Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘They were the bodies of two men,’ Joanna continued. ‘They have been initially identified as Aaron and Jack Summers, who I believe to be your brother-in-law and nephew.’

  Hannah’s pale eyes flickered. ‘So,’ she said painfully slowly, ‘the idiot son went berserk in the end.’

  They had all jumped to the same conclusion.

  ‘There isn’t any question that Jack Summers killed his father,’ she said. ‘They were shot by someone else.’

  Miss Lockley’s eyes were very shrewd. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A forensic pathologist has examined both bodies and the scene of the crime. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that a shotgun has a very long barrel. It isn’t possible that Jack shot his father before turning the gun on himself.’

  Hannah Lockley was still incredulous. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And was it their gun that was used?’

  ‘We can’t be positive until we’ve run some ballistics tests on it but at the moment we think so.’

  ‘Then what do you think happened? Who would have ...?’ She ran out of words abruptly.

  Mike’s dark eyes fixed on the woman’s face. ‘We wondered if someone had called Aaron back after he’d started bringing the cows in from the field. They were loose,’ he added.

  Hannah gave him a withering look. ‘Aaron never would have left the cows wandering. They’re valuable animals besides being his livelihood. He wouldn’t have done that.’

  Joanna pursued the point. ‘Then can you think of another explanation why the cows were out of the field and loose in the yard?’

  ‘I can’t. But there has to be one. You’ve got your facts mixed up somewhere, young lady.’ The look she gave Joanna was reminiscent of her old headmistress. Severe, critical. It put Joanna firmly in the wrong.

  Mike pushed on. ‘From the scene of the crime it appears as though Jack was upstairs when his father was shot. We think he heard it, came down and ...’

  ‘He got hit too.’ There was something cynical in the woman’s face. ‘But then Jack always was the fool.’

  Again both the detectives knew there was another dimension to the story. ‘It appears,’ Joanna said cautiously, ‘as though the person stood in the doorway and shot both of them from the same spot.’

  ‘And they are both dead?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’ Joanna had learnt one could not express regret too often in situations like these. ‘Tell me, Miss Lockley, the gun ...’

  ‘I told them it was a bad idea leaving it stood in the porch.’ A glimmer of humour softened the hard lines. ‘And if your lot had seen it there doubtless you’d have taken his licence off him.’

  ‘We certainly would,’ Mike said firmly.

  ‘Was it kept there loaded?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. I don’t know about such things. I have no interest in guns.’

  The bones of her knuckles were creamy white as she kneaded her hands. Joanna waited for the old woman to mention her niece. Eventually she did. ‘And Ruthie?’ Again that indulgent, sentimental note.

  ‘We can’t find Ruthie. We’d hoped you might know where she is.’

  ‘We’ve searched the farm,’ Mike said.

  Hannah’s gaze altered. ‘But you haven’t found her?’

  Something brought back to Joanna’s mind the girl’s bedroom, dead flowers in the vase, water long ago dried up, the flowers themselves desiccated, rattling dry. And the memory set alarm bells jangling in her head. ‘Do you have any idea where Ruthie might be?’ She might have pointed out the obvious fact that if Ruthie was alive and well she might be able to explain the facts surrounding the deaths in her family, but Hannah Lockley was still looking too bewildered to assault her with this.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘where the girl’s got to.’

  ‘We thought you would be able to help us find her.’

  Hannah looked blank.

  ‘Could she be staying with friends?’ Mike suggested helpfully.

  ‘Or other relatives perhaps?’

  ‘Staying in the town?’

  The old lady’s eyes were bloodshot. Perhaps the shocking news had finally penetrated. She made a couple of false starts before completing her sentence. ‘You don’t ... you don’t really see it, do you?’ She looked from one to the other searching for some comprehension or empathy. ‘None of them. Not Aaron, Jack or Ruthie. They never went anywhere. They never went out except to the market. There is no need for any of us to go out. Except to get our food we stay here.’

  ‘But she isn’t here,’ Mike pointed out cleverly.

  ‘No she ...’

  ‘And you haven’t seen her for ...?’

