Murder on the Short List (3 page)

“Now can I have my field back?” Mooney asked the inspector.

“What's the hurry?”

“You've destroyed a big section of my crop. What's left will go over if I don't harvest it at the proper time. The pods shatter and it's too late.”

“What do you use? A combine harvester?”

“First it has to be swathed into rows. It all takes time.”

“I'll let you know in the morning. Cutting it could make our work easier. We want to do a bigger search.”

“What for?”

“Evidence. We now know that the woman Bernard Priddle saw – the driver of the Jeep – was the woman in the photograph I showed you, Mrs Susan White, the dead man's wife. We're assuming the younger woman was White's mistress. We think Mrs White was suspicious and followed them here. She didn't know about him buying the tied cottages. That was going to be his lovenest, just for weekends with the mistress. But he couldn't wait for it to be built. The wife caught them at it in the field.”

“On the raincoat?”

“That's the assumption. Our forensic people may confirm it.”

“Nasty shock.”

“On both sides, no doubt.”

Mooney smiled. “You could be right about that. So that's why he was shot. What happened to the mistress?”

“She must have escaped. Someone drove his car away and we reckon it was her.”

“So have you arrested the wife?”

“Not yet. She wasn't at home when we called.”

Mooney grinned again. “She guessed you were coming.”

“We'll catch up with her.”

In a tree in the hedgerow a songthrush sounded its clear notes and was answered from across the field. A breeze was cooling the air.

O
n the insistence of the police, Mooney harvested his crop a week before it was ready. He'd cried wolf about all the bother they'd caused, and now he suffered a loss through cutting too early. To make matters worse, not one extra piece of evidence was found, for all their fingertip searches through the stubble.

“Is that the end of it?” he asked the inspector when the final sweep across the field was made. The land looked black and bereft. Only the scarecrow remained standing. They'd asked him to leave it to use as a marker.

“It's the end of my work, but you'll be visited again. The lawyers will want to look at the site before the case comes to court.”

“When will that be?”

“I can't say. Could be months. A year, even.”

“There won't be anything to see.”

“They'll look at the positions where the gun was found, and the body and the coat. They map it all out.”

“So are you advising me not to drill next spring?”

“That's an instruction, not advice. Not this field, anyway.”

“It's my livelihood. Will I get compensation?”

“I've no idea. Not my field, if you'll forgive the pun.”

“So you found the wife in the end?”

“Susan White – yes. She's helping us with our enquiries, as we like to put it.”

“How about the mistress? Did you catch up with her?”

“Not yet. We don't even know who she is.”

“Maybe the wife shot her as well.”

“That's why we had you cutting your crop, in case of a second body. But we're pretty certain she drove off in the BMW. It hasn't been traced yet.”

W
inter brought a few flurries of snow and some gales. The scarecrow remained standing. The building work on the tied cottages was halted and no one knew what was happening about them.

“I should have drilled by now,” Mooney said, staring across the field.

“Are they ever going to come back, do you think?” his wife said.

“He said it would take a long time.”

“I suppose the wife has been in prison all these months waiting for the trial to start. I can't help feeling sorry for her.”

“If you shoot your husband, you must get what's coming to you,” Mooney said.

“She had provocation. Men who cheat on their wives don't get any sympathy from me.”

“Taking a gun to them is a bit extreme.”

“Quick and merciful.”

Mooney gave her a look. There had been a time before the children came along when their own marriage had gone through a crisis, but he'd never been unfaithful.

T
he lawyers came in April. Two lots in the same week. They took photos and made measurements, regardless that the field looked totally different to the way it had last year. After the second group – the prosecution team – had finished, Mooney asked if he could sow the new crop now. Spring rape doesn't give the yield of a winter crop, but it's better than nothing.

“I wouldn't,” the lawyer told him. “It's quite possible we'll bring out the jury to see the scene of the crime.”

“It's a lot of fuss, when we all know she did it.”

“It's justice, Mr Mooney. She must have a fair trial.”

And you must run up your expenses, he thought. They'd driven up in their Porsches and Mercedes and lunched on fillet steak at the pub. The law was a good racket.

B
ut as things turned out, the jury weren't brought to see the field. The trial took place a year after the killing and Mooney was allowed to sow another crop. The first thing he did was take down that scarecrow and destroy it. He wasn't a superstitious man, but he associated the wretched thing with his run of bad luck. He'd been told it had been photographed for the papers. Stupid. They'd photograph any damned thing to fill a page. Someone told him they'd called his land “The Killing Field.” Things like that were written by fools for fools to read. When a man has to be up at sunrise he doesn't have time for papers. By the evening they're all out of date.

An evil thing had happened in Middle Field, but Mooney was determined to treat it as just a strip of land like any other. Personally, he had no worries about working the soil. He put the whole morbid incident to the back of his mind.

Until one evening in September.

He'd drilled the new sowing of oilseed, and was using the roller, working late to try and get the job finished before the light went altogether. A huge harvest moon appeared while he was still at work. He was thinking of supper, driving the tractor in near darkness along the last length beside the footpath, when a movement close to the hedge caught his eye.

If the figure had kept still he would have driven straight past. The face turned and was picked out by his headlights. A woman. Features he'd seen before.

He braked and got down.

She was already walking on. He ran after her and shouted, “Hey!”

She turned, and he knew he wasn't mistaken. She was the woman in the photograph the police had shown him, Sue White, the killer, the wife of the dead man.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.

“Walking the footpath. It's allowed, isn't it?” She was calm for an escaped convict.

