by Frank Smith
‘Well, well, well. What do we have here?’ Arundel said heavily, chuckling at his own play on words. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s be having you.’
‘I—I can’t m-move,’ the boy said through chattering teeth. ‘I’ll fall.’
‘Serves you bloody right,’ Arundel told him. ‘A good dunking down there might do you a lot of good. Come on, now. Give us your hand.’
‘I c-c-can’t…’
‘What’s that you’ve got in your pocket, then?’ said the second policeman. ‘Here, let’s have that up here.’ He knelt down and stretched to reach the thin leather case protruding from the pocket, but just as his fingers touched it the boy moved, and the case came free. The two policemen watched helplessly as it fell. They heard the hollow splash as it hit the water far below.
Arundel looked at his colleague and slowly shook his head. ‘You’d better hope you’re not the one they send down after it,’ he said grimly. ‘You should have left the bloody thing alone.’
‘It could’ve dropped while we were getting him out,’ his colleague said defensively.
‘Well, it has bloody dropped, now, hasn’t it? Come on, let’s get him out before he goes down as well.’
It wasn’t an easy task. The boy was petrified, but between them they hauled him out, and he sat shivering on the floor.
‘There must have been something very valuable in that case for you to try to hang on to it,’ Arundel said as they led the boy out. ‘What was it, lad?’
The boy shook his head, and Arundel sighed. ‘We’re going to find out sooner or later,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be charged with obstruction as well as thieving, do you? Somebody’s going to have to go down that well, you know.’ He shot a glance at his colleague, who glared back defiantly.
‘Coins,’ the boy said.
‘What was that? Coins? What sort of coins?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just coins, like in a set. Gold, I think. Least, they looked like gold.’
* * *
‘SOMEBODY must know where this bloke, Foster, is,’ said the sergeant into the phone. ‘I can’t just have this lorry load brought in as evidence and leave the man with hardly any furniture, now can I? Kidderminster, that’s what the witness—what’s his name? Archer?—said. No, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be away. Photographer. Freelance. We need him out here now to identify … Yes, a van. Dark blue with something about photography on the side. Fairly new. No, I don’t know. Get on to Records, for God’s sake!’
The sergeant paused. ‘And we’ll need a diver,’ he said. ‘No, not a driver, a diver. We need him to recover some of the loot that was dropped down a well. Deep? How the hell would I know how deep it is? Just get one out here along with some sort of portable winch to lower him down. It’s in a confined area, so make sure it isn’t too big. Got that? Good.’
* * *
THE SERGEANT and three constables clustered round as the man in the wet suit began his descent. They peered over the edge, but it was almost impossible to see anything because the diver himself blocked their view.
‘Hold it. I’m at the water now,’ the man operating the winch heard in his headphones. ‘Steady, now. Lower away. Slowly.’
Beneath the surface of the water, the diver shone a powerful beam toward the bottom of the well. Good. It wasn’t all that deep after all. He could see the case. It was open and he could see two coins glinting in the light of his lamp, but there were more than that according to the boy.
He touched bottom, but allowed himself a bit more slack before he told the man above to stop. He picked up the coins and put them in his pouch, then knelt and began to search for others. Strange. No silt. Nothing but jagged stones, and big ones at that.
Carefully, he began to move the stones aside, and found more coins. He moved more stones, but if there were more coins they must have slipped deeper into the fissures between the stones. He wished he knew exactly how many coins there were in the collection. If he had to shift this lot …
‘Jesus Christ!’
The operator pressed the headphones closer to his head. ‘Mick?’ he enquired anxiously. ‘You all right?’
‘Haul me up. Haul me up, dammit. Now!’ The words came out of the headphones like bullets out of a gun.
‘What’s wrong, Mick?’ Even as he asked the question, the operator threw the winch into reverse and saw the rope begin to tighten as it took the strain. ‘What is it, Mick? You in trouble?’
‘Just get me out of this bloody hole,’ he heard the diver say, and from then on concentrated on bringing his man safely to the top.
