Scaring Crows (14 page)

‘I know he was strange.'

Mothershaw shook his head. ‘That,' he said, ‘is a polite understatement.'

‘Just remember I didn't actually
know
him,' Joanna reminded the sculptor. ‘I only saw him after he was dead.'

Mothershaw's eyes flickered. ‘Well he
was
strange,' he said. ‘And he had a fixation for setting fire to things.'

Joanna began to understand. The scorched feet of the Tree Man. ‘Are you trying to tell me ...?'

‘I caught him one night trying to burn it.' Mothershaw's chest was heaving with anger. A
masterpiece
like that.' He leant forward in his chair, his eyes blazing. ‘I can never repeat a work, Inspector. Once the inspiration has gone I move on. I could never make another Tree Man. It simply wouldn't be possible. If that crazy lout had destroyed it Tree Man would no longer exist. Do you understand?'

Joanna nodded. There was around Titus Mothershaw the aura of a fanatic as well as a genius. ‘Is Tree Man for sale?'

Mothershaw drew in a sharp breath and relaxed back in his seat, shaking his head. ‘You don't understand the way I work,' he said. ‘Like all my pieces he is for sale and he isn't. The fact is I would never let anything I had created go to a home where it wasn't
fully
appreciated. Price is immaterial.'

‘What do you live on?'

Mothershaw gave her one of his crooked smiles. ‘I'm not short of money,' he said, giving an elegant waft with his hand. It was a self-indulgent, artistic gesture.

‘But why here?' Joanna pursued the point. ‘Why did you come here? It isn't a well-known area – there isn't an artists' colony here. How did you find this place? And how did you know the Summers had somewhere to rent?'

Mothershaw looked pleased with himself. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a wood both suitable and available for my sort of work? So many trees have protection orders slapped on them. I scoured the country for this place. But it was worth it.' He gave another wide smile. And this time there was frankness and honesty behind his eyes. It was an attractive and tantalizing expression. Again Joanna reminded herself that this man was a murder suspect.

But, like Ruthie's face, as hard as she looked, she could see nothing of a cold-blooded killer in Mothershaw's bright eyes. However, as Sergeant Barraclough had reminded her, appearances can be deceptive.

Mothershaw stood up and held out his hand for her mug. Another coffee, Inspector?'

‘Thanks.'

He disappeared into the kitchen, returning two minutes later. ‘I know people think my work's all twaddle and hype,' he said with disarming frankness. ‘But there is real depth.'

‘I know. I could see that.'

Mothershaw stared at her. ‘I knew you did,' he said. ‘I knew you appreciated my talent. You see. I simply couldn't find that depth in London. Besides that. No raw materials. No wood, sticks, leaves. Nothing. London is a barren desert. No inspiration. And all that traffic. Dreadful for the lungs. Whereas here I find magic everywhere. In the trees and the sky, the birds and the animals. Even the people ...'

‘The people, Mr Mothershaw?' Joanna felt the pricklings of unease. Mothershaw looked less comfortable. ‘The farmer and his son?' The feeling of disquiet was growing. ‘Was Jack Summers the inspiration for the ‘Tree Man?'

Mothershaw glanced away.

‘Did he recognize himself in the statue?'

Again Mothershaw said nothing.

‘Was that why he tried to burn it?'

There was vague hostility in Mothershaw's eyes now. ‘I didn't expect the police to be so perceptive.'

‘It strikes me that you didn't expect Jack Summers to be so perceptive – or his family. They were smart, Mr Mothershaw. Did Ruthie and Aaron take exception to the mockery of Jack?'

Mothershaw frowned. ‘No,' he said. ‘No.'

‘Not even Ruthie who was so fond of her younger brother?'

Mothershaw gave a little cough. ‘Far from being critical, a Philistine, or disapproving, Ruthie,' he said quietly and with undoubted sincerity, ‘was my greatest fan.'

Again Joanna was reminded of the picture she had formed of the farmer's daughter, herding the cows, singing as she moved. A quick glance at Mothershaw told her he was having a very similar vision. There was a faraway dreaminess in his eyes.

She felt a sudden flash of unease in this sterile, futuristic house. “Take me for a walk back through the wood,' she said suddenly. ‘I'd like you to point out some of your work.'

