A Forgotten Shadow Page 2

  Shadow frowned. It was one thing for him to be exasperated by Jimmy’s stream of unlikely theories, but quite another for anyone else to pass judgement on them.

  “I doubt it, Sergeant,” he replied, trying with great effort to keep his tone neutral. He did wish Jimmy would sometimes engage his brain before his mouth. “Not now the good doctor has found two gunshot wounds. Nobody shoots themselves accidentally twice.”

  “Quite,” snapped Donaldson. “Well, I refuse to work in this heat any longer. I’ll let you know what else I discover when I’ve had a look at him on the slab. Good day, gentlemen.”

  With that he strode back towards his car. The two detectives watched him gesture impatiently to one of the constables, who hurriedly lifted the yellow and black tape out of his way.

  “Maybe one of the shooting party wasn’t much of a shot and instead of hitting a bird, their pellets or cartridges or whatever hit Mr FitzAllan instead. They might not have even realised,” suggested Jimmy again.

  “Perhaps,” sighed Shadow. “We would of course know a lot more if our forensics team had bothered to show up. Where the hell are those two?” he asked irritably. The forensics team was led by two young, slightly chaotic scientists called Ben and Ollie, but Shadow privately referred to them as Laurel and Hardy. They may be highly qualified scientists, but they seemed to struggle with the more basic day-to-day tasks.

  “Oh, I got a text from Ben. They’re a bit lost. Their sat nav sent them the wrong way, but they should be here soon.”

  “For crying out loud,” grumbled Shadow. “Aren’t either of them capable of reading a map?” Jimmy opened his mouth to reply, but Shadow held up his hand to stop him. “I’m not wasting any more time waiting for them. Tell them what Donaldson said and get them to focus on FitzAllan’s gun. I want to know what sort of cartridges it takes and if they can tell me how recently it was fired. I also want to know if they can work out where whoever fired the gun was standing.”

  They began walking back to their car in silence until Jimmy had finished sending the text message to Ben.

  “Donaldson seemed pretty disappointed the duke wasn’t here,” said Jimmy when he’d put his phone away.

  “That’s because Donaldson is a snob, who is impressed by titles.” Shadow snorted.

  “Don’t you think it was a bit weird that the duke left his gamekeeper to tell us one of his guests was dead?” continued Jimmy.

  “I think you’ll find that the aristocracy are a law unto themselves. They are used to having servants take care of things for them, especially if those things happen to be particularly unpleasant or inconvenient tasks. However, as it now appears his guest’s wounds weren’t self-inflicted, I think we should have a word with His Grace, after we’ve spoken to Mr FitzAllan’s widow.”

  For now, Shadow wasn’t prepared to discuss with his sergeant what was really occupying his thoughts. It wasn’t the duke’s behaviour he found strange, but that of his gamekeeper, Greenwood. He took his place in the passenger seat while Jimmy drove them back down the narrow winding lane towards the village of Kirkdale.

  “It’s nice being out here in the countryside isn’t it, Chief? All the space and fresh air and wildlife. I hardly ever left the city before I met Sophie, but you look like you belong here. You blend right in. You’ve even got the same jacket as the gamekeeper. Don’t you think it feels like being on holiday?”

  “Does encountering a dead body often occur when you go on holiday, Sergeant?” asked Shadow as he stared out the window.

  “Um no, apart from that I mean, but it could still turn out to be an accident.”

  Shadow only grunted in response. His sergeant’s unfailing enthusiasm combined with the heat was exhausting him. For the chief inspector, the visit to this part of North Yorkshire felt less like a holiday and more of a trip down memory lane. His grandparents had lived at Church Farm in Kirkdale, and his father had been the village policeman. However, he only had vague recollections of the place. He and his mother had moved away after his father had been killed when Shadow was very young. He had been shot in the woods on the duke’s estate when he had gone to investigate reports of poaching. That’s why he found Greenwood the gamekeeper’s behaviour so strange. Shadow was a relatively unusual name. Greenwood had told them he’d always lived in the village and must have heard about his father’s death, yet he hadn’t commented when Shadow had introduced himself. He’d even gone on to say that nothing like FitzAllan’s death had ever occurred before, yet one of the few facts Shadow knew about what happened to his father was that Greenwood was the name of the person who had reported the crime. Shadow now assumed it was the current gamekeeper’s father.

