Chapter Text
DCI Tom Barnaby was tired of being tied up, tired of watching helplessly as chaos erupted around him, and tired of the violence that lurked around every corner of Midsomer county. He glared at Leo Remick, the latest villager to go on a crime spree. He had gone from bribing public officials, to blackmailing councillors, to finally killing anyone who stood between him and his plans for the old mill by Upper Melton.
Now he was pacing up and down the parlour of his manor house, brandishing a shotgun at the three other occupants of the room. Barnaby was really tired of seeing guns pointed at him.
Will Beckett, Remick’s long-time lawyer and friend, and more recent crime partner, was curled in the corner, clutching his thigh. Beckett had found his conscience and an old pistol in Remick’s desk, but Remick had been the one to pull the trigger. He’d only clipped Beckett, however; maybe four decades of friendship had put his aim off, but Barnaby didn’t think he’d have the same scruples for a couple of coppers.
Barnaby glanced past Beckett to the last occupant of the room. His sergeant, Ben Jones, hadn’t moved since Remick and Beckett had thrown him into the study, hadn’t even flinched at the shotgun blast. But Barnaby thought he could spy a hint of possum on Jones’s carefully slack features. As if sensing Barnaby’s thoughts, Jones cracked one eye open and mouthed, ”Keep him talking.”
Normally Barnaby wouldn’t take direction from newly minted sergeants, but he’d learned to defer to his junior on matters of action. “It’s not too late, Leo,” he called out. “Put the gun down and let us get help for Will. You don’t want him to bleed to death.”
“Shut up,” Remick snarled. “This is your fault. Another few hours, and I would have been free and clear.”
That wasn’t entirely true. The sale of the land rights was due to go through that afternoon, and Remick clearly intended to do a runner once the money hit his account, but the scheme started unravelling the second someone - Remick, he was now certain - cut the brakes on Peter Deering’s truck.
Barnaby and Jones had been following separate threads, but both ultimately led back to Remick. Barnaby had gone to the manor house to check on a telephone conversation Remick had with Deering two days before his death, accepted a cup of tea, and woke up an hour later tied to a chair.
Jones had been looking into bank records. Barnaby could only assume that he had found something that tied Remick to one of the victims. Though if he hadn’t been suspicious before, finding Barnaby’s car at the manor house, but no sign of Barnaby, certainly put him on alert. The tea ploy either hadn’t worked with Jones, or hadn’t even been tried. Instead, Barnaby had heard a series of crashes and a distinct thud. Barnaby tried not to think what that had done to Jones, though Remick, at least, had the makings of a black eye.
“You left a paper trail that a Beaver Scout could follow,” he told Remick. “We know you bribed members of the council to overturn the heritage status of the mill.” Joyce had been appalled; so had Jones, surprisingly. Apparently, a number of his relatives had worked at the mill back in the day. The two of them had convinced Barnaby to wrest the file from fraud. Though Midsomer being Midsomer, the bodies soon started to pile up.
“My family ran that mill for three hundred and fifty years. My father ruined his health trying to keep it open. I have every right to redevelop the land.” He lowered the shotgun to gesture indignantly, and Barnaby breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your father leased the building to the historical society in his will to preserve the family heritage and guarantee an income for you and your sister,” Barnaby retorted. Joyce had filled him in on the whole history. “Did you decide that wasn’t good enough after Sophia died?” If they got out of there, they would need to look into Sophia Remick’s death as well.
He glanced over at Jones. He had shifted backwards until he was pressed against the wall, and his eyes were open now, tracking Remick’s every move. He looked at Barnaby and gave a tight nod, shifting slightly to show that his hands were free.
Barnaby didn’t know what Jones had planned, but it was likely to be desperate and foolhardy. Still, he knew Jones would wait to see if he could somehow talk Remick out of this lunacy. “Cut your losses and walk away,” he said. “You’ll be out of the country before anybody finds us.”
Remick wouldn’t be out of the driveway before Jones would be after him, but that certainly wasn’t information he needed to know.
“Then it doesn’t much matter if I leave you alive or dead,” Remick replied.
