Beneath the Ashes Page 2

  A floorboard squeaked beneath her step as she reached the bathroom. Finally the dogs had hushed. She looked in the mirror and started. A dark bruise hung over her left eye with a rich red slice through the middle. It stung like hell and looked like it needed a stitch. Several strands of hair were caught up in the congealed blood and she flinched as she tried to pull them free. Weariness wrapped itself around her.

  A head injury. Don’t sleep. Need to see a doctor. The floor reached up to her, inviting her to rest. Just for a minute. She resisted for the shortest of seconds, before she felt every ounce of energy trickle out of her legs, forcing her down. For a while she felt as though she was floating. Focus. My name is Nancy Faraday. I’m in the farmhouse where Evan is living. But even as the words drifted into the ether, two questions rang out in her mind. How did I end up on the floor? And where in the hell is Evan?

  ***

  “It was the smell that got me first. My nose seems to be drawn to the smell of smoke.”

  Davies smiled politely at Sheila Buckton. They’d been seated at the round pine table in the centre of her tiny kitchen for over half an hour. Sheila inhaled deeply and straightened her back. This was clearly one of the most exciting events to touch her life for some time and she was not about to rush her account.

  The room was situated at the front of the cottage, one of a bank of four that comprised Cherwell Hamlet and overlooked open countryside. Jackman glanced fleetingly at the dregs of tea in the bottom of his mug and stared out of the closed latticed window. He could see the barn in the distance.

  “And what time was this?” Davies asked.

  Sheila leant back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. “Around 2am. I always wake around that time. Usually get up and make a cup of tea.”

  The sound of a cat meowing filled the room. Sheila rose and opened the side door. She was a tall woman and thick set. A tabby slunk in and wound itself around her ankles. “Hello, Tilly,” she said. She bent down and picked her up, crossing back to the chair. The cat purred loudly as she placed it on her lap.

  Jackman shot Davies a look. She tilted her head in an effort to get Sheila’s attention. “What happened then?”

  Sheila scratched the back of the cat’s head. “Well, my bedroom is above here at the front. The smell of smoke was so strong I thought it came from one of the neighbouring cottages at first. Jumped up with a real start, I did. But as soon as I got to the window I could see the flames, burning like a towering inferno. Took the fire engines a while to get there too—”

  “Did you see anything else?” Jackman asked.

  She glanced across, clearly annoyed at his interruption. “What do you mean?”

  “Did any vehicles pass through along the road out front?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I remember. Until the fire engines arrived.” Her eyes grew wide. “Do you think it was started on purpose?”

  Jackman ignored her question. He’d already spoken to the press office and arranged to give a statement to the media later that morning, releasing information about the body found in the barn and appealing for witnesses. He could only begin to imagine the look on Sheila’s face when she discovered that gem of information. “Does anyone else live here with you?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve been divorced for over thirty years. Used to live near my son in Stratford. Moved here,” she glanced at the window a moment, then back at Jackman, “almost nine years ago now. When I heard it had come up for rent I couldn’t resist. Such a beautiful location.”

  “What about your neighbours?”

  “Ray and Jenny next door are a week into their Greek holiday. Then there’s Kris and Tim at number three and old Jim on the end.”

  “Do you know which farm owns the barn?”

  “Of course, it’s Upton Grange Farm. Owned by Ronnie and Janine Lawton, although they’re away at the moment. Touring Australia. He’s not a real farmer, not like they were when I was a kid. Hearts not in it.” She gave a disapproving headshake. “Our local farmer would never have left the business to go gallivanting around the other side of the world for a year.”

  Jackman sighed inwardly and glanced back out of the window. The view of the barn across the fields was fairly good from here. Good enough to witness comings and goings. Especially if you had nothing better to do.

  “Who is managing the farm for them while they are away?” Davies asked.

  “I’ve heard he goes by the name of Evan Baker. Worked on the farm a couple of years, but I’ve rarely seen him since the Lawtons have been away. Got some strange habits though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the fields are full of rapeseed this season.” She gave a dismissive sniff. “Does wonders for my hay fever. And he seems set on doing his work after dark.”

  “Harvesting?”

  “All of it. Lights and machinery going on until the wee small hours. It’s a disgrace.”

  Chapter Three

  The sound of a shrill bark woke Nancy. She peeled her eyelids back, surprised to find herself curled up on the bath mat. She slowly sat forward, rubbed her forehead, caught the edge of some dried blood and winced.

  The mat wrinkled as she pulled her feet from beneath her. They were cold and rubbery where the circulation had been cut off. “Evan?” she called out.

  Nothing. She waited a while, called again. Where was he?

  Nancy stood slowly, holding the edge of the sink to steady herself. The gash above her eye had puckered up like a pair of red-painted lips. Crusted blood ran down her cheek and into her left ear. Her lip was split in the middle.

