by Chris Dolley
“Was your wife in the habit of visiting the stone circle?” asked Shand, softening his tone.
“No,” said Marchant, more subdued now, staring into his glass. “We walked around it a few times when we first moved in. Why?”
“Can you think of any reason why she’d be up there at night?”
Marchant was surprised. He looked up. “She was at the circle?”
“Yes. Could she have been jogging past perhaps? Or walking?”
“My wife wouldn’t walk anywhere at night. Not around here. It’s pitch black.”
“What kind of car does your wife drive?”
“A Mazda MX-5. Why? It hasn’t been stolen, has it?”
“No, it’s still in the garage.”
Locked inside the garage, thought Shand. Was that significant? He’d considered the possibility that Annabel Marchant had been driving past the circle when she’d seen something and stopped. But if so, and she’d been killed when she walked over, how had the car been returned to the garage? Were the killers that cool? Did they know where she lived?
Or was the locked garage proof that Annabel Marchant had not driven to her death?
“If your wife was driving late at night and saw something strange, would she stop?” asked Shand.
“Never,” said Marchant. “You hear too many stories.”
“What if it was someone she knew?”
Marchant put down his glass. “Who? Do you have someone in custody?”
“No,” said Shand, but it was an interesting question – who would Annabel Marchant stop for? Her husband and daughter, presumably. But who else?
“Would your wife stop to help a stranger if she thought they were in trouble?”
Marchant shook his head. “Not at night. Not on her own. She might phone for help, but she wouldn’t get out. Look, chief inspector, what exactly happened last night?”
The first time he’d asked.
“Would she stop to help Helena Benson?” asked Taylor, his accent back to normal.
“Helena Benson? What’s she got to do with it?”
“She wasn’t a particular friend of your wife’s?” said Shand.
“God, no,” said Marchant, confused. “We barely know the woman.”
“Would your wife stop to help her if she saw she was in trouble?”
“Look, chief inspector, she wouldn’t drive by if she saw her lying in the road, if that’s what you mean.”
“Helena Benson was abducted last night,” said Shand, watching Marchant’s reaction. “Two men took her from her home and buried her alive up at the circle. Your wife’s body was found on top of her grave.”
Marchant swallowed hard. “Good God,” he said, reaching for another drink, then changing his mind.
“We’re searching for a connection, Mr. Marchant. Now, you said that your wife would have phoned for help?”
“Yes.”
“She was in the habit of carrying a mobile phone?”
“She took it everywhere.”
But where was it now? He didn’t remember seeing one at the scene. And SOCO hadn’t mentioned it.
“Where did your wife keep her phone?” he asked.
“In her handbag-”
“Could you ring the number now?” asked Shand, his excitement rising. There definitely had not been a handbag at the scene. Had the killers taken it with them? Or thrown it in a ditch with the murder weapon? They might be able to get a trace.
Marchant looked confused. “You want me to ring my wife’s phone?”
“I want to know where your wife’s phone is.”
Other possibilities materialised. What if the phone was still in the house? Or in the car? What if Annabel had been abducted that evening too?
“Bob,” said Shand, “Go out to the garage and listen. Her phone might be in the car.”
Marchant rang as soon as Taylor left. Shand listened, slipping out into the hallway, the house silent, murmured conversation drifting in from outside. He cocked his head. Still no sound.
“Is it still ringing?” he asked Marchant.
“Yes.”
Shand hurried to the front door and shouted over to Taylor, “Anything?”
Taylor shook his head. Shand went back inside. They’d be able to get a trace. He was sure of it. Maybe not a pinpoint trace, but to the nearest mast, a few square miles at most.
“You can stop now,” said Shand. “Would your wife have left home without her phone?”
“I don’t think so,” said Marchant.
“I think it would be wise if you let my officers search your house now, Mr. Marchant.”
Marchant rose to his feet. “I told you. I’m not having-”
“Sir, your wife’s phone is missing. Probably her handbag too. I should imagine that means her keys and credit cards as well. It’s very likely your wife’s killers have been in this house. I need you to check for anything missing and I need access for my men.”
Marchant looked torn, part of him looked ready for an argument while another part wanted to check his possessions.
“They broke into Helena Benson’s house, sir,” said Shand.
Marchant relented. “A limited search, chief inspector. But my study and my computers are out of bounds. Is that clear? My work is market sensitive. And don’t tell me you’ll make sure nothing gets leaked because I won’t believe you. My lawyer will be here shortly.”
“Did your wife have a computer?”
“I believe she had a laptop.”
Shand passed the information along to Taylor and Scene of Crimes.
“Find Annabel’s laptop and keep an eye on Marchant,” he said, taking them aside. “He doesn’t take anything off the property without it being checked first. And if you can, take a few photos of his study. Keep him sweet, but keep an eye on him.”
The house filled up. Shand and Taylor followed Marchant through the house, checking for missing items or anything that could provide a clue as to why Annabel had left the house on Friday night. They found nothing. No note, no diary entry, no scribbled message on a kitchen calendar. And nothing on the answering machine either. The dishwasher was full, the sink empty. Everything was tidy, nothing to suggest that she’d left in a hurry or that anything had been taken.
