by Paul Finch
‘Call me suspicious, DC Honeyford,’ Gibson said. ‘But these look like bullet holes. You asked how the dirigible came down. Now we know.’
At first Gail couldn’t respond. Finally she managed to ask: ‘That would work?’
‘Absolutely,’ Gibson said. ‘A bullet would go clean through, ripping one compartment after another, eventually causing catastrophic damage. And there may have been more than three shots fired. We’ll probably find more bullet holes in different sections.’
‘How high was it when it started to lose altitude?’
‘We estimate about four hundred feet.’
‘It would need to be a rifle then.’
‘I’d imagine so.’ He observed her carefully. ‘You seem happy all of a sudden.’
‘I’m not exactly happy, sir – but there’s only a finite number of rifles in Surrey.’
‘Suppose you’d better get after them.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I aim to.’
Chapter 17
Heck headed down the M11, and took the M25 orbital east of the capital. It was late afternoon when he pulled off the motorway in the vicinity of Woldingham.
On a map it all looked straightforward enough, but he soon found himself following single-track lanes between deep, thick hedgerows. Surrey was a commuter-belt county and yet within a few minutes he felt farther off the beaten track than at any stage of the investigation so far. In every direction fields and woods rolled away over undulating downland. Signposts were few, and he had to negotiate several unmarked crossroads. His map wasn’t as detailed as it might have been, though in all probability no map in existence was detailed enough for an outsider to find his way easily through a rural backwater like this. He stopped twice to ask for directions: once from two well-heeled young women passing by on horseback, and once at a village pub called the Old Stocks. Both times he was given vague directions, indicating that the Thornton farm was known in the area, which wasn’t surprising as it was apparently a sizeable spread.
One bar-stooled regular in the Old Stocks even commented on the sad incident that had occurred there. ‘Poor old Mervin, eh?’ he said. ‘Blew himself up like a bloody great balloon, he did.’
‘What was he like, Mr Thornton?’ Heck asked.
The regular, one of a small group of middle-aged men, including the landlord, regarded him suspiciously. ‘Newspaper fella, are you?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Heck showed his warrant card.
‘Ahhh …’ They didn’t look any less suspicious. ‘Well now, kept himself to himself. Older chap, you see. Mid-sixties, I’d say. Last of a dying breed, to be honest. What you’d call a “gentleman farmer”, I suppose. Refined like. To speak to him, you’d think he was a doctor or some college chap.’
‘Was he popular?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘Not exactly popular, but never heard anyone say a bad thing about him.’ The other men at the bar mumbled in agreement.
‘Bit of a tough nut,’ someone added.
‘Tough nut?’ Heck asked.
‘Yeah … robust, independent like. Worked hard, did things for himself. Not an offensive bloke, though. Not some pompous lord-of-the-manor type.’
Heck considered this. ‘Nasty accident, wasn’t it?’
There were ironic chuckles.
‘Can say that again,’ the landlord replied. ‘Daftest thing. Never heard anything like it.’
‘No,’ Heck agreed as he left the pub, adding under his breath: ‘But I have.’
He soon found the property in question. Again, it was only accessible from a single-track road, this one hemmed in on either side by high, stone-built walls buried under luxuriant ivy, with dense stands of trees beyond them. The first entrance was closed. Heck had half turned into it when he found his path blocked by a chain, suspended in the middle of which was a plank bearing the crudely painted warning:
Bridge unsafe. Please use other entrance.
He pulled back out onto the road, proceeding for several more miles before reaching a second turning. This one was open, but the road beyond it was narrow as well as unmade, a strip of weedy grass growing down the centre. As he drove along it, the trees, hawthorns for the most part, closed in from either side, their thorny fingers whispering along his roof and side panels. Deep ditches ran down both verges, so if he veered a few inches either way the car would topple. If this was the main entrance to the Thornton farm, God knew what unkempt state the farm itself was in. Perhaps Mervin Thornton had been a ‘gentleman farmer’ in name only.
