Tainted Ground (6 page)

‘His wife, actually,' I said. ‘But brought in to help because of previous experience.'

‘Don't say another word,' she whispered in conspiratorial fashion. ‘I like your husband's voice. I was on the stage, you know. He's a man used to giving orders and he uses his voice like a weapon if he has to, like all the best actors.'

She was a perceptive person.

‘I'm not feeling all that bad,' Mrs Brandon went on. ‘I came for a lie down as shingles makes you feel weak and tired. Do you think you could be really kind and get me some orange juice from the fridge? William's never had to look after me even the smallest bit before and forgets to ask when he makes himself a drink. Poor William, he's gone to seed terribly. You'd never guess in a million years how handsome he used to be.'

I found myself wondering if he had been a selfish pig in those days too.

‘You want to know about those people upstairs,' said Mrs Brandon when I returned with the juice. ‘Thank you, you're an angel. I'm afraid I can't really be helpful. I did speak to Janet a few times and said good morning to begin with to the men but they always ignored me so I stopped. The younger one looked a bit of a thug. I'm not really a snob but I wondered what he was doing here – it didn't seem to be his kind of place. I felt sorry for Janet though as even though they were living in this lovely part of the world and so must have been reasonably well off – I don't think either she or her husband went out to work – she never looked happy.'

‘Did you hear anything strange going on upstairs on Thursday night?'

‘No, you don't here. It's all quite well insulated. You don't even hear people going up and down the stairs. Just voices sometimes if they're laughing and joking a bit loudly. Oh, and the parties on the top floor when they have the windows open. It doesn't really bother me as it doesn't happen very often and people must have a little fun sometimes, mustn't they? But William rants and raves. I've told him he'll give himself ulcers but he never listens.'

‘But you've heard no arguments and shouting in the flat above you recently?'

‘No. Nothing like that. I think you ought to go and talk to the people who live on the top floor. They go out and about far more than we do and might have been friendly with the Manleys. I don't know about the other man, though, as I've just said, he was off-putting.'

‘Have you met the people who live in the top-floor flats?'

‘No, not really. They're a lot younger than us and all go out to work quite early. I think there's a couple in number five and a girl living on her own at number six. A boyfriend stays sometimes. I have said hello to people in the hallway as I've been coming in with shopping sometimes at the weekends but whether they were the actual residents or not I don't know.'

‘So if any strangers were in or around the building you wouldn't necessarily have noticed.'

‘No, I suppose not. But the outside door is locked at night.'

‘Is there anything at all that you thought odd about anyone's movements here over the past few days?'

‘No, nothing,' said Mrs Brandon after due thought. ‘Sorry to be so useless.'

‘Your husband told us he was left some money and was able to invest it to live on. So he's never had an actual career?'

‘Well, he never went out with a briefcase and bowler hat to catch a train to the City in the mornings, but until he retired and we came here he was always going here and there on business and there were never any problems with money – not so far as I know. I didn't ask as I simply don't understand finance. I left everything to him. Silly, I suppose, but that's the way it was.'

‘Is there anything else I can get for you?' I asked, having thanked her but thinking it a bit strange for a woman not to know more about where their money came from.

‘No, thank you, my dear. I'll get up soon and make some lunch.'

‘Can't he even put a sandwich together for the pair of you?' I was driven to say.

‘Wouldn't know where to start – hopelessly impractical,' Mrs Brandon replied, laughing at my indignation.

It did not seem that we had a red-hot suspect in our hunt for a knife-wielding killer.

‘I
think
Janet's husband had been a policeman at one time,' Mrs Brandon said thoughtfully as I rose to leave. ‘I can't quite remember how I know – perhaps something she said.'

I thanked her again, wished her a speedy recovery and went back into the living room.

‘He's gone,' Brandon said. ‘Asked me to tell you he's having a look round outside.'

I surveyed him slumped in his chair doing a fair impression of a couple of hundredweight of gone-off lard and said, ‘It's lunchtime and your sick wife is hungry. There's bread, ham, butter and salad in the fridge. Fix!'

