Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

  It is beyond me to do more. Guilt lies heavy at the change in him though. Once so open and cheerful, his once sparkling grey eyes are dull, always evaluating, like a man looking for, expecting, measuring potential enemies. I am the same I know. Wrinkles web the corners of his eyes, his skin wizened, pallid, no longer bronzed with health as it once was. Ponderous of gait, constantly worried about money, this proud man is aged far beyond his sixty years.

  We walk back to his battered old van, parked forty yards past the Albion House gates and a hundred yards from the body. The backdoor screeches and sags as he pulls it open to show me a proper country fox, large with pure black legs and vertically slit pupils, lying dead on a plastic sheet. Scratches and bites indicate a fight with another animal, but death struck from a steelier opponent. Its neck is broken at an odd angle, one leg almost flattened with a tyre track across the mottled fur.

  Sam knows what happened here, ‘dead lass en all,’ he reckons, but I should ‘read the signs for ya’sen.’ The man can look at bird tracks or nests, the marks of animals, weeds squashed down, leaves bent out of kilter, and tell what has likely happened. Usually it has. Locals call it, ‘Seeing the yarn.’ Once it was branded witchcraft. The ducking stool followed to prove your innocence if you drowned, execution if you survived. Over the years, Sam taught me and Henry ‘the country knowledge’ and its applications, much of which I arrogantly dismissed as an ignorant teenager. Until it all flooded back and became my instinctive tool as a copper in situations big and small.

  Time presses so he points me to three places. First, my back is directly beside the gates as I crouch and my torch beam shows what he discovered earlier while waiting for me to arrive: a maze of tyre tracks in the middle of the road opposite the gates. Vehicles made tracks in the mud, soon after the weather froze to preserve them. I brush the light snow away, crouch and take photographs from every angle of these signs that tell their own stark story.

  Sam takes his unlit pipe out of his pocket, chews on the stem, stares down pointedly and says lightly, “Dinner partey heare lest neight, reight fancy do, famous chef from London wi his ‘crew,’ dozen guests and wives, greet and goade from all o’er, candelabra, gloved waaiters, the woarks.”

  I squint sharply up at him, “Even you cannot tell that just from these tracks Sam?”

  His laugh is deep, heartfelt, a rare sound today or of late, “Nay lad, yon young Overton twins, lad and lass, were called in, help guide cars, take coats and like. Lass to clear away tables, bit of serving. Both waere full of their big do in pub nite afore, had to wear uniform, bow and scrape.”

  I finger the interlaced tracks, counting eight distinct vehicles that I can be sure of, knowing this is a task for an expert as to what model, age of tyre and speed. But a copper cannot ask for clearer evidence than this.

  Buzzards screech, crows are lurking close to where the dead woman lays as Sam reminds me that his dead fox has flakes of green paint and some headlight glass on it. He shows me the exact spot where he found it: in the middle of the road directly outside the Albion House gates at the edge of the frozen muddy tyre tracks. I already have the paint samples and photographs from the animal.

  There should be no need for me to do all this. ‘A suspicious death’ means a Forensics team will come and do it better than I ever can. But if this affects me, then I can trust none save myself and my own. Anything could be turned against me and mine.

  I ask Sam again why I am here and urge that we have little time before the police arrive officially. He shakes his head in sorrow, says he should show me two more places ‘afore those clowns come’ and then I will understand. The police helping evict him and his wife from his cottage home, while the estate manager gloated nearby, is not a slight easily forgotten or forgiven by country folk. I do not, cannot press such deep-felt hatred. He will tell me when he is ready, not before.

  4

  Despite the need for haste we stand in echoing silence until I get him talking on details: what he was doing here so early in the first place?

  “Since D’Eynscourte estate got rid o me, mekking m’ living on Road Kill patrol, ironic, ere in me own bit o county.”

