Scaring Crows (11 page)

‘And Aaron has to have been shot first otherwise he would have been near enough to have grabbed the gun from the killer. Understand what I'm saying, Jo. There was blood on the floor. The killer took two steps forward, stepped in it.'

But Joanna shook her head. ‘We've found no bloody footprints, Matthew.'

‘Not enough for prints but particles, invisible to the naked eye. Put it like this,' he said. ‘I'd like to see some shoes.'

‘Or wellies?'

He nodded. ‘And I'm sure some would have splashed on the top too.'

This was what had always impressed her about Matthew. Not just the work he did on the slab but the piecing together of the facts.

She watched the mortician wheel the two bodies out of the room before turning her attention back to him. ‘How long would Jack have taken to die?'

‘A minute or two. No longer. And by the way, in case you want to know, neither had fired a gun in the last couple of days. And now it's time I wrote my reports.' He gave a last glance at the two officers, busy bagging up the samples for the forensic lab. ‘Have you got all you want?'

‘Yes, thanks, Doctor.'

‘Including their fingerprints?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I'll ring the coroner and we'll pop them back in the fridge to await further instruction but you can tell the relatives we should be happy to release the bodies for burial quite soon. It's a straightforward case and I don't think there's anything more to find. Not from these two anyway.' He grinned at her. ‘Time for a coffee?'

They were settled in his small office before he broached the subject of Ruthie. ‘Found the missing girl yet?'

‘Nope,' she said. ‘No sign.' She reached across the desk to touch his hand. ‘How you do love your work, Matthew.'

His green eyes gleamed. ‘And how you love yours.'

For a long moment they held each other's gaze and Joanna was conscious that their early moments had been just like this – light-hearted bantering that had suddenly got out of hand.

And then she had found out that Matthew was married. She closed her eyes to blot out the memory.

‘Of course,' she smiled, ‘stating the obvious. If we had found Ruthie Summers dead what we would now be investigating would be a very ugly triple murder. It's even possible that it was done on the spur of the moment as the gun was habitually kept in the front porch. It might even have been loaded. Damn.' She clenched her fist. ‘If we'd known how casual they were about their firearms we'd never have stamped his gun licence.' She returned to her original train of thought. ‘But if we had found Ruthie's body I suppose it would have made things easier because we could be certain that this was the work of an outsider. As it is ...' Even now she hated to say it. ‘She's the chief suspect.'

Matthew was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose,' he said, ‘that you have considered the possibility that she might have wanted to spare her father the agony of dying and shot him to prevent further suffering.'

‘A euthanasiac killing? And Jack?'

‘Maybe he got upset and she ...' Even Matthew found it difficult to say.

But the memory of the heart-shaped face, the pensive dark eyes and the slightly nervous twist to the girl's face made her shake her head. ‘I don't think so,' she said. ‘Whatever the explanation I don't believe that's it.'

‘So what is?'

Joanna shook her head. ‘I simply don't know.'

‘So where do you start?'

‘With her photographs, then to the bank. No one can live on nothing. If she withdrew money that'll give us a sign of premeditation. Plus an indication of guilt. And, I suppose, if there has been no withdrawal it sort of tips the scales in her favour.'

‘And towards her death,' Matthew observed.

‘One step at a time, Mat,' she said. ‘At the moment when I say it tips the scales in her favour I simply mean being innocent of the crime. I don't like jumping to conclusions. We'll put some pictures of her on the national TV and keep our fingers crossed she turns up. I really do hope we'll find her.'

Matthew grinned at her. ‘Proper little terrier, aren't you?'

‘Woof, woof.' She stood up then. ‘I'd better get back to the Incident Room,' she said. ‘Mike will be wondering what's happened to me. Time's leaping forward. We should start interviewing potential witnesses.'

‘Anyone special?'

‘A particularly unsavoury specimen called Pinkers,' she said. ‘He runs a neighbouring farm and he's milking poor old Aaron Summers' cows at the moment.' She gave Matthew a mischievous smile. ‘Much as I'd love to burst in Rambo style with the heavies, I think in reality Mike and I will go prodding round his cowsheds and see what we can come up with.'

