by Jean Chapman
‘I was first to the car. If it hadn’t been for the airbags …’ He shook his head. ‘I must be some kind of Jonah, a jinx. One man murdered on my estate, now two men, father and son, injured in a car similar to mine!’
‘No need to talk like that,’ Hoskins said gruffly but Higham hardly seemed to have heard.
‘For God’s sake, will you help me?’ he pleaded.
‘Let’s establish a few facts,’ Cannon said.
‘Before my wife comes back then,’ Higham agreed. ‘I don’t want her involved in more than she need be.’
‘First, the time and route you took this morning, is that usual?’
‘When I’m in Lincolnshire, yes, every weekday. I have an office in Boston. Normally I’m on my own, but today my wife needed to come with me to sign business papers, so we went together to drop my daughter off at her school first. We never got there.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I’m sure we were saved because just as I reached the first crossroads, the other car came from my right and he had priority. I was close behind him until we reached the coastal road then I dropped back a bit as it twists and turns.’
‘How fast were you travelling?’
‘Forty-five to fifty, I suppose.’
‘And how far behind were you when the accident happened?’
‘I saw him turn a corner ahead of me and he must have been some thirty to forty metres in front, but I heard the crash. I braked immediately, went very slowly around the bend and saw –’ He paused, looked down, shook his head ‘– he’d gone up and over the grass verge and hit the great bole of the only decent-sized tree in the area. If it hadn’t been for the airbags …’ He stopped and looked so devastated Hoskins instinctively got up and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Saved them then,’ Hoskins said.
Higham drew in a great staggered breath and, looking up at the old man, said, ‘There was never going to be any chance of getting either of them out without cutting and lifting gear. I hope they’ll be … but they’ll be …’ He took a deep breath. ‘It seemed like a lifetime before the services got there.’
‘Aye, it would.’ Hoskins gave the entrepreneur a couple of understanding pats on the back and sat back down again, shaking his head.
‘I told my wife to stay in the car with our daughter, while I kept talking to them, trying to keep them conscious. The older man, the driver, was the worst, with the steering wheel and everything. He said a bird flew at his windscreen, a great black bird. I kept suggesting different birds to try to keep him awake, I thought that was what I should do. Whatever I suggested he kept mumbling bigger, bigger, the son muttered yes, and then passed out, but thank God the paramedics were there by then.’
‘I once had a black plastic sack fly in front of me, fetched me off my bike,’ Hoskins added.
‘You should tell the police all your suspicions again and show them these.’ Cannon held up the bag containing the doll and photographs.
He shook his head. ‘They already think I’ve got a persecution complex. I can’t, that’s why I was going to ask Hoskins here to act as a temporary keeper, work with Ford to keep an eye open in the woods and grounds, and I guess I was going to ask you to believe me and give me your advice. But now …’
Nothing convinced Cannon he needed to do something more than another’s distress. ‘Give me permission to show these to DI Betterson, and we’ll take it from there,’ he said.
There was the sound of voices in the hall and before they were interrupted there was time only for Higham to nod at Cannon and for Hoskins to say, ‘Aye, I’m on.’
They were committed and the possible consequences did not quite hit either of them until they were driving away from The Grange.
‘What will your Liz say?’ Hoskins asked with a chuckle.
‘Hmm,’ Cannon mused.
‘You’d best buy her some flowers.’
‘Then she’ll definitely suspect the worst,’ Cannon replied, ‘but on the other hand, I tell you what we will do on the way back – call in at the prof’s shop. He was telling Liz about some artist’s materials and equipment he had bought.’
‘Righto,’ Hoskins agreed, then asked, ‘Do you reckon I’ll get paid for helping Ford?’
‘Cash in hand, I would have thought,’ Cannon replied. At least there was one who was quite cheered by the morning’s outcome.
Bliss Antiques was open but the proprietor was out. Mrs Moyle, an energetic frizzy blonde, widowed in her fifties, who lived next door, was in charge. She told them Michael Bliss was away at a house sale near Norwich then, watching Hoskins who had also come in and was looking at some antique splay-barrelled fowling piece, she said, ‘Surely you’re not looking for more guns, Alan?’
