Scaring Crows (16 page)

‘What about this rambler thing, Mike? Worth pursuing, do you think?'

He gave her a withering glance. ‘Rambling – at seven in the morning, Joanna?'

She sighed. ‘So you don't think it's worth an appeal?'

He put his pint glass down firmly on the table. ‘Now I didn't say that.'

2.30 p.m.

The team were assembled back at the Incident caravan and there was a pile of faxes. Mike picked up the top one. ‘Preliminary reports on the shotgun,' he said. ‘Linked with the murders, injuries, etc. Wadding taken from Aaron Summers' chest matches the stuff from inside the barrel of the gun.' He gave Joanna one of his rare, broad grins. ‘That should be enough evidence to please the courts.'

There was a stirring around the room. No one needed to point out that for the gathered evidence to even
reach
the courts they would have to produce a viable suspect.

Mike glanced through the second sheet. ‘Blurred prints of all the family. Suggest miscreant was wearing gloves.'

There was a titter from the back of the room.

Joanna sighed. ‘Anything of real value?'

‘Prints on the photographs, Jack Summers.'

‘Jack Summers? But the hands are ...'

‘They might be Mothershaw's,' Mike said grimly. ‘But the prints are those of her brother, the deceased.'

The sentence conjured up the dreadful picture of the surprised face, glancing down, the meaty fists trying to stem the flow of blood from the gaping wound in his chest. Joanna shivered.

‘She must have showed the picture to her brother.'

And now there was something else bothering her. Why had Ruthie not been seen for a month? Where had she been?

Because the picture didn't fit in with her being the killer. She couldn't have vanished for a month only to appear in the doorway, the shotgun in her hand. Or could she?

What sort of a woman was Ruthie Summers?

3.30 p.m.

‘So where now?'

The Incident Room was stifling. There seemed more flies than ever, great, black clouds of the things. And she could have sworn they were bigger, noisier and more inclined to settle on her bare legs and arms. Even on her hair. She shook her head, annoyed.

They drank luke-warm coke and she made a decision.

‘Let's take the car up to the Rowans' farm,' she said suddenly. ‘Ruthie worked there. It's just possible she could be hiding up there.'

Mike looked dubious. ‘With all the publicity?'

‘Well let's go anyway,' she said irritably as a bluebottle with a buzz like a Spitfire landed on her arm. ‘I can't stay here, Mike.'

So they drove along the bumpy lane passing Fallow- field, sleepy, with no sign of human activity, before turning out on to the main road and travelling the half mile to the track that led to the Rowans' farm. The Rowans went in for tourist accommodation. Three gold coronets sat beneath the name on a swinging green sign. They rattled across the cattle grid before climbing the slight incline towards the prosperous-looking farm nestling into the side of the hill. The drive was smooth and without ruts, carefully tarmacked, the verges neat and well tended, an electric fence keeping the cattle from straying. The stone house at the top looked in good condition with original stone mullions. All looked neat, organized and in good order. Joanna pulled the car into the yard and switched the engine off. Ahead was a tall Dutch barn neatly stacked with hay-bales. To the left was a long row of barn conversions, each one with the twee name of a bird painted around a picture on an oval metal plaque. There was a Robin Cottage, a Magpie Cottage, a Thrush and a Blackbird Cottage. Above the name each had a hanging basket filled with red and blue flowers, salvias and lobelias. There was a pale green Mercedes parked outside Blackbird Cottage and the door was standing open. A child ran out, stared at the two police officers and ran straight back in again. They crunched across the gravel to the front door of the farmhouse.

Again there were signs of zealous work. The path was swept, the flowerbeds tended. No weeds. Someone worked very hard to keep this place attractive. Through the front door wafted a pleasing scent of polish and cooking, cakes and a casserole. The entire atmosphere was one of well controlled domesticity and when Mrs Rowan came out to meet them the illusion was furthered.

A size ten, neatly dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, tied at the waist and skin tight jeans, chin length blonde hair pleasantly ruffled by the wind. She looked about thirty. And her husband who arrived a second later to take up his arm-squeezing position behind her was also dressed smartly, slim and dark with the attractive air of a reprobate. He too was impeccably dressed in cavalry twills and a white, polo necked shirt.

