“The problem, Mr Gates, is that your father and brother tell me you left their house around nine-thirty. Now I haven’t tried walking it, but I can’t see how getting from the main street to here can take more than twenty minutes. Which begs the question: what were you doing for that hour and a quarter?”
“Walking.”
“Walking?”
“Walking.”
“It would be helpful, Mr Gates, if you were a bit more cooperative.” He’d dragged his eyes away from the notebook and was staring fixedly at Martin. Even so, Tanya had the impression that he was uncomfortable with the eye contact.
“I found the meeting with my family upsetting,” Martin said reluctantly. “So I went for a walk.”
“Where?”
A shrug. “I really couldn’t tell you. I just needed to clear my head, so I wandered around.”
“Aimlessly?” The suggestion was almost derisive.
“You could say that.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“So no one can vouch for you.”
Martin smiled, but Tanya couldn’t see any humour in it. “No.” He hesitated, and Plod waited for him. “Is this where you tell me what it is I’ve done and arrest me for it because I haven’t got an alibi?”
“No, sir. This is where I ask you where you were at lunch time yesterday.”
Ian had been watching Martin closely for the last few minutes, but Tanya saw his head snap round to Plod when he heard this. All three of them were curious about this turn of events.
“I was at the pub. Why?”
“What about before you went to the pub?” He clearly had no intention of answering any questions just yet.
“I was on the bus from Westfield. When the bus dropped me off, I went into the pub.” The irritation Martin had been feeling was growing now, and his voice reflected that.
“What time did you get off the bus?”
“At a guess, I’d say around twenty past twelve.”
A pause as notes were made.
“I take it you’ll be checking this with the driver, then?”
“Yes.” Plod finished writing and looked up again. “So you didn’t get off the bus earlier?”
“No.”
“You didn’t come out to the village earlier and then catch the bus at its previous stop?”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“I thought this was about the incident at the Post Office.” Ian was looking concerned as he said this, though Tanya wasn’t sure whether his concern was about Martin’s guilt or the apparent tangent the line of questioning had taken.
Plod looked across at him. “I’m involved in two investigations.”
Tanya was only just behind Ian in understanding. The look on Martin’s face suggested he was with them too.
“Are you suggesting Martin was involved in the accident on Lodge Farm?”
“It hasn’t been established yet whether it was an accident.”
“Bloody hell! Please tell me you’re just taking the piss.” This from Martin.
“Why would I do that, sir?”
“Honestly? I haven’t got a fucking clue. But are you seriously suggesting that, in the twenty-four hours or so that I’ve been back in the village, I’ve already seriously injured Peter Salthouse and carried out some other crime at the Post Office? And what am I supposed to have done there? Robbed it with a sawn-off shotgun?”
It was interesting to note that Martin was happy to show his anger, and yet it still seemed to be restrained.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Gates. I’m just trying to...”
“What? Eliminate me from your enquiries? What is this?”
Ian stepped forward, putting himself between the two men. His whole demeanour emanated calm. Tanya recognised the approach. She’d seen him handle tensions between employees in the same way. “There are reasons why you’re being asked these questions, Martin.” His hands remained at his sides. Non-threatening. “Something’s been found on the farm.”
“What?” Martin seemed genuinely perplexed, but she could see that he was responding to Ian’s manner.
A glance back at Plod. “Have you got any more questions, or can we tell him?”
Reluctantly, the policeman shook his head. “No more questions.”
So Ian explained about the missing van and the tyre tracks in the yard. As he did, Martin bowed his head, listening intently. Because they were standing, Ian and Plod wouldn’t have been able to see his face at all. From her sitting position, Tanya could see it, and was surprised at his expression.
Eight
Friday night, and there’s a younger crowd in the pub. Lads in their twenties. Unsurprisingly, the females in this age bracket are few and far between. They want the bright lights of the town, not the boorish behaviour of a bunch of blokes who haven’t got the gumption to extend their horizons beyond the boundaries of the village. Not that they’ll be here all night. Some time between nine and nine-thirty, a group of them will head off to Westfield. But they’ll stick to the same few pubs they always go to, then head into a club. They’ll probably keep drinking till they can barely stand, hoping along the way that they’ll get lucky with some bird who’s desperate enough to take them on. With very few exceptions, they’ll fall into a taxi at the end of the night with ambitions thwarted by their own lack of charisma. At least, that’s how Norma sees it. Her customers provide her with a reasonable living, but that doesn’t mean she’s not allowed to have an opinion of them.
By seven-thirty, they’ve started to drift in. By eight-thirty, she reckons pretty much all of the young males in the village are propping up her bar, playing darts or waiting to use the pool table. Fags dangling from their mouths in a way they think makes them look cool and sophisticated, pint glasses being waved around as they emphasise the points they want to make. Dickheads, the bloody lot of them. Anywhere else, she’d expect them to grow up soon, become aware of how stupid they look. Not here. She’s seen it before. The youngsters of ten years ago are still acting in the same way. They just come in a bit later, because they’ve got to wait until their kids are in bed. And they’ll stay in the village. They might still want to go into town and try their luck, but most of them are too frightened of what their wives would do to them if they found out. Not that Norma would encourage them to put it about. But she finds their hypocrisy distasteful. They spend their evenings eyeing up any half-decent female and making lewd remarks about what they’d like to do to them. But none of them would have the nerve to even attempt to do anything about it.
