by Granger, Ann
‘If you’ve got a few minutes to spare, Mrs Foscott.’ The woman wasn’t going to be awkward. If anything, she was eager to talk. Whether she had anything of interest to say was another matter. Generally it was the garrulous witnesses who proved the biggest time-wasters.
‘Do you know who she is?’ asked Mrs Foscott.
Jess deduced the dead girl was meant. ‘Not yet. Penny Gower tells me you were here every day last week, is that right?’
‘Can’t waste time,’ said Mrs Foscott. ‘There’s a show coming up. Sultan’s got to be ready. He got the blue rosette last time, you know, in his class.’
‘Oh? Well done.’ She couldn’t care less if the animal had sprouted wings and flown over the jumps. Frankly, looking at Sultan, she couldn’t imagine any other way he’d clear them. However, she supposed blue meant a very respectable second. But then, how many riders had competed in that particular class? Jess drew a breath and firmly brought the conversation back on track.
‘On your way here, do you drive past Cricket Farm?’
Mrs Foscott nodded. ‘Can’t say I take much notice of the place. Try not to; it’s a real eyesore. It usually looks deserted. Sometimes Eli Smith is there or I see his lorry.’
‘Did you see it on Friday?’
‘No. If he went up there and found a stiff, he did it after I’d got home. Bloody nearly had an accident and didn’t make it.’ She scowled. ‘I was pulling out of the entrance to the stables here and swoosh! A big silver Merc going like a bat out of hell roared down the hill and straight across my nose. I had to slam on the brakes. These road hogs think it’s a country highway and they can drive like madmen because there won’t be any other traffic. But there’s precious little passing space and no wide verges.’
‘What time was this, Mrs Foscott?’
‘Oh, around four, slightly after. It had come on to rain. I put my head in the office back there,’ Mrs Foscott waved a hand vaguely towards the stable block, ‘to tell them I’d put Sultan in his box. Charlie dropped off the tack and then we were off home.’ She scowled. ‘I was easing my way out on to the road, looked both ways, couldn’t see anything, thought it was OK to pull out and, like I told you, this maniac came roaring downhill. The idiot nearly took my front bumper off. Charlie shrieked like a banshee. She thought our number was up and for moment so did I!’ Mrs Foscott squinted thoughtfully at Jess. ‘If I’d got his number I’d have reported him to you.’
Jess wondered whether Mrs Foscott thought CID officers also doubled as traffic cops. She realised the woman’s detailed account was designed to make it clear the near-accident was not Selina’s fault. Penny had driven past a suspect car, similar in appearance, not long before this second incident, Jess reflected. She’d told Andrew Ferris about it and he had phoned Eli Smith. But the Mercedes involved in the near-miss with Mrs Foscott’s car had driven past the stables about twenty minutes after Penny had seen it. That meant the driver hadn’t immediately left the spot where she’d seen him parked. Why? Because he wanted to be sure he wouldn’t overtake Penny again on the road? Or he had been doing something else? Phoning someone? Trying to clean up? Eli Smith’s yard was very dirty.
‘Now, look here,’ said Mrs Foscott unexpectedly, reassuming the hectoring manner that seemed natural to her. ‘How did that girl die?’
‘We’re not releasing details yet, Mrs Foscott, I’m afraid. Nor, frankly, do we yet know. We have to wait until after the post-mortem. We need to be sure about these things.’
‘I know that!’ the other woman snapped. ‘I’m not an idiot. What I mean is, was she shot?’
‘Oh,’ Jess was startled. ‘Not as far as we know. But as I told you, the post-mortem—’
She wasn’t allowed to finish. ‘Oh well, then,’ said Selina Foscott in a satisfied way. ‘Old Eli Smith had nothing to do with it.’ She fixed Jess with a minatory glare. ‘If old Eli wanted to kill someone for any reason – say he’d found the girl snooping round his farm – he’d blast her or anyone else with a shotgun.’
‘Why?’ asked Jess faintly.
Mrs Foscott looked grimly pleased at having at last taken the wind out of the inspector’s sails. ‘Because that’s the Smith way,’ she said simply. ‘You’ve heard about it? The double murder at the farm?’