  They drove over a narrow stone bridge then slowed while they passed a line of skittish, sweaty racehorses making their way back from the gallops. The lead rider lifted her crop in thanks. Then they continued along the winding country road edged by drystone walls and passed the old millstone bearing the name of the village. Shadow continued to stare silently out of the window. It had been years since he had visited Kirkdale, but he recognised the pub—the DeVere Arms—and the small cottage where he and his parents had lived for the first few years of his life. They carried on past St Michael’s Church, where Shadow’s parents had been married, and he had been christened. As they drove on Jimmy continued to wax lyrical about the countryside, the stone cottages with their pretty gardens and the unusual octagonal tower of the church, while Shadow tried to ignore him.

  Next to the church was the farm where his grandparents had lived, but to Shadow it was barely recognisable. The barn where the cows had slept in the winter and the sheds where he’d helped to bottle feed orphaned lambs had been turned into “luxury holiday lets” as the sign on the gate told him. Shadow sighed quietly to himself. These days it seemed tourism was more profitable than farming.

  The Grange was located on the edge of the village. It was a large square Georgian house, built of York stone. The long driveway was dotted with signs that read “slow” and “caution horses”, and in the padlocks on either side, bays, chestnuts and greys stood in the sun enjoying the lush grass. Shadow and Jimmy pulled up in front of the white panelled front door and got out.

  Shadow lifted the wrought-iron knocker, rapped on the door and waited. There was no answer. Jimmy pointed to a black-and-white signpost on the edge of the drive. It read “stable yard” and pointed down a path leading to the back of the house. Shadow nodded and the two detectives trudged along the path that led to the rear of the house where they found a yard surrounded on each side by stables, their occupant’s long faces peering out of their stalls, their ears twitching at the sound of the new arrivals. In the middle of the yard a group of young men and women, mostly dressed in jodhpurs and T-shirts were huddled around a stack of straw bales. Two of the girls were sobbing loudly.

  One of the group noticed Shadow and Jimmy’s arrival and gestured towards them. A young woman came hurrying over. Unlike the others she was wearing a short denim skirt and vest top with her wellies. Her sunglasses were on the top of her head, holding back her long dark hair and her eyes were red from crying.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked in a soft Irish accent.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Shadow and this is Sergeant Chang. We were hoping to speak with Mrs FitzAllan,” Shadow began to explain. The young woman’s lip began to tremble, but she took a deep breath to compose herself.

  “You’re here about Flynn, aren’t you? As you can see, we are all very upset,” she said pointing to the group behind her.

  Shadow nodded. “Then I take it you’ve already heard about what happened, er Mrs FitzAllan?” Shadow ventured. He thought she looked too young to be married to the dead man, but he’d been wrong in these matters before. The young woman, however, shook her head and held out her hand.

  “No, I’m Clancy Kelly, Flynn’s… I mean Mr FitzAllan’s secretary. My boyfriend was one of the loaders at the shoot. He phoned to tell me what happened.”

 
“Would that be Giles, Wilf, Rory or Fred?” asked Jimmy scrolling back through his notes.

  “Giles. Giles Greenwood. He was pretty shaken up. I couldn’t believe it when he told me. None of us can believe it. I was only talking to Flynn this morning, just before he left for the castle.”

  “How did he seem? Did you think he was worried or anxious about anything?” asked Shadow.

  “No, he was on good form like always. Laughing and joking with a couple of the lads.”

  “Did anyone telephone him from here?”

  “No, he always had his mobile with him, but I’m the only one who would have called him, and I wouldn’t bother him when he’s shooting unless there was a real emergency.”

