by Granger, Ann
Carter still looked unconvinced. ‘We won’t find out until you’ve spoken again to both parties. There is another flaw in your idea, Sergeant, I’m sorry to point out. Why was Jay Taylor driving up Toby’s Gutter Lane in the first place? If he was on the main road and felt ill, why didn’t he just pull over and try to flag down the next car to come along?’
‘He was confused . . . he was looking for a human habitation and first aid . . .’ Morton shrugged.
‘So, who slipped him the fatal overdose?’ Carter asked. ‘Who doctored his last meal? It wasn’t Pascal or his lady love.’
‘We know we’ve got two separate events,’ Morton persisted. ‘One person stuffed his last meal with crushed pills. We don’t know who that person was. But we do know Taylor found his way to Balaclava House. I reckon it happened the way I said. Pascal and Mrs S took him inside and dumped him there.’
But that’s all wrong! thought Jess. Phil thinks he’s cracked it, but I’m sure it didn’t happen that way. Seb and Rosie wouldn’t have emptied Taylor’s pockets. Why should they try and slow identification of the dead man? Phil’s theory is plausible but it depends on too much speculation about what two other people did. She moved slightly to her right, which brought her to the window. She glanced down at the unlovely spectacle of the car park with its rows of cars, all sorts of cars, even a Lexus that she knew belonged to Carter. The pale late-afternoon sun of this time of year was sinking already. A ray beamed through the window and struck her face with an unexpected warm caress. It also dazzled her and made her turn quickly back to face the room. She saw that both men were looking at her, waiting for some comment. Morton looked like a man who had just pulled off a difficult conjuring trick. Carter’s green-brown eyes, fixed on her, were harder to read.
‘I don’t buy it.’ She spoke up firmly; and Morton gave her a reproachful look. He was a conjuror not receiving the expected round of applause, and she was a colleague not giving support. ‘Sorry, Phil,’ she added because she felt she’d let him down. But she didn’t agree with him and she couldn’t just let it go unchallenged.
Carter, observing them and probably reading both their minds, raised his eyebrows and asked, ‘Yes?’
‘It’s that house, sir. It’s the key somehow. Taylor didn’t just stumble into it by chance. Nor was he helped indoors by Pascal and Rosie Sneddon, just because they happened to be there – and to be leaving as he collapsed outside. Taylor was there because he wanted to be there, or someone else wanted him there. Balaclava House holds secrets.’
Chapter 13
Jess had no idea, when she began her drive to the Sneddons’ farm, how she was going to explain her wish to speak to Rosie Sneddon alone. Morton was to tackle Pascal. Already the rain had settled in, breaking the long dry spell. The drizzle had turned to a heavy fall overnight. A brief but violent shower had deluged them again this morning at breakfast-time. The road surface glittered with a myriad bright spots dancing along it before her as she drove. Sometimes they were bright enough momentarily to dazzle her. She put up a hand and pulled down the sun visor, hoping the recent downpour wouldn’t have kept Sneddon near to his house. It would suit her best if the farmer was well out of the way, working on his land a good distance from the farmyard, and she’d find Rosie at home alone.
She turned into Toby’s Gutter Lane. Here the rain had filled the many dips in the road producing puddles that sent up muddy sprays as she lurched over them. This would leave her car in a terrible mess, patterned like an army vehicle with khaki patches. She’d have to take it along to the car wash. But not Pascal’s.
She’d reached Balaclava House and slowed to a crawl to look across at it. It presented a desolate aspect, lonely and deserted. The sadness sprang from so many sources. It represented the failure of what must once have been confidence and hope for the future, built on the success of a business enterprise. Ironically, if Monica Farrell’s history of the Bickerstaffe biscuit factory was correct, that confidence and prosperity had itself been built on a failed enterprise, bogged down in the bloody mud of the Crimea. She felt a pang of pity for the wretched soldiers, betrayed by the ineptitude of their leaders and the government of the day, and with nothing but an army-issue Bickerstaffe dry biscuit to console them.
