Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton) Read online

  Face Value

  Roger Ormerod

  © Roger Ormerod 1983

  Roger Ormerod has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1983 by Constable.

  Published as THE HANGING DOLL MURDER in the US by Scribner in 1984.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This is for Liz

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Extract from A Death to Remember by Roger Ormerod

  1

  The snow over the moors had been mostly unbroken, and I’d managed to plug along at a steady thirty, but heading down into the valley I lost it once or twice, and felt the tyres beginning to bite again only when the road began to climb. There was a feeling I was getting close. The slope down on the left was much as he’d described.

  I saw his official Allegro first, then the constable himself, standing in the lay-by and staring down towards the copse, slapping his hands together vigorously. I drew in behind the police car. He came across and opened the door for me, his breath steaming.

  ‘You made good time, sir.’

  I nodded. ‘Brason, isn’t it? I’m Detective Inspector Patton. What’ve you got for me?’

  He was hesitant, slightly embarrassed. For a burnt-out car he’d probably expected to get a DC, or at the best a sergeant. On a Sunday, particularly. But the test day was mine, and it was none of his business.

  ‘Snow’s bad over the moors,’ he commented. He was eager, reaching for an explanation. I smiled, then went to stand by the gate, and let him work on it.

  The air was clean and crisp, the view spectacular. Farm buildings were spread on the other side of the valley, almost beyond the far rise. The copse was snuggling low, immediately below us, and there was a dark flash of water between the bare trees. Up along the road, the farmer had cut back his layered thorn hedge for fifty yards and erected an angled pine fence, then stuck his five-barred gate in the middle. It made a lay-by that just held the two cars.

  I got out the old, knobbly black pipe and ran my thumb over it. ‘Was the gate open?’

  ‘Not when I got here, sir. The kids would’ve shut it, anyway.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘The ones who found the car. They’d been tobogganing. See...’ He pointed to the right. There were footprints, and lines of sled runners down the slope. ‘That was this morning. The snow came last night.’

  I was fumbling flake into the bowl, my fingers already aching. I looked down to check they were working, then up again. The slope had been skimmed by the wind, leaving ridges and tufts showing through.

  ‘You’ve been down?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No sign of anyone who could’ve been in it when it went down?’

  ‘No footprints. But it would’ve gone down yesterday, before the snow, ‘cause there’re no tyre tracks.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I thought. ‘Anybody touched it?’

  ‘No, sir. The kids just looked, then came running to me.’

  I glanced at him. He seemed complacent about that. ‘They run to you, then? In town they run away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about the town.’

  I raised my eyebrows at his touch of pride, then jerked down my cap brim in case he noticed. ‘Why’re you sure it went down yesterday? What’s the matter with the day before — Friday? Thursday, even?’

  ‘The schoolkids from Neaton Prior short-cut past the copse. They’d have spotted it, sir.’

  I had to turn and lean back against the bitter wind, and tent the flap of my camel-hair coat to get the lighter going. The tobacco tasted sweet in the clear air, and blue smoke was tossed away over my shoulder. I stared down the slope. The car was a black, scarred wreck, nose-in to the trees. I hoped that Brason was as bright as he sounded, because I didn’t fancy scrambling down there and back up again.

  He was as big as me, and nearly as broad, but he was well over twenty years younger. The cold was beginning to get through to my bones, and there was a strong urge to get back to the warm car, but Brason seemed to be enlivened by it. He stuck his chin out at the wind, and pulled off his peaked cap to let it play around with his fair hair. Showing-off, when he could guess I always had to wear a hat or cap to stop the cold eating away at my balding patch.

  ‘Did you get the registration number?’ I asked.

  He had. He passed me a bit of paper. I didn’t glance at it, but fumbled it into my pocket. Hell, there was just no point in standing out there and freezing, staring down at a heap of twisted metal.

  ‘Any thoughts on it?’ I asked hopefully. If not, I’d just have to go down myself.

