Denial of Murder (15 page)

Brunnie slowed the car and asked an elderly lady in a white blouse and a heavy grey skirt, who was at that moment struggling with a knot which held up a banner advertising a fund-raising coffee morning, for the directions to Rook Lane. He received clear directions given in a warm and homely Hampshire accent and drove on, turning right, as directed, at a small roundabout in which a tree had been planted and surrounded by three, at that moment unoccupied, varnished wooden benches. The officers drove past the parish church, a low, pebble-dashed, brick-built building with a square tower which, Swannell thought, had most probably been built to replace an older building, and then entered a narrow lane of more white painted cottages which was Church Street. Rook Lane was right off Church Street and led to a collection of neatly kept houses. Number 127 revealed itself to be a brick-built house which blended into a row of similar houses. And that, thought Swannell with a wry smile as he and Brunnie got out of the car, is exactly the reason why one joins the police. It is not to fight crime and apprehend felons, nor is it to protect and serve the community, it is rather to visit, quite by chance, idyllic corners of rural England wherein one would not normally set foot. And get paid reasonably well for doing so. Not bad. Not a bad deal at all.

Brunnie and Swannell left the car parked in the narrow thoroughfare that was Rook Lane, Micheldever, and walked calmly up the concrete path to the door of number 127. Swannell knocked reverentially, not loudly, not aggressively, but nonetheless, Brunnie noted, still with a certain assertiveness and self-confidence. The knocking upon the door caused a large-sounding dog to bark from somewhere within the property and a few moments later a short, frail-looking woman in a red blouse and a white skirt opened the door, showing no sign of fear of the two large, strange men who had suddenly called upon her. ‘Yes?' she said, speaking in a strong Hampshire accent. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?'

‘Police,' Swannell said as he and Brunnie showed the woman their warrant cards.

‘Oh, yes?' The woman's reaction seemed to both officers to be curious rather than alarmed or defensive. It was, they both felt, a reassuring sign.

‘We are calling in connection with the property known as Scythe Brook Cottage,' Swannell explained. ‘A note in the porch window directed us to this address.'

‘Yes … yes,' the woman replied, ‘I am the key holder and the caretaker, and I clean it now and again.'

‘Can you tell us who owns the property?'

‘No … no, I can't,' the woman informed the officers. ‘For many years it belonged to the Naylors, yes it did. The Naylors lived here for generations, yes they did, there's Naylors everywhere in the cemetery and then the last Naylor died. Scythe Brook Cottage was sold but no one moved in on a permanent basis. It gets let out for weekends or a week sometimes, that sort of time period. It's very popular with birdwatchers who go birdwatching in Micheldever Wood. The cottage is rented through an agency in Croydon, up in London – Fairley and Fairley. They let me know when someone is renting it and I have the key ready for them, yes I do. I check it before the guests arrive because we ask the ones who rent it to leave it clean and tidy. “Please leave the cottage as you would want to find it”, we say. There's a sign up in the cottage saying just that, “Leave as you would want to find it”. But I check it anyway, yes I do, just to make certain and also to check for damage. I was about to go there this afternoon because the next people to rent it are arriving this evening. They're renting it until Monday, yes they are.'

‘Not anymore they're not.' Brunnie smiled. ‘Sorry, madam.'

‘It's a crime scene,' Swannell explained, ‘and it will remain a crime scene for a few days to come.'

‘Oh my,' the woman gasped, ‘oh my!'

‘You'll have to contact Fairley and Fairley up in London, notify them and tell them to contact the next guests to stop them from travelling; otherwise they'll be turned away from the cottage,' Swannell said.

‘They will have had a wasted journey,' Brunnie added.

‘Yes, I'll do that, yes I will.' The woman nodded. ‘Can I do that now? Excuse me.' She turned and walked hurriedly into the shady interior of her house.

Brunnie and Swannell waited in silence at the door of the house. Around them was rural Hampshire in full summer: heat, blue sky, bloom, rich foliage, birdsong and bees and other flying insects. Swannell particularly noticed the bees and was gratified to observe that they seemed healthy because the bees in London had been observed to be acting strangely as if beset by some illness, walking on pavements or just sitting motionless on brick walls, as if confused and disorientated, but here, in Micheldever, all seemed to be just as it should be with the bees flying with clear determination from flower to flower. The woman bustled rapidly back to the threshold of her house.

