Catch the Fallen Sparrow

by Priscilla Masters

  Joanna leaned forward. ‘Please, Gaynor,’ she said. ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone might have wanted to kill Dean?’

  The woman frowned, thought for a moment, then shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Kill Deany – no.’ She blinked away a couple of tears. ‘ ’Ad the funeral yet?’

  Joanna’s face grew tight with dislike. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We were missing the chief mourner.’

  It had been the photograph that had led her here, early on the following morning. Reluctantly leaving her bike in the garage, Joanna backed the car along the narrow lane and turned towards the moors.

  A sleepless night pondering the picture of the three children. In the end at half-past three after tossing and turning and being denied sleep from every angle Joanna rose, slipped on a towelling dressing-gown and made herself a cup of blackcurrant tea, the picture in her hand. She knew now why the photograph had struck a lost chord. Behind the children was a rock – the crag of a hooked nose. She knew now where they had been standing. And someone had taken the photograph.

  This morning the moors seemed clothed in gold. No creeping soldiers, no burning corpses. Only the lone call of a curlew and the shriek of a fox cub. Looking around at the wide expanse of moors Joanna shivered and thought she knew no lonelier place on God’s earth. It seemed cut off from civilization, towns and streets. And yet there was a raw beauty up here – a sense of truth and purity. And she began to understand why Alice and Jonathan Rutter chose to live here in the dark and cold, through the northerly and easterly winds that had carved a man out of rock.

  She began to climb. Thank God for strong legs.

  She knew they were there before she reached the top. She could recognize the silhouette of tangled hair and Jason’s thin shoulders. Tears moved into her eyes. Thank God, she thought. No more corpses ... dead children. The evil had not penetrated here.

  The four of them were sitting round a small fire. Not one of them looked surprised to see her.

  ‘Cup of tea,’ Alice said comfortably.

  Joanna cradled the filthy cup in her hands while the wind bit around her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me they were safe?’

  ‘They told me not to.’ Alice didn’t look guilty or apologetic. She was merely stating facts. They had asked her not to tell.

  ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

  Kirsty was shivering and pale. Jason doggedly determined.

  ‘We knew we’d be safer up here.’ He stared defiantly at Joanna. ‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘sometimes you don’t know who your friends are. We knew her was all right.’ He put his arm around Alice Rutter’s shoulders. ‘Her knows what it’s like to be different, to be laughed at and have people on to you all the time. She aren’t like them in the towns. You can trust ’er.’

  ‘Yeah ...’ Kirsty joined in. ‘Trust ’er. You know where you are with ’er. We knew she weren’t goin’ to let us down.’ She touched the old woman’s cheek and Alice glared at Joanna.

  ‘See,’ she said, ‘there aren’t no harm up here. The boy were laid to rest ’ere. But he weren’t killed ’ere. The evil happened in the town.’ Her piece said Alice shrugged her shoulders. But it deceived none of them. They knew she was pleased. ‘We’s clear people,’ she said, ‘Kids – they knows that.’

  Kirsty was looking at her sharply and Alice nodded. ‘Go get it, girl,’ she said.

  Kirsty rose, light as a little gazelle, hair streaming behind her as she dodged between the crags and disappeared into a narrow fissure. When she returned she was hold a bulky book. She handed it to Joanna. ‘Dean’s,’ she said simply... and Joanna knew she had reached the epicentre of the boy’s murder. To her side the granite profile of the man gave a slow, solemn wink. Perhaps some ancient law allows certain rocks to possess their own energy source.

  The ring of faces watched her apprehensively, waiting. Perhaps for her to open the book. But she needed to do that alone. Instead she turned her attention to Alice Rutter. ‘I could charge you, you know.’ The words seemed to have no effect. Alice simply stared at her defiantly.

  Joanna tried again. ‘Wasting police time ... obstructing the course of justice.’

  ‘We was frightened.’ Jason moved closer to protect the old woman. A timid lamb protecting a buffalo?

  Joanna felt she must make some attempt to make them understand. ‘Didn’t you think we might be concerned about you?’

