The Drowning Ground (6 page)

‘God, he was a stubborn sod,' Fernsby said. ‘Anyone else would have shut up shop, sold the place and never come back, but not Hurst. You been up there? To the house?'

‘No. Not yet.'

Fernsby shook his head in disgust. ‘Let the whole place go, by the looks of it. His daughter walked out on him. Can't say I blame her.'

‘Actually,' I said, ‘I wanted to ask you about her. We've been trying to reach her all day. She went away years ago, that's what we're hearing.'

‘Rebecca,' Fernsby said. ‘Rebecca Hurst. She moved. But don't ask me where. Ran off with some fella.' Fernsby now looked taken aback. ‘Hold on. So you didn't find him in his house?'

‘No,' I said, ‘we didn't. We think he was killed around 5.00 yesterday afternoon. And near the place where you said you were out walking your dog. In fact,' I added a little cruelly, ‘you may well have been the last one to see him alive.'

I had not really intended to shock the old man or worry him all that much. He seemed far too self-assured for that anyway. But my words seemed to shake him. He started feeling along the bandage on his hand.

‘What?' I said. ‘What is it?'

‘Well, it was his dog,' Fernsby said. ‘I told you he had tied it to a tree. I think it might have even been asleep.' Fernsby paused. ‘Can't really remember now. Sorry. But as we were on our way back across the field towards home, it started barking. I thought it might have been at us to begin with. But it definitely wasn't us it was interested in. It was something on the other side of the hill. A fox or a rabbit, I suppose. It seemed to want to go after it, but of course it couldn't. It just ran along the lead – back and forth, barking.'

‘Barking towards the house – in the direction of Hurst's house? Is that what you're saying?'

Fernsby folded his arms over his chest and nodded. ‘Yes.'

I leant forward in my chair. ‘And did you see what the dog was barking at, Mr Fernsby? Did you see anyone cutting across the back of the hill? Not a dog-walker – someone else?'

Fernsby paused, thinking. ‘No,' he said.

‘Perhaps you remember something else?' I asked. ‘Anything at all? Doesn't matter if it seems of no consequence. Like the dog. When did it start barking? Can you remember? Are you sure it only started to bark later?'

Fernsby's eyes dimmed, and he sat back, thinking harder, worrying at the edges of his memory. ‘No, it was definitely later,' Fernsby said finally. ‘As I was on my way back across the field – on my way back home. Frank lost his patience with it. He started shouting and gave it a wallop. But it didn't seem to do any good. The dog just got more and more worked up.' Fernsby pushed himself further back in his chair.

‘But there's something else, though, isn't there?' I said, pushing him, albeit gently for now. ‘Something was wrong, wasn't there? There was something else you didn't like about yesterday's walk.'

Fernsby nodded reluctantly. He reached for another cigarette, thought better of it and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Well, as I was nearing the end of the walk … it was funny, I kept on looking up at Hurst, because I was sure he was staring at me. You know I could feel … well, it was like I could feel him staring at me. But he wasn't: he was bent over, working. He wasn't paying attention to me at all. It's silly but…' Fernsby shrugged, too embarrassed to go on.

‘You felt as if you were being watched,' I said. ‘Didn't you?'

‘Yes – I suppose that's it,' Fernsby said, relieved that I had said it for him. ‘You have to try to understand,' he said. ‘It was getting dark and … well … I suppose I got a bit jumpy. Jumbo seemed to want to go home as well. It was like he was dragging me away from there – probably just desperate for his tea – practically pulled me out of that field, didn't you, Jumbo?'

Jumbo, I noticed, had moved much closer to the fire and was on the verge of once more setting himself alight. But maybe Jumbo wasn't quite as dumb as he looked.

‘I could hear Frank raving to himself on the top of the hill, talking to himself. That, and his dog barking like mad. It was getting dark after all, so I suppose I was really glad to get out of there.' Fernsby laughed half-heartedly. ‘Fell over when I climbed over the stile,' he said, lifting up his bandaged hand and showing it to me.

