Destruction of Evidence (17 page)

‘And the corpse?’ Ted’s professional interest was aroused.

‘Straightforward poisoning, all we needed was the stomach contents and they’d been taken out at the first PM. Found them in storage in a rusty old freezer. If someone had taken the trouble to look we needn’t have bothered with the exhumation. It was the usual story of country life. Miserable, miserly old farmer, lusty young wife. Young wife preferred virile cowhand but wouldn’t give up farm so she flavoured the farmer’s stew with weed killer. Murders in rural areas are so predictable.’

It was past midnight when Trevor and Peter returned to their cottage.

‘Does the thought of Patrick getting his hands on your corpse bother you?’ Peter grabbed the whisky bottle and a clean glass before laying claim to the sofa.

‘With luck he’ll have retired before I go. I intend to live long enough to see my great grandchildren.’

‘Trust you to be wishing your life away. I haven’t even considered the impact a child will have on Daisy and me. Grandchildren! Marty’s not even a year old.’

‘He soon will be.’ Trevor went to the fridge and retrieved his glass of whisky.

‘I suppose there’s no point in worrying about it. They’re all the bloody same.’

‘Who’s all the same?’ Trevor murmured absently.

‘Pathologists. Have you ever known a sane one?’

When Trevor didn’t answer, Peter picked up the whisky bottle. ‘Top up?’

‘No thanks.’ Trevor opened the curtain and looked out of the window. The stables backed on to the lane that ran at the rear of Main Street, and he could see nothing beyond the stone wall.

‘Any murdering arsonists out there?’ Peter asked.

‘They’ve long gone,’ Trevor left the window and sat in an easy chair opposite Peter. ‘The question is where?’

‘My guess is to ground in the town.’ Peter poured a generous measure of whisky into his glass.

‘Then you don’t think Larry Jones killed the Pitchers?’

‘I’m not saying he didn’t have anything to do with it but much as I dislike agreeing with the Snow Queen…’

‘Inspector March?’ Trevor interrupted.

‘That’s what they call her. Who did you think I was talking about?’

‘Superintendent Moore,’ Trevor suggested.

‘Local station is full of bloody frigid women trying to grow balls. “Nanny knows best”,’ Peter mocked. ‘Ice Drawers – that’s Reggie’s nickname – and Snow Queen who both talk to everyone as if they are two years old. But the Snow Queen made some valid, if completely bloody obvious, points. We need to find the motive. When we’ve the motive we’ll be halfway to finding the killer.’

‘And the jewellery in Larry Jones’s pocket?’

‘Given the state of him, I think Larry Jones was set up as the fall guy. What better way to stitch him up than plant jewellery on him. And if that was the case, given the value, I think we can discount robbery.’

‘Unless the thief or thieves were after something even more valuable,’ Trevor observed.

‘What did the luscious Pamela tell you when you helped her with the dishes?’

‘That the house Alun Pitcher recently emptied of valuable antiques belonged to a family called Harville and they owned artefacts dating back 800 years.’

Nursing his glass, Peter sprawled on the cushions. ‘So, emptying houses is what dealers do.’

‘The house was called Llwynon Rectory. The three Pitcher boys bought the place with the intention of turning into apartments.’

‘Who sold it?’

‘The crown. The last owner died intestate.’

‘Given we’re in Wales I’d lay a pound to a penny that somewhere along the line it’s a fiddle that’s plumped several bank accounts. Man like Alun Pitcher, lived here all his life, local businessman and antique dealer who does house clearances, probably hand in glove with all the estate agents, local council officers and whoever represents the crown and tax man in Wales. You know what they say “England’s corrupt but,”’ Peter paused and adopted an exaggerated Welsh accent, “‘Wales is beyond corrupt”.’

‘Even if it was a fiddle I don’t see where it fits in with the murders.’ Trevor sipped his whisky.

‘We don’t know and probably will never know what was in Pitcher’s cellar.’ Peter held out the bottle.