‘Nathan Smith shot dead his parents, I understand,’ said Jess.
Selina nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s what Nathan did and it’s what Eli would do.’ She shook her head. ‘I do remember the whole bloody business. No one was much surprised at the time, I recollect. The Smiths were a funny family. Never mixed with any outsiders. People like that, they don’t have much imagination. If they’d found a way that worked, they’d stick to it. Believe me, if Eli wanted to kill someone, he’d do it the same way brother Nathan did. He wouldn’t have the brains to come up with anything different.’
She stared at the silent Jess. ‘That’s it, then? You don’t want me any more?’
Jess rallied. ‘No, er, not just now, at any rate. Could I have an address and phone number for you, Mrs Foscott? Just in case I have to come back to you, about the Mercedes car you saw.’
‘Certainly,’ said Selina almost cheerfully. ‘Glad to help.’
Out of earshot, Jess took out her mobile and rang Phil Morton.
‘Phil? Get on to traffic. I’ve been told of an incident involving a silver Mercedes car on Friday some time between four and half past. If we’ve got anything in Gloucestershire, it’s a healthy supply of speed cameras. If he was going like the clappers, and a witness says he was, then he may have gone through one. If his mind was on something else, like a body in a cowshed, he might not even have noticed.’
Lindsey Harper stood in front of the cheval glass in her bedroom and studied her reflection. The sun was setting and bathed everything in a mellow golden glow. It even lent some colour to her hair. Its natural shade was a sort of tallow yellow. Not a nice sexy blond, just tallow. She had it coloured regularly at a hairdresser’s but spending so much time out of doors meant that it faded quickly to its original hue.
She was a big girl. Not fat; just tall and big boned, built more like a man than a girl. She’d always been like that. When she’d been a kid, strangers regularly mistook her for a boy. A big, strong, sensible, outdoor type; that about summed her up.
She sighed. She’d returned from the stables an hour earlier and showered, changing into a dress for the benefit of her husband, Mark, who was due in at any minute. He’d been away on a business trip and was driving back this afternoon. Her mother had drummed it into her head, years before, that a woman should make herself look nice for her husband. But dresses didn’t suit Lindsey. Trousers, jodhpurs, riding boots, chunky pullovers and sleeveless body-warmers became her far better.
‘I look,’ said Lindsey to the reflection in the mirror, ‘like an upright piano someone’s draped a sheet over prior to doing a spot of decorating. You can see the shape of me, all square angles, and the dress looks like a rag.’
And that was annoying because it had been a jolly expensive rag.
There was a slam of the front door downstairs and footsteps in the hall. Mark was home. She hadn’t heard the car, so he must have parked out front. Her bedroom was at the back. She knew, without seeing him, what he was doing. He was going into the drawing room and pouring himself a whisky.
She gave the dress a last shake and went downstairs to join him.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he said carelessly as she came in. ‘Thought you might still be out at the stables.’
‘I came back early. I wanted to be here when you got home.’
This declaration of wifely affection was disregarded. ‘Care for a drink?’ he asked.
‘Gin and tonic, please,’ said Lindsey, giving up on the ‘little woman’ approach. Who was she fooling? Not herself and probably not Mark. ‘Much traffic?’
‘Usual.’
‘Trip a success?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
He brought her the drink and she sa
t down on the sofa and sipped it. He threw himself into a nearby armchair. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Lamb curry!’ Lindsey said promptly.
He showed some interest at last or, to be more accurate, he looked surprised. ‘Cook it yourself?’
‘Well, I cooked the rice. The lamb curry is from M and S.’
‘Ah, frozen?’
‘No, tinned. It’s very good. You said you liked it, last time.’
‘Oh, yes, fine by me.’
He’d already lost interest. He didn’t care what it was. He didn’t really care that she hadn’t cooked it. When they’d first come to live here he’d suggested they hire a cook. They’d hired just one and she’d been a disaster. Since then Lindsey had muddled along with the help of a daily woman to dust Lower Lanbury House’s cavernous Victorian rooms.
‘There’s been a murder at Cricket Farm,’ she said.
He had leaned back and closed his eyes. Now he opened them again. ‘That’s old news. It happened donkey’s years ago.’