So together they left the Owl Hole and walked through the overgrown wood with its watching faces and strange imagery carved in the bark until they stood in front of the statue. Mothershaw stared up at the face. ‘It's funny,' he said. ‘I created this monstrosity using Jack as a model. But he changes as the light hits him at a different angle. At the time I saw Jack as stupid but not malevolent. Definitely not malevolent. Yet sometimes when I look at the face although I can see Jack his features are superseded by someone else, some other personality trying to gain attention. Someone evil and clever – not like Jack at all. Perhaps it's the way the light catches him. Shadows have funny, unpredictable effects. They create expression.' He stopped. ‘They absorb it too. Oh ...' he turned away from the statue. ‘Maybe old Aaron was nearest the truth when he said, “The owd buggar is useful for scaring crows. Nowt else.” ‘

But Joanna was still studying the sculpture. Had the face Titus Mothershaw been portraying been superseded by another face, that of his original model's sister? ‘Did Ruthie Summers look like her brother?'

Mothershaw thought for a long moment. ‘I wouldn't have thought there was any resemblance,' he said slowly. ‘In fact I would have sworn there was no resemblance at all. But ... There was something, something quite subtle that told you they were brother and sister. I suppose it was a family resemblance.'

Unaccountably Joanna felt she had moved a step closer to understanding the dual murders. Yet Mothershaw had said nothing, had he? And looking around the wood she could see no face that looked even remotely like the picture taken in the photo booth. Last night's dark had deceived her. By daylight the face carved so skilfully into the trunk of the tree looked nothing like the passport photograph of the missing farmer's daughter.

The child-sized fingers touched a blackened area at the base of the figure. ‘Look at his poor, scorched little toes,' he said. ‘If Lewis Stone hadn't shouted to say there was a fire in the wood I might not have come out in time.' He looked around and shivered. ‘Who knows? The entire lot might have gone up in flames and I might have gone up too.'

He looked to her for sympathy. But she was preoccupied. It had been dark. How had he known it was Jack who was torching the Tree Man?

They continued their walk along the path, Titus Mothershaw still musing to himself. ‘I was surprised Jack recognized himself in the statue,' he said.

‘And how did he react?'

Mothershaw smothered a smile. “To say he was angry would be an understatement.'

‘And Ruth? Was she furious too?'

Mothershaw's mouth opened, fish-like, as he fumbled for words. ‘She couldn't very well say anything.'

And Joanna was left to wonder. Why not? There would be time to ask all these questions – and more – later.

Her eyes were drawn to the edge of the wood and beyond, to the rolling hills neatly divided by dry-stone walls. She listened to the cawing of rooks and the twittering swallows. All so innocent, so traditional, so very deceitful.

They had reached the wicket gate that marked the end of Mothershaw's strange gallery and she had played for long enough. It was time to glean some facts. ‘How often did you actually go to the farm?'

Mothershaw realized the politenesses were over. His answer was equally curt. ‘Once a week, just to pay my rent.'

He was staring over her shoulder, back into the wood. And Joanna knew his gaze was fixed on the Tree Man.

‘What was the relationship between you and Ruth Summers?'

Mothershaw gave a vague shake of his head.

‘What did you think of Ruthie?'

Mothershaw's answer was as strange as his carvings. ‘She was a dryad,' he said dreamily. ‘Insubstantial. A wood nymph, a girl who belonged here.'

‘And where do you think she is now?'

His thoughts must have been miles away, if on this planet at all.

‘Returned to the woods,' he said, ‘from whence she came.'

9 a.m.

‘Bloody crap.' Mike was scornful when she related the conversation to him. And I don't know what possessed you to go there on your own. It wasn't sensible. In fact it was positively dangerous.'

She felt the need to defend herself. ‘I thought he might open up a bit more to me – alone. I want to find Ruthie.'

But Mike was glaring at her. ‘And he says she's turned into a fairy or something.'

Joanna was silent as Mike continued. ‘If what he means by that is that he's raped her, strangled her and buried her in that mutilated wood of his he should say so.'

‘I don't think that was what he meant at all.'

But Korpanski faced her squarely. ‘So what did he mean then?'

‘Maybe,' she tried. ‘Maybe he meant she was ethereal, without substance and that's why he isn't too worried by her disappearance.'

‘Utter crap,' Mike repeated his earlier sentiments. ‘She's flesh and blood and perfectly capable of pulling that trigger. So calling her a ... What did he call her?'