  This early? He nods. I know Sam is casual, on Zero Hours and low wages too, at constant beck and call, using his own van and the chemical sprays and ‘remains wrapping’ provided by the American company who won the contract from the County Council when the service was privatised out. Faceless accountants arrogantly hail five one man teams doing the work of ten two person ones as ‘efficiency and progress,’ not exploitation. Sam suffers to stay local. He has been offered much more lucrative contract farm work but refuses because he cannot bear to be itinerant, to travel hundreds of miles from his home area to do it, a life of bed and breakfast where he would have no roots.

  He goes on quietly, “I pick up dead animals, birds, clean up mess.

  “Set pattern of patrols and call outs Mondays, more dead ‘ens after weekend, rest o time is just when people report things. But I check and clean up on this road at least twice a day seven days a week - means two hour’s work a day for me at least. An I get to visit mi owd valley.”

  His laugh is bitter as the cud.

  “Brass allus talks loudest hey lad?” he comments wryly. I nod for this road is known locally as ‘Millionaire Mews’ or “Fat Bastard’s Alley,’ given its five fancy residents and their residences.

  “Albion thaere,’’ Sam points in the direction of the House still invisible as snow swirls around us with fog coming down now like a curtain fifty yards away. “Billionaire banker saved the owd building from rack and ruin, good fer him, but not eare much, homes all o’ert world, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Perth, New York, others too they say.”

  I nod again. Such people would insist ‘their road’ was spruce, expect special treatment and get it. Such is the world of today. The police are no different, perhaps far worse than any other organisation. Money or celebrity or power talks and we doff our caps too.

  On his first routine sweep of the morning at two thirty am, Sam found the dead fox in the darkness directly outside Albion’s gates. He set up a spotlight, lifted the animal into his van and sprayed chemicals on the area where it had lain. He also said a few words out of respect for a fine animal, I know.

  Having dealt with the fox, he just felt, ‘Summit wrong, int air.’

  Three menacing crows ignored him even when his spotlight was turned on them sixty yards away to the right of the gates. It was their swarming down into the ditch that made him walk over, and their unwillingness to move aside even then that worried him

  “I goes down, crows never come out that early for nowt. Cow or sheep got loose, tippled in ditch, or other fox from the fight. Crows scattered, perched on hedge rows, squawking at me, wanting me gorn.”

  He pauses, a catch in his throat, “Then I saw yon poor lass. Bit of moonlight, almost showing me her, biblical moment from the Good Book. Straight aways, knew she were deaed, any fool could a see that. But shuffled down ditch to her to be sure. Then called you.”

  “Because?”

  He sighs and looks away, face troubled, “Reasons lad, I’ll tell ya, all in good time. Then ya’ll understand. Study on what is ‘ere first if we ain’t too much time.

  “Afore I brings you upset.”

  How can that be? I have never seen this woman before.

  ***

  I wander the scene, outline to him what I think happened. I am oddly pleased when Sam agrees, knowing a countryman on country matters is as good as any scientist.

  A succession of eight cars had come out of Albion House gates, presumably from the dinner party. I am intrigued and wonder if there was not security at the exit to see guests out, someone who witnessed what went on. Does the dead woman have anything to do with the dinner party traffic? No sign of there being any sentry, Sam says, he has already looked but we both do so again. And why, if Albion House security does have a man or cameras on their gate and road and saw what happened to the woman, did they not not
ify the authorities?

  Studying the gates and their supporting pillars I go on, “Gates open automatically for vehicles coming out, need code or remote going in, standard stuff. What happened? Simple. Cars were coming out of the gates and going off to the left on the left-hand side of the road. As they should.”

  Peering down at the tyre tracks, I follow the top set across to the opposite side of the road and say tentatively, “One car, likely the last, comes out, big one too by size of tyres and weight, but it goes on the wrong side, driving on the right.”

  I am surprised and drop into the local vernacular to please him, ‘Drunk as a skunk, or a furriner mebbee?”

