by David Beard
‘Bloody shit.’
‘Is that all?’
‘’Tis enough id’n it?’
‘Maybe you could enlarge on it a bit?’
‘’Ee was a sod. ’Ee run the bloody council like ‘itler. Bloody waste of time us goin’. Would ‘ave bin all right if ‘ee done the right things but ‘ee bloody didn’t. Bastard!’
Smalacombe couldn’t resist another inane remark, ‘You didn’t like him?’
‘I fuckin’ didn’t,’ he suddenly realised that he was digging a big hole for himself. ‘Better stop digging. I didn’t kill ‘im, if that’s what you think, but I knows plenty who would ‘ave liked to.’
‘Including you?’
‘I tell ‘ee, yes, I would ‘ave, but some bugger got their first.’ He walked to the front door. ‘Better come in.’
He ushered Smalacombe in and they went to the kitchen, which was exactly as he imagined it to be. It was a large rectangular room, dominated by a scrubbed oak table at the centre, with six matching chairs around it. There was a large window behind the sink and a glass panel in the back door; it was a light and airy room. By the opposite wall was the ubiquitous Aga with worktops and wall cupboards on either side and by the far wall was a large dresser filled with crockery.
‘Want some tea?’ Smalacombe nodded. ‘Misses is out, see what I kin do.’ Jimmy Wilde was not used to fending for himself with regard to the domestic side of things and it took an interminable amount of time to accomplish the making of the beverage. When he finally filled the cups they sat at the table and he asked, ‘Bit o’ cake?’ After the previous long wait, Smalacombe glanced at the clock on the wall and shook his head.
‘This will be fine.’ Smalacombe said, pointing to the tea, ‘If Crossworth was so unpopular, Jimmy, how did he win votes for the council?’
‘Oh, there’s enough round ‘ere who thought the sun shone out of ‘is ass. Bloody didn’t. Course, he was always throwing ‘is money round. Stuff for the church, money for the parish ‘all; stuff like that. But, if you wanted sumpin, twas always no, unless ‘ee was goin’ to get sumpin out of it ‘isself. Planning; stuff like that.’
‘But planning is for the district council.’
‘Well yes, they’m supposed to consult the parishes. Fuckin’ laugh that is cos they never bloody listen. But Crossworth had a ‘old on it. ‘Eve stopped all sorts of things. George Counter down the road, ‘ee wanted to put they there panels up; solar jobs. District council was all for it but Crossworth put a stop to it.’
‘But how?’
‘I ban’t accusin’ nobody of nothin’, but when you’ve got the money ‘ee had tis funny ‘ow you kin always get your own way, id’n it? Trouble is, I’m running three hundred acres ‘ere, jus’ me and the boy and I hab’m ‘ad the time to go in to it proper. Some bugger should,’ he thought for a moment, ‘now you’m just the bloody bloke I reckon.’
‘I must ask, where were you on the night of the murders?’
‘Us was all workin’. Harvest time and us didn’ stop ‘till well after dark.’
Smalacombe left feeling upbeat; other dimensions to this case were at last emerging. He knew from his checks with Sheldon, before he came out, that Jimmy Wilde was quite successful with his business. But, he wondered, how can a bloke run a large farm well and be a useful councillor when it takes him half an hour to make a cup of tea?
As he drove back to the station his mind reverted to other looming problems. In recent times he and Freda had enjoyed bank holidays with a long weekend away, sometimes with their daughter but more often in a small hotel by the coast or on his beloved Dartmoor. He recognised that Freda was unhappy that nothing had been organised this time and he pondered how to get his work done and to pacify her.
He decided that Saturday would have to be committed to leisure, of Sunday he was unsure but Monday, bank holiday or not, he would certainly be back to work. His one consolation was the weather forecast, which was for a bright Saturday but a wet Sunday and Monday. He hoped it was accurate.
CHAPTER 8
Freda rose first and was soon preparing a breakfast. As weekends allowed for a more leisurely start to the day, the Smalacombes usually indulged themselves in a full English on Saturday mornings. They also found, that if they were going out for the day, it was enough to last them until the evening, which meant they had no real need to interrupt their pursuits, but the pleasure of a picnic was all part of a great day out and had little to do with sustenance.
