An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  Shand agreed. He’d only have the extra numbers until the evening, might as well make use of them. There was still the murder weapon to be found. However careful the killers might be, they wouldn’t risk having it found in their car. They’d have got rid of it somewhere.

  “Which way is it to London from here?” he asked.

  “Turn left at the mouth of the track. Take the Sherminster road for about seven miles until you hit the link road.”

  Shand wondered how many miles of ditches lay between Athelcott and the capital.

  ~

  Shand accompanied SOCO back to Ivy Cottage and took him through Helena’s account of events.

  “I doubt you’ll find any prints,” said Shand. “But one of the men went out the back door. You might get lucky in the garden.”

  He then drove down to the village, turning right at the green – a triangular patch of rough meadow bounded by three roads. Cars were already lined up outside the Royal Oak, stretching back along the green. Shand pulled up at the back and got out.

  Athelcott was not a picturesque village. It didn’t have the neat rows of thatch, or the brightly painted cob, or the black and white quaintness of half-timbered cottages. It was more eclectic. A mishmash of styles and periods – a lot of stone, some rendering, some brick, a handful of thatch, some slate, a lot of red tile. And so many different styles and sizes – from tiny terraced properties, to a sprawling Victorian rectory. The whole cobbled together over the centuries and strung out like a variegated ribbon along the roadsides.

  He walked the village, traversing the three main roads. North to the Benson’s, south to the Marchant’s. Upper and Lower Street shared the east-west axis, separated by the green at one end and an infill of houses at the other.

  Less than a hundred houses in all. Many expensive-looking, many far larger and more ostentatious than the Benson’s. And yet Ivy Cottage had been targeted. If it wasn’t because of George and his bank, why? Was it because of its proximity to the stone circle?

  And why Annabel Marchant? It didn’t feel like someone stumbling upon a crime in progress. She’d been arranged. Almost like a marker to bring everyone’s attention to the body buried beneath. But why? Some sick mind trying to terrorise the village? Or did it have something to do with the circle itself? A cult?

  It was at that point that Shand noticed something on the road. Writing. ‘Free the Athelcott One,’ chalked in large white letters across the road.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Shand pushed through the swing doors into the lounge bar of the Royal Oak. No sign of Taylor. He checked his watch. A few minutes to one.

  He walked to the bar, glanced along the large array of beers and lagers, then noticed Taylor waving to him from the bar opposite.

  “It’s quieter in here,” said Taylor when Shand joined him in the public bar. “The lounge is full of bloody journalists.”

  The two bars couldn’t have been more different. The lounge was carpeted and decorated with horse brasses and all the tourist trimmings, while the public bar was stripped bare – lino floors, dartboard and ageing wooden furniture. A few locals eyed them suspiciously.

  “Who’s the Athelcott One?” asked Shand as he carried the drinks back to a table in the corner.

  Taylor shrugged. “Someone like the Birmingham Six?”

  “I saw it chalked on the road. ‘Free the Athelcott One.’ It was sprayed on the side of a garage as well.”

  “Kids most likely,” said Taylor wiping the froth from his top lip.

  Probably, thought Shand. Though worth checking. “Did the house-to-house turn anything up?”

  “Besides the number for Gabriel Marchant’s mobile, not a lot. Everyone seems to have had an early night last night. Even the pub closed on time. No one saw Mrs. Benson or any strange men.”

  “What about a car?” Shand told Taylor about the large four-door saloon. “It would have been parked outside the Benson house between ten and eleven.”

  “Two people saw George getting into his car about seven thirty. That’s it.”

  “They’re sure it was George?”

  “Positive. They’re old friends and he waved.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any CCTV cameras around here?”

  Taylor laughed. “This is a village, sir. They don’t even have street lights.”

  “What about speed cameras? There’s a good chance the car came from London. Are there any speed cameras nearby?”

  “Not within twenty miles.”

  “What about garages? They’d have CCTV. Any of those on the London road? They might have stopped for petrol or to clean up.”

  Even as he said it, Shand could see the improbability of the event. He wouldn’t have stopped so close. Not if it had been him. He’d have put distance between himself and the crime and made sure there was no paper trail – the last thing he’d have wanted was a petrol receipt linking him to the scene.

  “There’s one about eight miles away,” said Taylor. “But it closes at nine.”

  “What about the Marchants?” asked Shand. “Any witnesses to their whereabouts?”

  Taylor leafed through his notebook. “Looks like Gabriel Marchant was in London all week. According to a family friend, a Miss Jacintha Maybury, one of the very few family friends we were able to locate. She saw Annabel yesterday morning and talked to her on the phone in the afternoon. Says she didn’t notice anything odd about her behaviour. No problems in their marriage, no fears or threats. And no enemies who’d kill her.”

  “But she did have enemies?”

  Taylor smiled. “Oh, yes. Both the Marchants did. But, according to Miss Maybury, there was never any violence. A bit of name calling here and there, and plenty of snubbing. Very petty, she said, and hardly likely to escalate to murder.”