  Clancy looked like she was on the brink of tears again, so Shadow hurried on. “And where is Mrs FitzAllan? Has she been informed of her husband’s death?”

  “Siobhan is in York. As I’m sure you know, Chief Inspector, the Ebor Festival starts tomorrow, so she and Aidan, our head stable lad, drove over with a one of our horses who is down to run. He’s a little highly strung and not too keen on travelling, so Siobhan always tries to make sure he has time to settle down before a big race,” Clancy explained, then paused as if she was choosing her next words carefully. “Naturally, I phoned Siobhan as soon as we heard the news, but I don’t think she’s planning on returning until later this evening, assuming the horse settles that is.”

  “I see,” replied Shadow, wondering what sort of woman Siobhan FitzAllan was if she put the welfare of a horse before the death of her husband. “Well perhaps we could speak with her tomorrow?”

  “The morning would probably be best, Chief Inspector, before Siobhan leaves for York again,” said Clancy, looking a little apologetic. Shadow thanked her for her time and the two detectives turned to go.

  Jimmy waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke. “It’s a bit weird his wife hasn’t rushed home isn’t it, Chief?” he whispered.

  Shadow shrugged. “I’d say unusual rather than weird, but perhaps she’s very dedicated to her work,” he suggested and nodded towards the glossy horses gazing in the paddocks. “These horses are worth a fortune and the Ebor is one of the biggest festivals in the racing calendar. She must have a lot of responsibility to the owners; perhaps she’s just trying to be professional.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Sophie’s really professional, but I don’t think she’d continue with a post-mortem if she’d just heard I’d been shot.”

  “Then perhaps the behaviour of Siobhan tells us everything we need to know about the state of the FitzAllans’ marriage.”

  *

  The two detectives drove away from the stables and were heading back through the village, when Jimmy’s phone began to bleep.

  “Anything?” asked Shadow, as his sergeant pulled on to the verge to check his messages.

  “Ben and Ollie are at the scene now, Chief. Do you want to go and see them?”

  “Not remotely, but I suppose we must.” Shadow sighed. “There’s always the possibility they might surprise me and actually discover something useful.”

  They arrived back at the copse and waited silently for a moment alongside the uniformed officers who had removed their caps and bowed their heads as the body was finally removed by a private ambulance. Ben, the tall and thin forensic scientist, was standing with his hands on his hips staring into the distance, while Ollie, his short, tubby colleague, was hunched over peering intently at the ground.

  “What can you tell me?” asked Shadow abruptly.

  The two scientists turned around as if they were surprised to see the chief investigating officer.

  “Oh, hello there, Chief. Hi, Jimmy,” said Ben. “Bit of a puzzle actually. Jimmy told us what Donaldson thought about the size of shot that killed him, but we need to be sure. We really need to see the pellets that killed him, but Donaldson is going to need to remove them from the victim first. I think they’ll be in his liver, but Ollie reckons the lungs.”

  Shadow fought against the wave of nausea and impatience that swept over him as Ollie began to speak.

  “You see there are no cartridge shells here in the copse. We did find a fragment of a cartridge cap—” he held up an evidence bag containing a small piece of gold-coloured metal “—but we don’t know how long it’s been here for. Obviously, there are plenty of shells up by the butts, but…”

  “If you’ll pardon the pun,” interrupted Ben with a laugh, before quickly stopping when he saw Shadow’s scowl and Ollie continued.

  “But we’ve checked them and apart from the ones used in the victim’s gun, the other cartridges are all too big or rather the pellets inside them are; that’s assuming Donaldson is right.”

  “So, it looks as though the killer took the spent cartridges with them,” said Shadow wearily. As usual with his young forensics team, he was getting nowhere fast, not that either of them seemed perturbed by the lack of progress.

  “The really interesting thing, though, is the victim’s gun. It’s an antique Lumley. Extremely rare,” said Ben enthusiastically.

  “What do you know about guns?” asked Shadow sceptically.

