Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Waiting for a nice little house on the edge of a village,’ she said, ‘within walking distance of the local pub, cycling distance of work and not too far from the main road in the event of snow.’ Matthew closed his eyes for a moment. She knew he was disappointed and she felt the familiar guilt that she had let him down, again. ‘We’ll find somewhere soon. I promise.’

  ‘Will we?’ There was more than a simple question in his face. There was doubt too. ‘It’s taking longer than I thought. It’s been two years since I left Jane. And we’re still not really together, are we? I’m sick of being on the top floor of Alan and Becky’s. I want a home, Jo.’

  Shackleton had managed to pull the milk tanker on to the yard of Fallowfield and sat, too dazed to move, until finally he acknowledged the hum of the milking machine. Here was one farmer whose daily habits were not disturbed. Pinkers was late with the milking again.

  Shackleton staggered into the milking parlour and ran the gauntlet of swinging tails until Martin Pinkers saw him, straightened slowly and pushed a cow out of the way. ‘Hello, Dave. Anything the matter?’ In response to Shackleton’s dazed terror he put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Dave,’ he said. ‘What the hell is it?’

  ‘Get the police,’ Shackleton mouthed hoarsely. ‘Get the police.’ Panic was making him breathless.

  ‘Dave?’ Pinkers tried again. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Hardacre,’ Shackleton gasped. ‘Aaron and Jack. Lying in the sitting room. Martin,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s shot them.’

  They were heading back to the car when Matthew stopped her. ‘You do want to be with me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Only every time we look at somewhere you find fault with it.’

  A light breeze stirred the leaves and a tiny, wispy cloud blotted out the sun for a brief second. The magpies began a chorus of harsh, scolding squawks. ‘Because I’m beginning to wonder,’ Matthew continued quietly, ‘if it isn’t the house that there’s something wrong with.’

  And in a flash of perception he added, ‘Could it possibly be that to share a home with me might sometimes mean sharing it with Eloise too?’

  Matthew could be so perceptive but she could never afford to be a hundred per cent honest with him. So she evaded the issue, glanced at her watch again. ‘I have to go.’ She started towards the car, ignoring Matthew waving a sheaf of estate agents’ details. ‘There are others you know.’

  Right on cue her radio phone crackled and with a feeling of relief she held it up to her ear.

  ‘Detective Inspector Piercy.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your search for paradise.’

  She recognized the voice at once. ‘That’s all right, Mike. Was it anything special?’

  ‘There’s been a shooting at one of the moorland farms. First reports suggest two people dead. The bloke that phoned said it was the farmer and his son.’

  She recognized the familiar surge of excitement even while she gathered the early details.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Hardacre Farm. Just off the Buxton road towards Flash. And while you’re at it I suppose you’d better bring Leek’s answer to Bernard Spilsbury with you.’

  She took the jibe on the chin. ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘I’ll see you there then.’ And he gave her brief directions.

  Matthew was watching her. ‘What did Korpanski want?’

  She was always uncomfortably aware of the antagonism between the two men, at the same time powerless to do anything about it. ‘There’s been a double shooting at one of the remote farms.’

  Already she could sense his excitement as he slipped the maroon BMW into gear. ‘Fill me in on the details of the case, I’ll drive if you can give directions.’

  He bumped the car up the unmade track, wincing as it struck a stone. She caught his eye and smiled but said nothing. At the top of the valley they travelled along the high ridge, across the moor until they came to the Mermaid Inn then they dropped down towards the town, turning right along the main road to Buxton.

  ‘What details have we got?’

  ‘He just said a double shooting, sounded like father and son.’

  Matthew jumped to the same conclusion she had. ‘Murder and then suicide?’

  She bit back a smile. ‘Give Korpanski a chance,’ she said. ‘He’s just on his way over there now. Even Tarzan can’t solve crimes until he’s been to the scene.’

