A Killing Resurrected (9 page)

‘I'm afraid it's not much of an orchard now,' Claire said as if reading his thoughts. ‘It was far too much work for Aunt Jane after Uncle Arnold died, and the man she hired to help her didn't know much about orchards. It's a good job she didn't have to depend on it for an income. These trees should have been replaced years ago, but I doubt there would be any point in doing so now. Too much competition for small growers, to say nothing of EU rules and regulations that have to be met these days.'

She ducked beneath a low branch as they emerged from the trees. ‘This is the packing shed,' she said unnecessarily. ‘It used to be a busy place in the late summer when I was small. It was a packing house, garage and workshop all rolled into one back then, but I doubt if anyone's been inside now for years.'

‘What's on the other side of the back fence?' asked Paget.

‘Pettigrew Estates,' Claire told him. ‘Here, I'll show you.' She led the way to a high wooden gate. ‘I don't think
this
has been opened for years, either,' she said, tugging at a rusty bolt. The hinges screeched in protest as she pulled the gate open. ‘The carriers used to come down the lane to pick up the fruit from here and from other orchards farther along,' she explained when Paget followed her outside, ‘but the orchards are all gone now. Too much work and not enough money in it to make it worthwhile. This was all open fields when I was growing up, just a mass of buttercups and daisies in the summer, but then the builders moved in so now we have Pettigrew Estates instead.

‘But that's not what you came here to see, is it?' she said as she caught Alcott's impatient glance. She closed and bolted the gate, then moved to the shed. ‘Mind the sill,' she warned as she unlocked the door.

They followed her in, pausing for a moment for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. The sun was shining outside, but inside the cavernous shed the light lay flat and lifeless against the windows above the bench, barely able to penetrate the layers of grime and tangled cobwebs that filled the corners.

Claire tried several switches before a strip of fluorescent lights above a long wooden bench flickered into life.

The shed was huge. Cobwebs were everywhere, and there was a musty smell in the lifeless air. As Claire had said, it hadn't been used for years.

A rusting, chain-driven lawn mower stood in one corner beside a pile of old tyres, and large wooden crates with faded lettering were stacked against the walls. There were ladders, long-handled pruning shears, baskets, buckets, a bundle of sacks, and on the floor at the far end of the bench, lay what looked like spraying equipment. The bench itself was cluttered with empty boxes, rusting tools and more cobwebs.

There were dark patches on the floor, where oil had stained the concrete, and tracks made by countless vehicles leading to the two large doors at the far end of the shed were still clearly visible.

This, Paget reminded himself, was where Barry Grant had worked with David Taylor on a clapped out Hillman Minx all those years ago – and where Barry Grant had died.

Alcott walked over to the bench and stood looking down at the vice.

‘I should be getting back to the house,' Claire said tentatively, ‘so unless you need me for anything, I'll leave you to look around.' She handed the key to Paget. ‘You will lock up when you're finished here, and bring me the key?'

‘Of course, and thanks again, Miss Hammond.'

When Claire had gone, Paget walked over to stand beside Alcott. ‘Something interesting about the vice, is there, sir?' he enquired.

‘Gun barrels,' Alcott said cryptically. ‘This is where he sawed about a foot-and-a-half off the shotgun before he used it on himself. Stuck the gun under his chin, pulled both triggers and blew his head off. Couldn't have reached the triggers otherwise. The sawn-off pieces were still in the vice when I arrived, and the hacksaw was beside it on the bench.'

‘I've always thought it would be extremely hard to saw through the barrel of a gun,' said Paget. ‘Don't you need a special blade?'

Alcott shook his head. ‘The steel isn't all that hard,' he said. ‘It's a matter of the tensile strength of the metal rather than hardness. A decent hacksaw blade will go through both barrels in fifteen or twenty minutes. At least, that's what Forensic told me at the time, because I thought the same thing.' He moved along the bench to a tall cupboard at the end. ‘The gun was kept in here,' he explained, ‘together with the shells. No lock on the door, of course. Mrs Grant told me her husband used the gun to shoot the odd rabbit now and again, and to scare off the birds when they became too much of a nuisance in the orchard. I asked her why it wasn't locked up, and she said she'd simply forgotten it was there after her husband died.'

