An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  ~

  They took Marsh to Sturton in the back of Taylor’s car. Taylor drove while Shand began the interrogation.

  “Where’ve you been the last two days?”

  “Around,” said Marsh casually, looking out the window, showing no nerves or interest in what was happening to him. Had to be guilty, thought Shand. No innocent man could be that relaxed in the back of a police car.

  “Why did you turn your mobile off?” asked Shand.

  “I didn’t want to be disturbed. I was with a friend. If you know what I mean.”

  “Does the friend have a name?”

  “Several.”

  “Look, Gabe, you might think you’re funny, but we don’t. This is a murder enquiry. Now who were you with?”

  Gabe didn’t even acknowledge the question. “Don’t the trees look spectacular this time of year.”

  ~

  They rushed Marsh into Interview Room Two where one of the Forensic team was waiting.

  Shand held his breath, expecting Marsh to have second thoughts and call his lawyer. But he didn’t. He treated the entire process as a joke. Which made Shand even more nervous. Was there something Marsh knew that he didn’t?

  He followed the technician next door to where the computer had been set up. Marsh’s prints were added to those Taylor had collected earlier – Jacintha’s and Annabel’s cleaner’s. All were scanned and input into the computer.

  Shand waited. Everything quiet except for the hum of the computer. Could he be wrong? Did the print belong to someone else? Would another day end with the case no nearer to being solved?

  Back came the answer. A match. The print on the roll of duct tape and book of matches belonged to Gabe Marsh.

  “Yes!” said Shand, punching the air. They had him!

  ~

  A smiling DCI threw open the door to Interview Room Two.

  “Guess what, Gabe. We’ve matched your fingerprints to two found at the scene of the crime.”

  Gabe Marsh stopped smiling. He looked shocked. “That’s impossible,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Afraid not,” said Shand. “You see, when you were wiping your prints off that roll of duct tape, you forgot about the inside of the roll. Silly mistake. And you left a book of matches in the car your blokes used to drive Helena Benson to the circle. Not very clever, Gabe.”

  Shand shook his head and tutted. He was going to enjoy this. He’d suffered for days, now it was someone else’s turn.

  Gabe Marsh swallowed hard. “I’m innocent,” he said. “I don’t know anything about this. I swear.”

  Shand paused, considering his next move.

  “Now, Gabe, there are two ways we can play this. One, we bring in the lawyers and sit around the station all night glaring at each other across the table. Or, two, we sort this out now. You surrender your passport and go home on bail to your important meeting. What do you think?”

  Shand watched him, wondering if the temptation of Mr. Grosvenor’s millions would be strong enough.

  Apparently it was.

  “Look, I’m innocent. I don’t know how my fingerprints got anywhere.”

  “Then you won’t mind us searching your house and car?”

  “No … Yes! I’m expecting a client. I can’t have him arrive with the house full of Old Bill.”

  “We’ll get you a hire car. You can meet him at the gate. Take him for a meal.”

  Marsh didn’t answer. He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. Seconds passed. He ran his hands through his hair, then looked up, resigned. He dug his hands into his pockets, and threw his keys across the table.

  Shand took Taylor outside and handed him the keys. “Take as many men as you need. Concentrate on papers and correspondence. And get Forensics to look at the car. I’ll join you shortly. Oh, and get Marcus down here.”

  Shand returned to the interview room.

  “Where did you say my fingerprints were?” said Marsh.

  “On the roll of duct tape and the book of matches.”

  Marsh shook his head. “That’s rubbish.” He looked more confident. The initial shock appeared to be wearing off. “How could my prints get on any tape? I was in bed with the Chief Constable’s daughter at the time.”

  “Easy. You handled the tape earlier.”

  “That’s ridiculous! If I hired someone to kill Annabel, do you really think I’d supply the duct tape? I’m not stupid.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Not me. Someone’s trying to fit me up. Even you must see that. What possible motive could I have for any of this?”