Dexter came down the stairs dressed in a T-shirt, shorts and trainers but no socks.
‘You’ve kept your promise then,’ Freda commented.
‘I can still think work, even if I am dressed like this.’
‘Tell me about it!’ He had arrived just as it was all complete and ready to eat.
‘I’ll make the tea,’ he offered.
‘All done! And it’s coffee. So, where shall we go?’ The usual reply would have been to Sidmouth and spend the day with the grandchildren, but they were away in France on their summer break.
‘Do you want to lie around, or take a walk somewhere?’ and he hastened to add, ‘not on Dartmoor.’
‘Or Budleigh?’
‘The east end of the beach?’
‘Trouble is, Dex, the beaches on bank holidays are a bit like a London tube train in the rush hour. Don’t think I fancy that. Pubs and restaurants in those parts are heaving. I enjoy those places better at quieter times.’
‘It’s a walk then. What about somewhere different? What about the Quantocks? We could go on to Minehead or Porlock Weir afterwards for a meal.’
‘Oh, and then we can do the drive from Minehead to Lynmouth, which is memorable. We will leave time to do that. We’ll take a picnic.’
‘After all of this?’
‘You will walk it off. Different if we were lying around all day.’
Whilst all these discussions were taking place in the Smalacombe household, the Corndon couple were much more organised; their weekend had been planned long ago and the final details were finalised on the Friday evening over dinner. They had booked a camping holiday in north Devon.
Their Saturday mornings usually began with the activities that most young married couples like to indulge in, when it isn’t necessary to check the clock and it took much longer than the comments raised in an earlier Smalacombe discussion. They were fit, the exercise enlivened them.
After a leisurely breakfast they were soon driving to Instow, with their bikes loaded on the roof rack; their specialist tight fitting cycling outfits and helmets neatly packed in the boot, with rucksacks filled with bottles of water to ward off dehydration, chocolate for energy, puncture repair kits for emergency and waterproofs because they were subject to the unpredictability of the local weather. The trailer was filled with their camping gear. They acknowledged, more correctly, it was glamping gear and preparing it all was much like moving house.
After the camp was set up it was to be a day on the Tarka Trail. Both Hector and Emily were fascinated by wildlife on the Taw, Torridge estuary and they had also brought with them their binoculars and the RSPB handbook. There would be oyster catchers, gulls of all kinds, shell ducks, cormorants and shags holding their wings out to dry them in the sun before diving for more food. They really hoped to catch a glimpse of an avocet. There was not even any discussion about whether they should go east or west as the decision had been made to stick to the coast rather than go inland. So it was east to Barnstaple and on to Braunton and the burrows afterwards where they could get lost in the sand dunes and have another session of their early morning exercise.
On Sunday they would travel on the track in the opposite direction and take their meals in wayside pubs. Monday was scheduled to include a walk on the coastal path. They were aware of the poor weather forecast but for them it made no difference; they were to spend a weekend in the open air.
Hector was one of those people who felt the need to be properly equipped in order to master what he was doing. It am
used Emily but it added to the burden of preparation. She often teased him by referring to the impossibility of riding a bicycle without lycra pants, a helmet and posh gloves. He couldn’t manage a walk without hairy socks and if he had his way, the glamping would include a sofa, a fifty inch telly and an Aga cooker.
Although her figure made her even more alluring in such tight fitting garments she had no intention of spending the whole day in them, especially as she would frequent a tea room somewhere before returning to camp where Hector was keen to cook an evening meal on the equipment brought with them. They left the campsite casually dressed and drove to Instow to began their cycle tour because the public conveniences served as satisfactory changing rooms.
*
The Smalacombes drove through the village of Crowcombe, up a steep hill through the woods and emerged at the top on the open moorland of the Quantocks. On their left was a rough car park. Soon they were trudging higher up on a well worn pathway, admiring the heather now blossoming but with some disappointment they noticed none of the whortleberry bushes showed any fruit, as the sheep grazing on the moors had eaten them all and left the plants neatly trimmed.
