“Since you will anyway,” Lynley noted.
“It’s only that not everyone wants to end their days in Cornwall inside someone’s ancestral home with three hundred rooms.”
“Howenstow’s hardly that, Barbara.”
“P’rhaps not, but I expect you’ve got a whopping great gallery with a few hundred years of Lynleys hanging there looking like they smell something nasty.”
“I’d hardly call it ‘whopping great.’”
“Ha! I knew you lot would have a gallery.”
Lynley cast her a look and knew she would read it as he intended, something she would undoubtedly call one of his “See here, Sergeant” expressions. He said to her, “It’s not as if I’m proposing marriage, Barbara. But it’s been over a year for us now, and I merely thought Daidre might at some point in time like to meet my mother. And the others, of course.”
“Who would those be, the butler and the scullery maids?”
“We have only day help, Sergeant, and not even every day at that, unfortunately. Aside from the butler, of course, and while I’d very much like to apologise for his presence, he’s nearly one hundred and fifty years old and no one quite remembers who hired him. To force him out into the street now in order not to offend someone’s republican sensibilities seems rather like an act of cruelty.”
“Very funny, sir. You can make a joke but what I’m saying is that she probably reckons it’s some bloody test. For all you know, she thinks you want to see if she knows which of the twenty-five forks she’s meant to use on her sausage and mash. Not that you’d let sausage and mash pollute your fine china, ’course.”
“Not that I would,” he noted.
“So, what then? You’re planning to just soldier on in that department?”
“Soldiering on appears to be what I do best.”
They left the grounds of West Mercia Headquarters with Havers using the huge A-Z, which Lynley preferred to any other method of navigation. He liked to have a sense of the countryside through which they were driving, something that a smartphone’s GPS wouldn’t ever give him. Havers groused about this as she would do, but she settled in. She managed to get them to the small town of Much Wenlock without a single wrong turn, although admittedly things got a bit iffy in Kidderminster’s town centre, where she forced him to circle a roundabout three times since she couldn’t take in the road signs quickly enough to make a directional decision. But they finally made it to their destination, finding themselves in another of the county’s picturesque towns: a mediaeval place of half-timbered and timber-framed buildings begging for tourists to aim cameras in their direction, as well as a few ranges of perfectly proportioned Georgian homes. The age of the town was suggested by its ancient Guildhall, which stood upon enormous oak pillars and rested above what had once been the prison. It was a building of timber and plaster, of gables and mullioned windows, and beneath it the iron staples of a whipping post suggested justice that had been swift and bleak.
The address they had for Sergeant Geraldine Gunderson was, as one would expect in such a place where the postman was expected to know everyone by name, less than crystalline. It involved the number 3, the identifying location as The Farmhouse, and Nr the Priory, which completed the given information. The Priory was easy enough to find since it was an historic ruin and the routes to historic ruins were generally well marked so that the curious might investigate, but even then following the signs to it did not actually reveal any part of the great abbey itself, since it was sheltered not only by a stone wall but also by banks of limes and beeches and cedars that would have made it difficult for even Cromwell to find. But past it and down a secondary lane so narrow that Lynley winced at the danger to the Healey Elliott’s wings, they came upon what was posted “The Farmhouse,” which turned out to be quite a large building of ancient vintage, timber-framed and subdivided into respectably sized cottages. Conveniently, these were numbered, so all that was required was finding a space to park where the car would be most sheltered from passing tractors.
Once this was accomplished—with Havers going on in her usual fashion about the two hundred fifty yards they had to hike back to the farmhouse from the narrow lay-by that Lynley found—they made fairly easy contact with Sergeant Gunderson. Her part of the subdivided farmhouse was the most tumbledown, its appearance suggesting this state mostly because of an ill-kept garden in the front that had long ago waved the white flag to a wisteria never trained to do anything but choke each piece of vegetation that had tried to gain a foothold there. They tramped through this to the front door, where an iron knocker had rusted nearly through. There was no bell, so the knocker and a good few whacks on the unpainted wood were the only means of alerting someone that visitors had come to call.
