by Vic Marelle
The tissue now sodden and her eyes red rimmed, she nodded imperceptibly and waited for him to continue.
‘Mike sometimes gave painting classes in the evening. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Usually in the studio above the shop. It is, I mean was, mainly to organised groups on a regular basis. Why do you ask?’
‘Usually? Mainly? Were there others then?’
‘No, not that I know of. Just a silly slip of the tongue I suppose. There was the life group one evening a week but the still life group and the landscape group both met during the daytime. He tried to take the landscape group out if he could but they had to work in the studio if the weather was bad. Really inspector, is this important?’
‘Just bear with me Joan. Did he ever give one-to-one classes? You know, not a group thing, just one person?’
‘No inspector, he didn’t. He was very careful about that, didn’t want to be seen to be favouring one person over another. Why do you ask? Do you think that someone from a class did this? That’s absurd. Most of them were middle aged or old ladies. They wouldn’t hurt anyone if they could – and most of them couldn’t anyway.’
‘At the moment we don’t know who attacked him. But there are a few rumours that Mike was giving private art lessons to one or two ladies. Younger ladies on a one-to-one basis. You know, just him and a lady if you get my meaning.’
‘I object to that inspector,’ she stormed back. ‘Of course I get your meaning. Mike isn’t like that. He doesn’t give one-to-one lessons. He says that it gives out the wrong messages, whatever that means. How dare you say such a thing anyway? It isn’t true. He’s not like that. He wouldn’t.’
Suddenly her anger dissipated. Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to sink into her chair as tears streamed down her reddening cheeks. This was the sort of scenario Radcliffe hated. But it had to be done. They needed information and needed it quickly.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions Joan,’ he said soothingly. ‘But are you absolutely sure?’
Between sobs she replied ‘No Inspector. I don’t know of any women Mike had one-to-one sessions with. All I do know is that he didn’t do what you are suggesting, but since I don’t actually know anything at all, I don’t know do I?’
She looked across at her husband. Tubes and wires were connected to virtually every limb, up his nose and hidden beneath the sheets. Displays flashed on machines. Bleeps and peeps broke the silence. His head seemed twice its normal size, but whether that was due to the bandages in which it was swathed or the beating he had endured she didn’t know. Who was this man? Really, who was he? OK, so with his bow ties and loud jackets he was something of an extrovert, perhaps bordering on the eccentric even, but didn’t that go with the territory? He was an artist, a celebrity. A kindly man who wouldn’t hurt a soul. Married for longer than she could remember, he was the father of her daughter, he had created the house they lived in and he worked hard to support them.
Yet, did he really work hard or was he a philanderer? She had heard rumours of course, but then when there were life art classes there would always be rumours. But surely he wouldn’t would he? Oh God no, she just couldn’t think that he would. This was the man with an extreme intolerance of those embarking on affairs and had fallen out with more than one acquaintance for just that reason. A man of high morals, this was the man who spent every minute either working or at home with his wife. Or did he? She didn’t know anything anymore.
Fourteen
Replacing the telephone, Simon Charlton wandered across the room and studied the view, something he had done numerous times before. Chosen specifically for its picturesque location on the side of the canal, the rustic timber house had a chocolate box picture perfect appeal and over time the tranquil nature of this particular room had created the ideal environment to ponder tricky cases.
It had not always been like that. What had been a simple guest bedroom in the roof space created by the previous owner had been extended and developed into a complete suite. As a central feature, sliding patio style glazed doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the canal. Until they had split up it had been their bedroom, then in the aftermath, just somewhere to store his junk. Eventually he had stopped feeling sorry for himself, put his life back on track and cleaned out the junk. If letting her go had been the worst thing he had ever done, then setting this space up as his study suite surely ranked as one of the best.
Simon opened the sliding door and walked out onto the balcony. Over to the left a few miles away he could just make out the roof of the Johnson’s converted barn and knew that beyond it, hidden behind the trees, was Green Fields Caravan Park. Turning slowly, he could see Ormskirk town, and far over to the right, a road winding its way over the canal bridge and into the distance. A sign indicated where Lancashire became Merseyside, beyond which was a small wood and the ruins of Lydiate Hall.
If the caller had been correct, and he had no reason to believe otherwise, then Peter Archer hadn’t died in a car accident as suggested by the old busy body at the caravan park, he had been found at the old hall and had been murdered. And if that were true, it would change things for his client. Mike Johnson would become suspect number one. He had told the solicitor that he would kill Archer, he had told the police that he would kill Archer – and no doubt he had told others. Logically, the artist could have done the deed before being put in hospital himself in retribution – though Simon doubted it.
Yet murder certainly changed the parameters of what had been a pure and simple family feud. Usually he could spot something out of place; the key to the puzzle; the missing piece. It was what made him good at his job. It was what made carrying on with an investigation after having exhausted the actual brief worthwhile – he always came up with the needle in the haystack that finally broke a case and brought additional reward. Standing on the balcony of his idyllic waterside cabin, Simon Charlton knew that right in front of him, a lifetime had been encapsulated in a one hundred and eighty degree vista. Stretching from the intertwining of the Johnson and Archer families in Crosshill Village to the ruin hidden in the wood, the view from his balcony held an important clue. But frustratingly, just at that moment he couldn’t identify it.
