by Ted Tayler
After that, Rosie thought things became more tricky. Mr Thornton had motive and opportunity. Because he left the pub car park before the others, he could have reached the farm before Guthrie. If Mr Ellison sold his farm to Guthrie, old Jim and his wife would get turfed out of house and home. Rosie had seen Jim’s reaction when he heard that shocking news. Yes, Mr Thornton would have felt justified in ridding the world of Kendal Guthrie and his lust for money.
Rosie didn’t always know what to make of Oscar Wallington. He’d been a soldier ever since leaving school, until only recently. These days he was an estate manager. The two roles were different, yet Rosie suspected Mr Wallington had never adapted. His manner, and the way he spoke, retained an edge that implied authority and superiority. That was it. Rosie was proud of herself for that analysis. Mr Wallington always gave the impression that people like Alf and her should respect him.
Oscar didn’t appreciate it when Guthrie teased him last night, calling him General and suggesting a car that cost a fraction of his Bentley Continental was good enough for the likes of Mr Wallington. Guthrie hinted Oscar was the sort of character who stole from his employers. Oscar wouldn’t have enjoyed that. Rosie remembered when he’d tapped his nose, showing off about being skilled at avoiding the enemy and taking to fields and bridle paths to get home without detection.
No, it was best if she told Alf Collett she was looking for another job. After all, Alf had lingered by the door and watched her scurry to her car, then waited until she pulled away before waving. Did he wait until her rear lights disappeared from view and then leave the pub? Joan would have been none the wiser.
Alf could have driven after Kendal Guthrie and arrived at his farm in time to kill him, drive back here by a quarter past eleven, and go upstairs to bed. If Joan woke up, it would be earlier than Alf got to bed most Friday nights, anyway. It wouldn’t have seemed suspicious.
Alf’s motive was less clear than Jim Thornton’s. But suppose her boss wanted this pub to remain financially viable. What better way to secure its future than removing the man who hinted at opening a rival watering hole, two miles away after Alf barred him? Then there was that accusation Mr Guthrie made concerning Imogen, the girl who worked behind the bar before she started here. So far, Alf had been the perfect gentleman, but what if he was waiting for the right opportunity to try something? It didn’t bear thinking about. No, she would start looking for another job tomorrow. Somewhere with a younger crowd, where she might find a boyfriend nearer to her age.
Rosie returned to the bar to see Alf, Jim, and Oscar watching her.
“Everything okay, Rosie?” Alf asked.
“Daydreaming,” she said.
Sunday, 15th February 2015
Maxine Coleman was out on the streets bright and early. Physical exercise was something she hoped to have left behind her after her school days. Ten years later, much of which she spent at a desk or sat in a police car, had resulted in her weight creeping higher than she wished.
Why did it have to be so blessed cold in February? Maxine pounded the pavements close to her flat, hoping a three-mile run before breakfast helped shed a pound or two. Guys like Keith Porter kept mentioning her curves as if they were something to celebrate. Maxine wanted to lose the tummy she’d developed and not have a bottom that threatened to challenge the Kardashian clan at the rate it was growing. Or was it Klan?
Maxine had successfully avoided seeing Keith Porter at the station after they drove back from Glenhead Farm. His car had gone from the car park when she ventured outside. After picking up shopping on her way home, Maxine had taken a bath, wrapped herself in her onesie and fluffy dressing gown, and switched on Netflix.
Why did she prefer a bottle of Prosecco and ‘Blood Ties’ to going on a date on a Saturday night?
Maxine tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She planned to go into the office this afternoon for a couple of hours. Forensic results wouldn’t be available just yet, and Keith had texted her late last night to say the autopsy was on Monday morning at nine o’clock. Her boss asked if she minded attending, as he had a meeting. That was bull. Nobody enjoyed autopsies, but Maxine had never had to run out of one yet, or vomited halfway through, unlike someone she could mention.
