Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘We’d like to have a look round your house.’

  Shackleton grasped the point quickly. ‘You mean you think Ruthie’s here? You’ve got to be joking. She wouldn’t have come here.’

  Joanna eyed him steadily.

  Shackleton ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. ‘If she was here I’d have told you. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see her. But there’s no one here but myself and my mother. We live alone.’ He looked sharply at Joanna then Mike. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Because there are so few places she could be. She hardly knew anyone. And we know you were fond of her.’

  ‘I am fond of her,’ Shackleton said with simplicity. ‘But if she had done that to her father and her brother I wouldn’t have hidden her because she wouldn’t be the Ruthie I knew.’

  And the honesty in his eyes forced Joanna to acknowledge that he was telling the truth.

  Mike was shuffling impatiently. She could read his thoughts. Why weren’t they getting on with it?

  But Shackleton stood his ground. ‘Have you got a warrant?’

  ‘We can easily get one,’ Joanna said wearily. Confidentiality, warrants. She was sick of red tape.

  Shackleton eventually gave a brief nod. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But don’t say too much to my mother.’ He jerked his head backwards, into the house. ‘She’s old. She isn’t very well and I haven’t said too much to her about ...’ A spasm temporarily twisted his features. ‘She was fond of Ruthie.’

  ‘We’ll be as delicate as a pair of courting butterflies.’ Joanna gave Mike a sharp glance, but his face was impassive.

  Shackleton shrank back against the wall and Mike strode past.

  It was a tiny house with no room to swing a cat. A diminutive living room cramped by a bulky three-piece suite and a table folded against the wall. Kitchen through a glass door, bathroom added on beyond that, a lean-to with a flat roof and mint green bathroom suite.

  There was no place downstairs they could have hidden Ruthie Summers.

  Narrow stairs, dark. At the top two doors. One stood open – Shackleton’s room. Bed covers thrown back. Hot, stuffy. Overalls on the bed, small wardrobe, chest of drawers. Nothing underneath except a pair of boots and a thick layer of dust.

  The other room.

  The door was shut. Joanna knocked, opened it slowly.

  Dim inside. A hump on top of the bed. She must be lying down in the afternoon heat. She caught her breath. Ruthie?

  No. Strands of white hair across the pillow.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  The old lady sat up slowly. An ancient woman with a creased face who eyed Mike with malevolence. ‘Who are you?’ Then she called out. ‘David ... David.’

  She pulled a cardigan tightly around her shoulders as Shackleton entered the room. ‘It’s all right, Mother.’ He sat down on the bed and soothed her. ‘It’s all right. They’re friends of mine.’

  The old lady was staring trustingly up at his face as Shackleton gently explained.

  ‘You remember I said Ruthie was missing and there had been an accident up at Hardacre?’

  Joanna winced. An accident?

  The old lady nodded dumbly, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Shackleton continued his explanation. ‘These are police officers. They’re trying to find her. That’s all.’

  ‘So what are they doing here?’ They had been deceived. The old lady’s voice was surprisingly sharp. ‘They won’t find Ruth Summers here.’

  Joanna searched the old woman’s face. There was a note of hostility that was mirrored in the lined eyes. Shackleton’s mother had not liked or loved Ruthie Summers but had resented her. For having the potential to rob her of her son?

  But Shackleton seemed oblivious to her emotions as he dropped his arm around his mother’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They’ll find her.’

  The old lady gave a brave smile and touched her son’s face. ‘She thinks she’s too good for you,’ she said. ‘But really you’re too good for her. She’d be lucky to have you.’

  ‘I know,’ Shackleton soothed. ‘I know.’

  Joanna moved back towards the door. This bedroom was even tinier than the other, filled by the double bed. There was no question that Ruthie Summers was here. She would have left but Mike was peering out of the window, bypassing the yellowed nets gathered in his meaty fist.

  ‘Come and have a look here, Jo.’

  She saw instantly what he meant. A tiny garden, narrow but long. And at the end was what might be termed a potting shed.