  ‘A while.’ She was almost afraid to ask the next question. ‘Do you think ...?’ Joanna desperately wanted to deny that Ruthie Summers might be lying somewhere in the fields, shot too, but she wasn’t sure the old lady would have believed her.

  Hannah’s fingers seemed to have formed lives of their own, twisting and knotting. ‘Maybe she’s on a holiday.’

  ‘But you just said—’

  ‘I know what I said.’ There was something wild in her face. ‘But I can’t think where else ... Unless.’ Her face was unbearably bleak. ‘The Landrover,’ she said. ‘Is it there?’

  ‘Parked outside.’

  ‘So she hasn’t gone out in that.’

  ‘No, Miss Lockley.’ Joanna felt a surge of sympathy for her. ‘At the moment Ruthie Summers is officially classed as a missing person. If you can think of anything – anything that might help us find her, that might help us work out what happened we’d be very grateful.’

  She nodded then sat silent for a moment before her pale eyes found Joanna’s face. ‘Was it that Art Person?’ she asked fiercely. ‘Was it him?’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘That Art Person,’ she said again. ‘We’ve all noticed how things have been different since he’s come. I told Aaron at the time it was a big mistake letting him rent the Owl Hole. I warned him. I told him these city types don’t belong here. Money. That’s all it was. Just money. He waved a few twenty pound notes in front of Aaron’s greedy long nose and that was that. What Aaron couldn’t see was that he was mocking us. Mocking us country types, laughing at our ways of doing things. But Aaron always did worry about money.’

  Joanna pictured the emaciated body of the farmer and understood what Hannah Lockley meant. Even in death her brother-in-law had looked worried.

  And now Hannah had decided to talk it was as though flood gates had burst open and as Joanna listened the picture of the inhabitants of Hardacre Farm grew steadily clearer. ‘Aaron was always complaining about the milk cheque and his bull going missing. Said he was having trouble keeping the farm going. Three mouths to feed and the price of hay awful after last year’s rain.’ Hannah Lockley’s mouth twisted in wry humour. ‘Trust him to go and die before gathering the best harvest we’re likely to have for the rest of the century. That farm would have been fine, properly managed. That was what it needed, to be properly managed. But from the minute that Art Man came he brought nothing but trouble in his wake. Oil and water, I said to Aaron. Oil and water. The day they mix will be the same day those sort of city folk see eye to eye with us. How can they understand us?’ She appealed to the two police officers. ‘They are so different. We are different. Put them out here and it causes nothing but trouble.’

  Mike licked his pencil and repeated Joanna’s question. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘I can’t remember his name,’ Hannah said impatiently. ‘Some silly art name.’

  ‘And where will we find this person?’

  She looked even more irritated. ‘I told you. He’s at the Owl Hole. It’s one of the outlying farm buildings. Was used as a grain store once. He got hold of it at the end of last year and messed it up but he does pay rent,’ she finished grudgingly. ‘Though what Ruthie will do with him when she takes over the running of the farm I don’t know.’
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  Joanna was startled to realize that Hannah firmly believed her niece to be still alive, and if alive – innocent. But she let the subject pass unchallenged for now and allowed Hannah to continue. Maybe it was a means of releasing her grief. And maybe she would let something slip that would help them find out who had shot Aaron and Jack Summers.

  ‘Place used to be full of Barn Owls years ago.’ She gave a sour grimace. At least they were some use. Used to keep the mice down. He’s done it up like a birthday cake. I don’t think he’s quite all there.’ She gave a scornful laugh. ‘He hangs coathangers from the trees.’

  Joanna gave Mike a startled glance. ‘Who exactly is he?’

  ‘One of these daft, London people,’ the spinster said with all the prejudice of country born and bred. ‘One of these people who escapes to the country bringing their daft London ways with them. Fashion.’ She almost spat the word. ‘They like to make monkeys out of us. Calls himself a modern sculptor.’ Somehow she had managed to modify her Staffordshire burr to a high-pitched, mincing tone with all the affectation of a society ball.

  ‘But you don’t know his name?’ Mike’s pencil was still poised.

