An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  ~

  SOCO was the first to arrive, his white suit glowing in the torchlight.

  “Has anything been moved?”

  Shand searched for the words to best present what had happened, but felt like a Scrabble player dealt a hand of Qs and Xs.

  “The body hasn’t been moved,” he said. “But … we might have left some scuff marks on the scene when we removed the chicken.”

  “The chicken?”

  “It was contaminating the crime scene. In hindsight, if I’d known how difficult it was going to be to catch I–”

  SOCO raised his hand. “No need to explain, Mr. Shand. The moment we heard it was one of your crime scenes, we knew we were in for something different.”

  Shand took it all, his reputation cursed and fast becoming a byword for mirth.

  “And rest assured,” SOCO continued, “the words ‘fowl play’ will not pass my lips.”

  Shand forced a smile and prayed for a minor fault-line to open up beneath his feet. Nothing too large, just wide enough to hide one man. And the bloody chicken.

  SOCO found a light switch at the side of the door and carefully switched it on. A single forty-watt bulb flickered into life, spreading a grey light over the crime scene. Curious, thought Shand. The light had been off, but the door had been closed. Why would George shut himself inside a dark outhouse? Had he been killed elsewhere, and carried inside?

  He looked closer at the body. It looked as though he’d fallen forward. There was none of the theatricality of Annabel’s murder. The arms and legs hadn’t been arranged. Everything looked natural. Except for the chicken, and the door being closed and the light switched off.

  Did that make it murder? Proof that a second party had been involved?

  “Mr. Shand?”

  The doctor had arrived. The local GP, a rake-like man so tall he had to bend low to pass under the stable door. Shand wondered how he managed home visits in an area plagued by so many low ceilings.

  Minutes passed. The doctor knelt by the body, Shand waiting for a pronouncement.

  “Heart attack?” he asked, unable to contain himself any longer. “I noticed the bluish tinge to the lips.”

  “I’d be surprised,” said the doctor. “George has no history of heart problems.”

  “An overdose?”

  “Possibly. Or poison. There’s no obvious sign of trauma or asphyxiation. You’ll need a post mortem, but I’d take samples of everything he ate or drank. Is anyone else ill in the house?”

  “No, though you’ll need to see Helena before you go.”

  “I’ll see her now,” he said, getting up.

  “What about time of death?” asked Shand.

  “Very recently. Within the hour, I’d say.”

  Shand accompanied the doctor into the house and waited, hovering in the background while the doctor treated Helena. He felt like a ghoul, waiting to pounce with his questions while her husband was still warm. But he had to do it. The tranquillisers would kick in soon. He couldn’t afford to wait.

  The doctor left, ducking between the beams. Shand took a deep breath. And began.

  “I have to ask some more questions,” he said.

  The Brigadess stiffened, but Helena squeezed her wrist. “It’s all right, dear,” she said. “It has to be done.”

  “Did you and your husband eat the same meal?”

  Helena rubbed her eyes with her sleeve and sniffed. “Yes, a beef curry. I ate at five thirty. I put George’s in the oven.”

  She talked with her head lowered, her left hand resting on her right, her right thumb gently caressing her wedding ring.

  “Did you drink the same wine?”

  “No, I didn’t drink. I … I had the meeting.”

  “Did you lock up when you left at six?”

  “I think so–”

  “I’m sure so,” said the Brigadess, interrupting. “I remember waiting while you locked the front door.”

  “What about the back door?”

  “I …” She dropped her head lower and slowly shook it, her voice breaking. “It’s all my fault. We never had to lock doors before. George was going to be back in half an hour. I … I forgot.”

  ”It’s not your fault,” said the Brigadess. “Don’t ever think that.”

  Shand looked away. If blame was being apportioned…

  He waited, time hanging heavy in the grief-laden atmosphere. Eventually the tears subsided.

  “Can you … can you think of any reason why your husband would go out to the stables?”

