Silent Crimes

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  He arrived just as Judy was returning to the ward office after dealing with an emergency.

  ‘What now?’ she said wearily

  ‘When he spoke to my boss on Saturday, Mr Brotherton denied ever having been in the Wareham area and gave the impression he hadn’t visited Dorset recently either. She wanted me to check if you knew anything about that. We’re particularly interested in two weekends ago.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘I take it you have some doubts,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I wouldn’t have known any different, except that he brought back some Dorset cheeses. I’m a cheese lover, you see.’

  ‘And that was what caused you to wonder if he was telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes. I had no other reason to disbelieve him. My first thought was that he could have bought them in any deli. Blue Vinny is available in a lot of places nowadays, but the paper bag it came in was from a deli in Wareham. A bit of a giveaway, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m grateful for your honesty.’

  Judy shrugged. ‘There’s no future in our relationship. He lied to me. He’s always been too secretive, and it was obvious on Saturday that he’s kept major parts of his past hidden from me. I’m just finding it all a bit much. I still don’t think he’s capable of violence though. I’m sure he wouldn’t kill or even assault anyone. He’s harmless, I’m sure of it. A bit of a lost soul really.’

  ‘You were right to tell me. We’d have found out in the end and it would have cast suspicion on you. Where is he now?’ Barry asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He was out when I got up this morning. He’s been sleeping in the spare room since Saturday, so I don’t know what time he left.’

  Barry didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Would you trust me with the keys to your house? I should go there right away.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’m on my lunch break now and it’s only a couple of minutes in the car. I didn’t look to see whether his stuff was still there before I left. If he’s taken all his belongings, it puts a different complexion on things, doesn’t it?’

  Their worries were unfounded. Tim’s clothes and possessions were still in her house. His clothes were in their usual places and his books still sat on the shelves.

  ‘It looks as though he intends to come back,’ Barry said.

  ‘Yes, but when?’

  ‘I’ll have to find out. We need to know where he is.’

  Barry called Tim’s mobile number. It was finally answered with a grunt.

  ‘Mr Brotherton? This is DI Marsh. Where are you?’

  He listened. ‘That’s all very well, but I thought my colleagues made it clear a couple of days ago that we need to know your whereabouts. You can’t just wander off without telling us. You need to return to Ms Price’s house this evening or let us know if you’re staying somewhere else. We’re in the middle of a complex murder investigation here and can’t have key witnesses wandering off. Judy had no idea where you were. Why didn’t you leave her a note? Or get a message to us?’

  Barry put his phone back in his pocket and turned to Judy. ‘He says he’s with a client. I’ll need to go and check that he’s where he says he is and make clear to him that he either stays put or I stick him in custody.’

  ‘So he is a suspect, then?’ Judy looked grim.

  ‘Of course. Particularly in the light of what you told me. I can call in on him on my way to the hospital. By the way, does he have a lumberjack-style shirt?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘A couple. But don’t most men? Don’t you all like to imagine you’re rugged outdoor types, able to live off the land? But I don’t think he’s worn one for ages. I do the ironing and I’d have noticed. Why?’

  ‘Just a line of enquiry. What type of car does he own?’

  ‘A blue Renault. It’s falling apart, but he doesn’t have the money to replace it yet.’

  *

  Barry hated post-mortems like this, where there was no body as such, just a collection of bones. He found it impossible to visualise them as a flesh-and-blood person, someone who’d lived and breathed, laughed and loved. They seemed so devoid of any humanity, just a specimen. He remained in the background and let Polly Nelson take charge. She was the SIO, after all. The examination didn’t take long. After all, what was there to examine?

  ‘Is it a woman?’ Polly asked. ‘You can confirm that?’

  The pathologist looked up at her. ‘A youngish woman, I’d say, probably between twenty and thirty. Possibly quite slim.’ He poked around at the ribcage. ‘Several nicks on the bones here, all clustered around the upper thorax region. That kind of mark is left when someone’s been stabbed repeatedly.’