  ‘Titus Mothershaw,’ Hannah said reluctantly. ‘Titus. What sort of a name is that?’

  Joanna smothered a smile and addressed Mike. ‘We’d better go and see him.’

  ‘Arrest him, you mean,’ the old lady said spitefully. ‘It’s obvious to me if it isn’t to you. Oil and water, you see. And there’s your motive.’

  Joanna stood up. ‘Nothing’s so obvious to me, Miss Lockley. And until it is we won’t be making any arrests. Now if you do happen to make contact with your niece I would like you to tell her we are very anxious to speak to her.’

  Mike hesitated before he spoke up. ‘As far as you know did Aaron or Jack and this sculptor man have any arguments?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ the old lady said sulkily.

  ‘In fact you said that Aaron was glad of the money. And Mr Mothershaw, I suppose, liked living in the Owl Hole.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Said even more grudgingly.

  ‘So there would be no point in him shooting either of the Summers, would there?’

  Hard eyes met his. ‘They might have argued and I not known. Maybe Aaron had seen sense at long last and had given him notice to quit. He wouldn’t have liked that after all the work that he’s done there.’

  ‘This is pure conjecture,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ the old lady said. ‘Well what would you think of someone who builds obscene sculptures in the garden. He’s a monstrous man.’

  Joanna couldn’t make up her mind to be amused at the old lady’s prejudice or to take it seriously. But then this was a murder investigation. Everything must be taken seriously. She tried to uncover the facts. ‘You can’t think of any specific reason why this “monstrous man” might want to shoot his landlord, can you?’

  ‘No,’ Miss Lockley said reluctantly, ‘but I can soon find out things.’

  ‘Well if you do perhaps you’ll let us know.’

  ‘I certainly will, young man.’ Mike’s sarcasm was wasted on the old girl.

  Joanna tried again. ‘Miss Lockley,’ she said patiently, ‘can you think of anyone who bore the family a grudge?’

  The woman’s eyes misted over and she looked upset. ‘I ... No I don’t think so. Perhaps.’ Then she shook her head. ‘I can’t think anyone would have wanted to kill Aaron. He wasn’t a bad man.’

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No one could have wanted to have killed Jack.’

  The wording struck Joanna. What could she mean? That Jack might have been killed by accident? A clear vision of the slumped body of the younger farmer, his hands covering the huge wound in his chest, dispelled the idea as quickly as it had formed.

  That could not have been her meaning. So she pushed on with her questions. ‘How did Ruthie get on with her brother?’

  ‘Very well,’ Hannah said wearily. ‘I never heard them argue. They were devoted to each other.’

  ‘Really?’

  Miss Lockley picked up the note of scepticism in Korpanski’s voice. ‘That’s Gospel,’ she said before adding softly, ‘I wonder where Ruthie is right now.’

  It was a question they would all have liked the answer to.

  ‘And Aaron?’ Joanna was still scratching around for some insight. ‘How did Ruthie get on with her father?’

  Hannah was thoughtful for a moment then she fixed her gaze on Joanna. ‘You have to understand Aaron,’ she said. ‘He was a lonely, gentle man. He didn’t say much, especially after his wife died. Ruthie would cook him a meal. Aaron would eat it. He’d dirty his clothes. Ruthie would wash them. I never heard him utter a word of thanks. Every day was the same for them. They ate, they milked, they cleaned out the sheds, they fed the animals, they fed themselves, they slept. They all worked very hard to keep the farm going. They couldn’t have managed without her.’

  Her voice was soft but the image she was building up was a life of ceaseless toil, day in, day out, year in, year out, of back-breaking work.

  ‘Did Ruthie have a boyfriend?’

  The old lady shook her head. ‘She never went anywhere to meet anyone,’ she said. ‘Her life was her father, her brother, the farm, the animals. We were her friends.’ Hannah gave a deep sigh then looked straight at them. ‘And how’s Noah?’

  Joanna gave Mike a sharp, panicked glance. Not another one?

  ‘The dog,’ Hannah said.

  Joanna breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We’ve left him in his kennel. He was chained up.’

