There had been no point in going home as he’d left his keys and wallet in Greeley’s suite at the hotel and had no way of getting into his house without breaking a window. He’d therefore gone back to the hotel where he’d been told by the police that his property had been seized and taken to Bowcester. He cursed his own stupidity for not realising, but he had no desire to go back to the police station. And, besides, there wasn’t time now. He had a dinner date to keep.
He clomped through the hustle and bustle towards the Italian restaurant in Ormond Road and wished that he looked better for his reunion with Helen Greeley. Her message had come as something of a surprise, considering that she’d admitted shopping him to the police. But the invitation couldn’t be ignored. He had suddenly realised how important it was for him to know that she was okay.
‘Here’s a good one, listen to this,’ said Jaine. ‘Andrew Tremens was going to reveal that Shirley Pomerance’s Trupenie Prizewinning novel, Dalí Plays Golf, was ripped off from a previously unpublished Agnes Crabbe novel. He confronted her, there was a fight and he killed her.’
‘But what about the knife with Tradescant’s fingerprints on it?’ asked Banton.
‘Oh yeah. That’s a good point,’ said Jaine.
Jaine and Banton had been given the job of looking back through the many theories and explanations that had been put forward by festival attendees. All of them had been recorded as written statements and there were hundreds of them; every Milly was a wannabe lady detective after all. Quisty had suggested that there might possibly be some fact among them that the police investigation had overlooked; ‘several hundred pairs of eyes is better than our five’, as he’d put it. And there had been a whole new wave of theories following the identity of the victim being made public, some more sensible than others.
‘I’ve got a better one, listen,’ said Banton. ‘It claims that aliens are abducting us for their experiments and that the murder was actually a botched matter transporter experiment.’
‘These women are all lunatics,’ said Jaine.
‘Actually, this one is by a bloke,’ said Banton. ‘It’s signed by someone called Ray Dalekcat (human). In case we thought he wasn’t, I assume.’
‘I don’t see what Quisty hopes to achieve by going through this pile of rubbish.’
‘It’s a creative-thinking technique they use in business,’ said Banton. ‘You get a bunch of strangers, all people unconnected to your product or services, and you ask them for opinions and ideas. Like asking a plumber to tell you what he thinks about your breakfast cereal campaign, or asking a doctor about underwear design. Quisty says that it provides fresh insights and new perspectives. One of the Millies might just have stumbled upon the truth.’
‘No wonder the Chief Constable loves him, with all her modern policing nonsense,’ said Jaine. ‘Intelligence-led this and predictive, algorithm that. I don’t hear hard graft and pounding the beat get much of a mention in her weekly podcasts.’
‘She calls them Plodcasts,’ said Banton.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘And anyway, I think the Chief is right. Bringing new ideas into policing is a good thing. Oh, here’s a corker . . . It just says “Gypsies done it”.’
‘See what I mean? Fresh insights, my arse.’ Jaine waved a piece of paper. ‘This one says that Shirley Pomerance was blackmailing Andrew Tremens because he’s gay.’
‘But he’s openly gay, isn’t he?’
‘Yes he is. Ha! This one mentions Jack the Ripper. These spinsters are all loons.’
‘You should stop using spinster like a term of abuse. I’m a spinster too, you know.’
‘Yeah but I didn’t mean you . . . I mean . . . well . . .’
‘I bet you don’t even know the origin of the word, do you? It described a woman who excelled at spinning wool and who, without the distractions of a husband and kids, could run her own successful and often lucrative business at a time when women were generally thought of as second-class citizens. It used to be something of a compliment.’
‘Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Consider me educated.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just this case. And Blount. He brings out the worst in me.’ There was a ping from Banton’s laptop and she quickly scanned through her emails. ‘Where’s Quisty at the moment?’
‘Him and Woon have gone over to the pub. He wanted to meet Shunter and I had his mobile number so I arranged it.’
‘Bloody hell, does Blount know? He’ll go spare if he finds out. Look, I’m just going to pop over there to deliver some news to him.’