Though the day was broiling neither was sweating and it struck Joanna that they seemed poles apart from the two moorland farmers whose murder she was investigating.

She made brief introductions and noted that Mrs Rowan's manners were as impeccable as her appearance. ‘Do come in,' she said pleasantly. ‘Would you like a coffee?' She gave Mike a conspiratorial smile. ‘Or a beer, Sergeant?'

Mike replied stiffly. ‘Not on duty, thanks, Mrs Rowan.'

‘Oh – Arabella, please. And this is Neil, my husband. Shall we go into the kitchen?'

It was a lovely room completely fitted with oak units, the ceiling criss-crossed with low beams festooned with sprigs of drying herbs and flowers. And at the far end was a dark green Aga. Joanna's eyes wandered around the room approvingly. She would love this kitchen, with its scent of wood smoke, welcome even on such a hot day.

Mrs Rowan slipped on an oven glove and fished a baking tray of a dozen or more scones out of the oven. All were perfectly symmetrical, wonderfully risen and uniformly browned. Joanna watched Mrs Rowan's precise actions. This was how Matthew would like her to be. Domestic, neat, ordered – and home-bound.

What had seemed at first pleasantly organized was now stifling. She shifted in her seat.

Mrs Rowan stopped looking at Mike and focused her attention on Joanna. ‘I do holiday lets,' she explained. ‘Barn conversions, home cooking, on the farm. People love it,' she said, ‘especially the city dwellers. Especially families. They arrive in their green wellies and play farms for a week or two. They even begin to talk quite knowledgeably about Friesians and Herefords and Pot Bellied Pigs. They pay generously for this pleasure. And then they're quite happy to return to their stuffy cities and money-spinning jobs.'

Joanna was surprised at the note of mockery and cynicism in the woman's voice. Why did Arabella Rowan dislike her clients so much? This was a well organized business, one which obviously earned her a good living. There was an air of prosperity at the Rowans' farm which had been lacking from either Fallowfield or Hardacre. So why despise the people who paid for the privilege of spending their holidays in the country? Why bite the hand that feeds you, Mrs Rowan?

She looked sharply at the woman and formed an opinion. She was clever, hard working and perceptive. She was also a perfectionist, obsessional and ambitious. She would not take kindly to anything that threatened her ordered existence. There was also a ruthless side to this woman and it was less attractive than the superficial version, the size ten, blonde, amenable, feminine woman.

And Mr Rowan?

Joanna turned her attention to the man instead. He was slim and dark-haired, handsome in an ordinary way. His was not an interesting face but rather a neat, orderly collection of inoffensive features. It was a negative brand of good looks rather than any one, positively attractive feature. She noticed that he was saying nothing but stood directly behind his wife with a slightly foolish grin fixed on his face. He was clearly not as intelligent as his wife and he was probably a philanderer. Even as the thought formed she wondered how she had reached that conclusion. Yet any woman would have picked up the calculating question in his eyes, the sliding glance across her breasts, her hips, her legs. And there was a boldness around his eyes, a restlessness about his broad fingers. She glanced again at Arabella Rowan's firm chin.

But he was afraid of his wife.

And his wife knew it and used it to her advantage.

And Ruthie? Had she been forced to repel Neil Rowan's unwelcome advances? Or to the sheltered farmer's daughter had he seemed romantic, a godsend, a hero, a Siegfried? How would Arabella Rowan have reacted to advances made by her husband to her chambermaid?

Arabella Rowan spoke. ‘I suppose you're here about Ruthie.'

It was shrewd of her to guess that. Most people would have referred firstly to the double shootings of their neighbours. But Arabella, with her clever brain, had realized that it was their contact with the missing girl that had warranted a visit from the two senior officers on the third day of their investigation.

Her blue eyes opened wide as she spoke again. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen to the poor girl's family. Hardly bears thinking about.'

‘No.'

‘And have you any idea where she is?'

Joanna could have sworn Neil Rowan's eyes flickered. Certainly he started breathing quicker and a touch more noisily. His wife must have noticed too and gave him a sharp, admonishing glance.

