Dancing On the Grave, page 3
“Ah well, I only deal with the what, when and how.” Grace’s lips twitched. “The who and the why are your department.”
5
“Ah, inspector—at last,” the thin blonde woman said pointedly. “I’m Angela Inglis—Mrs Duncan Inglis.” She paused, clearly expecting the name to have resonance.
“Detective Constable Weston, ma’am,” he said in a neutral tone, taking the limply proffered hand of a professional meeter and greeter.
“Detective Constable, did you say?” She regarded him blankly. “I must say, I rather expected someone a little more…senior. When my husband can tear himself away from European affairs of state, he plays golf with your Chief Constable,” she went on, allowing herself a small smile. “Lovely man, and his wife’s delightful. We’ve known them for years.”
And, having whacked that ball firmly onto his side of the court, she eyed him with arrogant expectancy. Your turn.
Ah, that Mrs Duncan Inglis. The name finally clicked and Nick suppressed a groan as he mentally re-ran his arrival, trying to work out if he’d been rude enough to drop himself in it. The headache had returned with a vengeance and he forced his right eyelid not to droop under the weight of it. The last thing he needed was the wife of a local bigwig to accuse him of winking at her.
She was a handsome woman rather than outright attractive. With her glacial looks and immaculate dress, she could have been modelling for some kind of country pursuits catalogue. They both could. Nick nodded to the silent man alongside her.
“I take it you’re not Mr Inglis, sir?”
It was the woman who answered, drawing herself stiffly upright. “Of course not,” she snapped. “Giles is simply a friend.”
“Ben is my dog, Mr Weston. Or rather, he was.” He cleared his throat. “Bad business, this. Not much more than a pup. Bit boisterous, but no real harm in him.”
Nick thought of the lambs with their throats taken out and wondered if the farmer would second that opinion.
“Your full name, sir?” Nick retrieved his notebook from an inside pocket, saw the man’s eyes flicker. “Sorry about this. Just formalities, you understand.”
“Ah, yes, I suppose so.” The man sounded doubtful, as though Nick had just suggested something vaguely indecent. “Erm, yes, Giles Frederickson.”
There was another hesitation before Frederickson reeled off his address, as though considering every piece of information before releasing it. He lived in Warcop village, he revealed, giving an address that consisted of a house name but no number or street, a haphazard system that was becoming all-too familiar to Nick. Cumbria didn’t have the manpower to send him out teamed with a local officer, so he’d been told, and it made finding anywhere a nightmare.
“Pretty little place,” Nick ventured, trying to put him at his ease. Warcop was about twelve miles from Orton, picturesque but bordered on its northern side by one of the main cross-Pennine routes. Nick had driven through the village once or twice when he’d been getting to know the area. Sunday drives with… He bit down on a scowl. “Must be a bit noisy, though.”
“We’re not that close to the A66.”
“There’s an army firing range nearby, isn’t there, sir?”
“Ah, yes, I see.” Frederickson’s tone was offended, as though he’d been personally criticised. “Can’t say it bothers me.”
“Can you tell me what happened here this morning?” Nick asked, his raised eyebrow inviting either of them to pitch in.
Frederickson cleared his throat again. “Erm, I’d popped over to talk to Angela—Mrs Inglis—about the local agricultural show next Saturday. We’re both on the organising committee.”
Nick assiduously jotted this down. “And what time was this, sir?”
The pair glanced at each other.
“About seven-thirty, I would say,” Angela Inglis offered. “Perhaps a little before.”
Nick looked up. “Bit early that, isn’t it, ma’am?”
“Of course not.” A snap, which she belatedly tried to soften with a little laugh. “Both Giles and I are larks rather than owls, detective constable. You’ve no idea how much can be achieved while most people are still lounging in their beds.”
Keeps emphasising the rank to put me in my place. And the rest.
“Really, ma’am?” He slipped doubt into his voice just to be awkward. His natural body clock had him up and out before six every morning, running the quiet streets around Kendal. “And where was Ben during this time?”