The older customers will also be in. Some of them already are, but most will turn up after nine, hoping to avoid the youngsters. She has no doubt that they were the same in their youth. They just won’t recall that they too would have splashed beer around, or flicked fag ash into other people’s drinks, or been so pissed they couldn’t tell the difference between normal conversation and shouting raucously at your mates.
Just another typical Friday night at The Oak.
Or so she was beginning to think until Ron Dakin came in.
To be fair, Ron’s presence wasn’t untypical. He didn’t come into the pub as often as some of the lads, but he would be in at least once or twice a week. It was also fair to say that he didn’t generally go into Westfield with them, but if he was feeling particularly adventurous he could be persuaded.
He was a nice lad, and he mixed well with his own age group and most of the other regulars. His proficiency with a pool cue had also earned him a place in the team. At twenty-four, he was the youngest. The rest of the team ranged in age up to sixty-two. An unlikely combination, but it seemed to have worked. They were currently the title holders in their league, and already looking forward to the new season.
What made this all the more gratifying to Norma – and, she was sure, to most of the other regulars – was that Ron was a mute. He communicated with a kind of sign language that was universal. With the ex
ception of his father, Derek, no one else had bothered to learn sign language properly, so Ron improvised and made sure everyone around him knew what he meant. He had a ready smile, and a sense of humour that could often catch people out.
Seeing him arrive, Norma was already pulling his pint for him as he approached the bar. He grinned at her and nodded his appreciation. When he had his drink, he headed off to the pool table, greeting the people he met along the way with a nod.
Norma was reaching for a clean glass to provide Walter with a refill when she heard a raised voice.
“He-llo!” The word was spoken very slowly and sounded as if it was being deliberately exaggerated. There was an audible reduction in the chatter going on around the bar. Norma searched for the owner of the voice. It sounded like Neil Thatcher, one of the lads at the pool table.
For several seconds, there was no follow up, then she heard the same voice, and this time could see that it was Neil.
“What’s up, Ron? Cat got your tongue?”
To Norma’s horror, this was accompanied by laughter from a fair number of the lads who were standing nearby. Through a gap in the crowd, she could see the back of Ron’s head, which was twitching from side to side. She could only imagine what he must be thinking.
“Come on, Ron, speak up.” Another voice, but she couldn’t identify this one. Not that it mattered, because more joined in.
“What’s that you say?”
“Come again?”
“You’re going to have to speak louder than that.”
The lines were feeble attempts at humour, but they seemed to be getting the laughs. More importantly, they seemed to be hitting home. Their target was backing away, his glass wavering in his hand, the contents slopping over the sides and on to the floor.
Norma couldn’t help but compare this to the previous lunchtime when Colin Gates had come in and been taunted. Although that wasn’t acceptable either, she could kind of understand that. Colin wasn’t a regular in the pub, wasn’t part of the crowd. But this was different. There was no obvious reason for his friends to suddenly turn on him like this.
Andy was working the bar with her again tonight. Whereas Norma was frozen in place, stunned at the shock of what was happening, Andy was already out from behind the bar, and heading towards Ron.
“Come on, Ron, you can speak louder than that.” Neil Thatcher again. Clearly, neither variety nor originality were among his strengths. But that didn’t make the words any easier to take. Ron suddenly turned, the motion half-emptying his glass. As some of the beer splashed on to his hand, he glanced down as if he had just become aware of it. He leaned over and put it down on the nearest table. Still considerate, not wanting to cause any more mess than he had to. Andy reached him as he began to move forward. His offered hand was slapped to one side as Ron pushed past him.
“Go on, you cunt! Run off home to your other freaky mates!” From Neil again. Norma flashed him a look, but he ignored it, watching Ron until he disappeared through the door.
For a long moment, silence fell over the pub. Uncomfortable glances were exchanged. Awkward attempts were made to sip from glasses. Then a cue ball cracked against another, and everything returned to normal.
Back behind the bar, Andy gave her a bewildered look. She didn’t know what to say. Then two strangers walked in and the spell was broken.
As she prepared their drinks, she studied them both. Surreptitiously, of course.
The man on the right had dark hair, long enough to cover his ears and most of the back of his neck. His eyes were blue, similar to Paul Newman’s. Though that was as far as the resemblance went. His face was thin and long, a narrow nose only adding to the effect. Underneath his thick round-necked jumper, his body looked appropriately slight. Bony wrists and hands protruded from the sleeves. Even the thick hair that covered the backs of his hands did nothing to hide his skinniness.
