by Granger, Ann
David Jones had come indoors and taken up a position behind the bar counter with Milada. Either he’d been called in because they were getting busy or he didn’t want to be caught alone outside again by Jessica. He, too, avoided the inspector’s eye and entered into a lively conversation with a customer. Jess, however, managed to intercept Milada’s interested glance. Milada didn’t mind questions; she had quite a few of her own. She wanted to know what was going on. Jess rolled her eyes towards the exit and walked out into the yard. As expected, Milada came scurrying after her.
‘What do you think?’ She stared hard at Jess. ‘You think I’m right? Mr Westcott won’t believe it but I know better!’
‘We’ll see,’ said Jess soothingly. She took the evidence bag containing the tumbler and toothbrush out of her backpack and held it up. ‘Can you confirm for me that this is Eva’s?’
Milada’s eyebrows shot up in surprise but she said promptly, ‘It’s pink. It’s Eva’s. Everything she buys is pink. I told her, buy another colour sometimes, but she just said she liked pink.’
And when she bought a new coat, thought Jess, Eva bought a pink one.
Chapter 9
‘So, now we know the identity of the victim,’ said Carter the following morning, leaning back in his chair. ‘Eva Zelená. Jake Westcott, her employer, was in no doubt about it . . . before he passed out?’
‘Bit embarrassing, that,’ admitted Jess. ‘He just said, “Yes, that’s Eva,” and then pitched forward flat at poor Tom Palmer’s feet.’
‘Didn’t hurt himself, I trust?’
‘Oh, no, we brought him round and he was all right, only a little annoyed at being made to look a fool, as he put it. He repeated that the dead girl was Eva. He’s not in any doubt. When her parents get here, perhaps we can get her father to confirm it, but I think we can go ahead on the basis of Westcott’s identification.’
‘Fine,’ said Carter laconically. ‘Just so long as he hasn’t any reason to sue us.’
‘He was the obvious choice, in the absence of a family member,’ Jess pointed out. ‘Besides, his waitress had disappeared, leaving everything behind, so we needed to know if the dead girl was the same one. Otherwise we’d have to start looking for a live Eva Zelená, wasting time and effort. We’ve also managed to get a couple of partial prints from the glass I took from the bathroom. Not good enough for evidence in a court on their own, I’m afraid, but as back-up evidence very useful. I do think we can be sure of her identity. In due course we ought to get a DNA reading from the lab. So I’ve gone ahead and informed the Czech Embassy in London. They, in turn, are informing her parents in Karlovy Vary and telling them the inquest is set for the week after next, to allow them time to get here.’
A slight frown creased Carter’s brow. ‘They do understand at the embassy that the preliminary inquest will consist simply of a statement of the facts surrounding the discovery of the body and the identification? When the parents get here they’ll understand what it means when the coroner adjourns for us to make our enquiries? We can’t yet explain what happened to their daughter. There won’t be any answers.’
‘I hope so,’ replied Jess cautiously. ‘I did ask that it was all set out for the Zelenýs, but that bit’s out of my hands now. Naturally the parents want to come here at once. I would, if it was me, and someone told me one of my family had been murdered abroad.’ She shut her mouth tightly after the last words and stared away from the superintendent out of the window.
It was what she – and her parents – feared for Simon. One day, they’d get a message, like the one the Zelený family had received. (Phil Morton, who seemed to be getting quite an authority on Czech grammar, had informed her that ‘Zelená’ was a feminine version of the surname.) When Simon wrote, he constantly assured them he was safe. But he wasn’t, couldn’t be, in the hellhole where he was working. Bullets had an indiscriminate way of hitting anyone in their path: refugees, medical volunteers, Red Cross officials, cameramen . . . Bullets, and the men who fired them, made no distinction between persons. Sometimes the aggressors even targeted foreign volunteers. They wanted no witnesses reporting their deeds to a wider world.
When she looked back at Carter he was watching her in a careful way which made her wonder just how much he knew about her and her family circumstances. There was no way he ought to know about Simon. On the other hand, her brother’s work wasn’t a secret. She didn’t talk about it, from a superstitious fear of making something bad happen. But others might.
