Buried Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Tom,’ said Mariner and the two men shook hands.

  Griffith was blond and good-looking in a rough-hewn sort of way. The woman standing a little behind him came up to his shoulder and was slim, with dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. ‘Actually I’m a DI,’ Mariner added carefully. ‘With West Midlands. I haven’t got my warrant card, of course but . . .’

  Bullman regarded him levelly. ‘Well, I’m sure we can verify it, should we need to,’ he said. The handshake was firm but Mariner’s confession had introduced an almost undetectable wariness into his eyes. ‘What have we got?’ he asked.

  Mariner briefly recounted the events of the last hour or so, describing the location of the body and how he had come across Hennessey. At the mention of Hennessey contempt spread across Griffith’s features. ‘Do you think he’s involved?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, of course, but I don’t think so,’ Mariner said. ‘He was panicked when he ran into me. I think he thought I might be the killer. He claims he was out running, fell down the ravine and on to the body.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘The footpath where he fell is badly eroded, and the body felt cool. Rigor was starting to set in. I’d say that it happened a number of hours ago. Also Hennessey’s got some blood on him, but the attacker must have been covered in it. I checked the body for ID but there doesn’t appear to be anything.’

  ‘Right.’ Bullman turned to Farthing. ‘Take a statement from Mr Hennessey, Deb.’ He nodded towards where the man sat, dazed, on the sofa. ‘And bag up his clothes. Then as long as we keep track of where he is, after that he can go.’ He turned back to Mariner. ‘And if you could take us back to the scene. SOCO are on their way but they have to come from all over, so I’d like to go and take a preliminary look.’

  Dusk was beginning to draw down as Mariner and his police escort set out again towards the woods armed with torches and the wire cutters Mariner had suggested. He couldn’t be confident of finding Hennessey’s way through in the dark, and he was also hoping that he’d be able to negotiate the path back to the body. The temperature had dropped and rain was still coming down steadily, and the last thing they needed was a whole team of people floundering about all over the woods lost and destroying important evidence.

  ‘Joe Hennessey seemed a bit reticent about coming up here to the Hall,’ Mariner observed to Griffith as they crossed the grass.

  Griffith turned to Mariner as if trying to ascertain if Mariner was winding him up. ‘I don’t think Mr Hennessey has done much to make himself popular around here. He spends a lot of time hanging around these woods, poking around with his long lens. A couple of times he’s strayed on to the property and our lads have had to escort him off again.’

  ‘He told me he was photographing the wildlife,’ Mariner said.

  ‘Did he now?’ said Griffith, in a tone that implied disbelief.

  The cutters made short work of the barbed wire and, with powerful torch beams lighting the way, Mariner led the group slowly down the path and into the woods, careful to retrace his and Hennessey’s steps exactly. After about five minutes he came to the deep skid marks gouged in the mud and started down into the gully. Under the glare of the torches the site looked more gruesome than ever and Mariner even wondered if animals had been at the body since he was last here.

  Bullman and Griffith seemed to pretty much agree with Mariner’s assessment of the situation, and Mariner took them through the sequence of events again in relation to the location. ‘I did a quick recce for a murder weapon,’ he said. ‘But if it’s been discarded here, it won’t be easy to find.’

  ‘Too dark now to conduct a search,’ Bullman agreed. ‘We’ll get this covered up, cordon off the woods and start a search at first light.’ He looked up at Mariner. ‘You can leave us to it now, thank you, Tom. If you wouldn’t mind going back up to the Hall to give DC Farthing your formal statement, then you can go. You’re staying somewhere nearby?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mariner, hoping to leave it there, but Griffith’s questioning look wanted more. ‘I’m staying at the old hostel,’ he added. ‘Elena Hughes’ place. In fact, I should let her know where I am.’

  Griffith held his gaze for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the artificial light, clearly intrigued, but aware that now wasn’t the time for that discussion.

