An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  “What do you make of George Benson, Bob?” asked Shand, seeking a second opinion.

  “I’d swap my bank manager for him any day.”

  Yes, thought Shand. There was an avuncular quality to George Benson. He didn’t look like a person who turned down too many loan applications. But then, presumably, he must. He was, after all, a bank manager who had to turn a profit. There had to be a harder side, however well he hid it.

  “Did he seem nervous to you at all? Uncomfortable about certain questions?”

  “A bit,” said Taylor. “He didn’t like the questions about Marsh and Marchant.”

  “No, he didn’t,” said Shand, glad of the confirmation.

  Gabe Marsh and Gabriel Marchant. Could it be that neat? The two of them extorting money from George Benson, abducting his wife when he threatened to tell the police, then killing Annabel because … because what? Because Marchant couldn’t afford a divorce, or because she knew something?

  Shand bounced his latest theory off Taylor, who could see the logic – with one annoying exception – if both the Gabriels had alibis, who made the phone call? The men who abducted Helena? The men with rough London accents? Would Annabel have strolled to the green in the middle of the night to meet one of them?

  “Go on home, Bob,” said Shand when they reached the station car park. “We’re not going to make much more progress tonight, and I want you in London first thing. Break Marchant’s alibi and we’ve got a case.”

  ~

  Shand raced back to his office. The case was approaching the forty-eight hour mark and the steep decline into failure and the unsolved crime file. He picked up the phone. He wanted background checks on Marchant and Marsh. Bank statements, tax records – anything that could be found.

  “Look for any links to dubious companies, unexplained income, or cash flow problems,” he told them.

  And he added George Benson to the list. The extortion might have started months ago. The abduction of Helena triggered by George’s reluctance to continue.

  The bank would have to be audited too. A search for suspicious accounts – money laundering, false loans, missing money. Maybe it would convince George to cooperate? He’d soon find out when the auditors arrived at his branch.

  A knock came at Shand’s door. Chief Superintendent Wiggins stood in the doorway.

  “Ah, Shand,” he said, swiftly closing the door behind him. “How are … er things?”

  Shand noted the hesitancy in his voice, and a look that most people reserved for visiting the terminally ill in hospital.

  He braced himself. “Fine,” he said.

  “The case not too much? Must be a strain catching a big murder in your first week?”

  Oh, God, he’s seen the press conference, thought Shand, fixing his face in an optimistic smile.

  “No strain at all, sir,” said Shand. “I’m thriving on the challenge.”

  Shand’s brain left the conversation at that point and hurried three sentences into the future. He was going to have the case taken away from him. Stress, inexperience, the need for a fresh mind. Everything was leading towards the inevitable.

  “I er … saw the press conference earlier. You looked a tad strained, I thought.”

  Shand found himself smiling. “A bit of a risk, but I thought it justified.”

  “Risk?”

  Shand’s brain snapped back in panic. It couldn’t work twice. Not the ‘emotional appeal has three times the success rate’ speech.

  Too late. The words were already greased and hurdling teeth.

  “It’s a technique they use in the States, sir. If the family won’t cooperate.”

  Wiggins looked blank.

  “Emotional appeals have three times the success rate of ordinary appeals.”

  There it was – a statistic he’d dragged out of the ether. A statistic that someone was certain to check if he didn’t stop talking about it.

  “So if the family won’t cooperate,” he continued, “you try to find someone else. I was the closest.”

  “Oh, so it was…” The Chief Super struggled to find the word.

  “Planned,” suggested Shand. “Yes, sir, entirely. As I said it was a bit of a risk, but it had to be done. Anything to break the case.”

  Shand pushed a confident smile to the fore and hid behind it. Wiggins had to go soon. The corruption enquiry, an overstretched department – something had to drag him back to HQ.

  “Ah, yes, er … good work.”

