A Well-deserved Murder (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (17 page)

‘And after your feed delivery the car had driven away without you seeing the driver?’

‘That’s right. If the driver had walked over the fields to the lane he wouldn’t have had to come near the farmyard.’

‘Did you hear Mrs Howells after the car left?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Did you see her?’

The farmer shook his head. ‘No, and nor did the driver.’

‘He went to look?’ Trevor asked in surprise.

‘The drivers always do. She often cavorts naked in front of her shed. Some of the drivers even changed their schedules in the hope of catching sight of her. Not that she was that much to look at. Bit flabby and past it for me.’

‘What kind of neighbours were the Howells?’

‘He was quiet enough. He’s lived there for years since he was a boy but things certainly got livelier when she moved in. After she built that deck she started performing on it with any man who would join her. She knew I had a grandstand view from up here because you could see her head turning this way when she was with someone.’

‘Did she offer to have sex with you?’

‘I didn’t give her a chance. The couple of times I tackled her about cutting down my trees I asked Mick Walsh to go round to the Howells’ house with me. I figured she wouldn’t proposition me if I had a witness. She was shameless. Mick’s presence didn’t stop her from getting suggestive. In fact she tried it on with both of us. But I never stayed with her long enough for her to get past the talking stage.’

‘So you did have a word with her about the work she did on your land.’

‘Work! You call that work … bloody woman …’

Trevor was saved from a tirade by his mobile phone. ‘Excuse me.’ He walked away before answering it. ‘Trevor Joseph.’

It was Peter. ‘We’ve found Lofty and Snaggy.’

‘Are they talking?’

‘No, when I say found, I mean found. At low tide. They’d been chained together and fastened to a mooring ring on the pier below high-tide level.’

‘Were they dead when the tide came in or did they drown?’

‘We’re waiting on the PM report. It could take until tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘Any luck with your farmer?’

‘Not your case. I’m going to call in on Mrs Walsh on the way back. See you in the station.’ Trevor rejoined the farmer.

‘You’re going to see the village clarion?’ Tirade forgotten, the farmer watched Trevor switch off and pocket his phone.

‘Is that what you call Mrs Walsh?’ Trevor asked in amusement.

‘It’s her nickname in the village.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since as long as I can remember.’

‘You known Mrs Walsh long?’

‘Since the day she and her husband and Mick moved into the village about twenty-five years ago. The builder hadn’t put up a fence between their garden and my land. I went down to do it, and unlike the Howells, the Walshes have always respected the boundary. Since the accident Mick’s helped me out now and again with small things like taking deliveries when I’ve had to go to market and feeding the animals when I’m pushed for time.’

‘And acting as a bodyguard when you visited the predatory Mrs Howells?’ Trevor added.

‘Mick may look as though he’s not quite all there but I assure you he is. He’s just a bit slow in his movements, that’s all. But it is a pity about Mrs Walsh. She’s a shadow of the woman she used to be. She used to do an enormous amount of charity work but after her accident when her husband was killed, precious few people around here remembered her good deeds. Hardly anyone offered to help her, and Mick was in hospital himself at the time. I did what little I could when they finally came home but if you grew up on a farm you know how much work is involved in running one.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘She struggled for a while financially. When the compensation came through it wasn’t much because the truck driver who crashed into their car wasn’t insured. But since her husband’s insurance paid out she seems to have managed on her savings and the little she makes from storing cleaning materials in her garage.’

‘You help them?’ Trevor guessed.

‘Not much and not any more. She’s too proud to take it, although I don’t know what I would have done without her help when my mother was dying. Cancer … horrible way to go and it took months. That was before the accident that took Mr Walsh.’

Trevor took a last look at the barn. The kittens were rolling on top of one another and two tiny chicklets had appeared behind them.

‘Nice sight.’

‘New life always makes me feel good,’ Bob Guttridge grinned.

‘Me too. I’d love my son to see it.’

‘Bring him and your wife up one day. I usually get on with other people’s wives. Just not exhibitionists like Kacy Howells.’

‘I’ll wait until he’s old enough to appreciate it. Perhaps it could be a first birthday treat in ten months or so.’

‘Any time.’ Bob whistled to the dogs. ‘Time to bring the cows in for milking.’

‘Nice man,’ Chris commented as they walked to the car. ‘Must be a lonely life for him, though, up here by himself.’

