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

by Edward Holmes

  All those young boys on his farm every summer, year after year, I wonder how many of them he invited inside. How many of them knew his dark secrets? I know them all, I’ve seen them with my own eyes but the masses won’t know not ever. Not unless I let them. Maybe I should show them all, maybe it would be easier.

  For now it is easier to let them spin their wheels. I don’t know when I will get another chance. It might be weeks, months or years but when I do I hope I can get the same thrill as this one. God I just want to get out there and do it again. I can see a plan forming I can feel it in my mind. This is going to be so much fun but for now all I get to do is watch but I suppose watching can be fun as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  John Harper was beginning to like Hollingswood more with every passing second. After leaving the Bird I’th Hand he had called the office. His boss had been out but he had left a message with one of the young officers who were gunning for his job. It had been hard to ask Tom Holt to help him, John found it difficult to ask for assistance at the best of times; one of the reasons he had enjoyed being on deep cover operations was that he had to rely on his own abilities and intelligence. One of the more recent psychological evaluations had said that this tendency could lead to him putting himself in unnecessary risk and that could be dangerous to himself and those around him. It was not the worst thing he had every read about himself in an official report but it had made him well aware that there were flaws that people could use to get rid of him.

  He had waited for a return phone call in the cottage all night and woke up with a stiff neck and a sore back, lying in an awkward angle on the couch, his large frame not fitting well on the two seater. The phone resting precariously on his chest it’s battery dead. John left it on charge as he went on his morning run. He wanted to look his best for his date with Hannah and he always felt healthier after exercise.

  Deciding to take a new route, he ran in the opposite direction from the village towards the local reservoir to enjoy the good weather. The bridleway became more of a dirt path as he ran along, the undulating ground much more demanding than the pavement he was used to. With the recent rainfall the water level was high and the reservoir was just under medium capacity. Bright sunlight reflected of the manmade lake making the dull brown water glitter like liquid metal, enough that he regretted not wearing his sunglasses.

  His footfalls were the only sound he heard as he ran, occasionally getting some disparaging looks from the early morning fishermen. Considering the amount of refuse that had washed up on the banks he was surprised that there were any fish in the water. It was one of the questions he often asked people, how fishing was regarded as a sport. Most people he had ever met who enjoyed the past time did it for the peace and quiet away from spouses and offspring, not for the physical exertion. However he did have respect for those who did it as a profession, the Catch programmes on the learning channels some of his favourite watching material. He had always fancied sea fishing off Cuba like Hemingway whilst swigging down rum, but that was a dream for retirement and one would not end with a shotgun in the mouth, like it had for Hemingway. And that might be coming sooner than I hoped. The problem with running was that he had time to think and if he was not working on a case he could start down a mental path that was not the conducive to a healthy attitude.

  As he finished his lap of the reservoir he saw a group of youths on a stone bridge that crossed one of the narrowest parts of the water. Geese and ducks milled around in the silted water surrounding the supports. The birds squawked and splashed about at the noise on the bridge. John could avoid them and was going to until he saw why there was such a din. Three men and one girl stood around Billy from the newsagents. They laughed at the gentle giant as he had been throwing bread down to the waterfowl. The detective sped up to cover the ground and closing on them he yelled, “Hey what are you doing?”

  The group barely looked his way as they continued to harass Billy. The largest of the group, a lad with an athletic build and close shaven black hair, pushed him so hard that the newsagent’s glasses fell off his face luckily bouncing off the stone wall and onto the ground and not into the water. John was on them before they could do anything else, putting his body in the way of them, “What the hell do you think you are playing at?”

  “Fuck off old man,” said one a small lad with greasy skin, spots lined the side of his face and he showed little facial hair on what was a dark complexion. Like all of his compatriots he wore a tracksuit, his was the matching sporting gear of a local football team from last season, “Has daddy come to look after the baby?”

  That lame joke produced chuckles from the group, “Yeah what you gonna do?” said the girl her piggy face staring up at John from under a nest of mousy hair held up in an unattractive bun.

  “I’ll call the police and report you for assault and battery,” the detective replied very aware that it was a hollow threat when his phone sat on the kitchen counter in the cottage plugged into the wall.

  “Maybe you should just walk away,” said the tall man. He looked older than the rest and was wearing a polo shirt that accentuated the muscle definition, “This little faker here just loves going for a swim and we locals like to help.”

  John never took his eyes off the man, “Billy, have you found your glasses?”

  “Yes sssir,” a timid voice from behind him answered.

  “Then go back to the newsagent and see your mum.”

  “Bbbut the ducks. I always feed the ducks on Friday.”

  Greasy face said, “See he wants to stay with us old man, how about you take the hint and go before this gets rough.”

  “Billy you can come back later,” John said with a much sterner voice.

  He could sense the man behind him moving, “Ok. See you later sir.”

  “No Billy you’re staying you want to play don’t you?” the sportsman said with a tone that was close to John’s.

  Narrowing his eyes John raised his finger, “Let him go.”

