by Adam Croft
‘Right-o. What about speaking to all these people?’
‘I’m not sure any of them will be much use. The police will be along soon to speak to them.’
Ellis Flint stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Just who are you, exactly, Kempston? Are you a police officer?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘So what are you? Some kind of investigator?’
‘Just a civilian with a nose for suspicion and a hunger for the truth, Ellis. Now, we'd better hail a cab.’
‘Come on then,’ Ellis Flint asked once they were both settled inside the taxi. ‘Tell me about you.’
‘There's absolutely nothing to tell.’
‘Well that's clearly not true. You were in the Freemason's Arms tonight for a reason, and you seem to have some sort of nose for death.’
‘I’ve had worse things said about me,’ Hardwick replied nonchalantly.
‘Well, don't you want to know about me?’ Ellis asked.
‘Not especially. Besides, I already know most of the pertinent information.’
‘Such as?’
‘You're married — wedding ring. You're over the age of forty — the hair on your shins is thinning.’ As Hardwick spoke, Ellis Flint's eyes darted to his trousers, which he coyly pulled back over his cotton socks. ‘You're currently out of work — you jumped at the chance to carry out a murder investigation with a complete stranger and you were already half-cut by six o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Besides, I noticed you had a SaverMarket receipt in a rather expensive Italian leather wallet. Someone who can afford such luxury is only likely to shop at SaverMarket if he's currently out of work. Oh, and you had an upper-middle-class upbringing and you served some time in the Army.’
Hardwick was quite certain that the taxi driver had made the short journey to Little Markham far longer than it needed to be. Not ever having driven a car himself, he couldn't be totally sure, but he knew when he was being taken for a ride, as it were.
‘How on earth did you know about my upbringing and Army background?’ Ellis Flint asked.
‘You use some peculiar turns of phrase, for a start. I don't imagine you ever felt comfortable with your upbringing, and you certainly try to hide it but that makes it so much more discernible.’
‘And the Army thing?’
‘Well, you were a bit of a fan of Charlie Sparks. You said so yourself, yet you didn't seem at all fazed by his sudden death. Plus, you seem like a man fulfilled, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, raising a satisfied smile from Ellis Flint. ‘Besides which, you seem to show remarkable deference to any tall stranger in a brown suit.’
Little Markham was the archetypal chocolate-box village, with large stone walls seemingly made from marshmallows, Hansel and Gretel cottages lining the streets with their dew-dampened thatched roofs glistening in the moonlight. The taxi turned into Wood View and Hardwick and Flint alighted outside number three. The house looked remarkably modern in comparison to the surrounding cottages on the high street, but Hardwick supposed it must still be a good couple of hundred years old. The lead-lined windows gave an air of security and substance that no modern building could ever replicate.
Don Preston opened the door barely a few moments after the doorbell had chimed, to find the two men stood beneath the wisteria that framed the studded wooden door.
‘Good evening. Don Preston?’
‘Yes, can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘My name is D.I. Kempston Hardwick and this is Ellis Flint. We need to speak to you about Charlie Sparks. I believe you represent him.’
‘Oh right, yes. Come on in.’
Hardwick and Flint were led into Don Preston's living room. A collection of horse brasses decorated the black-beamed hearth that surrounded the fireplace, and a widescreen television was the only reminder of the current era.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, chaps? Actually, it's a bit late, isn't it? Something a little stronger, perhaps?’
‘We'll be fine, thank you, Mr Preston,’ Hardwick answered. Ellis Flint raised his eyebrow momentarily at the thought of being spoken for with regards to a free drink.
‘So, what's the silly old bugger done now? Got himself in some sort of fight again? I mean, I'm presuming you're both police officers. Don't often get door-to-door calls around here at this time of night. Even Betterware have given up!’ Don Preston chuckled.
Hardwick ignored the assumption. ‘I presume you were aware that Charlie Sparks had been performing at the Freemason's Arms earlier tonight?’
