Tainted Ground (12 page)

‘No. It's nothing to do with me,' Stonelake said.

‘None of it?'

‘None of it. I just kept a few bags of animal feed in there. I'd forgotten about them and the bales must've been piled in front. Likely been there since Dad reared calves in the building.'

‘Odd then that they should look so new, have sell-by dates of two years hence and be for ponies,' Patrick murmured. ‘Tell the truth. Everything stashed away in there was stolen or dodgy, wasn't it?'

‘No!' Stonelake bellowed.

‘Why have a space behind the hay bales?'

‘It was handy because of light-fingered locals, that's why!'

‘Oh, so you did have a habit of hiding things there.'

After a short pause, looking a bit sick, Stonelake muttered, ‘Sometimes.'

Patrick turned to Carrick. ‘Chief Inspector, would you say that the crime rate in the Hinton Littlemoor area warranted such precautions?'

‘No,' Carrick answered. ‘Mr Stonelake, how well did you know the Manleys and Keith Davies?'

‘I didn't.'

‘Not at all?'

‘No. Never clapped eyes on 'em – to know who they were, I mean.'

‘It wouldn't appear that any of the people we've spoken to have a good word to say on your behalf. They seemed to think it was just the latest nasty occurrence at Hagtop.'

‘The other things were all in the past, nothing to do with me or my family.'

‘So you and your father didn't take pot-shots at those walking on your land; mushroom-pickers, bird-watchers and so forth, immediately deciding they were poachers and opened fire? Or perhaps you didn't want them there because of your criminal activities.'

Stonelake was shaking his head all through this last question. ‘We might have been a bit hasty a couple of times but no one's going to the trouble of knocking off folk on my property just to get back at me for that, are they?'

‘You're right. That's what convinces me that you're in this up to your neck. There are quite a few valuable antiques in Mr and Mrs Manley's flat and also an open fireplace where they'd obviously had a wood fire. Are you sure you didn't supply them with logs before you left the farm?' When Stonelake did not respond he added, ‘It's fairly easy to do a bit of forensic work on the unburned logs in the basket there, and find out if they came from your woods.'

I shot a sideways glance at Patrick, fairly convinced that this was the Scottish version of old baloney, but he was looking fixedly at Stonelake.

‘I bought in some wood as well.'

‘Who from?'

‘Just a jobbing gardener bloke who'd sometimes be asked to take down trees, or lop them. People expect the wood to be taken away if they've no stove of their own.'

‘What's his name?'

‘I just know him as Frankie. Surnames don't matter.'

‘What about Keith Davies?'

‘What about him?'

‘Did you
know
him?'

‘No. I said as much just now, didn't I?'

Patrick said, ‘Come now, you spend some, if not most, evenings in the pub, don't you, when you're not drinking at home. Do you mean to tell us that you didn't bump into him down there, someone who had a reputation for being confrontational and in everyone's face even when he was sober?'

‘He might have been there but I don't know what he looked like, do I?'

‘The victims' photographs were in all the local papers.'

After, one assumed, considerable efforts on the part of mortuary attendants to produce something that could be presented to the general public.

‘I don't read the papers.'

‘There seemed to be a hell of a lot of newspapers scattered all over your living room.'

O'Malley interrupted with, ‘This is pure conjecture and a waste of time.'

‘Where were you on the day of the murders?' Patrick asked Stonelake, ignoring the solicitor.

‘As you just said yourself, in the bloody pub.'

‘The bodies were discovered late afternoon by a walking group. Were you in the pub at lunchtime?'

‘Yes – no – I can't remember.'

‘Were you at home, then? Think, you must be able to remember.'

‘Well, I can't,' said the other after a pause.

Carrick said, ‘I obtained a warrant and had your bungalow searched. There are some rather good pieces of furniture there.'

‘It's mine! All of it. Belonged to my parents.'

‘Not to mention a couple of bronze equestrian figures after the style of Stubbs and some silver dishes which were packed in a box in the loft.'

