saw Brandon. The name of Plumshaw must be a magnet for him at present.
I could see no faces that I recognized in the crowd of onlookers and, thankfully, no sign of Lucy. No press either, although they would not be long in coming. I could see Brandon beckoning to me, and he joined me at the cordon entrance. He seemed to take my presence for granted, which I supposed was flattering in a way.
‘Join the party,’ he grunted to me. ‘I take it you’ve heard? Andrew Lee. Manual strangulation. Guesstimate between eleven and two today.’
So he was killed either during the preparations for the fête or shortly after it had opened, which was an unpleasant thought in itself, with the fête in full flow such a short distance away. I steeled myself to get kitted out in a scene suit and joined Brandon in what had once been the main bar of the Hop and Harry. Now it was empty of bottles and glasses, but the smell of this desolate place was still so strong that it made me retch. It was more than the smell of fire, it seemed to have the smell of death itself about it. Brandon seemed to share my distaste judging by his bleak expression. Ten days earlier, this bar had been full of life. Not now. Brandon led the way through to the snug, the small bar at the rear of the building on the left as one faced it. On the right were the kitchens, giving on to the restaurant that semi-circled the far end of the main bar.
It was only then that I realized Andrew’s body had not yet been moved. The forensic team was still at work, although Brandon had told me that the pathologist had come and gone. And then I saw him. Andrew was lying sprawled on his back, although that would not necessarily have been the position he was found in. The ghastly signs of strangulation were all too evident. The tongue, the lips, the froth, the clenched hands.
‘Is his wife on the way here?’ I asked. Lucy was in for a terrible ordeal.
‘Against our advice, yes. She’s coming from her mother’s place in Ashford.’
My heart went out to her, but I forced myself to be professional. ‘Was he attacked from behind?’
‘Most likely.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘George Makepeace, the chap who found him.’
‘George was up by the fête car park when I saw him. What was he doing here?’ No wonder George had looked shaken; he couldn’t wait to get away from the Hop and Harry.
‘Walking his dog, he said. Took a short cut across the car park, peered in through the pub window for no apparent reason and saw what lay here. That was an hour and a half ago, but we told him he could leave and give a formal statement later.’
George’s story sounded limp, I thought, but it could be true.
‘We interviewed him over the Compton murder,’ Brandon continued. ‘Connected to this one, do you think? This pub belongs to the Comptons.’
My mind was racing like a Bugatti. My first pit stop was still George Makepeace. I thought I knew what his part in the Compton case was, but I’d tackle him later. Second pit stop: the police case against Giovanni hadn’t excluded other possibilities on motivation – and that might include Andrew’s involvement.
‘If they weren’t connected,’ I said, ‘then this attack could theoretically be by a casual looter, but it’s a strange time to choose to break in. And even the most desperate squatter wouldn’t have chosen this place.’
‘Which brings us back to the Makepeaces, either George or that grandson of his, Jamie. Both determined to get the Hop and Harry out of the way for this development plan of theirs. Jamie attacked him, George found the body. Neat?’ Brandon didn’t sound convinced though.
‘Not that neat. If this was all part of the Makepeace-Compton feud then burning the pub down alone would do the job without adding murder to the charge sheet.’
‘Except that the fire wasn’t enough,’ Brandon pointed out. ‘Peter Compton still won’t sell.’
I tried to plough doggedly on. ‘I don’t see that killing the manager-cum-chef would achieve anything. He was never going to be a three-star Michelin chef.’ It seemed tough to say this, with Andrew lying there, but it was a relevant point. Nevertheless, I came to a halt. My stomach was churning with the effort of debate in these terrible circumstances, and I was relieved when Brandon began to move away.
‘It could affect the decision over rebuilding,’ Brandon commented.
I didn’t reply. Both of us knew that would surely be too much of a risk for too little gain. The method of murder moreover suggested a struggle in the heat of the moment.
‘What about a personally motivated attack?’ Brandon continued back in the bar.
‘Possible, but again the timing would be a coincidence. There’s another way it could be connected to the Comptons, though,’ I added. ‘Andrew and Lucy were the only people apart from the Comptons themselves who officially knew where Hugh Compton was hiding out in the chalet. What’s more, if it is connected, then Giovanni is the one person who could not have killed Andrew.’
Brandon looked at me almost compassionately. ‘I see your point, Jack. I always have. But we still have to hold him. This crazy fake murder has thrown a new light on it, and when that’s disclosed to the defence the lions are going to be roaring. Even though we’re grilling the Comptons on that score – and still considering charges – there’s no denying that Donati was free at the time Compton was murdered for real.’
