Publishing the picture of the shoes had attracted other attention. Someone from the museum at Blists Hill had rung, a brisk lady with a slight speech impediment when she pronounced her ‘r’s, and explained to Randall that they had a pair of shoes just like that in one of their Victorian cottages. She then went into great detail to tell him they were made of calf leather and the soles wood hob nailed. ‘The nails,’ she said pompously, ‘were, of course, handmade.’ But when Randall asked if a pair of their shoes was missing she became flustered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I looked. They’re still there.’
Randall remained polite, asked her if she knew of any other museums in the area that might have similar exhibits, and when she said no, she didn’t think so, he thanked her and put the phone down. So what had been the bloody use of that? he wondered. It had simply been an education, though they’d already gleaned as much from the lady at Shrewsbury Museum.
And he was interested in shoes? Actually, no. What he was interested in was finding out who the bloody man was and who had slit his throat.
And why had the crime scene yielded so little pertinent evidence? As an area visited by numbers of the general public there was plenty of evidence but nothing specific to either their victim or his killer. It was all very frustrating.
PC Delia Shaw gave her report of her encounter at Missing.
She’d described Phoebe Walker so Randall could picture her. Homespun, kind-hearted. One of the good people.
‘She said he came into the shop months ago during the winter. He’d said he was cold.
It was a horrible day.’ She smiled and quoted. ‘“A rotten, icy wind blowing right up the Cop. Freezing. I felt so sorry for him.”’ Shaw paused. ‘She said he was proud. He had a ten-pound note and offered it to her for the coat. And, unbelievably, she said that his next words had been, “It’ll help the homeless.” She couldn’t believe it and said, ‘“He was bloody homeless himself.”’
‘She said she couldn’t have taken his money and told him the coat was a gift from Mr Knebworth himself, that he wouldn’t mind her giving it to him, that that was the point of the shop – to help people like him.’
Shaw was silent. The worm of an idea was wriggling inside her brain.
‘She told him to go and buy himself some hot soup and keep warm.’ She looked around the room. ‘And then she said she knew they were supposed to make as much money from their gifts as they could but a life is a life – one life could not be more precious than another.’
Her colleagues were silent, listening to the PC’s words.
‘She was confused by something. He said, “Thank you, Lucy.”’
Randall’s ears pricked up, recalling the words of the vagrant as reported by Coleman and Dart. ‘She looked quite bewildered, sir, and said, “My name’s Phoebe. And he didn’t know that anyway. I didn’t tell him. He didn’t know my name. So why did he call me Lucy? I didn’t understand it then and I don’t understand it now.”’
Randall spoke. ‘Did she say anything more about him?’
‘No – just what we’ve already heard: that he was accentless, that he seemed a nice man. Same sort of stuff.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Randall said. ‘When she said that the coat had been a gift from Mr Knebworth himself, did she mean through the charity or that it had actually belonged to Mr Knebworth?’
Sean Dart started. The name Knebworth meant something to him – that connection with the wife of a man who had caused mayhem in a drink driving incident and subsequently vanished.
‘I’m sorry,’ Delia Shaw was saying. ‘I’m not absolutely sure. I suppose she could have meant either. I got the impression that the coat and trousers had actually belonged to Mr Knebworth, but I can check.’
She pressed on: ‘I did ask her whether Mr Knebworth had much to do with the homeless and she said, yes, he did loads. He and his wife served in the soup kitchen, sometimes spent a night with them. She said they helped in the shop sometimes and that the staff all thought they were wonderful.’
Mr and Mrs Wonderful, Randall thought. Time he spoke to them.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘He asked for a pen and she lent him one. She said, “What’s a pen, after all?”’
It was a question Delia Shaw asked herself all the way back to the nick. As far as she remembered their man had not had a pen amongst his personal possessions. Or anything to write on.
