My phone rings. I close my windows but still speak softly. Greg Brumby, the wily local criminal lawyer I rang earlier and asked to represent Sam, tells me what has happened. Nothing. Sam has not been interviewed, just left in a cell for the day and overnight, pending an initial appearance before the Magistrates in Merian tomorrow. The lawyer is confident of getting bail, but quotes Odling advising him ‘an open and shut case, guilty as hell, plead insanity through age.’
I try my mother once more with only the unfeeling electronic voice mail as reward. I ring Martha Loam, eighty-five now, born and bred in the remote house she still lives in within the flat plain of Ancaster Marshes towards the coast. A teacher at and then Head of D'Eynscourte Church of England Primary School for over forty years, an early inspiration of mine, a close friend of my mother and a devout Quaker, Martha cannot tell a lie or even be disingenuous. She readily admits my mother is staying with her, was distraught on Saturday, ‘more settled in herself now, working things through, not sure I fully understand it all.’ Martha’s voice trembles a touch on that last phrase.
“No, no,” the old lady’s cracked voice says sternly. ‘It would be for the best if you do not come, let her find her own way, I will tell her you called and are fine with things. You, as ever, are her main concern.”
We argue, she is adamant it is best I stay away. I agree, reluctantly, not least as I do not want to lead anyone to my mother. When asked, if I have seen or heard from her then I can truthfully answer no. Martha agrees to press on my mother that I need to know what her argument with a woman at Merian market was about. I do not say the woman is dead.
Still I am inclined to go; I need to know. Suddenly in the cold blackness, a spark. A match flares by the Albion Gates, two cigarettes are lit. Controlling my car’s interior light so it will not come on automatically, I quietly get out and edge along the road to confirm the outline of a police car hidden within the Albion House gates. A new shift is on so they will likely be here to midnight at least.
But why are they watching? Odling has his man, why bother? Unless they know he is not guilty? Unless they fear someone might investigate or is this a trap for me?
I will return tomorrow when the watchers will be gone, but there will still be need to be wary of the local newspaper who will undoubtedly take a photograph of the scene once they know of events from the court appearance. Very strange that they were not here this morning for more dramatic pictures of police activity. If they had known, they would have been surely. Unless they were warned off. Unless the police deliberately did not tell the paper, as they are obliged to, when the reporter makes his twice daily ‘calls’ to police, fire, coastguard and ambulance for reports of any incidents. Unusual too that a PC has not made a few quid with a tip off. Or Odling et al, so adept at media management as I know to my cost.
***
Creeping to within two hundred yards of the police car, I can see the lights of D’Eysncourte Hall three miles away on its hill. I stand, revisit my final difficult minutes with Valentine.
Despite the blazing fire, it was as cold in the Gallery of Shields at the last as it is now outside. When Valentine refused to tell me what the dinner party was about for a second time, I had let the sputtering creaking silence hang before looking pointedly around the room.
“Money, power, family, ambition, sex, jealousy – the motives for most crimes, most cover ups.”
Tears appeared suddenly in Valentine’s eyes at this as he ignored his brandy and almost pleaded, “Surely idealism or accident or pure love or justice for the greater good too?”
“Tell that to the dead woman’s loved ones, to the family of any victim of crime. To me.”
I even though I heard a stifled sob as my friend moved away once more, his back to me as he unsteadily replenished his brandy glass and swigged half down in one gulp before weaving across the room to stand staring up at his family shield, pennant and crest with his back to me.
The question came from nowhere, bouncing off the walls in an echoing whisper, “Caleb? Do you ever think about vengeance, retribution? For whatever has happened to Bess, and precious little Grace?”
Depend upon it I thought, but words came there none.
Valentine had slowly turned, his eyes flashing light from distance even as his words were barely audible above a sudden crackling of fireplace flame and hail of snow on glass, “I pray not Caleb.”
I got us back on track, “On this case Val, the police will decide what is relevant and what is not, but I could really do with your help here, especially if there is nothing to hide as you say. Even if it is just between you and me what the dinner party was about, who the guests, the car drivers, no doubt the chauffeurs were.”
Valentine’s body sagged as he came and sat near me again, but he was unresponsive, his mind wandering it seemed, his words slurred.
“Life has changed, so much.
“Now. Everything now is about the markets, profit, not people, the same for my lands and communities, I so hoped, wanted, dreamed ….”
He turned to me then, his face bone white haggard in the electric candle light, his anger sour and accusing, “Do you think I wanted to evict the Aystrups from their cottage? Do you?”
I start at the abrupt change of subject.
“Agonised over it. We were just not making enough money all over the place, now we make money on those buildings for holiday lets and get contractors to do his work at half the price with no outlay for the machinery. We had to modernise, the markets dictate.”
I suppressed a silent shudder. Do the visitors love and gently tend the land, do the contractors? We had this disagreement at the time six years ago, our only one in all our years together. Until this afternoon. A strange thing in itself. For Valentine was a High Tory local squire, devoted to the aristocratic rural way of life, enjoying hunting, fishing, shooting and a status and respect purely for what he inherited rather than his own talents, significant as they are.
