Emily was in her early sixties and appeared to be as fit as a flea. She was a handsome woman and gave the appearance of having been quite a beauty in her youth. Her manner was brisk and business-like, and she spoke with a cultured, but neutral, accent that, at the time, was known as BBC English.
“Well, Mr Barton, I’ve been expecting you. Mr Weston phoned me this morning and said you’d be popping in to see me.”
“Yes, he tells me that you were a big help to him during his time as village constable in Brompton.”
“My goodness, yes,” she laughed. “Between us, I think we were responsible for half the male teenage population of the area getting thrashed in Mr Headley’s office. He was the headmaster, you know.”
Don laughed. “Yes, Fred told me about your arrangement. It sounded quite effective.”
“Of course, Mr Headley’s dead now, poor man, but in his day he was a force to be reckoned with. You should have seen some of those tough young thugs reduced to blubbering wrecks on the business end of Mr Headley’s cane.”
Emily smiled and sighed as she remembered seeing the sorry looking boys, bending over in their school trousers. Trousers that were stretched tight over upturned bottoms. Don felt that there was something more to Emily than met the eye. There’s something quite wicked about this nice old lady, he thought.
“Those were good days,” she said, confirming Don’s thoughts. “I always felt Mr Weston had it right – not prosecuting the boys I mean. Six of the best then get on with your life, without a criminal record to hold you back.”
“In the village, apparently they call me the Olympic Torch because I never go out, but PC Weston was the Gurkha,” said Don.
“Really? How so?”
“He never took prisoners.”
“I didn’t know that.” Mrs Pritchard obviously didn’t appreciate the humour. “They’re a strange lot in that village, always have been. Anyway, constable, how may I help you?”
Don showed her the photos. “I’m trying to identify these two lads. I was hoping you might recognise them.”
Emily studied the pictures carefully before saying, “No, I’m quite sure I don’t know these boys.”
“So, you don’t think they’re local?”
“Positive. I have been retired for three years, but, even so, I would have known them when they were younger. If they were local lads, local to Brompton that is, I would certainly know them. As it is, I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
Don was disappointed but said: “Never mind, Mrs Pritchard, thanks for taking the time to look at them. However, if you do think of anything that may help me to identify them, I would be grateful if you could give me a ring at the office. I presume you know the number?”
“Of course I do. Like I say, I’m sorry I can’t be more help. But, while you’re here, I may have some other information you may find interesting. Have you had any reports of poachers recently?”
Don thought for a few moments. Poaching was an ever-present crime in the countryside with modern poachers stealing pheasants by the truckload or sometimes taking deer by clubbing them to death having first caught them in the beam of a powerful lamp. But Don could think of no recent complaints of this nature.
“Why do you ask?” he inquired.
“It’s just that I saw two men skulking about Bluebell Wood with a rifle at four in the morning the day before that poor woman was killed.”
Don nearly fell off his chair. “Are you sure of the time and date?” he said.
“Oh yes, quite sure. I’d been sitting up with an old friend who’s dying of cancer, and it was definitely around four a.m. that I was driving home. I just got a glimpse of them ducking into the woods as I drove along the lane.”
“And you think it was a rifle they had, not a shotgun?”
“It didn’t look like a shotgun; it had a long, single barrel. I suppose it could have been an air rifle, but it seemed a bit too big to be one those things.”
“Have you any idea who these men were?”
“Oh, I know exactly who they were!” she exclaimed. “I’d know the Churcher brothers anywhere. Two of the nastiest little hooligans I ever had the misfortune to meet. They used to cause Mr Weston no end of trouble – and no matter how many times Mr Headley caned them, they always found new mischief to get into.”
“Are you willing to make a statement?”
“Of course,” she said. “Anything to help put those two little horrors where they belong.”
Chapter Eleven
Hampstead Norreys Section
Don was suffering a crisis of indecision. He had returned to his office and knew he should update the murder team with his latest information, but the Incident Room had advised him that DS Johnson wasn’t due in until later that day. Don didn’t want to speak to anyone else on the enquiry about what he’s heard, but he was equally anxious to follow up the lead Mrs Pritchard had given him.
Well, he reasoned, the information wasn’t directly connected with the murder, was it? As well as that, it WAS part of his normal duty to follow up a poaching complaint. If he didn’t talk about the murder and just focussed on the armed trespass issue, surely nobody could complain about that? Damn it, it was worth a punt, and who knew where it might lead?
Mrs Pritchard had told Don that she believed the Churcher brothers owned a van and ran a small odd job business from their mother’s cottage on one of the large estates in the area. The house had been a tied cottage when their father had been alive, and his widow had been allowed to stay on and take a tenancy when her husband was killed in a farming accident. To the best of Mrs Pritchard’s knowledge, the mother still worked in the school canteen and so was unlikely to be at home during the day.
This suited Don very well. If he could get hold of the young men on their own, he stood a far better chance of discovering something of importance than if an over-protective mother were present. He made up his mind and headed off to meet these notorious brothers.
