Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  Meanwhile, the detectives were on their way to Chalcot House. The time had come, Quantrill had decided, to confront Lewis Glaven.

  They were still short of evidence against him. Everything they had was circumstantial. True, Andrew Meynell had provided a vital piece of information. But there was still a big credibility gap in their theory, and – irritatingly – it was the one that Martin Tait had pointed out.

  No sane man, Tait had said, on hearing that his prospective daughter-in-law was at risk from a hereditary disease, would reach for his shotgun.

  Certainly he’d oppose the marriage. But the natural thing would be to do everything he could to talk his son out of it. He wouldn’t keep the information to himself, still less make an elaborate plan to kill the girl.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense, does it?’ said Quantrill. ‘If I’d been in Lewis Glaven’s shoes, I’d have told my son about it right away. And if that didn’t put him off, I’d have wheeled out the family doctor and the family solicitor to have a go at him. I’d have made damn sure he knew the worst …’

  ‘But if he still insisted on marrying her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t kill the poor girl, that’s for sure. I’d feel more inclined to shoot my son for a fool.’

  Hilary laughed. ‘Now you’re talking like Douglas Quantrill, not Lewis Glaven. Why would he want to kill Hope Meynell – that’s the point, isn’t it? Why would he want to kill her without even giving Will a chance to call off the engagement?’

  They had entered Suffolk at Six Mile Bottom, over the railway crossing that gives the impression of being a frontier post against would-be despoilers of the county. Now they were driving through Newmarket, the capital of the English racing world. Traffic along the old Bury road had been halted to let a string of racehorses, stable lads up, cross from the gallops to their yard.

  Distracted from her argument, Hilary was watching the elegant, high-stepping horses with admiration.

  ‘Aren’t those thoroughbreds beautiful?’ she said. ‘I can’t bear to watch jumping races on television – I’m so afraid they’ll fall and have to be destroyed.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ complained Quantrill, mocking her affectionately: ‘I’ve never known such a sentimental woman over animals!’ And then, as the last of the horses disappeared behind high brick walls and he put the car into gear, he had a thought.

  ‘Lewis Glaven’s a breeder, of course. Not of horses, but of pedigree cattle. And I reckon that breeders must see life and death – and bloodlines – differently from the rest of us.’

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The police officer on scenes-of-crime duty at the gates to Chalcot House was also keeping a discreet eye on Lewis Glaven’s movements. When Chief Inspector Quantrill and Sergeant Lloyd drove up, he directed them to the estate farm.

  The main entrance to Home Farm was about half a mile further on along the road. The farmhouse, late Victorian with ornamental barge-boards, and looking pretty as a dolls’house in the watery November sunshine, was backed by a great metal shed and a couple of silos. Beside the concrete entrance road, high on a post, was a painted sign: THE CHALCOT HERD OF MURRAY GREYS – LEWIS GLAVEN, CHALCOT HOUSE.

  The detectives found his mud-splattered Range Rover, with the dogs in charge, parked next to a tractor in the yard behind the house. Glaven himself could be seen in the cavernous interior of the open-sided shed.

  Half the shed was occupied by baled straw, and the remainder was railed off to form cattle pens. All the pens were empty except one, and in it stood a solitary cow, hock deep in loose straw. Lewis Glaven, in cap, dirty old wellies and Barbour, was leaning over the rail scratching the animal’s poll.

  ‘That’s useful,’ said Quantrill to Hilary as they approached the shed. ‘You can go in first and talk to him about cattle.’

  ‘Why me? I don’t know anything about cattle.’

  ‘That’s why. You’ll be able to lead him along without making him suspicious.’

  While the chief inspector loitered, Hilary approached Lewis Glaven and wished him a disarming Good Afternoon.

  Surprised, he turned towards her. He was, she thought, such an upright and distinguished-looking man, with his high-boned pink cheeks, his silvery wings of hair and neat moustache; it was difficult to think of him as the probable killer of Hope Meynell.

  ‘Good afternoon to you!’ he said, tipping his cap. His eyes were wary, but his voice was courteous: ‘What brings you to the farm?’

