A Village Not So Green (John Harper Series Book 1)

by Edward Holmes

  “Bloody police didn’t lock the door, sodding idiots,” a loud gruff voice said.

  “Waste of taxpayer’s money if you ask me. Where would your brother keep his licence? I want this deal sorted as fast as possible, and nothing will stand in the way.” another voice asked.

  “There should be a chest underneath the bed; he used to keep everything in there, all his personal belongings. That’s why I brought the bolt cutters, you should see the size of the locks he put on it.”

  The two men proceeded to go up the stairs. Waiting for a minute to hear them moving around upstairs, John ran to the kitchen window and checked to see if anyone was waiting outside. Luckily there was nobody in the courtyard, just a new black jeep. He walked out and moved very briskly towards the Bulloch house. When he got closer he realised that the door was open but he simply posted the keys through the letterbox and walked back to his cottage. He had had enough fun for one morning.

  Chapter Seven

  John had decided to spend the rest of the morning in the cottage. He admitted to himself that he was hiding away from Rachael Bulloch but he had also decided to embrace the holiday he was on. Hollingswood seemed like a nice place to relax and there was enough for him to do to let him forget about work. The Bailey death had also piqued his interest not that there was enough for him to suspect foul play yet. He would have liked to have done a little more research but an internet search had yielded nothing. The village seemed to have been boring and quiet since the Janine Bennett murder. That case was interesting but it was a distraction that he could ignore to complete his investigation.

  After watching a little television John fell asleep in a comfortable armchair. Waking he went though his usual ritual of checking for messages and then the racing results on his mobile phone. However Simon had insisted on making sure that no one texted him. It was a very unpopular feeling seeing no message icon on the screen. There were however a couple of e-mails but nothing that pertained to work, although happily one did say he had two new followers on Twitter. Seeing that he had managed a couple of winners on his bets he decided that was enough to leave the house.

  Instead of walking down the lane past the Bulloch house and risking being enticed into their home by Rachael, he walked down towards the local river and the reservoir before turning left and back up towards the Blacksmith Arms. Unfortunately the doors were shut when he passed so he continued on. Before getting back to the main highway however he passed a young offenders school. There were a series of houses for accommodation and two playing fields next door. It actually looked a better place than where John had used to live and was easily more attractive than the school he had gone to.

  Back on the main street he went to the bookmakers. The manager was no longer behind the counter instead there was a younger man with thick black hair. Strangely for someone of his age and gender he was knitting behind the counter. He was very helpful and honestly seemed happy to be paying out the bookmaker’s money. John put on a couple more bets and decided to pop into one of the other pubs he had seen on his morning jog.

  The Hollingswood Arms Steven had recommended was shut on Mondays as was the restaurant attached. John did not want to stay in the bookmakers all afternoon, as it was a quick way for him to lose his last month’s pay packet. He continued on his way up the hill and there was only one place open for him to eat, another pub called the Bird I’th Hand. It was more rustic than the Hollingswood Arms with pollution blackened stone walls. Flower boxes underneath the windows were well maintained and there was a black advertising board outside that highlighted specials and a free to enter pool tournament on Tuesdays.

  The pool table was one of the first things John saw as he walked in as it was in a room on the left. On the right there was another room that seemed quieter with a television on the wall next to a dartboard and, three old men sat in there chatting with two small dogs on the floor at their feet. John carried on into the main area. There was a seating area with another television which fortuitously showed the racing, an added benefit for the detective as he went over to the bar. It was small, no bigger than where he had drunk the night before but was more accommodating to younger, less discerning clientele.

  He ordered a pint of Guinness from a young blonde barmaid and sat down at one of the tables instead of going into the dining area and began reading the menu. Next to him and under the screen there was one of the few other patrons in the pub, a young man sat reading by the window light behind him, a folder of papers in front of him resting on the table. John watched a couple of races before deciding on a meal and went back to the bar. The barmaid had left to collect glasses so John dealt with another member of staff. In her late thirties to early forties the woman had a very pretty face; it was however covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her golden hair was up in pony tail and on the side sat a hat, which coupled with her stained uniform indicated she was a chef, “What can I get you, handsome?”

  “What would you recommend?”

  “Well as long as I cook it will be good. But I must admit that the pork and black pudding with mustard mash potatoes and gravy is a speciality.”

  “I’ll go for your choice then,” John said with a smile and sat back down with a little chuckle to himself, “This village appears to be full of balding men and hot cougars.”

  The young man raised his head, “Sorry did you say something?”

  “Sorry just talking to myself,” John apologised a little embarrassed he had been heard. The lad looked old enough to be at university and the size of the book he was reading correlated to that. John could not judge his height from the seating but would have been very surprised if near his own six foot three inches. He was also slightly built with light blue eyes and a dirty blond hair colour that was closer to brown which was spiked on the top but smoothed down into a fringe across his forehead.