When Heck broke out into daylight, he found himself trundling over a bridge built entirely from timber, but treacherously narrow; it spanned a gully, whose steep, foliage-covered sides plunged down twenty feet to what, from the brief glimpses Heck had of it, looked like a small but fast-flowing river. It was maybe thirty yards from one end of the bridge to the other, and Heck drove slowly and carefully. The safety barriers were green with mildew and looked ready to collapse. By the violent shuddering under his wheels, the planking composing the main body of the bridge was in an equally flimsy state. When he finally made it to the other side, sweat coated his brow in a fine dew.
‘Hate to see what the knackered one looks like,’ he said to himself as he burrowed on through another tunnel of undergrowth, heavy tussocks of thorny weed scraping his undercarriage and snagging in his wheel arches. On the basis of what he was seeing here, it was perhaps less surprising that Mervin Thornton had managed to blow himself up ‘like a bloody great balloon’. He clearly didn’t have much of an eye for health and safety.
Then Heck was through the mini-jungle, the matted vegetation swinging apart like a pair of gates, and he found himself on a broad drive, approaching an extensive stone-built house set in the midst of neatly mown lawns. The house was whitewashed and comprised various wings and annexes, its exterior covered in climbing rose bushes, all now in full bloom. Its wooden front door was also painted white, and decked with black ironmongery. A tan Range Rover and blue Citroën estate were parked outside, neither of which Heck would have fancied testing out on that rickety bridge. He parked alongside them, shoved his laptop into the glove box, climbed out, and walked up the path. Before he could knock on the front door, it opened.
A tall, fair-haired man stood there in a green sweater and green canvas trousers. ‘And you are?’ he asked curtly.
Heck showed his warrant card. ‘It’s about Mervin Thornton.’
‘I see.’ The fair-haired man regarded Heck with some uncertainty, but suddenly seemed less hostile. ‘In that case, you’d better come in.’
Freda Thornton was in her early sixties, with thick, somewhat unruly fair hair, only touched around its fringes with grey. She sat rigidly upright on her sofa, wearing a shabby brown cardigan and clutching a tissue in one hand.
She was smooth-skinned and strong-featured; handsome rather than pretty, with deep grey eyes, though at present they were moist and distant. Her cheek was pale, her lips clamped together. Her son, Charles Thornton, who had admitted Heck, was somewhere in his early thirties. He had inherited some of her looks: strong, even features – broad cheekbones, a square jaw, a straight, patrician nose. His eyes were also grey and his hair a dusty gold, cut in a strangely old-fashioned style: a short back and sides with a comb-over parting. He too sat on the sofa, while Heck was perched awkwardly on the armchair. There was a low coffee table between them, set with a bone china tea service. Heck sipped the weakest brew he’d ever tasted from one of the most delicate but expensive cups he’d ever handled.
A look of apparent bewilderment crossed Charles Thornton’s face as he tried to recall the death of his father.
‘It was a strange kind of accident,’ he said. His voice was resonant, educated. ‘I mean, if he’d died normally … the way people of that age tend to die. I don’t know – cancer, a heart attack, perhaps it would have been easier to deal with. But he was so hale and hearty. And then something as bizarre as that …’
Heck nodded understandingly. This
accident had been pretty grotesque even by the standards of those others he was investigating. Before setting out that morning, he’d perused several photographs of the corpse; Mervin Thornton’s lower torso had distended horribly until his farm overalls had looked like a second skin around him, bulging in all the wrong places. His swollen face had turned a gruesome shade of purple-grey thanks to a million ruptured capillaries, while his bloodshot eyes had bulged from their bony sockets like golf balls ready to explode. Heck could only hope and pray that the undertakers had worked their usual magic before Mrs Thornton had visited the corpse, though by her glazed expression the entire experience had dealt her a savage blow.
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ Thornton added, somewhat pre-empting Heck’s next question, ‘was why Father wasn’t able to free himself from the valve before he was pumped full of gas. I mean, okay, there was extensive bruising on his body, which suggested that he’d had a heavy fall, but there was no bruising to his skull or anything like that. Theoretically he should have been fully conscious.’
