Salt Lane Read online

  Cupidi walked over towards her. ‘Patrick, is it?’

  ‘Peter. Peter Moon. Bet you didn’t get this kind of stuff when you were at the Met.’

  ‘Possibly the worst forensic scene ever,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Bar none.’

  ‘And I have news you are going to absolutely love,’ said Cupidi. ‘It’s possible this might not have been an accident, either.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Moon said. Then, ‘Sorry. Wrong word, under the circumstances. You serious?’

  ‘It looks very much like someone may have put him in there.’

  Moon looked around. ‘Jesus. So where do you think forensics are going have to put the perimeter then?’ He was one of those people who spoke languidly, as if everything wasn’t as important as other people thought it was.

  Cupidi looked around. How could you tell where a crime scene like this began? They didn’t even know when he had died. He could have been in there for anything up to five weeks.

  ‘A lot wider than you have it now, that’s for sure. Sir?’ She called out to the farmer again. About twenty metres from her, he had been heading away from the barns. ‘Sorry. One more question.’

  The man stopped and turned.

  ‘Has there been any sign of anything being disturbed on the farm around here? Any unusual comings and goings?’

  The farmer hesitated, his mouth open.

  ‘What?’ prompted Cupidi.

  ‘As it happens, yes. Hadn’t thought of it till you asked. This way,’ he said, and started walking back towards them.

  EIGHT

  The farmer led them away from the open slurry tank towards the smaller outbuildings on the other side of the yard from the cowshed. Inside, to the left, it was piled with bales of hay.

  Hoisting himself up, he held a hand out for Cupidi. ‘Come up,’ he said. Then he turned and did the same for Ferriter.

  At about two metres above ground the hay formed a flat platform on which the farmer stood, pointing at a higher pile of bales. As Cupidi approached, she saw that they had been laid out so there was a small tunnel, big enough for a man to crawl into.

  ‘About four weeks ago I found this.’

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Someone built himself a little hidey-hole in the hay. There was a bag with some clothes in it too. You get a lot of rough sleepers, this time of year. It’s not just the towns anymore.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ said the farmer. ‘Somebody down on their luck.’

  ‘Where are the clothes?’

  The farmer shrugged. ‘I chucked them.’

  ‘Did you look at them?’

  ‘Not really. Just a couple of jumpers, pair of trousers. Some underpants. Nothing much. It’s not the first time, either. There’s more of them about than ever. What am I supposed to do? Wait for them to come back and claim them? Feel sorry, but I don’t want to do anything that encourages that stuff. Like I said, it’s not safe here.’

  Cupidi knelt and peered into the hole in the stack. ‘Nothing that would have told you who he was? No wallet? Letters?’

  The farmer shook his head. ‘There was a book in there, though. I kept that. Didn’t seem right to chuck that.’

  ‘What kind of book?’

  ‘Koran.’

  ‘Koran?’ said Ferriter. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Hay prickled Cupidi’s hands and knees. The tunnel, made by arranging the bales, was just deep and wide enough for a man to sleep in. ‘So you think the victim might have been whoever stayed here?’

  ‘Just a guess. He never came back for his belongings, that’s for sure.’

  The farmer had used the phrase ‘hidey-hole’. He was right, thought Cupidi. The person who had slept here had taken care to remain out of sight.

  ‘I suppose he might have been using the sluice for doing his business into,’ said the farmer. ‘Those places, you can get pretty dizzy from all the fumes coming up, see? But physically he couldn’t have just fallen in, could he?’

  ‘Be pretty convenient, closing the sluice gate behind him. That’s assuming it’s the same man.’

  The farmer nodded.

  Getting back down, Ferriter jumped straight off the top, landing like a gymnast. The farmer was already holding out his hand for Cupidi.

  She was on the point of saying she could manage on her own, but it was simpler to take his hand again. ‘Can I see the book you found?’

