by Damien Boyd
They both turned, looked back at the cottage from the top of the riverbank and then back at the river.
‘Is it me or is the water level higher than the cottage?’ asked Jane.
‘It’s higher,’ replied Janice.
‘And what do you notice about that fence?’ Jane was pointing to the back of the cottage.
Janice shook her head. ‘What?’
‘It’s the wrong way round. Those horizontal struts should be on the inside, surely?’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘It’s like a ladder. My granny could get over that.’
They watched two mortuary staff carrying the body of Elizabeth Perry to the back of the van on a stretcher.
‘You drive down here at the dead of night,’ continued Jane. ‘No street lighting. Turn, possibly, but leave your car up here, hidden behind these trees, and then hop over the garden fence. Then when you’re done, it’s out through the front door, puke up in the garden, in the car and gone.’
Janice turned and looked at a farm on the other side of the river.
‘We’d better make sure the house to house team gets over there.’
Jane watched the uniformed officers going from house to house as Janice drove back along the lane towards the church.
‘There’s Harry,’ said Jane, pointing to a car parked across the entrance to the church.
Janice pulled up alongside it and wound down the passenger window. She waited several seconds before giving the horn a loud blast. DS Unwin dropped his phone and looked up. Then he wound down the passenger window of his car and leaned across the empty seat.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a farm on the other side of the river about fifty yards upstream, Harry. Make sure someone gets up there. All right?’ said Janice.
‘Will do.’
‘Anything from the house to house?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, keep me posted.’
Janice kept her finger on the electric window button as she drove out of Moorland and back towards Bridgwater.
‘At least we should have some DNA to work with,’ she said.
‘The fag butt on the landing is the best bet,’ replied Jane.
Janice nodded.
They were driving back over the M5 when Jane fished her phone out of her handbag and sent Dixon a text message.
Where are you J x
The reply arrived within seconds.
On the beach ☺
Chapter Four
What’ve we got then?’ asked Janice, dropping her handbag onto a vacant workstation.
‘Plenty of information about the husband,’ replied Pearce. ‘He’s even got his own website, votetomperry.co.uk.’
‘Well?’
‘He’s an architect in Richmond but his family is from Taunton. Went to Huish’s then Reading University. He played rugby for Kingston before he had to give it up when he broke a bone in his neck. That seems to be when he got involved in politics.’
‘When was that?’
‘Four years ago. He stood for the council in Kingston a couple of times, unsuccessfully, before getting on the list of approved parliamentary candidates at the beginning of last year. Then he gets himself selected for Bridgwater and North Somerset last summer when the sitting MP announced he was standing down at the next general election.’
‘Why the by-election then?’ asked Harding.
‘The Right Honourable Kenneth Anderson, QC, MP. He was standing down due to ill health, only it turned out he was iller than he thought he was. Died last November,’ replied Pearce.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not known to police but then we never really thought he would be, did we?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a photo of Perry here with his wife, usual happy couple stuff. They got married two years ago and are hoping to start a family and bring up their children in beautiful North Somerset, it says here.’
‘Did she work?’
‘She was an accountant but gave it up when he got selected and they moved down here.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s an architect. He’s still working in Richmond during the week but will give it up if he gets elected. Wait a minute,’ said Pearce, his eyes scanning the computer screen. ‘Here it is, “If I am elected your member of parliament then I will immediately resign from my job and devote myself full time to the constituency”.’
‘Resign from one well paid job to take up another one,’ said Harding. ‘Life’s a bitch, isn’t it.’
‘And then your wife’s murdered,’ said Janice. ‘I reckon if you asked him, he’d say life was a bitch, don’t you think?’
‘Sorry,’ said Harding, ducking down behind his computer.
Janice turned her back on him and spoke to Mark Pearce.
‘Anything about the cottage in Northmoor Green?’
‘They rented it last summer, after he was selected and they let out their flat in Kingston. According to the Met, he stays with her parents when he’s in London now.’
‘Her parents?’ asked Janice.
‘Yes, they live in Putney.’
‘Are they there now?’
‘No, they’ve gone to stay with their son for Christmas.’
‘Where?’
‘Poole. He’s a marine based there.’
‘Bank statements?’
‘The request’s gone in but it’s Christmas Eve, don’t forget.’
Janice rolled her eyes.
‘Same for the wife,’ said Harding.
‘And the phone records,’ said Pearce.
‘Well, we’ve got a time frame now, so let’s check all the traffic cameras between midnight and 4 a.m. We can widen it from there if nothing comes up. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Both of you. All right?’
‘OK.’
‘Is the husband on his way?’
‘Be here about threeish,’ replied Pearce.
Jane looked at her watch. It was nearly midday. She had been listening to the conversation from a vacant workstation in the far corner of the CID area, where she had been looking at Northmoor Green and the River Parrett on Google Earth. The satellite images were recent and the river was visible as a grey strip weaving in and out of the fields. Jane zoomed in and looked at the banks adjacent to Waterside Cottage, where the river seemed to narrow still further and the grass on the banks either side gave way to large silt deposits.
