Murder of Convenience

by Carrie Marsh

  Which he seemed to have trouble finding.

  He raised a brow at Ginsberg. “I think we can maybe move on,” he suggested quietly.

  He nodded. “Okay. Thanks for your help, Will. Off you go.”

  The man looked at him as if he turned into a walrus or something else unexpected and then abruptly said a hasty goodbye. He left quickly and Gilding sighed.

  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Okay, Ginsberg. What have we got?”

  Ginsberg raised a brow and looked at the notepad he had on the table in front of him. They were sitting in the local sports club where the team tended to meet after their games. Alfred, the barman, was not there – he had said they could ask some questions and then promptly headed off. Besides, it was midday and the bar was closed. Gilding looked at the Regency-style ceiling with its moldings and white plaster, decorative and genteel, and sighed.

  “...so Stuart thought he was planning a trip or something, but no one else has any idea about what he might have been doing or if anything new was going on.”

  “Great,” Gilding sighed. He was too tired to infuse the statement with all but the thinnest irony. “Anything else? His mood?”

  “Well, as you know, sir, most people thought he was happy. He doesn't seem to have been in a bad mood, certainly. Though Geoffrey did mention that he was excited about something.”

  “Excited?”

  “Well, excited in the sense that he thought he was planning something. Said he heard him on the phone once, and he was excitable. Waving his hands around, saying yes a lot. Swore once, too, apparently.”

  “Cambridge graduates swear?” Gilding was amused.

  “Like troopers, sir,” Ginsberg smiled. “I have a mate who was there. Great guy. He does know some words that he probably didn't hear in his college, though...”

  “Or probably did,” Gilding countered, rubbing his temples. “You know Hargreaves, after all. So you can't tell me highly educated people don't swear.”

  “No, sir. I'd say they swear even worse.”

  Gilding laughed. “True. If he's anything to go by. Which reminds me. Where is he?”

  “He was in earlier, sir. Said he'd taken some things down to the lab. Also went to see a mate in Norwich at the university and took our photos along.”

  “Okay,” Gilding raised a brow. “Making progress, he is.”

  “He is,” Ginsberg agreed.

  “Not sure about us, mind you,” Gilding countered. “So what have we learned? We know he was planning a trip somewhere. Or something.”

  “Didn't need to be a trip, no, sir.” Ginsberg agreed. “He just said he was planning something.”

  “More activism, more like,” Gilding sighed. “Remember the last time he had a protest?”

  “I do, sir. We were scrubbing paint off that wall for weeks.”

  “Should have got him to do it, mind,” Gilding opined. “Would have stopped him even thinking of doing it again.”

  “Would have. We did give him community service, though.”

  “True. I think he liked it.” He chuckled mirthlessly.

  “He certainly didn't seem to mind. He was a good guy,” Ginsberg said soberly.

  “He was.” Gilding leaned back in his chair. It was miserable, actually, that the village had lost two of its best people in a stroke – or so Gilding felt. Yes, perhaps they were some of the most eccentric, but they were also the most colorful. He missed them.

  “We should get back to the station,” Ginsberg said after a moment.

  “We should,” Gilding agreed. He looked at his watch. “It's past lunchtime. And I hope Hargreaves will be in later. I need to see him. And I need to ask him if he has any Ibuprofen left.”

  “He keeps it somewhere in his office, sir,” Ginsberg said quietly. “I've seen him use it sometimes.”

  “Well, I'm not about to take it from him,” Gilding said. “It would be theft. Not unless I'm desperate, anyhow.”

  Ginsberg chuckled. “Then you would have a mitigating factor, sir. I would let you off if it was me.”

  Gilding grinned. “Thanks.”

  “Not at all, sir. You would do the same for me.”

  They both laughed as, together, they walked down the stairs and to the car.

  As Ginsberg drove them to the station – Gilding had decided not to drive, seeing as the headache was making him unable to see clearly – he leaned back in the chair and wondered what Hargreaves was up to.

  Whatever he learned from the photographs would doubtless be interesting. All he had to show for himself was the knowledge that Grant had something planned during the weeks before his death.

  He wondered what it was. It could have been a plan to run away with Janet. It could have been a protest. He almost wished the man had carried it out – he never thought he would miss his hooligan-like behavior, but he did: it brought a certain excitement to the life of a small village. And it was the kind of excitement Gilding would have welcomed – the peaceful kind. These deaths were more disturbance than anyone should have to handle.

  “I hope whatever Hargreaves learns about the accident can help to shed some light on this story.”

  The car pulled up outside the police station and stopped. The sun had come out and the place looked almost inviting, a small cottage-like building nestled below tall coniferous trees.

  Gilding stretched his legs and smelled the air as he alighted. He turned to Ginsberg to thank him.

  “Thanks, Ginsberg. See you inside. I'll probably stay late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have to talk to Hargreaves when he gets back.”

