“Shall I bring it out?” Poole asked Sheila, eager to prove his theory correct.
“No, leave it a minute,” Sheila said, waving him to one side as she opened her box and produced a liquid spray and a small torch. She leaned in and sprayed the liquid liberally over the wheelbarrow and surrounding area. She clicked the torch on and moved it around the inside of the shed, where streaks of light blue shone from almost every surface.
“Well,” Sheila said with a sigh. ‘I think we’ve found our murder site."
Chapter Nine
They had left the crime scene team swarming over the shed, ably led by Sheila, and had headed the car back down the track. Poole was trying desperately not to feel too pleased with himself, but it was difficult. Discovering the method the killer had used to transport the body was a nice piece of work.
“That was a good catch, Poole, I can see why you came with all those glowing references."
“Thanks, Sir.”
There was a pause. Poole had the feeling that Brock was working up to saying something.
“Let’s go and see this Stan Troon, or whatever his name is. Something else has just occurred to me about him.”
Poole was sure that this wasn’t what the inspector had been about to say, but decided to roll with it and ask him to expand.
“Sir?”
“Something he said has been bothering me. He told us he knew Henry Gaven.”
“I think his exact words were ‘of course I know him’” Poole interjected.
“Exactly, but he also told us he had moved to the area four years ago.”
Poole frowned. “And Gaven would have already been either in prison or soon on his way by then? Not long for Stan to get to know him.”
“Exactly,” the inspector said. “So he’s either lying or forgetful and getting his dates wrong. Either way I’d like to find out.”
Brock pulled his seemingly inexhaustible pack of boiled sweets from his jacket and tossed one into his mouth. He moved to put them back and then paused.
"Want one?" he said to Poole, offering him the bag.
"Oh, thank you, Sir," he answered, taking one. Truth be told he hadn't wanted one, but the inspector’s previous lack of generosity had been bothering him. He wondered, hoped that this was some sort of acceptance.
He turned the car left onto the main road out of the village and towards Stan Troon's caravan.
“Why did you want to become a police officer, Poole?” Brock said, wrenching Poole from his thoughts.
Poole’s mouth opened and closed again as he thought for the answer. “I think I wanted to make a difference, Sir,” he answered honestly.
“A difference to what exactly?”
Poole looked across to him. “To people, Sir. To their lives.”
He felt his face redden at how corny this sounded, but it was the truth. Another thought occurred to him that made his stomach lurch. Was this about his father? He had always known that his background would be checked. That the inspector would have known who his father was and what had happened. He had even thought about broaching it on his first day, getting it over with. Then he had been thrown straight into a murder investigation and he had forgotten all about it.
He couldn't help but feel this was Brock's way of picking at that particular wound. Was he already wondering where Poole's loyalties lay?
He pulled the car over to the entrance of the footpath into the woods that housed Stan Troon's caravan. Another car was parked in the small lay-by, and Poole recognised it from their visit to the vicarage yesterday.
“Looks like the vicar’s here,” he pointed out.
“Probably getting Stan to dig another grave for Edie,” Brock said climbing out of the car. They headed into the woods as they had before, the sunlight vanishing as they moved beneath the boughs.
“Why do you think he lives out here?” Poole asked as they moved along the path.
“Who knows,” Brock answered. “I can see why someone might just want to get away from it all. We’re going to need backgrounds on everyone affected by the accident and their families, but we should look into Stan Troon’s too.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The noise of someone approaching came from up ahead.
“Oh, hello,” Nathaniel Hooke said as he rounded the corner of the path. “I thought I heard voices.”
“Hello again, Vicar,” Brock answered. “Come to see Stan Troon, have you?”
“Well, I was trying to find him yes, but he doesn’t seem to be about.” He looked around the woods which spread out on either side of them as if to highlight the point. “Strange as I’d arranged for him to come and do some work at the church, there’s a bush that needs removing, but he didn’t turn up.”
“Is he usually a bit flaky with jobs?” Poole asked.
“No, quite the contrary, he’s normally very punctual.”
“We’ll take a look about,” Brock said heading off.
“I need to get back to Sandra I’m afraid," the vicar said with a concerned smile. "but do tell Stan not to worry about today when you see him. I just wanted to check he was ok. It can’t be very cheery living out in the woods on your own like he does.”
"Why does he live out here?" Poole asked.
"Well, from what I can gather he had been one of those traveller types before he came to the village. I think it must have stuck with him. I let him stay here as he didn't seem to have anywhere else to go," he shrugged.
Poole thanked him and they turned back down the path.
The clearing where the caravan stood was bathed in sunlight. Poole moved to the bench and the fire-pit they had sat at earlier and put his hand over it.
"It's cold sir,"
Brock nodded and they moved across to the caravan itself.
Poole rapped on it and called out, identifying them as the police. There was no sound from inside, no movement.
Brock tried the handle and it opened with a creak, casting a shaft of light into the black interior.
“You can’t go in there, Sir!” Poole said, putting his hand on Brock's shoulder and then pulling it away as though he had touched fire.
