by Jean Chapman
‘Mrs Spier said her husband did not go home on Monday,’ Liz reminded him. ‘So where did he spend that night?’
‘When I asked the same question, Russell shrugged, said Spier often played poker all night when he’d got money, or the others would accept his IOUs.’
There was silence as each thought over the facts. ‘We know Higham is safely home,’ Liz said, ‘and you’ve delivered our team to their homes.’
‘Forensics will have the deerstalker by now. You say Ford was convinced it belonged to his employer,’ Cannon said, adding, ‘but we can say it’s definitely not Higham blood.’
‘So whose blood is it?’ Liz asked.
‘Could be an animal’s,’ Cannon said, ‘but certainly meant as another frightener.’
‘And the warnings, threats, frighteners – whatever you care to call them – are getting more pointed, more directed at Higham personally,’ Liz reflected. ‘I’m not surprised he’s getting neurotic about it all.’
Chapter 8
The next morning Cannon was just leaving to take the collection and card to Niall’s widow when the sound of someone dismounting from a bicycle drew him to the front of the pub car park.
‘Morning, Alan,’ he called. ‘Everything all right?’
Hoskins leaned his bike against one of the pub flower tubs and shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ he said, ‘and not sure what I should do, so came to see you. Dick Ford said to go and see him this morning at eleven but his vehicle’s gone and his dog and …’
‘He’ll be out and about on the estate,’ Cannon said and couldn’t see why Hoskins was so concerned. He consulted his watch: it was nearly twelve. Ford, like Hoskins, lived on his own – Ford a bachelor, Hoskins a long-term widower – so mealtimes were probably very flexible for both. Cannon wanted to arrive at Mrs Riley’s before he might interfere with their midday meal, yet with just a decent amount of time to fulfil his commitment without haste.
Hoskins scowled and kicked at a loose stone.
‘Something else bothering you?’ Cannon asked.
‘The dog’s lead,’ he said, ‘it’s on the floor outside the shed where it sleeps – with the collar still attached – sort of stretched out full length.’
The image from the sand dunes was vivid in Cannon’s mind; an icy chill ran over his back.
‘Isn’t that how Riley’s dog’s collar…?’ Hoskins went on.
‘Yes,’ Cannon said. ‘Come on, we’ll go back now. Push your bike round the side.’
The gamekeeper’s cottage was on a grass-rutted track well into the woods. It must have been built at the same time as the big Georgian house, but while that was grand, this was quaint. It had small, triangular, leaded-light windows, was thatched with Norfolk reeds and, Cannon thought, if it was as quaint inside it must be hell to live in. Even from the outside it had the air of a place occupied by a man on his own. The wood-stack was ordered and neat but from a clothes-line strung from two trees hung an assortment of washing – large garments thrown over it and smaller pegged on to it – and all anyhow.
Cannon tried the door, tried to peer through the windows, but it was obviously a while since they had been cleaned. Hoskins prowled around the outplaces. They finished up together looking down at the collar and lead. Just as Hoskins had said, it was stretched out to its fullest extent, the collar still fastened as if, like Patch, the dog had slipped it and fled. The difference: there was no battered corpse holding the lead.
‘That’s more laid out than dropped,’ Hoskins stated.
Cannon growled agreement.
‘Ford asks me to come and see him at a set time.’ Hoskins shook his head. ‘It’s not like him, and I don’t like that!’ He pushed a foot towards the lead. ‘Then there’s the doll and—’
‘Yes,’ Cannon agreed, ‘and quite a few other things.’ He looked back at the deserted cottage and another cold sensation ran over his skin. All this was confirming his – and Betterson’s – feelings. This had the hallmarks of what in his official days he would have called a far from straightforward case, and which now he labelled weird, bloody weird.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’ll have a look round for Ford. Do you know the track Spier would have taken through the estate as a shortcut to his mother’s?’ he asked.
‘Thought we were looking for Ford,’ Hoskins said.
‘Combine the two,’ Cannon answered, leading the way back to his jeep. Ever since he had heard of Spier’s shortcut he had itched to walk it; now he had an excuse. Ford, after all, could be anywhere.