Again, a sideways look passed between them. “I’d, erm, left him in my car,” Frederickson admitted. “Angela has a couple of Siamese cats and Ben has a tendency to…”
“Go after them?” Nick finished for him and there was a long pause before Frederickson gave a quiet, embarrassed nod. “So you left him locked in your car?”
“One could hardly say it was too warm for him at that hour.” Frederickson flushed, two small coins of colour that highlighted his angular cheekbones. “I’d parked in the shade, watered him and cracked the windows. Unfortunately, seems I cracked them a bit too far, and he gave us the slip.”
“Really, detective constable,” Angela Inglis broke in, an edge to her voice now. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, but don’t you think your time might be better spent questioning that wretched farmer, rather than giving poor Giles the third degree?”
“Angela, my dear—”
“According to our crime scene technician, the farmer’s shotgun hasn’t been fired for days,” Nick cut across Frederickson’s half-hearted protest with a dangerous softness, “and it would also appear that the an—, er, Ben, was shot by someone using a rifle.”
She closed her mouth again, her lips forming a tight line.
“Look, Weston, don’t you think you’re making a meal out of this?” Frederickson said quickly, ignoring the quiet gasp from the woman alongside him. “What I mean to say is, on reflection, I accept that Ben committed a serious offence and paid the price.” He tried a small smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I view this as a tragedy, believe me, but it would be a blatant waste of police time and public money to take this further.”
“Oh, but surely—”
Frederickson held up his hand and Angela Inglis fell silent immediately.
“Please, Angela. Ben was my dog and you must let me decide how best to handle this.”
For a moment they fenced silently before she let her gaze drop. Interesting, Nick thought, watching them. Maybe there was a bit more spine to the old boy than had been first apparent.
“Of course, Giles. Do forgive me for interfering, detective constable.” Her composure was firmly back in place. “I’m understandably…upset by what happened.”
“Of course,” Nick echoed blandly. He glanced at his notes. “Nevertheless, I’m sure you understand that regardless of whether you feel this was rough justice of a kind, we will be making further enquiries about the firearm that might have been used.”
Frederickson looked as though he would argue but then gave a resigned nod instead.
“If you’re looking for someone with rifles, detective constable,” Angela Inglis said suddenly, “then perhaps you should look to your own.”
“Meaning, ma’am?”
“Jim Airey.” Nick recognised the faintest tinge of triumph when she said the name, as though she’d been waiting for this opportunity and was determined to savour it now. “He’s not a real policeman, of course, but if you people are prepared to hand out uniforms you must take responsibility for who puts them on. Jim Airey,” she repeated, when Nick didn’t immediately react. She glanced about, frowning. “He was here when you arrived. You must know him, surely?”
“I’m new in the area, ma’am.” Nick wrote down the name, adding an underscore and a question mark. “Are you suggesting that Mr Airey might have shot Mr Frederickson’s dog?”
“Of course not.” Just when the pounding in Nick’s head notched up a beat, she added, “but his daughter might.”
“His daughter?”
“Edith. I gave her a little menial job last year after she left school. A few hours a week—cleaning and so forth. But I had to let her go at Christmas. A certain item went missing from the house.” She coloured primly. “A rather valuable item. I spoke with her father and, naturally, agreed not to take action, but her position was clearly untenable. She was somewhat…resentful about it.”
Nick noted the hesitation. “And you think she might have been involved in this incident, ma’am?”
Angela Inglis nodded. “She made some silly threats at the time—just an immature teenager throwing a tantrum, so I thought.”
Nick’s scepticism must have shown, because her face tightened. “Edith used to get rid of vermin in the garden—magpies and grey squirrels.” Clearly sensing his distaste she added, “We’re in a red squirrel conservation area, detective constable. That means keeping the non-native greys out—they’re larger, more aggressive, and they carry disease. If any are spotted, there are local people one can call on to…take care of the matter.”
