The Snares of Death (27 page)

‘When will you see him again?'

‘Tomorrow, in court. I'm hoping they'll let me have some time with him after he's remanded.'

Lucy regarded him seriously. ‘What evidence have they got against him? Is it only circumstantial? That he rowed with Dexter twice, and lied to them about the second row? Or is there anything concrete?'

‘I'm not really sure at this point. He was the last person known to see Bob Dexter alive. He lied about it, or at least withheld the truth. But they must have more to go on than that. They must think they've got a damned good case against him or they wouldn't have charged him.'

‘How can you find out?'

David bit his thumbnail. ‘I think I'll have a little chat with the sergeant at the police station. It just so happens that I handled his divorce for him a few years ago. I got him off a lot more lightly than he deserved – he owes me a favour. Sergeant Spring is a bit dim, but he's never been averse to a chat over a pint. I'm sure he could fill me in on a few things. Perhaps I'll have a word with him tomorrow.'

‘What are you – we – going to do now?'

He looked at the dashboard clock. ‘Go home, I should think. Why? Did you have something in mind?'

Lucy smiled. ‘I'm sure I can think of something.'

‘If you can't, I can.' David didn't actually break the speed limit, but he was back to Wymondham in near-record time.

CHAPTER 37

    
Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me: and made me to be abhorred of them.

    
I am so fast in prison: that I cannot get forth.

Psalm 88.7–8

The press loved it, of course: the pale, serious, bespectacled young man in the dog collar remanded in custody for the murder of a fellow clergyman. But it was all over very quickly, and Stephen Thorncroft was taken to Norwich Prison to await Her Majesty's pleasure.

Leaving the courtroom, David caught the eye of Sergeant Spring, who grinned in recognition. ‘I know it's a bit early now, but could I buy you a drink some time?' David asked casually. ‘I can come to Fakenham, if you like.'

The sergeant looked at his watch. ‘As a matter of fact, mate, I'm off duty this afternoon. Meet you halfway?'

‘Right.' They agreed on a pub on the road that ran the twenty-odd miles between Norwich and Fakenham, near the wildlife park. ‘See you later, then.'

It was several hours before David was able to see Stephen at Norwich Prison. When, at last, he was ushered into the barren interview room, it was a very different young man from the Stephen he'd previously encountered that he saw sitting before him. Stephen retained his dog collar, but instead of his cassock he was wearing a plain black clerical shirt and ordinary trousers. Somehow without his cassock he seemed stripped of his very identity, and David knew that Stephen felt it too. ‘Are they treating you well?' he asked after an awkward pause.

‘Oh, yes.' Stephen smiled wanly. ‘So far, anyway. No rubber hose-pipes yet.'

David sat down on the other side of the narrow, scarred table. ‘Stephen,' he began, ‘I'm not going to lie to you. You're in a lot of trouble.'

‘I'm beginning to realise that.' He gave a short, almost bitter laugh. ‘I was naive enough to believe that innocence was some kind of protection. But I can see that I was wrong.' He looked down at his hands, clasped before him on the table.

David was silent for a moment until the young man looked up and met his eyes. ‘I still don't know very much about your case,' he said quietly. ‘I've been given a copy of your statement, which I've read, and I know what you told me yesterday. I intend to find out as much as I can from the police. But I can't help you, Stephen, if you won't help yourself. You must tell me the truth, or I can't do anything for you.'

Stephen looked away. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘I think you do.' David paused. ‘When you went back to the church that night, and rowed with Dexter the second time, it wasn't over the statue, was it?'

Stephen's eyes flickered behind his spectacles but he said nothing.

‘It was over Dexter's daughter,' David rapped out.

The young man started. ‘How did you know?'

David's smile was without amusement. ‘It was a good guess. That day we first met – you as much as admitted that you were in love with her. And I got the feeling that he didn't know, and wouldn't be too thrilled if he did.'

‘And you remembered that. How clever of you.'

David spoke with some asperity. ‘I'm trying to help you. What do you think you can possibly accomplish by lying to me? Now. Tell me. What exactly did you row about?'

