Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  Anne discovered him in the pack-house, changing out of his blue work overalls. Fortunately, none of the other staff were around and it appeared to be an appropriate moment to tackle him.

  ‘It’s young Anne!’ he said by way of a greeting, unaware I was just outside the open door, eavesdropping. ‘Twice in one day! You’re starting to make me feel important. You’ve lucky. I was just off. What can I do for you this time?’

  As I stood watching from the doorway, concerned for her, she told Moreton: ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but there’s something else I’m mystified about.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that. What is it?’

  ‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr Moreton. One of the police accusations is Yusuf took and used a GPS tracker that was delivered to the farm.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m with you so far, Anne.’

  ‘Well, we both know that’s not true, don’t we?’

  We noticed the colour draining from Moreton’s cheeks.

  ‘I don’t want my friend Yusuf being blamed for something he didn’t do,’ she persisted.

  ‘All right. I’ll come clean,’ he said. ‘I can see you know. Yes, it’s true. I ordered the device. But it never came to me. I checked the post-room at the farm every day and never saw it. I phoned the company. They swore they’d sent it. I was going to phone again today, but never got round to it.’

  ‘You never fixed it to Lucas’s car?’

  ‘No, I never laid my hands on the bloody thing, even though I paid for it. Why would I want to find out where Lucas was? I had his home address. He’s only a short distance from me. I could see him any time.’

  ‘Can I ask why you wanted a ‘Little Snooper’?’

  ‘You can ask, whether I’ll tell you is a different matter.’

  ‘And why involve the farm? Couldn’t it have been sent to your home address?’

  ‘All right. I admit it might seem a little fishy. Look, if I tell you, will you promise to keep it under your hat?’

  ‘Of course.’ He lowered his voice and his next words were lost to me. But Anne related to me later that, he claimed, he had ordered the device ‘for personal reasons.’

  He explained his marriage had entered a ‘rocky patch.’ He had wanted to ‘keep tabs on someone.’ Then their conversation became audible again.

  I heard Anne say: ‘Look, I’m not concerned about your personal circumstances. I just want to clear Yusuf’s name. Did you tell anyone about the tracker?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it to anyone. Why would I? I never saw the bloody thing. Someone stole it from the post-room at the farm before I even knew it had arrived.’

  ‘Why would someone take it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s possible someone overheard me ordering it and was looking out for it. Or maybe someone spotted it and guessed what it was. It doesn’t take a lot of guesswork if the sender is advertising on the packaging, using words like “tracking and surveillance,” which these firms do.’

  ‘Who’s got access to the post-room?’

  ‘In theory or in practice?’ he said. ‘In theory, only Sue Wickens, Yusuf and me.’

  ‘But in practice?’

  ‘All the world and his wife. Anyone going into the reception area could nick an item of mail. So could virtually any member of staff drifting about behind the counter.’

  ‘That’s not a very secure system. All right, well, thanks for trying to help.’

  ‘You’re welcome, young lady!’ said Moreton. ‘Don’t forget -- silence is golden!’

  25

  Two pale, elderly faces peered out from the leaded light window of their home into the foggy night. A strange woman was knocking at their door.

  One face belonged to an old lady dressed in a long, pink floral dress with a white cardigan haphazardly fastened at the front. The other face was that of her husband, who announced loudly: ‘It’s a small blonde woman in a fawn coat.’

  His wife demanded: ‘Well, go and see what she wants. Hope it’s not the bloody press again.’

  Joshua Tolhurst, who was seventy-eight, hobbled along the dim hallway to the glazed front door. As he turned on the outside lamp, he could distinguish through the misted pane the outline of the woman standing alone in the dark lane.

  I had driven Anne to Chivingden so she could visit Jane Taylor’s next door neighbours. She knew she had more chance of being admitted if she called upon them on her own, so I waited in the car a short distance away.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded. An out-of-date neighbourhood watch sticker on the outside door frame indicated the householders were wary of strangers.

  The retired financial services consultant had also ensured a security chain was in place.

  ‘I’m inquiring about Mr Sharp’s death,’ Anne explained. ‘I’m working for Carslake & Whitter, solicitors.’

  ‘Have you got ID?’ said Mr Tolhurst.

  ‘Only my driving licence,’ she said.

  ‘What’s she say?’ came a voice from the living-room.

  ‘She says she’s only got her driving licence,’ yelled Mr Tolhurst, as he stood, slightly trembling, in his brown cardigan and pale green trousers by the door.

  ‘Tell her to push it through!’ said the voice.

  Anne held the letterbox in the door open with her left hand and passed the plastic licence through with her right hand. Her name was just legible to him.

  Mr Tolhurst opened the door and handed back the licence.

  ‘You can’t be too careful these days,’ he told her. ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘My husband’s outside. D’you mind if...’

  ‘We can’t have him hanging about outside in this weather, can we?’ he replied.

  Anne waved to me from the doorway and I quickly joined her. We then followed Mr Tolhurst along the hallway of the cottage, which was called Hunter’s Moon.

  ‘This is Anne Shaw, dear,’ said Mr Tolhurst, introducing the visitor to his seventy-six-year-old wife. He turned to me. ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘I’m her husband, Bob. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m fairly pleased as well,’ he muttered.