As they approached the crest so the sky became bigger and the panorama of the Bristol Channel opened up before them. This channel, with the second highest tide in the world after the Bay of Fundi in Nova Scotia, had its water often churned up, brownish in colour, with particles of its bed floating in it. Unusually the sea was calm, bright and blue. It was a sign of a settled period and beautiful weather. Long may it continue, thought Smalacombe. He thought again and reconsidered. He hoped it would soon be wet and miserable for the following day and Monday.
‘If we climb the stile over there to our left we can go up to the rocks, sit and have our picnic, Freda.’
‘This is beautiful, Dex,’ she pointed to the right, ‘What’s that great lump down there?’
‘That’s not so beautiful. It’s Hinkley Point Nuclear Power Station,’ he replied. ‘Look beyond; you can just see the suspension bridge, which carries the M4.’
‘Oddly, that is beautiful. Pity they couldn’t have tarted up the other bit.’
‘What with?’
‘Big paintings of skulls and crossbones,’ she retorted and then looked north, ‘and we can see Wales.’
Smalacombe pointed ahead, he hoped precisely, ‘That’s Barry over there and you can see Porthcawl further to the left. Not quite good enough now, but on a really clear day you can just about pick out the Gower Peninsula I think.’ He wasn’t wholly sure of his observations but it added to Freda’s enjoyment.
‘Magnificent.’
They sat on the rocks facing west and Freda prepared the picnic. Smalacombe looked ahead and studied the high moor above Minehead and reflected that it was also a place for a glorious walk. Perhaps next weekend, he thought.
As they ate their sandwiches Freda noted that her husband had fallen silent.
‘Back to work again?’
‘Sorry love, I can’t leave it. As you know, I’m frustrated with this investigation; there is too much to do and insufficient time. I shouldn’t be here to be honest and I feel really guilty but it has helped me to clarify a few things. So it’s not a wasted day. See, it’s been difficult with a new sergeant: I haven’t known how much I can rely upon her to do things.’
‘How can this be a wasted day? Is taking me out just a chore then? Is it something that gets in the way of what really matters?’
‘Oh no! I didn’t mean it like that. But, if you want to be brutal, if I didn’t work, we wouldn’t have a car to bring us up here would we?’
Freda reached across and cuddled him. ‘I’m sorry, love; you just don’t know how difficult it is for me when you are all wound up. So, what about your sergeant then?’
‘She’s measured up brilliantly. I do know now that I can rely on her and from Tuesday I will leave her to do more investigations on her own. That will double up our work rate. I am going to have to spend tomorrow going through wheelbarrows of research and paperwork.’
‘Look at the ship on the way to Bristol.’ Freda decided to detract him.
‘Loaded with Japanese cars I expect.’
‘What shall we do tomorrow?’ Freda was determined that he would not spend the day working.
‘The forecast is dreadful. Better wait and see.’
‘Mmm. Hedging aren’t you? I read of a craft fair not far from home. What about that?’
That appealed to Smalacombe as it would not take all day and maybe he could find time to do both things. ‘We could go there in the afternoon.’
‘It will be under cover, so no excuses.’
*
Meanwhile, the Corndons had stopped on the trail overlooking the estuary between Barnstaple and Braunton. Both were studying groups of waders on sandbanks uncovered by the low tide, which were a long way offshore.
‘These binos are just not strong enough, Hector. I can’t be sure. We’re going to have to buy better ones.’ Emily looked in envy at the equipment her husband was using, as he had binoculars of a power that would check the missing feathers from a wren a half a mile away. Emily put hers down and left him to do the survey. Just like her boss, who had finished his picnic at this point, her mind began to wander back to work. She felt she was not being fully utilised; the work load was immense and they just weren’t getting through it quickly enough. Why can’t I undertake stuff on my own she mused? I am going to have to find time tomorrow trying to put together all the information we have gained so far.