“And a teenage girl was one of those people?”
It was Giles Frederickson’s turn to nod. “She might only be a slip of a thing—all skin and bone, but she is a quite remarkable shot with a rifle.”
They’re lying to me, Nick thought as he walked away. Not sure what about yet, but I know they are.
He caught young Danny Robertshaw over by the gateway chatting with the farmer, who was still on his quad bike.
“Where’s Airey?”
“Er, I think he’s just nipped off.” Robertshaw had the grace to look sheepish. “Said he’d got an errand to run. Had to pop home to sort something out.”
His daughter, most likely.
“Yeah,” Nick muttered, “I’ll bet he did…”
6
Special Constable Jim Airey roared out of Orton village on the Tebay road. He was aware of a tight resentment spreading through his chest, but it could simply have been heartburn.
Damn you, Edith. Wait ’til I catch up with you, my girl…
The Aireys lived in a grim little brick terrace that backed onto the railway line in Tebay. Although only a few miles from Angela Inglis’s grand residence in Orton, socially the two villages were separated by far more than just the motorway junction.
The Inglis residence. That was how she’d answered the phone that time—six months ago, just after New Year—when Airey had been forced to go and grovel on his daughter’s behalf. Cap in hand, like some peasant. Mrs High-and-Mighty Inglis had just loved that. He still smarted at the memory.
Every time their paths had crossed since, she’d pointedly asked after Edith. “And what’s that daughter of yours up to now, Mr Airey?” with a knowing smile on her face.
The trouble was he couldn’t be certain that Edith hadn’t done what she was accused of—stolen a pair of antique cufflinks while she’d been serving daft little bits of stuff off a silver tray at one of the Inglises’ swanky parties.
Mrs Inglis had caught her upstairs where she’d no right to be—all the wait-staff had strict instructions to use the downstairs cloakrooms only, so she said. Privately, even Airey admitted that his daughter was shifty and evasive about what she’d been up to. Seventeen. It was a difficult age. Mind you, she’d always been a moody kid.
He’d had to do some fast talking so Mrs Inglis didn’t press charges. What would happen to his Special status if his daughter was exposed as a thief? Mrs Inglis had seen through his sudden parental zeal and that made him resent the woman even more.
It irked him Edith was such a little liar. Airey would be the first to admit he could be inventive with the truth himself when the occasion demanded, but his daughter was in a class of her own. World of her own half the time, Edith, and a dream world at that.
Jim Airey didn’t have much time for other people’s dreams.
She shouldn’t even have been able to get her hands on that rifle in the first place. When any of those loony lot—offcomers, mostly—started getting all upset about having seen the wrong colour squirrel and wanted Edith to do her thing, she had her own little .22 locked away, all tight and legal.
His other guns, the ones he didn’t declare for his certificate every year, he kept somewhere else altogether and Edith certainly shouldn’t have had a key for those. How had she done it?
He chucked the marked-up Ford Focus through the roundabout and booted it up the hill, ignoring the screaming engine.
At the top of the incline was a sharp right-hand bend. Airey cut it, almost clipping a van coming the other way. The driver braked hard and flashed his headlights, police car or no. Normally, Airey would have gone after him for that. Not this time.
The side-street leading to the dour little row of cottages angled steeply off the main road and was a devil in the winter. He careered down it, reckless, slewing to an untidy stop without making any attempt to park.
His front door was locked but that was no sign. He fumbled with his key, shoving the door open so hard the inside handle bounced against the wall and gouged another lump out of the plaster. The wife would give him earache for it later.
“Edith!” he roared into the silent house. “Where are you?”
Nobody spoke, but he thought he heard the faintest muffled clatter from somewhere at the rear.
