Geoffrey Ling thumped the table angrily.
‘Why pick on him? What about the bloody Friends of Cattesmoor, as they call themselves? How many of them came nosing round when it got about that we were away? That preposterous medieval document — probably a fake — had been found which lost me the right-of-way case in the end. I’d had a letter from Akerman, their secretary, suggesting that we meet to discuss the demarcation of the Possel Way through my newtake, and public access to the remains of the chapel. Naturally I wrote back telling him to go to hell. I’d stake everything I’ve got that he came along. Brought that damned woman Grant with him, I daresay. She was behind it all.’
There was a momentary silence before Pollard abruptly switched to another topic.
‘What made you open up the old well, Mr Ling?’
‘Because I saw somebody else had been monkeying about with the sheet iron cover. The last time I’d looked at it was when I bought the farm. It was partly covered with grass and weeds then.’
‘The lie indirect,’ Pollard said thoughtfully. ‘When I asked you if you had arranged for anyone to come out to the farm while you were abroad, you said no, although you had since found out that your daughter had fixed with Mr Grant to keep an eye on the place. Asked about traces of unauthorised entry to your property, you denied having found any. Your defence there would be that you didn’t know for certain that the well cover had been moved during that period.’
Geoffrey Ling grinned maliciously.
‘Right on both counts. You can’t get me on either of ’em. Well, get moving. I’ve made a statement. What are you going to charge me on?’
‘Charge you?’ Pollard’s tone conveyed a lack of urgency. ‘With failing to report finding human remains on your property? I rather doubt if that would be considered necessary. Or with deliberately obstructing the police in their enquiries? It’s possible you might have to face a charge of that at some stage. But at the moment it’s a matter of academic interest until we’re satisfied that your statement stands up.’
Geoffrey Ling’s expression of incredulity changed to one of furious indignation.
‘What the hell do you mean?’ he shouted. ‘Haven’t I made a formal statement and signed the blasted thing?’
‘You have. It will be confirmed or disproved by the pathologist who is examining the bones and other things we found in the well, to see if they tie up with the skeleton. You wouldn’t expect us to swallow your statement whole, surely, Mr Ling? You’ve quite a reputation for practical jokes, haven’t you? Thank you for coming in. We needn’t keep you any longer this evening. Inspector Toye, see Mr Ling out, will you?’
Toye returned shortly looking gratified.
‘He went out faster than he came in,’ he reported with satisfaction. ‘Spot on, you were, sir. Disgraceful, the way he’s obstructed us. It doesn’t seem right to me for him to get away with it.’
‘We’ve got bigger fish to fry, old chap,’ Pollard said absently, without looking up from an elaborate doodle he was executing on the back of an envelope. ‘Sorry, no joke intended.’
‘Meaning Akerman, sir?’
‘Akerman, anyway. If it turns out that he did change his car soon after Easter last year, I suppose we pull him in for questioning. But I’d feel a lot happier if something in the way of a motive emerged. At the moment there are so many unanswered questions, aren’t there? If it was deliberate murder, how was it done and why? If there was some sort of accident, why on earth didn’t a man of Akerman’s status call the police? Why this fixed stare and furrowed brow?’
‘You said “Akerman, anyway”,’ Toye insisted. ‘Do you mean you think somebody else could be involved?’
Pollard hesitated.
‘Yes, I think it’s possible,’ he said at last. ‘As it stands at the moment his behaviour seems so motiveless. Only don’t ask me who or how, will you? I haven’t a clue. Well, anyhow, we’ll start off tomorrow by checking Peter Grant’s alibi. I’ll leave a chit here for Crookshank, asking him to find out about any change of car by Akerman soon after Easter ’75... Come in! Oh, here’s the pathologist’s report on the metatarsals and whatever... Yes, they belong to the skeleton all right. I’m glad the report’s only just come. I enjoyed deflating that old blighter Ling.’
He pulled the telephone towards him, grinning at the thought of how Isabel Dennis would have enjoyed the final stages of the Ling interview, and dialled her number.