  Kirsty’s green eyes were fixed on hers. ‘What’s going to ’appen to them?’ she demanded, and Joanna knew the child’s sole concern was for the two cave-dwellers. For her own fate she showed no interest. ‘Will they get into trouble – just for lookin’ after us? It don’t seem fair. They was only ’elping.’

  Joanna clutched the album closer to her chest.

  ‘I very much doubt we’ll be pressing charges against them. But it does all have to go in the report. We wasted a great deal of time and effort searching for you both.’

  They were still watching her.

  ‘It isn’t up to me.’

  Alice stood up then, clutched her coat around her, moved closer to her husband. ‘But we’ll have to leave here?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the police, Alice. Social services will have to decide. And the people who own this land. They may evict you. They may allow you to stay.’

  ‘Excuse me ...’ Jason was touching her arm timidly. ‘Where shall we stay tonight?’

  There was something resigned about the way he asked it. Something in the thin face that spoke of many decisions made in which he had played no part except to comply.

  ‘You’ll be safe back at The Nest,’ Joanna said finally.

  ‘And Alice and Jonathan?’

  ‘Can remain here — for now.’

  As she led the two children down the track she saw the silhouettes of the two rock-dwellers side by side with the profile of the Winking Man. And she could almost imagine that if the social workers did climb the rocks to evict Alice and Jonathan Rutter they would find no people, only three stone statues.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Joanna sat in her office, poring over each page of the photograph album, a part of her crying at the pathetic, childish scrawl, arrows pointing to ‘mother’, to ‘my father’, my uncle and auntie, grandpa and grandma ... Little footnotes. This is my mum when she was a little girl. Me and my grandpa. Dean’s handwriting. All lies.

  And through the Leeches’ missing photograph album the whole, futile, tragic story began to emerge. She read it and felt angry.

  Mike turned up at nine, yawning and ruffling both hands through his hair. Mid-yawn he stopped and stared at Joanna. ‘I thought it was your bike outside,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  She opened the album, still feeling furious at the cheating and manipulation. ‘I know exactly what happened,’ she said. ‘I know why. I know who. I’ve got a warrant to search Robin Leech’s flat and car. I want him cautioned and brought in.’

  He blinked. ‘You’ve found something out?’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘The value of a sleepless night. And by the way, I’ve found the children.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Safe.’

  She stood up. ‘We’ve got him, you know,’ she said, tapping the photograph album. ‘We’ve got him.’

  ‘If you mean Leech,’ Mike said, ‘the SOC team are ready for the kill.’

  Rock House looked dignified at eleven o’clock that morning and as the cavalcade of police cars moved slowly up the drive Joanna found it difficult to connect the sordid, modern crime with this bastion of Victorian housing. The cars drove past the front door and round to the courtyard at the back, to the stable block. Robin Leech walked out right on cue.

  ‘Robin Leech,’ Joanna said formally, ‘we have a warrant here to search your premises.’

  His eyes flickered. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘We would like you to come down to the station for questioning.’

  ‘Are – you – arresting me?’
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  Joanna nodded. ‘Robin Leech,’ she said, ‘we are arresting you in connection with the murder of Dean Tunstall and the murder of Keith Latos. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say maybe given in evidence.’

  He blinked.

  But it was as she cautioned him that the first, startling doubts were seeded. Something was wrong. Murderers were often shocked that they had been found out. Sometimes they were still confident their lawyers would get them off the hook and seemed nonchalant ... Some were frightened ... But Robin Leech looked genuinely astonished. He stood his ground, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Joanna cautioned him again just as Gilly Leech rounded the side of the house, crossing the courtyard.

  Leech looked helplessly at her. ‘They’re accusing me,’ he said.

  She stared at him, lips pressed tightly together. For a long moment mother and son stood frozen, then Gilly Leech turned to Joanna and shot her a venomous glance. ‘What’s going on?’

  Mike stepped forward. ‘We’re taking your son down to the station,’ he said. ‘Just for some questions.’

  She stared at him, her face strained and taut. ‘Questions?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘Questions?’ She looked back at her son. ‘Robin?’

  ‘Mother ...’ It was an appeal. ‘Mother.’

