The sense of relief was not to last for long. It actually existed for about five minutes and was extinguished by the arrival of the Area Crime Prevention Officer in the shape of an intimidatingly large superintendent from HQ at Portishead. Patrick and I were banished from Carrick’s office with a dismissive flick of the great man’s hand, the door virtually slammed on our heels. The ensuing grilling Carrick got on the progress of the murders-case investigation was absolutely nothing to do with the DCI being taken ill that night and admitted to hospital with a serious infection.
‘It’s in the exit wound where he was shot,’ Patrick reported, throwing on his bathrobe. He had taken the call from Joanna and it was very early the next morning. ‘The docs say it must have been brewing for ages and has never healed up properly. I shall go to the nick to do some brainstorming on the cases in hand and if that arrogant bastard who turned up yesterday arrives I’ll interpret the “acting” bit of my title as permission to lop his bloody head off.’
‘Patrick,’ I said, to a breeze as he departed downstairs.
‘Yes?’ This came from somewhere out on the landing.
‘You’re in sole charge of the nick if he doesn’t roll up.’
‘Good, in the army I would have been permitted to command a soddin’ regiment!’
Needless to say the crime, or crimes, did not get solved that day, Patrick having to take time to familiarize himself with everything else that was going on, things with which Carrick had not involved us. There were two phone calls from Joanna during the morning, relaying messages and information we ought to know about from her husband who, characteristically, was fretting about work. He was stable, she told us, but not yet responding to the drugs he was being given.
I spent most of the day in James’s office, answering his phone and reading the case notes in the files on his desk. One useful piece of information did surface late in the afternoon when an email arrived from Interpol, obviously in response to an enquiry that Carrick had made. It related that just over two years previously, a dive boat working on the wreck of a Chinese junk that had gone down in 1746 in the South China Sea off Bunguran Island had been attacked by pirates, one of several raids on shipping in that area. A quantity of recently recovered gold ingots, probably around one hundred and fifty in number and including some of the rare Nanking shoes, plus several small pieces of gold-decorated porcelain had been stolen, the latter thought to have been snatched as souvenirs by the pirates as they escaped back to their boat. The Malayan captain of the dive boat had been killed and another member of his crew wounded in an exchange of shots as they tried to fend off the boarders. To the knowledge of the sender of the email none of the stolen goods had yet been recovered, although undercover sources suggested, tentatively, that criminals, fences, in Holland might have handled the gold en route to the UK.
I emailed back to ask about identification marks and also if, as the items had only just been raised from the seabed, there was a likelihood of tea still adhering to them – if indeed the cargo had been thus packed. An hour later I had my answers; there had been no time to clean it and it had left the dive boat in a wooden box where it had been tossed by the thieves together with sand, seaweed, no doubt a few small dead marine creatures and yes, tea. The pirate vessel had apparently been masquerading as a fishing boat that had, in hindsight, been shadowing the divers for days.
‘That’s one piece of good news,’ Patrick said after I had told him. He had appeared with two mugs of tea. ‘Can’t we identify the gold any further – marks and so forth?’
‘Yes, I’ve just received the answer to that question. There are marks but they wouldn’t necessarily be unique to the stolen ingots. We might get more information by consulting an expert.’
He seated himself. ‘There’s more to running a nick than meets the eye. One thing’s certain though and most people have mentioned it: Carrick’s been under par for a couple of weeks now. Don’t forget that when we saw him last, before starting this lark, was when he was really weak and just recovering. He came back to work far too soon. And because this nick’s still a DI light …’ He reached for the phone. ‘Bugger everything. I’m going to do what I would have done before landing in civvy street – raise hell.’
And he did. Listening to him, politely observing all the protocols, but acidly putting across his points to whoever was the superior officer of the man who had visited Carrick the previous day, I knew that he had found his feet.
‘That’s it,’ Patrick said, having slapped down the phone. ‘We’re getting a temporary DI from Bristol CID as of tomorrow morning, someone whom apparently James knows.’
‘That still officially leaves you in charge.’
