Death at Beacon Cottage

by Betty Rowlands

  The cottage, named for its position at the foot of Painswick Beacon, could hardly have been more isolated. The tiny, two-storey dwelling was a good quarter of a mile from the village; at present it was partially visible through an as yet almost leafless hedge of ash and elder, but within a few weeks and throughout the summer it would be entirely hidden both from the lane and from other houses in the village.

  The track ended in a wide, gravelled area which had evidently been laid out as a car park for ramblers; a printed notice requested visitors to take their rubbish home and a small green signpost beside a stile pointed to a footpath leading across a steeply rising field behind the cottage. This morning it was occupied by a police patrol car, DI Castle’s maroon Montego, an ambulance and a 4WD vehicle which Sukey recognised as that belonging to a forensic pathologist, summoned to examine the body of yet another murder victim. She parked her van beside the ambulance, acknowledging the cheery wave of the crew, who were sitting in the cab sharing the contents of a flask and evidently prepared for a longish wait.

  The heavy wooden gate bearing the carved name ‘Beacon Cottage’ stood open. Sukey ducked under the blue-and-white tape that had been strung between the posts and found herself in a small, neglected front garden where little grew but weeds and a few leggy roses still bearing the withered remains of last summer’s blooms. An estate agent’s board bearing the word ‘Sold’ lay on its side behind a silver-grey BMW tucked up in one corner. The sight of the car gave her a jolt, making her pulse quicken and banishing for the moment the incipient nausea as she picked her way gingerly along the uneven mossy path, muddied in places and slippery after the rain, to the front door.

  ‘Where’s the DI?’ she asked the uniformed constable standing guard.

  ‘In the cellar – the door’s in the kitchen at the end of the passage. The medic’s there as well, examining the body, and DS Radcliffe’s in the living room talking to the man who found it. Says he was out walking his dog, the hound was sniffing around in the front garden and then ran into the house through the open front door. Next thing he hears it alternately growling and whimpering so he goes in to investigate, finds it at the top of the cellar steps with its hackles up, glimpses what’s lying at the bottom and rushes out to call us on his mobile. He’s refused point-blank to take a closer look at the victim, but he says the car belongs to the chap who bought the cottage a few weeks ago. Pretty shook up, he is. I dare say he could do with a cup of tea,’ the constable added hopefully.

  ‘Then why don’t you go and make one?’ Sukey retorted as she entered the cottage.

  She found herself in a flagged passage with a door at the far end which stood open, revealing the kitchen. She heard a sudden sharp bark and DS Radcliffe emerged from a room on her left.

  ‘Morning, Sukey, glad to see you,’ he said with an ingratiating smile. ‘The gentleman who found the body is very shaken up, d’you think you could rustle up a cup of tea?’

  ‘What is it about you men?’ she demanded with an indignation that was not entirely feigned. ‘The minute a woman appears you pretend you don’t know how to put a kettle on.’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Well think again. My first job is to report to the DI. I’ll tell him what you said,’ she added over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen.

  Sunlight from an east-facing window streamed into the tiny room, which was simply, almost barely furnished and contained no modern appliances apart from a sink with a wooden draining-board and a cooker and refrigerator, both of which had seen better days. In the far corner was another door leading to a glass lean-to which, like the rest of the place, had a slightly ramshackle appearance.

  Sukey gave a start as a disembodied voice that sounded as if it was coming from beneath her feet called, ‘That you, Sook?’

  ‘Yes,’ she called back.

  There was the sound of footsteps and the next moment DI Castle appeared from behind an old-fashioned wooden dresser which occupied almost the whole of one wall. ‘The victim’s down there.’ He pointed to an open trap-door in the floor behind him. ‘Doctor Harding has completed his examination and I’d like you to have a quick look round and take some pictures before we move him.’ As he spoke, a grey-haired man carrying a black case appeared, gave Sukey a perfunctory nod, promised Castle to send his report as soon as possible and took his leave.

