Murder in Langley Woods Read online

  Melissa studied the picture with interest. ‘The pattern is very like the one I saw Rachel working on,’ she said. ‘I take it this will appear in the papers in the hope that more people who bought from her will recognise it and come forward.’

  ‘I’m hoping the Gazette will carry it in this evening’s edition and it’ll be in the nationals tomorrow. The police are naturally anxious to learn as much as they can of the girl’s movements, especially during the period immediately before her death.’

  ‘Are they issuing a photograph?’

  ‘It seems not. The relatives are reported to be very distressed and couldn’t be persuaded to part with theirs. The police are hoping they’ll change their minds, but meanwhile the people at the hotel have co-operated to produce this E-FIT. The pathologist seems to think it’s reasonably accurate, although features naturally change in appearance after death.’

  He handed Melissa a second sheet on which was an impression of a girl’s face. She studied it for several seconds, mentally comparing it with the photograph in Rachel’s caravan. ‘That seems a fair likeness, judging from my recollection of the photograph,’ she said as she handed the pictures back.

  ‘Of course, you had a good look at it, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s what took me to headquarters this morning.’ Briefly, she told him of the details that, under Matt’s patient questioning, she had managed to recall.

  When she had finished, he said thoughtfully, ‘Even if the picture was taken at the May horse fair in Stow, as Waters seems to think, it doesn’t mean that’s when – or where – the girl first met the bloke who took it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. From the dreamy look on her face she was already in love with him, which suggests to me that she had known him for at least a little while before. These gipsy families are always on the move … maybe they’d met somewhere else and he was following her around.’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘Unlikely, I’d say – unless of course he’s a professional doing a series on Romany folk and their way of life, or something like that.’

  ‘Perhaps one of the county magazines has commissioned – or been offered – a piece on those lines.’

  ‘I haven’t heard talk of it, but I could ask around.’ Bruce sipped thoughtfully at his coffee and then said, ‘I suppose they could have met at the previous fair – it’s held twice a year.’

  ‘Of course – May and October. Suppose they met last October and arranged to meet again the next time the family was in Stow. Maybe they’d been thinking about each other all winter … then when they met up again, decided to run off together. Maybe she was tired of the nomadic way of life and saw him as a means of escape—’

  ‘And then found it didn’t work out and came back to Stow, hoping to join up with her own people again next time they were in the area. They probably follow the same route every year, working on the same farms and so on. In that case, she would have known where to find them. Maybe that’s where she was heading when she left the hotel after finishing her work on Monday.’

  ‘If she was planning to rejoin her folks that day she wouldn’t have left all her things – especially her lace-making equipment – behind,’ Melissa objected. ‘Everything points to her intending to come back from wherever she was heading for. Besides,’ she went on, ‘I believe some Romany tribes have very strong traditions about what they call marimé, which is their word for “pollution”. By going off with a gadgy, Hannah might have become a pariah to her family.’

  ‘So maybe she was so secretive because she was scared of being found by them.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose … but then, why stay in a place where she might run into them?’

  Bruce polished off the last of his sandwiches and sat back. ‘Perhaps she was trying to find the man she went away with in the first place,’ he suggested.

  ‘And if she found him and if he has a wife living in the neighbourhood, that could be a motive for killing her. Then he’d have wanted somewhere to hide the body. He could have found the freezer and … by the way, was there any suggestion at the briefing that he might be responsible?’

  ‘That’s something else our friend refused to comment on. He wants to contact him, naturally, even if only to eliminate him from the inquiries. I daresay Hannah’s family wouldn’t mind a few words with him as well,’ Bruce added grimly.

  His meaning was obvious. Melissa’s mind went back to the alarming possibility that had flashed through her mind after watching the television announcement that the dead girl had been identified as Hannah Rose. She sat mechanically turning her empty coffee cup between her hands and said, half thinking aloud, ‘There’s a lot of ill-feeling against him among the family – I could sense it from the way Rachel spoke. Whether or not he actually killed Hannah, they’ll hold him responsible. Matt said they aren’t being very co-operative.’