Yet that ill wind had blown good fortune the way of the Bickerstaffes. With what pride must the first of them have taken possession of their new home, have crossed its threshold. How splendid those cavernous rooms must have looked with their brand-new furniture and carpets, all kept in sparkling condition by a small army of maidservants. How were the mighty fallen . . .
Strips of blue and white tape marking a police crime scene still hung dispiritedly from its gates. Jess made a mental note to stop here, on her way back, and check the exterior of the house to make sure no one had broken in. The discovery of a body there had been well reported in the local press and could have attracted a ghoulish interest from sightseers and others, some taking the opportunity of an abandoned building to indulge in a spot of housebreaking. Monty might not have much money; but that house was stuffed with good Victorian furniture and decorative objects.
There was no sign of life when she passed by the Colleys’ gate, either. It was as if the recent rain had washed the landscape clean of human life and activity.
At that moment a car suddenly appeared ahead of her, breaking into the empty landscape with an almost physical impact, shattering its calm. It shot out of the entry to the farm track ahead and began to career wildly towards her. There was barely room for the two vehicles side by side; but the other car was determined to get by and by some miracle it did, flying past. Jess reacted, wrenching the wheel to avoid what had seemed like inevitable collision; and nearly hit a dry stone wall. She just had time to establish that the driver was male and wore a cap. She had not met Sneddon so couldn’t say if it was the farmer; but whoever he was, he was driving like a maniac. Presumably he didn’t normally encounter another vehicle at this point in the lane. No one lived further down Toby’s Gutter than the Sneddons. He was still an idiot. She wished she’d taken the car registration. She’d have called in to Traffic Division.
She turned on to the track and parked in the farmyard. The only living thing to be seen here was a sheep dog, a collie. It had been tied up near the front door and was running round in fretful little circles, risking entanglement in its tether. Seeing Jess’s car rattle into the yard, it looked up hopefully and wagged its plumed tail.
Jess got out of the car and as she approached, the dog ran to greet her, as far as the rope allowed, crouching in abasement, still wagging its tail furiously and whimpering.
‘You want me to untie you, old fellow, don’t you?’ Jess stooped to pat its head. ‘But you’ve been tied up for some purpose.’
She stood up and looked about. The dog whined again. It was deeply worried about something and Jess was beginning to feel very uneasy. If the driver of the car had been Sneddon, where was he going in such a hurry? Should she have turned round and gone after him? She had had good reason. She could have forced him to pull over and warned him about his erratic driving. Jess walked up to the front door and rapped with the metal knocker. The sound echoed inside but no one answered the summons. The dog gave a nervous, impatient yelp.
With an increasing sense that something was terribly wrong, Jess began to make a tour of the outside of the building. There was no one in the yard at the rear. Washing hung, dripping, on a line, but there was no sign of Rosie who had presumably pegged it up. It had been pinned there before the breakfast rain shower and no one had bothered to bring it indoors. Jess didn’t need to feel it to know it was sodden.
She went up to the back door and knocked again. Then she put her ear against it and listened. It seemed to her there was an answering knock, like an echo, from within. She rapped harder.
Thump – thump – thump came from inside in response.
Someone was trying to communicate, someone who couldn’t get to the door. Jess rattled at the handle but th
e door was locked. If there’s anyone as aware of the basics of breaking and entering as a burglar, it’s a police officer. Jess inspected the kitchen window, often a weak point. Bingo! It was ajar, unlatched, and held in position by a metal arm punctured with holes that dropped over a peg on the window frame. She hunted round and found a length of narrow stick, used to tie up some fuchsias in a flowerbed by the door. A further hunt turned up a wooden crate with wilting greens in it. She tipped them out, lugged the crate back to the window and upturned it beneath it.
