An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  “What I don’t understand though is why your accomplice didn’t remove the bottle from the table when he went back last night.”

  Gabe looked up. “What accomplice?”

  “The one you sent to make sure George was dead. And arrange the body, of course. You’d have thought he would have at least wiped your prints from the bottle, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Or maybe that was his plan? Did he tell you he’d already wiped the bottle before you planted it? Is that the way it happened? The two of you working together, planning the murders, and all the time he’s setting you up?”

  Marsh clenched his fists. “I am innocent!” he said, spitting the words through gritted teeth. “There’s no plan, no conspiracy. When are you going to get that through your thick head!”

  “When you tell me how your prints came to be on that bottle.”

  Gabe exhaled deeply. His frustration building. He looked as though he was fighting hard not to hit something.

  He took another deep breath. “It’s my bottle!” he said, barely controlling his frustration. “Of course my fingerprints are on it. Someone must have taken it.”

  “Without leaving their own prints?”

  “They probably wore gloves.”

  “How do you dispose of your wine bottles, Mr. Marsh? Do you leave them in the dustbin for serial killers to pick through?”

  “Look!” said Marsh. “Half the village were in my house last month. Anyone could have taken a bottle. I put out four cases of the stuff.”

  “What were half the village doing in your house last month?”

  “The garden party. Part of Annabel’s charm offensive. You know, for the elections? She couldn’t bear the idea of Wellington boots on her carpets, so she volunteered the Rectory instead.”

  “Half the village turned up?” said Shand, not liking the direction the interview was taking.

  “Probably more. You know how nosy neighbours can be. It was supposed to be a garden party, but everyone wanted to sneak a look around the house.”

  “The house was open?”

  “It had to be. For the toilets. And somewhere to keep the food cool, and store the drink.”

  Shand had a very bad feeling.

  And a crisis of conscience. If he asked the questions he now wanted to ask, he’d be handing Marsh a defence strategy. But if he didn’t … and Marsh really had been framed…

  “Did you employ staff to hand out the drinks?” he asked.

  “I hired a couple of waitresses to keep the food and drink circulating. They opened the bottles and took them out to the tables. Buffet tables on the lawn. It wasn’t a sit down affair.”

  “So how would your prints get on any of the bottles?”

  Marsh considered the question. He was calmer now.

  “I unpacked half the crates before the waitresses arrived. And I’m sure I poured drinks for several people. Playing the host, you know?”

  The smile was back, the easy confidence.

  Shand felt manipulated. He had to ask the next questions. About the duct tape and the book of matches. But he already knew the answer. True or not, Marsh would swear both were in the house that day.

  Shand delayed the moment.

  “Did anyone take a bottle home with them that day? Or behave suspiciously?”

  Marsh shrugged. “Not that I can remember.”

  His confidence bordered on smugness. He slouched back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Shand’s, daring him to ask about duct tape and matchbooks.

  Shand didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But he had to ask.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to add? About duct tape and matchbooks?”

  “There is actually,” said Marsh, straightening himself up. “I remember now, there would have been a roll of duct tape in the drawing room that day. I’d been repackaging some books I had to send back that morning. They’d sent me the wrong size.”

  “Size?”

  “For my library. You know, old leather books you buy by the yard to fill up the shelves. They sent the wrong ones. Too tall. You can check, if you like.”

  “And the book of matches?”

  “Now they definitely would have been there. I’d dropped into Gulliver’s the week before. You can check that too.”

  “Well,” said the lawyer, shuffling his papers. “I think that provides a reasonable explanation for the fingerprints. I suggest you release my client now and concentrate on finding the real murderer.”

  Shand was torn. He had the evidence to charge Marsh, and yet he didn’t. A competent lawyer would convince the jury there was reasonable doubt. But if he let him go, he’d be opening himself up to a storm of criticism. Especially if Marsh absconded.

  “Okay,” said Shand. “But he surrenders his passport and promises not to leave the area. Do you hear that, Gabe? I want to know where you are at all times.”

  ~

  Shand returned to his office, demoralised. There was a report waiting on his desk. He picked it up and flicked through it. It was the blood analysis from the post mortem. Positive for diazepam. A lethal dose which would have brought about death in a few hours for a man of George Benson’s weight.

  He dropped the report back on his desk. Nothing that he hadn’t already surmised.

  Doubt. It surrounded and suffocated him. The deeper he delved into the case the less he understood. All his theories were unravelling. The bank, the money laundering, the plot between the two Gabriels. The only evidence he had – the fingerprints – was now questionable. The two main suspects had cast-iron alibis, and as for motive the only credible one left was Gabriel wanting to get rid of Annabel without losing half his money in a messy divorce.

  He slumped in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. Where had he gone wrong? Had he missed something? Had he become so invested in Marsh, Marchant and George’s bank that he’d overlooked everything else?

  The image of a serial killing druid fluttered into his mind.

  He refused to acknowledge it. There was a logical answer to this puzzle. The two murders, the abduction, the burial – all were connected if only he could see the link.

  He leaned back in his chair and let it swing round full circle. Perhaps he should start again. Forget about connecting the murders and concentrate on the fingerprints. They were the only firm piece of evidence he had linking anyone to the crime. So how had they got there?

