by Jack Benton
‘Up the Hall of course. But good luck getting in there. You’re more likely to find her at work, if you could say her lording over that place is work. My Tom is always complaining about her, says she does nothing but sit on her fat—’ Cathy cut herself off. She brushed a hand through her hair, tucking a greasy strand behind her right ear. ‘Well, I guess that’s enough of that.’
‘What place?’
‘You been living under a bucket? Vincent’s. The abattoir. Second turning on the right past ours. Don’t worry if you miss it, you’ll smell it from a mile off.’
11
‘Vincent’s? No need for you to be going in there,’ Croad said, sitting across the table from Slim. ‘Do I need to remind you who hired you?’
‘I was told Ellie Ozgood worked there. If anyone’s spoken to Dennis Sharp, it’s her.’
Croad shook his head. ‘Mr. Ozgood wants Ellie left out of this. He doesn’t want the assault dredged up all over again.’
‘But—’
‘Save it, Mr. Hardy. I’m just the messenger but these is the rules of the job. Take it or leave it.’
Slim wanted to get up and walk away, but memories of listing houseboats and swinging boots made this place safe … for now.
‘As you say,’ he said. ‘Do something useful, won’t you? Get me a list of people with a connection to Dennis. Family, friends, acquaintances.’
Croad grinned. ‘You only had to ask.’ He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the table, his crusty workman’s fingers doing their best to smooth it out.
‘That should do you.’
It looked like a spider’s web of child’s handwriting. Slim stared it, hoping something legible or cognitive would make itself known. When nothing happened, he looked up at Croad.
‘Perhaps you could explain this to me,’ he said.
Croad jabbed a finger at a scribble that could have read anything.
‘Shelly Holland. Den’s mother.’
‘Remarried?’
‘Never was. Wedlock. Den took his dad’s name just to spite her.’
‘Oh. Where will I find her?’
Croad stood up. He waved a hand at Slim’s jacket hung over the back of a chair and headed for the door.
‘Taking you there now. If she’s still there.’
They took Croad’s car, but it was less than two minutes before they were getting out again, Croad parking up on an overgrown verge outside the churchyard. A line of old cottages faced them across a gravel driveway dotted with weeds, more rundown than Slim would have expected for such potentially lucrative properties.
‘Ozgood owns these too?’ Slim asked.
Croad waved them off with a dismissive hand. ‘All of them. Tenants in three. Fourth lot ran off after a year. Six months in arrears.’
‘I bet that went down well.’
‘Those of us accountable weren’t best pleased, but for Mr. Ozgood it was nothing more than a flea bite on his backside.’
‘The other three?’
‘Work at Vincent’s, like most round here.’
‘That’s Ozgood’s primary source of income?’
Croad shrugged. ‘One of them. You want to meet Shelly or not? This way.’
Croad led them up the steps to the churchyard gate. Slim paused as Croad pulled the gate out of entangling weeds and held it open.
‘I thought she was alive.’
‘She is. Last time I looked.’
The churchyard was wildly overgrown. Slim wondered if maintaining it was another of Croad’s duties and whether it was worth calling the old man on it. Ancient, listing stones appeared out of the swaying seed heads of long grass, lichen-crusted inscriptions barely legible.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone comes here,’ Slim said.
‘They don’t. Not anymore. Not a lot of people round here means not a lot of deaths. Den was one of the most recent and he’s six years’ buried already.’
‘Where is he?’
‘You’ll see.’
The path wound around the church’s rear, then branched off, heading over a low rise towards a line of trees separating it from a second, adjoining churchyard which looked more like a small field tacked on to deal with overflow. Slim tried to see past Croad to where the path went. He could only assume it cut right across the churchyard to a small estate on the other side, although he could see nothing except more fields.
‘Isn’t there a quicker way through?’ he asked Croad. ‘It looks pretty overgrown.’
‘We’re not going through,’ Croad said. ‘We’re going just up here.’
