“Meet me tonight. The Nightingale. Nine o’clock.”
And without waiting for an answer, he left.
Alone again, she laughed at the encounter. Scarlett had no intention of meeting up with him tonight. The idea was preposterous. He was charming, she had to give him that, but she didn’t trust him.
And yet, she found herself oddly intrigued.
Stop thinking about him, she chastised herself, sitting down and opening her book again.
+++
Private Lounge, The Bicester Hotel
Tim had worked through the morning at the hotel. He had all the photos pinned up now, as well as the notes he’d taken from the crime scene. He had also printed out everything Bill Knight had written that was available online, including articles from the paper he was dismissed from up in Nottingham, comments and posts in public forums. He had printouts of social media, particularly tweets that the writer had made dating back more than three years.
It was a mountain of evidence, and Tim was beginning to feel overwhelmed by it all.
He stepped out to get a soda and use the bathroom. Mostly, he just needed to move. He’d been sitting and reading and wracking his brain for too long.
He bought a soda from the bar in the next room. The smile from the bartender was a nice bonus. But he had neither the time nor inclination to flirt seriously.
He had to catch a killer. Or a hostile. Either way, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was catching them before they could hurt anyone else.
Returning to his temporary investigative room, he decided to walk himself through what he knew from the beginning, starting with Scarlett. She was the most likely suspect, but there were things that didn’t fit.
Scarlett claimed she wasn’t at the pub on Thursday night. She’d also sounded defensive but unsure in her denial. When he told her about the witness, she seemed confused.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
Was she feeding him untruths or partial truths? If she wasn’t the killer, then maybe she was a witness covering for the real killer. But whether she was a murderess or an accomplice, Scarlett Slater remained his best lead.
Then there was the unexplained scratch on her chin, which proved at least that she wasn’t one of them.
At least not yet.
The evidence gathered at the crime scene was still being investigated, and the coroner had yet to issue his autopsy report. Tim had hoped to find a woman’s shoe print at the burial site, but none had been conclusively identified.
The one bit of evidence that did help his hypothesis was that the victim appeared to have died due to blunt force trauma to the back of the neck. It was the kind of killing that required a bit of strength and some precision. And perhaps the element of surprise. But it did not rule out a woman being the murderer.
Was it possible that Scarlett killed Bill Knight? And if so, how?
He leaned back in his seat, pondering.
A shovel or a hammer or even a wine bottle might be enough to do the trick, if she came up behind him and aimed it squarely. Wives have been killing their husbands this way since time immemorial.
Tim recalled the movie Heavenly Creatures, based on a true story, in which two schoolgirls killed the mother of one of them using a brick to the back of the head. It was the kind of plot that a weaker person devises against a stronger.
Tim couldn’t rule it out.
The question of how Scarlett could have moved the body was another matter, though.
It was possible that she lured him out to the field, killed him there, with a shovel perhaps, and then buried him. But then why would he meet her in the middle of a field? That seemed a stretch, and there was no good evidence to support it.
Plus the wheelbarrow tracks at the crime scene were fresh, which meant the killer probably committed the murder somewhere else, then transported the body in a wheelbarrow.
But there had to be another vehicle involved. The idea of a woman pushing a wheelbarrow with a corpse down the highway was too preposterous to entertain, even if it had been at night. Plus they would have found tracks on the road after it had been in the muddy field.
All this meant she had to have driven a truck. Or a possibly a van. A truck seemed more likely, as getting a barrow into and out of a van seemed more cumbersome.
A truck then. Either an open flatbed truck or perhaps one with a camper shell. The wheelbarrow in the back. The corpse in the cab, probably on the floor of the passenger side as she drove or belted into the passenger seat to look like he was sleeping.
That seemed plausible. As a working theory, at least. But what would it take to prove it?
He needed to find that truck.
If Scarlett owned or rented or otherwise had access to a truck, they could get the tire prints and try to match it to the burial site.
Tim picked up his phone and punched in DS Boyle’s number, but hesitated before pressing the send button. It might be too early to involve the Detective Sergeant in this search.
He had other contacts at the police department. He thought of who best to call. Tim had made some friends among the officers, but he knew that asking a favor of a lower-level person risked a polite refusal, or some red tape. They might have to send the request up the chain of command, which meant multiple opportunities for someone to decline to help.
Nope, in his experience, it was best to start at the top. In a hierarchical system like the police force or the military, the higher the rank, the more political the person. Trading favors became the name of the game. Especially when it came to simple tasks like a records check, a job that would be delegated to a subordinate, which meant the higher-up could get the benefit of doing the favor without the downside of doing any work.
Tim decided to call DCI Yates. They’d met a few times at various joint task force dinners. He’d even offered to help if there was ever anything his department could do–especially when it came to high profile cases that could potentially make the force look bad. Or him look good. He was a political animal, there was no doubt about it. And in fact, he’d said as much himself.