  He pushed off with his feet and took another spin. There were three possibilities that he could see. One, Gabe Marsh was careless. Two, he was trying to be clever in case he accidentally left a print at the scene or, three, someone had deliberately set out to frame him.

  He went through each in turn. Was Gabe Marsh careless? He was intelligent, a self-made man, wealthy. But did that preclude carelessness? He was a womaniser, he was irreverent, he ran off in the middle of a murder case. Might not that be associated with a more slapdash approach to life?

  No. Shand couldn’t see it. The book of matches, the duct tape – yes, an easy mistake to make. But the wine bottle? That took carelessness to a new extreme.

  And would Gabe have known that the Benson house was empty between six and six thirty? Or that the back door was unlocked?

  Which brought him to option two – Gabe left the prints deliberately.

  Another swing of the chair, clockwise this time. How devious was Gabe Marsh? Did he have the foresight to plan an open day a month before the murders and make sure all those objects – the matchbook, the duct tape, the wine bottle – were all on display? And why do it? He said himself it was stupid. It immediately made him a suspect.

  Unless he already knew that that was inevitable. He was certain to be a suspect therefore he decided to fabricate evidence that he knew he could discredit later and taint the rest of the case against him?

  Was Gabe Marsh that calculating?

  And then there was option three – the fit up. Which immediately begged the quest
ion – why? A partner-in-crime looking for a fall guy? Shand had put that to Marsh and he’d dismissed it. Would he really risk jail rather than give up a partner who was framing him?

  Which left whom? Someone with a grudge against both Annabel and Marsh? Gabriel, the cuckolded husband? Jacintha, the spurned lover? The Brigadess?

  Which brought him back to George and the rock that all his theories foundered on. Where did George fit in? He could find plenty of motives for murdering Annabel, he could see a reason for framing Marsh. But as soon as George entered the equation everything collapsed.

  Or did it?

  What if the crimes had nothing to do with George or his bank? What if Helena had been the target all along? She was the one who’d been buried. What if the poisoned wine had been meant for her too?

  He pushed his chair around even faster, trying to spin the doubt away. So many possibilities, so many red herrings. The chicken, the stone circle, the way the bodies had been arranged. It was all so theatrical.

  That’s when it hit him. It was theatrical. All of it. Burying someone alive in a stone circle, placing a dead body on top, placing a chicken on top of the second victim. It was pure theatre.

  He jabbed his foot down and stopped the chair.

  Why hadn’t he considered that earlier? The murders did have a pattern – theatricality! That was the link, not the victims. And it was a theatricality he’d seen elsewhere in the village. The rearranged flower beds, the fake molehills, the fake burial, the stones that danced by moonlight.

  The Moleman.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Shand rang Marcus.

  “Run a background check on Lee Molland. I want everything, including his shoe size. And then run a house-to-house in Athelcott. I want to know who went to last month’s garden party at the Rectory and if anyone took anything home with them. There’s a possibility the wine bottle, the duct tape and the book of matches were all taken from the Rectory that day. See if anyone video’d the affair.”

  He put the phone down. Things were moving again. He had a new suspect and a credible motive. Lee Molland, the attention-seeking fantasist. The murders a natural progression from his Moleman activities – the need for a wider audience, bigger thrills, the victims nothing more than props on a macabre tableau vivant.

  Or was that tableau mordant?

  He bounced out of his office in search of Taylor. Could Lee’s mother be on Valium? It was about time they had a break.

  “Bob?” said Shand, throwing open the door to the CID office.

  Taylor was in conversation on the phone. He held up his hand to ask for quiet. “You’re sure?” he asked the other person on the line.

  Shand waited.

  “Thank you,” said Bob, his excitement growing. “Thank you very much. And don’t forget to fax over the other names.”

  “We’ve got her!” said Bob, clutching a piece of paper.

  “Her?” said Shand.

  “Jacintha Maybury. She collected a bottle of Valium on Monday.”

  Shand’s new theory wobbled for a good second before reasserting itself. If Lee Molland could steal items from Gabe Marsh he could steal from Jacintha too.

  “Who else is on your list?” he asked, hoping to hear the name Molland somewhere near the top.

  “Jacintha Maybury’s the only one from Athelcott. Apparently there’s not much call for Valium these days. Most of the local GPs have stopped prescribing it.”

  Shand was silent for a moment. How easy would it be for Lee Molland to steal Valium from Jacintha? Would he have to break in? Or did they know each other? Did he mow her lawns, perhaps?

  Or would he buy it over the internet? And risk having his purchase traced? Shand didn’t think so. There was a pattern to this case and that pattern was theatre and planted evidence. He’d steal the Valium and use it to add another layer of confusion and disinformation.

  “And I rang the Benson’s GP,” said Taylor. “He wouldn’t go into details, but he confirmed he’d never prescribed Valium for either George or Helena.”

  ~

  The press were everywhere. Outside the police station and camped on the village green by the Royal Oak.

  Shand asked Taylor to pull over by the pub.

  “What’s the name of a village about fifteen miles farther on?” he asked.

