by Joyce Cato
Jenny felt a fleeting wave of hot anger shoot over her. This poor old chap had just come out on a hot summer’s day to watch his village team play cricket, and now here he was, looking near the point of collapse. No doubt what he’d just seen would be giving him nightmares for years to come.
It just wasn’t fair. The cook felt her shoulder blades stiffen mutinously. Whoever was responsible for all this damage was going to have to be caught, and soon. It made her feel ashamed of her own small attack of self-pity earlier on. After all, whilst murder might have blighted her day, for others it had been nothing short of a devastating tragedy.
It made her even more determined than ever to do what she could to help.
The policewoman shot Causon a quick, worried look as they passed, and Jenny saw Sergeant Lane give her a silent, warning shake of his head. Again, Jenny felt the tension ratchet up a notch. But she didn’t have too much time to anticipate what disaster lay ahead, because suddenly they were in the welcome, cooling shade of the trees, and her eyes took in the scene quickly.
Someone had clearly made a path through the large, hollow stems of the cow parsley quite recently. A large area off to one side had been trampled fairly comprehensively, as if someone had loitered there for some time, maybe restlessly shifting about. But a more narrow avenue of flattened flowers and foliage had been created, leading further into the trees, as if whoever had stood there hadn’t been satisfied with standing in the one spot and had moved deeper into the nest of wild flowers at some point. The cow parsley itself, Jenny gauged with a quick glance, had to stand at least four and half feet tall – if not more. It didn’t quite come up to her head, but given the deep shadows cast by the trees, it would have been hard for anyone casually glancing this way from the brightly-lit playing field to see anyone standing in here.
‘It looks as if only one or two people went through here,’ Causon said, looking at the pathway created through the stand of weeds. ‘Damn it, we need this photographed before we move in.’
‘Sir, SOCO are still with the first victim,’ Lane offered. ‘Shall I divide their attention?’
‘Well, get the photographer up here at any rate. We need to document the crime scene before we go any further in. Is the medical examiner here yet?’
‘Not yet, sir. They’re all busy with the motorway pile up, but …’
Causon swore and cut him off. ‘Just get the photographer up here, Lane,’ he said flatly, then reached for his own phone.
When Jenny realized that he was calling his superiors, and was in no uncertain terms outlying the seriousness of the situation and the utter necessity for more men, she wandered away to give him some privacy to vent his spleen. No doubt he would be making it very clear to whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of the line just what the consequences of him being so under-staffed had led to.
Taking advantage of having a few minutes on her own to think, she very carefully circumnavigated the stand of trees, and when she’d done an almost one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn, she paused and eyed the stand of white lacy flowers carefully.
Yes, this is where someone had come back out again. Although the frothy weeds tended to interlock, you could just see where someone had pushed their way through – though the path created wasn’t as clear as it was on the other side. Which meant perhaps only one person had used it. Two had gone in, on the other side, but only one had come out this side.
The killer.
Although it was a bakingly hot and dry day, Jenny nevertheless felt as if the atmosphere around her had darkened. It was all psychological hogwash, of course, and she shook off the creepy-crawling feeling with a grim little toss of her head.
She glanced around, forcing herself to look at things with a no-nonsense attitude, and found herself nodding. Yes. This made sense – the stand of trees hid you from the vast majority of the playing field below, and behind her was the tall perimeter hawthorn hedge and chain-link fence. Which meant that nobody was likely to be able to sneak up on you unawares – a circumstance, she imagined, much to be desired by anyone bent on homicide.
A mown, narrow pathway led to the dog-legged iron bars that allowed egress to the village lane behind it, but not even that was overlooked by the nearest houses.
Yes, someone could leave just here and expect – or hope – to be unobserved. And the chances had to be fair that you’d get away with it.