  ‘Could there be any other cause?’ Polly asked.

  ‘I can’t see how. It fits the pattern for this type of assault exactly.’

  This was disconcerting. Barry’s thoughts began to race. Hadn’t Trent Baker inflicted those same injuries on Catherine Templeton?

  Chapter 22: Under the Oak Tree

  Monday Afternoon

  Sergeant Rose Simons and her sidekick, PC George Warrander, pulled off the Arne road onto the grass verge and climbed out of their squad car.

  ‘Why are we up at this end of the county again, boss?’ George asked. ‘You’d think it’d be better to call out the local crews.’

  ‘’Cause we’re the cream, Georgie boy. Everyone knows it from the chief constable downwards. Something special needed? Call in the super-team. Oh, shit.’

  Rose was still half-sitting in the car, with her legs and feet outside. She was examining the sole of her right shoe.

  ‘Bloody dogs. Even bloodier dog owners. Why can’t they clear their mess up like they’re meant to? Is it too much to ask?’ She wiped her foot on a nearby clump of grass and looked up at her partner. ‘Don’t you even think about laughing. Not even the slightest smirk. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and keep walking.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t know where I’m going.’

  ‘Don’t be a wimp, George. Of course you do. We’re heading off on that footpath just ahead and then up the slope. They want us to look for that dog collar. Apparently, a kiddie out with the family found one last week and chucked it up into a tree. Can you believe it? What kind of kids are people breeding nowadays? Is there some kind of deviancy gene incorporating itself into human DNA to make the little buggers behave like that?’ She stood wobbling on one foot and examined her shoe. ‘Okay, I’m back in business — hold on a mo.’

  She caught up with George as he reached a stile and followed him across, breathing heavily. ‘Are these things getting higher? They are, aren’t they?’

  He decided not to answer. Any remark that cast aspersions on her fitness would be sure to set off a tantrum that could well last the rest of the day.

  ‘The report said the family were about half a mile west of the crime scene on the shoreline. That would have put it just beyond the search zone by my reckoning. What kind of little toad kicks a piece of evidence nearly half a mile and then lobs it up into a tree? Needs a clip round the ear if you ask me. At least the father phoned when he heard we were looking for a lost dog collar, so someone in the family has a sense of social responsibility. Maybe there’s hope for the kid yet.’

  ‘How are we going to spot it if it’s up a tree?’ George asked.

  ‘It’s an oak, apparently. Standing by itself. And that’s where you come in, young George. I’ll give you a leg up and you can indulge in a spot of tree climbing, just like when you were a lad. Pity you didn’t bring your shorts and your Spiderman T-shirt.’

  The long-suffering George plodded on. He had never enjoyed climbing trees. They passed the clearing where the tramp had lived, then the spot where his body was found. Up the slope to the ridge top, then down towards the shoreline where they followed the estuary water inland towards Wareham.

  George stopped and pointed. ‘That could be it, a couple of hundred yards ahead.’

  They approached the oak and
stood looking up at it.

  ‘This’ll be like a needle in a haystack,’ George said. ‘It’s huge. And look at all those leaves. It could be anywhere up there.’

  Rose shook her head, looking smug. ‘Only if it hasn’t already come down. There was a bit of a strong wind a couple of nights ago. Fingers crossed.’

  Their luck was in. After about ten minutes spent poking around in the undergrowth beneath the tree, Rose spotted something glinting in what little sunlight had managed to make its way through the foliage. There it was. A small, frayed collar, with a steel cylinder still attached.

  ‘Ooh, look at you, you beauty,’ Rose said. ‘Time to break out the champagne, George. Let’s have a toast.’

  George dutifully extracted the bottle of water and two plastic cups from his rucksack, while Rose carefully slid the dog collar into an evidence bag. They sat on an exposed tree root.

  ‘What could be better, eh?’ Rose said. ‘Sitting here in dappled shade, sipping a drink in the company of a young, luscious beauty like me. You are such a lucky guy, George. I hope you realise that.’

