Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  ‘I won’t have untidiness,’ said Mrs Flatt. ‘That’s what I told him and his parents when he arrived. There’s plenty of room in that wall cupboard, I said, and if he doesn’t put everything away before he goes out to work I shall want to know the reason why.’

  ‘May I?’ said Hilary, quickly opening the door of the cupboard before Mrs Flatt could object. The interior was crammed with a jumble of clothes and teenage male belongings, but while Darren’s landlady tutted over them, Hilary found what she was looking for.

  Darren had simply transferred his picture gallery from his bedroom walls at home to the inside of Mrs Flatt’s white-painted cupboard door. Some of the photographs were school groups, formal and informal, but most of them had been taken individually.

  From all of them, a girl of about fifteen with a waterfall of fair hair looked out at whoever opened the cupboard door. The season was always summer. Sometimes posed, sometimes unaware, she expressed a range of attitude and emotion: here she was pensive, there she was alert, here she clowned, there she was tired of being photographed; but more often than not she was either laughing or smiling directly at the photographer, and her eyes expressed an unequivocal love.

  ‘Just look what the dratted boy’s done!’ Mrs Flatt complained. ‘That sellotape will ruin my paintwork.’

  But Hilary was studying the inner page of a birthday card that had been stuck on the door in the middle of the photographs. On the card was printed ‘To My Darling’and an excruciatingly sloppy verse. There was also a handwritten message in large capital letters.

  ‘When was Darren’s birthday, do you know?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘His mother told me he was sixteen last May,’ said Mrs Flatt resentfully, ‘and if I’d known he was going to cause all this trouble I’d never have had him in my house.’

  Ignoring the printed verse on the card, Hilary looked again at the handwritten message. Having since been dumped by Laura, the boy could only have tormented himself by reading it over and over.

  MY DARREN –

  THOUSANDS OF KISSES FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY – AND

  MORE!!!

  LOVE YOU LOVE YOU LOVE YOU

  ALWAYS AND 4 EVER

  YOUR LAURA XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  ps Remember belmont???

  Up at Belmont it was almost dark, and Quantrill had called off the search until the following day.

  He was in the floodlit stable yard at the back of Chalcot House, in discussion with Martin Tait and Lewis Glaven, when Hilary returned and joined them. Will Glaven, having thrown himself into the search for Laura, had been overwhelmed with grief for Hope when the activity stopped and had taken refuge in the house.

  ‘Young Jermyn probably knows some of the protesters,’ Lewis Glaven was saying, unaware of the police interest in the boy. ‘Hardworking lad, very promising I thought. Too squeamish to drive the birds over the guns, though. The keeper tells me he ran away after the first drive. Wouldn’t be surprised if he then stirred up some local friends to come and make nuisances of themselves.’

  ‘He was at Breckham Market High,’ Hilary told Quantrill. ‘I thought I’d go there tomorrow and see what I can find out. That won’t account for the older sabs, though …’

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Tait authoritatively, ‘they’re rent-a-mob students from Yarchester. They couldn’t have come from far, because of the time factor, but they’ve obviously done this sort of thing before. They know the law and how to manipulate it, and they’re probably being subsidised. I’d certainly try the university for the pony-tailed man who just grinned when his video camera was smashed.’

  Lewis Glaven cleared his throat. ‘Ah yes …’

  He turned, honourably straight-backed, to Quantrill.

  ‘Regret to say that I was the one who destroyed their camera. With hindsight, that film could have been useful to you, so I was doubly stupid. Moment of anger, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No doubt you were provoked,’ said Quantrill.

  ‘No excuse, for a man in my position.’

  ‘No excuse at all. If the saboteurs lay charges, you’ll find a copper on your doorstep asking you to accompany him to the police station. On the other hand, if they do lay charges, they’ll save us the trouble of finding them. There must be over a thousand students at the university, and then there’s the City College …’

  The chief inspector’s eye fell on his tall son, who had propped himself against his father’s car while he waited for a lift home. Despite his air of boredom, it seemed that Peter had enough of the detective in him to be listening avidly to the discussion. His ears had pricked at the mention of the City College, where he was in his second year as a woodwork design student.