  They exchanged glances. ‘You reckon they’ll try and get to him first?’ said Bruce.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  Once again they fell silent, their minds busy with this line of thought. After a moment Melissa asked, ‘Did the PM report say anything about sexual interference?’

  ‘She was what is euphemistically known as “sexually active”, but there was nothing to suggest she’d been raped.’

  ‘Any theories as to how – or when – the body came to be in the freezer?’

  ‘Only that it was put there pretty soon after death, because of the state of post-mortem lividity. The lid was closed when the kids found it. If they hadn’t opened it, it might have been weeks or even months before the body was discovered.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what the killer was banking on. Have the police any idea how long the freezer had been in that ditch?’

  ‘They won’t say, but they’re appealing for anyone who regularly walks in the area to come forward.’

  ‘We know she was found on Thursday evening.’ Melissa began counting on her fingers. ‘Five days takes us back to … let’s see, Sunday. But the freezer was in the Fords’ garage until Monday evening, when it was put out for collection on Tuesday. It disappeared some time after ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘So either the killer knew it was there and turned up at dead of night to dump Hannah’s body, or it was put there after the freezer was taken. No one in their right mind would turn up with a corpse for disposal in broad daylight.’

  ‘Agreed. So the most likely explanation is that it was nicked by two of the travellers that Dudley was complaining about. They must have been cruising round the villages looking for whatever they could lay their hands on. Maybe they nicked the freezer and then – after one of them killed the girl – decided it was the perfect place to hide the body.’

  Bruce nodded. ‘Everything points to the police working on a similar theory. My guess is that the gipsy camp is where the arrests were made.’

  ‘And of course,’ Melissa said with a mischievous smile, ‘the Bill hit on the right group of gipsies.’

  ‘True,’ he conceded, ‘but if we hadn’t made that mistake—’

  ‘If you hadn’t made that mistake.’

  ‘Okay, point taken. What I’m saying is, because we went to the wrong camp, you saw the photograph and were able to point the police in the right direction. We should get a citation,’ he finished with a grin. Then, his expression once more serious, Bruce leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. ‘The thing we have to decide now is, what do we do next?’

  Scenting danger, Melissa reached for her handbag. ‘You please yourself, I’m going home,’ she said. ‘I’ve got work to do. If I don’t get down to it I’ll never meet my deadline and my agent will give me hell, so forget about the “we”, will you?’

  ‘Just a figure of speech. What I mean is, what line do you reckon the police will follow now? They obviously don’t believe they’ve got the case sewn up yet.’

  ‘Oh come on, you know the way they work as well as I do – better, in fa
ct. If they’ve got enough evidence to charge the two suspects, that’s what they’ll do. If they haven’t …’

  ‘… they’ll be running around like headless chickens looking for it,’ Bruce interposed. ‘And I want to keep one jump ahead of them.’

  ‘If you want to play detective to get your scoop feel free, but leave me out of it,’ Melissa said firmly. ‘I’ve already had a run-in with Ken Harris over yesterday’s little excursion.’

  ‘Kenneth Harris, the PI? What’s it got to do with him?’

  It was a question Melissa had asked herself on more than one occasion and to which she had still not found an entirely satisfactory answer. She muttered something about the inadvisability of meddling in police inquiries, but Bruce had already lost interest. He was frowning, evidently thinking furiously.

  ‘Motive,’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any conceivable reason why anyone from the travellers’ camp should have killed that girl. She wasn’t of their tribe … the hotel she was working in isn’t the kind of place they go—’

  ‘It seems pretty clear what she did in the daytime, but who knows where she went or what she did in the evenings … apart from being “sexually active” as you put it,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘She could have been picked up by one of them … in a pub, or maybe at a bus stop … anywhere … for casual sex … and then maybe threatened to blow the whistle on some scam they were up to.’

  ‘I can’t see it. These people know all the tricks … they’re past masters at fooling the police. What could a girl like that have to use against them?’

  ‘Maybe one of them is some kind of pervert.’

