Animal Instinct

by James R. Vance

  “I thought we were planning to hold a reconstruction,” said Turner.

  “D.C.I. Wainwright's organising that. He's currently in touch with someone about contacting Crimewatch.”

  “What if we don't get a result from these visits?” asked Roker. “Where do we go from there? The forensics team has yielded zilch, apart from the fact that there was possibly a connection with some caustic substance and that she was pregnant.”

  “There was little else to report,” replied Massey. “Maybe her pregnancy was an issue. The boyfriend is not in the frame, as he was in Spain. Maybe he was not the father. Did she have someone else in tow…not according to Fiona Wilson? If the commercial premises are a dead end, perhaps we need to delve more deeply into the life of Lara Crawford. In the meantime, let's keep our fingers crossed and hope that the visits bear fruit.”

  The two teams set off on their allotted assignments. Because of the Easter weekend three of the four pubs, the George and Dragon, the Gateway and the Barleycorn had received deliveries on the morning that Lara disappeared as opposed to their normal delivery day, which was Friday. Of the four licensees whom they interviewed, only one, the publican at the George and Dragon, had commented that he had briefly observed a young woman resembling Lara, walking away from the nearby bus stop.

  Massey thought it might be useful to contact the brewery, which had serviced the three outlets that day. Maybe the draymen had also witnessed the girl. Roker and Turner also drew blanks from the sports shop and the hairdressing salon, which they had visited. They found the dry cleaners closed for the whole week. A follow-up was required at the garage as a different forecourt attendant had been on duty on the Thursday morning prior to Easter.

  Later in the day, Massey met up once again with John Nuttall in forensics.

  “I have some other information which may be of interest,” said Nuttall. “Your team isn't terribly observant.”

  Massey said nothing.

  “One of my guys at the landfill site made a comment which may resolve the issue of how the body could have been dumped. If you think back to one of our earlier discussions, we concluded that it must have been taken there by a refuse truck as the perimeter fencing and the gates were too high to heave a corpse over without mechanical means.”

  Massey nodded.

  “There is another access, a section not enclosed by the mesh fencing. At the far side, the site is enclosed by a dense line of fir trees with no fencing.”

  “I thought the river formed a natural barrier on the far side?” said Massey.

  “Yes, but between the river and the line of fir trees, there's a privately owned mill which has undergone a lengthy renovation.”

  “Not long completed, I believe. Any idea who owns it?”

  “Some wealthy businessman. Who he is or what he's involved in, I haven't a clue.”

  “Thanks,” said Massey. “We'll check it out.”

  *****

  The enquiry was reaching an impasse. Massey asked Turner to join him for a drink in the Barleycorn. A few beers at the end of the day would relieve his stress before heading home, despite the fact that arriving late would only antagonise his wife, causing further stress to his problematic marriage.

  “Anything from the house to house team yet?” asked Turner, as they settled into a quieter corner of the main lounge area.

  “Nothing so far,” replied Massey, disconsolately. “She obviously left the bus at the square and walked past the George and Dragon, where she was spotted by the licensee, Charlie Meadows. To catch the next bus to Northwich, she would have to pass here towards the junction with the by-pass, but he said that she appeared to be heading towards the town centre. That means that, after passing the Barleycorn, she must have turned left down the High Street as opposed to the direction of the bridge over the river.”

  “We're assuming that Charlie was correct. If he only saw her walking towards the main road, she could have turned in either direction, carried straight on or even turned onto the towpath by the river.”

  Massey looked across at the bar. Sean was serving one of the local scallywags. “If our man here was expecting a delivery, it's strange that he didn't clock her passing the pub, unless he had already received his delivery.”

  “He said that he'd never seen her when I showed him her photo.”

  “Check with the brewery. Find out if they have a record of the exact time when they made their deliveries to the three pubs in this vicinity.”

  Turner nodded in agreement. “We're stuffed until we have that info and confirmation from the bus company that she not only boarded at Moulton but also caught a connection to Northwich. Until we can pinpoint where she actually disappeared from the map, it limits our chance of discovering a potential crime scene and a likely suspect.”

  “At this moment in time, everyone in this area's a possible suspect,” said Massey. “Maybe the reconstruction will be more profitable. You're right, the bus company's key to our enquiries. If we can pin down the time when she got off the bus…that's if she caught the bus in the first place… passed the George and Dragon and the Barleycorn and finally in which direction she walked, we can then focus our efforts on a specific area within a precise time-frame.”

  “Another beer?”

  “No, let's start digging again, but no forks this time. Let's tidy up the loose ends…the brewery, the bus company and the forecourt attendant who was on duty over the road. I've a feeling in my water that the recon may not be necessary.”

  Before returning home, Massey called in at the police station, leaving messages for those members of the team for whom he had earmarked jobs to undertake the following morning. Information had arrived from the bus company. He called Turner and Roker with the news. Half an hour later, he parked up on his driveway. Though he arrived a little later than he had promised, Helen, his wife, was all-smiles.

  “You seem pleased with yourself,” remarked her husband.

