Dead Feint Page 6

  “Great.” Mentally bracing myself, I turned toward the blue plastic awning that covered the victim’s final resting place. “May as well get it over with then.”

  This time, it was Lowe’s turn to put a restraining hand on my arm. “Before we go in there, let me have your thoughts on the crime scene itself.”

  These woods were part of my past. I knew them well. All about us, majestic ash trees, tall and wide-domed, filtered sunlight through to the shade-loving ferns, foxgloves and sweet-smelling honeysuckle at their bases. High above us, the raucous shriek of a jay interrupted the musical trill of a blackbird.

  I said, “The Chief and I played here as children. The local kids used the old cottage as a den.”

  “I wasn’t around these parts back then,” said Lowe, “but I heard some tales about the place. Got a bit of a reputation, hasn’t it?”

  “We used to say it was haunted. It added to the mystique. Made it more attractive.”

  “The gamekeeper, wasn’t it? Some sort of accident?”

  “No one’s really sure. It was a private estate in the old days. Sylas Gray was the gamekeeper. They found him one day next to his shotgun with his head blown off. Never did find out if it was suicide, an accident or murder.”

  “Looks like the old place just got itself some more ghosts. So what can you tell me about the scene itself?”

  It’s not as if any of this was new to me. Just part of a well-worn routine. But this was different. This was home ground, familiar territory, and it felt personal. These were old childhood haunts.

  “Was she killed here?” I said.

  “Forensic analysis confirms otherwise. Signs of livor mortis show she was moved, and she was covered in carpet fibres, suggesting an indoor location.”

  “Then presumably our murderer killed his victim somewhere that could be linked to him. His home maybe. That’s the usual reason for moving a body.”

  I scanned the site again, taking in more detail.

  The old cottage was right at the heart of Tinkers Wood, a considerable distance from the perimeter on all sides. Broken stone walls smothered with chickweed and ivy surrounded the rubble-strewn approach. Nearby, a couple of rotting car tyres lay half-buried in the mud. Most of the building’s outer wall had collapsed, leaving a pile of shattered stones partially blocking the entrance.

  “It’s off the beaten track,” I said. “Which is what you’d expect. He wouldn’t want to risk dumping a body somewhere too public.”

  I turned in a complete circle, looking out into the woods beyond the crime scene, trying to remember the layout. “Where’s the nearest vehicle access?”

  “There’s an old dirt road leading into the wood from the side opposite the town. But it’s been overgrown for years. You can’t get very far. Barely a few metres.”

  “And that’s the point. This place is almost too remote. Too inaccessible. The killer could have left the body nearer the perimeter and still been well away from prying eyes.”

  “And the area around is uneven and strewn with debris. Difficult to reach.”

  “Which, all in all, just confirms my first thoughts. The scene was staged. As soon as I knew the location, I figured it might be a setup.”

  Lowe agreed with my assessment and said, “But why go to all that trouble? Why recreate the original murder?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Somewhere up above, the jay shrieked out another warning.

  Lowe took me by the arm. “Let’s go look at the body.” He guided me around the half-hidden collapsed wall and under the shade of the protective awning.

  It was the smell that hit me first. The sweet sickening stench of death. I pressed a hand to my mouth and pinched my nose.

  The corpse lay full length on its back, dressed in a mud-splattered beige trouser suit, arms and legs spreadeagled.

  What had once been a face was now a twisted mess of bone and flesh caked in congealed blood and surrounded by a tangled and blood-clotted mass of dark brown hair. The single remaining eye stared up in a mockery of wide-eyed surprise. The mouth was a gaping hole filled with broken teeth.

  The body was already decomposing, a sign that it had lain here for a few days. Three or four large flies, disturbed by our presence, buzzed around the body.

  I closed my eyes. Squeezed them tight shut. And waited until my heart had stopped pounding.

  Turning away, I opened my eyes and stepped back into the open air.

  Lowe followed behind me.

  I paused for a moment. Took in a long deep breath. And exhaled slowly. Nothing would ever prepare me for sights or smells like this.

  Nearby, the jay repeated its nerve-jangling shriek.

  “Okay?” said Lowe.

  I nodded and said, “God help the poor sod who first stumbled into this particular nightmare. Do you know who found the body?”

  “An early-morning dog walker called it in. I don’t think Fido will be frisking around here again any time soon.”

  “You know we’re dealing with a psychopath?”

  “What?”

  “Whoever did this. He’s a psychopath.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “A killer often moves the body after death. He’ll arrange it so as to hide what he’s done or to restore some dignity to the victim. It’s a show of remorse, a belated attempt to make amends. Something we call ‘psychic erasure’ or ‘restitution’.”

  “But not this killer?”

  I shook my head. “He left her exposed in a way that drew attention to the act. Did you notice the dried mud on her clothing?”

  Lowe confirmed that he had.

  “It looks as if he dumped the body face down and then turned it over and staged it in a way that fully displayed the brutality of his act. He wanted the world to admire his handiwork. This is a killer who took a great deal of pleasure in what he did with no regard for the dignity of his victim.”

