by Tony Bassett
‘Of course, it is,’ I insisted. ‘You’ve made such a success of your time in England. Keep your chin up. This won’t be for long. Mrs Carslake’s working her socks off for you. She’s also using a private detective. You’ll be out of here in no time.’
‘I’m hoping, Bob. I’m hoping.’ With glistening eyes, he asked: ‘How’s Fiesta?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Anne. ‘He brought a field mouse into the house two days ago. It was barely alive. I tried to catch Fiesta, but he ran away. I found the mouse later. It was dead.’
‘Fiesta can be naughty,’ Yusuf acknowledged. ‘I miss him so much. I have his pictures on my wall. Kristina’s been here.’
‘Kristina’s been to see you at last?’
‘Yes, she came on Wednesday. She didn’t stay long. She doesn’t like me being in here. ‘
Something about these words took Anne by surprise. She asked Yusuf: ‘Surely she doesn’t doubt you?’
‘She says I’m not guilty,’ Yusuf said. ‘But I can see in her eyes she’s not certain. She’s just a young girl from a poor Romanian family. She hasn’t got much thought of the world.’
‘You mean knowledge of the world.’
‘Yes,’ continued Yusuf. ‘Knowledge of the world.’
Ann asked: ‘Is she going to visit you again?’
‘She said she would. Anne, I have this letter. I show it to you.’
Yusuf took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. One of the warders noticed his action and walked towards them, eyeing his every movement. He handed the letter to Anne. The warder approached them. He took the letter from Anne and glanced at it. It met with his approval. He handed it back to Anne without a word.
The letter, from Janice Carslake, simply informed Yusuf a preliminary hearing in front of a judge had been booked for November the thirtieth, which was in nine days’ time.
‘What’s it meaning?’ he asked.
‘It means things are moving onto the next stage in the legal process,’ said Anne, who had been reading books about court procedures. ‘The lawyers meet at the Crown Court. You and Mrs Carslake’ll be there. A timetable is agreed.’
‘What does this mean -- a timetable?’
‘It means times and dates are arranged. The prosecution and defence have to provide their evidence by a certain date. Try not to worry. This day, the last Monday in November, could be the day we get you freed.’
‘I’m hoping, Anne,’ he said. ‘To go on - it’s hard.’
33
It was five o’clock on Sunday evening. As we drove to Summoners Close on what I still regarded as a hare-brained venture, I noticed some families must have spent the weekend festooning their homes with Christmas lights.
Their colourful handiwork shone out from among the drab streets of modern red-brick houses built in the 1970s -- little havens of light amid the winter gloom.
After twenty-five minutes, we arrived near the Bennetts’ home, number forty-one, an address we had found through a library search of the electoral roll. I parked a few yards away, round the corner in the next street.
The semi-detached house was deserted. No lights were on and no car was outside. It appeared we were in luck, if that is an appropriate word to use in the circumstances.
I asked myself: Are we going mad? We are planning to break into somebody’s house because of an inkling one of two brothers may have murdered an accounts supervisor. Had we finally lost our minds?
I made it clear from the outset I would not be venturing inside myself. I had too much to lose - my job as a teacher, for one thing. My salary was our main means of financial support. If I lost that, through some madcap scheme, our lives could be ruined. However cowardly my attitude appeared, I was not prepared to trespass inside someone else’s property. I was, though, prepared to keep watch outside for Anne.
Our first step was to ring the doorbell and check whether any occupant was inside the house. We walked the short distance to the white front door, past the small front garden laid to lawn. I pressed the doorbell. We waited for three minutes.
If anyone had come to the door, I would have used the excuse I believed a child’s ball might have landed in their garden. The absence of any child at my side might have stretched the imagination of any householder, but it was the best possible answer I could devise. Fortunately, there appeared to be no one in.
Anne wondered whether people still kept a spare door key under a flowerpot or beneath the doormat. We checked, just in case, but it seems people don’t do that anymore.
She did become excited though at spotting a mountain bike at the end of an alley by the side of the house. She ran down the passage and examined its tread under the light of a torch.
‘Bob!’ she said quietly. ‘It looks like the same tyre pattern as at the cottage.’ I ran after her. I had to agree. The front tyre appeared to have the same range of different-sized rubber nodules. There were also clear signs the bike had recently been ridden through mud. She wheeled it a few metres along the alley. It made a regular squeaking noise as if it urgently needed lubricating. We looked at each other without a word being spoken. We were instantly reminded of the words of old Mr Tolhurst.
‘I’ve got to get in,’ she whispered.
‘Count me out. But I’ll keep cavey,’ I replied.
Anne, who was wearing a grey pullover and blue jeans, had thoughtfully planned for the event. She had brought with her, in a black council refuse sack: her torch; a three-foot-long stick with a wire loop attached to the end for opening windows; a pair of thick gloves; some clean plastic carrier bags in which to place any evidence; and a navy-blue beany hat to cover her head. She had also brought her mobile phone so I could alert her to anyone’s sudden arrival.