‘Must have been a useful weapon for aiming at a flock of geese,’ he said and Mrs Moyle shuddered.
‘Ah, your dad always said you were squeamish, Mavis Moyle,’ Hoskins told her, ‘but the prof has some interesting things, valuable, I’d think, some of ’em.’
‘I think he buys too good for a shop like this, he wants more bric-a-brac, but who am I to tell him, he seems to do very well.’
Cannon had gone off to a far corner of the shop where behind several displays of walking sticks in bright pottery glazed umbrella stands he had spotted a dark brown wooden easel. He lifted it up and over into the body of the shop, approved the smooth finish of the wood: certainly it had age, but it was also functional, and compared to the heavy great angular version he had occasionally carried for Liz, this was a pleasure to handle.
‘How much is this?’ he asked, then seeing the £٤٥ price tag, asked how much she could discount it.
‘You’d have to see Mr Bliss about that,’ she said.
‘I would quite like to take it with me,’ Cannon said, ignoring Hoskins’ smirk.
Mavis pulled a mobile phone from her dress pocket and tapped in the first contact. From the other end they could all hear the sound of an auctioneer taking bids, then clearly the prof asked who the customer was.
‘Mr Cannon, landlord of The Trap,’ she said, then gave a surprised, ‘Oh! Twenty pounds.’ She ended the call and repeated the price. ‘Twenty pounds, you must be a real friend.’
Cannon was not sure he could say that, but he gratefully paid the money and left with the easel.
‘Old Bliss has a soft spot for your Liz,’ Hoskins said. ‘I’ve seen him looking at her, and anyway,’ he added, as the easel was stowed in the jeep, ‘better than a bunch of flowers.’
Liz was not deceived. Her look was enough to have Cannon protesting that he felt Higham might need a bit of moral support if nothing else, and he was only handing over the evidence to DI Betterson.
Chapter 7
Liz could not in the end help but love the beautiful dark barley-sugar twisted wood of the old easel. It was a joy to handle and so light after the modern heavy white wood model. Not that she’d had much time for leisure activities in the past week, she thought, and having unlocked the front doors she prepared to take charge of the bar once more, while John went on round two of the inter-pub quiz.
She spread the local newspaper on the counter and scanned the main story on the front page.
There was, our reporter understands, a police presence at The Trap public house, Reed St Clements, when the disturbance occurred. Maurice Spier was said to have taunted the son of the murdered man. Maurice Spier has since disappeared.
Detective Inspector Derek Betterson said the police are following all possible lines of enquiry, but they would like Mr Spier to come forward so he might be eliminated from their enquiries. The police will be issuing a further statement shortly.
Interviewed by this newspaper, Mrs Spier said it was most unlike her husband to be away from home.
Cannon, looking over her shoulder, gave a snort. ‘Be a few belly-laughs about that from what I’m hearing. They say he’s always going off on some jaunt or other, race meetings, point-to-points, staying over with boozing or
gambling mates. Rarely at home from what they say.’
‘Probably told his wife what she had to say before he cleared off,’ Liz guessed. ‘Has he got a job?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea, but his wife works, early and late shifts at a Boston supermarket.’
‘Where’ve you learnt all this from?’ she questioned.
‘Unexpectedly from Mavis Moyle, the widow who helps the prof at his shop. She’s known Peggy Spier for years, meets her once a month for tea in Boston. I called at the shop again to say I’d pick the prof up to go to The Stump tonight. I’m picking up Hoskins and Paul as well, we’ll all go in one car. Then at least I’ll know the team’s there, even if no one else is.’
‘You don’t think many of our supporters will go?’ she asked.
‘Well, not sure I would if I didn’t have to, not going to be a cheerful occasion as it is. The group as a whole wanted to cancel the match and we would have done but Mrs Riley got to know and sent a message to say she knew that would have been the last thing Niall would have wanted. Apparently he loved quizzes.’
Liz nodded. ‘He did, you know, I’ve watched him. He listened carefully to all the questions, and by the look on his face knew a good many of the answers,’ she said, ‘but I suppose he wouldn’t volunteer for the team because of Timmy. What a …’ She did not find the right word.