‘Only on paper. I’m to confer with him and to take orders if necessary.’
‘If necessary!’
‘I think that’s meant as a substitute for pistols at dawn. But we’ve got to catch the murderer. Pronto. He made it sound as though it’s a condition for my carrying on.’
DI Jonathan Bromsgrove was in his mid-forties, called Patrick ‘sir’ and asked him if he would care to carry on with the murders case while he himself dealt with other outstanding work, assisted by Sergeant Outhwaite. Patrick replied that that would suit him fine but we would consult with him should we need advice and if everything became manic. This arrangement got everything off on a very nice footing.
‘I would like to tackle this in a less conventional way,’ Patrick said to me quietly as we left Bromsgrove to get his feet under Carrick’s desk on the grounds that that room was where all the general information was held, plus the DCI’s computer for which we had asked James the password. He felt weak, he had told us in response to the second query. Lousy, in fact. Bloody horrible, no less.
It was Joanna who later told us that MRSA was suspected but not yet confirmed.
‘Less conventional?’ I repeated.
‘Go sort of covert,’ he whispered as though the walls might have ears and report the heresy.
‘Find the gold, you mean.’
‘We don’t know that there is any gold. It’s all guesswork.’
‘We can’t do as we used to and break into places.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if we broke into crooks’ lairs.’
‘Yes, it would. Because now you have to obtain evidence by above-board means.’
‘OK. But the police do go undercover to try to buy weapons from illegal arms dealers. Or drugs from drugs traffickers.’
‘Entrapment,’ I murmured.
‘Yes.’
‘So you want to pretend to be a dodgy sort of antiques dealer asking around in the wrong places to buy Nanking shoes? Patrick, the gold, if it exists, might not be in criminal hands by now but belonging to perfectly innocent people.’
‘This sting operation – I admit – rests on the supposition that whatever was in the coffin is still being hoarded by the ungodly. First though, before we do anything else, I think we ought to go right back to the beginning and return to Hinton Mill. That’s where it all started. And then perhaps revisit the murder barn.’
In the ground-floor lobby of the mill we came upon an exceedingly tanned and smartly dressed elderly lady carrying in her shopping.
‘Mrs Dewitte?’ Patrick asked.
Laden, she turned with a slight frown. ‘Yes?’
‘Police,’ Patrick said. ‘Do let me take those for you.’
‘Oh God, I haven’t exceeded some ruddy speed limit or other, have I?’ she cried.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ she was told.
He ended up by emptying the BMW’s boot of shopping, mostly designer-label clothes and shoes by the look of the carrier bags, and carrying it all into the flat.
‘You’ve no idea how ghastly it is to come back into this horrible weather,’ Mrs Dewitte declared. ‘I’ve left my husband out there. That’s in the Drakensberg Mountains area of South Africa in case you don’t know already. We’ve a house there. Alastair’s older than me and not very well. But we’ve a buyer for this place so someone had to come home and deal with it. D’you want some coffee? I’m dying for a cup. I know I mustn’t offer you anything stronger as you’re on duty,’ she finished by saying with a mischievous smile.
At nine thirty in the morning too.
The coffee was superb, freshly roasted and ground from a grocer’s in Green Street, Bath, which she made a point of recommending to us. ‘So handy, you’ve no idea. You can buy shotguns, lovely fish, the best sausages in the world and coffee all in about ten yards.’ Then she laughed, a big masculine guffaw. ‘So what’s this all about then?’
‘How long have you been back?’
‘Since the night before last.’
‘So you might not have heard that your neighbours directly above you have been murdered.’
She hardly batted an eyebrow. ‘What, Mr and Mrs Misery? No, have they?’
‘And their acquaintance across the landing, Keith Davies. We think they might have been involved in criminal activities.’
‘Well, you don’t have to be terribly intelligent to work that one out. I’ve never seen a more skulking, secretive bunch of no-hopers. Not even in Africa, and we had the Mau-Mau to deal with there when Alastair was in the colonial service. How did it happen?’
Patrick told her, not sparing details. He then followed it up with a short résumé of what had occurred since.
