A Dirty Death

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Well, well,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you can help with a dilemma, now you’re here. Or at least tell me I’m doing the right thing.’

  Tim sat at the table, waiting for more.

  Quickly, as he made the coffee, Jonathan told his visitor about the mucky clothes and shoe that he and Roxanne had found. He explained that he had done nothing with them, on the assumption that he was protecting Sam. He related the agreement he’d come to with Miranda about it, and how there was little reason to help the police to prosecute Sam for murder, in the circumstances.

  ‘But now everything’s different. And of course we don’t even know for sure that the things belonged to Sam. Thinking about it this morning, I realised they probably didn’t. We just jumped to that conclusion.’

  ‘Where’s the stuff now?’

  ‘In a bucket in the barn. I guess I’ll have to produce it, and give the police all the help I can. They want me to go along for further questioning this afternoon.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Tim stared into his coffee, trying to think. ‘They’ll want to know why you kept it back before.’

  ‘I know. But I’ve got my story straight. More or less the truth, actually. How I’d felt a sense of natural justice, if Sam killed Guy, after years of intimidation and bullying.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Partly. I dare say it’s all a lot more complicated than it looks.’

  ‘They’ll be furious with you. Withholding vital evidence. Obstructing the course of justice. I wouldn’t be in your shoes.’

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘It won’t be very nice, I’m sure. But I doubt if they’ll actually bring me to book over it. They’ll be too relieved to get the stuff now. It might make all the difference.’

  Cappy drifted into the kitchen then. She’d obviously heard the last few words and looked intently at Jonathan. ‘Are you talking about those clothes?’ she demanded.

  He nodded. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  Cappy leant back against the edge of the sink, the muscles of her neck tight. ‘I told you to leave it,’ she hissed. ‘Why can’t you listen to me?’

  ‘It’s all different now,’ he said mildly. ‘And I don’t think it can have been Sam’s clothes after all. We should have another look. That shoe – it’s a trainer. Can you see Sam wearing trainers?’

  ‘Of course. Everybody wears trainers. I’ve seen old men in trainers.’

  ‘Not when they’re going out to milk the cows. Boots, pet. Farming people wear boots. Wellingtons. Big rubber things.’ He laughed at her, the smooth English aristocrat tutoring the ignorant foreigner. She gripped the stainless steel with both hands, arching her back like a cat.

  ‘You’re a complete fool sometimes, you know,’ she said, the words ice cold with rage. Then she pushed herself away from her support and swept out of the room.

  Tim cleared his throat. ‘Just like home,’ he said.

  Jonathan was pale. ‘I’ve no idea why she’s like that about it,’ he said shakily.

  ‘Probably just what I said. The police being upset with you. Getting involved in something like this – you never know which way it’ll go. Maybe she thinks they’ll take you in as a suspect.’

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘No chance. Whatever they find on that gun, it won’t be my fingerprints.’

  ‘They found the gun then?’ Tim sounded surprised.

  Jonathan nodded. ‘Probably got a full list of prints on it by now. We all had to be done, look.’ He held out both hands, smudges of black still evident on all ten digits. ‘It was fun, in a daft sort of way.’

  Tim drained the last of his coffee and got to his feet. ‘Well, I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be somewhere else.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jonathan didn’t move. ‘Didn’t think you’d want to inspect the evidence. It is a bit niffy, even after all this time.’

  ‘What is it now? Four weeks since Guy died? Doesn’t seem as much as that. Weird business, the whole thing. And I thought Sarah and I were the biggest excitement the village would ever see.’

  ‘You’re deadly dull compared to a murder. And don’t get ideas. It might be nice to have a truce for a while, come to that.’

  ‘Some hopes. I married a harpy. A banshee. And yet …’

  ‘I know. She’s a darling deep down. Get help, man. It can’t be healthy, going on as you two do.’

  ‘Anyway. I’m off. See you. Have fun in your interrogation. And if there’s any juicy news, let’s hear it, okay?’

