Bury in Haste (19 page)

Mud clogged their boots and splashed up their legs as they trudged along the headland, past the rusting warning signs and on to Air Ministry land. The airstrip looked bleak and neglected, a grey December sky hanging low above their heads, and a cold wind blowing from the north. They looked into a concrete guard post and descended steep steps to an air raid shelter, then moved on to examine a circular gun emplacement, finding nothing but a roll of tangled barbed wire and a couple of empty beer bottles.

‘What about that?’ Jakes asked, staring at the mausoleum, prominent on its slight rise. Your friend Joe told you he was shut up in a place with stone walls, didn’t he?’

Deepbriar gazed up at the building and shook his head. There were narrow slits right near the top, glazed with panels of stained glass. ‘He said there were no windows.’

‘It was probably the middle of the night,’ Jakes said. ‘He wouldn’t be able to tell in the dark.’

‘The sky was clear,’ Deepbriar told him, recalling the starlight as he stood outside the Speckled Goose on the first of November. And by the time the audience left the village hall the moon had risen.

‘It wouldn’t hurt to take a look, though.’ Jakes led the way. The approach to the mausoleum was overgrown with weeds and brambles, but a paved area in front of the door remained clear. The door, which was decorated with carvings of a bizarre mix of skulls and cherubs, was of solid wood, probably an inch thick. There was a huge lock, only slightly rusty, with a flap that could be swung aside to reveal the keyhole. Jakes took a magnifying glass from his pocket to take a closer look.

‘I don’t think the lock’s been tampered with, though it’s clean, no dirt or cobwebs in there, so it could have been opened recently,’ Jakes said. He turned slowly, looking at the surrounding weeds and scrubby bushes. ‘That bit looks as if it could have been trampled.’

Deepbriar fought his way through the brambles to circle the building. ‘No sign of anybody forcing a way in,’ he said when he got back to Jakes. ‘The windows are too small, even if you could reach them, and it would take a tank to get through these walls.’ He bent down and scanned the patch of ground Jakes had indicated. ‘Might be animals,’ he commented. ‘There are deer up here, and plenty of rabbits and foxes.’

‘We know somebody had those gates open though, and they brought a vehicle in,’ Jakes said. ‘Let’s suppose they were heading here. Where’s the nearest bit of roadway?’

‘Over there.’ Deepbriar pointed, and they thrust their way through the undergrowth to find the strip of concrete. Several minutes later they had reached no conclusions. If somebody had driven here they had left no obvious tracks, though the two men found plenty of places where the grass had been flattened.

‘What’s that?’ Jakes said suddenly, diving into a patch of brambles. He backed out with a scrap of paper held in his hand.

‘Well?’ Deepbriar asked eagerly.

Having had a good look at his trophy Jakes handed it to the constable. ‘If that’s a clue then it’s not much of one,’ he said, pulling a thorn from his thumb and sucking at the resulting bead of blood.

Deepbriar looked at the piece of paper. It was almost square, about two inches across, totally blank except for the corner where two rough edges showed it had been torn from a bigger sheet. Close to the torn edge was a thick line, joined by a slightly thinner one at right angles. On the very edge of the tear was a circular mark, almost like a black ink blot.

‘That’s a funny shape, it doesn’t look like any letter that I can recognise,’ Jakes commented. ‘And it’s not written on the line. Could be part of a signature I suppose.’

‘It’s not lined paper,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Yet it doesn’t exactly look hand-written. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think what.’

Jakes sighed. ‘There’s just a chance it means something. Let’s see if we can find any more of it.’

They searched until the light began to fail, then gave up and headed back to the car. ‘I’ll drop you in the village,’ Jakes said, ‘no need for you to come back to the station.’

‘And what do we do tomorrow?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘I’m having the photograph we got from Mrs Spraggs copied and sent out, and I’ve got an address for another of Spraggs’s friends, I thought I’d go and have a word,’ Jakes replied, ‘but that doesn’t need both of us. What about the mausoleum? We’re back to keys again. Any idea who’d be able to open that door?’

‘I’ll see if I can find out. Of course it could be the same person who’s got the key to the gate. Anything else you want me to do?’

‘Yes,’ Jakes gave a humourless laugh. ‘Find Bronc’s body, and Spraggs. And while you’re about it, catch the villains who robbed Somersons, and ask them if Tony Pattridge was driving that car when it went into the ditch.’

