The Fox in the Forest (15 page)

“But you surely can’t think —”

Crawley was looking for some kind of reassurance, however minor. He got none. The two tall men watched him impassively as he looked from face to face. He might have been a butterfly pinned upon a board.

It was Lambert who at length said to him, “You may not yet be aware that a second body has been discovered in the forest, not far from where Peter Barton was killed. I’m now asking you formally, Mr Crawley, whether you were involved in the deaths of either of the men at Woodford, either directly or indirectly?”

“No. I swear I’d never have got involved with Clare if I’d thought for a moment that Peter —”

“And have you any idea who might have committed either of these murders?”

“No.”

They waited a moment to see if stress might induce any useful indiscretion. When none came, they rose unhurriedly at a nod from Lambert. Rushton said from the door, “If you have any occasion to leave the area, Mr Crawley, please be good enough to let us know the details of your movements.” He managed to make even that sound like a threat, a final assurance that he neither believed nor trusted the man they were leaving alone in the deserted factory.

They drove a full mile before either man spoke. Then Rushton said, “I wouldn’t trust that bugger as far as I could throw him. On the make with women, deceiving his wife, prepared to drop Clare Barton like a hot potato as soon as the going gets tough.” He stared through the windscreen at the damp paving stones where mothers muffled against the cold pushed prams, aware that he was voicing his distaste rather than any constructive idea.

Lambert said mildly, “An adulterer isn’t necessarily a murderer, Chris, thank God. Nor is a coward who drops a woman as soon as she becomes an embarrassment.”

“But he’s the only one we’ve found so far with any convincing motive for getting rid of Barton.”

“Agreed. We’ll need to check him out. But did he seem to you as though he felt strongly enough about Clare Barton to commit a crime of passion?”

Rushton sighed. “No. He seemed like a crafty shit, who took what he could get and dropped it like a hot brick when it looked as though it might burn his fingers.”

“He might of course be a very good actor. But that would require Clare Barton to be one too. She was adamant she wasn’t going to see Michael Crawley again, and she convinced me she meant what she said at that moment. Of course, if either one of them had arranged for Barton to be murdered, it would be policy to pretend the affair meant less to them than it did. And I agree it’s the nearest thing we’ve got to a motive for killing Barton. That vicar’s becoming more and more like a saint as we question everyone in the village. Irritating, for CID cynics like us.”

It was an olive branch: he had come dangerously close to accusing the younger man of a failure in objectivity, that ultimate sin in detectives. Both of them were too sensitive with each other, still. He would not even have had to think about these things with Bert Hook.

They were driving away from the city now, through the last of the suburbs. Lambert would normally have felt a sense of release as they moved back into the country he loved. For a little while, he did. But as they approached Woodford and the forest closed tightly around the roads, the shadow of brutal, motiveless murder fell back upon them.

At that moment, the teeming city they had left seemed a cheerful and innocent place, the silent village a centre of faceless evil.

20

Tommy Farr was still one of the few villagers who ventured freely into the forest.

He went there indeed at four o’clock on New Year’s Day when the low sun had already dropped from sight and his fellow-villagers were shuttering their houses against the night and the north wind. And against The Fox: country-dwellers are as susceptible as their urban counterparts to the suggestions of the media.

Tommy swung briskly along the road, as though he had no thought of danger. He had two forms of insurance against any attack. Kelly bounded ahead of him, with head erect and energy rippling from every line of his carriage. The Doberman sniffed the bitter air as if it was the sweetest he had ever savoured: he had been waiting for this walk ever since the hour of his normal lunch-time exercise had come and gone without his master stirring towards the door. The dog bounded into the forest as into a Paradise regained, forcing his indulgent master almost into a run to keep pace with him.

The second form of protection which Farr took with him towards the scene of the late murders was more obvious and perhaps more sinister. Slung almost negligently against his left shoulder was his shotgun. The dark polished metal of its twin barrels gleamed briefly in the diminishing light There were cartridges today in both barrels of the twelve bore. Tommy had seen to that before he left the privacy of the kitchen at the back of the village stores. He found the butt of the gun solid and reassuring now between his palm and fingers.

