Saxon (8 page)

As they sat there in silence, looking across towards the scene of the murders at Anvil Wood House, the fat yellow moon shone an eerie glow gently onto the roof of the house. It picked out highlights on the pine trees, trees that must have been planted close to the house over a century ago.

The dry, almost painful, bark of a fox echoed around the lanes, temporarily adding a more sinister tone to the situation. The house was impressive, even at night, a solid family house. A thought struck Parker. It was a house for an English family of Waltons. Not too many houses like that in his neighbourhood, that was for sure.

‘I’ll bet that place has seen a few things over the years, boss,’ he said, almost enviously.

‘Yeah, but nothing to match the last couple of days,’ Saxon said slowly, as he put the car into drive and drove back onto the road in the direction of the house. It looked – to his tired eyes – somewhat forlorn and dejected, wounded almost. Acknowledging to himself that he needed some sleep, and soon, Saxon parked the Discovery in front of the house.

Police crime scene tape was wrapped almost completely around it. Almost as if a giant sticking plaster had been applied to the house in an effort to help it heal, it occurred to Saxon.

God, I am in a bad way. Hallucinating! Who needs drugs anyway
,
you can get the same effect from exhaustion
.

Apart from the sound of the police radio, it was quiet, in so far as the countryside is ever really quiet. The horses had been
moved to other stables already, which was not surprising in the circumstances. He could understand why nobody would want to go there so soon after such a horrific event.

Word travels fast in the country, far more so than in a town, in Saxon’s experience. He knew it was possible in towns and cities for next-door neighbours never to see each other for months on end, never to meet even. His own place was a prime example. Apart from Fran, who lived in the flat below, he and Emma knew no one else in their block, for example. He shut the car door, but didn’t bother to lock it.

Since it was an active crime scene, two police constables had been assigned the unenviable task of guarding the house overnight. They were sitting in their car, with the windows open. There was a smell of cigarettes and stale fast food.

More at home in the familiar streets of Brighton, the two PCs were possibly quite relieved to see the two senior officers. They both went to get out of the car but Saxon put his hand on the driver’s door.

‘Don’t get up, lads, but smoke if you want, by all means,’ Saxon said. ‘Don’t mind us. We’re just here to take another look round.’

He looked from one to the other. ‘All quiet, is it?’

‘Yes, sir, no problems,’ answered PC Barry Ryan, the driver, for both of them. He looked to be the older of the two, and was probably therefore the more senior. ‘But I reckon if it wasn’t so spooky, it would be quite boring,’ he added, with a touch of bravado.

His partner, PC Michael Lucas, sat motionless on the passenger side as this exchange took place. He looked young, by anyone’s standards. In an age where everyone thought that policemen were getting younger and younger, even the young constables thought Lucas looked too young to be a cop. He was very aware of Saxon’s rank and to have a commander joking with you was something Lucas just didn’t know how to handle. Best
to sit quiet and speak when spoken to, he decided.

‘I don’t know. You bloody townies are all the same,’ joked Parker. ‘Take away the street lights and you’re all pissing yourselves.’ He was enjoying sounding tough and experienced to the two young constables. Saxon rarely saw this side of Parker’s character and it amused him.

Parker went on. ‘But watch out for Mr Stumpy, he might come back.’ He didn’t actually believe there was much chance of that, but he certainly wanted the two constables alert to the possibility.

They ducked under the crime tape and unlocked the front door. Saxon entered first and switched the lights on, relieved to see that the house had dried sufficiently for the power to be reconnected. The occasional drop of water fell on their heads as they made their way along the hall, making them flinch.

‘So, where do we start, sir?’ Parker said, trying to stifle a yawn. His approach was matter-of-fact and Saxon could see his DS had recovered his composure after the initial shock of the horror scene in the morning. The job never gave Parker sleepless nights.

He may not have been the slightest bit nervous, but Parker was at a total loss to understand why they were back at the house at this time of night, without any particular agenda. However, he knew Saxon sufficiently well to trust his judgement implicitly. Parker knew that he was not only the kind of cop who was smart and observant, he was also one who had good instincts. Parker admired that.

‘I don’t really know, Parker. I don’t have anything specific in mind.’ Saxon was already looking around the entrance hall. ‘Let’s just wander around for a while. Look for things that are obvious, things that tell a story about our two victims. Anything at all that the SOCO guys may have overlooked.’ He shrugged. ‘They don’t always get it right, you know.’

Parker nodded but said nothing, wondering where to start. He’d already given the place a thorough going-over and wasn’t convinced that they would find anything useful tonight.

‘But don’t look too hard, maybe it won’t be anything very obvious,’ Saxon continued, as he walked through the hall, heading towards the rooms at the end. He was definitely looking for something, but he didn’t know what. It was just an instinct on Saxon’s part.

