Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  The grass had changed colour to a sickly green in reflection from the clouds, rumbling with a threat. But no lightning, yet. And no rain – yet. So Joanna pedalled across the ridge and felt this strange new wind stroke her face with the chill of a weather front. And she was glad. The hot weather had threatened to fuel her temper, drain her energy, fuddle her brain so it lost the clarity it must have to point the eventual finger.

  She must know. But it was not enough just to know. She must have proof, that or a confession.

  Travelling against the wind she could almost convince herself that it was not the murders of the Summers family that she must solve but the story behind the execution of William Collier. Because as far as she gazed down into both valleys she could see nothing that told her they were approaching the millennium. Victoria could still be on the throne, not Elizabeth. There was not one modern building, no pylons or visible sign of the twentieth century. Nothing but cows and fields, hedges and stone walls. As the road dipped towards the valley she flicked the gears of her bike to reach the biggest cog and the fastest speed. She felt an urgency to prove her theory.

  This morning she was up before Martin Pinkers, or the Rowans, their noisy, energetic guests, the inhabitants of the Owl Hole or Brooms. There was no life stirring this morning, only her, her feet rhythmically pedalling towards the ill-fated farm.

  She locked her bike around the back of the Incident Room and waited impatiently for Mike. She had learnt her lesson about interviewing suspects alone but they had taken the guard from the farmhouse and merely locked the complaining doors, stiff from standing open once too often.

  8.30 a.m.

  At last Mike came and she shot her questions at him.

  ‘What do you remember about Mothershaw’s place?’

  He yawned and looked fed up. ‘It’s Sunday morning, Jo.’

  ‘I know,’ she said briskly. ‘But just picture the place.’

  Mike rubbed his head. ‘The owl,’ he ventured, ‘the one I bumped my head on.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He watched her, bemused. ‘It’s sort of...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Futuristic?’

  ‘And?’

  He shrugged, irritated. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Jo.’

  ‘He does wood carvings,’ she said urgently. ‘Where?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Not one chisel. Not one fragment of wood shavings. Not even one chunk of wood.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mike’s face cleared.

  ‘And the Owl Hole is far too tidy and clean for him to work there. He has a workshop, Mike, which he hasn’t wanted to show us. It must have been in the original report but there were so many farm buildings we didn’t really notice it. And we were searching for only one thing. Ruthie’s body.’

  Even with the current threat of thunder Mothershaw’s work had lost some of its air of mystery and was recognizable for what it was, modern art, cleverly intertwined pieces of supple stick and wood, some skilled carving. But the mystery was missing. His was work for half-lights, for mists and winter evenings, not a July thunderstorm. Without deep shadows the faces lacked expression. Except the Tree Man. He towered over them, partly shrouded by the pale leaves of a lime tree, his thick stick arms held out threateningly. Joanna pushed aside the fronds and gazed up.

  And she knew.

  She knew who now and more importantly she knew the real reason why.

  Just to be certain she walked right around the figure, studied the scorched feet, partly softened by a wrapping of moss. But it was the face which gave the entire story away. It was all there, once the full facts, each and every one, was given its right place in the sequence of events. And for once even Mike seemed sensitive to the Tree Man. He too was silent, staring fixedly at the figure. ‘I suppose,’ he said grudgingly, ‘if I had to live with one of them this would be the one I’d go for.’

  She swivelled her head round to take in his wide jaw line and blunt features. ‘Is it? You’re sure about that, are you, Mike?’

  ‘What on earth ...?’

  ‘What about the one he’s working on at the moment?’

  Mike moved his head slightly from side to side. It was an action that asked a question.

  She didn’t answer it.

  Mothershaw blinked when he saw them. And there was something very guarded in his expression. Today, as though he mirrored the weather, he was dressed sombrely in a black polo neck and mushroom coloured trousers. His eyes were dulled and tired and he wore a dignified air of grief.

  ‘I heard the news,’ he said quietly.

  And Joanna knew the full story of Ruthie’s death must have broken.

  She nodded matter of factly.

