by AB Morgan
‘How rude.’
It had become a source of intense frustration for Anna that the police never contacted her about her calls to them, so she had taken to emailing photographs with descriptions of alleged crimes. They couldn’t ignore her for much longer, the evidence was mounting, but without being able to see what happened behind the metal gates of Fewtrell’s Yard she wouldn’t have the absolute proof she needed to confirm her worst fears. There were inexplicable comings and goings from that yard and Anna had to find out what was at the heart of Leonard Fewtrell’s business and, more importantly, who his business connections were.
* * *
The next morning Anna had followed the truck and the two vans for over six miles to a housing estate in the nearest town. She waited for them to unload before she headed back, retracing her route and eventually turning her blue Mondeo into Quarry Farm Lane. It was not even nine o’clock and already she had been in pursuit of the truth about Leonard Fewtrell’s business dealings for nearly an hour. Heading up the lane towards Quarry Farm there were only two other properties, both were on the right-hand side of the road, past a series of bends as the lane wove its way uphill between fields and a small coppice. There was no house number one, or number three. The main house of number two Quarry Farm Lane - a bungalow - was set back, away from the metal entrance gates, so Anna had decided not to even try to enter the yard from the front. Her many previous visits had merely confirmed the presence of a free-roaming dog of enormous proportions and she had yet to determine how approachable the animal would be without the gates between them.
So far, on each risky trip to the yard, she had fed it several Bonio biscuits, pushing them under the gap beneath the metal doors by the hinges. The dog had sniffed at her but not barked in alarm. She did the same again that morning, whispering to the snorting, sniffing hound and letting it take in her scent as she forced her offerings in its direction through the dusty soil.
Having taken a small stepladder from the boot of her car, she approached the cottage next door and rang the doorbell. The place showed no sign of life. No one home.
‘Good, just as predicted,’ she said, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Without warning a shuddering clatter of metal against metal rang out from the yard next door. She launched forward into the open brick porch to hide from view and waited nervously for several seconds before scuttling onto the driveway of the house, looking to find a route into the rear of the property and a suitably safe viewpoint into the Fewtrells’ filthy compound. There to the side of the cottage were large wooden double gates, wide open, hooked back. Beyond them, and immediately within view, was a wooden garage workshop with a sliding door. This was closed but to the right of it was an open pathway into a tangled garden.
‘Nice brambles,’ Anna muttered as she forced her way through the undergrowth towards the boundary wall at the bottom of the jungle. ‘No. No Japanese soldiers so far. They must have realised the war has ended and gone home.’ Scrapes, grazes and stings did not deter her and, with the stepladder held on her shoulder, she found what she had been praying for in the shape of a dilapidated unused greenhouse. Every single pane of glass was broken and shining shards lay in the weeds around it. The white paint-peeled frame stood like a sorry memorial to the ghost of the gardener who had once used it.
Anna unburdened herself from the rucksack on her back and pulled from it a compact camera, “a waterproof wireless surveillance cam”, just as she had ordered from Amazon. “Remote access and wireless streaming” it had said in the advert. The camera with a separate solar panel for keeping the camera charged and operational had been an inspirational find. Teetering perilously on the stepladder, it was easy to fit in place to the wooden frame of the roof in the greenhouse. All Anna had to do was to site the camera well enough to capture the evidence she badly needed.
‘Of course, if he’d been at home, I would have asked him nicely… but needs must.’
Anna stood still, listening to the sounds from the yard beyond the high brick wall. She knew she must be almost opposite the back of the compound next door where she was certain the static caravans were located. As she climbed to the top of the steps to orientate herself, her nose wrinkled at the strong chemical odours mixed with pungent farmyard smells that the breeze brought to her over the top of the wall. She moved stealthily, hoping to remain unnoticed. By peering over the rounded dark grey copingstones she gained a much clearer idea of the yard layout and was finally able to position the camera to face the caravans, a wooden hut and part of the factory unit. There was a significant height difference between the two properties that had not been so obvious to her before. Fewtrell’s Yard was nearly four feet lower than the ground level in Rory Norton’s garden. Anna tweaked the angle of the camera.
