‘But what about Barty?’ Alan asked. ‘He’s always struck me as a very reasonable sort of man?’
‘Yes, I think he is. But you won’t find him ever doing anything that goes against the family interest. As a younger man, he had a reputation for always being very close to his land agent. In my experience, those people tend to put business before charity.’
‘So do you think the current television and PR campaign is going to get rid of the myth?’
‘Maybe. To be honest, I don’t altogether care. If it kills the stories for the current generation, then that’s as much as we can expect – or hope.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, Michael, why are you taking part? You’re happily retired and you don’t need the work, surely?’
‘No, I don’t. Although I do quite miss the TV world. I like the people, especially the ones behind the cameras. But no, you’re right; I don’t really need the work.’ He paused briefly to collect his thoughts. ‘If you must know, I plan to approach Sebastian and Barty at the end of the shoot and ask them outright to give cousin Derek the permanent legal right to fish along his own river. It irritates him enormously having to ask permission every year. And it’s not as if he actually speaks to Sebastian; it’s all done through their bloody agent!’
Alan could see the elderly man was getting upset.
‘Really? Every year?’ Alan was amazed.
‘Yes. Just after Christmas he’s visited by the man from Sackwells’ Ely office, who brings along the form letter, together with a bottle of vintage port, which he gives Derek as soon as he’s signed.’
‘But surely there must be easier ways of doing it?’
‘I think subconsciously it’s Sebastian’s – or just as likely his wife, Sarah’s – way of maintaining rank and distance. The fact is, the mill’s doing very well these days, and I’d be surprised if Derek isn’t actually better off than Sebastian and Sarah. You’d be amazed how the cakes and flour fly off the shelves in the two baking boutiques they’ve opened in King’s Parade and Trinity Street.’
‘So they own them, do they?’
Alan had bought Danish pastries in both shops when visiting Cambridge in the past. And they were delicious, if rather pricey.
‘So when I’ve finished filming, and the programme is a success – as I’m sure you’ll make it, Alan’ – he said this with a big grin – ‘I’m going straight up to the hall and I’m going to ask Sebastian and Barty outright to give the Smileys the right to fish their own waters.’
Alan was fascinated. Smiley was an intelligent, educated man, who’d made a huge mark on the world, yet he was getting terribly het up over something as trivial as fishing rights for his relative. It was extraordinary: like listening to a conversation in a Trollope novel. But as the older man was speaking, he began to realise that such seemingly little things really mattered because they weren’t little at all. They were about deeply held resentments and long-running social inequalities. Ultimately, like so much else in life, they were about power, prestige and dynastic influence.
It came to Alan that logic, truth and justice were all irrelevant here. Even sense and reason took a back seat, when such feelings were involved. The trouble was, such profound motives could influence the least likely suspects. Short-term ambitions were far easier to read. Alan sighed: no member of the Cripps family could now be ruled out. Not even benign Barty.
Once they’d finished their coffee, Alan returned to his car and slowly eased out into the drive, while his mind continued to whirl. Was there more than just a superficial resemblance between the Hansworth and Thorey killings? There was, after all, the Cripps family connection. But there was something so similar about the MO, as Lane would have put it, the modus operandi, of both deaths. But then the victims were so different, too: a rich banker and a gamekeeper. The similarity of the MOs suggested the same murderer, but the contrasting victims implied different motives. So were the two events necessarily connected?
Then Alan had another idea. Maybe Hansworth and Stan’s deaths were somehow linked together? And what was the extent of Thorey’s involvement with Hansworth’s death? He knew he had picked up and cleaned the fishing tackle. But what else had he done?
The more Alan thought about it, the more it made sense. But it also followed that a double killer was perfectly capable of killing again, especially if he or she believed they were under threat.
