by Tony Bassett
Most surprising for us was to see Sergeant Kirwan, the tall, slightly-overweight detective who had made inquiries into Stephen’s death. We were impressed he had made an effort to attend.
Minutes after we sat in a pew a few rows back, Stephen’s coffin was brought inside by four burly undertakers. Then the vicar, the Rev Tim Maxwell-Stephens, welcomed us and we all sang Abide With Me.
Although we were few in number, the sound of our singing filled the church - thanks mainly to the loud voice of the vicar and the rousing support from the seven undertakers standing at the back.
The minister gave a comprehensive eulogy, describing the struggle Stephen’s family had faced raising their son in post-war Britain, his early working career as a crewman on cross-Channel ferries and his final years running his own building company.
Stephen had been an enthusiastic golfer and bridge player who had doted upon his son and three grandchildren, he said.
‘What his friends also remember is Stephen’s great sense of humour,’ the vicar said. ‘He was at a concert once when a fellow guest loudly criticised one of the performers, saying: ‘Whatever happened to melody?’ In a flash, Stephen called out: “She’s working on the checkout at Tesco’s!”’
The vicar said another favourite joke of Stephen’s concerned a man who appeared before a judge on a burglary charge.
‘The defendant claimed he could not have committed the crime because, at the time, he was driving a coach of shoe repairers from Timpson on their annual outing to Margate. The judge said: “I don’t believe your story for a minute. It sounds like a load of cobblers.”’
The vicar added: ‘Stephen was often the life and soul of the party. He’ll never be forgotten. Now let us raise our voices in his memory as we sing together Amazing Grace : How sweet the sound.’
After Stephen’s burial in a churchyard plot close to open fields, Sergeant Kirwan walked over to us.
‘I don’t know whether you remember me,’ he said. ‘Graham Kirwan, Kent Police.’
‘Yes, of course we remember you,’ I said at once. ‘You were investigating Stephen’s death.’
‘I wonder if I could just jot down your phone numbers,’ he said rather enigmatically. ‘I’m not sure I kept them.’
‘Here you are, sergeant,’ said Anne. ‘Give me your notebook. I’ll write them down. It’ll be easier if I do it.’ She scribbled down our landline and mobile phone numbers.
‘Anything we can do to help the police,’ she said.
‘That’s cool,’ he said, recovering his notebook from her. ‘I might be needing to contact you over the next few days.’
On saying that, he walked slowly back towards the main entrance, stopping only briefly to exchange words with Marion and Michael Rigden.
‘I wonder what he’d want to talk to us about,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘I thought all the business about Stephen’s death was finished with.’
Later that day, Anne received a surprise phone call from Gemma Sharp.
‘Listen, Anne,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you. You’re a very understanding person. D’you have an hour to come over for a chat?’
‘Of course, I do. I’m free now. Shall I pop round?’
‘Yes,’ said Gemma.
‘All right,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour. Is it all right if Bob comes as well? He’s got the day off.’
‘Yes, that’s fine. It’ll be good to see you both.’
Anne changed out of the formal clothes she had worn for the funeral service into a blue patterned dress and fawn coat. I exchanged my white shirt and grey suit for a red check shirt and blue jeans. Then we drove over to the Sharps’ two-bedroom, ground-floor flat which consisted of the lower floor of a red-brick semi-detached house.
As we travelled, she reminisced with me about the times she and Gemma had spent together in years gone by - the visits to each other’s homes while growing up, the evenings spent listening to music together and the early boyfriends they had known. Marriage had come along for them both and, somehow, sadly, they had lost touch.
Now, at this time of tragedy, events were drawing them back together again.
As I locked the car and we walked towards the flat, I noticed the unpruned roses struggling to thrive in the small front garden next to an unkempt lawn.
Gemma, who was red-eyed and wearing a pair of frayed blue jeans and turquoise blouse, answered the door quickly. She gave Anne a hug and invited us into the light, airy hallway. We then followed her into the main living-room.
She made us some tea and we settled down on a fawn-coloured settee amid the cream-coloured walls.
