Death at Burwell Farm

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Do the road accident first, of course,’ George went on. ‘Uniformed have set up diversions but the traffic’s piling up and they’re anxious to get the road clear as soon as possible.’

  ‘Righto, Sarge.’

  ‘I’m sending you in the opposite direction, Mandy.’ George held out a second sheaf of printouts. ‘There’s three here, all in the Tewkesbury area. Attempted break-in at a village store, smash and grab at a filling-station shop – could be the same gang – and a power mower and tools taken from a shed at a private house in Randfield. OK, troops, that’s your lot for now. On your way!’

  ‘Do I detect a certain reluctance to be back at work?’ said Mandy as the two SOCOs made their way to the car park to pick up their vans.

  ‘Could be! I’ve been rubbing salt in by telling him how things will be when he has to stick to the school holidays,’ said Sukey with a chuckle. ‘See you later, Mandy.’

  It was not long before Sukey caught up with the tailback of traffic crawling towards the spot where the diversion had been set up. She pulled out and drove past the queue to where the road ahead was blocked by a police car, its engine running and its blue light flashing. The uniformed officer directing drivers on to a side road recognised her and waved her past. A short distance ahead, a breakdown truck had pulled into a lay-by, obviously awaiting the go-ahead to clear away the damaged vehicles. She parked behind it, got out of the van, put on a bright yellow waistcoat with ‘Police’ emblazoned on the back and set off to make a preliminary assessment of the scene.

  Up ahead, the emergency services – three ambulances and a fire crew – were at work. One car – a Golf – lay on its roof and a young man in a blood-stained shirt was sitting on the verge being given first aid. Mercifully, he did not appear to have been badly hurt; as Sukey approached he said something to the paramedic, who reached through the smashed window of the car and brought out a briefcase before helping him to his feet and escorting him to one of the waiting ambulances.

  On the opposite side of the road a tractor was tilted at a precarious angle, its empty trailer slewed sideways into the ditch. A man in a checked shirt, cord trousers and heavy boots – presumably the driver – was leaning against a tree with his eyes closed, evidently in shock. A woman in a flowered dress – probably the occupant of a nearby house who had heard the crash and rushed to the scene – had one hand on his shoulder and was trying to persuade him to drink from a mug she held in the other. One of the paramedics ran across and spoke briefly to them before hurrying back to the ambulance. As it pulled away it revealed a motorbike lying in a twisted heap by the roadside. There was no sign of the rider.

  The second car, a Jaguar, had finished up a short distance behind the tractor. It was still the right way up but it had left the carriageway and hit a tree, evidently at considerable speed. The front end was badly crushed; the fire crew had just finished cutting away a section and the paramedics were lifting the victims, a man and a woman, both bleeding and apparently unconscious, on to stretchers. Sukey closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard to counter the familiar surge of nausea. No such sensitivities appeared to trouble the small group who had congregated to watch; it crossed her mind that it was fortunate that there were only a handful of houses along this stretch of the road or the police might have had a problem with crowd control as well. It was a grim reflection on human nature that so many people felt drawn to a disaster; for her part, witnessing the carnage caused by a traffic accident was one of the least attractive aspects of the job. Still, it had to be done. She returned to the van, collected her camera and went to speak to Inspector Greaves, under whose direction other officers were taking measurements and studying tyre marks on the road.

  ‘This looks a nasty one, Guv,’ she commented. ‘What happened to the motorcyclist?’

  ‘Already been taken to hospital. Looks like he’s had a few bones broken, but fortunately he was wearing a good quality helmet, so no apparent head injuries. Amazingly, the driver of the Golf got out unaided and called us on his mobile. The other two’ – he jerked his head towards the last remaining ambulance which was on the point of moving off – ‘weren’t quite so lucky, but at least they’re still alive.’

  ‘Have you figured out yet how it happened?’

