Tainted Ground (25 page)

The study appeared to be a euphemism for a storeroom, boxes piled everywhere, just leaving sufficient space for a computer standing on a cheap DIY unit, a chair, a metal filing cabinet and a sturdy steel cupboard. Latimer went to this, unlocked it with a key that was on a bunch in his pocket and opened the door.

‘There,' he said. ‘All properly licensed and stored. This safe cost me a damned fortune.'

Inside were two shotguns and an air rifle with telescopic sights. They were individually secured.

‘Does your wife shoot?' I asked.

‘Carol! God, no. She's useless at anything like that. The older gun, the Purdey, belonged to my father. I don't use it – it needs attention.'

‘I should like to see them both,' Patrick said. Sans sling this morning, he went to put on forensic gloves and then gave them to me. ‘You handle them, my left arm's a bit weak this morning.'

‘I resent this,' Latimer ground out, sorting through his keys.

‘And next you'll say that the Chief Constable is a personal friend of yours and you'll be making a complaint about me,' Patrick said. ‘Go on, man, it's in quite a few of Agatha Christie's whodunnits.' After a short silence he went on, ‘When you were at the rectory for the PCC meeting and left the room after coffee was it to visit the downstairs cloakroom?'

‘Of course. Where the hell else d'you think I'd go?'

I am a reasonable shot and familiar with shotguns and it was John himself who had taught me how to use one. I removed the weapon nearest to me, the Purdey, from the securing device that Latimer had just unlocked and broke it while wondering why he did not have it repaired as they are just about the finest money can buy. It smelt of gun oil. I replaced it.

I took the second, examined it and caught Patrick's eye: it had been fired recently.

I
gave the gloves and then the shotgun to Patrick and he took the weight of it on his right arm.

‘Don't you clean it when you've used it?' he asked mildly, looking down the blackened interior of the barrels.

‘Normally, yes, but I was in a bit of a hurry this morning and forgot.'

‘Where were you last night, Mr Latimer?'

‘Here, of course.' He flared up. ‘Look, I'm not your bloody murderer!'

‘It was bloody all right,' Patrick whispered. ‘Why did you fire this weapon?'

‘I went out into the field behind the house.' Here he waved wildly in the direction of the window. ‘That one – and gave both barrels to some pigeons that have been eating my vegetables.'

‘That should be easy to check up on, someone must have heard you.'

‘I didn't fire close to the houses. Over by that oak tree you can see down there.'

‘So you crawled across the field?'

‘No, I just walked very slowly along by the hedge.'

‘I happen to know enough about country matters to be aware that pigeons are highly alert birds and would have flown off before you got into range.'

‘Most of them did. I didn't hit any.'

Having just met the man I had to admit to myself that I could picture it. But I had an idea no creeping about had taken place, he had merely noticed the pigeons in his winter cabbages, snatched the gun, raced out into the field and let fly at the fleeing culprits. But that did not mean the weapon had not been used prior to that, in the early hours of the morning. In fact the recent firing could have been intended as a cover-up.

Patrick said, ‘I shall impound this for forensic testing. You'll get a receipt. Now, when you left the rector's study yesterday and crossed the hall, did you see anyone else?'

‘I did not.'

‘Please think carefully. It's very important.'

‘No, I didn't see a soul.'

‘And when you returned?'

‘The same. No one. Not that I can guarantee that I looked both right and left on each occasion.'

Patrick gave him a smile. ‘Thank you. Tell me about the time you were in Malaya.'

Charm and then pounce.

Stonily, Latimer said, ‘That is nothing to do with anyone, not even you.'

‘And if I tell you that the cases I'm working on would appear to involve piracy in the South China Sea …?'

Latimer shook his head. ‘My little spot of bother was in Singapore. Banking. Nothing whatever to do with pirates.'

I decided that more might be learnt elsewhere and excused myself from the room. The kitchen door was still shut but I did not knock. Who the hell knocks at kitchen doors? Who the hell closes them?

