Scaring Crows (3 page)

There were two bodies, both dressed in navy, cotton overalls. One lay almost at her feet, the other on the right side of the room. The nearer one appeared older, about fifty, thin, with straggle-grey hair, feet pointing towards the door from where the force had blasted him backwards. He lay on his back, his arms outflung, dirty work-roughened hands, calloused palms lying uppermost. There was a hole in his chest. A big hole. A quick glance showed exposed flesh and bone, red gore. It had been an accurate shot. Fighting her rising nausea Joanna took note of the radiating splashes. He must have been standing very near the door, facing the intruder when the shot had been fired. She took two steps forward to make a closer study of his face, grey with a poorly shaven chin, spiked bristles and the mouth gaping open to expose a few blackened teeth. She breathed in deeply to steady herself before allowing her eyes to pass down the thin legs to the man's feet, one wearing a muck-spattered Wellington boot, the other pathetically covered in a matted grey- woollen sock, the big toe tidily darned.

It lacked dignity as well as life.

Without moving her feet she shifted her attention to the second body.

He was younger, probably in his late twenties, and stockily built. The blast had caught him standing too but the door had supported him as he had collapsed so he was slumped against it, pinning it shut. His hands were crossed over his chest as though to staunch the blood. So he had not died instantly but had frozen in this position, head dropped, to peer at his wound. Mike shifted his weight behind her and she turned to see him staring at what had caught her eye, the bloodstained hands.

Finally she moved her head slightly to the left and saw a double barrelled shotgun lying where it had been dropped, its butt towards the door, the barrel still pointing into the room, covering both bodies.

It completed the picture. But what picture?

The sequence of events lay here, in this room. Like the creases in a palm they only needed interpreting. But it must be an accurate reading.

Murder by person or persons unknown meant a full-blown sealing off of the area, large-scale investigations, enquiries, suspicion and with a bit of luck a court case followed by a conviction. But a murder and then a suicide? That was a cheap affair. A coroner's court, only needing a watertight motive. And there would be plenty: depression, anxiety, psychosis. Already she could imagine the coroner's speech. These had been hard times for farmers. BSE, the delayed cow cull, a drop in the milk quota. All these were motives strong enough for the lethal use of a shotgun even without dragging in the old story of social isolation and strange, old fashioned standards. Guns were readily available on most farms and the farmers prepared to use them on rabbits, crows, sick animals. But a son? Or a father?

So which was it?

Matthew had already snapped on a pair of latex gloves and was giving each body a more detailed examination, taking notes, drawing sketches. She left him to it. He would not be hurried towards his verdict so she and Mike started their work, trying out the various scenarios. If their verdict fitted with Matthew's good. If not ...

‘I think we can rule out the son,' she observed, glancing towards the door on the right hand side of the room. ‘The gun is too far away and surely his wound is too severe for him to have moved. Would you agree with that, Matthew?'

He looked up briefly. ‘Absolutely.'

‘And the father was in the middle of putting his wellingtons on.'

‘Getting ready to do the milking,' Mike suggested. ‘Y-e-es,' she answered cautiously. ‘So halfway through that would he have picked up the gun and taken a pot shot at his son before turning it on himself? It isn't either possible or plausible, is it?'

Matthew shook his head. Mike was looking far more unconvinced.

‘It isn't easy,' she said, ‘to shoot yourself with a shotgun. The barrel is too long. Besides ...' She knew Matthew would know the answer. ‘Don't they almost always hold the gun against the head?'

‘Usually,' he said. ‘I think I'd rather back that with my observation that it looks as though the gun was fired at a range of about a foot.'

He knew she would want his reasoning and watched as he fingered the coarse navy-blue cloth around the chest wound. ‘I would have expected more scorching had it been a contact wound.'

Both Mike and Joanna were listening intently.

‘Anyway,' he carried on, ‘a man contemplating suicide or going slowly off his rocker doesn't make his mind up to do the dreadful act halfway through putting his wellies on to do the milking.'

