A Restless Evil Read online

  ‘Find the murderer, you mean. How can there be any kind of success,’ Ruth asked, ‘with Hester still dead?’ She flushed. ‘I ought to think of Hester at peace, didn’t I? But I’m selfish enough to want Hester here with me. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She didn’t and perhaps Simon Hastings didn’t deserve what happened to him, whatever it was. Life often seems full of injustices. We all find that hard to understand. Perhaps we even find it harder to understand nowadays when there’s a notion about that the world is perfectible. We can tinker with society, we can discover medical treatments, we can put everything right, so it seems to us. In fact, we can’t, and when we’re brought up sharp against the fact, we resent it.’

  ‘You think someone might have killed Simon,’ Ruth replied. ‘I wonder about that too. Do the police think it?’

  ‘The police are bound by the ruling of the inquest. There was no evidence of any kind that Hastings met his death in an unnatural manner. Young, apparently fit, men do drop dead. Had the body been found at the time and a proper autopsy—’ James broke off. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘That’s down to me, too, isn’t it?’ was Ruth’s direct reply. ‘Because I didn’t come forward and say I’d seen him, when he disappeared. It meant he wasn’t found.’

  ‘They still mightn’t have found him, even if you’d spoken up. If, and it’s a big if, but if he was murdered, the killer would certainly have concealed the body. That no one found even a handful of bones until recently does indicate it was hidden. But whether intentionally, that’s another matter. He could have rolled under bushes as he fell dead. A storm such as we had the other night might have brought down branches and covered him. There are any number of explanations.’

  Ruth considered this. ‘Tell me, do you believe in evil?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you believe there’s a force of evil loose in Lower Stovey?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘But there’s a lot we don’t know yet, Ruth. We have to wait. It’s hard, but we have no option.’

  ‘And it will show itself? Is that what you mean.’

  Soberly he replied, ‘If it does, when it does, we shall know what it is.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  That Markby had discovered the existence of Amyas Fichett, and, with it, Ruth Aston’s past history, rankled in Pearce’s heart. This was the case in which he’d hoped to shine. So far he seemed to be trailing in the superintendent’s wake. Determined to make it clear that he, too, was having a measure of success, he presented himself in Markby’s office on his return from Greenjack Farm to announce that he’d found a witness to Hester Millar’s movements on the morning of her death.

  ‘She was walking straight past that church,’ he told Markby. ‘She ought to have been turning in to it, to open it up like she said she was going to.’

  ‘And she did do,’ said Markby aggravatingly, ‘because she died inside it.’

  ‘Ah,’ pointed out Pearce triumphantly. ‘But before she opened it up she went somewhere else and I mean to find out where. I mean, it’s only a little village. There can’t be many places. Someone,’ said Pearce grimly, ‘in that village is holding out on us. She visited someone early on Thursday before she went to open the church. Why hasn’t that person come forward?’

  ‘What are you intending to do about it?’ Markby asked him.

  ‘Knock on every ruddy door in that village. Of course,’ he added hastily, ‘we’ve already done that once, but we’ll do it again, and go on doing it until someone tells the truth.’ It made a fine, ringing sentence. Pearce was quite pleased with it.

  Markby made no comment but he was thinking Pearce was being optimistic if he was hoping to prise information from the inhabitants of Lower Stovey. He’d had experience of asking questions in that benighted neck of the woods all those years ago and he didn’t anticipate Dave having better luck now than he’d done then.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘James Holland tells me the Reverend Picton-Wilkes keeps his set of keys to St Barnabas locked in a drawer in his study. He is, apparently, mildly obsessive about security and hotly resented any suggestion his keys could have been borrowed for illicit purposes.

