Silent Crimes

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  Sophie leaned forward, peering at the screen. ‘Doesn’t he look a bit like one of the men in the photo? The one Rae described as angelic? He certainly doesn’t look like the photofit that Jade produced. Rae, you find out where he is now and what he’s doing. That’s if he’s not still locked up somewhere. Barry, work your way through all of these cases. Check who his victims were. We guessed our man Prentice had hidden that pack of stuff for a reason. Well, it looks as though it might all connect. Look for anything that might provide a link to that area of Somerset, around Taunton and the Quantock Hills. Cults. Someone called Katie. Someone else called Tim. While you’re doing that, I’m going to see if those two books are still available anywhere — the ones in the library ticket. And great work, Barry.’

  As the records had shown, the charges for affray and assault dated back to when Trent Baker was sixteen, with drunkenness seeming to have played a part. The arson charge involved a disused warehouse that had gone up in smoke only a few weeks after he’d escaped a custodial sentence for the earlier crimes. No one had been in the building at the time, but it looked as though that had been due more to luck than judgement. He’d served a short spell in a young offenders’ institution, but clearly it had not done him any good. Within a few months of being discharged, he was back in trouble for wrecking a corner shop after the manager refused to serve him anymore because of his constant belligerence and routine petty theft. After this, he seemed to have stayed out of trouble for several years, until his trial for attempted murder, which took place at Exeter Crown Court. He’d attacked a young woman by the name of Catherine Templeton as she’d left a pub in Taunton. A knife had been his weapon of choice. He’d received a fifteen-year sentence, with the provision that he should serve a minimum of ten. Barry took note of the dates. That ten-year spell would have run its course some six months ago, giving him ample time to settle a few old scores. This needed looking into.

  Starting with the court case, it quickly became apparent to Barry that the victim, Catherine, had been lucky to escape with her life. She and Baker had both been at a pub on the outskirts of Taunton but not together. Witnesses said that there was obvious rancour between them dating from some time in the past, but that Catherine had tried her best to stay out of Baker’s way during the evening. He’d consumed a great deal of alcohol and had become belligerent and confrontational. Annoyed by the continued friction, Catherine had left the pub early, slipping out quietly in the hope that Baker wouldn’t notice. Trent Baker followed her and attacked her on an unlit section of footpath, leaving her for dead. Luckily a friend had seen her leave. He’d also seen Baker follow her a minute or two later and decided to check up on her. He found her lying under a bush, fast losing blood. The medics who attended reportedly said that another fifteen minutes and it would have been too late.

  Barry was intrigued by the fact that the pair knew each other, yet the details of their prior relationship — if, indeed, they’d had one — were vague. Maybe he should visit Catherine Templeton. The other interesting fact was that Baker had used a knife, not some piece of wood, as in the tramp killing. Clearly the attack was premeditated, and the judge had referred to this in the course of sentencing him. In Barry’s experience, killers tended not to change their weapon of choice, although this wasn’t always the case. As the boss often said, keep an open mind and don’t make assumptions. He told Rae what he’d found and asked her to do some further digging.

  Rae soon found an address for Trent Baker. As a recently discharged inmate of Devizes Prison in Wiltshire, his release under parole meant that his whereabouts had to be logged. He was living in Bristol, a mile or two south of the city centre. He was also recorded as working for an office cleaning company based in Weston-Super-Mare that had contracts throughout north Somerset. Rae pondered this. So were there some Bristol cleaning contracts on the company’s books? It seemed unlikely. Rae checked Google maps. Yes, it was a good twenty miles between the city and the much smaller coastal resort town, although much of the route followed the fast M5 motorway. There was also a good train service, according to the regional timetable.

