“Ignore it then.”
“I can’t.” She pushed him off and reached for the phone. “It’s one of the penalties are being in charge.”
She read the menu: Frank Barker. She made the connection and put the instrument to her ear. “Frank, I thought I made it clear that you were in…”
She trailed off and listened, and as Barker unfolded his tale, her colour drained.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She killed the call, and stared in horror at Drake.
“What is it?”
“Marc Shawforth. He’s dead. Murdered. And this time, we have a witness who saw Rachel Jenner.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Whenever he was home in Landshaven, Marc Shawforth had a habit of taking a stroll around the vast garden of his home before going to bed.
The Shawforth family had lived in Stanhead village for over two hundred years, and Marc still inhabited the stone-built mansion house which one of his forebears had built around the time of the Napoleonic wars.
They were farming people; specifically potato growers. The loamy soil of the Landshaven area, well-drained by the underlying limestone bedrock, was perfect for the cultivation of the honest spud, and such was the extent of the Shawforth lands, that their entire fortune had been generated from that single crop.
When his father passed away, leaving the family estate to his only son, Marc had rapidly brought the business into the 21st century, constructing a huge packaging plant, employing local (and immigrant) labour to run the operation. His interest in politics, local and national, had encouraged the development of hard-nosed negotiating skills, and even as the plant went into operation, he had landed contracts with all the major supermarket chains at rock bottom prices, but in sufficient quantities to ensure profitability. At the same time, he secured deals with local haulage companies to deliver the goods, once again at prices which were barely profitable, and overall, Shawforth’s Prime Potatoes had seen him increase his personal fortune into many millions of pounds.
And yet, with all the niggardliness of a true Yorkshireman, he kept an eye on the pennies. Barbara might have been attracted by his wealth, but he kept a tight rein on his finances and hers, and he was infuriated to learn that with the help of the bitch Jenner, she had a private credit card he knew nothing about until her death. Dismissive of the notion of his wife ‘stealing’ Alex Walston away, Shawforth had always been convinced that Rachel Jenner murdered Barbara after a fight over that credit card.
Jenner’s release had been personally devastating for him. Despite her wayward tendencies, and an increasing number of arguments between them, he loved Barbara, and he knew that Jenner was the killer. He was even more furious to learn that the woman had an ally in the shape of this out-of-town, nosy parker, Drake.
He had, of course, taken up the matter with Farrington. His complaint fell upon sympathetic but deaf ears. Feyer, he was told, was possessed of an abrupt, aggressive manner, but legally she was always spot on, and there were no grounds for removing her from the investigation despite the number of times she had interviewed and released Jenner.
Drake was Deputy Chief Constable Mullins’ blue-eyed boy, Ted Drake’s son, and if he was anything like his outspoken father, Shawforth knew how stubborn he could be.
And in the meantime, Rachel Jenner roamed the streets free and unfettered, and as far as Shawforth was concerned, a threat to all and sundry, including, after tonight’s fiasco, him.
As he ambled around the perimeter of the garden, occasionally looking up into a murky sky, he was a man consumed with fury. What were the police there for if not to protect the more important members of society? Men such as him, the men who by dint of their entrepreneurial persistence kept the nation’s economy afloat? What use were the police if they could not protect Members of Parliament, arguably the most important people in the country? And hadn’t Jenner’s behaviour an hour previously demonstrated the need for protection against her? His left cheek smarted where she had punched him, reminding him of the power of her knuckles. Gregory had shown up a few seconds after the event, but by then Jenner was making her way out through the gate, striding towards the village. Gregory offered to go after her, but Shawforth told him to forget it. He would speak to the Neville Trentham in the morning.
Reaching the far hedgerows, he noticed that the main, white-painted, front gates were open. Designed as a pair of traditional five-barred gates, they were never locked, but they were always closed, and he reminded himself to have a sharp word with Gregory.
He strode over to them, grabbed the smaller of the two gates, pushed it to its closed position and dropped the bolt into the tiny hole in the ground to hold it in place. He moved to the opposite gate, which had swung back into tall hedgerows, sheltering under a large beech tree. As he gripped it and began to swing it round, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the tree.
Shawforth was more surprised than afraid. Clad from head to foot in some kind of one-piece coverall, the intruder looked like something from a cheap sci-fi movie. A flash of anger glanced through the MP. He stepped forward and barely had time to feel any fear before the gun appeared.
The bullet tore into his rib cage, burst through his heart, and he fell, straight back, flat to the ground. By the time the killer hurried out through the gates, Marc Shawforth was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Drake looked down on Shawforth’s body and felt a mixture of emotions: sorrow, pity, frustration, and downright anger.
Inevitably, the question occurred to him. Could he, Sam, or any member of the Landshaven police have averted this obscenity? Was he partly responsible for this man’s death?
It was a familiar emotion. The Anagramist was the first time he had come into contact with a serial killer, and with each fresh murder, he had asked himself the same question, and the answer was always the same. He was not responsible, he could not have averted it. Even in Becky’s case, he could have done nothing. Not without leading the police to the killer earlier, but then, as now, there had been a definite lack of physical evidence.