  I race across to the other side of the road, act out what happens next, “Another car, a ninth one, racing green from the chips of paint on the fox, this one coming in at the same time from and on the left of the road as it should be. The incomer swerves to its right to avoid the furriner coming out on the wrong side and the green car hits your fox, dead and stops.”

  Sam interrupts, “Only thing I can’t fathom is why the fox were in middle of road almost waiting for green ‘un. Must a seen lights a coming, why not get outta way?”

  That can be easily explained but I say nothing. It all makes sense from what I have seen but I would need to study my stills, make sketches, walk the scene some more to be sure. A collisions expert would likely confirm our analysis. The green paint chipping and glass on the ground support the fox killing theory but where does that get us.

  ***

  Sam leads me to his second key position, the grass verge opposite the gates where there is a small bridge of railway sleepers covered in muddy grass leading to a wide five bar timber gate. The field beyond is newly ploughed, the smell of soil strong from the thick upturned sods, the shapes of birds almost visible pecking busily at the worms too slothful to hide deep in the earth beneath the snow.

  We both squat down at the edge of the tarmac as I think aloud, “Last car, coming out is the one on the wrong side of the road, swerves to its right away from the green car. Mounts the grass verge, hits the woman who is stood here by this gate.”

  Sam’s voice echoes in the mist, “It will be a silver car if your paint is right on the lady. Would knock her in the air, could throw her sixty or hundred yards I reckon to where she landed.”

  His eyes wander down the road, “Found a motorbike rider in a field down theare once when I waere ploughing this very field. He were thrown a hundred yards saideways from the road, decapitated, inta middle o field when crashed into lorry with no back lights that had broken down. Lucky this lady caught on those stakes or likely never found her till March if they still dredge this ere ditch. Sometime never.”

  Sam sweeps more of the soft snow away with his hands, his torch illuminating the grass verge where the wide tyre tracks of the last car out stop, frozen in the mud, shavings of silver paint and glass headlight winking at us. I take more photographs and samples.

  Brushing snow off further, we find that the tyre tracks collide with a set of small footprints which have come from behind the hedge and do not leave the scene save if they flew through the air.

  We both stare down silently at the spot where we think the woman was hit and presumably died.

  His voice is respectful while staring down at the footprint tracks I am photographing, “Woman were crouching down there, behind the hedge, hopped over the gate at some point and then was by the side of the road I reckon when she was hit.”

  Then puzzlement comes, “Right rum way to spend early hours of a winter Monday in Ancaster County?”

  Sam leads me to his third location, twenty yards along the verge towards where the body lies, and shows me two sets of recent footprints in the frozen snow covered grass. I record them, noting that both are small sized.

  Sam carefully studies the signs once more, ‘Three of ‘em got outta that last car, looking for summat. Or someone? Two came this way. Looking. Stood, turned, scuffed their feet around. Never got as far as body.”

  I nod. I just want to shake an answer from him now of how this affects me, but force myself to quietly ask, “What has this to do with me Sam?”

  Urgently, “I need to know.”

  My only wish then is that I have not asked, do not need to know, am not here at all. His face when it turns slowly is bone washed white, the grief of all life’s endless blows to him, to me, to all victims everywhere, scoured deep thereon.

  “This poor dead lass,” Sam’s voice softly mourns the unknown nothingness of death, even as he stares towards the spot where the body lies.

  Then strengthens, “All wrong Caleb.

  “That theare body being thaere where we found her. Wrong. You see it lad?”

  I do.

  5

  Birds flying high, blossom in the trees, feeling good. Liquid joy in the lingering melody and lyrics. The sultry sound of my wife’s favourite Nina Simone song raises and then rakes my spirits as it plays. Sam places his huge gnarled hand on mine. The voice lingers silkily in the air: new days, new dawns, ‘Feeling good.’ If only.

