by Tony Bassett
Yusuf nodded. ‘No problem,’ he said.
‘I’m helping him with his English,’ Anne explained.
‘That’s OK. We’ve got all nationalities,’ he said. ‘All right, young man. We’ll see you at the crack of dawn on Monday.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Moreton,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make sure he’s here at four-thirty.’
As we walked slowly back to the car, Yusuf had a question for Anne.
‘What’s this word “son”? Does he think he’ll be my father when I pick the apples?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ said Anne. ‘It’s a term of endearment. Oh God! How can I explain that to man from Africa? It means he’s being friendly. He doesn’t want to be your father. He’s probably going to treat you like a son.’
As Yusuf got into the passenger seat of the car, he said: ‘The English language can be very strange.’
6
Anne offered to drive Yusuf to the farm on his first day. Secretly, because of his earlier reservations, she had been concerned he might fail to report for work. She set her alarm for a quarter to four in the morning, roused him from his bed in the motor-home and travelled with him to the farm for his four-thirty am start.
But when he returned on foot from his first full day at work, he surprised her by proudly handing Anne the thirty pounds he had earned.
‘This for you. This for food,’ he declared.
From that time onwards, he regularly cycled to and from work. I had given him two cycle locks and told him to make sure he locked his bike to a post or railings - or his new mode of transport might quickly disappear.
I explained: ‘There are lots of people there on low wages who cannot afford to buy a bicycle and would relish the chance of having yours.’
So much physical effort was required in his job that, during his first week, spent picking plums, he came back exhausted. He would wolf down a meal cooked by either Anne or myself, spend an hour learning English and then go straight to bed.
But as his second week progressed, he was to become more accustomed to the physical strain. He would arrive back at three pm or four pm feeling less exhausted.
Anne continued with her part-time job helping out at the village shop for two afternoons a week, while I had begun travelling to Canterbury. I was visiting the academy so I could prepare lessons for the forthcoming term.
However, an unexpected incident occurred on Thursday, August the twenty-seventh that upset both Anne and myself. It concerned our neighbour, Stephen.
Both Anne and I returned home that day at about the same time - around half past five. We noticed an ambulance, a police car and a small white van parked outside the Rigdens’ house. Yusuf had a worried expression on his face as we entered the hall.
‘Oh, Bob, Anne,’ he said. ‘Something bad is happening next door. Medical people are coming. Police are coming.’
‘Are you talking about the house where Mr Rigden lives -- the tall man who saw you gardening?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He is sick They are taking him from the house and driving him away.’
‘I think I’d better pop next door and see if Marion is all right,’ Anne muttered.
‘I’ll come too, in case there’s anything I can do,’ I said.
Stephen’s wife, Marion, is aged seventy-four. She moves around her semi-detached red-brick cottage with the aid of walking sticks and suffers from mild dementia.
Anne pressed the doorbell. A young paramedic in a smart, dark-green uniform came to the door.
‘We’re from next door,’ Anne explained. The paramedic immediately beckoned us in and I followed my wife through the dimly-lit hallway. We could see Marion was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace in the beige-coloured living room. She was surrounded by dark, 1950s furniture. A faint smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.
‘Before we go in,’ I whispered. ‘What has actually happened?’
The paramedic looked us both sternly in the face.
‘Mrs Rigden found her husband slumped on the floor of the conservatory an hour and a half ago,’ he whispered. ‘His head was badly bruised and covered in blood. He was lying motionless, barely breathing.’
We spotted two men in white overalls and facemasks moving around at the far end of the house.
The paramedic went on: ‘One of the panes was smashed in the conservatory door. Fragments of glass lay on the floor beside Mr Rigden. More slithers of glass lay on the patio outside.’ He paused for breath.
‘To add to the mystery, £20,000 in savings, which they’d kept in a cardboard box, has gone missing,’ he added. ‘A forensic team are checking the conservatory.’
Anne and I looked at each other in astonishment. We had known Stephen and Marion since we first bought the cottage and moved in six years earlier. They had been friendly, helpful neighbours.
Without waiting any further, Anne rushed forward to see Marion, who was wearing a long, pink floral dress with a white cardigan, and asked if she was all right.
‘Yes, thank you, dear. It’s Stephen,’ the old lady replied.
After ensuring Marion was comfortable, Anne made some tea and asked the paramedic to make sure the social services department at Kent County Council had been alerted.
‘They’ve taken him to the Ashford hospital,’ Marion announced loudly. ‘I can’t get there. It’s twelve miles.’
‘Would you like me to drive you there?’ Anne asked.
‘Would you do that, dear? Our son’s away.’
‘It would be the least we could do,’ said Anne.
Fifteen minutes later, Anne helped Marion into the front passenger seat of the Mondeo and the pair set off to the hospital.
But when they arrived, sadly, they learned Stephen had died during the journey in the ambulance. After Marion had had a long conversation with one of the nurses, Anne drove her back to Chasehurst. She stayed with the old lady at her home for another hour until some distant relatives arrived and began attending to her needs.
