by JANICE FROST
“You might want to borrow some wellies. The ground’s hard but there are still a lot of soggy parts, especially down by the lake.” She disappeared into a cupboard and emerged holding up two pairs of wellies for Ava to try. Neither fitted, but Ava would have worn size tens to spare her beloved new boots, which had cost an absurd amount of money.
Faye Wellings locked up behind them. “We’re not officially open to the public in the winter months, but people who want to talk to us at this time of year generally manage to find us. We run guided walks and talks and classes in the spring and summer months and during school holidays, depending on the weather.”
As they made their way across a wide clearing, Faye told Ava about the history of the lime woods and their continued importance.
“The interesting thing about these woods is that they’ve been continuously managed by people since the eleventh century. Longer, really. Coppicing has been going on probably since Neolithic times. Deer management’s a part of our job, too,” she explained.
“Deer management? Does that include culling?” Ava asked.
“Nobody likes the word, but managing the deer population is a necessary evil. Deer can have a devastating effect on other wildlife in the woods. We shoot them, it’s the most humane way. Poachers are less kind.”
Ava grimaced, images of Bambi flitting through her head. She wouldn’t be able to shoot a deer, she knew, and she was squarely on the side of the foxes when it came to hunting. Probably just as well she hadn’t plumped for a career in wildlife ‘management.’
They saw Dan Cardew and one of the other forensics people emerging from a heavily-wooded area at the other side of the clearing. Another man was with them, and Ava had an impression of immense size and hirsuteness. He waved at Faye as they approached.
“That’s Bran Gallagher. He’s the big chief around here. No one knows these woods better than him.”
Bran Gallagher was a huge bear of a man, dressed like a lumberjack in a tartan shirt and jeans and a big suede jacket. He could have been the twinkly-eyed woodcutter from a children’s book except that, rather disconcertingly, he was holding a chainsaw. Ava felt slightly intimidated.
Faye introduced Ava and the small party entered the wood. The car was half-hidden from view in a fringe of trees skirting the meadow. To reach the spot it must have been driven across the clearing from the woodland track and rammed into the thicket.
“Look at the damage to the saplings!” Faye exclaimed.
“Why go to such an effort to conceal the car after dumping the body in a public place?” Ava mused aloud.
“How did Mr Cameron die?” Faye asked. “I know he was murdered, but what happened to him?
“We’re not sure how he died yet.”
“Where do you even start?” Faye asked. “I mean his car in the woods, his body over at Stainholme. I take my hat off to you lot.” Ava noticed that Faye was addressing Dan, who seemed totally oblivious of it.
“I expect the officers are keen to get on with their jobs,” Bran Gallagher said tactfully. “If you need us we’ll be down at the pond taking water samples.” He pointed along the fringe of trees skirting the meadow. Through the tangle of branches, Ava could make out the beginnings of a dark stretch of water disappearing into the woods. “There’s a lot of ponds in these parts,” Bran Gallagher said. “And chalk streams. There’s one runs right alongside the copse at Stainholme Abbey ruin.”
Faye turned to Dan. “Hey, what if the murder victim was drowned? You could look for water in his lungs, right? I bet you could even pinpoint which pond he drowned in. That’s what they’d do on CSI, right? We take water samples around here all the time, don’t we, Bran? Maybe we could help with that?”
“It’s a possibility,” Dan stammered. “Looking for diatoms — microscopic animals in the organs and even clothes of victims of drowning has proved useful, but it’s not always a hundred per cent reliable.”
Ava cleared her throat with a loud, ‘ahem.’ “Thanks, Faye. We’ll bear your offer of help in mind if it turns out the victim died by drowning.”
As soon as Faye and Bran Gallagher moved away, Ava was tempted to tease Dan about his new admirer. Then she checked herself. Dan was a shy sort. Faye Wellings’s obvious interest might give him a confidence boost.
