Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  I parked on the verge, ducked under yellow police tape fastened to two birch trees, and crunched up the driveway. The front door had more tape over it. There was a garage next to the house on the right, a tidy square lawn for a front garden, and a large flowerbed to the left. Neatly trimmed bushes prevented me seeing into the back of the property. There was no blood visible in the doorway and curtains covered both sets of ground-floor windows. I looked back the way I’d walked. The killer had probably parked the Saab in the driveway so as to keep out of sight of the neighbours. Once he’d fired the fatal shot, he’d left quickly, scattering gravel and coming to the attention of the witness who’d reported the vehicle. The overhasty departure was the only error in an otherwise professional homicide.

  I checked the garage. No police tape, but locked. I walked past the flowerbed, around to the back, and emerged into a similarly sized garden, full of flowers and wooden furniture. I tried the rear windows, but the curtains were also closed. There was police tape over the back door. I returned to the front of the house and attempted to recreate the crime in my mind. With the information I had at my disposal it was easy enough to do, but pointless, because it didn’t tell me anything about the murderer, his motive in particular. Perhaps he was a professional, and had killed Adamson-Woods for money. If so, it might be even harder to find out who the client was and why they wanted the old man dead.

  I walked to Westview Cottage, Adamson-Woods’s neighbour on the Tatterford side, and the last house before the countryside proper. It was also set back from the road, with a high brick wall. There was no gate here, either, just a tarmac driveway. Westview was much the same as Minden, but constructed from a different type of stone and slightly larger. I used the iron knocker on the heavy wooden door. A few seconds later a well-preserved, elderly woman answered. She had alert, intelligent eyes, and wore a turtleneck cashmere sweater.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name’s Garth Hutt. I’m a captain in the Royal Military Police.” I showed my ID.

  “Hello, Mr Hutt. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Colonel Adamson-Woods, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the police twice. I didn’t know the colonel at all, and I’m afraid I didn’t see anything. I didn’t even hear the shot – nor did my husband.”

  “How long have you and your husband lived here?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “And you didn’t know the colonel at all?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “But he’s lived next door to you for…eleven years.” I couldn’t remember exactly, but it seemed about right.

  “Neither I nor my husband were in any way associated with the colonel. We were not even what you would call nodding acquaintances. I’m afraid I really can’t help.”

  And she obviously didn’t want to, as she’d offered neither her name nor an invitation to enter. “You knew who he was, though?”

  “We knew of him, but that was all.”

  She started to close the door. Seeing as I was without a police escort, I didn’t push my luck. It was probably just a matter of time before she asked what business an Army Investigator had with a man who’d been retired for thirty-six years. I made a final stab in the dark. “Just one more thing please, ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know the colonel was Theresa Cowan’s grandfather?”

  “Yes, I did. We saw the poor girl there often enough. Goodbye, Mr Hutt.” She shut the door.

  Poor girl. What on earth did she mean?

  I hoped the neighbours across the road might be more helpful, but there was no answer at Welham Cottage. I tried Dragonfly Cottage next. A younger woman opened the door. Her pitch-black hair was long and straight, and her flawless skin deeply tanned.

  I showed my ID again. “Good afternoon. My name’s Garth Hutt. I’m a captain in the Royal Military Police. I wondered if I might ask you a couple of questions about the murder last week.”

  She took my ID and examined it. “I’m not sure I want to go over all that again. If you’re from the Army, do I have to talk to you?”

  “No, ma’am, you don’t. I just want to know if you were acquainted with the colonel.”

  She gave me back my ID. “Thank you for your honesty, but I don’t want to get involved any more than I have to. What’s more, I didn’t know him at all. None of us did.” I heard a child wail behind her. “Sorry, Captain.” She smiled, shrugged, and closed the door.

  Normally, in a neighbourhood like this, people want to tell their story. Even if they don’t have a story to tell, they want to offer a supposedly informed opinion on what’s happened. Not in East Rudham, apparently. I returned to my car and considered what to do next. If I continued making a nuisance of myself, someone would probably phone the police, and that might complicate matters. Alternately, I could phone Lawson and ask him to put me in touch with one of the detectives from the squad investigating the homicide. I didn’t want to do that either. Lawson would probably think I was wasting his time, and he’d probably be right. Even if he agreed, the local police were unlikely to cooperate with me and I didn’t want Major West to hear I was roaming around investigating every crime that caught my attention.

  I had a better idea. I opened the boot, and removed a few of my notes from the single folder I’d brought along. Then I sat back in the car and unfolded the Eastern Daily Press. Nothing new about Adamson-Woods; I’d have been surprised if there was. I checked my notes. The reporter covering the case for the EDP was a feller named Nick Fielding. I wondered if he’d talk to me. He’d probably require something in return, but I’d nothing to lose. I found a contact number for reaching the reporters, dialled, and was put on hold when I asked for Fielding.

  “Nick Fielding,” a voice said with a slight trace of Norfolk drawl.

  “Hello, Mr Fielding. My name’s Hutt. I’m an Army Investigator and I’ve read your articles on Adamson-Woods.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to speak to you about them.”

