Tainted Ground

by Margaret Duffy

  Another woman shouted out, only in warning, and I had just enough power left in my legs to tackle Marjorie from behind and the pair of us thumped on to the gravel. I wrestled the rock from her hand and knelt on her, taking disgraceful pleasure in boxing her ears when she struggled to rise.

  ‘Hit him, Patrick!’ Elspeth shouted from an upstairs window, pounding the ledge with both fists. John was there too, his shotgun still at the ready.

  Patrick did not disappoint her, Brandon the Younger practically doing a backward somersault on to the lawn. Patrick then bent over, gasping with pain, holding his shoulder, which had just taken the full force of a fist. ‘No handcuffs,’ he managed to say in my direction.

  Elspeth had the answer to that: plastic tree-ties.

  James Carrick came into view down the drive in a fashion reminiscent of a Western, on foot, not rushing, not able to, a kind of inexorable but deadly patience emanating from him. His gaze came to rest on the prisoners whom we had garnered together by tying a length of washing line around them a few times and guarded by the one-man surveillance team we had come upon in the garden whom Patrick had told to provide any necessary rear-guard action.

  ‘Margo Kadović,’ he said quietly, going right up to her. ‘Fancy meeting you again.’

  I thought for a moment that the woman was going to spit right in his face but she refrained, staring straight through him instead.

  The DCI moved on. ‘William Kadović,’ he said. ‘And you …’ He paused by Teddy. ‘Out of the same pig pen, by the look of you.’

  ‘Edward Brandon,’ said Teddy. ‘I don’t know these people. I’m going to press charges for assault.’

  ‘You were just passing?’ John said derisively. ‘Didn’t try to force your way into my house?’ He had insisted on keeping an eye on the trio as well, with his shotgun, and they had not even blinked.

  ‘He’s our son!’ Margo raved. ‘This was all his idea! He’s ruined our retirement with his murderous schemes!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Carrick said. ‘The pity of it is that I didn’t interview everyone at the mill myself straight after the murders or I’d have recognized you then. Take them away,’ he added to a waiting Bromsgrove and Lynn Outhwaite. ‘Charge them with attempted breaking and entering – that’ll do for a start.’ He watched them being led away. ‘That woman, she’s one of the worst I came across when I was with the Vice Squad in London.’

  ‘You’ll want us to give statements,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I take it you were acting in a private capacity in order to protect your parents,’ Carrick said stiffly.

  ‘Only insofar as we got here, fast, when we realized they were heading in this direction. We’d been tailing them through the village as they looked for the ingots, which, strictly speaking, wasn’t up to me right now.’

  ‘Not in any manner of speaking,’ Carrick said.

  Determined to see this through but forced to take some more of the ‘bloody elixir’, only a sip this time, I said, ‘It was something anyone might have done if they’d spotted the suspicious way they were behaving.’

  ‘Did anyone find any ingots?’

  ‘No,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Your whole rationale rests upon the existence of a substantial haul of stolen property.’

  Patrick then pointed out to him that it was his, Carrick’s, case as well. Things might have become heated but both broke off early hostilities when they saw me going down the drive and hastened after me.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Patrick asked, sounding concerned. I could read his mind: the woman’s reached breaking point and flipped like a pancake.

  ‘Ingrid,’ James said, arriving to hook an arm through mine, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so off-hand. It’s late and everyone’s tired. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘Are you still on those wretched tablets?’ I enquired truculently.

  ‘Yes, just for one more day.’

  ‘Then we won’t talk about it in the morning, we’ll talk about it another time, when you’re back to normal. Meanwhile, I’ll find the gold.’

  For some reason he did not argue. Patrick then held my other arm and my resolve took the three of us forward. We reached the road.

  ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘I must do this alone – you’re a distraction.’

  I went down the road for a little way and stopped. The village was waking, lights on in one or two homes and through the open lighted window of one early bird I could hear a radio. The church clock struck five.

