by David Hodges
Finally, however, the DI tapped the list of names at the front of the file with one finger and provided his observations. ‘So, four women and five men,’ he summarized. ‘Well, you can wash out the women. Pathologist says the killer was almost certainly male to have had the strength to crush Melanie Schofield’s windpipe the way he did and I expect that, when the witch woman’s PM has been carried out, we will find she suffered the same sort of damage.’
She nodded but said nothing, and he grimaced his attempt at a smile.
‘That’s if we’re not looking for a butch lesbian with big hands, eh?’ he added.
Kate treated him to a disapproving glance. ‘Mr Fallow gave me a rundown on the ages of the historical society’s members,’ she said, without commenting on his tasteless remark, ‘and it seems only one of the women is under seventy – and she is fifty-two and confined to a wheelchair. Hardly assassin material!’
He grunted, his moment of politically incorrect humour past. ‘So what about our male historians? Done any homework on them yet?’
She nodded. ‘One, a Neville Haslar, had just gone down with the flu the night Tamsyn Moorcroft gave her talk, so missed the meeting altogether, and apparently he was confined to bed for over two weeks afterwards, which would have included the night she was murdered. Another, a former chemist named Rex Stavenger, is eighty-one and suffering from chronic angina—’
‘Which effectively removes them both from the picture?’
‘Yes but the other two – Philip Granger and Maurice Copely – both in their early forties – are worth a look, I think.’
Roscoe brooded over the information for a few moments, then sighed. ‘Seems to me we could be stumbling into red-herring territory here. Your historical society could be just a very tenuous long shot?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe it is, Guv but we don’t have any short ones at present, do we?’
CHAPTER 10
Philip Granger was a tall, heavily-built local butcher, with big red hands and an equally florid face that pointed to high blood pressure and a liking for both red meat and strong drink. He lived with his pencil-thin wife, Grace – his third partner, as it turned out – in an old detached house with a large garden and outhouses on the edge of Bridgwater. The place was graced by an aggressive-looking black Toyota Land Cruiser parked in the driveway in front of the run-down double garage and when Roscoe and Kate turned up on his doorstep, there was no doubt who wore the trousers.
Brusquely despatching his other half to the kitchen, he showed the two police officers into a small sitting room with paintings and photographs of steam trains adorning three walls. The room smelled of damp and stale tobacco and looked none too clean.
‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded, his high-pitched voice out of sync with his bulk and his pale blue eyes fixed on Kate’s open-necked blouse almost hungrily.
Roscoe pushed his chewing gum to the side of his mouth with his tongue and told him.
Granger’s thick lips formed into a whistle. ‘Tamsyn Moorcroft’s dead? Strewth! I read about that other girl, of course but Tamsyn Moorcroft too – it’s unbelievable. How did she die? Was it another murder?’
‘You met her, we believe,’ Kate put in, without answering his question. ‘The night she gave a talk to the local historical society?’
Granger nodded. ‘Well, not really met her, just listened to some talk she gave on the history of straw dolls or something – bit boring it was too. Trains and cars more my thing, you see. Weird woman, though.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Claimed to be a bloody witch – I ask you!’
‘So you didn’t actually speak to her?’
He chuckled. ‘Didn’t stay neither. Slipped away during questions at the end.’
‘See her at all after that evening, did you?’
He grinned again, apparently missing the significance of the question. ‘Wouldn’t have minded,’ he replied and winked. ‘Bit of all right she was – even if she was a witch – but unfortunately never seen her since that night. Sorry she’s dead, though. I mean, what a waste. Body like that, eh?’
‘Did you know the other girl who died – Melanie Schofield?’ Roscoe asked.
He gave an extravagant wink. ‘I don’t go after teenagers – I prefer mature women.’ His gaze returned to Kate’s breasts, then he frowned suddenly. ‘Hey, what is this? Are you accusing me of something?’
‘Not at all. Just routine inquiries, Mr Granger,’ Kate put in again. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Granger grunted, evidently not entirely satisfied with the explanation. ‘Well, I’ve got things to do today, so unless you’ve got any other routine questions for me. . . ?’
