Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

  One security man will take up position outside the doors, another stay close outside the windows. Another two are roaming the grounds. I know from the security report for these SPs that a team of two watchers study images from drones and strategically placed cameras to aid the twenty-four-hour security monitoring that goes on here. The thirteen acres also have dense yew trees and hedges, along with high walls or fencing on its borders, and only two roads in, making the whole estate naturally and artificially secure.

  He goes on, “My apologies for not being available days earlier. But business is business, 24-7, and keeping the financial wheels turning in our favour waits for no man, we have to keep the wheels of commerce and democracy moving – for all our sakes, hey?”

  A barbed final point to rural plods, “Trickle down and all that. Even after Brexit.”

  Jagged still I reply, “We have been accommodating to your schedule, Sir. Our investigation takes priority. Until we can rule you out of our enquiries.”

  I pause and go on more quietly, “Or not, as the case may be.”

  An almost forgotten, “Sir” ends this legalese.

  The lawyer Crowley’s clipped tones, an East Coast America burr uppermost now, as he smoothly interrupts in practised arrogance then, “Mr Hakluyt is talking to you voluntarily, Detective Chief Inspector, has apologised for the delay and will help all he can now he is here. There is no need to impute guilt when there are no grounds for such.”

  Anger peeps momentarily out of Hakluyt’s watchful eyes before I turn to Crowley as an afterthought, “And you were here on Sunday night Mr Crowley. Mr Adams?”

  They were. We need to interview them later, alone. He cannot be a lawyer when he might be a material witness, the Head of Security the same. The lawyer splutters but accepts defeat, advises the Hakluyts to postpone the interview until he can get another solicitor present from London to counsel them.

  Hakluyt’s flap of the hand is dismissive,” No, let us just get it done. No interruptions until I say so.”

  The two men, ‘little and large’ as Fenwick dubs them later, leave. No doubt to listen on whatever devices are in use. No matter, I too am recording this.

  And now we are five, a worried frown from Whittle at the sudden outbreak of hostilities. She had been the nervous one earlier when I said how I would play it.

  I am the only one facing them and watching as the lawyer and Head of Security actually depart. Crowley has his mobile phone to his ear immediately. Adams hesitates in the doorway, a moment if that for a concerned glance at the Hakluyts, at the lady more than the man I am certain. The door softly closing as her eyes crinkle in the slightest momentary smile in return.

  ***

  We face a man who is morally worthless. From only a few minutes with him, I already know that Hakluyt revels in his wealth, his position and status, his power to order his minions for the simplest of tasks such as pouring fresh coffee, his baubles. That he is likely a womaniser, perhaps even within his own household. That his wife resents him, possibly hates him, tolerates him? That a woman dying at the end of his road means nothing to him unless it holds up his doing business, making money and being able to drink champagne in the late afternoon.

  Benjamin Franklin’s wise words come to mind, ‘Money never made a man happy yet, nor will it. There is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more a man has, the more he wants. Instead of filling a vacuum, it makes one.’

  Is this man an emotional vacuum, driven only by money? The rich often have charitable foundations, run orphanages, fund research, want to do some good or perhaps just assuage their consciences. This man appears to do none of this, according to my research. Of course, they may do such anonymously. That seems unlikely though rumour has it they have contributed handsomely to various good causes throughout our county since their arrival. But does that balance the damage they do in their global business dealings? And why do it only in our county?

  I am mystified. I anticipated a polished, careful man of the world, secure in his position and authority, saying and doing all the right things. Initially I could find little research to offer me leverage beyond a few scraps, which is what I planned to work on. But the magazine photograph revealed much and a confidential chat with two Albion estate workers who Sam put me in touch me, gave the clues to the man’s marriage. To his inner demons that plague fears he will never have enough status and respect without baubles and women. And within minutes it is obvious there is much room for leverage.

