Murder in Langley Woods Read online

  For a moment, panic took hold. Then she gave herself a mental shake and began to rationalise the situation. Even without her own statement, or mention by the family, the police would have a shrewd idea that there was a man involved in Hannah’s flight. No doubt they had already raised that very point, and even if the family had refused to answer, that silence would have confirmed their suspicions. Nothing Melissa could tell them would add to their knowledge. ‘Pull yourself together, woman!’ she said aloud. ‘It’s Ken Harris and his idiotic suggestions that’s put the wind up you!’ She went into the kitchen to start preparing her supper.

  She had just finished eating when the telephone rang. In the hope that it was Ken calling to make his peace she hastily snatched up the receiver, but Matt Waters was on the line.

  ‘Melissa? Are you busy?’

  ‘Not particularly – what is it?’

  ‘I wonder if I could call in for a word on my way home? It’s about that photograph you referred to in your statement … the one of the dead girl.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s important to establish where and when it was taken. Her family aren’t being very co-operative. It’s always the same with these people; they look on the police as their natural enemies even when we’re trying to help them.’

  Maybe that’s because they’ve got their own ideas on how things should be handled, she thought grimly. Aloud, she said, ‘I’m not sure I can be of much help, but drop in by all means.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It would be good to have company, even if only for a short time. She was beginning to regret her shouting match with Ken. His anger had, she knew, been prompted solely by his concern for her. His presence at that moment would be reassuring … she decided that she was almost ready to forgive him … provided, of course, that he apologised and promised not to be so bossy in future.

  She prepared coffee and when Matt arrived they went into the sitting-room. ‘I don’t know what else I can tell you,’ she said as she filled two mugs and handed him one. ‘Everything Rachel said is in my statement. When I asked if the girl was dead – because of the black ribbon round the photo frame – she said “Might as well be” and never uttered another word, not even “Goodbye”. She’d already told me that some man took the picture – she didn’t say where or when – and then “took the girl away” as she put it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Matt agreed. ‘What I’d like you to do is cast your mind back to that picture and try to remember anything else that was in it … anything at all that might help us to identify the location. Take your time.’ He sat back with his mug of coffee and waited.

  Melissa closed her eyes and called up an image of the interior of the caravan, the polished wooden locker with its array of bric-à-brac and the two photographs in their gleaming silver frames. She focused her inward eye on the picture of Hannah, recalling each detail … the cushion with the lace spread out on it, the bobbins, the fingers that held them and the eyes with their faraway look, gazing down at the work yet not seeing it, seeing instead something far more interesting, something exciting and pleasurable enough to bring that sensuous half-smile to the perfectly shaped mouth.

  But it was the background that Matt was interested in. Melissa had been so taken by the look on the girl’s face that she had paid scant attention to anything else … but yes, little by little other details began to come back. There was a dog, the dog that had barked when she and Bruce had first approached the Romany camp, sitting on its haunches at Hannah’s side. And some kind of group in the background, out of focus, but identifiable …

  ‘I think there were some men with horses,’ she said after a long pause. ‘It was quite blurry … you couldn’t see their faces—’

  ‘You’re sure there were horses?’ Matt’s voice was sharp, interested. ‘How many?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure … several. I only half took them in, but … yes, definitely men with horses.’

  ‘Well done. Now Mel, think again about the girl. What was she wearing?’

  ‘She had on a brightly coloured dress that went down to her ankles. I remember that quite clearly because you could just see her bare feet.’

  ‘Short or long sleeves?’

  ‘Short. Definitely short. The sun was shining … it was probably quite a warm day.’ It was amazing, Melissa thought, how much she had subconsciously absorbed and was able to recall.

  ‘Was she wearing any jewellery?’

  ‘She had long hair – I don’t recall any earrings, but I believe most of the women wear them.’

  ‘What about bangles?’

  Melissa thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember, but it’s quite likely. Rachel was wearing several. Were there any on the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So maybe the motive was robbery?’

  ‘That’s one of the lines we’re considering. I believe gipsies put a lot of their money into gold – even the men wear earrings.’

  Melissa nodded absently, her thoughts still on the photograph. ‘I’ve just remembered something else,’ she said. ‘Hannah was sitting quite close to the caravan and there was a white jug on the steps with some flowers in it … bluebells, I think.’

  ‘Bluebells, eh?’ Matt re-opened the notebook he had just closed and began scribbling again. ‘That’s a great help.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Sure. When do bluebells come out?’

  ‘Let’s see … late April, early May … oh, I get it. You reckon that picture was taken at the Stow Horse Fair?’

  ‘I reckon so. And don’t forget, the girl had been working under an assumed name at an hotel just outside Stow. There could be a connection. Thanks, Mel, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘I hope you’ll find the bloke she went off with.’

  ‘Well, at least we know now where to start looking. Mind you, he’s not the only suspect … we haven’t ruled out the possibility that her own menfolk had a hand in her death.’

