by Jennie Finch
Dave Brown put his hand up. ‘Do we know if there are, er – any other matching indicators?’
The Inspector stared at him for a moment before answering.
‘Well, that’s what we are looking for, lad. Right, the sergeant’s got the teams worked out. Collect your gear and report to the car park for transport.’
Dave waited until the room cleared a bit before going up to the board, staring at the photographs and the map. There was a movement behind him and he turned to face Dr Higgins, who was studying the display.
‘An unusual case, I think,’ said the pathologist.
‘You say we have one man who was drowned,’ ventured Dave. ‘Then one who was bludgeoned but made to look as if he’d drowned and then one who was bludgeoned and drowned as well?’
‘Yes,’ said Dr Higgins thoughtfully. ‘Interesting, isn’t it.’
Lauren’s mood lifted as she bowled along the flat road across the countryside in Jonny’s car. The rain had eased and the sun was forcing its way through the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky. The road was almost empty as they turned right on to the Levels and drove along between the water meadows and occasional hamlet or farm. She opened the window a fraction and breathed the fresh, green-scented air, relishing the sound of birds singing of the joys of imminent spring.
She was grinning by the time they turned into Glastonbury, the town buzzing gently with the usual influx of local shoppers and the handful of first visitors of the season. These were mainly older couples, lively pensioners with grown-up children and the freedom to roam purchased through the dividends from shares in the newly privatized industries and extra years of the company pension scheme. Untouched by ever-rising unemployment and benefiting from spiralling interest rates, they were the only thing standing between a lot of rural communities and economic disaster. She watched them through the big bay window of the pub that Jonny had suggested they eat in, as she and her brother waited for their food.
‘Reckon most of the tea shops ‘ud be struggling without them oldies,’ she said.
Jonny nodded and took a pull at his pint. ‘Reckon a lot of the West Country would,’ he said. He’d recently got a job working as a hospitality manager at one of the local hotels and had been shocked at how close the line between ‘getting by’ and ‘going under’ had become. ‘Seems we need the Grockles, at least for a bit longer, till things look up.’
Lauren snorted in disgust. ‘Can’t see things looking up for a while,’ she said. ‘Not until they sort themselves out and do something for us ordinary folk. And that ’ent happening any time soon I reckon. Too busy helping a bunch of greedy rich boys get richer, they is.’
At that moment their main courses arrived and put an end to Lauren’s political tirade, at least for as long as it took her to clear her plate.
‘Fancy a pudding, Sis?’ Jonny asked as the sweet trolley trundled past them heading for the main dining room.
‘Well, I might squeeze something more in,’ said Lauren. At that moment she glanced out of the window at the High Street and froze.
‘Jonny, look, ’tis Iris. Iris Johns, over there by the chemist.’
Jonny leaned forwards and peered out. Iris, dressed simply in a dark coat, turned and realized she was being watched. There was an uncomfortable few seconds as her eyes met Lauren’s gaze and then she nodded an acknowledgement and turned away. Lauren watched her walk away down the street, shifting in her seat to keep her in sight until the abrupt arrival of the sweet trolley snapped her back to the business in hand. A nervous young man hovered next to their table, plate and serving spoons in his hands. Jonny gave him a wide, welcoming smile and the waiter swallowed hard, sneaking a glance over his shoulder before smiling back.
‘Hello Kirk,’ said Jonny. ‘Nice to see you again.’
Kirk chuckled, his eyes darting to and fro anxiously.
‘Hello, Jonny. Fancy you turning up here then. I thought you were in Highpoint.’
‘Oh, you know, I like to get around a bit. Seemed like a nice day for a run out.’
The manager materialized at their table, his hard eyes taking in the scene. Kirk ducked his head slightly and his ears turned bright red. Lauren, who was used to Jonny and his many friends, leapt in to save the situation.
‘I don’t know, there’s just so much is so nice. What do you reckon is your best pudding then?’ She smiled up at Kirk, the picture of innocence.
