He looked in the mirror. You are brilliant, Trent Baker. You are such a talented and good-looking individual. In fact, if there were such things as gods, you’d be one for sure. He rose from his chair and poured himself a celebratory glass of Scotch. Blast. That bottle he’d nicked was nearly empty. Time to pinch another? But off to Weston first.
Forty-five minutes later Trent’s car drew into an empty parking slot close to Judy Price’s house. That money he’d managed to secrete away before his trial and prison sentence had proved to be very useful. Not for him the penny-pinching life of a typical ex-con. No, he had brains and the sense to think ahead. He could afford a semi-decent car, unlike some of the plonkers he’d mixed with inside.
He looked across at the neat dwelling on the other side of the road. He’d been here before, of course, although it had been after midnight on that occasion. He’d scared a cat while sneaking through the shrubbery. Would she be here, or would she be working on a Sunday morning? Bloody Tim would probably be around somewhere. Or down at the pub? The trouble was, he, Trent, didn’t have a plan. He’d hoped one would occur to him on the drive down here, but his brain had remained blank. He was looking for something to upset the smooth running of Judy’s life, something that would stick a crowbar into the gently moving cogs of her daily routine. Her car. Yes, that could be it. A flat tyre. Or was that too tame? It would be nice to sneak a cowpat or some dog poo in through an open window to land on the driving seat, with enough time for it to fill the interior with its stink before she found it. How likely was that though? People didn’t leave their car windows open nowadays, not even on summer days like today. And, let’s face it, he would get too messy trying to handle the stuff. No good. And which car was hers anyway? It was difficult to tell. What about the hospital where she worked? Might that be a better bet? Maybe a visit was in order to check the lie of the land. Trent started the engine and slowly drove off.
The hospital looked modern and clean. It probably gave really good healthcare. Not like the service he’d had to endure in prison that time when he’d developed a chest infection. A crappy place with a crappy approach to sorting out his health problem. Bastards. They’d treated him as if he was a lump of dirt.
He strode in through the main entrance, clutching a clipboard and pen, not that he really needed them. Late morning was still visiting hours, so he managed to mingle with a group of people who’d just stepped off a bus and were making their way through reception. He stopped at the staff chart and spotted the name Judy Price. She was listed as senior ward sister in intensive care. My, didn’t that sound impressive. Such a responsible job. How come bloody Tim Brotherton had managed to snare such a woman? Tim was all hot air and no trousers. What could she see in him? Maybe he’d come into some money from somewhere and that was the attraction. Maybe he’d painted his prick fluorescent yellow, coated it in honey and waved it at her one night when she was too drunk to notice what a complete waste of space he really was.
Trent pulled up short at the double doors that guarded the entrance to the unit. Beside the notice asking him to squeeze anti-bacterial cleaning gel over his hands was the duty staff list. Fuck. The nurse on duty this morning was a bloke. A bloke, for God’s sake. What was the world coming to? He pushed the doors open and went in, stopping at the staff photo-board. Judy Price. What a peach. He looked around to check that no one was watching, then took out his phone and surreptitiously snapped her image.
‘We don’t allow mobile phones in here, sir,’ someone behind him said. ‘It’s an ICU.’
Trent turned to face the person who’d spoken, a porter pushing a patient in a wheelchair.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’ Trent smiled innocently. ‘Why not, just out of interest?’
‘Interference with some of the equipment. Most of the rest of the hospital’s okay, but not here.’
Trent nodded. ‘I’ll switch it off.’
‘Are you looking for someone?’
‘Umm, not really. I thought my brother was in here, but I just got a message that he’s in a different ward. I’ll head off.’
He walked back down the corridor and followed the exit signs to the car park. Maybe that had been pushing things a bit, considering the cop warning he’d got yesterday. Maybe he ought to play it sensible and toe the line for a while, just in case. He sighed. Too fucking boring. Why not have another look at the Brotherton house? Maybe the lovebirds would be out in the garden in weather like this, enjoying a cold beer. Snoozing on sunbeds. Maybe she’d be in a skimpy bikini, catching a tan. Then again, maybe he should just go home and think things through a bit more. Let’s face it, if he did something stupid and got caught, he’d be back inside, pronto. And that would be the worst fucking thing in the world.
Trent started his car, drove out to the motorway and headed back towards Bristol. Maybe he should get drunk. Maybe he should visit that exotic massage salon round the corner from his place, the one that showed super-pneumatic chicks in its publicity photos. Did he have enough ready cash, though?
*
In fact, Judy Price wasn’t spread out on a sunbed in a bikini, although she was outside, sitting in a chair on the small patio at the rear of her house, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, sipping at a glass of iced orange drink. She was alone. She hadn’t spoken to Tim since the row the previous evening, after she’d asked him to explain his involvement with the cult or commune that those two detectives had talked about. He was still in the house somewhere, sulking. She was still trying to make sense of what she’d learned. What had been the extent of his involvement? What kind of commune had it been? It sounded pretty violent, particularly if the death of the tramp was linked to it somehow. Only a seriously deranged individual would let their feelings fester for more than a decade before seeking someone out and killing them. Was there a chance it could be Tim? After all, he’d been very reticent about that holiday in Dorset. Even more worrying was the fact that he’d possibly been there at about the time the tramp had been killed, something he hadn’t told the police. But he’d never shown the remotest tendency towards violence in the time they’d been together. She sighed out loud. People were just so bloody complicated. And some were far too adept at hiding their true selves below layers of carefully constructed, alternative personae.