The quote swam into her head about the pen being mightier than the sword. Only it hadn’t been, had it? She smiled to herself. Shaw dismissed the quote as being fanciful. His throat hadn’t been cut with a bloody pen. It had been cut with something much more predictable – a kitchen knife.
TWENTY-THREE
Friday, 19 September, 5 p.m.
Martha had called on a friend of hers. Miranda Mountford had been her buddy ever since she and Martin had moved to Shrewsbury almost twenty years ago, she heavily pregnant with twins, little suspecting that her husband possibly already had growing inside him the tumour that would kill him two years later. Miranda had supported her through that terrible time just as Martha had supported her through an awful period in her life – the violent separation from her husband. And so the friendship had been cemented.
She met her in town, on an afternoon that had turned suddenly stormy, blowing many people’s umbrellas inside out. Martha hated umbrellas almost as much as she hated any waterproof headgear, hoods or mackintosh hats, finding them restrictive. She liked her hair to blow free – even in rainstorms, a habit that earned her the wrath of Vernon Grubb, her beefy hairdresser. She still allowed her hair to blow free in wind and rain, knowing he would ‘tut, tut’ when next she visited him. But the result of her prejudice was that when she reached the coffee shop her hair was streaming cold rivulets down her neck.
Miranda had worked in Public Health and her husband, Steven, had grown increasingly hostile and pathological toward his wife, jealous of her success in her own field of work. The marriage had finally ended in an acrimonious divorce and a necessary court order against him, and the last Martha had heard he was in South Africa – a source of relief to her friend. Since then her life had moved on and she had recently elected to work part-time and help in a charity: Missing. She would be killing two birds with one stone, meeting up with a friend and maybe finding out more about the charity.
Miranda was there before her, already sitting with a mug of coffee, reading one of the newspapers which were to hand. She had a blonde bob in the style she’d worn for at least twenty years, and two children, both now grown up: Mark, a banker in New York, and Prue, who ran a bar/restaurant in Madeira. Most of her holidays were spent visiting one or the other and Martha planned to join her on one of her trips. Either destination would suit her. Looking delighted, Miranda stood up when Martha arrived and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, hello, stranger,’ she said, grinning broadly. ‘How are you? You look wonderful, but …’
Martha held up her hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You haven’t seen me for ages. I’ve been busy.’
Miranda’s eyes sparkled. ‘Working alongside Detective Inspector Alex Randall?’
‘And others,’ Martha said firmly.
Miranda sat down again, eyeing her over the rim of her coffee mug. ‘But none of your other work colleagues make you go quite as red in the face, darling,’ she said.
Martha ignored the comment, which did not escape her friend’s attention. She gave her a sharp look and continued, ‘Now let me guess,’ finger on chin. ‘You want to pump me about a certain homeless man who has been violently dispatched?’
Martha nodded. ‘Yes. You saw the pictures in the paper, Miranda?’
‘Oh, yes. Shocking. It’s horrible to see someone you’ve known feature on the front page of the paper like that. Poor man.’
‘You knew him?’ Martha was astonished.
Miranda didn’t answer straight away but thought for a moment then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t say I knew him but I w
as an acquaintance. He was one of the people I dealt with.’
‘Have you told the police that?’
‘Of course I have, but all they wanted to know were facts. You, Martha, will be asking me something quite different. You will want my impression of him. They asked straight questions. Did I know his name? Did I know where he came from? Did I know if he had any friends, relatives? It was all questions. I didn’t know anything.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Polite, quiet. Reticent.’
‘Why? Why would he be reticent?’
‘I can only give you my impression, Martha. I thought that he had perhaps decided to turn his back on society or at least on someone or something. He was well spoken but refused to engage with any of us. He would answer questions but not volunteer information. And before you ask,’ she said as Martha opened her mouth to speak, ‘he never gave me his name. He said once, when I asked him, that it would be useless him giving me his name.’
‘Why?’
‘I asked him and he just smiled and said, “Believe me, Mrs Mountford, my name will not be helpful to you. My name does not exist anymore. Not in the land of the living.”’