* * *
It rained steadily throughout Good Friday. After the morning’s tour of the museum, Alan decided to stay at home and do some more work on Stan’s notes and drawings. It was now quite clear that the Iron Age occupation levels extended much further into the surrounding fen than anyone had suspected previously. Although stonework only occurred for a couple of hundred metres beyond the fringes of Fursey island, Alan reckoned that Romano–British fields and drove-ways continued beyond that for a very long way: maybe up to half a mile. And of course it had been prime grazing land; some of the best in Britain. Alan realised that the publication of Stan’s report would cause a huge sensation locally and in the wider archaeological world. Stan’s reputation would be assured forever. That made him feel a bit better. But only a bit. The way he had been treated was beyond cruel and inhumane. It was disgusting and Alan was still grimly determined to get to the truth.
All afternoon the television in the corner of the room had shown the pilgrims arriving at Fursey for the start of the Penance. Many were looking wet and bedraggled. As he worked, Alan could hear the man on the TV announce that earlier in the day two youngsters had dropped out. He walked through to the front room and looked out: there was still a steady stream of visitors turning into the Fursey Abbey drive. The Penance was proving a big draw.
Then the TV cut to a different scene. Now pilgrims were loading their white rucksacks from the pile of old building stone in the yard behind the abbey. People with clipboards were recording the number of stones taken by each person. Alan smiled, Clare had told him that English Heritage had insisted that this be done to minimise loss.
On the other side of the yard, some old farm sack-scales had been set up to weigh each filled rucksack. A qualified nurse then assessed if the weight was appropriate to the person carrying it. If she deemed it too heavy, they’d have to return to the heap and empty some stones out. Again, Alan was amused. Candice had told him that the nurse had been a condition set by the event’s insurers.
Having filled their rucksacks, the penitents formed a queue at the old pigsty gate, where another man with a clipboard, standing beneath a broad umbrella emblazoned with the name of the event’s sponsor (a big manufacturer of unpleasant lager), took down people’s names and the weight of their rucksacks, before recording the precise time of their departure. Then it was up to them to reach Ely without using wheeled transport of any sort. And that route had to be half on dry land and half on water. And, of course, nobody had reckoned on so much rain. Poor buggers, Alan thought, it really is going to be a penance for them. But what would they actually achieve, other than a couple of days’ self-delusion followed by smug satisfaction. Deep down, he felt emerging anger. So he turned back to his desk, frowning with concentration. Did he have any sympathy for them or what they were trying to achieve? Absolutely none.
* * *
Around midnight Alan walked rather unsteadily home through the rain from the Cripps Arms. It had been another good night and Davey Hibbs had been on particularly fine form. He was a natural clown and his mimicking of the pilgrims filling their rucksacks – he did it with packets of peanuts and crisps – got a huge laugh from everyone in the bar, including the lady vicar, who locals agreed was a big improvement on the previous dry old stick.
As he stood by the back door trying to discover which of the many pockets in his waterproof jacket held his keys, his phone began to vibrate. He looked at the screen. It was Lane. Suddenly Alan’s blood ran cold.
He pressed the answer button and waited for the news.
‘Alan, I’m at Smiley’s M
ill. There’s been a terrible accident. John Cripps has drowned.’
Immediately Alan’s head cleared.
‘I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’
Rapidly Lane’s voice returned. Now he sounded like a policeman. ‘Not so fast, Alan. Have you gone to bed?’
‘No. Why d’you ask?’
‘You been to the pub?’
‘Yes, I’ve just got back.’
‘Well, you’re not bloody driving. Do you understand? I’ll be with you tomorrow morning, bright and early.’ He rang off.
Alan unclenched his left fist. It was tightly cramped. The Fourtrak keys had been in his grip all the time. He relaxed his hand – and now it hurt: the keys had bruised his palm. Stigmata.
Sod it, he thought, as rain started to trickle down the back of his neck: I’ll never forget this Good Friday midnight.
And he was right: it would stay with him forever.