Yes, I could just imagine Fernsby and his dog moving through the growing darkness, the animal pulling his master's frail frame along the path and towards the gate. An old man made worried by the sudden eeriness of the hill, but not really wanting to admit it to himself. And, once back amongst the reassuring lights of the village, Fernsby would have no doubt reprimanded himself for having got all worked up over nothing. Finally in the safety of his home. On goes the latch.

The sound of the wind blowing through the trees on Meon Hill came back to me, and with it a memory of the damp, used-up smell of Hurst's corpse. I imagined someone moving quickly and silently towards Frank Hurst as he worked in his field. I thought of the hill; imagined a blurred shadow peeling itself away from the darkness of the trees. For a moment, in the darkening light, I seemed to see Hurst's hunched-over back, and then his panic-stricken face as he turned.

I looked up. The old boy was staring at me again. Another cigarette in his mouth.

‘Downes,' Fernsby said thoughtfully. ‘The name – it's English, isn't it? But you're not from here, are you?'

I sighed and stood up. I get this a lot. ‘No,' I said, ‘I'm not.'

7

It was a relief to be out of Fernsby's stuffy living room and into the falling snow. Away from self-igniting golden retrievers and worried old men. I strode past the other homes in the cul-de-sac. It was starting to snow even more heavily now, and the December air felt raw. I turned up the collar of my coat, although it seemed to do me no good at all, and as I did so I caught a glimpse of television light reflecting against a windowpane in one of the houses.

On the TV was a children's programme, though it was playing to an empty room: the children were off somewhere, probably having their tea. The screen showed a crowd of plastic penguins dancing in circles around an iceberg. There was something compelling about the image, hypnotic even, and I found myself, almost against my will, watching the penguins sliding around and around, and then suddenly skidding off the ice and tumbling into a pale blue papery sea. I came to myself as soon as they hit the water and began to walk towards the car waiting for me at the end of the road. Graves looked pretty anxious as I approached, which pleased me. He leant across the front-passenger seat, pushed open the car door, and I looked in.

‘Any luck with those house keys?' I said.

‘I'm afraid not, sir. There was blood on them, and forensics need to confirm whether it belongs to Hurst or to his attacker. No results until tomorrow and,' Graves added nervously, ‘that's at the very earliest.'

This really wasn't all that unexpected, but I was annoyed nonetheless. It was already dark, and, drumming my fingers loudly on the roof of the car, I began to consider what to do next. Should we try to break in now or was it better to wait until the morning? For a moment I just couldn't decide. It would be easier in the morning – but, then again, I had been waiting a very long time to get back into that old house.

‘I don't suppose you know the way?' I said, more gruffly than I had intended.

‘To where, sir?' Graves said.

‘The house,' I said. ‘Hurst's house.'

‘But why? We can't get in without the keys?'

‘We'll just have to find another way in, then. Shouldn't be too difficult for a young fellow like you,' I said, before clambering into the car and out of the snow.

I gave him the directions. Graves made a face, shrugged and switched on the engine, and the flashy Peugeot estate nosed cautiously out of the narrow street and towards the village green. I had a quick look at him and shook my head. He was certainly no Powell, and I was stuck with him.

I stared out at the water of the pond beyond the green as we drifted alongside the low wooden railings towards the pub, thinking about Powell lying in the stark surroundings of the hospital ward before his doctors decided to send him home. The Christmas lights, strung loosely along the branches of the trees, were mirrored dimly in the water, so that the water went to yellow and then to black again.

I stared out at the pond: muddy and grey-banked, it glimmered darkly at the far edge of the village, ignored and forgotten. Lower Quinton hadn't really changed much over the years. The pub was still there, of course, near the pond on the other side of the green.

It seemed to be doing a good trade. A small party was heading towards the doors. The men, dressed in dinner jackets, all looked pleased with themselves, while some of the women seemed a little out of breath, as if they had squeezed themselves too tightly into their dresses. A Christmas office party, by the looks of it, and one that had got off to an early start. When the doors opened, laughter burst out, muffled by the closed windows of the car.

‘We've found a few more dog-walkers, sir,' Graves said, as we turned a corner and left the pub behind, ‘but it seems as if there's more than one place where people walk their dogs around here. Some take them up on Meon Hill. Others take them along to a village called Mickleton or to another nearby village called Ilmington.'