And walked out, slamming the door hard.

Patrick was rooting around in the hedge. ‘I was wondering about the murder weapon,' he said when he saw me. ‘You never know where things are going to end up but I expect Carrick's lot did a full sweep along here this morning. Shall we talk to the people upstairs?'

Both flats on the first floor had been sealed off by Carrick's team. We carried on up the stairs to a wide landing with more plants and paused to look out of the large floor-to-ceiling window. There was a good view over the car park below and beyond, on rising ground, stretched the southern side of the village crowned by the church spire.

There was no response to either doorbell being rung.

‘These people are not yet suspects,' Patrick said, partly to himself, stepping back from the door of number six. ‘Therefore I won't use my skeleton keys to gain entry and have a look around as I might have done in the good, bad old days. And for all we know everyone's still in bed and has no intention of answering the door.'

‘It might not be any kind of lead but Mrs Brandon had an idea Janet Manley told her that her husband had been in the police.'

‘I'll check up on that before we do anything else,' Patrick said, but before he could reach for his mobile the door across the landing opened, revealing a man wearing a bathrobe.

‘Sorry, I was in the shower,' he said. ‘Are you the police?'

Patrick introduced us.

‘I thought you'd be back.' He spoke with just a hint of a French accent. ‘I am Pascal Lapointe,' he went on. ‘This is my partner, Lorna Church.' Here he gestured in the direction of an attractive woman, also attired in a bathrobe, who was making coffee in the adjoining open-plan kitchen. ‘Do sit down. Is it too late in the morning for coffee for you?'

We accepted even though by this time it was actually early afternoon.

‘We didn't know these unfortunate people well, you understand,' Lapointe began by saying when he had seated himself. Lorna had gone away to get dressed. ‘The truth is that we felt sorry for Chris and Janet. They did not say a lot but we got the impression they felt themselves exiled here, not really suited to country living, after a life in the city – London, I think it was.'

‘Their choice, surely,' Patrick said.

A Gallic shrug. ‘Ah, but there is a difference between retirement and exile, yes?'

‘Do you think they were running away from something?' I enquired.

‘Perhaps. But you must understand, this is just my own thoughts. Lorna says I have an overactive imagination.'

I was not alone there, then.

‘We asked them up here on a couple of occasions. We have gatherings of friends, mostly from Bristol where we both work. You can love the rural life but it can be
too
quiet. Sometimes there has to be good conversation and plenty of good food, music and wine.'

‘They didn't really fit in to that either,' said Lorna, reappearing all at once wearing a black velour tracksuit and big fluffy pink slippers. They made an attractive couple; he slim and tanned, she a Nigella Lawson lookalike.

‘You are just a little bit snobby,' Lapointe told her.

She pouted. ‘It's true, though. Neither of them had any conversation and if you're honest you'd admit they didn't really enjoy themselves. They didn't like the food, didn't know what they were drinking and didn't even come properly dressed. Even you said that the English live in jeans and T-shirts whatever the occasion.'

‘And the other man?' Patrick said. ‘Keith Davies? Did you invite him up here too?'

Lapointe shook his head emphatically. ‘No. At least – and I think you will find this strange – I sometimes got the impression that he was not far away. I once opened the front door when we had a crowd here as it was a very warm summer's evening and the flat was stuffy even though we had all the windows open, and he was out on the landing, smoking.'

‘He wasn't our sort at all,' Lorna drawled.

‘But there must have been a connection between the three of them,' Patrick said. ‘Perhaps he felt left out and that was his way of letting you know.'

‘He did not appear to be a sociable person,' said Lapointe. ‘He—'

‘You
said
,' Lorna interrupted, ‘that he was as rough as rats and you wouldn't want him here.'

‘Perhaps I was a little annoyed at the time and hasty in my judgement,' he told her, giving her a reproving look.

‘Did the Manleys mention him at all?' I asked.