  ‘We’re on our way to talk to Mrs Harbord,’ Hilary told him. ‘I expect you know that she’s agreed to make a television appeal for news of Laura. She’ll be collected from your house at four thirty, and we’d like a word with her before then. You’ve no objection, I hope?’

  ‘On the contrary. Relieved you’re stepping up the search for the child – she’s been missing too long.’

  ‘Yes. But we’re living in hope,’ said Hilary. ‘We all have to do that, don’t we?’

  She leaned on the rail beside him, smelling the comfortable warmth of the cow. She had expected a Murray Grey to be grey, but instead it was a rich cream colour, darkening softly to mushroom on its ears and poll. It looked back at her ruminatively, through the thick pale lashes that fringed its large brown eyes.

  ‘I’m no countrywoman, I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘and I’ve never been this close to a cow before. She really is a beauty. Does she have a name?’

  He introduced the animal with affectionate pride.

  ‘This is Chalcot Alicia. Champion breed heifer at the County Show last summer. I call her Alice. She was coughing a bit last week, which is why I brought her under cover. Vet says she’ll be well enough to return to the herd tomorrow. She misses their company.’

  Hilary gave the cow’s placid face an experimental stroke, and found her short stiff hairs surprisingly silky. ‘Has she had any calves?’

  Glaven laughed kindly at her ignorance. ‘As I said, she’s a heifer. A maiden. She’ll have her first calf next year.’

  ‘Then I’m sure it’ll be a beauty too. But supposing …’

  Hilary abandoned the cow and turned to look directly at its owner.

  ‘I know this doesn’t bear thinking about: but supposing the vet found that Alice had some invisible, incurable defect? Something genetic that she would probably transmit to any calves she had. What would you do then, Mr Glaven? You’d have to protect your pedigree herd, wouldn’t you? So what would you do – slaughter her?’

  He had been leaning casually on the rail. Now he stood up, slowly, his profile stern. Turning to Hilary, he gave her a strained smile.

  ‘No, no! We farmers are sadly misunderstood by you towns-people. You think we’ve no concern for our animals’welfare, or sentiment for them. Quite untrue. I’d never slaughter Alice in those circumstances. Wouldn’t breed from her, of course, but wouldn’t dream of killing her. No, Miss Lloyd.’ His tone remained courteous but his eyes hardened. ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘Quite probably, if it’s cattle you’re talking about,’ said the chief inspector’s voice from behind them. ‘You’re the expert there, Mr Glaven – but that’s because you’re in complete control of your herd. They can’t breed without your say-so. It’s different with people, though. The girl your son wanted to marry, for instance …?’

  Lewis Glaven’s moustache twitched uneasily. His eyes moved from one to the other, but he said nothing.

  ‘We had a long talk with Andrew Meynell this morning,’ Quantrill continued. ‘We know, as you do, that his daughter was a possible carrier of Huntington’s disease. You wouldn’t have wanted a terrible thing like that in your family, would you? But you couldn’t prevent her from having children – so the only way to save your family from Huntington’s was to kill her.’

  Glaven stood his ground, an upright country gentleman beside his champion heifer. ‘Have you any evidence for what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Enough,’ asserted Quantrill. That wasn’t true; what’s more, the credibility gap was still
there; but the only way forward was to try to get a confession out of the man.

  ‘We know how you set up the shooting party, so as to make her death look like an accident. And we know about the hidden path through the bushes, from your peg to the place where the shot was fired.’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence, that’s all,’ said Glaven brusquely. ‘Wouldn’t do for a court of law.’

  ‘You mean you’ll plead Not Guilty? That’s a shabby way to treat your old friends. You arranged things at the shoot so that they wouldn’t be involved, didn’t you? Surely you don’t want them to be put in the witness box and cross-examined by some hostile prosecuting counsel?’

  For the first time, Lewis Glaven looked shaken. Hilary took advantage of it.

  ‘Mrs Wilson-Brown, for example,’ she said. ‘Such a delightful woman, and so loyal to you when we questioned her. It was obvious that she knew you’d left your peg for long enough to shoot Hope, but she refused to say so. We didn’t press her – but the prosecution will. Do you really want to make her stand up in Yarchester Crown Court and endure that?’

