An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  “There are prints on the handle,” said one of the technicians – Julie, if Shand remembered her name correctly.

  He fidgeted some more, getting up, sitting down. Wondering if he should ask to borrow a white suit, wondering if he’d get in their way.

  “The shaft’s clean. Looks like it’s been wiped. Several prints on the handle.”

  Shand mimed picking up a spade and delivering a lethal blow to the back of someone’s head. How would he grasp the spade? Not by the handle. He’d hold it like a bat. His left hand at the top of the shaft, the right about eight inches lower.

  But why would someone wipe the shaft if they were wearing gloves?

  The prints were lifted. Six good and three partials. More time, more coffee as the prints were scanned into the system and compared. Two matches came back. George and Helena Benson. For all nine prints.

  Shand swore silently. He’d hoped … but then it had always been an unrealistic hope. They’d worn gloves. Helena had said so.

  But at least it proved one thing. The spade was Helena’s.

  Next came the blood and the hair. And soil – there were traces stuck to the blade.

  “It’ll take a while for a full DNA match, but we can do hair and blood type,” explained Julie.

  “And we can run a soil analysis and compare it to the sample we took from the circle,” said her colleague.

  “Whichever’s quicker,” said Shand.

  Time dragged. Taylor looked bored, and Shand had started pacing. He knew the procedures, he knew they took time for a reason, he knew about cross contamination and accuracy but…

  Did it have to take so long?

  The hair sample matched. Not a conclusive test, but good enough for Shand. He had the murder weapon!

  The blood type matched too.

  “Don’t bother with the DNA,” said Shand. “That can wait. Print the bag and tape.”

  Shand checked his watch. SOCO should be on his way back now. He phoned Marcus.

  “Any news?”

  “They’ve just finished, sir. They’ve taken casts of several footprints and bagged anything they found that looked recent. Most of it’s rubbish from the bin.”

  And most of it would turn out to be rubbish too, thought Shand. This gang was careful. He didn’t see them leaving a DNA-laden tissue in a bin.

  “Prints on the handbag,” said Sandy.

  Shand’s spirits soared once more only to plummet a second later. It would be the same as the spade. Old prints. Annabel’s no doubt.

  “And there’s one on the duct tape. On the inside of the roll.”

  “The inside?” said Shand, rushing over.

  “Yeah, easy one to miss.”

  “Process that one first,” said Shand, his excitement mounting. This could be the mistake. So easy to overlook. You wear gloves, wipe the outside of the roll, your mind fixed on the tape. And you forget about the inside.

  The print was lifted, scanned, input. Shand followed its progress. The cursor blinked and…

  Match.

  The print on the duct tape, the print from the Marchant’s house, and the print from the book of matches – all came from the same person.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Gabe Marsh, thought Shand. It’s got to be him. He had access to the Marchant’s house, he was a member of Gulliver’s, and he’d run off. What else did anyone need?

  And it was time to be creative. He tried Marsh’s mobile first – no answer – then the London property company.

  “May I speak to Gabe Marsh?”

  “Sorry, he’s not in the office at the moment, can I take a message?”

  “That’s a shame,” said Shand. “I’m only in the country for two days. I was hoping to put a business proposition his way. I’ve got a hundred acres of beach property, and I was told Gabe would be a good man to help develop it.”

  Shand heard a distant pair of eyeballs spark dollar signs as they spun in their sockets.

  “I’m … I’m sure he’d be very interested. If I can take your name and number, I’m certain he’ll get back to you.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait. I really need to get things moving fast.” He paused to build up the tension. “Tell you what – I’ll give Gabe first crack. If he can get back to me within the hour, I won’t go to the next name on my list.”

  Shand left his name – opting for the affluent sound of Mr. Grosvenor – then his phone number, then hung up.

  “If that doesn’t drag Marsh out of his hole nothing will.”

  “Are you sure the print’s his?” asked Taylor.