‘Ah, well . . .’ murmured Carter, stretching out a hand to pick up the enlarged copy of the staff photograph from the Foot to the Ground’s promotional literature. ‘I dare say you’re right. So what do you intend to do with this?’
‘Show it to people. I thought I’d start with Mrs Foscott. If anyone in that photo has been hanging around in the neighbourhood of the farm or the stables, Mrs Foscott might have noticed them. She’s . . .’ Jess hesitated then plunged on. ‘She’s a bit of a battleaxe but she’s shrewd and observant. Also she’s a local. She’s knows all the gossip.’
Carter folded his hands and stared at her again in the careful way Jess found so off-putting. At last he said, ‘Fair enough. But watch out. She might do a bit of gossiping herself.’
He handed over the photo. Jess wondered if she ought to tell him that David Jones, shown in the picture, was the son of Barney Jones, barrister-at-law. She didn’t yet know where Carter stood when it came to bothering the sort of people a police officer might find himself facing in court. She decided to keep the information to herself for a little while longer.
Predictably enough, the Foscotts lived in a large rambling shabby house surrounded by an untidy garden. There were two cars parked on the weed-strewn gravel drive when Jess got there: Selina’s elderly aristocrat of a Jaguar and a newer, smarter, Lexus. Jess wasn’t surprised when the door was opened by Mr Foscott, presumably the owner of the Lexus.
He was a tall, spindly man with thinning fair hair and glasses. He peered through them at Jess’s ID and then at Jess.
‘Can’t tell you anything about the murder. Wasn’t there. Never go near that farm or the stables. You’ll have to ask my wife.’
‘Er, yes, I came hoping – is Mrs Foscott at home?’
‘Oh yes, come in.’ He turned away and ambled into the house, leaving Jess to follow him. ‘Selly! Policewoman here to see you!’ He glanced back at Jess. ‘An inspector!’
With that he disappeared, leaving Jess alone in the hall. She looked around her. The interior of the house matched the exterior. Nothing had been painted or papered or in any way ‘done up’ for years. Pictures of horses or of Charlie from toddler stage onward atop a pony – and horse memorabilia, like rosettes and a couple of horseshoes – had been tacked higgledy-piggeldy to the walls. A saddle cluttered the floor next to the umbrella stand. The house smelled faintly of horse. Mr Foscott didn’t need to go to the stables. His wife and daughter had brought the stables home with them.
Selina could be heard approaching with a noisy clatter of feet and an off-scene yell of, ‘Well, I can’t afford new boots, you’ll have to make do with the ones you’ve got!’
She burst out of a door and carried on seamlessly, but this time addressing Jess, ‘Kids’ feet grow! I think the old Chinese were on to something, binding feet! Come in!’
Jess found herself ushered into a large sitting room with a tiled Victorian fireplace and faded rugs. There was an eclectic collection of furniture: a large three-piece suite covered in equally faded cretonne covers, a huge chesterfield which looked as if it had escaped from some gentlemen’s club, sundry small tables, all laden with books, horsy magazines or newspapers, and a rather beautiful early Victorian or late Georgian writing desk. All surfaces not covered with discarded paper were dusty.
‘Sit down. Want a drink?’ demanded Selina hospitably, indicating one of the armchairs in its cretonne robe. ‘I’d offer you a gin and tonic or something, but I suppose you don’t, not on duty. We can rustle u
p some tea or coffee? Reggie!’
‘No, no, please!’ Jess put out a hand in alarm to forestall the inevitable demand that Reggie Foscott put the kettle on. ‘I won’t have tea or coffee, but thanks all the same.’
She sat down in the armchair. It proved an alarming experience. The seat sank beneath her with a loud twang of springs and she found herself trapped in a deep depression. Her knees stuck up in front of her, the arms of the chair rose to either side like starting gates and something was digging uncomfortably into the small of her spine.
‘Comfy?’ demanded her hostess, flinging herself on to the chesterfield.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Jess replied, thinking it must be obvious she wasn’t.
