The Coffin Trail

by Martin Edwards

  Simon said hoarsely, ‘You should have told me, darling.’

  ‘She swore me to secrecy, said he’d kill her if he found out that she’d talked to anyone else. How could I betray her?’

  Hannah said, ‘We’ll need to take a full statement from you, Mrs Dumelow.’

  ‘What if he denies it?’ Tash’s pupils dilated with horror. ‘He’s a hardened liar and Jean is dead. Joe won’t admit his part in it, he’ll be too scared. I can’t prove any of this. Nothing.’

  ‘Leave us to worry about that.’

  ‘You know Tom’s past. He’s got away with things before. But I’m not sure you know the whole of it.’

  ‘And you do?’

  In a whisper she said, ‘I think he may have killed Gabrielle Anders. God forgive me, I thought Barrie was guilty. But now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What?’ Hannah stared at her. ‘What’s your evidence for saying that?’

  ‘Jean told me she gave him a false alibi. She never believed that he’d murdered Gabrielle, but that’s because she didn’t want to.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove he murdered Gabrielle.’

  ‘Come on.’ Tash was weary as well as scornful. ‘If Barrie didn’t kill her, who did?’

  ‘That’s pure speculation.’

  ‘She told me she phoned the police about it, although she didn’t dare give her name. You know about that, you must do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah said. ‘It took us a while, but we suspected Jean Allardyce made the call.’

  ‘I thought that was why you’d come back here. To check up on him.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Listen.’ Tash’s voice faltered as she gestured to the farmhouse. ‘That man killed her and it’s my responsibility. Jean was my friend. I’m the one who let her down. I have to make amends.’

  ‘Darling…’ Simon said.

  As he started speaking, Tash broke away from them and started running towards the farmhouse. Hannah hesitated. If she gave chase, what was she going to do when she caught up with her quarry – rugby-tackle her to the ground? Hardly the way to treat a key prosecution witness. But she had to do something. Suppose Allardyce tried to hurt Tash, maybe attempted to kill her?

  ‘Mrs Dumelow, come back!’

  Tash kept running and so Hannah started after her. But the other woman was lithe and fit and she’d opened up a gap. Soon she reached the yard and Hannah saw her carry on until she was standing a few paces away from Allardyce’s front door.

  ‘Jean’s dead!’ she shouted. ‘You killed her!’

  A siren wailed not far away. The paramedics were turning into the rutted lane.

  ‘Mrs Dumelow!’ Hannah panted. ‘Please. Come back.’

  Tash seemed to spot a movement at an upstairs window. ‘You murdering bastard!’

  ‘It’s not safe, Mrs Dumelow!’

  ‘Put that down!’ Tash bellowed at the figure in the window.

  Hannah was nearly at the yard. The siren had fallen silent. Tash Dumelow was waving her fist at the man in the farmhouse.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it!’

  ‘Mrs Dumelow, please!’

  A rifle shot rang out and Tash Dumelow screamed.

  Out on the main road, Daniel heard a crack shattering the stillness. Just like the shot he and Miranda had heard at Tarn Cottage. For Christ’s sake, surely Allardyce wasn’t firing at the ambulance or at the police? He could see a police car parked near the front of the Hall. Was Hannah at the farm, checking on Jean Allardyce’s whereabouts after he had passed on the information from Tash Dumelow? He offered up a prayer that she wasn’t indulging in any heroics.

  ‘Hear that?’ A cyclist pulled up beside him, a tubby man whose voice wobbled with excitement. ‘Sounded like someone’s trying to pot the panda car that just whizzed past. Or maybe even the ambulance. For goodness sake, what’s going on?’

  Daniel spread his arms. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  The bullet had kicked up a spray of dirt close to the barn, ten yards away from where Tash was standing. She’d covered her face with her hands, but hadn’t moved. It was as if the shot had paralysed her. Allardyce hadn’t aimed at her, Hannah was certain. A marksman trained by the army, however rusty his aim, would have come much closer to his target.

