by Tony Bassett
Yusuf then made some sarcastic remarks, along the lines of: ’It’s wonderful to have options. But I’ll have to decide which one of these wonderful opportunities I take.’
Tedros then told him: ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Yusuf. It doesn’t suit you. You’ve only a short time to decide.’
As they walked away, Beraki called out : ‘We keep changing our mobile numbers, but it’s easy to get a message to us. Some of our boys work in the car wash in St Peter’s Road.’ Then he added in English: ‘Be seeing you!’
When Yusuf returned to the bike shop, he looked shaken.
‘Everything all right, Yusuf?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he retorted, rather abruptly. “We go.’
I had overheard the raised voices of his companions and had suspected they were threatening him over money for some reason. Yusuf explained the whole of the conversation to me as we travelled back to Chasehurst.
14
Saturday morning was dull and overcast. I rose at nine o’clock with the intention of going to visit Yusuf and help him fit the new bicycle tyre.
But my mission was interrupted by a loud knock on the door just before ten. Glancing through the front window, I noticed a friendly, smiling woman in a light-brown coat standing by the front door. It was Prunella Ball.
‘Is Anne around at all?’ she asked. ‘I wanted a quick word.’
‘Yes, I’ll just call her. Come in,’ I replied. ‘By the way, the house powered by apples. I looked it up online. There’s an aerobic digester which creates gas from the apples. Is that right?
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
‘That’s amazing!’ I said.
The journalist, who was wearing a navy-blue skirt and white blouse beneath her coat, waited at the foot of the stairs as I went to see if Anne was dressed.
Moments later Anne came down to greet her friend in black jeans and a pink T-shirt.
‘This is unexpected,’ said Anne. ‘How are you? Everything OK?’
‘Ace,’ Prunella replied. ‘But I need your help with something. You know you told me on the phone the other day you’d started working for Finch & Davies? I wondered if you knew a guy called Lucas - Lucas Sharp?’
‘Yes, I know him vaguely,’ she admitted. ‘He’s my friend’s husband. I sometimes see him when I turn up to run classes.’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead. He’s been murdered in Chivingden,’ she said.
‘Oh my God! You’d better come into the living-room,’ said Anne, who had been faced with blank looks at work when asking about the cottage fire.
I took Prunella’s coat and hung it from the bannisters before following the women into the room. The journalist made herself comfortable at the end of the settee, while Anne sat in an armchair and I seated myself on a dining chair by the window.
“I’m just on my way back from visiting Chivingden and thought I’d drop in,’ said Prunella. ‘I was pretty sure you’d know him. God, Anne, what happened is so horrendous.’
I interrupted to say: ‘You say Chivingden. Is this anything to do with that fire at the thatched cottage?
‘Yes, Bob. It is.’
‘So Lucas Sharp was overcome by fumes? That’s what usually happens with house-fires.’
‘No, it didn’t happen like that at all, Bob. I’m not sure how to tell you. It’s so hideous, so gruesome. It’s hard to find words to describe it. He was killed by a firework wired to his head.’
We chorused: ‘Wired to his head?’
‘Yes,’ said Prunella. ‘The police doctor, Theo Harryman, said he’d never come across a murder like it in his thirty-five-year career - and he must’ve seen some grim sights.’
‘So you’re obviously writing a story about it?’ I asked.
‘Yes. There’ll be major reports in the Sunday papers tomorrow. I’ve been playing my part. I’m also writing a piece for Monday’s papers. But I don’t think the full gory details will appear. The editors of family papers have to ensure material’s acceptable to families. While you’re munching your cornflakes with the children at the breakfast table, you probably don’t want to read about a man’s head being blown off.’
‘Oh my God!’ cried Anne. ‘So there’s no way it could’ve been an accident?’
‘The police don’t think so. They’re working on the theory he was tied to a chair, an industrial firework was fixed to his head and it blew up.’
‘You’ve really got us intrigued now, Prunella,’ I said. ‘D’you have any more details?’