  He didn’t look entirely convinced. So Shand hit him with a quick-fire progress summary. The matched fingerprints, the new motives of extortion and money laundering, the husband’s refusal to be fingerprinted, Taylor’s trip to check out his alibi, the audits.

  The Chief Super’s face brightened. Solid police work, good ideas, and a plan to move the case forward.

  “Keep up the good work, Shand,” he said. “But er … I’d go easy on those American practices, don’t you think?”

  ~

  The police station emptied as the evening progressed. Shand toiled at his desk, writing up the day’s progress, planning for the next. The case was moving into the middle game. The long slog through statements and facts, looking for the inconsistency, the mistake. Just like chess. The novelty of the opening, the long grind for position, and then the rush to the end game.

  Top of his list for tomorrow was one word – fingerprints. Whose were they? Marchant’s, Marsh’s or someone else’s entirely?

  Shand stopped by the front desk on his way out to see if his somewhat manic appeal to the public had yielded any results. The desk sergeant smiled and handed him a sheaf of messages. The one at the top was unfortunately representative of the others.

  ‘Is that nice policeman all right?’ it said.

  Shand went back to his hotel room and tried to sleep, tried to watch television, tried to read, and failed at all three. He was over-tired, scratchy-eyed, yawning, and on the verge of passing out. But held on that verge by a mind that refused to still – always finding some niggling thought to dwell upon.

  Like Anne. Even with the lights off, even with his eyes closed, he could still see the phone, resting on the bedside table, silently goading him. Daring him to pick it up. Would she be at home? Would she still be at work? Or was she sleeping elsewhere?

  It was stupid. It was self-destructive. It served no purpose. But he couldn’t let it go. A part of him wanted to call home, to make himself listen as it rang and rang without answer, each ring cutting deeper, each ring adding substance to a picture he didn’t want to see, but couldn’t shake off.

  ~

  Sleep eventually claimed him, and for the first time in several days he slept through to his alarm. Maybe his obsession had been cathartic?

  He dressed and went down for breakfast. A selection of newspapers lay on a table by the fruit juices. He flicked through the headlines. Midnight Caller was everywhere. Which was good to see. Both the broad sheets and the tabloids. Then he found the local paper, the Echo. ‘Out Of His Depth,’ ran the headlines. Below came an unflattering picture of Shand taken from the press conference, and then three pages of advice from Kevin Tresco entitled. ‘So here’s the real Athelcott story – crop circles, witchcraft and the Moleman.’

  Shand read on. Tabloid sensationalism of the worst kind. It read like a cheap horror film written by a fifteen year-old, painting Athelcott as a village gripped by satanic cults. Shand threw the paper down. He couldn’t finish it. The story was ridiculous. How could Tresco call himself an investigative journalist and write that rubbish?

  A question he didn’t have time to answer.

  His phone rang. It was the station, a breathless constable on the line.

  “Sir, you better get out to Athelcott immediately. There’s been another burial at the stone circle.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Shand blocked the entrance to the chalk track with his car. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as Saturday. This crime scene was going to be protecte
d. One police car was already parked along the track by the circle, but there wouldn’t be any others.

  Shand hurried along the track. Two uniformed policeman were standing by their car talking to a third man, a youth in a dirty green coat.

  “Haven’t touched a thing, sir,” said one of the constables. “We called it in straight away.”

  Shand walked slowly towards the circle, watching every step, determined not to contaminate the scene any more than he had to. But he had to get closer. He could see something in the circle, but not enough to make a judgement. Was it another burial? Or a trick of the light?

  And was that a line of police tape inside the circle?

  He reached the outer edge of the stones. There was a new mound, covered in turfs, identical in size and shape to the one that had covered Helena Benson. But this time it was on the side nearer the road.

  And someone had moved the police tape. Yesterday, it ran in a circle around the outside of the stones. Now, it ran in a circle around short metal poles, the circle of tape transecting the circle of stones like a pair of Olympic rings.

