And Mr Rowan?
Joanna turned her attention to the man instead. He was slim and dark-haired, handsome in an ordinary way. His was not an interesting face but rather a neat, orderly collection of inoffensive features. It was a negative brand of good looks rather than any one, positively attractive feature. She noticed that he was saying nothing but stood directly behind his wife with a slightly foolish grin fixed on his face. He was clearly not as intelligent as his wife and he was probably a philanderer. Even as the thought formed she wondered how she had reached that conclusion. Yet any woman would have picked up the calculating question in his eyes, the sliding glance across her breasts, her hips, her legs. And there was a boldness around his eyes, a restlessness about his broad fingers. She glanced again at Arabella Rowan’s firm chin.
But he was afraid of his wife.
And his wife knew it and used it to her advantage.
And Ruthie? Had she been forced to repel Neil Rowan’s unwelcome advances? Or to the sheltered farmer’s daughter had he seemed romantic, a godsend, a hero, a Siegfried? How would Arabella Rowan have reacted to advances made by her husband to her chambermaid?
Arabella Rowan spoke. ‘I suppose you’re here about Ruthie.’
It was shrewd of her to guess that. Most people would have referred firstly to the double shootings of their neighbours. But Arabella, with her clever brain, had realized that it was their contact with the missing girl that had warranted a visit from the two senior officers on the third day of their investigation.
Her blue eyes opened wide as she spoke again. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen to the poor girl’s family. Hardly bears thinking about.’
‘No.’
‘And have you any idea where she is?’
Joanna could have sworn Neil Rowan’s eyes flickered. Certainly he started breathing quicker and a touch more noisily. His wife must have noticed too and gave him a sharp, admonishing glance.
‘No. That is the reason why we’ve come,’ Joanna admitted. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where ...’
‘Well she isn’t here.’ At last Neil Rowan had spoken. They all turned to look at him.
‘When did you last see her?’
It was Arabella who answered Mike’s question, turning her blue eyes full on him. ‘Quite a while ago,’ she said crisply. ‘And I wasn’t too pleased at her simply not turning up without a word of explanation. This is the busiest time of year. I needed her.’
‘So when did you last see her?’
‘About a month ago. Early in June. I can’t give you the exact date. She simply didn’t turn up one morning. There was no explanation.’
‘Did you ring Hardacre Farm?’
‘I certainly did.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘Oh I don’t know. The brother and her father sounded the same to me.’
‘And?’
‘They said she wasn’t well and that she wouldn’t be in for a while.’ Arabella Rowan looked slightly ashamed of herself. ‘To be honest I told them she could stick it and that I’d get someone in from the town. I was very angry.’
‘And did you?’
Mrs Rowan frowned. ‘Did I what?’
‘Get someone in from the town?’
‘Yes I did – as a matter of fact.’
Mr Rowan reinforced his wife’s statement with a nod and a widening of the fatuous grin. Arabella was taking no notice of him, probably a normal attitude for her.
‘How well did you know the Summers family?’
‘Not well. Not really well at all. We didn’t know them. We were simply acquainted with them. They were neighbours and Ruthie was a perfectly sweet girl. She was quite clean too and reliable.’ Arabella swivelled her head around to give her husband a swift glance. Of warning?
‘So do you have any idea who might have wanted to shoot her father and her brother?’
‘Most definitely not anybody from around here,’ Mrs Rowan snapped. ‘The entire idea is quite appalling. It must have been someone from outside.’
Joanna reflected how much more comfortable these crimes were when committed by ‘someone from outside’. It was too convenient. She must destroy that illusion. ‘We don’t think so, Mrs Rowan.’
Arabella Rowan gave a little jerk. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because someone not only knew the gun was there but had the opportunity to check it was loaded.’
Both the Rowans stared uneasily at her.
‘And how did you get on with them as neighbours?’
The answer was predictable. ‘Very well. Very well indeed.’
‘You saw them often?’