  Gilding headed slowly up the path to the station, enjoying the afternoon sun and hoping against hope that Hargreaves would be there somehow and be able to share some Ibuprofen to help the pain in his head. To say nothing to shedding some light on this difficult case. It was already murky enough.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GREASE, RUST AND INFORMATION

  GREASE, RUST AND INFORMATION

  The village mechanic-shop was still open when Marcie reached it. She was glad to have arrived a few hours before the funeral, knowing Dennis would close the shop and attend. She glanced at the vintage car wheel mounted on the top of the wall: she presumed Dennis had put it there for decorative reasons, though she wasn't sure if it was working.

  “Hello?” she peered into the yard around the back where two very old cars stood. She thought she could see someone lying under the third car – a newer model of Ford – parked on her left. No one replied so she pulled the bell rope.

  Someone groaned and slid out from underneath the car. She heard a muttered swear word and bit back a grin. Dennis stood and wiped darkened hands on his trousers and then headed to the gate.

  “Who's it?”

  Marcie smiled evenly. “It's me.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she saw him instantly deflate, embarrassment making him redden like tomatoes.

  “Ma'am!” Dennis said, furiously combing his hair out of his eyes and leaving a trail of grease on his forehead. He wiped his hand on his trousers again, cursing, and turned to face her, holding out a hand to shake. “So pleased to see you. What can I do for you?”

  Marcie smiled. “I wanted to ask about the part you ordered for Silver last month,” she said evenly. Her Mercedes E-class, which she drove everywhere, was called Silver and Dennis had some time ago ordered a new fan belt. Marcie knew it didn't really need any replacing – not for ages, Dennis had only ordered it because he found it cheaply on eBay, but she needed a pretext to talk to Dennis now about the accident.

  “It's on its way, or so I believe. Held up by customs, most like,” he said morosely.

  She smiled. “Don't worry about it – we won't be needing it for ages, will we? I just wanted to check it was on its way. Parts for these older cars are hard to come by nowadays, aren't they?” Her Mercedes was a classic from perhaps the early seventies, and she loved it.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Dennis said respe
ctfully. He located his mutton-cloth and covertly wiped his hands free of the grease.

  “We haven't had a good time for cars in this village,” Marcie began softly.

  “No,” Dennis agreed somberly. He reached the pathway that led from the yard to the cottage – he lived behind the workshop – and looked up at her. “Could I offer you some tea? I do like a good cuppa, and it's still nippy out here.” He mimed shivering, and grinned at Marcie.

  Marcie nodded. “That would be very nice, thank you.”

  She followed him along the path of white paving stones, the grass rank and tall around them, toward the side door.

  Inside the house, the place was a surprising haven of cleanliness and comfort. Marcie settled herself carefully on the bar stool while Dennis headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The place was a little garish for Marcie's liking and the furniture was simple but it was well kept and cared for and a contrast to the disordered yard.

  “You read about the second murder?” Marcie asked. She heard Fudge, the retriever come in and smiled at him as he went to his companion, resting his head on Dennis's leg in a caring manner.

  “Read about it?” Dennis looked at her. “I found the body, ma'am.” he still looked shocked, now that Marcie thought about it. His eyes were wide, and she could almost see the white around the iris.

  “I didn't know that,” she said gently. “Poor man.”

  “It gave me the fright of my life, I can tell you that, ma'am,” he said, reaching for the kettle and adding three or four tea-bags to the pot.

  Fudge followed him across the kitchen and he paused to stroke his silken fur. “It wasn't me who found it – the body – actually. It was Fudge here. And thank Heaven he did it. Imagine if it'd been there when the school kids came down.”

  Marcie nodded soberly. “True,” she said. “Good for Fudge.”

  “Aye,” Dennis agreed, filling the bowl in the corner with fresh dog biscuits before coming back to the bar. He stirred the tea and reached for cups and saucers and some biscuits from the barrel on the shelf near Marcie's head.

  “I heard the police think the deaths are linked?” Marcie asked. He had finished making the tea and carried the tray through to her.

  “I think they'd be right,” Dennis said carefully. “Two deaths? On that road? There haven't been any collisions there for twenty years. I should know,” he added. “I'm the blighter has to fix them when they hit.”

  Marcie agreed, inclining her head as she sipped at her tea.

  “You think it unlikely these were accidents?”

  “Don't see how they could have been, ma'am. No way you'd do that by accident. And especially not twice, you see.”

  “You looked at both cars?”

  “I looked at the first one. It's in Ralph's yard. I was over there for spare parts and we got talking, just after it arrived, like. Police have told him not to touch the thing, see? But we had a look at it together, and I know what I know.”

  “Which is?”

  “Something went into the back of that and pushed it off the road. Two big dents in the back, too – you can see the thing had a grille on the front.”

  “It was a big truck?” Marcie asked.

  “Not very big,” Dennis countered quickly. “The back end of the car was pretty much buckled, but if something big had done it, going at that rate, I don't like to think how bad it would have been.” he shuddered. “I'd guess this thing to be about the size of an SUV. You know, like the one the postman drives. Only he doesn't have a grille up on front,” he added slowly.

  “I'm glad,” Marcie said quickly. “I wouldn't like to think of Postman Ryan being quite so dangerous.”

