by Chris Dolley
Shand commandeered a car from the Montacutes. He wasn’t going to wait twenty-five minutes for a car from Sturton.
~
Shand took the front door, while Marcus ran around the terrace to the back. The house was in darkness. He rang the doorbell. And waited. He rang the bell again. Then hammered on the door with his fists. The landing light came on.
“Who is it?” someone called from inside.
Shand hammered again.
“All right, I’m coming.”
Shand leaned into the door the moment it opened, wedging his foot in the crack and flashing his warrant card at a startled Lee Molland.
“A word, Lee,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door.
“What do you want?”
Lee was still fully dressed. Black tracksuit – top and bottom – ideal for sneaking around the village at night. And black trainers.
“What size are they?” he asked, nodding towards Lee’s feet.
“What?”
“Your trainers. What size are they?”
“Eight, why?”
“And what’s that logo I can see on the side? Astrella, is it?”
Lee cocked his foot on one side and looked down. “Something like that, yeah,”
“Congratulations, Lee,” said Shand. “You’re nicked.”
~
Shand was elated. He had his suspect in custody and a real prospect of closing the case before breakfast.
If he could ditch the psychic.
“Do you need a lift to your car?” he asked, keeping his tone warm and friendly.
“Don’t I get to sit in on the interview?” asked Saffron.
“We’ll be waiting an hour or more for the duty solicitor. And you need to sleep. I’ve got a job for you later today. There’s a number of things I need to pick your brain about.”
Saffron eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not just saying that?”
“Saffy,” said Shand, placing his hand on his heart, and projecting an aura of integrity that most politicians would have sacrificed several small children for. “Could I fool a psychic?”
~
The duty solicitor arrived at five thirty and was rushed into Interview Room One. Shand had been like a caged bear for over an hour, only held back from starting the interview early by the fear of jeopardising the case. This was one interview that had to be played by the book. He’d made too many mistakes to risk a confession being thrown out for not following procedure.
He started the tapes, introduced those present. And began.
“What were you doing at the Benson’s house on the evening of George’s murder?”
Lee shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wrong answer,” said Shand. “We can place you at the scene. Which makes me wonder why you’d lie. What do you think, constable?”
“I think it means he’s guilty, sir,” said Marcus. “Why else would he lie?”
“Why else indeed,” said Shand. “Now, Lee, do you want to change your answer or do you wish the presumption of guilt to stand?”
“I was at home. I never went out.”
Shand shook his head. “No, no, no, Lee. That won’t do. We have the forensics. You left traces all over the Benson’s garden. Traces that had to be made between six and ten thirty. Why do you think we took your trainers? We don’t make a habit of interviewing suspects in their socks.”
Lee was wavering. His posture hadn’t changed. He was still slumped in his chair, arms folded and legs stretched out under the table, but his eyes had lost some of their sparkle. And they shifted occasionally.
“Juries love their forensics, don’t they, Marcus? Makes their job that much easier. All that sitting around the courtroom trying to work out which witness is lying. Much easier to listen to the expert, and when he says it’s a million to one shot that you’re innocent they’re going to know what to do. Million to one. Gotta be guilty.”
Lee shuffled in his seat, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them again.
“And of course you’re not a juvenile any more. Nineteen years old. That means life if you’re convicted. Thirty years minimum, I’d say. Unless the judge takes a dislike to you. Which seeing as you’re a young male is highly likely. You know how many young males a judge sees in a year? Too many. All that insolence and testosterone. Gets right up their noses.”
“Have you finished?” said Lee.
“Just getting warmed up, Lee. Looking forward to the big trial. Kinda spoils it if you plead guilty. All that free publicity wasted. Not that you could benefit. Not with the law preventing criminals from profiting from their crimes. But we could. A book, I think. How I trapped a monster. Of course, with me writing it, I’d have license to paint you however I liked. What do you think? Pathetic attention seeker? Posterity would know you through my words. And posterity has never cared for the truth. Look at Shakespeare. Ever done any cross-dressing, Lee?”
Lee yawned. For effect, thought Shand. Trying to show how bored he was. Unlike the duty solicitor who showed real signs of drowsiness – his head tilting forward and his eyes almost closed.
Which was a definite advantage, thought Shand, deciding to restrain from raising his voice or making any sudden movements.
“Nothing to say, Lee?” he asked. “Of course it’s your prerogative. And it’s not as though I need anything from you. I’ve got the forensics. I can go to trial now.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “We’re only here now for your benefit. The law says we’ve got to give you a chance to explain yourself. But if you can’t, you can’t. So one more time, Lee. What were you doing at the Benson’s house?”
Lee looked up at the ceiling, refusing to even look at Shand.
“Prison it is then,” said Shand, turning to Marcus. “Are the cells here still full?”
“Er … yes,” said Marcus, flustered by the unexpected question.
“Shame,” said Shand, turning back to Lee. “Still, you’ve got to get used to life inside. There’s no bail on murder charges. But look on the bright side – a pretty boy like you is going to be very popular inside. All those hardened criminals looking for a friend.”
