by Ted Tayler
“Only just, you’ll hear soon enough. I’m lying low for the time being. I need people around me to help with the deception.”
“Do your team know?”
“I’ve kept them informed, and asked them to cover for me until it’s safe to resurface. Tonight is a postponement, not a cancellation. Events took me by surprise this morning on my way to work. I’m doing my utmost not to let it screw up things Geoff Mercer’s handling.”
“Geoff’s been acting oddly since yesterday. So has the ACC. You get used to it after you’ve worked here a while. It’s one of three things. They’re getting the sack, being promoted, or told to keep a secret.”
“Vera, you’re very astute. Do you read other people’s behaviour with such accuracy?”
“I can’t say I can read you very well yet. When I learn what this cloak and dagger stuff is for, no doubt it will make sense.”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I promise.”
Vera sighed.
“Just take care of yourself, wherever you are, Gus Freeman.”
“I’ll try. Thanks.”
Gus ended the call. He had decided not to cancel the security camera firm visit. It would annoy the guy to have had a wasted trip this afternoon, but he’d get over it. It wouldn’t hurt if Dushka’s associates checked the bungalow and spotted a visitor who expected Gus to be home. One more tick in the box of persuading the gang the hit had gone to plan.
His next job was to leave this lane and reach a place of safety.
Gus called Suzie Ferris.
“Gus,” she said, “I’ve just left Geoff’s office. He’s been tearing a strip off Gareth Francis the DI who attended your ambush this morning. Are you okay?”
“Fine. I need your help. Can you get me a lift to your parents’ farm? It will be a good place to lie low during daylight hours. I’m guessing there’s good visibility of the surrounding area?”
“Nobody can get within half a mile of the farmhouse without someone noticing. We’re a long way from the main road. Dad’s got registered shotguns if required. Where are you?”
“Two hundred yards past the gateway into the allotments. On a stretch of the lane that’s got trees and hedges on both sides.”
“I know where you are. If you go fifty yards farther along the lane towards the Devizes turning, there’s a gate. Get into that field and wait. Your lift should be with you in thirty minutes.”
Gus did as instructed. Suzie didn’t question his motives. She just did the necessary. The young woman impressed Gus more every time they met. If only some of that rubbed off on this prat Gareth Francis.
Gus was leaving when he spotted Luke Sherman running towards him.
“I’m okay to head for London Road. Do you want a lift anywhere?”
“Sorted, thanks, Luke. I know I’ve thanked you already…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m only thankful it turned out okay.”
“The whole thing was textbook. Credit to whoever trained you.”
Luke smiled.
“It was my first time, Gus. I did the training, but I’ve never faced a situation with live ammunition before. I hit Dushka in the left shoulder and the stomach, low on the right-hand side. I aimed centre mass, middle of the chest.”
“You hit him, Luke. Stopped him from finishing what he started. Dushka jumped out of the Merc, ran around the car and fired two shots with only a second to steady himself. The bullets hit my headrest an inch apart. One on top of the other. He wouldn’t have missed again.”
“I’m okay to take the phone and the gun to HQ,” said Luke. “DI Francis has got things moving on the misdirection, and DS Mercer is expecting me. It’s been an honour to work with you, Gus. Good luck.”
With that, the young DS ran back through the crowd of police personnel to his car. He would soon take the quickest alternative route out of the village to Devizes. Gus wished he was going with him. He wanted to see this thing through to a conclusion. He also wanted to be somewhere; he could learn how his team was coping without him.
It was time to disappear; so, Gus made his way to the gate and climbed into the field. He had twenty-five minutes to wait. The sun was high in the sky. He heard voices in the lane as the various disciplines continued to work. On this side of the hedge, the sheer beauty of the field was beyond words. It was pasture land with little to break the monotony, but it felt great to be alive.
Gus sat on the grass and waited. He listened out for a Land Rover or the unmistakable sound of a tractor. He wondered who Suzie would send to fetch him.
