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

by John R Goddard

  Gadd goes off to ask. While I wait, I re-read the initial note on the incident from the Fire Investigator, ‘Arson, deliberate, skilled. Brought paraffin and set timers in specific carefully selected and well positioned spots to burn these materials beyond any recognition but do no other damage.’

  What was burnt? The report becomes almost eloquent, ‘Memories - photographs mainly, but toys, clothes, school books, anything, everything that shows the last one hundred years of this school - for a grand Centenary Exhibition in the School Hall next year.’

  Gadd had surprised me by being scathing, ‘The Principal is so excited. His idea, gets his name and picture in the papers, Merian Standard newspaper is collecting stuff too, he has even been on local radio asking for anything people have about the school. Director of his Academy Group is coming and all the great and the good round here. With Ancaster’s Lord Lieutenant opening the jamboree weekend.’

  The local paper is collecting material for them: those are the boxes that the burglars took from there. Whittle confirms this with a text when I ask and confirms the security firm is local, but not the one covering the farms.

  Gadd is back on the line. A national firm installed and services the alarm, was last there a month ago, the caretakers says. The technician who comes every six months is always different.

  Gadd goes on, “Collection of centenary stuff was incredible, folk really got into it - sent dolls, paintings, photographs, fabric patterns, diaries, you name it. Even some 8mm and 16mm film fragments too, but all gone in the fire.”

  “Oh, and Brian the caretaker sends his regards, said he spent hours sorting it all, lots of pictures of you,“ Gadd is clearly reading from notes now, “your wife, your Pa, your friend Val, Sam Aystrup’s poor lad Henry. Hope that all makes sense to you, it is what he said. Everything gone, destroyed, for no reason. I thought he was going to cry.”

  Memories mark us all.

  The morning has been very odd: a mixture of wonderful music, the mundanity of local crime and the heady world of the rich and powerful. The big question about the Hakluyts screams out. Why? Why on earth have they settled in sleepy old Ancaster County? In England for only a few weeks a year for tax reasons, why would a billionaire banker and his chic debonair American wife, who mix with the self-styled ‘great and the good’ of the world, live here? Rather than in their Hong Kong or New York or Monaco homes or their vineyard in Western Australia.

  I will ask them. As part of a strategy that from the research and photographs has formed unbidden. A risky approach definitely, unwise certainly, perhaps even dangerous with people such as these.

  I know I cannot resist. Even with a man so associated with the unicorn famed since antiquity; a pure white-horse like beast with cloven hooves and a large, pointed, horn projecting in spirals from its forehead. A being that medieval times believed would heal the sick, cure all problems. Perhaps it can help me. I hope so.

  49

  Jean Parsons calls me ‘an open wound.’ Aren’t we all? Despite myself, elemental instinct means I revert to literature, a bookish comparison to help.

  The Greek poet, Homer’s characters pursue a quest. Theirs is physically arduous, they strain back and forth hours without end at unforgiving heavy oars that thwack their thwarts to plod the creaking boat out from the land. Ever seeking a kind wind to billow speed into sails and offer solace to bone and sinew wracked by toil. No wind comes. They are wretched, exhausted, becalmed. As am I in life. No progress on my seven-year odyssey for Bess and Grace. On a lesser level, no definite inkling on the burglaries or farm thefts or dead woman or what Odling and Creel are about.

  My three DCs arrive, cold but brimming with achievement, even Gadd looks alert and purposeful. The squad meeting begins immediately around the conference table, both neon lights for once beaming, the four fires warming.

  I remind them we have only two hours, and say that I then want Fenwick and Whittle to come with me to interview the Hakluyts while I have particular tasks for DC Gadd.

  My becalmed spirit, lingering with Homer’s crew, feels the first finger of wind to progress our work, a faint chilling on the back of my neck. I almost hear the canvas stirring, feel our boat gain purpose, coherence through the slip and chop of the listless swell of lies, deceit, half-truth. ‘The gleaming wake’ slowly bubbles behind the boat, behind me and my team. The ancient poet talks of nature’s power taking up his ships. It happens now; wind comes full pelt to propel our cases forward.

