Buried Secrets

by Ted Tayler

  Alex parked outside the Chapel, and the two detectives walked back along Cuttle Lane towards the centre of the village.

  “That’s the cottage where Alan Duncan and Madeleine Mills lived, guv,” said Alex.

  Gus paused and studied the tidy property. It was a typical two-bedroomed semi-detached cottage built in the 1930s with central heating and double glazing installed in the past thirty years. If it stood on a side street in a small town in the county, it might fetch two hundred thousand pounds. Here, in a well-to-do village on the edge of the Cotswolds, the asking price would be at least fifty percent higher.

  Gus set off towards the duck pond. There was little point in looking inside the cottage. All traces of its inhabitants a decade ago had long disappeared. Gus stopped by the bus stop and took in the view.

  “Picturesque, isn’t it?” he said. “A sanctuary; rural life as it was a century ago.”

  “Have you ever watched ‘Midsomer Murders’, guv?” asked Alex. “Somebody gets murdered in that village every week.”

  “I bet they’re getting fed up with it, don’t you,” said Gus. “Stay here, Alex.”

  Gus looked both ways and crossed the road. He stood in front of the White Horse and waved at Alex.

  “I’m standing roughly where our mystery man parked that Saturday afternoon,” said Gus, raising his voice as a car drove past. “Phillips and Duncan cycled past him from my right and turned onto Cuttle Lane where you’re standing; agreed?”

  “Yes, guv,” called Alex. “They were fifteen metres from him throughout, maximum.”

  “Or sixteen yards in English, Alex. It doesn’t matter. Did either man wear glasses?”

  “The murder file didn’t mention whether Wayne Phillips wore glasses, guv, but Alan Duncan’s eyesight was 20:20.”

  “Phillips said that Duncan cycled faster as they passed this spot. A bit of a risk on a Saturday afternoon with more traffic on the roads. I reckon he knew the man. Phillips swore that he’d never seen him before. Why didn’t Miss Mills, or Duncan’s parents offer a possible name? That man must have figured in Duncan’s life somehow.”

  Gus rejoined Alex at the bus stop.

  “Which way now, Alex?” he asked.

  “Back to the car, guv. It’s a tidy walk to the next junction with the A420. Duncan ran past the Chapel and stayed on the lane until the Crown pub at Giddeahall. Madeleine Mills told police that was the route Duncan took on the Wednesday before he died.”

  Alex drove them to the pub car park and stopped.

  “That wasn’t three miles, Alex,” said Gus. “More like half that distance. I thought each of the routes Duncan took lasted eighty to ninety minutes?”

  “You’re right, guv. I suppose Duncan added a circuit of Church Road or elsewhere in the village to make up the difference. We can check with Mrs Telfer whether he came this way first, or if he passed his house on the way back into the village.”

  “Drive back towards their cottage, Alex. There’s nothing to help us here.”

  When they approached the cricket club, Alex slowed and turned sharply left.

  “Another of his routes?” asked Gus.

  “It’s Yatton Road, guv. The village tennis club is on your right.”

  “Blimey, it’s a well-appointed village, isn’t it? The money in the area helps, I guess.”

  “Now I know this will confuse you, guv, but this road crosses the A420, and then it becomes Biddestone Lane and leads straight into Yatton Keynell. It’s twice the size of Biddestone. Duncan only came this way once, according to his partner. As you can tell, it’s a busier road and visibility isn’t as good for pedestrians, or runners.”

  Alex slowed once more and executed a perfect three-point turn before driving back into the village.

  “The final route, in more ways than one, starts from his cottage and goes towards The Green. I’ll turn right by the bus stops we were at earlier and travel along Church Road. Challows Lane is just ahead on the right, which is the route Duncan followed that evening. Alan left the cottage at half-past six and jogged along Challows Lane onto Ham Lane. At an even pace, matching what he achieved every Wednesday evening, Duncan should have reached the field where he died just before seven. That ties in with eyewitness accounts. And we’re here, guv.”

  “A very windy lane, with no properties after it lost its Challows tag,” said Gus. “Miles from anywhere and open fields on either side. I wonder in which direction the killer travelled. Did he follow Duncan from his home or meet him here? What’s ahead of us, Alex?”

