David Lea

HOME TO ROOST

CHAPTER ONE

Michael Power had drunk half of a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Ardbeg single malt before getting to sleep. Michael was the same age as the whisky. He now examined himself in the bathroom mirror: unshaven, eyes blood-shot, skin a pale yellowish-grey — except for his left cheek where a bruise was blooming around broken skin.

His phone pinged in his dressing gown pocket. Christiane's mobile.

Snapchat: Photo of Christiane.

Message: “Adieu pour toujours.”

Michael’s French was limited, but he understood, “Goodbye forever.”

Three livid tracks marked where her nails had raked the inside of his left forearm. They wept tiny beads of fluid: infected, inflamed. He put the phone on the basin’s edge and scrubbed the wound with a nailbrush.

‘Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners …’ As he recited the prayer, a thin coil of blood ran down his arm and into the water.

"Ping." He picked up the phone.

Another photo of Christiane — naked and posing coyly for the camera like an old-fashioned glamour model, one hand behind her head and the other covering her sex.

No message.

He had never seen this image before and felt a lurch of desire.

"Ping.”

A stuttering, juddering video. Police, some dressed in blue plastic over-suits – like a scene from a TV show. But it was the farm. He recognised Guy Granville. And the boy—Justin? No—Jason. They were all gathered around a shoulder-high pile of chicken shit that steamed in the chill morning air.

The camera lurched up to the sky and then zoomed in on a hand in a transparent plastic glove. The hand was holding an ankle. The ankle was upside down. And the foot wore a filthy sock with an Argyle pattern.

It was his sock.

The phone shot out of his soap-covered hand and ricocheted off the edge of the bath. He dived to deflect it from the toilet bowl and into the empty tub but banged his bottom lip on the porcelain. Blood spattered the white enamel as he bent to retrieve the phone.

It still worked. But no video.

Nothing. It was as though it had never happened.

But he had seen it.

The long, straight road was bordered on both sides by beech trees in their first leaf, meeting overhead like the roof of some massive natural cathedral, but Josna Pandi resisted temptation and kept the MX5 to just under fifty. This was a B Road and a favoured spot for bored patrol officers to lie in wait. It would be embarrassing to be pulled over for speeding.

The avenue of trees ended at the crest of a hill, and she saw the Hampshire countryside spread beneath her. But on this dismal spring morning, it wasn’t at its finest, and she felt a pang of longing for the flat she had left in Primrose Hill, for the sounds of the street and the smell of coffee from the café below.

In a faraway field, a solitary tractor dragged its harrow through the drizzle. Josna had learnt the difference between a harrow and plough during an interview with a farmer whose quad bike had been lifted by “pikeys” — the Hampshire name for travellers.

A motorbike roared past her as she turned into Granville’s Lane. He was doing eighty-five or ninety and was most likely off to join his friends on the A272, a favourite road for bikers despite the lives it had claimed. Josna had seen the statistics, and Granville's Lane provided a perfect terrain for the little Mazda as it twisted up and down the last mile and a half to the farm. Josna enjoyed the drive. But then, she did like speed.

The car was low to the ground, and on the driveway up to the farmhouse, Josna failed to avoid one of the many potholes. She stopped to check the exhaust and, lowering herself back into the driver's seat, felt she was being watched. She looked across to where five tiny ponies regarded her from behind a wire fence. One snorted at her belligerently.

She raised a finger in reply, and he pissed loudly, surrounding himself in a cloud of steam and shaking his head as if in disapproval. He had a very large penis for such a small horse.

She saluted him and drove on to the house.

While she was parking on the forecourt, a blue van's doors swung open, and uniformed officers spilt out onto the gravel while Sergeant Burgess gave directions to another team armed with grabber sticks and plastic bags. She got out of the car and was leaning against the bonnet, twisting her hair into a bun, when a white Range Rover appeared from the driveway behind her, skidding to a halt on the central grassy area.

A man in his thirties, wearing a brown leather jacket, stepped down from the driver’s side, caught her eye and sauntered towards her, only stopping when he was a little too close.

‘Nice motor,’ he said, stroking the wheel arch. ‘Love the colour.’

‘Soul Red Crystal,’ Josna replied.

‘Vibrant,’ he said, smiling and smugly sardonic.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Josna, smiling back. ‘The colour of bruised testicles.’

‘Oooh — I shall have to be careful.’ He folded his hands over his genitals and leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her ear. ‘I like a girl who plays rough,’ he whispered in a husky baritone,’

‘I’m not playing, DC Ingram,’ she said and stepped back.

‘You know my name?’

‘Oh, yes. You have quite a reputation among us girls.’

‘But you’re at Basingstoke?’

‘The girls from Southampton like to gossip with us girls from Basingstoke. After a training course, over a drink. You know — girls’ talk.’

