“I know what you’re thinking,” Wild motioned towards the family as he drove past and parked. “Townies, right?”
Sergeant Galloway laughed like a dray horse. “I’m saying nothing without a solicitor present!”
Although they gave the parents a few minutes to get themselves organised and registered, the happy family were still at the front desk as they entered an ornate archway. Wild looked over at the receptionist, who stared back in quiet desperation, and raised his hand to confirm that they were in no hurry. After two rounds of ‘Don’t touch that’ with suitcases getting knocked over, Mummy and Daddy handed over a credit card and then led the goblins upstairs. A middle-aged man in tweed followed them, lugging a case in each hand.
The receptionist glanced at Wild and the uniformed sergeant by his shoulder. “Just the single room is it?” She smiled impishly and Wild found himself smiling back, imagining the sergeant’s discomfort.
Wild leaned a little over the desk. “Actually, no,” he whispered. “We’re here to investigate a crime in hospitality.”
The receptionist laughed, the kind of unbridled laughter that only the young can lay claim to. The sergeant came forward and stood beside Wild, his face fierce and formal. The receptionist pressed her hands over the wide expanse of oaken desk. “Sorry. How can I help you gentlemen?”
Wild opened his notebook for effect, always more impressive than reading off the name by memory. “We are looking for an American visitor, who we believe is staying here. It’s a Mr Aaron Kravers. Would you like me to spell that for you?”
“No need.” She opened a leather-bound book and ran her finger down the two open pages. “Yes, we have Mr Kravers staying here, but he’s been out all day.” She looked first to the sergeant and then to Wild. “He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he? Mr Paxton wouldn’t like that.”
“And he would be . . . ?”
She stood straighter and tugged a little at her jacket. “Mr Paxton is the proprietor of this establishment. He’s just taking some cases upstairs. He’ll be down presently.”
Wild nodded and pointed over his shoulder, causing Sergeant Galloway to lean out at an alarming angle. “We’ll wait over there.” They crossed ornate floor tiles to wait beside the double doors. As Wild looked out at the car park and across the gardens, he saw birds darting back and forth, their black shapes reminding him of arrowheads.
Sergeant Galloway watched with him. “The larger ones will be swifts. The smaller ones — see the tails? Those are swallows.”
Wild smiled on the inside. So much knowledge. They’d make a country boy of him yet . . . over his dead body. He swung round at the sound of footsteps on the tiles. Mr Paxton brushed dust off his trousers. Wild thought he had the benevolent look of a schoolteacher, if he’d been lucky enough to have teachers like that.
“Sandra tells me you are looking for Aaron Kravers.” He walked up to them and gave the car park a cursory glance. “He must have taken his hire car out for a spin. Mr Kravers has been very interested in local history. He has borrowed all sorts of books from my library. I gather one of his antecedents might have been stationed here during the war, as so many of the GIs were.”
Wild’s curiosity was piqued. “Any thoughts on where he might be?”
Mr Paxton searched the middle distance for inspiration. “Let me see now, I believe he was interested in parish records and he did say he’d be visiting the museum in town. You’re welcome to wait . . .” But the way he said it suggested that two police officers by reception, one of them in uniform, was not the image that Paxton’s Country Hotel wanted to promote to its clientele.
Wild dispensed with subtlety. “That’s okay, we can always come back another time and maybe bring a marked car to park at the front entrance.”
Mr Paxton might have given the impression of a country squire who had fallen on hard times, but he was sharp as a fox. He directed his comments to Sergeant Galloway and kept his voice low. “I don’t suppose there’d be any harm in letting you see his room, as long as nothing’s disturbed.”
Sergeant Galloway patted Wild on the back as he walked past to join the hotel proprietor, Wild trailing in their wake. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr Paxton.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Mr Paxton retrieved a set of keys from his tweed waistcoat. “It’s bedroom number fifteen.”
Wild followed along the corridor, noting — with some incredulity — that there was no room numbered thirteen.
