Two figures in the smart green and crested overalls of the D’Eynscourte estate, one tall and thin, the other small and almost feline in his movements, brush brusquely past the queue at the shop counter and sit prominently in the centre, dominating cafe and shop. They call raucously for a sausage and a bacon sandwich each, tea and ‘Change this crap Bert, music for old farts.’ Ancaster County Radio comes on with its preening pop pap of Christmas music.
People enter, see and hear these two, leave again. Those already present slowly drift out without buying anything until the queue has dwindled to nothing. All but ‘Young Norman’ and a couple of elderly ladies drinking cream topped coffees quickly leave the café too. As they wait for their order, the two young men throw Sam’s back only a casual glance of disdain. The two then bring out tabloid newspapers which they study with loud leering comments. I know these voices, do not have to see their faces to confirm who they are. I am out of their sight; they are just in my view only if I peer around Sam’s bulk which I do not do. One task at a time.
***
We had left the crime scene as soon as we could. It was clearly wasting Sam’s spirit away and I needed to talk with him in private. An elderly police constable had finally arrived after an hour, no light flashing or siren wailing. Announcing that Detective Chief Inspector Odling was on his way he gave me hardly a glance even as from the roadside he pointlessly studied the dead woman for clues. I had already re-crossed the fields to fetch my car, hide my crime scene outfit, wellingtons and iPad, discard my jeans, jumper and duffel coat and don suit, shirt, tie and overcoat. I did not explain my presence at the scene. Sam and I left, despite the PC’s look of protest.
In the now almost empty cafe and shop, I let Sam devour his second helping of the Ancaster delicacy and wipe crumbly Wensleydale from his mouth and fingers with a paper serviette.
The baps thick with sausage, bacon and steaming hot onions arrive for the two from the pickup in a welter of noise where they ask for different sauces and ‘whatever else you might have on offer Tina, know what I mean.’ Visibly upset, the young girl retreats as quickly as she can, her father hovering to comfort her. The men clatter their cutlery as they eat while reading their newspapers, commenting loudly and swearing in torrid detail about the women they see displayed there and what they would like to do to them.
Sam goes still. His eyes avoid mine. The shop is eerily quiet save for the loud sputter of a radiator and the two loudmouths. The performance is costing Bert dearly. More people enter, sense the atmosphere, see the men, retreat again immediately. Norman quietly reads on, the two women customers rigidly study their cups, unable to escape without passing the rowdy duo.
I clutch his hand on the table and whisper, “Leave it. Now, why me Sam?”
He says nothing, frowning at the noise behind him, fretting about the young woman and others having to listen to this insulting sexual banter and her father not feeling able to intervene with what presumably are valued customers. Sam turns to stare darkly over his shoulders at the two young men, still too busy stuffing their faces and ogling newspapers to notice us.
I speak softly to his back, “Had to be me Sam? You said. Why?”
His eyes are colourless water, lost in his large open face, as he turns back to me, stares at his giant hands and speaks softly downwards, "I sean the dead lady afore lad.”
I shake my head. I feared I know not what but my spirits lift if it is only this. It still does not affect me.
“Last Sat’day morning,” he goes on, eyes still downcast.
Nerves jangle instantly as I feel the weight of worse to come.
“At Merian Market.
“I see who she was with. Lots of folk likely did.“
Words will not come. I long to be back in my trenched nightmare of Goya and his visions of horror.
It means nothing in itself, but cannot be a coincidence.
Elbow on the table, my hand supports my bent head. I want to lay down and sleep my life away. The blows never cease. I need to hear it all yet just want him to stop.
Sam's deep voice is a whisper even as the meaning clubs me, “Dead lady was with your Ma. By the fruit stall in market.
“Worse. Arguing, rowing, quiet but nasty humdinger, by look of things, I never saw your Ma so angry, upset.'
I nod, helpless as he pauses, wanting said and done what he has not wanted to tell,” Us two - your Mam and me - allus meet Sat'day mornings for coffee, lunch, all day mebbe, always did when my Janet and Henry was alive too, same, these thirty years or more since your Pa passed. Without fail, till last Sat’day.”