  George wondered, not for the first time, whether it was time to put in for a transfer.

  *

  Dave Nash, the head of Dorset’s forensic team, eyed the dog collar with distaste. It was badly frayed, grubby, and the small cylinder was hanging by a thread. A technician had already carried out a DNA swab and a fingerprint test.

  ‘How do we know it’s the right one?’ he asked, poking at it with a pen.

  ‘Oh, come on, Dave.’ Rose was scornful. ‘It was in the right place and matches the description. You can just see a bit of the original red colour through the dirt, which is how our illustrious witness described it. And I, for one, am not going to argue with her. It’d be more than my life’s worth. Just get it checked over, will you? We haven’t even opened it up to see what’s inside, and you know what a nosey bugger I am.’

  Without deigning to reply, Dave slid on latex gloves and attempted to unscrew the capsule. It refused to budge.

  ‘It’s jammed,’ he said, rather unnecessarily. ‘I don’t know whether it’s due to dirt and grime or if it’s been overtightened.’

  But with a vice and a small pair of pliers, he managed to unscrew the top. He hooked out a tiny slip of paper and examined it under a magnifying glass.

  ‘Okay. We have something. Take a look.’

  He handed the glass to Rose, who peered at the tiny scrap. If I get lost and you find me, please contact Katie Templar. Or Kirkham House, St Ann Street, Salisbury.

  Rose smiled. ‘Aha! This is what those ’tec types call a clue. I wonder if the thug who killed the tramp tried to get the top loose but couldn’t do it. That might be why he chucked it into the undergrowth. I think we’ll head off and see her ladyship. I might get a medal. George might get a choccy bikkie and a pat on the head.’

  *

  With Barry still in Somerset, Sophie decided to send Rae to Salisbury. She knew the city well, having been based there some years earlier, pre-transition, when she’d been an unhappy, over-stressed and confused male rookie detective.

  Rae arrived late in the afternoon. The city centre was thronged with schoolchildren waiting noisily at bus stops, mixed with small groups of tourists taking photos of the medieval buildings. Rae threaded her way through the crowds to St Ann Street in one of the oldest parts of the city, close to the immense body of the ancient cathedral. The house was in a narrow street of old, immaculately maintained buildings, all several hundred years old. The white walls of a Tudor-style pub on one corner gleamed in the sunlight. Kirkham House was one of the statelier residences. Rae guessed that it would have been built for a wealthy merchant several centuries ago. Who would live there now? A rich banker or financier? A senior surgeon?

  Rae went up to the deep maroon double doors and rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was slim, grey-haired and looked to be in her sixties. She wore a cream blouse and matching linen skirt, and filigree gold jewellery around her throat and wrists. Her pale olive face wore a distant and slightly haughty expression. She said nothing, merely waiting, eyebrows raised slightly.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Rae Gregson from Dorset police. I’m looking for someone who may remember a Katie Templar from many years ago. Would you be related to her?’

  Obviously annoyed at the intrusion, the woman shook her head. She took a step back, made to close the door and then stopped dead. A puzzled look appeared on her face.

  ‘Did you say Katie Templar?’ She spoke in clipped, modulated tones.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Did you know her? Did she live here by any chance?’

  The woman put out a hand to the wall as if to steady herself. ‘She didn’t live here, not as such. She was here for a short while, many years ago. She was my son’s girlfriend. They came for a visit before they went away together.’

  ‘Your son? What’s his name, please?’

  ‘Paul. Paul Prentice-Jones. But we haven’t seen him since that visit. He left with that Katie girl and we haven’t seen or heard from him since. He’d sometimes talked about going to Scotland.’ She looked down and said softly, ‘We argued and some awful things were said.’

  Rae thought fast. ‘Can I come in? I may have some news for you.’