  Melissa’s heart sank. It was exactly what Ken Harris had suggested. When two experienced detectives had the same gut reaction, was it reasonable to take the opposite view? Yet her own conviction was just as strong. If Hannah had been killed by members of her tribe, Rachel must surely have known, yet nothing in her demeanour had indicated that she was harbouring such an awful secret.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind calling in at the nick some time in the near future to make another statement?’ Matt was saying.

  ‘Of course. Would you like some more coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, I must be getting along.’

  As he got up to leave, they heard the sound of an approaching car. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got another visitor,’ Matt remarked.

  A car door slammed and someone pounded on the knocker. Ken Harris was standing in the porch; he appeared taken aback at the sight of his former colleague.

  ‘Matt – what are you doing here?’

  ‘Official business. Melissa’s been helping with our inquiries. Really helping – she’s been brilliant. Thanks once again, Mel – see you!’

  As Matt got into his car and drove off, Melissa stood silently to one side while Harris stepped into the hall. She closed the front door and went past him into the sitting-room with her head averted, determined not to reveal her relief at seeing him.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Matt wanted to know if I could remember anything to help identify the place where the photograph of the murdered girl was taken.’

  ‘So why couldn’t they get that information from the family?’

  ‘I suppose it’s because the family haven’t shown them the photo.’

  ‘What did I tell you? It’s odds on they know far more than they’re prepared to admit.’

  ‘That doesn’t follow. Matt says they’re never very well disposed towards the police.’

  ‘The opposite’s true as well … and with good reason. What else did Matt say?’ His manner was aggressive, but
the expression in his eyes indicated hurt rather than anger.

  ‘Nothing much. I imagine the number one priority will be to trace the girl’s movements from the time she left, but we didn’t discuss that. Look, Ken, if you’ve come here to carry on a cross-examination, forget it.’ Without a second thought, she decided not to mention the possibility of a revenge killing. It was probably her imagination working overtime … but even so, it would only set him off again. She picked up the tray of coffee things and headed for the door. He took it from her grasp, put it back on the table and pulled her into his arms.

  ‘Don’t be mad at me, love,’ he said in a softer tone. ‘It’s only because you mean so much to me … I get worried—’

  ‘And I get the feeling of being stifled,’ she retorted. The familiar scent of his jacket, his breath on her cheek and the feel of his body pressed against hers made it difficult to maintain her attitude of justifiable resentment, but she persevered. ‘You’ve no right to expect me to account to you for my every movement.’

  ‘I don’t expect that.’ His voice was conciliatory, his hands gently massaging her back. ‘All I’m asking is that you let me know before you go haring off on some mad-brain scheme. Suppose anything had happened to you in that camp? No one would have known where you were or where to start looking.’

  Chemistry was beginning to have an effect. Melissa felt her resistance being undermined, but she was determined to hold out a little longer. ‘And if I had told you, what would you have done?’

  ‘I’d have told you not to be so daft, but …’ Abruptly, he released her from the bear-hug and held her at arms’ length, his lumpy features crumpled in a rueful smile. ‘Knowing you, you’d have gone ahead anyway.’

  She allowed herself a small, triumphant smile in return. ‘That proves my point, doesn’t it?’

  He took her face in both hands and tilted it towards his. ‘Oh Mel, why can’t you stick to fiction and leave the real detective work to the professionals?’

  ‘Something in the genes, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re an infuriating woman, do you know that?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  He heaved a sigh of mock despair. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  No doubt other skirmishes lay ahead, but in this one Melissa sensed that he had tacitly conceded victory. It was time to let him off the hook and make peace. ‘I can think of several things,’ she said demurely.

  He pulled her towards him again. ‘Just at the moment,’ he said, ‘I can think of only one.’

  Six

  As Matt Waters had requested, Melissa called in at police headquarters in Cheltenham on Tuesday to repeat as a formal statement her recollections of the photograph of Hannah Rose that she had given him the previous evening. The day was pleasantly warm with a hint of autumn in the mellow sunlight, the pavements dappled with gold by fallen leaves. Trees in the neighbourhood gardens, which a few months before had provided dazzling displays of pink and white blossom, were now laden with crab apples and rowan berries and alive with birds squabbling over the ripening fruit.

  She had left the Golf in a tree-lined street a short distance away and as she headed back to it her mind was busy with some of the unanswered questions about the last hours of Hannah Rose – questions she was dying to put to Matt. She had hoped for an opportunity for another word with him, but although she had spotted him in a corridor he had given only a perfunctory nod in response to her greeting before disappearing into an office and closing the door. His expression had said, as clearly as words, that here she could expect no confidential titbits of the kind he occasionally revealed in private to her and his former superior officer.

  Behind her, she heard rapid footsteps and someone calling her name. She stopped and turned to see Bruce Ingram sprinting after her.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he panted as he drew level. ‘Oh, I know you were in the nick,’ he went on as her eyebrows went up, ‘I happened to see you arrive, but I was on my way to the press briefing and didn’t have a chance to get a word with you.’

  ‘It seems I’m a key witness in the Hannah Rose murder enquiry,’ she told him.

  ‘No kidding! I suppose you heard they’re questioning two men?’

  Melissa stared at him. ‘No, I didn’t. When … who?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. It was on the late TV news – I guess you didn’t watch.’

