by Ted Tayler
“Sneaky, guv,” said Neil.
“Wes failed the roadside test but was okay when they tested him later at the police station. However, the courts fined him for an illegal number plate. That was another reason for emigrating to New Zealand. Wes Guthrie believed he was a marked man from that day, and police pulled him over every time they saw him on the road. It was as if they couldn’t accept he wasn’t involved in his father’s death.”
“It wasn’t true, was it, guv?” asked Lydia.
“Of course not, Lydia,” said Gus, “but that was his perception. Wes didn’t help matters by driving his father’s Bentley Continental for a while. My guess is Tamsin Meredith was behind that move.”
“Just the thing to antagonise the locals and turn them against the couple even more,” said Alex.
“What happened to the car, guv?” asked Neil.
“Wes sold it at auction before the move to New Zealand. It fetched close to a hundred grand, which he donated to animal charities. So that’s it for the Guthrie clan. Now, let’s move on to Jim Thornton. As you know, three weeks into the investigation, Wade Pinnock came forward in response to a public appeal for information. That call brought Porter and Coleman to Jim’s door. Bob Ellison, a neighbour, told the detectives Jim’s wife had died in hospital two or three days ago. After his wife’s funeral, they spoke to Jim to check what he remembered of events in the Traveller’s Rest on Friday the thirteenth of February. Jim was in his seventies. And his wife’s death hit him hard. He died eighteen months ago during a winter flu outbreak.”
“That only leaves four people who were in the pub that night,” said Lydia.
“Am I missing something?” asked Alex. “We heard little detail on Kendal Guthrie’s character, but what we have heard paints him in an unpleasant light. It strikes me loads of people might have wanted him dead. You’re concentrating on the handful of people he was with on Friday night, guv. Are you convinced one of them is the killer?”
“Far too soon to tell, Alex,” said Gus. “I’m following the text from the murder file because it offers us the chance to create a picture of the main characters and where they were in relation to one another on the night of the murder. Of course, I’m getting ahead of myself. But in the file, you’ll read that Porter and Coleman interviewed dozens of people who hated Kendal Guthrie with a vengeance. We can check their alibis, but three years ago, they passed every test.”
“Porter and Coleman could have missed a suspect altogether, guv,” said Neil.
“True, but my nose tells me whoever they are, they had to live near Glenhead Farm. There was only a handful of hardy annuals out on the roads that night. The furthest anyone we know about having to travel was a little over eleven miles. That was the victim himself. Therefore, it’s unlikely our killer travelled from outside the confines of the area defined by my map specifications.”
“How long is the lane from Netheravon Road to the farm, guv?” asked Blessing.
“I don’t think anyone measured that, Blessing,” said Gus. “What were you thinking?”
“Well, you know how far it is from the main road to the Ferris’s farm, guv,” she said.
“It has to be half a mile, but that’s exceptional, surely?” said Gus.
“I’m checking online, guv,” said Luke. “The map shows the lane as fairly straight, and the farmhouse is between two hundred and two hundred and fifty yards from the junction.”
“I see what you’re getting at, Blessing,” said Gus. “Kendal Guthrie drove up the lane, and the lights on the garage and the farmhouse switched on. He turned off the engine, got out of the car, and hurried across the yard to the side door.”
Gus stood up and mimicked the moves Kendal Guthrie would have made.
“Key in the door, step inside, flick the switch, and BANG, lights out. How much time elapsed between stopping the Bentley outside the garage and turning on the mudroom light?”
“Twelve to fifteen seconds, guv,” said Luke.
“We need to check the lane when we speak to Helen Guthrie, guv,” said Alex. “Verify what condition it was in at the time of the murder. Was it a tarmacked surface? Or was it full of potholes and pitted with ruts caused by heavy farm machinery? Twenty miles per hour could be pushing it if it was the latter. Thirty, if the surface was smooth and flat.”
“I’ve done the maths,” said Luke. “A vehicle travelling at twenty miles per hour would cover one hundred and twenty yards in fifteen seconds. So even at thirty, they would still be short of where Kendal parked the car and wouldn’t have enough time to get close enough to strike him over the head.”