  Helena looked up, surprised. “He was in the stables?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he go there?” She rubbed her eyes with a sleeve and looked from Shand to the Brigadess.

  “Were you…” Shand felt stupid even asking, but … If only he could find the words that didn’t make the question sound absurd. “Did you keep chickens in the old stables?”

  “Chickens?” Helena and the Brigadess spoke as one.

  “We found a chicken with your husband. Bill Acomb’s chicken. The Athelcott One.”

  Both women looked stunned.

  “How…” The Brigadess broke off and looked apologetically at Helena. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

  ”No,” said Helena, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry about me.”

  The Brigadess turned to Shand. “How did George die?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Shand. “But we know he didn’t suffer.”

  Both women looked relieved.

  “There was nothing … ritualistic then,” asked the Brigadess. “About the…”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” said Shand, suddenly realising the picture he must have placed in both women’s heads at the mention of a chicken being found with the body.

  “Sir?” said Marcus, appearing at the kitchen door. “Can you come outside a minute.”

  Shand excused himself and followed Marcus outside. “What is it?”

  “Footprints on the lawn.”

  Shand increased his pace. The stables and the ground nearby were now illuminated by arc lights. A frosty dew glistened over the exposed areas of lawn, leaving islands of dark grass around the trees and the buildings. And there, about five yards beyond the stable, ran a ragged line of footprints – dark patches in the dew – running from the outbuilding to the back wall of the garden.

  It had to be recent. The dew could only have formed in the last few hours.

  Shand looked closer, shoulder to shoulder with SOCO, both men peering at the tracks in the dew. There seemed too many for one person. And it was impossible to tell which direction they were moving. They were shapes rather than imprints.

  “One was walking, one was running,” said SOCO.

  Shand stared harder, trying to see what SOCO saw. He couldn’t.

  “I’d say it’s one man,” said SOCO. “He climbs over the back wall, walks to the house, then leaves running.”

  They followed the trail to the back wall, walking a parallel track several yards to the right. SOCO shone his torch on the shrub border, then pushed through to the shoulder-height brick wall and eased himself up, balancing precariously on the fulcrum of his stomach.

  Shand waited.

  “There’s a good print on the other side,” said SOCO, his voice contorted by the pressure of the wall on his stomach. “We can get a cast. He must have jumped down with some force.”

  He jumped back down and Shand took his place. And his torch. There was a small patch of exposed soil at the base of the wall. He could see the zigzag marks of a tread from a shoe. Just the one. He panned the torch from left to right. It looked like a track, running parallel to the back wall, bounded on the far side by a wood and grassed over.

  Which way had the intruder gone? Where had they come from? Shand shone the torch to its limits. The track might have opened up into a field on the right, but it was too dark to tell. To the left, the track faded into the night.

  “We’ll
take that cast tonight,” said SOCO. “The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

  “There’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen too,” said Shand, clambering down. “It’s the one thing George had, that Helena didn’t.”

  ~

  Shand returned to the house, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. What was the point of the chicken? A way of luring George out of the house? Put a cockerel in the outhouse, then wait for it to crow?

  Or was it another elaboration? Like arranging Annabel’s body on top of a live burial. A red herring to confuse the investigation?

  And where did Gabe Marsh fit in? Was this the reason for his sudden reappearance? He’d arranged for George’s murder so he wanted an alibi? Had he planned his own arrest?

  Too many questions. He needed to focus. The wine bottle. How long had it been open? Had Helena drunk from it at all?

  He pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and carefully bagged the bottle before taking it through to Helena.

  Neither woman had moved. They were wrapped together on the sofa gently rocking back and forth. Shand hesitated. “Excuse me,” he said. “One more question if I may.”

  The Brigadess glared in his direction. “Can’t it wait?”

  “He’s only doing his job, dear,” said Helena mumbling into the other woman’s shoulder.