They passed through the line of trees. The secondary churchyard was a field after all. A line of fresher graves stood near the trees, but the rest of the field was untended. The path died a few metres out, buried by grass.
‘Careful of that,’ Croad said, as Slim nearly tripped on an electrical extension cord snaking through the grass. ‘One of the local do-gooders hooked her up with power.’
Slim frowned, questions forming on his lips, but Croad had already marched on ahead. Slim, wishing he’d worn waterproof trousers, picked his way more carefully in pursuit.
A few paces further along, Croad stopped. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Smells like cooking’s going on. Mean’s she’s home.’
Slim stared. The field sloped away towards a trickling stream. Halfway there, a green tarpaulin poked up out of the grass, supported by haphazard poles, some of which had broken through the plastic, which had then been patched up with packing tape. As they got closer, Slim saw one was a piece of old wood still with bent nails rusted into its grain, while another was actually part of a low-hanging tree branch, lifting and falling with the sough of the wind.
Up ahead, Croad stopped. He turned back to Slim with a jagged grin on his face.
‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked.
‘For what?’
‘Ex-military, aren’t you? Well, get ready to take cover. Bombs are about to start dropping.’
Slim gave the sky an involuntary glance. Croad took a step forward and shook the edge of the tarpaulin. It gave a crusty rustle and several handfuls of accumulated leaves fell free.
‘Shelly? You in there? It’s Croad. Brought someone who wants to ask about Den.’
From inside came a crunching sound like someone walking over dried newspaper. A corner of tarpaulin was thrown open to reveal a wild, ancient face framed by grey-blonde curly hair pushing out from beneath a blue bandana. Eyes narrowed and her lips drew back in a feral snarl. Hissing, she snapped at Croad, and then swung a stick at him. He took a step back out of the way, lifting his hand.
‘We’re all peaceful here,’ he said. ‘This here’s Mr. Hardy. Wants to ask about Den. Old school friend, wasn’t it?’
Slim made no effort to reply. Shelly turned her snarl on him, grime on her cheeks cracking and peeling off. She pursed her lips, appearing to blow him a kiss, and then she spat, a globule of mucus landing just short of his shoes.
‘Get away from here,’ she snapped, her voice husky and crackly, a sign of heavy cigarette or liquor abuse, or both.
‘I’m looking for Dennis Sharp,’ Slim said.
Shelly reached behind her as though searching for something to throw.
‘Fool thinks Den’s still alive,’ Croad snapped. ‘Show him, Shelly, so he’ll leave me alone.’
‘Get off my damn porch, you weasel,’ she spat at Croad, making him take another step back. ‘I used to like your smile but you’ve had it so far up Ozgood’s backside for so long it’s filled up with—’
‘I can come back at a better time,’ Slim said.
Shelly snarled and tossed something at him. It hit his thigh and bounced away. Slim frowned. A handmade doll, dirty and scuffed as though someone had dragged it along concrete with their foot. A head made out of shaped wire had little depressions and a glue residue where its eyes had been gouged out, while its mouth was covered by masking tape. With a frown, Croad lifted a foot and kicked it away in
to the grass.
‘Just show him, Shelly,’ the old man said. ‘Let him see it.’
Shelly threw a barrage of swear words at Croad, but stepped back a little and nudged something hidden under the tarp with a dirty, frayed shoe.
A little wooden cross.
‘My boy’s right here,’ she snapped. ‘Right here with me, where he should be. Where no one can do him no harm no more. Now get out of here and don’t come back.’
12
Slim was too traumatised by the visit with Shelly to speak as Croad drove back to the cottage. There was too much he would never forget—the woman’s wild eyes, the broken doll, and the little cross, strung with daisy chains which could have been made by a child.
‘You had enough for one day?’ Croad asked as he pulled up outside. ‘You get much from her? She hiding him, you think?’
Slim just shrugged. He nodded goodbye to Croad then climbed out and went inside, feeling a sense of relief as the car drove off.