Stephen sighed. ‘It was about Becca, of course. I didn't think the police really needed to know that. And I don't think that the details are important . . .'

‘Tell me.' David's voice was uncompromising.

Reluctantly the young man began. ‘He . . . found out . . . that I . . . that we . . . you know.'

‘How did he find out?'

Stephen's eyes flickered again. ‘From Becca. She told him. I think he . . . oh, I don't know. He must have forced it out of her. He was a bastard,' he added with real passion.

‘So you rowed.'

‘Yes.'

‘And then what? You just left? Walked out of the church?'

‘Yes.'

David studied him for a moment. There was still something not quite right in the story. ‘And that's all? You're telling me everything?'

‘Yes.' But Stephen wouldn't look at him.

*

Sergeant John Spring was already standing by the bar with a half-empty glass when David arrived, a bit late after his interview with Stephen. Spring was out of uniform, and had clearly put the time waiting to good use by chatting up the barmaid, with some success; she was smiling at him with great favour. The sergeant was a solidly built, youngish man with the sort of looks that David had always assumed women liked: close-cropped dark hair, wide blue eyes, and a trim brown moustache adorning a round, open face. As he smiled at the barmaid, his lips parted to reveal very even, very shiny white teeth. He saw David. ‘A drink for my friend, sweetheart,' he said to the barmaid. ‘What will you have, mate?'

‘I'm supposed to be buying,' David demurred.

‘You can get the next round.'

‘Whisky, please.'

She bent down for a glass, taking her time so that the sergeant could get the full picture. Spring grinned appreciatively as he paid for the whisky, then carried the glasses to a table in the corner. ‘Did you get a butcher's at those knockers?' he asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

‘Hard to miss them,' David admitted.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.' He leered at her from a distance for a moment, then raised his glass. ‘Cheers, mate.' He drank deeply. ‘You married yet, Dave?'

‘No,' was the terse reply.

‘Good thinking. Still playing the field, eh, mate?' He winked.

David shrugged non-committally.

‘Me, I got married again after that divorce that you took care of for me. Not much choice, if you know what I mean.' He winked again. ‘Bit of a shotgun wedding. Still, I can't really complain. The wife doesn't cramp my style, if you know what I mean. She has her life, and I have mine.'

Yes, thought David, she probably has an exciting life looking after his kids, washing and ironing his uniforms, and cooking his meals, while he . . . No woman in Norfolk seemed to be safe from his charms; David recalled the way he'd ogled a young girl who'd come into the station the previous afternoon to report a stolen bicycle. Although he would hope that Lucy would be immune to the man's attractions, which were purely of a physical nature, unhampered by any mental agility, David was glad that she had chosen to remain in the car yesterday, and that she was safe at home in Wymondham this afternoon. If he had his way, she and Sergeant Spring would never have the opportunity to meet.

They both knew why they were there, and after the small talk was dispensed with they got down to business over the second round of drinks.

‘I really don't know very much about this Dexter business,' David began. ‘As you know, I came into it quite late. I wondered what you might be able to tell me. Strictly unofficially, of course, Sergeant.'

‘Call me John,' the policeman grinned. ‘After all, we're old mates, aren't we? I'll give it to you straight, Dave. Your young bloke is in a hell of a lot of hot water.'

‘What have you got on him? Just the fact that he rowed with Dexter? I'll admit that doesn't look good, especially since he didn't tell you at first about the second row . . .'

John Spring chuckled. ‘No way. Just between you and me, Dave, your bloke wasn't the only one who rowed with Dexter that day. Not by a long shot.'

‘Really?' David said with interest. ‘Who else?'

‘His wife, for one. And his daughter.' Spring's eyes lit up and he digressed for a moment. ‘That daughter of his, Rebecca her name is. Now
there's
a dish for you. Big blue eyes, blond hair, and what a body! You wouldn't have to pay me to hit the hay with
her
!'

Could the man think of nothing else? ‘Did he row with anyone else?' David prompted after a moment of the sergeant's silent, reminiscent lust.

