Souvenirs of Murder Read online

  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.

  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 acces
s 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.