The ground floor was by far the hardest part; it was vast and seemed to have no end. Babs had an office on the right as you entered the front door and Poppy had one opposite. The fact that both of them led busy lives, sometimes independently and sometimes intertwined, inevitably meant lots of paperwork.

They came back to the front door where Parker started on Poppy’s room and Saxon searched Babs’ office. In the latter, he found mountains of soggy receipts, twenty years of paperwork, shelves lined with files. It seemed this woman never threw anything away, he thought to himself.

An hour later, despondency was taking a firm grip of his mind, beginning to override the gut feeling he’d been so sure of earlier. Then he noticed a half-crushed box of cigarettes on the desk. The SOCO guys wouldn’t have left it there, they were far too professional to be that careless. So it must’ve belonged to Babs. They must have been there during the morning, and he must have seen them before, but they hadn’t registered as anything out of the ordinary.

But now what struck him was the absence of ashtrays. Why were there no ashtrays?
People who smoke have ashtrays, lots of them
. And there were no matches either. ‘Lighter,’ he said aloud, ‘she would have had a lighter.’ He made a mental note to get the contents of her handbag, already inventoried no doubt, down to the last safety pin and loose coin, and check to see if there was a cigarette lighter on the list.

Stuffed inside the cigarette box he was surprised to find a prescription, a very fresh prescription. Looking at the date, Saxon could see that it was only dated the day of the murders, the very morning of the last day of Babs’ life.

What made it even more interesting was the signature, not that it was particularly legible, but Saxon was familiar with the name. Even if he hadn’t been, the health centre stamp said it all. Dr Marks was probably one of the last people to see Babs alive, apart from the butcher, who’d been interviewed yesterday and by Gloria, who had also told of Babs’ visit to the tack shop.

Saxon could see that the drug prescribed was an antibiotic of some kind but, of course, there was no diagnosis on the prescription. Deciding that enough was enough, Saxon called across to Parker who had found nothing worth mentioning, and the two of them left the house by the back door. They walked round to the front. As they passed the patrol car, Parker banged his hand hard on the roof causing the two PCs to miss several heartbeats. ‘No more snogging tonight, lads, and stay awake.’ They muttered something back but Parker neither heard nor cared.

Chapter 8

Thursday, May 16, Sewel Mill, 8.45AM

The next morning, Saxon and Parker drove straight to the health centre in Sewel Mill. There were several cars parked there already, the majority belonging to the doctors and staff, Saxon assumed.

It was quite a modern building and the interior was furnished in soft, warm colours. Saxon smiled to himself.
Emma would be proud of me. I must’ve been paying some attention some of the time when they were all nattering on about colours and moods and all the rest
.

His mood was suddenly sombre as he thought of his wife, miles away up in London with Kate, in such a very different world. A world she had deliberately chosen over the world he and she had previously inhabited comfortably together, or so he had thought at the time.

The health centre receptionist was a smartly dressed woman of around thirty-five. She had obviously graduated with honours from a comprehensive course in “How to Deal with Visitors” at the Big Dragon School of Training and Development in Interpersonal Skills.

Saxon approached the desk and she told him, without hesitation, that there was no chance of their seeing a doctor, any doctor, without an appointment, and particularly not Dr Marks, who was exceptionally busy and who therefore never under any circumstances, saw patients if they had no appointment. All the more so today, because he was running behind schedule as a result of the events of yesterday. She was sure the gentlemen would understand. She nodded at Saxon dismissively.

As this encounter was taking place at the reception desk between Saxon and the Dragon, Parker was looking over at an area quite clearly designed with children in mind. It was a much
nicer health centre than the one that he and Lynne – well, mostly Lynne – took their kids to from time to time in South London. One young mother was there already, with a toddler who was engrossed in Lego.

Back at the reception desk, another woman, older but presumably more junior than the Dragon, looked up from where she was sitting behind the counter. ‘We’re all at sixes and seven…’ she started to say, but was silenced by a glare from the Dragon, who looked back at Saxon and then down at her PC screen.

But he tuned in to the conversation between his boss and the dragon lady. He’d been in this kind of situation with receptionists and secretaries before.

Without a word spoken, Saxon and Parker both held out their warrant cards towards the Dragon, instinctively holding them not too close, in case they were damaged by her hot fiery breath.

‘Oh,’ she stuttered. ‘I see.’ She had momentarily lost her composure. ‘Which doctor was it you needed to see, gentlemen?’ she said, suddenly tamed. Her name badge explained that she was Mrs M. Grace. Rarely had name and manner had so little to do with each other.

‘Marks,’ they said together, sounding like a double act.

She phoned Marks and whispered something discreetly into the phone, told them to take a seat and wait for a moment because Dr Marks would be with them directly; and went about her work as if they were not there.