The diver’s head appeared; he grasped the edge of the well and heaved himself out on to the floor. The worried operator sank down on his haunches beside him. ‘Are you all right, Mick?’ he asked again. ‘What happened down there?’
The diver pulled off his mask and passed a hand across his face. ‘There’s a body down there,’ he said shakily. ‘Gave me a hell of a turn.’ He shuddered and took a deep breath. ‘It’s got no face,’ he said. ‘No face at all.’
* * *
PETER FOSTER was tired and hungry. He had gone without lunch in order to finish the job and get back home before dark, but even so it was after six before he was able to get away. Fish and chips would be nice. He savoured the thought—then realized it was Monday. The chip shop was closed on Monday. Damn! He supposed he could turn off into Ludlow, but that would just take more time. It would have to be the pub in Clunbridge, then, because he didn’t fancy setting to and making his own dinner when he got home. He glanced at the time. Not long now.
The police car seemed to come out of nowhere. Suddenly, it was there behind him, light flashing, and it wasn’t going to pass. He felt a tremor in the pit of his stomach as he checked his speed. Oh, no! Just over. Muttering imprecations beneath his breath, he touched his brakes and slowed. Why the hell didn’t they go after that black Cortina that had passed him like a rocket a few miles back?
He stopped the van and rolled the window down. He watched in the mirror as the policeman got out of the car and walked along the side of the van.
‘Evening, sir. This your van, is it?’
Might as well be polite. He might get off with a warning if he was lucky. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Yes, this is my van. Why? Is there something wrong?’
‘And your name is…?’
‘Foster. Peter Foster. I live not far from here.’
‘May I see your driving licence, sir?’
Foster dug into his wallet and handed the man his licence. The policeman studied it, then handed it back. ‘On your way home, are you, sir?’
Foster nodded. ‘Yes.’ He might still get away with it.
‘Right,’ said the policeman. ‘If you would be so good as to continue directly to your home, we will follow along behind you, Mr Foster.’
‘Follow along behind?’ Alarm bells were ringing madly somewhere in the back of Foster’s head. He took a deep breath. ‘Look here—’ he looked for some indication of rank on the man’s uniform, but could not see one ‘—officer. Do you mind telling me what is going on?’
‘All in good time, sir,’ the man said stonily. ‘Now, sir, if you will…’
‘But I was going to stop in at the pub in Clunbridge for a bite to eat,’ Foster protested. ‘I’ve had a long day, no lunch, and I’m starving. So, if you will kindly tell me just what it is I’m supposed to have done…’
‘I’m afraid I must insist, sir,’ the policeman said. ‘Unless, of course, you would rather leave the van here and come with us in the car?’
Foster felt a prickle of sweat form along his upper lip, and there was a cold, hard knot in his belly. ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘But I intend to make a complaint about this. I see no reason to…’
‘As you see fit, sir,’ the man said. ‘Shall we be on our way, then, sir?’ Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back to the car.
* * *
PETER FOSTER saw the lights around the cottage as he ca
me over the hill, and the fear that had been building inside him ever since the police had stopped him grew stronger. They couldn’t have found out; no one else knew. No, it had to be something else. Perhaps there had been a fire. But then, why hadn’t the policeman said so back there?
The driveway was completely blocked, so he had no option but to pull the van up as best he could on the grass verge behind a lorry. What was a lorry doing there, for God’s sake? The lights of the police car behind him went out, and both driver and observer got out and came toward him.
‘This way, sir,’ said the man who had spoken to him on the road as Foster got out and locked the door behind him. The policeman placed a hand on Foster’s arm.
Foster shook it off. ‘I know the way into my own house without your help,’ he said angrily. He made his way past several cars to the door of the cottage. Men seemed to be everywhere, and his heart sank. Conscious of the two policemen behind him, he sucked in a deep, silent breath before opening the door. The door leading to the sitting-room was open and there was someone standing in the doorway.
