Murder on the Short List (2 page)

He had made the scarecrow last September on a framework of wood and chicken wire. A stake driven into the earth, with a crosspiece that swivelled when the wind blew, giving the effect of animation. The wire bent into the shape of a torso that hung free. The clothes stuffed with straw. The biggest turnip he could find for a head. He wouldn't have troubled with the features, but his children had insisted he cut slits for eyes and the mouth and a triangle for the nose.

No question: the coat had been carefully fitted on, the arms pulled through, the buttons fixed and the belt buckled in front.

As if the field itself could explain the mystery, Mooney turned and stared across the canopy of bloom. To the north was his own house and the farm buildings standing out against the skyline. At the lower end to the south-east were the tied cottages, three terraced dwellings built from the local stone. They were still called tied cottages by the locals, even though they had been sold off to a developer and knocked into one, now a sizeable house being tarted up by some townie who came at weekends to check on the work. Mooney had made a good profit from the sale. He didn't care if the locals complained that true village people couldn't afford to live here at prices like that.

Could the coat belong to the townie? he wondered. Was it someone's idea of a joke dressing the old scarecrow in the townie's smart Burberry? Strange joke. After all, who would know it was there unless they took out some field-glasses?

“You know what I reckon?” May said. “Kids.”

“Whose kids?”

“Our own. I'll ask them when they get back from school.”

T
he birdsong grew as the afternoon wore on. At the edge of the field closest to the tied cottages more disturbance of the oilseed crop took place. Smaller feet than Mooney's led another expedition. They were his children, the two girls, Sarah and Ally, eleven years old and seven. Behind them came their mother.

“It's not far,” Sarah said, looking back.

“Not far, Mum,” Ally said.

They were right. No more than ten adult strides in from the path was a place where some of the plants had been flattened.

“See?” Ally said.

This was where the children had found the raincoat. Snapped stalks and blackened fronds confirmed what the girls had told her. It was as if some horse had strayed into the crop and rolled on its back. “So the coat was spread out here?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Like somebody had a picnic,” Ally added.

May had a different, less wholesome thought she didn't voice. “And you didn't see anyone?”

They shook their heads.

“You're quite sure?”

“We were playing ball and I threw it and it landed in the field. We were on our own. When we were looking for our ball we found the coat. Nobody wanted it because we came back next day and it was still here and we thought let's put it on our scarecrow and see if Daddy notices. Was it Daddy who noticed?”

“Never mind that. You should have told me about the coat when you found it. Did you find anything else?”

“No, Mummy. If they'd wanted to keep the coat, they would have come back, wouldn't they?”

“Did you look in the pockets?”

“Yes, and they were empty. Mr Scarecrow looks nicer with a coat.”

“Much nicer,” Ally said in support. “Doesn't he look nicer, Mummy?”

May was not to be sidetracked. “You shouldn't have done what you did. It belongs to someone else.”

“But they didn't want it, or they would have come back,” Sarah said.

“You don't know. They could still come back.”

“They could be dead.”

“It would still be wrong to take it. I'm going to take it off the scarecrow and we'll hand it in to the police. It's lost property.”

A
full three days later, Mooney escorted a tall detective inspector through the crop. “You'll have to be damn quick with your investigating. This'll be ready for combining soon. Some of the pods are forming already.”

“If it's a crime scene, Mr Mooney, you're not doing anything to it.”

“We called you about the coat last Monday, and no one came.”

“A raincoat isn't much to get excited about. The gun is another matter.”

Another matter that had finally brought the police here in a hurry. Mooney had found a Smith and Wesson in his field. A handgun.

“When did you pick it up?”

“This morning.”

“What – taking a stroll, were you?”

Mooney didn't like the way the question was put, as if he'd been acting suspiciously. He'd done the proper thing, reported finding the weapon as soon as he picked it up. “I've got a right to walk in my own field.”

“Through this stuff?”

“I promised my kids I'd find their ball – the ball that was missing the day they found the coat. I found the gun instead – about here.” He stopped and parted some of the limp, blue-green leaves at the base of a plant.

To the inspector, this plant looked no different from the rest except that the trail ended here. He took a white disk from his pocket and marked the spot. “Careful with your feet. We'll want to check all this ground. And where was the Burberry raincoat?”

“On the scarecrow.”

“I mean, where did your daughters find it?”

Mooney flapped his hand in a southerly direction. “About thirty yards off.”

“Show me.”

The afternoon was the hottest of the year so far. Thousands of bees were foraging in the rape flowers. Mooney didn't mind disturbing them, but the inspector was twitchy. He wasn't used to walking chest-high through fields. He kept close to the farmer using his elbows to fend off the tall plants springing upright again.

Only a short distance ahead, the bluebottles were busy as well.

Mooney stopped.

“Well, how about this?” He was stooping over something.

The inspector almost tumbled over Mooney's back. “What is it? What have you found?”

Mooney held it up. “My kids' ball. They'll be pleased you came.”

“Let's get on.”

“Do you smell anything, inspector?”

I
n a few hours the police transformed this part of Middle Field. A large part of the crop was ruined, crushed under the feet of detectives, scenes of crime officers, a police surgeon, a pathologist and police photographers. Mooney was depressed by all the damage.

“You think the coat might have belonged to the owner of the cottages across the lane, is that right?” the inspector asked.

“I wouldn't know.”

“It's what you told me earlier.”

“That was my wife's idea. She says it's a posh coat. No one from round here wears a posh coat. Except him.”

“Who is he?”

Mooney had to think about that. He'd put the name out of his mind. “White, as I recall. Jeremy White, from London. He bought the tied cottages from the developer who knocked them into one. He's doing them up, making a palace out of it, open plan, with marble floors and a spiral staircase.”