  The lad who had not spoken had a horse like face and pushed Billy back, but John caught him before he went over the wall. The sportsman swung a punch for the detective but with years of unarmed combat training, John grabbed the lad’s hand and used his momentum to propel him into the others. Three of them fell over but the one who pushed Billy still stood. He too swung a lazy left hook but John pushed him back with a kick to the chest.

  “Billy go home now,” John was now left on his own with the group, who had regained all their feet bar the horse faced attacker who was doubled over, struggling to catch his breath.

  “I guess you don’t know who I am,” said the athletic man.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh it does,” the sportsman said as he hurled himself at John. He hit him low with a rugby tackle that drove him to the ground and drove all of the wind out of his chest. Fists rained down on John’s head but he tucked his arms around himself for protection.

  From the side the others let their leader do the dirty work, preferring to cheer him on, “Come on Keith, lay the bastard out.”

  John struggled under the weight of the man atop him and in a brief moment of clarity lamented getting involved in the first place. Blow after blow landed but muscle memory took over and the policeman managed to push himself free, receiving a kick in chest from one of the group for his troubles. He used his training to bring his uncovered knee into Keith’s face, smashing the nose and splitting his lip. The girl flew at him screaming with her fingers aiming to scratch out his eyes but John pushed her to the ground. Now in a fighting stance he snapped out a kick that landed on the knee of greasy lad, it locked and he screamed out in a higher pitch than the girl.

  Keith finally stood a knife in his hand, “You’re gonna regret this,” he managed to splutter as he spat blood out on the ground, the crimson contrasting with the near bone white of the sun-bleached cement.

  Before anything else could happen two fishermen began jogging up to them yelling. The youngster
s quickly went the other way, backing away as they did before hobbling off, the girl’s now with ripped tracksuit bottoms around her knees, whilst bleeding hands helped the greasy faced boy who could barely hop away. John watched them leave and waited until they had disappeared behind the cover of trees and bushes that lined the footpath.

  By the time the fishermen and reached him John was resting on the wall gingerly touching his ribs. Both men were in their fifties and sporting beards, “You ok buddy?” asked one of them, the other moving further down the bridge to make sure the bullies have left.

  “I’ll live,” John said with a grimace.

  “What the hell did you do to deserve that beating?”

  “Just stood up to them. They were picking on someone and I took offence.”

  The other fisherman returned, “You’re lucky we came over when we did Keith Birkett never lost a fight on the pitch.”

  “That the big one?” John said looking at the red marks on his arms that were already beginning to swell.

  “Where the hell you from fella? Keith is the nephew of ex-England rugby league star Nathan Birkett, the boy was a cracking player,” replied the second fisherman.

  “Maybe he should take up cage fighting,” John managed to laugh and immediately regretted it.

  “We should get you to the hospital to check over those injuries,” the first angler said as he went to help John to his feet.

  Waving the help off, John stood and looked at the men in turn, “I’ll be fine don’t worry. I”ve had worse.”

  “You going to the police?”

  Shaking his head John began to walk off, “It’s ok, I am the police.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  John sat in the large cast iron bath with scalding water around him and an ice pack on his face. Two more large plastic ice blocks where wrapped around his arms, which he rested out of the water, holding aloft his phone with which he did a quick internet search on his attacker. There was little recent news on the rugby player but there was an old article from one of the specialist rugby league magazines that was repeated nearly verbatim in local papers.

  Keith Birkett, one of the rising stars of the game and nephew of ex-England centre Nathan Birkett, has had his promising future in rugby league tragically cut short after an incident on a quiet country road early yesterday morning. The Warriors youth star was out celebrating signing a new contract with the senior team and scoring five tries for the first team in a Challenge Cup demolition of amateur side Didsbury Dragons, when he was involved in a car accident. The new vehicle he was a passenger in hit another. Birkett suffered multiple broken bones; as well as a detached retina and internal bleeding. He is recovering at the King Edward Hospital and is said to be in a stable condition, as is the driver. It is not yet known if he will ever be able to return to the field but considering the injuries he sustained it is unlikely he will ever be able to compete at the highest level again.

  “Seems strange he was on his own in the car celebrating. Angry young man,” John said with pain in his voice. He laid his phone on the windowsill at his feet and submerged his head under the water, holding his breath and letting the calming stillness and quiet envelope him. The holiday was for him to relax as best as possible and getting in a fight and beaten was not on his list of activities to do. His body ached and he could feel the sting from cuts and grazes on his head. Once his lungs burnt for more air he counted down from ten and pulled himself out of the bath. Standing naked in the bathroom he wiped down the mirror and traced the line of his jaw with his right hand. He could see bruising coming through his dark stubble and decided against shaving. Tentative fingers touched his head, feeling for cuts. Once he had assessed that they were not serious he decided to go get changed, pleased that there was no visible evidence of his altercation through his greying brown hair.