He too is lost then, voice timid, “Friends these forty years ……… Yet your Mam pushed,” a deep sigh, “past dead lady, past me as though I waeren't even there, as though she did not know me. Not a look or word.”
Losing myself staring at the scuffs of long use on the wooden table, and the echoing sounds of the coffee machine gurgling in anticipation of invisible customers, I have so many questions but no words will come.
I drift to memories of Merian Market Square as I loved it once, innocent as only a child can be with both our families at Christmas Time: The Salvation Army band playing, the tall Christmas Tree swaying aglow with lights in the December murk, a plethora of stalls, happy people milling around, greetings and chats galore with the inevitable ‘Hey up, Merry Christmas?”
All to forget the image of my mother having a public argument with a woman shortly before she dies in suspicious violent circumstances.
6
In the echoing silence of my mind, the two loudmouths rise to leave, shouting almost in unison, ‘Put it on the tab as usual Bert and a tip for Tina,’ and ‘We’ll settle with you, and her next week - if she likes - and she will.’ The final insult, “Somebody has to,” as they depart.
At the door, the cat-like one has a different angle as he turns to offer a final leer and laugh at the seemingly powerless father and daughter behind the counter. Only then does he catch a first clear sight of me in the shadows of the cranny. He taps his friend’s arm and they stroll arrogantly back across to us. Scattering chairs and tables out of their way as they do so, presumably the way they think bad guys, or heroes, act in movies. Preening proudly as the three remaining customers stare, visibly scared.
I see Bert hovering behind the counter, unsure what to do, trying to comfort Tina and his two cowering shop assistants, even as another two old ladies enter and go to where the cakes are piled, oblivious to the trouble brewing.
“Baastard scum Cade, who let you out?”
It is almost a shout of triumph. The small man repeats it, looking around for the applause of an audience it seems. I know him of old. Brown hair, ears a little too big, nose sharp, features set too close together, eyes glittering and lazily watching as they rove.
The two, both with nose and ear piercings, tattoos of Asian emblems covering their neck and lower arms where their overall sleeves are rolled up, fill the opening to the small hideaway we are in and snarl something indecipherable.
As always, I take stock. Both men have big upper arm muscles, noticeably overdeveloped and straining at their clothes, greasy hair, oily skin, strongly bad breath with huge bags under their eyes. All the classic symptoms of weight training with steroid abuse, along with increased aggression as here.
I rise to face them, regretting that we are in a small space with the table blocking me in to give them a likely advantage. Still I welcome the confrontation. Sparks of red anger wrap themselves around me even as my mind is coldly assessing the two - one only just medium height but wiry, the other tall but what locals call ‘powder puff’ in character. My fear is not of being hurt, but that I suddenly rage to hurt these two, badly.
His broad back to the two, Sam sedately places his flat cap firmly on his head, rises, turns and his bulk blocks the entrance to our small alcove.
“Piss-bed.”
Sam’s word is a hiss, the time-honoured insult of the county even though it only actually means di
uretic or dandelion.
When they do not respond, Sam moves a step forward to tower over both of them and drip disgust as he says, “Bugger off ‘Cat’ Rudd. Steveson. Now.”
Rudd, the smaller man, laughs, genuinely amused it seems, “Or what Gramps, will you bore me to death with an old Ancaster saying?”
Both men snort in dismissal even as I hear an aged haughty voice as though coming from an old stage play say, ‘I fancy a cream cake now Ethel, what about you, and a coffee, or is it too early?
“But why are they are not listening to my order?”
I do not hear Ethel’s reply as Rudd spits, “Perhaps hit me with a dead animal Aystrup?” and makes to push Sam aside.
