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

by Edward Holmes

  Maybe I will be able to sit and reflect on all of this once the adrenaline has stopped coursing through my veins. I don’t know when it will end; this ecstasy of murder. When it has purpose it means so much. Killing these men makes me feel so different, so confident like I’m finally in charge of my life. I love the power I have, but that, like the thrill, is only fleeting, I know this and have to accept it but whilst it lasts I can savour it. That plan is becoming clearer but it is still just out of reach; a couple more days basking in this afterglow and then I will prepare again.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Hannah once more stayed the night but considering she had driven she left early the next morning. Even with the morbid happenings in the village he was enjoying his time more and more. He was getting comfortable in his surroundings and he was very aware that his job was becoming very tenuous. His body was sore and battered but he was relaxed in a way that he had not been for years. Thoughts about his future kept crossing his mind and he would be happy settling down in a place that had numerous pubs and a bookmakers. He was also developing feelings for Hannah.

  Do I really like her or is it just that she’s here and interested in me? It’s not like she’s the first woman I’ve been with since that bitch left me. That being said how many attractive, intelligent, witty, sexy chefs are there out there who would put up with me? John thought as he showered. His body was still a painful mess, the bruising round his ribs the most unsightly of his injuries. He struggled to bandage them effectively and with the plasters on his palms he was still without his full dexterity.

  John once again dressed in his suit, the faint scent of smoke clinging to the fabric; he matched a blue shirt with a dark blue striped tie and stepped out into the fresh morning air. He was just about strong enough to walk without the stick but had a number of places to go so was back in his car.

  It was only a short drive to George Fleming’s home; it was on the main street of the village so John parked his car near the shops and walked down so as to not arouse too much suspicion. Approaching the semi-detached house he swept the air waiting to see if there was anyone watching him. Satisfied that there was no one nearby he checked the address once more from the information he had taken from the office. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves he walked purposefully towards the back.

  His fingers worked over the wooden gate. Moving the bolt across; he opened the gate and walked into the well maintained back garden. A shed was at the end of the lawn with a heavy padlock on the door. Closing the gate he walked over to the wooden hut, stepping on the paving stones. The lock would be difficult to open so John just peered into through the perplex glass. It was well packed; a working man’s shed with a lawnmower hung on the wall next to a wheel of green hosepipe and an extension cable, the rest of the floor was full of paint tins and other maintenance equipment.

  John walked back to the house and tried the back door which did not budge so he took out his lockpick set. With the peace and quiet of a weekday morning to focus his concentration, on top of years of experience, he quickly unlocked the door and entered the house.

  Warming sunlight filled the kitchen from the large windows reflecting off pristine sink and marbled kitchen surfaces. The appliances were well used but looked still functional and the cook books on the side seemed like they had been opened recently; as there were bookmarks and folded pages. He turned towards the hallway and saw a crucifix above the doorway. His leather soled shoes tapped on the old linoleum floor as he moved into the house proper. Soft cream carpet greeted him as he wandered around Fleming’s home.

  The living room was orderly; on one table photos of him and his wife were lovingly maintained. A little memoriam plaque from the local church was surrounded by pictures of a homely looking lady and put her date of death as two and a half years ago. Her birth date was also months away and their anniversary had passed close to when she died. All of that further indicated it was less likely to be suicide.

  Letters and a couple of newspapers lined the floor near the door. John moved around the house systematically. In the bedroom a notebook lay on the bedside table a pen resting on top of it. John picked it up and read through the pages.

  Apparently it was some sort of diary; he was a little surprised that someone like Fleming would keep such a thing. It was well maintained as well with dates and occasionally times in it. Most of it chronicled the pains he had throughout his body. John theorised that it was part of his therapy after the accident he had suffered whilst on the job and after further snooping he seemed to be proved right when he found more diaries that extended to when Fleming had been originally hurt. It was a useful method to improve quality of life after an incident like that, the way he described his pain over his wife’s passing seemed to be one of the things that had kept him grounded. That cathartic release was something others did not have to deal with bereavement, which left people with problems for years. John only had a quick look at the diaries but decided to take them with him for further investigation when he had the time.

  John checked the bathroom for medications, not finding so much as an aspirin he walked back downstairs. Going back to the kitchen, he looked through the cupboards and found pain medication for the Fleming’s injury and some tablets for controlling blood pressure, but nothing too severe. A calendar on the wall nearest the hallway into the rest of the house had a number of dates circled and lined for the next couple of weeks. Opening the fridge John was not surprised to see a packet of steaks, the expiry date that day. Why buy food that will last for a couple of days if you intend on killing yourself? Nothing here is fitting this investigation.

  He walked out of the house and locked the door behind him as he stopped to see if anyone was watching. Feeling secure no one was paying attention he took off the gloves and strode purposefully down the street. John had reinforced his confidence that Fleming’s death was not a suicide. Nothing indicated he was having depressing thoughts or was suffering stress that would induce such an action.