‘It depends if you want something fruit based or maybe perhaps a bit more substantial,’ said Kirk, the relief showing on his face.
‘I ’ent so sure you can serve a proper pudding on them plates mind,’ Lauren went on, seemingly engrossed in the sweet trolley. ‘Is not a pudding if you can see it through the custard. Is only a dessert otherwise.’
The manager blinked rapidly as he digested this novel interpretation of his menu.
‘Perhaps you would prefer a bowl?’ he suggested.
Lauren threw him a glittering smile. ‘That’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
There was the briefest of pauses before the manager realized he had somehow been manoeuvred into fetching the bowl himself and turned away, seeking someone appropriately menial for the job. Before he could delegate Kirk, Lauren launched in to a series of questions about the pies, puddings and fruit plates on offer.
‘Thank you,’ the young waiter whispered, the instant the manager was out of earshot.
‘Sorry,’ Jonny muttered. ‘I didn’t expect to make trouble. When are you off?’
‘Not till seven,’ Kirk muttered, bending over the trolley and lifting a particularly succulent chocolate cake out for Lauren’s inspection.
‘Meet you behind the Rifleman then?’ Jonny suggested.
Kirk had time for a nod before the manager returned bearing a bowl and followed by a girl from the kitchen with a white jug.
‘Here we go, my dear,’ said the manager. ‘And I thought you would need a little more custard to make it a real pudding.’ He gestured towards the serving girl, looking as pleased as if he’d conjured her up as well as the custard.
‘Why thanks,’ said Lauren, beaming at him. ‘Is lovely to get such good service.’ She watched as Kirk served her pudding under the watchful eyes of the manager, who finally nodded his approval and moved off to micro-manage someone else. They all exchanged relieved smiles and Jonny lit a cigarette whilst Lauren finished off her meal. After demolishing her chocolate cake, custard and ‘little splash’ of cream, Lauren was ready to face the shops in Street and hurried out into the warm afternoon.
To her surprise she spotted Iris, still hovering down the High Street. Jonny was inside paying the bill and for a moment Lauren contemplated going back inside to wait for him but her hesitation was her undoing. Iris was walking towards her, a determined look on her face, and Lauren resigned herself to the encounter. Iris stopped a few feet away and hesitated before speaking.
‘Hello Lauren,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry to intrude but I wondered if you could spare a minute?’
She looked nervously over Lauren’s shoulder just as Jonny stepped out of the pub and started across the road towards them.
‘Hey!’ he called. ‘What do you want?’
He moved across to stand in front of his sister protectively but Lauren laid her hand on his arm to stop him.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Iris just wants a word. Why don’t you go and check the car.’ It was an order rather than a question.
Looking decidedly unhappy, Jonny walked off to the side-street where his new Nova was parked and Lauren nodded to Iris to come closer.
‘Is a bit delicate,’ said the woman, and now Lauren got a good look at her and realized that Iris had been crying.
‘Let’s sit down, over there, look, by the flower beds,’ said Lauren guiding her towards an empty wooden bench. ‘Now, what’s this you want to talk about then?’
Iris blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath before she answered.
‘I’m
so worried about my Billy,’ she said. ‘He’s getting himself all wrought up about Derek and I don’t know as how he came to terms with losing his brother either.’
Lauren nodded sympathetically and waited for Iris to get to the point. She could see Jonny hovering on the corner, watching her anxiously and was mildly irritated by his overly protective attitude. Iris had done her no wrong. Her husband, Derek, was another matter and Lauren was exceedingly glad Derek was dead and gone, but Iris had turned away from her violent husband and his mad quest for revenge. She had thrown him out of the house, changed the locks and refused to see him, which made her all right in Lauren’s reckoning. She realized Iris was speaking again and decided to let Jonny stew for a bit longer.