For the first time in a couple of days he had a desperate craving for a drink, and sat at the table with his head in his hands, waiting for the feeling to pass.
Croad had brought him more lists, and as soon as he was able, he called a man named Evan Ford, whose name had DI in brackets beside it, followed by a note that said “in case you wanna check Den’s really dead”.
Ford agreed to meet Slim in the nearby village of Stickwool. Reluctant to have Croad accompany him, Slim hiked out to the main road, where he was lucky enough to wave down a passing local bus which dropped him off on the village’s outskirts.
Ford wore a light walking jacket and carried a stick over his knees. His hair stuck up in clumps, and oversized glasses made him look like a police officer failing poorly to go undercover. He stood up to shake Slim’s hand then hailed the lone waitress for two coffees before Slim could even see a menu.
‘I heard I might get a call from you at some point,’ Ford said by way of greeting. ‘You’re the one asking about Dennis Sharp? Something about an inheritance.’
‘It’s a small amount,’ Slim said, suppressing a sigh, feeling a growing frustration at his charade and Croad’s ability to get in ahead of him anywhere he might be able to ask some decent questions.
‘And you need proof of his death before you can pass it off to his next of kin?’
‘Something like that.’
Ford produced a plastic envelope. ‘I have a copy of his death certificate,’ he said. ‘It’s not the original, I’m afraid. That’s kept at the public records office. You could view it if you made an appointment.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ Slim looked over the document, feigning interest. It could easily be faked if he were at the centre of some bizarre conspiracy, but what would be the point?
‘You were the officer in charge of the investigation?’ Slim said, pushing the document back across the table and looking up. ‘Could I ask if there was any sign of foul play?’
Ford shook his head. ‘None. Dennis Sharp’s accident had all the hallmarks of a man driving too fast on a road he knew too well, getting cocky and making a mistake in poor driving conditions, a mistake that cost him his life.’
Slim leaned forward. ‘And there was no tampering to the car?’
‘It was an old car. Sharp wasn’t a wealthy man. Half a dozen things could have gone wrong on that car at any time. But were there obvious signs of foul play?’ Ford shook his head. ‘The investigation found none.’
‘I heard Sharp had recently been acquitted of a sexual assault on Ellie Ozgood, the daughter of a local landowner.’
‘Acquitted, no. It never went to trial. The girl withdrew her charge.’
‘I heard a rumour they were in a relationship.’
‘What does that have to do with an inheritance?’
‘Well,’ Slim said, ‘if a child had come out of their relationship, it would mean a whole lot.’
Ford shook his head. ‘I think you’ll be looking elsewhere for a next of kin.’
Slim nodded at the envelope. ‘What else do you have?’
‘Croad told me you would be persistent. Are all inheritance lawyers like you?’
Slim suppressed a smirk. ‘Oh, we’re sharks.’
‘I think his mother is his only living relative. We tried to contact the father listed on Dennis’s birth certificate, Julian Sharp. However, it was found he had died in the mid-nineties. Dennis had a younger brother too, but he is also deceased.’
Slim frowned. Death seemed to follow Dennis Sharp like a sun shadow. ‘I’ve met his mother,’ he said. ‘Without an official analysis, I’d gather that she is not of sufficiently sound mind to handle a trustee account. Are there no other siblings? Cousins? Perhaps a brother or sister born out of wedlock that was given up for adoption?’
Ford frowned. ‘That’s a strange thing to say.’
Slim shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced, that in these parts, there could be no blood relative besides a mother.’
‘Something of a snobbish attitude, don’t you think? You’re implying that country folk do nothing but breed.’
Slim learned forward, preparing his most condescending tone, aware it would sufficiently seal his masquerade as a city lawyer. ‘But don’t they?’
Ford stood up. ‘I think we’re done, Mr. Hardy. I hope my information was useful.’ Then, with his face turned theatrically upwards, he marched out.
