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

by Edward Holmes

  “You pompous son of bitch, you’re that arrogant aren’t you? I don’t like you because trouble follows you around. I don’t like you because of your attitude and that you don’t seem to have respect for other people in this job.”

  John shrugged, “Doesn’t really matter if you like me or not. Couple of days’ time I’ll be gone and then we won’t have a problem, Detective. Now if you’d be so kind as to let me go home I’d like to get some sleep.”

  “I’m keeping my eye on you, Harper, like I said trouble seems to be following you around and this is my jurisdiction.”

  Standing John yawned, “Quick question, Detective, are you ruling Fleming’s death a suicide?”

  “Why, you wanna confess to staging that little scene to get into some MILF’s panties? It go wrong on you, that what happened?” Spencer said standing also, their faces close in the small room. John could smell the fetid breath of the other man the proximity was so near.

  Folding his arms John answered, “Nothing of the sort Detective. No I was trying to make sure you didn’t cock up like you did on the Bailey “accident”. Fleming wasn’t suicidal, nothing I’ve learnt suggests he was about to top himself, so if I was doing your job,” John said pointing at the man, “I’d be looking into this as suspicious.”

  “You would, would you? Now I am suspicious, I’m suspicious of you. You’ve brought this up; you’re trying to get involved in my cases. But that is it; it is my case and maybe Fleming was depressed because his body was failing him, maybe that’s why you chose him,” Spencer said poking John with his finger.

  It took a lot for him not to rise to the provocation but John just took a deep breath, “I have an alibi Detective for when Fleming was in that car, so that is a non-starter. On another issue you didn’t look at Bailey close enough; he fired his shotgun that night but it was placed back inside his house after he was dead, who put it there? Now get out of my way, I need my bed and you need to do some work.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  It was mid afternoon when John finally woke up. He immediately text Hannah to apologise for getting Lewis involved in the incident the night before. She was working but replied saying that there was no ill feeling and that he was being paranoid, Lewis was an adult who could do what he wanted. However John could apologise to her with a Chinese takeaway at the weekend if he was still feeling bad about it.

  He was going over his notes when his phone went off. It was the call that he had been dreading, but he steeled himself for it before answering, “Boss how are you?”

  “I’m bloody fuming that’s how I am John. I’m in the middle of a fugitive manhunt and I’ve had to field another series of calls about you and your actions in Hollingswood. I don’t have the time for this John; I don’t have the patience for your crap anymore,” Simon’s voice was so loud John was holding the phone away from his ear and could hear every word perfectly well, “John I have gone to the wall for you time and time again. I put my faith in you and all you’ve done is shat on me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about the lab work you wanted doing? What do you think I do, John?”

  “Are you finished yelling?”

  “No I’m not finished yelling because I have far too much to still yell about. Where do you get off spending my budget on DNA testing on a nothing case? I sent you there out of common courtesy. I gave you a place to go so you would see that there is a world outside of the force and somehow you’ve found a vast conspiracy.”

  “You sent me down here to see if there was a murder and there was one Simon, in fact I think there were two and if I wasn’t here then there would have been three. Did they bother telling you that when they rang up to rat me out? Did you ask them if they had found any evidence at the Fleming site, if they were trying to find out who killed him? That DNA test can prove someone was close to him that night,” John could feel his anger rising with his boss and he knew he should stop talking but after the week he had suffered he lost control, “I’m sick and tired of people not seeing what is going on here. Bailey was murdered, knocked unconscious and left with his mouth open to drown. Do you realise how cruel that was?”

  “And I suppose you have proof,” Simon said incredulously.

  John bit his lip and replied coldly, “Yes I do. There was a gun fired that night in his courtyard. I suspect it was by Bailey himself, into the ground. When the police arrived on the scene the gun wasn’t there. I’ve seen his gun in the house propped up, it shows signs it has been fired recently and that it was out in the rain for a period of time.”

  “That isn’t proof.”

  “It’s enough to understand that there is something wrong going on. Whoever could knock someone out and leave him there to die like that, to have the face lying up that way, indicates that they have no remorse for the actions they committed. Si, I can close this, I’m getting close, I can feel it.”

  “It’s not your case there John. Hell I don’t even know if you will have any cases here when you get back. I’m getting complaints from other officers about you harassing people to the extent someone is in hospital, about you interfering in their cases and then I have you trying to get unauthorised DNA tests. All of that, John, adds up to enough for me to suspend you pending further investigation. As such, John, I think it would be a good time for you to start thinking about retirement.”

  He was not surprised by what Simon had said, John had been expecting it, but not in such a blunt manner. He had pushed too many people since he had left his undercover work and he knew too much to be kept around. Resigned to that fact he calmly replied, “Well if that is the case you owe it to me to let me see this through. When I come back you can suspend me and do whatever you want to get rid of me.”

  “You should come back to Manchester now; I don’t want you there causing any more trouble John,” Simon ordered.

  “No, not happening. You gave me two weeks; it’s nearly the weekend let me see it through.”