  “Am I in some sort of trouble here?”

  “Not at all. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  “It’s normally the other way round, Mr…Hutt. Anyway, what’s the Army’s interest in this? Is it about his service in Northern Ireland?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you want to talk to me?”

  “Because I’d like some information from you.”

  “As I said, I earn my keep by receiving information, not giving it away. I’m also swamped at the moment, so unless you have something to tell me about Northern Ireland, I’m afraid I can’t spare the time for a chat.”

  “I don’t have anything on Northern Ireland, but I would like to talk to you about Adamson-Woods. Half an hour would do me.”

  “Much as I’d like to, I can’t just up and off to chase the news, you know? Not that you’ve offered me any news. My in-tray is piled high and the sub-editor’s hovering like a vulture. Besides, what could I tell you that you haven’t already got from the police?”

  “I’ll be straight with you, Mr Fielding. This is a personal matter. I’m not here representing the Army.”

  “But you are a military policeman?”

  “I am an Army Investigator, but I’m not here for the SIB.”

  “That’s Special Investigation Branch, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  He was silent for a few seconds. “Maybe you can help me, but I really am up to my eyeballs in work. And I’m up to my eyeballs in crap at home as well, so it has to be on the paper’s time. You’ll have to wait a few days.”

  I made a split-second decision. “I won’t be around that long, but I’ll give you something bigger than Northern Ireland. Something no other reporter knows yet. But only if you meet me today.”

  “About Adamson-Woods?”

  “No, about his granddaughter.”

  “Theresa Cowan?”

  “Yeah.�
��

  “What about her? How is she –”

  “You’ll have to meet me if you want any questions answered. Today.”

  “I can’t. Not today. Not unless I’m prepared to look for a new job or a new wife. Tomorrow lunch-time is the best I can do.”

  I thought about my meeting in Colchester and hesitated. It was much more important, but Webber would still be there on Friday and my curiosity was well and truly roused with regard to the colonel. I could catch Webber on the way back from London. “Okay, where?”

  “I’m assuming you don’t know King’s Lynn?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Find the high street. There’s a pub called the King’s Wherry. I’ll be there at one. Lunch is on you.”

  Another one. “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up and I immediately regretted the call. I wasn’t sure he could actually tell me anything about Adamson-Woods, and I’d already mentioned Cowan to him. I’d been thinking I could say she was a suspect in Haywood’s murder, and leave out the rest. Now, I wasn’t even sure if that was a good idea. I didn’t know enough about libel law to be certain that he couldn’t print my news if I made it clear I was in an unofficial capacity. Either way, it seemed I’d just put myself in a situation where I had little to gain and a lot to lose.

  If Fielding couldn’t print my information, then he was unlikely to tell me about Adamson-Woods, assuming he actually knew more than he’d written in the paper. If he did print what I told him, then Lawson would probably realise it had come from me, and Marie would find out. She’d kept a very tight lid on Claymore so far, and none of the suspects had been named. No journalists had connected Haywood to Gordon or the other two either. Marie had told me to keep my mouth shut, and I’d just ignored her orders for no good reason. I weighed up the odds for a few minutes, but the damage was already done, so I had no choice other than to meet Fielding and take it from there.

  I rang Webber. His mobile diverted to an answering service, so I left a message cancelling our appointment and asking if it would be convenient to do the same on Friday instead. I had one more call to make before heading back to King’s Lynn to find a hotel.

  “Hello, Mac here.”

  “Hello, Mac, how are you feeling?”

  “Not bad. The doc checked my ribs out. Two cracked, but nowt broke.”

  “Good. Any news on the skirmish?”

  “No, it’s been non-stop at the office today. I’m hoping to get up to Catterick tomorrow. I was right about Bavister, mind. Guess what he got.”

  I assumed Mac was referring to the court martial. “A severe reprimand?” Although a reprimand doesn’t sound very heavy, a severe reprimand often means the end of an officer’s career.

  “Better than that. Forfeiture of all seniority in his present rank.”

  “For the three most minor charges?” Officers in the British Army cannot be demoted, so the loss of a period of seniority is second only to dismissal.

  “Seems like whoever was looking after him finally had enough. He has twenty-eight days to appeal against the finding, the sentence, or both, but in the meantime he’s being transferred to The Rifles on Monday.”

  “Sounds good, but I can just see him getting away with it. Remember, he has absolutely no shame. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wins his appeal and has his seniority reinstated with an apology and a payout for compensation.”

  “Aye, you’re probably right. I was enjoying my day until I phoned you.”

  “Sorry, I have a habit of doing that.”

  I said goodbye, terminated the call, and drove back to King’s Lynn. I put up at the Bank House Hotel, an eighteenth-century townhouse which had once been home to the first Barclays Bank. It was quite pricey, but the room was lovely, with a view over the Great Ouse. After the long drive, I needed to stretch my legs, so I jogged over to the other side of the Great Ouse to West Lynn, where I picked up the pace on the country roads. I returned to the hotel an hour and a half later, feeling somewhat more positive about my digression to Norfolk. My newfound enthusiasm was short-lived. I had a message from Webber, who sounded rather testy, and said he wouldn’t be able to see me until Monday. I was to phone him tomorrow to rearrange our rendezvous.

