Long Shadows Read online

  “Known locally as Fortune’s Field. Cause of death: shooting. No weapon found at the scene.”

  She glared at DC Galloway, who turned a whiter shade of trauma. Then her gaze found Wild again. “Perhaps you’d like to update us all with your progress?”

  Wild did the eye-contact thing with everyone in the room. It wasn’t difficult because they were already staring at him. Then he crossed the no-man’s land of worn-out carpet and stood beside the whiteboard, consciously claiming the space. A quick glance behind him, so he didn’t mention anything they already knew, and off he went.

  “PC Olsen and I attended Porter’s home address. His keys were in the vehicle, which was parked outside his house and unlocked.” He listened to himself adopt his ‘court’ voice, the one he used for giving evidence. It seemed apt because right then he felt like the one on trial. “The front door had been forced and the gun cabinet upstairs had been broken into. No firearm was found at the scene. We recovered two photographs,” he turned and tapped the A4 blow-ups on the board, “one of which shows a distinctive walking stick. That stick was not present at the murder scene or in Porter’s home.” He noticed how the word murder punctuated his speech and hung in the air like a bad smell. Emboldened, he moved about a little and clapped his hands together to try and rouse his audience. “The post-mortem revealed that Porter had eaten rabbit on the day he died.”

  DC Galloway piped up. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

  The room shared the joke, although Marsh only seemed to tolerate it. She tilted her head towards Wild, silently urging him to get on with it.

  “No, not a crime, but potentially evidence of where Porter ate his final meal.” He saw Galloway take a deep breath, and cut him off. “Porter hadn’t cooked anything at home for some time, judging by the mess there.”

  Galloway closed his mouth.

  Wild continued. “PC Olsen checked the local pubs and found only one that sold pies containing rabbit meat — the George. We concluded Porter must have eaten there before he died.”

  “Couldn’t have done it afterwards.” Ben Galloway played the crowd.

  Wild thought about playing football with Galloway’s testicles while he waited for the team to settle. “As I was saying, Constable Olsen checked the menus of all the pubs and the landlady at the George confirmed their pies contain rabbit meat. The pub is also a relatively short distance from where the body was found. We visited the George together last night,” he paused for the inevitable comments, “and the pies did indeed contain rabbit, and I recovered a piece of shot that seemed to match the one found in Porter’s stomach.”

  Marsh shattered his train of thought with a single word. “Circumstantial.”

  He locked eyes with her. Fair enough, he’d play. “True. However, we also retrieved a walking stick with a head that appears to match the one in Porter’s photograph. I’m awaiting a forensics report to confirm it.”

  Marsh was clearly a woman of few words. “Very good. And full marks to PC Olsen. Please pass on my thanks when you next speak to her.”

  It felt like a loaded comment, and he couldn’t tell whether she was complimenting their tag-team, or putting him in his place. Judging by the silence in the room, neither could anyone else.

  Galloway had a face on him that could have soured milk. He cleared his throat with all the subtlety of a heckle. “I, er . . .” His eyes darted from the DI to Wild, as if unsure who to try most to impress. “I’ve contacted the solicitor closest to Porter’s home and I collated the details of the farming families who work the surrounding fields.”

  Wild estimated that all took an hour, tops. Still, full marks to Galloway for doing what he was paid for.

  “Good work, Ben.” DI Marsh threw him a verbal biscuit. “Okay, let’s break this down around the team. DC Galloway, I’ll put you with . . .”

  Wild knew what was coming and tried to smile graciously at the unwanted and unreturnable gift.

  “. . . DS Wild. Focus on the solicitor.” She tapped her fingers together. “Actually, before you do that, give the house another going over. There must be an address book somewhere.”

  Yeah, Wild thought to himself, unless someone took it when they stole the shotgun. He tuned out as Marsh assigned families for colleagues to check out. He couldn’t help wondering if she had decided to deliberately keep the incomer at arm’s length from the locals.

  After the briefing, Galloway sauntered over, notes in hand. “Ready when you are, Skip.” It sounded like an insult.

