by Ted Tayler
“An acquaintance then, from one club or organisations he frequented,” said Alex.
“That fits with the image I saw,” said Matt. “That’s what I reasoned it must have been when I sat and remembered the incident.”
“Richard didn’t tell you what the argument was over?” asked Lydia.
“Not a word,” said Matt. “We were busy.”
“DS Spencer asked whether either of you saw a young white lad in his early twenties hanging around on the other side of the road,” said Alex. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone?
“The front doors were still open between one and two,” said Lydia. “You said you would have spotted anyone creeping up the side of the garage to slash Richard’s bicycle tyre.”
“Ponting Street is close to the railway station,” said Matt. “Only a five-minute walk away. It could have been a total stranger looking for a vulnerable target. I don’t have to spell it out for you.”
Alex and Lydia knew the Swindon railway station had become a gateway for young people bringing class A drugs into the West Country from London. The excellent public transport links to the capital meant criminals sent youngsters to ferry drugs via the town.
“No, Mr Merchant, we understand the situation,” said Lydia. “We aim to find and safeguard vulnerable children used to transport drugs and cash. However, it’s important to recognise these youngsters are victims. We know what harm these networks cause within our communities and strive to ensure any gangs that commit offences in Wiltshire get identified, arrested, and punished. It’s possible the youngster Mrs Fryer saw was a day visitor from London. We’ll follow up on that line of enquiry. If that was the case, it’s no surprise DS Spencer’s team couldn’t trace him.”
“What did you make of the last person of interest identified by the detective team?” asked Alex,
“Was that the West-Indian guy and his girlfriend?” asked Matt. “We had closed the doors by then. The old guy, Stan, told the police he saw a bloke looking in the window. If he was, it couldn’t have been for long.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Lydia.
“According to DS Spencer, the man was short, stocky, and muscular. He was built like a rugby front-row forward. Have you seen those doors? The windows at the top must be six feet off the ground. I couldn’t stand on tiptoe for too long, and I’m fairly fit. That guy or the girl Spencer mentioned could have slashed the bicycle tyre. After half-past two, when we shut the doors, it would have been easier for someone to slip up the side of the garage, use a knife, and slip away again. I saw no one at the window, nor did I hear the car they drove away in Stan reported to the police.”
“Had you seen anyone matching their description near the garage?” asked Alex.
Matt Merchant shook his head.
“Don’t misunderstand me. We don’t discriminate in any fashion when it comes to working on people’s cars. The only thing Richard insisted on was that people paid the bill when it was due. I work the same way. If that chap was a regular customer, he needn’t have tried peeking through the window. He’d know that if he gave a quick tap on the side door, we’d answer.”
“You know Stan Jones from over the road, then?” asked Lydia. “Does he bring his car here?”
“Old Stan hasn’t been well enough to drive for a few years now, and he’s confined to that house. He’s got his telly, but when he can’t find anything to watch, he sits and looks out of the window. He doesn’t miss much.”
“Is his wife still with him?” asked Lydia.
“No, she died several years ago now. Cancer.”
“It can’t be much fun living alone when your health is failing,” said Alex.
“Young Stan drops in to visit his father,” said Matt. “He’s a long-distance lorry driver whose trips take him across the UK and Europe. I don’t know where he lives when he’s not sleeping in his cab, and old Stan hasn’t mentioned a daughter-in-law or grandchildren.”
“How old is the son?” asked Lydia.
“Mid-thirties now, I imagine,” said Matt.
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” said Alex. “We may need to get back to you in the next few days. We’d like to speak to Harry now if that’s okay?”
“Sure, I’ll see how far Anne Marie has got with that Toyota and send Harry to you.”
When Matt Merchant had left the room, Lydia puffed out her cheeks.
“Gus was right. If you ask people to recount an experience, they always add something they forgot the first time. Matt thought about the white van man six weeks after the murder and realised something about how he and Chaloner spoke suggested they did have a connection. That’s something we can chase.”
“Matt also associated the young stranger with the drug trade because he’s lived and worked near the station for years. That’s a typical reaction. Every teenage kid isn’t a criminal, but public perception is that if they’re hanging around on a street corner, they must be up to no good. The murder file mentioned the young Matt Merchant got into a few scrapes which could have led him down a different path.”
“If he saw a young man behaving like the one Mrs Fryer saw, Matt would have known whether they were guilty or innocent.”
“Matt’s views on the third person of interest are in line with ours,” said Alex. “The coloured man or his girlfriend were most likely candidates for slashing the bicycle tyre.”
“Why, though?” asked Lydia. “That’s the thing we can’t pin down. What did they have against Richard Chaloner? Perhaps Harry Simpkins will shed light on matters.”
The office door opened, and Harry paused before entering. Alex nodded for him to sit in the boss’s chair. He could tell it made Harry uncomfortable. Good; it might cause him to slip up.
“Good morning, Harry. I’m DS Hardy with Wiltshire Police. My colleague, Ms Logan Barre and I work with a Crime Review Team. Our task is to find Richard’s killer. You were already working here with Richard when Matt started, is that correct?”
