Chapter 6
"What do you see, Sam?" Foyle asked quietly as he, Sam and Andrew stood next to the body, the thick canvas cover since discarded. He crouched down, one knee touching the cold ground beside the body.
"I can see the reason that he died" Sam replied then came around to be beside her former boss. She lowered herself, her stocking-covered knees staying just above the ground. The boy lay, face down and arms spread, in the centre of a small clearing, his right leg laying at an unnatural angle, posed. In the centre of his back, his jacket showed a half-inch sized bullet hole, the edges blackened and frayed. A dinner plate size circle of rusty-red blood, dried and stiff, circled the wound.
A small distance in front of them, huddled together in a group, stood what remained of the Home Guard unit. Captain Southerby-Jones, whose good grace was the only thing allowing them access to the body, pulled out his note book and began to ask questions of the lads. Foyle would have preferred him not to do that - any lawyer worth their salt would strip apart any testimony gathered under false or misleading pretences and a clearly authoritative Captain barking orders that demanded an unquestioning obedience would fall squarely in that category. What Foyle tried to remember, though, was that he and Sam were here not here as investigating police officers, they were here purely because the local detectives couldn't be reached and they were, as Sam had put it, fulfilling an essential role in the absence of a registered official. She did list a couple of War Office regulations (quoting straight off the posters lining her father's church hall) regarding civilian appointments but whether this was what Mr Churchill actually meant, Foyle doubted. What he could never doubt, however, was Sam's genuine kindness. Her compassion, the way she spoke of the lad laying prone at their feet with thoughtful consideration, made his heart soar.
Foyle reached around behind him, pivoting on the toes of his shoes, and picked up a small twig. Using its tip, he pulled the fabric away from the wound in the centre of the boy's back – the stiff fabric made a crunching sound.
"Poor kid" Andrew said as he hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm. "He probably didn't even see it coming."
"Mmmm" Foyle replied, non-committedly and looked up. There was a full moon and the sky was clear – stars dotted the blackness. "Not exactly ….. dark, is it?"
"No" Sam replied, tipping back her head to take in the bright light from the moon and stars.
Foyle spun around, his shoes making a gritty sound against the cold earth. "I can see quite clearly right up to the tree line." He casually pointed towards a distinct row of birch trees, the ghostly appearance of their silver trunks reflecting the moonlight.
"Shooter could have been hiding in the trees" Andrew offered, shrugging up one shoulder.
Foyle shook his head. "This wound came from a firearm at close range. No more than a foot away, I'd say." He pushed down on his knee and slowly stood.
Foyle turned and, with both hands in his pockets, took three large paces away from the scene. Pausing for a second, he turned back around. "Sam," he said, scanning the landscape, curiosity etched on his face. "What …. don't you see?"
"I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific, Si …..Christopher" she replied, rising from her position and turning to face him.
"He's been shot" Foyle re-iterated, although his eyes skipped from one side of the clearing to the other. "A young man. Fit, healthy."
"Yes" Sam mumbled, clearly trying but failing to keep up.
"Where's all the blood?" he asked, turning to look at her.
"Oh" she gasped. "There should be a lot more, shouldn't there?" She reached for the lapels on her coat and pushed them in against her chest. "The ground should be covered."
"It should" he simply added.
"Dad!" Andrew called. He was about seven yards away, just where last summer's saplings had emerged. He stood beside a small tree, its spindly branches missing.
"Yeah!" Foyle replied, suddenly much more aware that there was still a shooter at large and his son had taken it upon himself to wander off into the woods alone.
"Something you should see here."
"On our way" Foyle replied. He put a hand on Sam's elbow and gestured with a nod towards Andrew. "Come on" he said.
When they reached Andrew, he had one foot resting on a log near the base of the tree. "Look," he said, and pointed to a dark smear on the trunk.
"Is that blood?" Sam asked. She bent over to get a closer look. "Hard to see colours in moonlight."
Foyle touched the substance with his index finger and rubbed it between his thumb and fingertips. "Could be" he pondered out loud. After smelling the now partly dried substance, he nodded.
"There's more" Sam suddenly blurted, obviously proud of her own observations. "That rock" she added, pointing. "And on the grass beyond it." She started to walk in that direction, moving further into the woods, but Foyle squeezed her elbow.
