Angel of Death

by Anna-Marie Morgan

The DI shook her head. "We don't want to startle the animals. Use the lights."

  Dewi nodded and flicked the switch.

  "What on earth is he doing?" Dewi asked, again, when Tunicliffe continued despite their lights.

  "Go on then, give him a quick burst of the siren." Yvonne frowned.

  Beeeoooop

  The Land Rover showed no sign of slowing down, but neither did it speed up.

  Beeeeoooop Beep

  "Okay, there we go." Dewi waved a hand at the windscreen. "Finally."

  Tunicliffe stayed in his vehicle, windows shut tight.

  Dewi tutted and rapped his knuckles against the driver's side.

  The DI stood behind her DS, near the police four-by-four, in case Tunicliffe took off again.

  Just when they believed he would not open his window, it whirred down to half-way.

  "Can I help you officers?" He uttered the question in a posh English accent.

  Yvonne walked forward, resisting the temptation to ape the plummy voice.

  "Mr Emmanuel Tunicliffe?"

  "Yes... What is this about?"

  "We'd like to have a word, if we might?"

  "Well, I can't. I'm busy, right now."

  "So are we." Yvonne gave a smile which didn't reach her eyes. "We still want a word with you."

  "If you'd like to get out of your vehicle?" Dewi opened Tunicliffe's driver door.

  "What is this? You can't just stop someone for no reason and this is private land." Tunicliffe stepped out.

  Yvonne estimated him to be around six feet in height and in his early forties. His stubble-covered jaw wasn't straight. Twisted to the left, it gave him an odd appearance. "Have you not seen the news?"

  "No." The word sprung from between clenched teeth.

  "Someone murdered a woman on your land. Someone who we believe you knew."

  Yvonne searched Tunicliffe's face and had the distinct feeling he recognised what, and who, they were talking about.

  His facial muscles tightened as though he were about to say something, but decided against opening his mouth.

  "Mr Tunicliffe, do you remember a young woman by the name of Krysta Whyte?"

  "Oh, for God's sake..." Tunicliffe tutted, hands on hips, spitting the words as he tossed his head back. "What's she been up to now?"

  "Someone murdered her." The DI delivered the words cold, her eyes waiting for his reaction.

  "Well, I'm not sup-" Tunicliffe stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He sighed. "She got enough people's backs up, meddling in other people's affairs. That girl couldn't leave well alone."

  "What do you mean?" Dewi asked.

  "Well, invading people's land, stopping them going about their legitimate business. Sticking her nose in where it was neither wanted nor needed. Enough for you?" Tunicliffe folded his arms while glaring at them, his Barbour jacket, tight across his shoulders. "What happened to her, anyway?"

  "We're not revealing too many details, yet. However, we need to know where you were on Saturday morning? I must warn you that DS Hughes is wearing a body camera."

  "What time?"

  "Early morning, around six o'clock."

  "In bed. Asleep."

  "Really?" Dewi pulled a face. "Aren't farmers up at the crack of dawn?"

  Tunicliffe sneered at him. "I'm not a farmer. And, anyway, I don't keep dogs to bark myself."

  "Meaning, you have someone else who does the early work?"

  "My gamekeeper."

  Yvonne cleared her throat. "Weren't you involved in a fox hunt that morning?"

  "It wasn't a fox hunt. It was a trail hunt, and I didn't set out until just after eight." He appeared pleased with himself, a smile flitting across his features. "You want to prosecute me? You really must invent a better excuse than that."

  Yvonne rubbed her chin, her gaze thoughtful. "We will examine your alibi in fine detail, Mr Tunicliffe."

  "I can't wait." His tone oozed sarcasm, his eyes challenging her to go up against him.

  He thought this a game, she could tell, and she resented him for it. Yvonne pursed her lips and glared. Something about him got to her. Yes, her dislike was visceral. He had put himself near the top of her suspect list.

  7

  The gamekeeper

  It took a while to find the gamekeeper's cottage. The woodland path stopped short, a muddy track leading from it to the home. Yvonne guessed it had once had comprised stones, now lost to time.