‘Good news?’
‘Kind of. Tell you when I get back. I’ll only be five minutes.’
‘Where is the guv’nor anyway?’ Jaine looked around the library. ‘He’s not in the crapper again, is he?’
‘So you’re Frank Shunter, eh?’ said Quisty. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you.’
‘From Blount, I presume,’ said Shunter. ‘I expect he’s told you that I’ve been interfering and trampling all over his homicide, eh?’
‘It is a very problematic investigation and people are naturally a bit edgy and irritable,’ said Quisty. ‘I wouldn’t take things too personally. As far as I can see, you’ve done a great deal more good than harm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shunter. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘I heard about what happened earlier at the boat sheds. I’d like to hear your side of the story.’
Shunter related the story of the tractor and the fire while Quisty took it all in. ‘I suspect that Dallimore was following a trail. Maybe a trail that started here with the murder. You’ll have to ask her when she’s conscious. The fire investigators are going to contact your colleagues at Bowcester when the cause of the fire is known. I’m just hoping there was no one inside those sheds. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
‘Our kidnapped solicitor and the missing ladies perhaps?’ said Quisty. ‘Yes indeed, let’s hope not. Ah, here’s the redoubtable Nicola Banton. Have you two met?’
‘We have. Hello again,’ said Banton, shaking Shunter’s proffered hand. ‘I have some information for you, guv. Case-related stuff.’
‘Ah,’ said Shunter. ‘Shall I disappear?’
‘It’s fine,’ said Quisty. ‘Go on, Nicola.’
‘It’s about the jam jars in Miss Nithercott’s fridge. They only have her prints on them.’
‘Jam jars?’
‘I don’t suppose this was included in your briefing as it’s not directly connected to the murder,’ said Banton. She quickly explained about the taxine poisoning and the mention of yew-berry jam in Esme Handibode’s book. ‘So, it looks like we can forget that avenue. The local officers found a recipe for yew-berry jam at her house. It looks like simple misadventure. And something of a red herring for us.’
‘Not necessarily. All information is useful,’ said Quisty. ‘Tell me, in which of Agnes Crabbe’s books did Mrs Handibode make the note about taxine? Was it Swords into Ploughshares perhaps?’
‘It was, yes.’
‘Interesting. Have you read the book?’
‘Yes,’ said Shunter.
‘No,’ said Banton.
‘You really should, Nicola. Her best book by far,’ said Quisty. ‘Taxine poisoning is how Merryk Pengelly is murdered. And it was by way of yew-berry jam.’
‘So Mrs Handibode’s note is just a note about the plot?’
‘Probably, but we’ll add it to our web of facts,’ said Quisty, with a smile. ‘Now then, Frank, it seems to me that you know this area and you know a damned sight more than most about homicide. I’d just like you to know that I welcome any insights you may have regarding this investigation. My door is always open.’
‘Thank you,’ said Shunter. ‘I’m not looking to get involved but if I see or hear anything I’ll pass it on. I haven’t figured out how to switch off my copper’s hunch yet.’
‘Perfect,’ said Quisty. ‘I can ask no more.’
‘Good luck,’ said Shunter.
Lurking around the corner of the bar and hidden from sight, Brian Blount stifled a yawn and greedily swallowed an energy drink. He had listened intently to the conversation between Shunter and Quisty and decided that there was only one thing he could do now to stand any chance of saving face and earning his long-sought-after promotion.
He would have to find and catch the murderer on his own, by fair means or foul.
The box van suddenly came to a halt and there was the sound of feet on gravel outside. The rear shutter was lifted and Mrs Handibode and Miss Tradescant squinted at the figure silhouetted against the light.
‘Toilet break,’ said Andrew Tremens.
Shunter nursed his pint and mulled over the events of the day. In particular, he found himself remembering the look on Mrs Dallimore’s face. It had been one of absolute terror and almost certainly due to something more frightening than an out-of-control tractor. His instinct told him that she had been escaping from something. Or someone. He had to go back to the boat works and have a look for himself. Mrs Shunter had the car for the day so he phoned for a taxi.
