Shaw smiled. ‘Bravo. Indeed.’ The detective’s shoulders relaxed visibly. ‘Research of your own?’
‘Maybe,’ said Dryden, determined to gather information, not give it away.
Shaw pressed on. ‘Yup. It’s a good question. They went for each other’s throats that last night, out in the yard of the inn apparently, thirty yards from the trapdoor down to the cellar. Woodruffe, the landlord, has given us a blow-by-blow account – but then he’s keen to divert attention from the fact that we found the skeleton in his cellar.’
‘Brothers fall out all the time – why should this end in murder?’
‘Standard version of events says it’s money – isn’t it always? At least that’s what Mark Smith says – he ended up working for one of the big national builders, based out near Thetford. He’s a bitter man. He says the two brothers had a great opportunity to relocate their own business – the father was a builder, and they’d been brought up in the trade. The old man died in 1989 and there was some insurance money, plus a lump sum off the MoD for compensation. Mark reckons something like ?45,000 in total. It was their mother’s really, but she said she’d back whatever they agreed to do – if they agreed. But Matthew said no – he had his own ideas, a new life. Sounds like he was smarter, wanted to start up a design business with a friend customizing websites. So they came to blows, like brothers do, and stumbled out into the dark. That’s the last time anyone seems to have seen Matthew outside the family. None of the witnesses we know were in the inn that night say they followed them outside, a lack of curiosity which borders on the unnatural, I think. That was just after eleven o’clock. Mark claims the fight petered out and they walked home twenty yards apart. Next morning there was a silent breakfast, punctuated by an announcement from Matthew that he’d been offered a job in computers in North Wales and he was going to take it. A story which is corroborated by the sister – Jennifer. Mark says his brother phoned home a couple of times to talk to his mother, and there was a telephone number where they could call him, but they never did. Apparently the mother felt he’d deserted them when they needed him most. She’d taken the death of her husband very badly. As far as she was concerned Matthew was a non-person, a view which turns out to be uncannily close to the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘Matthew doesn’t appear to exist. We’ve tried Swansea, Inland Revenue, trades unions, credit companies, banks, but so far there’s no record of a Matthew James Smith.’
‘The mother – where’s she?’
‘Dead within eighteen months of the move.’
‘And Mark got all the money?’
‘Yup. She’d changed her will to cut out Matthew from inheriting half the estate, but there was a small bequest which was never claimed. Mark says that his brother phoned soon after the death and was devastated to find he’d missed the funeral. Why hadn’t they called? A good question, to which they don’t have much of an answer. Anyway, Mark says his brother’s view was that if they really wanted him out of their lives he’d oblige. They’d never see him again, and if they were that ashamed of him he’d change his name. A convenient detail, which doesn’t mean it’s not true, although there’s no official record of a change of name by deed poll.’
Dryden thought about the Skeleton Man, turning slowly on the rusted hook. ‘But Mark couldn’t have done it alone – strung him up like that. And it would mean the sister was in it too – or at least in covering up. If the victim was conscious he’d have kicked out, the hands were only loosely tied so he could have done some damage with his arms as well. There’s no way one man could get him up onto that stool unless he went willingly, and I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’
Shaw nodded. ‘If it is murder, it’s a lynch mob.’
Dryden had thought of that but it was the first time anyone had said it out loud. It was an ugly term, even uglier than the thought of the yellow bones hanging silently in the cellar for seventeen years.
‘Mark Smith has given us a DNA sample to crosscheck with the skeleton. We’ll know in two to three days if there’s a family link. I have to say he looks pretty relaxed about that, but you never know.’
The detective smoothed out the plan of the cellar. ‘Which brings us back to the forensics. We needed the best examination possible of the cellar floor – the best in the circumstances, given the time limits – and luckily the animal rights SOCO team is first class, so when they’d finished with Peyton’s tomb they did some overtime for us.
‘One of the problems here is that with over a decade separating us and the crime in question any successful prosecution will demand material evidence that puts our villain, or villains, in the cellar. The problem is contamination of the scene. Half the British army had been through it by the time we got here, led by Major Broderick himself. In fact if someone had set out to contaminate a crime scene they couldn’t have done it better. Size 12 boots everywhere. Then there was the water from the hoses they used to put the fires out. We put in some hot-air blowers but it took us twenty-four hours to dry the place out. Then they combed it, every centimetre, starting here at the foot of the stairs and working outwards. We’re nearly done now.’
‘And?’
‘These,’ said Shaw, unlocking a small cash box. He took out a plastic envelope with three or four pieces of gravel inside. ‘Shropshire pea,’ he said. ‘Ornamental gravel. Looks like it fell out of the tread of someone’s shoes. We’ve checked the squaddies’ boots – nothing.’
‘So, is there a match in the village?’
‘Several. But it’s not a standard gravel size. It’s much smaller than the commercial brands we’ve located so far. So we’re having samples from the village analysed upstairs. We might get a match, who knows.’
Dryden held the small packet as if it might bite. ‘Where’d you get the degree in forensics then?’
Shaw looked at the gravel in the bag. ‘Cambridge.’
‘Couldn’t you get in anywhere else?’
Shaw laughed.
‘So what else did you find?’
The next packet held three cigarette ends, reduced to shreds barely held together by thin cylinders of paper. ‘Standard brands. All date to mid to late eighties, early nineties – except for one, a single Ducados stub. Common Spanish brand – we’re having the company take a look in case there’s something – anything – unusual.’
‘Spanish?’
