by Jean Chapman
Cannon waited while the sergeant went through the same routine he had just finished, knocking at the doors, looking around generally –– and finding nothing untoward.
‘I’ll drop by again,’ Cannon told him. ‘I’m off to see Hoskins now.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I probably won’t be able to find him either.’
‘If all the rogues were as good-hearted as he is we wouldn’t have much to worry about,’ Maddern said, adding, ‘but don’t quote me.’
When Cannon pulled up into Hoskins’ lane it was early evening. Low rain clouds were under-lit by a sunset of deep dramatic golds and reds, but again there was no sign of life.
Even so he strode up the central front path, ducked beneath the browning clematis on the trellis arch and knocked loudly at the front door. It was not unknown for Hoskins to fall asleep in his chair after his tea.
He knocked again, twice, then made his way round to the back of the cottage, in through the back porch where Hoskins’ old bike habitually stood when he was at home. It was not there but there was an envelope drawing-pinned to the kitchen door. He found it was addressed to ‘Mr John Cannon’. Very formal, he thought, though obviously Hoskins not only knew he was back home but had assumed – quite rightly – that Cannon would come looking for him.
The note inside read. ‘Gone back Higham’s place – drive up to Ford’s cottage – meet you there.’
He phoned Liz.
‘You’d better do as he says,’ Liz said. ‘Do you want me to let Betterson know?’
‘Not at this point,’ he said, ‘I’ll just go and see what the old boy is up to and get back to you.’
The grassy, rutted way up to the thatched cottage had already become more overgrown since Ford’s 4x4 was no longer in use. Cannon pulled into a gateway and walked the last fifty metres, going past the for once empty gibbet-line.
‘About time you came back,’ a voice said behind him.
He started, swung round to see Hoskins leaning on a tree at the edge of the path he had just walked along.
‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Keep still and think yourself part of the background, works every time,’ Hoskins replied, pushing himself upright. ‘I was just watching the sunset through the trees.’ As he came to Cannon’s side, they both stood for a second or two longer, watching Disney being upstaged.
Then Hoskins’ voice took on a serious note. ‘Missed you both. Pub like a new pin, mind, but getting like a house where you daren’t sit down in case you crease the cushions. Glad you saw the note – went back specially to put it there.’
‘So what’s happened?’
‘Sergeant Maddern’s kept me up to date,’ he said, ‘though reckon I saw that boat afore he did.’
‘So you know?’
‘Aye, I know that, but little more.’
‘So you’ve seen no sign of the prof? Bliss?’ Cannon asked.
Hoskins shook his head. ‘Not … no.’ He stopped then began again. ‘And neither has anyone else, if he did sail that boat over.’
‘Oh, he did,’ Cannon told him. ‘The forensic boys have confirmed that.’
‘And is it true he’s murdered a sailor on board the boat you were all on, and had a go at Higham?’
Cannon nodded – the old boy had been kept well informed, and very wisely. To have Hoskins on your side in these circumstances was like having a good bloodhound when there was a scent to follow.
‘Have you been up to Higham’s house?’ he asked.
‘Round there every day. Don’t go too near the house, the extra security lights and cameras have that place well covered. You know it’s empty?’
‘Well, I …’
‘I mean the housekeeper and her husband,’ he said as they turned to walk on. ‘They’ve gone to visit their daughter in Australia while the family are away. Higham’s other son is in charge of the business and the property, though as far as I can gather he never sets foot outside London. The security firm send him pictures from their cameras “on-line”, whatever that means. Give me a couple of men with dogs any time.’
Cannon made a sympathetic grimace.
‘Before they left, the housekeeper asked me if I’d keep an eye on their cottage and the big house, wanted me to have keys to both places.’
Cannon looked over at him but he shook his head. ‘No fear,’ he said, ‘I didn’t want that responsibility. I don’t do houses, told ’em as much but –’ he blew out his lips in resignation ‘– doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping an eye on the place.’
Cannon was silent, waited. Hoskins like many others was liable to go off at a tangent if his line of thought was interrupted.
