Cross walked down the lane which was at the centre of the dispute between Moreton and his neighbours. It passed close to the old man’s kitchen window before curving off to the right. The crops in the fields opposite the cottage had been harvested. Big black bales of plastic covered silage littered the countryside like giant liquorice sweets. It was good to see crops being grown. Cross was dismayed at the current trend for farmers to lease out their land to energy companies who then filled them with rows of solar panels like some sort of technological terracotta army. It seemed a strange choice of priorities when food was still at a premium in the world. But then again, farmers had to make a living.
The Cotterells lived in a converted barn at the end of the lane. The border of their property was clearly marked by new light-coloured gravel that had been laid up to the house. It was a mostly wooden structure, stained fashionably black, with a large glass panel in the middle of its façade. The door was to one side of this and so carefully concealed as to be almost invisible. There was a matt black intercom box to one side. Cross pressed the button.
‘Hello?’ said a female voice.
‘DS Cross, Avon and—’
‘Push the right side of the door,’ he was instructed.
There was a delicate click of a lock being released. Cross pressed on the right-hand side. The door was huge, at least six feet wide and ten feet tall. It was cantilevered and opened on a central axis. Its movement was fluid and involved almost no effort on Cross’s part. He then walked across the polished cement floor of the small hall, into a large open-plan living space. This was no comforting country chic interior. It was mostly exposed concrete and mid-century furniture. Nothing was out of place. It took the notion of minimalism to an extreme. Warner was sitting on a sofa that looked like it had come out of a nineteen-sixties edition of House and Garden devoted to the Scandinavian design that was so in vogue at the time. The Cotterells sat on an identical one facing him. Coffee mugs and a cafetière were on a low table made out of the same concrete as the floor, giving the impression they had both been fashioned out of the same pour.
‘You’ve met my colleague – DS Cross,’ said Warner.
‘We have,’ responded Barnaby Cotterell without enthusiasm.
‘Well,’ said Warner placing his hands on his knees with some intent. ‘This is probably a good time to stop.’
‘Are we free to go back to London?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Is that everything?’ asked Tamsin.
‘You are and no it’s not. Far from it. I’d appreciate you keeping in contact. You don’t have any plans to go abroad currently, do you?’ Warner asked.
‘We do not,’ replied Barnaby.
‘Okay. Thank you,’ said Warner getting up and walking towards the front door. But Cross stayed where he was.
‘When did your problems with Alistair Moreton start?’ Cross began.
Warner turned, surprised that Cross hadn’t taken his cue to leave and had started questioning the couple.
‘From the moment we moved in,’ answered Tamsin.
‘That’s not entirely accurate, is it?’ said Cross.
‘When else could it have started? We didn’t meet him until after we’d moved in,’ Tamsin remonstrated.
‘Had you attempted to meet him before then?’ asked Cross.
There was a slight hesitation from the two of them, he noted.
‘Yes. We’d knocked on his door a number of times and left notes. He answered neither,’ she explained.
‘Why were you so keen to meet him?’
‘We were just being neighbourly. Didn’t you introduce yourself to your neighbours when you first moved into wherever you live?’ she went on.
‘I did not. But that is immaterial. Your answer isn’t entirely true, is it?’ replied Cross.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Warner was irritated but decided to let Cross continue. It was important for them to present a united front.
‘Was your initial approach to Mr Moreton before or after your first planning application was turned down?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘How many times was your application turned down?’
She didn’t answer. Her husband finally said, ‘Four.’
‘Which meant what, in terms of delaying the commencement of building works?’ Cross continued.
‘Well over a year.’
‘That must’ve been very frustrating.’
‘Of course,’ said Tamsin as if he’d stated the obvious.
‘And expensive,’ Cross pointed out.
‘To an extent,’ replied Barnaby.
‘Planning is a difficult field to navigate,’ Cross commented.
‘It can be, yes,’ agreed Barnaby.
‘Why was your application so problematic? Why all the refusals and delays?’ asked Cross.
