Animal Instinct (9 page)

With that final riposte, Helen stormed into the kitchen.

Massey sighed, rose from his chair and followed her. “I've told you over and over that now just isn't the right time. In any case, that baby was on a death sentence before the murder.”

“What d'you mean?”

“She was on her way to have it aborted.”

Helen turned away. “What a waste of life. It's a pity that she won't be around to regret her decision.” She turned round to face her husband. “Maybe her own death was God's way of paying her back.”

Massey grunted. “That doesn't excuse what has happened.”

“It's strange though when you consider it. If she had not decided to have it aborted, she would not have been there to be murdered and would still be alive today. Is that your suspect…the child's father? He found out that she was about to murder his child and took her life instead.”

“And the life of his baby?”

“Oh yes,” said Helen pensively. “So much for my detective work. I'll stick to teaching kids.”

“And cooking!”

His wife glared at him.

“What's for supper?” said Massey, putting his arm round her shoulder. He was weary from work and Helen's occasional rants.

“Make the most of it,” she replied. “When I am finally pregnant, you'll have to exist on ready-meals.”

“I may as well stay at the pub, then.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged off his ‘arm round the shoulder’ approach. “I don't know why I bother.”

Massey returned to the lounge and his armchair. He was the first to admit that often he enjoyed his own company given the amount of time spent in the company of others. He found gratification from mulling issues over in his mind to arrive at logical conclusions without the conflicting opinions of his colleagues. Occasionally, he asked himself if this behaviour was selfish or merely self-indulgent.

It had been a difficult few days. A prolonged argument with Helen was the last thing that he needed. He closed his eyes and, despite the distraction of the television, he soon sank into a deep thought process and eventually, the realms of oblivion.

*****

Before leaving home the following morning, Massey called Turner to meet him at police headquarters. He had decided to check out Nuttall's story. Access to the landfill site via the renovated mill was a possibility, but conflicted with the news that Lara had alighted from the bus before it crossed the river. What would cause her to go in the opposite direction and why towards the mill? Nevertheless, since there were no other relevant leads, it was worth a visit.

A narrow lane, almost hidden by the overhanging foliage of several horse-chestnut trees, led from the main road to the mill. After driving a short distance along the lane, high metal gates set in a recently constructed brick wall blocked any further progress. Rows of metal spikes topped the copingstones the full length of the structure. This enclosure rose to about three metres, obscuring the property beyond. Security cameras mounted on each of the square brick pillars that supported the gates angled downwards towards the approach.

“Good security,” commented Massey, “mind you, it's needed round here amongst this melting pot of miscreants.”

“There's a smaller gate just to the left,” said Turner, “and it appears to be slightly open. So much for his security!”

The detectives pulled over to the side of the lane and entered the property through the open wrought iron gate. The magnificent panorama of the mill and its landscaped surrounds astounded them. To their left, a fast flowing tributary gushed from the river into a narrow channel, which turned the massive original water wheel before disappearing under the mill-house. The stream continued from the building, forming a small lake before disgorging the excess water through a sluice gate into the river.

As they strolled towards the main house, they glanced upwards to their right where a vast area of lawn rose steeply towards a distant line of fir trees, which, they rightly assumed, formed the barrier between the property and the distant landfill site. The main driveway curved around the lavishly renovated building towards the south-facing main entrance.

They turned onto a smaller pathway that led towards a side door. Turner pressed an illuminated bell push. Seconds later the door opened to reveal a stout middle-aged woman. She wore a blue overall, a paisley headscarf and carried what appeared to be a duster in her free hand as she gripped the open door tightly.

“Good morning,” said Massey. “Mrs. Howard?” They had discovered that the mill belonged to a Mr. Charles Devlin Howard.

“There is no Mrs. ‘oward,” replied the woman. “I'm the ‘ousekeeper. Who are you?”

“Detective Inspector Massey and Detective Constable Turner.” They produced their warrant cards. “Is Mr. Howard at home?”

“‘E's away. What do you want?”

“I'd like to speak with the owner of the mill. When is he due back?”