  Rae visited the cleaning company’s website. CleanStyle seemed to specialise in the upkeep of modern high-tech offices. She found something else of interest: an employment policy statement hidden away in the depths of the site. It stated clearly that the company contributed to the social rehabilitation of recently released prison inmates by offering them suitable employment opportunities, but that such employees would not be deployed at sensitive locations and would be monitored constantly. Rae wondered what the company meant by “sensitive locations,” and how the monitoring was done. In her experience, most cleaning companies were so short-staffed that the cleaners were merely dropped off at an office block and told to get the job done as quickly as possible. Maybe a visit was called for, but she’d need to consult the boss first. It wouldn’t be a wise move to make the company aware of their interest until they had more facts.

  The boss had also asked her to look into the area in west Somerset covered by the old bus timetable and had mentioned the Quantock Hills. She’d never heard of the place. Maybe she could pay a visit with her boyfriend, Craig. He’d just bought a new car and was keen to show it off to her, along with his imagined skills as a rally driver. She looked at the map again and then did a search for background information. The Quantocks were a small range of hills only fifteen miles or so in length, running south-east to north-west towards the Bristol Channel, with views across twenty miles of sea to South Wales. Apparently the Quantocks had been designated England’s first Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty in 1956. Why had she never heard of them? She supposed that people from Bristol would visit the better-known Mendip Hills instead, with their famous caves and gorges. Did that mean it would have made a good place to establish a commune? Maybe the local press would have archive records of such a group. She couldn’t make any headway in identifying who Katie and Tim might be until she’d found evidence that a commune had indeed existed.

  Sophie was sitting at her desk, frowning over one of the books on the library tickets. Thanks to modern technology, she’d downloaded a copy of Religious Cults: A Modern Scourge? to her tablet. The second book, The Commune in the Hills, seemed to be out of print and had never been published in electronic format. She’d have to trace a paper copy, which could take days. It couldn’t be helped.

  She skimmed through the book on cults. An academic work, written by a social historian, it wasn’t easy reading. The study looked at the incidence of cults across the world and throughout history, starting with examples recorded in classical literature and the Bible before moving on to medieval times and into the modern era. The last quarter of the book dealt with the twentieth century and included a few well-known examples such as the Branch Davidians in Waco. There was a short section on the incidence of cults in Britain. Sophie sat up with a jolt. There had been one in the west of England, situated in a quiet valley in the Quantock Hills. It had come to a sudden end in the latter part of the twentieth century amidst tension and infighting, although no details were provided.

  *

  ‘So that makes it doubly useful for me to pay a visit, I guess,’ Rae said. ‘I was wondering about it when I had a look at the area on the atlas. Maybe the local paper might hold some records?’

  Sophie smiled. ‘My thoughts exactly, Rae. I’ve been trying to track down a copy of the second book and can’t find any trace of it. I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t published but is some kind of small monograph. And if that’s the case, the only libraries likely to hold a copy would be the ones in Somerset. You could call in while you’re in the area and see what they have. Maybe they’ve got a copy squirrelled away in their archives. We also need to check up on hostels for the homeless in the area, in case Prentice ended up in one this winter.’

  ‘Craig’s off work this week, ma’am,’ Rae said. ‘He’s been decorating our new flat and has nearly finished. We could head off to the Quantocks, have a s
hort break and I could do a bit of digging around. Just an idea.’

  Rae saw the look of concern flicker across Sophie’s face. Of course. The last time she and Craig had made a similar visit, to Exeter that time, someone had ended up dead.

  But Sophie said, ‘Good idea. Would tomorrow and Friday be okay? But isn’t it a bit manipulative? Will Craig agree?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rae replied breezily. ‘It’s right up his street, driving around country lanes. He’ll love it.’

  Chapter 11: The Quantock Hills

  Thursday Morning

  Rae held onto her seat as the small car hurtled around another tight bend, and then climbed a steep incline.

  ‘Craig, slow down, for God’s sake. It’s not a bloody race. I want to enjoy the scenery. I can’t do that if you’re scaring the wits out of me like this.’

  He laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s got such a great engine in it. Wow, look at that. Some view, eh?’