‘I was awfully sorry to hear about Lucas,’ said Anne.
‘Yes, well,’ said Gemma, who was clutching a box of paper tissues. ‘I’ve had Detective Inspector Woods here, asking all sorts of questions. Did you know Lucas was murdered?’
Anne hesitated, looking towards me.
‘Er... we’d heard something about that,’ she mumbled. ’We couldn’t believe it.’
‘All they’ve told me is there was this explosion in the kitchen and he died in seconds - which, I suppose, is some blessing,’ said Gemma. ‘They think the killer afterwards started a fire in the hope of destroying the evidence.’
‘It’s so dreadful!’ said Anne, moving towards her friend and offering her a hug. ‘Who on earth would want to harm your husband?’
‘Well, I’m afraid he wasn’t flavour of the month with a lot of people. Trouble used to follow him around. He owed money. He got the sack from work. On top of it all, he’s been having an affair.’
‘You’ve gone through a lot.’
‘Yes, I don’t know if you know a Rosie Bennett?’
‘No, I can’t say I do.’
‘He was meant to be meeting the scheming bitch in Chivingden the night he was killed. I call her the blonde floozie. They’d been sending each other emails. The people at the farm have been very good. They’ve set up a fund for me and the kids. Should be enough to pay for the funeral.’
Anne sipped her tea and pondered for a moment. Then she said: ‘You can make a claim for compensation from the Victims’ Commissioner. I was reading about it. You can get up to £11,000.’
‘I might do that. I’ve got to do something. Of course, the children have been crying for him,’ said Gemma. ‘Listen, Anne. There’s something you might be able to help me with. D’you know what happened in Lucas’s last week at work? Because you work at the farm, I thought you might know more than me. I’ve been told he was in trouble over some missing money.’
‘Well, I’m only there part-time,’ said Anne. ‘But, funnily enough, we know the lad Lucas accused of taking it.’
‘What - you mean the foreign bloke, Yusuf?’
I interrupted to tell Gemma: ‘Yes. He lodged with us for a short time. He told us the whole story. Lucas accused Yusuf of taking the money, but the farm investigated and Lucas eventually confessed to it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Gemma. ‘Well, thanks for telling me. Are you sure he confessed? Sounds more like a mix-up at the bank. I knew some of that, but it’s good to hear the whole story from a different viewpoint.’
Without explanation, Gemma suddenly rose to her feet. She left the room and returned three minutes later. She handed Anne a piece of paper. I looked over Anne’s shoulder as she cautiously unfolded it. We began reading it together. It was a love letter from Rosie Bennett.
16
It was a strange feeling to read a love letter sent to Lucas Sharp just days before he was murdered. Rosie Bennett’s email said:
‘My dearest darling Lucas. I’ve missed you so much since we last met at your aunt’s cottage. It’s such a shame we can’t see more of each other. But don’t worry. Things are gonna change. A time will come soon whe
n we’ll be able to spend more time together.
‘It was so lovely meeting you at the weekend. I’ve never made love on a four-poster bed before. It was so thoughtful of you to put that chilled bottle of Chablis and wine glasses on the bedside cabinet.
‘Your such a caring lover. You’ve took me to a few places. We’ve been in your car, in a caravan and in a hayloft. But your aunt’s four-poster easily beats the lot!
‘I’ll see you on Bonfire Night at seven, but I won’t be able to meet up with you on Sunday the twenty-second because my ex is going off caving in Somerset and I’ve got to have the kids.
‘I hope you’ve done nothing about that plan you were talking about. You were moaning about the office messenger being a little creep and you owed Knight a grand. Do you remember? You said : two birds, one stone. I’ve been thinking about what you said and I’m worried you might do something silly. Please be careful, darling. I have spent my life looking for you. I don’t want to lose you now.
‘Can’t wait for Bonfire Night! All my love, Rosie. PS. You’re right. I can’t spell that posh word for caver. I looked it up online. It’s SPELEOLOGIST!!!’