“Are we looking at the actual crime scene?” she said, knowing that, like her, Dan could only speculate until the area had been processed. “What do you think happened here? Ewan Cameron stumbled on the farm robbers and they attacked him, then took his wallet and tried to destroy his car?” She frowned. “But what was he doing out in the woods late at night? Unless he was taking part in the robbery, but then why kill him?”
Ava and Dan donned the appropriate white suits and took a preliminary look at the car, a tired old Ford. The doors were unlocked. There was no glaring evidence that an act of violence had been committed in the vehicle. “Can’t see any blood, but I suppose the killer could have cleaned up afterwards. Of course, we don’t know how Cameron died yet. Plenty of ways to kill without spilling a drop of blood.”
Ava bent to look inside the car, her eyes scanning the back and front seats. She became aware of Dan watching her nervously and reassured him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch anything.” After a couple of minutes she straightened up and surveyed the area around the car instead, leaving the delicate work of searching for trace evidence to Dan. The case containing his equipment — an array of bottles and brushes, scissors, tweezers and jars — lay open on a plastic sheet spread out on the forest floor. A more detailed examination would follow once the vehicle was recovered and placed in storage. For now, Dan was looking for evidence that might be visible to his trained eye.
“Shout if you find anything interesting,” Ava said. She stood in her oversized wellies and surveyed the immediate area. It was a short walk from where the car had been hidden to Ridgeway Farm where the theft had occurred. Ava poked her head through the car window and told Dan she was walking over to the farm to see what she could find out. Not about the robbery, that was part of a separate investigation, but given that Ewan Cameron’s car had been found here, no one could rule out a possible link between the two. Ava pondered for a moment. Should she tell Saunders of her intention to visit the farm? He was in court, she concluded, and probably going to have his phone on mute all day.
A few acres of pastureland ran alongside the wood and Ava walked across, avoiding a pair of horses grazing there. Not far away she could see the outbuildings where the chemicals and equipment the thieves had got away with had likely been stored.
It turned out to be a pointless excursion. The farmer seemed more concerned about the theft than the fact that Cameron had been found dead not far from his land. Nor did he care that the victim’s car had been dumped in the woods adjacent to his property. He’d seen nothing, heard nothing on the night of the robbery. No one had. No one ever does, he assured Ava. She trudged back over the field with the farmer’s gloomy last words ringing in her ears.
“I knew it was only a matter of time until someone got killed by these thieves. Now maybe the bloody police will do something about it.”
Chapter 5
Neal sat for a few minutes, looking at his phone and missing the sound of Ava’s voice. He sipped his lukewarm tea and pulled a face. Jock Dodds had a lot of skills but making tea wasn’t one of them. Had the conversation seemed strained to Ava? It had to him. He had been genuinely pleased to hear from her and he knew his voice had conveyed this. But he didn’t know what he should have said. She’d called him about a case and he was glad she’d sought him out. She could have contacted the local force and asked them to send someone to break the news to Laura Cameron. Like him, Ava knew it was important to see how someone reacted to the news of a loved one’s violent death. The motivation behind her call made solid sense from the point of view of the case she was investigating, but Neal found himself wanting to know if there had been more to it than that.
Since his walk up the Ben with Jock, Nea
l’s low mood had begun to lift. He still had a picture in his mind of Maggie seemingly dying in his arms, but it was no longer a jarring, repetitive image. He was able to focus on the outcome. After all, the worst hadn’t happened. Neal knew he should embrace that and let all the rest go. His thoughts turned to Laura Cameron and the sorrow that lay ahead for her when she learned of her husband’s death. He finished his tea and set off, heavy-hearted.
The address Ava had given Neal led him to the door of a tenement block in Marchmont, a residential area south of the city centre. It was the sort of area Neal and his ex-wife Myrna might have ended up in had they stayed together. Archie would have grown up within sight of Arthur’s Seat and with the Meadows as his playground. Neal sighed. Another life.