  ‘According to the Golf driver, the motorcyclist started to pull out to overtake, saw him approaching from the opposite direction and pulled back, clipped the back of the trailer and came hurtling across the road towards him. He tried to take avoiding action but the bike caught the rear of his car and rolled it over before catapulting its rider into the ditch. The Jag evidently started to follow through – we think the driver must have slammed on his brakes too hard when he saw the Golf, lost it and wrapped himself round the tree. All going too fast, as usual,’ he finished glumly.

  ‘I doubt if the tractor was breaking the limit,’ said Sukey drily.

  ‘We’ll be breathalysing the driver just the same,’ Greaves joked back. At times like these, a touch of black humour could be a great help.

  For the next three-quarters of an hour Sukey was hard at work photographing the scene. She walked up and down recording the state of the road, the tell-tale streaks of black rubber and the visibility from every angle before turning her attention to the vehicles. Under Inspector Greaves’s direction she took close-ups of the damage and the presumed points of impact. Meanwhile, a reporter from a local radio station, whom Sukey had often encountered on similar occasions, had arrived on the scene and was taping an interview with the tractor driver on a portable recorder. When he had finished he got out his own camera and took a few shots before walking back to his car, which he had left the other side of the police barrier.

  It was well after ten o’clock when at last Sukey finished her task and drove on to deal with the case of the stolen car. By the time she reached the village and located the house it was nearly half past. The door was opened in response to her knock by a sleekly coiffured, carefully made-up woman who might have been anywhere between forty and fifty. In her well-cut navy-blue business suit and crisp white shirt, she would not have looked out of place in the glossy brochure of some blue-chip company. She glared at Sukey’s ID through designer-framed spectacles and snapped, ‘What time do you call this? I particularly asked for someone to be here before ten. You people are all the same – a man was supposed to come and fix the garage door on Friday and he let me down as well. If he’d come when he said he was going to, the car would have been locked up and it wouldn’t have been stolen.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s been a rather nasty accident a few miles up the road,’ said Sukey, the minute she could get a word in edgeways. ‘I had to wait until the ambulances had taken away the casualties before I could finish examining the scene.’

  ‘You’ll have to come back another time,’ said the woman, seemingly unmoved by the mention of casualties. ‘I have to leave here in a few minutes to keep an important appointment.’

  ‘I take it you’re planning to use the car?’ Sukey glanced over her shoulder at the brand-new Audi parked outside the front gate.

  ‘Of course I’m planning to use it. How else do you expect me to get to Bristol from here?’

  ‘It’s only that you’ll quite likely destroy any evidence the thieves may have left,’ Sukey pointed out patiently.

  ‘Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?’ The woman stepped outside and slammed the front door behind her. ‘Tell your people to ring for another appointment,’ she said as she swept past, unlocked the car and threw a briefcase on to the passenger seat.

  ‘It’s normal in this type of case for the complainant to call us to arrange an appointment,’ said Sukey.

  ‘Huh! So much for victim support! You can tell them to forget it.’ The aggrieved ‘victim’ settled behind the wheel, buckled on her seat belt, started the engine and shot away like a Grand Prix driver leaving the grid, while the scene of crime officer stood staring after her open-mouthed.

  At eleven o’clock S
ukey reached Marsdean Manor, a substantial period house of mellow brick on the outskirts of the village. Wrought-iron gates set in a brick wall stood open and a short gravelled drive led to the front door. She parked the van and rang the bell; after a few moments the door was opened by a woman of about her own age. She was casually dressed, but both her jeans and T-shirt sported designer labels and the shining cap of blond hair that crowned her pale, oval face had been expertly cut and styled.

  ‘Mrs Drew? Sukey Reynolds, scene of crime officer.’ She held up her ID; the woman barely glanced at it before holding the door open for her to enter. She had a vaguely abstracted manner, as if her mind had been temporarily elsewhere, then appeared to pull herself together. ‘Well, that’s quick work!’ she remarked. ‘My cleaning lady warned me it might be days before you came.’

