Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  Overcome with guilt and shame, Don looked up at the face of the wife he had nearly lost, the woman whose love he had so casually taken for granted – then callously betrayed. She smiled down at him.

  This time, when the tears came, they didn’t stop.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Awaiting Trial

  With Alan Churcher charged with murder and remanded in custody, the Incident Room became basically a file preparation unit. Enquiries were still coming in and had to be actioned (there were always loose ends to be tidied up), but active investigation of the murder had all but ceased.

  There was a mountain of painstakingly tedious paperwork for the officers, typists, and civilian workers to get through. The task appeared never-ending.

  However, slowly but surely, a file of evidence came together.

  The file was ultimately sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions who authorised proceedings to continue and for the case to be brought to trial.

  The committal proceedings were held at Newbury Magistrates Court where the examining justices had all the statements read out to them and all the physical, or “real,” evidence produced and logged. The magistrates agreed that there was a case to be answered, and the matter was committed for trial at the Crown Court in Reading.

  While all this was taking place, Don continued to make a good recovery from his injuries. A week after his reconciliation with Rosemary, he was discharged from hospital to convalesce at home. The football season had started again in August, and he was soon fit enough to manage a couple of visits to Elm Park with his father-in-law to see Reading play.

  “The Royals,” as they were known to their fans, were both men’s favourite team and were, once again, setting out in their attempt to gain promotion from the Third Division.

  Rosemary had settled back into work and seemed content. However, both she and Don knew that for the first time, there was something missing in their relationship. Something had been lost and, if they couldn’t recover it, things would never be the same again between them. It wasn’t that they weren’t both making the effort, but, for the present, true happiness remained a distant memory.

  Don recovered in a remarkably short period of time, and he resumed duties as soon as he was able.

  He had been back to work for just over a fortnight when he received his witness notice to attend the trial of Alan Churcher. In the same dispatch, there was a similar notice to be personally served on one of the witnesses: Miss Anne Wilson, the landowner who had found Suzanne’s body.

  The following day, Thursday, Don was working the four pm to midnight shift. It was a dull grey day with the threat of rain, and temperatures were more suited to April than September. Shortly after seven in the evening, he drove his van to Miss Wilson’s country residence. He parked on the gravel driveway of the large house and, having alighted from the vehicle, he walked up to the front door and pulled on the chain of the old-fashioned doorbell.

  There was no reply to his ring, so Don walked to the side of the building to see if there were any lights showing at the rear. The house was a large two-story red-brick pile, late Victorian and set in just over half an acre of ground. The gravel drive ran all around the outside of the premises, and Don noticed that the gardens were mostly given over to grass with a few trees. The overall impression, enhanced by the dull autumn twilight, was one of neglect.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” a female voice shouted.

  Don hadn’t heard the front door opening, but when he turned around, he saw that Miss Wilson had emerged from the house and was now standing on the driveway glaring at him. She was holding a double-barrelled shotgun across her body.

  “Oh, it’s you, the cowboy policeman,” she said. She broke the gun and removed two cartridges.

  “Don’t worry,” she continued. “It’s only dust shot, stings like mad but it wouldn’t kill you. I have to be careful, being here on my own. You never know who’s creeping round.”

  “I’ve got to give you this,” said Don, trying to ignore the shotgun. He took the witness notice out of his summons pocket and approached her with it in his hand. She turned her back and walked into the house before placing the gun against a convenient wall. Don followed her into the hallway.

  Anne switched on the light and studied the document Don handed her.

  Don couldn’t help but notice that she was very attractive. Dark-haired, slim but with a good figure, she was wearing a black silk blouse, a fashionably short pencil-thin skirt, and dark, low-heeled shoes. A thoroughly modern, smart young woman.

  “It says I have to attend the court and give evidence, but there’s no date on it,” she said. “The policeman who took my statement said I wouldn’t have to attend the trial.”

  “No, it’s very unlikely that you’ll be called in person, but until the defence formally accepts service of your statement we have to assume you’ll be required to testify. As for the date, it hasn’t been set yet. Before we can do that, I need to know if there are any days that need to be avoided, holidays and such.”

  “I’ll need to check my diary; you’d better come in and sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just going to have some.”

  Don was in no rush that evening, and the control room knew where he was if they needed him. He also felt that the incident with the horse had got him off to a bad start with this woman, and he wanted to improve their relationship. Beside which, as a member of the local gentry, she could prove to be a useful contact to have in the area.

  “Yes, thank you, I’d love a cup.”

  She led him into a large reception room where there were two sofas positioned opposite one another separated by a wooden, highly polished coffee table. Don sat on one of the sofas while Anne disappeared off to the kitchen to prepare the drinks.

  Don sat back and took the opportunity to look around him. The walls were oak-panelled and gave the room something of a forbidding appearance. The leaded windows, which provided a view to the front of the house, were barred shut, and there was an imposing stone fireplace set into the opposite wall. The log fire had been set but not lit.