‘There were objections,’ replied Tamsin.
‘From whom?’ asked Cross. There was a pause.
‘Alistair Moreton,’ replied Barnaby.
‘That’s right. He successfully had all four applications turned down. Now, I’m no expert in planning, but it seems as though he managed this almost entirely single-handed.’
‘He did.’
‘At one point you even attempted to start groundworks, before a final decision had been made. Under the mistaken impression that they came under a part of the application which wasn’t being contested.’
‘Correct,’ replied Barnaby.
‘We thought we were allowed to,’ Tamsin pointed out.
‘But Moreton objected and you had to stop. Stand down your builders.’
‘Again, correct.’
‘Again, expensive and frustrating,’ said Cross.
‘It was.’
‘You were still trying to get planning permission in the winter of that year. You’d probably imagined spending Christmas in your beautiful new home,’ Cross observed.
‘What’s your point?’ asked Barnaby irritably.
‘My point is that you were not entirely well disposed to Mr Moreton by the time you moved into your house.’
‘I wouldn’t deny that.’
‘You took every opportunity to confront him,’ Cross went on.
‘If you say so,’ replied Tamsin.
‘Oh, it’s not me,’ said Cross. ‘You must be aware that he kept a log. It was produced in court. Timings, contemporaneous notes, even photographs.’
‘Him and his bloody Polaroid,’ muttered Barnaby.
‘The court case you lost.’
This was followed by silence until Warner decided to speak.
‘Neighbours have killed neighbours for a lot less,’ he pointed out.
‘We didn’t kill him,’ replied Barnaby.
‘Interesting you say “we”,’ observed Cross.
‘Why?’ asked Tamsin.
Cross ignored her and turned to look through the window at the garden stretching away from the building. At the bottom of it was a small old agricultural building, a bothy, which had been renovated in much the same style as the barn they were in.
‘You’ve converted your bothy into a workshop,’ said Cross.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Barnaby defensively.
‘Because I’ve read all of your planning applications, Mr Cotterell. It’s purely for recreational purposes, apparently.’
‘It is.’
‘Which one of you uses it? Or is it for both of you?’
‘It’s his. His rural bat cave,’ Tamsin said with good humour.
‘What is it you use it for?’ Cross asked Barnaby.
‘Woodwork.’
‘You’re a joiner?’ asked Cross in an effort to sound impressed.
‘An amateur one, yes.’
‘Although you’d never know it the way he holds forth about his expertise to whoever will listen,’ said Tamsin, laughing. Cross resisted his immediate urge to correct her grammar.
‘That’s just not true,’ commented Barnaby.
‘He bought himself a bloody lathe, for God’s sake. It’s massive,’ said Tamsin.
‘Really?’ asked Cross now genuinely interested.
‘It’s old. Second-hand. And massive,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘But a fabulous piece of kit.’
‘That’s why you’ll see so many bloody wooden finials on all the fencing and trellis. That’s all he can make. Balls,’ said Tamsin laughing again.
‘Got to start somewhere,’ Barnaby protested.
‘I’d like to take a look.’
‘Why?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Two reasons. Firstly, I’m carrying out an investigation into your neighbour’s murder. Secondly, I’m interested on a personal level. My father was an engineer. It will interest him and give me something to tell him about when I meet him tomorrow for our weekly supper. Normally I’m unable to discuss my work with him, but this will be a welcome exception,’ replied Cross.
‘Then of course,’ replied Tamsin.
‘DS Cross, we do actually have a lot to be getting on with,’ Warner pointed out.
‘What, exactly?’ asked Cross.
This flummoxed Warner who immediately wished he hadn’t said a thing.
‘All right, just make it quick please.’
‘You should join us. Have a look at his massive lathe,’ said Cross.
‘I have no interest…’ Warner began but then wondered why Cross would say this. He didn’t know him well enough yet but knew enough to realise that social niceties were not Cross’s forte. Maybe it was relevant to the investigation.
