Blood and Stone (16 page)

She hovered uncertainly, wringing her hands, clearly uncomfortable with these developments. ‘We ought to let Mr Shapasnikov know what is happening,' she said. ‘I'm not sure how he'd feel about the police coming here … it's not really my place to give permission …'

‘It's not a question of permission.' Mariner was pragmatic. ‘This has happened adjacent to his property.' He could see her trying to work out exactly what was going on, but didn't want to give away more until the police had the full story.

‘Yes, but all the same, he should be contacted.' With an apologetic nod, she left the room. As she did so, another younger woman appeared carrying a tray of hot tea and biscuits that she placed on a table in front of Hennessey. ‘Thank you,' said Mariner. Loading sugar into the mugs, he passed one to Hennessey before taking the other himself. Then, unable to sit still, he got up and paced the room, noting from the photographs that covered any blank areas of wall, that Mr Shapasnikov was a man with wide and influential contacts.

H
unched over the stream, Glenn McGinley was retching his guts up in ugly rasps, and watching the water that flowed away from him turn a pale reddish green. His throat burned and his ribs and stomach ached, but it didn't matter; the job was done. He had ‘closure' as they say. Again the surprise element had worked in his favour, but if he was honest he would have to admit that on this occasion his temper had got the better of him and rather spoiled the experience. It was messy. All the years of misdirected anger and resentment had come bubbling to the surface and this time he had lost control. But he didn't care. The outcome was the same, and every bit as satisfying as his previous efforts, giving him a sense of achievement he'd rarely felt before. In different circumstances he could imagine this kind of buzz developing into an addiction of kinds.

And now he had fulfilled his obligation. ‘I did it for you!' he bellowed at the sky.

Tom Mariner's house was a former lock keeper's cottage on the edge of the Grand Union Canal, between the back of a small cul-de-sac and the wide, green expanse of the public Kingsmead Park. Despite being in the city suburbs, its position was relatively isolated behind the cover of trees, and although secured as well as any policeman's house was likely to be, it was always vulnerable on the rare occasions when Mariner was away for extended periods. Knox drove to the far side of the park and he and Nelson did almost a full circuit of the playing fields, before branching off down the narrow footpath to the canal. When Knox's marriage had broken up a few years earlier, leaving him temporarily homeless, he had lodged with Mariner for a while and had appreciated the seclusion as much as he knew the boss did. But being so remote also had its disadvantages. This morning everything about the property outwardly looked fine. To make sure, Knox opened the gate and went into the garden to look in at the window, and that was when his day took a downturn.

Where Mariner's TV usually stood there was a conspicuous space. Knox wasn't aware that Mariner had ditched his TV; in fact only a few days ago they'd been discussing the European Cup game they'd both watched the night before. Taking out the key he'd retained since his stay there, Knox let himself into the house and Nelson skittered in behind him. A first glance around told him that the stereo was missing too, and after a tour of the other rooms he'd added a computer, microwave and a couple of radios to the list. He considered checking the cellar to see if Mariner had just been security conscious enough to lock all the
valuable stuff away out of sight, but when he got to the kitchen and found the mess of beer bottles, spilled beer and opened food packets, he knew that the boss hadn't left things like this. The curiosity was that, though he checked thoroughly, Knox could find no indication anywhere of a forced entry. The sturdy locks and window fastenings were all intact, meaning that this was the work of someone with a key. The only other obvious candidate, besides Knox himself, was Katarina, and while it was not impossible to think that she might have borrowed the appliances, it didn't explain the mess in the kitchen. She would never have been as inconsiderate as to leave it like that. Knox spent a fruitless few minutes hunting around for her contact details, but found nothing and had to conclude that they were stored on Mariner's missing computer. Reluctantly he called Mariner's mobile. It went straight to voicemail, so he left a message.