***

Two miles or so away, on the other side of the long tongue of forest that ran down to Woodford, a lane traced its erratic course towards Ashbridge. It was not even the main route between the two villages, though that was by no means a major thoroughfare. The road was metalled, but patches of grass poked their blades through the ridge at its centre. In the years between the two great wars which had taken men from this quiet region to a greater and more violent stage, the lane had linked small farms to each other, winding’ crazily along the boundaries. Now these small homesteads had long been deserted, their lands merged into larger holdings which still struggled to balance their books in the ‘nineties.

At dusk on the first day of the new year, a car lurched cautiously along this quiet way, reluctant to put on even its sidelights as the gloom stretched inexorably across the valley behind it. It was not the most well-adapted car for such a place: a Land-Rover would have managed the route better than the long Rover saloon, with its soft springs and low ground clearance.

But the care and skill of the driver ensured that it reached the appointed place safely enough. Beneath a low-branching chestnut, it would have been easy to miss the narrow break in the straggling hedge which marked one of the less frequented ways into the woods. But this man was on the lookout for it. He did not park next to it, but ran the big car thirty yards further on, to where a patch of grass just off the road allowed him to leave it almost out of sight beneath an overarching conifer.

He shivered a little as he left the warmth of the car, then zipped his anorak tightly against the sudden cold. He hesitated a little before he moved beneath the winter canopy of twigs and branches, as though he was reluctant to shut out the sky and the remaining daylight.

But as he plunged a moment later down the path into the forest, it was behind him that he cast his eyes, down the lane on which he had arrived. He wanted to check for the last possible time that he had not been followed here. There was no sight of any following figure, no note of an engine engaged in pursuit of the Rover. It was as much comfort as he could offer himself in this lonely setting.

As he turned towards the area where two men had lately met such violent deaths, this man had not the safeguards which surly Tommy Farr had afforded himself. No large dog was at his side, and he carried no weapon. He dug his gloveless hands deep into the pockets of his anorak, and began to hurry towards his assignation. There was not much light left for him now.

21

On January 2nd the world was back at work. Notes on Lambert’s desk told him that Central Television and the BBC would both like to set up interviews. He pushed them resolutely to one side and brought Hook up to date with what had happened in his absence.

At 9.30 Dr Burgess, the pathologist, was ushered into his office, trailing policemen and policewomen behind him like a consultant upon his rounds. He had insisted upon bringing in his official post-mortem report on the second victim personally, though Lambert expected it would add little to the details he had already taken over the phone.

He had long since despaired of introducing reality into Burgess’s lurid and literary impressions of modern CID practice. He humoured the silver-haired, patrician figure because in his autopsy work he was both efficient and alive to the urgency of police requirements. And because he liked the old boy, though he never admitted it. And perhaps just a little because it annoyed the ascetic Rushton to have a civilian present even on the periphery of police deliberations.

He had a good excuse for involving Burgess this morning. A scientist from the forensic laboratory would arrive at any moment to tell them what he could about the weapons and ammunition he and his colleagues had been examining in connection with the two killings in the forest. At least all the specialist scientific evidence could now be set alongside the meagre evidence the police had so far turned up.

“I come most carefully upon my hour, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father,” said Burgess with a benign smile.

“Let’s hope you are not the precursor of the kind of carnage introduced by that unfortunate presence,” said Lambert drily. “Do find yourself somewhere to sit down.”

His office always seemed much smaller when Burgess came into it; the pathologist was scarcely six feet tall, four inches shorter than Lambert, but his urbane presence made the piles of documents and statements awaiting the Superintendent’s attention seem more untidy than ever. The pathologist picked a shred of white thread from his immaculate navy suit, set three closely typed sheets on the edge of Lambert’s desk, and said, “So The Fox is still eluding his dedicated pursuers?” He settled himself in the room’s single battered armchair with every appearance of satisfaction at the thought.