‘A dryad.'

‘Yeah. Well. Calling her a dryad isn't going to get her off the hook. And what's more, it's a safe bet that it's his fingerprints that are on that picture from the photo booth.'

‘Agreed.'

‘And I've got another suggestion. I bet you any money that he's used her too as a model for his sculptures.'

‘That's where you're wrong,' she said, frowning. ‘I thought he would have done. I mean – if he used Jack – she would have seemed an obvious model. Attractive, with a certain aura around her. Maybe it's hidden,' she said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe somewhere in the trees there is a wood nymph with Ruthie's face.'

‘And if Jack recognized himself as Tree Man,' Mike said in a flash of inspiration, ‘I wonder what Ruthie would have thought of a model of herself as a wood nymph?'

She stood up. After we've seen Hannah Lockley,' she said, ‘I am going to buy you your lunch. Because you've earned it, Mike. You are beginning to understand the complexities of modern art.'

‘Heaven forbid,' he said fervently.

She got off on the wrong foot with Hannah Lockley – a mere slip of the tongue but the old lady was razor sharp.

They had been shown into the stuffy parlour, three-piece suite draped with fussy antimacassars, a teak coffee table in the centre, a print of a vase of flowers over the tiled fireplace. ‘Mrs Lockley ...'

The old lady's face became fierce. ‘I'll have you know I'm a Miss. I am not married. I never have been married. I owe no man anything.'

Joanna quickly apologized and tried to smooth over the awkwardness by asking her how long she had lived in Brooms. The old lady shot her a suspicious look.

‘This cottage was always in the family. I was brought up here. My father was farmhand at Hardacre, my mother helped in the dairy.'

‘You must have known Aaron Summers quite well?'

The old lady nodded.

‘And your sister?'

Miss Lockley gave a proud nod. ‘Ah – Paulette.' There was a note of adoration in her voice.

‘Your sister was younger than you?'

‘There was ten years between us – and a great deal else. I took after father, large, strong, robust. Paulette was my mother, right down to the fine bones, the unhealthy constitution. My mother was what farmers would call a poor breeder.' Hannah Lockley gave a tough smile. ‘She would have fetched no money at market. Two children in twenty year o' marriage?'

Joanna smiled. But the words were forcing her to realize things, to look at the past as well as the present. Maybe somewhere back there was some clue to the events of two days ago. So she began to probe blindly. ‘You must have grown up with Aaron.'

‘Yes.'

‘And he must have been nearer you in age than your sister.'

‘That's right.'

‘Were you fond of him?'

Hannah Lockley shrugged her shoulders. ‘So, so.'

‘But he married your little sister instead of you.'

Hannah Lockley gave a harsh cackle. ‘She were prettier.'

‘But you remained close neighbours.'

‘My father stayed on as farmhand.'

‘Even though his daughter had married, “the boss's son.” ‘

It was a feeble joke and Hannah Lockley ignored it. ‘My sister was very fond of Aaron,' she said. ‘They were very happy. The tragedy began with her dying so young, leaving the two children. And then there was the accident.'

Joanna watched the old lady carefully. ‘What exactly was “the accident”?'

‘Has no one told you?' There was mild surprise in the old lady's face. ‘Everyone knows the facts. We never tried to hide them. But it has nothing to do with the shootings.'

‘Can you be sure of that?'

Hannah Lockley pressed her lips together.

‘Was the accident how Jack fractured his skull?'

The old lady nodded. ‘As you know my sister died when poor old Jack was no more than a baby and Ruthie was six. She had to be a little mother to him as well as keeping house for Aaron. Well Aaron had the farm to run, didn't he, otherwise we'd all have been left to starve. He might even have lost the children too. So he had no choice. And it isn't exactly a generous living neither. Anyway Ruthie took little Jack out in the yard one day, in his pushchair. It's cobbled, you know, and she must have been going a little fast. She tipped the child out and he must have landed on his head. She did tell her dad but Aaron was so worried Ruthie would get into trouble he did nothing, you see. After Paulette died he had an aversion to all things medical. Stupidly he blamed the hospital for Paulette's suffering. But in this case he did wrong. It seems Jack's brain swelled and the damage was done. Maybe if he
had
been taken to hospital sooner it mightn't have been so bad. But ...' She sighed. ‘That family has not been blessed with luck.'