by Chris Dolley
“I’ve just come from your wife, Mr. Benson, and this has got to stop. Whatever it is you’ve done or were being strong-armed into doing, it doesn’t matter any more. We’re not interested in you, we’re only interested in the men who were threatening you. Understand? Everything else can be made to go away. But for Christ’s sake talk to us!”
There was a long silence.
“Mr. Benson?”
“I have nothing to say.” He spoke almost breathlessly. Nerves. Stress. Shand could hear it in every syllable. “I keep on telling you. No one is threatening me. No one at all.”
Shand sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He felt like smashing the phone against the dashboard. Why wouldn’t the man speak to him! It was obviously tearing him apart.
“Look, Mr. Benson, whatever it is, we’re going to find it. So why not make it easier on everyone concerned and tell us now?”
Shand waited for an answer, but all he could hear was George’s ragged breathing.
Then a quiet voice said, “there’s nothing to tell.”
Shand hung up, frustrated and angry.
~
Shand’s mood wasn’t improved after a visit to the Rectory. The house was still locked up – no sign of life inside, no cars outside. He was tempted to claim he heard a suspicious noise from inside and break in, but knew that Gabe Marsh would have a lawyer that would not only see through the subterfuge, but use it to taint every piece of evidence they subsequently produced.
So he phoned Marcus instead. “Any news on Gabe Marsh?”
“Not yet, sir. I’ve tried all his numbers again this morning, but no one knows where he is.”
“What about the missing boy? Any luck?”
“If he’s still alive he’s not working or claiming benefit. And I’ve pulled the missing person report. Shall I leave it on your desk with the financial reports? The other two just arrived.”
Shand checked his watch. Lunch time. And he still hadn’t eaten since last night.
“Anything interesting in the reports?”
“Nothing in the Benson file, but the Montacutes have a large overdraft. £50,000.”
“Bring everything with you. We’ll meet up for lunch at…” The name of the pub he’d eaten at the day before deserted him. He put his hand over the phone and turned to Taylor. “What’s the name of the pub in Tarrant Marshall?”
“The Plough.”
“The Plough, Tarrant Marshall. As soon as you can.”
~
They found a quiet corner in the lounge bar of the Plough and waited for Marcus. After the excesses of the night before, Shand kept away from alcohol and sipped at a glass of orange juice instead.
When Marcus arrived they ordered food and sifted through the files. The Montacutes had had an overdraft for a year during which time their balance had fluctuated wildly. The nature of farming, explained Taylor.
“Only the milk provides a regular income, everything else comes in lumps. Crop harvest, subsidy payments. The outgoings can be the same. A big farm like that could easily spend fifty grand on one piece of kit.”
But even given that, it wasn’t hard to see that Sixpenny Barton was not doing as well. Two years ago the Montacutes had been comfortably off. Now they had a farm that was losing money and a personal wealth cut in half.
Which might give them a motive for killing Annabel, but why bury Helena?
“Could the Montacutes be behind the bank robbery as well?” suggested Marcus. “They need the money.”
“Who would the Brigadess know from the East End of London?” asked Taylor. “For George Benson to keep quiet this long, someone has got to have one hell of a hold over him. Something that would continue even if they were arrested. Like other gang members ready to exact revenge. I don’t see the Brigadess running a gang.”
Neither did Shand.
“What about this missing boy?” he asked, picking up the missing person report. “Does anyone really believe it has any bearing on this case?”
Marcus looked hesitant. He opened his mouth to speak, then swiftly looked down and started tapping his feet.
“What do you think, Marcus?” asked Shand. “This is a brainstorming session so all contributions welcome.”
The food arrived and Marcus paused while the plates were handed around.
“I think it has possibilities, sir,” said Marcus. “There’s a strong ritualistic element to all these crimes. The use of the stone circle, the placing of a dead body on top of a live one. We’ve all tried to find a connection between Annabel and Helena, but what if there isn’t one?”
He spoke more freely, growing in confidence. “What if the only connection is one of opportunity? That Annabel and Helena were two women alone in their homes that night. It could have been anyone.”
“But what about the phone call from the green?”
“One of Annabel’s friends. Or someone who could impersonate them.”
Shand wasn’t convinced. “What about the missing boy? If you have him down as the first murder, where’s his body? It’s a different MO. Serial killers don’t change MOs.”
“This one might. Or it’s a sect, or … or maybe he was buried alive, but never found. So this time the killer puts another body on top as a marker.”
“To make sure his handiwork was discovered,” said Shand, staring into the distance. He could see the twisted logic. A killer fixated on live burials and publicity. “But where would he bury the missing boy?”
A woman’s voice answered.
“I think I can help you there, chief inspector. I saw them bury the body.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Shand’s eyes focussed on a woman in her late twenties, curly blonde hair and enormous earrings that resembled a pair of wind chimes. In one movement she’d pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and sat down.
“Got to eat first,” she said breathlessly. “I’m starving. D’you mind if I join you?”
“Who...”
Shand’s voice trailed off as the woman swivelled in her chair and waved at a passing waitress. “Could you take my order? No, don’t bother about a menu. I’ll have the chicken and chips. Thank you.”
