by Carole Pitt
Elizabeth moved to the whiteboard. 'While I appreciate your viewpoint Eldridge, right now there is nothing tangible. What we must do is either eliminate this historical connection, or find a link.'
Daly stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his jacket before speaking. 'Contrary to what DI Jewell is implying, I have not deliberately withheld information. I have prohibited the spread of it so all of your relatives and friends, don’t have the chance to gossip about police procedures. As DI Jewell has brought up the matter, I will give you a few pointers.’
'Sit down Liz,' he said. 'I went to the North East to speak to a retired officer who investigated the Walker case. My reasons were clear; I needed information should the cold case need reopening. It's long been a thorn in Gloucestershire Constabulary’s side and I was hoping that with a new team we could solve it. I'd appreciate if you’d refrain from broadcasting this until I've consulted with the powers.'
Elizabeth gestured to Patterson. 'We better go. If we leave it any longer it will be too late.'
Daly glowered at her. 'You should have done this long before now?'
Elizabeth had no answer. She'd relied on Lillian Fowler being honest and that was her fault alone. She turned back to the team who were getting restless. 'Dr Dalman will provide preliminary sketches during the reconstruction process that we may be able to use for e-fits. In the meantime we'll issue the press statement concerning safety.'
Elizabeth watched Daly signal to Eldridge and make a quick exit. She realised Eldridge was going to have to explain his threats to leave. 'Sir,' she shouted after him. 'Don't keep Eldridge too long, he’s work to do.'
She bent over the desk to sort out her paperwork. Without looking up, she was aware of someone staring at her. Elizabeth raised her head as slowly and was surprised to see it was the difficult David. At first, she thought he was smiling at her, but he wasn't able to change his expression fast enough; a second before the wide grin, she saw the blatant dislike.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Arthur Carstairs had been spying on Roxbury Farm for nearly a year. When he'd first moved to the lock keeper’s cottage to begin his new life, he hadn't imagined his nearest neighbours would turn out to be so unpleasant. For the first few months, he barely saw anyone apart from the canal enthusiasts. Eventually he began to wonder why no one had called to ask how he was settling in. Carstairs knew the locals were bound to be curious as to why a man of his age had taken on the job. He was seventy-five in August, but very few people would have believed it. Living in South Africa had toughened him and he'd benefited from decades of farming the harsh environment on the shores of Lake Kariba near Bulawayo. After his wife had died he'd found no pleasure clinging on to the small amount of land begrudgingly handed back to him by the occupiers. He'd always promised her he would return to the UK rather than fight on for what was rightfully his. Too many white farmers had died trying to do exactly that.
Emotion welled up thinking of his final days there. Reminiscing was often painful but necessary and to prevent his mind switching to his dead wife he shifted his focus back to the Fowlers. His initial attempt to befriend them led to disappointment. One summer's evening he'd called at the farm to invite them to the cottage for drinks. His long-term plan was to ask them over for dinner where he could show off his culinary skills, but it never happened. Not once, did they accept his hospitality or even thank him for offering and as the months wore on, he began to think the Fowlers had something to hide. He'd learned all about Roxbury Farm's history but never had the opportunity to ask them their opinions.
Carstairs suddenly felt a need to go and pack a bag. His restlessness and sense of urgency was gathering momentum. If he was honest, the loneliness had affected him, the lack of human interaction. With very few neighbours, he could go for days without seeing anyone. Few narrow boat enthusiasts had ventured onto the canal since the floods. He needed company but taking the short cut to the pub wasn’t the answer. He didn't want to get drunk.
He glanced at the photographs on the old marble fireplace, one on his wedding day, another taken in Korea. Carstairs often wondered if he hadn't gone overseas, he might have remained a coward for the rest of his life. He'd certainly started it as a quivering wreck thanks to his cruel and selfish parents. On his eighteenth birthday, he left home and never saw either of them again. From being a weak asthmatic teenager, he'd developed into a strong man. He was determined to find success, somewhere. His trip overseas left him with a burning desire to emigrate and a year after he married Glenda they arrived in Rhodesia where they remained until she died. Africa had taught him how to survive. In the early days, the harsh living conditions and long hours had strengthened his body and resolve.