13
Despite Croad’s warnings, after catching a bus back to Scuttleworth, Slim hiked up through the village. He climbed over a stile on to a public footpath, hiking uphill until he got his first sighting of the abattoir. Far from the crumbling shed of animal suffering and death he had always imagined of such places, it was a clean and compact industrial holding surrounded by an asphalt car park and ringed by a tall wire fence.
The years of hard drinking had laid waste to Slim’s old army physique, but his eyes were still good enough to make out the rectangular boxes on top of poles that had to be CCTV cameras. Objectively he didn’t blame them; the threat of intrusive activists was everywhere now, no matter how humane or ethical their production process was. Slim had nothing against animal rights, but would as soon as eat a steak as pet a cow on the head.
Still, big business was big business. And whether yours was cutting animals into slices or filing financial slices off pension schemes, it was rare to find a corporation without a skeleton hiding in a closet somewhere.
Slim pulled out his Nokia and unfolded a piece of paper tucked into his phone case behind the handset. A list of old army contacts, all those who’d gone on to achieve something yet didn’t hate his guts. Platoon brotherhood was tighter than blood, and he’d deposited a couple of favours over the years. In return he’d done what he could to work off his debts: exposing a cheating partner for one, establishing a retirement fund for another, even helping erect a shed for a third.
He called up Donald Lane, an old friend from the military who had set up an intelligence consultancy in London after leaving the armed forces. Donald specialised in working with the police and the government, but had helped Slim out on previous cases in the past.
‘Don, it’s Slim. Been a few months, you good?’
‘Slim? Good to hear from you, mate. I’m me, as always. Are you still you? Holding it together?’
Slim smiled. ‘Actually, the best in a while. Don, I need a background check done on a company.’
‘That all? Easy. What are you looking for?’
‘At this stage, I’m not sure. It might have nothing at all to do with my investigation, but then again it could be a cornerstone. You can’t tell, can you?’
‘So you’re after anything, then? Rumours, accusations, tabloid stuff, that kind of thing?’
‘That’s about it. You get bingo if you come up with any filed lawsuits. Anything that suggests some kind of wrongdoing. I’m looking for the kind of stuff that might have leached out into the surrounding community. Caused hard feelings, created grudges. That kind of s
tuff.’
‘Leave it with me. I know a man who works in the financial press who has his ear to the ground. I’m guessing this is top secret?’
‘Say no more than you have to. I’m in the employ of a dangerous man. The problem I have is not knowing how dangerous.’
Don laughed. ‘How do you get yourself into these spots?’
Slim couldn’t help but grin. ‘I have to take what I get offered. Perhaps it’s time I updated my website.’
‘Last time I checked, you didn’t have one.’
‘That’s what I mean.’
Slim gave Don the details, then thanked him and hung up. He pulled another piece of paper from the back of his phone case and smoothed it out. In far better condition than the other, this was his recently written schedule of tasks.
Croad had drawn up a list of pretty much everyone within a five mile radius who might have crossed paths with Dennis Sharp at some point. Slim had narrowed it down to the ten people most likely to know something, but it was a vague list at best and still far too broad. Slim felt like he was being asked to carry out the kind of investigation a police force would assign to a whole team. If he wanted to discover the mysterious blackmailer’s true identity, he had to move fast, and he felt like he was treading in quicksand.
It didn’t help that the one person who might know something—Ellie Ozgood—was seemingly off-limits.
Slim frowned. He felt like someone was pranking him, as though he was waiting for Jeremy Beadle to jump out from behind a tree and scream ‘surprise!’ while cackling with laughter.
The blackmailer was threatening to expose Ozgood. But expose what?
It could hardly be Sharp’s murder. If so, it would be far safer and make more sense to go to the police, somewhere upcountry perhaps, where Ozgood had no influence.
No, it had to be personal.
But what?
14
Croad leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, one finger poking out of a hole and playing with a frayed seam of his jeans.