  With care though, as some things do not make sense. It is too easy. I expected that we would meet at his plush business, security and communications centre in the sleek new building hidden in the woodland close by the lake. But here we are in the heart of his home, an intimate space that people usually prefer not to have the police anywhere near. Why on earth would the Hakluyts welcome the dull local plod into the heart of their home?

  The man places his smart phone firmly on the coffee table where it lights up constantly even on silent and says, “Chief Inspector. I am all yours, are we not Rebecca?”

  His wife sits, legs elegantly and primly crossed at the ankle, all attention with hands clasped in her lap, I notice her lack of jewellery beyond the elegantly thin silver wedding band and the demure Cartier watch.

  I take up position on the sofa to their left, within touching distance of the lady of the house, her husband is beyond her and Whittle sits on the sofa opposite me where she can study them even as she takes notes. Is my position an affront to his ‘ownership’ of his wife perhaps, a little close for the best of circles? We will see but his arm around her tightens a noticeable touch.

  ***

  Distance has disguised Rebecca Hakluyt’s rare beauty. Celibate I may be these days, but close up I am amazed he has a wandering eye. Even after almost thirty years of marriage, Rebecca Hakluyt is a woman to be cherished not neglected.

  Her skin is smooth pale marble, but more, she seems lit from within by mesmerising opaque blue eyes. Every feature is petite but perfectly proportioned, with an elegant nose, brightly perfect teeth and alluring lips that dominate a finely boned face beneath an expensively cut short hair style. Undoubtedly, Whittle tells us later, her whole appearance is the product of an adviser, who will have developed ‘A Unique Fashion Book’ that determines what the lady wears, her hair and make-up, down to the day or even hour. As in days of old, this woman probably has a personal dresser or three who travel with her everywhere.

  Her light fawn linen trousers are perfectly cut, with blouse and Louboutin shoes, all of the same delicate matching colour. When commenting later Whittle laughs at herself, explaining that she and her Mum have always loved top magazines that explored the high-life world and clothes of the very rich. A burgundy silk neck scarf tops the woman’s blouse which is just sufficiently transparent, as to be tantalizingly revealing of a flimsy white bra and sensual small breasts, while still maintaining decorum and good taste. An Audrey Hepburn of our times, my mother would say.

  Police are taught to make easy conversation with their interviewees in the early stages. I know the DCs will expect me to talk, as we discussed, about books for the obvious ‘loosener’ as it is called. The woman is a novelist after all, and avidly loves books as I once did, while her husband is likely disinterested. We had decided it might ‘loosen’ and also disrupt them perhaps.

  I feel Fenwick and Whittle stiffen, nonplussed by the apparent clumsiness of my choice of opening topic.

  Charm, or as much as I have these days, mixes with being a simple country copper as I lean forward admiringly to within a yard of her, “Forgive me for being impolite Mrs Hakluyt, a lovely distinctive perfume you are wearing. Truly, well, breath taking if I might say so.”

  She sees nothing gauche in the remark and her sparkling eyes arch to accompany an embracing accent from the southern United States, “Waell, ai thank you soa very kaindly young maian.”

  “French I imagine.”

  “Oh no, I am very loyal, American perfume. From
my homeland in the deep South, sweet Mobile in good old Alabama. My husband has it specially made up for me, it is truly unique.”

  I nod, impressed, not least by the way I have cut the man out of the conversation as she leans towards me, lays her hand on my arm and says, “But you are very sensitive Detective Chief Inspector.”

  52

  Smile and voice are matter of fact, as the lady of the house recites the names of the guests at Sunday’s dinner party, and their position in society. The two Chinese women are omitted.

  “Hardly a list of top criminals?” Hakluyt says gruffly. “Your man Creel even said grace before dinner, the Bishop had not even suggested it, too busy with an exquisite wine from our vineyard near Perth, wonderful food from a London chef, and your man was the only male not to drink. Nobody likely to do anything, well, untoward there I would have thought, just general social chit chat?”