  “I can’t let that happen, John, those men there are good police, and they don’t deserve you getting in their way. How would you like it?”

  Any restraint that John had left evaporated at that moment, but as normal when he lost his temper he did not raise his voice, the words just came out measured in a cold resonance, “It. Was. Your. Idea. I came here to look into this, not step on anyone’s toes. Then you dropped me in it with the locals. You say these people are ‘good police’ but every time I’ve heard a member of the public talk about them it’s because they are corrupt as sin. I just hope to God Simon that your definition of ‘good police’ isn’t because they are people you know. Write me up when I get back; other than that Simon do me a favour and stay the hell away!”

  John switched off his phone and stuffed it in his pocket. Pacing the cottage he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand repeatedly. Anger welling up again; he had worked so hard to control his temper and when he needed it, that restraint had deserted him, “Fat bastard. The only reason he got that position was seniority, the jammy prick. Arrrghh,” he yelled as he kicked over the kitchen chair. He slammed his hands down hard on the table and started breathing slowly trying to calm down. End of the line and it comes on a bullshit case like this. If this is the end then so be it.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Still fuming John sat his car outside the church where Fleming had died; he had to get out of the cottage and he knew that the parish council met on Thursday nights. Checking his watch for the fifth time John sighed. The more I wait around here the worse this is going to get. Anger is like a bloody sickness to me, it just gets worse and worse if I don’t treat it and that fat prick got right under my skin. All I’ve got left is this bloody case and it’s not even real. I need something real, I need something to distract me otherwise my head will explode. I can’t concentrate like this.

  Getting out of the car he walked to the cash machine and took out his wallet. He withdrew over six hundred pounds from various accounts and walked into the bookmakers. This is either going t
o be an exercise in how fast I can lose my money or how far I can push my luck. Hopefully it is the latter.

  John read through the papers on the wall jotting down some selections. With horses written out for the night meetings he put it in his pocket and then turned to small computer terminal on the side and wrote out a series of bets for the late night baseball. That’s five hundred staked on those bets, I might as well go out on a high. Where are those dog papers?

  Standing in front of the papers John was aware of a large man stood behind him just a little too close for comfort. That was not something new in a bookmakers for people to encroach on your personal space but it was if the man was peering over his shoulder. I’m not in the mood for this today. Slowly John turned around, his eyebrow raised, “Can I help you?”

  The man was taller than John by a good four inches and wider by quadruple that. He was of fair hair and had a jovial face with bright blue eyes, “Oh it’s nothing, I just wouldn’t go for trap three, it doesn’t stay. On those wet tracks you want a stayer,” the man said with a slightly higher pitched voice than John had expected from such a big fellow.

  “Been doing this long?” John said with an edge in his voice that he realised was a little mean.

  “Thirty years I’ve had dogs. I need a winner though and I’d go with the coffin box on this one.”

  John turned and read the small write up on the dog the man recommended. There did not seem any particular reason to side with the greyhound coming out of trap four but John shrugged, “You know what I’ll go with you I have nothing better to do.”

  Going to the counter and putting down all of his cash, the cashier blanched at the amount. It was the manager who John had met the first time he had entered. The man behind the counter nervously took the money, “I need to ring this up.”

  “Why? Is my money not good enough for you?” John snapped back.

  “It’s just when it is a lot of money. It’s company policy. I’m so sorry, really I am. Just let me ring my supervisor,” Stevie said his hand on the receiver of the phone.

  John stared daggers at the manager and was about to say something when the dog man barged past him, “Put this dog on Stevie,” he ordered hurling the small slip of paper under the screen. The cashier struggled to catch the paper but once caught was a flurry of activity.

  “Is my dog bet on?” John asked. Stevie nodded and went back to the phone. Pushing himself away from the counter John stood his arms folded staring at the television. The dog man, sitting on a stool, gave another running commentary to go with the announcer. His selection romped home but he did not say anything else and merely went back to doodling on the table in front of him.

  John was smiling, he had nearly made back his money in one bet. The exhilaration of watching that dog clear the last bend, the adrenaline rush of winning had replaced anger if only briefly. Let’s see how good this Dog Man really is. John turned around, “Any more picks then, big man?”

  “There are a couple of eight benders coming up after this sprint race. Should be easier to pick those open races,” the person John had dubbed Dog Man said, not looking up from his drawings.

  The detective nodded and went over to the counter taking his bets and winnings from the apologetic manager. John walked back over to the dog papers and watched as Billy walked into the shop. The newsagent went to the counter and ordered a hot chocolate and then sat down with a newspaper.

  John paid the man little attention for the next hour as he proceeded to follow the selections of the man who introduced himself as Rodney. For every selection that lost Rodney picked four winners. Considering it was one of the best winning streaks John had seen, he endeavoured to learn more about the man and after mentioning he was a detective, Rodney seemed interested in speaking to him. John gave the man his phone number and told to call him if he had any tips and John would help out when he could in the same manner or with anything official. Their conversation was enough to keep his attention off his anger.

