Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“Cows?” said Megan, jamming her foot on the brake as a lowing herd of Guernseys strolled down the lane in front of her towards their milking shed, a black-and-white dog at their heels.
“Insurance fraud.”
“But that would mean . . .” She turned her head to stare at him. “Donaldson’s a crook?”
“Keep your eyes on the road!”
Not another word would he utter until they were safely parked. Megan spotted Wilkes and Polmenna’s panda car in the car park at the top of the hill and pulled in beside it.
As they hurried down the hill, he said, “Find out whether your aunt’s taken her car. Meet me at the shop. And if you come across that pair of nitwits, bring them with you.”
“Yes, sir.” If the nitwits had read the reports, they’d have known Aunt Nell kept her car in the shed in the car park by the stream.
They would have checked. But they’d been sent up to Launceston from county headquarters in Bodmin and then rushed off to Port Mabyn.
Maybe they hadn’t had a chance to catch up on all the details.
Megan hurried down, picked her way across the soggy field, and opened one of the shed’s double doors. No Incorruptible.
Or maybe they really were nitwits. They were the same two who had followed the car from Launceston the night of the gale. Surely they had seen Aunt Nell leave it in her shed. If they had been watching, they could hardly have missed the departure of a pea-green Morris Minor.
Except, Megan remembered as she squelched back across the grass, Nick Gresham had been driving when they were following.
Had they been told it was Aunt Nell’s, not his?
Nick would have parked it for her that night.
Could he have taken it out for her today, because the field was boggy?
In fact, the layer of mud presently wrecking her shoes suggested it had been flooded, so perhaps he’d parked up one hill or t’other?
But that was beside the point. Wherever the car had been, might he have moved it to help Aunt Nell elude Wilkes and Polmenna?
They hadn’t been told to keep an eye on him, only on Aunt Nell and Camilla.
Instead of hurrying to join Scumble at the LonStar shop, Megan pushed open the door of Gresham’s gallery. He was sitting on a high stool behind his counter, wrapping a parcel. He looked up when the bell jangled.
“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “I thought we might be seeing you.”
“Did you help Aunt Nell evade the constables watching her?”
“Yes. She’s not a suspect. Why not?”
“Why? Why was she so keen to get away unseen?”
“She was fed up with having her every step watched. But actually, I think it was mostly Camilla’s idea. She didn’t want the cops following her—”
“I knew it!” Megan’s thoughts whirled. Camilla was a friend of Trevor’s, and Trevor was Donaldson’s nephew, and Donaldson was a crook. “Where did they go?”
“Eleanor intended to take Camilla home. To her parents.”
“We must find them. Come on.”
He tapped the parcel. “I’ve got to get this to the post.”
“Don’t be so bloody bolshie! She may be in danger. Come on!”
“In danger?” Gresham said incredulously, but he followed her, locking the gallery behind him. “Eleanor? From that child? What the hell are you talking about?”
In the LonStar shop, they found Mrs Stearns at bay.
“I’ve told these officers,” she said, speaking to Scumble and gesturing at DCs Polmenna and Wilkes. “I won’t lie and claim Eleanor didn’t say where she was going, but I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“Madam,” said Scumble sternly, “you are obstructing—”
“Mrs Stearns,” Megan interrupted, “Aunt Nell may be in danger. We must find out where she’s gone.”
“In danger? Are you sure?”
“No, we’re not. Do you want us to wait until we’re sure? Too late?”
“Oh dear! Nick . . . ?”
“Better safe than sorry. Tell them.”
“She’s taking Camilla to Taunton.” Mrs Stearns took a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to Scumble. “Going by the back roads to start with, and picking up donations on the way. This is her route.”
Megan wasn’t tall enough to read over the inspector’s shoulder, but she peered round his bulk and her finger shot out at the same moment his pointed at a name on the list. In unison, they pronounced, “St Kew!”
“It’s one of my husband’s parishes,” said the vicar’s wife. “I know it well. Eleanor can hardly come to any harm there.”
Scumble gave her a hard look. “Do you know a house called Withy’s End?”
