Souvenirs of Murder (3 page)

It was Elspeth who asked the question over pre-dinner drinks, she and John I knew were constantly badgered by their parishioners for news about the investigation, the more timid needing assurance, the victim's widow still apparently unable to live on her own.

The DCI knew that this was the time for straight-talking, not platitudes.

‘I'm afraid we haven't got very far with this. We've eliminated quite a few people from the inquiry but anyone who has access to the key to the church and knows where the one to the vestry is kept is still a suspect as there appears to be no motive. Except those present in this room, of course. It's turning into one of those Agatha Christie stories where the more you delve beneath the surface of village life the more cans of worms you find.' He looked a little contrite. ‘I hope I haven't ruined your impression of the rural idyll.'

‘Good grief!' John exclaimed. ‘There's no such thing and never has been. The so-called rural idyll was something invented by well-fed intellectuals who never went into the countryside to see the starving. These days, a good proportion of the people round here are pagans, worshipping their cars, money or pop stars and don't give a tinker's cuss for anyone. Newcomers complain about cattle mooing, the lack of street lighting and the church bells. There's even a suspicion that we've got a black magic outfit that's just been set up.' He added, darkly, ‘I'm going to close
that
down if it's true. I'm not prepared to tolerate such filthy rubbish in the parish.'

‘Good for you, sir,' Carrick said. Then he continued, ‘It appears the murder victim was not a popular man, neither locally nor within his own family. His wife, Barbara, seems to be the only one to have anything good to say about him – and speaking in complete confidentiality I have to say I find
her
somewhat strange.'

‘She thinks she can foretell who's going to be next to die,' Elspeth said. ‘She's known as Morticia in the village.'

A smile twitched at the corners of Carrick's mouth. ‘It looks as though she might have failed as far as her husband goes then. What I can't understand is that although unpopular, or at least it seems he was, they appear to be members of just about every local organization; the Garden Society, the Hinton Players, a drama group, the Bridge Club and he was on the PCC. Mrs Blanche has joined the WI and a keep fit class.'

‘We'd only just returned from holiday when we spoke last,' Elspeth said. ‘I've been doing a little investigating myself, mostly, I feel you ought to know, because of the general anxiety of a few members of the congregation. They tell me that they had words with him about something or the other just before he was killed – there were three, I think, who said that – and then I remembered that another two people had asked me prior to this man's death if they ought to mention to John something that he was steamrollering ahead with in a semi-official capacity that was not in the best interests of the village. They're worried that they're suspects.'

‘What kind of semi-official capacity?' Carrick asked.

‘Well, he'd just got himself on the village fête committee and proceeded to try to take over the entire running of it. And, while the usual person was away he somehow bullied the Hinton Players into letting him stage-manage the summer play. The village has a little festival in June – it's only been going for two years – and no end of people were upset about his interference. I have to say that only came to light yesterday as far as I'm concerned. There's been such a lot to do here,' she finished somewhat apologetically.

John said, ‘I understand the poor man was hit on the head with some kind of blunt instrument.'

‘Then a narrow vacuum cleaner nozzle was pushed down his throat and a bleach-based cleaning fluid poured down it,' Carrick told him. ‘He actually drowned.'

Elspeth said, ‘Those things are available to people on the cleaning rota, and they know where the key to the vestry is hidden.'

‘Were he and his wife on the cleaning rota?'

‘No, they're far too grand to do things like that. They were hymn snobs too.'

‘
Hymn
snobs?'

‘Yes, they'd only sing hymns that are in
Ancient and Modern.
None of what they called the “happy-clappy” stuff.'

‘Are you? On the cleaning rota, I mean.'

‘Yes, I do it with Molly Gardner. John always polishes the brass.'

‘You'll have a copy of the current list then.'

‘Of course. I'll let you have it. And there's one pinned up in the church porch.'

‘How many keys are there to the church?'

‘Three,' John answered. ‘I have two, and the sexton another. One of those I hold is given to a church official if I'm away, one of the wardens usually, but I have to say we're not strict about it. The building is normally unlocked at around nine thirty in the morning by the sexton and locked up again at dusk – I usually do that – but a bit earlier than that in the summer with the long light evenings.'

‘Had he unlocked it on the morning of the murder?' I asked.

‘Yes.'

‘So the murderer locked it up again.'

‘Looks like it. This is going to turn into a jigsaw puzzle with several thousand pieces.' Carrick held out his glass for another tot of whisky as I proffered the bottle: Patrick's favourite, I had noted with a pang as I had picked it up.

Carrick noticed too. ‘Have you heard from Patrick?' he said to me as I was about to ask who, exactly, had been in possession of John's spare key.

I shook my head. ‘No, not since he started this job. He's not allowed to.'

Thankfully, he sensed that I preferred not to talk about it right now and the conversation moved on to other things. I had not told John and Elspeth the nature of Patrick's latest assignment.

The next morning I took one look at the front page of the
Daily Telegraph
that had just been pushed through the letter box and snatched up the phone to call Michael Greenway, not caring that it was only six forty-five. The number being that of his mobile there was every chance of catching him. There were the usual strange clicks and clonks as the call went through whatever electronic wizardry SOCA uses to protect its operatives' communications and then he answered, with a mouthful of breakfast by the sound of it.

‘Body found in Soho gutter,' I quoted tersely, forgetting to tell him who was calling. ‘A man who had been garrotted. Can you put my mind at rest?'

‘Even I don't know who he was yet,' Greenway admitted after swallowing his cornflakes, or whatever. ‘I'll get right back to you as soon as I know anything. But don't worry, I'm sure he's fine.'