‘“Not in the land of the living”?’ Martha frowned. ‘Was he a drunk?’
‘He did drink but I never saw him drunk or heard him incoherent.’
‘Schizophrenic?’
‘No.’
‘Did he take drugs?’
‘No.’
‘So what …?’
Miranda simply touched her friend’s hand. ‘He said he did not exist anymore, that he was a non-person.’
‘Well, I …’ For once, Martha Gunn, coroner, was flummoxed, at a loss for words.
‘There was one thing more,’ her friend added. ‘As you know, the men – they are mostly men – go to the shelter and sometimes sit at a table. Your gentleman would sit alone.’
Knowing what she did, Martha was not surprised to hear this, but her friend’s next words did surprise her.
‘He’d spend the time scribbling in an exercise book.’
‘What?’
Miranda looked smug. ‘So it hasn’t been found amongst his belongings?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Well then,’ her friend said, smiles creasing her face, ‘it gives you the perfect excuse to ring Alex.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Friday, 19 September, 6 p.m.
Randall had taken Sean Dart with him. He wanted to speak to Rufus Sharp, gentleman farmer, for himself and see his face when he asked his question.
He also wanted to speak again to the other inhabitants of Moreton Corbet: John Hyde, finder of the body, who lived in another farmworker’s cottage in the village, and Wilfred Hook. He wanted to meet them all for himself, including Wilfred’s Labrador, Imogen. Like PC Gary Coleman, Randall had a weakness for Golden Labradors. Lovely dogs. Dart had been right when he’d shot that nervous, worried glance at him when he had issued the instruction that he accompany him on this visit. He did want to keep PC Dart close to him. He wanted to observe his new recruit’s behaviour. Get a handle on the man. The truth was a vacancy would be coming up soon for a detective constable and he wanted to decide whether Dart was suitable material. He had done well so far, but before he let him into the ranks he wanted to be sure.
He began with the person he anticipated would give him the most trouble – Rufus Sharp of Moreton Corbet Farm, who lived opposite the castle.
He had the idea that Sharp would object strongly to having had a vagrant hanging around the village at all, let alone one who was inconsiderate enough to have his throat cut at an historic site right opposite his own front door. Randall knew from experience that some landowners could be arrogant, holding the belief that because they owned land they had a right to privacy over and above their neighbours. They could be bully boys. But cutting a tramp’s throat? He didn’t really think so. Then again, had he seen their man descend from the lorry delivering the animal feed on that September evening?
There was only one way to make this judgement – see for himself. He outlined his thoughts to PC Sean Dart and waited for him to make some comment. None came. Randall eyed him curiously. This was a man who kept his cards very, very close to his chest. So close it was hard to know what was going on in his mind. He knew Dart had transferred to Shrewsbury due to some problem. He knew it must have been bad. He didn’t really know anything more but he wondered about him – as did the others in the station. But PC Dart was not telling.
He knocked on Sharp’s stout front door and it was pulled open by a very attractive slim blonde lady in jodhpurs. Randall was taken aback. She looked very young. ‘Mrs Sharp?’
‘Yes.’ She had a lovely voice, light and clean as a lemon, and her smile initially appeared equally refreshing.
Randall displayed his card and explained. He admired her face. Perfect and beautiful, and she was able to convey no emotion but regarded him with a face that was a blank canvas. Randall looked closer. A man had been cruelly killed practically on her doorstep and she showed no emotion? No fear or apprehension or even curiosity. Weird. The smile seemed pasted on to her face. He glanced at PC Dart, whose dark eyes also registered nothing.
So Randall addressed Mrs Sharp with a touch of irony. ‘I hope you’re not too threatened by these events?’
‘Well, we’ve never had such a police presence,’ she said coolly. ‘If anything I feel safer with them around.’ She gave him a confident smile displaying spectacularly white and even teeth which, oddly enough, made Randall revise his opinion of her. He wasn’t sure he liked her. She was too chilly. Too cool and too distant. Too manufactured perfect. She felt synthetic.
