Rack, Ruin and Murder Read online

  Yet that ill wind had blown good fortune the way of the Bickerstaffes. With what pride must the first of them have taken possession of their new home, have crossed its threshold. How splendid those cavernous rooms must have looked with their brand-new furniture and carpets, all kept in sparkling condition by a small army of maidservants. How were the mighty fallen…

  Strips of blue and white tape marking a police crime scene still hung dispiritedly from its gates. Jess made a mental note to stop here, on her way back, and check the exterior of the house to make sure no one had broken in. The discovery of a body there had been well reported in the local press and could have attracted a ghoulish interest from sightseers and others, some taking the opportunity of an abandoned building to indulge in a spot of housebreaking. Monty might not have much money; but that house was stuffed with good Victorian furniture and decorative objects.

  There was no sign of life when she passed by the Colleys’ gate, either. It was as if the recent rain had washed the landscape clean of human life and activity.

  At that moment a car suddenly appeared ahead of her, breaking into the empty landscape with an almost physical impact, shattering its calm. It shot out of the entry to the farm track ahead and began to career wildly towards her. There was barely room for the two vehicles side by side; but the other car was determined to get by and by some miracle it did, flying past. Jess reacted, wrenching the wheel to avoid what had seemed like inevitable collision; and nearly hit a dry stone wall. She just had time to establish that the driver was male and wore a cap. She had not met Sneddon so couldn’t say if it was the farmer; but whoever he was, he was driving like a maniac. Presumably he didn’t normally encounter another vehicle at this point in the lane. No one lived further down Toby’s Gutter than the Sneddons. He was still an idiot. She wished she’d taken the car registration. She’d have called in to Traffic Division.

  She turned on to the track and parked in the farmyard. The only living thing to be seen here was a sheep dog, a collie. It had been tied up near the front door and was running round in fretful little circles, risking entanglement in its tether. Seeing Jess’s car rattle into the yard, it looked up hopefully and wagged its plumed tail.

  Jess got out of the car and as she approached, the dog ran to greet her, as far as the rope allowed, crouching in abasement, still wagging its tail furiously and whimpering.

  ‘You want me to untie you, old fellow, don’t you?’ Jess stooped to pat its head. ‘But you’ve been tied up for some purpose.’

  She stood up and looked about. The dog whined again. It was deeply worried about something and Jess was beginning to feel very uneasy. If the driver of the car had been Sneddon, where was he going in such a hurry? Should she have turned round and gone after him? She had had good reason. She could have forced him to pull over and warned him about his erratic driving. Jess walked up to the front door and rapped with the metal knocker. The sound echoed inside but no one answered the summons. The dog gave a nervous, impatient yelp.

  With an increasing sense that something was terribly wrong, Jess began to make a tour of the outside of the building. There was no one in the yard at the rear. Washing hung, dripping, on a line, but there was no sign of Rosie who had presumably pegged it up. It had been pinned there before the breakfast rain shower and no one had bothered to bring it indoors. Jess didn’t need to feel it to know it was sodden.

  She went up to the back door and knocked again. Then she put her ear against it and listened. It seemed to her there was an answering knock, like an echo, from within. She rapped harder.

  Thump – thump – thump came from inside in response.

  Someone was trying to communicate, someone who couldn’t get to the door. Jess rattled at the handle but the door was locked. If there’s anyone as aware of the basics of breaking and entering as a burglar, it’s a police officer. Jess inspected the kitchen window, often a weak point. Bingo! It was ajar, unlatched, and held in position by a metal arm punctured with holes that dropped over a peg on the window frame. She hunted round and found a length of narrow stick, used to tie up some fuchsias in a flowerbed by the door. A further hunt turned up a wooden crate with wilting greens in it. She tipped them out, lugged the crate back to the window and upturned it beneath it.

  Then she climbed carefully on to the crate and reached through the crack of the window with the stick. A couple of awkward attempts and she succeeded. The pierced arm jumped free of the peg and flew upward. Released, the window was easily pulled open. Jess set about hauling herself up and scrambling over the ledge inside.

  Like many a kitchen window, it was located over the sink. Jess slithered over the sill and down into a big old-fashioned glazed stoneware sink with a couple of inches of cold, sudsy water in it.