He charged down the narrow hall and straight through the back sitting room, boots heavy on the thinly carpeted floorboards. His daughter was in the kitchen, a gawky stick insect of a girl who’d entered the awkward stage early and appeared set never to leave, with rounded shoulders and mousy hair that she never bothered to brush since her mum stopped doing it for her. She was fussing with a tea towel and looking, to his eyes at least, guilty as sin.
He halted in the doorway, feeling the anger in the bunching of his shoulders under the confines of the uniform and the stab vest, the pounding of the blood in his ears. For a moment there was silence while Airey eyed his only child with dislike close to loathing.
The intensity of it surprised him. You were supposed to love your kids, that was normal. But Edith had been a sickly baby and a sulky child who flitted through the periphery of his life without generating much emotion one way or another.
There’d been a time a few years ago when he’d thought she might turn out interesting after all. A bit clingy, but the nearest he’d ever come to being hero-worshipped. Flattering, really.
But she’d hit puberty and burrowed in on herself. If truth be told, Airey had already begun to find her an irritation, her sudden absence a relief. By the time he’d realised that he missed her, whatever bond they’d shared was broken clean. His attempts to repair it were met with monosyllabic indifference. He hadn’t tried hard.
“What the hell have you been up to, Edith?” He stabbed a warning finger, galled by the way she jerked back, as if he’d ever laid a hand on her. “And don’t” —his voice knotted itself with rage—“don’t you dare lie to me, my girl, or you’ll be sorry.”
For a moment she stood there looking gormless, a rabbit in the headlights. Then she shut her open mouth abruptly and swallowed, and an ugly red flush rolled up the sides of her neck.
“I haven’t done nothing.” Her voice was thin and whiny, but her eyes were everywhere. Airey had heard that tone, seen that look, a hundred times before. From teenage toerags off the council estates in Penrith, claiming outraged innocence one breath and calling for the duty brief like old lags the next.
Airey took a stride into the room, a big one, and Edith gave a theatrical gasp, retreating until her bony hips bumped up against the edge of the sink. Even then she cringed away, clutching the wash-worn cotton tea towel up in front of her chest like it was made of Kevlar.
“Do I look stupid to you, girl?” He rummaged in his inside pocket, dragged out the ejected shell casing he’d taken from the crime scene in the field, and thrust it close to her face. When he spoke again his voice was low and gritted. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognise one of my own reloads?”
She swallowed again, gaping at him, but he saw first the bloom of realisation, then the fear. Quickly followed by a sly scrambling as her brain started to race. Her teachers always used to tell him his daughter was a bright girl. She just didn’t bother to use it, that was the trouble.
Without giving her a chance to invent, Airey grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the cellar door. His thumb and index finger almost met around her scrawny bicep and, briefly, Airey doubted she was physically capable of taking the shot that killed the dog, never mind the skill involved.
Because he didn’t have it, he acknowledged. The admission of his own inadequacy, even unvoiced, brought with it a fresh rage that made him more careless with her than he’d intended.
He ploughed over her feeble resistance, using sheer bulk to hustle her down the crumbling steps and into the cool mustiness below. He flung her away while he reached to his belt for the keys, scowling when he found none missing.
Edith stayed where she’d landed, half sprawled against a mildewed stack of deckchairs, snivelling.
In the far corner of the cellar, under the front step of the house, was what had once been the chute into the coal store. With a last contemptuous glance, Airey unlocked the door to it, pulling the grubby string to activate the naked bulb.
Inside, on racks, was Jim Airey’s illicit gun collection. He expected to find one missing, but they were all in place and accounted for. Except something wasn’t quite right about…
Ah, that’s it!
The centrepiece of Airey’s display was a piece of firearm history, a Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle that dated back to the early fifties. A classic—Russian-made, not some Chinese copy—with a solid wooden stock and handgrips, and distinctive curved magazine.
Airey had been a gun nut for years. Losing the first joint of his right forefinger in the sliding breech of an old air rifle when he was still a teenager had failed to dampen his enthusiasm. Even if it meant he was never quite as good a shot as he could’ve been, before the loss.