‘Not even if he suddenly flips his lid?'

There was some fault in Mike's suggestion but she couldn't quite find it. She looked first at Korpanski before meeting Matthew's eyes. ‘So they were both murdered by our old friend?' she said. ‘Person or persons unknown.'

They both nodded.

Matthew straightened up. ‘I'll be able to tell you more at post mortem.'

‘I know you're going to hate this, Matt, but ...'

They had worked on enough murder cases for him to anticipate her next question. ‘I won't be able to be very accurate,' he said, but judging by rectal temperature I would think about five hours. The weather's warm. It could be more. Not less. There has been definite cooling of the bodies.'

‘So we're left with collecting statements,' she said, ‘to find out when they were last seen alive.'

Matthew nodded. ‘Basically we're looking at somewhere around six a.m. I don't suppose many people were around so early.'

‘This is a rural community,' Mike put in helpfully. ‘Early risers.'

‘Well I suppose it'll help to know at what time they usually milked.'

‘Precisely.'

‘So let's get the scene of crime officers started then,' she said. ‘The less evidence disturbed the more chance we have of a sound conviction. When do you think you'll get around to doing the post mortems, Matthew?'

‘The sooner the better,' he said. ‘But I'd like them formally identified first. How about tomorrow morning?'

‘Fine.'

It was not fine and he knew it. She hated post mortems, finding the smell, the sights and the sheer butchery nauseating. In fact it was anything
but
fine but it was her duty. Matthew would uncover plenty of pointers that would help solve the case. She could not afford to renege on her responsibility.

She was distracted by PC Scott arriving back with two large aerosols of Vapona and generously squirting the fly spray around the room. For a while the buzz of dying flies was the loudest sound.

Mike was frowning, toying with ideas. ‘Do you think,' he said, ‘that the old chap was shot first and the blast brought junior in through the door so he got it too?'

‘Rather than the alternative, that the younger man was shot and the older man was trying to wrestle the gun from the assailant?'

‘In the middle of putting his boots on?'

‘No. It has to be the way you described it. Old man gets it first. But then why the hell did the younger one come in? Why didn't he stay put?' Her eyes were drawn to the door. ‘Do we know where that leads?'

PC Phil Scott supplied the answer. ‘According to Mr Shackleton, the tanker driver, it leads upstairs.'

‘And the killer,' Matthew said, ‘didn't even need to move. Judging from their wounds I think both were shot from the same position.'

‘Presumably having entered through the porch. I don't suppose there were any signs of forced entry, Mike?'

‘Shackleton claims there wouldn't have been any need for anyone to break and enter. The door was always left standing open.'

‘You mean the porch door?'

‘Both doors. I particularly asked him that. Both the front door and the porch door were always unlocked. They only closed both doors when they were all going out. Otherwise, even through the winter, just the porch door was closed and the wooden door was open. Anyone could walk in.'

‘And the gun?'

‘Says he's seen it plenty of times. It used to stand in the porch.'

‘Loaded?'

‘He
says
he didn't know but I suppose he wouldn't, would he, unless he checked.'

‘Or put the cartridges in himself.'

‘But he wasn't here until nearly ten.'

‘And they'd already been dead for around four hours by then, I know,' she said irritably. ‘Like you, I'm just thinking aloud. Where does that door lead?'

‘The kitchen, then the back door and out into the courtyard.'

‘Also left unlocked?'

‘Yes.'

Matthew was still kneeling beside the younger man's body.

‘Do we know their names?'

‘Well Shackleton's more or less done us the honours.'

Picking up the truculent note in Mike's voice she gave him a sharp glance of reproval which made him modify his manner.

‘We have here Aaron and Jack Summers, both farmers.'

‘Which one is Aaron?'

‘The father. Jack the son.'

For the briefest of moments she studied the expressions on the dead men's faces. Aaron's mouth open to scream, an imprint of shock still on his body, arms outflung, legs slightly buckled. By contrast the younger man's position held less shock, hands across his chest, head bent, an almost calm expression of acceptance on his face, mouth and eyes both closed. It seemed to express a different emotion, puzzled surprise. Why me?