  There was a tense silence. Then Lewis Glaven gave his cow a final pat, and turned to the detectives.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Dishonourable to plead Not Guilty. Before you charge me, though,’ he added quickly, anticipating Quantrill’s next move, ‘I have to tell you that it wasn’t selfishness that persuaded me to shoot the girl. “The only way to save my family”, you suggested. Not true.

  ‘Didn’t want Will marrying her when I knew about Huntington’s, of course. Asked a London psychiatrist, and was horrified. But if I’d been solely concerned with my own family, I’d never have shot the poor girl. What would have been the point, once I’d made damn sure that Will wasn’t going to marry her?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve been wondering,’ admitted Quantrill. ‘Why didn’t you discuss it with your son, and pressure him to call the engagement off?’

  Lewis Glaven shrugged. ‘Because I’m a breeder of pedigree cattle, I suppose. If Alice here had a genetic defect – as you hypothesised, Miss Lloyd – I would never pass her on to an unsuspecting farmer for breeding. Wouldn’t be right, would it?

  ‘Well, then: in the same way, how could I reject Hope Meynell for my own family, but leave her to carry the Huntington’s gene to another? The girl was a walking time-bomb. Deeply regret the necessity of killing her, but it had to be done.’

  His face had darkened and his voice became vehement. ‘D’you know what the pyschiatrist told me? He said the disease could be stamped out in a decade, if only the affected families would stop having children. And yet Hope’s brother and sister are already breeding, and Hope herself said how much she wanted a family! Totally irresponsible. Wickedly so.’

  ‘Inadvisable, yes,’ said Hilary, ‘but not wicked. Far less wicked than murder. We’re not talking about cattle here, Mr Glaven, we’re talking about the death of an innocent girl.’

  He gave her a small stiff smile. ‘You think me callous, don’t you, Miss Lloyd? That’s not so. I’m a very experienced shot, and I hate to see pheasants wounded and suffering. Intended to give Hope Meynell a quick, clean death, such as I give my birds.

  ‘But compassion got in the way, d’you see? Not callous enough. My hand shook, I botched my shot, and as a result she suffered. Never forgive myself for that … Never forgive myself.’

  Having charged Lewis Glaven with the murder, Quantrill agreed that he could change out of his farm clothes before being taken to Breckham Market police station.

  The sun was setting among low pink clouds as they drove in procession along the back road to Chalcot House. Glaven led the way in his Range Rover, slowing to look as he passed the field where his pedigree herd was pastured.

  When they reached the yard behind Chalcot House they found a car already parked there, a clapped-out Ford Escort with its bonnet up. Lewis Glaven took no notice of it. He let his dogs out of his vehicle and walked quickly with them to the back door, his head held high.

  Hilary was about to follow him. Her mind was now on the search for Laura Harbord, and what she was going to say to the girl’s mother about the forthcoming press conference. But Quantrill was already out of the car.

  ‘Hold hard,’ he said, ‘what’s Peter doing here?’

  His son emerged from under the Escort’s bonnet, and grinned with relief when he saw who had arrived. He hurried over to them, putting on his mock-Australian accent: ‘Good on yer, Dad! My starter motor seems to be jammed – can you give me a push?’

  ‘I daresay I can, when I know what you’re up to.’ And then, seeing the grin on his son’s face widen, Quantrill added quickly, ‘Have you found Laura Harbord?’

  Peter paused, relishing his achievement. He was, thought Hilary, a very good-looking lad, with his thick dark hair and his green eyes; Douglas’s son, and no mistake.

  ‘I’ve just brought Laura home from Yarchester,’ he said casually.

  ‘Thank God for that! Is she all right?’

  ‘Fine. She’d run out of money, and she hadn’t any spare clothes, and she hated being in a squat with students who lived on beefburgers. Otherwise, no problems.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Hilary dived into the car, and radioed Breckham Market to call off the search and cancel the press conference.

