Sitting at a small desk in the corner, a seventeen-year-old male police cadet was also allocated to the room. Teased and spoiled by the women in equal measure, his job was to take messages, run errands, do the photocopying – and fetch the tea.
The lad stood up as Johnson entered the room.
“Sit down!” shouted Vi. “He’s only a sergeant.”
Johnson grinned. “I can always rely on you to remind me of that, can’t I, Vi?”
Dave and Violet had been friends for years. Her husband, George, was an inspector at the nearby town of Wantage. Vi loved to tease Johnson about the difference in rank.
“Well, Dave, it looks like you had a whale of a time in Ireland. George will be jealous.”
“George has got nothing to be jealous of, with you to go home to, Vi.”
“Don’t listen to this silver-tongued rascal, Gordon,” she said to the cadet. “He’d soon lead you astray.”
However, she did enjoy the compliment.
“Did you get a chance to type up my notes, Vi?” said Johnson.
“I’ve done them with my own fair hand,” she told him. “So don’t go looking for mistakes or you’ll get a kick somewhere you don’t want it!”
“I wouldn’t dare!” laughed Dave as he took a sheaf of papers from her. “Seriously, thanks, Vi, you’re an angel. Once we put this job to bed, we’ll have to get out for a meal together somewhere.”
“Yes, definitely. George and I would like that.”
The room, which had gone quiet during Johnson’s conversation with Vi, exploded back into life as he left and closed the door behind him.
It was eleven o’clock before Dave Johnson was finally able to speak privately to Merryweather over a cup of coffee in the superintendent’s office. Johnson gave a full account of the previous day’s activities to his senior officer, who in turn listened intently to every detail of Johnson’s report.
“So, basically, Guv, we’re not really much further forward. Hoskins admitted nothing but his alibi. Even if it were possible for him prove it, still doesn’t necessarily cover the time of the actual assault.”
“Yes, but what do you think yourself, Dave? As you say, Hoskins is still very much in the frame, but did he do it?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Johnson replied. “He’s certainly got a temper, we saw that ourselves. I also got the impression he was lying about his car. Finding that could be important.”
“And, on top of all that, there’s the business of the kiddy-porn,” said Merryweather. “And have a look at this, it came back from Aldermaston first thing today.” He handed Johnson a form that the latter recognised as a forensic science laboratory report. It confirmed that a metal box sent to them for examination had proved positive for traces of both heroin and cocaine, indicating that the container had been used at some point to store a quantity of both these drugs.
“Where did the box come from?” Johnson asked. “I take it this is the box the dog handler discovered buried under a tree during the search of the area around the scene?” asked Johnson.
“That’s the one. Are we supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that a supply of dope was hidden near to the scene of a murder?”
“Well, a number of people use the woods, it’s a bit of a lovers lane. What have Drug Squad got to say?”
“Nothing at the moment; I’m due at headquarters to speak to their governor later today. I’m not sure what to make of it. I somehow can’t see Hoskins as a drug dealer. Not along with his other nefarious activities, but, then again, who knows?”
“Well, we know our victim wasn’t a user,” said Johnson. “The PM report showed no sign of any illegal drugs in her body. It would be odd if she were a supplier and not trying the stuff herself. It’s probable Hoskins is a user though. He had that runny nose that coke sniffers often get.”
“Yes, and talking of the post-mortem,” said Merryweather. “What do you make of this nonsense about Hoskins never having had sex with his wife? The report clearly showed she was very sexually active – and quite recently too.”
“Hoskins is as queer as a nine-bob-note, I’d stake my life on it. I’m inclined to believe him about the sex thing. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t jealous of someone else shagging his missus. Maybe there’s another body somewhere – perhaps a lover we haven’t found yet.”
“I bloody well hope not!” exploded the superintendent. “Look, Dave, we’re getting nowhere fast with the one body we do have. But, just to be sure, I’m sending Jack and Charlie up to the Yard to work with the Vice Squad. We’ll see if we can’t scare up some of Suzanne’s old clients. We’re also doing background checks with both of the Hoskins’ friends and families, but nothing has come up yet.” Merryweather paused and stared hard at his colleague.
“So, what about young Barton then, Dave? Someone’s been shagging Suzanne Hoskins and who’s better placed than the local bobby to pop in from time to time while hubby’s away?”
“I really don’t think so,” replied Johnson carefully. “I’d swear he was straight as a die. Either that or he’s the coolest customer and the best actor I’ve ever come across.”
“But we know he’s a shagger, though, don’t we? I mean, he even denied knowing Anne Wilson. Maybe he’s got himself into another tangle. He could be shagging half the women in Berkshire for all we know.”
“Anne Wilson I don’t know about but, if you mean his being booted off Traffic, he’s actually told me all about that,” said Johnson. “According to him, it was a one-off. His job bike was in for a major service, and he’d been put on lates, driving the Accident Unit – you know, the Transit full of cones that runs up and down the motorway. It’s the most boring job on Traffic and, on top of that, he’d been lumbered with having to take a probationer on attachment out with him. The probationer was a female who, as it happened, was having problems at home. Needless to say, she used Don as a shoulder to cry on.”