Then she climbed carefully on to the crate and reached through the crack of the window with the stick. A couple of awkward attempts and she succeeded. The pierced arm jumped free of the peg and flew upward. Released, the window was easily pulled open. Jess set about hauling herself up and scrambling over the ledge inside.
Like many a kitchen window, it was located over the sink. Jess slithered over the sill and down into a big old-fashioned glazed stoneware sink with a couple of inches of cold, sudsy water in it.
‘Faugh!’ she muttered. She swung herself over the edge to the tiled floor and attempted to brush off the worst of the wet stains from her clothes. Then she heard the noise again, coming from above her head, the pounding of a fist on wood and a rattling.
Jess hurried out into the narrow hallway and shouted up the staircase, ‘Is someone up there? This is the police!’
Thump – thump! It came again and was followed by a muffled shout, a woman’s voice. ‘Help, help me, please!’
Jess ran up the staircase. The voice and sound of a fist on wood came from behind the closed door of a large cupboard at the top of the stairs. As Jess reached it, the door began to rattle and shake as someone inside tried to force it open.
‘Mrs Sneddon?’ Jess called.
‘Yes! He’s locked me in – Pete’s locked me in!’
Thankfully the key was still in the outside of the door. Jess turned it. The door flew open and a dishevelled, wild-eyed woman was catapulted into her arms.
She clung to Jess, gasping and uttering incoherent words. Jess gripped her arms tightly. ‘Rosie? Calm down, come on, take a deep breath – now, another! Your husband passed me in the lane. Where is he going?’ But even as she asked, she knew the answer and felt her heart give a painful leap.
‘Gone – gone down to Seb’s garage!’ Rosie drew a deep ragged breath. ‘He’s taken his gun!’
Jess was aghast. ‘What? When did he leave? What kind of gun is it?’
‘It’s a shotgun. He’s going to shoot Seb and it’s all my fault!’
Rosie Sneddon’s voice rose in a desperate wail.
‘Morton!’ exclaimed Jess. Damn and blast, Phil Morton was on his way, unaware of any danger, to Pascal’s garage to interview him again in the light of Alfie’s story . . . also to find out if his cherished theory was correct and Pascal and Rosie had dragged a dying man into the house. But Phil wouldn’t get the opportunity. If Sneddon got there first, Phil would walk in on the situation. If Phil had got there first, Sneddon would burst in, armed, on Phil.
Jess scrabbled at her mobile phone and tried in vain to get a reply from Morton. He might already be at the garage and anything could be happening. There was no time to lose. Jess rang through to HQ and shouted, ‘Man armed with a shotgun, Peter Sneddon, at Pascal’s garage on the ring road, near turning to Toby’s Gutter Lane. Sergeant Morton may be there. I need an armed response team, urgently!’
Rosie gripped her sleeve. ‘They won’t shoot Pete? It’s all my fault! Pete wouldn’t harm a fly normally! I told him – I told him about me and Seb and our meetings at Balaclava House. I thought it would all come out now you’re investigating that murder and I wanted to tell Pete myself. He flew into a rage. I’ve never seen him like it . . .’
Jess shook herself free and ran down the stairs, then along the hall and out of the front door. The dog leaped to its feet and jumped up at her. She managed to avoid it and reached her car. She scrambled in; only then realising to her dismay that Rosie Sneddon had followed on her heels and had got into the passenger seat beside her. The collie was barking wildly and pulling at its tether, desperate to be free and come with them.
‘Mrs Sneddon! Get out, please! Stay here! This is a dangerous situation,’ Jess ordered as she switched on the ignition.
‘I’m coming with you!’ Rosie shouted. ‘He’s my husband! He’ll listen to me! He’s angry, but he won’t do anything if I’m there!’
There wasn’t time to argue or waste precious minutes trying to eject Rosie from the car by force. Jess wrenched at the wheel; they skidded round in a circle in a shower of grit and set off back the way she had come to the farm.