  ‘I prefer to think whoever holds the mystery keys lives in the village. Someone who wouldn’t be noticed as a stranger going into the church. Those missing keys bedevil this enquiry. There’s always the possibility the killer let himself into the church, re-locked the door from the inside and was waiting for Hester. Against that, we’ve not discovered even the slightest motive that anyone might have to want to harm Miss Millar!’ Markby snorted. ‘I hate apparently motiveless crimes! She wasn’t a villager as such, she was an incomer. Her dealings with the villagers were superficial. She lived quietly with Ruth Aston and Ruth Aston is held in high esteem in Lower Stovey. To harm Hester was to distress Ruth and leave her alone in the world. I’d have said that Hester Millar could’ve done just about anything and Lower Stovey would’ve tolerated it for Ruth’s sake. But Hester didn’t do anything, did she? Except toddle down to that church and open it up.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Pearce. ‘They’re a devious lot those villagers. I’ll ask about the keys, too, even if no one will tell me.’

  Markby muttered agreement. Inevitably, his mind turned to the personal aspect of events. The more he thought about it, the more he was obliged to admit Meredith had been perfectly right. There was absolutely no way they could live in that village, either in the former vicarage, which in his mind appeared more unsuitable with every passing minute, or anywhere else. He must have been mad to take her out there to view it.

  On the other hand, if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen the police car going up to the woods and, very likely, information about the discovery of the bones might never have reached him. It’d have landed on someone else’s desk and been consigned to oblivion. Ruth Aston’s touching faith in police efficiency had been misplaced. Every police force in the country suffered from lack of manpower, time and resources. Once the bones had been established as having been lying in the woods for over twenty years, that there were no more of them than a grisly handful and above all, that there was no sign of deliberate violence on them, the chances that anyone would persevere in identifying them would have been slight. Only he, with his memory of Stovey Woods to spur him on, had insisted on tracking them down. Only the amazing good luck of finding distinctive dental work had made it possible. Even so, he suspected that somewhere, the question had probably been asked, was it worth it? Had he been justified in devoting so much of limited means to something which resulted in no more than a perfunctory inquest and foreseeable verdict? Mrs Hastings, the mystery of her son’s disappearance at least partly solved, would say yes. Authority would probably say no.

  Pearce had returned to his theory and Markby reluctantly abandoned his own thoughts to concentrate on what he was saying. He realised he’d missed some of Dave’s assertions and came back at the moment the inspector was declaring, ‘And there’s another thing. Hester was carrying something, something small.’ Pearce made a shape with his hands indicating some spherical object. ‘Linda Jones doesn’t remember what. Hester didn’t have anything with her in that church except her handbag with the usual sort of contents. She didn’t have anything that she’d have had to carry in her hand. So between Mrs Jones seeing her and Miss Mitchell finding her dead, that something disappeared.’ Pearce scowled. ‘Mrs Jones reckoned she couldn’t remember what it was but I think, if that son of hers hadn’t turned up prattling about some ruddy disco for his twenty-first, she might have come up with something.’

  Markby, who’d been fiddling with a biro lying on his desk, looked up. ‘What’s that again?’

  Pearce blinked. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The son with the twenty-first birthday.’

  Now why, thought Pearce, should the old man be interested in that bit of trivia? ‘The lad’s name is Gordon,’ he sai
d. ‘Chippy yob with carrotty hair and a motorbike. The message I got was that he doesn’t get on with his dad. He doesn’t live at the farm. He’s twenty-one next Tuesday and he wanted his mum and sister to go to a party he’s got fixed up here in Bamford. That’s the disco and what do you bet, the kids will be popping pills, high as kites, and underage drinking will be the norm?’

  ‘If his friends are his age, they won’t be underage drinkers. As for the drugs, if adult members of the family are there—’

  Pearce was having none of it. ‘Mrs Jones reckoned Mr Jones wouldn’t be up for a disco. The lad seemed not to care that his father might not go. Rather hoped he wouldn’t, I suspect. I tell you, sir, that is one seriously odd family. There’s an old man who’s potty and—’ Pearce broke off to squint curiously at the superintendent’s desk.

  Markby had picked up the biro as Pearce spoke and appeared to be doing sums on a notepad. ‘Twenty-one next Tuesday, is he? We’ve reached the Millennium, 2000. (Or not, if you want to be purist about it!) At any rate, this young chap, Gordon, was born late in April 1979. Which makes him conceived in the earlier part of August 1978. I’m assuming Mrs Jones had a normal forty-week pregnancy.’