‘You've managed to contact them?' Swannell asked.

‘Yes. They were not happy, no they weren't, but I told them it couldn't be helped. I told them that the police have made the cottage a crime scene, yes I did, and that any old soul arriving will be turned away. So they're contacting the next guests. They can do that these days wherever they are because everyone has one of those handheld phones … annoying things they are. Who on earth wants to hear one side of someone else's conversation? I certainly don't.'

‘Do you have the keys to the cottage?' Swannell asked.

‘Oh, yes, I'll get them for you, yes I will. Just a tick.' Again the woman turned and stepped nimbly into the darkened interior of her home, and then returned shortly afterwards with a single, large mortis key which she pressed into Swannell's palm. ‘Don't lose it,' she said, ‘it's the only one there is, yes it is … the lock is about two hundred years old.'

‘Just the lock?'

‘Yes,' the woman smiled, ‘the cottage was rebuilt in the thirties but they kept the original lock on the main door … and that …' she handed Swannell a smaller mortis key, ‘is for the lock on the porch door.'

‘We'll take good care of them.' Swannell smiled reassuringly. ‘Thank you.'

‘When,' Brunnie asked, ‘was the cottage last rented?'

‘Last weekend,' the woman replied. ‘They stayed later than normal and didn't drop the keys back until late on Monday evening, well after dark. Usually guests leave about midday or later on the Sunday if it's a weekend rental so as to get back home in good time to sleep before work on the Monday morning, yes they do. So it was a bit strange to have the keys handed back at eleven o'clock on Monday evening.'

‘Quite late indeed,' Brunnie agreed. ‘That is quite late.'

‘Yes. I was thinking that they had driven off with them – that's happened before, causes all sorts of bother, oh my …'

‘Did you get the name of the people or person who rented it?' Brunnie asked.

‘No.' The woman shook her head apologetically. ‘I am so sorry. Fairley and Fairley phoned me and told me that the cottage was being let out. The people came as expected a few days later and I handed the keys over, yes I did.'

‘When did they collect the keys?'

‘On Friday,' the woman replied, ‘they arrived at about seven o'clock in the evening, they did.'

‘Can you describe them?' Brunnie inquired.

‘Only the woman,' the caretaker replied. ‘She was young and thin and she had a cold-hearted attitude. They weren't no birdwatchers, no they weren't. No birdwatchers at all … no ramblers either. They had rented the cottage for the weekend, probably for a bit of the old how's-your-father if you ask me, mind you that's their business. She was all dolled up in city clothes. Usually the guests come in green jackets and corduroy trousers and walking boots, but not her … no, no … not her. She was all tarted up like she was going to dine at a posh restaurant, all platinum-blonde hair and jewellery and an expensive-looking watch … and her two boyfriends … they were all dandified as well, yes they were.'

‘She had two men with her?' Swannell asked. ‘Are you sure of that?'

‘Yes, I saw their legs, yes I did … office trousers and city shoes … two men and her in the cottage for a weekend. Well, why not? She was young, she was making the most of her youth. I wish I had done that. I did some old walking in the woods when I was young but not as much as I should have done … or could have done.' She added with a smile, ‘I should have made more of my youth.'

‘What sort of car was it?' Swannell asked. ‘Do you know?'

‘It wasn't,' the woman replied confidently, ‘it was a van with sliding passenger doors, which is why I saw the legs of the two men friends she had. It was about the same size as the vans the Royal Mail use to collect the post from the letter boxes.'

‘A fifteen hundred weight,' Brunnie mumbled.

‘It was blue,' the woman added, ‘yes, it was … blue … light blue.'

A blue fifteen hundred weight
, Swannell said to himself. Then he asked, ‘Did you see anything of them during the weekend?'

‘No … no I didn't,' the caretaker once again replied confidently, ‘and I didn't see them around the village either. They didn't come in to shop at the village stores, and no one mentioned seeing them in the pub on Saturday night. They stayed at the cottage, helping the girl make the most of her youth, I imagine. Well, why not? I wish I had done that.'