‘Must be,’ Trevor agreed absently. He was reflecting on Kacy Howells and her legacy. He hadn’t spoken to a neighbour who regretted her loss and now that the press had got hold of the more lurid details of her sex life, even her husband would probably be relieved that she was dead.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Stop here.’

Chris obediently parked the car at the end of the cul-de-sac. Trevor wound down the window and looked up the street. The air was still and so quiet he could hear bird-song in the woods behind the houses.

‘Nothing stirring,’ Chris commented.

‘Except Mrs Walsh’s blinds,’ Trevor observed when he saw them flick marginally to the right, he presumed so she could get a better view of their parked car. Trevor’s thoughts turned to Dan and Peter back at the station. He felt he ought to be with them, which was ridiculous given that there wouldn’t be anything they could do until the PM reports on Snaggy and Lofty came in; and probably not much then.

Snaggy and Lofty had probably been murdered on the orders of the Red Dragon because Snaggy had been seen with Peter, either in Platform 10 or leaving Peter’s car. The Red Dragon was known to pay professionals to do his dirty work and professionals rarely left tangible clues or DNA. And, even if they had in this case, the sea water would have washed them away by the time the corpses had been found.

The double murder would become just another unsolved drugs war case unless someone was prepared to leak the identity of the Red Dragon. Which given that Snaggy had been a known nark wasn’t very likely.

‘How long do you want to sit here, sir?’ Chris asked when he saw Trevor glance at his watch.

‘Seven minutes.’

If Chris found Trevor’s precise directive odd he didn’t comment.

Trevor continued to watch the street intently. ‘Do you have an opinion on Bob Guttridge?’

‘Seemed a nice enough bloke, sir.’

‘A “nice enough” bloke isn’t a precise police officer evaluation,’ Trevor criticised.

‘He seems to be involved in his farm and animals, sir. To the exclusion of all normal life – in my opinion,’ Chris added diffidently.

‘What’s “normal”?’

‘I’m not sure, sir.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s hardly fair to throw a question like that at you after you’ve given a fair assessment of Bob Guttridge, and another couple of hundred farmers like him,’ Trevor conceded. ‘Farming’s not a job.’

‘More of a vocation, sir.’

‘I’d say an all-consuming lifestyle. If you’re prepared to sacrifice your social life and a large part of family life and work all the hours of the day and night and then some, for little remuneration, then it’s for you.’ Trevor changed the subject. ‘Are you up to date with the witness statements and forensic evidence on this case.’

‘I think so, sir,’ Chris replied guardedly. ‘Or at least I was last night.’

‘Do you have any ideas on who murdered Kacy Howells?’

‘Too many, sir.’

Trevor rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Then you can join every other officer on this case. Want to try naming some suspects.’

‘It could be the father …’

‘Motive?’ Trevor broke in.

‘Some religious people are intolerant of other people’s failings. Especially family members. Sam Jenkins admitted to seeing that advertisement in the porn mag and visiting Kacy to discuss it. If she was on the deck when he arrived and the axe was lying around and they argued, he might have lost his temper and killed her in a rage.’

‘How do you explain the fact she was naked?’ Trevor checked his mobile phone.

‘We know from the farmer that she often walked around her garden naked. If she wasn’t wearing clothes when her father arrived that could have tipped him over the edge.’

‘Could have. But the timing is wrong if John Evans arrived at four fifty-five and found her dead. Sam Jenkins spent the whole of that afternoon with the chapel elders.’

‘He and they could be lying about that, sir to give him an alibi if they felt that he was justified in killing his daughter, which they would do if they held the same intolerant beliefs.’

‘You could be right.’ Trevor opened the message box on his phone.

Chris couldn’t decide whether Trevor was humouring him or thinking the theory through. ‘Or it could be the husband. I know he has a cast-iron alibi, sir,’ Chris pre-empted the obvious. ‘But there are plenty of people willing to kill someone for a price. George Howells also admitted to seeing the advertisement. And, given the evidence we’ve accumulated concerning Mrs Howells’ sex life, he couldn’t have believed she was faithful to him. Most men take exception to their wives sleeping around.’

‘Women have been murdered by their husbands for a lot less than Kacy Howells did and we’re not in a position to disregard Sergeant Collins’s tip-off about Lofty – yet,’ Trevor said cautiously.

‘Although an axe in the head isn’t the style of a professional.’

