by steve higgs
A little later downstairs, I ate scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on whole-wheat toast deciding what to do with my day. The simplicity of the Cranfield’s case had made it a quick boost to my cash flow, provided they paid in a timely manner of course. I had taken a deposit upon engagement so there was at least some money in my account already. Now though, I was back to having no paid work to deal with again.
That was mildly concerning, but The Vampire was killing people in the local area and I didn’t feel that I could ignore the case. There were three victims so far and no reason to believe the death toll would stop until someone caught him. I had spoken with Liam and although I now had pictures of the poor Mrs. Hancock I did not really know any more than I had before. Liam had chanced upon the body and there appeared to be no more to it than that. The first victim seemed equally random and the name of the third had yet to be released. I needed to speak to Darren Shrivers, an old friend at the local constabulary, but he was inconveniently off getting trained for something or other. With the option of getting free information from the police seemingly closed to me, I was going to have to do things the hard way.
Since I had no live cases, I could dedicate the day to investigating the vampire, but do I focus on Mrs. Hancock or Mr. Grazly first? I flipped a mental coin and elected to continue looking into Mrs. Hancock. Her friends had been named in the newspaper article online and given the geography, I felt confident I would be able to find one or all of them in the phone book.
The three ladies were Mrs. Jean Winters, Mrs. Rebecca Masters, and Miss Rosemary Green. I got lucky on my first look with Mrs. J Winters. There was only one in the book, which with an Allington address had to be the right one. She answered a phone like my mother did by saying the phone number. It had always struck me as an odd thing to do. If you had just dialed the number, then you already knew it. Answering with a hello or maybe saying your name made more sense. But I got, "902301," as my hello. Perhaps all persons over a certain age answered the phone like that.
Mrs. Winters was very keen to meet with me and invited me over straight away. She then paused to have a brief discussion with herself about what would be best. The decision she arrived at was that the other two ladies would never forgive her if they were not involved, so I should come to her house at 1230hrs although she said it as, "Half-past twelve," like a civilian always does. With time on my hands, I turned my attention towards the first victim, Mr. Brian Grazly.
An internet search revealed numerous newspaper articles about him, or more accurately about his murder, but by piecing together the snippets of information in each report I was able to build a picture of Brian and his life. Brian was unmarried with no children and no living relatives. He worked at Chilwell Castle on the banks of the river Medway. I googled Chilwell Castle to learn that it was a privately-owned stately home that had been built in 1647 by Mr. Robert Chilwell. It had remained in the Chilwell family for centuries until poor financial decisions in the 1960s, by the then resident Mr. Antony Chilwell, forced its sale.
The current owner was a gentleman from Dubai whose family had made their fortune in steel. There was no further information about the family on the page I was reading, and it seemed unlikely I needed to know anything much about them. I read that they were not in residence at the time of Brian’s death but had expressed their shock and apparently, they had pledged money for his funeral costs.
Brian was the groundsman and lived in the grounds of the castle where his body had been found at the edge of the garden of his little cottage. My guess was the cottage came as a perk of the job. I flicked to a newspaper article which showed it. The front façade was painted bright white but had exposed wood beams running across it, along with it and up it, which were undoubtedly original structural fittings. They were painted black to contrast with the bright white paint and there were flowers in well-tended beds around the outside of the cottage at the front and a path centered to the house which ran in a straight line from the short garden wall to the front door.
Between the articles relating directly to his murder and a few associated searches, there was not a lot of information and what there was did not give me much. It gave me a background picture of the man though, which might prove helpful at some point. I noted that the castle grounds bordered the river almost directly opposite the River Angel pub and that the address Mrs. Winters had given me was less than half a mile away. I wrote on my scratch pad: Three murders are all very close to each other. Then looked at the note for a minute, tapped my pen twice on the paper and then circled it. It didn’t mean anything yet and the police would be well aware of the geography involved.
I pushed my chair back and got up. Dozer raised his head to see if I was going to do anything interesting - like bring him a sandwich. We locked eyes briefly and he concluded that it was not worth being awake, so plunked his head back onto the sofa and began snoring again in seconds.
Not long afterward, but still an hour before I was due to arrive at Mrs. Winters house I was in the car heading to her general area. Bull and Dozer were on the passenger seat, one atop the other as usual. I had decided that they needed a decent walk, that the ladies would probably welcome them and that if they did not then they could just sleep in the car while I was inside. Walking them along the river path that bordered the castle grounds also gave me a chance to have a little look at Chilwell Castle. From memory, quite a bit of the grounds could be seen from the river path and as it was now autumn, I expected the summer foliage to have died back so I could see in. I might see nothing worthwhile, but if so, I had lost nothing, and the boys would be walked.
I parked the car at the end of one of the streets that terminated at the river. Parking was easy as it was a working day and only a few cars were present in the street. I clambered out, scooped the dogs and plopped them on the grass next to the car. They immediately scampered off heading towards the river, so I let them go. I tucked some baggies into a back pocket, tapped my other pockets to make sure wallet and phone were in them, plipped the car shut and headed after them.