  ‘Well, thank you for your help, Tom,’ said Bullman, breaking the tension. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’ He turned back to the scene.

  Within the short time that Mariner had been away, the activity back at the Hall had stepped up apace. Close to the perimeter fence, mud was being churned up by the tyres of a low loader delivering a mobile incident unit, and drums of heavy-duty cable with which to service it. Although there were plenty of uniformed police milling about, Mariner went back into the Hall to find that Hennessey had already gone. Mariner stood in the entrance hall and took off his now dripping wet forensic suit. Seeing him come in, DC Farthing looked up from where she was sitting at the desk in the study, scribbling notes, and came out to meet him. She brought with her a brown paper evidence bag, and a bundle of navy blue clothing. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ll need you to leave your clothes with us.’ From the deference in her tone Mariner guessed that they had, by now, checked up on him and established his identity. He was glad. She handed him a police-issue tracksuit and trainers. ‘There’s a cloakroom through there.’ She indicated a door towards the back of the hall.

  Stripping to his underwear Mariner put on the sweatshirt and joggers which were, in turn, too big and too small for him, though the trainers were not a bad fit. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, but the clothes were at least dry and began to warm him a little. He folded his own things and placed them in the evidence bags, sealing them carefully. Should it come to that, any fibres found at the crime scene would be matched with both Mariner’s and Hennessey’s clothing, for elimination purposes. Taking the bags he went back to the study.

  ‘Are you ready to give your statement, sir?’ Farthing asked.

  ‘Could I just call the friend I’m staying with, to let her know where I am? She’ll be expecting me back at any time.’

  ‘Of course. And you’ll be discreet?’ Farthing said tactfully.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it brief,’ Mariner reassured her.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Mariner could feel Elena’s curiosity burning down the phone line as he explained to her that he’d been ‘detained’ at Gwennol Hall, but she accepted his vagueness nonetheless. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I get back,’ he said.

  Replacing the phone he took a seat alongside Farthing. She reached over and pulled a map to the centre of the desk. ‘Can you show me exactly where you were walking today, sir?’

  Locating the hostel, Mariner traced a finger across the field, through the woodland and up the hillside towards the Devil’s Mouth gorge, passing close to where Hennessey had made his gruesome discovery.

  ‘What time did you set off this morning?’ Farthing asked.

  ‘I can’t say exactly, but it would have been between nine-thirty and ten. I’m fairly sure the chapel clock was just coming up to half past when I came through the village. I walked along the lane, leaving it at the entrance to Abbey Farm, just here,’ he indicated on the map. ‘I went and bought some eggs at the farm, then afterwards I picked up this footpath through the fields.’

  It was way too early to have had a time of death confirmed yet, but Mariner felt sure the murder had occurred many hours before the discovery of the body; possibly even before he’d set off that morning. If Farthing had any thoughts about that she didn’t allude to them.

  ‘Did anyone see you go?’ she asked.

  ‘No. But Elena was at the hostel when we left; she can confirm the time. I started out with Cerys, her daughter.’

  Farthing’s nod said that she’d already noted that. ‘Did you notice anything unusual in the village — anyone around who you wouldn’t have expected to see?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m not local, so I don’t really know anyone. But if you’re asking did I see Joe Hennessey at that time, the answer is no, I didn’t.’

  ‘How about when you were going along the footpath past the woods?’

  ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary,’ said Mariner. ‘It was a peaceful day; the only sound I remember hearing was birdsong.’

  ‘And you walked to Devil’s Mouth?’

  ‘Yes, up here.’ Mariner pointed again on the map.

  ‘And you got there at what time?’

  Mariner fished in his pocket and produced the ticket he’d been issued with. The number stamped in the top right-hand corner indicated the time that he’d been admitted to the site.

  Farthing looked at the ticket, then back up at Mariner. ‘So you didn’t get there until one thirty-four? You look pretty fit, but it took you a long time to get there.’