  Pearce, startled at this unexpected foray into gynaecology, asked, ‘So what?’

  ‘So, could be significant,’ was the aggravating reply.

  Annoyed, Pearce growled, ‘He’s got no connection with Hester Millar that I’ve come across. The bloke doesn’t even live in Lower Stovey. I suppose we can track him down and ask him for his movements, if you think we should. I wouldn’t expect to learn anything from him.’

  ‘I’m not interested in talking to Gordon,’ said Markby. ‘I’m interested in his mother. Sorry to confuse you, Dave. You’re quite rightly thinking about Hester. I’m thinking about a twenty-two-year-old rape case. When I went out to Greenjack Farm in 1978 in the course of our hunt for the Potato Man, I met young Kevin, as he was. He wasn’t married then.’

  ‘He was probably courting,’ said Pearce wisely. ‘Linda’s parents farmed Church Farm next door. They mightn’t have been married at the time but they were probably having fun in the hayloft.’

  ‘Indeed they might. Has Mrs Jones got red hair?’

  ‘What?’ Pearce blinked again and then looked wary. ‘No, she’s fairish. The sort of blonde who goes grey and you hardly notice it.’

  ‘Nor does Kevin have red hair and I don’t recall Martin Jones having red hair, either.’

  Pearce absently touched his jaw where the tooth had given a malicious twinge. ‘There’s another kid, Becky, goes to Bamford Community College.’

  ‘It’d be interesting to know if she’s got red or ginger hair,’ Markby said.

  There was a silence. ‘Now, let me get this straight,’ Pearce began cautiously. ‘You think young Gordon might be a cuckoo in the nest?’

  ‘It would explain a certain coolness between him and his supposed father.’

  ‘Does it matter to us?’ Pearce asked, puzzled.

  ‘Any child born after an encounter in Lower Stovey in late summer of 1978 about whose parentage there’s any doubt, is of interest to me.’ Markby retorted. ‘Do you know anyone who’s a pupil at that school?’

  ‘Tessa’s kid sister,’ said Pearce.

  ‘Do you think you could find out from her without rousing suspicion what colour hair Becky Jones has?’

  ‘Better if Tessa asks,’ said Pearce immediately. ‘It’s going to look weird, not to say dodgy, if I start asking about red-haired schoolgirls.’

  ‘Point taken. Would Tessa oblige?’

  Tessa, of late, had been anything but obliging. But she’d be intrigued. ‘I should think so,’ Pearce said. He hesitated. ‘Do we need to know who Gordon’s real father might be, always supposing he isn’t Kevin’s son?’

  ‘Think, Dave!’ Markby said irritably. ‘August 1978! What happened then?’

  ‘Both Simon Hastings and the Potato Man disappeared,’ said Pearce. ‘Crikey, you don’t think—’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said Markby. ‘I think there were more attacks than ever were reported. We don’t even know that Mavis Cotter was the first, only that she was the first we heard about. Let’s suppose, just as a theory, that Linda, then a young girl, was one of his victims but never came forward. If that were so, she becomes a very important witness indeed. Don’t forget, I believe and have always done that the Stovey Woods rapist was a local man.’

  ‘Look, sir,’ Pearce began cautiously. ‘I know you’d like to have solved that case. But twenty-two years on—’

  ‘What’s twenty-two years in a community like Lower Stovey? Oh, there have been incomers over the years, I grant you. New houses where the old school stood. Cottages sold to second-homers. But the core of the village, the old families, they’ll still be there. One or two members might have moved out, as Gordon Jones has moved out. But the families, Dave, they’re still there and village families are mighty close and clannish, as you’ve already found out.’

  ‘You’re not thinking the rapist might still be living there?’ Pearce sounded even more dubious. ‘Oh, come on, sir. It’s a bit far-fetched. Even if it’s true, we can hardly ask Linda Jones about it. If she kept quiet then, she’s not going to speak up now, is she? Not with the boy just about to celebrate his twenty-first birthday! Wouldn’t be much of a present for him, would it?’ He met Markby’s eye and added hastily, ‘I’ll get Tessa on to asking round about Becky Jones.’

