Chapter 27
Julia stepped out from the kitchen and started a slow stroll across the lawn.
Jake followed her eagerly, with Chaplin wandering along behind in a casual sort of way as if he wasn’t following her, he happened to be coming out at the same time and taking a roughly similar route.
‘Look at you. My two tails,’ Julia said and laughed at her own joke.
That was the thing about living alone. You had to both generate and appreciate your own comedic material.
Her early morning tour of the grounds and its inhabitants was one of her daily pleasures. It was particularly delightful on this spring day, freshly washed by the previous day’s rain. It was not wet enough to be muddy and squelchy, but enough rain had fallen to make everything sparkle.
She noted that the tomatoes were coming along nicely, the plants healthy and strong, the fruit still small and green but abundant. She made a mental note to stake them this week. It would be a good summer for tomatoes.
The rain had brought out the snails. She walked over to the chicken run to let the chickens out.
‘Come on, girls,’ she said, although they didn’t need much encouragement. Bossy old Henny Penny led the charge, her more timid sisters following her lead. Jake watched adoringly.
‘That’s it, chook chooks, go and get those gastropods! Yum, yum, yum,’ said Julia.
A tinkle of laughter came from next door, where Hester’s head could be seen above the low fence that separated the gardens.
‘Oh, hello, Hester. Don’t mind me, talking to myself and my animals. I think living in the country has made me batty. Battier.’
‘Nonsense. You’re lucky to have such clever companions to converse with,’ said Hester. ‘I was remarking to the bees how lovely it is after that bit of rain. It’s as if the whole world has been washed clean, isn’t it?’
Something in Hester’s words jogged something in Julia’s mind.
Washed clean.
She had that funny feeling she got sometimes, like a tickle inside her head, a thought working its way out.
Her thoughts went back again to the moment she’d seen Basil Crow, his damp, dark head.
Why was there not more blood on the scene?
The damp lawn beneath her feet now made her wonder, had the blood been washed away, the scene washed clean by rain?
No, his clothes weren’t wet – that much she remembered.
Perhaps… She felt a tingle in the base of her skull. Could the body have been moved?
‘Yes, lovely and clean. Sorry, Hester, I remembered something… I must go. Give my best to the bees…’
She hurried back towards the house, with Chaplin padding nonchalantly in her wake. Jake looked anxiously from Julia to Henny Penny and back again, and decided to stay outside with the hen.
Julia tried to ring Hayley Gibson, but there was no answer. Now that she’d had the idea, it felt like a matter of urgency to share it with someone in the know, and to find out more.
‘Bob Jones,’ she said, addressing Chaplin. ‘He would be the one to speak to about forensics.’
The cat was disinterested in her notions. What he was interested in was his breakfast. Chaplin was sitting next to his empty food bowl, staring at it as if pure will might produce a serving of Yummy Cat Salmon Chunks. He would have to wait. Julia had a call to make.
She had never phoned Bob Jones before, and felt a little nervous about contacting him now. By rights, this was none of her business. (She imagined Sean saying, in his teasing burr, ‘But when has that ever stopped you?’).
She had no phone number for Bob, for a start. She had to search online for a number for the forensic unit. The receptionist put the call through and he answered on the second ring.
‘Hello, Mr Jones. It’s Julia Bird here. I’m not sure if you remember me, we met at—’
‘At more than one crime scene, if I’m not mistaken.
Most recently in the meadow, with Basil Crow, and then at the river.
You’re lucky to even find me here, actually.
I’m usually in the lab or on a scene, but I decided that today’s the day to get on top of my paperwork.
Which is extensive.’ A small but audible sigh came down the phone line.
Julia felt a slight raise in heart rate at the word ‘paperwork’, remembering how she had abandoned her efforts to get her own paperwork in order, in favour of detectiving.
She was brought back to the present by Chaplin, who issued a long, pathetic meooooow as if employing his very last breath before expiring right there and then on the countertop next to his empty food bowl.
‘What’s that noise?’ asked Bob Jones.
‘My cat. He is being starved to death as we speak. Anyway, Bob, I’m sorry about your admin load, but it’s fortunate for me that you’re in the office.
And funny you should mention Basil Crow,’ she said, in a neat little segue into the matter on her mind, ‘because I had a thought about him. An observation. Or perhaps a question, really.’
‘Okay…’ he said. ‘Although, I’m not sure what I can tell you.’
She hesitated. ‘There’s something that’s been bothering me about Basil Crow’s body,’ she said.
