by Ted Tayler
“Who did Kendal upset that night?” she’d asked.
“Who didn’t he upset, lass?” Alf had replied. “I can’t remember what he said now, but Kendal wasn’t fussy. He’d have a dig at everyone, hoping to get a reaction. It was his way. That Friday wasn’t any different to any other day.”
“Except Kendal Guthrie died shortly after walking out of that door behind us.”
Keith had woken up.
Maxine knew Alf Collett had gone on the defensive at that point.
“Rosie stopped behind to help me wash the glasses and tidy the bar before she drove home. I went upstairs and watched TV for an hour before joining my wife in bed. I didn’t hear Kendal had died until late on Saturday afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you volunteer this information as soon as you heard it was a murder enquiry?” Keith had asked.
“I had enough on my plate,” said Alf Collett. “Joan hasn’t been well, then Rosie upped and left. I had to scramble around for a new barmaid. Peggy Hollins, an elderly lady who lives just up the road, was my emergency standby, but she twisted her ankle going home from here on Saturday evening, the day after the murder. I thought you would learn where Kendal had been and drop in when you needed something. None of us liked Kendal that much, but whoever killed him must have had more of a reason than a few angry words.”
“Do you own a car, Mr Collett?” Maxine had asked.
“I do. It’s in the garage in the car park. Take a walk outside and check. It’s right under our bedroom window. If I’d opened the garage door that night and driven the car out, my Joan would have woken up like a shot. She doesn’t come down to the bar these days. She’s too frail, but by all means, go up and ask her. Only an idiot would have gone out on a night like that. It was the worst storm of the winter.”
Keith told the landlord they would continue with their enquiries, and if they needed to confirm his alibi, they would be back. They studied the garage when they walked outside. The heavy metal door looked old and not well maintained. Maxine thought even a heavy sleeper would get disturbed when it screeched open.
Jim Thornton added nothing to what they’d learned from Alf Collett. The curtains were drawn in the middle of the day. A neighbour spotted them on the doorstep and told them Jim’s wife had died in hospital at the weekend. When they finally got the opportunity to speak to him, Jim said he visited the pub every night for two pints. He had reached home on the night of the murder ten minutes after leaving the Traveller’s Rest. He had seen none of the others on the road because he’d been first to his car.
When Maxine asked why Alf had said Guthrie’s death changed things for him, the older man thought for a while. Then he told them his former boss, Bob Ellison, had been approached by Guthrie, hoping to buy his farm. Bob had mentioned nothing to him, and although Guthrie mentioned it during the conversation they had at the pub, Jim hadn’t paid it too much mind. He thought Guthrie was winding him up, as usual. Whether Bob Ellison would have sold to Guthrie if he kept on at him long enough was irrelevant now.
“Guthrie did love to stir the pot,” he’d told Keith. “He’d say something he knew was likely to get a particular person’s back up. Nine times out of ten, it was rubbish, but many fell for it, and Kendal would laugh and walk away. Don’t ask me to shed tears for the man. He got what he deserved if you ask me.”
While they put their chat to Jim Thornton on hold, they had gone to see Dave Vickers and Oscar Wallington. Maxine could tell Vickers must have had a soft spot for Rosie Ritchens. He said he was devastated by her death. As for Kendal Guthrie, Vickers added his name to the list of people who didn’t have a good word to say about the man.
“It took me forty-five minutes to cycle home in the storm,” he told them. “There were few cars on the roads, and because of the high winds, I had to dismount and push my bike in places. I was glad to get indoors, I can tell you. It was eleven o’clock when I eventually reached here.”
When Keith asked how Kendal had upset him that night, Dave Vickers gave a wry smile.
“He had a dig at each of us,” he said. “A sexist remark to Rosie, a malicious rumour about Alf and his last barmaid, which seemed more unlikely than snow in August. He bragged about his fancy car and suggested Oscar stole twenty grand from his employer to buy a new motor. He teased old Jim that Bob Ellison had had enough of farming and wanted to get out. As for me, it was my fault interest rates were so low on his savings. So he ran out of people to wind up in the end.”