‘I’m not surprised you’ve turned up,’ remarked Selina with satisfaction.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s no use talking to anyone at the stables about Cricket Farm. They’re all newcomers. Penny’s aunt lived here for years; but Penny only came occasionally until the old girl croaked and left her everything. Then she bought the stables. Lindsey – have you met Lindsey?’ Selina paused to raise her eyebrows.
Jess confirmed she’d met Lindsey.
‘She’s local but her husband is a newcomer. He turned up about ten years ago.’
How long, for goodness’ sake, did one have to live here before one ceased to be a newcomer? wondered Jess. Probably if you weren’t born here you never became a local. It struck her that, although there was quite a social gulf between Eli Smith and Selina Foscott, they were united in being natives of this area. That counted for a lot.
‘That would be Mark Harper?’ Jess asked. ‘I have met him.’
‘He’s made a lot of money in the City,’ said Selina darkly. ‘They bought Lower Lanbury House and he turned himself into a country gent. Must have spent a blasted fortune on it. Even got a sauna and Jacuzzi. Oh well, each to his tastes. Lindsey is a sensible woman. But she’s a local. I was at school with her mother, Wendy. She was older than me, of course. Very good horsewoman, Wendy, and so is Lindsey. What can I do for you?’
Jess took her cue. She leaned forward awkwardly and delved into the indispensable green backpack lying at her feet. ‘I was wondering if you’d look at this photo?’
She ought to get up and take it over to Selina on the chesterfield, but had a horrible feeling that, without an undignified struggle, she couldn’t.
Selina obligingly hopped off the chesterfield, seized the photo and retreated with it. ‘Who are this lot, then? Oh, that’s a pub not far from here. Don’t go in pubs myself but I know where all the old ones are. That’s the Foot to the Ground, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. The photo shows the staff and the owners.’
‘Who’s the owner? This chap with the moustache? Looks like a second-hand car salesman. Good Lord!’ With this exclamation, Selina raised the photo closer to her face and scowled at it. ‘This is Barney and Julia Jones’s boy.’ She jabbed a finger at the assembled staff.
‘Can you show me which one you mean?’ asked Jess, although David Jones was the only young male in the line-up. But in court, lawyers tripped you up over sloppy identifications.
Selina turned the photo so that Jess could see it and tapped David Jones’s image. ‘This one. Can’t miss him. What’s he doing in this?’
‘He works at the Foot to the Ground.’
‘Well I never,’ said Selina, the wind momentarily taken out of her sails. She rallied. ‘I remember now. Julia told me. Young David went off to study medicine but he cracked up. I didn’t know he was still around. She’s a bishop’s daughter, you know.’
When talking to Selina, a certain mental agility was called for. ‘Mrs Jones?’ asked Jess.
Selina nodded vigorously. Then she put down the photo and stared hard at Jess. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
Jess ignored the question. ‘Apart from David Jones, do you recognise anyone else?’
‘No,’ said Selina briefly, glancing down at it. She redirected her basilisk stare at Jess.
‘None of the women? Please look carefully.’
Selina obliged by studying the line up again. ‘No, none of them. The girls are pretty.’
‘Yes,’ said Jess. She could have pointed out Eva, but didn’t. That sort of thing often had the effect of making witnesses ‘remember’ seeing the victim, whereas before they had been sure they hadn’t. When the photo of Eva Zelená was released to the public, Jess had no doubt that, if Selina remembered seeing her, she would be in touch at once.
‘Young David’s not involved in this, is he?’ demanded Selina.
‘We have no reason to believe so.’
Selina pursed her lips and flapped the photo back and forth. ‘I’d like to know why you’re showing this around. You’re not going to tell me, are you?’
‘No,’ said Jess, unable to repress a slight smile.
A gleam entered Selina’s eyes. ‘No objection to me mentioning it to his mother?’
‘She probably already knows I’ve been to the Foot to the Ground,’ said Jess. ‘I expect her son has told her.’
Selina looked positively cunning. She held up the photograph. ‘One of these girls is the dead one, isn’t she? The one at the farm? Don’t deny it. I can see it in your face.’