‘Yes, absolutely. I arranged it for him, as I do with all of his gigs.’
‘I’m afraid there's been a bit of a mishap,’ Hardwick understated. ‘Charlie Sparks collapsed and died whilst on stage tonight, Mr Preston.’
Don Preston's previous smile slowly became more subdued as the reality of what had been said seemed to set in. ‘Died? Is this some sort of joke?’
About as tasteful as most of his, Hardwick thought to himself. ‘I’m afraid not. What's more, it seems as though he died in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, we believe he may have been murdered.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Sorry, but this... this is just... oh my, I'm not quite sure what to say.’
‘There's probably not a whole lot more to say at this stage, Mr Preston. However, we'll need to speak to anyone who was close to Charlie Sparks. Just as a matter of course, you understand.’
‘Well yes, of course.’
‘You'll need some time to come to terms with what's happened,’ Ellis Flint spoke up, until now having remained uncharacteristically silent but beginning to get into his new role as a sleuth. ‘However, we'll need details of his family and close acquaintances in order to begin investigating what happened.’
‘I understand. It's just so shocking. I've known him since university. I really don't know what to say. I can only suggest that you should probably speak to his wife first of all. She deserves to be informed, if you haven't already.’
‘We were hoping that you would be able to put us in touch, Mr Preston,’ Hardwick stated.
‘Naturally. Marianne, her name is. They... she... lives at Manor Farm in Fettlesham.’
‘Thank you, Mr Preston. We'll be in touch in due course.’
‘Yes, of course. Please do call if I can be of any assistance. If I think of anything else that may help, I'll call the station and ask to speak with you.’
‘Probably not a good idea, Mr Preston. You can reach me on this number,’ Hardwick said, passing Don Preston his remarkably simple calling card:
KEMPSTON HARDWICK
01632 960555
When they were back outside, Ellis took Hardwick by the arm and glared at him with a look of anger.
‘Kempston! You can’t just go around impersonating a police officer! It’s illegal! You’ll have us banged up!’
‘Yes, I know. That’s why I didn’t impersonate a police officer, Ellis.’
‘What? “I’m D.I. Kempston Hardwick”? Sounded pretty conclusive to me.’
‘I didn’t lie, Ellis. My birth name is Dagwood Isambard Kempston Hardwick. I simply chose to include the first two initials of my name when introducing myself. If those were your three forenames, Ellis, which one would you use?’
5
Fettlesham seemed a million miles away from Little Markham, although geographically fewer than four miles separated them. Gone were the period cottages, but for a few; the majority destroyed by an overturned petrol-tanker in the 1970s, as was Hardwick's understanding. Manor Farm stood on the edge of the village, a tragically modern, if large, house, set deliriously distant from any nearby farm of the traditional naming convention. Having been deposited outside Manor Farm by the same taxi driver who had driven them to Little Markham, Hardwick and Flint made their way up the noisy gravel driveway to the front door. The large bay windows allowed a reasonable view of the living room, the tell-tale flicker and glow of a television set letting them know that Charlie Sparks's
wife was likely still awake.
Hardwick raised not a smile at the inappropriate jovial bounce of the Benny Hill theme tune which played as he pressed the plastic doorbell. The woman who answered the door was an unexpectedly bouncy-looking lady, more accustomed to a Les Dawson character than anything ever dreamt up by Benny Hill.
‘Good evening, madam. Mrs Sparks, I presume?’
‘After a fashion, yes. Can I help you two at all?’
‘Yes, it's your husband we'd like to speak with you about. May we come in?’
‘Well, that depends. Are you police officers?’
Hardwick thought for a moment. ‘After a fashion.’
She seemed to deem this a suitable response, opening the door further to allow Hardwick and Flint to enter the house. She elaborated on entering the living room, having deigned to switch off the flickering television screen. ‘Charlie Sparks is just a stage name, you see. His real name is Dave Spencer and I'm Marianne.’
‘I see. Any reason behind the stage name?’