  John went back to watching the racing and was falling back into the usual pattern of getting only one or two winners. The frustration had eased out of him by the time he finished his pint and after getting another he was relaxed. Looking around the room he smiled at the sign on the beamed roof that read “We don’t do fast food, just good food prepared right” considering that he had now been waiting for over forty minutes and there was nobody else dining at the moment.

  When the meal did arrive it was delivered by the blonde chef from earlier, “Thank you, I’m starved,” he said.

  “Sorry about the wait, I was making it especially for you,” she said flashing a grin. A snort of derision came from the young man in who was reading.

  “More like you couldn’t find the black pudding again,” he said his eyes not leaving his book.

  The chef put her hands on her hips and stared the boy, “Lewis shut your mouth,” turning back to John she apologised, “Sorry about him as well, my boy tends not to realise he speaks too loud. Smart arse comments come from his father. I’ll leave you to your meal. Please enjoy.”

  John did enjoy the food, it was rich and filling and considering the cheap price a veritable bargain. All of the produce was organic which made him want to enquire as to where it was sourced from since it was described as local on the menu. Throughout the meal John became aware of Lewis’s eyes flitting from him to the textbook in the youth’s hands. It was becoming somewhat distracting come the end and John finally cleared his throat and turned, “Can I help you?”

  The lad was taken aback by the confrontation and though his eyes went back to the safety of his book he answered, “It’s just you look remarkably like someone in this picture and if that’s the case I think I may have met you before.”

  From the angle he was sat at John could not see the front of the book but he raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. To his knowledge his picture was not being used in any context, “I doubt it’s me mate.”

  “Do you mind if I ask your name?” Lewis said gathering some confidence.

  “Not really, John Harper,” he said with a note of inquiry in his voice.

  The
boy’s face lit up with knowledge, “Then we have met before.”

  Now even more puzzled John turned away from his empty plate and glass and gave Lewis his full attention, “I don’t think we have.”

  “Yes we have. I’m studying criminology at the University of Liverpool and you came and gave a talk on profiling and how that relates to policing and social research and data collection.”

  John bit his lower lip, “You must have me mistaken with someone else. I’m a writer.”

  “No this is you,” turning the book round Lewis pointed at a black and white photo of John as a much younger man wearing his uniform covered in dust moving injured civilians towards the commandeered Metrolink tram that the police had used on the day of the Arndale bombing in 1996. Luckily no one died that day but there were over two hundred injured from the flying debris. The dust on John’s head actually aged him enough in the photo that there was a great resemblance to now.

  Lewis seemed smart enough to know if he was lying so John dropped it, “Ok it is me,” but lowering his voice so the younger man had to lean in and listen closer, “but I’m not here as a copper and I don’t want anyone knowing who I am.”

  “Are you undercover?” Lewis whispered.

  “If I was I wouldn’t be able to tell you would I? No I’m here on holiday and I don’t want people’s opinions of me clouded by what I do for a living. Not many people take to having a detective in their mist too well.”

  Lewis nodded, “I understand my dad says the same thing.”

  “He’s a copper?”

  “Not anymore but he was. He said it was harder back then because of the strikes.”

  “I guess it is. Thanks for the discretion. Oh and I’m sorry for the comment about earlier, you know about your mother,” John said with a wave of the hand.

  Shrugging Lewis said, “I’m used to it, and to be fair Hollingswood does have a large number of balding men. Lucky for me baldness comes from your maternal side,” he said running a hand through his hair.

  “How are you finding the course then?”

  “Too much sociology not enough crime for my liking. I didn’t want to do law but at the moment there are more cases for that course than the one I’m on. Supposedly it gets better in second year that’s why I went to that lecture. It was extra work for my year but essential for the year above.”

  “Essential? There was hardly anybody there.”

  Lewis laughed, “I thought it was a good turnout for a Thursday morning. Most people go out on Wednesday, the sports teams play then.”

  “Well thank you for coming. I get forced to do talks like that on occasion. One of the negatives of having worked in America.”

  “I remember you saying, it must have been exciting to liaise with the FBI.”

  John was a little uneasy of talking about his experience in the pub but it was nice to speak to someone. The young man was actually interested in what he had done and it had been a long time since he had been asked about his work. Everyone he worked with knew about his history and any stories told had been heard hundreds of times and embellished to the point of legend, “It was interesting I must admit. If you can keep it quiet I’ll tell you about it.”

  “That would be brilliant I’m really interested in behavioural analysis. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Go on then,” John said, “I’ll never say no to a free drink.”

  Chapter Eight

  Having spent the majority of his time in Hollingswood in the pub already John decided that the next day he should stay away from the drink. He had enjoyed speaking to Lewis for a couple of hours till the young man had to go play bowls for the pub team. Since he was so interested John had agreed to meet the student to go over some past cases. He had been tempted to go to the pool tournament but John knew that his competitive side could get him in trouble. Past memories of having a dart embedded in his thigh at one such event was enough to convince him that it was better to stay away. Part of him wanted to investigate the Bailey house and try the locked door but that was more out of curiosity. Overhearing the brother discussing personal items had been interesting but he had seen many family members rooting through the deceased’s belongings before the body was even cold so it was nothing new to him.

