by Ted Tayler
“We could use that to learn where he went last night,” said Maxine. “Perhaps he upset someone, and they followed him home, killed him, and took the watch and money to throw us off the scent.”
“I know Dad disliked the idea of keyless entry,” said Wes. “Even though car thieves found ways to activate fob keys even when locked inside someone’s house. His car keys must be in one of his pockets. Do you honestly think a burglar could resist driving off in a two hundred grand motor?”
“They could never sell a supercar like that to a bloke down the pub,” said Keith Porter. “If they knew the right people, though, they could either get it into a container bound for Africa or rip out half a dozen high-priced parts and sell them on eBay. It’s looking less of a robbery every minute, Mr Guthrie. Ah, here come the forensic guys.”
“We’ll check for that location tracking device,” said Maxine. “His satnav might give us details of trips he’s made further back than yesterday evening. Our people will be here for several hours yet. You can get off home, Mr Guthrie. Better for you to inform family members before our significant presence alerts the local newshounds and the nosy neighbours. Can we hang on to that spare set of keys, please? I’ll get the uniformed officers to drop them into your farmhouse in Winterbourne Stoke when we’re done. We can soon find your address.”
Wes walked to his car and drove slowly down the lane to Netheravon Road. As he turned left to head back to the A303, he saw Porter on his mobile phone. Coleman was speaking to a group of people in white suits.
“That was naughty, guv,” said Maxine Coleman.
“Guthrie reckoned he got so drunk he couldn’t recall specific details after around eleven o’clock. Winterbourne Stoke only has a couple of pubs. He walked home in the early hours. Where did he spend the missing hours?”
“If Traffic intercepts him on the main road, do you think he’ll fail the breath test?”
“Finding his father dead could have caused him to throw up,” said Keith Porter. “I have a hunch he was still hanging when he arrived here and discovering the body was the final straw. He’s hiding something, Max. I don’t know what, but if he’s done for drink driving, it might make him wake up his ideas and start telling the truth.”
“With the money this family has, he’ll get a top-class brief. Traffic had better find a plausible reason to stop his car.”
“They don’t need a specific reason, Max,” said Keith, “but I noticed his licence plate was muddied and suspicious. The five and nine on the number plate were further apart than they should be. Easy to read it as WES 9 RHM. I’d like to see a brief get around that. So, a legal stop, and then, have you had a drink today, sir? Piece of cake.”
“What if he’s under the thirty-five limit by this time?” asked Maxine.
DI Keith Porter shrugged.
“I suggested to Traffic that they do him for the number plate offences.”
“Do you think he killed his father, guv?”
“How far is it from Winterbourne Stoke to this farm? Seven or eight miles. Thirty minutes by car in that storm. Don’t forget to ask for the names of those mates he drank with in the village. He could have left them at eleven, driven here to lie in wait for his father, killed him, and then driven home. That story about getting soaked when he walked home could have been rubbish. Maybe he got soaked standing in the dark by the mudroom door.”
“It was Wes who suggested the attacker took the watch and cash to throw us off the scent, guv. You said it was an interesting thought.”
“Interesting and clever if he’s our killer,” said Keith Porter. “I don’t know. We might be barking up the wrong tree. Did you hear the WPC when we asked if Kendal Guthrie had any enemies?”
“I spoke with her about that, guv,” said Maxine. “Sarah Saunders reckoned the queue of people who hated Guthrie’s guts would stretch down the lane and most of the way back to the Stonehenge Inn.”
“Is it worth hanging around much longer?” asked Keith. “We could drive back to the station and salvage our Saturday afternoon. SOCO will be working here for hours. Who knows when the autopsy will get done? Where are those car keys, anyway?”
DS Coleman handed the keys to her DI. This was typical of Keith Porter. He had a sharp mind, and Maxine had to admit she hadn’t spotted the number plate infringement, but his enthusiasm wore off too quickly. She wanted to chase up Kendal Guthrie’s close contacts and start grilling them about where they were between the hours of eleven and one o’clock yesterday evening.
Keith Porter opened the driver’s door of the Bentley Continental and whistled.