  “A tributary of the River Avon called By Brook, guv,” said Alex. “There’s another of these long and windy lanes called Weavern Lane that leads back into Biddestone via The Butts and then Church Road.”

  “So, if our mystery man was our killer, he could have followed Duncan as far as Church Road. Then when Duncan jogged up Challows Lane, the killer headed down Weavern Lane and lay in wait around one of those many corners on Ham Lane.”

  “If he was the killer, guv, then it’s a possibility,” agreed Alex.

  “Banks and Tallentire didn’t place anyone else in the frame, did they?” said Gus.

  “True, and they made zero headway trying to find anyone to provide an accurate description of that one man or his car.”

  “I wonder where the landowner lives. The lady who phoned in the initial report,” said Gus. “I can see the attraction of an evening hack along the lanes, but I haven’t seen a country pile worthy of the double-barrelled name as yet.”

  “Davinia Campbell-Drake, known as Bunny to her friends, you mean, guv?”

  “That will be milady to the likes of you and me, Alex. Remember to tug your forelock when we invite her for an interview.”

  “A proper invitation, guv?” grinned Alex. “You don’t plan on bombing up her driveway with lights and sirens blazing a la Gene Hunt, then?”

  “Gene who, Alex?”

  “It doesn’t matter, guv. Have you seen enough for today?”

  “I think so, Alex. Let’s get back and see what Luke has arranged for tomorrow.”

  Alex drove out of Biddestone and headed back to the Old Police Station office.

  The whiteboards were full of the usual maps, crime scene photos, and brief biographies of the victim and their known contacts.

  Gus sighed as he noticed how sparse the room looked compared to several of their earlier cases. Kenneth Truelove hadn’t given them much to work with, that was certain.

  “I put the information you asked for on your desk, guv,” said Luke.

  “Thanks, Luke.”

  “Did the walking tour offer any hidden gems, guv?” asked Lydia Logan Barre.

  “Not really, Lydia,” said Gus. “I now know where the victim died. The killer chose a spot as far from civilisation as it was possible to get within the Biddestone parish boundaries. The odds against someone disturbing him were huge. If Davinia Campbell-Drake was a creature of habit, like Alan Duncan, the killer did their homework and knew when she was due to trot along the lane. The murder was well-planned and executed.”

  “Might that suggest we’re dealing with a professional, guv?” asked Blessing Umeh.

  “A hit, do you mean, Blessing?” asked Neil Davis. “That came out of nowhere. Why would someone put out a contract on a man with no known enemies?”

  “If it were a crime of passion, it wouldn’t have been so efficient,” said Blessing. “Maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe we’re wrong. Alan Duncan had enemies, but the original investigation didn’t find them.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a crime of passion, Neil,” said Luke. “Although, strangulation isn’t what I’d expect if it was a contract hit.”

  “Forensics didn’t find any fingerprints on the victim,” said Blessing, referring to the murder file. “That suggests they wore gloves. How often do you wear gloves in May, Neil?”

  “Fair point, Blessing,” said Neil.

  “The eight and a half thousand pounds in cash,” said Gus. “What was that about?” />
  “We need more information, guv,” said Alex.

  “Luke, can you check something for me, please? Did Wayne Phillips wear glasses?”

  “I’ll get right on it, guv?” said Luke.

  Gus ran his finger down the page of names and potential interviews. Madeleine Telfer was available tomorrow morning from nine-thirty after she returned from the school run.

  Bob and Elizabeth Duncan would be at home tomorrow and Thursday.

  “Are the Duncan’s out for the day on Wednesday, Luke?” asked Gus.

  “No guv, Bob Duncan told me that Elizabeth struggles to get out of bed on a Wednesday. Even after ten years, the day is inextricably linked to the death of their only child. Since he retired, Alan’s father has written Wednesdays off as far as doing anything other than comfort his wife.”

  “I’ll drop over to see them tomorrow afternoon,” said Gus.

  “Wayne Phillips and his wife are free mid-morning on Wednesday, guv,” said Luke. “He’s got an appointment with his dental hygienist first thing. As for his eyesight, he wears contact lenses throughout the day, whatever he’s doing. Wayne was adamant that he wore them that Saturday afternoon on the cycle run.”

