by Jack Benton
Slim wanted to ask more but the door rattled as someone came in. Kent looked up, smiling.
‘Jimmy. My boy. Lad, come here, say hello. This here’s Slim. He’s been asking round about Den Sharp.’
Slim turned. The young man was perhaps twenty, crewcut, hard-eyed. Thin but tightly muscled as though he helped out his dad.
Slim didn’t recognise him until the young man spoke.
‘What’s he doing in here, Dad? Everyone’s talking about him. Poking his nose in where it isn’t wanted.’
Slim nodded. The voice he had heard from the gateway: the young man pushing an aerosol onto his unwilling girlfriend. An idiot trying to push his idiocy onto someone else.
‘Jimmy,’ Slim said, his voice slurring as he pushed himself uncertainly to his feet. ‘I found something you left behind.’
‘What?’
Slim was dimly aware that Jimmy’s fists had clenched. He grinned. ‘A couple of spray cans. Oh, and a condom. Unused.’
25
Slim stumbled back towards his lodgings, occasionally rubbing his left cheek, pressing down on the cut Jimmy’s ring had opened until he was sure the blood had stopped.
It felt strange to have an enemy. He’d been here a few days without one readily presenting itself, but Jimmy had now ticked another box on Slim’s case disaster sheet.
Kenny Kent’s son had got off a decent left hook before his father grabbed him, bear arms pinning scrawny ones to the boy’s side. The idiot boy had caught Slim flush on the cheek bone, but the ring had done the only real damage, Kent’s son spending more time idling in fields with spray cans rather than carrying fence poles, judging by the lack of weight behind the blow.
The scuffle had rather severed Slim’s conversation with Kenny Kent. He had made a hasty exit, getting out of sight while father argued with boy. He had intended to head straight back to his lodgings but had instead made a U-turn detour to buy a cheap bottle of brandy from Cathy’s shop. Mandy, running the store in place of her mother, had asked him what had happened, but Slim had laughed about low-hanging tree branches and stumbled out.
Now, still not in sight of his lodgings, the brandy was gone and Slim was considering returning for more. Scuttleworth had been up the hill, hadn’t it?
He decided to sit for a while and think about it, but when he lowered himself to the verge, he found no ground beneath him, and instead he rolled head over heels back into the undergrowth.
When he came to a stop he was no longer sure in which way the road lay, so he rested his head back and stared up at the nearly leafless tree branches overhead.
Was this a relapse or was he off the wagon again? Slim found he barely cared, only that the softly crunchy twigs and leaves beneath him felt strangely comforting, as though someone had laid a cool blanket down to cushion him.
The world was revolving faster and faster, the branches above becoming a kaleidoscopic blur. Slim tried to close his eyes but that only made it worse, the spinning seeming to begin with his head and engulf his whole body. He had the sensation of choking, of hot vomit filling his throat, and then he was rolling again, this time onto his front.
The trees disappeared. The ground beneath him was black. Slim smelt warm peaty earth. It soothed him, slowing the spinning sensation, and he thought that he slept.
The crunch of footfalls nearby was the first sound upon waking. Slim opened his eyes. His face ached and his body felt leaden. The spinning sensation had slowed but not stopped so he knew he was still drunk. He shifted a couple of inches until he could see rays of sunlight catching the ground in front of his face.
From the chill of his back beneath his jacket and the angle of the sun, he judged it to be late afternoon. He had been lying inert for several hours.
The footsteps came again, a distinct crunch of feet on fallen leaves and twigs. It had to be a person, most likely a man—no animal save a horse or cow would make such heavy footfalls.
Acutely aware that he could be in danger, Slim gently rolled over onto his side.
He had fallen into a shallow hollow behind a fallen branch. A bent elbow in the branch gave him a triangular viewpoint from which to observe the slope of the forest below as it angled down to the river.
A man was walking lower down. Moving slowly, he would move forward a few steps then squat, reach out for something, pick it and put it into a bag.
Slim glanced left and right. The grey head of a mushroom poked out of a bed of leaves just a few paces beyond the fallen branch.
He let out a slow breath. Just an autumn mushroom picker, not someone come to finish him off.
The man stood up. He wore a light brown camouflage jacket over grey jeans and a deerstalker hat. A tatty rucksack hung over one shoulder, and Slim watched as the man turned, slipping it off his arm and unzipping it to put a bag of grey-white mushrooms inside.
Slim’s breath caught in his throat. The face angled up to the sun, giving Slim a view of the man in profile. A light brown beard was flecked with grey, and the face was more lined, but the eyes and the suspicious tilt of the man’s brow made Slim wish his vision would stop wavering long enough to see this face in total clarity.
The clothes were a match, the beard, the angle of the jaw….
Slim had stared at this face every morning for the past week.
Dennis Sharp.
He shifted, trying to get up, but he was still too intoxicated to control himself. A twig snapped beneath his hip, the crack like a gunshot across the still of the forest.
In an instant Sharp was gone, dropping low and racing down through the trees. Slim scrambled to his feet, but by the time he got around the fallen branch, Dennis was long gone.
He cursed his foul luck, but at the same time felt a bloom of elation.
