The Freeman Files Series Box Set

by Ted Tayler

  “They didn’t mess about when they got rid of Frank North,” said Gus, “a can of pepper spray and a baton won’t be much of a deterrent. I can see I won’t get much sleep tonight.”

  “Vera told me you arranged to see her again, by the way,” said Suzie.

  “Do you tell each other everything?

  “Not everything. Cheesecake would be nice, and there’s only half a glass each left in this bottle.”

  Gus uncorked the second bottle, plated two slices of strawberry cheesecake and carried them through to the lounge. Suzie had kicked off her shoes and unpinned her hair. Her uniform jacket lay neatly folded over the back of a chair.

  “Do you want to listen to music?” she asked, stood by his record deck.

  “I’m not sure I have much that suits the mood. Did you call for additional support?”

  “Yes, while you struggled with that cork. Let me see that finger of yours. Has it started bleeding again?”

  “No, Mum, it’s fine. Stop worrying about me. I’m not decrepit.”

  “I know. Let’s eat, and then I’ll wash while you dry and we can relax with another glass of that scrummy wine.”

  “My evening was supposed to be quite different to this,” said Gus. “I planned to get home, cook something simple and sit here listening to Mahler, or Greig while I puzzled over our latest CRT case.”

  “You called me, don’t forget. Geoff Mercer or the ACC wouldn’t have offered to stay with you. They would have shipped you off to a hotel, no doubt.”

  “I’m not complaining. In fact, on the two occasions that we’ve spent time together, it’s been as if we’ve known one another for years.”

  “We’ve got a lot in common,” said Suzie, “both involved with the police, both single. We enjoy good food and fine wine. I don’t believe we share the same taste in music exactly, but there are not many big differences.”

  “I haven’t had much to do with horses,” said Gus.

  He couldn’t think of anything else.

  “There you are then,” said Suzie, “that’s more ticks in the positive box than most married couples I know. We get on; it’s simple, nobody else’s concern but ours.”

  Gus took their plates through to the kitchen. Suzie joined him.

  “We can get this done by the time you stack everything in that dishwasher,” she said, “I noticed you yesterday afternoon. You have a method.”

  “It was Tess’s method. A lot of things feel unnatural to me. I keep taking stuff out and trying it another way to find which matches with the picture I carry in my head.”

  “It’s more fun this way,” she said, as she ran hot water into a bowl, “we can talk while we work. I can watch where you put it away, so I’ll know for another time if I come over and you’ve cut off a finger altogether.”

  “You invited yourself, young lady. I might not ask you to stay for dinner again.”

  “I hope you do. We have lots in common, remember?”

  They soon returned to the lounge. Suzie sat in the chair next to him and tucked her feet up under her bottom. Gus began pouring from the second bottle.

  “What problems cropped up with this new cold case today?” Suzie asked.

  “They gave us the Trudi Villiers case from 2003,”

  “I had just left school and was heading for university,” said Suzie, “I know nothing I’m afraid.”

  “Have you heard of Dennis Lewington?”

  “Oh, the man they pardoned not long ago. Was that the Villiers case?”

  “Yes, the DS who put the evidence together for the original trial is the father of one of my team. He fitted up Lewington, even though he was guilty of multiple sexual offences. I want to keep the son with me but exclude him from talking to any witnesses. There were no other suspects because as soon as Terry Davis linked the murder to Lewington, they stopped searching.”

  “You should be okay, Gus. You’re not re-investigating the Lewington case. Your job is to find out who killed your victim. Was this Terry Davis brought to book over the evidence tampering?”

  “No. it got buried. Davis’s superiors are either dead, retired, or promoted far enough up the ladder to be untouchable.”

  “Hang on, are you saying they knew what he’d done before the case went to court?”

  “I’ve no proof, but Terry Davis is in Marbella, he hasn’t returned to these shores since he left. A year before Lewington’s pardon.”

  “That does smell, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you reckon I may have got this case to bring that smell into the open?”

  “The ACC plays with a straight bat, Gus. He’s a good copper. I don’t believe he’d stitch you up and drop you into the role of a whistle-blower.”