Time slows as Sam’s huge gnarled right hand reaches out, fastens itself around the young man Rudd’s throat and lifts him bodily a full foot up off the ground. The boy flops about like a fish on a line, hands clawing at Sam’s arm without any effect, struggling for breath, his face going pink to puce, veins standing out in his spotty visage, spittle dribbling from his mouth. I see the cafe owner hover closer now in the background, worry written all over his face, everyone watching the spectacle.
Oddly Cat Rudd has no record, through connections and luck. I know of Derek Stephenson, to give him his proper surname, the second young man though. Most things criminal, or likely to be, have crossed my desk these past seven years at Intelligence. He is the youngest of four brothers, with a record of late night violence in the street when drunk and in a gang. No bravado here though, he is ashen of face at the sudden violence which might strike him for once. Stephenson backs away as Sam steps forward, carrying Rudd who is still struggling in vain.
“Sam,” I say urgently, my hand on his outstretched arm, almost stung by the rocklike muscles strained with anger.
Sam is not with me; his eyes and thoughts are elsewhere. He is hurting, maiming someone else in his mind, paying back for the recent years of eviction, redundancy, exploitation.
I urge again, “Sam, let the scrote go. He’s not worth it.”
Sam remains a stone statue with Rudd visibly choking now as I whisper sharply, “Mrs Janet, Henry would not want you like this.”
I repeat the words and his eyes slowly return to the now and to me. He casually tosses his captive through the air like a bag of garbage for two yards, knocking the other man down so they both finish in a comic heap which causes all four ladies to titter with nervous laughter.
***
A cliché I know, but time does stop. No one moves before the two eventually rise to their knees, then feet and make to stumble away.
Rudd struggles for breath but then manages a show of defiance, “Call yourself a copper Cade.”
A coughing fit then his voice is hoarse, “When law abiding working men cannot have a quiet breakfast without being attacked for no reason.”
His words wake me and I am over to the two men in a second, shocking them as I punch slam Stephenson into a chair and warn him not to move, and violently yank the handcuffs tight on Rudd with his arms behind his back.
Everything is quiet now as I shepherd Rudd towards the counter where Albert stands with Tina and shop assistants huddled behind him, the two ladies and Norman sat even more agog at this new development and the two other women still waiting to give their cake order.
I pull Rudd round to face me and say evenly, “Time to pay your tab, Catboy, to decide you will never ever come in here again and then we can discuss possible charges against you - public disorder, assault and battery on an old man, disturbing the peace, illegal parking, threatening behaviour, fraud and protection rackets.”
The tab is just over £1,800, three breakfasts a week each - Monday and the busy market days of Wednesday and Friday - for a year it turns out from Norman’s itemised bill that he prints out while we wait. The pop pap on the radio switches off. Rudd and Stephenson sullenly pay half each on their credit cards. I am amazed they have that much credit but it goes through.
Sullenly they promise never to enter the premises again, and they and Sam agree it was all just a misunderstanding as Rudd massages his bruised wrists where the cuffs have bit. There is no shaking of hands.
I hold Rudd close but speak so all can hear, “Remember, you, your family or cronies, never enter here again, ever - let the sister of your boss do well with her new cafe down the street if she can. In fair competition, without you scrotes trying to illegally damage Bert’s business hey?”
We all watch through the front windows and door as Rudd suddenly bends over and vomits violently beside his van before they drive away.
Bert brings everyone a coffee, ‘on the house,’ as Sam sits again, calm as you please. The two ladies finally order a piece of Victoria Sponge each and thank me profusely for ‘making our day.’ It is nine thirty in the morning. Misuse of police power? Possibly but justice done in its own way.
We return to our alcove and I try to lighten Sam’s mood, “Steroid abuse, those two, symptom is poor decision making that comes from a drug induced feeling of invincibility.”
He does not hear, almost whispers, “Only thing I did hear in market lad. Daed lady says to your Ma summat like, “I can help you - and your son.”
He trails off, elsewhere once more.
“Sweet voice, like honey. Went with her hair. Sultry like my Janet, your Bess.”
