by Ted Tayler
With that, Geoff left. Gus looked at his glass. Should I stay, or should I go? He caught sight of Geoff through a crowd of people. He had stopped to talk with someone. Best to follow his boss’s example. He could drink at home. After what he’d heard tonight, maybe he needed more than one. He finished the cider. It had certainly hit the spot. It was tempting, but he too eased his way past customers, both young and old, until he reached the door into the hallway. Geoff was nowhere in sight.
“Drinking with the boss, were we?”
Gus half-turned and was pinned once again by those green eyes. Vera Jennings sat with three other women, and they were on a table by the window.
“A girls’ night out, Mrs Jennings?” he asked.
“Something like that,” she replied, “Mr Mercer tells me you accepted the consultancy position. That’s good news.”
“I’ll be back in harness six miles up the road from Monday week,” said Gus.
“I’m sure our paths will cross,” she replied.
She rested her fingers on his arm.
“Call me, Vera,” she said, “and sweet dreams.”
As Vera Jennings rejoined her friends, Gus escaped to the car park. The woman even managed to make smart casual and a pair of white trainers look the hottest outfit ever.
Gus drove back to Urchfont village. Whether there was much traffic on the road, it didn’t register. He pulled into the driveway and parked the Focus. The roses Tess had nurtured as they climbed the trellis to the side of the bungalow seemed to turn their heads away from him.
Once indoors, he hunted through his record collection for something to suit his mood. Tonight he needed the blues. The Authorised Sister Rosetta Tharpe Collection would suffice. Some nights he listened to classical, others it was artists such as Armatrading, Dylan and Marley.
He owned an eclectic mix of albums. Music wasn’t an ever-present thing with him. Immediately after Tess’s death, he had listened to Gluck, Chopin, Mahler and Purcell. Brief spells of melancholy interspersed with long hours of silence.
A large glass of a full-bodied Malbec from South-West France sat on the table beside him as he let the music wash over him. Alex Hardy, Neil Davis and an unnamed feisty female. Were they ever going to bond into a capable team? Why had he agreed to return? As for Vera Jennings and the electricity he’d felt when she brushed his arm, what did that mean?
Gus stood up to make his way unsteadily to bed. His glass and the empty bottle teetered on the edge of the table and fell to the floor.
“Sweet dreams,” he muttered, “if only.”
CHAPTER 6
Friday, 30th March 2018
Gus climbed out of his bed at around nine o’clock. He had a sore head. That served him right. He made his way gingerly to the kitchen and filled the kettle. Coffee. Black. That was the first order of the day. Breakfast would come later.
The empty bottle and glass lay on the carpet by his chair. They suffered no real damage. It pays to empty these things before you knock them over. Gus left them where they landed. His head told him it couldn’t face bending that far just yet.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe still sat on the turntable. Waiting in vain for the chance to prove she was the actual creator of rock and roll. Gus slid the album into the much-loved sleeve and returned it to a place of safety.
The coffee helped a little. The weather outside the window hadn’t changed from yesterday. The forecast was changeable for the last week of the month. There was nothing to argue about on that score. Gus hoped that if he managed another coffee and maybe a slice of toast, it would enable him to get showered and dressed.
It was eleven before Gus felt ready to walk to the allotment. The breeze did its best to clear the cobwebs from his brain, and he managed some digging before noon. There was no sign of Frank North this morning, but Bert Penman was toiling away. Gus strolled across.
“Morning, Bert. How are things?”
“The sun and rain are arriving in equal amounts, and it’s slowly getting warmer,” Bert replied, continuing to fork over the straw he’d packed around his strawberry plants. “All things to encourage things to grow the way they should. Fingers crossed we don’t get another sharp frost again, though. You can never be too hasty, but we might be over the worst.”
Bert leaned on his fork and stood to look at Gus.
“You have the troubles of the world on your shoulders if you don’t mind me saying?”
Gus smiled. The older man didn’t miss much.