Savidge arrived at the restaurant and had to run the gauntlet of a large group of fans and paparazzi who’d insisted on taking hundreds of photographs of him as he’d entered. He found Helen Greeley waiting for him at a table in a small private room.
‘You came,’ said Greeley, smiling.
‘Yeah.’
‘I wasn’t sure you would. You must be so angry with me right now.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said Savidge. ‘I got what I deserved.’
‘Oh, but you didn’t! None of it was your fault, was it?’ said Greeley. ‘Do sit down. It’s hurting my neck looking up at you.’
‘Sorry I look so terrible,’ said Savidge, sitting. ‘I’ve been wearing the same pair of underpants for two days. I did have a swim in the canal so they got a sort of wash but . . .’
‘You look fine.’
‘And I have no money for dinner.’
‘It’s on me. It’s the least I can do after what I’ve put you through.’
‘I put you through a lot worse,’ said Savidge, gloomily.
‘Can we call it quits then? Start again from scratch?’ said Greeley. Her phone pinged and she glanced at it. ‘I managed to get a new phone couriered to me and I’ve been reinstalling my contacts; they’re all backed up on some cloud thing. Ah, lovely Dame Maggie wishing me well for the play tonight. I’ll say this, Mr Stingray, yesterday’s events haven’t done my public profile any harm. Look, do I really have to call you Stingray?’
‘Most people call me Savidge.’
‘That’s just as bad. What’s your second name again? Troy? That sounds better, doesn’t it?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
A waiter had appeared at their table. Helen Greeley quickly scanned the menu.
‘I’ll have the orata all’acqua pazza, please,’ she said. ‘What do you fancy, Troy?’
Savidge looked at the menu. ‘Spaghetti carbonara maybe?’
‘Is that the only one you know?’ teased Greeley.
‘I don’t get to eat out much,’ said Savidge. ‘I run a burger van. Ran a burger van.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a carbonara,’ said Greeley. ‘Delicious. Now, drinks.’
‘I’ll have a beer.’
‘Nonsense. You need wine with good food.’
‘Red then.’
‘Really? Ah well, chacun à son goût.’
‘I’m not keen on the French stuff.’
Greeley laughed. ‘Oh you are priceless! It means “each to his own taste”, and if you want red wine with your carbonara you go ahead. It’s your stomach. I’m having white with my fish so we’ll get one of each. I’ll have a Verdicchio. Can I suggest you try an Amarone? It’s not too bad with creamy or cheesy dishes.’
The waiter scurried away.
‘So, do you feel happier now?’ she asked.
‘I guess,’ said Savidge. ‘It’s just . . . this is a new sensation for me. People don’t usually like me, especially if they’ve seen me when I’ve been . . . you know.’
‘Maybe I have a dose of Stockholm syndrome, eh?’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when hostages or kidnap victims start to feel sympathy for their captors, and even start to defend their actions. Have you ever seen Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Sometimes they even fall in love.’
Shunter arrived at the boat works and paid the taxi driver. The site was still glowing and sputtering with small fires but it was safe enough for him to chat to the two uniformed police officers who were patrolling the perimeter and to the fire investigation team who were picking over the ashes. From them, he learned that fires had been deliberately started inside all three sheds. The good news was that there was no evidence that anyone had been inside.
Outside the cordoned-off area, Shunter wandered around to the crumbling older brick buildings. Inside the first there was nothing worth noting, but inside the second he found evidence of recent occupancy. There were chocolate-bar wrappers on the floor and he picked one up and saw that the sell-by date had yet to pass. Of course, it could be that kids from The Rushes hung out in the old buildings, just as he and his school friends had played around inside an old abandoned factory when he was younger. But maybe not. He decided not to risk the stairs to explore the upper floors – the whole building looked as if one strong gust of wind would topple it – and wandered out into the loading yard beyond instead. There were more wrappers here and fresh muddy tyre tracks on the concrete, which suggested that a vehicle had parked there since the rain on Friday. It had been a large vehicle too, like a van. Again, Shunter had to concede that there might be a perfectly innocent explanation for the tracks; perhaps they’d been made by one of the police or fire-brigade vehicles? They led away from the yard and on to a muddy lane that, presumably, fed out on to the main road between Nasely and Sherrinford. Shunter walked a short way along the lane and could see, in the near distance, that it passed by the canal community among the reed beds. And then his eye caught sight of something glinting in the sun in the mud ahead of him. He picked it up and looked at it closely. It was a single pierced opalescent pearl. With renewed enthusiasm, he set off towards The Rushes.