  Wild rattled his keys. “Come on then. Walkies.”

  Chapter 9

  Wild let DC Galloway use up oxygen on their drive over to Porter’s house.

  “So, I reckon if I do bide my time there’ll be a DS post at the station eventually, which would suit me down to the ground.”

  Wild concealed a smile. “You don’t fancy spreading your wings and trying somewhere else in the meantime?”

  Galloway looked affronted. “What, like London?”

  Wild shrugged. “Like . . . anywhere. A new area, even a new station will give you more experience. That way when you’re ready to take your Sergeant’s exam . . .”

  Galloway nodded enthusiastically. “Right, right. I see what you mean.”

  Wild glanced over again. They really were getting younger.

  Porter’s car was still there, in the drive.

  Galloway was halfway out of the car before Wild had turned off the ignition. “Do you want upstairs or downstairs?”

  Wild deliberately rolled the car forward a little, causing Galloway to stumble. “We’ll work room to room, together. Follow my lead.” He tried the front door key. A good repair, overall. He wondered who’d be paying for it.

  “Kitchen first, I think.” An easy win, if by easy he meant nothing achieved. Dusting powder was still in evidence on the doors and drawer handles. Despite wearing gloves, he touched as few surfaces as possible. He set Galloway to work at the opposite side of the room, glancing over occasionally to watch him in action. “No, take the drawer out fully, in case there’s something taped underneath.”

  Galloway followed instructions okay but seemed to lack initiative. Wild remembered how Marnie Olsen just got on with it. Shame she wasn’t there instead.

  After the kitchen came the mausoleum front parlour — untouched by human hand. Nothing doing there. They fared no better upstairs, moving from room to room like unwelcome guests, working methodically and coming up empty-handed. On impulse, Wild checked the cistern in the bathroom, Galloway peering over his shoulder like an apprentice toilet inspector. A half-brick lay at the bottom. Wild lifted it clear to reveal a key.

  “Nice one, Skip!” Galloway sounded impressed. That, or he thought kissing arse was a great way to build bridges.

  Wild tried the key in what remained of the firearms cabinet lock — a perfect fit. “Interesting.” He waited for Galloway to offer up an opinion and gave up waiting.

  The bedroom was sparse. Unloved might have been a better word. Devoid of the chaos downstairs, the gun cabinet notwithstanding, it stood as a hollow monument to a life unmourned. Wild picked through each drawer slowly, as if he might accidentally disturb a memory. Galloway watched him from the doorway, saying nothing, betraying his concentration in his breathing.

  Wild stopped abruptly without turning. “What do you notice about this room?”

  Galloway cleared his throat. “There’s not much in it.”

  “True. More fundamentally,” Wild closed another drawer, “Porter didn’t sleep in the master bedroom. It’s like he drew a line under his former life. What do we know about the wife?”

  “Erm, deceased, I think. I can check.”

  Wild let it pass and moved on to the wardrobe, assailed by the odour of mothballs as he opened the door. Three jackets hung there and he checked every pocket, as well as the linings. Either Porter wasn’t big on sending Christmas cards or someone else had got to his address book first.

  Galloway advanced a couple of steps in
to the room. “What about the son — or is it a nephew?”

  Wild felt under the mattress and along the sheets on a fool’s errand, coming up with bugger all. “We’ll request the call logs. I don’t suppose you spotted a mobile phone charger anywhere?”

  Downstairs, Wild lifted the phone free from Porter’s junk mail and set it on top of the pile. Greasy fingerprints, freshly powered, were still visible on the handset. Wild picked it up and knew from the dialling tone that a message had been left. He took out his mobile, hit the record app and held it close to the phone before he dialled 1571 to retrieve any messages.

  “Hi Dad, it’s Nathan. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I thought I could sort it out. I’ll be in touch when things have died down. Just give me a little more time. Bye.”

  With no other messages Wild stopped recording and played it back on his mobile phone. Having mentally digested the call, he tapped in the code for the last caller’s number, jotting down the digits on an unopened envelope before transferring them to his notebook. As Steph used to say, ‘Like a real detective.’