  ‘I didn’t really expect you back.’ There was a question behind the sentence. ‘I thought you’d be busy,’ he continued.

  ‘We are.’

  She let the full meaning of her words sink in before continuing. ‘Titus,’ she ventured, ‘when did you last see her?’

  He didn’t even ask whether she meant Ruthie. He knew. ‘Middle of June,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the exact date.’ The details were to be brushed aside.

  He gave a hint of a smile. ‘Do you want to come in?’ But Joanna was not to be distracted. ‘No – not this morning. I think it’s time we sorted out a few more details. Like where is your studio, Mr Mothershaw?’ Titus looked shocked. He tugged at the black polo neck as though it was strangling him. ‘I um. There’s nothing there.’ It was a feeble attempt to divert them.

  They tramped a further half a mile along the dirt track behind the Owl Hole until they came to a small clearing in a hollow. In the centre was a wooden shed so surrounded by weeds, debris and trees as to be almost invisible. Yet it had been wired up to electricity. Mothershaw took a key from his pocket and inserted it into a padlock. But before he opened the door he half turned as though he needed to explain something. Behind him the two police officers hesitated. Joanna wanted to give him the opportunity to speak before it was forced from him. But Mothershaw lowered his eyes and said nothing, only tugging the door wide open to let in what light there was.

  Joanna knew he wanted the work to explain everything.

  Inside was dim, full of vague, half-finished shapes. Underfoot Joanna felt the dry rasping crunch of wood shavings and knew they were in the right place. Even before Mothershaw flicked on an electric light.

  ‘I was working on this.’ He whisked a dark cloth from the central shape and turned his head away as though he could not bear to look.

  She sat naked and tiny, gracefully sitting like the Little Mermaid of Copenhagen, legs tucked beneath her, her long hair partly curtaining her face. Her head was bowed in submission, her hands relaxed at her side. When the wood was polished it would be perfect. Now it was a roughly hewn beauty, unfinished. The feet were still thick wedges of wood, the features slightly blurred, the hands and buttocks not quite fined down. And Joanna had the feeling that Titus Mothershaw would always leave it like this.

  She would never be finished.

  The figure may have born little resemblance to the rotting carcase they had released from behind the wall at Hardacre but it perfectly fitted the image Joanna had formed of the young woman.

  There was no need to ask her name. This was Ruthie.

  And as Joanna had done with the Tree Man’s monstrous form in the wood she did now, circumventing the graceful statue to study it from every angle.

  And there was no need for her to wait for the results of the DNA testing to know for certain who the father of Ruthie’s baby was. Only a man who had loved, adored, intimately, could have carved the wood into this form of his lover’s body. That same body which he had destroyed. Mothershaw was leaning against the door, staring out into the wood. ‘I wondered why she didn’t come back,’ he said bleakly. ‘I thought she must be angry about something.’ He drew in a deep, long sigh. ‘Angry with me.’

  He spread his hands out in front of him. ‘I couldn’t work without her,�
� he said. ‘It was hopeless. Nothing came to life. Wood remained simply – wood.’ He turned around, his face stiff with emotion and walked slowly towards the statue. Then he spread his hands on either side of the ‘Little Mermaid’s’ legs and burrowed his head in Ruthie’s lap.

  ‘Did you know she was pregnant?’

  Mothershaw’s shoulders jerked.

  ‘Did you?’ Mike repeated roughly.

  Mothershaw raised his face. ‘No.’

  And Joanna realized he didn’t know his child had effectively killed Ruthie.

  Mothershaw frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She died of a ruptured pregnancy,’ Joanna said woodenly. ‘I assume you are the father?’

  Mothershaw looked stunned. ‘I think I – am,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I must be.’

  ‘We can prove it,’ Joanna said still in that same, brisk tone, ‘one way or the other by comparing samples of your blood for DNA with that of the unborn baby.’

  Mothershaw stared at her.

  ‘So if you wouldn’t mind coming down to the station at some point we can arrange to take a sample of your blood.’

  She and Mike left him with his head still buried in the wooden girl’s lap. And as they passed through the door she could have sworn she heard a muffled sob.

