by Chris Dolley
Shand had just reached the point where he was wondering if the day could get any worse when a familiar voice cut through the quiet calm of the breakfast lounge.
“Shandy!”
Heads turned. All except Shand’s, which kept perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the table. Maybe she’d go away?
“There you are!” said Saffron, ending the sentence with a playful punch to Shand’s shoulder. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see me. I saw you looking.”
Another punch. Shand rolled with it, wondering how he could extricate himself from the woman’s clutches without making a scene. And tarnishing his reputation further. A man who arrests chickens cannot afford to brawl in public with a psychic.
“Saffy,” he said, gathering the courage to look up and force a smile.
She pulled out a chair and plonked herself down, exhaling heavily. “Good to get the weight off. What are you reading?”
She tugged the newspaper towards her and swivelled it around before he could answer.
One glance at the headlines and she waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t mind him. What does he know?” She reached out and grabbed Shand’s right hand, giving it a friendly squeeze. “You definitely did the right thing. And very brave too. Not many coppers would have thought to arrest the chicken.”
It was probably the first thing she’d ever said that Shand could agree with.
“Why–” he began.
“…am I here?” She let go of his hand. “I thought that was obvious now you’ve got the chicken in custody.”
Not to Shand it wasn’t.
“Duh!” said Saffron. “I’m offering my services as interpreter – for the chicken. You know, Davy Perkins’ spirit? You’ll want to question him, won’t you?”
Shand blinked. This had to be a dream. The newspaper headline, Saffron, the chicken. If it hadn’t been for his bruised leg from Sunday’s eye-watering press conference he would have pinched himself.
“So, Shandy, where did you find the chicken? No, don’t tell me!” She placed the back of her right hand theatrically over her eyes. “Hmm, I see a man. Does the name Gerry mean anything to you?”
Shand declined to answer, in the hope that psychics, like wasps, eventually go away if ignored.
“It’s something like Gerry though. Gary, Gordon. George! That’s it! Isn’t it? You found him at the crime scene.”
“How–”
“… did I know? Really, Shandy.” Another playful punch. “Does the Pope shit in the woods? I’m a psychic. I know these things.”
Shand looked down at his plate and felt the siren call of the table reaching out to his forehead. How long would it take before he lost consciousness?
“So, when do we start?” said Saffron. “I was thinking we should take him back to the circle. You know – scene of crime, powerful source of psychic energy. I’ll have the chicken regressed in no time.”
Shand took a deep breath and looked up. The psychic beamed across the table at him, exuding boundless enthusiasm.
“Saffy,” he said, searching for words that might make her go away. “I’m tied up this morning – post mortem, forensics. But the moment I’m free, I’ll give you a ring.”
Saffron looked suspicious. She held his gaze for two full seconds, then dived down to rummage in a voluminous handbag by her feet.
“My card,” she said, handing it to Shand, but keeping the card firmly between finger and thumb as he tried to pull it away. “Remember,” she continued. “You can’t hide from a psychic.”
“Rest assured, Saffy, the moment I’m ready to interrogate a chicken, you’ll be the first to know.”
~
George Benson’s naked body lay on the slab. Shand couldn’t bring himself to look. The nakedness of a man he knew. Guilt over his death. The knowledge of what the pathologist was about to do.
He switched himself off. Glazed his eyes and filtered the proceedings through a gauze of detachment.
There were no marks on the body – according to the pathologist. No signs of struggle or restraint. And he hadn’t been smothered. A thorough examination of the airways yielded no fibres. Shand was offered the opportunity to see for himself, but declined.
“Does that mean he was poisoned?” asked Shand, looking for a quick answer and a reason to leave.
“Far too early to tell,” said the pathologist who then launched into a list of other possible explanations for George’s cyanotic lips and fingernails – a list which included seizures, pulmonary hypertension and drowning.
Hypertension? Shand fastened on the word. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Stress. Stress exacerbated by a bank audit and a DCI who wouldn’t leave him alone?
He daren’t ask. He withdrew farther towards the back of the room. He didn’t think he could cope with a stress-related verdict. He’d have to resign.
The post mortem continued. Blood samples were taken and then the cutting began. Shand waited, listening to the pathologist’s dictated commentary, his ears tuned to the one word – hypertension.
It never came.
George had been in good health.
“An overdose, most likely,” said the pathologist. “Narcotic, sedative, benzodiazepine. The blood analysis will tell.”
“How long will that take?” asked Shand.
The pathologist shrugged. “Hours, days. Depends how much work the lab’s got on.”
Shand phoned Wiggins. “I need a blood sample fast-tracked.”
“And I need to see you, Shand. Now!”
~
Shand left as soon as he’d organised a messenger to rush the samples to the lab. Then he made his own angst-filled run to the Wessex Constabulary HQ at Sherminster. It had to be about the headlines in the Echo. Or yesterday’s press conference. Or the second murder. Or the fact that Shand had arrested Gabe Marsh without informing the Chief Super or calling a press conference. Or…
The more he thought about it, the worse his situation appeared. The case would be taken off him. It might already have been.
