Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  “If we could have brought evidence of their criminality, it might have been a different story. But, as it is, we don’t even have the deceased’s husband here to help us. No, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I think we have no choice other than to accept. What say you, Superintendent?”

  Merryweather actually smiled. “I think that’s the best all-round solution, Mr Smith. Tell the judge we’re happy to accept.”

  Don was about to protest once again, but Merryweather silenced him with a warning look.

  “I’ll leave you to get on with your bollockings then.” Smith exited the room as breezily as he’d entered.

  Merryweather turned to Johnson. “Right Dave, I’ll get back to HQ and give the Chief the good news. He’ll be well pleased to get this whole thing finally put to bed without more resources being wasted. As to you, young man,” he turned to Don who was still silently fuming, “you can think yourself lucky to get off so lightly – but I’d watch my step from now on if I were you.”

  With that, and without a backward glance, he strode out, leaving the two men alone in the room.

  “Don, at the end of the day, it’s a clear-up,” said Johnson. “And your compo claim still stands a chance, so look on the bright side. Okay?”

  Of course it wasn’t okay, but Don merely nodded.

  “Right,” Johnson was back to his breezy self. “We may as well go in and hear the sentence.”

  “Court will rise!” called the usher, and everybody stood up. The judge took his seat, and the rest of the room sat down, ready to witness the final act in this drama. The reporters on the press bench opened their notebooks and awaited the verdict with pens poised.

  “The defendant will rise.”

  Churcher stood up in the dock and gripped the rail in front of him. There were tears running down his cheeks.

  Davina had also been busy that morning. She had decided not to call Churcher and had instead chosen to make a statement on his behalf. Don was expecting to be verbally castigated in her remarks but, to his surprise, Davina had given him a friendly smile on entering the courtroom, and her statement had spared him any serious admonishment.

  In fact, she was almost complimentary, describing him as an open and honest officer whose judgement had been clouded due to the severity of his head injury. She offered sympathy for his position but felt it wrong that Alan Churcher should in any way be made to suffer for it.

  She made great play of the fact that Hoskins had failed to return to the UK and re-iterated her client’s contention that it was Hoskins who had struck the fatal blow.

  “My lord, my client acknowledges the fact that he was wrong to assist Hoskins after the event. He strongly and consistently maintains that he had no idea whatsoever that the lady could still be alive when he helped to hide her body. However, having heard the medical evidence, he is now full of remorse and he regrets that he didn’t do more to help her. He wishes the court to know that he had a great deal of affection for Mrs Hoskins and would have never knowingly done anything to harm her.”

  Davina went on to explain that Alan had lost his beloved brother in the course of these events and that his poor widowed mother now had no-one else left in the world to look out for her.

  Davina was a gifted speaker, and the courtroom hung on her every word.

  The judge looked up from his notes and fixed Churcher with a steady and serious look.

  “Mr Churcher,” he began, “you have pleaded guilty to the extremely serious offence of manslaughter, and it is the duty of this court to pass sentence upon you.”

  Churcher shuffled his feet and appeared uncomfortable.

  “The taking of human life is a reprehensible crime and one that in most circumstances calls for the most severe penalties. However,” he continued, “The circumstances of this case are far from usual.”

  The judge paused and gave Davina friendly glance.

  “It is perfectly plain to anyone who had read this case that you are a relatively guileless young man who has fallen prey to corrupting influences. Firstly, there’s your brother. Whereas we may regret his passing, there is little doubt that he was persistently leading you astray. From what I have been led to believe, one could almost say he was manipulating you to his will.”

  At the mention of his brother Churcher’s knuckles went white as he gripped the rail. The prison officers behind him, aware of his potential to explode into violence, tensed themselves ready to restrain him.

  “Then we have the Hoskins family,” the judge was still speaking. “Suzanne Hoskins may not have deserved to die, certainly not the way she did, but she could hardly be called an innocent victim. Together with your brother, this woman subjected you, over a prolonged period, to certain unnatural practices simply to satisfy their lustful urges. To put it bluntly, she was a leech who had made her living exploiting other people’s perversions, and your brother had become her disciple.

  “Now we come to her husband, Steven Hoskins. I am mindful of the fact that he has chosen to remain hidden in the Republic of Ireland rather than attend this court. He has therefore failed to take the opportunity to refute your contention that it was he, and not you or your brother, who struck Mrs Hoskins, causing her death. So, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, I am obliged to accept your version of events.

  “I think it is to your great credit, and an indication of the wisdom of your counsel,” another smile to Davina, “that you have elected to plead guilty to this charge. I, therefore, sentence you to three years imprisonment, which, according to my calculations, should see you released in just over a year from today.

  “I wish you well, Mr Churcher, and on your release, I trust you will enjoy an honest and industrious life and remain a good son to your mother. Take him down.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” Johnson had seen the deflated look on his young colleague’s face. “I came in the car today, and I’ve a spare civvy jacket in the boot that I can lend you. We’ll just have a quick one then you can get back to Rosemary.”