  ‘Faugh!’ she muttered. She swung herself over the edge to the tiled floor and attempted to brush off the worst of the wet stains from her clothes. Then she heard the noise again, coming from above her head, the pounding of a fist on wood and a rattling.

  Jess hurried out into the narrow hallway and shouted up the staircase, ‘Is someone up there? This is the police!’

  Thump – thump! It came again and was followed by a muffled shout, a woman’s voice. ‘Help, help me, please!’

  Jess ran up the staircase. The voice and sound of a fist on wood came from behind the closed door of a large cupboard at the top of the stairs. As Jess reached it, the door began to rattle and shake as someone inside tried to force it open.

  ‘Mrs Sneddon?’ Jess called.

  ‘Yes! He’s locked me in – Pete’s locked me in!’

  Thankfully the key was still in the outside of the door. Jess turned it. The door flew open and a dishevelled, wild-eyed woman was catapulted into her arms.

  She clung to Jess, gasping and uttering incoherent words. Jess gripped her arms tightly. ‘Rosie? Calm down, come on, take a deep breath – now, another! Your husband passed me in the lane. Where is he going?’ But even as she asked, she knew the answer and felt her heart give a painful leap.

  ‘Gone – gone down to Seb’s garage!’ Rosie drew a deep ragged breath. ‘He’s taken his gun!’

  Jess was aghast. ‘What? When did he leave? What kind of gun is it?’

  ‘It’s a shotgun. He’s going to shoot Seb and it’s all my fault!’

  Rosie Sneddon’s voice rose in a desperate wail.

  ‘Morton!’ exclaimed Jess. Damn and blast, Phil Morton was on his way, unaware of any danger, to Pascal’s garage to interview him again in the light of Alfie’s story… also to find out if his cherished theory was correct and Pascal and Rosie had dragged a dying man into the house. But Phil wouldn’t get the opportunity. If Sneddon got there first, Phil would walk in on the situation. If Phil had got there first, Sneddon would burst in, armed, on Phil.

  Jess scrabbled at her mobile phone and tried in vain to get a reply from Morton. He might already be at the garage and anything could be happening. There was no time to lose. Jess rang through to HQ and shouted, ‘Man armed with a shotgun, Peter Sneddon, at Pascal’s garage on the ring road, near turning to Toby’s Gutter Lane. Sergeant Morton may be there. I need an armed response team, urgently!’

  Rosie gripped her sleeve. ‘They won’t shoot Pete? It’s all my fault! Pete wouldn’t harm a fly normally! I told him – I told him about me and Seb and our meetings at Balaclava House. I thought it would all come out now you’re investigating that murder and I wanted to tell Pete myself. He flew into a rage. I’ve never seen him like it…’

  Jess shook herself free and ran down the stairs, then along the hall and out of the front door. The dog leaped to its feet and jumped up at her. She managed to avoid it and reached her car. She scrambled in; only then realising to her dismay that Rosie Sneddon had followed on her heels and had got into the passenger seat beside her. The collie was barking wildly and pulling at its tether, desperate to be free and come with them.

  ‘Mrs Sneddon! Get out, please! Stay here! This is a dangerous situation,’ Jess or
dered as she switched on the ignition.

  ‘I’m coming with you!’ Rosie shouted. ‘He’s my husband! He’ll listen to me! He’s angry, but he won’t do anything if I’m there!’

  There wasn’t time to argue or waste precious minutes trying to eject Rosie from the car by force. Jess wrenched at the wheel; they skidded round in a circle in a shower of grit and set off back the way she had come to the farm.

  The car rattled and bumped over the uneven surface, and splashed through the puddles sending up showers of spray. Beside her, Rosie was still lamenting and pleading that no one shoot her husband.

  Just so long as he doesn’t shoot Morton, thought Jess furiously. Or anyone else! Even if Sneddon was not normally a violent man, just now he was seeing the world in a sudden red mist of fury. With all sense of judgement gone and holding a loaded shotgun, he could easily go berserk and loose off the weapon at anyone.

  But Pascal’s garage, when they reached it, appeared deserted. Jess parked well away, pulling the car up on to the grass verge behind a large clump of spiny blackthorn bushes.

