A Market for Murder Page 7

  ‘Hello?’ she said, addressing a woman wearing headphones at the next desk along.

  The woman lifted one earpiece away from her head, and looked up enquiringly.

  ‘I’m supposed to be helping you,’ Karen said awkwardly.

  ‘Sir!’ called the woman, across the room to a man in plain clothes. When he finally reacted, the woman dipped her chin at Karen and replaced her headphones.

  The man was holding a sheaf of papers, and seemed to be thinking deeply about them. He came slowly towards Karen.

  ‘Morning, madam,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hemsley. How can I help?’

  ‘I was asked to come in this morning. I’m Karen Slocombe. It isn’t very convenient, actually …’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you very much, then,’ he said blankly. ‘Slocombe?’

  ‘Yes, I saw the bolt hit Peter. I saw what it did to his throat. They thought I might be useful, or so they said.’ Her voice was rising, and she was strongly tempted just to turn and walk out again.

  ‘Oh, yes – Mrs Slocombe,’ he repeated, as if she’d deliberately mispronounced her own name to mislead him. ‘That’ll be Doug’s department. Doug!’ he shouted.

  A man in uniform detached himself from another desk and came to join them. ‘This is Mrs Slocombe, the lady who saw the shooting. Can you take her to the scene and see if she can remember anything more? Take Helen with you. Thank you, madam, for coming like this. We really do appreciate it.’

  The whole thing was a fiasco, Karen had already realised. She stood in the empty square where she thought her stall must have been, facing the marked spot where Peter had fallen. ‘So the bolt can only have come from there,’ Doug said hopefully, waving an arm towards the bank and the public loos.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ argued Helen, a tall fair-haired girl with a bored expression.

  ‘Actually,’ said Karen, slipping into primary-teacher mode, ‘unless you can reconstruct it with total accuracy, and measure the precise angle of the bolt in his neck …’ she savoured Doug’s quickly suppressed wince, ‘… then it’s going to be pretty difficult to pinpoint where he was. But now I’m here again, I think it’s most likely to have been in there.’ She pointed at the low brick-built edifice that was Bradbourne’s oldest public convenience. It had its back to the street, with a small area of grass and a low hedge separating it from the pavement. Its entrances opened onto the car park, which was approached by an alleyway leading from the town centre. There were narrow windows, with frosted glass.

  ‘What – in the loos?’ Doug was clearly unconvinced.

  ‘It makes sense,’ she persisted. ‘Why don’t you go and have a look? See if you can find footprints on the toilet seats. See if the windows are easy to open.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Helen with an irony too heavy for maximum effect. ‘We have already done that, naturally.’

  ‘Oh, good. That’s all right then,’ approved Karen. ‘Do you think I could go now?’

  Helen scanned the area behind Karen. ‘There are several other scenarios,’ she pointed out. ‘A shop and a bank, each with an upper floor. We’ve interviewed the people living in those flats already. And the trees are thick enough for someone to hide in. More shrubs than trees, really.’ She nodded towards the cluster of greenery to the right of the toilets. A mid-sized sycamore was accompanied by a buddleia and an overgrown privet. Shade cast by the tree made the bushes a credible hiding place – just.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Karen. ‘Perhaps he was in a car?’

  ‘Not much chance of a car driving through when there was a market on.’ Helen gave Karen an enquiring look. ‘Did cars drive around behind your stall?’

  ‘No,’ Karen said. ‘Definitely not. There wouldn’t be a way through. But the alleyway would make a good escape route on foot.’

  ‘Risky,’ said Helen. ‘Too many people coming and going. And it wouldn’t be easy to hide a crossbow.’

  ‘What about parked cars?’ Doug managed to get a word in. ‘Someone might have been lying on the back seat, or kneeling on the floor, and fired out of a window.’

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Karen, feeling weary. ‘There were a few cars about. The local shopkeepers try to obstruct us by putting their cars just where we want to set up the stalls. Geraldine won’t let that stop her, though. We just box them in.’

