by Faith Martin
‘The coppers ain’t gonna be any too happy with me, I reckon,’ he murmured, in massive understatement.
Then, sighing heavily, he set off towards the village where he’d lived all his life, deciding to walk instead of taking the old Land Rover. It would give him more time to get it clear in his head just what he was going to say. But one thing was for certain — if it did turn out that his gun had been used to kill that woman, well, he’d never pick up a shotgun again.
Let the pigeons eat his crops.
* * *
Carol-Ann stormed into the living room.
‘Right, that’s it!’ she hissed, slinging herself with teenage fury onto the nearest armchair. ‘This afternoon I’m going into Cheltenham and I’m going to get a job in a shop.’
Monica blinked. Her daughter, volunteering to work! She must be coming down with something that made you delirious. Fighting the urge to go over and lay the back of her hand on her daughter’s forehead to check for a temperature, she smiled instead.
‘Why’s that, honeybunch?’ she asked mildly, looking up from the email she was writing to her old boss.
Sue Phelps, a forty-something, unmarried, dedicated career woman, was also one of her best friends. And after Monica had totally flummoxed Sue by resigning to marry her lovely vicar, they’d made a determined effort to keep in touch and not let their friendship lapse. Of course, Sue kept hinting that Monica’s old job was still there if ever she wanted it. So far, though, Monica hadn’t been the least bit tempted.
‘That Vivienne Goring, the cow!’ Carol-Ann, still hissing like a steam kettle, glowered back at her mother ferociously. ‘Jenny said she saw her going into the cinema with my Clive.’
Monica felt a twinge of nervousness. ‘Your Clive?’ she asked, managing not to gulp too much, and Carol-Ann heaved a sigh and shot her mother a fulminating look.
‘My boyfriend!’ she said scornfully. ‘Duh!’
‘I thought you were going out with Steve Crawford?’ Monica managed faintly.
She’d always rather liked Steve Crawford. Mainly because he was football mad and still gauche and awkward around the opposite sex.
‘Oh, Steve’s old news,’ Carol-Ann huffed, then smiled alarmingly. ‘Clive’s a love-machine on legs.’
Monica blinked again, gave herself a quick lecture on the perils of panicking, and said nonchalantly, ‘Why haven’t I met him then? He sounds . . .’ gulp, ‘interesting.’
Carol-Ann snorted. ‘Hah! Bring him here to meet the Rev? You must be kidding. I’d never see him for dust!’
Carol-Ann had this fixed idea that any boyfriend, on finding out that his beloved actually had a vicar for a stepfather, was bound to run screaming off into the hills, never to be seen again.
‘Mind you, it’s not the rev I need to worry about this time,’ Carol-Ann continued to mutter darkly. ‘It’s that man-eater, Vivienne. If she thinks she can snaffle Clive, she can think again!’ she warned direly. ‘You just wait. Once I’ve got my summer job, I’ll show her.’
Monica, a bit lost now, frowned. ‘I’m confused. How is working in a shop going to spike Vivienne’s wheels?’ But even as she asked the question, she wondered if she really wanted to know the answer.
‘Because of the wages, Mother,’ Carol-Ann said patiently, wondering if her mother had always been this dim.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of spending all your money on buying stuff for this Clive,’ Monica began hotly. And, it has to be said, rather dimly. ‘Because if you are, you’d be a—’
‘Oh, Mother, of course I’m not!’ Carol-Ann scorned witheringly. ‘Trying to buy a man? Ugh, that’s really naff.’ And to show just how naff she thought this suggestion was, she mimed thrusting her finger down her throat and being very theatrically sick all over the sofa.
Relieved, Monica subsided. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘No, I’m going to use the money I make to go to London and get a professional portfolio taken of me by a fashion photographer,’ Carol-Ann explained blithely.
‘Carol-Ann!’ Monica squeaked. But when her daughter glared at her, Monica quickly read the danger signs and backed off a little. ‘Surely there’s a photographer in Cheltenham you can use?’ she compromised weakly, but on the spur of the moment it was all she could come up with. ‘They’re bound to be cheaper than in the capital, and they’ll be just as good.’
