Stench

by AB Morgan

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To tell you to stay out of my personal life,’ Anna hooted through the letterbox.

  The pounding continued, forcing Brenda to open the front door and allowing Anna enough of a gap to push violently against it and to rage into the hallway. Brenda staggered back against the floral wallpaper, banging her head and losing her glasses. Anna turned, grabbed the collar of Brenda’s suit jacket and in a low tone mouthed in her face. ‘Leave us alone. Do you understand, you old witch? You leave me and Damien alone.’ She then shoved her elderly mother-in-law to the floor and marched out, crashing the heavy door closed as she did so.

  * * *

  Her next stop was to pay Leonard Fewtrell a visit. ‘It’s time to expose the bastard,’ she muttered as she returned to her car and drove to Quarry Farm Lane. She and Damien had decided on a stealth approach that would ensure access to the compound without being seen. Her first task was to tuck her car into the spinney. The small wooded area reached the side of the lane but extended to the edge of a large field where a well-worn track led towards an area of pheasant release pens. Anna reversed the car under the overhanging branches of the trees and went about concealing the rest of the vehicle with smaller branches that she cut using a bow saw pulled from her ever-present rucksack.

  A familiar noise caught her attention. She crouched down, hiding within the leaves of the trees where her car was hidden. Rory Norton, astride his motorbike, rode towards his cottage, pulled onto the drive and through the gateway where Anna lost sight of him. Her original plans would be put on hold she decided as she pulled a piece of paper from the breast pocket of her biker jacket. ‘You want a note from my doctor, then you shall have one.’

  Anna edged her way along the inside of the hedge and around the periphery of the field, thus avoiding being seen in the lane. She sprang out diagonally opposite number four, Rory’s cottage.

  The doorbell chime could be heard echoing within the house and in fewer than thirty seconds he was opening the door dressed in a T-shirt and leather bike trousers. Wide red braces were dangling against his thighs.

  Anna could see how taken aback he was. His hazel eyes narrowed.

  ‘I was just about to hop in the shower … what are you doing here? How did you know where I lived?’

  Anna checked behind her before handing over the piece of paper. He unfolded it and read a short note from Anna’s GP written in scrawling script.

  ‘I guess this means we’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you manage to get a good night’s rest. Thanks for delivering it in person.’ Rory’s words faded away as Anna had already withdrawn. She scuttled across the road and rolled beneath the hedge, leaving him staring after her in disbelief.

  Satisfied that she had not been seen, other than by her instructor, she returned to her hiding place and sat with her back against the widest tree trunk before she pressed her iPad into life. Via the camera placed on the frame of Rory’s greenhouse, the compound appeared deserted, until Anna spied movement on the screen in front of her. Against the corner of the workshop unit Mrs Carmel Fewtrell could be seen attaching a short metal chain to the yard dog’s heavy leather collar, with no objection from the usually ferocious four-legged barking machine. A sizeable food bowl was placed on the ground in reach of the guard dog and his head disappeared from view as he gulped down the contents. In that time Mrs Fewtrell had started the engine of a silver Mercedes SUV which, minutes later, nosed its way out of the grey entrance gates.

  ‘There can’t be anyone else left at home,’ Anna said to herself, ‘because she’s having to open and close the gates on her own.’

  Watching, as Carmel Fewtrell slid the metal handle across to secure the gates, there seemed to be no way of locking them from the outside.

  This was Anna’s chance.

  16

  Ribble’s Garage. Seven p.m

  ‘Don’t they know we’re shut? Who the hell is making that bloody racket?’ Annette Ribble heaved herself up from the kitchen chair and made her way to the door that led to the garage workshop. There was an incessant hooting of a car horn accompanied by a battering on the enormous metal roller shutter door. Annette checked the CCTV monitor on the shelf underneath the counter in the shop before pressing the button to raise the shop door shutter and unlock the glass-fronted door. Immediately to her right was Leonard Fewtrell, hand raised, banging against the garage workshop shutter and shouting for service.

