I was scrabbling in the depths of my handbag for the little notebook and ballpoint pen I keep in there somewhere, when I heard Olivia shout, ‘Oh my God, if it isn’t Mrs Wingate! What the heck are you doing here, Mrs W?’
My head snapped up in time to see Olivia prop her picket sign against the chain-link fence. She turned to Alf, who was standing next to her holding a sign that said, ‘Stop EU Chemical Tests’, and said something to him. Alf shrugged, then went back to waving his sign. Olivia retrieved her handbag from the ground and hurried over to join me.
‘Quick, let’s get out of here.’ She kept her voice low, husky. ‘I told him you were my sixth-form science teacher. L-O-L.’
‘Don’t you think he’ll wonder what a former teacher was doing way out here?’ I asked as I hustled Olivia back in the direction of Cathy’s rental car.
‘That’s why I said science,’ she explained.
‘Olivia,’ I said, keeping my voice steady. ‘I checked Alf’s car just now. There’s not a sign of any damage.’
Olivia reached for the car door and wrenched it open. ‘Not that one, Hannah. Alf drives a BMW. Keeps it in a garage, like. Doesn’t let nobody drive it but him.’
‘Have you seen the BMW recently?’
‘No.’
‘Where does Alf keep the car?’
‘That’s what I want to show you.’
Now that I had a real live girl to issue driving instructions, I turned ‘John’ off via the GPS. Olivia directed me west through Kingsbridge for what she said would be a twenty-, thirty-minute drive, max, to Totnes. At the Palegate Cross Roundabout, we headed north on the A381 and when I got to the main road I asked, ‘What reason could Alf have had to run Susan Parker down?’
‘Well, they had words.’
‘Words?’
‘You know. Shouting, like.’
‘It’s hard for me to imagine Susan Parker shouting,’ I commented as I slowed to let the car that was tailgating me pass.
Olivia colored. ‘It’s Alf doing the shouting, I guess you’d say.’
‘What were they arguing about, Olivia?’
‘She said one shouldn’t take what it said in the Bible literal like.’ Olivia swiveled in her seat to face me. ‘I know the Bible isn’t saying to stone girls what aren’t virgins, or it’s OK to keep slaves. But Alf? He don’t like to be contradicted. Couldn’t talk no sense into him, neither. Miss Parker, she buggers off to the theater, but he won’t stop yelling about witches and harlots, the lot, and almost straight away, the police show up and charge him with breach of peace, pack him up and take him off. He comes home the next day spitting mad.’
Olivia folded her arms and pouted. ‘Now Alf won’t go back to London.’ A wistful sigh escaped her lips. ‘I so fancy London. Used to skive off and look at the shops. Not like I had the money to buy more than a cuppa.’
‘Do you live with Alf, Olivia?’
‘No, never done. I share a flat in Brixham with some girls from school. Kayleigh, she works at night as a barmaid, and I’m thinking there’s more money in drawing pints than working for Alf and holding up his bleeding signs.’
On the outskirts of Totnes, Olivia directed me to a quiet neighborhood of red brick, semi-detached homes built sometime at the beginning of the last century during the reign of Edward VI. Rather than park out front, she instructed me to proceed to the end of the street, turn left, and drive down an alley. ‘Alf keeps the car in a garage in back.’
I drove slowly, watching walled-off back gardens crawl by to my left and a row of wooden garages, painted white, to my right, each marked with a number.
‘It’s this one,’ Olivia said, pointing.
I parked the car and we got out.
There was a small, high window in the garage door. I stood on tip-toe and peeked in, but couldn’t see much through the grime. I huffed on the window and cleaned a small spot with my sleeve, but all I got for my efforts was a dirty sleeve. It was still as dark as the inside of a Goth’s closet on the other side of the door.
‘I don’t suppose you have a key, Olivia?’
‘I’m just an employee. Full stop.’
‘Is there a Missus Alf?’ I asked.
Olivia laughed out loud. ‘Used to be, but she ran off with some bloke from Australia round fifteen years back. Alf didn’t seem too upset about it, though. He has a char do the cooking and the washing-up, but Alf, he’s good about hoovering.’
