Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  Hilary explained that the evidence against Darren had collapsed. She’d sent a detective constable to interview Len Alger, who had reluctantly unlocked the steel cabinet in his kitchen and produced the boy’s 20-bore shotgun. He’d forgotten, he said, that Darren kept it there. His memory wasn’t as good as it had been …

  The gamekeeper had also admitted that he could have been mistaken about seeing Darren and Laura Harbord together. Must have been a trick of the light, he said. It was nearly dusk at the time, and his eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been either …

  ‘Devious old bastard,’ growled Quantrill. ‘Well, we’ve no reason to continue the search at Belmont, so we’ll call it off. That means we’re no nearer to finding Laura – and she’s been missing now for forty-eight hours.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  It didn’t help that Martin Tait chose the next moment to ring from Saintsbury and enquire what news there was of Laura Harbord.

  ‘Give us time, for heaven’s sake,’ exploded Quantrill. ‘Hilary’s just eliminated Darren Jermyn, so we’ll have to widen the search.’

  He glanced at the message pad that his sergeant put under his nose, and was pleased to see that his son had rung in with information.

  ‘Peter’s given us the names of a couple of anti-blood sport students,’ he told Tait. ‘Chances are they were among the protesters, so I’ll switch the enquiry team from Chalcot village to Yarchester. Don’t keep nagging me about it – I’m just as anxious as you are to find the girl. When there’s any news I’ll let you know. We’re in the middle of a murder enquiry as well, don’t forget.’

  ‘Have you interviewed Reg Brunt yet?’

  ‘No, we haven’t!’ Quantrill looked where Hilary was pointing, at the second message on the pad. ‘We thought perhaps he’d done a runner – but his cleaning lady says he’d planned to go to Saintsbury today. We’ll catch him at home this evening, after we’ve seen Mrs Wilson-Brown.’

  ‘Oh, you’re going to visit Doffy, are you?’ Tait sounded intolerably familiar towards her, considering they’d met only once. ‘She’s a splendid old girl. Don’t bother with her brothers, Tweedledum and Tweedledee,’ he advised. ‘They were drunk in charge of their shotguns on Saturday afternoon, so their evidence would be worthless. But you can rely on Doffy. She’s very shrewd, very able – one of the pillars of the county.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Quantrill sharply. But he needed information, and so he moderated his annoyance. ‘What I wonder is how she’ll deal with a conflict of loyalties. Can we rely on her to tell the truth, if it means witnessing against her old friend Lewis Glaven?’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ said Tait with total conviction. ‘Reg Brunt’s your man, Doug. But in those hypothetical circumstances …’

  He paused, thinking. ‘Dorothy Wilson-Brown might avoid telling you the whole truth,’ he concluded. ‘But she wouldn’t ever tell you a lie.’

  By the time they reached Nether Wickford, the short November afternoon was drizzling towards darkness. There was just enough light in the sky for them to discern the prosperous size of the Treadgold family’s Victorian farmhouse, just outside the village, and beyond its gardens the towering metal bulk of the farm barns and silos.

  Most of the house was in darkness, but there was a light above the side door. Their ring was answered by Mrs Wilson-Brown, a big woman with an outdoor face and greying bird’s nest hair. She sounded weary, and was obviously reluctant to bother with callers; but as soon as she knew who they were she said, ‘Of course,’ and invited them in.

  The room she led them to was large and richly unpretentious, rather like Dorothy Wilson-Brown herself. It was softly lit by a couple of lamps and the flames from a log fire, and it contained a fortune in Victorian oil paintings and lovingly beeswaxed antique furniture. But Quantrill knew that his wife Molly would be ashamed to own such a shabby carpet, and such lumpy old chintz-covered sofas; and she certainly wouldn’t approve of one of them being occupied by a snoring heap of dogs.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs Wilson-Brown, scooping newspapers and magazines about guns and dogs off the other sofa.

  Her deep voice, deadened by sadness, was unmistakably out of the top drawer. Molly would have been impressed and even intimidated by it, thought Quantrill; but she’d have sent that baggy tweed skirt and vintage Aran cardigan to a jumble sale long ago.

