Revenge in the Cotswolds (16 page)

‘You’re getting carried away,’ she told herself sternly. It happened a lot, when she was alone in a strange house. Imagination ran riot. The trouble was, it often turned out to be alarmingly accurate. All the same, she was reluctant to bother the police with her small discovery, for a number of reasons ranging from fear of looking silly to an inability to forget the warnings of the previous evening. She had refused to be cowed by the three young women while they were in the house, but the abiding image of Sophie’s words and expression was certainly intimidating.

She left it a while, lunching on a cheese sandwich and a mug of coffee. Outside it was clouding over and the temperature had dropped. Disappointing news tortoise-wise, she realised.

Then she compromised by sending a cowardly text to Gladwin, using the mobile number she already had in her phone.

Within three minutes an answering text came back:

The idea of Gladwin on holiday in term time did not ring true. She had two school-age boys, so it was hardly a family excursion. Was she perhaps ill? Or seconded to a different police force for some reason? Or had she simply awarded herself a week or two on a sunny Greek island, without husband or sons? The word ‘holiday’ was more exact than ‘leave’ would have been. It conjured Gladwin’s informal style, her distaste for jargon and obfuscation.
You better believe it,
Thea could hear her saying.
I’m away from the lot of you, enjoying myself
.

Which left Thea’s feeble message floating around the Gloucestershire Constabulary, very likely to end up on the desk or screen of DI Higgins. Or even, possibly, another detective superintendent unknown to Thea.

Persuading herself that her conscience was now perfectly clear, she contemplated the rest of the day. There were two urges making themselves felt. One was to phone Drew and simply talk to him about all and anything, for the pleasure of hearing his voice. The other was closer at hand – the Whiteacre family was very much calling to her. Not just Tiffany, who was rapidly becoming a sort of protégée in Thea’s
mind, a young girl to be saved from bad company and destructive mistakes. As well as her, there was Sheila, Ricky and the bearded husband, whose name she had forgotten already. The whole family had got beneath her skin more than anybody else she had met since Saturday. Sheila had been gracious and civilised. The
house
was gracious and civilised – all the more so for its lived-in atmosphere. It was very difficult to believe that anything criminal or antisocial could emanate from such a home. Somehow, somewhere, things had gone wrong. And the son, barely glimpsed so far, was most likely at the heart of it.

But she did not dare just go to Baunton and knock on their door. Such a level of intrusion was plainly out of the question. No viable pretext came to mind for doing such a thing.

‘Right!’ she announced. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

The word that every dog in the English-speaking world understood had a galvanising effect, even on Gwennie. She wagged her tiny stump of a tail and did a little dance. Thea fetched the leads and attached them firmly before opening the front door. Down the drive, into the small road, and then on to the path that led around to the church. It was short, undemanding and unexpectedly interesting, despite the growing familiarity with it. A few houses were scattered along the way, their backs to the footpath. The ground rose gently to the minor elevation that the Saxons had selected for their place of worship. Everything was
quiet and still, apart from a few hyperactive birds in the throes of the breeding season. Dawdling at Gwennie’s pace, there was ample time to peer into the gardens and windows of the houses they passed. Everything was orderly, as was usual in the Cotswolds. Thea sometimes suspected there was a local law that decreed that gardens should be tidy and buildings kept in perfect repair. Nature was kept firmly at bay. The transgression exemplified by the giant hogweed in Broad Campden must be considerable. Nettles or brambles would be even worse.

Someone was walking down the path between the graves towards the church. Thea paused to watch, thinking the figure was familiar. Bony shoulders, expensive boots, above average height. Without even thinking, she steered the dogs through the gate and followed. Here was a providential opportunity to have a quiet talk with one of the more intriguing locals, offering a listening ear, or even a comforting hug, if it came to that.

She pushed in through the door, less than a minute after the person ahead of her, having hung back deliberately. The dogs went with her, regardless of any edict that might prevent them.

