The Grave Tattoo (38 page)

Rigston smiled grimly. ‘I am. Thank you for coming straight to me with this. I’m bound to say, it doesn’t look good for Dr Gresham.’

‘You can’t seriously think she’s behind this?’

‘She’s connected to all our presumed victims. We both know that.’

River shook her head, bewildered. ‘That doesn’t make her a suspect. Ewan, nobody would have had any evidence that there was something dodgy going on if Jane Gresham hadn’t come to me. She’s the one who initiated this. Why on earth would she draw attention to the fact that she’s been getting away with murder?’

Rigston shifted in his seat. ‘With this fourth death, it was bound to come out anyway. This way, she makes herself look good by being the one that draws attention to it. From what you tell me, she’s changed her tune since I spoke to her earlier.’

‘That’s because you’re a scary cop and I’m not.’ River sighed in exasperation. ‘Ewan, I know it’s your job to consider every possibility, but I’m damn sure the only attention Jane is interested in is what she’ll get if she discovers her precious manuscript. She showed me the family tree with her interviewees marked in order of priority. I know the name of the next person on her list. Why would she let me see that if she was the killer?’

‘You’ve got the name?’

River passed him a slip of paper. ‘There you go. Ewan, you need to ask her who else might be after this bloody poem that wants it badly enough to be killing people for it.’

Rigston frowned. ‘And that’s another thing. How does killing people get this murderer any nearer to the manuscript?’

‘Jane had a theory about that. She pointed out that old people don’t go out very much. If you want to search their homes for hidden treasure, you have to incapacitate them first.’

‘See? She’s got it all worked out. I’m telling you, River, Jane Gresham knows more than she’s letting on.’

‘She’s stubborn as a mule,’ Jimmy said, pacing up and down the track outside Copperhead Cottage. ‘She won’t budge. She doesn’t want to leave her cats, she never gets a wink of sleep outside her own bed, she doesn’t like being among strangers–you name it. I don’t want to frighten her out of her own house, but I don’t know what else I can try.’

Jane stared out of her bedroom window, her mobile to her ear. ‘Why don’t you offer to stay over at the cottage? That way she’d be safe without having to leave home.’

Jimmy whimpered. ‘I thought you liked me. Jane, she’s a bloody nightmare.’

‘I know. I met her, remember?’ Jane suddenly had a chill thought. Someone cold-blooded enough to kill four people might not be deterred by Jimmy’s presence. The last thing she wanted was to put him at risk too. She had to find a way to backtrack without making him feel his masculinity was under challenge. ‘Mind you,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose you staying over is no guarantee of her safety. It’s not as if you’ll be sleeping across the threshold of her bedroom like Gelert.’

‘Not bloody likely.’

‘In that case, there’s nothing else for it. You’re going to have to tell her it’s not safe for her to be there. Not till all of this is sorted out.’

Jimmy sighed. ‘I thought you would say that. I really didn’t want to frighten her, you know? Behind all that bluster, she’s just a lonely old lady who loves her home. I don’t want to make that a place where she doesn’t feel safe any more.’

‘I know. But better scared and safe than dead.’ ‘Wish me luck,’ he said heavily. ‘If you don’t hear from me later on, you’ll know she’s eaten me alive.’

38

Ewan Rigston had never been a Boy Scout; nevertheless, he always liked to be prepared. In spite of everything River had said, he still felt unsure of Jane Gresham. But he intended to be forearmed before he confronted her about her list. And there were precautions to be taken too.

He was going to have to go back to the houses of the dead and treat them like crime scenes, even though any evidence would have been compromised by the emergency services and family members trampling over the scene. Still, the fingerprint team might just come up with someone whose dab had no business being there. He was also going to have to talk to the families. Or family, rather, since the dead all seemed to belong to one clan. He knew the Clewlows and the Fairfields, the Swains and the Brownriggs. Decent folk, local roots, community-minded mostly. He’d never had cause to arrest any of them, not even a teenage lad falling foul of too much drink.

He’d seen River out to the car park, and promised to call her later. They’d had plans for the evening–a curry and a folk night in Carlisle–but that was history now. They’d agreed that there needed to be post mortems on the other three victims, and River had been adamant that she would do them right away. A quick call to the coroner had established his agreement. That was one of the advantages of working in a small town, Rigston knew. The machinery could be made to work faster than in the big cities. Still, neither of them anticipated being finished before midnight.