“How the other half lives,” he said.
Maxine Coleman strolled across the yard to join him. She wasn’t a petrol head. It was only a car and an obscene amount of money for a rich man’s toy at that.
“Forensics haven’t touched this yet, guv. Please don’t sit in the driver’s seat to see how it feels. Let SOCO retrieve the satnav data and anything from the GPS tracking system. It’s their job. If you’ve had enough for this afternoon, let’s get back to the station.”
“Aren’t you curious?” asked Keith. “Why have a double garage unless you’ve got something else to drive? I bet it’s a Land Rover Discovery with a sticker in the rear window. My other car’s a Bentley.”
Keith Porter found the garage key fob on the same key ring, and they watched as the up-and-over electric doors slowly opened. The space on the left for the large supercar was empty, but a protective sheet covered a car on the right.
“What do you think?” asked Keith. “Something sporty? It’s not a Discovery or anything too bulky.”
He dragged the sheet over the bonnet to reveal a ten-year-old red Ford Focus.
“Put the sheet back, Keith,” said Maxine. “Kendal Guthrie might have been a swine in his dealings with all and sundry, but he couldn’t face getting rid of his wife’s pride and joy.”
“That’s me told,” said Keith, replacing the sheet and giving the bonnet a gentle tap. “I suppose a drink’s out of the question after we finish at the station?”
“God loves a trier, guv,” laughed Maxine.
CHAPTER 4
“Have you heard the news?”
“No, Alf,” said Rosie, “I haven’t been near a TV. I went shopping with my Mum this afternoon. Why what’s happened?”
“No, it’s news closer to home. Doug Lawless rang half an hour ago to tell me the police have people at Kendal Guthrie’s place over at Glenhead Farm.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Rosie. “I’ve never met Doug Lawless, have I?”
“Sorry, lass,” said Alf, “Doug’s Kendal Guthrie’s neighbour. He farms the land closer to the village of Durrington. Harry Meaden’s family has owned the farm on the other side of Glenhead for over a hundred years. I’m sure you’ll guess from last night’s performance that neither Doug nor Harry have a kind word to say about Guthrie.”
“I wouldn’t want that horrid man as my next-door neighbour,” said Rosie.
Rosie had just walked through the side door, ready to start the evening shift. Alf had coped alone with the lunchtime trade, and as his wife, Joan wasn’t prepared to work behind the bar these days. Alf asked Peggy Hollins, a widowed lady who lived two doors away, to work a couple of hours in the afternoon before Rosie arrived at seven o’clock.
Rosie took off her coat, removed her hat and scarf, and shook her head to encourage her hair into a semblance of order.
“At least now that storm has blown over, we should get more customers tonight,” she said. “How was it earlier?”
“Pretty good,” said Alf. “I was busy between twelve and two. Peggy tended the bar while I ate my lunch and had a nap. It’s always quieter mid-afternoon, and if Peggy’s a tad slower than most at serving people, they don’t complain.”
“That’s because most drove here and aren’t on a mission to get drunk,” said Rosie. “The pub is a good place to spend two or three hours away from the wife and kids. You’ve got the TV on for
the horse racing and the football.”
Alf watched as Rosie moved around the room, squaring up tables, tucking chairs underneath, and replacing soggy beermats. She returned to the counter and leaned against it.
“What did Mr Lawless think had happened at Guthrie’s farm? Did someone steal his tractors? OMG, what if someone nicked that car of his? He’ll be livid.”
“Doug was driving past the farm on his way home from Andover. He’d watched the Town’s football team winning another home match in the Wessex League. The farmhouse and the garage were lit up like a Christmas tree. He could see Guthrie’s Bentley parked outside surrounded by tape. Doug spotted several people in white coveralls moving here and there.”
“If aliens were ever going to land here, the Plain would be the perfect spot,” said Rosie. “Was he sure the police were involved?”
“It’s fifty years since the first UFO sightings near Warminster, lass,” said Alf. “They haven’t been back since the Seventies as far as I know. If they were ever here.”
