by Chris Dolley
“I’m astonished,” said Jimmy. “I’m … speechless.” And then he dived forward and grabbed Shand’s hand. “Let me shake your hand, Mr. Shand. It’s a pleasure working with a professional.”
~
The professional dived inside his office and closed the door. What was the matter with him? Every time he opened his mouth a new lie popped out. And as for the press conference – what had he been thinking!
He slumped into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. What had possessed him? People had been making jokes all day – mostly at his expense – and he’d taken it all in silence. But as soon as the situation was inappropriate, suddenly he’s a music hall comedian! Did he want to fail? Was this what it was all about? Some self-destruct button that he couldn’t leave alone? Some ridiculous plan to make Anne feel sorry for him?
Or was he in crisis? A mid-life ‘what’s it all about?’ job-changing, life-analysing, full-blown Tourettes, male menopause crisis?
Or was he just tired and under stress? He’d barely slept for days, his marriage was God knows where, the case was baffling, he was beset by Gabriels, and he was in a new job in a new town.
And then there was Kevin Tresco. There was something about him. All that sneering and criticism. It was so personal. Something he’d never had to deal with. He was the safe pair of hands. A man who cruised through his career accepting plaudits. Never an object of ridicule or criticism.
One thing was certain. He would never face another press conference. He’d hand over to Jimmy Scott and bury himself in the investigation. No press, no interviews, and no more run-ins with Kevin bloody Tresco.
~
A knock on the door heralded Marcus Ashenden’s return from Sherminster.
“I thought I’d bring him straight up,” said Taylor, ushering the breathless DC into Shand’s office.
“You look like you’ve run all the way from Sherminster, constable,” said Shand.
“I had to park in town,” said Marcus, “the car park was blocked.”
Shand closed his eyes. He’d forgotten about his car. He dug out his car keys and handed them to Taylor. “Sorry,” he said, “I was late for the press conference. See if you can find someone to move it.”
“No need,” said Taylor. “It’s all sorted now. They didn’t know whose car it was so they broke in.”
“Broke in?” Shand could see his day spiralling ever deeper down the plughole of misfortune.
“It’s not damaged,” said his sergeant. “They released the door lock, disengaged the hand brake and pushed it clear.”
“Where is it now?” asked Shand, half-expecting to be told it had been towed away.
It hadn’t. By some miracle of good fortune it had been shunted into a space by the front gate. Shand pocketed his keys and asked for Marc’s report.
“Everything appears to check out, sir,” he began. “I talked to the friends George stayed with – Duncan and Elaine Shepherd. They said George arrived about 8:15, they had a coffee and rang for a taxi that arrived about 8:45.”
“Did they notice anything about George’s demeanour?” asked Shand.
Marcus ran a finger back over his notes. “He was excited about the evening ahead.”
“Excited?” said Shand, wondering if excitement could be confused with nerves. “Did you ask them if he was nervous at all?”
“I did,” said Marcus, flicking onto the next page. “They didn’t think so. Duncan said he looked at his watch a few times during the evening, but he put that down to George not being used to staying out late. A ‘real home bird’ is how he described him.”
Shand gestured for Marcus to continue while he leaned back in his chair and listened.
“I confirmed with the taxi company that two men were picked up from Duncan Shepherd’s address at 8:51 and taken to the Crown and Anchor in Sherminster. A ten-minute ride. The taxi driver doesn’t remember any conversation. ‘Just two men on the way to the pub,’ he said.”
“Did anyone notice anything odd in George’s demeanour that evening?” asked Shand.
“No, sir. One of his friends – a Clive Farleigh – said he was quiet for about twenty minutes around midnight, but no one else noticed. And Farleigh put it down to the drink. He thought George was feeling queasy.”
“Did anyone see George talking to someone outside their party?”
“No. Nor any phone calls, sir. Not that anyone saw. He went to the gents a number of times and would have passed a phone box, but no one saw him use it.”
Nor would they, thought Shand. Helena’s abductors were hardly likely to ring the Crown and Anchor’s public phone on the off chance that George was passing at the time.
“When did they leave?” he asked.
“The party broke up just after midnight. Some walked home, the others waited outside for taxis.”
“Was George ever alone?”
“No, sir. The taxi for George and Duncan arrived at 12:30, dropped them off at 12:40, then the two of them stayed up talking for at least another hour. Elaine came down and made them coffee. And she made them both drink a pint of water.”
“Wives,” said Taylor. “What would we do without them?”
“So George went to bed about a quarter to two?” asked Shand.
“That’s right,” said Marcus. “He stayed the night and left after breakfast. About eight o’clock, they think.”
Shand leaned back farther in his chair. Why hadn’t Helena’s abductors made any attempt to contact George? Didn’t they know where he was? Helena hadn’t mentioned anything about being quizzed over her husband’s whereabouts. But then she was only just coming out of shock. It was a wonder she was as lucid as she was.
