An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  “Does the parish council grant planning permission?” asked Shand. “I thought they made recommendations but the local authority had the final say.”

  “The local authority can be overruled, chief inspector,” said Ursula. “This government likes property developers. It encourages them to appeal decisions that go against them, and if Marsh could say the parish supported him…”

  Shand still couldn’t see how any of the Gang of Four could hope to be elected by alienating the majority of their electorate. It didn’t make sense.

  Neither did it stand out as a compelling motive for murder. Annabel seemed capable of annoying her neighbours any time of the year. She didn’t have to wait for an election campaign.

  “Who do you think killed Annabel?” he asked.

  “No one in the village, chief inspector. I’m certain of that.”

  “Why? The use of the stone circle suggests a degree of local knowledge.”

  “Ramblers,” said Sandy looking as though he’d just bitten into a slice of lemon. “They memorise every right of way and place of archaeological interest. That’s where I’d suggest you look.”

  “Ramblers?” repeated Shand.

  “We’ve had terrible trouble with them, chief inspector,” said Ursula. “Some of them become quite abusive.”

  “And don’t forget the crop circles,” said her husband. “If you’re looking for people who use the track at night, they’re the ones you should be talking to. Yobs from Sturton with nothing better to do than trample a man’s crops. They do it every year.”

  “Bit late in the year for that,” said Taylor. “Haven’t you cut most of your fields?”

  “True, sergeant, but these people know the area. Who’s to say what they’d do next.”

  Shand listened. He could understand the unwillingness to believe that the murderer was a neighbour. But ramblers and yobs?

  “We seriously considered having the track blocked,” said Ursula. “But it’s handy for the horses. It gives us access to the bridle paths on the other side of the circle.”

  “Ramblers!” said Sandy, once more biting into his virtual lemon.

  “You’ll have to forgive my husband, chief inspector. He hates ramblers.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, dear. It depends how you cook ’em.” He smiled and winked at Shand. “You should stop by for dinner one night. I have a brace of ’em hanging in the tack room.”

  He laughed. Ursula trilled. And Shand decided it was time to leave. He wasn’t going to learn much more from the Montacutes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Do you think we should check the tack room?” joked Taylor as they left the Montacutes.

  “Drive,” said Shand, pointing at Taylor’s car. He felt dispirited. He could feel the momentum of the early morning falling away. The phone logs, the matchbook, Gulliver’s. All that early promise. Now he was up against alibis and trying to uncover a motive for a pair of crimes that made no sense.

  Which reminded him. The Chief Constable’s daughter.

  He rang his chief superintendent and, omitting the tattoo, described the girl.

  “What do you think, sir? Is it her?”

  Chief Superintendent Wiggins exhaled deeply.

  “Sounds like Julia. Don’t worry, Shand. I’ll deal with this. If she’s involved in any way, I’ll find out. You keep her name out of the files. No need giving the press something to chew on. Oh, and talking about the press, I’ve pencilled in a press conference for four this afternoon.”

  Shand swallowed hard. “Is that…” He was about to say ‘necessary,’ but changed it quickly to ‘in Sturton again?’ Adding a bright and optimistic note to his voice as though he was really looking forward to it.

  The rest of the conversation washed over him. He was wondering what hell awaited him at four o’clock.

  “Which way?” asked Taylor as they reached the junction at the top of the lane.

  “To the village,” said Shand. “We need to have a word with Lisa Budd.”

  ~

  There was something about Lisa and the chalk track that had rattled Ursula Montacute. Shand mulled over the possibilities. Time was an obvious one. Maybe Lisa hadn’t left at seven? Maybe she forgot something and came back?

  He liked that. And he liked the timing. Ursula would be watching the film until 10:30 p.m. The phone rings, she gets up to answer. Then a short time after she looks out the window, or maybe the dogs bark and she sees Lisa in the yard. Lisa then goes home, back along the track, arriving at the stone circle sometime around eleven. Just in time to see Helena being dragged from the car.