Carol-Ann shook her head sadly.
‘Poor old Mum,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Any wannabe can go to a local hack to get her pics taken. But everyone knows the real pros have studios in London.’ Then she shot out of the chair as precipitously as she’d landed in it. ‘I’ll ring Jenny back right now. She’s got a mouth like a foghorn, and it’ll soon be all over the place that I’ve been signed on by a modelling agency. See if Clive will want Vivienne then, when he can have a model for a girlfriend!’
‘Modelling agency?’ Monica yelped. ‘What modelling agency?’
‘The one I’ll get when I start showing my portfolio around!’ Carol-Ann tossed back over her shoulder, with a teenager’s blithe disregard for the actual facts.
Monica gulped but returned to her email. She was determined that Carol-Ann wasn’t going to send her grey before her time. In her own mind, Carol-Ann might already be setting out on the catwalk to fame, but the reality, as every grown-up knew, was far different from the dream. Besides, by the time her daughter had trawled the shops and found herself a summertime job, she’d probably have found herself a new boyfriend who was into computers.
Well, she could but hope.
Turning her attention to her laptop once more, Monica concentrated on the task in hand. Since she had so far resisted the temptation to return to London and the advertising agency, Sue had changed tactics somewhat, and had now written to her about doing some part-time work for the agency from her own home. This, she had pointed out, was an excellent compromise, since Monica could still be the stay-at-home wife and mother, and yet earn a little bit of income and keep her creative and professional juices from drying up altogether. And since they had a big commission for birdseed coming up, was she interested?
And on the whole, Monica rather thought that she was. She knew that Graham would have no objections to her doing whatever made her happy, and with Carol-Ann growing up so fast, she couldn’t deny that a little more money in the kitty wouldn’t be a welcome bonus. The trouble was, she was having trouble getting her mind back into its old advertising groove.
Pep up Polly’s lunchtime with . . . Monica shook her head. No. Too condescending and old hat. Birdseed . . . She tried to do a bit of free association, letting her mind wander vaguely. Birdseed . . . What did that conjure up? Sylvester and Tweety, the cartoon cat and canary. Monica shook her head. No, that was no use — their images were bound to be covered by copyright, and to use them would cost any company a fortune. Birdseed . . . She still thought cartoons, rather than real flesh-and-blood feathery friends, was the way to go, and something with an element of comedy in it, but . . .
Unbidden, an image of Carol-Ann, with her long blonde locks flowing in the breeze created from a wind machine, suddenly flashed across Monica’s mind. Her daughter, dressed in a skimpy T-shirt and gracing the latest teen magazine, being salivated over by every hormonal teenage boy in Britain. Then, quick as a flash, that image was superimposed by one of Carol-Ann being led away in cuffs by Jason Dury to face a murder charge.
She shuddered, all thoughts of birdseed utterly forgotten. This was threatening to be one hell of a summer.
* * *
‘Think you’d better see this chap, sir,’ Jim Greer said.
It was nearly noon on a bright Monday morning and the lab boys were busy sifting the decorators’ fingerprints from all those found in flat 2. But Jason wasn’t exactly holding his breath to see if they were left with a mystery set when they’d finished. Nowadays even the dopiest of killers knew to wear gloves. Still, you could never be certain.
And so far, no connection was coming
to light linking their murder victim with any of the men working for the decorating company. None admitted to even knowing who she was, let alone talking to her, or having any personal or business relationship with her. Which made sense. From what Jason was beginning to learn about Margaret Franklyn, she wouldn’t have given a lowly decorator so much as the time of day.
He looked up from the pile of incoming reports he was reading and raised an eyebrow.
‘Something interesting, Jim?’
‘A farmer, one Mr Clement Jarvis, wants a word. About a missing shotgun,’ Jim added heavily.
Jason’s pale blue eyes narrowed. ‘Does he now? Better show him in then.’
Clem shuffled in, still looking the epitome of misery. His usual demeanour, Jason would have said, was bluff and hearty, but now he looked as downcast as a whipped puppy.
‘Mr Jarvis. Please sit down,’ Jason said briskly. ‘You have something to tell us?’