She turned back to the table and smiled. “I expect you’re wondering who the hell I am.”
“The thought had crossed–”
She cut Shand short. “Saffron,” she said, thrusting a hand across the table, the palm facing down making Shand unsure as to whether he was supposed to kiss it, or shake it.
“I’m the answer to your prayers,” she continued, barely taking a breath. “The witness you’ve been waiting for.”
“What–”
“…can I tell you?” said Saffron, not only finishing Shand’s sentence but wresting it from his mouth. “Well, for one thing, he wasn’t killed at the stone circle. That was where it started, but it wasn’t where it finished.”
“Wh–”
“Where? In the woods. I saw it all. They were struggling in the circle, he broke free, ran towards the woods. He thought he could lose them, but they were too fast. They caught up with him by a twisted beech tree, and buried him within the sound of running water.”
She paused for breath, and beamed another smile. Shand wanted to ask her why she hadn’t come forward a year ago, but doubted he could complete the sentence.
Taylor obliged. “How–”
“…do I know all this? Simple, I was there. Not physically, of course, but as good as.”
Shand experienced a frightening premonition of exactly where this conversation was heading.
“The stones helped, of course. Wonderful channellers of psychic energy. I just stood in the circle this morning, and let them show me what happened. I’m surprised you didn’t think to do that, chief inspector.”
“So am I,” said Shand.
“You’re a psychic?” said Marcus, his eyes even wider than usual.
“Didn’t I say? I’m the one who found that missing girl in Devon last year. It was in all the papers. T
hat’s why the Echo brought me in to help with the case.”
“Kevin–”
“…Tresco. Yes, him. He could do with a good dandruff shampoo, but his heart’s in the right place.”
“Is…” Shand paused, waiting for Saffron to interrupt. But this time she didn’t. She smiled instead, eyes twinkling and daring Shand to finish.
Shand looked away and surveyed the bar. Was this a set up? Had they been followed? Was Kevin bloody Tresco watching all this?
He turned back to Saffron. “Is Kevin Tresco here?”
She looked surprised. “Of course not.”
“Then how did you know we were here?”
“Really, chief inspector! I’m a psychic. Duh!” She reached over and punched him playfully on the arm.
Shand closed his eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was halfway through his meal and starving, he would have walked out. He looked at the others. Taylor seemed to be enjoying himself, and Marcus looked like he was about to ask for an autograph. And as for her … she looked like a person several crowbars couldn’t shift.
He forced a smile, and picked at his pie.
“Did you see the two men’s faces?” asked Marcus.
“Sorry, they had masks on. Black ski masks. But if I could touch something of theirs – you know like something they left at the crime scene.”
“No,” said Shand.
“But, sir,” said Marcus.
Taylor rested a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe later, Marc. I’m sure Mr. Shand’ll change his mind if we find a body under a twisted beech within the sound of running water.”
Taylor winked at Shand who thankfully had his mouth full and couldn’t reply.
Saffron shivered. “Did you feel that? That’s another one.”
“Another what?” asked Marcus.
“Restless spirit. He’s been following me all morning, but for some reason he can’t – or won’t – speak to me.”
“Perhaps he’s headless,” said Shand.
Saffron dissolved into laughter, looking for a second as though she was about to fall off her chair, and then punched Shand on the arm.
“No! You can’t decapitate a soul. Whatever happens to the body, the soul remains whole. It’s inviolate. Otherwise reincarnation wouldn’t work, would it? Everyone would be born with clogged arteries, and bad eyesight.”
“She’s got a point,” said Taylor, joining in.
“Talking of which,” continued Saffron. “Reincarnation, that is – has anyone thought to ascertain the chicken’s date of birth.”
Shand flinched. The conversation – if that indeed was what he was experiencing – was diving towards uncharted depths.
“The Athelcott One?” said Marcus.
“That’s the one,” said Saffron. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we find that the Athelcott One was hatched on the exact day that Davy Perkins disappeared.”
She nodded knowingly at Marcus who responded with a hushed, “the Athelcott One is Davy Perkins reincarnate?”
Saffron nodded extravagantly. “Returning to avenge his death.”
Taylor laughed. “You’d have thought he’d have come back as something bigger?”
“You don’t always get a choice,” said Saffron. “It’s pot luck from what I’ve heard.”
“The Marchants!” said Marcus. “The Athelcott One was always shouting at the Marchants.”
“Crowing,” said Taylor. “And he only crowed at the Marchants because Bill Acomb housed him there.”
“Or was told to,” said Saffron. “A murdered spirit has the power to influence others.”
Shand couldn’t take any more. “Has it ever occurred to you that the boy might have been turned into a chicken by an evil wizard?”
Saffron and Marcus stared open-mouthed at Shand. Unfortunately, not in disbelief. Shand recognised the glow of admiration for a kindred intellect.
“That was a joke,” he said.
“Ah,” said Saffron, “but many a true thing is spoken in jest, chief inspector.”