“If a vehicle was already on the lane when he got out of the Bentley, Kendal should have heard it or seen its headlights,” said Neil.
“It was blowing a gale and raining hard,” said Luke. “Perhaps the driver killed his lights as soon as the security lighting switched on. It’s still tight. I can’t see how someone following Kendal could reach the mudroom door without being seen or heard.”
“In that case, the killer was lying in wait,” said Blessing. “Which throws the field wide open. Doug Lawless and Harry Meaden live on either side of Glenhead Farm. They fall well within the catchment area you described guv. So if they saw Guthrie’s car leave on Friday night on its way to the Traveller’s Rest, they had plenty of time to get into position. If they hated the man that much, wind and rain wouldn’t deter them.”
“No, Blessing, I don’t imagine it would,” said Gus. “In fact, the worse the weather conditions were, the better it was for the killer. What chance was there of someone seeing them late at night? The dog walkers I rely on to see something useful were tucked up somewhere warm and dry.”
“Is Alf Collett still the landlord at the pub, guv?” asked Neil.
“What pub, Neil?” asked Gus.
“The Traveller’s Rest, guv. Don’t tell me it’s gone the way of so many others.”
“Alf’s wife, Joan, died in June last year, and Alf didn’t have the heart to keep going. So most days, he hacks a small white ball around a golf course in Portugal. The Traveller’s Rest was one of the eighteen pubs that closed every week in the UK during 2017.”
“That leaves us with a barmaid and a building society manager,” said Lydia.
“Careful, Neil,” said Luke. “I know there’s a joke there somewhere, but please remember there are ladies present.”
“It’s not a joking matter,” said Gus. “The barmaid, Rosie Ritchens, died in a traffic accident in Majorca only a matter of weeks after the murder. When Porter and Coleman spoke to Alf Collett, they learned Rosie quit her job at the pub. She gave a variety of reasons. The altercation involving Kendal Guthrie upset her, and the drive backwards and forwards from Salisbury to the pub was taking its toll. Dave Vickers, the building society manager, fancied her, and that made her feel uncomfortable. He was in his early fifties, and Rosie wanted to work in a lively pub where she would meet blokes more her age. Alf Collett last spoke to Rosie when she got a job in a bar in Salisbury city centre and was off to Majorca for a two-week holiday. Rosie was walking back from town to her apartment block in the early hours, staggered into the road, right in front of an oncoming vehicle. The driver didn’t stop. The police found the burnt-out hire car on scrubland near the beach the following morning. They never identified the driver.”
“That’s terrible, guv,” said Blessing, “the poor girl was a couple of years younger than me. Anyway, Lydia was wrong. You forgot the estate manager.”
“Oscar Wallington,” said Gus. “Yes. He’s still working for the owners of the manor house. He will be available for an interview.”
“Where are Keith Porter and Maxine Coleman these days, guv?” asked Luke.
“Keith Porter remains at Bourne Hill with his rank unchanged,” said Gus. “Maxine Devereux, nee Coleman, is on maternity leave. If she returns to work, her promotion to Detective Inspector will follow.”
“We have little to work with,” said Blessing.
“
Then we must make the most of what we have,” said Gus.
CHAPTER 8
“Divya will get copies of the maps to us first thing in the morning, guv,” said Luke.
“Thanks, Luke,” said Gus. “Did you start a list of people we can interview?”
“I’d start with DI Porter and Maxine Devereux,” said Luke.
“I prefer Dave Vickers and Oscar Wallington,” said Alex. “They were in the pub on Friday night.”
“Helen Guthrie might not have much to offer, guv,” said Neil, “and the ex-wife, Millie, has an axe to grind. So I wouldn’t rush to speak to them.”
“Don’t forget Wade Pinnock,” said Blessing.
“Alf Collett’s the only other person alive who was there on Friday,” said Lydia. “Can you get clearance to fly to Portugal to interview him, guv?”
“I can get DS Mercer to ask the question,” said Gus. “There’s no mileage in ringing Collett. I need to conduct the interview face-to-face.”
“Zoom’s been available for three years now, guv,” said Luke.
