Ashes to Ashes

by Margaret Duffy

  Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

  Carrick laughed softly and Patrick said, ‘Look, I know you love being flippant sometimes but—’

  I butted in with, ‘I can distinctly remember you saying, “Oh for God’s sake, Ingrid!” when I offered you a theory earlier. So, right now, flippant it shall have to be.’

  ‘You were serious?’ His voice had risen a whole octave.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You really think the remains were of Archie, her husband? What, as a substitute body to make it look as though she was dead?’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible. Hence the explosives, to try to ensure that whatever was left would be unidentifiable.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I think she’s a criminal. Only criminals have access to things like that. For some reason or other, she needed to disappear.’

  ‘But she raised the matter of what she regarded as his dodgy cremation in the first place,’ the DCI argued.

  ‘Perhaps to make it look as though she’s just a batty old woman,’ I said. ‘Something might have happened to make her feel insecure, perhaps a police investigation into one of those she’s involved with. She may well have been of the opinion that the local police would be unable to do anything, not realizing that she would be rattling the bars of the cage of the NCA. And, you must appreciate, this is only a theory of mine.’

  ‘There’s still the possibility that she may be a victim of crime and has merely been taken away by those responsible,’ Carrick countered.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘There may well be a scam involving getting rid of inconvenient people by substituting them for those due to be cremated and she is, as you say, a victim. But I’m much happier with the notion that she’s moved out, for now, and if everything quietens down in several months’ time will turn up, express horror at what happened to her place while she was away on a last-minute holiday, claim the insurance and move somewhere else.’

  ‘Those coffins in the shed …’ Lynn mused. ‘Archie could have been in one of them.’

  ‘God, he’d have been a bit high by then,’ Carrick muttered. ‘Mrs Peters doing a runner could have been triggered by your visit, Patrick. You do have a way of unsettling people.’

  ‘For which, in MI5 days, I used to get paid a hell of a lot more,’ said my husband grimly. ‘I suggest we try to find her, low key.’

  Carrick shook his head. ‘I can’t work like that. I have a murder inquiry involving an unknown male on which I have to concentrate until further evidence comes to hand.’

  Joanna was right: he did sometimes talk like a police procedures manual.

  ‘I know,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll do it. Any feedback will come straight to you. Do you have any useful info about the death of that funeral director?’

  ‘I did ask and there was nothing suspicious about it. He, Hereward Stevens, had been to a party here in Bath and left late-ish to drive home to Bradford on Avon at around eleven thirty. Sometime later, on a country lane that he’d turned on to at Limpley Stoke, his car left the road, having seemingly failed to take a bend, hit a tree and burst into flames. There wasn’t a lot left by the time the fire brigade arrived – it’s a very quiet road, apparently, with little passing traffic. As I said before, his remains were identified from dental records.’

  ‘And he was on his own?’

  ‘Yes, divorced, and no girlfriend that any of the other party guests knew about.’

  ‘Car well-maintained?’

  ‘A practically brand-new BMW.’

  ‘Road conditions?

  ‘Dry; a clear night.’

  ‘Do we know anything about his health?’

  ‘Only that he played squash and went running, so unless he had an underlying heart problem one can only conclude that he was a fit man.’

  ‘Drink? Drugs?’ I queried.

  ‘My contact said that it was a birthday celebration. Nearly all of those present were in their forties and fifties and said when questioned that there had been moderate drinking but definitely no drugs. It was assumed that he’d been over the limit but not excessively so. Reputed to be a very good and careful driver, normally.’

  ‘I think we’ll go and have a look at the place where he died before we do anything else,’ Patrick decided.

  The site of the accident was not difficult to find in the wooded lane because the foliage of the oak tree the vehicle had hit, the ground beneath it and other vegetation nearby was withered and scorched. The tree’s trunk was blackened, a large wound in the bark. It would probably die. Even now there was evidence of emergency vehicles, tyre marks and churned-up grass, although green shoots were already emerging through the mud. Broken windscreen and window glass was everywhere, but also clearly visible on the surrounding forest floor were small pieces of clear, red and orange plastic from the car’s lights that had been hurled clear as they were smashed on impact. We both, without a word being said, started searching for anything that might provide clues as to what had happened here.

  Almost immediately, Patrick found what was left of one of the tyres; all the outer layers gone, just coils of thin wire left together with bits of metal from the wheel hub and larger pieces lying nearby, possibly from the vehicle’s suspension system. Then I came across a small pile of oddments that appeared to have been kicked or raked aside, perhaps by the police who had investigated the crash. I crouched down and began to sort through it but there was there was nothing recognizable, not by me anyway, just the tiny blackened remains of a wrecked car. Patrick, meanwhile, had walked back to the roadside and then went from my sight.

  I rose and gazed around me. A man had died here, a man who had reputedly been a good driver and had been at the wheel of an almost new car. The weather had been fine, the road dry. Had he had a heart attack? Had he dozed off? Had he consumed rather more alcohol than his friends thought or had admitted at the time, not wanting to blacken his character?