‘No, that’s about it, thank you,’ Roscoe said. ‘We’ll leave you in peace.’
Kate’s face wore a thoughtful expression when she climbed back into the CID car. Granger’s surprise about Tamsyn Moorcroft’s death had seemed genuine enough but there was a restlessness about the man that she had picked up on immediately and she hadn’t liked the way the focus of his gaze had kept returning to her cleavage. In fact, his whole persona had given her the creeps and she was relieved to be back behind the wheel and driving out of the cul-de-sac and away from the old smelly house.
‘So,’ the DI asked, as Kate drove, ‘what do you think?’
She made a face. ‘Big powerful man. Probably a bit of a bully, going by his ignorant dismissal of his wife – she seemed a bag of nerves – and from the way he couldn’t take his eyes off my boobs probably a bit of a pervert.’
Roscoe chuckled. ‘Well, that’s succinct anyway – you reckon he fancied you then?’
She shuddered. ‘I reckon he’d fancy anything in a skirt – or out of it.’
‘So, a probable for us then?’
Kate threw him a doubtful look. ‘I don’t know. He would certainly be strong enough to overpower any woman but I’m not sure he would have the bottle. More likely to be a fantasist or a flasher.’
‘Overall, a bit of a wuzzit then?’
‘Something like that. But he did seem genuinely surprised to hear about Tamsyn Moorcroft’s death.’
‘Yeah but he seemed to know all about Melanie Schofield. Never actually denied he had met her – did you pick that up? Just suggested she wasn’t his type. And he knew right away that she was a teenager.’
‘So would half of Somerset know that by now, Guv. It’s been in all the papers.’
Roscoe gave a reluctant nod. ‘Yeah, well – but he didn’t look the sort to be a history buff, did he?’
She pursed her lips. ‘No but he was obviously a railway anorak and I can imagine him and a couple of other anoraks sitting in a train carriage on the West Somerset line, with cameras primed and corned beef sandwiches on their laps. You couldn’t help but notice the pics of old steam trains plastered all over his living-room walls either. Not the most believable profile for a ruthless killer.’
‘So why would he be a member of a historical society?’
‘Trains have history too. Perhaps he needed an “in” with the historians – or he just wanted the company of like-minded wuzzits?’
Roscoe slipped some fresh gum into his mouth. ‘So let’s see what the other wuzzit on your list has to offer,’ he growled. ‘Maybe he collects stamps or butterflies?’
As it turned out, Maurice Copely did neither and the red MGA sports car parked in his driveway suggested he was actually into classic sports cars. He was also a complete opposite to Philip Granger. Tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes and a mop of unruly black hair, his long arms, skinny legs and small head perched on rounded shoulders reminded Kate of a stick insect, although, to his credit, he seemed to have worn well and did not look like a man in his forties. Unlike Granger, his body language was blatantly hostile from the outset, his gaze narrowing and his hands clenching and unclenching as he stared at them from the front door of his modern Woolavington bungalow, even before they had announced who they were.
‘Police?’ he queried coldly, studying Roscoe’
s proffered warrant card.
‘DI Roscoe and DS Lewis, Major Crime Investigation Unit,’ Roscoe responded and out of the corner of her eye Kate saw her boss had noticeably stiffened, perhaps sensing the animosity that confronted them. ‘Mr Copely?’
The other nodded. ‘So, what do you want?’
Roscoe cleared his throat. ‘Could we have a few words with you?’ he said. ‘It’s about the historical society.’
Copely didn’t move. ‘What about it?’
‘Better if we came in to talk,’ Kate put in, anticipating an impasse.
Copely hesitated, then shrugged and stepped to one side. ‘Not for long, though,’ he replied. ‘I’m just in from work – early finish today, as I have things to do – and my wife has just put the dinner on.’
The bungalow was bright and cheerful inside and the living room into which the two police officers were shown was nicely decorated and furnished with a couple of armchairs and a three-seat settee. A gold-coloured carriage clock occupied the mantelpiece of a teak fireplace and a photograph of the red MGA sports car stood on top of a bureau in one corner.
