Scaring Crows (29 page)

The window pane was smeared but she could still see the animal clearly, pawing the ground. Doric was enormous, pale in colour, almost cream skinned and very heavy with huge shoulders and a great bag of testicles dangling between his legs. This was where Pinkers had been early on Tuesday morning. He had got up late but the milking took less than an hour. They left the bull to graze at night. But the animal must be hidden throughout the day. And as Joanna's mind began to unblock she turned around. ‘Mike,' she said, pointing. ‘Look around you.'

It was the wide, green panoramic sweep of the valley. And Hardacre was clearly in view, nestling at the top end of the lane just before it curved towards Brooms and petered out in the footpath. Joanna shielded her eyes from the sinking sun. Titus Mothershaw's sculptured wood was hidden behind the house, a dark-green area with only the pinnacle of the Owl Hole visible. To the left stood Fallowfield, looking slightly ramshackle and picturesque. She could see exhaust spouting from the top of the tractor, hear a cockerel's noisy crow far in the distance, a dog somewhere far away barking wildly. She turned back towards Hardacre and thought how dead it seemed. There was no movement and no noise. Even the animals were quiet. The place looked deserted. She and Mike turned away from the barn, climbed the five-barred gate and returned to the squad car, Mike watching her enquiringly.

‘We'll get the vet up,' she said finally, ‘for positive identification.' She grinned at Mike. “This is the beginning of the end, Mike.' But she couldn't resist a final tug at his leg. ‘So shall we return to the safety of the station?'

She felt a strong urge to speak to Matthew as soon as they walked inside the station. She was missing his frequent calls and visits. This was the first time since he had left Jane that they had drifted so far apart and she was feeling lonely and unsettled. The insecurity was deeply disturbing and uncomfortable. She
must
speak to him. Yet the distance between them seemed so wide she felt she needed an excuse.

She finally tracked him down at home and instantly recognized the distant, guarded tone in his voice.

Yet he was polite. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I wondered if you had any results back from the lab?'

‘I've got the grouping but the DNA will take longer.' He paused before adding gently. ‘I did tell you, Jo.'

‘So what are the results of the grouping?'

‘As we thought. Neither Aaron nor Jack could be the father of Ruthie's baby.'

‘Anything else?'

‘You've probably got a duplicate report on the rug ...'

‘Not that I've read yet.'

‘Accelerants. Diesel fuel. Plenty had been splashed around it.'

‘Right,' she said idly. There was a long pause before Matthew spoke in a quiet, reproachful voice. ‘You don't even try with Eloise. Joanna, it isn't going to work unless you make some effort.'

‘I do try.' She was instantly furious. ‘Haven't you noticed how she ignores me?'

‘Oh, for goodness sake,' he said irritably. ‘You're like a pair of adolescents. For my sake will you try and get on with her. It's making life very difficult. She is my daughter.'

She dug her nails into her palm. ‘And have you had this conversation with her?'

‘Yes.' But he hesitated. ‘Using slightly different words. But remember. This whole situation has come about because of our relationship. I was married to her mother.'

Suddenly her anger boiled over and she slammed the phone down, her hands shaking.

She buried her face in her arms and struggled to hold back the tears. She tried to excuse him. Perhaps it is natural always to defend your own flesh and blood. Guilt was forcing him to shovel blame on to her. She lifted her head and stared at the brick wall view from her window. Surely ... surely he did love her, didn't he? Memories flooded through her hotly, all the times he had begged her to see him, to meet with him, to sleep with him. Something like a creeping horror took hold of her.

Surely he did still love her?

But the horror was swiftly replaced by something fierce.

She would never forgive Eloise Levin for the way she drove a wedge between her and Matthew.

Korpanski was watching her from the doorway, tossing up whether to go in, put a friendly arm around her, console her with the statement that there were plenty of men besides Levin. But something held him back and before he could reach her she looked over and caught his eye and he felt embarrassed at being caught. She rubbed her nose with her hand. ‘Yes? What is it?'

