by Carrie Marsh
“Tamsyn had it, didn't she?” Marcie said softly. Her voice was a whisper and she realized her throat was parched. “Water?”
“I have some here,” Harry said peacefully. He poured her a glass of cool water and helped her to sit up against the pillows. He held her arm while she raised the cup to her lips, feeling shaky and weak. She drank. The water was cool and refreshing and soothed her throat.
When she had drunk it, she could think more clearly.
“You were saying something about land...?”
“Yes, I was,” He said gently. “I was telling you what Darrell told me about the council response to Gerald and his land deals. But dear, don't worry about it now. Rest. Sleep. You need to get well. All that can wait for some other time.”
“I know,” Marcie said gently. She sighed and leaned back on the pillow, passing the water to Harry who put it gently down on the bedside table. She closed her eyes.
Thoughts passed through her mind, each painting different pictures on her closed eyelids. Thoughts about Janet. About Gerald. Janet's brother. Richard. Tamsyn. The village women and the news she had heard. She had no idea how to put all those thoughts together to make a picture of the tragic events. To draw sense out of it all and make an accusation. She wanted to.
As she reached out to where Harry reached for her hand, she had another thought. He must have been sitting there all night, waiting for her fever to pass.
“You must be tired, dear. You need some sleep too. I'll be okay now. You know I will.”
“Well, the doctor said it should get better soon. Said there's something going around. You're not the only one who had it, or Tamsyn either. Apparently he had a few cases here to see, and in Norwich.”
“So it should pass quickly?”
“You're probably already better,” Harry smiled tenderly.
“Well, then, in that case, you should sleep too, dear. We both need to keep our energy up.”
“True,” Harry agreed, squeezing her hand. “But only if you're feeling better.”
Marcie laughed. “Harry, it's one o' clock in the morning. And I fainted, but the doctor's thrown the book at me. I'm not that delicate, I promise I'm not. And you should rest, too.”
Harry smiled and kissed her hand, a gesture of affection he often made, especially if they had been disagreeing about something and he'd come to see her point of view and say sorry. “Yes, dear.”
Marcie smiled. She rested her hand on his shoulder and they sat together, he in the chair holding her hand on the bed, she with her other hand on his shoulder, until she felt herself relax and her own eyes begin closing.
“Let's sleep,” she said gently. Harry nodded.
As she felt him squeeze her hand and heard him whisper, “Yes,” she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of him going to the cupboard, taking out his suit for the next day putting his shoes away, brushing his teeth. Sounds she was used to and that spoke to her of rest and peace and contentment.
I am so lucky to share my life with someone I'm so close to, she thought, smiling. We are such close companions, and always have been since we met.
With that thought in her mind, she drifted slowly back to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED
EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED
Gilding stood with his back to the door, facing the chalkboard that had hung there since the opening of the police station, back in 1955.
He had had enough of this case. Had enough of villagers asking him how it was progressing. Very much had enough of the reproachful face of Janet Fleet that haunted his dreams, blending more and more with the face of his wife.
“I don't see any connection,” he sighed.
On the board were three suspects. Len Gerald. Richard Fleet. Joshua Cauley.
Of the three, one of them had means and the other two had motive. And he could not for the life of him figure out who had both. He had scribbled the evidence in another column, the motives in a third. The weapon was drawn at the bottom of the board, crudely. A white SUV with Michelin tires.
He sighed. The only person in the village who's car was a match for it was Len Gerald's.
When he had questioned the man the day before, he had an alibi (only corroborated so far by his friend and neighbor), and had also informed Gilding when he went back afterward that “everyone” in the village borrowed the new SUV, which made matters hard.
Who “everyone” was, Gilding had narrowed down to a list of seven people, none of whom were Richard Fleet, though Stuart, who helped out at the grocery shop had apparently borrowed it once or twice. The names on the list were so wildly unlikely that Gilding was not sure whether to even consider any of them as suspects. If Len Gerald had no discernible motive, he had no idea what the motives of these people could be.
The only person with a clear motive was still Richard Fleet. He was the only one who would have had reason to kill both Janet and her lover, Grant. But why would her husband steal her wallet? That was the one piece that made no sense.
The only suspect who would have had any motive to have stolen Janet's wallet was her brother. Gilding knew he was involved with drugs. Not that he blamed the young man, knowing as he did something of what drove people to that limit. But he was wanted for robbery and possession – had he seen him, he would have been obliged to arrest him. He also knew that Janet knew that and had tried to help him out as best she could.
Okay. So her brother stealing her wallet was not inconceivable. But why would he have killed her or anyone else? He did not even know if the young man had visited in years.
He sighed. There was only one thing he could think of. Question Richard Fleet again. Question Gerald again. Try and find out from the department in Norwich if Cauley – Janet's brother – had been seen anywhere recently.
Feeling as if he was giving up, he sat down at his desk and raised the phone.
He dialed the police department in Norwich where he had worked
“Hello Nigel? Yes, this is Randall. It's been ages. Years, in fact. No, I'm doing nicely down here. You heard about our case? Yes. Yes. Listen, could you send me everything on a young man, Joshua Cauley? I need it. And maybe... Yes. I would like that. Thank you.”
