by Jean Chapman
He listened intently as Cannon began from the time Hoskins arrived on his bike near lunchtime, and asked no questions until he came to where they had walked the track to Sutdyke.
‘So Ford’s dog was tied up outside Mrs Spier’s cottage, and you talked to her?’ he asked. ‘What was your impression of the woman?’
‘Felt a slight sympathy for Maurice after meeting her,’ Cannon said. ‘She was at once aggressive and defensive, I thought.’
‘She’s apparently helped her son out of a few scrapes and a good many debts,’ Betterson said.
‘I’d believe that,’ Cannon said. ‘She wasn’t giving much away about him. She could be hiding him,’ he suggested.
‘We’ve got that in hand, but no sign so far,’ Betterson said, ‘but now let’s get to Ford. How, when and where you found him, and what were your impressions, your feelings about how it might have happened?’
‘Been giving it some thought.’ Cannon gave an ironic laugh and looked sympathetically at this still-serving police officer. ‘Well, as you know these things are not easily put out of your mind.’ He drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then began his story, particularly remembering the dog’s yelp, its grief. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that Ford was stabbed where he sat. He could have known his killer and been at ease in the chair until the blow was struck – and whatever was used to strike that blow also slashed the carpet, something long and sharp. It suggested a kind of sword or rapier, not things that people carry around.’ He looked up at Betterson.
‘The slash in the carpet was done by the same weapon,’ Betterson confirmed, ‘and after the murder. Ford’s blood was in the carpet fibres.’
‘Forensics must be having quite a field day,’ Cannon said.
‘Plenty of exhibits and sites for them to go at but whoever our joker is, is clever, careful,’ Betterson said. He looked directly and searchingly at Cannon. ‘But there’s one bit forensics have discovered I’d like your opinion on.’ He paused as both heard Liz coming up the stairs.
Finding both men looking directly at her as she entered the lounge, she asked, ‘Wrong moment?’, and turned to leave.
‘No, no, not for you, Liz,’ Betterson said. ‘Close the door, sit down.’
‘That makes it sound official,’ she said but did as he asked.
‘This information is still under wraps as far as anyone else, particularly the press, is concerned,’ Betterson said. ‘The deerstalker hat which, as Ford told you, does belong to Higham …’ He paused long enough for them to know the revelation would be startling. ‘But the blood on it is that of Niall Riley.’
‘Niall Riley,’ Cannon repeated. ‘So when our murderer attacked Niall Riley he already had it with him!’
‘I’ve seen Alexander Higham,’ Betterson said, ‘and he says it could have been missing for some time. It was kept in a small open hunting lodge on the estate, where they serve breakfasts or luncheons when they have a big shoot.’
‘But …’ Liz began as Betterson’s mobile burbled.
‘Higham will have apoplexy if he doesn’t calm down,’ he added as he reached into his pocket. He took the call, listened, snapped, ‘Hold everything until I get there.’ He rose. ‘Thanks for the coffee and this informal chat.’
‘Spier?’ Cannon asked.
Betterson pursed his lips and nodded, but whether it was confirmation or goodbye Cannon was not certain.
Cannon saw him out, quickly checked Alamat was OK, found the normal evening demand for bar meals had not begun, and ran back upstairs. He needed to come to terms with this new info from Betterson, find some strands to grasp and follow.
Liz sat waiting for him. On the table she had placed a large piece of the white card they used for notices in the pub and three biros: red, blue, green. ‘I know you will neither hear what customers are saying to you in the bar, nor sleep later, until you’ve gone down every back alley of this whole affair,’ she said, indicating the card and biros. ‘But do you want to go this far?’
‘The old bubble logic,’ Cannon said with a brief laugh, but picked up the red biro used for case certainties, the green being for suppositions and blue for impending action. ‘Seems a bit presumptive,’ he said.
‘DI Betterson came to hear your presumptions,’ Liz said.
At the top left-hand corner of the card he drew a red circle and in it wrote ‘Higham’s troubles’ then in the middle of the paper two more circles and in the first wrote ‘Niall Riley murdered day after 1st quiz night’ and in the second ‘Dick Ford murdered day after 2nd quiz night’.
