Marcia used her ammunition on her ineffective husband. Nothing was helped by it, except to extend the time that Jeremy’s boots continued to spoil the carpet.
Reed didn’t say that he was off to see Galina. He had half a wild idea of doing so just to see the reactions, but such a sadistic pleasure would have carried with it possible risks to his financial future. He, too, believed in keeping his powder, in this case his negotiating powder, dry. Seeing that it was not yet eleven but recalling his first visit, he decided to take a chance on getting any up-to-date gossip that mine host at the Bell might be willing to give him. He had been forthcoming the first time, and there was more likelihood of learning the sort of background things that he wanted there than from the more feminine chatter of the dreary little village store. He drove down to the pub, parked outside, and entered once again the dusty, quiet room. This time Ted Goschen was in place behind the bar. And recognised him. Clever fellow!
“Well, good morning, sir. Nice to see you again. Still house hunting? Half of real ale is it?” Very clever fellow! He might well have a few gems of local interest to pass on.
“And for your good self. Also like last time. With a whisky chaser each today, I think”
“You can’t have bought Wickton! Found something else then?” and the publican pulled the handle and handled the bottle. Not from one of the inverted standard range hanging in the rack, Reed noticed, but from what he took to be the ‘landlord’s own’ bottle from beneath the bar. He couldn’t see the label. He was not going to complain. A promising start! What was not so promising was the petition that was lying open on the bar top. Against the loss of the wetlands.
“’Save the Wetland’”, he read out. Save what exactly? Local politics grown large? “You’ll never get progress in this area if the authorities keep giving in to protest groups of NIMBYs.” Had he gone too far? Shown his hand?
“My view exactly, sir. What we need is a shake-up around here. That’s what I said to Councillor Mrs White when she brought the thing in. ‘I’m surprised you are backing this,’ I said. ‘What we want’, I said to her. ‘is some get-up-and-go businessman to bring in a bit of life and a few jobs.’ Maybe”, and here Goschen gave a shrewd look straight at Reed, “maybe someone like yourself, sir. I didn’t suppose that you were looking for a retirement home exactly. Of course, all she saw in it was votes.”
“Could be a country retreat I’m seeking”, Reed had no clue as to what Goschen knew but, fair enough, he expected to find fruitful local information here. It could be, in a place that size and with all that was going on, he himself had become part of such news. The landlord took a slow sip of his ale.
“No offence, sir. Not my business to pry. I made it clear to her, though, that if we don’t get some new life in the place then likes as not this pub will close. And the village shop. Then the school will go. Then what’ll be left? Not a rush hour here is it?”
Reed didn’t point out that, in the not so olden days, it would still have been too early to open for business. He sipped his whisky in turn, considering how to go forward. If he declared his commercial interest, then what? Supposing that the publican didn’t have a whiff of his intentions already?
The man had, he recalled, told him on his first visit that Alan Tewkes was a customer. But rarely his brother, and had made no mention of Galina. So, if he did know what his customer was about, where would he have got it from? Hardly Marcia. Reed couldn’t see her leaning on the bar, one elegantly shoed foot resting on the low brass railing that ran its length, discussing chicken farm developments. Further talk was, however, cut short by the rapid entrance of two locals, so Reed took them to be. They didn’t pause for any preliminaries.
“Guess what, Ted?” said the first directly to Goschen. Reed wondered if they had even noticed his presence.
“Guess what,” repeated his companion. “Den is dead. Shot. Just like Tewkes.”