  “Why did you move the tape?” he shouted to the two policemen.

  “We didn’t,” came the reply. “It was like that when we arrived.”

  Shand swung back to look closer at the tape circle. Why would anyone do that? Had someone from the County Archaeologist’s department moved the tape?

  Or was it linked to the crime? An added layer of ritual.

  A car screeched to a halt behind Shand’s and a car door slammed. Shand turned to the two uniformed coppers. “Get some tape across the track entrance and make sure people stay back.”

  His eyes were drawn back to the mound. He couldn’t see a breathing tube, but should he check? He could walk carefully up to the mound. He lurched forward, then stopped. Indecision. What if he couldn’t see a breathing tube? What next? A fingertip search, feeling for a tube breaking the surface? And if that didn’t work?

  He looked to the road. Where was Scene of Crimes? He checked his watch. He’d called them out as soon as he’d received the call. They should have been here by now.

  Another glance at the mound. Maybe he could shout a message to whoever was inside? Give them hope. We’re on our way.

  “Hello!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, trying to focus the call. “We’re here!”

  Then he felt foolish. He was shouting at a mound of earth. He glanced back to the road. More cars arriving. People looking his way. What if Kevin Tresco was there? Wouldn’t he love to twist Shand’s words? Novice cop talks to mound of earth.

  And then he felt guilty. Thinking about himself while someone lay buried, helpless and frantic, unable to move, too frightened to cry out in case they lost the tube in their mouth, not knowing if help was on its way or even possible.

  He called again. “Stay calm! We know where you are!”

  Another glance at his watch. Come on! Frustration rising. How much longer should he give them? A minute, five?

  More cars, more people. He strained to see a white coat and shook his head in frustration. Three uniformed coppers were jogging down the track towards him. And Marcus Ashenden, his DC.

  Shand shifted his weight from foot to foot. Come on! Another minute and he’d dig up the entire crime scene if he had to.

  “SOCO’s behind me,” said Marcus, breathing hard. “They’re just getting changed.”

  Thank God, thought Shand. How long would it take before they dug this person out? Would they walk along the track or run? Would they wait for photographs to be taken? Would they take the mound apart piece by tiny piece to preserve evidence?

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the mound. He thought he saw it pulsing with the breath of the person trapped inside. He thought he heard them gasping, crying for help, shouting accusatory words – what is taking you so long!

  He had to look away. Four white suits ambled along the track. He couldn’t believe it. “Come on,” he pleaded, then again louder. “Come on!”

  He willed them to hurry. He waved. He beckoned. He didn’t care what people thought. A life was at stake.

  They began to jog, then they were at the circle, through the gap between the stones. A camera clicked, several times, lights flashing around the stones. And then people were crawling and probing and brushing. White shapes slithering like maggots all over the mound. Shand waited, unable to recall the last time he’d breathed, praying, and hoping, and wondering who it would be. Helena? George? Someone else?

  A white-rimmed face turned to Shand. A reluctant shake of the head.

  No! Not dead! Shand almost burst into the circle. They couldn’t be dead!

  “No tube,” said SOCO.

  Shand couldn’t accept it. They hadn’t looked hard enough. There had to be a tube!

  “Let’s start removing the turfs,” said SOCO.

  Shand watched, edging forward as each turf was lifted. Couldn’t they go any faster?

  The top layer removed, they started probing the earth. Still no tube. And no body. How deep was it buried?

  They kept digging. They kept probing. The pile of soil growing higher and wider.

  Until…

  SOCO stopped and looked at Shand. “There’s nothing here,” he said.

  “Go deeper,” said Shand.

  “We’ve hit bedrock.”

  Shand turned away. A hoax? He’d been put through the ringer for a hoax?

  He stormed away from the circle, looking for the youth he’d seen earlier. The one in the dirty green coat. He had to be the Moleman. Right age, right place. Call in the cops and have a front row seat. Look what I found. I think it’s another body.