‘No. That is the reason why we've come,' Joanna admitted. ‘I don't suppose you've any idea where ...'

‘Well she isn't here.' At last Neil Rowan had spoken. They all turned to look at him.

‘When did you last see her?'

It was Arabella who answered Mike's question, turning her blue eyes full on him. ‘Quite a while ago,' she said crisply. ‘And I wasn't too pleased at her simply not turning up without a word of explanation. This is the busiest time of year. I needed her.'

‘So when
did
you last see her?'

‘About a month ago. Early in June. I can't give you the exact date. She simply didn't turn up one morning. There was no explanation.'

‘Did you ring Hardacre Farm?'

‘I certainly did.'

‘Who did you speak to?'

‘Oh I don't know. The brother and her father sounded the same to me.'

‘And?'

‘They said she wasn't well and that she wouldn't be in for a while.' Arabella Rowan looked slightly ashamed of herself. ‘To be honest I told them she could stick it and that I'd get someone in from the town. I was very angry.'

‘And did you?'

Mrs Rowan frowned. ‘Did I what?'

‘Get someone in from the town?'

‘Yes I did – as a matter of fact.'

Mr Rowan reinforced his wife's statement with a nod and a widening of the fatuous grin. Arabella was taking no notice of him, probably a normal attitude for her.

‘How well did you know the Summers family?'

‘Not well. Not really well at all. We didn't
know
them. We were simply
acquainted
with them. They were neighbours and Ruthie was a perfectly sweet girl. She was quite clean too and reliable.' Arabella swivelled her head around to give her husband a swift glance. Of warning?

‘So do you have any idea who might have wanted to shoot her father and her brother?'

‘Most definitely not
anybody
from around here,' Mrs Rowan snapped. ‘The entire idea is quite appalling. It must have been someone from outside.'

Joanna reflected how much more comfortable these crimes were when committed by ‘someone from outside'. It was too convenient. She must destroy that illusion. ‘We don't think so, Mrs Rowan.'

Arabella Rowan gave a little jerk. ‘Why ever not?'

‘Because someone not only knew the gun was there but had the opportunity to check it was loaded.'

Both the Rowans stared uneasily at her.

‘And how did you get on with them as neighbours?'

The answer was predictable. ‘Very well. Very well indeed.'

‘You saw them often?'

She might have known Neil Rowan would be the type to bluster. ‘Hardly ever. Not socially at all. But when we did, at the cattle market and such like, we were perfectly amicable neighbours.'

‘Nice,' Mike said mockingly.

The Rowans gave him a suspicious stare but Mike's square face was innocence itself.

Joanna cleared her throat. ‘Was it at the market that Jack Summers kicked your dog?'

Neil Rowan looked annoyed. ‘Yes it was, as a matter of fact. Though what it's got to do with the murders ...'

‘Probably nothing,' Joanna put in soothingly.

‘And why he took it into his foolish head to ...'

‘I understood the dog bit him, Mr Rowan.'

Neil looked uncomfortable. ‘Well yes. But ... He's a farmer. He should have had more patience with a dog. Animals are unpredictable things.'

‘Like humans,' Mike said.

The farmer looked at him with hostility. ‘
Some
humans,' he said carefully. ‘Only
some!
'

‘And as a result of Jack's violence your dog had to be put down.'

‘Hardly a motive for murder,' Arabella said acidly. ‘Though the dog did suffer. And we were angry – at the time. His rib was broken and it stuck in his lung. Poor thing.'

‘You were fond of the dog?'

‘Yes we were, actually. Very fond.'

‘So you were none too pleased with Jack Summers.'

‘As I have already said.' Arabella's voice was even more concentratedly acid. ‘Hardly a motive for murder.'

‘I'm not suggesting it is,' Joanna said calmly. ‘But someone – and we feel it was probably someone local – pulled the trigger on two defenceless farmers. Used their own gun. We don't know why. And so we can't guarantee the same thing won't happen again. In this area of the country most rural households possess a shotgun. Some of those gun licence holders are lax in keeping their weapons locked away. There is a real danger.'