‘Now he’s on about Derek’s funeral, though we can’t have a real one – not a proper funeral on account of there’s no body ever been recovered. I was hoping to do some sort of memorial service maybe, though I’m not sure many folks would want to come.’ She dropped her head and gazed at her clasped hand for a moment before fixing Lauren with a defiant look.
‘Still, he wasn’t always so bad. Once he was half-way decent, just a bit wild and used to getting what he wanted the whole time. If it helps Billy, I’ll stand up and say I miss Derek, that I’m sorry he’s gone, but the prison, they won’t let him out for the day. Because of that silly running away thing he did. They say he’s an escaper and he’s not entitled to any release until his sentence is up.’
Lauren digested this for a moment.
‘So when is he out then?’ she asked.
Iris sighed and shook her head. ‘Well, should have been round June but they took half his remission off him so now is probably not until end of September,’ she said.
‘Bit late, waiting nearly a year,’ said Lauren thoughtfully and Iris nodded.
‘Well there’s some,’ she said acidly, ‘some folks as think I’m not properly respectful, waiting this long with nothing to mark his passing. Mainly Derek’s cousins that is. Bunch of inbred half-wits without a brain cell to share between ’em.’
Despite herself Lauren laughed aloud.
‘Why don’t you say what you think, Iris. Don’t mind me.’
‘Ah, I know, but really – what a collection of losers they is! I been fobbing ’em off, saying maybe they might find the body and we’ll be able to give him a proper funeral and then I was trying to make ’em wait until Billy could be there, but they’s getting right pushy now. Saying I don’t care and I’m disrespectful to Derek’s memory. Seeing as how he got hisself drowned trying to kill you and all, I ’ent so sure is possible to disrespect it, mind.’
Lauren had always been told not to speak ill of the dead but she was finding it hard not to agree with Iris on just about every point.
‘So, what is it you’re wanting from me then?’ she asked.
Iris looked down at her hands before answering.
‘I was wondering if Alex Hastings might have a word on Billy’s behalf. I know it’s asking a lot, specially as Derek behaved so badly towards her …’
Privately, Lauren thought this was something of an understatement. Derek had, after all, stalked Alex for most of the last year, breaking into her house, slashing her car tyres and finally trying to kill her. Had she been in Alex’s place, Lauren would have been tempted to walk away from the whole family and leave young Billy ‘Newt’ Johns to rot in Dartmoor but she had known Alex long enough now to realize her friend was more forgiving and, on occasions, infinitely more professional.
‘I thought she did send that letter,’ said Lauren, stalling for time whilst she tried to see a way out of the problem. She might not be Alex’s official assistant any more but she still felt a strong obligation to protect her, especially from the memories and emotions generated by the Johns family.
‘She did, yes, and that was very kind of her,’ said Iris. ‘It’s just – they didn’t seem to take anything into consideration when they turned him down. I thought maybe – if she could – perhaps speak to them? Billy’s not going to try and escape. That’s just daft, and they know it. They’s punishing him for what Derek made him do and I don’t think that’s fair – do you?’
‘Hang on, what do you mean, Derek made him do?’ Lauren asked.
Iris’s face hardened, her eyes glittering in the weak sunlight.
‘Was Derek’s idea, that stupid “escape” of Billy’s,’ she said. ‘He’d heard something around the Levels about a “grass” in Dartmoor, so he told Billy to keep his ears open an’ call him if he heard anything. Course, he said to keep it secret so Billy, he wasn’t going to risk using the phones inside the prison in case someone heard so he did that run into the village. That’s how Derek found out about poor old Frank Mallory.’
Lauren was aghast. ‘Does he know?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I suppose technically that could make him an accessory to Frank Mallory’s murder!’
‘I never told him,’ said Iris. ‘I’ll maybe talk to him when he’s out but I reckon he’s got enough problems at the moment. Though there’s times I’m so tempted, hearing him talking about Derek and thinking the man was worth looking up to!’