“I have to ask you this,” said Shand at the end. “But where were you last night?”
“At a restaurant,” said Marchant.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“I’ll give you their names.” He took out a business card and scribbled three names on the back complete with telephone numbers. “Colleagues from work, chief inspector. We were together until midnight. At Henri’s in Covent Garden.” He turned pointedly to Taylor. “And that’s not in Swindon, sergeant.”
“Much obliged, sir,” said Taylor.
~
Marcus Ashenden was waiting for them outside. He looked pleased with himself.
“I’ve discovered who the Athelcott One is, sir.”
“Who?” asked Shand.
“A chicken.”
Shand saw another potential lead evaporate. “A chicken?” he said.
“Yes, sir, Bill Acomb’s chicken. He’s being held at a pound near Sturton while the court decides what to do with him. And you’ll never guess who brought the action.”
“We already know, Marc,” said Taylor. “The Marchants. Which would make the animal in question a cockerel not a chicken. If you’re going to live in the country, boy, you’d better get to know these technical terms.”
Shand detached himself from the conversation and stared over at Lower Ash Farm. Was he really dealing with a fight between neighbours that had got out of hand? He didn’t think so. Fights between neighbours tended to be settled on their properties with the bodies lying in the garden, not a half-mile away in a stone circle.
But who else had a motive? The mysterious bank robbers? That only worked if Annabel Marchant was an unlucky witness, but the more he learned about her, the less likely that option appeared. Her car w
as in the garage, her house locked up. She didn’t like to walk through the village at night. How had she got to the circle?
And even if she had been driving past the circle and stopped to see what was going on, would her killers really have taken the time to return her car to the garage? It didn’t ring true. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Annabel Marchant had known her killer.
“Sir?” said Taylor.
“What?” said Shand.
“Is it worth taking a look at the neighbour while we’re here?”
“I think it might,” said Shand, “and Marcus, see what you can find out about these Moleman stories.”
~
Lower Ash Farm was a complete contrast to the studied neatness of the Marchant’s house. The front garden was a rutted yard edged by brambles and nettles entwined around islands of rusty metal, old machinery, rotting fence posts, discarded polythene and old tyres. Puddles in the yard shimmered oily rainbows. The farmhouse hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years, an irregular tidemark of rising damp stained the grey rendered walls, and in the distance a succession of wooden and rusted corrugated iron outbuildings reminded Shand of a South African shantytown.
“You arrested ’im yet?” said a voice to Shand’s right. “You been in there long enough.”
A small weather-beaten man with a prominent red nose and a slight paunch emerged from a nearby barn. He was cleaning something black off his hands with an even blacker rag.
“Why should we do that, Mr. Acomb?” asked Shand.
“For killing ’is missus, of course. Terrible temper ’e has. And ’e don’t like animals, you know. Which is ’ow they all start – them serial killers – ain’t it? I was watching it on the telly the other night. They always start by torturing animals.”
“Are you saying that Mr. Marchant tortured animals?” asked Shand, not sure whether to take Bill Acomb seriously. He had a glint in his eye and looked as though he was finding it hard not to grin.
“’E tortured me prize cock,” said Acomb indignantly.
“The Athelcott One?” asked Taylor.
“That’s ’im. Your boys ’ave ’im now. Locked up in a cell when all ’e did was do what comes natural.”
“After you moved him as close to the Marchant’s bedroom as you could,” said Taylor.
“Maybe I did,” said Bill Acomb, grinning. “But I wouldn’t ’ave if they ’adn’t started it. I was quite prepared to behave neighbourly until they started trotting out their orders. Trim that ’edge, move that muck heap, stop leaving mud on the road. Accused me of sheltering rats in me barns, they did. And me tractor was always too noisy or smelly.”
“Townies,” said Taylor.
“Too right,” said Acomb. “The worse kind. Them that think they want to live in the country, but really want to live in a park where us yokels do nothing but keep the place tidy all day and look quaint.”
“So when you threatened the Marchants, you didn’t really mean it?” asked Shand.
“Who said I threatened anyone?” snapped Acomb.
“I was told you threatened the Marchants in front of several witnesses.”
“’E told you that, did he?” Bill Acomb darted a glance towards the Marchants house and cleared his throat. For one second Shand thought he was going to spit on the floor and prepared to step back. “All I said,” continued Acomb in a slower more deliberate voice, “was I’d get even with ’em. And I will. In me own way, which don’t include murdering nobody.”
“And something which is entirely within the law, no doubt,” said Taylor.
“Entirely,” said Acomb. “Law-abiding family, us Acombs.”
“You must see a lot of what goes on next door, Mr. Acomb,” said Shand.
“I might,” said Acomb.
“What about last night?”
“I already told your boys. I saw nothing.”
“You didn’t go out yesterday evening?”
“I might.”
“And where might you have been,” asked Taylor.
“Down the Oak.”
“Until when?”
“Just after nine. Then I walked ’ome.”
“A bit early for a Friday night?” said Taylor.
