Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

  Even as the heavy soundproof door slips closed, the ACC leans forward, softly accusing.

  “Do you know who was seen having a real humdinger of an argument with Pippa Langstaffe the Saturday morning before her death?”

  I breathe deeply, staying calm as Daniel always teaches when crisis comes.

  A snort of derision, “Of course you do, your mother, that is who. What was it about?”

  I explain my mother had two phone calls from a woman wanting to discuss when she originally met my father forty years ago and their wedded lives together back in Ancaster County. My mother had dismissed her as a journalist lying just to get a new angle on me and my predicament. Or perhaps steal family photographs as had happened before when a reporter with a sob story gained entry to her home. My version is all true after a fashion but I cannot, will not allow even the ACC to question my mother and discover the family secrets regarding my Aunt Penny and Val’s birth.

  The ACC stares unblinking at me in total silence as no sounds penetrate, a most unnerving experience I have seen reduce tough criminals to spill anything she wanted to hear.

  Finally, the ACC says heavily, “Tell me all - when you feel it right. We have a good idea who caused Pippa’s death after all, just cannot prove it so I will leave this.

  “For now.”

  As ham and salad sandwiches are devoured, I take the ACC through what I think happened that Sunday night and Monday morning when Pippa Langstaffe died.

  How the young Rocco Hakluyt, drove out, saw Pippa Langstaffe taking photographs, called his father who was annoyed. The Chinese women overheard and were livid, which opens up the possibility that one of them deliberately drove at Pippa.

  “Motive?” asks Parsons.

  I shake my head, “There will be one, the rich run by their own rules and expect to be allowed to do as they please.”

  “Source for this story DCI Cade?” asks the ACC.

  I shake my head again, “Private source Ma’am, promised total invisibility and will not give evidence. Solid though and ongoing I hope.”

  Instead of a ballistic explosion, the ACC nods, perhaps in understanding, perhaps saving her ire for later. Protocol dictates I should tell her details of the source if pressed.

  I go on. The dinner party discussed the University project and its launch. I surmise that the various guests were there, were involved, to represent different sections and power sources of the local and national community, and reassure the Chinese investors that the whole area was in support of the development. The events with the other guests played out as we know, including Rocco returning, ‘going black’ and setting off the events that followed.

  “One of the women was driving, she had taken over half way up the drive as Castle says, the footprint supports that. Seeing Pippa Langstaffe this woman either deliberately or by accident ran into her and my vote is for the former, sending our victim up in the air and into the field.

  “They got out to look for her, Castle and Rocco not realising anyone had been hit, the women perhaps hoping she could not be seen as proved to be the case.”

  I finish, “My guess, they talked to someone here or in China on the phone, Castle says they made calls, and that person organized the attempt to hide the body by dropping it in a deep ditch, and prompted Odling and Creel to lose the death in the system and smother any publicity.

  “Our two officers set out to throw me off the scent by framing my innocent friend Sam Aystrup, had people follow me, harass me in a café and set a professional boxer on me. All while the diners ran obstruction to allow the two women to finish their vital business and escape back to China before any hue and cry against them began.”

  The ACC and Parsons look wide eyed at me as my senior officer speaks with concern, “Would our officers really be that malleable? I get it all until that last bit when you go Watergate conspiracy on me - that you were targeted and the case buried. You have been mixing with the Foreign Office and spooks too much Caleb.”

  “It is the only version that fits all the characters, motives, known events to make a probable narrative of events Ma’am.”

  I hear the Sergeant murmur, “Oh God.”

  “And what might be the overall motive for all this DCI Cade – in your fevered imagination?”

  I do not answer, nor continue that the various local burglaries for data, plus one in Cambridge and Pippa’s London house, are all connected too. Even to my own ears that would all sound like extreme make-believe. But it all connects. Without a doubt.

