Revenge in the Cotswolds (19 page)

Back across the main road by means of the convoluted
roundabouts and tunnels, it seemed almost as slow and varied a route as it would have been on foot. After three left turns, she drew up at the house, thinking how different it was to arrive somewhere by car rather than as a pedestrian. Now she was a more significant person, in possession of a car, in no way suspicious. In the light of recent events, she supposed there would be a strong police presence, watching out for unusual movements – in particular anybody walking over the fields with no immediately obvious purpose.

The house was fine. Silent, clean, empty, it waited contentedly for its people. Thea ran a perfunctory duster over a few surfaces, doing her best to quell complex emotions of disapproval, envy and relief. She found a notepad in the hall, and wrote a brief message.
Welcome home. All seems to be in order. Thank you for the commission – I gather Mrs Foster will be paying me? Best wishes Thea Osborne.
And she added her mobile number for good measure. Another emotion pushed through: a hint of guilt at taking a hundred pounds for so little work.

But it would surely be worth it for the relief the owners would feel when they got back and found everything in such perfect order. That was worth any amount of money, especially with crime raging through the village and no prosecutions yet made. Complacency crept into the mix, as she gave the place a final review, before locking the door.

It was half past two on a Thursday afternoon and the sun still shone invitingly. The Cotswolds were gorgeous in all seasons, but spring came close to the top for perfection. All dead leaves had long been eradicated from gardens – except for Drew’s property in Broad Campden. Everything was pruned and staked and mulched, ready for the coming months of colour and texture, carefully designed. She had occasionally thought of spending a day with a camera, capturing the stone and the landscape and the gardens, but it had never really happened. The few pictures she’d taken were never as she’d hoped. Shadows fell in the wrong place, or vital details got chopped in half. Photography really wasn’t one of her strong points, she had long ago concluded. So instead, she used her eyes, pausing for long looks at a view or an ancient wall. She still remembered them, at least as well as if she’d taken a picture with a camera. Standing on Cleeve Hill overlooking Winchcombe, or examining Painswick from a distant elevation, and deciding the church was ill-fitting – she could still recall almost every detail.

So far on this job, she had found the big houses of Stratton the most appealing; perhaps all the more so because it was hardly a settlement in its own right, dismissed as an offshoot of Cirencester and given short shrift. In fact, she had a feeling the houses could tell some gripping tales of former times, with the traffic along the Gloucester Road to and from the ancient city
close by. The Whiteacres’ home was a prime example, with which she had quite fallen in love at first sight.

The Whiteacre family felt very central to the business of the murder, as well as the attack on Farmer Handy, on the basis of very little hard evidence. Sheila showed up at crucial moments, and Tiffany was closely involved with all the people concerned. Then Jessica had heard Ricky virtually confessing to having committed grievous bodily harm. But Thea herself was cast out to the borders of ignorance, with no news updates and no real insights into what had happened or why.

Yet again there were no people to be seen; no feeling that work was going on in the fields, or even in the silent houses. Bedrooms might be converted into studies, with computers and scanners and high-speed connections, but she saw very little evidence of their being much used. These villages were increasingly treated as weekend hideaways, rather than permanent homes for ordinary families. Affluent, retired people bought lovely stone houses and then spent much of their time on cruises or visiting relatives in Australia, as Thea knew from her own experience.

All this, she supposed, was included in the range of things that Sophie and her group found so outrageous. Second homes, pretentious gardens using peat from irreplaceable bogs, enormous greedy vehicles, inessential travel – everything these rich Cotswolds dwellers did must surely fuel the fury of an eco-activist. Thea felt she
had glimpsed the makings of something not far from warfare in the glittering eyes of the fanatical Sophie and her sidekick Nella. After all, it did happen. Generations of antagonism could simmer invisibly until something occurred to spark a wholesale conflagration. The police took campaign groups seriously, after all. And now there had been a murder, tensions were quite possibly at breaking point. Hence the attack on Jack Handy. Chances were, then, that it was not going to stop there.

But Drew had not seen it in the same way. He said it was personal. He said people fear those they hurt and there was something inevitable about revenge. But Higgins had implied that investigations into who Danny Compton might have feared were minimal, if they existed at all. Or had he? She tried to recall everything the detective inspector had told her, and came up with only the scrappiest of facts. A new idea floated up – that the murder was not demanding an especially intense degree of focus. Granted there were additional officers drafted in to help prosecute the usual enquiries, there was still nothing of the horror or fervour she had seen on previous occasions. The absence of the victim’s parents made a difference, too. Just a traumatised fiancée, who was apparently being duly helpful with the enquiries. At heart, the police were not going to care too desperately that a semi-criminal protester had died at the hands of a local landowner after unbearable provocation. The
landowner quite possibly belonged to the same clubs as the chief of police, anyway. Without the slightest suggestion of corruption, human nature was likely to decree that no special effort need be made this time.