  She slid back the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and looked inside. A couple of blister packs of paracetamol and a box of plasters filled the bottom shelf. A tub of Nivea and a pot of cotton wool buds sat above, next to a bottle of shaving foam. She closed the door, pulled some toilet paper off the roll, ran it under the tap and started to clean her face. The blood had scabbed over and had to be peeled off in places, like a plaster from her skin, but eventually it came away. She tried to clean the cut, but gave up when the pain was too intense, instead arranging her blonde hair across to the side to cover it. It needed stitches. She moved into the bedroom and instinctively smoothed the creases in the duvet. Evan wouldn’t like that. He moaned when she left her earrings on the side, or her clothes on the floor, even if they were in a neat pile. A pain rippled through her lower back as she stood.

  An urgent scratching in the distance. The dogs. They must be clambering around, trying to get out of their kennel. She reached into the wardrobe, pulled one of Evan’s fleeces around her shoulders and made for the stairs. The scratching was replaced by a chorus of barks as she reached the bottom. She moved across the quarry tiles in the kitchen, sidestepped the glass still scattered across the floor, and picked up Evan’s wellingtons, shaking each one upside down to check for pieces of glass before shoving her feet into them.

  The barking hiked up a notch. As she reached for the handle, another sound filled her ears. Knocking. Somebody was at the door.

  ***

  Jackman lowered his fist, about to give up when the face of a young woman appeared around the side of house. Her hair was unkempt; she looked pale and tired.

  He introduced them both. “We were looking for Mr and Mrs Lawton,” he said.

  “They’re not here.” The girl stepped closer as she spoke in a whisper.

  “That looks sore,” Davies said, glancing towards the wound on the woman’s forehead.

  The girl ignored her, shifting her eyes from one detective to another. “What’s all this about?”

  Jackman gave his kindest smile. “You are?”

  “Nancy Faraday.”

  “And you live here too?”

  Nancy shook her head. “No, I stayed with my boyfriend, Evan, last night.” She paused for a minute, inhaled deeply. “He lives here.”

  Jackman glanced up at the double-fronted, red-brick house with large sash windows that looked out onto
the long driveway. A wide lawn stretched around to the back of the house, giving the impression of large accompanying grounds. Nothing like the postage stamp gardens of some of the houses in Stratford town. He turned to face Nancy. “Is Evan home?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The woman’s face looked bewildered. “I don’t know.”

  Before Jackman could ask anything more, a loud howl rose from beyond. Almost immediately another joined in harmony. Nancy looked back. “I need to let the dogs out.”

  She gestured for them to follow her around the side of the house. Stray fragments of broken glass crunched beneath their feet as they walked past the back door. Davies looked askance at Jackman and raised a brow.

  “What happened here?” Davies asked.

  Nancy turned back, paused to look at the door and back up at them. “I don’t know.” She opened a gate, closed it behind her and approached a wooden kennel at the side of a paved patio area. As soon as the latch was opened, two spaniels leapt out. The dogs danced around her feet for a couple of seconds while she petted them, then raced off down the garden.

  Jackman waited for her to return and close the gate behind her before he spoke again. “Have you had an accident here?”

  Nancy placed her hand on the bridge of her nose and thought for a moment. She took a deep breath and looked back up at them. “The truth is I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Are you here on your own?” Davies said.

  Nancy looked back at the door and appeared momentarily transfixed by the spikes of glass edging the frame. The morning sunlight bounced off them, a kaleidoscope of colours winking back. She swayed backwards.

  “Careful,” Davies said. They both rushed forward. Jackman threw out an arm. It didn’t reach in time and Nancy collided with the brick wall. She winced, raised a hand to the gash on her forehead, which had caught the brickwork and immediately opened. A line of red trickled down the side of her temple.

  “I think we need to sit you down,” Davies said. “Why don’t you come and join me in the car?”

  Davies placed her hand in the small of Nancy’s back and guided her around the side of the house. Jackman waited until they were out of sight before he retrieved a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, snapped them over his hands and moved into the house.

  He pressed his hand to the cold kettle, glanced up at a key rack beside the back door where several sets of keys hung side by side. Jackman was aware that many burglars were after car keys these days – modern cars were so difficult to break into – but whoever had broken that glass was seemingly not interested in stealing cars. The room looked largely undisturbed apart from the shards of glass that littered the floor beside the door, and what looked like a few smears of blood on the tiles in the middle.

  He walked through into an open hallway, past a long gilt-edged mirror and ducked his head around the first door he came to. It was a utility room. Several coats hung off a rack on the far wall, a door at the end was ajar revealing a toilet and hand basin. He withdrew and pushed open the next door with the tips of his fingers: a sitting room filled with the kind of furniture that looked both expensive and threadbare. Something in the corner of the next room caught his eye. He walked around the oversized dining room table to an oak cupboard in the corner. The door hung on its hinges to reveal another cupboard tucked inside. A gun cabinet. The metal was bent and mangled where the locks had been forced. The inside was empty.

  Jackman climbed the stairs slowly and opened each of the doors in turn, counting five bedrooms and two bathrooms. Most of the bedrooms smelled musty; cobwebs hung from the ceilings and wound their way around the light fittings. Apart from a few spots of red on the scrunched mat in one of the bathrooms, nothing looked awry.