Tracking down the key to the mausoleum proved no easier than finding the one that opened the gates to the airbase. The vicar did his best to be helpful, finding the address of the two elderly ladies who were all that remained of the Abney-Hughes line, but there the trail went cold. They had no idea who held the key, although they were able to give Deepbriar the name of the family’s solicitor, which was Kerridge. When the constable traced the firm and telephoned them, it turned out that Mr Kerridge had passed away some three years before, and the two remaining partners were both out. Their secretary promised to call Deepbriar back as soon as one of them returned.

Deepbriar was at a loose end. He turned things over and over in his mind, and found it kept coming back to yet another mystery, as if his subconscious was seeing a link with the cases he and Sergeant Jakes were investigating. Feeling a little guilty, since Bella Emerson was Mary’s friend, he set about discovering how her husband had died.

It took several phone calls to locate the right department at the Foreign Office, only to be totally stonewalled by an official who insisted that all such enquiries must be made on form 12/B/54DO. Uncertain of his ground, Deepbriar requested that such a form be sent to him, and obtained a grudging assurance that this would be done.

Feeling sour and bad tempered after his encounter with the civil service, the constable spent a couple of hours on paperwork, then went thankfully through to the kitchen to join Mary for a meal, careful to avoid any mention of the Emersons. After lunch he prowled restlessly around his office, his mind travelling in pointless circles. He sat at his desk and stared at the wall for a while, but that didn’t help either. At last the phone rang.

‘Minecliff police station,’ Deepbriar said, expecting to hear the refined tones of the solicitor’s secretary. Instead it was Phyllis Bartle, from the Speckled Goose. ‘Thorny, I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Harry, have you?’

‘Harry? No, he hasn’t been here.’

‘Right. Well, it wasn’t likely I suppose.’ She sounded uneasy.

‘What’s up?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘He went down to the school on his bike, first thing, taking round the crate of soft drinks for the children’s Christmas party,’ Phyllis said, ‘and a bottle of sherry for the staff. He said he had something else to do before lunch, but that he’d definitely be back before twelve to take care of the pub, because me and Don were supposed to be going out.’

Deepbriar looked at the clock. It was a quarter to three.

‘I know it’s silly to worry,’ the woman went on, ‘but it’s not like Harry to be late, not without letting us know. You know what us mothers are like, we start imagining accidents.’

‘I’d have heard by now if he’d been knocked off his bike,’ Deepbriar told her. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. You don’t know what it was, this other thing he wanted to do? He didn’t give you any hints?’

‘No. I thought he was a bit funny last night though, at closing time, but Don says I’m imagining things.’

‘Funny in what way?’

‘Sort of excited,’ she said. ‘Like he was that time he came out to help you look for the man who’d been up to mischief at Ferdy Quinn’s. That’s why I thought I’d try phoning you.’

At the school Mrs Harris greeted the constable cheerfully. ‘No truants today,’ the headmistress said. ‘You obviously did the trick with Kenny Pratt.’ Her cheeks dimpled in a smile. ‘I hope you didn’t give him nightmares.’

‘I’m the one with the nightmares,’ Deepbriar replied, only half joking. ‘All I did was give him some tea cards with sports stars on, in return for a promise.’

The headmistress shook her head. ‘I thought I’d tried everything with that boy. The workings of the infant mind never cease to amaze me. So, if you’re not after my reformed truant, what can I do for you?’

Deepbriar explained about Harry missing his lunch-time duty behind the bar of the Speckled Goose.

‘He left here as the children were coming out of assembly,’ Mrs Harris said, ‘that would be about nine thirty. I offered him a cup of tea but he was in a hurry.’

‘He didn’t mention where he was going?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was going straight home, but that’s all I can tell you. I didn’t watch him leave.’

‘So we don’t even know which direction he turned,’ Deepbriar mused, ‘not much help.’

‘I’m sorry. But surely you don’t think anything’s happened to him? He might have got a puncture.’

‘I expect it’s something like that.’ Deepbriar agreed. But it only took a few minutes to mend a puncture. And if his bike had more serious problems there were buses; whatever happened Harry should have been home by now. The constable thanked the headmistress and left, standing outside the school and looking up and down the road, as if it could tell him where the errant Harry had gone. His eye caught sight of the solitary house on the hill. Oliver. The boy kept watch from his windows most of the day, and he might at least be able to confirm if Harry had turned towards Falbrough, or taken the Possington road.

As he cycled up the hill, Deepbriar had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach which had nothing to do with his digestive system. Harry might have gone off to do a bit of amateur detecting, and got himself into trouble; calling on Oliver Rose could be a waste of precious time. But what else could he do? The possibility that Harry was to be added to their list of missing persons was too awful to contemplate.

