‘Well, that’s a different matter. But we’ve earned ourselves some time with his confession. So rather than go for him bit by bit, I’d rather we arrested him for all three killings.’
‘And what about his brother, John?’
‘To be honest, Alan, I can’t see that he was involved. And he has a watertight alibi.’
‘Really, where?’
‘He was at a big college dinner in Cambridge. Then he and his wife stayed the night at the University Arms. And it all checks out. He’s in the clear.’
‘Then I suggest we forget about it for a few days.’ Alan said this confidently. He was trying to allow his instinctive side to guide him. ‘I’ve got a feeling something’s going to happen. I don’t know what – or when – but I doubt if John Cripps’s death will be a mystery for very much longer.’
Harriet was giving him a warm, but slightly quizzical look. This was not the Alan Cadbury of old. Alan took a drink. There was just one other point that worried him.
‘So we think we know about Hansworth’s death. In theory, it was manslaughter by Thorey – if, that is, we accept Sebastian’s confession. But I wonder whether it was accidental at all? I find it hard to accept that somebody who was capable of killing two people – Stan and Thorey – didn’t also do in the banker? I know it’s just a gut feeling but …’ He trailed off and sat back in his chair, looking worried.
Lane frowned, but Harriet leant forward.
‘I can think of something else that might have motivated Sebastian to kill Hansworth.’
‘And what was that?’ Alan asked eagerly.
‘When did they get married?’
‘Sarah and Sebastian? I’m pretty sure it was in 1998.’
‘So he and his young wife had spent six years living in the second-best apartment in his family’s ancestral home.’
‘But Sarah and Hansworth got on quite well: they both loved gardening.’ Alan was looking puzzled.
‘Well that proves it,’ Harriet replied. ‘She had to form a friendly relationship with him, otherwise tongues would have wagged. Everyone would have accused her of jealousy or ambition.’
‘Yes,’ Lane added. ‘That makes sense.’
‘And she’s not particularly keen on gardening now.’ Alan said this to himself. He was about to speculate on their pillow talk, when Lane added: ‘And to make matters worse, Hansworth was gay and lived at the hall with his male partner. And, again, that’s not exactly a reason to be calm and content – not if you’ve got a Victorian mindset, is it?’
There was a pause, while they all got stuck into their roast.
Then Harriet turned to Lane. ‘I wonder whether Hansworth’s death didn’t give Sebastian the original idea of using the river, not just to kill, but also to dispose of any clues. Alan told me that Hansworth died in the river, but it wasn’t clear whether it was passed off as suicide. Was it?’
‘No,’ Lane replied. ‘It wasn’t. I was working with the Fenland Force back then, and although I wasn’t closely involved, nobody suggested it was anything more than a fishing accident.’
‘And what about his fellow bankers?’ Alan asked. ‘How did they react?’
‘Well,’ Lane replied, ‘it didn’t help that he had vanished shortly before the end of the financial year when bankers traditionally did moonlight flits to places like Luxembourg and Switzerland.’
Harriet was curious. ‘And did anyone uncover any wrongdoing at the bank?’
‘No. None whatsoever. Apparently his accounts were bang up to date and in good order. And so far as we can tell, it doesn’t seem like he was ever up to any funny business.’
‘They found his body sometime in May, didn’t they?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes, I think it was mid-May – around the fifteenth. Most of it was found snagged against an old landing stage, about half a mile upstream of Denver Sluice. But by then it was terribly decayed and several toes and fingers had gone missing.’
‘Knowing what we know now, do you think he’d been weighed-down?’
‘It’s perfectly possible.’
It was. But something else was troubling Alan. Something wasn’t ringing true. Sebastian was indeed old-fashioned, but he had never shown any signs of homophobia. And as for the big apartment at the grand house? Again, it didn’t fit with the Sebastian Alan had come to know over the past few months. He was a farmer, first and foremost; he drove around in a muddy Land Rover. Whatever else Sebastian might be, Alan knew he had never been posey – unlike his wife, of course. She was happy to act the Lady of the Manor to yuppie bankers. And she did it very well. But not Sebastian: that wasn’t his style at all. So what had motivated him to kill Hansworth?