  10 a.m.

  They called the vet at ten o’clock and arranged to meet him outside the barn. ‘You understand we would like positive identification that the bull is Doric.’

  ‘No problem.’ Roderick Beeston’s voice was grim. ‘I remember that animal. One of the best pedigree Belgian Blues around. I’d followed his progress and his sale. He’s fathered more offspring than the King of Siam.’ There was a crackle on the line. ‘Aaron was heartbroken when Doric vanished. Heartbroken.’

  Joanna resisted the temptation to badger Roderick Beeston for the hundred-dollar question. Who did he think had stolen Doric? Yet she realized the question was better left unasked because it was not only unprofessional for him to venture an opinion but if offered it could prove prejudicial in court.

  At the back of her mind the fact nagged like an aching tooth. The barn which had housed the bull was used by Martin Pinkers. But it belonged to Neil Rowan.

  Beeston’s Landrover arrived seconds after they did and she shook his hand recalling the last time she had met him when he had anaesthetized a dog that had been threatening to bite Joanna’s hand off.

  The blue eyes and black hair were the same, but his manner was much more friendly this time around. Dressed in a check shirt with olive-green jeans tucked into some Wellington boots, a little shorter than she, he looked every inch the country vet. He gave them both a wide, friendly grin. ‘Detective Inspector Piercy. Hello. How are you?’

  There was an open warmth about him that endeared him to her. And Detective Sergeant Korpanski.’

  Mike grinned back. ‘How are you, Roderick?’

  ‘Fine.’ His eyes were sparkling at the thought of finding the missing bull.

  ‘We think we have the bull,’ Joanna said. ‘But what about the cows that went missing? What chance is there of finding them?’

  Beeston shook his head. ‘Very little, I’m afraid. Once their tags are removed. Accreditation papers can so easily be altered and other, poorer quality cows substituted. Doric on the other hand, is quite a different kettle of fish.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘If you’ll excuse the pun. I could be certain if I could trace at least some of his calves. I may even have some of his semen back at the surgery, frozen. Then it can be compared with.’ He glanced at the barn.

  ‘Oh poor old Doric,’ he said. ‘Such a small barn for such a hefty animal.’

  ‘We should be able to get a watertight case against Pinkers.’

  Beeston looked surprised. ‘It’s his barn? I thought it belonged to the Rowans.’ His eyes roamed the valley. ‘Hardacre was well named,’ he said steadily. ‘I never knew anyone have such a struggle for survival as did Aaron Summers. Life was bad enough without some bastard like Pinkers stealing their cattle.’

  ‘I wondered if Neil Rowan might have something to do with it.’

  Roderick Beeston’s face was instantly alert. ‘With the murders?’

  ‘I don’t know. He isn’t the sort. He didn’t have the necessary ...’ and she recalled the conversation she had had with Mike. ‘Desperation.’

  The vet’s eyebrows rose. ‘Desperation?’

  She studied his face, craggy and tanned from the constant outdoor life. His features lacked Matthew’s sensitivity. This was a more practical man, not handsome either like Matthew but with piercing blue eyes and very dark hair. Idly she wondered whether he was married, had children. A daughter?

  They started across the field towards the barn. ‘You see the cows were stolen first, a bit of a trial run. When they got away with that they went for the real thing, Doric.’

  Beeston peered in through the window. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I never thought I’d see him again.’ He dropped back down to the grass. ‘That’s him all right. That’s Doric. The question is, how did he get here?’

  But Joanna’s mind was working in a different direction. Titus Mothershaw had come to live in the Owl Hole. With the money he had paid in rent Aaron had bought a bull, Doric. Doric had been stolen. Titus Mothershaw had then plundered the farmer of his daughter, made her pregnant. She had died. He had brought havoc in his wake, merely by taking up residence here, in the sleepy and private valley. Like the Ancient Mariner he had brought bad luck. His very presence had been a forewarning of ill fortune.

  ‘So what happens to Doric now?’