Clem sat down, took a massive breath, then launched into his story. Jason sat, stiff-backed and disbelieving, as he was told the tale of the pigeon shoot last weekend and the missing gun. When the farmer was finished, the chief inspector looked numbly at Jim, then back to Clem.
Clem was already feeling belittled by the policeman. There was something about a man who actually looked good in a suit that had always roused deep misgivings in the down-to-earth farmer. Add to that the look of sheer disbelief in those cold blue eyes of his and. . . . Clem quickly looked down at his work-roughened hands, which were twisting about in his lap.
‘And you just left your shotgun in the boot room?’ Jason repeated, trying to keep his voice at a normal level. ‘In a public room? In a pub? Where anybody could just take it?’
Clem coughed. ‘Done it like that for years, mister, me and others too,’ he said, just a shade sullenly. ‘Nigh on twenty years or more I’ve been doing that. And it’s never been nicked before. Why would anybody want to? It’s just an old shotgun.’
Jason opened his mouth, then quickly snapped it shut. It was no good bawling him out now. He’d only turn truculent and uncooperative. Besides, there was something naive and trusting about the man that made him feel jaded by comparison. And no doubt what he’d said about leaving the gun in the pub after a pigeon shoot for the last twenty years was perfectly true. Even now, those born and raised in the country had a different set of expectations of life than those raised in the more nefarious and knowing cities.
‘I see,’ Jason said heavily. ‘This gun of yours. I’ll need details. I don’t suppose you remember the registration number?’
Clem obligingly described it — an old but able workhorse of a shotgun. He didn’t, of course, remember any numbers that might have been on it. He never looked, did he?
Jim wrote down the technical details, then glanced with some sympathy at his superior.
‘And you’re sure that none of the other members of your shooting party took it?’ Jason tried the most obvious answer first.
But Clem shook his head adamantly. ‘Rung round, didn’t I? First thing I started to do when I heard about the killing, like. None of my pals have it.’
Jason sighed. ‘Can you remember who was in the pub at the time you and your friends were there?’
Clem flushed. ‘Well. We were all drinking quite a bit. We got over a hundred pigeons that day. You know how it is,’ he mumbled, not meeting the chief inspector’s eye. ‘Well, all the regulars were there. You can ask June. She’ll remember more. And a lot of your lot,’ he added hastily.
‘Our lot?’ Jason said, his voice like a whip. ‘You mean policemen?’
‘Nah, the lot that live here.’
‘You mean residents?’
‘Yerse. But not the vicar, of course. He doesn’t come into the pub very often — or his missus. They weren’t there. But I reckon most of the others were. That pretty young girl was there . . .’
Julie Dix, Jason thought. And where Julie was, her mother was sure to follow.
‘And that older piece. Mutton dressed up as lamb, with an eye for the men.’
Pauline Weeks, Jim Greer thought, with an inner smile.
‘And that chap with muscles who only eats raw carrots, or so he says.’
Paul Waring.
‘And the egghead. And the lady who can cook. And that bloke who’s always with her. I tell you, they was all there. Ask June if you don’t believe me,’ he finished self-righteously.
‘June?’
‘The landlady of the pub,’ Clem snorted. Didn’t these coppers know anything?
‘Ah. And did you remember seeing the Franklyns there?’ Jason put in skilfully.
Clem flushed. ‘I reckon,’ he admitted uncomfortably. ‘The skinny woman and her husband, right?’
Jason sighed. Great. They finally get a clue to the murder weapon and it looks as if any one of his prime suspects had the opportunity to steal it.
‘I don’t suppose you can see the entrance to the boot room from the public bar?’ Jason asked, but without much hope.
‘Nah,’ Clem said. ‘It’s part of the porch. Right at the entrance.’ So it would be child’s play to just nip into it on the way out, remove a lethal weapon and walk away with it, Jason mused. Just marvellous.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Jarvis. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this piece of information to yourself. There are reporters wandering about. Don’t let them suck you in.’