‘All I can tell you is my detective friend Graham was having a fireworks party at his home in Maidstone and his boss, Detective Inspector Russell Woods, asked him to meet him at Lilac Cottage. The place is owned by Sharp’s aunt, who’s in hospital having tests.
‘One of my reporter friends has discovered Sharp hated fireworks. An older boy hurled a banger at him when he was aged four. It exploded by his feet, causing no injury but instilling him with a lifetime aversion.’
Anne butted in. ‘He must’ve been feeling a bit down when he died. He’d just been sacked from his job,’ she informed her friend.
‘That’s right, but there’s obviously no suggestion of suicide. He’s thought to have spent the day cleaning his car and Graham tells me he’d been due to meet his girlfriend at the cottage, a woman called Rosie Bennett.
‘Well, to cut a long story short, he entered the place at around seven pm and was astonished to find someone had fixed a Catherine Wheel to the kitchen wall and lit it.
‘When he went to inspect this strange spectacle, police believe he was attacked from behind by an intruder who forced a handkerchief containing some kind of chemical round his nose and mouth.’
‘Chloroform?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, that’s what the police think, but they’re carrying out tests. Anyway, the pungent vapour spread through his nasal passages and lungs and he must’ve keeled over. When officers arrived in the fire-damaged kitchen, they found him dead, tied with rope to a chair.’
‘God, how terrible. He wouldn’t have stood a chance,’ said Anne.
‘That’s right. So if there’s anything you can tell me about Mr Sharp, that would be very helpful,’ said Prunella.
‘I’d say Lucas is about five feet eight inches tall,’ said Anne. ‘It would require a fairly powerful person to overpower him and hold a rag containing chloroform round his face long enough to take effect.’
‘Yes. Graham said it looked as if someone had broken in through the back door. Then they’ve lain in wait for him. After the explosion, Sharp’s body remained seated on the chair in his blue jeans, blue check shirt and brown jacket, which were saturated with blood. It’s thought the killer made off through the front door - possibly by bicycle. Apparently one of the scenes of crime team noticed some fresh bicycle tyre tracks on the grass verge at the front of the cottage and some more inside the garden next to the gate. There’s also part of a shoeprint by the back door. They know Sharp got there by car and came through the front door.’
I asked: ‘Any of the neighbours see or hear anything?’
‘Most of the neighbours wouldn’t open the door to me, but those that did saw and heard nothing significant.’
I remarked: ‘Even if they did hear anything, they might have attributed the noise to Bonfire Night festivities.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Prunella. ‘Police think he was killed between half-past six and half-past seven.’
‘What happened to the girlfriend, the Bennett woman?’ Anne asked.
‘Graham says she turned up as the police and fire crews were at the scene. One of the fire officers took her aside and had to break the devastating news to her.’
‘At least she wasn’t harmed,’ said Anne.
‘That’s right. She isn’t thought to have been around when the murderer str
uck.’
I immediately remembered Rosie Bennett had been mysteriously summoned to the school by a mystery phone call, delaying her arrival at Lilac Cottage. I mentioned this to Prunella, who was excited to hear the details.
‘So she had been due to meet him earlier?’ Prunella asked. ‘That’s really interesting. Someone had her interests at heart by delaying her journey. If she had turned up at the agreed time, maybe we would have been looking at two murders. Thanks for telling me that, Bob. Obviously, I will have to check that with the school and the cops, but that might give me a small exclusive.’
‘D’you know much about the Bennett woman?’ I asked her.
‘Only that her husband Neil works as deputy manager of a supermarket and he’s a keen member of Kent and Sussex Caving Club. I’ve been told they’re going through a divorce.’
‘What about the firework that’s meant to have crashed onto the roof and caused the fire?’ I asked. ‘We read about it in the paper.’