  Chapter 23: Kirkham House

  Tuesday Morning

  Barry had managed to send the folder containing the commune’s accounts to Dorset headquarters by overnight courier so, by late morning Rae was in the CID office in Bournemouth, discussing them with DS Lydia Pillay.

  ‘I’ve got this money stuff that came from the farm. I’m not sure that it needs an expert like you to make sense of it, but the boss was insistent.’

  ‘I guess she wants to make me feel useful. Basic psychology, Rae. Actually, I’m glad. Kevin is running out of things for me to do and what he does find is all pretty low-level stuff. It’ll be a welcome change.’

  ‘How are you getting on?’ Rae asked.

  Lydia shrugged. ‘Okay. I do mornings here, then go for physio most afternoons. I’ve been told I can start running again next week, which’ll give me a big boost — or else it’ll finish me off. Let’s have a look at this stuff and see what we’ve got.’

  The two detectives spent the next hour working through the contents of the notebooks, bank statements, and other bits and pieces the folder contained. Financial pressures could have devastating consequences for personal relationships. Was that what had caused the commune to break up? Katie Templar seemed to have provided the initial cash that got the group up and running, as well as the farm itself. Was she being pressurised to cough up more money as difficulties surfaced? Or were the stresses created by the arrival of Trent Baker the cause of the group fracturing in the way it did?

  Several things became apparent. For the first year, the farm seemed to pay its own way, though only just. Rae remembered that Babs Atkins had spoken of reasonably good crop yields. Katie had inherited the farm as a going concern, complete with animals and crops already in the fields, so it was no surprise that the first year was a success. But Babs had also surmised that once the group was forced to rely on its own efforts and experience, the situation deteriorated. This showed up in the figures. Katie had transferred several lump sums of her own money into the commune account, and this had continued, at intervals, for a further eighteen months. Much of it had been spent on essential supplies and vet bills but towards the end several sums had been transferred out again to a different account. Who by? Had it been authorised? It wasn’t clear.

  ‘I need to check the mandate details with the bank, if they’ve still got a record from that long ago,’ Lydia said. ‘It would have been sensible to have three or four signatories to the accounts, requiring two people to authorise a payment. But we can’t clarify that from the chequebook stubs that we have. I’ll have a go now.’ She picked up her phone.

  Rae took the stubs across to the window and examined each one carefully. For the first two years the handwriting
looked consistent — thin and flowing. Was it like the writing on the letter by the mysterious Katie? Rae checked her copy. It certainly looked the same. But later on, the writing in the chequebook changed entirely, becoming thicker, bolder. And, finally, two cheque stubs that looked scruffy, dashed off, hard to decipher. Payments made out to almost indecipherable names that may have begun with the letter B. It was as if the names had been deliberately scrawled so as to make it well-nigh impossible to read them. Brotherton? Baker? The amounts were clear enough, though, and they were substantial. It meant that three different people had acted as treasurer during the lifetime of the commune, with Katie Templar being the first. Interesting. Did the last cheque she signed correspond to the date she disappeared? At least it provided a basis upon which to work.

  She went over to the corner of the room where the tea things were kept and made two mugs of coffee. She set them down on Lydia’s desk just as she finished her call to the bank.

  ‘It’ll take a day or two, but they think they’ll still have the mandate history on record somewhere at head office,’ Lydia said.

  ‘What’s your overall view of the finances? Can you tell from the stuff that’s here?’

  Lydia shrugged. ‘Can’t be absolutely sure, but I’d say they were struggling. They were bound to, even from the off. Too many people for a relatively unproductive farm to support. I did some work on farming fraud when I was in Bath and you get a feel for the financial viability of a farm. It’s often related to the number of people relying on it for their livelihood. Looking at the crop-yield figures and the money coming in, this type of place could only just support a single family. How many people were at Heathfield? Do we know?’

  ‘Somewhere in the twenties, we think, but we can’t be sure.’

  ‘In that case it was a disaster waiting to happen. There was no way it could support that many people without some other source of income. These sums transferred in by your suspected beneficiary . . . who was she by the way?’