‘No thanks, I know your measures.’

‘Yours are skimpy.’ Peter thought for a moment. ‘If someone was jealous and wanted the contents of the rectory for themselves…’

‘They wouldn’t have set fire to Alun Pitcher’s cellar,’ Trevor declared.

‘They could have taken the valuables first.’

‘No one heard or saw a van despite the number of people who seemed to be out and about in the early hours. The landlord of the Angel, the fisherman who reported the fire, Michael Pitcher, his girlfriend, the two constables…’

‘The nosy neighbour and Larry Jones,’ Peter broke in. ‘What’s your point?’

‘Lot of people around.’

‘Some people prefer to make trouble than lie peacefully in their beds. They enjoy annoying overworked constables who live in hope of a quiet shift.’

‘I’m going for a stroll.’ Trevor set his untouched whisky on the table.

‘Now who’s going wandering in the middle of the night?’

‘I’m not asking you to come.’

‘I wouldn’t if you begged me on bended knee. Once the PM and forensic reports come in we’re going to be working all hours, day, night and then some. I’m for one more drink then bed.’ Peter picked up the TV remote. ‘Turn on the TV on your way out. I like to be reminded of life in the real world before I go to sleep.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Trevor left the cottage and crossed the yard of the old coaching inn. He went to the archway that connected with Main Street, leaned against the wall and looked up and down the street. Lamps burned in the darkness, lights shone out from behind screened and curtained windows. A fox slunk out from an alleyway that ran beside one of the larger houses on the opposite side of the road. It headed swiftly down towards the bridge and the river. Music blared, muted by distance but still raucous and irritating. If Trevor’d had to make a guess he would have said it was the theme tune of one of the dumbed-down reality TV shows Lyn and he couldn’t stand and swiftly switched off.

He looked up towards the Pitchers’ house. The accountant’s offices between the pub and the house would have been unoccupied on the night of the murders but there were lights on across the road in what appeared to be residential properties. Had one or more of the Pitchers screamed when they’d been attacked? Or had they all been overpowered and silenced before they could make a sound? If one of them had cried out why hadn’t anyone reported hearing them?

The kitchen door of the pub opened behind him. Tim Pryce walked out. He dropped a bag of rubbish into one of the wheelie bins in the yard, closed it and joined Trevor. ‘You’re standing where we left Larry Jones that night. If I’d known then what I know now I would have killed the bastard.’ There was venom in his voice.

‘You’re that certain he’s guilty?’

‘You buggers have arrested him.’

‘Not for murder, only arson, handling stolen goods and breaking parole. And, it’s innocent until proven guilty,’ Trevor said flatly.

‘Stupid bloody maxim where the Garth Estate Joneses are concerned. You’ve heard of the rotten apple? Well the whole bloody barrel of Larry’s family are rotten; every single one of them and, to the core. It’d be a favour to society to drown them at birth.’

‘Did you convert the old stables into cottages?’ Trevor didn’t have to hear any more about Larry Jones’s family to picture them. There were families like them in every town and city in the country. It was easy for a less than scrupulous copper to pin all the crimes within a ten-mile radius on them. He’d rather not think about how many files had been closed by officers using the simple expedient of bribing a none-too-bright “Larry Jones” clone to sign a list of “past misdemeanours to be taken into consideration” with false promises of leniency in court.

‘My predecessor converted the stables but he didn’t go in for mod cons. Most of his customers were the outward bound, camping sort who regarded a roof as a luxury. The cottages didn’t even have inside lavatories when I arrived. I built the kitchen and bathroom extensions. Do you have everything you need in yours?’ he asked Trevor defensively.

‘Apart from a few more inches of headroom in the bedrooms and living room.’

Tim smiled. ‘They’re fine for people five feet eight and under. Claustrophobic for anyone around five ten and uncomfortable for anyone over six foot. Problem is, the stables, like the pub, are listed buildings. I wanted to dig out the floors to gain a couple of inches, but the builder warned me the foundations might not take the disturbance.’

