The Freeman Files Series Box Set

by Ted Tayler

  Daphne noticed the occasional Polish barmaid in the Waggon & Horses, and a girl from the Balkans often begged on the High Street, with her three kids in tow. That was the sum of it. It just went to show. The grass wasn’t always greener on the other side.

  The first response from her advert came from the caretaker at the local primary school. They wanted someone for an hour every weekday in term time. That little job kept her busy from three o’clock to four in the afternoon. Then, one evening, she received a phone call from a lady with a very posh voice.

  “Mrs Tolliver, I presume?”

  Daphne stood. She wasn’t sure why, but lounging in the armchair didn’t seem right. The woman sounded positively regal.

  “Yes, that’s me,” replied Daphne, shunning the urge to curtsey.

  “Joyce Pemberton-Smythe speaking,”

  Joyce was the wife of the local MP. Leonard Pemberton-Smythe currently owned the large Manor House that stood a mile out of town on Lowden Hill, a local beauty spot. Her husband benefited from the presumed cessation of gang warfare after multiple deaths in the town in 2001. The murder of Councillor James Crook also helped his cause. Despite Labour governing the country, pockets of the West Country remained staunchly Conservative. The other parties edged closer to him in that 2001 election, but Pemberton-Smythe survived by the skin of his teeth.

  As campaigning for the 2005 General Election began, his much-trumpeted hard-line approach found ready support in the constituency. He promised to take up the cudgels James Crook had relinquished. His constituents confirmed the tide was turning against Labour, and Leonard won with an increased majority.

  Like most politicians, he couldn’t stop himself from getting his name and face in the media. As someone hot on crime and big on family values, Leonard was invited onto every relevant TV programme and irrelevant ones too.

  His wife Joyce explained what Daphne’s duties involved, subject to acceptable references. She added that Leonard owned a flat in London where he stayed while the House was sitting. He only returned to the bosom of his family at the weekend. When not required at Westminster in the summer recess, they collected their two sons from boarding school and spent the holidays at their French home.

  Alright for some, Daphne thought when two weeks later she spotted an article in a weekend supplement. The ‘little place’ in France Joyce referred to turned out to be an eight-bedroomed chateau in fourteen acres of rolling countryside.

  Daphne arranged to visit the Manor for an audience with the lady of the house the morning following that first phone call. She wore her best dress and cleaned her shoes. Daphne presumed the elderly gentleman who answered the front door was the butler. For one moment, Daphne thought he was about to send her to the back of the house, to the servant’s quarters. Crompton, as she learned later, was more of a jack-of-all-trades to the Pemberton-Smythe’s. He allowed himself a brief smile and ushered her into the spacious hallway.

  “Welcome, Mrs Tolliver. Your prospective employer is in the conservatory waiting to serve you coffee. Last door on the right along the corridor. Good luck.”

  Daphne thanked him, trotted down the corridor and tapped on the glazed panel of the door. She could see Joyce Pemberton-Smythe sprawled across a rattan chair, reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. When she heard Daphne’s tentative taps, Joyce looked over her half-moon glasses and invited her in with a desultory wave of a hand.

  When she left thirty minutes later, Daphne had another cleaning job to fill her dwindling spare time and learned more about the occupants of the Manor House. Crompton, who didn’t appear to have a first name, organised visits from gardeners, window cleaners and tree surgeons. He was an excellent chef but had decided that his eyesight wasn’t good enough to cope with the cleaning any longer.

  “We lost a Sevres porcelain vase,” wailed Mrs Pemberton-Smythe, “late eighteenth century. It stood on the mantlepiece in the main hall for decades. Clumsy Crompton flicked his duster a trifle too energetically…”

  “Oh, dear,” Daphne sympathised.

  “Smithereens, darling. Utterly kaput.”

  Daphne promised to take great care with their ornaments. Joyce gave her a look that suggested they were objets d’art, not mere ornaments. Despite that minor hiccup, their conversation flourished. Daphne soon realised the coffee was more for her host’s benefit than a means to put her at her ease. She was sure Joyce suffered from a right royal hangover. As for those references? Joyce couldn’t wait to agree on terms and ring for Crompton to give her new cleaner a quick tour of the building and return her to the front door.

