An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  A mile out of Athelcott Shand’s inner adult addressed him. ‘Well done, Shand,’ it said, using its sarcastic schoolteacher voice. ‘Less than a day after vowing never to speak to the press again, you pick on the worst jackal in the pack and insult him. One second of triumph that will undoubtedly come back in a re-arranged and out of context quote in tomorrow’s Echo.’

  ‘So what?’ said his inner nine-year old. ‘Kevin Tresco hates you anyway. Nothing you could say to him would ever make a difference.’

  Which was true. Even his inner adult had to agree with that.

  And it felt good. Liberating even. The way he’d handled the Moleman too. After the ordeal of the buried body, he’d cut loose, thrown off the old repressed Shand and started speaking what he felt instead of what he thought people expected to hear.

  And he’d been intuitive. Acted on a hunch without stopping to analyse the minutiae. He’d jumped straight from hoax to Moleman to the boy who’d called in the burial.

  And he’d been right.

  Probably.

  ~

  Shand, and his thankfully now quiet inner family, had barely settled in his office when the phone call came. It was from one of the few members of the Forensics team who hadn’t been called to the stone circle.

  “We’ve traced the store where the cardboard box came from,” she said. “You know the one from Mrs. Benson’s burial?”

  “Yes, I know,” said Shand, expecting to be told it was another dead end.

  “It’s from a supermarket in Harrow. Pricerite on Edgware Lane. It was part of a consignment sent there three years ago. Do you want the exact date?”

  Shand sat bolt upright. “Yes, please.”

  He found a pen, jotted the date down. Three years ago. Harrow. Didn’t someone say that Gabriel and Annabel had used to live in Harrow?

  ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He scrabbled through papers and reports on his desk. Where were they? The witness statements. Jacintha Maybury’s. He was sure she said something about the Marchants living in Harrow.

  She had. He found the entry cross-referenced to the phone logs. He remembered now. There was an entry for a woman living in Harrow. Someone who Annabel had called last week.

  He fished out the phone logs and started dialling. If she could tie Gabriel Marchant to the supermarket, they’d have the box and the book of matches connecting Gabriel to the abduction!

  And when was it that the Marchants had moved to Athelcott – two, three years ago? It all fitted.

  The phone rang. Shand tapped on the desk with a finger. Waiting. The dial tone taking forever. Click. A woman’s voice. “Hello.”

  Shand introduced himself briefly, his mind racing towards the first question.

  “Do you know the Pricerite supermarket in Harrow? The one on Edgware Lane?”

  “Yes,” came the slightly puzzled answer.

  “Did Annabel and Gabriel Marchant shop there?”

  “I … I believe so. Why do you want to know?”

  “Were they living in Harrow three years ago? Specifically the months of June and July?”

  He was thinking fast. How long did a box stay at a supermarket? Would it be months before it was discarded for shoppers to use?

  “Yes, they moved to Athelcott that autumn. September, I think.”

  Shand punched the air. He had the information he wanted, enough to bring Gabriel in surely. Could he find more?

  “Did you know the Marchants well?” he asked.

  “Not so much Gabriel, but Annabel certainly.”

  “What kind of a woman was she?”

  “Annabel?” she let out a deep sigh. “Now that’s a question. She was a complex person. A lot of fun, boundless energy, very outgoing but … at the same time she was a very private person. There was a social Annabel and a private Annabel. Very few people knew the private Annabel.”

  “Did you?”

  “I think so, though it’s been such a long time since we had a real talk. We chat, but it’s different over the phone.”

  “What about Gabriel Marchant? How would you describe their relationship.”

  “Loving, I’d say. As much as Gabriel can love anything that’s not to do with work or himself.”

  “You don’t like Gabriel?”

  “I don’t like men who are obsessed with their work, and with Gabriel there are times when you can barely get a sentence out of him that’s not work-related.”

  “Would you say she had a happy marriage?”

  “She once joked she had the ideal marriage. A rich husband who was never at home.”

