Tainted Ground (15 page)

Carrick's voice was carried on the light breeze blowing towards us through the gap.

‘I understand you're responsible for the plant here,' he said.

There was an inaudible reply.

‘Did that include last weekend?'

Another mumbled response.

‘Where were the pair of you last Sunday night and early Monday morning?'

‘In bed,' someone growled.

‘You'll have to do better than that. Who's responsible for security here at weekends? Who has the keys?'

‘Danny.'

‘Always?'

‘When he's not on holiday.'

‘Was he away last weekend?'

Silence.

‘I'm trying to trace someone who used a digger last weekend for illegal purposes. How many JCBs do you have here?'

‘Two.'

‘Are they in this vicinity?'

Another silence.

‘We can carry on with this down at the nick if you like,' Carrick said silkily. ‘I'm talking about serious criminal damage.'

‘We haven't done nothing!' a man roared.

‘Show me the JCBs.'

Then there was only the sound of the distant hum of machinery.

‘They've moved off,' Patrick whispered, backing out of the small space. ‘We must follow now, even if Carrick sees us.'

Still trying not to make too much noise we made our way towards the front of the cabin and Patrick, who was in front, paused to peer around the final corner. He then shot off and must have gone inside for I heard him say in a high-pitched cockney accent, ‘Oppos of the guv out there, miss. Got a coupla sets of ovies we could borrow so as not to get our clobber mucked up?' And reappeared, a matter of seconds later, with some orange-coloured workmen's overalls. We scrambled into them and set off after the three figures already in the distance, walking in a kind of canyon cut in one side of a hill. Piles of stone were everywhere, spoil probably, but such was the huge scale of the place there was plenty of room for large vehicles to pass easily between them.

‘There's one JCB parked in that gully over there,' Patrick said, quickening his pace. ‘I'm worried that the pair of them will take him to a nice private place, thump him and then do a runner.'

‘It would be an incredibly stupid thing to do.'

‘These men are bound to be incredibly stupid and they'll be picked up in no time at all as they'll then probably head for home and switch on the telly. Carrick's the one I'm concerned about.'

The trio, who were heading away from where all the noise of activity seemed to be coming, disappeared from sight behind a rock pile as the canyon curved slightly and we jogged to catch up. When we saw them again they were much closer. Patrick scooped up a piece of equipment lying on the ground, it looked like part of a large drill, and slung it across one shoulder, I assumed to help disguise us. We pulled the safety helmets further down over our eyes to partly cover our faces and carried on.

Then the group stopped and one orange-clad figure pointed over to the right towards something we could not see. Both men with Carrick were big and burly, with awesome beer-bellies. They went in the direction indicated and as we resumed walking saw they were going into a dark cave-like entrance in the rock.

We ran, on tiptoe.

Near the entrance we stopped, Patrick breathing hard under his heavy load, and listened. Carrick was talking and he did not sound particularly pleased.

‘I have an idea you've led me here on a wild-goose chase,' he said. ‘No, you stay right where you are, the pair of you. Now listen!'

There was the sound of a scuffle.

Patrick marched in but I stayed where I was.

‘Where's this go?' I heard him ask loudly, still with a cockney accent, the tone of his voice possessing tooth-jangling, chainsaw qualities.

‘What?' someone bawled.

‘This effin' thing.'

‘Where did you get it from?'

‘Back there.'

‘It's bust!'

‘I know it's effin' bust.' There followed a pithy description of the other's lack of intelligence, family history, sexual orientation, that kind of thing, at which point I decided that a little reinforcement might help things along a bit and walked in.

I had little time to assimilate my surroundings, only that it was an endless-looking cave, for although the move had the desired effect it caused the two suspects to endeavour to remove themselves from the scene and, side by side, they ran straight at us.

There was a loud ‘Ooooff!' in unison as the metal drill thingy hit the pair midships, Patrick having thrown it, and they went over backwards in a cloud of dust and obscenities. Both climbed to their feet and showed no sign of surrender.

‘You're both under arrest!' Carrick bellowed.

The man nearest to Patrick took a swipe at him with a fist like a ham joint. Patrick ducked, side-stepped smartly and caught him with a real oblivion-maker to the side of the jaw. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other man running out through the entrance, Carrick after him. Reckoning that my husband needed no support right now I set off in pursuit.

The big man could move amazingly quickly for his size. I saw it all: he was run down as though he was standing still and I found myself coming to a halt, beating my fists together in my agitation at the sight of Carrick launching himself in a tackle that had the pair of them crashing to the ground. He was up first and whether it was something that the other man said as he got to his feet or any move he suddenly made against the DCI I could not tell as Carrick was standing nearest to me, blocking my view, but suddenly his quarry was flat on his back, definitely not moving.

‘Good,' Patrick said, still a bit breathless, appearing by my side and appraising the situation.

‘What about the other one?' I asked.

‘Handcuffed to a large chunk of scrap steel.'

Carrick finished using his mobile as we approached. ‘Well, I don't know who you are but I'd like to thank—' he began.

We had removed our helmets halfway through this.

‘But – but you didn't look like you!' he protested. ‘You didn't even move like you. I actually glanced round and there was just a couple of blokes slouching along.' He surveyed his trophy, who was fully conscious but had thought it safer to stay put. ‘So, it looks as though we've got the churchyard hit squad or even accessories to murder. In my view, if they run they're usually guilty.'

‘Still want us on the job?' Patrick queried.

‘Yes, I think I need you.'

He was in pain, holding his side.