He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You all right?'

And she couldn't hide her feelings any longer. ‘I hate it when she comes.'

But his words lit the fire again.

‘Well she is his daughter.'

10 p.m.

She needed to be alone, in her own, small, secure cottage, away from other people, ringing phones, intrusion. She locked the door, poured herself a glass of cold white wine and flopped into the comfortable sofa. It had been a luxury buy, goose feather filled, covered in heavy, dark red brocade with tapestry cushions lining the back. She settled into it and closed her eyes. Not for long. The temptation was always to take pleasure from the furnishings, pieces of old furniture – some procured at local auction rooms, others inherited from an aunt – and the oil paintings that warmed the walls. Two portraits of Georgian dandies and a still life of a vase of red roses. It all felt as safe and comfortable as a nest. She sat for minutes deliberately allowing her mind to think about nothing until some instinct moved her to stand in front of the glass fronted china cabinet. As though in a dream she opened the door. This was where she kept her collection of Victorian Staffordshire figures also bequeathed to her by her aunt who must have suspected where her interests and future career would lie. For the figures were of criminals mostly, criminals who had been caught, convicted and sentenced. Without even rudimentary knowledge of blood groups, DNA, fingerprint techniques and advanced communications the police had caught their killers. It made her all the more determined. So would she.

She picked one out believing it was at random before she realized what her fingers had found. Smith and Collier. Farmers from the tiny village of Froghall, Staffordshire. A sleepy hollow of the place served by the Cauldon canal.
Smith grasps the shoulder of Collier, Collier grabs back, ready to murder him after Smith has found him poaching on his land. Collier has a double barrelled shot gun. With one discharge he has killed two rabbits. With the other he shoots Smith in the head. A pair of farmers who settled an argument their way.

Joanna had often felt that handling the tributes made by the potters of Staffordshire to their villains gave her heart. Their police had not failed then. Nor would they now. William Collier had been hanged on August 7th 1866, the last ever public execution outside Stafford Gaol. She peered even closer at the figure.

The men stand beneath an arbour. Smith stands on the left, dressed in a round hat, a neckerchief, a long jacket, a waistcoat, breeches and gaiters. His right hand holds a revolver while his left hand apprehends Collier. Collier wears a beaver hat, a long jacket, a waistcoat and breeches. And slung from his right shoulder is the give away, a game bag. He is the poacher. And it is he who holds the long barrel of the murder weapon, a fowling piece. On the floor is further evidence, a brace of dead pheasants and a dog who attacks Collier's right leg.

And so, holding it, she used the figure of William Collier and Thomas Smith as a medium uses a crystal ball, as a focus for her mind.

It would work.

Her subconscious mind would piece together the seemingly disconnected facts of this case. While she was sleeping it would sift through statements, recall with magic perfection the faces of the witnesses as they gave their statements; whether deceitful or honest.

She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing right down.

Sunday, July 12th, 6 a.m.

She sat up in bed and hugged her knees, sensing there was something different about today almost the second she opened her eyes. Through the curtains she could see what it was. It was dull outside, dark and threatening. The weather was breaking with a noisy, crashing thunderstorm.

Her eyes moved across to the bedside table where she had carefully stood the pottery farmers in their final death-throe struggle.

And she smiled and threw the covers off. Today would bring the truth. She knew it would only take a little more concentration before her mind clarified events to crystal quality and thunderstorm or not she could not resist the cycle ride across the ridge before dropping down into the valley of the three farms and scattered cottages.

During the night her mind had unravelled something. She
knew
who Ruthie's lover had been. No, she corrected herself as she stood beneath the shower, soaping her body with the scented gel. I don't
know
who the father of Ruthie's baby was but I shall
see
something today that will tell me. And Ruthie will speak to me.