‘Have you ever seen a hobo, a tramp, a vagrant hanging around here?’
‘Never,’ she said firmly. ‘Your officers have already asked us that on numerous occasions.’
‘Oh.’ There was no disputing the boredom with which she had said this.
He’d had enough of her. ‘Is your husband in?’
‘Somewhere,’ she said airily, and Randall decided he really didn’t like her at all. The old world of surfs and landowners, peasants and gentry had always rankled with him, though he wouldn’t have called himself overly sensitive as to the question of class. But this beautiful woman with her porcelain skin and fragrant air was frankly irritating. ‘Then would you please go and get him?’
Visibly annoyed that her charm didn’t appear to be working, she tightened her lips and gave him a sulky look, pushed the door ajar and disappeared, almost rudely closing it behind her. Moments later they heard her voice whining. Randall couldn’t resist smirking at PC Dart, who shot him a look back. A minute stretched into two then three, and finally the door was tugged open.
Sharp’s scowl was thunderous. ‘Now what?’
In a clipped voice, equally tight-lipped, Randall explained who he was.
It didn’t do much to improve Sharp’s manners. ‘Your traffic and the general increase of people is causing a devil of a fuss here. We can hardly get the tractors up the lane. Do you know when you’ll be gone?’
‘We’re investigating a murder,’ Randall said angrily. ‘We’ll be going when we’re ready.’
Sharp contented himself with a heavy sigh.
‘This isn’t a social call,’ Randall continued, his hostility compounding by the minute. ‘I’m not here to apologize but to see whether you have anything to add to your statement, whether you’ve remembered something that might help us …’ his eyes flickered, ‘… to hone in on the man who slit this poor fellow’s throat.’ He paused, adding maliciously, hoping Sharp’s wife was listening in from behind the door, ‘Practically on your doorstep, Mr Sharp.’
Sharp looked away, veiling his true emotion. But his voice, when he spoke, was more conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Life has just been a little more difficult lately.’
‘Is there anything you can think of that might help us to find out who did this horrible thing?’
&nb
sp; Sharp shook his head.
Randall eyed him speculatively. ‘The night before we found the man’s body,’ he began, ‘Thursday, September the eleventh, you had a delivery of animal feed late in the afternoon.’
Sharp looked bemused. ‘And?’
‘The lorry driver, Mr Nelson Futura, had picked up our man from just outside the Shrewsbury bypass.’
Sharp looked wary now.
‘He dropped him off here. Did you see him?’
Sharp frowned. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said.
‘Think,’ Randall prompted.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did you see him descend from the lorry’s cab?’
Sharp blew out a heavy, annoyed sigh. ‘If I did, it didn’t register,’ he said. ‘As I say, I’ve had a lot on my plate recently. I’ve been quite distracted.’
Randall waited a minute but nothing more was forthcoming and they left. He couldn’t be certain whether Sharp had seen their man descend from the lorry or not. And if he had seen him, whether there would be any reason for denying the fact.
He glanced at Sean Dart but again PC Dart offered no comment and Alex Randall didn’t either except to say, ‘Well, shall we try the cottage?’
As they walked up the drive of Moreton Corbet Cottage Imogen bounded towards them, tongue hanging out, tail wagging as though electrified.
Randall bent down and stroked the coarse golden coat. He wasn’t a great dog lover but somehow Golden Labradors seemed to ease themselves right into his heart. Imogen looked up at him, her brown eyes beseeching and, unconsciously mirroring Coleman’s response, Randall felt his heart melt. If he ever had a dog again she would be like this one. His heart was still melting as he scratched behind her ears and addressed his first question to the dog. ‘Did you see anything, Imogen?’ he asked her, and she wagged her tail even harder.
Recalled to Death Page 13
