The overnight silence was deafening. The call awaited upon with bated breath never came, allowing DCI Barnaby to exhale freely as he awoke. He phoned the station over breakfast and compiled a list of suspects, ranging from parents of the children to family friends. With no way to narrow them down, he phoned Jones, wanting an early start.
"I can pick you up in fifteen minutes," Barnaby explained after covering the important details. He wasn't too surprised at the silence that followed. "Jones?"
"I'll meet you at the first house, sir," came the eventual reply, a subtext of desperation that was hard to ignore running through the simple response.
"Don't be late then," the DCI warned jokingly, suppressing the constantly reappearing doubt that rose in his subconscience, now just from the sight of the anxious sergeant. He will have to talk eventually, was the mantra that had calmed the detective the most, he could look after himself.
There had been no luck by lunchtime; every suspect seemed incapable of murder or just downright fed up of the winter show. They had only managed to speak to two of the suspects on their list; a young, not welcoming man but polite nonetheless and a second older man, the uncle of the twins. There wasn't a motive in sight, not even a weak, almost discreditable one. Barnaby and Jones sat in the sergeant's car in the lay by they had began to frequently use, one eating his lunch thoughtfully as the other mainly thought and just picked at his food.
"We need to narrow them down, sir," Jones said tiredly, lowering the sandwich that had seemed to be on a trajectory to his mouth for the last few minutes. Barnaby frowned at the limp slices of bread as if they were partially responsible for the sergeant's lack of appetite but did not say anything. "There isn't enough time to speak to everyone on your list."
"You're right, Jones," Barnaby conceded with a sigh, "But can you think of a better plan?" Jones began his mechanical shrugging motion when his phone rang. Perhaps reminded of the last phone call he took in the car, he placed his untouched lunch on his seat and stood outside on the gravel, pacing up and down for a few minutes.
Barnaby took the moment to contemplate. He couldn't be sure, but the DS seemed to be more in control that day. Reluctantly ignoring the food and the likely chance he hadn't been home that morning, Ben was at least talking, his eyes brighter although far from the usual light they held. And the call he was taking seemed professional - he took it with straightened shoulders and he wore the expression he used on the younger constables when he was trying to look more authorative. John thought, with a melancholy smile, that DS Jones would make a good inspector one day.
"We need to go," Ben said when he sat back down, the sad looking ham and lettuce sandwich wrapped up haphazardly in foil and thrown in a jacket pocket, "One of our potential victims has phoned the station with a report of the same figure watching them."
Not far from Ms. Friar's house, the two men patrolled the tree line impatiently. Jones bounced on the balls of his feet, seconds away from throwing in the towel on their search when Barnaby himself reached his limit. The elderly gentleman they had spoken too had never reported a sighting before but had explained that it was a well known fact amongst the church flower arrangers and bell ringers that there was a 'serial killer' out to get them. He had gestured vaguely to a collection of coniferous trees at the end of his modest plot of land before tightly pulling his curtains closed behind the two men.
"Come on then, Jones," John said with a frown, "This is a job for uniform, if they would show up." Both turned to look at the nearby road, craning their necks to look for the patrol cars that were meant to join them. The country lane remained silent, the small puddles of muddy rainwater undisturbed.
"Is it a good idea to leave, sir?" Jones sounded uncertain and it made more sense to Barnaby why the usually more impatient sergeant had not vocalised his discontent at scouring the same ten metres of woodland over and over. No more psychological blood on his hands.
"It isn't right anyway," Barnaby realised with raised eyebrows, "They may not all have died in the same way, but every victim was watched for a couple of weeks, not just once." Jones nodded, scuffing his boots in a pile of drying leaves as he wandered up and down the same patch of land, eyes not really focused or searching.
"The killer already knew, maybe," he muttered to himself, barely audible to Barnaby's turned back. The inspector turned on his heels and furrowed his brow.
"What do you mean?" he asked with narrowed eyes. Jones looked up, surprised, as if he hadn't really realised he had spoken aloud.
"Just that, whoever did it probably wanted to make sure they had a reason to kill the last four," Ben explained thoughtfully, "You said yourself, it could be a pushy parent or a jealous family friend. This isn't a crime in cold blood, it's more than that."
"What you're trying to say is that the murderer cares about killing someone justifiably," Barnaby clarified with a reluctantly proud, reserved smile, "And I think you're right."
"So why have they been here?" Ben asked, "They already know there's a scarecrow here?"