  Supposition. Every word.

  But the girl did find the body. And she did use the track. The only person they’d found so far who was a regular user.

  And there was the dog. Lisa had been walking her dog that morning when she found the body. Did she walk the dog in the evening as well?

  He liked that even better. What would be more natural than taking your dog for a walk before bedtime? It was a full moon. No problem about lack of street lights. He could see her setting off for the woods, a brisk walk on a crisp night. Then she turns back, nears the stone circle, hears a noise and stops where the track leaves the wood. She crouches down, holds onto the muzzle of her dog and watches.

  Then…

  Then he hit the problem. Motive. Motive and the phone call. Would Annabel leave her house in the middle of the night for Lisa? Unlikely. And he couldn’t see her luring or threatening Annabel either.

  Or could he?

  Mrs. Marchant, it’s Lisa, Pippa’s with me. She’s hurt. I don’t know what to do.

  Would that be enough to rattle a mother? Daughter in danger, tearful girl on the phone, no time to think?

  He bounced his theory off Bob Taylor.

  “No,” said Taylor after long consideration. “The witness says she was walking to the green. If she’d been worried about her daughter, she’d have been running.”

  ~

  The Budd household was in the midst of food preparation. Sunday dinner less than an hour away, and the kitchen full of steam and the smell of roasting meat. No one was happy to see the police.

  “Can’t this wait?” said her mother.

  “No,” said Shand. “I promise it won’t take long.”

  The two policemen were shown into a small dining room, the table already laid for three. Shand and Taylor sat at the table. Lisa sat on the other side, arms folded and mouth set.

  “I told your lot everything yesterday,” she said. “You included,” she added, nodding at Shand.

  “I know,” said Shand, “and we thank you for your co-operation. But I have some different questions. What time did you leave the Montacute’s on Friday?”

  The girl looked as though she’d been slapped. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Ten-thirty, wasn’t it?” said Shand casually.

  “No! Much earlier. About seven. Why?”

  Shand looked puzzled. Or, at least, he hoped he did. “That’s odd. Are you sure it wasn’t nearer eleven? We have a witness who saw you on the chalk track.”

  “You can’t have I…” She stopped and then her anger turned into a sneer. “You ain’t got no one, have you? You lot are all the same. You think we’re thick.”

  Shand tried to retrieve the situation. “The witness says you were walking a dog. Did you walk your dog last night?”

  He ended his question with a smile. The girl glared back.

  “No,” she said.

  “Who did exercise the dog?”

  “No one. I walk Joe in the morning.”

  More glares.

  “Doesn’t it have to relieve itself before going to bed?”

  “He does that all by himself. The back garden’s dog proof.”

  Shand glanced around the room. This was not going at all well. He tried a different tack.

  “Pippa Marchant would be about your age, wouldn’t she?” he said

  “What about it?”
/>
  “Were you friends? Did you talk much?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a problem between the two of you?”

  “Am I gonna need a solicitor?”

  Shand parted his teeth in a fixed but, by then, desperate smile, and tagged Taylor with a pleading look. Help!

  “You like working at the stables, Lisa,” said Taylor.

  “It’s all right.”

  “You haven’t seen any dead ramblers hanging in the tack room?”

  Lisa smiled. “He told you that one, did he? He’s mad. One of these days he’s really gonna shoot someone.” Her smile faded as soon as she realised what she’d said. “Not that he would.”

  “Of course not,” said Taylor warmly. “We know that. The person we’re looking for doesn’t use a shotgun. He – if it is a he – uses trickery. Do you know he rang Mrs. Marchant from the phone box on the green and tricked her into meeting him? In the middle of the night, can you believe that? Now, you know all the people in the village. Who do you think would be capable of something like that?”

  Shand waited. Lisa was actually thinking. She even unfolded her arms.

  “None of the locals,” she said. “Annabel would slam the phone down if any of us called.”

  “So you think it’d be one of the incomers?” said Taylor.