The cottage itself was quite small, but it was set in a half-acre of land that afforded the luxury of a kitchen garden at the rear and a large gravel parking area to the side. Beyond the parking area was an outhouse that was too big to call a shed but not large enough to be termed a barn. There was a fairly recent model Ford Transit van parked on the gravel when Don arrived with a young man looking in through the open doors at the rear.
Don parked on the road and walked across the gravel. “Good morning, are you Frank?” he asked.
The man turned around and looked at Don. “No, he’s indoors. What do you want him for?”
“You must be Alan then?”
The man nodded briefly. Don noticed that he was quite smartly dressed in flared jeans, black shoes, and a colourful shirt with a large collar. Nothing at all like a farm labourer or workman.
“It’s actually both of you I want to talk to. I’ve had a report of poaching in the area.”
“Poaching! Are you serious? Us! Never in the world. It’s them bloody travellers you want to talk to if it’s poachers you’re after. Bloody stupid! Who says we’ve been poaching?”
“You were seen with a gun down by Bluebell Wood in the early hours of the morning last Monday week.”
“Who saw us?”
“It’s obvious who, innit?” came a voice from the house. Don turned around to see an equally well-dressed young man standing in the doorway, the two men were not identical, but they could easily have passed as twins.
“I told you he’d spotted us,” the newcomer continued.
“Who, that copper?” said Alan. “He was too busy pumping up that bird in the back of his motor to be bothering with us.”
“So, you admit you were there?” said Don. He was desperate to hear more about this copper in the car but didn’t want to show his interest.
“Yeah, but we weren’t poaching. We were after rabbits, and that’s common land there, so we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
Don wondered what Anne Wilson would have to say about th
at, but he let it pass.
“Rabbiting at four in the morning?” he said.
“It’s the best time this time of year – just before the sun comes up.”
“Did you have a gun with you?”
“Yes, and we have a licence for it an’ all,” said Frank.
“A shotgun certificate?” asked Don.
“We don’t have any bullet guns, so we don’t need anything else.”
“I was told it was a rifle you had with you.”
Frank laughed. “No, it does look like one, though. Hang on, I’ll fetch it.”
He ducked back into the house and emerged a moment later carrying the weapon in question.
“It’s a single barrel, four-ten long, full choke with a bolt action.” Frank demonstrated the working of the bolt, and Don could see he was telling the truth.
“It’s better than a twelve bore,” said Alan. “Quieter, cheaper cartridges, and a much better killing gun for bunnies – not much cop for birds though. But that doesn’t matter because we don’t shoot birds because we’re not poachers!”
“Did you speak to the man in the car?” asked Don.
The two young men laughed.
“He was at it so hard I thought the suspension on that old Triumph Herald of his was going to collapse.”
“If you didn’t speak to him, how do you know he was a copper?”
“Because he drinks up the Green Lion. The landlord is an old mate of his, or so we’re told.”
“What about the woman with him?”
“Could have been anyone,” said Frank.
“Did you ever know a lady called Suzanne Hoskins?”
“The one what got murdered?” said Alan.
“We did a couple of small jobs for her husband a while ago, but we never really met her,” added Frank.
“Could it have been her in the car?” asked Don
The men shrugged.
“S’pose so.”
“Could have been anyone.”
“Did you see anyone else in the woods?” asked Don. “Or anything I might be interested in?”
The young men shook their heads.
“Right, well, no going back to Bluebell Wood until I tell you it’s okay. I’ll be checking with the landowner, so you better be telling the truth about being allowed to shoot there.”
The men just looked at him. Don debated with himself whether or not he should take a statement from these two, then he thought better of it. It would be for the best to speak to Johnson first, he decided. He nodded to the brothers then turned and walked away.
He was home and off duty at eight pm when Dave Johnson called him.
“Hiya, Don, they tell me you were after me earlier. Sorry, I wasn’t in. I had some urgent jobs to do at home, then the dentist. So, what have you got for me?”
“It’s about this mysterious lover of Suzanne Hoskins – has it occurred to anyone that it could be a police officer?”
Johnson went quiet for a moment. “No, Don, I don’t think anyone has come up with that idea,” he lied. “Why, what have you got to tell me?”
“Quite a lot actually, Dave. Pin your ears back and listen to this.”
Merryweather was livid. He was beside himself with rage. He sat at his desk and glowered at Johnson who was standing nervously in front of him, twiddling his fingers.
“I don’t believe you, Dave. I really fucking don’t!”
“Sorry, Guv.”
“Sorry? Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? First, you neglect to inform me that Barton’s been over the side again.”
“We don’t actually know that,” interjected Johnson.
“Don’t we? Don’t we really? I suppose his missus has fucked off because he forgot to bring the washing in! Don’t be so bloody soft. Of course he’s been at it again, but then on top of that, you now tell me that he’s trampled his muddy great size twelves right across the middle of a high-level Drugs Squad investigation. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him for me to stop this sort of thing happening.”