  “Right, thanks, Luke. That clears that up,” said Gus. “Lydia, I’d like you to come with me tomorrow morning when we speak to Madeleine Telfer in Chippenham. Blessing, I want you with me in the afternoon when we visit Corsham and the victim’s parents.

  “Okay, guv,” chorused Lydia and Blessing.

  “Who do you want to handle the Phillips’s, guv?” asked Luke.

  “Alex and Lydia, I think. You know what to do Lydia, get the wife into the kitchen, while Alex grills the husband in the living room. Don’t worry, Luke, you and Neil haven’t been put on the naughty step. You two can handle people at the firm where Alan Duncan worked. I don’t know if it will help, but fix up a meeting with whoever’s in charge of that call centre where Madeleine Mills worked for so long too.”

  “Got it, guv,” came the reply.

  “Anything else, guv,” asked Neil.

  “Kenneth Truelove glossed over what Phil Banks and Connor Tallentire are doing these days,” said Gus. “Except to say they’re working at different ends of the country. Chase them and get them to pass on any background they can remember that might have escaped the murder file we received. There’s no need to visit them.”

  “That’s plenty to be going on with, guv,” said Neil. “Who’s picking up the eyewitnesses?”

  “Alex and Lydia can get in contact with them by phone when they return to the office.. We’re double-checking what they said they saw back in 2008. Ten years is a long time. We might have to remind them what we’re asking about.”

  “What about the horse rider, guv?” asked Neil.

  “If you’ve got five minutes, Neil, look her up in Burke’s Peerage,” said Alex.

  “Posh, then, and having oodles of money,” said Neil.

  “The Campbell-Drakes could be as poor as church mice,” said Gus. “Farmers always complain that the weather is too dry, or it’s too wet, and they haven’t got enough Eastern European labourers to guarantee the harvest will get finished on time. Unless you suddenly think she killed Alan Duncan, we’ll keep our distance for now. I’ll check with Vera Butler at London Road. Her family has connections among the landed gentry. They’re bound to know how high up the ladder the family has climbed. If I read the murder file correctly, the lady didn’t even bother entering the field to see if Alan Duncan was still breathing. She made a quick phone call to the local constabulary as she trotted along the lane and went about her business.”

  It was twenty minutes past four. Gus thought he should be on his way. One thing to do before he left the office.

  “Gus?” said Suzie, “is this a message to say you’re going to be late?”

  “I’m collecting Kassie Trotter from work at five o’clock and running her home to Worton. She’s been itching to give me the inside track on Rhys Evans for days. At least, I think the gossip concerns him. What she’s learned, and why I need to hear it, I’m not sure yet, but Kassie needs someone to make her feel valued. That Geraldine Packenham has dented the poor girl’s confidence.”

  “You fooled people for years into believing you were thick-skinned and unemotional, Gus Freeman. Deep down, you’re a pussy-cat, aren’t you? Will you be long?”

  “I don’t plan to,” said Gus. “Kassie will feed me a rock cake before we leave the car park, and I’ll listen to her gossip while I try to eat it. Kassie will be out of the car like a shot once I pull up outside the old pub in Worton. She doesn’t want the locals to get the wrong idea.”

  “You’ve done this trip before then?” asked Suzie.

  “When Kassie was deeply involved in ‘Game of Thrones’, yes,” said Gus. “She told me everything I needed to know about Monty Jennings.”

  “Say no more,” said Suzie. “That meeting was a couple of days before we went for a Sunday afternoon stroll on the hillside and you wooed me with your home-made soup.”

  “I did not know where that would lead,” said Gus. “I have no regrets.”

  “I’ll expect you around six o’clock then,” said Suzie.

  “Kassie promised me any baked goods that weren’t snaffled by the senior staff today. I might have a doggy bag with me.”

  “Too many cakes will punish my waistline,” said Suzie. “Look at what it’s done to Geoff Mercer. I’ll stick to the salad that I promised myself. You can self-cater.”

  “I have to dash,” said Gus, “see you later.”