  “Chris called in on his way home. I hear you have a possible location for the murder of that poor young girl. Well done. You must have moved quickly.”

  “He's no right to discuss the case with you.”

  “Don't worry. He didn't give out any relevant information, except the fact that you may have identified a possible route, which she may have taken from the bus stop. He was very discreet.”

  “It's only a first step at the moment. We need further corroboration before we can progress it.”

  “Is it true that she was pregnant?”

  “So it appears, according to the post mortem.”

  “It seems a shame that a child has to die like that, when couples desperate for a baby have negative results.”

  “Here we go again,” moaned Massey, “the same old agenda.”

  “We are not an agenda,” snapped Helen. “This is real life, your life, my life, our lives together and, do you know what is so sad about it?”

  “I'm sure you're about to tell me.”

  “We're not living a life; we just exist. We're not even a couple. You're a copper, I'm a teacher and that's about the be-all and end-all of our life together.”

  Massey sank into an armchair. “I have a demanding job to perform. You knew that when you agreed to marry me. For God's sake, Helen, you only need to look at your own brother and his lifestyle to realise that it's not a nine till five occupation.”

  Helen stormed towards the door leading to the kitchen, before turning to reply. “I expected that, out of twenty four hours every day, seven days a week, you would find one moment, one special moment when you could switch off that bloody focussed mind of yours and acknowledge that I actually exist as a person. Not as a cook, a housekeeper or a bed-warmer…but as an individual with feelings, with needs, with future aspirations…or is that asking too much?”

  With that final riposte, Helen stormed into the kitchen.

  Massey sighed, rose from his chair and followed her. “I've told you over and over that now just isn't the right time. In any case, tha
t baby was on a death sentence before the murder.”

  “What d'you mean?”

  “She was on her way to have it aborted.”

  Helen turned away. “What a waste of life. It's a pity that she won't be around to regret her decision.” She turned round to face her husband. “Maybe her own death was God's way of paying her back.”

  Massey grunted. “That doesn't excuse what has happened.”

  “It's strange though when you consider it. If she had not decided to have it aborted, she would not have been there to be murdered and would still be alive today. Is that your suspect…the child's father? He found out that she was about to murder his child and took her life instead.”

  “And the life of his baby?”

  “Oh yes,” said Helen pensively. “So much for my detective work. I'll stick to teaching kids.”

  “And cooking!”

  His wife glared at him.

  “What's for supper?” said Massey, putting his arm round her shoulder. He was weary from work and Helen's occasional rants.

  “Make the most of it,” she replied. “When I am finally pregnant, you'll have to exist on ready-meals.”

  “I may as well stay at the pub, then.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged off his ‘arm round the shoulder’ approach. “I don't know why I bother.”

  Massey returned to the lounge and his armchair. He was the first to admit that often he enjoyed his own company given the amount of time spent in the company of others. He found gratification from mulling issues over in his mind to arrive at logical conclusions without the conflicting opinions of his colleagues. Occasionally, he asked himself if this behaviour was selfish or merely self-indulgent.

  It had been a difficult few days. A prolonged argument with Helen was the last thing that he needed. He closed his eyes and, despite the distraction of the television, he soon sank into a deep thought process and eventually, the realms of oblivion.

  *****

  Before leaving home the following morning, Massey called Turner to meet him at police headquarters. He had decided to check out Nuttall's story. Access to the landfill site via the renovated mill was a possibility, but conflicted with the news that Lara had alighted from the bus before it crossed the river. What would cause her to go in the opposite direction and why towards the mill? Nevertheless, since there were no other relevant leads, it was worth a visit.

  A narrow lane, almost hidden by the overhanging foliage of several horse-chestnut trees, led from the main road to the mill. After driving a short distance along the lane, high metal gates set in a recently constructed brick wall blocked any further progress. Rows of metal spikes topped the copingstones the full length of the structure. This enclosure rose to about three metres, obscuring the property beyond. Security cameras mounted on each of the square brick pillars that supported the gates angled downwards towards the approach.

  “Good security,” commented Massey, “mind you, it's needed round here amongst this melting pot of miscreants.”

  “There's a smaller gate just to the left,” said Turner, “and it appears to be slightly open. So much for his security!”

  The detectives pulled over to the side of the lane and entered the property through the open wrought iron gate. The magnificent panorama of the mill and its landscaped surrounds astounded them. To their left, a fast flowing tributary gushed from the river into a narrow channel, which turned the massive original water wheel before disappearing under the mill-house. The stream continued from the building, forming a small lake before disgorging the excess water through a sluice gate into the river.

  As they strolled towards the main house, they glanced upwards to their right where a vast area of lawn rose steeply towards a distant line of fir trees, which, they rightly assumed, formed the barrier between the property and the distant landfill site. The main driveway curved around the lavishly renovated building towards the south-facing main entrance.

  They turned onto a smaller pathway that led towards a side door. Turner pressed an illuminated bell push. Seconds later the door opened to reveal a stout middle-aged woman. She wore a blue overall, a paisley headscarf and carried what appeared to be a duster in her free hand as she gripped the open door tightly.