‘But it’s just like a ruddy novel!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I know whom you mean by that farmer. He’s the one who sells logs, isn’t he? We don’t have an open fire here but the Manleys did – stored them in their garage and trailed all the bits of moss, twigs and mud across the hall and up the stairs. No, I caught farmer chappie trying to peer into one of my windows when he delivered some logs one day. Gave him a real piece of my mind, I can tell you and he took himself off at the double. Mr Brandon across the hall came out to see what was going on and backed me up.’
‘Did you ever see any visitors the people upstairs had?’ I asked. Stonelake had lied about that, then.
‘No, it was like a grave up there, if you’ll excuse the expression. Two of our windows are on the side where the cars are parked so one can’t help but be aware of people’s activities sometimes. I never saw them out there with anyone else who might be a friend or relation. The residents do tend to leave their cars outside in the bit reserved for visitors and not put them away and I suppose I’m just as guilty of that.’
‘Do you know the people who live on the top floor?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sort of, but we are away a lot. Pascal and Lorna asked us up for drinks once when we were around. They seem a nice pair but you don’t really get to know people at one meeting. I have to say I did find Pascal a trifle – what shall I say? – saturnine. But he might have just been having an off day. I met the other young lady, Tamsin, I think her name is, up there too. She’s hoping to marry something in uniform. More coffee?’
We declined and prepared to leave, thanking her for her time.
‘Oh, my pleasure. And people say nothing ever happens in the countryside! I hope you find the gold. Have you looked in all the garages?’ She grinned at us. ‘Where there’s mucky logs …’
‘They did, didn’t they?’ I said when we were back in the lobby.
‘Not all of them. Carrick’s team searched the Manleys’ and Davies had rented his out to someone else but they didn’t get warrants to look in all the others.’
We went outside, pausing in the parking area. A couple of inches of snow had fallen overnight and it was still very cold.
‘Let’s retrace their final footsteps working with what we know took place,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s possible they didn’t go directly to the barn but met up with others first. Peter Horsley, for example. By no stretch of the imagination was he Mr Big. Nor were the Tanner brothers, not that we’ve yet thought they were implicated in the murders. There was also the man who drove the van and met them to take possession of the coffin, an older man if one is to believe them. He might have been at the barn. Was he the person behind it all?’
‘I still wonder why they took two cars,’ I said. ‘Davies often drove the Manleys around.’
‘The cars were disposed of afterwards so I reckon someone suggested they went independently. It meant that no risks were run of being spotted by coming back here to collect the remaining one.’
‘She didn’t actually say so but Mrs Dewitte doesn’t seem to have liked Pascal Dupointe when she first met him.’
‘Mm, saturnine, she said. When we spoke to them he and Lorna disagreed about the time they’d come back from the pub on the night of the murders. We didn’t check whether they’d actually eaten at the Ring O’Bells.’
‘There might not even be a record of them having done so if they didn’t book a table and paid cash.’
We had wandered while we conversed and ended up by the row of garages. There was absolutely nothing to see; all secured, all tidy.
Patrick sighed. ‘Where to?’
‘We’re retracing the murder victims’ last journey,’ I reminded him. Afterwards I wondered if I had not needed to do so as the question could have referred to something else that was on his mind. Was it to ask himself if we would ever get a lead?
Daylight did the barn no favours, revealing years of dirt. Rubbish in the shape of old fertilizer and feed bags, coils of used barbed wire clogged with sheep’s wool and bits of old fence posts were thrown into the farthest corners with abandon. The only tidy area was where all traces of the killings had been removed, the relevant section of concrete having been steam-cleaned and then spread with sawdust to absorb any remaining moisture.
We walked around, a little way apart, whether we liked it or not absorbing the indescribable deadness of the place. Indeed, when I spoke my voice did not echo as one might expect in such a large enclosed space but also was deadened, as in a tomb.
‘Tainted ground,’ I said, recollecting what Shaun Brown had said. Somewhere below my feet were the foundations of the old barn, a building that had also seemed to have been fated to be associated with death. Suddenly I could understand how people can be overcome with panic in places where horrible things have happened.
