by David Hodges
CHAPTER 8
Hayden was looking a lot better when Kate made her second trip to Taunton Hospital to see him after she had gone off duty and freshened up at home. He had shaved and made an attempt at combing his unruly thatch of blond hair and was propped up in bed with an inane grin on his face.
‘Not a chipped bone or a fracture, old girl,’ he announced confidently. ‘Doc says it looks like I slipped a disc and tore some muscles when I went over on that step, so no permanent damage.’
‘And when are you being sent home?’ Kate queried.
He beamed even more. ‘Couple of days still, they reckon,’ he said. ‘They’re going to try a bit of physio first.’ He winked. ‘Met the physiotherapist today actually – nice strapping girl, lovely blue eyes. Think she’ll do me the world of good.’
Kate’s eyes gleamed. ‘If she does you too much good, you’d better get used to hospital food,’ she replied, ‘for when I’m through with you, you’ll have something a lot more debilitating than a slipped disc to worry about.’
He chuckled and reached over to squeeze her hand. ‘Don’t tell me you’re jealous, old thing?’ he said. ‘Bad defect, jealousy.’ Abruptly, he became serious again. ‘How’s the old investigation going?’
Her face hardened. ‘We’ve got another stiff – done before the last one apparently. Self-confessed witch, living near Shapwick. Looks like she might have made the straw figure he used on the first girl.’
He frowned. ‘Left in the same condition too, was she, then?’ he said.
She nodded grimly. ‘Partially ingested one of her own creations.’
‘Who’s the SIO?’
‘Guess?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not Raymond Ansell? Gordon Bennett, you are the lucky one, aren’t you?’ He brightened. ‘Still, he is a good, experienced detective.’
She snorted. ‘Yeah, and a regular clockwork orange too, with about as much charisma as a traffic bollard.’
‘Do you want charisma or a detection?’
‘A bit of both would be nice.’
He grinned and started to say something but then broke off when a young blonde-haired nurse in her early twenties materialized at his bedside wearing an unbuttoned coat over her uniform. ‘My own personal Florence Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Absolute angel, aren’t you, my dear?’
The nurse gave a shy smile. ‘It’s very good of you to help me out,’ she said to Kate. ‘I do appreciate it.’
For a moment Kate didn’t comprehend and stared at the nurse blankly, while the young woman glanced back at Hayden, shifting her feet uncomfortably.
Hayden coughed, his pale face reddening. ‘Ah,’ he said, scratching his nose in apparent embarrassment. ‘Claire has a bit of a problem, Kate. Meaning to tell you. Her – er – car has packed up and she has no means of getting home. Husband’s in security, you see, and away on an overseas contract and she’s a bit nervous after the newspaper report about the murder—’
‘So you said I would run her home?’ Kate finished for him drily.
He beamed again. ‘Knew you wouldn’t mind, old thing,’ he said. ‘Claire lives just down the road from us, in Mark village.’
‘It is OK, isn’t it?’ the young nurse asked, suddenly looking doubtful.
Kate nodded wearily. Good old Hayden. Feet first again. ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘But how will you get back here tomorrow?’
‘Oh, no problem,’ the nurse said with another shy smile. ‘I’m four days off after that and can get the car sorted again before I’m back on duty.’
Kate rose to her feet. ‘Whenever you’re ready then,’ she said. ‘My car is in the car park.’ She treated Hayden to a frosty stare. ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Do have a good night’s sleep, won’t you?’
Kate dropped the pretty nurse off at her small bungalow just off Mark Causeway nearly an hour later. The motorway was still packed with rush-hour traffic, delayed by the blanket of dense white mist which had spread across the flat countryside, and it had thickened appreciably since Kate had set out for the hospital. As a result, her journey time had been doubled.
She turned down the nurse’s offer of a cup of coffee and waited until she was safely indoors and had switched on the hall light before driving away. Then, tired and still irritable after her frustrating day, she crawled home through the lanes, finally pulling into her driveway with a sense of relief.