  We stood in silence for a minute or so.

  I said, “Two murders in the same place. Doesn’t exactly enhance the town’s reputation as a must-visit holiday destination does it?”

  I turned away, stared out through the trees into the past, and watched myself running, laughing, enjoying a time of childhood innocence. We’d been safe here. Despite the area’s macabre past, there had been no thought of danger, not in this idyllic place, among the sun-dappled clearings and humming bees. But that had changed. Now it was a killing place again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The town square bustled with activity. It was market day. Locals and holiday makers alike pressed about the many rickety wooden stalls, buying their weekly groceries or browsing for other goods. A cacophony of sounds reverberated around us, echoing back from the buildings surrounding the square.

  Karen and I were at the greengrocer’s stand. I was helping her pack her purchases into a large folding shopping trolley.

  In need of some company after the previous day’s depressing events, I’d let her persuade me into helping with the shopping.

  Next stop was the hardware stand at the far end of the market. We headed towards it.

  The air was rich with the aroma of cooking from a variety of food stalls. As we passed the beefburger kiosk, a plume of smoke carrying the woody tang of charred meat drifted towards us, vying for olfactory attention with the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread from the nearby bakery stand.

  Cloth awnings flapped in the breeze. From beneath them, vendors called out to customers, their cries mixing with the animated chatter and laughter from groups of shoppers milling around us.

  At the hardware stall, Karen rifled through a rack of paint charts and kept up a constant stream of talk about the pros and cons of various colour schemes.

  She had taken it into her head to turn one of the Fairview’s larger storerooms into extra living space for when Richard moved in and was fussing over decorating ideas for the eventual makeover.

  A can of paint stood within reach on the counter. I drummed my f
ingers on its lid and stared into the distance, only half listening.

  The carefree atmosphere of my surroundings was in sharp contrast to the grim sombreness of the previous day’s scene in Tinker’s Wood. But I couldn’t shake off the gloom I’d felt afterwards.

  Not that it was the only thing on my mind.

  “Will you stop that?”

  I came to with a start.

  Karen’s face was pinched.

  “Sorry,” I said and folded my arms.

  She stared at me a moment longer without speaking, and then, “You’re not your usual self, Mikey. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, you know. Things.”

  She tilted her head to one side, the way she always did when she was about to interrogate me, and fixed me with a glassy stare. “No, I don’t know. What things?”

  “It’s probably nothing.” In an attempt to change the subject, I pointed to the chart in her hand, and said, “Have you made up your mind?”

  She wasn’t to be deterred. Taking me by the arm, she drew me to the far end of the stall, out of earshot of the stall holder. “I’m waiting.”

  “You’ll think I’m mad.”

  “For God’s sake, Mikey. This is like wading through treacle. Do I have to drag it out of you?”

  I sidestepped a young couple heading past us towards the centre of the market and let out a sigh of exasperation. “Nathan was up in London yesterday. I drove over to his place when he got back.”

  I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to say what was on my mind. “He left some receipts lying around and I happened to notice one for a restaurant in Stoke Newington.”

  “So?”

  “Isn’t that where Brandon lives?”

  Karen knew of Nathan’s past relationship with Brandon Barwell. They had met while Brandon was holidaying at the Fairview.

  Her face set hard. And then her hand closed around the chart she was holding, and she screwed it into a tight ball in her fist.

  Maybe I’d been a bit too hasty in raising my concerns.

  She leaned towards me, chin thrust forward, and, raised her voice several octaves. “Are you insane?” Her tone suggested she’d already settled on an answer to that particular question.

  I glanced about me. Fortunately, we were at the quieter end of the market and not too many people were around to hear Karen’s dictum on the state of my mind. “See. I said you’d think I was mad.”

  “Well, you got that right at least.”

  “It just seemed a bit out of his way. He always has his meetings in the city. Presuming he had a meeting. He was even cagey about that.”

  “He’s entitled to some downtime, for God’s sake. And Stoke Newington’s known for its restaurants. People go there from all over.”

  “I suppose,” I said, not convinced.

  “Listen, Mikey.” Her tone was brittle. “You’re way off the mark here. As far as Brandon Barwell is concerned that ship has well and truly sailed. Nathan made his choice, and that’s the end of it. And if you really are that bothered, why don’t you ask him?”

  I wrapped a hand around one of the stall’s support poles and gripped it. “I can’t do that. He might think I’d been snooping.”

  “You were snooping.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” I was indignant.

  “Right. So you just happened to see this receipt lying around. And you just happened to pick it up and read it.”

  “Okay, okay, I was snooping.” I released my grip on the support.

  “But why, Mikey? Why the doubts all of a sudden? Where’s this coming from?”

  “It’s just a feeling I have.”

  “A feeling? You have a feeling?” She spat out the words as if they were tainted.

  “Don’t knock it. I know when something’s wrong.” I stretched out a hand towards her, imploring. “Look, everything was fine till his conference trip to London. But something happened. I know it. He seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. You must have noticed it.”