  ‘Bert’s’ is a cherished fixture and hideaway for locals since the present owner’s great-great-grandmother started it over a century ago. As then, the bakery and butchery remain in outbuildings in the rear yard. The café-shop, little changed inside or out save for adapting modern health requirements, is tucked away down a narrow-cobbled street off Merian’s broad market square. A long marble counter runs the long length down one side to the right. On it behind high glass covers are offered the enticing sight and fragrances of piled high pastries: doughnuts to Eccles cakes, iced buns to egg custards, doorstep sandwiches and soft bread, and even a nod to globalization with croissants galore. All freshly produced on the premises. Fifteen yards down at the far end is a deli offering the cherished local delicacies of pork pie, sausage rolls, chine, brawn, haslet and plum bread. The fresh meat shop is next door.

  Simone gives way to Sinatra and music of his era croons gently now as three women and a man bustle to serve the early throng. The noise of gossip and laughter comes from a double line of a dozen customers queued at the counter. There seems to be a pause in the hubbub as we pass through to the cafe area that flows on open plan to the left.

  Eight thirty and a clutch of people are sat, enjoying sausage or bacon sandwiches and a coffee. Four go silent and openly stare at me, barely nodding even at Sam’s well known frame. This cafe is his choice; I did try and warn him. It has a dozen tables, four chairs for each, a tiled floor and walls decked with holly and golden decorations of the season. Framed black and white photographs of singers, stars and films of the 1950’s adorn the walls. A giant Christmas tree, all baubles and lights, partially hides us as we fit ourselves into a small alcove off the main room for our private chat and finally, I hope, explanation.

  My phone interrupts. It is an Australian code, Perth I think, a regular irritant which I dismiss as usual. I click to block it in the future, knowing that another number from the same area will call me within a month. Whoever it is, they are the most persistent of all my stalkers. I block another six missed calls from unknown numbers that have come in unnoticed this past weekend and delete the ranting voice mails.

  A solid man, walnut bald of head, sharp and hard of feature, with a giant tattoo of a hawk on his neck hovers by us then. ‘Young Norman,’ despite his being fifty at least, is another who roams the night enjoying nature and we cross paths every so often. His deep bass voice always seems to be shaving metal with sand paper, and does so now as he wishes us well for the season, shakes hands with us both before returning to his rear table and a nature magazine.

  Proprietor Albert makes a point of coming through from the bakery at the back to greet us both with a cheerful handshake. I am surprised but do not show it. Once a regular here, enchanted by the products of one of England’s first gleaming red Italian coffee making machines twenty-five years ago, I have not seen the man for over seven years.

  Still, a wave of gratitude washes ov
er me for his public display. Few would dare. It is perhaps no surprise. I helped him out with some background information when he had his own troubles. Unable to cope with the situation of their daughter having Multiple Sclerosis, his wife had left him for a used car salesman ten years ago. Then she had spread malicious rumours about him while first pressing for and then not seeking custody of the infant. Worse the woman still lived locally but did not even acknowledge her own daughter, now the quietly busy fourteen-year-old Tina who comes to serve us in her uniform before going off to school.

  Our order comes quickly. Albert is anxious to please it seems; or perhaps he wants me out of there as soon as possible before I harm business. Sam devours two slabs of plum bread, a local delight as rich as Christmas cake, with slices of cheese glistening on top and a mug of builder’s thick tea. While I pick at a pain au raisin and savour the sumptuous latte with an extra shot of coffee that Bert produces in a welter of synchronised movement. People are talking all around again but we are silent, lost in the food and our own melancholy.

  I have my back to the window facing Sam, who whether deliberately or not, along with the Christmas tree, effectively blocks people in both shop and cafe from seeing me. I turn and look outside at the roaring sound of a black 4 x 4 pick-up, two cabs seating six if needs be and an open load carrying section at the rear, all Western style pipework with a silver bumper and two large spotlights on top. Interestingly its front number plate is obscured by mud like the one we saw earlier. It screeches to a halt in the narrow-cobbled street, parking without fear on a yellow line. Peering at the images and video on my iPad the mist there is too strong to make out whether this is the same as the Albion pick-up. Why should it be?