‘Did they teach you all this in the Girl Guides?’ I joked.
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ she said. ‘This has just got to be done. Come on. No more talking.’
I waited by the front door in case anyone came while Anne walked round to the back of the house, looking for any open windows.
As she had half expected, a fanlight window on the ground floor at the rear of the house had been left partly open.
She hauled a green metal garden chair over to the window, clambered up and fully opened this fan light window. Then she deftly poked her stick through and caught the handle of the main side-hung casement window with the wire loop. She eased the handle up and then pulled the window back.
Her years of cycling and keep-fit classes had kept her body supple. With just a small amount of effort, Anne -- who was clutching her black bag -- was able to kneel on the worktop next to the sink, crawl through the opening and enter the kitchen.
As I watched through a side window, I noticed Anne put her bag down on the kitchen floor. Gingerly, by the light of the torch, she crept into the spacious living-room. She appeared unimpressed by its plain, light-green walls and beige, mottled carpet. The state of the room, she told me later, reminded her of a disorderly menswear department at the height of the January sales.
Coats and jackets were strewn all round the room. A mobile phone and a portable lantern rested on a coffee table, alongside books on caving and engineering projects. A pair of fell boots, a miniature stove, two caving helmets and a sleeping bag were stacked next to a folded wire caving ladder by the front door. A tablet computer, some DVDs and some magazines had been tossed onto the floral-patterned three-seater settee.
She stopped still in her tracks for a moment. We could hear the sound of a car approaching. Light from the vehicle flashed around the room. Were the Bennetts returning? She stood for what felt like an eternity behind the white net curtains in the bay window, peering out into the darkness. After a while, we realised the driver had parked and gone into another house in the close.
Returning to her task, she began to rummage through the pile by
the door. Then, at last, she realised her efforts had not been in vain. Lying on the floor beside a pile of neatly-folded clothes she spotted somebody’s right shoe. Examining it under the torchlight, she discovered it was a size twelve walking shoe made from brown leather. On its sole, trapped among the narrow grooves, there were tiny fragments of glass.
The left shoe, which she found beneath a black coat nearby, was free of fragments. She placed the first shoe in one of the carrier bags. Then she made an even more crucial discovery - a black cotton balaclava, folded in two among a batch of outdoor clothing, and a pair of black leather gloves.
‘I immediately thought these could’ve been used at Lilac Cottage,’ she told me later.
Anne was excited, but also nervous. She realised there might well be other important finds to be made. But, at the same time, she was concerned she should preserve the evidence she had already obtained.
She cautiously opened the front door in the hope of finding me. At first I was not to be seen. I had become worried I might be spotted by residents. When the neighbour had driven up, I had slipped behind some bushes. I was still there, partly concealed by leaves and branches, when Anne emerged.
After a few seconds, she saw me. She handed me two carrier bags - one containing the shoe and one with the balaclava and gloves.
‘Put them in the car boot and then come back,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve got to go back in.’
Anne, who had left the front door ajar, then returned to the living-room, where she found several more pairs of footwear. But this time they were all size tens. These included two pairs of size ten leather boots - similar to fell boots - which Anne realised may have been used for caving. They most likely belonged to Neil Bennett, she thought. Even if they in fact belonged to Luke, she would have expected the twins to have similarly-sized feet.
The mystery was deepening. She then found Army correspondence relating to a British soldier who had been born in Dresden in 1984.
She spent a few minutes reading through the letters. Then headlights flashed around the room. Another car had arrived in the close. Anne’s mobile phone rang out as I tried to warn her.
Anne knew it was time to leave. She quickly pocketed the letters and hurried to the door.
As she did so, a man parked a small silver Toyota Aygo directly outside. He stepped onto the pavement. He walked up the concrete path towards the house. It was Luke Bennett.
34
The home owner probably wondered at first whether his imagination was playing tricks. He had no doubt spotted rays of light from Anne’s torch beam darting across his bay window.
Someone - an intruder - was inside his house. Any fear he might have had of the unknown was quickly overtaken by rage - anger that someone appeared to have breached his privacy and broken into his domain. He stormed up the path and was shocked to find his front door open. His fears were confirmed. Someone had got inside.
Then he spotted Anne in the shadows, standing in the living-room close to the door.
‘Who in God’s name are you?’ he demanded.
‘I can explain,’ said Anne, who felt like a startled hare caught in the headlights of a car. ‘I’ve just realised I’m in the wrong house. This is 41 Summoners Close, isn’t it? I’m meant to be at 41 Summoners Gardens.’
She was unsure of the man’s identity. She knew from all her research the house belonged to Luke Bennett. But his brother Neil also lived there - and the pair looked exactly alike. Was it Luke? Or was it Neil?
As I watched and listened in trepidation from my hiding place in the nearby bushes, events took an even more disastrous turn. Luke had noticed the pile of belongings next to the door had been disturbed.
‘You’ve been going through our things!’ he declared. As he stood defiantly in the doorway, blocking her exit, he took out his mobile phone and dialled 999.