Mr Paxton turned abruptly and caught his look of surprise. “Ah yes, that was like it before my time, so why change it? Of course it’s a quirky talking point for our advertising — some customers can be dreadfully superstitious!”
Wild wondered if they had a ducking stool for the pond as well.
Room fifteen smelt of lavender and furniture polish, despite the bowl of potpourri on the chest of drawers. Some of the room furniture looked antique, or was made to appear so.
Wild took the lead. “Mr Paxton, would you mind waiting outside?” It wasn’t up for discussion.
The proprietor swallowed. “Oh right, of course. I’ll, er, be in the corridor if you need me. I trust you won’t be too long and that you’ll put everything back as it was.”
Sergeant Galloway reassured him as he ushered him out. “Discretion is our watchword.” He closed the door. “Right, Craig, what are we looking for?”
Wild made a start on the drawers, running his hand under the clothes to see what presented itself. “Try the wardrobe.” Next, he scoured the three drawers and moved on to the bedside cabinet. In the top drawer he found a small Bible and beneath it some folded A4 pages bearing the hotel’s letterhead. Handwritten notes detailed names, phone numbers and questions without answers. Wild laid the pages on the bedspread, photographing them on his phone without bothering to read the details.
Sergeant Galloway closed the wardrobe door. “Done.”
Wild looked over his shoulder. “Did you check his shoes?”
Sergeant Galloway sighed and went back to the wardrobe without success. A quick tour of the bathroom — a receptacle for contact lenses, some cleansing solution, a toothbrush and a razor — and they were out of there.
Mr Paxton was waiting at the end of the corridor, a soul of discretion himself, relatively speaking. “We, er, don’t have to make this official, do we?”
Sergeant Galloway knew his way around a difficult conversation. “Not at all, sir. Thank you for your time. A pity you weren’t able to help us.” He winked overdramatically. “We’ll be on our way now.”
Wild did his thinking on the stairs. “One more thing, Mr Paxton. How long has Aaron Kravers been staying at the hotel?”
“About a week. Actually, I think there have been a few calls for him. We can check with Sandra.”
Wild raised an eyebrow at the timing. Downstairs, the receptionist checked the call log on her screen and swivelled it round so Wild could see. He photographed it on his mobile. “Saves time,” he explained.
Sergeant Galloway didn’t speak again until they passed the sign that thanked visitors and assured them of a warm country welcome. “Are we picking up this Aaron Kravers then?”
“Perhaps, if we knew where to find him. For now though,” Wild patted his phone in its cradle, “we probably have what we need.”
Chapter 21
Wild parted company with Sergeant Galloway on the stairs. He had just sat down at his desk to check and print the phone pictures when one of the team loomed in the doorway. Wild might have felt more comfortable if he’d remembered his name.
“Excuse me, DS Wild, have you spoken with Nathan Porter since you got back?”
“Hardly. I released him earlier.”
The DC squirmed. “You might want to rethink that. The mobile phone company finally gave us positional data for Nathan’s mobile over the past few days.”
“And?”
“He was here the day his father died.”
“Bollocks. Can you see if ther
e is an interview room free and then meet me downstairs with a car?”
The DC started walking.
“Hold on a second. Let me make a call first.” He dug through his notes and rang Nathan’s mobile. “You lied to me — where are you?”
Nathan’s tone was flat, dismissive. “I’m with the funeral director. Can it wait?”
Wild thought for a handful of seconds. “No, it bloody can’t. You were here the day your father was murdered. Why didn’t you mention it?” Wild heard a muttered conversation and then footsteps, followed by a door closing.
“Yes, alright, I came down to see Dad and we had words . . . about money. Years ago he promised me an heirloom and I suggested we sell it to pay back some of the money I owed to him and others. We had a massive row about it and I flew back to Scotland.”
Wild’s silence did the trick.
“I’ll give you the flight details. You can verify everything.”