  “This is recent.” He did his thinking aloud. “Otherwise the forensics team would have picked it up.”

  Though tempted to keep the lead for himself, he rang the DI to share the good news. If he thought it would deflect criticism from their inability to find an address book, he was disappointed. By the time they’d searched every reasonable and unreasonable place, lunchtime was knocking on the door of his stomach.

  “Fancy a pub lunch, Ben? I’m buying.”

  Galloway’s enthusiasm lasted until he realised there was only one pub on Wild’s mind: the George.

  Wild smiled as they pulled into the car park. It was like taking a dog to the vet’s. He recognised one or two stalwart members of the local community from his previous visit, and from the looks on their faces they hadn’t forgotten him either. He ordered sandwiches for two and chose a table in the main bar. He raised a glass to his fellow patrons, taking perverse pleasure from Galloway’s discomfort. “Cheers, all.”

  Chapter 10

  Wild left the George to the same loaded silence that had greeted him. Galloway had nipped outside already and was busy checking his mobile. He looked up nonchalantly as Wild approached. “Okay, Skip?”

  Wild was in two minds about reminding him of his name, but let it drop. At least it was a step up from Sarge. He walked to his car. “While we’re here, have a look at these scratches — what do you think?” He watched Ben Galloway half paying attention.

  “Dunno, Skip. Did you drive against any bushes — brambles, maybe?”

  Wild twirled his key on his index finger. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.” Maybe, only not on both sides of the car.

  Next stop, Clarence Hollings, solicitor. With its large carved wooden sign and polished brass plates, the timbered building embodied respectability. Wild read the names before he crossed the threshold — Hollings and Gresham. He put a hand on the great oak door, throwing a line behind him. “Let me do the talking.”

  Judging by the architecture, the offices had once been a sizeable family home, the sort where servants came as standard. Will clocked the CCTV peering at them on his way to the open door marked Reception, where a secretary’s hands flew almost silently across a keyboard, her gaze fixed in rapt concentration. It felt religious. Wild coughed to get her attention.

  “DS Wild.” He flicked out his warrant card for show. “And this is—”

  “Why, hallo, Ben. Are your parents keeping well?”

  Galloway reverted to an eight-year-old. “Yes, thank you, Mrs Henderson.”

  Mrs Henderson lowered her glasses. “Somebody did ring from the police station — we expected you earlier.” She looked to the wall clock for effect.

  Wild tried his best smile. “Unavoidably detained on police business.”

  Although she nodded, her face told a different story. “I’ll check if Mr Hollings is free.” She lifted the phone, pressed a couple of buttons and spoke so quietly that Wild had to strain to eavesdrop from across the desk. She sighed, satisfied, and replaced the handset before delivering her verdict. “He’ll be down to see you shortly. If you’d like to take a seat?”

  Wild rummaged through the magazines spread out in a fan on an antique coffee table — a choice between dogs, shooting, livestock and Reader’s Digest. He plumped for the latter. Galloway had turned his attention to a large pastoral scene on the wall. Wild couldn’t decide if Galloway was enthralled by it or trying to avoid eye contact.

  “Now then, Ben, is your Becky still engaged to that accountant chap?”

  Galloway was blushing as he turned around. “Far as I know, Mrs Henderson. We don’t see much of her these days, working shifts at the hospital. Especially now they’ve bought a flat . . .” He stopped talking.

  Wild caught the envy in Galloway’s eyes. So, sister Becky had an independent life, which suggested Galloway was still in the bosom of his family. Or his mother. A buzzer clicked outside and Mr Hollings appeared in the doorway. Tall, thin and blessed with an aquiline nose to hold up his round glasses, Wild judged him a good stand-in for an undertaker.

  Mr Hollings collected them, entered a key code and then stooped to get to the stairs. Wild admired the colours streaming in from a large stained-glass window at the top of the staircase. The heraldic crest bore a Latin motto that Wild neither understood nor cared to know.

