He grunted softly to himself as he nodded his resolve and shook off the reverie that had come to rest upon him, an event that had been occurring with increasing frequency over recent weeks. He knew that the moment was inappropriate for daydreaming. There was a woman out there that might still be alive, and she was counting on him, whether she knew it or not. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding against one another, his resolve firmly back on the job.
Webster turned the car into an almost identical street and slowed alongside a deep brown Ford coupe. He rolled his window down as they pulled alongside and the Ford did the same. A hand smattered with liver spots and raised knuckles that hinted at arthritis came to rest on the sill. Detective Sergeant Barnes was an asset to the squad in his ability to be overlooked as a policeman. His sunken cheeks and the exaggerated crow’s feet around his eyes gave him the look of someone so far past his prime that he could only remember it through black and white photographs. He had the habit of curving his spine slightly and coughing intermittently that, when taken with the rest of his physical appearance, seemed to show someone in their seventies. In fact, he had barely reached sixty.
“Nothing to report.” Barnes muffled a cough with the back of a hand. “Been no-one but the neighbour stop by since we arrived. He was only there five minutes and has been with a visitor ever since.”
Crothers looked down the street at the low brick wall that shielded the front garden from the street. No chance of anyone sneaking in that way. Anticipating the Inspector’s question, Barnes stated, “’Round back is a six-foot fence in pretty bad shape. Anyone coming over that would bring the whole thing down.”
“No other means of access?”
“None that I could see. I took a walk around the neighbourhood when we arrived and left Hoskins here to watch the front. Only chance he’d have of getting in would be through the toilet from the sewer.”
“Excellent work as always, Barnes.” Crothers gave a sharp nod of approval to the young Hoskins too. “Stay in position and call in if anyone comes close. I want a look at the place.”
With an affirmation, Barnes started the window back up its track and Webster pulled further down the road into a vacant parking spot a couple of houses down.
“Looks normal,” said Webster as he reached for the door handle.
“It’d be easier to do our job if they didn’t.”
Crothers had one foot out of the door and had paused to look at the upper windows. The tan curtains were drawn, and he was sure that he had seen a flicker of movement, the shadows faintly rippling. He turned his head to Sergeant Webster without moving his eyes from the window.
“He could be holed up inside, so we go in slow and watchful.”
“Surely he wouldn’t come back here. It’s the first place we’d look.”
“If his mind isn’t right, which the finger would suggest, I’m not going to try second guessing him. Keep ‘em peeled.” Crothers pointed two fingers towards his eyes, then flipped his hand to point a single finger at the upper window.
They walked to the low wall in front of the house and passed through a small black wrought-iron gate that squealed softly on hinges that for a long time had only seen rain as a lubricant. Crothers kept flicking his eyes to the upper windows, but the curtains betrayed no more movement. The windows stared back through the pebble-dashed mask, betraying nothing of what lay beyond.
They walked up to the large white PVC front door, and Crothers looked through the fan of glass that made up the upper half. A long hallway stretched back to an open white wooden door to the kitchen and stairs ran up to the left, opposite another door around which lurked the corner of an armchair.
“Stay here and knock in about two minutes.” Crothers had leant in close to Webster’s ear. “I’ll head around the back.”
Webster acknowledged with a “Sir” and Crothers went to the left, away from the living room window which was also covered in pale grey curtain. A small path of concrete led around the edge of a plain grass lawn and stopped at a tall bare wooden gate. Popping the latch, the gate swung easily inward, and the path continued beyond, passing another PVC door that led to the kitchen and around to a small concrete patio that was hidden from neighbours by a tall wood fence that had clearly seen better days. Crothers stopped to examine the door, but frosted glass blocked any view inside.
The patio had a simple picnic table in the centre of it, the parasol removed and the wood dark with the dampness of the earlier rain. A large set of patio doors were curtained too, and when Crothers tried the handle he found them firmly locked. A couple of pieces of wood braced the sliding door on the interior. Good protection against a break-in, thought Crothers. The place seemed to be locked up tight from all directions. Either he’s barricaded himself in, or he really was leaving for a while.
Another window with a curtain upstairs and another smoked glass window which Crothers assumed was a bathroom. The house seemed quiet and empty, except for the glimpse he had earlier. He began to wonder if he had actually seen it when a fabric blind pulled over the kitchen window shook and banged against the glass.
Crothers darted to the pathway and looked around the side of the house, expecting to see the kitchen door flung open and the rear of Gary Sandrake making for the front of the house. Yet the pathway was quiet, and the door remained shut. Crothers walked swiftly down to the open gate and in a loud whisper told Webster to be ready for a runner.
Standing at the rear corner of the house, Crothers banged on the kitchen door.
“Sandrake!” he yelled. “This is the police. We would like to talk with you.”
He banged again and heard a faint scratching sound from inside.