Keith and Maxine had interviewed Oscar Wallington at the Lodge House. The estate manager ushered his wife and children into the lounge and invited the detectives to sit with him around the large kitchen table. Keith asked Oscar to tell them about his visit to the pub on the night of the murder. He informed Oscar that they had spoken to Alf Collett and Dave Vickers.
“I arrived at the Traveller’s Rest at nine o’clock and ordered a drink. The weather was lousy, and the pub was almost empty. I think Alf was chatting to Jim Thornton, and Rosie served me. Have you heard about Jim’s wife?”
Keith said they had and asked him to continue.
“What about Rosie?” Oscar Wallington had asked. “That was terrible news.”
“We know about Rosie,” said Keith.
“I’m trying to remember what they were saying,” said Oscar. “That’s it. Rosie wanted to know when the MoD started using Salisbury Plain for training exercises. Jim Thornton explained how people used the utensils in the fireplace in the past. You would have thought it was Halloween, not the middle of February. Because Jim warned Rosie there were ghosts and monsters on the Plain. As if there was a kind of Bermuda Triangle in those wide-open spaces. Guthrie arrived sometime later. He made a scene, flashing his wad of cash around for the entire bar to see. Guthrie reminded us to take great care when we left because we couldn’t afford to pay for any repairs to his beloved Bentley. Then he laid into each one of us, probing for a weak spot. He was an awful man who took great pleasure in hurting people.”
“What time did you leave?” Maxine had asked.
“A minute or two after Alf had had enough of Guthrie. He barred him and said he was closing early to let poor Rosie drive home to Salisbury. Guthrie left first, and we waited for Dave Vickers to come out of the toilet and then went outside. The last time I saw Dave, I saw him struggling to get his wet weather clothes on in the bike shed. I arrived here twenty minutes after I left the pub.”
“You didn’t see any of the others?” asked Maxine.
“That was unlikely. I drove in the opposite direction towards Chitterne. Jim left before me, and Dave used the A360, as would Rosie when she finished. I can’t imagine Guthrie risking the minor roads on a night like that. He wouldn’t risk hitting a fallen tree as he rounded a tight bend in that Bentley of his. My guess is Guthrie followed Jim on the A360 until the A303. He’d leave at the next roundabout and take the Netheravon Road. That’s where his farm was, I believe.”
“You appear to know the area well,” Keith said.
“I was stationed at Bulford Camp for several years,” said Oscar. “Just a mile up the road. I served Queen and country for the best part of thirty years in different corners of the world. When I retired, the manor house needed an estate manager. My family loved the region, so we grabbed the opportunity.”
“Can your wife confirm what time you arrived home that Friday night?” Keith had asked.
“Sadly no,” replied Oscar. “The kids were on half-term from Monday the sixteenth of February. Corinne took them to stay with her mother and father first thing Friday evening.”
Maxine sighed as she read the final pages of the murder file. No matter where they went with this case, they had hit a dead end. Keith had the last word over the public appeal. Wade Pinnock was the only genuine caller. Reception stopped logging the numbers of time-wasters when they reach twenty-nine.
It was time to move on. Maxine did the same as Keith Porter. She hunted for a sturdy box that nobody was using, put everything she needed
to keep in it, and emptied her desk drawers. Then she sent a text to Keith’s mobile.
“What am I supposed to do without you?”
She waited for the inevitable response. Her fingers poised to clarify the question.
“Sorry, I meant, who’s leading the hate crime gig?”
CHAPTER 6
Monday, 27th August 2018
Gus had just sat at his desk when the phone rang.
“Freeman? It’s Kenneth Truelove here. DS Mercer notified me of the extraordinary matters you uncovered while solving the Reeves murder. You never cease to amaze me. I’ve set the wheels in motion to investigate the historical exploitation of underage girls by Street, Francis, and others. The enquiry will also look into the potential murder of Maureen Glendenning. I’m holding the first session of Operation Oakleaf at noon.”
