Deadly Zeal

by Jean Chapman

  Cannon indicated the dogs. ‘On their collars,’ he said.

  Sutton stared at his dogs, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, ‘It’s not just them as was running away,’ he said.

  ‘You’d better tell me,’ Cannon said.

  Sutton turned to look at him more carefully. ‘Are you police?’ he asked.

  ‘Years ago,’ Cannon said. ‘Does it show?’

  ‘A bit.’ Sutton made an effort to smile but then dropped his gaze again. ‘So perhaps you are the right man – not just for the dogs – thanks for stopping them.’

  ‘Why would I be the right man?’ Cannon prompted quietly.

  ‘They, the dogs, then I … found a body … my God … A man, I think.’ Sutton covered his face with his hands. ‘I never … I mean, real life’s not like …’

  He guessed what Sutton meant was that real death was not like that on any sized screen, large or small. ‘You are sure the man was dead? Have you phoned for help?’ Cannon asked, his hand going to his pocket for his phone.

  Sutton shook his head, swallowed hard. ‘He was on his face but –’ And Sutton retched again ‘– he’s dead. He must have had the collie’s lead still in his hand and when my two ran up to it, it went mad and pulled out of its collar and my two chased it, and … then I ran. He’s not alive.’

  ‘I’ll phone the police and ambulance and you can show me where you were.’

  Sutton looked horrified.

  ‘You can point from the beach,’ Cannon told him, ‘then wait there with the dogs.’

  ‘All right.’ Sutton seemed more controlled now Cannon had taken over.

  Cannon phoned the emergency services as they jogged back, gave their location and then the details as far as he knew them.

  ‘I have deployed an ambulance and will inform the police now,’ the operator told him. ‘Please give us more details as soon as you can.’

  They went past the point where Cannon usually left the beach and on to where the end of Sea Lane meandered in a well-used footpath from village to beach. It was a regular route for dog walkers and often horse riders.

  ‘I’ve rented a cottage in Sea Lane for a fortnight,’ Sutton told him. ‘This is my first morning. I came for a walk, let the dogs off when I reached the beach, thought they’d run down to the sea but they went up into the sand dunes, and I followed.’ He stopped walking and pointed. ‘That way over to the left. There are some bigger dunes, it was somewhere there.’

  ‘Will you come a little further with the dogs?’ Cannon asked. ‘They’ll find the way better than either of us, and it is possible the man may be alive. You obviously didn’t get very near.’

  Sutton shook his head, and reluctantly took a few steps off the main path. The dogs immediately got the idea and pulled hard on the lead. Cannon tried to remember the statistics about dogs being able to smell one drop of blood in so many million gallons of water.

  Sutton pulled the Alsatians to a standstill as they reach the brow of a large sand dune. ‘It’s over the other side of this,’ he said.

  ‘Wait here until I make sure,’ Cannon said, hoping Sutton had seen a little blood and was exaggerating the injury, even that the ‘body’ might even have managed to get up and stagger home – it happened – but not this time.

  Even from the top of the dune Cannon recognized violent death when he saw it. His phone in his hand again, he turned and shouted back to Sutton. ‘Go back to Sea Lane and direct the emergency services when they arrive, and then stay there, wait for me. All right?’

  He waited for the man to shout back, then turned to glissade down, making sure he did so well away from where he might destroy any evidence. But it was evident the dogs had not been so careful.

  Reaching the bottom he could see a fair amount of sand had been dislodged and fallen over the legs and torso, making the exposed mass of battered skull, bone and blood more stark. Cannon thought it was like a picture in three separate parts, a triptych: one part delicately covered in sand, the mutilated head, and the third part, the man’s right hand and arm pulled out from under his body, arm full stretch and from his hand, also pulled to its complete length, a dog leash and collar.

  He found the shaft of a broken child’s spade and, standing in the mass of already disturbed sand, he leaned over and carefully lifted the dog collar until he could read the engraving on the small brass plate: ‘Patch’ in scrolled large gothic and a telephone number, a local number, but this was smaller and the plate was well worn.