“Gary Sandrake, this is the police. We have some questions about some recent events that you might have information on.”
Crothers paused and was met with no sound. He banged again, a little harder and repeated his initial statement. The scratching returned but nothing more.
Peering behind him into the backyard, he was sure that the blind was moving again and retreated away from the kitchen door. There was no way anyone was getting out without either he or Webster seeing them.
Using his knuckle, Crothers tapped on the kitchen window. The blind flew backwards, Crothers taking a step back in surprise as a large white cat, fur fluffed out, pushed through and onto the inside sill.
“Playing with the cat at a time like this, Inspector.” The familiar voice of Diane Dimbleby came through a broad spacing in the boards of the tall fence that ran around the back yard. “You’ll learn much more by questioning the neighbour.”
Chapter 4
“Jake Briggs.”
The voice was deep and clipped. The speaker was a short man, around 5 foot 6, with thinning grey hair brushed back and dressed in old suit trousers and a crisp cream shirt, both of which were a couple of sizes too large. He stood with his back straight, feet together, and gave the Inspector the impression that he would swing up a salute at any moment.
“This gentleman has been ever so kind,” said Diane. “He has been telling me about his neighbour.”
“Nice young man,” said Jake stiffly. “His fiancée is a lovely girl.”
“What was her name?” enquired the Inspector as he pulled a small black notebook from his pocket and flipped through to a blank page.
“Shelly. Shelly Newsome I think. Never really asked her last name.”
“You knew they were getting engaged?”
Jake motioned to the sofa, and Inspector Crothers took a seat while Diane perched on the edge of a padded chair. He strode over to the oak mantelpiece and turned his back on it to face the Inspector, his hands held behind him.
“He was proposing a couple of days ago. It was their one-year anniversary, and he was planning a whole thing for them.”
“A thing?”
“Dinner to start and then proposing before whisking her away to a fancy hotel on the coast, down in Weston.”
“Did you see them leave?”
“Don’t we all,” said the Inspector.
“Then he took his suitcase and said he’d be back in a week.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Suit, tie. Both grey I think. Black shoes, scuffed around the toe. He never took much time to polish them.”
“Nothing unusual about his demeanour?”
“Nothing at all. The grin on his face was bigger than usual, but that’s understandable. Can I ask what this is all about? Surely the lad isn’t in trouble.”
“We don’t know much yet, but we are interested in finding his whereabouts as quickly as possible.”
“That sounds like trouble to me. And I can tell you, Inspector, he’s one of the nicest young men I have ever met. And I’ve met some stinkers.”
“We just need to find Gary and Shelly as soon as possible. Can you tell me where they were going to dinner?”
“Lovely place, the old Wolcott Inn just east of Telford, close to Priorslee.”
“That was quite the perfect choice,” said Diane. “It’s in such a beautiful location.”
“Then he was going to a spot along the Priorslee Lake, a small picnic area that they had visited on their second date. Not far from the inn.”
The Inspector scribbled notes furiously.
“Any specific name for the place?”
“None that he told me.”
“And then?”
“He had already called her work to get the time off, and they were going straight down to Weston-Super-Mare. Shackleton? Shaftesbury?” Jake paused and stared at the ceiling. “The Sharkesley Hotel. Yes, Sharkesley.”
“Has he contacted you since leaving?”
“Not a word. I’ve taken care of the cat before, and I’m sure he has better things to be doing than chatting to an old codger.” Jake reached for a cup and saucer that sat on the far end of the mantle and took a sip. “Tea’s gone cold. Let me fix another pot. A cuppa, Inspector?”
Inspector Crothers shook his head. He had things to do, places to call and a couple to find.
“None for me,” said Diane, as Jake collected her cup from the table next to her. “I really should be going. Rufus, my dog, hasn’t been out since this morning. I will be getting a stern talking to when I get home.”
Inspector Crothers watched Jake leave the room and made to rise when a yelp came from the chair next to him. Turning, he saw Diane gripping her ankle, a look of pain on her face.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” said Diane as she placed her hands on the arms of the chair and levered herself upwards. “A little pressure and…” She yelped again and fell back into the chair, a thin mist of dust filling the air.
Inspector Crothers stooped over her as she leaned forward again.
“I’ll be fine, Inspector. I only have to get back to my car.
“Can I help you get there?”
“Well, I left it in town near the shopping centre. Not far from your station. If you could give me a lift…” Diane left the sentence unfinished and sucked in air through her teeth as she rubbed her leg.
“Of course, of course,” he said without hesitation. “I will be right back and I’ll get you back to your car.”
Crothers left the room and passed out of the front door, leaving it ajar. He found Sergeant Webster resting against the wall of the next door house. Beckoning him over, Crothers led the Sergeant inside and introduced him to Mr. Briggs.
“Mr. Briggs has a key and will let you into the house. Get Sergeant Barnes and I want the pair of you to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Anything at all and you call me. I am going to head back to the station to call a few places that might know a location.”