She might have known Neil Rowan would be the type to bluster. ‘Hardly ever. Not socially at all. But when we did, at the cattle market and such like, we were perfectly amicable neighbours.’
‘Nice,’ Mike said mockingly.
The Rowans gave him a suspicious stare but Mike’s square face was innocence itself.
Joanna cleared her throat. ‘Was it at the market that Jack Summers kicked your dog?’
Neil Rowan looked annoyed. ‘Yes it was, as a matter of fact. Though what it’s got to do with the murders ...’
‘Probably nothing,’ Joanna put in soothingly.
‘And why he took it into his foolish head to ...’
‘I understood the dog bit him, Mr Rowan.’
Neil looked uncomfortable. ‘Well yes. But ... He’s a farmer. He should have had more patience with a dog. Animals are unpredictable things.’
‘Like humans,’ Mike said.
The farmer looked at him with hostility. ‘Some humans,’ he said carefully. ‘Only some!’
‘And as a result of Jack’s violence your dog had to be put down.’
‘Hardly a motive for murder,’ Arabella said acidly. ‘Though the dog did suffer. And we were angry – at the time. His rib was broken and it stuck in his lung. Poor thing.’
‘You were fond of the dog?’
‘Yes we were, actually. Very fond.’
‘So you were none too pleased with Jack Summers.’
‘As I have already said.’ Arabella’s voice was even more concentratedly acid. ‘Hardly a motive for murder.’
‘I’m not suggesting it is,’ Joanna said calmly. ‘But someone – and we feel it was probably someone local – pulled the trigger on two defenceless farmers. Used their own gun. We don’t know why. And so we can’t guarantee the same thing won’t happen again. In this area of the country most rural households possess a shotgun. Some of those gun licence holders are lax in keeping their weapons locked away. There is a real danger.’
‘Surely not,’ Arabella said faintly.
‘We believe there is.’
Mike was surveying both the Rowans from beneath his lowered eyelids. Joanna could read his mind. If they felt there was no danger why not?
Joanna spoke. ‘You own a gun, Mrs Rowan?’
‘Of course we do.’
‘Double barrelled?’
Neil Rowan scowled. ‘What’s that got to do with it? They were shot with their own gun, weren’t they?’
‘I just wondered if you were familiar with the handling of a gun.’
Neil Rowan thrust his face forward. ‘I am,’ he said, ‘as are most of the farmers around here.’
It was left to Mrs Rowan to apologize. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ she said contritely. ‘This business. It’s shaken us up terribly. We were fond of Ruthie. And for this to happen to her father and brother – neighbours of ours. It’s terribly upsetting.’ She smiled. ‘You do understand, don’t you? We really are worried about Ruthie. Where do you think she can be?’
Joanna studied her. Arabella Rowan seemed genuinely upset. Far from her assumption that Arabella might have resented the attentions of her husband towards the girl had it created a common bond?
‘We wish we knew,’ Mike said grimly. ‘I don’t suppose she ever mentioned any friends of hers, maybe even from outside the area?’
‘No.’
>
‘She was a very – sweet – girl.’ Neil Rowan somehow managed to look ashamed.
And it struck Joanna. ‘Was she a happy girl?’
The question seemed to agitate Neil Rowan. He moved across the room abruptly to stare out of the window. ‘Happy?’ He passed his hand across his face. ‘Happy?’
His wife’s voice cut in. ‘Of course she was a happy girl.’
Her husband turned around. ‘Except I thought ... I thought she always carried a sort of sadness with her.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘Like a grey cloak.’
His wife’s eyes opened wide. She was dreading what he might say. He seemed not to notice. ‘I always wondered whether Ruthie’s air of grief was something to do with her brother’s accident. She felt responsible, you know.’
‘Neil.’ His wife’s expletive shaped a warning.
It was Neil Rowan who had all Joanna’s attention now. ‘Do you think there was anything else at home that was upsetting her?’
But his brief moment of freedom was over. He shuffled his feet, returned to the table and flopped into the seat. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Hardly knew the girl – really.’