  It was clear that Ruthie Summers was not and never had been in the house. But in the shed? It was worth looking.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to both of them. ‘We’ll leave you now – after we’ve taken a look around the garden.’

  Instantly the alarm was there. Shackleton stopped tucking the cardigan around his mother’s shoulders and stared at Mike, open mouthed.

  It made them doubly curious to look inside.

  They galloped down the stairs, passed through the kitchen and out of the back door. Neat rows of cabbages and carrots, beans and peas were laced up bamboo canes. At the back was a display of flowering sweet peas bright enough to match the deceitful picture on the front of a seed packet. They approached the potting shed.

  It was a neat affair, timber clad, not much bigger than a chicken coop but just about big enough to house Ruthie Summers. Reluctantly Shackleton handed them the key.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Inspector.’

  The hostility in his voice made him seem a bigger man somehow than the curly-headed, pleasant- mannered tanker driver.

  Joanna tugged the door open. Inside was dark. A rag had been nailed across the one, small window. Joanna tore it off to let in light.

  Lawn-mower, gardening implements, rows of fertilizer and weed killers, slug pellets. A bench across the back. Ruthie Summers was not here either. Joanna took one frustrated glance around before finding the object of Shackleton’s frozen stare. Beneath the bench. Magazines. She could almost guess what they were. More as a matter of form than curiosity she pulled one out.

  Shackleton’s mother would never have allowed him to read such magazines inside the house. It was the potting shed or nowhere. But it was nothing worse than very soft porn. At a guess most schoolboys would read nothing less polluting. Grinning blondes with huge breasts and scanty knickers. Plenty of proffered bottoms.

  Hidden fantasies. And they had intruded on them.

  She replaced the journal and gave Shackleton a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ His face, first pale, was now crimson. She tried to explain further. ‘We had to.’

  They emerged into the sunlight, she still trying to allay his embarrassment. ‘That’s the trouble with murder cases. You have to invade, everywhere. Nowhere is sacred. I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘This need go no further. We had to know.’

  She waited until they were back in the car before she exploded. ‘Dirty magazines. For goodness sake. Are we no nearer finding out anything about this case than a pile of dirty magazines? Are we to spend all our time discovering nothing?’

  Mike let her rant continue as she did a five-point turn in the narrow road. ‘Just for once I wish someone would tell us something of real significance. Anything that might have some bearing on this wretched case.’ She accelerated along the road then stopped. ‘And for my money I’ll back Hannah Lockley.’ She took her eyes off the road for just a moment. ‘Mike, let’s take her back to Hardacre. Now.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m convinced that there is something back there.’

  ‘When Barra’s been over it with a toothcomb?’

  ‘Got any better ideas?’

  ‘No, but ...’ His two-way radio bleeped and he listened intently.

  Joanna changed gear. ‘We must have missed something.’

  But Mike held up his handset. ‘Well whatever it is we won’t get there this afternoon, Joanna,’
he said. ‘The man who was walking his dog has turned up. His name’s Lewis Stone and he lives at the back of the supermarket in town.’

  One of the great advantages of being in the police, Joanna decided as she parked at the base of the jumble of flats that seemed to project higgledy-piggledy right into the car-park, was that she could leave the car anywhere without attracting the attentions of the over-zealous traffic wardens. Neither was it likely to be invaded by the group of youths sitting on the wall, watching them.

  ‘So which one ...?’

  But she and Mike could have picked out Stone’s flat by the deep barking that came from behind a tall door blocking off a concrete yard.

  She banged hard. ‘Hello.’

  The only answer was some more, frenzied barking. Then a man’s gruff voice spoke. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr Stone?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘Shut up, Nathan.’ The door was tugged open.

  He had the Alsatian throttled by the choke chain. That was her first impression. Her second was how accurate Shackleton’s description had been. A big man with a swollen beer belly, a white T-shirt inscribed with a four XXXXs, bright cotton shorts to the knee. Shaven head, blond stubble, an earring, very dark eyes.