  Or he could have been murdered.

  I covered an area of around twenty yards radius from the crash site, this difficult in places due to hidden hollows, tree roots and fallen branches. There were also several large thickets of brambles which were completely impenetrable – only badgers would be able to get inside them, and probably did. I found nothing except wild flowers, a wasps’ nest in a tree, which I left severely alone, and a few items of litter that must have blown in from the road.

  I suddenly realized that Patrick was standing right in front of me a short distance away, startling me. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t creep up like that,’ I scolded.

  ‘Sorry, but you do know I have a PhD in creeping about,’ he said.

  OK, that was training for Special Forces.

  He held out a plastic specimen bag and I went over to see what he had found.

  Two cartridge cases.

  ‘I reckon someone took out the windscreen – or perhaps a tyre, or tyres. I’m not sure of the weapon type.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  He waved an arm. ‘Back there. At the optimum spot where drivers have to slow down a little at the bend.’

  ‘There may be more of them in the undergrowth.’

  ‘Quite likely, and there ought to be a proper police search. I’ll have to take them to Wiltshire Police and stir them up to do it. The situation’s far from ideal as Carrick’s not involved with this angle, yet, and the NCA isn’t involved at all, so looking for the Peters woman has to be put on hold. Which, as far as we’re concerned, is a bloody nuisance.’

  ‘You could always do something about that.’

  ‘I don’t see what. All we have is a load of wacky theories – and let’s face it, what happened to Joanna might not have been anything to do with it – plus a blown-up bungalow with a body in it. As Carrick said, he’s heading a murder inquiry.’

  What I didn’t understand is why, if body swapping went on at the Peterses’ bungalow the night before the funeral, the funeral director had to die.

  SEVEN

 
‘My brother Hereward and I are, or in his case were, the sons,’ Oliver Stevens explained, Patrick having introduced the pair of us. ‘Our father, Derek, set up the business in the late-sixties and I think we’re maintaining the high standards that he insisted on.’

  We were sitting in his tasteful and mostly different shades of green office. I supposed the man to be in his mid-forties. He had fair, thinning hair, the kind of complexion that would burn readily in the sun and pale blue eyes. A trifle overweight, he was nevertheless good looking, although right now a frown was creasing his forehead and he was slightly on the defensive.

  Patrick said, ‘When I visited this establishment before I spoke to your assistant, Miss Fraser, as I understood you were out on business.’

  ‘That’s right. Our usual business – a funeral.’

  ‘I explained to her that someone had approached my father, who is the rector of St Michael’s Church in Hinton Littlemore, as she was concerned about the circumstances surrounding her husband’s cremation.’

  ‘Yes, Jill told me about it. The funeral of Mr Peters.’

  ‘I thought it unnecessary to mention at the time that, although I was making enquiries to assist my father with parish matters, I work for the National Crime Agency.’

  Stevens merely nodded.

  Patrick continued, ‘But, as last time, I’m here – and I really must stress this – in an unofficial capacity. I should like to ask you a few questions but you’re under no obligation to answer and, if you wish, we’ll leave.’

  As it was unofficial I had been introduced properly, as Patrick’s wife.

  ‘May I ask the reason for this second visit?’ Stevens wanted to know.

  ‘I can only tell you that circumstances have changed.’

  Stevens shrugged. ‘Ask away. I’ve absolutely nothing to hide.’

  For the first time, Patrick smiled. ‘You’re not under any kind of suspicion. I understand that your brother was in charge of that particular funeral.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Everything went off smoothly?’

  ‘It did, although I understand it was a very quiet affair, with just a handful of mourners.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Hereward mentioned to me that no notices were to be put in the local paper so a list of those attending wasn’t required. So no, sorry. The widow plus a couple of friends, perhaps.’

  ‘You have no idea then if there were any issue of the marriage.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would appear that the coffin was at the house the night before.’

  ‘I believe it was. That’s unusual these days.’

  ‘Especially as hardly anyone turned up.’

  ‘You’d be amazed at the things people want at funerals.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bring back unpleasant memories but do you have any theories about your brother’s death?’

  The man grimaced. ‘He hadn’t had the car long and it was a more powerful motor than he was used to. A drop too much wine? Driving a bit too fast? Horrible, but it happens all the time. I miss him dreadfully.’

  ‘I must ask you this: did he have any enemies?’

  ‘Hereward? No! I know it sounds corny but he was loved by everyone.’

  ‘Even his ex-wife?’

  ‘Sandra. Yes, even her – now, that is. She left him for someone else – an old flame apparently, but realized after a couple of years when that relationship had gone sour that she’d made a bad mistake. Too late, as the divorce had gone through by then. I believe she’d got in touch again, though.’

  ‘I’m sure you were told the details behind the reason for my original visit.’

  ‘Yes. Amazing! The widow was presented with a couple of hip replacements that she didn’t know about. I never met the lady. Is she a little, shall I say, vague?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No. Her concerns seem perfectly genuine. There were also some metal pieces from dentures – her husband hadn’t had false teeth, plus a plate that had repaired a skull following serious head injury. You’d have to be very vague indeed to be unaware of that with regard to your spouse.’