  As Tim drove away, Cappy reappeared, and stood beside Jonathan, watching the car disappear. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He has that effect on me. No wonder Sarah’s so screwed up.’

  He turned to her, pulling her to his chest, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head, savouring the glossy black hair. ‘It was me you were cross with, not Tim. Don’t pretend.’

  ‘Well, I’m all right again now. I just think—’

  ‘I know. You’re worried that I’m getting in too deeply. You’re probably right, but I can’t see much option at this stage.’

  She rubbed his back, purring her affection. ‘Never mind, J. It’ll be all right. Now, let me go, will you. I want to have another look at that camp. It’s intriguing me terribly. I can’t bear not knowing who’s been there. Why haven’t we heard anything?’

  ‘There was some noise, a week or so ago. Remember? Shouting. Laughing. A woman. We were busy at the time.’ He grinned wolfishly, to indicate exactly what they’d been busy doing.

  Cappy giggled, and then shook her head. ‘I don’t even remember. Did you say anything at the time?’

  ‘Possibly not. It was latish evening, and a weekend. I just assumed it was grockles. Anyway, if you’re determined to go back, just be careful. I ought not to let you go at all, in the circumstances. I suppose we can at least be sure there isn’t a gun lying around.’

  The phone warbled from the hallway, stemming Cappy’s mock outrage at Jonathan’s words. He went to answer it.

  It was Lilah. ‘They got the fingerprint results,’ she said, excitement plainly audible in her voice. ‘All the obvious ones – plus Amos Grimsdale’s and a mysterious stranger. They’re going to arrest Amos, I think. I thought I’d better tell you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He thought quickly. ‘Do I still have to go in for questioning now?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I suppose I do.’ He thought again. ‘But, Amos? Do they believe he killed your father as well? Why would he?’

  ‘I suppose he’s no less likely than anyone else. I haven’t taken it in yet. They’ll need much more evidence, presumably. I must go now. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Cappy was watching him. ‘Amos?’ she queried.

  ‘So it seems.’ They stared at each other, assessing this news. Finally Cappy spoke.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said flatly. ‘Absolute nonsense.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lilah was still light-headed with shock when Den’s car came into the yard, close to midday. The frenetic activity had died down after the discovery of Amos’s fingerprints on the gun. Sam’s room had been thoroughly examined, and the door sealed, which had the effect of making the family feel the farm was somehow no longer theirs. They knew they couldn’t keep it running on their own, anyway, beyond a few struggling weeks – a realisation that had dawned almost instantly upon the acceptance that they had lost Sam.

  By the time of Den’s arrival, Lilah felt as if she had been living with a police presence for months, and they would never go away and let life become even slightly normal again. Roddy and Jonathan had floundered through the morning milking with great difficulty, dropping units and making the cows nervous. The resulting milk missed the tanker, and had to be poured away. For Lilah that seemed to sum it all up. Everything was hopeless and futile, and out of control.

  Den stood awkwardly, his face gravely concerned. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you today,’ he said, quietly. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘No
.’ She understood, vaguely, that he couldn’t allow himself to be unduly sympathetic or reassuring. After the morning’s questioning and investigating, she knew that this time she herself could not be exempted from suspicion. Den had probably been told not to get soft with her – unless it was as a way of getting her to betray all she knew.

  ‘Are you here officially?’ she asked, boldly. ‘You’re obviously on duty.’ She drew her gaze down his pristine uniform, thinking how distant it made him, how unsatisfactory as a potential comforter. He just nodded.

  ‘So?’ she persisted. ‘What are you supposed to do?’

  Still he was silent. Then he turned back to the car, as its radio spoke scratchily. ‘Just lending a hand,’ he threw back at her, almost over his shoulder. ‘Seeing whether anything strikes me. Knowing the place already – Inspector Jennings thought I might come in useful.’ He picked up his phone and muttered into it, his eyes on his colleagues, who were currently examining Miranda’s patch of front garden. They were making no attempt to avoid damage, and the lupins and roses that struggled amongst the weeds were all looking bent and bedraggled. Lilah felt a flash of anger. What did they think they’d find – a footprint of someone who’d been stupid enough to scramble over a hedge when there was a perfectly good gate five feet away?