  “Have to be,” she said. “Gabe Marsh is the creepiest. He’s tried it on with me a few times. Wanted me to go to Newbury with him to help choose a stallion.”

  She raised both eyebrows. “Fat lot of horse flesh I’d’ve seen that weekend.”

  Taylor agreed. “So you reckon he’s used to telling stories?”

  “Definitely.”

  ~

  Shand thanked Taylor for bailing him out. And then sank into a pit of self-examination. Why did he need bailing out? Had he spent so much time analysing data that he’d forgotten how to relate to people?

  Taylor suggested a pint and a meal at the pub. Maybe there’d be a carvery? Shand agreed, the smell of Sunday roast wafting in from Mrs. Budd’s kitchen had given him an appetite.

  But first he wanted to check in with Forensics. They had to have made some progress on yesterday’s crime scenes.

  They had. They’d found two good prints on the book of matches Helena had found.

  “We checked them against all the indexes,” said SOCO. “Nothing. Including prints we took from the phone box this morning and the Benson’s house yesterday. We’re still processing the prints we took from the Marchants.”

  They had a wealth of other information. Crime scene analysis, clothes analysis, fibres. Too much to cover in detail over the phone. Shand said he’d come straight over, as soon as he’d had something to eat.

  “And you know we didn’t find any personal items on the victim,” said SOCO. “No keys, no purse, no handbag. Not even a tissue. All her pockets were empty.”

  Probably kept everything in a handbag, thought Shand. Keys certainly. She’d stopped to lock up so she’d have needed keys to get back in. But she hadn’t taken her purse. Gabriel Marchant had found that in the kitchen, complete with credit cards. Wherever she was going, she hadn’t expected to need any money.

  “Have you got a description of the handbag from the husband yet?” came the voice down the line.

  Shand kicked himself. He hadn’t. But then he wondered how many handbags Annabel had, and would Gabriel be able to tell which one was missing? Or even describe them? He thought of Anne’s collection. Did she have three or four? And how would he describe them? Well, one’s kind of medium sized and black with a handle. Was Gabriel Marchant any more attentive?

  Anne. Her presence hung over the remainder of the phone call and pursued him to the pub. She still hadn’t rung. He thought she might have last night. Someone must have told her about the press conference. It was on all the news. And the papers this morning.

  But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t rung her. Part of him wanting to make a point – it’s your turn to call. Part of him wanting to find out how long she could go before ringing. Days, weeks? Would she wait until the day she was supposed to drive down? Or would she just not turn up? Sorry, I couldn’t get away. Are you sure it was this weekend? Must dash, there’s a meeting I should have been in five minutes ago.

  Conversations played inside his head. Replayed and rewritten, but always a tragedy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There wasn’t a carvery at the Royal Oak, just sandwiches or a basket meal – chicken or scampi.

  Shand chose the chicken while Taylor had the scampi. Both had pints. Taylor out of habit, and Shand because he needed it. He collected the pints from the bar and gazed through into the packed lounge. Journalists and sightseers. The atmosphere heavy with raucous laughter and cigarette smoke. Everyone having a great time.

  He thought about Annabel. Only one person seemed genuinely upset about her death. He wondered briefly if that was a consequence of her character or a condemnation of society. And then he decided to think about something else before he started contemplating his own demise and how many Gabriels would turn up for the funeral.

  They ate fast and said little. Even the public bar was beginning to fill and people were noticeably straining to overhear any snatch of conversation from the policemen’s table. Weather-beaten old men stared, and pointed, and nudged their neighbours. Others, reporters maybe, stood in a group, their coats almost brushing against Shand’s table. Coats with deep pockets that probably hid running tape recorders.

  Shand drained his glass and rose to leave. Out came the questions. Any progress on the case, chief inspector? Anyone in custody? Have you interviewed any more asylum seekers?

  He pushed through the crowd. “Excuse me,” he said and, “no comment.” People reluctantly parted to let him through, though some seemed determined to stand in his way and bark questions at him.

