by CA Sole
I stared at him with sympathy and sighed; what a position to be put in. What I would have done if faced with the same situation I couldn’t think, but ‘an eye for an eye’ has a lot of merit in my vision.
Back in Santiago with decent internet in the hotel, I picked up an email from Juliet. I hesitated to read it at first, petrified that she had written to tell me it was all over. No, she would never do it that way, she would never take the easy way out of something so important, not through a letter. She would get in her car when I was back, drive for four and a half hours and confront me face to face before driving back again. Comforted by that thought, I opened the mail with curiosity.
The tone was matter of fact. It started and ended without any term of endearment, not even my name (could she not bring herself to say it?). It was closed with a simple ‘Juliet’ as opposed to her usual ‘Jules’. She said she had traced Tony Wiggins' roots and discovered he was Sandra’s half brother; she was born Parsons from the first father and he, Wiggins, from the second.
Tony was the half brother, the little boy who was frequently beaten by his father and who cried outside the door when his big sister was being raped. She had tried to protect him, no wonder he was loyal to her, why he would commit crimes for her, it wasn’t only about money. Doubtless he would be in for a share of what she could get out of her scheming though, which gave him considerable incentive.
The early morning sun climbed above the snow capped Andean peaks to the east and tried to force its way through the net curtains of my room. I opened them to let the natural warmth combat the air conditioning. The view of the mountains was, as always, calming, their solid immobility a symbol of order above the chaotic world that humans have created for themselves.
At around eight thirty, just before I had to check out of the hotel, I called Giles using FaceTime. His image on the phone was good enough for me to see how drawn and worried he looked, but he seemed in good health. Although I had only been away a week on this trip, I was looking forward to moving on with our plan. We needed to end this situation soon, it was telling on him, and I was concerned over what Sandra’s next unexpected move would be.
First, I told him the relationship between Tony and Sandra. He said he wasn’t surprised, it explained a lot, then changed the subject, ‘This situation is now beyond a joke. They’ve been through my things, mostly files in the office at home. It’s not obvious, just a few little things out of place or not how I left them.’
‘Sandra?’ I asked, ‘What would she be looking for, the memory card, I suppose?’
‘It must be her, probably aided and abetted by that bloody man, Tony; no one else would take the trouble to hide the search, surely? Insurance policies, my will perhaps. The card’s in the safe at work.’
‘Did you change it? The will, I mean,’ I asked as I checked around the room for items that had escaped my packing.
‘Done,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I did it freehand yesterday afternoon, signed it with my solicitor’s tea lady and a client as witnesses and left it with him to formalise.’ He paused for a moment, then added, ‘We had another serious row last night, and I told her that I was thinking of taking her out of my will. I didn’t say I’d already done it, though.’ Then with regret, ‘Should have kept my stupid mouth shut, I tend to say things I don’t want to when I get heated.’
‘We all do that,’ I agreed. ‘Sandra will react to this in some way, be careful.’ I changed the subject, ‘What about your computer?’
‘There’s nothing on the computer that’s relevant to my will; only my insurance policies and fortunately she doesn’t have the password.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I’ve never given it to her. I suppose some IT wiz could crack it easily enough, though. I left everything to you and Juliet. I’ve no one else to leave it to, and we go back a long way.’
‘Giles, please! That’s very good of you, but you’re far too generous, I don’t need the money or the house. Thank you, my friend. I can’t speak for Jules, but please leave my share to Mrs Potter and Henry or the RSPCA, RNLI or something, but not me. I’m going to put myself on the line on this, so it’s got to be clean, and if I’m a beneficiary then it puts me in a very difficult position, Jules too.’
‘I’ve already made provision for my servants, and I haven’t the time to change it again, not right now anyway.’
