‘We’re pretty sure her name was Katie Templar. She inherited the farm from an uncle. We’re only just starting to find out a bit more about her,’ Lydia said, taking a sip from her cup.
‘Well, the amounts here are nowhere near what would have been needed to keep that many people fed, clothed and comfortable. Which begs the question, were they getting money from another source? If so, what was it and why doesn’t it appear in these accounts?’
‘The only way we can find out is by confronting Tim Brotherton. Apparently, he went walkabout for a while yesterday, but Barry’s got him pinned down now.’
‘Sign of a guilty conscience,’ Lydia said. ‘This Katie had already coughed up quite a lot of her own money. Maybe she drew a line at some point, refused to give more. Do we know anything else about her?’
‘You mean her personal finances and stuff? That’s my other task, trying to track down where she lived and what she did before she joined in with the commune lot. Maybe she was the only one of them with any money. I wonder if she came from a wealthy background,’ Rae said.
‘Do you think she might have been killed because of the commune’s money issues?’ Lydia asked.
Rae shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Assuming the body is hers. We won’t know until we get a match with dental records or DNA. My own guess is there was more to it than that. This guy Trent Baker seems to leave a trail of chaos and violence in his wake wherever he goes. And we don’t really know about Brotherton himself. He was the messianic leader right from the start, according to the locals. And it comes through in that leaflet he wrote. The boss reckons he’s trying to hide that part of his past. But he’d have taken it badly if his pet project was starting to unravel, wouldn’t he? And we’ve only talked to a couple of other people who were there at the time. Could there have been someone else there who was capable of murder? Someone we don’t know about? It’s a real problem that it happened so far in the past and they’re all so secretive. You’d think a new-age type commune would be more open, more free and easy. Unless they have something to hide.’
Lydia laughed. ‘Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll.’
‘Don’t get me started,’ Rae said. ‘The boss was talking about that. She reckons that’s exactly what a lot of these communes were about. I had a good look round at the weekend when I was there, but there was no evidence of cannabis production, or any other type of drug. They might have been users but there’s no evidence they were manufacturing the stuff.’
‘Where is she by the way? She was supposed to call in this morning, but she phoned to cancel. She sounded as if she was in a rush.’
Rae pulled a face. ‘She’s always in a rush, ever since she got promoted. Too much to do and not enough time. I worry about her.’ She paused. ‘She’s gone to Salisbury this morning to interview Paul Prentice’s parents — at least, the people who might be his parents. I saw the mother yesterday. She clammed up completely. She was in shock, I suppose. They’re a bit out of my league, to be honest. Apparently, he’s a retired senior judge. And she seemed so detached and distant. It was really strange. With Barry still in Somerset, the boss decided to go herself. She asked me if I’d prefer to continue questioning her, but I chickened out. This is the top layer of the British establishment we’re talking about here, and I’m not up to it. You might have coped okay.’
‘I doubt it. What? A gay feminist with a Hindu upbringing? I think I trump you in the anti-establishment stakes. You’re only trans.’ Lydia laughed.
*
‘Lady Prentice-Jones?’ Sophie had done her homework and made sure she used the correct form of address. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Sophie Allen from Dorset police. You briefly met one of the junior members of my team yesterday. May we talk?’
‘Of course. Come in.’ The woman did not betray the slightest sign of emotion.
Sophie was shown through to a sitting room at the rear of the house, beautifully decorated and furnished — fine art on the walls, a collection of delicate porcelain adorning the surfaces and a grand piano occupying one corner. The French windows were open, giving a view out towards an immaculately tended lawn and garden. A grey-haired man rose from an armchair where he’d been reading a newspaper and came across, hand extended. He looked puzzled. ‘Have we met? You look familiar.’
‘Yes, several times when I’ve appeared in your court. But I think the most recent occasion was about four years ago when we both appeared as guest speakers at a seminar on law and justice at Exeter University. You were about to retire, if I remember rightly.’
‘Oh yes. My life has changed quite dramatically since then. Less to do and far more time to do it in. I’m sure I keep getting under Marion’s feet. Sit down, please. We have some tea or coffee ready. I must apologise. We usually have a housekeeper here during the day, but she’s on holiday at the moment. The agency girl we booked to replace her doesn’t seem to have turned up yet, but Marion is coping marvellously.’
Sophie smiled. Rae had been right. This was a different world, inhabited by people who had housekeepers, cooks, au-pairs, gardeners, chauffeurs, to take care of the day to day tasks. What would they know of the managed chaos of most people’s lives?
‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said.
‘Yes, we do love it. We’ve been here for nigh on twenty years, haven’t we, darling?’ He looked across at his wife, who still seemed distracted. And no wonder. The news that Rae had delivered the previous day must have hit them like a bombshell.
‘Take a seat.’ Sir Roger waved vaguely at a chair set to one side of an ornate fireplace. He settled himself down opposite while his wife, Marion, perched nervously on the edge of a nearby couch.
‘The news that DC Gregson brought yesterday must have come as a shock,’ Sophie began.