Lane leant back in his chair. He had emptied his plate.
‘That was delicious, Harriet.’ He wiped his mouth and threw the napkin onto the table. ‘And I think I’ve got enough to go on now. I’ll nip back to Blackfen and have a word with our friend about Stan – and Hansworth, too. He’s confessed once and I’m sure we can get him to do it again.’
Harriet was about to agree with Lane, but something in Alan’s face made her hold back.
‘Richard,’ Alan began, ‘you said yourself that the confession has bought us time.’
‘Er … yes?’ Lane wasn’t sure where Alan was heading.
‘I don’t think we’ve yet got his true motive for killing Hansworth. Everything we’ve suggested is plausible, but too general, and if you’ll forgive me for saying so, just a little bit predictable.’
‘OK, Alan, I can wait – if you’re quite sure. A few days won’t hurt.’
‘Thanks, Richard. You won’t regret it. I don’t often say this, but something doesn’t feel right. And if we’re going to get him to confess we’ll need to be far more specific. Anyhow, if you’ll give me the time, I’ve got an idea I would like to try.’
* * *
The last days of a normal, happy dig can be exhausting or exciting – and are often both. But a dig that has effectively been shut down is altogether different. Morale collapses and tempers quickly fray. It’s then that a director really earns his, or her, money. Happily for him, Alan was ably supported by Harriet, who ensured that the remaining skeletons were dug to exemplary standards. Jake Williamson did his best to keep spirits up, too, but even he began to flag towards the end of the week, when redundancy was staring him in the face.
On Monday, Harriet had received a letter telling her that she would be interviewed for a full college fellowship at St Luke’s the following Saturday morning. The Board of Fellows considered her publication record to be ‘of the highest standard’ and the interview would be an assessment of her ‘communication skills in a face-to-face student situation’. Rubbishy jargon was even starting to penetrate the hallowed halls of Cambridge collegiate life. Alan agreed she should return to college on Friday evening. It would mean she would miss the end-of-dig party, but they both knew that wasn’t likely to be a joyous occasion. In reality, Alan would far rather have joined her in college.
* * *
Sometime before John’s death, Candice had invited the archaeologists to the farmhouse for a glass of wine and some nibbles. It was her way of saying thank you for all they had done. In the past, they would have had a proper meal, but now that the farm shop and restaurant had closed down it was nibbles or nothing.
As he walked up the drive, Alan could already detect signs of neglect. The grass hadn’t been cut and rubbish, which had escaped from the wheelie bin a couple of days ago, still lay on the ground. He bent down and looked at it more closely. A cheap take-away hamburger bag proclaimed: ‘I’m chewin’ it!’ Who was eating such stuff? he thought. Surely not Candice? He prodded it with his foot but decided not to pick it up.
Once inside the farmhouse, Alan could hear voices in the kitchen. He went through and was offered one of the cold beers they had bought earlier in the village shop by Jake, who said nothing. But his look spoke volumes. Alan joined the small group standing around the kitchen table.
He was deeply shocked by Candice’s appearance. She appeared to have lost a couple of stone and her face had aged ten years. There were big bags under her eyes and for the first time he could see she had started to dye her hair. She was smoking, too, and had an e-cigarette on the go throughout the 45 minutes they were with her. She also drank a lot, but didn’t seem to get any pleasure from it.
Her parting remark, as they bid her goodnight at the front door, typified the evening so far.
‘Do you realise, today’s Friday the thirteenth? They say it’s lucky for some, don’t they?’
And with that she closed the door.
Although Alan and Jake had bought some beers and a few bottles of wine, nobody felt much like drinking them. Somehow the grimy interior of the last remaining Portakabin didn’t seem a particularly enticing venue, either. So they headed down to the pub. That was the place to escape Candice’s haunted face and to drown their sorrows.