Silt had long been a political issue for residents living on the Somerset Levels. That and the failure of the Environment Agency to dredge the rivers, as evidenced by the abundance of signs Jane had seen demanding they do just that.
Then she had checked the long range weather forecast. Neither looked good.
She was still staring at the satellite picture, dragging the image with her mouse so that she could follow the gravel track south-east along the river, when her phone rang.
‘Jane Winter.’
‘Jane, it’s Donald Watson. Janice isn’t answering her phone.’
Jane looked up from her desk. Janice’s handbag was on the corner of a workstation but Janice was nowhere to be seen.
‘She was here a minute ago . . .’
‘Not to worry,’ said Watson. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ve had a look in the victim’s purse. We’ve got a petrol receipt from the Shell garage on the A39 at 11.32 a.m. and a till receipt from the Greendale Farm Shop at 12.01 p.m.’
‘What about her cards?’
‘Still there. Even the cash. Sixty quid. Looks like she picked up the turkey. Then nothing.’
‘Is that it?’
‘From the purse, yes. There are some text messages on her phone throughout the afternoon and evening. All to and from her husband. Looks like he went to the office Christmas party, I think. The last one was sent at 11.17 p.m. and says, “Leaving now. See you in the morning. Kiss, kiss.” I’ll put it all in an email for you.’
‘Thanks.’
Jane rang off. Office pa
rty on the Monday then driving home on Christmas Eve morning. It all sounded perfectly normal. How many other people would have done that very thing?
She went back to following the riverside path to the south-east, dragging the satellite image across the screen and waiting each time for the picture to resolve. The track turned away from the river and across a field beyond the next bend, continuing along the riverbank only as a narrow footpath, before joining a tarmac road at a farm further down. It certainly offered a way out, albeit on foot, and would need to be checked out.
‘What’re you looking at?’
Jane recognised Janice’s voice behind her.
‘I’m just following the river in both directions,’ replied Jane, without turning away from the screen. ‘See where the paths go.’
‘And where do they go?’
‘Through a farm to the north and you can get out on foot to the south.
‘We’d better get someone to follow it and have a look.’
‘Will do.’
‘Anything from Harry yet?’ asked Janice.
‘Not yet.’
‘Probably asleep in his car,’ replied Janice. ‘I’ll ring him.’
Jane listened to Janice’s side of the conversation.
‘What have you . . . ?’
‘Two?’
‘What time?’
‘Which bit of let me know immediately did you not under . . .’
‘All right. Wait for me by the church.’
Janice rang off and snatched her handbag off the workstation in front of Jane.
‘C’mon. We’ve got time before Perry gets here. Two people heard an engine in the early hours so let’s see what they say. We can look in at the cottage too.’
Harry Unwin was waiting for them by the church when Janice and Jane arrived in Moorland. It had taken them longer than expected to drive the short distance from Bridgwater because the narrow lanes had been jammed with farmers moving their livestock out of the area and lorries bringing vast quantities of mud in.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ shouted Janice, trying to make herself heard over the rain hammering on the roof of the car.
‘They’re building a dyke around a house back there,’ replied Unwin, pointing to a lane behind him. ‘To keep the water out.’
‘What water?’ asked Janice.
Jane noticed several residents placing sandbags across the front doors of their bungalows. Then she remembered the weather forecast and the silted up River Parrett.
That water.
‘Where are these witnesses then?’ shouted Janice.
‘Park on the corner over there. That’s the house,’ replied Unwin, pointing to the first bungalow on the left in the lane leading down to Waterside Cottage. It was right on the junction. ‘A Mr Albert Grafton. Says he heard an engine pulling away from the junction at about twoish. He can’t be too sure of the time though.’
‘You wait here,’ said Janice. She turned the car around and parked across the drive of Mr Grafton’s bungalow.
Jane jumped out of the car and ran around the front, sheltering under her handbag. She was grateful that there was room enough for them both to huddle under the porch.
‘Your mascara isn’t waterproof,’ said Jane, shaking her head.
Janice wiped under her eyes with her index fingers while Jane rang the doorbell.
‘D’you think they know something we don’t?’ asked Janice, looking at the sandbags piled up at her feet.
A figure, hunched over and moving slowly, appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. Janice leaned over and shouted through the letter box.
‘Police to see you, Mr Grafton.’
‘I know, I know.’
Jane counted two locks, a chain and two bolts before Mr Grafton finally opened the door. He was still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, even though it was nearly lunchtime.
‘I’m Detective Insp . . .’
‘Never mind that,’ said Grafton, ‘you’re letting all the heat out. Can you step over these things?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Janice.
‘My neighbour did it for me. Waste of bloody time. Won’t do any good if it comes to it.’
‘Nice of him though,’ said Jane, stepping over the sandbags and thanking her lucky stars she’d thrown on a trouser suit that morning.