  ‘So a person could have been hiding in one of the cars?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Karen agreed. ‘Do you know what the range was? I mean, how far away must the killer have been?’

  Doug spoke with authority. ‘Not more than thirty yards or so. Crossbows are fairly difficult to aim, unless you’re an expert.’

  ‘How do you know this wasn’t an expert?’

  ‘We’ve been through all the members of the local club, and they’ve all got very good alibis. There are only eight of them. It’s not a very popular activity these days.’

  ‘But a person can still be an expert, without belonging to a club,’ Karen objected. ‘Surely the range is a lot more than that?’ She squinted across the square, and up the whole length of the High Street, trying to imagine herself aiming a crossbow. ‘Don’t they have telescopic sights and things, as well?’

  Helen gave a warning cough and Doug flushed. ‘We can’t discuss this in any further detail,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Well, I hope I’ve been of some help,’ Karen said, in another attempt to excuse herself. ‘It’s all very bizarre. Surely somebody must have seen who did it.’

  Helen nodded. ‘That suggests it was someone above suspicion,’ she remarked. ‘Someone you all just took for granted. When they popped the crossbow into a bag and strolled away, nobody would even have noticed.’

  ‘What a nasty thought,’ Karen replied shakily.

  Den observed the Incident Room set up in the old Town Hall, as he walked from the car park to the office on Thursday morning. He knew the signs: the police cars parked outside, the human traffic in and out of the big open door, carrying boxes and various pieces of equipment. And the television crew on the pavement with a reporter speaking to camera. Den sidled closer to listen.

  ‘Less than forty-eight hours ago, a shocking killing took place only a few yards from here, in the peaceful market town of Bradbourne,’ chirped the pretty young woman, by way of introduction. ‘Detective Inspector Danny Hemsley, who is in charge of the investigation, has promised to give us a few words …’ she turned towards the Town Hall, and sure enough, there was Danny, Den’s old comrade from when they’d worked together in West Devon, appearing right on cue. ‘Thank you, Inspector, for giving us your time. Now, could you update us on how it’s going?’

  Danny faced the camera, looking flushed and apprehensive. ‘Well, as you know, a Mr Peter Grafton was killed here on Tuesday morning. We have ascertained that the weapon used was a crossbow. This is unusual, and not many people are in possession of such an item.’ He paused, and let his gaze wander. Too late, Den tried to step out of his line of sight. Recognition dawned in Danny’s eyes. But the reporter returned him to the matter in hand.

  ‘So you’d like the public to assist?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes. Yes, indeed. If anybody knows of anybody with a crossbow, we’d obviously be very pleased to hear about it. You can call us here at the Incident Room, anonymously if preferred. This was a cold-blooded killing of a young man, and it’s up to the whole community to apprehend the killer.’ His voice was gaining volume and confidence, just as the reporter must have received a signal to wind things up.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she purred, before turning back to camera herself. ‘So there we have the latest news. The police are following up this particular kind of weapon, as well as asking the general public to bring them any information they can. This Incident Room—’ she gestured behind her, ‘—has been set up in Bradbourne’s old Town Hall, and will be manned twenty-four hours a day. The telephone number will appear on your screen in a moment. This is Gail Hollywell, BBC South West News.’

 
Hemsley did not return immediately to his desk. Instead he stepped out of camera range, straight towards Den, who had known he would.

  ‘Cooper,’ came the curt greeting. ‘Not seen you for a while.’ The Inspector had taken Den’s resignation from the Force badly. For a while he treated it as a personal insult, cold-shouldering his colleague at every opportunity.

  ‘First murder in this part of Devon since I left,’ Den remarked.

  ‘S’pose it must be. Missing us now, then? Now it’s getting exciting again?’

  ‘It feels odd,’ Den admitted. ‘Especially as I’m on the spot.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘I work just round the corner there,’ he pointed. ‘And I know the woman who saw the killing. My girlfriend works with her husband. It feels … local.’

