by Chris Dolley
~
The Marchant’s house was on the other side of the village, a long stone-built property that looked like three terraced houses knocked into one. It had been renovated extensively. New windows, new roof and a landscaped garden at the front. Everything immaculate.
Shand opened the double gate to the side of the property, and walked around to the front door, glancing in the windows as he passed. Some of the downstairs curtains were drawn, and the outside light was still on.
He rang the doorbell, steeling himself for a messy encounter with a grieving husband. He’d brought along a WPC for support, his own as much the husband’s.
He waited, thoughts flashing through his mind. Was he standing on the doorstep of a grieving spouse or a prime suspect? No missing person report had been filed. Not according to Bob Taylor. And none of the local stations had any record of anyone enquiring about her.
Was that significant?
The stats-loving part of Shand’s brain kicked in. He’d helped compile so many reports on crime statistics, he knew the numbers off by heart. In the old days, husbands were always the first to be suspected whenever a wife was murdered. But nowadays, society had changed. Easy divorce, drugs and a diminishing respect for human life. Today, only 20% of murders were committed by family members, 40% by acquaintances and 40% by strangers. But did those figures apply to a small rural village like Athelcott? Had drugs and violence spread this far from the cities? Or was he looking at an old fashioned crime, where victim and murderer lived under the same roof?
Seconds passed. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looked up and down the lane. The house-to-house had begun. Police cars dotted throughout the village, lines of men and women knocking on doors.
He rang again. The WPC leaned towards the window on the right and peered inside, shading her eyes with her hand against the glare. “I don’t think anyone’s in,” she said.
Shand tried the door. It was locked. Double locked from what he could see – a Yale and a dead bolt. And an alarm, he noticed the bright yellow box protruding from the wall just below the gutter.
“Try around the back,” he told the WPC.
Shand took the front of the house, peering in the windows one by one. Nothing looked out of place inside. Every room looked liked a page from a glossy magazine. Would they have a cleaner? Shand couldn’t see a woman with Annabel Marchant’s manicured hands looking after a place this size. It would have to be someone in the village. Maybe they’d have a key?
“Nothing round the back, sir,” said the WPC, appearing by the corner of the house. “The back door and both French windows are locked.”
They checked the garage next. A modern two-car garage, built in artificial stone. Shand looked through a side window. Only one car inside. A yellow Mazda MX-5. Had the husband fled? Or hadn’t he been at home?
~
Shand stood by the front door, unsure how to proceed. He wanted to break in, impatient to keep the investigation moving forward. But he’d done enough damage at the stone circle, and didn’t want to prejudice the case with an illegal search.
The neighbours either side weren’t much help. They confirmed the daughter was away at University, and that was about it. Gabriel Marchant might be in London, or he might not.
“London?”
“Yes,” said a neighbour. “He works for some big London company, but I’ve no idea who, or what he does there.”
Shand had difficulty nudging his inner jealous husband past the fact that both Gabriel and Anne worked in London. London’s workforce may be counted in the millions, but how many were Gabriels?
“Did Mr. Marchant work in IT?” he asked. “Was his office in the City?”
No one knew. They didn’t know his telephone number either. And no one had a spare key. Not even the cleaner.
“Mrs. Marchant doesn’t believe in giving out keys to the likes of us. She makes Ruthie ring the doorbell and wait. Some mornings she’s standing on the step for ten minutes. Even in the rain.”
But at least they provided a name of a friend in the village who might know how to reach the husband. As for Mrs. Marchant, no one had seen her since yesterday afternoon – she’d been seen deadheading roses in the back garden – and as for last night, no one had seen or heard anything unusual at all.
Shand hoped his team were having better luck elsewhere. He could feel the investigation stalling. Time was critical in a murder investigation. Especially in a case where there was no obvious motive or witness.
Which was when he remembered Helena Benson. Maybe she’d make more sense now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Helena Benson was sitting up, and apparently lucid. Her husband, George, sat by her hospital bed, holding her hand.
“I was on the phone,” she said, “when there was a knock at the door.”
“What time was this?” asked Shand.
“Late. Maybe ten, ten thirty? No, wait, it…” She closed her eyes and frowned. George hovered closer, concerned. After a moment or two, Helena opened her eyes and smiled apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive me, inspector. My mind’s fuddled. I know I was watching a film last night, but for the life of me I can’t remember when it finished.”
“That’s all right,” said Shand. “We can check the listings.”
“Can you?” she said. “It was on BBC One. I’d waited for the film to finish before phoning Ursula. I wanted to talk to her about next week’s parish council meeting.”
“Ursula?” asked Shand.
“Ursula Montacute. She’s the chairwoman – or ‘chair’ as I think they prefer to call it nowadays – of the parish council. There’s a meeting on Wednesday.”
Shand was amazed at how bright Helena appeared. She smiled, she chatted. It was hard to recognise her as the same woman he’d pulled out of the ground a few hours earlier.
“Where was I?” she asked, confused.