She saw the small parcel beside the front doorstep when she dropped her house keys on the path and bent down to retrieve them. Shrugging and wondering who could possibly have sent her a ‘present’, she picked it up. Then, unlocking the front door with the parcel tucked awkwardly under one arm, she dumped it on the table in the kitchen while she poured herself a glass of red wine from the half-empty bottle on the Welsh dresser.
She had tugged a frying pan out of one of the cupboards and was in the process of slitting open a packet of smoked back bacon from the fridge when the parcel caught her eye again and, hungry as she was, she left the bacon to use the knife on the brown paper wrapping instead.
There was a white oblong-shaped cardboard box inside the wrapping, sealed with tape, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering what on earth it might contain. Like many people, she often received packages from charity organizations, containing raffle tickets, pens and other small gifts to encourage support, and she knew it was always possible Hayden had secretly ordered something nice for her and it had only just arrived. Yet for some reason, she was uneasy. The box was totally plain and looked quite grubby, the tape skew-whiff and wrinkled in places, as if it had been sealed in a hurry. But it was very light, so she reasoned it was unlikely to be anything nasty – like a bomb, she thought, with a grin.
Her grin soon faded when she opened the thing, however, for it contained just one sinister item – the straw figure of a man about six to eight inches high with a note pinned to its chest reading ‘Martha Tinney 1846–1863 RIP’.
‘So, why you?’ Ansell queried, his tone soft but faintly hostile as he stared at the straw doll, still in its box. ‘Why not dump this outside the nick here?’
Kate took a deep breath. ‘I’ve no idea, sir,’ she said, sensing his antagonism . ‘But, as I have said before, there’s this book by local author, Will Fallow, about—’
‘Oh yes, the legend of—er—Strawfoot?’ Ansell cut in, the sneer in his tone very apparent, and he swivelled round slightly to stare at Roscoe. ‘Your imaginative copycat theory, eh?’
Kate tensed but bit back the reply forming on her tongue. For a few seconds there was a pregnant silence, broken only by the sound of Roscoe chewing. The tension in the room was palpable.
‘Which begs the question, why now?’ Ansell continued finally, sensing that nothing else was going to be forthcoming. ‘Are we talking about a local resident who has suddenly gone off the rails or some kind of psychopathic misfit who has recently moved into the area and wants a little attention?’
‘I’ve already made that point to Mr Roscoe,’ Kate put in, the ice in her tone unmistakable.
Ansell’s raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah but what have you done about it?’
Kate coloured up. ‘Nothing as yet, sir,’ she retorted, still smarting from his sarcasm and suddenly forced on to the defensive. ‘I’ve been too busy carrying out the initial inquiries into the first murder. I’ve already interviewed Melanie Schofield’s parents, her boyfriend and the Turners – where the party was held – and I’ve since been looking into the corn dolly aspect at the new library and through the author of the book I just mentioned.’
Ansell’s smile was back. ‘A busy little bee, then?’ he sniped but before she could say anything else, Roscoe cut in quickly. ‘We’re doing all we can, Guv,’ he said. ‘We’ve already got a team knocking on doors in Melanie Schofield’s village, gathering any info they can, and another chasing names from the Turners’ party. First light tomorrow, I’ll be assigning a further team to cover the area of the new crime scene as well and now you’
ve authorized the installation of Holmes 2, it should be a lot easier to manage the info coming in, and to identify potential links and suspects across the board—’
‘We could also get lucky when forensics check the parcel,’ Kate added. ‘There might be DNA trace elements on the wrapping or the doll.’
Ansell’s smile disappeared and he shook his head irritably. ‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘I suspect this is one killer we will only catch through some good old-fashioned leg work – and there is going to be a lot more of that from now on, Detective Sergeant Lewis, I’m telling you. No more sitting on hands, doing cosy briefings down the pub or visiting patients in hospital—’
‘I haven’t been visiting just a patient, sir,’ Kate protested angrily. ‘Hayden is my husband – and I have to abide by hospital visiting times.’
The glitter in Ansell’s eyes warned Kate that she was at the end of her length of rope and her mouth clamped shut.
