An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  Shand could see the logic. He could also imagine Bill Acomb’s reaction – interfering townies imposing their standards where they weren’t wanted.

  “And, of course, limit the use of those infernal pesticides. Do you know there are days when I can’t leave my house? What with the smell of chemicals in the air and my allergies, I fear for the health of the entire village. Spraying chemicals should have been banned years ago, don’t you agree?”

  “Quite,” said Shand. “This Mr. Marsh. Could there have been a relationship between him and Annabel?”

  “Chief inspector, Gabe Marsh is genetically incapable of having a relationship. He’s a terrible flirt and probably has a harem stashed away in London. I’ve never seen him bring the same girl twice to the village.”

  Harem? In London? Shand’s attention wandered as his inner cuckold conjured scenes of red velvet curtains, wall-to-wall beds, swarthy Gabriels, Anne … and Shand the eunuch standing in the corner waving a palm frond.

  “He’s a ladies’ man?” asked Taylor.

  “With the emphasis on the plural, sergeant. Not that he can help it. He’s a congenital flirt. And it’s part of his charm, though nobody in their right mind would ever take him seriously. Certainly not Annabel.”

  “What about … Gabriel?” Shand almost said Anne, but stopped himself in time. “Is Gabriel the jealous type?”

  “No. He liked to show Annabel off. I think he would have been offended if Gabe hadn’t tried to chat her up. But he and Gabe go back a long way. Neither would hurt the other.”

  “What was the Marchant’s marriage like?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “Happy, I’d say.”

  “You don’t sound that confident.”

  “It’s not something I’m comfortable discussing. I’m sure they had their problems. Who doesn’t? But I know that most of the time Annabel was happy. If she hadn’t been, I’d have noticed.”

  “Is there anyone else Annabel might have confided in?”

  “Annabel was not the confiding type, chief inspector.”

  “What kind of woman was she?”

  She thought for a while before answering. “A born organiser, I’d say. Bags of confidence and immense energy. There was a lot of good in her, chief inspector. I know that some people found her bossy and abrasive, but she really did mean well.”

  ~

  Outside, Shand read through the phone logs again. The wind was picking up and the papers flapped in his hand.

  “Shouldn’t we have a look at this Gabe Marsh?” asked Taylor.

  “Not yet,” said Shand, suddenly noticing something. “There’s someone we need to see first.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gabriel Marchant reluctantly led them into his sitting room. “It’s the police, darling,” he said to his daughter.

  “My condolences, Miss Marchant,” said Shand. The girl barely looked at him, mumbling an acknowledgement before looking away, her long brown hair covering most of her face.

  She’d been crying. That much Shand could see. Not that anyone could miss the red eyes, even under all that fringe.

  Shand turned to Gabriel Marchant. “Perhaps the sergeant and Miss Marchant could make everyone some tea?” he said pointedly.

  The girl looked up. “Da-ad,” she said, looking daggers at her father.

  Marchant hesitated. “Yes, darling. I think that might be best.”

  Taylor led the girl away, attempting to put a friendly hand on her shoulder, only to have her duck underneath and practically dive into the corridor.

  Shand waited for Taylor to close the door. “Mr. Marchant, your wife took a phone call at midnight on Friday night. Within minutes of receiving that call she left the house on foot, and was last seen walking towards the green. Have you any idea who that caller might have been?”

  “No idea.”

  Shand waited, letting the silence grow and watching every line, every contour of Gabriel’s face. The man showed no curiosity, no surprise, no desire to ask or speculate where the call had come from.

  “I’m going to be blunt, Mr. Marchant. Your wife left the house at midnight to meet someone who didn’t drive round to your front door and didn’t call on his own phone. Why?”

  “Because he was the murderer. Obviously.”

  “Who your wife must have known very well.”

  “So? I thought you had the killer. It was on the news. The asylum seeker.”

  “That lead has been superseded,” said Shand. “Unless you think your wife was friendly with one of the asylum seekers?”