Tim dialed the central number and asked for DCI Yates. It took a few minutes for the call to go through. He expected he’d have to leave a message, but no one even asked if his call was expected.
“DCI Yates.”
“DCI Yates, it’s Tim Clarke, from the garrison.”
“Clarke! How’s your case coming along? Did you find the guy?”
“You heard? Yeah we did. In a shallow grave,” Tim told him.
There was a pause. “You mean the one planted in the old Johnson field?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Damn. I heard about that. Didn’t realize that stiff was your ghost. Boyle’s handling it, I believe.”
“That’s right, sir. He gave me a tour of the scene. I was the one that ID’d the body.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“I need to run some vehicle registrations.”
“Okay. Sounds like you got a lead. You share this with Boyle yet?”
“I will if it pans out. He’s got his hands full, so I thought I should call the office. Wasn’t sure who to talk to, so I thought I’d ask you.”
“I can get someone to look it up. Whaddaya need?”
“Two things,” Tim said. “First, I need to know all vehicles registered to Scarlett Slater.”
“A local?”
“Yeah.” Tim spelled the name and gave Scarlett’s address.
“Okay, and the second thing?”
“I need a list of all mid-size and full-sized pickup trucks registered within a twenty mile radius of Bicester.”
“That would be a lot of trucks.”
“I know it’s a big ask,” Tim said. “But I gotta hunch this may crack it.”
There was a pause. Tim heard the soft rhythm of keyboard clicks. “We can run that, but it might take an hour or two.”
“That would be great.”
“I’ll have someone call you
back with the info,” the Detective Inspector said. “You gonna be at this number?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, it’s covered. I got someone on it now. Let’s hope your lead pans out. We could do with a win on something like this.”
“Agreed. Thanks, Inspector. Bye for now.”
The phone clicked off at the other end.
Chapter Eight
Bicester Vintners, Bicester, England
As closing time approached, Scarlett kept thinking about Cliff. She didn’t quite know what to make of him. He had a strange charm, it was true, but there was something about him that she didn’t quite trust.
When he bumped into her on the street last week, was that an accident? It certainly seemed so at the time. But his latest charm offensive, with the jokes and the juggling, made him seem less spontaneous than calculating.
He had been in her dream, the second time. Maybe that meant nothing, but she wasn’t one to dismiss dreams completely. At the very least, they were a guide to her deepest thoughts and anxieties.
She closed up the shop a few minutes early, locking the front door, settling the register and tidying up. Scarlett preferred to find the shop clean in the morning, rather than having to start her day with sweeping, dusting and wiping things down.
Then she remembered the shovel. It was still out back.
She needed to return that. Aunt Tabitha would need it for the allotment and having it in the wine shop made Scarlett strangely uneasy.
+++
Tim parked his Vauxhall Astra a short distance off from the wine shop, just a safe distance from the corner of Market Square.
He waited and saw the lights go out and the front door open.
Scarlett stepped outside and locked the door behind her. She was carrying a sports bag, probably with her work gear.
And a shovel.
She turned and walked down the road, in his direction, just on the other side.
He ducked low over the passenger seat, hoping she hadn’t seen him.
He knew where she lived from her records. It was a short walk. Not long enough to justify driving and having to find parking.
Tim let her get far enough ahead, then eased his car onto the road. He passed her at a normal speed and drove past her house, then turned around and parked a bit further down the road. He could see her property from where he was now. Her Mini Cooper was parked in the driveway.
When Scarlett reached the house, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she put the shovel into the back of her car, got behind the wheel, and drove off heading away from town now. When her headlights had moved on past him, Tim started up his car again but kept the headlights off. Making a U-turn from where he had parked, he positioned himself a good distance behind her, just close enough to see her taillights.
Tim knew that the best way to tail a car is in a tag-team with two or more other vehicles, allowing one car to turn off the route as another joins in to follow. One-on-one was easy to spot, if the subject suspected she might be being followed.
He was fortunate, at least, in the time of day. It was twilight, and Scarlett had naturally turned her headlights on. Her taillights made a nice moving target. It was still light enough that he could see her car dimly, and not so dark that he was forced to turn his headlights on. She followed a series of twists and turns, taking him to an area of Bicester he hadn’t had reason to venture into until now.
Tim worried at first that he’d been spotted, and this was some kind of evasive action, but her speed remained modest and she made no sudden changes.
Instead, she pulled up in a makeshift parking lot at the allotments outside of town.
A little late for gardening, isn’t it? What are you up to?
He drove past, not wanting to mirror her stop, which would be too obvious. He could see where she was, so decided to go up the road a bit and circle back. The road took a gentle curve, which put his car beyond her sights. He pulled to the side of the road, waited for the cars behind him to pass, and when the road was clear he executed a U-turn.
Keeping his headlights off, he pulled off the road and onto the shoulder, behind a row of other parked cars, and with a good view to the allotment.
He killed his engine and kept an eye on his target.
