by Chris Dolley
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Someone’s missing?” said Shand, before he’d had time to think – a situation that was becoming far too frequent.
“Yes, since this morning. Well, maybe before that. We only take a head count at breakfast.”
“Did you report this to the police?” asked Taylor.
“It’s not general policy, sergeant. This is not a secure centre. None of our guests here have committed any crimes. We’re a collection centre really.”
“With ten foot high fences and barbed wire?”
“That came with the army camp, I’m afraid. We try and play down the detention centre aspect.”
The Director looked like an army officer. A neat, prim little man with a pencil moustache and slicked back hair.
“So people can come and go as they please?” asked Taylor.
“Not exactly. Everyone’s supposed to stay inside the camp. But we try and be flexible. There’s a limit to what we can provide inside the camp, and we don’t want any riots.”
Shand kept quiet, content to let Taylor take the lead. He’d let the interview proceed, go through the motions, then leave as quickly as possible. The chance of this disappearance being linked to a murder four miles away was negligible. But it did provide his fabrication with a touch of credibility. Who knows, thought Shand, maybe fortune did favour the brave.
“So you let people out now and then?” asked Taylor.
“We bus the children to the local school at Nethercombe and some of the adults are taken to English classes in Sturton. They’re not supervised all the time and sometimes fewer come back than we send out. But it’s usually a misunderstanding. They make their own way back eventually. Free food and a bed for the night is not something to be given up lightly, sergeant.”
“Don’t they want to escape?” asked Taylor. “I thought that’s what they did. Run off to the cities and disappear so they can’t be sent home.”
“So the media would have us believe, sergeant. But this facility is for those that have been fast-tracked as most likely to be granted asylum. They have no reason to run. Other than a quite natural fear of confinement and, for some, an ingrained distrust of authority.”
“Do people often miss roll call?” asked Shand, deciding it would be more suspicious if he didn’t ask at least one question.
“Occasionally. But they usually return the next day. Chastened and sometimes a little frightened. If someone was missing for three days, we’d contact the authorities, but that hasn’t happened yet.”
“Does the camp have any links with Athelcott?”
“Not that I can think of. The children go to school at Nethercombe. There may be some children from Athelcott attending, but you’d have to check.”
“Do the names Helena Benson or Annabel Marchant mean anything to you?”
“No, not at all.”
Shand smiled and held out his hand. “I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time. If Marius is still missing next week, give us a call.”
“Yes, of course. I’m still curious, chief inspector, how did you find out about our missing man?”
“An anonymous tip-off,” said Taylor. “Straight to the chief inspector’s mobile.”
~
“You’re not pursuing this?” asked Taylor as they walked to the car.
“Not tonight,” said Shand. “There’s a few things we need to do in Athelcott first.”
A television van pulled up outside the gates as Shand and Taylor left. The first of many, thought Shand as he slipped lower in the passenger seat.
They drove to the circle first. Shand wanted to see the fingertip search for himself. He watched from the road as lines of uniformed policemen crawled and combed through the rough grass along the track edge. He talked with the sergeant in charge. Nothing much to report. Drink cans, food wrappers, cigarette packets, assorted scraps of paper and plastic.
“Oh and we found some spent shot gun cartridges up by the entrance to the wood.”
Shand looked up from the pile of plastic evidence bags. “Shot gun cartridges?”
“Probably someone shooting pigeons,” said Taylor.
“That’s what we thought,” continued the sergeant. “Or rooks, you can see a few nests in the higher branches.”
Then they drove back down the London road, Shand wanted to retrace the probable escape route while it was still light. They might get lucky. It was about time they did.
They crawled along the country lanes, Taylor keeping the speed below twenty, both men checking their side of the road. They stopped at every lay-by and rubbish bin, at every suspicious pile of debris lying in a ditch or flapping piece of fabric caught in a hedge.
No handbag. No garden spade. No flat, smooth metal object. No mobile phone. By the time they returned to Athelcott it was dark.
“Who haven’t we seen?” said Shand, picking up Taylor’s list – people who’d been out when the house-to-house had called. There were seven names. Shand decided to take them in order, starting at one end of the village and working his way along.
On the sixth name, they struck lucky.
“I saw her, you know?” said the old man. A Mr. Derek Wootton according to Taylor’s notes. He was sitting in a battered armchair in front of an open log fire as his daughter fussed around him.
“You saw Mrs. Marchant?” asked Shand.
“That’s right. I was only talking about it five minutes ago to our Ruthie. ‘No!’ she said, ‘you must have been the last one to see her alive.’ And I bet I was, you know?”
“What time did you see her?”
“Six minutes past twelve exactly,” he said, enunciating each word. “And I knows that for a fact ’cos I looked over at my alarm clock and I remember thinking to myself, ‘where’s she going at this time o’ night?’”
Shand could barely get the next question out quick enough. “Where did you see her?”
“I’ll show you if you like.” His arms strained as he pushed himself out of the armchair. “I was up at the bedroom window.” He walked over to what Shand had assumed was a cupboard door and opened it. Inside was the narrowest and steepest staircase Shand had ever seen. There was barely headroom at the bottom and the stairs turned immediately alongside the back wall.