Wild reached for a pen. “Oh, we will.” He wrote down the bare bones and then gave Nathan his email address for copies of the mobile boarding passes. “You should have mentioned all this before.” He looked over at the DC standing close by, staring into space. “If I find any inconsistencies . . .”
Nathan didn’t rise to the bait. “You won’t.”
Wild shook his head at the DC. He was on the verge of ending the call when inspiration struck. “What exactly is this heirloom?”
Nathan cleared his throat. “It’s an antique weapon.” He swallowed. “A shotgun.”
Wild blew out a long breath silently, and clicked his fingers to get the DC’s attention again. They’d need that interview room after all.
Chapter 22
Wild’s mother always said that nothing brought a family together like a wedding or a funeral, and of the two the latter usually brought out the truth. Consequently, he had high hopes of Alexander Porter’s final send-off revealing something. From his perspective, the funeral ceremony would be like a suspects’ reunion, since all three people so far interviewed — Nathan, Jeb and Pauline — were expected to attend. Nathan had explained — after his return to the police station to discuss a missing antique — that Jeb Walsh had agreed to accompany him on the big day. Hardly the actions of a murderer, Wild reflected, unless Jeb was a very clever one.
DI Marsh had approved a low-key police presence at the event, partly to smooth any ruffled feathers in the community. Although Wild hadn’t planned on occupying a pew, he’d dressed up for the occasion with a black suit and tie, and he cleaned the car again the night before. He’d be the sole representative of the constabulary because Marsh made it clear that other officers were needed elsewhere.
Wild arrived early, having already forewarned Nathan he’d be outside. He loitered near the chapel gates, like a spare undertaker in search of business, and watched as Gordon Elleth and Edwin Causly — another tenant farmer Wild recognised from the whiteboard — entered to pay their respects. He recognised some faces from the George too, along with Pauline Henderson. Jeb and Nathan arrived together in Jeb’s car, behind the hearse. Wild figured money was still tight and he couldn’t see Jeb advancing any more, even in those sad circumstances.
Having kept a respectful distance at the arrivals, Wild held back a few paces from the coffin and followed it up to the threshold, remaining outside as the chapel door closed. He stood on the step with his back to the door, taking in the yew trees and ancient gravestones. It was certainly a fresh take on community policing. Church music filtered through cracks in the door, something suitably mournful that Wild recognised but couldn’t name. The dirge faded and a minister, who Wild realised had already been inside, went through his paces. Wild moved closer to the doors, deciding — out of good taste — not to ease one door open. The minister welcomed the congregation, as he called them, and waxed lyrical on the mysteries of life and death. Wild would’ve called it a recruitment drive, but if Ben Galloway was anything to go by the church already had that pitch sown up.
* * *
Gordon Elleth spoke next. Wild recognised the voice. The eulogy stuck to the Bible, courtesy of Ecclesiastes 3:2 — a time to be born, a time to die. Then again, it was hardly going to be a comedy turn.
After a speech from the late Mr Porter’s other tenant farmer, Edwin Causly, and a couple of hymns, the minister cued the congregation up for the procession to the graveside and committal.
Fearing he’d outstayed his welcome, Wild eased his shoulder from the door and trod a path around the chapel to a side gate. So much for his plan. It had always been a long shot, expecting Aaron Kravers to put in an appearance. He paused where he could just about see the funeral procession as they gathered like crows around the abyss, and rang DI Marsh.
“I don’t think there is anything more to gain here.”
“Fair enough.” Marsh’s tone conveyed the opposite message. “I can think of better ways to spend taxpayers’ money.”
He took it on the chin and glanced at his watch. Even coppers in the doghouse were entitled to a tea break, and he knew the perfect place.
The Labyrinth’s courtyard was emptier than on his previous visit, especially without Jeb’s strolling minstrel act, seeing as he was at the funeral. Wild found no queue inside, only a clear path to the counter and a friendly face. For five seconds, anyway.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
He caught the glint in her eye. “What, in a vegetarian café?”
