Murder in My Backyard (11 page)

“Who the hell is that?” he asked. “What on earth does he think he’s playing at?”

“It’s Robert Grey,” Maggie said. “ He farms the land behind the village. He lives just up the road, next door to the Henshaws’.”

“Does he get as drunk as that every evening?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know what was wrong with him tonight. He came in at opening time and must have just finished now.”

At the house behind the garage the lights were still on and Ramsay imagined her father there, waiting anxiously. There was no sign of Charlie Elliot. She ran in without a word.

It was midnight when he arrived back at the cottage at Heppleburn. He assumed that the envelope stuck in his letter box would be a circular. It was Sunday and there was no post. Before looking at it, he lit the gas fire and made coffee. Only then did he see that it was a card, expensive and hand-delivered, from Diana welcoming him to his new home. He studied it, as if hoping for a clue in the pressed flowers and bland printed message to her motivation. But he did not find one, and when he got in to bed he still was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry to have missed her.

The next day, Monday, the murder enquiry moved on like an unwieldy, poorly organised military exercise. At dawn the special patrol group began their search of the beech wood behind the house. Dressed in boots and anoraks, they moved in a single line through the trees, hindered by the frost and snow that covered the dead leaves, swearing about the cold. Some were sent to the churchyard. At first there was no communications equipment and they kept in touch by shouting. They complained, as they always did, of their superiors’ inefficiency. They set up their base in the small police house on the edge of the village but found nothing there to help them. The only equipment provided was a wartime pamphlet showing the identification of German planes and a bucket of sand in case of fire. There had been little crime in Brinkbonnie.

They found the knife quite by chance soon after the search was started. The youngest member tripped on the edge of a flat gravestone and fell, facedown in the snow, accompanied by laughter and jeers. As he stumbled he knocked over a vase of dead daffodils that had been standing on the grave and the knife emerged with the rotting stalks of the flowers.

“You lucky bastard,” someone shouted. “I suppose you’ll take the credit for finding it now.”

But they were all pleased that the murder weapon had been found. It encouraged them that they might find something else of significance.

Ramsay was told about the discovery of the knife in Otterbridge. He was at the police station, supervising the setting up of the Incident Room, the arrival of computer terminals, extra phone lines, and piles of paper. Still no-one had found the screens to block off the corner of the Tower garden where the body had been found, and he, too, muttered about inefficiency. His superintendent was giving all his attention to the press and on every news broadcast there was a shot of him pleading earnestly for information about any unfamiliar cars seen in Brinkbonnie on Saturday night.

A group of detectives from Newcastle had been drafted to help and they milled around the Incident Room until Ramsay sent them off to Brinkbonnie to begin the house-to-house enquiry.

Hunter arrived at work elated and energetic after his night in Newcastle, wanting action, immediate results.

“Did you see the Elliots last night?” Ramsay asked.

Hunter nodded.

“Anything?”

“Not much. They weren’t very communicative.” I bet you weren’t either, Ramsay thought. You’d want to get the interview finished as soon as possible so you’d be in Newcastle before your date walked out on you.

“Did Charlie Elliot tell you he’d been to the pub?” Ramsay asked.

“Yes.” If Hunter was impressed by Ramsay’s knowledge, he did not show it.

“What time was he home?”

“About eleven. His father confirmed it.”

“How did he strike you?” Ramsay asked. “Apparently he’s been making a nuisance of himself with Maggie Kerr, the barmaid in the Castle. They were engaged when they were teenagers and he never got over it. Did he seem unbalanced to you?”

“Not unbalanced,” Hunter said. “Moody perhaps.”

“Well,” Ramsay said, “ if he was home by eleven, he can’t have murdered Mrs. Parry. She was still in the Castle then. She definitely left Henshaw’s and went straight to the pub. The barmaid said she was upset, but Henshaw won’t admit that there was any unpleasantness. Perhaps you could make some enquiries in the village. Find out all you can about him. He drives a Rover. See if anyone saw it late Saturday night.”