I hear again his voice wistful as I had risen to leave, “I did not want, did not dream Sam’s life would turn out like this, losing everything, killing a homeless woman, trying to cover it all up.”
Rumours spread quickly in this county, especially to people who count, but who had told him all this and so quickly?
“Who told you all that?” I had asked sternly, wondering if Val also knew it was not my case.
“Sorry, just assumed,” Valentine had said half-heartedly, turning away again, his wandering thoughts having failed to ease whatever burden he carried.
“Sorry, ask Charlie Hakluyt, I do not think I can in all honour tell you who else was dining with us, what it was about. Little bit the worse for wear.”
His voice strengthened then, “Not the sort of people, Hak’s friends, to run somebody down and not stop, believe me.”
Sadly, I do not share his confidence in the morality of the rich and powerful.
I did not insult my friend with the threat of a charge of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. Since it is not my case and I am on thin ice even being here, I will leave it at that. For now.
Should I have explained about my mother disappearing after meeting the dead woman, and my own fear of her being dragged into this, hence my looking at the case myself. Surely, he would have helped then. He spent so much time with us both until seven years ago. My mother always treated him as a son, almost as my brother for as long as I can remember, and dutifully still sees him whenever he has any time.
I had decided against such revelations; he had not looked capable of handling such even though I know he would keep it secret if I asked him.
I will get all the dinner guests from elsewhere or I will be back, Lord Lieutenant of the County Valentine D’Eynscourte in the making or not. He knows all who were at the dinner party and what it was about. Without any doubt.
***
Val walked with me to the far door and had striven to return us to how we had once been, brothers sharing every thought, hope, dre
am, fear.
Nervously he asked his inevitable question in a hoarse whisper, “Any news of Grace, Bess?”
I had shaken my head forcefully, suddenly longing for the heavy crash of the large doors as I escaped. With one question, I was suddenly distraught myself.
He stumbled, winced, “It’s been seven years a week on Friday Caleb, not a word, not a sighting, nothing, it is unbelievable, surely you must have found something? Anything?”
Unmoving, I waited, willing it to be over, yet knowing Valentine was about to go further, “Such a burden of grief and sorrow Caleb, such……”
Bull saved me, entering with a heaving crash from the doors beside the fire and hurrying towards us. The man apologised for interrupting, before reminding Valentine that he was due to visit the various factory plants on their adjoining industrial park to inspect new equipment.
“Sorry Mr. Cade,” Bull explained while he helped Val on with the overcoat he had brought. “Religiously big on science, cleanliness in our plants – ice cream, cheese, milk - have to be. Just replacing our old systems. Experts on hygiene. Replacing the old after only seven years. You have to.
“We are almost as thorough as your forensic people they say, perhaps more so,” he laughs with a confidential knowing look.
His voice swells with some pride, “Millions of pounds of investment again, French company, so Val can translate, watches it all himself very carefully and we have a ‘sit rep’ meeting shortly. We cannot be late or miss it. Time is money.”
Valentine nodded his head that he was ready and I cannot forget his yearning look at the distant decanter as Bull took his arm and said to me, “Sorry, my little pride and joy. I can go on about it a bit.”
I felt reassured that Bull has my friend’s best interests at heart by his actions and the words that followed, “Perhaps leave another drink till later Valentine, not good for your health.”
Val looked frail even in his thick camel outdoor coat that Bull helps him shrug into.
“Terrible business about the homeless woman and Aystrup down the road Mr Cade,” Bull continues, turning to me. “George Odling will sort it though, he normally does.”
Just like Odling solved the disappearance of my wife and daughter?
18
Somewhere beyond where I can see, a man groans weakly. The scraping in his voice sounds like death. I do not stop to help.
The rhythm of striking the deep belly has me in its spell. Free of burden or care, lost in harmony of mind and body, I battle, hitting the swinging speed bag first with the heels of my gloved fists and then straight punches. Get in close, strike, adjust, combination, move, never let the bag swing to slap you in face or body. It veers hither and thither more quickly as I connect, feel omnipotent, faster than the eye can follow. Legs, thighs, hips, neck, head, arms, fists, move unerringly, like waves crashing against the shore and slipping away to begin again. Wearing away at the bag while knowing in the end you can never beat it.
For as any boxer knows. Time is always against you. Somewhere out there is someone bigger, quicker, stronger, faster. If you play by the rules that is.
“Two more, proper, respect yourself,” grates a harsh voice nearby. ‘Or you start all twenty again.”
Weak agony whines, “Can’t.”
I stand away, sip some water from my bottle, see beyond my punch bag to a small young man in the corner, collapsed arms and legs akimbo after those two extra push-ups.
‘You won’t die,” scorns the zealous trainer Andy, laughing as he walks away to his next victim.
My arms and legs shudder in sympathy as the careworn would-be gladiator drags himself to suffer two more and then embrace the shower room. What can you say to him? It will pass. You will come to purely love the suffering and the plateau of controlled happiness you will reach. If you keep going. For a few years. Right now, such words will not help.