He paused outside Detective Chief Superintendent Wiggins’ office and straightened his tie. A quick brush of his suit, a tug at his sleeves and then a confident knock.
“Enter!”
Shand strode in. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he said, injecting a breezy optimism into his demeanour.
“Shut the door,” said Wiggins tersely.
Shand closed the door and swiftly sat down. Wiggins looked uncomfortable. He had a copy of the Echo on his desk.
“Have you seen today’s Echo, Shand? What is it with you and Tresco? First the press conference, now this!” He picked up the folded copy of the Echo, and slapped it back down on the desk.
Shand crossed his legs, grasped his top knee with both hands and leaned back, trying to exude a confidence he’d last seen running down the corridor towards the fire exit.
“Yes,” he said, desperately plucking an idea out of the ether. “It does seem to be working, doesn’t it?”
“Working?”
“My plan. I was told at the outset that Kevin Tresco had it in for the Wessex Constabulary. You know, the corruption allegations…”
“You don’t have to tell me about the corruption allegations–”
“Exactly. It’s detrimental to everyone. So I refocused his antipathy towards me, and you’ll notice there hasn’t been one word about the corruption enquiry since. The only copper he’s attacked is me.”
“You did this deliberately?”
”For the good of the force, yes. I’m drawing him out. Letting him make a fool of himself attacking me, so that when I produce the murderer his credibility is blown for good. No more irritating Kevin Tresco.”
Shand sat back and smiled. Lee Molland couldn’t have generated more angelic probity.
~
Shand left, inventing a pressing appointment with Forensics while his thin veneer of plausibility still held. The more stories he invented the shorter their shelf life became. This one had started to s
mell the moment he left the room.
He ran, ignoring the lift and fleeing down the back stairs, turning his mobile off in the process. If Wiggins changed his mind and took him off the case, he’d have to find him first.
Shand drove to Langton Stacey, bulldozing all negative thoughts aside. Forensics would have analysed last night’s finds by now. There’d be a breakthrough. He’d solve the case and everything would go away.
He was almost right.
“Where’ve you been?” said SOCO as soon as Shand arrived. “I’ve been trying to ring you all morning.”
“What have you found?” said Shand, still out of breath from running up the stairs.
“Plenty,” said SOCO. “We identified that shoe print at the base of the wall. Astrella, size eight. Trainers. A cheap Italian import sold from discount warehouses and some of the lower end supermarkets. A list of outlets is being compiled, but don’t hold your breath. Unless your man bought them with a store card, I doubt you’ll trace him that way.”
Size eight. Shand wondered what size Gabe Marsh took. And what he’d been wearing the evening they arrested him. Not trainers. At least, he didn’t think so.
He phoned Marcus.
“Find out Gabe Marsh’s shoe size and see if you can find any trainers at his house. We’re looking for a pair of size eight Astrella trainers, okay?”
“Now it gets better,” said SOCO. “We’ve analysed the dregs in that bottle of wine.”
SOCO waited, infuriating Shand by drawing out the moment.
“Well?” said Shand.
“You don’t want to guess? I thought an enquiring mind like yours–”
“Just tell me,” snapped Shand.
“Diazepam. Valium to you and me. And in lethal concentrations.”
“Was there Valium in the house?”
“See,” said SOCO, turning to his colleagues. “The value of a forensic mind. Straight to the point. Could it have been suicide, he asks?”
“Well?” said Shand.
“Unlikely. No note and no bottle of Valium – either in the house, or on the deceased’s person. If he did commit suicide, he cleaned up after himself. There’s nothing in the bins either.”
Murder. Shand had been ninety-five percent certain from the outset, but it was an immense relief to remove that five percent of doubt. And guilt. The fear that Shand had pushed George into suicide or a stress-related accident.
He phoned Taylor.
“I need you to ring round all the local GPs and chemists. Someone put Valium in George’s wine. Enough to kill him. Find out who uses it. And make sure it didn’t come from the house. Check with the Benson’s GP first.”
He flicked the phone shut. Things were moving. Maybe this was going to be the day the case broke?
“And now the really good news,” said SOCO. “We found prints on the wine bottle.”
Again he prolonged the moment, smiling smugly like a stage magician about to produce something unexpected from his hat.
“Whose?” said Shand unable to resist the bait.
“Two sets. George Benson and Gabe Marsh.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Can I borrow this?” said Shand pointing at the wine bottle.
“Be my guest,” said SOCO.
Shand gripped the evidence bag between finger and thumb and held it up to his face.
It couldn’t have been better. George’s prints when he poured wine from the bottle and Marsh’s when he delivered it.
Shand took the bottle and sped back to Sturton. He had enough to charge Marsh now. Maybe enough to convict. All he needed was a link between Marsh and some kind of fraud at George’s bank and he’d have the lot.
And then he thought of something else and rang Marcus.
“Check the Rectory for any sign of Valium. Bottles, prescriptions, anything. That’s what killed George.”
He was still buzzing when he reached the station. Even the sight of an Athelcott One wanted poster on his office door didn’t faze him. What did it matter? He had the murderer.
