Picture of death

Picture of death

A gurgling stream wound its way past tree roots and over rocks through the shallow valley. On one side willows dipped graceful branches to the water while oak and ash trees clothed the hillside as it rose in shallow steps towards the moor. On the other a narrow grassy meadow, dotted with yellow and white wildflowers separated the water from adjacent fields.
It was a beautiful, peaceful scene spoiled only by the body.
***
Joan Turpin slipped out of bed without waking Henry and quickly put on jeans, sweater, thick socks and lightweight hiking boots. She picked up a quilted jacket as she left the cottage and pulled a woolly hat over her short greying hair. It might be summer but at 4am on a July morning it was cold and dark.
Her camera gear was already in the mini so she wiped dew from the windscreen and drove quietly through Little Darrowby heading for the two-lane B325 that led through Pembourne valley and then on to the nearby market town of Minchingham.
The eastern sky was beginning to lighten as the mini coasted into a lay-by and stopped near a wooden gate that led into Holden’s Wood. With camera bag on her back, tripod in one hand and torch in the other Joan set off along a footpath winding through the trees. Dew glistened underfoot and birds were beginning to call.
As she neared the stream something glinted between the trees ahead. A magnificent spider’s web was suspended at head height across the path. Tiny drops of dew covered the strands and gleamed like miniature jewels in the predawn light. A brown and yellow spider squatted, head down, at the centre.
“Hold still, girl,” Joan muttered as she set up the tripod and slotted the camera home.
“Thank goodness for digital cameras,” she thought, firing off a sequence of shots. “Instant feedback and no changing films.”
The trees were thinning out and it was only twenty metres or so to the meadow so she picked up the tripod, camera and all, and edged carefully around the web.
At the edge of the meadow she glanced at her watch. It was 4.42am, sunrise in five minutes.
The sky was clear, birdsong now filled the air and dew sparkled on the meadow grass. Cows were moving slowly beyond the barbed-wire fence that separated the meadow from farmland.
Joan set up the camera again and began photographing, intent on capturing the magical effect of the soft light. A bird, was it a heron, caught her eye as it flapped away. That large boulder at the stream’s edge looked strange. She zoomed in, caught her breath then ran towards the sprawled shape although even from a distance she knew there was nothing she could do to help.
He was lying among the rocks, with one arm stretched out over the bank the other bobbing in the current. The water tugged at his dark trousers and jacket and his hair floated around the white face but didn’t conceal a large concave depression in the skull.
“Dave Parsons,” Joan sighed as she got to her feet and headed back to the edge of the meadow. She dug out her cell phone out of the camera bag and called the police.
***
“You didn’t get your magic hour pictures, then,” said Henry Turpin, stirring his tea.
“No,” his wife agreed. “I took a few before I noticed Dave lying there. But I didn’t want to traipse all over the crime scene destroying evidence. And the police have their own photographers.”
“Definitely a crime is it?”
“I don’t think you could get a hole in your head that size by accident.”
She sipped thoughtfully. “They weren’t very talkative, though. Asked me what I saw and then escorted me back to the mini. They had to shift their yellow tape to let me out.”
She finished the tea and stood. “I might just pop down to Blayden’s and get a bit of shopping.”
“Ha! Going to hear the latest gossip,” Henry said.
***
Maisie Blayden, proprietor of Little Darrowby’s post office and general store, had a network of informants that would have put the KGB to shame. Rosy-cheeked and white-haired, she sat behind the shop counter, listening to her customers, gathering, sifting and combining facts both known and surmised, then sending them back out into the world suitably embellished.
The wooden door scraped and a bell tinkled as Joan entered. Two customers and Maisie turned to look then welcomed her all talking at once.
“Ooh, come along in … what happened … was there much blood… how dreadful…”
Joan put down her basket and proceeded to tell her story.
“I always thought Dave Parsons was a very unpleasant young man,” she finished, “but I wouldn’t have wished that on him.”
Maisie nodded. “Lightfingered,” she said. “I kept a close eye on him when he came in here. Not that he did very often. Spent most of his time in the Dog and Parrot though where he got the money I don’t know.”