* * *
And it was. As ever, Davey Hibbs was on fine form, but even he didn’t attempt to mimic Candice. Some things are too cruel, and she was still quite well-liked in the village. So they drank lots of Slodger. Alan knew that the landlord would turf them all out around one in the morning.
At eleven o’clock Harriet texted him. How’s things going?
He replied, In the pub.
Xoxox missing you. Sleep well. See you tomorrow afternoon. Keep your fingers crossed 4 me. Xoxox
I will. xoxoxox.
Not exactly original. But it showed he cared – which he did. In fact, he suddenly realised, he wasn’t enjoying himself. Not even slightly. He’d much rather be with Harriet in St Luke’s. The evening was turning out to be a real bummer – as he’d have said in his student days.
After ten more minutes he made his apologies and left. Said he felt queasy – that the beer wasn’t agreeing with him.
He started to head towards home, but stopped. He couldn’t get Candice off his mind. And it wasn’t just that she was looking so terrible. There was something else. But he couldn’t think clearly. Old Slodger was having an effect. Then it came to him: her final, pathetic statement about Friday the 13th. And it wasn’t the date, so much as the day. Friday. That was when John had died: midnight on Good Friday. He glanced down at his watch: it was almost 11.30. He might just make it.
He retraced his steps back towards the pub, then turned left and climbed the stile leading onto the diagonal footpath through the meadows down to the mill pool – just as he had recently done with Harriet. As he walked, it started to rain. Soon it got much heavier. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. But what the hell, a little rain never hurt anyone. He lowered his head and strode as fast as he could, but didn’t dare break into a run. He’d probably stumble and fall. Slodger was known to have strange effects on your legs.
He arrived in the unlit mill car park and spotted it immediately. It was the only vehicle there: Candice’s distinctive blue Ford Ka. He clambered up the wet, slippery steps of the wooden bridge. He knew exactly where she would be. The rain stopped and the moon came out from behind a cloud. He could see her 50 yards ahead of him. She was clipping on a knapsack. He called out her name and started to run. But it was too late. She glanced back. And jumped.
Then the clouds returned, the moonlight vanished, and the rain resumed.
He knew there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a very strong swimmer and the Mill Cut was in spate. And besides, he couldn’t judge from down the towpath precisely where she’d jumped in. And he also knew it was very deep there. Yes, he thought, and she knew that – only too well.
He stared at the flowing water, hoping that somehow she’d float to the surface. But of course she didn’t. Eventually he phoned Lane. There was nothing else to do.
It was so sad: she didn’t even wave goodbye.
Twenty-Six
Lane accompanied Alan to the police station to take a witness statement about Candice’s suicide. As they headed towards Ely through the low mists of morning, Lane told Alan that Sebastian had, at last, confessed to Stan’s killing.
‘He gave him whisky, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Lane replied. ‘Just upstream of the mill.’
That was all Alan needed to know. They drove in silence while Alan thought about his friend’s sad end. And it was so sad. He felt numb and wanted desperately to return home to Harriet. But it would have to wait.
The rush-hour traffic was building up, and there were interminable road works on the Downham Road, just outside town, but eventually they arrived at the police station. While they were waiting for Alan’s statement to be typed up they went to the canteen for a cup of coffee from the machine. It was hot and wet, and that was all Alan wanted at this point. Lane asked him if he’d phoned Harriet yet, and Alan explained that she had a very important interview that day and he didn’t want to upset her. Then he had a thought.
‘Richard, you’ve got an office here, haven’t you?’
‘Yes?’ He answered, uncertain. He couldn’t think what might be coming next.
‘And a computer linked to the Internet?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I want to go on one of those property search websites – the ones that give you the sales history of particular houses?’
‘OK. Come with me.’
His office was on the second floor, down the end of a grey-carpeted, windowless corridor, which vaguely reminded Alan of his visit to Blackfen Prison, eight days ago. They entered the room. Lane sat down behind the desk and logged on. He chose a website he was familiar with from his own search for the house he now owned in Whittlesey.
‘And what’s the address?’
‘Isle Farm, Fursey.’