Clem grumbled something about ‘bloody vultures’ and got to his feet. He looked relieved that it was all over, as well he might. He was getting away with it lightly. Jason could have made life difficult for him, but he knew his superiors wouldn’t have thanked him for it. Nowadays, there was such a backlog in the judicial system that even high-priority cases had trouble being processed. No, he couldn’t see the CPS wanting to proceed with charges against the dozy farmer, so he was doing everyone a favour by letting him off with a warning. Besides, he was pretty sure that from now on the farmer would be a damned sight more careful with his firearms.
Jim escorted Clem Jarvis out, then came back shaking his head.
‘There’s no chance of us keeping it quiet, sir; all his mates will be talking about it by now. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, for sure,’ he predicted glumly.
‘I know. I suppose we’d better drag the river, Jim,’ Jason sighed.
‘You think the killer tossed it into the drink, then?’
‘It’s the most obvious place to dump a weapon, isn’t it?’
Jim nodded. ‘I’ll get on to the divers. Sir, this rather puts the kybosh on our theory that Sean Franklyn might have hired somebody to kill his wife, doesn’t it? I mean, a professional would bring his own weapon, not steal one from the local pub.’
Jason grunted. ‘I agree. It’s looking more and more like a home-grown job.’
‘So, we’re back to those who were missing at the time of the shot. Pauline Weeks, Maurice Keating, and Julie Dix,’ the sergeant sighed.
‘Seems so,’ Jason concurred. ‘But according to our witness statements, all three came on the scene not long after the shot was fired. A few minutes at the most. Would they have had time to kill Margaret, run back to their own flat and change their clothes — don’t forget there’d be bloodstains — nip out the back and sprint to the river to toss the gun, and then get back to the party again in just a few minutes? Even supposing that they hid the gun somewhere and then disposed of it later during the night, they would still have to be super-quick.’
‘Probably not our professor. He’s too old,’ Jim said.
‘But the other two are fit and healthy enough. And Pauline Weeks did have a bit of a tiff with the victim at the party,’ he mused, but even to his own ears it sounded weak. Not many people could commit cold-blooded murder and then show up at a social function just moments later without giving themselves away, surely? ‘Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions before we know all the facts,’ he said flatly. ‘Apart from anything else, we still don’t have any real motive for any of “our l
ot” here wanting to kill Margaret in the first place.’
Jim sighed. ‘Well, we might get some leads today, sir.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Jason said grimly. ‘Or we’ll be having the brass breathing down our necks. Go and check out the pub, will you? Speak to this June woman. See if she can confirm our farmer’s memories of that day.’
‘Right, sir, and get forensics to give the boot room a once-over?’
Jason grunted. ‘For all the good it will do us now, but why not?’
* * *
Jason was reading a new report about Margaret’s family background when there was a tentative knock on the door. He looked up, showing no surprise to see Paul Waring hovering uncomfortably in the doorway.
‘One of the constables outside said I could come in,’ Paul explained diffidently, moving further into the room as Jason nodded and indicated a chair.
‘Yes, Mr Waring — something I can do for you?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. When I was questioned the other afternoon, they asked me if I’d noticed anyone hanging around the vicarage.’
He shuffled himself onto the chair like a big St. Bernard, unsure of his welcome.
Jason’s eyes glittered. ‘You’ve thought of something you’d previously forgotten?’ he prompted.
The constable who’d interviewed him had made a note in his interview report that he thought this witness might have been holding something back. Looks like the PC had good instincts, and Jason made a mental note to remember his name and keep him in mind when he needed uniform help again.
‘Yes. No. I mean, it wasn’t anyone I’d seen around the vicarage. That’s why I didn’t think of it at the time.’
Jason sighed, wishing just for once that a witness could be clear and precise in what they said. Still, not everyone had a neat and tidy mind, he supposed. Then he warned himself not to jump to conclusions about Waring’s intelligence. After all, you didn’t get to own several gyms and buy a flat here by being dumb.
‘Perhaps you could just start at the beginning?’ he advised mildly.
Paul brushed the sandy hair off his forehead. ‘Well, see, I’m not sure it means anything, and I don’t want to, well, make trouble for Maurice. I mean, not when it’s probably nothing,’ he said, still somewhat incoherently.