Liz watched without commenting as he added a smaller circle under each of these two. Under Riley’s bubble he added ‘Spier goes missing’ and under Ford’s ‘Ford comes to Trap with deerstalker soaked in Riley’s blood’. Under that he wrote ‘Ford’s dog tied up at Spier’s mother’s cottage’. He turned to see a stern critical look on Liz’s face. ‘You are thinking?’ he asked.
‘You specify the two quiz nights, but you do not specify that Higham’s troubles started way before either of those events,’ she said.
‘Right.’ He turned back and added ‘both before and after quiz started’ under ‘Higham’s troubles’.
‘Long before,’ Liz specified.
He shrugged and added the word. ‘There’s a link we’re missing,’ he stated. ‘All these events are tied together by … what?’
‘It’s usually something we know but haven’t seen, haven’t realized the significance of,’ Liz said.
‘I suppose I ought to put Hoskins in. It was his instincts that led us to finding the camera in the tree, which no one seemed to know anything about, and which disappeared before anyone else could see it. Then he made the connection between the dog lead in Riley’s hand and the lead laid out outside Ford’s garage.’ His hand hovered as if about to draw another red circle.
‘No, don’t,’ Liz said, ‘it feels like you’d be …’
‘What?’ he questioned.
‘Putting him in the frame,’ she said, then added quietly, ‘to be the next victim.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ he said.
‘But the facts are,’ she asserted, ‘he’s been around on the Higham estate more than Riley ever was, and probably nearly as much as Ford was. He has to be vulnerable.’
‘Not a word I would normally associate with Alan Hoskins,’ Cannon said.
‘Look,’ Liz urged, ‘say Ford and Riley were both killed because they accidentally saw something or someone they shouldn’t, then Hoskins must be putting himself at terrible risk. He’s in those woods all the time,’ she said.
‘He was asked by Higham to help Ford,’ Cannon stated.
They were silent for a moment, then Liz said, ‘I also think we should withdraw our team from the quiz.’
Cannon looked at the grim facts he had written down: two murders, one after each quiz night. ‘I didn’t really want to carry on with the second but Mrs Riley wished us to,’ he reminded her, then tutted. ‘And I still haven’t taken the money and card to her.’
‘No, and we still haven’t begun to understand what’s really happening.’ She indicated what he had written down so far. ‘And won’t do until we understand why Alexander Higham is being targeted. How much longer is he to be tormented before the coup de grâce is administered? Shouldn’t we talk around that?’
Cannon did not voice his thought that for someone who had told him to make his statement and be away, she had changed her tune.
‘All this mischief,’ she went on, ‘his garden dug up in Kent, his car vandalized in London, his dogs shut up or tied up at The Grange, a man near retiring age with a dependent wife and disabled son murdered on the edge of his land, now his gamekeeper. There must be clues in all this we are missing.’ She looked fiercely at John, repeating ‘must be’.
‘One thing keeps coming back to my mind, over and over,’ Cannon said, ‘though it doesn’t supply any answers.’
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s that dee
p cut across Ford’s carpet, a kind of …’ He stood up and swung his arm with force at full stretch, as if making a sweeping cut. ‘I can’t think of anyone being able to make such a straight deep cut with anything other than a –’ Cannon swung his arm again ‘– a sword, a rapier.’
‘A carpet fitter’s knife would do it easily enough,’ Liz suggested, but …’
‘The weapon was also capable of dealing a single fatal blow to the heart.’ Cannon paused then pointed at her, a direct gesture, amounting to an appeal; like he had often made in their Met conference days. ‘And remember the graffiti, the drawing on the car, there was something about that …’
Liz was silent thinking about this. ‘I know what you mean,’ she agreed. ‘Sure swift strokes, such as if I was working on a big canvas, I might have stepped back and used an extra long brush for.’ She demonstrated what she meant.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a possible connection, but where does that get us? It’s not easy to conceal a sword, or even a long knife anywhere, let alone cart it around, use in London then in Lincolnshire.’
‘I suppose forensics would have no trouble in proving the same implement was used to do both things,’ she said.