  Shand walked around to the other side of the sofa so he could talk to Helena without her having to turn her head.

  He showed her the wine bottle, holding the evidence bag between finger and thumb. “Did you drink any wine from this bottle?”

  She peered at it, her eyes barely open, blinked several times, then peered again.

  “Where did you get that?” she said, surprised.

  “From the kitchen table.”

  She looked confused. “Our kitchen table?”

  Shand wondered if she was too drugged to understand. “Yes, this is the bottle that George finished for dinner. Did you have any yesterday?”

  Helena shook her head, her eyes closing. “No,” she said. “It’s the wrong bottle.”

  “What do you mean – wrong bottle?”

  “Not ours,” she said, her voice drifting away sleepily. “Always buy the same wine. There’s a box by the door. For the bottle bank.”

  Shand ran back into the kitchen. There was a cardboard box full of empty wine bottles in the corner behind the door. He knelt down to check. Every one was the same. Bordeaux Superior 2004. The one in the evidence bag was a Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “I’m putting Helena to bed,” said the Brigadess.

  “Yes, of course,” said Shand, his mind elsewhere. Someone had planted a bottle in the house. When? Between six and six thirty was the logical answer. In the half-hour the house was empty and the back door unlocked.

  He went to the lounge door. Helena was leaning heavily on the Brigadess en route for the stairs.

  “Do you need any help?” he asked.

  “We’ll manage,” said the Brigadess.

  Indecision. He wanted to ask Helena if George could have brought the bottle home with him. A present from a customer maybe? If he could only help her up the stairs it would make him feel better for the intrusion.

  But…

  Shand’s phone rang. It was the station sergeant.

  “I’ve got an irate lawyer here wanting to know where everyone is, and why his client’s still locked up.”

  ~

  Shand arranged for Marcus to give him a lift to his car. “And get that bloody chicken to the pound.”

  “It’ll be closed for the night,” said Marcus. “I’ll have to take him to the station.”

  Shand contemplated the tactical benefits of housing the Athelcott One in the cell next to Gabe Marsh. But decided the less he had to do with installing a chicken into the cells at Sturton the better.

  And he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do with Marsh. He could keep him in custody for forty-eight hours if he wanted to – he had the fingerprints. But little else. The search of his house and car had yielded nothing. The forensics on the second murder wouldn’t come back until tomorrow. And the same for the bank audit.

  Shand drove, weaving along the winding country lanes, hardly ever having to dip his headlights until he reached the outskirts of Sturton. The case pursued him. Every aspect of it. From planning to execution. Could Marsh have planted the wine bottle himself? It must have been about 6:15 when Taylor first stationed himself outside the Rectory – he’d have had the time.

  Shand pulled into the almost empty police car park and climbed out. It was nearly midnight and the last thing he wanted was a verbal duel with an irate lawyer. He stretched his arms and yawned. Another long day in a week of long days.

  The lawyer buzzed around Shand the moment he identified himself. The lobby echoed to the sound of the lawyer venting – it’s an outrage … deliberately kept waiting … no one here knew what was going on, or where the investigating officer was…

  And finally: “I demand to see my client!”

  Shand waited to see if he’d finished. For a small man he had a powerful pair of lungs, he’d barely taken a breath during the one minute long tirade. And he reminded Shand of someone. Someone he couldn’t quite place.

  “Sorry,” said Shand. “But there’s been a second murder.”

  “So my client can go free? He’s been in custody all evening. We’ll be filing a wrongful arrest charge…”

  The lawyer was off again and Shand suddenly realised who it was he reminded him of. The Athelcott One – minus the rolling gait and feathers admittedly, but he had the lungs.

  “…when are you going to let me see my client!”

  “Follow me,” said Shand, deciding he might as well have one more go at Gabe Marsh before calling it a night.

  “I want to see my client alone first,” the lawyer insisted as they reached the door.

  “No,” said Shand. “I ask my questions first. You have him afterwards.”

