The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 58

"Yes." Brenda Winshott nodded charmingly. She raised her gla.s.s and looked at the light through it. "Funny, gin and lime juice isn't a very attractive drink to look at. That pale green. Looks almost like water that flowers have been left in too long, doesn't it?" There was no response from her hostess, except for a narrowing of her beady eyes. "And now, if I may before I go, Queenie dear, could I take advantage of your facilities to go and powder my nose?"

"Of course. You know the way."

"Oh yes. I know the way." And picking up her bulky handbag, the little old lady went to find the "facilities".

When she got back to Honeysuckle Cottage, Brenda Winshott poured herself another gin, and this time didn't bother about the lime juice. As she sipped, she couldn't suppress a feeling of satisfaction at her evening's work.

She had met three people who might have killed Joan Fullerton. Three people who certainly had a motive. Tristram Fullerton could have done it as revenge for the humiliations his mother had heaped on him from the cradle; his brother Piers for the inheritance that might transform The Garlic Press and perhaps get Lynette off his back; and Queenie Miles for the opportunity to take over as Chair of the Village Committee. To an outsider the last might have sounded like insufficient motive, but Brenda Winshott had lived long enough in villages like Morton-c.u.m-Budely to know the lengths little old ladies would go to to obtain that kind of preferment.

She didn't want to leap to conclusions. She would sleep on it. Sleep always resolved dilemmas for Brenda Winshott. Then in the morning she would decide who the murderer was, and tell Inspector Dromgoole.

He came round to Honeysuckle Cottage. Again he was unaccompanied. Again he said he wanted to keep their discussion informal, though Brenda Winshott wondered if what he really wanted was to keep it secret. Maybe his colleagues wouldn't think much of a Major Crimes investigator consulting a little old lady.

She told him her conclusions. The Inspector looked amazed. "But my people are meant to have searched the premises," he said.

Brenda Winshott shrugged. "Well, it seems as if their search wasn't quite thorough enough."

"I'll get men round there straight away," said Inspector Dromgoole.

And indeed his men found exactly what Brenda Winshott had told him they would find. A gla.s.s vase, together with the mobile phone and two handsets which had been stolen from Joan Fullerton's home. They had all been hidden in the high metal cistern of the old-fashioned lavatory in Yew Tree Cottage.

After the discovery Inspector Dromgoole asked Brenda Winshott whether she wanted her contribution to the investigation to be publicly acknowledged.

"Oh, good heavens, no," the little old lady replied. "I like to keep myself to myself. Also, it might cause bad feeling in the village, if it were known that I had ... as it were, shopped one of my neighbours."

"Well, that's very generous of you." There was no doubting the relief in Inspector Dromgoole's voice.

"My pleasure," said Brenda Winshott with a teasing twinkle. "After all, it wouldn't do for the police to have been baffled, and to have turned to a little old lady to help them out ... would it?"

Inspector Dromgoole coloured and eased a finger round the inside of his collar.

Queenie Miles was arrested and tried for the murder of Joan Fullerton. When sentence was pa.s.sed, she continued vehemently to protest her innocence. But then, thought Brenda Winshott, people in that position always do.

She looked around at the other members of the Morton-c.u.m-Budely Village Committee with quiet satisfaction. With the inc.u.mbent and her natural successor both, for different reasons, out of the running, Brenda Winshott had suddenly seemed the obvious candidate for what was now once again called "Chairwoman". She'd never have pushed herself forward, but everyone liked her, and from the opening of her first committee meeting, she had demonstrated just how efficient she would be in her new role.

Her efficiency was what gave her cause for satisfaction. Her efficiency in visiting Arbutus Cottage on May the first after Joan Fullerton had returned from her "O be joyful" with Queenie Miles. She had also been very efficient in getting Joan to drink down another gin and lime juice, even though it did taste rather odd. Waiting until her victim had shown signs of ailing and then stealing her telephone handsets had also showed great efficiency. As had planting the phones, along with a vase containing traces of lily-of-the-valley-tainted water in the cistern at Yew Tree Cottage when she went to visit Queenie Miles the following week.

Yes, a job well jobbed, as Brenda Winshott's father used to say. She looked round at her a.s.sembled committee of little old ladies, and wondered who would be the next to step out of line. And how that one would be dealt with.

As Inspector Dromgoole had observed, it's the quiet ones you need to watch.