Twenty
The next day started dry, but clouds out to the west threatened yet more rain. Alan felt terrible: dry mouth and sore head. As they drove through the village, then turned left into Mill Drove, DCI Lane gave him a succinct summary of the events leading up to John Cripps’s death.
‘He was one of the last pilgrims to leave Fursey Abbey. According to their timekeeper he left the yard there at 4.32 and was carrying a rucksack that weighed 27 kilos. He then made his way to Smiley’s Mill, where his wife, Candice, had rented a holiday cruiser, which sleeps two people. When he arrived at the cruiser, which was moored in the Mill Cut, downstream of the mill—’
‘So quite close to where you found Stan’s body?’
‘Yes, on the same side, but about a hundred yards upstream. Anyhow, when he arrived at the boat, his wife was shocked at his appearance. He was completely exhausted and, to use her words, “not making a lot of sense”. It would seem he hadn’t eaten anything for over 24 hours. So she insisted that he must have rest and sleep. That would do more good for him than any amount of food, which he told her repeatedly he wouldn’t eat. He was determined to “do the Penance properly’”. She said he did sleep for several hours. When he woke up he had a bad headache, which she reckoned, correctly, I’d guess, was caused by dehydration. So he drank a lot of water and in about half an hour felt much better. Sometime shortly before midnight, he declared he was fit and ready to go. So she helped him put on the rucksack and they went out on deck.’
‘I just don’t understand these people, Richard. They’re educated – just like us. It’s not as if ignorance and superstition dominate their lives. I can’t imagine any religion forcing me to do such weird things, can you?’
His friend thought for a moment before he replied. ‘Yes, I think I can. Take away the religion and imagine you’re part of a team, because that’s how the penitents thought of themselves. They had come together before the service in the chapel where they’d been blessed by the dean. Then they travelled in a group to Fursey. All afternoon, they had helped each other fill their sacks. Candice said that John kept repeating that he couldn’t let the others down: he must arrive in Ely before the bishop blessed the cairn.’
Alan understood teamwork profoundly. As with all fieldworkers, it was his life.
‘And when is the blessing?’
‘Tomorrow, before Evensong. Around five – that’s if it still goes ahead, which I now doubt.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s understandable.’
‘The rules of the Penance clearly stated that all pilgrims had to make their way to Ely under their own power, so they had arranged to borrow a two-man canoe from Littleport Grammar School’s Boat Club. John would occupy one seat, his knapsack the other. That, at least, was the plan. But when she came to collect the boat in Sebastian’s Land Rover, it turned out that the school had taken all its two-and three-man canoes on an expedition to the Lake District in the Easter holidays. So Candice decided to take a single-seater.’
‘And that’s confirmed by the school?’
‘Yes, it was the first thing I checked. The party had left for Kendall on Friday. Well, it would seem that neither John nor Candice had any practical experience of boats or boating. So John strapped on his rucksack and clambered into the canoe, which Candice was holding steady. But almost as soon as he pushed away from the cruiser he turned turtle. Candice said she jumped in and tried to turn him upright, but she didn’t have the strength. And I don’t suppose her task was made any simpler by the higher than usual river flow after all the recent rain. She certainly wouldn’t have been able to touch the bottom at that point, because the pool downstream of the mill is actually quite deep.’
‘Yes,’ Alan said, remembering his recent conversation with Michael Smiley. ‘Presumably that’s why it’s so good for fishing.’
The expression on Lane’s face showed it wasn’t the reply he had expected.
Lane drew to a halt in the mill car park. They got out, crossed the wooden bridge and walked a few yards along the towpath, to a small hired river cruiser that was being guarded by a bored WPC. Lane turned to Alan. ‘So as things stand, I think we’ve been presented with a tragic accident.’
‘Hmm,’ Alan agreed. ‘Yet another one. But there’ll be absolutely no way anyone will be able to stop tongues wagging now.’
Alan was about to go aboard, when the WPC stopped him.