This line of thinking almost persuaded Thea herself that she could simply leave it, as most people said she should. But then her phone rang, just as she was getting back into the car, and everything was sent in quite another direction.

‘Mrs Osborne? This is WPC Gordon. We met the other day? DI Higgins asked me to call, to tell you that Ricky Whiteacre has been arrested. He thought we owed it to you to keep you informed.’

‘Oh! That’s a surprise. How thoughtful. But it
isn’t
a surprise, really, is it? We knew he was the one who hit Mr Handy.’

‘No, you don’t understand. He’s been arrested for murder.’

‘What?’ She struggled to grasp all the implications. ‘You think he killed Danny? But why?’

‘Sorry – I can’t tell you any more. But the DI thought you should know. He says you can just sit back and enjoy the sunshine now.’

‘Oh, did he? Well, thanks for calling. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.’

She hadn’t much liked the Gordon girl anyway, she remembered. Now she discerned a definite hint of smugness in the voice. It made her miss Gladwin with a sudden passion.

Everything swirled around her head, with nothing approaching a logical pattern. Ricky Whiteacre, the brother of young Tiffany, son of such nice parents, a murderer? So he had bashed Jack Handy because … Handy had seen him kill Danny? Or
somehow knew the truth, even if not from directly witnessing it? Or because he was on a list of people Ricky wanted dead? Had there been a struggle between the two men for the role of leader in the group? Or what?

She couldn’t possibly follow Higgins’s advice and return to Daglingworth for a quiet week sitting in the sunshine. How little he knew her if he thought there was any chance of that. She had to know
why
. She had to discover how Nella had reacted to the news. And poor Tiffany!

What about Steve? He hadn’t shown much liking for Ricky – or his mother, come to that. She had interrupted them, when Steve might have gone on to reveal more about the people involved in what had happened. Had she done that deliberately? Anything now seemed possible. There could be conspiracies on every side. Steve knew about the knife that killed Danny, saying it had been broadcast on Twitter. Was that the evidence that incriminated Ricky, then? And who was the nameless man who had first found Danny’s body?

She made no attempt to start the engine, simply sitting in the driver’s seat, with Hepzie slumped half on her lap as questions flooded through her mind. The big change in her thinking dawned slowly. None of the explanations she could think of involved any sort of revenge. At what point had it seemed clear that this was in fact the motive, anyway? Had it been
Drew’s idea? Instead, it was something about the internal politics of the protest group, and therefore of no real cause for concern. There would be quiet chuckles from locals at this evidence that there was trouble in the ranks and every prospect of less harassment and campaigning as a result. Perhaps the whole edifice would collapse. The shelf life of such groups was never very long anyway, as far as she was aware. The sheer level of intensity ensured they would soon burn out, in most cases. People grew up and lost heart, too. Young recruits like Tiffany would recognise the brainwashing they were subjected to, and make a bid for freedom.

All of which only further piqued her curiosity. What was Sophie saying now? It was impossible to refrain from such questions, and even more impossible to resist the compulsion to go and find out.

But go where? She definitely would not be welcome at the Whiteacres’ home, and had no idea where Nella, Sophie or Steve lived. That left the Handys’ farm, and she could see no point in going there. Jack was still in hospital and Sandra wouldn’t welcome a visit. Nor was she likely to know anything.

She drove around the loop of Upper End, down past the church and back through the lanes to the big roundabout. Arriving in the middle of Daglingworth, she felt mildly disappointed not to have met anyone interesting, nor witnessed any further violence.

But she didn’t remain disappointed for long. Outside the open entrance to Galanthus House was a man. He was dark-haired, in his forties and appeared to be waiting for something. He simply stood passively, not looking at anything in particular, until he heard her car slowing down and indicating right. Then he transformed into a caricature of alertness, head up, mouth smiling, hand raised. He trotted across to her side of the car, plainly eager to speak to her. She wound down the window.

‘Are you Mrs Osborne? The house-sitter?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I was just about to give up. I need to speak to you, you see. Would that be all right?’

‘I don’t see why not. Who are you?’

‘Jim Tanner. I live in Stratton. Only a mile away. They might have told you about me.’