Anne put the email print-out on the table, but Gemma stayed her hand.
‘You can keep it. I don’t want the bloody thing,’ she declared.
‘Poor you, finding that,’ said Anne, as she picked up the letter and placed it in her handbag. ‘Didn’t he have any shame?’
‘He rushed out the other evening without closing down his laptop properly and I found it among his emails,’ said Gemma, tearfully. ‘Not a word of a lie -- I wasn’t snooping. It was just there. So I printed it out. I’m sure any woman would have done the same.’
A thought suddenly occurred to me. If Gemma had come across this love letter with so little trouble, it would surely have been a simple matter for someone else to intercept the letter - perhaps at Rosie Bennett’s home. I thought I might mention this to Anne later.
My wife had been shocked at reading her friend’s letter and realised the trauma that details of the blatant affair had caused Gemma. She quickly resolved to change the subject. As Gemma handed tea round, my wife asked: ‘What did the inspector want to know?’
‘He asked when I last saw Lucas. It was half-past nine on the morning of November the fifth. Lucas told me he was going to work, but we know he’d been sacked - so he couldn’t have gone there. The copper also asked about whether I knew the cottage. I said I knew it because it was his aunt’s place and I’ve been there with the kids a few times. Then he wanted to know if anyone had a reason to kill Lucas. I told him Lucas had a knack of putting people’s noses out of joint, but I couldn’t think of anyone who wanted to end his life.’
Sensing she was about to cry, she reached forward to a small table in front of her, where she had placed the box of tissues.
‘I know he could be a bastard, but I loved him, Gem,’ she said amid tears.
‘Of course, you did,’ said Anne, putting her arm round her shoulder to comfort her.
‘Look, I know this journalist called Prunella. She’d love to talk to you,’ said Anne. ‘We need to find out who killed Lucas. You need to get it in the papers.’
‘D’you think so, Anne?’
‘We need as much publicity as possible so that anyone with information is encouraged to come forward.’
‘Yeah? All right. Prunella, you say? Give her my number, or, better still, ask her to call round here. I was telling you about the copper, wasn’t I? He was very interested when I mentioned the fireworks through the letterbox.’
‘Someone pushed lit fireworks through your front door?’ Anne asked.
‘Yeah. A few nights ago. It was lucky we was in. I stamped them out on the hall carpet. Not much damage. We’ve been getting funny phone calls too. You know, silent ones.’
‘No words, no threats?’
‘That’s right. Just nothing. Silence. A bit worrying if I’m here on me own with the kids.’
Just then, while I had been half-listening to the conversation, I glanced up and began studying two large colour photographs on the wall above the fireplace. Each one showed an amateur football team.
‘May I?’ I asked Gemma respectfully.
‘Go ahead. See if you can spot Lucas.’ I carefully cast my eyes over the ranks of players.
‘Here and, let me see, here?’ I said.
‘That’s right. He played for Broad Oak. He was captain in the second picture. They said he was a useful little player. Scored a few goals. Pity he packed it in. He had to. He got in a row with the manager. Funny you being interested in that picture. The inspector kept looking at it too. He said they’re determined to catch the killer before he kills again.’
‘Does the policeman think he’ll strike again?’ asked Anne.
‘Well, the inspector said the case was at an early stage and they didn’t know precisely what they’re dealing with. Then he turned around and said: “Whoever did this to your husband appears to be a very cold, calculating person.” There was a long pause. Then he goes: “You never know. He may strike again.”
On the morning of Saturday, November the seventh, Prunella Ball called round to see us on her way back from a trip to Canterbury police station. She wanted to thank us for preparing the way for an interview with Gemma Sharp, whom she was planning to visit later in the day. She also brought us up to date with details of the police inquiries.
