by Jean Chapman
At that precise moment Liz raised her arm and pointed to the sea end of the miniature ravine where darting black shapes appeared and disappeared in and out of the gully.
‘Children,’ he said, ‘playing in the water.’
As they got nearer they could see that there was a small group of nine- or ten-year-old boys, who were throwing objects at something in the water. As they got nearer he could hear them shouting and screaming, egging each other on, running to find more pieces of driftwood, and Cannon had a terrible premonition that he knew what they were aiming at.
He ran, shouting, towards them. They were so intent on their occupation that they neither heard nor saw him until he was nearly on top of them. Then they saw his anger and ran, one shouting back, ‘It tried to bite me!’ as if it justified the torment.
‘I’ll bite you if you don’t clear off!’ Cannon bellowed after them.
The dog lay on a small island in the middle of the gully, wet through, shivering, trembling, bits of driftwood all around it and floating away on the current to the sea.
Cannon was immediately in the water, wading towards the dog, talking to it, calling it by its name.
Only its eyes moved as he neared it. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he told it, ‘I’ll take you back to Timmy. Timmy,’ he repeated louder as the dog’s ears lifted a fraction at the name. ‘Come on, then, home to Timmy.’
Liz was in the water now, by his side.
‘It’s run itself off its legs,’ Cannon said. ‘I’ll have to carry it.’
Gently, cautiously, talking to the collie all the time, and with a fleeting thought that he wished he’d put gloves on – farm collies he’d known had been a bit inclined to nip if displeased – but he slid his arms under the soaked bundle of fur and lifted.
‘Those little …’ Liz began with feeling. ‘Is it hurt?’
‘Not sure,’ he said as he waded towards the sea and a less steep climb out, adding, ‘At least we’ll have the wind behind us on the way back.’
‘You’ll not be able to carry it all the way, will you?’
‘Not sure, or how comfortable it is,’ he said. He had one arm under its chest, its front legs dangling and the other under its back quarters, legs tucked up.
‘That’s about the best you can do,’ she said, and as if in agreement Patch turned his head in towards Cannon’s chest.
He was glad Liz didn’t talk any more, he hadn’t the breath. The full-grown dog was a good weight but he managed to carry it all the way back to the stile over into the meadows, then he had to rest.
‘Let me get over first and you can pass Patch to me,’ Liz suggested.
‘Tie the string around its neck first,’ Cannon said, resting his arms and the dog on the stile. ‘Don’t want to lose him now.’
‘Poor old boy,’ she said, and as Cannon regained his breath he hoped she meant the dog.
‘Put him down a minute now,’ he said, still leaning on the far side of the stile to take a breather, ‘but keep hold of the string just in case.’ The dog just lay in the grass and its head moved uncertainly along its foreleg as if it could find no rest, no comfort.
This dog and Timmy needed each other, and Cannon did not want to linger; the warmth that had built up between him and the dog soon ebbed away, and all three of them were wet through.
‘You go on,’ he told Liz, ‘get out of your wet clothes.’ She waited until he was ready to pick up the dog again then ran ahead.
By the time he arrived at the pub Liz had one of the big bar pew-seat cushions covered with old towels in front of the Aga, and the kettle was boiling.
‘Go and get changed,’ he ordered as he laid the dog on the towels, ‘then I will.’
While Liz was still upstairs, Cannon made a call to Helen to say they had found Patch and he would return him to Timmy shortly, if she was all right with that.
‘Anything to ease the –’ The word ‘child’ hovered but was changed to ‘the man’s distress’. ‘Mrs Riley has been taken to identify the body, her sister is with Timmy.’
It was Cannon who an hour and a half later came back from the Riley house feeling traumatized. He saw that the bar was not over-busy and the normal buzz of conversation was subdued. He guessed there’d be all kinds of speculations being made. He was not anxious to be drawn into any of them. He showed his face at the entrance to the bar; Liz saw him, nodded, and left Alamat in charge.
‘So …’ she said, assessing how he looked.