“Warminster isn’t much over twelve miles from here,” said Rosie. “I was kidding. It was the men in white suits that put the idea in my head. There were aliens on the Plain then?”
“Maybe there were, maybe there weren’t, lass. I reckon they took one look at Jim Thornton’s monsters and tried elsewhere.”
“I wish he hadn’t told us that story,” said Rosie. “I had nightmares.”
The front door creaked regularly over the next hour as customers entered and left. When Jim Thornton came through the inner door by twenty past eight, Alf and Rosie had a decent crowd enjoying a drink and a chat. Alf’s face wore a smile for the first time in weeks as the kerching from the till confirmed takings were back to normal.
Jim Thornton edged his way to the bar and found one empty stool. Rosie spotted him, smiled, and called out.
“I’ll get your pint of bitter in two ticks, Mr Thornton.”
“Thank you, Rosie,” said Jim.
Rosie pulled Jim’s first pint and set it in front of him. Jim handed her three one pound coins.
“Have you heard about the excitement in Durrington?” said Rosie.
“Nothing exciting has happened there in my lifetime,” said Jim.
“Alf said he heard the police were at Kendal Guthrie’s farm,” said Rosie.
“Nothing trivial, I hope,” said Jim.
A young lad waiting to get served beside Jim turned around.
“He’s dead, mate. My father drove past the farm at six o’clock. People were removing a body from the house and putting it in a van. Dad reckoned it headed for Salisbury.”
“Mr Guthrie was here last night,” said Rosie. “There was only a handful of us present. That man was rude to every one of us. I can’t say I’m sad to hear he’s gone. What was it? A heart attack, the same as his wife?”
“If he had a heart,” said Jim.
“The police had set up a cordon,” said the customer. “They weren’t letting anyone get near the place. No idea whether he died from natural causes, an accident, or someone killed him. I don’t suppose we’ll hear for definite until Monday.”
“That changes things for you, Jim,” said Alf, “and Bob Ellison too. I wonder whether Wes Guthrie will be as vindictive as his father when he takes over the business?”
“Do you think the police will come here?” asked Rosie.
“You should call them,” said the young lad. “You can tell them what time he left here. How long would it take him to drive home from this pub?”
“Twenty minutes, at least,” said Alf. “Perhaps twenty-five. I closed early because of the weather. I was keen to let Rosie here drive home to Salisbury. Jim was making his way to the door. What do you reckon, Rosie? Five or ten minutes after ten?”
“It was soon after you told Mr Guthrie he was barred,” said Rosie. “I remember that. Jim and Oscar must have followed Mr Guthrie to the car park. Dave was just leaving when I got back behind the bar. There was nobody outside a few minutes later when you let me out the side door, Alf. They had all gone.”
“Did you pass Dave Vickers cycling home to Shrewton?” asked Alf.
“Yes,” said Rosie. “He hadn’t got very far. I expect it was hard work cycling in that wind.”
“He might have stopped to talk with Guthrie,” said Jim Thornton. “I didn’t hang around once I got in the car. No way was I going to wait in the wind and rain to waste my breath on that devil.”
“You told Kendal Guthrie he wasn’t welcome here anymore?” asked the young lad. “There can’t be many pubs where he’s still allowed over the threshold. The police are going to be interested to hear that piece of news for sure.”
“What did you want to drink?” said Alf.
He was keen to get the young lad away from the bar. He looked at the clock. Dave Vickers didn’t always come in on Saturday nights, but Oscar Wallington might drop by in the next half hour. Alf decided he’d ask Oscar whether they should contact the police or wait until they knew how Guthrie died.
Oscar breezed through the door just after nine. Several customers recognised him, and it took him minutes to make it to the bar. Alf had his glass of whisky ready and waiting.
“Thanks, Alf,” said Oscar. “I need that. What a day.”
“I know,” said Alf. “I didn’t hear a thing until half-past six. A lad in the corner filled in a few details. I was wondering whether I should give the police a call.”
“What are you on about, Alf?” said Oscar, picking up his double whisky.
“Didn’t you hear? Guthrie’s dead. Police and a forensic team have been at the farm throughout the afternoon.”
