Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  The ordeal of being locked in a cell for the best part of twenty-four hours a day appeared to have crushed his spirit.

  He had been allowed to shower and change into a grey shirt and brown trousers. But he was downcast. Even his enigmatic smile was absent when we squeezed into his small cell for our visit. We had only gained permission to see him after Mrs Carslake made a personal request to the chief superintendent.

  As Yusuf had requested, we had brought along two photographs of Fiesta the cat. One pictured the pet walking gracefully towards the camera with a proud look upon his face. The other showed Yusuf holding the pet outside the front door of our cottage.

  We had brought a small container of poster adhesive with which he managed to stick them onto the wall beside his bed.

  ‘The police have been talking to you about the murder then?’ I said after he stood back to admire the pictures.

  ‘Yes. They think I tied Lucas to a chair and blew off his head with a big firework. They’re crazy!’

  ‘Mrs Carslake has told us everything and we are going to do everything possible to get you out of here,’ Anne assured him.

  I could tell from Anne’s face she was distressed to find our friend in such a predicament, but she was hiding it as best she could for Yusuf’s sake. We both realised there were aspects of his life which were closed off to us. He had no doubt crossed swords with some unsavoury characters, including some criminals - in his efforts to reach the safety of Britain.

  We were also aware Sharp left our friend deeply upset by blaming him for the theft. However, we were equally convinced our friend could, by no stretch of the imagination, have carried out the horrific murder.

  I tried to cheer him up as best I could.

  ‘Fiesta’s been chasing birds in the garden again,’ I informed him. ‘Sometimes she sits on the mat outside the front door. She looks up whenever a cyclist comes by. She’s probably looking out for you.’

  ‘I miss Fiesta,’ he said. ‘I miss everything about your cottage and the garden. Are there still foxgloves growing in the lane?’

  ‘Yes, along with some daisies and there are some hollyhocks as well now!’ I said with a laugh.

  We said our goodbyes. I shook Yusuf’s hand and Anne kissed him on the cheek. We promised to visit him again soon.

  But, as we drove slowly home, I began to realise we would have to put our normal lives on hold.

  ‘Bob, we have to help Yusuf. We are probably the only people who know for sure he couldn’t have carried out this murder’ she said. ‘The police appear to be increasingly convinced Yusuf is guilty, so even though neither of us has ever been faced with a situation like this before, we have got to do something. D’you know what? I’m going to have to find out myself who the real perpetrator is.’

  ‘Would you like me to buy you a magnifying glass and deerstalker?’ I quipped.

  ‘This is not a time for joking,’ she insisted. ‘You always make a pathetic attempt to introduce humour. It’s not helpful.’

  When we got home, Anne decided she would make her introduction into the world of private sleuthing by visiting Lilac Cottage. It was now a week since the murder. She hoped, since it had not rained much, the cycle tyre tracks would still be visible. We did not know Chivingden very well, so I printed off a map of the area from the internet and we set off.

  ‘Is it a reasonable map showing The Street?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s not bad,’ I replied. ‘Only a few bits are missing.’

  Anne stopped the car on the Ashford Road so she could study it.

  ‘It resembles a sort of pictorial Morse code,’ she said. Then she reproached me. ‘Why didn’t you mention the printer was running out of ink?’

  We eventually managed to find the cottage and parked a few yards back. She wanted to examine carefully the grass verge outside.

  The lane was still and peaceful. Although it was the second week of November, it was mild. Now and then we could detect the sound of distant birdsong. How chilling to think, just a few days earlier, some evil force had been at work, snuffing out the life of poor Lucas Sharp.

  Anne set to work. She found a bicycle tyre mark which was about a metre long in the mud close to the wooden gate. She had expected more of them - much more. She photographed the solitary remaining track.

  She then entered the garden and found signs of more tracks on the left, beside the hedge. She photographed those as well.

  ‘Look at these, Bob,’ she said. ‘These don’t belong to our bicycle tyres. They’ve got a far more pronounced pattern consisting of black rubber nodules. What d’you think?’

  I studied the marks in the cold, moist November ground. I then examined the photographs she had taken on her digital camera, enlarging them for a clearer view.

  ‘I’m thinking mountain bike,’ I said. ‘I think, if we went to a cycle shop, we might even be able to work out which brand of cycle’s made them.’

  ‘That’s what I think - mountain bike,’ said Anne. ‘But I think we’ll have to take some casts with plaster of Paris if we want to produce evidence that could convince either the police or a court.’

  We next went round to the back of the cottage in the hope of finding the shoe-mark near the back door that had been mentioned to us, but we could not find any trace of it. Perhaps it had been trampled over too frequently by beleaguered scenes of crime officers.

  When we returned home, Anne went online. She found an American website that explained how to make casts of tyre marks. All she needed was a container of water, plaster of Paris, a serving spoon, a bucket and some tiny twigs or wire mesh to strengthen the casts.

  Following the instructions, she returned to Lilac Cottage with her equipment. Mindful that police forensic officers had performed a similar task already, she mixed the plaster in a bucket and meticulously spooned the mixture into the two tracks in the earth.