‘We are investigating a double murder,’ Ansell rasped, thrusting his head forward like a bird of prey in the act of striking, ‘and murder investigations don’t work around hospital visiting times. We need to get our collective fingers out and nail this bastard before he does another job and the press tear us to pieces. Is that clear enough for you?’ He stood up. ‘So let’s get on with it, shall we?’ he continued, without waiting for her to reply, and glanced at his watch. ‘Briefing is at ten tomorrow morning, so you should be able to get a good two hours of inquiries in before then, Sergeant.’
‘Doing what exactly, sir?’ Kate said, chancing her arm again.
‘What you do best, Sergeant,’ Ansell sneered. ‘Chasing corn dollies!’
CHAPTER 9
Will Fallow took the news of Tamsyn Moorcroft’s murder badly when Kate called to see him again the next morning. It was as though the little man had suddenly had all the air knocked out of him in a single blow and he literally fell back into his swivel chair with a gasp, his body doubled up and his chubby jowls quivering. Just outside the study, in the hallway, a grandfather clock reverberated to the Westminster chimes, then struck twelve, although it was still only ten, and through the study window Kate could see an elderly woman – Fallow’s wife, presumably – turning over some ground with a fork at the end of a long overgrown garden.
‘It’s all my fault,’ the historian choked. ‘If I hadn’t told you—’
‘Forget it, Mr Fallow,’ Kate cut in. ‘Tamsyn would already have been dead by then. The killer needed to silence her as soon as he got what he wanted.’
Fallow slowly straightened in the chair, studying her quizzically, as if he only half believed her. Then a sharp gleam stole into his brown eyes. ‘So what was it the killer was after?’ he queried.
She shrugged. ‘We can’t say for certain.’
‘But the straw talisman being the most likely thing, eh? The one you found in that dead girl’s mouth – just like Martha Tinney?’
She grimaced. ‘I really can’t tell you, Mr Fallow,’ she said.
He glanced quickly out of the window at the woman in the garden. ‘So why are you here to see me again? It wasn’t just to tell me about poor Tamsyn, surely?’
Kate shook her head and, without asking, perched herself on the corner of his desk, as he had done with a lot more difficulty during her previous visit. ‘I wanted to follow up on our earlier conversation.’
‘But I told you all I knew. What else could I possibly add now?’
Kate’s stared at him fixedly. ‘You could start by telling me who else you told about Tamsyn Moorcroft,’ she said.
Fallow gaped for a moment, then swallowed slowly. ‘What makes you think I told anyone else anything?’
Kate took a deep breath, feeling her patience ebbing away. ‘The person responsible for the deaths of both women obviously knew a great deal about Martha Tinney and the legend of Strawfoot—’
He made an attempt at a casual shrug but failed dismally and she noted the beads of perspiration on his forehead. ‘It was all in my book. Anyone could have read it – you read it yourself.’
‘Yes but why would someone suddenly home in on it? Unless they were actually researching local folklore, the average reader probably wouldn’t even have been aware of your name or the book.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Without wishing to sound rude, you’re not exactly famous, are you?’
Surprisingly, he didn’t show any sign of hurt or resentment at her candour. ‘True but perhaps they were carrying out specific research then and came across my book that way?’
‘Which narrows down the field somewhat admittedly – but what about Tamsyn Moorcroft? How did they find out about her and her skill at crafting straw dollies? As far as I know, she hadn’t written any books and it’s unlikely she advertised in the Yellow Pages!’
He looked trapped. ‘What – what are you suggesting?’
Kate mentally counted to ten. ‘Mr Fallow, I haven’t got time to play games with you. We have a serial killer on the loose. So who did you tell about Tamsyn Moorcroft, apart from me?’
Silence for a few moments and she saw him squirm in his chair. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble – I’m sure they’re not connected with this terrible business anyway.’
‘Who did you tell, Mr Fallow? I shouldn’t have to remind you that obstructing a police murder inquiry is a serious offence.’
The colour seemed to drain from his face and he shook his head repeatedly. ‘I – I’m not obstructing you. It’s just that—’
His voice trailed off but Kate said nothing, simply waited as he appeared to wrestle with his conscience. Then, with a resigned grimace, he suddenly came clean.