‘Yes. We thought Paul was somewhere near the Scottish Borders. He’d sometimes talked about settling there in the years before he vanished, maybe setting up a small, self-sufficient farm.’
‘Rae would have told you that we’re treating this as a murder enquiry and that Paul had been living rough in Dorset for many years. We need to get to the bottom of his disappearance. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘As Marion told your officer yesterday, he came calling with a young woman in tow. They’d been to London for some reason and arrived here totally unexpectedly. We had a dinner party that evening with some important guests, so it was rather inconvenient. We’d never seen the girl before, and she looked rather dishevelled. Ill, almost. Paul looked strained. We made a dreadful blunder, I’m afraid, and offered to pay for them to stay in a local hotel instead of putting them up here. Paul was not pleased. I suppose we can see the error of that decision now, but neither of us realised that they were both under a good deal of strain. It must have seemed rather unfeeling to them.’
Sophie looked at Marion. ‘And you’re fairly certain that the young woman’s name was Katie Templar?’
‘Yes. It took me a few moments to remember it yesterday when your young constable came to call. But yes, that was her name. How did you trace her to us?’
‘Paul’s dog had a small owner’s canister attached to its collar. It had a slip of paper inside with the name Katie Templar on it, and this address. Our problem is that the dog is only about five or six years old. We think Paul put that slip of paper inside to provide us with key information should anything happen to him. It’s less obvious than having it engraved on a disk. We wonder if he suspected that someone was looking for him and meant him harm. What my colleague didn’t say is that we found the body of a young woman at the weekend, buried on a farm in the Quantock Hills in Somerset. We think it has been there for at least a decade, and that it’s Katie Templar, but we haven’t yet managed to confirm that.’
Marion looked puzzled. ‘Why would she be buried on a farm? How did she die?’
‘It looks as though she was murdered.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘It wouldn’t have been Paul
. It couldn’t have been. He was clearly besotted with her,’ Marion protested.
‘We’re still at an early stage of the investigation, so we can’t rule anything out as yet. But from what we’ve learned so far, it seems that they were indeed strongly attracted to each other.’
The couple glanced at each other, and some unspoken agreement passed between them.
Prentice’s father cleared his throat. ‘You’ll be wanting to know why there was so much ill-feeling when they left that he never contacted us again.’ He was speaking to Sophie, but his eyes were on his wife.
‘That would be helpful, yes,’ Sophie said.
There was a pause before Marion spoke, even more quietly than before. ‘They’d been to London so that she could have an abortion. We found out the next morning when they called again. I still cannot abide the thought of someone committing such an act. To me, abortion is murder. I told them so. I said they were murderers, and that they’d committed the ultimate sin and I could never forgive them. Paul must have known how I’d feel. It’s a key part of my religious belief.’
Sophie looked closely at her. There was something else that had not been said, she was sure of it.
‘Was Paul the father?’
Marion shook her head. ‘No. It was someone else in the group they were living with in Somerset. But Paul was smitten with her. He’d helped her with all the arrangements and even gone with her to the clinic. Apparently, he’d planned for them to stay here for a few days while she recovered, but they left when I told them what I thought. I can’t compromise my moral beliefs, even where my own son is concerned.’ Even now, all those years later, Marion’s expression was determined, uncompromising.
Sophie looked at Paul’s father. He looked miserable and defeated. Sophie guessed that he didn’t feel the same way as his wife but had deferred to her out of loyalty. And had continued to do so for more than a decade.
‘Did Paul go into a career after he left university?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes,’ Marion said. ‘He was in an investment bank of some kind, but he didn’t like to speak about it. He felt it was immoral in some way. He was talking about working in another field entirely when he was here that time. As I said, he mentioned farming.’
‘We’re having problems tracing any information about Katie Templar. Can you remember anything about her that might be useful to us?’
‘She was a bright young woman, from what Paul told us,’ the father said. ‘She had a first in economics from Durham University. I think her family originally lived in Bath, but her parents died in a car crash when she was young. She was brought up on a farm by an uncle, if I remember rightly.’
Marion frowned at him. ‘How did you know that? Paul never told me.’
‘I tried to talk to him just as they were leaving. I wanted to say how sorry I was. Sadly, it didn’t work.’ He shook his head.
Marion glared at him. ‘I refuse to apologise for my beliefs.’
‘He was our son, and I loved him,’ Paul’s father said quietly.
‘Do you know how they met?’ Sophie asked.
‘At university,’ he said. ‘Paul was there for a year, doing his master’s. He already had a first degree in history.’
A charged silence ensued. Sophie cleared her throat. ‘Can one or both of you come down to Dorchester to identify him? I can take you down now if you like and get a driver to bring you back.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I can drive. We have no other engagements today, do we, Marion?’ He waited for his wife to speak. ‘What made you think it was Paul? Was his name on file somewhere, or did someone know him?’
‘The latter. In fact, it was my daughter. She’d been keeping an eye on him for several years apparently, without telling anybody, and she got to know him quite well. She’s looking after his dog.’