  Friday December 21st

  78

  Snow squalls into my copse, onto my tousled hair. Without thought I murmur ‘Chill airs and wintry winds! My ear, has grown familiar with your song,’ apt words on winter from Longfellow. Impatient, I almost flip the thought away with my hand but stay the empty gesture. Any movement could reveal my presence, but such high-flying pondering is to be buried this night when serious danger may be afoot. Perhaps poetry is already lost to me. Yet the intellectual increasingly intrudes. After all it is the way I was trained, while even my Christian name is taken from a book title, ‘The Adventures of Caleb Williams.’ A tale two centuries ago so very like my own; of good and evil confused and upended, such that I sometimes think my father had a premonition of my future fate when he chose my first name.

  I move slightly, peering through the thick trunks of the protective trees. Menacing swathes descend as the hours pass, with only the pitter patter of snow landing, dissolving, freezing, as my soundscape. Even the rustling hustle of small animals, desperate for food, has died as the St Martin’s church bell tolls, an hour to midnight. Martin, once a Roman soldier then a saint who devoted himself to the poor and pastoral work with a church here in his name for almost a thousand years. I picture the slated tower and gilt vane, around which birds wheel and clack all day. Two weeks ago, only a few miles away Pippa was still alive. Seven years ago this day, police discovered my family missing. Twenty-eight seasons I have counted since; their colours, sounds, the very feeling of life changing but with no new beginning for me.

  Until now? I hope. If there is malicious conspiracy or vendetta against me this past fortnight, if thieves are looking for something local that may touch me, tonight would be the time to strike my home. I have laid a false trail that I am away for the weekend; making misleading phone calls for the bugs in my cottage, officially signing off work until Monday, missing boxing tonight for the first time in many a day. Now I watch and wait this night, longing that someone comes and some retribution can be nigh.

  ***

  Today has been an endurance test. I always long to just wander, yes, ‘lonely as a cloud’ but never can.

  I dreamt my dream, before falling forward in headlong flight from a riot of voracious demons. Bess and Grace’s terrified cries were like scraps of meat giving a starving man hope before attack dogs took them from me, driving me into a dark abyss baying to rip me to pieces

  Slipping into the squad room this morning, a sympathetic note from Lucinda warned me that everyone in the County and perhaps beyond knew the date’s significance for me thanks to local radio, national media, and a mini-Twitter storm on the subject. My squad moved soft around me as a result during a day of dull paperwork and pondering files before I could stand it no longer and left without a word at lunchtime to fulfil my annual obligations.

  First, I walk with Val around his D’Eynscourte Estate’s Upper Lake, where he, Bess and I were children once, long ago, lost in a joy I shall never know again. Today the chill air and wind clutched our faces, offered excuse for wiping tear filled eyes as we traversed the gorse and hawthorn threatened path for two miles to the church and narrow beach lined with willows sweeping low in mournful sorrow.

  “One of the few places I find peace now Caleb,’ were the first words either of us spoke in an hour. He tells me he prays daily at the tiny church along the shore.

  We both placed a red rose gently on the white sand by the waterside, watched as the water slowly gathered them
up and bore those prizes away into the grey white mist to rest. Reeds shifted in the breeze, the very waves sighing to match my own yearning. Returning to the Hall, I had declined a drink even as Val clutched my hand, stood beside my car.

  Teeth chattering slightly even in his thick coat and flat cap, the words had emerged as disconnected orphan phrases, hardly connecting, “Do you ever think, we will all be, perhaps as we once were, Caleb, and wake, from this terrible dream?”

  I have the same thought every morning as nightmare recedes. In response, I moved my head but whether to nod or shake I knew not.

  “Perhaps in the afterlife,” he whispers.

  I stared off towards the mist sodden lake without answer as his voice laboured on like a sigh, “I have so much to say to you my dear old friend, so much ….”

  He stopped as Bull appeared to take him elsewhere, Val and I hugged, I drove quickly away.