It was typical of him to seize upon the press’s label for the killer, which Lambert had scrupulously avoided in his briefings to the team. The Superintendent said sourly, “First animal I know that kills its prey with a shotgun.”

Burgess waved a hand airily. “You mustn’t expect too much from the gentlemen of the fourth estate, John. You should know by now that they never let facts get in the way of a good story. Still less a good metaphor. And at least The Fox has brought a little glamour into a life made dull by petty fraud and public house brawls.”

Lambert was fortunately prevented from any rejoinder by the arrival of the forensic scientist. He was a slight, intense man with a closely trimmed brown beard. His narrow features appeared sharper than ever because they were pinched with cold. Greatly to Burgess’s delight, he introduced himself as Sam Johnson; Lambert winced mentally in anticipation.

“We shall be able to look to you to lighten the ‘inspissated gloom’ with which this case seems to be beset!” said Burgess affably. The bewildered Johnson had obviously not investigated his illustrious namesake’s wordier pronouncements. The scientist opened his briefcase and took refuge in a sheaf of notes.

Burgess watched the move with interest. After a few seconds, he offered innocently, “Your celebrated namesake thought that ‘Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils’. I think I’m inclined to agree with him, aren’t you, Mr Johnson?”

“I find it difficult to operate without notes,” said Johnson acerbically. He found the pages he was looking for and smoothed them upon his knees, setting the briefcase down beside his upright chair.

Lambert was relieved when the return of Hook with Rushton diverted Burgess and allowed the informal meeting to begin. He said briskly, “Perhaps I could ask Dr Burgess to begin with a summary of his findings about the death of the man we now know to be Ian Sharpe.”

Burgess raised his elegant eyebrows a fraction. He had not heard the new name before; the corpse had come into his laboratory as the remains of Douglas Robertson. But he was aware that he was here on sufferance, so he was careful not to ruffle Lambert by asking for detail. “I would guess your man died between ten and eleven on the morning of 27th December. I couldn’t be definite about it under oath — you’ll see that I’ve put between nine and twelve in my report.” He nodded towards the pages on Lambert’s desk. “But both body temperature and stomach contents indicate that he had not been dead very long when you found the body.

“I’m assuming he last ate at about eight a.m. It’s hardly likely that he’d be eating before daylight, living as he was. He’d been eating rabbit, incidentally. Easy enough for him to trap, I should think, now that so many rabbits live above ground all winter.”

Rushton said, “He’d been living as a tramp. Do you think he was one, Dr Burgess?”

The elegant shoulders shrugged beneath the dark worsted. “Who knows what a tramp is nowadays, Inspector? If he was a dropout, though, he was a remarkably fit one. Not much fat on him, despite his powerful, stocky build, and his muscle tissue was in excellent condition. Well above average for a man of his age. What was he? Late thirties?”

Lambert said, “About that, yes,” and all of them thought wryly of the press’s picture of harmless ‘Old Dougie’ and the white-haired, helpless pensioner they had created as the second victim of The Fox. “He was a steelworker, a long time ago. Then a copper, for a while. After that, we’re not quite sure what. Probably a mercenary soldier, for a little while at least.”

“A bent copper?” Burgess was delighted to air his knowledge of the vernacular. Lambert gave him a grim little smile.

“Not in the manner you probably mean, Cyril. He seems to have been prepared to take short cuts to get convictions. To have been too fond of violence for his own or other people’s good. Contrary to popular opinion, that isn’t something we encourage. There wasn’t any evidence of his accepting bribes or other inducements. He was found unsuitable for further service as a police officer, but there was no prosecution.”

He realized with a spurt of irritation that he was speaking not for Burgess or the meeting at large but for Rushton, proving to his deputy his credentials as a defender of the force. Had the two of them been alone, he would not have felt the need to say these things to Burgess. A little too hurriedly, he said, “Could you tell us about the forensic findings, Mr Johnson?”