  It had struck the evening before last, six.

  And something else. Another memory.

  I remembered. I had seen John, returning from his walk. I had seen him enter the church, check that all was well as he usually did, the lights switched on for a minute or so, and lock up. Then when he had gone from sight around the side of the building, making for home, I had continued on my way.

  I went up the hill, past Patrick and James and entered, for the second time that night, the lychgate. My arms had been breaking so I had dumped the bag down on the low stone wall that ran down the centre, a place traditionally where coffins were rested on their final journey. I paused there now for a moment and then went on. I could hear the men walking behind me.

  On the last occasion I had seen the hiding place that I had decided upon but the mist was thicker than ever just here and from where I stood it was invisible. All I had to do though was follow a path that bore off to the left and when I reached the tiny shed where grass-cutting and other tools were kept, the key hidden under a stone by a grave, everything was clear in my mind. Elspeth had once asked me to fetch a pair of shears from here as hers were blunt.

  The key was beneath the stone, exactly as I had left it. I unlocked and opened the door, went in and moved aside some plastic bags that were used to collect dead flowers and wreaths from the graves and with which I had concealed the canvas bag. Then my legs gave way and I sat down very suddenly.

  I was removed from the shed and seated gently, if hastily, on the wet grass, immediately soaking me right through to my knickers.

  ‘How the hell did you carry this on your own?’ Patrick said when the pair of them had lugged it out between them.

  Seventeen

  Whether I liked it or not there was a meeting the following morning, at ten thirty, at the Manvers Street police station. It was held not in Carrick’s office but in an area I had never set foot in before on the top floor, in a small conference room. Having spent quite some time the previous night writing a report on what had taken place, I had not actually expected to be asked to attend. Patrick, having taken a clinical look at my dilated pupils, had poured the rest of the Essence of Flowers down the kitchen sink saying, ‘You know what’s in this, don’t you? Home-grown poppies,’ so I was having to stick to conventional medicine.

  We sat there in an otherwise empty room, waiting.

  I eyed up James Carrick when he eventually entered and concluded that even if one ignored the business of his pills the recovery of possibly several million pounds’ worth of stolen ingots had not necessarily made this a golden morning for him. With him was the burly superintendent from HQ – I still thought him a real roughneck – who had been introduced to us as a Crime Prevention Officer, something I was now beginning to doubt, and another man wearing uniform loaded with the kind of insignia that suggested he was this individual’s god.

  Who next, I thought sourly, Master of the Queen’s Musick?

  They all sat across the table to us.

  ‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Judd,’ Carrick said. ‘You’ve already met Superintendent Norman.’

  Yes, you virtually kicked us out of Carrick’s office, my mutinous thoughts went on.

  I glanced sideways at Patrick. He alarmed me a little, exhibiting a mixture of boredom and amusement. Then I realized that actually I was immensely proud of him: he was not overawed by this lot. How mean I had been to think that he was a different person now he no longer worked for MI5.

  ‘I u
nderstand you said to Detective Chief Inspector Carrick that you would have preferred to enter as plain constable,’ was Judd’s opening remark to Patrick, without bothering with any good mornings or sympathy with regard to the piteous state of his partner.

  Carrick then, had relayed everything that had gone on and been said, everything.

  ‘Yes, it would have been far preferable,’ Patrick answered quietly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m of the opinion that it’s a very clumsy way of doing things. It has a potential to cause resentment among established officers.’

  ‘It’s only a pay scale.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Rapid promotion for suitable candidates would be better, especially as by then they would probably have moved on.’

  ‘Is that the reason why, as far as you’re concerned, the experiment failed?’

  ‘No, of course not. Anyway, it hasn’t failed.’

  He wasn’t calling him ‘sir’, though.

  ‘But you’ve been suspended.’

  ‘For all I know you’ve decided to suspend everyone on the scheme who oversteps the mark to see how they react. I’ve never got results by sticking to petty rules.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s been made clear to you that working for the police isn’t the same as MI5.’