And in that second, back came the frailty, an uncertainty in her eye.
“You were on the phone,” said Shand, “when there was a knock at the door.”
“That’s right. Well, I thought it must be important. Neighbours don’t knock on one another’s doors late at night without a good reason. So I told Ursula I’d ring tomorrow.” She paused, a slight look of confusion clouding her face. “That’s today, isn’t it? Is it Saturday?” Her lower lip trembled as she looked to her husband for confirmation.
“It is Saturday, dear,” he said, patting her hand.
Shand wondered how long she thought she’d been buried. He couldn’t imagine being buried alive for five minutes let alone several hours.
“So you went to the door?” he prompted.
“Yes, but no one was there. I remember calling out.” Helena paused, her eyes unfocussed.
“And?” asked Shand.
Her eyes snapped back into focus. “What? Oh, I … I stepped outside to look. I…” She took a deep breath and looked at her husband. “Someone grabbed me from behind. I couldn’t see their face. I tried to call for help, but they put a hand over my mouth. I tried to fight back. I really did.” Her lower lip quivered. “But there were two of them.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said George, “It’s over now.”
Helena sniffed back a tear and continued. “They dragged me back into the house. I didn’t know what was going to happen. You hear so many terrible stories – robbery and,” she lowered her voice, “you know.”
George swallowed hard. “You weren’t…”
“No,” said Helena. “They told me if I calmed down and stopped struggling, it’d be all right. No one would get hurt if I did as I was told.”
“Did you recognise these men?” asked Shand.
“No,” said Helena, wiping away a tear. “They were wearing masks.”
“What about their hands, were they wearing gloves?”
Helena shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“When that hand covered your mouth, what could you feel? Did it feel like a bare h
and or what?”
She thought for a while. “Leather, I could definitely smell leather.”
“Leather gloves?” asked Shand needing the confirmation.
“Yes, leather gloves.”
“What about their accents? Were they local?”
Another long pause as her brow furrowed in thought. “No, they had London accents. I’m sure of it. Working class London accents.”
“What about their heights or ages? Were they big men, young, old?”
Helena smiled weakly. “I’m afraid I’m a terrible witness, inspector. I’d say they were both bigger and stockier than George, but as for their ages … they could have been in their twenties or thirties or even forties. I think one was older than the other. But that might just be because he seemed to be in charge.”
“Did they have to duck much to walk under the beams?”
“I couldn’t tell. They put sticky tape over my eyes. And my mouth and wrists. They bound my wrists together behind my back.”
“They wore masks, and they taped your eyes?”
“Yes, the older one said it was for my own good. If I didn’t see anything, I couldn’t testify. They’d let me live.”
She looked at George again, they squeezed each other’s hands.
Shand wondered why they had to tape Helena’s eyes. Were they going to do something that they didn’t want her to see?
“What happened next?” he asked.
“I think one of them went out the kitchen door. I heard it creak. I don’t know what the other did, but I heard him walking around the house.”
“Did he go upstairs?”
“No, but I think he went into the spare bedroom and George’s study.”
“How long did this go on for?”
“Not long. The younger one came back and told me to get up. Next thing I knew I was being pushed in the back and steered towards the front door. One went out, said it was clear, then I was bundled into the back of a car.”
“Had you seen the car earlier when you opened the door?”
“No.” She paused and looked confused. “But it must have been there, mustn’t it?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry inspector. I can’t remember. I wasn’t looking for a car.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Benson. You’re doing very well to remember as much as you have.”
“Yes, dear,” said George. “You’re doing splendidly.”
“Did you form any impression of the car they put you into?”
Helena looked at him blankly.
“Were you in the front or the back of the car?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Was the driver in front or was he beside you?”
“In front. The other one got in beside me.”
“Now, can you remember if there was a rear door or did you have to climb in from the front?”
“A rear door,” said Helena. “There must have been. They opened the door and I slid in. And now I think about it, the seats were very slippery – like leather – and well sprung. Very roomy, I think. A big car.”
Excellent, thought Shand. Large four-door, leather seats.
“Oh,” said Helena, suddenly snatching her hand away from her husband and clasping her face with both hands. “There’s something else. I found something. I remember now. It was wedged in the crack at the back of the seat. My fingers brushed over it. Something hard and about two inches square. I put it in my pocket. I thought it might be a clue.”
“Helena!” chided George. “You shouldn’t have done that. What if they’d seen?” He turned to Shand. “My wife reads far too many detective novels, chief inspector.”
“They didn’t see, darling. I was careful, and I had my hands behind my back.”
“Excuse me,” said Shand, looking around the room for Helena’s clothes. “Which pocket?”
“My skirt. With my hands tied behind my back, it was the only pocket I could reach.”
Shand tore open a pack of surgical gloves – he’d borrowed two packs from the ward sister the moment he’d arrived – pulled on the gloves, then fetched Helena’s skirt from the table. He found a book of matches in the right pocket. It was shiny black with a name embossed in gold on the front – Gulliver’s, Hanover Lane, London.