‘God, that will have to do for now.’
Time was not on her side and she knew the longer she stayed, the more chance there was of being caught by one of Leo Fewtrell’s men. She nearly made it back to her car unseen, but as she trotted from the garden and onto the paving slabs in front of the wooden workshop a red van pulled up beyond the hedge at the end of the driveway. The noisy diesel engine kept running. Anna retreated, hiding herself in the tangled greenery of a rambling rose. She observed in silence, heart pounding, as the postman delivered a handful of mail through the snapping letterbox in the front door before retreating back into his van.
Exhaling to release tension, she found herself wondering how he did the same next door without being mauled by the menacing dog. Seconds later the van door slammed shut and the vehicle chugged steadily in the direction of Quarry Farm. Taking advantage, Anna dashed back to her car, threw the rucksack and stepladder into the boot and drove off in the same direction. She could see the farmhouse in the distance, but turned the car around in a field gateway, desperate to avoid being seen by anyone - even the postman.
She slowed down as she drove back past the cottage and paid special attention to the large sheet metal gates wrapped in barbed wire that barred the way into Fewtrell’s Yard. There was a letterbox slit cut into the grey metal armour that she’d not noticed previously. At last she had an answer to her burning question about the safety of the local postman. His job was not as risky as she had supposed.
* * *
Once back home from her visit to the cottage on Quarry Farm Lane, Anna set about checking her handiwork. She sat back in the kitchen chair as a grin of self-satisfied triumph crossed her face. The live pictures of Fewtrell’s Yard were in focus and sharp. There was scant action to be excited about, other than from the dog who’d wandered into picture as he approached one of the caravans to scratch on the door. With no response, the dog padded along, sniffing at the ground.
She had planned to type up her notes, but by the time she had settled down to begin her head had started to feel fuzzy and the initial enthusiasm for the task had waned rapidly. She caved in to her procrastinations and decided to record the morning’s work on her digital voice recorder instead, but after speaking into it for few seconds Anna swore. She pressed the buttons again, more determinedly the second time.
‘Bollocks to it. I thought I only changed these yesterday.’
The batteries had gone flat resulting in a futile hunt for new ones. She sighed with annoyance when the machine would neither record, nor play back, and in anger she threw it on the table.
She was reprieved from endless, laborious note writing when her phone rang.
5
Keeping up the Appearance of Normality
Anna was late collecting her mother-in-law that afternoon. Having spent a productive morning staking out the Fewtrell gang, she’d almost forgotten what day it was.
On the last few mornings of her daily surveillance she’d been distracted by the man on the motorbike who lived in the house next to Fewtrell’s Yard. She’d seen him come and go, and twice had followed him to the lane leading to the old school where he worked, trying to determine if he had anything to do with the underhand dealings of hi
s close neighbours. She had begun to write about him when her mother-in-law had called.
If Brenda Chamberlain hadn’t phoned to ask if the arrangements had changed she might have completely forgotten their plans to meet for tea. Lunchtime had already passed by without being missed.
‘Sorry, Brenda, I’m running a little late. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’
Anna had left the house in a hurry, overlooking her own appearance until she sat in the drivers seat and spied herself in the rear view mirror.
‘Shit. I look a mess.’ She used her fingers to primp her hair and, wetting the index finger on her right hand, rubbed beneath each eye trying to erase the stale mascara shadows that had accumulated there.
No sooner had Brenda stepped into the car than she declared it was in dire need of a wash and valet to rid it of the fusty reek of neglect.
‘You are letting your standards slip.’
‘Too many hours spent sitting in it drinking coffee and eating snacks, I’m afraid, Brenda. You’re right. It does need some attention. Once I’m less busy, when this assignment is completed, I’ll get it cleaned. I’ve other priorities at present.’