  He hesitated. You could see the idea seeping into him. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself to a DI, but there was a chance that he’d make a good impression.

  ‘Assuming the gate was open,’ he said, raising his face to the wind, ‘it’s just possible somebody lost control and headed for the gap as an escape road.’

  ‘Possible.’ I blew down the pipe and sparks flew back into my face. ‘If the gate was open.’

  ‘It’d be unusual, sir.’

  ‘And?’ I prompted.

  ‘The gear lever was in neutral, the ignition key still in, and the engine turned off.’

  ‘Ah!’ The lad was bright.

  ‘I did think, sir, that it could’ve been pushed off the road and down the slope.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘You don’t take a car down a slope in neutral, do you, sir? I certainly wouldn’t. No engine and no control. It’d get kind of hectic. If you see what I mean.’

  Oh, I did, I did. What had seemed to be simple and straightforward, suitable for a Sunday afternoon jaunt, was beginning to sound too blasted interesting for my liking. Just at that time, I wasn’t keen on facing an interesting case, not facing it full on, anyway. I shrugged, not meeting his eager eye.

  ‘Somebody dumping an old wreck,’ I tried hopefully.

  ‘Hardly that, sir,’ said Brason happily, raising himself to his toes and sniffing at the challenge. ‘You’ll see from its number…it’s only three years old. A Cortina.’

  I cursed to myself silently. I had to turn and tap out the pipe, not letting him see my expression. I’d slipped up. My memory wasn’t what it used to be. In some report or other, recently, there’d been mention of a three-year-old Cortina, and nothing jumped to my mind. I stuffed the dead pipe into my pocket and got out the piece of paper, frowning it into focus as it fluttered —and still nothing. The number did not prod a single idea.

  ‘Too much of it on the tele, sir,’ Brason was saying.

  ‘Sorry. I missed that.’

  ‘Cars going over cliffs, plunging down slopes, turning over on fast bends — and every damned one of ‘em goes up in flames. People get to think it’s the thing they all do. But...I bet they don’t. I never see statistics, though. But that car’s still sitting on what’s left of its tyres, and there’s no reason for the tank to have split, and the ignition was off. I’d say the thing was fired deliberately, if only in imitation. Wouldn’t you...sir?’

  He said it anxiously, as though he thought I might not have been attending.

  ‘Fired down there, you mean?’

  ‘It’d be the easiest way of doing it.’

  ‘But...no footprints?’

  ‘The ground was hard. Frozen.’
/>   I couldn’t help laughing. You hold it in as long as you can, and then it bursts out. Like fury. I never could control either of them for too long. He stared at me, but I couldn’t stop it. How the devil could he know I was laughing at myself? There I’d been, driving out in such lousy weather to find something totally unsuggestive of interest or involvement, and I’d run into it at the end of the journey! He stared, then grinned tentatively. I controlled myself.

  ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Brason?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. But it seemed logical.’

  ‘No, no. Go ahead. The next step. Why fire it deliberately?’

  ‘To hide it?’ he tried.

  I had to carry it on — no good backing out now. ‘There’d be plenty of better places than here. Why leave the number plates on it, in that case?’

  I was pushing him a little at that stage, but he rallied neatly. ‘Fingerprints, sir? If it’d been used in a robbery, say. There’d be none left now, for sure.’

  A robbery. Was that where I’d read about a Cortina? No, that wasn’t it. I was furious with myself. ‘But you could be right,’ I said. ‘Except that it wouldn’t be done here. It’s too open. You’d expect that sort of thing to be done secretly and quietly. Isn’t there a quarry around here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Baggott’s End. About four miles from here.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  I turned away. Suddenly I was feeling tired, and Brason’s eagerness only made it worse. I reached the Stag and had the door open. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Brason.’

  He couldn’t leave it alone. ‘Perhaps it was intended to be found.’ Nothing ever happened on his patch. His open, friendly face was brushed red by the wind.