  At least the lad hadn’t immediately made himself scarce, and that was a good indication that none of his own friends went sabbing. Quantrill went over to him, and tried to enlist his help without offending his sense of student solidarity.

  ‘D’you think Martin’s right about the sabs being students?’ he asked.

  Peter was non-committal: ‘Could be.’

  He was leaning back nonchalantly against the car, but his father could see that he was rubbing one foot against the calf of the other leg, as though it was aching intolerably.

  ‘Not that I want to involve you,’ said Quantrill. ‘I’d rather you concentrated on your classes. But sabbing’s perfectly legal, and I just wondered whether there’s any publicity about it at your college?’

  ‘On and off. I’ve seen notices on the Greenpeace board in the students’union.’

  ‘Good. All I need is a contact name and telephone number, from your place and from the university. Oh, and I want our “Missing” posters, with Laura’s photograph, put up on the Greenpeace boards too. I can’t spare anyone to go over to Yarchester and do it, though, because of the search. Trouble is, I’m short of manpower.’

  Peter perked up. ‘I can do the City College, no problem. But the university campus is miles away … Trouble is –’ he gave a wickedly accurate imitation of his father’s ruminative tone of voice – ‘I’m short of petrol.’

  Quantrill knew perfectly well that the distance involved was less than two miles. But it was such a relief, after Peter’s accident, to know he was zooming about in the comparative safety of an old banger rather than on two wheels, that he was prepared to indulge him.

  He gave the expected heavy sigh. ‘Supposing I forget that you still owe me for the last repair job. Will an extra tankful be enough?’

  ‘Just about,’ said Peter, infuriatingly offhanded. But then he gave the engaging grin that no doubt attracted more than his fair share of girlfriends: ‘Chiz, Dad.’

  Before leaving the Chalcot estate, the three detectives drove along the track that led to Keeper’s Cottage. As they approached the walled and gated back yard they were met by an outburst of barking, and a bellowed Quiet you bloody dogs! from the gamekeeper.

  The yard was illuminated, but considerably less well than the stable yard at Chalcot House. In the shadowy light, Len Alger was heaving sacks of grain into the back of his Landrover, ready for the morning’s work of feeding the pheasants.

  ‘Where’s that bloody boy got to, that’s what I want to know?’ he greeted the detectives angrily. ‘He’s left me with both rounds to do, just at the busiest time o’the year. I’ll half kill him when I get my hands on him!’

  ‘We’d be interested to know where he is, too,’ said Tait. ‘You’re the man who saw him last. My colleagues would like to hear about it.’

  Alger seemed reluctant to answer. It was difficult to know whether he was being deliberately surly with Tait, or whether he couldn’t hear. He continued his work, making no reply until Quantrill raised his voice.

  ‘Tell us about seeing Darren Jermyn with the housekeeper’s daughter.’

  ‘What else is there to tell?’ grumbled the keeper. ‘I told him –’ he jerked a contemptuous thumb at Tait – ‘what I saw, and I told that sergeant in uniform where I saw it. Young Jermyn and the girl w
ere together behind a tree, and that’s all I know.’

  ‘Were they standing up, or leaning against the tree?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘Leaning, I reckon. The girl had her back against it.’

  ‘You told me they were “messing about” with each other,’ said Tait. ‘What exactly did you mean by that?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What were they doing?‘ said Quantrill impatiently. ‘Were they making love, or were they arguing?’

  ‘How do I know what they were doing?’ snarled Alger. ‘I didn’t stand there gawping at’em, I was hurrying to get rid of the bloody intruders. All I know is that they’d got their arms round each other.’

  ‘In a loving way?’

  ‘How should I know? I didn’t look, I tell you. They could have been at each other’s throats for all I saw of’em.’

  ‘But did you hear their voices?’ said Tait.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ the keeper snapped. ‘I’ve told you all I know, and I’ve got work to do even if you haven’t.’