  Dewi wore wellingtons. Yvonne looked at her flat shoes, caked in mud and leaves, and wished she had been as prepared as her DS. She attempted to clean them by scraping them on the large root of an oak tree.

  The cottage looked as forgotten as the track, in need of repair or, perhaps, serious renovation. Remnants of cracked paint clung to the tiny window frames. Someone had broken a pane and taped a piece of plastic over the gap. Several tiles were missing from the roof and a large hole in the eaves provided nesting for local bird life.

  Dewi knocked on the door, finding it ajar an inch. "Hello? Mr Tindall?"

  He appeared from the back of the house, shovel in hand and red-faced, as though he had been exerting himself. "Go on in," he called to them, leaning the shovel against the wall and stopping to remove his boots.

  Yvonne watched him do this and decided that she should also remove her shoes. Dewi wiped his boots on the sisal doormat.

  "That was a bad business," Tindall said with a soft Welsh lilt as he filled the kettle from the tap.

  "Do you live here alone, Mr Tindall?" Yvonne asked, casting her eyes around Tindall's tiny home. "Would you prefer me to call you Mr Tindall or Trevor?"

  "Trevor's fine." He lit the gas under the kettle with a match, which he shook to kill the flame, before tossing it into the bin. "I live alone, yes."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "About twenty years."

  "Did you never marry?" The DI tilted her head.

  "I married a lass years ago, but she left. She said country life didn't suit her."

  Yvonne wondered whether it had been the country life or the broken cottage which had sounded the death knell on their relationship.

  "You said you thought it a bad business. Did you ever meet Krysta Whyte, Trevor?"

  "I did."

  Yvonne shot Dewi a glance. "How did you meet her? Through the hunt protests she took part in, or something else?"

  "I bumped into her from time-to-time, including when she clashed with the boss, but that wasn't how I came to know her. We were relations. She was my sister's husband's daughter. A niece-in-law, if you like. Miles, that's my sister Kate's husband, had Krysta from his first marriage. His first wife died when Krysta was only three. Kate is his second wife. She loved the little girl and raised her like her own child."

  "Sorry, I didn't realise you were related. I'm so sorry for your loss." Yvonne shifted in her seat. "Her death must have been a shock."

  Tindall shrugged. "It surprised me, but I would be a liar if I said I knew her well. I chatted to her a few times, when she was down here, but it was general chit-chat. I wouldn't say anything to Mr Tunicliffe about her, though. There was bad blood between them. He couldn't stand her being on his land. Or any of them, come to that. Well, I suppose having an almost constant invasion would anger most people, when it is outsiders accusing you of illegal fox hunting."

  "And was he?"

  "Was he what?" Tindall frowned.

  "Fox hunting?"

  Tindal smirked. "Well, it's trail hunting, you're aware of that?"

  "Hmm." Yvonne tapped her pen on her chin. "When did you last see Krysta, Trevor?"

  "Ooh, wait a minute... A while ago, maybe six months, give or take a few weeks."

  "What was she doing when you saw her?"

  "She was with some friends, trying to disrupt a trail hunt, and she had a set-to with the boss."

  "With Tunicliffe?"

  "Yes. Got heated, too. He tried to mow some of them down with his Land Rover."

  "Did they report him
?"

  "I don't know. I expect they did. They are always reporting him for something."

  "Were you aware Krysta was in danger? Did you ever suspect Mr Tunicliffe of hurting a protester or of being capable of that?"

  "No. He's all bluster. He has his moments, but never witnessed him hurting anyone."

  "What about you?"

  "Me?"

  "Have you ever hurt anyone?"

  "No. I try to keep myself to myself and do my job and get my wages at the end of the month. I like what I do and I don't look to pick fights with anyone."

  "Where were you on the morning Krysta Whyte was killed?"

  "At home in the cottage, or checking on the pheasants and fencing around the pens. There is always repair work to do. It's a large estate."

  "A trail hunt took place that day. Did you have a role in it?"

  "No. The kennels take care of the dogs and Mr Tunicliffe likes to organise and run everything, himself. He has security guys, who I think are just local lads he bungs a few bob too. There's no call for me to get involved."