  ‘Stay in the car!’ she ordered Rosie Sneddon. ‘I mean that!’

  She got out and using the blackthorn as shield peered in the direction of the garage. Sneddon must be inside – and there was Morton’s car parked outside. Phil was in there, too.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ muttered Jess to the approaching back-up team. It was going to be a good five minutes longer before they got here.

  There was a deep ditch running behind the blackthorn towards the garage, with high grass and wild plants at its edge. Jess jumped into it, cold muddy water swilling round her ankles and seeping into her footwear. She crept, crouched nearly double, as near to the garage as she reckoned she could safely go.

  She stopped when she had a good view of the plate-glass window at the front of the building. Something moved behind it. It looked like the outline of a woman. That must be Alfie’s aunt, Maureen, who worked at the till. The female figure held up her hands at shoulder height. Sneddon was in there all right. But was Pascal? Had Sneddon arrived to find his quarry not at home? Was he holding Maureen and Sergeant Morton as hostages until Pascal returned? Jess prayed no driver decided he needed to stop by the garage and fill up with petrol.

  She crept back to her car and checked that Rosie was still sitting obediently inside, although the woman was so jittery there was no guarantee she’d remain there. Then, seeing a car approaching, Jess stepped out into the road and flagged it down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the driver, showing her ID, ‘but there’s an incident taking place at the garage down there. You’ll have to turn back.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’ grumbled the driver. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Armed man!’ snapped Jess.

  ‘What about her, then?’ asked the driver belligerently, pointing past Jess.

  Jess turned her head and saw to her dismay that Rosie Sneddon had taken the opportunity afforded by Jess’s distraction to scramble out of the car. She was racing down the grass verge towards the garage.

  ‘Rosie!’ Jess yelled. ‘Come back! You’ll make things worse! You’ll give Pete an extra hostage! There’s a specially trained team on its way! They’ll deal with it!’

  But Rosie took no notice, still running and, now that she was near the building, beginning to shout. ‘Pete! Peter! Put the gun down and come outside! The police are on their way, armed police! Peter! They’ll shoot you!’

  ‘They won’t shoot him if he throws the gun out first!’ yelled Jess.

  She wasn’t sure Rosie could hear her, intent on her own mission. But it seemed she had because she repeated what Jess had just said.

  ‘Throw the gun out of the door, Pete! Then they’ll know you’re not armed any longer and they won’t shoot!’

  Jess saw the figure of Maureen turn her head. She had heard Rosie’s shouts. At that moment, Jess heard the wail of the approaching sirens. At the same time, there came a deafening explosion from within the garage building and the sound of a woman screaming.

  * * *

  Earlier, Phil Morton had arrived at the garage and parked in the forecourt. He went into the mini-mart and was greeted by the till operator. He seemed to remember her name was Maureen.

  ‘Seb’s not here,’ Maureen told him, in reply to his query. ‘He’s gone into town.’

  ‘When’s he expected back?’ Morton glanced at his watch. ‘Has he been gone long?’

  ‘He went about half an hour ago. He should be back soon. Are you going to wait? You can go and sit in the office, or wait in your car. I’ll make you a coffee if you like.’

  And that was when it all went pear-shaped and bloody bedlam broke out, as Morton later described it.

  The automatic doors to the minimart flew apart and an apocalyptic figure appeared: Pete Sneddon, wild-eyed, twitching and grasping a shotgun. He ran up to the desk and yelled, ‘Where is he? I’m going to blow his head off his shoulders, the scum!’

  Maureen let out a banshee screech and the shotgun leaped about in Sneddon’s hands.

  ‘All right, Maureen!’ Morton ordered quickly. ‘Keep calm. You, too, Mr Sneddon. What’s all this about? Why don’t you throw down the gun? It’s not necessary. Seb Pascal isn’t here.’

  ‘What do you mean, not here?’ Sneddon’s feverish glance took in the office door. He darted over to it. Morton made a snap judgement as to whether he could reach the doors to the outside while the man was distracted, and decided it was too risky and would mean leaving Maureen alone in here with the man. Sneddon had kicked open the office door with his earth-caked boot and seeing the tiny room empty, whirled round again to face the other two.