When a distant voice asked which service he required, he announced: ‘Police!’ Seconds later his call was diverted to a police operator who asked the nature of his inquiry.
‘I’ve been burgled. The woman’s still here. If you come straight away, you’ll catch her,’ he said. ‘Yes, 41 Summoners Close, St Stephens, Canterbury. No, Summoners Close. That’s it. You will? Fine. Thank you.’
Anne moved towards the door in an effort to squeeze past him, but Luke, who I later discovered was normally an amiable man with a relaxed approach to life, was determined to use his body to impede any escape attempt by her.
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ he said. ‘You’re staying here till the police arrive. I want this sorted out properly.’
I was in a quandary. Should I step forward and tackle him? I was averse to the use of violence, particularly after my unsuccessful brush with the law at the London march. Imaginary newspaper headlines flashed before me: ‘Burglary plot teacher thumped homeowner’ and ‘Teacher on assault charge.’ But my wife was in trouble. Surely I had a duty to assist her? I decided, if the police came, they would certainly find me. My best course of action was to emerge now, in my wife’s time of need. I could attempt to divert Luke’s attention, thereby giving Anne a possible chance to flee.
‘Look, we can explain everything,’ I said loudly, stepping out of the bushes. My idea of surprising him appeared to work to begin with. Luke spun round.
‘So there’s two of you. Yeah?’ said Luke, who regularly trained in a gym. ‘Don’t try anything with me.’
I gesticulated for Anne to use this moment to escape, but it was no use. She tried to slip past him as he was momentarily distracted. But he soon recognised her game plan. He swiftly grabbed her arm as she tried to run and refused to let go.
‘What are you looking for? We’ve got no money. I suppose you just take anything you can and sell it,’ he sneered.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ she said out of the blue. ‘Why was there a balaclava in your living-room?’
‘A what?’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and, in any case, what bloody business is it of yours?’
The minutes passed. I tried to placate him. We had made a simple mistake. We were in the wrong street. If he let Anne go, we would apologise for our error and be on our way.
As I spoke, I could faintly hear the wail of a police siren in the distance. The sound drew nearer and nearer. Finally, a blue light could be seen among the neighbouring trees and houses. The police had arrived.
Two officers leaped out of their vehicle.
‘Right, what’s happening? Who called us?’ asked the first constable to stride up the path.
‘It was me,’ said Luke.
‘And your name, sir?’
‘Luke Bennett. I live here. I caught these two breaking in,’ said the aggrieved householder.
‘Breaking in or trying to break in?’
‘This woman was inside my house when I arrived. This man was hiding in the bushes.’
‘If this guy would let go of me, I can explain,’ Anne insisted. ‘We’re meant to be in Summoners Gardens. Right number, wrong street.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Luke. ‘She’s been rummaging through my things.’
‘I’m not sure there is a Summoners Gardens in Canterbury. How did you get inside anyway?’ the officer demanded of Anne while he removed a notebook from his top pocket.
‘It’s a long story,’ she replied.
‘Sounds like one you’d better tell us down the station,’ he said as he began taking notes with a pen. Turning to me, the officer asked: ‘And what about you, sir?’
‘I’ve travelled here with my wife. As she just told you, we’ve just made an honest mistake.’
The officer did not seem to believe our presence at the house had been the result of an error. After writing down our names, ages and address, he told us we were both under arrest on suspicion of having been involved in a burglary.
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He said: ‘You don’t have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you don’t mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
We both declined to comment. ‘Right,’ he said. As his pen quivered across a page in his notebook, he declared: ‘Both suspects made no reply.’
A second police car roared into the close and parked nearby.
The constable announced: ‘You two are coming with us. Mr Bennett, I’ll take a brief statement from you, sir, if you don’t mind.’
We were handcuffed, each led into separate cars and, after the statement had been taken from Luke Bennett, we were driven away. I imagined the police wanted to keep us apart for good reason, although I could not appreciate why at the time. I suppose, if we were both in the same vehicle, we might make a joint escape attempt.
My feelings were at a low ebb. I had tried to dissuade Anne from going to the house. It gave me little satisfaction to say my attitude towards the whole venture had been vindicated.
Anne, however, did not share my misgivings. Even though we were under arrest, she believed the evening’s work had been totally worthwhile. She believed she was close to unmasking the real killer of Lucas Sharp.
35
It had been without a doubt one of the worst times of my life. I had been forced to sleep on a bed in a draughty cell at Canterbury police station. It was possibly the same cell Yusuf had occupied just twelve days before. And for what? Because I had allowed my well-intentioned wife to set out on an ill-judged errand.
The more I considered our plight the more I regretted having agreed to it. However, Anne was not a woman who could be easily dissuaded from a course of action once she had set her heart upon it. I recalled someone had once told me you can’t bring a drifting boat back to harbour till the storm abates. I had begun to understand what that meant.
The cell measured only eight feet by eleven feet. I had slept fitfully on the hard mattress with just a single pillow to rest my head upon. My neck was aching.