“I had too much to drink last night, Bert. On top of that, I’m going back to work for a while.”
“Couldn’t stay away from a job you loved is that it?”
“There’s a case they want me to have another crack at solving. It’s been nagging away at Wiltshire Police for years. A fresh pair of eyes.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything about it, that’s fine, I understand. If you want me to keep an eye on things, say the word. I’m here every blessed day. It’s no hardship.”
“It would take a load off my mind, Bert. I’ll be free at weekends. I might fit in an occasional evening. Experience tells me I’ll not have the spare time I have at present.”
“I’m not just offering out of the goodness of my heart, lad. If your patch is covered in weeds because it ain’t getting tended to, they’ll spread over to mine. I can’t be doing with that.”
Gus put an arm around the older man’s shoulder.
“Thanks, my friend. Just don’t overdo things. I need to learn more from you yet.”
“You won’t learn much from that Frank North, that’s for sure,” laughed Bert. “He potters about here for as long as he does because his wife won’t let him smoke anywhere near the house. Half of everything he puts in the ground would stay there and rot because he’s never sure when it’s supposed to come out.”
“Why don’t you tell him?” asked Gus.
“What, and miss a few free helpings to get me through the winter? My pension isn’t that great.”
“You crafty devil. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll let you get on, Bert,” said Gus, “I’m driving into town to get supplies. I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again.”
Gus left Bert Penman chuckling to himself. Poor old Frank North. Thoughts of the ex-con and his spindly cigarettes reminded Gus of the suspicious goings-on he mentioned on the hillside behind Cambrai Terrace. As he walked towards the gateway from the allotments, he studied the tree line that sparked Frank’s interest.
If he had his Dad’s binoculars, it would help. They were in the loft if memory served right. His father had joined up at eighteen in 1944. He was stationed in Germany until 1949, then came out of the Army and he and Mum got married the following year. The repatriated pair of binoculars had belonged to a German officer. They were a high-class piece of engineering.
“Hang on, what was that?” Gus stopped in his tracks.
He couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure from this distance, but he thought he’d seen a trail of smoke from behind that stand of osier willows.
It might be an idea to get those binoculars from the loft. That smoke might merit a closer look.
Sunday, 1st April 2018
Gus had caught up with his household chores yesterday. He filled the fridge and the freezers with supplies. While in town, Gus had a haircut. Since being retired, he wasn’t so concerned about it curling over his collar or blowing in the wind. Those things seemed so important when in uniform; even when he was a detective.
Tess mentioned from time to time in the weeks before she died a haircut was overdue. Just a gentle reminder. Gus always thought it rich, remembering what a hassle it could be for her to get a brush through that mane of hers.
He checked his appearance in the mirror when he got home just after lunch and considered himself ready to meet head-on whatever challenges came next. A visit to the loft later that afternoon uncovered the vintage Dienstglas 6X30 military binoculars. The glasses were of top quality.
Gus popped to the allot
ments in the evening, where he found Frank North sat by his shed, deep in thought, cigarette shielded from the breeze by his hand.
“Busy, Frank?” he asked.
“I’ve done what I came here to do,” he replied, “and now I’m planning my next job.”
“I’ll forget I heard you say that, Frank.”
“No, Mr Freeman, honest to God, I swear I didn’t mean that sort of job. I wondered whether to try spring onions and green beans this year instead of leeks. I don’t get them to survive as others do around here.”
Gus wondered whether Bert would enjoy spring onions and green beans as much as the leeks. He waved the binoculars at Frank. “Brought these along,” he said.
“Have you seen something then, Mr Freeman?”
“Not sure, but I thought I saw smoke up there on Friday.”