“Not from doing an honest day’s work, that’s for sure,” Mrs Hubbard sniffed. “Maybe some of his lady friends looked after him.”
“Could be,” said Martin Featherstone, patting an errant lock of hair into place. “I was indulging in a glass of wine at the Dog last night and Parsons was getting on famously with the fair Eleanor.”
“And I wonder what Howard Straik had to say about that,” said Mrs Hubbard.
“Ah, well he was too busy arguing with Bill Sugden to notice at first. They almost came to blows over their footpaths and fences.”
“I agree with Howard on that,” Joan said. “We’ve been using those paths around Sugden’s farm for years. That one through Holden’s Wood carries on across the meadow, over a couple of fields and down to Great Darrowby. It’s a lovely walk when the weather’s fine.”
“He’s got no call to talk about cutting wires, though,” said Mrs Hubbard. “Bit pushy for a newcomer.”
The Straiks had lived in Little Darrowby for nearly six years.
“Sugden says he doesn’t want trespassers scaring the stock or breaking gates. And he reckons nobody uses them any more, everyone travels by car.”
“He can’t have it both ways,” Joan answered Martin. “He’s talking hot air, as usual.”
“That’s what Howard said, or perhaps I should say shouted. Ted Allen told the pair of them to take their arguing away from his pub so Howard got huffy and said he was leaving.” Martin smiled slyly. “Eleanor didn’t want to go though. You know how she sulks and pouts and Parsons just sat and smirked. Poor Howard got quite red-faced; fair-haired people seem prone to do that. I’m surprised he didn’t thump Parsons there and then.”
“They had a flaming row about it when they got home, according to Lil Nettles next door to them. Then Howard stormed off in the car again. But the police think it was Barry Littlejohn as did it,” Maisie stated calmly, causing three pairs of eyes to turn towards her.
“Oh, no! Not that nice boy at the garage! He keeps my mini going,” Joan cried.
Maisie nodded. “He’s not arrested yet but they’ve been questioning him on account of him being seen at Holden’s Wood lay-by. Delivery van driver from Minchingham says he was sitting in his car there about three o’clock.”
“But that can’t be right.”
“It’s true though, and the lad won’t say what he was doing there so no wonder the police are suspicious.”
***
Joan dropped her basket on the passenger seat and drove thoughtfully to Payne’s Garage. As she pulled up at the petrol pump a young man emerged from the workshop, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He was of medium height, wiry with short spiky brown hair and a worried look.
“H’lo Mrs T. Fill her up?”
“Yes please, Barry,” she said climbing out of the car and straightening up. “You’re in a bit of trouble I hear.”
“Not you too,” he scowled. “Listen, I haven’t done anything. I don’t care what the cops say. It wasn’t me.”
“No, of course it wasn’t, Barry.” He looked up at her. “But you were at Holden’s Wood and you won’t tell the police why, so what are they supposed to think?”
She paused. “I found the body you know.” He grunted. “I’m sure I can convince the police that it wasn’t you.” He stared at her. “But first you have to tell me why you were in that lay-by. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, you know.”
“It’s no good,” he burst out. “If I tell them they’ll never believe I didn’t do it!”
“I suppose that means you were planning to meet Parsons there. And considering his reputation it must have been for something questionable if not downright illegal.”
He stared at her open–mouthed.
“Really, I thought you had more sense. Come on, spit it out. It can’t possibly be as bad as killing someone.”
Barry finished pumping petrol, closed the tank cover and twisted the rag in his hands.
“I was talking to him at the pub last night,” he began eventually.
“That would be after Eleanor and Howard left?”
He nodded and continued, “There were four or five of us and Dave came over and started talking, mostly chatting up the two girls. He’s very smooth you know?”
“If you like that sort of thing,” Joan said severely. “Carry on.”
