Death of a Friend (12 page)

She left him with relief, quietly preparing the traditional meal, as if for a real family.

On Monday morning, the police team met for a summary of progress so far. Den sat between Phil and Danny, new notebook on his lap, the first few pages covered in jotted notes. He had distilled them from his High Copse interviews, and gazed at them now with a sense of inadequacy. Nothing seemed to shed much light on the death of Charlie Gratton.

The Inspector sat informally on the edge of the desk at the front of the room, and invited each man in turn to discuss his findings. Danny spoke first. ‘Forensics have made a thorough search of the scene, and concluded that the victim was trampled at a short distance from the ditch where he was found. There are several
hoof prints, as well as traces of blood on the grass. Unfortunately, it rained on Tuesday and Wednesday, which hasn’t made it easy. From his position in the ditch, it would appear that his injuries were inflicted in the open field, as he lay with his hands over his head, curled as small as possible, in an effort to protect himself. Then he either rolled or was pushed into the ditch. The only visible footprints are the victim’s, which suggests that the horse rider never dismounted. Assuming, of course, that the horse wasn’t acting on its own,’ he added conscientiously.

The Inspector gave a slow, satirical nod. ‘That is indeed the assumption,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, we wouldn’t be wasting our time investigating a murder, would we? They don’t send horses to trial these days.’

Den Cooper coughed and everyone looked at him. ‘Shouldn’t we have some evidence for that?’ he ventured.

‘Such as?’

‘Er … such as, there was no loose horse reported with blood on its feet. Somebody obviously took it home and cleaned it up.’

‘Point taken,’ said the Inspector, with an implausible air of patience. ‘Carry on,’ he nodded to Danny.

‘Right sir. So it seems there are several possibilities. Perhaps Charlie staggered to his feet
and was kicked into the ditch by the rider, still on the horse. Or he might have dived into the ditch in the hope of escaping further attack. Or the horse itself knocked him into it. On balance the pathologist and forensics all favour the last one. There’s a rough area of grass and weeds about a foot wide at the edge of the ditch. The most obvious marks on the ground are within another foot of this area, which doesn’t give the horse much room before virtually landing in the ditch itself. It could even be that Charlie was half into it before the blows were ever struck. It’s nearly three feet deep. He could stand in it and be vulnerable to the hooves of a rearing horse. There was another small amount of blood underneath the body, suggesting that he actually died in the ditch, but within a very few minutes of getting there.’ He glanced up, to assess the reaction.

The Inspector smiled grimly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘From the depth of the wounds and the horseshoe marks, it must have been a fair-sized animal. Certainly not a pony. The marks all point the same way. The edges of the shoes did the worst damage, as if the hooves kicked forward.’ Danny made prancing motions with his hands, then stamped down on an imaginary skull. ‘The hands are badly damaged, too, where they tried to protect his face. And they think there might
have been one or two more blows after he’d fallen, although that would be hard to explain if he was lying in the ditch by then.’

‘Too much to hope that the animal hurt itself in the process, I suppose? Any vicious brambles in the hedge at that point?’

‘Afraid not, sir. Even if it had ended up with one of its forelegs in the ditch, standing on the victim’s head, it could probably have backed out quite easily.’

‘How exactly was he lying when they found him?’ asked the Inspector. ‘Face up or down?’

‘More or less down, sir. One of the worst injuries is on the back of his head, quite low down. That might even have been the fatal blow. The brain is badly damaged at that point. One hand is much more affected than the other, too.’

‘Which hand?’

Danny consulted his notes. ‘The right, sir. Which suggests that he could have rolled on to his left side during the attack. His right cheek and temple are also more badly hurt than the left. A horse’s hoof is a big thing, sir. One direct impact, with the weight of the animal behind it, can do a great deal of damage.’

‘I can imagine,’ agreed the Inspector.

Den heard an echo from earlier in the week. Talking about Nina Nesbitt’s death, Lilah had said,
A horse’s head is a big thing. If you try
to
headbutt one, you can expect to get hurt.

He shivered at the similarities. There surely
had
to be a connection somewhere …

‘Bennett?’ continued the Inspector. ‘What joy with the background stuff? What’ve you turned up about Gratton’s past?’

