Hung Out to Die Page 3

  “Isn’t that surprising? Beldon Magna’s a small village, after all.”

  “Yes, but there’s still several hundred people living here. And, well, there’s not a huge amount of mixing unless you’re in one of the various clubs and so on, and I never got involved in those. And I don’t think she’d lived here all that long herself.”

  “Even so...” the DI pushed gently.

  “Until a few weeks ago, I was only here for brief visits. I don’t recall seeing her on previous visits – I don’t even know how long she’d lived here.”

  “What did you talk about at the party?”

  “We didn’t talk about much; she rather took over.”

  “What did you – or she – talk about?”

  “To be honest, I can’t really remember much of it. I wasn’t very interested in whatever it was she wanted to talk about and I was rather resenting the way she’d just pushed her way into a conversation I was having with a friend.”

  “The friend being...?” Bulmer asked, looking at the list Eleanor had provided.

  “Jemma Woodbridge. She’s our MP, though I suppose you’ve picked that up!” he added with a smile, well aware of how acute police antennae were in sensing when anyone with influence came into their orbit.

  “Oh, yes, sir, we certainly had picked that up,” responded Robert drily, who had noted with resignation a fair few high-profile names on Eleanor’s list.

  They needn’t worry, thought Desmond, Jemma was far from being the sort of local bigwig that would throw her weight around and demand ‘special treatment’. A woman who had rejected her wealthy parents’ wish to send her to public school, saying she wished to go to the local comprehensive instead, had long ago decided the route she would travel – and it wasn’t to be one lined with either privilege or special treatment.

  More questions followed, mining information that Desmond hadn’t realised he had. At the end, as he was getting up to go, Calderwood had one final query for him. “Did anything strike you about what you found this morning, Mr. Appleby?”

  “No, nothing,” replied Desmond, before adding sombrely, “Apart from wondering why the hell anyone would cart her across a heavily ploughed field to kill her.”

  “Yes,” Calderwood responded quietly, “we’d wondered that too, as you can imagine. I suspect that, when we know the answer to that, we’ll have the answer to everything.”

  Desmond nodded silently as he went to find Gwilym, the next on the police list.

  *

  Though only recently back permanently in the village, Gwilym had always kept up his local contacts, and he looked across at the DI with especial interest. At thirty one, he was the youngest DI in the county, and it was generally accepted that he’d not be around long. He was destined for greater things, and it was rumoured that the Met was already planning to have him back as soon as his stint out in the sticks was finished. He’s come a long way, thought the Welshman, thinking back briefly to when he’d first met the then very green, very young, probationary constable.

  “A long time since we last met Mr. Owen!” said Calderwood, he and Gwilym shaking hands as he took the seat just vacated by Desmond.

  “Indeed,” Gwilym agreed, unconsciously touching the side of his neck where the outline of a deep scar could still be seen. Though long-healed it was a reminder of the time he and Desmond had, though ‘civilians’, got involved with the police and, by default, ending up helping them solve a particularly gruesome series of murders - one of which almost turned out to be Gwilym’s.

  “Not the best of circumstances – again!” agreed the DI, sensing the direction of the older man’s thoughts. “Anyway, sorry to have kept you,” he said courteously. “I understand you have a pub to run, so I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Gwilym shrugged. “I have more than enough staff, and, let’s face it, something like this does rather trump a handful of customers having to wait a few seconds longer for their pint!”

  “I wish all the people we met under these circumstances were as understanding,” Robert responded with a rueful smile.

  He and Bulmer then took Gwilym through all the questions standard in a murder enquiry. Calderwood had little doubt, from his previous experience with him, that the Welshman had had nothing to do with Della Riminton’s death. He also knew from experience that any such certainty meant little or nothing. Murder was committed by virtually every ‘type’ of person, for every reason imaginable. So he questioned the Welshman on the party – ‘fun, as these things go’; to the guests – ‘Eleanor’s usual mix, shouldn’t work, but it always does’; about how well he knew the deceased – ‘Not lived here long, I think. Seen her round the village occasionally, but never spoken to her’; – about whether anything unusual happened at the party – ‘No, nothing, apart from some silly sod cutting himself with a broken glass.’