  Jackman paused at the rear landing window to glimpse the array of farm machinery arranged haphazardly in the back yard, then moved into the last bedroom. The air was fresher in here, largely thanks to a small window sitting ajar. A bath robe hung from the back of the door. Either the person using this room was obsessive in their tidiness or they rarely stayed here. He opened the wardrobe. Several pairs of trousers hung on rails at one end, a row of shirts next to them; jumpers and overalls were stacked neatly along the top.

  He wandered over to the bedside table and picked up a framed photo of a couple, arm in arm. He recognised Nancy’s long blonde hair, her petite frame, and peered closer at the man beside her. The man in the photograph had a rich head of blond hair, a wide smile, eyes lit up like fireworks. He couldn’t be sure if it was the victim he saw in the barn earlier.

  By the time he’d stepped over the glass and was back outside, the sun had disappeared, enveloped by more gathering clouds. He glanced at the broken pane in the back door as he removed his gloves and made a few quick calls, before he made his way back around to the front of the house.

  ***

  “How are you feeling?”

  Seated in the back of the unmarked police car, Nancy stared up into the green eyes of the detective. He’d removed his jacket, pushed up the sleeves of the white shirt that stretched across his chest. His dark hair was in dire need of a cut and flopped down into his eyes, but there was a rugged handsomeness about his appearance. “I think I’m okay now,” she said. “Just felt a bit dizzy back there.”

  A triangular washing line was perched on the lawned area that ran along the far side of the house. It squeaked as it gently turned in the breeze. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said.

  Nancy wriggled the hem of her dress down, embarrassed that she was still wearing last night’s clothing. The fresh cut stung and although the world was no longer swaying around her, her head still felt heavy. She blinked, a little clarity of thought filtering through. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Jackman watched Davies rip open a cotton wool pad and pass it to her. “We’re investigating a fire that took place in the barn in the next field last night,” he said. He pointed towards the hedge. “A body has been found there. Place that over the cut and press gently.”

  Nancy pressed the pad to her forehead and winced. “Near the blackberry bushes?”

  “That’s the one. Do you know it?”

  Nancy nodded. “It’s called Lowlands Barn, belongs to the farm. They rent it out, I think. Evan would be able to tell you more.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Nancy shook her head. “I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I woke up this morning. I’ve tried to ring his mobile, but he’s not picking up.” She turned and gazed through the windscreen at the gravelled driveway surrounding them. “He can’t be far away, his truck is still here.”

  Jackman followed her eyeline to the Land Rover parked at the end of the house. “Does he have another vehicle?”

  “No. He sold his car when the owners went away. No point in keeping it. He uses the truck for everything.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Nancy hesitated a moment, desperately trying to pull on the scant memories that were hiding in the shadows of her mind. She explained how they had eaten at The Fish pub at Wixford last night, a hazy memory of them sharing a couple of glasses of wine.

  “You said you didn’t live here with Evan?”

  “No, but I must have come back here, stayed last night.” The wellingtons she still wore squeaked as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I do sometimes.” A sharp thought clutched her. She turned her head, met the detective’s gaze. “You don’t think it’s Evan, do you, in the barn?”

  “We don’t have any reason to think that,” Jackman replied. “The body hasn’t been identified yet. But we would like to locate Evan.”

  Nancy placed a hand to her chest.

  “Is there anyone he might be with?”

  She shook her head blankly.

  “Why don’t you tell me a bit about him,” the detective said gently. “How was his mood last night?”

  Nancy pressed harder. Willing the cogs to turn. “Okay…
I think.”

  “You didn’t argue?”

  She thought back to the house, waking up on the floor, the broken glass in the back door. “Not that I remember.”

  “How long have you been seeing each other?”

  “Almost three months yesterday. Last night was a sort of anniversary.” Nancy explained how she had woken on the floor that morning and searched for Evan. And even as she spoke the words, she realised how sketchy and unsure they sounded. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t tap into her memory of last night. A wave of fear pressed down on her. “You don’t think somebody broke in, do you? And took Evan?”

  “We’ve no reason to think that at the moment. But the glass in the back door is broken. Can you think of anybody that might want to hurt either of you?”

  Nancy shook her head slowly.

  “Okay, I’ll need a description of him. And a recent photograph if you have one. Do you have his mobile number?”

  Nancy opened her mouth to speak, but her words were drowned out by excited barks, shortly followed by the sound of a slow engine approaching. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, clicked some buttons and handed it over.

  Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the ambulance as it pulled up beside them.

  Nancy watched a paramedic jump out. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We need to get you checked over,” Jackman said. “And that cut on your forehead needs attention.”

  Chapter Four

  Davies spread the stills of Evan Baker they’d taken off Nancy’s phone across the desk in front of them. Most of them were vague, distant shots where his head was turned away from the camera. A photo of them standing side by side indicated he was of average height, several inches taller than Nancy, with long legs and a short body. Wispy fair hair edged a bronzed complexion and the makings of a cheeky smile. She emptied the contents of a brown envelope – photos of the victim taken at the barn from a variety of different angles – sorting through them until she found the face frontals and placed them next to Nancy’s photos.