  ‘Like last time,’ Hemsley said, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Time before last, actually. And that was quite a while ago now.’

  ‘Back in the good old Okehampton days,’ the Inspector added, his tone a notch lighter.

  ‘You’re liking it over here then?’ Den asked. ‘I didn’t know they’d moved you. Where’re you based now?’

  ‘Tiverton. Much bigger outfit altogether. They didn’t move me – I put in for a transfer. The marriage came apart …’ A ripple of misery crossed his face. ‘Same old story, eh.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Den said, meaning it. He’d only met Mrs Hemsley two or three times, not enough to judge her or the marriage. But it was a curse that lay on the majority of police officers, which only made it worse somehow, when the break-ups happened. It was, if he was honest with himself, one big reason for his own defection. Rightly or wrongly, he’d attributed his lack of success with women to the demands of his work.

  ‘Anyhow, tell me more about your involvement here. With this Grafton thing, I mean. Have you got anything that might be useful?’

  Den’s heart leapt a little at the invitation. It couldn’t have worked out better if he’d planned every move. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I might have a bit of background for you.’

  Drew and Maggs ate a snack lunch together in the Peaceful Repose office, as usual. It was a tradition that seemed to increase in importance with every month that passed. Maggs brought her own sandwiches from home, and Drew made his before work, sometimes with Karen hovering at his shoulder telling him he ought not to cut the cheese so thick, or put so much mayonnaise on the lettuce. The result was an escalating competition between Maggs and Drew as to who could produce the most flavoursome and original meal, at the lowest cost.

  ‘It’s not fair – you’ve got all the raw materials just there for the taking,’ Maggs complained.

  ‘You can have anything you like from the garden, you know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t know what Karen wants to take to market. I don’t like to just help myself.’

  ‘You refuse to get to grips with the system,’ he said. ‘It’s simple enough. I don’t understand your problem.’

  ‘Honestly, Drew, I can never remember which box is which. Neither can Den. And that’s another thing – I’m never sure whether he’s already taken something. It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘All down to communication,’ Drew chewed comfortably, resisting any temptation to take the repetitive conversation further. It wasn’t his business, anyway, which partly explained why it never really worked. Without Drew as liaison between Karen and the other two, the unease would continue.

  ‘This avocado’s very good,’ she remarked. ‘With lemon and basil and a smear of garlic. Try some.’ She broke off a corner and proffered it. Drew took it delicately.

  ‘Not bad,’ he approved. ‘But I think my nut paté with sliced radish and Little Gem lettuce beats it.’ He held out a reciprocal mouthful.

  ‘Is the nut paté home made?’

  ‘Yes, but not by Karen. Someone at the farmers’ market does it.’

  ‘What sort of nuts?’

  ‘Cob, I think. Picked in the wild, I’m sure.’

  ‘It can get silly,’ Maggs said, not for the first time. ‘We’re turning into food faddists.’

  ‘Too late. It happened years ago. We just didn’t notice at first.’

  ‘I definitely prefer the avocado,’ she decided. ‘Now, what’s on for this afternoon?’

  ‘Not a lot. I did think that journalist from the Farmers’ Weekly might show up, but nobody’s phoned.’

  ‘Didn’t they do us last year?’

  ‘No, that was some other farming magazine. This sounds a bigger item, with costings and so forth. I’m not sure how much I should tell them, actually.’

  ‘Our prices aren’t secret.’

  ‘No, but it might be a mistake to spell out just what cardboard coffins or willow baskets cost. Some of the others in the business like to keep all that rather close to their chests.’

  ‘Especially the traditional lot, who just dabble in ecological funerals as a sideline. Their charges are extortionate. I think we should expose them. It’d be a public service.’

  ‘I know.’ Drew licked his fingers, and rubbed them on his trousers. ‘But it’d be a distraction. The point isn’t really money, is it?’