When invited to speak from his own area of expertise, Johnson was suddenly confident. “Shotguns,” he said with distaste, as though he were pronouncing a mild obscenity. “They’re the bane of our lives. Far too anonymous for anyone’s good. Both your men were killed with twelve-bore cartridges, probably fired from about four yards in each instance.” He looked interrogatively at Burgess, who nodded confirmation from his PM findings. “Unfortunately, as you probably know, we cannot pin down a particular weapon from the ammunition used when it’s a shotgun. It’s quite possible we’ve handled your murder weapon in the last day or two, but there’s no way in which we could be sure which gun it was.”

Hook said, “Is there any chance that you could be certain that it was the same weapon that was used in each case?”

Johnson shook his head mournfully. “The most we could say is that our findings indicate it would be probable. And you know that ‘probable’ is totally useless in court. The same sort of cartridge was used in both killings. But it’s the commonest type of ammunition, so it doesn’t mean a lot.”

Rushton said, “Did your examination of the twelve-bores we brought in from the surrounding villages throw up anything that might be useful?” He turned to Burgess to explain, “We collected all the known twelve-bores from the district to see if they would reveal anything, because the murder weapon was not found anywhere during an extensive search of the forest.” Lambert thought with amusement that it sounded like an official press release, but Burgess was delighted as always to be involved in the machinery of an investigation. He retained a schoolboy’s enthusiasm for the processes of detection, despite all his contacts with corpses.

Johnson said, “We haven’t come up with anything that seems particularly significant. Except…” He searched feverishly through the notes he had said were vital to his operations. “You gave us particulars of the owner’s statements about when the shotguns had last been fired. There was one of your villagers whose account did not seem to tally with what we found when we looked at his twelve-bore in the lab.”

Lambert said carefully, “Which village?” trying to eliminate optimism and excitement from his voice. This business had been so obstinately retentive of its secrets that he distrusted hope.

“Woodford.”

“And which shotgun?”

Johnson ran his index finger feverishly down the page until he located the name. “The gun from number four, Gladstone Terrace. Owned by a Mr Charles Webb.”

“Charlie Webb,” breathed Hook softly. He was thinking not of that strange young man, but of his old grandmother, cheerfully mischievous and so obviously fond of her grandson, even as her mind wandered into decline.

Sam Johnson looked up a little petulantly, as if he did not like being interrupted when he had finally found his place. “According to the statement you collected from Mr Webb, he had not used the shotgun since December 18th. That is several days before the first of the shootings in the forest, that of the Reverend Barton. But our examination indicated that it had been fired within the last day or two before we saw it. It had not been cleaned, you see, so we could test the powder traces. They were quite fresh. Is Webb the sort of chap who would normally be careless about cleaning his shotgun?”

Hook said quietly, “I wouldn’t know about that. He’s scarcely more than a boy.”

Rushton said acidly, “That scarcely indicates whether or not he would be careless about cleaning a murder weapon.” He too was searching through his sheets of notes now. He had a much thicker sheaf of them than Johnson, for he had the task of co-ordinating the written reports of the sixty officers now engaged upon the inquiry as they arrived in the murder room. He tried not to reveal his excitement: that would not suit the image of himself he was anxious to create.

Lambert said with a hint of irritation as he watched this search, “Do you have something to add to what Mr Johnson has said about the gun, Chris?”

Rushton pulled out the relevant sheet with the relief of a conjuror who has not been quite precise enough with a trick. “It’s a report from the house-to-house team, sir. You remember that we were trying to get the names of anyone who was in the forest on the morning of the murder of Ian Sharpe. This came in last night: a Mrs Baker was in her garden on the edge of the village when she saw Charlie Webb going into the woods. Incidentally, he hadn’t told us that himself, when we questioned him about his movements.”

“What time was he seen?” Lambert’s voice sounded perfectly calm: he had practised these things for much longer than Rushton.

“About ten o’clock, the lady says.”

Lambert looked at Burgess. But now that it had come to it, the pathologist did not care to pin down a suspect with his findings. It was left to the Superintendent to say, “So he was at or near the scene of the murder at exactly the time when you think Ian Sharpe was killed.”