‘I’ve been all over the gardens round the big house and the cottage; no one has been there since that boat arrived.’
‘Which,’ Cannon said quietly, ‘as Higham is making a recovery and talking of coming home is good but …’
‘Bloody worrying, I’d say,’ Hoskins concluded. ‘Where’s Bliss gone?’
They both shook their heads.
‘The man has to eat and sleep,’ Cannon said. ‘DI Betterson is off to search Spier’s mother’s premises.’
‘Long shot,’ Hoskins judged. ‘The prof’s cleverer than that.’
Cannon nodded, Hoskins’ judgement so often the same as his own.
‘So you don’t think Bliss is anywhere near – or even in – Higham’s house?’
‘No, thought he was more likely to be here,’ Hoskins said as they arrived at the cottage. ‘No security here, but with all this –’ he indicated the police tape surrounding the property, ‘– well, you’ll know how far to go, looking round, I mean.’
‘What’ve you done up to now?’ Cannon asked.
‘No, nothing, not crossed the line,’ Hoskins said and shuddered at the memory of what they had found before.
By the time they had satisfied themselves that no one had broken into the cottage since the police had secured the crime scene, and cautiously searched the outbuildings, it was dark.
Hoskins, satisfied that Bliss was not holed up anywhere there, announced, ‘Reckon it’s time we were both at the pub. Your good lady will find me some supper, save me going home first. We can put my bike in the back of your jeep.’
‘Now I really know I’m home,’ Cannon said as he walked back with Hoskins to where he’d left his bike, wheeled it to the jeep and loaded it.
‘Glad I helped,’ Hoskins said, but listened attentively as Cannon told him of his earlier visit to Mavis Moyle’s cottage. ‘Told Maddern I’d look in again on the way back.’
When they reached the cottage, the light was on in the parlour. At the second knock the curtain nearest the door was pulled aside and Mavis stood there.
‘You all right?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got Hoskins waiting in the jeep – just called to see you’re OK.’
‘John, just go home to Liz,’ she shouted back, then after a pause added, ‘Alan must be desperate for his first pint.’
She lifted a hand in response to Cannon’s and let the curtain drop … and it felt like saying goodbye to hope. She turned slowly but found Bliss’s gun-stick levelled this time not at her, as it had been when she arrived home, but towards the window.
‘John Cannon?’ he said. ‘John Cannon?’
‘I didn’t –’ She began a denial of trying to convey any message or meaning to Cannon, but Bliss was not listening and the gun barrel was again focused on her.
‘He should be dead, by now he should be dead.’ He suddenly turned on her and poked her violently in the chest with the stick. She reeled back as he demanded, ‘And Higham, did he die? Tell me! Did Alexander Higham die?’
Hand clutching her breast where the stick had caught her, she stepped back again, tripped on a chair leg, saved herself by grabbing the table, then landed half on and half off a chair.
‘Mavis Moyle, useful little Mavis.’ He loomed over her, shaking his head, then it turned to a nod as he added, ‘But do you know, I have thought of
a way you can still help.’ He went to her kitchen phone and brought her the receiver.
‘You will please ring your friend Peggy Spier and ask her if she has heard whether the great and good Mr Alexander Higham still breathes. You and she like a gossip,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘but don’t make it too long.’
‘But Sergeant Maddern said her husband’s in custody. I …’ Mavis began. ‘I can’t—’
Bliss laughed scornfully, pointed at the phone and poked the gun towards her again.
Peggy Spier answered almost immediately. ‘Oh, Mavis, thank you for ringing, it’s times like these that you know who your real friends are.’
‘So is it true about Maurice?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’s really done it this time,’ Peggy said. ‘He’ll be going down for at least two years. How did I come to ever—’ She broke off, tears thickening her voice as she questioned, ‘And what on earth was he doing in Norway? I didn’t even know he had a passport.’
Bliss touched Mavis’s other breast with the gun barrel.