  In the distance he could hear the sound of sirens. There’s no hurry, he silently told the racing emergency services, not for this chap, though if he too had been on an early-morning walk with Patch his killer might not be far away.

  While he waited, he looked around, reflecting that if this was a hate crime he could not imagine what evil the victim had inflicted on his murderer to deserve such a beating – and what weapon had he used? Nothing he had found casually lying around, that was for sure.

  He phoned Liz as the sirens got nearer. Her silence as she took in the main facts felt like a black hole they might well fall willy-nilly into. ‘Liz?’ he queried.

  ‘You’ll come straight back when the police arrive?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t get involved?’

  The head and shoulders of the first policeman appeared above the dune even as he said, ‘The dog’s collar has a local telephone number on it.’

  Chapter 3

  Cannon, as he saw it, was never in a position to go straight home and leave Sutton. The man was becoming more and more distressed and his lively young dogs increasingly restive and vocal. When the uniformed Helen Jefferson arrived and heard Sutton’s holiday cottage was nearby, she agreed John might usefully take him there and stay with him until she could join them.

  As they walked, Cannon asked Sutton if there was anyone on holiday with him. He was to regret the question for Sutton immediately stopped walking, hung his head and gave way to tears.

  ‘No,’ he sobbed, ‘my partner decided we’d have some time apart to find out if we could resolve some … difficulties. How can I think clearly now?’

  ‘That’s not going to be too easy,’ Cannon agreed, feeling it was a pretty inadequate reply. ‘Let’s get you inside,’ he said, taking the dogs as they reached the cottage gate, and thinking tea and sympathy would be the best he could do. Sutton did not console easily and when Cannon glimpsed Helen coming towards the front door he hurried outside to meet her, and out of earshot explained the situation.

  ‘I think he must have been on the edge of a breakdown when he came here. Finding … has not helped.’

  ‘I really just need his statement,’ Helen said. ‘Sergeant Maddern’s coming to take it. He’s a fatherly soul.’

  ‘No idea who the victim is yet?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘No answer from the number on the dog collar.’ She shook her head. ‘As soon we have the address I shall go there myself.’

  He gave her a sympathetic glance. It was one of the worst tasks any police officer faced, telling someone their loved one had died; an accident or sudden death was bad enough but murder was in a different league. Murder in this part of the country was like a large boulder dropped into the middle of a still lake, the ripples going on and on, sometimes turning back on themselves and making things doubly complicated.

  ‘There might be something on the body to help identify him,’ Helen went on, ‘but if we’re not careful forensics will be having to dig him out. The whole blessed sand dune begins to slide down if we get near.’

  ‘It could be someone who lived alone, of course,’ Cannon mused as they both turned to the sound of footsteps behind them.

  ‘Ah! Here’s Maddern, good,’ Helen said.

  ‘Hi, Jim,’ Cannon greeted him.

  ‘Bit near home this one, ma’am,’ Maddern said.

  ‘Yes, give him your special old-fashioned treatment, Sergeant, the man’s in a state. John, I’m sure, will go in with you. I m
ust get back to the scene.’

  The two of them watched her go. ‘What you’d call a smart bit of stuff,’ Maddern said. ‘Not to her face, of course.’

  ‘Well, not while she’s in uniform,’ Cannon agreed.

  ‘Just introduce me,’ Maddern said as Cannon gave him a quick résumé of what he knew of the man, ‘and tell him I live in the same lane. He may find that some comfort.’

  Cannon did just that, and was struck, as so many times in the past, by Maddern’s gift for stillness, observing, listening, waiting for the right moment to take charge. Cannon made more tea as Maddern took the statement, then left to get back to his public house and Liz. When he arrived he found only Alamat, their live-in help there, and remembered Tuesday, one of the slacker days at the pub, was Liz’s day for shopping. Business, of course, had to go on.

  Alamat had just two customers, a couple, finishing two of the pub’s renowned all-day breakfasts. They were all smiles and well satisfied with the service they had received from the dapper little Croat in his pristine white apron.