  ‘Any idea when it happened?’ Sukey asked.

  ‘Harding won’t commit himself – will they ever? – but probably within the last twenty-four hours.’

  Sukey nodded, her mind busy. ‘That car outside… I’m pretty sure I saw it yesterday, outside Henry Greenleaf’s shop. I left a message for you…’

  ‘Yes, I got it, but I haven’t had time to follow it up. You reckon it’s the same car?’

  ‘I didn’t make a note of the number, but it was certainly the same make and colour. I was in the shop when the driver came in; he said his name was John Smith and he had an appointment. He looked vaguely familiar…’

  ‘The man who found the body, a Mr Henry Banfield, knows him as John Smith – assuming it is the new owner, that is,’ Castle interrupted. ‘He says some of the people in the village reckon it’s an assumed name and that he’s bought the place as a love nest.’

  ‘I had the same impression… about the name being assumed, I mean. And then another man turned up, a spivvy type in a flashy Jag. I assume he and John Smith were the important visitors Greenleaf said he was expecting. I think he said one of them was called Wallis—’

  ‘Wallis?’ Castle’s voice was sharp with interest. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like.’

  ‘Don’t you remember my telling you how Donna Hoskins heard Crowson refer to a man called Wallis?’

  ‘I do, now you come to mention it, but I’m afraid it didn’t ring a bell at the time,’ Sukey admitted ruefully.

  ‘And he and this Smith character both have dealings with Henry Greenleaf,’ Castle mused. ‘Well, well, this is getting interesting. I take it you got a good look at them?’

  ‘Enough to recognise them again, I think.’

  Castle gave a grim smile. ‘I doubt if you’ll be able to recognise this one. I should warn you, he’s not a pretty sight, but it’s cool down there so at least he hasn’t started to smell.’ He gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Sure you’ll be OK?’

  ‘I dare say I’ve seen worse,’ she responded bravely. ‘By the way, both Sergeant Radcliffe and the PC on the door seem to think it’s every woman’s mission in life to make cups of tea.’

  Castle’s severe features relaxed in a momentary grin. ‘I guess we could all do with one when we’ve finished the preliminaries,’ he said. ‘We haven’t any positive ID, but we’ll go through his pockets when we get him to the morgue. I’ve asked for a check on the owner of the vehicle. Now, if you’re ready…?’ He gave her a searching glance and she responded with a nod. ‘We might as well get this over with. Mind how you go, the steps are steep and a bit worn in places.’

  The kitchen was already beginning to warm up in the morning sun and the air in the cellar struck a chill contrast as holding her bag of equipment in one hand and clinging to a metal rail attached to the wall with the other, Sukey gingerly followed Castle down the narrow flight. It led to a surprisingly large chamber lit by a fluorescent tube; from the freshly-swept appearance of the beaten earth floor and the brand-new cables running across the ceiling it was clear that the new owner had already made a start on the renovation of the property.

  The body lay face down in a crumpled heap at the foot of the steps. At the sight of the hideous mess of blood, brains and bone that had once been a man’s head, Sukey closed her eyes, swallowed hard and took several deep breaths.

  ‘From bruising to the face – or what’s left of it – the doctor reckons he went crashing down the steps after being shot,’ Castle explained. ‘What we’d like to know is, what was he doing in the cellar? As you can see, it’s completely empty and there’s no sign of
anything that he might be intending to store down there.’

  ‘So maybe there was something there, and that’s what the killer was after?’

  ‘Exactly. I want you to go over every inch of it with a toothcomb to see if you can find anything useful.’

  ‘Will do.’

  At that moment the young officer descended the steps, averting his gaze from the bloodied heap at the bottom. ‘I’ve got the info on the car you asked for, Guv,’ he reported. ‘It’s registered in the name of a Mrs Miriam Lockyer of Tewkesbury.’