  Quantrill looked at his son with approval. ‘Good man,’ he said, deciding there and then to buy a reconditioned engine for the Escort without even being asked. ‘How did you find Laura?’

  ‘Just asked around,’ said Peter. ‘A bit of persistence – you know how it is.

  ‘She told me she’d got involved with some of the protesters at the shoot. When things turned nasty, they ran for their van and took her with them. She forgot that she’d left her bike and her sports bag by the side of the road. When I found her she was wandering round the university car-park, trying to hitch a lift home. Seems she’s got some pheasants to look after …’

  ‘How did her mother react when you brought her back?’ asked Hilary.

  Peter snorted. ‘Gave her an earful, from what I could hear. Sounds as though Laura’s having a go as well, though.’

  The back door of Chalcot House had been flung open. A defiant figure, just inside, was rounding off a shouting match.

  ‘Thanks for the welcome! I’m going to look for Fred and Francis – at least they’ll be glad to see me!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Hilary as they watched the girl rush out, her long fair hair furiously flying, her black sweatshirt bannered with SHOOTING PHEASANTS IS WRONG. Seeing the three of them, Laura checked, scowled, and ran in the other direction.

  ‘It’s not that Ann Harbord doesn’t love her, I’m sure of that,’ Hilary went on. ‘It’s just that she’s no idea how to express it. What that girl needs is a big hug.’

  ‘I rather think she’s about to get one,’ observed Quantrill.

  Will Glaven had just come round the corner of the house, hands deep in the pockets of his Barbour, head held sadly down, dog sloping at his heels. But then he saw Laura. He did a double-take, shouted her name with relief, and held his arms wide in a brotherly gesture of affection.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Douglas Quantrill.

  ‘Well, then,’ replied Martin Tait.

  The two men were standing on either side of the Quantrill family hearth, filled glasses in hand; abandoned by their womenfolk, they were wondering what to say to each other.

  Molly and Alison were clearly having a much nicer time in the kitchen, laughing and chatting happily as they prepared a special engagement supper. And fortunately, thought Quantrill, with Alison – her sprained ankle well on the mend – in charge of the cooking, it was a meal to look forward to. It might well be full of garlic and other foreign stuff, but he couldn’t deny that it smelled delicious.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Martin with guarded jocularity, ‘that this is the moment when I say, “Is it all right with you if I marry your daughter?” And then you say, “No, it isn’t – and considering you�
�ve been living with her for over a year, you’ve left it a bit late to ask.”’

  ‘Something like that,’ agreed Quantrill. ‘But you can delete the objection,’ he added, bearing in mind what Hope Meynell’s father had said. ‘If Alison wants to marry you, I’m not going to be difficult about it. Just take care of her, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course. And – er – thank you.’

  Martin hadn’t been looking forward to this evening of compulsory togetherness. He’d fully expected to be on the receiving end of a lot of aggravation from his prospective father-in-law. But now, with the irritant removed, he felt relaxed and happy.

  ‘You won’t be going to any more shooting parties, I imagine?’ said Quantrill.

  ‘Never again, after what happened at Chalcot. Anyway, I agree with Alison: killing birds is an objectionable sport. I’ll shoot clays at the gun club in future.’

  ‘You’re not giving up shooting, then?’

  ‘Certainly not. Shooting clays is excellent sport – it’s skilful and exciting, and it does no harm to man, beast or bird. Or to woman either,’ he added sadly, remembering Hope Meynell.

  ‘Where are you keeping your shotgun now? At the gun club, I suppose?’

  ‘No, at home. In a locked steel cabinet, of course.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Lulled by the withdrawal of Alison’s father’s objection to their marriage, Martin had thought they were having an ordinary conversation. Now he realised that Doug Quantrill had been interviewing him, and was seriously displeased with his answers.

  ‘Good God, you should know better than to keep a shotgun in your own house! You’ve no reason to do it – you’re not a farmer, and you’re certainly not a country gentleman. I’m not having my daughter marrying a man who keeps a lethal weapon at home just to bolster his own ego. If you must shoot, you’re to keep your gun in the proper place, locked away at the club. Right?’