A tall and harried-looking woman answered. She said, “You’re the Met, I presume,” and added, “Come this way, then. I’m in the midst . . . ,” and she left them to enter, to close the door, and to follow her along a stone-floored corridor that took them into a dining room. There, a massive piece of bright green fabric had been thrown on a table, with part of it being attached to an elongated form made from chicken wire. A scissors, a stapler, and a roll of Sellotape were all being used to effect the fabric’s attachment while the same implements had already been applied to a large piece of polystyrene shaped not unlike an Elizabethan ruff. It was now covered with a layer of bubble wrap while yellow fabric dotted in pink appeared to be waiting to cover this.
She said frankly, “Yes. Well. I’m complete crap at sewing, but didn’t my eldest raise her hand and shout, ‘My mummy will!’ when the teacher asked who might be the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. Afternoon tea, this is. One of those blasted school fundraisers that they have every time one turns round. For this one—if you can believe it—the servers will be characters from Alice in Wonderland. Or perhaps it’s Through the Looking-Glass. I have no clue there. I suppose I should be happy Miriam didn’t raise her hand and volunteer me to bake tarts or whatever because the one thing I actually do worse than sewing is baking. But on the other hand, I could have bought the tarts. Where on earth could I buy a caterpillar costume? The hookah was simple. One can order them off the Internet. No surprise there but it was a surprise to discover that a caterpillar costume could not be had for love or money.”
“You’re Sergeant Gunderson,” Lynley verified.
“Oh. Sorry. Of course. But it’s Gerry, if you will.”
Lynley introduced himself and Havers, and Gerry Gunderson said that she was happy enough to take a break from the wretched sewing exercise because she was close to losing her mind and even closer to seriously abusing her eldest daughter when she next walked through the front door. She offered them fresh lemonade. She warned them that “it’s rather tart as I don’t use much sugar,” but both Lynley and Havers indicated that they were willing to have a go.
Gunderson then recommended that they sit outside “in the back of the place,” as she put it, adding that since the day was fine and as long as they didn’t mind chickens, they could all enjoy the good weather. They agreed to this as well, and she led them from the dining room through a neatly kept kitchen to a door leading out to the back of the cottage. There seven chickens pecked at the ground while two more roosted on a round wooden table whose chairs were tufted with years of lichen.
They were advised, “No worries. That won’t come off on your clothing at this time of year, and I rather like it,” regarding the lichen. The chickens were shooed away. Gunderson told them that she’d be with them presently, and in the meantime they were to enjoy . . . “whatever,” she said with a wave of her hand. Lynley wasn’t sure what she meant: the chickens, the lichen, the condition of the garden, which had mostly been taken over by the fowl, or the swelling of a hillside in the distance where a coppice of what seemed to be hornbeams had created a smallish woodland long gone without maintenance.
Gunderson wasn’t away from them long enough
for either of them to make a decision about what they intended to enjoy. She banged into the cottage and then banged out of the cottage. She carried a large baking pan in lieu of a tray. On it she’d assembled the offered lemonade.
Lynley considered Gunderson as she deposited the refreshments. There was virtually nothing English about her save her accent, which was English Midlands through and through. Otherwise, she looked foreign, with her olive skin, coal-coloured hair, and deeply brown eyes. She had a nose reminiscent of Italian noblemen.
She threw herself into a chair, watched them each take a sip of her lemonade, and said, “Well? Can you stand it?”
“Not bad at all,” Havers replied.
Gunderson looked pleased at this, and Lynley took a sip of his. It turned out to be mostly water, for which he was grateful, considering Gunderson’s remark about sugar. He then explained what they were doing in Shropshire.
Gunderson said, “Oh God. I know, I know. I don’t need my memory jogged about what happened.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the night in March that put all of us on this road. It’s not likely I’ll ever forget it, Inspector.”