  ‘I’ve just made tea,’ Mrs Wilson-Brown went on, ‘but I doubt my brothers will appear for it. They’re deliberately keeping themselves busy with farm affairs – it’s been a difficult time for all of us, as you know.’

  Her eyes were dull with misery. Her gardener’s hands – weighted with Victorian rings – shook a little as she poured tea from a brown earthenware pot into an assortment of china mugs.

  ‘We do sympathise,’ said Quantrill. ‘Bad enough for you and your friends that Will Glaven’s fiancée has died …’

  ‘Yes.’ Dorothy Wilson-Brown’s voice tightened with suppressed emotion. ‘Even worse to know that her death was intended, and that it was one of us who killed her.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Quantrill, allowing kindness to overcome official caution.

  ‘Really?’ She looked at him with such astonishment and relief that he found himself hoping, after all, that Tait was right about Reg Brunt. ‘But that’s amazing!’ she continued, her depression lifting. ‘Who could possibly have –? No, I know I mustn’t ask. But –?’

  The chief inspector took refuge in police-speak. ‘We always keep an open mind in cases like this. We do have several leads, and one of them points in a different direction. But I must tell you’ – he put a warning note in his voice – ‘that it’s the shooting party that concerns us most. We’d like to ask some questions about it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Buoyed by hope, however insubstantial, Mrs Wilson-Brown sat forward almost eagerly and planted her hands on her parted knees. ‘Fire away.’

  Sergeant Lloyd took out her notebook. ‘What we want to establish, Mrs Wilson-Brown, is the location of each Gun in your part of the line. I believe you were standing well back behind the Guns, so you were able to see all four of them quite clearly. Is that right?’

  ‘Certainly. Barclay Dodd was on the first peg, then my brothers Jim and George, then Lewis Glaven on number four.’

  ‘And there were two other pickers-up besides yourself, I believe. Are they men you know well?’

  ‘Yes of course – Joe Gaskin and Harold Pike. Retired now, but they used to work on the Chalcot estate. Known them for years.’

  ‘That’s useful,’ said Quantrill. ‘What we’re wondering, you see, is whether their memories are reliable. They’ve both been interviewed already, and you’ve just confirmed what they told us about the Guns. But when they were asked whether anyone, themselves included, had moved during the drive, they said not. And I’m afraid I’m disinclined to believe them.’

  Dorothy Wilson-Brown gave him a shrewd look, born of many years’experience in public life.

  ‘What makes you say that, Mr Quantrill?’

  ‘Well …’ He put down his empty mug and hesitated for a moment, unable to shake off the outdated habit of choosing his words in female company. ‘I understand that everybody had an excellent shoot lunch, with plenty to drink. It was a chilly day, and there was a lot of standing about before the afternoon drive began. So I’d be surprised if Joe and Harold, with a can or two of beer inside them, hadn’t at some point felt the need to – er – disappear into the bushes.’

  ‘Well of course!’ She gave a robust upper-middle-class chuckle. ‘I’m sure you’re absolutely right. If they told you they hadn’t moved, it wasn’t because they were trying to mislead you. They probably thought that going for a pee didn’t count.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Quantrill paused, straight-faced: ‘So what about the Guns, Mrs Wilson-Brown? Did any of them disappear into the bushes, too?’

  Her amused expression froze. She knew now, despite his earlier kindness, where he
was leading her.

  ‘Quite probably,’ she said, in a voice that was admirably even.

  ‘All four of them, at one time or another?’

  ‘Almost certainly. But I was there to watch where the pheasants fell, you see. I hadn’t the time or the inclination to concern myself with anything else.’

  ‘I think you would have noticed, though, if one of the Guns had left his peg for an unusually long time. Your host, for example?’

  A flush of blood rose up Dorothy Wilson-Brown’s neck, and turned her weathered cheeks a brighter shade of red. For a few moments she returned Quantrill’s steady look. Then, with a social smile, she turned to Hilary.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Miss Lloyd, but I’m glad I live in a country where men don’t pee in public. It’s such a bore to find the Belgians at it as soon as one’s crossed the North Sea.