  The lady hands me a type written list of guests and staff, with a brush of the hand, her eyes smiling intimately. The man of the house takes his arm away from her and eases away slightly.

  “Perhaps you might know the dead woman, ma’am, sir, this is she,” I pronounce, standing to lean over to Charles Hakluyt who is now sat a yard away on their shared sofa. I pass an A4 colour photograph of the dead woman, as supplied by Whittle from her briefcase.

  I sense both DCs stiffen, knowing I am showing the woman’s face with graphically clear detail of the gruesome injuries on one side.

  Hakluyt reacts with horror at the image of this beautiful woman, stark in death. His wife stares calmly before returning it without emotion. Is that real shock on the man’s face at seeing a woman he knows, perhaps a lover who was outside because of a disagreement? Or just a distaste for reality? Whichever, shock is gone in a moment, replaced by anger. He struggles to control his desire to erupt, whether from guilt or distaste, breathing deeply, focusing on his constantly winking phone, fiddling with his beloved watch.

  Neither knows the woman, they say with a shake of their heads. Neither has ever seen her, they both say flatly, and truthfully, as far as I can judge.

  Face to face questioning is always best; you can glean so much more from the body language and facial expressions beyond the mere words. When I was the coming man of Ancaster Police I went on a course at the F.B.I.’s Quantico, a fascinating month on how to read people’s body language, ranging from nostril flair and ear tics to the way people shape their mouth in response to questions. I learnt much on how to read people, and also how to control and use my own features.

  Face to face the questioner can also get away with so much. A sharp probe with a smile, a stern push with a joke, a trap set with a confused look. Though phone, FaceTime and Skype are useful now when in a hurry, nothing beats what the training manual disingenuously calls ‘the personal touch’.

  This dinner party is key to the death. The dead woman was watching them all arrive and leave, taking photographs. She dies, accidentally or otherwise, and someone tries to hide her body forever. Someone, probably these two here, advise or cajole or remind the guests that things are confidential, ‘nothing untoward’ was said, only ‘general chit chat’ and they are asked not to mention the Chinese women. The guests did the natural thing when questioned by the police; they used the same words as briefed by the Hakluyts, or more likely Crowley and Adams made the actual calls. We will question those two but even if we obtained phone records of mobiles and land lines we shall have no proof of what will be dubbed ‘a courtesy call to give guidance that the police will be ringing.’

  My mind runs rapidly on. There must be one particular reason or project for all of these important people being there that night, something they do not want anyone to know of. Something must be afoot locally though what could Valentine, the Bishop, and especially Creel offer any major project? Yet, Lord and Lady Macbeth of Albion House are working wonders to keep such a cast of characters ‘on message’ in modern parlance, and, so far, they are free from leaks it seems. It is quite a feat which must mean quite a project if it needs hiding.

  The woman hands the photograph back to me. There is no brush of the hand now as there was when I handed it over. I lay the photo clearly visible on the table in front of them before retiring back to my sofa four feet away.

  The candles splutter, the silence lengthens. Hakluyt sips gently from his coffee now, leans forward, suddenly turns the photograph over ferociously with a slap, becomes angry as if on cue, nostrils flaring, a tic in his left eye, going on the attack.

  “Did you have to show that gruesome image to us,” he says angrily, sitting forward, to stare hard at me, unsure whether to stand and tower over me. “To my wife? Did you not have one without all the detail? That was deliberate.”

  “Not at all sir. It is the one we have,” I say easily. “Real life is not like the special effects of CSI I am afraid.”

  Her husband becomes less than repugnant to her for the first time as Mrs Hakluyt moves closer to him and lays an elegant right hand on his arm but whether for comfort or to quiet him I am unsure.

  Even knowing what is coming, Fenwick cringes and Whittle stifles a gasp as I go on, each detail ticked off on my fingers “Fingerprints, DNA, clothes, underwear, jewellery, even – sorry to be gruesome, death is like this - the teeth did not help identify the body.”