  “We’ll see you next Monday then, Mrs Tolliver,” said Crompton, as they emerged into the sunlight. He walked with her across the patio to the top of the steps to ground level.

  “Call me, Daphne,” she replied.

  “Of course,” he said. Daphne received no offer of a reciprocal change of a name for himself.

  Megan was ecstatic when she learned of Daphne’s new appointment.

  “Look at you,” she chirped, “working at the big house, for the toffs.”

  “It’s too big for them,” Daphne replied, thinking over what she’d seen on her tour with Crompton. “She’s there on her own during the week. He pops in when he feels like it. The boys are away at school during term time. It’s not a real home. They’ve got lots of nice things, but you wouldn’t swap what you and Mick have got for that place.”

  “Their money wouldn’t go amiss, though,” laughed Megan.

  Little more remained to be said. Daphne continued to work at the primary school. She moved on from Emergency Disaster Relief to a local cancer charity housed in the Old Police Station. It wasn’t as stressful. She volunteered several hours a week sorting through donations of quality unwanted goods, pricing them and dressing the window and store displays. Except for the holiday breaks, she had performed her cleaning duties at the Manor House. Now, years later, she wondered how she had the nerve to call herself retired.

  CHAPTER 2

  Bobby barked and interrupted Daphne’s reverie.

  It was one of her younger neighbours revving his car engine. A throaty little number it was too. Her brother-in-law, Mick, said it was all fur coat and no knickers. Quite how that related to a car’s look and its performance, Daphne couldn’t fathom.

  “This won’t do,” she said as she busied herself in the kitchen, “we need to be busy.”

  The sound of cupboard doors opening and a tap running alerted Bobby to mealtime. He padded through to find his food bowl filled with something interesting. As he made short work of its contents, Daphne placed his water bowl beside him.

  She watched her faithful companion check and double-check that both bowls were scrupulously clean. Then he sat and stared at her.

  “Waiting for your treat?” she teased and handed him a dental chew from behind her back.

  That would keep him occupied while she prepared her meal. Her thoughts returned to the enormous lunch awaiting her tomorrow. Tonight, she could make do with the last piece of quiche plus a salad and a slice of crusty bread. That was more than enough.

  The evening proved better than expected as the dark clouds had disappeared. The sun kept its warmth late into the evening in June. It was ideal walking weather; so Daphne checked herself in the hallway mirror. A light jacket and a scarf were what she needed — no point changing again today. Her grey hair was shorter these days and didn’t need much more than a quick brush. She still treated herself to a dab of lipstick each morning; that was her only guilty pleasure these days.

  Daphne’s pink summer blouse and navy blue slacks had seen excellent service over the years, but nobody took much notice of an elderly lady walking her dog. If anybody got a second look, it was Bobby.

  “Bobby?” she called.

  Bobby sighed and left his comfy rug and waddled through from the kitchen to stand beside her, wagging his tail. His mistress hadn’t mentioned ‘walkies’ yet, but surely they should venture out soon?

  Daphne fetched
Bobby’s lead and attached it to his collar. With a final check that her white chiffon scarf was tied neatly and tucked beneath the lapels of her navy blue jacket, she opened the front door and off they went.

  As she left Braemar Terrace, she met the teenage son of Mr and Mrs Brightwell who lived in the end cottage. He was doing wheelies on the pavement. Daphne needed to step into the gateway of his home to avoid getting knocked over.

  “Careful,” she cried at the youngster. Carl Brightwell peered back over his shoulder from under his sky-blue hoodie.

  “Look where you’re going, you old bat,” he shouted as he bounced off the kerb and sped towards the town centre.

  “Charming, Bobby, isn’t he?” muttered Daphne. “Still, we won’t let him spoil our walk, will we?”