He juggled times in his head. From 8:15 to 1:45, George was barely alone. Take away the handful of trips to the gents and he was never alone. Could anyone have made contact and not been seen? Slipped a note in his pocket, maybe? Something that he might not have read until the next day?
No. It was too hit and miss. If someone slipped a note in Shand’s pocket it might be days before he noticed. They’d leave the note in the house. Somewhere prominent that George couldn’t miss.
Which they hadn’t or Shand would have seen it. He’d been the first in the house that morning.
“Come on,” he said, pushing his chair back. “It’s time we talked to George and Helena again.”
~
Marcus stayed behind to write his report while Taylor drove Shand to Athelcott.
“How did the press conference go?” asked Taylor as he buckled himself in.
“Don’t ask,” said Shand.
“That bad?”
“Worse. But it’s the last one I’ll ever do.”
He swiftly changed the subject, recounting his trip to Forensics and then unveiling his plans for the next day.
“How would you like a trip to London, Bob? I need you to check out Marchant’s alibi and his relationship with Miss Delacroix. Check the restaurant, the hotel and Gulliver’s if you have the time. And make sure you visit his office. I want Marchant’s colleagues to know we’re investigating him. Let him know there’s a price for non-co-operation.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, sir.”
~
George and Helena were watching television when Shand knocked on the door.
“Why, chief inspector,” said a startled Helena, “We were just watching you on television. Such a … such a powerful presentation.”
Shand grimaced. If he ever survived this case he could see a battered video tape coming out at every Christmas party for the next ten years. Look boys, this is how a professional conducts a television appeal. Cue raucous laughter and break out the beers.
“I have some follow up questions from yesterday,” said Shand once he’d declined the offer of tea, biscuits, cakes and a choice of assorted chocolates. “The men who abducted you, did they use any items from here? I’m thinking about the breathing tube and the duct tape and the cardboard box.”
Helena lo
oked at George. “Have we any duct tape, dear?”
“No,” said her husband. “There are some boxes in the old stables. We use to store fruit in.”
“Would you know if any were missing?” asked Shand.
He shrugged. “They’re boxes, chief inspector. I couldn’t tell you anything more about them.”
“What about a siphon? Do you do any wine making?”
“Not for years, chief inspector,” said Helena. “To let you into a secret, I don’t think George liked my elderflower wine.”
“Nonsense, dear. I loved it.”
Helena smiled conspiratorially at Shand. “Which is no doubt why my bottles collected so much dust every year.”
“Do you still have a siphon?”
“I really couldn’t say,” shrugged Helena.
Shand looked around the room at the clutter of furniture and countless drawers. Helena’s kidnappers didn’t have the time to stumble upon the materials they needed here. They had to have arrived prepared.
“When the man tied you up,” said Shand. “Where did he produce the duct tape from?”
Helena considered the question for several seconds. George edged closer to her on the sofa and took her hand.
“I think he took it from a pocket, chief inspector.”
“How did he cut the tape, Mrs. Benson? Did he rip it or did he use something else?”
“I can’t remember. It may have been a knife. I don’t know.”
She rubbed her right temple and smiled apologetically. “I’m a terrible witness, chief inspector, but it all happened so fast.”
Shand moved down his list. Hair samples.
“This may sound a strange request,” said Shand, “but we found two types of hairs on your clothes, Mrs. Benson. We think they’re from you and your husband, but we need to be certain.”
“You want hair samples, chief inspector,” said Helena. “I don’t think that’s a problem. Though it might be for George.” She smiled and rubbed her husband’s balding head. “Don’t take too many.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Taylor, taking out a pair of sample bags. “I’ll hunt out one that looks like he’s about to jump.”
Shand watched. Helena seemed to have recovered remarkably. A different generation, thought Shand. More robust. More used to adversity. Then he realised he was talking about a woman who wasn’t much more than ten years older than he was.
“Are you going to extract our DNA, chief inspector?” asked Helena.
“I don’t think so,” said Shand. “They should be able to match the hair under a microscope.”
“Ah,” said Helena. “It is extraordinary what science can do these days, isn’t it? Must make your job easier.”
Shand wondered if it did. It opened up new avenues, certainly, and increased the amount of information. But did it make the job easier?
“It all depends on the type of case,” he said. “Sometimes you can have too much information.”
Like this case? He wondered how an old-time detective would have approached the murder/burial. Freed from the necessity to don white coats and search for minutiae would they have made faster progress? Would they have rounded up Marsh and Marchant and beaten a confession out of them? Or gambled everything on a hunch that led them straight to the murderer?
He really didn’t know.
But he did know that forensics alone couldn’t solve every case. The assessment of character, the analysis of motive and relationships – some procedures hadn’t changed in a hundred years.
“How would you describe your relationship with the Marchants?” he asked, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be conducting an interview.
“We lived in the same village, chief inspector,” said Helena. “We spoke occasionally. That was all.”
“I heard there was some ill-feeling over the election.”
She rubbed her temple again. “There was some nonsense, yes. Annabel was not an easy person to get along with. She has ... had … very strident views on most things and little appreciation for the feelings of others.”