‘I’m sorry, sir, forensics haven’t checked it out yet. I’ve been told not to allow anyone aboard until they give me the go-ahead.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s fine,’ Lane said as he showed his warrant card. ‘We just want to get an overall impression of the situation. I assume the boat’s still where it was originally moored?’
‘Yes, it is, sir. Nothing’s been touched.’
‘And Mrs Cripps, where’s she?’
‘Her brother-in-law came and collected her. She was in a terrible state, poor woman.’
Alan had taken a short walk downstream of the boat. He looked at the pollarded willows that fringed the water’s edge and noted four steel mooring posts and a floating wooden walkway. Candice’s cruiser had been tied to the trunks of two willow trees, upstream and downstream. Then he spotted something that looked like an old washing-line pole. Alan had noted several as they walked along the bank.
Lane answered his unspoken question. ‘They’re used by boat residents when they moor up for the winter. There are temporary washing lines all the way along this stretch of river in January and February.’
Alan went to take hold of the pole, when the WPC stopped him again. ‘Best not touch that, sir. Forensics might well want to check it out.’
As they walked back to the car, Lane’s radio crackled. A disembodied voice told them that the Fursey Penance had just been cancelled. Then it started to rain and soon it was heavier than ever.
* * *
The following morning was Easter Sunday and Alan felt terrible. He had thought he was starting to get a handle on what was going on, but suddenly he was back in the dark again. Had Candice killed her husband? At present that seemed the only option, as she was the only person present when he died. But there were problems. For a start, Alan had reckoned that John was the brains behind the Cripps family. Certainly Sebastian or Sarah weren’t. And yet John was the one who had just died. It made no sense whatsoever, unless of course Candice wanted him out of the way. Could it have been an accident? He hated to admit it, but all the facts suggested it might have been. In fact, had there not been three other deaths that’s what he’d have opted for. But a fourth death – and involving the river, too? Every nerve in his brain told him that was crazy. It was so frustrating: he hated the feeling that others were managing events, and he’d had a lousy night’s sleep, as a result.
After a strong cup of coffee and a slice of cold pizza, he decided to phone his brother Grahame. As he had hoped, he asked Alan over for Sunday lunch. It was just what he needed.
Sometime during the early morning, a warm front had swept in from the south, bringing a much-needed spell of dry weather. A
nd of course it was warmer. As he drove through the flat, treeless landscape, the dark peaty fields slowly merged into paler, silty ground. Gangs of Eastern European workers were cutting cauliflowers, broccoli and spring cabbages. A mile or two outside Spalding, the vegetables gave way to great expanses of daffodils. His father had grown them on the farm in the 1980s and he had loved their scent, as a child. He wound down the windows and dropped his speed as he passed fields of daffs on either side. He breathed in deeply. Bliss! Nothing was more evocative than that perfume. And for a few moments he was back in his dad’s cab, untangling packets of rubber bands for the pickers, as the tractor inched forward. ‘Keep your eye on the job, son, and don’t let your attention wander. Those pickers depend on you and you mustn’t let them down.’
He was woken from his reverie by the loud horn of a BMW whose driver had been held up behind him. But Alan was unmoved. Those few moments of peace had done the trick. I bet she watches Road Rage, was his only reaction as the young, dyed-blonde driver accelerated angrily past the muddy Fourtrak.
Lunch at Cruden’s Farm was a relaxed affair, and the food was delicious – Liz was a superb cook – and Graham and Liz’s two children were also there. Alan was very fond of his niece and nephew who were now almost ready to leave home. Claire was finishing at Spalding Grammar and Dan had left the Grammar School and, like his father before him, was now at Nettlesham Agricultural College. So many of his contemporaries were unkind about young people, but these two, he thought, as they bustled about the kitchen helping their mother to clear up the lunch things, led their lives simply and with quiet competence. They had been very well brought up.
Grahame and Alan took their coffees through to the sitting room, where the embers of a log fire were still glowing in the fireplace.
In traditional English manner they began by discussing the weather.
The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 37