  “God, no.”

  Shand still couldn’t understand Marchant’s attitude. Unhelpful, antagonistic, incurious. Could he be in shock? Was this his own peculiar way of handling grief? Or was it guilt? A fear of saying too much.

  Time to shake things up a bit.

  “How many times did you talk to your wife last week?”

  “What on earth has that got to do with anything!”

  “According to the phone logs you didn’t talk once.”

  “What phone logs?”

  “Whereas you phoned a Miss Delacroix eleven times. She was having dinner with you on Friday night, I believe?”

  “She’s a colleague. I told you. Of course we talk frequently.” Then he exploded. “You’ve been tracing my calls?”

  “It’s standard practice in a murder enquiry.”

  He shook his head. “No, inspector. You have no right. This wasn’t the house phone you traced. It was my mobile.” He clawed the air. “Don’t you realise what position that puts me in? Mergers have been called off because a journalist just happened to learn of a clandestine meeting between interested parties. Imagine what a journalist would do to get hold of a list of my phone calls. Who I talk to is big news.”

  So’s your wife’s murder, thought Shand.

  “There are a lot of calls to your wife from Gabe Marsh. Were he and Annabel particularly friendly?”

  Gabriel exploded again.

  “Good God, man, this is what you do with rape victims, isn’t it? Slur the victim. My wife did not have a lover. And neither did I. But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? All you want to do is persecute us.”

  Shand watched Marchant pace the room, still unable to work out if the man was exhibiting grief, outrage, guilt or paranoia.

  “I have to ask these questions, Mr. Marchant. Do you want to answer them now, or shall we wait until your daughter comes back? I’m sure she’d like to know why you’re more concerned about your own privacy than her mother’s murder?”

  For a second Shand wasn’t sure if Marchant would acquiesce or spontaneously combust.

  He chose the former.

  “Get this over with.”

  “Do you know the password to your wife’s computer?”

  “No.”

  He stood there, glaring, arms folded, barking out quickfire replies. But at least he was answering the questions.

  “We’ll need a list of family birthdays and names of pets et cetera.”

  “I’ll provide one through my solicitor. Next.”

  “I have to ask you questions about your wife’s will.”

  “I inherit everything. We made our wills at the same time, leaving our money to each other. And before you ask, no, my wife was not independently wealthy. Quite the reverse in fact. All our money came from me.”

  Gabriel Marchant smiled. For the first time since Shand’s arrival he actually looked happy. Although ‘pleased with himself’ might have been a more apt description.

  “What about life insurance policies? Was your wife’s life insured.”

  “No. I was the only breadwinner. My life was insured, not Annabel’s.”

  Taylor knocked on the door and poked his head round. “Okay to bring in the tea?”

  Shand nodded, he’d run out of questions. For the moment. He looked over at the daughter – head down and standing silently by the door, as far away from everyone else in the room as she could – and wondered how much she kne
w about her parent’s marriage.

  Not that he could ask her, not with her father present. Maybe he’d come back later, when Marchant was out. She was eighteen, after all. He wouldn’t need parental consent.

  “And I wouldn’t abandon that asylum seeker lead if I were you, chief inspector,” said Marchant. “Go and talk to that so-called farmer next door and ask him about asylum seekers.”

  “Why?” asked Shand.

  “Because it might explain one question that no one in this village has ever been able to answer.”

  “Which is?” said Shand.

  “How a man like William Acomb stays in business on his crappy little farm doing hardly any work when every other farmer in the county is on the verge of bankruptcy?”

  “And the answer is…” prompted Shand.

  “Asylum seekers, chief inspector. Now I think about it I’ve seen them hanging around his yard late at night. I bet he even smuggles them in and out of the country. Hides them in his outbuildings and then ships them out. It might even explain all those godforsaken vans he keeps beached in his fields. God knows, something has to.”

