Bunburry--A Murderous Ride

by Helena Marchmont

  Alfie instantly detested the voice, telling himself he would have done so even if it didn’t belong to the man responsible for the death of his grandparents, the man who had escaped justice purely through power and privilege.

  He thought he was overhearing Charlie Tennison questioning David about him, but realised he was being addressed directly when the voice continued: “You’re a friend of Oscar de Linnet’s? But you didn’t go to school, did you?”

  Alfie bridled at the offensiveness of the question. Did Tennison imagine that because he hadn’t been born into a life of privilege, he was completely uneducated? Then he remembered learning from Oscar that this was the bizarre way in which Old Etonians referred to their alma mater: as far as they were concerned, there was only one school worthy of the name.

  There was no point in mentioning the bog-standard comprehensive he had gone to – Tennison wouldn’t even register how frightfully infra dig it was. He contented himself with saying, “No, Oscar and I met elsewhere,” and left it open as to whether he had gone to Harrow, Winchester or Charterhouse.

  “So – Dave said you’ve got a car I might be interested in? Tell me more.” Alfie heard greed in every syllable. He didn’t want to be having this conversation – it was enough to know that Tennison had been in the Cotswolds since Tuesday.

  “It’s a Jaguar XK 140 -”

  There was an incredulous laugh on the other end of the phone. “And you thought I might be interested? My dear fellow, you do know I specialise in vintage and post-vintage? Nothing after 1940.”

  Alfie was stung by the condescending tone. “It’s an attractive car. Perhaps you saw it when you visited Mike Melnikov?”

  “I might have done,” said Tennison carelessly. “I couldn’t say. He has all sorts of things lying around.”

  “I’m sorry to have taken up your time,” said Alfie curtly.

  “Not to worry. Glad to be in touch with you – I might have some business opportunities for you at some stage. Ciao.” He rang off before Alfie could say anything or David Savile could come back.

  Alfie immediately rang Oscar. “I’ve just been talking to Charlie Tennison,” he declared as soon as he heard Oscar draw breath to be Lane the butler.

  “Sooner you than me,” said Oscar drily.

  “David Savile introduced me to the mechanic who looks after Tennison’s cars. There’s something odd about the whole garage set-up – I’m sure Tennison is using it to launder money. And the mechanic’s just been murdered. Oscar, I think it’s Tennison who murdered him.”

  There was a pause and then Oscar spoke gently as though to a confused elderly relative. “I grant you, Tennison is a singularly nasty bit of work. But he’s not a killer.”

  “He killed my grandparents,” said Alfie.

  “A poor choice of words on my part,” said Oscar in the same gentle voice. “I meant he’s not a murderer.”

  “I know he was down here when Mike was murdered. He admitted he had visited him in the garage. But just now on the phone, he acted as though he didn’t even know Mike was dead.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know Mike was dead?” Oscar suggested.

  “That’s just not possible. Everybody in Bunburry is talking about it.”

  “Bunburry is a place,” said Oscar. “I know that because I looked it up on a map when you went down there. But David doesn’t even live in a place – he lives in some ancient pile in the middle of a lot of fields. They probably get their news from men bearing messages in cleft sticks. It could be weeks before they hear about your mechanic.”

  “Oscar, I’m not joking.”

  “Neither am I. Alfie, I know Charlie Tennison. He was five years above me in school. I despise him and I detest him. But I would never believe that he was capable of murdering anybody.”

  More fool you, thought Alfie, but said nothing.

  “What are the police doing? Do they have a suspect? I’ll bet you fifty quid it’s not Charlie Tennison.”

  “No,” said Alfie, “it’s me.”

  “Good God,” said Oscar. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re even less likely to be a murderer than he is.”

  Alfie didn’t find it any consolation at all. Oscar seemed to imagine there was a line that Tennison would never cross, but there was no reason to believe that. A boy of seventeen who managed to get off a charge of reckless driving by blackening the names of his victims was likely to think he could get away with anything. That had been the first step towards his ironic nickname of Teflon Tennison – people knew he was involved in shady deals but nothing ever stuck to him.

  9. Back at the Pub

  Alfie texted Emma suggesting a drink in The Drunken Horse that evening. She didn’t reply, but he went to the pub anyway, settling himself in one of the partitioned booths at the back with a pint of Bunburry Brew. He stared at the glass. Did he really have any hope of bringing down Charlie Tennison, who had lived a charmed life for almost fifty years? He could only do it if he managed to convince Emma that Tennison had to be investigated.

  “Drinking alone? That’s a bad sign,” said Emma.

  Alfie got to his feet. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d come. Does the fact you’re here mean I’m no longer at risk of being charged?”

  “How do you know I’m not here to take you back down to the station? A good officer is never off duty.”

  “That’s a shame. I was just about to ask what I could get you, but I understand the police aren’t allowed to drink while on duty.”

  “Half of Bunburry, please,” said Emma, sitting down. Her jacket was over her shoulders, since she couldn’t put her left arm through the sleeve, and she shrugged it off on to the back of the chair.