No trauma here and no shock. Unlike his father. Even though he must have caught sight of his father's body as he emerged from upstairs. And he had not died instantly but had had time to finger the open wound. She turned to Korpanski.

‘Their faces, Mike.'

‘Yeah?' He had missed it.

Matthew had not. ‘I noticed that,' he said. ‘The old man was terrified. He must have seen what was coming. But he didn't warn his son.'

Why not? Because even though his killer had picked up the gun and pointed it at him he had felt no threat?

‘And if he did warn his son it had no effect.'

‘So we assume Aaron Summers was shot first?'

They both nodded. But it was still bothering her. ‘I don't understand. Why did Jack run downstairs to the sound of gunshot? Why wasn't he more cautious? He could have hidden or simply stayed upstairs. I don't understand it.'

She carried on fishing – for anything. ‘I suppose the gun definitely is theirs?'

Again Mike supplied the answer. ‘They've got a licence for a Winchester .22.'

‘Not to leave propped up in an unlocked porch.'

‘They hadn't been checked for a while.'

‘Have we got anything else, Mike?'

‘Just something that doesn't quite seem to fit.'

‘Yes?'

‘Shackleton says they usually milk somewhere between six and seven, OK?'

She nodded.

‘And father, here, is wearing one Wellington boot. Right?'

‘Yes.'

‘But Shackleton says it looks as though Aaron Summers had already let the cows out of the field and must have been leading them up here when for some reason he called back to the farmhouse.'

She eyed the one Wellington boot; the other, she had noticed, was standing upright in the porch.

‘Maybe he called in to shout for Jack to come and help him.'

‘He'd have just stuck his head round the door, surely? He wouldn't have taken his boots off.'

‘Shackleton's sure the cows were let out of the field?'

‘It's what he says. He says the gate was open and the cows were wandering around the yard and the milking parlour. They weren't in the field. So although Jack was still upstairs he was dressed ready to start work when the killer came. So did our killer walk back
with
Aaron as he came to get Jack or was he hiding somewhere round here? If so, how could he know that Aaron would return? Do you think it might have been Jack he was after?'

‘Who knows?'

She included Matthew in her next question. ‘So we're all agreed that they died sometime around six a.m.'

‘Yes.' His answer was, as usual, both brisk and precise.

She left the room to speak to the group of officers outside. ‘It's a double murder,' she said briefly. ‘We'll need Sergeant Barraclough's team of SOCOs and an incident room set up. You can start by taking statements from near neighbours and the milk tanker driver.' To Mike she added, ‘And I suppose I'd better speak to Superintendent Colclough. It'll make his day. A double murder in the middle of a heatwave.'

12.45 p.m.

She watched Matthew stride back down the garden path and moments later heard his car start. Then she turned back to Korpanski. She was about to use him – and not for the first time – as a sounding board.

‘I can't be convinced,' she said, ‘that Aaron went alone to get the cows and then came back.'

“To get Jack,' Mike said patiently.

‘All right,' she said. ‘Even if he
had
left him in bed and wanted him to help. Surely once they'd fetched the cows from the field they would have taken them straight to the milking parlour and started the milking. Otherwise the animals would just have wandered all over the place. So how far did he get with the cows and why did he come back?'

‘Well not as far as the cowshed. Shackleton said not one cleat had been fixed.'

She tried to suppress her amusement but Mike had seen the ghost of a smile. ‘The things they stick on the udders.'

‘I guessed that.'

‘So our killer probably approached the farm through a herd of cows?'

Mike nodded. ‘He'll have muck all over him.'

‘Let's try this. They get the cows in somewhere between six and seven. Someone drives here, or walks, interrupts their trip from the field. Aaron's in the doorway, pulling his wellingtons off. Jack's upstairs. No.' She shook her head decidedly. ‘It doesn't fit, Mike. They were disturbed
before
they got to the cows.'