  ‘It’s probably her husband’s, registered in her name for tax purposes,’ Castle observed. ‘I’ll get someone round there straight away and find out whether hubby’s at home or unaccountably absent.’ He turned to Sukey, who was unloading her camera. ‘You OK on your own for a moment? My radio won’t function down here.’

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ she pleaded, but he was already out of earshot.

  There was only one way to deal with a stomach-churning situation such as this, she told herself as she settled down to her gruesome task. Treat the body as if it was a model, a waxwork. As a child she had been taken to the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussauds and some of the exhibits had haunted her dreams for nights. With hindsight, and a few years later, she had been able to laugh about it. Graveyard humour was a safety valve that had helped many an officer attending a death scene to overcome their normal feelings of shock and revulsion, and the thought came to her rescue now.

  With her mind so occupied, she managed to keep the urge to throw up under control while she snapped away at the corpse and its blood-spattered surroundings. When she had finished, she began an examination of the rest of the cellar, but apart from a few loose fragments of plaster and some discarded scraps of electric cable on the floor she found nothing of any significance.

  ‘There’s not much here to help us,’ she informed Castle when he reappeared a few moments later.

  ‘What about shoeprints?’

  ‘Not a hope. The floor’s as hard as iron and whoever swept up after the workmen did a pretty thorough job.’

  ‘D’you reckon that is the guy you saw at Greenleaf’s place?’

  ‘The clothes are the same, that’s all I can say. One thing, the soles of his shoes are clean. It was raining heavily by five o’clock yesterday and the front path is quite muddy, so it looks as if he got here before then.’

  ‘And the car’s wet, so it’s probably been here ever since.’ Castle pursed his lips as he considered the point. ‘Right,’ he said after a moment, ‘if you’ve finished, we’ll hand him over to the ambulance crew. Constable Ray’s just brewing up,’ he added and Sukey was surprised to find herself able to acknowledge his wink with a grin. She even chuckled aloud on learning that Henry Banfield, having recovered his nerve sufficiently to sign the statement DS Radcliffe wrote out for him, had declined the belated offer of tea and taken his leave.

  When the pot had been drained and the mortal remains of the man known locally as John Smith had been removed by the visibly shaken ambulance crew, Castle began rapping out orders to Radcliffe while Sukey, bracing herself for a second – although considerably less harrowing – visit to the murder scene, prepared to resume her task. Half an hour later she emerged from the cellar to find Castle sitting alone at the plain deal table with his chin propped in his hands, his notebook open in front of him. He looked up with a tired smile as she put her case on the floor and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Find anything?’ he asked with a noticeable lack of optimism.

  ‘A hell of a lot of blood,’ she answered with a shudder. ‘It’s all over the walls and floor from about the fourth step from the bottom downwards, so at a guess that was where he was standing when he was shot. And I picked up this.’ She held up a transparent plastic sachet.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a brooch. It was lying under the body and it’s covered in blood.’ She handed him the sachet and he studied it thoughtfully for several moments before handing it back.

  ‘What d’you make of it?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t be sure, but I think it might be Victorian. It looks very much like one my grandmother used to wear.’

  ‘So what does that tell us, I wonder?’

  ‘That it’s possibly part of a larger haul that the victim had hidden in the cellar and that the killer dropped it while making off with the rest of the goodies?’ she suggested.

  ‘My first thoughts exactly. Now,’ – Castle referred to his notebook – ‘I’ve made a list of points that suggest a common factor between the disappearance of Miguel Rodriguez and the three shootings, i.e. this one and those of Crowson and Morris.’ He tapped the open pages with the end of his ballpoint pen as he went through them. ‘Point one: All three victims were shot in the back of the head. It’s been established that the same weapon was used in the case of the first two and I’d be prepared to bet that we’ll find it was used to kill Smith – or whatever his real name is – as well.’

  ‘Which suggests we’re looking for a professional hitman,’ said Sukey with a shudder.