  ‘I’ll send somebody to have a look at it,’ I promised. One foot was in the car, one cheek sliding onto the seat. ‘There’s one other thing you can help me with. Rennie’s farm. Do you know it?’

  ‘On the edge of my district. I know Rennie.’ And it didn’t seem as though the knowing gave him any pleasure. ‘What’s he done, sir?’

  ‘He’s reported a stolen shotgun.’

  ‘Not to me he hasn’t.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can lead the way, and you can ask him why he phoned Central and not you.’

  That was another little mystery solved. I’d decided to take in the trip to Rennie simply because it seemed to have no overtones, apart from the single fact that he’d phoned direct to Central. Now Brason had explained that. The two men jarred on each other. I relaxed. It left nothing to worry me.

  Brason to-and-fro’ed the Allegro and led the way. He took us along the flank of the hill and through the village, then turned left through a slough of muddy, patched lanes and eventually to the river, which he followed north for three miles before swinging away from the water. I got the impression he was pressing it a bit, trying to shake a car he considered a bit sporty for a man old enough to be his father. I hugged his tail. He flicked his braking lights, testing my nerve, but I’d come across that one before. He drew up at the entrance of Rennie’s farm, Borton Fall, got out, and walked back to me.

  ‘This is it, sir.’

  ‘You took it easy, lad. The snow worry you, did it?’

  He grinned, and I turned back to look at the farmhouse. It was a new building, large and solid, and built close to the road.

  ‘Where’ll he be?’ I asked.

  ‘Sunday morning. He’ll be in his office, round the back.’

  There’d been a forced lack of expression in his voice. I reckoned it hid contempt. ‘A gentleman farmer?’ I suggested.

  ‘It’s how he’d put it, I’m sure,’ he said with prim precision. ‘Never put a hand to a plough in his life, but he’s been swallowing up one farm after the other around here. Swallow’s End, Mere Borton, Andrew’s Fall...opening out hedgerows and woodland…’

  ‘It’s called intensive farming,’ I told him soothingly.

  ‘All the same...the countryside’s littered with empty and rotting farmhouses and cottages, where my friends — my father’s friends — used to live.’ He suddenly stopped and stiffened his shoulders. ‘Perhaps you’d care to go ahead, sir. I’ll wait here.’

  I shrugged, looking away, suddenly ashamed of being there at all on a purely domestic incident. I was imposing myself on Brason’s patch for a selfish reason — my wish to keep a low profile.

  ‘It’s your patch, Brason. Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.’

  He’d got himself in hand by the time we got to the office. It was an outbuilding behind the house, with an exercise yard beside it and stables behind. No sign of manure, so he probably didn’t ride, except in the Bentley I saw crouching in the garage at the end.

  Rennie was at a bench desk, working on figures. They seemed to be giving him satisfaction. Brason had tapped on the door and walked right in, running his hand down the lintel to draw my attention to the line of splintered wood.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rennie,’ he said, his voice neutral.

  Rennie lifted his head and regarded him sourly. I might not have been there, the uniform taking precedence. Rennie was a slim man with a florid face, and a small, sandy moustache that partly disguised a loose mouth. There was a hint of jowls softening his aggressive chin.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘I phoned —’

  ‘Yes, sir, so I’ve been told,’ Brason cut in. ‘Or I’d have been here sooner. It’s a shotgun, I believe. Perhaps you’ll just show me…’

  Rennie waved an arm towards the rear wall. There was a whole row of racked guns along there. I saw two .22-bore rifles, and a dozen assorted shotguns. One rack was empty.

  ‘Take a look,’ he offered. ‘If it helps.’

  ‘Show me, sir.’ Rennie was standing with his shoulders lax, the car keys swinging in his left hand.

  There was a pause, then Rennie got to his feet, his chair rattling angrily on the bare wood floor.

  ‘Can’t you see? The empty rack.’

  Brason drew close, with me nudging his shoulder. He was doing all right so far. He said: ‘All twelve-bore, I see. Was the missing one the same?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Brason raised his eyebrows. ‘Of course?’