"I thought so originally," Barnaby mused before biting his lip thoughtfully, "Maybe it's a diversion. Meaning, the killer knows we are onto them which they wouldn't unless..."
"Unless we'd already spoken to them about it," Ben finished with a wide eyed stare, "It must be one of them, sir!"
"And surely it is Mr. Fielding," Barnaby replied, "He is related to the older Mr Fielding who reported the sighting. Maybe he was trying to throw us off the scent, make his dad look like a target." Ben was already walking towards the car, a new sense of purpose behind his stride despite the slightly hunched posture that had consumed his figure for the last few days. Barnaby decided glumly to take the small victories.
They were close to giving up when the farm door finally opened an inch and the familiar face from that morning appeared. Francis Fielding did not look surprised, nor did he look guilty, letting them in without trying to run, a facade of innocence still holding up well in front of the two men.
"More questions?" he inquired with a smile that sent a visible shudder of something that looked like anger through Ben's spine. Following him through to the living room, Barnaby placed a warning hand on his sergeant's shoulder, patting his back reassuringly but firmly shaking his head.
"We'd like to put forward a hypothetical situation actually," Barnaby replied with a matching smile, not quite reaching his eyes, "The twins, Mavis and Callum, are entering the scarecrow competition with the help of your dad, aren't they?" Their suspect paled slightly and his palms curled into slight fists before releasing almost immediately.
"Mavis is entering," he corrected with an unconcealed frown, "But yes, my dad has been helping her. We are quite confident this year; she's worked so hard." Ben pushed himself up from his position at the door and took a calm step forward, his head tilted to one side perceptively.
"Has she entered before?"
"Yes," the man admitted with a deepening look of discontent on his face, "Both her and Callum entered separately last year. He got 2nd but she-" He broke off and the smile returned like a wall had been replaced in front of him. His hands continued to fold continuously in and out of a fist but he breathed evenly and regained his composure in minutes. Barnaby felt a little unsettled.
"I'm sure you'd like her to win this year, to make up for what happened," he commented casually, his stare growing more challenging and confident as his mind worked through the clues in front of him, "You sound very invested in the competition, Mr Fielding."
"I - I wouldn't say so," the man replied evenly, "I just want a bit of justice for Mavis, that's all."
"Justice?" Ben was quick to question, his eyes narrowed significantly.
"She was devastated last year," Francis practically snapped before the smile returned unfalteringly, "If her entry hadn't been ruined she would have won easily but instead she had to watch her brother collect his prize. She could have got first place; should have."
"Well, Jones," the Detective turned to his sidekick, "I'd say Mr. Fielding had got quite desperate." Ben nodded grimly but did not reply, his mouth pressed firmly into a narrow line as he folded his arms and glowered at the man for some time.
"So you targeted the grandparents," he eventually accused, a little heavy handed in Barnaby's opinion although it seemed to do the job, "You watched people who you thought might enter until you saw them working on a scarecrow."
"And then?" Fielding asked with a blatant smirk paired with now cold eyes, "What did I do then, sergeant?" Barnaby watched uncomfortably from his seat opposite their suspect as Jones twitched subtly before turning to face him.
"Should we tell him about the mysterious figure his father reported seeing, sir?" he asked with raised eyebrows, watching the subtle expressions spreading across the man's face, "Or should we ask him what he was doing outside his dad's house half an hour ago?" Barnaby smiled to himself a little and gestured freely with his arms.
"I'd say you can take your pick, Jones," he replied, his gaze returning to Mr. Fielding who had stood up, not violently, still watching the sergeant.
"They were all half dead anyway," he snarled with the same unsettling grin on his face, "It didn't take much to put them out of their misery. Friar had a heart disease that would have killed her in the end. The rest of them could have turned up dead on their own accord any day." He seemed almost proud of himself, as if he were providing a service to the elderly residents of Midsomer. Barnaby did not dare glance at Jones, afraid of what his expression would expose.
"I think that's our confession," he interrupted with another slight smile in Mr. Fielding's direction, "And I don't know why you thought this was a good idea, sir, as the show will surely be cancelled with one of the judges being murdered. Why did you add Mr. Barnes to your hit list?" Francis shrugged in a way not dissimilar to Jones and remained silent, his brain catching up with him and halting the tirade of confessions. Ben moved around the room, picking up photo frames, pausing on one and holding it up.