Nella was sitting in a pew at the front, just below the altar. Her head was bowed and her hands clasped.
Fe
nella, Thea remembered – a name that made much more sense in every way than the one everybody used. She let the door close gently, hoping there would be no sound. Already she was reproaching herself for being so crass as to pursue a bereaved young woman, with two dogs at her side. It was an awful thing to do. But too late now. There was no going back. Nella had heard her and was looking round.

‘What the hell do
you
want? And how dare you bring dogs in here?’

‘Sorry. I wanted to see the church. I didn’t know you were here. The dogs won’t do any harm. I daren’t let Gwennie out of my sight. Sorry.’ She was babbling.

‘Go away.’

‘Listen – I know how you must be feeling …’ She felt the usual flicker of complacency as she said this. It really was the case that she understood the shock, rage, despair and sickness that came from a sudden death. ‘My husband was killed four years ago, without warning. I know how mad it can make you.’

‘Mad?’ Nella looked at her across the rows of pews in the small ancient church. ‘As in angry, or insane?’

‘Both. And a lot more.’ She tasted again the acid that had remained at the back of her mouth for weeks after Carl died. The gall of helplessness and misery. The inability to construct a coherent thought. ‘You wonder how you can possibly set one foot in front of the other.’

But as she spoke, she was aware that Nella Davidson showed every sign of functioning a great deal better than Thea herself had done. She had, after all, joined with Sophie and Tiffany in making direct threats against her, Thea. She might not have said a great deal, but several times she had formed sentences and appeared perfectly focused. Had that been a sort of autopilot, that was now being overtaken by real emotion? Was the truth finally sinking in? And how unusual, these days, for a person in such a state to seek solace in a church!

‘Leave me alone,’ the girl said quietly. ‘I mean it. You can’t say anything that would help.’

‘That’s probably true. But don’t be alone too much, okay? You’ve got friends. What about family?’

Nella turned away without answering. Thea hovered another minute, holding the subdued dogs close. They both seemed to find the church atmosphere oppressive, their heads and tail drooping. ‘Come on, then,’ she said to them. ‘We’ll go home, shall we?’

Just before closing the door, she took another look at Nella. The angular figure was bent forward, head in hands, rocking slightly. Thea’s heart gave a heavy thump of helpless sympathy. She hoped that something she’d managed to say would bring at least a crumb of comfort.

Completing the circular walk by going down to the small crossroads at the centre of Daglingworth and turning right to get back to Galanthus, Thea gradually realised that she now had a credible reason to visit the Whiteacres. She could express concern about Nella, ask whether there was any family available to support her, and offer any help she could for the short time she expected to be in the area. She could be open and innocent and direct, staying well away from dangerous topics and completely overlooking the unpleasantness of the previous evening. It all looked entirely feasible, as she examined the plan.

But it was a weekday. People would be at work, school or college. It was just past three o’clock and Thea fancied a cup of tea. The day had been far less eventful than the previous one, but all the same it had yielded enough food for thought to keep her mind occupied for a while. A moment of honest self-awareness suggested
that she really could do no good at all by calling in on the Whiteacres or anybody else. Her role was as nothing more than silent bystander, with moments of engagement that led nowhere. Would she never learn to stay clear? Following Nella just now had been a stupid intrusion, unkind and unnecessary.

Indecision and self-doubt filled the next ten minutes, to be interrupted and dispelled by DI Higgins himself coming to the door.

‘“Possible little clue” I think you said,’ he began, standing as before just inside the threshold, one foot on the blackened patch of carpet.

‘What? Oh – the text. Yes. Look, come into the kitchen and I’ll make some tea. I didn’t expect you to turn up in person.’

‘We learn from experience, I hope, Mrs Osborne. And experience suggests that such a message from you is best not ignored.’ He followed her into the kitchen, and sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

She filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘I’m not sure how to take that,’ she said frostily. It was back to the same old accusations, she thought, with a sinking stomach. Gladwin would have made a joke of it, but Higgins was too direct, and in too much of a hurry, for that.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. So …’ He waited.