“Well the guys got a bit annoyed and the four of them left so Dave kept on talking to me.” There was a pause. “Well, he was laughing at me really. Saying I couldn’t pull birds because I didn’t have what it takes. He said he knew what the other guys had and he knew where to get it. Always watching people, he was. Trying to get some sort of hold on them. Anyway he said he could help me be the life and soul of the party and I guessed what he was talking about of course. Ecstasy.” He shook his head angrily. “He said he’d have to go and get the stuff, didn’t want to hand it over anywhere public. So I agreed to meet him up at the lay-by at quarter to three. I shouldn’t have listened. I was stupid.”
“You certainly were,” Joan agreed cheerfully. “What happened next?”
Barry looked a bit miffed but he carried on speaking. “Dave got up to go then. It was close to chucking out time and he said he needed to catch someone. I went home, watched a DVD, and drove to Holden’s Wood at about half past two though I was having second thoughts about it. And that’s it. Dave never showed up. I hung around for half an hour or so and then went home.” He shrugged.
“Did you see the delivery van go by?” Joan asked.
“Oh, yeah. Just after three it was.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, I don’t think so. No.”
“Did you get out of the car?”
“I got out once; wandered round to stretch my legs a bit but it was cold.”
“You’re not making it easy Barry. Did you hear anything?”
“Heard some cars and trucks up on the Minchingham road. Sound travels better at night.”
“Indeed it does,” Joan replied briskly. “Now, I’m going down to talk to the police and I suggest you do the same as soon as possible. They must have already questioned everyone at the pub so they know you were talking to Dave. You might as well tell them the rest.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Talking about drugs isn’t against the law. Killing someone is,” she said and drove away.
***
The police had set up a murder inquiry centre in the village hall, moving in desks, chairs and other office equipment as well as temporary partitions to divide the large wooden-floored area into convenient workspaces.
Joan was shown into a cubicle containing a paper-covered desk and a harried looking man wearing a short-sleeved open-neck shirt. His brown hair stood on end as though he’d been running his finger through it. A name plaque on the desk said ‘Detective Sergeant James Anstey.
“What can I do for you, Mrs Turpin?” he asked politely.
“I believe you think Barry Littlejohn is your killer,” Joan answered.
The man behind the desk said nothing.
“That’s what everyone in the village is saying,” she added.
Anstey sighed and muttered something that sounded like “bloody local mafia”.
“Only, as you know, I was the first person on the scene. I walked down the footpath from the lay-by at about half past four. Nobody else had been that way since yesterday evening at the latest.”
He smiled, the patient smile of someone used to dealing with cranks. “How can you possibly know that, Mrs Turpin?” he said gently.
“I was taking photographs.”
He nodded.
“There was a spider web stretched across the path. It had dew, a spider - it was beautiful.
He sneaked a glance at his watch. She smiled.
“An orb web, that’s the sort of spider it was, starts weaving in the evening after sunset. That web was about the level of my head and it was in good condition this morning so nobody came down that path before me unless, it was a midget.”
“You sure?”
She raised her eyebrows and nodded. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Find the spot again?”
“I think so, yes. I could print out one of the photos I took.”
“How can you tell the picture was taken this morning?” Anstey asked.
“Digital cameras don’t just take pretty pictures, you know. They record all sorts of other information. Date, time, shutter speed, aperture, whether you used flash, things like that. Those sorts of details are important to stock photo agencies, and I sell photos to a web-based one. It helps supplement the pension,” she said with a grin.
“OK. Let’s go.”
***
Joan dropped the mini off at home and quickly downloaded and printed out a colour picture from the morning’s expedition. When they reached Holden’s Wood the yellow tape was still in place and a police panda was parked on the other side of the road.
She and sergeant Anstey started down the path peering from side to side at trees and bushes. In the end it was quite easy to spot the branches the web had been attached to, although there were only a few remnants left.
“Most people don’t take much notice of webs,” Joan mused. “I expect the first policemen on the scene walked straight through it. But the spider would probably have dismantled it by now anyway. They eat the strands, you know, and build a new web the next night. Spider’s probably hiding under a leaf somewhere.”
Anstey looked at her without comment.