‘Tom again, Aunt,’ he said. ‘Can you supply a spot of gen? We’re interested in any damage to the ancient monuments on Cattesmoor in the weeks after Easter last year. You said something about a wayside cross being pulled down, didn’t you? Would there be reports of anything of this sort in the minutes of the Friends’ Committee that might give an idea of when it happened?’
‘Yes, there would,’ Isabel Dennis replied. ‘George Akerman always reports damage, and any making good he’s had done. He may not have discovered it himself, but people let him know as the secretary if they find anything wrong. Hold on, and I’ll have a look at last year’s minutes: we meet on the third Wednesday of the month. The wayside cross business was the year before, though.’
Pollard covered the mouthpiece of the receiver with his hand as he waited.
‘If you’d been Akerman, and we’re right about what happened at the Wanton Wenches, how soon would you have reported the damage?’ he asked Toye, who had been listening in with interest.
‘Not at the April meeting. Not unless someone else had written in about it. I wouldn’t want to draw attention to the place so soon, just in case anybody’d seen anything of the hippy. I’d wait till the May meeting. That would be getting on for a couple of months after the Easter bank holiday when I’d normally have a look round, so it would be quite usual for me to be up on the moor again.’
That’s what I thought,’ Pollard agreed. ‘And after the Easter holiday there wouldn’t be so many — hullo, yes, I’m still here, Aunt...’
No damage had been mentioned at the April 1975 committee, Isabel Dennis told him, but on 21 May George Akerman had reported that someone had lit a fire right up against one of the stones of the Wanton Wenches Circle at the Biddle Bay end of the moor. The stone was badly scorched, and the turf at the base burnt. This had been cut out and replaced, but little could be done about the stone...
Pollard commiserated, thanked her, and diverted the conversation into other channels. Finally he rang off, wondering if it had struck his astute aunt as surprising that he had not applied to George Akerman in his official capacity for the information.
Chapter 9
Roger Steadman, senior partner of Steadman, Hillard and Grant, Architects, had a beaky face, alert brown eyes and greying hair worn long enough to curl up at the back. The general effect was streamlined and gave the impression that he had been stopped while in rapid movement. He sat looking incredulously at Pollard across his desk.
‘Let me get this clear,’ he said. ‘Some type’s been writing anonymous letters implying that Peter Grant —’ he gave the name slight emphasis — ‘is involved in the death of the chap whose skeleton turned up in the Starbarrow kistvaen. Right?’
‘Dead right, Mr Steadman,’ Pollard replied. ‘We’re now satisfied that the chap was seen at the old lookout on the cliffs on Easter Monday last year, and we’re interested in the following Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Mr Ling and his family returned home from a holiday abroad on the Friday, and the chances that the body was put into the disused well on the property after their return are remote. We’re checking on anyone known to have been at Starbarrow Farm during that Easter week. Mr Peter Grant had an understanding with Miss Kate Ling that he would keep an eye on the house while it was empty, and admits that he was there on the evening of Easter Monday, on his way back from playing in a tennis tournament at Biddle Bay, but states that he did not visit the farm again before the Lings came back. He’s given us an account of his movements on the Tuesday — 1 April, that is — but says he cannot remember what
work he was doing on the two following days. Have you a record of his professional engagements?’
By this time Roger Steadman’s incredulity had changed to indignation.
‘This is absolutely preposterous!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not only the suggestion that he’s implicated in a murder, but that anybody’s making it. There’s obviously some nut around. Still, I suppose it’s your job to investigate this sort of thing. Yes, we keep our appointment books for a year or two. I’ll ask for all of ’em to make it less obvious.’
He picked up a desk telephone and gave an order. In the rather uncomfortable silence which descended Pollard glanced round the room. Photographs and maps were pinned on the walls, and plans in preparation were spread out on a table in a window, amid a clutter of drawing implements and rolls of unused pale blue enkalon. The door opened to admit a secretary carrying three slim foolscap-size books in hard covers.
‘Thanks, Miss Kellow,’ Roger Steadman said, taking them. ‘Keep everybody at bay for half an hour, will you?’
Before the door had closed behind her, he had opened one of the three desk diaries and was leafing through its pages.
