A Murder to Die For

‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t suppose you do. But you will get to know me very well. I’m Detective Inspector Brian Blount. And I’m arresting you on suspicion of homicide in Nasely Village Hall yesterday afternoon. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your—’

  ‘What? No. Listen, I don’t know what . . .’ began Savidge, but Blount’s mobile phone began to ring and he snatched it to his ear, indicating with his other hand for Savidge to be quiet. As the police officer listened, his eyes widened and his smile melted into a frown. With the reply that he’d be at Bowcester Police Station with his prisoner in a short while, he hung up.

  ‘Good news?’ said Stough.

  ‘Not really,’ said Blount.

  Mrs Dallimore had decided that desperate times required desperate action. The padlock on the shed door looked to be fairly new and pretty robust. However, the wood around it was old and cracked and she suspected that it wouldn’t survive a concerted assault. The problem was the noise that she’d generate. While she hadn’t seen or heard any evidence of her captors being in the shed, other than the person who’d first imprisoned her in the boat, any loud noise would be bound to attract their attention. She either had to somehow be very quiet or she had to break the door down very quickly and escape at speed.

  Frank Shunter and Molly Wilderspin had arrived at the cluster of buildings, which had turned out to be an abandoned dry dock and boat works. There was still no signal on either of their phones so it seemed that they would have to go on a little further until they reached The Rushes and the small community that lived there. But Miss Wilderspin was in need of another short rest so they sat on the edge of the towpath and ate their sandwiches while she paddled her sore feet in the cool water. Shunter looked at his useless phone.

  ‘Not a single bar,’ he said.

  ‘I guess it doesn’t just happen in films,’ said Miss Wilderspin. ‘I hope you haven’t minded me asking so many questions. It’s just that I’ve never had this much access to a policeman before. I’ve had it in my head for some time to write a crime novel, you see, and I’d like it to be accurate.’

  ‘Have you written anything before?’

  ‘Yes, but just silly stuff that I regret writing now. So, you were saying, there’s no central library of dental records?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Shunter, smiling. ‘Whenever you hear the words “identified by dental records”, it means that the cops already have a good idea of who the person is and have contacted the person’s dentist to confirm it. You can’t just check people’s teeth like fingerprints and get a match. That would mean a huge change in the law requiring everyone, whether convicted or otherwise, to be on some kind of dental database. I can’t see people agreeing to that.’

  ‘Well, today has been an eye-opener. I can see that if I ever do write that murder mystery I’ll have to come up with a very good plot to counter all the dull realism.’

  ‘Or just make stuff up like everyone else does. That’s wha—’

  Shunter stopped as the sound of a loud diesel engine growling into life suddenly disturbed the tranquillity.

  ‘It’s coming from that shed over there,’ said Miss Wilderspin. ‘I thought the place looked deserted.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Shunter. ‘But maybe it’s worth looki—’

  With a sudden crash, a red tractor came hurtling through the wall of the nearest wooden shed and thundered across the field of uncut grass towards them.

  Mrs Dallimore had been brought up on a farm and she knew enough about tractors to know, having checked the machine over, that it would probably still be functional, provided it had some fuel in the tank. It was 1970s technology, solid and dependable, and she’d seen such machines start up after decades of neglect. Removing the fuel cap and having a smell inside had reassured her that there was some fuel in there and, thankful that it was an older model with a starter button rather than a key, she steeled her nerves, climbed into the seat and pressed the starter. The old engine turned over noisily but didn’t fire. She looked around her, waiting for the inevitable cries of alarm and for the sight of her mysterious captors running towards her. She saw and heard nothing but the threat of detection spurred her on and she tried the engine again, to no avail. This time, she heard a voice. It was distant but it sounded like a man’s. The words were indistinct, but they were shouted and they sounded angry. In blind panic, she jabbed repeatedly at the starter and the engine ground into noisy life. She revved the accelerator, creating plumes of black diesel smoke, then rammed the tractor into first gear and let out the clutch. With frightening power and speed, the vehicle lurched into violent life and charged towards the door, smashing straight through the wooden shingles. The tractor leapt and bounced as it raced across the uncut grass on under-inflated tyres, and Mrs Dallimore leapt and bounced with it as she tried desperately to stay in her seat and clung to the steering wheel for dear life.