  ‘A ghastly error at the crem then. That’s what Hereward thought.’

  ‘It would appear not.’

  ‘Then I can offer you no explanation.’

  I said, ‘Did your brother accompany the coffin to Mrs Peters’s house the evening before the funeral?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. That would be the correct formal procedure – not just have it brought by delivery boys, as it were. I remember now him being annoyed as he had to go back later – he’d left his mobile phone behind.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve no idea. He told me the next morning when I saw him and was still a bit cross as he had missed a match he wanted to see on TV and had forgotten to record it.’

  ‘Did he mention seeing anyone at the house?’

  ‘I believe he said there were people there.’

  ‘Any descriptions?’

  ‘No, he’d have thought nothing of it.’

  ‘Or even if they were the same folk who turned up at the funeral?’

  ‘Sorry, again, no idea.’

  ‘You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  ‘He went back, saw certain people and they must have killed him to prevent any possible identification,’ I insisted, dumping down my bag on the hall table. This remark followed a lively discussion as we had driven the few miles home.

  ‘You can’t jump to conclusions like that without a shred of evidence,’ Patrick said, again.

  ‘Fine, it was the rest of the witches’ coven doing their oil of toad thing then,’ I retorted, and went away to find something for lunch, distinctly hearing a deep sigh behind me. This drove me to call back, ‘And don’t forget, she told us that no one had been in the house that night but her. She lied.’

  Wiltshire Police were now in possession of the cartridge cases and the DI to whom we had spoken – it having proved necessary for Patrick to produce his NCA ID in order to see her – had promised to contact James Carrick.

  There was not a lot else we could do while our employer was not involved.

  ‘No, to hell with this!’ Patrick exclaimed just after lunch. ‘I shall go to London, find Jinty O’Connor and threaten to wring his neck, then perhaps we’ll get somewhere.’

  ‘Talk to Mike Greenway first,’ I urged.

  ‘Permission to go off piste, sir,’ Patrick requested crisply.

  The commander gave him a tiny smile, the business of ‘sir’ having been dropped a good while ago on the grounds that, ‘You used to be a lieutenant colonel, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You’re on leave,’ Greenway pointed out.

  ‘And when I return to duty this won’t be a case I’ll be working on.’

  ‘Is it a case?’

  ‘No, not really, but it has all the makings of being one.’

  ‘The affair of the iffy cremation, the explosion out in the sticks and a skull with two bullet holes in it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  A big smile this time. ‘Patrick, why don’t you just go home and carry on having a rest?’

  ‘Because my father expects me to do something about it.’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Plus, I have an idea Jinty O’Connor’s involved.’

  Greenway pointed an accusing forefinger. ‘You want O’Connor, preferably in a fridge in a mortuary. I know you do, someone told me.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘The NCA isn’t a hit-squad.’

  ‘I’m on leave,’ Patrick responded, annoyingly.

  There was quite a long silence, during which Greenway’s blood pressure probably went up several notches, and then he said, ‘Go and see Richard Daws. I’m not sure I ought to make the decision.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘Room thirteen on the top floor. I think he chose that one on purpose as he says superstit
ion’s rubbish.’

  This was our first visit to the new HQ in central London, the whole place like an ant heap right now, giving the impression that most people were either unpacking or completely lost. I hate plodding around in a maze of corridors, all looking exactly the same, but we had found Greenway’s new office easily enough – I thought it very much on the small side – and room thirteen promised to be a push-over.

  Not so; on the top floor there were codes to remember and key in before one could proceed through doorways, pads to be pressed against with the tips of fingers for the examination of prints deposited thereon, and cameras to be looked into for iris recognition. At last, we reached room thirteen.

  The door was open.

  ‘You made it through the security then,’ said a voice from inside that I recognized.

  Colonel Richard Daws, 14th Earl of Hartwood, was Patrick’s boss when we worked for D12, a department of MI5, from which he retired to grow roses and write letters to The Times. He was persuaded to leave his castle in Sussex on a part-time basis and is now officially acting as adviser to, actually running, this section of the new agency. We had discovered that he’d recommended Patrick for the job when it was the Serious Organized Crime Agency.

  It was like entering the office he had had in Whitehall years previously – although we have met several times in the interim I had not visited him at the SOCA HQ in Kensington. His longcase clock with a particularly sonorous tick was here, as were the Chinese rugs, watercolours and pair of glass-fronted cabinets holding his jade collection.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your electronic passes when you officially return from leave and just be able to walk in,’ he told us. ‘Do sit down.’

  Daws hadn’t changed either. Tall and aristocratic-looking, he was elegant in a traditional pinstripe suit, no doubt from a tailor in Savile Row. For now, this was the charming side of the man who enjoyed playing the old duffer when socializing. Beneath this is an utterly ruthless organizer in possession of a keen intellect. It is a side of him that I don’t like very much because, in the past and in the name of testing his staff’s efficiency, he has made Patrick really suffer.