  She was quiet for a moment, thinking private thoughts. Murder was always like this, a tightening of the stomach, a combination of excitement, exhilaration and nausea. And then there was the further worry, of getting it right.

  Glancing across to Matthew she knew his mind was moving along the same tracks. He too would have his role to play.

  They turned off the main road and approached the remotest part of the moor, high farmland. Full of secrets.

  Chapter Two

  11.05 a.m.

  They could have found the farm without Mike’s directions, merely by following the police car screaming along the ridge until it turned off along a narrow lane.

  Matthew made a face. ‘How they do love the drama and the noise. And what’s the point? The poor sods are dead anyway and all the police cars in the world aren’t going to bring them back to life.’ He took his eyes off the flashing blue light for a moment to give her a wry smile. ‘Almost certainly some poor, isolated chap has flipped his lid and blown his son’s head off then realized what he’s done. Or the other way round,’ he added.

  ‘You’re prejudging. And you’re being unfair.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I just prefer to play things down, rather than up. It isn’t drama. It’s just life and a rather sad end to a life at that.’

  She said nothing but watched his long fingers wrapped around the wheel, steady; yet she knew inside he was excited. As a forensic pathologist, this unravelling of a person’s last hours was his obsession. It brought him alive, as her work did to her. They might see the case from different angles, his from tangible evidence yielded by the body and hers from that of the killer and the evidence left behind at the scene of the crime. But underneath the flow of adrenalin was the same and she knew had they not been lovers they would still have worked twin-close to solve cases. Their relationship merely made it easier – sometimes.

  Abruptly Matthew twisted the wheel to follow the police car which had turned left and disappeared behind clouds of dust and flies.

  And then they were forced to stop.

  A milk tanker was partly blocking the way, slewed half across the lane, drunkenly parked. Already the crime was creating visible evidence. Matthew pulled the BMW up and they climbed out and walked between the clusters of still flashing cars to the clumps of people; uniformed officers plus a couple of casually dressed men who Joanna took to be the tanker driver and possibly a neighbour. She picked Mike Korpanski out easily, blocking the doorway to the farmhouse, built like a gladiator and a couple of inches taller than the rest. She walked briskly towards him and registered the relief on his face when he saw her.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess in there, Jo, what with the heat and all that.’ He was staring across the fields as though to abstract himself from what she knew must be carnage inside. It had to be that to have made his face so fish-green.

  She gave him a quick, sympathetic nod. ‘Two bodies, you said?’

  He grimaced his answer.

  ‘Father and son?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘So what’s your first impression, Mike, a murder followed by suicide? A crime of isolation? A quarrel?’

  His eyes still held that haunted, abstracted look even though he spoke casually. ‘I dunno. At least I wouldn’t like to say, not yet.’ And some of the old Mike peeped out. ‘It isn’t something you can guess at, Joanna, but the furniture’s not tipped. There’s no sign of a struggle.’

  He moved aside and she glanced ahead at the porch.

  It was a Victorian addition to the stone farmhouse, perhap
s intended to sweeten the plain facade, or merely to bring it up to date. Inside was both hot and brightly coloured, the sun streaming through blue and red-leaded glass, turning it to sapphires and rubies, stirring old memories of church singing, chanted psalms, windows peopled with the Saints. Had it not been for the clouds of buzzing flies she might even have been tempted to linger and postpone the moment of entry. But one landed on her arm. Huge, fat, iridescent blue. She shook it off in disgust and spoke to the nearest uniformed constable.

  ‘Get some fly spray, Scott, for goodness sake. Get rid of these damned flies.’

  Maybe it was apprehension. Perhaps a portent of certain things to come or even more probably it was a natural loathing for the flies and their lack of respect for dead bodies. But they repulsed her to an extent which she knew even then was unreasonable.

  She led the way into the room beyond.

  It was a small, dark living room, square, with a couple of doors off, a window opposite and a chill, damp atmosphere, even on a blistering hot day. At first sight it seemed dark shadows striped the walls, the floor, the furniture. It took her eyes a moment of adjustment to realize the stripes were from splattered blood – and worse.