‘I shall ask Dad to come and say a few words in here when he’s stronger,’ Patrick said, almost absent-mindedly. ‘The Manleys and Davies must have known their killers, who suddenly took them unawares and overpowered them. Otherwise three people would have stood a good chance of getting away in a place this size.’
‘Davies could have been taken out first,’ I suggested. ‘He was the only one with any real ability to fight back.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. Shall we spend quite a lot of time looking for anything SOCO might have missed?’
I thought it probably a waste of time but did not wish to be negative and acquiesced as gracefully as I was able when Patrick suggested that we split up, divide the floor area into imaginary narrow sections and work our way along them. Nobly, he offered to tackle the side of the building where most of the rubbish was strewn.
It took almost the rest of the day and we did not even stop for lunch, just drinks of water, cupping our hands under a tap that was still working.
‘Nothing,’ I said, eventually subsiding, cold, tired, hungry and filthy, on to an upturned granite cattle trough. I looked at my watch; four fifty and getting dark. Patrick, judging by the sounds, was still ferreting through Heaven knew what muck and junk of ages over on the far side. Five minutes or so later he came over, pulling off the gloves we were glad we had had with us, and sat alongside me.
‘Discounting farm-associated stuff I found one old penny, a rusty penknife and two dead rats,’ he reported.
‘A dented pressure cooker, a beer bottle, a ten-year-old knitting magazine, one dead rat and a photo of Elvis,’ I said. ‘I win.’
We sat for a moment in dejected silence.
‘Beer,’ Patrick said all at once.
‘We can’t go in the pub as dirty as this.’
‘People have been going in the Ring O’Bells covered in the soil of honest labour for three hundred years. Besides, we didn’t get around to asking questions there the other evening and can also check to see if Lapointe and Lorna Church really did have a meal on the night of the murders.’
As it was we thumped most of the dust off one another, had a wash of sorts under the tap and were reasonably fit to be seen when we crossed the threshold of the pub. Patrick and I are always treated with deference by the landlord, his wife and the local people, something that initially made me feel uncomfortable, but that is the way of rural England: the squire might have gone but the village parson and his wife remain, and in John and Elspeth’s case are much respected.
Word had got around that Patrick had a new career and there was no need for him to show his credentials. The reservations book was immediately consulted and did indeed show that the couple had booked a table and eaten in the small side restaurant on the night in question. The landlord even remembered that they had left at just before ten thirty, one of the last to do so. He thought they had had a bit of a tiff on the way out.
‘It’s true, you can’t do anything in a village without everyone knowing about it,’ Patrick said, coming up for air from his pint.
We returned to the rectory at five forty-five.
‘Is there time for a quick shower?’ Patrick asked Elspeth around the kitchen door.
‘You know I never expect people to eat if they’re grubby,’ she retorted. ‘But please don’t be long.’
I heard this exchange as I was on my way upstairs and also the strain in her voice. I went back down.
‘What’s wrong?’ Patrick was asking his mother as I entered the kitchen. ‘Is Dad OK?’
‘Yes. Look, we’ll talk about it after you’ve eaten.’
Her son seated himself at the kitchen table, immovable as an alp.
‘Oh, all right, but I’m sure it’s only a silly joke on someone’s part. It might even be my fault and I’m going daft, senile or something …’
Elspeth then did something I had never, ever, in all the years I had known her, seen her do. She wept.
Sometimes even a wife and daughter-in-law can be an intrusion and I instantly moved to leave the room as Patrick shot to his feet and put his arms around her.
‘No, please stay, Ingrid,’ Elspeth sobbed. ‘You’re always such a great help to me.’
I really thought that we were talking of nothing more serious than something being mislaid and then turning up in a strange place, that she was physically and mentally exhausted after John’s illness, or had had a very bad day generally. It happens to all women, whatever their age. I made myself useful and watched over the cooking.
Patrick sat her down in the chair he had just vacated and fetched her a glass of sherry.