‘I guess Higham had his car resprayed long enough ago, though if they knew what they were looking for …’
‘All a bit outside our area these days,’ she said, then shook her head, ‘and I’m the one who is supposed to be glad about that!’
They both started as the bell from bar to lounge rang, the signal that the pub was getting busy and the person behind the counter needed some help.
They rose as one, aware they had completely forgotten that Alamat was alone and probably trying valiantly to cope with bar and kitchen.
Their arrival was greeted by an ironic cheer from customers waiting to be served. It was with a pang of concern that Cannon noticed Hoskins was not in his usual seat, and knew if he did not turn up he would have to go and see if he was OK. However, with the majority of those waiting served, the bar door opened again and Hoskins walked in. He was late, Cannon thought, but after the events of the day perhaps it was surprising he had turned out at all.
Cannon watched him thread his way through to his usual pew seat next to the bar, and as soon as he could, made his way to him. ‘The usual,’ he said from force of habit, more than a need to ask, and reached for Hoskins’ tankard from the shelf above his head.
‘No, Hoskins said. ‘I’ll have a brandy.’
Cannon looked at him in concern. ‘You feeling all right? Nothing’s happened, has it?’
Hoskins shrugged. ‘You’d better have one on me tonight,’ he said. ‘You’ve drawn me plenty of free pints in the past.’
‘Come into money?’ Cannon asked.
To his surprise, Hoskins nodded.
‘Had a message to go up to the big house,’ he said. ‘Mr Higham’s in bits about Ford – the police had not been long gone.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small roll of notes. ‘He’s asked me to act as temporary gamekeeper,’ he said, ‘keep an eye on everything in the woods. Cash in hand every week.’
Chapter 10
From the moment Cannon saw the roll of notes in Hoskins’ hand, he felt he was probably on a losing wicket. Then when the old boy lifted the brandy glass to his lips and said, ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, what-ho!’, he knew it.
Cannon had still followed him out to his bike at closing time and held on to the handlebars while he put the facts to him again forcibly.
‘You think I’m going forget Dick Ford sitting in that chair,’ Hoskins protested, ‘then there’s Niall Riley, both hard-working lads all their lives. If I can do anything to help catch whoever murdered them I will,’ he declared, adding, ‘and I tell you another thing, if it’s one man done both, he killed ’em for very different reasons.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Cannon asked, taken unawares by the judgement.
‘He were mad with Riley, punished and beat ’im, but just wanted rid of Ford, one blow and off,’ Hoskins said, finally mounting his bike. He rode away but still had one more thing to say, calling back, ‘Anyway, no one knows those woods like I do.’
Waking the next morning, Hoskins’ words were the first thing that came into his mind. ‘I’ll go and see Higham,’ Cannon decided out loud. By his side, Liz stirred.
‘Good morning to you too,’ she said sleepily. ‘So see Higham about what?’
‘Taking Hoskins off his payroll.’
‘He’d never forgive you,’ Liz said, ‘being paid to gamekeep over a patch he’s poached for years!’
‘I’d hate to find him …’ He went no further on that, deciding instead, ‘Perhaps a better option might be to walk over to see Paul and Helen. I can tell Paul we’ve decided to drop The Trap team from the quiz and talk to Helen about Hoskins. The police would then at least know what he’s doing.’
When he arrived at the bungalow tucked behind the sand dunes, he found Paul looking as casually elegant as ever in green cords and sweater, though he was clearly in charge of his son; the washing machine was spinning its load, and there was a large sketch pad on the table. Nothing, it seemed, was being neglected.
‘Ah!’ He greeted Cannon with a bow. ‘To adult conversation, welcome,’ adding to his attentive son, ‘We’ve acquired a helper, young man.’
John Paul was just as delighted to see the visitor and tottered towards him, arms raised. Cannon swept him up and raised him high.
‘No wonder you’re such a hit with him,’ Paul said, then asked, ‘Coffee?’
‘Helen on duty?’ Cannon wanted to know.
‘All hours. This man Spier being missing is muddying the waters. They have around-the-clock surveillance on the mother and wife, but you’ll know what that’s costing in slender resources.’
‘They just have to find him and rule him out,’ Cannon said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t put him down for Dick Ford’s murder: it was just too sophisticated.’