“Bloody hell,” was mine host’s considered reply. “He was only in here last night!” and without apparent instruction nor, from what Reed could see, any payment, he drew two pints and passed them over to the news-bringers. They acted as a talking/drinking duo, one gulping while the other gasped out the stupendous happening. Reed was glad not to be part of it. His observer role suited him well. The words ‘shot’, ‘churchyard’, ‘grave’ and a series of supporting epithets were clear and oft repeated; the logical sequence of whatever it was they were reporting was not. As the first flood of sensation ebbed, and as the two worthies paid for a second pint each, much needed in a counselling role, he eased the petition towards him in order to read the rallying call printed at the top of each page of signatures. There were two and a bit pages filled in, somewhere about fifty four or five names was his quick addition. Not bad for a place this size. All locals? Regulars? If so, the Bell might be secure enough without any development. A puritan worthy might have entered within its sinful portals on the holy task of petition signing, but wouldn’t there be a copy in the shop? He might just look. The same fifty there again, maybe, using a relative’s address. Reed had no more faith in the veracity of petition signers than of the gullible masses that phoned in on television matters or voted on line for this or that best of bests.
The message was simple. The wetlands were at risk of sale. This must be stopped. The saving of the planet depended on it – or some such. ‘Reports’ had been received that a gravel-extraction firm had eyes on the place or, worse, a chicken farm with all the associated risk of bird flu. Reed was sorry to see the second. Had things gone as he had hoped, he might have pumped the publican to find out where that second rumour originated. All history to him, now. It was not good. Time to get out for sure, what with all this going on and Jeremy Tewkes too.
Still, the fair Galina was worth one more approach. He signalled his farewell to Goschen, and went back to the car. Heigh-ho, once more, for the seven bay windows.
Behind him he left the beginnings of a conspiracy theory.
“Now why was he here again, I wonder?” mused Ted Goschen out loud. “Come down more than once he has. Hanging about Wickton, and says he’s visiting that Mrs Foxley.”
“One of the gravel diggers, you reckon?”
“That or a chicken factory man. Could well be. Wants the land I bet.”
“Better support the petition, then, if you don’t want either of those.”
“Want something here. Need new blood and jobs.”
“But not them?”
“Not too keen, I’ll give you that.”
“What then?”
“Dunno. Pint?”
Chapter Eighteen
etective Inspector Hole faced the round of interviews once more, including some of the stars of the first series. True, he could add the Vicar and the churchwarden, Enderby, to his list, but here again appeared Thornley, there on the site the day before and ‘spying out the ground’ or something like that according to Eustace Edward. What for? Then there was Farmer. Not digging that morning, it would appear, but who knows where he was and what were his movements? His to find out. Anyone else of the original gang? One for certain, it seemed.
“What are you doing here?” The surprise in Annie’s voice in turn surprised Digger.
“You mean you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Where have you come from?”
“The church. I’m giving Galina Foxley a hand with the floral settings for the Warburton funeral.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No. It would have embarrassed Galina. I think she was a bit annoyed at my appearing at all. Wanted to keep her act of kindness hidden. If I hadn’t been in the shop when she ordered the flowers and, much like you I suppose, prised it out of her by my platitudinous comments, I wouldn’t have known of it. When I did, I had to offer to help.”
“Even when not wanted?”
“That was only because she didn’t want to be seen as looking for thanks. Glad I did offer. Some of those vases are heavy to handle.�
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He knew that if she had told him that morning, like as not he wouldn’t have registered it. His mind had been elsewhere, partly on his coming visit to Ma Olive and, he had hoped, a talk with Den Bracegirt, and again by an almost ridiculous concern as to whether Maitland’s meteorological research would cast a glimmer of sunshine on the shrouded path leading to Alan’s killer.
“If you’ve been in the church surely you’ve seen the Vicar and Mr Enderby?”
“No. Why? We wouldn’t in any case. Because there was a Matins at ten we were working down below in the vestry. Out of the way. Easier there in any case. Plenty of water and all the flower pots to hand. I came up for some last minute greenery, saw the chalked notice saying the service was cancelled, and then saw you. Have you cancelled it?” Annie wasn’t a policeman’s wife for nothing.
“Not directly. I let the Vicar go back to the church to put up a notice. It was his idea. I told him to wait there. I thought Enderby was also at the building by now. I’d finished with him. For the moment.”
“Finished with him? What has the poor man done?”
“Found a body”, and Hole told her what had happened.
“Oh dear!” How inadequate, and yet it didn’t take a copper’s spouse to see the implications of that news in the present mood in the village. “Oh dear!” again. “Poor man.”