  He was twirling a small pen between his fingers when Martin Wills walked in. John was a good fifteen feet away but could smell the alcohol seeping out of the man’s pores. He was unsteady on his feet and looked even thinner in the harsh overhead light. Wills was carrying a cigarette but before anyone could say anything he about turned nearly falling and stubbed it out into the ashtray attached to the wall. The ex-convict stumbled inside and took a couple of moments to recognise John.

  “Detective Harper, I’ve been meaning to call you,” Wills said slurring his words and putting a tobacco stained hand on the counter that ringed the inside of the shop to steady himself, “I forgot the biggest thing of all. You know about those bent coppers.”

  John’s eyes narrowed but he nodded, “Please carry on sir.”

  Wills hiccupped then said, “They found some bloody clothes and rags over twenty miles away from here the next day. I couldn’t have put them there so it wasn’t me, was it?”

  “Guess not, thank you very much for that information Mister Wills,” John realised why the man was drunk; it being the day the man would have received his benefits.

  “So you think it will help me in my case?”

  “Every little helps,” John said forcing a smile on his face.

  Wills grumbled something and staggered away hunting for change in his pocket as he went towards Stevie who was serving Billy his third drink of the night. Billy made a strange noise as he walked away from Wills, shielding the paper in his hands away from him. John looked at his watch. Crap I’ve managed to distract myself so well I forgot why I was here.

  Thanking Rodney for his efforts, John left the shop over three thousand pounds better off. Stopping at his car he placed money in the boot and the glove compartment, keeping some of it on him, and straightened his tie and walked into the church.

  It was more of a community hall than a church with chairs stacked in the corner away from the entrance. An altar to the left, underneath stained glass windows of hands in prayer, was covered by a cloth, further changing its appearance from being a church to something less religious. In the centre of the room a circle of chairs provided seating for the council who turned as one to the interruption of his arrival.

  A short man with short grey hair stood up and with a thick Mancunian accent spoke for the group, “Excuse me this is a closed meeting. I’m sorry but if you want to speak to the vicar you will have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Sorry to interrupt but I thought this would be the best time to speak to you all about George Fleming. I’m Detective Inspector John Harper by the way.”

  “Ah Detective you are the man who tried to help George aren’t you?” a youthful Asian man said standing up and offering his hand, “I’m Doctor Park, current head of the council. I think we are about done here anyway. I’m sure we all would be happy to help you out.”

  John shook his hand and was introduced to all of the members before sitting down on a chair procured for his comfort. He took out his notebook and began, “I’d just like to convey my condolences to the group. I understand that he was an active part of your community and any such loss is always a shame.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie, Billy’s mother said placing a hand on his shoulder as she sat to his right, “George was a good man. It was such a pity when he had to leave the council.”

  “Yes I was told about that from Jeremy Bradhurst,” John caught the look on a number of their faces that betrayed their dislike of the man, “Mister Bradhurst said that there was an incident with a boy.”

  The Mancunian who introduced himself as Oliver Mackenzie spoke after an awkward silence from the group, “That was an unfortunate incident. There was an allegation against George that meant for a time we couldn’t have him on the council. However after the investigation he was cleared of any wrong doing, otherwise we would never have let George continue to work with the kids.”

  “So there was no evidence to suggest that there was any abuse?”

  “The young man is known in this villa
ge. Once it was evident that there wasn’t any abuse we made sure that George could continue,” Richard Montgomery, a white haired ex-policeman said, he had been surprised that the man had been so welcoming considering the less than polite way he had been treated by other members of the local force.

  It was covered up. Every time I think I’m at bedrock with this village there is another lie another level. Now I’m left wondering was there any abuse or did they just hush it up to protect a pillar of the community? Honesty seems to be in small supply in this place. John scribbled some notes down and continued, “It seemed to me that Mister Bradhurst had a problem with George Fleming.”

  “Jeremy tends to have problems with a lot of people. One of the reasons we are happier he isn’t on the council anymore. I think everyone here had been on the end of one of his tirades,” Dr Park declared.

  “He forgets we’re not all his employees,” a Mrs Rebecca Haskell added, an old lady who fit into the stereotype of blue rinse pensioner, her handbag clutched tightly in her hands and resting on her lap.

  John nodded, knowing all too well the attitude of the man, “Was there anything in particular that Fleming did to annoy him?”

  “There was an incident involving Jeremy’s son,” Marjorie Hitchmough answered, “That boy is no good; he was caught outside this very building selling drugs. Can you believe it, here in Hollingswood?”

  Coughing to hide his amusement at that statement, John shook his head, “Terrible. I can hardly imagine it. Do any of you know anyone else who may have had a problem with George Fleming or if he had any troubles of any kind?”

  “George was stern but fair with everyone,” Montgomery said, “that included us. Hell he even told off Billy before he died.”

  Marjorie shot the former copper a glance that reminded John of his mother. It was a look that was equal parts defensive over her son and aggressive in that her personal business was being aired to a stranger and in public in general even if everyone in the room did know about it. With bitterness in her voice she said, “I doubt that upset George enough to kill himself, Richard do you?”