Souvenirs of Murder (2 page)

This area was no longer a building site so I had Mark in a sling around my neck. He was sound asleep making very tiny snoring noises. I am not a cooing kind of mother but had to admit that he was extremely cute: Patrick was missing a lot. He had rung me the night before, sounding tired, but would not go into details about his activities, merely saying that he was fine and on a ‘refresher course'. Ye gods. Doing what?

Quick footsteps crunched on the gravel outside and a woman peered through the open doorway.

‘Oh! Aren't they back yet?'

‘This evening,' I told a bad case of growing out black-dyed hair and a frown. This was Mrs Crosspatch, Elspeth's alternative name for the wife of the chairman of the PCC, Frank Crosby, who had been pointed out to me and in my presence spoken of as ‘nosy, unpleasant and interfering'. ‘Hello,' I said. ‘I don't think we've met. I'm John and Elspeth's daughter-in-law, Ingrid.'

She ignored the introduction, marching agitatedly right up to me to say, ‘It's after eleven and the church is still locked. It's most important that I check the flowers.'

‘Isn't locking and unlocking the church the responsibility of the sexton while the rector's away?'

‘Yes, but he often oversleeps and you're nearer. You've got a key, haven't you?'

Her voice had risen to tones of withering scorn.

I was not too sure about this and was about to point out that we did, actually, have the builders in when I remembered seeing a large key of ancient and noble appearance hanging on a hook in John's study, one of the rooms that had not been closed off in case any of the parish records kept in the safe in there were needed. Asking La Crosspatch to meet me around the front of the house – I had already invented another nickname for her – I went across the courtyard and into the rectory, picking my way over toolboxes and around a platoon of men in dusty jeans and sweatshirts, hanged if I was going to ask my visitor to hold my son in case he caught something nasty from her bad breath. The key was where I remembered seeing it.

‘The WI had to have their committee meeting in the parish hall, you know,' the woman said as we went through the small gate from the rectory garden into the churchyard. ‘It really was most inconvenient not being able to have it here.'

‘Where do you have your ordinary meetings?' I asked, knowing full well.

‘In the parish hall, of course.'

‘Well, I'm afraid you'll have to carry on having them there or somewhere else,' I said with regrettable satisfaction. ‘The rectory is now a private house.' I was aware that what had been missing was Elspeth's home-baked cakes and a very comfortable setting. Elspeth had said to me that she thought it about time someone else did all the hard work and now was a good time to make the break.

Mrs Crosby's mouth snapped shut into a thin straight line and she stomped on ahead of me.

Keeping hold of the key – I was damned if I was going to give her that either – we went into the church porch. It was piled with autumn leaves blown in from the previous night's gale which my companion tut-tutted over with a glare in my direction as if to say that I should have dealt with them. I unlocked the door.

The flowers, some on the altar, a few arrangements on tables and a window ledge, were definitely not fresh.

‘But this is disgraceful!' the PCC chairman's wife gasped. ‘Nothing's been done! All I should have to do is check that they're ready for the services tomorrow.'

‘Who was due to do the flowers?' I asked.

She went back into the porch, found her glasses in a pocket and consulted a list pinned to the notice board.

‘Pauline Harrison.' A snort. ‘You wait until I get on the phone to her.'

‘No,' I said.

‘No? What do you mean, no?'

‘I happen to know that her father's been taken to hospital after suffering a stroke.'

‘That's no excuse.'

I closed in on her. ‘No,' I repeated in level tones. ‘You will not phone her, other than to ask how he is. You will also kindly deal with the problem here. The village store sells flowers that are good enough for an emergency and you can help yourself to whatever foliage you need from the rectory garden. Is that understood?' We stared at one another eye to eye. I very rarely lose this kind of confrontation.

At last the woman said, ‘Very well. But the box with the flower fund money's in the vestry which I would like to have access to as I didn't bring my purse with me. I don't live nearby.'

She knew where that key was; tucked out of sight on a ledge by the organ.

A well-built man was spreadeagled face up on the floor of the vestry. He was very dead and all I noticed just then was that the body had some kind of plastic tube protruding from the mouth.

Not necessarily a natural death then.

Having made his way between the police vehicles and personnel Detective Chief Inspector James Carrick swithered between admiring the new member of the Gillard family – he and his wife Joanna are friends of ours – and his professional duties and then caved in and grinned at Mark, who was awake and beaming gummily up at him, before gently touching a chubby cheek with a forefinger.

‘He looks like you.'

I did a double take of my son. ‘Really?'

‘And I'd put money on him being the quiet, introverted and artistic one.'

‘But I'm not like that,' I protested.

‘Compared with that husband of yours and Justin you are.'

I had to admit that he had a point. Hadn't the two of them recently fought a water pistols at dawn duel? Even at six years old Justin had thought himself a better shot than his father. Not so.

We were standing on the gravelled path leading up to the church near the lych gate where I had met Carrick in order to tell him of the circumstances of the discovery. I had thought it best that as Mrs Crosby had understandably been shocked – I had escorted her to a nearby friend's house where she was having a recuperative cup of tea – that I take over the business of flowers. They could be put in a bucket of water until restrictions of entry to the building had been lifted. I was hoping this would be in time for the services the following day. If not, Elspeth could have them.

Carrick excused himself and headed off to join his scenes-of-crime team. Then he turned and said, ‘Were you alone when you found the body?'

‘No, I was with the wife of the chairman of the PCC. She's two cottages away getting over the shock.'

‘I shall need a quick word with both of you. But you don't have to hang around, Ingrid. I can catch up with you at home. And if you have any insider information about the village . . .'

‘You'll need to talk to Elspeth and John about that. They'll be back later today.'

‘Do you know who he was?'

‘No, but I think Mrs Crosby does. It didn't seem my place to question her.'