Carstairs turned away from the photos and the memories. He thought about the implications of Calvin and Lillian Fowler separating. Would she sell the property and if so who would buy it? What money he’d managed to hang on to was still sitting in a bank account. When he'd stepped off the plane at Heathrow, he was far from penniless. One thing he was sure of, Lillian Fowler was unlikely to stay there on her own, she was a stubborn woman and Calvin a self-centred egotistical man whose main occupation in life was the pursuit of money and women. He'd often felt sorry for Lillian, knowing she too was probably lonely. They might have kept each other company if his earlier efforts at forging a friendship had worked.
Carstairs picked up his powerful binoculars then headed upstairs to the small bedroom. He scanned the traveller's site and noticed there was more activity. One group had hitched their caravan to a four wheeled drive vehicle. He moved on to the garage, built on the site of a dilapidated old barn. A couple of the pub’s regular drinkers had filled him in on the farm’s history explaining the garage was one of the first major structural conversions to the old farmhouse, sometime in the late eighties. He saw the doors were open and zoomed in to see if Calvin Fowler’s car was still in there. Long shadows cast by the sun made it difficult to see properly and Carstairs, tired of snooping headed back to the kitchen. It was coming up to five thirty and still pleasant for the time of year. After months of floods, the March weather had surprised everyone. He hoped it would stay dry and sunny until Easter, a guaranteed busy time on the waterways. Owen Howell, the young Welshman currently living on the mobile home development had offered to help. Carstairs knew Howell had an ulterior motive, he’d already told him that when he retired he intended to apply for his job.
Right now, Howell lacked experience, had a reputation for hard drinking and threatening behaviour while intoxicated. Carstairs understood his time as the lock keeper was almost over, and he owed it to his employers to find a suitable replacement. Howell was young and easily influenced but if he behaved and grafted he would recommend him as his successor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elizabeth could see at a glance Lillian Fowler disliked any police presence. The mayhem at the traveller's site was obviously stressing her out. Arguments were breaking out between small groups, some, Elizabeth sensed, in danger of turning violent. Unsupervised small children stood on the periphery crying, while older children tried to comfort them.
Elizabeth's main criticism of the travelling lifestyle was the effect on the kids. One little girl who looked about four had buried her tearstained face in a teddy bear. Going to her aid was out of the question; the traveller’s, could and would turn such an act around to suit their purpose.
Patterson too, seemed unsure of what to do. 'We'll never pin any of them down long enough to ask questions.’
Elizabeth forced her attention away from the child. 'I can call for back up if things don’t quieten down. If necessary I’ll have the lane blocked to stop them leaving.’
'Lillian Fowler will go ballistic if you do that. Let's try a bit of diplomacy.'
Elizabeth glanced over at the little girl. A slim woman with corn coloured waist length hair had picked her up. She turned back to Patterson. 'We'll start with whoever is in charge. Let's ask Mrs Fowler who it is.’
Lillian Fowler’s eyes were full of anger. Her German Shepherd stood quietly at her side, seemingly unaffected by all the commotion.
'I want to talk to a traveller who has some authority around here,' Elizabeth told her.
Without speaking, Lillian walked a few yards, stopped and pointed to a tall woman with jet-black hair. She looked about thirty, but as Elizabeth drew closer, she could see she was much older, more likely a well preserved fifty. One of those rare, exotically beautiful woman with definitive Romany features. She blocked Elizabeth's way and spoke aggressively. ‘We have nothing to say to you lot.'
Elizabeth flashed her ID. 'Unfortunately Ms...'
The woman interrupted. 'My name is Anyas Lacroix. Stay away from us.'
