by Joy Ellis
‘Please sit and tell me why you are here.’ He indicated two armchairs, while he sat on the arm of the sofa, obliging them to look up to him.
Robbie wondered if this was intentional. ‘We need to speak to you about your involvement with the people trying to clear Brendan Symons’s name.’
Ventnor frowned. ‘What have they done now? Has that damn fool Liam got himself into trouble?’
Max shook his head. ‘They’ve done nothing, sir, but there have been some incidents recently that seem to be related to the Ashcroft murder trial.’
‘Incidents?’ His pale eyes flashed.
‘Sorry, sir, we can’t say more at this stage in our investigation,’ Robbie interposed, ‘but if you could just tell us why you joined the campaign?’
‘I strongly believe in fair play, Detective, and I don’t like to think of an innocent man suffering for something he didn’t do. Like Brendan suffered — to the point of taking his own life.’
‘This campaign has run for years, sir. Even though it’s got nowhere, you still keep trying?’ Robbie looked at him.
Ventnor sat up straight. ‘Of course! When you believe in something — really believe in it, you don’t give up. Wars were not won by throwing in the towel, young man.’
This sounded pompous and very patronising to Robbie.
‘Have you always lived here, sir?’ asked Max, ‘In the family home?’
‘Oh no. I travelled a lot when I was younger. I worked all over the country. I only settled back here when my father died. I supported my mother through a long illness, until she passed away. Now here I am.’ He looked around the room. ‘Home alone.’
‘No brothers or sisters?’
‘One sister, but she was killed on a backpackers’ holiday in Asia. As I said, there is only me now.’ He shifted on the arm of the sofa. ‘Forgive me for asking, but it seems I’m being interviewed, and I have no idea why. Is this normal procedure?’
‘We appreciate your assistance, sir. I’m sorry we can’t say much at present, but I can assure you it’s a serious matter.’
‘Two detectives? It sounds like murder to me.’ He looked from Max to Robbie, who both returned his gaze impassively. ‘But as you say, you can’t tell me anything.’
‘You are an architect, sir?’
‘A project architect. I’m self-employed now, but I work with a company that designs homes in the fusion style.’ The two detectives looked blank. ‘It combines art with nature and science. It’s interesting and quite challenging work.’
‘Why do you believe that Brendan Symons was innocent?’ Robbie asked abruptly.
The question seemed to disconcert Ventnor. He answered almost angrily. ‘Because it was clearly a travesty of justice. Any fool could see that. There wasn’t nearly enough evidence, and what was presented was questionable.’
‘The jury clearly didn’t agree with you there. So you followed the case from day one?’ Robbie’s tone was harder now.
Ventnor shifted again. ‘I suppose I did.’
‘Why? Why were you so interested in it? Did you know Brendan personally? Or maybe you knew Lyndsay Ashcroft?’ Robbie persisted.
‘No, I didn’t! And I object to this kind of questioning!’ Ventnor stood up. ‘I think you should leave now. If you need to come back, make an appointment and I’ll have my solicitor with me.’
After the door slammed shut behind them, Max began to chuckle. ‘Nice one, Robbo! That got him miffed!’
‘So, what did you think of him?’ Robbie asked.
‘Pompous prat. He’s clearly twitchy, but I wonder why.’
‘I’d say he was personally involved,’ Robbie said. ‘Why so much interest, right from the beginning, and then keep at it all this time? He knew one or both of them, I’m certain.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can’t see him as our DIY man, can you?’
Max looked back at the house. ‘I can’t. I didn’t like him, but that doesn’t make him a killer.’
‘So,’ Robbie started the car, ‘on to check out Mr Shaun Cooper.’
‘Can hardly wait. Hope he’s not like that one. “Wars weren’t won by throwing in the towel, young man!” Supercilious old git.’
* * *
Marie and Gary were combing through the past, their desks scattered with printouts and copies of old newspaper articles.
‘I’m starting to get a feel for what life was like in that small village back in those days,’ Gary said.
‘Me too, and boy was it claustrophobic!’ Marie grimaced.
Gary grinned at her. ‘Incestuous even. Such a small community, and everyone related to everyone else.’