  It had obviously been some years since the building had received any serious attention. Electric lights had been fitted at some time around the walls. However, despite being switched on, they were of low wattage and did little to alleviate the overall gloomy aspect.

  Anne returned carrying a metal tray containing a coffee pot, cream, a sugar bowl and a small plate of biscuits. She set the tray down on the table in front of Don. She then produced two coasters onto which she placed the cups and saucers.

  “Cream and sugar?” she said, pouring the coffee. It was the first time Don had seen her smile.

  As she leant across him, Don got a whiff of perfume. It was elegant and expensive – and he was sure she hadn’t been wearing it earlier when she’d invited him in.

  Having poured the coffee, Anne walked over to a writing desk at the far end of the room and returned carrying a large red, leather-bound diary. She sat down on the end of the sofa and switched on a reading lamp that was conveniently situated on a small table beside her.

  She donned a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses, crossed her long, shapely legs, and slowly turned the pages of the diary.

  “How far ahead should I be looking?” she asked.

  “Well, certainly three months, six to be on the safe side.”

  “Hmm, this is no good, I’m hopeless at recording appointments. I’ll need to speak to Mr Baines, my estate manager. He knows better than I do where I’m going to be at any time.” She snapped the diary shut.

  “It must be a very large estate to warrant employing a manager,” said Don.

  “Sixteen hundred acres, or thereabouts,” she said. “There are six tenant farmers and an assortment of other small businesses – and cottages, of course.”

  “And Bluebell Wood?”

  Anne sighed. “Yes, and Bluebell Wood. My father bought that bit of land intending to start a logging business. If
you go deep enough into the woods, you’ll find the footings for a sawmill. My dad was dead keen to get that going, but it all fell by the wayside when he got ill.”

  “What are the woods used for now?” asked Don.

  Anne gave a disgusted little grunt and said, “A lovers’ lane mostly. The public are supposed to stick to the footpaths and bridleways, but they rarely do. I’m constantly chasing trespassers away.”

  “So, it’s not common land then? People shouldn’t be shooting on it, for example?”

  “If you’re referring to the two Churcher brothers, they’re actually okay being there. They’ve been taking rabbits on our land for years. I know they were a couple of tearaways, but for some reason, Dad liked them. ‘Loveable rogues’ he called them.”

  “And you, what did you think of them?”

  “They were creepy, made my flesh crawl.” She shuddered at the memory. “They were always leering at me. I wouldn’t like to imagine what they were thinking, the dirty little sods. Ugh! Disgusting!”

  “Yes, an odd pair, that’s for sure. Hopefully, you won’t have to worry about them again. With Frank dead and Alan in prison, I mean.”

  “Yes, I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I can’t say that I’ll miss them.”

  Anne’s frostiness seemed to have melted somewhat, so Don decided to press ahead and carry on chatting.

  “It must have come as a shock for you, finding Mrs Hoskins body in the woods that day?”

  “Well, the dogs found it actually. They stood and barked but wouldn’t go near it. Poor woman, I know she was a prostitute, but nobody deserves that to happen to them.” She paused for a moment. “I hope they throw the book at that Alan Churcher. Lock him away, I say.”

  “Tell me, Miss Wilson, do you manage the whole estate from here?”

  “In the old days, everything was run from right here in the house, but some years ago we converted an old, rather large, summer house into an office. It’s down at the far end of the rear lawn. It has its own vehicle access to the road which helps a lot.”

  “A summer house. Is it big enough?”

  “It does get a bit cramped sometimes, but it’s better than having people traipsing all over this place.”

  “So, it’s just you and Mr Baines?”

  “Well, it used to be my father and I. Mum died when I was twelve, then Daddy developed Alzheimer’s – just as I was finishing at university. It took six years to kill him. By the end, he was so bad he was in need of constant care. I basically grew into the role of running the estate.”

  “How long has your father been gone?” asked Don.

  “Just over a year now.”

  “So, you’re living here all by yourself?”

  “Well, there’s Bruno and Satan, my two German shepherds. I have to keep them locked up out the back – ever since they bit the postman. Your predecessor, Mr Weston, said it was either keep them chained or have them put down.”

  Trust Fred to come up with a solution that didn’t involve paperwork, thought Don. The story also brought Emily Pritchard to his mind. Another lady living alone in the countryside. Don wondered if Anne would become just like her as the years progressed.

  “I presume running the estate takes a lot of time and effort?”

  “You mean for a young woman on her own?” The frostiness was returning.

  “I didn’t say that,” Don protested.

  “You didn’t need to. I could ask you what a smart young constable like Don Barton is doing working as a village bobby.”

  Don could feel his cheeks burning and prayed that Anne didn’t notice.

  “Touché,” he said with a grin. “You got me there.”

  “Well, not that it’s any of your business, but I was engaged to be married once,” Anne told him. “It was while I was away at uni. He said he loved me, but obviously not quite enough. Not enough to want to help me look after my father that is. He said I should have Daddy put in a nursing home.”

  “Not something you were prepared to consider, I presume?”

