by Joy Ellis
Jackman turned to Gary. ‘You come with us to Mr Lee’s lodgings. We’ll see what Mr Tanner thinks about him.’ Then he remembered something. He called across to Clive, the office manager. ‘I’d like you to be at your diplomatic best, and phone Grace Black.’ He pulled a face. ‘She needs to be assured that we are not forgetting our responsibility to Kenya. Tell her that this case has escalated, and that I will be in touch personally very soon, okay?’
Clive gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll be discreet, polite, sensitive, tactf—’
‘Okay. I get the picture.’
* * *
As they drove out of town, Jackman looked at Gary. He seemed quieter than usual. ‘Is it Emily?’ he asked. ‘I know how disappointed we all are, all hoping she would point us to the killer.’
Gary shook his head. ‘That’s true, but no, something else is bothering me.’ He screwed his face up and then it came out in a rush. ‘Thing is, I was really concerned about Chief Superintendent Cade taking those CCTV tapes, sir, so I had a word with a mate of mine at Harlan Marsh.’ He turned to Jackman. ‘He’s straight as a die, my friend, and I know he won’t mention this.’
Jackman slipped the car into fifth gear and listened.
‘Apparently, as soon as he heard that you were up to your neck in bodies out at Roman Creek, Cade hared over to Saltern like a greyhound out of a trap. He asked the super how your enquiries regarding the drinking club were going — and the rest is history.’
‘What do you make of that?’ asked Marie from the back seat.
‘That he knows someone involved in this illegal club and wants to protect them.’
‘Another of his buddies up to his armpits in the brown and sticky stuff!’ Marie snorted. ‘So why ask us to investigate in the first place? If he has friends up to no good, you don’t invite a crack team to start poking around.’
‘Frankly, Sarge . . .’ Gary nibbled on his bottom lip. ‘I’d bet a fiver on the fact that he really believed that Toni had done one of her usual running-away tricks, and he was just showing off to Neil Clarkson by getting you to look for her.’ His eyes narrowed, ‘I’d put nothing past that man. And looking back on it, our hunt for the club has been dogged by bad luck from the day we started. I’ve been thinking for a while now that someone was tipping them off.’ His face was set. ‘I’ve seen evidence disappear, witnesses suddenly drop charges, and all manner of dodgy goings on in my time at that station.’
Jackman swung the car off the main road and onto a long straight drove. He stared out across the fallow fields, and said. ‘Would your mate make a few more discreet enquiries for you?’
Gary nodded. ‘He owes me one so I’ll call in the debt. Mind you, if he thought he was helping to upset Cade’s applecart, he’d do it for love.’
‘Then ask him to keep an eye on Cade’s “helpful investigation” into the club.’
Gary pulled out his phone and called his friend. ‘Sorted.’ He smiled grimly. ‘He’s a good lad. He’ll ring me when he knows something.’
For a few minutes they all contemplated the sunshine glinting on the silver-grey waters of the wide drain running alongside the farm drove. ‘This is a very beautiful county,’ said Gary quietly. ‘How can the people in it do so much evil?’
The house where Lee lived was a typical fenland farmhouse. With its chimney stacks at either end of the steep slate roof, central porch and front door, and bay windows either side, it looked to Jackman like a child’s drawing.
The barns that were set around were neat and tidy, and oddly silent.
No one answered the door. Jackman was just beginning to think that they’d had a wasted journey when a tall, muscular man, wearing dusty jeans and a shabby wax jacket, appeared from one of the larger storerooms.
Gary waved, and the man strode over to them.
Gary showed him his ID. ‘We’re looking for Mr Tanner. I’m PC Pritchard and this is DI Jackman and DS Evans.’
They offered their warrant cards and the man glanced at them.
‘I’m Bill Hickey, the farm manager. I’m sorry, but Mr Tanner is away for a couple of days. Is this about Micah?’
Jackman nodded. ‘You know him, obviously.’
‘Yes, I’ve been looking after the farm here for five years now, and Micah was here before I came. Funny bloke, not too much up top, but he’s solid. Damned hard worker too. He helps us with the potato grading after the harvest. Never complains, just gets on with it.’