‘Mr Deepbriar! You must have known I was thinking about you,’ Mrs Rose said, almost dragging the constable through the door. ‘Oliver’s got something to tell you.’

‘I
don’t have long,’ Deepbriar began, as Mrs Rose ushered him upstairs to Oliver’s room. ‘I came to ask if Oliver was watching the road at half past nine this morning.’

She paused to look back at him, bemused. ‘Half past nine? I don’t think so, because the nurse was here until nearly ten. It was after that.’

‘What was after that?’ it was Deepbriar’s turn to be baffled.

She smiled at him as she opened the door to her son’s room. ‘Let him tell you. I was so relieved, I’d been really worried, not knowing … Oliver, look who’s here.’

‘I saw you coming up the lane, Mr Deepbriar.’ Oliver was sitting in his usual chair, with the telescope on his lap. ‘You didn’t look nearly as happy as the other day.’

‘No, I’ve got something on my mind,’ Deepbriar said.

The boy nodded, very solemn. ‘Like me,’ he said, ‘when I didn’t tell you about the black car. I’m very sorry.’

Deepbriar stared at him. ‘Are you saying you saw the black car? The one that knocked old Bronc down?’

Oliver nodded again. ‘And I’ve seen it other times, too. I saw it today.’

‘It was about one o’clock,’ Mrs Rose broke in, ‘I came up to sit with Oliver so we could eat our dinner together, and I happened to look out of the window as this car was coming down the road from Falbrough. At first I wasn’t sure Oliver had noticed it, but then I realised he’d gone white as a sheet, just like he did that day you were here. Of course, when I thought about it, the whole thing made sense.’

‘What made sense?’ Deepbriar asked, totally at sea. ‘What was so special about this car then?’

‘It was a hearse,’ Mrs Rose said.

‘But …’ the constable began.

‘It all started when Oliver was staying in Falbrough hospital for a few days,’ Mrs Rose explained. ‘In June. There was a boy in the same ward who was a bit older than Oliver. He used to like pushing the other boys around in their wheelchairs.’

Oliver nodded vigorously. ‘One day he took me down the main corridor, where we’re not allowed, and I was afraid we’d get in trouble, but Brian said it would be all right, and he’d make sure nobody saw us. I couldn’t stop him anyway, so there wasn’t much point arguing.’

Mrs Rose tutted loudly, but Deepbriar waved her to silence. ‘Go on, Oliver.’

‘When we got to the end the door was open and we could see outside, and there was this big black car with a door at the back.’ He stared down at the floor. ‘Brian said it was really unlucky, seeing that sort of car. He said it meant that somebody was going to die, and that whatever happened I wasn’t to tell anyone.’

‘You see, that’s how he got the silly idea in his head,’ Mrs Rose said. ‘A lot of superstitious nonsense. He’s been worrying about it ever since.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Deepbriar said. ‘The day I came to ask you about, at the beginning of November. You saw one of these cars then?’

Oliver nodded. He reached for his notebook and leafed through the pages. ‘I saw it on the first of November, and again on the second,’ he said, showing the constable the page. ‘I didn’t like to write it down because it was unlucky, so I just put this instead,’ and he pointed to a roughly drawn skull and crossbones.

‘And you saw the same car on the day your mother and father went out and left you with the nurse? Not just one that was similar, exactly the same one?’

‘I think so. And today, at dinner-time.’

‘Where was it going?’ Deepbriar could hear his pulse beating hard in his head.

‘Towards the village. It was funny, because it went behind the trees and we didn’t see it come out again.’ He pointed, then looked at his mother. ‘We thought it must have stopped somewhere, though there aren’t any houses along there.’

‘No, there aren’t,’ Deepbriar agreed. But there was the lane that led up to the aerodrome. His mind was leaping to half a dozen conclusions at once, but he forced himself to smile down at the boy. ‘So, you’re not afraid of this car any more?’

‘No.’ Oliver spoke decisively, though with an uncertain expression in his eyes.

‘There’s no need to be,’ Deepbriar told him, ‘your mother’s quite right, what Brian told you is just a silly superstition, left over from a time when people believed in the evil eye, and witches, and that sort of nonsense. You’re much too sensible to bother with that. I don’t suppose you took down the number this time?’ He finished hopefully.

The boy shook his head. ‘I couldn’t see it.’

‘Never mind. You’ve been really helpful. But there’s something else I have to ask you. Have you seen Harry Bartle today? He’d have been on his bike, probably coming away from the village.’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

Deepbriar turned to the boy’s mother. ‘How about you, Mrs Rose?’

‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen Harry for a couple of weeks. Is it important?’

As he pedalled furiously back to Minecliff, Deepbriar’s mind was racing. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the hearse had been seen again, and on the very day that it seemed yet another man had vanished. Deepbriar refused to think about the possibility that Harry Bartle might be dead; it was too much like a scenario from a Mitch O’Hara story. Things like that couldn’t happen in real life.

Deepbriar turned to practicalities. There was only one funeral car in Falbrough, belonging to Aubrey Crimmon, but there were two undertakers in Belston, one of them a big firm which had at least three cars. Oliver had thought it was the same car he’d seen each time; on the day of Colin Pattridge’s funeral, it would have been Aubrey Crimmon taking the old farmer to his final resting place, but one hearse looked very much like another, he couldn’t be sure the boy wasn’t mistaken.

The use of a hearse explained how Joe had vanished; it was an ideal way to move a man around. Once he was unconscious he could be hidden inside a coffin, and nobody would suspect a thing. Anyone seeing the hearse might wonder who had died, but Joe had been abducted late on Saturday afternoon, and returned in the middle of Sunday morning when most people were in church, or still enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Only Bronc had seen the car at close quarters, and then he too had disappeared.

Reaching the police house, Deepbriar left his bicycle by the kerb and ran indoors, but when he picked up the telephone, intending to call Sergeant Jakes and request assistance, he was greeted by the voice of Miss Strathway at the local exchange.

‘I’m very sorry, Constable Deepbriar,’ she said, ‘but I can only connect you to numbers within the village. Some calls are coming in from other exchanges, but we’ve been having trouble since Saturday evening. I’m waiting for the engineers, they shouldn’t be long.’

Resisting the temptation to swear, Deepbriar asked to be put through to the pub, and spoke to a worried-sounding Phyllis, who confirmed that Harry still hadn’t turned up.

‘Was he talking to anyone in particular in the bar last night?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘It was fairly quiet,’ she said. ‘Just a few regulars.’

‘Joe Spraggs wasn’t in? Or Peter Brook?’

‘No. Let me think. Harry had a word with Old Bob, and Alan. Will Minter called in about eight o’clock and bought them a round, but he didn’t stay long. Oh, and Bert Bunyard was here, he was drinking a bit more than his usual, said he was celebrating, though he didn’t say what. He stayed till closing time. Come to think of it, Harry bought him a drink, just before Don called last orders.’

‘Maybe that’s it.’ Deepbriar recalled the way Bunyard had clammed up when he’d asked him about Bronc. At the time he’d let it pass, thinking Bert was merely trying to get his own back after they’d tricked him into making a confession. ‘I’d better have another word with Bert.’

‘Is that where Harry went this morning? To see Bert Bunyard?’ Phyllis asked.

‘I don’t think so. Try not to worry, I’m sure Harry will turn up,’ Deepbriar said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘Just be sure and let me know when he does.’

The constable spoke to the operator again and asked her to call him as soon as the line was repaired. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said, resisting the urge to tell her it was a matter of life and death; since he’d learnt of Harry’s disappearance everything had taken on an air of unreality. It was like one of those dreams where every attempt to wake up simply led him deeper into fantasy. ‘I have to contact the police station at Falbrough.’

Once he’d put the receiver down Deepbriar went in search of his wife, and told her what he’d learnt, jotting down the main points in his notebook and tearing out the page to give her. ‘Miss Strathway will call as soon as she can get through to town, and when she does, you have to speak to somebody at the station, preferably Sergeant Jakes, but the desk sergeant will do if he isn’t there. I’m going up to the aerodrome.’

‘Not on your own?’ Mary protested. ‘It will be dark soon, what use will one man be if there’s a gang of criminals up there?’

‘I can’t just sit here doing nothing,’ he said, bending to give her a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It may all be a storm in a teacup anyway. If Harry comes home in the meantime Phyllis will come and tell you, and you can send somebody to find me.’

Having fetched a couple of tools from his shed, and checked that he had a spare battery for his torch, Deepbriar took to his bike again. A fine drizzle had started. As the constable wheeled across the village street he saw a hunched figure leaving the village shop, an ancient canvas bag swinging from one hand. Maybe luck was on his side after all; it was Bert Bunyard. The constable swooped, coming to a stop in the farmer’s path.

‘What you doin’?’ Bunyard demanded. ‘A’most ’ad me over you did.’

‘I’ll do more than knock you over, Bert, if you don’t come clean. You’re going to tell me what you saw up at the old aerodrome when Bronc went missing.’