  ‘Yes, it was. I had practically free rein then.’

  Judd shook his head. ‘That’s anarchy. And very dangerous.’

  ‘I had a very dangerous boss.’

  ‘Would you work directly for me?’ Norman enquired, eyes narrowed.

  ‘No, you’re not remotely dangerous – nor sufficiently senior.’

  I nearly let out a rude whoop of joy.

  ‘To whom exactly did you answer?’ Judd said, with, did I imagine it, a hint of a smile?

  ‘I’m not going to reveal his name even though I’m pretty sure he’s retired. He’s a nobleman, a knight and I respect him tremendously. But he had the authority – reporting directly to the PM – to have me shot if I got it seriously wrong.’

  ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Norman said.

  ‘Only on paper. He sometimes had me done over to remind me who was in charge.’

  ‘And you were happy with that kind of working environment?’ Norman said sarcastically.

  ‘Perhaps I should have said tried to have me done over.’

  ‘You were very successfully beaten up behind a pub in Bristol.’

  ‘Oh, glory be,’ Patrick whispered. ‘Drugs Squad volunteers, were they? They looked filthy enough. They lied through their teeth too. We left six of them on the floor or flushed down toilets and walked away.’

  ‘We?’ Judd said blankly.

  ‘Ingrid and I. Mostly Ingrid. She’s really evil with a bog brush.’

  So no one had put that in their report, either.

  Carrick coughed. ‘I understood we were to talk about the murder cases first, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Judd agreed. ‘I’ve familiarized myself with the gist of it. Bring me up to date.’

  The DCI gestured in my direction. ‘Miss Langley has the details. I’m still officially on sick leave and Inspector Bromsgrove is carrying out more investigations at Hinton Mill.’

  As arranged with James I had been exceedingly well briefed by my colleague seated alongside me prior to climbing the stairs. Without waiting for permission I began, ‘We have three suspects under arrest, William and Margo Kadović, and Edward Brandon, her son by a previous relationship. I’ll quickly give you some background information. William Kadović is of Serbian origin, entering this country as a juvenile. His parents lived on the proceeds of crime and he soon joined the family firm, becoming involved with vice rings and protection rackets in London. Later, he met and married Marjorie Brandon, a one-time actress, also known as Margo, and together they ran a racket that involved bringing girls from Eastern Europe to the UK on the pretext that good domestic jobs were waiting for them and then forced them into prostitution. That is how DCI Carrick came to hear of them. By this time Brandon had Keith Davies, Christopher and Janet Manley working for him but the exact roles of the latter two, at the moment, are unclear. They can never have come face to face with the Brandons so whatever they did the orders must have been given over the phone. Their furtive behaviour at Hinton Littlemoor suggests Brandon had some kind of hold over them and ruled them by fear. We’re assuming Davies provided physical back-up and organized any intimidation that was required.’

  Norman butted in with, ‘Are the Brandons talking?’

  ‘Yes, as it’s difficult to explain why you were trying to kick your way into a country rectory they all admit to being involved with handling the stolen gold. That came from an underworld crony who was implicated in thefts of other antiquities and desperate to get rid of it as it was “hot” – murder had been committed in order to get hold of it. The Kadovićs say they’d been drinking, were drunk even, last night and decided to try to get it back. There’s a chance they’d already rehearsed what they were going to say if they were arrested as they’re all insisting they thought I was just a meddlesome villager, no connection with the law, out to steal what they’d paid good money for. That’s a lie, they knew perfectly well who I was.’