‘Suppose so.’
They followed Grafton into the lounge and sat down side by side on the sofa. Grafton sat down on an old armchair next to an even older gas fire. The middle one of three burners glowed bright orange and hissed, but it didn’t appear to be giving out much heat.
‘You heard something in the early hours, I’m told, Mr Grafton,’ said Janice.
‘An engine. Outside.’
‘What time was it?’
‘I can’t be sure. Twoish, perhaps.’
‘What were you doing up at that time of night?’
‘I take diuretics to stop fluid building up on my lungs. Heart trouble, you see. Anyway, it keeps me up all night, peeing. Up and down like a bloody yo-yo, I am.’
‘Is there a Mrs Grafton?’ asked Jane.
‘Died two year since.’
‘And you think it was about 2 a.m.?’ continued Janice.
‘There or thereabouts.’
‘Where were you when you heard it?’
‘In the loo.’
‘And what exactly did you hear?’
‘An engine. It came along the lane and turned right towards Bridgwater. Going slow, it was.’
‘Did you look out of the window?’
‘No. I didn’t think anything of it, really. Until one of your lot knocked on my door this morning.’
‘What did you do after you heard this engine?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Grafton. ‘I just went back to bed.’
‘What sort of engine was it?’ asked Jane.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Car or motorbike, perhaps?’
‘Car, or possibly a small van.’
‘Petrol or diesel?’
‘Now you’ve asked me,’ said Grafton, rubbing his grey stubble with his right hand. ‘D’you know, I think it was a diesel.’
‘Did you hear it again,’ asked Janice.
‘No.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I went back to sleep. Until the next time, about fourish,’ replied Grafton, shaking his head. ‘Bloody martyr to my bladder, I am.’
Harry Unwin was standing under an umbrella, enjoying a cigarette and watching a large cattle truck trying to reverse in the narrow lane to allow three tipper lorries through, when Janice and Jane came out of Grafton’s bungalow. They ran across the road and sheltered under the lychgate. Harry saw them and walked over.
‘Anything interesting?’ he asked.
‘Small car or van, possibly a diesel. That’s it, really.’ replied Janice.
‘Shouldn’t we get some traffic officers down here?’ asked Jane, looking down the lane.
‘They’ll sort themselves out,’ replied Unwin.
‘Where next then?’
‘Edna Freeman. Moorland House. It’s the last one on the left down the lane.’
‘How far?’
‘About two hundred yards.’
‘We’ll drive down,’ replied Janice, looking at Jane. ‘Anyone get to that farm on the other side of the river, Harry?’
‘I’ll send someone over there now.’
‘Go yourself. It’s the nearest property to Waterside Cottage and the most important.’
‘OK.’
Janice took her car keys out of her handbag, pointed them at her car in the lane opposite and pressed the button on the key fob.
‘Did that open?’
‘Couldn’t hear a thing,’ replied Jane.
Janice pressed it again and this time the hazard lights flashed. ‘That’s it.’ She then ran across the road and jumped in. Jane followed.
‘Lazy bugger,’ said Janice. ‘I thought I’d give him som
ething to do instead of standing around watching the world go by.’
Jane smiled. Janice appeared to have got the measure of Harry.
They drove along the lane and turned into the gravel drive of Moorland House. It was a large red brick house with sandbags across the front door and the double garage. Jane pressed the doorbell, noticing a small grey box mounted on the wall next to it.
‘A key safe. She has carers in by the looks of it.’
Janice nodded. She was leaning in towards the door, trying to shelter under the small canopy above it. They waited, looking for any sign of movement behind the frosted glass in the front door.
‘Try it again,’ said Janice.
Jane rang the bell again. Janice stepped back into the rain and looked up.
‘No lights on upstairs.’
Then she walked across the lawn and peered in through the front window.
‘Oh, shit.’
Janice ran back to the front door and tried the handle. The door swung open.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jane.
‘I think she’s dead.’
Janice stepped over the sandbags into the hall. Jane followed. They peered into the lounge and saw Mrs Freeman slumped in her chair, her head tipped back and her mouth open. Jane walked over and leaned in close to her. Then she touched her on the back of the hand.
‘Mrs Freeman?’
‘Is she all right?’ asked Janice.
‘She’s asleep, you twit.’
‘Oh, for f . . .’ Janice was stopped mid-sentence by Mrs Freeman stirring.
‘Sorry, dear, I . . . I must have nodded off.’
‘That’s OK,’ replied Jane. ‘We’re police officers. We’ve come to have a word with you. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine. Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Mrs Freeman. She pressed the button on her remote control chair, which tipped her forward slowly into the standing position.
Jane frowned at Janice.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Let’s go and sit at the kitchen table.’
They followed Mrs Freeman as she shuffled along the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. Janice sat down and watched her struggling to hold the kettle under the tap.
‘Here, let me,’ said Jane.
‘Thank you, dear.’
Mrs Freeman sat down at the head of the table, while Jane finished filling the kettle.