‘It was much worse a couple of generations ago, when few people travelled outside the village.’ Marie was looking at her screen. ‘Finally! I’ve found something on Lyndsay Ashcroft. There’s a background report here, done at the time of her death, along with a short bio from her class teacher.’ She printed them out and handed copies to Gary.
They read in silence. Marie said, ‘Nothing screams out at me.’
‘Mmm. This bio is a bit, what’s the word, sterile, isn’t it? I mean, this poor young girl has just been horribly murdered, and whoever wrote this might have been copying out the shipping forecast. You’d think a bit of emotion might have trickled through, wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe the teacher who wrote it was affected, and was trying to keep to the facts. It’s not supposed to win the Booker Prize.’
Gary snorted. ‘You know what I mean. “Good at sport. Liked animals.” I don’t think this teacher liked Lyndsay Ashcroft much.’
Marie read it again. ‘I see what you mean. It isn’t exactly warm and friendly, is it?’
Gary skimmed the police report. ‘I get the feeling this lass was a bit of a Billy No-Mates. I wonder why that was?’
Marie shrugged. ‘Crap family? Crap house? Too ashamed to bring friends home?’
‘Or she could have been a bully, and the other kids steered clear.’ Gary looked up. ‘We need to find out. It could have a bearing on the case.’
‘Okay, let’s get phoning and see if we can trace someone who remembers her.’
Ten minutes later, Marie put down the receiver. ‘Got one! The local post office put me in touch with an old neighbour. I’ve rung her, and she’ll talk to us.’
‘Excellent. When?’
‘Now. Well, as soon as we can get there.’ Marie stood up. ‘Let’s go. I’m dying to find out what Lyndsay was really like.’
* * *
Mrs Beatrice Harper’s home was a small, neat bungalow set in a large corner plot. Gary looked around, lost in admiration.
Beatrice met them at the gate and greeted them cheerfully. She was dressed for gardening in green corduroy trousers, a check shirt and a quilted half-jacket with more pockets than a fishing gilet. ‘Let me get these boots off and we’ll go inside.’
Inside the back door, she hauled off her wellies with a grunt. ‘I do love my garden, but at eighty-three it’s beginning to get the better of me, I must admit.’
Gary was amazed. ‘Your garden is a picture. You put me to shame.’
‘You’re a working man. I have all the time in the world, except for my craft classes, oh, and the film club.’ Beatrice bustled into the kitchen and put the kettle on. ‘I’ll get us some tea. You are “proper” police officers, I take it? You do like a brew?’
They nodded vigorously. ‘Nothing like it,’ said Marie.
‘You two go through to the conservatory and make yourselves at home. I’ll bring the tea.’
Gary followed Marie into the garden room through a lounge/diner, vastly impressed by how clean it all was. Plenty of older folk lacked the energy for dusting or hoovering, he knew, but evidently not Beatrice. They sat in cane chairs and looked out at the garden. Surely it was too big for an eighty-three-year-old to cope with? Yet somehow she seemed to be managing, and very well. Gary just hoped her memory was in as good nick.
Beatrice arrived with a tray of tea and chocolate digestive biscu
its. ‘Dig in, and tell me what you want to know.’
Marie helped herself to a mug of tea and a biscuit. ‘We need to get a clear picture of what Lyndsay Ashcroft was like. Do you think you can help us, Mrs Harper?’
‘I certainly can! And it’s Beatrice, please. I’ve only lived here for, oh, around five years I suppose. Before that, when my husband was alive, we lived next door to the Ashcrofts. Ash Grange, it was called. Rather ostentatious, but it was a big property.’
‘They were well off?’ asked Marie.
‘Charles Ashcroft was a businessman, something in the building trade I think. Not a friendly man at all.’ Beatrice’s bright face clouded over. ‘My husband fell out with him, I’m afraid.’
‘What was the wife like? Lyndsay’s mother?’ asked Gary, nibbling a digestive.
‘We never really knew her. She ran off one day. Never came back.’ ‘Not that we blamed her really. All the shouting and screaming that used to come from that house, it was terrible.’ Beatrice shook her head. ‘We worried about the children.’