Shand and Taylor followed the old man up the stairs and along a sloping corridor into a small bedroom overlooking the street. There was a digital alarm clock by the bed. Shand checked it against his watch. It was correct.
“I had to get up,” said Mr. Wootton. “’Cos the moon was in my eyes. So I went over to draw the curtains and that’s when I saw her. Down there.”
He pointed to the other side of the road. “She was on her way to the green.”
“You’re sure it was Mrs. Marchant?” asked Shand, shading the glare of the hall light on the window with his right hand as he tried to make sense out of the grey shapes below.
“Positive,” said Mr. Wootton. “She had on that long coat of hers. And the moon was that bright it was like daylight out there.”
“It was a full moon last night?” asked Shand, surprised that he hadn’t checked. He’d assumed it had been overcast. It had been when he’d left the hotel after breakfast. The sky had been thick with cloud.
“Not quite,” said Wootton. “Full moon’s in three days time, but it was as near as dammit last night.”
“Could you switch off the hall light for a minute, Bob,” said Shand.
The room went black. Shand peered down at the road below. He could make out more detail now. The bedroom window was directly above the pavement, the other side of the road couldn’t have been more than twenty-five feet away.
“Was she alone?” asked Shand.
“All alone,” said Wootton. “I thought it were strange at the time. Didn’t I just say that, Ruthie?”
“Yes, dad,” agreed a voice from below. Shand marvelled at the old cottage’s acoustics and looked down at the bare floorboards by the window – probably nailed directly onto the
ceiling joists, just the one inch of wood between bedroom and lounge.
“Did you see where she went?” Shand asked as Taylor switched the hall light back on.
“No,” said Wootton. “I was starting to get cold. We got no heating upstairs and it was a bitter night so I just draws the curtain and jumps back into bed. Do you think she was on her way up to the circle?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Wootton. What do you think?”
“Well,” he said conspiratorially, “seeing as you asked and all. I can’t see her walking all the way up to the circle. Not at night. Not any time, really. Not a great walker, that one. I’ve seen her drive to the Oak. So that’ll tell you how far that one liked to walk.”
“So where do you think she was going, Mr. Wootton?”
“To meet someone on the green.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s what I reckon. The green’s always been a place to meet people. ‘Meet you on the green,’ that’s what we always used to say.”
“Who do you think she was going to meet?”
“Ah,” said Wootton, “now, wouldn’t we all like to know the answer to that.”
“How about a guess, Mr. Wootton?”
Mr. Wootton shook his head. “Not me, inspector. I gets in enough trouble as it is without pointing fingers at others.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shand and Taylor stood outside the Wootton’s cottage. Annabel Marchant’s house was about one hundred and fifty yards to the left. The green was fifty yards to the right. If she’d kept going she’d have reached the circle in another three-quarters of a mile, passing the Benson’s cottage in the process.
What was she doing? Who was she going to meet? And why so late?
12:06. Annabel Marchant was alive at 12:06 and killed sometime between then and 1:45. But Helena Benson had been abducted around 10:30. Why the gap?
Then the thought struck him, he hadn’t corroborated Helena’s time of abduction. She’d said herself she’d been confused. Could it have been later? She’d been on the phone when the knock had come at the door. On the phone to ... he checked his notes, pulling out a torch, and flicking back through pages of almost illegible scrawl.
There it was – Ursula Montacute, chair Parish Council.
“Has anyone interviewed Ursula Montacute?” he asked Taylor.
Taylor borrowed the torch. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said, and then, “no, she’s not on our list.”
Shand flicked on his phone and rang Directory Enquiries. How many Ursula Montacutes could there be in Wessex?
Just the one. He jotted down her number and rang.
“Mrs. Montacute?”
“Speaking.”
“Sorry to disturb you, but I’m Detective Chief Inspector Shand. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“By all means, chief inspector.”
“Did you telephone Helena Benson last night?”
“She telephoned me. She wanted to discuss the upcoming parish council meeting.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“About half past ten, I think. I believe the film had just finished. The one on BBC.”
“Was it a long call?”
“No, quite short actually. Two minutes, I’d say. Then there was a knock at the door and she had to ring off.” She paused, her voice hardening. “I actually heard them knock on the door, chief inspector. If only she hadn’t put the phone down, I would have heard what happened next, and could have phoned for help.”
~
“Shall we get something to eat?” suggested Taylor.
“What?” said Shand, busy juggling time frames in his head. Helena Benson abducted around 10:30, Annabel Marchant on the green at 12:06. How could he bring the two together?
“Food,” said Taylor. “I only had a sandwich at dinner time.”
Shand persuaded him to wait until they’d checked the last name on their list – Mark Acomb.
“And if he’s not at home,” said Shand, “we’ll check the pub next.”
He wasn’t at home.
Bill Acomb thought his son might have gone drinking in Sturton. Or, at least, that was what he said as he stood in the doorway. A television set blared out from inside the house. Shand peered past him into the ill-lit hallway and wondered who he’d find if he pushed his way in. Was Mark Acomb hiding inside? Or was he usually this difficult to find?