‘Sounds like you know him well.’
She shrugged. ‘Since I was twelve, but if Alf had anything to do with running Susan Parker down, I’m finished with him.’
I considered the stout padlock that secured the door against intruders like Olivia and me. ‘Must have left my picklocks at home in my other pair of pants,’ I told her.
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
I grinned. ‘Well, yes, I am.’
Olivia shrugged. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘I used to be good at picking locks, but I need a bobby pin.’ I grabbed the lock and yanked it in frustration. To my amazement, it came open in my hands.
I scarcely had time to pat myself on the back before Olivia gasped, ‘That’s amazing! How did you do it?’
‘I’d like you to think it was my talented fingers, but I’m afraid Alf slipped up. He must not have pushed the shank all the way in.’ I removed the lock, and with Olivia’s help, raised the door about halfway so the two of us could slip inside. I closed the door behind us.
The BMW was clearly Alf’s pride and joy. Even though it was garaged, he’d protected the vehicle with a canvas cover. ‘Is there a light?’ I asked, squinting into the darkness and seeing nothing but a car-shaped hunk of fabric.
Olivia disappeared into the dark. ‘There’s a switch over here somewhere.’ She found the switch and a bank of overhead lights blazed on, nearly blinding me.
When my eyes got adjusted, I called Olivia over. ‘Here, help me get this off.’
Soon the cover lay in a heap on the concrete floor, and we were staring at a late model BMW sedan. ‘Blue or black, do you think?’
‘Blue. Leastwise that’s how it looks in the daytime. Looks perfect, too,’ she added, sounding disappointed.
I ran my hand slowly over the left front fender, bending to study the finish as closely as I could, looking for imperfections. ‘Wish I had a flashlight . . . torch,’ I corrected.
‘There’s a torch on the workbench. I’ll get it.’
When Olivia handed me the torch, I shone it on the fender, angling the beam, looking for tape lines, overspray, anything that might indicate the car had been repainted.
I opened the passenger door wide, inspected the inside of the door and the frame of the chassis. Was that overspray on the manufacturer’s information plate? Or a figment of my imagination?
When I straightened up, slightly dizzy, I noticed that Olivia had circled around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. The center console stood open, and she was sorting through papers she had obviously found inside. ‘Olivia, what are you doing?’ I asked, although it was perfectly obvious what she was doing.
‘I’m looking for evidence, like.’
‘Evidence of what, pray tell?’
She shrugged. ‘Will know when I find it, won’t I?’
I was beginning to suspect that Olivia had it in for Alf, and was anxious to pin something, anything, on the old fellow, when her next move confirmed it. ‘Lookit this!’ she whooped. Olivia was holding a thin leather portfolio and, as I watched, she began sorting through its contents, which appeared to be a series of receipts. ‘Petrol, petrol, petrol, insurance, oil change . . .’ She paused, unfolded a piece of A4 paper that looked like a computer printout. ‘This here’s a ticket reservation for the Eurotunnel!’ Her jaw dropped. ‘God’s knickers! It’s for the day Susan Parker snuffed it.’
I slid into the passenger seat and held out a hand. ‘Let me see.’
According to the contents of Alf’s chronologically arranged portfolio, he’d visited
the continent six times over the past several months, once on the very morning that Susan Parker was run down. The Eurotunnel reservation was for one p.m. Forty-four pounds. A two-day return. Susan had been struck and killed shortly after eight in the morning.
I stared at Olivia. ‘It’s at least a five-hour drive from Dartmouth to Folkestone. Could Alf run Susan down and still make it to Folkestone in time to make the train?’
Olivia’s eyes did a slow roll. ‘In this car, he could.’
‘What would he be doing in France?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Hell if I know. Alf don’t drink wine.’
I was still puzzling over that, putting the receipts back in order, when Olivia reached out, punched a button on the dash, and hopped out of the car. ‘Let’s see what the old goat’s got in the boot!’
Before I could tuck the portfolio back into the center console where she’d found it, Olivia disappeared. Like a two-year-old, she was everywhere all at once. After half a minute I heard her say, ‘Bloody, bloody hell!’
