Death at Beacon Cottage

by Betty Rowlands

Inside, a small knot of people were clustered round the counter, behind which stood a grey-haired, bespectacled woman. Her face bore the pattern of lines round the mouth and crow’s-feet round the eyes normally associated with laughter, but there was nothing humorous in her expression now. As Radcliffe entered she was saying, in a voice that quavered, ‘I gave him a cup of tea with a dash of rum in it before he went home, the poor man’s that shook up you wouldn’t believe.’ It was evident that Banfield had made this his first port of call on leaving Beacon Cottage.

  Radcliffe slid a hand in his pocket and brought out his identity card, but before he had a chance to show it a young man in green overalls, doubtless the driver of the pick-up, said, ‘I guess you’ll be one of the detectives looking into it – can you tell us what’s happened?’

  ‘At this stage, all I can tell you is that we’re investigating a very nasty murder,’ Radcliffe replied. ‘The reason I’m here is that I’m hoping some of you ladies and gentlemen will be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘It’s the gentleman who bought Beacon Cottage, isn’t it?’ said a ruddy-faced white-haired lady in a shabby anorak and tweed trousers, whom Radcliffe guessed to be the owner of the bicycle. She turned to the postmistress, who was leaning plump forearms on the array of magazines set out on the counter. ‘We always thought there was something fishy about him, didn’t we?’ She glanced round for confirmation and there was a general nodding of heads. Evidently, John Smith had been regarded by at least some of his new neighbours with a certain amount of reserve.

  ‘What gave you that impression?’ the detective asked.

  ‘Hardly ever showed himself in the village, did he?’ a small wisp of a woman with sharp features and a hairy upper lip piped up. ‘Typical weekender, come and go as they please, hardly bother to give the people who live here the time of day.’

  ‘We don’t know he’s – was – a weekender,’ the postmistress pointed out. ‘He is – was – having a lot of work done to the cottage. You never know, he and his wife might have been planning to live there once it’s fit to live in.’

  ‘Wife!’ snorted the white-haired lady. ‘If that po-faced little madam I saw outside the cottage when I walked past a couple of weeks ago is his wife, I’d be very surprised. A bottle-blonde half his age with eyes the colour of lead shot and about as hard – practically looked through me when I said “Good morning”.’

  ‘I’ve always thought there was something suspicious about anyone calling himself John Smith,’ the wispy lady interposed. ‘It’s what these naughty men do when they stay at hotels with ladies who aren’t their wives, isn’t it?’ She gave a little snigger and put a hand to her mouth, like a schoolgirl who has just told a dirty joke.

  ‘When was the first time any of you saw him?’ Radcliffe asked as the others exchanged covert, amused glances.

  ‘That would be last October or thereabouts, soon after the cottage went on the market,’ said the postmistress. ‘Old Mr Hedges died and the family wanted a quick sale. Quite a lot of people were interested – Mr Smith was the first of several people who called in at the shop to ask for directions. And he’s hardly set foot in here since,’ she added tartly.

  ‘Would any of you happen to know what car he drove?’

  The ladies shook their heads and exchanged helpless glances, but the young man, who had not spoken since his initial question, said without hesitation, ‘Silver-grey BMW. Brand new, T reg – the guy obviously wasn’t short of a bob or two. He used to come down at odd times during the week, to see how the work was going on, I suppose. He was having the place done up.’

  ‘You saw him? Can you remember when?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ The young man scratched his head. ‘I remember spotting the car once or twice when I was on my way to see to the sheep – I’ve got a flock of lambing ewes in a field behind Beacon Cottage. A local electrician has been doing some work there lately. He might be able to tell you a bit more about the chap.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful,’ said Radcliffe when he had noted the name. ‘Now, if you ladies – and you, sir –would be kind enough to give me your names and addresses, just in case we need to contact you again?’ Everyone was more than ready to oblige and when he had written all the information in his notebook he gave each of them one of his cards. ‘If any of you should think of something, never mind how unimportant it might seem to you, anything at all to do with Mr Smith or the young lady you mentioned a moment ago, or anyone else you happen to have seen at Beacon Cottage…’

  After receiving earnest assurances all round that they would do everything they could to help the police with their enquiries, Radcliffe left. He had undertaken the short journey on foot and had walked no more than a hundred yards on his way back to Beacon Cottage when the pick-up pulled up alongside and the young man, who had given his name as Tom Scully, leaned out of the open driver’s window.