‘Oh. It’s probably nothing. But you know I brought Mr Handy’s dog back here last night? Well, today I found this—’ She proffered the plastic bag that had
been left lying on a worktop. ‘In the dog’s bed in the garage. I wondered if she’d torn it off the jeans of the man who hit her master. She was coughing in the car, and I think it might have been stuck in her throat. She must have expelled it during the night, poor thing. Something like that, anyway. It is a bit disgusting.’ Leaving it in his hand, she moved away to make the tea. Two tea bags in two mugs, milk and a spoon was the unceremonious method she used. ‘Do you want sugar?’ she asked.

Higgins tentatively fingered the shred of material through the plastic, and then gave her a look. ‘No sugar, thanks. This could be anything,’ he said. ‘How do you expect us to make use of it?’

‘I don’t know. It might match something, somehow.’ The vagueness was a deliberate attempt at self-protection. ‘And I didn’t like the way Mr Handy was so scornful of his dog,’ she added crossly. ‘When she might have been doing her best to protect him.’

Higgins held her gaze. ‘Explain,’ he invited.

‘Before he blacked out, he said something about her being useless. Said she just ran round in circles – although he added that she grabbed one of the men by the hem of his trousers, as well as a chunk of ankle. I defended her. She’s a sheepdog, for heaven’s sake. Bred not to bite man or beast. If she
did
bite someone, the marks on his leg will help make a case against him, won’t it? She sounds quite brave to me.’

‘You won’t have heard the latest news, then,’ Higgins observed.

‘No. What?’

‘He came round – Jack Handy, that is. We don’t need any special forensics to identify the people who attacked him. We’ve already got quite a few names and addresses. He poured it all out this morning. Couldn’t be more helpful.’

‘Oh.’ She frowned, and drank half the tea. ‘So why did you come here, then?’

He sighed. ‘I came here because there is still a murder investigation ongoing. Or had you forgotten that?’

‘It had rather faded in significance,’ she said carefully. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Well, he definitely was Daniel Compton. We were starting to have a few doubts, the way he covered his tracks so well. The parents have confirmed it’s him.’

‘Did they come back from Dubai?’

Higgins shook his head. ‘We did it electronically. Wonders of modern science. They’re in the middle of some highly important survey of migrating birds, apparently, and insist their son would wish them to carry on with it, instead of dropping everything to come and cry over his dead body.’

‘Sounds as if there’s a family commitment to ecology.’ She thought she quite approved of such dedication, on the whole. ‘Besides, he’s got his fiancée here to do all that, hasn’t he? I saw her today,’ she
added. ‘She’s absolutely grief-stricken. I hadn’t thought so until now.’

The detective cocked his head in a familiar gesture that said
Here we go again – you obviously know things that we don’t
.

‘Oh?’ he said.

‘She was in the church,
clenched
with misery. She told me to go away. Not for the first time, actually.’

‘Explain.’

‘Well, she was here last night, with her two friends. They weren’t very nice, to be honest. Told me I was interfering, and to stay away from them.’

‘They threatened you?’

‘Sort of,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t think they meant anything too awful. Tiffany for one, is really quite sweet. I mean – her heart’s definitely in the right place.’

‘They’re vigilantes,’ he snapped. ‘Something the police force regards in a very bad light.’

‘Why buy a dog and bark yourself?’ said Thea fatuously.

‘Something like that. But more along the lines of ordinary citizens jumping to conclusions and doing a great deal of needless harm.’

‘They said none of them was there yesterday, where Handy was attacked. Did he name any of them?’

‘Can’t tell you that. Best for you if I don’t.’

‘Are they wrong, then, to think Jack Handy killed Danny?’