Gary stared at her, surprised. ‘Children?’
‘Yes. Lyndsay and her little brother, Alistair.’
Marie gave Gary a puzzled glance. ‘None of the reports mentioned a brother.’
Beatrice put her mug down. ‘No wonder! Poor little thing. They said he was autistic. He had behavioural problems. He was treated really badly by the other children at school, and if Lyndsay hadn’t looked out for him, I dread to think what would have happened.’
‘I wonder what did happen to him?’ Gary mused.
Beatrice shrugged. ‘I have no idea. After Lyndsay died, Charles put him in a special school. We never saw him again.’
The alarm bells were clanging in Gary’s head, and from the look on her face, Marie heard them too.
‘Lyndsay . . .’ Beatrice hesitated. ‘I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she was a bit of a wild child. She did her best for Alistair, I know, but she bullied him too. He was a strange little thing, and he idolised her, but she rarely had a good word to say to him. Ali was the reason my husband argued with Charles. We knew he sometimes took his belt to the boy but we didn’t want to make it worse for the poor little mite. Eventually Harry read Charles the riot act, but it did no good. We were about to go to the authorities when . . . when Lyndsay was murdered.’
Marie leaned forward. ‘You said the girl was wild. In what way, Beatrice?’
‘Boys mostly. She would sneak out at night. We could see her go from our bedroom window. What she never knew, or so we believed, was that little Ali would follow her. God knows what hanky-panky that poor child witnessed.’
‘The reports say that the night she went with Brendan Symons, it was her first time. Does that sound right to you? Given her behaviour?’ Gary asked.
‘When I said she liked the boys, I meant she was a terrible flirt and an awful tease, not that she went any further. I saw the statements and I thought they were probably the truth. She was little more than a child.’
‘Did you know Brendan?’ Marie asked.
‘Yes. Not well, but he did odd jobs for us once or twice. We liked him.’
‘What did you think of the verdict?’
Beatrice sighed. ‘Heartbreaking. Brendan had always seemed such a fun-loving boy. He did like Lyndsay — he told us that much himself — but kill her? I don’t know, I really don’t. I would never have believed it, but the two girls who witnessed it were good honest children. Why would they lie?’
‘You knew them too?’ Marie was surprised.
‘I knew Pauline’s parents well, and Heather was always in and out of our house as a little one. I sometimes wonder how she is. I know why they ran away, but I would love to hear from her again.’
Gary bit his lip. They couldn’t tell the old lady that Heather and Pauline had both been driven to suicide. It would be too cruel.
After a quick glance at Gary, Marie said, ‘Beatrice? What happened to Charles Ashcroft?’
‘Oh, he’s dead, dear, not long after Lyndsay was killed. Got drunk and drove off the road at speed. Went nose down in a deep drainage ditch and broke his neck.’ There was no sadness in her voice this time.
Gary thought of the mysterious younger brother. Where was he now? ‘You said that Alistair used to follow Lyndsay? Did you see him follow her on the night she was attacked?’
‘We weren’t here that night, I’m afraid. We had gone to our daughter’s for the evening.’ She gasped. ‘Are you saying that little Ali might have witnessed . . . ? Oh, that’s too awful!’
‘Please don’t upset yourself. It’s just that he might have seen her with someone.’
‘Why did I never think about that before? That poor child!’
Marie leaned forward. ‘Beatrice, we need your help. Do you know anyone who could tell us where we could find Alistair Ashcroft?’
The old lady frowned. ‘You could talk to the vicar. He had a friend, another clergyman, who was covering this parish at the time of the murder. He spent a lot of time with the people of Nettleby, and Nettleby Oaks. Everyone was in shock and he was a tower of strength. He did go up to Ash Grange to try and help Charles, but I don’t think he was made to feel very welcome, But he might have heard something about where the boy was sent.’
They thanked Beatrice and apologised for upsetting her. ‘You’ve been a great help,’ Marie said. ‘Now we have something concrete to work on. We do appreciate it.’
‘I can’t think why I never asked myself that question before. I suppose hearing what happened to Lyndsay just pushed it out of my mind. Ali didn’t always follow her, but he very often did.’