He lifted the shotgun again, and Barnaby knew they’d run out of time. As the barrel swung towards him, he saw Jones dive for Beckett’s gun, lying free just a few feet away
Startled, Remick turned, but as he adjusted his aim, Jones rolled onto his side, took a deep breath and fired, a split second before Remick pulled the trigger. Remick flew backward, shotgun clattering to the floor from suddenly slack fingers. His shot went high, splintering the wood paneling inches above Jones’s head.
Jones lay still, and for one heart-wrenching moment, Barnaby thought he’d been hit after all. “Jones!” he shouted. He tugged at the ropes binding him to the chair, but it only tightened the knots.
At last Jones stirred, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. He looked at the pistol still in his hand, then dragged himself upright and stumbled to Remick’s body.
It most definitely was a body. The bullet had struck Remick below his left eye, tearing open the side of his face. Still he watched anxiously as Jones kicked the shotgun across the room, and then squatted down to press his fingers against the pulse points on Remick’s neck and wrist. “He’s dead,” Jones said, his voice hollow.
He stayed still for a moment, his head bowed, then went over to Beckett, who was now unconscious. Jones ripped off his tie and used it to keep pressure on the leg wound with a folded handkerchief, then shifted Beckett into the recovery position. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, laying it over Beckett.
Only then did he look at Barnaby. Tom flinched. Jones was never one to hide his feelings — Barnaby had had to quell an Ill-timed grin too many times to count — but the raw emotion on Jones’s face took his breath away. Again, he struggled against the ropes, trying to find a semi-dignified way to get to his sergeant.
Jones noticed and went to him instead. “Hold on,” he said, his voice rough, almost breaking. He fumbled with the rope around Barnaby’s wrists, but the knot was pulled tight from his struggles, and Jones couldn’t seem to get a proper purchase.
“I’ll get a knife,” he said, standing up and wandering towards the door.
“Try the desk,” Barnaby said. It seemed to have all manner of weapons. At the very least, there would be scissors or a letter opener. But Jones seemed not to hear him, drawn by the sound of approaching sirens. Someone must have called the police at the sound of gunfire. Too little, too late, Barnaby thought, watching helplessly as Jones disappeared outside.
When he didn’t return immediately, Barnaby started to worry; when two patrolmen rushed in, but Jones was still nowhere in sight, he knew something was wrong.
“Where is DS Jones?” he asked, as one of the patrolmen cut the ropes loose, while the other checked on Beckett.
“Waiting outside for forensics and the ambulance.” The patrolman looked at the bloodstained rope in his hands. “You’ll need to get looked at yourself, sir.”
Barnaby frowned and looked down at his wrists. They were rubbed raw from struggling with the ropes, but not bleeding. “That’s not my blood,” he said and stood up. He walked over to where Jones had been tied up and saw a broken glass. He hadn’t given any thought to how Jones had gotten free before, but the sight of a bloody shard made everything clear.
“Stay here,” he told the patrolmen. “Make sure everything is left as is until SOCO gets here, and monitor Mr. Beckett until the ambulance arrives.”
The door handle was smeared with blood as well, and the worry spiked to near panic. “Jones!” he called out again, when he didn’t see the younger man by the patrol car. He knew he couldn’t have gone far, remembering how unsteady Jones had seemed, so he spun around, scanning the yard for a glimpse of his missing sergeant. Finally, he saw Jones sitting on a bench near the gate, his head bowed low.
“Jones,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle him, but Jones didn’t move, not even when Barnaby sat down beside him. “Where are you hurt?”
Jones straightened up slowly and held out his hands, looking down at them. There were a number of cuts, around his palms and wrists, most of them just shallow slices, but one on his left palm was deep and bleeding sluggishly. Barnaby pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away to get a better look.
“I think you’re going to need some stitches,” he said casually, holding firm when Jones tried to jerk his hands free. “Stay here and I’ll get the first aid kit from my car.” When he got back, Jones was still staring down at his hands.
“It’s very Lady Macbeth,” he said dully, as a fresh trickle of blood dripped onto the grass.