  ‘Where I come from closed means shut, not open, business finished for the day,’ Annette challenged, glaring at the towering, heavy-set man responsible for the assault on her ears. ‘If you want something, you’ll have to ask nicely.’ Behind her Annette could hear panting and the rhythmical slapping sound of her husband’s bare feet on the lino flooring as he rushed to her side. ‘Netty, don’t wind him up.’

  Ignoring the advice from a dripping-wet Barney wrapped in a towel, Annette continued. ‘Well?’

  Leonard Fewtrell had a shock of thick white hair that refused to respond to a comb. It stood vertically like a brush and swayed with each motion of his head. His swarthy features, firm brow and piercing dark eyes were balanced by a dark grey and white striped beard, making for a striking picture of ruggedness. By his feet stood two rusting, green, twenty-litre jerry cans. He stared at Annette with contempt.

  ‘Diesel.’

  ‘Diesel what?’ she demanded.

  ‘I want you to fill up these cans with diesel. That’s what. Now get about it sharpish.’ Leonard Fewtrell had a can in either hand and was walking towards Annette. She had already seen another of the Fewtrells inside the pickup truck parked on the forecourt. A cousin or a younger brother, she judged by the similarity in features. The man in the driving seat wore a porkpie hat wedged on the back of his head, lank tresses of mousy hair hung to his shoulder where they lay like rat’s tails on the collar of the filthy checked shirt he wore. He pressed the horn again to underline his importance in the act of intimidation.

  ‘And you can cut that out,’ Annette bellowed at him, knowing he could hear her well enough through the open window of the truck. She wagged her finger. Leonard Fewtrell placed the cans beside a fuel pump. He folded his arms and, standing only ten feet away, leant towards Annette who had not budged from her position in the shop doorway.

  ‘Well, Miss Piggy, let’s have some fuckin’ service …’

  ‘As I have already said, Mr Fewtrell, we are closed for the day. However, if you ask nicely then I’m sure we can oblige if you are in need of fuel for your vehicles.’

  ‘It’s for the tank. The delivery’s late.’

  ‘I see. Does that mean your manners are behind schedule too? I’ve yet to hear the word “please”.’ Behind her she could hear Barney whisper under his breath as he scrabbled around, pulling on a pair of jeans. ‘Oh, fuck. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Get the fuel you stupid fat cow,’ Leonard growled.

  There was a silence. Barney was holding his breath and not because he was struggling to zip up the front of his jeans. Mad Leo had reached into the rear of the pickup truck and removed a long heavy item wrapped in sacking material. He unwound this from a shotgun. ‘I’ve got a licence. We’ve been pigeon shooting haven’t we, Dylan? It would be a shame if I dropped this, wouldn’t it? It might go off, accidental like.’

  Annette smirked. ‘If you had brains, you’d be dangerous. Take a look around you. Camera there, over there and looking you right in the face is the one above my head. Mr Fewtrell, I’m a film editor by profession. Each of these cameras is in full working order. It’s a digital system and as clear as if you were watching yourself on telly. Did you hear me, Dylan boy? Best if you stopped picking your nose right now.’ Annette took a deep breath and stepped towards the truck. ‘Pick up your cans and go elsewhere. We don’t want your custom.’

  Barney was by her side.

  ‘That’s right, Leo. You heard my wife.’ Barney put his arm around Annette’s shoulder and tucked her under his chunky wing. ‘My beautiful
wife, who you have insulted, has requested that you go. If you can’t be pleasant and polite then why would we deal with you? You never come ‘ere any other time. You have your own supply of fuel. It’s not our problem that you haven’t paid your bill. So please fuck right off.’ Barney swung Annette around, as if practising for the local barn dance, and marched her back into the shop where he pressed the button to close the shop-front shutter, locking the door with his other hand. Annette ran behind the counter to check on what was happening outside from the monitor, she was joined shortly by a scuttling Barney.

  ‘Shit. He’s still standing there not moving. He’s furious. Shall I call the police?’

  ‘No, wait. Listen.’ Annette and Barney were like statues behind the counter as they cocked their heads in the direction of the door. ‘He’s laughing.’ Mad Leo Fewtrell could be heard braying.