‘Week beginning Monday, 31 March, 1975,’ he said shortly. ‘May I ask how long you assume it would take to drive out to Starbarrow Farm, kill somebody, get a cover off a disused well, chuck the body down the shaft, make everything good, and then get back?’
‘At least three hours,’ Pollard replied. ‘Longer, if there was a row first.’
‘Well then, you’re going to find it bloody difficult to pin this murder on to Peter Grant, let me tell you. On Tuesday, 1 April, he started in as a partner in this firm. Previously he’d only been an assistant. I can swear that he spent the best part of the morning shifting to his new room with all his gear. In the afternoon he was due at a site meeting at Candleford at 2.30. That’s thirty miles away, and he couldn’t have been back here before 4.30, and would have his letters to sign, and so on. Bit late to start out at five unless he was going to finish the job in the dark, of course... On the Wednesday morning we had a pretty lengthy partnership meeting, and went out to look at a site on the outskirts of the town. Grant had a client’s appointment at 3.30, and was due at a Stoneham tennis club committee at 5.30. He’s the secretary, incidentally. Naturally I can’t swear that he went to the meeting, but you could ask the treasurer, James Cantripp. He’s retired and lives at Churstow. On Thursday morning Grant had an appointment to meet a client at the chap’s house, here in Stoneham, and a date with one of the Planning Committee at the Council Offices at 3.15. He came to supper at my house. My son, who’s a friend of his, was home for the night. Take a look for yourself.’
Roger Steadman pushed the appointments book across the desk. Pollard studied it carefully.
‘These ticks beside the professional engagements mean that they were kept, I take it?’ he asked.
‘Yes. One’s secretary keeps a record. If you turn on a few pages you’ll probably come to a fixture with a cross beside it, showing a cancellation.’
‘Thanks,’ Pollard said, returning the book. ‘This confirms Mr Grant’s statement, and seems conclusive, apart from the one point of the tennis club committee. I’m grateful for your co-operation, Mr Steadman.’
‘Sorry if I’ve been a bit abrasive.’ Roger Steadman held out his cigarette case. ‘But honestly, if you knew Peter Grant as I do... What a fantastic business it is. Macabre and mad, and the only handy non-compos type, old Ling, apparently not in the running at all. However, I mustn’t talk out of turn. Obviously you can’t discuss the situation. I suppose there’s no other useful gen I could produce for you?’
‘There’s just one possibility that’s occurred to me,’ Pollard replied, ‘and it’s probably absurdly far-fetched. I suppose you can’t think of a dissatisfied client who’s a bit unbalanced, and has a grievance against Mr Grant? I’m thinking of the anonymous letters.’
‘It’s by no means all that far-fetched. You wouldn’t believe how bloody-minded some clients can be if anything goes wrong, or even if it doesn’t. But Peter’s still quite a youngster, and one keeps in touch with him over his jobs, and I can’t think of anyone at all who’s got it in for him on professional grounds. And in his social life he’s very popular locally. In fact, the only person I know of that he’s having difficulty with is his sister, over at Upway Manor. Their aunt left it to them jointly — always a mistake, and likely to lead to trouble, in my opinion. Anyway, Peter wants to live there when he marries Kate Ling in August, and he’s offered either to buy her out at a proper valuation, or have the place divided into two quite separate units. It lends itself perfectly well to sub-division, as it happens, and he’s drawn up an excellent plan, but she seems to be digging her toes in.’
‘Why?’ Pollard probed. ‘Surely it’s far too large for her on her own?’
‘She fancies herself as the sort of local leading lady that her aunt was. Competent benevolent finger in every pie — you know. It’s ludicrous, of course. Old Heloise was a great girl, if a shade bossy, and Davina just hasn’t got what it takes. I’ve advised Peter to stand his ground and consult his solicitors. However, I can’t see Davina trying to get her brother charged with murder. By the way, does he know that you’ve been seeing me about his alibis?’
‘You weren’t mentioned personally, but he saw at once that I’d want access to office records.’
‘Good. I’ll try to buck him up. I hope you’ll be able to give him an all-clear shortly?’