‘They’ve discovered a warehouse in Cranbrook which was used to store loads of fireworks got broken into last month,’ she told Anne. ‘Kent and Sussex Business Club kept them there, ready for a big display. More than £1,000 worth were stolen. Catherine wheels and artillery shells reserved for a display in Canterbury were among the haul. The club secretary told police he has heard a rumour they were being offered for sale in pubs and clubs. The mortar that killed Lucas Sharp was a Howling Horace Artillery Shell. Six of those were among the batch stolen. My friend Graham found all this out. He also went round to Finch & Davies, where he asked questions about the row between Sharp and your ex-lodger.
‘He has been finding out about the chloroform that was kept at the farm and was asking the farm bosses about a GPS tracking device that might’ve been delivered there.’
Anne became interested to hear about a tracking device. Prunella disclosed that one had been found attached to Sharp’s car. It was thought the murderer might have used it to follow the victim to Lilac Cottage.
Prunella continued: ‘The device was ordered online and sent at the end of October to the farm’s post-room. No one at the company appears to remember anything about it, but when they checked their register of volatile poisons they found the last person to obtain a five-hundred-millilitre bottle of chloroform was your ex-lodger.’
‘Yusuf?’ said Anne in amazement.
‘Yes,’ said Prunella. ‘Anyway, things don’t look good for your friend because Ted Moreton has now told police about the fight at the Pilgrim’s Rest pub. Ted told him - I’ve got a shorthand note of it here: “Yusuf threw Lucas Sharp against the wall and called him a bastard. Sharp told him to go back to herding camels. Fists were flying. It was quite a punch-up. I had to pull them apart. Then Yusuf screamed: ‘Tell any more lies and I will kill you.’’’
‘Yusuf was extremely upset and a little drunk. I’m sure they were just empty words,’ said Anne.
‘Well, Graham then went to speak to Yusuf himself, He was in his caravan as it was lunchtime. Graham recognised him because he met him a few weeks ago, just after your neighbour’s death.’
‘That’s right,’ Anne agreed.
‘Well, Yusuf denied everything. He didn’t know Lilac Cottage or Sharp’s flat in Broad Oak’
‘That’s right,’ said Anne. ‘He spends all his time at the farm. He hardly ever stops working.’
‘Well,’ Prunella continued.
‘Your Yusuf claimed he didn’t threaten to kill Sharp and said he needed the chloroform to deal with a rat problem.
‘But then Graham searched Yusuf’s caravan and was he in for a surprise! He came upon a sight that shocked him to the core. Sitting upright, on a sofa, was the effigy of a man. It had been made largely from straw with the aim it should be perched on top of a bonfire. The dummy was dressed in blue jeans, a blue check shirt and a small brown jacket - just like Sharp’s clothes. The head had been cleverly crafted from papier mache and sculpted with considerable skill to follow the contours and structure of the face and head.
‘The facial features had been painted in flesh-coloured pink and topped with short, brown imitation hair. A firework had been stuffed into the shoulder. It was an exact likeness of the man in a photograph Inspector Woods had shown the sergeant -- the murder victim Lucas Sharp.’
17
After Prunella Ball had said goodbye and walked away down the drive, we closed the front door and stood staring at each other for several seconds.
Why did Yusuf have an effigy of Lucas Sharp in his caravan? And why was a firework attached to its shoulder? Furthermore, why had one of the detectives from the murder investigation team wasted valuable time seeking out Yusuf to interview?
I followed Anne into the living-room. We sat down for a few minutes, mulling over what Prunella had told us.
‘Look, he shares the caravan with his three friends,’ I said. ‘Any one of them could have made the dummy, intending for it to be placed on a bonfire. It’s probably got nothing to do with the murder. And it’s only Graham Kirwan’s personal opinion that it looked like Sharp. ‘
‘Yes,’ said Anne, softly. ‘Maybe it was just produced as a bit of fun to cheer Yusuf up over the way Sharp had treated him.’
I continued: “It’s really puzzling the sergeant should go to the trouble of finding Yusuf’s caravan and interviewing him.’
‘The police are probably just trying to piece together how Lucas spent his final day. D’you remember what Prunella told me on the phone? The inspector’s method is to focus on a victim’s life. They are probably just trying to reconstruct in fine detail the final hours of Sharp’s time on earth.’