“That’s it,” said Frank, getting excited. “As I said, that bloke’s growing osier willows but doing nothing with them. They’re growing unchecked. The chap who had that piece of land before him ran a little market garden. He’d grow early varieties of vegetables and fruit, then sell to small, independent shops in Devizes, Pewsey, Market Lavington and Upavon. He became successful, outgrew the place and moved. When he needed a store for the rotavators, seed drills and tools he bought, he had a shed built. Only breeze blocks and a tin roof at the start. As the business grew, he had a roof put on, and added mains water and electricity to the shed.”
“The smoke could mean someone’s living up there and lighting fires.”
“They’ve never put in for planning permission if they are,” said Frank.
“These glasses can stay in the shed from now on, and I’ll watch for any suspicious activity,” said Gus. “There might be a legitimate explanation for the smoke if that’s what I saw. If it looks dodgy, then I’ll pass the details on to my colleagues.”
“Your former colleagues you mean, Mr Freeman,” grinned Frank.
Gus didn’t need to explain about his consultancy job. Bert Penman wouldn’t say a word to Frank. He couldn’t afford to, now Gus knew the secret of the missing vegetables.
“Do me a favour, Frank. Don’t go nosing around up there. If they’re up to no good, it could be dangerous. It’s best to leave these things to the professionals.”
“Understood, Mr Freeman.”
Monday, 2nd April 2018
Gus decided to dispense with the suit this morning for his trip across to the Old Police Station. He didn’t know what condition the first floor of the building would be in if it had been unoccupied for a while. If his suit got dirty, it needed dry-cleaning before next Monday when he officially took up his new post.
Gus donned a clean pale blue shirt, navy blue slacks and his leather jacket. It took five minutes to get ready, but a further five minutes to find a comb. He would have to stop running his fingers through it and making do. Gus convinced himself he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Witnesses responded better to smartly attired policemen, despite TV cop shows like ‘Columbo’ and Peter Falk.
He’d missed this feeling. He was itching to join in the banter and form friendships with the new people. Not just at the Old Police Station, but the new custody suite on the outskirts of town and the Devizes HQ.
Gus even looked forward to meeting Geoff Mercer this morning. He wouldn’t have believed that a few years back. He looked at his watch. Shit. He had to get a wiggle on if he wanted to make it on time. He buffed the tops of his shoes on the back of his slacks and slammed the door behind him.
Everything had a purpose and meaning again.
Gus joined a steady stream of traffic on the main road out of town and enjoyed the view as he motored towards his destination. Devizes’s elevated position meant that as he came closer, he saw the urban sprawl of the market town in the valley. He wasn’t sure which was which, but the Westbourne and Greenwood estates were visible. One on either side, like two lungs. The main drag through the centre still retained evidence of several light industrial companies, but the heavy industry had disappeared a generation ago.
A sign on a roundabout pointed to where the custody suite now sat. Gus checked the mileage indicator. Within two miles, he had parked next to the Old Police Station. Not too far to travel to access those added facilities. They’d cope.
Superintendent Mercer was waiting at the rear of the building. Geoff’s uniform looked pristine, as it had when they met in the ACC’s office.
“Good morning,” said Mercer.
“So, this is where we’ll be working?”
“Yes, but let’s go in the old front door on the High Street first.”
There used to be a comfortable similarity to a police station front office as far as Gus was concerned. He must have visited dozens of these old Victorian examples. The monstrosities they knocked up in the Sixties were an abomination by comparison. However, when they stepped inside what they now affectionately called the Old Police Station, the sight that greeted him made his heart sink.
Gus tried to imagine what the old place looked like before the transformation. He could still see the mouldings on the walls and the lights suspended from the ceiling appeared to be original. Other than that, the ground floor was now partitioned into two units by the modern half glass, half panel screens. A corridor between the two appeared to lead to a communal rest area in what had been the back offices and cells.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Mercer, “the Food Bank operates out of the unit on the left. The Cancer Charity occupies the right-hand section. What you see here is typical. Loads of activity, people in and out eight hours a day, six days a week. Let’s go upstairs.”
Geoff led Gus back out to the High Street.