Cannon kissed the top of her head and asked, ‘Will you be all right here tonight?’
‘Alamat will be here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
It was still reassuring to Cannon that before he left to pick up his team Sergeant Jim Maddern, in civvies, walked in.
‘I’m here for the night,’ he told them.
‘Officially?’ Liz asked.
‘Yep,’ he said, ‘and on overtime.’
‘Crikey.’ Cannon pulled an impressed face.
‘Not only that,’ Maddern said, ‘DI Betterson will be at The Stump’s Shadow keeping his eye on proceedings there and Chief Inspector Helen Jefferson is back on duty.’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Liz exclaimed. ‘Paul will feel better now.’
‘Hope he’s got his babysitting sorted out for tonight then,’ Cannon said practically.
‘Well, you’ll find that out,’ Liz said shortly. ‘It must be time you left to pick everyone up.’
‘Want rid of me now you’ve got police protection?’ he said. ‘Right, see you later.’ He blew her another kiss, picked up his jeep keys from behind the bar and left.
‘Thought I was going to have a domestic to sort out for a minute there,’ Maddern said and seated himself in the pew seat Alan Hoskins usually used. ‘Can see why the old rogue sits here,’ he said. ‘You can see all, probably hear a lot and say nowt. If it suits you.’
‘John doesn’t think there’ll be many in here or at The Stump,’ Liz said.
Maddern shook his head. ‘You can never tell. If somebody rallies the troops there could be a lot to supporters turn out for our team, give ’em a bit of heart. Have a feeling it might be slack here though, and –’ He stretched out his legs ‘– that suits me fine. I’ll have a pint of coke, please,’ he said. ‘At least it looks about the right colour.’
He was right about the customers, and in the end Maddern and Alamat took on the only other two customers in a friendly game of darts. The bar mobile burbled from underneath the counter and Maddern paused in the game to listen as Liz answered it. ‘John,’ she mouthed to him.
‘Crowded out here,’ Cannon said. ‘I should think every one of our regulars has turned up to support us and they’ve made a real good collection for Mrs Riley. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Is everything all right there?’
She told him everything was fine, told Maddern how busy the pub was at Boston and was sitting down to relax when the doors burst open and Dick Ford, Higham’s gamekeeper, stumbled in, holding yet another plastic carrier. He took in the empty bar, the police sergeant and made for the counter as if he needed it to lean on.
‘Mr Cannon?’ he enquired.
‘In Boston with the quiz team.’ It was Maddern who answered, putting down his darts and coming to the bar, adding, ‘You’d best sit down by the look of you.’
Ford glanced at the other two customers.
‘Do you want to go through to the kitchen?’ Liz asked.
He nodded. Liz signalled to Alamat, who immediately came to the business side of the bar, then led the way into the back quarters.
Ford slumped down next to the table, then with a gasp of revulsion threw the supermarket carrier on to the table.
‘What’s this?’ Maddern asked.
‘The latest thing left on my gibbet. I very nearly caught who did it. The dog heard something and I went out. If your lot don’t take things seriously soon I reckon my employer will be hanging there next – that’s if he’s not already dead somewhere.’
‘What are you talking about, man?’ Maddern said, and pulling the bag towards him lifted one side carefully and looked inside. He pursed his lips tight, then realizing Liz was looking over his shoulder, let the bag close. ‘What I see is a stained deerstalker hat.’
‘What you see,’ Ford said forcibly, ‘is Mr Higham’s blood-soaked shooting hat.’
‘And where is Mr Higham?’ Maddern asked calmly, ‘I presume you’ve been up to the house.’
‘Yes, everyone’s there but him. He’d gone to a meeting with the headmaster at the daughter’s school, they say.’
‘They say?’ Maddern probed gently.
‘Well, the last time they were on their way to the school they narrowly missed being killed in their car,’ Ford said. ‘It’ll be something to do with his daughter’s safety.’
‘It should be easy enough to check he’s there,’ Maddern said and with almost slow deliberation took a mobile phone from his pocket as he asked, ‘So you didn’t show anyone at the house what you had found?’