Brenda pushed her glasses up her nose and with raised eyebrows looked across from the passenger seat with disdain. ‘You still represent Damien as an officer of her majesty’s armed forces and as such you should take more pride in your appearance. You may well be on some undercover operation that requires you to dress like one of those chav people, but I doubt very much that you need to do so this afternoon. Couldn’t you have changed, dear? Brushed your hair? What’s going on?’
‘As I said, I’m extremely busy.’
Brenda sat stiffly in the passenger seat; handbag on her lap, her feet amongst empty cardboard coffee cups and she threw a doubtful look in Anna’s direction.
Parading around in front of the long mirror in the shop, she turned to her mother-in-law.
‘What do you think? Biker Chick or Hells Angel?’
‘I think you’ve finally gone too far. I can’t believe you’re really going through with this.’ Brenda Chamberlain, uncomfortably seated on a low stool, waited outside the women’s changing room and shot her daughter-in-law a look of disapproval. She sighed. ‘Well I suppose it’s better than I was expecting. At least you didn’t bother trying on the leather jacket with the tassels.’
‘I’m not auditioning for “Annie Get Your Gun”, Brenda. I’m going to learn to ride a motorbike. What I need is something sensible for all weathers and with the right amount of reflection and protection. That’s what it says in my handbook.’ Anna despaired of Brenda’s negativity. ‘It’s my next personal challenge, the lessons are booked and I’m not backing out just because you don’t approve.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with approval or disapproval. It’s downright dangerous, Anna. Simple as that.’
‘I do realise what you say is right, but the risk is part of the thrill don’t you think? Anyway, who are you to talk? Didn’t you ride pillion on the back of a bike when you were younger than I am now? I’ve seen the photo, remember. Tut, tut, Brenda, that’s double standards. Do as I say, not as I do.’
Anna knew how to irritate her mother-in-law. She’d had years of practise and had fine-tuned her method to cause maximum impact with as few words as possible. She returned to the shelter of the makeshift ladies changing room as Brenda responded, ‘I don’t know why you bothered dragging me along if you’re going to be rude. I worry about you and where’s the harm in that? You’re young and attractive, although how on earth any man is going to find you alluring looking like that I can’t imagine.’
Touché. The same sore point every bloody time.
Anna didn’t rise to the bait. She’d heard it all before. Her mother-in-law continued, raising her voice slightly. ‘Four years is long enough. Damien would have wanted you to be happy and find someone else before it’s too late for you to have children.’
How the hell would she know?
Anna held back from any reaction. What she wanted to say was not suitable for public consumption, even though they were within the forgiving confines of a motorcycle clothing and accessories warehouse with no other customers in the women’s section.
‘You know my thoughts on that subject, so I suggest you change the record before we go for tea and cake.’ Anna didn’t know of any local tea rooms that served arsenic or cyanide with their scones, but she would have gladly paid whatever price they charged if there was such an option.
‘I’m only thinking of you …’ Brenda said sweetly.
Unconvinced by the attempt at sincerity, Anna muttered to herself as she did up her jeans. ‘No, you’re not. You just want a fucking grandchild to replace your son.’
‘What did you say, dear?’
‘Nothing, just struggling with a zip.’ She drew a deep breath before swishing back the heavy curtain and emerging from the changing room with a false smile plastered on her face. ‘Yes, of course you worry. In fact, you spend far too much of your time worrying about me. I’m fine. Now then, let’s see if we can find an assistant to help with the important issue of purchasing a crash helmet.’
Brenda puckered up her mouth, making her nose wrinkle. ‘I hope it won’t take too much longer, I do find the odour of leather and sweaty feet a little off-putting. For some reason it reminds me of the cloakrooms at school when I was a child. Awful place.’
It was some considerable time later that the two women, watched by the shop assistant whose help had been declined, headed back across the car park laden with hundreds of pounds worth of jacket, trousers, gloves, helmet, and boots. They were still bickering about Anna’s motivation for wanting to ride motorbikes.
‘I don’t understand your endless objections. It will be really helpful for work. I can nip in and out of the traffic jams and park outside wherever I need to be.’
