Hope to Die

JM: [pause]

Someone died?

GQ: Afraid so. You didn’t see anyone arrive at the house by any chance? Before the shot, I mean. You were probably in the vicinity at the time.

JM: No, like I said, I was there for the Orionids – it was only after the shot that I focused on the house. Shit –

GQ: We’ll need you to come in and make a formal statement.

JM: Sure, of course. But hang on a minute, this whole thing – it makes no sense – if someone had just been shot, what was the old boy doing pissing about in the garden?

GQ: Right now, Mr Martin, that is the million-dollar question.

* * *

Safe to say, Ian Barnetson has had more enjoyable days. It’s the worst kind of weather for this sort of palaver. Heavy with damp and a vicious chill that grits your bones, no matter how many layers you put on. As his team assemble on the gravel outside Gantry Manor for the second time in a few hours, they look as demoralized as he feels, stamping their feet and breathing gusts of painful cold air.

‘OK,’ he says, trying to get some authority, if not enthusiasm, into his voice. ‘Let’s just get this over with as quickly and efficiently as we can, shall we?’

One of the PCs mutters something under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.

‘And yes, Grover, you’re right,’ says Barnetson, fixing him with a stare. ‘I don’t see how we could have missed it the first time either. But what we know now, and didn’t know then, is that “it” actually exists. Richard Swann was seen out here with a black plastic bag after the shooting took place. A black plastic bag that isn’t in the bins, hasn’t been burned and wasn’t put out for recycling, which by a process of elimination means it must be up here somewhere. So we’re looking for any areas where the soil looks like it might have been disturbed. And if we don’t find anything in the garden, we’re going to widen the search to the woods at the back and the paddock down this side, that all right with everyone?’

Murmurs of ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Right. Simmons and Anjali, you start at the back; Grover, you’re with me.’

* * *

Adam Fawley

22 October

13.45

‘How are you feeling now, Mrs Swann?’

She’s staring resolutely out of the window, even though the only thing visible is grey sky. And I know she saw us arrive. There’s just the one chair by the bed, and Baxter gets the short straw.

She still hasn’t acknowledged my presence, so I pull my warrant card from my jacket. I don’t usually bother doing routine interviews like this, but after what Ev said at the meeting I decided pulling rank may actually haul something out of this woman. And then Quinn called when I was on the way here and told me we have a witness. A witness who actually saw Richard Swann after the shooting. That’s a line of questioning his lady wife won’t be expecting.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley,’ I say. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on this case. This is my colleague DC Andrew Baxter.’

She looks across, sniffs, and turns away again. Baxter didn’t even merit a glance.

I drag the chair out, making as much noise as possible and earning myself a disapproving tut from one of the nurses.

‘Your doctor said you were well enough to speak to me, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to give us some more details about what happened last night.’

‘Where’s my husband?’

‘He’s being interviewed by my colleague. He has a lawyer with him.’

She lifts her chin and looks away. ‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

I nod to Baxter, who gets out his notebook.

‘So perhaps you could tell me your version of what happened?’

Maybe I put a little too much emphasis on ‘version’ because she gives me a sour look.

‘We were upstairs. I was reading and Richard was watching television. We heard a noise downstairs, and Richard went down.’

‘Do you know where the gun was at that time?’

‘I have no idea. Presumably in the safe. He is always extremely careful about that.’

‘I see. So he goes downstairs, then what?’

‘I heard him shout something, and then a shot. I’ve already told that woman all of this.’

I try my most charming smile, the one that gets Alex giving me side-eye. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’

Another sigh. ‘Yes, I heard the shot.’

A silence. A silence I’m perfectly comfortable with. I’m not so sure about her.

She stares at me now. ‘Well?’

‘What did you do then?’

She frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

I shrug. ‘Did you go downstairs? Call the police, what?’

She gives me a withering look. ‘You know perfectly well that I didn’t call the police.’

‘But you did go downstairs.’

‘No, I went to the head of the stairs. I was concerned about Richard.’

‘But you told my officer that you put your husband’s pyjamas in the wash – you must have gone downstairs at some stage.’

‘That was later.’

‘So you went into the kitchen at that point – you saw the man?’

‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I did not. For your information, the washing machine is in the scullery.’

I do my best not to smile. The rest of the world has a utility room; Margaret Swann has a scullery. It’s like something out of Downton Abbey.