“You mean she was a married woman?” interjected Merryweather. “I thought we were talking about some young, innocent girl.”
“Oh no, in fact, those fools in the recruiting department had stretched the rules to get her into the job – desperate to show that the force is into modern thinking, I suppose. She’s actually a couple of years older than Barton, and she was already onto her second husband. No kids though. Anyway, one night, instead of going home at midnight, the two of them went up the West End for a drink. They did the dirty deed in a lay-by on the way back. She goes home but, unfortunately for her, hubby was waiting up.”
“Oh dear!” said Merryweather.
“Exactly. There was a blazing row, and she told him what had happened, threw it in his face, so to speak. Of course, he was on the blower next morning to complain and, before he knew it, Barton was on the nine o’clock bus to Brompton.”
“I’m sorry, Dave,” said Merryweather with a grim smile. “But you’ve just confirmed that our Mr Barton has a liking for attractive, older women. Hardly lets him off the hook, does it? I want you to stay close to him. If Barton is our mystery lover then sooner or later he’ll let something slip – and there’s nobody I trust more than you to be there to spot it, if and when it happens.”
“So, you’ve no idea why she’s run off?” asked Johnson.
Don wasn’t sure why he trusted the older man, but in the past week he had come to view the detective as, if not exactly a friend, then certainly a mentor – someone he could talk to. Consequently, when the two of them met as arranged, he’d told Johnson about Rosemary leaving.
“No, I phoned her mum, who told me she’d be staying with them for a few days. Her mum just said Rosemary was upset and didn’t want to talk to me.” Don spread his hands in despair. “What am I to do, Dave? How am I supposed to sort things out when I don’t even know what the problem is?”
Johnson was aware of the bond of trust that had developed between them, and he was anxious to maintain it. He knew he would have to tell Merryweather about this sooner or later, but he didn�
��t want to give the superintendent even more cause to doubt Don if it could be avoided. He decided to give the young constable a bit of time to find an explanation.
“I’m no marriage counsellor, Don, but I have been in this job a bit longer than you. Take my advice and pull out all the stops to find out why she’s gone – then shift heaven and earth to get her back. Meanwhile, let’s keep this between ourselves. Oh, and I wouldn’t let on to your colleagues if I were you – you know what gossips coppers are.”
“Don’t I bloody just!”
“Right, well try and put your troubles out of your mind for a bit – we’ve got work to do.”
Don knew it was good advice, but he found it hard to concentrate while his mind was full of images of Rosemary. Everything he did reminded him of her.
No, he told himself. I must concentrate on the job.
The two men spent the next hour making up their official pocketbooks, detailing their discussions with Hoskins. They were aided by the shorthand notes Dave had taken at interview. Once complete, they each formally signed, timed, and dated each other’s entries. The shorthand notebook itself was labelled up as an exhibit, before being placed into a clear plastic bag with a tamper-proof seal, ready to be handed to the uniform sergeant acting as Exhibits Officer for the incident.
“So, how’s the investigation going then, Dave?” Don asked. “There’s bugger-all information coming out of the Incident Room.”
“No, and that’s the way we’re going to keep it – at least while Hoskins is on the loose.”
“He’s still a suspect then?”
“He’s our only bloody suspect at the moment, but that could change any minute. There’s a stack of enquiries in progress, mainly in the Met, but we’ve nothing to go on just yet. It’s all these loose ends we don’t like. There’s nothing straightforward about this case at all. Oh, and, by the way, you’re one of the few people who knows about them photos, so keep it dark.”
“Is there anything I could be doing to help?”
Johnson thought for a moment then said, “Actually, there is. We still don’t know who these two little Herberts are.” He fished two photographs out of his briefcase and handed them to Don.
Don examined the pictures and said, “These are the faces of the two boys in the porn shots, aren’t they?”
“Yes, the Photographic department were able to blow them up and cut them out of the originals, you could now show these to your maiden aunt without raising a blush. Hang onto them for a bit, see if you can find out who they are. There’s no need to tell anyone why you’re asking, but you could show them about a bit on your travels. Who knows, someone may recognise them.”
“I did have one idea,” said Don carefully. “Have you considered that they could be apprentice jockeys?”
Johnson leaned forward in his chair. “No, to the best of my knowledge, no-one has even suggested that. Go on.”
“Well, when I first went to Brompton I was shocked to see what looked like twelve-year-old boys brazenly drinking in the local pub. Everyone thought it highly amusing when I challenged them. Some of these guys are in their mid-twenties, but you’d swear they were still at school.”
“And they’re apprentice jockeys?”
“Well, they’re stable lads officially, but all stable lads dream of becoming Lester Piggott one day. They are tiny and very underdeveloped physically. They come from all over the place – a lot come from Ireland.” He let the thought hang in the air for a few seconds. “There’s a few top trainers that have stables in this area. Just a thought.”
“A bloody good thought,” said Johnson. “Leave the stables to us, I’ll get an enquiry team on it – you concentrate on your local parishioners. You’re to phone me every day from now on. I want to know everything that happens, got it?”