She wandered the last few metres to the meadow. The body was long gone but people were still probing and measuring the scene. Several cows were now at the far end of the meadow chewing contentedly on fresh green grass.
“Well, look at that,” she tutted disapprovingly. “How on earth did they get down to the stream?”
Anstey followed as she walked along the fence line. It soon became obvious what had happened. The wires between the last post and the corner had been cut and the ground in the opening was churned up where cattle had wandered through.
“But surely Howard wouldn’t have done anything so stupid!” she exclaimed.
“That would be Howard Straik the footpath man,” said the sergeant thoughtfully. “I heard about the goings on at the pub last night.”
Joan said nothing.
***
The Dog and Parrot was busy as the Turpins walked in at half past eight that evening ‘for a drink and a gossip, though not necessarily in that order’ as Henry put it. He collected a half of bitter and a lager and carried them to a wooden table near the window. Sergeant Anstey and a couple of companions were sitting nearby.
“Hello Spiderwoman!” called Martin Featherstone, coming to join them. “Caught anyone in your web yet?”
“It’s all very well laughing, Martin. But somebody knocked Dave Parsons over the head and left him in the stream and whoever did it is walking around scot-free. Suppose he takes it into his head to do it again? We’d not be safe in our beds!” Joan smiled and lifted her glass.
“Looks as though Howard’s in the firing line now, what with the fence wire having been cut.”
“Who told you that?”
“Maisie.”
“Ah.”
“He might have been prowling around with his pliers, seen Parsons, been overcome with jealous rage and clobbered him.”
Henry put down his glass and said, “But even if Howard was sabotaging Sugden’s fences in the early hours of the morning, what would Parsons have been doing there? Joan’s eight-legged friend shows he didn’t walk down from the lay-by. And why would he be going through fields and over fences in the dark anyway?”
“Maybe,” Joan started slowly, “maybe he didn’t go there. Maybe he was put there.”
They looked at her.
“You know, killed somewhere else and then dumped.”
“Can’t the forensic people tell if that’s happened?”
“We could try asking them.” Joan glanced at the next table and saw Anstey looking back. “He’d been lying in cold running water for several hours,” she continued. “That could have washed away the blood and anything else on his clothes. Yes, listen to this. Dave goes to see Mr X about drugs. They get into a fight and Mr X knocks him over the head with, er, something. He falls down so his shoes and clothes get covered in dirt, special dirt that’s only to be found at that one particular place. How am I doing so far?”
The others nodded either in encouragement or disbelief.
“Mr X realises that he has to get rid of the incriminating evidence so he can’t dump the body just anywhere. He piles it into a car or truck or something and drives through the fields as close to the stream as he can get. He cuts the wires to get through the fence, then he hauls the body out and carries it down to the water. In fact he takes it downstream a bit to disguise where he entered. He arranges the body to make sure all the important bits are being washed clean and Bob’s your uncle!” She sat back triumphantly.
“There’d be tyre tracks,” said Martin.
“Not any more. There were cows in the field this morning and they’d gone through the hole in the fence to the stream by this afternoon.”
“Do you think that was deliberate?” asked Martin.
“If so it means…” said Henry.
“Bill Sugden!” all three finished together.
At the next table the sergeant stood up, pulled out his cell phone and headed for the door.
***
Henry accompanied his wife to Blayden’s next morning.
“To carry the shopping,” he said.
“To hear the gossip first hand,” she countered.
Maisie didn’t disappoint.
“They’ve arrested Bill Sugden,” she began as they entered the shop. “They searched the farm last night and found a drug lab in a cellar beneath one of the barns. They’ve taken his pick-up truck to the police station in Minchingham for tests. They think he used it to move the body. There was a bonfire in the farmyard so I doubt they’ll find the weapon. It’ll be ashes by now. And that’ll be why Bill closed off the footpaths. Didn’t want anyone wandering too close in case they saw something suspicious.”
She paused for breath, then continued, "If you want fresh bread you’d better get it now, dear. I expect there’ll be a lot of people popping in to shop and chat. Shocking goings on. I don’t know what the village is coming to. But it’s good for business!”