Thoughtfully, she continued her circuit, careful where she put her feet, since the last thing she wanted to do was interfere or compromise any evidence – but the ground had been baked so hard in the recent heatwave that there were no footprints visible, even in the grassy turf. And there was certainly no soft mud to take a shoe print impression. And as far as she could see, the killer hadn’t been obliging enough to drop any monogrammed handkerchiefs or pieces of jewellery about, let alone any DNA-laden cigarette butts.
When she finally got back to Causon, she saw that the photographer had arrived and was busy snapping away, and that the DI was just thrusting his mobile phone back into his pocket. To Lane, he grunted grimly, ‘Well, we’re finally going to get a full team dispatched. Better sodding late than never, I suppose,’ he added in disgust.
Jenny moved up beside them as the photographer, snapping as he went, lead the way through the cow parsley, and to the grim prize in the centre of the weed patch. Over the backs of the three men, she saw the legs and feet of the victim first. Plain white trousers, slightly coloured green from grass stains, and a pair of white trainers. One of the cricket players then, she mused.
Then Causon moved slightly, and Jenny gulped as she found herself looking at an unexpectedly vibrant sea of sodden red. She blinked a couple of times, and her vision became clearer – and she saw a man’s chest, soaked in blood. And sticking obscenely up out of the middle of it, the end of a smooth, rounded, pale-coloured piece of wood.
For some reason the object looked both alien and familiar, both at the same time. It gave her a slightly Twilight Zone feeling, and she frowned, not sure at first if her mind, rather than her eyes, was playing a trick on her. Then the eerie moment thankfully passed, and she realized at last just what it was that she was looking at. And understood that she had in fact, seen similar pieces of wood all that morning. On the cricket pitch.
For the murder victim had been stabbed through the heart with a cricket stump.
Jenny glanced away, swallowing hard as her gorge rose. But even as she fought back the nausea, her quick mind was already buzzing.
That wasn’t really possible, was it? That was the first thought that her brain threw up at her. A cricket stump was just a blunt piece of wood that had a vague point at one end that you stuck into the ground. Surely you couldn’t pierce a human body with an implement like that?
Unless, of course, it had been deliberately sharpened, to turn it into a stake.
Jenny put a hand over her mouth and shuddered as every corny vampire film she’d ever seen raced through her mind. What kind of sick individual were they dealing with here?
But then, as if to distract her from the horror of what she was seeing, her quick brain summoned up yet another image. A less lurid and far more relevant and interesting memory – something else that she’d seen that morning, something that now might have a vital significance.
She turned, already opening her mouth to tell the inspector what it was, but now the photographer was bending down, taking snap shots, and for the first time, Jenny saw the man’s face.
The sightless eyes, staring up at the tree canopy above him. The white hair. His slack-jawed expression of surprise. A face she’d seen not ten minutes ago – very much alive and looking both haunted and aggrieved.
James Cluley.
Jenny felt tears blur her vision and she turned quickly away. She didn’t want to see anymore.
That poor old man.
Now she understood why Sergeant Lane had been acting so oddly. The killer must have struck only minutes ago. And right under the noses of the pol
ice, and everyone else in the playing field too. And that, perhaps more than anything else, would be bound to sit very heavily indeed on the inspector’s shoulders. Even though she hadn’t known the man that long, she was sure that Causon couldn’t help but feel both guilty and responsible for failing to protect the groundsman, even though he couldn’t possibly have been expected to predict such a turn of events.
Who would have thought that the killer would strike again – and so soon? She certainly hadn’t.
But that being the case … what if the killer wasn’t finished yet? If they were dealing with someone who was truly mad, or had gone berserk, who might be next? She felt incipient panic take a cold hard grip on the back of her neck, and it took some effort to force herself to stay calm.
Even under-manned, there were now half a dozen police officers here. So even if they were dealing with a homicidal maniac, if he or she attacked again, they would be quickly discovered now and overpowered. Wouldn’t they?
Jenny found herself glancing wildly about, trying to spot someone acting oddly.
Of course, no one was, and she rubbed her forearms briskly, in an attempt to smooth down the goose bumps that had raised on her flesh.
