Rack, Ruin and Murder Read online

  ‘I expect she worries about your future,’ Jess told her. ‘Have you got your mind set on anything particular you’d like to do?’

  ‘No,’ said Tansy. ‘I’ve never felt the urge to be a doctor or a teacher ora – a pop star or any damn thing. Most people do have some idea what they want to do by my age. I bet you did. How old were you when you decided to be a cop?’

  ‘I was in my last year at school,’ Jess confessed. ‘The head teacher cornered me one morning as I was scooting along the corridor, late for a class as usual. “Are you always going to be late for everything you do?” he asked.’

  ‘He’d no right to say that!’ Tansy was indignant on Jess’s behalf.

  Jess smiled an acknowledgment but said, ‘It was a good question and he followed it up with a better one. “What are you planning to do when you leave here?”’

  ‘Aha! A trap!’ said Tansy.

  ‘Yes. I hadn’t really fixed on anything. I think he knew that or suspected it. But I was determined to give him a firm answer, just to make it clear I’d given thought to my future. I picked the toughest thing I could think of and told him, “I’m going to join the police force!” It did take the wind out of his sails a bit. After that, he didn’t let me forget it and he told other staff members. So eventually I got used to saying I was going to apply to join the police. They began to ask me, why? So I started to read it up and find out more about it. That’s when I got really interested. I thought, yes, it is what I want to do. So, here I am. I’ve never regretted my choice. It is a tough job but it’s a worthwhile one. I don’t see myself doing any other. I’m satisfied I’m in the right one.’

  ‘At least you had the wits to think of something when he asked you. I couldn’t pick a career if you held a gun to my head.’ Tansy hunched her shoulders despondently inside the knitted jacket.

  Jess smiled. ‘What are you hoping to study at university?’

  ‘Oh, media studies, but without any long-term aim. I told you, I’ve never had an aim in life, not one more than six months ahead. I’m not that interested in going to university, to be honest. But I’ve got to do something, so I thought I might as well do that.’

  Jess heard herself say something she immediately regretted. ‘You’re pretty well off, I suppose. No financial worries?’

  She had not meant this to sound either sarcastic or ill mannered but somehow it did.

  Tansy replied robustly. ‘None. Yes, I’m what you call “well off “. I’ve got a wealthy father. He’s very generous. He’s also the only decent man my mother ever married and she couldn’t keep hold of him! My mother is a loser, you know. That’s her problem. But if you think that money makes life easier, then let me tell you, it bloody well doesn’t.’

  They had reached the end of the lane where it joined a bigger road and by mutual consent turned back towards the house.

  ‘When you said you wanted to talk to me,’ Jess began, ‘I hoped it was about this case. I’m not much use as a careers adviser or life coach, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to bend your ear about my troubles,’ Tansy said. ‘What the hell do you care, anyway? But I do want to talk to you about the case, or rather, about Uncle Monty. You’re not going to badger him, are you? I don’t often agree with my mother, but I do agree about this. He’s old and he’s pretty well pickled in booze.’ Tansy stopped and turned to face Jess. ‘Look, he really doesn’t know anything about that body.’ She leaned forward earnestly.

  ‘The dead man came from somewhere, Tansy, and he wasn’t alone when he got to Balaclava House,’ Jess told her gently. ‘Someone, at least one person, had to be there to help him inside.’

  ‘Then it was someone driving through. Toby’s Gutter Lane is hardly used but it joins a main road, which is really busy. It means Balaclava House isn’t even as off the beaten track as The Old Lodge is here.’ Tansy pointed down the road towards her home. ‘Even Uncle Monty with his dodgy knees can manage to walk into town from Balaclava. He does it almost every day except Sunday.’

  ‘We are bearing all that in mind,’ Jess told her. ‘In fact, it seems other people did know about Balaclava House. Someone has been using one of the bedrooms.’

  She intended the question to come as a shock and it did.

  ‘What?‘ Tansy stared at her in disbelief. ‘That’s rubbish. Upstairs at Balaclava is a ruin.’

  ‘Nevertheless, there are clear signs that someone has been using one of the bedrooms on a fairly regular basis, unknown to your uncle.’