  “Thank you for the stay of execution,” said Alfie, and headed for the bar where William, The Drunken Horse’s owner, and the one barmaid were struggling to keep up with orders. William, balancing pints, opened the door at the back of the bar with his shoulder and bellowed: “Mum!”

  A minute later, a tubby elderly lady trotted in and began enthusiastically dispensing drinks and outrageous personal remarks. Alfie reflected that if he had met Edith, Bunburry’s gossipmonger-in-chief, the first evening he arrived, he would probably have headed straight back to London. Fortunately she had been on holiday, allowing him to settle into village life in peace, and now he found her vastly entertaining.

  Eventually it was his turn. “A half of Brew, please, Edith.”

  “What’s this, Alfie, changing from pints to halves? You’ll be the ruination of my son’s business.”

  “I’ve already got my pint – this is for Emma.”

  “Alfie McAlister, I’m shocked! Stringing along two women at once.”

  “Edith, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nobody could replace you in my affections.”

  She cackled loudly and handed over the drink and his change.

  “How’s the wrist?” asked Alfie when he returned to Emma.

  “Healing nicely,” said Emma. “I just have to remember not to use it. And it’s not my drinking arm, so it’s not a problem. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” They raised their glasses to one another.

  “I’m touched that you invited me out because you were anxious to hear my medical update,” she said.

  “That, of course, was my primary motive. But I have other topics of conversation.”

  “Such as?”

  First, he told her about his discovery that the mysterious Russian was Mike’s cousin. Then he outlined his suspicions of Charlie Tennison. Emma listened without comment, her face expressionless. Alfie desperately wanted to ask her what she thought and, more importantly, what she was going to do. But he knew better than to say anything that sounded as though he was telling her how to do her job.

  Edith was bustling round, clearing glasses and wiping tables.

  “Is this d
ead?” she asked, reaching for Emma’s empty glass.

  “Yes, thanks, Edith – time I was getting home.”

  “And you stay right there, Alfie, you needn’t think you’re going home with her,” said Edith. “Does your girlfriend know you’re seeing other women?”

  Alfie blinked. “Sorry, Edith?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb with me! I see you cosying up to her at these so-called Green Party meetings.” Chortling to herself, Edith added Emma’s glass to her stack and went off to the next table.

  “Betty’s your girlfriend, is she?” asked Emma.

  Alfie thought there was something odd about her tone and turned to look at her, but she was fumbling one-handedly with her jacket, trying to get it off the back of her chair.

  Alfie stood up to help. “Here, allow me.” He retrieved the jacket and put it gently over her shoulders. “I’ll fasten the top button, stop it blowing off.”

  She stood stock-still like a toddler, raising her chin to let him put the button in the buttonhole.

  “What Edith was saying, is Betty your girlfriend?”

  He realised now that she was just making fun of him, amused by the very idea. He would play along.

  “She is indeed,” he said. “In Edith’s fantasy world. I can’t imagine why, since I’ve made it clear that Edith is the only woman for me.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave immediately and you can make eyes at her across a crowded pub.”

  “I hope the information I’ve given you is useful,” he said.

  She didn’t reply, just smiled and left with a wave of her uninjured hand. He had to trust that she would shortly be calling on Charlie Tennison, and that Charlie Tennison would soon be locked in the police cell.

  There was nothing else he could do but he couldn’t settle. The next day, after an unproductive morning, he decided to go to The Horse for a lunchtime bowl of soup. Edith was on again. “Your American girlfriend’s here already,” she said with a theatrical wink. “You’d better go and reassure her you haven’t run off with that other girl you’ve been seeing. I’ll bring your soup over.”

  Alfie duly went to join Betty.

  “Hey there, Al,” she said. She had unilaterally renamed him since she didn’t like the name Alfie. “This is like Groundhog Day. I was in here having lunch on Wednesday, then I went off to Manchester, now I’m back in here having lunch again. It’s even the same kind of soup.” She tilted her spoon and let the soup trickle back into the bowl.

  “Well, I wasn’t in on Wednesday, so this is an exciting new adventure for me,” said Alfie.

  “And what were you up to on Wednesday that prevented you coming here for a bowl of soup?” she asked.

  He could scarcely say he had stumbled across a murder victim.

  “Oh, you know, reading the sports section, waiting for the rain to go off, checking for more grey hairs.”

  She studied him carefully. “Your hair dye’s working well. It looks almost natural.”

  He nodded towards her fair hair, which today was tied back in a pony tail. “Yours too.”

  Edith came over with Alfie’s soup. “There you are, dear. My finest carrot and coriander.”

  “Thanks, Edith,” said Betty. “I’ve been wondering what it was since Wednesday. I thought it might be broccoli and Stilton. Or perhaps minestrone. But it’s carrot and coriander. I’ll remember that.”

  “Excuse me, miss! When you’re working in those dreaming spires of yours, you’re supposed to be educating the students, not learning to behave as badly as they do,” said Edith in mock outrage. “I can have you barred, you know.”

  Betty took a spoonful of soup. “Delicious,” she declared. “Puts The High Table at Oxford to shame.”

  Chuckling, Edith went back to the bar.

  “You teach at Oxford University?” asked Alfie incredulously.

  “Go on, say it, you never thought I was so smart.”