He walked a few more paces and then stopped again. ‘First thoughts though?'

I had to smile. ‘Is this the Somerset and Avon Police asking SOCA for a professional opinion?'

‘If you like,' he answered soberly.

‘I had another look at the body after I'd dialled 999. There's what looks like a vacuum cleaner nozzle rammed into his mouth. But you can only see a short length of it so it's quite a long way in. Hardly an accident or suicide. Somebody hated him.'

Carrick nodded briskly. ‘Thank you.' Then, ‘It's odd how corpses seem to follow you and Patrick around.'

‘Yes, but this one's
your
baby.'

And that was how I intended it should remain. I would go home and write. Did I have any ideas for the next novel? Not one.

Six days went by. Despite inches of rain work progressed at the rectory, John and Elspeth, coping well with the ghastly shock of the murder, expressing themselves delighted with their new living quarters, although I doubted somehow that Elspeth would relinquish her kitchen so happily when work was finished and the Gillard family could move in. No matter, if she continued to want to cook for everyone when Patrick and I were at home I would be the last one to be stupidly possessive about it.

Carrie, detecting oncoming exhaustion as most of the reason for my miseries, had prised Mark away from me and put him on the bottle, the natural product now petering out. I suppose I had clung on to him for too long to the detriment of my health, guiltily feeling that she had more than enough to do with the two younger children already. But as the feisty Carrie herself had said, ‘What the hell else are nannies for? Go and have some time for yourself, woman.'

The murder victim had been named as Squadron Leader Melvyn Blanche, retired. He and his wife, Barbara, were comparative newcomers to the village but, according to Elspeth, had wasted no time in getting themselves involved in local activities. Human nature being what it is clubs and groups had been delighted that their two new members welcomed working on the various committees.

‘But before you could say knife everyone was complaining that they were running the village,' Elspeth had told me. ‘Oh dear, was that the wrong thing to say? The poor man wasn't stabbed to death, was he?'

‘No,' I had said. ‘He had been hit over the head with some kind of blunt instrument that hasn't yet been found.' I had not wanted to mention, right then, that the narrow vacuum cleaner nozzle had then been forced down the victim's throat and some kind of bleach-based cleaning fluid poured down it. This had gone into the lungs and the latest update from James Carrick was that the post-mortem findings were inconclusive as to which event had actually been the cause of death. The results of more tests were awaited.

‘And whoever did it knew where the key to the vestry was kept,' Patrick's mother had gone on in hushed tones. ‘And they must have had access to one of the keys to the church too, otherwise how would they have locked up afterwards?'

I preferred to leave all this conjecture to the DCI, who with his sergeant Lynn Outhwaite, had, no doubt, closely questioned everyone involved with the day-to-day running of the building.

Another week went by. Mike Greenway rang to tell me that Patrick had started the job and that for his own safety would not now be able to contact me. All I had to reassure me, or otherwise, were his final words to me before he had set off to return to the aforementioned training three days after Mark had been born, this presumably the extent of SOCA's paternal leave.

‘This won't be a protracted business, despite what Greenway might have said to you.'

And:

‘Have a good rest. If I desperately need your help I'll contact you, somehow or other.'

It seemed to me that nothing had changed since the day Patrick had left MI5 because of personal danger and that to his family. And now where were we, I asked myself, with the main breadwinner still likely to come home for the weekend in a body bag? Not a protracted business? What, with possible changes of appearance and identity involved? Not all that long ago Patrick had spoken of giving up his job with SOCA to do something that would allow him more time with his family. He had actually been quite upset about the fact that the four children – this was before I knew I was pregnant with Mark – were growing up without his presence for quite long periods, something that was beginning to manifest itself in Justin's bad behaviour at school.

Resolving absolutely, definitely and utterly not to get involved with the just-under-my-nose murder as some kind of replacement therapy I busied myself – I simply could not concentrate on my new novel – finding out as much as I could about the mad-as-a-box-of-spanners hoodess Patrick was out to catch. There was not much information to be had, either on SOCA's internal website, to which I had the passwords, or that of the Met, courtesy of James Carrick. One of the names she used when in the UK was Andrea Pangborne, this utilized when she was passing herself off as what used to be called a socialite. She had others, a whole suite of identities and nationalities, some stolen, others invented, all using forged passports. She was a shadowy figure, very little was known about her and, like those who worked for her, she changed her appearance all the time. The only hard evidence – other than a string of serious crimes – that she was still in business was the occasional garrotted henchman left in her wake, usually literally in a gutter somewhere, the body having been pushed from a stolen car.

Yes, her business: it probably ought to be written her Business. This again was mostly about murder, internationally, for money, of course, and could involve anyone from a top politician to a drugs pusher if the price was right. Thrown in for good measure, and if required, was the wholesale slaughter of the target's nearest and dearest, including children, full-scale destruction of their houses, cars and any other assets that looked as though they could be satisfactorily firebombed, although anything particularly valuable along the lines of jewellery, artworks and so forth, was removed as contractor's perks. It was rumoured that she did the more ‘interesting' jobs herself.

I do not bite my nails but they would have been down to my knuckles by now. OK, Patrick could, as Greenway had put it, ‘do off-the-wall' but how, exactly, was SOCA going to play this?

TWO

Yet another ten days went by. The rectory roof was finished and, as the first floor extension had also been completed, the scaffolding was removed. The builders were now concentrating on the kitchen extension. Although settling in I knew that Patrick's parents were finding the annex a trifle small because the main rooms in the house were still sealed off, access to which they would have when all the work was finished. To give them a change of scenery and to help alleviate my own worry about Patrick I decided to ask them, and the Carricks, over for dinner. No, not the latter because I was agog to know how the murder inquiry was progressing, absolutely, absolutely not.