I returned the portfolio to the console, slammed it shut, slid out of the car, and went around to the boot to see what all the fuss was about. I expected to see cartons of WTL Guardian literature like Alf carried in his everyday vehicle. Instead, Olivia was leaning over a gray-green carpet bag, its mouth yawning open, and running her hands through what looked like hundreds and hundreds of ten, twenty and fifty pound notes.
‘Beautiful, beautiful money!’ She picked up a fistful of bills, put them to her nose and inhaled deeply. ‘There must be millions here!’
‘Not millions, but tens of thousands, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, the lying old sod. Said he couldn’t afford to give me a rise in salary.’ Pouting, Olivia helped me stuff the money back into the bag. As we did so, I noticed that the loot consisted mostly of pounds, but there were several fat bundles of Euros, and an envelope of currency with Arabic writing on it from Da Afghanistan Bank. Was Alf being paid to convert Muslims to Christianity? If so, Osama bin Laden might have a thing or two to say about that. The idea of anyone issuing a fatwa on Alf Freeman almost made me smile.
‘Where did Alf get all this money?’ Olivia’s eyes were wide.
‘Are they contributions?’ I asked.
‘Nobody ever gave us that much money. Never!’
Alf was a flake, his theology even flakier, so that I could believe. ‘Could Alf have collected it over a long period of time? Saving it up?’
‘What we collect in the can? What comes in the mail? I take to the bank. There’s five, maybe six hundred pounds in the bank right now.’
‘Where do you think the money came from, then, Olivia?’
‘How should I know?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Not legal, and that’s a fact.’
I closed the lid to the boot, resisting the urge to wipe off my fingerprints. ‘I think we better clear off before Alf comes home.’
Olivia checked her watch. ‘He won’t be home for hours. Won’t leave till Derrick leaves, and Derrick won’t miss the workers heading home.’
‘Derrick the tall bloke?’ I asked as Olivia helped me ease the cover back over the BMW and tie it down.
‘Right. Ah-maze-ing. Got arrested once for breaking into this lab up in Essex and letting all the animals out of the cages.’
‘My kind of guy,’ I said as I closed the garage door, replaced the lock and shoved the U-shaped shackle home.
I drove Olivia to the nearby bus station where she could catch a coach directly to Brixham. There was time to spare, so we sat in the car park with the windows open, enjoying a pleasant afternoon breeze.
Olivia stopped gnawing on her thumbnail long enough to ask, ‘What do you think I should do about Alf?’
‘Well, as much as I’d like to pin Susan’s accident on somebody, the fact that his car isn’t obviously damaged, and he has receipts that show he was probably on his way to the Chunnel at the time . . .’ I let my voice trail off.
‘But the money?’
‘I don’t know about the money, Olivia. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Alf keeps a big bag of money in his car. He’s no spring chicken. He could have been saving it up for years.’
Olivia climbed out of the car, closed the door. She leaned through the open window, resting her elbows on the sill. ‘If you believe that, Hannah, then I have a bridge that I can sell you real cheap.’
I had to laugh. ‘Well, take care, Olivia. You still have my phone number, right?’
She patted her handbag. ‘Know what?’
‘What?’
‘I think I can wait to start being a barmaid. Alf wants watching, don’t you think?’
EIGHTEEN
‘Gazump is a Cockney corruption of gezumph, a Yiddish word that means to swindle or overcharge.’
Simon Clark, ‘Gazumping London’, www.Bloomberg.com, July 26, 2007
Hannah, you are totally screwed.
Although I drove around for several minutes, I couldn’t find a single available parking space in the Visitors’ Center car park. My hopes were raised when the tail lights of a green Vauxhall flashed white and the vehicle began to back in my direction. I had already turned the steering wheel, preparing to slip into its space, when another car zipped around the corner and beat me to it. The smirk on the driver’s face as he aced me out made me wish I carried a box cutter so I could put it to good use on the young jerk’s tires.
