The roar of the shotgun, sounding only a matter of yards from where I stood, was followed by incoherent and furious shouting. Taking advantage of the fact that the trees seemed to be thinning out, I risked all and hurried. Then I saw a light.
Patrick had Stonelake’s torch, a large flash lamp with a handle, and was keeping the beam fully on him, shining it in his face as he stood with his back against a tree. He also held the shotgun; he had broken it and had it across his arm. He must have heard my arrival for without turning round he said, ‘Unload the other cartridge, would you? My torch is in my left-hand jacket pocket.’
‘This is my property!’ Stonelake bellowed. ‘You’re trespassing, you bastard! You’ve assaulted me and I shall make you pay for it!’
I removed the cartridge from the shotgun.
‘Shut up,’ Patrick said placidly. ‘I’m impounding this weapon and taking it to the nick. You can make a case for retaining your licence when you go to collect it.’
‘You know damned well I was only going to shoot the bloody dog!’
‘There are laws about killing animals in ways likely to cause suffering.’ To me, Patrick went on, ‘Give him twenty quid from my wallet.’
‘Bribery to keep quiet?’ Stonelake sneered.
‘No, for the dog. We’ll find a home for it. Then you can tell your mother the truth, can’t you?’
The man snatched the money, and his torch, and slouched off back in the direction we had come.
‘Where is it?’ I asked, casting around with the tiny light with which we had been left, hoping to see eyes reflected in the beam.
‘It bolted. Probably the last anyone’ll see of it.’ Patrick actually sounded quite upset, not difficult to understand given recent events at home.
‘It might have run home,’ I said. ‘To the farm, I mean.’
Patrick gazed up to where a group of trees could just be discerned on the skyline, a new moon rising just above them.
‘It’s quite a long way from here, if my memory of the local topography’s correct. That stile was on the western boundary of the farm. It might be worth going back and driving round by road.’
But we did not, walking instead across three fields, the last steep and rutted with sheep walks that followed the contours of the ground. At the top of it, by a gateway that led into a lane, we made out a graveyard of old and rusting farm machinery, piles of bricks, coils of wire and rubbish and a vast pile of manure surrounded by a moat of stinking effluent that the now weak light from the torch failed to show up. We arrived in the lane filthy of foot and reeking.
‘Which way?’ I wondered aloud.
‘To the left,’ Patrick said.
‘Could it be that the Manleys and Davies blundered into some kind of criminal set-up that Stonelake’s got up here and paid the price?’
‘I’m beginning to believe that something like that is perfectly possible. Some price, though.’
Ten minutes later we walked, nay squelched, into the farm entrance. There was no sign of the dog.
‘Whistle it,’ I suggested. ‘Do we know its name?’
‘No.’
Patrick whistled, one of those thumb-and-finger ones that few women have ever mastered.
No dog.
‘It might not be used to being whistled,’ I said lamely.
The torch was almost dead and we switched it off to save what was left of the battery, walking round the side of the house and towards the tractor shed where we had come upon Carrick and Lynn. Then, a dark shape detached itself from the deeper shadow within and crept towards us, tail waving hopefully. Arriving at Patrick’s feet it cringed there, tail still brushing the ground, and he bent down to stroke it. As his hand went down its back it drew away, whimpering.
‘A couple of pellets must have hit it,’ he said. ‘I did wonder. I only managed to knock up the gun at the last second. That makes two of us, mate. The vet, then, straight away.’
‘The car’s in the village,’ I reminded him.
‘Shit. So it is.’
The dog left us and went back into the cart shed, sniffing at the bales of hay. Then, judging by the noise, it began to scratch and dig at the base of them.
‘God, don’t say it’s found another corpse,’ Patrick said.
We hefted away some of the top bales, still could not see into a space between them and a wall, and moved some more.
‘No, it’s just sacks of animal feed,’ Patrick said, having clambered up to look by the last glimmerings of the torch. ‘He must be hungry. No, hang on …’ And with a scramble he had disappeared. Moments later, ‘There’s a whole pile of horse tack under a tarpaulin here. Saddles, bridles and driving harness, which is super black patent-leather stuff. Worth hundreds, if not thousands of pounds. I reckon this is stolen property.’ His head appeared above the bales. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Stonelake is a crook after all and not just a horrible man.’
‘Yes, and I can arrest him. But only when we’ve got ourselves some transport.’
The torch finally went out.
Lynn Outhwaite arrived, doggedly, together with an area car, a different one, and with typical Lancastrian decisiveness as well as enormous loyalty to her boss, suggested politely that she dealt with Stonelake and that the dog ought to go to the RSPCA as there could well be a prosecution there too. She pointed out that the business of the twenty pounds ought not to have happened although she realized that it had occurred before we found the tack, which she thought might fit descriptions of items stolen from an equestrian centre in Chipping Sodbury several weeks previously.
Packed off to bed for the second time that night we handed over the shotgun and ammunition, accepted a lift back to the village, drove into Bath and gave the dog into the care of the duty RSPCA inspector. I tried to erase a lingering memory of sad brown eyes and drooping tail as it was lifted into a cage in the van, and failed.