The woman whom we had seen coming down the stairs was within, giving every sign of being overwrought, drinking whisky neat, straight out of a small bottle.

‘What the hell d'you want with
me
?' she shrilled, ramming on the top and shoving the bottle in a drawer. ‘Shouldn't you be talking to that sanctimonious old fart in there?'

‘Mrs Latimer?' I asked. I went to the window and looked out over the back garden. No vegetable patch. To make sure I opened the back door and went outside. There was nothing in sight that could be classed as edible, not by people anyway.

‘Yes, I am,' she said, much more quietly. ‘Why have you come here?'

‘We're checking on legally held shotguns in case any were stolen and used in a serious crime last night.' This was not actually a lie as it is standard police procedure. I went on to introduce myself and then said, ‘Who, or what, did your husband fire his shotgun at this morning?'

‘God knows. Nothing, probably. We'd had a row and he just went outside and blasted off. He does sometimes, just to try to scare me.'

It appeared that he had succeeded: she had been crying and her reddened eyes were like those of a frightened rabbit. She had been attractive at one time, even beautiful, but self-neglect was now all-apparent.

‘Was he here last night?'

‘I don't know. We have separate rooms.' As she spoke she was twisting one of the free ends of her dressing-gown tie with fingers as tiny as those of a child.

‘D'you mind telling me what the row was about?'

She sat down heavily on a pine bench. ‘The same thing we always row about – his insufferable behaviour. Nice as pie outside this house, bending the knee in church, collecting around the village for charities, on the local council, this committee and that panel, you name it, Vernon's there wearing his best pious face. But underneath he's quite different – horrible to me – and I've got to the stage where I just don't know what's going on. He despises all these people really.'

‘Despises them?'

‘Yes, I think it gives him a feeling of power, you know, by pulling the wool over everyone's eyes. Sort of holding them in contempt while wheeler-dealering behind their backs to get his own way with things.'

‘Is money involved?' I asked.

‘It
could
be,' she replied dubiously. ‘I've no proof but I've seen people come to this house who I know have put in planning applications – I follow it up and they always seem to get permission.'

I had an idea I had opened the wrong can of worms here but was prepared to press on anyway. Before I could say anything, though, Carol Latimer went on, ‘You know, he's actually written to the bishop to complain that the rector's past it now he's been ill and we ought to have a younger man. Vernon doesn't like him for some reason, but it's probably because the Reverend Gillard's acute enough to know what he's really like and prevents him getting his own way all the time. Vernon's good on revenge. Oh, I don't know,' she said softly. ‘Perhaps I've got it all wrong.'

‘What do you mean, he's good on revenge?' I asked.

She bit her lip indecisively, and I wondered if she was regretting what she had said. ‘Years ago Vernon got into trouble in the Far East – when he was a lot younger, before we met. Someone ratted on him – his words, not mine – on some slightly dodgy deal or other and he was sent to prison for two years. Vernon bragged to me that he'd got his own back but he wouldn't say how. And he got into a row in the Ring O'Bells one night. We'd gone in for a meal and someone was a bit drunk and obnoxious. Vernon reported him to the police because his tax disc was out of date. He gets his own back on me too …'

‘Is he violent?'

‘No, just – intimidating.'

I was trying to work out why she was still married to this man. ‘Do you know who it was he had the row with in the pub?'

‘Someone did say but I can't remember his name. I think they said he lives in one of the new flats at the mill.'

‘Was it Keith Davies or Christopher Manley?'

‘It might have been the first one. They were the ones murdered, weren't they? No, sorry, I simply can't be absolutely sure.'

I spotted the kind of wooden case that might contain chef's knives on the worktop and opened it. ‘Who does the cooking?' I asked, surveying the very expensive and seemingly razor-sharp contents.

‘I do now. Those are Vernon's. Once upon a time he cooked most of our evening meals but he's lost interest lately.'

‘Do the names Jethro and Vince Tanner mean anything to you?'

‘No,' Mrs Latimer replied without hesitation. ‘But they might to Vernon. He knows loads of people.'