T
elltale clues were found on the JCB that was parked in the gully. The small mangled branch of a bay tree and large splinters of preserved new fencing timber of a type used at the rectory were jammed into the bucket mechanism, together with obvious damage to the machine where it had been used as a battering ram were not conclusive evidence that would stand up in a court of law but it was a start: enough anyway for Carrick to get to work on the Tanner brothers. I was still not sure if he was totally convinced there was a link with the Hagtop murders but as hardly anything of a horrible nature had happened in Hinton Littlemoor since two men were hanged in an orchard by Judge Jeffreys as punishment for joining the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion it was a safe enough bet.

Carrick asked Patrick to help with the questioning but I was barred, ostensibly on account of my trainee status in what would be a difficult situation. Carrick elaborated by saying he was worried that I might be targeted by the detainees with foul language or, as he put it, that of a sexual discriminatory nature. More to the point, I had an idea that if I was not present those doing the asking would feel more free to utilize similar turns of phrase if they so chose. As far as Patrick was concerned, the Tanner brothers might learn a few new words.

They were questioned separately and, memories of the circumstances of their arrest no doubt still as fresh as a daisy in their minds, soon started talking. Other than blaming each other for everything they were eager to give the name of the man who had hired them. He had not said who he was at the time: they had recognized him from a photograph in the
Bath Evening Chronicle
.

Keith Davies, who was now dead. We had our link.

‘They were told to choose a night as soon as possible when there was little or no moon and when it was windy or raining hard so there would be less risk of them being heard,' Patrick told me, continuing with his account of what had transpired. ‘When you think about it they could have waited months for the right conditions.'

We were at ‘home' at the rectory that same evening.

‘So this must have been set up, at the very latest, a couple of weeks ago,' I said. ‘Obviously, before the murders. Did they reveal what was in the coffin?'

‘They said they didn't get involved with that part of it. It needed two people to dig out the last of the soil and lift the coffin from the grave – Davies was adamant that it was not to be damaged so they couldn't use the digger for all the work – and then they both rode in the cab to a piece of spare ground half a mile away marked on a makeshift map they had been given where they met another bloke with a van. They helped load the coffin into the van and were then paid and told to bugger off and say nothing. They swear they didn't question that anything other than a body was inside the coffin as it was heavy and were not happy with what they had been asked to do. The promise of five hundred pounds each appears to have helped alleviate their consciences slightly but they admit they got semi-plastered before they did the job.'

‘Davies was dead by then. Who was the one with the van?'

‘They don't know. They hadn't seen him before. I think I believe them – their stories tally and they're too thick to make up anything elaborate. Needless to say they're also terrified someone's going to come after them next.'

‘It goes without saying then that if Barney was never interred in his coffin something else was, something valuable. But as James said, that means undertakers were involved and Heaven knows who else besides. Who were the funeral directors?'

‘I asked Dad to look in his records and it was an exceedingly respectable and long-established firm from Bristol, Littlejohn and Makepeace. Enquiries are progressing, as they say.'

‘Perhaps someone packed whatever it was in tea to stop it moving around or rattling.'

‘But according to forensics it's
used
tea, Ingrid. You're not telling me someone saved up old teabags in order to use them for that when all they had to do was go out and buy some bubble-wrap. And why would some be in that box at the Manley's flat?'

‘It might not have come from the same source as that in the coffin.'

‘No, and we won't know until we get more forensic findings and hear from the botanist at Kew. But it's a bit of a coincidence.'

‘Are we baffled?'

‘Baffled.'

One of the burned-out cars was confirmed to have belonged to the Manleys due to the just readable part of a number plate, so to assume that the other had been Keith Davies's did not appear unsafe. There was no evidence of any kind to be found in the hulks, not even when the boot lids had been forced open. The vehicles had been pushed into the quarry from the higher ground above it, the strands of wire of a flimsy fence having been cut. We were assuming that the same people, or others, had then made their way to the cars and set them ablaze. No useful tyre tracks of any vehicles that might have been involved, not even the ones about to be destroyed, were found above the cliff as the ground was very dry and stony. The softer terrain in the rubbish-choked quarry below might have yielded information but the search for the missing child by upwards of fifty people had obliterated everything. The only shred of good news to come out of all this was that the polluted mess was going to be cleared up.

The rectory garden had been repaired, the gifts of plants incorporated therein and volunteers and the PCC had made good most of the damage to the churchyard. But there was still a gaping hole where Barney Stonelake's coffin had been, and according to John and Elspeth that evening, it was giving rise to some local unease.

‘It's the old folk,' Elspeth explained. ‘They don't like things like that. Restless spirits and so forth.'

‘But the poor old man was never there and even if he had been he'd surely be haunting the Tanner brothers, not the village,' Patrick said with a grin.

His mother had entertained the WI to tea; some thirty ladies, all home baking, their sole topic of conversation the murders and the raid on the graveyard. ‘It's not funny, Patrick,' she snapped.

John said, ‘Jimmy Reeves told me that people have been looking in their sheds and old outhouses in case the undertakers stashed Barney somewhere like that.'

His wife surveyed him closely for signs of similar levity and seemed to find none. ‘
Surely
not!'

Whereupon Patrick could contain himself no longer and left the room, his rude laughter, however, regrettably still audible. Moments later the laughter ceased when his mobile rang.

‘What is it?' I asked when he had called me out into the hall.

‘That was Carrick from home. A man's body's in the process of being fished out of the Avon. There might be a connection – his throat's been slashed too. James is on his way but thinks we ought to attend as well.'

A crowd of gawpers clustered along the balustraded esplanade that overlooks the river had a good view of the weir by Pulteney Bridge, which is illuminated at night, hence the ease with which the body had been spotted. The fire brigade had been called out to assist and were utilizing hooks on long poles that they use to pull straw from burning thatched roofs to drag the corpse to dry land. This had still meant venturing out on to the top of the slippery weir but fortunately the river was low and the flow of water over it gentle.