  Shunter pulled Miss Wilderspin to her wet feet and the two of them ran down the towpath as the out-of-control tractor roared past them and plunged into the canal, turning almost a complete somersault and throwing the driver against the far bank before landing upside down in the shallow water. Its wheels continued to spin uselessly, flinging mud about like a muck-spreader. The engine sputtered and died and a slick of diesel created a riot of rainbow colours across the surface of the canal. A woman’s body floated lazily past, face down in the water.

  ‘She might just be unconscious,’ said Shunter, hurriedly stripping off his shoes and emptying his trouser pockets. He jumped into the oily water and began wading towards the still figure.

  Behind the sheds, and unnoticed by anyone, a figure wearing a balaclava finished sloshing boat fuel around in the last of the boat sheds and then threw a burning wad of newspaper through a window of each. As the fires began to take, the arsonist sped away in a white van, down the dirt track that led to The Rushes.

  Baxter Pole grimaced as the taxi hit a pothole on the road to Bowcester train station. He’d been questioned by the police, shot with a taser and informed that he would be invoiced for the damage to the bonnet of the Tactical Response Vehicle. The alternative was arrest and being charged with wilful criminal damage. He’d taken the easier option; he was keen to get away from Nasely as soon as possible. The taxi hit another pothole and he used a cupped hand to lift his aching genitals off the car seat.

  He swore to himself that he would never ever go anywhere near an Agnes Crabbe-related event again.

  ‘The date is Sunday the tenth of May. This recorded interview is taking place at Bowcester Police Station and is being conducted by me, Detective Inspector Brian Blount attached to the aforementioned station. Also present are Detective Sergeant Clifford Jaine and Mr Rory Bithersea acting for the accused as duty solicitor. The time is now thirteen-oh-five hours. Will you please state your name for the record?’

  ‘Savidge.’

  ‘Your full name, please.’

  ‘Stingray Troy Phones Marina Savidge.’

  Jaine snorted.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Savidge. ‘I’m nervous. I’ve never been interrogated by police before.’

  ‘We prefer the term “interviewed”, Mr Savidge,’ said Blount. ‘I understood that you had been arrested before?’

  ‘Is that relevant to this case?’ said Mr Bithersea.

  ‘I was merely expressing my surprise that Mr Savidge seemed unfamiliar with police interviews,’ said Blount.

  ‘I’ve only ever been arrested for minor stuff like breach of the peace or being drunk,’ said Savidge. ‘Oh, and common assault. But that bouncer had it coming. He was—’

  Mr Bithersea interrupted him by laying a hand on his arm. ‘Mr Savidge, you probably don’t want to provide Inspector Blount with the rope he would like to hang you with, do you?’

  ‘I’m just making the point that I’ve always admitted to things I’ve done wrong,’ said Savidge. ‘That’s why I’ve never been interrogated before.’

  ‘Interviewed,’ corr
ected Blount.

  ‘So who am I supposed to have murdered?’ said Savidge. ‘Because whoever it was, I didn’t do it. And I didn’t do Helen Greeley any harm either. Not on purpose.’

  ‘We’ll come on to that in a moment,’ said Blount. ‘Firstly, I need to tell you that a recording will be made of this interview, and you and your solicitor will be entitled to a copy of it. I am also obliged to remind you that you are still under caution. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll start with this then, shall we? What can you tell me about this?’ Blount laid a clear plastic bag on the table. It contained a bloodstained shirt. ‘We found this in Helen Greeley’s suite at the Empire Hotel.’

  ‘Well, you would have,’ said Savidge. ‘I left it there.’

  ‘You admit it’s yours?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Mr Savidge identifies exhibit SS/1 as belonging to him,’ said Blount, for the benefit of the microphone. ‘So, what can you tell me about it?’

  ‘I bought it at Primark.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the stains?’ said Blount, pointedly.