“I knew Richard’s father,” said Harry. “When Richard started the business, Richard asked if I’d come to work for him. He needed someone with experience. I’ve worked in the trade since I left school at fifteen in 1970.”
“When was the last time you saw Richard alive?” asked Lydia.
“When I left work at half-past five on Monday evening.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in the alleyway as you left?” asked Alex. “Was there anyone loitering near the garage?”
“I didn’t spot the puncture if that’s what you mean. It was raining cats and dogs, and I just wanted to get home. I kept my head down and walked as quickly as these old legs would carry me. I didn’t see a single vehicle or person walking until I got to the end of Alfred Street. Mrs Fellows was hurrying back home with her dog. She lives three doors further on to us.”
“It must have shocked you when you reached work that morning?” asked Lydia.
“Matt was in the doorway. I wasn’t far from getting here first when he turned into Ponting Street. With his younger legs, Matt had parked and opened up by the time I arrived.”
“So, Matt waited before entering. Is that what you’re saying?” asked Alex.
“Only a second or two. When I asked later in the day why he paused, Matt said he couldn’t make out why the office lights were on, but Richard wasn’t there. I turned on the lights in the workshop and then wished I hadn’t.”
“Why did you turn on the lights?” asked Lydia.
“It’s what we always did. Whoever got here first opened up, switched on the lights, and got the kit ready for each car we were due to work on. We were a team. We’ve got different players now, but we’re still a team. Everyone helps everyone else.”
“Matt told us you wanted to go to Richard, but he stopped you,” said Alex.
“I didn’t think,” said Harry. “At first, I thought he’d fainted. I’m the first-aider, so it was natural to see what I could do to help. Matt told me if the office lights were still on
, it meant Richard had been here all night. Even from where we stood, I could tell he was right. Richard had been dead for hours. We went outside touching nothing, and Matt called the police. As we passed Richard’s bike, Matt pointed and said Richard didn’t even get the chance to mend the puncture. It was the first I’d heard of the puncture. Matt told me the story, and we realised it meant the murder took place soon after Matt left for his game of football.”
“I believe you spotted Richard’s wallet?” asked Lydia.
“Under the workbench, just outside this door, and to the right.”
“Did you realise the gold chain that Eve bought Richard had gone, too?” asked Lydia.
“I couldn’t look at Richard’s body, Miss,” said Harry. “All I could see was the blood.”
“Who noticed the bank card was missing?” asked Alex.
“We came back inside when the uniformed people arrived. Two young women, it was, one was a PC, the other was one of those PCSOs or whatever they call them. I noticed the wallet, and the girl marked where it was while Matt was in the office with the other woman. She asked Matt if he could tell if anything was missing. He realised the card had gone.”
“Matt phoned the bank to stop the card, didn’t he?” asked Alex.
“As soon as we knew it had gone. Someone at the bank told Matt somebody used it the night before.”
“Because the balance in the account was low, the killer could only access four hundred pounds,” said Alex. “Matt told us you had to wait to get your wages that week.”
Harry paused before he replied. Alex knew he was deciding how much he could afford to say. Alex didn’t press him; he knew Harry would tell the truth in the end.
“We still get customers who prefer to pay in cash these days,” said Harry. “Richard had a safe at home. He paid cheques into the firm’s bank account, and customers paid by bank transfer. Rather than have cash lying around at the garage, he took it home to store in his safe. If people were late paying their accounts, and that prevented him from transferring our wages into our bank accounts, Richard brought enough cash from his reserves to make us right.”
“Because Richard died, and Eve was abroad, there was no way to access the cash,” said Alex. “How much might he have had in his reserve, Harry?”
“I couldn’t honestly say,” said Harry, “but it could have been several thousand pounds, thinking of how many cash payments we’d received during October.”
“How often did Richard use the cash reserves to pay your wages?” asked Lydia.
“Once or twice a year,” said Harry.
Alex made a note to pass this information to Gus. Chaloner had been dead for two years. Would HMRC want to hear about it? Harry hinted that Richard didn’t record every pound of his income. How much was there in that safe on Shrivenham Road? Has Eve known how much money was in the safe? Could it have anything to do with the murder?
“What can you tell us about the man in white overalls who arrived here at eleven o’clock on Monday morning?” asked Alex.
“We weren’t expecting anyone to bring a vehicle in that morning,” said Harry. “We had a car on the forecourt ready for collection and two cars in the workshop. Both were due to be with us until Tuesday mid-morning. I heard this man ask Richard to take a quick look at his van. He had an electrical fault, and he needed to rely on it not cutting out on him. The fault was costing him money. Money he could ill afford to lose.”
“How did Richard respond?” asked Lydia.
“Richard told him we had been swamped with work. There was no way we could drop jobs for regular customers. He didn’t know whether it would be a quick fix or something that needed hours of work. That made sense to me, but this bloke wasn’t happy. I had to get under the car I was working on, and Matt was tuning the engine on the Beemer on the other side. It wasn’t possible to hear what they said, but shouting came over the background noise. I slid out from under the car to check if a fight had broken out. It was that heated an argument.”