  Despite himself, Mariner coloured slightly. For some reason he was pleased not to be talking to Griffith. ‘I didn’t go straight there. I took a longer route to extend the walk.’ No need to tell her that he was revisiting a former shag-site for old times’ sake.

  ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate any of your route?’

  ‘Not until I picked up the main footpath to the falls,’ Mariner said. ‘I passed other people walking along there, but whether they’d remember me is a different matter. And I suppose the guy in the ticket office might have noticed which direction I approached from and where I went. It wasn’t that busy.’

  ‘And can you tell me what happened when you bumped into Joe Hennessey?’

  Mariner had already been over this twice now with Griffith, but Farthing was only doing her job. She and her boss would be checking for consistency, so he painstakingly repeated it once more.

  ‘And what are your plans for the next few days, sir?’ Farthing asked, when he got to the end.

  ‘I hadn’t really got anything specific in mind, though I was hoping to stay on here for a couple more days and walk locally before heading off towards the coast,’ Mariner told her.

  ‘Well, we would appreciate it if you could keep us informed of your whereabouts, should you decide to move on.’

  ‘Of course. The people I’m staying with, they’re bound to ask questions. Once the incident is made public we’re — sorry, you’re — going to need the help of local people . . .’

  Farthing was quick on the uptake. ‘I’m sure it will be fine for you to give them the bare facts, sir, without giving away any of the important detail, of course.’ She meant anything that might help them identify the killer.

  ‘You can rely on my discretion,’ said Mariner.

  Farthing had been scribbling down all that he said, but now she looked up and into his eyes. Hers was an intelligent face, with big grey eyes and a smooth, youthful complexion. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely. ‘That’s been very helpful. I’ll arrange for someone to drive you back into the village. And if you should think of anything else . . .’ And in line with routine procedure she gave Mariner the card with her contact details on it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Crossing the lobby on his way out of the building, Mariner caught sight of the housekeeper through the open door of the room opposite. She was leaning over something on the table before her, her head and shoulders illuminated by a halo of lamp-light. Knocking lightly on the door, Mariner hovered on the threshold of what appeared to be a dining room, with a long, highly polished table and enough dining chairs arranged round it to seat more than twenty people. A sideboard at the far end was loaded with silver serving dishes. The table was not, however, set for dinner but was covered with papers, some stacked in neat piles and others spread randomly across its glossy surface. The housekeeper looked up with a smile of recognition, and in this light Mariner noticed that she had the most extraordinarily dark brown eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘But before I go, I just wanted to say thanks.’

  She seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘For what?’

  ‘For not making a scene when we first arrived, and for not asking too many difficult questions. It wasn’t a particularly conventional entrance.’

  Waving away his gratitude, she straightened up from her work and came round the table to him, eyeing up his rather eccentric clothing. ‘It was obvious that something very serious had happened,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it really. It’s a terrible thing. That poor man.’

  Mariner wasn’t sure if she meant the victim or Joe Hennessey but acquiesced anyway. ‘Did you manage to get hold of Mr Shapasnikov?’ he asked.

  ‘One of his staff has been in touch I think. His English is pretty good, but I thought it better that he should hear it in his native language,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh.’

  Another smile; this time broader and with a hint of mischief that formed a dimple in each cheek. ‘You thought I was on his staff too,’ she guessed, accurately. ‘No, I’m not permanent. I just happen to be here doing some work for Mr Shapasnikov.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Mariner was intrigued.

  She indicated the table. ‘The library is full of historic documents relating to the house. Mr Shapasnikov has employed me to archive them, and at the same time I’m putting together a sort of rudimentary history of the place.’

  ‘Ah, you’re the historian,’ Mariner realized.

  She gave him a questioning look. ‘You make it sound as if I have a reputation.’

  ‘Not at all. Someone I spoke to happened to mention that you were working here. For some reason I imagined a middle-aged man, all side whiskers and tweed jacket.’

