by Adam Croft
‘I was wondering if you might be able to pop into our office on Station Road today for a quick chat. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.’
‘Questions? What about?’
‘We can go through all that when we meet. Are you free after lunch?’
‘Well, no. I’m out of town today.’
‘Alright. How about tomorrow?’
‘Uh, well I’m helping out at the church fete. Is something the matter?’
Caroline jotted some notes down on the paper in front of her. There was the church connection — right from the horse’s mouth. In trying to make himself sound like a good Christian, Walsh had inadvertently thrown himself in at the deep end.
‘Oh no, nothing that can’t wait a day or two,’ she said. ‘How’s Sunday? I’m in the office in the morning if that helps?’
‘Sunday? I’ll be at church.’
Keep digging, Patrick, Caroline thought to herself. ‘Okay. Monday?’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘I might be able to do that. I just need to check a few things. Can I call you back?’
‘You can indeed. The number’s on the business card.’
She knew Walsh wouldn’t call her back. But he didn’t need to. She knew exactly what her next step was going to be.
Shortly after she put the phone down, there was a knock on her door. It was Dexter, and he had a huge, beaming smile on his face.
‘You’re not gonna believe this,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Me and Sara’ve been doing a bit of digging, if you’ll pardon the pun.’
‘What pun?’
‘I’m getting there. So, Rutland Water was created in the early seventies when they built a dam and flooded the valley, right?’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘I’ll give you three guesses as to one of the construction companies that was involved in that work.’
Caroline slowly nodded. ‘I’m pretty sure I can get this in one. Arthur Clifton Construction?’
‘Ten points to DI Hills.’
‘Do I win a speedboat?’
‘Bad taste. Speaking of which, do you remember that guy Howard Smallwood who spoke to us at the boating centre? The guy wearing the frog jumper. I reckon we should give him a call. He’s clearly barmy, but he’s exactly the sort of guy who might have some juicy information.’
Caroline thought about this for a moment. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Give him a call. But on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Tell him not to wear that bloody frog jumper.’
22
Even Caroline had to admit that a four-minute walk down Church Street didn’t warrant her starting up the car, parking a hundred yards down the road, paying for a ticket and then walking the rest of the way to Otters.
The cafe was bustling, as it was most mornings, but there was no mistaking Howard Smallwood. He looked just as Caroline might have expected the president of a local history society to look. He gave the impression of a cross between a supply teacher and a man eternally stuck in the past.
Caroline had heard colleagues and locals talk about Otters, but she’d never crossed the threshold. She realised now why the rest of town seemed so quiet each morning: because everyone was in here. She introduced Dexter and herself to Howard, adding two black coffees to the table’s order.
‘I understand my colleague’s been in touch,’ she said, giving Dexter the side-eye.
‘That’s right, yes. Some potential historical connection, you said?’
‘Sort of,’ Dexter replied. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, we’re a bit rusty on that front, so we wondered if you might be able to help.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Howard said, smiling. ‘What is it you want to know?’
Dexter was keen not to tell him too much at this stage. It was generally a good idea to only let expert witnesses know as much as was necessary. Evidence would be much stronger if it came independently. ‘Well, we’re not really sure. We’re clutching at straws a bit, if I’m honest. I was hoping you might have a bit more background and context than the standard history books and websites. Maybe we could start with the history of Rutland Water?’
One side of Howard’s face curled up in a smile. ‘How long have you got? I could write a book this thick about that,’ he said, signalling a weighty tome with his hands. ‘It changed the entire fabric of the county overnight. It divided the community. Families, even. We went from being a rural farming county to a tourist hotspot in the space of months. I’ve lived in Rutland all my life. I can remember what it was like back then. Hardly ever had anyone from outside come into the county. Nowadays, you’ll be hard pushed to find a Rutlander in Rutland.’ Caroline and Dexter shared a look, which Howard seemed to notice immediately. ‘Oh. No, I didn’t mean… Not in a racist way, I mean.’
‘It’s fine,’ Dexter said. ‘I’m from Leicester, anyway, so I didn’t take it personally. You meant those dodgy London types, right?’
Howard smiled, pleased he’d managed to wriggle out of that one. ‘Well, I think it’d be fair to say we wouldn’t have places like this if we were still a county of farmers. I moan about it, but it’s a great town to be an old duffer in nowadays.’
Dexter laughed. ‘Have you always lived in Oakham, then?’
‘No, only for the past fifteen years or so. Lived in a few of the villages in my time. Never outside the county, though.’
Caroline was no expert on local history, but even she knew that Rutland hadn’t even existed as a county between 1974 and 1997. She would have put money on Howard Smallwood having point-blank refused to use the word “Leicestershire” in his address for those twenty-three years. ‘Still, times change, eh?’ she said, having a bit of fun with this. ‘As you say, it wouldn’t be sustainable now. At least it’s all given the county a new lease of life.’