Besides, in her heart, she knew that they weren’t dealing with some random, ravening serial killer, or out-of-control lunatic.
Whoever had killed James Cluley had taken a mighty risk, yes, but they had also been very clever about it. Cold, calculating and ruthlessly clever. And whoever had done it, had got away with it, and would now be trying to blend in and go unnoticed. And drawing attention to themselves would be the last thing on their mind.
She tried to concentrate on something else, and became aware that Causon and Sergeant Lane were now conversing quietly just behind her. It was clear that, just as she’d expected, both men felt bad – and guiltily aware that they had failed to protect James Cluley. Even if she were to try and tell them that they couldn’t possibly have been expected to predict such a tragedy, it would do no good.
‘Well, one thing’s for certain, sir,’ Lane was saying. ‘Whoever killed him must have got blood all over them. There’s no way that they could have avoided the arterial blood splatter from a blow such as that.’
‘I agree. And by the looks of the angle, they must have been standing right in front of him when they plunged the stump in,’ Causon agreed.
So, Jenny found herself thinking automatically, it probably wouldn’t have been one of the cricketers then. Dressed all in white, they’d have had no chance of not being spotted the instant the deed was done. But if the killer was dressed in red or just plain dark clothes, would anyone notice bloodstains? In this heat, clothes would dry quickly anyway, and …
‘Must have taken a bit of strength, sir,’ Lane pointed out. ‘To ram a piece of wood into someone … I reckon we must be looking for a man.’
‘Right. We need to start checking everyone on the field for bloodstains,’ Causon said, and then cursed again. ‘Damn it, those reinforcements had better get here soon. And I want the cricketers’ kit bags checked, too. Whoever killed Cluley could have brought their bag with them to the scene, and changed their clothes right here. He or she wouldn’t dare walk away dripping with blood and gore.’
That stark statement made even Graham Lane wince, and Jenny Starling felt a sudden need to be sick in a conveniently placed stand of stinging nettles. However, a few deep breaths and calling on her mettle saved her – just – from such ignominy.
‘Sir. We need to search the entire grounds as well – they could have stuffed the bloodied clothes anywhere in these hedges, rather than risk being caught with them in their possession,’ Lane pointed out.
‘If they haven’t already left the field altogether,’ Causon growled.
‘No, they can’t have done that,’ Jenny heard herself say, and saw the two policemen both pivot in surprise at the sound of her voice. Finding herself the abrupt focus of their complete attention, she shifted nervously. ‘Don’t you remember?’ she prompted the inspector. ‘The last time we saw James, he was leaving the pavilion and you told him not to go anywhere. At the same time, one of your men told you some volunteers had arrived, and he’d set them guarding all the exits. So James must have been killed right after that, which means that whoever killed him wouldn’t have been able to leave. Not without being turned back by one of your men.’
Causon nodded, looking impressed. It wasn’t many people who could keep their head and think straight at times like this. Let alone civilians.
‘You’re quite right, Miss Starling,’ he acknowledged, with reluctant respect.
‘And there’s something else, while I think about it,’ Jenny added. ‘That cricket stump. It had to have been sharpened, hadn’t it? I mean, it’s one thing to be able to pound a fairly blunt stump into turf with a mallet or something, but not so easy to stab someone in the chest like that.’ She didn’t look at the body on the ground, but waved towards it.
‘Probably,’ Causon said. ‘Why? Did you see someone interfering with the sporting equipment earlier on?’ he asked sharply. ‘The killer would have needed a penknife, or … Have any of your kitchen knives gone missing?’ he suddenly demanded.
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, that’s not what I’m getting at. And I’d know straight away if one of my knives had gone missing. But what if the killer didn’t need to do any whittling of the stump? Or at least, not that much?’
Causon walked quickly towards her, and Lane followed just as fast. ‘What do you mean? What do you know?’ There was suspicion in his voice now, and a sharp, cold light in his eye.