  ‘A shooting, was it?’ he asked.

  Radcliffe looked at him in surprise. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Just a guess. Would it have happened around twelve o’clock yesterday?’

  ‘We haven’t yet been able to establish the time of death,’ said Radcliffe guardedly. ‘Do I take it you might have heard something?’

  ‘Didn’t hear anything, but I know Mr Smith got there around twelve because that’s when I drove up to see to the sheep. His car wasn’t there when I arrived, but it was there – with another one – when I left.’

  ‘Did you actually see Mr Smith, or the person in the other car?’

  ‘Didn’t see a soul, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice what the other car was?’

  ‘Only got a glimpse of it through the hedge, but it looked a big flashy job.’

  ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Sort of maroon.’ There was a brief pause before Scully continued, ‘You know what I reckon?’ Without waiting for Radcliffe to reply, he said, ‘I reckon it’s all to do with drugs.’

  For the second time, the detective asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Two blokes in flashy cars meeting in an isolated spot… next thing one of ’em’s dead… it’s like that case we heard about the other day, innit… somewhere down in the West Country, two bodies in a Land Rover—’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Radcliffe interrupted. ‘You mentioned two men, but I thought you didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘No, well…’ Scully looked abashed, but stuck to his guns. ‘I still reckon Smith had drugs stashed in the cottage and the other bloke was from a rival gang. If I were in charge, I’d get the sniffer dogs here. Well,’ he put the pick-up in gear and released the hand-brake, ‘I’ve given you my four penn’orth for what it’s worth. I must get going.’

  ‘Did Sukey find anything significant?’ Radcliffe asked when he got back to Beacon Cottage.

  ‘A bit of jewellery.’ Briefly, Castle ran over the main points of his discussion with Sukey. ‘If it happens to have come from the Bussell Manor collection, and if John Smith turns out to be that fellow Lockyer that Wilbur Patterson spoke about, it could be a very useful lead. On the other hand, it might be something that belonged to the previous owner, something that got dropped when the cottage was cleared out.’ Castle picked up a dried cake of soap from the draining-board and began restlessly tossing it up and catching it. ‘Andy, I don’t remember when I last had a case that was so full of ifs and buts.’

  ‘You’re right, Guv. And here’s something else to throw into the pot.’ He recounted his conversation in the shop and the theory put forward by Scully. ‘I was turning it over in my mind on my way back here, and although it’s obviously nothing but surmise on his part, it seems a possibility that we should bear in mind. I mean, we’ve been so keen to see links between the Bussell Manor job and the killing of Crowson and Morris, but—’

  ‘—we might be looking at nothing more than a string of coincidences,’ Castle interposed wearily, adding with a grimace, ‘as no
doubt the great man himself will be quick to point out. At least, thanks to this chap Scully, I can assure him that no possibility is being overlooked.’ He put down the cake of soap and glanced out of the window where the odd glimpse of a dark blue uniform could be seen through gaps in the hedge. ‘They haven’t found a weapon yet, and I very much doubt that they will, but we can’t leave anything to chance. I’ll have a quick word with the sergeant in charge and then we’ll get back to the station.’

  Meanwhile, in the well-appointed sitting room of a substantial detached house on the outskirts of Tewkesbury, Miriam Lockyer, an immaculately groomed woman whose age WPC Trudy Marshall put at around fifty, sat on a leather couch with her long, well-shaped legs elegantly crossed and a cigarette dangling from lacquered fingertips.

  ‘I haven’t seen Stuart since Friday,’ she informed the young policewoman between leisurely draws on the cigarette. ‘I’ve been away and I only got back this morning.’ She gave a slightly brittle laugh and said, ‘What’s he been up to anyway? Fiddling his clients’ commission?’