‘And then his father suddenly sent him away,’ Gary breathed. ‘What did that boy see?’
‘I dread to think,’ Beatrice said sombrely. ‘But if you do find him, he might not be the most reliable of witnesses, you know. He was a strange child, so he could well be a very disturbed adult.’
Marie smiled. ‘We must go. Thank you again for all your help, and for the tea and biscuits.’
‘Any time you’re passing. I’m nearly always here.’ Beatrice looked at each of them and her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it? That’s why you’re here. The blight that set in all those years ago . . . it’s back, isn’t it?’
Gary badly wanted to explain, but knew he mustn’t. ‘You look after yourself, Beatrice. And if you ever want a job as a gardener, I’ve got a vacancy at my place.’
She smiled sadly. ‘Good luck, Officers. I hope you find him.’
* * *
Marie drove back in record time. At the station, they practically threw themselves at their computers and began searching for Alister Ashcroft.
The rest of the team were out, apart from Charlie Button, who was eager to help.
‘What a stroke of luck, Sarge! You might have identified the killer in one hit! I mean, if the kid did witness his sister’s death and knew it wasn’t Brendan — bingo! When he grows up, he goes all out for vengeance.’
Gary held up his hand. ‘Wait! Think about it, Charlie. If he knew Brendan didn’t do it he’d have told someone, hopefully the police. He wouldn’t let Brendan go to prison, then wait donkey’s years for revenge, would he?’
‘Maybe he would if he was traumatised.’
‘Or maybe he told his father,’ said Marie slowly. ‘But Daddy didn’t believe him and decided to magic him away before his crazy ideas got someone into trouble.’
Gary dropped into a chair. ‘Too many possibilities.’
‘What do we know for sure?’ Marie cleaned one of the whiteboards and picked up a marker.
‘Alister Ashcroft had learning difficulties, possibly autistic,’ Gary stated. ‘And he had a habit of following his wayward sister when she went out of an evening.’
Marie wrote it down. ‘Plus his father ill-treated him.’
‘His mother ran out on him. The kids at school gave him a hard time,’ Gary continued.
Marie nodde
d. ‘And even his sister, who was the only one to care for him, bullied him sometimes.’
‘Didn’t have much going for him, did he? Poor little sod!’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘Then, according to rumour, he got stuck in a special school. What a life!’
‘And since the father, Charles Ashcroft, is brown bread, we need to do some digging.’ Marie stared pensively at the board. ‘Do we honestly think that someone as mentally challenged as Alistair was could possibly be our clever and calculating killer?’
‘It’s a big stretch of the imagination, that’s for sure.’ Gary sighed.
‘Not really.’
Marie and Gary stared at Charlie.
‘It’s only hearsay that he was autistic or had learning difficulties. It also might be something his father put around to cover up the fact that the kid was a mess after his mother left. What if he was clever and cunning even at that age? There was a kid at my school who was treated like a total idiot, but he turned out to be a genius. Fine line, and all that?’
Gary nodded thoughtfully. ‘He has a point.’
Marie stared at the name. Was this the man they were looking for? Or was he just a screwed-up kid, deserted and abandoned by the very people who should have loved him? ‘Time to do some detecting, folks! Gary, chase up that vicar, and see what he remembers about the boy. And Charlie, try to unearth his school records and also his medical records. He must have had some sort of mental health evaluation. I’m going to ring Jackman. He needs to hear this.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kenny Symons was surprisingly easy to talk to. Jackman had envisaged a difficult interview, but after he’d made sure that his mother was asleep, he took Jackman into the lounge, closed the door and sat back on one of the sofas.
‘I don’t ever remember a time when things were just simple. All our lives, the family seems to have spent time fighting for something or other. Even when Mum and Dad wanted to adopt the younger ones, they had to battle for them. And then our Brendan was accused of that terrible crime . . .’ Kenny shook his head. ‘It was the start of a nightmare that we never woke up from.’
‘I can only imagine,’ said Jackman calmly. ‘I’m sorry to have to rake everything up again. If there was any other way, I wouldn’t be worrying your mother at this stage in her life.’