by Ted Tayler
Rosie fetched her woolly hat, coat, and gloves from behind the bar, and Alf let her out of the side door.
“Mind how you go, lass,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Alf stood by the door and waited until Rosie reached her car. The barmaid waved a hand as she drove slowly towards the road. Alf waved back. The weather hadn’t improved. It was still blowing a gale, and the chilly rain was almost horizontal.
“Friday the thirteenth,” tutted Alf as he closed the door. “Weather like this makes you wonder whether Jim’s monsters are on the prowl.”
CHAPTER 3
Saturday 14th February 2015
“Wesley?”
Wes Guthrie tried to clear his head. He’d stayed out late, got soaking wet as he walked home, and fell up the stairs at around two o’clock. Millie, his wife, was already awake and downstairs in the kitchen.
Millie had cursed him when he finally made it to bed, and when she got up twenty minutes ago, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Wes knew he had a good deal of making-up to do if he could be bothered.
“Wesley? Are you there?”
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Helen, your sister. I know we don’t often see one another, but surely you haven’t forgotten the sound of my voice.”
“Sorry, I had a few drinks last night, and I’m not awake yet. What time is it over there, anyway?”
“Seven in the evening. Guy and I were just going out for a meal. We’ve found an awesome Italian place on Southbank Riverside.”
“Bully for you,” said Wes. “What’s up?”
“Trust you,” said Helen. “It would have been Mum and Dad’s fortieth wedding anniversary today. I thought I would call. Dad’s bound to be thinking of her.”
Wes couldn’t think why. His father never gave much thought to anyone or anything except money.
“So, why don’t you call him, sis? It will save me the bother.”
“No, you don’t understand, Wesley. I started ringing him an hour ago with no reply. Do you know if he’s away for the weekend?”
“When did he ever go away for the weekend, Helen? Perhaps his phone’s on the blink. I’ll drive over later. It’s too risky for me to drive anywhere yet. Enjoy your meal.”
Wes ended the call and staggered to the bathroom.
“Serves you right!” shouted Millie.
Noon had come and gone before Wes felt human enough to drive over to see his father. It wasn’t the way he would have chosen to spend a Saturday afternoon. He hadn’t had a day off since New Year, and after he’d finished work on the farm yesterday, he’d left Tom Dix in charge, with instructions not to call before Monday.
“Who is it you’re going to see today?” asked Millie as he made ready to leave the house. “The same tart as last night?”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Wes. “I was drinking with my mates. Helen called earlier and said she couldn’t get hold of Dad. No idea where the old beggar went in that storm. Let’s hope he hasn’t wrapped his new car around a tree. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Wes eased the car into early afternoon traffic on the A303. Wes, Millie, and the boys lived in Winterbourne Stoke, three miles from Stonehenge, and he was soon turning off the main road towards Durrington. Wes drove past the Stonehenge Inn and took the Netheravon Road to Glenhead Farm.
It hadn’t always been called Glenhead. Wes couldn’t remember whether his grandfather or great grandfather changed it from New Farm to bring a touch of Angus to Salisbury Plain. Anyway, what idiot decided it was a good idea to call something New whatever? Wes had gone to school in Salisbury, and he knew the New Inn had stood on New Street since the end of the fourteenth century, which made it one of the oldest inns in the country.
Wes continued to consider the irrationality of the study of place names as he negotiated the potholes on the lane leading to his father’s farmhouse. He spotted the Bentley parked in front of the double garage. Kendal Guthrie was in residence. His father hadn’t yet had a flag designed to fly from the gabled rooftop, but give him time, thought Wes as he pulled up by the main house.
Wes rooted through the pockets of his jeans, hunting for the spare set of keys he’d picked up at home. As he stood outside the large wooden door, his mobile phone rang.
“Did you have a good time last night?”
“Tamsin,” said Wes. “Hello, babe. I think you know the answer to that. Look, I can’t talk now. I’m standing on my Dad’s doorstep. Are you at home? Can I call round in an hour? Less, if I can get away from here sooner.”