  He pushed, and side-stepped, and squeezed, determined to keep polite and non-committal. At least they’d let him finish his meal. Or had that been tactical – the hope of overhearing an unguarded statement?

  The throng pursued him outside, their numbers growing as others spilled out from the lounge next door. It was becoming ridiculous. Shand turned and raised both hands.

  “Please,” he shouted. “I have a statement to make.”

  Instant quiet, except for the few latecomers who were still emerging from the pub doors. A collective call of ‘shush’ quietened them down.

  “There has been a significant discovery in the case.”

  Shand anticipated the embryonic rush of questions and raised his hands again. “Please,” he said. “I will be giving full details at the four o’clock press conference. Unless you keep me here talking, in which case it’ll become a five o’clock press conference. So, enjoy your lunch, and I’ll see you all at four.”

  He tried a smile, hoping he’d both made his point and exuded an air of approachable confidence.

  It seemed to work. The crowd started to flow back inside. Shand turned away before they changed their minds, only looking back when he reached Taylor’s car.

  One journalist had remained outside. Kevin Tresco. He stood by the lounge door, staring directly at Shand. It was probably imagination, but Shand was sure the reporter’s lips were curled in a sneer.

  The car door lock clicked and Shand climbed inside.

  “Er, this significant discovery, sir,” said Taylor apprehensively. “What is it?”

  Shand looked at him. “The midnight phone call.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Taylor, smiling. He looked relieved.

  Shand clicked his seat belt home. And wondered what Taylor was really thinking. Had he thought Shand had invented another lead? Was he wondering what kind of a man had been sent down from London?

  Because just for a second, Shand hadn’t been sure what he was going to tell them either. He’d wanted the press out of the way, and a part of him didn’t care how he did it.

  ~

  Taylor drove around the green and dropped Sha
nd off at his car.

  “Remember what I said,” said Shand as he unbuckled his seat belt. “If Gabriel’s no help, try Pippa or Jacintha Maybury. One of them’s got to know what the missing handbag looks like. See if you can get some kind of a composite description ready for the press at four.”

  “Will do, sir. And I’ll phone through the make and model of Annabel’s mobile so the Press Office can release a picture.”

  “Good idea. And find out how Marcus is getting on in Sherminster. I want to see both of you the moment he returns.”

  ~

  The Forensics Department was in Langton Stacey. A new building on the outskirts of the town. Shand was collected from reception and shown to the first floor. As soon as he pushed through the swing doors at the top of the stairs, applause broke out.

  Shand froze. Five white-coated police scientists stood in a grinning arc by the door of their large open plan office. There was a joke coming. Shand knew it. They knew it. All he could do was force a smile and wait.

  “Chief Inspector,” said SOCO. “Pardon the spontaneous outburst of admiration, but it’s not every day our little office is graced by a presence such as yours.”

  Shand hung onto his grin and wondered what rank the Scene of Crimes Officer held. And what reciprocal hell he could dream up, for a reciprocal hell there would be. This ordeal was not going to go unavenged.

  “I give you Mr. Shand,” continued SOCO, “the new holder of the fastest fingertip search of a crime scene ever recorded. One cubic metre of soil sifted in ten seconds. You Met boys. Always showing us poor rustics how it’s done.”

  “Very amusing,” said Shand.

  “We try to please,” said SOCO. “Now, fun over, where do you want to start?”

  SOCO spent the next ten minutes taking Shand through the minutia of evidence gathered and progress made. No prints had been found on the cardboard box, siphon or duct tape used at Helena’s burial, but SOCO was confident they’d be able to trace the supermarket the box came from.

  None of the hair or fibre samples gathered from the two victims looked likely to lead anywhere. The hairs on Annabel’s clothes belonged to her and those on Helena’s were grey and most likely belonged to her and George. The fibres could all be matched to sources at their homes and the policeman’s coat that had covered Helena’s shoulders.