  Gus said goodbye to the team and left the building. As he turned into the visitor’s car park at London Road, he passed Vera Butler walking home. They exchanged a friendly wave, as had become their custom. Kassie Trotter waited at the foot of the steps outside the main building with a large bag over her shoulder.

  “Only two minutes late, Mr Freeman,” said Kassie as she flopped her sizeable form in the passenger seat. “You’re improving.”

  “Belt up, Kassie,” said Gus.

  “You’re a laugh a minute,” said Kassie, “unlike Miss Sourpuss there.”

  Gus looked up to see DI Geraldine Packenham staring at them. With a look of disgust, the new broom turned on her heel and headed for the Hub building.

  “Is Ms Packenham knocking the Hub whizz kids into shape this week, Kassie?” asked Gus.

  “I agree with Vera, Mr Freeman,” said Kassie. “As long as she’s not bothering us, I don’t care what she’s doing. Shall I give you one now, Mr Freeman?”

  “That’s why I agreed to pick you up. Devizes to Worton, price—one rock cake.”

  “Did you throw my bara brith away, Mr Freeman? You can be honest. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

  “I did remember to eat the large slice you gave me, Kassie. Perhaps, it was past its best when I got round to it. Don’t despair. Practice makes perfect.”

  Kassie delved into her large bag and removed one rock cake. She handed it to Gus as they stopped for a red light.

  “I don’t get many complaints about my cakes, Mr Freeman,” she said. “Mr Mercer always takes two.”

  “Well he would, wouldn’t he,” said Gus, taking a bite.

  Kassie was right. It was scrumptious. The lights turned green, and they were on their way to Worton.

  “Hot gossip, Kassie,” said Gus, brushing a wayward crumb from his lips. “That was the other part of the deal.”

  “Rhys Evans started work at London Road today, Mr Freeman,” said Kassie. “He’s in Peter Morgan’s old office. I asked him which he preferred this morning when I did the coffee and tea run. He doesn’t do hot drinks, Mr Freeman. My cakes are off the menu too. Mr Evans told me that his body is a temple. He drinks bottled water and practices yoga.”

  “The rumour mill was certain that Rhys was a Welshman who played rugby,” said Gus. “I thought they played hard, drank hard, and existed on raw meat. Times have changed. Where does that leave you now, Kassie?”

  “You
were busy last week,” said Kassie. “So, you didn’t have time to chat with Vera and me. Do you even remember where he’s living?”

  “Monty Jennings found him a property,” said Gus. “I remember now. It’s just up the road from you.”

  “One hundred yards away, Mr Freeman. When Vera told me the news, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Thirty-two years old, single, and a rugby player. He sounded perfect. Monty handed Mr Evans the keys ten days ago. Our new police surgeon had holiday owing, so he drove backwards and forwards in his car, transferring clothes and smaller items from his place in Bridgend. I persuaded Vera to drive over to Worton on Saturday to keep me company while I did my morning baking.”

  Gus slowed to wait for a break in traffic. They were already in Potterne and leaving the A350. This story had better be brief.

  “Mr Mercer reckoned the removal van with Mr Evans’s furniture was arriving mid-morning,” said Kassie. “We strolled up the lane at two o’clock with a few of my goodies and arrived just as the removal crew were heading back to South Wales. Vera rang the doorbell and explained who we were. She said if he needed a hand getting things straight, we were willing.”

  “What did Rhys Evans have to say?” asked Gus. He parked the car outside the pub.

  “Mr Evans was very polite,” said Kassie, “and invited us in. That’s when I noticed how short he was; he’s fit, I admit that, but he’s no man-mountain like you see on TV. Vera spotted a team photo on his Welsh dresser and asked what position he played. He said a scrum something, number nine.”

  “A scrum-half,” said Gus, “traditionally they were short, wiry, and nippy, with a good pair of hands.”

  “I wouldn’t know about his hands, Mr Freeman, but short and wiry sums him up well.”

  “Did Rhys let you and Vera loose on his soft furnishings?” asked Gus.

  “Unnecessary, Mr Freeman. Our police surgeon prefers the minimalist look. When Vera and I were on the doorstep five minutes later, Mr Evans told us that another twenty minutes tidying the place and everything would be where he wanted it to be. He planned to get his yoga mat out before driving into Devizes for a meal.”