  She came home and allowed more than three hours for the plaster to set fully. Then she returned to the scene of her handiwork, carefully removed the casts and placed each one inside large empty cardboard boxes before driving back.

  Anne made some tea before examining the casts upstairs in the spare bedroom.

  She called out to me: ‘Could be an American tyre.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I replied from my comfortable seat in front of the television. I climbed the stairs and looked over her shoulder at the fragile cast she held in her hands.

  ‘I’m thinking of the WTB Nano tyre we saw in the cycle shop,’ she said, referring to an American cycle tyre that has a distinctive pattern incorporating tiny rubber nodules.

  ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Maybe your next move’s to find someone who rides a mountain bike.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Over the next two hours, we sat in the living-room deliberating about the case.

  ‘I’m going to have to go back to the school next week,’ I said. ‘They were very good in letting me have today and tomorrow off, but my services are sorely missed.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘But I’m going to carry on with this as long I need to.’

  She took a notebook from a drawer and found a pen on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Bob,’ she said. ‘Who d’you think might’ve murdered Lucas?’

  It was a question that had clearly been on both our minds since the moment we heard murder was involved. But hearing the words emerge from her lips at this time still took me unawares.

  ‘I - I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. There must be a few possible suspects.’

  ‘I’m going to make a list,’ she said. ‘If I write them all down, it might lead us somewhere. Something might leap out at us.’

  ‘Well, obviously someone who owns a mountain bike might go to the top of the list,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’m leaving
that until tomorrow,’ she said.

  I remarked: ‘You’ll have to put Gemma Sharp near the top of the list.’

  ‘Gemma?’ said Anne. ‘D’you think so?

  ‘Well, Lucas was clearly having an affair. She can’t have been overjoyed about that.’

  ‘Gemma told us Lucas’s affair was with a Rosie Bennett from Sturry,’ said Anne. ‘I don’t suppose that woman’s husband would be all that happy with Lucas for carrying on with his wife - so he’s got to go near the top as well,’ she insisted.

  ‘You can also add the man from our village called Knight,’ I told her. ‘Prunella and Miles Benton have both told us about him. It seems this man was pursuing Lucas for a drugs debt. According to Miles, Knight’s meant to have said something like: “Just you wait till I get my hands on that Lucas.” D’you want me to go over to the pub and see if I can find out anything more?’

  ‘If you want, but don’t worry too much. I’ll ask Gemma about it when I see her. Bob, the list of suspects isn’t very long at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s have a look!’ I said. I read out the names she had written down: Rosie Bennett’s husband; Gemma Sharp; a friend or lover of Gemma Sharp; Mr Knight.

  ‘D’you know for sure Gemma Sharp has a lover?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I thought I’d put it down because it’s a possibility. I’m in contact with her. I can easily find out.’

  ‘I think you’re being a bit optimistic. I’d have thought most people would keep schtum if they’ve got a secret lover.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have my methods!’ said Anne with a grin.

  I suggested, if it was possible for Sharp to have had a rival for his wife’s affections, Rosie Bennett could equally have had another admirer -- apart from Sharp.

  ‘If someone lost Rosie Bennett to a sneak like Lucas, I should think they’d be mad with rage - possibly mad enough to kill him,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to look at all the options,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll make a start by calling on Gemma this afternoon. I just hope she’s around.’

  22

  Gemma was delighted to receive a phone call from Anne. I had the distinct impression the mother-of-two did not have many friends.

  Anne arranged for us to visit her at two o’clock. We drove into the city and arrived a couple of minutes early.

  Gemma hugged Anne when she opened the front door. ‘It’s nice to have company at a time like this,’ she told us.

  ‘You seem in a better frame of mind now. Are you feeling better in yourself?’ Anne asked.

  ‘It’s all superficial,’ said Gemma, who was wearing frayed jeans and a pink blouse. ‘I’m still completely torn up inside.’

  She led us into her bright, sunny living room where we both sat on Gemma’s settee. She remained standing.

  ‘This is a lovely flat, Gemma,’ Anne remarked.

  ‘It’s all right. The garden needs sorting,’ said her friend. ‘You wanted to see me urgently?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve taken a big decision today. I’m on a one-woman mission to find your husband’s killer.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Anne? Aren’t the police doing that?’

  ‘I don’t trust the police. They’ve arrested our ex-lodger, Yusuf.’

  ‘Oh my God. I didn’t know. They said they was going to keep me informed.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Anne. ‘There’s some circumstantial evidence pointing to our ex-lodger, I must admit. But he’s the sweetest, kindest man and I’ve decided I have to help him. I just know he wouldn’t have committed such a heinous crime. And I have to help you as well, Gemma. I owe it to you, as a friend, to find out who did it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll help you, of course. D’you want some tea, by the way?’

  ‘No, thanks. We can’t stay long. I’ve so much to do. Could you just tell me a few things?’

  ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’

  ‘D’you know why Gordon Knight had the hump with Lucas?’ asked Anne, taking her notepad out of her handbag.

  ‘I don’t know precisely, but I think it was to do with money. I think he owed the guy over a grand.’

  ‘D’you know what the money was for?’ said Anne, as she began taking notes.

  ‘Look, I’m only telling you this because I see you as my friend. I don’t want anyone else to know - especially not the police. Lucas bought some drugs from him - just cannabis and a very small amount of cocaine. Just for recreational use. I don’t approve of drugs myself. I’d a massive row with him when I found out he’d bought them. I was concerned about the kids. I made him promise it was the last time. He tried to pay the money back, but he never earned enough. He kept giving the bloke excuses. ‘

  Anne asked: ‘D’you think Knight was annoyed enough to want to kill Lucas?’

  ‘It’s hard to believe someone would kill another person over a relatively small amount of money,’ Gemma admitted. ‘But I suppose anything’s possible.’

  I interrupted to ask: ‘Could it have been a lot more than £1,000 that he owed the man? Could the debt have run into several thousand pounds?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘Can you tell me a little more about Rosie Bennett? What’s her husband called? How long’s she been married?’

  ‘Rosie’s husband’s called Neil. He’s about thirty-six. He’s a supermarket manager. The blonde floozie kicked him out and he went to live with his brother Luke in St Stephens. They’ve been married for about eight years.’

  ‘D’you know how he spends his spare time? Is he out looking for a new girlfriend? Is he a member of any sports clubs? I’m trying to build up a picture of the man.’

  ‘His family come originally from Sissenden. I’m told he sometimes goes for a drink at the Pilgrims. You’ll never guess what his hobby is - potholing.’

  ‘Potholing?’

  ‘Yes. People have told me he’s taken the split from Rosie very badly. He’s trying to behave himself, so he can get back into her good books. The gossip is he’s trying very hard to curry favour with her - but she just don’t want to know. I think there’ve been a few times when he’s got a bit rough with her after a night’s drinking.’

  ‘Oh, one of those,’ said Anne. ‘How d’you know so much about the Bennetts then?’

  ‘I’ve made it my business to know. I wanted to know as much as I could about the woman trying to smash up my marriage. It does help, mind, someone I used to work with lives a few doors away!’

  ‘Who’s that - Judy Scott?’

  ‘No, Jennifer Campbell.’

  ‘Was her maiden name Harvey?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Thin face, good at running?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘I think I was at primary school with her,’ said Anne. Then she paused for a moment. She remembered from watching police dramas on television the wife or husband of a murder victim was often one of the main suspects in the case. It was now time to ask her friend a difficult question. She had to phrase it in a delicate way to avoid offence.

  ‘Gemma,’ she began. ‘Could I ask where you were on Bonfire Night? Did you take the kids out to a display or party?’

  ‘No, I was here. The kids went to a friend’s house where they had some fireworks. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered. Most people try to watch fireworks, don’t they?’ She quickly added a lie: ‘We did, didn’t we, Bob?’ I nodded, happy to support her claim. ‘So you were here at seven o’clock that night?’

  ‘Yes, having tea. Baked beans on toast, if you must know.’

  ‘Gem, d’you know anyone who’s got a mountain bike?’

  ‘Funny question, out of the blue.’

  ‘It’s just we’ve found tracks made by a m
ountain bike on the ground near the gate at Lilac Cottage.’

  ‘Lots of people have mountain bikes,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve got one meself.’

  Anne contemplated asking her friend if she could show her the bike so she could examine its tread. But the Gemma she recalled from her past was prone to mood swings. In addition, she had only just lost her husband. Anne did not want to risk an argument since she would no doubt need further information from Gemma as her career as an amateur detective progressed.

  But as we left the flat, she assured me she would return at some point to inspect the tyres.

  Anne had only been inside the Pilgrim’s Rest three times before. She enjoyed having a social drink, but the former coaching inn with its beamed ceiling and dark wooden panelling would not be her choice of venue for an evening out.

  However, she put this to the back of her mind when she paid landlord Bernard Couchman a visit with me at ten o’clock on the Friday morning.

  ‘We’re not open yet!’ called a voice from the cellar as she pushed open the main door and stepped inside onto creaking floorboards. I remained outside, convinced the landlord would be more forthcoming when addressed by a lady on her own.

  However, I kept my foot in the door to stop the light wind from blowing it shut and was able to hear the full conversation.

  Mr Couchman, a balding, heavily-built man of fifty-four, clambered up the cellar steps to speak to Anne.

  ‘We don’t open till eleven, young lady,’ he said as he hauled himself up into the bar.

  ‘I didn’t want a drink,’ said Anne. ‘I wanted a chat with you.’

  ‘It’s been a good few years since an attractive young lady like you said that to me!’ he said.

  ‘I’m making a few inquiries about a local family,’ she said.

  ‘Not press, are you?’ he said. ‘We’ve had them all here - Kentish Gazette, KMFM radio, the Sun, the Mirror. ‘

  ‘No, I’m not from the press.’