Hoskins directed him to the north side of The Wash. ‘It’s along ’ere,’ he said, as soon as Boston appeared on the signposts. ‘Keep right. This side of the estate stretches as far as this road, then you can walk through to Sutdyke. Spier’s mother still lives on her own in the same cottage where he was born. Whatever her son does, or wants, Mavis Moyes says she’s always pleased to see the lad. He’s the only relation she has in the world.’
Cannon was always aware how lonely Hoskins’ life could also be. The Trap was a big part of his life, and for this reason Cannon had long ago stopped resenting the fact that not only was Hoskins his first customer of an evening but that he was invariably the last, often finally leaving with a small parcel of something from the kitchen Liz had found for his supper.
‘Ah!’ Hoskins exclaimed in annoyance as they rounded a bend. ‘The police are ’ere.’
Cannon drove slowly past the police tape blowing from one side of a hedge bordering a footpath. ‘Looks to me as if that bit of tape got overlooked,’ Cannon said. ‘Think they’ve been and gone.’
‘Drive on a bit in case,’ Hoskins said. ‘There’s another way in.’
A hundred yards further on he indicated where Cannon should park. ‘You’ll get in behind that group of trees; it’s like advertising “Here’s John Cannon” when you’re around in this thing.’
‘You speak of the vehicle I love,’ Cannon told him.
‘Aye, well, we all ’ave our weaknesses,’ Hoskins said as he climbed out. ‘Come on.’ It was all he said as he led the way; the one place the old poacher did not chat was in the woods. Long practice had given him speed and stealth and Cannon had difficulty keeping up as he followed along a virtual tunnel of low-hanging branches. He became so dazzled by the low sun glinting in and out through the canopy of autumn leaves he almost walked into the back of Hoskins when he did stop.
They had reached the main track, and it was clear to both of them that the police had made a wide and thorough search here, for the undergrowth either side of the track showed evidence of disturbance. Cannon was pretty sure they weren’t going to find any nasty surprises as they set off along this pathway. He had too much respect for Betterson and his men to think anything, or anybody, might have been overlooked.
He was wondering how long it might take to walk Spier’s shortcut, and whether he should phone Liz, then was relieved to see that the trees were thinning and soon he could see a road beyond.
‘Mrs Spier lives at the first cottage we come to,’ Hoskins said as he climbed the stile out of the wood, and indicated the row of small white terraced cottages on the edge of Sutdyke village. ’Are you going to knock at her door?’ he asked.
‘The police will have interviewed her,’ Cannon said, ‘and if they found no trace of her son and we’ve not found Ford …’
‘Well, I’m not coming for nothing,’ Hoskins said. ‘There’s one of the best fish and chip shops around these parts at the other end of the cottages. Greeks, they are, know how to cook. Reckon I could eat my lunch as we walk back.’
‘OK,’ Cannon agreed, ‘you walk on.’
‘Want some?’ Hoskins asked.
Cannon opened his mouth to refuse and then caught the smell of the shop. ‘Some chips then,’ he said, ‘please.’
Hoskins went ahead but got no further than the small garden to the side of the first cottage. He turned and beckoned urgently to Cannon, who frowned then hurried to where Hoskins was pointing over the gate
into the garden. A golden retriever stood tied to a line-post. It was in some distress as it had obviously gone round and round the post trying to get away and the rope that tied it now had no slack. It stood trembling, back arched, tail between its legs.
‘That’s Ford’s dog,’ Hoskins said.
‘You sure?’ Cannon questioned, but was already opening the gate to go to the dog’s rescue. ‘All right, old lad, keep still,’ he said.
Before he got to the post, the back door opened and an elderly woman came out. She was slightly stooped but Cannon would not have described her as likely to be put upon by her son or anyone else. Her iron-grey hair had that uncompromising basin-cut look, and her manner he would have described as aggressive. ‘Is it your dog?’ she demanded.
‘No, but we think we know who it does belong to,’ he said.
‘What’s it doing tied up ‘ere?’ Hoskins asked.
‘That’s what I want to know,’ she snapped. ‘Heard the thing barking early on, didn’t realize it was in my garden.’
‘Have you told anyone?’ Cannon asked. ‘Asked your neighbours?’