  ‘Mr Stone?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Joanna glanced nervously at the dog’s slobbering jaws. ‘Would you mind putting your dog out of the way so we can have a civilized conversation?’

  Stone eyed Korpanski warily. ‘You police too?’

  Mike’s answering stare was wooden. ‘Detective Sergeant Korpanski, Leek Police.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Stone wiped his finger across his nose. ‘Can’t be too careful, can yer?’

  They followed Lewis Stone across the yard, up the metal staircase and he pushed open the door at the top. Inside was a tiny flat, relatively clean and organized. Joanna was pleasantly surprised. Stone led them through a lime-green painted kitchen and into a sitting room, well decorated, again in beige and lime green. She settled on a flowered sofa expectantly. The dog was quiet now.

  Joanna opened the questioning. *We believe you were walking near Hardacre Farm on the morning of July 7th.’

  ‘That’s right. I go there to walk my dog. Big dog like Nathan needs a lot of exercise.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Stone grinned in Joanna’s direction.

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward, Mr Stone, and tell us you’d been near Hardacre Farm on the morning of the murders?’

  ‘I didn’t put two and two together,’ he said. ‘I heard there’d been a shooting. I didn’t know it was that farm.’

  ‘But the date?’

  Stone leant back and rested his arm on the ridge of the sofa. ‘Look, love. Every day’s the same to me. I get weekends as well week days off, you see. Every day.’

  ‘But you were there on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Yeah I was.’

  ‘At what time?’

  Stone thought for a minute. ‘About seven, half past.’ Joanna stiffened and shot a swift glance at Korpanski. Shackleton had claimed to have seen the dog at ten. Not seven.

  She eyed Stone curiously and gave him the chance to retract. ‘You’re sure it was at seven a.m.?’

  Stone nodded. ‘I heard the farmer whistle the cows in,’ he said, grinning.

  Joanna stiffened. ‘You heard what?’

  Stone pursed his lips up and gave a couple of toots. ‘Like that,’ he said. ‘And the cows, they just come jostling through the gate.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain? At seven o’clock?’

  ‘Of course I am. The minute I heard old Summers whistling I put Nathan back on his lead.’ He leered at Joanna. ‘Can’t take no risks with cattle around. Seven o’clock,’ he said, ‘give or take a couple of minutes.’

  But this didn’t fit in. Not with Shackleton’s story nor with the observations made at the scene of the crime. Aaron had not left the farmhouse that morning, headed towards the field and returned, with or without the killer, removed one Wellington boot and left the other on. He had not whistled for the cows to come in. He had never got that far. Because he had already been dead.

  This was not how they had pictured the morning of July 7th.

  None of it made sense.

  So yet again she questioned Shackleton. ‘You’re absolutely sure? You definitely heard the farmer whistle?’

  ‘Look, love,’ Stone said, ‘I tell you. I know the sound. I’ve heard it before. Lots of times.’

  Mike interrupted. ‘Did you see Mr Summers?’

  Stone shook his head. ‘I keep a low profile where that bloke’s concerned. He’s none too keen on dogs loose on his land. I mean I’d keep Nathan on a lead but a big dog like that needs exercise, doesn’t he?’

  And a swift study of Stone’s dumpling physique told Joanna that tied to his master Nathan might not get much in the way of exercise.

  She stared at Stone and wondered why he was lying. Or was it Shackleton who was lying? Had he seen Stone walk his dog in the vicinity on other occasions and decided to invent his presence later on that morning?

  ‘Do you know Dave Shackleton?’

  Stone wrinkled up his face. ‘Who?’

  ‘The tanker driver.’

  ‘Nah. At least, I suppose I’ve seen him passing. Must ‘ave. But I’ve never spoken to him.’

  She watched his face closely to ask the next question. ‘Tell me, Mr Stone, if you were in the vicinity of Hardacre at seven a.m. did you hear the shots?’

  Again Stone looked blank and shook his head.

  And now Joanna was confused. According to Stone’s story Aaron had been alive at seven o’clock on the morning of the murders. That did not fit in with Matthew’s forensic evidence.

