Murder in Langley Woods Page 8

  ‘It’s certainly worth considering.’

  ‘And another thing,’ Melissa hurried on, ‘the fact that her own family still travel in horse-drawn vans when almost all the others have these fancy motor caravans, and move around much faster, might have made the opportunity to go further afield even more inviting.’

  ‘You may well be right.’ The detective made a few more notes. ‘Thanks, Melissa, I’ll pass this on to DCI Holloway.’

  He was in the act of closing his notebook when Melissa put a hand on his arm. ‘Matt, you will impress on him that Rachel’s family are looking for the man as well, won’t you?’

  ‘Have you any proof of that?’

  ‘Not proof, no, but it would be the obvious thing for them to do. I’ve read something about their customs … they have their own courts, their own traditional ways of punishing those who’ve harmed any of their people.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a little melodramatic? This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages. And in any case, this chap – whoever he is – might not have seen her for months – might even turn out to have been abroad when the girl was killed.’

  ‘But don’t you see, that wouldn’t make any difference to the way they feel towards him. Even if he has an alibi, even if he can prove he’s done nothing to harm Hannah, they still hold him responsible.’

  ‘Did this woman say so?’

  ‘Yes, she said something like, “Even if he did not kill her himself, the blame lies at his door.” And you should have seen the anger, the hatred in her eyes when she spoke. I’m seriously concerned that those people will attack him if they find him before you do.’

  ‘I’ll certainly mention your suspicions, but unless they’ve actually been heard to utter threats against him, there’s not much we can do.’

  Melissa gave a sigh of resignation. ‘I suppose not. What about the two men you’re holding? Have you got anything out of them?’

  Matt hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you—’ he began, but Melissa broke in eagerly.

  ‘Oh come on, you’d tell Ken if he was here.’

  ‘And you’d soon worm it out of him, no doubt,’ said Matt with a chuckle. ‘I’ll have to bear that in mind in future.’

  ‘Please!’ Melissa coaxed.

  ‘As long as you promise not to pass it on to that journalist friend of yours until it’s been officially released?’

  She was on the point of retorting that it was more likely to be Bruce who fed her titbits of information that the papers didn’t print, rather than the other way round, but decided that would hardly be circumspect. ‘I promise,’ she assured Matt. ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘We’ve turned up some fresh evidence and applied for permission to hold the two of them for further questioning. That’s what made me late.’

  ‘What evidence was that?’

  ‘When we searched their van we found some jewellery that looked as if it might have belonged to a gipsy woman and one of our lads was sent to the Romany camp to see if Hannah’s family could identify it. All the caravans had gone and it took him quite a while to catch up with them.’

  ‘Yes, Rachel told me they were moving on. Where are they camped now?’

  ‘On a farm somewhere near Chipping Campden. Seems they go there every year to do tree and hedge trimming and the like. They tend to stay in the area until the end of October for the Stow Fair.’

  Melissa nodded eagerly. ‘Which we’ve already established is where Hannah met the man she eloped with.’

  ‘We haven’t established anything about him,’ Matt pointed out. ‘Everything about him is pure guesswork at the moment. What is certain is that Hannah’s aunt and uncle positively identified the earrings and bracelets we showed them as belonging to their niece.’

  ‘How did they react … the relatives, I mean?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘They got pretty stroppy when our chap explained that we have to keep the stuff as evidence. They demanded its return there and then … it got quite heated at one stage.’

  ‘What about the two in custody … does this mean you’ve got enough to charge them?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘DCI Holloway seems to think we’ve got a case, but to my mind it’s all too circumstantial. These blokes are sticking to their story that the body was in the freezer when they opened it and so far we’ve uncovered nothing to disprove their claim. They admit knowing the girl and having sex with her on more than one occasion, but they flatly deny killing her. As for taking the jewellery, their attitude is … what does a dead girl want with gold earrings and the like?’