By the time she left the Rigdens’ house, the police had posted a constable at the front door to monitor any callers.
Later in the evening, after our meal of beef Wellington, I noticed for the first time Yusuf had a small bandage on his left middle finger and there were traces of blood on the left sleeve of his shirt.
‘Have you cut yourself, Yusuf?’ I asked. He pulled the sleeve towards him and examined it.
‘I prune the bush. I cut my hand,’ he explained. ‘Yusuf will be on the repair soon.’
‘On the mend,’ said Anne between mouthfuls of beef. After the meal, Anne examined the dressing. Yusuf had tied it himself in a haphazard fashion after finding our first aid box in the bathroom. Anne applied ointment and then secured the bandage properly.
The following day, she was teaching Yusuf some English phrases in the living room and I was preparing a lesson on Tudor kings when there came a loud knock on the front door.
A tall, stout man in a brown suit and yellow tie whom I had never seen before was standing in the porch as the door creaked open.
‘Mr Shaw?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kirwan from Kent Police. Just wanted to ask you a few questions.’
‘Would you like to come in?’ I said.
I led him a few yards into the cream-walled hallway and then stopped. I was reluctant to let him meet Yusuf in order to avoid any awkward questions about our guest. I stopped by the oak stairs. ‘What can we do for you then?’ I asked.
Perhaps he sensed my hesitancy and found it strange.
Speaking with a slight Irish accent, he said: ‘We’re investigating a suspicious death - your neighbour, Mr Rigden.’
Anne, who had been listening intently from within the living-room, bade Yusuf remain where he was. She placed her finger upon her lips, indica
ting to him to remain silent. She then came to join us in the hall.
‘Hello, officer,’ she said. ‘I spent a few hours with Marion last night. It’s been a terrible shock.’
‘She’s bearing up well in the circumstances,’ said the twenty-five-year-old sergeant. ‘Can I ask where you both were between three pm and four pm yesterday?’
‘I was at the New East Kent Academy, preparing for the school term for the whole afternoon,’ I explained. ‘I got home at five thirty.’
‘And I was at the Village Stores, working at the checkout all afternoon. I got back at the same time.’
‘Would there have been anyone else in the house?’ he asked, as he made a note of the details in a small notebook.
‘Only our lodger,’ I said.
‘And where’s he now, sir?’ he asked.
‘Well, actually, I believe he’s in the living-room,’ I said.
‘Could you call him, sir?’ I called out his name. Yusuf walked timidly and uncomfortably into the hallway.
‘What’s your name now?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Yusuf Osman,’ he replied.
‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, sir?’
‘I work,’ he said.
The sergeant continued: ‘What time did you arrive back here?’
Yusuf looked at Anne for help in understanding the question.
‘He means: ‘What time did you get home?’’ she explained.
‘I home at seventeen hundred,’ he said.
Anne looked towards the detective. ‘Five o’clock,’ she said.
‘I’m quite familiar with the way the twenty-four-hour clock operates,’ he said somewhat curtly.
‘Where d’you work, sir?’
‘He works ten minutes away at Finch & Davies, picking fruit,’ said Anne.
‘And they’ll be able to verify you were there until - what? - four-thirty pm or five pm, will they?’ he asked Yusuf.
Our lodger glanced towards Anne for possible guidance. Then he said: ‘What does this mean: “Verify”?’
‘They’ll confirm you were at work, will they?’ the sergeant demanded.
‘Yes, I work,’ Yusuf insisted.
Turning to me, the sergeant asked: ‘How long’s he been lodging here, sir?’
I informed him Yusuf had only been with us for a month and he was one of hundreds of immigrants who were working at the farm.
‘Yes. They’re mainly Romanians and Bulgarians. He doesn’t look like one of them,’ the sergeant declared.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘He’s actually from Eritrea.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, I don’t think I need take up any more of your time at this stage. This is an ongoing investigation.’
I recalled seeing how heartbroken Marion Rigden had been at the hospital and on her return home alone to her house the evening before. I turned to the sergeant.
‘Have the police got any idea what happened?’ I asked.
‘Well, at the moment, it’s being treated as a suspicious death,’ he said. ‘But there seems to be some money missing. We’re awaiting the results of a post mortem. It could turn into a murder inquiry, but it’s too early to say that, so please keep that under your hat. Bye for now.’
He then opened the front door and walked off down the drive.
All three of us returned slowly to the living-room. I slumped down into our brown leather settee. I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the beige carpet. I had been amazed to hear our neighbour Stephen might have been the victim of a murderer and the motive might have involved the couple’s life savings.
Naturally, it had been surprising to hear they kept such a large sum of money in their home. This, to my mind, had been foolish. I was entirely aware elderly people mistrusted banks - even more so since the financial crisis of 2008 - but I felt it had been unwise to stash so much money away at home.