‘No, not Nathan Smith murdering his parents. A new one. They’ve found a body.’
There was a silence. Mark stared at her. Then he said, ‘Don’t talk so bloody daft.’
Lindsey felt a hot flush crawl up her throat and face. She gripped the gin and tonic. Another woman would have chucked it at him. But she was still trying to hang on to this marriage.
What the hell for? asked a little voice in her head.
Mentally she answered it. For as long as it takes to get out of it with dignity and a decent settlement. I know my husband well enough to know he’s a vindictive blighter.
Aloud she said, ‘Eli Smith found the body of a young woman in one of the outbuildings at the farm. The police came to the stables today. Actually, it was just one woman police inspector.’
‘Lord help us!’ said Mark drily. ‘Is that all the local cops could manage?’
Lindsey drank most of the gin and tonic before she replied, so that she couldn’t hurl it at him.
‘She talked to Penny and to Andrew Ferris and to Selina Foscott.’
She had his attention now. ‘And to you?’ he asked sharply.
‘No, not really. I told the inspector I couldn’t help. The body was found on Friday. I was there on Friday but I went nowhere near Cricket Farm.’
‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to bother about it.’
Lindsey had planned what she was going to say this evening. Planned it before the matter of the body at Cricket Farm had come up and provided an unexpected topic of conversation, or what passed for conversation between her and Mark. She’d intended to ask him, casually, to tell her more about the ‘business trip’. Lead up to the real question. But it was a waste of time trying to do that. Perhaps surprise would work better now that she’d put him off-balance with the news about the murder.
So she just asked, keeping her tone casual, ‘Have you got a mistress, Mark?’
He goggled at her. ‘Have I what? What sort of bloody question is that?’
‘Pretty straightforward, I should have thought.’ She felt sick with nerves but she wouldn’t let it show.
He was rattled. He got up and went to pour himself another whisky.
‘What’s put that damn fool idea in your head?’
‘You’re away a lot. You never talk about it. You—’
He spun round. ‘I am away on business, working to earn the money to keep you in the style to which you are accustomed!’ He indicated the room around them.
‘I didn’t choose this house!’ she defended herself.
‘You didn’t refuse to come and live in it, either. You didn’t refuse to marry me.’
‘No,’ Lindsey said regretfully. ‘I was flattered. Why did you ask me? Actually, I know why. You wanted a wife to fit in with your county-set aspirations. You thought I’d do that. And I have done, haven’t I?’
Mark was listening now, calculating. She could almost hear wheels going round in his head.
‘What’s brought all this on, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t you got enough money? Do you want to buy another horse? Then buy one.’
‘I might!’ Lindsey snapped, her self-imposed control evaporating. ‘Penny needs another riding horse at the stables.’
‘I didn’t mean one for the Gower female. Why not buy yourself a decent competition animal? Try a spot of eventing.’
‘And keep myself out of your way even more?’
Mark walked over to the sofa and stood over her. Quietly he said, ‘You need a goal, something to keep your mind from dreaming up crazy fancies. So carry on mucking out those smelly nags if it makes you happy but think about taking up some form of horsy competition. I’ll concentrate on earning the money that pays for it all and leaves you free to spend your time as you wish.’ He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, ‘I don’t have a mistress, as it happens, but if I did, do you really think I’d tell you?’
He reached out and chucked her under the chin.
‘Silly girl,’ he said. ‘Let’s not have any more of this, all right?’
Chapter 6
‘He’s in the building!’ whispered Joe Hegarty hoarsely, as she passed by his lair on Monday morning.
He was leaning over the ledge that parted him from those coming and going by way of the main doors; his round head turned up to her and his fingers gripping the edge of the counter. He looked, to Jess, like one of those grotesque corbel heads that lean out from nooks and crannies in churches, to fix intruders with their stone gaze.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘He’s a grey-haired fellow,’ added Joe, who was hoary headed himself.
‘Fine, Joe, I’ll no doubt be meeting Superintendent Carter very soon.’
The mild put-down passed completely over Hegarty’s head. He only had a few months to go to retirement and, frankly, didn’t care about seniority any longer. He’d be a civilian soon, an ex-copper. When that long-awaited time arrived, whether inspector or superintendent, it would be all the same to him. He wouldn’t have to say ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ to any of them. He was, Jess thought with amusement, already practising.