“Thomas,” he said.
“Thomas,” she agreed.
“What can you tell us about that night?” As Lynley asked the question, Havers removed her notebook and a pencil. She’d switched, Lynley saw, to the sort of pencil Nkata used: mechanical. He was duly impressed.
Gunderson went through the night for them. She confirmed what Havers had written in her report regarding the Shrewsbury patrol officers who were in the midst of dealing with a series of house and shop burglaries and were thus unavailable to fetch Ian Druitt from Ludlow. She also indicated that she knew nothing of any investigation that might have been done into the accusation of paedophilia prior to the order to fetch Druitt. She said she’d only learned—after the man had “offed himself in custody,” as she put it—that this “rotten mess” had begun with an anonymous phone call. That, she told them, had been a real jaw-dropper for her. Essentially, she didn’t know what anyone had been thinking and what the bloody hell had been going on.
She added, “Look, some of that’s my fault. I’ve said that to my guv.”
“How so?” Havers was the one to ask.
“My husband’s in hospital. Colon cancer. He’s going to survive but it’s been hell. My mind occasionally goes elsewhere and it certainly might have done on that night. But all the same, my remit is merely to be responsible for the PCSOs in the area. I was told to pass on the order about Druitt to our Ludlow officer, and that’s what I did. I didn’t ask why as there was no reason to. Like you, I expect, I obey an order when it’s given.”
Lynley chose not disabuse her of her conclusion since Havers was not the only Met officer present who’d ignored an order in the past. Instead he asked her where the order to have the Ludlow PCSO fetch Ian Druitt had come from. He was surprised by her answer.
“From headquarters,” she said.
He looked at Havers. She looked at him. Her expression answered his unspoken question. Headquarters giving anyone orders about anything had not been mentioned before this moment.
He said, “From whom, exactly?”
“The DCC,” Gunderson replied.
“Deputy Chief Constable?” Havers clarified.
Lynley added, “We’ve met CC Wyatt but no one else connected to headquarters. He said nothing about a DCC.”
Gunderson didn’t seem to find this unusual. She lifted her lemonade, took a swig, and said, “Don’t know a damn thing about that, do I? All I can tell you is the DCC rang me and gave me the word: have Ludlow’s PCSO take a bloke called Ian Druitt to the local station and wait for the Shrewsbury officers to fetch him up to the custody suite there. That’s what she wanted and that’s what I did: I rang Gary Ruddock—that’s the PCSO—and gave him the word.”
“‘She’?” Havers said.
“What?”
“You said ‘she’ in reference to the DCC,” Lynley pointed out. “May we have her name?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Gerry Gunderson said. “She’s called Freeman. Clover Freeman. I took the order from her.”
MUCH WENLOCK
SHROPSHIRE
“Something’s not right, sir.” Havers paused just outside the door of Geraldine Gunderson’s part of the ancient farmhouse. She did the depressingly expected: she fished in her shoulder bag to bring forth a packet of Players. She lit up.
Lynley wanted to ask her for the umpteenth time when she planned to kick the habit, as he was becoming quite concerned about the impact on her health. He refrained, however. She would only point out that the sanctimony of the former smoker was as bad as an erstwhile atheist’s banging on about his moment of coming to Jesus. So instead he said, “Which part of it, aside from the sergeant’s sewing skills?”
They proceeded through the mini jungle of wisteria and made it unscathed to a narrow lane, where a sudden ker-wit, ker-wit striking the air suggested partridges were nearby. Havers puffed away. She said, “Oh, she’s got her work cut out there. It wasn’t looking like any caterpillar I’ve ever seen.”
Lynley said dryly, casting a look in her direction. “So if it’s not Sergeant Gunderson’s sewing . . . ?”
“It’s this: we were just slapped on the side of the head by a bloody interesting coincidence. The DCC Gunderson told us about? The one who rang her up with the order to fetch Ian Druitt to the police station?”