  ~

  Shand shook his head as he left the Marchant house. Asylum seekers and chickens, was there no end to Bill Acomb’s infamy?

  “You don’t believe any of that rubbish?” asked Taylor as they left.

  “I’m not sure I believe anything Gabriel Marchant says.”

  “I grew up around farmers like Bill Acomb,” said Taylor, seething. “And there’s a very simple reason why they survive and it has nothing to do with asylum seekers.”

  Shand stopped by the car and glanced back towards Lower Ash Farm and its ramshackle buildings. “Okay, I’m hooked. How does Bill Acomb survive?”

  “By not spending any money. Look at the place. It’s a tip. When’s the last time anything new passed through that yard? If something breaks, he’ll fix it. If he can’t fix it, he’ll tie it together with baler twine. And when that eventually goes, he’ll borrow from a neighbour or make do without. That’s how he gets by. No loans, no debts, no holidays, and no one on the payroll except family. Okay, so he might bend the odd rule here and there, but he’ll cheat the tax man out of far less than Gabriel Marchant and his high price accountants.”

  It was the first time Shand had seen his sergeant so animated.

  “You don’t see Bill Acomb as Annabel’s lover then?” said Shand, keeping his face deadpan straight.

  Taylor looked stunned – for a fraction of a second – until Shand raised an eyebrow and then the sergeant burst out laughing.

  “I thought you were being serious.”

  “A mistake many people make,” said Shand, feeling strangely liberated. His first joke since … since a time so long ago he couldn’t even remember.

  “Anything from the daughter while you were in the kitchen?”

  “Not a word. I tried to be chatty, but she wasn’t having any of it. A few nods and a lot of mumbled yesses and noes. I didn’t want to press.”

  No, thought Shand. Pippa Marchant seemed to be the only real mourner in that family.

  Shand’s phone rang. It was the Met.

  “Got the information you requested on Gulliver’s, sir. It’s an upmarket drinking club with a bit of gambling thrown in – mainly cards. No criminal associations flagged, but some of the members are a bit interesting.”

  “In what way?” asked Shand.

  “A few old lags from the sixties and seventies. You know, the celeb crims – the ones who’ve written books about the old East End gangs. From what I could gather the management pay them to mix with their real clientele – City types who like the idea of mixing with gangsters.”

  “Have you run the member and employee lists through criminal records yet?”

  “Just about to, sir. But I thought I’d call first. It’s one of the members. He lives in Athelcott.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Yes! Gabe Marsh. Were the two crimes connected after all? Annabel’s lover and the owner of the book of matches Helena found in the car?

  Shand couldn’t wait to find out.

  “Big place,” said Taylor as Marsh’s house came into view. A large Victorian rectory, complete with gothic towers and at least a couple of acres of mature gardens. The whole set back from the village green and hidden behind an eight-foot high grey stone wall.

  Two cars were already parked on the gravel drive outside the house. A small sports car and a large Jaguar. Shand lingered by the latter and peered inside. A four-door saloon with leather seats

  “Looks like it’s been cleaned,” said Taylor walking around the other side. “You can’t drive round these country lanes this time of year without getting mud splash.”

  Shand leaned closer to the passenger side window and shaded the glass with his hand. The inside of the car looked clean too. No books of matches left lying on any of the seats. He stood back and glanced at the tyres. There were a few white specks wedged in the tread. Would forensics get lucky and match any to the chalk from the track?

  Not that that would prove much. A public track to a local landmark less than a mile away from the man’s home. Why shouldn’t he drive there?

  “Can I help?” said a man’s voice from the front door of the house.

  Shand turned, startled.

  “Mr. Marsh?”

  “Gabe,” said the man, advancing from the top step with his right hand outstretched.

  He was shorter than Shand had imagined – and less swarthy. But he did have the dark hair, the suntan and the gleaming smile. Shand took an instant dislike to him.

  “Nice car, isn’t she?” said the vertically-challenged gigolo. “And fully taxed. If you’re interested I could make a few phone calls. I have contacts in the trade.”