Lee looked worried. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.
“Good to hear it,” said Shand, gathering up his papers, and feigning a practised indifference. “Where’s the nearest prison?” he asked Marcus. “Can you give them a ring and arrange Lee’s transfer?”
“Okay,” said Lee, sitting upright. “I was there, but I didn’t kill anyone. He was already dead.”
“Who?” said Shand.
“George. He was lying on the floor of the outbuilding.”
“Which you were visiting, why?”
Lee hesitated. “I was going back to check on the cock.”
“The Athelcott One?”
“Yes, I’d shut him in there. I thought it was the last place anyone would look. But I needed to go back that evening to make sure he had enough food and water.”
“The Athelcott One had been there all day?”
“Since midday. I hid him in my room first, but when you questioned me I knew I had to move him. So I thought of the last place you’d look. You’d searched the Benson’s house so many times it had to be safe.”
There was a frightening plausibility to Lee’s story. And gone was the cocky self-assurance and the knowing smirks.
Was he actually telling the truth?
“When you found George was the door open or closed?”
“Open. And the light was on. I thought he’d found the Athelcott One and I’d have to explain. Then I saw his feet.”
There appeared to be real shock in Lee’s eyes.
“And the chicken?”
“He was roosting on a pile of boxes. I bent down and felt for George’s pulse. But there wasn’t one. Then I panicked. I thought the shock of seeing the Athelcott One had given him a heart attack. Then I heard the car pull up outside and I switched off the light, shut the door, and legged it.”
<
br /> “What time was this?”
“About ten thirty.”
It fitted. But then it would if he’d been there arranging the crime scene.
“What about the night of Annabel’s murder? Where were you at midnight?”
“I was in bed.”
Shand noticed the hesitation and the downward glance before answering. Was he starting to read Lee Molland or was he being led a dance?
“That’s not very clever, Lee. A dozen witnesses saw you leave Sixpenny Barton at eleven forty-five. Marius left you on the chalk track at eleven fifty.”
Lee’s mouth opened in shock.
Shand continued. “Marius, your asylum-seeking friend, then ran the first leg with the drag leaving you alone in the woods for forty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes,” said Lee. “We ran thirty minute shifts.”
“You checked your watches in the moonlight, did you? Forty minutes gives you plenty of time to kill Annabel and get back.”
“We had torches. And I didn’t kill anyone!”
Lee’s outburst brought the duty solicitor’s head snapping back upright. He glanced at his client, then at Shand, with the puzzled look of someone who wasn’t quite sure where he was.
Shand was not going to enlighten him.
“Where did you go after Friday’s drag hunt?”
“Home.”
“What time was that? About four?”
“About then.”
“And that would have taken you past the stone circle?”
“I never went anywhere near the circle!”
“But that’s your route home, Lee. We followed you tonight.”
“Not when I’m on the other side of the woods. Friday, I was at the Barton so I went home along the roads. It’s quicker.” Then something hit him. “You took my bag, didn’t you? I couldn’t believe someone nicked it.”
“Maybe the stones moved it while they were dancing?”
Lee turned to his solicitor. “I want it documented that they’ve got my bag.”
“Forensics have your bag,” said Shand. “Along with everything else they took from the stone circle. Not that Annabel was killed at the stone circle. She was dumped there at four. Funny how all these events happen during gaps in your alibi.”
The interview stalled at that point. Lee folded his arms and became less and less co-operative, and the duty solicitor decided to earn his call-out fee. Shand kept the interview going for another fifteen minutes, then gave up. Lee wasn’t going to confess, and he had nothing left to confront him with.
“Are you going to charge my client, or badger him to death?” asked the duty solicitor.
“He’ll keep,” said Shand, getting up to leave. “We’ll check his statement and make a decision later today. In the meantime he stays here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Tiredness hit Shand the moment he left the interview room. He’d been kept alert by the buzz of adrenaline. Now he felt like a wreck.
“Go home,” he told Marcus. “Get some sleep, then tomorrow, or today, or whatever day this is, hunt down all of Lee’s friends. One of them’s got to be his driver.”
It was all he could do to finish the sentence. He yawned all the way to the stairwell and forced himself up the steps. A cup of coffee and he’d be fine. He needed to check through Helena’s statement. See how she described her assailants.
He took two black coffees from the machine. The first one tasted foul. Bitter and lukewarm. The second was better. Then he felt a craving for sugar and pressed the hot chocolate button. Very nice.
He staggered to his office, slumped in his chair and fired up the computer. He pulled down Helena’s statement. She described the men as taller than George and stocky. Lee was smaller than George and slim.
Sleep claimed him soon after that. His car was stuck in Athelcott and he didn’t feel like walking to the hotel.
~
Shand might have dreamed that Detective Chief Superintendent Wiggins was standing in the doorway. He might also have dreamed that he was snoring at the time, his head lolled to one side, and a substance which could only be described as drool, overflowing down his cheek onto the back of the chair.