The inspector turned to him and raised one eyebrow.
“We don’t have a warrant to search his property,” he continued, somewhat weakly.
"I think this would come under probable cause, Poole. He could be dead in there."
Poole's eyed widened as he nodded, not wanting to speak if that was true.
Brock pushed the door open and peered inside. The pitch black interior yielded little information so he stepped up into the space and looked up and down.
"Well he's not in here," he said over his shoulder.
A bed was set up to the right and a seated area with a table to the left.
"It's neat," Poole said, stepping in behind the inspector.
"Just because a man lives in the woods, doesn't mean he has to live like a pig, Poole."
"No, Sir," he answered, feeling embarrassed at the implication that he was a snob.
"Look at this," the inspector said, pointing to a small photograph which was stuck to the wall by the bed. Poole stepped towards it and bent down. It was a picture of Henry Gaven.
"You were right Poole, we need to get a warrant for this place. If Troon isn't back by tomorrow, I think we should crawl over this place."
"Why do you think he has it?" Poole said, sticking the picture carefully back to the blob of adhesive that had held it to the wall.
"No idea, but I want to ask him," Brock said before stepping out into the sunlight. Poole followed and closed the caravan door behind him. They looked around at the tree line that surrounded them.
"Do you think it's worth shouting out again, Sir?" Poole asked.
"No, he knows who we are now. If he is out there watching us then he doesn't want to talk, and I don't fancy our chances of just the two of us finding him."
"You think he might have done a runner?"
Brock shrugged. "Who knows? Let's go a
nd see someone we do know where to find, eh?"
They walked back towards the car in silence, both chewing over this new development.
"You don't think they were lovers, do you sir?" Poole said when they were in the car and heading back towards the village. "I mean I know there's a bit of an age difference but..."
"Did you just use the term 'lovers', Poole? Bloody hell, this isn't a Jackie Collins novel. No, I don't think they were an item. Think about the timelines, Stan Troon, or whatever he's called only moved here four years ago."
Poole nodded, annoyed with himself for forgetting there wouldn't have been much crossover.
He slowed the car as they moved down the main street of the village until the small wooden sign which hung above the shop came into view.
"They can't do much trade here, can they?" he said as they pulled up against the curb. "I mean, the village isn't on a through road or anything so you're relying on the locals and it's not that big."
"Anyone would think the bank robbery business means a nice retirement, eh?" Brock answered chuckling as he stepped out of the car.
“Back again so soon, Inspector?” David Lake said as they entered Lower Gladdock stores. David Lake stood behind the small counter of the shop, an open folder of accounts in front of him.
“Well, it’s hard to keep away when we have found a body just down the road from a man with your reputation.”
David Lake’s face twitched slightly before sliding into a smile. “Well, my reputation with your lot was always undeserved.”
"Unproven at least," Brock said.
“Have you seen many walkers around the village recently?”
Poole glanced at the inspector. He hadn’t expected this question, but he could see where he was going with it. The vicar, Nathaniel Hooke, had mentioned seeing a walker on the footpath by the church, and that was the way the killer had taken Henry Gaven's body.
David’s face broke into a broad smile. “I keep myself to myself these days, Inspector.”
“I looked up Henry Gaven’s time in prison," Brock continued, unfazed. "Seems like he was attacked a lot. Stabbed in the shower, beaten up in the yard.”
“Prison’s can be a rough place, so I’ve heard anyway," he smiled. "I’ve never had the pleasure personally.”
“It’s strange for someone to be targeted so much like that, almost as though someone had put the word out to make it hell in there for him.”
“If someone did that,” Lake said, his voice flat, “then I’d shake them by the hand. He deserved worse.”
There was something in his tone that sent a chill down the back of Poole's neck. In that moment, he had no doubt that David Lake would have been capable of killing Henry Gaven.
“Maybe that’s what was waiting for him when he came out?” Brock said. “He wasn’t killed inside, maybe that pleasure was for someone to have outside of those walls and back in the real world.”
Lake said nothing, but raised his chin slightly, his eyes narrowed.
Brock moved suddenly closer to the counter. “Why was your son out walking the dog at three in the morning the night he died?”
The question hit Lake like a hammer blow. He stepped backwards, suddenly looking older than his years.
“I… I don’t know,” he said uncertainly, his London accent becoming thicker. “We thought he was up in bed.” He swallowed, and continued in a hoarse voice. “The dog always slept in his room, so it must have needed to go out.”
“And where did you find the dog after the accident?”
“He was back in Charlie’s room somehow. We reckon he ran back after the accident and snuck in with all the coming and goings. Police and what not.” His voice was distant, and for a moment Poole thought he was back there on that night. Reliving it.
“When he came home from The Bell on the night he died,” the inspector continued, "did he tell you he’d had a bust up with his friends?”
“No, but we heard about it after. He came home with a face like thunder, swore at his mum and sodded off upstairs. That was the last we saw of him.”
He took a deep breath and leaned on the counter. “Inspector, I’m getting the impression you think you know something about my son’s death that I don’t.”