‘Oh, indeed. The history society does as well as it does because of what Rutland is,’ Howard said, as Caroline tried to make sense of those words through her pounding headache. ‘Lots of people come here for Rutland Water and fall in love with the place. That means a lot more people who’ve got an interest in the history of the area. It’s all about how you look at things, isn’t it? I mean, to look at me now, you wouldn’t think there’s a lump the size of an olive pushing on my brain, ready to kill me at any moment, would you?’
‘Uh, no,’ Caroline said, looking at Dexter. ‘No, that’s not something I would have guessed. Sorry to hear that.’ She wriggled slightly, trying to avoid the uncomfortable pause. ‘So what happened when Rutland Water was created? Did they literally just dam the area off and flood it?’
‘Oh no, they did “preparations”,’ Howard said, complete with air quotes. ‘Although in reality all that meant is they knocked down everyone’s houses and lined the valley with concrete. Even if you drained that entire bloody reservoir right now, you wouldn’t get any of it back. Lost forever. You can’t even imagine the uproar at the time. It was unbelievable. Makes that fiasco over the bloody McDonald’s seem like a primary school protest.’
Rutland had, until recently, been the only county in England without a McDonald’s — something which was on the verge of changing, after planning approval had been granted for a restaurant on the outskirts of Oakham. Despite Howard’s belittling of the situation, Caroline felt sure he was exactly the sort of person who would have opposed it.
‘So what was the basis for doing it? What was it all about?’ she asked.
‘Anglian Water needed more infrastructure. They own Rutland Water to this day. They turned it into a tourist hotspot too, with the boating, fishing, walks, bird spotting… the list goes on. It brings a huge number of tourists in, who spend money in hotels, restaurants, pubs and shops. Keeps the county busy and bustling. So, I presume this is all about the body that was found down at Normanton?’
‘We can’t comment on any specific cases,’ she said.
‘That’s a yes, then. Listen, I know everyone round here. I
f you need any help or information, just give me a call, alright? Always more than happy to help out.’
23
Caroline and Dexter left Otters, crossed the road and headed back up Church Street, towards the police station.
‘You’re still not convinced, are you?’ Dexter said, recognising the look on his boss’s face.
‘About what?’
‘That it’s historical, somehow.’
‘It just makes no sense. I mean, think about it. If it’s linked with history in some way, why not do it back then? Most murders are committed when emotions run high, when feelings are fresh. It’s a heat-of-the-moment thing.’
‘I dunno. This seems pretty well planned and pre-meditated.’
‘Yes, but fifty years’ worth of planning? I think that’s probably going a bit far. And again, it makes our killer a pensioner. From a practical point of view, if this is historic, why not do it before CCTV’s widespread? And mobile phone tracking. Forensics, even. Every day the killer waited, their job got harder.’
‘What if they didn’t care?’ Dexter said. ‘What if they wanted to be caught? What if that was the whole point?’
‘Then why the wild goose chase? If they wanted to be caught so badly, they could’ve hung around at the church with their hands in the air. Think about this logically. It makes no sense to wait until now, unless it’s all based on something that happened recently. Roger Clifton was a local man. People knew him. His killer could have got to him at any point. So why now?’
‘Roger might’ve been local, but maybe his killer wasn’t. Maybe the motive is historical, but the means and opportunity only became apparent recently.’
Caroline shook her head. ‘Doesn’t make any sense. You don’t just file a note away at the back of your mind to do a quick murder next time you’re passing through Rutland.’
‘You do if you couldn’t get here before then, though.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What if our killer’s been in prison? Or out of the country?’
Caroline’s jaw tensed as she considered this. ‘That’s a point. Call Sara and ask her if she’s had any luck with the Spanish authorities in relation to Arthur Clifton. We’ll need to build profiles on Roger’s other connections, too. See if there’s anyone who’s been inside. I doubt you’ll find anyone who’s been banged up for fifty years, though. Wasn’t the country’s longest-serving prisoner let out a year or two ago? Even he’d only done forty-odd years. I can’t help thinking this road doesn’t go anywhere, Dex, no matter how many different ways you try.’
‘Alright, so something more recent. A shady business deal? Dodgy council business? Is that enough reason to kill someone?’
‘Oh, Dex. You would’ve melted if you’d joined the Met. I once led a case into a woman who stabbed her husband to death because he used the veg chopping board to cut up meat.’
Dexter chuckled. ‘To be fair, that’s pretty dangerous.’
‘So’s ramming a steak knife into your husband’s neck. Listen, what if we’ve got the symbolism all wrong? What if that’s all just some nutter having a bit of fun? Maybe it was a business thing, or a council decision. Perhaps our killer is seriously unhinged and saw murder as justifiable. If they’re that deranged, the whole symbolism of the church could’ve been their attempt to piss around. Send out a message, perhaps.’
‘True. But it could also be someone very clever and calculating. Roger spent his life in construction and local politics. I think it’s fair to say he will have ticked a few people off in his time. And there’s a fine line between genius and insanity.’
‘Who said that?’ Caroline asked. ‘Sounds like something Oscar Wilde would come out with.’
‘Close. Oscar Levant. He was America’s cross between Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward. "There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.” That’s the full quote.’
Caroline smiled and nodded, well aware that some lines had clearly been erased.