‘Tanner! The—’ She could hardly say
The benefits cheat
and even less
the arsonist
. ‘Um, yes. I think I know who you are. Why do you want to see me?’

‘It wasn’t me, you see. Nor any of my family or friends. It had nothing to do with us. I need you to know that.’

‘Okay. Wait a sec.’ She drove hurriedly up to the garage, intending to put the car inside it. Then she thought perhaps it would be more sensible to leave it out, where she might get at it quickly if necessary. Such caution was unnatural to her, and she knew a small pang of regret at its onset.

‘Careful!’ came a shout, a millisecond before she hit the glass tank containing the tortoise. It made a telltale sound, a sound that universally signalled calamity. Broken glass meant wastage at the very least, and a terrorist bomb at worst. In this case it spelt bad news for a sleeping tortoise.

She let the car run back a yard or so, and then got out. ‘Stay here,’ she told the spaniel. ‘You might cut your feet.’

The man was already squatting down to inspect the damage. ‘Is this a tortoise?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Have I killed it?’

‘Don’t panic. You didn’t hit it hard. It’s buried in all this dirt – was it like that before?’

‘Yes. It’s hibernating. Due to wake up any day now.’

He scooped away some soil, and delicately extracted shards of glass from one side of the reptile. ‘Look at that!’ he said, with wonder distinct in his voice.

A narrow stripy head raised miraculously out of the earthy bed and very slowly turned from side to side. The man worked his hands down either side, and gently lifted the whole creature aloft. ‘He’s awake,’ he said. The shell was domed, four stumpy legs sticking out and the head raised. It blinked and opened its mouth, in a perfect imitation of a long yawn.

‘So he is. I guess even hibernation can’t withstand being hit by a car.’

‘What happens now?’

‘Um … warm bath and relocation to a nice big
thing called a vivarium. Are you sure he’s not hurt?’

‘Probably takes quite a lot to damage that shell. A warm bath, eh? Then a nice big meal, I expect. Maybe he’d like a little walk, just to stretch his legs.’ He bent down to set the tortoise on the ground, only to emit a shrill cry of pain.

‘What?’ Thea could see no cause for concern. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘My back. Oh Christ – it’s gone into spasm. Wait a minute. Oh!’ He staggered to the car and leant over it, gasping. Thea remained where she was, her mind blank.

‘Sorry,’ panted Jim Tanner. ‘It does this. Never any warning. I won’t be able to walk until it eases off. Sorry,’ he repeated.

‘Can you sit?’

‘Where?’

‘Over there.’ She pointed out the wrought iron seat that she and Steve had used that morning.

‘If you help me.’

Unselfconsciously she supported him the few yards to the seat, and lowered him slowly into it. Then she collected the tortoise and her dog. Inside the house, Gwennie was yapping.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and then gave a muted howl. ‘Oh, God. It always does it at the wrong moment. You wouldn’t believe the pain.’ There was sweat on his brow and he held himself tight from neck to knee.

‘Have you got pills or anything?’

‘Not with me. They’re not very good, anyway. Just take the edge off it.’

The whole episode was reminding Thea powerfully of an earlier instance where a man with a bad back had looked to her for sympathy and support. She had failed him in a big way. Now she had a second chance to get it right. ‘You poor thing,’ she murmured. ‘Is there anyone I can phone?’

‘Give it a few minutes, okay? Just let me sit.’

‘A drink?’

‘No thanks. Go and do what you need to with the tortoise or the dog. I’m all right.’

‘I’ll be ten minutes. Shout if you want me.’

She left him sitting in full view of the road, his whole body rigid with pain. Anyone passing would see a puzzling figure, but she doubted whether they’d stop to learn more. Tucking the tortoise under one arm, she unlocked the front door and let Gwennie out. She made directly for Jim Tanner, but didn’t touch him. Instead she stood two feet away and gave him a thorough inspection. ‘She can’t see very well,’ Thea called. ‘But she’s quite friendly.’

She went into the kitchen, with her spaniel at her heels, and gave some thought to the task of bathing a sleepy tortoise. Mr Foster’s instructions were invaluable.
Use the big red bowl from under the sink. Water should be comfortably warm. No soap. Just fill it to within a couple of inches and slowly immerse him. Leave him for five minutes maximum and then
remove him onto a towel and pat him dry. Quickly take him to the vivarium, which should be set at 65 degrees F, and offer fruit, salad – whatever you can find. Apple is good
.

All of which was easily accomplished. But first she ran upstairs to plug in the vivarium, hoping it would warm up soon enough to keep the animal at the desired temperature. Outside, the afternoon was waning and with the disappearing sun the air was cooling quite noticeably. Poor Jim Tanner would get chilly too, at this rate.