  There was a lack of alcohol on the premises, only a few bottles of whiskey in a drinks cabinet in the living room and Fleming seemed unlikely to be involved in drug abuse, which was part of the investigatory process. All John needed to complete his analysis were reports that were not available to him, those of the crime scene investigators and the medical examiner. He was tempted to ring the examiner himself but he was confident he was right about the circumstance of death. Now he needed to prove who the killer was.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  John was on the motorway back towards Manchester. He usually liked to drive his car but after the recent injuries it made him feel like it was a weakness. His plastered palms ached as he held the steering wheel, just to emphasise that thought. John knew he would have to not walk that far but that was rational thought and for such an active person it was frustrating. Turning on the radio for a distraction he was immediately greeted with a breaking news report.

  “... Anderson is still wanted in regards to the recent murders on Fleetwood Crescent. Although there has been an increased police presence in the area there has been little for the investigating officers to go on. If anyone has seen or heard from this man please do not approach him as he is regarded as armed and extremely dangerous. Please contact the police on the confidential phone number 080..”

  John switched off the radio, frustrated that he was not involved in the case. Having worked a number of gang killings he should be one of the investigating agents because of his experience. It made him realise just how far he had fallen. The politics of the job was something that he would not miss. After all the years that he had been defined by being a police officer, it was only now he was beginning to see that there could be something other than the murder and death. He still wanted to solve crimes but what use was he stuck behind desk filling in paperwork, when what he was good at was speaking to people, getting them to reveal the truth?

  He pulled into a service station car park and went inside for something to eat. He had
arrived early and took his burger meal out to the car, eating it in silence. Leaving the wrappers on the passenger seat, he opened the door and tried to ensure that the crumbs fell outside onto the tarmac. He stood resting on his car, his arms stretched, his left hand slowly rapping his ring on the roof as he nodded to himself. John was patient for the next ten minutes as he waited. He watched cars and people come and go, aware that such a transient location was dangerous. Once he caught himself in that thought he became angry and banged the roof with his fist. It was just another example of being defined by a profession.

  Catching sight of Tara Nagle’s car as she entered the services he waved her over in his direction. She parked close to his Jaguar and he smiled to her. Her face was not jovial as she got out of the car and walked over to him, “Hello John.”

  “Tara, thanks for meeting me out here,” he said opening his arms.

  She just nodded, “Let’s get this out of the way John. You’re taking me away from something important.”

  “Your time is always important,” John did his best not to put an endearing term on the end, one of the things he got used to doing with females whilst undercover. It was affectionate but he could do without a sexual harassment complaint, not that he thought Tara would but better to be safe than sorry.

  “Don’t try and sweet talk me. This is difficult enough as is, let’s get this over with.”

  John pulled out the evidence bags that Lewis had used the other day and passed them over to her, “If you can get them to Morgan in the lab and tell them that they are linked to the others I’ve given him, it should be done fast enough, if you can get them there before the packages are sent out.”

  Tara stared at him in shock, “You’ve already started to try and gain a forensic investigation? John, what have you done?”

  “What I needed to do to solve this Tara. I thought Simon was helping me out but he’s put me in the middle of something I can’t walk away from.”

  “You’re becoming obsessed by this John.”

  “Always do. Thanks again. If you need any help on this Anderson thing then let me know,” he said opening his car door.

  “John you know what can happen if you get caught going down this road. I don’t want to get involved in this.”

  John stopped and turned, “I appreciate what you are doing for me. You don’t owe me anything which makes this all the more important, thanks again. I don’t want anything blowing back on you, so I’ll take any flak on this. You didn’t know what I was giving you, ok? I just can’t let this drop. Two people are dead and there could be more, if I don’t put a stop to it.”

  “Why you? Can’t you just help the local police solve this? I’m sure that they could use your help.”

  “Because that isn’t going to work in this case. When I got there I cocked up, I made enemies.”

  “You pissing people off must be a specialty.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to go in there and hide who I was. It was Simon, but he’s made things more difficult. If they think there is something more going on I can’t see it,” John shrugged

  Tara’s eyes narrowed as she stared at him, “You’ve never done anything for me to not trust your instincts on a case, so I will keep my faith in you now,” she put a hand on his elbow, “Good luck.”

  John rested his hand on hers, “I can’t thank you enough Tara, I’ll see you soon,” John sat in the car and shut the door. He waved to her as he drove off. One more thing to tick off his list.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  John left his car by the cottage and walked down the dirt track, thankful that the weather had been decent for a change. He put on another pair of gloves from his jacket pocket as he went to Bailey’s house. Taking out the key he made, he opened the door and entered the farm house. He walked the house again going through it with a more meticulous eye than last time, thinking clearly without the distraction of Rachael Bulloch. John went up the stairs and was disappointed to find that the room that was locked before was merely another bedroom. A small single bed in the centre of the room and a wardrobe was all the furniture in there, not even a desk or chair.