  Calderwood then turned to the events of the morning, and Gwilym confirmed Desmond’s story of phoning him, and of he himself going out to the field. Though quiet and thoughtful, the Welshman noted that he missed nothing, and his respect for the youthful DI increased.

  “Not a pretty sight, was it?” Calderwood remarked, apparently idly.

  “No, no it wasn’t. Though, to be honest, I was more focused on Desmond. He was pretty shaken up, as you can imagine.”

  Calderwood nodded silently as he watched the other man’s face, and was curious to see it form briefly into a puzzled frown before Gwilym shook his head.

  “I’d be grateful, if you or Mr. Appleby think of anything else, or have any further thoughts, if you’d let either myself or DS Bulmer have them. With you two being first on the scene, any little thing could be of real help.”

  “Such as?” asked Gwilym, struck by something in the other man’s voice.

  “Oh, anything, anything at all.” Calderwood responded casually, with a slight lift to his shoulders. “Anything that either of you noticed, any first impressions, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course,” replied Gwilym, looking curiously at the young policeman. “Although, as you can imagine,” he said, as they all stood, and he shook hands with them before he turned to leave, “my mind’s a bit of a jumble at the moment!”

  The other two men nodded sympathetically.

  Then, Gwilym suddenly stopped in mid-stride and exclaimed, “That’s it!” He turned back to the policemen, his face alive with what he’d recalled.

  “What’s what?” Calderwood asked mildly, having continued to watch him as he was leaving.

  “The blood, that’s what!” said Gwilym, his accent growing more pronounced in his excitement.

  “The blood?”

  “Yes – there wasn’t enough! I thought she was hung up and then stabbed and slashed to death there – but there wasn’t enough blood around her! Which means that she must have been killed somewhere else!”

  “Very observant of you, sir,” Calderwood said neutrally. ”You’re correct, of course, about the blood, but we’d be grateful if you could keep that information to yourself for now.”

  Gwilym nodded. “Of course.”

  “Even from Mr. Appleby,” Calderwood added.

  Gwilym pondered a moment. “I won’t lie to him, but if he doesn’t raise it, then I won’t say anything,” the Welshman promised and Calderwood had to be content with that.

  “One final thing. We obviously need to set up the Incident Room. Here’s not possible, obviously. OK to set up at The Rose?”

  “Yes, no problem. I’ll have the doors between two of the downstairs function rooms opened and you can use those.”

  Robert nodded his thanks. “One may be sufficient, but we’ll see, and thank you. I think we’re done for now,” he said as he sat down again. “I understand that you plan on living here permanently again; bit of a change from London!” he remarked casually. “Or is that the attraction?”

  “Partly, I think! I wanted a change, and heard the pub where I grew up was available. And we can still run the business from here. My input is m
ainly financial, so I can work from anywhere. Desmond can do a lot and still be based up here as well.” He smiled. “The wonders of the internet mean that even preliminary auditions can be done online via YouTube, Skype and so on, so,” he shrugged his shoulders, “the time seemed right.”

  “Isn’t there a risk of getting a bit out of touch?” Calderwood, an avid theatre-goer, asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Yes, but with London only two hours or so away, Desmond can be there and back in a day if he wants to, and we’ve kept both our flats, of course, for when a longer stay’s needed.”

  Calderwood nodded, leaving the subject. “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to ask Mrs. Blaine-Appleby to join us?” he asked as Gwilym moved to the door.

  *

  “You believe him, Guv?” Bulmer asked when Gwilym had left.

  “Yes, I think so, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need checking out. They were both too much a part of the London scene for it to make complete sense their leaving it, on the surface, anyway. I’d really like to be absolutely certain what made them decide to chuck up their whole lifestyle and move back up here.”