  I’d not only given a reporter Cowan’s name gratis, but also managed to delay what I hoped would be a significant interview by four bloody days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I arrived at the King’s Wherry at ten to one on Thursday afternoon, ordered a Diet Coke, and found an unoccupied corner table. Fifteen minutes later a short man with thinning blond hair, chubby cheeks, and a cleft chin walked through the crowded pub. He was wearing khaki trousers and a white shirt, with a loud tie pulled loose, and obviously looking for someone. I waved at him.

  “Garth Hutt?” he asked as he approached.

  I stood and offered my hand. “Yeah. Mr Fielding?”

  “As I live and breathe. And it’s Nick, please. How do you do.”

  We shook. “Thanks for coming.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Guinness, please.” I’m not much of a lunchtime drinker, but I thought it wise to be sociable.

  “Short as well?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll bring a menu over with the drinks.”

  He sauntered off to the bar, returning with a pint of Guinness, a pint of ale, a shot of whisky, and a couple of menus. He knocked back the whisky in one swallow, then sank a quarter of the ale in the next. Although he was neatly dressed and clean, he looked dishevelled, and I noticed he’d cut himself shaving in two places. “Ah, that’s better! Now, what do you fancy? Seeing as you’re paying, I recommend the steak and ale pie. They use real steak pieces, not the stewed crap.”

  “Okay, sounds good. I’ll order two for us.” I made a note of the table number, and ordered and paid at the bar. I returned to find Fielding taking a more restrained drink from his pint.

  “What is it you’re after, Garth?”

  “I’m wondering why both the neighbours I asked about Adamson-Woods claimed not to know anything about him, even though at least one of them has lived next door to him for eleven years.”

  “You are in the SIB, aren’t you?”

  I started taking out my identification, but he waved it back. “Don’t bother. You could have printed it off on your computer last night for all I’d know. If you’re SIB then you have access to your own and police records. I’m assuming I’m teaching my granny here…you have been to the coppers, haven’t you?”

  “No. It’s...complicated.”

  He leaned closer, suddenly interested. “That’s why you told me it was a personal matter. What’s your concern?”

  I thought Fielding’s pleasant demeanour was genuine, and that he could probably be trusted, but I was still wary. “I’ll give you that after you’ve told me what I want to know.”

  “I’ve already told you I don’t make my living by giving away news for free.”

  I smiled. “I bought you lunch.”

  “Good point, well presented. But how do I know this exchange of information is going to be worth my while?”

  “You don’t.”

  “That’s what I mean. What have you got for me about Cowan?”

  I attempted to refuse in as friendly a manner as possible. “Nice try, but I’m not going to tell until I’ve heard about Adamson-Woods.”

  He nodded. “Alright. As a show of good faith, you can tell me what this means. Then I’ll answer your questions about Adamson-Woods. Then you can tell me about his granddaughter. Sound good?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just don’t ask me how I got this.”

  He handed me a very poor photocopy of a letter, which appeared to have been typed on a typewriter with a few faulty keys or a ribbon in need of replacement. It was from the CO of the 1st Battalion Suffolk Regiment to the colonel at regimental HQ, and was dated the 3rd August 1951. The body of it read:

  I regret to inform you that I have terminated Lie
utenant Adamson-Woods’ tour of duty in the Malayan District four months early. I suspect him of involvement in several more distasteful incidents of a similar sort to those that came to my attention last year. More disturbingly, he has recently been interviewed by the RMP as a suspect in connection with the death of a Malayan civilian in Ipoh. There has been a detrimental effect on company morale, and given his poor combat record, I have decided to send him home. I respectfully recommend that if Adamson-Woods cannot be persuaded to resign his commission, he be transferred to a more suitable branch of the service, specifically one where he is unlikely to come into contact with prisoners of war.

  I recalled that Adamson-Woods had transferred to the Royal Army Ordinance Corps in September 1951, and was alarmed by what I’d read. The Malayan Emergency had begun in 1948 with terrorist attacks by communist guerrillas on European settlers in the Malay Peninsula, which was more jungle than anything else. The guerrillas were unprepared for the ferocity of the British Army; ruthless counter-attacks and search and destroy tactics resulted in their collapse in 1960. We never had more than a dozen battalions in Malaya at any one time, but the war was fought without respect for the Geneva Convention. The use of all necessary means, combined with a successful hearts-and-minds campaign, had prevented the conflict from escalating into a British Vietnam.

  “Do you know what this refers to?” I asked Fielding.

  “No. I tried to contact contemporaries of his in Malaya, but I ran out of time.”

  “Do you know anything about Malaya?”

  “A little. I did a bit of research after I read this.”

  “Then you’ll know that by modern standards the Malayan war was filled with distasteful incidents. Prisoners, if taken, were routinely tortured for information. So, if Adamson-Woods was being singled out in this way, well…you get my drift.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t realise it was quite so bad.”

  “It was.”

  “Then that makes old Woody even worse, doesn’t it?”