“‘E didn't say…sometime this week, I suppose.”

“Do you work here full time?”

“Only two or three days a week normally. I do the cleaning, the laundry and the like.”

“When did you last see Mr. Howard?”

“Saturday.”

“Were you here on Thursday or Friday?”

“Worked Wednesday, but ‘ad last Thursday and Friday off, ‘cos of Easter. Only came in on Saturday to get a list of things ‘e wanted done while ‘e was away.”

“You said that there was no Mrs. Howard?” prompted Massey.

“Divorced…lives ‘ere by ‘imself.”

“It's a beautiful place,” said Massey, adopting a gentler tone. “Do you mind if we have a look round?”

“You can look round the garden, if you like, but you're not comin’ in ‘ere. It's more than my job's worth.”

“Rightly so,” said Massey. “Well, thank you for your time. We'll pop back in a few days to speak with Mr. Howard.”

The door slammed shut.

“C'mon, let's have a snoop around his plot,” said Massey.

“Some plot,” said Turner. “It's more like a country estate. It must have cost him a ‘bob or two’ to develop this lot.”

They followed the wide driveway that led to a circular parking area in front of the main entrance. In the centre of this space, an ornamental fountain sprayed water to a height of about three metres. A curtain twitched at an upstairs window. The housekeeper was monitoring their movements. Turner surveyed the neatly manicured lawns that rose upwards towards the line of firs marking one of the boundaries of the property.

“There's no sign of footprints or scars,” he said, standing on the grassy incline. “It's quite soft underfoot. You'd think that anyone carrying or dragging a body up that slope would surely have left some marks behind.”

They walked on. Massey began to smile. “It's unnecessary to trudge up the bank.” He pointed ahead. “Look, there are stone steps over there leading to the top.”

The detectives mounted the stone slabs to find another row of stones set in the ground fronting the length of the evergreen barrier. Massey looked along the tree line. “Probably they've been laid to allow easier access for trimming the firs. When you look closely, it's pretty dense stuff to drag a corpse through to the land beyond.”

“If you remember, the plastic bin liners had numerous tears,” added Turner.

Massey crouched down to peer through at the base where there was less foliage. “The infill site's some distance away. You'd have to be bloody fit to carry a body up here, drag it through these firs and heave it over there.”

“Anything's possible if you're desperate,” said Turner. He bent down and brushed away a carpet of dead pine needles. “This looks interesting.” He held up a shred of black plastic. “Looks like a job for forensics.”

“They can check out both sides of this ridge. Let's make a move before we disturb anything else.”

They turned to descend the steps. Turner grabbed Massey's arm and pointed towards a shed, partly concealed by a privet hedge. “Someone's down there. Maybe he is at home after all.”

They retraced their steps to the bottom of the slope and turned towards an area of the garden that appeared to be a vegetable plot with a path leading towards a garden shed. An elderly man was scraping mud off his Wellington boots by the door.

“Hello,” said Massey. “Who are you?”

“I'm the gardener,” he replied. The man had a similar question on his mind. “And who might you be?”

Massey showed the man his warrant card. “We were looking for Mr. Howard, but apparently he's on holiday. The housekeeper said that we could look round the garden.”

“Help yourselves,” said the man. “I'm off for some lunch after I've cleaned myself up.”

“Do you work here full-time?” asked Massey.

“Just a few days a week. It depends on what needs to be done. I'm playing ‘catch-up’ at the moment as I was off all last week 'cos of Easter.”

“I see,” said Massey, no longer interested after that last remark. The detectives returned to the main gate where they met a woman entering the grounds accompanied by two young girls. The youngsters immediately ran off and disappeared around the corner of the house.

“Hello,” said Massey, flashing his warrant card again. “Are you visiting Mr. Howard?”

“No,” said the woman, smiling. “I'm here to see my mum. She's the cleaner…well, housekeeper here. I thought I'd bring the girls with me as they're on holiday from school.”

Suddenly there was a terrifying scream from the far side of the property. All three adults raced towards the sound. The children re-appeared and ran to their mother, crying. “It's Fred mummy…in the shed.”