  "And you didn't observe Krysta around on that day?"

  Tindall shook his head. "No, I didn't."

  The Kettle shrilled in their ears and Yvonne rose from her seat. "We may need to speak to you again, Trevor. How do we contact you? Do you have a phone number?"

  He shook his head. "No signal on my mobile here, but you can ring the main house if you need me. Someone would get a message to me."

  "I appreciate that. Well, It's been good talking with you and sorry, again, for losing your niece. I want to assure you we are doing everything we can to find her killer."

  He nodded. "Thank you. That’s good to know.”

  "One more thing." Yvonne spoke to him from the doorway. "Do you have access to a vehicle?"

  He nodded. I have a pickup. "It's ten years old, but goes a treat. It's round the back."

  "May we see it?" She asked, noticing that Dewi was already heading over to it.

  "Sure. I'll show you."

  A dark green pickup stood in the small yard at the back of the property. It looked good for its age, well-kept.

  She peered over the sides. In the back lay a spare tyre, a shovel and two jerry cans. No blankets.

  She joined Dewi, as he looked inside the cab which was bare, save for a pair of sunglasses left on the dash.

  "Our forensic team may give this the once over." She addressed Tindall.

  "Oh?" he asked, his eyes narrowed.

  "We believe someone transported Krysta in a vehicle and we are examining vehicles in and around the area."

  Tindall nodded. "You have a job to do. I'm all right with that. Anything that helps."

  8

  An unexpected illness

  Early buds sprouted forth and the hedgerows and trees had taken on a vibrant green, heralding that precious time when spring becomes summer. It was a day to feel energised and happy.

  Yvonne filled her lungs with the scents of the season. They were making headway with the Krysta Whyte case, leads increasing by the day, and her physical health had improved so much she no longer needed a walking aid of any kind and could get around without major twinges.

  She sang along with the car radio, as she swung into the front yard of Tasha's cottage and parked up. They had discussed a weekend visit a few weeks prior, but Yvonne had set off that morning without informing her friend. Not that she hadn't tried to let her know. Tasha's phone was off and the cottage lacked a landline. If the psychologist wasn't home, the DI would head to town. There, she could have a spot of lunch and a walk along the beach. Either way, it was a win-win on such a sublime day.

  Yvonne knocked on the cottage door and waited. When there was no answer, she tried the handle and found it to be unlocked. Good. The psychologist was somewhere around.

  "Hello? Tasha?" She set her handbag down on the coffee table in the orderly lounge and walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the beach. They were open two inches.

  "Tasha?" She pushed them wide enough to walk through, before closing them behind her. Most likely, her friend had gone for a walk.

  She would head down the beach to the ocean. If she didn't bump into Tasha, and the psychologist returned to the cottage, she would find Yvonne's bag and realise the DI was around. Whatever happened, Yvonne suspected they would find each other at some point. It was Saturday. They had all the time they needed. Taking off her shoes, she left them beside the glass doors, liking the coolness of the sand beneath her feet as she wandered over the grass-spiked dunes.

  She could smell fish and hear the hiss of the ocean long before she topped the sandy humps to see it. The DI filled her lungs with the scent and her ears with the sound, as she stood atop the dunes, lifting herself up on tiptoes, and stretching her arms skyward.

  It was then, she saw a hunched figure where the sea met the shore, kneeling and bent over, and dressed in white. She headed that way.

  As she neared, the figure sat upright, staring out to sea.

  "Tasha?"

  The chocolate head turned to her. "Yvonne?"

  The DI ran towards where her friend was kneeling in the sand. "Are you okay? What are you doing?"

  The psychologist wiped a sleeve across her face before turning towards Yvonne. "I'm fine." She smiled, but her eyes were unfocussed and red-rimmed. She looked lost.

  "You are so obviously not fine." Yvonne knelt beside her friend. "What is it, Tasha? I have never seen you this distressed. Please, tell me what's wrong?" She placed an arm around the psychologist's shoulders.