‘I’ve done it,’ she reported, finally going back outside. ‘One revived tortoise, munching on a slice of apple. It does seem a bit like a miracle. How are you feeling now?’

‘Not quite so bad, thanks. I’m sorry to cause such a nuisance.’

‘No problem. Do you want to try and come into the house? You’ll get cold out here.’

‘All right, then,’ he said with apprehension clear on his face. ‘If I stay here I’ll only seize up, anyway.’

She took him past the scorched carpet in the hall – where he stopped for a long thoughtful look – and into the kitchen and made tea, despite his protests. ‘It looks to me as if you really do deserve the disability benefit,’ she said, without preamble. ‘Which isn’t what I heard. In fact I was told you’d spent time in prison for fraud.’

‘Thirty days,’ he nodded ruefully. ‘Nobody believes
me, because it comes and goes, see.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I can’t really blame them.’

‘But surely you can? That was an awful thing Mrs Foster did to you. People took her side. You must have been completely ostracised.’

‘I’ve been okay for a while now. I even started to think she was right. They tested me, and I could do almost all of it – all the things they throw at you. So I lost the case and did the time. I only got out a couple of weeks ago. They sent me to the Job Centre. I’ve got a job, trying to sell ice cream.’

‘What – in a van? Driving round to housing estates and schools?’

‘No, no. There’s a big place that makes it out towards Cricklade. They wanted someone to get new business for them. I quite enjoy it, to be honest.’ He moaned. ‘The back’s been playing up for years, you know. I did something to it, ages ago. If it gets bad again now, and I have to pack in the job, I’ll never persuade them to put me back on benefits.’

‘But Mrs Foster,’ Thea prompted, trying not to get drawn into the complexity of the benefit system and its apparent injustices. ‘Is it right that she reported you to the welfare payment people, whatever they’re called?’

‘Seems so. She told enough of her friends about it that word got back to me. Didn’t take the cops long to conclude it was me tried to burn this house down. Lucky I could prove I was miles away at the time.
Likewise both my boys. Not that any of us would have much idea how to make a firebomb anyway. If that’s what it was.’

‘I could have died,’ she said softly. ‘It was a terrible thing to do.’

He looked at her, moving his neck carefully. ‘Not the only terrible thing, then.’

‘You mean the murder? Or the assault on Jack Handy? Or both?’

‘There’s a lot going on. And you seem to know all about it. How’s that, then?’

She flushed. ‘Purely by accident, I met some of the people involved. And now they’ve made an arrest. It’ll be on tonight’s local news, I suppose.’

He jerked forward and then stopped with a noisy intake of breath. ‘Aarghh,’ he groaned. ‘There it goes again.’ He exhaled slowly, and took two more shallow breaths. ‘I can hardly breathe when it’s like this.’

‘There must be something they can do for you. You can’t carry on like this.’

‘They’ve tried a couple of things, but backs are tricky and nothing comes near it. It’ll be a wheelchair before long, at this rate. Did you say someone’s been arrested? Who?’

She debated briefly with herself, and saw no reason to withhold what she knew. ‘Ricky Whiteacre. Do you know him?’

‘Everybody knows the Whiteacres. The young one’s been in trouble once or twice. Got herself in the
paper.’ He frowned and blew out his cheeks. ‘They’ll be wrong, though. It wouldn’t have been him that they want.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Murder.’ He said the word thoughtfully, the frown deepening. ‘Stabbing, I heard. Very nasty.’

‘Indeed. Even nastier than cracking a man’s skull with his own walking stick. Ricky did that – apparently. It’s not so different, really. He must be a violent character.’ She realised she had not properly considered the implications of Ricky’s arrest for his family. Being accused of murder was about as bad as it got. How would they ever recover?

‘I don’t know. All I wanted … well, I said it already.’

‘Yes. So, who
did
start the fire? Have you any idea?’

‘Mrs Foster was a social worker. Everybody hates social workers. There was a forced adoption just before she retired. The baby was taken away at birth, because they said it was likely to be harmed by the mother. A lot of fuss was kicked up. She was wrong.’ He looked up again. ‘She’s a stupid woman. I won’t say more than that. But if I were a copper, I’d have a look at where those people were when the fire was set.’

Thea was wide-eyed at this imputation, not so much on the victimised parents, but the woman she had met and liked. ‘She seemed all right to me.’

‘She had too much power. That’s the truth of it. A stupid powerful woman can cause a lot of harm.’