Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“Doing them up himself?”

“He’s a townie. What would he know about building work? No, he’s given the job to Armstrong, the Devizes firm. Comes here each weekend to check on the work.”

“Any family?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” He looked away, across the field, to the new slate roof on the tied cottages. “I’ve seen a lady with him.”

“A lady? What’s she like?”

Mooney sighed, forced to think. “Dark-haired.”

“Age?”

“Younger than him.”

“The sale was in his name alone?”

“That’s right.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr Mooney, I’d like you to take another look at the corpse and see if you recognise anyone.”

From the glimpse he’d had already, Mooney didn’t much relish another look. “If I don’t mind? Have I got a choice?”

Some of the crop had been left around the body like a screen. The police had used one access path so as not to destroy evidence. Mooney pressed his fingers to his nose and stepped up. He peered at the bloated features. Ten days in hot weather makes a difference. “Difficult,” he said. “The hair looks about right.”

“For Jeremy White?”

“That reddish colour. Dyed, isn’t it? I always thought the townie dyed his hair. He weren’t so young as he wanted people to think he were.”

“The clothes?”

Mooney looked at the pinstripe suit dusted faintly yellow from the crop. There were bullet holes in the jacket. “That’s the kind of thing he wore, certainly.”

The inspector nodded. “From the contents of his wallet we’re pretty sure this is Jeremy White. Do you recall hearing any shots last time he was here?”

“There are shots all the time, specially at weekends. Rabbits. Pigeons. We wouldn’t take note of that.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Two weekends ago. Passed him in the lane on the Sunday afternoon.”

“Anyone with him?”

“That dark-haired young lady I spoke of.”

The inspector produced the wallet found on the body and took out a photo of a dark-haired woman in a blue blouse holding up a drink. “Is this her?”

Mooney examined it for some time. He eyed the inspector with suspicion, as if he was being tricked. “That wasn’t the lady I saw.”

There was an interval when the buzzing of insects seemed to increase and the heat grew.

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“Take another look.”

“Her with the townie was definitely younger.”

The inspector’s eyebrows lifted. “How much younger?”

“A good ten years, I’d say.”

“Did they come by car?”

“There was always a sports car parked in front of the cottages when he came, one of them BMW jobs with the open top.”

“Just the one vehicle? The lady didn’t drive down in her own?”

“If she did, I’ve never seen it. When can I have my field back?”

“When I tell you. There’s more searching to be done.”

“More damage, you mean.”

Money met Bernie Priddle with his dog the same evening coming along the footpath beside the hedgerow. Bernie had lived in one of the tied cottages until Mooney decided to sell it. He was in his fifties, small, thin-faced, always ready with a barbed remark.

“You’ll lose the whole of your crop by the look of it,” he said, and he sounded happier than he had for months.

“I thought you’d turn up,” Mooney said. “Makes you feel better to see someone else’s misfortune, does it?”

“I walk the path around the field every evening. It’s part of the dog’s routine. You should know that by now. I was saying you’ll lose your crop.”

“Don’t I know it! Even if they don’t trample every stalk of it, they’ll stop me from harvesting.”

“People are saying it’s the townie who was shot.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Good riddance, too.”

“You want to guard what you say, Bernie Priddle. They’re looking for someone to nail for this.”

“Me? I wouldn’t put myself in trouble for some pipsqueak yuppie. It’s you I wouldn’t mind doing a stretch for, Mooney. I could throttle you any time for putting me out of my home.”

“What are you moaning about? You got a council house out of it, didn’t you? Hot water and an inside toilet. Where’s your dog?”

Priddle looked down. His Jack Russell had moved on, and he didn’t know where. He whistled.

Over by the body, all the heads turned.

“It’s all right,” Mooney shouted to the policemen. “He was calling his dog, that’s all.”

The inspector came over and spoke to Priddle. “And who are you exactly?”

Bernie explained about his regular evening walk around the field.

“Have you ever seen Mr White, the owner of the tied cottages?”

“On occasion,” Bernie said. “What do you want to know?”

“Ever seen anyone with him?”

“Last time — the Sunday before last — there was the young lady, her with the long, black hair, and short skirt. She’s a good looker, that one. He was showing her the building work. Had his arm around her. I raised my cap to them, didn’t speak. Later, when I was round the far side, I saw them heading into the field.”

“Into the field? Where?”

“Over yonder. He had a coat on his arm. Next time I looked, they weren’t in view.” He grinned. “I drew my own conclusion, like, and walked on. I came right around the field before I saw the other car parked in the lane.”

The inspector’s interest increased. “You saw another car?”

“Nice little Cherokee Jeep, it was, red. Do you want the number?”

“Do you remember it?”

“It was a woman’s name, SUE, followed by a number. I couldn’t tell you which, except it was just the one.”

“A single digit?” The inspector sounded pleased. “SUE, followed by a single digit. That’s really useful, sir. We can check that. And did you see the driver?”

“No, I can’t help you there.”

“Hear any shooting?”

“We often hear shooting in these parts. Look, I’d better find my dog.”

“We’ll need to speak to you some more, Mr...?”

“Priddle. Bernard Priddle. You’re welcome. These days I live in one of them poky little council bungalows in the village. Second on the left.”

The inspector watched him stride away, whistling for the dog, and said to one of the team, “A useful witness. I want you to take a statement from him.”

Mooney was tempted to pass on the information that Bernie was a publicity-seeking pain in the arse, but he decided to let the police do their own work.

The body was removed from Middle Field the same evening. Some men in black suits put it into a bag with a zip and stretchered it over the well-trodden ground to a small van and drove off.

“Now can I have my field back?” Mooney asked the inspector.

“What’s the hurry?”

“You’ve destroyed a big section of my crop. What’s left will go over if I don’t harvest it at the proper time. The pods shatter and it’s too late.”

“What do you use? A combine harvester?”

“First it has to be swathed into rows. It all takes time.”

“I’ll let you know in the morning. Cutting it could make our work easier. We want to do a bigger search.”

“What for?”

“Evidence. We now know that the woman Bernard Priddle saw — the driver of the Jeep — was the woman in the photograph I showed you, Mrs Susan White, the dead man’s wife. We’re assuming the younger woman was White’s mistress. We think Mrs White was suspicious and followed them here. She didn’t know about him buying the tied cottages. That was going to be his lovenest, just for weekends with the mistress. But he couldn’t wait for it to be built. The wife caught them at it in the field.”