‘Well, Dave Spencer doesn't exactly set the world alight in the same way as Sparks, does it?’
Hardwick said nothing, assuming that Marianne Spencer's own unintentional pun was lost on her.
‘So, what's this all about, anyway?’ Marianne asked. ‘You mentioned something to do with Dave.’
‘Yes. I'm sorry to have to tell you that Ch... Dave, collapsed on stage earlier this evening. I'm sorry, Mrs Spencer, but he passed away.’
‘Oh my... I... oh dear... What happened?’ Marianne Spencer seemed shocked and surprised, yet not remarkably upset.
‘We're not quite sure yet. It's possible that something... might not have agreed with him.’
Hardwick looked at Flint. Flint looked at Hardwick. The thought was mutually agreed, but unspoken between the two men.
‘Wh... who have you told?’
‘Well, naturally we would have come to speak to you first, but we only found out your whereabouts after speaking with Don Preston, his manager,’ Hardwick replied.
‘Oh, poor Don!’
‘I presume he has some family to console him?’ Ellis Flint offered.
‘I... well, yes. He has a step-son.’
‘I realise you may need some more time to come to terms with what's happened, but when you're ready we'd like to speak to you a little more about your husband.’
‘Well, yes. It has come as a terrible shock. I really don't know what to say.’
‘Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs Spencer?’
Charlie Sparks's wife let out a half-cry, half-laugh at this, and began shaking her head. ‘Where should I begin? He was hardly a popular man in many circles, officer.’
‘Actually, we're...’ Hardwick placed a hand on Ellis Flint's arm, as if to stop him mid-sentence.
‘But what does that have to do with his death?’ Marianne Spencer asked.
‘We have reason to believe that your husband may have been murdered, Mrs Spencer.’
Marianne Spencer looked at the carpet and simply nodded, slowly. Another mutual glance was shared between the two men. ‘I’d like to tell you I'm shocked and surprised. The truth of the matter is, Dave had upset a great many people throughout his life. He was the archetypal failed has-been entertainer. If you want a list of people you should speak to, I'm afraid you'll need a rather large sheet of paper.’ The tears welled up in Marianne Spencer's eyes as she said this, yet not one drop dared to make the first leap of faith towards her not-inconsiderable cheeks.
‘Do you have any children, Mrs Spencer?’ Ellis Flint attempted to cut through the deepening and darkening atmosphere. Marianne Spencer simply laughed at this apparent affront.
‘Not bloody likely. He had what some might call Ascension Deficit Disorder.’
Ellis Flint cocked his head to the side.
‘Have you ever tried to turn the kitchen tap on when your pipes are frozen, officer? Well that's what my husband's d—‘
‘Yes! Well, that's a terrible shame, Mrs Spencer. How very unfortunate,’ Hardwick jumped in with a slight raise in pitch to his voice. ‘And may I ask how you both met?’
‘Noah's bloody ark, I think. Feels that long, anyway.’ Hardwick told himself off for trying to imagine which two animals the Spencers would have represented. ‘I used to be a dancer on his Saturday night show back in the seventies. Fact is, he used to be a bit of a playboy in his day. I took great delight in being the one who managed to rein him in and turn him into a family man. There's bloody irony for you.’
‘Were you married long?’
‘Too bloody long. Thirty years last August. It's not been without its ups and downs, though, I can assure you.’ Hardly the revelation of the century, Hardwick thought. ‘Dave Spencer was a failure as a husband, a failure as a father, and a failure as a businessman.’ Marianne Spencer seemed to speak with more than a slight air of contempt for her recently deceased husband.
‘What business interests did he have, exactly?’
‘Most recently he was a partner in a company called Wellington Pharmaceuticals with an old school friend of his, Patrick Allen. Another way for him to waste all of the money he'd earned in his hey-day.’
‘Would you say your husband was careless with money?’
‘Oh, God, yes. Look at the cars he's got out there. And the fact that for years he's been pumping money into that bloody company. We've got nothing left now. Nothing but a load of debt, anyway.’