+++
Bicester Allotments, One mile outside of Bicester Town
Scarlett took the shovel from the back of her car and put it away in Aunt Tabitha’s shed. The shed was small with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling that turned on and off with a pull switch. She pulled it on with a yank and moths fluttered around the bulb.
The shed was a bit of a mess, she noticed. Aunt Tabitha was a wonderful woman, Scarlett’s favorite person in the world, truth be told, but she had a tendency towards clutter. She had a maid who came over to her house twice a month and kept things orderly, but there was no maid on the allotment. Aunt Tabitha tended to just toss the tools back into the shed when she was done with them, rather than hang them on their hooks or return them to the proper shelf.
Scarlett spent a bit of time futzing around, organizing the place. It was a losing battle against entropy, but she felt better fighting the good fight.
First, she hung the shovel up on the wall where it belonged. The pitchfork was leaning in a corner, and she hung that up as well. The trowels came in three sizes, and they were supposed to be hung in order by size, from smallest to largest, so that everything looked neat. That was solved easily enough.
The spare hose was in a tangle on the floor. She disentangled it and wrapped it properly, tied it off and hung it from its peg. The clippers and shears were on the shelf, and she hung those too. She stood the rake properly in the corner and noticed that they were almost out of big plastic bags. She’d have to remember to get some more from the store, she thought.
Something else was wrong, and it took her a moment to figure it out. She double-checked everything. The gloves were there. The watering cans. The hoe. The lopper. The posthole digger. The edger. Then she remembered.
The wheelbarrow!
Of course. She had seen a wheelbarrow just like hers at Ronnie’s place. And now hers was gone.
She called Amanda.
“What’s up?” her friend asked. There was music in the background.
Scarlett strained to hear her. “Are you at Ronnie’s?”
“Yeah, you need anything? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Well, something a bit silly, really. Could you do me a favor?”
“That depends,” Amanda said. “Would I have to get dressed first.”
“Probably.”
“Then it might have to wait.”
“Well, when you get a chance, could check Ronnie’s wheelbarrow for me?”
“His what?”
“His wheelbarrow.”
There was a brief pause on the line. She imagined Amanda frowning. “You saw it at the barbeque. I remember you mentioned it.”
“Yes, I know,” Scarlett agreed. “But I think maybe there was some kind of mix-up.”
Amanda’s voice sounded tenser than usual. “I can’t believe you’re calling me about this.”
“Just give a quick look and tell me what it looks like.”
“It looks like a wheelbarrow. There, done.”
“No, Amanda, I mean specifically. Tell me if you see one of the handles broken at the base and repaired with electrical tape.”
“A broken handle with electrical tape.”
“That’s right.”
“Fine. I’ll check in the morning before I leave.”
“That would be great. You’re the best.”
“And you’re something else, you silly nutter!” The normal humor had returned to her tone before she hung up.
+++
Bicester Allotments, One mile outside of Bicester Town
Tim saw Scarlett standing outside the shed talking on her phone. She hung up, locked the shed, got back into her Mini Cooper, and drove off.
He was tempted to follow her, bu
t he had more pressing matters now. He had watched her take the shovel into the shed. Then she left without the shovel.
If that shovel was used to bury Bill Knight in that farmer’s field, it might be the evidence he needed to prove Scarlett’s guilt. He needed dirt samples from the shovel. He hoped Scarlett hadn’t made the effort to clean it.
But he couldn’t move just yet. There were a few gardeners still hanging around the allotment. A man and woman stood talking together. A little further over, another older man smoked and spoke into his phone.
Tim waited twenty minutes for the last of them to leave, just as the sun disappeared over the tree line. Once he was sure he was alone he stepped out of his car. The air was cooling now. He could smell the rich earth smells wafting from the allotment, and the smell of the organic fertilizers. He took his crime scene kit from the back of his car and crossed the street to the allotment.
He made a beeline straight over to Scarlett’s shed. It was locked with a basic padlock. He studied it. Tim had learned to pick locks in his youth, and he’d been given some training when he started investigating for the RAF. He had a lock pick set in his bag. And a torch, though he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself. His natural night vision would have to do. He located the wallet of tools in his bag using just touch and then went to work on the device, using the tension wrench to apply pressure to the cylinder before lifting the pins one by one with the pick. Once they were all lifted, the lock popped open.
It was slow work for him and required some patience. With both hands occupied, he became acutely aware of the bugs flying around him: midges and flower bugs. He felt himself get bitten several times on his arms and the back of his neck, but if he tried swatting the insects away, he’d lose his progress on the lock.
He was halfway through picking the lock when he saw car headlights approaching down the road. The sheds were visible from the road, and a passerby might notice someone fussing with a lock.
Tim stopped working and circled around the shed, out of sight.
When the car had passed, he started over with the pick and the tension wrench, working methodically to clear the internal locking pins that he could feel but not see. It took nearly ten minutes, but after a series of false starts and interruptions by traffic, he managed to spring the lock open.
A Very British Witch Boxed Set Page 10