  Gabe Marsh jumped up the moment the door opened and shouted at Shand. “At last! Where the hell have you been?”

  “I’ll cut straight to the point, Gabe,” said Shand. “This time you’ve really screwed up. And I’ll tell you why.”

  He had Marsh’s attention. The initial anger disappeared, replaced by a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Even his lawyer shut up.

  Shand took his time, slowly drawing out a chair before sitting down. And then waited for Marsh to sit down too.

  “Believe me,” the detective said. “I know that George was a liability. He was ready to crack. I can see why you had to do something about him.”

  “I keep telling you, I hardly know the bloke!”

  Shand ignored the outburst. “And now he’s dead. Murdered.”

  The lawyer interrupted. “As I said in the lobby–”

  Shand slapped the table, hard. “I already have enough to hold your client for forty-eight hours, and I’m prepared to take every minute of it. Unless...” He paused to make sure he had their full attention. “Unless he cooperates, and answers every question to my satisfaction. Does everyone understand that?”

  Shand took the silence as an implicit acceptance and moved on.

  “Now,” said Shand. “This second murder–”

  Gabe couldn’t wait. “It couldn’t have been me! I’ve been here all evening.”

  “So you know when the murder occurred?”

  “No! I just…” He looked at his lawyer.

  “My client was simply making the obvious inference.”

  “Maybe,” said Shand, glaring at Gabe. “And maybe he thought we were too stupid to realise the murder was set up earlier. Now, think on this, Gabe. We found the bottle, and we found footprints we can match to the shoes that made them. Very sloppy.”

  It was Marsh’s turn to slam both hands down on the table. “I am innocent!” he shouted.

  The interview hit a wall. The lawyer began interrupting again, and Marsh refused to be bait
ed.

  Shand gave up. He was tired, it was late, and he couldn’t see anything more being achieved that night.

  “What about my client? Can he go now?”

  “Not until after tomorrow’s post mortem.”

  Shand left, the lawyer’s complaints pursued him down the corridor. Halfway along, Shand bent both arms into an approximation of chicken wings and flapped them. Adding several squawks for good measure.

  It had been a very long day.

  He pushed the station door open, and took a deep lungful of crisp night air. He was ready for his bed.

  “Is it true you’ve arrested someone?” said a voice.

  Shand turned. Kevin Tresco stepped out of the shadow.

  Shand kept walking. “No comment,” he said.

  “Look, Shand, I could have you up for assault. Who’ve you got in there?”

  Shand turned and feigned confusion. “Sorry, do I know you?”

  It was the worst insult that Shand could think of for an egotist like Tresco.

  The journalist appeared to agree. He was speechless, unable to decide which insult to hurl first, his lips ran the gamut of form and shape.

  Shand increased his pace, his car thankfully close by.

  “You won’t be laughing tomorrow,” shouted Tresco as he pulled away.

  ~

  Shand was too tired to dream – or analyse the mistakes of the day, or even remonstrate with the iniquities of Fate. He slept. Right through to his alarm the next morning.

  Outside, the sun was shining and Shand felt refreshed. He had a PM to look forward to, and forensic analysis of the bottle and shoe print. This was the day the case broke wide open. He could feel it.

  Then, going into breakfast, he saw the newspaper headline. A folded copy of the Echo sat atop a pile of morning papers on a side table by the door.

  Second Murder rocks Athelcott : Police Arrest Chicken.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Shand picked up a copy of the paper and took it to his table. It was another hatchet job; the facts pushed aside in favour of ridicule – all at Shand’s expense. They even had a cartoon on the front page showing the Athelcott One holding up a card with his prisoner identification number on.

  Shand read the rest of the article while he picked at his breakfast, unable to believe that a responsible newspaper could publish such drivel. It made him out to be incompetent, a loose cannon who had to be replaced. It even implied that his lack of experience had led directly to George Benson’s death.