‘You know, it occurred to me the other day that we seem to rely on alcohol an awful lot in this household,’ Elspeth said perfectly seriously after blowing her nose and taking a sip. ‘I mean, something goes wrong and we reach for the bottle.’
‘Only if it’s just before dinner,’ Patrick said lightly. ‘Other times we call the doctor, talk about it or go to church. Just like a lot of other people. Please tell me what’s worrying you.’
She seemed to brace herself, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘I found some tea.’
‘Tea?’
‘Upstairs. In my clothes drawer.’
I discovered that I had gone cold and shaky but managed to carry on with what I was doing. When I turned round again Patrick had seated himself and was holding Elspeth’s hands across the table.
She cleared her throat and whispered, ‘In with my underclothes, actually.’
Patrick looked at me rather wildly.
‘Would you like to show me, Elspeth?’ I asked quietly.
The pair of us went upstairs after I had removed a sample bag and gloves from Patrick’s briefcase. Elspeth immediately sat on the bed and I noticed that she was shivering.
‘Who’s been here today?’ I asked, putting on the gloves and opening the drawer she had indicated.
‘Only some members of the PCC to see John. Oh, and it was my turn to host a committee meeting for the WI. There were only seven of us, the other three sent apologies as they’re unwell or away.’
The tea, which to me looked exactly the same as that which we had found already, had been sprinkled evenly between the layers of undergarments. No rough handling seemed to have taken place which, in a way, made it worse. I looked carefully around me on the carpet but none seemed to have been spilled there.
‘When did you find it?’
‘Only about twenty minutes ago.’
‘Have you looked anywhere else?’ I enquired, placing a small amount in the bag.
‘No, I couldn’t bring myself to.’
‘D’you mind if I do?’
‘Of course not.’
I inspected all the other drawers in the room, including John’s, and then, quickly, in the bottoms of the wardrobes and found no more.
I said, ‘Elspeth, Patrick will have no choice but to ask a police photographer to take pictures.’
She took a deep breath. ‘It would be silly of me to worry that photos of the rector’s wife’s knickers will be in the Bath Evening Chronicle.’
‘Not a chance,’ I said.
She stood up. ‘I must see to the dinner. It’ll be spoilt.’ The tears were ready and waiting. ‘We don’t tend to lock the doors during daylight hours, you know. We’ve prided ourselves on always being here for people, available. Perhaps we’re fools.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re not.’
‘My dear, I don’t think I can sleep in here tonight. Not in this house, really. Would it be all right if John and I went to an hotel?’
‘You must do exactly as you please. Have you told John?’
‘Yes, but you know what men are like. He seemed to think I’d somehow got some tea in with the clean laundry as I’d been making a brew while there was a pile of things on the kitchen table that I’d just taken out of the dryer. But, as you know, I don’t make tea there but on the worktop by the side of the Rayburn. Who would lift a heavy kettle full of boiling water halfway across the room?’
Together, we went downstairs to find Patrick mashing the potatoes.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat anything,’ Elspeth said. ‘Perhaps the pair of you would serve up when you’ve had your shower.’
‘And if I’d said the same to you in similar circumstances?’ Patrick queried.
‘I’m sorry, I just feel a bit – sort of violated,’ she whispered.
Ruthlessly Patrick said, ‘In the past I’ve arrived on your doorstep literally more dead than alive, bleeding like a pig and half off my head with pain. I didn’t actually ever mention some of the things a group of Hell’s Angels did to me. But I still made myself take the sustenance on offer. Please eat a little or some idiot will have won, hands down.’
‘Put like that …’ Elspeth murmured. ‘Go on, away with you and get clean and I’ll carve the chicken.’ She finished her sherry in one and unsteadily sloshed some more in her glass. ‘There you are, you see. Well on the road to ruin.’ And laughed in a sobbing kind of way.
Patrick rang Manvers Street and a scene-of-crime officer and photographer arrived very shortly afterwards. They would be in the house for quite a while but there was no need for the householders to meet them if they did not wish to and the acting detective superintendent would be asking the questions.