  Pearce set off back to his office. Before he reached it, he was waylaid. Ginny Holding appeared before him, flushed in the face and apparently unable to decide whether to look grimly professional or just burst out laughing.

  ‘You’d better come, sir, if you’ve got a minute.’

  ‘I haven’t got a minute,’ said Pearce despondently. ‘I never have a minute. If ever I do, he—’ His gaze drifted towards Markby’s office. ‘He finds something to fill it with. What is it? Can’t you deal with it?’

  ‘It’s about the things you found in the tower at that church. You know, the sleeping bag and—’

  Pearce snapped to attention. ‘Yes, I know what we found.’

  ‘A Mrs Spencer is here. She’s come in with her daughter, Cheryl. They’re down in the interview room. I asked them to wait. They’ve made a statement. Well, the girl has. But I thought you’d like to hear it yourself.’

  Mrs Spencer was short, square, red-faced and belligerent. Cheryl was pale and spotty but not unattractive. Her pale blue, slightly protruding eyes glanced over Pearce dismissively as he came in. Her jaws continued to move rhythmically.

  ‘I already told this officer!’ declared Mrs Spencer. ‘And Cheryl, she signed a statement.’

  ‘So I understand. I appreciate your waiting. My name is Inspector Pearce.’ Pearce had not missed the dismissive look and it rankled. ‘I’m investigating the events in St Barnabas Church, Lower Stovey.’

  Cheryl didn’t exactly sneer but she remained unimpressed. Her mother, however, leapt to her daughter’s defence.

  ‘Cheryl didn’t have anything to do with any murder!’

  Ginny moved in on the conversation, addressing the gum-chewing Cheryl. ‘No one’s saying she did. But the inspector needs to know everything that’s happened in that church recently. Just tell the inspector what you told me, Cheryl.’

  ‘I’m not under-age,’ said Cheryl. ‘I know what I’m doing. It’s my business and no one else’s, right? Mine and Norman’s. You can’t touch us.’

  ‘I can!’ snarled her mother. ‘When I’ve finished with Norman, he’ll wish he’d never been born!’

  ‘Who’s Norman?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘Norman Stubbings. He runs the pub, the Fitzroy Arms.’ Cheryl paused to remove a putty-coloured wad from her mouth, survey it frowning and look round for somewhere to put it. Holding indicated the ashtray on the table. Cheryl dropped her gum into it. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ argued her mother. ‘He’s a married man and you ough
t to know better.’

  Cheryl ignored this. ‘I used to work there evenings, washing up glasses. I live in Lower Stovey. It isn’t half a dump,’ she added in parenthesis. Pearce wondered whether there was anything and anyone other than the absent Norman that Cheryl didn’t despise.

  ‘Evie, that’s Norman’s old woman, she doesn’t like me. She was always picking on me. She kept snooping round trying to catch me with Norman. Norman didn’t want her making trouble with the brewery. So I started working up at the Drovers’ Rest, on the old way, instead. It’s nice up there. You get interesting people, cyclists, walkers and that and they’ve got a dishwasher. I was sorry not to see so much of Norman, of course.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you think,’ demanded Mrs Spencer, ‘that a girl her age – she’s only just turned nineteen – would find a young man and not go wasting her time with someone old enough to be her father and married, at that? You silly slut!’ she admonished her daughter.

  ‘Oh, give over, Mum. You don’t know Norman.’

  ‘Don’t I? Then that’s just where you’re wrong, my girl! Norman Stubbings was in the primary class when I was in the top class at the old school. Nasty, sneaky little kid with a runny nose, always standing by himself in the corner of the yard because no one would play with him. I remember his mother, a real old besom. Hardly ever sober. She used to stand outside the school and shout at the teachers. We always reckoned she was barmy.’

  Holding cleared her throat as a hint. Cheryl obligingly took up her tale. ‘Not working at the Fitzroy Arms any more, it was difficult for me to see Norman, like I said. Then he had this really good idea. See, the pub’s opposite the church. The church is open most of the day but no one goes in it much. Norman, he’d got the keys. He could go in there any time.’

  ‘Where did he get the keys?’ Pearce asked, startled.