The connecting flight from Madrid landed at Heathrow at nine fifty on Monday morning having broken through a layer of scattered cloud. While waiting for the bags to reach the carousel, I switched on my phone. Immediately, the message tone sounded. It was the usual blurb from the phone company welcoming me back to the UK, which was quite unnecessary as I certainly wasn’t interested in welcoming them. The bags were slow to arrive and by the time I had collected mine and walked out into the arrivals hall it was ten forty five. The limousine drivers were clutching capped paper mugs of coffee and holding up cards or iPads with big bold names. People waiting for their friends or family to arrive eagerly scanned the steady stream of passengers coming through the doors. There would be no one to meet me, so I fought my way through the throng as quickly as possible. The message tone sounded again. It was from Giles which was unusual as he hated texting. He said it was impersonal and fiddly to do and thoroughly irritating; a view that I echoed, which is why we talked more than typed.
‘Something’s up,’ it read, ‘meet me at the field entrance off the lane as soon as you can. Give notice this wretched way. G.’ Typically, he had laboured through the keys to express himself in English rather than textish. Odd, I thought, but he must be busy and couldn’t talk. And what was he doing at home on a Monday? And why had he used the phone we agreed was insecure? I replied with an estimate for the lane.
Preoccupation with the matter meant that I failed to pay much attention to the crowd around me, but a woman seated at a table as I passed Costa Coffee caught my eye, probably because her lipstick was bright red and glossy and stood out, reminiscent of that picture of Marilyn Monroe pouting. She was blonde, wearing dark glasses and head down playing with her mobile phone; in fact she looked a bit like Marilyn.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lane leading towards Giles’ house was not the only way of reaching it from the motorway, but it was the prettiest and carried far less traffic than the B road did. Beyond the flat ground where the lane left the main road, less than half a mile away, a wooded ridge rose steeply out of the valley. From the top, where the lane disappeared down the other side, you could see for at least ten miles to the south. Roe deer were sometimes on the lane itself or watching you from the adjacent fields. Rabbits scurried for cover in places and, sadly, there were often badgers that had been too adventurous at night lying dead to the side. It was too narrow for cars to pass, but had passing places into which folk would tuck themselves to allow the other vehicle by. Fields lay behind the hedges that bordered the lane and several had entrance gates off it, but I knew which one Giles meant. It was wider than the rest and the steel gate was set further back, allowing probably three cars to park there, certainly two.
All the way from Heathrow I had felt uneasy for no discernible reason, but I put it behind me as I turned into the lane. It would be good to see Giles again and put our heads together to make some progress.
It had been raining the night before, there were puddles in the road and, off the tar, the dirt to the side of the passing places was churned to a soft mud from the impact of tyres. The early morning cloud layer was breaking up, and the sun shone through periodically. Another car appeared ahead and I pulled over to let it by. Her head barely above the steering wheel, the blue rinsed driver was fiercely attentive to the clearance she had and seemed reluctant to get too close to her hedge, so I folded my mirror to create more space and she squeezed past, flapped her hand once as a wave and gave me a smile before quickly returning her intense concentration to navigating her car.
The nose of Giles' Aston Martin was visible, sticking out
from the gate some time before I reached it. He wasn’t in the driver’s seat. He must have walked into the field, I thought, as I parked my Land Rover next to it. The clatter of its diesel would bring him back soon enough. I peered into the Aston - nothing, so I went through the gate and into the field which held broad beans so tall I couldn’t see over them. Rough grass formed a border about two yards wide along the left side of the field between the hedge and the plants. In my light travelling shoes it was an ankle twisting exercise. There was no sign of him, so I went back to try the side to the right of the gate. What the hell was he doing? Where had he gone? A massive tractor roared along the lane. I could just see the top of the cab and the driver’s head over the hedge. It was followed by another car which was invisible to me. Trudging on over the rough ground, I saw a gap where the beans had been flattened just ahead. I was almost upon it when I saw the highly polished brown shoes.