‘I’m flattered.’ He stepped forward, hands raised to frame a simpering grin.

‘Don’t be,’ she said and lunged for his crotch. He hopped backwards but felt her fingers brush his chinos. She wasn’t joking.

Sergeant Burgess tapped Ingram on the shoulder. ‘Glad to see you two are getting on so well, but I’m afraid I must break this up,’ he said and moved between them. ‘DC Ingram, please get down to the crime scene. I need a CID presence down there.’ Burgess pointed to the far end of the house. ‘Round the corner and follow the barrier tape.’ He turned to Josna.

‘Constable Pandi, according to the rota, you’re off duty today and over the bank holiday weekend. So why are you here?’

‘I had a call from the centre asking for anyone able to assist.’

‘A Police Fiesta not good enough for you?’ He nodded at her car.

‘I came here straight from home.’

‘You’re wearing your uniform.’

‘I came as quickly as I could.’

‘Wanted a piece of the action?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To be in on a murder investigation.’

‘It’s a major crime. I need the experience.’

‘Onwards and upwards?’

‘I’m ambitious, yes.’

‘So I’ve noticed. You appreciate it’s against county policy to take your uniform home?’

‘Yes sir, but I attended an incident in Wote Street last night, and a girl vomited down my front. I cleaned up at my place.’

‘You missed a bit.’ Burgess pointed, and Josna looked down.

Burgess laughed. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist.’

Josna didn’t smile.

‘Anyway, follow Ingram down to where the SOCOs are recovering the body. There are two witnesses: Mr Granville, who owns the farm, and Jason Berry, the boy who found the victim. I want you to look after them — they’ll be in shock, and I don’t think DC Ingram has the sensitivity for the job.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And watch for any reaction.’

‘To what?’

‘To when they dig her out of the shit.’

Detective Chief Inspector James Gawthorpe drove his new Volvo slowly down the narrow lane towards Granville’s farm. There had been heavy rain during the night, and he was being careful — it would be a shame if he picked up a dent on the Volvo's first outing. Besides, he was determined not to be bullied by the black Audi TT that had been tailgating him since leaving the main road.

Knowing he would irritate the Audi driver, James slowed more than necessary before indicating and turning left into the entrance to Granville House. The Audi accelerated past him, kicking up mud and stones in its wake, and James heard a metallic 'ting' as something ricocheted off the Volvo’s rear wing.

He continued up the drive to the house, where police vehicles littered the circular forecourt. He manoeuvred onto a patch of grass in the middle until his bonnet nuzzled a plinth occupied by a statue of the Greek god Pan — half man, half goat, it stood on one leg, playing stone panpipes, body green with lichen, and head and shoulders white with pigeon poo.

There was just enough space between his Volvo and a white Range Rover for Gawthorpe to squeeze out. He unwound himself with an involuntary grunt, reached inside for his leather shoulder bag, and closed the door. He inspected the rear wing for damage, and the glint of bare metal winked up at him from a tiny dent in the otherwise pristine maroon paintwork.

Karma — he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be provoked by the Audi driver.

Michael came off the track and pulled on the handbrake. The wheels locked, and the car slid on the slick, wet grass before stopping in front of an ancient five-bar gate tied shut by a loop of orange bailer twine. He left the engine rumbling and went to open the gate, but it was heavy and had sunk on its hinges, so he had to lift it while pulling backwards at the same time.

He slipped onto his backside and half-winded himself.

‘Shit!

Looking up from the ground at the grey, scudding clouds, he felt very young and very alone. He wanted someone to cuddle him and tell him everything would be all right. But after what he had seen on the video, nothing could be right again.

He pulled himself up the gate and onto his feet before sliding back into the driver’s seat, his trousers wet, cold, and slithery on his buttocks. The bridleway led through a copse that bordered the Granville farm, and the recent rain meant that the ponies from Sturton Equestrian Centre had churned it to a quagmire. Taking care not to spin the wheels, he eased the car into the clearing.

He parked so nobody could see the car from the road and then retrieved his wellingtons from the boot. He had got the left one on and was trying to get his right foot into the other when he remembered his sock. On her foot. On her dead foot — sticking up out of the shit. There were two socks, an Argyle pattern. Where was the other one?

His stomach lurched.

Who had sent those messages?

Not Christiane. Not if she was...

Who had got her phone?

Whoever sent the messages thought Michael had killed her.

And if they thought it was him, then...

His heart was hammering so hard he could see his shirt move to its rhythm. People his age did have heart attacks: in the Hampshire Chronicle last week — a young bloke playing football, no warning…

He forced himself to breathe, but his mouth was so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He reached inside the car for the bottle of water he always kept in the side door pocket, but there was none left, and he remembered Christiane had drunk from it last night when he drove her back to the farm.