  DC Whittle takes official notes of the meeting and asks if Sergeant Parsons is joining us. All three of their faces light up momentarily when I say that the Sergeant is transferring. I hand out the newly arrived copies of the report by Jai Li’s traffic accident expert; a plethora of diagrams, sketches, photographs and conclusions, and ask them to skim it as we go along.

  The three have made real progress on the case of the dead woman, working late last night and coming in early today. Whittle has talked at length with Mrs Castle, wife of Mark, the chauffeur. Married for ten years, they have a girl of three, boy of six. Mark is away in France. She imitates a Scottish rasp. ‘Seeing his parents who retired there, Da is no so well. Kids are in school or nursery or we wud a gone too.’ Mark comes back Saturday afternoon and Whittle has arranged for me to see him then at their home near Heathrow.

  She goes on, “His wife was not keen, planning to cook ‘fer ma man, favourite meal, then family playtime till bed,’ very nice woman, but I persuaded her it is best to get it over with. And not worry him by telling him. Seemed to me like a devoted couple, perfect family.”

  If so, I will be a dark shadow to blight all their lives on Saturday. Homer’s wind dips. I wonder aloud if we should pick Mark Castle up in France but Whittle assures me the man will not desert his family.

  I am dubious even as Fenwick gives Whittle a supportive look, his voice deep, “Even if he hit the dead woman, did this Castle move the body? And what were his two passengers doing while he did?”

  Whittle is leafing through the expert’s report, “The car definitely hit and threw the woman in the air, this says, page two Summary. The footprints of the people who moved the body came from the other side of the field - according to what we witnessed in the field ourselves and what this report says on, oh, page sixteen, so it was not Mark Castle. Unless he walked around to the other side of the field for some reason rather than going direct and his arrival time at the car lot at Heathrow would not allow that.”

  I nod, “And we saw one small and one very large pair of footprints moving the body so who do they belong to?”

  Gadd is nervously ahead, “And look at page twenty-seven, the size of the two sets of footsteps getting out of the front of the Bentley at the impact point - they are small, while the ones that climb out of the rear passenger door are not huge but slightly larger. Possibly a small man’s.”

  Fenwick is not slow, “So was one of the passengers, a Chinese woman, driving? Unless our chauffeur has small feet like a presumably small Chinese woman?”

  He joins in the laughter at himself as Whittle brands him, “Sexist stereotyping bro.”

  Gadd cuts in excitedly, “But I traced the silver Bentley on traffic cams right back to a Mayfair hotel where it dropped off the two Chinese women at five Monday morning, the women got out of the back, clearly visible and then he returned it to his firm’s depot near Heathrow.”

  “And that helps, how, DC Gadd?” I prompt, even though I know. He needs to spell things our precisely, not assume we can make the leaps he does.

  He is confused for a moment, “Oh, sorry, the car arrived back in London a half hour later than it should have done - it left the accident spot thirty minutes after the accident on camera according to the first traffic camera five miles away as it comes to the A road, Merian to Ancaster City.”

  He rushes on, “So even if they did not move the body, they hung around the accident scene for a while presumably - we know they did not go back into Albion, no tracks.”

  I am about to
allot the task but Gadd is ahead of me. He has rung the hotel this morning only to find the women, Shi and Bai Yen have checked out. He had immediately placed a stop with the ACC’s authority (as I did not answer my phone) on any movements out of the UK by the two women before he left to pursue the school burglary this morning. I nod in thought, smiling to reassure him that he has not stepped over the line. It is my own fault I was sat in a copse without a phone.

  So, the silver Bentley hit the woman, likely killed her and the occupants stayed around for up to a half an hour but did not move the body. So, what were they doing? And who moved the dead woman? Homer’s ship has hit a squall.