Jenny wasted no time in telling him about needing to find a bigger chair for herself and going into the store room to find one, and exactly what she’d seen in the old equipment room.
‘And amongst the old bats and balls and stuff, there was an old penknife,’ she finished, ‘but there was also an old cricket stump that had been split, almost halfway down to the middle, leaving a really jagged, thin, splintered end,’ she concluded. ‘Just the sort of thing that would easily pierce … well …’ She wasn’t quite able to complete the gruesome sentence. Not that she needed to.
‘Yes, I see,’ Causon said grimly. ‘We’d better check out this storeroom then and see if it’s still there. Lane, you stay here and oversee this latest crime scene. Get SOCO over here as soon as they’ve finished processing Tristan Jones.’
‘Sir.’
Causon detoured slightly on the way back to the pavilion to talk to the old man who’d first found the body, but he wasn’t able to add much. He was still clearly shaken by his ordeal, but he, like Jenny, was made of stern stuff, and managed to give his evidence clearly and without any hesitation.
As Jenny had already guessed, he’d been forced to seek the trees in order to discreetly answer a call of nature, since the only toilets were in the pavilion, and someone had been in the men’s room for ages. Unable to wait any longer, he’d been forced to go ‘au natural’. He’d just relieved himself against the tree, when he’d seen something white and red in the weeds and had found James. He’d stumbled out and attracted the attention of the first police officer he’d seen – the WPC who was now watching over him.
In answer to Causon’s quiet but pertinent questions, he’d confirmed that he hadn’t seen anyone leaving the stand of trees as he’d approached, and that no, he hadn’t seen James Cluley go in there, either. Although if he had, he’d have assumed the groundsman had been going in there for the same reason as himself. Men of their age tended to be at the mercy of their bladders, he’d confessed, blushing slightly, in the presence of the two women. And no, he hadn’t noticed anyone else under the trees at any point during the afternoon.
Causon thanked him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder for a moment or two, and then strode off toward the pavilion, with Jenny in tow. Like the old man they’d just talked to, she too was feeling a bit wobbly about the knees, and could have done with a good sit down and a hot cup of strong, sweet tea, but Causo
n was a man on a mission.
Obligingly, Jenny took him straight through the changing room, ignoring the curious looks of the people milling around outside, and led him straight to the storage room.
As they’d both tacitly expected, the broken cricket stump was nowhere in evidence. Neither was the old penknife.
‘So, at some point, the killer must have been in here,’ Causon said more to himself than to Jenny, and stood looking around the dirty, dim room thoughtfully. ‘I’ll tell SOCO I want this place processed next as a top priority.’
Jenny nodded uneasily. ‘They’ll want my fingerprints then. For elimination purposes,’ she added unhappily.
She was very much aware that if the killer had been careful, then the only traces they might find in here would lead only to herself. And she didn’t fancy being hauled off to the nearest station house for the old third degree.
Causon grinned at her knowingly. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Starling. I don’t suspect you of killing James Cluley,’ he said comfortingly.
‘You don’t?’ she said, relieved. Then frowned suspiciously. ‘Why not? I’ve just admitted to knowing all about the murder weapon.’
‘Yes, but your alibi is twenty-four carat gold,’ the policeman laughed.
It took her a moment to see why, but when she did, she almost laughed too. Of course. After James Cluley had left the pavilion, Jenny had stayed inside with Causon until the old man’s body was found.
Her alibi was none other than the inspector himself!
Seeing her shoulders slump in relief, Causon just couldn’t help himself. ‘Of course, I’ve no solid reason to rule you out of killing Tristan Jones just yet,’ he informed her amiably. ‘For all I know, you might have known him before and been another in his long line of women friends. You might have only taken on this catering job so that you could keep an eye on him, and then became insanely jealous when you realized you weren’t the only woman in his life. After all, I only have your word for it so far that you didn’t know him from Adam.’