IN PURSUIT OF THE INEDIBLE.

Brian McGilloway.

The zigzagging of his movements between the trees made it difficult to keep a grip on the forest floor. The hounds were not far behind, their low baying echoing through the damp woodland. Beneath the sounds of the dogs crashing through the undergrowth thudded the beat of horses' hooves. The Hunt Master and the Harriers would be pounding after him.

The sack he dragged snagged on brambles, forcing him to stop and untangle it. He could feel the sheen of oil through the cloth, could feel its slickness on the latex gloves he wore.

He sprinted the final distance to the edge of the precipice, then, gripping the sack in both hands, he swung it above his head then released, watching it arc into the air above the drop, turning as it did so, opening and spilling out its contents which rained on to the trees in the basin of the quarry below.

The barking grew ever closer. He turned, peeling off his gloves and flinging them into the undergrowth to the right, then sharply cut left, towards the safety of the small hide.

After a moment, the first of the hounds arrived, their snouts pressed close to the ground, the wattles of skin at their throats vibrating lightly as they moved. Some of them twisted towards where he hid. Most, though, crashed into the dense thicket off to the right, attracted by the gloves he'd thrown there.

Soon after, the Hunt Master himself appeared in view, his horse moving as quickly as the proximity of the trees would allow. He dismounted, calling the dogs, but they ignored him, continuing to fight over the retrieved gloves. Cursing, he trod to the quarry edge and looked over, as if in expectation that a fox had plunged over.

The snuffling of the dogs in the undergrowth, their low whining, must have covered the sounds of the footfalls on the forest floor, for the Master did not see the figure approaching him, arms outstretched. His screaming as he fell was enough to cause the dogs to pause in their searching, to raise their heads and sniff at the damp air.

Inspector Devlin used the siren to disperse the crowd of protesters blocking the roadway into the woods. One woman, holding aloft a placard reading "Meat is Murder", thudded on his windscreen. Like many of the others, she carried a digital video camera and was filming him. Usually they brought the cameras to record the ident.i.ties of those in attendance at the hunts, and in the hope they might witness something particularly barbaric during the pursuit that they could post on YouTube.

At the head of the crowd, Devlin saw, was the anti-hunt leader, Michael Walker, a megaphone clenched in his fist. Walker had been threatening for weeks to disrupt the hunt. It appeared that he'd got his wish.

The Medical Examiner, John Mulronney, was already working on the body by the time Devlin made his way down to the quarry basin.

"Doc," he managed, puffing for breath. "After that climb, you might have a second patient."

"Give up the smokes then," Mulronney replied, just as Devlin lit up. "I've IDed your victim: Sean Ca.s.sidy."

"Butcher Ca.s.sidy? The dentist?" Devlin asked.

Mulronney smiled. "That name's a little unfair," he chided.

"I think I've earned the right to use it. I was a patient of his. Looks like he's about to fill his final cavity."

Mulronney shook his head, tried not to laugh. "Smokes out," he said quickly, nodding to where two figures lumbered through the trees towards them, the Garda Superintendent uniform on the heavier of the two recognizable even in the dim light beneath the foliage. Devlin nicked his cigarette and looked around for somewhere to hide the b.u.t.t. Finding nowhere suitable, he pulled a wide leaf from the sycamore branch above his head and wrapped it around the remains of the cigarette before stuffing it in his pocket so as not to leave his trousers stinking of burnt tobacco.

"Good morning, sir," Devlin said to his boss, Harry Patterson. He nodded to the second man.

"This is Charles Ha.s.son, the deputy Hunt Master," Patterson said before the man had the chance to speak.

Ha.s.son approached the body of Sean Ca.s.sidy reverently. He blessed himself, sniffed back his tears, rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands before turning to face the Guards again.

"I know Mr Ha.s.son already, sir," Devlin said. "I was a former patient of the dental practice he and Mr Ca.s.sidy ran together. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr Ha.s.son."

Ha.s.son glanced at Devlin and sniffed loudly. "I'm sorry; I don't recognize you."

"I moved with Mr Ca.s.sidy when he set up his own new surgery a few months back," Devlin explained. "Were you part of the hunt today, sir?" Ha.s.son wore riding breeches and a scarlet jacket, like Ca.s.sidy.

Ha.s.son nodded.

Patterson spoke for him. "Mr Ha.s.son was the one called the incident in."