‘There was a fire, of course,’ Prunella explained. ‘But there was no firework on the roof. The killer piled up some clothes from a laundry basket on the table next to the curtains. He set them alight and the fire then spread to the roof. Graham says the killer probably thought the whole cottage would be destroyed, including the body, but the fire brigade arrived very quickly and it was soon put out. A coil of wire which is thought to have been wound round Sharp’s forehead and neck to support the firework was found on the kitchen floor among the debris.’
‘Any idea what kind of firework was used?’ I asked.
‘It was a mortar. Some of the cardboard packaging survived. It had the words: “Artillery shell” on the side.
‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘The words “artillery shell” put you in mind of the First World War.’ I paused for a moment and then said: ’If my knowledge of the law’s up to date, fireworks like that are only legal in the United Kingdom if they’re part of an organised display. They’re on restricted sale.’
‘One of the lines of inquiry being followed by police is to focus on the origins of the bizarre murder weapon,’ Prunella said. ‘You might’ve thought the killer might’ve used a gun instead, but guns can be hard to get hold of. It’s possible he got access to a supply of illegal fireworks and decided to use one of those.’
‘Gruesome,’ said Anne. ‘I’m afraid this has upset me.’
I went over to Anne and put my arm round her, consolingly.
She told Prunella: ‘All I can tell you about Lucas Sharp is he was meant to pay nearly £1,000 into the farm’s bank account in the second week of October, but he kept the money for himself. Then he tried to frame a friend of ours, Yusuf Osman, our ex-lodger, over the theft. Luckily, our friend was cleared and Sharp got the sack at the end of last month. Police were called in and the case was due to come up in court.’
‘I’m not surprised to hear that. Graham says Sharp had enemies. Thinks he owed a man some money for drugs.’
‘I’m going to be seeing Gemma, Lucas’s wife, over the next few days,’ Anne revealed. ‘I’ll see if I can arrange for you to meet her.’
‘That’d be great if you could do that. She’s refusing to talk to the press at present.’
‘I can understand why,’ I commented. ‘She must be in a hell of a state, poor girl.’
‘Yes, but the more information the police and press can get, the more quickly the killer can be found,’ said Anne.
‘Absolutely. Couldn’t agree more,’ said Prunella. ‘Oh, there was one other thing. As Graham and DI Woods left the murder scene, Graham began peering at Sharp’s red Astra estate, which he had parked outside the cottage two hours earlier. Under the street light, he noticed what appeared to be a series of Chinese letters etched on the side of the vehicle. Well, the inspector took a torch from his pocket and examined the five obscure symbols across the entire length of the nearside car door. Each one was twenty centimetres high.’
‘How bizarre!’ said Anne.
‘Yes. The two detectives thought so as well. By all accounts, Graham said: “I t looks freshly done. What the hell does it mean?” To which the inspector replied with words to the effect: “I don’t know but I’m damn well going to find out.”’
Over the next few days, Anne received several phone calls from Prunella Ball, inquiring whether Anne had been able to arrange a meeting between her and the dead man’s widow. I listened to some of them when Anne switched the call to speaker-phone. On other occasions, she explained the content of the conversations to me afterwards.
Anne had for various reasons been unable to speak to Gemma - mainly because the phone had been constantly engaged or left off the hook. Eventually she managed to leave a voicemail message on Gemma’s mobile phone, but she waited in vain to hear back from her childhood friend.
However, during the phone conversations with Prunella, Anne received more details about the progress the police were making.
Prunella had managed to speak briefly to Rosie Bennett shortly after Detective Inspector Woods, a tall, slim detective with greying hair and gold-framed glasses, had interviewed the heartbroken lover.
‘The inspector is a stickler for victimology,’ Prunella us.
‘What does that mean exactly?’ asked Anne.
‘It means he makes it a priority to study the victims of the crime. He believes the surest way to solve murder cases is by obtaining as much information as possible about the victims’ lives. That’s why he made a point of personally interviewing the dead man’s widow and his girlfriend as a matter of the first importance.’
‘Oh I see. That’s interesting,’ said Anne.