“The Crown is over the road, and The Ring O’Bells is further along on this side. Those are your two closest pubs.”
“I like a man who has his priorities right.”
Gus had noticed the car park at the rear of the building was in better order than the interior they just left. The newly installed lift to the first floor was roomy and quiet. When the doors opened, Gus realised that the ACC had fooled him. The suspended ceiling and sympathetic lighting highlighted a modern open-plan office layout with all the bells and whistles he and his team would ever need.
“Not what I expected,” he admitted.
“The ACC and I wanted to be certain you wouldn’t turn us down.”
“What else do I need to do before next Monday? Will I meet the team members beforehand? What’s the plan?”
“Straight in at the deep end. Nine o’clock on Monday. Your Sergeants are used to working with fresh faces. Teams don’t stay together for as long as they did in the old days. Today will be the first day’s work for Lydia, the graduate. Ease her in gently. Perhaps, you can arrange a visit to The Crown after work on your first day. The food’s not bad. You can use the occasion for a spot of team bonding. While I remember, the ACC asked me to hand you your ID card.”
Gus looked at the authorisation he needed to carry in the future. He recalled the full police badge and his well-earned ‘Detective Inspector’ he carried until three years ago. This card looked like a bus pass. All it bore was his picture and ‘Wiltshire Police Civilian Consultant’ written alongside it.
“We’ll take a quick spin around the amenities, and then I must get cracking. I need to be at HQ, and I can’t depend on every traffic light turning green. That ID card doesn’t look much, but it is programmed to give you access to this place. I’ll arrange for the others to receive their swipe cards before Monday.”
The Superintendent continued the brief tour of the first floor. Gus saw that they had catered for everything needed to accommodate DS Hardy and the mysterious Lydia. Things were improving. Maybe this job wouldn’t be such a hardship.
The two men returned to the ground floor. Outside in the car park, Gus looked around the down-at-heel premises on Church Street. High Street had its shabby looking shops and several vacant lots. He’d counted five as he drove past.
“Lookin
g at this quiet town now it’s hard to believe it has such a violent history. The gang warfare was covered briefly in the file the ACC gave me on Daphne Tolliver. I can’t see it has any relevance on the case, but as I drove in this morning, I saw the road leading to the new police building labelled Crook Way. Visitors to the town might think that odd.”
“It’s not unusual to see street names in these parts named after local dignitaries and personalities. The local Council thought it a no-brainer to name it after the murdered Councillor who took a very public stand against the gangs.”
“His name cropped up in the file. That was James Crook?”
“That’s right. Crook launched a vigorous campaign to rid the estates of the undesirable elements that had infiltrated it throughout the Nineties. He was a local politician with a long record of exemplary community service. He called upon the police force and the law-abiding citizens of the town’s housing estates to combine to tackle this problem. There were too many No-Go areas where we appeared unwilling to patrol. Too many cases of anti-social behaviour to which we turned a blind eye. Drugs were rife on both the Westbourne and the Greenwood estates, and petty crime had risen at an alarming rate. People didn’t feel safe to walk the streets during the day, let alone late at night. Guns featured in burglaries and several young men shot, one fatally, in gang-related incidents. Crook went into print in the local press accusing us of allowing the small country town to descend from a rural idyll to the poverty of an American ghetto. It was powerful stuff. Councillor Crook had been on the streets campaigning during the day back in 2001. Our people accompanied him in numbers. The plan was to reinforce the message things were changing. There was plenty of support on the estates from families who had had enough. As he drove away from the Westbourne in the late afternoon, it felt like they had taken the first important step in making the estates cleaner for decent people. James Crook went to the cinema with his family in the evening. As well as being strong on crime and making sure criminals got punished to the full extent of the law, James Crook wanted everyone to see how much he cherished family values. When he returned home, he got out of his car and walked towards his front door. A gunman shot Crook as his wife and two teenage daughters followed him onto the driveway.”