"Be, um, better to see in the daylight, don't you think?" he asked, nicking his head back towards the clearing. "And I'd like to have a word with the Home Guard, too, before we all freeze to death."
All three of them moved slowly towards the troops, Foyle leading with Andrew and Sam a little way behind. He could hear the two of them whispering to each other, Sam letting out a sigh.
A minute later, there was a rustle in the dry leaves behind him. He turned around to see Sam rushing to keep up. Stopping, he met her with a smile.
"So," she began, her speech a little stilted in the cold air. "Do you think he was moved? After he was killed, I mean" she whispered, standing beside him.
"Well, …. hard to say" he replied. He lifted the collar on her coat, wrapping the warmed fabric around the back of her neck.
"That would explain why there was no blood on the ground around him" she continued, gesturing with her hand to the area around the body.
"A bit early to jump to conclusions, don't you think?" He shrugged his mouth to one side and waited for her rebuttal.
"It is the best fit, though."
"Possibly" he admitted then added "we really ought to speak to the witnesses first." He made to start walking, lifting his foot over a large rock.
"But ..." she began, catching his elbow in her fingers, "one of them might be the shooter."
"Yes" he told her, drawing out the sound. "It's quite possible."
Andrew lumbered up beside them, his hands balled into fists and shoved deeply into the pockets of his dark blue coat.
"I think it's getting colder by the minute" he said through chattering teeth. His lifted collar rubbed against his ears and made the ends of his hair stand out at an odd angle. "Do you think we'll be out here for much longer, Dad?" he asked. "I could think of a thousand warmer places than this to be on a Friday night."
Sam smiled and lifted a hand to rub his back. "Poor Andrew" she cooed. "You're not used to … oooohhh!" Sam stumbled for a second, taking a quick backwards step. Her words disappeared as she forced the air in and out. Her hand clamped down on her side.
"Sam?!" Foyle called, quite alarmed at the scene. He reached out and gripped both of her upper arms, wrapping his fingers around to hold her up.
"What's going on, Sam?" Andrew gasped, his eyes wide, his face pale.
"I don't know what happened, then" Sam groaned. She leaned forward and gripped Foyle's elbows. "Are you alright now?" Foyle asked her as she let go of him. She took in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through tight lips. Her warm breath made a small white cloud between them.
"Take her home, will you" he said to Andrew whose face still telegraphed his concern. "Get her warm."
"Yep" he said, adding a nod, and put a hand around her waist. "Come on."
"Not on your nelly!" Sam protested, briskly pushing Andrew's hand away. "You can't send me home" she pleaded, her brow furrowed. "I'm going to finish this investigation."
"Sam" Foyle said, exasperated. "You should go home, get warmed up. I'll join you soon. There's not much more to do." His hand came down on her shoulder. "I just want to ask the Captain a couple of questions and then we can all take advantage of the fire at the vicarage." Some well thought out logic could usually persuade her to see sense and he prayed that this would be one of those times. She clearly wasn't well and tramping around in the cold couldn't possibly be doing her any favours.
"Then that's a perfectly good reason why I should stay" Sam reasoned, standing up to her full height which, in these shoes, was almost equal with Foyle's. "I might be useful. You know, see something that you don't ….. "
Foyle sighed and dipped his head. "And what would I tell your husband, hmmmm? That I put this investigation before your safety?"
"You can tell him anything you like" she replied and strode off in the direction of the troops. "We'll go there together." Her final words were thrown back over her shoulder, she being a good four paces ahead of them.
Foyle mumbled a curse under his breath, instantly grateful for the coils of scarf around his neck. Dipping his knee in resignation, he followed Sam up the slight incline.
"Sam," Andrew suddenly blurted, his eyes fixed on the men, "I don't think he's there."
Fiddling with the wide pocket near his hip, Captain Southerby-Jones deposited his notebook and pencil.
"Croxton" he barked, and turned on his heel to face the young lad second from the left. He was tall for his age but finely built, his thin arms barely filling out his sleeves. Unusually, he wasn't wearing his jacket, just his khaki shirt and long coat – his woollen tie skewed to one side. "You'll answer the question …. and you'll do it now."
"No, no, no" Foyle said, a hand raised to quell the Captain's aggressive approach.