‘You reported the fire, didn’t you?’

‘Within a minute or two of Ken’s call.’

‘Where were you when you saw it?’

‘My private living quarters and I heard it before I saw it.’ Tim eyed Trevor. ‘I suppose you want to see my place?’

‘Please,’ Trevor answered. ‘If only to check how overlooked the Pitchers’ yard is. It would help to know what risks the killer took of being seen.’

‘As we’re both here now, may as well get it over with.’ Tim opened the back door to the pub. ‘I warn you, it’s a route march from here, and the ceilings are even lower in places than the cottages.’

‘I’m ducking already.’ Trevor followed him inside.

Tim locked the outside door before leading the way through the kitchen into a passageway that ran at the back of the bar. They walked past a function room behind the dining room.

‘That,’ Tim pointed to his right, ‘leads to the wing that has the letting rooms, all full thanks to your forensic people. Although of choice I would prefer the Pitchers to be alive and the rooms empty.’ He indicated a stone archway to his left. ‘This leads to the back of the building and my accommodation. The arch is reputed to be medieval so duck even lower.’

He opened a door and Trevor stooped before finding himself in a small paved open air courtyard. Sensor-activated lights flashed on, momentarily blinding him. When he recovered he saw a simple art deco, ironwork garden set, matching planters filled with white flowers – and only white flowers – and a stone staircase that led up to a door about four feet from the ground.

Tim ran up the steps and opened a door. Trevor followed him into a large stone-walled room, furnished with two four-seater brown leather sofas, oak coffee tables and a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes. An oak shelving system held a TV and speaker system. The walls were covered with original pastels, oil paintings and sketches. Mainly portraits with a fair sprinkling of male and a few female nudes.

‘Who’s the artist?’ Trevor asked.

‘I dabble. Most of those are the work of friends.’ An open plan staircase led up to a mezzanine. Tim walked up the stairs and beckoned Trevor forward.

Wooden framed chairs were grouped around French doors, behind them was a king size bed and a massive antique wardrobe.

‘Nice place you have here,’ Trevor complimented him.

‘I converted this old barn and turned the owner’s living accommodation into guest rooms when my daughter married. It’d be no good for a family but it suits me.’

‘No thoughts of marrying again?’

‘Running a pub that offers food and accommodation leaves no time for a private life. But then I’ve never had much of one of those. I used to be in your line of business. My wife couldn’t put up with the hours I worked.’

‘That was hard on you.’

‘Spoken like a happily married man,’ Tim said drily.

‘I wasn’t always.’

‘And I wasn’t always alone. But there comes a time in life when you have to sort your priorities. I intend to make enough money to retire to the South of France and paint while I can still enjoy life and art.’

‘And in the meantime you have little time for yourself,’ Trevor guessed.

‘Only what I manage to steal from the recommended eight hours. But, as you see, I’ve indulged myself by creating comfortable surroundings. In summer I sleep with the door open.’ Tim slid the glass doors open to reveal iron railings. ‘Architects call these Juliet balconies. I would have preferred to have built out but the town’s planning committee wouldn’t budge. The pub and its outbuildings have Grade Two listed status, which precludes changing the outer appearance. I only managed to update the cottages after the Welsh Tourist Board stepped in on my behalf.’

‘I was surprised to see balconies on the back of the Pitcher house,’ Trevor said.

Tim rubbed the side of his nose knowingly. ‘Alun made a point of making friends with every councillor in town. When the planning application went in a few years ago, he listed all three balconies as extensions to the fire escape. The planning committee conveniently ignored that every one was wide enough to hold tables and chairs.’

‘The Pitchers might not have had a garden but they certainly made the best of the view from the back of the house. Did they sit out there often?’

‘Not that I was here to watch them. But occasionally I saw Alun and Gillian out on the kitchen level late on a summer evening. The boys generally used the higher balconies when they had friends in.’