  ***

  Despite our best efforts, silence soon ensued when my mother and Sam came for this annual event at my cottage. No one mentioned the icy desolation within, hardly affected by the central heating being on full, nor the tragedy of neglect that is my garden. Only the wild meadow keeps its proud shape due to the devoted efforts of Sam, Reggie and the local man with the scythe.

  I hardly tasted the lamb and vegetables, apple crumble and custard, that my mother cooked, bringing the smells of home and warmth in momentarily. Ovid, our dog, skirted his beloved old basket in one corner but settled on the sofa in the lounge. As light faded he welcomed his lead appearing and our all walking the meadow in memory and celebration of Bess and Grace.

  I tried to cover my desire to be alone but failed. Pain was etched on all our face, suffering I was helpless to ease.

  As my mother wrapped a thick scarf, rich in Chinese colour and patterns, round her neck, memory stirred and I asked if she remembered Bess ever having some Chinese porcelain. My mother was ignorant confusion but then came a slither of recall.

  “Ah. A small porcelain dish, found the parcel in the post box a few days after ……,” her voice faltered, “after Bess and Grace disappeared and you came to stay with me. You said to just bin it, grateful patient or advertising gimmick when I asked you then. I gave it to a charity shop I think. You did not even want to look at it. Would have kept it for myself, exquisite thing but thought it might upset you.”

  I murmured Charles Hakluyt’s description, as much to myself as her then, ”Intricate design and colours of a dragon, a mazy river, people and the houses of an ancient Chinese village almost in animated form on the porcelain.

  “As blue as the sky, as lustrous as a mirror, as thin as paper and as resonant as a chime. So says Wen.”

  I nodded. This was the something hovering balefully in my memory when Hakluyt showed me his beloved porcelain dish, when Adams talked of gifts the banker sent.

  The kitchen was in dark shadow as Sam helped my mother with her coat and she replied, “You must have looked Caleb, that is a wonderful description of it, is Wen the artist? What does this all mean?”

  I shake my head and shrug even as I remember Adams’ mocking words, ‘Hakluyt’s gift to those he has bedded or wants to.”

  Not my Bess for the first, a gift to further the second perhaps but when had Hakluyt met my wife and why had he not mentioned it when I met him last week? Out of sensitivity? No, likely kept as leverage for the future.

  And the last of the anniversary events I must endure? In my post box by my gates was the envelope containing the annual postcard. Duly written and signed by Bess and yet different.

  ‘My dearest Cal, We are fine. Please do not worry. Love, Bess. X X.’

  We, not ‘Grace and I’ as it has always read before. The image is of the shimmering night skyline of a cathedral and castle lit by many colours on a hill. Of Ancaster City.

  ***

  My mind returns to my copse in the present. It is so very cold, even in thermal underwear, a fisherman’s thick black jumper, scarf, gloves and black duffel coat, along with warm coffee and brandy in a large flask.

  My phone is turned to silent and dimmed, but beneath my coat I check it now. The slightest light or sound carries for miles in these conditions.

  Gadd has texted me. He has accomplished the last of his special tasks. My ‘Super Recogniser’ has re-examined the CCTV closest to the burglaries at my mother’s house, at D’Eynscourte Primary school, Merian’s newspaper office and Pippa’s Ancaster abode without spotting anything useful. Except he thinks the same white transit van with registration numbers obscured each time and no clear shot of the occupants. Even his writing appears excited when he tells that he has found material from a private camera in an office block near Pippa Langstaffe’s Camden house. It clearly shows two shadowy figures in dark outfits and hoodies get out of a similar white transit van and enter the house at midnight, spending four hours there before they emerge, the van reappearing for them to load some large canvas bags and drive off. One figure is tall and slim, the other small and graceful. No number plates, no recognizable images.

  The worrying thing is that Jerry has phoned me six times in the past hour, despite our agreeing not to ring after nine as I would be in position, phone on silent, with him hidden half way down the drive by midnight.