  Don left his police van in the car park, and the two men travelled the few hundred yards from the court to The Jolly Brewers in Johnson’s car. The lunchtime rush was just finishing, so they had no problem locating a free table in the corner of the lounge bar. Through force of habit, they each sat with their back to the wall, thus giving them a clear view of customers entering and leaving.

  No good policeman ever sat with his back to a crowded room.

  Don decided to play safe and asked Johnson to get him a lager shandy as the latter stood up to go to the bar. Johnson got himself a pint of Directors Bitter, and they saluted one another before taking a deep swallow of their drinks.

  “I needed that,” said Don. “My nerves are still shot from yesterday. That woman gave me a right grilling.”

  “Talk of the Devil, here she is now,” said Johnson.

  Don looked up from his beer and nearly fell from his chair with surprise. Sure enough, Davina Cooper was strolling into the bar – and with her, chatting away like an old friend, was the prosecution brief, Leslie Smith. The couple spotted the two policemen in the corner and walked over to them.

  “May we join you?” enquired Smith.

  Don indicated the spare seats at the table and Davina sat down whilst Smith went to the bar to get Davina and him a drink.

  “Just a Saint Clements for me,” Davina called over to him. She wanted to keep a clear head for later, and the mixture of orange juice and bitter lemon was the ideal choice of refreshment.

  “Well, Mr Johnson, we didn’t get the chance to meet properly at the court. I’m Davina, how do you do.”

  “Please, call me Dave.” The two shook hands.

  “And you, Mr Barton, may I call you Don; I believe congratulations are in order?”

  Don looked perplexed. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “I’m told this was your first homicide case. A successful result like today can only be good for your career, don’t you agree,
Dave?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Johnson with a smile as he lifted his glass.

  “A success all round, I’d say,” said Smith returning with the drinks. “Churcher would have been looking at a much stiffer sentence if it weren’t for you, Davina.”

  “To be honest, I was all for carrying on and going for not guilty – especially after Mr Steptoe’s evidence,” said Davina.

  “And mine,” said Don morosely.

  “Nonsense,” said Davina. “You did very well, didn’t he, Leslie?”

  “I think so,” said Smith. “You came across as an honest and impartial witness. As an officer of the court, you are not supposed to take sides. Your evidence was perfectly sound.”

  Don was uncomfortable. “Should we be talking like this?” he asked.

  Davina laughed. “I don’t see why not,” she said. “The case is over, and there are no appeals pending. We are back to being a group of professional colleagues enjoying a quiet drink together. Nothing wrong with that is there!”

  “So, Davina, why did Churcher change his mind and cop a plea?” asked Johnson.

  “We got word that the judge was thinking of a light sentence and the little sod didn’t want to take a chance on losing the case. I mean, he probably knew he was guilty, and three years was like being let off as far as he was concerned.”

  “Well, sorry to spoil the party, but we’re just off,” said Johnson, finishing his drink and indicating Don to do the same. “We’ll leave you two legal eagles to chat.”

  They all stood up, and Davina shook hands with Don. “Must you dash off? Oh well, perhaps next time we’ll be on the same side,” she said. “I do quite a lot of prosecution work these days.”

  Anne Wilson’s written testimony had been accepted by the defence, so she’d had no need to be present at the trial. However, Don had promised to drop in on her on his way home to give her the result.

  He’d chatted with her a few times since that first time he’d gone to her house, and the two of them had formed something of a friendship. Anne was a very private person, but she knew a lot about the local area – and its people. This made her an ideal, but discreet, source of knowledge and information.

  Don was relieved and disappointed in equal measure that Anne had never showed any inclination to take their relationship any further. The fact of the matter was that she came from a different class and lived in a different world to him. It was a world he could never hope to belong in.

  For his part, he knew that if he was caught “over the side” again so soon after the last episode, it would almost certainly cost him his job not to mention breaking Rosemary’s heart.

  No, he decided, this relationship was best kept on a platonic level.

  But that didn’t stop him thinking about her.

  As he pulled through the gate, he was surprised to see a bright red E-Type Jaguar parked on the gravel outside the front door. Don could see It was the much sought after 4.2-litre convertible, and from the number plate he could tell that the car was ten years old. However, the car had been highly polished, and the vehicle gleamed like new.

  Don was still admiring the car when the doorbell was answered by a tall, red-haired man wearing a rugby shirt. The man was about Don’s age, broad-shouldered and, in addition to the shirt, was dressed in ice blue jeans and brown suede Hush Puppy shoes.

  Don disliked him instantly.

  The man looked at Don and lifted his head back as if he were shying away. He stood squarely in the doorway in a gesture of blocking any entrance.

  “Yes?” he said somewhat defensively, Don thought.

  “Er, is Miss Wilson at home?” Don said.

  The man turned his head and shouted back over his shoulder. “Anne, darling, there’s a policeman here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Anne called from somewhere inside the house. “It’ll be about that wretched trial.”

  There was an awkward silence as the two men waited by the door. Finally, Anne, elegantly dressed in a white silk blouse and a pair of figure-hugging jeans, hurried from within to join them. Don saw that she was also wearing black, expensive-looking, high-heeled shoes.