  “Well, let’s see. What about George Benson and his bank?”

  Shand waited for a reaction. Marsh stared back blankly. Shrugged.

  “What about his bank?”

  “We’ve nearly finished the audit,” said Shand, pressing on. “We’ll know everything by tomorrow.”

  Still no reaction.

  “And then there’s Annabel’s plan to develop Sixpenny Barton. Maybe you thought you didn’t need a partner?”

  “That? That was Annabel’s little pipe dream, not mine. The Brigadess would never sell that house of hers.”

  “You might be right. About someone fitting you up, that is. Gabriel, for example. He could get rid of you and Annabel at the same time. Why share the proceeds when he can have it all himself?”

  For a while Gabe Marsh looked pensive. Shand pointedly checked his watch.

  “What time is that meeting of yours?”

  ~

  Fifteen minutes later Shand left the interview room. Marsh wasn’t talking no matter how hard Shand pressed. The lure of Mr. Grosvenor’s millions had been replaced by a desire for legal representation.

  Still, Mr. Grosvenor might be useful later on.

  “Put on your best accent and call this number,” Shand told Marcus. “Tell our friend in there that you’re Mr. Grosvenor’s personal assistant. There’s been a family emergency, Mr. Grosvenor apologises, and asks if he can reschedule the meeting for later this week.”

  “What if he asks any questions?”

  “Apologise and tell him there’s a call on another line.”

  Shand left soon after that. There was nothing more to be gained talking to Marsh and he wanted to oversee the search of the Rectory.

  On the way out he stopped to have a word with the desk sergeant.

  “Mr. Marsh’s solicitor should be here in three hours. But if anyone else asks, Gabe Marsh isn’t here, okay? And that includes senior management. I don’t want the press nosing around.”

  Marcus drove while Shand rehearsed his next interview with Marsh. He had enough to charge him – he was certain of that – but doubted it would be sufficient for a conviction. Unless they found something in the next three hours, he’d have to let him go.

  The Rectory was a mass of lights against the black background of a star-less night. Every window shone – all three floors – and, inside, voices and footsteps echoed through the sparsely furnished house.

  “Nothing so far, sir,” said Taylor. “We’ve just started on his computer. And Forensics say the car’s been detailed. Inside and out.”

  Shand moved from room to room – watching, listening, suggesting. The house looked barely lived in. Some rooms were totally empty, others looked like hotel bedrooms – sterile.

  Hours passed. The computer contained nothing but games. The little correspondence they found was mostly circulars or bills. And the only files they found contained nothing but house details – thousands of them from properties all over the UK and Europe.

  Then, at 10:38, Shand’s phone rang.

  It was the station sergeant from Sturton.

  “Just had a call from an Ursula Montacute. Says something’s happened to George Benson, and thinks you should get over there quick. She’s at Ivy Cottage with his missus.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Shand left Taylor in charge and grabbed Marcus. “The Benson house. Now!”

  They ran
for the car, the gravel crunching underfoot. Each footfall grating on Shand’s conscience. Not another death, not George. He couldn’t bear the responsibility. Had he driven the man to suicide? Had he let him be murdered?

  The passenger side door was locked. He tugged harder. Come on, Marcus! The constable climbed inside, reached over, the door clicked open, Shand scrambled inside, the engine already roaring, the car shooting backwards. Shand flapped at his open door as it swung out of reach. The car swerved onto the grass, then lurched forward. Shand grabbed the door and pulled it shut.

  Then they were flying, the car accelerating, sluing around corners. Shand hung on, his mind pulled back into the past, wondering how he could have handled the situation better. He knew George was under pressure. Should he have stopped the audit, taken him into protective custody? What?

  Marcus revved the engine, hedges flew past in a rapidly moving cone of light. But all Shand could see was Helena Benson’s accusing eyes and the Brigadess, her hand outstretched, finger pointing. It’s all your fault, chief inspector. Everything!