  ‘When we first motored abroad with our children,’ she hurried on, almost as though the detectives were guests and she felt required to entertain them non-stop, ‘I had to tell them not to stare at men who were standing by the roadside with their backs to the traffic. In England of course it’s perfectly all right to look. When a man stands at the side of the road here, you know he’s doing something interesting, like admiring the view or watching a bird.’

  Her forehead glistened as she plunged on. There was a hint of controlled desperation in her voice, as if she didn’t dare stop talking for fear of what would follow.

  ‘My son, of course, thought the Continental practice was great fun. As soon as we came home, he took to spraying the garden. I soon put a stop to that. Ruins the plants. Though if I’d had my wits about me, I suppose I could have trained him to do some selective weed-killing –’

  ‘Mrs Wilson-Brown,’ said Hilary stopping her with quiet firmness. She admired the elderly woman’s style and courage; she felt sympathy for her, and sadness for all the members of the tragic shooting party. But duty had to be done.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we have to ask you this: did Lewis Glaven leave his peg on Saturday afternoon for any longer than a couple of minutes?’

  ‘But that’s what I’ve been trying to explain, Miss Lloyd! When a member of a shooting party disappears into the bushes, everyone knows why. One simply thinks, “Thank God for Englishmen,” and takes no further notice. One doesn’t watch to see which direction he goes in. And one most certainly doesn’t make a note of how long he’s been away.’

  She rose to her feet, obliging both of them to do the same. ‘Before you go –’ she said. ‘Do please tell me: we’re all concerned about Mrs Harbord’s daughter. Have you found Laura yet?’

  The detectives arrived at Reg Brunt’s bungalow in no mood to put up with any prevarication. If he was the man who had killed Hope Meynell – and they both hoped so; too many other lives would be devastated if it were Lewis Glaven – they intended to find out as quickly as possible.

  The retired butcher had returned from his day out. His Daihatsu Fourtrak was parked in his driveway, next to the shop that he still owned, and the lights were on in the kitchen. The curtains were open and they could see him bustling about the tidy, cheerless room, putting a solitary plate of food on a formica-topped table.

  Hearing their footsteps on the gravel, he turned anxiously to the window. With his bald head, his squat shape, his round eyes and wide slit of a mouth he looked, thought Hilary, remarkably like a toad.

  Reg Brunt flung open the door. He looked anxiously apologetic.

  ‘You must be the police,’ he wheezed, before they could introduce themselves. ‘Don’t tell me – I know I’m in the wrong. Soon as I heard you were treating the girl’s death as murder, I knew you’d find out that I’d parked my Fourtrak by the estate wall. Should have reported to you straight away – citizen’s duty. Must apologise.’

  They made the most of this minor admission of guilt and advanced into his kitchen. Reg Brunt retreated before them, bumping against the table and groping for a chair before sliding down on to it.

  ‘So why didn’t you report to us?’ demanded Quantrill. ‘What were you trying to hide?’

  The man looked from one to the other and licked his thin lips. ‘Poaching on Mr Glaven’s estate …’ he said reluctantly. ‘Stupid thing – man in my position – great embarrassment. Never live it down in the village.’

  It was the alibi they’d expected him to use. They sat down at the table, uninvited, and looked him over. He kept his eyes on his meal, a plateful of cold ham with oven-ready chips that looked as though they were made of polystyrene. A crusted bottle of tomato sauce and a can of lager stood on either side of the plate.

  Hilary decided to add to his guilt by reproaching him.

  ‘Poaching is just another name for stealing, Mr Brunt. We’re surprised you should stoop to that. As you say, a man in your position … Why did you do it? We’ve heard that you’re a member of a shooting syndicate at Horkey. If you wanted pheasants, you could have gone there and shot them legally, couldn’t you?’

  Slumped in wretchedness, the man nodded.

  ‘So why did you take your shotgun to the Chalcot estate on Saturday afternoon?’ said Quantrill.

  Brunt picked up a chip in his fingers and chewed it dispiritedly. ‘Another embarrassment,’ he mumbled. ‘Reluctant to reveal it …’

  But embarrassment was evidently outweighed by indignation. He looked up, red in the face.