  ***

  Conditions become more treacherous. The ACC phones, brusquely ordering me to take the call in my office with the door closed. She does not mention Odling and Lucinda as I expect.

  The two Chinese women, whom we had sought to hold in this country, have flown home an hour ago.

  “The Foreign and Home Offices called the Chief, scared him about losing the Knighthood he longs for,” she says maliciously, “They had the order to detain the Chinese lifted.”

  I say nothing as she goes on, “It is ‘a delicate matter, the national interest’ and all that blurb Caleb, they ask we not pursue them further without consulting with them first.”

  Calling me Caleb when we are working, she is disgruntled in the extreme.

  I fill her in on our progress and she says immediately, “Obvious is it not?”

  I agree, “The Hakluyts manipulated us so the first time they could see us is this afternoon - once the Chinese women had gone. I assume they will tell all about their dinner party now without obstruction, no more need to hide it once the birds have flown.”

  ACC’s Hamnet’s voice is ominous, “We will see. This explains the common story all the diners told - but are they covering a killing involving the Chinese pair? I doubt it, the chauffeur would be driving surely but presumably they saw what happened unless it was a simple hit and run none of them were aware of?”

  “But either way, why stop for a good chunk of time?” I ask. “Shock, to argue with the green convertible driver or to look for a body they think they have hit?”

  I do not mention Creel and Odling trying to frame an innocent man. And was it possibly far more than mere malice against a friend of mine? I raise my squad’s thought that the chauffeur may not have actually been driving.

  Her voice sharpens, “So one of the Chinese women might have been responsible for the death, hence the cover up till they had done their important business with the government and whoever and could be got out of the country? That makes more sense.”

  She becomes practical as I hear the rustle of paper, “And our expert’s report, Ken I assume, indicates it is unlikely any of them moved the body.”

  Silence before a sorrowful sigh, “Shenanigans as ever at high levels and we still have a poor dead woman. Find out who she is, what she was about and we will sort it no matter what these London buggers say.”

  ***

  The squad meeting resumes and I explain what has happened with the Chinese women to increasingly glum faces.

  More depressing, Gadd explains that he has determined where the images from the dead woman’s camera are streamed to, but cannot gain access as yet through the host company being wary of revealing private information, and wanting a formal writ to access their American based servers.

  “They may not respond even then though, appealing it constantly, First Amendment freedoms. But once in I will get the woman’s mobile number too I imagine and we will be cooking with gas.”

  DC Fenwick whispers, “Go Gaddy go” at this enthusiasm. I tell Gadd I will talk to the force’s lawyer and get things moving.

  We conclude the case of the dead woman by my bringing them up to speed on Amy’s information on a possible Ancaster Acre dimension to things.

  Gadd is nonplussed and excited at the same time, causing his files and notes to cascade to the floor as his arms are flung akimbo when he cries out, “Ancaster Acre Confidential’ - that is the name of the file the dead woman was instantly archiving her photos to with her secure document service.”

  He explains and Homer’s wind is gale force driving us on as we plan with elation. Gadd will research land ownership of ‘The Acre’; Fenwick will visit local estate agents in the area south of Ancaster City even though technically it is in Odling’s region not ours; and Whittle will tackle the national agents who sell such land. I will get Amy to gather as much general information as possible.

  I do not mention that Val’s family have long coveted Ancaster Acre, claiming for centuries that the D’Eynscourte’s originally owned it and leased it to the monastery. I do not mention my conversation with Lucinda or Odling’s continued interference but say there will hopefully be a story and photo in tomorrow’s local paper. The ACC is also planning a press conference to see if we can get coverage regionally and nationally by dangling the mystery of the body being moved to colour the media’s likely stories. I have just agreed to the suggestion. It will mean derogatory headlines, ‘Ancaster Police stumped by double mystery surrounding death’ but get the woman’s picture out to a wider audience. My involvement will also come out, no doubt, to sully things.

  Our discussion of the case ends with my stressing that the woman’s identity remains key.