Neither of us speak for a long time before he sighs, “Marion turned to her. Warned her clear as day, ‘Caleb has suffered enough, go near him and you will regret it.’ Not sure if anyone heard apart from me, very busy market day but lots of folk thaere. Sort of thing you say when upset. Dead lady, all sad as she saw me nearby, looking. Went away afore I knew it.”
My mother cannot be involved. But whatever, I will not let her be sullied by police questions, dragging her into any mire DCI Odling can use to get at me. My mind sweeps rapidly through complications and possibilities.
People will have seen the incident. Most know my mother, a regular at the market for forty years, a widow who tragically lost her husband and brought up her only son alone though ‘look what he turned into.’ Many would know her too as a well-liked Sister at Merian’s cottage hospital then Director of Nursing for the North Ancaster Health Trust.
They would never have seen my mother ruffled previously. They would be bound to recognise the glamorous dead woman when they see her picture. But that will not be until Thursday, the day the local paper comes out. Television, regional and national newspapers will not run ‘a suspicious death’ at all, so I have a few days to get to the bottom of things. My mother’s involvement will be entirely innocent I know but rumours spread, harm can be done. Especially when there are police officers like Odling who will stop at nothing to crush me, even if it means dragging the gentlest of souls down too.
‘Withering and keen the winter comes,” says John Clare, our country poet.
I flip the words away impatiently with my hand even as my mind drags them up. Famous quotes offer no light in these depths. No help in a world suddenly changed for the worse forever when I could not have imagined that being even remotely possible.
I will not, cannot see my mother hurt further.
7
Lilburne-by-Spital, the very name declares its ancient lineage back to the Domesday Book. A chocolate box village with its stream, pond, quacking ducks, a green flanked by trees, nursery, pushchairs and gossiping mothers and sleepy tots, weather worn church, small community hall and inn, means warmth and safety to me even if the post office, shop and bakery are now boarded up. Born and bred here, happy days even without a father. Days I thought would never end. Today the family home through all those years is darkly empty, the air almost frozen to the touch. It has been devoid of life since Saturday. Our neighbour Ena appears to gabble this out instantly as Sam and I draw up after our ten-mile drive from Merian.
Face aged, voice shrill as long as I can remember, she is a witness who gives detail in a tumbling torrent, “Comes back heare reight early from Sat’day market, all
in a lather, does your Ma, even forgets my few bits and bobs of shopping. First time. Ever. Has to go, Marion says, not a by your leave where or why or when be back. Never known the like.”
Sam has heard it all before - on Saturday afternoon when he came round, and Sunday when he did so again. My mother’s mobile has been switched off for the duration too, he reports, from the moment she rushed away from him. My mother has even taken Ovid, my dog, who she usually leaves with me when away on holiday.
In the sitting room, kitchen, utility room, everything is pristine as ever but the abandonment of the three-bedroom dormer echoes. The car is gone, the garage duly locked and bolted. I am baffled. My mother What’s Apps me a dozen times a day with everyday tittle tattle, emails me longer notes almost daily. I had felt disquiet when this stopped Saturday morning after she messaged, ‘Off to market as usual, will get you one of your treats’ with a smiley face. I just assumed she was busy. She visits me twice a week but I have not seen her since Thursday, would not expect her again till Tuesday when she will insist on cooking us dinner at my cottage. Her phone goes straight to voice mail when I try now as I wander aimlessly around.
Despite the twisting gourds of terror tight in my breast, I cannot easily bring myself to search for any clue to explain the sudden disappearance. It just seems an intrusion. Sam, a frequent visitor here, is very English, and gets us tea and biscuits. He nibbles and sips as he sits at the kitchen’s middle island and stares sightless out of the picture window to the grey white countryside beyond.
I wander, aimless. The bag of vegetables and fruit bought at Saturday’s market lie where they were cast on the kitchen table. The tidiest of people, it is another sign of my mother’s distress that they are not neatly packed in the fridge. I urge Sam again to go off to work and not lose money. He would not hear of it as he climbed stubbornly into my car as we left the cafe earlier, will not now.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 4