  “What did you think she meant by that?”

  “Nothing risqué, chief inspector. Annabel was a woman who had expensive hobbies and loved to see them indulged. Have you seen what she did to her home? She designed the lot – interior and exterior. All Gabriel did was pay the bills.”

  A not insubstantial contribution in Shand’s eyes. But then, he was a man.

  “Did she ever mention any special friends she had in Athelcott?” said Shand, skirting around the use of the word ‘lover.’

  “Someone called Jacintha, I think. I’ve met her several times. An artist, I believe.”

  “Any men friends?”

  A long pause before the clipped denial. “Definitely not.”

  “I have to ask these questions,” said Shand. “Any particular friends from her time in Harrow, school friends she kept in touch with, old flames?”

  “Not that I recall. You’d have to ask Gabriel.”

  Shand could see himself doing that. One request for a list of old boyfriends and Gabriel would run screaming to his solicitor complaining of harassment and character assassination.

  “How about enemies? Did she ever mention any problems she was having with anyone?”

  “You mean besides that awful neighbour? The one who lives in a tip.”

  “Bill Acomb,” said Shand. “Yes, we know about him. Anyone else?”

  “There was a woman with a strange name. Brigadoon or something like that.”

  “The Brigadess?”

  “Yes, that’s it. The local squire’s wife, she used to think she ran the village until Annabel arrived.”

  “Was there much friction between them?”

  “I don’t really know. When I last spoke to Annabel she gave me the impression that the woman was not going to be a problem for much longer.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “She wouldn’t say. Annabel can … could … be very secretive when she wanted to.”

  Shand replaced the phone and leant back in his chair. What had Annabel meant by that? The election? Surely not? From the feedback he’d received from the village he couldn’t see either of the Marchants winning a popularity poll.

  He filed the question aside for later. He had a more pressing matter to organise. And this one he was going to enjoy.

  ~

  Shand knocked on Gabriel Marchant’s front door and waited. A reporter had noticed his arrival and stood by the gate. Thankfully it wasn’t Kevin Tresco.

  Gabriel Marchant’s face appeared in a nearby window, then quickly disappeared. Shand waited, then knocked again.

  The door opened.

  “My client has nothing to say to you, chief inspector.”

  The lawyer, a very expensive lawyer by the look of him, stood in the doorway, his hand on the door, blocking access to the house and his client who stood behind him in the hallway.

  “And you would be?” asked Shand.

  “Charles Rathmell,” he said as though the name should be familiar – which it wasn’t – and delivered with the aristocratic disdain of a Regency buck. “My card,” he added, handing Shand an embossed work of art.

  “Very nice,” said Shand, fighting the sudden urge to rip it up and cast the tiny pieces over the lawyer’s crocodile skin shoes.

  “Well, Mr. Rathmell, perhaps you’d be so kind as to inform your client that he has two choices. One, he comes to the stati
on voluntarily or, two, I arrest him here and all his colleagues and clients can read about it in tomorrow’s papers.”

  “You have no grounds for an arrest.”

  “Do I not? You want me to read them all out in front of the press? That’s a reporter standing by the gate.” Shand turned to stab a finger in the direction of the lone bystander. “I’ve got a loud voice and I bet he’s got big ears.”

  Gabriel lurched forward. “No,” he said, grabbing his lawyer by the arm. “It’s all right. I’ll go voluntarily.”

  ~

  Shand placed the supermarket box in the middle of the table in Interview Room One. He’d leave it there, not say a word about it, and let Gabriel’s imagination do the rest.

  “Take a seat,” he said as Gabriel and his lawyer came through the door.

  “My client has nothing to say, Mr. Shand. This is a totally nugatory exercise.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Shand, dismissively. “They were always my favourite. Now, Gabriel, have you heard of a club called Gulliver’s? A drinking club off Hanover Lane.”

  Gabriel looked at his lawyer who answered for him. “My client refuses to answer any questions.”