‘Is he a friend of Mr Tanner, or just a lodger?’ asked Gary.
‘Guess they are friends of a sort, although not particularly close. They are both bachelors, and quite private men, so I suppose the situation suits them. Micah has his own sitting room and bedroom and shares the farmhouse kitchen.’ Hickey plunged his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Your guys came out here last night. They looked in his rooms, but they wouldn’t say what had happened.’
‘Sorry, sir, but we can’t either, not yet.’ Marie looked at the manager with interest. ‘Where is Mr Tanner?’
‘He’s in Germany, visiting one of the big agricultural machinery manufacturers.’
‘When did he go?’
‘Night before last. He’ll be back tomorrow.’ Hickey looked from one to the other. ‘Is Micah all right? I mean, he hasn’t had an accident, has he?’
‘He’s safe, sir,’ said Jackman warily.
‘But he’s in trouble.’ Hickey gave a slight grin. ‘That man’s temper is awesome. I’d not be surprised if he’s given someone a good thrashing.’
Jackman shook his head. ‘He’s helping us with our enquiries, Mr Hickey, but he hasn’t been in a fight. Do you have a key for the house? We’d like to see Mr Lee’s rooms.’
Hickey nodded and took out a large bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m not sure Mr Tanner would like this, but I guess it won’t hurt. Mind if I come with you?’
‘Lead the way.’
The house was clean and bare, with no ornaments, houseplants, photos, TV or computer. No life, thought Jackman.
Micah’s room was the same. Every object was purely utilitarian. Jackman gave Marie a helpless glance. ‘I don’t think it’ll make the cover of Hello, do you?’
‘And it doesn’t tell us anything about what kind of person he is.’ Marie turned to Hickey. ‘What’s Micah Lee like? Where is he from?’
The farm manager puffed out his cheeks. ‘I don’t think I’m the one to ask, Sergeant. He does have his problems, but I don’t know what caused them. He keeps himself to himself, although I seem to recall him saying he’d lived in Derbyshire when he was younger, somewhere near that plague village in the centre of the Peak District. Eyam, I think it’s called.’
‘How about friends?’
‘He doesn’t have any that I know of, and anyway, he has been spending so much time on that job of his out at Roman Creek that I don’t really see him at all.’
Jackman shrugged and took one last look at the bare walls. ‘I’ve seen enough. Thank you, Mr Hickey.’
‘You really should speak to Toby Tanner about Micah, Detective. I’m sure he knows him better than anyone. I’ll get him to call you as soon as he gets back.’
As they got back to the car, Jackman muttered, ‘I hope Charlie and Rosie are doing better than we are. What an odd place. No home comforts at all.’
Gary agreed. ‘I suppose that can happen when there is no woman and no love in a home.’
Jackman wasn’t so sure of that. After all, he had no partner to share his life with, but he still felt that his house was a home. But whatever the reason, the place was strange.
* * *
Rosie and Charlie’s morning had been considerably more successful. They had met an old couple whose parents had worked at Windrush when soldiers were billeted there in the last world war. They had supplied a wealth of trivia about the place, and some pretty good tea and biscuits too. The husband, Ernie, was a fount of local folklore. In a hushed voice he’d told them that while walking th
eir two dogs along the sea-bank path, he had heard a strange and eerie voice singing mournfully in the twilight.
Their second call was also quite informative. The cottage owner, a short, stocky, heavily-bearded man called Ralph Jenkins, was the local RSPB representative, and spent a lot of time out on the marsh cataloguing waders, waterfowl and migrant visitors. He admitted having seen someone out on the marsh at night in all weathers. ‘The fool! I’m a yellowbelly, born and bred, Detectives, and I know better than to do that.’
Their last call was to Gary’s vet’s house. Luckily they had chosen his one day off.
‘Come on in. Want a cuppa?’
Philip Groves, dressed in old corduroy chinos and a check shirt, led them into a welcoming, cosy sitting room. Nearly every seat held some sort of animal. Rosie counted six dogs of varying breeds and at least three sleeping cats.
