Gallows Drop

by Mari Hannah

  9

  Kate let out a sigh and took her mobile from her pocket as they exited the pub. Her signal was weak. She called the incident room, hoping to speak to Carmichael before it died, her eyes on St Andrew’s Church a hundred metres away.

  She was in luck: Lisa picked up. ‘Lisa, I’ll have to be quick before my signal drops out. Check the incident log. I’m after reports of a disturbance, or any other suspicious incidents in or around Alwinton, Rothbury, Elsdon, Otterburn since two o’clock yesterday afternoon. I’ll hold.’

  ‘Why two?’ Hank asked as they waited.

  ‘The victim was alive at two. I saw him with my own eyes. It’s what went on afterwards that interests me. I’m wondering why Elliott was running late to meet his friend.’

  ‘You think something happened before he got to his grandmother’s that continued when he reached Elsdon?’

  ‘Maybe. Even long shots are worth checking out.’

  The line clicked.

  Carmichael was back. ‘Can’t find anything, boss.’

  ‘Damn—’

  ‘Owt else I can help you with?’

  Kate looked over her shoulder at the pub’s front door. ‘Actually, there is. See what you can find out about Richard Hedley.’ She reeled off an Elsdon address. ‘And check out Matthew Willis – aka Stan – who also lives in the village. Hang on, Lisa. Hank will give you the address.’ Kate held out the phone.

  Hank took it, spoke to Carmichael, then handed it back.

  Kate lifted the device to her ear. ‘Anything happening at base?’

  ‘Nothing report-worthy.’

  ‘I’ll call you later, if I can. Service is patchy here. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. In the meantime, ask Andy to dig out a programme of events for Alwinton Show – and get hold of the names of the organizing committee. I want names and addresses of anyone and everyone taking part: volunteers, sellers, exhibitors, contestants, judges, dog owners and anyone else you can think of. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa. By the way, if you see Atkins, tell him the IP didn’t reside with his parents. They’re no longer together. From the age of seven, he lived with his maternal grandmother – Jane Alice Gibson. She lives in Alwinton. I’ve already spoken to her, if he asks. I’ll write it up when I get in.’

  ‘Will you be here in time for the briefing?’ ‘Yes. Gotta go. See you then.’

  Ending the call, Kate scanned the village green, homing in on the oak tree with a circular seat around it. On rest days, she’d sat there often, eating a picnic lunch. She spoke without looking at Hank. ‘We’re standing less than three miles from the gibbet at the only spot where anything untoward was reported since Elliott was last seen alive by his grandmother, and before that by me and, potentially, thousands of others at the show. What does that tell you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Now she returned his gaze. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Willis failed to report it?’

  ‘Not really. You heard him. He doesn’t have a phone—’

  She pointed across the road. Directly opposite the pub was a phone box. ‘That must be all of ten metres from where he was standing, allegedly.’

  ‘Maybe it’s dead.’

  Kate crossed the road and peered in. ‘It doesn’t look dead.’ She didn’t open the door to lift the receiver in case she contaminated evidence. ‘Dead or not, I want it examined and fingerprinted. ‘Even if it is out of order, Willis could have used one of his neighbours’ phones to call for help if he’d wanted to. What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘You’re assuming he gets on with them. He’s hardly Personality of the Year material, is he?’

  ‘I can’t make up my mind if he’s being deliberately obstructive or if he’s socially inept.’ Kate strode off in the direction of the church.

  Hank followed. ‘Some people are like that. Relaxed with people they know, awkward with strangers. And they don’t come much stranger than you.’

  She grinned. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You know what I mean. He only spoke to me because I was in the pub, digging around, making conversation—’

  ‘Buying, you mean.’

  ‘Maybe, but even nice people don’t call the law like they used to. They mind their own business and get on with it. Have you seen a copper today, apart from me? I certainly haven’t.’

  ‘No.’ Kate sighed. ‘Makes me so cross to think the public have so little faith in us. You can tell that by talking to them. I mean, someone just found a kid hanging. As the nearest village to the gibbet, this place should be crawling with uniforms. What the hell is Atkins up to?’