‘An’ if I don’t?’ Bunyard asked belligerently.

‘If you don’t,’ Deepbriar said, dropping his voice, ‘I’ll tell the magistrate you’ve been over at Quinn’s farm again, and we’ll have you safely locked up in Falbrough nick before you can say “knife”. And when your case comes to court I’ll see you put away for a couple of years, no matter what it takes.’

Bunyard’s face darkened. ‘Bliddy coppers,’ he muttered, ‘can’t bliddy trust nobody these days.’

‘All you have to do is tell me what you know about Bronc, and about that hearse.’

‘If you already know then what you askin’ me for?’ the man growled.

Deepbriar’s heart sank. He had almost hoped Bert would explode his theories. ‘Because I need to know exactly what you told Harry Bartle last night.’

Bunyard spat into the gutter. ‘Young ’arry’s always ready to lick your boots, why don’t you ask ’im?’

‘Because I’m asking you,’ Deepbriar hissed, ‘and if you don’t stop messing me about then you’d better make sure your boy Humphrey can look after himself for a good long spell, because you won’t be there to take the beasts to market or do the shopping for him.’

‘Didn’t tell him much,’ Bunyard said sullenly. ‘Only that I saw them Crimmon brothers in that black carcass carrier, drivin’ across the airstrip the day Bronc went missin’.

‘What, Cyril Crimmon was with Aubrey?’

‘Not that long thin drink o’ water,’ Bunyard said scornfully, ‘the younger one. Barney. ’im that was always gettin’ in trouble when ’e was a kid.’ He gave an unpleasant smirk. ‘That mother o’ theirs was no better’n she should have been, the only boy what looked like ’is father was the first. By the time Barney turned up ’er old man was goin’ barmy, an’ ’e never sired a great lump like Aubrey, neither. Funny though, them three was always close, looked out for each other, like.’

It was as if all the cogs of a piece of machinery suddenly fell into place and began to turn smoothly and soundlessly. Barney Crimmon! That was the name Sergeant Cosgough had been trying to think of, the name of the man always hanging around Sylvester Rudge, trying to impress him.

‘So you told Harry about seeing the Crimmon brothers. Anything else?’

‘Might o’ mentioned that other car, that little red un in Gadwell Lane what you asked me about. Reckon that belonged to Barney, though I didn’t see ’im clear. Wearin’ a fancy coat ’e was, fawn colour, with a soft brown ’at.’

The description fitted that of the stranger seen talking to Bronc in the porch at the Speckled Goose on the Monday, the last day he was seen. Barney Crimmon could have been finding out where Bronc planned to sleep that night.

‘You’d better be telling me the truth, Bert, or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Fine one to talk about the truth, you are,’ Bert said, ‘makin’ threats against an innocent man. I could report you.’

Deepbriar didn’t respond, getting back on his bike and turning away.

‘Don’t you go tellin’ no lies about me!’ Bunyard shouted after him, the words echoing in the empty village street.

The afternoon was already darkening into night. As Deepbriar turned towards the aerodrome he felt a shiver run up his back; who better to dispose of a body than an undertaker, given their access to graves.… The thought hit him so suddenly he almost fell off his bike. Who was most likely to have the key to a mausoleum if it was no longer in the hands of the family?

Deepbriar went directly to the gates, intent on not wasting time. He didn’t have any tools powerful enough to cut through the chain that held the gate shut, but a few minutes hard work with a pair of pliers provided him with a hole in the wire fence. Once he’d wheeled his bike through he paused to study the ground inside the gate. There were new tyre tracks in the mud. He went back to the gap in the fence and pushed the edges of mesh roughly back together, with some vague idea that it would be better if he left no obvious signs of his visit. Swinging his leg back over the saddle, Deepbriar set a direct course for the mausoleum.

It was full night now. He was reliant on the dim beam from his cycle lamp to show the way as he pedalled along the cracked concrete road, and he wondered what had happened to Harry’s bright new battery lamp. Presumably his bike had been left somewhere, like Joe’s, but where? Had Harry gone to Belston looking for Barney Crimmon, or to the undertakers in Falbrough?

A ghostly white shape flickered into the beam of light, and Deepbriar bit down an exclamation of alarm. It was a barn owl, flying low. It screeched as it swooped away towards the rows of Nissen huts to his left. Deepbriar braked. The bird had come from directly ahead; maybe it had been disturbed in some way. He turned off his lamp and for a few moments he could see nothing, then gradually his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the pale surface of the road. Cautiously, aware of every sound the bicycle made, even the slight hiss of its tyres on the concrete, he pedalled on.