“A catchy title, sir,” said Gus.
“Did you have a better idea?”
“I toyed with Figleaf considering most of those photos, sir, but you’re much better at this than I am.”
“You can’t rest on your laurels, Freeman. Don’t be late for our meeting.”
Gus sighed.
“Did you have an exciting weekend, guv?” asked Neil Davis.
“It was too short. Neil,” said Gus, “but exciting is being over-generous. What do we need to do to get our files fully ready for London Road on the Marion Reeves murder?”
“I’ve finished everything on my end,” said Neil.
“We made sure we got everything done before we travelled to Scotland,” said Lydia. “Perhaps we can give you the highlights at lunchtime if you’re interested.”
“They didn’t turn you back at the border then, Alex?” said Neil.
“No, and Eleanor made us both very welcome. We had a terrific time.”
“I didn’t realise there was a border,” said Blessing Umeh.
“There isn’t,” said Luke Sherman. “or at least, not yet. I think Blessing and I have thirty minutes of work left to do on our files, guv. What time do you have to leave?”
“No panic just yet, Luke,” said Gus. “The Chief Constable has turned our early morning meetings, which used to stretch to lunchtime, into brief conferences over a cold collation starting at noon.”
“The Chief Constable doesn’t think any less of you, or us, though, does he, guv?” asked Neil.
“He just reminded me not to rest on my laurels, Neil. So make of that what you will.”
“Got it, guv,” said Neil.
“Right,” said Gus. “Those who need to must put the finishing touches to your digital files. I’ll leave the office at around half-past eleven. As for the rest of you, I hope to see clean desks and every scrap of material relating to the Reeves case removed. Then, we can make a fast start on our next case when I return this afternoon.”
Neil, Alex, and Lydia began the deep clean.
Blessing turned her attention to the Freeman files and checked everything she had contributed was error-free. It wasn't easy to concentrate with the surrounding activity. Nobody had asked what a weekend she had.
No matter how hard she tried to put it out of her mind, Blessing couldn’t avoid thinking about the young man her father mentioned on Saturday afternoon when he’d rung her. She knew it had to be something unusual for her father to call. He left it to her mother and their regular Wednesday evening conversations to keep him updated.
Blessing knew that anything she told her mother about work or what she intended to do in her social life got relayed to her father as soon as she put down the phone. Then, on the following Wednesday evening, her mother would tell her whether he approved or disapproved of her actions. It was just his way.
When Kelechi Umeh called her at the Ferris farm in Worton, Blessing had just eaten lunch with Jackie. John was working on the farm, and Jackie suggested she and Blessing spend the afternoon in the orchard. Blessing had a new book to read. The weather was beautiful, and the prospect of an afternoon relaxing in good company sounded idyllic.
When her father mentioned he had spoken with the family of Ekene Kanu, all Blessing’s hopes and dreams for the future seemed to melt away. Kelechi wanted Blessing to come to dinner the following Sunday. On this occasion, she should arrive in time to attend church with him and Maryam. Ekene could see what a dutiful daughter they had raised.
Blessing had spent the afternoon with Jackie, mostly in tears, with her head on her landlady’s shoulder. It was far from the idyllic afternoon she planned.
When John Ferris returned to the farmhouse at the end of his working day, he listened to his wife relay the disturbing news.
“What would Gus think?” he said.
“He won’t be happy,” said Jackie. “Gus thinks a lot of Blessing. The poor girl doesn’t want to marry a stranger. What can we do to help, John?”
“Not much, Jackie,” said John. “It’s not our business, even though Blessing sleeps under our roof. So call Suzie, sow the seeds, and perhaps before next weekend, our daughter can persuade Gus to intervene.”
Blessing had to hope the man sitting a few feet away from her would listen to his partner.