  “Ninety-five per cent,” said Shand, who then immediately started thinking about the other five per cent. Doubt being the unfortunate by-product of a vivid imagination.

  Had he become fixated on the two Gabriels? Everything appeared to point their way – the way they behaved, their connection to Gulliver’s, the two prints in Gabriel’s house. But what about the Midnight Caller? Both men had alibis. Was there a third conspirator? Someone else in the village?

  Like Jacintha Maybury. She was Annabel’s friend, she lived on the green and she had no alibi. And she was part of the Gang of Four, so why not part of the Gang of Five – the two Gabriels, Jacintha and their two hired muscle from London?

  “Bob, get back to Athelcott. I want Jacintha Maybury, the cleaner, and anyone else who might have visited the Marchant’s house last week printed. I’m sure there’s a kit around here somewhere you can borrow. Tell them it’s routine – elimination purposes only – you know the drill. And if anyone declines, be resourceful. Hand them a piece of paper to read. Whatever it takes. No one gets out of this.”

  Taylor left. Shand paced. How long should he give Gabe Marsh? The full hour or a bit longer?

  The analysis of the prints on the handbag came back. All of them belonged to the dead woman. No surprise. Then SOCO arrived with the rest of his team and several bags bulging with garbage.

  Shand pulled away from the noise and the crowd and took his mobile to a corner desk where he could listen and think.

  And jump when his phone rang.

  “Hello,” he said tentatively.

  “Shand,” said the Chief Super. “What’s this about the murder weapon being found?”

  “Can you can call me back on…” he leaned forward and read the desk phone number back to Wiggins. “I’ve got to keep this line clear.”

  Wiggins obliged. “Why the cloak and dagger?”

  “I’m trying to lure Gabe Marsh out of hiding, sir.”

  “Ah.” The Chief Super’s voice brightened. “Does that mean an arrest is imminent?”

  Shand hesitated. He had every intention of arresting Marsh, but he didn’t want it turned into a media event.

  “It depends if he takes the bait, sir. And there are other leads. He’s not the only suspect.”

  “A shame,” said Wiggins. “Still, finding the murder weapon should go down well with the press. When can you get to Sturton? I’ll get the Press Office to set up a conference for as soon as you arrive.”

  “No! It’s too soon. There’s–”

  “Nonsense, Shand. It’s never too soon for good news. And we can’t keep the press waiting too long. You of all people should know that. They start becoming imaginative, and God knows what they’ll print. I’d do it myself, if it wasn’t for this damned corruption enquiry. I’m booked solid all afternoon.”

  “What about Jimmy Scott?”

  “Too lightweight. The press like to hear it from the man in the charge. Gives it more credibility. More gravitas.”

  Shand couldn’t imagine two press conferences with less credibility or gravitas than the two he’d given.

  “But, sir, I’m waiting for a phone call, and the moment I receive it I have to pretend to be someone else. It’s an undercover sting. I can’t leave here for at least an hour.”

  “Nonsense, Shand. Get someone to drive you. You can do your cloak and dagger from the back seat. I’ll tell them to expect you in an hour.”


  For the second time that day Shand stared at an expanse of wooden table and contemplated meeting it head-on.

  Then his mobile rang and he almost juggled the phone past his ear and over his shoulder onto the floor.

  It was Anne. “It’s me,” she said. “I said I’d call.”

  She made it sound like a chore.

  “Yes,” he said, tongue-tied, knowing he had to ask her to ring back on another line, but unsure if she would. She might think he was doing it deliberately to make a point.

  He closed his eyes. Indecision. Fear.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he started. “But … can you call back on another line?” He gave her the new number. “I’ve got to keep this line clear. An important call…”

  An important call. His choice of words as ham-fisted as ever. Your call’s not important, so get off the line.

  “Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

  Click. He put down his phone and tried to compose himself. As though ten seconds would make any difference. He tried to think of something bright and chatty to say. Something that didn’t revolve around dead bodies, fingerprints, and are you sleeping with Gabriel!

