Scaring Crows (20 page)

The comment seemed to put Shackleton at his ease. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘He does fancy himself something rotten.'

Joanna waited patiently before continuing. ‘So to get to Hardacre from the Rowans' you must have passed Fallowfield.'

Shackleton nodded.

‘Did you see Martin Pinkers there?'

‘I heard the milking machine. I didn't actually see him. He must have been in the sheds.' Shackleton was fidgeting with his hands, pressing his fingers together, bleaching them white, displaying his tension. Joanna listened intently.

‘Anyway – I drove past Fallowfield into the Hardacre drive but the lane was blocked with cows. I couldn't understand what was happening. They hadn't been milked. Their udders were full. Some of them were dribbling. And the machine was quiet.' He shivered. ‘Like a ghost town the place was,' he said. ‘No sound at all. No tractors busy around the field, no machinery, nothing but the blasted cows runnin' riot.' He frowned. ‘I knew something was wrong when nobody came out to meet me. Before I went inside the farmhouse I knew something terrible must have happened.'

‘What was your guess?' Joanna asked curiously.

Shackleton sucked in a long, deep breath. ‘I tried to make myself believe they'd overslept.'

He was evading the question but they let him carry on. He would answer
all
before he left. There was something open and honest about the ruddy face. Shackleton would not be good at concealing either facts or emotions. Or so Joanna thought.

‘Carry on, Mr Shackleton,' she prompted.

‘I parked the tanker up by the milking sheds, where I normally go. I still hoped that either Aaron or Jack would be in the milking sheds. Perhaps the machinery was broken down.'

But Joanna was convinced Shackleton had not thought this at all. She caught his eye and straightaway Shackleton flushed a deep, tomato red. He'd been found out.

‘Then I went to the farmhouse.'

‘I suppose you hoped you'd see Ruthie there?'

After a pause Shackleton nodded – briefly.

‘The door to the porch was standing open.' He started gulping again as though short of air.

‘Was the door wide open or ajar?'

‘Wide open. The weather was hot. They were glad of any breeze. It was always standing open – except when they were out. Then they closed it.'

This, Joanna knew, was true.

‘So the gun would have been clearly visible to whoever came to the front door?'

‘To get some air through.' Shackleton flushed. ‘You don't understand. They didn't think about the gun. To you police it's really important.'

‘It turned out to be of significance to them,' Joanna commented drily.

‘They just forgot about it. It meant nothing to them.'

‘Until somebody came to pay them a call, picked it up and blasted the pair of them through the chest.'

Shackleton worked his chin.

‘Go on,' she said.

‘I saw Aaron first. At least I saw his feet. Sticking up. One boot on. Then I saw Jack sitting against the wall with that ... that' Shackleton's eyes were filled with pity, with pain and with disgust. ‘With that big hole in him. There was blood everywhere. And such a smell. A sick, sweet scent. And flies. They were everywhere. Like an old-fashioned butcher's shop before they had those funny blue lights in them.'

And Joanna was vividly reminded of the swarming bluebottles in the pretty, jewelled lights of the Victorian porch, so deceitfully like the stained-glass windows of an ancient church, the sunshine streaming in over the muddy Wellington boots, the umbrella stand.

‘Did you see anyone else around?'

Shackleton's head jerked up, his face guarded. ‘Who do you mean? I would have told you if I
had
seen anyone.'

‘Would you?' Joanna murmured. ‘Would you have mentioned if you had seen someone simply near the farm, perhaps on the footpath?'

‘I didn't notice,' Shackleton said quickly.

‘Just think, Mr Shackleton. Think. Anyone? Anyone at all?'

Shackleton's eyes were wide open. ‘I didn't
see
any one,' he said slowly.

‘So what did you see?'

‘A dog,' Shackleton said, bemused. ‘I saw a dog.'

‘Do you mean one of the farm dogs?'

Shackleton shook his head slowly. ‘No,' he said. ‘That's the point. It
wasn't
one of the farm dogs. It wasn't Noah and it wasn't Pinkers' mangy old hound.' Dave Shackleton was getting excited now. ‘It was an Alsatian,' he said. ‘Loose, sniffing along the lane.'