He knew it for certain now.
Dennis Sharp was alive.
26
‘First threat came as both email and letter. Letter came first, then the email, a copy. Secretary had it filed with all the other junk Mr. Ozgood gets. Thought you might like to see it.’
Croad held out the sheet of paper. Slim took it and frowned. ‘This is a photocopy.’
‘Don’t have authorisation to give you the original.’
Slim suppressed a sigh. ‘This will be of limited use if you want it analysed. Has no one looked at it before?’
Croad shook his head. ‘Mr. Ozgood doesn’t want the police involved. You know that. They only know about the stuff that happened official, like Den’s crash and Ellie’s court case.’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. Can you find me something to compare it with?’
‘Like what?’
‘Something with Dennis Sharp’s writing on it.’
Croad nodded. ‘Will do me best.’
He went out. Slim slumped back to the table, hooking his feet together in an attempt to stop the shaking. It had been tough hiding his relapse from Croad, and the old man didn’t appear to have heard about his run in with Jimmy Kent. In such a small community though, it was inevitable that sooner or later word would get around.
Neither had Slim mentioned the man in the forest. A day had gone by since then, during which Slim had holed himself up, fighting the urge to drown himself, and already the doubts were creeping in. Had he really seen Dennis Sharp, or just someone with an uncanny likeness? He had been in the middle of a sudden relapse after more than three weeks sober. Had he even seen anyone at all?
He had followed the man, but Den had done exactly what Slim would have done in the circumstances: run to the nearest stream then follow it to hide his trail. Slim had followed the stream until it reached a ford where he had given up. Backtracking, he had struggled to remember exactly where he had started and therefore failed to find any tracks.
He was beginning to doubt his own sanity.
Needing to keep his mind occupied, he went outside, walked up the hill a short distance until his phone caught a signal, then called Kay.
‘How’s the Ozgood investigation going?’ hi
s friend asked.
‘I’m still alive,’ Slim answered. ‘I consider that a win so far. I have something I’d like you to look at.’
‘Sure, you got a fax or is it something you need to post?’
Slim considered. Kay and himself had been loose friends over the years, but stuck in this unforgiving nowhere town, more than anything he wanted to see a familiar face.
‘Any chance you could come down?’
A pause. Then Kay said, ‘Sure. I can be there tonight.’
Slim arranged a meeting place in Stickwool, where he had met the police officer Evan Ford, then hung off. Next he called Croad.
‘Have you found me anything?’
‘Yeah. Bringing it back now.’
‘I’m going out. Leave it in the postbox.’
As soon as he had hung up, Slim walked back down to the house, went inside and locked the front door. He then did the same to the back. He went into the bedroom, intending to climb into the bed and sleep, but at the last moment deciding instead to slide under the bed, out of sight.
Lying there in a dusty space barely high enough to fit him, he felt like an idiot, but he had only been there a couple of minutes when he heard someone rattling the door handle. Croad, it had to be.
A key turned in the lock and the door creaked as it opened. Footfalls fell on the lino in the entrance and then moved up the hall to the kitchen. Slim had left the bedroom door ajar and he watched a shadow pass by, heading into the kitchen.
Papers rustled as Croad looked through Slim’s notes. It was no surprise that the caretaker had a spare key, but Slim felt a rising anger that he was being spied on. He had left nothing incriminating where Croad could find it, but the cheek of the man was incredible.
Giving up or clearly not finding what he wanted, the shadow retreated to the door. It creaked open as Croad let himself out, then the key turned with a click.
Slim was breathing hard, his face sweaty despite the cold. He climbed out from beneath the bed and went to the kitchen. He looked through his papers but Croad had taken nothing.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. He was wondering whether a coffee might make him feel better when a distant bang followed by a growl announced the approach of a car.
Slim went through into the living room and cracked the curtain just as Croad parked his ancient Marina and got out. The old man stumped up to the door, pushed something through the letter box, and then retreated to the car without looking up, muttering something barely audible about being due a pay rise.
Slim stared as the car pulled away with an irritated whine.
His throat was dry, his temples throbbing. ‘Leave me alone, you bastard,’ he muttered to the ghost of Dennis Sharp. ‘I don’t need to be haunted.’
27
‘I’ve seen him,’ Slim said, leaning across the table. ‘Twice.’
Kay Skelton frowned. Powerful fingers which defied the delicate forensic linguistics work in which he was now primarily involved made a steeple on the tabletop. He chewed silently, considering.
‘You’re sure?’
Slim shook his head. ‘Am I ever sure of anything? No. The first time I was drunk. The second, I only know who it wasn’t. I didn’t see his face.’
Kay gave a sage nod. ‘That doesn’t mean you were mistaken. But I’ve known you long enough to know that the way you interpret things isn’t always the same as the rest of us.’
A waitress brought coffee. Slim took a sip then called her back, asking for an extra shot of espresso. Kay watched Slim out of grey eyes as he slowly drank.
‘You knew Ozgood in the military,’ Slim said. ‘What was he like?’