“Yeah, but in fairness, Boss, I didn’t know about this drugs op either.”
“No, Dave, you didn’t, but if proper procedure had been followed, Barton would have spoken to you with this lead he’d got. Then you would have spoken to me before acting on it. At that point in time, I would have had a word in your shell-like, and Barton could have been reined in. Come on, man, you’ve been around long enough to know that there’s a reason for the procedures. You’re the last person I thought I’d have to explain that to.”
“What can I say, Guv? I really am sorry. What is this drugs connection anyway?”
“HQ Drug Squad have been running an operation for the past six months, and the Churcher brothers have appeared on their radar several times. The main junk comes into the country through Bristol then some of it gets distributed to small-time dealers like the Churchers at all-night parties in Swindon. They use their odd-job business as a cover for flogging the stuff to the middle-class twats who, thanks to the fucking motorway, now infest the villages of our green and pleasant land.”
“Well, nothing Barton’s done should compromise that, surely? I mean if he doesn’t know anything, how he can blow the op?”
“Well, we know these little shits picked up a load of drugs Sunday night, and we presume they hid them in the woods.”
“That’s why they’d have been creeping around there with a gun?”
“Exactly, but now know that they’re of interest to the police they will certainly wind their necks in – and any hope we had of them re-visiting that hidey-hole of theirs is long gone.”
“Okay, I get it. But what about this Inspector Mollington?”
“I suppose it could have been him shagging Mrs Hoskins,” Merryweather conceded. “But we’ve no direct proof of it. Obviously, we’ll follow it up, but I’ll do it personally. Mollington is a Bramshill flyer, and nobody’d going to thank us for fucking up a promising career like his on some wild goose chase.”
“I’ll make sure Barton keeps his mouth shut.”
“You do that. Oh, and, Dave.”
“Yes, Guv?”
“We’ve been friends a long time; I don’t want that to change. You’ve let me down this time, but what gets said in this room stays in this room. Consider yourself bollocked, and that’s an end to it.”
“Thanks, Guv. But, by the way, I’ve just had a thought.”
“Go on.”
“Well, if the brothers picked up the drugs from Swindon and hid them in Bluebell Wood Sunday night, they must have had a damn good reason to go back and retrieve them so soon afterwards.”
“Obviously, they were worried we’d find them.”
“But if that’s the case they must have known we were going to be searching there. Why would they think that if they didn’t know something about the murder? If they didn’t kill Mrs Hoskins themselves, they must have at least known her body was there.”
Merryweather sat back and thought for a minute. “You know we’ll make a detective of you yet, Johnson. All we’ve got to do now is prove it without letting them know we’re onto their drugs dealings.”
Chapter Twelve
Divisional Headquarters
Division’s area commander, Chief Superintendent Mike Boxwell, looked at the collection of files sitting on the desk in front of him and sighed. It was just after 6 pm, most of his staff had already gone home, but Boxwell had decided to stay on and work his way through this small pile of annual appraisal reports that had accumulated over the past few weeks.
It was a requirement of his post that, once a year, he (or his deputy) spend a few minutes discussing career development with each of the officers under his command. Following this interview, the commander would append a few words of wisdom, as well as his signature, to the bottom of each report which went off to HQ for any necessary action and filing.
It was a task that Boxwell took seriously, he knew how important these appraisals were to the men and women w
ho worked under him and he always fully briefed himself on what had been written by their direct supervisors.
Boxwell himself, as an RAF sergeant, had flown Mosquitoes during the war and, in the mid-forties, he had gone on to become a police officer, initially with Oxford City Police until it merged, following amalgamation, in 1968, with the newly formed Thames Valley Constabulary. Most of his service had been as a detective on CID, working at all levels. Now, as the head of a rural division, he had risen through her ranks as far as he was going, and his career was drawing towards its close.
There was a knock at the door, and an old acquaintance, Phil Merryweather, entered.
“Hello, Phil.” Boxwell leaned back in his seat and smiled. “Come in, I was wondering when you’d get around to seeing me.”
“Sorry, mate, I’ve been meaning to call in, but you know what it’s like. You’ve done enough of these jobs yourself as I recall.”
“So, how’s it going?” asked Boxwell as he walked over and opened the top drawer of a four-drawer filing cabinet.
“It’s a bloody mess, to be honest. It should be a simple domestic murder, but there are all sorts of complications.”
“Really?” Boxwell turned around with a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses in his hand. He placed the glasses on the top of the cabinet and poured a generous measure into each before returning the bottle to its hiding place.
“Mud in your eye, Phil.” The two men drank the toast and put their half-empty glasses back on the desk.
“I only know the stuff DI Thompson has been bringing to the morning briefings, so what’s the full picture?”
“As you know, the victim, Mrs Suzanne Hoskins, was found dead at the side of the road, and her husband did a runner to Ireland. Straightforward so far, but now the water gets muddy. Mr Hoskins has spoken to us and swears he last saw his wife when she drove him to the airport at which time she was alive and well.”
“And you think he might be telling the truth?”
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