  Hank shrugged. ‘Well, he’s not here searching for a crime scene, is he?’

  The phone rang in Kate’s hand. ‘Speak of the devil.’ For a split second she considered ignoring Atkins’ call, but answered with her name and rank, adding, ‘I’m a little busy right now,’ just to wind him up.

  ‘Where are you?’ he bellowed.

  Kate moved the phone away from her ear. He already knew the answer, via Carmichael. She played along. ‘Elsdon, why?’

  ‘I thought I told you to butt out.’

  ‘I have—’

  ‘Have you seen Gormley?’

  ‘He’s with me.’ Kate winked at Hank. ‘He’s still my DS until I go on leave. We fancied a ride out, a bit of country air while I hand over my cases. I’m in training for time off, remember?’

  ‘Daniels, I’m warning you—’

  She cut the call.

  Hank grimaced. He’d heard every word.

  Kate was damned if she’d give in to intimidation. During a long police career she’d been sworn at – even spat at – by scarier men than Atkins. Whatever difficulties she might encounter in her role at MIT, it wasn’t like being single-crewed in a panda in the city’s West End. Or wandering the dark alleyways of Newcastle Quayside on nightshift where any Tom, Dick or Hyped-up Harry could jump out of the shadows and plant her one because she happened to be wearing a uniform. Compared to them, Atkins posed little threat. Mouth Almighty he might be. That didn’t alter the fact that he was a bottleless coward.

  ‘What next?’ Hank was asking.

  She pointed at the church. ‘We’re going to have a stroll around. I won’t rest until I do. Keep your eyes peeled for cycle tracks. Elliott rode here on a pushbike from Alwinton, according to his grandma.’

  They entered the churchyard at the south gate and began searching inside the well-tended graveyard, having notified the vicar of their intentions. Kate insisted on it out of courtesy to him and his parishioners. She felt bad about being there, even worse that Atkins hadn’t talked to the family personally, the very first thing she’d have done had she been the SIO.

  Poor Grant . . .

  Talk about a baptism of fire.

  Weaving her way through the gravestones, looking for signs of a fight, she began to wonder if she might stumble upon Margaret Crozier’s gravestone, the old lady who’d been cruelly murdered by William Winter all those years ago, before he was hung on the gibbet as an example to other ne’er-do-wells.

  If her burial plot was there, Kate didn’t find it. According to Hank it wasn’t listed on the churchyard plan available to the public inside the entry porch. Perhaps it was one of the unmarked graves. After all, 1791 was a very long time ago.

  Sending Hank to explore the perimeter, she continued to search alone, finding signs of recent footfall. No more nor less than she’d expect in a well-tended graveyard. She walked on: a few more graves, more inscriptions. None belonging to Margaret Crozier and nothing Kate could identify as the scene of a fight.

  Hank called out to her, dragging her attention from the past to the present.

  The expression on his face was enough to tell her that he’d had more luck.

  Taking the gravel path out of the south gate, Kate turned right and right again, wondering if it was Elliott’s bike that had caught Hank’s attention. He was standing be
neath an oak tree, his eyes fixed to a patch of grass beside the church’s west wall, a good few metres of which had been disturbed.

  He pointed at two cans on the ground. ‘Half-full,’ he said. ‘So probably an adult – legal drinking age anyway.’

  Kate glanced his way. ‘Makes you say that?’

  ‘Trust me, I’m a detective. I’m also a man. It stands to reason that I was once a boy.’ He made a silly face. ‘Kids don’t leave beer because they’ve had enough. They drink the lot, squash the cans, maybe even hide the evidence in the long grass.’

  ‘Unless they were disturbed by Willis leaving the pub.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Hank shifted his gaze to the roadside. ‘There’s another couple of cans over there, but those are empty.’

  ‘Looks like they’ve been tossed from a car.’ Kate transferred her attention to the ground in front of her. ‘These two, I’m not so sure about. That turf look suspect to you?’

  ‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

  The area of grass they were viewing was totally flattened with deep gouges in what was otherwise a well-cared-for patch. One of the divots exposed a definite boot print. Careful to preserve what was there, Kate crouched down to observe it more closely. She pointed at a blue piece of paper with some writing on it nestled in the grass a few feet away.

  ‘What is it?’ Hank asked.

  ‘Some kind of confectionery wrapper,’ she said. ‘And what looks suspiciously like a cannabis joint.’

  Hank’s eyes were on the hand-rolled cigarette end. ‘You want it bagged?’

  ‘No, leave it be. This is a crime scene. What kind of scene, I’m not too sure.’ Kate retraced her steps to the south gate, then did a U-turn and walked back towards him. She spread her hands, signposting the grass beneath their feet. ‘Why here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why here?’ she repeated. ‘Why not over there?’

  Hank was literally and figuratively scratching his head.

  ‘There are no drag marks from either bench in front of the church. Assume for one minute that Elliott was involved in a fracas, why didn’t he use one of them to sit on if he was waiting for someone? From there you can see anyone approaching, vehicle or pedestrian. It’s a good vantage point. You’ve got Otterburn to your right, Rothbury to your left, the gibbet straight on.’

  Hank conceded she had a point. ‘Maybe he lied to his grandmother.’

  ‘About meeting Richard Hedley?’

  ‘It’s possible. Maybe he was meeting a girl. He was a handsome lad. He’d proved how macho he was, winning his wrestling match, and he had prize-money in his pocket. That must’ve increased his pulling power. Quite a turn-on for girls, I reckon. When I was his age, I was in the police cadets. Notched up a few female friends myself when word got out I’d joined the force. Let’s face it, local lasses are hardly spoiled for choice around here, are they?’

  Kate remembered meeting Hank for the very first time, the effect he had on the opposite sex, how female colleagues talked about him constantly, peeved that he had a ring on his finger. Not that it bothered some. Any man in uniform was fair game. He was as popular with the ladies then as now. Lost in the memory, she was silent for a while, before her thoughts returned to the investigation generally, the area surrounding the churchyard in particular.

  Something didn’t add up.

  ‘Whether it was Richard Hedley or someone else Elliott arranged to meet,’ she said, ‘why here, in the dark, in the cold, rather than at their house?’

  Hank pointed at the discarded joint. ‘That might explain it.’

  Kate looked at the roach end, the blue sweet wrapper catching her eye again as it flapped in the breeze. Putting on her specs, she bent over to examine it more closely. ‘Can you make out the writing?’

  ‘Not without my glasses.’

  Kate could just read it. ‘Ever heard of a Diggers Bar?’

  Hank shrugged. ‘It’s a new one on me.’

  She chuckled. ‘I can’t believe they make a chocolate bar you don’t know about. It’s a digestive biscuit of some kind.’ She didn’t know it yet – she wasn’t facing him – but his attention had strayed . . .

  ‘Kate?’ he said, trying to attract hers.

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘Take a look.’

  She stood up straight.

  He was indicating a dark patch, a sticky substance, on a projecting stone about a third of the way down the churchyard wall. Kate knew blood when she saw it. If she was very lucky there would be skin there too, possibly even hair. The question was: whose was it?

  ‘Get on the blower,’ she said. ‘I want a full forensic team out here.’

  Hank made a crazy face. ‘Atkins will go ballistic.’

  ‘Do I look like I care?’ She felt a flicker of joy, as good as if Newcastle United managed a win after the worst start to a season she could recall. At last, the investigation was moving in the right direction.

  10

  Beth Casey stared at the TV, hanging on to the presenter’s every word, her stomach in knots. ‘Police are urging witnesses to come forward following an emotional appeal by the boy’s parents. Senior Investigating Officer of Northumbria’s Murder Investigation Team, DCI James Atkins, has vowed to leave no stone unturned in apprehending those responsible. He is particularly interested in hearing from anyone attending Alwinton Show on Saturday . . .’