  “Perhaps he’s confused as to the whereabouts of Hanover Lane,” said Shand, placing his hands on the table and leaning forward. “It’s not in Swindon, Gabriel. It’s in London. And your name appears in the guest book.”

  Both solicitor and client sat silent and implacable.

  Shand produced the evidence bag with the matchbook and dangled it in front of Gabriel’s face.

  “Ring any bells yet, Gabriel?”

  “This is a pointless exercise, chief inspector,” said the lawyer.

  Shand ignored him. “This was found in the car used for the abduction of Helena Benson.”

  Gabriel started. “I thought this was about Annabel,” he blurted.

  “Now that’s interesting,” said Shand. “What makes you think the crimes are unconnected?”

  Gabriel looked pleadingly at his lawyer.

  “He doesn’t have an opinion one way or the other,” said Rathmell. “He was merely expressing surprise.”

  “Surprise,” echoed Shand. “Well, let’s give him another one. We found fingerprints on this book of matches and guess what – we found a match to ones found in your house.”

  This time it was the lawyer who looked towards his client. Gabriel shook his head. “You’re lying,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t know how to, Gabriel. But you see, it’s not just the fingerprints, and the club in London with your name on the guest book. It’s this as well.” He tapped on the large cardboard box on the table. “I expect you thought this was where you put your clothes when we perform the strip search.”

  Rathmell leapt to his feet. “Chief Inspector!”

  Shand held himself in check. The words were there, waiting. It’s all right, Mr. Rathmell, we’ll bring in a box for you too.

  Instead he raised his hands and apologised. “Do you know where this box was found?” he said, introducing a more sombre tone to his voice.

  Neither man spoke. Rathmell flounced back into his chair.

  “This is the box that Helena Benson’s head was put into when she was buried alive. Look,” he said, turning the box to make sure both men could see the punctured hole. “This is where the breathing tube went. Can you imagine what it was like? Buried alive for nine hours with nothing to see but the inside of this box. The darkness, the weight of the soil on your body, the only air coming through a tube held between your teeth. Imagine if you had to sneeze. What would you do? Grit your teeth and hope you didn’t lose the tube?”

  Rathmell spoke. “I fail to see what this has to do with my client.”

  “Do you recognise this box, Mr. Marchant?” asked Shand, pushing it towards him. Gabriel backed off, not wanting the box to touch him.

  “Take a good look,” said Shand. “It came from your house too.”

  Gabriel stood up violently, so violently his chair overturned. “What is this! I had nothing to do with any burial, or murder, or anything. I’m innocent!”

  “I think this interview has just concluded, chief inspector,” said Rathmell reaching for his briefcase.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Shand. “Unless you want to walk through the media circus by the front door.”

  “What media circus?” asked Gabriel, his eyes widening.

  “A press conference. In about....” Shand checked his watch. “Five minutes. They’re like a pack of wolves in the corridors. If they see you here with a lawyer… Well, you can guess what they’re going to think.”

  “Did you arrange this?” snapped Rathmell.

  “Not me. I can’t stand the press. All I want is to conduct this interview then smuggle you out the back door. Another ten minutes, that’s all.”

  Both men sat down.

  “So, you have no idea how this box of yours got into Helena’s grave?”

  “My client refuses to answer. As he will on every other question for the next ten minutes.”

  “Then I’ll just talk,” said Shand. “Perhaps your client would like to know how the investigation is going into the murder of his wife? He hasn’t asked yet. Perhaps he’s just shy?”

  Gabriel was very close to exploding – eyes narrowed, arms folded so tightly they almost dug into his chest.

  “And he might like to know about George Benson.”

  Shand turned to observe Gabriel’s reaction. “We’re auditing his bank, you know?”

  No reaction. The same rigid mask staring at a point on the wall behind Shand’s shoulder.

  “Any financial irregularities and we’ll find them. We’ll be checking all accounts and account holders. Every loan, every security.”