‘Okay. Very well,’ he said.
*
The garden was quite formally laid out and looked as though no expense had been spared. The couple from London obviously had a lot of money. It was elegant and symmetrical but Cross thought it still had a few years to go before it revealed exactly what the designer had in mind. They walked through a series of wooden arches that had climbers straining to meet each other in the middle.
‘Have they flowered at all yet?’ asked Cross looking at them.
‘The wisteria? No. It can take eight years, so we still have a few to go,’ replied Tamsin. Cross thought the garden must be her domain in the divvying up of marital responsibilities.
They all had to lower their heads slightly as they entered the bothy, the door frame was that low. Along one wall was a large industrial lathe and a lethal-looking table saw.
‘How on earth did you manage to get them in?’ asked Cross looking back at the door.
Barnaby Cotterell laughed with a sense of pride. ‘Had to lower them through the roof with a crane before we restored it. No idea how we’ll get it out if we ever move.’
‘You bought old machinery, I see,’ said Cross. ‘Raymond, my father, would approve.’
‘I think old machinery is often as good if not better than modern versions.’
‘Can I see it work?’ Cross asked.
‘Of course.’
This was too much for Warner.
‘I’ll see you in the car, Sergeant. I’m going to call the pathologist,’ he said pointedly, as if to remind Cross that they were actually investigating a murder.
‘Would you like to turn a piece of wood?’ Cotterell asked Cross.
‘Really?’ replied Cross.
‘I’ll walk back with you,’ sighed Tamsin. She and Warner left.
Five minutes later, Cross was wearing an apron and under the guidance of Cotterell was turning a piece of wood. Shavings fell to the floor. Cross’s face was a picture of almost childlike concentration. He stood back to admire his work. All he’d made was a small cylinder, but his pride was obvious.
‘You’re a natural,’ proclaimed Cotterell.
‘I am,’ Cross agreed.
The workshop had been designed to be neat, tidy and organised with hooks on the walls for a regimented collection of tools. But there were several gaps in their ranks. Tools lay around the place, left where they’d been used. The floor was covered with a carpet of wood shavings and sawdust. Cotterell didn’t seem to clear up behind him as he worked. Most of the missing tools lay on a large old wooden worktable. It had the scars of decades of use. Chips, chunks, saw marks, drill holes and a surface burnished into a patina of hard graft. Cross ran his hand over it as he took off the apron.
‘It was my grandfather’s,’ Cotterell informed him. ‘He was a carpenter. A proper one, unlike me. But it’s probably where I got the interest from. It was in my father’s garage for years. He never used it, so gave it to me.’
‘It’s been well worked,’ commented Cross.
‘Hasn’t it? I actually get quite emotional at times, thinking of all the hours he spent at it. All the things he created.’
Cross looked at the tools on the table and picked up a chisel. Cotterell quickly took it from him and hung it in its rightful place. He began picking up all the other tools and putting them back.
‘Not the tidiest of workers,’ he said as he did this. Cross noticed that there were several chisels on the wall. All quite old, by the looks of it. But what interested him more was that when Cotterell had finished putting all the tools back there was a space left for another chisel. Just as he was about to comment Cotterell picked another up off the floor and put it in the gap. Unlike the others, this one was new and had a different handle.
‘Are those chisels your grandfather’s?’ Cross asked.
‘They are. Well, all except for this one. This one’s new, obviously.’
‘A replacement?’ asked Cross.
‘Yep. Broke the old one. Really annoying. My grandfather would be furious.’
Cross said nothing. Didn’t reveal an old, bloodstained chisel, identical to his grandfather’s set, had been found in Moreton’s garden. He wanted to piece a few more things together. Wait for the forensic results on the chisel before doing anything further. He suspected that were he to reveal its existence to Warner now he would rush to an arrest. Cross was in no such rush. Warner wouldn’t become aware of it till the next morning. Whether he would then wait for the results, to discover whether it was evidence against the Cotterells, was another matter.