‘Them!’ she said. ‘No.’ Her eyes slid away from Cannon’s and she shook her head, adding, ‘Thought I’d wait a bit until it calmed down then let it go.’
‘You would know Dick Ford, Higham’s gamekeeper,’ he prompted.
Her eyes came sharply back to him, then she looked at the dog again. ‘Is it ’is?’
‘Bounder?’ Hoskins enquired of the retriever, as he opened his pocket knife and began to slice through the rope. It looked up at him and whined. ‘It’s Ford’s,’ he said. ‘We’ll take it back to him.’
‘So you’ve not seen Dick Ford?’ Cannon asked.
She shook her head. ‘No one, I’ve seen no one,’ she insisted.
‘Is there any news of your son?’ he asked.
‘What d’you know about my son?’ she demanded.
‘That he’s missing,’ Cannon said mildly.
‘He’ll turn up,’ she said, tossing her head as if dismissing both her son and Cannon, then promptly went back inside, slamming the door.
‘That’s told you,’ Hoskins muttered.
‘Not exactly the anxious mother, is she?’ Cannon commented as they closed the garden gate. ‘She probably bullied Maurice, now he bullies others.’ He took the rope. ‘Go and get your dinner, but I won’t have chips; be more than we can manage, dog and packages of fish and chips.’
Cannon walked slowly back towards the stile into the woods. The dog was still trembling. ‘You’re all right now, old chap,’ Cannon reassured him, but Bounder’s tail remained well down. He explained they had to wait for Hoskins, who lived on his own, and was glad of the chance to buy fish and chips for his main meal of the day. The dog sat down but stared in the direction of the woods, leaving no doubt which way it wanted to go.
Hoskins came back already eating from his polystyrene box of goodies. He offered it to Cannon, who took a chip and said, ‘The dog seems keen to go on.’
‘Ford never goes anywhere without his dog. It’s either at his heels or in his vehicle waiting for him,’ Hoskins said.
‘So why was he tied up in Mrs Spier’s garden? Who would do that?’ Cannon wondered.
‘The same sod who’d stretch out the dog’s collar and lead like it was an exhibit,’ Hoskins said vehemently, adding, ‘somebody sick in the ’ead.’
‘We’ll take the dog home first,’ Cannon said, ‘then … well, I suppose continue looking for Ford if he’s not there.’
‘Ring his boss on your mobile,’ Hoskins suggested.
‘Could do,’ Cannon supposed.
When they reached the cottage again, both gave exclamations of satisfaction as they saw Ford’s Land Rover was back in its shed. ‘Thank goodness,’ Cannon said.
‘Come on, Bounder,’ Hoskins said, slipping off the rope and letting the dog go. ‘Where’s your master?’ It ran straight to the cottage, snuffling urgently at the bottom of the door, whining, then barking.
Both men approached the door expecting Ford to open it any second as the dog’s barking became louder, more insistent. It began to attack the bottom of the door with its claws, glancing back at them from time to time as if saying, ‘Come on, come on, what are you waiting for? There’s no time to lose.’
Cannon reached over the dog and tried the door. ‘Still locked,’ he said, ‘but if Ford’s anywhere around he must have heard us by now.’
‘Someone’s been around,’ Hoskins said, nodding towards the side of the cottage and the gamekeeper’s gibbet line. ‘There’s something on that that wasn’t there when we called before.’
Cannon didn’t wait to inspect the new exhibit and as the dog looked expectantly up at him he shoulder-charged the door. The old mortise lock didn’t give but the wood of the frame gave a loud crack, split, fell inwards, and he and the dog were inside – Cannon on hands and knees on the doormat and the dog crouched next to him.
The moment was like a hiatus, a vacuum, then facts went through his mind like photos finger-flicked across a screen: Ford’s Land Rover back in its shed; a locked door; a dog tied up at the home of a missing man, and that dog now frantic to get inside the cottage. Cannon felt speculation and knowledge fuse. At the same moment the dog startled him by suddenly yelping as if it had been kicked, then leaping over the splintered wood and disappearing into the room beyond the kitchen. Cannon followed, into a kind of small, shabby parlour.