  Hannah stood up stiffly. ‘Then I’d better get over there and bring him back with me. He’ll be confused. He isn’t used to all these people around. He’ll bark himself hoarse. And the milking?’

  Nothing could have given them a more vivid picture of the treadmill of a dairy farm than these simple concerns. Two people had been murdered yet the cows must be milked, the dog must not be allowed to bark himself hoarse.

  ‘The farmer from Fallowfield has done the morning milking.’

  Hannah snorted. ‘Oh he did, did he? Well there’s a funny thing, Martin Pinkers getting ‘is fingers curled round Aaron’s cows’ udders.’ She gave a harsh cackle then shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s been a blighted family, no mistake. But there you are. Spilt milk and no use crying.’ Joanna was startled by the old lady’s apparent insensitivity. Until she reminded herself that Hannah Lockley firmly believed her niece to be both alive and well – and innocent. ‘Though for Aaron the worst part was that business with Jack,’ Hannah continued. Her pale eyes fixed at some point across the room. ‘You wouldn’t understand, being a policewoman. A farmer needs a good, strong son and a wife to keep house. Jack was a bitter blow.’

  Joanna was sure she was missing something. ‘You were very fond of the family?’

  The old woman nodded. ‘Especially Ruthie. She is a daughter to me,’ she said simply. ‘I love that girl.’

  ‘Then where is she now?’ Mike was pursuing the point with his usual vigour.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said fearlessly. ‘All I am certain of is that she is safe. She will come back.’

  Considering Hannah’s last few sentences the next question might be necessary but it was still cruel. ‘You don’t think it’s possible—’ She didn’t even manage to finish the sentence.

  ‘That she killed her father and brother? No,’ Hannah said vehemently. ‘No. It is not possible.’

  ‘Could she shoot?’

  ‘She’s a farmer’s daughter.’ They waited. ‘Of course she could shoot.’ Hannah gave a peculiar smile. ‘Anyone can shoot. You just hold the gun and squeeze the trigger.’

  ‘Was she a good shot?’

  ‘She could hit a rabbit at forty yards and him dodging between tussocks.’

  It answered their question.

  Joanna stood up. ‘And where were you at around six this morning?’

 
‘In my bed,’ Hannah said with another flash of humour. ‘And there aren’t any witnesses to that.’

  At the door Joanna paused and Hannah Lockley was sharp enough to read her action.

  ‘I suppose they’ll have to be formally identified?’

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘And I suppose you’ll have to do a post mortem?’

  Again Joanna nodded and Hannah Lockley sighed. ‘So be it,’ she said simply. ‘When?’

  ‘Can we pick you up tomorrow morning?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘At half past eight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just one last thing, Miss Lockley. Who stands to inherit the farm?’

  The old lady looked affronted. ‘Why Ruthie of course. She’s a capable girl. She’ll farm Hardacre.’

  ‘But if Ruthie is dead?’ Mike asked brutally.

  Hannah Lockley drew herself up with dignity. ‘Ruthie isn’t dead,’ she said. ‘There will be some perfectly rational explanation. I know.’

  3.30 p.m.

  The heat was still stifling as they returned to Hardacre, stepping carefully through the fresh cow pats, each one with its own cloud of flies. From the milking parlour came the steady hum of the milking machine and the contented lowing of cows gaining relief from the pressure of full udders. Pinkers must be helping out again. The lane was still full of police cars and Joanna could see a line of blue-shirted officers crossing a distant field in a line.

  Two uniformed constables were guarding the door.

  ‘You haven’t found her then?’

  PC David Timmis shook his head. ‘She isn’t here,’ he said. ‘Half a dozen officers have been drafted in from the Potteries to help with the search. We’ve been through most of the farm including the fields. There’s no sign of her. Not anywhere. We did find one thing though.’ Joanna’s interest quickened. ‘What?’ Experience had told her the smallest detail might be of disproportionate relevance. Therefore no fact was too small. And Timmis was part of the Moorland Patrol. He knew these people and their terrain.

  ‘The hasp on the gate into the field was broken, stuck into rotten wood. It looks as though the cows might have leant a bit too hard on it and it snapped.’