An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  “Though there is one thing we didn’t find that might need explaining,” said SOCO.

  “What?” asked Shand.

  “Annabel’s hands and fingers. They’re too clean. Think about. You’re hit hard on the back of the head, you’re going to pitch forward. Don’t you throw your hands out to break your fall?”

  “Depends if I’m still conscious,” said Shand. “Or I might have my hands in my pockets.”

  “Possibly. It’s just that I can’t see any obvious impact marks on the clothes. I’d have expected to have seen staining around the knees, face or elbows when she fell. If her hands didn’t break her fall, I can’t see what did.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not really. But it’s something to take into account. Maybe someone else was there to catch her. Anyway, the problem’s yours now.”

  “As for the murder site,” he continued. “You know all about that. The site was too disturbed for any meaningful analysis of footprints or tyre tracks.”

  Which brought them to the Benson’s house. SOCO produced a file and handed it to Shand. They’d lifted eight different sets of fingerprints. Two belonged to George and Helena. None of the others had been identified.

  “No hits at all from Criminal Records.”

  Shand kept reading. No threatening letters had been found or anything that could be construed as coded or odd. No roll of duct tape, no evidence of wine making, and no scissors that matched the pattern found on the cut tape.

  “And we found a garden spade hanging on a hook in one of the outbuildings. No trace of blood or soil from the circle. Looks like our abductors came prepared with their own scissors, shovel, tape and tube.”

  “Can I keep this?” asked Shand, holding up the report.

  “It’s your copy,” said SOCO. “The report from the Marchant house will take longer. We’re still running fingerprints. Not to mention the analysis of Annabel’s computer.”

  ”You’ve cracked the password?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. She used her daughter’s Christian name. Prolific writer was our Annabel. And very efficient, she kept copies of all her correspondence going back three years.”

  “Anything interesting? asked Shand. “Any emails?”

  “Still ploughing through. Nothing noteworthy yet.”

  “Yes!” A cry came from the other end of the room.

  “What is it?” shouted SOCO.

  “A match, sir. On the prints.”

  Shand was already running. This was more than he’d hoped. A match! All they needed was a name and he was sure the case would crack open.

  “Whose is it?” he shouted.

  “It’s the prints on the book of matches, sir. They match one of the prints we took from the Marchant house.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  That was not what Shand had been expecting. Or hoping for. He’d wanted a name. A name with a record and a list of known associates.

  But this? This complicated matters further. It linked two crimes that he’d almost convinced himself were unconnected. Why would anyone arrange a dead body on top of woman they’d buried alive? It didn’t make sense.

  And yet it had to. Fingerprint evidence had just linked the abductors’ car with the Marchant’s house. How else could that be explained?

  And who owned the fingerprint?

  He called Taylor.

  “Get Gabriel Marchant’s fingerprints. We’ve found a match between the print on the book of matches and prints lifted from his house.”

  Of course it didn’t have to be Marchant. It could have been any of their friends. Marsh for one, he had the car that matched Helena’s description, and he was a member of the London club.

  “And get Marsh’s too,” he added.

  ~

  Shand drove back to Sturton, his mind alternating between the case and what he was going to say at the press conference. Was there time to match Gabriel’s fingerprints and file an arrest warrant? Could he announce Gabriel’s arrest in front of Kevin bloody Tresco and the rest of world’s media?

  His car almost careered off the road. He was driving too fast. He always did when excited. He slowed down. Took deep breaths. But then, before he realised, he was away again, racing through case and country roads together.

  Taylor’s call came through just as he was entering Sturton.

  “He’s refused, sir,” said Taylor. “Says we have no right, and his solicitor’s on his way round.”

  “What about Marsh?”

  “Can’t find him. His car’s gone and he’s not answering his phone.”

  Shand almost hit the car in front. He hadn’t noticed the lights change. Then he hit the steering wheel with both fists. Frustration! Why was nothing in this case straightforward?

  Down came the rain. A heavy shower that burst out of a blackening sky. Shand crawled the remaining mile through a veil of brake light tinged rain and stop start traffic.

  To make matters worse the station car park was full and he’d left his raincoat at the hotel. Shand hunched over the wheel and peered out at the mass of television company vans. Or what he assumed to be television company vans – he could barely see out – even with the windscreen wipers at full speed. And the car roof sounded like it was being beaten to death, and lightning had just tinged the sky electric pink.

  He edged the car forward. He was not going to turn up at a press conference looking like a drowned rat. He drove as close to the station doors as he could and then ran for the entrance, hoping that Kevin Tresco was the owner of at least one of the cars he’d just blocked in.

  He was still dripping by the time he reached his office. He shook his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. There was a file on his desk. The Post Mortem. He picked it up and flicked through the pages. Most of it was a confirmation of what he’d been told yesterday, but there were a few additions. She hadn’t been drugged, poisoned or pregnant, and her health had been excellent. According to her stomach contents, her last meal had been about three hours before her death – most likely a pesto pasta with a single glass of red wine and probably two cups of coffee.