‘Would you recognize her again?' Swannell asked.

‘I might. She was short, taller than me, but still short, yes she was, on the short side … platinum-blonde hair … quite thin … hard face … cold eyes … hard edge to her voice. I can't imagine that she smiled very much, not easily anyway. Or possibly only a massive amount of money would make her smile, but not a good joke and she wouldn't be the sort to smile at someone else's good fortune, no she wouldn't. She seemed that sort of character; she'd smile at a million pounds but not at anything humorous … all that jewellery, that cloud of perfume and layers of make-up. No, I tell you she wasn't down here to go creeping about the woods in a green jacket and a pair of binoculars round her neck, looking at rare birds in old Micheldever Woods, no she wasn't. Mind you, they had been here before though, I can tell you that for nothing, yes I can.'

‘You had seen her before?' Brunnie asked. ‘Is that what you mean?'

‘No, never seen her before at all, not ever, but it was the way they came straight here, like they knew which door to knock on to ask for the keys rather than walking up and down the lane looking at the house numbers. I heard them arrive, yes I did. The van stops, and madam gets out with her high heels … click, click, click … straight up to my door, collects the keys, says “thanks”, and then turns and walks back to the van. First-time guests have to search for my door and first-time guests always want directions to the cottage, so at least one of them, her or one of the two men, had been here before, yes they had. The cottage is signposted from Duke Street,' the woman added, ‘but you'll be surprised how many people miss the sign. I dare say that they're too busy looking at the birds up in the tree branches.'

Brunnie and Swannell laughed softly and they then thanked the elderly caretaker for the keys and for her information. They turned and walked back to their car, drove back to Scythe Brook Cottage and viewed it again, set back from the road, standing upon a modest eminence.

Victor Swannell unlocked the doors of the cottage whilst Frankie Brunnie snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Swannell pushed the doors open and he too then put on a similar pair of gloves. The two officers, Swannell in the lead, then entered the building. Inside they found it to be cool but musty. Brunnie quickly shut the door behind him so as to preserve the stale air. ‘Thank goodness they haven't cleaned the cottage or left a window open,' he commented.

‘They will have cleaned it before they left, we can be sure of that,' Swannell said. ‘I mean, it looks clean. Just look about you, all the surfaces have been wiped down, but you're right, the mustiness will have helped to preserve anything they might have missed.' He paused. ‘You know, we have to hope that Cherry Quoshie left us another present somewhere in the building. She had the presence of mind to leave us the gas bill, knowing we'd find it if we found her body, but it still doesn't put her or Gordon Cogan in the cottage.'

‘It doesn't, does it?' Brunnie growled. ‘There's still a gap in the chain of evidence.'

‘It leads us to the cottage but doesn't put either of them in it – only a fingerprint or two will do that or their saliva with their DNA, or a nail pairing,' Swannell pondered, ‘something like that. We must hope that Cherry Quoshie left her fingerprints or something with her DNA on it in an obscure place, a surface which might not have been wiped down.'

The cottage was, the officers found, small and cramped, with an ‘L'-shaped floor plan. A seating area of old and much-used armchairs, a settee and a chest of drawers gave way to a small dining-area-cum-kitchen. Upstairs the cottage had two bedrooms and a bathroom. All, Brunnie and Swannell found, had been left in a dismayingly clean and very neat manner. There were, they discovered, four bunk beds in each room, thus allowing the cottage to accommodate eight persons, though with eight people the building would, Swannell pondered, become horribly overcrowded.

‘Just bunk beds.' Brunnie smiled. ‘Difficult to see anyone making the most of their youth with these sleeping facilities. I wonder what the lady caretaker actually had in mind?'

‘I wonder,' Swannell replied with a grin. ‘I wonder indeed.'

The two officers returned downstairs and went out into the garden, shutting the doors behind them.

‘We'd better get a SOCO team here.' Brunnie fished his mobile from his jacket pocket. ‘It's too damn neat; it's been sanitized but, as you say, Cherry Quoshie might have managed to put a paw print or something similar in an obscure place and if she managed to persuade Gordon Cogan to do the same, then … then that will be very useful. Very useful indeed.'