‘And you’re thinking about cross-contamination?’
‘Not really – just eliminating the possibility of a QC thinking about it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. What else?’
‘Coming back to the grass thing. This needs to be photographed properly. Who’s the camera nut with the silly name?’
‘Gervaise.’
‘That’s the SOCO we need here.’
‘We don’t get to choose. I’ve put the call in already.’
‘Well, up to you, we could call them back and say photos might be critical…’
He could do that himself if Daisy Lawrence was still running Scenes of Crime, and she would be, he would have heard otherwise. But best not.
‘I’ll see what I can do again. You didn’t explain why you think this grass thing is so important.’
And that was because this was one of those shy ideas, the ones that live in the shadows and that run away if you approach them too quickly or too directly. Nevertheless, she had asked him now.
‘The shovel is under some bits and on top of others. Someone has tried to make it look as if it’s been there for three weeks but they didn’t cover it up completely, because…?’
‘They wanted it to be found. Why?’
‘God knows. I suppose while I’m here I could nip up to the friary and see if they could have a word on our behalf.’
‘Don’t rule it out. John’s just come in – I need to brief him before this meeting. Have you still got Richard Ford out there?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I’ve just put the letter in his pigeon-hole.’
‘And you want me to tell him now?’
‘You might as well. You’re the one who’s going to have to deal with the consequences, DC. And with Murray still off, we’re short-handed, as usual. He starts basic training in a fortnight – make use of him in the meantime.’
When the call was over, Smith could not resist going back down the bank, using the same prints in the grass, to have another look at the shovel. If he was right, this was a Times crossword clue of a case now, but he might be wrong. Even when you have convinced yourself, you can be wrong. It might not be Mark Randall’s blood staining the back of the blade in dark brown smears. It might not even be human blood, this being the Norfolk countryside where strange things happen after dark – remember the old joke about doctors writing ‘NFN’ on their patients’ notes up here? Normal For Norfolk? But if that blood, Smith, belongs to a chicken or a badger, you’re going to be a long time living this down. He leaned closer – it’s definitely blood, though…
But if it is Randall’s, then who and why? You can start with either of those – answering the one should lead you to the other. And why now? It had not been there yesterday – he was certain of that – which meant that someone had put it on that bank within the past twenty four hours. It could, of course, be a hoax – and the thought of chicken blood came back to haunt him again for a split second – because there are people out there who do the oddest things, but although the local news had reported the case with diminishing enthusiasm over several days according to Waters and Butler, the details of the probable weapon had not been released. So if the proper security had been maintained, no potential hoaxer could have known that a shovel had been used unless the hoaxer was a police officer. Ridiculous, except that Smith could remember one such case years ago.
He returned to the top of the bank and stood facing in the direction that led to Abbeyfields friary. Whoever had put the shovel there had surely done it after dark, and the nights are very short in early July. One or two of the friars were sometimes about at odd hours and they might have noticed someone or something – another word would be in order, and he might as well do that today as he was here. It was a useful reason to stay away from the station while the fall-out from the discovery of the shovel continued to, well, fall…
Of course, the forensic examination of it might provide clear evidence that Gareth Stone had used it to kill Mark Randall, and then everything would be alright, wouldn’t it? But in that case, you were back to who and why and why now? It’s a puzzler alright, old son…
Walking back to the car, he was surprised to see Marie Wilkinson saying some final words to the two officers before she resumed her run along the road to Lowacre. By the time he arrived, she had disappeared from sight around a tree-lined bend. Nicola Cavendish said that they had tried more than once to get her to accept a lift but Smith said that he quite understood – she had had enough of the police in the last three weeks to last her a lifetime.
‘And besides, she thinks we might be recruiting her if this keeps up. She’s very good at finding things, isn’t she? Better than most of us.’
He was looking pointedly at Richard Ford.
‘Sarge, it wasn’t there, I swear it. We went over that riverbank with a toothcomb, and into the water as well. I-’
‘Sarge? Sarge? What do you think this is, Ford? An episode of Bilko? Don’t pretend you’ve never heard of it. It’s time you learned to address senior officers with a little more respect!’
Nicola Cavendish, new to Kings Lake Central, looked horrified. She glanced up at Ford, blushed for him and then stared down at the ground in front of her. Ford himself seemed to have been stunned into silence.
Smith said, ‘And another thing. I’ve told you before about being improperly dressed for work, haven’t I?’
‘Sir, I…’
Ford’s right hand went involuntarily to his collar, as if finding a tie there might have saved him.
‘Exactly. How much longer do you propose to walk around in that ridiculous uniform? Get yourself some civvies, lad. If you want to know what the well-dressed detective is wearing these days, you could do worse than study the present company. Sort it out – I want to see an improvement tomorrow morning.’
Smith still was not smiling, still looked as severe as ever he could but a new day had dawned on the face of Richard Ford. He took a step towards the detective sergeant but was halted by the familiar stop-the-traffic gesture.
‘If you make any attempt to embrace me, Ford, I will sue for common assault. But I’ll shake your hand. Well done. Welcome to the squad.’