‘Brian Stonelake?'

She thought for a moment or two. ‘He's a farmer, isn't he? I don't actually
know
him but I think Vernon's had some dealings with him. Shooting rights or something like that. Vernon's a great one for shooting, it makes him feel like a real man.' This last comment was uttered in a flat, utterly bored tone. Then she fixed me with a surprisingly keen gaze. ‘You know, I'm really glad you came here this morning. Talking about everything has made me realize that I've got to go and get myself a life before it's too late.'

Sweet revenge on my part, I supposed, if my presence had robbed him of hot dinners and someone to be nasty to.

‘Do you have to repeat everything I've said to that officer you came with?'

‘No, not the private bits,' I told her.

‘You're really lucky working with a good-looking man like that.'

I would not necessarily tell him that either.

Patrick was just leaving as I closed the kitchen door after me and I relieved him of the shotgun.

‘Anything?' he asked laconically when we were outside.

‘Plenty that'll get Latimer run out of Hinton Littlemoor on a rail,' I said. ‘But not much else other than a splendid set of chef's knives in the kitchen with none missing and the fact that Latimer's wife thinks he may have shooting rights at Hagtop Farm. It could have been Keith Davies he had a row with in the pub one night. No veg patch, by the way.'

‘So he's a one-time fraudster, a liar and—'

‘It's possible he's still on the make. His wife thinks he might be getting back-handers from people putting in planning applications – he's on that committee too.'

‘Um. But as far as this case is concerned?'

‘A blank. Unless the gun was fired twice.'

‘Short of getting a search warrant and tearing the place apart looking for gold ingots …'

‘Evidence
is
what we need,' I sighed.

‘We'll call in at the rectory for coffee,' Patrick decided. ‘See if Mother's got the list of the WI ladies. That'll eliminate them from the inquiry, another bloody box ticked.'

I caught the tautness in his voice. ‘Is your shoulder hurting?'

‘Yes.'

As far as the snippet of information about John was concerned I decided to keep it to myself for the present and let events take their course; to divulge it right now might do more harm than good.

The couple were only just back from their night with the Makepeace family, a short break that had obviously done Elspeth good.

‘There!' she said, taking a folded sheet of paper from her bag and giving it to Patrick. ‘We called in at Hazel's on the way home.'

Patrick thanked her and slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket. Not the leather one he had been wearing the previous night, which was probably ruined.

‘Had another run-in with roughs?' she casually asked him, noticing a telltale wince.

Patrick beamed upon her. ‘No, I fell over a motorbike.'

‘I hear there was a shooting at the barn last night.'

The police, in the shape of Inspector Bromsgrove, were yet to make any official announcements but word spreads like a winter virus in rural communities.

‘A couple of aspirins with your coffee?' Elspeth went on to suggest before Patrick could make a reply and perhaps realizing that she was not going to get any more out of him right now.

‘Thank you.'

‘I do hope nothing's happened to Roger or Steven,' she said, going down with all guns blazing.

‘No, they're alive and well,' Patrick assured her.

‘We ought to have a word with them,' I said to him.

He met my gaze. Yes, his shoulder was giving him hell.

‘Beer talks,' was all I said on the subject just then.

To Elspeth, Patrick said, ‘If you see an unmarked car parked by your drive with one or two blokes sitting in it don't worry. I've asked that the rectory be placed under surveillance in case you get any more unwanted visitors. People coming here might be stopped and asked who they are, that's all.'

The discomfort was sufficient to ensure that when we were ushered into where Steven was doing paperwork on the kitchen table the young farmer received a severe fright. I do not think Patrick was rehearsing what he would do and say on the way to speak to him but when confronted with a possible security leak his resentment surfaced.

‘What did you say?' was his opening question. ‘What did you and your dad blab all over the bar? Or to the whole village? Or all of bloody north Somerset?'

The demeanour of the man before him was sufficient to drain the blood from Steven's face. ‘N-nothing,' he managed to get out. ‘We didn't say a word to anyone.'