Marion said quickly, ‘I don’t think we can keep a dog here, even if it was his. It would create too many difficulties. We’re away so much, you see.’
Sophie chose not to say anything.
Chapter 24: Old Friends
Wednesday Morning
Her morning shower over, Catherine Templeton went into her bedroom, threw on some clothes, drew back her curtains and gazed out onto a street glistening with rain. Just as forecast, the warm, sunny spell was over, to be replaced by the usual British weather of sunshine and showers.
She was still uneasy, even though the evening out with Russell Poulter had been a qualified success. She knew what the problem was — the thought of Trent Baker back on the streets and devising more malevolent schemes. How had she ever managed to become embroiled with that evil piece of lowlife? A combination of naivety and alcohol, paired with her usual inability to discriminate. She was a poor judge of character and managed to get herself into tricky situations far too easily.
Within days of her arrival at the farm they’d become lovers. The affair had continued on and off for some time, until it began to dawn on her what he was really like, this monster with the angel face. He was disruptive, manipulative and seemed to want to cause as much mischief as he could within the commune. She came to the conclusion that he’d never grown up. At first she’d believed that he was Tim’s official second-in-command and had been since the beginning. She soon discovered that he’d arrived six months after the commune had been set up and that many of the group members were very wary of him but daren’t say so to the others. She had been shocked to discover that the man she’d been sleeping with every night was so devious. Still, he had his uses, and she succeeded in keeping him as an ally for a while longer. Then came the gradual realisation that the commune was falling apart, riven by small factions, each pursuing their own agenda as the whole enterprise languished. Tim, the supposed leader, kept himself aloof. When she saw what was happening, Catherine decided to act. It was right up her street, using her guile to influence a man into seeing things from a different perspective. She got to work on him.
In fact, there had been more to the group breaking up than mere cash-flow worries. She’d sensed genuine fear among some of the people who’d begun to make plans to leave. She exploited the situation a little, so as to worm her way into a position of influence. She knew that several of the original members had already left silently in the night. Was that the cause of the unease that she sensed? It needed someone strong to take charge, but not Trent Baker with his double-dealing. She tried to work her way into a more senior role but was just too late. Everyone was making preparations to leave and couldn’t be persuaded to change their minds. Lean, hungry and suspicious, they slipped out of the farm and down the lane with their meagre possessions slung on their backs. And as she watched them go, one by one, Catherine began to realise that unless she also got out fast, she might be left alone with a handful of fanatics and mad Timothy, Andy and Trent Baker. So she too began to make secret plans. It was a time of shifting alliances. She realised now that she’d misread the situation and had left it too late.
So here she was, twelve years later, being forced against her will to think again about that time. She’d thought the farm had been forgotten years ago and that she was a new person with a normal future. Then the police had come calling, with a story about the body of a woman having been found in the woods near the farm. Catherine knew who this was. Now she had to work out if anyone else suspected that she knew. And if they did, was she in danger?
She took one last look out of her bedroom window before heading down to put the kettle on. A man was walking slowly along the opposite side of the street, scanning the houses on Catherine’s side. She stepped back from the window and watched him progress. He arrived opposite her own house and stopped. He seemed to be looking directly at her. Catherine gasped and stood right back from the window. Her doorbell rang. As if drawn by some invisible force, she went downstairs and opened the door.
‘Catherine? It’s me, Tim Brotherton, from the farm all those years ago. I heard that you’ve been trying to contact me.’
‘I know who you a
re,’ she hissed. ‘And I most certainly haven’t been trying to contact you. Are you mad, coming here like this?’
‘Can I come in for a moment? It’s important.’
That bloody commune. It was beginning to dominate her life again and was driving her round the bend. She took another look at him. He’d aged, and not well. Gone was the look of arrogant self-confidence, gone the zeal. He looked tired and worn down, thinner than she remembered.
‘What do you want?’ she asked through the barely open door.
‘Look, we can’t talk properly with that chain across. Can’t you let me in?’
‘No. Say what you have to say. I’ll listen and then decide. I ought to warn you that I’m in contact with the police. They’re keeping a safety watch on me.’
‘It’s about Trent Baker. I think he might be stirring up trouble. I thought you needed to know.’
‘Idiot. Why do you think the police are keeping an eye on me? For fuck’s sake, Tim. It’s me he assaulted and nearly killed, not you. That’s the reason he’s been locked up and out of everyone’s hair for the past ten years. Did you come round offering me help then, when I really needed it? Fuck, no. Not a word. You can go take a running jump, the lot of you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought it was best not to meddle, not at the time. Honestly, what could I have done? The court found him guilty and he was put away. If I’d have been around, I’d have been called in and that could have made the whole case against him more complicated. The press would have had a field day. You know how they love cult scandals. Trent might even have got off.’
Enraged, Catherine took the chain off and flung the door back. ‘What do you mean, got off? He attacked me with a knife, stabbed me three times and nearly killed me. How could he have got off? Are you saying that attack could somehow have been justified, you twisted bit of shit? For God’s sake!’
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