  ‘I can take him from here,’ the vet said. ‘There’s a farm I use, a few miles away. It’s safe and secure. They’ll look after Doric until it’s decided what to do with him.’

  “Thank you,’ Joanna gave him a warm smile.

  He held her hand for a fraction of a second longer than was needed. ‘My pleasure, Inspector. My pleasure. I hope I see more of you, soon.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  1 p.m.

  Although the day was humid, hot and heavy with the threat of stormy weather making the insects bite, as Joanna and Mike cornered the lane towards Fallowfield they caught the scent of a Sunday roast wafting on the air.

  ‘Obviously the murders haven’t affected their appetites,’ Joanna remarked drily.

  They barged in on the family halfway through their meal, Pinkers and his two sons concentrating on forking great heaps of food into their mouths. It was Mrs Pinkers who looked up first.

  ‘Hello.’ She gave an uncertain glance towards her husband.

  Pinkers himself didn’t even try to be polite. ‘It’s you, is it? What do you want?’

  Joanna settled herself in a shabby armchair. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to know, Mr Pinkers, that the missing bull has turned up.’

  Pinkers eyed her warily. ‘Where?’

  ‘In one of your barns.’ Mike stepped forward.

  Pinkers stood up, pushed his chair back. ‘Now look here.’

  ‘No, you look here,’ Joanna said sharply. ‘We’ve arranged for the vet to come and give your herd the once over. But before he comes perhaps you’ll tell us exactly what you did see on Tuesday morning.’

  But Pinkers knew the drill. ‘I’ll have my solicitor here first,’ he said sullenly.

  They all filed outside into the yard just as Beeston’s Landrover came into view. One of Pinkers’ sons had finished his dinner. He was standing in the corner, blasting at some crows roosting in a huge chestnut tree. Beeston watched him.

  ‘Do you know, Inspector,’ he said to Joanna. ‘I read somewhere that in China when a man is disillusioned with life and the political system he goes fishing. Here, in rural England, a man takes a shotgun and blasts away at crows. Now which do you think is the mark of a civilized society?’

  Joanna winced as the lad discharged both barrels into the air. ‘Neither.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The vet watched her with amusement. ‘So let’s take a
peep at Pinkers’ stock, shall we?’

  Twenty minutes later Roderick Beeston was scratching his head. ‘Is this all your stock, Pinkers?’

  Pinkers nodded. ‘That’s the lot.’

  ‘Then I’m surprised you don’t have a problem meeting your milk quotas. They look a poor lot to me.’

  ‘The dry weather,’ Pinkers murmured.

  The vet smiled. ‘Yes. Of course. No real health problems I’m glad to say. Couple of good calves though.’ He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Nice looking calves these Belgian Blues give. Big though. I’ll lay a bet your younger cows have real trouble giving birth, don’t they?’

  So even the rolling eyes and anguished groans of the animal giving birth in Pinkers barn should have directed her towards the truth.

  Pinkers scowled and started fiddling with the tractors. A spanner in his hand, he was tightening wheel nuts. Out of earshot Beeston spoke to him. ‘Why the hell didn’t you come to some agreement with your neighbour? He would have let you borrow Doric.’

  ‘For a price,’ Pinkers muttered.

  ‘Fair’s fair, man.’

  Pinkers face blackened as Joanna moved nearer. ‘The cattle missing from Hardacre?’

  ‘Aren’t here,’ the vet said. ‘I can promise you that.’

  He walked with her and Mike in the direction of Hardacre and the Incident Room.

  ‘I suppose you knew the Summers family well.’ Beeston gave a short laugh. ‘Not that well. They called me as little as possible. A farm like that.’ His gaze moved across the stony fields and the bare, overgrazed grass. ‘They couldn’t afford vet’s bills. But they were hard working, all three of them. For every penny they earned they sweated. They were decent people who didn’t deserve such an end.’

  And somehow she had to combine the vet’s opinion with the fact that when one of their number had been ill they had failed to take her to a doctor or a hospital which might have saved her life. And when Ruthie had died they had not involved the authorities or given her a Christian funeral but had done something pagan and ignorant. They bricked her up behind a wall.