He paced his office floor, trying to decide how to handle the next phase. The end game. Should he wait for Marcus and Taylor to report back or face Marsh now? He was undecided. Marsh had shown little proclivity to crack. He’d probably dismiss the prints as yet another fit-up. And yet?
Surely the weight of evidence would begin to hit home. His fingerprints in the car, on the duct tape, on the wine bottle. The discovery of the duct tape next to Annabel’s handbag and the murder weapon. The man was linked to both murders and the abduction.
More pacing. And then a quick trip to the canteen for a sandwich. No lunch break today. He was going to work through until he closed the case.
Preparation. That’s what he needed. Map out the interview with Marsh, work out the order of questions, go over the points Marsh might raise in his defence. Make sure every eventuality was covered.
He sat, he planned, he typed. He edited, rewrote and polished.
And then Marcus called.
He hadn’t found any trainers or Valium at the Rectory, and Marsh’s shoe size was nine.
“Nine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I checked every shoe he’s got. They’re all nines.”
Doubt. Niggling, annoying doubt. Could Marsh squeeze into an eight? Was he that devious to try? Would he deliberately leave a false shoe print to signal his innocence?
But then leave his fingerprints all over the wine bottle?
It didn’t add up.
Shand sat in silence, moving evidence around his head like pieces on a chessboard. Did he need the shoe print? Now that he thought about it how could Gabe have made it in the first place? The prints were in the dew. Still reasonably fresh at 10:45, but Gabe had been taken into custody at 6:45. The dew wouldn’t have formed until later. Much later.
Which meant?
He didn’t like to think what it meant. A second person? The murderer returning? Both possibilities begged the same question. Why? To see if George was dead? To remove evidence?
Or to plant the chicken?
Yes, thought Shand. To plant the chicken and arrange the crime scene. To make the death look like another ritual murder when it was all about greed and profit. It made sense. Gabe could hardly sneak about the village in daylight carrying a chicken. But someone could at night, using the grass track.
Then the phone rang. The bank audit had just been completed. It was negative.
~
Shand couldn’t believe it. Everything pointed to the bank. Helena’s abduction, George’s anxiety, his murder.
“Are you sure?” he pressed.
“Positive. We’ve checked everything. No discrepancies, no hint of money laundering or dodgy loans. It’s a typical small country bank. And very well run.”
Shand sat in shock, staring at the phone long after the conversation had ended. He’d been so sure! It was the only part of the case that made any sense. Why else involve George and Helena?
He wouldn’t let it go. George had been cleverer than the auditors. He’d covered his tracks. Or it was something planned for the future – you do this or next time we’ll kill your wife. And don’t think you can tell the police or hide – we’ve friends on the outside who’ll make good our promise. That would work. Wouldn’t it?
He started pacing again, unable to sit still. He had to be moving, doing something. He was so close to solving the case. If only, if only, if only…
One more push, one more shoe to drop, and the case had to break open.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed the wine bottle and left. Time for one more crack at Gabe Marsh.
~
Marsh’s solicitor was already downstairs. He stood up the moment he saw Shand.
“The post mortem’s been completed. Now are you going to release my client?”
“Follow me,” said Shand.
Gabe Marsh was brought up from the cells. He was unshaven, slightly dis
hevelled, but far from cowed.
“Is that a peace offering, chief inspector?” he said, nodding at the wine bottle.
“Sit down,” said Shand. He placed the wine bottle centrally on the table and switched the tape recorders on.
“Do you recognise this bottle?” he asked.
“No, why should I?” Marsh leaned back in his chair, his feet spread out under the table.
“Take a closer look. It has your fingerprints on it.”
Gabe leaned forward and took a closer look. “Okay, I recognise the label. I bought six cases of the stuff last month. Is that a crime?”
“If you fill it with Valium and poison someone with it, yes.”
Gabe snapped bolt upright. “I don’t believe this!” He looked at his lawyer. “They’re fitting me up. Can’t you do something about this?”
The lawyer turned to Shand. “We will challenge every piece of forensic evidence you have–”
Shand cut him off, never taking his eye off Marsh. “Do you think that’s going to work with a jury, Gabe? We uploaded the fingerprints from the book of matches into our system long before we ever heard of you. It’s all on file – a complete audit trail. We couldn’t have fitted you up.”
“Look,” said Marsh. “I’m not stupid. Do you really think I’d leave my fingerprints all over the place? Only an idiot would forget to wipe a bottle.”
“Or someone very daring. Who thinks they can double bluff their way out of jail by saying – look at me, I’m too clever to make a mistake, therefore someone’s trying to fit me up.”
“Yeah, right,” said Marsh sarcastically. “So I get myself arrested and become the prime suspect? That’s a real plan, isn’t it?”
“Where did you get the Valium? One of your girlfriends, or do you have a prescription?”
“I’ve never taken Valium in my life. I wouldn’t even know what it looked like!”
“We’re checking the records now. We’ll find out.”
“Good for you.”
Still no headway. Gabe picked at his fingernails. Shand tried a different tack.