“I gets up early. I’m too old these days to go out drinking all hours.”
“Did you look at the Marchant’s house when you walked past?” asked Shand.
“I tries to look at it as little as possible. Used to be three families living in that ’ouse. Three ’ard-working local families. Until Mrs. Fancy Marchant moved in and knocked it into one gurt biggun.”
“Was there a car outside? Any lights on inside the house?” pressed Shand.
“Yes and no,” said Acomb, his eyes twinkling again. “Or should I say, no and yes.”
Shand fought back a sudden inclination to throttle the farmer. He was tired, he’d barely slept, and he could feel a headache building up behind his eyes.
“Which is it, Mr. Acomb?”
“No to the car, but yes to the lights. But then that don’t mean nothing. They always ’as the place lit up like a Christmas Tree. Some people don’t ’ave to worry about bills.”
“So she could have been in or out at nine o’clock when you walked by?”
“Could ’ave.”
“Did she go out much at nights?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“What about in her car? Would you have heard her car if she’d used it last night?”
“Not me. I sleeps like a log. And when I’m not sleeping I’m watching the telly. Couldn’t ’ear a tractor if someone drove one into me own yard.”
Shand couldn’t see anything more to be gained. He could see Bill Acomb dumping a trailer load of manure on the Marchant’s front garden, but he couldn’t see him killing anyone.
“What about your son, Mr. Acomb?” asked Shand. “Where was he last night?”
Bill Acomb shrugged.
“Where’s he now?” asked Taylor.
“Out.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Do you want me to check out the son,” asked Taylor as they left.
“If you could,” said Shand, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to get back for the PM.”
Something he wasn’t looking forward to. He’d attended three in the past, part of his forensics course. He’d found it hard to watch, even harder to blank his mind to the person on the slab, to see the cuts and the bruises, but not the living, breathing, human being that had had to endure them.
But he had to go – statistics again – the attendance of the investigating officer at the post mortem significantly increases the probability of a murder being solved. An unlikely statistic, Shand had always thought, but one he didn’t feel confident enough to ignore. More likely it was non-attendance that was the significant factor – an indication that the investigating officer was too busy on other cases, or lacked the necessary commitment.
But Shand liked to play the percentages, so he went.
~
“Three wounds to the back of the head,” said the pathologist, leaning over the body. “One on the right side, two on the left, one slightly higher than the other. The lower one struck first.”
Shand stayed as far back as he could, coming forward only when invited and darting back as soon as he could. He’d already destroyed one crime scene. He couldn’t face the thought of losing his lunch over the victim.
“You can see the slight overlap of the wounds. A flat-faced instrument, I’d say, maybe slightly curved.”
Shand filed the information away, trying to use facts to block out the knowledge that this was Annabel Marchant, wife and mother. She was now the deceased, a statistic with three head wounds.
“And smooth,” continued the pathologist. “Barely any debris in the wound. The dirt is post mortem, no sign of impaction.”
Shand looked up at the ceiling and thought of smooth flat murder weapons. He saw the ceiling tiles, and thought of paving slabs, and cricket bats, and fryin
g pans and spades.
“Could it have been a garden spade?” he asked.
“Possibly, I can’t see any fragments of wood, or stone, or paint. Something metal, or a heavy plastic would fit.”
“What about the force of the blows?”
“Substantial without being excessive. Business-like, I’d say, rather than frenzied. A strong women or a man. Or a teen for that matter – one with a fair amount of strength. From the pattern of the wounds, I’d say that the killer struck from behind with a sideways swing, two right-handed and one left. The second right-handed blow had a lower trajectory, probably because the victim was on the ground by then and her head was leaning forward. I don’t think she could have been standing after the weight of the first blow.
“Would she have died instantly?”
“By the second or third blow. The third blow did the most damage.”
Shand wondered about the significance of the right-handed and left-handed blows. Were there two killers? Or was the weapon being wielded two-handed? A garden spade, say, swung sideways from the right, then the left, then the right again.
“Any idea of the attacker’s height?”
“Difficult to say with any degree of certainty. So much would depend on the angle of the victim’s head. Was she looking up or down or straight ahead when she was hit? The blow appears to come from below, but that can be explained by the sideways swing.” He demonstrated the attack holding an imaginary weapon in both hands. “The killer starts the swing at hip level and then brings it up and round – striking a glancing blow at the back of the victim’s head.”
“Are there any other wounds?” asked Shand. “Any sign she put up a struggle or tried to run?”
“No, I’d say your victim was surprised from behind. If she’d been running and hit from behind I’d expect to see some damage or staining to the hands or nails when she fell. There’s not even any soil under her fingernails and her knees are unscuffed.”
Three blows, thought Shand, every one of them hitting the mark. No mistakes, no warning. Could someone do that in the dark? Or had there been light at the circle? They’d have needed light to bury Helena – torches, car headlights. Was it that that had caught Annabel Marchant’s eye and made her stop?
Not if her husband was to be believed. She’d have driven past. Maybe phoned someone later and told them about the strange lights at the old stone circle.