Keith had sent that text message as late as possible to annoy her. Maxine sent a terse reply, indicating she would be there on the dot. Timekeeping and DI Porter were strangers. When another message arrived on her phone, she feared the worst. Please, don’t let there be any attachments to this text, she begged. It was okay. Keith had resisted the urge to send her a photograph.
In the second message, Keith told her Traffic had stopped Wes Guthrie, and he’d blown thirty-eight at the roadside. The traffic cops took him back to the station, and Guthrie had the nous to delay the test long enough to put him in the clear. Keith had told them to carry on with the number plate offence. It didn’t carry a points penalty, but it could attract a thousand pounds fine depending on the judge.
Maxine hadn’t bothered to reply. In her head, she could see Keith grinning like a Cheshire cat, thinking he’d got one over on the high and mighty Guthrie family. What a loser.
After she completed her run, Maxine showered and prepared a smoothie in place of the cooked breakfast she craved. It tasted marginally better than it looked. It was time to drive into the office to compile lists of people to interview. While she was there, Maxine thought she might drop by the forensic department to see what progress they’d made on the victim’s satnav and mobile phone.
Maxine didn’t think Wes Guthrie had killed his father. No, there was a killer among the dozens of people known to have hated Kendal Guthrie with a vengeance who was lying low today, thinking they had every chance of getting away with murder.
“Not on my watch,” said Maxine Coleman. “Not if I can help it.”
In Winterbourne Stoke, it was déjà vu all over again for Wes Guthrie as noon approached.
He remembered little of the French he learned at school, but the house had a certain froideur just like yesterday.
Wes wasn’t worried how hefty a fine he’d receive if the police carried out their threat to fine him for the rogue letter five. He’d seen a hundred vehicles with dodgy number plates on the roads in the past six months, and the police didn’t give a toss.
He knew as soon as he’d spotted the blue lights in his rear-view mirror yesterday afternoon that Detective Inspector Porter had thought of a way to score a point. His father had warned him and Helen when they were in their teens that when you’re successful, people are jealous, even if you’ve achieved success through hard graft.
If they can bring you down or find a way to let themselves feel they’ve got the better of you, they’ll do whatever it takes. It had become human nature. More so for people in this country than anywhere else, or so Wes Guthrie thought.
Millie had started into him as soon as he got home from the police station.
“An hour, you said. What sort of clock are you looking at?”
“Shut up, Millie, will you,” he snapped. “My Dad’s dead. Someone killed him last night. I found him lying in the mudroom.”
“I’m sorry, Wes. How was I to know? Was it a break-in? What were they after?”
“It didn’t appear to be a burglary, and until they do the autopsy, the police won’t know how Dad died. His wallet was empty, and his Rolex was missing, but he still had his credit cards and mobile phone in his pockets. That doesn’t seem right. He had his car keys in his coat pocket, too, so if it was a robbery, why not drive away in his prized motor?”
“Kendal wasn’t my favourite person in the world, but I’ve never wished him dead. Poor Helen, this will devastate her.”
“I called Helen already. She and Guy had just arrived home from a night out at a restaurant. Not a great end to the day. She’ll call in a day or two to find out when the police say I can arrange the funeral. Helen wants to fly home as she did for Mum.”
“Will she be able to stay at the farmhouse
?”
“I’m not sure she’d want to. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. There’s something else. I got stopped on the way home. I was still marginally over the limit after last night.”
“You idiot, Wes. How could you run the farm if you lost your licence?”
“It won’t come to that, Millie. I blew over on the preliminary breath test at the roadside. Both readings were under the limit when I used the machine at the station an hour later. They tested a blood sample too, so there’s no reason to worry about getting an endorsement.”
“You’re still an idiot. If you hadn’t got drunk with those mates of yours, you wouldn’t have needed to wait until lunchtime to drive to your Dad’s farm. What if he was still alive?”