  Nobody says a word. Hakluyt bridles at this further provocation even as his wife’s hand soothes him again.

  “Woman who seems to have had a special interest in your house, perhaps even your dinner party, out there late Sunday, early hours Monday morning, and there, she dies.”

  Silence so I go on, “Well to do woman, possibly even moves in your circles?”

  We three look sharply for the reactions of the couple then. The woman’s face is immobile. The man visibly calms himself with the merest of coughs and a slight frown.

  Time to press, “Never heard from her - in person, by email, phone?”

  They are about to shake their heads when I warn, “We can, shall check, Sir, Madam?”

  Hakluyt snorts, shakes his head, “You would need a warrant for that of course. Take my word. Do not know her. So, do not know if we have heard from her without a name.”

  A pause, then the weasel caveat, “That I know of, but then as you have seen I have staff who monitor my calls. I actually deal directly with very few myself.”

  He does not need to say the few means important people.

  ***

  Hakluyt stands, greedily picking up his ever-winking phone, an addict about to get a longed-for fix, the meeting is over.

  I ignore his movement, stand myself.

  “So, Sir, would it be fair to say you are playing silly buggers?”

  He wheels, violent reaction flashing in his eyes, receding as Tom moves slightly towards him and my look almost begs him to attack me. My red mist is rising too, the succubus senses unpleasantness afoot. Adams, and his two security henchmen, appear in the doorway. The lady is bone white beauty now, her face confused at the sudden potential conflagration.

  Sweet reason from Whittle calms things as she asks, “Forgetting some guests from your list sir? And briefing people who did attend to not reveal the whole truth about the event?”

  I carry on, “With ‘nothing untoward’ and ‘just general social chit chat’ as words all your guests used?”

  The couple shake their heads, wave the security detail out of the room, before the wife eases her husband down once more and says, “We simply felt we had to warn people you would be contacting them. Any host would. I can see we were wrong and apologise.”

  I rub my hand over my face at the confession to ‘obstruction of justice’, tired of what is at best dissembling, at worst outright lies.

  Tom Fenwick moves in sharply at a signal, his looming bulk forcing the couple to turn and look up at him as he moves to stand a yard away.

  The question is sharp with local dialect above the crackling fire, “Ten cars came in for the party, eight cars for yoare guests on yoare l
ist. Two more for Lord ‘D’Eynscourte and DCI Odling who left after the woman was dead.”

  The pair look at him as though he is from another planet.

  Tom goes on, accusing, “From your list of guests we have only seven coming out we can account for – Chief Superintendent Creel, the MP, the council leader and his CEO in one car, the two Professors in separate cars, the Bishop, the local entrepreneur, which makes seven but there were eight left so who was in that car. You must know.”

  The couple are clearly irritated at having to deal with such an uncouth local low life and junior officer. Hakluyt looks as though he might explode even with his wife’s hand mollifying his arm once more.

  Provoking such a reaction is precisely why we decided Tom would apply the coup de grace.

  “Could it be one of the staff breaking our rules?” Mrs Hakluyt says finally. “Only family and guests through the main gates?”

  Tom remembers his lines well, moves sideways, forcing them to turn awkwardly to look up again at his standing figure, “No, the unexplained tracks are a high end very expensive car, the last one out just at the time the woman was hit.”

  Decisively accusing now, “Likely the killer car.”

  A pause, “And driver.”

  They catch the point. That we know the time of the death, and hence the likely culprit.

  No reply. The Quantico experts would say the man’s eyes keep drifting, towards his wife as though for reassurance or inspiration. They would notice his hand slipping towards hers and stopping short, aware of the public rebuff that he might receive. The trained observer would have perhaps seen her chin tighten up slightly at Tom’s final words even as she stares first at me, then Whittle and then, avidly at her pile of books.