  “My grandfather used to collect them,” replied Ben, picking up FitzAllan’s gun and looking at it with something close to affection before carefully placing it into an evidence bag. “Whenever I went to visit him, he’d spend hours showing them to me and telling me all about them.”

  “And what’s so interesting about FitzAllan’s gun?” said Shadow.

  “Well, you see for a start, all the other guns were twelve bores, but his is a twenty bore. The Lumley is a smaller gun, hence the different cartridges. They were one of the first companies to make a gun light enough for a woman to shoot with at the beginning of the twentieth century. They were really popular after the First World War. Lots of soldiers who had lost a hand or an arm could still use them. I bet this model is nearly a hundred years old.”

  Shadow raised an eyebrow. The scientist sounded like he could be right for once.

  “Did you check to see if the victim’s gun was loaded?” he asked. Ben nodded his head.

  “We did and it isn’t. He had a few unused cartridges in his pocket, but no sign of any others. We wondered if his loader or the gamekeeper had taken them away.”

  “All right, we’ll check,” said Shadow. “Do you know which direction the shots that killed him came from?”

  “From the east, so towards where the other guns were standing, but they would have been facing the other way. There’s no chance one of them could have turned around and fired in this direction without the others noticing,” said Ben sounding unusually emphatic.

  “Maybe they were all in on it?” suggested Jimmy, briefly looking up from taking notes. Shadow shook his head impatiently and Ben seemed to share his scepticism.

  “No, even if one of them had fired over here, I think the range is too far. We’ll measure it, Chief, but whoever shot him would need to be about twenty metres away at the most. At a guess I would say the other guns were over a hundred metres away.”

  “Good. Phone Jimmy if you find anything else,” replied Shadow, for once impressed by his forensic team. Who would have thought one of them would turn out to be something of a gun expert? He turned to leave. “That reminds me, do you think you’ll be able to salvage anything from his phone?”

  “We’ll try our best, Chief. It’s pretty badly smashed up, but we still managed to turn it on,” replied Ollie. “We found another phone in his pocket too.”

  “Are they both his?”

  “We need to run some tests, but we think so. The smashed-up one is registered to him and looks like the one he used all the time, but the other one looks like it’s a burner.”

  “That means it’s a prepaid mobile, without a contract, so it’s difficult to trace the owner,” added Ben.

  “Yes, thank you, Ben, I do know what a burner is,” snapped Shadow. Honestly, even when they were being helpful, they still hadn’t lost their ability
to irritate him. “Apparently he was on the phone before he was killed. Find out who he was in contact with. We’re going back to the village to interview some more witnesses.”

  Chapter Two

  Down 2. Don’t scare the horses or they won’t win here (5 letters)

  When Shadow and Jimmy left the murder scene for the second time, they drove back towards Kirkdale but before they reached the village, they turned left through a pair of large wrought-iron gates. The gates were flanked on either side by a small gatehouse and marked the entrance to the long, gravelled drive that led to Kirkdale Castle, the vast stone edifice that loomed ahead of them. It had originally been a Norman fort, built almost a thousand years ago, but over the years it had been rebuilt and extended by the DeVere family, who had risen from being mere barons to become the Dukes of Kirkdale.

  The DeVeres had crossed the Channel with William the Conqueror back in 1066. To thank them for their support in the Norman invasion, the king had granted them vast swathes of land in North Yorkshire as well as the titles they still held. The subsequent generations had increased their wealth and social standing through prudent marriages and a knack of choosing the winning side whenever the fate of the crown was in doubt. The current Duke of Kirkdale, Albert Alexander Louis St John DeVere, but known to his friends as Bertie had inherited the title five years ago upon the death of his father, Alexander, the twelfth duke.

  The two detectives arrived at the front of the castle and stepped out of the car. Jimmy gave a long low whistle.

  “Wow this place is huge. Do you think we should use the servants’ entrance, Chief?”

  “No,” replied Shadow as he began to trudge up the flight of stone steps that led up to the four-columned portico. “We’re not servants and besides, we’d probably get lost trying to find it.”