  The wardrobe did not contain anything as revealing or as creepy as the other room had and John was left feeling it was a wasted visit as he went back down the stairs. He was about to walk out the door when he remembered the shotgun. Opening the cupboard he ran his finger inside the barrel and lifted the weapon, “Huh, been fired recently,” he said, raising the gun in his arms and snapping it open, two cartridges still inside. John was about to put it down when he noticed dirt on the stand, where the gun had be resting. Checking the butt of the weapon he found the same mud. Considering how well maintained the shotgun was, he was surprised, closer inspection of the wood indicated water streaks. This gun has been put back wet and then cleaned. It was fired that night, which means Tom was telling the truth, bollocks.

  Biting back a curse, he put the weapon back on the rack and went out back to the courtyard. He locked the door and walked in the direction of the housing estate near to the farm. It was past six o’clock and the driveways and streets were covered with the returning cars of workers from the daily commute. It was an affluent new build area and as John walked the streets wearing his suit, no one looked at him twice.

  Checking the address on his phone he knocked on the door of a nice, if somewhat small, house in the neighbourhood. There were four cars parked on the driveway, two of them flashy sports models, one a small boyracer car with a modified engine and finally a family sports utility vehicle. Considering the size of the house it seemed like there were more cars than people to fit in them but John kept his opinion to himself as the owner opened the door.

  Jeremy Bradhurst stood in the doorway, “Can I help you?”

  John presented his badge for inspection, which Bradhurst spent an inordinate amount of time looking at, “I’m Detective Inspector John Harper, I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me.”

  “Inspector Harper, I don’t recognise the name, I thought I knew all the local officers,” the man was short, well tanned and held his hand on the door trying to convey authority. John had experienced much worse from shorter more dangerous individuals and merely smiled.

  “I’m new. I’d like to speak to you in regards to Harry Bailey’s death.”

  “Bailey? Whatever do you want to speak to me about? That inbred retard died due to his own stupidity, I thought that was all cleared up,” Bradhurst said with not an ounce of remorse in his voice, “This is just another waste of my taxpaying money. I don’t pay your wages to be harassed, you know. In fact I’ll have a word with my friend DI Spencer the next time I see him to discuss this matter. Or maybe even DCI Jobson.”

  John did his best not to roll his eyes at the blatant name dropping, “I’m sure they will be all ears to your recommendations sir. These questions will not take much time if you would like for me to conduct them inside.”

  “I’d rather not, my wife is very fragile I wouldn’t want anything to upset her. Plus my son has one of his friends round and he might say something to his parents if he sees you in the house,” Bradhurst said shutting the door behind him.

  “That’s fine sir, I take it you wouldn’t want to go down the station”

  “Heavens no, out here is fine for me.”

  John nodded and took out his small notebook, “What was your relationship to the deceased sir?”

  “I had some run ins with the man, he was merely an uneducated neighbour who had delusions above his station.”

  “Could you elaborate on those ‘run ins’ as you call them sir? I understand that there were charges filed against the man.”

  “You’re damn right I filed charges against the man, he threatened my son with a shotgun. I had to defend my family Detective. As for the other trouble; that was due to his land. He blocked some planning permission I had asked for in relation to a new conservatory, since it overlooked his barn or something. There are plenty of trees right in the line of sight
but no, just because he could just about see it from that window of his, he decided to ruin my conservatory. Thing probably cost more than he earned in a year.”

  “In regards to the shotgun incident do you know why he threatened your son, Mr Bradhurst?” John asked.

  “Because he was an imbecile. My son and his friend were simply on his land; I believe they may have been smoking and he took offence to that. Instead of rationally coming to me and discussing it, or just telling the boys to leave he threatened them with a gun. Who does that?”

  John flipped through the pages of his notebook, “It seems that Mister Bailey stated he had seen your son and his friend on his land a number of times before then and had warned them on more than one occasion sir.”

  “He was a liar. Anything he said was to cover his own back.”

  “And what about the allegation that Mister Bailey made that he caught your son and his friend involved in a homosexual act in his barn? Is this a lie too, sir?”

  Bradhurst’s facial expression was a mixture of shock and indignation, “How dare you suggest such a thing? Of course it was a lie, a disgusting disgraceful allegation. If the man wasn’t dead I’d sue him for the slanderous nature of what he said.”

  “Would it be possible to ask your son if that was the case? Or maybe the boy he was with at the time? I’m sure they will be able to clear all of this up sir, homosexuality is not a crime.”

  “They are not speaking with anyone on the matter. The man was a liar and I cannot believe that a police officer would take the word of a lout like that over my own. I am a respected member of this community and he was merely a farmer,” John could not tell if the anger in the Bradhurst’s voice was due to the allegation being true and it being known to the police or that he was just angry at the thought of his son being accused of homosexuality.