Five
At eight thirty the following morning Patrick rang Tamsin Roper, who lived in the other studio flat at the mill, and asked when it would be convenient for him to ask her a few questions. He was lucky, as undoubtedly had been the case with the timing of our arrival at Stonelake’s bungalow the previous night, because she had the day off. She told him that as long as he arrived during the next half-hour – she was going out – she could see him that morning.
I did not deem it necessary to accompany Patrick, for after all I was not actually supposed to be holding the man’s hand. His departure had postponed my planning on having a chat with him about how much longer I would be needed and then, on second thoughts, I decided that this might be far easier resolved by talking privately to James. I left for Bath, borrowing Elspeth’s car, having left a message on Patrick’s mobile, which, unaccountably, was switched off.
Manvers Street police station was in a state of what appeared to be organized turmoil and I found Carrick in his office.
‘There’s good news,’ he said. ‘We found what gives every indication of being the murder weapon not half an hour ago – a large knife encrusted with blood.’
‘Oh, brilliant! Where?’
‘In amongst that heap of stolen horse tack at the farm. And as Lynn had already arrested Stonelake and charged him with handling stolen property, with a bit of luck we can prove he was an accessory to murder as well. Hopefully he’ll soon be singing his heart out.’
‘But are the two crimes connected?’
‘I’m keeping an open mind on that but they probably aren’t. Is Patrick here? He can sit in and get a few pointers when I question Stonelake shortly.’
I did not mention that Patrick had once been one of Her Majesty’s prime interrogators of what used to be referred to as traitors, telling him instead where Patrick was. In fairness, though, it might be something of which Carrick was not aware.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter, there’ll be other opportunities.’
‘James …’
In the middle of sorting files that had
been placed on his desk and tossing them into various wire trays he paused and looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘I know. I’ve been thinking about it. There’s no need for you to stay any longer. Everything seems to be running smoothly.’
I sat down and made myself comfortable. ‘You must be quite relieved that Patrick hasn’t blown his top by now. And no, James, nothing’s running smoothly.’
He frowned.
I said, ‘There’s absolutely no excuse for your continuing treatment of Patrick. I can’t go home. Not until there’s a working relationship between the pair of you that approaches what it used to be when Patrick worked for MI5 and you handled a couple of cases together that happened on your patch. But you’re virtually ignoring him.’
The DCI steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. ‘I know. But it’s not going to work and I’m not very good at handling things that I’m sure are going to fail.’
‘You mean you don’t think Patrick will make a good policeman?’
‘No, I genuinely think he will. But in London, perhaps working undercover for an outfit that isn’t quite so accountable as us ordinary plods. Here is where it’s going to fail.’
‘You think of yourself as an ordinary plod when you’re only in your mid-thirties and already Detective Chief Inspector? Hasn’t it occurred to you that there could be mutual benefits in having this somewhat high-flown rookie with a background of national security dropped in your lap? Aren’t you ambitious? Wouldn’t you like a much better job in a special undercover outfit? In one of the new serious crime units being set up? Or in counter-terrorism? It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that you can use this situation.’
I had not meant to say most of this: it was just my being offended by proxy, so to speak.
Carrick was saved from making any immediate response as there was a knock on the door and someone brought him yet another file. When they had gone he gave it a cursory glance and then hurled it in the direction of one of the trays, missing.
‘I’m going to get myself some coffee,’ he muttered, getting to his feet. And left the room. Moments later he returned to put his head round the door. ‘Sorry. Please come with me.’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ I said when we were seated in the canteen and I had bought us a couple of slices of cake to go with our coffee, having an idea he had left home without bothering about breakfast.
‘I know, I appreciate it, and I’ve just come to a decision. If you really want to help then back me up when, later today, I ask Patrick to revert to working on other cases. It’s the only solution to a difficult situation and it frees you up to go home. I have no problem with his consulting with me on anything and in that respect we will have a working relationship. How about that?’
All I saw, gazing at him, was utter wretchedness. This man was deeply, deeply depressed. For some reason he simply could not apply himself to the situation.
‘James,’ I ventured gently, ‘everything is all right between you and Joanna, isn’t it?’
He looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course. She’s been really fantastic. No one could have wished for better support. Why do you ask?’
‘Just worried about you a little,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I’ll do whatever you think best.’
Under the circumstances there was nothing else I could say.
I returned to Hinton Littlemoor as I could hardly keep Elspeth’s car for much longer. She did not like driving John’s, an old Volvo estate very useful for collecting jumble-sale goods, as it was now difficult to get into reverse gear. There was no one in and I did not have to be a great detective to know that the couple had gone to the charity coffee morning advertised on posters throughout the village.
Telling myself that I might as well pack my belongings, I went upstairs. It was important to remain positive for, despite what Carrick had said, nothing had actually failed, not yet. Patrick and James were working under the same roof, it would not be for all that long, about two and a half months, and unless something unforeseen happened Patrick was well on the road to a new career.