‘I am president of a local historical society,’ he said. ‘It’s only a small group and we meet once a month.’ He hesitated before continuing. ‘I – I persuaded Tamsyn to talk to the group about the history of corn dollies at our meeting last month. The talk went well too and she was able to show off some of her creations.’
Kate’s heart was beating a lot faster now and she leaned forward to study him intently. ‘I want the names and addresses of everyone who was there,’ she snapped, a lot sharper than she had intended.
He frowned and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse. But then he released a heavy sigh and nodded. ‘We’re a very small group of nine and two of our members were unable to attend that night anyway, so there were only seven of us actually present.’
Easing back from his desk, he pulled open the top right-hand drawer and produced a black folder. ‘All the names and addresses are listed at the front,’ he said. ‘But I’ll run you off a copy on my printer, if you like?’
Kate flipped open the cover and scanned the list. Four women and five men, including Fallow. ‘That would be most helpful,’ she said absently. ‘So which of them were at the meeting?’
He took the folder from her, detached the relevant page, then swung round in the swivel chair to access the printer beside the desk. ‘Says in the minutes,’ he replied, raising the lid and placing the page face down on the glass. ‘But our treasurer, Jill Rouse, was on holiday in Hong Kong and Neville Haslar was in bed with flu.’
‘I’ll take a copy of the whole file, if I may?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ he mumbled and, as he stared into the vivid green light emanating from the machine as it rattled off the page he had just inserted, he had the look of a man who has just committed the ultimate betrayal.
She treated him to a tight smile. ‘None whatsoever, Mr Fallow,’ she replied. ‘But thank you for your cooperation.’
‘We’ve got a witness,’ Roscoe announced as Kate dumped Will Fallow’s file on the SIO’s desk in front of him.
Kate whistled. ‘A witness? What sort of witness?’
He scowled at her, plainly unimpressed by the development. ‘Some daft mare, a Daphne Herbert, who read that bloody story in the local rag,’ he said. ‘Just interviewed her.’
Kate frowned. ‘So why was she a daft mare? Surely we need any witness we can get ho
ld of?’
‘Yeah but there’s witnesses and witnesses. This one claimed she saw – and I quote – “a strange-looking man” walking along the main road near Melanie Schofield’s place the night she was stiffed.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Said he was dressed like a bloody scarecrow, in a long tattered coat, floppy hat and big boots. Surprised he wasn’t also accompanied by the tin man and the bloody lion from The Wizard of Oz as well!’
‘But maybe she did see someone?’
He snorted. ‘Balls! This is what happens when the press start winding things up. We’re likely to have every crazy in Somerset and beyond on our backs before long.’
‘Even if you thought she was a bit odd,’ Kate persisted, ‘she still might have seen something, so we shouldn’t just discount her.’
He paused in mid chew on a wad of gum. ‘Oh, come on! You can’t seriously believe crap like that? The woman was round the twist. A ruthless killer stomping around the Levels kitted up in a scarecrow outfit? That’s bloody comic-book territory – a Batman or Spiderman scenario.’
Kate gave another shrug. ‘Maybe our man likes to dress the part and is desperate to let people know he is acting out the Strawfoot legend? Could be he is trying to scare people witless as part of a sick game.’
Roscoe stared at her for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve lost it, Kate,’ he said. ‘I really think you’ve lost it. What bloody game?’
‘I don’t know – yet – but it’s worth thinking about.’
He muttered an oath. ‘Well, you think about it, Sergeant. I’ve got more important things to do.’
Abruptly turning his attention to the file from Will Fallow Kate had earlier dumped on the desk, he chewed slowly on his gum as he read.
Kate made no attempt to respond to his put-down; it would have been pointless and she was used to comments like that from him anyway. Instead, she remained perched on the window sill, swinging her legs, while she waited patiently for him to finish his read-through, knowing that, with all his warts, Roscoe was a much more human person to deal with than the acid-tongued Detective Superintendent Ansell who, to her relief, seemed to be engaged elsewhere.