‘I know this can't be very pleasant for you, sir,' Paget said, ‘but I would like to get the picture straight in my head. Where, exactly, was Barry when he pulled the trigger?'

Alcott closed the cupboard. ‘Over here,' he said, walking to the nearest corner, where a pair of overalls hung on one of a row of wooden pegs. Beneath the pegs were two metal folding chairs and a pair of heavy boots, cracked and broken. ‘This was where the workers hung their gear,' he explained. ‘There was a lot more hanging on these pegs back then, which may be why no one heard the gun go off. Tucked himself in the corner among the clothes before he pulled the triggers.' The Superintendent looked up. ‘You can still see where some of the shot hit the wall up there.'

‘Was he standing or sitting down?'

‘The chairs were pushed aside, and as far as I could tell, he was standing in the corner among the clothes.'

Paget stood looking at the corner, ‘Curious,' he said. ‘I wonder why he came here to end his life?'

Alcott shrugged. ‘Who knows?' he said. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, then suddenly realized what he was doing and pinched it out.

‘It's just that it strikes me as odd,' Paget persisted, ‘that a boy who, by all accounts, went to great lengths to be noticed, would come in here in the dead of night, spend fifteen minutes or more cutting the shotgun down to size, then go and stand in a corner among the clothes to shoot himself. It doesn't seem to be in character.'

Alcott snorted. ‘I doubt if staying in character is a consideration when you're about to kill yourself,' he said, ‘and to be honest, Paget, I don't see the point of this exercise of yours. I told you everything I know about what happened, and there's nothing inside this old shed that is going to help you solve this case.'

Nothing, thought Paget as he followed the Superintendent out of the door, except, perhaps, the ghost of a boy who had blown his head to pieces thirteen years ago.

T
he homes on Falcon Ridge, perched high above the river, faced westward. One could look out across the valley and the rooftops of the town to the forested hills of Radnor rising in the distance, shimmering like a mirage in the heat of the afternoon. It was a gorgeous view, thought Claire as she drove along the ridge. Kevin must be doing very well indeed to afford to move up here. She glanced at the piece of paper on the seat beside her. Number 1035.

‘Fifth house from the end,' Stephanie had told her on the phone. ‘Right-hand side. Driveway's a bit steep, so make sure you set your brake.'

And there it was. Stone pillars on either side of the gate, and a low stone wall and iron railings along the front of the property. Claire glanced in her rear-view mirror, then swung across the road and entered the driveway. There were cars parked all the way down the drive, but she managed to squeeze in behind a Ford Fiesta hatchback she recognized as David's.

The house wasn't large compared to some of the adjoining properties, but all things are relative, and some of the older homes were very large indeed. But it looked solid and comfortably settled into the hillside as if it belonged there. Brick, two storeys, gable-ended roof, and large bay windows on the ground floor to make the most of the panoramic view, and the rhododendron hedges shielding the house from its neighbours looked as if they had been there forever.

‘
Very
nice,' Claire murmured to herself as she made her way up the steps and rang the bell. Kevin
and
Stephanie must be doing well.
But then, Stephanie did have her own business, which she ran from home, and they had no children, but even so . . . Claire turned to look at the view once more, and wondered about the size of the mortgage. Probably Stephanie's father had . . .

‘Claire! So glad you could come.' The door had opened silently, and Stephanie Taylor stood there, arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture. ‘Come in, come in and join the others.' Trim and tanned, Stephanie literally radiated energy. Her short, blonde hair, styled in what she liked to call her wash-and-wear cut, gleamed like a halo above wide-set blue eyes, short nose, and radiant smile. In her open-necked shirt and summer shorts, she wouldn't have looked out of place on a magazine cover. Claire, in blouse and calf-length skirt, suddenly felt overdressed.

Claire paused in the doorway to look back. ‘Gorgeous view you have from here, Steph,' she said, ‘and a lovely setting.'