  ‘Someone has been hanging round Balaclava?’ Tansy put up both hands and pushed back her untidy long hair from her face. ‘But that’s – that’s awful.’ An expression of panic crossed her face. ‘While Uncle Monty was there?’

  ‘More likely when he wasn’t at home. He has a habit, you know, of leaving the place unlocked.’

  ‘Then someone could have been in the house…’ Tansy’s voice trailed away in horror. She went on, ‘Could have been there when poor Uncle Monty was downstairs, absolutely at their mercy, whoever it was. They might have murdered him. Mum or I could have called to see him and found him lying on that sofa.’

  She stared down at the ground, apparently collecting her thoughts. ‘Mum says he ought to be in sheltered accommodation,’ she said, looking up suddenly. ‘I’ve always thought it would kill him. But perhaps she’s right – if he’s not safe at Balaclava. What did he say when you told him? I wish you’d told Mum or me first. Then we could have broken it to him.’

  ‘He didn’t say a lot. Your uncle is quite tough, Tansy. I don’t think my visits worry him. He doesn’t appear worried by the idea of someone using the house. As you were saying, someone could have been upstairs while he was downstairs. Or, if he’d come back early, he could have met up with whoever it is, any sort of mishap like that. Perhaps he hasn’t quite thought it out that far yet.’

  They had reached the gate again and Tansy took out the car keys.

  ‘Taking your mother’s car?’ Jess asked.

  ‘No, my old wreck.’ She pointed.

  Jess looked in that direction and saw an elderly Ford Fiesta parked by some bushes.

  ‘Dad wants me to buy a new one. But I’m sort of attached to that one.’

  ‘Your first car?’ Jess smiled, Tansy’s words sparking a memory.

  ‘That’s right. I’ll drive carefully,’ Tansy said. ‘Honestly.’

  * * *

  Phil Morton was driving carefully, too, down Toby’s Gutter Lane from the Colleys’ towards Sneddon’s Farm. The surface of the lane became progressively more potholed and narrow with hedges or stone walls to either side. If he met an approaching vehicle, one of them would have to back up or pull over awkwardly into the entry to a field for safety. He was also getting nearer to Shooter’s Wood. It loomed darkly ahead, both beckoning with its mystery and repelling at the same time.

  He reached a track off to the left. A wooden signpost indicated it led to the farm. On the corner stood the ruins of a tiny cottage, roof collapsed, foliage sticking through the frameless windows and the shell of an old privy standing like a lonely sentry guarding the jungle of a former back garden.

  Toby’s Gutter Lane itself ran directly on towards a bend and the woods. Eventually, he supposed, via links with other lanes zigzagging across the landscape, a traveller would reach a main road. But it would be a slow and hazardous route. He understood why motorists who mistakenly turned down Toby’s Gutter Lane were advised by the inhabitants to go back to the main road and not try to cut across country. He turned into the track past the sad ruin of the cottage, wondering if this heralded what he’d find ahead.

  However the farm, when he reached it, presented a neater, far more prosperous scene. The house was a rambling but well kept old building of mellow local stone. Geraniums still bloomed in pots by the front door. The outbuildings were well maintained and there were no penned guard dogs, he was relieved to see. But as he got out of his car, a black and white Welsh collie ran round the corner of a barn and cam
e towards him, barking, but wagging its tail at the same time.

  ‘Hello,’ said Morton to the sheepdog. He reached out his hand for the animal to sniff.

  The collie stretched its nose and then looked up at him, panting happily.

  ‘Where’s your boss, then?’ asked Morton. Generally he liked dogs, and they liked him. This was an honest working dog and he respected that.

  The Colley dogs, on the other hand, were of a type familiar to him from breakers’ yards, scrap metal dealers’ premises and various undertakings not keen to have outsiders taking an interest. Such dogs, like their owners, usually had an unfailing nose for the law and regarded it as the enemy.

  A man had appeared, tall, slightly stooped, with long, sinewy arms, and a flat cap atop thick greying hair. He stood in silence, watching Morton and the collie.

  He’s judging me by the dog’s attitude to me, thought Morton. If the dog decides I’m a friend, so will the owner.

  ‘Mr Sneddon?’ he called out.