  Brushing pale stalks from her clothes, she followed the farmer as he led them away from the yard towards a modern farmhouse a couple of hundred metres away. It was a neat red-brick bungalow surrounded by cypress hedges, big picture windows along one side, a pile of wellingtons in the tiled entrance hall.

  ‘I should feel sorry for him, shouldn’t I, but I don’t. All I’m thinking about is how busy we are this time of year and how much bother all this is causing me.’

  His wife was in the living room, on the couch, watching The Lego Movie with a child.

  ‘This is the police,’ said the farmer.

  ‘Please don’t get up,’ said Cupidi.

  She was in her twenties, plump, red-cheeked and big-eyed. ‘Don’t say nothing about… you know,’ she said, toying with a gold heart locket that hung around her neck. ‘Gives me the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Say nothing about what, Mum?’ said the child, a boy who looked about five, who was lying with his head in her lap.

  ‘Nothing, sweetcake.’ She stroked her son’s hair.

  The room was tidy, but for a few toys on the carpet: a helicopter, a Darth Vader mask. On one end of the mantelpiece sat a collection of white ceramic deer, big-eyed and Disneyish; on the other was a small huddle of snow domes.

  Bored, the boy stood and walked to the window.

  The farmer went to a sideboard, pulled open a drawer and held out the book. Cupidi dug in her handbag for a pair of plastic gloves. He was right. It was a copy of the Koran, well-thumbed.

  ‘Why are those men dressing up, Mum?’

  Outside, police officers were donning overalls. The CSI team must have arrived.

  ‘Maybe we should go and stay with my mum for a couple of days,’ said the mother.

  ‘I suppose,’ said the farmer unhappily.

  ‘Did you see or hear anything unusual over the last four weeks?’ Cupidi asked.

  The woman curled her lip. ‘No.’ But the barn was not close to the house. It would have been easy for someone to reach it and stay there unnoticed by anyone here.

  ‘Mum. Why’s that lady got washing-up gloves on?’ asked the boy, looking at Cupidi.

  Cupidi turned to the front of the Koran and looked for a name or any inscription that might say who this man was, then remembered it was in Arabic and turned to the other end of the book, but there was nothing there either.

  They walked back out into the sunlight and the buzz of flies.

  The specialist unit had arrived too; they would need breathing gear to recover the body.

  ‘Got another one for us then?’ said a young man, struggling into neoprene as he sat on the back of the police Land Rover.

  ‘Do you give a discount?’ asked Cupidi, looking around.

  Ferriter was grinning at Sergeant Moon. ‘You here as well, Peter?’

  ‘No peace for the wicked,’ answered Moon. ‘Looks like we’re trying to beat the record for turning up bodies in disgusting places.’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was that little flicker of her eyes as she looked at him, too.

  Cupidi looked from one to the other.

  Moon looked around him. ‘I mean. Where to bloody start? How long does he reckon the body’s been down there?’

  ‘Could be up to five weeks.’

  Sergeant Moon shook his head. ‘Needle in a haystack,’ he said and looked round with a grin. ‘Joke.’

  Cupidi didn’t laugh.

  ‘Chance of finding much around here that hasn’t been trampled on by a herd of cows is zero, I’d say.’

  ‘The man d
idn’t die to inconvenience us,’ Cupidi said.

  ‘Succeeded, though.’

  ‘And whatever happened, he would have had a miserable, terrifying death. Before you go to sleep tonight, think about that for a while. What it’s like when you find yourself in a place like that and you know you’re going to die and there’s nobody there to help you. I know I will.’

  ‘OK,’ said the younger sergeant quietly.

  ‘So it’s our job to find out why it happened.’

  ‘Right.’

  As she turned away, she caught a conspiratorial smirk on Ferriter’s face – a glance that must have passed between her and Moon.

  Cupidi swivelled back to Moon in time to see his own smile vanish.

  ‘Peter? It was you who went to the house that Hilary Keen gave as her address, wasn’t it? With Jill here.’

  ‘We went to confirm the address last night, but couldn’t. Drove past. It was a bit Scooby-Doo there. Creepy, you know?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Didn’t look like anyone had lived there for a while, ask me.’