His wife’s glance was sugar-coated poison. ‘But she was nice, wasn’t she, dear, in her own way.’
‘Quite.’ He nodded obediently.
Joanna addressed her next question to them both. ‘Did she have a boyfriend that you knew of?’
Both the Rowans looked blank.
‘Maybe Dave Shackleton?’ Joanna prompted.
‘The tanker driver?’ Arabella Rowan looked genuinely startled. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so. There was something a bit ... a bit ... nicer about Ruthie.’
‘But she was a farmer’s daughter.’
Arabella Rowan gave a stiff smile. ‘You shouldn’t be so anxious to typecast people, Inspector.’
Neil Rowan put his cup down firmly on the saucer. ‘Ruthie was a bright girl,’ he said. ‘Way above Shackleton. For goodness sake, he was a bloody tanker driver. She was ...’
What was she? Titus Mothershaw had described her as a dryad, a wood nymph. How had Neil Rowan seen her? Joanna waited.
‘She was a perfect flower in bud.’
It was an odd expression.
Arabella Rowan stood up. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said, returning to the gracious hostess role. ‘But I think you’ve had a wasted journey. We really can’t help you. We can shed no light on this utterly distressing business. And neither of us knows what’s happened to poor little Ruthie. I’m so sorry.’
The last three words were spoken with true, unaffected depth of feeling. Joanna looked at Arabella Rowan closely. She was pressing her hands together hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered again. ‘But we can’t help you.’ Then she added. ‘Do you need to search our farm now?’ Joanna shook her head. She had to get back to the Incident Room for the briefing.
‘Fine,’ Neil Rowan said heartily. ‘Well – any time. Any time at all. We’ll do anything we can.’
‘Good.’ Mike gave Rowan one of his friendly grimaces and they left the kitchen.
But they were still in the hall when the storm broke.
It was Arabella Rowan’s voice. And she was furious. ‘Bloody philanderer. Now see where it’s got us.’
They headed back to the car. Joanna made a face. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Most interesting.’ And she started up the engine.
‘Seems obvious to me,’ Mike observed. ‘Rowan tried to get inside little Ruthie’s knickers.’
‘And his wife knew all about it. So where does that leave us, Mike?’
His face was serious. ‘We should take a better look around their farm.’
They were back outside the Incident Room within five minutes. The officers were assembled in the courtyard, most with open necked shirts, loosened ties, rolled up sleeves. But before Joanna climbed out of the car she wanted to say something else to Mike. ‘If Neil Rowan had made advances towards Ruthie it would mean somebody else had intruded on that tightly knit little family group.’
‘Yes?’
‘And Mrs Rowan is patently fond of her little storybook lifestyle. I’m certain she would do anything to preserve it.’
‘Yeah. So she wouldn’t have appreciated her husband fumbling in the cleaner’s petticoats.’
‘No.’
Mike summed up. ‘Well it might be a sort of motive for getting rid of Ruthie Summers. But I don’t see what Aaron or Jack would have to do with it.’
She sighed. ‘Neither do I.’
She stared out across the green fields spattered with black and white cows, contentedly munching the grass. Her eyes moved past the dry-stone walls to the yellowing hay fields, their harvest almost collected in. There was no sign of the weather breaking. Not yet. When she turned back Mike was watching her. ‘Where’s that optimism you’re usually so full of, Jo?’
‘Temporarily abandoned,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Why? We’ve had worse cases than this one.’
‘I think it’s Ruthie,’ she said. ‘This image people had of her is so at variance with the image of a killer that it seems reasonable to suppose that she is either dead or has been abducted.’
‘So?’
‘So why can’t we find her?’
‘Because,’ Mike suggested, with a wave of his hand across the wide expanse of fields, ‘there’s so many places her body could have been hidden. Haystacks and river beds, barns, badger holes, fox earths. Besides there’s miles of countryside.’