"I knew we should have called the whole hunt off earlier," Ha.s.son said. "It was a disaster from the start; the hounds began rioting."

Devlin suppressed a smile. "Rioting, sir?"

"They were running everywhere, following scents all over the place."

"Why was that, sir?"

"I don't know," Ha.s.son replied. "It was very embarra.s.sing for Sean. His first hunt as Master and the hounds riot. It's bad form. He headed into the woods ahead of the rest of us to bring them back. Wanted to save face I suppose. We went after him and when we reached the lip of the quarry he had ... he was lying down here. Like this." His eyes filled and he stepped away from the men a pace.

"It's a terrible accident, sir," Devlin agreed."

"Accident?" Ha.s.son snapped. "We were warned the saboteurs would try something. Michael Walker specifically threatened to harm the new Master. You saw the crowd of them out on the roadway. Looking to ruin Sean's first day."

"So being Master's a big deal?" Devlin asked.

"It carries a certain, prestige, yes," Ha.s.son said. "As does Deputy."

"Butcher Mr Ca.s.sidy would be a target for protesters, then?"

Ha.s.son stared at Devlin. "Of course," he snapped.

"Bring Walker in for questioning," Patterson concluded. "And no more smoking at the scene, either."

Devlin waited long enough for Patterson's retreating figure to disappear from view, then took out the b.u.t.t he'd rolled in the sycamore leaf. Opening out the leaf fully, he saw on its back flecks of flesh, congealed in oil. He rubbed the flesh between his fingers and sniffed.

"What was Oscar Wilde's comment? The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible," Mulronney commented, packing away his instruments.

"Smell that," Devlin said, pa.s.sing the leaf to Mulronney. "And tell me you don't smell something fishy."

Ha.s.son was at the edge of the woodland when Devlin struggled up the final incline to the road way, a hessian sack held in one gloved hand.

"Have you found something?" Ha.s.son asked, helping him up through the tree line.

"Do you know what this is?"

"It's a drag-hunt sack," Ha.s.son said, glancing at the object. "Some of our hunts are not allowed to track animals anymore, so we fill sacks with sponges soaked in gravy and leave a trail for the dogs to follow instead. Not as much fun, obviously."

"But nothing dies, I suppose," Devlin said. "What about fish?"

"Fish?" Ha.s.son wrinkled his nose in disgust as Devlin opened the sack.

"Smoked fish. Kippers, perhaps."

"We don't use it, but it would divert the hunt, yes."

"So why would someone want to do that?"

"To sabotage it?" Ha.s.son suggested irritably.

"Have saboteurs ever done anything like this before?"

Ha.s.son considered the question. "They've disrupted the hunts in various ways. He's really the man you need to ask."

Devlin followed Ha.s.son's nod to where Michael Walker stood in the distance with a group of protesters, laughing soundlessly as he watched Devlin.

The interview room in the station was stuffy yet, despite that, Walker seemed relaxed, sitting back in his chair, playing with his now empty polystyrene teacup while a Scene of Crime Officer took final swabs from his hands and arms. He pulled the cup apart, piling the pieces of foam in front of him. His solicitor watched him perform the act without comment.

"You threatened disruption," Devlin repeated.

"We're covering old ground here, Inspector," the solicitor said.

"Which is ironic," Devlin replied. "Since the hunt today covered new ground. And lots of it. Someone laid a decoy trail for the hounds to follow. Using drag-hunt sacking and smoked kippers."

Walker glanced at Devlin and smiled.

"Red herrings," he said. His brief laid a warning hand on his arm.

"Quite literally," Devlin agreed. "It led Sean Ca.s.sidy to his death."

"My understanding was that Mr Ca.s.sidy fell over the quarry edge," the solicitor said. "Are you trying to blame my client for that?"

"I'm awaiting lab work," Devlin said. "Unless Mr Walker wants to save me the bother."

Walker smirked again and turned his attention to the pile of polystyrene.

A tap at the door broke the uneasy silence. The SOCO re-entered the room with a thin folder. He whispered something to Devlin, opening the folder and pointing to one of the sheets. Devlin nodded and thanked him.

"So, Mr Walker. It seems your hands are clean."

The solicitor sighed and gathered together his papers.

"Your wrists, however, just above the glove line, aren't so much."

"Who said I had gloves?" Walker asked.