  ***

  Moving onto the farm thefts, I feel Homer’s luscious words of ancient Greek describing the wind billowing, the ship’s cockpit drains gurgling with the air of energy whistling through.

  James Rudd, father of the brood, installed, serviced and checked maintenance regularly at all three of the farms that have had thefts but not for over twelve months.

  “They never thought to mention him till I pressed guv, thought he was police vetted,” Fenwick says. “Sorry.”

  “Father of the scrote Wayne Rudd,” a firm voice surprises us from the doorway. Sergeant Parsons joins us without another word or glance at anyone.

  I advise them James Rudd seems to have gone missing since early Tuesday, and how Fenwick and I visited this morning ‘just in case.’ We ring his firm’s office, James is on holiday for two weeks and they do not know his whereabouts.

  Fenwick will deal with issuing an alert for James, plot other farms that he services and research his movements and contacts over the past few months from his work records. But somehow I know he is not involved; it would be too obvious and he is not that stupid.

  “Probably be a gang from Yorkshire or the Midlands actually doing the robberies,” I say, “DC Gadd, check with those forces on possible culprits, anyone in their patch who might have fenced the stolen goods.”

  Whittle details the oddities of her supposedly routine burglary at the newspaper office: skilful entry and exit, disabling the CCTV cameras outside, no forensic or fingerprint evidence, ignoring valuables, taking only specific files and photographs, including old negatives. Gadd explores the same lack of forensic evidence, expert handling of the sophisticated alarm system and concentration on destroying a mass of documents and memorabilia rather than theft for profit. James Rudd is definitely not involved with either newspaper or school alarm system.

  My mind whirls away to the attempted burglary on my mother’s home. Were they after old photographs and such there? My mother was approached in Merian market about a photograph of old memories. Was the dead woman going to ask to see our family photographs of yore? Could all these three burglaries be linked? And relate to the dead woman in the ditch somehow?

  Enough, the room is silent, all looking at me as I brood. Tasks are quickly set for the rest of the day. Parsons takes the Evidence and Case Books off Whittle and writes the notes up for the system. Gadd almost preens as he begins his special tasks for me.

  In my office, I brief Whittle and Fenwick on the forthcoming interview with the Hakluyts, explaining my approach and how I want them to act. For a moment, I wonder if I should include them in my plans for Friday and Saturday night, perhaps even in my
family investigation. No, trust nobody. Yet. Each of them looks to me like a gem, potentially. The hard working and thorough Whittle approaches things intellectually but has a human touch as witness her dealing with Mrs Castle. Fenwick is solid, people respond to him, yet he has an edge not just through his size but his sharp disbelieving attitude. While Gadd, my ‘Super Recogniser’ with images, is also proving adept with IT, cameras and knowledge of those worlds.

  I am thanking my lucky stars that Creel and Odling trashed them all, ensuring they came to me when Parsons knocks, purposeful, “A private word? Please?”

  A fair wind was blowing. Until now.

  50

  Glooming skies shroud a gently rolling white landscape, all sound is muffled by more soft snowflakes. A hidden sun unseen beyond the horizon streaks the grey sky with a muted orange backdrop.

  Small black alien objects appear, swooping down, backlit like whirling specks in the embers of the orange fire. In tandem, the two race towards us, enlarging, threatening noise echoing lightly from thrashing blades. A celebratory circle of Albion House before they descend like vultures out of sight behind the woods to our right.

  ***

  I stand in the awe-inspiring ballroom sized sitting room that stretches from front to back at one end of Albion House. From the floor to ceiling windows, wood panels, chintz wallpaper, soft lemon colours, polished wooden floors, deep handwoven rugs, this is luxury as it was for the aristocrats of the late eighteenth century. All recreated with lavish attention to the period detail of decoration and furnishing. No expense spared, even down to a helipad, a newly built swimming pool kept to warm temperatures when the Hakluyts are in residence and a well-hidden new block a mile away of bedrooms for staff, offices and communications centre that locals who have glimpsed it say resembles science fiction inside and out.