I had last brought the dogs to walk this route perhaps six months ago. The temperature was probably about the same then as it was now which was warm enough for me to be out in just a T-shirt, but still cool at the same time. It was warmer today than it had been the last few days. Even so, I would be too cool for my outfit if I were standing still. Leaves were turning brown and yellow, creating colourful patterns on the path as they fell. The river was flowing towards Maidstone but moved so slowly one could only tell which way it was going by watching the progress of waterfowl. There was no one else about which made the walk all the more pleasant for me.
On this side of the river, the path was more regularly used than on the other as on this side there was a small housing estate bordering it in places. On previous visits, I had seen people walking their dogs, joggers taking advantage of the picturesque, traffic-free route and persons in suits and office wear clearly on their way to a job somewhere.
The path was a mix of some kind of shale that had been laid at some point, concrete here and there and well-trodden dirt. It was a little muddy in places but easy enough to pick around. The path was several feet higher than the river and mostly bordered it, however in some places there were trees or bushes between the path and the river and in other places there was just grass and in yet other places the path edge was at the river, so a wrong foot would leave the unwary person in the drink. Along the way there were spots were the bank led down to a platform for anglers and a few bins for litter or doggy poop. In the weeds, brambles, and nettles that bordered the path there was quite a bit of litter, making me wonder whose task it was to clear it up and how much was just dropped here by the uncaring and how much blew in on the wind or got deposited by flood tides.
With the river on my right, to my left I could see houses and garden fences perhaps fifty feet away through the trees. As I continued along the path, the land to my left began to angle sharply upwards so that there was now a bank
to scramble up. Between the trees, the same brambles and weeds had tiny paths winding through where children had adventures. At the top of the bank, I could see more houses, the new brickwork visible through only a few small gaps in the foliage. To my right between the path and the edge of the river, there was an old wooden fence, the type made from roughly hewn branches held together with twisted steel wire. From its condition, it was probably decades old. There were bits missing, the wire was rusted completely through in places and I could see that kids, or perhaps anglers had forced holes through to the bank here and there leaving some of the fence posts sticking out at odd angles.
I had to stop at one point because the fence had simply been levered up from the ground to permit access underneath it. The pointed end of the posts were mostly broken off or rotted away, but two were jutting out perpendicular to the ground at a height of about five feet. They were not actually obstructing the path but to me there seemed a danger that a cyclist or someone not paying attention might walk into them. It was more likely they would get dirty in the process of disentangling themselves than get injured, but it struck me that the decent thing to do was make them safe. This simple task proved not to be so simple though. Where the fence ran through the undergrowth it had been caught up in shrubs and no matter what I did I could not get the posts to face back downwards. I tried then to twist the fence, so it went upwards instead but achieved nothing doing that either. So finally, I looked at whether I could just snap the two offending posts off. After five minutes of grunting, I was starting to feel like a vandal myself and I gave up. I used my handkerchief to clean off my hands as I walked away and inspected my clothing for chunks of dirt, thankfully finding none.
I walked another half mile and as I did the land to my left dropped back down again. I soon reached the castle grounds and an ancient looking stone wall. The wall had almost boulder-sized chunks of rock held together with equally ancient mortar. It had been vandalised and graffitied in places but was still solid looking. It was five feet tall, so I could comfortably see over it into the grounds of the castle when trees and bushes the other side permitted.
I lost the dogs for a moment. They had mostly been trundling along in front of me quite happy to be going for a walk but were now nowhere to be seen. I stopped for a moment to listen. No sound from the undergrowth but before I needed to call for them both one and then the other reappeared a few yards ahead of me, both emerging from under a bush.
I continued onwards, looking through the trees as I went and soon spotted the groundsman's cottage. I had probably glanced at it dozens of times before without even registering it. Now it meant something, and I could see rose bushes at the front of the property where I was guessing he had been found.
The path dipped down a little, making the drop to the water less than a foot. The two dogs were stood at the bank staring at some ducks idly paddling a few feet out in the river. The ducks paid them no attention but while I studied the ground of Chilwell Castle, the dogs were wagging their tails and dancing from foot to foot in their desperation to give chase. I would need to turn around soon and head back to the car to ensure I arrived on time for my appointment with Mrs. Winters and the other ladies. Then, just as I opened my mouth to call the dogs, I noticed a small door in the old castle wall. It had always been there, the stone around the door was shaped to form the aperture that the door filled. The door itself was oak and looked both ancient and solid. At little more than four feet tall and two feet wide, it was designed for small people and probably had a specific purpose a few hundred years ago. Around the base of the door, there were vague footprints in the dirt and it was clear that the undergrowth, which must have partially obscured it, had been torn away recently. I picked at a piece of ivy. The broken end was rough, so had been ripped rather than cut, suggesting the person doing it had not brought tools. I looked around a bit and a few feet down the path found a balled mass of ivy, bramble and other foliage that was now drying out and looking withered. It was, I judged, a week or so old.
