On Whom the Axe Falls: The Island Connection, #3

ON WHOM THE AXE FALLS

THE ISLAND CONNECTION 3

GRAHAM HAMER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE - MONDAY JULY 18

CHAPTER TWO - TUESDAY JULY 19

CHAPTER THREE - MONDAY JULY 25

CHAPTER FOUR - TUESDAY JULY 26

CHAPTER FIVE - WEDNESDAY JULY 27

CHAPTER SIX - THURSDAY JULY 28

CHAPTER SEVEN - MONDAY AUGUST 1

CHAPTER EIGHT - WEDNESDAY AUGUST 3

CHAPTER NINE - THURSDAY AUGUST 4

CHAPTER TEN - FRIDAY AUGUST 5

CHAPTER ELEVEN -SATURDAY AUGUST 6

CHAPTER TWELVE - TUESDAY AUGUST 9

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - WEDNESDAY AUGUST 10

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THURSDAY AUGUST 11

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - TUESDAY AUGUST 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - WEDNESDAY AUGUST 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THURSDAY AUGUST 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MONDAY OCTOBER 24

AND THEN...

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CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY JULY 18

When he left his cottage to pick a few vegetables from his garden, Reverend Aloicius Quayle hadn't intended lying face down on the cold earth with the morning sun on the back of his head and a vine of runner beans crushed under his chest. He also hadn't intended to have a twenty centimetre bone handled brushed stainless steel knife stuck in his lower back. But sometimes life doesn't work out as planned.

The Reverend had been a good, pious man, his widow explained to Detective Inspector Angus Slooth. Aloicius was devout, devoted and divine, she had sobbed, blowing her nose into a handkerchief embroidered round the edges with little pixies and fairies.

Angus Slooth nodded solemnly as Widow Quayle expounded her opinion of the rectitude and righteousness of the man of God who, until an hour ago, had been her faithful husband. Angus and Detective Constable Sarah Flemons had already run through all the normal questions about Aloicius Quayle's actions prior to leaving the safety of his house, and they had, though probably quite unnecessarily, ticked all the boxes regarding Marjory Quayle's whereabouts and motives. Mind you, it never did any harm to double check these things, particularly when your only witness was a lady who was in the early stages of dementia - or at least severe age-related forgetfulness.

Can I just run it past you one more time, Mrs Quayle? You say your husband stepped outside at half past nine.

Yes, I remember because it was that nice George Martin presenting the news on the half hour and I asked Aloicius if he wanted to listen to the news first before going outside, but he said he'd watch the news later. And that was the last time I saw him alive. Marjory Quayle choked back a sob and blew her nose again. It was when the news finished that I went outside and found him lying there. Oh it was awful. Who would do that to Aloicius?

That's what we're going to find out, Angus said. Is there any reason at all that you can think of, Mrs Quayle, why anybody would want to harm your husband?

Forty-two years we've been married, Inspector, and never had a cross word. We were so looking forward to a long retirement together.

Yes, but can you think of anybody who might have had a grudge?

Mrs Quayle considered the question with a brow that was furrowed like a ploughed field. Aloicius didn't make enemies, Inspector. He was a man of the people, you know; gentle and kind to a fault. He only ever made friends. Like all of us humans, he had his little faults but, so far as his Christianity was concerned, his was a simple faith that exemplified Jesus' love for us sinners.

So there's nobody who might have wanted him dead?

At the word 'dead' Mrs Quayle burst into tears again."

Detective Constable Sarah Flemons, who had been taking notes, passed her the box of tissues that was now almost empty. Can you think of anybody who he might have upset? she asked.

Nobody! sobbed Mrs Quayle while blowing her nose. She paused and added, Unless, of course, you are referring to the bishop.

Can you help us understand? Sarah asked.

