by Deryn Lake
Nick looked apologetic. ‘If I get a brainwave I’ll ring straight away.’
‘Thanks.’ The inspector stood up. ‘And thanks so much for the toast.’
‘You are most welcome.’
They both stared upwards as from the room above the kitchen there came the sound of footsteps.
‘I didn’t know you had anybody else living here,’ said Tennant, somewhat surprised.
Nick laughed. ‘Oh, that’s only William. He’s my resident ghost.’
‘Good God,’ said Tennant, and looked at the vicar incredulously.
His earlier mood of extreme tiredness having vanished – probably achieved by eating holy toast, he thought – Tennant looked down the alleyway that had so recently witnessed the death of Dwayne Saunters and saw that an ambulance was parked in the High Street and that a shield had been erected round the body, from which emerged a wheeled stretcher and two attendants. On the stretcher was lying something in a zipped-up bag. The policemen formed a human cordon as the bag was transferred to the ambulance and driven away at some speed.
Tennant was immediately struck by a thought and hurried to the mobile headquarters to voice it.
‘Has anyone told the grandmother yet?’
‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Potter and a WPC are round there now.’
‘In that case,’ answered the inspector with a visible sigh of relief, ‘I’ll go and visit Miss Beauchamp. Can I borrow a car?’
Fifteen minutes later he reached Speckled Wood, finding the place as delightful as its name. At the top of a hill, which he climbed on the small road leading out of Lakehurst, were revealed a few houses dotted here and there. But by far the most spectacular thing was the view. Pulling up outside a rural-looking cottage, Dominic gazed for miles to a distant glimpse of the sea, surrounded by undulating hills and fields full of sheep. In the distance he could glimpse what had once been a manor house and narrowing his eyes saw a glint of azure water that told him the place was still moated. His heart leapt and the actor in him surfaced. Just for a moment he dreamed that he was spotted by a well-known director, became an overnight success in a major film and could afford to buy somewhere beautiful in Speckled Wood instead of his crummy flat in Lewes. And then, as if to add to his dream, he heard the nearby sounds of a violin played by an extremely competent pair of hands. He turned to the cottage he was standing outside and knew, even before he looked, that he had found the home of Olivia Beauchamp.
To be perfectly honest he made no move to knock at the front door until a good fifteen minutes had passed. She was playing a lesser known work by Tchaikovsky and Tennant stood enthralled, listening to her tackling the same few phrases over and over again, honing them until they sounded to Tennant’s ears like drops of liquid crystal. Then she paused and he released himself from his almost trance-like state and knocked at her front door.
She took a minute or two to answer and Tennant thought she might have been in the loo because she had a towel in her hands on which she was wiping them.
‘Hello,’ she said.
With a mighty effort the inspector pulled himself together. ‘Miss Beauchamp?’ he asked, though he knew perfectly well that it was.
‘Yes. Are you the police?’
Tennant showed his identity badge. ‘Yes, I am. Look I know it’s the most awful cheek to interrupt your practice but could I have a few minutes of your time?’
‘Certainly. As a matter of fact I’ve been expecting you. Come in. Would you like a coffee?’
‘I’d love one. I take it black, no sugar.’
She opened the door wide and the inspector walked into an idyllic little place with superb views from every window.
‘Lovely cottage,’ he said. ‘But a bit remote.’
‘Not really.’ She gestured through the kitchen window at another house – as old as time in Tennant’s opinion – which stood behind her property and slightly to the right. ‘That’s Giles Fielding’s place. He farms there, you know.’
‘And does he keep an eye on you?’
She grinned. ‘Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.’
‘How do you know what I am thinking?’ was out of the inspector’s mouth before he had time to control the words.
‘It was the look on your face,’ said Olivia, and laughed her wonderful laugh.
Tennant turned away for a moment, ostensibly to take another look at Giles’s place but in fact to speak to himself severely about his behaviour and not to forget that Miss Beauchamp was a suspect in a murder enquiry. When he turned back it was with a very straight face.
‘I believe that you also have a place in London, Miss Beauchamp.’
‘Yes, I’ve got a flat in Chiswick.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Very nice and very expensive.’
‘But you weren’t there the night of the Patels’ murder?’
‘No, I went to the vicar’s party. I left about eleven o’clock and Dr Rudniski saw me into my car and I drove back here. I saw lights on in Giles’s place – he’d left Nick’s about twenty minutes before I did – but I didn’t go in.’
‘Were you in the habit of calling in on him?’
Olivia’s eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, I was. As you said, Inspector, it’s pretty remote up here and it’s nice to have a good neighbour.’
Tennant sipped his coffee. ‘But I believe you were out of the village when the other two murders took place.’
‘Yes, and no. I was in Birmingham when Gerrard Riddell was killed but I had left the pub about half an hour before dear little Dwayne met his end.’
‘I take it you didn’t like him?’
‘I detested the little bugger. But then so did everybody else. Only his cronies and his grandmother had any time for him at all.’
‘That’s rather vehement.’
‘I meant it to be. He was a perfectly horrible little person.’