  “Perhaps it’s coming back into this world after a three-year break,” said Gus, “I see conspiracies around every corner. As soon as I saw Terry Davis’s name on this case, I thought back to last week and wondered whether someone had heard a whisper about our local MP.”

  “I’m positive you’re making too much of things, Gus. The Crime Review Team were kept as far away as possible from the media when the shit hit the fan over the weekend. They wouldn’t do that if they wanted to get your name attached to a witch hunt.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, the Davis problem created another potential headache. Alex Hardy is my other DS. He’s in a wheelchair. I told him today he’ll be my wingman on interviews. Alex is recovering from a massive motorcycle accident. I don’t want to push him to do something that will delay or even prevent a full recovery. What if we come across a situation where he’s at risk?”

  “If you were thirty years younger, you’d sort the criminal out yourself. With one man down and Alex recuperating, you don’t have a young hunk like Neil Davis to protect you. That isn’t an easy one to answer, Gus. Geoff might find you a rugby-playing DC to join your team for the short term.”

  “Male or female?” Gus asked.

  “Cheeky. That’s enough wine for me. Can I shower before I go to bed?”

  “Certainly, you’ll find plenty of towels in the airing cupboard. No female soaps or shampoos though. Sorry.”

  “I’ll cope,” said Suzie and strolled off to the other end of the bungalow.

  Gus took their empty glasses into the kitchen. He returned to the lounge until the spare bedroom door closed. It was the only door that needed a push to click it shut.

  He turned off the lights and went into the main bedroom. Tonight was another first; nobody else had stayed here since Tess died. A quick visit to the en suite and he stripped off and slipped under the duvet. He promised himself he wouldn’t lay awake for hours fretting over the Villiers case.

  Or the break-in, or what Vera Jennings would think if she knew Suzie Ferris lay in the room along the corridor.

  Gus fell asleep within minutes and dreamed of Bert Penman and row upon row of spring vegetables.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, 17th April 2018

  The alarm woke Gus at seven o’clock. He heard someone moving about, and at first; he panicked. Were the intruders back?

  Then he remembered Suzie Ferris would be about to head home to her parent’s farm. A Detective Inspector needed a change of clothes. No way could she turn up ruffled and careworn; there was something to be said for being semi-retired.

  The country girl he admired would have a horse or two to tend to before driving to Devizes to start a new day fighting crime.

  Gus reflected on the events of yesterday evening.

  The break-in posed an ongoing threat. His team’s new case had thrown up new problems. The meal with Suzie and the conversation that followed helped settle things in his mind on the latter. Any repercussions of the intruders' visit was another matter altogether.

  That second bottle of Merlot last night may have been overambitious. Gus headed for the shower. It was time to face the fact he couldn’t handle it as he did in the old days. Fifteen minutes later, he left his bedroom, fully clothed and eager for a fried breakfast.


  Gus found a note on the kitchen table. Not so much a letter, more a novella.

  ‘Had to dash, sorry. Your daytime protection detail is in place. Don’t crack a stranger over the head and tell him he’s nicked. He’s one of ours. I’m pushing for a meeting with whichever agency is dealing with Cambrai Terrace. The ACC must find out whether Frank North’s murder was preventable. I hate to think Frank North was collateral damage. If the ACC hears that we should consider the bigger picture that won’t sit well with me so that you know, twenty minutes after we said goodnight I opened the bedroom door without making too much noise. Then I stood outside your door listening to you snoring. What happens on protection duty stays on protection duty in my book. I won’t hide the fact I find you attractive. But I decided it wouldn’t be right while you and Vera are deciding whether there’s something long-term in your relationship. I’ll ring tonight to update you on the break-in and my face-to-face with the ACC. Suzie x’

  Gus wondered how he would have reacted if Suzie suddenly appeared next to him under the duvet. He shook his head. Yet again she’d proved that Gus didn’t understand women. He’d convinced himself he was off the hook last night and Suzie was just a friend concerned for his safety. Surely, he was too set in his ways for a friend with benefits.