He rang the Camerons’ bell and was admitted to a gloomy stairwell. Steps worn shiny with use led up to the fourth floor where a woman was already waiting by her door. “Mrs Cameron?” Neal asked. The woman nodded. He had explained who he was over the entry phone but not why he was calling. He wondered whether she suspected already. Her face gave no indication of her state of mind. Neal showed her his ID and she invited him in.
“Is it Ewan?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s bad news, isn’t it?”
Neal gave a nod. “I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of sad news, Mrs Cameron. Your husband’s body was found yesterday morning in the Stromfordshire countryside.”
“Stromfordshire?”
“Yes. Are you surprised to learn that your husband was so far from home?”
Laura Cameron nodded. Something was amiss. She was showing no outward signs of shock. Behind her tortoiseshell glasses, her eyes were not moist. She did emit a slight sigh.
“Would you like to sit down, Mrs Cameron?” Neal asked. “Can I get you something, a glass of water perhaps?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry if I’m not reacting the way you’d expect me to, Inspector. My husband’s been gone for nearly a week. I’ve run this scenario — along with many others — through my head scores of times since he failed to come home. When you’ve already imagined the worst, hearing the truth is almost a relief.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Neal said. He had geared himself up for an outburst of emotion and wasn’t sure how to deal with this measured calm.
Laura Cameron sat down and invited Neal to do the same.
“There’s also the fact that my husband has been absent in other ways for a long time now. Death is only one kind of separation, you know.”
“Was your husband in the habit of disappearing for long periods of time?” Neal asked, gently.
“Not long periods. Days perhaps, never more than a week.”
“Was he in any kind of trouble? Financial difficulties, perhaps?”
“Ewan hasn’t worked for a while. He . . . had a sort of breakdown and lost his job. I’m a primary school teacher. Money’s been a bit tight lately but we’ve got by.”
Neal nodded, suspecting there was more to the story than Ewan losing his job. “I’m sorry to ask you this, Mrs Cameron, but were you and your husband having marital problems?”
Laura Cameron frowned. “We’d been . . . estranged, if that’s the right word, for some time. To tell you the truth we didn’t really communicate. Since his breakdown, Ewan’s been spending nearly all of his time in the spare room, drawing. He went to art school and wanted to be an artist once, but we had a mortgage to pay — you know how it is.”
Neal nodded faintly. He knew all about making sacrifices.
“Where did your husband go when he took off for a while? Did you ever ask him?”
“Of course. He just said that he’d been drinking heavily and crashed at one of his drinking buddies. I suppose he was an alcoholic, though we never really discussed it.” There was a slight quiver in Laura Cameron’s voice as she said this, but she maintained her composure. “I don’t even know if it was just alcohol.”
“Drugs?” Neal asked.
“Possibly. I don’t really know. To tell the truth I was so busy working, I just kind of shut it all out. Was that terrible of me, Inspector? What must you think of me?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Mrs Cameron. I know nothing about you or your husband and I’m not in a position to judge. Believe me, in this line of work you learn that people often have very complex reasons for the way they behave.”
As Laura Cameron had not yet asked, Neal told her. “Your husband didn’t die of natural causes, Mrs Cameron.”
“Oh?” Laura said, suddenly less assured. “Was it an accident? Or was he murdered? It’s alright, Inspector. I’m not going to fall apart when I hear the truth.”
Later, describing Laura Cameron’s apparent coldness to Ava, Neal told her that she had not, until that moment, come across as lacking in compassion. It was more that she had an air of resignation about her, as though she were accustomed to life knocking her back.
Neal cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t know. There will have to be a post-mortem examination. Do you have any idea why your husband would be in Stromfordshire, Mrs Cameron?” Neal waited, his gaze shifting to the coffee table, and an unopened box of tissues.
Laura looked suddenly guarded. “Ewan went to art college in Stromford. He lived there for three years. But as far as I know he hasn’t been back since he graduated ten years ago.”
A connection, then. Neal felt a tingle of excitement. “Could he have been visiting someone there? An old friend, perhaps?”