"Sir?" Barnaby looked at the wooden frame enclosing a photo from the previous winter fair. Three children stood next to their scarecrows, joined at the back by the judges. One face was identifiable immediately as Barnes and when Barnaby raised his eyes to glance back at Mr. Fielding, the man turned a guilty shade of red.
"He wouldn't let the twins enter together," he explained wearily, "And then he accidentally knocked Mavis' over into a puddle. It was ruined, along with her chances of winning. He always chose favourites, and he knew the other grandparents from church." Jones shook his head, rolling his eyes at the ground and shuffled to stand by the door frame again. Barnaby judged from his slumped posture and scrunched up eyes that he wasn't in the mood for talking.
"I think we should continue this conversation in a more formal setting," he said, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Fielding who stood reluctantly from his chair and nodded. There was still a look of detachment on his face although Barnaby could see the guilt of a well intentioned man seeping into his eyes. It was an expression of regret he saw far too often in his line of work - it was just a shame everyone seemed to realise it too late.
The formalities at the station were over quickly. The recorded tape held an entire confession and they even discovered receipts for large quantities of Advil, bought from a store in the next town over. Francis Fielding was not a likeable man (how could he be given the circumstances), but Barnaby found, as he sometimes did, a sense of understanding in the motive. Mavis had been overlooked her entire life by her parents, left to rely on her uncle and granddad for the upbringing she deserved. Less pushy parent syndrome, more child neglect.
The DCI cleared the interview room, packing the scraps of paper and documents into a case file that, until recently, had contained nothing but a set of weak links and guesses. He was satisfied, but wary, noticing how Jones had excused himself quickly after the interview was finished, the same look of disappointment trailing out of the door after him. Barnaby placed the file on the table hesitantly and went looking for his sergeant, the adrenaline from solving a case giving him a new desperation to work on Jones.
He was outside. Stood against the brick wall of the station with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked distant, thoughtful almost, but at the same time blank. Barnaby didn't like this expression; for one thing there was nothing to psychoanalyse, for another he wasn't used to seeing Ben so devoid of anything.
"Jones," he said by way of greeting, "Another arrest under our belts, then." The DS did not seem too thrilled at the thought of Mr. Fielding in a holding cell but nodded nonetheless. They stood in a silence Barnaby felt was necessary; having failed to get through to the sergeant by asking, he decided to wait. He was not stood in the cold breeze for long.
"How could he say that?" Jones burst out suddenly, the anger that had clenched his fists in the home bubbling once more to the surface, "He thinks he can justify killing the elderly because their time's almost up? How could anyone think they have the right to take a day off of someone's life, never mind a month, or a year?"
"He was blind to it, I expect," Barnaby replied quietly, his voice in juxtaposition to Jones', "He had one motive - tunnel vision. We often don't consider our reasoning behind our actions until they are done and someone asks. I doubt he had thought about it until we brought it up; then he had to justify the innocent loss of life to himself. I know it's hard, Jones but some people's minds work in different, darker ways to your own." He was reminded for a moment of a paper he had written for his degree on the subject of guilt but chose not to quote it too liberally.
"No harder than a usual case," Jones returned defiantly, a more frail, worn edge to his tone, "It was just a weaker motive than we normally get, and it didn't seem fair." Barnaby nodded, internally banging his head against the brick wall that was his sergeant and the lack of emotional sharing he was prone to resort to.
"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly, not entirely sure where the question had come from. Jones did not, as he had expected, blow up in his face or storm away but, instead, shrugged his customary shrug and continued to look away.
"There was a phone call," Barnaby dropped the matter slightly, "Marjorie Friar's funeral will take place this Saturday, in case you wanted to attend. And the winter show has been cancelled for a few weeks, just to let all of this blow over." Jones nodded, although he didn't make a habit of joining Barnaby under the usual oak tree at the village graveyard. Whilst the inspector liked to see the case through to the very end, watching the procession of black clothes and umbrellas if it rained, the sergeant was unsettled by the act of watching families mourn. Perhaps it explained his seeming reluctance to mourn a death himself, Barnaby began to wonder before pushing the thought away. Jones also didn't like to be evaluated constantly by his DCI and Barnaby knew he would be rebuking if only his mind had been fully engaged in any of their recent conversations.