‘He spoke to Rosie Bennett first,’ Prunella went on.’ She explained she had first got to know Lucas Sharp when they worked for the same Herne Bay supermarket a few years ago.
‘He had formerly been scruffily-dressed, Rosie told him. But after his marriage, his image changed dramatically. She came across him again in Canterbury two months ago, by which time he was working at the farm’s accounts department, and they started dating. She eventually found out he was married, but by then she was so smitten with him she decided to continue the relationship.’
Eventually, Prunella disclosed, the lovestruck pair began spending time at Lilac Cottage.
Prunella revealed the owner, Jane Taylor, had been widowed in 2005. She was one of four sisters: Andrea, Martina, Jane and Sue. Andrea was Sharp’s mother and the youngest sister, Sue, was Mr Finch’s secretary at the farm, Sue Wickens. Martina was married to Ted Moreton, the pack-house manager. So Sharp was the third member of the family to obtain a job at the farm.
Prunella informed us that, in Rosie’s police statement, she claimed she got off the bus in Chivingden at about twenty-five minutes past seven.
Prunella told Anne: ‘I’ve got part of Rosie’s police statement here, which I got from Graham. It says: “You could smell burning wood most of the way up the lane. There was a police cordon around Lilac Cottage. A police sergeant told me a man’s body had been found and when they described the clothes, I knew it was Lucas. I called my mother. She begged me to come home -- I was so upset. I haven’t stopped crying since. I was really shocked when I learned he might have been murdered.”’
Prunella told Anne she had called round at Rosie’s home in Sturry to interview her.
‘She was fairly happy to talk to me, although she was still upset,’ said Prunella. ‘She was unaware her boyfriend had been dismissed from his job and was due to appear in court on a theft charge. She said he was a fantastic man - very friendly and considerate. She couldn’t believe he had stolen any money as he had been deputy manager at the supermarket and highly trusted.’
Prunella noticed that Rosie had photographs of her husband, Neil, hanging on the wall above her stone fireplace. These included images of her husband at two of Britain’s most popular destination
s for caving enthusiasts -- Alum Pot in North Yorkshire and Gaping Gill, near Ingleborough.
Amusingly, when she asked if her husband was in a cave right now, Rosie told Prunella: ‘No, he’s probably shifting boxes in the Canterbury supermarket where he works!’
Rosie said her husband had been unaware of her plans to meet Sharp at the cottage.
‘No. I haven’t spoken to him for two weeks. He knew nothing about my relationship with Lucas,’ she told the journalist. ‘We’ve been separated for months.’
Neither had she informed her son Mark nor seven-year-old daughter Cheryl of her date at the cottage.
But when Prunella asked if anyone else knew of the rendezvous, Rosie’s response was: “Only my mother -- and the bus driver.’ It appears Dennis, the driver of the 1B bus which travels through Chasehurst, was a former schoolfriend of Rosie’s. For some reason, she had mentioned to him she would be in Chivingden at seven o’clock on Bonfire Night.
15
The morning of Stephen Rigden’s funeral was frosty and bright. As we walked down the lane towards the church, the long grass was adorned with flecks of ice. Our shoes crunched onto the dark-brown leaves, many the size of a man’s hand, and I pulled my scarf more snugly round my neck.
Over the tops of the hedgerows, the fields were decked in a carpet of glistening white crystals.
Within just over fifteen minutes, Anne and I reached the fourteenth century St Mary’s Church, which overlooks open country at the edge of the village. We passed through the graveyard with its straggly grass and, in a slow, dignified manner, entered through the side door we always used.
There were fewer than twenty people in the congregation. Many of Stephen’s friends and relatives lived some distance away or were too old and frail to attend the early morning service.
Stephen’s widow Marion was sitting in one of the front pews along with her son Michael and his wife Yvonne. Our other neighbour, Linda Morrison, had been assisted into the second row by a daughter, who had travelled from Essex. We also recognised the landlord of the Merry Friar, Miles Benton, and Ted Moreton from Finch & Davies.