  There were two bodies, both dressed in navy, cotton overalls. One lay almost at her feet, the other on the right side of the room. The nearer one appeared older, about fifty, thin, with straggle-grey hair, feet pointing towards the door from where the force had blasted him backwards. He lay on his back, his arms outflung, dirty work-roughened hands, calloused palms lying uppermost. There was a hole in his chest. A big hole. A quick glance showed exposed flesh and bone, red gore. It had been an accurate shot. Fighting her rising nausea Joanna took note of the radiating splashes. He must have been standing very near the door, facing the intruder when the shot had been fired. She took two steps forward to make a closer study of his face, grey with a poorly shaven chin, spiked bristles and the mouth gaping open to expose a few blackened teeth. She breathed in deeply to steady herself before allowing her eyes to pass down the thin legs to the man’s feet, one wearing a muck-spattered Wellington boot, the other pathetically covered in a matted grey- woollen sock, the big toe tidily darned.

  It lacked dignity as well as life.

  Without moving her feet she shifted her attention to the second body.

  He was younger, probably in his late twenties, and stockily built. The blast had caught him standing too but the door had supported him as he had collapsed so he was slumped against it, pinning it shut. His hands were crossed over his chest as though to staunch the blood. So he had not died instantly but had frozen in this position, head dropped, to peer at his wound. Mike shifted his weight behind her and she turned to see him staring at what had caught her eye, the bloodstained hands.

  Finally she moved her head slightly to the left and saw a double barrelled shotgun lying where it had been dropped, its butt towards the door, the barrel still pointing into the room, covering both bodies.

  It completed the picture. But what picture?

  The sequence of events lay here, in this room. Like the creases in a palm they only needed interpreting. But it must be an accurate reading.

  Murder by person or persons unknown meant a full-blown sealing off of the area, large-scale investigations, enquiries, suspicion and with a bit of luck a court case followed by a conviction. But a murder and then a suicide? That was a cheap affair. A coroner’s court, only needing a watertight motive. And there would be plenty: depression, anxiety, psychosis. Already she could imagine the coroner’s speech. These had been hard times for farmers. BSE, the delayed cow cull, a drop in the milk quota. All these were motives strong enough for the lethal use of a shotgun even without dragging in the old story of social isolation and strange, old fashioned standards. Guns were readily available on most farms and the farmers prepared to use them on rabbits, crows, sick animals. But a son? Or a father?

  So which was it?

  Matthew had already snapped on a pair of latex gloves and was giving each body a more detailed examination, taking notes, drawing sketches. She left him to it. He would not be hurried towards his verdict so she and Mike started their work, trying out the various scenarios. If their verdict fitted with Matthew’s good. If not ...

  ‘I think we can rule out the son,’ she observed, glancing towards the door on the right hand side of the room. ‘The gun is too far away and surely his wound is too severe for him to have moved. Would you agree with that, Matthew?’

  He looked up briefly. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And the father was in the middle of putting his wellingtons on.’

  ‘Getting ready to do the milking,’ Mike suggested. ‘Y-e-es,’ she answered cautiously. ‘So halfway through that would he have picked up the gun and taken a pot shot at his son before turning it on himself? It isn’t either possible or plausible, is it?’

  Matthew shook his head. Mike was looking far more unconvinced.

  ‘It isn’t easy,’ she said, ‘to shoot yourself with a shotgun. The barrel is too long. Besides ...’ She knew Matthew would know the answer. ‘Don’t they almost always hold the gun against the head?’

  ‘Usually,’ he said. ‘I think I’d rather back that with my observation that it looks as though the gun was fired at a range of about a foot.’

  He knew she would want his reasoning and watched as he fingered the coarse navy-blue cloth around the chest wound. ‘I would have expected more scorching had it been a contact wound.’

  Both Mike and Joanna were listening intently.