  She moved towards him, her face twisted in concern. Then she turned to Joanna. ‘Have you charged him?’

  Joanna nodded, the tension of the figures standing so still in the courtyard reaching her. Even the team of police officers preparing to strip the premises of all forensic evidence stood back – witnesses to the drama.

  ‘Take the handcuffs off.’ Gilly Leech’s voice was so quiet Joanna could hardly hear her. She spoke again. ‘I said take the handcuffs off him.’ She looked at Joanna. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t him. Robin ...’ She glanced at her son – half-contemptuous, half-pitying. ‘Well, let’s just say he doesn’t really have the balls.’

  When none of the police officers moved she spoke again. ‘I killed the brat,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake. I killed him. Now let Robin go. I killed him – took the body away from here – tried to get rid of it. I wish to God I had succeeded in wiping the little swine off the face of the earth.’

  Mike caught Joanna’s eye and raised his eyebrows. Neither would forget this day.

  The SOCOs did their work. Forensic samples, numbered one to fifty-one, provided the Crown Prosecution Service with enough to take the case to the Crown Court. Exhibit one – Wilderness coat, torn, scorched, matches in pocket, a positive test for petrol. Exhibits fourteen to nineteen – hairs with the same genetic code as the hair taken from Dean Tunstall’s scalp at post-mortem. Short, blond, recently cut. Exhibit twenty-one – found in dishwasher, unwashed ... knife, blood-stained, similar to the instrument used to sever Keith Latos’s neck. The blood stains proved to match Keith Latos’s blood group. Exhibit thirty – clothes spattered with blood ... the pattern on the arms proved by an expert witness to have been worn by the assailant at the time of the attack. Exhibit thirty-four – the saddest exhibit of all – one pair of shabby, worn red and black trainers under the bed, probably kicked there by Dean when he spied a new pair. Why should he have cared that they were the wrong size, someone else’s. They were new.

  ‘Wriggle out of this lot,’ Joanna muttered.

  As the car moved down the drive Gilly Leech turned to Joanna and spoke with cold dislike. ‘Inspector,’ she said, ‘I expect you’re wondering why.’ There was a certain conceit in her voice.

  Joanna nodded.

  Gilly Leech wriggled back in her seat, her eyes staring straight ahead. ‘Did you ever read a story called the farmer and the snake?’ Without waiting for a reply she spoke in a clear, harsh tone. ‘A farmer found a snake stiff and frozen with the cold. He placed it in his bosom. But the snake – revived by the warmth – bit him and the farmer died. Dying he cried out, “I am rightly served for pitying a scoundrel”.’ Her voice was very clear. ‘Dean was that snake. My husband,’ she said haughtily, ‘gave that child all the affection he ever received.’

  Joanna was angry now. ‘You may call it affection, Mrs Leech,’ she said. ‘I happen to call it perversion. Dean Tunstall was probably less than eight years old when your husband first abused him.’

  Gilly Leech tossed her head. ‘You police have no imagination,’ she said.

  ‘I do have an imagination,’ Joanna retorted. ‘I can only too well imagine what it was like for Dean, especially after he discovered he had contracted Aids – that is, if he ever realized he had.’

  Ashford Leech’s widow took absolutely no notice. ‘So you can imagine, Inspector, what it was like for me? A boy my husband had befriended – claiming all sorts of heinous things against my husband.’ She spread her thin hands out. ‘Ashford was dead. He couldn’t defend himself.’

  ‘Neither could Dean,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘He was quite defenceless both emotionally and physically.’

  They had arrived at the police station, Robin Leech protesting, Gilly Leech defiant. As they climbed out of the car, Joanna spoke. ‘By the way, Mrs Leech,’ she said, ‘your solicitor will advise you of something. If you can’t retain your silence and plead innocent convincingly it’s far, far better to display some measure of remorse.’

  Gilly Leech gave her a look of sweet poison.

  While the custody officer was taking down the details of the Leech family Joanna had a word with Mike.

  ‘It was all in here,’ she said. ‘The whole lot. We should have known – the photograph album and the ring. Two things to identify Dean with his family. Cheap jewellery he thought was his mother’s.’