He lay on his back, his head facing to the right. I rushed forward and knelt beside him, put a finger to his neck and found a pulse. It was weak and rapid, but it was there. He was alive! I saw so much: his face pale and waxy, his chest rising and falling as I stabbed 999 into my phone, my hand sticky with blood which was oozing out of his head and pooling in the soft ground. I ran back to the car, grabbed the first aid kit and yanked out a bandage and dressing. ‘Ambulance and Police, a man’s been attacked,’ I shouted on the run, then more calmly gave directions.
Carefully lifting his head, I tried to stem the flow and protect the wound. His scalp had parted, and through the mess of bloodied hair broken bone was evident, like a cracked egg shell. I turned him into the recovery position, on his side and with the injury off the ground. I couldn’t think what else to do, he was breathing for himself and his heart was beating, albeit weakly. His hands were cold. I didn’t have a blanket, but there was a jacket in my vehicle. I ran to get it. Where was that bloody ambulance? It was taking an incredibly long time. How far did they have to come? I looked at my watch, only about five minutes had passed since I’d arrived - Calm down, Forbes!
He didn’t seem to have any other wounds than that to his head. I sat on the soggy ground next to him, squashing a few more beans in the process, and held his hand in a gesture of support that did more for me than for him. It seemed an age before the noise of the siren drifted across from the main road. ‘Stick with me Giles,’ I kept saying, ‘Fight to stay with me, they’re nearly here. They won’t be long.’ He couldn’t hear me, of course, but it made me more comfortable knowing that I was trying to do something, even if it was pathetically useless. Up to then I had had no time to think but, during the wait, while agonising over my friend, I realised that this attack was actually an attempt to murder him.
Juliet. I needed her support. Her strength must have been buried in my subconscious for years. I had always solved my own problems without the help of another, but this was bigger and more traumatic to me than anything else I’d experienced, and I had to share it with her. She would be even more angry if I didn’t ring, in spite of her telling me not to, especially about Giles. But, as I keyed in her number, the ambulance arrived at the gate and there wasn’t time to talk. I stood up so they could see me and shouted. The men in green came running and dumped their cases on the ground. Standing back out of the way, I called Juliet, but only got the answering service. I left a message that something dreadful had happened and asked her to call back as soon as she could. Then I felt useless with nothing to do except wait for the police. Another siren whooped close by and wound down. Two uniformed officers came over, looked at the medics busy with Giles and then at me. ‘Good morning, sir. What happened here?’
Before I could answer, a paramedic turned to the police and said, ‘He needs a helicopter, NOW!’ and started talking on his radio. One of the policemen ran back to his car to organise things. They would have to find a clear landing area and keep any onlookers away. I knew the field on the other side of the lane was only grazing, and there was a gate directly opposite, so that would do and said so. More uniformed police arrived. There were suddenly a lot of people about and activity intensified.
‘Can we start with your name and address, please.’ The constable was trying to do his job in the midst of the excitement and preparation for a helicopter. There wasn’t much point in telling him a long story, so I kept it to the bit which started when Giles had sent me a message on my arrival.
It looked as if they were ready to move him, as one medic went back to the ambulance and fetched a scoop stretcher. I left the constable in mid sentence and offered to help them, but they asked me nicely to move away, they could manage. ‘We’ll wait for the helicopter,’ he said, ‘It shouldn’t be too long.’ Two other men appeared behind me, but I ignored them. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ was a pretty stupid question at that stage, but it came out of worry not sense. ‘Where will they take him?’
‘The doctors will do their best, sir,’ one said, as he arranged the scoop around my friend. ‘He has a depressed and open fracture of the skull which needs surgery, urgently. They’ll most probably take him to Oxford. The John Radcliffe Hospital has a major trauma centre, but if not then it’ll be Southampton.’
