Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“Who the hell is that?” he asked. “What on earth does he think he’s playing at?”

“It’s Robert Grey,” Maggie said. “ He farms the land behind the village. He lives just up the road, next door to the Henshaws’.”

“Does he get as drunk as that every evening?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know what was wrong with him tonight. He came in at opening time and must have just finished now.”

At the house behind the garage the lights were still on and Ramsay imagined her father there, waiting anxiously. There was no sign of Charlie Elliot. She ran in without a word.

It was midnight when he arrived back at the cottage at Heppleburn. He assumed that the envelope stuck in his letter box would be a circular. It was Sunday and there was no post. Before looking at it, he lit the gas fire and made coffee. Only then did he see that it was a card, expensive and hand-delivered, from Diana welcoming him to his new home. He studied it, as if hoping for a clue in the pressed flowers and bland printed message to her motivation. But he did not find one, and when he got in to bed he still was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry to have missed her.

The next day, Monday, the murder enquiry moved on like an unwieldy, poorly organised military exercise. At dawn the special patrol group began their search of the beech wood behind the house. Dressed in boots and anoraks, they moved in a single line through the trees, hindered by the frost and snow that covered the dead leaves, swearing about the cold. Some were sent to the churchyard. At first there was no communications equipment and they kept in touch by shouting. They complained, as they always did, of their superiors’ inefficiency. They set up their base in the small police house on the edge of the village but found nothing there to help them. The only equipment provided was a wartime pamphlet showing the identification of German planes and a bucket of sand in case of fire. There had been little crime in Brinkbonnie.

They found the knife quite by chance soon after the search was started. The youngest member tripped on the edge of a flat gravestone and fell, facedown in the snow, accompanied by laughter and jeers. As he stumbled he knocked over a vase of dead daffodils that had been standing on the grave and the knife emerged with the rotting stalks of the flowers.

“You lucky bastard,” someone shouted. “I suppose you’ll take the credit for finding it now.”

But they were all pleased that the murder weapon had been found. It encouraged them that they might find something else of significance.

Ramsay was told about the discovery of the knife in Otterbridge. He was at the police station, supervising the setting up of the Incident Room, the arrival of computer terminals, extra phone lines, and piles of paper. Still no-one had found the screens to block off the corner of the Tower garden where the body had been found, and he, too, muttered about inefficiency. His superintendent was giving all his attention to the press and on every news broadcast there was a shot of him pleading earnestly for information about any unfamiliar cars seen in Brinkbonnie on Saturday night.

A group of detectives from Newcastle had been drafted to help and they milled around the Incident Room until Ramsay sent them off to Brinkbonnie to begin the house-to-house enquiry.

Hunter arrived at work elated and energetic after his night in Newcastle, wanting action, immediate results.

“Did you see the Elliots last night?” Ramsay asked.

Hunter nodded.

“Anything?”

“Not much. They weren’t very communicative.” I bet you weren’t either, Ramsay thought. You’d want to get the interview finished as soon as possible so you’d be in Newcastle before your date walked out on you.

“Did Charlie Elliot tell you he’d been to the pub?” Ramsay asked.

“Yes.” If Hunter was impressed by Ramsay’s knowledge, he did not show it.

“What time was he home?”

“About eleven. His father confirmed it.”

“How did he strike you?” Ramsay asked. “Apparently he’s been making a nuisance of himself with Maggie Kerr, the barmaid in the Castle. They were engaged when they were teenagers and he never got over it. Did he seem unbalanced to you?”

“Not unbalanced,” Hunter said. “Moody perhaps.”

“Well,” Ramsay said, “ if he was home by eleven, he can’t have murdered Mrs. Parry. She was still in the Castle then. She definitely left Henshaw’s and went straight to the pub. The barmaid said she was upset, but Henshaw won’t admit that there was any unpleasantness. Perhaps you could make some enquiries in the village. Find out all you can about him. He drives a Rover. See if anyone saw it late Saturday night.”

“Are you coming to Brinkbonnie?”

“Later. I’ve an appointment with the council’s planning officer. I want to find out about these houses.”

Despite Hunter’s scepticism he was convinced that Henshaw’s development had in some way triggered the series of events that had resulted in Alice Parry’s death. Henshaw’s version of the confrontation with Alice Parry was false. Something had happened to distress her, and almost immediately after she had died. The man’s lying must be significant.

The council offices were in a shabby building that always reminded Ramsay of a large working-men’s club. The planning officer was a small, solid man with a thin grey moustache. He had Henshaw’s plans laid out on his desk.

“I don’t understand the planning procedure,” Ramsay said. “ It might be relevant in this case. Perhaps you could explain.”

“Mr. Henshaw made his original application for Brinkbonnie late last summer,” the officer said. He had a brisk, clipped voice and spoke with the formality of a man used to local politics. “Previously the land had been of marginal agricultural use-occasionally leased to a local farmer for grazing cattle. After being purchased by Mr. Henshaw, I believe that arrangement stopped. The council felt that the plans were inappropriate for a village of Brinkbonnie’s size and refused permission to build.”

“Was there a lot of publicity at that time?”

“Not a great deal. We put a notice in the local paper and received several objections, but no-one seriously believed the development would be approved.”

“Would a smaller scheme have been more favourably received?”

“I can’t speak for the council, of course, but yes, I would have thought so.”

“What happened then?”

“The developer, Mr. Henshaw, appealed to the Department of the Environment’s inspector. The case was heard at the beginning of February.”

“And the result of the appeal came through last week?”

“Yes. I received the inspector’s report on Monday.”

“And he found in Mr. Henshaw’s favour?”

The planning officer sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The inspector does seem to be taking a less restrictive view of planning rules now. And there is a move to release less valuable agricultural land for building.”

“So what was the point of the Brinkbonnie residents holding their protest meeting on Saturday afternoon? Surely the planning procedure had been exhausted.”

“No,” the planning officer said sadly. “ Not quite. There really is very little likelihood that the inspector’s decision could be overturned at this point, but there is a faint possibility. I don’t think the council would want to take the action any further because of the cost, but if there was sufficient public pressure, I suppose they might feel they had to make the gesture. I’d advise them against it, but they don’t always take my advice.”

“And what action could the council take?”

“They could appeal to the high court.”