  Shand wasn’t so sure. He’d heard of disputes over the height of a garden hedge ending in murder.

  “What about the Bensons? Any enemies there?”

  “Not that we could find. Everyone likes them. Helena Benson’s on the parish council. George is the local bank manager. Pillars of the community.”

  Another dead-end. No enemies, no motive, no witnesses. Time was running out and it was looking more and more like a random killing.

  “Is the house-to-house complete?”

  “Mostly. Twelve of the houses were empty. According to the neighbours, eleven were second homes, the owners not seen for weeks. And the other was a family on holiday in Spain – they left last Saturday so they couldn’t have seen anything either. And there’s a handful,” he counted them, “seven people who were out when we called. We’ll be getting back to them tonight.”

  Shand’s turn. He brought Taylor up to speed on his adventures with Helena, George and the bank.

  “It doesn’t mean that they didn’t try to rob the bank,” said Taylor. “Maybe their plan went wrong when George wasn’t at home. So they winged it. Buried Helena as planned, then tried to ring George. After all, they had all weekend. But then along comes Annabel Marchant and everything goes haywire. She sees them, they kill her, panic and make a run for it.”

  Shand shook his head. “They stopped to arrange Annabel’s body, they weren’t panicking.”

  “Okay, so they stopped panicking, realised everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, and tried to make the most of it by making the murder look like something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a ritual.”

  Shand was unconvinced but, then again, did he have anything better?

  “We need the phone records, Bob. If anyone phoned George last night I want to know. Might as well get the Marchant’s records at the same time. How long would it take to drive to Sherminster at night?”

  “From here? About forty-five minutes. Forty if you put your foot down.”

  Shand considered that for a moment, putting himself inside the heads of these would-be bank robbers. What would he do if he found that his intended mark was at a stag night forty-five minutes away? Wo
uld he wait for him to return or would he go after him?

  ~

  DC Marcus Ashenden appeared at the table just as Shand was finishing his last sandwich. He reminded Shand of a puppy a friend of his had had. Bright eyes, boundless enthusiasm and a desire to please. That and an almost perpetual state of agitation. He’d noticed it the day before. The man couldn’t sit still, if his feet weren’t tapping, his eyes were darting around the room.

  “I’ve got a message from SOCO, sir,” he said breathlessly. “He wants to know when he can gain access to Mrs. Marchant’s house?”

  Shand checked the time. Quarter to. Marchant could arrive at any minute.

  “Tell him any time from two, depending on when Mr. Marchant arrives.”

  “Will do, sir,” said Ashenden, spinning on his heel to leave.

  “Oh, and constable?” said Shand.

  “Yes, sir?” said Ashenden spinning back.

  “Find out all you can about the Athelcott One.”

  “The name that’s chalked on the road?”

  “That’s the one.”

  ~

  Shand let Taylor walk on ahead when they left the pub, and called Anne. He was getting ready to ask if he could leave a message when she answered. “Anne Cromwell.” She always used her maiden name at work.

  “Hi, it’s me,” said Shand. “How’s it going?”

  It was a moment before she answered. A moment made longer by Shand’s apprehension. So many of their phone conversations turned into silences punctuated by the all too infrequent word.

  “Hello, Peter,” she said. “Sorry, I couldn’t get back to you earlier, but it’s been crazy here. You know what it’s like.”

  He didn’t, but he’d have liked to. He blamed himself for not taking more interest in her work from the beginning, but he’d always been preoccupied with his own. The two of them sitting in the same room of an evening, ploughing through their respective documentation in companionable silence.

  “Is it going well?” he asked.

  “As well as ever. The users are refusing to sign off on the acceptance test, and two of my programming team leaders haven’t been seen since they went for a curry last night. If we go live on Monday, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “You haven’t been home then. Only I … I tried to ring last night.”

  Silence. Much longer this time.

  “I was working late,” she said, her voice clipped.

  “Ah,” said Shand, struggling to think of something to say. “I thought, maybe, we could go house-hunting next weekend.”

  More silence.

  “Maybe,” she said, “though it might be better to wait. After the weekend I’m having, I’ll need to sleep for a week.”

  Shand’s turn to hesitate. He didn’t want to push, but he needed to know. “You’re still coming down Friday night then?”

  He waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I’ll see,” she said. “Sorry, I’ve got to go now. Penny’s waving at me from the conference room.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gabriel Marchant slammed his car door and marched towards the front step where Shand waited. He looked like a lawyer to Shand – sharp-eyed, sharp suit, and by the growing look of anger, probably sharp-tongued as well.

  Anne would never have anything to do with him.

  “What are all these people doing here?” Marchant snapped, a strand of hair detaching itself from his balding crown and covering an eye before being flicked back into place.

  “They’re waiting to conduct a search of your house. We have to-”

  “No one is searching my house. You have no right.”

  “You object to us searching the house?”

  “That’s what ‘no’ usually means.” He looked around. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Shand. I’m sorry about your loss.”

  “Is that why all these people are massing outside my gates? To express their condolences?”