Trevor recalled Peter’s theory that someone had been trying to frame Alan Piper. Was it that outlandish? He glanced at his watch again. ‘Another three minutes. What are your thoughts on Alan Piper?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. Again in my opinion …’

‘You’re a police officer, Chris, you don’t have to apologise for having an opinion.’ Trevor knew that Chris wanted to ask what he was doing sitting in a parked car at the end of the cul-de-sac instead of interviewing Mrs Walsh. But he decided to keep him guessing – unless he asked outright. Timidity wasn’t a quality a police officer should possess.

A post office delivery van overtook them at speed and raced up the street. Halfway along, the driver slammed on the brakes in an emergency stop. Leaving the engine idling, he jumped out of the cab, ran round to the back, opened the doors and lifted out a small package. He charged up to a house and hammered on the door. After a few seconds which wouldn’t have given the occupants time to walk to the front door if they’d been at the back of the house, he returned to his van, jumped back into the cab and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac.

Mick Walsh opened his front door before the driver reached it, took the parcel from him and signed the electronic box. They chatted for a few moments. Mick watched the driver return to his van before closing the door.

Trevor checked his watch again. ‘Drive to the end of the cul-de-sac and park in front of the Howells’ house.’

Chris did as Trevor ordered. Trevor opened the door and stepped on the drive. A police van was stationed in front of the Howells’ garage. The forensic team’s paraphernalia was stacked, awaiting loading, behind it. Plastic sheeting and tenting had been returned to their containers and two operatives were working in the garden, filling in the areas that had been excavated. They saw Trevor and waved. He returned their acknowledgement, walked into the alley between the garage and the house, opened the back door and entered the kitchen. Chris followed.

The work surfaces, sink and cupboard were covered with greyish-white fingerprint powder. The floor bore stains Chris recognised as chemicals used for testing for the presence of blood. Trevor strode into the open-plan dining room and lounge area. Sarah Merchant, dressed in a white boiler suit and boots, a paper cap covering her hair, was sitting in a chair set back in the centre of the room. Her laptop was open on a table by her side. Trevor noted Sarah’s view of the street was only marginally narrower than Mrs Walsh’s grandstand vista.

‘You’ve been making notes?’ Trevor asked.

Sarah handed him her computer. ‘And e-mailing them to your mobile phone, sir.’

‘I noticed. Thank you.’ He scanned the computer screen. ‘Give me a run-down on everything that happened here this morning.’

‘Four delivery vans. In reverse order, one post office …’

‘Which we’ve just seen.’

‘One Home Delivery, one FedEx. No one was in any of the houses to take deliveries, so all the parcels were dropped off at the Walshes’.’

‘The only occupied house in the street during the day?’

‘Looks like it, sir. And there was one plain white van with no logo or markings that parked in the Walshes’ drive. Mick Walsh helped the driver and his companion load boxes into the back of it. I took the number. The descriptions of all the delivery van drivers are in my notes too.’

‘Thank you. When you get back to the station run a check on the contract cleaning firms and find out which ones use the Walshes’ garage as a storage facility.’

‘I will, sir.’ Sarah looked back at her notes. ‘The milkman, paperboy and the postman were all in the street before nine, I noted the exact times, and also the times when the families in the street left their homes. All in cars except for two women, one lives halfway down the street, the other at the end. I checked their interviews, and the bus timetable. Both of them work in town and they left in good time to catch the eight ten.’

‘Excellent work, Constable.’

‘I’ve been in touch with the station, sir,’ she hinted.

‘You heard about Lofty and Snaggy’s murder?’

‘Yes, sir. Do you think Snaggy was right about Lofty being the killer?’

‘As Chris suggested, given the advertisement in the porn magazine at least two members of Kacy Howells’ family had reason to kill her. Snaggy could have been right about Lofty but wrong about who hired him.’ He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and scrolled down the messages again. ‘Thank you for these. I’ll arrange for you to be relieved in a couple of hours when the forensic team pull out. With luck our Mrs Walsh might not notice you going. She didn’t spot you coming in?’ he checked.

‘I don’t think so, sir. I came in with the forensic team and it’s difficult to see who’s who, in these suits.’

‘See you back in the station after lunch.’ Trevor motioned to the door. ‘Time to interview Mrs and Mr Walsh, Chris. Who knows they might even give us some new information.’

‘I doubt it, sir, given that she’s been looking out of the same window as Sarah.’

Trevor pocketed his phone.