“Are you coming to Brinkbonnie?”

“Later. I’ve an appointment with the council’s planning officer. I want to find out about these houses.”

Despite Hunter’s scepticism he was convinced that Henshaw’s development had in some way triggered the series of events that had resulted in Alice Parry’s death. Henshaw’s version of the confrontation with Alice Parry was false. Something had happened to distress her, and almost immediately after she had died. The man’s lying must be significant.

The council offices were in a shabby building that always reminded Ramsay of a large working-men’s club. The planning officer was a small, solid man with a thin grey moustache. He had Henshaw’s plans laid out on his desk.

“I don’t understand the planning procedure,” Ramsay said. “ It might be relevant in this case. Perhaps you could explain.”

“Mr. Henshaw made his original application for Brinkbonnie late last summer,” the officer said. He had a brisk, clipped voice and spoke with the formality of a man used to local politics. “Previously the land had been of marginal agricultural use—occasionally leased to a local farmer for grazing cattle. After being purchased by Mr. Henshaw, I believe that arrangement stopped. The council felt that the plans were inappropriate for a village of Brinkbonnie’s size and refused permission to build.”

“Was there a lot of publicity at that time?”

“Not a great deal. We put a notice in the local paper and received several objections, but no-one seriously believed the development would be approved.”

“Would a smaller scheme have been more favourably received?”

“I can’t speak for the council, of course, but yes, I would have thought so.”

“What happened then?”

“The developer, Mr. Henshaw, appealed to the Department of the Environment’s inspector. The case was heard at the beginning of February.”

“And the result of the appeal came through last week?”

“Yes. I received the inspector’s report on Monday.”

“And he found in Mr. Henshaw’s favour?”

The planning officer sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The inspector does seem to be taking a less restrictive view of planning rules now. And there is a move to release less valuable agricultural land for building.”

“So what was the point of the Brinkbonnie residents holding their protest meeting on Saturday afternoon? Surely the planning procedure had been exhausted.”

“No,” the planning officer said sadly. “ Not quite. There really is very little likelihood that the inspector’s decision could be overturned at this point, but there is a faint possibility. I don’t think the council would want to take the action any further because of the cost, but if there was sufficient public pressure, I suppose they might feel they had to make the gesture. I’d advise them against it, but they don’t always take my advice.”

“And what action could the council take?”

“They could appeal to the high court.”

“And could Henshaw proceed with the building while the appeal was being heard?”

“Oh, no!” The officer seemed almost offended at the notion. “ It would mean another delay.”

“What would it take to persuade the council to appeal to the high court?” Ramsay asked.

The officer shrugged. “A widespread press campaign. A number of well-attended meetings, a petition, noise, demonstrations.” He gave a little smile. “ There are county council elections in May,” he said. “I think the councillors would be prepared to listen.”

“How long have the villagers got to persuade the council to appeal?”

“A month,” the officer said. “ They have until the end of the month.”

“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said, “why there wasn’t more fuss when the plans were originally proposed.”

“Well I believe there was some confusion in the community about the exact nature of the development. And, of course, there are people who don’t bother to read the planning notices in the local paper.”

“Is Henshaw involved in other developments in the county?”

“Oh, yes,” the officer said. “There have been half a dozen applications in the past two years.”

“Have most of them been successful?”

“Yes,” the officer said. “ I believe five out of six were allowed. The most recently completed was at Wytham.”

“Henshaw built those, did he?”

Ramsay drove through Wytham on his way from Heppleburn to Otterbridge and had seen the buildings grow. The estate was surrounded by a stone wall with pillars, which made him think of a decorative prison. Each house had a mock-Victorian conservatory. They had seemed to him ridiculously expensive, but all had been sold.

“Is that sort of success rate usual?” he asked.

The officer paused. “ There may have been a couple of surprising decisions,” he said, “but Henshaw is very clever, you know. His developments are relatively small and not designed to upset existing communities, so it’s hard for objectors to get the level of support they need.”