They sat in the reception area and, after a couple of minutes, started to browse through the magazines. Parker, who was flicking through the property pages of
Country Life
, looked up. ‘You always find this one in doctors’ waiting rooms,’ he said. ‘Maybe it proves that you have to be a bit sick to read it!’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘Just look at the state of some of these houses,’ he went on. ‘You’d have to be a crook to be able to afford something like that.
Oh, my God, I don’t believe it, it’s in Essex as well.’ He laughed again.

Saxon smiled, not really paying attention to much of what Parker had said. His mind was on the interview ahead. He was puzzled as to why Clive Marks hadn’t mentioned Ms Jenner’s visit to the surgery on the morning of her death.

Thursday, May 16, Pike’s Smallholding, Hazel Lane, 8.58AM

Andy Pike lived alone. It was his choice, completely his choice.

He’d convinced himself of this when it became obvious to him that finding a woman who was willing to put up with his strange way of living, was going to be all but impossible. He didn’t like people much anyway, male or female. They were expensive and he was mean. He begrudged any unnecessary expenditure.

He was enjoying a cup of coffee. One day was pretty much like another for him. Every three or four days he shaved, if he felt like it. He didn’t often feel like it. His hair was long, with a few grey streaks, and he kept it in a ponytail. Not just because it was cheaper that way, but also because he thought it made him look younger. Not to mention slightly artistic and a kind of mature countrified version of a new man, and thus attractive to women. Like the surface of his bath, his hair had not seen water for many months.

He was partial to an occasional drink, however, and didn’t regard beer money as extravagant spending. He would even buy a drink in a pub from time to time, rather than at the Tesco superstore. Once, when he popped into the Red Cock Inn for a pint, someone in the crowded bar shouted within earshot, ‘What is it you always find under a ponytail?’ The pub went quiet and someone else shouted in reply, ‘An arsehole,’ to much general hooting and laughter. Pike had laughed too, along with everyone else, not realising at the time that he might have been the subject of the humorous exchange.

In fact, he didn’t understand the irony until later when he got
home. When it finally sank in, he was annoyed and kicked out at the first available victim. It happened to be one of his dogs, Lurch, a lurcher that was afraid of most things, even moths. The other dog, a Jack Russell called Russ, saw it coming and made a dash for the kitchen. Russ looked upon Lurch as being rather stupid and slow, with some justification.

Pike was a countryman and was only truly contented when he was out of view of so-called civilisation, ideally with something lined up in the sights of his rifle, or else maybe with a nice big trout thrashing about on the end of his fly-line. He truly believed that when the end of ordered society came, and it surely would, he and his ilk would survive, seeing as how he was a natural hunter and being in possession of the secrets of the ancient ones, including what you can eat and what’s best avoided.

Around his neck, he wore a Native American charm. It was a small bag made of some natural-looking material, inside which were pieces of bone, some hair, and a few seeds. Its stated purpose, to protect the wearer from the evil spirits of the forests, seemed a reasonable one. In Pike’s view, it had been money well spent during a rare outing to Brighton: not one evil spirit of the thicket at the bottom of his field had attacked him since he bought it. Now that was a bargain.

The charm was further evidence of his affinity with the new-man phenomenon. He fancied himself as a man of mystery, a bit of a Shaman. In one of his many books on the native tribes of America, he had read about the Shaman and how they travelled in the spirit world by changing their form into whatever animal they chose. For instance, one would adopt the guise of a bird to cover ground quickly. While Pike didn’t fully grasp the concept of Shamanism, this aspect in particular appealed to him, because there were places on his freehold that were so overgrown with thorn trees that he couldn’t get to them – even in his beaten-up old Land Rover.

The Jenner woman and that Poppy cow were his closest neighbours
and they had barely spoken in twenty years. One of their rare recent encounters had been less than friendly. The Jenner woman had shouted at him, calling him a filthy, stupid bastard. She was surprisingly foul-mouthed.

Just because one of his dogs had attacked a horse she was riding. It went for the horse’s legs and she nearly ended her days draped on a barbed-wire fence with her head in a ditch. Pike was pushed into a bramble bush by the horse; it was a good two weeks before he managed to remove all of the thorns, especially the ones up his nose.

That was it as far as Pike was concerned, she was a daft bitch and he would have nothing to do with her. How someone supposedly from the country couldn’t understand that it was a dog’s natural instinct to hunt and attack, particularly when frightened by something as big and noisy as a horse. Well, it was beyond his understanding. He dismissed Poppy as a poncey cow…Well, anyone who worked in London was a ponce in his reckoning, got to be a bit soft in the head to go to that place – full of bloody foreigners as well.

He left the cottage to drive into Sewel Mill and collect the paper and some groceries. He would call in at the butcher too. They conducted business from time to time.

Thursday, May 16, Sewel Mill Health Centre, 9.00AM

‘Dr Marks will see you now, gentlemen,’ called Mrs Grace, as if she had received a secret signal from somewhere. ‘Surgery Two.’ She gestured towards the room in question.