“That’s an ice lolly, isn’t it?” said Gus.
“No, a video call. You can see one another, guv,” said Neil.
“The mind boggles,” said Gus. “What will they think of next?”
“I still reckon Pinnock’s your best bet,” insisted Blessing. “He spoke to the landlord and the barmaid. Jim Thornton was in the pub on Saturday too, plus another customer Wade Pinnock couldn’t name. That could have been Dave Vickers or Oscar Wallington.”
“I like that idea, Blessing,” said Gus. “We’ll get an overview of events on both Friday and Saturday night before we speak to the building society manager and the estate manager. I can’t count on the Chief Constable sanctioning an overseas trip so soon after our recent flight to Spain. We’ll need a solid reason to travel to Portugal to disturb Alf Collett as he’s standing over a tricky six-foot putt.”
“What about the two officers on duty on Saturday afternoon, guv?” asked Alex. “What were their names?”
“WPC Sarah Saunders,” said Gus. “Her colleague, PC Zak Drake, was the one who queried the mudroom light. Of course, they wouldn’t be at the top of my list, but add them to the mix, Luke, if you would.”
“Okay, guv,” said Luke. “I’ve got Doug Lawless and Harry Meaden on my list. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Of course,” said Gus. “Add Bob Ellison’s name while you’re at it. Do you have anyone else you made a note of while I went through the text from the murder file?”
“Barton and Goodwin, the guys with Wes Guthrie on Friday night’s pub crawl,” said Luke.
Gus shook his head.
“Forget those two. Porter and Coleman found no evidence linking them to Kendal Guthrie. If they were as drunk as Wes Guthrie at eleven o’clock, they were too far from Glenhead Farm to play a part, just as he was.”
“Tom Dix, now the manager at Glenhead Farm,” said Luke. “He was Wes Guthrie’s number two at the farm in Winterbourne Stoke three years ago.”
“Check the murder file to see whether he’s mentioned in connection with anything other than covering for Wes while he had a boozy weekend. It might be wise to dig into Dix’s family background to learn whether they ever had a run-in with Kendal Guthrie. We don’t want to miss the obvious.”
“Got it, guv,” said Luke. “If he’s in the clear, we can scrub Tom Dix from our list.”
“Get that list into a sensible order, Luke,” said Gus. “We’ll make a start tomorrow. We can’t make much progress until the Hub provides our maps, so can everyone please delve into the murder file and get the crime scene photos onto a whiteboard. Prepare brief biographies for the names Luke itemised for the other board, and root around in the stationery cupboard for a dozen coloured drawing pins and a large ball of string.”
Gus sat back and watched as the team got to work. He opened his desk drawer and checked the white paper bag. The cream horn looked too good to resist. If he left now, he could beat the rush, get home thirty minutes before Suzie, and make a pig of himself.
“I’ve just remembered a dental appointment,” he said. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
With that, Gus covered the paper bag with his jacket and made for the lift. He heard a couple of voices wishing him luck as the lift doors closed.
Suzie found him in the kitchen at twenty to six.
“The roads were busy this evening,” she sighed. “Did you get caught in that accident?”
“I must have missed it by minutes,” said Gus. “I left work a few minutes early. We’ve got another tough nut to crack, and the Hub couldn’t give us the tools we need until the morning. So I saw little point in staying to the bitter end.”
“Where was the dirty deed done this time?” asked Suzie.
“Just up the road from the Stonehenge Inn in Durrington. Kendal Guthrie was the victim.”
“I’ve only visited the pub once, a few years ago now.”
“Did John and Jackie know the Guthrie family?” asked Gus.
“They knew Kendal and Poppy, yes,” said Suzie. “She was a lovely lady. Her husband was arrogant, objectionable, sexist, and a dozen other names I could use. Dad wasn’t surprised to hear someone murdered him. I suppose it was inevitable the Chief Constable would return to that case eventually.”
“Kenneth Truelove wasn’t involved in the investigation, was he? Surely, he was already in his ACC post?”
“He investigated a complaint against DI Keith Porter,” said Suzie. “A female officer alleged he suggested they use the Bourne Hill photocopier for inappropriate images.”