  He has finally given up calling and texted, ‘Gran rushed into hospital as I was leaving. Desperate. I must stay with her. She may have only hours left. Have asked Daniel plus trusted friends to attend, assist if needs be. Still think this is way more than the Rudd boys. Take special care.’

  I stare, shocked at the message. His only blood relative, the heartbeat of his life. ’Only hours left,’ grim times.

  79

  A movement, a noise, distant or near I cannot tell. My intruders are here? I pull further against a giant oak tree lest I be seen or sensed.

  But no, the old boar badger shambles into view, his black and white snout to the ground, stopping every few yards to squat, scent and continue his journey around the meadow, marking his territory even on a night like this. Approaching my stand of trees, he disturbs a small flock of brown meadow pipits that rise piping, cheeping song into the darkness. A bird of nimble beauty that Bess loved to see visit us so regularly.

  It is a medieval scene of silence with myself the last person on earth. There is not a car headlight, street lamp, house or person to be seen or heard. All is mournful black beneath a starless sky. Daniel texts that he and ‘two friends’ are parked in the back woods within half a mile of the cottage and to message when I need them. In truth, I would rather not involve them for I am not planning a legal arrest. Far from it. I need to know the truth of what is going on and will have it tonight by fair means if possible, or foul if not.

  A creaking comes before the church bells, cloistered in the distant unseen village, toll their lingering strikes, thirty minutes before the bewitching hour of midnight. I breathe out slowly, downwards, remembering my yoga exercises from the gym. A myriad of breath particles can crystallise. My hunters may be close already, watching for just that whiff of breath or any trace of movement, listening, scanning with heat seeking equipment for the slightest indication of a human presence not their own. But that would mean spooks not criminals surely, and definitely not Wayne Rudd?

  Is it only a few hours since I heard distant music, floating above the sound deadening snow, the echo of the congregation ending the Christmas service with the beautiful ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’. Some of those words lilt through my mind again now, ‘All is calm, all is bright.’

  The same lyric in that same place in a different time. When it was true. With Bess, taking my arm and prettily singing the words beside me in our village church. Festively bedecked, beautiful and solemn, white columns soaring into lilies of light above, stained glass windows in harmony with the honeyed voices of choir, overflowing congregation and the deep-toned organ.

  My beautiful infant daughter lay cradled proudly in my arms eight years ago, that very last Christmas we were all together. She was
to be two a few months later. Her deeply innocent grey-blue eyes were aflame with the reflected sparks of the candles processing down the aisle to the front. Never religious, we always loved the pomp, ritual, music and poetry of the festive season in such a wonderful old building and so were there along with most of the community.

  Grace will be ten years old in the spring, I have lost spending many magical Christmases with her, with them. Brutally, wife, little daughter and that life are long gone. With only the hewing pain of memory as their remains.

  The raven croaks in treetops above me, perhaps to remind that he mates for life and they made their home here long before I intruded. A lamb bleats in the far distance, perhaps an early arrival. The thin light of the moon breaks through, is expunged once more as though someone has turned a switch. I hunker down. In darkness.

  ***

  Soon a shard of moonlight strobes through the clouds lighting naught but my meadow like an empty, eerie white stage. Snow and mist thicken to dense fog and darkness shrouds all the world beyond.

  A sudden slightest of movements, my gaze swivels.

  I am still, the intruder waits, moves gingerly into view. The land has been frozen this past week, animals are desperate. Why else would a fox appear from the side hedgerows, ears alert, stop, all the better to listen, walk gingerly over the spiked ice, struggling through the deepening mini-drifts. Still again, head turning as my binoculars hold on him. Any visitors may be spooked if they see him flee. I dare not even breathe as his slits of yellow eyes stare directly at me through the now faltering snow, his ears flat against his head. He is all feline action then, rearing up and pouncing with a forward dive into a trough with a frenzied flurry of snow flails. I hear the anguished scream of the field vole, caught, swallowed whole. The fox trots off, sated, almost preening in his ragged fur as he disappears to my meadow’s right beneath the thick gorse whence he came.