  Carrick looked up. ‘As of last night we have a signed statement from a man by the name of Paul Keen, who’s been in trouble on more than one occasion for poaching. He saw a woman being pushed out of a car two nights ago on the main road just before the Hinton Littlemoor turn-off. The car drove off. Before he could go to her aid she had been knocked down by a car coming from the opposite direction. Another car stopped so he reckoned he was superfluous and went home. He probably had the added incentive of a sackful of dead pheasants with him. He did get half the registration number, it was a silver Audi. We have the Kadovićs’ car, a silver Audi that has that same registration. There are very small bloodstains on the back seat, samples of which have been sent for DNA testing, together with a sample from Ingrid to see if they match. There was also an unlicensed shotgun that had been fired quite recently hidden in a secret compartment in the boot of the car.’

  ‘They’re denying the murders?’ Norman wanted to know.

  I said, ‘Individually they are. Edward is saying he’s only just back from the States and his mother and William had already carried them out. That’s a lie too as he’s been in prison over there and was recently deported, arriving in the UK before the murders took place. Apparently he has a record of extreme violence when under the influence of alcohol. I think it was his idea to raid the rectory either to look for me or to see if I’d hidden the gold there. I’m sure he was behind the murders, or at least, the vicious manner in which they were carried out. He gets it from her.’

  ‘That’s just your own opinion, though,’ Judd said.

  ‘Yes, formed after she’d punched me three times,’ I said. ‘Why else d’you think I bled on the back seat of their car?’

  Patrick fluttered his eyelashes at me. We have our codes. All right, I thought, I won’t be too corrosive and mess this up for you. Despite what you said just now I rather had the idea it was already messed.

  ‘And the motives for all these murders?’ Norman asked.

  ‘It’s another of my opinions,’ I admitted.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last night Margo shouted at Teddy, Edward, that he’d ruined their retirement. I think he has. He’s aggressive, stupid and dangerous. I have an idea that his mother and her husband had retreated to the mill, using her maiden name, with a view to waiting quietly until they could recover the gold, which as you know had been concealed in a coffin and buried in the churchyard. They recommended that their one-time employees do the same. When the gold was recovered and a fence, or even genuine private buyers, found for it they probably planned to sell up, the properties almost certainly having increased in value by then. But Teddy – and on reflection this morning I think it was him the Manleys and Davies were terrified would turn up again – came back and turned it all
into a bloodbath. He wanted in. Why should all these other people have a share?’

  ‘And I take it it’s too early to know whether wool fibres found at the scene of the barn murders are compatible with any clothing belonging to those detained,’ Norman said.

  ‘I understand that when arrested Edward Brandon was wearing a woollen sweater with a hole torn in the sleeve,’ I replied. ‘But yes, we await the results of tests on that and the fibres.’

  ‘The – er – counterfeit notes found in Keith Davies’s flat?’ Patrick floated into the room at large.

  Carrick shrugged. ‘A little souvenir of the bad old days?’

  ‘Did the bag containing the samples of tea and sand that Ingrid found in the garage turn up?’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Carrick replied. ‘She must have dropped it in the garage where the Porsche was kept. That too has gone for testing. Another point I must mention is that some pieces of decorated Chinese porcelain were found at the Kadovićs’ flat, in a box that had sand and tea in the bottom.’

  There was a short silence.

  Norman said, ‘Am I to understand that a search of the garages was carried out before Superintendent Gillard conducted one himself without a warrant?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just before I found the gold in the river. Did you miss that bit in the report?’

  He obviously had. Neither, for a moment, did he know how to react. Then, to me, he said, ‘We shall have to wait until after further questioning and enquiries to know whether your theories bear fruit.’ He would have continued but there was a knock at the door and before anyone could say anything it opened and Commander John Brinkley came in.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. The trains are all to hell this morning.’ His gaze came to rest on me. ‘Ingrid! What’s the world been doing to you?’

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ Norman put in quickly. ‘But at least it would appear we have the perpetrator.’

  Then, for several minutes, the three ‘resident’ police officers briefed Brinkley on the cases we had been working on. He had changed. It was not just that he had put on a little weight: here was a man who exuded self-confidence and fulfilment and dressed accordingly, with style and at considerable expense. Obviously, the world was good to him. He smelt like a gigolo.