Mariner had just stood up to get himself another hot drink when he saw, through the window, that the local police were drawing up quietly outside. It was encouraging that they weren't gung ho enough to feel the need to herald their arrival amid the blare of sirens and squealing brakes. Hearing the subsequent activity and voices beyond the door, he went out into the vestibule to meet them. The plain-clothes officer leading the pack was not tall but was solid, with a shaved head and a thick neck that didn't sit comfortably in his pristine-white shirt collar. His scrubbed complexion was high, with a network of broken veins on his upper cheeks.

‘Mister Mariner?' he asked briskly, taking a foil pack from his pocket and popping a tablet Mariner recognized as nicotine gum into his mouth. ‘I'm DCI Bullman and these are my colleagues DI Ryan Griffith and DC Debra Fielding.'

‘Tom,' said Mariner and the two men shook hands.

Griffith was blond and good looking in a rough-hewn sort of way. The woman standing a little behind him came up to his shoulder and was slim, with dark hair pulled back in a severe pony tail. ‘Actually I'm a DI,' Mariner added, carefully. ‘With West Midlands. I haven't got my warrant card, of course but …'

Bullman regarded him levelly. ‘Well, I'm sure we can verify it, should we need to,' he said. The handshake was firm but Mariner's confession had introduced an almost undetectable wariness into his eyes. ‘What have we got?' he asked.

Mariner briefly recounted the events of the last hour or so, describing the location of the body and how he had come across Hennessey. At the mention of Hennessey contempt spread across Griffith's features. ‘Do you think he's involved?'

‘I can't say for sure of course, but I don't think so,' Mariner said. ‘He was panicked when he ran into me. I think he thought I might be the killer. He claims he was out running, fell down the ravine and on to the body.'

‘You believe him?'

‘The footpath where he fell is badly eroded, and the body felt cool. Rigor was starting to set in. I'd say that it happened at least several hours ago. Also Hennessey's got some blood on him, but the attacker must have been covered in it. I checked the body for ID but there didn't appear to be anything.'

‘Right.' Bullman turned to Fielding. ‘Take a statement from Mr Hennessey, Deb.' He nodded towards where the man sat, dazed, on the sofa. ‘And bag up his clothes. Then as long as we keep track of where he is, after that he can go.' He turned back to Mariner. ‘And if you could take us back to the scene. SOCO are on their way but they have to come from all over, so I'd like to go and take a preliminary look.'

Dusk was beginning to draw down as Mariner and his police escort set out again towards the woods armed with torches and the wire cutters Mariner had suggested. He couldn't be confident of finding Hennessey's way through in the dark, and he was also hoping that he'd be able to negotiate the path back to the body. The temperature had dropped and rain was still coming down steadily and the last thing they needed was a whole team of people floundering about all over the woods lost and destroying important evidence.

‘Joe Hennessey seemed a bit reticent about coming up here to the Hall,' Mariner observed to Griffith as they crossed the grass.

Griffith turned to Mariner as if trying to ascertain if Mariner was winding him up. ‘I don't think Mr Hennessey has done much to make himself popular around here. He spends a lot of time hanging around these woods, poking around with his long lens. A couple of times he's strayed on to the property and our lads have had to escort him off again.'

‘He told me he was photographing the wildlife,' Mariner said.

‘Did he now?' said Griffith, in a tone that implied disbelief.

The cutters made short work of the barbed wire and, with powerful torch beams lighting the way, Mariner led the group slowly down the path and into the woods, careful that he was precisely retracing their steps. After about five minutes he came to the deep skid marks and started down into the gully. Under the glare of the torches the site looked more gruesome than ever and Mariner even wondered if animals had been at the body since he was last here.

Bullman and Griffith seemed to pretty much agree with Mariner's assessment of the situation, and Mariner took them through the sequence of events again in relation to the location. ‘I did a quick recce for a murder weapon,' he said. ‘But if it's been discarded here, it won't be easy to find.'

‘Too dark now to conduct a search,' Bullman agreed. ‘We'll get this covered up, cordon off the woods and start a search at first light.' He looked up at Mariner. ‘You can leave us to it now, thank you, Tom. If you wouldn't mind going back up to the Hall to give DC Fielding your formal statement, you can then go. You're staying somewhere nearby?'