  ‘Right. Point two: Smith has a rendezvous with Henry Greenleaf, who for all his squeaky-clean reputation has long been suspected of having dubious connections. Point three: also at that meeting is a guy called Wallis, and Donna Hoskins overheard a reference by Crowson to someone being ‘shit-scared of Wallis’. It’s not that unusual a name, but let’s assume for the moment it’s the same bloke. Point four: We’re agreed that the trinket you picked up is probably part of a larger haul. Would you care to guess where it might have come from?’

  ‘I think so.’ Sukey’s brain suddenly went into overdrive as the conclusion he was leading up to became clear. ‘D’you mind if I have a shot at point five?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘When John Smith turned up in Greenleaf’s shop, I thought there was something familiar about him but I couldn’t place him. It’s just come to me – he looked very like a man in a silver-grey BMW who turned up at Bussell Manor just as Mandy and I were leaving. And isn’t Lockyer the name of the chap who advises Wilbur Patterson what items to add to his collection?’

  ‘You’re right!’ Castle slapped his forehead. ‘How did I come to miss that?’

  ‘You’d have spotted it sooner or later. You picked up the reference to Wallis that I missed,’ she added diplomatically, but she could tell from his expression that his mind had already moved on.

  ‘I wonder what business he had with Greenleaf,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe Greenleaf had offered to put him in the way of something of interest.’

  ‘Or he had something to offer, something he wanted fenced.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Sukey, ‘he did have a parcel with him.’

  ‘What sort of parcel?’

  She thought for a moment, trying to recall the scene. ‘Rectangular, done up in brown paper…’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘About the size of a standard pocket wallet, only thicker.’ Seeing the gleam of excitement that had appeared in Castle’s greenish eyes, she added, ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It might well be. It so happens that the most valuable item taken from Patterson’s collection was a small painting by Turner in its original frame.’

  Sukey felt her mouth fall open. ‘Golly!’ she exclaimed in an awed voice. ‘Do you really think—’

  ‘I think it’s time we had another chat with Henry Greenleaf, and his mysterious friend Mr Wallis. Of course,’ he went on, ‘each one of our five points on its own could be put down to coincidence – as no doubt Superintendent Sladden would take great pleasure in pointing out – but taken together they look pretty significant to me. There are still plenty of unanswered questions, though. The first one that comes to my mind is, is there a link between this killing and Roddy’s disappearance?’ He closed his notebook with a snap and stood up. ‘We won’t find any answers hanging about here, Sook. As soon as Andy Radcliffe gets back from the village
I’ll be away from here, and I want you to go back to the office, write up your report and get everything over to forensics as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Right. And then what?’

  She had become so involved in the exchange of ideas that she was beginning to think of herself as a fully-fledged member of the detection team. It came as a slight shock when he said, ‘Go to your next job, of course.’

  As she left the cottage a white police van drew up and a number of uniformed officers tumbled out. ‘Here to look for the weapon, I suppose,’ she said to herself as she drove away. ‘Fat chance!’

  Nineteen

  It was a little after nine o’clock when DS Radcliffe arrived at Parkfield Village Store and Post Office. A battered pick-up loaded with bales of hay was parked outside and an elderly bicycle was propped against the window. On either side of the street, cottages of Cotswold stone basked in the sun behind their tidy front gardens and a black-and-white cat sat grooming itself on a wall and pretending to ignore a blackbird that was sounding a staccato warning from a hawthorn bush. An air of peace and tranquillity – soon to be shattered when news of the crime became known – hung over the place. Radcliffe had seen it all before: the reporters, the photographers, the TV camera crews, all jostling for somewhere to park their vehicles and clamouring for interviews, quotes and statements from the police, while ghoulish sightseers hung around hoping to be caught in someone’s lens and find their picture in the next day’s paper. From the point of view of the media it would be a nine days’ wonder, but for the inhabitants of this idyllic corner of the countryside the shock-waves would continue to reverberate long after the case was closed. If it ever is closed, he muttered to himself as he pushed open the door of the little shop. He was beginning to share DI Castle’s pessimism.