  “As he said, he can still do his financial stuff from up here.”

  “Oh yes, but he’s much more than that. Desmond Appleby was – is – the public face of Maximian Productions, but he would have got nowhere without the massive back-room skills of Gwilym Owen, believe me. I’m also curious as to why such an urban high-flyer decided to come back and run a village pub.

  Bulmer started to ask a question but Calderwood suddenly carried on, vocalising his thoughts to his colleague. “Also, while I think on - I know we’re always wary of what we say in front of others, in or out of the force, but be doubly so with him. It was all before my time with the Met, but stories were still going round when I joined about how, when he was only a Special Constable - and that, for not very long - he had a well-deserved reputation for having one of the best ‘intelligence’ networks in the force. Apparently, there was little that went on that he didn’t know something about. That, allied to his skills in putting two and two together - and rarely getting things wrong - made him formidable even when he was just an SPC.”

  “Sounds like he was a guy to be reckoned with,” murmured Bulmer, fascinated.

  “Very much so,” agreed Calderwood. “He was seen as a huge loss to the force when he told them effectively to stuff their various job offers and left to help set up Maximian with Desmond Appleby, who was struggling a bit at the time, I believe. I was told he kept up most of his old contacts. so still continued to know a lot of what was going on. I’d be surprised if he’d not done the same here with the county force so, although I trust him absolutely, be extra careful around him!”

  Bulmer nodded, but said nothing more as they heard a knock on the door.

  “Ah – that’ll be Mrs. Blaine-Appleby,” Calderwood said.

  “You met the lady before, Guv?” asked Colin with some glee.

  “No, no I haven’t. I’ve heard about her, though, so it should be interesting,” smiled Robert, his subordinate’s relish not going unnoticed.

  Both men rose courteously as she entered the room and calmly took the seat opposite Calderwood.

  Before either of the men could speak, she leant forward and handed Calderwood a piece of paper.

  “I’ve had time to make notes on the list I gave young John earlier.”

  Correctly assuming ‘young John’ referred to Constable Forbes, Calderwood hid a smile as he took the sheet of paper – top quality, he noted – automatically, scanning the sixty or so names on the list. Alongside each name was a brief note written in Eleanor’s stylish, copperplate handwriting.

  Despite his usual self-discipline, Calderwood’s eyebrow rose involuntarily when he read some of the comments, many extremely unflattering.

  “For obvious reasons, I’d prefer that that didn’t get to be public knowledge,” Eleanor said, nodding at the two page list.

  “You need have no concerns, Mrs. Blaine-Appleby. It won’t. We have no wish to cause you any embarrassment.”

  “I was rather thinking the embarrassment would be theirs, not mine,” she remarked coolly.

  Both Calderwood and Eleanor ignored the strange choking sound coming from Bulmer, as they seemed also not to see his face growing even redder and his eyes starting to bulge.

  Made of sterner stuff, Calderwood merely replied equally coolly, “I certainly see your point, Mrs. Blaine-Appleby,” as he continued to scan the brutally frank – and, he was to find, bitingly accurate – pen pictures of all her sixty odd guests. “Your comments are remarkably frank.”

  “I’d use the word ‘honest’ myself. There’s little use being anything else at this stage, is there?” she rejoined briskly.

  “I suppose my first question is why give us these … vignettes of all your guests? How do you think they’ll help?”

  “Good Lord – I don’t know. That’s rather your job, isn’t it?” she asked, not entirely unreasonably, Calderwood had to admit. “I don’t know much about these things,” she said, “but I do know that local knowledge of those possibly involved can often save valuable time. After all,” she added stringently, “we’re constantly being told of how police resources are over-stretched, due to reduced funding and what have you!”

  “Don’t get me wrong, we appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, but I suppose I’m wondering why you feel your guest list could be in any way connected to the death of Della Riminton.”