‘Yes, and when you take off that helmet, your hair will be plastered to your head in a most unattractive way and you’ll look like a man in those clothes. What sort of impression will that give?’
‘I couldn’t give a toss. My brains are what matter for work, not what I look like. Now shall we call an end to your efforts to marry me off again? I married Damien and I still love him, dead or not. Brenda, I’m seeking a life without my husband being here, and if I did happen to find a replacement for him I wouldn’t be talking to you about him, now would I? Can we please leave it at that?’
Brenda wore a pained expression as she patted her handbag, double-checking its whereabouts. ‘You seem so unhappy. All this false pretence at being busy and fulfilled is a lie, dear. I know that and so do you. Look at yourself. Telling everyone that you’re a freelance investigative journalist isn’t the same as actually being one and having a career, is it? Come on now, have you thought about counselling or therapy like the hospital suggested?’
Anna threw an armful of shopping bags into the boot and slammed it shut. ‘That’s it. Get in the car. You’re interfering in matters that you don’t understand. I didn’t expect to be insulted and it’s thoughtless of you to infer that I’m not coping. Can’t you be positive for a change?’
Her words cut through the air.
Brenda scowled before changing the subject and directing Anna to take her home immediately. ‘I have tea and cake coming out of my ears. So, let’s go home and I’ll put the kettle on. It’ll save a pretty penny.’
The journey back to Lower Marton was completed in awkward silence, peppered only by the occasional passing comment from Brenda, who habitually read road signs aloud. ‘“Road Works Ahead”, is that the sewers again? I do wonder when these town planner types will get it through their soft heads that building new estates will inevitably put pressure on old main sewerage systems. What with that and people’s uncommon need to use wet wipes instead of a bidet, it’s bound to end in blockages. Goodness, what a hideous pong, it’s worse than this car.’
Anna caved in and smirked at Brenda’s attempt to lighten the mood. ‘You are
funny. This is miles away from your house, so why get all worked up about it?’
Brenda didn’t seem to register the comment and accepted it as a rhetorical question, preferring instead to gather scattered cardboard coffee cups and receipts from the floor around the passenger seat.
‘What assignment are you researching did you say?’
‘I didn’t. I can’t divulge exactly what or who is involved, but I’m definitely on to a big story. You’ll have to wait for the breaking news when it comes, which it will.’
As Anna pulled up outside Brenda’s neat nineteen-thirties bungalow she stared towards the house on its right. ‘There he is bang on cue. Dear old Duncan. Deaf as a post and a face like an aspidistra: always in the window. He was made to be a nosy neighbour with a snout that big.’ Anna waved, as did Brenda ambling from the pavement through her wrought iron gate and onto the path leading to her front door. Three neat brick steps led to an arched porch.
‘The neighbourhood watch sticker is practically irrelevant,’ Anna said tapping the sign on the small coloured glass window of Brenda’s door, before giving another exaggerated wave in the direction of the old man next door. She followed her mother-in-law through to her kitchen where they prepared a tray of tea, cake and biscuits. It was amusing to Anna that Brenda insisted on making use of a lace cloth, a proper cake slice, tea strainer, milk in a silver jug, and a silver teapot with a knitted tea cosy. Like an ancient ritual, the pot was warmed before two scoops of mixed loose-leaf tea were spooned in with silent reverence. When the boiling water was poured, Brenda inhaled the steam, declaring, ‘what a welcoming scent. One-quarter Lapsang Souchong to three-quarters Lyons red label. Perfect.’
On the walls of the sunny lounge were photographs of men in uniform; Damien with Anna at their wedding, Damien on parade, Damien’s father in uniform, and medals in display cases hanging pride of place. Anna always tried not to look at them but, as usual, her eyes were drawn to the photo of her wedding day and the memories it held. Damien had been handsome, resolute, charming and although older than her by over a decade they’d had so much fun together when he was in one of his relaxed happy moods. She even missed his demanding ways and flashes of temper. It was better than loneliness and uncertainty. A cramping in her chest brought her back to the present.