“I’ll be here, waiting,” replied Tamsin. “Perhaps you can stay longer this time?”
Wes had been seeing Tamsin Meredith for three months. The girl was insatiable. Not that he was complaining. Beautiful too, with legs that went on forever.
“I told Millie I’d be back in an hour,” said Wes. “I’ll have to tell her Dad kept me talking. See you soon.”
Wes rang the doorbell and listened for his father. Nothing. He could be somewhere on the farm, thought Wes. He rang his father’s mobile and realised he could hear its ringtone nearby. Wes frowned. His father went nowhere without his phone. He fumbled with the set of keys and unlocked the door.
“Dad, are you okay? It’s Wes. Did you have too much to drink too?”
Wes stood in the hallway and looked upstairs. All was quiet. He took the stairs two at a time and checked the main bedroom, then the en suite, and the other rooms on the first floor. There was no sign of Kendal Guthrie. Wes returned downstairs and walked into the spacious lounge/dining room.
“This is like the flaming Marie Celeste,” said Wes. “Nothing out of place, but no signs of life.”
Wes called out to his father once more as he walked through to the large farmhouse kitchen. He glanced through the windows, trying to spot him in the garden. Wes stood by the butler sink and studied the apple trees overhanging the lawn. Where would his father have gone? Who would know? It was a lousy night, but he’d never sit at home watching TV.
Wes imagined his father had visited someone to discuss business and then drank in a pub that still let him inside the premises. He’d insult everyone in sight, drive home, and because of the weather, use the side door because it was closest to the garage.
Wes turned away from the window and crossed the kitchen to the door leading to the old mudroom. His late mother insisted that anyone, farm worker or local priest, got rid of their shoes before entering the house when there was any risk of mud getting onto her pristine carpets or recently washed flagstone floor.
Wes reached the door and opened it.
Kendal Guthrie lay face down in a pool of blood. He still wore his blue suit, the brand new camelhair coat, and a sturdy pair of muddy shoes.
Wes bent over his father’s head and searched for a pulse on the side of his neck. Although he had waited until attempting to drive here, last night’s alcohol still left him light-headed. Wes knew at once his father was dead. His head swam, and he lurched away from the body and hurried back to the butler sink, where he vomited.
Wes poured a glass of water, drank it, and waited until the dizzy spell settled. He called the emergency services and remained in the kitchen until he heard vehicles coming up the lane. When the front doorbell rang, he took a deep breath and walked through the lounge to answer.
He found two ambulance crew members and two uniformed police officers on the doorstep.
“I’m Wesley Guthrie,” he said. “I found my father’s body when I arrived here fifteen minutes ago.”
“Where is the body, Mr Guthrie?” asked the senior paramedic.
“I’ll walk around with you,” he said. “My father arrived home, but I’ve no idea what time. He didn’t put the car in the garage. I guess that was because the weather was so dreadful. He must have hurried from the car to this door at the side of the house.”
Wes led the three men and one woman to the mudroom door. As they made their way there, Wes flicked through his spare set of ke
ys, hunting for the right one. When he slipped it into the mortice lock, Wes discovered it was open.
The senior paramedic went inside, taking great care not to step into the blood pool. He shook his head.
“Nothing we can do here, I’m afraid. Rigor mortis has set in. This gentleman has been dead for ten to twelve hours, subject to more in-depth tests. He has severe head wounds. There are sharp edges in this mudroom where he could have slipped, fell, and struck his head as he hurried in from the rain. I can’t see any signs of blood anywhere other than on the floor. At first glance, it looks like a tragic accident. How old was your father, sir?”
“Sixty-seven,” said Wes. “He was a big man, but he wasn’t unsteady on his feet. He kept himself fit throughout his working life. Farming does that to you.”
The paramedic returned outside to join his mate.
“I don’t know whether it’s important,” said Wes, looking towards the two police officers, “but Dad would never have left this door unlocked when he went out. So, he had to have unlocked it when he got back last night.”