Leaning on the balcony rail he looked down at a brightly painted boat gliding past towards the bridge; its rich red and green paintwork glowing in the late afternoon sun, its brass nameplate shining and a black collie dog sleeping on the saloon roof. As the boast slowly passed under the picturesque stone bridge over the canal, two walkers stood to take in the view and waved at the owner of the boat as he held the tiller, and a blood red Italian sports car worth more than Charlton’s house and his little Olympic coupe combined, drove past them over the bridge. Simon loved cars. Especially Italian cars. Or more particularly, Italian car engines with their melodic exhaust note and thrilling howl on the overrun. Simon’s little silver coupe was often mistaken for a Porsche but was actually British. Powered by an engine that had originally come from an Alfa Romeo, it too was melodic and its howl mesmeric. The red Italian accelerated off the bridge and turned onto a side road running parallel with the canal. It passed across his vision then powered off into the distance. To where? To Ormskirk or the teacher training college perhaps? Or to the motorway, where it could be pushed a little faster? Long after it had crested a hill and dipped out of sight, Simon still found its sound captivating.
With the sports car gone, a deathly quiet settled that seemed even more silent than before, with just the sound of birds twittering overhead breaking the stillness of the countryside. Silent – yet not really silent. Peaceful. That was it. Peaceful. A peace that blocked out all distractions and allowed him to concentrate; to develop ideas and follow a train of thought to its logical conclusion. Most things were indeed logical once the confusions and distractions had been stripped away. And stripping them away was easy up on the balcony with only the view, the canal and a few twittering birds for company.
The violent screech of his coff
ee machine pumping out a steaming brew broke the spell and drew the investigator back into his study. Collecting his notes from his desk he settled himself on the sofa and for the umpteenth time worked through from the beginning, refreshing his memory and looking for a missing clue. Archer attacks Johnson. Johnson identifies Archer. The police don’t catch Archer so Johnson does their work for them. Only he goes a bit further and kills Archer. No doubt that would be how the police saw it. But Johnson had been attacked again, and this time not by Archer because by then he was himself dead.
Sipping his coffee, Simon read and re-read his notes. Where was the flaw? Had Johnson been attacked twice by the same person, or had he first been worked over by his brother-in-law and then later by a person or persons unknown? The workshop log gave Archer an alibi for the first attack and he was dead by the time of the second. The Weston woman had corroborated the caravan park owner’s claim, but then she was as batty as hell, so should she be taken seriously? If Archer couldn’t have been responsible for the second attack, then who had been – and why? And was the second attacker also responsible for the first? Simon could see only one solution. He would have to check out the workshop log in more detail, and although not attracted to the prospect, also have another talk with Mrs Weston.
……….
Detective Inspector Radcliffe drove up the ramp and stopped at the barrier. Reaching out, he took the ticket from the machine, waited until the arm went up, and then drove onto the first floor level of the multi storey car park. He parked in the first empty space he could see, locked the car up and made for the staircase down to the pavement outside.
Walking in the roadway to avoid boxes of vegetables piled on the pavement, he walked past the greengrocer, the electronics shop, and then stopped outside the Palette. The art shop was in complete darkness with a note taped to the door stating that it was closed due to illness. Threading through the empty tables in the middle of the street he crossed to the opposite side and entered the Windsor Tea Rooms, selecting a table near the window as the young waitress came over to take his order.
‘Hello Helen,’ he said. ‘What’s happening across the road then?’
‘Hello Inspector,’ she replied, recognising him from when he had grilled her about Jack, her boyfriend. ‘I told the other policemen. Mike is in hospital and although they have a part time lady that opens the shop when he is out with the art groups, she can’t take over full time. At least, not at such short notice.’
‘OK love,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘Which other policeman?’
‘They came in early this morning,’ she said. ‘An inspector and a lady sergeant were waiting when I came to open up and asked me if I’d seen anybody in the street last night. Late on like they said. But we closed at five and I’d cleaned up and was off home by half past so I couldn’t help them. They didn’t say anything else, but then Joan came and put that notice up. I asked her who was ill and said I hoped whoever it was would soon be OK, you know, showing interest like, and she just started crying so I brought her over here and made a pot of tea. She said that Mike had been mugged in the multi storey car park last night and that he was in hospital. That’s all I know.’
Radcliffe thanked her for the information and ordered a large tea.
‘We don’t do large and small,’ he had been advised. ‘You can have a pot of tea or a caffetiere of coffee, but all our cups are the same size. We are an English tea shop, not an Italian coffee house.’
Suitably admonished, Radcliffe pondered the information. Having detoured from the hospital he had preferred to make this visit himself and had not sent any of his team down, so who had been asking questions ahead of him? Across the street, somebody else stopped at the art shop, read the notice and turned to look up and down. Radcliffe waved and caught his eye, beckoning him to the café. The door opened and in walked Sergeant Fraser.
‘I thought that I would find you in here,’ he said with a grin. ‘Any excuse for a free cuppa.’