Beside him, his companion was quite different. His head was completely hairless, and from what little more of his flesh she could see, she guessed the rest of him must be in a fairly similar state. A thick neck supported his head. He wore an open-necked shirt, and she couldn’t imagine he’d ever be comfortable in one that was buttoned up. No matter how large the collar size, it would be a tight fit. As, indeed, was the rest of his shirt, as it bulged over his arms and chest. He reminded her of one of the stereotypical henchmen from a 1960s spy movie, only bigger. He wasn’t as tall as Adam Hawthorn, but you certainly knew he was there.
Stereotyping was clearly inappropriate, though. From their appearance she would have expected them to ask for hard drinks: Scotch – either neat or on the rocks – or maybe Jack Daniels. Whisky of any kind would have fit with her expectations. Not Britvic Orange. The grateful smiles also surprised her.
Not that she had long to dwell on it. The moment they had their drinks, she was presented with a pint glass by Walter. As she started to refill it, she glanced up to see where they went, and noted they were heading towards a table close to the door.
In the mean time, the few men standing at the bar had resumed the conversations they’d been having before the outburst from Neil Thatcher and his mates. Already, darts was underway again. A young lad was thumping the cigarette machine. She guessed he was after twenty Rothmans because that drawer always stuck.
All of this was taken in as she attended to Walter. It was as if nothing had happened. Were she and Andy the only ones who’d seen what had happened? Or were they hallucinating? She glanced across at him, but he was already busy again.
It briefly crossed her mind to go and find Ron, make sure he was all right. But he would probably be home by now. Of course, that could mean his father, Derek, would be down soon. Quite rightly, he’d want to know what had gone on. Then again, there was only Derek at home. Ron’s mother had died a long time ago. Certainly before Norma moved to the village. There was another son, but Steve lived at the other end of the village. She rarely saw him, so didn’t know whether he would be around to look after Ron. So Derek might feel it was more important to stay at home and look after his son. Norma could only hope he took that option, because she hadn’t got a clue what to tell him.
When the door opened ten minutes later, she assumed the worst. The group of regulars milling about blocked her view, so she couldn’t tell who it was for sure. Then he was at the bar, and she felt her heart sink.
“I’ll just have a pint of lager,” he said, his voice level. There was nothing in it to show how he was feeling.
“Any particular...?” She gestured to the different taps.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not a connoisseur.”
He turned to look round the bar area while she drew his pint. She thought he was looking for someone. Didn’t know who. He’d seemed happy enough with his own company yesterday lunchtime.
Yesterday lunchtime. The last time a customer had been picked on. And she realised that was why she had felt so bad when she realised it was him. Twice in two days she’d seen one of the less fortunate of the villagers being treated like shit. And Martin Gates had been close by both times.
Even as she thought it, she dismissed it as irrational. He’d actually stopped things getting out of hand with Colin. And he’d not even been here when the lads had started on Ron. Still, as she’d told the policeman this morning when he’d come back from inspecting the dog, there was something happening in the village. And it seemed to have started when Martin turned up. The funny thing was, from Linda Payne’s reaction, it was as if whatever that something was, it was something she had been waiting for.
Just as she placed the glass in front of Martin, two other men arrived at the bar.
“You timed that right. Were you waiting for me so I’d get the first round in?” The tone was humorous, not at all out of place in a pub, where taking the piss was not only accepted, it was almost mandatory. But neither Patrick nor Matthew seemed to appreciate the joke.
“We can buy our own.” Patrick was abrupt to a point well beyond rudeness. No
rma couldn’t help but wonder what it was that Martin had done to cause his father and brother to want so much to be without him.
She half-expected him to protest and insist that he buy their drinks. It was part of pub etiquette. Instead, he shrugged, winked at Norma conspiratorially – though she had no idea why – and headed towards the window and an empty table. Father and brother followed him a couple of minutes later.
Convinced that things couldn’t get any stranger, within a few minutes Norma realised that you could never assume anything, when she turned to find Adam Hawthorn smiling down at her.
Nine
“You wanted to see us.” It was both a statement and a question. The fact that Matthew said it at all spoke volumes.
If he had understood his feelings, Martin would probably have hidden them. But he didn’t know whether to be saddened, dejected or angry. So he hid his confusion instead.
He had been down to the cottages this afternoon. You could hardly say the policeman had been satisfied with his answers earlier, but he had nothing he could pin on Martin, so after another twenty minutes of fruitless questioning he’d gone. Five minutes later, Martin had been out the door and on the way to see his father and brother. He hadn’t expected them to want to talk to him there and then. But he was left stumbling over his words when they said he wasn’t to come to the house again. Their agreement to meet him in the pub this evening was clearly a reluctant compromise on their part. And Matthew’s words now underlined the fact.
Glancing round the pub, Martin reflected that this was hardly the ideal environment for the conversation he wanted to have with them. That needed privacy. Even though the other people in the pub seemed to be otherwise occupied, it wouldn’t take much to grab their attention: a slightly raised voice, a badly chosen phrase – or a grown man crying.
As he scanned the room, he noticed two men sitting near the back door. The man with the bald head was scanning the room. It seemed to be a fairly innocent activity, as if it was simply idle curiosity. Indeed, it could well have been, but Martin wasn’t so sure. He recognised him from his visit to the apparently unoccupied farm this morning.
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