So I waited, idling, still fuming, near the entrance. Eventually, a woman entered the car park from Flavel Place, carrying two shopping bags. I followed her to her parking space, positioned the car strategically and waited while she stowed her purchases in the boot. She gave me a friendly wave, pulled out, and I slotted my car in, thinking, whew, dodged that bullet.
I walked the long way around to Horn Hill House, scanning light poles, eaves and rooftops along the way, checking to see if there were any CCTV cameras installed anywhere in the vicinity of the spot on the Embankment where Susan had been struck down.
Zero, zip, nada.
Other than a webcam on the roof of the Royal Castle Hotel (was it even operational?), Dartmouth didn’t seem to be a town that was overly concerned about serious crime. Even the pint-sized police station appeared devoid of closed-circuit recording devices.
That night at dinner I asked Janet and Alan Brelsford about it.
Alan crossed his knife and fork on his plate and scowled. ‘Don’t get me started!’
‘We petitioned for the cameras,’ Janet said. ‘We don’t have much trouble here on Horn Hill, but there have been a number of problems with hooliganism and vandals at Royal Avenue Gardens. However . . .’ She drew out the word. ‘The town council, in their infinite wisdom, voted the proposal down.’
‘They think they can handle the vandalism and petty crime with better street lighting.’ Alan picked up his silverware and began sawing on his lamb chop. ‘Idiots!’
‘What happened to Susan Parker had nothing to do with the presence or absence of street lighting, though, did it?’ I sighed. ‘It was daylight. If there’d been a camera down there, the person who ran Susan down might even now be cooling his or her heels in one of Her Majesty’s fine prisons.’
‘What you fail to understand, my American friend, is that installing CCTV cameras is an invasion of privacy. It might even contravene the Human Rights Act.’ Alan drew quote marks in the air with his fingers.
‘In which case,’ Janet huffed, ‘there needs to be a massive effort to pull them down all across the country. How many at last count? Forty-two million?’
‘To be fair,’ Alan said, chewing thoughtfully, ‘the town council did consult the police, who weren’t entirely on board. Said, and I quote, “it wouldn’t help in the legal process”, whatever the hell that means.’
‘Stingy sods. They just don’t want to spend the money!’
‘It’s the same in the States,’ Paul complained. ‘We bend over backwards to protect the guilty, always at the expense of the innocent.’
‘Me, too,’ Paul said. ‘So, let’s change the subject.’ He smiled apologetically at our hosts, then affectionately at me. ‘Once you turn Hannah on, it’s sometimes hard to turn her off.’
Five minutes later I was really ‘on,’ telling the tale of my adventures with Olivia. I’d reached the part about the BMW and discovering the money in the boot, when the house phone rang.
Janet pushed her chair away from the table and hurried off to take the call. ‘Sorry, but that’s probably a booking. They always call at night, for some reason.’
When Janet returned, she was grinning. ‘Guess who’s coming back tomorrow?’
Back? I thought for a minute. ‘Cathy Yates?’
‘Yup. By train, this time. I’m collecting her at the station in Totnes.’ Janet reclaimed her chair, helped herself to more runner beans, then sent the bowl on another circuit around the table.
‘Had I but known,’ I said, piling some beans on my plate, ‘I could have picked her up in her very own rental car.’
‘Oh, you squeaked by on that one, Hannah Ives.’ Janet waggled her brows. ‘While you were in the shower, Europcar called saying they’d collected it. Cathy’d left them our number.’
Paul shook his head. ‘Hannah sometimes skates on very thin ice.’
I stuck out my tongue at him. ‘Better to be lucky than smart.’
Alan laughed. ‘Who said that?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it seemed appropriate.’
Janet turned to me. ‘Cathy says she has exciting news.’
‘Gosh, I wonder if she’s found out more about her father?’
‘I asked her that, but she just laughed and said I’d have to wait until she got here.’
When Cathy arrived, she didn’t make us wait long for her news. She dragged her bag into the entrance hall, parked it next to the newel post, and plopped herself down on a chair in the lounge. While five minutes out of Dartmouth, Janet had given me a head’s up on her cell phone, so Paul and I were waiting for them.
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