  The car rocked to a stop. Shand was out and running. The house lights were on, the door wide open. He ran inside, almost colliding with the Brigadess in the hallway.

  “It’s George,” she said. “He’s missing. His car’s in the garage, but no one knows where he is. We’ve rung everyone he could possibly be with.”

  “Where’s Helena?”

  “In the kitchen. She’s beside herself. I’ve sent for a doctor.”

  They exchanged looks. The Brigadess was expecting the worst as well, ensuring a doctor was on hand to treat the grieving widow.

  He had to ask. “You’ve checked every room?”

  “We’ve checked everywhere. Do you think...” She glanced back towards the kitchen, then lowered her voice. “Do you think he might have been taken to the circle?”

  Shand hadn’t considered that. Another burial?

  “Do you want me to drive up there?” asked Marcus from the doorway.

  “Not yet.” He turned to the Brigadess. “Have you checked inside the car?”

  “We looked through the windows. We didn’t…” She lowered her voice again. “We didn’t look in the boot.”

  “Have you got the keys?”

  “I’ll fetch them.”

  The Brigadess disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an ashen-faced Helena Benson.

  “Sit down,” Ursula remonstrated with her. “I’ll fetch them.”

  “No,” insisted Helena, her voice frail and tearful. “I’ll do it.”

  She picked the keys off of the sideboard and immediately dropped them, her hands shaking so much. The Brigadess scooped them up before Helena had a chance to react and brought them over to Shand who passed them to Marcus.

  “You know what to do,” he said. Marcus nodded and left.

  Shand glanced at Helena and quickly looked away. Guilt. Her eyes were already sinking into the back of her head. Black and lifeless. She’d looked old enough at lunchtime, now she’d aged another ten years.

  The Brigadess took her to the sofa by the fire and sat her down.

  Shand stood as close to the door as he could, wanting to be anywhere else but in that room.

  But there were questions he had to ask.

  He caught the Brigadess’s eye. “May…” He didn’t know how to put it. “Could … could you take me through what happened this evening?”

  “We had a parish council meeting, chief inspector,” said the Brigadess, sitting on the arm of the sofa with one hand resting on Helena’s shoulder. “I picked Helena up from here at six, and took her back to the Barton. We like to have a talk before the meeting. A bit of a ritual I suppose. George,” she stopped and looked at Helena.

  “Go on,” said Helena, her voice thin and ghost-like. “It has to be done.”

  “George wasn’t here. He usually comes home about six thirty, doesn’t he, dear?”

  Helena nodded. “I leave his dinner in the oven.” She started to sob softly.

  “Has anyone checked the oven?” asked Shand, trying not to look at Helena.

  “It’s not there,” said Helena.

  Shand excused himself and walked through into the kitchen. There was a plate in a rack on the draining board. Along with a teacup, a wineglass, a fork and a tea spoon. George’s meal? He took a tea towel from a hook by the sink and used it to cover his hands while he opened the oven door and looked inside. It was empty.

  He returned to the lounge. “There’s a plate on the draining board,” he said. “Is that George’s?”

  “Yes,” said Helena. “He always washes up.” Her face dissolved. The Brigadess pulled her towards her and held her tight. Shand slipped back into the kitchen.

  There was a bottle of red wine on the table. He squatted next to it and peered through the tinted glass. It was practically empty – just a few dregs remaining.

  He stood up and slowly surveyed the rest of the room. Everything looked as it should. George had come home, eaten his meal, drank a glass or two of red wine, made himself a cup of something, and washed up.

  “You came home at what time?” he asked the Brigadess from the kitchen door.

  “About half past ten.”

  Three hours or so unaccounted for. Three hours which he could have spent watching TV. Or being driven to London at gunpoint. Or…

  He didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.

  The scrape of shoes on a coconut fibre mat heralded Marcus’s return.

  “Nothing in the garage, sir.”