Phil sat forward. ‘Quite a file on him, sir. Unruly behaviour at the protests, public nuisance – all connected to animal rights. He was only charged twice, though. No hint of violence. He went to a Quaker school as a boarder until he was eighteen, then worked for Greenpeace for a few years. Office stuff, mainly, it seems. Can’t see anything that might lead to a murder motive. Nothing linked to a specific individual, anyway.’

‘Right,’ was Smith’s only response. After a moment he pursued a new tack. ‘I gather you went back yesterday to update the Grattons on the forensic findings?’

This was news to Den, and he had to suppress a stab of annoyance that the suffering Grattons had been subjected to yet another police intrusion. It must look like inefficiency when different officers kept turning up on their doorstep, no doubt asking the same questions as the one before. He waited tensely for Phil’s report, fearing that his colleague’s impressions and findings would be at variance to his own. He even wondered whether Phil had been sent deliberately, because DI Smith
didn’t trust Den to gather the important facts.

Detective Constable Phil Bennett had a thin neck and a very small chin. His head widened at the temple, and domed on the brow, giving him a look of top-heavy intelligence. His habit of speaking slowly, consideringly, added to this impression, but Den had sometimes felt it belied the truth.

‘Something strange there,’ he began. ‘Bill Gratton – the father – was all over the place. Could hardly get a sentence out. Said he didn’t know anything about anything. Hadn’t seen Charlie for over a week. Seemed to think the lad might have married the Cattermole girl and moved into High Copse with her, given time. Quite honestly, I got the feeling he never much liked Charlie. Couldn’t get him to show any grief, anyway.’

Den coughed again, attracting another beam of attention from the room. ‘That wasn’t my impression, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘I think the old chap’s very upset indeed.’ He wanted to state it even more strongly, the image of the wreckage that had been Bill Gratton still vivid in his mind.

‘Hmm,’ said Smith, and turned back to Phil. ‘Did you ask him about the other son – Frank?’

‘That was even worse. Clammed up completely. I asked who’d told Frank about Charlie, and Hannah – Miss Gratton – said she’d
phoned him. That ties in with what Frank told us. Miss Gratton said he was “estranged from the family”. They haven’t seen him for years.’

‘So, this brother and sister have lived together for how long?’ the Inspector asked. ‘Is there anything we ought to be noticing in the set-up?’

‘Over thirty years, sir. She’s the boss. He looks to her for everything, seems like. He isn’t in very good health – I presume he’s had a slight stroke or something. She came back from Africa or somewhere, when Charlie was two, because his mother had died. Frank’s fifteen years older, and was off their hands soon after his auntie arrived. They just told me dates, facts, no feelings, no little stories or contradictions. It was obvious that something’s locked away tight in the cupboard.’

‘Right.’ The Inspector almost rubbed his hands together. ‘Very promising, Phil. I know you’ve got a lot more for us, but let’s just hear Den out, with his thoughts on the High Copse family, and then we can really put our heads together. Okay?’ He turned to Den invitingly.

‘It’s not a lot, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Hard to grasp any direct link between Nina’s accident and Charlie’s death. Going in cold, like that, not knowing anything about the way it all worked – it was difficult. They’re a very weird family. Three sisters, all with different fathers. Gerald Fairfield told me that last week. I gather it’s common
knowledge, and they’ve got no hang-ups about it.

‘Martha, the middle one, has a husband, who was brought in to set them on a better business footing. Swears they love each other, though. Even said he’d die for her. The two boys are Nina’s. Thirteen and nine. Sounds as if everyone took turns at minding them. Alexis, the youngest sister, has a temper. Restless, furious at the whole thing. She struck me as a bit unstable. Charlie was her boyfriend for eight months or so. She’d been to a couple of Quaker meetings with him, met his family, apart from the brother. There’s also Nina’s husband, Nevil. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ve asked Jane Nugent to check the airlines, make sure he was where he claims he was.’

‘Good,’ Smith nodded. ‘Give me a bit more about the atmosphere at High Copse.’

‘They all seemed genuinely stunned. Not surprising, finding a body on the day of your sister’s funeral. That’s another thing – Nina’s grave out there, under that great tree. Morbid. Spooky, too. I don’t think it’s right, not with the youngsters living there.’

‘Summarise, Den, there’s a good lad. Off the top of your head – did any of the Cattermoles kill Charlie?’