Back to square one. ‘But there’s no evidence.’
‘There’s one very powerful motive,’ Brandon pointed out. ‘And no alibi. He might not have killed him in the barn, but he could have taken advantage of the situation later.’
‘But Giovanni does have an alibi,’ I pressed on. I’d kept Brandon up to date every step of the way. ‘He was with his son.’
‘Who feels as strongly about family matters as his father.’ He caught my change of expression. ‘It’s go-slow time, Jack. Giovanni Donati is not out of the woods yet.’
The sooner I was out of this building the better, I thought, as Brandon seemed to have finished with me. It was macabre here, the burnt ruins, white-clad figures moving around like ghosts, and the general feeling of oppression. Signing the exit log set me free into the everyday world again. The crowds were fewer now, but they definitely included journalists, so I searched the parked cars. Right on cue, I spotted an ancient Vauxhall. Pen was here somewhere and at any moment she could pounce on me. Before she did so, I needed to sort out something with George, whom I could see walking back towards the Hop and Harry. I rushed to cut him off before he vanished into Pen’s all-encompassing professional embrace.
First come, first served. And I was first.
‘You didn’t tell me you’d discovered Andrew’s body, George. Must have been very tough for you.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Pen retreating, but her body language didn’t bode well for me.
‘I can think of better claims to fame,’ he retorted grimly. He seemed genuinely upset. ‘Find a body and elect myself chief suspect for murder. Apparently first I killed Hugh Compton and then came back for poor old Andrew. I’m a property dealer and farmer, haven’t got time to murder half the village. Nor to burn this place down. Nor carry out any other crimes round this place.’
‘Not true,’ I said.
‘What the blazes do you mean by that?’
‘A certain Land Rover comes to mind.’
His cheeks bulged in fury. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Hugh Compton’s vehicle stolen from outside the manor and returned to it. Unharmed,’ I added, placatingly.
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Care to have a DNA test?’
He weighed up the situation carefully before replying. ‘Even if I did – joyride, that’s all it was.’
I sighed. ‘Let’s try it this way. I suggest you took it to make a point while Hugh Compton was first missing. After his body was found, it seemed out of order, so you returned it.’
‘No harm done,’ he grunted.
‘What was the point?’
‘Mind your own bloody business.’
‘It is a bloody business,’ I said. ‘Murder. What interests me is that Hugh was generally presumed dead after the blood was found in the barn and in Giovanni Donati’s car. You clearly didn’t believe he was – as your finer feelings didn’t come into it when you pinched the Land Rover. How come you knew he wasn’t dead?’
At that delicate point Brandon’s sergeant called George in for a ‘chat’. He shot me a triumphant look and marched away. I’d gone a long way with an educated guess, but now I’d been stopped in my tracks. Surprisingly, he too stopped. He turned round and shot out at me like a true Parthian: ‘What’s Compton’s death done for us, eh? Nothing. He didn’t own the joint. The old man does. I wanted to put paid to his driving the Land Rover around, lording it over us peasants for a while. Thought he’d think twice before he started that up again. And what’s happened? Now it’s back and he didn’t waste a minute. He’s off again.’
I watched him go into the incident van. What he’d said had some truth in it, but how far had his dislike of Peter Compton’s feudal ways driven him? And furthermore, he could have been under the impression that Hugh owned the estate. He could also have thought that Jamie and Bronte would marry and that Peter Compton would agree to sell if Hugh was out of the way. Neither had proved true, but George could not have known that.
More urgent problems pulled me out of the maze in my head. A police car drew up, a woman PC alighted but before she could help her passenger out, Lucy had leapt out of the far side of the car – where I could see Pen bearing down on her, having been forced to give up on George. I’ve seldom moved faster. Once again I just made it in time to block Pen’s headlong dash. I seized Lucy’s arm and rushed her over towards Brandon. Before I could get her there though, she tore herself away and pushed straight through the cordon entrance and towards the pub.
Brandon is used to such situations, and urged her back to one of the vans to talk to her, but having been turned away from the door, Lucy chose the lesser of two evils. Me. She clutched at me in desperation.
‘I want to know what happened,’ she cried. ‘No one will tell me. Only that Andrew is dead. I need to see him, however awful it is. I really do. Just to be sure it’s him. There could have been some mistake.’
What to say? The man in me wanted to hold her close, soothe her and take her back to her mother, but I was supposed to be working with the police. The man won, although I led her to one of the vans, with the PC on one side, and Brandon following. Once at the van, though, she shot a second scared look at me and refused to let go. Reluctantly, Brandon let us stay where we were.
