Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

Adam managed a grin. “With all these cages about? Naw!” He waved the key. “Shove the buggers in there,” he said. “In the ops room. It’s soundproofed. I’ll lock ’em in. There’s no way out. They’ll be there until the prof gets back from London. Could be midnight. Could be tomorrow morning.”

Joe had already grasped the ankles of the thug he’d knocked out and started to pull.

Before they left by a back service entrance, Dorcas dropped a kiss on Adam’s forehead. “Bless you, Adam. Come with us, we’ll take you to your mother’s-and don’t worry! Joe will see nothing bad happens to you. He’s not a ferret at all. More of a warhorse. He’ll pound Bentink under his hooves.”

Joe groaned. Living up to Dorcas’s expectations had always taken the stuffing out of him. “I’ve done quite enough pounding for one day,” he said. “Gosling? Are you fit to drive? Hands survived, have they? Thank God for that! Dorcas, I think this would be a good moment to break out the flapjack.”

They made for the ground floor headquarters on return to St. Magnus.

Martin was still at work by the light of several electric lamps he’d requisitioned and set about the room. The radiators seemed to have been invigorated, and a warm tobacco-scented fug greeted them. The inspector had taken further steps to give a more professional air to the dingy place: A map of the county had gone up, stuck onto a blackboard on wheels: a rank of correspondence trays occupied the surface of a large table jammed in between a decaying vaulting horse and a rack of rotting tennis raquets. A second table in the centre of the room bore, surprisingly, a white cloth, four place settings, a flagon of cider, and a large cottage loaf with a pat of farm butter alongside on a breadboard.

Inspector Martin looked at his watch. With a gesture, he invited them to take a seat at the table.

“Right on cue. You made good time. Lots of information to exchange. Thought we’d do it over supper or after supper. Not sure how you lot are fixed, it being a Saturday. I thought perhaps the commissioner and Miss Joliffe might have stopped off at The Bells for an American cocktail or two. But just in case, I took the liberty of-Ah! There we are! Right on time.”

He hurried to the door to open it for a school steward who came in, red in the face and panting, laden with paper parcels.

“Well done, lad! No, keep the change. I hope these are still hot?”

“Piping, sir! I went on my bike. And I made sure old Arnie gave me this lot fresh out of the fryer. I said yes to salt and vinegar-hope that was all right.”

“Haddock and chips from the local chippie,” Martin announced, depositing a package on each plate.

“Glad I signed out of school supper. It’s bread and cheese on a Saturday. Staff all out cutting a rug somewhere.” Gosling’s eyes gleamed. “I say, I do hope you can eat haddock and chips, Dorcas?”

His nice manners obliged him to ask, and if the girl said no, Joe knew that poor hungry Gosling would forgo his steaming plate of fried fish to go in search of something she would like to eat. But Joe knew the boy’s supper was safe. The old Dorcas would have rejected the suggestion of a delicate palate and regaled him with stomach-turning tales of hedgehogs baked in clay and offal sausages. Joe, with silent approval, heard her say simply, “Certainly can! I’m a student-fish and chips is a treat. Gosh, these look good! Cider, everyone?”

By unspoken agreement, no one mentioned the case until the last chip had been eaten, the last crisp morsel of batter crunched. Dorcas and Gosling swiftly cleared away the debris of the meal, refilling the glasses with cider. Then three pairs of eyes turned on Martin.

“I hope your day was as fruitful as mine,” he said, producing envelopes and documents from his briefcase and piling them on the table in front of him. “Rapson, first. Murder of. We have our killer. Or two killers. Or none. You can take your pick.

“There was enough light left and enough snow gone to get out onto the grass in the courtyard after you left. The killing patch. I could read it like a book! Pool of blood still there marking the spot where the knife had gone in-and been pulled out-but footprints as well. The ground was soggy enough before the snow fell to take an imprint, and once the covering was gone, all was revealed. Here, take a look at this.”

Martin slid a sheet of graph paper across the table. A meticulously recorded scene-of-crime plan in various coloured inks plotted the movements of three people.

“Key: Red’s for Rapson. Blue’s for the child. Black for the killer,” Martin explained. “We’ll start with the boy. Harry. Coming dark. He’d been out on the turnpike clocking the cars as usual when it came on to snow. Or something spooked him.”

“Like a gent in a big Talbot saying, ‘Get into my car, little boy, and we’ll go for a ride’?”

Martin nodded. “We see running footsteps straight across the yard, you see. It could be that he knew he was late and he’d get into trouble with Clara.” Martin shrugged. “At all events, running. And here,” he pointed to a red mark, “is where we could say ‘Enter villain.’ Rapson. What’s he doing down here? Gone to liaise with the driver of the car he’d ordered up? Harry makes a run for it, and Rapson pursues. Look, his steps overlap. And the spacing indicates a man in a hurry, allowing for short legs and corpulence. Just after six, are we thinking? The car had come for Harry and was waiting in the lane. But Rapson never caught the lad to put him in it. See here? These black prints? Woman’s size four shoes. Never overlap the child’s. They ran straight past each other. Black squares up to Red, toe to toe, and Red gets a knife stuck into him. Someone pulls it out, releasing a gush of blood. Rapson’s steps then go staggering off back into the school building and the woman’s return to the cottage.”

“Blood traces on Clara’s clothes? Shoes?”

“None. The women had cleaned up. Probably ended up in the school incinerator next morning. They had plenty of time.”

“Shoe size confirms Clara’s presence?” Joe asked.

“Both women size four. But this is the real clincher.” Martin passed a Sussex Constabulary laboratory report over. “Blood test on the knife. Rapson’s type A, plus-and the boys were quick to spot this-a different blood completely.”

“Two victims?” Gosling asked in astonishment.

“Yes. But the second sample wasn’t human. Animal. To be precise, a rabbit. That’s the nearest they can come to it. Rabbit blood.”

“Clara had a rabbit from Old Rory,” Joe remembered.

“And she cut it up that afternoon and stewed it for Betty’s supper. When she saw the danger-perhaps the lad was screaming for help-she picked up the nearest tool and went out to see to it.”

“Her prints were on the handle?” Joe asked.

“No. Only Rapson’s. Smudges under his, but nothing identifiable.”

“You’ve charged Clara?”

“Not yet. There’s a problem.”

Joe frowned, seeing the inspector’s unease.

“She confessed to it. I put the scenario to her with the evidence, and she hung her head and said yes she’d done it. Bloody old Rapson had been bulldozing them into taking steps to send Harry off to some place he could be taken care of and forgotten. What man would ever want to marry Betty if the truth came out? he asked her. He threatened Clara that it certainly would if she didn’t comply. Rotter! I could knife him myself! Anyway, it was a hands up to it from Clara. She’d heard young Harry yelling and run out with the knife exactly as I’ve explained and stuck it in Rapson three times. He stood there, upright and snorting but not dead. At this point, Clara fled in horror. Looking back, she saw him pull out the knife and then throw it to the ground-they will do that! — and stagger off to the back entrance.