Mooney's heart pumped faster. He peered through the fading light to be certain he wasn't mistaken. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sue White. Are you all right?”

Mooney wasn't all right. He'd just had a severe shock. His ears were ringing and his vision was going misty. He reached out towards the hedge to support himself. His hand clutched at nothing and he fell.

T
he paramedics attended to him by flashlight in the field where he'd fallen. “You'll need to be checked,” one of them said, “but I don't think this is a heart attack. More of a shock reaction. The blood pressure falls and you faint. Have you had anything like it before?”

Mooney shook his head. “But it were a shock all right, seeing that woman. How did she escape?”

“
Escape
? Just take it easy, Mr Mooney.”

“She's on the run from prison. She could be dangerous.”

“Listen, Mr Mooney. It's only thanks to Mrs White that we got here at all. She used her mobile.”

“Maybe, but she's still a killer.”

“Come off it. You're talking about the man who was shot in your own field, and you don't know who did it? It was all over the papers. Don't you read them?”

“I don't have time for the papers.”

“It was his mistress that killed him. She's serving life now.”

“His mistress? But the wife caught them at it.”

“Yes, and that's how the mistress found out for certain that he had a wife. She'd got her suspicions already and was carrying the gun in her bag to get the truth out of him, or so she claimed at the trial. She saw red and shot him after Mrs White showed up.”

His voice shook. “So Mrs White is innocent?”

“Totally. We've been talking to her. She came down today to look at those cottages. She's the owner now. She'll sell them if she's got any sense. I mean, who'd want a home looking out over the Killing Field?”

They helped Mooney to the gate and into the ambulance. Below the surface of Middle Field, the moist soil pressed against the seeds.

“Y
ou can remove the body.”

“Was it definitely . . .?”

“Suicide, I'd stake my life on it,” said Inspector Carew, a forceful man. “Single bullet to the head. Gun beside him. Ex-army fellow who didn't return his weapon when the war ended. This must be the third or fourth case I've seen. The world has changed too much for them – the wireless, a Labour Government, the bright young things. All these poor fellows have got is their memories of the war, and who wants to think about that?”

“He didn't leave a note.”

“Are you questioning my conclusion?”

“Absolutely not, Inspector.”

“I suggest you get on with your job, then. I'm going to speak to the family.”

The family consisted of the dead man's widow, Emily Flanagan, a pretty, dark-haired woman not much over thirty; and her father, whose name was Russell. They were sitting at the kitchen table in 7, Albert Street, their small suburban house in Teddington. They had a bottle of brandy between them.

The inspector accepted a drink and knocked it back in one swig. When talking to the recently bereaved he needed all the lubrication he could get. He gave them his findings and explained that there would need to be a post mortem to confirm the cause, obvious as it was. “You didn't find a note, I suppose?” he said.

Emily Flanagan shook her head.

“Did anything occur that could have induced him to take his own life? Bad news? An argument?”

Mrs Flanagan looked across at her father.

“No argument,” the old man said. “And that's beyond dispute.”

Mrs Flanagan clapped her hands twice and said, “Good one, Daddy.”

Inspector Carew didn't follow what was going on, except that these two seemed more cheerful than they should.

“As a matter of fact,” Mrs Flanagan said, “Patrick was in a better mood than I've seen him for some time.” The ends of her mouth turned up in what wasn't quite a smile, more a comment on the vagary of fate.

“This was last night?”

“And for some days. He was singing
Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up
in the bathroom.”

“Bracing himself?” said the inspector. His theory of depression was looking shaky.

“What do you mean, ‘bracing himself'?”

“For the, em . . .”

“
Felo de se
,” said old Mr Russell. “
Felo de se
– fellow's sad day.”

“Daddy, please,” said Mrs Flanagan.

The inspector decided that the old man had drunk too much brandy. This wasn't a comfortable place to be. As soon as he'd got the essential details he was leaving. “I understand you were both woken by the shot.”

“About midnight, yes,” the widow said, glancing at her fingernails. She was holding up remarkably.

“You came downstairs and found him in his office?”

She nodded. “He called it his den. And Father came in soon after.”

“He'd given no indication of taking his own life?”

“He liked his own life, Inspector.”

“What was his work?”

“He was an actor. He was currently playing in
Bulldog Drummond
at the Richmond Theatre. It was only a small role as a gangster, but he did it to perfection. They'll miss him dreadfully.”

The inspector was tempted to ask, “And will you?” But he kept his lips buttoned. “
Bulldog Drummond.
I can't say I've read it.”

“It has a sub-title,” said Mrs Flanagan. “Daddy, can you remember the sub-title?”

“The Adventures of a Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.”

“I knew he'd know it,” she said. “Being housebound, Daddy has more time for reading than the rest of us. ‘
A Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull
.'”

This was closer to Inspector Carew's diagnosis. “Poignant, in the circumstances.”

“Oh, I don't agree. Patrick's life was anything but dull.”

“So last night he would have returned late from the theatre?”

“About half past eleven usually.”

“Perhaps he was overtired.”

“Patrick?” she said with an inappropriate laugh. “He was inexhaustible.”

“Did he have a difficult war?”

“Didn't every soldier? I thought he'd put all that behind him.”

“Apparently not, unless there was something else.” The inspector was beginning to revise his theory. “Forgive me for asking this, Mrs Flanagan. Was your marriage entirely successful?”

The lips twitched again. “I dare say he had lapses.”

“Lapses,” said old Mr Russell. “Like lasses on laps.”

This piece of wit earned no more than a frown from his daughter. She said to the inspector, “Patrick was an actor. Enough said?”

“Didn't it anger you?”