The Reckoning (2 page)

Oswald had been picked to sing one of the solo numbers and had been practising hard.

‘A wandering minstrel I . . .'

As he bent down to collect his things from the grassy bank, stowing the trout in the old kitchen basket he used as a creel and gathering up the crumbs of his lunchtime sandwich to put in a piece of greaseproof paper, he broke into song.

‘
A thing of shreds and patches . . .'

He searched about him for his tin of flies; he knew he'd put it down on the grass somewhere.

‘
Of ballads, songs and snatches, And dreamy lullaby . . .'

Spying it some way up the bank, he began to move in that direction; but stopped when he saw a shadow fall across the tin.

Oswald looked up. Squinting against the setting sun, he saw the silhouette of a man on the bank above him. Dressed in hiking clothes – breeches of some kind – topped by a baggy sweater, he stood faceless in the shadow cast by his hat brim.

‘Yes . . . ?'

Uncertain as ever, Oswald hesitated – and in that moment recognition dawned on him and he stared, open-mouthed, as the figure moved, coming down the bank towards him with unhurried steps.

‘What in heaven's name—?'

The question died on his lips. He had been gaping in wonder at the face beneath the hat brim. But then the glint of metal had caught his eye, and his heart had lurched.

‘No—'

The word was his last. Struck dumb in the last minutes of his life, in the grip not only of terror but of sheer disbelief, he could only stay where he was, planted like a tree on the bank, crouched over his knees, until he felt the cold touch of steel on his neck.

And then nothing more.

PART ONE

1

‘Y
OU KEEP THINKING NOTHING
will surprise you in this job. Then something like this comes along and all you can do is scratch your head.'

Vic Chivers took off his hat as if he was going to do just that, but mopped his brow instead. It was close to noon and the sun was high in the sky.

‘First, this Gibson fellow gets murdered in broad daylight, with no explanation. Then the bloke who shoots him vanishes into thin air.'

Glancing at him, Billy Styles thought Vic hadn't changed all that much. Heavy-set, with a lantern jaw and dark, bushy eyebrows, he was pretty much the same chap he remembered from the days when they had learned their trade together as young detective-constables with the Metropolitan Police. Good-humoured, sharper than he looked and something of a wag, Vic had resigned from the Met in the late twenties after marrying a Brighton girl and had joined the Sussex county force. Now, like Billy, he was an inspector and the senior CID man stationed in the town of Lewes.

‘And to top it all, we get a call from your lot telling us the Yard wants to stick its nose in.'

Vic had been at the station to meet Billy when he'd stepped
off the London train earlier that morning and had driven him to a village called Kingston, on the outskirts of Lewes, where they had left their car and set off on foot down a narrow lane that led from the hamlet into the surrounding countryside.

‘So get off your high horse, old chum, and tell me what's going on?'

Billy chuckled. ‘Before we get to that, there's something I need to know. I read in your report that Gibson was shot from close up. How close exactly?'

‘From no more than six inches away, according to the pathologist. There were powder burns on the collar of his shirt and on the back of his neck, too. And in case you're wondering, the bullet was a nine-millimetre slug. We got the ballistics report this morning.'

‘Just one other question then.' Billy kept pace with his colleague. ‘The report I read said that Gibson was on his knees when he was shot? Are you certain of that?'

‘As sure as I can be. I put it in the report, didn't I?' Vic winked at him. ‘But I'm still waiting to hear why the Yard is so interested.'

He apparently didn't think it worth pointing out that normally Scotland Yard was only called in to cases outside the London area at the express request of a chief constable, and that in this case it was the Yard that had initiated the contact.

‘Come on, Billy – what do you know that we don't?'

‘Not that much; only that there was a murder like this up in Scotland last month. A man was killed in the same way: shot in the back of the head, at the base of the skull, actually. It was very precise. There's no obvious connection, but since the Scottish police haven't any leads, it was thought I ought to come down here and take a look at this. Tell you what: let's deal with your one first. Then I'll fill you in on the other.'

‘Fair enough.'