Chris was clearly baffled by his behaviour but the constable still held back from asking a direct question.

‘Inspector Joseph. Nice of you to call and see us again. Mick put the kettle on, make tea and set up a tray.’ Nothing had changed in Mrs Walsh’s living room since the last time Trevor had been there. He had the oddest feeling that time had stood still in the Walshes’ house since he had last interviewed her.

‘Not on our account, Mrs Walsh,’ Trevor demurred.

‘Are you here socially or on police business, Inspector?’ Mrs Walsh asked.

‘Police business,’ Trevor answered.

‘I thought as much. Mick saw you talking to Bob Guttridge this morning.’

‘We went to the farm,’ Trevor confirmed.

‘Mick saw you through the kitchen window when he was washing the breakfast dishes.’

Trevor recalled standing on the ridge of the hill looking down at the houses.

‘Bob Guttridge is one of the best neighbours and men you could hope to meet.’

‘He seems a nice chap.’ Trevor unconsciously reiterated Chris’s words.

‘Was he helpful?’ she fished.

‘Very,’ Trevor said tantalizingly. ‘I came to ask for your help again.’

‘Anything I can do for the police, any time, but I told you that last time you were here.’

‘I know you use your own shorthand. Could you tell me how many delivery vans have driven up this street this morning?’

‘I’ll have to read from my notes. I haven’t had time to transcribe them.’

‘That will be fine, Mrs Walsh, Constable Brooke will write out what you say for me.’ Trevor looked to Chris who immediately took his notebook and pencil from his top pocket.

‘Milkman’s float at 7.45 a.m.’

‘Not a delivery van,’ Trevor said quietly.

‘That’s right, you asked specifically about delivery vans. Any reason in particular?’

‘Just trying to establish a pattern for the street.’

‘There were three. A FedEx van which delivered computer parts to Mr Lewis in number six. He teaches computing in the Further Education College. We took the parts in for him because they had to be signed for. Mick will take them down to his house when he returns home at four thirty. You can set your clocks by Ron Lewis. A very punctual man. A Home Delivery van brought Mrs Merick’s latest order. She buys all her clothes from catalogues. And not the cheap ones either. We have her parcel as well but Mick won’t be able to take that to her until eight o’clock this evening. She goes to the gym after work. A widow doesn’t have a man to cook for so she can afford to gad about. A post office van was the last to drive up the street. But you would have seen it.’ She looked enquiringly at Trevor.

‘We did,’

‘It brought Mr Jones’s latest Amazon order. That man spends a fortune on books and DVDs.’

‘That was all.’

‘So far today, Inspector.’

Trevor glanced at Chris who was still writing. ‘You have all that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll stay for a cup of tea, Inspector, Constable?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Walsh, as I said earlier, we have to get back to the station.’

‘When will Mr Piper be in court?’

‘I couldn’t tell you, Mrs Walsh.’

‘You have charged him?’

Trevor opened the door. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either, Mrs Walsh.’

She tapped her nose. ‘I understand – confidentiality. I also understand Alan Piper killing Kacy Howells. As I’ve said before, she had it coming to her.’

Trevor waited until Chris had returned his notebook and pencil to his pocket.

‘Mick,’ Mrs Walsh, called to her son. ‘Show the officers out.’

Mick appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘You’re not staying for tea, Inspector Joseph, Constable Brooke?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t, not today, Mick,’ Chris apologised. ‘We have to work.’

Mick looked crestfallen. ‘But I’ve made the tea the way you like it, Constable. And laid out our best Belgian chocolate biscuits on Mum’s silver salver.’

‘Thank you, Mick. That was very kind of you, but I’m sorry we really do have to go, perhaps next time. Goodbye, Mrs Walsh, Mick.’ Trevor shook the hand Mick offered him as he left the house.

‘The station, sir?’ Chris asked when they climbed into the car they’d left on the Howells’ drive.

‘Yes.’

‘Anything wrong, sir?’ Chris asked curiously.

‘Did you notice anything odd about Mrs Walsh’s diary of events?’

‘No, sir. It tallied with Sarah’s, didn’t it?’

‘Almost.’ Trevor brushed fingerprint powder from his trousers. The stuff got everywhere. Then he thought back to Mrs Walsh and wondered at her private life, and Mick’s. There weren’t many sons – even brain damaged ones – who wouldn’t resent Mrs Walsh’s constant orders.