She opened the car door. ‘Then let’s mobilize troops to search every inch because I am convinced that it will be only through finding Ruthie – dead or alive – that we will know who shot her father and brother ...’
She had expected little from the briefing, nothing more than a general sharing of facts. She was anxious that the officers were all aware that the Rowans could be implicated in Ruthie Summers’ disappearance. But Sergeant Barraclough had something up his sleeve. He called her across and handed her a leaflet, blue-grey, printed on coarse paper. She looked at it without comprehension.
‘BPAS?’ She looked to Barra for explanation.
‘It’s just a thought, Joanna. We decided to comb through the entire house, every drawer and cupboard and one of the junior officers came up with this. The British Pregnancy Advisory Service,’ he explained. ‘We wondered what it was doing in her room, hidden at the back of a drawer, in her underwear.’
‘You mean ... you thought she might be pregnant?’
‘What if she’s having an abortion – now. What if that’s where she is?’
Joanna took the leaflet with her and left Mike to finish the briefing. She disappeared inside the Incident caravan, picked up the phone and dialled the 0800 number.
A soft voice answered. ‘Hello. This is the British Pregnancy Advisory Service. How may I help you?’ Wincing at the Americanism Joanna gave the details out curtly. She was a police officer. Not a fallen woman. ‘All I need to know is have you taken a call from a girl in this area, recently, in the last few days.’
‘I’m not able to tell you that,’ the woman said regretfully. ‘Confidentiality.’ She began the usual fender of ... ‘You’d want the same level of confidentiality if it were you.’
‘But this is a murder investigation. I’m a police officer.’
The woman’s voice was soothing. ‘If you want to call round to our offices – with a warrant – we might be able to help you. Otherwise ...’
Joanna felt confounded. ‘Then at least tell me where you would send such a girl. Which hospital do you use?’
‘A private one in Macclesfield,’ the woman said reluctantly.
Joanna took the number and redialled.
The answering voice was brisk. ‘We have no one of that name here. I’m sorry. And quite honestly if such a girl had had an abortion here she would be home by now. We only keep them in for one night.’
Joanna went outside the caravan to find Mike discussing the Rowans’ land with the as
sembled officers.
‘Start with the barns,’ he was saying, ‘before moving on to the fields. You know the drill. Freshly turned earth. And take sniffer dogs. The helicopter will be working through the afternoon with heat seekers.’
A few of them nodded. Mike noticed Joanna and raised his eyebrows. ‘Success?’
‘A blind alley, I’m afraid. The BPAS use a private place near Macclesfield and they only keep the girls in for one night. Ruthie’s been missing since early Tuesday morning at the very least. Even if she had been having an abortion she would have been home by yesterday.’
‘Unless there were complications.’
She nodded.
‘So where now?’
‘We’ll send a couple of uniforms around the local hospitals, not only Macclesfield but the North Staffs, and Buxton too. See if that bears any fruit.’
9.30 p.m.
The sun was just setting as she descended the hill towards the tiny, pretty village of Waterfall, a cluster of stone cottages and a pub scattered around a triangular village green complete with a spreading chestnut and a bench seat. It was powerfully silent as though the entire village slept through the dying embers of another summer’s day. Unlike the town there was no distant hum of traffic, no sound of lawn mowers or the thump of music. The church clock struck once as Joanna wheeled her bike towards the square stone house, the estate agent’s details in her hand.
It wasn’t big, according to the details. The rooms were modestly sized. But it had three bedrooms and two reception rooms and a small, Victorian conservatory at the back. Joanna walked around to the rear and peeped over the wall.
It transported her to her childhood. A rusting swing in the long, orchard garden which backed on to the church. For a moment she rested her elbows on the wall and closed her eyes, waiting for her father’s voice to call her in for tea.
There was nothing. Nothing but peace, stillness, memories.
So she returned to the front garden, tidy but unimaginative with rows of thirsty looking wall flowers. As she pushed the wicket gate open to take a closer look Matthew’s BMW drew up on the verge. It was perfect timing.
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