  ‘Anyway,’ he carried on, ‘a man contemplating suicide or going slowly off his rocker doesn’t make his mind up to do the dreadful act halfway through putting his wellies on to do the milking.’

  ‘Not even if he suddenly flips his lid?’

  There was some fault in Mike’s suggestion but she couldn’t quite find it. She looked first at Korpanski before meeting Matthew’s eyes. ‘So they were both murdered by our old friend?’ she said. ‘Person or persons unknown.’

  They both nodded.

  Matthew straightened up. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more at post mortem.’

  ‘I know you’re going to hate this, Matt, but ...’

  They had worked on enough murder cases for him to anticipate her next question. ‘I won’t be able to be very accurate,’ he said, but judging by rectal temperature I would think about five hours. The weather’s warm. It could be more. Not less. There has been definite cooling of the bodies.’

  ‘So we’re left with collecting statements,’ she said, ‘to find out when they were last seen alive.’

  Matthew nodded. ‘Basically we’re looking at somewhere around six a.m. I don’t suppose many people were around so early.’

  ‘This is a rural community,’ Mike put in helpfully. ‘Early risers.’

  ‘Well I suppose it’ll help to know at what time they usually milked.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So let’s get the scene of crime officers started then,’ she said. ‘The less evidence disturbed the more chance we have of a sound conviction. When do you think you’ll get around to doing the post mortems, Matthew?’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ he said. ‘But I’d like them formally identified first. How about tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Fine.’

  It was not fine and he knew it. She hated post mortems, finding the smell, the sights and the sheer butchery nauseating. In fact it was anything but fine but it was her duty. Matthew would uncover plenty of pointers that would help solve the case. She could not afford to renege on her responsibility.

  She was distracted by PC Scott arriving back with two large aerosols of Vapona and generously squirting the fly spray around the room. For a while the buzz of dying flies was the loudest sound.

  Mike was frowning, toying with ideas. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that the old chap was shot first and the blast brought junior in through the door so he got it too?’

  ‘Rather than the alternative, that the younger
man was shot and the older man was trying to wrestle the gun from the assailant?’

  ‘In the middle of putting his boots on?’

  ‘No. It has to be the way you described it. Old man gets it first. But then why the hell did the younger one come in? Why didn’t he stay put?’ Her eyes were drawn to the door. ‘Do we know where that leads?’

  PC Phil Scott supplied the answer. ‘According to Mr Shackleton, the tanker driver, it leads upstairs.’

  ‘And the killer,’ Matthew said, ‘didn’t even need to move. Judging from their wounds I think both were shot from the same position.’

  ‘Presumably having entered through the porch. I don’t suppose there were any signs of forced entry, Mike?’

  ‘Shackleton claims there wouldn’t have been any need for anyone to break and enter. The door was always left standing open.’

  ‘You mean the porch door?’

  ‘Both doors. I particularly asked him that. Both the front door and the porch door were always unlocked. They only closed both doors when they were all going out. Otherwise, even through the winter, just the porch door was closed and the wooden door was open. Anyone could walk in.’

  ‘And the gun?’

  ‘Says he’s seen it plenty of times. It used to stand in the porch.’

  ‘Loaded?’

  ‘He says he didn’t know but I suppose he wouldn’t, would he, unless he checked.’

  ‘Or put the cartridges in himself.’

  ‘But he wasn’t here until nearly ten.’

  ‘And they’d already been dead for around four hours by then, I know,’ she said irritably. ‘Like you, I’m just thinking aloud. Where does that door lead?’

  ‘The kitchen, then the back door and out into the courtyard.’

  ‘Also left unlocked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Matthew was still kneeling beside the younger man’s body.

  ‘Do we know their names?’

  ‘Well Shackleton’s more or less done us the honours.’

  Picking up the truculent note in Mike’s voice she gave him a sharp glance of reproval which made him modify his manner.

  ‘We have here Aaron and Jack Summers, both farmers.’