Oh, well, the best-laid plans . . . thought Jess with a sigh.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Which one?’
Jess surrendered. She managed to haul herself out of the armchair in a tussle during which the chair, as if possessed by some demon, seemed determined to retain her. It gave a series of angry twangs before finally ejecting her. She went over to the chesterfield to collect the photograph. ‘This one,’ she said.
‘Well, well,’ said Selina thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what Julia and Barney will make of that!’
So do I! thought Jess. Especially when their son tells them we took the pub’s van away today for examination and forensic tests.
‘What’s the matter with him, then?’
The voice, sounding unexpectedly close behind her, made Penny jump away from the paddock gate on which she’d been leaning and spin round.
‘Oh, hello, Eli. I didn’t hear you.’
In silent reply Eli pointed at his gumboot-clad feet. Then he nodded towards the horse in the paddock. ‘Off his feed or what?’
‘No,’ Penny sighed. ‘Eating like the proverbial horse, if you’ll excuse the pun.’ Eli looked puzzled and she went on hastily, ‘The vet says he’s losing the sight of one eye. Actually, now I can see for myself something’s wrong. When the light shines on the eye, there’s a misty look to it.’
Eli sucked his teeth and surveyed Solo for several minutes. ‘Very likely he is, then,’ he said at last. He continued staring at Solo for a little longer then said, ‘That’ll be it, then, for him?’
‘That will be it, Eli, as you say. I can’t afford to keep a useless horse and he is now useless.’
Eli turned his attention back to Penny. ‘I come down to see if you were all right.’
‘Fine, thanks, Eli, apart from all my troubles. How about you?’
‘Me?’ Eli gave a low growl like a restless volcano. ‘I got a ruddy body in my cowshed.’
‘She’s not still there?’ Penny was shocked.
He shook his head, crowned with a greasy flat cap. ‘No, they took the poor lass away. But they’ve been all over my property, those coppers. Do you know?’ The volcano was getting angrier. His voice rose and he jabbed a stubby forefinger at Penny. ‘They’ve bin in the house!’
‘The – er – house at the farm, Eli, or your cottage where you live?’ she asked cautiously.
Eli considered this. ‘Both,’ he announced at last. ‘That sergeant came to my cottage to get my keys to the house up at Cricket. I told him, that’s boarded up. Ain’t no one been in there for years! But he reckoned the police had got to look all over it. They got no business! Anyhow, I give him the keys and off he went and he’s not brought them back!’ The volcano erupted with a furious shout.<
br />
Solo, grazing in the paddock, threw up his head and turned his head, ears pricked, towards the gate.
‘Not that it matters,’ Eli went on more calmly. ‘I got another set. I’m going to lock the place up again, that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘I’m sure they will have locked up behind them, Eli.’
‘That’s not secure,’ said Eli obstinately. ‘I’ve brought down a load of planks and I’m going to nail ’em over the door and fix it proper!’
‘Perhaps you ought to ask the police first, if they’ve finished . . .’ Penny began.
‘I don’t have to ask no policeman what to do on my property! That house has been boarded up twenty-seven years come Thursday next week. So I’ve got to get it fixed up again before then.’
‘Why before then, before Thursday of next week?’ asked Penny unthinkingly.
Eli took off his cap, studied the grimy lining, and replaced it carefully on his greying curls. ‘Third Thursday in the month,’ he said, ‘was always market day. Cattle market, I mean, back in the days when we had a cattle market.’
Oh, dear heaven . . . thought Penny, understanding now. It was on a Thursday that Eli returned from the market to find his brother had committed a double murder. The anniversary of that tragic event must be coming up. He’s afraid to leave the house unbarred next Thursday. What does he think will happen there if he does?
An atavistic terror gripped her briefly before she shook it off. The events of so long ago had obviously affected Eli’s mind. It was no reason to let it affect hers.
The slam of a car door caused them both to turn their heads to the sound.
‘See what I mean,’ grumbled Eli. ‘Now that woman police inspector is here again to bother you.’