Tim appeared, a jug in one hand and a bottle in the other.
‘Thought you might want a top-up,’ he said. ‘And I’ve found some gin. Do you want a slug?’
She looked up at him from under her wide-brimmed sunhat. ‘That’d be nice. Not too much, mind. I’m already feeling a bit woozy.’
He looked tense. She could sense him biting his lip, having to exercise all his self-control in order not to start the pleading and self-justification again. She’d told him late the previous night that if he brought the matter up once more, she’d throw him out. Even if he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Even if he was innocent of any wrongdoing. Even if he grovelled like a dog. She’d had enough of it and was within a whisker of ending their relationship. They’d spent the night in separate rooms.
*
Catherine Templeton stood hesitating at the entrance to the pub in Bath city centre. She soon spotted Russell sitting at a nearby table, eagerly waving at her. She wondered if he’d been there for a while in order to ensure that this date didn’t go tits up like the last one.
She took a seat opposite him, smiling. ‘Hi. A second chance, eh?’
‘Thanks so much for agreeing. I hope you won’t regret it.’
‘Well, let’s see how it goes,’ she said. ‘I realise now that it probably wasn’t your fault. Have the police been in touch?’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, but only by phone and they wouldn’t give me all the details. I think they must be a bit busy. It was a woman called Polly Nelson, a DCI. She said someone would be interviewing me in a day or two to take a statement. It’s left me a bit puzzled. I mean, to be the victim of a crime without realising it. And it was all to get at you, is that right?’
She grimaced. ‘That’s what it looks like, although there’s no proof. Intimidation and stalking by this creep I knew ages ago. He’s been in prison for ten years for attempted murder. Of me.’
Russell looked shocked. ‘My God. That serious? Do you want to talk about it?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. He’s a warped little toad and I really don’t want him in my head again. Let’s look at the food on offer and talk about anything but him.’ She studied the menu then caught the attention of a passing waitress. They made their selection, chose drinks and settled back in their seats.
Russell looked again at the attractive woman opposite him. ‘I felt so down after that fiasco on Tuesday evening. I’m really glad you’re giving me another chance. I’m on a bit of a high, to be honest.’
Catherine frowned. ‘You mustn’t think there’s more to it than a friendly meal out, you know. We still have to see how we get on together.’ She paused. ‘To be honest, this whole business has shaken me. You say you’re on a high. Well, I’m feeling tense and anxious. I hardly slept last night. That evil bastard has wormed his way back into my brain.’
‘You said you didn’t want to talk about him.’
‘I know. But I suppose that’s wishful thinking. If they do find hard evidence, he’ll have a restraining order put on him. He might even end up back in prison. That would be a relief, I can tell you. It depends on the parole board. They’ll be meeting over the next few days. Until that happens, the police want to keep him in his job. They said that it would help to keep him off the streets for a few days. What did they say to you?’
Russell shrugged. ‘Not a lot. They told me that someone might have got hold of my phone and that’s about it.’ He paused. ‘Does he really hate you that much?’
‘Unfortunately for me, yes. But it’s not just me. He hates everyone. There’s only one person in the world of any importance to Trent Baker, and that’s Trent Baker. Everyone else is just here for his convenience.’
Chapter 19: The Package
Monday Morning
Barry arrived at the incident room in Taunton police station earlier than expected. He had with him the package Rae had discovered in the derelict farmhouse’s hidden cupboard, already forensically examined back in Dorset. It had yielded a set of fingerprints that failed to match any that were on file. He spread the items out on the desk that had been allocated to him, and was looking at them when Polly Nelson appeared.
‘Good morning, Barry. Great to have you with us, even if it is only for a couple of days. Have you got somewhere to stay?’
‘I’ve gone for a local pub that the boss recommended. The Golden Hind? You know what she’s like. I’m not checking in until later, though.’
Polly laughed. ‘It is a good choice if you like old inns. Low beams, log fires and the like. The food’s meant to be good. I suppose I ought to look for a place to stay too. The motorway from Bristol was bedlam this morning.’ She looked at the items spread out on the desktop. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Barry nodded. ‘It’s all been through forensics at our end, so we’re safe to have a closer look.’
Polly looked across the room at one of the junior officers who didn’t seem to be doing much. ‘Get us a couple of coffees, will you? We’ll put some money in the kitty later.’
They slipped on latex gloves and started examining the first item, a notebook written in a thin, spidery hand.