  No time to deliberate. She raced into the yard and seized Tash by the wrist.

  ‘Come on – quickly!’

  Tash stumbled as Hannah dragged her across the cobbles. Her face was glowing, as if being shot vindicated her. By hazarding her safety, she’d induced Allardyce to give himself away. Hannah ducked her head as they moved. At any moment the farmer might fire again.

  At last, they reached the barn and safety. Hannah pressed her back against the stone wall. The windows of the farmhouse were out of sight, so they were out of Allardyce’s range. The main risk now was that he might emerge from the front door, rifle in hand.

  ‘What do you think you were doing?’ Hannah gasped as she let go of Tash’s wrist.

  ‘I had to confront him. You can see what his temper is like. It was the only way.’

  ‘You might have been killed.’

  ‘So might you,’ Tash said. ‘You didn’t have to come and save me.’

  Hannah was still trying to catch her breath. ‘What else could I do?’

  Tash blinked away tears. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have exposed you to danger.’

  ‘At least we’re both still in one piece.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Back off and call for help. I’ve had my ration of excitement for the time being.’

  She called the control room and told them where she was. ‘We have a firearms situation here. Can you get a couple of ARVs over soonest? Along with dog patrols?’

  Tash said, ‘ARVs?’

  ‘Armed response vehicles.’

  ‘Why dogs?’

  ‘We don’t want anyone hurt. Or any thing.’

  Tash raised her eyebrows. ‘But if he does shoot again, it’s better for a dog to stop a bullet?’

  Hannah grunted. Tash had a knack of putting her at a disadvantage. ‘I don’t want to lose one of my fellow officers.’

  Tash paled. ‘I guess you’re right. Tom’s crazy, I’ve thought that for a long time.’

  Hannah glanced over her shoulder. In the distance, Simon Dumelow was edging along the path that led to the Hall. He should be safe; not even an SAS veteran could shoot round corners. An unworthy thought flashed into her brain: does it matter to him?

  Nick Lowther was approaching. He must have deserted the sheep handling facility on hearing the shot. The ambulance and a police car had pulled up nearby and their occupants were clambering out. She put up a hand to show that she was all right, then waved him back. He still had a job to do with the SOCOs at the crime scene and she didn’t want him to stray into the line of fire.

  ‘Listen, Mrs Dumelow. I need to keep you out of harm’s way, but we’ll also need information from you, just in case this mess doesn’t sort itself out as quickly as we’d hope.’

  ‘Anything,’ Tash said. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘The layout of the farmhouse. Apart from the front and back doors, are there any other exits? And what sort of arsenal does Allardyce have in there?’

  ‘You only need worry about the two main doors. Unless he takes his life in his hands and climbs out of the landing window on to the roof of the lean-to. As for guns, I’d guess he has a stockpile.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He owns a rifle, I think it’s a .22. I remember him showing it off to me.’

  ‘For killing vermin?’

  ‘That’s his excuse,’ Tash said. ‘He has a Kestrel shotgun as well, for rabbits and pheasants. But I’m sure he has several other weapons he’s never told us about. He loves just holding them. Caressing them almost, I’ve always found it creepy. It’s like other people collect antiques. Of course, he won’t have them licensed. But I don’t have a clue what might be stashed away inside
the house.’

  Hannah cursed under her breath. A peaceful backwater in rural Cumbria, and she was facing someone who might possess more firepower than a vanload of Yardies in the East End of London. And who had the training to make use of it. She scanned their surroundings, assessing the available cover between the farm and Brack Hall. The good news was that there was plenty. The bad news was that most of it was soft cover: rhododendrons with their last purple flowers and the spiky hawthorn hedges lining the track between the farm and the Hall. From the first floor of the farm, Allardyce might not be able to see someone hiding behind the greenery, but that wouldn’t stop a stray bullet from doing a lot of damage if you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apart from a scattering of sycamore and horse chestnut trees, hard cover was scarce between the barn and the Hall.