  ‘Then you’ve only got to buy one gauge of cartridges.’

  ‘That’d save him a bit of trouble. I suppose he helped himself?’

  ‘There’s a box missing.’

  ‘Anything special about it?’ Brason was refusing to react to Rennie’s terse tone.

  ‘It’s a Remington over/under model. Damn it, it looked good. They’d go for that at first glance.’

  Apart from a couple of single-barrelled ones, the rest of the shotguns were the more standard type with the two barrels side-by-side.

  Brason turned away. ‘We’ll do what we can, Mr Rennie. But really — with such poor security, you’ve been asking for it, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for any lectures.’ Rennie was tossing his chin. ‘And when I phone your Central people I expect something a bit more positive. I shall certainly report your attitude.’

  It was about time to introduce myself. I did. I told him his remark had been noted, added a bit on the aspect of security and his responsibilities regarding that, and turned to leave. ‘Oh!’ I remembered just in time. ‘When exactly did it go?’

  He waved a hand vaguely. ‘We’ve been away, and only got back last night. In the last ten days, if that helps.’

  I thanked him. We went out, and walked back to the cars. I shouldn’t have done it, but I asked Brason what he made of it. Fatal, with Brason.

  ‘Well....’ he said, tapping his teeth with the ignition key.

  ‘It’s an over/under model, this Remington. If it’d been pinched with the idea of a hold-up, they’d want to saw it off, and an ordinary side-by-side would be a better bet for ‘em. Look more dangerous, sir, you see. And a youngster...he’d surely go for one of the rifles. There’s more challenge in a twenty-two rifle. One bullet instead of hundreds of pellets. B
ut I’ll sniff around, sir.’

  I didn’t like the idea of a shotgun on the loose. ‘You do that,’ I said encouragingly. ‘But it could’ve been gone a week, and nothing’s leaked back to you yet. Anyway, keep in touch, and I’ll send a man to look at your car. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Brason.’

  He stiffened. There was a faint tint to his cheeks. He couldn’t know that I was silently cursing him.

  I drove away. His lively brain had irritated me. There I was, wondering which way to turn, when Brason knew exactly where he stood and why.

  I was three days from retirement. Two months before...even one month...there hadn’t been a doubt in my mind regarding my attitude to it. My career hadn’t been notable, and somehow I hadn’t always been in line with official policy, so that I’d equally not been in line for promotion. I could look back to years of abrasive endeavour, always with my head down and forcing on against some sort of opposition. Oh yes, the thought of retirement and the freedom from pressure had been heartening. On the calendar on my office wall I’d started crossing off the remaining days.

  But with each day deleted, I was simply one day closer to something I couldn’t see clearly, and what had been brash confidence gradually slipped into a vague uneasiness. Even with a twinge of fear.

  A fortnight before, I’d stopped crossing out the days. They mocked me. And yet I’d savoured the prospect of freedom from the routine and discipline for so long! I had, I had! There’d been a trumpet call to renewed action. Up and at ‘em, Richard! I’d told myself there were hobbies and interests to be investigated, and that tour of Europe I’d always promised myself. All the world to play with...but suddenly a complete lack of interest for the game.

  I suppose I’d pushed myself too hard. There’d been a time, three years before, when I’d needed to throw myself into the job, working myself to exhaustion. It gets to be a habit. The routine and concentration became part of my life, and I realised that by losing it I’d be faced by nothing but emptiness and uncertainty.

  But...if I was going to lose the blasted routine anyway, there was still the method of abandoning it to be considered. Out with a triumphant bang, working flat out to the last moment, or ease out gently, gradually sliding away from under to ease the impact? I’d opted for the second alternative. The thought of walking away with an important and absorbing case pounding in my brain, and never to be resolved, was appalling. So I’d begun a paltry dabbling into minor matters, which I should have handed to a DC, not letting myself care too much, and not offering any imagination in case the unusual or the bizarre offered back.