Satisfied – for the moment at least – Vic strode on, with Billy at his heels now. They had left the village behind and the lane they'd been following had petered out into a dirt road, which in turn dwindled to a footpath that joined the course of a stream running through a valley. Lewes itself lay on the South Downs, and the green hillocks on either side of the town, gashed white with chalk, were part of the long chain of grassy uplands that stretched across much of southern England.

‘It's downstream from here, the place where he was killed,' Chivers announced, talking over his shoulder as he led the way. Ahead of them Billy could see the narrow waterway meandering down the valley, shaded here and there by the odd tree and flanked by a tangle of low bushes. On either side of it the land rose in steep, grass-covered slopes topped by rounded hillocks. He had passed through the South Downs often enough on his way to Brighton with Elsie and the kids for a day by the seaside. But this was the first time he had paused long enough to take in the rolling green countryside.

‘And, just to fill you in, Gibson was sixty-two: he was deputy manager of a bank in Lewes until he retired. He and his wife – late wife – both came from London originally, but they decided to settle here when he quit his job. She died a year ago, but he stayed on. And before you ask, he was a model citizen: no form, no questionable associates, no enemies. In fact, from all we've been able to learn, he seems to have spent his whole life trying not to offend people. But if that's the case, it doesn't seem to have worked.'

He shrugged.

‘As for his movements, we know that before he was shot he went away for a few days to stay with an old colleague of his from the bank, who retired to Hastings. The fellow rang us up when he heard about the shooting. The day after Gibson got
back – that would be the Tuesday of this week – he went out fishing. It's how he spent most of his time. He left his cottage around two o'clock. That's confirmed by his daily; she says it was his usual routine. He always fished from the same place, and we know he was killed just after five because the shot was heard by a couple of fishermen who were a little way downstream from him.'

Vic paused. He seemed to be considering his next words.

‘What's hard to stomach about this, Billy – what really gets my goat – is that the killer was seen. We've got a description of him. What's more, he knew he'd been spotted. You must have read that in my report. But somehow he still managed to vanish.'

‘So I noticed. It's something I want to talk to you about.'

‘Good.' Vic spoke over his shoulder. ‘Because I've got plenty to tell you. But let's wait till we get there. It'll be easier to explain.'

He continued his steady plod, Billy following in his wake, and after a few minutes they came to an open, grassy area sloping down to the stream, free of bushes and overhung by a giant oak tree. The space had been cordoned off with tape tied to metal posts and hung with a pair of police signs, warning the public to keep off.

‘This is the place.'

As he spoke a uniformed constable stepped out of the shadow cast by the oak tree, touching his helmet as he did so.

‘Morning, Boon.' Vic acknowledged his salute with a nod. ‘This is Inspector Styles, from London.' To Billy he said, ‘Boon was the first officer at the scene. I thought you might have some questions for him.'

Billy nodded a greeting to the young man. ‘You can tell me where the body was, for a start,' he said.

‘It was over here, sir.'

Boon moved down the slope closer to the water and pointed to the ground.

‘He was lying face-down, with his rod and an old basket that he used as a creel on the grass next to him.'

‘What made you think he was on his knees when he was shot?' Billy put the question to Chivers.

‘Because our witness saw him kneeling. And that was just before he was killed.'

‘What about this witness? I read he was a shepherd?'

‘That's right: name of Hammond.' Vic turned round. ‘He was up there by that copse, watching over his flock of sheep.' He pointed to the slope behind them and Billy saw the clump of trees he was indicating near the top of the ridge. ‘He said he'd noticed Gibson fishing – he knew him by sight – and, shortly before he was killed, he saw a man walking up the path towards him.'

He pointed again, this time downstream from where they were standing.

‘Hammond had plenty of time to take in his appearance. He said it was hard to judge how tall the man was from where he was standing up on the hill, but he seemed to be of average size and looked young, judging by the way he strode up the path. He was wearing tan-coloured trousers and a cherry-red sweater and had a hat on, and a knapsack on his back.' Chivers paused. ‘And now comes the strange part. Hammond had decided to start moving the sheep back to his farm – it's some way down the valley – and he whistled to his dog. The man on the path, the killer, heard it. He looked up, Hammond said. He actually paused for a moment. But he didn't stop. He went on. It made me wonder if he was all there.'