The weekend came peacefully. As Barnaby had thought, it was raining and so the procession that followed an ornate wooden coffin from the church was lined with black umbrellas to match. The inspector himself stood nearby, under his usual tree, dressed in a simple suit and tie, umbrella in hand. At one point he caught the eyes of some of the family members he had interviewed in the past week and, as he usually did, he nodded solemnly, standing firmly in place under the aged boughs of the tree. He waited, as he usually did, as the mumbled words of prayer and exchanged farewells reached him on the breeze, listening more to the stirred up leaves at his feet than to the snippets of sentiment that whispered to him. And then, as he usually did, he turned away at the end of the service and left the remaining onlookers in peace.
He had reached the gate that released the living from the ever growing collection of memorials when he turned and tipped his umbrella so he could see more clearly. On the other side of the yard, previously blocked by the church, he noticed a solitary figure stood in the rain, without an umbrella or coat. In any other circumstance it would have amused the inspector that such a fact would immediately allow him to identify the man some distance away from him as the ever underdressed DS Jones but instead the feeling that pulled at him insistently was a form of grief in itself.
Ben Jones, no matter how the inspector looked at him, was his friend. Arguably, after a dog and his wife (who didn't really count in such instances) Jones was his closest friend and only confidant outside of his family. He was never sure how the sergeant felt although he was aware that the two of them shared a similar, nonexistent social life outside of the police station so he imagined he was one of Ben's only friends as well. And that was all the motivation he needed to return to the graveyard path and follow it around the church.
"Jones."
The sergeant did not appear startled as his eyes remained fixed on the freshly laid stone. His hands retained a firm grip on the modest bouquet of flowers he carried and his feet remained still on the small patch of wet grass beneath them. He nodded, perhaps in greeting or else in acknowledgement but did not speak. Barnaby shook his head to himself and joined the sergeant, standing at his side. He reached a cautious hand to encircle his shoulders and stood still.
"I'm sorry, Ben," he murmured softly, feeling the tension ease from the sergeant's shoulder as he used his first name, "I truly am." The silence continued, interrupted only by the quiet chorus of birds and muted sounds of cars driving past on the road. Eventually, Ben shuffled closer to Barnaby, his hand reaching up to close over the one still firmly pressed into his shoulder and he held it there for a moment.
"You knew," he said simply, gaze never leaving the ground as his eyes followed a worm that had broken the surface of the mud. He did not ask, rather stating the fact in a neutral tone and continuing to stare thoughtfully.
"I eventually worked it out," John corrected carefully, "Although I fear I've made a mess of things in the process." Jones shook his head, muttering something incoherent to his shoes.
"How?" Barnaby asked cautiously.
"Congenital heart disease," Ben replied with a humourless laugh, "That's how I knew about the Advil overdosing. It's why I couldn't look at even the most natural looking bodies this week. The phone call I got that evening was from a friend of my Gran's who was staying in the hospital when I couldn't be there. She said things had got worse, that I had to get there quickly or it might be too late. And then she was gone, just like that. And I just thought-" He stopped talking and rubbed his hands together briskly. The rain began to fall more steadily so John lifted his umbrella from its place at his feet and held it over the two of them, feeling the younger man shiver slightly from the water running down his neck.
"I suppose I never considered it happening," he admitted suddenly, "It was always me and her, through everything. And then the one time I needed her most she was lying in a hospital bed and I was sleeping in a plastic chair most nights, just panicking in the day. I wanted her to tell me it was going to be alright, I know it's childish, but I felt so useless."
"It's not childish," Barnaby assured him with a sad smile, "Me and Sarah would have liked to have been there for you though." Ben nodded, as if he had been aware the whole time.
"I wanted to talk about it with someone - with you," he corrected himself sheepishly. "Only I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, or ruin our working relationship, seeing as it's one of the only relationships I have left now." Barnaby caught himself wincing slightly, only realising as Jones vocalised the truth that he was, in fact, all that was left in Midsomer to keep Ben there.
"You wouldn't have affected anything, Ben," he replied, "Sarah and I would be happy for you to spend more time with us, and Sykes always seems happy to see you which is a good sign." The sergeant laughed slightly, lifting his gaze to look at Barnaby gratefully. The inspector took note of his lightly tearstained face, red tracks joining the running raindrops, and the still tired look in his eyes. But he also saw a flicker of the old Ben reappear and with it, felt a glimmer of hope. Ben Jones would mend, in time.
This isn't the end! There's plenty more things that could go wrong so I am going to continue writing :)
I've got a new case and a storyline mapped out that continues directly from this and new chapters will be coming!