  Daphne Tolliver took the footpath across the meadow and climbed the stile that brought her onto Battersby Lane. Bobby struggled with the concept of stiles and merely ducked under the wooden steps and wriggled through. Daphne had to avoid the lead getting tangled. Once completed, they stood on the narrow pavement on the other side.

  Daphne faced two options. They could turn right and make their way across the next two fields. She could let Bobby off the lead there to run free if there were no cows in the field. The farmer knew of the footpath, and an electric fence always kept his herd at least ten to fifteen yards away from any walkers. That wouldn’t have stopped Bobby from haring across to the herd for a closer look. On the other side of those fields lay the main road that led back into town. A well-lit, well-maintained pavement brought them back to Braemar Terrace.

  Her second option was to continue with her original plan. Walk through the woods and thread her way back to the main road via the open grassland of the park. Bobby was soon safely re-attached to his lead. The evening remained warm.

  Daphne sensed someone’s presence in the shadow of the hedge on the other side of the road. They must have walked across the fields opposite and just crossed the stile further up the road.

  Simon Attrill was a big boy, physically, but his size and mental age hadn’t kept pace with one another. That was how Daphne thought of the poor lad. She always chose to think of people in the best light. He was twenty years old, with a mental age that would be stuck permanently at eight. When she started her cleaning job at the primary school, Daphne overheard several small children calling names as they left the playground running helter-skelter for home. They were being nasty to Simon, who was passing by the school gates.

  Simon’s parents didn’t know how vulnerable his name would make him when they had him christened. It was a freak accident on the slide at the park that altered their lives forever. Simon had clambered to the top, and as he waited his turn, he leaned over the side to call out to his best friend as he ran back to the steps for another go. A moment’s loss of concentration and Simon fell to the hard grass surface below, landing on his head.

  “Simple Simon,” the little devils chanted that afternoon outside the school gates. “Simple Simon.”

  The sun disappeared behind a light cloud. Simon’s face lit up when he spotted Bobby, and he ran across the road towards them. It was no surprise that he loved dogs. They were never cruel to him. Simon had heard that Daphne told the headmistress what happened that day. The teacher admonished the children, and their parents received a letter. The kids were even nastier to him after that. He didn’t go into town in the evenings now. Boys like Carl Brightwell did more than call names if they spotted him. They punched and kicked him and stubbed out their cigarettes on the back of his hands.

  “Hello, Simon,” said Daphne.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “We’re heading for the woods, and then we plan to walk back through the park to join up with the main road. Bobby hasn’t been out for a walk today. Too frosty this morning.”

  Simon didn’t hear her. He knelt on the ground with Bobby slobbering over his face.

  “Bobby likes me, doesn’t he?” he asked.

  “He likes everyone who makes a fuss of him,” laughed Daphne. “I’d better get moving. Those clouds are building again. I thought we’d seen the last of the rain for today.”

  “Rain, rain go away,” said Simon.

  The big lad stood by the stile and watched the pair disappear towards the woods.

  Daphne glanced back as they reached the narrow pathway that took them into Lowden Woods.

  Simon Attrill hadn’t moved.

  “Such a shame isn’t it, Bobby,” she said, “not a bad bone in his body. There’s no justice sometimes.”

  Bobby had forgotten Simon already. He strained at his lead as dozens of unfamiliar and exciting scents reached his hyper-sensitive nose.

  The leafy lane burrowed its way through the many acres of well-established oak trees populating the lower reaches of Lowden Hill and weaved through more recently planted beeches and sweet chestnuts. As Daphne and Bobby walked further from the roadway under the overhead canopy of branches in full leaf, the gathering clouds added to the gloom.

  Daphne wasn’t unduly worried. They used this route in the past when time allowed. She had Bobby with her and anyway, there was nobody else in this part of the woods. Ever since they left Battersby Lane, the silence had been deafening.

  Another two hundred yards and they would reach the open ground of the municipal park. No doubt there would be others enjoying the summer evening. Even if they too were keeping a weather eye on those clouds. No cause for concern.