Pollard assured him that this would be done at the earliest possible moment, and left soon afterwards. He had hardly crossed the threshold when Peter Grant dropped out of his mind. He threaded his way through the shoppers crowding the pavements, oblivious of the occasional curious glances he attracted, his thoughts on his visit to Upway Manor. The scent of roses came back to him, and the feel of turf under his feet as he stood on the edge of the lawn, listening to the sharp irregular cutting sound coming from the lighted window open at the bottom. In response to an inner uneasiness he concentrated on the memory, but although so vivid it was non-productive. He found himself walking into the police station, and forcibly switched his attention to the outcome of Toye’s visit to the Mayfield Garage.
Toye had already returned, and reported that Peter Grant had been in and signed his statement. He himself hadn’t done too badly at the Mayfield Garage. George Fry, the foreman, remembered Mr Grant coming in just before knocking-off time on 1 April, last year, because of giving him a preview of the BMW. He’d fallen flat for it, and said he was going right back to put it to his auntie, old Miss Grant, and that he’d spend the evening tarting up his Marina before getting Mr Callington to have a look at it next day. Fry had repeated several times that Mr Grant was a real nice young chap, one of the best.
‘I managed to bring the conversation round to changing your car,’ Toye went on, ‘and Fry had plenty to say about choosing your time, bearing in mind the make and the question of wear and tear. No sense in getting a brand new model every year if it was going to get the hell of a bashing the way you ran it. It’d pay you better to run your old one a bit longer if you weren’t having trouble with it, as he’d told Mr Akerman. Of course, I didn’t know a thing about Akerman, and got a long story about him driving all over Cattesmoor on this conservation racket, and insisting on trading in a roadworthy Volvo Estate last summer for a new one, against his — George Fry’s — advice. I didn’t press for exact dates.’
‘Nice work,’ Pollard said. ‘We ought to get the exact date sometime this morning from the licensing people. I haven’t done too badly either.’
He gave Toye the gist of his conversation with Roger Steadman, and they agreed that the job had better be rounded off by a visit to James Cantripp, treasurer of the Stoneham Tennis Club. It was settled that Toye should go out to Churstow, while Pollard made a provisional plan for tackling George Akerman.
As soon as he was alone Pollard flung himself down at the table, resting his elbows on it and cupping his ch
in in his hands. Why, he asked himself, had Davina Grant suddenly loomed up in his mind, ousting George Akerman from the centre of the stage? To his surprise and discomfiture his mind promptly came up with an answer: her pretensions and posturings had made her so ludicrous that he had not really taken her very seriously. Clumsy self-assertion, girlish infatuation for George Akerman, and hopeless lack of chic in spite of expensive clothes had added up to the stage figure of the frustrated spinster, always good for a laugh but little else. Mercifully his professional experience had now come to his rescue at last.
He turned over in his mind what Bill Worth, Henry Landfear and Roger Steadman had said about her. They had all drawn basically the same picture: a young woman outshone by a likeable, able and wealthy aunt. Limited and immature, too, Pollard thought, but fanatically determined to make the grade. How did George Akerman fit in, he wondered? Davina Grant was obviously sexually and emotionally frustrated, and equally obviously throwing herself at his head. And Upway Manor was the essential setting for the life she was struggling to achieve ... hence her flat refusal either to share it with her brother or to let him buy her out...
Pollard shifted his position and sat scowling at the opposite wall. All this added up, he decided, and fitted in with the anonymous letters and the telephone call about Peter washing his car. It had been a mistake to assume she had not been responsible for them because she would hardly want to involve him in a charge of homicide. Wasn’t the game to get him talked about and discredited, so that he might decide to leave the neighbourhood, and agree to her buying his share of the house? Crude and clumsy, but so was she. Ruthless, too, Pollard thought, remembering the vicious destruction of the house conversion plans. Not for the first time he wondered about the respective contributions of heredity and environment to warped personalities. Perhaps Davina Grant’s childhood had been difficult, and on top of it had come the shock of losing her parents even before the frustration of life with her aunt had started. The phrase ‘history repeats itself’ came to his mind. It was immediately followed by an idea so startling that he found that he was holding his breath...
Suddenly While Gardening Page 12