Saxon knocked on the door and they walked in. Marks was sitting behind his desk, slightly hunched over as he wrote, with what looked like a patient file open in front of him. He ignored them both and continued writing, presumably the notes on his most recent patient. After their dealings with the graceless Mrs Grace, Saxon was less in the mood for waiting than usual. He pulled a chair back and slumped down noisily in front of him.
Marks paused for a second then continued to write.

‘Good morning, Dr Marks,’ he said, more stiffly than he’d intended. ‘Let’s get a move on, if you please. I’m in a bit of a hurry. We’ve got a few murders to solve and we’d like to make a bit of progress today, if possible.’

Marks was barely ruffled, in spite of Saxon’s tone. ‘Yes,’ he answered, barely looking up from his notes, ‘of course, Commander. I’ll be with you in a second.’ He paused. ‘We have to be careful writing these notes, don’t want to go prescribing the wrong drugs to someone, do we?’ He just didn’t seem to be able to avoid a condescending manner, assuming he’d wanted to. He was irritating from the moment he opened his mouth.

Trying not to be impatient, but struggling, Saxon nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘We need your help, Dr Marks,’ he began. ‘When we were looking at Anvil House yesterday, we came across a prescription. It appears to have been issued by you for Ms Jenner – on the morning of the day on which she was murdered, in fact. Would that be right?’

Marks sat back in his chair. Saxon’s irritation level increased proportionately. He knew the doctor was going to be difficult.

‘Well, I hardly think…’

Before Marks could say anything more, Saxon continued. ‘We’d like you to confirm that she did in fact see you that morning and we’d appreciate it if you could tell us about your conversation with her. Anything at all. Whether or not you think it might be helpful.’ Marks took a deep breath. Then he started on patient confidentiality, moved on to medical ethics and ended with the fear of litigation.

Saxon was about to cut him short when Parker interrupted. ‘No problem, Dr Marks, we understand entirely,’ he said, with a smile as sincere as he could manage, given the circumstances. ‘It won’t take us long to get a warrant, given the seriousness of the case. That way, you’ll be properly protected from any possible criticism and we’ll get the information that we need.’ It was done
smoothly and politely. It left Marks under no illusion. He wouldn’t be able to avoid the discussion altogether, only to put it off temporarily.

Saxon was impressed by Parker’s timing and style but he decided against showing it. He was abrupt. It was as if he hadn’t heard Parker’s assurances. ‘Dr Marks, can we please cut through all this bullshit and move on? Or maybe you don’t care if someone is out there killing people. Perhaps you just view it as extra work.’

Marks was clearly quite shocked by Saxon’s manner. Not too many people addressed him with such evident lack of respect. Like many bullies who are used to getting their own way, he gave in, albeit reluctantly, at the first sign of any serious opposition. His tone continued to be patronising. ‘Barbara Jenner was a lesbian,’ he said, as if confiding a rather exciting secret. ‘Or rather, perhaps I should say that she was living in a lesbian relationship.’ He paused for effect.

‘Ah, really, you don’t say.’ Saxon and Parker had been confided in to that effect several times during the previous day’s discussions with neighbours and acquaintances in Sewel Mill. Saxon’s feigned surprise was far from convincing, even to someone as self-absorbed as Marks.

‘Commander, do you want my help or not?’ he said, petulantly.

‘Yes, we do. Of course we do, Dr Marks,’ Saxon replied in exasperation. ‘But can it be today? I told you I’m in a bit of a hurry and I wouldn’t mind catching this bastard before I retire.’

Marks stood up and walked to the window. He looked out. At what, it was hard to say. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and he rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. Saxon thought immediately of Richard Clarke.

Here’s another one who lives to perform, another one who enjoys attention. What is it about the medical profession, I wonder?

At last Marks spoke, coming back to his desk and sitting
down again, as he began.

‘Commander, I’m going to confide in you,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t know if this will help you in your investigations, but it may certainly help you understand Ms Jenner.’ He smiled companionably. When he didn’t resume speaking, Saxon realised that he was waiting for encouragement or appreciation, one of the two. Saxon decided to give something.

‘You’re so right, Dr Marks,’ he said, smiling back, ‘under-standing the victim is usually crucial if we are to understand the perpetrator.’

Marks seemed more than satisfied. ‘Indeed, Commander.’ He sat in his chair again, pressed his fingertips together. He nodded gently at both men. ‘Well, Barbara Jenner was an old friend of mine. We must go back more years than I care to remember; we met at the village drama society. And she, Barbara that is, confided in me from time to time.’ Saxon let him get to the point, even if it seemed to be taking forever. He sensed that here was someone who knew Babs Jenner quite well. The conversation could turn out to be more useful than either he or Parker had anticipated.