Mrs Quayle was short and plump but, when she used her forearms to centre her breasts she appeared to grow and multiply. She opened her mouth and shut it, as though telling tales on the bishop was the worst possible profanity. Eventually she came down in favour of honesty. Well, yes, you see Aloicius is - was - a good caring man but the Bishop is a nasty piece of work. The bishop believes that God's work is best performed using threats and intimidation, so he and Aloicius used to clash. Since he retired, my husband had started attending diocesan meetings and writing to the newspapers to make clear where he thought the bishop's methods and beliefs were at fault. He believed that the bishop was causing problems within the church on the island.

So your husband was a regular contributor to the newspaper's religious affairs column? Angus asked.

Marjory Quayle looked thoughtful as if considering how much it was right and proper to say. She squared her breasts again and took a deep breath. Well in fact, Inspector, it was a little more than just that. My husband was involved in getting signatories to a petition throughout the island's parishes, demanding that the bishop step down and be replaced. The bishop's leadership is flawed due to his insistence that his view of the Bible is correct whilst everybody else's is wrong. The many people who have already signed the petition show that my husband was right and that severe damage is being done to the diocese of Sodor and Mann.

And what, exactly, is this flawed leadership? Angus asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Mrs Quayle took her time responding, as if she wanted to make every word count. She patted her hair which, some time before their arrival, had been teased, twisted, puffed out then sprayed with a concoction of chemical spiders' webs into a true architectural masterpiece. The Bible says that Jesus was a man of love and peace. The bishop says that we should not take notice of that, but that we should live by Moses' laws in the Old Testament, which, in many people's view are not suited to the twenty-first century. The bishop, due to his position in the church, has used bullying tactics to intimidate members of the clergy like Aloicius. The bishop has his way of teaching Christ's gospel and other people have theirs. But that's not the way he sees it.

Was the bishop upset with your husband because of this petition?

"I suppose so. Well, no, to be honest, I know so. The bishop and Aloicius have had harsh words recently. But how can you upset someone by being a good Christian like my husband? He never did wrong to anyone - ever."

Sarah looked at Angus and raised her eyebrows. Each knew the other to have firmly held beliefs about the effects that organised religions had in the world. Angus nodded sideways towards the door. Do you have anyone who can be with you, Mrs Quayle?

The old lady looked up through tear-filled eyes and said, Oh that's very kind of you Inspector, but I shouldn't keep you. My sister is on the way from Douglas. She should be here at any moment.

As she spoke, they heard the sound of a car pulling to a halt on the gravel outside. The door burst open and a rotund lady stepped in to the room. Oh, Marjory, she howled, as she swept across the room and wrapped her sister in arms the size and shape of cured hams.

Angus and Sarah tiptoed to the door. Once outside, they walked around the cottage to the vegetable garden at the back, sticking carefully to the square interlocking aluminium tread plates that had been laid to protected the scene of the crime.

You realize, Sarah said, that if this was a detective novel, there'd be people in white paper suits taking photographs and digital recordings and endless measurements, and the vegetables would be systematically rounded up and searched and techies would have erected lighting and there'd be generators and miles of cables, and out on the road there'd be a white forensic truck all in anticipation of still being here after dark. And we'd have to put on our paper suits and plastic shoe covers and masks and gloves again before we got within fifty metres of the scene of crime.

Angus laughed. Well at least there's a forensic wagon on the road, only it's blue, not white.

Yes, but in a book, there'd be uniformed officers on the road holding back the crowds of rubber-neckers and reporters behind police tape. And then the reporters would all ask you difficult questions like, 'Do you know who did it?' and you'd have to tell them we were following several clues even if we weren't, and that you would call a press conference at four o'clock tomorrow.

Angus glanced over his shoulder. There were two old women, a boy and a dog on the narrow country road. They will have already used their finely-honed detecting skills to solve this murder and are ready to move on to the next one, he said. We'd better interrogate them before we leave. You never know, one of them might have the name, address and phone number of the killer.