  Nothing new that he could use. He tossed the report onto his in-tray and leaned back against his chair. He had a press conference in twenty minutes. Should he use it to put pressure on Marchant? Tell the media about the fingerprints and his lack of co-operation? It would be unprofessional, but if it got results…

  But would it get results? Marchant’s behaviour had verged on the paranoid from the beginning. Any extra pressure and he might stop co-operating completely.

  And worse … what if his fingerprints didn’t match? Shand could see Kevin Tresco revelling in that. Rogue cop hounds grieving husband. And it wouldn’t only be the press that would turn against him. He’d have jeopardised the case. Opened up the police to claims of defamation and prejudicing an enquiry. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Ah, there you are, Shand,” said Chief Superintendent Wiggins. He stood in the doorway looking almost furtive. “About that matter this morning, I’ve…” He stopped, glancing up and down the corridor before stepping inside, and closing the door behind him.

  He looked embarrassed. “I’ve spoken to the Chief Constable about his daughter and … well, Julia’s always been a bit of a handful, but she wouldn’t lie over anything as serious as this. He’s had a word with her, and she’s adamant that Marsh was with her between 10:30 and 1:45. Those are the hours you’re interested in, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shand. “Did she say what time she went to sleep?”

  “Not exactly,” said Wiggins, looking even more uncomfortable. “But according to the Chief she made it very clear that sleep did not feature very highly on the er … night’s activities.”

  “Ah,” said Shand.

  “Ah, indeed,” said Wiggins. “Anyway, must dash. I’ve got to get back to Sherminster. This corruption enquiry’s getting worse every day. Good luck with the press conference.”

  ~

  Luck
was not on Shand’s agenda for the press conference. He’d tell them what he wanted them to know, ask them for the help he wanted to receive, thank them, and get out. No questions, no heckling, and no cock-ups. First, he’d bury the asylum seeker story, then he’d hit them with the phone call lead. Something solid yet mysterious. A headline grabber. Midnight caller lures wealthy woman to her death. He liked the sound of that. Midnight Caller – menacing yet apposite.

  And he would not be late. The lift doors opened and he strode out. Two minutes to go. A fact reiterated by Jimmy Scott, the press officer, who pounced the moment he saw Shand.

  “Cutting it fine again, chief inspector,” he said, his lips pursed together in what Shand took to be a sign of irritation.

  “Sorry,” said Shand, pushing through the swing doors into the long corridor.

  “Hmm,” said Jimmy, looking him up and down. “At least you’re not wet. I’ve assembled and distributed the press packs. Pretty pictures of the mobile phone, and a sketch of the handbag.”

  “Good,” said Shand, realising he’d forgotten to ask Taylor how the handbag enquiry had gone.

  “Meanwhile,” said Jimmy. “They’re all champing at the bit wondering what your big announcement is going to be. As are we all, I might add. I don’t want to complain, but it would help if you kept the Press Office informed. I know you’re busy, but we’re fielding questions all day. No one can do their job blind.”

  Shand apologised again. Jimmy was right. He’d been so focussed on conducting the investigation that he’d ignored the administrative side of his duties. He’d barely spoken to the Chief Super. He’d barely spoken to anyone besides Taylor and witnesses.

  But what else could he do? He was running a major enquiry with a skeleton staff. The first two days were the most vital of any enquiry. He couldn’t afford not to take an active role in the investigation.

  “Oh, and who’s this Moleman they’ve dragged up?” asked Jimmy.

  Shand was surprised. “They’ve talked to you about the Moleman?”

  “Yes, in between the Transylvanian asylum seekers and the serial killing druids.”

  Shand smiled. “Local kids,” he said, “playing jokes on incomers and calling themselves the Moleman.”

  “Really? I think the Fleet Street boys have him down as a green-fingered Freddie Kruger.”

  “Not quite,” said Shand, pulling the conference door open and standing back to allow Jimmy through.

  Jimmy paused in the doorway and spoke almost in a whisper. “Watch out for Kevin Tresco,” he warned. “He’s really got it in for you. I think he sees you as the worst embodiment of the Antichrist – a copper and a Londoner.”

  ~

  The Antichrist took his place on the podium and made a point of smiling at Kevin Tresco. If the reporter wanted a fight, Shand was ready. He was not going to be intimidated by a self-important local hack.

  The self-important local hack smiled back, and winked. Shand’s inner nine year-old wanted to wink back, and raise him a smirk.

  Shand swiftly poured a glass of water from the decanter and took a large swig. This was ridiculous. He was in the middle of a murder enquiry and, suddenly, all he could think of was getting the better of a lank-haired reporter who no one had ever heard of.

  He glanced around the packed hall, wondering how many of the assembled media were called Gabriel. The way this case was going there had to be at least three. Gabriel O’Gabriel, Gabriel McGabriel, and probably a FitzGabriel or two thrown in for good measure. All reporting on the serial-killing druid asylum seeker murder for the Gabriels back home. No Gabriels killed yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

  Shand suppressed a smile. Perhaps he should start the conference with a request for a show of hands? How many Gabriels in the audience? Come on, don’t be shy. There’s enough wives to go round.

  He took another drink, desperately trying to ignore the self-destruct gene that he could feel pulsing inside him.