Meanwhile, Gus was deep in thought. As he had intimated to Neil, the weekend had flown past without him being able to achieve everything he’d hoped. He and Suzie had spent a quiet Friday evening at the allotment, followed by supper at home and an early night.
Now that Suzie wasn’t rushing off to Worton for her weekly horse ride, they could enjoy a lazy morning at the bungalow. Suzie had other ideas, of course, and they spent the morning shopping in Devizes, fighting their way through the crowds.
As lunchtime approached, Gus thought he could salvage the day by suggesting a pub lunch in the country. Suzie decided it was high time Gus had a haircut.
“Have you exhausted your delaying tactics now?” he asked as they finally made it back to the car.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Suzie. Gus could tell from the smile on her face she did.
“When we get home, I’ll fix lunch,” he said. “We’ll sit on the patio in the back garden, and you can tell me about your meeting with Vicky Bennison.”
Gus had first heard of the former Detective Sergeant when they were reviewing the Gerry Hogan case. Vicky was teamed with DI John Kirkpatrick then and transferred sometime later to Oxford, working for Thames Valley. In June three years ago, she suffered serious injuries at an anti-austerity protest march in central London.
Gus used the fact that Neil Davis and Vicky had gone through training together and took him to Abingdon when they needed her insight on the Hogan case. Vicky had spent the past three years working with a victim support charity. They only managed a fifteen-minute meeting in a garden away from her office, but Gus felt he’d convinced Vicky that not all police personnel would let her down when she needed them.
When Gus had discussed his ideas with Suzie, she agreed that working with Vicky Bennison would be beneficial, given the new role she had attracted. Geoff Mercer had a habit of choosing Suzie to front his fresh initiatives, and victim support had recently worked its way to the top of the list.
After returning home on Saturday, Gus helped Suzie put away the shopping and then prepared their lunch. Suzie went outside to move the patio furniture to give them shade while they ate. The afternoon looked set to be a scorcher. Suzie knew there was no point in taking any undue risks with her health with her twelve-week scan due in a fortnight.
“Any preference for your soft drink?” Gus called through the open kitchen window.
“Surprise me,” Suzie replied. “Just make sure you double-up on the ice cubes.”
They ate their lunch, and after Gus cleared away their plates and glasses, he settled in his chair.
“How did your meeting go at London Road?” he asked.
“Very cloak and dagger,” said Suzie. “Vicky was bordering on paranoia about anyone seeing her arrive and leave the building. She’s a damaged soul and no mistake, Gus. The families the charity work with on domest
ic violence cases don’t trust the police.”
“Crime affects everyone differently,” said Gus. “How people react depends on the nature of the crime, the sort of people they are, and the support they already have around them.”
“Yes, and specially trained staff, like Vicky, spend hours listening to people learning what they need to help cope and recover from the impact of the crime. That support is always confidential and guided by the needs and wants of the victim. Vicky told me rebuilding self-confidence and trust in others is crucial. She and her colleagues help tackle the practical problems that families face.”
“Did you find common ground?” asked Gus. “Somewhere that Geoff Mercer can see results are achievable through cooperation between you and the charity?”
“I told Vicky I was open to offering information on police and court procedures. What to expect and how to get the best from the system. Many of her clients could benefit from learning how to improve their personal safety. Not just techniques for defending themselves if attacked, but for advice on fitting locks and alarms. I told Vicky I wanted to get to a point where victims see me as an ally, not another enemy.”
“What did she say to that?” asked Gus.
“She said it wouldn’t happen overnight. We’re due to meet again in two weeks. On Wednesday, the thirteenth.”
“A busy week,” said Gus.
The pull of the allotment faded as the oppressive heat built, and their shaded nook became a far better option for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. After a refreshing shower, they’d changed, and Suzie drove them to the Fox and Hounds on the outskirts of Devizes for a meal.
“You didn’t fancy eating in the Lamb tonight?” he’d asked.
“I thought I’d take advantage of one of the few remaining times when we could be alone,” Suzie replied. “It won’t be just the two of us for much longer.”