He opened it carefully, two matches were left. He prayed for a scrawled name or message, but his luck ran out. The inside was blank.
“Is it any help, inspector?” asked Helena.
“I hope so,” said Shand, depositing the matchbook into his last evidence bag. And wondering if the ward sister had any spare freezer bags he could borrow.
He hurried to the door and handed the bag to the constable outside.
“I want this sent over to Forensics. And put a request into the Met. I want to know everything about a place called Gulliver’s in Hanover Lane. If it’s a club, I want membership and employee lists. If it’s a pub, I want to know who drinks there. Everything they’ve got, understand?”
Shand returned with a spring in his step. At last he was getting somewhere. If he was lucky there’d be prints, luckier still Gulliver’s would be an underworld haunt under surveillance by the Met.
“Now, Mrs. Benson. Any idea how long you were in the car? Were you driven straight to the circle, or was there a detour?”
Helena considered the question for a second. “I think they drove straight to the circle. I remember hearing the crackle of gravel under the tyres. I thought we were turning into someone’s drive.”
“Then what happened?”
“They left me in the car,” said Helena, pausing between sentences, “I could hear someone digging in the distance. I thought they were digging something up. It went on for such a long time.”
“This digging,” said Shand. “Presumably they had a spade. Did they have it in the car? Could you tell at all?”
Helena looked blankly for a second. “It might have been in the boot. I remember hearing the boot slam shortly after we stopped.”
“Are you sure it was a boot and not, say, the rear door of a hatchback?”
Helena looked confused. “How would I know?”
“Did you feel a rush of air as the boot slammed?”
“No.”
Another piece in the jigsaw, thought Shand. Large four-door saloon with leather interior.
“And then what happened,” he asked, gesturing for her to continue. “You were in the car…”
“I thought about trying to escape,” said Helena staring unfocussed into the distance, “but I couldn’t tell if I was being watched. And I kept thinking that it had to end soon because it had all been a dreadful mistake. It had to be. They’d taken the wrong person.
“Then they took me outside and walked me over to the circle. They told me not to worry. That nobody would be hurt if I did what they said. Then I was lifted off my feet and lowered into the hole. They peeled off the tape. I remember how it stung. My eyes watered. I couldn’t see where I was. They told me to lie down. And then a box went over my head. I didn’t know what was happening. I…”
“It’s all right, dear,” said George. “Take your time. The chief inspector doesn’t mind waiting.”
Helena took a deep breath and continued. “They said it wouldn’t be long, and that someone would be along soon to let me out. Then they explained about the breathing tube, and how it would be safe.”
She turned to her husband. “I panicked,” she said, her voice faltering. “I tried to get up, but they held me down. They were getting angry. I could feel it. Then,” she paused and turned to Shand. “Then I thought about it. George’s a bank manager. I’d heard of cases where gangs take the manager and his family hostage, and force the husband to open the vault. It was the only thing that made sense. They must have George somewhere. Maybe at the bank already. And unless he helped them, they’d not tell anyone where I was.”
Shand turned to George. “You’re a bank manager?”
“Yes, but,” he looked flustered. “No one took me hostage, chief inspector. I
can assure you.”
“I don’t remember much of what happened next,” said Helena, dragging Shand’s attention back from her husband. “I was terrified for George.” She smiled warmly at her husband, and stroked his hand.
“Did you hear anything at all while you were down there?” asked Shand. “Did you hear the car driving off?”
“I’m sorry, inspector. When the soil was piled on top of me, I panicked and lost the breathing tube. Everything was black and…” her lower lip quivered. “I couldn’t use my hands. I had to feel for it with my tongue, and pull it down with my teeth … after that I went rigid. I daren’t move or cry out or anything. All I could hear was the blood pumping in my ears. I stayed like that for hours. Or maybe I passed out.”
George leaned over, pulled his wife towards him, and held her.
Shand waited, wondering how – or if – he would have coped under similar circumstances.
“Can you think of any reason why Annabel Marchant would be at the circle?” asked Shand.
George relaxed his grip on his wife. Helena looked surprised. “Annabel was at the circle?”
“Was she a friend of yours?” asked Shand.
“No, not particularly. Why do you ask?”
Shand pressed on. “Was she in the habit of going for walks past your house at night? Maybe up to the circle?”
“No, inspector. At least I don’t think so. Did she, George?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“I know this is difficult for you, Mrs. Benson, but think very carefully. Can you remember hearing anything, anything at all, while you were buried?”
She glanced at her husband. “I … I don’t know.”
“What about voices? Did you hear anyone talking at all?”
Helena was silent for several seconds, then her eyes widened. “Yes,” she said. “I did hear a voice. At the end. I wanted to cry out, but I daren’t let go of the tube. So I tried to move my hands, but they wouldn’t move. I thought I was paralysed. I was losing feeling in my legs. My back ached. But I managed to wiggle the fingers of one hand, then I pushed and pushed, I felt air and something else, and I grabbed it.”