That knowledge alone ought to torment this family for the rest of their days, Heck thought.
‘I mean … why didn’t he just get up and stagger away?’ Thornton peered at Heck as if expecting an answer.
Heck shrugged. ‘It’s baffling, I must admit. The shock of the puncture wound maybe? Compressed gas acts very quickly. It’s possible that he only had to lie there for a few seconds, in a disoriented state.’
‘That suggestion was made at the inquest,’ Thornton said. ‘And these medical men; you have to trust them.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘How can we help you, Sergeant?’ This was the first time Mrs Thornton had spoken. In fact, it was the first time she’d acknowledged that Heck was in the room – it was her son who’d made the tea – though Heck had no doubt that she was aware of him and had been following the conversation closely. Now, she stared at the detective with a piercing intensity.
‘I was rather wondering that myself,’ Thornton said. ‘The coroner’s verdict was accidental death.’
‘Are you here to tell us something different?’ Mrs Thornton asked.
It was difficult to read the expression on her face. Her wet eyes suddenly gleamed with curiosity – and maybe something else. Hope? Could it be that some revelation about her husband dying by another’s man’s hand rather than through some ridiculous stroke of misfortune would provide closure for her? Would that be something she could more easily comprehend? Strange if true, but you could never second-guess the workings of the human mind after life-changing events like these.
‘I don’t know,’ Heck replied. ‘And that’s the honest truth. It’s not police-speak for something else. Perhaps you could tell me, though, who else was present on the farm that day?’
‘Just Mother and me,’ Thornton replied. ‘Oh, and Tilly.’
‘Tilly?’
‘My younger sister. Before you ask, she’s not here today. She’s at college in Guildford.’
‘There were no labourers on the farm?’
‘Father didn’t have many employees. He and I did most of the work ourselves.’
Heck glanced at Thornton’s hands; they were large, cross-cut with old scars, the fingernails ragged and dirty. Despite his refined appearance, he clearly did his bit.
‘We do have a livestock manager and a dairyman,’ Thornton added. ‘But neither were present at the time. It was a Sunday evening you see.’
Sunday evening, Heck thought. Another moment chosen when no one would be around. ‘And there was nobody else on the property at all? No tradespeople, no visitors, no guests?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Do you ever have trouble with trespassers here? I mean people coming onto your land who shouldn’t.’
Thornton mused. ‘We’ve never really noticed if we have. I mean we’re quite isolated. We don’t get passing rough … children messing around, teenagers drinking. We just don’t see people like that.’
‘How about travellers, squatters?’
‘Again, no. We’ve always borne in mind that we might have a problem with thieves. But there’s only one way onto the farm by road.’
And that road itself would put most visitors off, Heck almost said aloud.
‘And we have a security camera there,’ Thornton added. ‘Father had it installed on the off-chance.’
‘A camera?’
‘Yes. It’s in a concealed position, so most people don’t even know it’s there.’
‘Have you checked the footage from the day of the accident?’
Thornton nodded. ‘I did, yes. More through routine than anything else. Nobody came to the house that day. At least not along the main drive.’
‘You don’t seem very happy, Sergeant?’ Mrs Thornton asked, again in that curious, penetrating way. ‘If there’s something you’re not telling us, that’s hardly fair.’ Her hand had knotted into a claw around its scrunched tissue.
‘Mother,’ Thornton said in a patient but weary tone. ‘The sergeant won’t want to speculate on something like this. He can only give us facts.’
‘I assure you, Mrs Thornton,’ Heck replied, ‘the moment I uncover anything that contravenes the official version of these events, you’ll be the first to know.’ He glanced at her son. ‘Is it possible I can have a look at the actual scene of the accident?’