Chapter Twelve
They taped off the gateway into the field and then Smith sent the two uniformed officers back along the footpath to do the same where it left Abbeyfields; this part of the operation at least would be done properly. It was unlikely that any evidence of the shovel-planter would be found but a search would be made, nonetheless. Then he sat in his car with the door open and waited for Detective Inspector Alison Reeve.
When she arrived, they went together and looked at the shovel lying in the grass. She examined it closely as Smith had done and came to the same conclusions, or at least she did not disagree with them.
‘Wilson thinks that this might indicate an accomplice – that at least two people were involved.’
Smith considered the idea for a moment before he responded.
‘And this accomplice has crept out here sometime within the past twenty four hours, and put this shovel here in order to…?’
‘I don’t know. No-one’s had time to think this all through yet. If forensics can tie this thing to Gareth Stone, he’s still very much in the frame - even more so.’
‘Agreed. But he’s already been charged and that’s public knowledge. Why would an accomplice – someone known to Stone – risk doing this? Stone would simply name this person then, wouldn’t he? While Stone is pleading innocence, his ‘accomplice’, if there is one, would be safe enough, so why strengthen the case against Stone? That makes no sense to me. And if it is the murder weapon but forensics cannot tie it to Stone in any way?’
Reeve nodded reluctantly and said, ‘Then the case against him is weakened. If it is the murder weapon – and we don’t even know that’s human blood yet…’
Smith had a vision of squawking chickens.
‘… but there is no connection on it to Stone, w
e don’t really have a reason to hold him.’
‘We can’t charge someone with murder and then let him go. You’d have to drop the charges.’
Sometimes this just happens. It can happen and be no-one’s fault but even then it looks like incompetence, and policemen hate it.
‘Yes, I know. Cambridge would have taken it but they’re full up with stuff and could not promise us anything before the middle of next week. It’s going to Norwich. If we get it in early enough today, we might get something back by Friday.’
They stood in the morning sunshine, and a light breeze ran through the grass on the riverbank and stirred the willowherb and hemp agrimony that lined the margins of the river. There was a shrill bird-call, and then it was repeated, getting louder – they both saw the kingfisher as it passed close by over the clear shallows of the stream, a blur of orange and white and blue iridescence.
Reeve said, ‘That’s the best view I’ve ever had of a kingfisher.’
Smith stared into the shadowy tunnel of overhanging alders where the bird had gone. Then he looked back towards the road and said, ‘The cavalry’s arrived.’
Another marked car, two more uniforms getting out, and a red Renault. The officers remained by the gateway and the large, shambling figure that had climbed out of the small car made its way towards them, heavily weighed down with black camera bags and a tripod. Gervaise Frazer was a little out of breath by the time he reached them but he had enough left to glare down at Smith and say, ‘Oh – it’s you.’
‘Good morning, Gervaise.’
‘It was. My day off. On my allotment.’
‘And a beautiful day for it. Growing lots of that healthy, slimming fruit and veg?’
‘Sitting my shed. Knew I shouldn’t have taken the damned phone…’
‘Never mind. We always say, when we need pictures, there’s only one man to call.’
The compliment had no discernible effect. Frazer stared down the bank at the offending object and pulled a face of disappointment.
‘All this way and not even a body.’
‘No. But there is some very interesting grass. Make sure you get lots of pictures of the grass, Gervaise.’
On the short drive up to the friary, Alison Reeve said very little and Smith left her alone – as a case it had not yet entirely imploded but it had the potential to do so and the timing was bad for her. When he parked, she was still deep in thought; he turned off the engine and waited.
After a minute or so, she said, ‘But if it wasn’t an accomplice, if it was someone entirely unconnected with Gareth Stone, why would they put the shovel there, assuming it is the weapon used? Why not let him carry the can? This doesn’t make any sense, DC.’
He nodded, and she could see from that that he had been there before her. She said, ‘I asked you a while ago whether you had any ideas about this. If you’re holding back, please don’t.’
‘Seriously, I don’t have any answers, just more questions, the same ones as you. Going after Stone was the right thing to do as soon as the lies he was telling became obvious but whether that merited going so far as to charge him…’
‘You wouldn’t have?’
‘With the benefit of hindsight – probably not.’
‘And experience.’
‘There’s only one way to get that, and you’re doing it. No two cases are the same, and you get an odd one like this occasionally.’
One of her strengths was not dwelling on things too long. She looked about her and said, ‘This is lovely, isn’t it. No wonder you keep coming back. Does it have an appeal, the religious life?’
‘Hmm. The religious bit is the bit I would find hardest. The rest of it, the seclusion, the meditation, the peace, the time to read and talk about things that do not involve the Police and Criminal Evidence Act – yes, I think I could manage some of that.’
She turned in the passenger seat to look at him – it was often impossible to tell when he was being serious, but she thought he might be on this occasion.
‘Yes, I can see you as a monk, DC. Do they wear all the get-up here?’
‘See for yourself.’