‘I can't remember them doing so.'

‘Did they all go around together?'

‘I saw him driving them in their car on several occasions.'

At which point my overactive imagination kicked in and produced a quite bizarre theory. But this was not the time to air it.

‘Did you go out on Thursday night?' Patrick asked.

‘Yes,' Lorna said. ‘We went to the pub for a meal.'

‘The Ring O'Bells in the village?'

‘That's right.'

‘What time did you get back?'

‘It was quite early – I think at about a quarter to ten.'

‘No, it was much later than that,' Lapointe interposed. ‘Around ten thirty.'

‘Are you sure, darling? I thought—'

‘You've forgotten. I wanted to see a TV programme,' he said with an air of finality.

The rest of the questioning was routine. Neither of them had seen any strange people during the past few days, or even weeks, the only visitor to the mill, to their knowledge, having been the boyfriend of the occupant of the other top-floor flat, Tamsin Roper. He apparently was a naval officer by the name of Owen, whom they thought had been on leave and staying with her.

‘I think you will find they've gone to see Tamsin's mother in Bath today,' said Lapointe. ‘They're taking her out to lunch as it's her birthday.'

‘And Tamsin herself told you all this?' Lorna asked with another pout.

‘Last week,' Lapointe answered evenly but speaking quite loudly. ‘She's our neighbour. I talk to her.'

We left before war was declared.

‘Miss Roper will have to wait,' Patrick said as we descended the stairs.

‘To whom did the cars belong?'

He consulted the notebook. ‘The BMW belongs to the Dewittes, the Discovery to Lapointe, the Audi to the Brandons and the Ford to Tamsin Roper. They must have gone to Bath in the boyfriend's car. So either the victims' vehicles were stolen by whoever killed them or someone on this side of the law had them removed and forgot to mention it to Carrick.'

‘Lorna doesn't appear to have a car of her own, then?'

‘Perhaps he drives her to work. It might be off the road. Who knows? We can ask her if it becomes important. Do we now go and batter Brian Stonelake for Elspeth?'

‘Can I share an idea with you first?'

‘Fire away.'

‘The murder victims are a couple where the bloke might have been in the police, plus Keith Davies, who's done time. Do we have a bent copper, his wife and their minder burying themselves in Somerset as things got too hot on the home patch?'

‘That's a passable theory. But why were they killed?'

‘Revenge? Was Davies part of a gang? Were they all lying low because someone was out for their blood or until they could access some hidden ill-gotten gains?'

‘You said something along those lines earlier but I thought you were trying to wind James up.'

‘That's the last thing I'm going to do! No, I was sort of joking in an effort to lighten the atmosphere a bit, but, on reflection, it ought to be borne in mind.'

‘The bodies didn't show any signs of violence that would suggest they had been tortured for the whereabouts of anything like that before they were killed.'

‘There's every chance they could have volunteered the information. In exchange for their lives, perhaps. Only—' I stopped speaking, the mental images I was creating unbearable.

‘We could ask Brian Stonelake if anyone's been digging holes on his farm recently.'

‘Digging holes?' Stonelake said, giving every indication of puzzlement. ‘No, I don't think so. Why should they? I used to get folk looking for mushrooms in the autumn and the odd metal-detector nutter, but that's all. I sent them on their way, don't you worry.'

Within roughly five seconds of meeting the farmer I had decided, rightly or wrongly, that here was no true son of the soil. I was probably biased by the truly hideous barn he and his father had built and in so doing swept away hundreds of years of rural history, but he did himself no favours. A shambling, unshaven beanpole of a man, he looked so shifty that if someone had informed me he was involved with running rackets on East End greyhound tracks I would have believed them. I told myself sternly that this was my first lesson in not pre-judging people and prepared to give him the benefit of every smallest doubt.

‘But you haven't lived there for a while,' Patrick said.

‘No, but I still take a walk round the place most days, especially up by the house. Can't think why you lot want to search there – it's quite a way from the yard where the bodies were found.'