I went back to the door. There was a keyhole about halfway up on the left-hand side. It was just a big hole in the wood, so I had to crouch to look into it where I could just about make out the inner working of a metal lock. There were no spider webs or sign of other insect activity, so it must have been used recently. Did that mean anything? Maybe. I stood up again and looked over the top of the wall. On the other side were the same species of trees and plants I had seen so far. I checked left and right, placed my palms on top of the wall and levered myself up to get a better look.
Not far from the gate was another stone building. It was not very big, perhaps ten yards by ten yards and was almost completely obscured by trees and shrubs growing around it. I could just about make out the roof, which was pitched to form a centre apex and was made from a black slate. It was largely covered in lichen and had weeds and plants growing from it, though everything looked intact from my current angle.
I briefly considered going over the wall for a better look, but time was getting on and there would be other opportunities should I feel the need. I did not know what I was looking for after all. I dropped lightly back to the ground, called the dogs and headed back to the car.
Interviewing old ladies. Friday, September 24th 1230hrs
Mrs. Jean Winters lived at number 93 Leadbetter lane. It was in Allington which would once have been a small village a couple of miles from Maidstone but was now absorbed into the city's suburbs so that one could not really tell where one postcode ended and the next began. The house was a semi-detached property in a cul-de-sac running parallel and one street over from the main road running through Allington.
The house was of 1930s design with a recessed front entrance, chequerboard path leading from the road to the door and many period features which undoubtedly had specific names I had never learned. The front garden was resplendent with clipped topiary in various neat globes and through the open ironwork of the latched gate, I could see Buxus clipped into low-level box hedges bordering both sides of the narrow path. The front garden itself was large compared with my vision of similar properties, perhaps thirty feet or more. In all the house was quite charming.
I had parked directly in front of her house as there was a space there. The property had a drive but no garage and there was no car visible, which might mean that she had a husband that was out or that she no longer drove, or perhaps that she had never driven. I dismissed it as unimportant. As I moved to open my door, two children dressed in their school uniform walked by heading from the rear of my car towards the front. I checked around me to see if there were any more and could see a few in the distance behind me. None were close though, so I left the dogs on the passenger seat and slid out of the car. The door to the house opened before I could take a second pace and a cheery looking lady in her late sixties or early seventies appeared in the doorway.
‘Mr. Michaels?' she asked, raising her voice slightly to make sure I heard her over the length of the path.
‘Yes indeed,' I answered closing the distance and producing a business card, ‘Mrs. Winters?'
‘Yes dear, the other ladies are indoors fixing some tea,' she paused, which I thought odd until I followed her gaze back to my car and the two little noses pressed against the driver's side window. ‘Are they Dachshunds?' Mrs. Winters took a step towards them to get a better view. Bull barked at that point and before I could answer Mrs. Winters spoke again, ‘I used to have Dachshunds when my Percy was still alive. Oh, aren't they adorable? You must bring them in.'
‘Very good, Mrs. Winters,' I fetched the two over excited idiots from the car, although fetched is a tenuous term. I opened the door a crack and they wedged their heads and then bodies through the hole, hit the ground running, shot along the path and didn’t stop at Mrs. Winters as the sprinted into her house. Perhaps they could smell cake.
I plipped the car locked again and found myself alone in the street as Mrs. Winters had already followed the dogs inside. I let myself in and close
d the door behind me. Inside, the house was surprisingly modern in its décor and furnishings. Where I had expected perhaps oil paintings on the walls or souvenirs and knick-knacks on shelves, there were none. The wallpaper was modern and very new looking. In the living room, a minimalist approach had given the room an airy and spacious feel. The carpet was new or at least unmarked by the passage of feet, its soft woollen appearance matching the tan brown leather three-piece-suite elegantly. The curtains also matched the theme and to one corner of the room stood a brushed aluminium television cabinet with a Sky TV system and a fifty-inch flat-screen. I might have decorated the same if it were my place.
I could hear the ladies bustling towards me from the kitchen and the familiar rattle of a tray laden with cups, saucers and the accompanying silverware. The other two ladies were carbon copies of Mrs. Winters, each of the three with grey hair neatly moulded to their heads and kept short, each was a little large at the hips but in a womanly, friendly-grandmother kind of way and each wore simple clothing that looked new but bought from a shop that tailored to pensionable aged ladies.
Mrs. Winters introduced them both in turn and instructed everyone to sit and make themselves comfortable. As she did so, Mrs. Rebecca Masters poured the tea while Miss Rosemary Green handed the cups out and offered cake.
Being polite I took a piece of cake but elected to leave it untouched for now rather than devour it and risk having a second slice forced upon me. I try hard to avoid cake in general, as delightful though it is, it provides very little by way of nutrition and just makes me fat.
