by Jennie Finch
All that was blown away in a few months by a short, brutal illness that seized Bella, burning her up until just the bones were left. After her death, Tom had thrown himself into a new project in an effort to forget his grief. His attempts to forge a wider network of contacts and routes for clandestine goods had come to nothing when one of his new partners decided to remove anyone who opposed them with extreme prejudice and it was only lack of evidence that had spared Tom a lengthy spell in Bristol prison. The late, unlamented Derek Johns had done most of the actual killing and the smugglers had disappeared into their respective hidey-holes waiting for the fuss to die down. Tom now found himself at a bit of a loose end, without a second income stream for the first time in many years and he was forced to look at his life, and his future, making some hard decisions.
Ada poured them both some more tea and they sat, sipping in silence for a few moments.
‘Is right evil, cancer,’ Ada observed, watching Tom over the top of her cup.
Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak. After a moment to recover his self-control, he put down his drink.
‘You heard about this bloke then?’ he asked. Ada shook her head and he continued. ‘Seems there’s been a couple of incidents now. Folks sittin’ around in the evenings, just quiet like, and some weirdo comes flying over and starts rubbin’ hisself against the windows. No clothes on neither.’
Ada stared at him in astonishment.
‘You mean …’ She gestured towards her body and shook her head in disbelief. ‘They know who it is then?’
‘Seems the only thing he’s wearing is a stocking and that’s over his face,’ said Tom. ‘Mind, seems to be mainly posh houses, with them big conservatory things on the back.’
‘Well, sitting in one of them at night, might as well be in a fish bowl,’ said Ada scornfully. ‘Asking for trouble, that is.’
Tom frowned. ‘Don’t seem right, folks can’t sit up of an evening in their own place without nutters like that pickin’ on ’em,’ he said. ‘Should be safe, inside your own home.’
Ada finished her tea and set the mug down on the table.
‘Sensible women know that ’ent always so,’ she said firmly. ‘Maybe in an ideal world would be fine but there’s more and more creeps out there and seems they don’t ever get caught. Half the time the police think ’tis funny. So if they don’t take it serious then is up to the woman to be a bit sensible. Curtains is good – and when you’s all alone, curtains is essential.’
Tom glanced at her over the top of his beaker and took a final swig before answering. He respected Ada’s point of view and it was typical of her fiercely independent (some would say hard-nosed) approach to life, but the idea that it was somehow the fault of the women – and it was, invariably women who were targeted – did not sit easily with him.
‘Still reckon it’s not right, having to act like there’s always someone nasty around. Person should be free to sit and look out of their own windows if they want to.’ He changed the subject before Ada could respond. ‘Anyways, now, I was lookin’ at your garden. Seems you’s using just about every inch you got. Real nice, the way is all set out.’
Ada smiled, nodding her agreement.
‘Got to make the most of what you got,’ she said. ‘Mind, could do with a bit more, ‘specially come summer. Seems a waste, all this decent land around and no-one using none of it.’ She glanced towards the window and sighed. ‘Is heavy work, though, what with clearing and fences and so on. Should have got some turned and cleared when I had Kev here but he weren’t much of a one for garden work.’
Privately Tom thought Kevin hadn’t been much of a one for any type of work but he wisely kept silent on the subject.
‘Tell you what though,’ he said. ‘Friend of mine, he’s got a goat he’s looking to lend out. Big old male, but right gentle, he is. Nothing like a goat for clearing scrub and such. Even eat that hawthorn you got growing out on the sides of the garden.’
‘Goats eat everything,’ said Ada. ‘My Nan, she had one and it ate her washing one time. And chewed up my boots too. Don’t know about no goat …’
‘I’ll help with decent fences,’ said Tom. ‘Have to keep it away from the garden but I reckon it could clear a couple of extra beds each side, we adjust yer boundary a bit and no-one’s any the wiser. What do you say – give it a go?’
