Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  Brompton Village

  For the size of the village, Brompton was blessed with a larger-than-average Memorial Hall. Following the murder, the police had requisitioned the hall, and it had been kitted out as a temporary communications centre, or Forward Command Post as it was known.

  It was Wednesday morning, and inside the hall, several rows of chairs had been unfolded and placed facing the wooden stage. Along the side of the room, towards the rear, were two typists’ desks, fully equipped and ready for use; close to them stood a table on which there was a UHF portable base station, linked by cable to a mast on the roof of one of the vehicles in the car park. Two shirt-sleeved officers were manning the telephones that were sitting by the radio, and, on the desk, were two large wooden trays containing pairs of Pye Pocketfone handsets ready to be handed out to the enquiry teams.

  Fortunately, the hall was blessed with generous parking facilities and a grassy area that was sometimes used for picnics. Police vehicles of all shapes and sizes had begun arriving around six am and by nine o’clock the car park, and some of the grass area, was full to capacity.

  The forty-plus occupants of these vehicles were milling around inside the building. The officers, both uniform and plainclothes, were chatting with one another and drinking tea. Several were also eating bacon, egg, and sausage baps, distributed from a large baker’s tray on a table in the corner. The supply of food was overseen by a sharp-eyed uniform sergeant whose job it was to make sure no-one took more than his or her share.

  The general hubbub in the room dropped a fraction when, at nine o’clock precisely, Inspector Mollington, carrying his cap and wearing a smartly pressed uniform, mounted the steps and strode over to a lectern that had been placed on the stage facing the assembly.

  The wooden stage he marched across was usually reserved for the presentation of locally produced amateur dramatic performances and, when needed, overseeing polling booths at election time.

  That Wednesday, however, a large white screen had been set up at the back of the stage. The lectern had been placed a few feet to the front of this screen, and an OHP (or overhead projector) had been set up on a table next to the lectern.

  “May I have your attention!” shouted Mollington as he reached the lectern. “Can we have everyone seated please, we’ve got a lot to get through and time is limited.”

  The officers shuffled into the seats and carried on munching their breakfasts.

  “Can you hear me at the back?” asked Mollington loudly. “I’m afraid the Tannoy isn’t on, so I’m going to ask you all to remain as quiet as you can until we’re finished. Please don’t call out. There will be ample opportunity to ask questions after the briefing.”

  The room fell deathly silent.

  “Thank you,” continued Mollington. “For those of you that don’t know me, I’m Inspector Mollington from Newbury, and I’ve been assigned as the administration officer for the current murder incident room. Now, as you will no doubt be aware, the body of a woman was found at the entrance to some woods not far from here yesterday, and her death is being treated as murder. Your job today will be to assist the murder investigation team with carrying out local enquiries. But, just before I hand you over to Detective Sergeant Johnson to explain your duties to you, may I remind you that this incident has been deemed a Special Occasion. It’s important that any claims for overtime or expenses must be clearly marked with the operation code and submitted under separate cover via your own local admin office. Thank you, everybody, have a good day and do a good job. Over to you, Sergeant Johnson.”

  Johnson, somehow managing to avoid rolling his eyes at this mention of administrative trivia, strolled over to the lectern.

  “Good morning, all, thanks for coming, I’m Dave Johnson, Headquarters CID. Our Senior Investigating Officer, Superintendent Merryweather, sends his apologies for not being here. Unfortunately, he’s been detained elsewhere.”

  Johnson placed a transparency on the OHP, and an aerial photograph of a country road appeared on the screen behind him. The image also revealed a wooded area with gravel parking. A white arrow had been superimposed on the picture, pointing to the roadside near the entrance to this parking area.

  “This location is known locally as Bluebell Wood,” said Johnson. “At ten o’clock yesterday morning the owner of the land was out exercising her dogs when she came across this.”

  He changed the transparency and the image now on the screen, taken at ground level, was of what could have been taken for a bundle of clothing on a grass verge. The next shot was a close up showing that the clothing was, in fact, the fully dressed body of a woman with her eyes and mouth wide open, reaching forward with her right hand as though beseeching help.

  The officers in the audience had seen plenty of dead bodies in their service but, nevertheless, stared grim-faced at the photograph. Violent death was something nobody ever really got used to.

  “The grass was quite long where the body was found, so it was quite concealed and could have been in situ for some time,” Johnson continued. “That’s one of the things we would like to find out today, so anyone you speak to who’s been to the woods in the past twenty-four hours is very much of interest to us.”

  One of the officers put up his hand; Johnson nodded to him.

  “Have we any idea who she is, Sarge?”

  “Formal identification has yet to take place, but we believe her to be a Mrs Suzanne Hoskins. She moved to this area from London not too long ago, but we don’t know much about her yet. Once again, this is where you come in today. We want to speak to anyone who knew her, however slightly. Unfortunately, there are no photographs of her at the property where she lived, so we’re struggling a bit until we find out more.”

  Another hand went up.

  “You called her Missus Hoskins, is there a Mister Hoskins?”