Gilding hung up, sighing. He felt as if he had been steamrollered – Nigel Walpole had always done that, with sheer force of his personal joyfulness. He seemed to have energy for ten people. And now, not only had he gotten his hands on the information about Janet's sibling, which was good, but he had the mixed blessing of a visit from Alexander Price, his immediate superior on the force in Norwich.
Which made a bad day infinitely worse.
Sighing, Gilding headed up the corridor toward where he hoped Hargreaves still was. He needed something for his headache.
He went up the corridor to the small, cramped room by the morgue which Hargreaves had converted over time into his own office. The door was half open. He knocked. When there was no answer, he knocked again and then pushed the door open a crack.
The room was in disarray, but then again it always was. The walls were full of photographs from accidents, sites, old cases, stuck up with adhesive tape at all angles. The desk was surprisingly neat – it housed an old-style PC, a holder with pens, and a few Bar Ones, one of which had been half-finished. A deeply stained coffee mug with some colorful slogan on it – courtesy of Novo Nordisk pharmaceuticals – sat at the top corner. There was no sign of the man himself.
Gilding smiled. He had not been into his friend's private space for a long time. Somehow everything about him was summed up in here – his easygoing nature, his pedantry, his warmth. He glanced at the whiteboard in the corner – somehow Hargreaves had managed to persuade the department he needed a whiteboard, where Gilding had failed to procure one for himself. Typical. It said: “Blood result for Hydroxy- negative. Adrenaline – up. No amphetamines, barbiturates, trycyclic drugs, hallocinogens, analgesics, or stimulants”.
Gilding assumed those were the blood results for the late
st two cases, or they would have been cleared off. A small diagram on the bottom side of the board showed the accident site for the second accident. Written in big square hand was the word “SUV”, “white” and “Who?”.
Further exploration of the office brought out a Post-it note stuck off-center on the PC. “Back at 16:00. At lab. Call if urgent”. The phone number to call if urgent was scrawled underneath. Gilding opened one of the drawers, hoping to find some headache tablets. He knew Hargreaves kept them in here somewhere.
While he was looking in the top drawer, he was surprised to find a small bottle with a hand-written label on it. It said: Strychnos nux vomica. It was labeled with a “toxic” sign. His brow went up. Why would his friend have a bottle of poison in his desk?
Pocketing it, he went back to his office, thinking hard.
He was sure it was something innocent. Why would his friend be in any way involved in anything untoward. He was worried. An Internet search of the name led him to Wikipedia, which explained that it was a poison from a tree, and it was particularly deadly, leading to death by asphyxia.
The idea brought a fresh consideration to him. What if both of the drivers who had died were in fact under the influence of some drug at the time of their death? Perhaps they had been looking in all the wrong places? Perhaps there really was just an unfortunate coincidence of two accidents. Were Janet and Grant both using drugs? The thought had never occurred to him.
He looked at his watch. It was three in the afternoon. When Hargreaves came back, he would have to ask him about how likely it was that their two deceased were using drugs. He recalled the list of blood results on the board in Hargreaves office. It seemed unlikely that they were – if those were the results, then it barely seemed possible, in fact. But maybe they hadn't checked for everything.
He would also have to confront Hargreaves about the bottle in the drawer.
“And then I'll have to prepare for the joy of Nigel,” he said ruefully.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A NEW ARRIVAL
A NEW ARRIVAL
Gilding stood in the doorway of the police station, watching his newly arrived colleague narrowly avoid collision with the police car parked in the drive. He sighed. The man had said he would be there at four o' clock, and was then unaccountably early, meaning that Gilding had to postpone his meeting with Hargreaves for a while. He watched his old colleague shake his head and change the angle of approach inches before a collision. He shook his head ruefully.
I don't think Nigel has changed much.
Nigel Walpole was an old acquaintance of his from the days he worked in Norwich and quite easily one of the most talented police officers he knew. He was also impatient, quick to make judgments and undaunted. The three together were a lethal combination when one needed quick, decisive action. They were also murderous, for a different reason, when a situation needed finesse. Like parking in the narrow drive, for example. He held his breath. He was glad when the vehicle was finally stopped. The front door swung open and a man climbed out.
“Randall!” His voice filled the small police yard as he jumped out of the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him.
“Nigel,” Gilding observed quietly. The man bounded up the steps toward him and shook his hand vigorously, then clasped his shoulder firmly.
“It's good to see you,” he said. “It's been a long time...”
Gilding was grateful for the fact that he stopped short of mentioning the last time they had seen each other, which had been shortly after his wife's death. The memory was still tender and this case was damaging enough to it without any more bruising.
“It has,” he agreed instead. He turned to walk beside his colleague and they headed into the tiny Stowe police station. “Welcome,” Gilding added. “You looked at the files?” he asked.
“Thanks,” Nigel blinked. “It is a small place, isn't it?” he asked, looking around. Gilding sighed.
“It is, Nigel. Thank you for pointing it out. I hadn't noticed.”
They both laughed at that.