'Unfortunately I can't do that Ms Lacroix. Your encampment is close to a murder scene; do I need to say more? I realise many of the original group have already left due to the flood damage, but this imminent eviction means we need witness statements today. If you refuse I'll authorise a blockade at the end of the lane to prevent access to the main road.'
Lacroix turned away and Elizabeth noticed she was holding back tears. She felt a tinge of guilt, police threats were adding to her burden and she saw defeat in her eyes. Elizabeth waited while Lacroix mulled over the options. 'Give me a few minutes and I’ll try to persuade them to cooperate. We need a break from these bloody bailiffs and you’ll be the lesser of two evils.’
'Leave the bailiff's to me.' Elizabeth said.
Someone caught Lacroix's attention. A man with aggressive body language came and stood next to them.
'You can't interfere,' he said. 'No one requested a police presence.'
Patterson moved in front of Elizabeth. 'I suggest you and your outfit are the ones who should leave. You have no legal authority here until Saturday. We, on the other hand are the law.'
The bailiff reminded Elizabeth of a nightclub bouncer, mid forties with a shaved head and a muscular build. Not unlike Dean, except he wasn't nearly as good looking. 'You're from Cronin's I presume.'
'I own the company and here for personal reasons. A lawyer friend of mine is a colleague of Mr Fowler. Your presence here is badly timed and will make matters worse so I suggest you find a less intimidating approach to these people.'
Elizabeth knew Patterson was itching to wade in but she had reservations. The man owned the biggest firm of bailiffs in Gloucestershire and had a reputation for successful evictions. He could also lodge a complaint.
Patterson stepped forward. ‘Then we’ll just have to take them back to Cheltenham for interviews.’
The threat seemed to work. Cronin put his hand up in surrender. 'I don't think that will be necessary Sergeant. Just be aware. I’ve dealt with travellers for years. Where eviction law is concerned, they know every loophole and will enjoy watching the police and bailiffs arguing.’
Elizabeth was in the mood for a confrontation. ‘I suggest you cast your mind back to the well-publicised Essex eviction. That was extremely complicated due to the massive amount of campaigners who metaphorically took up arms, as well as thugs who got involved for the hell of it. The police were the only people who had the recourses to deal with a scenario like that. This situation here is a breeze in comparison.’
Cronin's face said it all, he had cultivated the hard exterior and was used to getting his way. In his profession, it was essential. Bailiffs, Elizabeth knew, often overstepped the mark and enjoyed the power trip. Her thoughts prompted her to add another criticism. 'Whatever the circumstances at this moment, these people have been here for years.' Then to make her point she added. 'Who's to say they don't have the historical right to remain on this land?’
Cronin's eyes were everywhere, then he suddenly laughed, but it was a nervous reaction. 'As you have mentioned the word historical, I suggest you read up on the legal challenges the travellers have brought over the decades, particularly after the Walker family disappeared. Since then they have explored every avenue to steal this land from its rightful owners. Unfortunately, they have run out of time and money. Taking legal action requires both. Mr and Mrs Fowler are my clients and we are doing our best to progress this in a manner that causes little or no disruption.'
He checked his expensive watch. 'If you wouldn't mind starting your enquiries now and while we wait I'll instruct my team to inspect the vehicles to make sure they are roadworthy. On Saturday, any caravans left on site are automatically confiscated.'
Cronin walked off and Elizabeth began to see a different side to the argument, the effect the eviction was having on the travellers. Despite their reputation, these families had to go through an ordeal, one they couldn't prevent. Cronin had specifically mentioned the Walkers as if to challenge her. Why would he do that? More importantly why had Deena and Joel Walker encouraged the encampment in the first place. She needed to ask Lillian Fowler what she remembered. There had to be more information than what was already in the public domain.
Patterson broke her thoughts. 'No one seems to be supervising the little kids,' he said. ‘Look over there,' he swung to his left and pointed.
Another child of about two was wandering around barefoot and wearing only a thin dress. Elizabeth ran over and she launched into a high-pitched wailing.