Ada was not entirely convinced but the thought of some extra growing space was very attractive. By the time hard winter came she was often running out of home-grown produce and forced to rely on shop-bought vegetables. Apart from the cost and the difficulties inherent in the long journey into Highpoint, they just didn’t taste as good. Even food from the weekly market was, in her opinion, inferior to her own and you never knew what had been put on it or who had been handling it. Those extra few square feet could make all the difference to her life and she was sorely tempted by the offer.
‘Just a few weeks you reckon?’ she asked.
Tom nodded. ‘I’ll bring over some posts and wires,’ he said. ‘Make it all secure afore he gets here.’
Ada had a thought. ‘How’s I goin’ to transport a goat?’ she asked. ‘Don’t fancy walking it however far it might be and I don’t reckon the bus’ll be happy taking him.’
Tom laughed at the notion of Ada trying to persuade a bus driver to accept her goat as a passenger.
‘Reckon if anyone could then is you,’ he said. ‘No, don’t you worry. When we’s ready, I’ll bring’m over. So, what you say – ready to expand a bit?’
Ada grinned at him. In her head she was already planning how she would use the extra space.
Tom got to his feet, clearing the beakers into the sink. ‘Right then. I’ll go have a word and pick up some stuff. Bit later this week be okay for you if I’m back to set a few fences?’
Ada assured him that would be just fine. She watched from the kitchen window as he ambled down the path, closing the gate carefully so the dogs wouldn’t get out. Tom Monarch, she mused. Who’d have thought he’d be back, after all these years. He was good company too – always had been, even as a boy. She gave herself a little shake, annoyed at getting all sentimental. Calling to the dogs, she went back into the garden to see where her new seed beds could go.
One advantage of being on the detective team, Dave discovered, was that most of the work was done during the working week, provided there was nothing much going on. Of course, if something big and nasty happened then it was back to weekends and cancelled leave, but the detectives didn’t maintain a regular weekend rota. Consequently he was both alarmed and excited when the phone went early on Sunday morning and he was called in, part of a new team to investigate a second incident involving a naked man in some poor woman’s garden.
Lauren had quite understood when he rang to cancel their planned cycle trip out to Cannington. She knew how important these three months were for his career, much more important than getting used to the specially adapted tandem he had designed as a ‘making up’ present a few weeks ago. For the first time in her life, Lauren felt as if she were someone’s first choice, someone who mattered in another’s life. It might not last but then again, maybe it would – and she was determined to enjoy every day they had.
‘I reckon it comes with the territory,’ she said to Sue, sitting at the table in Alex’s back room. ‘And ’ent so bad as when he was stuck in Highpoint. They was runnin’ him ragged, calling him out every weekend and half the nights too. Reckon they was tryin’ to make him quit, him being an in-comer and all.’ She reached out and lifted another biscuit from the plate between them. ‘Where’s Alex?’ she asked, screwing up her face as she munched on a Garibaldi. ‘She’s not took bad again?’
Sue reassured her. ‘No, she’s just having a bit of a lie-in. Remember the phone call on Friday?’
Lauren nodded, her mouth full of crumbs.
‘Well, it was her mother who is getting out …’ Sue stopped abruptly. Lauren, dear as she was to them both, was the worse gossip in the o
ffice. Congenitally incapable of keeping a secret, she happily and unwittingly shared the most intimate details of life – both her own or anyone else’s.
‘Out where?’ Lauren asked, her words slightly muffled.
‘Oh, just – out of the family home for a bit. Like last Christmas when she came to stay for a few days.’ Sue waved her hand vaguely before hurrying on. ‘Anyway, Alex is going to drive over and get her tomorrow and you know she doesn’t really like driving, especially if she’s not really familiar with the roads.’
Lauren was not fooled by Sue’s evasiveness but she just nodded and reached for another biscuit. Time enough to ferret out the truth when Alex’s mother arrived, she thought.
Over in Taunton, Dave was being briefed by the Inspector in charge of the new team.