  ‘Hm, I think you might be confusing me with an old-fashioned stereotype.’

  ‘That’s very likely, I’m sorry.’

  But she didn’t appear to have been offended and held out a hand for Mariner to shake. It was cool to the touch, with long, delicate fingers, plainly manicured. ‘Suzy Yin,’ she said.

  ‘Tom Mariner,’ Mariner said, in case she had forgotten.

  ‘Yes.’ She hadn’t.

  ‘It looks like a challenge,’ Mariner said, taking in the extent of the paperwork.

  She lifted her eyebrows. ‘You can say that again.’

  One item, an old ink-drawn map, caught Mariner’s eye. ‘That’s Plackett’s Wood, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Going back over to the table, she separated it out from the other documents. ‘It’s the one the river runs through, on the edge of the estate. Amongst other things, I’ve been going over all the original land registry papers for the area. They make fascinating reading; the land round here has been carved up frequently by different land owners over the centuries, according to who was in and out of favour with the monarch of the time. The Tudors were devils for it. And though the physical boundary encloses Plackett’s Wood as part of the Abbey Farm land, I’ve found some documents that would seem to indicate that the monks who were there in the mid-sixteenth century did some kind of deal with the incumbent Earl of Wroxburgh and handed it over to him.’

  So this must be the land dispute Rex had mentioned. ‘Why would they have done that?’ Mariner asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Could be any reason really. This was around the time when Henry VIII was giving the monasteries a hard time, so perhaps they gave over a bit of profitable salmon fishing in return for being left in peace, or even in exchange for protection.’ As her enthusiasm for her subject shone through, she became more animated and, not for the first time, Mariner wished he’d paid more attention to this stuff when he was at school, so that he could make sense of how these communities had existed.

  ‘But as you said, land changed hands frequently,’ he reminded her. ‘Couldn’t it just have reverted back at some later point?’

  ‘It’s the obvious explanation, though the evidence so far seems to suggest that when the abbey was finally closed down as a religious order, the man who acquired the land just grabbed the opportunity to seize it back. Or it may just have been that the physical boundaries
at that time weren’t clear and an assumption was made. That’s what I’m continuing to research, and I think Mr Shapasnikov has hired a local firm of solicitors to look into it too.’

  ‘It’s where the body was found,’ Mariner told her.

  ‘Oh God.’ She recoiled slightly. ‘I didn’t know. You don’t think . . .?’

  Mariner shook his head. ‘It’s probably just an unfortunate coincidence. Who knows about the dispute?’

  ‘Possible dispute,’ she corrected him. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t told anyone about it but I can’t speak for Mr Shapasnikov. As I said, he was talking about taking on a local law firm, though I don’t know if he’s done anything about it yet. I can’t imagine it would be something he’d want people to know until we’re certain about it.’ She clasped her arms around her. ‘It makes me wish I hadn’t found it now. Mr Shapasnikov pounced on it, but I mean, it’s not as if he hasn’t already got lots of land.’

  ‘Have you mentioned anything to the police?’

  She understood his implication. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Shapasnikov would . . .? I’m sure he wouldn’t go that far. In any case he hasn’t even been here in the last few days.’

  Mariner didn’t like to point out that a man as powerful as Shapasnikov wouldn’t need to soil his own hands. ‘It probably isn’t anything to do with anything,’ Mariner admitted. ‘But it would be better to let the police make that decision. They need to have as much information as possible. You should tell Superintendent Bullman or one of his team about it as soon as you get the chance, so that they have the full picture. It’s the sort of information I’d want to have.’

  She looked at him strangely, before understanding dawned. ‘Of course, you’re a policeman too, aren’t you? Well, if you really think I should say something, then of course, I will. It’s a horrible thing to have happened, and in such a beautiful spot too . . .’ She tailed off.

  ‘And the member of staff,’ Mariner asked. ‘Did they manage to get hold of Mr Shapasnikov?’

  ‘I think he’s on his way back here now.’