‘It was awful. Like having your heart cut out,’ he said. ‘For a start the dog got out of the car himself as soon as I opened the door. He was a bit stiff but he walked into the house past Mrs Riley’s sister and went into the lounge. Timmy was slumped on the settee, a picture of misery. The dog went to him, licked his hand then climbed up on to the settee by him. Timmy, well … he just beamed, then told the dog off, wagging a finger at him schoolmaster-style, his arm around his neck, loving him all the time. Told his Aunt Christine that Patch wanted his tea.
‘We all went into the kitchen and while Timmy and his aunt found the dog food, Patch went to his water bowl and had a good long drink. It was then I noticed something hanging from his mouth.’ He put a hand into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag; inside it was a black thread about four inches long. ‘It was fast between his front teeth.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Liz asked.
‘Well, if someone attacks its master I would think the dog would have a go.’ He held up the bag. ‘This could be from the attacker’s clothing.’
‘It could be from that boy’s clothes who said it had bitten him,’ Liz said, examining the thread. ‘Though that doesn’t look like a material used for a boy’s clothing these days, looks more like a linen thread.’
‘I’ll mention what you say,’ he said as they both pondered the forensics and the protocol of evidence in plastic food bags collected by a civilian even though he was an ex-Met inspector. Liz commented that if the dog had bit the assailant he should hopefully have the teeth marks to prove it.
‘Then,’ he said, pausing to draw in a long breath and exhale sharply, ‘I was just leaving when Mrs Riley arrived back. Timmy overwhelmed her with his talk of Patch and how he had been for a long walk on the beach and been late for his tea. His aunt tactfully took him to fill up the dog’s biscuit bowl. Mrs Riley told me she would have known her Niall anywhere by his hands, good hands, she said, hands that worked and loved.’
‘Oh dear.’ Liz went round to him, leaned over and tenderly put her arms around him.
‘You’d think,’ he said, ‘we’d get some immunity to emotion, all that we’ve seen in our time.’
‘Heaven help us if we ever do,’ she said quietly.
‘I keep wondering what else I can do?’ he said.
‘All you can do now is ring Helen, tell her about this –’ She pointed to the plastic bag ‘– and if you don’t want to face the curious lot in the bar, Alamat and I will manage.’
‘Well …’ He turned and caught her hands. ‘Well … that’s … Thanks.’
‘Ring Helen while I’m still here, see what she says.’
He got through on her mobile quite quickly but he did not do much talking, more listening and making a few exclamations of surprise. When he rang off he sat without speaking.
‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.
‘Helen’s been taken off the case, and suspended from duty,’ he said.
Chapter 4
‘It’s my fault, must be,’ Paul said. ‘I overreacted last night in the pub.’
‘Having friends who run licensed premises has always been an issue to the police,’ Cannon said, making a gesture towards his still-empty bar, ‘plus the murdered man being a customer.’
‘And I did walk our dog along the same stretch of beach much earlier than you were out running,’ Paul added.
‘Our spaniel would be far more interested in the water than smelling anything out in the dunes,’ Helen said, ‘and as far as the police are co
ncerned it’s a matter of expediency.’
‘You say that, but what if the newspapers pick up the fact you’ve been suspended?’ Paul asked angrily. ‘What will they make of it?’
‘They could of course make just as big a story if Helen was kept on the case,’ Liz reflected, and they all fell silent before being brought back to the present by the sound of the front doors opening and closing.
Alan Hoskins pushed his way through the swing doors in clothes that would not just blend with the marshes but looked as if they were made from the very greens and browns of the landscape. His pullover was Fair Isle of long-faded browns, nondescript khaki cords, greenish jacket and all telling much of his long status as a solitary widower. His hair, in contrast, as he pulled off an ancient check cap, was snow-white, and his weathered cheeks clean shaven.
‘Hello, what are you lot plotting?’ he said, then looking at Helen added, ‘Should’ve thought you’d be raking in the overtime.’