  ‘How can we help you, dear?’ Bridget Tolhurst asked Anne.

  ‘I’m carrying out research on poor Mr Sharp,’ she replied.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said Mrs Tolhurst, who was sitting with some knitting on a green three-seater settee in the oak-beamed living-room.

  ‘You’ve had a few people here before me, I’m assuming?’ said Anne.

  ‘You’re quite right, dear,’ said the solemn-faced Mrs Tolhurst, who was clearly the one in charge in the marital relationship. ‘We’ve had the police and all the papers. Anyway, what d’you want to know?’

  Anne, who accepted an invitation to sit at the far end of the settee, asked: ‘I’d like to know, if possible, what happened round here on Bonfire Night.’

  ‘D’you want to tell her or shall I?’ Mrs Tolhurst asked her husband as I joined Anne on the settee. ‘You tell her, if you like.’

  Mr Tolhurst, who had sat down in an armchair across the room, recalled: ‘All the fireworks round here started at about half past five and they went on for hours. We’ve got a little dog, Mimi, so we had her in here with us. She gets frightened, you know. She’s a chihuahua.

  ‘Well, at about seven o’clock, I heard a car draw up outside. I recognised it as Lucas’s. He often goes to Lilac Cottage. It belongs to our friend, his Aunt Jane. Anyway, it was a red estate car - don’t ask me what make. Soon after that I was making tea in our kitchen when I noticed light coming from the kitchen next door.’

  ‘From Lilac Cottage?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Yes. It was a flickering light. We’ve read in the local paper police believe a Catherine Wheel was set off in the kitchen - so
we reckon that’s what it must’ve been. Strange I know. They’re meant for outside. Then a short time later there was this almighty bang.’

  ‘It was like a car backfiring,’ Mrs Tolhurst interjected.

  ‘No, it was louder. It was like a gun going off. Boom, it went. Mimi went mad. She was barking non-stop for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘You didn’t think to go next door and see if Lucas was all right?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry I didn’t now,’ he admitted. ‘But the noise was immediately followed by a succession of rockets, which soared into the night sky from somewhere round here. We assumed maybe Lucas was having a few fireworks. We didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘He’s seventy-eight, you know!’ said Mrs Tolhurst.

  ‘Yes, I’m seventy-eight. I know I don’t look it, but I’ve got to think of my health. Anyway, you get bangs on Fireworks Night, don’t you? We just thought Lucas was having a small party.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone arrive or leave the cottage that evening apart from Lucas?’ said Anne.

  ‘No, except the fire brigade, obviously. They turned up very quick because they’d been on a job nearby. Jane was lucky. The whole place could’ve gone up. That’s what the firemen said, wasn’t it, dear?’

  ‘Yes’ Mrs Tolhurst confirmed. ‘They told us it might be arson. Someone piled a load of dirty washing on the table next to the kitchen curtains. Then whoever it was set the whole lot on fire.’ Anne mentioned to the couple that police believed an intruder had broken into the cottage at around seven pm.

  ‘You didn’t hear a pane of glass being smashed in the back door at about that time, did you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, dear,’ said Mrs Tolhurst, picking up her knitting. ‘As we’ve told you, there were lots of bangs and flashes that night. It’s hard to tell them apart.’

  Anne continued: ‘And the intruder would’ve had to bang a nail into the back wall to hold the Catherine Wheel.’

  ‘We were in here, dear. We’ve got secondary double glazing. We didn’t hear it,’ Mrs Tolhurst said.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something,’ said her husband. ‘I did hear someone ride by on a bike some time before seven. Is that of any use to you?’

  ‘That’s interesting. Any idea what kind of bike?’

  ‘It sounded like a push bike, but I didn’t see it, dear. It was just before seven. It was starting to get dark and my eyesight is not what it was. But my hearing’s still OK. There was a sort of clattering. I knew it was a bike. And I can tell you something else - it had a squeaky wheel. Crying out for a drop of oil. I was putting some rubbish out. The sound stopped after a few seconds. I went back inside at that point because I was getting cold. There’s a boy called Riley Craddock who lives round here. He’s thirteen and he’s always riding up and down the lane on his bike, so I just thought it might’ve been him. Maybe I should’ve mentioned it to the policeman.’

  Anne was pleased. If the old man was correct in his assessment of the time when he heard the bicycle, that fitted in with her conclusion the killer had arrived by that means.

  ‘All right. Thank you very much for your time,’ said Anne.

  ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been of much help,’ Mr Tolhurst told her. ‘We feel very sorry for Jane. She loved that boy.’

  ‘Is she still in hospital?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Yes, as far as we know,’ said Mrs Tolhurst. ‘This can’t have helped her - knowing her nephew was killed in her own house.’

  Anne replied: ‘No, definitely not. Anyway, thanks once again. We can see ourselves out.’

  After we drove back to Chasehurst, I left Anne to her own devices and spent an hour in the company of Miles Benton, the landlord of the Merry Friar. I amused myself listening to the light-hearted banter he exchanges with his customers while slurping down a couple of pints of his finest ale.