‘I told him, Jack,’ she blurted out. ‘I told him Mr Compton’s a good landlord. We’ll never get another chance like this and he had to go and muck it all up. Just because of the Makepeaces. It’s their fault.’
I sensed Brandon breathing down my neck. ‘For the fire?’ I asked.
‘Who else would have done it?’ she moaned. ‘We quarrelled about it but he said we’d be all right. Now look what’s happened.’
I was instantly alert and I itched to push her on this, but held back. The PC didn’t though.
‘Don’t worry about it now,’ she said soothingly. Brandon must be as torn as I was over this intervention. Just how hand in glove had Andrew been with the Makepeaces?
Lucy turned to the PC. ‘I loved this old pub. Now Andrew’s dead, suppose he burnt the pub down and grabbed the takings first? What shall I do now?’
‘Rest, Lucy, rest,’ I said, though part of me still wanted to push further. Was she right about Andrew or was Makepeace involved? But Lucy was beginning to collapse and needed a medic’s help. The PC glanced at Brandon, who nodded, then she hurried away to organize this.
Lucy couldn’t be stopped though. ‘He told the Makepeaces about it.’
‘About the pub?’ I asked as gently as I could, every second expecting Brandon to shoot me. He didn’t, but Pen too was hovering.
Lucy looked at me with dull eyes. ‘Everything.’
Brandon indicated it was time for me to leave. He would send her home with the PC, after the medics had seen her. Lucy began to sob in earnest then. ‘Home?’ she said heart-rendingly. ‘What home do I have?’
Time to find George again, now free from his ‘chat’ with the sergeant, and with Pen busily chatting up Martin, who didn’t seem to be responding as heartily as she might have wished. George did his best to avoid me, but I wasn’t having that. I needed answers.
‘What’s the reply to my question, George?’
‘What question?’
‘Why didn’t you have moral objections to pinching the car when Hugh was presumed dead, but only after the body had been found?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘A big one. You knew that Hugh Compton wasn’t dead during those first few days. You knew that he was in one of the chalets because Andrew had told you.’
He eyed me carefully. ‘So what?’
‘When did he tell you? Did you and Andrew come to some agreement over the Hop and Harry?’
‘Business matter, that is.’
‘The business is murder, George. So it’s me or the police right now.’
He looked at me and surrendered. ‘Met Andrew Lee often, had you?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘He had ambitions. He wasn’t going to get nowhere in the Hop and Harry. I didn’t want the Hop and
Harry there at all. Suited us both. So what I said to him was that if it so happened the Hop and Harry went west, then he need not worry about a job. There’s a high quality restaurant going to open up in the new development, and he’d be running it. He saw it as his great opportunity – and it was, because Compton was never going to put money into this old heap.’
‘And it just so happened that the old heap did burn down. Your work?’
He looked straight at me. ‘You think I done that? Set fire to the place and then murdered Andrew Lee? What good would that have done? Look elsewhere, Mr Policeman. Andrew had a loose tongue. I wouldn’t have got nowhere by torching this place. And Compton’s not selling anyway, so I’ve been told.’
There was something in what George said, but he could not have reckoned with the fact that at his age Peter was still in full control despite Hugh’s death. Nor with the fact that Bronte was not going to inherit. And if he didn’t burn the pub down, it would be back to Andrew, with Lucy’s worst fears realized. I watched George walk away. He was only just out of sight when Pen materialized out of nowhere like the wicked witch on her broomstick in The Wizard of Oz.
‘I thought we were mates!’ she yelled. Her eyes were blazing, every inch of her body aquiver with righteous indignation.
‘We are, Pen,’ I said soothingly. ‘Subject to the usual embargo on police work.’
‘You caught me on that one,’ she snarled. ‘Lucy Lee your police work, is she? You nark.’
‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘Sure. Give me some real hard stuff on that Nan, then. I’m out to get him. And who’s that fellow you were talking to?’
‘Leader of the development movement,’ I said promptly, knowing my Pen well.
‘Yawn, yawn,’ she commented right on cue. ‘Unless,’ she added hopefully, ‘he murdered Andrew Lee? Any chance?’
‘You could work on it.’
‘Found the body, didn’t he? Drained most of that out of him already.’
‘Congratulations, Miss Vampire.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there? Cough up, Jack.’
She was sniffing hard; it wouldn’t be long before the story of the fake murder was spreading round the village. I’d have to warn Brandon. No doubt he would be working on Lucy’s implication that Andrew was more closely involved in the burning down of the pub, but add George Makepeace’s information – or misinformation – into the mix and I needed to move quickly.