Blount had had an epiphany. When he had interviewed Helen Greeley earlier in the day, the subject of Savidge’s medication had come up. She’d explained that he was prescribed some kind of mood-stabilising tablets, but that he wasn’t terribly good at taking them. She had also mentioned, in passing, the fact that he apparently had a brother with similar issues who self-medicated with alcohol. Remembrance of this, plus his conversation with the custody officer, had given Blount an idea. What if the man in the van was Savidge’s brother? He didn’t know the brother’s name but he did know, thanks to Greeley, that he was a vicar, so it hadn’t taken him very long to whittle the list of Reverend Savidges down to three. And, as one was on the Isle of Man, one was in Totnes and the other was in nearby Spradbarrow, he was pretty sure which one it was. A quick visit to the website of St Cunigunde’s Church had produced a photo of the Reverend T. Savidge and he was, to Blount’s delight, a dead ringer for the Savidge he knew.
He carefully deleted his Internet history. He was damned if he would leave any clues for the infernal Quisty and Woon, or for his two turncoat Detective Sergeants, and then drove off towards Spradbarrow in his nondescript black Vauxhall. And as he drove, he mentally patted himself on the back. Quisty had no idea who the murderer was. And nor did Shunter. It would be good to rub their noses in it when he brought his prisoner in. Quisty could keep his bloody plates in space and his precious connections. He was going to nab the suspect with good old-fashioned police work, and Quisty would have to acknowledge him as at least an equal. And Shunter too would get his comeuppance for trying to make him look like some kind of bumpkin bobby. The more he thought about it,
the more he realised just how much of his current misery was the ex-detective’s fault. It was Shunter who had found the paperback belonging to Esme Handibode, which was why Blount had erroneously circulated her as wanted for the murder by jam of Gaynor Nithercott. And it was Shunter who had found the CCTV footage that had led Blount to arrest Savidge, resulting in the fiasco that had cost him his case and his promotion prospects. It was all very clear now. Shunter had been there right from the start, deliberately feeding duff information to the investigation team so that he could solve the case and claim all of the glory for himself. And now he was sucking up to Quisty.
But now Blount would show Shunter some real policing. And he’d prove to his divisional commander and to the Chief Constable that he could catch a murderer just as well as any Gavin bloody Quisty could.
‘You’ve gone all quiet,’ said Greeley as she ate her bream. ‘Not that you’re exactly a motormouth, but still. What’s up?’
‘I was just thinking about what you said, about doing wonders for your public profile,’ said Savidge. ‘Are you saying that we’re having dinner together just to get you talked about in the papers? Is that what that crowd outside was all about?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped Greeley. ‘Any accidental media coverage is great, but that’s not the reason why I’m here. I wanted to see you.’
‘But why? After what I did.’
‘I’ve been horrible to you too.’
‘Yeah, but I deserved that.’
‘Shhhhh,’ hissed Greeley. ‘We’re quits, remember? Listen, Troy, do you like me?’
‘Depends if you insist on calling me Troy,’ said Savidge.
‘Seriously.’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you’re nice and you’re pretty and—’
‘And you hardly know me,’ said Greeley. ‘You don’t watch my TV shows and you don’t read the gossip mags, so it’s not some fanboy infatuation. I’m almost a stranger to you and yet you have decided you like me and you’d like to know more about me. Am I right?’
A Murder to Die For Page 23