‘Was it with anyone?'

‘It didn't have to be,' Shackleton said excitedly. ‘I
know
whose dog it is. And it never goes out alone.'

‘So whose dog is it?'

‘I don't know his name but I've often seen him on that walk.'

‘What does he look like?'

‘He's a big man. Tall, big stomach. He always wears those long shorts, down to the knees.'

Joanna smothered a smile. ‘Bermudas?'

“That's right. And they're always really brightly coloured. And he wears a T-shirt, usually white with some writing on it.'

‘And you saw the dog when you drove into Hardacre Farm that morning?' Joanna gave Mike a swift, excited glance. It was the first
real
break.

Shackleton leant across the desk. ‘I did,' he said, ‘and I'm perfectly sure. I
know
it was that very morning because I can remember fretting the dog'd chase some of the cows.'

‘Do you know where the man lives?'

‘No – somewhere in the town.' Shackleton paused to think. ‘I've a fancy I've seen the dog somewhere near the supermarket.'

Joanna turned aside to Mike. ‘Get that description out,' she said sharply. ‘No one fitting that description has come forward to say they were in the vicinity of Hardacre that morning.'

Mike nodded and allowed himself a broad grin. This was the point in any murder investigation when the pulses quickened and the nose began to twitch. They were starting to discover things.

Joanna sat back, surveyed the tanker driver and decided to play the game a little dirty. ‘Mr Shackleton,' she said, her face a blank mask, ‘I have to ask you this, you understand.' Shackleton nodded – apprehensively.

‘Did you touch the gun?'

He looked affronted. ‘No. I did not. I know enough about police work not to touch the murder weapon.'

‘So if your fingerprints had been found on it you would be very surprised?' she asked innocently.

Shackleton studied her face carefully. ‘You're bluffing,' he said. ‘But if my fingerprints were to be found on the gun I can tell you. I have handled it more than once. Me and Ruthie would go and shoot crows sometimes.'

The image was wrong. The dairy maid, singing as she herded the cows. Shooting crows? Joanna sat up.

‘Shooting crows, Mr Shackleton?'

Shackleton was unperturbed. ‘It's just a way of letting off steam.'

But the mention of Ruthie Summers brought the subject of the questioning round neatly.

‘Do you have
any
idea where Ruthie might be?'

‘I wish I did,' Shackleton said hoarsely. ‘I really wish I did. I'd give anything to see her again.' And he stumbled to his feet, knocking his chair over, spending ages attempting to right it.

Anything so the two police officers could not see his tears.

But they could.

9.45 a.m.

Joanna watched him shuffle out before turning to Mike. ‘So what do you think?'

‘He could have shot them both
before
starting his milk round, murdered or abducted Ruthie Summers.'

‘But why, for goodness sake?'

Mike shrugged. ‘Hostile family, reluctant girlfriend? I mean Ruthie was
never
going to leave Jack behind, was she?'

Joanna glanced down at the photograph in her hand. ‘I can't believe that she would have condoned her lover slaughtering her father and brother before setting off into the sunset with him.'

‘No?' He watched her with rising impatience. ‘You're judging her whole personality on the strength of a
picture
. What if she wasn't sensitive or caring? What if she was a nasty piece of work who argued with her father and brother one morning and blasted the pair of them with an available shotgun? After all she would have been the one who would have known it was there, whether it was loaded or not. And plenty of people have seen her fire it.'

Joanna still felt compelled to fight Ruthie's corner. ‘But everyone says Ruthie was gentle, pleasant, good natured. She cared for Jack for years, didn't she? No one has said anything about her being irritated by looking after him, just guilty.'

‘Well guilt can mount up, Joanna. She
did
cause his injuries in the first place. Maybe she just got pissed off with looking after him one day. She might even have got frightened. He
did
have some nasty habits with boxes of matches. After all. It was all her fault.'

‘It was an accident,' Joanna protested.