‘May we have a word, sir? Mr Alastair Forbes is that correct?’ A tall thin man was regarding me with dark brown eyes. He was dressed smartly in a grey suit with a navy tie decorated with little red diamond shaped icons. He held up a warrant card, and behind him the other man waved his above his boss’s shoulder. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Carter and this is Detective Sergeant Vale. If you would just confirm your name and address for starters.’ As I gave them I realised I would probably be seeing quite a lot of these two. DS Vale had the complexion of someone in his mid thirties, but already his light brown hair was thinning and receding. His suit was shiny and ill fitting on his tall, solid frame. It was tight across the shoulders, but hung sloppily, giving the impression that he was ordered to be smart, but he didn’t know how, it wasn’t in his nature. He had his note book out and carefully wrote down my details. Once again, I went through what had happened that morning, leaving out nothing that I could remember.
‘What I’ve just told you is a fraction of the story behind this, and I would like to relate the whole thing and tell you who I think is responsible.’
‘We’d very much like to hear that, sir,’ said Vale pleasantly, tapping his pencil on the cover of the notebook, ‘but we’d be more comfortable down at the station.’ He turned to lead the way back to the gate, but I wanted to remain close to Giles for as long as I could and stayed put.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ve been travelling for nearly 24 hours, I’m very tired and I feel very dirty and I’m covered in my friend’s blood. However, all I need is a shower and a change of clothes and then I’ll be happy to help.’
‘Er, I think it would be best if we took possession of your clothes,’ said Carter. ‘You don’t live far away, we’ll follow you home, then you can give us your clothes immediately and we can conduct an initial interview there.’
I looked at him for a moment, my suspicions rising, then I relaxed. Of course, I would be their first suspect, I was at the scene and I was covered in blood. There was nothing for me to fear though, as I would not have tried to murder Giles in a million years. ‘I want to wait for the helicopter,’ I said, ‘I want to see him go.’
The two detectives glanced at each other. Carter said, ‘Time is important, Mr Forbes, so if we can start talking while we wait, that’ll help.’
‘I’ll start by telling you who’s who,’ I replied. ‘That’s better than introducing them as they feature. First there’s Sandra, his wife.’ I explained who everyone in the saga was, their relationship to each other and what they did, as well as managing to give a brief personal opinion of their characters before we heard the helicopter approaching. Back at the gate, we could see into the opposite field.
The pilot circled the area once, inspecting the landing ground before making a careful approach. The fuselage disappea
red behind the hedge, but the rotors were still visible and the roar of the engines was hardly dimmed. I wasn’t really watching from a professional perspective, but could not help analysing it. The landing was quick, he wouldn’t have wanted to dwell in the hover, being worried about damage from the debris thrown up by the downwash. It was mostly grass though which quickly fell out of sight. The engines whined down to silence and two men in flight suits rushed over to Giles. They checked the work of the ambulance medics and made sure he was ready to be transported. He was carried, strapped to a stretcher, through the gate, out of my sight and into the next field. It wasn’t long before the familiar sound of a turbine engine starting wound up from a low pitch through a higher whine and into a constant roar, covering the noise of the second engine’s start. We watched as the machine rose amid another smattering of grass and quickly left the scene. When it turned north, I knew it was going to be Oxford.
I took a deep breath, feeling utterly flat. I was tired from travelling anyway and probably had been running on adrenalin while everything was going on, but now it had subsided and the shock was beginning to set in; I could feel it. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. Shall we go?’
The lane was now full of vehicles and more people were coming into the field, SOCOs I supposed, Scene Of Crime Officers in their protective overalls. Carter climbed up into the passenger seat of the Defender. They obviously weren’t going to let me loose on my own. I glanced at him as I looked left for traffic. He had a distinct roman nose and a pale face topped by thick, mouse coloured hair formed in a widow’s peak. He appeared to be about forty five, older than I was anyway. He caught me looking at him before I turned away, which was embarrassing, my being in a disadvantageous position.
There were several vehicles pulled well into the passing places along the route so getting out of the lane back onto the main road didn’t take too long. At home, I greeted Tina who jumped up enthusiastically and sniffed the blood on my shirt. Janet, the cleaning lady, was upstairs judging by the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Vale drove the police car in behind mine, and when he was inside I offered them coffee. ‘I’ll get Janet to make it,’ I said and waved a hand towards the stairs.