Twenty minutes later, he groaned.
In the distance, he saw two horses. He stood and watched as the rider drew near.
“Gus Freeman, I presume?”
“You must be Suzie’s father. She told me you had retired from point-to-point. I should have known you continued to ride.”
“I’m John Ferris, yes, too old to compete these days. Never too old to hack around the countryside, though. There’s a helmet on the saddle of the spare horse. She’s very calm. We’re not in any hurry; I’ll go at your pace. Suzie tells me we need to keep you safe until she gets home from work.”
Gus donned the helmet. That was the easy part. John Ferris jumped down and helped him clamber into the saddle. God, it felt a long way off the ground.
“I won’t trouble you any longer than necessary, John. I want to sleep in my bed tonight. If I can get dropped off at my bungalow after darkness falls, that should be the end of the disruption, for both of us.”
“Suzie hasn’t told us why you need to be incommunicado. None of our business. She tells us you’re a good bloke. That’ll do for us. We must be around the same age, am I right?”
It promised to be a long ride for Gus. Trapped on the back of an animal that he had no idea how to control, with a father asking probing questions about his relationship with his daughter. First on the list - the age difference. He wondered how many more questions lay ahead as they crossed the fields between Urchfont and Worton. Gus wasn’t sure he had the answers.
Alex and Lydia had reached the side door of the Ring O’Bells just before half-past nine. Lydia rang the bell.
They could both hear the click-clack of high-heeled shoes on the parquet floor.
Krystal Warner, the landlady, had put on a few pounds since 2003. That shattered the image Alex had formed of the younger of the two busty barmaids from the murder file.
“Police?” asked Krystal, already looking bored. The day had hardly begun.
“My name’s DS Alex Hardy, and this is Lydia Logan Barre,” said Alex, “we have questions about the murder of your friend, Trudi Villiers.”
“Why’s that then? Nobody’s mentioned the case for years. Even when they let that bloke out of prison, nobody came to see me. They didn’t seem to care who killed Trudi.”
“No murder case is ever closed, Ms Warner. We’re part of a cold case review team stationed across the road in the Old Police Station. We’re taking a fresh crack at the case. Can we find somewhere more suitable to continue this conversation? What do you use this for; a skittle alley or a dance hall?”
“Both,” said Krystal, as she slouched along beside Alex’s wheelchair.
Lydia trailed behind. She’d noticed the look Krystal had given her. It appeared since her looks had faded, Krystal Warner hated greeting anyone better-looking than her. Lydia hoped her mixed-race colouring didn’t play a part in the way Krystal dismissed her with a glance, but you never could tell.
They had reached the lounge now. The seating was tired, but comfortable-looking. Krystal flopped onto a velour-covered bench and waited for Alex to position his wheelchair facing her. Lydia walked to the other side of the table between the two and sat. Krystal showed no inclination to move along the bench to make room for her.
Lydia studied the other woman. The landlady was just the right side of forty. Three, maybe four stones overweight. Her hair colour had once been brunette if the roots were a clue. Lydia had cursed her Scottish
genes when growing up. Schoolchildren could be so cruel to kids with red hair. Now her biggest problem was taming its wild nature. Krystal tried to stave off the ravages of time with a bottle-blonde hairstyle that did her few favours after a week or two’s growth.
As for that short skirt. Why wear something that needed tugging at every few minutes? It only drew more attention to the legs. Fifteen years on, trousers might have been kinder.
“Take us through that Saturday, Krystal,” said Alex, “we want to understand what led up to the murder. Maybe they missed something important in the original investigation.”
“I should think so,” scoffed Krystal, “they charged a bloke for her murder before they had time to do any real detective work. That bloke was nowhere near this town. The cops talked to James and me, but nothing more.”
Alex ignored her relationship with James Bosworth for the time being. They were aware he had married someone else. Krystal didn’t appear to have a partner. If she did, it was unlikely he was relevant any more than Sammie, Bosworth’s wife.