  “That’s not why we’re here, Mr. Marsh,” said Shand.

  “Gabe, please. I haven’t been Marsh since I left school.”

  They shook hands – briefly – then Shand produced his warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Shand and this is Sergeant Taylor.”

  “And there was I thinking you’d come to read the meter.”

  Out came the gleaming teeth again. A ready smile, an easy confidence, not a trace of guilt or nerves.

  “Where do you get your car cleaned, Gabe?” said Taylor. “I’ve been meaning to get mine done for months.”

  “A little garage on the Sturton road. Mason’s, I think it’s called.”

  “I thought they closed weekends?”

  “Not yesterday, they didn’t. I can get the receipt if you want.” He turned and winked at Shand. “You can check out the CCTV cameras then, can’t you? Dig up the drains and see what I was trying to wash off.”

  “You don’t seem very upset by Mrs. Marchant’s death,” said Shand.

  “Life goes on, chief inspector. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Annabel and, of course, I’m saddened by her death, but...” He shook his head. “I’ve never believed in all that mourning stuff. Life’s too short.”

  Like you, midget! Shand could feel his inner nine-year old untethering and spoiling for a fight. There was something about Marsh – his attitude, his smug self-confidence, his … Gabriel-ness – that set Shand’s teeth on edge.

  Marsh shivered slightly. “Suddenly turned cold out here. You coming inside, or do you want to search the car first? I’ll fetch the keys, if you want. I don’t mind.”

  Shand declined the offer. Anyone that eager to have his property searched had to be either very stupid or very confident. And Gabe Marsh didn’t look stupid.

  Shand and Taylor followed Marsh inside. The rectory was spacious, high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished to the point of being Spartan. The three men’s footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floors. Marsh showed them through to a huge sitting room at the back of the house. A contrast to the studied precision of Annabel’s rooms, it looked to Shand as though more money had been spent on electrical equipment than on furnishings. The hi-fi in the corner was enormous and speakers circled
the room like acoustic standing stones.

  “Drinks?” said Marsh, standing by a corner bar that stretched a good ten feet along one wall. Shand counted fifteen different bottles of scotch. “Don’t worry about being on duty. I promise I won’t tell.”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Shand before Taylor could weaken. “You’re a member of Gulliver’s in London, I believe?”

  For the first time since their arrival Gabe Marsh’s smile slipped.

  “However did you know that?”

  “Did you ever take anyone from Athelcott to Gulliver’s?”

  He sat down. “I’d have to think. Gabriel, I suppose. Once or twice. I think he was living here then.”

  “Anyone else? We’re checking the club records. If you signed someone in we’ll find out.”

  “Check away, chief inspector. I have nothing to hide.”

  Back came the confidence. Shand couldn’t fathom him out. He must know he was being questioned in connection with a murder.

  “What was your relationship with Annabel Marchant?”

  “My relationship with Annabel,” repeated Marsh, pausing to sip from his glass. “Sorry to disappoint, chief inspector, but we hardly had one. I knew her, of course. Spent some time with her, but I’d hardly call it a relationship.”

  “You phoned her on six occasions last week.”

  “Did I? That’ll be about the elections. Which I assume was not the kind of relationship you were asking about.”

  He smiled. The kind of smug smile a pop star makes in the company of adoring fans. Look at me. I’m clever, I’m pretty, and I’m shagging your wife!

  “I thought you were standing on a joint ticket?” said Shand between hastily clenched teeth. “You, Annabel and Jacintha Maybury. Did you phone Ms. Maybury six times last week?”

  Gabe smiled – to himself rather than Shand – and rolled the ice around his glass. “Have you met Jacintha?” he asked.

  “I have.”

  “Then you’ll know she isn’t exactly organised. If you want something done, you go to Annabel. If you want something painted, you go to Jacintha. And by the way there are – there were – four of us on the ticket. Gabriel’s standing as well.”