As they cycled on, Emily could not resist spending too much time looking at the estuary now shimmering in the midday sun with constant movements; tiny ripples mirrored the bright rays sparkling in the sea. She lost her concentration on where she was cycling and wandered off the track, down a steep slope towards the water. The bike hit a boulder; its back wheel raised itself into the air. She hung on but found herself tipping forward and somersaulting over the handlebars. Hector was up ahead and unaware of the calamity; he had decided to extend his exercise by speeding up for a sprint and he was soon a dot in the distance.
Fortunately, Emily landed on soft ground but unfortunately, heavily. She felt a pain in her ankle and shouted for her husband. He was nowhere to be seen. She tried to stand but her right ankle just didn’t seem to work and she fell down again. She resigned herself to a period of extreme discomfort and loneliness until her husband arrived. She just hoped he would be there before some interfering stranger.
A number of cyclists stopped and showed concern and Emily assured them she was all right. She decided to sit up and pretend to be resting; her bike had disappeared in the undergrowth, which meant she was ignored. Her ankle had swollen. It was with great relief that she found she could move it, she could wiggle it around in circles, which assured her nothing was broken, but it didn’t mean she would be able to ride back to Instow.
Hector completed his sprint and with his feet on the ground he leant on the handlebars breathing heavily. He knew he would have to wait for his wife and he would have time to recover. However, Emily did not arrive. He looked back along the track and she could not be seen. He sensed that something was wrong and he was furious with himself that he should have so selfishly motored on without checking that she was following him. Many times, when he put such a spurt on, she too would up her efforts but it was now obvious to him that this was not the case. He rode back along the track.
He found her sitting disconsolately by the track and he was not greeted with the usual friendly smile.
‘Goodness me, are you OK?’
‘No, I’m bloody not. I’ve hurt my ankle.’
‘Where’s the bike?’
‘Down there somewhere,’ she pointed down through the scrub.
Hector dropped his bike, bent down and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, I thought you were with me. What happened?’
‘My own fault, I wasn’t concentrating.’
Hector kissed her on the cheek
and scrabbled down the hillside to retrieve the bike. He came back to her a little distracted. ‘The front wheel is buckled; you won’t be able to ride it back.’
‘I can’t anyway; I’ve just told you, I’ve hurt my ankle.’
Hector was now in a frenzy, ‘Which one, which one?’
She rubbed it and rolled down her sock to show him it was swollen. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not broken, I think I’ve just twisted it.’
Emily’s day out ended ignominiously. She remained at the scene for some time whilst Hector rode furiously back to Instow to fetch the car and park at the nearest place he could find. Fortunately, the track followed the road at the point of Emily’s disaster and close by there was a lay-by. She hopped and hobbled, then rested and hopped and hobbled some more, whilst Hector struggled to give her support and carry her broken bike at the same time. Eventually, she felt secure in the car and he was driving them back to camp. Things had not ended as he had planned. He was looking forward to their visit to the burrows, for the two of them to get lost in the sandbanks; sex in the open air. Ah well, another time, he mused.
‘Should we go to the A and E?’
‘I’m sure nothing is broken, so no. I’ll give it a good rest tomorrow.’ She realised it would be a good excuse to sit and study the Crossworth Lynley case without feeling that she should be helping with the Sunday dinner, which was always Hector’s responsibility, as he was the better cook. It then occurred to her that all her references were at home; she couldn’t spend the day sitting in a tent and watching the rain. It was also apparent to her that a camp site, with toilet blocks some distance from their pitch would present other problems.
‘Hector, I don’t think we can stay up here. I won’t be able to manage on the camp site. Just think of the toilet facilities.’
‘They are excellent, that’s why we chose this site.’
‘I know but how can I get there?’
Hector was disappointed. Everything he had planned had gone sour. The weather had begun to break up and he switched on the windscreen wipers. He realised a wet campsite was not an ideal place for someone with a poor ankle. ‘OK, we had better pack up then and make it home.’ He knew that the reference to “we” was an exaggeration as Emily could do little more than sit in the car and wait.