  Cannon thought of ringing the landlord of The Stump in Boston but felt no wish now to talk over last night’s events, which seemed trivial compared to those of the morning.

  The customers left, Alamat went to spend the afternoon in his quarters in the stable block, and Liz arrived back. They unpacked the car, the bulk of food items not so geared to sausages, chips and breaded chicken shapes school-children seemed to prefer. The end of October would see their winter opening hours come into force, and they should really make the effort to go away for a complete change. Liz could do with a holiday, preferably somewhere scenic so she could do some sketching and painting. Cannon, on the other hand, rather enjoyed the winter at home; he always had the feeling that the whole of the Fenland stretched out, wider, expansive in its emptiness, resting, recouping, and he loved it all – the rougher seas, the empty beaches, the cosy nights with the regulars in the pub.

  Liz was bringing old stock to the front of the deep freeze and stacking the new at the back when the police arrived.

  Helen led the way in, followed by a tall, gangling figure they knew well, Regional Detective Inspector Derek Betterson. Both looked grim, Helen’s greeting a tight-lipped nod and Betterson’s little more.

  ‘It is not good news,’ she told them, ‘and there’s a chance it could be linked to the trouble here last night.’

  ‘What!’ Cannon exclaimed. ‘So the victim …’

  ‘Was here last night.’

  Cannon’s thoughts immediately went to the huge man who had antagonized the whole bar but he was certainly not the victim: the body was nowhere near his size.

  ‘So what’s happened so far?’ Cannon heard himself ask, and knew immediately it sounded too officious – he’d no right to know police business these days, and added, ‘I mean, has the body been officially identified?’

  ‘Not officially, but the papers in his wallet, and my own knowledge of the man’s build, et cetera …’

  Cannon felt a chill of goose-bumps creep up his spine. He glanced at Liz and saw her expression change to horror as Helen went on.

  ‘I am afraid there is little doubt that the dead man is Niall Riley,’ Helen said.

  ‘Timmy’s father? His father!’ Liz exclaimed incredulously. ‘Oh no, how awful, and why? Why! His poor wife! How will she cope?’

  ‘We have checked that Riley is not at the bakery working, and with Mrs Riley’s consent Sergeant Maddern’s gone over to alert her sister in Reed St Thomas. Apparently she’s a widow. Maddern knows the family details,’ Helen went on, ‘and has just let me know the sister is coming back with him. She’ll stay with her nephew while we take Mrs Riley to view the body. That is, once the pathologist has done his investigations and has the deceased reasonable enough for a relation to see.’

  ‘That won’t be easy,’ Betterson said, ‘someone’s given him a right walloping about the head. Shouldn’t be any problem with the cause of death though.’

  There was a short silence after these remarks.

  ‘I wonder how Timmy is taking it?’ Liz wondered. ‘Mr Riley once told me he has the intelligence of a bright six-year-old.’

  ‘Mrs Riley was helping him wash and dress when the phone was ringing,’ Helen told them, ‘and when I was there he obviously thought his father was at work, but was really upset that the dog was not at home. He was asking all the time after Patch.’

  ‘It was going down the beach like it was heading for John O’Groats,’ Cannon said, ‘but that was hours ago.’

  ‘I’ve alerted all the motor patrols to keep a lookout for it, a rough-haired collie, yes?’ Betterson queried.

  ‘Yes,’ Cannon confirmed, ‘white patch like a saddle on its back.’

  ‘I’d like you both to give statements, your versions of what happened here last night,’ Helen said, ‘as I and Paul will do, of course, and I’d like a list of all the people you know by name that were here, or failing that a list of the teams who took part in the quiz.’

  At that moment the telephone rang, Cannon answered and was told, ‘The name’s Ladkin, landlord of The Stump’s Shadow in Boston. I understand there was trouble at the quiz last night involving someone who travelled with our supporters. What’s it all about?’

  ‘The police are with me now,’ Cannon told him.

  ‘Are they?’ Ladkin did not sound impressed. ‘Didn’t sound like the kind of trouble the police bother about.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Cannon said, and put his hand over the receiver and told Helen and Betterson who it was.