  ‘In that case, there would most likely have been other, similar killings, and so far as I know there haven’t been any recently. No, I reckon that photographer is more likely to be the killer – it seems more logical. If only we could find out who he is.’ Bruce stared unseeingly across the Vale and into the distance, gnawing his lip in frustration.

  ‘He might live in Stow. In that case, someone local may have seen him taking the picture. He might even be a regular at one of the pubs in the town.’

  The suggestion had an immediate effect on the journalist. He sat bolt upright, wearing what Melissa always thought of as his ‘eager terrier’ expression. ‘That’s an idea!’ he exclaimed. ‘He might even have been seen with Hannah.’

  ‘He might indeed. And it’s more than likely DCI Holloway is thinking on the same lines,’ Melissa added, goading him. ‘So if you want to keep ahead of the opposition, you’d better go and turn some of your well-known charm on the local barmaids.’

  ‘Do I take it you aren’t interested in a combined operation?’ Bruce appeared disappointed, but resigned.

  ‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the sarnies and coffee, Bruce … and good hunting!’

  Seven

  As Melissa approached the turning to Hawthorn and Elder Cottages, a bright green Mini emerged and headed towards her on the wrong side of the narrow lane. She hastily swerved into a convenient gateway, glaring at the oncoming driver and receiving in return a friendly wave from a plump, beringed hand through the open window. The car was unfamiliar, but she recognised the owner of the hand: Gloria Parkin, the exuberant young matron who had a regular round of cleaning jobs in the parish and – besides being an incredibly energetic and efficient worker – could be relied on to keep all her ‘ladies’ up to date with the latest gossip. As she drew level she popped a smiling face framed in a frizz of blonde hair out of the window and said, in her rich Bristol accent, ‘Morning, Mrs Craig! Lovely morning, innit?’

  ‘Lovely,’ agreed Melissa. It was impossible to remain annoyed with Gloria for long. ‘New car?’ she added, eyeing the Mini.

  ‘Just borrowed. The red one got dented so my Stanley’s letting me use this while he has it mended,’ Gloria explained. Her husband ran a lucrative and – on the whole – reasonably honest dealership in second-hand cars, and one could never be sure in what marque she would turn up next.

  ‘Oh dear, did you have a prang?’ It would hardly be surprising, the way you drive, was the unspoken thought that followed Melissa’s question.

  Gloria giggled. ‘Nothing serious, just hit a post that were too close to the corner.’ She squinted up at the sky and added, ‘Think it’s goin’ to rain presently. Terrible about that gipsy girl, innit?’ she went on inconsequentially. ‘I were just saying to Miss Ash, my Stanley reckons he saw—’ She broke off as another car appeared behind her, braked and gave a blast on the horn. ‘Impatient, innee?’ she said with a grin. ‘Have to go now, tell you tomorrow.’ She rolled up the window and drove off. Melissa watched in her mirror as the Mini, still in the middle of the road, staggered up the hill with the other car on its tail. She wondered in a kind of amused despair how it was that Gloria had never had a serious accident. It was probably because she rarely drove above twenty miles an hour.

  Melissa had just put the Golf away and was about to enter her cottage when a voice called ‘Yoohoo!’ Glancing upwards she saw Iris leaning out of the window of her first-floor studio. ‘Got a minute?’ she called.

  ‘Sure.’ Iris shut the window and reappeared moments later at her front door. She was wearing a loose smock, its long sleeves rolled up over her thin brown arms and its front liberally streaked with blue paint, some of which appeared to have been transferred via her stained fingers to her short, mouse-brown hair.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ she told Melissa. ‘You had a visitor.’

  ‘Oh? Who was it?’

  ‘Some gipsy woman. Had a bag full of stuff she tried to sell me.’

  ‘Lace?’

  ‘No idea. Too busy to look at it. Sent her packing.’

  ‘Did she say she’d call back?’

  ‘Said something about having arranged to call on you. Didn’t believe her. Said I didn’t know when you’d be home.’

  ‘She was telling the truth. Her name’s Rachel. I met her yesterday … I was going to tell you all about it, but I never got the chance. She wasn’t supposed to come until this afternoon. Did she leave any message?’