“Your father was Kendal Guthrie, is that right?” asked WPC Sarah Saunders. “Did he live here alone?”
“My mother died eighteen months ago,” said Wes.
“Heart attack, I remember it,” said the senior paramedic. “My colleague, Jack, and I came here that day, sir. We did what we could. It devastated your father. Your mother never had a day’s illness in her life, and then bang, a massive coronary. Nobody saw it coming.”
“It would have been their fortieth wedding anniversary today,” said Wes. “My sister called me earlier to say she couldn’t get hold of Dad to check he was okay. It would have been an emotional day. I need to ring Helen to let her know.”
“Does your sister live locally, Mr Guthrie?” asked Sarah Saunders.
“Melbourne,” said Wes. “Moved to Oz years ago. It will be midnight there now. What a mess.”
The police officers stood by the open door and viewed the scene inside. Wes moved away towards the garage to call Helen. The paramedics returned to the ambulance and called in their report. When Wes had delivered the news to his sister, he wondered why nobody was doing anything. Everything seemed on hold. What were they waiting for?
A minute later, a car turned off the Netheravon Road and made its way slowly up the lane.
“The cavalry’s arrived,” said the other police officer, PC Zak Drake.
“Mind your manners,” muttered WPC Saunders.
Wes watched as the car drew alongside his Dad’s Bentley. A tall, fair-haired driver got out and was joined by his passenger, a stocky, dark-haired younger woman. Wes moved closer to the uniformed officers standing by the mudroom door.
“We’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” said the driver, who Wes thought looked to be only five years older than him. His colleague was a few years younger than Tamsin, in her late twenties at most. “I’m Detective Inspector Porter, and my colleague is Detective Sergeant Coleman, by the way.”
The detectives spoke to the uniformed officers, glanced inside the mudroom, and then returned to the car. Wes watched as Porter and Coleman donned blue protective suits, overshoes, and hats. The pair disappeared inside, and Wes waited. Sarah Saunders stood outside while Zak Drake fetched two rolls of tape and several wooden pegs from the patrol car.
He cordoned off the Bentley and waited for instructions from the detectives. Sarah could tell Zak was eager to cover as much of the scene as possible with the ubiquitous crime scene tape. The exuberance of youth, she thought. Who said anything about this being a crime scene?
The paramedics received another call-out, and the ambulance reversed away from the farmhouse and disappeared down the lane.
“Right, Mr Guthrie,” said Keith Porter, who had emerged from the mudroom. “I’m not convinced this was an accidental death. WPC Saunders tells me your father was fit for his age. If, as you say, he unlocked that door behind us, then quickly got inside out of the rain, his first reaction would have been to close the door and lock it. He didn’t. If he had done so and then slipped and fell as he made his way to the kitchen, that might explain the serious head wounds.”
“Where did your father go last night?” asked Maxine Coleman.
“I don’t know,” said Wes. “We rarely socialised together.”
Wes noticed the glance that passed between Porter and Coleman.
“The weather was dreadful,” said Porter. “Are you sure your father didn’t leave the door open, anticipating he’d need to get inside in a hurry? WPC Saunders tells us it took you several attempts to find the right key earlier. Difficult in broad daylight, but far more difficult in the dark.”
“Take a closer look around you,” said Wes. “Everyone on the Plain knew Dad was a wealthy man. He resisted installing CCTV, but he’s had security lighting near the house and any farm buildings containing expensive equipment for years. The lights would have come on when he reached the top of the drive and stayed on long enough for him to reach the door.”
“We’ve checked the mudroom for any signs of a weapon,” said Porter. “but found nothing.”
“I visited every other room in the house when I arrived, wondering where he’d got to,” said Wes, “there’s no evidence of a forced entry. Nothing has been disturbed inside.”
“Would your father carry cash with him? What about credit cards, mobile phone?” asked Maxine Coleman.
“You should find a wallet in the left inside pocket of his suit jacket,” said Wes. “Dad always carried cash and a lot of it. He distrusted banks and building societies, but he would have had credit cards. His mobile phone is in his overcoat or his jacket. I heard the ringtone when I called him from the front doorstep.”