‘They're mine too.'

‘Well, I don't think they are, as both closely fit the descriptions of items stolen from a country house in Wiltshire last month. Rare items, worth a lot of money. Too hot to try to get rid of yet, eh?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘And now there's the bad business of what happened in St Michael's churchyard,' Carrick continued.

Stonelake shrugged angrily. ‘No comment.'

Rightly, this got under Carrick's skin. ‘I think that if someone had removed my father's coffin from its place of rest I would have something to say on the subject. Mr Stonelake, this is a very serious matter and perhaps if I now tell you that I've just been told that no human remains had ever been interred in it you'll come up with one or two theories.'

Stonelake looked appalled. ‘What? He was never in there? Where the hell
is
he, then?'

‘You tell me. Was his coffin a good place to hide stolen property?'

Stonelake lunged out of his chair at Carrick but was fielded neatly by Patrick before he could do the DCI any damage, and reseated, gently.

‘My client would like a short break,' O'Malley said quickly.

‘Certainly. Ten minutes,' Carrick said, magnanimously adding, ‘I'll arrange for some tea to be brought in.' He stopped the tape, gathered up his papers and at a sign from him Patrick and I followed him out.

‘You'll have lost the momentum,' Patrick observed as we sat in the canteen, absorbing sludge-coloured coffee.

‘I know, but I'd rather lose it early on than later when I'm obliged to give him a break and might be on to something more useful. Sorry, I forgot to mention the stuff we found at the bungalow. It was confirmed earlier today that it came from Westbury House. They've photographs of the art collection there so there's no mistaking it.'

‘Did forensics have any ideas when you spoke to the lab just now as to what had been in the coffin?' Patrick asked.

‘There was just that black dusty stuff. No trace of anything else. Remember seeing it?'

‘Of course.'

‘Tea.'

‘
Tea?
' Patrick and I exclaimed together.

Carrick rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Yeah, loose tea. But not new tea, used and then dried-out tea. It's enough to give you the screaming habdabs, isn't it?'

Despite what Carrick had hoped nothing useful was achieved that night and Stonelake was remanded in custody. The DCI looked fit to drop.

‘So let's go through what we have,' Patrick said. ‘It almost goes without saying that Stonelake nicked the horse tack. Or nicked most of it and is a fence for the rest. The feed's stolen too. Plus he's certainly in all kinds of similar scams, including the things found in the loft at his home and other crimes that we don't yet know about yet. But I don't
think
he's involved in whatever's going on with regard to Barney's coffin. The look of shock on his face when Carrick told him was genuine and I'm not sure he's
that
much of a bastard. I'm keeping an open mind as to whether he's involved in the murders but we might learn a bit more at the mill. But when you think about it, if a serious crook wanted a nice quiet place to take people apart to gain info from them or just kill them what better venue than an empty barn out of earshot of everywhere that belongs to the local bad boy who will automatically become the police's number-one suspect?'

It was the following morning and we were walking down the rectory drive on our way to the mill, where we intended to have a look round the murder victims' flats having ‘acquired' the keys and the case file. Neither of us felt comfortable at going behind Carrick's back.

I said, ‘But that theory suggests that the crime's a local one and not organized by some city gang. It's not as though the building can be seen from any main roads. You'd have to live in the area and know about Stonelake and that the farm was, at present, uninhabited.'

‘One explanation could be that a gang member lives in the vicinity and reports back to the big bossman.' Patrick paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Or
lived
. It could have been Davies himself.'

‘It would be a good idea to examine his criminal record in some detail, then. See who his connections were. But if he was a past member of a gang and the killings were some kind of score-settling where do the others fit in? Was Chris Manley really a policeman before he retired?'

Patrick patted the file that was beneath his arm. ‘I was too weary last night to plough my way through every word of this – up until now Carrick's been sitting on it like a broody hen – but a quick flip through told me only that investigating the victims' pasts is still on-going.' He stopped to survey the damaged border. ‘At least this is being fixed today.'