“Clover Freeman,” Lynley said.
“Happens she’s not the only Freeman the guv and I tripped over in Shropshire, sir.” She took another lungful of smoke. This one was deeper than the others. Really, Lynley thought, she desperately needed to take the cure.
He said, “Who’s the other?”
“I never met him. The guv did the honours. But he’s called Finnegan Freeman, and he was a helper at this after-school kids’ club that Druitt ran. Far as I know, when Ardery questioned him, he didn’t say word one to her about having a relation in the police force.”
“Perhaps she’s not a relation. Freeman isn’t an unusual name.”
“Not like Stravinsky. Right.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Sergeant, you continue to impress.”
“Couldn’t hum a note. That came out of nowhere.”
“Alas,” he said. “But do go on.”
“My point is, assuming his mum and this DCC Freeman are one and the same—or saying she’s just his auntie or something or even his gran—it seems to me he would’ve mentioned it when DCS Ardery had a word with him. Deputy Chief Constable? That outranks Ardery by a long chalk. A London copper shows up at his door to have a word or two and why wouldn’t he mention on the by and by that he’s got his own copper up his sleeve?”
“Assuming they’re related, would he have a reason to do that?”
“To shake Ardery up. To put her on the wrong foot. To get her worried about dealing rough with him. But he didn’t do that and I wonder why.” She was silent for a moment, examining the tip of her Player and rolling it between her fingers.
“Again, there might be no relation between them.”
“Right. Unless there is. Unless, he did tell her and she didn’t mention it to me for some reason.”
Lynley knew Havers well enough to catch the underlying point she was making. He said, “Because she wanted to get back to London and she knew that a DCC related to someone she was speaking to made things more complicated? It threw a bone into the pack of dogs, so to speak.”
“Not that I like the comparison much.”
“Sorry,” he said. “It was inadvertent. And more metaphor than simile if we want to get technical. As to DCS Ardery deliberately overlooking something that might be crucial . . . ?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? If she was hot to get back to town and she told me about this Freeman thing
, sir, she’d’ve known I’d want to shake that nut like a squirrel in a tree.” And when he glanced in her direction, she added, “I know, I know. Squirrels don’t shake nuts. But you catch my meaning.”
“It’s curious,” was all that Lynley was willing to offer her. They reached the Healey Elliott and leaned against it while Havers finished up the fag. One side of the car bordered a hedge taller than Lynley. The other opened onto a field where ripening wheat grew so precisely laid out, it was as if the hand of God had applied shears to the height of it. A breeze rustled it. A deep blue sky banked with cumulus clouds hung above it in contrast to its golden hue.
Havers tossed the dog-end of the Player onto the ground at last and saw to it with the toe of her shoe. She said, “It looks like something more to me,” and he knew she was referring to the issue of coincidence. “Say she’s a relative of this kid Finnegan. If she is, could be she knew there might be some truth to what that anonymous call said about the paedophilia bit. Or at least that she thought there could be truth to it and she wanted to find out pronto because her son-nephew-grandson-whatever worked with the bloke and might end up involved.”
Lynley considered this as he unlocked the car and they climbed inside. When he had the engine engaged, he said, “Or the son-nephew-grandson himself could have made the call.”
“Right. And say this kid’s a relation of hers. He stumbles on something,” Havers said meditatively. “Something he sees. Something he hears.”
“He witnesses something directly,” Lynley offered.
“Or one of the kids in the after-school club tells him something. He can’t believe it but he checks it out and he has to believe it then. But the last thing he wants is to be marked as a grass—what kid wants that and he’s still a kid, according to Ardery—so he uses that intercom outside the nick in Ludlow and he does it anonymously. All he knows is that what’s going on has to stop. But nothing happens . . . so then what? He tells his mum or his aunt or his gran or whoever this DCC Freeman might be and she sets the wheels in motion?”
The Punishment She Deserves Page 30