  The weather outside his kitchen window looked sunny and warm. Indeed, when he switched on the radio while he cooked his breakfast, the forecast was said to be ‘unseasonably’ warm.

  The rest of the week would see temperatures shoot up to twenty-five degrees and the region would enjoy wall-to-wall sunshine. How much longer would they continue with these stupid references to the seasons he’d known as a child? In his youth, the four seasons were as distinct and different as night and day.

  Climate change altered that forever.

  He had been six when snow fell on Boxing Day 1963, and the country was in winter’s icy grip for months. Mild winters were more the norm now, with a covering of snow on two consecutive days bringing the country to a standstill.

  Summers contained more hot days than when he was a boy, and individual records bettered regularly. Yet, in 1976 he sweltered on a camping holiday on the Isle of Wight. Day after day of that fortnight and there was no relief.

  Snow had fallen at the start of June. Only a month before that holiday, but once the hot, dry weather took hold, it continued without a break until September. These days, if you got four days of high temperatures you can guarantee a storm was brewing that brought high winds and rain; usually at the weekend.

  Those were unseasonably wet and windy too. It was all bollocks; there were no seasons anymore. Gus thought they should scrap the computer-generated forecasts and ask Bert Penman what weather to expect for the next twenty-four hours. He rarely got it wrong and looking any further ahead was pointless when the new seasons had become so changeable.

  Gus finished his breakfast; drank a second mug of coffee and started to feel human again. Time to make a move. As soon as he stepped outside the bungalow, he spotted the pool car. He turned into the lane, gave the driver a friendly wave and drove towards Devizes.

  His shadow followed him until the roundabout near the Crammer. The pool car driver flashed his lights and turned right towards the London Road headquarters. Gus turned left and made for the nearby town and the CRT office in the Old Police Station.

  Gus parked at the rear of the building at ten minutes to nine. He was first to arrive today. When Gus got upstairs, he remembered it was urgent he phoned a glazier. After a brief chat, he admitted defeat. It would cost him more than he hoped, but at least the guy agreed to fix his back door. Gus just needed to make sure he got home by half-past six tonight.

  Alex, Neil and Lydia emerged from the lift at one minute to nine. Gus made a point of looking at his watch. The team was still in its infancy, but Gus wasn’t about to let timekeeping become an issue. He had never been one to wield a big stick. He preferred to lead by example. His arrival in the office in the weeks ahead would be as close as possible to ten minutes to nine. The others would soon get the message he didn’t enjoy being up here on his own.

  “Where do you want us to start with the Villiers case, guv,” asked Alex.

  “First things first,” said Gus, “look, I said you didn’t need to know about the business that cropped up at the weekend. However, two things have happened since then. One, some bugger broke into my place yesterday and left me in no doubt that I would come to harm if I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Second, DI Suzie Ferris reckons that either the NCA or OCTF are monitoring activities on the hillside above my allotments.”

  “Bloody hell, guv,” said Neil, “this consultancy malarkey is more dangerous than you thought. Do you need Alex and I to ride shotgun?”

  “DI Ferris has taken care of that matter, Neil. That reminds me, I’ve got someone coming tonight to mend a glass panel in my back door, but I need cameras installed. The sort I can have linked to my phone. Anyone local you can recommend?”

  “I don’t think there’s a firm here, or in Devizes,” said Neil, “but one of the nationwide companies has a place in Bristol. It’s a false economy to get something cheap and cheerful just because it’s on your doorstep. When your life could be at stake, you may as well pay for the best.”

  “Thanks, Neil. That’s made me feel a whole lot better.”

  “Sorry, guv. Just trying to help.”

  “So, this friend of yours everyone is talking about, but we’re supposed to ignore, died because he knew too much,” said Lydia.

  “Frank North was an acquaintance. I wouldn’t say a friend. He worked on the neighbouring allotment. Frank pointed out the suspicious goings-on above a place called Cambrai Terrace. I walked up there with Suzie Ferris on Sunday afternoon after Frank’s wife reported him missing. We saw nothing untoward above the houses on the hillside, but when we passed by my allotment later in the afternoon, someone attracted our attention. They’d just discovered Frank North’s body.”