  “Good morning,” said Massey. “Mrs. Howard?” They had discovered that the mill belonged to a Mr. Charles Devlin Howard.

  “There is no Mrs. ‘oward,” replied the woman. “I'm the ‘ousekeeper. Who are you?”

  “Detective Inspector Massey and Detective Constable Turner.” They produced their warrant cards. “Is Mr. Howard at home?”

  “‘E's away. What do you want?”

  +++ “I'd like to speak with the owner of the mill. When is he due back?”

  “‘E didn't say…sometime this week, I suppose.”

  “Do you work here full time?”

  “Only two or three days a week normally. I do the cleaning, the laundry and the like.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Howard?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Were you here on Thursday or Friday?”

  “Worked Wednesday, but ‘ad last Thursday and Friday off, ‘cos of Easter. Only came in on Saturday to get a list of things ‘e wanted done while ‘e was away.”

  “You said that there was no Mrs. Howard?” prompted Massey.

  “Divorced…lives ‘ere by ‘imself.”

  “It's a beautiful place,” said Massey, adopting a gentler tone. “Do you mind if we have a look round?”

  “You can look round the garden, if you like, but you're not comin’ in ‘ere. It's more than my job's worth.”

  “Rightly so,” said Massey. “Well, thank you for your time. We'll pop back in a few days to speak with Mr. Howard.”

  The door slammed shut.

  “C'mon, let's have a snoop around his plot,” said Massey.

  “Some plot,” said Turner. “It's more like a country estate. It must have cost him a ‘bob or two’ to develop this lot.”

  They followed the wide driveway that led to a circular parking area in front of the main entrance. In the centre of this space, an ornamental fountain sprayed water to a height of about three metres. A curtain twitched at an upstairs window. The housekeeper was monitoring their movements. Turner surveyed the neatly manicured lawns that rose upwards towards the line of firs marking one of the boundaries of the property.

  “There's no sign of footprints or scars,” he said, standing on the grassy incline. “It's quite soft underfoot. You'd think that anyone carrying or dragging a body up that slope would surely have left some marks behind.”

  They walked on. Massey began to smile. “It's unnecessary to trudge up the bank.” He pointed ahead. “Look, there are stone steps over there leading to the top.”

  The detectives mounted the stone slabs to find another row of stones set in the ground fronting the length of the evergreen barrier. Massey looked along the tree line. “Probably they've been laid to allow easier access for trimming the firs. When you look closely, it's pretty dense stuff to drag a corpse through to the land beyond.”

  “If you remember, the plastic bin liners had numerous tears,” added Turner.

  Massey crouched down to peer through at the base where there was less foliage. “The infill site's some distance away. You'd have to be bloody fit to carry a body up here, drag it through these firs and heave it over there.”

  “Anything's possible if you're desperate,” said Turner. He bent down and brushed away a carpet of dead pine needles. “This looks interesting.” He held up a shred of black plastic. “Looks like a job for forensics.”

  “They can check out both sides of this ridge. Let's make a move before we disturb anything else.”

  They turned to descend the steps. Turner grabbed Massey's arm and pointed towards a shed, partly concealed by a privet hedge. “Someone's down there. Maybe he is at home after all.”

  They retraced their steps to the bottom of the slope and turned towards an area of the garden that ap
peared to be a vegetable plot with a path leading towards a garden shed. An elderly man was scraping mud off his Wellington boots by the door.

  “Hello,” said Massey. “Who are you?”

  “I'm the gardener,” he replied. The man had a similar question on his mind. “And who might you be?”

  Massey showed the man his warrant card. “We were looking for Mr. Howard, but apparently he's on holiday. The housekeeper said that we could look round the garden.”

  “Help yourselves,” said the man. “I'm off for some lunch after I've cleaned myself up.”

  “Do you work here full-time?” asked Massey.

  “Just a few days a week. It depends on what needs to be done. I'm playing ‘catch-up’ at the moment as I was off all last week 'cos of Easter.”

  “I see,” said Massey, no longer interested after that last remark. The detectives returned to the main gate where they met a woman entering the grounds accompanied by two young girls. The youngsters immediately ran off and disappeared around the corner of the house.

  “Hello,” said Massey, flashing his warrant card again. “Are you visiting Mr. Howard?”

  “No,” said the woman, smiling. “I'm here to see my mum. She's the cleaner…well, housekeeper here. I thought I'd bring the girls with me as they're on holiday from school.”

  Suddenly there was a terrifying scream from the far side of the property. All three adults raced towards the sound. The children re-appeared and ran to their mother, crying. “It's Fred mummy…in the shed.”

  The detectives reached the garden shed to find the gardener collapsed on the floor, one Wellington boot on his foot, the other boot on the path outside. Massey called an ambulance on his mobile. The woman remained outside, comforting her daughters.

  Turner knelt besides the man. “He's still breathing. It looks like a heart attack.”

  They made the gardener comfortable and stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. He had regained consciousness but he was obviously in considerable pain. After some routine medical aid, they eventually helped him into the ambulance. The detectives bade farewell to the young woman and returned to their car in the lane.