For a moment Roscoe and Kate stood in the middle of the room facing Copely, uncertain whether to sit or remain standing, so tense was the atmosphere. The spell was broken by the appearance of a small dark-haired woman with a ready smile and an ample figure.
‘Visitors?’ she queried.
‘Police, Marion,’ Copely said sourly. ‘Making some inquiries about the historical society.’
His wife laughed. ‘Always knew that was a den of iniquity,’ she joked, ‘but please do sit down. Would you like some tea?’
Roscoe shook his head. ‘We’ll only be a few minutes, Mrs Copely,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ she threw over her shoulder as she bustled from the room. ‘Dinner to prepare.’
Kate smiled at her departing figure, then settled on to the edge of the settee as Roscoe dropped into one of the armchairs. Copely remained standing for a moment, looking at each of them in turn, then shrugged and sat down carefully in the other chair. But the next moment, to Kate’s astonishment, his thin lips twisted into a sneer and he stared directly at the DI and said, ‘It’s been a long time, Mr Roscoe.’
Roscoe nodded. ‘It’s just clicked with me who you are,’ he growled, ‘and it isn’t Maurice Copely, is it?’
The other emitted a weak laugh. ‘No, I changed my name after all that business – deed poll, you know.’
‘Ten years,’ Roscoe breathed. ‘And now you’re here.’
Copely shrugged. ‘I have to live somewhere, don’t I?’
‘And married too?’
‘Common law, yes. No bit of paper yet, though Marion has adopted my new name and as far as I am concerned, she is already Mrs Copely.’
‘Does your good lady know who you really are?’
A heavy sigh. ‘No, and I’d rather she didn’t.’
Roscoe nodded slowly. ‘So what are you doing these days?’
‘Trying to keep out of trouble and working as an assistant at the new Levels Community Library.’
‘That can’t pay very well?’
Another shrug. ‘My father died, left me quite a bundle, so I get by.’
He nodded towards the photograph of the sports car. ‘That’s how I can afford special toys like that.’
‘An old MGA, isn’t it?’ Kate put in, her passion for sports cars showing through. ‘1950s model?’
Copely smiled. ‘Very good, Sergeant,’ he murmured. ‘It’s 1956, actually. I had it totally restored from a cast-off wreck. Cost me a bomb too.’
The DI glared at Kate, plainly irritated by her interruption. ‘So, what got you to join Fallow’s historical society?’ he went on. ‘I would never have seen you as a history buff.’
‘Just shows how much you really know about me then, doesn’t it? I’m fascinated by it actually.’
‘What about straw dolls? They fascinate you too?’
Copely raised an eyebrow. ‘Not particularly – especially after Moorcroft’s boring talk – why?’
‘Funny, Granger said the talk was boring too.’
‘Oh, you’ve seen that fat pig as well, have you?’
‘You don’t like him then?’
‘No one does. He’s an arrogant bully. But you haven’t said why you’re interested in corn dollies?’
Roscoe scowled but didn’t answer the question. ‘Any idea why we are here?’
‘I got a phone call from Will Fallow, so I was rather expecting it.’
‘Then you know about Tamsyn Moorcroft?’
‘Yes, and to answer the questions you are here to ask, no, I didn’t kill her, no, I haven’t seen her since she gave us her boring talk at the last meeting and, no, I had nothing to do with the other young woman who was murdered either. Satisfied?’
For a few moments there was a tense silence as Roscoe apparently considered his next question and Copely waited, like a chess player, for his opponent’s next move. Kate said nothing. She simply sat there, staring at Copely’s face. She felt like an outsider, eavesdropping on a private conversation in which she had no part. It was patently obvious that there was no love lost between Roscoe and this strange awkward-looking man, so their connection had to be something to do with a past case and, although she was dying to know what it was, her instinct was to sit there quietly – watch, listen and await developments – rather than stick her own oar in and be out of sync with whatever Roscoe had in mind.
She didn’t have to wait long and it was Copely who kicked off again. Holding both wrists out in front of him, he treated Roscoe to another sneer and said, ‘Do you want to cuff me now?’
The DI glowered at him. ‘Nothing to nick you for – yet,’ he retorted and abruptly stood up. ‘But I’m quite sure we’ll be back.’