It was, he recognised, guilt. The ghost of Becky Teale and her death (for which he still blamed himself) coupled to the number of times he had said Rachel was innocent.
He dismissed such thoughts, and the rational thinker began to take over.
Back at Sam’s place, as they dressed, she told him to return to his hotel, but he refused.
“I need to be there with you. I need to hear this witness account first hand, rather than getting it from you and your colleagues. We’ll take my car. I can always bring you back afterwards.”
“I doubt very much whether I’ll be coming back tonight, Wes. When they haul Rachel into the station, I’ll spend most of the night interrogating her.”
She nevertheless agreed to go with him in his vehicle, telling him she could come back to the station with Barker. As they drove out to Stanhead village, she rang the inspector and told him to send a couple of officers, at least one female, to Ruth Russell’s place, and bring Rachel in.
“Under arrest if they have to. And once they have her, tell them to ring Hayley Killeen. I don’t see why that cow should sleep when we can’t.”
Stanhead village was a quiet, comparatively remote hamlet off the main Landshaven-Pickering road, not much more than a collection of cottages, without so much as a pub to attract visitors. Not that the residents were too concerned. Their attitude was that Landshaven could keep the holidaymakers and daytrippers.
The Shawforth mansion lay on the far side of the village, where the fertile arable lands of the East Yorkshire coast met with the harsh spread of the North Yorkshire moors. The potato packing plant and acres of cultivated fields around it, all clearly signposted from the white gates of the private residence, stood half a mile from the stone-built house, and as Drake parked close to the gates, those signs reminded Sam of a factory employing hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. And how many of them bore a grudge against their ar
rogant, autocratic employer? How big a team would be needed for the tedious task of taking statements?
It was a daunting prospect for any CID leader, and one she did not relish. But as she stood by the boot of a patrol car, pulling on the necessary forensic coveralls and overshoes, she admitted to herself that it would probably not be necessary.
The constable on sentry duty at the main gate stood back to let them in.
Barker had matters well-organised. Screens had been set up around the body, arc lights were in place, and teams of uniformed and forensic officers were combing the ground around the gates and the tree beneath which Shawforth’s body lay. Anderson was busy with the body, taking his samples, and above him, a photographer took the usual photographs from all angles.
Drake turned away at the sight of the MP’s face. The eyes were wide open, registering the same shock they had seen in Walston, the same disbelief he had seen in Becky.
Coming out of the shroud, he asked himself how that was possible, but one look around the vast garden, with its high hedgerows, intermittent trees and bushes, told him enough. The lighting from the house, twenty, thirty yards away, left large areas of the garden in near-total darkness, and there were any number of places where the attacker could secrete himself.
Sam joined him and Barker, and called Larne and Czarniak to join them.
She addressed the sergeants. “Uniformed should have Rachel at the station very soon. When they ring to tell us they have her, I want you down there, Paul, to supervise. I want every item of clothing she’s wearing taken from her, and sent by courier to the path lab. I want the results by mid-morning, not in a week’s time. Put Rachel in an interview room, make sure she has refreshments, but under no circumstances must anyone question her. Frank and I will deal with that when we get there.” She turned her attention to Larne. “How many people in the house?”
“Only two, ma’am. Stan Gregory. Mr Shawforth’s chauffeur, and general manservant, and Gregory’s wife, but she’s in bed.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Only briefly, ma’am. He told me that Mr Shawforth went out for a stroll around the garden about quarter past ten. Regular occurrence, apparently. Gregory went out looking for him half an hour later, and found him dead.”
“All right. I’ll speak to him. In the meantime, Larne, you’re in charge of the team out here. Right.” She waved an arm around the entire area. “Do the best you can in the dark, but come daylight, I want a search of the entire area, and extend it out into the lane and towards the village. If Rachel was wearing some kind of coverall, I want it found. Let’s get on with it.”
The junior officers were left to carry out their instructions, and once she and Drake had removed the forensic overalls and handed them to a uniform for disposal, they and Barker made their way to the house.
“What do we know about this man, Gregory?” Sam asked.
“Solid lad,” the inspector replied. “He’s worked for Shawforth for… oh… I don’t know. Years. He acts as Shawforth’s driver and general dogsbody. His wife is the cook, and cleaner, and housekeeper. They have rooms on the top floor of the place.”
“Any aggro between him and his boss?”
“Nope. When Shawforth’s in Westminster and you speak to Stan, he has nothing but good to say about his gaffer. If you’re thinking he’s bumped his boss off, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Sam. We both know who it is.”
Drake disagreed. “No, we don’t, and if you move too quickly and find that Rachel Jenner has a cast-iron alibi, you’ll look total bloody fools.”
It occurred to Drake that the house was furnished less for comfort, more as a statement of Shawforth’s affluence. The main living room was awash with glittering gold and silver pieces, ornately-framed photographs and paintings, crystal glass chandeliers, and ostentatious, hard-backed chairs and settees.
Centrepiece of the room was an intricately decorated, white fireplace, with a marble-tiled plinth supporting a coal-effect, gas-fired, convector heater. White faced and shaking, Stan Gregory sat before it, warming his hands on the airflow.