“The paramedic said Dad died somewhen between eleven and one last night. Look, I may as well tell you. I escaped the points on my licence, but they stopped me because of my number plate. They reckoned it was filthy, and because I asked a guy at the garage to move the five and nine further apart, it broke the law.”
“You’re joking? There are hundreds of dodgy plates on the roads. Some make me laugh, and others make me cringe. No wonder the police get so much flak if they chase you for a trivial offence the same day someone murders your father. Well, that’s it, Wes, you have to get it changed. They’ve got you on their radar now.”
Wes had to admit Millie was right. The trouble was, he knew that wasn’t the worst of it. The police would soon ask for the names of the guys he was drinking with last night. As the evening wore on, Wes watched TV with Millie, but nothing sank in. He kept seeing his Dad’s body on the floor in the mudroom and wondering who killed him and why.
News of his father’s death had spread across the whole of Salisbury and the Plain by the morning. Wes knew that people would ring the house, passing on their condolences, expressing disbelief, or telling him what goes around comes around. It takes all sorts.
He’d taken a break from answering the house phone at half-past ten and made himself a coffee. As he sat in the conservatory, staring into the garden, he heard the phone ring again. Mille answered. That was when the proverbial hit the fan.
His wife had stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“So, where were you after eleven o’clock on Friday night, Wes?”
John Goodwin had just called to say how sorry he was to hear the news. He asked Millie to pass on a message that Chris Barton had taken a flight to Malta on Saturday evening and was unaware of what had happened. John had told Millie they had a great evening on Friday, but Chris had wanted to cut things short as he had a big day ahead.
“I carried on drinking on my own,” said Wes.
“A likely story,” said Millie. “Have the police asked where you were? We’ve watched enough cop shows to know they suspect a member of the family first.”
“I told them I was out, drinking, until two o’clock. I said you’d remember me falling up the stairs when I got home. The senior detective asked if I could name the guys I was drinking with when they called me for an official interview. I said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“What did you plan to do, Wes? Call John and Chris beforehand and ask them to lie?”
“Something like that. I didn’t kill my father,” said Wes.
“No, I don’t believe you did, but you do have something to hide,” said Millie. “I’m not stupid. The police might treat you as a genuine suspect if the tart you’ve been seeing doesn’t give you an alibi.”
Wes reckoned that was when the froideur set in, and he wondered how much worse things could get. He’d finished his cup of coffee ages ago. As Wes stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, he learned the answer to his question.
Tamsin had rung his mobile phone ten times already that morning. Wes had enough things to cope with, so he ignored her. But as well as being insatiable in bed, Tamsin was persistent. The silly cow rang his home number. Wes was pouring the water into his mug when Millie’s voice rose two octaves in the hallway, and the neighbour’s dog pricked up its ears.
Wes closed his eyes and prayed.
“It’s for you, Wes,” spat Millie. She turned on her heel and stomped upstairs. The house shook as she slammed their bedroom door.
Wes wandered into the hallway and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” he said.
“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Your poor Dad. It must be dreadful for you.”
Wes carried the phone through to the conservatory and closed the door.
“Why did you ring me at home?” said Wes. “I would have answered my mobile when I was good and ready. Do you have any idea what damage you’ve done?”
“Well, pardon me for breathing,” said Tamsin. “I thought we had something special. All I said was that I was a friend and wanted to pay my respects. Your wife went through the roof.”
“She hadn’t suggested she suspected anything until yesterday morning,” said Wes. “I got home later than I normally do when I have a drink with the lads, but Millie was straight in with the barbed comments. Then, one of my mates called this morning, and Millie answered. She now knows I wasn’t with them after eleven o’clock. No big surprise, Millie wanted to know where I spent the next three hours. Come to that, so will the police.”
“You can’t tell them you were with me,” said Tamsin.
“If I don’t have an alibi, they’ll start fitting me up for the murder. Why the hell can’t I give them your name?”