Then he’d gone back to the office, organising the deployment of the handful of SOCOs he had at his disposal that late in the day. He wanted to move fast, but equally he’d have to be careful about authorising overtime ahead of a formal murder inquiry. Bloody bureaucracy. People wondered why the police didn’t seem able to keep the lid on crime. They should spend a week in his shoes, shuffling paper and balancing budgets, then they’d have a better idea.

A couple of phone calls to his local contacts and he’d established that the entire clan seemed to be gathered at Alice Clewlow’s house. He arrived unannounced and alone. Alice answered the door, her face shifting from welcome to satisfaction as she realised who was calling. ‘An inspector calls,’ she said drily. ‘Hello, Ewan. So you decided to take me seriously after all. I’m just sorry it took another death in the family for you to get your act into gear.’

‘Come on now, Alice, that’s hardly fair. I’ve been making enquiries.’

‘An arrest would be even better.’

‘I could use a few words.’

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s mob-handed in there. Come round the side, there’s a bench in the garden.’

He followed her through a wooden gate in the fence into a spacious, well-kept garden. A few late roses hung their bedraggled heads from a trellis, next to which was a wrought-iron bench. They sat down and there was silence for a moment. ‘Spit it out then, Ewan.’

‘I just wanted to keep you posted. Although we still haven’t established a suspicious cause of death in any of these four instances, we are investigating the circumstances,’ he said carefully.

Alice shook her head sorrowfully. ‘They were just ordinary, harmless old people.’

‘I know. And if this turns out to be murder, I won’t see evil like that go unpunished. The thing is, we think somebody believes a member of your family has something very valuable in their possession, and–’

‘I told you. Jane bloody Gresham,’ Alice interrupted angrily. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘It might be. But Dr Gresham’s probably not the only person who knows about it. So I need to make some enquiries about your relatives. Who saw them last; anything they may have said about Jane Gresham or anybody else asking about this manuscript. Now, I know you’re all grieving and I know Edith’s funeral is tomorrow, but I could really do with talking to people tonight.’

‘But the funeral–surely you have to do a post mortem or something? If she was…’ Alice tripped over the word. Rigston understood; he’d seen that same denial before.

‘That’s all in hand,’ he said. ‘The funeral service won’t have to be postponed. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to bury your grandmother.’

‘What do you mean, we won’t be able to bury her?’

Rigston spread his hands helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, Alice. The rules say the body has to be available to the defence in case they want to do their own autopsy.’

‘But what if you don’t arrest anyone? How long do you expect us to wait to bury my grandmother?’ Alice’s voice was growing more shrill.

‘If we haven’t arrested anyone after a month, we arrange for a second, independent post mortem. Then we release the body to the family.’

Alice’s head dropped into her hands. ‘This is terrible, Ewan.’

‘I know, Alice. And I’m very sorry. But I would really appreciate your help right now. The best way you can serve Edith and the others now is to work with us. It’s our job to speak for the dead. But we need your help.’

She looked up, her eyes heavy with tears. ‘Whatever you need. Just give me five minutes to break the news. I’ll come and fetch you.’

Rigston watched her walk into the house, head bowed and shoulders slumped. He felt for her. Taking that walk back into the heart of the Clewlow clan wasn’t something he was looking forward to either.

Jimmy Clewlow was not a happy man. It had taken some time to convince Jenny Wright that her life might be in danger if she remained alone in Copperhead Cottage. Once convinced, it had then taken hours to effect the departure. Cats had to be supplied with adequate food and water. Deciding what to pack apparently involved combing Jenny’s entire wardrobe, including a trunk that looked as if it hadn’t been opened since the Napoleonic wars. All the electrical appliances had to be turned off, including an antique fridge whose contents had to be transferred to plastic bags so they could be removed to Keswick. Jimmy was a patient man, but even he had his limits and Jenny had exceeded them long before she was ready to leave.

It didn’t help that she was the worst passenger he’d ever driven. Whenever he exceeded thirty miles an hour, she drew her breath in sharply and demanded to know whether he was trying to kill them. If he came within three feet of the verge on her side of the car, she would yelp that they were about to crash. By the time he turned into Alice’s street, Jimmy was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t left her to her own devices.

To his astonishment, when they walked into Alice’s living room, Ewan Rigston was settled in an armchair, a mug of tea in his hand. He hadn’t seen Rigston for years, but he recognised him instantly. Alice jumped up from the floor and steered him and Jenny into the kitchen. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Jimmy demanded.

‘I know this is going to come as a shock, Jimmy, but the police think Edith and the others might have been murdered,’ Alice said, throwing a concerned look at Jenny.

‘That’s why Jenny’s here,’ Jimmy said. ‘Jane Gresham thinks she might be next.’