  The office phone rang. He took a deep breath and picked it up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Work.”

  “Work,” she echoed. “It’s all we ever do, isn’t it?”

  There was a resigned sadness in her voice. He’d known her too long not to recognise the signs. She had something bad to tell him. Something she wasn’t sure how to phrase. It was going to turn into one of those conversations, wasn’t it? He hated the superficiality of their usual conversations, but superficiality was preferable to truth. He didn’t want to know it was all over, or which Gabriel she was seeing, or the wisdom of a trial separation, or anything like that. He wanted ignorance. False jollity. Someone calling her away to a meeting.

  “I don’t know,” he said, defensively, then ran out of things to say.

  “Do you ever think about giving it all up?”

  “No!” he said, not allowing a breath before he answered. “We shouldn’t give up. It can still work. It…”

  He sounded frenetic, and he could feel people across the room staring, their conversation dropping away. He stopped, self-conscious.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. Sorry, I think that call’s coming through now. I’ll talk to you later, bye.”

  He slammed the phone down. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Would he never learn?

  ~

  Shand sat silent and reflective as Marcus drove him to Sturton. Gabe Marsh hadn’t called. Maybe he really was incommunicado. Yet another failure of judgement in an afternoon that had begun so brightly.

  He slumped even lower in the passenger seat. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for CID? He certainly wasn’t cut out for marriage.

  The car radio pumped out something that sounded exactly like the last song and the song before that. And Shand replayed that phone call, over and over, until he was sick of the thought of it.

  ~

  The station car park wasn’t as full as last time – the press interest waning at last. Shand bounced out of Marcus’s car, trying to motivate himself, mentally slapping his thighs as he strode across the car park, trying to flood his mind with positive thoughts. The hour wasn’t quite up, Marsh might still ring. And the press conference – now he thought about it – was a good idea. He could appeal for witnesses. Someone might have a seen a car parked at the lay-by early Saturday morning.

  He made his way straight to the conference room. No preparation this time. No time to think himself into doubt. He’d walk on, give the facts, ask for help, take three questions maximum, then leave. Important leads to follow up, sorry, can’t stop.

  He slapped his thighs for real this time. Walking down the long corridor towards the conference room, his eyes fixed on the door ahead. Again, he felt like a boxer, but a champion this time. Someone who was going to attack from the first bell and go for a knockout with every punch.

  He shoved the door open – hard – slamming it flat against the wall. The sound echoed through the room like a pistol shot. Heads turned. He trotted up the stairs to the stage. Jimmy came rushing over.

  “You’re early, have you–”

  Shand pushed past him, a swagger in his step, his eyes cold. This was going to be an emotionless, professional display.

  He didn’t even bother to sit down. He planted both palms on the table, leaned forward towards the nest of microphones, and spoke, not caring that half the audience were still milling around and chatting.

  “We’ve found the murder weapon,” he began.

  Instant quiet.

  Shand was alone on stage. The other chairs empty. Jimmy hovering in the wings looking confused.

  Shand pressed on, all cameras swivelling his way, people sitting down.

  “The garden spade was found in a lay-by on the London road, north of Athelcott. Anyone, I repeat anyone, who was driving along that section of road in the early hours of Saturday morning is asked to contact the police. If you saw a car parked at a lay-by, or anyone behaving suspiciously your evidence is vital.”

  “Which lay-by?”

  Shand glowered at the reporter. “Do I look like I’ve finished?”

  The reporter apologised. Shand glared for another half-second.

  “Maps will be provided showing the exact location. I’d suggest you take camera crews out there and film the stretch of road to jog the memory of any potential witnesses.”

  Kevin Tresco stood up. “Is it true you were led to the murder weapon by a psychic?”

  Heads swivelled in Tresco’s direction. Except Shand’s, which tracked slowly – contemptuously – towards the smirking reporter.