‘Oh, yes. There were a couple of old bags from the church, Barnes and Vernon their names were. He went to their house and had it out with them. Accused them of stealing something from the church, apparently. And then there were some animal rights nuts who were camping on his land. He tried to run them off, and he hurt their dog. They weren't very happy, to say the least. It was them, by the way, that put the finger on your man. They'd moved on, away from the church like Dexter asked them to, but they came back later that night. They saw Thorncroft coming out of the church.'

David had an inspiration. ‘They weren't by any chance a group called BARC?'

‘Yeah, that's it. Funny sort of name, isn't it? BARC, like a dog. I wonder if they meant it to be funny?' Spring picked up his empty glass and looked at it quizzically.

‘You need another drink, John.'

‘I wouldn't say no, if you're still buying.' He looked over at the bar, and in a moment the barmaid came to their table. ‘Another round, sweetheart,' he announced, scrutinising the legs that had hitherto been concealed behind the bar. He did not find them wanting, in a short black skirt and black fishnet tights. When she'd brought the drinks a moment later he picked up the pound coins that David had left on the table and insinuated them into her pocket, his hand lingering on her thigh. ‘Keep the change, sweetheart.'

She smiled down at him. ‘Ta.'

‘And ta to you, Dave.' Spring saluted him with the foamy pint of bitter. ‘Now. What else did you want to know?'

‘Dexter seems to have been quite busy that day. Any other rows?'

‘Not that we know of, mate.' He regarded David over the foam as he drank.

David sipped his whisky. ‘Why did he row with his wife and daughter?'

‘The wife, it was something about the bloomin' statue, apparently. The daughter, I'm not sure. She wouldn't really say, was pretty upset about the whole thing. I think she must have had a boyfriend that the old man didn't know about, and he found out, and cut up rough about it. She didn't kill him, so I didn't want to press her. Well, I
did
want to press her, but . . .' he amended with a leer.

‘How do you know she didn't kill him?' David interrupted quickly.

‘Her mum says that she was in her room all evening, all night. The girl never went out. Anyway, a sweet young thing like that – she wasn't going to whack her dad on the head with an iron bar, no matter what he did to her.'

‘So he was killed with an iron bar? You know that for sure?'

Spring nodded. ‘Didn't I tell you that? That's what really nailed Thorncroft. We found the murder weapon last week. His prints are on it. Along with Dexter's blood.'

David stared. ‘What?' Stephen hadn't seen fit to mention this little detail to him, and it would be next week before he would have another chance to talk to him, and ask for his explanation. Silently he cursed his client.

‘Yes, there's no doubt about it, mate.'

‘Well, what exactly was the murder weapon? And where did you find it?'

Scratching his head, Spring tried to explain. ‘We found out from Thorncroft – when he finally admitted he'd been there that night – that Dexter was using some sort of a crowbar to pry this statue out. There wasn't any crowbar there when the body was found. We sealed the church, of course. And last week we found it in a little room off the side of the church. The scene-of-the-crime blokes had overlooked it at first because it was part of an altar, they said. I don't really understand – it looks like an iron bar to me. But the young bloke who's in charge there now – Judd, his name is – said that it fitted on to the altar and you hang something from it. Can't really picture it, myself.'

David's eyes lit up. ‘An English altar! It has posts on the four corners, and between the posts are iron bars to hold the curtains at the back and sides.'

‘That's it.' Spring nodded in satisfaction and tipped his glass back; it was nearly empty again.

‘So he was killed with one of the bars from the English altar.' David smiled in spite of himself. ‘There's something rather fitting about that. He would have hated it.'

‘Forensics found blood on it, and tissue. He was killed with it, all right. And your blokes' fingerprints were there, too. I
might
be able to slip you a copy of the forensic report, Dave.' He looked meaningfully at his empty glass.

On temporary receptionist duty at Goodacre and Whitehouse, Nan had been too busy to engage in much gossip or, as she preferred to think of it, exchange of interesting information. But even a busy receptionist was entitled to a cup of tea in the afternoon, so she took her tea into the typists' room and hovered over Karen's typewriter. ‘You missed her yesterday,' she began. ‘Mr Middleton-Brown's lady-friend. Lucy. She was here.'