  ‘That’s pretty callous,’ Melissa commented. ‘Matt, you will go on looking for this truck driver?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain he’s a truck driver,’ Matt pointed out. ‘But of course we’ll continue our efforts to trace him, whatever his occupation. We’re anxious to get a complete picture of Hannah’s movements prior to her death and this guy may be able to help us. But I have to be honest with you, Mel, we haven’t the man-power to follow up every lead in person. What we’re doing is appealing to the public for information.’

  ‘Surely you could at least contact long-distance hauliers …’

  ‘I’ve no doubt DCI Holloway will consider that possibility,’ Melissa thought she detected a trace of weary reproof in Matt’s tone, as if he considered that she had been pushing her ideas a shade too hard but was too polite to say so. Her confidence was only partially restored when he added, ‘We’ll certainly report what you’ve told us at tomorrow’s press briefing and make an appeal on radio and TV. Hopefully, either the man himself, or someone who can identify him, will come forward.’

  ‘Why wait till tomorrow? If you call in right away, you might be in time to get it on tonight’s TV news.’

  Matt’s face was a study as he pulled out his mobile phone and made for the front door. ‘Anything for a quiet life!’ he said resignedly. ‘Give me five minutes and then we’ll go and have that drink I promised you.’

  Nine

  Rocky Wilkins strode naked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, towelling himself with grunts of satisfaction. It was good to be home, to look forward to a few days of Julie’s cooking followed by an evening drink in his local and the comfort of his own bed, instead of the fry-ups in motorway service restaurants and dossing in the cramped bunk in his cab. Being a long-haul truck driver had its advantages, especially since he’d bought his own outfit and gone solo, but it got lonely at times. He hadn’t even managed to pick up a decent bit of crumpet on this last trip. Still, if Julie was in a good mood, he might get a bit of legit – if not very exciting – sex. If she was in a good mood … but you could never bank on it these days. Never had been able to, when he came to think about it … didn’t seem to think it was important or understand how much it meant to a man. He reckoned that if he didn’t touch her from one week to another it wouldn’t bother her – although she got jealous as hell if she caught him so much as looking at anyone else. Still, she cooked like an angel, never complained if he brought his mates home and kept the house like a new pin. You couldn’t have everything – not from one woman, anyway.

  Thinking of sex made him cast his mind back with nostalgia to the fun he’d had with that little gippo number he’d taken along on a trip to Eastern Europe in the spring. She’d been something special. What was her name now? Hattie … Harriet … no, Hannah, that was it. Hot as hell with her red lips, come-hither eyes and soft brown limbs, and the black hair that tumbled round her shoulders and curled invitingly in other, secret places, soft as velvet under his touch. A nice little earner she’d turned out to be too. It was a pity it had to end the way it always did; of all the women he’d picked up – and disposed of – during his travels, she was the one for whom he felt the odd pang of regret. Mostly, he’d have been hard put to it to recall their faces – leave alone their names – once he’d done with them, but Hannah stood out in his memory like a peacock among starlings.

  She’d come knocking on the door one day, l
ast October or thereabouts – hard to believe it was almost a year ago. He was at home between runs and alone in the house. Remembering the arch glances she shot at him from under those long silky lashes, he reckoned he could have had her there and then, only he knew Julie would be back any minute and there’d have been trouble if he’d invited the girl over the front doorstep. So he’d kept her out in the porch while she showed him the lace she was selling, taking the filmy bits and pieces out of her hold-all and lifting them up for him to see, holding them in front of her in that sexy way she had, as if she were about to do the dance of the seven veils with them. Just thinking about it was enough to give him the start of an erection.

  He hadn’t been able to resist chatting her up a bit, while keeping a wary eye out for Julie’s return. He guessed she was from one of the gipsy families who congregated in the area twice a year for the horse fair and asked her casually where she and her people came from, expecting her to say Stratford or Nottingham or whatever place they stayed in last. Instead, she said, ‘Hungary’ and went on to spin some yarn about how her ancestors spent hundreds of years wandering across Europe before getting to England. When he told her he’d only got back a couple of days earlier from a run to Budapest, and pointed to the truck that he kept parked in the lay-by across the way, she reacted like a child taken to see Father Christmas, peppering him with questions about the country and the people.