“It never rains, but it pours,” said Oscar. “I was supposed to have a day off today, but two emergencies cropped up on the estate. Instead of taking my good lady wife out for a meal tonight, I’m restricted to a swift one and then a quiet night at home.”
“You said it never rains, Mr Wallington,” said Rosie, as another happy customer eased past Oscar on their way to their table with a tray of drinks.
“I needed to pop over to Amesbury late this afternoon searching for a spare part. I overheard a conversation at the counter in the Home store. Kendal’s son, Wes, got stopped on the A303 at around two o’clock. He must have blown over thirty-five on the breathalyser because the police took him away in the patrol car.”
“Where does the son live then, Mr Wallington?” asked Rosie.
“Winterbourne Stoke,” said Oscar. “He’s a farmer, the same as his father.”
“He must have had a skinful Friday night,” said Alf. “Or he was dumb enough to drink at lunchtime.”
“The guy in the Home store said Guthrie had just joined the A303 at the roundabout,” said Oscar. “He came from somewhere such as Larkhall, Bulford, or Durrington.”
“His father’s farm is further on from Durrington village,” said Jim. “Wesley was probably visiting his old home.”
“Did Kendal speak with you, or Dave, when you left here?” said Alf.
“I didn’t give him a chance,” replied Oscar. “I drove towards Chitterne as soon as I could. Dave stayed in the hallway, putting on his helmet. He told me he had a pair of over-trousers in the pannier on his bicycle. I watched him struggling to get those on near the bike shelter as I drove away. Kendal would have used the same road as Dave and Jim towards Shrewton before taking the A303 and then the minor road to Durrington. Did you see him, Jim?”
Jim shook his head.
“I didn’t see anyone on the road in both directions and was indoors within five minutes.”
“Well, do you think I should give the police a call?” said Alf.
“Why?” asked Oscar. “Wes Guthrie could have got to the farm and discovered there had been a burglary. What makes us certain someone died? The police would send SOCO for a robbery, especially if the victim were a prominent local citizen like Kendal Guthrie.”
“That young lad with his girlfriend,” said Alf nodding to the couple in the far c
orner. “His father told him he saw a body on a trolley. A van took the body towards Salisbury.”
“I see,” said Oscar. “Maybe his son found the body and had a stiff drink before dialling 999. It stinks, though, doesn’t it?”
Alf’s mind was on the same wavelength.
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he said.
“You’ve lost me,” said Rosie.
“Uniformed officers would be first on the scene,” said Oscar, “along with paramedics, to see what’s what. Once they knew what they were dealing with, they’d call for a detective team. Whoever was in charge smelt alcohol on Wes Guthrie’s breath and stitched him up. They made a phone call, asking for a patrol car to find a reason to stop and breathalyse him.”
“Why would they do that?” asked Rosie. “That’s sneaky.”
“Maybe they think Wes killed his father,” said Alf.
“In which case, he deserves a medal,” said Jim.
Rosie Ritchens decided it was time to do the rounds of the tables to collect empty glasses. It gave her time to think. There must be a pub in Salisbury in need of a barmaid. Somewhere closer to home, that saved her the drive on filthy nights like last night.
The journey wasn’t her primary concern. She wondered how long before the police learned about the ruckus Kendal Guthrie caused here. Rosie knew she had driven home alone and saw nobody until she got within two hundred yards of her parents’ house.
What a pity she hadn’t stopped to give the bloke a lift. He was soaked, but he could have given her an alibi for where she was at a quarter to eleven. Kendal Guthrie had pitched into Oscar, Dave, Jim, and Alf. Even she hadn’t escaped the sharp edge of his tongue.
What if one of them followed Mr Guthrie home and killed him?
Rosie was confident it hadn’t been Dave Vickers. He didn’t drive, and it would have taken him an hour by bicycle if he hadn’t got blown into a hedge halfway there. Rosie knew the building society manager had a soft spot for her. Dave was far too old for her, even if she fancied him, which she didn’t. Rosie thought he was harmless, although she wouldn’t miss Dave gazing at her with those puppy-dog eyes if she did find another job.