Croxton gave the lad beside him a sideways smile and tapped the side of his weapon with his finger.
"You, um, not cold?" Foyle asked him, lazily pointing to his open coat. "No jacket?"
"Oh" the boy replied, smoothing down the front of his coat with his open palm. "I was sick on it, took it off. You know, when I saw the body."
"Ah, I see" Foyle replied. "Quite a shock for you, I'm sure."
"Never seen a dead body like that, have we?" Elliott Darlington added. He returned Croxton's smile and tapped the toe of his shoe against the butt of Croxton's rifle. "Dogs, pigs, that sort of thing. Yeah, we've seen those but …. a person's different, init?"
"You found the body?" Foyle asked, raising his eyebrows in question. "The two of you?"
"We did" Tom Croxton replied with a nod.
"We had just started our exercise," the Captain confirmed, "when we heard the shot. Croxton and Darlington ran back to where the rest of us were…."
"You, um, weren't together?" Foyle questioned the officer.
"No," the Captain replied. He drew in a deep breath, readying himself for an explanation. "We practice many different scenarios, Mr Foyle, and one of them is where two of our boys are designated as 'enemy agents'. Their job is to stop the rest of us from getting to the Command Post." To add gravitas to his explanation, the Captain paced up and down in front of his troops, his hands grasped behind his back, his cap pulled down neatly over his thinning hair.
"I see" Foyle confirmed then turned his eyes to Croxton and Darlington. "The two of you were designated as the enemy?"
Croxton and Darlington nodded in unison.
The Captain stopped, eyed Croxton through squinted eyes, then pivoted to face Foyle. "They, and only they, were issued two live rounds each." He held up two fingers to illustrate his point then returned his hand to its original position at the small of his back. "It needs to be as realistic as possible, you understand."
"We've still got 'em, but" Croxton hastily interjected and both boys dug their hands into their ammunition pouches. They pulled out two shiny brass rounds each, holding them out for inspection with open palms, the edges clinking together like tiny musical instruments stuck on one note.
Darlington nodded towards the contents of his hand. "T'wasn't us."
Foyle smiled at the lads, giving their palms a cursory glance.
"Of course Thompson isn't here," the Captain went on to say, resuming his pacing.
"And where might he be?" Foyle asked, his head raised to meet the Captain's line of sight.
"He's uh, well he has a weak constitution."
Croxton sniggered but a swift swipe from Darlington – an elbow to the ribs – closed his trap.
The third young lad, a little older than the other two and much thicker in build, stepped forward. "Thompson took one look at the body and ran off" he calmly said. "Sick to the stomach, he was."
"I do understand" Foyle said, a softness in his voice. "And your name is?"
"Walters ….Stuart Walters." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and breathed warm air onto his very pale fingers.
"I sent Corporal Grimshaw to take Thompson home" the Captain added and gave a nod of acknowledgement to Sam. She smiled back. "He only lives in the village", the Captain explained, waving his index finger in the general direction. "His father's one of the Vicar's Wardens. I thought it best."
"Of course" Foyle replied. He drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat, his fist pressed against his lips and chin.
Andrew shuffled in his spot but busied his hands with the belt on his coat.
"And you know Hellier" The Captain said, stopping in front of the youngest of the unit. The boy rubbed at his cheek with his thumb, the same cheek Isobelle Stewart has wiped clean earlier. He gave Foyle a nervous smile then looked down at his shoes. "It's his first exercise with us."
"Bloody useless" came the mumbled response from Darlington. The insult was cut short by one of Walters' elbows coming into contact with the back of Darlington's head.
"Yes" Foyle confirmed. "We met earlier." He waited until the boy lifted his head before returning his smile.
Foyle turned back to face the Captain, one hand covering his chest, the other gesturing towards the officer's hip pocket. "I wonder if I could trouble you" he began, taking a step closer. "You have a lot to do and I, um, don't want to keep you from it but if I could have the names and addresses of all the members of your unit, I'd be much obliged."
Croxton gasped audibly and gave Darlington a worried look.
"Yes, of course" the Captain replied and, with his back to his men, pulled out his note book. He tore at a couple of pages, whispering instructions to himself as he struggled to read his own writing in the moonlight.
"Thank you."