  Den came back to her, slowly. ‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to tell me anything?’ she challenged. ‘Even though it’s my life that’s being turned inside out?’

  He shook his head. ‘Gunshot wounds. Very close range. One to the neck and one to the upper back. Died almost immediately—’

  ‘Just had long enough to scream,’ she spat. ‘Not quite that immediate, was it?’

  He waited, looking down into her eyes, examining her as he’d done in the coffee shop. Not many people would face me like this, she thought. Not today.

  Then he spoke, as one human being to another, ‘All I can tell you is stuff you know already.’

  ‘I suppose all this is very interesting to you – the scene of a double murder. Triple, if you count Isaac.’ Her tone was still obstinately sharp, almost spiteful.

  ‘Very interesting,’ he agreed mildly. ‘I’ve never seen an operation like this before. They’re bringing just about everyone in on it. The whole works.’

  ‘Lucky us,’ growled Lilah. ‘And the neighbours haven’t even heard about it yet.’

  ‘Neighbours? I thought Mabberley—’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was here almost as soon as it happened. I mean the people in the village. We were in the pub only last night. What on earth are they going to think? God, listen to me! That’s exactly what Mum said, when we found Sam. What does it matter?’

  Den rubbed his face with a broad long-fingered hand, in a gesture that reminded Lilah acutely of Sam. He seemed to be thinking hard, saying nothing for some time. Then he spoke slowly, carefully.

  ‘Sam might not have died, if we’d been sharper.’

  ‘Sharper about what?’

  ‘Your dad. Remember? Nobody thought he’d been murdered at first.’

  ‘It was Sam who swept away all the signs. Some people think Sam killed Daddy.’

  Den’s eyebrows jerked. ‘What about you? Do you think that?’

  ‘Nothing makes any sense to me now. If Sam had shot himself, then yes, that would have been the obvious explanation. Now they’re going after poor old Amos. Why should he kill Sam? That’s as crazy as thinking Sam killed Daddy. There’s just a horrible mass of possibilities. And … I don’t dare to trust anybody. They all seem to have dirty secrets, twisted minds. In the pub, everyone was wary of us. It was horrible. I feel as though I’ve lifted up a stone and all kinds of foul things have come crawling out.’

  ‘Who exactly are you talking about?’

  She looked at him warily. ‘Are you going to take notes? Make a list of suspects? Are you my friend, or Mr Detective Policeman?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Both, I hope. If you want to talk it through, I can listen intelligently. If you confess to the crimes, though, I’ll have to take you in.’ She waited for a laugh that didn’t come, but an examination of his face assured her that he was at least partly joking. She paused and then started walking away from the yard, towards the nearest field. He followed her warily.

  ‘There’s a nice big rock over here, where I sometimes sit. It gets the midday sun. It’ll probably be rather hot for you in that outfit, though.’

  He smiled submissively, putting himself at her disposal. She led him to the spot and sat down at one end of the long granite seat, at a slightly higher level than the rest of the surrounding ground. Den patted it thoughtfully. ‘Looks like an old gatepost,’ he said. Lilah looked down at it in surprise. She’d always taken it for something natural, placed there by nature for her enjoyment.

  ‘How’s Endurance?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The calf. Is she okay?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, thanks, she’s okay. A bit of a pest to feed, but Mum’s supposed to be in charge of that. I have to make sure she remembers, though.’

  ‘Sounds as if it’s all go.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She sat in silence, grabbing at long grass blades growing against the granite, twisting them around her fingers. Then she frowned and began to speak.

  ‘It’s just so complicated. The obvious suspects are the ones I’m closest to. At the moment—’ she glanced over her shoulder at the house, and reduced her voice to a whisper ‘—the one I’m most bothered about is my mother.’

  Den smiled and stifled a dismissive laugh. He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder, and turned her half around. ‘Let us worry about the suspects. You just tell me how all this is affecting you. I know a bit about debriefing.’