Sergeant Webster acknowledged the orders and followed Jake into the kitchen where the Inspector heard a drawer rattle open.
“Let’s get you home, Diane,” said the Inspector as he stepped into the living room.
“Nothing a bit of rest won’t fix up,” said Diane as the Inspector reached an arm around her and braced her as she pushed up out of the chair.
They hobbled out of the house and across the road to the car where Crothers opened the passenger door, helping to lower Diane into the seat. She slowly manoeuvred her injured leg into the well as the Inspector climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine gave a rumble, and they slowly drifted down the street.
Diane flipped through her phone as the Inspector watched for oncoming traffic. Silence lingered for a couple of minutes while the car negotiated the array of parked cars. The flow of traffic on the main road was light with an hour remaining before the workers would head home. The Inspector pulled out of the maze of streets, and the hum of the engine rose as he picked up speed.
“Does he seem to be a person that would chop off a finger?” asked Diane as lone trees flashed by.
“Why do you say that?” he replied, reticent to let Diane into his thought processes. He didn’t have far to go to drop her at her car, and saying less about the case might convince her to remove herself from it.
“Well, Jake didn’t have a bad word to say about him. In fact, he told me that he doted on the cat to the point of being a little over the top. That doesn’t seem like someone that would go around committing peculiar crimes.”
“You think the cat is evidence?” Inspector Crothers took his eyes off the road for a moment to throw a quizzical look at Diane. “I can assure you that cat people can do some very bizarre things.”
“This is true. I knew a Miss Gladys Thurogood several years ago. She worked at the school as a relief once in a while, and she always had a collection of photographs of her cats in pullovers and hats. Knitted most of them herself she said. It was only after she died that they found she had been knitting them with her own hair.”
“Exactly. A pet isn’t always a sign of a sound mind.”
“But to take such care to ensure Mr. Briggs took care of the cat with no mention of finding a new home for it. Even Gladys had money set aside in her will for care of the animals.”
“He may not have planned to do it. It might have been a spur-of-the-moment act if the young lady rejected his proposal.”
“And of course, this would lead him to mail the finger to a woman in a different town. Marriage rejection can lead to that too, I suppose.”
The Inspector didn’t respond immediately. He had been sucked into a discussion that he had deliberately tried to avoid. He had not had the time to sit down and think through the new information and was making rash statements.
“You might want to turn here, Inspector. The Wolcott Inn is only a minute down that road. I’m sure you would find it easier than driving all the way back to town before calling them. Best not to waste time, Inspector.”
He glanced from the corner of his eye at his bespectacled passenger and for the first time wondered if he had been played for a fool. She looked so harmless with the thick glasses and slight frame. Like a kindly grandmother, he thought. Surely she hadn’t intended this, though her statement had been made with little room for argument, her tone that of a teacher instructing a pupil.
Whether from an obedience ingrained since a young schoolboy or from his own best inclination, he entered the roundabout, the indicator signalling in the opposite direction from the town centre.
The road was deserted. Thick hedges lined either side with dense copses of trees peering over the top. It gradually grew darker as the trees loomed larger, towering over the road, branches entwining overhead. A small sign for Wolcott Inn appeared suddenly from behind the caress of a hawthorn bush; an arrow vaguely glimpsed through the leaves pointed to a narrow gravel lane.
The overhanging trees separated as the car passed down the lane, tires popping across the loose stones. Glimpses of sky through the canopy of leaves and branches became
irregular patches of blue, which evolved into broad slashes as if a heavenly machete was becoming increasingly vigorous.
A slight curve in the lane preceded the arrival at the inn, glimpses of the stonework rapidly developing into a looming brick and granite façade. Windows tall enough to walk through were in deep darkness, the white frames stark and skeletal. The roadway curved back upon itself after passing the weathered stone stairway to the double doors of the front entrance. A parking area of lines spray-painted upon the gravel fanned out around the driveway.
Inspector Crothers pulled the car before the main entrance, pulling the handbrake up with a grinding crunch that put Diane’s teeth on edge. She had broken Albert of the laziness, but it had taken repetition and time, something she did not have with the Inspector. “Futile to mention,” she thought.
“Stay in the car,” said Inspector Crothers as he stepped out of the idling car.
The car door shut before she could give any response. She did not intend to leave the vehicle; she could do everything while seated.
As the Inspector disappeared through the main doorway, Diane pulled out her phone. Scrolling to the search bar she pulled up information for the Sharkesley Hotel in Weston-super-Mare. The phone number appeared highlighted, inviting the reader to click it. Diane happily obliged, and the number sprang up to dominate the screen and the phone started to dial. After two short bursts of sound, a male voice said, “Sharkesley Hotel. How may I be of assistance?”
The voice sounded light and young and had the faint hint of a lisp.
Murder in the Mail: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 4