‘Please give me a list of everyone who was in this house on official business today,’ Patrick requested of John when dinner was over. ‘Names and addresses.’ He had carried on behaving normally, deliberately adhering to family routines to avoid further upset but underneath, I knew, was raging at this latest development.
‘It might mean a phone call with regard to the WI ladies,’ Elspeth said. ‘Hazel, the secretary, keeps that information, although I know where most of them live. Patrick, you can’t think that –’
Patrick had found the phone book. ‘We have to eliminate people from the inquiry, that’s all. Any preferences?’ he went on to ask her. ‘For tonight, I mean.’
‘What about tonight?’
‘Ingrid said you’d like to go to an hotel. It’s a good idea. I’ll take you when we’ve filled in a few details.’
‘It seems cowardly, running away.’
‘You’re not running away. Danny will be dusting for fingerprints and so forth for an hour or so yet in your room and it would do you good to have a change of scenery.’
‘Go away?’ John said, bringing a folder. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Because someone’s been in our room,’ Elspeth said. ‘It’s like being burgled and I feel horrible about it. Suppose whoever it is comes back?’
‘You are sure nothing’s been taken?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ she told me.
‘Well, I’m hanged if I’m going anywhere,’ John rumbled. ‘Suppose I put the shotgun under the bed? That make you feel better?’
‘No, much worse,’ his wife said. ‘It might go off or something.’
‘While you’re deciding,’ Patrick said somewhat heavily, ‘perhaps you’d be good enough to try to remember, both of you, which of those people who were here today were not under your gaze for the whole time.’
Briskly, John said, ‘The PCC meeting was this morning at ten thirty and is always held in my study. It usually goes on for about an hour and a half and we have a break for coffee and biscuits at eleven fifteen. Your mother makes it and has it ready and I usually fetch it from the kitchen on a tray. But as I’m still not supposed to carry anything heavy yet Lawrence Fielding, the treasurer, came with me. No one but us two can have left the room while we did so this morning as we were only away for about half a minute, but someone did a little later. Visitors use the downstairs cloakroom.’
‘Who was it?’ Patrick asked.
‘Vernon Latimer, the chairman.’
‘And other than that you had everyone else in sight.’
‘Yes.’
‘The WI committee meeting was this afternoon,’ Elspeth said. ‘At three. I always have them in the dining room so people can spread papers out on the table. We have tea and cakes at about four and everyone’s out of my sight while I organize it although someone usually offers to help carry trays.’
‘Were there any visits to the cloakroom afterwards?’
‘Yes, I think a couple of ladies went away for a couple of minutes but I couldn’t tell you who they were as I was talking to Maggie Ruislip about our planned trip to London.’
‘What about the rest of the day? Any visitors?’
‘Only the postman with a parcel for John. Oh, and someone selling something he called peat-free, organic compost. I had some last year and it was terrible. It must have been made from unsterilized ground-up forestry waste – I had mushrooms and toadstools coming up in all my houseplants.’
‘I think we’re just interested in people who came indoors or might have done so when your back was turned,’ Patrick said.
‘No one else,’ Elspeth said.
‘Was the front door unlocked for most of the day?’
‘Yes, it must have been. And the kitchen door into the garden. I’m in and out all the time.’
‘It’s very unwise when you think about it, my dear,’ said John.
‘But we’re here for people, aren’t we? That’s what you’ve always said. Besides, I’ve never had a fortress mentality,’ his wife retorted crossly.
John put a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of peace. ‘Just within these four walls and no further,’ he said to Patrick, ‘I feel I must tell you that Vernon Latimer has a past that isn’t quite – well – squeaky clean.’
‘So how is he Chairman of the PCC?’ Elspeth snapped.
‘It happened a very long time ago, I understand.’
Patrick said, ‘I’m afraid I do need to know your source of information.’
‘Impeccable. The bishop himself.’
‘Do you have any idea of the nature of this misdemeanour?’
‘He served a prison term for fraud. But it wasn’t in this country – out in Malaya.’
Patrick caught my eye. ‘What was he doing out there?’
‘Working, I understand.’
Master-minding pirates? I wondered.