The grass had changed colour to a sickly green in reflection from the clouds, rumbling with a threat. But no lightning, yet. And no rain – yet. So Joanna pedalled across the ridge and felt this strange new wind stroke her face with the chill of a weather front. And she was glad. The hot weather had threatened to fuel her temper, drain her energy, fuddle her brain so it lost the clarity it must have to point the eventual finger.

She must know. But it was not enough just to know. She must have proof, that or a confession.

Travelling against the wind she could almost convince herself that it was not the murders of the Summers family that she must solve but the story behind the execution of William Collier. Because as far as she gazed down into both valleys she could see nothing that told her they were approaching the millennium. Victoria could still be on the throne, not Elizabeth. There was not one modern building, no pylons or visible sign of the twentieth century. Nothing but cows and fields, hedges and stone walls. As the road dipped towards the valley she flicked the gears of her bike to reach the biggest cog and the fastest speed. She felt an urgency to prove her theory.

This morning she was up before Martin Pinkers, or the Rowans, their noisy, energetic guests, the inhabitants of the Owl Hole or Brooms. There was no life stirring this morning, only her, her feet rhythmically pedalling towards the ill-fated farm.

She locked her bike around the back of the Incident Room and waited impatiently for Mike. She had learnt her lesson about interviewing suspects alone but they had taken the guard from the farmhouse and merely locked the complaining doors, stiff from standing open once too often.

8.30 a.m.

At last Mike came and she shot her questions at him.

‘What do you remember about Mothershaw's place?'

He yawned and looked fed up. ‘It's Sunday morning, Jo.'

‘I know,' she said briskly. ‘But just picture the place.'

Mike rubbed his head. ‘The owl,' he ventured, ‘the one I bumped my head on.'

‘Go on.'

He watched her, bemused. ‘It's sort of...'

‘Yes?'

‘Futuristic?'

‘And?'

He shrugged, irritated. ‘I don't know what you're getting at, Jo.'

‘He does wood carvings,' she said urgently. ‘Where?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Not one chisel. Not one fragment of wood shavings. Not even one chunk of wood.'

‘Oh.' Mike's face cleared.

‘And the Owl Hole is far too tidy and clean for him to work there. He has a workshop, Mike, which he hasn't wanted to show us. It must have been in the original report but there were so many farm buildings we didn't really notice it. And we were searching for only one thing. Ruthie's body.'

Even with the current threat of thunder Mothershaw's work had lost some of its air of mystery and was recognizable for what it was, modern art, cleverly intertwined pieces of supple stick and wood, some skilled carving. But the mystery was missing. His was work for half-lights, for mists and winter evenings, not a July thunderstorm. Without deep shadows the faces lacked expression. Except the Tree Man. He towered over them, partly shrouded by the pale leaves of a lime tree, his thick stick arms held out threateningly. Joanna pushed aside the fronds and gazed up.

And she knew.

She knew who now and more importantly she knew the
real
reason why.

Just to be certain she walked right around the figure, studied the scorched feet, partly softened by a wrapping of moss. But it was the face which gave the entire story away. It was all there, once the full facts, each and every one, was given its right place in the sequence of events. And for once even Mike seemed sensitive to the Tree Man. He too was silent, staring fixedly at the figure. ‘I suppose,' he said grudgingly, ‘if I
had
to live with one of them this would be the one I'd go for.'

She swivelled her head round to take in his wide jaw line and blunt features. ‘Is it? You're sure about that, are you, Mike?'

‘What on earth ...?'

‘What about the one he's working on at the moment?'

Mike moved his head slightly from side to side. It was an action that asked a question.

She didn't answer it.

Mothershaw blinked when he saw them. And there was something very guarded in his expression. Today, as though he mirrored the weather, he was dressed sombrely in a black polo neck and mushroom coloured trousers. His eyes were dulled and tired and he wore a dignified air of grief.

‘I heard the news,' he said quietly.

And Joanna knew the full story of Ruthie's death must have broken.

She nodded matter of factly.

‘I didn't really expect you back.' There was a question behind the sentence. ‘I thought you'd be busy,' he continued.