“How come you never called me?”
He felt his cheeks burning. “Sorry?”
“I left you my number on the napkin — opposite the smiley face?”
He fronted it out, rather than admit he’d accidentally squished cake over the napkin and obscured her number. “I’ve been busy — with work.” He smiled sheepishly, but only because he realised the hole he’d just dug. The next question would inevitably be about where he worked, and that would leave a choice of lies or the shutters coming down. He was still wondering how to play it when she saved him the bother.
“I suppose that comes with crime-fighting.” She did him the courtesy of watching him flounder. “Word gets around, er . . . ?”
“Craig,” he replied. “Or Wild.”
She rubbed at one of her earrings and then raised an eyebrow. “And are you?”
“Not by nature.” Not any more, anyway. He placed an order for tea and cake, and waited to collect it.
“I’m Caitlin, although you’ll remember that from when I gave you my number. Actually, I’m due a break soon. I’ll come and join you.” She passed him his tea and cake.
This was novel. “I’ll be upstairs.” He still wasn’t sure whether she was taking the piss, but he entertained the possibility that she wasn’t. He’d just sat down when he heard footsteps by the open doorway.
“Room for a small one?”
He tried to do the smiling thing, only it wasn’t his strong suit. Truth be told, after Steph had parachuted out of their matrimonial nosedive he hadn’t given any thought to other women. A shame he hadn’t been as focused during the marriage.
Wild had chosen the same table as on his previous visit. As soon as Caitlin sat down, he leaned back casually towards the window. “Much quieter here today.” He gazed down at the courtyard. “No sign of that musician either.” He felt that what he lacked in social skills he made up in guile.
She nodded slowly. “The guitarist? Yeah, very popular is Jeb, especially with the ladies.” She sipped her tea, implying it was the only answer on the table.
“What’s his story, then?”
She smiled and her eyes crinkled in a way he found very appealing. “Coppers are never off duty, are they? Even an incomer from London!”
“Only after hours.”
“Well then, Craig,” she said his name as if it were a dare, “maybe we’ll put that to the test sometime.”
“So, what about el musico?” He thumbed behind him at the window.
“Jeb Walsh? He is mostly harmless. Unless you’re ovul
ating.”
Wild paused the fork’s journey from cake to mouth.
“He’s a bit of a Peter Pan, is Jeb. There are a few lasses locally who have enjoyed his company, and at least two that I know of are paying the price. I doubt his grandparents are aware that they have great-grandchildren in the county. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not so different from any man, given half a chance.” She gave him a beady-eyed stare from the rim of her teacup. “So why the interest in Jeb?”
He went with a half-truth, trusting that Old Man Elleth would forgive him for bearing false witness. “There was a report of two men fighting. From the description, one of them sounds like Jeb.”
“Yeah, that top hat is a definite giveaway. From what I heard, the other party gave as good as he got. Now, are we going to spend my break discussing community policing or are we going to fix a date for that drink?”
He fumbled a piece of cake and it bounced off the table to freedom.
“Cat got your tongue, Craig?”
“No, it’s, er . . .” he flustered. His finger itched where his wedding ring used to sit. He wondered what Olsen’s psychological insight would make of that.
“Let me guess . . . divorced? Back on the dating scene and out of your depth?” She took another sip of tea. “No, wait a minute . . .” She raised a finger like an am dram detective. “You’re still adjusting. Well, let me spell it out for you, Craig.” She sat back confidently and held up her fingers, palms towards herself. There were two silver rings on her right hand on the index and middle fingers. Apart from three narrow bracelets on her left wrist there were no other adornments. “Divorced and over it. No attachments, not looking to be rescued, and remarkably free of baggage for someone of our age.”
He forked some cake, reflecting that this was turning out to be the best tea break of all time.
“So, Caitlin, can you give me your number again? And I’ll give you mine too.” He took a scrap of paper out of his back pocket and led by example.
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