Unfortunately he’d have been wrong. It wasn’t a dream.
“Shand!” bellowed the DCS, slamming the door behind him.
Shand jumped. “Sir,” he said, clamping both hands to the chair’s arm rests for support.
“Is everything all right?” said the DCS, leaning forward and peering down at Shand. “You look terrible. Is that … is that bramble in your hair?”
Shand patted his head and found a four-inch strand of dead bramble. He held it gingerly between finger and thumb and stared at it. How long had that been there?
“I had a fall in the woods, sir,” he said, feeling an explanation was necessary.
“When you were wrestling with Satan, I suppose?”
“No, that was in the car. This was later.” He threw the bramble in the waste bin by his desk, and then noticed the state of his trousers – were those blackberry stains?
“How are you feeling?” asked the DCS, the concern on his face deepening.
“Fine,” said Shand, his hands reaching towards the knot of his tie which, as expected, he found hanging loose and twisted over one shoulder. He pulled it back to the centre and tightened it.
“This business with Satan–” said the DCS.
“He’s a dog,” said Shand, interrupting swiftly.
“Is he?” said Wiggins, in a tone normally reserved for encounters with the mentally unbalanced. “I hadn’t heard that one.”
“No, sir. He really is a dog.”
“You uh see him do you, Shand? Satan? Is he … is he here now?”
Even half-asleep Shand could hear the alarm bells.
“No! Satan is Marcus’s dog. We were all in the car together.”
“With the psychic?”
“She’s not part of the case, sir. She just turned up.”
Shand could feel himself fighting a desperate rearguard action. But with no support. His brain was half-asleep and what had happened to his knack for finding the opportune lie?
“She said she was working for you, Shand. She had your phone.”
“Only because Satan knocked it out of my hand!”
“You can’t blame Satan for everything, Shand. There is such a thing as free will.”
Shand’s brain fled. The battlefield strewn with white flags and discarded excuses. He opened his mouth in ever-optimistic hope, but not one lie deigned to poke its head over his tonsils.
“Go home, Shand. Take the rest of the day off. I’ve arranged for a DI from Eastern Division to be released early. Tom Morrison, good copper and very experienced. He’ll join us tomorrow morning and we’ll go through the files together. No reflection on you, Shand. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. Now go home. I’ll see that Taylor brings all the files up to date.”
~
Shand was not going anywhere. He collected his things together in case Wiggins returned, and hovered by the door, listening. He heard the door opposite click shut, and then footsteps retreating down the corridor. He slipped his head outside and saw Wiggins leaving – he’d probably left a note on Taylor’s desk.
Shand waited for the corridor to clear, then retrieved the note. He had other plans for Taylor. Not that he knew what they were, but he was sure something would come to mind.
He returned to his office and stood by the window monitoring the car park. As soon as Wiggins drove off he relaxed. Now all he had to do was close the case before the new DI arrived.
Which was still feasible. He’d done all the hard work. All he needed now was to find the place where Annabel had been murdered...
And then what? Pin all his hopes on forensics again? The case was awash with forensics – most of it dubious. Fingerprints that had been planted, shoe prints that could be explained way. He didn’t have one piece of evidence that conclusively proved guilt.
What h
e needed was to find Helena’s abductors. That was where Lee, or whoever was guilty, had made their mistake. A secret shared is a secret jeopardised.
Which brought him back to his theory that Lee would need to be present at Helena’s abduction. He dug out Helena’s statement again in case he’d dreamed the answer he’d found last night. He hadn’t. There it was on screen. Two stocky men, taller than George. Neither of which could be Lee.
Doubt, doubt and more doubt. Was he wrong about Lee? His entire case rested on Lee’s predilection for publicity and the bizarre. And the shoe print. But what if he really had been hiding the Athelcott One in the outbuilding? That was in character too. Take the chicken out of the equation and you had a simple murder. And no reason to search for a murderer obsessed with spectacle.
Doubt again. He was plagued by it. It used to be an advantage – a safety mechanism that made him check and double-check everything before proceeding. It had made him the ‘safe pair of hands.’ Now it was a curse. Something that impeded progress. He didn’t have the time that he used to have. When he was lecturing, he had months to examine old cases. He could sit down and mull over the decisions and evidence, show his students where the mistakes had been made, what should have been done and when. But now he was under constant pressure – Wiggins, the press, his own vanity, countless Gabriels. Everyone wanting something. An arrest, someone to blame, good publicity, his wife.
And now he wasn’t sure if he was cut out for the job.
Even more doubt. He’d stepped out of a career he’d been good at, into one that consistently refused to be what he’d expected it to be. Okay, he’d needed the operational experience to be considered for promotion, but what if he’d burned his boats? Damaged his reputation so much he couldn’t even get his old job back. Forever tarnished as the man who arrested chickens and wrestled with Satan in the back seat of cars!
No. He refused to be dragged any deeper into this self-created mire. If Wiggins wanted a fresh eye on the case, he’d have one. Shand’s. He’d throw everything up in the air, rid himself of preconception and examine the case anew.