  Iris shook her head and a tortoise-shell slide became dislodged from her springy hair. She grabbed it and clipped it back into place, managing as she did so to leave a blue smudge across one cheek. ‘Seemed a bit up-tight,’ she said. ‘Red round the eyes. Might have been crying.’

  ‘I daresay she had, poor woman. I’m pretty sure the freezer victim was her husband’s niece.’

  Iris’s jaw dropped. ‘Good Lord! How do you know?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you’ve half an hour to spare.’

  ‘Can’t stop now – come for a cuppa about four.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ Melissa returned to her own front door, her sense of disappointment only partly due to the fact that a chance of buying something truly original as a wedding present for Iris and Jack had been missed. Rachel had appeared to be in some distress; that was surely confirmation – if any were needed – that the dead girl was a member of her family. The family who, to quote Matt’s words, weren’t being very co-operative. But it was possible that Rachel, in the course of conversation with Melissa whilst displaying her wares, would have revealed – inadvertently, perhaps – something of significance that direct questioning by the police had failed to uncover. Somewhat unreasonably, Melissa found herself blaming Bruce for the lost opportunity.

  As she closed the door behind her, she noticed clouds building up on the horizon. Recalling Gloria’s prediction of rain and anxious that the precious onion crop, dried and ripened to perfection during the long spell of sunny weather, should not become soaked and muddied, she hurried indoors to change into working clothes. She was in the garden, busy trimming the glossy brown globes before loading them into trays which she arranged on shelves in the lean-to shed at the back of the cottage, when she heard a hesitant voice call, ‘Mrs Melissa’. Looking round, she saw Rachel standing on the other side of the fence, a canvas hold-all clutched in front of her
with both hands.

  Melissa put down the tray she was carrying and hurried across to greet her visitor, exclaiming, ‘Rachel! I’m so glad you came back.’

  The gipsy made a striking figure, with her black braids looped round her head like a coronet and a bright red shawl draped over the same long black dress she had been wearing the previous day. She held herself straight-backed and carried her head proudly erect on her long, graceful neck. Apart from the slight redness round the eyes that Iris had remarked on, her features were composed.

  ‘Do come in. I’m sorry I was out the first time you called, but I wasn’t expecting you so early,’ Melissa explained as she ushered her visitor through the front gate, along the path to the back door and into the kitchen.

  ‘We’re moving on this afternoon,’ said Rachel in a flat, expressionless voice. She stood in the middle of the room, her dark eyes darting appraising glances in all directions.

  Melissa pointed to the table. ‘Why don’t you spread your lace out there while I put the kettle on – I daresay you’d like a cup of tea?’

  The gipsy seemed faintly surprised at the offer, but she nodded acceptance and began unloading her hold-all. ‘Are you looking for anything special?’ she asked as she brought out piece after piece, each more delicate and intricate than the last, holding it up for inspection and then letting it fall, until the table was covered in folds of soft, creamy cotton. ‘They are all hand made, except for the edges – I do those on a machine,’ she explained.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ said Melissa. ‘My friend is getting married and I’m looking for a wedding present for her.’ She picked up a circular table-cover that had caught her eye and spread it on top of the others. It felt as light as thistledown in her hands. ‘She’d love this one. How much is it?’

  They agreed on a price; Melissa chose another piece for herself and took her purse from a drawer. It was fortunate, she thought as she handed over the money, that she had drawn cash that morning. It was unlikely that a cheque or credit card would have been acceptable. Seeing Rachel’s eyes on the purse, she had a momentary feeling of unease. Ken Harris’s warnings about the devious ways of gipsies flashed through her head, but she dismissed them. She had read something of their history and knew of the persecution they had suffered down the ages. Nonetheless, she was careful to return the purse to the drawer before making a pot of tea and fetching cups and saucers while Rachel repacked her hold-all. She made the tea, poured it out and brought it to the table. Rachel accepted the proffered cup with her left hand and at the same time reached out to grasp Melissa’s own hand with her right.