  “Name?” snapped Shand, grabbing hold of the youth’s shoulder and swinging him around to face him.

  “Lee,” said the boy. He was in his late teens, unkempt and wiry. “Lee Molland. Did you find anything?”

  ”What do you think?” said Shand.

  “I wasn’t sure. I thought I’d better ring, just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?” snapped Shand.

  “In case there was a body. I didn’t think there was but…”

  “Why didn’t you think there was a body?”

  Shand kept pressing. He didn’t want to give the boy time to think.

  “Because of the legend. You know? About the stones.”

  Shand looked at the boy closely. Was this another wind up? You’ve fallen for my body in the circle hoax, now here’s another?

  “What legend?”

  “They say the stones dance at full moon. And when they stop they don’t always go back to the same place they come from. You can see how they’ve moved away from your police tape.” He pointed at the circle. “I expect you’ll find that new mound’s really the old one popped back out again.”

  Shand waited for him to finish, then added another five seconds to control his temper.

  “Here’s another legend, Lee,” said Shand between clenched teeth. “If I hear of one more molehill where a molehill shouldn’t be, or flowers switching beds, or police tape dancing by the light of the moon, then you, my boy, will materialise magically in Sturton cells. Understand?”

  “You think I’m the Moleman?” He spoke like a choirboy, eyes widening in innocent surprise.

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. See those men over there? The ones with the white coats and short tempers. They’re going to take that circle apart until they find the proof. DNA, fibres, hair. I bet you shed cells like a regular leper.”

  For the first time doubt spread across Lee Molland’s face. “You wouldn’t do that for a hoax?”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Shand. “But they would. Don’t get enough work, see? Not many murders in this part of Wessex so any chance they get to use their shiny new machines and they’re unstoppable.”

  Lee bit his lip and glanced at the circle.

  “Of course, I could call them off if I wanted,” said Shand. “If someone was to be helpful. Like telling me where they were
Friday night.”

  “I already told your lot. I didn’t see anything. I stayed in.”

  “Stayed in,” said Shand, looking for every facial twitch and deviation of eye contact. “Let’s take a leap of imagination and pretend you’re the Moleman.”

  Lee started to complain, but Shand raised a finger. “No, Lee, stay with me, we’re only pretending. Now, if you were the Moleman, what might you have seen on Friday night, early Saturday morning.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Lee,” warned Shand.

  “I’m helping, really, but think about it. Would the Moleman really go out on a moonlit night when anyone could see him?”

  ~

  Shand took a deep breath, then shook his head. Kids. This case was trying enough without hoaxers nearly giving him a heart attack.

  “Do you think they really dance at full moon, sir?” said Marcus staring at the circle of stones in what could only be described as a look of awe.

  “No, Marcus and when you’ve got time, check the dates the Moleman struck against the moon and weather conditions.”

  Shand left his constable and told SOCO he could stand his team down. It was a hoax. The burial mound, the police tape – all an elaborate hoax to make it look like the stones had moved.

  “Are you sure they haven’t?” said SOCO. “Those trees look a lot closer to me.”

  Shand fell for it and looked, staring at the trees until the laughter registered.

  “Gotcha, Mr. Shand,” said SOCO, smiling. “I must say your crime scenes are nothing if not entertaining.”

  Shand hovered on the brink of a caustic reply but, failing to come up with anything better than ‘big nose,’ decided to walk away.

  Only to find Kevin Tresco sitting on his car bonnet.

  “Did you read my story this morning, chief inspector?” said the reporter getting up, his lips already curling into his trademark sneer.

  “Your story?” said Shand, feigning surprise. “I can’t remember. Was that the one with ‘Now wash your hands’ stamped on each page?”

  Shand pushed past and dived into his car, leaving the reporter trout-like in his wake. A couple of uniformed officers cleared bystanders out of the way and Shand made his getaway, accelerating hard until the circle was out of sight.