‘And anyone else see the argument?' I said. ‘No one recognized the man he was arguing with up on the hill?'

‘No, only the young couple saw them arguing. They've just moved in, sir, and they didn't know who the other man was. But it looked like Hurst and this man were really getting into it. They saw the van before they crossed the gate.'

‘Well, it looks like the van was gone by 5.00 and the man along with it. And, according to the old boy I've just been talking to, Hurst was still alive then.'

‘Maybe he came back.'

I nodded. ‘Could be. And you got a description?'

‘Yes. Short and thin-looking. Around thirty. Black hair, kind of spiky. Bit odd for a man his age. Wearing a black coat. Leather, they think, and white trousers.'

‘Not much, is it?'

‘No, sir. I'm afraid not.'

‘And they can't recall the number plate?'

‘No.'

‘And no one noticed anything else out of place in the village?'

Graves shook his head.

‘You sure?' I said, surprised. ‘No strangers hanging about? Nothing at all?'

‘No, sir. Nothing. But we haven't been able to talk to everyone. A lot of people just aren't back from work yet. Probably be quite a few of them later, though.'

Graves was talking about the Lower Quinton commuters, who take the train from the nearby village of Moreton-in-Marsh direct to Paddington. I scowled to myself as we drove past some of the bigger houses sedately tucked away behind well-manicured hedges. London commuters had swooped en masse into small villages like this all over the Cotswolds and bought up all the best houses. For a second, I was almost glad of the murder on their doorstep, hoping that it would knock off a bit of the old Cotswolds charm.

‘We'll have to try them again,' Graves said. ‘But we're nearly done. Just two more streets, sir: Fairfield Road and Bourton Close, and then a few houses at the back of the pub.'

‘The pub'd be a good place to try as well,' I said. ‘Wait till it gets really busy and send a few fellows in to have a chat with the locals.' Then I added drily, ‘That's if there are any locals left.'

We were leaving the village now. The road curved past a small housing estate and then finally took us beyond a few hardy-looking labourers' cottages that clung stubbornly to the edges of the village. After that, there was no sign of anyone.

Graves put his foot down, and we gathered speed. The black road began to race beneath us, and the snow danced frantically in the beams of the headlights. The outline of the village behind us loomed out of the darkness. The hill rose stark upon the horizon and then sloped away again, until it was lost amongst the smaller, greyer contours of the surrounding hills.

Graves tapped the steering wheel, glancing from time to time at the countryside behind him in the rear-view mirror. It seemed as if he wanted to say something but was unsure as to whether he should go on.

‘There has been an awful lot of talk, though,' he said finally.

I had been expecting that.

‘It all seems odd to me,' Graves said, shifting in his seat. ‘I mean, the poor guy's been murdered. But nobody really seems to care. Okay, so the chap likes to keep a low profile. Keeps himself to himself. But so what? He doesn't like the villagers walking all over his field, but who can blame him for that? It's like the whole village seems to think that the field is there for their own benefit,' Graves said, clearly remembering the sign by the gate. ‘But was he really all that bad? Why do they seem to have hated him so much? One of the old dears I talked to this morning literally came out and said she was glad he was dead, and that he deserved it. I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't tell me why either. Just flat out refused. The sweetest old granny you're ever likely to see as well.' Graves swallowed as if he had just tasted something unpleasant. ‘It was a bit creepy, in truth,' he said.

I let out a long sigh. ‘I imagine it's because they all think he murdered his wife.' It came out as almost flippant. But I was actually horrified by the way the gossip had been festering for the past five years.

‘But it was an accident, wasn't it?' Graves said indignantly. ‘She drowned in the swimming pool. That's what you told me.'

‘It was an accident all right.'

Graves looked vaguely disappointed.

‘His second wife used to go swimming most days in the summer,' I explained. ‘They had a big outside pool. And one day she just fell in. Simple as that. Happens all the time, apparently. Slipped as she was walking back towards the house and smacked the back of her head before she hit the water. It was the housekeeper … Nancy Williams … who saw her and called the ambulance. But she was dead by the time they got there.' I folded my arms. ‘You managed to talk to her yet?'