  “No, it’s just, you said you did some teaching. I thought it was all pretty casual.”

  “It is. I’m a hired hand, not a proper academic. I do a bit of work for the Environmental Change Institute at Oxford, but I go all over the place. Anyone who wants me, pays my travel expenses and throws in a sandwich, I’ll be there. I’ve just been up to Manchester helping with their MSc in environmental governance.”

  Alfie was intrigued. She had definitely played down what she did, and he liked that. Someone else might have flaunted their academic credentials and made themselves out to be more important than they were. He could see that Betty was the exact opposite.

  “But,” said Betty, taking a bite of her bread roll, “Edith only knows of one university, so as far as she’s concerned, all my teaching is done among the dreaming spires.”

  “She does seem to specialise in getting the wrong end of the stick,” said Alfie. “For example, she insists you’re my girlfriend.”

  “Why would she think that?” Betty’s voice was sharp.

  “Because she sees us huddled together at Green Party meetings in the snug.”

  “Alongside the vicar,” Betty pointed out. “Doesn’t she think I’m good enough to be the vicar’s girlfriend?”

  “I’m surprised she thinks I’m good enough to be your boyfriend,” said Alfie gallantly.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I guess she sees two singletons that nobody wants and decided we deserve one another.” She took another bite out of the bread roll. “She really is a menace. You know on Wednesday, she was telling anyone who would listen, and nobody could avoid hearing her, that Beth Smith of Bunburry Motors was having an affair with Mike, her former mechanic.”

  “What?” said Alfie sharply.

  “It gets better. I was at the table over there near the door. Just as she was warming to her theme, Richard Smith, husband of the said Beth Smith, walked in, possibly for a nourishing bowl of carrot and coriander soup. He never made it past my table. Walked straight back out again. I wish she’d been looking and could have seen that her nonsense can scare the customers away.”

  “He looked scared?”

  “No, he looked bloody furious.”

  “You know about Mike?”

  “What about Mike?”

  “You know he’s dead?”

  “Oh, my lord. What happened?”

  “Betty, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to leave.” He got up and started to pull on his jacket.

  “But – your soup – ”

  “I haven’t touched it. You have it.”

  10. The Chase

  He left the pub and sprinted to the police station. On his previous visit, he had been escorted in by Sergeant Wilson. Now he realised he had to press a buzzer to gain entry. He kept his finger on it.

  Emma came out of the office with a frown that deepened when she saw Alfie, and released the door.

  “What on earth -”

  He pushed in, closing the door behind him. “I know who the murderer is.”

  “Alfie, not this business of Charlie Tennison again -”

  “No, it’s Richard Smith.” He quickly outlined what Betty had told him. “That was lunchtime on Wednesday. She’s been away since then, only just came back, didn’t even know about Mike.”

  Emma grabbed her hat. “I need to get up there now. You’ll have to drive me.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Alfie. “Where’s Wilson?”

  “Not here,” she snapped. “And of course you can drive me – I’ve just told you you can. You don’t have to be sworn in, for heaven’s sake. Hurry.”

  He followed her to the back door of the police station and into the alley where the patrol car was parked, a Vauxhall Corsa emblazoned with blue and yellow Battenberg markings. The last time he had been in this car, he had been put in the rear seat. Now Emma was shooing him to the driver’s side.

  He didn’t want t
o drive, but how could he refuse? Where was Wilson? Why wasn’t he here to do the driving?

  Alfie stared at the dashboard. “What do I have to do?” he asked stretching out his hand.

  “Don’t touch that!” she snapped. “That’s the siren. Ignore anything you don’t recognise. You don’t need to sign on or key the mic – just drive me to Bunburry Motors.”

  He crunched the gears and imagined Emma wincing although she was staring straight ahead. He started to crawl through Bunburry but picked up speed as he realised that every other driver was giving the police car a wide berth.

  They reached the open road.

  “Okay, give it some wellie,” said Emma. She seemed completely unaware of his discomfiture, and that helped to increase his confidence. The compact car accelerated well and was small enough for him to feel he was in control of it. He still detested every second behind the wheel, but he had lost the paralysing fear that had beset him previously.

  He reached the garage without mishap. Marge’s car was still in its place on the forecourt and he parked near it. Emma reached clumsily across her body to open the car door, her left arm still immobilised by the splint and sling.

  Alfie jumped out of the car and went round to open the passenger door for her.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” he asked.

  Her expression answered him more eloquently than any words.

  “Just wait here,” she said, and disappeared into the garage. Alfie watched her go. She was stockier than Betty, who had a dancer’s build, but her injured arm made her look vulnerable. Richard Smith was a big heavy man. He felt protective towards Emma, while recognising she would be enraged if she knew.

  There was a sudden animal wail that chilled him – not Emma but Beth, a sound as though her heart had been wrenched out of her. Despite Emma’s order, Alfie began moving towards the garage.

  And then he saw Emma tussling with Richard. She was moving awkwardly, trying to protect her arm, but she was like a terrier, refusing to loosen her one-handed grip on him. Alfie couldn’t leave her to struggle alone. He ran towards them, and as he did so, he saw Richard reach for Emma’s injured arm.