  At her side, Tash Dumelow was shaking. Her skin was taut over her cheekbones and she looked as though it was a long, long time since she’d been a pin-up model. Hannah put her arm on the other woman’s shoulder, felt her tension. Why trust to luck? It wasn’t worth the risk of making a dash for it. The first ARV would be here in another ten minutes, fifteen at the most. They would tough it out until the cavalry arrived.

  * * *

  The tubby cyclist screwed up his eyes and squinted across the fields towards Brack Hall Farm. ‘If you ask me, the shot came from the farmhouse.’

  The combination of rifle fire and the sirens had prompted a small crowd to gather at the end of the lane leading to the farm. People were gossiping with perfect strangers, relishing the camaraderie. Daniel felt a stab of embarrassment as he lingered; they were worse than rubber-neckers slowing down to gape at a motorway pile-up. Of course, he ought to keep on walking into the village to perform his errand at Tasker’s. But he was worried about Hannah Scarlett and it would require more self-discipline than he possessed to tear himself away. A drama was being played out at the farm and he couldn’t imagine what was in the script or how the final act would end.

  A harassed woman who was failing to calm a neurotic Jack Russell terrier said to nobody in particular, ‘You’re not safe anywhere, these days, are you?’

  ‘Who lives at the farm?’ the cyclist asked.

  ‘Tom Allardyce,’ an elderly man in walker’s kit replied. ‘Surly bugger. Take it from me, he’ll be behind this. That feller’s made trouble all his bloody life.’

  The woman shushed her yelping dog again and murmured, ‘It’s all gone very quiet over there.’

  ‘Too quiet,’ the cyclist said solemnly.

  Daniel decided that he couldn’t bear much more of this. He detached himself from the little group and wandered along the road towards a gap in the hedge. From there he could see both the emergency vehicles. Beyond, police officers and paramedics were conferring. Allardyce was nowhere to be seen; nor was Hannah Scarlett.

  The silence was ruptured by another shot.

  * * *

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tash hissed.

  ‘Fine,’ Hannah said.

  All she’d done was to bob her head round the corner, to see if she could still make out the bulky shape of Tom Allardyce at the upstairs window. The movement had provoked him into firing against the wall of the barn. The roar as the shot ricocheted off the brickwork was deafening.

  No wonder he’s twitchy, she thought. Nothing seems to be happening, but he’ll be starting to fear the worst. If he carries on like this, it’ll become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  If only she had a clear sight of him. What if he moved, or decided to come out of the house? She was tempted to edge back into the farmyard. Perhaps she could try to initiate a dialogue. Not about his wife’s murder, far less that of Gabrielle Anders, just in an attempt to persuade him that he had nothing to gain from a stand-off, and a great deal to lose. But that was madness. Bargaining with an armed criminal was a job for a particular kind of person. A few years ago she’d flirted with the possibility of becoming a negotiator, had studied the literature about the training on offer at Hendon. When she confided in Ben Kind about her idea, he was quick to talk her out of it.

  ‘You’re not boring enough.’

  What he meant was that a negotiator confronted with potential suicides or hostage situations needed infinite patience. An ability to sustain endless, monotonous, soothing conversation was a key part of the job spec. Once he’d pointed out the pitfalls, she didn’t need much persuading that she was better off with real detective work. In the CID, if a tricky interview wasn’t going well, you could terminate it there and then. No such option when you were negotiating over life and death.

  She said to Tash, ‘Promise me you’ll stay out of the line of fire.’

  Tash closed her eyes, seeming to collect her thoughts. When she opened them again, she said, ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘It’s not an issue. I just don’t want you to…’

  Tash put up her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t know what prompted me to challenge him. It was stupid.’

  ‘It was pretty brave, actually.’

  ‘I’m so angry about what happened,’ Tash said fiercely. ‘To see Jean – floating like that, just as he left her. Covered up. God only knows whether she drowned or was poisoned by the sheep dip. How could he do that to his own wife? It shows you what he’s like.’

  ‘Sure, but leave it to us now, okay?’ Hannah squeezed the emotion out of her voice. ‘We’ll deal with him.’