‘How do we know? No one
saw
what happened all those years ago. And Jack was too young to tell. What if she lost her temper with him and went for him. Plenty of reason for guilt in that case.'

‘She was a child of six.'

Mike watched her steadily. ‘Funnier things have happened,' he said. ‘Children can do peculiar things, in temper. And don't you psychologists have a special name for it?'

‘Sibling rivalry.'

‘Yeah well. The point I'm trying to make is that we don't really
know
anything about Ruthie Summers. We've never met her. Everything we know about her is seen through someone else's eyes.'

‘I suppose so.' She hesitated before bringing up the next point. ‘Why do you think Aaron and Jack covered for Ruthie's absence?'

Mike shrugged. ‘Who knows? It's anybody's guess. Maybe it's simply coincidence that no one saw her.'

And again she conceded the point.

‘OK,' Mike said. ‘So let's move on and start looking at someone else apart from the wretched girl. What about the man walking his dog?'

‘I'd be more interested,' Joanna said slowly, ‘if it wasn't for the time difference. Aaron and Jack

Summers were shot early in the morning, round about six a.m. He was presumably around at ten, four hours later.'

‘So if he's completely innocent why hasn't he come forward?'

Joanna tapped her pencil on the side of the desk. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘Unless ...'

‘He doesn't read newspapers or watch television? Pull the other one,' Mike said scornfully. ‘
Everyone
must know all about the shootings. There have been notices up everywhere, headlines in the local papers, local radio every hour and pieces on the TV. He
must
know all about it.'

Joanna met Mike's dark eyes. ‘Are you suggesting there's a reason why he hasn't come forward?'

He nodded.

‘Then let's find out what that reason is.' She picked up the phone and linked up with the police press officer, shot a few facts down the line and smiled at Mike. ‘Now we sit down and wait,' she said.

They heard the announcement on the ten o'clock bulletin. This time complete with description.
‘Police are searching for a man said to be walking an Alsatian dog in the vicinity of Hardacre Farm, where the double murders took place some time early on Tuesday morning. He is said to be a large man who frequents the area, often wearing a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts. They are appealing to this man to come forward as they are anxious to speak to him!

Joanna sat back, satisfied. ‘So let's see what this brings in.' She watched Korpanski with a trace of amusement. He hated inactivity. And his predilection for fancy ties had persisted even through the scorching weather. Today it was smothered in liquorice allsorts. Yesterday it had been Blue Whales. She stretched her arms over her head, yawned and grabbed hold of the bottom of his tie. ‘So what's with the ties, Korpanski?' she demanded. ‘You must be roasting hot. Everyone else is working in open necks. Even the uniformed officers.' She gave him a sideways smile. ‘So who are you trying to impress?' Korpanski flushed a dull, plum red and wriggled uncomfortably.

‘Well let me guess. It won't be WPC Dawn Critchlow who has legs like milk bottles.' She decided to tease him further. ‘I simply can't imagine you with anyone who has legs like milk bottles, Mike.'

Korpanski cleared his throat and stopped looking at her.

‘And Detective Sergeant Hannah Beardmore has been lurking around the Leek police force for at least seven years. I don't think she's suddenly decided to awaken your male libido.'

‘Shut it, Jo.'

‘On the other hand Police Cadet Kitty Sandworth is not much more than seventeen years old. Round about half your age. Mike.' She paused. This was dangerous territory. ‘And you're a married man.'

Korpanski stood up. ‘For goodness sake, Joanna.'

So she had scored. ‘Quite,' she said softly. ‘So let's leave it, shall we?'

Korpanski inhaled deeply as though he was dragging on a cigarette and Joanna watched him with a little private niggle. She and Korpanski had worked together for almost five years now. Their names had been linked, despite her
amour
with Matthew. Besides,

Kitty Sandworth seemed to her a mere child. A nymphet. So why should she feel a prickle of jealousy? Was it because Korpanski had never worn fancy ties for her? She watched him through new eyes and the silence thickened in the stuffy little caravan until Mike cut through it. ‘So what are we going to do for the rest of the day then? Just sit here and talk about ties?' There was more than a hint of defiance in his voice.