She was however grateful for the warning and slightly annoyed by the information it contained. It was natural that the new boss would be prompt to arrive in his office on the first day, and she had made sure not to be even a minute late herself. She checked her wristwatch: a full ten minutes early. But Superintendent Carter had been earlier still. Was he hoping to catch them all out? She considered turning back to ask Joe what time the superintendent had arrived, but decided against it. It would give Hegarty great pleasure to know that she was jumpy.
And I am nervous, she admitted to herself as she climbed the stairs. It wasn’t just because she had a new boss but because they had a new murder investigation underway. How they had handled it so far, and would handle it in the coming weeks, would set the tone of how Carter saw his team. If they were efficient, he would be easier on them in future. If they messed up, he wouldn’t forget. They wouldn’t be allowed to forget, either.
Usually at this early moment on a Monday a few people would be hanging about in the corridors exchanging greetings and trivial details of how they’d spent the weekend. There wasn’t a soul to be seen now. Partly this was because two were on holiday and one on sick leave. Partly they were all lying low, toiling assiduously at their desks.
She looked into the room that Morton shared with Nugent (at present in the Algarve muffing his golf shots). Phil looked up sharply as she came in.
‘It’s only me,’ she said with a wry grin.
‘He’s in,’ said Morton. ‘He walked in here, introduced himself, informed me he’d hold a meeting at ten o’clock and walked out. Man of few words, our new super, I fancy! Since there’s only you, me, Stubbs and Bennison here at the moment, it’ll be a cosy meeting.’
Jess sighed. ‘Where are we at?’ she asked.
‘Well, Doc Palmer phoned in about three minutes ago and told me he’s doin
g the post-mortem at nine thirty this morning.’
Jess hissed annoyance. ‘Well, one of us had better be there and that means one of us will miss the superintendent’s ten o’clock briefing. Have you told Carter?’
‘I was going to, but then you came in. It’ll be me, I suppose, who’ll have to go and stand at Palmer’s elbow,’ added Phil gloomily. ‘You’ll have to be here.’
‘Yes, and you’d better get going. Palmer always starts on time.’
‘I always get morgue duty,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve got this for you, by the way.’ He flourished a folder. ‘You said to look up Eli Smith so I came back here on Friday night to check him out. I reckoned he’d be in on Saturday to give us his signed statement and if he was on the National Computer, I needed to know. I entered that farm, Cricket, as well for good measure and it turned up trumps.’ He allowed himself a satisfied smile. ‘I printed it out for you.’
‘Thanks. And did he come in and give his statement?’ Jess took the folder of papers. ‘I think I know what this is, by the way. Double murder at the farm, right?’
‘Oh, heard about it, have you?’ Phil looked disappointed. ‘Twenty-seven years ago, and yeah, the old chap came in and made his mark, like he said he would. I still can’t get over him not even being able to write his own name. He didn’t have anything to add to what he told us at the scene.’ Phil indicated the folder. ‘With that history no wonder he’s so cagey. I’ve always said you’ve got to watch ’em in the country. They get up to all sorts.’
Jess opened the folder and glanced down at the first page.
‘What’s up?’ asked Phil sharply.
Jess managed to wipe the shock from her face. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
But of course it was something; something that struck her whereas it might not strike Phil. Penny Gower had said she didn’t know which of the brothers, Nathan or Eli, had been the elder. But Penny didn’t know much of the detail of the Smith tragedy. The fact was the brothers had been twins. Like me and Simon, Jess thought, feeling discomfited. Except that they were twin boys.
There was a closeness between twins. She had always known, when they’d all lived together under the family roof, what her brother was thinking. He’d had the same almost telepathic link with her mind. They’d anticipated each other’s replies, reactions, intentions. It had been a shock, when they grew up and went their separate ways, to find that neither of them knew any longer just what the other one was doing. But she knew that Simon, on his rare visits home, spoke to her of his medical work with a frankness he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, use when talking to his parents. Their father probably had some idea of the dangers Simon and his colleagues ran. Their mother imagined all manner of perils – and probably had little idea of the real ones.