  It was still early afternoon and he had time to kill before meeting Hannah. Putting on jeans and a comfortable long sleeved shirt and battered leather jacket to cover his bruises, he decided to walk up to the shops. Stretching his stiff legs on the way up the hill, he rang the Detective Chief Inspector again but spoke only to the voicemail service. He stopped in the bakery for one of the regional delicacies; a pie. Biting into his meal, he walked past the church, standing out of the way of a sponsored minibus, which went through the sturdy metal gates, thankful that not all drivers in Hollingswood were as ignorant as Anthony Bailey.

  John was finished with the pie by the time he got to the newsagent. He walked in and picked up a newspaper and a packet of mint balls. At the counter a young girl was stacking the cigarettes, “Excuse me, have you seen Billy today?”

  She looked up at him, “Errr Billy, he has his day off today, so I’ve not seen him. Have you checked next door, Marjorie and Billy like to play on the machines to pass the time before picking up her granddaughter.”

  “Thanks I was just wondering how he was,” John paid and entered the bookmakers. There were only a few customers, and one elderly woman sat behind the counter, the look of stress evident on her face. Sat at one of the tables Billy and his mother looked up at the television screens. He was drinking from a cup of coffee and smiling, not seeming to care about the events of earlier. Joyce walked to the counter arriving before John.

  “Have you sorted out my bet yet dear?”

  Behind the protective plastic screen the cashier ran her rung her hands and put her glasses back on, “I’m so sorry about this but I can’t seem to get the computer to settle it. Do you know how much is back on it?”

  “Oh no I’m terrible with numbers, I just stick to picking names. Should I just come back later?”

  “If you don’t mind,” replied the bookmaker with relief evident all on her face, “I’m sure one of the boys will be able to help.”

  John decided against picking up his winnings from the other day since it seemed more hassle than it was worth. Billy seemed fine and John felt it better not to bring it up instead walking to the Woodsman and ordering a pint of coke. He sat down opposite Jack Cooper, aware that the clientele and their seating positions were exactly the same as his previous visit. He opened his paper and waited.

  It took an hour but Cooper finally looked up from his own paper and notebook, “Oh it’s you, thanks for that tip the other day, it was a nice little winner.”

  John just nodded, “No worries. You seem to have a good selection of runners there, I’m sure you would have picked it up eventually,” he said pointing at the notebook on the table that was full of scribbled lines of writing.

  “I’m not that good at picking winners, these aren’t horses.”

  “What are you a writer?” John asked trying to put levity into his voice.

  Cooper’s eyes narrowed a little but he relaxed enough to shrug, “I used to be. That was a long time ago,” he took a slug of his whiskey.

  “Looks like you still have another book in ya.”

  “They say everyone has a book in ‘em. I wrote mine twenty years past. I just write the occasional pieces for the local papers, it makes ends meet.”

  John took a drink to break up the conversation, he was aware he was pushing Cooper a little too far. He still had time to crack the man, it was not worth blowing his cover now, “Not a bad way to earn money. It’s a dying art these days.”

  “Most people can’t even read these days, let alone write.”

  “True,” John went back to reading his paper.

  Cooper’s attention however had been piqued, “How did you know I had written a book?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You said another book though.”

  “And you said you were a writer not a journalist, it sounded to me like you had done a little more than just articles for the local papers,” John said only briefly raising his gaze from the newspaper as he crossed his legs.

  The writer’s eyes narrowed further, “You seem to pay a lot of attention to what I said. That usually comes from years of listening, what did you say you did?”

 
; “I don’t think I did, but since you asked I’m a driver,” it was one of the more generic answers at his disposal but it was an alias that seemed to work more often than not. John placed the newspaper down on his lap to stare at the man opposite, “people tend to be a lot more open when they are in cramped confines. Teaches you to listen to what is important when your relationships with people are so short.”

  “Strange every taxi I have ever been in, the driver seemed to be the one talking all the time.”

  “Depends on the driver, to be honest. If you spend enough time on your own you get to enjoy the small connections in life. I like to play a little game of making up people’s life stories from what they say.”

  Cooper’s face relaxed a little, “You sound like a man without a wife.”

  “What? Happy?” John laughed a little, “I’ve got an ex-wife who made me appreciate meeting new people.”

  The writer lifted his glass, “I can drink to that.”

  John tipped his, “Take it you have the same baggage then.”

  “Not so lucky. My work kept people away, I chose a career over relationships.”

  “It must have been a good job.”

  Cooper took a moment biting his lower lip before letting out an exasperated sigh, “They say if you enjoy what you do you never work a day in your life. I loved my job, it was hard work and demanding but at the end of the day I touched peoples” lives, I made a difference.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “My book opened peoples’ eyes to the inhumanity of man. The evilness that lurks around every corner, that there are no safe havens to immorality and sinfulness,” Cooper’s voice raised in pitch and speed as he talked about a topic close to his heart. At the table in the middle of the room, the two drug dealers laughed to each other, John watching them with his peripheral vision as they pointed at the writer. Obviously he was regarded as a loon and these rants were well known.