Plants had appeared as if by magic on the rectory doorstep, mostly young flowering shrubs, some of which John's parishioners had obviously dug up from their own gardens. And other gifts; pots of spring bulbs, a bouquet of viburnum and winter sweet that was filling the dining room with scent, even some new fence posts.

We sat on a seat on the village green to read through the reports again.

‘No sign of a struggle in either property,' Patrick murmured, still reading. ‘Fingerprints everywhere but only those of the inhabitants, plus Davies's in the Manleys' but not theirs in his. So he came to see them but they stayed out of his place. That would tie in with what Pascal Lapointe said; that he was working for them as a driver. And as you suggested, as their minder. We must be careful here; it did not make Christopher Manley a bent copper just because he employed an ex-con.'

‘It's strange that they all lived in the same building. The Manleys could have got caught up in something iffy that Davies was up to.'

The doors of both flats had police seals but we had the means to reseal them. We decided to have a look at Keith Davies's home first perhaps, on reflection, subconsciously thinking it might be the most rewarding. Patrick immediately voiced the thought that went through my head and I wondered, not for the first time, if there was such a thing as telepathy.

‘Are we being superior and clever-clogsy imagining we'll spot something that about a dozen experts have missed?'

‘Professionals with experience in another branch of investigation will always have a fresh slant on any case,' I said.

Hand on the doorknob he said, ‘Ingrid, that's so bloody good I'm going to write it down and use it in the ten-thousand-word essay I'll no doubt have to write at some stage.'

The place smelt stale, understandable, I suppose, as it had been shut up for several days. The way a home smells though can immediately tell you a lot about the people who live there. It was clear that Davies had smoked, liked fry-ups and, in either kitchen or bathroom, a drain was blocked.

‘I take it we can touch things,' I said.

‘Carrick didn't say anything about SOCO not having completely finished. Nor does their report and although I remembered to pick up a couple of pairs of gloves I shouldn't imagine we can take the place apart.'

‘Why can't we if they haven't?'

‘I like your reasoning. How can we if they haven't?'

Exasperated, I said, ‘What did they tell you on the training course?'

‘We didn't cover it.'

‘They always seem to yank everything out of cupboards on the telly.'

‘Yes, but this isn't
Frost
or
Morse
, is it? This is me getting the old heave-ho if I screw up.'

I was beginning to yearn for our MI5 days. I said, ‘I suggest we have a good look at everything but leave it exactly as we find it. And stop worrying – it's probably my fault for suggesting you tread lightly.'

It was too much to expect that we would find anything that would be a further insight into Davies's criminal past. The information in the case file was basic but sufficient; he had served two years for GBH – the sentence possibly a light one because he had vented his wrath on a mobster wanted by the police, who had promptly arrested him in hospital – and six months for being in possession of a firearm, a sawn-off shotgun. He had been implicated in several other crimes, including attempted murder, but there had never been sufficient evidence to bring a strong case against him. There was a note in Carrick's handwriting to the effect that Davies had worked as a ‘casual' for various underworld outfits, as a driver, wielder of baseball bat for intimidation purposes, thug in attendance, whatever was required.

We split up and I had a quick look in the kitchen, the source of the smell, I immediately discovered. There was a pile of dirty crockery in the sink standing in a puddle of putrid water, a dishcloth steeping in this resembling a decomposing sea-slug. I pulled the plug out but the water stayed exactly where it was. The rest of the room was not much better but I searched everywhere. I even looked in the fridge-freezer and cooker. In one of the wall cupboards hidden behind cans of baked beans I found some cash, two hundred pounds in fifty-pound notes. I was convinced that the spaces beneath the units had already been searched but got down on my knees, unclipped the boarding and looked anyway. There was a lot of dust and fluff but nothing else.

‘Just some money,' I reported to Patrick on my way past the bathroom door. He appeared to be dismantling the front of the bath.