  Tasha sighed, her body shuddering. "It's my dad, Yvonne. Consultants have told him that he has advanced pancreatic cancer. They said it's inoperable."

  "Oh no! Oh my God, Tasha, I am so sorry. That is awful news." Yvonne twisted Tasha around to give her a full hug.

  Tasha's voice choked. "I'm leaving tomorrow, for Kent. The first train I can get. I'll be staying at my mum's house in Ashford for two or three weeks. She said they are waiting for a hospice place to become available for my dad. He's in a hospital in Canterbury at the moment."

  "Oh, Tasha..."

  The psychologist lifted her face to the DI's. "Why has he so little time left? How is that even fair?"

  "I will drive you to Kent..." Yvonne offered, and meant it, as she wiped a stray tear from her friend's cheek.

  Tasha shook her head. "I know you would do that for me and I thank you for it, but it's not practical, Yvonne. You have a job to do. I will be in Kent until... until..."

  "Hey, hey, shush." Yvonne held her friend tight as Tasha let out a sob. "Whatever you need, okay? If you need something or you want anything sorted at your cottage, tell me what and I will do it. It is no trouble."

  Tasha nodded. "Thank you."

  "In the meantime, I will stay tonight. I packed a bag. It's in the car. I had thought we might get drunk."

  The psychologist gave her a weak smile. "We still might..."

  9

  Prey

  In his mind, his wings arched high above him. Skin and feather melted into one, tented purity and brilliance, dazzling all below. Then, spreading wide, casting an ominous shadow on all before as he homed in on the creatures of the woods. Creatures who believed they were protecting a world in which they could protect nothing. This was his space. Before him, space invaders. Prey.

  He checked his watch. Eight-thirty-seven. Mini binoculars back to his eyes, he counted twelve people on the ground. All eco veterans. First to the fray and always the most vocal at any protest.

  The tallest of them, six-foot-two, give or take an inch, looked an obvious ringleader, striding about handing out placards and strategically placing bodies around the gates to the site.

  Uncombed and unwashed. Definitely a die-hard. Approximate age, thirty. He wouldn't be an easy takedown, but that was all part of the challenge. He'd take longer to die. There was a satisfaction in that.

  He took a bite of his homemade chicken sandwich, eyes watering as the hot pepper sauce bit i
nto his tongue. It kept him focussed.

  Having chosen his next victim, all he had to do was look him up on the net, make contact, and set up a fake cause with the need for a meeting. A meeting, he'd make sure, his intended victim would not want to miss.

  10

  What friends are for

  Yvonne grabbed her overnight bag and a wine carrier, containing two bottles of chardonnay and a bottle of tequila, placing them on the ground while she slammed the car boot shut.

  Car keys in her mouth, she carried them through the door and into the kitchen.

  "I'll take your bag through to the bedroom," Tasha said as she picked it up to carry it through.

  "I will cook you a decent meal." Yvonne called after her. "And pour you a large glass of chardonnay, which you will not refuse."

  Tasha returned, eyes puffy, but grinning despite herself. "What would I do without you? You improve my mood, even in circumstances like these."

  "You’d better believe it." Yvonne answered, clattering pans from cupboard to stove.

  "I hope I don't offend you if I can't manage much," Tasha said, eyeing the largest of the pans.

  The DI popped a cork and poured a generous helping of chardonnay into two glasses, one of which she handed to Tasha. "Here, you go. This will give you an appetite and help lift your spirits. You can't do anything until tomorrow, and the wine might help stop you going stir-crazy."

  "And give me a lovely hangover for the train." Tasha grimaced.

  "I can make you an anti-hangover breakfast. You'll be fine." Yvonne winked.

  "Oh, boy." Tasha rolled her eyes in mock indignation, before her face and voice took on a gravity that stopped the DI in her tracks. "I'm glad you came. When I saw you called, I intended returning your call once I'd gotten myself together. I'm glad you chose today to surprise me."

  Their meal comprised pasta with bacon, in a garlic cream and white wine sauce. Tasha ate what she could, which wasn't much. She eyed the rest on her plate before lifting her eyes to Yvonne's, an apologetic look within them.