Iris looked about to burst in to tears again and despite everything Lauren found herself moved by the woman’s courage and the devotion she showed towards her son. Lauren had gone to school with the Johns brothers, at least on the rare occasions they deigned to attend, and the younger lad, Biff, had been one of the kids who had made her life miserable. Newt, on the other hand, had never bothered her and actually called Biff and his little gang of nasties off a couple of times. She guessed she owed Newt too.
‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll talk to her for you. I don’t know if she can do anything more, mind, and she’s still got her arm all plastered up so I don’t think she can drive very far at the moment.’
Iris gave her a glittering smile and for an instant Lauren could see the beauty and charm that had broken hearts across the Levels.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
Iris gathered herself, taking a deep breath and putting her handkerchief back in her bag.
‘You know,’ she said as she stood up, ‘I just want it all over. I want to say goodbye and walk away from the whole damn lot of ’um.’
‘Except Newt,’ said Lauren.
Iris fixed her with a steady gaze and smiled very slightly. ‘Yes, except for Newt.’
It was muddy down on the banks of the River Brue and the Highpoint police officers were grateful for their waders and waterproof jackets. It began as a cold, wet morning and there was the usual round of grumbling but gradually the rain turned to drizzle, the clouds lifted and the sun fought its way through to bring sparkle and colour to the water meadows and reed beds. There were worse ways to spend a bright, spring day’s overtime, Dave Brown thought as he plodded slowly and carefully along the edge of the water, stick in hand. He examined the ground carefully before taking each step, looking for footprints or signs of recent disturbance. There were a few areas of disturbed leaves and damaged grass but these proved to be caused by the local wildlife: otters and newly arrived migratory birds searching for food and material for their nests. Undeterred, Dave worked his way along the bank, parting the reeds and tall grasses with the stick as he went.
As the sun rose it began to feel pleasantly warm and he realized he was rather enjoying himself. There was something both undemanding and satisfying about a detailed search. He wondered for a moment if he were doing the right thing, pushing for promotion and trying to fast-track his career. The majority of his colleagues were perfectly happy as ordinary PCs, their lives the perfect mix of comfortable routine and an occasional burst of wild excitement at the rare, more serious, crimes. They talked a lot about their homes, their gardens and their pensions and certainly in these uncertain economic times they were exceedingly fortunate. Then he thought of the years ahead, long, slow years of the same thing, the same petty offences culminating perhaps in the much coveted position of desk sergeant. The day might be ple
asant but such a future was not for him.
He turned his attention back to the task, moving methodically along his allotted patch. Suddenly there was a shout up ahead and when he rounded a clump of willows he could see Sergeant Willis leaning over, peering in to a reed bed. The men who had been close enough to hear the call began to emerge from the surrounding greenery and the sergeant stood up and waved at them angrily.
‘Get back now! We don’t need your great big feet all over the scene. Stand up there, on the top of that path and wait!’
Dave hurried forward, sticking close to the river bank as he called out.
‘Sarge, should we get on the side of the path? Maybe under those trees, on the grass?’
Sergeant Willis looked at him for a moment and then nodded.
‘Right, of course that’s what I meant. Over there, you lot, and wait whilst we check the track for footprints. Brown, you get the photographer out of the car. Time he earned his overtime, I think. I’ll keep an eye on the scene down here.’
There were a few boot marks on the path but nothing very much, except they seemed to be heavy prints. A couple of them leaned over with a scuffed edge as if the maker’s foot had slipped a little.
‘Could be carrying something,’ said Dave hopefully.
The photographer grunted and snapped away, head down and coat collar turned up against the breeze. Once he’d finished, he tramped over to the riverbank where Sergeant Willis was waiting for him. Dave Brown considered the footprints for a minute. Whoever had walked along here had come from inland, along the old track from some disused peat workings. There were no return prints, he noted. And the scuffing on one side did look like the mark of someone struggling with a heavy load. He moved back up the track, keeping to one side and scanning the ground as he went.