  ‘It’s blood,’ said Savidge.

  Mr Bithersea shook his head.

  ‘Mr Savidge identifies reddish-brown stains on exhibit SS/1 as blood,’ said Blount, the faintest of smiles on his lips. This was going to be easier than he thought. ‘And how did this blood get on your shirt, Mr Savidge?’

  ‘Can I remind you that you really don’t have to answer that?’ said Mr Bithersea.

  ‘It’s okay. I had a nosebleed,’ said Savidge. ‘There was an incident. I got into a . . . situation and my nose started gushing. It does that sometimes when I’m stressed out.’

  ‘What sort of a situation?’ asked Blount.

  ‘A fight. It was with the same bloke I was fighting with when you nicked me. That big bloke in a dress.’

  ‘You mean Mr Pole?’

  ‘I never knew his name.’

  ‘Two fights with the same man and you don’t know who he is?’

  ‘Not a clue. Actually, some of the blood might be his. I did bite him hard.’ Having decided that his best option was to get everything out into the open, Savidge was keen to volunteer as much information as possible. Holding anything back would just return to haunt him in the future, he reasoned. Mr Bithersea looked appalled at his client’s apparent desire to incriminate himself.

  ‘You bit him? Bit him where?’ asked Blount.

  ‘On the village green,’ said Savidge.

  ‘Very funny. Whereabouts on his person did you bite him?’

  ‘Do I have to say?’

  ‘It would help to clarify matters.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, on the ball bag.’

  Jaine snorted again.

  ‘On the . . .?’

  ‘On his ball bag. His scrotum,’ Savidge explained. ‘The bastard was straddling me and I thought he was going to suffocate me with his thighs, so I bit him as hard as I could. I felt it was justified in the circumstances.’

  ‘Is any of this relevant to the accusations being made against my client?’ asked Mr Bithersea. He looked at Savidge’s damp dress and hat ensemble. ‘What Mr Savidge does for pleasure in his own time is quite—’

  ‘You’ve got completely the wrong picture,’ said Savidge. ‘I told you, I was in a fight. During the fight, he pinned me down. I couldn’t breathe. So I bit the only part of him that I could reach.’

  ‘And what time would this have been?’ said Blount.

  ‘Around lunch time,’ said Savidge. ‘Around one or one thirty maybe? It’s all a bit of a blur. All I know is that I ran away from the village and woke up in Bowcester General.’

  ‘The hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, apparently I fainted. Probably because of the nosebleed. That’s why I have all these cuts and bruises on my knees and elbows. And, as I fell, I hit my head and was unconscious for a bit. So they tell me.’

  ‘What time is my client alleged to have committed the offence for which he has been detained?’ asked the solicitor, checking his notes.

  ‘With respect, Mr Bithersea, it’s my job to ask the questions and your job to advise your client,’ said Blount.

  ‘Very well, you ask him then,’ said Mr Bithersea.

  ‘I will in due course,’ said Blount, visibly irritated.

  ‘Only I do believe that the answer is very germane and will save us all a lot of time,’ said Mr Bithersea.

  ‘We’ll get there in a minute,’ said Blount.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Mr Bithersea. ‘I’m on the clock. And on a Sunday too.’

  Blount returned to his questioning. ‘So, you went to the hospital. Can anyone verify that?’

  ‘Look, my brief has a point,’ said Savidge. ‘When was I supposed to have killed someone?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know because I didn’t do it. That’s why I’m asking. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to have killed.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll play your game. It would have been some time between 3.15 p.m. and 3.45 p.m. yesterday.’

  ‘Then it couldn’t have been me. I didn’t leave the hospital until at least 4.45 p.m.’

  ‘And there we have it,’ said Mr Bithersea with a satisfied smile.

  ‘I’m sure the hospital can confirm it,’ said Savidge. ‘They have records, don’t they?’

  ‘I imagine that the appropriate course of action now would be to terminate this interview while you confirm what my client has said, don’t you?’ said Mr Bithersea.

  ‘Interview terminated at 1317 hours,’ snapped Blount, jabbing at the recorder’s stop button. He stormed out of the interview room and was surprised to find his Chief Superintendent waiting for him outside.