  ‘I think I’ve been debriefed already. Isn’t that what all the questions this morning were about?’

  ‘Were there lots of questions?’

  ‘Well, it seemed like a lot. Including yet more about Dad, and his first family. They wanted Barbara’s address. That’s his first wife. She’s not going to be too pleased when the police turn up on her doorstep, is she? Is this going to go on much longer?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. By now they might have got a confession from Amos, and the whole exercise will be over and done with.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that. Though obviously I don’t like the idea of Amos facing a trial and prison and everything. If he did do all three murders, he must be mad, mustn’t he? There’s no other explanation.’

  ‘I thought it was the brother who was potty, not Amos.’

  Lilah nodded. ‘So did I,’ she sighed. ‘I really don’t think a set of fingerprints is enough to convince me it’s him. Daddy might have lent him the gun at any time. Or just showed it to him, let him play with it—’

  ‘Play with it? A gun isn’t a toy.’

  ‘I know it isn’t. But we never took that gun particularly seriously; never saw it as something that could harm a person. It’s something all farmers have, for shooting crows and things. Sam took it into his room because he was the head of the farm, after Daddy died. It seemed rather a joke at the time. It sounds ridiculous, but even when someone stole it, we weren’t terribly bothered – least of all Sam.’

  ‘Wait, wait. Nobody’s told me anything about it being stolen. Explain.’

  Briefly she ran over it again, finishing with, ‘You don’t think about guns killing people in this sort of community. I know there are accidents sometimes, but it’s entirely the wrong sort of gun.’

  ‘Do you think Sam just moved it to a better hiding place and didn’t want you to know where it was? Would he have done that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t see why he’d want to, but it would more or less fit with what’s happened, so he might have done. We might never know what really happened.’ She sighed, and sniffed back threatening tears.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ suggested Den. ‘I saw hardly anything of him when I came before. He struck me as a real countryman.’

  ‘That’s the imag
e he liked to present. There wasn’t much truth in it, really. He grew up in a town, and did pretty well at school, I think. My dad was his teacher originally. That’s how they met. Daddy knew Sam before I was born. Before he met Mum. They go back at least twenty-five years.’

  ‘That might be a key to the whole mystery. What is it that Adam Dalgliesh always says? The answer to a murder usually lies in the past. Something like that.’

  ‘I don’t read murder stories, and I don’t expect I ever will now. But it’s obvious, really. Unless it’s some kind of fight about drugs, or a man killing his unfaithful wife on impulse. You have to hate someone to murder them. And hate needs a long time to build up and fester. People nurse it and feed it until it gets big and strong. Horrible.’ She shuddered and looked round at the bright green of the summer grass, everything fresh and peaceful and reassuring. Somewhere, behind one of those hedges, over one of those hills, a murderer had walked away, a man who had held a gun a few inches from Sam’s back and shot him. She tried for the twentieth time to fit Amos Grimsdale to this picture, and failed yet again.

  ‘He must have known Sam would fall into the nettles. He must have done that on purpose.’ She paused, staring at a big oak in the corner of the next field. ‘Hate would make you do that. Just like hate would make someone enjoy the sight of Daddy drowning in slurry.’

  ‘You’re too young to be knowing about hate,’ he remarked, his voice full of sadness.

  Lilah was annoyed. ‘Don’t patronise. I’m old enough.’

  ‘Who do you hate, then?’

  ‘Mr Rivers,’ came the prompt reply. Den knew immediately who she meant, and the shared memory of school was a warm, comforting thing to Lilah. But Den spoilt it a little by laughing in disbelief.

  ‘But he’s just a harmless old buffoon.’

  ‘That’s why I hate him. Harmless old buffoons shouldn’t be teaching history. It was his fault I got a D.’

  ‘Me too. But I figured it was down to me, as much as him.’

  ‘No, it was him. I spent every lesson loathing him so passionately – and working out ways of murdering him – that I never heard anything he tried to teach us.’