‘Well don't forget your wellies.'

‘I won't.'

‘No other suspects in your sights?'

She gave a deep sigh. ‘It's usual form to interview the person who found the body at some length. Statistically speaking the last person to have seen the victim alive is also the first person to find them dead – if you see what I mean.'

‘Of course. I think I've watched you deal with enough homicide cases to have gleaned the way you work.' He leant across the desk impulsively. ‘Let's have dinner tonight.'

‘Oh, Matthew. You know what the hours are like during a major investigation. It's impossible.' But he carried on looking at her, his eyes bright, happy and pleading and she gave in. ‘Oh go on then,' she said. ‘I'll come late to the Mermaid. And you'd better tell them to keep my dinner hot.'

12.30 p.m.

‘Surprise surprise,' she said to Mike, finding him sitting in her office. ‘Gunshot wound to the chest.' And quickly she filled him in on the other, unexpected findings of the post mortem.

She had the pleasure of watching Korpanski turn green as she told him about Aaron's stomach cancer. ‘I'm glad I wasn't there,' he said. ‘The way Matthew chops up those bodies with such relish turns my stomach.'

She felt a compulsion to defend him. ‘Well, just think of the number of times he's helped us convict the guilty. Or release the innocent,' she added.

She leant on her elbows across the desk. ‘No one's said anything about Jack being strange, have they?'

‘Well I got the feeling there was something there. You know, people made suggestions, didn't they?'

She thought for a moment ... and remembered Shackleton's comment on the day of the killings.

At the time she had not picked up on the remark. Only now was she wondering about the significance of the question. ‘Did Jack finally flip?' And later on that day Hannah Lockley's, ‘So the idiot son finally went berserk?'

She crossed to the window of the caravan, feeling tired in the unaccustomed heat. ‘They did tell us, didn't they, Mike? They were all feeding us clues. It's simply that we didn't really understand what they were saying.'

Mike broke into her thoughts. ‘I know everyone claims that brother and sister were devoted,' he said slowly, but I can't help wondering if ...'

He had her full attention. ‘What?'

‘What if Jack became violent for some reason and went for her?'

She shook her head. ‘There's no sign of a struggle.'

‘She could have tidied up afterwards. What if he picked up the gun and pointed it at her. There was a struggle. It went off, killing him and then she turned the gun on her father.'

‘No. Everything's wrong with that theory. The range, the sequence of events. However it happened it was not like that.'

But his thoughts had put another picture in her mind. She had said this before at the previous investigation of another shooting, accidental that time. Whoever picks up a loaded gun should remember. In unpractised hands it can go off, possibly accidentally. It might kill someone.

‘More likely is that Aaron was about to go for the cows. One boot on, one boot off. Our killer comes to the door, picks up the gun. Aaron backs off, the killer fires. The sound brings Jack down. He gets it too.' She gave Mike a swift glance. Aaron must have been near the gun when our killer arrived but he felt no need to protect himself. The person who picked up the gun aroused no suspicion in Aaron. So I think that points to someone he knew well. And that as we know, is a narrow field. There are not too many people in their circle of familiars. And if the gun was wiped clean afterwards I suppose it reduces suspicion on Ruthie. Her prints would have belonged there.'

‘And the sculptor bloke who spent a few minutes explaining why his dabs would be found on the gun.'

‘Hmm.' Joanna was unconvinced.

Mike tried again. ‘Perhaps one of them, maybe Aaron, picked up the gun. Ruthie tries to take it from him. It goes off, killing her father.'

‘So what about Jack?'

Mike frowned. ‘Well.'

She fixed him with a frank stare. ‘When we get the right answer, Mike, you know as well as I do that the whole thing will fit quite perfectly into place. Until we do every other theory will leave discrepancies and unexplained events. So let's just plod our way through a normal investigation beginning with this afternoon.' She smiled and touched his shoulder. ‘What time have we fixed the briefing for?'

Mike wiped some sweat away from his brow. ‘Two thirty.'

‘In that case we've got time to visit Mr Pinkers first.'