“Sorry, Randall. It's been too long. I haven't had you with me to remind me to think before I speak. Now, where were we? The files. Yes, I did.”
“And?”
“And it seems Joshua was on the run, yes. He was charged with possession a few years back. But he agreed to cooperate with police and gave us some information about the gang he worked for – which was, as you imagine, a bad idea.”
Randall nodded. “They had a hit on him?”
“Indeed,” Nigel nodded. “It took them long enough to figure out who did it, I expect. But recently, they found out. I heard he had run out of town a few days ago. Must have come here? He's back now, though. We loaned him a safe house.”
“Good,” Gilding inclined his head. Witness protection was always hugely important when faced with gang-related crimes.
“Yes,” Nigel blew out his cheeks. “You think he was here for ill intent?”
“I don't know,” Gilding agreed. “His sister is dead, as you know.”
“Tragic,” Nigel agreed. “But there's no way...”
“No way what? That it's him?”
“No,” Nigel replied at once.
“I agree,” Gilding admitted. “At least, it looks like it can't possibly be him for two reasons: first, because he doesn't drive anything, much less anything like the car we know is responsible, and secondly because it took planning here.”
“And I don't think Joshua is a premeditated murderer,” Nigel agreed.
“Nor do I.” Gilding paused. “We know he was here, though. And we know...”
“Mm?”
“We know her wallet was stolen. It was found behind the village shops, cleaned out. No cash, no cards, no coins. Nothing.”
“That's weird,” Nigel agreed.
“Of all my suspects,” Gilding went on, “there's no other who'd need money.”
“Who are your suspects?” Nigel asked as they walked down the corridor. They paused in the door of the staff room. Gilding inclined his head, offering a coffee.
“My suspects?”
“Mm,” Nigel agreed, following Gilding into the staff room where he was pouring coffee.
“I have three so far. Sugar?”
“Yes. Two. Who are they?”
“Well,” Gilding stirred the coffee and carried his to the office, Nigel following him up the hallway as they went. “First is her husband.”
“Grocery shop owner bloke?” Nigel asked. “Seems the most likely suspect to me, too, now you mention it. Had a motive.”
“Indeed,” Gilding said cautiously. “A motive he may have. But he had no means. He didn't own a white SUV with a bull-bar on the front. All he has ever owned car-wise is a small Honda, and that wasn't what drove into either deceased's cars.”
“Okay...” Nigel paused, swallowing coffee and looking up expectantly at him. “So you know who does own a white SUV with a bull bar on the front in this district?”
“I was coming to that,” Gilding said thinly. “My second suspect, Len Gerald.”
“Who is he?”
“Local property developer. Stuck-up fellow. Not well-liked here.”
“Well, he seems like the kind of guy,” Nigel grinned. “Kinda like me, then?”
Gilding laughed. “You're not stuck-up, Nigel. Annoying, sometimes, but not arrogant.”
Nigel laughed. “Thanks, Randall. But I interrupted just now?”
“I was about to say that Gerald has the means, but no motive. Well, okay. He has a tenuous one: he didn't exactly like young Hiddingh. Chap was forever spraying slogans on his walls, trying to block his sales, staging protests. That kind of thing.”
“Rabble rouser, eh?”
“I'd say.”
“Seems an odd reason to crash into someone, though,” Nigel mused. “And he has no motive at all for the first murder.”
“Not as far as we know,” Randall agreed. “It's tricky, though.” He sighed. “I don't feel like I kno
w the village well enough. I mean, for all I know there could be any motive. She and Gerald could have had some long-ago feud for all I know. Or they could have been brother and sister! I don't know enough.
“What you need is someone who's known this village for ages,” Nigel counseled.
Gilding nodded. As he did so, a thought occurred to him.
“Do you think you'd like to come with me to question someone?” he asked.
“I suppose...” Nigel said carefully. “Who would we be questioning, then? One of your suspects?”
“Someone in the village who knows it better than anyone else.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
UNEXPECTED GUEST
UNEXPECTED GUEST
Marcie found herself alone in the group of sewing, busy women. She felt cold inside. The others all talked around her, helping each other with their sewing, being complementary or laconic about each other's work.
“Marcie?”
“Mm?” Sheryl was sitting next to her, and turned to her, a look of concern on her face.
“You look worried. What is it?”
“Nothing, really,” Marcie said neutrally. “Miles away, actually. Just distracted.” She bit off a thread from the embroidery and turned back to her collection of threads, wanting a new color for the border. She was still feeling a little fragile after the night before and the fever that had affected her so badly, and she was quite tired after the late night, though she had slept a little later to recover from it. But she had decided to come anyway today, as she could not pass up the opportunity to find out more.
“Okay,” Sheryl said. She sounded dubious. “Tell me if I can do anything, won't you?”
“Don't worry,” Marcie said gently. “I will.”
Sheryl smiled, though she looked confused, and Marcie turned back to her embroidery, wishing she could concentrate.
Her thoughts were everywhere, seeking answers. She broke off another thread, wishing she could concentrate on her embroidery, which was becoming deplorably tangled. There was no help for it – her mind was more tangled than were the threads.