  I leaned back against the counter and looked for some understanding in her expression. I didn’t find any. “And something he said the other day. It’s been on my mind. He wanted to know if he’d asked too much of me. Coming back here. It was as if he was questioning the whole idea.”

  “He’s bound to be concerned. It was a big change.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well then.” She smoothed out the chart in her hand and dropped it into the bag she carried over her shoulder.

  “It seemed an odd thing to say.”

  “You’re being paranoid.” She grabbed the handle of her trolley and moved away, closing the discussion and making it clear her words were the final say on the subject.

  We stopped at the newspaper stand and I picked up a copy of the Charwell Echo. The stand-holder was nowhere in sight so, while Karen simmered in silence, I browsed through a rack of magazines and waited for his return.

  A seagull screeched overhead as it headed towards the beach.

  Nearby, an elderly man on a mobility scooter shouted obscenities at the youth who stepped into his path and earned a raised finger in response.

  A young woman behind the counter of the adjacent linen stall occasionally glanced over at us from its far end.

  Karen lowered her voice, and said, “Everything is okay between you and Nathan isn’t it?”

  “We did have a bit of a disagreement the other day but we sorted that out.”

  A small groan escaped her lips, and she muttered something under her breath. She gripped my arm, and said, “Look, Mikey. When you went back to London, you left giving Nathan the impression you’d soon be back. It was getting on for four months.”

  My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. “There was a lot to sort out. Work commitments. The divorce. And I stayed in touch as much as I could.”

  The young woman at the linen stall moved towards us along the counter, folding and rearranging sheets and pillowcases as she went. She was still watching us.

  Karen flashed her a smile and waited until she had moved away before resuming our exchange. She let go of my arm. “I’m not blaming you for anything here. I’m just saying how it was.”

  All the same, I felt a twinge of guilt. I would have given anything to come back sooner.

  The news-stand stall holder spotted me from across the square and raised a hand in acknowledgement as he headed towards us, a sandwich in his other hand. I fished in my pocket for some loose change.

  “The point I’m trying to make,” said Karen, “is that Nathan was on tenterhooks all that time. He couldn’t wait for you to get back. Brandon Barwell was the last person on his mind.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m being dumb.”

  “There’s no ‘maybe’ about it. You are being dumb. Sometimes you go out of your way to make trouble for yourself.”

  The news vendor reached us, apologising profusely. I paid him, dismissing his apology with a smile and a shake of the head, and we moved away.

  Karen was about to launch into yet another diatribe about my faults but didn’t get the chance. We were interrupted by the young woman from the linen stall.

  She stepped in front of us. “You’re that bloke from the telly, right?”

  I halted, surprised by the sudden intrusion. “I have appeared on TV now and again, yes.”

  Karen interrupted. “It’s Mia, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mia dipped in a half-curtsy.

  I suppressed a grin. Karen had that effect on people sometimes.

  Karen offered an explanation. “Mia works for me at the Fairview when we’re busy.”

  I acknowledged this with a nod and turned my attention back to the girl. She was short, not more than four feet tall, on the chubby side with dark brown hair scraped back from a pudgy round face. She shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other as if discomforted.

  “What can I do for you, Mia?” I said.

  She pointed at the newspaper in my hand. “You’re mixed
up in this murder, aren’t you?” Once the news of the murder had broken, it had hit the Echo’s headlines the following day along with all the depressing details of its connection to the first murder.

  “I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms,” I said. “But, yes, I am part of the investigation team.”

  “Thing is…” Mia shuffled uneasily once more. “…I might have seen the bloke what did it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mia stared up at me through defiant eyes as if daring me to doubt her. A small fist twisting the top of her tabard.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I saw them arguing. I told Abby - I work with her see. A Saturday job. And it was after she told the police - but she said I was being foolish. It was a while back. A couple of years. But I should say something, shouldn’t I? I still remember. I know what I saw.” The words came tumbling out, tripping over themselves in a hurry to be heard.

  I held up a restraining hand. “Just take it easy and tell me what you can.”

  She was still shuffling from foot to foot, still twisting the top of the tabard in her fist. “I do some evenings in The Partridge over in Colton Drey. And the woman who, you know…” She pointed to the newspaper again “…she was sometimes in there with that friend of hers.” She hesitated. “The other one.”

  “We’re talking here about the two murder victims?” I said.

  A short rapid nod. Lips pressed in a tight line.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Take your time.”

  “They were sat in their usual place. Always came in together. And then one night, this man comes in. I’d not seen him before. He comes right up and speaks to her. To Tammy’s friend. I didn’t know her name. I knew Tammy of course. From the shop. She often came in. Her and Abby was good friends at one time. Though not so much lately.” Mia was gabbling again.

  “Whoa.” I held up my hand again. “Slow down. Tell me about this man. What makes you think he’s involved?”

  “It was the look on her face.” Mia’s eyes dimmed, and she stared out into the distance, focused on the past. “She was scared. Really scared. I’ll never forget it.”