“You never suspected corruption?” Ramsay asked. “ Henshaw doesn’t have any special friends on the planning committee?”

“Oh, no,” the officer said. “ There’s never been any question of that sort of dishonesty.”

But Ramsay would have believed anything of Henshaw, and the planning officer was a loyal civil servant. He would hardly pass on rumours of fraud. Ramsay needed other, less partial information.

The council offices were stuffy, overheated, with waves of warm air from the open doors into the corridor where Ramsay was walking, and he reached the street with relief. Outside it was still cold and grey. There had been an inch of snow overnight and in the market square people stood in groups and talked about the weather. He collected his car from the police station, then was stuck for twenty minutes in crawling traffic.

When at last he was out of the town, he drove first not to Brinkbonnie but to Heppleburn. When he had worked on an enquiry in Heppleburn he had met Jack Robson, a county councillor, and it occurred to him now that Jack might be willing to help with information about Henshaw. Jack would have no affection for land speculators and Ramsay was convinced of his integrity.

Robson lived in a small estate in 1930s council houses. The move to smokeless fuel had not yet reached the village and clouds of smoke hung over the chimneys. There were neat paths through the snow cleared from the pavements to the front doors. Two elderly women in long coats and furry ankle boots gossiped on the corner. As he drove past they looked at him, wondering who he was. Whenever he came to this estate Ramsay had the impression of going back in time. It was preserved in an atmosphere of fifties’ boredom and decency.

Through the living-room window of Robson’s house Ramsay saw the old man sitting by the fire. He was eating an early lunch. His feet were straight ahead of him on the hearth; there was a book on his knee and a plate of bread and cheese on the arm of the chair.

When Robson opened the door to the policeman, he was brushing crumbs of bread from the front of his jersey.

“Inspector Ramsay!” he said. He seemed more pleased to see the policeman than he ever had in the earlier investigation. “Why, man, it’s good to see you. Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. Or perhaps you’d rather have a beer.”

Ramsay was touched by the welcome. It was not that Robson was lonely and needed visitors whoever they were. He was a busy man.

“Sit here,” he said. “ By the fire.”

Ramsay allowed himself to be brought tea. He refused the offer of food.

“Now,” Robson said. “ What can I do for you? You’re not just here to say hello. Do you need any help with moving into the cottage?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “It’s not that. I’m here for information. Does the name Colin Henshaw mean anything to you?”

Robson looked at him carefully. “Aye,” he said. “ You know he owns that land behind you?”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ So I understand. But it’s not about that. Not directly. He lives in Brinkbonnie.”

“That’s where Alice Parry lived,” Robson said. “You’re working on that case?”

Ramsay nodded.

“I knew her,” Robson said. “Through the council, you know. She was a great one for charity projects. I liked her.”

“She sold some land to Henshaw,” Ramsay said, “on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for local people. When the plans were drawn up, she discovered that he meant to build bigger, more expensive houses there.”

“That sounds the sort of trick Henshaw would play,” Robson said.

“Alice Parry was leading the campaign against the development,” Ramsay said. “There was a protest meeting in the village on Saturday afternoon and on Saturday night she was killed.”

“Henshaw’s a powerful man,” Robson said doubtfully. “He can get his own way without violence. At least he can these days.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Robson said. “ You’ll have checked his record. I don’t know whether he was ever convicted, but when he first started out he had a bit of a reputation as a hard man.”

“No,” Ramsay said. “He was never convicted.”

“He must have been a clever bugger even then,” Robson said.

“As he’s not got a record,” Ramsay said, “ you’ll have to tell me what he got up to.”

“He always liked a fight,” Robson said. “So I understand. I never knew him then. He was still operating out of Newcastle. The story goes that he hired himself out to local businessmen who wanted to collect debts without the trouble of going through the courts. He was a big man. If he turned up on your doorstep, you’d soon pay up.”

“How did he start up in legitimate business?”