  After his morning run John returned straight to the cottage going through the back route; still a little wary of Rachael Bulloch. After eating such an unhealthy fried meal the day before he had a simple breakfast of oats and a banana. Once he was changed into his favourite jeans and an old t-shirt he got out his laptop computer. It was his personal property and in a bad condition on a casual glance. The outer shell was scratched and the liquid crystal display was cracked in a large heart shape. What looked like black ink had leaked out of the worst fractures. It however ran perfectly well and its memory and processor was more than adequate for him. Avoiding some of the more well-used sites in his secret history John did a search of the property register. Bringing up a map of the area in a different window, he looked for the Bailey farm.

  There were however two Bailey farms in the area. One covered most of the western side of Hollingswood and was registered to an Anthony Bailey who lived close to the golf course that John had noticed on his run to the beacon. The amount of land he owned was very impressive and in a couple of months he would own even more once his brother’s property was given to him. Even if there was no legal will, as a brother to the dead man he could apply for the estate.

  John was struggling to understand what sort of licence would be needed in such a hurry. Everything would be cancelled and useless soon enough and it did not seem likely that Anthony would be selling his brother’s details for some sort of identity theft, not with the amount of land he owned or the car he was driving. Even if Anthony was it did not seem at all likely that he would kill Harry over such papers. He doubted he could question the man without official reasons and then he would have to explain why he was in Harry’s house.

  Watching television for an hour and quickly reading through a book did little to distract him now that he was thinking about the farmer’s death. Something seemed a little off but having seen the state of the house outside and within, the possibility that Harry would have tried to fix the window himself seemed likely. John was surprised to learn that the farmer had a decent bank balance. Since the case was not official he contacted someone he used for background checks that were borderline illegal and was rewarded with an email that detailed Bailey’s finances. John’s active mind was becoming bored in his self imposed exile so he thought it best to ring Simon.

  “Alright Chief how’s things?”

  “John, God help me you’ve been there a day, why the hell are you calling me?” Simon said with despair evident in his voice.

  “I’m just calling to check in. I wanted to see if you needed me for anything.”

  “No we don’t, John. Like I said one bloody day and you can’t stay away. I’m gonna bar your phone number unless you have something of interest involving the Bailey death. You’re supposed to be on holiday man; enjoy it.”

  “I’m trying but it’s been a day and a half and I’m in hiding from this sex crazed woman already.”

  “Sex crazed? In Hollingswood? Time off doesn’t suit you mate you’re going insane. Who is it? And if you say my aunt I’ll make sure you get posted to the Falklands.”

  “Don’t worry about it mate she’s hardly flirted with me at all. No it’s this Bulloch woman.”

  Simon’s throaty laughter was loud in the phone’s speakers, so much that John had to pull it away from his ear, “Rachael Deering is one of the most outrageous flirts I have ever met, but she has never cheated on anyone in her life. Not as far as I know anyway. She’s a devote Catholic.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything fella. If you were here you’d have a different opinion on things. Even if she isn’t there is not much going on the murder theory. Apart from his brother searching for some licence in his house, I haven’t got much.”

  “Do I want to
know how you know that?”

  John was playing with a lock-pick in his left hand, “No.”

  “Yeah I thought as much. Do you know what the licence was for?”

  “Some sort of deal but that was all I heard, but I don’t even know what sort of licence it was.”

  “It looks like you’re actually doing some work down there. I’ll do a little search to see if anything comes up but with him dying I doubt it will. On a lighter note how are the pubs?”

  “Been to two so far, ended up at that local cop bar first night and then had a lovely meal at the Bird I’th Hand yesterday.”

  “That place has had more owners than a one pence piece I’m surprised that you liked it in there. The pipes have always needed a clean out.”

  John was pacing around the room. He really wanted to ask about work but he was aware how depressing focussing on it was, “Like I said I had a good meal and there this uni student who kinda hero worshiped me, to be honest. Remember that sodding course you sent me on to Liverpool? He actually saw me. I think I reminded him of his dad, he was bobby round here. The lads name is Lewis Hart.”

  “I know what you’re going to say about inbreeding but I think I know who you’re talking about. One of my old friends has a kid about that age. Peter Hart was good police back in the day, if he is anything like him then he should be a good egg. You need all the friends you can get Johnny and I’m surprised anyone remembers you.”

  “Piss off. So errrm about the Omundson murder?” the phone line went dead and John cursed. He tried calling Simon back but got no answer. After the fifth attempt he hurled the phone across the room into the sofa. He felt like he was dealing with an addiction problem, and in many ways he was. Without work he was getting angry and frustrated. John did feel a little more comfortable that Rachael might not be after him and that inspired him to go for another run.

  Chapter Nine

  John had spent the day after speaking to his Chief Inspector in the bookmakers. The England cricket team were playing today so he made his way down to have a bet on the series. Walking in he saw the young knitter behind the counter and, they both nodded in acknowledgement. He read a few pages of the paper before writing out his bet and went to place it, “Alright fella. Where’s the boss today?”