  For a moment he looked perplexed, unsure what to do now his original plan had been thwarted. ‘You – ‘ the shotgun indicated Morton and then the petrified Maureen who threw up her hands to shoulder level in approved manner. ‘You two are my hostages. That’s it, yes, hostages.’ He seemed pleased at remembering the word.

  ‘Why do you want to see Pascal, Pete?’ Morton asked as calmly as he could. ‘You don’t really want to harm him.’

  ‘Yes, I do!’ yelled Sneddon. ‘He’s been knocking off my wife!’

  Oh-oh… thought Morton. Aloud he began, ‘This still isn’t the way to settle it, Pete. Now then, before anyone gets hurt, just throw down the gun and we can discuss how to go about it.’

  Sneddon was still looking very jumpy but now undecided too. He had not planned this part of things. He scowled in thought. ‘No, we do it my way. I wait here for Pascal and you two just – just keep quiet. Shut up, right?’

  A frozen silence descended on the minimart. Sneddon paced up and down and the other two watched him. Maureen was trembling and silent tears ran down her cheeks. Morton was aware of the anger towards Sneddon building within him. Bloody man, who did he think he was, rushing in here like Butch Cassidy, waving a – they had to assume – loaded firearm? He was terrifying an elderly woman. It was only by chance no customers were here and some might arrive at any moment. He held Maureen and Morton, and could yet end up with half a roomful of hostages.

  He knows Maureen, reasoned Morton to himself, and he won’t shoot her. If he takes a pot shot at anyone, before Pascal gets here, it will be me. Morton edged a little closer to the nearest stacked shelves standing mid-aisle. If Sneddon made a threatening move, he could throw himself behind the shelves and hope they’d protect him.

  ‘Stay where you are, copper!’ Sneddon rasped. ‘I can see what you’re up to. You do like Maureen’s done. That’s it, put your hands up! Now, you keep your hands in the air, do you hear me? And you keep absolutely bloody still and right there, on that spot, where I can see you!’

  More fraught minutes passed. Sneddon paced up and down, occasionally muttering to himself. Maureen whimpered. Morton debated again whether it was worth diving down behind the shelves, but what then? He wasn’t alone with Sneddon. There was Maureen to consider. If any firing started, there was a strong risk of a stray sh
ot hitting her.

  Then, faintly, outside the building and coming nearer, they heard a woman’s voice, shouting.

  Sneddon gave a convulsive twitch and looked, if possible, even more wild-eyed. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Pete! Pete! Throw the gun out of the door!’

  They could all hear the words now.

  ‘That’s my wife!’ Sneddon looked flabbergasted. He stared at the other two helplessly. ‘What’s she doing here? How did she get out of that cupboard? I locked her in.’

  Morton turned his head and to his horror saw the dishevelled figure of Rosie Sneddon running past the window towards the automatic doors. They opened and she burst in. Pete swung round to face her; the shotgun jerked upwards and there was a deafening blast. A large lump of the ceiling fell down and crashed to the floor, leaving a gaping hole above their heads.

  Morton and Maureen had both flung themselves to the floor. Sneddon looked up at the hole in the ceiling as if stunned, unable to believe he was the cause of it.

  ‘Pete!’ Rosie’s voice was high-pitched but crisp. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? This isn’t the Wild West. Don’t be stupid. How could you shoot anyone? Throw the gun down, now!’

  As a technique for dealing with a gunman it might have left much to be desired, but it worked.

  Sneddon obediently dropped the weapon to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘Thank God!’ muttered Morton, scrambling to his feet.

  Maureen, on the other hand, decided it was time to start screaming again.

  Chapter 14

  ‘I’m sorry she managed to slip out of the car, sir. It shouldn’t have happened. She went tearing off down the verge towards the garage like an Olympic sprinter, yelling out her husband’s name.’ Jess explained ruefully to Carter. ‘Then the armed back-up arrived. Phil threw the gun out of the door and shouted that it was all under control. It was over pretty quickly after that. Maureen, Mrs Wilson, has been taken back to her home in Weston St Ambrose to recover. I’ll arrange for her to make a statement later.’