  “Do you reckon it was drugs, guv?” asked Alex.

  “Odds on, given the circumstances,” said Gus, “the National Crime Agency, or the Organised Crime Task Force don’t get involved for a minor offence. It has to be people or drug trafficking. Either way, whoever’s behind it has a lot at stake. Frank North went for a closer look at the shed they’re using late on Saturday night. They could only have discovered my connection to Frank by questioning him before they shot him in the head. I want these bastards. As a mere consultant, as you so delicately pointed out, Neil, my input is restricted. I have to leave it to Geoff Mercer and detectives such as DI Ferris. Geoff has cancelled surveillance on the lane leading to the shed. That’s now screening visitors to my bungalow. I don’t intend to antagonise these bastards any more than I have already. I like living. The other option isn’t appealing. DI Ferris is trying to determine which agency is running the investigation so we can press them to bring it to a swift conclusion. As far as possible, I want us to concentrate on the case at hand. The ACC will inevitably want to discuss this matter with me. Until then, let’s set out our programme for the next four days. Neil, can you prepare a list of names of the people we might interview, please? Remember how Alex approached it last week. Think outside the box. I don’t care if we have to chase people across the country. Short of digging them up, we’ll follow every potential lead.”

  “Yes, guv,” Neil replied. He had accepted the step back from the front line in this case. It made sense. He’d not mentioned the matter to Melody. She wasn’t his Dad’s biggest fan. His wife wouldn’t be pressing him to ring his father to see how things were on the Costa del Crime.

  Alex Hardy spent a fair bit of last night considering his change of role. It was what he hoped would happen, but it had come much sooner than he’d expected. Alex knew he could play a full part in this team. After all, he’d come a long way to get here.

  Alex had been mad about motorcycles ever since he could remember. His mother hadn’t been keen, but his father rode
trials bikes as a young man. That was enough incentive for Alex. He first rode a moped at fourteen. It belonged to the older brother of one of his school mates.

  He caught the bug after many hours of fun racing around a patch of waste ground, well out of sight of his parents. His first official bike was a Honda 50cc moped his Dad bought him on his sixteen birthday. He rode it every day to sixth-form college. When he joined the police in 1998, aged eighteen, he had his heart set on joining the dedicated Motorcycle Section.

  Eighteen years of trouble-free motoring lay ahead. Alex had owned various cars without ever falling in love with them. They were convenient for hanging out with friends and shifting items too large for motorcycle panniers. Nothing beat the sports-touring orientated bikes he owned. Since his early twenties, he toured mainland Europe on various Honda and BMW models. He had a bucket list of challenging routes to tackle. Each year he spent his holiday time ticking one more country, one more mountain pass off his list.

  Alex had his fair share of girlfriends, but he always took his biking holidays alone. The girls were fine with a week in Spain or the Canary Islands. A weekend in New York for Christmas shopping was perfect. If he suggested the Pyrenees or Norway’s Atlantic Road it was out of the question. In the end, he found fifteen thousand miles a year touring preferable to the hassle of searching for that elusive soul mate.

  When he’d joined the force, his career path led him towards the CID. Alex spent two years in uniform in Swindon where he undertook the standard Traffic Police motorcycle courses, plus specific courses aimed at covert riding and driving. He demonstrated a much higher level of anticipation than the others on his course. His superiors sat up and took notice.

  Alex had achieved his ambition of joining a covert policing team and trained as a surveillance motorcyclist. He followed people involved in organised crime and suspected terrorism offences. He encountered several life-threatening situations. Riders such as Alex conducted high-speed pursuits but still had to negotiate red traffic lights and congested roadways without endangering the public. Every day brought a new challenge. He loved his work. Even the hours he spent escorting abnormal loads along country roads or ridding the M4 of boy racers with no sign of a licence, tax or insurance. It had all been in a day’s work on a motorcycle.