Dick Ford was sitting in an armchair, eyes open, his blood making a great central flower on his cream check shirt. For a second Cannon thought of the doll made to look as if shot through the heart – but this was not a bullet wound. The dog went to its master, whined pitifully, then lay at Ford’s feet, not at all at ease as Cannon moved nearer to put his fingers carefully to Ford’s wrist, though he knew death when he saw it. This man had been dead some hours, probably before Hoskins had called to see him at eleven o’clock.
His heart must have stopped pumping almost immediately, Cannon thought, and from the blood splatter there was little doubt that Ford had been murdered where he now sat. A noise behind him made him turn to see Hoskins standing some feet away looking first to the gamekeeper, then to a line cut deep right across the shabby old brown fitted carpet. Cannon had not noticed it as he and the dog had come into the parlour. He went back now, seeing the sweep of the cut and where the soiled surface had parted the lighter fawn underneath. He stepped carefully over it, taking Hoskins’ arm as he swayed slightly and asked, ‘He’s …’
‘Yes, before you called the first time I would say. Nothing we can do.’ He turned the old man back towards the kitchen.
Hoskins looked back over his shoulder. ‘Bane of my life,’ he said, ‘but he didn’t deserve that, no one does, and that line, what’s that about?’
Crossing the line, going too far, were the phrases that came to Cannon’s mind. Had Ford gone too far, found out something he should not? But why had his dog been taken and tied up at the home of a missing man? Had Spier taken it there? A lot of questions to be answered. ‘I’ll ring the police,’ Cannon said.
‘What’s going to be the end of all this, John?’ Hoskins asked.
The use of Cannon’s Christian name always meant Hoskins was very deeply affected. He phoned the police, began to report all he knew to the station sergeant, who was superseded by an inspector who said help was already on its way and to remain where they were. As Cannon explained in his next call to Liz, there was little option but to do just that.
‘If we could coax the dog out of there it would be easier for the police,’ Cannon suggested.
‘If there’s another collar and lead anywhere we might have a chance of pulling it out,’ Hoskins said. ‘It ain’t going to leave ’im willing.’
The sound of police sirens gave them no time to do either. ‘They’ve diverted a patrol car,’ Cannon guessed.
The patrol officers had done no more than look into the cottage and get a brief account when scene of crime officer
s arrived to secure the site. They asked Cannon and Hoskins if they’d mind sitting in the patrol car while they waited. ‘DI Betterson is on his way.’
Taken out of the immediate zone, Hoskins suddenly gestured towards the side of the cottage. ‘Forgot about the new exhibit on the gibbet line,’ he said.
‘It’s your side,’ Cannon said, ‘can you see what it is?’
Hoskins opened the car door a fraction, leaned out and stared. ‘It’s …’ he began.
‘Yes?’ Cannon asked.
‘Another stuffed toy,’ he said, ‘a fat clown thing, dressed like a joker, bright colours, looks new.’
Chapter 9
DI Betterson threw the jester doll down on The Trap’s counter.
Cannon looked at him and raised his eyebrows. ‘So not the one from Ford’s cottage,’ he said.
‘Several supermarkets and garages around Boston have the things on offer. One of the patrol officers had this one in the back of his car to take home for his son.’
‘So that narrows the field,’ Cannon risked gently.
‘Yep,’ Betterson agreed with weary good nature, ‘our murderer shops locally. Could we …’ He nodded his head towards the stairs up to the private quarters.
‘Sure, you go up, I’ll just tell Liz, she’s in the kitchen.’
‘Don’t get more involved, John,’ she pleaded.
‘I was the first to find Ford’s body,’ he reminded her.
She scowled at him. ‘You make your statement like a good citizen, then.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘And away.’
‘When Alamat arrives let him take over in the bar and come up.’ He headed towards the stairs. ‘Always did like to have you in on crime conferences in our Met days.’
Her scowl deepened.
‘By my side,’ he added, ‘as always.’
‘Right,’ she said huskily.
Upstairs he indicated the kettle and cups. ‘Coffee or tea?’ he enquired.
‘Coffee, please,’ Betterson said. ‘I wondered if you’d mind just telling me what happened today, and I’ll get a formal statement taken later.’