Helen sighed and looked at Cannon who pulled a wry face. ‘Contrary to appearances, I’d trust him with my life.’
‘We both have in the past,’ Liz added, and Helen told him the situation.
Hoskins frowned, dropped his gaze and looked like he was about to say quite a lot but then changed his mind.
‘Pull the man a pint, landlord,’ Paul said, putting his hand in his pocket, ‘then I think it’s best if we go.’
During the evening’s trade, Cannon was to shake his head and say many times that he had heard no more and knew no more, but he also became quite convinced that Hoskins knew something, sitting in his pew seat at the far end of the bar and for once saying very little.
The regulars decided to set up a fund for Mrs Riley – ‘the least we can do’ – and asked Cannon to put a beer glass on the counter, and as this began to fill with fivers and pound coins, Cannon noted that Hoskins put into the glass but did not drink his normal amount of pints. He refilled the old boy’s tankard and found himself impatient for the rest of his customers to leave. Hoskins was invariably last.
‘So?’ he said, as he finished collecting glasses from the bar. Liz, who had raised her eyebrows and drawn attention to Hoskins several times during the evening, moved closer on the other side of the counter.
Hoskins cleared his throat. ‘You know I’m out and about quite a lot,’ he said.
‘Keeping an eye on the wildlife in the area,’ Cannon said. ‘Yes, we know. Go on.’
‘Aye, well, the biggest estate in the area is now in the hands of the Highams. They’re brewers and going into wine-growing down south, I hear. There’s two sons and a daughter, one son away, the other not long married but following his father in the business. The young daughter’s at home.’ He paused then added, ‘There’s been some strange things going on up there. I would have said it was village kids or someone who resented a wealthy man coming into the area and having a lot to say about local affairs. He goes to all the council meetings,’ he added significantly, as if this was the height of interference. ‘But now Niall Riley’s been killed that puts a different light on things, and I wonder if he’d seen something, or someone, he wasn’t supposed to. Those dunes where he was found, at the far side of Sea Lane, border the Higham estate.’
‘Not something many would know,’ Cannon began, ‘though the police would …’ but Hoskins had not finished.
‘Then their gamekeeper came to see me,’ he added.
‘The Higham gamekeeper?’ Liz was surprised. ‘He’s said to keep himself to himself.’
Hoskins nodded. ‘Ford, Dick Ford. He knows me well enough, of course.’
Cannon also nodded. He supposed anyone who lived in the area knew Alan Hoskins. A good many relied on him for a cheap meal of rabbit when their money was low. When crows or pigeons needed thinning out, the local farmers and landowners were not above paying for his services. He would not be sought out by gamekeepers at this time of year, when everything that ran on or flew over their land would be preserved for official shooting parties.
‘Ford asked me if I’d keep a lookout when I was over that way. They’d had several strange things happen, both on the estate and near the house. For a start the house dogs have gone missing: twice they were found locked in outhouses on the estate, and then once they had been tied up to one of those big stone urns in The Grange gardens. Mr Higham was not amused; he enjoys walking his dogs when he’s at home. Everyone was questioned but none of the men, or the family, admitted knowing anything about it. I felt with Ford asking me to keep a lookout I could spend more time up there without worrying, so I did, but …’ He paused, half shrugged, half shuddered. ‘The strange thing was I felt watched. I never saw anybody, mind, but it was strange.’
‘I would have thought Higham would have contacted the police,’ Liz said.
Hoskins shrugged. ‘Ford was very uneasy, then today he comes to see me again, this time with a bag in his hand. He still follows the old practice of having a gibbet outside his cottage, a wire where he hangs the corpses of any crows he shoots. They used to say it was a warning for other predators to keep away. I think it’s to show the gamekeeper’s doing his job.’
‘So this bag?’ Cannon queried, wanting to offer him another drink on the house, but he had to ride his bicycle home and there had been one or two mishaps in the past.
‘He brought something he’d found on his gibbet to show me. It was an old doll dressed like a man and someone had not only strung it up by its neck but had gone to the trouble of making it look as if it had been shot through the heart.’