“Not that anyone would kill her for it,” added George.
“Of course not,” said Helena.
“Why do you think she was killed?”
“Do you know, chief inspector, I really have no idea. If only I could remember better. It must have happened right on top of me. But,” she shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I heard people up there, or rats, or if everything was a dream. I have tried.”
She suddenly looked frail, her eyes full, her lower lip quivering.
“What about Gabriel Marchant? Did you see much of him?”
”Very little. I think he only lives in the village at weekends. We know him to speak to, but that’s all.”
“What about you, Mr. Benson? Did he ever call on you professionally?”
George swallowed. Shand watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “At the bank you mean?” he said. “No, no, not at all.”
“That match book that you found, Mrs. Benson. It came from a drinking club in London called Gulliver’s.”
“Really. Has it been any help?”
“Mr. Marsh is a member of that club.”
“No!” She seemed surprised. “You can’t … No. I’m sure the men were taller and thicker set. Mr. Marsh is such a slight man.”
“Maybe they were associates of his? What do you think, Mr. Benson?”
George almost jumped. “I … I really can’t say.”
Shand pressed. George had to be holding something back. The nerves, the look of near panic whenever Shand asked him a question.
“Is Mr. Marsh a customer at your bank?”
“No, not at all.”
“When’s the last time he spoke to you?”
“I ... I don’t know. Maybe at that party he threw. When was it, dear?”
George looked pleadingly at his wife.
“August,” said Helena. “He invited the whole village to a garden party at the rectory.”
Shand looked at Helena. Hadn’t she noticed the way her husband almost jumped every time Shand asked him a question? Or was this normal behaviour for George – a shy man who felt guilty under questioning?
“Yes,” said George, recovering some of his lost bonhomie. “A regular open house. Very lavish. The Brigadess thought he was trying to bribe his way into village society.”
“The Brigadess?” asked Taylor.
“Ursula Montacute,” said Helena. “Her husband’s a brigadier. I don’t recall who labelled her the Brigadess, but it stuck.”
“And very apt too,” said George, “she runs the parish council like a military machine.”
“I wouldn’t say that, dear. She’s organised, but she doesn’t boss anyone about.”
“Unlike Annabel Marchant,” said Shand, watching for a response.
“Very unlike Annabel Marchant, chief inspector,” said Helena. “Ursula thinks about others and acts accordingly. She can be stern, and she can dig her heels in, but she’s always fair and prepared to listen.”
“Whereas Annabel Marchant wasn’t?” prompted Shand.
“She had a very narrow view of life, chief inspector. It was her way or no way. Maybe some of her ideas had merit, but … she didn’t appear interested in compromise or accommodation. It was ‘this is what I want, now give me your support.’”
“I bet she made a lot of enemies with an attitude like that,” said Shand.
Helena’s face immediately set. “You won’t find the murderer in the village, chief inspector.”
And Shand wasn’t going to get much more from Helena Benson. He glanced down at his notes. Had he covered everything?
Not quite.
“I’ve one more question, Mrs. Benson. Did either of the intruders ever ask if you were alone in the house?”
“No. I don’t believe they did.”
“Or search upstairs?”
“No. They went into George’s study, but certainly not upstairs.”
“
Did they ask where George was?”
“No, they didn’t. Do you think that’s significant?”
He did. They knew she was alone. Intruders would have checked every room. Especially if George was their target. Which meant he wasn’t.
“Who else knew that George would be away that night?”
“Most of the village, and most of the customers at the bank, I should think. It wasn’t a secret, and George had been making jokes about his wild night out in Sherminster for weeks. He’s very outgoing.”
Except when answering questions from me, thought Shand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Shand didn’t say much on the drive back to Sturton. Not at first. He was too busy throwing ideas around inside his head. Facts, and theories, and wild guesses bouncing back and forth.
Helena had been the target all along. Not George. They’d known he was elsewhere, but hadn’t cared. Why? Had they already contacted him? He was nervous enough. But Shand couldn’t understand why he was still nervous – Helena was safe, and he’d declined all offers of police protection.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless the threat was current. We’ve taken your wife once, we can do it again.
But to what end?
If the plan had been to rob George’s bank over the weekend, why waste a day? Logic dictated you kidnap the manager and his family on the Friday night, rob the bank, then have Saturday and Sunday to make good your escape. You don’t let the bank manager go gallivanting off to Sherminster, and you certainly don’t continue with the plan once the police have been alerted.
So why was the threat still current? Were they stubborn, stupid, fixated?
Or wasn’t it robbery they had in mind?
Extortion! Shand started to fidget in his seat. It didn’t have to be a robbery at all. You work in a bank. Give me money, or your wife gets it.
Once started along that avenue of thought, he could see other possibilities. Money laundering, fraud. Approve this loan, open this account. They could have approached George at any time and threatened him. Maybe he didn’t take them seriously, so they snatched his wife.
It would explain everything.
Except Annabel Marchant and the annoying fingerprint that tied the two cases together.