‘I’ve seen this writing before,’ Barry said. ‘It’s the same as the letter we found at the site where the tramp was killed. We’re pretty certain it was the young woman, Katie Templar, who wrote it.’
‘Possibly the body we dug up on Saturday?’
Barry nodded again, his ginger hair catching a ray of sunlight streaming in through the window. He turned the page over. This was fascinating stuff. The initial part of the notebook detailed the commune’s early days and was full of enthusiasm. It was clear that the writer had an important position in the commune and was consulted on many of the decisions. Within a couple of months, the initial eagerness seemed to dissipate. Irritation began to creep into her entries. The two detectives flipped through to the final pages. There, the notes were bleaker and much briefer.
‘We’ll need to read it more carefully,’ Polly said. ‘There are names, dates and places mentioned. It looks quite personal, doesn’t it?’
Barry agreed. ‘It looks as though it links into the stuff we already have.’
The next set of documents were the title deeds to the farm, showing that Katie Templar was the original owner. It had been left to her by her uncle and aunt after their deaths. It was apparent that several years later, when the commune started, she transferred the ownership to a trust, the Heathfield Commune, the trustees of which seemed to be Katie herself, Timothy Brotherton, Paul Prentice and an Andrew Atkins.
Barry looked up, frowning. Atkins? Where had he come across that name before? He’d seen it somewhere very recently, maybe in connection with this case. He shook his head slightly, as if the movement would dislodge the information he wanted and bring it to the fore. It didn’t.
‘Something occurred to you?’ Polly asked.
‘It’s the name Atkins. It rings a bell. It’s no good me puzzling over it, though. It’ll come to me in its own sweet time.’
‘This tends to reinforce what we gathered when we interviewed Brotherton on Saturday. He finally admitted that when the group started, he and Katie Templar were an item, but they fell out later.’
Barry absentmindedly tugged at his ear. ‘And Paul Prentice, our dead tramp, was one of the other two trustees. So what do we have? Four trustees. Two of them dead, probably both murdered. One still around, who happened to be the group leader, and this fourth one, Andrew Atkins. I’m going to phone Rae. I’m sure that last name was linked to something she was talking about. If so, we could find it in her notes somewhere, but it’ll be quicker to ask her in person.’
He made the phone call, wandering towards the window and listening. He hurried back to Polly with a triumphant look on his face.
‘One of the locals Rae spoke to last week was a Babs Atkins. She lives in one of the tiny villages along from Nether Stowey. Do you think a visit might be in order? This Andrew Atkins might be related to her.’
Polly nodded. ‘You do it. It’ll give me time to read that diary in detail. But let’s look at the rest of the stuff before you head off. You know what I don’t understand? When the commune failed, three of the trustees were still alive, assuming Katie Templar was dead by then. So why has it been left to become so derelict? Why didn’t they sell it?’
‘Maybe they didn’t know Katie was dead — if that body does turn out to be her,’ Barry said. ‘And by then, Prentice had done his vanishing act. Maybe that’s why he disappeared from official records and started living as a tramp. Without him there to sign the transfer, the place couldn’t be sold so easily.’
Polly frowned. ‘You mean he knew that sooner or later the truth was bound to come out? By staying hidden, he made sure the place remained as it was. Clever, in a way.’
‘I wonder if he guessed that she was dead. If so, it was vital that he stay hidden. With two of the trustees gone, the other two couldn’t act on their own,’ Barry said.
‘Unless he was involved in her death.’
Barry hesitated. ‘We’re not convinced of that. All the evidence is circumstantial, but it seems to show that Prentice was a decent guy who cared for Katie. Did you know it was the boss’s daughter that found his body?’
‘No. She didn’t tell me that.’ Polly looked surprised.
‘It was Jade, her eighteen-year-old,’ Barry said. ‘But she didn’t just find him, she knew him too. She used to take him food and make sure he was alright. For all we know, it was Jade who was closest to him in recent years. She’s even looking after his dog. Anyway, she’s adamant that he was one of the nicest blokes she’s ever come across. We can’t dismiss that. And I trust her judgement, to be h
onest — at least until we discover hard evidence to the contrary.’
The next notebook was a farming record. It showed what crop had been sown in each field, the annual yields, along with the costs and health records of the farm livestock. Whoever kept the record had even listed the number of eggs collected each day. The writing wasn’t Katie Templar’s. The initials A. A. appeared at the end of each entry.
The final folder contained a collection of bank statements and financial records, all related to the Heathfield Commune. They affirmed that Katie Templar was the original owner and the person responsible for the finances. And that wasn’t all. Closer examination of the documents showed that she’d loaned the commune twenty thousand pounds of her own money when the cash-flow problems began to get serious. That money never appeared to have been repaid. It was possible that the friction and subsequent possible murder hadn’t been about fractured relationships at all. Instead, money might have been the catalyst for the break-up.
Barry decided to set out immediately to interview Babs Atkins, leaving Polly to study the material more closely. Before either of them could make a start they received a phone call from the local forensic unit. The few shreds of clothing that had been found with the body had been partly identified as coming from a nightdress.
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