She wagged her little finger in his direction and then pouted. “I can’t keep on calling you chief inspector – such a mouthful – what do people call you? Guv, is it?”
She deepened her voice and said, “’ello, guv,” then punched his arm. This sent her rocking back and forth on her chair, giggling. Until she screamed, “No!” and gushed, “I bet they call you Shandy? Right? I bet I am. What do you say, Shandy?”
Shand considered the very real possibility that he’d died some time on Friday night and had been floating around the nine drug-crazed levels of Hell ever since. This one being by far the worst. Maybe if he banged his head on the table he’d wake up? He shifted his plate to one side and looked longingly at the hard, nut brown wood.
“I can tell exactly what you’re thinking, Shandy.”
Shand’s eyes remained fixed on the table. “No, Saffy, I don’t think you can.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The telephone call was as welcome as it was unexpected.
“I think we’ve found it, sir,” came the excited cry down the line. “The murder weapon. Out on a lay-by on the London road just north of Athelcott. A driver was stopping for a pee when he saw it on the other side of the hedge.”
Shand was on his feet before the station sergeant finished. “Sorry, Saffron, we have to go. Come on you two.”
~
The lay-by was already sealed off. Police tape across one exit, and a car on the other. Taylor pulled alongside the police car, and wound his widow down.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In the far corner, behind the hedge. The bloke who found it’s in the black car.”
It was a small lay-by. Barely more than a hard shoulder with room for five cars. A waist high hedge ran along a low bank that separated the lay-by from the wide expanse of fields at the back. A wind whipped in across the flat open fields.
Shand knocked on the door of the black car. “DCI Shand. Can you take us through exactly what happened?”
“Without unzipping your trousers,” added Taylor.
Shand pivoted slowly and gave his sergeant a look. Happy hour had ended ten minutes ago.
The driver introduced himself as Jason Oldfield, a sales rep based in Taunton. He’d stopped off to relieve himself when he noticed the spade on the other side of the hedge.
“I thought it was a strange thing to throw out, then I remembered the press conference.”
Shand tried to remember which one that had been – the one where he’d invented a false lead, or the one where he’d burst into tears.
At least some good had come from them.
And more good news came five minutes later when SOCO lifted the spade and found traces of blood and hair on the back.
“We were lucky,” said SOCO. “The spade was lying with the front of the blade uppermost. Otherwise the rain would have washed most of it off.”
Shand recognised the spade too. Wooden shaft, wooden handle, and even through the plastic he could read ‘England’ and something that ended in ‘ington.’ Helena Benson’s missing spade. It had to be.
Shand hovered in the background as the site was processed, jumping up whenever anyone shouted out, or held up a hand. This was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for, he was sure of it.
Next came the handbag. A few yards from the spade amongst a pile of rags and food wrappers. It was Annabel’s. A quick glance inside confirmed that. Her mobile phone and library card. But no letters, or notes, or anything to suggest a name for the Midnight Caller.
Then came the surprise. A half-used roll of duct tape was wedged deep into the hedge, a few feet from the spade.
Shand ran over to look. Was it the duct tape? The tape used to bind Helena? It had to be, surely? Discovered so close to the spade and handbag. And who stops at a lay-by to throw out a half-used roll of duct tape?
Which meant…
Shand joined up the dots. The murder and the abduction had to be done by the sam
e person. Or the same gang. The duct tape came from the abduction, the spade and handbag from the murder. They were connected. The same person disposed of the evidence.
Another dot clanged into place. Helena’s spade, Annabel’s blood. If Forensics confirmed the blood and hair belonged to Annabel, and Helena identified the spade, then the link was solid. They were dealing with one crime. One mind.
“Can we get these analysed now?” asked Shand.
“We need another hour here to finish,” said SOCO.
“Split the team,” said Shand. “Send half back with the evidence now. I really need a break in this case.”
“I suppose if I don’t agree you’re going to get your boss to ring my boss, right?”
“The number’s pre-programmed and ready to press.”
SOCO split his team.
“Marcus,” shouted Shand. “Stay here and liase until they’ve finished. We’re going to Langton Stacey with Forensics.”
~
Shand barely said a word in the car. His mind was racing ahead to what they might find. Fingerprints, DNA, fibres, something! All murderers made one mistake.
And then he was tumbling back into doubt. Had he been correct in his assumption that the two crimes were linked? Could the murderer have seen where the spade and duct tape had been dumped, and then woven them into a complex plan of murder and deception?
He bounced his concerns off Taylor.
“I think you’re in danger of overcomplicating things, sir. My old sergeant always used to say that the simplest answers were invariably the right ones. Unless, of course, Professor Moriarty has moved into the district.”
It was meant as a joke, but a certain section of Shand’s brain felt an overpowering urge to get hold of a telephone directory and search through the M’s.
~
They started with the spade. More photographs, more preliminaries. Shand fidgeted in the background, wanting them to get on with it. The blood, the hair, a scan for prints.
Someone offered him coffee. He drained it in four gulps.
Then came the scans. Wands of light, sprays, white-coated technicians hunched over the spade blocking Shand’s view.