  ‘I was thinking, what if it was the crime scene we were looking for for Hilary Keen?’

  Moon fanned himself with his clipboard. ‘I considered it, obviously, but we weren’t authorised to search it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cupidi.

  Moon shifted feet uncomfortably.

  ‘And talking of crime scenes, you know we’re going to have to include the barn as well?’ said Cupidi. ‘Looks like the victim may have slept there.’

  ‘Gets better and better,’ said Moon.

  ‘A man is dead. We need to make a scene assessment.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just I’m allergic. Hay brings me out in hives. OK. Show me where.’

  ‘I’ll take the barn if you like,’ Ferriter offered.

  ‘It’s Sergeant Moon’s job,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Yeah, but I might as well. We’re finished up here, aren’t we?’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ said Moon. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘No. It’s fine.’

  Quickly Cupidi checked her watch. Gone five. Zoë would have been expecting her. Ferriter must have seen her doing it. She said, ‘It’s all right, you go. I can stay if you like.’

  Cupidi pulled Ferriter a few metres away from the yard. ‘We’ve pretty much finished here,’ said Cupidi. ‘You don’t have to stay.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’

  Cupidi hesitated, looked over at Sergeant Moon. He gave a little wave. ‘If you’re sure? I’ll take the car. Tomorrow morning I’ll ride it over and take a proper look into Hilary Keen’s address this time. Want to meet me there?’

  Ferriter didn’t answer.

  ‘Is he more your age then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Moon.’

  ‘What? God no,’ said Ferriter. ‘Bit tall.’

  ‘Bit up himself, if you ask me.’

  Ferriter flushed. ‘You got him wrong, Sarge. He’s all right. It’s just his manner.’

  Cupidi looked at the constable a second, then said, ‘So I’m having the car, then.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Can you cadge a lift back to the station? Maybe with Sergeant Moon.’

  ‘Just ’cause I offered to help him, don’t mean nothing,’ Ferriter said.

  But Cupidi was already heading away down the track towards the police car. Inside it, she sat writing up notes for a couple of minutes, then turned the key in the ignition and drove away down the narrow lane, away from the farm, away from the dead man still lying at the bottom of the pit.

  NINE

  ‘You could get a summer job if you wanted. There must be something,’ said Cupidi. She was speaking to her daughter on the phone. ‘I can help you.’

  ‘Don’t want to work in a shop. I’d hate that. It’s my summer, Mum.’

  When she had got up for work that morning, Zoë had still been asleep. Cupidi had left five pounds on the kitchen table: CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.

  Of course she hadn’t called; in the end, Cupidi had dialled her mobile when she’d parked the car outside the address she’d been given by Ferriter. Zoë had picked up, half asleep. The conversation wasn’t going well.

  Cupidi looked around for a sign to check she was at the right place. All she had was a postcode, just off Hamstreet Road.

  ‘If you don’t like shops, maybe you should do something outside. The farms round here must want people. There might be fruit-picking or something.’ She imagined Zoë sitting in her greying Mickey Mouse pyjamas, wrinkling her nose. ‘I just worry that you’re bored, that’s all.’

  ‘I love being bored,’ said the teenager. ‘Being bored is the best thing ever. Don’t you wish you were bored sometimes?’

  ‘God, no. Are you going to eat anything for breakfast?’

  Cupidi switched off the engine. Moon had said the place looked derelict. Maybe she’d been a bit harsh on Moon, questioning why he and Ferriter hadn’t entered the building; that said, it didn’t look as if it would be difficult to break in. The front door had tendrils of ivy growing up it. It looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. The windows were dark.

  She could wait for Ferriter, or she could try to go in herself.

  Checking her watch, she got out of the car, phone still in her hand, but just as she did so she noticed a man standing to the side of the house, on a track that led round the back.