“I thought you didn’t like Shakespeare,” Barnaby replied.
Jones didn’t react, but he did pull his hands away when Barnaby tried to clean the cuts. “You need to take a GSR sample first,” he said. “Not that there’s any doubt that I killed him.”
“Right,” Barnaby said, a little chagrined that Jones had to remind him about basic procedure. “We still need to stop the bleeding before forensics gets here.” He taped a gauze pad against the worst of the cuts as a stopgap and hoped SOCO would arrive soon. At least they were on the outskirts of Causton, not miles from headquarters.
“That must have hurt,” he mused, imagining Jones sawing blindly, the glass cutting into skin as much as rope. “I’m sorry I led you into this.”
That made Jones meet his gaze at last. “It’s not your fault, sir. I let them get the drop on me.”
“They got the drop on both of us.” He could see a bruise forming on Jones’s cheekbone, and he suspected he hadn’t entirely been playing possum. “How hard did he hit you?” he asked, wondering if he should be concerned about a concussion.
“Not as hard as he thought,” Jones replied. “Didn’t want him to see me as a threat.” He shuddered suddenly, and Barnaby took off his jacket and draped it around Jones’s shoulders.
Barnaby breathed a sigh of relief when the ambulance pulled up, followed closely by George Bullard’s car. He hurried over to meet them, not wanting to leave Jones alone too long. “One fatality inside and one gunshot wound to the leg. Multiple lacerations over there,” he said, pointing to Jones.
Bullard took charge. “Look after the GSW inside,” he directed the paramedics. “I’ll take a look at DS Jones before I deal with the body.” He looked Barnaby over. “What about you, Tom?”
“Remick slipped me a mickey. Jones got rougher treatment. But he managed to cut himself free with a broken glass. Sliced his hands to pieces.” He held Bullard back a moment. “He killed Leo Remick. Saved both our lives. But he’s taking it hard.”
“First time?” Bullard asked.
“Yeah,” Barnaby could count on one hand the number of times he’d killed in the line of duty, but each one was seared in his memory.
Bullard nodded and approached Jones as he would a skittish horse, Barnaby trailing behind. “Tom says you cut yourself pretty badly,” he said gently. “Mind if I take a look?”
Jones looked up, managing a faint smile. “Must be really bad if the pathologist is checking me out.”
Bullard smiled back. “I do have a medical degree, Benjamin. I just prefer patients that give me less lip.”
“Yes, sir.” Jones looked down again, but held out his hands. He flinched when Bullard carefully peeled away the gauze pad, and Barnaby put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He felt Jones trembling under his touch and bit his lip in sympathy. “Hang in there, Jones,” he murmured. “It’ll be okay.” But he knew it wouldn’t. The cuts would heal, but taking a life was something you never got over.
“You’re going to need stitches on this one,” Bullard said, pointing at the deep gash on Jones’s left palm. “A steri strip won’t hold and will be too hard to keep dry. No point in going to emergency, though. I’ll call Kath and see if she can fit you in. She’s a marvel with sutures.”
Jones just nodded and swallowed heavily.
“Are you feeling nauseous?” Bullard asked, curling his fingers around Jones’s wrist to take his pulse discreetly.
“They knocked him out,” Barnaby offered, but Bullard gestured for him to keep quiet.
“Is that true, Ben?”
Jones looked up, frowning slightly. “I was just dazed. I didn’t lose consciousness.”
“Okay. Look into the distance for me, would you?” He pulled out his penlight and moved the light between Jones’s eyes several times. “Now track my finger. Good.” He looked up at Barnaby. “Pupils dilated, but equal and reactive. Probably not a concussion, but put him on light duty for a few days.”
“That won’t be a problem.” With a fatal shooting, Jones would be on administrative leave until the investigation was complete.
“Any other injuries? You were tied up with rope. Hands behind your back?”
Jones nodded. “Beckett tied me up while Remick kept the gun on me. Didn’t do a very good job. I was able to clench my fists and rotate my wrists to give me some slack.” His face brightened with a sudden grin. “That was one of Harry Houdini’s tricks.”