  ‘Oh dear, is our reputation that bad?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Mrs Drew gave a wry smile. ‘She just happens to be one of nature’s pessimists. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘If you’d show me where they got in…’

  ‘Yes, of course. This way.’

  Sukey followed her through a door leading out of the spacious hall into a kitchen that appeared to have been recently refurbished on an unlimited budget. Nothing in the room itself seemed to have been disturbed, but the outside door stood ajar, its wooden frame splintered where it had been prised open. Glancing round, Sukey spotted a sensor in one corner and said, ‘Didn’t they set off the alarm?’

  ‘Yes, and a neighbour phoned the police, but by the time they arrived the thieves had gone.’

  ‘Did they get much?’

  ‘Some rather valuable antique pieces. I think they knew exactly what they were looking for.’

  ‘They often do. I’m afraid it’s quite common for these break-ins to happen after you’ve had workmen in – some of them have dodgy friends.’

  ‘That’s terrible. You feel you can’t trust anyone nowadays.

  My husband’s away at the moment – he’s going to be very upset when he comes home.’

  ‘You haven’t told him?’

  ‘I… didn’t want to upset him.’ Mrs Drew bit her lip and turned to stare out of the window at the back garden, which was a riot of summer colour.

  Sukey set to work on making a cast of the damage to the door frame; after a minute or two she was aware of Mrs Drew standing behind her, watching. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked.

  ‘Every tool leaves its own marks – if we’re lucky enough to catch a suspect with a crowbar or other instrument that corresponds to the damage to the door, it’ll be useful evidence.’ Sukey left her cast to set and began dusting the door handle and the paintwork for fingerprints.

  Mrs Drew was at the sink, filling the kettle. ‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you. When I’ve finished, I’d love one.’

  They drank their coffee in a cosy, book-lined room with a desk facing the window, which looked out on a paved patio. ‘This is my husband’s study,’ said Mrs Drew. ‘I think he spends as much time looking out at his plants as he does working,’ she added, a little wistfully. For a moment, Sukey thought she detected a hint of sadness in her manner; then, as if making a conscious effort to appear cheerful, she said, ‘Tell me, what made you take on this job and how long have you been doing it?’

  ‘I was a police constable for a couple of years before I got married and had a baby,’ Sukey explained. ‘When Fergus was fourteen I decided I’d like to go back to police work, but it was going to be difficult being a full-time officer so I plumped for this job instead.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating. What does your husband do?’

  ‘We’re divorced.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  Sukey glanced across at the desk with its neatly arranged accessories. It was on the tip of her tongue to make some polite reference to Mr Drew, but before she could speak, Mrs Drew said, ‘I’m so worried about Oliver – he went away on Thursday and he hasn’t been in touch… it really isn’t like him. He isn’t answering his mobile… I’ve left messages asking him to let me know he’s all right, but he hasn’t called back.’

  ‘Don’t you know where he went?’

  ‘No, that’s another thing that worries me. He often goes away on business trips, but he always tells me where he’s going. This time he just left a note saying he’d been called away urgently. I found it when I got back from a shopping trip to Bath on Thursday afternoon.’

  ‘Have you tried calling any of his regular contacts?’

  ‘I intended to, this morning. Then when I came home from a friend’s house last night and found this, I…’ Her voice tailed off and she put a hand over her eyes. ‘Forgive me, I…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Sukey gently. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’ She hesitated for a moment; she was about to say, ‘Had you thought of reporting him missing?’ when there was a ring at the front doorbell. Mrs Drew hastily dried her eyes and went out of the room with a murmured, ‘Excuse me.’ Through the half-open door, Sukey heard a woman’s voice say, ‘Mrs Drew? I’m WPC Trudy Marshall. May I come in, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you want to speak to Mrs Reynolds?’

  ‘Sukey – is she here?’

  ‘She’s been dealing with our break-in. Is that what you’ve come about?’

  ‘No, not really, but perhaps we could join her?

  ‘Certainly – this way.’ Mrs Drew re-entered the study with Trudy Marshall behind her. A glance at the young policewoman’s face told Sukey that she had brought bad news.