  ‘Just one more thing, Mr Alger,’ said Hilary. ‘Did Darren have his shotgun with him yesterday?’

  The keeper stared at her blankly. ‘No. No reason for him to have it. He was supposed to be beating, only the idle young bugger ran away.’

  ‘So if he didn’t take his gun, it would still be where he usually kept it. Where’s that?’

  ‘Why, here o’course. It’s not his own gun, it’s an old 20-bore Mr Glaven loaned him. I couldn’t let the boy have charge of it outside working hours, he’s too unreliable. It’s kept in one o’my locked sheds, hanging up on the wall. You can see it if you like.’

  Len Alger walked stiffly over to a range of brick-built sheds that formed the back wall of the yard, unlocked one of the doors with a key from a ring he kept in his pocket, and switched on the light. The detectives, following him, stood blinking just inside the door, dazzled by the single unshaded lamp.

  The shed contained the gamekeeper’s ironmongery, neatly stowed. On the floor were bundles of metal stakes, coils of barbed wire and rolls of netting. There were hooks all round the walls, and from them hung a variety of evil-looking traps, most of them with old dark blood encrusted on their spikes.

  But Darren Jermyn’s shotgun wasn’t there.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Late on Sunday afternoon, Detective Chief Inspector Quantrill authorised two low-key press releases.

  On Monday morning the East Anglian Daily Press carried the front-page news that Miss Hope Meynell (22), of Ware, Hertfordshire, a weekend guest at Chalcot House, had died on Sunday in Yarchester hospital from a gunshot wound to the head. The wound had been sustained the previous day, when she was a spectator at a shoot on the estate.

  On an inner page it was reported that Laura Harbord (15) and Darren Jermyn (16), both of Chalcot although Darren’s home was at Brocklesford, had been missing since Saturday afternoon. Their heights were given, and the clothing they were wearing was briefly described.

  ‘Anyone who might have seen either of them, together or separately, or who knows their whereabouts,’ the report concluded, ‘should contact Sergeant Hilary Lloyd, Breckham Market police.’

  There had been a ground frost overnight, and Monday morning was bright and crisp; one of those days, thought Quantrill as he surveyed the unwelcome pile of paperwork on his desk, when it was all wrong to be stuck in the office. But the routine enquiry work involved in the search for the missing youngsters was in progress; and nothing further could be done about the shooting until the forensic report arrived.

  When it was delivered to him, in mid-morning, Quantrill skimmed through the details, studied the diagrams, read the conclusion and reached for his car keys.

  According to the report, the shot that had fatally wounded Hope Meynell was fired from a 12-bore shotgun.

  Calculated from the angle of entry of the pellets, the shot was a direct hit.

  Calculated from the spread of the pellets, the shot had been fired from a range of ten yards.

  The place where Hope Meynell had fallen was approximately thirty yards from the nearest peg, which was number seven, at the far end of the woodland ride.

  The fatal shot was therefore inconsistent with a shooting accident.

  ‘Martin Tait’, said Quantrill with satisfaction as he drove Hilary towards Ashthorpe, ‘is going to be really peeved if we can pin this on Joanna Dodd. After all, he’d been told she was jealous of Hope Meynell. I don’t know why he didn’t suspect her right away.’

  ‘You’re being unfair to him, as usual,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m no fan of his, heaven knows, but I’m sure he’ll regret that he didn’t keep an eye on Joanna. If she killed the girl, Martin is bound to feel guilty.’

  ‘So he should,’ said Quantrill callously. ‘It’ll teach him to remember that landowning families have the same failings as the rest of us.’

  ‘And the same virtues, if it comes to that.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t believe that it wasn’t Joanna Dodd who shot the girl, but we’ve yet to prove that she did it.’

  ‘I really can’t see that it would have been feasible,’ said Hilary. ‘Joanna would’ve had to leave her peg when she saw Hope bolt, then run twenty yards – partly through bushes – before she fired. Then she’d have to run back to her peg. I don’t know how she could have done all that without being seen by one of the other Guns.’