‘It is nice, isn't it?' said Stephanie perfunctorily as she closed the door. ‘But then, Dad always did have a good eye for property, and with the market the way it is, and the previous owner anxious to sell, Dad says it will be a good investment.'

Good investment. Was that all it meant to Steph, Claire wondered? On the other hand, it hardly came as a surprise to find that Steph's father had had a hand in the move. Claire wondered how Kevin felt about it. She knew how much he'd liked the house on Oak Street. It was an old house, but it had a certain charm, and it was close to everything. Best of all, it was paid for. But hardly the right neighbourhood for an up-and-coming young lawyer. At least, that's the way Steph's father, Ed Bradshaw, would look at it.

‘Yes, I suppose that's true,' she said as she handed a gift-wrapped box to Stephanie. ‘Just a little something for the new home,' she said. ‘I hope you like it.'

‘Oh, Claire, really, there was no need, but thank you very much. I'm sure I'll love it. But would you mind very much if I wait till later to open it when I have time to enjoy it? I'm a bit rushed at the moment.'

‘Of course not,' Claire told her, ‘but it's not very much, really.' In fact it
was
very much, but one didn't buy cheap gifts for Stephanie.

‘I'm sure I shall be delighted,' Stephanie said firmly. ‘Now, I know you're dying to see the rest of the house – you must see the indoor pool – but I thought we'd do the grand tour later when everyone is here. I think you know everybody, well, perhaps not some of our new neighbours, but I'm sure someone will introduce you. So I'll take you along to join them, then pop back to the kitchen to check on a few things. Dad insisted on having the caterers in, and I'm sure they know what they're doing, but I do like to check on that sort of thing myself.'

With a gentle but firm grip on Claire's arm, Stephanie propelled her down a hallway towards an open door. ‘Go on in,' she said, ‘and do remind Kevin to mingle. You'll probably find Dad's got him stuck in a corner talking shop. And tell him I'll be back in a couple of minutes.'

Claire paused in the doorway before going in. She enjoyed meeting people on a one-on-one basis, or even in small groups, but she had never been comfortable meeting new people
en masse,
so she was pleased to see that Steph had been right; and there were a fair number of familiar faces in the crowd.

She didn't see Kevin, but she spotted Ed Bradshaw working his way through the crowded room. He paused to speak to a woman Claire didn't recognize, then disappeared through a doorway into another room. Lucille, David's ex-wife, looking as chic and elegant as ever, was there with her new husband, Ray Fisher, while John Chadwell and his wife, Amy, stood at the window, drinks in hand, apparently admiring the view. Claire liked Amy, although she didn't know her well, but she wasn't too keen on John, one of Broadminster's town planners. Heavy-set and somewhat overbearing, he'd always struck Claire as a bit of a bully, and she'd never understood how Amy, a rather gentle soul, had come to marry him.

Roger Corbett, portly and only slightly less rumpled than usual, was talking earnestly to Irene Sinclair. Irene and Claire had been at school together, but they had lost touch with each other as children do when the family moved to Inverness. So Claire had barely recognized Irene when they had bumped into each other on the street some years ago.

She'd come back, Irene told Claire, because she had always thought of Broadminster as her true home, despite the fact that she had been born in Hong Kong, and had spent the first five years of her life there. Her father was a Scot, her mother was Chinese, and the mix was reflected in Irene's features. She was a striking woman, with her rich auburn hair framing an oval face with a distinctly oriental cast. But what Claire had found strangest of all, was that Irene had picked up a Scottish accent during her stay north of the border. Irene was an actress – or
actor
as one was supposed to say these days, Claire reminded herself – and director at the local theatre. She also had a small business designing web pages, and was doing quite well with it.

As for Roger, Claire wondered what he was doing for a living now; the man had changed jobs so many times in the last few years, that she'd lost count. Estate agent was the last she'd heard, but you never knew with Roger.

Claire looked around for Lisa, Roger's wife. Lisa was one of Claire's favourite people. Small, dark and vivacious, Lisa Corbett was a ballroom dancing instructor, and full of life. There was another odd couple, thought Claire. How the two of them had ever got together was one of life's deeper mysteries. But Lisa didn't seem to be there.