Later, the morning domestic scene going on all around me; children squabbling as they rushed to get ready for school, Vicky in her high chair serenely, and stickily, eating honey on toast, Mark asleep after his early morning feed, I really began to feel that I would go off my head with worry.

Patrick and I make a very good team, a partnership that enforced maternity leave was hazarding. I am not conceited but all I could think of was that he was out there somewhere without an important cog in the machine. Unless he was that body in the gutter.

The phone rang and I leapt at it.

‘I'm going to Bath for a dentist appointment,' said Elspeth's voice. ‘Do you want anything?'

‘Er – no, thank you,' I mumbled.

‘Only you mentioned a few days ago that you'd have to get some tinted moisturizer or other from Boots.'

‘Oh, yes . . . sorry . . . yes please.' I gave her the name of it.

‘Are you all right, Ingrid? You sound a bit under the weather.'

‘Yes, fine. I didn't sleep very well, that's all.' Which was perfectly true.

‘Patrick should have been allowed to spend more time with you. Having babies is an utterly exhausting business. Never mind, it's his birthday in three days' time. He always rings me if he's away somewhere so I'm sure you'll hear from him too.'

When I had put down the phone I shed the usual tears. In my present state of mind I had forgotten all about it.

Five minutes later the phone rang again.

‘Negative,' Michael Greenway said. ‘I know nothing more right now but you can rest assured it's not Patrick.'

‘How
can
everyone be so sure?' I asked stubbornly, haunted by the images in my mind's eye of hideously bloated facial features.

‘I asked them to check the right foot. It's a real one. OK?'

Humbly, I thanked him. Truly, having a baby had scrambled my brains.

Weak with relief, I went off into a welcome daydream, thinking how amazing it was that Patrick, through sheer hard work, the clichéd blood, sweat and even a few tears, had succeeded in getting fit after the Special Forces injuries that had meant having the lower part of his right leg amputated. It has been replaced by something that is just about the best in the world and cost a small fortune. Now, he might limp a little when he is very tired but can dance, run for short distances and no longer has nightmares of standing naked in the centre of some vast sports stadium with thousands of people shouting ‘cripple!' at him.

Another week went by, each day seemingly an action replay of the previous one. I still could not work on the new novel I had started: I simply could not concentrate. I was aware that the police were continuing to make enquiries in the village, visiting those houses where people had not been at home when the first house-to-house questioning had taken place. James Carrick had not been in touch and I knew that this was not only because he was frantically busy but, sensitive soul that he is, would refrain from badgering me, knowing that I would call when I had anything to tell him.

Realizing that I was sitting in exactly the same place, worrying about exactly the same things as I had been seven days previously I wearily got to my feet, automatically picked up the toys and garments that the children had left in their wake and, berating myself that I was still in my dressing gown, made my way upstairs. I heard Carrie coming back from taking Justin to school.

The phone rang but before I could get to the nearest one it stopped after four rings. Calling whoever had changed their mind a few names under my breath I carried on up the stairs. Then, up in the bedroom, my mobile, which was in my bag, rang four times. Not for me silly tunes.

Four rings.

Back in the mists of time – a few months, no weeks, previously – that was the code Patrick and I had used when we urgently wanted the other to get in touch.

‘But why not just ring me?' I asked out loud.

Because he wanted me to ring him, that was why, stupid.

I stuck to the rules and left it for a short time, six minutes to be exact, and then rang his mobile number from the landline, heart thumping and suddenly feeling a thousand per cent alert.

There was a click and then a rough voice said, ‘Who's that?'

‘Doctor Astrid von Bremen,' I answered. ‘Is someone trying to contact me?'

‘Oh!' There was a short pause. ‘Your number was called a while back on this mobile belonging to a bloke wot's been hurt in an accident. I'm trying to identify him so I can call his family. He says his name is Patrick Gillard.'

I went ice cold.

‘I don't think he's a patient of mine,' I said.

‘Can you check, like?'

‘I'm right in the middle of my morning surgery,' I told him. ‘Have you called an ambulance?'

There was another little silence. Then, ‘'Corse.'

He was lying.

‘Surely if he's able to tell you his name he should be able to say who his next of kin are.'

‘No, he's . . . sort of . . . like . . . rambling on.'

‘What kind of accident has he been involved in? Has he been knocked down by a car?'

More silence, but for faint music.

‘Can I speak to him?' I risked asking.

There was a click and then the line went dead.

My first instinct was to arrange immediately for my mobile number to be changed. No, it might be the only lifeline Patrick had. But I would have to use another phone until I was sure that no one was now tracking my own. Then I remembered that Patrick had called the house landline first. Which meant they probably had that too. And, for heaven's sake, unless he had erased the other numbers in his phone's memory persons unknown were now party to all the numbers of family, friends, Uncle Tom Ballsup and all.

‘What the
hell
were you doing having your own phone with you?' I raged to the four walls of the room.

‘Are you all right, Ingrid?' Carrie enquired up the stairs.

‘May I borrow your mobile?' I asked, throwing on clothes. ‘No, on second thoughts . . .' I went down. ‘Carrie, I think the wrong people may have got hold of Patrick's phone with all our numbers in and I don't know if they have the wherewithal to listen in. Does Patrick have your number?'

‘Yes, he has. In case there's something wrong with the ordinary one.'

‘So they'll have his parents' number too,' I said in despair.

‘There's a phone box in the village,' she reminded me.

I was halfway out of the door when she called, ‘You could use Matthew's. You bought it for him after Patrick went away and they're not allowed to take them to school.'

I tore back up the stairs.

‘Someone's got Patrick and it sounds as though he's under some kind of duress, even truth drug,' I told Michael Greenway without preamble. ‘They know his real name.' I related what had happened.