  Mike stared. ‘Come on, Jo,’ he said. ‘His family was Gaynor.’

  ‘That’s the tragedy,’ she said. ‘It is true. Gaynor Tunstall really was his mother. His father really was unknown. But what did Dean know? He only knew what he was told, Mike. People kept telling us that for all his streetwise ways he was quite naive. Naive and vulnerable.’

  She opened the album on the first page. ‘My mum when she was a little girl.’ Tears threatened. ‘Pathetic,’ she said. ‘Leech told Dean that he was his grandfather, and that he was the son of his daughter, Fleur. He gave the boy pictures.’ She turned the page. ‘Their house. My grandmother.’ Joanna paused. ‘It allowed Leech to become close to the child. And in time he began abusing Dean. Dean probably thought this was a loving family. After all, compared to the treatment the likes of Gary Swinton was giving him it was love. Leech gave him things – looked after him. Loved him.’

  ‘Dead men don’t kill, Jo,’ Mike reminded her. ‘It wasn’t Ashford Leech. It was his widow.’

  They could hear Gilly Leech’s unmistakable haughty voice travelling up the corridor.

  ‘The second clue was sitting there. We failed to recognize it for what it was. The new shoe was cross-laced. It never came from the basket outside the shop. It had been bought or stolen for or by Dean. It was bought by Leech’s son Robin – for himself. I expect Dean saw them and liked them, took them. Latos knew the shoes had been bought – and by whom. He probably tried to capitalize on the knowledge. I suppose after Ashford Leech’s death Dean felt naturally he could appeal to the woman he believed was his grandmother. Damn it, Mike,’ she said angrily, ‘how can a kid have so little knowledge of true family relationships?’

  Mike could find nothing to say and Joanna carried on, puzzled. ‘For some reason, for a while she played along with it. Perhaps it seemed the most expedient thing to do. But it carried dangers. As long as Dean perceived her as a blood relative she could never shake him off. And unlike her husband she had no real gain – certainly no sexual advantage. Unfortunately, though Dean was naive in family relationships he did understand some things.’ She tapped the photograph album. ‘Just think what the tabloids would make of this.�
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  There was an ominous silence along the corridor of the police station.

  Mike spoke first. ‘Solicitor speaking to client?’

  ‘Let’s go and have a chat to Gilly, shall we?’ As they approached the interview room she added, ‘The solicitor may well persuade her to plead involuntary manslaughter, but I believe she intended to kill him and we’ll work together on the case for premeditated murder. Mike, if she bought the petrol can before she killed him we have a strong case. If not...’ She stopped. ‘Well, it’s up to us and the CPS and that worm of a lawyer to work something out.’ She stopped. ‘I just regret Ashford Leech, the biggest shit of them all, is beyond the law.’

  Mike chuckled. ‘Depends what religion you are.’ She laughed and put her hand on his shoulder.

  It was early the next morning that Robin Leech was finally put into the picture and, as Joanna had half expected, he blustered for an hour or two then supported his mother all the way.

  Gilly Leech, meanwhile, whatever her lawyer advised, was unrepentant.

  ‘He was a filthy, illiterate little sod,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mean the deceased?’ Joanna was determined to make heavy mileage out of this prosecution.

  ‘Dean – the little sod.’

  ‘Who made the boy into a sod?’ Joanna asked sharply.

  ‘He didn’t even count,’ Gilly Leech said slowly. ‘People like my husband. They count. Look at what he achieved. MP for more than thirty years. Well respected and he had a hand in laws on many topics ... field-planning and city policies. Defence and industry. Important things. He was an important man. If he happened to want something personal that was unusual, well ... he was an unusual man. What harm did it do?’

  ‘An enormous amount.’

  ‘The boy was a nothing,’ she said contemptuously. ‘A nothing. Latos too – sleazy little piece of crap.’

  Mike had to say something. ‘Funny,’ he said softly. ‘In police college they never taught us anyone was a nothing. To them murder is murder ... never mind who the dead person was.’

  She shot him a fleeting glance.