  Before venturing out into the cold November night, I had a quiet word with Miles. I needed to prise some information from him on Anne’s behalf. I said: ‘Miles, d’you recall seeing Gordon the roofer on Bonfire Night?’

  ‘Gordon Knight?’ he said. ‘He was here all evening. We’d a few fireworks in the garden. He was lighting them.’

  ‘OK, that clears that up then,’ I said.

  ‘Look, Bob. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s just I haven’t seen you. You know your Anne was interested in the fireworks murder? Well, I was at a meeting of the local branch of the licensed victuallers. I was having a chat with some of the guys. There’s been a bloke going round selling industrial fireworks on the cheap - the kind used for displays.’

  ‘He’s been going round the pubs?’

  ‘Yes, trying to sell them to customers just before Bonfire Night. I gather he’s sold a few.’

  ‘Any idea which pubs?’

  ‘I know two of them - the White Hart at New Heath and the Red Lion at Isley Green.’

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  ‘Generously built, like me,’ said Miles. ‘Over six foot. Athletic type. Uses the name Don.’

  ‘That’s his first name. I take it?’

  ‘Search me. But here’s how you contact him.’ Miles handed me a small piece of paper with a mobile phone number on it. ‘Don’t mention you got this from me, by the way,’ he added.

  26

  I returned from the Merry Friar to find Janice Carslake had phoned and wanted us to meet her at ten am the next day. There was a note of urgency in the lawyer’s voice.

  Anne could not wait to see her. I don’t know why, but my wife thought the solicitor might have some good news for us. During the short time she had spent on her research, Anne had discovered several flaws in the police case. She could not believe our friend had been kept in custody for so long already. She was confident he would be released at any time.

  I dropped Anne off outside the offices of Carslake and Whitter and drove off to find a parking space.

  Anne was to be quickly disillusioned when she met the lawyer. Yusuf’s plight now was even worse than before. We were stunned to hear that, the previous evening, he had been charged with Lucas Sharp’s murder.

  Mrs Carslake dropped the bombshell as soon as Anne walked through her office door.

  ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. He’s been charged with murder and will appear at Canterbury court on Monday after nine-thirty am,’ she said.

  Anne had to sit down at once. She shook her head several times. She found it hard to assimilate the appalling news.

  ‘Why? I can’t understand this at all?’ said Anne. ‘Have they received some additional information? You led me to believe he might be released.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not turned out like that. I’ve heard on the police grapevine forensic tests on various items have come back with some important findings. Tiny fibres from the front of Mr Osman’s coat passed onto the front of Mr Sharp’s jacket, showing there was interaction between the two men. What’s more, several fibres from the coat attached themselves to the rope used to bind Mr Sharp. The police seem to think it conclusive proof your friend was at Lilac Cottage when the murder was committed.’

  As I joined Anne in the solicitor’s office, my wife furiously denounced the police over their assumptions. She told Mrs Carslake: ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous. Of course, there were particles from the front of Yusuf’s coat on the front of Lucas’s jacket - they’d been involved in a punch-up at the pub. That’s no evidence he went to the cottage. The main physical contact at the cottage happened when the murderer came up behind Lucas and forced chloroform into his nose and mouth. We know they must’ve struggled like that for several minutes. That’s the time when any loose fibres would have been transferred. The forensic people should have examined the BACK of Lucas’s jacket for DNA evidence - not the front.’

  Mrs Car
slake was clearly impressed by the logic of Anne’s remarks and also by the impassioned way she expressed them.

  ‘What you say has a ring of truth about it,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’ve never worked for the police yourself or had legal training?’

  ‘No, but I went to the School of Common Sense. It’s a shame the police didn’t get on the same course,’ said Anne.

  ‘But what about the rope?’ Mrs Carslake asked. ‘Some microscopic fibres from the coat were evidently found embedded in the rope that tied Mr Sharp to the chair. Surely the rope wasn’t present during the fight in the gents’ toilet, was it? So how d’you explain that?’

  Anne paused for a moment. ‘That’s easy to explain as well,’ she insisted. ‘A few of the coat fibres which became lodged in Lucas’s jacket in the pub fight must’ve dropped off the jacket and attached themselves to the rope when he was tied up.’

  Mrs Carslake leaned back on her black leather armchair. She said: ‘I’m not sure if that could’ve happened. What you’re saying, in essence, is some fibres got onto Mr Sharp’s jacket in the pub. When he was tied up, some of them left the jacket and got onto the rope. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll have to call a forensic expert and see if what you’re suggesting is feasible. Meanwhile, I’d suggest you write a nice letter to Mr Osman with words of encouragement. As you can imagine, he’s feeling at a very low ebb right now, since he was charged last night.’

  Anne asked: ‘Did he say anything after being charged?’

  ‘He simply denied carrying out the murder. Will I see you at the court on Monday?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Anne. Mrs Carslake then passed onto her some minor details about the case which she had gleaned from Sergeant Kirwan.

  In return, Anne began to reveal some of her own findings.

  ‘I’m not really meant to be working today, as it’s Saturday,’ said Mrs Carslake. ‘But fire away, anyway.’