‘No, I came to see Mr Cannon. Mr Higham likes him, trusts him, he says.’
Maddern glanced at Liz, who shrugged noncommittally.
‘Leave this with me,’ Maddern said, indicating the bag, ‘I’ll see it goes to the correct people.’
‘OK.’ Ford said resignedly, ‘as long as something’s done.’
‘We’ll check up on Mr Higham first,’ he said, and made for the back door, phone in hand.
‘What’ll he do?’ Ford asked.
‘Someone will be sent to make sure your employer is where you said and the hat will go to forensics. It could reveal important information.’
‘I suppose,’ Ford said, ‘thinking about it someone could have soaked it in animal blood. I mean, like the doll, a fake-up.’
‘A frightener,’ Liz said.
‘Yes, at least you and your partner understand,’ Ford said. ‘Think I might have a drink now. I mean, I can’t do anything else, can I, not tonight, anyway?’
Liz reassured him and took him back to the bar, where they were soon rejoined by Maddern.
‘Mr Higham has just arrived back home,’ he told them.
‘Home?’ Ford questioned.
Liz realized the two public houses were not the only places being observed.
Maddern just nodded and repeated, ‘He’s safely home, and –’ He looked towards Liz ‘– John and his passengers will also be seen safely home.’
Reassured they had locked up securely, Maddern left Liz and Alamat to await Cannon. Liz sent Alamat to bed when they heard the agricultural note of Cannon’s jeep approaching.
‘Hi,’ he greeted her. ‘Just seen Alamat.’
‘Police escort home?’ she queried.
‘A discreet presence.’ He kissed her cheek, his face cold from the October night. ‘And the quiz wasn’t nearly as grim as it might have been. The Stump’s Shadow won but our customers were brilliant, turned out in force to support us, made me feel quite emotional.’ He was expansive, moving around the kitchen, pulling off anorak and scarf. ‘Terry Ladkin announced at the beginning that Mrs Riley had wished the quiz to go on, a
nd a collection was made – more than three hundred pounds – and everyone signed a condolence card Ladkin had bought.’ He produced the card and an envelope of money from his pocket. ‘I have the job of letting Mrs Riley have it.’
‘That was heart-warming,’ Liz said, then sighed heavily. ‘We had three customers apart from Jim Maddern.’
‘Betterson was there,’ Cannon continued, ‘but he was mingling with the crowd. All I got was a curt nod and a meaningful look as I left.’
‘Oh, I guess he’ll be coming here to see us when he’s heard from Jim Maddern.’
‘Why?’ Cannon was immediately on her case.
‘As I said, we had three customers,’ she began. ‘One was Dick Ford.’
Cannon’s casual air left him immediately, and he became grimly thoughtful as he heard what had happened. ‘There’s one thing I don’t like,’ he said, remembering other aspects of the evening. ‘There could just be a link between Spier’s disappearance, Niall Riley and Higham.’
‘What do you mean?’ Liz asked. ‘What kind of link?’
‘I was talking to one or two of the locals at The Stump; a couple of them had known Maurice Spier since he was a boy. They were scoffing at the newspaper report. They confirmed he was rarely at home and another said he was with his mother more than his wife.’
‘His mother!’ Liz exclaimed.
‘Yes, they say the money his wife earns goes straight into her bank to pay bills by direct debit, but his mother draws her pension in cash, so when Maurice gets short …’ He left the rest unsaid.
‘Charming man all round,’ Liz said, ‘but what’s that got to do with Niall Riley and Higham?’
‘This second chap, Russell, has a bit of a yard, sells ship’s spares. He said he often gives Spier a lift when he’s going to work, drops him off along the road to Boston, then Spier walks through the edge of the Higham woods as a short cut to his mother’s. If Spier hasn’t thumbed a lift back during the day he waits at the same spot for Russell at the end of the day.’
‘So the link is?’ Liz asked.
‘Riley’s killed on one edge of Higham’s land, and the last time anyone seems to have seen Spier is when Russell dropped him off at another side of the Higham estate.’