  ‘That’s made my day … hee-haw, “my beautiful wife” what a fucking moron. Hee-haw!’ Leo put the gun back into the truck before strutting over to the nearest petrol pump.

  Barney and Annette stared in disbelief at the CCTV screen.

  ‘He isn’t, is he?’ Annette said, forcing herself to watch as Leo Fewtrell unzipped his fly, and after rocking gently, back arched, began to urinate on the forecourt in view of the camera over the shop doorway. She turned her face from the screen.

  Leo tucked himself away, held up the jerry cans and launched them into the back of the truck. ‘Piss on me and I’ll piss on you. Dylan, let’s get going. Try the big garage in Lensham, they’ll have a twelve-year-old in the kiosk. We’ll fill up and fuck off before he knows we’ve been there.’

  On hearing the door of the truck slam shut, both Barney and Annette exhaled in unison. Their relief was short lived when they both saw Dylan flick his cigarette end out of the window and cock his middle finger as he drove off.

  ‘Nooooo!’ Annette clutched her hands to her chest.

  Without hesitation, Barney ran through to the workshop and barged like a bull at the fire exit door. He grabbed at the bucket of sand kept to hand by the main pumps and threw it across the ground where the discarded cigarette lay smoking. After putting down the metal bucket, he held his knees, gasping, staring at the ground, until eventually aiming a vertical thumb at the shop entrance, knowing that his wife would be watching the drama.

  Not satisfied that they were safe, Barney patrolled around the whole premises, scouting the nearest roads, the lay-by opposite and every inch of his own yard.

  ‘They must be desperate,’ he said on his return. ‘I’ve just seen Rose West drive out of Quarry Farm Lane in that swanky silver Mercedes of theirs. Do you reckon she’s been sent to look for fuel as well?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Any woman married to Leo Fewtrell must be bloody psychopathic, but really, I hope she hasn’t killed any of those workers and buried them under their patio.’

  ‘Have you ever been in there?’

  ‘No way. Not likely to either. I drive straight past if I need to go to the farm.’

  ‘It stinks to high heaven. So let me tell you, if dear old Carmel Fewtrell has buried anyone, you wouldn’t know it. Don’t you think she looks like Rose West?’

  Annette couldn’t agree. Mad Leo’s wife really didn’t resemble one of the most famous serial killers in her memory.

  ‘Different accent of course,’ Barney said. ‘And Carmel has more of a brassy barmaid look about her, a poor man’s Diana Dors who’s seen better days. In fact you’re right she doesn’t look like Rose West at all.’

  ‘How does skinny Rory cope living next door to that lot?’ Annette wondered. ‘Perhaps they don’t bother him because he’s such a hermit. I know Mad Leo had a run-in with Joe, but, when you consider how bad that could have turned out, it was nothing in comparison to what he usually gets up to outside the village. Joe got off lightly and so did we. Although my gut instinct tells me it’s down to an unwritten rule, for people like the Fewtrells, that you don’t sully your own doorstep.’

  Barney and Annette had a debate about whether or not to risk a trip to The Valiant Soldier for a pint but decided instead to stay in and guard their home. Annette rang the police to report the incident and to warn them about the likelihood that the garage in Lensham was going to have problems with payment for fuel.

  The police had a central reporting system and gave Annette an incident number. Roughly an hour after the shotgun showdown, the police called back.

  ‘That was most enlightening,’ Annette said as she replaced the handset. Barney raised his eyes from the TV, turning towards her to focus. At his wife’s command, he lowered the volume on the remote control. ‘First of all, they questioned my name and insisted on asking me to prove my identity. Apparently they have been inundated with calls from a female journalist who swears that Leonard Fewtrell is harbouring slaves and kidnapping vulnerable young men to work in his contracting business. The officer I spoke to seemed to have convinced himself that I was this woman. He then let slip her name: Anna. Now then, I wonder how Rory got on with trying to help her. Shall we phone him?’

  Barney realised that he’d forgotten to update his wife on the most recent phone call from Rory. ‘There’s been a break-through on that score.’ Once Annette was up to speed with the news that Anna had been persuaded to see her GP, Barney returned to the matter in hand.