“Doing them up himself?”

“He's a townie. What would he know about building work? No, he's given the job to Armstrong, the Devizes firm. Comes here each weekend to check on the work.”

“Any family?”

“I wouldn't know about that.” He looked away, across the field, to the new slate roof on the tied cottages. “I've seen a lady with him.”

“A lady? What's she like?”

Mooney sighed, forced to think. “Dark-haired.”

“Age?”

“Younger than him.”

“The sale was in his name alone?”

“That's right.”

“If you don't mind, Mr Mooney, I'd like you to take another look at the corpse and see if you recognise anyone.”

From the glimpse he'd had already, Mooney didn't much relish another look. “If I don't mind? Have I got a choice?”

Some of the crop had been left around the body like a screen. The police had used one access path so as not to destroy evidence. Mooney pressed his fingers to his nose and stepped up. He peered at the bloated features. Ten days in hot weather makes a difference. “Difficult,” he said. “The hair looks about right.”

“For Jeremy White?”

“That reddish colour. Dyed, isn't it? I always thought the townie dyed his hair. He weren't so young as he wanted people to think he were.”

“The clothes?”

Mooney looked at the pinstripe suit dusted faintly yellow from the crop. There were bullet holes in the jacket. “That's the kind of thing he wore, certainly.”

The inspector nodded. “From the contents of his wallet we're pretty sure this is Jeremy White. Do you recall hearing any shots last time he was here?”

“There are shots all the time, specially at weekends. Rabbits. Pigeons. We wouldn't take note of that.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Two weekends ago. Passed him in the lane on the Sunday afternoon.”

“Anyone with him?”

“That dark-haired young lady I spoke of.”

The inspector produced the wallet found on the body and took out a photo of a dark-haired woman in a blue blouse holding up a drink. “Is this her?”

Mooney examined it for some time. He eyed the inspector with suspicion, as if he was being tricked. “That wasn't the lady I saw.”

There was an interval when the buzzing of insects seemed to increase and the heat grew.

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“Take another look.”

“Her with the townie was definitely younger.”

The inspector's eyebrows lifted. “How much younger?”

“A good ten years, I'd say.”

“Did they come by car?”

“There was always a sports car parked in front of the cottages when he came, one of them BMW jobs with the open top.”

“Just the one vehicle? The lady didn't drive down in her own?”

“If she did, I've never seen it. When can I have my field back?”

“When I tell you. There's more searching to be done.”

“More damage, you mean.”

M
oney met Bernie Priddle with his dog the same evening coming along the footpath beside the hedgerow. Bernie had lived in one of the tied cottages until Mooney decided to sell it. He was in his fifties, small, thin-faced, always ready with a barbed remark.

“You'll lose the whole of your crop by the look of it,” he said, and he sounded happier than he had for months.

“I thought you'd turn up,” Mooney said. “Makes you feel better to see someone else's misfortune, does it?”

“I walk the path around the field every evening. It's part of the dog's routine. You should know that by now. I was saying you'll lose your crop.”

“Don't I know it! Even if they don't trample every stalk of it, they'll stop me from harvesting.”

“People are saying it's the townie who was shot.”

“That's my understanding.”

“Good riddance, too.”

“You want to guard what you say, Bernie Priddle. They're looking for someone to nail for this.”

“Me? I wouldn't put myself in trouble for some pipsqueak yuppie. It's you I wouldn't mind doing a stretch for, Mooney. I could throttle you any time for putting me out of my home.”

“What are you moaning about? You got a council house out of it, didn't you? Hot water and an inside toilet. Where's your dog?”

Priddle looked down. His Jack Russell had moved on, and he didn't know where. He whistled.

Over by the body, all the heads turned.

“It's all right,” Mooney shouted to the policemen. “He was calling his dog, that's all.”

The inspector came over and spoke to Priddle. “And who are you exactly?”

Bernie explained about his regular evening walk around the field.

“Have you ever seen Mr White, the owner of the tied cottages?”

“On occasion,” Bernie said. “What do you want to know?”

“Ever seen anyone with him?”

“Last time – the Sunday before last – there was the young lady, her with the long, black hair, and short skirt. She's a good looker, that one. He was showing her the building work. Had his arm around her. I raised my cap to them, didn't speak. Later, when I was round the far side, I saw them heading into the field.”

“Into the field? Where?”

“Over yonder. He had a coat on his arm. Next time I looked, they weren't in view.” He grinned. “I drew my own conclusion, like, and walked on. I came right around the field before I saw the other car parked in the lane.”

The inspector's interest increased. “You saw another car?”

“Nice little Cherokee Jeep, it was, red. Do you want the number?”

“Do you remember it?”

“It was a woman's name, SUE, followed by a number. I couldn't tell you which, except it was just the one.”

“A single digit?” The inspector sounded pleased. “SUE, followed by a single digit. That's really useful, sir. We can check that. And did you see the driver?”

“No, I can't help you there.”

“Hear any shooting?”

“We often hear shooting in these parts. Look, I'd better find my dog.”

“We'll need to speak to you some more, Mr . . .?”

“Priddle. Bernard Priddle. You're welcome. These days I live in one of them poky little council bungalows in the village. Second on the left.”

The inspector watched him stride away, whistling for the dog, and said to one of the team, “A useful witness. I want you to take a statement from him.”

Mooney was tempted to pass on the information that Bernie was a publicity-seeking pain in the arse, but he decided to let the police do their own work.

T
he body was removed from Middle Field the same evening. Some men in black suits put it into a bag with a zip and stretchered it over the well-trodden ground to a small van and drove off.