  Three

  ‘I can’t believe it! Why would he want to kill himself?’ Jennifer sobbed. ‘Things have been so much better lately.’ The words came out in convulsive bursts; her entire body was racked with the violence of her grief. She had listened in silence, with an air almost of detachment and the unspoken question ‘Why are you telling me this?’ in her eyes while WPC Marshall gently informed her that the body of a man had been discovered in a remote Cotswold field in a car registered in the name of Oliver Drew. For several minutes she had sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead and showing no reaction, before collapsing without warning in a storm of hysterical weeping. Trudy disappeared in search of brandy, leaving Sukey trying to calm the stricken woman.

  When at last the sobs became less frequent she said gently, ‘Mrs Drew, I know it looks bad, but it isn’t absolutely certain that the man the police found this morning is your husband.’

  ‘Please, call me Jennifer.’ A slim hand reached out and grasped Sukey’s arm; swollen eyes swimming in tears gazed pleadingly into hers.

  ‘Of course I will – and my name’s Sukey.’

  ‘Sukey – is that short for Susan? Well, not short exactly… you know what I mean.’ Sukey smiled and nodded. ‘I feel you’re a friend,’ Jennifer rushed on. She was taking deep, rasping breaths in an effort to control her weeping. ‘I don’t have many friends… not round here. There’s only Maureen and she’s leaving for Australia this morning. Please, say you’ll be my friend.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jennifer’s voice sank to a pathetic whisper. ‘I’ve been trying to make myself believe it can’t be Oliver’s body, but there isn’t really much doubt, is there? It’s his car.’

  ‘That’s true, but there’s always the chance that it was stolen.’

  ‘If it isn’t him, where is he? Why hasn’t he been in touch?’ Jennifer put her hands over her eyes; for a moment, emotion threatened to spill over again but she made a valiant effort to control it. ‘No, I’m almost sure it’s him. I suppose I’ll have to identify him.’ The last words were spoken in a tone of hopeless resignation.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Yes, if you want me to, but isn’t there a member of your family you’d rather have with you?’

  ‘There’s only my mother,
and she lives in Cornwall. I know what she’ll say.’ Jennifer’s voice took on a harsh, bitter note as she appeared to mimic words she had heard many times. ‘She’ll say, “I warned you against marrying an old man, didn’t I? This is what you get for ignoring my advice.”’

  Sukey was at a loss to know how to respond, but at that moment Trudy Marshall entered the study carrying a bottle of brandy and a glass tumbler. She poured a stiff measure and offered it, saying gently, ‘Drink some of this, it’ll make you feel better.’

  Jennifer obediently took a few sips, holding the glass between hands trembling so violently that Trudy had to steady it for her. After a few minutes she grew calmer and said, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I’m afraid we have to ask you to see if you can identify—’ Trudi began, but Jennifer interrupted.

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but what then?’

  ‘Assuming it is your husband, we shall have to ask you a few questions when you’re feeling up to it. Then there’ll be an inquest. The coroner will want to try and establish what led him to take his own life.’

  ‘I’ve simply no idea.’ Fresh tears spilled from Jennifer’s blue eyes and rolled down her salt-stained cheeks. ‘Everything’s been so much better since he—’ She broke off; for a moment grief was replaced by a fleeting look of embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t try and talk about it now. If you’ve had enough of this’ – Trudy took the almost empty brandy glass from the young widow’s unresisting hand and put it on the desk beside the bottle – ‘perhaps you’d like to tidy up a little before we go to the hospital. I’ll drive you, of course, and either I or one of my colleagues will bring you home. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?’

  ‘I’ve already told Sukey… there’s no one… she’s promised to be with me while I…’ Jennifer got to her feet, swayed for a moment, then steadied herself against the desk, waving away Trudy’s offer of help. ‘I’ll be all right, just give me a moment…’ She took a deep breath and clenched her hands as if bracing herself for the ordeal that lay ahead. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes,’ she said and went out.