‘Standing room only, by the look of it.’ Groves smiled, then addressed two Jack Russells. ‘Come on, lads! Jacko! Willoughby! Shift yourselves! Give the lady a seat!’
Rosie sat, and Willoughby leapt straight onto her lap.
‘Oh dear, I hope you like dogs, miss.’
‘Love ’em,’ said Rosie, tickling the little animal’s ears.
Charlie turfed a fat fluffy cat from a small armchair, sat down and explained their visit.
‘Has something serious happened out at Windrush?’ asked Groves.
‘Yes, sir, although we are not at liberty to give any details, I’m afraid.’
‘Has that big guy who is working there had an accident?’ Groves’ face grew serious. ‘I’ve seen him alone out there at all hours. Damned dangerous, I reckon.’
‘No, he’s okay, Mr Groves,’ said Rosie. ‘But have you seen anyone other than Mr Lee, he’s the big guy you mentioned, out at Windrush or on the marsh close by?’
Philip Groves shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever actually met the owner, but other than Mr Lee, there’s my neighbour, Jenkins, our bird man. He’s always out there on the marsh paths. And Ernie Coulter walks his dogs along the sea-bank pretty regular-like, and you get the odd rambler.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘Come to think of it, I saw someone a week or two ago, in the evening, way out in the bleakest part of the marsh. And that’s not a sensible thing to do at all, unless you know the tides and the weather really well.’
‘So it must have been a local?’ asked Charlie.
‘I’d hope so. It’s a dangerous spot for an incomer. This is a very small community, Detective, but it was no one I recognised.’
‘Do you live here alone, Mr Groves?’ asked Rosie.
‘Apart from this lot.’ He pointed to his pets. ‘I started with one dog, an old lurcher, and one cat. Somehow the others have gradually found their way to me over the years, and look at us now.’
‘Have you ever heard singing, sir? Out on the marsh?’ Rosie asked.
Groves stopped smiling, and she saw a strange look cross his face.
‘Didn’t think you’d be interested in all that superstitious stuff, officers.’
‘It may not be superstition, sir. If you have heard anything, there may be a very valid reason for it.’
‘I’ve heard nothing other than old wives’ tales,’ Groves said shortly. ‘But I’d be interested to know what you mean.’
‘We’ll be glad to explain, sir, but not just yet I’m afraid.’ Charlie stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’ He handed Groves a card. ‘If you think of anything else about either the old house, or the marsh, give us a ring.’
As they left the room, Charlie turned back. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot! A colleague of ours wished to be remembered to you, sir. PC Gary Pritchard?’
‘Gary! Of course! He and his lovely sister used to come here with their dogs before I opened the practice in the town. Really nice man, Gary, salt of the earth. Loved his dogs to distraction. Give him my best, won’t you?’ He glanced at Rosie, who had Willoughby still in her arms. ‘And speaking of which, I’m afraid the dog has to stay here, DC McElderry. But my surgery has a small rescue centre attached. It’s run by volunteers and a few of my vet nurses, so come and see us if you can give a dog or a cat a good home.’
‘Not working the hours I do, Mr Groves. It wouldn’t be fair.’ Rosie placed the little dog on the ground with a sigh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Back at the station, Clive handed Jackman a memo. ‘This is from the pathologist, and just to let you know that I spoke to Grace Black. She was most understanding. She said that she realised a lot was going on at present but she would appreciate an update from you when you have the time.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jackman. He skimmed the memo, then turned to Marie. ‘The crime scene isn’t ready to be released yet, but Rory has said that you and I can take another look around. And Ted Watchman has confirmed that a large entrance in one of the walls of the chamber has been very professionally sealed up. Ted has also ascertained that the work was done from a tunnel on the house side of the area. That means the beds and all the other stuff were brought in from Windrush.’
‘Which ties it even tighter to Broome,’ Marie said eagerly.
‘Or to the man who has spent a very long time working there.’
‘Mr Micah Lee.’