‘Yes,' said Mariner, hoping to leave it there, but Griffith's questioning look wanted more. ‘I'm staying at the old hostel,' he added. ‘Elena Hughes' place. In fact I should let her know where I am.'

Griffith held his gaze for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the artificial light, clearly intrigued, but aware that now wasn't the time for that discussion.

‘Well thank you for your help, Tom,' said Bullman, breaking the tension. ‘We'll keep in touch.' He turned back to the scene.

Within the short time that Mariner had been away, the activity back at the Hall had stepped up apace. Close to the perimeter fence, the mud was being churned up by the tyres of a low loader that was delivering a mobile incident unit, and drums of heavy-duty cable to service it had arrived. Although there were plenty of uniformed police milling about, Mariner went back into the Hall to find that Hennessey had already gone. Mariner stood in the reception hall and took off the now dripping wet forensic suit. Seeing him come in, DC Fielding looked up from where she was sitting at the desk in the study, scribbling notes, and she came out to meet him. She brought with her a brown paper evidence bag, and a bundle of navy blue clothing. ‘Sorry, sir, I'll need you to leave your clothes with us.' From the deference in her tone Mariner guessed that they had, by now, checked up on him and established his identity. He was glad. She handed him a police-issue tracksuit and trainers. ‘There's a cloakroom through there.' She indicated a door towards the back of the hall.

Stripping to his underwear Mariner put on the sweatshirt and joggers which were, in turn, too big and too small for him, though the trainers were not a bad fit. He couldn't imagine what he looked like, but the clothes were at least dry and began to warm him a little. He folded his own things and placed them in the evidence bags, sealing them carefully. Any fibres found at the crime scene would be matched with both Mariner's and Hennessey's clothing, for elimination purposes. Taking the bags he went back to the study.

‘Are you ready to give your statement, sir?' Fielding asked.

‘Could I just call the friend I'm staying with, to let her know where I am? She'll be expecting me back at any time.'

‘Of course. And you'll be discreet?' Fielding said tactfully.

‘Don't worry, I'll keep it brief,' Mariner reassured her.

‘Thank you, sir.'

Mariner could feel Elena's curiosity burning down the phone line as he explained to her that he'd been ‘detained' at Gwennol Hall, but she accepted his vagueness nonetheless. ‘I'll be able to tell you more when I get back,' he said.

Replacing the phone, he took the seat alongside Fielding. She reached over and pulled a map to the centre of the desk. ‘Can you show me exactly where you were walking today, sir?'

Locating the hostel, Mariner traced a finger across the field and through the woodland and up the hillside towards the Devil's Mouth gorge, passing close to where Hennessey had made his gruesome discovery.

‘What time did you set off this morning?' Fielding asked.

‘I can't say exactly, but it would have been between nine-thirty and ten. I'm fairly sure the chapel clock was just coming up to half past when I came through the village. I walked along the lane, leaving it at the entrance to Abbey Farm, just here,' he indicated on the map. ‘I went and bought some eggs at the farm, then afterwards I picked up this footpath through the fields.'

It was way too early to have had a time of death confirmed yet, but Mariner felt sure the murder had occurred many hours before the discovery of the body; possibly even before he'd set off that morning. If Fielding had any thoughts about that she didn't allude to them.

‘Did anyone see you go?' she asked.

‘No. But Elena was at the hostel when we left; she can confirm the time. I started out with Cerys, her daughter.'

Fielding's nod said that she'd already noted that. ‘Did you notice anything unusual in the village – anyone around who you wouldn't expect to see?'

‘I'm not local, so I don't really know anyone. But if you're asking did I see Joe Hennessey at that time, the answer is no, I didn't.'

‘How about when you were going along the footpath past the woods?'

‘There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a peaceful day; the only sound I remember hearing was birdsong.'

‘And you walked to Devil's Mouth.'

‘Yes, up here.' Mariner pointed again on the map.

‘And you got there at what time?'

Mariner handed her the ticket he'd retrieved from his trouser pocket. The number stamped in the top right-hand corner indicated the time that he'd been admitted to the site.