‘And where were you earlier this evening, Mrs Spencer?’
‘I’ve been sat here all night. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but my husband was a liar, a cheat and a worm. Anyone will tell you that. The one thing I can tell you, though, is that I had nothing to do with his death.’
Having been shown out of the house by an amicable Marianne Spencer, Hardwick and Flint made their way up towards Fettlesham High Street.
‘Do you think she had anything to do with it, Kempston?’
‘I don't know. All I do know is that there's an awful lot that we still have to find out. I have a funny feeling that this is going to open up quite a can of worms for poor Charlie Sparks. It doesn't seem that he led the most pious of lives.’
‘Does anyone?’ Ellis Flint asked.
Hardwick said nothing, and slowed his pace momentarily as he extracted a Montecristo No. 2 and lit it delicately with a match.
‘What's the next move, then?’ Ellis Flint asked.
Hardwick looked at his watch. ‘It's five to eleven, so I think we've time for a night-cap at the Fox & Bugle on the high street. In the morning, however, I think we'd better pay a visit to Charlie Sparks's business partner, Patrick Allen.’
6
The solitary shaft of moonlight that peered between the long curtains played on Hardwick's glass as he swirled the liquid within it. He stared into nothingness, the sheer silence deafening his every thought, a thousand-and-one of which whirled around his head like the drink in his glass.
The occasional rumbling of the wind through the trees kept Hardwick just this side of reality, although the super-powered telescope of his mind's eye was still well-focused on other things. He had always tried not to let it shape him, but he felt his back teeth beginning to grind as his breathing got heavier.
It had given him his drive and determination. For that, he could be thankful. The indefatigable motivation to seek justice and retribution wherever it could be sought. The overriding compulsion that bad people could, and should, not get away with bad things.
He knew not if the passing time was that of seconds, minutes or hours. Even the mostly-unnoticed ticking of the grandfather clock gave no indication of time passed.
The thoughts came back to him every now and again. The train station. The hard, brown suitcase, its lacquer peeling back to reveal fraying board. The liquorice bonbons. The shrill, piercing screech of the steam whistle. All aboard. Mind the gap, please. The thought that something terrible was happening; had happened. Those same, breathtakingly painful thoughts which rearer their ugly
heads at times like these. Terror and injustice. Bad people. Bad thoughts.
A solitary tear ran from his eye.
7
Shortly after morning broke, Hardwick and Flint found themselves heading back in the direction of Fettlesham, again having travelled by way of taxi at Hardwick's unexplained request.
‘You know, Kempston, I was thinking last night.’
Hardwick made a non-committal murmur.
‘The thing is, I realised that I don't actually know anything about you. I mean, it feels like I've known you for ages but at the same time I don't even know who you are.’
‘Who is anybody?’ Hardwick replied, not taking his eyes from that day's copy of The Times.
‘Well, that's a good point. Perhaps a tad too philosophical for a Saturday morning, but still. What do you actually do? I mean, do you do this detective stuff regularly?’
‘People don't tend to get murdered regularly,’ Hardwick said, forcing a raised eyebrow from Ellis Flint.
‘No, but I mean have you ever done this before?’
‘By definition, no. No two murders are ever the same. That's the beauty of life, Ellis. There's even beauty in murder, if you look closely enough.’ Hardwick's eyes didn't leave the newspaper, instead staring blankly at the same three words for a few moments before he lowered the paper and spoke again to Flint. ‘You're quite keen, aren't you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, you had no need to get involved with this investigation, did you? You didn't know Charlie Sparks personally and you'd never met me until last night.’
‘Well, it's exciting stuff, isn't it? Truth is, it's always sort of appealed to me, this line of work. I used to love detective books when I was a kid. I remember one, it was clearly aimed at children: the cases involved stolen balloons and housekeepers pretending to be ghosts. All innocent stuff in the grand scheme of things, but that's what gave me my love of mystery stories.’