“What time did you start work that day?” asked Alex.
“We never did the lunchtimes,” said Krystal, “we started at six in the evening, and worked to closing. The pubs didn’t open all day back then. That changed two years later.”
“Did you spend much time together away from work?” asked Lydia. “What did you do that day, before you got behind the bar here at six?”
“We lived in the same flat,” sneered Krystal, “do you think we didn’t get on, or something? We shared the rent, shared the housekeeping; and as often as not we shared the blokes too, especially on holiday. We flew out to one of the Costas or the islands in the Med. It was the heyday of those Club18-30 holidays. We overindulged on sun, alcohol and men. Trudi had an appetite for sex you wouldn’t believe.”
“You were choosier, would you say?” asked Alex.
“I wish I had been,” said Krystal, “no, we spent a lot of time together. As for that Saturday, I think we went to the Spar to buy ready meals, did the washing, tidied the place. You know, the things normal people do at weekends. We caught up on a few hours’ sleep, then got ready for work.”
“How did you get here?” asked Lydia.
“We always took a taxi,” said Krystal.
“You smiled when you said that,” said Alex, “what amused you?”
“We used the same firm all the time. Four or five drivers were you know, younger.”
“Saeed Gill was a driver, wasn’t he?” asked Lydia.
“I didn’t mean that old lech. We wouldn’t have helped him out.”
“What do you mean, helped out,” asked Alex.
“Trudi went with them in the back of the cab the first time they brought us home. Sometimes we took them indoors for a threesome. They never charged us the fares they should have after that even when we travelled after midnight. She was a crafty one. If she could use her body to save a few quid towards another holiday, then she would.”
“Are any of those drivers around now?” asked Alex.
“The firm closed. I can’t say I’ve seen any of them in town for years, to be honest. The drivers were young Indians or Pakistanis. I never knew which. They move around, don’t they? Might have returned home, who knows?”
“Was it busy for a Saturday night?”
“What, when we got here? Not for the first two or three hours. The band started playing at nine. On for an hour, a half-hour break, then they played for another hour. That was how Gary had it set up every week. On a night when the place was heaving, he’d turn a blind eye if they kept playing an extra fifteen minutes. As long as they finished by a quarter to midnight, the law wouldn’t be knocking on the doors. Anything to sell a few more drinks.”
“So, who came into the bar early in the evening? Who were your regulars? Did you have any strangers around that night?”
“You want a lot, don’t you?” Alex sensed Krystal was reluctant to share too much detail.
“We are certain whoever killed Trudi visited the Ring O’Bells that night. You must have seen them. Maybe you served them their drinks. Perhaps you even chatted with them.”
Krystal got the message and took her time remembering the regulars. Alex took notes of names. Mick, Vinny, Dodger, Gramps. Good luck trying to identify them from what little detail Krystal remembered.
Alex looked to the heavens.
Krystal leaned forward and gave him both barrels: -
“If you come here tonight for a drink, I’ll ask you what you’re having. Names don’t come into it. Come back every night for a week, and I’ll have a glass of your favourite tipple poured before you reach the bar. I still don’t need your name. I’ve got people coming in here in an hour who have used this pub every day for twenty years. All I know is a first name or a nickname. The only surnames back then were blokes I’d gone to school with that I’d slept with, and not every one of them if I’m honest.”
“Were any of Trudi’s ex-boyfriends in the bar?” asked Lydia. “Someone she had a row with when they finished?”
“Are you for real?” asked Krystal. “There were a dozen or more blokes the other side of the bar with whom she’d had sex. Five of them were in the band. Even the roadie pulled her one night. Was it always sweetness and light when they got thrown on the scrap heap? Not likely. Trudi used them for as long as she wanted, then tossed them aside like yesterday’s newspapers. That’s how she was.”
“And yet you remained good friends,” said Lydia.