‘I heard there was some trouble out there with that wealthy Mr Higham from the big house,’ she said hastily.
‘I know!’ Peggy agreed. ‘But he must be all right because I’ve heard he’s coming home with his family any day now, so what was that all about?’
‘I must go, Peggy,’ she said. Bliss now held the gun-stick in one hand and was making slashing movements across his throat with the other. ‘Look after yourself, I’ll be over to see you as soon as I can.’
‘Put you in a funny position with that professor bloke and his antique shop,’ her friend said, obviously anxious to go on talking.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I’ll have to go.’
‘So Higham survived,’ Bliss said aloud, but certainly to himself. ‘It seems even my plans …’ His gaze came back to her.
‘You have my shop keys,’ he said. ‘I need to go round there now. I have some spare clothes in the office and my phone is in the drawer.’
‘Your keys are there.’ She gestured to a row of hooks above the work surface. ‘But the police took everything away.’
‘Everything?’ he snapped. ‘My clothes? My phone … yes, of course … but …’ He looked at her now as if she was responsible, or at least she was going to be made to pay. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, ‘you have a very good old-style pantry, long stone walls, no window, a brick thrall, and an old-fashioned lock and high bolt on the outside to keep children out. Just the place.’
He seized her shoulder and as she resisted he struck her hard, a downward chop across her face and neck. She hit her head on the table as she fell.
She came to in darkness on the cold thrall in her own pantry with her hands and arms secured behind her. She pushed her feet round and sat up carefully, kept still until the spinning sensation lessened, then she put her feet to the ground, stood, went to the door.
It sounded as if Bliss was ransacking her home, and suddenly she did not care; the caution the good Sergeant Maddern had urged on her should Bliss turn up was forgotten. The useful little Mavis Moyle was in revolt. She began to kick at the door and shout as loudly as she could, laying her tongue to obscenities even she hardly realized she knew.
Chapter 31
‘Not that late,’ Hoskins mused as they drove away.
‘For?’ Cannon asked.
‘Never known Mavis Moyle not come gushing out, or invite anybody in.’
‘She would have been warned to be careful,’ Cannon said, ‘though she could see it was me, and I told her you were in the jeep.’
‘Was on my way to join you when you turned back,’ Hoskins commented. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘Told me to go home to Liz,’ he said, ‘and that Alan would be dying for his first pint.’
‘She used my moniker, did she?’
‘And mine,’ he said, ‘John, Alan and Liz.’
They both fell silent as Cannon drew the jeep into The Trap car park, switched off the engine, but still sat there. ‘We’re neither of us quite satisfied, are we?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Hoskins said immediately. ‘What you going to do?’
‘Think worse scenario and work from that,’ Cannon said, pulling out his phone.
Betterson, as he had promised he would be, was on the other end in seconds. Cannon ended his report with ‘it’s just a feeling’.
‘On my way to you,’ Betterson said. ‘Back door?’
In fifteen minutes his car drew in alongside the jeep.
In another fifteen minutes the pub kitchen had become an isolated incident room, with the door firmly closed between that and the bar. Alamat and Bozena were left in charge with instructions that no further food could be served that evening.
‘This feeling,’ Betterson asked.
Again the few facts were told.
‘And you had no hint that anyone else was there with her?’
Cannon shook his head. ‘It was just unsatisfactory.’
‘Could I help?’ Liz asked. ‘Say ring her?’
‘The trouble is,’ Cannon said, ‘if Bliss is there and he’s aggravated, he could be pushed into another …’
‘Killing,’ Betterson provided. ‘So presuming he is there with Mavis Moyle …’
‘Reckon there’s one way we might find out,’ Hoskins offered.
All turned to him expectantly.
‘Go on,’ Betterson said.
‘You know I took on Ford’s dog?’
‘Bounder?’ Cannon said. ‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘While you were away.’
‘But where is he? I knocked front and back at your place, he didn’t bark.’
‘No,’ Hoskins said, ‘done my best but he’s one sad dog – grieving still for his master. I reckon if we take him to Mavis’s cottage he’d scent the man who murdered his master if he’s there.’