‘I noticed that there wasn’t very much blood on the scene.
There was some in his hair, but not much in the vicinity.
His clothes weren’t wet, so I don’t think it rained that night.
I know this is your area of expertise and not mine, but I was wondering, is it possible that the body was moved? ’
‘More than possible – it’s likely,’ said Bob, to Julia’s surprise. ‘You’re right in your observation. There should have been more blood, with a head wound like that.’
‘Oh!’ she said, the wind rather taken out of her sails.
‘We think he was killed elsewhere in the field, and his body was moved to that location because it was a bit more out of sight.’
‘I see. I suppose that makes sense.’
‘Well, it’s a working theory. We don’t have forensic evidence for it, because we haven’t identified exactly where he was killed.
We had the sniffer dogs out. We hoped they’d find a trace of his scent, or of blood, but unfortunately the conditions were very difficult.
There had been a spring picnic in the meadow, remember.
Which meant that the whole place smelled very interesting. ’
‘I can imagine,’ said Julia. ‘I was there that day and there must have been a hundred people walking about the place, not to mention all the dogs.’
‘Right. Then you’ve got your food. The field is full of remnants of hot dogs and crisps and ice creams and sandwiches, and heaven knows what else the picnickers had.’
Julia hadn’t had breakfast yet, and was peckish. Even the list of picnic items had made her mouth water.
Bob continued. ‘The crime scene was a complete disaster from a forensic point of view. We got nothing conclusive.’
A long, loud, multi-syllabic mee-eee-yow issued from Chaplin, who had clearly had enough of waiting for his breakfast.
‘Goodness, is he all right?’ asked Bob.
‘Fine. He’s very dramatic. But Bob, why do you think that Basil was killed in the meadow?’ Julia asked. ‘The body could have been moved from elsewhere, surely? From another location altogether?’
‘Hmm, yes, we considered that. And while it’s possible, it’s unlikely. Killers don’t generally want to move bodies around the place. It increases the risk tremendously.’
‘I suppose that’s true. Someone could see you with the body. The car might break down. Any number of problems.’
‘That’s right. And with every movement, you’re spreading forensic material all over the place, on your clothes, your hands, the vehicle, and so on.
It’s not good practice, from a forensic point of view.
Usually, if a killer is going to do this, it will be to hide the body.
Not to leave it in a field where it will almost certainly be found quickly. ’
‘Okay, well, thanks, Bob. I appreciate you taking my call.’
‘No problem. I was pleased to be able to procrastinate for a few minutes before hitting the inbox.’
Julia knew the feeling. ‘It’s usually not as bad as you expect, once you get down to it. And think how cheerful and self-satisfied you’ll feel this evening, once it’s done.’
‘You are not wrong, Julia Bird. I’m going to get on top of that paperwork this very morning, and I’ll be smiling into my beer this evening!’ he said. ‘It won’t take long once I settle down to it. It’s the anticipation. As the Bard himself said, In time we hate that which we often fear.’
Julia didn’t enquire as to the quotation’s source, although she was certain he’d be able to tell her which character, which play, and which act it was from.
Chaplin issued another heartbreaking mewl. Speaking of Shakespeare, that cat was made for the stage.
‘Off you go, then, fearless Bob Jones. Go and slay your dragons. And enjoy your beer.’
‘Okey-dokey. And Julia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please go and feed that cat.’
Julia put the phone down and went to do just that.
Chaplin made it almost impossible to get the job done, nudging at her hand while she was trying to open the sachet of food, writhing on the counter and then getting up and positioning himself between her and the bowl when she was trying to serve him.
All the while, he was simultaneously meowing and purring.
When she’d finally managed to deposit the gloop into Chaplin’s bowl, she washed her hands and put on the kettle.
While she waited for it to boil, she thought back on her conversation with Bob Jones.
He was right, of course. No killer worth his – or her – salt would move a body without a very good reason.
What would constitute a ‘very good reason’ for moving the body?
What if the site wasn’t random? It might be that someone had put Basil Crow’s body in that exact spot for some reason of their own.
To send a message. Or to implicate someone else.
Or to cover their own tracks. Perhaps to throw the authorities off their tail somehow.
She felt dizzy thinking of the possibilities and variables, and turning the questions over in her mind. Who would want the body to be found there, in that exact place on that exact field? And why? What would the benefit be? And to whom? And how did Esmeralda’s death fit in?
But no answer came.