“What did you see?” asked Lydia.
“Nothing,” said Harry. “The van had left. Richard was on the phone in the office, checking when the owner of the car on the forecourt was collecting it. So I just got on with what I was doing.”
“Richard didn’t tell you the van driver’s name?” asked Lydia.
“If he had, I would have told the police,” said Harry. “Richard didn’t mention the incident again.”
“Was there any signage on the van to help identify what business this man was in?” asked Alex.
“It was white,” said Harry. “All I could see was the windscreen and front grill. He parked the same way your colleague did with her Mini.”
“What did you see of the van driver?” asked Alex. “You agreed with the detectives that he was thirty-five to forty-five and wore white overalls. They found an eyewitness on Ponting Street at around eleven o’clock, who provided the description. The van driver could have been a similar age to Richard. Is it possible they knew one another, and that was why the man believed he could get Richard to help him out?”
“It would be a guess,” said Harry, shaking his head. “I didn’t stop to make a note of the bloke’s details the way one of you would. I was working on a customer’s car, which is what I get paid to do. Richard was chatting to the man on the forecourt, and then it got heated when I was under the car. The bloke had gone when I stood up next.”
“Who closed the front doors when the rain started?” asked Alex.
“I did,” said Harry. “That was after two o’clock, I reckon.”
“Had you looked outside between one and two, checking on the weather?”
“I expect I glanced out from time to time; the wind was picking up, and a coke can rattled along the pavement. I asked Richard if he wanted to close the doors, but he said to hang on until the rain started.”
“Did you spot a young lad on the other side of the road?” asked Lydia. “Perhaps he threw away his empty coke can. You know what kids are.”
“On the other side of the road?” asked Harry. “No, I can’t say I remember seeing anyone.”
“Did you know that a man was looking through the garage door window at four o’clock?” asked Alex. “Stan Jones spotted him outside. Only for a minute or two.”
“The detective asked me about that coloured chap,” said Harry. “If he were one of our regulars, he would have known to come to the side door. Instead, he must have been a stranger, and I never saw him. We get all sorts here; it doesn’t bother me. I work on British and foreign cars for customers from several continents. I enjoy the variety. No two days are the same.”
Lydia thought no day would match Monday, the seventh of November, in 2016.
CHAPTER 7
“As you’ve worked here for so long, Harry, you must know Stan Jones well,” said Alex.
“Stan used to bring his old Ford Anglia here when I started working for Richard. That was back in the good old days. Stan’s ten years older than me and not in the best of health. He’s lost without his wife, poor chap, and his son is never there long enough to realise what a state he’s in. Sad, isn’t it when your family abandons you?”
“Matt told us young Stan’s a long-distance lorry driver,” said Alex. “He drives across Europe and the UK.”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw him,” said Harry. “He keeps himself to himself, always has ever since the accident.”
“What accident was that?” asked Lydia.
“The lad would have been seven or eight, I suppose,” said Harry. “Kids today get involved in Halloween, don’t they? Well, Bonfire Night was a big occasion when I was a young boy. Many people today would prefer fireworks were only allowed under controlled conditions. You know, as you see on the banks of the Thames in London on New Year’s Eve. They spend an absolute fortune for a few minutes of noise and colour. That spectacle looks great, but it wasn’t like that in my day. We had a bonfire on the green, which our parents built from any old rubbish lyin
g around. We children begged and borrowed materials to build a guy, wheeled him around the streets in an old pram, collecting pennies, before getting one father to perch him on top of the bonfire. You might see a dozen rockets, a few Catherine wheels, and Roman candles on the housing estates. Everyone had a sparkler, even the girls. Nobody could afford much more. One year, my dad stood a rocket in a milk bottle and told my brother and me to stand back while he lit the fuse. The milk bottle toppled over, and the rocket flew away six feet off the ground, straight towards a group of people on the far side of the bonfire. They had to scatter to avoid getting hit. Bonfire night could be fun, but it could be dangerous too.”
“Did young Stan Jones get hurt in an accident involving fireworks?” asked Alex.
“That was what happened,” said Harry. “Not every family shared the community spirit. Kids roamed the streets, letting off crackers and bangers. Anything to annoy the neighbours, especially the elderly, and those with pets.”
“Did Stan Jones and his wife join in with the other families on Ponting Street?” asked Lydia.
“I lived on the other side of town before I started working for Richard. I can’t say for certain what happened, but young Stan must have watched someone light the fuse on a firework and waited for the flash, but nothing came. He darted forward and picked it up. It exploded in his face. Stan’s left hand and the left-hand side of his face got badly burned.”
“How dreadful,” said Lydia.
“People said he was a quiet, reserved lad even before the accident,” said Harry. “The older kids bullied young Stan when he finally recovered and returned to school. As he’s grown older, he’s grown a beard to cover parts of the scarring on his face. Stan worked a night shift at one of the local factories until he was twenty and then switched to driving. I suppose it suited him. He could spend hours alone in the cab of his lorry and didn’t have to face people.”