Betterson was silently regarding the old man. ‘I could just go in anyway, but it would give me more reason if the dog –’ He broke off as another idea came to him. ‘What if I got something that belonged to Bliss for the dog to smell before we got there?’
‘Better still,’ Hoskins said, ‘much better. Remind him. Might break the dog’s grief.’
‘It’s going to take time,’ Liz said.
‘It’s got to be done right,’ Cannon said. ‘This man is in a corner – you’ll only get one chance if it is Bliss.’
‘You think the weapon he’ll have is the gun-stick?’ Betterson asked.
‘I believe so, single cartridge, and that will definitely take a little longer than a modern gun to reload,’ Cannon said.
‘But he’d have that one shot,’ Liz reminded them.
‘We’re not going to be able to sweet talk this man out,’ Betterson said grimly, ‘he’s too far gone. We have to make surprise and speed our weapons,’
Phone calls were made; Betterson strode up and down and around the kitchen as he motivated men and whole departments of the constabulary. It was however still past midnight when Cannon finally took Hoskins to fetch Ford’s dog.
They were to reassemble at the pub, Liz would be in charge there. Alamat and Bozena were now safely in their apartment in the stable block with instructions to take no action about the comings and goings unless directly called upon
‘Bounder won’t have had his meal,’ Hoskins said as he let them in through his front door and groped for the light, ‘but I left him with biscuits so …’
‘We can’t really stop to feed him,’ Cannon said.
‘No,’ Hoskins agreed ‘and he’ll be the sharper without his stomach full.’
Switching on the kitchen light, Cannon appreciated all Hoskins had said about the dog, for although it certainly looked at them both, that was all it did. The bowl of dog biscuits nearby looked untouched.
‘Come on, old boy,’ Hoskins said, taking the dog’s lead from his dresser and sitting down next to Bounder. ‘Time to get your own back.’
The dog rose and put its head on Hoskins’ kne
e, looking up at him with such sad eyes. ‘Breaks your heart, don’t it,’ Hoskins murmured.
The dog came obediently enough, no dragging, no pulling, making no fuss about travelling back to the pub and being walked in through the kitchen to the bar. Here with only a wall light or two still on below the dark beams, Cannon’s new clientele looked like aliens out of a sci-fi movie. The armed response group were in full gear, helmets, guns, just waiting to go.
‘The only thing we were waiting for is the material from the forensic locker,’ Betterson said, ‘but the station officer is on his way.’ He turned to the officer in charge of the armed unit. ‘You could deploy your men now, keep low and observe, and we’ll follow with the dog.’
The officer merely nodded first to Betterson, then lifted a hand to his men who all immediately and silently left the bar. Those left listened to the vehicles moving away; in minutes silence settled over The Fens once more.
‘We might as well all sit down,’ the DI said. ‘Does the dog need a drink?’
Liz fetched the bowl they kept for customers’ dogs and filled it, but Bounder seemed neither interested nor thirsty.
‘You’re sure this dog is up to it?’ Betterson asked. ‘He doesn’t look …’
‘The dog’s grieving,’ Hoskins said.
‘Grieving?’ Betterson shook his head. ‘How long is that going to last?’
‘Have you never heard of Greyfriars Bobby?’ Cannon asked.
Betterson frowned, shook his head.
‘He was a Skye terrier who belonged to a man named Gray who was a night-watchman for the police in the 1800s. He was said to have guarded his master’s grave for fourteen years. He has a monument in Greyfriars Churchyard in Edinburgh.’
‘Well, good way to pass the time, improving my education,’ Betterson said. ‘I just hope I’m not going to be a laughing stock for going along with this.’
Bounder was the focus of all their attention while they waited. They talked to and tried to fuss the golden retriever but it was totally unresponsive. Cannon began to feel Betterson was regretting committing himself to this operation.
‘He really has lost heart,’ Liz said, moving the water bowl nearer, but the dog ignored it.