Martin Pinkers' farm was a neglected old house, stone built, like his neighbour's and surrounded by dry-stone walls. There was an extensive range of farm buildings which again looked less dilapidated than the outbuildings at Hardacre. The surrounding fields were dotted with plump Friesian cows with bulging udders and Joanna noted a second field full of healthy, energetic young heifers who butted the hedge as they passed. Two more fields held the oblong hay-bales and in the yard stood a full range of farm machinery, JCBs and plenty of trailers, rakers and muck spreaders as well as a new looking combine harvester. Obviously business was good for Martin Pinkers. Underneath the dilapidation there was undoubted prosperity. Unlike his neighbour's farm.
So what was the difference between the two farmers?

They made their way round to the side door, accompanied by a cacophony of noise, dogs, hens, cockerels and a few anguished groans from some cows in a shed.

Pinkers himself opened the door, still dressed in the navy dungarees, tied around the middle with a belt of string. And his thin, weasel face was even less attractive the second time around.

He gave a toothy leer. ‘I thought I'd be seein' you sooner or later.'

‘Have you got time to answer a few questions?' Mike asked casually.

Pinkers gave the burly policeman a searching glance. ‘Oh, yeah,' he said, ‘I got time all right.' He gave the yard a fond glance. ‘Farm's quiet now,' he said, ‘and it's too hot to get the ‘ay in until the sun goes down a bit. The lads can turn it. Come in, won't you. It's cool in the ‘ouse.'

He led them into a small, smelly room dominated by a huge television set and settled back into a wide armchair covered in stretch nylon covers, filthy cream with pink roses. Cats had caught their claws in the threads and pulled them down in long trails. Even now they were prowling around the base. One leapt up and Joanna put it firmly back on the floor. Since James had deserted her almost three years ago she had felt no affection for cats.

Pinkers was watching her.

‘You should just throw it,' he said. ‘It won't hurt them. The cheeky animals. They got nine lives anyway.'

Joanna couldn't resist it. ‘Unlike your neighbour, Mr Pinkers,' she said drily, ‘who did not have nine lives.'

‘More's the pity,' Pinkers growled. ‘He would have been able to tell us then who shot ‘im and saved you a lot of time with innocent people who got nothin' to tell.'

‘Quite.'

Pinkers' eyes flicked across to the other side of the room towards Mike, and Joanna knew he was pondering the question. Who was the greater threat, she or Korpanski?

She settled back on the sofa, smiled and crossed her legs. ‘Now tell me, Mr Pinkers,' she said briskly. ‘What really happened yesterday?'

‘Nothin',' he said.

‘We don't mean about the murder,' Joanna said easily. ‘Just tell us your movements yesterday. What did you do?'

Pinkers scratched his sparsely covered scalp. ‘Woke around five. I always do. You'll find most farmin' folk wakes early.'

‘I'm sure.'

‘And your neighbours at Hardacre?' She was having to drag the statement from him.

‘I suppose so,' he said grudgingly. ‘As I said. Most farmin' folk do waken early.'

Joanna shifted on the sofa. ‘And then what?'

‘I has a cup of tea.'

‘Right. Live here alone, do you, Mr Pinkers?'

‘I got a wife and I got two sons but I does most of the work here.'

‘Do your sons actually live here?'

Pinkers nodded.

‘And their names?'

‘Emery and Fraser. But they was asleep in bed I can promise you.'

‘How old are they?'

‘Seventeen and fourteen,' Pinkers said reluctantly. ‘They're just boys. They got nothin' to do with this.'

‘And you're sure they were asleep?'

Pinkers glared at Korpanski. ‘Yes I am. My wife and I can give testimony to that.'

‘OK,' Joanna said. ‘If we need to interview them at some later date we'll let you know. So let's get back to yesterday morning, shall we?'

‘Suits me.' A note of surliness had crept into Martin Pinkers' voice. ‘I gets the milkers in nice and early. And there was a couple of calves I wanted to take to market. Not that you get much for them these days. Hardly worth it, price has gone down so much. And they always takes some separatin' from the mother.' He thought for a brief moment. ‘I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't nearly seven when I started the milkin'. Ask anyone. Anyone. They'll have heard the machines.'