His bowels were turning over, and he knew he had to empty them before he could carry on. As he squatted, miserable and scared, he heard the faint sound of voices from the direction of the farm. He must find out what was happening.

James looked down on two long, steel-clad buildings. They stood side by side, green with moss and, raised on piles to accommodate the slope of the land. Activity was concentrated around the nearest of them, and lights had been set up to illuminate the scene. Figures in blue plastic suits were busy removing buckets of greenish-brown muck from a pile under an overhanging floor.

A young male constable led James down the steeply sloping path to where yellow and black police tape formed a barrier in front of the crime scene. The constable signalled for James to wait and picked his way through the mud and slurry towards a group of people clustered on the grass beyond. Several were in uniform, and James recognised one of them — the one with three stripes on his arm.

James turned back and watched as one SOCO gently removed a layer of manure to reveal the face of the victim. Two male Scene of Crime Officers held the young woman upside down by the ankles and behind her knees to maintain her position while another took photographs.

She wore a short black skirt, now ridden to the top of her thighs, and a white blouse under a black bolero jacket. What appeared to be blood was in her hair and on the blouse. Her eyes were half-open, her face white and smeared, and her short dark hair clinging to her head like a swimming cap, slick with muck and water. In life, she had been pretty, if not beautiful. One of the SOCOs crossed herself.

On her left foot, the victim wore an electric blue Argyle pattern sock.

James watched as the body was placed on a gurney, but a movement at the periphery of his vision distracted him. Over on the grass, someone was bending to retrieve her policewoman’s hat, but all James could see was a curtain of black hair that had spilt forward, obscuring her face and body. Before she could reach the hat, the sergeant had swooped to pick it up, and as the WPC started to rise, she parted her hair and noticed that James was watching her. She met his gaze, indignant, as if he were intruding, or worse, ogling her like some dirty old man.

She turned to a teenage boy as the body on the gurney was being zipped into a body bag. He was still and quiet, but his face shone with tears. The WPC put her arm around his waist, and he turned, burying his face into her shoulder. The sergeant tapped her arm, offering her hat, but she ignored him. He placed it on her head.

Like James, the WPC was unusually tall, and the teenage boy appeared childlike as she held him to her and massaged his back for comfort. She had an extraordinary physical presence: tall, with very dark skin and sharply defined, almost masculine features. Her hair fell to below her waist, glossy and black, and it struck James as incongruous — a shampoo commercial in this scene of death, dirt and decay. He was almost sure he hadn’t been ogling.

'Chief Inspector Gawthorpe?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Welcome to the funny farm. We've met before — Hamble. Interrogation course, last year. Keith Burgess — Sergeant at Basingstoke.' Burgess offered his hand, and James shook it.

'We’re up to our proverbials in the brown stuff.'

'I’m sorry?'

Burgess opened his arm out, presenting the crime scene as though he were a stage magician. When James seemed unable to comprehend, he pointed to the filth on his Wellington boots.

‘Ah, yes.’

'The boy is Jason Berry,’ said Burgess, 'he found the body when he was cleaning out the birds at about seven-thirty. She was dropped through the trapdoor.’ Burgess pointed to a rectangular hole in the chicken house floor, and James became aware of the muffled sound of thousands of chickens imprisoned in the long sheds.

'The bloke sparking up is Guy Granville. He owns the farm.'

‘And the one in the leather jacket?’

‘DC Ingram, sir.’

'And the WPC?

‘Constable Pandi. Only been at Basingstoke a couple of months. Won't be with us long — she's on the "Police High Potential Development Scheme". Got everything, that one: young, female, black. Well, brown — not white anyway — Asian. Got a degree. Can't fail.’ He paused. ‘Good-looking — if you like that sort of thing.’

‘And you don't?’ James turned to Burgess and looked him in the eye. Burgess knew he was being challenged, but he held James’s gaze.

‘Not my cup of Darjeeling, sir.’

The reality of the young woman’s body gave Josna pause for thought. It should excite her to be part of a murder investigation: this is why she had said goodbye to London, to the smart suits and smart friends in the City. She had wanted to do something useful, to be on the side of the angels. But now, all she felt was an acute awareness of her own mortality and a terrible, empty pointlessness.

She turned away as a hand squeezed her elbow. It was Jason. ‘Look’, he said, pointing beyond the fence bordering the farm. At first, she couldn’t see anything but then caught a flash of white. It was a shirt. There was a man in one of the trees.

James watched her go — swerving molehills and jumping over unseen obstacles until she reached the dilapidated wire fence. She hurdled it with grace but landed awkwardly and pitched forward onto one knee before recovering and disappearing into the thicket.

Her uniform hat was left hanging on a bramble.