‘That must have been a terrible shock for you and old Hoskins,’ Paul said, taking John Paul. Then looking at him more searchingly, he asked, ‘So what brings you here this early on a working day?’
‘One, to tell you that I feel we should drop out of the quiz,’ he said.
Paul pursed his lips and nodded. ‘And the important thing?’
‘You know me too well,’ Cannon said and told him of his concerns about Hoskins.
‘The only comfort I can offer is that I understand Higham is hiring more private security, and thinking of sending his wife and daughter off to stay with his son who lives and works in Oslo.’
‘Is he going himself?’ Cannon asked.
Paul shrugged. ‘Can’t imagine him letting them travel out alone, he’s very protective of that daughter of his. Like Riley was with his son. Strange that, both having disabled children.’
Cannon frowned as a thought flickered but for the moment refused to be caught and kindled. Then as young John Paul struggled in his father’s arms, wanting to go back to him, he remembered what it was. Taking the baby boy, who squealed with laughter as Cannon raised him arms high and waggled him about, Cannon knew it was the mention of disabled children sparking the memory of Liz’s story of the brothers, one disabled and the other winning cups at a swimming gala and deliberately leaving them behind.
Giving John Paul another hoist into the air, he had to raise his voice above the child’s laughter as he told him, ‘Your daddy’s a lucky chap, and unless he’s forgotten he’s going to make me a cup of coffee.’
‘So that’s what you came for,’ Paul said, and had just clicked on the kettle when the front doorbell went again. ‘My morning for early callers,’ he said and went to answer it. Listening, Cannon heard another man’s voice, surprise in Paul’s greeting – surprise and welcome. ‘Come in, come in, I’m really pleased to see you again. How are things going with you? Come through. I’ve another friend here.’
The young man who walked in was a tall, well-developed young man with a mass
of black hair cut very short, probably, Cannon thought, to stop it curling. Cannon knew he had never met him before yet there was something familiar about him.
‘John, this is Toby Higham,’ Paul said. ‘Toby, John Cannon, landlord of The Trap public house.’
‘Ah! Yes, if I’m in this country long enough we must become better acquainted.’ The young man’s smile was disarming, and there was no mistaking whose son he was; as age mellowed him he would be the image of his father. The bearing, the self-assurance were already there.
‘Toby came and looked over my shoulder when I was out on the marshes painting,’ Paul said and nodding at Cannon added, ‘He works in the arts, currently at the Academy in Oslo.’ He turned back to Toby. ‘You are still there?’
‘Very much so, working on a music and digital photo-paintings production for Norwegian television at the moment, quite excited about that.’
‘You will gather he is not into landscape and watercolours,’ Paul told Cannon, then turning to the young man asked, ‘Good of you to look me up. Coffee?’
‘Please. I have to admit I’m using you as a retreat. I just had to get out of the house for a bit, away from my father. Talk to someone about something other than murder and mayhem.’
Neither men answered.
‘Sorry,’ Toby Higham apologized, ‘in the circumstances that was in very bad taste. It’s just that all my life I seem to have been living in one or other of my father’s crises.’
‘How far back do these crises go?’ Cannon asked.
‘Oooh!’ There was impatience in Toby Higham’s exclamation. ‘My father’s just that kind of man. He was more relaxed, more fun, I suppose, before Catherine was diagnosed with a problem, but since the moment she was, he’s spent his life – all our lives – trying to compensate, as if it was his fault, or our fault!’
‘Compensate?’ Cannon queried.
‘Yes,’ Toby confirmed vehemently, but gave no further explanation.
‘But the incidents involving the police, did they start when your sister was … diagnosed?’ Cannon asked.
‘No, no,’ Toby said, ‘those started, I should say, about the time I graduated from East Anglia University, but then I went on to Oslo University to study there, so really I only heard about the occurrences. I didn’t experience them first hand, just suffered them at a distance.’ He shook his head. ‘I know I should be more tolerant, but my father is a stubborn man. I wanted him to let Catherine come to Oslo to live with me; she has a gift for music and colour. Her speech makes her seem a much less clever girl than she actually is, and when she’s focused her movements are so much better.’