‘This is the second incident of this type,’ he said pointing to a map of the area around Highpoint. ‘The first took place here, near Goathurst. Not much around there really but a few big houses with large gardens. The woman was sitting in her conservatory, reading a book so she didn’t notice anything until the man just – well, plastered himself up against the glass. Stark naked he was, except for something over his face.’
There was a stirring amongst the officers and a soft snigger, hastily silenced. The Inspector glared at the men.
‘This is not amusing,’ he said angrily. ‘The second woman was extremely frightened. She came to no physical harm but she didn’t know if he was trying to get in or what he was going to do. Now she’s too afraid to sit in her own home at night without someone with her all the time.’
The group subsided, heads bent like naughty schoolboys and the Inspector resumed the briefing. ‘Friday night it happened again but this time over here.’ He pointed to a small village further to the south. ‘West Monkton. Again, not many properties around, a few large houses and some posh gardens. Same thing – woman on her own, sitting out the back of her house in a conservatory and he runs up and starts rubbing himself against the window.’
Dave hesitated before raising his hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Are we sure it’s the same man?’
‘I bloody well hope so,’ said the Inspector. ‘The thought of a gang of them running around the countryside doing this is a nightmare. We’re operating on the assumption it’s just one man, though it’s hard to be sure without any clear description. We have to go with the MO – which is pretty distinctive. Now, you, Detective Brown.’ He pointed to Dave. ‘I’m pairing you with Sergeant Lynas for this one. You go out to interview the victim, a Mrs …’ He consulted his notes. ‘A Mrs Singleton. She is expecting you. When you’ve seen her, I want you to go back to the first victim, Miss Taylor. See if you can get anything useful in the way of a description and talk to the crime scene boys. They’re looking for any indication of how he got there, any signs that could help us find him. The first scene’s probably useless by now but you never know your luck. Off you go.’
Dave got to his feet and hurried after Sergeant Lynas, a stocky middle-aged man known for his forthright manner and solid common sense. Of all the sergeants, Dave reflected as they set off along the A38, Lynas was probably the best option. Several of the older men, those closest to retirement, were resentful of his rapid advancement. It was very unusual for an ordinary constable to get a chance at detective as soon as he had. Barely two years out of Hendon and here he was, on the brink of his big career breakthrough. Lynas, in contrast, was only interested in how well his partner performed. If Dave could do the job then that was fine by him. If he didn’t – well, Dave knew he deserved to be tossed back into the ranks at Highpoint.
‘So,’ said Sergeant Lynas, breaking the silence in the car. ‘Fast-track, eh? What’s that mean exactly?’
‘It means I’ve got a hell of a lot to learn,’ said Dave, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.
Lynas chuckled softly. ‘Reckon it does,’ he said. ‘Least you knows it though.’
They drove in silence for several miles until the sergeant directed Dave off the main road and towards the little village at West Monkton. A typical settlement on the fringes of the Quantock Hills, it was little more than a couple of streets with an imposing church, parts of which dated from the thirteenth century. The most exciting thing to happen there recently (before the arrival of the mystery flasher, of course) had been a spectacular display of bell-ringing the previous Easter. As Dave drove slowly down the main street he saw a post office, a couple of small shops, all of them closed, and a pub off to the left. A few families, dressed in their Sunday best were walking back from the church, heading home for a Sunday roast and a quiet afternoon with the newspapers. It was difficult to imagine anything untoward happening in such a peaceful place.
‘Down here,’ indicated Sergeant Lynas and Dave turned into a narrow, unmade road. They jolted a few yards down the track before drawing to a halt outside a solid but not ostentatious Georgian house.
‘Right,’ said Lynas opening the door on his side. ‘I’ll do the interview and you take notes this time. We’ll do it the other way round at the next call if you’re confident, right?’
Dave nodded, suddenly and inexplicably nervous. He’d interviewed witnesses and victims at numerous crime scenes in the past but this felt different. More serious, perhaps. Certainly more important for him personally. However much the sergeant acted as if they were a proper team, Dave knew he was being watched and judged on everything he did.