  ‘Have you a particular reason for thinking that?’

  ‘Only that I’ve often wondered how a run-of-the-mill job with a local firm of auctioneers could support all this?’ She made a languid circle with the cigarette before taking another draw.

  ‘We don’t know that he’s been up to anything, Mrs Lockyer,’ said Trudy slowly. This sort of thing was never easy and although in this case she had the impression that the woman’s attitude to her husband was not exactly that of the adoring wife, it was one thing to be told that your man had been arrested for embezzlement, quite another to learn that he had suffered a violent death.

  ‘So what are you here for?’

  ‘Has your husband recently purchased a property known as Beacon Cottage in Parkfield?’

  ‘Where on earth is that?’ The question was spoken in a casual drawl, but Trudy noticed a faint hardening of the carefully lipsticked mouth.

  ‘It’s a tiny village not far from Painswick.’

  Miriam Lockyer stubbed out her cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray. ‘I suppose he bought it as a love-nest,’ she said, and this time there was a waspish rasp to her voice.

  ‘You suspect your husband of having an affair?’

  ‘I know he’s having an affair, and not for the first time either.’ She looked at Trudy with hard blue-grey eyes. ‘Look, why don’t you come to the point? You say he hasn’t done anything wrong, and you’re not in the business of marriage guidance, so what are you doing here?’ For the first time, a note of concern crept into the slightly husky voice. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  Trudy braced herself for the moment of truth. ‘I’m afraid this is going to come as a shock,’ she said gently, ‘but I have to tell you that we found a body in the cellar of Beacon Cottage. The victim was known in the village as John Smith, but we have established that a grey BMW parked outside is registered in your name… and his wallet contained a driving licence and credit cards in the name of Stuart Lockyer.’

  There was a long silence, during which Miriam Lockyer sat staring ahead of her as if turned to stone. Then, with an almost studied calm, she uncrossed her legs and got to her feet. Without a trace of emotion in her voice, she said, ‘I suppose you’ll want me to identify him.’

  Twenty

  Sukey had just finished writing out her reports at the end of the afternoon when she received a call from DI Castle asking her to see him in his office. She found him seated at his desk, his brow furrowed, an open file in front of him. He looked up when she entered, waved her to a seat and said, ‘A-bottle blonde with eyes the colour of lead shot and about as hard. Does that suggest anyone you’ve met recently?’

  Sukey thought for a moment, frowning. Then she said, ‘I suppose that description could apply to… what was the woman’s name? Fiona something or other… Wilbur Patterson’s secretary. I noticed she did have rather unusual grey eyes. I didn’t notice if the hair was natural or not… why do you ask?’

  ‘Her name’s Fiona Mackintosh. According to Radcliffe, that’s how one of the residents of Parkfield described a woman seen at Beacon Cottage with Stuart Lockyer, alias John Smith.’

  ‘The dead man definitely was Lockyer, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, the widow’s identified the body from a hernia scar and a signet ring. She was spared a sight of his face, although Radcliffe says he seriously wonders whether it would have upset her that much. He doesn’t think she’s going to spend much time grieving over him.’

  ‘I suppose his relationship with his wife had gone sour and he found consolation with Fiona.’ In a sudden flash of memory, Sukey recalled the arrival at Bussell Manor the day of the robbery of the man she now believed to be Lockyer, and the fleeting glimpse of Fiona as she opened the door for him before he had a chance to ring the bell. ‘It occurred to me at the time that she must have been looking out for him,’ she told Castle after recounting the brief episode. ‘I guessed that Patterson had probably summoned him as a matter of urgency to discuss the robbery, so I didn’t attach any particular significance to it at the time.’

  ‘No, I probably wouldn’t have done either,’ Castle admitted, ‘but if the woman seen with him at the cottage was Fiona, then we’re looking at a slightly different ball game. It’s already occurred to me that Lockyer and Rodriguez might have been in cahoots – maybe the lovely Fiona was in on the scam as well.’