Copely also stood up. ‘I’ll look forward to it, Detective Inspector,’ he said and preceded them to the door, turning briefly as he opened it with one parting shot. ‘But next time you speak to me it will be with my solicitor or I’ll file a complaint for harassment.’
Kate was conscious of Copely’s eyes on them both as she followed the DI down the garden path to the gate but she didn’t look back even when she turned to shut the gate behind them. As they drove away, despite her burning curiosity, she made no immediate effort to quiz her boss about the interview that had just taken place and, for his part, he just sat there in silence while she drove, staring straight ahead. Finally, however, she could stand the wait no longer and threw him a quick glance. ‘Well, what was all that about, Guv?’
He grunted, lighting up a cigarette and coughing over the first pull. ‘Ten years,’ he wheezed. ‘I was a bloody DS on the NCS, as it was then. And now the bastard turns up again – right out of the blue.’
‘So who is he?’ she encouraged.
‘Our number one suspect,’ he replied grimly.
CHAPTER 11
Ansell was back in his office when Roscoe stomped into the incident room with Kate in tow and although the cadaverous SIO glanced at them both through the internal office window and beckoned with an impatient gesture, Roscoe did not acknowledge him but made straight for the manager of the Holmes team, leaving Kate to go in on her own.
Ansell gave her a watery smile in greeting and pushed a newspaper across the desk towards her. ‘This afternoon’s rag, just out,’ he purred, ‘with a rather illuminating special interest story.’
She glanced at the newspaper and stiffened when she read the headline: ‘Ancient Myth Link To Murders.’ The story underneath was attributed to a reporter named Bradley Jakes and, after quickly scanning the piece, she emitted a soft whistle. ‘I don’t believe it. How the hell did he get all this?’
‘It seems, Sergeant Lewis,’ Ansell drawled, ‘that your author, Will Fallow, was duped by Master Jakes – whom he assumed to be a police officer following up on your earlier inquiries. As a result, he gave away a little too much information before he realized his mistake and the paper fil
led in the blanks themselves. He telephoned the incident room half an hour ago in a panic, after reading the story.’
‘Jakes must have followed me to Fallow’s house,’ Kate grated, then turned quickly as Roscoe burst into the room, blowing a bubble with his gum in a mood of intense agitation.
Ansell barely glanced at him. ‘Very likely, Sergeant,’ he continued, ‘but what I want to know is how Fallow was aware of your theory about the murders being copycat crimes?’
She hesitated, realizing how it looked. ‘Well, the man’s no fool,’ she said. ‘He knew I was investigating the two murders and when I asked him about straw dolls and the legend of Strawfoot, he must have put two and two together.’
‘Pity we said anything to him at all then, isn’t it?’ he said, the barbed comment bringing an indignant flush to her cheeks.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she snapped back. ‘But I could hardly interview him without telling him what I was investigating, could I? And I certainly didn’t tell him anything about the case.’
He flicked his eyebrows in silent dismissal. ‘Maybe but an irresponsible story like this could cause mass panic. We are likely to be deluged with phone calls from frantic residents startled by bumps in the night or worried about AWOL daughters – which is the last thing we need – especially as there is no sign of a breakthrough in this damned case!’
‘I might have something there,’ Roscoe cut in before Kate could say anything else. ‘Holmes team are on to it as we speak.’
Ansell spread his hands, palms uppermost, in an inviting gesture.
‘Blast from the past,’ the DI continued, his excitement barely contained. ‘Maurice Copely, one of the historical society members, now living in Woolavington. Just interviewed him with Kate.’
‘And?’
‘Recognized him straightaway. Real name Charles Richard Mottram. Changed to Copely by deed poll apparently. Thing is, ten years ago, when I was a skipper on the old NCS, he was a key suspect in the sexual assault of three teenage girls in the Thames Valley Police area, following a pre con for indecent assualt in Surrey. Victims were each snatched over a period of three weeks by a hooded man while walking home after dark. All were stripped naked and touched up but none was actually raped. Theory was, perp had to be sexually inadequate, couldn’t get it up—’