  Sneddon came towards him. ‘You a copper?’

  Even out here, they knew the law when it appeared.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Morton, producing his ID.

  Sneddon barely glanced at it. ‘You didn’t look like a lost motorist. We get ‘em from time to time. They think they can get across country, but it’s better for them to turn back.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Morton said. ‘One of the Colleys was telling me that.’

  He was interested to see how Sneddon reacted to the name of his neighbours. The farmer eyed him again and then commented, ‘Been there, have you?’ He might or might not have been amused at the idea. It was hard to tell. But his mouth twitched as if he repressed a smile.

  ‘We’re making enquiries,’ Morton told him, ‘relating to a dead body found at Balaclava House yesterday. You’ve heard about it, I suppose?’

  There was a chance that Sneddon hadn’t if he’d been on his own land for the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘My wife heard about it,’ Sneddon said. ‘And she came and told me.’

  ‘Oh? Who told her?’ asked Morton.

  ‘She took her car down to Seb Pascal’s petrol station, on the main road, to fill up. Seb had seen the police cars go by. Later on, he saw a little blue sports job go past with old Monty Bickerstaffe sitting in the passenger seat, and a woman driving. He reckoned the woman was Mr Monty’s niece. So he picked up the phone and rang one of the Colleys, young Gary. Seb reckoned they’d know what was going on. They did.’

  Morton thought about this, working out the timetable in his head. ‘It was after Mrs Harwell left with Bickerstaffe?’

  ‘It’s what I said.’

  I’ll have to talk to this Seb Pascal, thought Morton. Seems to me those ruddy Colleys were creeping about all over the landscape, spying on us at Balaclava House and spreading the news. And how did Gary… ? His thoughts were interrupted by Sneddon.

  ‘I was all set to ring you lot myself this morning,’ Sneddon said in a growl. ‘Not you, exactly. You’ll be CID, I suppose. I was going to phone the local cops. Not that it would have done me any good.’

  ‘Oh?’ Morton asked sharply. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because they’d have sent a bloke out who’d have taken a look, made a note of it, and then done nothing, most likely.’

  ‘Note of what? What has happened?‘ Morton was getting exasperated. ‘What led you to think about calling the police?’

  ‘I heard a car being driven past my farm last night, very late it was. It was coming from the direction of the junction with the main road, and heading towards Shooter’s Wood.’ Sneddon pointed. ‘I thought it was odd. There’s no one wants to drive down there, not in the middle of the night, leastways. If it was a lost tourist or summat, it’d have been in the daytime, wouldn’t it? So I listened out – ‘

  As he spoke, a woman appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘Pete?’ she called anxiously.

  Sneddon turned his head towards her. ‘It’s nothing to bother you, Rosie.’

  Disregarding this reassurance, she came towards them, her eyes on Morton. He saw that she was attractive in a mature way and possibly a few years younger than her husband.

  ‘Sergeant Morton, madam,’ Morton introduced himself. ‘About the – the events at Balaclava House, just down the road.’

  ‘Oh, that…’ She looked worried. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Seb Pascal told me. I’d called in his garage, you know it? Just to get a couple of gallons of petrol in the car. The price is going up again, they say.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morton, with feeling.

  ‘And Seb, he said he’d spoken to Gary, Gary Colley, that is, who lives down the lane there.’ She pointed in the direction of the Colleys’. ‘He said something really weird had happened at Balaclava House. Someone was dead. He said Mr Monty was all right. That was the first thing I asked, you know, was it poor Mr Monty? But Seb said he’d seen Mr Monty go by in a car driven by Mrs Harwell. That’s Mr Monty’s niece…’

  ‘Stop rabbiting on, woman!’ ordered her husband. ‘I’ve told him all that.’

  ‘It’s a worrying thing,’ protested his wife. ‘Things going on just down the lane and us none the wiser.’

  Sneddon heaved a gusty sigh.

  ‘You all call him “Mr Monty”,’ Morton said curiously. ‘Sounds a bit odd to me.’

  The Sneddons exchanged glances. Sneddon hunched his shoulders.