  ‘Er, no, I had an early night.’ Melissa felt a glow in her cheeks. The memory of her reconciliation with Ken set her senses tingling. Fearing that her face might betray her she turned away from Bruce and walked on, fumbling in her pocket for her car key, but his mind was focused on other matters. As they reached Melissa’s car, he put a manila envelope he was carrying on the roof, placed his notebook on top, opened it and stood with his pen poised above an empty page.

  ‘So what makes you a key witness?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Anything I can use, or have you been sworn to secrecy? Tell you what,’ he went on as she hesitated. ‘Have you got half an hour to spare later on? We could have a spot of lunch somewhere and compare notes.’

  ‘You mean, you could pick my brains,’ she retorted with a wry smile, knowing him of old.

  ‘I’m sure you’d like to hear what we learned at the briefing,’ he countered. ‘It won’t all be in the Gazette.’

  The offer was too attractive to turn down. She glanced at her watch; it was half-past ten. ‘I don’t see why not – I’ve got a few things to do in town before I go home,’ she conceded. ‘What sort of time are you thinking of?’

  ‘Say twelve o’clock. I have to dash now – I’d like to catch the evening edition.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a deal. Who’s leading the investigation, by the way?’

  Bruce screwed up his face as if he had bitten into a sour apple. ‘The man we all love to hate,’ he said.

  She gave a knowing chuckle. ‘You mean DCI Holloway?’

  ‘Who else?’ They both had first-hand experience of the humourless, recently promoted Detective Chief Inspector, Bruce during his brief career in the police, Melissa through her involvement in previous investigations. ‘He’s a sarcastic bugger,’ Bruce went on, ‘I think he’s got his knife into me because I left the force to go back to journalism. Sees me as gamekeeper turned poacher, I guess.’

  ‘Which you are.’ Melissa unlocked the car and opened the driver’s door. ‘So where shall we meet? How about the Courtyard in Montpellier?’

  ‘That gets pretty crowded with tourists at this time of year. We don’t want to have to share a table.’

  ‘In case one of your rivals happens to overhear?’ she teased, knowing his passion for secrecy. ‘Okay, have you got a better idea?’

  ‘There’s that pub at the top of Crickley Hill. We could sit out and admire the view.’

  ‘That suits me fine – it’s on my way home.’

  ‘Great. See you there about midday. Cheers!’ And he turned on his heel and hurried back the way he had come.

  When Melissa turned into the car park at the Air Balloon a few minutes before twelve, it was already surprisingly full. Bruce, arriving shortly afterwards, pulled a face. ‘Looks as if it’s going to be crowded here as well,’ he grumbled, but when they went inside they found the place practically deserted. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked the barman.

  ‘Walking on the Cotswold Way, most of them. They turn up first thing, leave their cars here and come back for lunch.’ The man took their order for sandwiches and coffee and said, ‘I’ll bring it to your table.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll be in the garden.’

  They had it to themselves. For a few minutes they sat admiring the panorama of the Severn Vale, with the city of Gloucester in the foreground and the Welsh Hills on the horizon, a smudge of indigo against the hazy blue of the sky. Behind them rose the dramatic spur of Crickley Hill, the dense greenery on its slopes relieved by splashes of bronze and gold. A flock of swallows and house martins, perched on the roof of a nearby house, suddenly took off like flakes of char
red paper blown by the wind and began wheeling madly above their heads, filling the air with their thin, shrill cries.

  ‘They’ll soon be getting ready to leave,’ Bruce remarked. ‘Amazing, isn’t it, that something so tiny can fly nonstop from here to Africa.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Melissa agreed absently, thinking of Iris. She too was preparing to leave but, unlike the swallows, would not be returning.

  The barman put their order on the wooden table in front of them, made a favourable comment on the view and the weather, and departed.

  ‘Right,’ said Bruce, reaching for a sandwich. ‘Who goes first?’

  ‘You’re more up to date than I am, so tell me what you learned at the briefing. My contribution is pretty much guesswork.’

  ‘Okay. The arrested men haven’t been named so we can only guess who they are or where they were picked up.’

  ‘Gipsies?’

  ‘I reckon so. We tried to get old Prune-Face to confirm it, but he wouldn’t be drawn. Anyway, the body was found on Thursday evening and the pathologist who carried out the post-mortem says the girl had been dead anything between three and five days. The body had been put in the freezer very soon after death, and because of the insulation it hadn’t been subjected to the same variations in temperature as if it had been in the open, so he claimed he couldn’t be more accurate than that.’

  ‘And the cause of death?’

  ‘Fractured skull, caused by a severe blow to the head. There was bruising to the face as well, probably inflicted during some sort of struggle just before death.’

  ‘Have any more details emerged about what she was doing when she wasn’t working in the hotel?’

  ‘Quite a bit. They found lace-making equipment in her room and they reckon she spent some of her time there making the stuff. House to house inquiries have already turned up a few people she called on, trying to sell it.’ Bruce reached for the envelope he had been carrying, drew out a sheet of paper and handed it to Melissa. ‘Here’s a photo of a piece she sold to someone in a village not far from the hotel.’