  Bobby stopped dead in his tracks. Was it a strange smell or a noise he didn’t recognise? It certainly unsettled him. Daphne also sensed someone ahead. Not in the lane. They were somewhere to her left. Close by, but hidden from sight. She was sure it was two people. Those weren’t words she could hear. They were more urgent, guttural grunting sounds.

  Daphne couldn’t resist pushing through the undergrowth, even though she dreaded the sight that might confront her. She dragged a reluctant Bobby, who seemed to understand nothing good lay behind those bushes and brambles.

  Meanwhile, in the park, Holly Dean was dealing with her little Princess. They had left her parents’ home on the Greenwood Estate twenty minutes earlier at seven o’clock. The twenty-year-old shop assistant planned a brisk walk around the park with her Bichon Frise puppy before the rain returned. Her little bundle of mischief had done its business. Holly was dutifully dropping the waste bag into the bin by the side of the path when she thought she heard a scream.

  Holly looked around her but couldn’t see anyone in trouble nearby. She saw other people in the park, further away, who now looked in her direction. No doubt they also wondered what they thought they had heard. Holly realised the noise must have come from the woods. She turned towards the tree-lined path and took a few tentative steps, clutching Princess to her chest.

  The rain began to fall once more. Holly hesitated. Should she run home now? It might not have been a genuine scream — just teenagers mucking around.

  The second agonised scream sent shivers down her spine.

  Holly swallowed hard and bravely trotted into the lane. The rain was coming on harder now — a real downpour. The canopy of branches stopped Holly getting drenched, but behind her, she heard the excited shouts of other park visitors as they raced for shelter. At first, she could hear nothing except the storm above.

  Then suddenly there was a noise behind her. Someone dashed from the bushes a hundred yards away and headed for the park. Holly turned and made out a figure wearing a blue anorak with the hood raised. She couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, but the speed at which they disappeared convinced her they were young.

  “Hey,” she wailed, “what’s happening?”

  The lane was empty once more. Holly risked a glance from where the young person had come. She saw nothing. Branches were rising and falling like the wings of geese in flight as they were buffeted by strengthening winds. The grass squelched under her trainers as she edged her way among the trees.

  Another faint noise reached
her ears; it sounded like a dog whimpering.

  Holly held Princess tighter as her puppy shivered with fright. Holly knew how she felt.

  At the edge of the clearing, beyond two mighty oaks, she spotted a Cocker Spaniel, its lead trailing on the ground behind it.

  Back and forth it scampered, urging Holly forward into the open space beyond. In the park, people who now sheltered under the trees heard the young girl’s screams in the distance, and soon several men started running to her aid.

  They found Holly Dean, Princess and Bobby standing at the foot of a giant oak tree.

  Daphne Tolliver lay on the sodden grass, her unseeing eyes gazing to the heavens.

  Monday, 26th March 2018

  Assistant Chief Constable Kenneth Truelove sat in his office at the Wiltshire Police Headquarters in Devizes. He had just read through an updated file on a crime that remained unsolved for far too long. A germ of an idea formed as he reviewed the case; perhaps it was time for a different approach.

  The brutal murder of Daphne Tolliver left a lasting legacy in the quiet West Country town. Almost a decade had passed since the frenzied attack, yet townspeople still avoided the once-popular beauty spot where she died. In the local pubs, they continued to talk about the motiveless attack on the defenceless pensioner. Daphne had been a widow for ten years and lived a quiet life. She came from a close-knit family and gave as much back to the community as she ever took from it. Why on earth would anyone want to kill her?

  The ACC was aware some murders went unsolved, and killers got away. However, in the past decade, new scientific techniques offered a way of tracing those that slipped through the net.

  Screams coming from the wood were one of the few clues to one of the most gruesome murders his county had ever seen. Daphne was walking her dog through Lowden Woods when someone battered her around the head with a rock. Despite one of the most extensive investigations in the county’s history, they never established a clear motive. The detective in charge, DI Dominic Culverhouse admitted to the press it may have been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.