‘You mean, was he a born killer or a made one?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You want my honest opinion?’ Kay sighed. ‘He was a coward. He didn’t have the stomach for it. But something else … his personality was—what’s the easiest way to put it?—entitled. We all knew he was a rich kid. He knew it, too. He tried to be one of us—tried pretty hard—but it was like he came in a different wrapper. I mean, we all came from different backgrounds—my old man was a welder; Trey Phillips—remember him?—his dad was a banker—but Ozgood, he was on a different level. Like, we’d hit a bar on a down day and he’d want to set up a tab. Trying to be matey, buy us all drinks to get us on side, but he stumbled each time. We saw through it. Then, when we were on active duty fighting insurgents in Somalia, he damn sure made certain he was behind the radio rather than out in the ATVs.’
‘Didn’t you ever see him kill a man?’
Kay shook his head. ‘It would never have happened. Didn’t have the guts. But one thing—’
‘What?’
‘Ollie had a temper. Petulant, like a child. Someone swapped out his boots for a size small one day, and he went off like a little kid, throwing stuff around. Went straight to the sergeant, filing a complaint. No one missed him when he signed off.’
Slim gave a slow nod. ‘Could he have killed someone?’
Kay laughed then shook his head. ‘I know what he claimed, which I told you, but having known him, I find it hard to believe. Certainly not with his own hands. He could have ordered it—he was rich and angry enough—but he would have stayed well away, made sure not to get his hands dirty.’
Slim gave a thoughtful nod. Another theory was settling into place.
‘This man Dennis Sharp is supposed to be dead. That’s what Ozgood tells me. He set it up, he made sure of it. That’s his trump card, what he told me with such conviction as though that should define him more than anything else. I’ve heard Dennis was loved and hated in equal measure, but what if it wasn’t like that at all? What if his death was faked, or it never happened at all?’
Kay smiled. ‘That’s a lot of “what if’s”, Slim, and do you know who says that? A drinker. The detective needs to think about the “whats” and drop the “ifs”.’
Slim nodded. ‘That’s one reason I called you.’ He pulled a folder out of his bag and handed Kay several photocopies.
‘This is the copy of the original blackmail letter. These are account ledgers for Ozgood’s garden supplies. Dennis Sharp wrote these by hand. What I need to know is if the same person wrote both.’
‘Couldn’t you get the originals? I could do a lot more with those.’
Slim shook his head. ‘Croad—Ozgood’s caretaker—wouldn’t give them to me. He said they were too valuable.’
Kay smirked. ‘I can understand the letter, but those old gardening ledgers? Not so much.’
Slim shrugged. ‘He’s a strange one.’
Kay leaned over the papers. Slim offered him a pen which Kay took, frowning as he stared at the copies.
‘It’ll take me a few days to be certain,’ he said, ‘plus without the originals it’ll make it difficult to assess things like indentation strength. However, I should be able to narrow it down to a maybe or a straight no.’
Slim nodded. Lined up side by side, the two texts looked nothing alike. The letter was bunched and scrawled, the lines uneven, the ledger neatly filled out in grammar school copperplate.
‘I mean, he could have written it left-handed, or had someone else write it,’ Slim said. ‘Or done one of those newspaper print things.’
Kay looked up. ‘That the blackmailer bothered to write a letter at all is something to consider,’ Kay said. ‘Who writes letters these days? They must have known it would be checked. If I could get the original I could check it for prints.’
‘I’ll ask Croad, but don’t expect much,’ Slim said.
Kay nodded. He slipped the papers into the bag and stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch. It was good to see you, Slim.’
They shook hands. Slim watched Kay walk out of the cafe, resisting a sudden urge to call his old friend back.
I’m afraid, he didn’t say. I don’t want to face this alone.
28
Scuttleworth’s community hall was easy to overlook, sat as it was on a carved platform at the top of a fiel
d, and at the end of an easy to miss lane between two houses a few doors down from Cathy’s shop. Slim, unwilling to talk with anyone, found himself pushing through a creaking pair of double fire doors into a pleasantly lit, high-ceilinged room. Frayed tape left tram lines for any number of indoor sports in a place large enough for a badminton court, while doors at the far end accessed other function rooms: a kitchen, small library, display rooms. Windows on one side looked onto the back fences of a row of houses, while those on the other side had a pleasant view of farmland sloping into a forested valley. Slim, frowned, remembering what he had seen down there in the woods. His fingers closed over the comforting coldness of the brandy bottle he had bought in Cathy’s shop which he now carried around as a crutch, even though, by some miracle, he was yet to open it.
Slim wandered through into the kitchen, dropped a pound into an honesty box and helped himself to a strong cup of instant coffee. As the spoonfuls of grains piled up, he felt a pang of guilt and added an extra fifty pence.
A little terrace at the back accessed through a sliding door had a pair of plastic tables, with chairs in a stack by the door. Slim took his coffee and sat outside, pulling his jacket around him against a chill wind rushing up from the valley.
He took a sip of the coffee and found it nearly cold already. He knew how to heat it up in a way he would most like, but he resisted, keeping his fingers firmly pressed against the tabletop even as the chill set in. He watched a tractor driving around the edge of a field across the valley for a few minutes, the farmer occasionally jumping down to inspect sections of fence, then stood up and went back inside.