  ‘Are you saying that it could have been Lockyer who was given the job of passing on the proceeds of the robbery?’

  ‘I think we have to consider that possibility. WPC Marshall said Mrs Lockyer seemed to imply that her husband wasn’t above fiddling his clients’ accounts. I suppose we’d better set about checking his record.’ Castle made a note while Sukey digested the latest twist to the case.

  ‘If it’s true that he’s been cheating his clients, then could one of his victims have rumbled him and decided to pay him back?’

  ‘And used the same method of execution as was used to dispose of Crowson and Morris? That would be an even more bizarre coincidence. No, I still believe that the same person killed all three and that the whole thing is tied up with the disappearance of Miguel Rodriguez.’

  ‘There’s still no word about Rodriguez?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’ Castle ran his thin, tapering fingers through his thick brown hair. ‘Sook, you remember I said a while ago that I had a bad feeling about this case?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well for “bad”, read “hopeless”,’ he said disconsolately. ‘Until today I had figured out a scenario that seemed to fit all the facts as we know them. Not that it brought us any closer to nailing the killer – or killers – of Crowson and Morris, or tracking down the elusive Mr Rodriguez, but at least it was something to go on, something that made sense. Now Stuart Lockyer has been thrown into the equation and I can’t for the life of me see how he fits.’

  His downcast expression aroused in Sukey an all but overwhelming desire to reach out to him, take his hand and try to comfort him. Instead, she assumed her most businesslike manner and said, ‘I’m sure you’ll get it sorted eventually, Guv.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll solve it all right,’ he asserted, but with a certain lack of confidence. ‘It’s just that I have this premonition…’

  ‘I get premonitions from time to time, but they never come to anything.’ Glancing round to make sure there was no one within earshot, she dropped her voice and said, ‘Come round for supper tonight.’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘I’d love to, but it looks as if I’ll be working late. Now I’d better contact Wilbur Patterson, the owner of Bussell Manor, and bring him up to date. Fiona’s been on to us a couple of times enquiring about developments, and so far I’ve been stalling.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t mentioned Roddy’s disappearance, or the evidence we found in his car?’

  ‘Remember how shirty Patterson got when it was hinted that Roddy might have been involved? I’ve been hanging on
in the hope of turning up something a bit more concrete.’

  ‘Surely, he’ll have to know now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The phone on Castle’s desk rang as Sukey got up to leave. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds, then said, ‘Tell him I’ll be with him in a couple of minutes.’ He recradled the instrument and said, ‘Talk of the devil… Wilbur Patterson is in reception with a lady and he’s in what the desk sergeant describes as ‘a bit of a hurry’. In other words, breathing fire and baying for blood.’ With a mirthless laugh, Castle pushed his chair back and reached for his jacket. ‘Well, we’ve got some for him, haven’t we? Not the kind he’s expecting, though.’

  ‘I wonder if the lady is Fiona,’ said Sukey as the two of them made their way down to Reception. ‘If it is, she’s in for a nasty shock.’

  Her question was soon answered; Patterson was waiting at the foot of the stairs with his secretary beside him. The minute he set eyes on DI Castle he said belligerently, ‘It’s a fine thing when a man has to come to the police station to get information about an attack on his property instead of having it relayed to him.’ His voice reverberated round the reception area, causing heads to turn. ‘What is it with you English cops,’ he went on before the inspector had a chance to speak, ‘don’t you believe in keeping the victims of crime informed?’

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Patterson, Miss Mackintosh,’ said Castle in his most emollient manner. ‘It so happens, sir, that I was on the point of calling you when I received the information that you were here. Now, if you’d kindly step this way we can discuss the matter in private.’ He opened the door of an interview room and beckoned; Patterson, scowling and breathing heavily but momentarily silenced, moved towards it with Fiona at his elbow.

  Sukey was about to slip out through the street door when Patterson caught sight of her and put out a hand like a boxing glove to bar her way. ‘Not so fast, young lady, I’ve one or two questions for you as well.’