  ‘But we heard Martin going on about the way they have to concentrate when they’re shooting,’ said Quantrill. ‘Besides, the Guns were facing the other way, and watching for high birds. If Joanna had psyched herself up to shoot her rival, I reckon she’d have thought she could risk it.’

  ‘We shan’t be able to prove it, though, unless someone else saw her. One of the beaters, perhaps …’

  ‘Or a saboteur. Their video film could well have been useful to us. It’s a thundering nuisance it was destroyed.’

  They had arrived at High Ash, Barclay Dodd’s farm. The Dodds had lived there a century longer than the Glavens had lived at Chalcot, and their farmhouse proclaimed its well-preserved age. It stood among gardens on a wooded rise just off a minor road, a gabled and dormered sixteenth-century dwelling topped by a cluster of massive chimneys. Its ochre-coloured walls glowed warm in the November sun.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the traditional appearance,’ said Quantrill. ‘Old Barclay Dodd owns four times as much land as the Glavens, but there’s no more than a hundred acres of woodland and meadow where he shoots and his daughter rides. All the rest is intensive arable, run commercially by a nephew.’

  An unpretentious lane led up from the road, past the garden gates and round to the left, to the back of the old house. On the right was a range of traditional farm buildings. They were unused except for the stables, where half a dozen horses looked out from their loose boxes. In the yard outside, two teenage girls in skin-tight jodhpurs and Pony Club sweatshirts were forking steaming muck, joyfully working their socks off in return for the chance to ride.

  Joanna Dodd, tall, big-boned and handsomely horsy from her face to her boots, had been speaking to the girls. She broke off as the detectives got out of Quantrill’s car, and strode across to meet them.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said, in what would have been a ringing voice if she weren’t so clearly subdued.

  ‘Has Lewis Glaven been in touch with you?’ asked Quantrill.

  ‘He telephoned yesterday about Hope’s tragic death. We’re all appalled, of course … I won’t take you into the house, because I don’t want to disturb my father. He’s desperately upset about the accident, as we all are.’

  She led the way to a loose box that had been supplied with coat pegs, an electric kettle and some old garden chairs for the use of the stable girls. On the whitewashed walls were Pony Club and Riding for the Disabled notices, and large-scale posters illustrating the bone and muscle structure of the horse.

  The detectives elected to stand, and declined the offer of instant coffee.<
br />
  ‘Miss Dodd,’ said Quantrill formally. ‘You referred to an accident. I have to tell you that the forensic report has ruled that out. The shot that killed Hope Meynell was fired directly at her from a distance of ten yards.’

  Joanna Dodd’s long face seemed to lengthen, and her healthy complexion paled. She stared at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Good God,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s – that’s incredible. I simply don’t believe it. Who could possibly have done such a thing?’

  The detectives allowed her to go on in the same vein a little longer. Then Hilary said: ‘Have you any other comment to make?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  The ring of self-confidence had returned to Joanna Dodd’s voice. She looked at them challengingly. ‘I’m very sorry the girl is dead, but I’m not sorry to hear she was murdered. From my point of view, it’s “Thank God.”

  ‘I can guess what’s being said by some of Saturday’s Guns,’ she went on. ‘Everyone knows that I’ve always expected to marry Will Glaven. If Hope’s death were to be officially declared an accident, I’d never live it down. Some people would always wonder whether I hadn’t arranged it. But a deliberate shot from ten yards? No one will suggest that was fired by me!’

  It was the detectives’ turn to stare. ‘Why not?’ said Quantrill bluntly.

  ‘That’s obvious. I couldn’t have fired the shot because my peg was at least twenty-five yards away from where she fell.’

  ‘Thirty yards, actually,’ said Hilary. ‘But if you’d wanted to fire at Hope Meynell, you could simply have left your peg.’

  ‘Left my peg at a driven shoot?’ Joanna Dodd looked pained. ‘One doesn’t do that kind of thing.’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Quantrill. ‘And as you admit, you’re the natural suspect.’

  Joanna Dodd leaned back against the door, her riding boots elegantly crossed at the ankle, her arms folded, a tolerant smile on her face.