“Houdini didn’t have a murderer training a shotgun on him.” But Barnaby imagined Ben Jones, young and resourceful, begging to be tied up so he could practice his own escapes.
“But you cut yourself free.”
“Never got the hang of dislocating my thumb,” Jones replied. “And when Remick shot Beckett, I knew there wouldn’t be time to work on the knot. But there was a broken wine glass on the floor near me, and I was able to grab one of the shards without Remick noticing. Then it was just a question of sawing away as best I could. Luckily it was a thin rope.”
“Looks like you got more skin than rope in the process.”
Jones shrugged. “There wasn’t time to be careful,” he said. “Remick was escalating and the boss could only keep him talking so long. Fortunately Beckett’s gun was close enough to grab.”
Barnaby shook his head. “Remick was about to shoot me when Jones distracted him. Dove halfway across the room, grabbed the gun, and hit Remick, forcing him to shoot wide.”
“Are you sure about that?” Bullard asked. “Neither of you were hit?”
Barnaby had seen the shotgun blast hit the wall above Jones, but then he remembered how still his sergeant had been after the shot. “Jones?”
“I’m fine.”
It was categorically untrue, but Barnaby hadn’t seen any indication of a gunshot wound, even a graze. There were splashes and streaks of blood on Jones’s shirt, but from the cuts to his hands, not a shotgun blast.
The SOCO van pulled up and Bullard waved his team over. “One injury and one fatality inside. Get started with them while I finish up here. I’ll need an evidence kit and some photos first though.” He stood aside while the crime scene photographer took pictures of Jones’s injuries and then indicated she should do the same with Barnaby’s wrists.
Once she was done, Barnaby looked at his watch. “It will be dinner soon. I’ll take Ben back to my place, and you and Kath can come by for a bite to eat when we’re done here.”
Jones twisted his head to look up at him. “That’s not necessary, sir. I can stop at a clinic on my way home.”
“You most certainly will not,” Barnaby retorted. “If you think I’ll deny Joyce the opportunity to fuss over a wounded hero, you’re very much mistaken.” He felt Jones’s shoulders snap taut with tension under his hand.
“I’d rather not, sir.” Jones’s voice cracked, and Barnaby wanted to do anything he asked, but he knew the worst thing would be to leave Jones alone.
“We’ll make a deal. No fussing, but you’ll stay in Cully’s room tonight.” He shared a long look with Bullard, who nodded in agreement
“Doctor’s orders, Ben. It’s either that or I admit you overnight for observation.”
“You said I didn’t have a concussion.” Jones had got a bit of his usual spark back, but he was no match for a determined pathologist.
“I said probably. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.”
“I’ll give Joyce a quick call,” Barnaby said. “Can you stay with him for a few minutes, George?”
“I don’t need to be babysat,” Jones protested. His colour was a little better, but Barnaby wasn’t going to take any chances.
“You can tell me how to escape from a locked room, while I take the residue samples,” George said, sitting down next to Jones.
“Much easier to get in,” Jones replied with a smile. “I usually just kick the door down.”
Barnaby walked a few feet away and called home, relieved when Joyce answered. “I need a favour,” he said. “Could you make up Cully’s room for Ben?”
“Is something wrong?” Joyce sounded alarmed. “You never call him Ben.”
Barnaby sometimes forgot how insightful Joyce was. “We had a little trouble today.” There were things he couldn’t tell her over the phone, things he might not even be able to tell her in the safety of their bed. One of them should be able to sleep at night. “He needs some stitches, so I asked George and Kath to come by for dinner and doctoring. I think he’ll be more comfortable if it’s not just us hovering over him. We’ll pick something up on the way home.”
“Are you all right, Tom?”
He looked back at Jones, who was staring blankly while Bullard wrapped his hands. “I am because of him.”
He heard Joyce take a sharp breath, but her voice was steady when she responded. “The sheets are clean in Cully’s room. Don’t worry about dinner. There’s a casserole in the freezer. Just bring him home.”