  Shand was surprised at the man’s belligerence. He’d expected a grieving husband. Or an oily gigolo.

  “This is a potential crime scene, sir. There may be evidence inside which can lead to the arrest of your wife’s killer.”

  “That,” said Marchant, emphasising the word, “I highly doubt. You need to look elsewhere, chief inspector.”

  “We have looked elsewhere, sir. Now we want to look here.”

  “Tough. I’ll answer your questions, but no one is searching this house without a warrant and my solicitor present.”

  “Then may I come inside to ask you these questions?”

  Marchant looked in two minds.

  “Do you really want me to conduct this interview in front of the whole village?” Shand asked.

  Marchant glared to his left and right before reluctantly relenting. “You can come inside. Just you.”

  “I need my sergeant with me, sir. To take notes.”

  Marchant looked at Taylor like a father scrutinising a daughter’s unsuitable boyfriend.

  “Or we could go the station if you prefer,” added Shand.

  Marchant pushed past Shand and opened the front door, pausing to make sure both policemen wiped their feet before allowing them to follow him into the sitting room. Shand sat down, eyeing the decor – deep, richly coloured carpets, expensive wallpaper, furniture that looked as though it had never seen dust – and immediately became aware of his grass and soil-stained knees. He covered them with his hands.

  Marchant remained standing. “First, chief inspector,” he said, almost spitting out the words. “I’d like to issue a formal complaint. Reputation is everything in my business and when I heard today that someone had left a message at my office saying the police wanted to speak to me.”

  He stopped, almost as though he didn’t trust himself to continue. Then took a deep breath. “I cannot, I absolutely can not, have any rumours of police investigations.”

  “What is your business, sir?” asked Taylor.

  Marchant ignored him, continuing to glare at Shand.

  “I’m sorry for any misunderstanding,” said Shand, finding it difficult to reconcile Marchant’s demeanour with that of a grieving husband. He hadn’t mentioned Annabel once – not to ask to see her body, or enquire where she was, or even what had happened to her. He seemed more angry than distressed. Was that his way of dealing with grief? Or did he have no grief?

  “Where do you work, sir,” asked Shand.

  “In the City,” he said pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter.

  “Swindon?” asked Taylor.

  Shand suppressed a smile. “And your occupation?”

  “Senior Analyst, Mergers and Acquisitions. I’m an associate at Haversham and Glennie.”

  Shand watched him almost drain the glass in one swallow.

  “Salisbury?” asked Taylor, persevering and putting on a look of mock-confusion as Marchant continued his refusal to acknowledge Taylor’s existence.

  “And you’ve been working there all week?” asked Shand.

  “Yes. It’s a high-pressure job, so weekend working is not unusual.”

  “Is it Bath, perhaps, sir?” asked Taylor.

  Marchant snapped and turned on Taylor. “What are you talking about, you silly little man?”

  “Tryin’ to ascertain this city what you’re big in, sir.”

  Shand could swear that Taylor’s accent was thickening by the second, his esses had turned into zeds.

  “London,” Marchant sneered. “Shall I spell it for you?”

  Shand stifled a smile and pressed on. “When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Was she worried at all?”

  “Only about her roses, chief inspector.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  Marchant put down his glass. “Take your pick. The village is crawling with them. Have you heard of the character who goes around the village at night sabotagi
ng incomer’s gardens? The Moleman, they call him. The locals can’t stand to see anything neat and tidy. This one digs holes in our lawns at night and pulls up flowers. Can you believe that!”

  Shand could believe anything when it came to neighbours. He’d collated a report on neighbour related crimes once. The petty vindictiveness was mind-boggling.

  “Do you know who the Moleman is?” he asked.

  “I don’t think you need to look much further than the tip next door. The son, Mark, is as dumb as they come. And his father…”

  Marchant balled his fists, his anger rising. “Have you spoken to Bill Acomb, yet? He calls himself a farmer. The man has forty acres of wheat, seventy of beef and four acres of old vans. Take a look for yourself, chief inspector. They’re scattered all over the place. It makes a gypsy encampment look like Buckingham Palace. And he has made our life hell.”

  He enunciated each word of that final sentence, filling every syllable with a deep heart-felt loathing.

  “You would not believe the things he’s done. Anything to make our lives a misery. He moved his manure heap next to our boundary fence. His idiot son leers at my wife and daughter whenever they leave the house. They run tractor engines in the yard for hours on end without reason. The noise and the diesel fumes make it impossible for us to sit outside. And then there’s that chicken.”

  “Chicken?”

  “Yes, chief inspector, the chicken. It crows at all hours of the night. And when we complained he moved his chicken house as close to our bedroom window as he could. So we took him to court and had his chicken impounded. He swore he’d get even. Ask anyone.”

  “Do you really think he’d kill to get even?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past that man. He threatened us, chief inspector. In front of witnesses. It was in all the newspapers. And now my wife’s dead.”

  For the first time a hint of an emotion other than anger swept across Gabriel Marchant’s face. Shand watched him pour himself another drink. His hands shook, the crystal decanter clinked against the glass.