‘So you weren’t sorry when you heard he was dead. How did you hear, incidentally?’
‘Giles phoned me. Someone from the pub had phoned him. This is a village, Inspector, where the grapevine never ceases to throb.’
‘And can you tell me where you were at eleven o’clock last night?’
‘Though we had separate cars Giles escorted me home. As I told you I left about ten thirty and the vicar and Kasper – the doctor – agreed that Giles would drive behind me and see me in.’
‘Which he did?’
‘Yes. You can ask him.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’
Olivia suddenly smiled and said, ‘This conversation is getting terribly serious.’
‘I know and I apologize for it. But it is a serious matter. We have a serial killer on the loose and I must find him quickly and put a stop to it.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for the coffee and also for the great pleasure of meeting you.’
‘Me? Why is that?’
‘Because I’ve been a fan for years. I really have. I’ve a great many of your CDs at home.’
‘How very nice of you. Thank you very much.’
Tennant walked to the front door, then turned. ‘I am calling a public meeting tonight with the police present. Will you come?’
‘I most certainly will. And I’ll bring Giles.’
The inspector nodded. ‘Very wise. It won’t do to walk about alone in Lakehurst after dark.’
He found Giles Fielding in the far field busily rescuing a sheep that had got its head stuck in the hedge. The animal was kicking frantically with its back legs but Giles had it round the shoulders in a firm grip and was pulling at it hard. The inspector stood silently, watching a true farmer at work, and heaved a sigh of relief as the animal was freed and went trotting off quietly to join its fellows.
‘Oh there you are, sir,’ said Giles pleasantly, turning round. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Have you now?’
‘Yes. What with young Saunters being done in last night I knew it wouldn’t be long before the police came looking for me.’
‘Looking for you?’
Giles’s ruggedly handsome face flushed. ‘I don’t mean in that sense. I meant before you came to interview me. Anyway, Inspector, I think we should continue this conversation indoors, don’t you?’
They made their way into one of the handsomest houses that the inspector had ever set foot in. It was so mellow with age that somehow the untidiness of a man living alone was dwindled to nothing. A pair of sheepdogs were sleeping under the table. They looked up as their master came into the room but then went quietly back to sleep again.
‘You don’t mind ’em?’ asked Giles, nodding his head in the dogs’ direction.
‘As long as they don’t bite.’
‘If either of them was to attack someone I’d shoot them at once.’
‘Quite right,’ said Tennant, thinking of some of the cases he’d seen of children being mauled by so-called pets.
‘Oh yes. I can be hard when I have to be,’ Giles answered.
And looking at him, the inspector saw a completely different aspect to the man he was regarding, somebody ruthless appearing beneath Giles’s wide blue eyes.
Tennant fired off the usual questions and discovered that Fielding had no real alibi for any of the murders. He had by his own admission bought a packet of cigarettes from Patel at around eleven that evening, just before the shop closed. The night of the Riddell death he said he had been in The Great House earlier in the evening but had then returned home and watched television alone. As for the time when Dwayne had been killed, what easier than to see Olivia through her front door then drive up the road, turn round, and go back to Lakehurst to catch that little menace and end his wretched existence?
Tennant was in an extremely thoughtful mood as he made his way back to his car.
‘Oh by the way, I’m calling a public meeting tonight. Please try and come if you can,’ he shouted.
‘I’ll be there inspector, never you fear,’ Giles called back, looking his usual cheery self.
But, the inspector thought as he drove away, fear was very much what the farmer was feeling.
ELEVEN
It was with the greatest regret that Tennant phoned the director of The Corn is Green and resigned his part as the Squire. This had happened so many times in the past that there were now serious doubts about casting him at all but one or two still had faith, though not for much longer if he continued at this rate, he thought. Nipping into The Great House before the meeting he downed a large vodka, while Potter, who was driving, consumed a St Clements.
‘I don’t like these things,’ he said to his sergeant.
‘Are you referring to the drink or the meeting, sir?’
‘The meeting, of course.’
‘I can’t think why not,’ Potter answered. ‘I would have thought you’d have been in your element. Standing on the stage with dozens of people looking at you. Just your thing.’
‘Well, you’re wrong. It’s very different. In acting you’re creating somebody else’s character. At this sort of meeting you’re seriously warning people to look out for themselves.’
‘It has to be done, sir. There’s obviously a lunatic about. People must take precautions.’
‘I should think they’ve already got the message.’
‘It’s our duty to reiterate it, sir.’
‘Yes, I know you’re right.’
Not altogether to his surprise Tennant saw that the Commemoration Hall was packed. The chairs had been taken out of their stacks and were now arranged in serried rows. He ran his eye over the gathering and saw that it contained several familiar faces. Ceinwen Carruthers was there, sitting amongst a handful of earnest ladies and one or two fey men who the inspector took to be the Pixie Poets. Sonia Tate, dolled up to the nines – as Tennant’s mother used to say – was batting a pair of false eyelashes, one of which had slipped slightly. Mavis Cox, looking businesslike, was sitting near the vicar, who was handsome in a lightweight summer suit and dog collar. Next to him sat Olivia, looking delightful – or so the inspector thought – in an emerald green dress with a scarlet sash. Sitting on her far side was Dr Rudniski, frowning seriously.