The front door opened to reveal a large man with a heavy beard and angry eyes. He inspected their badges before stepping aside and gesturing towards the back of the house, closing the door and replacing the safety chain behind them.
‘Through there,’ said the man gruffly.
Down the hallway the back of the house opened up into one large room. A small, slight woman in her mid-thirties sat, her legs curled under her, arms wrapped around her body, in a large red armchair. Despite the fact the day was warm and bright, a fire burned in the grate and the sunshine was hidden behind closed drapes. Her husband hovered in the doorway, his anxiety and anger boiling away below the surface.
‘Melanie?’ he said gently. ‘Melanie, love. These gentlemen are here from the police.’
The woman turned her head away from him and seemed to slip further into the cushions of the chair.
‘Mrs Singleton,’ said Sergeant Lynas softly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you and I know this must have been a terrible experience but if we could just have a quick word, I hope we can catch this man.’
Melanie Singleton made a soft, squeaking sound, muffled by the chair, but she did lift her head a little.
‘I’ll get some tea, shall I?’ said her husband.
Sergeant Lynas shook his head. ‘We’re fine,’ he said firmly. ‘Perhaps your wife would like something but if she’d rather you were here with her then you should stay.’
Dave opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking and pulled out his notebook, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
‘We’ve not had that conservatory long,’ said Mr Singleton, gesturing towards the closed drapes. ‘Melanie’s been wanting one for ages. Thought it would be nice, sitting out and looking at the stars of a night.’
Melanie gave a sound like a sob and turned her head to look at them.
‘Might as well pull it down,’ she said bitterly. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll ever want to sit there again.’
Dave kept quiet until the two detectives were back in the car and he was heading back towards the road into the village.
‘Didn’t get much there,’ he said turning left and heading for the A38.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Sergeant Lynas. ‘Reckon there’s some useful stuff to start us off. They never heard nothing, right?’
Dave nodded, trying to listen and concentrate on the road at the same time.
‘So what does that tell you?’ Lynas said.
‘No car?’ ventured Dave.
‘No car – no motor vehicle at all. Not unless he p
arked a bit away from the house and walked, in which case he must have stopped and got ready somewhere right close by. Don’t reckon he was walking there stark naked, do you?’
‘Ah,’ said Dave and thought for a moment. ‘Locard’s Exchange Principle. Every encounter involves an exchange of materials. Somewhere out there he left a trace.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have put quite like that,’ said Sergeant Lynas, hiding a grin. ‘Still, you’m right. And if we ever get the bugger, there’ll be something on his clothes he took back from here too. All we need to do is find where he was waiting. That’s what we need the crime scene lads to tell us. Hopefully they’s still at Goathurst and we can check with them.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Dave after a pause. ‘How come you turned down the offer of tea? I thought we always said yes, even if we don’t want it. To help make it seem a bit more – well, normal.’
‘Good question,’ said the sergeant. ‘Generally we would sit down, have a cuppa, bit of a chat, but Mrs Singleton, she was close to being traumatised by it all. I reckoned she wanted us to be as official as possible. In, ask our questions and out again. Last thing she fancied was more strange men tramping around her home. Next time, when she’s feelin’ a bit more herself, that’s the time for tea. You get to judge these situations after a bit.’
The occupant of the Goathurst house was a very different character from Melanie Singleton. Miss Taylor opened the door herself, tilting her head back to look at the two men.
‘More of you,’ she said, waving their badges aside and leading the way through her house. The walls of the hall were lined with bookshelves, Dave noted. He wished they had a chance to examine the contents – he always found other people’s books fascinating – but they hurried past and out into the back where the conservatory looked out over the garden. In the far corner several figures in boiler suits were poking around under the trees and Dave recognised the police photographer from Taunton hovering in the background. Despite the sunshine, he looked decidedly chilly and Dave felt a moment’s pleasure at the thought of his own new duties, inside in the warmth.