  ‘What else did the police say? Are they following up?’

  Annette shook her head. ‘It didn’t sound promising. They said I could email the clip from the CCTV and if this showed Mad Leo brandishing a shotgun then they would take the necessary action, whatever that is. They will investigate his gun licence status apparently. At least they had the courtesy to say please and thank you, which is more than he managed, the wanker.’

  ‘Language, Netty! You don’t hear me use such words.’

  ‘No that’s true, you usually call him a dick-whacker, which I think is the same thing.’

  At about nine thirty Barney’s mobile phone rang. It was Rory. ‘Talk of the devil.’ Annette looked on as Barney nodded a lot, raised his eyebrows and added in an odd “umm” every so often, before he gave out any clue. ‘Have you let Brenda know all this?’ There was another pause before Barney stood up. ‘You keep an eye on things that end and I’ll pop round to Brenda’s to see if she’s okay. With any luck the silly girl will be making her way home by now. I’ll speak to you in a bit.’

  Annette waited expectantly. ‘Well?’

  ‘Anna Chamberlain turned up at Rory’s place looking like a tramp. Handed over a letter from her GP saying she was fit enough to undertake motorbike training. She then dashed off into the hedge of the field opposite and disappeared. He’s really twitchy about how she was behaving, but Brenda isn’t answering her phone. He’s rung her several times with no luck and he didn’t know who else to call at this time of day. He may have good reason to be concerned, that woman is never far from the phone and she’s rarely out this late.’

  On the CCTV system monitor, Annette watched her husband leave. He took the old Land Rover and made his way directly to Brenda’s house, which was in darkness. Even so he rang the doorbell. Hearing an unexpected groaning from behind the door he opened the flap of an ornate brass letter box with two of his sausage-like fingers and called out ‘Brenda? Are you in there?’ Another moan rose from below.

  The ambulance arrived within ten minutes, shortly after the ancient next-door neighbour, Duncan, had arrived with a spare key. Barney had unlocked the door and managed to create a gap of about two feet. He didn’t dare force it further for fear of exacerbating any injury to Brenda. From what he could make out, she had crawled as far as she could manage before collapsing against her own front door.

  ‘Brenda. I’m still here. Don’t worry, we’ll get you up soon.’ He wasn’t convinced she could hear him, but he kept talking anyway until the ambulance crew took over.

  ‘I’ve called the police,’ the quavering voice behind him announced. ‘There was one of those Hell’s Angels he
re earlier. I took a note of the registration on his bike. I never thought to check if she was alright after he left.’

  Barney sighed. ‘Don’t fret, Duncan, that was Rory. He came to see Brenda because he was worried about Anna. He’s an instructor not a hooligan. Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘Only Anna about an hour later. She didn’t stay long.’ He stopped talking and rubbed his head. ‘It can’t have been the Hell’s Angel can it?’

  17

  Anna Takes a Risk

  While rummaging around in her rucksack Anna was becoming flustered. ‘I know I put it in here.’

  ‘No camo again, Fruitcake? You’ll have to improvise, soldier.’

  She scoped around. Kneeling down on the dusty track she picked up a handful of dried mud and stones. She stared at it.

  ‘No water.’ She couldn’t remember what she had done with the bottle she usually carried in her bag, but it wasn’t there and neither was the camouflage paint stick that she’d bought. ‘How many more tests?’

  Cross with Damien for removing these essential items from her rucksack, she approached the car determinedly, popped the bonnet, and unscrewed the oil filler cap. She checked her reflection in the wing mirror as she smeared the blackened oil over her face. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Get going. They’ll be back before it’s dark. Get the evidence and get out, but whatever happens don’t get seen.’

  Anna crawled on her belly along the edge of the spinney until she came to the tarmac of the lane. Scampering across the road at right angles, in a crouched position, she ran towards the imposing gates at the entrance to Fewtrell’s Yard, slid back the metal bar and entered the compound. With her heart pounding and her breath coming in short bursts, she rested against the inside of one of the gates to give time to survey the scene.