‘How had that been done?’ Liz asked.
‘The hole must have been burnt through with a metal rod,’ Hoskins said. ‘It was a neat job.’
‘What happened to the doll?’ Cannon asked, this lining up in his mind with the black thread from the dog’s mouth as possible evidence.
‘Ford took it back – he intended to show it to Mr Higham when he got back. He was down in Kent apparently buying more land.’
‘So?’ Liz questioned when they had seen Hoskins off and locked up.
‘And so –’ Cannon tried to divert her ‘– to bed, I should think.’
‘And tomorrow morning’s run will be?’ she persisted. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
‘If Alan Hoskins thinks he is being watched I would say the chances are he’s right. I’ve never known his instincts let him down, have you?’
She searched for an answer that was not completely on Cannon’s side, that might keep him out of this latest trouble, and then she struggled in his arms.
‘Just forbid me to go,’ he said. ‘That’s all you have to do.’
‘And have you prowling about like a caged lion?’
‘So you prefer the free spirited version?’
‘Sit down.’ She pushed him towards his chair.
‘I find tea an aphrodisiac,’ he warned.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘On second thoughts, you can make it and bring me mine upstairs. Look at the time.’
The following morning she watched him from their bedroom window as he set off for his run. Somewhat to her annoyance, he turned and waved. Was she that predictable?
He gave her a second wave and set off at a good pace. He wanted to have as much time as possible to explore the Higham woods where Hoskins had felt watched.
As he neared the footpath from Sea Lane to the beach, Cannon could see the blue and white police tape blowing up from behind the dunes. He ran on at the edge of the sea, just keeping beyond the reach of the last ripple as it subsided and drew back. He wondered where the nervy guy with the two Alsatians was walking this morning.
When he reached the area where the Higham estate began, the random pattern of natural pines was replaced by copses of silver birch and larch through which he began to see lawns spaced with even older, more majestic trees, oaks, copper beeches, chestnuts and finally The Grange. He began to have the same sensation as Hoskins. He felt watched.
He moved back and studied the grounds more carefully. He was way
out of reach of any security cameras on the house. He could see no one, hear no dogs, but there was a path of a kind. The gamekeeper must walk the woods regularly and possibly kept to certain ways. He went on again and still felt watched. He told himself to do what Hoskins did: trust his instincts.
Suddenly the feeling came over him most strongly. He swung around sharply to see if he could catch someone – and felt a fool. He was alone in these trees, of that he was sure, so why … and then he saw it, a tiny glint from the fork of an ancient silver birch. Binoculars, the light catching a lens?
He moved slowly, looked back, and could still see that pinpoint of light as if the lens were following him. So now he chose a line which described a circle around the spot, then went in quickly to where he thought the secret watcher might be – but there was no one there. Then he saw the gleam again and located it more accurately in the first division of the tree’s branches.
Not a person but a video camera. He was being watched, recorded. He moved to the back of the camera: it was a sophisticated affair, up to the minute, protected from the weather. Not, he felt, done by an amateur yet – He turned to look around and nearly jumped out of his skin; a man stood leaning on a tree some twenty yards from him, watching.
‘Hoskins,’ he hissed, ‘you bloody idiot. What are you doing?’
‘Could ask you the same,’ Hoskins whispered, then asked, ‘what’ve you found?’
Cannon showed him.
Hoskins swore under his breath. ‘I knew someone was watching,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of ’ere.’
He led the way, muttering that he didn’t mind keeping an eye out for somebody but damned if he was going to be spied on while doing it and he’d tell Dick Ford as much.
Chapter 5
For the only time Cannon could remember, the man who walked into the bar of The Trap first that evening was not Hoskins.
Cannon, still in the leather apron he wore for cellar work, appraised the well- built, grey-haired, distinguished-looking man. Springing mass of grey-black hair, in his sixties, probably, but fit and robust. Cannon was himself being as keenly assessed.