  They both laughed, though Dennis stopped soon and leaned back, looking thoughtful as he stared past Marcie and into the dark beyond her.

  “What?” she asked curiously.

  “You know, ma'am,” he confided. “I had a look at the other car.”

  “Yes? You mean Grant Hiddingh's VW?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Don't tell the police, like,” he added hastily. “I know laypeople aren't supposed to go poking about at scenes of crime, touching the evidence, you know, the like.”

  “Yes,” Marcie said gently.

  “Well, I had a few minutes to wait while they came up from the village and got to the park, so I had a look around. Saw what I could see.”

  “And?”

  “And the nose of this one was crumpled, like, so it looks to me as if something waited and then jumped out. Hit it on the side and front. Pushed it off the road. The front and the front right side is pretty much crushed. The car slid sideways and the driver went through the window. Ended up lying at the pond. Poor guy,” he added.

  “So you think someone drove into him deliberately, approaching from up ahead, like this?” Marcie made fists of both hands and oriented them the way she believed from his story that the cars collided.

  “That's it! By, you're a sharp one, ma'am. So you are.”

  Marcie grinned. “Thank you, Dennis. Anything else?”

  “You mean, did I see anything on the car?” he paused. “Well, my opinion – and it's just an opinion, mind so don't go telling the police, I can't stand police – is that it was the same car.”

  Marcie stared at him. “You mean, the same person drove into both cars?” She had assumed it must have been, simply because the two deaths had happened on successive days and the two deceased people had known each other before. But to have it confirmed was still shocking.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Judging how heavy the thing must've been,” he said shortly. “I know cars and crashes, and a thing that'll do that to the nose of a car is probably also a heavy thing like an SUV. But not any heavier. Also, this thing had a grille as well.

  “Mm?” Marcie was fascinated. She had forgotten about her tea and only remembered it when he lifted his and took a big swig from the small flower-wreathed cup.

  “I know because you can see again a little bump where the side of it pressed deeper into the metal than the rest,” Dennis confirmed.

  “Fascinating,” Marcie breathed. She meant it. She finished her tea, her mind working furiously. She glanced down at her watch just then and looked up, shocked.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go – I need to fetch things from the bakers and then head up to the manor,” she said, already standing. “Thank you for the tea, Dennis. It was very good.”

  “Not at all, ma'am. Not at all. It was good to talk.”

  “It was. It was very intriguing. Thank you,” Marcie said frankly.

  He smiled and Marcie waved as she slipped into the driver's seat.

  All the way up the hill through Stowe and to the manor she kept on thinking about the same thing. Two people had died. Two young people who knew each other. They had been killed by the same person.

  At that moment, there was only one person she could suspect, and she did it with a sinking heart: Richard Fleet, Janet's husband.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SEARCHING FURTHER AFIELD

  SEARCHING FURTHER AFIELD

  “...and you have no idea where she might have been beforehand?”

  “No. No, officer. I don't know.”

  Inspector Gilding felt his own heart clench. He was sitting in the small, poorly-lit sitting room of Richard Fleet. Somewhere in the background he could hear music from a music box. Tamsyn was in the next room, he guessed. The sound was poignant, a happy, childlike sound that had no place in this dark space of death. The whole house had an air of sadness that clung to it and he shifted on the couch, feeling uncomfortable. It was an atmosphere he knew all too well.

  “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “You knew she had plans to go somewhere, though?”

  Richard hesitated, looking down at his hands. “No. I didn't know. Officer, you know about me and Janet!” he said it harshly, eyes wide. He looked, Gilding thought, a tormented soul. “You know I h
ardly knew where she was sometimes. It was the village joke...” he looked down at his hands, throat tight.

  “I am aware you and Mrs. Fleet had your marriage difficulties,” Gilding said cautiously. He gave Ginsberg a glance, who made a note. He had not known Richard knew the particulars of his wife's lifestyle choices, and the evident anger he still felt about it made him wonder. If it was a crime of passion, I know who was responsible.

  “Marriage difficulties! Ha.” The sound was bitter. Richard stared into Gilding's face. “It's the marriage part I didn't know. Or anyone else in the village, either. They must have laughed about it behind closed doors...” he looked at his hands, one clenching the other.

  Gilding raised a brow. He had loved his wife Laine more than life. When he had just lost her, he wouldn't have cared what anyone thought. But it seemed to be Richard's main concern and that disturbed him slightly.

  “I am sorry you feel that way,” he said carefully.

  “Ha,” Richard laughed again. He looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red, his skin grayed from sleeplessness. Gilding had to admit he was suffering. He just found something in his attitude out-of-place. “Sorry won't bring her back, will it, Inspector.”

  “No.”

  Ginsberg glanced at Gilding, who ran a hand through his hair and inclined his head. He, like Ginsberg, wanted to get this interview finished as soon as possible. The whole atmosphere in this place drained him and he did not like Richard Fleet at the best of times.

  “One more question,” Gilding began carefully. “Did your wife still have contact with any friends and family outside the village? Anyone she might have planned to stay with?”

  “No.” Richard shook his head. “Her family were all down-and-out. You must know the Cauley family?”