The detectives reached the garden shed to find the gardener collapsed on the floor, one Wellington boot on his foot, the other boot on the path outside. Massey called an ambulance on his mobile. The woman remained outside, comforting her daughters.

Turner knelt besides the man. “He's still breathing. It looks like a heart attack.”

They made the gardener comfortable and stayed with him until the paramedics arrived. He had regained consciousness but he was obviously in considerable pain. After some routine medical aid, they eventually helped him into the ambulance. The detectives bade farewell to the young woman and returned to their car in the lane.

Massey opened the driver's door. “I don't know about you, but I need a bloody drink. First, though, let's ask forensics to check out that barrier. Until we have reason to reject the notion, the mill could be the access to the landfill site, which makes Mr. Charles Devlin Howard a possible suspect.”

“It's worth noting that in the shed there were several tubs of chemical treatments for the garden, weed killer, moss killer, sprays for greenfly and other assorted creepy crawlies,” said Turner. “What d'you reckon?”

“It's a possibility but I wasn't aware of that strange smell. Maybe forensics should take samples.”

They called in at headquarters to liaise with John Nuttall and the forensic team, before heading for the Barleycorn with Frank Roker.

*****

Violence in and around licensed premises had been on the increase for several years. The ‘bar room brawl’ had escalated into something far more sinister. Various bodies had conducted numerous studies to discuss actions to counter this disturbing phenomenon. These had involved the police, psychologists, members of associated trade organisations, brewers and government representatives. Many brewery companies already ran training courses and seminars that offered guidance to licensees and their staff in dealing with violent situations, drunken behaviour and the increasing contributory drugs factor.

Unfortunately, ‘fisticuffs’ had become a figment of the past. Present day confrontations often involved the use of a weapon. The carrying of knives was on the increase, but within most licensed premises, there was an array of lethal weapons readily available in addition to the glass or bottle in which the drink was served. Ashtrays, pool cues, items of furniture and general bric-a-brac were often cited as offensive weapons. The Barleycorn was no exception.

The two principal ‘villains’ amongst the clientele were Ricky Dalziel and Lennie Rourke. Both were in their late thirties and had spent most of their lives in and out of prison, serving sentences for petty crimes, short incarcerations that had no effect whatsoever on the intimidating and threatening behaviour that characterised their aggressive nature.

Sean, as the licensee, had developed his way of dealing with them, using a mix of firmness, self-confidence and diplomacy, interspersed with his innate Irish charm and humour. Individually the two men were manageable; together they spelled danger. Sometimes they would be drinking socially in their usual particularly uncouth and malevolent manner. Other times they could appear antagonistic towards each other, forcing Sean to step in and alleviate the situation or even threaten them with expulsion from the public house.

As the three detectives turned into the car park, Rourke was slowly hauling his battered body into his white Vauxhall Astra. Despite commenting on his manner and appearance, they chose to ignore him.

“He's been in a fight,” said Turner, catching sight of Rourke's bloodstained face. “Someone's given him a good whacking.”

“There are blood splashes all over the front of his car, so he's probably had a pasting right here,” added Roker. “He should be pleased as a Liverpool supporter. He's now got a free re-spray in his team's colours.”

“D'you reckon he needs an ambulance?” asked Turner.

“Let the bastard bleed to death,” replied Roker.

Massey's mind was elsewhere. “C'mon let's grab a quick drink and discuss the possible significance of the mill.”

A boisterous Ricky Dalziel greeted the detectives as they entered the bar. “Well, if it's not the three musketeers! Found the murdering bastard who knocked off that tasty looking tart, yet?”

“What have you done to Lennie out there?” asked Roker, ignoring his remarks.

“Bleedin’ typical! First sign of trouble and I get the fuckin’ blame!”

Sean intervened. “Rourke was causing trouble in the pool room. Ricky just took him out back to calm him down. There was no trouble in here.”

“The nasty little bastard's left for good,” said Dalziel. He won't be coming back. It's sorted.”