‘You’re not far off there,’ replied Radcliffe, adding that actually the tea was pretty good, and since there was some left in the pot, why didn’t the sergeant grab a spare cup, going on to bring the sergeant up to speed on what he had learned. Fraser didn’t know about the earlier visit either, suggesting Frank Davies as a possibility.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Radcliffe cynically. ‘Frank hasn’t said anything to me andJohnson is our case, so I want to know the why and the who if anyone else is sniffing around.’ Taking out his mobile, he dialled the direct number for Inspector Frank Davies.
……….
With all the windows and doors firmly shut and a wall mounted gas fire blaring away, the temperature in the old caravan was rising and Phyllis Weston was dosing. An afternoon nap had become something of a ritual for the old woman, although mostly she was unaware of it and whenever such a practise was mentioned she strongly denied ever doing so. Becoming something of a creature of habit – collect the morning newspaper, check up on local gossip, search out someone to spread the gossip to, then back to the caravan by noon – she also tended to light the gas fire the minute she got back to the caravan no matter what the temperature outside, and the windows and doors were always kept closed in an effort to stop draughts. So having made herself comfortable in her favourite chair, the temperature would soar and invariably she would drop off to sleep.
With each nod of her head her spectacles would drop another fraction of an inch along her nose. Eventually they would reach the end and fall off, and at that point she would wake up with a start. She would wonder where the time had gone, and why it was so hot. And it was always somebody else’s fault, someone unseen and unknown closing her door when she had purposely left it open.
A bold knock went unanswered. Phyllis snored. Her visitor moved to the window and peered in, trying to establish whether she was at home, although with her disabled scooter parked next to its wonky looking shed at the end of the caravan, that had actually been a foregone conclusion. He knocked again, this time tapping on the window directly behind her. She jerked subconsciously, her head nodded forward and her spectacles fell to the floor with a gentle plop. Phyllis woke with a start. What time is it? Why is it so damned hot in here? Who’s making that ridiculous noise banging on the window? And where are my glasses?
Phyllis heaved herself up and took a faltering step forward. Still not fully awake, she paused and held on to the high back of the chair to steady herself. She felt disorientated. It had been too hot lately and she would be glad when the weather cooled down. There was more banging on the door. She heard somebody shouting her name and asking if she was there. Of course she was there, or here, or whichever it was. Where else would she be?
‘All right, I’m coming,’ she shouted back, letting go of the chair. Her head was clearing and she felt a little better. Taking a step towards the door she felt rather than heard a small crunch. Oh dear, what were her glasses doing on the floor?
‘Come in whoever you are,’ she shouted at the door, grabbing again for the chair. ‘I’ve stood on my glasses and can’t see.’
Outside, he could hear little more than garbled mumbling from inside the caravan. Gently he twisted the handle and opened the door a couple of inches, peering in through the opening and shouting to the old lady.
‘Mrs Weston. It’s me, Simon Charlton. Can I come in?’
As he opened the door, the heat from inside the caravan hit him in the face and took his breath away.
‘Heavens Mrs Weston, it’s hot in here,’ he said. ‘Mrs Weston, are you alright?’
Clearly she wasn’t. Standing rather shakily she looked somewhat forlorn, one hand gripping the back of an easy chair, her broken spectacles in the other, and a bewildered look on her face. Taking her elbow and guiding her, he helped her back to the chair.
‘You look out of sorts Mrs Weston. Shall I get you a glass of water?’
‘No young man. I’ll be alright I suppose. It’s just this weather – it’s far too hot for me and I’v
e just trodden on my glasses so I can’t see very well. I’ve got a spare pair in that drawer so I’ll be alright if you can just get them for me.’
‘No wonder it’s hot in here,’ he said. ‘Your gas fire is on full’.
Thanking him for getting her glasses, she added that she hadn’t the faintest idea how her gas fire came to be on or the door shut for that matter. She didn’t like it too hot and always had her door open a crack at least. Just to get some ventilation you know. It was nice that he had come to see her. Neighbours didn’t seem to mix with each other as much now as they had in her younger days. And would he like a cup of tea? And would he please put the kettle on and make one for her as well?
She was quite a woman he thought. Seriously dotty of course, and nosey as hell, but a fascinating old bat for all that. He had turned off the fire and opened some windows, but even with the door wide open, by the time that their tea had brewed it was still stiflingly hot inside the caravan.
‘Tell me Mrs Weston,’ he said. ‘What happened to Mr Archer?’
‘I told you yesterday young man,’ she replied sternly. ‘Have you forgotten? He had an accident of some sort.’
Phyllis wallowed in Green Fields gossip. Most was quite irrelevant and he soon began to doubt the wisdom of having visited the old bat. Keeping her mind on the topics he was interested in was becoming virtually impossible. All he had managed to get out of her in almost a quarter of an hour, was that two people had witnessed the accident that had taken Peter Archer’s life and that a caravan owner called Caroline had been very upset. All of it would be absolute tosh of course. The man had been murdered so it was impossible that anybody could have seen the supposed car accident. By that score there was a fair chance that Phyllis’ other stories would also be fiction and he would actually be wasting his time.