“We’ve only known one another for three months,” said Tamsin. “I thought it was going somewhere, and your marriage was over. Now, I feel you were just using me to get what you weren’t getting at home.”
“That’s not true, Tamsin,” said Wes. “I do have feelings for you. This is important. I really need you to tell the police where I was on Friday night.”
“I know you do, Wes. You know what you have to do to keep me sweet. Tomorrow night after work. Don’t be late.”
Tamsin ended the call. Wes looked at the handset. He had little choice, did he?
CHAPTER 5
Monday, 30th March 2015
Keith Porter slouched through the squad room door and slumped into his chair. Maxine Coleman feared the worst. Keith had got the call from their boss as soon as they’d arrived this morning. For six weeks, they had toiled over the Guthrie case. Six weeks of long hours, hundreds of interviews, and countless reviews of the evidence they had collected, searching for something to break the deadlock.
“What’s the verdict, guv?” asked Maxine.
“The DS wants us to move on,” said Keith. “We’ll be working with different teams in the future. My team will tackle the significant increase in violence against the person, which has shot up by a quarter in the past twelve months. We can’t argue with the facts, Max. Despite the resources we threw at the case, we've not identified Guthrie’s killer, and this dramatic rise needs nipping in the bud. A large portion of these violent attacks had a sexual content. We’ll be making the streets safer rather than chasing around the Plain hunting for a ghost.”
“Where will I be working?” asked Maxine.
“On another hot potato which the Police and Crime Commissioner dropped on the gaffer’s desk. You’ll be monitoring the incidence of Islamophobic hate crime.”
“Wonderful,” said Maxine. “How can less than half of one percent of the county’s population generate a hot potato? It will be a public relations exercise and nothing more. The PCC wants the public to see we’re ticking the boxes towards an inclusive society. I’ll spend a month helping to produce a report that tells him what we already know. Four people a week on average hear something that offends them, and one person gets physically attacked because of their race or religion. I know that’s too many, Keith, but is it the most pressing thing on our agenda?”
“Ours is not to reason why, Max,” said Keith. “Today’s the last day we’re paired together. It’s been a pleasure. Even though you never succumbed to my subtly romantic advances.”<
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“I’ve learned a lot from you, Keith,” said Maxine. “I’m sure it will stand me in good stead in the future. By the way, subtlety isn’t one of your strong points.”
“I’ll work on it,” said Keith. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Max, but are you eating and sleeping okay? Has this case got to you? You look thinner in the face.”
“I’m eating and sleeping fine, Keith,” groaned Maxine. “Whenever I found a spare hour over the past six weeks, I went running. For some unknown reason, although I’ve shed a few pounds and have blisters on every toe, the weight hasn’t gone from the targeted areas.”
DI Keith Porter looked puzzled for a while, and then the penny dropped.
“The exercise won’t do you any harm, Max,” he said. “Just don’t overdo it. I know we won’t see as much of one another after today, but when our paths cross, I hope your best assets haven’t disappeared altogether.”
Maxine smiled. She hoped to find someone to appreciate the total package, not simply the assets Keith had admired every day he sat across the desk from her. He’d never change.
Keith Porter gathered up a group of files from his desk, sighed, and looked around for a box to hold them. Once he’d located an empty box with a bottom he could rely on, Keith stowed the files, emptied his drawer of his bits and pieces, and with a nod, crossed the squad room to join his new colleagues.
Maxine knew she should have asked Keith whose team she was joining. She hoped it was a DI she could get along with. The other members of their old team would be scattered around the station by now, doing the same as Keith Porter. They would focus on a new set of problems, and most of them would already have consigned the Kendal Guthrie murder case to history.
That was the nature of modern policing. Results had to be immediate, if not sooner. The severity of the offence was less critical today in determining how to assign resources. As a result, killers and rapists went free because the volume of hours required to get a result wasn’t cost-effective. The current thinking was that by tackling vehicle crime, there was added value from the number of drugs offences identified.