Lacroix followed and grabbed the child’s arm. 'Don't overreact Inspector, I'll see to her.'
While she was busy comforting the child a crowd of people had gathered fifty yards from where Elizabeth was standing, obviously waiting to offer statements. Lacroix spotted them. 'They're ready when you are,' she stated.
'We'll need somewhere private,' Patterson said.
'You can use my van. My friend Jez is in there, but you’ll want to talk to him as well. Please treat him carefully. He’s a fragile human being and if I could, I wouldn't allow you near him. Your other officers can go with Bart.’ She pointed to a large bearded biker type.
'What's wrong with your friend?' Elizabeth asked wincing from a sharp pain in her ankle.
'He’s the only one who can or will answer that question,' Lacroix said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Time often urges history to remind us of change. Perhaps time has no more of a photographic memory than we do so adjusts a sequence of events as best it can. Our reaction to these subtle alterations depends on our own memories.
The one who caused this outrage will view time's intervention with fear if they hope to conceal the truth forever.
This is a war between one individual and the justice seekers, who are struggling. Others know more than they are prepared to say, burdened with a desire to go on their way unencumbered by past events.
However hard people attempt to bury secrets it’s never deep enough. Denied the light for three decades these hidden facts are already inching slowly towards the surface. As they glimpse the first chink of light, the one responsible will take evasive action. This is the war, light against dark, truth before lies, and the ultimate battle, good versus evil.
The activity today is certainly quieter than all those years because justice must work in silence.
Are people less inclined to speak out than they were back then? Has time eroded their recollections or their guilt? Knowledge, as they say, is dangerous especially if it’s impossible to wipe it from your mind. For those who wish to remain silent, however, we may condemn such an immoral decision, let them leave and keep their secrets safe. For others who wish to rid themselves of this burden, let them speak out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Elizabeth had wrongly assumed Jez was a young man, but when Lacroix introduced him as Jeremiah Moore and said he was fifty-six, she was even more startled. He looked twenty years younger. A slightly built man at around five-foot nine, he reminded her of the famous Russian ballet dancer Rudolph Nureyev.
He stared at her but said nothing. Recently it seemed several people had studied her more than was usual. Pain wasn't easy to conceal, the mirror had confirmed her tight features and sunken eyes.
Elizabeth wanted to
put him at ease. He exuded an odd vulnerability and without knowing why, she felt sorry for him.
'Why are you here?' he asked.
'To ask a few questions, we’re investigating the body found in the culvert.'
He suddenly began plucking at his knees, pulling the denim tight then twisting it around his fingers. He didn't reply or look up at her and Elizabeth turned to Lacroix for help.
'Jez, this lady isn't here to scare you so try to calm down.'
'Can I have a pill?' he asked.
Lacroix shook her head and stroked his arm. 'You only took one two hours ago.'
'I'm sorry you feel distressed but I have a job to do,' Elizabeth said.
Lacroix nodded and Elizabeth continued. 'Have you noticed anything unusual recently, especially around the fourteenth or fifteenth of this month?'
'Beware. The Ides of March,' he said and stared at her, unblinking.
'That's interesting, are you superstitious?’ she asked.
'Sometimes,' he replied.
Elizabeth saw a childlike quality in him, yet at the same time felt vaguely threatened.
Patterson sat down on a sofa upholstered in purple velvet and stretched out his legs. Elizabeth took in the array of exotic fabrics, some heavily embroidered in the Indian fashion. The short curtains sparkled with sequins and metallic threads. Brocade cushions took up most of the floor space. From outside, the caravan had appeared shabby but the interior resembled a tiny decorative palace.
It only took a few minutes more to become aware of the sexual tension between Jez and Lacroix. It was hard to ignore and she turned to Patterson for his reaction. His expression told her he'd noticed. She'd wanted to quiz Jez about the Ides of March reference, but the confined space had ratcheted up the atmosphere. Was this intended intimidation or was it simply a case of two people exuding too many hormones.