Shand dwelt on the step for another second, then left.
He had a pie and a pint with Taylor at the Royal Oak, but couldn’t settle. He wanted to write everything down, to spread notes all over the largest table he could find, and try and make everything fit together. He didn’t want to eat or engage in small talk or even discuss the case. He wanted time by himself. Time to pull everything together. He’d been flying off at tangents all day, and it was time to step back and examine what had been discovered.
Taylor dropped him by his car in Sturton. Shand said goodnight and drove back to the station.
Alone in his office, he filed and collated, reading through all the reports and making notes as he went – creating lists of information he needed, questions to be asked, people to see. And then setting priorities. Tasks for the next day. Allocation of staff. He was not going to be unprepared again.
Hours passed. The station quiet except for the distant rumble of a cleaner’s trolley. Shand leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. If only he could make sense of the time line. Helena abducted around 10:32, Annabel killed at 12:45. Two and a quarter hours unaccounted for in between. Even if they moved Annabel’s murder up to just after 12:06 there was still a 95-minute gap. How long did it take to bury Helena?
He went through the course of events in his mind. They arrive at 10:32, a few minutes to subdue Helena then tie her up. A few more minutes to look around the house, then into the car. That would make it about 10:40, 10:45 at the latest. A two-minute drive to the circle, they get out, dig the hole. Another twenty minutes. Eleven o’clock, maybe ten past. Then they tell her to lie down in the grave. She resists, they hold her down. Another minute. They explain about the breathing tube, they fill in the grave. Another few minutes. That would make it about 11:05 to 11:15. An hour before Annabel’s last sighting.
So what did they do in the meantime? Did they stay at the circle? Were they waiting for someone?
He ripped out another sheet of paper from the pad and started to write. Facts in black, suppositions in red, switching between pens. Was it George they were waiting for? Had they rung him? Or did they go looking for him? Was that the cause of the delay? Had they driven to Sherminster and back?
He dived into a stack of papers he’d filed on the floor. How long did it take to drive to Sherminster? He tore through the pages, ran his finger down the text. There it was. Forty minutes. Forty minutes at night if you put your foot down.
He made the calculation. One hour twenty there and back, longer if they had trouble finding him. They leave at 11:05, back around 12:30 in time to kill Annabel at 12:45.
He collapsed back into his chair. Why would Annabel go to the circle? That was the problem. He rubbed his eyes and tried to massage the sleep out of them. He felt so tired – his body, his brain – he knew he needed to sleep, but couldn’t bring himself to leave. He had to keep going.
He switched to a new sheet of paper. This time Annabel had seen the events at the circle. She’d driven past at eleven, but waited until she got home to phone a friend. A friend who just happened to be in on the abduction. A local man who’d planned the bank robbery and brought the men down from London.
The friend panics, suddenly he doesn’t have all weekend to rob the bank. Annabel’s going to tell everyone about what she saw at the circle. Someone’s bound to get curious and take a look. So she has to be silenced. He arranges to meet her, takes her to the circle to investigate what she’d seen ... and kills her.
It fit the time frame. It even made sense – up to the point where they placed Annabel’s body on Helena’s grave. If you kill someone to hide a
crime, you don’t then place that corpse on top of the very body you were trying to hide.
Shand rolled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the bin. Was it at all possible that the crimes weren’t linked? It sounded ridiculous but…
Another piece of paper. What if it wasn’t Annabel, but Annabel’s murderer who had witnessed Helena’s burial?
Could they have used Helena’s burial as a smokescreen?
Shand wasn’t sure if it was desperation or lack of sleep but, suddenly, he could see the possibility. He could even envisage it. Someone driving by, sees the lights at the circle, goes to investigate, creeps up silently using the darkness as cover.
Shand stopped and shook his head. There’d been a full moon. And no cover if they came in from the road. They’d be seen.
Could they have come from another direction? The chalk track led into a wood. Someone could have come from there and watched from the cover of the trees.
He liked that. He put himself in their position, mentally crouching down on the edge of the wood, silently observing. They’d watch, curious at first, maybe they’d think of intervening or calling the police. But they didn’t. Why? Because they were alone and outnumbered, or because they’d already formulated another plan? A chance to get rid of a bigger problem – Annabel.
He started to write. Fast. They’d wait until the two men left, then they’d persuade Annabel to walk to her death.
How? He scratched it in large letters and underlined it twice. They’d have to be a friend, someone Annabel would trust – a husband, a lover, someone close – someone who could convince her to leave her house in the middle of the night.
But would she walk all the way to the circle? Mr. Wootton didn’t think so. Neither did Shand. She had a car. Why hadn’t she used it?
Another note. Check car. Had someone sabotaged it?
Or had she been offered a lift? From a car that couldn’t risk being seen pulling up outside her house? A lover?
Shand could definitely see it. They’d meet at the Green. He’d drive her to the circle, feed her some story she couldn’t resist – a moonlight tryst, a mystery – something to persuade her to walk over to the circle as he drifts behind her, spade in hand – maybe picked up from the car, maybe planted by the stones earlier. She stops, he grips the spade in both hands and then, by the light of the moon, he swings and – whack – she falls.