  ‘These people in the – the ARVs. If he fires at them, will they try to cripple him? Shoot him in the legs?’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Hannah said.

  ‘But if it does?’

  ‘The firearms officers would only fire in self-defence.’

  ‘To wound him?’

  ‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘If they do fire, it’s because life is in imminent jeopardy. When these guys shoot, they shoot to kill.’

  Daniel rejoined the throng as a couple of young constables were setting up a cordon at the end of the lane that led to the farm. Another police car had just driven through. The officers stonewalled every question and shooed the onlookers back down the road. In the absence of authoritative information about what was happening, the elderly walker was proving to be a real know-all. He announced in strident tones that the latest arrival was a second armed response vehicle.

  ‘Looks just like an ordinary traffic car to me,’ the cyclist protested.

  ‘They keep their weapons locked in the boot,’ the smart-alec informed him. ‘My daughter-in-law works for the police in Carlisle. Some of her stories would make your hair curl, I promise you. Joe Public doesn’t know the half of it, I can tell you that for nothing. Not the bloody half of it.’

  ‘Armed police,’ the officer shouted into a loudhailer. ‘Mr Allardyce, we have the farm surrounded. Come out of the house slowly and put your weapon on the ground.’

  Silence. Tom Allardyce evidently wasn’t in the mood to give himself up for arrest. He was downstairs now, stationed at a window close to the main doorway. Hannah knew there were two contrasting interpretations of his change of position. One, he was preparing to wave the white flag. Two, he was steeling himself to come out in a blaze of gunfire.

  Hannah had paused in her briefing of the negotiator, a bald DCI whom she’d never met before. He spoke in a Lowland monotone and was obviously well-suited to his job. Ben had been right, she thought. Ten minutes talking to this man and you’d be bored into submission.

  At least now she could see the farmhouse. They were crouching behind the stone wall on the other side of the path from the barn. Nick had joined her but Tash Dumelow was safely back in the Hall. So far as Hannah could see, everything was in place for the conduct of a containment situation. The first priority was to keep the lid on everything; no need for shock and awe. Time was on their side, thank God. If Allardyce had emerged from the house before backup arrived, Hannah would have been at his mercy. At least the arrival of four authorised firearms officers, together with a couple of dog patrols, had prett
y much boxed off that risk. Hannah would never want to argue with the huge glowering Alsatians, but the sight of the AFOs’ guns was heart-stopping. Each man was built like a prop forward, each carried serious weaponry: a Glock 9 mm. machine pistol and a Hechler and Koch carbine machine gun.

  Somewhere inside the farmhouse, Allardyce’s collie started barking. Outside, the AFOs’ radios were crackling. The men had spaced themselves out around the farmhouse, covering each aspect of the scene as best they could. Hannah saw that they were keeping a wary eye on arcs of fire. For good reason: no matter how long you practised your skills in video-shoots, nothing could prepare you one hundred per cent for the reality of armed response. At least as scary as the unknown quantity inside the house was the possibility of one AFO firing towards another.

  ‘Let’s see if we can put a lid on it.’ A shaft of sunlight glinted on the top of the negotiator’s scalp. ‘Talk him out.’

  ‘Even at the best of times, Tom Allardyce wasn’t a smooth conversationalist,’ she said. ‘His wife’s dead now. Presumably he’s thinking he has nothing to lose.’

  ‘Everyone has something to lose.’ It sounded like something the negotiator had read in a manual.

  Hannah held her tongue, but she wasn’t convinced.

  As the sun slipped over the horizon, the crowd kept growing. A team had arrived from regional television and a young reporter with Morticia Addams hair and a winsome smile was conducting an impromptu vox pop. An opportunistic snack van, usually to be found selling burgers and hot drinks from a lay-by on the Whitmell road, was doing terrific business. Rumours were fluttering around like leaves in a gale. The excitable cyclist assured Daniel that Tom Allardyce had barricaded himself in the house after murdering his wife and taking the Dumelows hostage.