Thornton regarded his mother for several long seconds, as if trying to both chide and reassure her at the same time. She returned his gaze, but said nothing else. Finally he turned to Heck. ‘Of course, but there isn’t much to see.’ He got to his feet. ‘I mean, we’ve closed up that particular shed. All the equipment that was used has been disposed of. Couldn’t bear to have it on the property, if I’m honest.’
‘I understand.’
‘If you’ll just hang on a sec.’
Heck waited in the living room alone with Mrs Thornton while her son disappeared into another part of the farmhouse. He sipped the lukewarm tea from its fragile cup and covertly watched her. She glanced at him once, but then looked away again – sharply, as though any kind of eye contact would lead to further conversation, which was something she wanted to avoid. Heck glanced further afield. The farm’s living room was large, well-appointed and richly furnished. There was a deep rug in front of the huge fireplace; various horse brasses adorned the walls; the sideboard and other wooden fixtures were of dark, heavy oak. There was nothing in here to suggest the ramshackle, run-down hovel that Heck had first expected while crossing the decrepit bridge.
Various family photographs were gathered on the marble mantel. One depicted a man who simply had to be the late Mervin Thornton. It had been shot in a pub or the midst of a social event. He had short, white hair, white sideburns and a rather stern face. Heck wasn’t sure how long ago the photo had been taken but, as the younger Thornton had said, for a chap in his mid-sixties, the older Thornton had looked to be in rude health. He was a far cry from the horrific, bloated travesty that he’d become on his death. Another photo portrayed Charles Thornton, but in his teenage years; he was standing alongside a small horse – a Shetland pony maybe – holding its bridle, while a little girl, no more than seven years old and with a pretty giggle on her pixie face, was seated in the saddle, wearing an overlarge riding hat.
‘We can’t drive over there, I’m afraid,’ Thornton said, reappearing in a quilted doublet, a flat cap and a pair of boots. ‘But it’s only a five-minute walk.’
‘No problem,’ Heck replied. He nodded at the photo. ‘Nice-looking little girl.’
‘Tilly.’
‘Ah, yeah.’
‘That was taken on holiday in the Highlands of Scotland, a few years ago.’
‘You say she’s away at college?’ Heck said. ‘In the middle of summer?’
‘Tilly’s twenty-two now. There isn’t a lot for her here. Certainly not under the present circumstances.’
Heck nodded; he didn’t suppose the funereal atmosphere in this remote place would
be conducive to any kind of emotional recovery.
‘She doesn’t see her future in farming, anyway,’ Thornton added. ‘Divides her time between here and there … increasingly there, even when university is in recess. Shall we get going?’
‘Of course.’
Thornton led the way out through the front of the house and round to what Heck thought was its east side, where he noticed a number of additional outbuildings, barns, storehouses and such, but then veered away in the opposite direction, trudging along a stony track between enclosed paddocks, most of which were deep in lush grass.
‘We used to run a stabling business at one time,’ Thornton explained. ‘Not to mention a stud. There was a riding school on site as well, and a dressage team. Even the local hunt made use of our facilities.’
‘Must’ve been pretty lucrative,’ Heck replied.
‘It was, but it was a lot of work and responsibility. In the end, Father closed it all down. It wasn’t like he needed the money.’
‘I take it there was no acrimony involved?’
‘You mean unsatisfied customers coming back here for revenge?’ Thornton shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It was over a decade ago … but I don’t recall any unpleasantness.’
‘Your father didn’t have any other enemies?’
‘No one springs to mind. His personal motto was “do well by people, and they’ll do well by you”. At least, that’s what he always taught me.’
Heck considered this, glancing beyond the paddocks. Open land stretched to every horizon: meadows, pasture dotted with cattle, occasional other buildings. It occurred to him that a place like this could be quite vulnerable.
A small wooden structure loomed ahead. It was about the size of a small house, but severely dilapidated. Its timbers had warped and weathered. Its few windows were broken and half covered by planks.
‘As I say, we don’t use this particular barn anymore,’ Thornton said. ‘Father always kept his tractor here, so … well, we just don’t.’