‘Right,’ she said as they arrived back on Station Road. ‘Have you got an hour or two free?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait. Why?’
‘Because I fancy something a little bit different. How do you fancy going to a church fete?’
Dexter had immediately clocked Caroline’s thinly-veiled motivation. Despite her earlier comments, she was still convinced there was a religious background to Roger Clifton’s murder, but he also knew she wasn’t going to let it go. If nothing else, it was an hour out of the office and a chance to mingle with the locals. There was even a half-decent chance one or two of them might have some information that would be useful to them.
They parked up a little way down the road from the church, the streets already lined with cars — presumably due to people travelling from neighbouring villages to visit the church fete. By now, the sun was shining strongly and it was shaping up to be a beautiful day.
Caroline took stock of the happy faces, excited children and bunting that set the scene, and realised it was something that never would’ve happened in London. There were fetes and events, but they didn’t quite have the same community feel she was seeing in front of her in that moment.
‘Where do you stand on fudge?’ Dexter asked, gesturing towards one of the stalls as they stepped into the church hall.
‘I try not to,’ Caroline said. ‘Makes my shoes awfully sticky.’
‘Shall we get a bag? I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy that was at the food and drink festival in Oakham last year. If it is, the coconut fudge is divine.’
‘As long as you’re not thinking of putting it on expenses,’ Caroline replied, noticing he was already halfway to the stall.
Dexter beamed as he returned with the bag of bright pink fudge, looking like a child who’d just been rewarded for good behaviour. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, a concerned tone in his voice.
‘Not the same as last year?’
‘No, over there.’
Caroline followed Dexter’s eyes and looked over at the tombola stall. And there, slowly turning the colour of coconut fudge, was Patrick Walsh.
24
Caroline was keen not to spook Patrick by questioning him too heavily at the fete, but she did at least need to make her presence known. It was usually the case that first-time — and even some experienced — criminals had a tendency to change their behaviour, particularly once they knew the police were interested in them. For now, their job was to sit back and observe.
She was, though, more than a little intrigued by Patrick Walsh being so heavily involved in the church. While there was no rule against huge, burly-looking rugby players having a religious streak, something didn’t quite sit right with Caroline. Before Dexter could say anything, Caroline walked over to greet Walsh.
‘Hi!’ she said, with forced jollity. ‘Good turnout, isn’t there?’
‘Pretty good, yeah. Encouraging. Everyone’s put a lot of work into this.’
She nodded, well aware of the slightly menacing tone to his voice. ‘Do you tend to get involved with these sorts of events quite a lot, then?’
‘Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact.’
‘Committed Christian?’
‘Devout.’
In that moment, Caroline realised why she’d felt so uncomfortable at the prospect of Patrick Walsh. The man was a walking contradiction. Friendly when drinking, cold when sober. A devout Christian, yet rumoured to be having an affair with a married woman. Working the tombola stall at a church fete, whilst still stinking of booze from the previous evening.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, looking him in the eye. ‘Too many people tend to lose their moral fibre too easily these days.’
Caroline spotted the Reverend Peter Tottman on the other side of the room and wandered over to him. ‘Thought we’d pop down to lend our support,’ she said, introducing herself to the reverend’s wife, Sheila. ‘It certainly seems to be going well.’
‘Yes, it’s good to see the village in such good spirits,
’ Sheila said. ‘Considering.’
‘Well, it’s a very British thing to be able to forget bad news when there’s such divine fudge available, eh, Dex?’
Dexter smiled uncomfortably. ‘Showing my support for local business,’ he said.
Noticing the reverend had peeled off to speak to a couple of keen local parishioners and clearly intent on avoiding conversation with the police, Caroline decided to try to probe a little further with his wife.
‘Have the locals been talking about it, then? Roger Clifton’s death, I mean.’
‘Oh, I should say. He used to live in the village, you know. His wife and daughter still do.’
‘Was he popular?’
Sheila snorted. ‘That’s not the word I’d use. He certainly wasn’t popular in the church, anyway. He always had a bad word to say about everybody. His wife has been quite involved in the church over the years, but it was almost as if he was opposed to it somehow.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, look. We’re well aware most people aren’t religious. And those that are probably aren’t Christians. And those that are probably aren’t Methodists. That’s fine. But Roger always tried to get in little digs and barbs. He couldn’t just be non-religious. He had to actively undermine everything we did or said.’
‘Like what?’ Caroline asked.
Sheila let out a sigh. ‘Oh, all sorts. There was one time, back when he still lived here, we had an evening soiree. All sounds very la-di-da, I know, but really it was just a chance to open the church, raise some money and drink prosecco with a few nibbles. Roger had clearly been in the pub since lunchtime, and had come looking for Alice. Peter told him she’d already gone home, and he started ranting and raving, saying he knew she was here somewhere. She wasn’t, though. She’d started to feel a bit ill about an hour in and had gone home to bed. But Roger wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was going off on one, shouting about how the church had got in the way of their marriage, was taking up all her time, how it was all a load of old nonsense anyway. Peter stepped in and tried to defuse the situation, and Roger started yelling at him too.’