  “Be an angel, Raymond,” she said to the man. “The dogs will have to be fed before we go out. I’ve prepared their food in the kitchen. You couldn’t just pop it out to them for me, could you?”

  “Well…” Raymond didn’t look too impressed.

  “Oh, and you’ll have to stay and supervise,” Anne continued as though she hadn’t noticed his discomfort. “Satan will scoff the lot if you don’t watch him.”

  Raymond looked none too happy but, nevertheless, turned and walked back into the house.

  Anne watched him go and, when she was sure he was out of earshot, looked at Don and smiled.

  “Raymond, I presume?” said Don with a glance into the house.

  Anne gave him a wry smile and looked into the distance over his shoulder.

  “He turned up yesterday,” she said. She looked back at Don. “He says he wants to try again, have another go at it. He says he’s been out of the country and didn’t know Daddy had gone.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She looked at her feet. “I’m not sure,” she said, “but his family and mine have known each other since forever, so I can’t just kick him into touch without giving it a shot.”

  Don refrained from mentioning that if the families had been that close, it was unlikely Raymond hadn’t heard about Daddy’s death.

  Instead, he said, “Right, well I guess that’s the end of our coffee evenings.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Anne looked wistful. “Maybe that’s just as well, though, Don.” She briefly touched his hand with hers. “I think you know what I mean.”

  Don knew exactly what she meant. Part of him wished he didn’t.

  With a conscious effort, Anne brightened up. “Right, I’ll walk you to your van, and you can tell me all about the trial,” she said. “I hope they flogged him before they hanged him!”

  “It’s a good thing they didn’t,” Don laughed. “That little sod would probably have enjoyed it!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brompton Police Office - Six Months Later

  For the fourth time in ten minutes, Don checked through the pile of paperwork that had been sent out to him that morning. He even took a forlorn second look into the large plastic dispatch bag in which it had all arrived. However, that elusive form PER 38, the notification of transfer, was nowhere to be found. Don was starting to get desperate

  Thanks in no small part to a statement submitted by Dave Johnson, Don’s Criminal Injuries Compensation Board (CICB) claim had been approved a couple of months previously. The generous pay-out, together with the savings he and Rosemary had put aside, meant they now had enough money to put down a minimum deposit on a house of their own. However, whilst he remained stationed at Brompton, there was no possibility of this dream becoming a reality.

  Don had also recently made friends with a local estate agent who, as well as having a number of affordable homes on his books, assured Don that he could obtain him a mortgage. However, although it was currently a buyers’ market, and a lot of nice three-bed properties were still on sale at below fifteen thousand pounds, everyone knew another bout of house-price inflation could kick in at any time.

  “This recession isn’t going to last forever, Don,” his friend had told him. “You’ll need to get on that property ladder before prices get jacked up again. Believe me, mate, big rises are just around the corner.”

  In fairness, Don’s divisional commander had been sympathetic to the young officer’s request for a move into Newbury – but he had told Don that the young officer needed to be patient.

  “You and your missus are perfectly safe while Alan Churcher’s locked away,” the chief superintendent had told him. “He’s not exactly a big-time villain with hitmen all over the place.”

  “I know that, sir,” Don had replied, “but you can u
nderstand my position – and why my wife is so concerned, what with being left alone out there as much as she is.”

  “Look, Don, we’ll do our best to get you moved out of the village before that little shit’s back on the streets, but I’m making no promises. I don’t want you to worry, but every officer in the force wants to buy his own house these days – and we’re struggling to keep the rural beats manned, so it won’t be easy.”

  It would be easy enough to move me if I was in the shit and getting kicked off the section for doing something wrong, Don thought to himself, but he wisely refrained from saying so.

  Now, back in his office, Don’s mind was brought back to the present by a series of sharp raps on his front door. Putting the paperwork to one side, he got up to see who his visitor might be.

  He instantly recognised the two women waiting on his doorstep.

  “Good morning, Constable Barton,” said Emily Pritchard, flourishing the walking stick she’d used to knock on the door. “Mrs Churcher and I would like a word with you, if it’s convenient.”

  “Yes, of course, come in.” Don ushered the two women into his office and arranged the furniture so that they could sit facing him across his desk.

  Mrs Churcher, a short, painfully thin woman in her mid-sixties, seemed ill-at-ease. She was wearing an old-fashioned headscarf and an ancient woollen overcoat. Her eyes kept darting around in a manner that reminded Don of a small, frightened bird; and she was nervously clutching an old brown leather school satchel that was covered in grime of some sort.

  “So, how can I help you ladies?”

  As self-confident as always, Emily appointed herself spokesperson for the small deputation. “Mrs Churcher and I have been friends for a number of years, since we worked together at the school.”

  “That’s right,” said the other woman in a voice as small and thin as the rest of her. “Mrs Pritchard was very good to me whenever the boys were naughty.”

  Don wondered briefly if Mrs Churcher realised how much Emily had enjoyed watching the boys get caned by the headmaster – but he decided not to mention it.