***
Devotion and routine brought me through the cobbled streets and market square of Merian town to the late-nineteenth century three-storey brick warehouse. Looming out of the freezing mist like a ghastly lit liner moored by the sludge of the old canal on Merian’s neglected east side, it is a building I have loved as my natural home, its people my community, for over thirty years. Since Sam first brought me here once a week as a youngster. Five days a week, like an addict craving his nightly fix, without fail from my early teenage years to now. Even marriage to Bess who disapproved, and then the arrival of my adored Grace, never tarnished my devotion. I just went very early or late, or during my lunch hours as a family man.
I parked with a score of other cars, a cluster of bikes and the odd motorcycle, I could already smell, taste, see the clouds of sweat from tortured muscles, leather, powder and damp towels. On entry, I heard the clatter of rhythmic sounds, saw it all reflected and reverberating in the floor to ceiling mirrors, shadows bouncing on the canary yellow walls blistered and peeling above old iron radiators.
Brooding strip and spot lights illumined the large gym as I slipped around the side to the changing rooms, returning the nods of those few young men and women who had any energy to greet me. Most were concentrated on steady breathing even at their rest. Some vigorously attacked the half dozen hanging punch bags, turning them into blurs of flying leather. Others stretched and toiled on mats, clanked bar bells up and down, or skipped ardently with the grace of ballet dancers or donkeys.
Two men were sparring in the large central boxing ring, with its bouncing red ropes. The blue floor, almost black in places from scuff marks, sweat, erased blood, grease and kicked over spit buckets, wobbles and creaks every time one goes forward or backwards before they split instantly on the trainer’s command. To begin the watchful dance of shimmy, feint, punch and move in or away once more.
Lines of giant script burn down from the cramped old changing room’s grey walls. ‘Creed of Daniel’s Gym,’ has long been the title. ‘Who’s the best? You Are,’ reads the first. ‘Why? Respect – for ourselves and others.’ The third and last proclaims, ‘Discipline – in all we do.” Famous words from the Philadelphia gym of Smoking Joe Frazier, world heavyweight champion way back, a relentless and ferocious boxer, one of only two to actually beat the legendary Ali at his peak.
As usual, the purple track-suited man offered no greeting as he followed me into the changing room and snapped gruffly with a Scottish rasp, “Power condaitioning toneet. Ya knows all a the drill.”
Small and elderly, with white hair neatly trimmed, a thick ear, straight nose and scars above both eyebrows in a granite face, Daniel Baines, my trainer and long-time boxing mentor, was impatient to be back on the gym floor. It is a face that has seen a hundred thousand punches coming at it, avoided most, and loves playing the game of boxing, of life.
As I changed he spoke quickly, “We have yon professional here for two weeks, fine tuning fer his next big fight in Manchester. Only rang up about it this morning and party here wi’in hours.”
I nod. An upcoming professional often trains out in the sticks, away from pressure and prying eyes. Even coming here in remote Ancaster County, bringing in much needed income for Merian’s Boxing Club and Gym, which is perennially struggling to survive.
Daniel looked quizzically at me, as he bit out the next few sentences with some distaste, “Willing to do a few sparring sessions with our best. His manager, one Dizzy Edge. Asked for you, special.”
His lips are turned down in distaste as he goes on, “Story about how his guy. Jason Stamp. Needs to practice against someone your weight and height. Someone fairly fast and experienced like his next opponent. Edge saw you last week when visiting. He says. I never saw him. You fit the bill. He says.”
His face troubled, a question, “Know ‘em?”
I shake my head as he goes on, “Nor me. Told ‘em. I wud ask ya. Yer decision.”
I nodded agreement, aware my sparring will help keep this professional here and the income flowing. Daniel is legendary in boxing in the region, the county, the country e
ven, as a long-time guru of the sport. In his seventies now, he has trained the youth of this part of Ancaster County in the pugilistic arts for forty years, including Sam tells me, my father. Daniel married a Merian girl, settled here, following his own moderately successful professional career, which included sparring with some of the greats in 1970’s America.
***
My ease down over, I begin the next part of my routine with Daniel beside me. I am at peace here. As far as I ever am or can be anywhere now. He has taught me so much. To be self-contained and composed at all times, to hide both emotion and reaction. To realise that events and decisions, big and small, in the ring, in life, affect others and myself. Who would think that boxing would contain so much philosophy in its very root and fabric? Yet it does. I have lost count of the times I found the gist of Daniel’s fifty maxims within ancient tomes of literature, history, the Classics or philosophy while sat huddled to keep warm in the garret rooms of my Cambridge college. The man is still abreast of modern thought too, integrating Meditation, Pilates, Yoga and Ballet into the club’s regime despite the initial objections of many.
Of one thing there is no question, he must never know of the volcanic demons that lie ever closer to the surface in me these past few years. He would put me on a rigorous regime, work me to exhaustion until we had exorcised what he would see as evil. I squash the thought before he can read my face and mind, as he often does.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 11