  Shand turned back to the Brigadess. “Have you checked the back garden?”

  “Not thoroughly. I called out and shone a torch from the kitchen door.”

  Shand turned and looked for the torch. It was on the kitchen windowsill. He picked it up and beckoned Marcus over.

  “Watch where you step and follow me,” he said, opening the kitchen door. Once outside, he made sure the door was firmly closed before speaking again. He didn’t want Helena to hear. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything that looks like a pile of clothes or a patch of disturbed earth.”

  He swung the torch in a slow arc over the lawns and borders. Nothing in the foreground and the light barely touched the far end of the garden. They moved forward slowly, fanning the light ahead of them, carving a corridor towards the old stable block.

  The door was closed. Shand reached forward to unlatch it, then pulled the top half open.

  He shone the torch inside and froze. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Beside him, Marcus inhaled so fast he sounded asthmatic.

  They’d found George Benson. He was lying stretched out on the floor, his lifeless face caught in the torchlight staring towards the door. But that wasn’t what grabbed the two policeman’s attention. It was what was standing on his back. An enormous black chicken with flecks of red and gold around his neck.

  “The Athelcott One,” said Marcus, awe-struck.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Shand stared, his brain trying to catch up with events. This was too surreal. Even for Athelcott. The chicken started to move, strutting up and down the dead man’s back. His well-feathered legs impossibly far apart, giving him a rolling gait that reminded Shand of a disreputable pirate after a particularly hard night ashore.

  “You don’t think…” said Marcus struggling to complete the sentence. “That, you know, what Saffron said … about Davy Perkins and reincarnation.”

  The thought had crossed Shand’s mind – fleetingly – not that he was going to say anything, least of all to Marcus.

  “Can you see anything to put him in?” he said, changing the subject. The chicken had jumped onto the ground and was now scratching up the dirt floor and pecking. Shand could see vital evidence being destroyed if they didn’t act soon.

  “There’s a box over there,” said Marcus pointing to a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner.

  Shand opened the bottom half of the door for Marcus. The chicken eyed the DC suspici
ously, even more so when he came at him with a box. Pandemonium. Marcus mistimed his lunge and the Athelcott One flapped out of range. A scene replayed from every angle and almost every inch of the outhouse. Dust rose in the torchlight as man and chicken circled each other.

  Shand held the torch and speculated which god held sway over crime scenes. And what he’d ever done to offend them. A week ago he would have been angry. Now he was more sanguine, knowing that the crime scene was destined to be destroyed whatever decision he made. If he waited for SOCO, the chicken would defecate on the little evidence he didn’t scratch up or eat.

  Marcus lunged again and this time succeeded in scooping up the squawking chicken, its wings flapping wildly as he brought it back to the box in the doorway. Shand held the flaps open while Marcus manhandled the bird inside.

  Shand glanced back towards the house, thankful that Helena didn’t have to witness such a scene. Then he prepared himself. Someone had to break the news.

  “Get SOCO over here,” he told Marcus. “I’ll be inside.”

  ~

  He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge, two faces turned his way. Expectation, fear. He knew whatever he said would bring pain. And whatever words he used would be inadequate.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The two women held each other tighter. “We’ve found your husband, Mrs. Benson.”

  Helena dissolved, turning her face into the Brigadess’s body.

  Shand looked away, feeling like an intruder. He looked around the room, anywhere but at the sofa, trying to close his mind to the grief and force himself to step back, to look at the scene clinically. How had George died? Had he left a note?

  He stepped noiselessly around the room, checking the surfaces – the table, shelves – anywhere a note could be left. Then he slipped back into the kitchen. Again no note. He returned to the stable, took the torch from Marcus and played the light on George’s face. Was that a bluish tinge to his lips? Heart attack? Poison?

  “Go to the front gate,” he told Marcus. “Keep everyone away from the house for now. Show them through the garden.”

  He’d let Helena grieve for as long as he could.