  The image switched from the studio to an outside broadcast.

  Her father appeared on screen, as handsome as ever with his best suit on, shoes bulled like a guardsman’s. His name and rank popped up in a caption at the bottom of the picture, an inside location she didn’t recognize, the press suite at the force’s new HQ perhaps. He spoke directly to camera, the Northumbria Police logo at his back.

  Behind his steely blue eyes Beth saw what others would not: a triumphant expression that made her bilious. He’d been waiting for this moment his whole life and was sure to make the most of it. It mattered not how she felt or how it might affect Elliott’s family, so long as the great detective got his sound bites in and impressed those with the power to offer him the next rank.

  ‘This senseless and callous act has robbed a family of a loving son . . .’

  His words faded out of her consciousness. At least he had the decency to look sincere. He stuttered slightly, as if upset by the information he was trying to convey. It didn’t last. Beth hated to think what might be going through the mind of Elliott’s father, seeing him up there showboating. Her father didn’t care about him. Didn’t care about anyone but himself.

  Beth forced herself to concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth.

  ‘A team of detectives will be working round the clock to take your calls, so if you have any information, no matter how insignificant it may seem, we’d like to hear from you. We need your help to track down the perpetrators . . .’

  Her father wandered into the living room as the transmission ended and the item cut back to the studio. ‘If it were up to me I’d dole out some summary justice,’ he said, slumping down on the couch. ‘Give the lowlife scum a taste of their own medicine. The courts are far too lenient these days.’

  ‘You’re a hypocrite!’ Beth blurted out.

  Her father glared at her: Be careful.

  ‘Were you even going to tell me?’ Beth held his gaze rebelliously until he looked away. Of all the strokes he’d pulled, she couldn’t imagine one more cruel or hurtful. Elliott meant the world to her and he knew it. ‘Well, were you?’

  She waited for a straight answer.

  Didn’t get one.

  ‘You know I can’t talk about work at home. I’m the SIO, for Christ’s sake. What I do is highly confidential. It’s not your business or anyone else’s, until I say it is.’

  ‘I’m your daughter!’

  ‘Yes, and you might have been tempted to get on that phone of yours. Then where would I be?’

  ‘He was my friend.’

  ‘He’s scum, like
his father.’

  ‘That was your fault.’

  ‘The man’s a bully, Beth—’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  He had no answer to that and she went on the attack. ‘The only difference between you and him is that you get away with pushing people around by hiding behind a warrant card. You think you’re better than everyone else, but you’re not—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ He stood up, took a swig of his drink, and walked towards her. ‘I don’t know what you’re allowed to do at home but, when you’re in my house, you show respect.’ He stopped talking when the landline rang. Snatching up the receiver, he kept his hand over the speaker, glaring down at Beth, who was holding back tears. ‘We’ll talk about this later, when you’re in a better mood, OK? I have other stuff we need to talk about too.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about other stuff.’

  He lifted the phone to his ear, his eyes boring into her. ‘Atkins.’

  ‘Grant here, boss.’

  ‘What do you want, a medal?’

  ‘We have a positive result.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘From the crime scene at Elsdon—’

  ‘You’re breaking up, I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bad signal.’

  Beth strained to listen in.

  The man raised his voice. He was talking against background noises, a police siren getting closer. He sounded hyped up. Excited almost. Like her dad whenever he had a breakthrough in a case. His voice was louder than was strictly necessary. He hardly needed a phone. And, as he continued the update, her father looked confused.

  Beth thought she knew why.

  ‘What are you on about?’ Atkins yelled.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There is no bloody crime scene at Elsdon.’

  ‘There is now. DCI Daniels found the scene of a disturbance beside St Andrew’s churchyard.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She organized a forensic team and pulled some strings. Some doctor or other – Matt West, I think she said. He owed her. She collected. Had him standing by at the forensic science laboratory. She couriered blood samples. He fast-tracked them. They came back positive to the victim. There’s no doubt about it. We definitely have a match.’