“Can you excuse me for a couple of minutes, Inspector?” Laura asked, standing up.
Neal nodded, wondering if she was going into another room to break down in private. He crossed to the triple bay window and looked out at the view. Marchmont was a pleasant, middle-class area. Its proximity to Edinburgh’s universities meant that it was also popular with students. Jock had rented a room here as a student and he’d told Neal that the more permanent residents were unhappy at the number of homes now under multiple occupation.
Neal heard the sound of a flushing toilet, but Laura Cameron did not return immediately. He waited. When at last she came back, she was carrying a large photograph album, which she placed on the coffee table. Then, she sat on the sofa, close to Neal. He was aware of a trace of some vaguely familiar scent, of her leg next to his, long and slim in tight-fitting jeans.
Laura opened the album and pointed to a picture of two young women and two young men. One of the women was obviously a younger Laura. “Ewan was friends with another student at the art college, David Pine. David came to Edinburgh a couple of times, it’s where he met my best friend, Rhona.” She pointed to the other woman in the picture. “David and Rhona married after David graduated. Then, Ewan and David had a falling out and Rhona and I lost touch.”
Neal wrote down the names. “What did your husband and Mr Pine fall out about? It must have been something pretty big if they never spoke again.”
Laura shrugged. “I don’t know. I asked Rhona but she didn’t seem to know, and Ewan wouldn’t tell me.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“Of course, but Ewan got angry whenever I brought it up.” She looked at Neal, a spark in her eye for the first time. “I’m sure a falling out between Ewan and David ten years ago wouldn’t be an explanation for Ewan’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
In fact this was exactly what had crossed Neal’s mind. “Just trying to build up a picture of your husband, Mrs Cameron. It all helps to let us see the bigger picture. Some details might seem minor but they could be significant. This David and Rhona Pine, do you have contact details for them?”
Laura shook her head. “I don’t even know if they still live in Stromford. Perhaps you could let me know if they do.”
“Yes, as long as it’s OK with them.”
“Of course. Rhona and I were good friends once. Perhaps now that Ewan’s gone . . .” Laura Cameron’s voice trailed off. Perhaps she was realising that her focus ought to be on her dead
husband. “We were childhood sweethearts. He did love me, he begged me to marry him.” A pause. “And I did love him.”
Did, Neal noted. He sensed that her use of the past tense arose not from suddenly being widowed, but referred to a time much more distant even than her marriage. He noticed her lips quivering.
Neal put down his pen, convinced that this was the moment when Laura Cameron was finally going to crack up. He was wrong. Apart from a bit of nervous hand-wringing, she kept it together. It struck him that there was an odd dichotomy about her utterances. One minute she claimed that she and her husband were leading almost separate lives, the next she insisted that they loved each other. Of course, the two weren’t mutually exclusive, but Neal couldn’t help feeling that there was something discordant in the way she described their relationship. Still, grief affected people in different ways.
He was about to ask if Laura would mind identifying her husband’s body, when she asked, “Can I see him?”
“Yes. We need someone to make a positive identification,” Neal said.
“Will I have to go to Stromford?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. The investigation into your husband’s death will be carried out by the Stromfordshire police.”
“By you?” She fiddled with the buttons on her oversized cardigan.
Neal caught a glimpse of her eyes behind her spectacles. They were the dark brown of old mahogany.
“I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully. “My sergeant is working the case with another DI but I might be involved when I return to work.”
“You’re off duty now?” There was a trace of alarm in her tone.
“I’m on leave. My colleague called and asked if I would visit you. She thought it would be . . .”
“. . . Useful to see how I reacted to the news of my husband’s death? You can tell her how oddly I’ve behaved, Inspector Neal, how unlike the stereotypical bereaved wife.”
Neal felt uncomfortable. She had summed up what he had been thinking. “I can arrange for someone to drive you down at your earliest convenience, Mrs Cameron.” He handed her details of how to contact him.