Everything was so hunky-dory I just wanted to burst into tears.
My mobile rang and it was Patrick, his voice coming and going as the reception is very poor in the village, to tell me that he had just arrived at the nick. Tamsin Roper had not had anything really interesting to say, having not personally known the murder victims, and had not seen or heard anything strange over the previous Thursday night or early Friday morning. She had suggested that Patrick speak to her boyfriend Owen Hurst. He had suffered from toothache and been unable to sleep, spending his nights in the living room, which overlooked the parking area, to avoid disturbing her.
‘I think we shall have to accept that it’s probable the killer, or killers, did not actually visit the murder victims at their own homes – in other words didn’t go in and grab them – and they went out voluntarily to meet their fate. It must have been someone they knew and, or, trusted.’
‘Is Stonelake talking? I know James was going to question him.’
‘No idea. I’ll find out.’
‘Patrick—’
But he had faded away completely and could not be reached. I had been about to break it to him that James was taking him off the case.
By the end of the afternoon I had worked myself up into a real state of nerves, picturing a showdown at that unlovely concrete construction a stone’s throw from Bath railway station; Patrick really losing his temper, James having him ejected from the building, and worse. Sometimes a writer’s imagination can be complete hell. My tension headache had reached a peak by the time Patrick was expected home and when I heard tyres crunching on the gravel drive it took all my willpower not to go rushing outside.
John, who was improving daily and had had a good report from his consultant, caught my eye and rattled a couple of whisky glasses together with pretend nervousness, making me laugh. He had sensed my mood although I had said nothing about an expected crisis.
I forced myself to sit down. Out of our view Patrick let himself in through the front door and there was the usual light clatter as keys, phone and jacket were spread around the hall. I performed a swift appraisal when he entered the room and could detect no immediate desire to strangle perfect strangers with bare hands.
‘A winter warmer?’ his father suggested.
‘Seems madness not to,’ was the reply. Mostly to me, Patrick added, ‘Carrick’s taken me off the murder case.’
‘He said as much this morning and I tried to warn you earlier but we were cut off,’ I told him.
‘So I’m in charge of investigating horse-tack theft – which is apparently big business and until just an hour ago was the responsibility of Sergeant Outhwaite.’
‘That’s good,’ John commented diplomatically, handing over a tot.
‘Trailers too. Apparently folk in rural locations are having to clamp them or they disappear overnight.’ Patrick flopped into a chair. ‘Here’s to crime.’
‘It would appear that I’m superfluous,’ I said, feeling weak with relief that there had not been a bust-up.
I was given a big grin. ‘You’re never superfluous but I know you want to go home, see the children and get on with the film script.’
Later, when we were on our own, I said, ‘Has anything really been solved by this move?’
‘No. Despite what I said just now I’ve no intention of completely dropping the murder inquiry and want to find out more about the victims. I hate going behind James’s back but I don’t think the man’s at all well. He’s had a nasty bit of news in the past few days too; been told by the docs he shouldn’t play rugger again, or not for a pretty long time. By then, of course, he’ll be too old. He’d started training again in a quiet way too.’
‘How awful for him. Did James tell you so himself?’
‘No. Sergeant Woods beckoned me aside just before I came home this evening. Carrick had mentioned it to him but not gone into any more
details. Life’s cruel sometimes. Anyway, I’m going to delve into the rural-crime side of things as well, as Stonelake’s no doubt into all kinds of scams. So first of all I intend to interview the bloke who used to work for him, Shaun Brown. He may be involved with Stonelake – or know a few people who are.’
‘I might stick around for a couple more days,’ I said in off-hand fashion.
‘Good.’ One eyebrow quirked, Patrick then whispered, ‘Fancy an early night?’
‘Expecting a famine in that direction soon, then?’ I teased, having detected a certain gleam in his eye.
‘Emails do have their limitations.’
Our lovemaking that night brought to my mind that first time under a hot summer sun on Dartmoor. He had been eighteen, I fifteen and until that moment we had been as children, quite innocent of one other, holding hands as we walked home with the dogs, Patrick with the bag that had contained our picnic lunch. His main attraction to me was his ability to make me laugh, that is until that afternoon when we had laughed until we cried, hugging one another and I had felt the warm wiriness of his body flowing beneath my fingers through the thin material of his shirt. Children then one moment and as close as it is possible for two people to get the next.
Perhaps it was to be expected that when we finally rolled away from one another, replete, we slept deeply and dreamlessly, the window closed against a cold northerly gale roaring through the treetops, hearing nothing of the destruction that was going on not very far away outside.
The shock of seeing what had taken place during the night could very well have killed John Gillard. As was his habit he arose early, made himself and Elspeth a pot of tea and then, while it brewed, slipped on a jacket and went outside, the gale having eased, for a short stroll down the drive, which had a newly refurbished border on either side.
I felt Patrick jerk awake at his father’s shout and then there were hurrying feet on the landing and, moments later, Elspeth urgently called Patrick’s name. We both shot out of bed, threw on dressing gowns and went downstairs.
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