  ‘Any luck?’ said Nuton-Atkinson.

  ‘He’s claiming he has an alibi,’ said Blount.

  ‘Damn,’ said Nuton-Atkinson. ‘Listen, I just spoke to DS Banton and she’s brought me up-to-date with the identity of the victim. Bad business.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  ‘There will be no way of keeping this quiet now, Brian. Shirley Pomerance is . . . was . . . a national treasure.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Blount, gloomily.

  ‘An award-winning author.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You realise that I have no choice now.’

  ‘Please . . . no,’ said Blount, his heart sinking.

  ‘Sorry, Brian. Chief Constable’s orders. She wants a more senior eye on the ball.’

  ‘Not Quisty, sir.’

  ‘Quisty.’

  It had taken Shunter five minutes of fast-paced walking to reach The Rushes and thankfully, despite the New Age hippy vibe of the place, the phone signal and Wi-Fi were excellent. The emergency services had responded with an ambulance and a police car from Bowcester, but it had still taken nearly ten minutes for the first emergency vehicle to arrive, by which time Mrs Dallimore, though still unconscious, was breathing normally.

  ‘And you have no idea what she was doing out here?’ asked the first police officer on scene.

  ‘No, but I suspect she was doing some snooping around in relation to yesterday’s homicide in Nasely,’ said Shunter. ‘Searching those boat sheds, probably. One thing’s for sure, she wanted to get out of there quickly enough.’

  ‘You mean the ones that are on fire?’ asked the officer.

  He pointed to the cloud of thick grey smoke that was rising above the sheds.

  Nicola Banton dialled a phone number and mused upon what she’d found out in the last few hours. Firstly, there had been the identity of the victim. In the hope that a public appeal might help to identify the body, she had circulated a description of the distinctive ring that the victim was wearing on her little finger. A jeweller from Sherrinford had immediately recognised it as one in which he’d reset a diamond for the famous author Shirley Pomerance two years previously. Armed with this knowledge, it had been a simple process to
confirm her identity from her dental records. But the ring had revealed something else that Banton hadn’t expected. The day before, at Blount’s request, she’d run searches on the names ‘Falk’ and ‘Marr Harry’ that had been among the notes in Mrs Handibode’s copy of Swords into Ploughshares. The latter hadn’t turned up anything of particular interest but the former had started a trail that had ended with a marriage certificate from 1939 detailing the union of one Millicent Falk from nearby Tingwell to Henry Welter, a jeweller from Sherrinford. And now a jeweller from present-day Sherrinford had identified the ring on Pomerance’s finger. Sherrinford was a small town, certainly much smaller than nearby Coxeter or Bowcester with their bustling shopping centres and High Street jewellery retailers. Would Sherrinford have more than one jeweller’s shop, she wondered? In which case was it possible that Mr Welter, the Sherrinford jeweller who had married Millicent Falk in 1939, might be the same man as – or a close relative to – the jeweller who had identified the ring? It was too fascinating a coincidence not to investigate further.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a voice on the phone. ‘Welter and Dickentrice, jewellers. Peter Dickentrice speaking. How may I help you?’

  ‘We’re going to have to let him go,’ said the custody officer. ‘His story checks out. He was discharged from the hospital at 4.42 p.m.’

  ‘But we can’t let him go! Look!’ said Blount. He showed the custody officer two photographs side by side: the CCTV image of the van driver and the photo of Savidge taken upon his arrival at Bowcester Police Station.

  ‘I can’t deny that there is a likeness,’ said the officer. ‘Even the dresses are similar. But your man has a cast-iron alibi. I’ve spoken to the hospital and he was definitely there at the time of your murder.’

  ‘Couldn’t they have made a mistake with the time?’

  ‘It’s not very likely, is it? And there is no other evidence, not even forensics, that puts him at the scene. I’m sorry, but his solicitor is pushing for bail pending further investigation and, if I were you, I’d go with it. If you don’t, he could request unconditional release and we’d be hard pushed to deny it.’