  “There’s Buckland Abbas, I suppose. Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Shand climbed out. Heads immediately turned, then came the rush and the barrage of questions. Is it true you’ve made an arrest? Have you found another body. Are you here to arrest any more chickens?

  Shand raised his arms and quietened them down. “I have a quick statement to make,” he said. “This afternoon we’re conducting a series of important interviews and searches. Something we can do a lot quicker without an audience, so I’d appreciate it if you could all steer clear of Buckland Abbas for the next three hours. Thank you.”

  “Why Buckland Abbas?” said several journalists at once.

  Shand ignored the question and dived back into the car.

  “Drive,” he said. “The Buckland road.”

  Taylor accelerated away. “I take it we’re going to turn off before Buckland Abbas and double back?” he asked.

  “Got it in one. I’m not interviewing Jacintha with a circus watching.”

  A circus that would have undoubtedly followed them to the Molland house as well, cameras snapping, faces pressed against living room windows, microphones thrust through letterboxes. Anything for a story.

  And Sturton didn’t have the manpower to stop them. The only unit Division could spare was stationed outside Helena’s house.

  Taylor took a quick left after a bend and gradually circled back through a series of winding single-track lanes.

  “I’m still not convinced about Molland,” he said out of the blue. “How would he persuade Annabel to come out and meet him?”

  Something that Shand had difficulty with too. Lee Molland was not the obvious candidate for Midnight Caller.

  “He’s resourceful,” said Shand. “He’d think of something.”

  “And the two Londoners, where’d he find them?”

  “College, the pubs in Sturton, holidaymakers, the Internet. London’s not that far away.”

  “But why work with a gang? Everything else he’s done, he’s done alone. The farce up at the stone circle, digging up people’s gardens. He’s a loner.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Shand. “What about the crop circles? I can’t see Lee not being involved in something like that. And he had to have someone else abduct Helena or she might have recognised him.”

  “Well, I still like Jacintha for it. She had the Valium, she lives on the Green, she has no alibi, and she’s still the best bet for the Midnight Caller.”

  ~

  When they arrived at Larkspur Cottage the Green was clear. Curiosity and a good story having routed any thoughts of press cooperation with the police.

  “You can have first crack,” said Shand as he opened the garden gate. “I want to have a look around first.”

  He knocked on the door.

  Jacintha seemed surprised to see them.

  “Oh,” she said. “Chief Inspector, whatever brings you here?”

  “Can we come in?” said Shand.

  “Oh, sorry, of course.” She opened the door wider and stood back for the two policemen to enter. Shand made for the room they’d been shown into before, the same eclectic jumble of arts and crafts.

  But no photographs. Not that Shand could see. No family snaps, no holiday pictures, no men friends.

  Taylor settled in a chair and produced his notebook.

  “I believe you use Valium, Miss Maybury?” he asked.

  “How...” she paused, narrowing her eyes. “Occasionally, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you have any in the house at the moment?”

  “I … yes, I collected some on Monday.”

  “Can you show me?” said Taylor, getting up.
“It’s very important.”

  Jacintha looked to Shand. “What’s this about, chief inspector? Am I a suspect?”

  “We’re talking to everyone in the village who has recently purchased Valium, Ms. Maybury. Quite routine.”

  Jacintha led them through the house, ducking under a low door to a steep staircase boxed in against a side wall and finally into an upstairs bathroom. Shand followed at the rear, taking his time, peering into each room as they passed, all of them in their own way mirror images of the first – cluttered, low-beamed and devoid of photographs.

  The upstairs bathroom was small and built into the roof with a single eyebrow window sunk into the thatch. A bathroom cabinet teemed with bottles.

  “There,” said Jacintha pointing to one of the larger bottles. “Is … is that how George Benson died? An overdose?”

  “Why would you say that?” asked Taylor.

  “No reason,” said Jacintha defensively. “It’s just. If you’re looking for Valium…”

  “Do you mind if we borrow this,” said Taylor, nodding at the bottle while he slipped on his gloves.

  “No … I will get them back, won’t I?”

  “As soon as they’ve been eliminated from our enquiries,” said Taylor. He picked up the bottle and showed it to Shand. It was full. And the seal was unbroken.

  “Have you got any more?” said Shand. “An older bottle, perhaps?”

  Jacintha shrugged. “I thought I had.” She rummaged through the cabinet, lifting and tilting bottles. “But I couldn’t find them. That’s why I had to go for a new prescription.”

  “If you’d allow me,” said Shand, sliding past the narrow gap between Taylor and the wall. Jacintha stepped aside to make room. The three people almost filled the entire bathroom.

  “Is this the only place you keep your tablets?” asked Shand as he started to rummage.

  “Yes, it’s a small cottage.”

  And a large number of tablets, thought Shand. It was like an amateur pharmacy. Medication for this, supplements for that. And so many of the bottles were nearly empty or past their sell-by date. The woman was a hoarder. And, by the look of it, a budding hypochondriac.

  “I’ve never been well,” said Jacintha, reading his mind. “One of the reasons I moved out to the country. Of course if I’d known about the pesticides…”