“Why did you do that?” asked DS Coleman. “Wasn’t the bell working?”
“It’s a farm,” said Wes. “He could have been in one of the barns, in the garage, or walking across the fields.”
“Easy to lose track of time when you’re walking,” said DI Porter. “Did your father wear a watch?”
“A Rolex Submariner,” said Wes. He showed the detectives his wrists. “Why wear a watch when you’ve got a mobile phone in your pocket every day? It was another status symbol for Dad.”
“We found the phone,” said Keith Porter. “We’ll need to hang on to that. Perhaps it will help us find out where he was last night and who he met. Did your father have any enemies?”
Wes heard the WPC try to turn a stifled laugh into a cough. She was a local woman. Few who had lived on the Plain for any length of time hadn’t heard rumours. Kendal Guthrie could start an argument in an empty room.
“It’s fair to say my father made more enemies than he did friends,” said Wes. “It’s one thing to name people who disliked him, and there would be dozens of them; quite another to name someone who would kill him.”
“We found the wallet where you suggested he kept it,” said Keith Porter. “It was empty, and the Rolex watch is missing. We could be looking at a robbery that escalated to a violent altercation. As you pointed out, a remote farmhouse owned by a wealthy man will attract every kind of vermin. They might have been after the equipment in the barns, and your father disturbed them when he arrived home. Or they intended to break into the farmhouse, and he returned earlier than expected. Either way, his attacker could be a total stranger.”
“They didn’t take his rings,” said Wes. “I noticed his hands when I checked his neck for a pulse.”
“Did you touch anything else, Mr Guthrie?” asked Maxine Coleman.
Wes shook his head.
“If it were a robbery,” he said, “and they were prepared to kill my father, surely, they would have taken the rings even if they had to break his fingers to get them off. Dad wore six gold rings, several of them with precious stones. They had to be worth fifteen grand. Dad bragged about them often enough when the price of gold was lower than now.”
“Perhaps, the killer didn’t want to risk spending too long indoors with the
body,” said Maxine Coleman. “if it was a stranger, they might not be aware that your father lived alone.”
“Maybe,” said Wes, “but the killer could have taken the watch and cash to make you think it was a robbery.”
“And that’s why they left behind the bank cards, rings, and phone,” said Keith Porter. “An interesting thought.”
“Can you tell us where you were yesterday evening, Mr Guthrie?” asked DS Coleman. “It’s standard procedure. We’ll ask everyone who could have come into contact with your father the same question.”
“I was out drinking with a group of mates,” he replied. “Guys that I was at school with in Salisbury. We get together from time to time. I drank too much, as usual, and didn’t drive here from our farm in Winterbourne Stoke until I felt safe to drive. My mates and I met at nine o’clock, and Millie, my wife, will confirm that I fell up the stairs at around two this morning. I can remember the first two pubs we visited, but I don't know where we went after closing. I walked home in that pouring rain. That I do remember, and my coat was still wet when I left the house to come here.”
“We’ll talk to you again,” said Keith Porter. “If we need the names of those drinking buddies, it won’t be a problem, will it?”
“No, not a problem. What happens next?”
“We’ll get our forensic people out here to go through everything in greater detail. We won’t know for certain that we have a murder enquiry on our hands until we hear the post-mortem results. Only then will we have definitive proof of whether the fatal injuries were accidental. Did you touch anything else inside the house when you were wandering around?”
“Several door handles,” said Wes. “I poured myself a glass of water after I was sick in the kitchen sink. It was such a shock. Dad upset plenty of people, but he seemed indestructible.”
“How long has he had the Bentley Continental?” asked Keith Porter.
“Less than a year,” said Wes.
“A GPS tracking device would be standard on a car such as that,” said Maxine Coleman.
“If it was, he didn’t tell me about it,” said Wes. “I doubt he would have bothered learning how to use it. He had a satnav, though. Why?”