  Still no reaction. Shand placed himself in Gabriel’s eye line.

  “And we’ll be talking to George as well. Very talkative man, George Benson, don’t you think?”

  Gabriel blinked and turned away, finding another patch of wall.

  Shand checked his watch and sighed. “Well this is a waste of time, isn’t it?”

  “At last we agree, chief inspector,” said Rathmell. “Shouldn’t you check to see if the corridors are clear?”

  Shand nodded to the constable by the door. “Take a look, constable.” And then turned and took a kick at the skirting board.

  “It’s clear, sir,” said the constable coming back into the room.

  “Then show our two guests out the back way. Make sure they don’t meet any reporters.”

  “Thank you, chief inspector,” smiled the Rathmell, his oily confidence returning. “Good day.”

  Shand turned his back, counted to ten, then rang next door.

  “We’ve got it!” he shouted. “Bring your stuff and let’s get started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “It’s that chair over there,” he said as the technician came in. “His finger prints are all over it.”

  Simple, but effective, thought Shand. Carefully clean all four chairs in the room, push them tight against the table and wait for Gabriel to pull one out. The rest of the interview was a bonus – spurred on by the mythical press conference – though he had expected more of a reaction when he mentioned George and the bank.

  He watched as the chair was sprayed and dusted. A clean set of prints. No smudges or distortions. He watched as each print was lifted and attached to its own card. And then joined the procession along the corridor towards the waiting computer.

  Minutes passed in growing anticipation. Shand paced at the back of the room. Would the fingerprints be enough to charge him?

  The prints were scanned and uploaded. Shand alternated between pacing and darting forward to peer over the technician’s shoulders. What was taking so long? There was only the one print to match.

  The cursor blinked, the screen changed. And…

  The prints didn’t match. Shand stared at the screen, unable to speak. He’d been so sure. And yet…

  “Marcus,” he sa
id. “Find Gabe Marsh. Tell him we want to see him. Now. If he can’t come to us, we’ll go to him.”

  The print had to belong to Marsh.

  ~

  Shand was simmering in his office, checking through the Marsh file when Marcus found him.

  “Can’t get through, sir. He’s still not answering his home phone, and he’s switched off his mobile. I’ve sent a unit round to check.”

  Shand could have kicked something. Had he let Marsh escape? Had he been so invested in Gabriel Marchant’s guilt that he hadn’t followed up on the obvious? Marsh had the car, the membership of the London club, access to the Marchant’s house. He should have gone for Marsh first!

  But Marsh couldn’t have made the phone call. He had the alibi. The Chief Constable’s daughter.

  “Thank you, Marcus,” said Shand. “Get back to me the moment they report in.”

  Shand closed the file and leaned back in his chair. Was he placing too much emphasis on the book of matches? It could be a red herring. Something dropped in the back seat by an innocent passenger, an acquaintance of the kidnappers not in any way involved with the gang.

  Or it could belong to a kidnapper hired by Marchant – a kidnapper who’d been to Marchant’s home, a kidnapper he’d met at Gulliver’s.

  He so wanted Gabriel Marchant to be guilty. He looked guilty. He acted guilty. His wife was dead, and yet not once had he asked how the case was progressing.

  “Sir?” a knock on the open door heralded Marcus’s return. Shand looked up. Bad news by the look of it.

  “No sign of Marsh at the rectory, sir. The car’s gone and the place is locked up.”

  Shand waved Marsh’s file at the detective constable. “Find him, Marcus. Check all his business numbers. Someone’s got to know where he is. Pretend you’re looking for a holiday home in Spain. That should get his attention. Oh, and find out if either of the Gabriels have a gardener. I want to know if someone would notice a garden spade going missing.”

  Shand threw himself back in his chair. He felt like he was getting nowhere. That everything was taking too long and failing to work out as planned.

  He checked his watch. Taylor had been gone for hours. He must have found something by now. He picked up the phone and tapped in the numbers, desperate for some good news.