The car rattled and bumped over the uneven surface, and splashed through the puddles sending up showers of spray. Beside her, Rosie was still lamenting and pleading that no one shoot her husband.
Just so long as he doesn’t shoot Morton, thought Jess furiously. Or anyone else! Even if Sneddon was not normally a violent man, just now he was seeing the world in a sudden red mist of fury. With all sense of judgement gone and holding a loaded shotgun, he could easily go berserk and loose off the weapon at anyone.
But Pascal’s garage, when they reached it, appeared deserted. Jess parked well away, pulling the car up on to the grass verge behind a large clump of spiny blackthorn bushes.
‘Stay in the car!’ she ordered Rosie Sneddon. ‘I mean that!’
She got out and using the blackthorn as shield peered in the direction of the garage. Sneddon must be inside – and there was Morton’s car parked outside. Phil was in there, too.
‘Come on, come on!’ muttered Jess to the approaching back-up team. It was going to be a good five minutes longer before they got here.
There was a deep ditch running behind the blackthorn towards the garage, with high grass and wild plants at its edge. Jess jumped into it, cold muddy water swilling round her ankles and seeping into her footwear. She crept, crouched nearly double, as near to the garage as she reckoned she could safely go.
She stopped when she had a good view of the plate-glass window at the front of the building. Something moved behind it. It looked like the outline of a woman. That must be Alfie’s aunt, Maureen, who worked at the till. The female figure held up her hands at shoulder height. Sneddon was in there all right. But was Pascal? Had Sneddon arrived to find his quarry not at home? Was he holding Maureen and Sergeant Morton as hostages until Pascal returned? Jess prayed no driver decided he needed to stop by the garage and fill up with petrol.
She crept back to her car and checked that Rosie was still sitting obediently inside, although the woman was so jittery there was no guarantee she’d remain there. Then, seeing a car approaching, Jess stepped out into the road and flagged it down.
‘I’m sorry,’ she told the driver, showing her ID, ‘but there’s an incident taking place at the garage down there. You’ll have to turn back.’
‘What sort of incident?’ grumbled the driver. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘Armed man!’ snapped Jess.
‘What about her, then?’ asked the driver belligerently, pointing past Jess.
Jess turned her head and saw to her dismay that Rosie Sneddon had taken the opportunity afforded by Jess’s distraction to scramble out of the car. She was racing down the grass verge towards the garage.
‘Rosie!’ Jess yelled. ‘Come back! You’ll make things worse! You’ll give Pete an extra hostage! There’s a specially trained team on its way! They’ll deal with it!’
But Rosie took no notice, still running and, now that she was near the building, beginning to shout. ‘Pete! Peter! Put the gun down and come outside! The police are on their way, armed police! Peter! They’ll shoot you!’
‘They won’t shoot him if he throws the gun out first!’ yelled Jess.
She wasn’t sure Rosie could hear her, intent on her own mission. But it seemed she had because she repeated what Jess had just said.
‘Throw the gun out of the door, Pete! Then they’ll know
you’re not armed any longer and they won’t shoot!’
Jess saw the figure of Maureen turn her head. She had heard Rosie’s shouts. At that moment, Jess heard the wail of the approaching sirens. At the same time, there came a deafening explosion from within the garage building and the sound of a woman screaming.
Earlier, Phil Morton had arrived at the garage and parked in the forecourt. He went into the minimart and was greeted by the till operator. He seemed to remember her name was Maureen.
‘Seb’s not here,’ Maureen told him, in reply to his query. ‘He’s gone into town.’
‘When’s he expected back?’ Morton glanced at his watch. ‘Has he been gone long?’
‘He went about half an hour ago. He should be back soon. Are you going to wait? You can go and sit in the office, or wait in your car. I’ll make you a coffee if you like.’
And that was when it all went pear-shaped and bloody bedlam broke out, as Morton later described it.