  ‘Sneddons, Colleys, Bickerstaffes, we’ve all been here generations. My family was farming here when the Great War broke out. Colleys have been here as long if not longer. They worked for the Bickerstaffes before they took up the smallholding. Bickerstaffes, they were important then, a family that mattered hereabouts. We know times have changed. But our feelings haven’t, see? Besides, Mr Monty saw me grow up from a nipper. He saw Dave Colley grow up. He’s seen our two girls and Dave’s kids grow up. He’s owed some respect, I reckon. You can make what you like of it. Now, if you’re interested in that car I heard, come along with me, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Show me? Show me what?’ asked Morton, startled.

  Sneddon heaved a deep reproachful sigh and looked at him as if Morton was being deliberately obtuse. ‘The car. It’s what I’m telling you about, isn’t it? We can go in your vehicle, if you don’t mind me getting in it?’ Sneddon pointed to his boots. ‘It’s only honest dirt.’

  The collie ran alongside them to Morton’s car but Sneddon sent it back to where his wife still stood. The dog settled down, nose on paws. Dog and Rosie Sneddon watched as Morton did a three-point turn in the yard and drove, with the farmer alongside him, back down the track to Toby’s Gutter Lane.

  ‘Turn left,’ said Sneddon, ‘down to the woods.’

  Morton followed instructions. Sneddon was going to give his information in his own way. Any attempt to hurry him would result in his digging in his heels like an obstinate mule.

  They rattled over more potholes and came to the first trees. Sneddon stuck to his policy of saying nothing, so Morton drove on slowly until they had reached almost the farther roadside limit of the woodland.

  Abruptly Sneddon ordered, ‘Stop here. You can park up on that bit of grass. We walk from here.’

  Morton did so, but growled, ‘I hope this is worth all this effort, Mr Sneddon? I’m making enquiries about a suspicious death. I hope you’re not wasting my time.’

  Sneddon snorted. ‘Well, this is a bit of a mystery too, if you want to call it that, and you can make enquiries about it at the same time.’

  He got out of the car and set off down a wide track, Morton on his heels.

  ‘Like I was telling you, I heard a car late last night after we’d gone to bed.’ Sneddon resumed his story, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Must have been well after midnight. I said to my wife, if that’s some bugger taken the wrong turning, he’s going to have a job getting back on the main road. But she didn’t answer me anything because she was asleep. She sleeps like a log, always has done. Afte
r that, I was sort of listening for the car coming back. But it didn’t come back before I fell asleep again meself. I’d had a hard day and I couldn’t worry about people driving round the countryside at night, getting themselves lost. If I’d stayed awake, I’d have seen the light in the sky from the fire.’

  ‘Fire?’ exclaimed Morton.

  ‘Mind out, now,’ Sneddon advised him, putting out a sunburned hand to warn him. ‘We’re just about at the edge. There is wire round it, but it’s not much.’

  The remaining trees had thinned yet more while they’d been walking and now they were again in open land that rose towards the top of Shooter’s Hill. Ahead of them, a wonky notice at an angle showed the legend ‘Danger. Quarry’ in faded paintwork. There was a fence of sorts composed of tangled wire and blackberry bushes that had grown up round it. Sneddon led him to a wide gap where wire and bushes had been broken down. He pointed downwards.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Morton.

  The quarry was long disused and overgrown. No one had worked it for almost half a century. The wide path they’d walked along must originally have been the access road before that, like the quarry, had been left for nature to recolonise. But someone had been here very recently. The grass at the edge of the steep descent, where the fence and bushes were destroyed, was scuffed and torn up. At the bottom of the excavation, resting among the debris of the old workings, was the blackened, burned-out skeleton of a car. A haze of dust and smoke still rose from it.

  ‘Stolen, could be,’ suggested Sneddon. ‘Or someone just wanted to get rid of it. Plenty of townsfolk think they can dump anything in the country. It’ll be the car I heard last night.’ He gave a satisfied nod. ‘This is where the blighters were taking it. They got out at the top here, gave it a good shove and sent it careering down to the bottom there. Either it caught fire or whoever drove it here climbed down and torched it. What are the police going to do about that, then? And who’s going to come out and take it away? Reckon no one will. That’ll just be left there to rust, along with all the rest, one more bit of junk in the countryside.’