He waited for Billy's reaction.

‘Was there anyone else around?'

Chivers shook his head. ‘Not according to Hammond. Earlier in the afternoon he'd seen some hikers go by on their way to the Downs. But they were in groups.'

‘He didn't see anyone on his own?'

‘That's correct, and certainly not this fellow. Hammond said
he would have remembered the sweater. It was bright red. Later on he saw those two fishermen who heard the shot. They came over the ridge and he saw them disappear into the bushes. When I spoke to them the next day I realized they must have been about a hundred yards downstream from here.'

‘Then the man Hammond saw walking up the path must have gone by them?'

‘He must have. But they didn't see him. The bushes are quite thick at that point and most likely he didn't see them, either. Anyway, Hammond spotted this bloke, as I say, and watched as he walked up the path to where Gibson was fishing – here, in fact – and then stop and go down the bank to talk to him.'

‘He could see they were speaking?' Billy interrupted.

‘I'm not sure about that, and neither is Hammond, but it looked like it.' Chivers shrugged. ‘Gibson had been bending down, getting his stuff together. He seemed to be on the point of leaving. Then this man appeared and Hammond saw them facing each other, as close as you are to me, and he watched as Gibson went down on his knees in front of the man. But then he turned away . . .'

‘He turned
away
?' Billy scowled. ‘
Hammond
did? Why?'

‘Because of his sheep.' Chivers shrugged. ‘They were starting to move, and for the next few minutes he was busy with them. When he finally glanced down at the stream again he saw there was someone lying on the bank.'

‘Hang on a minute,' Billy cut in. ‘What about the shot? Didn't he hear it?'

‘Yes and no.' Vic shrugged. ‘He heard something, but didn't realize it was a shot until later, when he found the body. He was some way away, remember, up on the hill, whistling to his dog; besides that, he's an old boy and hard of hearing.'

‘But he saw the body. He must have known something was wrong.'

‘Well, he wasn't sure it was a dead body, not at first: just somebody lying there. But then he spotted the man in the sweater walking back down the path in the direction he'd come from. And just walking, mind you; not running, not hurrying. Just striding along, as cool as you please.'

He shook his head.

‘By that time Hammond had decided he ought to do something and he went down to the stream. When he found Gibson lying there with a hole in the back of his head, he climbed back up to the path to see if he could spot the other chap. But he'd vanished. So Hammond did the next best thing and legged it as fast as he could into Kingston, which is where he ran into Boon.'

He turned to the young officer.

‘All right, Constable. It's your turn now.'

Boon straightened.

‘I'd just come off duty, sir.' He addressed himself to Billy. ‘I live with my mum and dad in Kingston and, as I reached our gate, I saw Mr Hammond coming up the road towards me, half-running. He was out of breath and could hardly get his words out. When he told me about Mr Gibson being dead and described the man he'd seen with him, I rang Mr Chivers at once, and he told me to go back to the stream with Mr Hammond and wait by the body. But just as we were setting off I saw some hikers coming back from the Downs. I knew they must have been on the same path and I asked them if they had seen the body. They told me they hadn't, and when I got out to the stream I saw why. It was lying near the bottom of the bank; easy to miss. And, besides, it was getting dark.'

‘What about the shooter?' Billy asked. ‘Surely he was on that same path.'

‘He was when Mr Hammond spotted him.' Boon nodded. ‘But the hikers never saw him, so he must have got off it.'

‘These hikers . . . Were they all together? Are you sure he wasn't one of them? Couldn't he have slipped past you that way?'

‘No, sir, he couldn't have.' Boon spoke firmly. ‘There were seven of them: two couples who'd been together, and three ladies who were walking on their own. As it happened, I recognized one of the couples by sight. They're members of a ramblers' club in Brighton and I've seen them up here before. The other couple were friends of theirs. Anyway, Mr Hammond said it wasn't either of the men. The bloke he'd seen was younger and dressed differently—'