Brother Paul was approaching their car with a smile of welcome, and Smith thought, obviously expecting visitors; I wonder if his face will drop when he recognises me.
‘And don’t call them monks, they’re friars. If you keep getting that wrong, they can turn nasty.’
They climbed out of the car as Brother Paul crossed the last few yards, and if his face did not exactly drop when he saw Smith, it certainly altered before he spoke.
‘Ah. Is it police business again? Did you wish to see Brother Jeremy?’
‘Well, yes and no. There’s been a development this morning – a general word with whoever has been around since yesterday would be useful. Is that possible? And I’m forgetting my manners – this is Detective Inspector Reeve from Kings Lake Central police.’
Alison Reeve said hello without the full smile that she sometimes offered to a gentleman on a first meeting – perhaps she thought it was inappropriate for a man of such strong religious persuasions. And Brother Paul reacted as Smith guessed he might when he revealed that a more senior police officer had now joined in the investigation – he did not hide his surprise.
‘We rather thought that we had – that we were…’
‘In the clear, sir?’
‘No, of course I did not mean that. You wish to speak to everyone, at once?’
‘That would probably save time, sir, thank you.’
They followed him into the building and then into what he called the meeting room. There were chairs which he invited them to sit on but they declined, and Brother Paul left them – his first port of call would no doubt be the office of the guardian, Brother Jeremy.
Reeve said, ‘Lovely old building. But I thought only Quakers had meeting rooms.’
Smith was still watching the doorway through which Brother Paul had just disappeared.
He said, ‘I’m not as up on the fine detail as you obviously are, but this lot are a mixed bunch, from what I can tell. You would think that if they’ve ended up here, they must have a lot in common but that’s not the case.’
‘No different to a squad of detectives, then.’
‘Fair point. That was the old hippy name for them, wasn’t it – the God Squad?’
‘Ancient history isn’t my strongpoint. How many of them live here?’
‘Seven, I think. I’ve spoken to six so far – one was away on a retreat. Brother Jeremy is in charge although they don’t seem to like that idea. Franciscans are a bit left-wing, I reckon. Anyway, he is but he isn’t, if you see what I mean.’
‘Clear as mud, thanks.’
They could hear voices now, two, no three voices asking each other questions. The two that Smith had seen at work in the greenhouse came first followed by Brother Joe, who gave Smith a brief nod of recognition before he looked away; he doesn’t want to acknowledge that we’ve met again, Smith decided, and that’s not a problem. He made a brief apology for disturbing them, invited them to take a seat and said that this would not take more than a minute or two of their time. More steps and two more men – Brother Paul again with Brother Kevin who Smith had met before in the kitchen. He gave them the same assurances, and these two also sat down; Kevin turned and made some joke to Joe, who nodded, smiled at it and again avoided meeting Smith’s eye.
A longer wait this time, a good two or three minutes before the guardian entered followed by the one friar that Smith had yet to speak to in person. Brother Andrew was young, in his twenties still, of medium height, strong build and strikingly good-looking – bearded, dark-haired, dark-eyed. And the dark eyes searched for Smith immediately.
A glance at Brother Jeremy told Smith that he had offended the guardian by not speaking to him first and arranging this meeting in that way. He considered going now and quietly apologising, and then decided that he would not do so, for no other reason than that he was in the mood to ruffle a few
feathers.
They were all seated now, the guardian being the last, and Smith explained that something of possible significance to the investigation into the death of Mark Randall had been discovered that morning close to Abbeyfields. While there was no need to interview them all individually again, it was important to ask whether any of them had seen anyone in the vicinity since yesterday, especially on the footpath down to the Lowacre road – anyone at all, the police would like to know.
At first there seemed to be nothing and then Kevin said that early yesterday evening he had been in the kitchen garden and he had heard voices over the wall – women’s voices. They were talking as they headed down the footpath towards the river. He hadn’t taken much notice of what they were saying but thought one of them was talking about a dog. Brother Paul said then that he thought the same two women often walked that way, and he assumed they must be from Lowacre – but none of this was of any use to the police, was it?
‘It might be sir. We don’t have the means to wait on that footpath for them until they turn up but if the next time you see the women you could have a word and ask them to contact Kings Lake Central police, we would be very grateful. Is there anything else, gentlemen?’
Regular walkers taking dogs past the point where the shovel had been found: had they met anyone? Had the dogs reacted at all to anything on the bank – they usually would to human blood even it was three weeks old. Had there been any vehicles parked along the Lowacre road, and so on. Smith had long ago recognised in himself an occasional and peculiar frame of mind that he had labelled, for want of better phrases, super-meticulousness or hyper-awareness, and he could feel it taking hold now; it is the response to the cracking of a single twig after a long silence in a forest.
After looking around, Brother Jeremy said to the detectives, ‘That would appear to be all that we can offer you.’
Smith nodded and there was a general stirring and murmuring as the men got up to leave. Jeremy clearly had something to say but it was not to him that Smith spoke first.
The Rags of Time: A DC Smith Investigation Page 14