“It sounds familiar. It’s not one of our flock . . . Oh, I know where I’ve seen the name. We’ve had paperwork. One of our donors, LonStar, not the church, lives there, so Eleanor might well call in.”
“Can you tell us how to find the place?”
“I’m sure I’ve driven past it. I couldn’t give directions but I can picture it—”
“I know where it is,” Gresham interrupted. “I’ve biked past it. I can show you the way.”
“So can I,” Mrs Stearns put in.
“Let’s go!” said Scumble.
Megan, Gresham, and DC Polmenna reached the car park ahead of the other three, older and slower. Megan unlocked the unmarked car, but when she looked round, Polmenna was already behind the wheel of the panda car, starting the engine, and Gresham was about to get in.
“Wait, I’ll come with you!” They should have someone with them who had at least some idea of what was going on.
She dropped the keys on the driving seat. Gresham stood back to let her climb into the back, then folded himself into the front passenger seat and slammed the door as Polmenna put his foot down.
“Left, through the village,” said Gresham.
They roared down the hill, over the bridge, and up the other side.
Fortunately the street was not very busy at this time of the afternoon.
By the time they were out of the village, Scumble and Mrs Stearns were on their tail, with Wilkes at the wheel.
When they reached the main road, Gresham told Polmenna to turn right.
“And then the second left.”
The others followed them until they came to a crossroads.
“Right,” Gresham directed, and they turned into a narrower lane. Looking back, Megan saw the plainclothes car go straight past.
“They’re not coming this way!”
“Oh damn! No, go on,” he said as Polmenna braked.
“This may be a bit slower but by the time you stopped and turned . . . We’ll go through Trequite, so assuming they’ll go on as far as the A39 junction and turn back, we’ll come upon the cottage from both directions and box him in.
Besides, if one of us is slowed by a tractor or—”
“Cows,” Megan suggested.
“—or cows, the other will get through.”
Polmenna drove on, taking the curves and turns at a reckless speed. Megan clutched the strap, once more sympathising with Scumble’s feelings when she drove him. She had to trust that Polmenna was in control, but to a passenger it was scary.
On the way, Megan had told them they were after Donaldson.
She couldn’t say much more in Gresham’s hearing, and she wouldn’t in any case have told Polmenna about Scumble’s new theory, based, as far as she could see, solely on the “smell” of the case.
The remote possibility that the jeweller might be a danger to Aunt Nell was enough to arouse blood-lust in both her companions.
A left turn at the crossroads in Trequite, into a lane barely wider than the car, hedges brushing the windows. It forked.
“Keep right, keep right!” Gresham cried.
A moment later, Polmenna jammed on the brakes as they came nose to nose with a maroon Jaguar.
The driver stared at the panda car in horror, mouth open, eyes popping in his round, oddly blotchy face. Then he flung open the door, jumped out, and set off back down the lane at an awkward trot.
Bruises and a maroon Jag—“It’s Donaldson!” Megan shouted.
Polmenna and Gresham sprang out and took off after him. Megan disentangled herself from the seat in front of her and followed.
Donaldson veered towards the hedge. There was a gap, a five-barred gate.
He scrambled clumsily over it and set off up a slope of close-cropped grass dotted with sheep and lambs.
Gresham and Polmenna vaulted over. Cursing her skirt—surely it was about time women officers were allowed to wear trousers!
—Megan opened the gate just enough to slip through.
Being country-bred, she banged it shut behind her though it delayed her further.
The two men were already closing in on Donaldson.
“Stop! Police!” Polmenna shouted.
Donaldson stopped. For a second Megan thought he’d seen sense. But what he’d seen was a barbed-wire fence. Whirling round, he pulled a pistol from his pocket. His aim wavered wildly between his pursuers.
Nick Gresham was closest. A report rang out and he stumbled, clapping his hand to his side.
Polmenna dived for Donaldson’s legs and brought him down. He struggled feebly for a moment, but the detective was half his age and twice his size. He went limp.
Megan reached Gresham. He was on his knees, very pale, an ominous red stain seeping through his shirt.
“That was fun,” he said feebly. “I should have joined the police.” And then he passed out.