Den shook his head hesitantly. ‘No motive I could find, nor much opportunity. Means – well, they don’t keep horses, but I doubt if they’d find
it hard to get hold of one. The whole area is lousy with them. They live on a bridle path. Richmond sells horse feed, and there are notices in his shop for all kinds of horsy stuff. Means wouldn’t have been a problem. But, no, sir. I’d say I’ve drawn a blank at High Copse.’

‘Disappointing, Cooper,’ sighed the Inspector. He sank his chin on his chest for a long moment. Then he looked up. ‘How’s this for a summary? Our villain knew Charlie had a habit of walking about the fields, so he hung about on horseback on the bridle path, looking like any Sunday rider out for a stroll – if a horse can be said to stroll. As soon as the man in question comes into sight, man and horse charge across the field, pinning Charlie against the hedge and forcing the horse to rear up and bash him to death. The field can’t be seen from the house, although loud noises would carry to anybody in the yard or adjacent fields. He’d have to take that risk. There’s little danger of anybody noticing the disturbed ground. The body’s neatly hidden in the ditch. All he has to do is ride away again without ever setting foot on the ground. When he gets home he cleans any blood off the horse and maybe gets it reshod.’ He raised his eyebrows invitingly. ‘Any comments?’

Den spoke cautiously. ‘First, sir, we don’t know that Charlie was in the habit of walking
in that particular field. No one seems to think he was. Secondly, anybody hanging about on a big horse on that path for more than a few minutes might attract notice. Thirdly, how could he be sure it would work? That the horse would oblige?’

‘So you’re saying it was opportunistic?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Den firmly. ‘I think it must have been. You couldn’t plan something like that. Our killer happened across Charlie – maybe knowing there was a chance he’d do so – and gave it his best try. Maybe he never really meant to kill him, but just give him a fright.’

The Inspector nodded. ‘You’re right, Cooper. This is the worst kind of investigation you can get, just about. We have to either produce cast-iron evidence, match the horseshoe marks to a real live horse, or else hope someone incriminates himself. There isn’t even a watertight case for calling it a murder at all, as you so rightly pointed out. What if a runaway horse got itself tangled up with him and he rolled into the ditch to get away from it? I can just hear a defence team pushing all the way for that.’

Den pursed his lips. ‘Horses don’t often run away in these parts. They’re too well fenced in. Too precious. But I suppose accidents can happen.’

‘And horses do sometimes bolt or escape
from their fields. If they’re startled by something they can do a fair bit of damage. Now I’m not saying we give up. But we’re not going to get any special favours resource-wise on this one. No extra personnel, very little overtime.’ He sighed and turned over a sheet of notes in front of him. ‘Now, the Quakers. Any progress there?’

Den cleared his throat and mustered his thoughts. ‘I went to see the couple who live over the Meeting House. Clive and Mandy Aspen. Early forties, probably. No sign of any kids. They both do a bit of voluntary work in local schools, and seem to survive on a pittance paid them by the Quakers plus a bit of freelance computer work on his part. I guess they’ve got some sort of private income as well. He obviously didn’t like Charlie one bit. She gave me the impression she was a lot more upset than she dared show. She’d been crying when I got there.’

‘What do they do all day?’

‘Among other things, they’re both keen horse riders,’ said Den with a flourish. The reaction was every bit as gratifying as he could have hoped.

‘Bear them in mind,’ instructed the DI. ‘And speak to all the other members of this – church? Sect?’

‘Meeting,’ Den told him, with authority. ‘It’s called a Meeting. I’ve already made a start, sir. I’ve
interviewed Dorothy Mansfield, who’s a member, and she gave me a lot of useful background. I’ve got five others on the membership list to see yet.’ He looked at his notepad for the names. ‘Silas Daggs, Miriam Snow, Bartholomew White, Val Taylor and Polly Spence.’ He already felt tired at the prospect.

‘Then get to it, lad. We’ve a way to go and I want reports on all of them by this time tomorrow. Phil – you’d better make sure Jane’s followed up the airlines. Then a bit of rummaging in the background of these Aspen people. Anything else you can suggest?’

Phil cocked his head. ‘There’s more to Frank Gratton than we’re being told,’ he said. ‘The separation from his family, I mean. He called it “a silly family thing” when Den and I went to see him. It’s niggling at me.’