“How long for?”
“Until I say so, cocker, until I say so.”
“Right-o, skipper, leave it to me.” Don shook hands with Dave then headed back out to the car park where he’d left his patrol van.
He had an idea he wanted to test.
Chapter Ten
Newbury District
Don drove back to his office and made a few discreet enquiries. He picked up the phone and dialled the Newbury number he’d just been given. The phone was answered after a few rings.
“Hello,” a male voice came on the line.
“Is that Fred Weston, the former constable from Brompton?” Don inquired.
“Who wants to know?” came the guarded reply.
“It’s Don Barton, the constable from Brompton, the present constable from Brompton.”
“Are you indeed? Are you the one the villagers call the Olympic torch?”
“Pardon?”
“In the village, they say you never go out. Nobody’s hardly seen you, except flashing by in that fancy van. You don’t walk anywhere and don’t even get down the pub from what I hear.”
“I’m ex-Traffic.”
Roars of laughter: “Of course! I should have known. You buggers never walk anywhere. Anyway, what do you want from a poor old pensioner like me?”
“I’d like a chat with you if I could, Fred. I need to pick your brains.”
“About that murder, I suppose. I wondered if it’d occur to anyone to speak to me. Problem is, once you’re out of the job, it’s as though you never bloody existed.” He paused. “Okay, mate, that’s not a problem, it’s hardly your fault the job’s being run by amateurs. What sort of time do you want to call round?”
Don had no difficulty in following Fred’s directions to his home, a semi-detached, red brick council house in Thatcham with a small parking lay-by at the front. The front garden was a gardener’s dream, a blaze of colour, very well designed and beautifully maintained. Don walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Fred Weston was as imposing as his garden. A tall, well-built man in his mid-fifties, he was wearing a white open-neck shirt and dark trousers. He answered the door with a broad smile, and his handshake could crush coconuts. According to Don’s information, Fred was a veteran of the Korean War, where he had seen action as a gunner in the Royal Navy. He was universally respected, always placid – but not a man to cross.
“Come in, come in,” boomed Fred. “The missus is out at bingo, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. She would have made you a cup of tea, but I can’t be bothered.” He led the way through to the kitchen where a bottle of whisky and two glasses stood on the table. “Take a pew, young Don, I’ll be mother.” He poured out two generous glasses, then sat facing his visitor.
“You’ve a nice place here, Fred,” said Don. “Is it council?”
“Yes, but I had to fight for it. When you retire from the job, they have to officially kick you out of your police house, did you know that?” Don shook his head. “They take you to court and serve you an eviction notice. It has to be done – it’s the rules. You can’t blame the brass, they have to do it before the council will even look at re-housing you.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Don, genuinely shocked. “I thought it was just automatic that you got a council house after you retired.”
“No, it’s quite humiliating, to be honest, but that’s the way it is. Then, after I got the eviction notice, they tried putting me on the bloody Rostock Road estate! Would you believe it? Can you imagine an ex-copper living there? Every other resident is CRO!” Fred exploded, referring to the acronym for the Criminal Records Office.
“Don’t bear thinking about,” said Don taking a swig of his whisky. “Anyway, I need your help. Do you know these two?” He handed Fred the photos Johnson had given him earlier.
Fred looked long and hard at the pictures and said, “To be honest, Don, I’ve no idea at all who they are. I don’t even recognise any family resemblance.”
“Not to worry, it was worth a try. I was told you knew everybody in the village. Maybe they’re from somewhere else.”
“Well, I have been gone well over a year now, so they could be
newcomers. There is one other person you could check with though.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s that then?”
“Her name’s Emily Pritchard. She lost her husband in Korea, same time I was there. I didn’t know him, but she and I became good friends. She’s retired now, but she used to be the secretary at the local school. She was in post for decades, there’s not a family in the district that she doesn’t know, and she never forgets a thing. I’ve got her address here somewhere.”
“Thanks, I’ll definitely speak to her.”
“Here you go.” Fred wrote an address on the back of an envelope which he handed to Don. “Tell her I sent you and that I said I’ll be up to see her next week some time.”
It was well after nine when Don finally drove back to Brompton. Fred had been a mine of local information, and Don had learnt more in a couple of hours of his company than he had in the whole of the previous six months working in the area. However, the two of them had demolished half the whisky bottle, and Don was praying that he was given no more jobs on the radio before he got home and booked off.
He also had to watch his driving. It was possibly true that some coppers would look after each other when it came to minor offences, but that was by no means certain – and no conceivable enactment of the Old Pals Act could save you if you crashed a job car whilst under the influence!
This time he was lucky. He made it home in one piece, and the whisky actually did him the favour of allowing him to sleep longer and deeper than he had done for days. Next morning, he booked on at ten and set out to meet the formidable sounding Mrs Pritchard.
The lady in question lived in a picture-postcard cottage in a quiet hamlet about eight miles from Brompton. There was something strikingly familiar about the layout of her front garden that caused Don to wonder just how close a friendship had existed between her and Fred Weston. Well, good luck to them, he thought, it’s no-one’s business but their own.
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