About forty-five years of age, he was a thickset man, medium height and strong, with large, rough hands. Carrying a slight trace of a paunch, he was a man who’d seen a lot of life, even if only in this small area of the coast.
“The wife’s in bed.” He had that broad, North Yorkshire accent, which played out the vowel sounds so let the word ‘wife’ came out as ‘waaf’. “She doesn’t know yet, and God knows how she’ll take it.”
Sam sympathised. “I don’t want to trouble you unduly, Mr Gregory, and I understand that you’ve given a statement to Sergeant Larne, but there are some things I’m not quite clear on. Firstly, what was Mr Shawforth doing in the garden?”
“Habit. Y’ knah. Every night he’d take a walk round the garden before turning in. He reckoned as how it helped calm him down, put all the hassles of the day behind him. He never missed. Rain, snow, it didn’t matter. He had to have that walk round the garden every night.”
It occurred immediately to Drake that a man of such rigid habits was an easy target for a premeditated attack.
Sam pressed on with her questions. “Mrs Shawforth was killed four years ago, and now Mr Shawforth’s gone. Who gets the house, the grounds, the business?”
Stan Gregory shrugged. “Why, I dain’t knah. His son, I suppose. The boss was married afore Barbara, y’see, and he had a lad, Simon, by his first wife.”
This was news to Sam. “And where will we find Simon?”
“America.” Gregory answered without hesitation. “He lives over there. Some kind of director, Vice President, or something, with a big advertising agency in New York. We don’t see much of him. Happen once a year he comes visiting, and even then he doesn’t come here. He stays in London.”
Drake’s mind jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Was there aggravation between father and son?”
“Yes. Simon didn’t like his dad. Truth is, not many people did like the boss, and to be honest, he could be a bit of an arsehole. But deep down, he was a good bloke to work for. He’s looked after me and our lass for the last fifteen years.” The manservant wagged a shaky, stubby finger at the two detectives. “This is that little bag, Jenner. She came shouting the odds earlier, and thumped him. You lot should have walled her up.”
It would have been too easy for Drake to get into an argument, but he refrained. For all his tough front, Gregory was a man in obvious distress, and Sam was not quite finished.
“Did you see or hear anyone or anything? Someone running away, perhaps, the sound of a car engine driving away?”
“Nay. Nowt.”
Sam reached into her purse and took out a business card, which she handed over. “That’s all for now, Mr Gregory. If you do think of anything else, if anything at all occurs to you, ring me direct on that number.”
She and Barker were prepared to leave, but Drake stayed them.
“One last question, Mr Gregory. You said Rachel Jenner was here earlier?”
“Aye. It was getting on for half past nine. She rang the bell, demanded to speak to the boss. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The boss went to the door, there was a bit of argy-bargy, she thumped him and stormed off. I wanted to go after her, but the boss said to leave it. He was gonna report it to you people tomorrow morning. She must have been hanging around in the lane, waiting for him to go for his nightly walk.”
Drake ignored much of the inconsequential, peripheral information. “They were arguing? About what?”
“Well, listen, I dain’t want you thinking I was in the habit of earwigging on the boss’s private conversations, but I heard her mention a text. She said something like, if you send me any more texts like this, I’ll have you.”
Drake nodded his thanks, and accompanied the detectives back out into the night, and hovered near the shroud, waiting for Anderson to emerge.
“Like it or don’t, Wes, Rachel is the only one in the frame.”
Drake was not ready to capitulate. “Give me one ounce of evidence, Sam, and I’ll concede. But at the moment, just like Olivia Bradley, you have nothing.”
Killing time did not rank high on Sam’s list of preferred activity, and while they waited for the doctor, the frustrations began to well up again. They needed a break; a hint, a tiny scrap of physical evidence which would point in a specific direction, and he had no doubt that there would be plenty of it, but the speed at which scientific support were not working did not encourage her.
At length, the doctor emerged, but he had little to report.
“No doubt about the cause of death. Gunshot wound from point-blank range. Pierced the heart. Exactly the same as the Walston incident the other night.”
Sam pressed Anderson. “Man or woman?”
“Either. How much strength does it take to pull the trigger?”
She thanked him, and all three made their way out to their respective vehicles. As he reached his car, Drake agreed to meet with them at eight-thirty the following morning, and at the same time, Sam’s phone rang.
“DCI Feyer.”
She listened, and her face fell.
“Thanks for telling me.” She cut the connection and stared at the two men. “Uniformed. They’re at Ruth Russell’s. Rachel Jenner’s gone. She shipped out at six o’clock this evening. No one has a bloody clue where she is.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sam was dozing in her office chair when Drake arrived at the police station at half past eight the following morning.
“You’ve been here all night?”
She nodded sleepily. “Nothing’s happened. I put out an all ports warning for Rachel’s arrest, but until she shows up…” She trailed off with a shrug.
Drake had hardly slept either, but it was not pressure of work which kept him awake. It was the fallibility of concentrating exclusively on Rachel Jenner, and it had taken him most of the night to work out the flaw in police position.
The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2) Page 22