  He’d just finished processing some black and white pictures he’d taken along the way and he went and fetched them to show to her. She was so entranced that he gave her one to keep. Then she asked his name and he told her it was Petroc, not bothering to mention that no one ever called him anything but Rocky. That had really excited her; she’d given a little squeal and exclaimed, ‘Is that Hungarian? Do you have Romany blood?’ He hadn’t denied it; it seemed a shame to disappoint her although the truth was that his mother was from the West Country and had insisted on naming him for some obscure Cornish saint. Then Hannah asked to read his palm and wouldn’t take no for an answer, grabbing one of his stubby-fingered hands between both her small brown ones. He’d been happy to let it lie there while she jabbered on about how his Romany heritage had made him choose a life of long journeyings, until he spotted Julie turn into the lane on her bike and hastily pulled away, grabbed a set of lace mats at random, paid for them and sent the girl packing.

  He never expected to see her again, but towards the end of May, happening to be at home between jobs and knowing the gipsies would be gathering for the spring horse fair, he drove to Stow with his camera, parked the car and wandered around among the caravans and the nags in search of some interesting shots. Quite by accident, he came across a van parked in a lay-by on the edge of the town … and who should be sitting outside in the sunshine but Hannah, making lace on a cushion. He could still see the look of surprise and wonderment on her face when she spotted him. The shot he took of her turned out to be one of the best he’d ever done and he went back the next day to give her a print, but this time there was no chance of a word with the girl herself. There’d been an older woman hovering in the background and then a fierce-looking bloke – probably her Dad – had appeared from nowhere, snatched the photo and ordered the girl into the caravan. Rocky remembered the look the man had given him … there was a real ‘hands-off-my-daughter’ warning in the fierce black eyes.

  The sound of a key in the front door broke into his day-dreaming. Julie was home. He hurriedly finished drying himself and reached for the cologne, splashing it generously all over his smooth, muscular body. He was on the point of pulling on his underpants, but on the off-chance that pleasure at seeing him home after several nights away would put her in a compliant mood, he threw them aside, marched out on to the landing and called down the stairs, ‘I’m up here love. Come and see what I’ve brought for you this time!’

  She was happy enough to see him, kissed him warmly and told him she’d made his favourite steak pie for supper, but otherwise her mood was far from compliant. She was pushed for time, she told him, on account of having to go to a meeting later on. She tried to make up for it by asking him about his latest trip while doing the vegetables to go with the pie, but when he suggested going out for a drink after the meeting she made the excuse that she didn’t know how long it would go on and she was already tired after a long shift at the supermarket, serving behind the delicatessen counter. So Rocky, feeling distinctly hard done by, went to the pub on his own.

  Tuesday was always a quiet evening in the Golden Bell and this evening there was no one there he knew apart from Rosie, who had served behind the bar for as long as he had been a regular there. During that time there had been more than one change of licensee and the present couple had smartened the place up quite a bit and made a few alterations, but they’d been sharp enough to realise that Rosie was almost as much a fixture as the pump handles. She was a great character and the locals loved her, sixty if she was a day but with a figure still good enough to make a man’s eyes light up … and she knew how to make the best of herself. Always ready for a laugh, especially with the men, was Rosie. It was generally reckoned she’d been around and enjoyed herself in her time. Rocky suspected that Julie didn’t approve of her although she never actually said anything; it was more the way she looked down her nose at some of the back-chat that went on. He had to be a bit careful what he said to Rosie when Julie was with him. But tonight he was by himself and he didn’t have to worry.

  ‘You’re a real sight for sore eyes tonight, Rosie my love,’ he said while she drew his pint. ‘Look younger every time I come in, you do. What’s your secret then?’