“DS Maxine Coleman?” asked Gus.
“No, a WPC called Sarah Saunders. Porter said it was a misunderstanding. There was no physical evidence, and the complaint died a death.”
“He said, she said.”
“Exactly,” said Suzie. “Sarah Saunders thought the ACC should have accepted her word. Porter had a reputation for getting over-familiar with the ladies. Kenneth asked Maxine whether he’d ever misbehaved when they worked on the same team. She said Keith got near the line on occasion but never crossed it. Maxine told the ACC a stern word worked wonders with children and suggested WPC Saunders took a leaf out of her book.”
“It sounds as if Keith Porter escaped by the skin of his teeth,” said Gus. “That explains why he hasn’t moved up the ladder. We skipped through the murder file this afternoon. I hoped to find something concrete on which to base our review of the case. I’ve never come across anything like it. Five people were in a pub near Tilshead when Kendal Guthrie arrived. He ripped into each one of them, got thrown out, drove home, and as soon as he arrived, someone battered him over the head with an iron bar. Two of those five people are dead.”
“Does anyone suspect those deaths are related?” asked Suzie.
“On the face of it, nothing supports that idea. A man in his seventies died of complications following winter flu, and a twenty-year-old girl died in a hit-and-run in Majorca. Her alcohol level at the time was off the scale. Spanish police have lost count of the number of British holidaymakers who come to grief after too much sun and sangria. They think she stepped off the grass verge, forgot which country she was in, looked right instead of left and got hit by a hire car. The driver was probably over the limit, ditched the car, and set it alight three miles along the road. I doubt whether they busted a gut looking for the driver.”
“Kendal and Poppy Guthrie had children a few years older than me, didn’t they?” said Suzie.
“Wesley and Helen,” said Gus. “That’s another complication we could have done without. Wes was playing away at the time of the murder. His girlfriend provided him with an alibi, which caused ructions with his wife, Millie. They divorced shortly after his father’s funeral. As for the daughter, Helen, she caught her husband in bed with another man, gave him the elbow, and is now living at Glenhead Farm. Wes and his new wife are farming in New Zealand. A place called Taupaki.”
“I know
it,” said Suzie. “My grandparents lived near Auckland for many years. There’s a terrific farming community in the region with sheep, strawberries, all sorts.”
“It sounds idyllic, but it doesn’t help us much. I’ve emailed Geoff Mercer asking for clearance to fly to Portugal to interview the landlord of the pub where Kendal Guthrie spent his last evening. Fat chance the boss will sanction a flight Down Under. We’re running on fumes, Suzie.”
“Why don’t we take a walk?” she said. “It’s cooler this evening. The fresh air will clear your head—no allotment for you, nor a trip to the Lamb Inn. We’ll phone for a pizza later. Come on, let’s shower and change first.”
Gus perked up, but Suzie gave him a gentle nudge towards the bathroom and walked into the bedroom.
“Where are we going?” asked Gus as they left the bungalow. His watch read six-thirty. Suzie was right about the weather. The temperature had dropped several degrees since he left the Old Police Station Office.
“I’ve no idea,” said Suzie. “I planned to walk for thirty minutes and then turn around and walk back. If we found an alternative route back, fine. Anyway, I thought you knew every nook and cranny in the village.”
“I’ve lived here for four years,” said Gus. “I know every inch between the bungalow and the allotment, plus parts of the village like Bert’s house on the main road. Beyond that, it’s a mystery. When I flipped through the Kendal Guthrie murder file this afternoon, I spotted a reference to myths and monsters. It was a topic of conversation in the pub on Friday the thirteenth, back in 2015. I could imagine the scene. A roaring fire inside the pub, while outside the storm raged. I tried to explain to Blessing Umeh that Salisbury Plain is a vast expanse, and it’s easy to get lost. People of her age think they’ll be fine with a smartphone to hand ready for any emergency. There are blind spots everywhere on the Plain. A hundred years ago, people living in remote villages and hamlets spent months never seeing another human being. The mind can play tricks, and trees blackened by lightning could become monsters when men returned from the pub on a dark, stormy night.”