  “No, I wasn’t! This was Daddy’s home. He didn’t send me away when Mummy died, and I wasn’t going to abandon him when he needed me.” She was beginning to get upset and wiped a tear from her eye as she spoke.

  “Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Don was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  Anne took a couple of seconds to regain her composure.

  “Sorry about that,” she said finally. “I still haven’t got over it all. Anyway, we had no idea how long Dad would need nursing, and Raymond, that was my fiancée’s name, wasn’t ready to deal with all the issues.”

  “So, off he went,” she added bitterly. “Good riddance.”

  At least I know where the low opinion of men stems from, thought Don.

  “Right, let me make that call,” she said briskly and stood up. She walked into the hall where Don had noticed an old-fashioned black Bakelite telephone on a side table at the foot of the stairs.

  “Hello, Mrs Baines? It’s Anne…Yes, fine, thank you …Is Ed there? I need him to check his diary for me…Oh, is he? Right … No, don’t do that, it’s not that urgent. I’ll speak to him tomorrow… Thanks, Mrs Baines, bye for now.”

  “He’s out at a darts match,” she said, returning to the reception room. “He won’t be home until late. I’ll have to get those dates for you tomorrow if that’s okay?”

  “No problem at all. I can telephone for them if you like.”

  She paused, then looked at him. “It would be nicer if you could call round, if you have the time that is. It’s just a change to have someone my own age group to talk to. Someone from outside the world of agriculture.”

  She saw him hesitate.

  “Are you married, Mr Barton?”

  “Call me Don, please. Yes, I’m married to Rosemary.”

  Was that a flicker of disappointment he saw cross her face?

  “Well, you can tell Rosemary not to worry. I promise not to eat you. Men are so definitely off the menu for me these days!”

  Don laughed. “I’ll be round about the same time tomorrow if that’s okay?”

  “I’ll have the coffee ready.”

  “Until then, Miss Wilson. Goodbye.” He stood up to leave.

  “Oh, Don…”

  “Yes?”

  “You can call me Anne.”

  “Goodbye, Anne.”

  It took Don a lot of effort to concentrate on his driving as he left the house. To be sure, Anne Wilson was a very attractive woman, but why had he felt himself so irresistibly drawn to her? Could he actually be in danger of falling for someone he had only met twice, and then only briefly?

  To make things worse, he felt sure that the feeling of attraction was mutual. There was that perfume for one thing. She had definitely not been wearing it when he first arrived at the house. Then there was her insistence that he return in person for those dates.

  So why was he even thinking the unthinkable? Was he actually considering betraying Rosemary’s fragile trust? The trust he’d recently fought so hard to regain.

  The mental turmoil continued as he got home and booked off duty.

  No, I don’t need to go there, he said to himself. That’s what telephones are for.

  However, on the other hand, surely there was no harm in going back and simply chatting, was there? After all, nothing was going to happen, was it?

  So, was he going to tell Rosemary about the encounter?

  No, he didn’t think so.

  After all, why should he? There was no need if nothing was going to happen, was there?

  “You’re quiet tonight, love. What’s wrong?” Rosemary’s question roused him from his contemplation.

  “Er, nothing. Just thinking about the job.”

  “Tell me,” she said, sliding beside him on the sofa.

  “I’d rather kiss you.”

  She giggled. “What’s stopping you?”

  It had just started to rain the following evenin
g, and the little police van crunched onto the gravel. Anne was waiting by the open front door as Don climbed from the vehicle. She was wearing a silver-coloured silk dressing gown and open-toed slippers.

  “I was hoping you’d come,” she smiled. “I was just going to take a shower. Would you care to join me?”

  She looked at him and laughed.

  “Your face! I don’t mean join me in the shower, you idiot. I meant join me for coffee. I can take a shower later. After you’ve gone,” she added pointedly.

  Don wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved.

  Chapter Nineteen

  An Early Visitor

  It was Rosemary who heard the doorbell chiming. She had always been a lighter sleeper than Don, and the slightest sound was apt to wake her. She looked at the clock on the bedside table and saw it was five-thirty in the morning.

  She gave Don a dig in the ribs, but he just grunted and rolled over, dead to the world.

  “Bloody man!” she said to herself as she slipped out of bed. She went out of the room to a window on the landing that overlooked the front door.

  The woman who had rung the bell looked up as she noticed the curtain twitch and beckoned Rosemary to come down and let her in.

  A couple of minutes later, Rosemary, none too gently, shook her husband awake.

  “Don, wake up,” she said.

  Don was coming to very slowly and somewhat reluctantly.

  “What is it, what’s the matter?” He was still more than half asleep, and his voice was slurred as he drifted between two worlds.

  “There’s a woman downstairs,” his wife said, somewhat more sharply than she intended. “She has a boy with her. I think he’s a bit simple.”

  Don was finally waking up. “What do you mean, simple?” he said.

  “You know, not all there. A bit slow.”

  “Where are they then?” Don was now fully awake but a bit grumpy.

  “I’ve put them in the office. They’re waiting for you there, so get up will you!”