  More than that the countryside was quiet. The sound of gunshots even from inside the farmhouse would make an unmistakable noise. Stone claimed not to have heard it. Yet even half an hour’s walking would not have taken him far enough away to have missed it.

  So as usual in this strange, frustrating case the answers only threw up more questions.

  Chapter Twelve

  4 p.m.

  ‘He could be lying when he claims that he saw Stone.’ Joanna unlocked the car door.

  ‘He didn’t actually say he saw Stone,’ Mike objected. ‘He says he saw Stone’s dog.’

  ‘One dog’s very like another.’

  ‘Not to country folk,’ Mike said. ‘I’d put my money on Stone being the liar. Nothing he says fits in.’

  ‘Except I can’t for the life of me work out why he should say he actually heard Aaron whistling for the cows. It doesn’t make sense. He must know that the murders happened at six a.m. and therefore Aaron couldn’t have been alive at seven. So why stick to his story? It’s been widely enough reported in the press. Mike,’ she turned the key in the ignition and sparked the engine into life before finishing the sentence, ‘people generally put themselves as far away from the murder scene as possible. Why did he say he was there when Dave Shackleton says he saw him at Hardacre at ten?’

  Korpanski folded his arms behind his head and gave a loud, tired sigh. ‘I haven’t a bloody clue, unless he had a very long walk. In fact nothing so far in this damned case makes any sense.’

  He sat up suddenly. ‘Unless he was there twice.’ He glanced across at Joanna. ‘Maybe he went back. Killers often return to the scene of the crime, don’t they?’

  ‘Usually if they’ve forgotten something.’

  ‘Well maybe he hadn’t forgotten anything but thought he had.’

  ‘I wonder what,’ she mused.

  But Mike’s inspiration had dried up. He shrugged. ‘Search me.’

  Joanna chuckled and dug him in the ribs. ‘Not giving up are you, Korpanski?’

  He stared out of the window. ‘I’d just like something to go right for a change. Just a little break. That’s all I ask.’ And he raised his eyes to the brilliant blue sk
y. And I wouldn’t mind working in a slightly cooler environment either. I wasn’t born to slave away in the tropics.’

  Joanna stretched her arms through the open window and laughed. ‘Stop complaining, Mike. Something’ll turn up. And the weather won’t last.’

  But the briefing was another disappointment. Four police officers had widened the search for Ruthie and visited every single nursing home in Cheshire and Derbyshire used by the BPAS. But what had, at first, seemed such a promising lead, had failed to bear fruit.

  There was no sign of Ruthie Summers. She had completely vanished. Neither bus nor train nor car had taken her out of the area.

  Joanna stared across the pretty green fields and began to wonder whether Ruthie had ever left Hardacre at all. Perhaps she was still here, somewhere.

  So they worked solidly through the next couple of hours before the heat began to drain out of the day and a soft stillness crept around the farm. Pinkers had done the evening milking again and silenced the lowing cows.

  6.30 p.m.

  The evening was turning to old gold by the time they wandered along the path towards Brooms. Joanna had expected to find the old lady working in her garden. It was a perfect evening for it. Birdsong and humming bees and air heavy with night-scented stock. Even Joanna could imagine working in the garden on such an evening. But although the gate was ajar they passed through the garden to more stillness.

  And the cottage door gaped.

  Joanna knocked. ‘Hello, Miss Lockley?’

  She appeared as though by magic, optimism barely lifting the lines on her face.

  Joanna reflected that the old lady’s character had drained since the murders. When they had first met her she had seemed tough, almost mannish, decisive and strong. But each day had seemed to see her strength diminish. She stood in the doorway, shrunken, looking as though she had neither eaten nor slept since Tuesday. And not for the first time, knee-deep in a murder investigation, it hit Joanna how terrible the repercussions were of violent death in a family. Hannah grasped Joanna’s hand eagerly. ‘Have you heard from Ruthie yet? Have you found her?’