“Maitland’s away getting some information, and uniform have got control of the scene. The body is being taken away now”, and as they spoke Annie saw a stretcher being taken to the broad path that served the current-use area of the graveyard, where an ambulance stood.
“I must tell Galina.”
“Wait a moment. How long have you been here?”
“Since about quarter past nine. It would be about that. Galina was well under way and she said she had got here before nine, hoping to be clear by Matins.”
“What held her, you, up?”
“Nothing really. Just took longer than we thought. It was a bit fiddly. The flowers weren’t up to much and we both had a go at finding the right in-fill of green stuff from round and about.” The policeman in Hole was to the fore of the husband.
“After you joined her, did she go out? Looking for this stuff? Alone?”
Annie knew her husband.
“Suspicious old devil! Yes, I think she might have, though she had gathered a fair bit by the time I arrived. So it wouldn’t have been for long. I can’t truly recall. I did. Pop out for some more – some of those jars are too big; we need some smaller ones – so do you want to arrest me?”
“I was telling someone of your shooting prowess only the other day. But not with the type of rifle we’re looking for! We mustn’t joke, dear. Someone in the Force with no sense of humour might pick up on it.”
“I see. Sorry. I should know better. Poor man.”
“Indeed poor man. And poor me! Got this one on my plate now. Did we once talk of an early retirement? It’s going to take me to kingdom come at this rate. Still, on with the motley. As I just said, I told the Vicar and Mr Enderby to wait in the church until I came. That’s why I was surprised that you hadn’t seen them.”
“As I say, we were down below. In any case, they will be in Robert Henshaw’s office as like as not. They would tend to be there on a normal day, once the service was over, on some parish business.”
“Right. Well, you go back to your flowers. Tell Mrs Foxley what has happened. Den Bracegirt has been shot dead. That will do for the moment. Ask her, please, from me – as firmly as is necessary – to wait until I’ve spoken to the two men. I may as well get statements from you both now. While the iron’s hot, so to speak. If she has other appointments ask her, tell her, with regret, from me, to cancel them. I’ll find you in the vestry. Oh, and one more thing. Keep an eye on her face, her reactions, when you tell her of Den.”
Dutifully, and with no more ado, Annie Hole returned to the floral basement.
Hole quickly reviewed his options. He had the Vicar and Enderby on tap. He wanted no more than to get what he could from them while things were fresh in their minds. While he could hope that, over time, some further detail may come back to one of them, certainly Enderby who was a near witness, the Vicar being home at the time, he wanted to get every last drop of immediate recall that he could. In that sense, things here were in better shape than they had been following the Tewkes killing. By the time he had arrived on that scene, all had been getting cold. Also Farmer had not been particularly observant, unlike Enderby. Farmer! And Thornley. He would have to get new statements from them, but they were last on the present list. Neither had been seen that morning at the crime spot. Similarly, Annie. A formality, but one that he could not afford to overlook if only for form’s sake. And, yet again, Galina Foxley. Strange how this group hung around the dangerous fire of a rifle like moths around a candle. All he needed was to find cause to re-interview Jeremy Tewkes and that fellow Reed and he would have a full house. Unless a passing engine driver had taken to firing pot shots at rabbits as he went by and had missed, his field of suspects was settling. Settling, but not narrowing. Not yet.
The Vicar repeated, almost word for word, what he had said earlier. His mind, as Hole suspected, was already elsewhere. On the vexed problem of how to get the Warburton funeral out of the way and then, after that, how he would tackle any request for pastoral recognition of Den’s death. Redemption could be a tricky business! Surely Ma Olive would go for a non-Christian cremation? He was pulled back to the moment by the Inspector.
“Yes. Yes. Forgive me. Quite upsetting all this. Yes. I have used Den before when we have had an awkward grave to dig out. He has been, truly, most obliging. Of course, I give him a small sum, but not one that of itself would attract, I don’t think. I feel he was pleased to be able to make a small contribution. Maybe Ma Olive encouraged him. I don’t know. But usually, these days, it’s George Farmer alone. With his little digging machine. He’s very adept at it, and he and his wife are regular worshippers. Altogether easier. The problem was, as you now know, we couldn’t get even his small machine through to the old Warburton grave.”