“Not yet, but I have a feeling I will,” Brock answered somewhat cryptically. “Maybe you should think of that when you’re deciding on whether you can help us in our enquiries or not.”
David Lake’s eyes narrowed and Poole noticed that his hands had gripped the edge of the counter, but he said nothing as the inspector turned and left with Poole in tow.
They climbed back into he car before Poole asked the obvious. “You think the walker was something to do with David Lake?”
“I’m not sure, but according to the vicar you don’t see many walkers around here and then suddenly there’s one that’s hanging around for days? Not only that, he’s on the footpath the killer used to dispose of the body. I’ve got no doubt that Lake knows all sorts of people who would be willing to help with a problem like that, for a price of course.”
“That’s what you were getting at when you mentioned what had happened to Gaven in prison,” Poole said thoughtfully. “You think David Lake was having him beaten up in there, but he made sure that no one went too far and killed him because Lake wanted that pleasure himself.”
“That’s my guess,” Brock said grimly. “Wait!’ he said suddenly, sitting upright and causing the car to rock with his massive frame. He burst out of the car door and began running across the street after a man on the opposite side. Poole clambered out after him and caught up just as the inspector had clamped one giant hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You’re the one that left the note on our car the other day, care to explain why?”
“I… um,” the man stammered. He looked up and down the street looking terrified. “Come in here,” he gestured them to a small alley which ran between two old cottages and the three of them stepped into its shadows. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is a small village. I don’t want people thinking I’m talking to the police about things that don’t concern me.”
“Well?" Brock asked “What are these things that don’t concern you?”
“I do odd jobs around the area, and I was working on the Paget’s last week, fixing a bit of their guttering that was dripping. I realised on Friday that I’d left my hammer round the side of their house and thought I’d nip back and get it. When I was heading into their drive there was an almighty row going on. I couldn’t see who it was at first but then I heard Malcolm say Henry… well,” the man shook his head, “I couldn’t believe it. It was him, Henry Gaven as I live and breathe.”
“And did you approach them?
“Did I heck!” the man said, his face making it clear what he thought of that idea. “I decided I’d get my hammer back the next morning and got out of there.”
“And did you tell anyone that you’d seen him in the village?”
The man looked slightly shifty. “I might have mentioned it at The Bell yeah.”
‘What’s your name?” Brock asked. Despite this lead, Poole couldn’t help but think that he seemed annoyed.
“Gerald Baker.”
Brock ran his right hand through his hair and looked back down the alley towards the street. "Did you go back and get the hammer?"
"Yes," Gerald answered, frowning.
"I think Mr Baker, that you better take us back to your place and hand over this hammer."
Poole nosed the car out of the lane that led to Edie Gaven's cottage and saw the inspector sat on the single bench that adorned the village green. He pulled the car over and the inspector hopped in.
"You gave the hammer to Shiela?" he asked.
"I did, she's going to have a look at it. She said to tell you they haven't found anything that looks like the murder weapon at the cottage."
Brock nodded. He had seemed sullen since they had spoken to Gerald Baker. Remaining silent as they had gone to his house. A small m
id-terrace in a row of three, they had retrieved the hammer from his garden shed where he kept his tools. He had decided to stay in the village while Poole had taken the hammer to Shiela. He hadn’t known why other than he needed some time to think. Sitting in the very place that the accident had happened all those years ago seemed as good as place as any.
"I don't think Gerald Baker's anything to do with it,” he said. “He's got no motive as far as I can tell, and I can't see a hammer being the murder weapon."
"Why not, Sir?" Poole asked, wondering why he'd been asked to take the thing to Sheila if they didn't think it was related to the case.
"Ron Smith said the object was cylindrical, like a pipe. I know the end of a hammer is rounded, but I can't see it matching the wound. Also, if the Pagets found it and whacked Henry over the head with it after they'd argued, would they just clean it and put it back where they found it? I think they'd dump it somewhere where it could never be found."
“Come on," he said sighing. "Let’s go and see the buggers.”
“Well we know they lied to us once, Sir," Poole said, pulling the car away. "Maybe they thought that by putting the hammer back where Gerald had left it no one would think of it as the murder weapon and not check it?”
He pulled into the driveway of the Paget's bungalow and turned the engine off.
“Maybe," Brock answered climbing out. "But it would still mean they picked up the hammer and took it all the way to Edie's cottage before whacking him over the head with it. Anyway, let's see what they've got to say for themselves, if they're in," Brock said, his voice almost a growl. He rapped on the door and glanced back at the driveway. "No car." he added by way of explanation.
Marjory Paget answered the door wearing a dark grey skirt of a thick material and a cardigan of similarly insane colours to the one they had seen her and her husband wearing previously.
“Mrs Paget, we need to talk to both you and your husband. Is he in?”
“Um, no. He’s out I’m afraid,” she said nervously.
“And is he likely to be back soon?” Brock asked. His tone was lacking the soft compassion that he had shown the last time they had spoken to the couple.
An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery Page 9