  Hollings stalled, one hand on the banister. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? One of the building’s many original features.”

  Wild read that as business was good — cattle, property and land conveyance, probate . . . Hollings moved off solemnly up the stairs, his soft shoes making hardly a sound as he led the procession. Galloway drew level with Wild, his hands pressed together. Wild imagined him as a choirboy. What else would there have been to do around here?

  Hollings opened the door and held it open. Aside from his computer, parked in one corner of the room, the office was a complete throwback. Box files crowded the shelves, along with ribboned folders. A thoroughbred racehorse hung over the fireplace, in need of a clean. The solicitor retreated to his side of the desk. “Please sit down, gentlemen.” He waited for them. “We drew up a will for Mr Alexander Porter quite some time ago.” He leafed through some notes on his desk. “Four years ago, in fact.”

  Wild noticed Galloway leaning forward and instinctively eased back, as if to counterbalance his enthusiasm. Galloway glanced to Wild and took out his notebook.

  “And who’s the beneficiary?”

  The door opened abruptly and a younger woman entered the room, bearing a tray with one cup of tea — best china — and a small plate of biscuits. She gasped at the sight of the guests.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Hollings. There wasn’t an entry in your calendar.”

  Hollings offered up a bemused smile in exchange for his afternoon tea. “Not to worry, Pauline. These gentlemen are from the police. If you, er, wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Pauline paled. “Absolutely, Mr Hollings.” She backed out like a servant, and pulled the door to quietly.

  Wild wondered if she was still behind the door.

  Hollings pursed his lips, momentarily embarrassed. “Pauline Henderson handles all our electronic communications and supports Verity downstairs.”

  Wild noted the shared surname, put two and two together, and muttered “Jesus” under his breath.

  Hollings took a sip of his tea — surely Earl Grey — and then opened a drawer. He lifted a bundle free, turning the pages as if for the first time. “The, er, main asset is Fortune’s Field and the surrounding two fields — all left to one Gordon Elleth.”

  Wild let Galloway play secretary. “And what about the house?”

  Hollings raised his head and straightened his spine, the shock of white hair reminding Wild of a bird’s nest on a pole.

  “The house was remortgaged about two years before I drew up the will.”

  Wild shifted in his chair as Galloway scribbled away. “Is that normal — to ris
k your home and not use the land as collateral for a loan? It’s not as if he farmed it himself. Surely the rental income for a couple of fields can’t be that great?”

  Hollings threw him a withering look. “DS Wild, you’re clearly not from a rural community. Land is like blood, passed down through the generations.”

  Wild quickly tired of homespun wisdom. “So, why isn’t the land left to the son?”

  Hollings stared implacably — the sort of stare that protects a lie. Wild nodded to Galloway, who went through a perfunctory list of questions — thorough but unimaginative. Wild let him get on with it and studied Hollings as he responded.

  Information extracted, the good solicitor replaced the folder in his drawer, locked it and put the key in his waistcoat. Pure theatre. Hollings sipped more tea and broke off a piece of biscuit. “Please contact me if I can be of further assistance.” Their time was up.

  Wild got to his feet. “Count on it.” He proffered a hand, the personification of community policing.

  Downstairs, Galloway popped back to see Mrs Henderson. Wild used the space to check in with his DI. “It’s Wild. Porter left the land to a Gordon Elleth.”

  Marsh practically cackled. “Really? One of the farmers? Interesting. When did he make the will?”

  Wild gave her the date and the line went so quiet he thought they’d been cut off. “Well, DS Wild, I took a call from another firm of solicitors — Santers. They heard on the grapevine about Porter and wanted to make us aware . . .”

  He waited for the punchline.

  “. . . Another will. Dated two years after the one held at Hollings and Gresham. Uh huh. I’m heading over there now. If you’d care to join me — alone.”

  Wild heard Galloway’s voice behind him. “Sure,” he said into the phone. “Let me get rid of Junior. Send me the details.”

  Galloway seemed happy enough to make his own way back to the station to write up his notes. Wild dropped him at the edge of town and looped back to head north.