The policemen crowded in behind him as if they thought he might turn and run. ‘Mr Foster, sir,’ one of them announced.
‘Sir’ was a tall, well-built man of about Foster’s own age. Strong face, thought Foster. The appraisal was automatic. Faces; portraits; that was a large part of Foster’s business. But it was a face that gave nothing away. Foster mentally braced himself. He’d have to watch himself with this man.
‘Thank you for escorting Mr Foster in, Constable,’ the man said. ‘I’ll take it from here.’ He turned his attention to Peter Foster. ‘Sorry if you have been inconvenienced, sir,’ he said, ‘but we thought it best to have you return home as soon as possible, under the circumstances. My name is Paget. Detective Chief Inspector Paget.’
He moved aside, and Foster saw for the first time the state of the living-room.
‘Good God!’ He stood there in the doorway looking at the room in disbelief. Most of the furniture was gone, and it looked as if the contents of cupboards and drawers had been tipped out on the floor.
‘I’m afraid you were the victim of a break-and-enter here earlier today,’ Paget explained. ‘Fortunately, it was foiled by a very alert gentleman who happened to be passing. He informed the police, and they arrived before the thieves had a chance to leave. Everything is quite safe, I assure you. Once it has all been itemized, and you have identified it, we will have it brought back in.’
Foster continued to stare at the room, unable to take it all in. But the one thought that kept pounding away inside his head was that he had to get this man out of here. Dimly, he became conscious that Paget was speaking to him again.
‘The man who phoned us was a Wilfred Archer,’ he heard him say. ‘He is a friend of yours, I understand.’
‘Wilf? Yes, I … Good God! My equipment. All the stuff in the dark-room. It’s worth thousands!’
‘Quite safe, sir, I assure you,’ said Paget soothingly. Paget indicated one of the remaining straight-backed chairs that had been either overlooked or deemed to be of little value to the thieves. ‘Please sit down, Mr Foster.’
Peter Foster sank into a chair, still trying to take everything in. Thank God it hadn’t been any worse. But the last thing he needed right now were policemen tramping about the place. And those men outside: what were they doing out there? Best to ask the question. It would seem odd if he didn’t.
‘There were men outside,’ he ventured. ‘I saw them as I came in. What, exactly, are they doing out there?’
Paget stood looking down at him. ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Yes, I was coming to that, Mr Foster. Because that is why I am here. You see, while trying to escape, one of the suspects took refuge in your well, and he dropped this.’ Paget reached behind him and picked up a clear plastic bag. ‘Do you recognize it?’
Foster opened his mouth and shut it again. He felt chilled to the bone as he stared at the red leather case. What the hell was the idiot doing in the well? he thought wildly. Of all the places to hide …
He realized Paget was waiting for a reply. ‘Yes,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper. He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘Yes, it’s my gold sovereign collection. There should be twenty-two gold sovereigns in it. It—it’s quite valuable. It was my father’s.’
Paget nodded. ‘Then the rest must still be down there,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘No doubt some slipped down between the stones, but I’m sure they will be found when all the stones have been brought up.’
Peter Foster forced himself to control his breathing. ‘Brought up?’ he repeated. He didn’t know what else to say.
‘Yes.’ Paget was watching him closely. ‘You see, while retrieving the coins, we found a body in your well, Mr Foster. What can you tell me about that?’
THREE
PETER FOSTER stared at Paget with unbelieving eyes. He felt as if he were about to faint. What to say? Oh, God! ‘You mean someone fell down the well?’ he said. ‘How…? I mean, that’s not possible. I don’t see how…’ Steady. Don’t overdo it.
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ said Paget quietly. ‘The person was killed, then dumped in the well. Heavy stones were dropped in afterwards in an attempt to cover the body.