  ‘Some people think it is. Some of these farmers think it’d be an easy option, and would make much more profit from their land than growing corn or hay or something.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be as straight as I can. In any case, they might not show up. Something more interesting probably came along instead.’

  Maggs opened her mouth, insistent as always on having the final word, when someone knocked on the office door. The two partners looked at each other in surprise. Normally the sound of a car arriving gave them plenty of warning of an impending visitation. This time, there’d been no engine noise.

  Maggs opened the door, obscuring the person outside with her body, so that Drew couldn’t see anything. ‘Yes?’ The tone of her voice revealed that she didn’t recognise the visitor.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ came a breathy voice. ‘Sorry. This is the right place isn’t it? The natural cemetery, or whatever you call it. I did see the sign …’

  ‘Come in,’ Maggs invited. ‘And tell us how we can help you.’

  Drew remained in his chair, behind the desk, hurriedly folding the paper bag that had contained his sandwich. An apple still sat on the desk. He watched as a woman came into the room, ahead of Maggs, who closed the door before following her. Drew could see that she was intrigued.

  And no wonder. The newcomer’s hair was unbrushed and tangled; her face streaked with multi-coloured marks; her eyes bloodshot and her clothes ill-assorted. She looked like a refugee from a battle zone – or a wife fleeing from severe domestic violence.

  Drew got up. If this was a newly bereaved daughter or wife or mother, she had certainly been taking the death badly. And if she wasn’t newly bereaved, why in the world would she come to an undertaker’s office?

  ‘So there you have it,’ Sally Dabb concluded, fifteen minutes later, looking worriedly from Drew to Maggs and back again. ‘I know I shouldn’t have come, by rights. It’s Julie’s place, not mine. I know that. I just wanted to make sure … well, I’ve told you already, haven’t I? Do you believe me?’

  Maggs pressed even closer, from her position only inches away. She had been alternately rubbing the upper arm and patting the hand of the distressed woman, as the story tumbled out. ‘Of course we do,’ she said.

  ‘It isn’t really any of our business,’ Drew mumbled, still trying to work out his own role in the matter. ‘Mrs Grafton has already contacted us. It’s all in hand.’

  Maggs glared at him and sighed. ‘Drew, you haven’t been listening. Sally isn’t worried about that.’

  ‘No, no. I do understand,’ he assured them both. ‘And you have been through a terrible experience.’

  Sally had made some token attempts to improve her appearance as she talked to Drew and Maggs. ‘I must look dreadful,’ she said. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink, and never even thought of brushing my hair this morning. I must
have scared poor little Robin.’

  ‘Robin?’ Drew queried.

  ‘My little boy. Archie had to take him to school for me. I was in too bad a state to drive.’

  ‘But didn’t you drive here?’ Drew was disbelieving. ‘Don’t you live in Lumstone? That’s five miles away.’

  ‘I did, actually, though I almost decided to walk. Walking’s good for thinking. I parked down the road, near Della Gray’s house.’

  ‘Drew,’ Maggs checked him again. ‘Never mind all that.’ She turned to Sally. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to worry. We won’t spread any false rumours.’

  Sally sat back in her chair, and rubbed a finger beneath both eyes. ‘Oh, thank you! I know it must have sounded rude, to accuse you of indiscretion. But I had to start somewhere. I had to make someone believe that Peter and I weren’t having an affair.’ She gazed earnestly at Maggs. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maggs solemnly. ‘We believe you.’

  ‘You believed her then?’ Drew said, when the visitor had gone. ‘I could see you did.’

  Maggs rubbed her cheek, consideringly. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I told her, and I’m telling you. I definitely believed her.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘There’s a bit more to it, though, isn’t there?’ Drew went on, having made coffee for himself and Maggs and answered the phone to a journalist wondering about Grafton’s funeral. ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘This business between Julie Grafton and Sally Dabb. There’s something I don’t really get.’

  ‘What? That two women can be friends?’

  ‘That one is the wife, and one is a close friend of the same man. Everyone would assume they’d be bitter rivals,’ he said.