‘Too soon to say. He fits in a lot of ways, but there’s no evidence worth mentioning. And his manner … it’s not professional, I know, but he doesn’t strike me as a killer. He’s too … outraged. Looks you in the eye. The fact is, the protest group make enemies everywhere they go. They’re an irritation and an embarrassment right across the whole region. And they were getting a lot worse. Harassment on a major scale, disruption verging on terrorism at times. The badger thing really escalated their methods to whole new levels. That gives us a wide selection of suspects for the killer of one of them.’

‘Handy’s got two thousand hens packed together in a barn. I saw them this morning. When I asked his stepmother what the protesters thought of that, she wouldn’t say.’

The head cocked again. ‘Mrs Handy? You’ve met her?’

‘I had to take the dog back, remember? She showed me around and gave me some eggs. But she didn’t like me very much,’ she ended regretfully.

‘What did you say to her?’

‘Nothing. Honestly – nothing you could possibly object to. I
had
to go, didn’t I?’ The defensiveness was automatic, born of a growing sense that she was seen as trouble by almost everybody. She gave herself a determined shake. ‘Do you know she’s called Sandy Handy? I’ve been wanting to say that out loud all day.’ She giggled. ‘People do have daft names, don’t they? But
she must have really loved the old man to saddle herself with that. Or she could have kept her original name.’

Higgins smiled tightly and drained his mug. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice to chat.’

‘But you don’t rate my little clue very highly, do you? Will you take it with you?’

‘Oh yes. You never know. It just seems a bit unlikely the dog would have carried it all the way here? You think she was choking on it, do you?’

‘I told you – she was coughing. I don’t know any more than that, but I can’t see the Fosters having such a thing in the garage. They’re not obsessively tidy, but it was fairly neat and brushed.’

He shrugged. ‘Anything useful that might have been on it will have been sucked off, then.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed patiently. ‘But the material itself – you could tell where it was torn from, if you had the jeans or whatever. It would put their owner at the scene.’

They were on the doorstep, and he had turned to go back to his car. Then he hesitated, and rubbed a finger across one eyebrow as if chasing a thought. ‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘Right. Thanks.’

‘Bye, then,’ she chirped at him in her brightest voice. ‘Thanks for coming.’

He flipped a valedictory hand and got into his car.

She closed the door, feeling genuinely pleased by his visit. He had passed some time, bringing her nightly call to Drew that bit closer. Soon she could feed the dogs, take them into the garden, close the curtains
and find herself something to eat. All that would take them to nearly six, if she did it slowly and cleaned the kitchen up thoroughly after herself. She also had quite a lot to think about. The pleasant task of ordering her account of the day for Drew’s benefit gave a little spring to her step and found her humming softly now and then.

The fact that Jack Handy had regained consciousness brought mixed implications. He presumably wasn’t going to die, which meant nobody would be prosecuted for his murder. But despite Higgins’s gut reaction, Handy was highly likely to find himself under suspicion once again for the killing of Danny Compton. It was a strange balancing act, and she wondered what the local people made of it. What degree of popularity did the Handys enjoy in the area? Did everyone go to the farm for their eggs? Were there sheep on the land, as well? The presence of a collie suggested so. In which case, who was overseeing the lambing? Her thoughts drifted sideways into a slew of questions to which she had no answers. She remembered Higgins’s reproach that the first and unambiguous murder had slipped out of sight with the attack on Handy.

And – a new thought zinged somewhere in the middle of her head – what if Handy himself had been meant as a diversion, a new victim in the form of a callous red herring designed to dilute the quality of attention the police devoted to Danny’s death? She had no idea where the idea had come from. It made no sense, given
what everyone already believed. If not Handy, then some other outraged Cotswold resident – most likely a farmer – had taken his chance to slaughter one of the most prominent and annoying of the protesters, by breaking his head and then throwing him into the quarry. His friends had drawn their own conclusion as to who had done it, and taken their revenge, worried that there would be insufficient evidence for a prosecution. The notion that this might be a deliberate smokescreen was ridiculous. She couldn’t think what could possibly have sown the seed of any alternative explanation in her mind.