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ Betterson said.

  ‘Mr Ladkin, Detective Inspector Betterson, I shall be coming to see you. We want to talk to Mr Maurice Spier but he did not return home last night according to his wife.’ He paused and held the receiver away from his ear as the landlord made loud protests that Spier was a man he hardly knew. Betterson let him continue until the voice dropped in volume then putting the receiver back to his ear added that the situation had become much more serious. When he rang off he said, ‘Any landlord would be better off without Spier. He’s been known to the police since he was a great lad, broody individual. Anything said he doesn’t like he can be nasty, very nasty, and …’ He shrugged, then went on, ‘He’s also on a suspended sentence from his last outburst; any further trouble and he goes down for two years.’

  ‘It still leaves us with a lot of enquiries to make of a lot of people,’ Helen said. ‘I wondered if there was anything in particular either of you remember about last night, any reaction to the trouble that caught your eye?’

  Cannon remembered Paul sitting very tense, then swinging round to tell Spier to be quiet. Hoskins had clenched his fists and put them out of sight under the table. The professor had knocked over his walking stick, Cannon had retrieved it when he stood up. There had been other reactions all around the bar but certainly not against Riley.

  ‘This man, Spier, was the only one to show aggression towards Riley,’ Liz said, adding, ‘Though to tell the truth it was Riley who became the more aggressive. John and Paul had to intervene.’

  ‘Could, of course, be nothing to do with what happened here,’ Betterson commented with a shrug.

  Cannon frowned; his time in the Met had left him with little belief in coincidences.

  When they were once more on their own, neither Liz nor Cannon could settle to rest.

  ‘We’ve got until six,’ he began, then in spite of how anxious Liz always was to keep out of police affairs these days, he drew in a great breath to make a suggestion. Her eyes were on him immediately.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk along the beach?’ he suggested. ‘Look for the dog. I can’t think it would head off and go wandering about the streets; my guess is it will eventually turn and come back towards home.’

  ‘Just look for Timmy’s best friend,’ she said, looking at him sternly, ‘no involvement, just find the dog. I wouldn’t mind doing that.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think anyth
ing has ever had a closer view of a murder than it did,’ Cannon mused. ‘If that dog could talk it would be a star witness.’

  ‘There’s always the possibility of forensics,’ she muttered as she rummaged around in the cupboard, brought out a packet of arrowroot biscuits, opened it and put some in her pocket. ‘Should we take a piece of string as well, something to tie round its neck if we find him?’ she suggested.

  ‘As practical as ever,’ Cannon said.

  ‘Maybe, but not involved,’ she asserted.

  ‘No, no,’ he said and retreated to the porch for their outdoor coats.

  It occurred to Cannon as they went across the meadows at the back of the pub that they did not often walk together. He ran in the mornings but Liz said she found enough exercise in the pub, although she loved to be out on the marshland or seashore, painting landscapes. Sometimes, and a little diffidently, she would ask for Paul’s opinion and advice, which he gave very willingly.

  They reached the beach well out of sight or sound of police activity and turned the opposite way, the way Cannon had seen the dog running. The sun had gone and the wind was stronger now, blowing straight into their faces. Cannon drew her attention to sand being whipped up from nearby dunes and flying like a pennant from each top. Obliterating evidence, he thought, but not murder, which would always surface. He felt a sudden certainty that this was going to be a much more complex case than might at first appear, and wondered if Spier, who he had thought of as just a blustering, bullying joker, might be something more sinister?

  They were both leaning forward now to walk against the wind and it was difficult to keep one’s eyes open as they searched for any sign of Timmy Riley’s dog.

  Cannon turned to walk backwards a few steps to point at his watch and say they would walk for an hour one way, then he thought they should make their way back. She nodded agreement.

  By the time the hour was nearly up they had reached a point where the beach was divided by waters draining from the land, making a gully several feet deep. That will be it then, Cannon thought. We’ll turn back at that point. We’ve seen nothing; no point getting wet through as well as wind blasted.