Hope it's not anybody local otherwise the inhabitants of the village will abandon Christianity and return to Celtic paganism. And to make sure the harvest doesn't fail they'll force you into a giant wicker man and set it ablaze and surround it, singing traditional folk songs and banging tambourines.

While I sit calmly inside, light my pipe and recite Psalm 23, and damn the islanders as the wicker man collapses in flames, revealing the setting sun.

Angela Cairns, the senior Scene of Crime Officer, who actually was still dressed in full protective gear, had stood listening to the conversation as they approached. You two are bloody weird, she said. When you can make time for proper policing, the body's gone to the mortuary and we're just doing final checks on the soil for footprints.

Anything of interest? Angus asked.

"As usual, we had to wait for the Coroner to pronounce death so, by the time I was able to check his temperature he'd been dead about four hours. Hard to say the exact time of death with him lying on cold earth with the morning sun on his back. A bit vague, but I'd say anywhere between eight o'clock and ten o'clock. There are seven or eight different sets of footprints round the body.

Apart from animal tracks, we've found footprints from boots, trainers, flip-flops, shoes, wellingtons, bare feet, and a three-legged cat."

Really?

No, it had four legs, actually!

Oh.

I'm sure that trace evidence from the killer is amongst them, but which ones? If I didn't know better, I'd say that some of the neighbours have been coming over at night and helping themselves to the vicar's vegetables. She swept her hand around to indicate the vegetable garden. Can't blame them, he's obviously spent a lot of time out here, unless he has a gardener do it for him.

Sarah chuckled. Vegetable theft. Now that's more like the crimes that we're used to dealing with on the Isle of Man. When was the last murder, Angus?

Tommy Rudd a year ago - with the help of Archie Woods and his famous baseball bat. Before that we had the ruckus under Peel castle with the jihadists and before that, two bodies carelessly left lying around in a house on the Old Castletown Road. We've got to ignore the Jihadists, because those deaths were not classified as murders that affected our crime statistics. In terms of actual murders, you could say three in seven years. This makes the fourth. It's usually a peaceful island.

Angus paused and said with a wry smile, With Reverend Quayle being of a deeply religious persuasion, maybe he'll take a moment to pop back for a few minutes and tell us who murdered him. That would be handy, wouldn't it.

Angela Cairns smiled, I've been a scientist and a pathologist for several years now Angus, and during that time I would have expected to have found objective evidence of an afterlife if there was one. I have to say that, up till now, I've come across zilch. No ghostly apparitions floating above my desk, no ectoplasm in the stationery cupboard, no 'wooo' sounds in the library, no supernatural humanoids waltzing round in the mortuary wringing their hands and pointing accusingly at Stan the mortician as he saws through their skull, or beating their spectral heads on the floor rueing the things they never got round to doing while they were still alive. And therefore, with some authority, I can confirm that the likelihood of the good reverend returning and providing a detailed report of how he was killed is somewhere between zero and nil.

I'm deeply disappointed in you, Angus said. So, failing a detailed explanation from Revered Quayle in the next few hours, do you reckon you could let me have a copy of your own report please, Angela? Tomorrow morning would do just fine.

Tomorrow afternoon's no problem.

Lunchtime? I'll buy you a sandwich.

Done!

And can I take a look at that knife at the same time?

That depends on whether the post mortem is done tomorrow. It will stay in situ till then. I've dusted the handle but there are no prints. We'll want to look for DNA though.

Bet you don't find anything. Sarah said. The fact that the killer left the knife behind means he's almost certainly made sure there's no trace evidence on it.

You might be right, Angela said. I'll let you know. The choice of knife is maybe a clue though. Laguiole are expensive and not very common over here.

How do you spell that? Sarah asked, updating her notes.

L-A-G-U-I-O-L-E, Angus said. It's pronounced 'lie-ol' but you know what the French are like. They never learned to spell. Anyway, I reckon it's time to go talk to the bishop about a petition. Maybe that will shed a little light on the situation.