  They’d taken the last bend up through the heavily wooded slopes and had just emerged close to the summit of the hills. Craig turned into a small parking area and they gazed onto an open, sunlit, heather-clad vista. The view to the north-west encompassed the hilltop ridge and stretched across the sparkling waters of the Bristol Channel to the Welsh coastline, visible some twenty-five miles away.

  ‘Isn’t it peaceful? There’s hardly anyone about. I bet it’s busy at weekends, though.’ Rae got out of the car and walked a few yards to a knoll. The place had an almost otherworldly feel. Many of the trees clinging to the hillsides looked ancient. Gnarled trunks, split boughs, ivy and mistletoe. Leaf-litter that looked six inches deep and decades old. A group of horses ambled across the grassy glade, and one of them lifted its head and whinnied.

  Craig joined her. ‘So, here we are. What now?’

  Rae took a walkers’ map out of her bag and opened it out. ‘Let’s just walk along the ridgetop a bit, then circle around on this lower path and get back here in an hour or so. We can leave those sandwiches we brought in the car and have them when we get back, then go on to the inn this afternoon. I just want to get a feel for the place. Is that okay?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  They set off past the horses, heading west, following the top of the ridge. The whole area was owned by the National Trust and the major paths were way-marked. Rae checked she had a compass in her pocket. Not that you could really get lost on hills as benign and compact as this. After all, the Quantocks were a far cry from the Scottish Highlands, although they probably became bleak and treacherous during winter snowstorms. On a bright summer’s day like this, walking across the hilltop would be a gentle stroll, and a beautiful one. She breathed deeply. For several days she’d spent her spare moments decorating, and the penetrating aroma of paint seemed to have sunk deep into her head. That had now gone.

  She grabbed Craig’s hand. ‘This is lovely. The view’s lovely, the air’s lovely, and you’re lovely.’ She spread her other arm wide.

  Craig looked at her in amusement. ‘What are you up to?’

  *

  The inn they’d chosen as their base was nestled in one of the deep, sheltered coombes that cut into the hills. The Waterside Inn was a nineteenth-century building, not as old as others in the area but comfortably furnished and inexpensive. As the name implied, a stream trickled down from the hillside past the pub’s garden. They arrived late in the afternoon and were shown to their room by a young woman who introduced herself as Eliza. She was dressed in a smart black uniform and spoke in a Somerset accent.

  ‘Do you know much about the history of the area?’ Rae asked as Eliza turned to leave.

  ‘Nah, not really. I’m looking for another job down in Taunton,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing goin’ on here. ’S all a bit dead, really. But some of the locals’ll be in later. They know a bit.’ She left them to unpack.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ Craig asked.

  ‘I thought we could get some food here tonight and have a few drinks. Maybe someone can tell us about the area, but I don’t want to let on what I’m after. I haven’t really thought through my angle yet. I may have to make it up as I go along.’

  They visited the bar in the middle of the evening and as Eliza took their order, she pointed out several villagers who might know about the local history. One was an older woman, Babs Atkins, who, Eliza explained, ran the local historical society. She was having a meal with a well-dressed, gaunt-looking man.

  ‘She lost her husband a couple of years ago,’ Eliza whispered conspiratorially as she brought them their meals. ‘She’s just started dating again. He’s someone new, not seen him before.’

  ‘Oh well, I couldn’t possibly spoil a first date,’ Rae said. ‘I don’t want to interrupt someone’s romantic night out.’

  Eliza rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t think it’ll be a problem. He’s hardly said a word so far and they’re already on their desserts. It’s obviously not working, so I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Do you want me to have a word? It’ll be fine, honest.’

  ‘Well, only if you’re sure.’

  Within a couple of minutes, Babs came across to their table and sat on a spare seat. She was a small, grey-haired, vivacious woman.

  ‘Eliza told me you were interested in local history,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m really grateful but I hate to spoil your date. I told her to leave it if you’d rather not talk now.’