  Why hadn’t she spotted him before? Leaning against the brick wall, he was dressed in clothes that seemed too hot for the summer weather: a jumper and thick woollen trousers. Cupidi had a sudden premonition that maybe she should not have come here alone.

  ‘Have to go,’ Cupidi told her daughter, eyeing the man. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I mean it. I love you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Call you back,’ she said, ending the conversation. She stood, watching the man for a minute; he was staring back at her too. He was in his sixties, Cupidi guessed.

  Eventually, she called over the roof of the car, ‘Speringbrook House?’

  The man said nothing. Moving towards him, she saw he was badly shaven; tufts of white hair sprouted from his chin.

  Cupidi pulled her wallet out of her shoulder bag and opened her warrant card to show him. ‘Detective Sergeant Cupidi, Kent Police. Did a woman called Hilary Keen live here?’

  The man looked at her some more. Finally he said, ‘What about her?’

  ‘We’re investigating her death. Do you have a minute to talk?’

  The man didn’t move; he stayed leaning against the wall. ‘Can’t stop you, can I?’

  She looked up at the house. On the first floor, the bedroom curtains were closed; once pink, they were faded and tatty. Was he the dead woman’s partner? No. She didn’t think so. That would have shown up in her records, wouldn’t it? Or he would have reported her missing. Would he?

  Why did this feel so wrong?

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did Hilary Keen live here?’ She pointed at his house.

  The man shook his head slowly. ‘Nope.’

  ‘She gave this house as her address. But you’re saying she didn’t live here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Cupidi squinted at the man, trying to work out what he meant. ‘You knew her?’

  He chewed his lip. ‘Wouldn’t say knew.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Maybe three weeks.’

  Though he had still not yet come up with any cause of death, the pathologist had been pretty confident that her body would have been in the water for over a week. However unhelpful he was being, the man had admitted he was acquainted with her, at least.

  Cupidi took in the surroundings. To the right of the driveway there was a white shed, listing to one side; its peeling paint revealed old, dark wood. Foxes had ripped a black rubbish sack that had been left out, tugging bones, plastic and tin over the grass.<
br />
  ‘Why did she say this was her address?’

  ‘Was. Kind of. You asked if she lived here.’ He pointed to the house. ‘She didn’t. She lived round back.’

  ‘Right. Can I see where?’

  He chewed his lip a bit more. ‘Nope.’

  Cupidi stood a little straighter. ‘This is a murder investigation, sir. Obviously we can obtain a warrant, but it would be much simpler if you could show us.’

  Why had she said ‘us’, when it was only herself? She was on the verge of stepping back into her car and requesting backup when the man spat onto the ground, then turned his head back towards her and said, ‘I can’t show you where she lived, ’cause it’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you, for all the good it’ll do.’

  For the first time he moved, walking towards Cupidi, arms swinging as he did so, until he was only inches away from her, and stopped with his face close to hers. Cupidi smelt cigarettes.

  ‘Boo,’ he said, and, despite herself, she flinched, just enough to make him smile. He turned and walked the other way, on down the track between the shed and his house, then turned left and disappeared. After a moment’s hesitation, Cupidi followed.

  Behind the house sat an ancient black Ford Prefect that looked like it hadn’t moved in decades and an orange-painted short-wheelbase Land Rover. A bag full of empty vodka bottles lay by what she guessed was the door to his kitchen.

  Between the dead car and an old brick wall at the far side that enclosed the yard, there was a dark rectangle of bare earth, grass growing around its four sides. An electrical cable with an old black mains hook-up plug lay on the ground.

  ‘See? That’s where she lived.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She had a caravan, didn’t she? That’s where she lived for the last six, nope, seven years. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You were her landlord?’

  ‘She parked her crappy old caravan here, that’s all. Pile of rubbish.’

  ‘Somebody came and towed it away?’

  ‘Didn’t bloody fly, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Who took it?’

  A damselfly hovered in the yard, iridescent green. ‘Me, course. She hadn’t paid any rent for the last three weeks. So I sold it. She’s not going to be complaining now neither, exactly, is she?’