  “Who are you? The reporter from the Beano?”

  Laughter. Tresco shrugged it off, ratcheting his smirk wider. “Do you deny you talked to a psychic today?”

  “A psychic? Listen, lad, why don’t you sit quiet and let the grown-ups ask some real questions?”

  “I have pictures,” said Tresco.

  “I expect you’ve got a colouring book and crayons too.”

  Shand was just getting warmed up when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. “What?” he barked.

  “Mr. Grosvenor?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Shand’s boxer persona staggered under the unexpected blow. Gabe Marsh was on the other end of the line. He recognised his voice. And, unless Shand put on an accent in the next two seconds, Marsh would probably recognise his.

  A matter complicated by the proximity of about five microphones and a room full of journalists.

  He muted the phone. “I have to take this call. Thank you.” He turned and hurried towards the wings, grabbed the startled press officer, and told him to coordinate with Marcus about the location of the lay-by and the distribution of maps.

  “Sorry,” he said, heading towards the steps. “Got to go.”

  Kevin Tresco stood at the bottom of the steps, blocking his path. “Another call from your psychic?”

  Shand couldn’t help himself, the telephone call momentarily forgotten as a red mist descended. His sneering nemesis was within strangling distance. He feigned a trip from the third step, pitched forward, and launched himself at the reporter, catching him hard on the chest with both hands, shoving him off his feet.

  “Sorry,” said Shand, shrugging in the direction of the sprawling reporter. “I tripped.”

  He ducked through the door, closed it behind him, and ran, not slowing down until he’d cleared the corridor. A deep breath, then he deactivated the mute button.

  “Sorry,” he said, putting on an Irish accent and praying Marsh was still there. “I had a call on another line.”

  He waited, pressing the phone tighter against his ear as he hurried along another corridor.

  Gabe Marsh spoke. Relief. “That’s all right. I’m sorry I missed you earlier. Sounds a fasc
inating project. Whereabouts did you say the beach was situated?”

  “On the Med. Forgive me, but I make it a policy of not talking business over an open phone line. I’m sure you understand. Where are you now? If you’re not too far we could meet for dinner?”

  “I’m at my house in Wessex. A little village called Athelcott. You might have heard of it. It’s been all over the news. The murder village?”

  Shand tried to remain calm. “No, I’ve been out of the country, but I’m sure my driver can find it. We’re quite close, I think.”

  Shand pretended to take down the address and directions, trying to stay in character while desperately wanting to get off the phone and sprint to the nearest car.

  They arranged to meet in two hours. Any less and it would look suspicious. He rang Taylor and passed on the news.

  “Don’t tackle him yet. Watch his house and stop him if he tries to leave. I’m on my way.”

  ~

  Shand hitched a lift in a police car. Taylor was waiting by the Rectory gates.

  “His car’s still there, sir. Can’t tell if he’s alone or not.”

  Taylor opened the gates and the police car sped through, skidding to a halt in the gravel a few yards behind Marsh’s Jaguar.

  Shand jumped out. This was it, he could feel it. The case was nearing its end. He hammered on the door, waited, then hammered again.

  The door opened.

  “Chief inspector?” said Marsh. “What an unexpected–”

  “Believe me, Mr. Marsh, the pleasure’s all mine. Now grab your coat; we’re going for a drive.”

  Gabe smiled. A smile of confused amusement. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I call it ‘helping police with their enquiries.’ We’re taking the fingerprints of everyone who had access to the Marchant’s house, and you’re next.”

  Gabe’s smile widened. “What a shame. I’d love to help, but I’ve an important business meeting in an hour. Tell you what, I’ll come in tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Unacceptable,” said Shand. “Get your coat now, and we’ll have you back within the hour.”

  Marsh looked uncertain. He glanced back inside his house.

  “Alternatively,” said Shand. “We can arrest you now, and keep you in overnight. Your choice.”