  Rosie beamed and her brown eyes beneath the carefully mascara’d lashes sparkled. ‘Maybe it’s sweet talk from the likes of you,’ she said roguishly. She set the brimming tankard on the bar, took the money and gave him his change, brushing her fingers against his in that suggestive way she had. She might be going on for twice his age, but he could easily fancy her. ‘So where’s your good lady tonight?’ she asked, her bold eyes twinkling.

  ‘Off to some meeting.’ He took a long pull of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Planning the harvest supper, so she said. I asked her to join me here when it was over, but she thought it might go on a bit.’

  Rosie clicked her tongue in sympathy. ‘Ah yes, those church folks do like their bit of chat, don’t they? You wouldn’t think there was that much to talk about … it’s the same people who organise the supper every year.’

  Rocky nodded, his face buried in his tankard. ‘You’d think they could do it in their sleep, without all these meetings,’ he commented when he came up for air.

  ‘And tonight your first night home for nearly a week, too. What a shame. She could’ve found something much better to do with her time.’ Rosie gave a suggestive wink and, as if by way of compensation for what she plainly saw as a serious lack of consideration on Julie’s part, planted her folded arms on the bar and treated him to a glimpse of her generous cleavage.

  Rocky eyed it appreciatively. ‘Been any excitement round here lately?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Only the freezer murder. I guess you read about that.’

  Rocky shook his head and took another long draught of beer. ‘Haven’t seen a paper for days.’ He pushed the empty tankard across the bar for a refill, his eyes still feasting on the expanse of swelling flesh.

  ‘Someone topped a girl and hid the body in an old freezer,’ Rosie explained as the beer gushed and foamed from the pump. ‘Some kids found it. Been dead several days, so they say.’

  ‘Near here, was it?’

  ‘Langley Woods, about twenty miles away … but they seem to think the girl had been working in a hotel in Stow.’

  ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘I believe they’ve arrested a couple of gippos, but there’s something in tonight’s paper about the police wanting more information. Here.’ She reached behind the bar, picked up the evening edition of the Gazette and gave it to him. ‘Read
it for yourself. Excuse me.’ She moved away to serve some customers who had just entered.

  Rocky glanced round the bar to see if there was a familiar face, but found none. He took the paper over to an empty table in the far corner and sat down to enjoy his second pint.

  ‘Where d’you fancy going?’ asked Matt as he held the passenger door open for Melissa to get into the car.

  ‘There’s a pub on the way to Andoversford – the Golden Bell, I think it’s called – that’s recently changed hands.’ She settled down and clipped on her seat belt. ‘It was getting a bit run down, but I read in the Gazette the other day that the new owners have smartened it up. Shall we try it?’

  ‘Why not?’ He started the engine and drove slowly along the track towards the lane. Jack’s car stood at the door of Elder Cottage and the downstairs lights were on. The sitting-room curtains were not yet drawn and Melissa had the impression that Jack had only just arrived. He was in the act of handing his coat to Iris, who took it and left the room while he sat down in a chair with his back to the window. There was no physical contact between the couple, yet the brief glance they exchanged during that moment was enough to reveal the depth of intimacy between them. Melissa sat without speaking as Matt headed along the lane towards the main road, reflecting – not without a trace of envy – on the subtle change she had observed in her friend since her engagement. Outwardly, she was unchanged, but underlying the prickly personality, impish humour and laconic turn of phrase was a new air of confidence – the confidence of a woman at peace with herself; a woman who, having considered long and hard beforehand, had taken a momentous decision and was untroubled by the smallest doubt.

  Matt broke into her thoughts by saying, ‘I’ve been thinking over what you were telling me about the dead girl’s ancestry. There was a black and white photograph among her possessions in the hotel that from the style of architecture might have been taken in some East European or maybe Russian city. Her relations deny having seen it before. Not that it’s been much help … we haven’t been able to identify the location and there’s nothing on the back to tell us when it was taken or where it was processed.’