Nonetheless, I had every sympathy for Marion Rigden, who had lost her husband in such appalling circumstances and presumably would now face additional hardship in paying for his funeral.
Who could have carried out such a crime in our idyllic country village? The most likely explanation was an opportunistic thief had been prowling round and noticed easy rear access to the Rigdens’ house. Believing the house to be empty, they had smashed the pane in the conservatory door and quickly found the money - presumably hidden somewhere in the garden room.
Then, to their astonishment, old man Rigden had confronted them. There had been a fight. Our neighbour had been struck on the head and, being elderly and frail, had succumbed to his fate.
In the past, I had taken a keen interest in the subject of rural crime. A policeman had once informed me that, despite a popular misconception burglars were older folk, in reality they were often young - perhaps teenagers or young men in their early twenties. They often acted on a whim after a long lunchtime drinking session had provided them with ‘Dutch courage.’
The young criminals preferred to target premises where they could arrive unnoticed, make an easy entry and make an easy departure. Acres of farmland lay behind our homes, which provided a simple escape route if one were needed.
Burglaries rose in the summer as windows were often left open - another attraction for opportunistic thieves.
‘Yes, that’s how it must’ve been,’ I told myself.
7
The autumn term began on Monday, September the seventh. I was rushing around the whole week like a deranged city trader after a stock market crash, trying to organise activities for the one hundred and eighty new Year Seven pupils starting their secondary education.
It was also a critical week at the farm. Members of the workforce, including Yusuf, were being transferred to picking apples for the first time.
Within a few days, I was as exhausted as our lodger had been during his very first week filling boxes.
But, on the Thursday of that week, he was waiting eagerly outside the front door for me as the Mondeo trundled up the drive after work. He was sitting on his favourite wicker chair and was sunning himself next to the bay window.
‘I’m wanting a car,’ he informed me. ‘I have licence - look.’
He produced a shabby driving licence issued in East Africa which I doubted was legal for use when driving in England.
By this time, he was regularly paying us thirty pounds a week towards his food and electricity, but he informed me he had been saving all the rest of his earnings of more than £250 a week, after deductions.
Someone had informed him there was a blue Ford Fiesta on sale for £525. It was fifteen miles away. Would I accompany him and give him advice?
Not only was I weary after having to deal all day with dozens of fresh-faced, excitable Year Seven pupils. I seriously doubted whether he would be able to afford the huge amount of money required to insure a car.
But Yusuf was almost like a man bewitched by a black magic spell. For ten minutes, he begged me to drive him to see this vehicle, which had a ‘mere’ seventy thousand miles on the milometer and upon which he had set his heart.
In the end, I had to promise to take him to see the vehicle the following day. It was the only way I could calm him down and see my way to getting past him and into the house.
Once inside, I quickly phoned my car insurance company and went onto comparison websites. As I had suspected, the companies would only provide insurance cover for a hefty fee.
As I tried to explain to Yusuf, he was an Eritrean. He was only twenty-three. His employment record amounted to three weeks as a fruit picker. He didn’t have a full UK driving licence. The details did not make impressive reading for the underwriters.
Most of the companies would have wanted him to pay his whole annual premium in advance - and the cheapest I could find was £840 just for third party, fire an
d theft cover. If he insisted on paying his premiums monthly, each instalment would cost him something like £170.
It took a while, but I managed to convince him the cost of the insurance made it impractical for him to get behind the wheel. When he finally realised the full implications, he gesticulated wildly with both his hands.
‘Too much!’ he declared. ‘Too much!’
It was a shame. For the moment at least, he would have to get around on just two wheels.
However, this brief episode in our lives sent us an important message. It showed our guest had gained in confidence and was finding the urge to become more independent.
Over the past few days, I had become increasingly puzzled about how poor Stephen could have met his death. One aspect of the whole conundrum stood out in my mind: Was it just coincidence he was found severely injured among broken glass at around the same time Yusuf was discovered with a cut finger?
I am afraid to say, I was now beginning to wonder whether Yusuf could have been involved. Perhaps Anne had been right to express misgivings, I told myself. We did not really know about our stowaway’s past. Was it possible the Eritrean was lying to us? Was it possible that his finger had not been cut while pruning, that he had intruded into our neighbour’s back garden and that he had injured himself while smashing the conservatory door?
I tried to dismiss the whole idea from my mind. But, as time passed, I had to admit it was one possible explanation - one of many - as to how our neighbour had been injured and, ultimately, died. To support the theory, Yusuf had accumulated some savings. He was keen to buy a car. Had he also stolen Stephen’s money? Surely not.
That evening, after Yusuf had left the house and had retired to the motor-home, I discussed my thoughts with Anne. She shook her head, saying: ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I said it was possible he might be a criminal.’
‘Perhaps we’ve been foolish after all,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should’ve called the police the moment we found him.’ I began to realise that, if Yusuf had had anything to do with Stephen’s death, he could strike again. Surely our lives could not be at risk from him, could they?