Surprise. Shock; that was it. ‘Good God! But I was…’ Foster stopped and looked down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. ‘But I was putting stones down the well a couple of weeks ago,’ he said in a hushed voice. He looked up at Paget. ‘I’ve been tearing down the old sheep pen at the back of the cottage, and I didn’t know what to do with the stones, so I decided to fill up the old well. It hasn’t been used in years. It was spring-fed, but the underground springs shifted some years ago, and the well seldom has more than a few feet of water in it now.’ He lifted his face to stare at Paget. ‘Do you mean to tell me that the body was down there when I was dropping stones down the well?’
He buried his face in his hands. ‘That’s horrible,’ he whispered.
‘Would you bring a glass of water for Mr Foster?’ Paget said, and it was only then that Foster realized that a constable must have been standing there behind him all the time. A shiver ran through his frame as he waved a feeble hand. ‘There’s brandy in the kitchen,’ he said weakly. ‘Bottom right-hand cupboard.’
Paget hesitated, then nodded to the constable. ‘A small one,’ he said.
While they waited for the constable to return, Paget studied the man in the chair, mentally filing the information away. Clothing, casual but of good quality; corduroy jacket, dark green shirt open at the neck, baggy trousers, and slip-on shoes. General appearance: untidy, even unkempt. But then, it was the end of the day. The man was tired and in need of a shave. Slim, fine-boned, but his hands were broad, capable, workman-like hands. His face, beneath jet black hair and a darkening five-o’clock shadow that extended almost to his collar, was lean and pale. His eyes were dark, deep-set and watchful. His mouth, below a short, straight nose, was small, almost cherubic in the fullness of the lips. But there was a stubborn set to his chin.
An interesting face, Paget concluded, but not one he would trust. As for Foster’s age, Paget judged him to be somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties.
The uniformed constable appeared with a bottle of brandy in one hand, and a mug in the other. ‘I couldn’t find a glass,’ he said as Paget poured a careful measure into the mug and handed it to Foster.
‘Thank you.’ Foster took the mug in both hands and gulped the liquid down. Paget, meanwhile, capped the bottle and set it on the floor, then sat down himself.
Peter Foster had something of a reputation as a photographer, Paget recalled. He remembered seeing an article about him in the Star, recently. Commercial work, for the most part, but his stuff was beginning to show up in the more fashionable magazines, and his recent association with Lisa Remington, the fashion model, had done him no harm at all.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Paget, and received a grudging nod from Foster. ‘Then perha
ps you won’t mind answering a few questions?’
Foster remained silent, his mind racing ahead, anticipating the questions he knew must come. Careful, he warned himself. They don’t know anything. The trick is not to let them rattle you. Keep calm; just answer the questions. Don’t, whatever you do, elaborate.
‘Can you tell me how the body came to be in your well, sir?’
Foster almost laughed aloud. What a question. If only the man knew. Paget might have been asking about the weather. And so polite! He looked down at the mug in his hands and shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said in a bewildered voice.
Paget looked sceptical. ‘But you do live here, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘Surely you must have some idea?’
Foster shook his head in a dazed way again, then looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t. I can’t think how…’ He frowned. ‘How long has it been down there? I mean, it must have been there before I began to fill the well with stones.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s a nasty thought, I must say.’
Paget ignored the question. ‘Who else lives here?’ he asked.
‘Just Lisa—Lisa Remington. She’s m-my girlfriend. But she’s away at the moment. She’s a model, you know. You’ve probably seen pictures of her.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Paget. ‘You say she is away. When did she leave, exactly?’
Foster frowned and passed a hand across his face. ‘I—I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but I can’t seem to think straight. Two—three weeks ago.’
‘And prior to that one or both of you were here all the time?’
‘Yes. Well, most of the time. We both come and go quite a bit.’
‘And when did you first start pulling down the sheep pen—and filling the well with stones?’
Foster appeared to give that some thought. ‘It would be about the same time,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right. I remember thinking I would try to have it all done by the time Lisa got back.’ He lifted his hands. ‘Unfortunately, I made a mess of my hands and I had to give it a rest. Doesn’t do to have rough hands in my business, not when you’re arranging things like bridal veils and delicate materials.’