Alice looked ready to burst into tears. ‘Christ, Jimmy, what’s going on?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘And Jenny’s tired. She needs to stay here for a few days.’

‘You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m not here, young Jimmy,’ Jenny snapped. ‘I can speak for myself. Alice, I need somewhere to stop. Can you put me up?’

‘Of course,’ Alice said distractedly. ‘I’ll show you to the spare room.’

‘All in good time,’ Jenny said. ‘Jimmy, be a good lad and get me a brandy.’

Jimmy cast his eyes heavenwards and went back into the living room where Alice had set out the drink. This time, Ewan Rigston caught his eye over the heads of what Jimmy thought of as the council of elders. ‘Jimmy,’ he said in greeting.

Jimmy nodded. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there trying to catch the person who’s killing my family?’ he asked mildly, reaching for the brandy.

‘I’m trying to do just that.’

‘You won’t find them in here.’ Jimmy poured a generous measure into a glass.

‘Your family are filling in some background for me. I’m trying to get a picture of what happened before the deaths. Funny thing is, your pal Jane Gresham keeps turning up like a bad penny.’

If Rigston had intended to needle Jimmy, he hit the mark. ‘Yeah. And her and Dan are victims here too,’ he said defiantly.

‘Who’s Dan?’

‘Her colleague, Dan Seabourne.’ Jimmy could feel the colour rising in his cheeks and hoped Rigston would put it down to anger.

‘How do you reckon them as victims, then?’ Rigston asked.

‘Somebody’s hijacking their work. And they’re making Jane look like the villain of the piece in the process. You should be getting her to help you, not insinuating that she’s part of the problem.’

‘Jimmy,’ his mother said, her tone a warning. ‘Ewan’s just doing his job.’

‘Is he? Then why was it up to me to take care of Jenny? If he had the sense he was born with, he’d be getting Jane’s list off her and making sure nobody else dies.’

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Jimmy.’

‘Somebody needs to,’ Jimmy said contemptuously. ‘If it wasn’t for Jane, Jenny would be sitting in her cottage waiting for a killer to show up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take her a drink.’ He turned to find Jenny in the doorway, smiling at him for the first time all day.

‘Well said, lad. I expected better from you, Ewan Rigston. If it hadn’t been for Jimmy here, I could be dead in my bed. It’s time you put a stop to this nonsense. Now, Jimmy, suppose you show me to Alice’s spare room?’

Tenille was at war with herself. She’d had two major shocks on her most recent excursions and she didn’t want a third. But she still felt like she owed Jane for taking care of business. Besides, she couldn’t take constant confinement. So if she was going to go out anyway, didn’t it make sense to do something useful at the same time? And what were the chances of running into another burglar two nights running?

The decision made itself in the end. She’d become accustomed to sleeping at times other than the dead of night and now sleep just wouldn’t come when it was supposed to. She gave up tossing and turning just before midnight and headed out towards Coniston. Copperhead Cottage took a bit of finding, but she was relieved to discover it had no near neighbours, especially once she realised it wasn’t going to be easy to get into. After lengthy attempts to pick the locks front and back, she finally gave up. All of the windows were locked. She circled the house again, desperately looking for a way in, on the point of giving up altogether.

It was a cat that showed her the way. A long-haired white cat came shooting out of the shrubbery, leapt on to a garden bench and from there, on to the roof of a lean-to shed that abutted the gable end. The cat scrabbled up the slates and on to a window sill. As it disappeared inside, Tenille realised the window was open a few inches. She clambered up on to the back of the bench and reached for the guttering. It wobbled, but it took her weight. She managed to haul herself on to the roof at the third attempt, then crawled gingerly up the slippery slates, swearing under her breath.

When she reached the window, she clung to the sill as if it were a lifebelt in a stormy sea. She peered in, not wanting to raise the window if it was some old biddy’s bedroom. She couldn’t see much, but it was enough to know the room was empty, a bare mattress on an iron bedstead the only indication that this had once been a place where people slept.

Bracing herself against the roof, she pushed the window sash upwards. It creaked and groaned, but not enough to freak her out. Tenille slid across the sill and landed softly on the carpeted floor. Cautiously she crossed the room, almost tripping over the white cat, who was weaving round her ankles purring.

On the landing there were more cats, their yellow eyes gleaming. There was a faint aroma of cat piss and stale meat in the air. To her surprise, all the doors off the landing were open, and she could see that none of the curtains had been drawn. A quick circuit upstairs and down revealed that the house was empty. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. For once, it was going to be easy.