‘Who’s that?’ Tennant whispered to Potter, nodding in the direction of a very slim woman with a mass of jet black hair.
‘Cheryl Hamilton-Harty who runs the riding school. You want to watch her.’
As if she knew that someone was talking about her Miss Hamilton-Harty chose that moment to look round and wreathed her face into a daunting smile as she caught the inspector’s eye.
Tennant took his place on the platform along with several uniformed officers, Potter close by his side, and was just about to stand up when the door opened at the back and several latecomers walked in. These were led by Giles Fielding, who had clearly been tanking up before the meeting began, followed by Ivy Bagshot, who had not. She was followed by that beauty of another era, Roseanna Culpepper, who was walking with a man who the inspector took to be her husband.
Tennant cleared his throat and rose, pausing a moment before he spoke.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, good evening, and thank you so much for coming to this meeting which I hope will be of benefit to us all.’
Jack Boggis chose this moment to make an entrance, looking somewhat the worse for wear.
‘Hello, little lady,’ he called out and made a dash to sit close to Olivia but was fended off by the vicar and Dr Rudniski. Looking sour as a sloe he had to take a seat next to Mavis Cox which clearly did not please him at all.
‘Now that we are all here,’ said Tennant pointedly, ‘I’ll say what I have to as briefly as possible.’
‘Hear, hear.’ This from Boggis.
The inspector stared at him coolly, wondering if he could possibly be the man they were after. Jack, feeling several pairs of eyes turned in his direction, did his bluff Yorkshireman act. Nobody took any notice.
Tennant continued. ‘You can all rest assured that the mobile police headquarters will remain in Lakehurst for the foreseeable future. If any of you notice anything suspicious – anything at all – or if you see someone that you know behaving in an unaccustomed manner – ’ his eyes flicked on to Jack Boggis and remained there a second or two – ‘it is your duty to go and report it immediately. The station will be manned night and day so you can go in at any time. Or if you just feel like a chat or are anxious in any way, they are there to help you. Please remember that. Now are there any questions?’
There was the usual silence and then a hand shot up at the back of the hall. ‘Why are there so many police in Lakehurst at the moment? And how long are they going to stay here?’
‘They are here for your protection. I expect you have been visited by people doing house-to-house checks but you must realize that this is an essential part of our enquiries.’
The doctor asked a question. ‘Is it your intention to take a DNA sample from everyone in the village?’
Tennant paused. There had been talk of it but the odd thing was that the killer had left no traces at the various scenes of crime. It was almost as if he had been wearing protective clothing himself and quite definitely had worn disposable gloves. There had been no sperm, no sputum, nothing. The search for fingerprints and hairs had also been in vain.
‘No, not at this time,’ he answered.
‘Why not?’ Kasper persisted.
‘I am afraid I cannot answer that.’
Somebody else asked, ‘What would be your advice to people living on their own?’
‘Simply to lock yourselves in by both day and night. And not to allow anyone into your house until you have checked their ID. While we’re on that subject I notice that you have taken to walking round in pairs and I can’t tell you how sensible that is. And if you would all escort the elderly to and from their homes and check their premises for them, you would be doing a great service.’
Mrs Ivy Bagshot waved a skinny arm. ‘I am volunteering my services by offering a lift to all those who would like to share my car with me.’
Tennant felt he ought to murmur something about being public-spirited but just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He and Potter exchanged a glance bordering on a grin.
There was an ‘ooh’ of gratitude from her fellow WI members and during this Potter murmured, ‘Where’s Mr Bagshot?’
‘I think she “lawst” him,’ Tennant muttered back.
‘Not “lawst” but gone before,’ Potter mouthed silently.
‘Inspector.’ Ceinwen was on her feet.
‘Yes, Miss Carruthers?’
‘We Pixie Poets often wander in the woods at night, communing with nature and all that. I wonder whether you think this a good idea or not?’
‘Definitely not. I don’t know how many of you there are but I would strongly advise you to curtail your activities for the time being.’
Ceinwen neighed a laugh. ‘We usually number about six but if you advise against it we will certainly meet in one another’s houses.’
Boggis chimed in. ‘When are you going to catch this fella, that’s what I want to know?’
There were murmurs of assent from the audience.
Tennant faced them and said, ‘To be honest with you, I don’t know. I can tell you that the killer has left very little evidence for us to go on. But we have one or two clues naturally.’
That was a complete lie. The murderer seemed to know as much about forensic evidence as the experts. Even the notes had been handled with gloves and the familiar red scrawl was written with a plain red biro. At the moment the police had nothing to go on and could only hope that he would make a mistake in future. Yet that thought had the most sinister implications.
‘And what might they be?’ asked Boggis in a truly nasty tone of voice.
‘If you think, sir, that I am about to reveal them to a full public meeting then I am afraid you are extremely naive.’
‘Well, if that’s the best you can do I might as well go back to the pub as waste my time here,’ Boggis answered, and standing up began to clatter down the row.