Alex gave her a stern glance. They weren’t here to judge; they needed information.
“When you’re best friends,” Krystal replied, as if she hadn’t noticed, “you stick together no matter what. We wanted to have a good time. It’s what being young’s meant for; anyway, we never hurt anyone.”
“What time did James arrive? Had you two been dating long?” asked Alex.
“James always got there by eight on a Saturday. We could chat until it got busier. I started seeing him regularly after we came back from Ibiza at the end of August.”
“Does regular suggest the relationship had started earlier?”
“He wasn’t a taxi driver or in a band if that’s what you mean. James had been drinking in the Ring O’Bells since he was eighteen. I’d seen him around town. We got together once or twice, just casual, and then he asked if we could go out on proper dates.”
“Did Trudi ever do that?”
Krystal laughed and shook her head.
“How did she react to you having a steady boyfriend?”
“Trudi thought I was mad, must be getting old before my time. She worried I would stop going on holiday with her. We booked to return to Ibiza in the Spring. James wasn’t keen on me going back, because he knew what Trudi would get me doing.”
“Did the band play for that bit longer that night can you recall?”
“When we got here Trudi was chatting with Gary while I restocked the bottle shelves. She wanted to stay on for an hour to earn extra cash for the holiday fund. Gary put the bar clock forward ten minutes. He wasn’t too happy about a late night. Maggie told him to forget, asking her to help. It was a long enough week without tagging on another hour.”
“So, when the band finished playing, and Gary called last orders, nobody complained it was early?”
“They were too pissed to notice or didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Maggie. She gave them the rough side of her tongue if they got lippy. I called time that night. Then I told James to get us a taxi.”
“Because you wanted to take advantage of an early night, too?” asked Lydia.
“More fool me. James was all over me in the back of the taxi. That pervert Gill never looked at the road, he stared up my skirt in the rear-view mirror. I wanted James to stay the night, but he went home. That was it. I wasn’t as keen after that. He hung around until after Trudi’s funeral and then we drifted apart.”
“How long before the taxi arrived here to collect you?” asked Alex.
&
nbsp; “We stood outside for a while. Gary and Trudi didn’t want us hanging around inside while they worked. The band moved their kit out of that door you came through. It could have been ten minutes. Why?”
“We just need to fix the timeline in our heads,” said Alex. “If Gary moved the clock forward ten minutes it meant that when you left here, it was ten to twelve, not midnight. You got picked up by Saeed Gill at midnight. How long did it take to drive from here to your flat on Kingfisher Close?”
“It should take five minutes, but James and Gill argued over the fare. The firm upped the rate after twelve. James said he’d booked the taxi well before midnight and it wasn’t his fault it had taken Gill so long to reach us. He thought he was trying it on. In the end, it was a quarter past when we got to our old place. Then the other arguments started.”
“Over James staying the night?”
“Yeah. We were kissing and fooling around on the pavement. Gill called out. He kept wanting James to pay the fare so he could get back into town and earn more money. James decided he didn’t want to stay for an hour until Trudi got back. So, he jumped in the taxi and Gill drove him across town.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Twenty past, maybe? I was pissed. After they’d gone, I went indoors and went to bed. You know what happened on Sunday after they found Trudi. I had no idea she wasn’t home. Her bedroom door was closed, as usual. I let her sleep.”
“Did you try to contact James after he’d gone home? Did he phone you?”
“James didn’t call me until Sunday afternoon. He couldn’t believe the girl we’d left being the life and soul here in the Ring O’Bells was dead. I shed a few tears that day I can tell you.”
“Sunday afternoon was the first time you spoke after he got into the taxi?”
“Yeah. I was mad as hell when he left. I wanted to have sex with him, but staying for breakfast was a commitment. Trudi wouldn’t have liked it; she didn’t want James and me going steady. I slept through until ten. Then I made a coffee and waited for James to call. I hoped he’d apologise. I was working Sunday night too, so I planned to make it up to him.”