  “Yes, there is, and we would very much like to speak to him. He seems to have disappeared, so any information you uncover about him is to be treated as important and passed back immediately.”

  “Is there a description of Mr Hoskins?” a sergeant asked.

  “There is, but it’s brief, and you’ll find it in your handout. There’s no photograph yet though. He seems to be a very private man. We don’t know a lot about him yet.”

  Johnson changed the image to a black and white map of Brompton Village. The map showed the village divided into segments, each of which had been designated with a letter of the alphabet.

  “Ladies and gents, you’ll be working in teams of two and assigned to carrying out house-to-house enquiries in one of these areas. Each team will have a radio and a clipboard with a questionnaire – along with a supply of statement forms. We want a separate questionnaire completed for each member of every household. Anyone answering Yes to questions four and seven is to be asked to make a statement, and you’re to radio in if anyone can answer affirmative to question fourteen: Do you know the present whereabouts of Steven Hoskins?”

  “How long have we got, Sarge?” a voice from the crowd called out.

  “This is not a race; we want you to take your time and do a thorough job. If we don’t finish the village today, we’ll come back tomorrow. And look, everyone, drink as much tea as you’re offered. People open up over a cuppa. You never know what they’ve got to tell you. But only tea mind!”

  A ripple of laughter went around the room.

  “So, what I’m saying is don’t rush,” Johnson went on. “Please, just listen to what people are saying. These questions are not comprehensive, don’t be frightened to throw a few in of your own if the conversation is going somewhere we hadn’t anticipated.”

  “How much feedback do you want while we’re out there?” A male voice from the audience. “Do you want us to call stuff in or wait until we get back here?”

  “I want that radio buzzing all day. Keep us fully informed of your progress – and for God’s sake, make sure we know your location at all times. The very last thing we want is to find one of you
lot lying in a ditch somewhere just as we’re getting ready to knock off and go home.” More laughter.

  As the group began to disperse Johnson called out, “Oh, and by the way, Superintendent Merryweather is the best detective this force has ever had. He doesn’t like to get beaten and takes murder enquires very seriously indeed. Don’t be surprised if he pops up out of the blue at your location. So, stay alert and do a good job.”

  Don hardly recognised his village as he drove home to Brompton that evening. There were various police vehicles parked up in several of the roads near the Hoskins home, and the two small pubs were overflowing. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were strangers, some of them apparently reporters with cameras, walking around everywhere.

  My sleepy little village has developed a carnival atmosphere in the short time since I left it this morning, Don thought to himself. He would normally have welcomed the increase in activity (God knew he’d had enough of being bored lately), but for some reason, he actually felt a sense of foreboding.

  Be careful what you wish for, he reminded himself.

  He left his van in the driveway ready for an early start the next day, and he entered his police house via the small office attached to the side of the building. He could hear that the TV was on in the living room, so he went straight in there.

  Rosemary had been dozing on the sofa but jumped up to greet her husband. She rushed over to him and gave him a hug and a quick kiss.

  Rosemary Barton looked a lot younger than her twenty-five years. She was five-feet-four-inches tall and blessed with a firm, slender figure. She rarely wore make-up, hated dressing up, and was habitually seen wearing jeans and a T-shirt. However, despite her lack of sophistication, she was an attractive young woman with a “girl next door” appearance that most people found appealing.

  “Don, I’m so glad you’re home. It’s been bedlam around here all day,” she said.

  “I know, I’ve just driven through the village. Has it been like it all day?” he asked her.

  “It started shortly after you left this morning and hasn’t eased up at all from what I’ve seen.”

  Don grinned. “Well, you’ve been moaning about it being such a dead-and-alive hole, perhaps you should be grateful.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to die, though! Has that poor woman really been murdered?”

  Don’s smile faded. He became serious. “Yes, I’ve just had to identify her body.”

  Rosemary was shocked. “You have? Why, how do you know her?”

  “I met the victim last Sunday night when her husband kicked off in that domestic I told you about. But it was a simple married couple’s argument, no real violence.”

  “Is that why he did it, the husband I mean?”

  “To the honest, love, if you’ve been watching the news, you probably know more than I do. CID have been talking to me all day, but they haven’t given much away. Has there been anything on telly about it?”

  “They’ve put his picture out as being wanted for questioning. Is he guilty do you think, I mean they haven’t said it was him?”

  “From what I saw, he didn’t have it in him. But, on the other hand, everybody’s capable of murder, I suppose, given the right provocation.”

  “But if it wasn’t him then it means there’s a killer on the loose. Am I safe here all alone in the day?”

  “Well, stay by the phone and keep a whistle handy. There’s enough police about so you should be okay. I mean this is the last place a fugitive’s going to want to come to, I reckon.”

  Rosemary wasn’t convinced. “If I hadn’t started that new job I’d go and stay with mum. Anyway, I can hardly go off and leave you all alone.”

  Rosemary suddenly turned cold; her comment had triggered an unwelcome memory. “Was Diane at Ascot today?” she asked abruptly. “Did you see her?”

  Don wasn’t about to lie to his wife.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “she’s at the event. Nowhere near me, thank God. I did see her, though. She looked right through me.”