  But Shand’s inner nine year-old could be very persuasive. Why give a dry, factual press conference when you have the ability to put on a show. You can do this. You know you can. You’re funny, quick-witted. Or, at least, you used to be. When you were at school, and didn’t care what people thought. Now, here’s your chance to shine in front of the world’s media. Show Anne and all those senior ranks that you’re the man. Don’t rush through the facts and run off the stage like a frightened animal. Milk the situation, orate, be witty.

  And grind Kevin bloody Tresco into the ground. I double dare you!

  Why not, thought Shand. He’d felt like a caged bear all day.

  “We now know,” he said, relaxing and projecting his voice to the back of the room, “that at midnight, a call was made to the murdered woman’s house from the phone box on the village green. We need to know the identity of this … midnight caller.”

  He emphasised the last two words and paused, waiting for the journalists to scribble down the epithet he’d become so proud of. The Midnight Caller. He could see it gracing tomorrow’s headlines.

  “So,” he paused again. “We need to know who he,” another pause, “or she-”

  Or it, suggested Shand’s inner schoolboy.

  Shand suppressed a giggle. “Is,” he finished. “Whoever they were, the murdered woman felt impelled to leave her house immediately and walk to the village green.” He paused and addressed the press on the left-hand side of the room. “She didn’t run.” He turned to the right-hand side. “She didn’t take her car…”

  Or her ferret.

  Shand had to look down. He could feel a monster giggle welling up inside him. Ferret. That one word, that one incongruous image – Annabel Marchant and her inseparable, furry companion – struck his funny bone an irrecoverable blow. It wasn’t particularly funny. Another day, another hour it would have left him cold. But at that one, off-the-wall moment in Shand’s life, it was funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  He teetered on the edge of losing it.

  I bet the ferret was called Gabriel.

  He lost it.

  “Eah!” It came out as a strangled shriek. Half suppressed giggle, half squeak. He raised a fist to his mouth and tried to pass it off as a cough. What was the matter with him? There wasn’t anything to laugh at!

  He forced himself to continue. He couldn’t laugh. Not at this. Not here.

  He swallowed hard and tried to pull himself together.

  “We call on anyone,” he said, still looking down, trying to summon as much gravitas as he could muster, lowering his voice half an octave in the process. “Anyone who … was in Athelcott Friday night.”

  His voice was cracking along with his face. He could feel the corners of his mouth reaching for his ears, his shoulders starting to shake. He had to laugh. He needed to laugh. The urge was irrepressible. Dissolve, thump the table, slump on top of it, roll on the floor. Let go!

  But he couldn’t.

  He pinched himself – hard – using the table for cover, digging the nails of his left index finger and thumb into his inner right thigh, and squeezing as though his career depended upon it. Which it probably did. Pain shot through him. His eyes began to water. And the urge to giggle stopped.

  For two whole seconds.

  But he managed to get another sentence out. Holding Annabel’s picture up, he looked straight at the cameras. “Did anyone see this woman? Eah!”

  He had to look down again. He had to cover his squeak with a fist and a cough. And he had to keep pinching his leg. If he could just get to the end of his statement he could feign a pressing appointment and rush for the exit.

  He soldiered on, unable to string more than a handful of words together before having to pause. Not trusting his voice, not trusting himself.

  “We’re still looking for … the dead woman’s … handbag and phone.”

  A tear ran down his cheek. The pain from his thigh was excruciating, but he still needed to laugh. He’d explode if he didn’t. His eyes felt like they were bulging out on st
alks. He was having to contort his face to prevent the world’s biggest grin from escaping. And a giggling fit that would last minutes, that would end his career.

  “They may have been … dumped on the roadside … as the killers escaped. Please look.”

  Another deep breath, another squeak, another gouge at his leg. And then he was lifting up the pictures of Annabel’s handbag and mobile phone. “Phone,” he said, another tear. “Handbag … That’s all … Pressing appointment.” It was all he could manage. And then he was pushing his chair back, and hurrying off the stage.

  He hit the wings and started to run – down the steps, through the door, into the corridor, and up the stairwell past the foyer – only stopping when he found the cloakroom, and threw himself into the first cubicle he found. Whereupon he collapsed, giggling uncontrollably, his laughter interspersed with high-pitched snorts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Shand was red-eyed but firmly under control by the time he returned to his office and found Jimmy Scott waiting outside. He took a deep breath and wondered how much trouble he was in.

  Jimmy turned and regarded Shand in what looked like wide-eyed shock. “I didn’t realise you were so emotionally involved in the case,” he said almost breathlessly. “I’ve seen emotional appeals from parents and spouses before but … never from the detective in charge.”

  Shand blinked. Had people mistaken his tears and facial contortions for grief?

  A plan articulated itself before he’d had time to think. “It’s a little trick I developed at the Met,” he lied. “Emotional appeals are three times more likely to achieve results than a straight forward request for information. Gabriel Marchant wouldn’t do it so…”

  “You faked that?” said Jimmy, his eyes widening farther.

  Shand rubbed his leg. “The trick is to think of something sad and pinch the hell out of your leg. Works every time.”