  Babs smiled broadly. ‘That girl. She’s got the wrong end of the stick, as usual. This isn’t a date. That’s Brian, my older brother, he’s just visiting for a few days. He lives in London. Mind you, I have started doing this internet dating business and I’ve had a couple of interesting evenings.’ She winked.

  Rae laughed. ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s alright.’ She looked at Babs, at her sparkling, intelligent eyes, and decided to be straight with her. ‘I’m trying to find out if there was a commune near here a decade or two ago. It might have had a religious slant to it. Were you ever aware of one?’

  Babs suddenly looked uneasy. ‘Why would you want to know about that?’

  ‘I’m a police officer, a detective from Dorset. I’m just being nosey, I suppose, but it might link to a case I’m investigating. Craig here is just my boyfriend. He isn’t with the police.’

  Babs was silent for a while, frowning. ‘I see. Well, there was a place like that, quite a long time ago now. It’s something we never talk about much, not to outsiders. Even among the locals it’s never spoken of. I don’t want to talk about it here and, anyway, I’d need a bit of time to remember everything. How long are you here for?’

  ‘A couple of days, but I’ve got a few other places to visit. Would tomorrow morning be convenient?’

  ‘I think so,’ Babs said, rather hesitantly. ‘Make it about half past nine. I’ve got a sewing group after coffee time. I live in Holly Cottage, it’s just five houses down from the pub.’

  Rae smiled at her. ‘I’m really grateful.’

  Babs rose from her seat. ‘You’ve got quite a deep voice, dear. I bet men find it alluring. Not like mine — I’ve always been a bit squeaky.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so. You sound fine to me. And thanks again.’

  Rae watched Babs return to her table and pick up her coat. She turned to Craig. ‘Is my voice still too deep?’

  He smiled. ‘I like it. As she said, it’s alluring. Don’t get paranoid about it.’

  Chapter 12: The Derelict Farm

  Friday Morning

  Looking out of the rear window of Babs’s sitting room, Rae could see the hollies that had given her cottage its name. A row of the prickly shrubs lined the rear lawn. The ground rose steeply beyond the end of the garden, where it merged into the heavily wooded lower slopes of the Quantocks.

  ‘It’s a lovely view,’ she said to her hostess. ‘I bet you get all kinds of wildlife here.’

  ‘I can’t keep the deer out.’ Babs grimaced. ‘It’s impossible to grow flowers or vegetables here. A co
uple of deer can eat the lot in a single night. So I have to stick with the orchard — apples, pears and plums, plus a few gooseberry and blackcurrant bushes. I grow some salad stuff in the greenhouse, so I get by. But I don’t mind really. How many people can say they have wild deer wandering through their garden? My grandchildren love it when they’re here. Where’s your young man, by the way?’

  ‘Craig? He’s back at the inn, reading. He likes detective stories. Maybe he thinks they’ll give him an insight into the work I do. Though most of them are just a load of nonsense — you know, those moody, maverick cops solving complex crimes with a whisky glass in hand and fractured marriages. I ask you.’ Rae rolled her eyes in mock disgust and sat down. ‘Anything you can tell me about the commune will be a help, Babs. I’ll take notes, if you don’t mind.’

  Babs looked into space, the corners of her mouth turned down. ‘Their place, Heathfield Farm, was across on the southern slopes of the hills and over to the east, up one of the coombes. The valley splits there and they were up the smaller cut. It was a bit out of the way. Still is, to be honest. I don’t think anyone goes up there much, even now. They took over a farm that was already struggling ’cause of its small size and the steep slopes, which make it difficult to grow crops there. The valley kinks at that point and gets quite steep-sided so a lot of the ground is in the shade and doesn’t get a full day’s sun. Some of the young folk there worked hard for the first year or two and got some good harvests but then we had a wet summer and they began to struggle. I think it all went downhill from then on. Some of them left and most of the ones who stayed on didn’t have a clue about farming — not as far as the locals could tell anyway. That’s what I heard. They started falling out with one another. Some of the villagers said there were fights and arguments. I never saw any, since I’m right over here on this side of the hills.’