‘Exactly. God, we desperately need to talk to that man! I’m just about to ring Harlan Marsh and try to lean on the medical officer. Go and see if Rosie and Max are back yet, then we’ll get ourselves back to Windrush.’
* * *
An exhausted-looking Rory Wilkinson beckoned them over and pointed to one of the small labels that hung above each bed.
‘As you were thoughtful enough not to contaminate my crime scene, you would not have handled these cards, and hence not noticed what is written on the back.’ With gloved fingers, Rory turned the card over and showed them a line of small, faded handwriting.
‘Dates of birth?’ Jackman thought immediately of Toni and the man who had demanded to know exactly when she was born.
‘Partial dates of birth, on each card. All have the day of the week, some the month and others the year, and some have faded completely. But observe, on every card, the weekday is underlined.’
Marie looked closer. ‘They are all born on a Wednesday?’
‘Well, we can’t be certain about the older ones until we do lab tests, but all the ones that are legible are exactly the same.’
“Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace . . .” Jackman looked at Marie for help.
‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe!’ Marie shook her head.
‘I’m sure a good shrink would find it very interesting indeed,’ said Rory, carefully replacing the card.
‘If we had one,’ grumbled Jackman.
Rory looked at him over the top of his glasses. ‘Well, I do have a friend. He’s a simply brilliant forensic psychologist, and he’s retired, so he might be prepared to give you the benefit of his expertise. I can ring him, if you like?’
Jackman thought of the super’s aversion to profiling and the trouble that the last one had caused, then said, ‘Yes, please do. I would love to run quite a few things past him.’
‘Good. I’m certain he’ll be a great help.’ Rory’s face broke into a broad smile, ‘And he’s simply gorgeous! Mature, yes, but my! If I wasn’t spoken for, well . . . but I’m getting carried away. Now, before I forget, I have to say thank you for organising such a lovely forensic anthropologist for us. I’ll introduce you in a moment, but my, what that woman doesn’t know about bones isn’t worth knowing.’
Rory turned back to the cards. ‘There is one more thing about these cards, well, about the handwriting actually.’ He bit on his lip. ‘This is by no means conclusive, but the technician who has been cataloguing the cards is a graphologist, and he’s sure that a woman wrote them.’
Jackman looked at Marie and knew she was thinking the same as him. Did those vases of flowers, and the neatly hung clothes, all carefully labelled, mean that Rory had been right all a
long? But what about the man with the strange eyes? The chorister? Could he be an accomplice?
‘Do you have any female suspects in the frame, Jackman?’ Rory asked.
‘Sort of. We have a woman named Elizabeth Sewell,’ Jackman whispered. ‘She’s in Saltern General Hospital at present, unfit for interview.’
‘Well, I’d keep a very close eye on her if I were you. I suggest that she knows rather a lot about our Children’s Ward.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘But come and meet the oldest resident, and Professor Wallace. Everything that we can do in situ has now been done, so she’s packing up our girl for transit.’
Rory stopped and made his introductions from a distance, warning them not to get too close for fear of cross-contamination.
Jackman looked at this expert on death, and was immediately reminded of his Aunt Hilda. The woman that looked out from the face mask was short, stocky and bright-eyed. She obviously had trouble keeping her wild mane of greying hair inside the hood of her protective suit, which created the illusion of an enormous head.
Jackman fought back the impulse to call her Auntie, and asked instead why the skeleton’s leg seemed so deformed.
‘I will be able to tell you more when I examine the remains under controlled conditions, but I believe that she had an ankle fracture in early childhood. It must have been so severe that it sheared off the end of the tibia. Even now I can see distortion and fracture-related bony callus. I would say that it never healed correctly and she was either not treated properly, or suffered another later injury to the same weakened site. Come and see me tomorrow at the morgue and I’ll tell you more.’
‘Do you have an approximate age for her, Professor?’ asked Marie.
‘I’d rather not guess, but if it’s important, I’d estimate that she was in her mid-teens. Tests will help get that estimate closer to the truth.’
‘Professor? Rory Wilkinson says that she was killed much longer ago than the other victims. Would you be able to give us a vague idea of when she died?’