  ‘Crack shot in my younger days – finest in the county,’ he asserted. Like Mr Toad, he could soon regain his swagger. ‘Always fancied going to a shoot on the Chalcot estate. And why not? Man of property – substantial business – mix with anybody. Heard they were short of Guns for Saturday’s shoot, so offered my services. Prepared to pay, of course – expense no object.’

  He began to swell with fury.

  ‘But Mr Glaven turned me down, in front of his friends! They laughed at me – never been so humiliated in m’life. Decided then to shoot some of his birds at Belmont that afternoon, just to pay him back!’

  Reg Brunt snatched up his knife and fork and began to fuel his anger with cold ham. Between mouthfuls, he confirmed that he had reached the wood early and waited in a clearing behind the line of pegs, so that he could pick off some of the birds the shooting party missed.

  ‘Didn’t want to be seen or heard, of course – wasn’t going to risk being ordered off the estate. Didn’t shoot until the others started. Then I heard a single shot, very much nearer. Afraid of being found, so I hurried out of the wood. Gang of saboteurs was just arriving, so I hid up till they’d passed – then came home.’

  He sat back. Satisfied with his story, he poured himself a glass of lager and took a long drink.

  Quantrill looked at him sceptically. ‘What about the pheasants you said you went for? How many did you shoot, and where are they now?’

  Reg Brunt looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Poor visibility in that clearing,’ he explained. ‘Too far back – birds coming down through the trees, difficult to hit. Crack shot when I was younger, finest in the –’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Only two worth picking up. They’re hanging in the shed behind my shop.’

  ‘And how many shots did you fire?’

  ‘Just a few.’ He moistened his wide mouth. ‘It was the principle of the thing, you see – shooting at the same time as the shooting party. Only took a handful of cartridges with me.’

  ‘Show us the rest of them, then.’

  Reg Brunt bustled to one of the kitchen drawers. The detectives glanced at each other, appalled that anyone should fail to keep cartridges under lock and key; but this was not the moment to lecture him on gun safety.

  ‘New supply for the start of the season,’ Brunt explained, producing a shrink-wrapped pack of ten boxes of Eley number 6 cartridges. Only one box had been opened. Quantrill checked its remaining contents, and found that twelve cartridges were missing.

  ‘You fired twelve shots, Mr Brunt?’

  ‘Must have done.’

&
nbsp; ‘Only eleven empty cartridge cases were found in the clearing. But one other was found not far away, at the spot where the gun was fired at Hope Meynell.’

  Reg Brunt’s eyes goggled. He stood with his back pressed against the kitchen unit, and his sagging throat gave a long visible gulp.

  ‘You mean – the single shot I heard was the one that killed her? But I’ve told you, I only heard it. I certainly didn’t fire it! Why would I want to kill the young lady? I’d never even –’

  Hilary interruped: ‘What’s your relationship with Ann Harbord?’

  Confused by the ostensible change of subject, Reg Brunt turned his head towards the sergeant. ‘Mrs Harbord? I – er …’

  ‘She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? A close friend, I believe. Someone you’d do anything for, isn’t that right?’

  He looked almost bashful. ‘Fine woman – greatly admire her. Would be honoured if she’d agree to become Mrs Brunt.’

  Hilary let that pass.

  ‘Mrs Harbord wasn’t happy about Will Glaven’s future wife, was she? She was worried that she’d lose her job as housekeeper, and her home as well. I’m sure she discussed it with you. She didn’t want the marriage to take place, did she? She wanted to get rid of Hope Meynell.’

  Reg Brunt took a long deep breath.

  ‘Certainly we discussed the situation,’ he said with cautious dignity. ‘As you say, Mrs Harbord was worried. She came to see me on Friday, and sought my advice.’

  ‘And what advice did you give her?’

  He held his head as high as it would go: ‘I’m not a fool,’ he said. ‘Can’t compare myself with Mr Glaven. Mrs Harbord will never marry me, because she wants to be near him. But that’s no problem, I told her.’

  His mouth widened to a smile. ‘Big place, Chalcot House. Young Mrs Will Glaven – whoever she eventually is – won’t want to run it single-handed. Only too glad of the services of an excellent cook – especially at weekends when Mr Glaven is at home.