“So Farmer has been digging by hand on this occasion?”
“He was here yesterday”, burst in Enderby. “When Mr Thornley and I had a look around. No doubt about that at all”, and he said this with a firmness that indicated that in his mind Farmer was thus cleared of any suspicion.
“Yesterday. Not today?”
Enderby was a little crestfallen.
“Yes. Yesterday. Afternoon. Somewhere about three o’clock. Mr Thornley takes his PCC duties seriously, and is always looking around the churchyard for graffiti or rubbish or any such.”
“Were any such dangerous gravestones?”
“As I said, Inspector, they are on our minds these days, aren’t they Vicar?”
“We had a directive from the Bishop’s office only last week. Because one almost fell on some malarking child in Northumberland, we are all at risk of very expensive compensation claims if anything of the sort can be blamed on the church’s negligence. Mr Thornley is most anxious to avoid any such occurrence. As, of course, am I.”
“We both are. All three of us”, added the clear-minded warden.
Hole spent longer pressing Enderby, as hard as he could without harassing the man, as to what he had heard and what he had, almost, seen. There was little of substance to add to what he had reported at the grave side. Except for one new point that, in view of what Hole hoped Maitland was about, was of interest. A train had passed at roughly the same time as Enderby had been attracted to the noise of a bang. He still wouldn’t commit himself to saying for sure that it was a shot. He accepted it must have been, for how else could Den have died, but he could only say what he could say.
“There was a train. Not a fast one. Not a noisy one, if you know what I mean. Even so, it must have passed after I heard the shot or it would have drowned the noise, wouldn’t it. Now let me get this straight. There was a train. You learn the noises of approaching
trains, Inspector, being around here as much as I am. The expresses are very noisy. Almost as bad as low-flying aeroplanes. It wasn’t one of those. It was of the sort that ticks along. Clickety-clack sort of rhythm. Usually a lot of coaches of coal, steel rods, or what looks to me like metal junk. Things like that. There is a clatter but not a loud clatter. Almost soothing. And, yes, it must have been coming into the run past the churchyard, below the embankment – which helps hide some of the sound I find – just before I heard the bang. It was past by the time I reached the Warburtons grave. I could still hear it, the train that is, moving away, its noise fading by the moment. I forgot about that in the shock of finding Bracegirt. Will it be of any help?”
“It might help us fix the time of the shot yet more exactly,” was Hole’s careful reply. He got nothing more that was new and, after telling both that he would almost certainly want to see them again, if only to check their stories against other evidence as it came to light, he left them and descended to speak to the women.
They were waiting for him. They had, so far as Hole could see, completed their work. He fancied that, in view of what would be unavoidably a further delay in the burial of the Warburtons, the work would be largely wasted. Annie had not thought much of the flowers in the first place; they were not likely to improve by a yet longer wait. Ditto the greenery. Hole could see that both women were upset and a bit on edge. Did his wife fear his interrogative powers? Or was she nervous for her companion’s sake? He chose to begin with Annie. Let Galina Foxley stew a little before he turned to her.
He gave a simple description of what had happened and where. He didn’t mention any timings.
“You can both help, I hope. Den Bracegirt has been shot and killed while working on the Warburton grave. You were both here in the church and, from what Annie has already told me, at some time or other went out into the churchyard to collect green backing for these displays. They look good to me, may I say. A very kind gesture for the old folk. But I fear they may have to be”, he hesitated over a word, “refreshed for the actual occasion. There will, necessarily, be a few days’ delay while we get all we can from the area. I hope that you may be able to give me some sort of lead. Annie, first. When you were out collecting and cutting, did you see anyone or hear anything. A movement? A noise? Did you go anywhere near to where Den was working?”
Goosey Goosey Gander Page 15