  Rosemary looked sceptical. “I don’t want all that nonsense starting up again,” she said. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  Don took both her hands in his and looked her directly in the face “Nor could I,” he said, honestly. “I know I was totally out of order, but it was a one-off stupid mistake, believe me. It will never happen again, I promise.”

  “Oh, Don, I want to believe you, really I do.” She took a deep breath. “I know we can’t change what’s happened, but it’s over. It’s in the past now.”

  “Yes, Rosemary, and that’s where it stays.”

  “It better had, Don,” she said despairingly, then, adopting a harder tone, repeated, “It better had.”

  Don said nothing. He knew a threat when he heard one, and this was one threat he intended to take very seriously.

  “Morning Ian, you obviously got back all right last night,” Don said as his colleague climbed into the van beside him.

  “Yeah, no sweat; once I knew you were tied up, I got the area car to call into Newbury and pick me up. I even rescued your Ganex for you, it’s in the back with mine. Looks like we may need them today.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be Ascot without rain, would it?” They both laughed.

  “So, what’s it like living at the centre of the universe?” said Ian.

  “I’ll tell you what it’s like; it’s like being a kid with his nose against the window of the sweet shop. I feel totally out of it. My missus knows more of what’s going on than I do – and that’s only because she watches telly.”

  “Really? After the time you spent with CID yesterday, I was sure you’d have the inside track on everything by now, a sharp operator like you.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you? That lot are playing Secret bloody Squirrel as usual. They’re more likely to talk to a BBC reporter than they are to a woodentop like me. I do get the impression it’s more than a simple domestic murder, though. I had five minutes with Merryweather once I’d ID-ed the body and all he kept asking me about was if I’d seen any strange youngsters in the village recently.”

  “And had you?”

  “No, but I’ve only been there a few months, so I don’t know all the local kids by sight yet.”

  “Hello, looks like the coach is here already,” said Ian as they pulled into the police station car park. “No tea for us until we get there then.”

  The Wednesday of the race meeting went by without incident, so Don was home by eight o’clock. Rosemary had prepared a cold supper that they washed down with a chilled bottle of white wine.

  “It was more frantic than ever around here, today,” said Rosemary as they ate. “There were uniforms all over the place. They knocked at every house in the village with a questionnaire on a clipboard. They even came here. I was a bit surprised; it was as though ours was just another house rather than the local police office!”

  “Well, they’d look damn silly if they didn’t come here, then found out later that you knew something of value,” smiled Don.

  “Well, there’s not much to tell you. Bluebell Wood is completely closed to the public – and there’s been all sorts of odd people in and out of the Hoskins house all day.”

  “All pretty routine,” said Don. “They’ll be talking to all the taxi and bus drivers that service the village as well – and don’t be surprised if you get held up at a road check over the next couple of days.”

  “What on earth do they do with all the information?” asked Rosemary. “There must be mountains of paper piling up.”

  “Well, it all goes into the incident room where trained statement readers go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. Absolutely every item of every statement is indexed, cross-indexed, and double indexed on a card system. It’s amazing how clever it all is.”

  “So, Mr Merryweather is like a spider at the centre of a web?”

  “Ha, ha, what a great description! Yes, just like that. He sits in an office and gets constantly briefed by a tea
m of specially trained detectives. One of them, Dave Johnson, a DS, is my point of contact. I deal with him and no-one else.”

  “Suppose he’s off duty?”

  “These boys don’t go off duty until the murder is cleared up. I’ve got Dave’s home number in my wallet, and the superintendent has moved into single men’s quarters in Newbury. He has been known to have a camp bed at the back of his office on other murders he’s dealt with.”

  Rosemary wasn’t impressed by that idea. “Don’t you ever go on CID, Don, I don’t think I’d like it much.”

  “Don’t worry, love,” said Don ruefully. “Even if I wanted to join them, I very much doubt they’d have me.”

  For some reason, Don felt relieved. It was later he realised that, by her comment, Rosemary was seeing them both as having a future together. Hopefully, Diane would soon be totally forgotten.

  Chapter Six

  A Quiet Day Shopping

  The royal meeting concluded on the Friday of Ascot Week, and Don was grateful for the fact that he hadn’t encountered Diane again after that first meeting. The last day of actual racing, known as Ascot Heath, customarily took place on the Saturday, and was a very low-key affair.

  The Heath Meeting required only a fraction of the policing presence of the main event, so F Division was not detailed to perform duty on the Saturday. This meant that Don was granted a much-needed couple of rest days that gave him the opportunity to take Rosemary shopping in the nearby town centre in Reading.

  Parking in Reading was the usual nightmare, but Don eventually settled on leaving their nine-year-old Vauxhall Viva on the top level of the Minster Street multi-storey car park. From the parking spot they were able to walk a few hundred yards to St Mary’s Butts, then along the road past the historic church to Broad Street and the main shopping area.

  Despite being with his wife, Don’s mind kept drifting back to the village and the missing Steve Hoskins. He couldn’t help taking a close look at every middle-aged man they passed. Rosemary gave him a hard look.