  “Rather obvious, I’d have thought. She’d only moved into the village a few weeks ago; she knew scarcely anyone. And was disliked by virtually all those she did know, I may add. Yet, less than twelve hours after she met a large number of people from the village for the first time, she’s found dead. It does make one wonder, doesn’t it?” she added.

  “You mention how disliked she was, and I see here that you describe her as ‘a most unpleasant woman, with a spiteful wit and little hinterland.’ Rather damning comments about someone you thought enough of to invite into your home, are they not?” he responded quietly as he watched her closely.

  “Now that one is a fair point,” she conceded graciously. “Although, whether I like or dislike someone isn’t necessarily relevant when I decide who to invite to my home. As you’ll see by my observations concerning a number of others on my list,” she added as Calderwood passed her list to Colin Bulmer, “it sometimes depends on what the event I’m holding is for.”

  “I understand that this particular party was to thank those who helped when both your aunts were both taken very ill?” he remarked casually, earning a sharp look from her as she acknowledged his groundwork. “From what you say, Della Riminton scarcely seemed the type to offer to help in any way, or, indeed, the type from whom you would accept such help should she have done so.”

  “Absolutely correct on both counts. I’d invited her for another reason entirely. I usually do that with my parties, try and mix people. It makes the evening more interesting, and I get so much more done if all the different individuals I want something from are in one room,” she answered frankly.

  “And Della Riminton was there because...?”

  “Because I’d heard she wanted to buy her way into village life, and was willing to make a sizeable financial contribution to do so,” she responded, again with complete candour.

  “In what way and to what extent? Had any conversation got that far?”

  “Oh yes. She was willing to give several hundred pounds to support one of our local charities, one that much needs a great deal of support in these times,” she added feelingly.

  “In Beldon Magna? It seems a rather prosperous place,” Bulmer remarked suddenly, passing her list back to his superior.

  “Indeed it is, for many, but not all. It’s always been that way, great need hidden in beautiful surroundings. That’s why two hundred years ago a wealthy benefactor built our almshouses, provided an endowment – which was then thought more than enough – to maintain
them, and also funds to aid the local poor. Inflation and so on means we constantly need to keep raising money to be able to keep funding the original aims of the charity. Sad, isn’t it, to think that, two centuries later, there’s still a need for what we do. That,” she said with emphasis, “is why I had Ms Riminton in my house.”

  “Fair enough,” Calderwood replied quietly, impressed by her obvious sincerity. Not quite as tough an old bird as she’d like everyone to believe, he noted mentally, as he began going methodically through her list. Their discussion clarified that, of the sixty four guests, forty were solidly local; six weren’t strictly locals i.e. their parents hadn’t been born in Beldon Magna, but had lived many years in the village and had no known London links; eight were originally from London, but only many years previously, and had no known current links, and the remaining ten were not only from London comparatively recently, but had maintained very strong links to the capital. Calderwood had already decided that, although all would be investigated, those with strong and comparatively recent London links would, bearing in mind the dead woman’s origins, be given priority.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blaine-Appleby,” said Calderwood, bringing the interview to a close. “That’s about it for now, I think. You’ll no doubt be pleased to hear that we’ll now get out of your way; we’re setting up the Incident Room over in the pub.”

  She nodded, her clear grey eyes focused on him.

  “You seem remarkably relaxed, Mrs. Blaine-Appleby, if I may say so.”

  She stood up to go. As she got to the door, she turned and said, “I wasn’t earlier. When I heard about this terrible business, I was concerned about how it would affect the village. How, indeed, the police – you chaps – could find the person who did it. But, having met you both, I’m not concerned anymore. I’d heard good reports of you both, how you work particularly well as a team and so on. I’m glad to see that my information was spot on.”

  With that, she left the room, leaving two grown-up and very experienced police officers feeling as though they had just been awarded merit points by their headmistress.