Lane looked at him, puzzled. But he typed it in. The website came back with a post code. It looked plausible.
‘Let’s go with that, Richard.’ Alan was looking at the screen over his shoulder. ‘Now press Enter.’
Immediately the sales history for Isle Farm flashed up. The first recorded transaction was in October 2003, when the farm initially came on the market for £2,590,000. But it failed to sell. Thereafter the vendors had leased it to various clients for steadily increasing sums, first in 2004, next in 2005, and finally in 2007. Then the screen suddenly flashed up: ‘This Property is Again Available for Lease! Offers in the region of £2,150 a month.’
Blimey, Alan thought, that’s steep, even for the Cambridge area.
Alan explained to Lane that Sebastian had always wanted to restore Isle Farm to the family. It had superb-quality land. He described how Sebastian had confided to him that he wanted, above everything else in life, to be a farmer. He would happily sell Fursey Hall and all the land he currently controlled just to buy Isle Farm. Alan reckoned that his first attempt to buy it was back in late 2003, when it originally came on the market. He couldn’t prove it, but he probably approached Hansworth, the banker, for a loan. Hansworth might well have agreed, but he was conscientious and would have done a due diligence check, which presumably revealed that he wasn’t credit-worthy. But meanwhile he’d raised Sebastian’s hopes, which were then bitterly smashed. And that crushing disappointment was the motive that drove him to have the row on the riverbank – which led to his death.
Lane was very impressed. And he had to agree: it all made perfect sense.
‘I’ll see how he reacts.’
‘And can you offer him any sweetener, like, say a reduced sentence?’
‘I doubt it,’ Lane replied, slowly. ‘Not with three deaths to account for. But I’ll probably suggest to him that a plea of guilty usually leads to a shorter sentence. That way we might get a full confession.’
‘And will that reduce his sentence?’
‘What, after three pleas of guilty to murder? I very much doubt it. No, I don’t think he’ll ever be seen outside a jail again. He’ll get a whole-life sentence, without any doubt. As my old sergeant used to say, “They’ll lock him up and throw away the key.”’
* * *
&nb
sp; A week later, Alan got a phone call from Richard Lane. Mary’s father was now out of hospital and back at home, being looked after by his very capable wife – herself an ex-nurse. But Mary was exhausted, physically and emotionally. So Lane had hired a fully equipped narrowboat for a gentle four-day cruise along the navigable rivers of the central Fens. They planned to spend the following weekend travelling along the Old River Nene and had booked moorings on the western approaches to March. The place he had in mind was handy for a fine old pub that kept an excellent pint of Slodger. And there was a superb fish and chip shop about 50 yards in the other direction.
‘Sounds like heaven on earth. Is that an invitation?’
It was. He and Harriet were invited for lunch the following Sunday at noon.
It was a gorgeous early summer’s day. The sunlight was fresh, the air was clean and the diseased chestnut trees still had clean green leaves. Alan had brought an enamel bucket that held a gallon, but was more safely filled with six pints, of foaming Slodger. Meanwhile Lane bought four portions of cod and chips, plus mushy peas, which they enjoyed on the stern deck and wheelhouse.
After five minutes of concentrated batter-crunching, Alan looked up from the food.
‘Richard, I’m fairly convinced that Candice did in fact push John over. I don’t think it was an accident at all: most likely a stupid impulse, born of frustration.’
But it was the event itself that was worrying him now. In his mind he was there, in the chill of the evening, not like was now, in the cramped boat, but watching while a wife helped her husband into a rucksack filled with rocks.
He sighed heavily. ‘The thing is, John was half-starved and feeling groggy. I don’t suppose for one moment he was thinking clearly. And somebody must have helped him into that heavy rucksack. As soon as he had put it on, Candice must have realised he was dangerously top-heavy. Any normal person would have taken it off him. But she didn’t. Instead she lowered him into the canoe and shoved him out into the stream. But I’m also certain that she soon regretted it bitterly and never forgave herself for what she’d done. That’s why she went downhill so fast.’
The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 44