by David Beard
‘That’s fine, Mr. Harvey.’
‘Is there a toilet here, gentlemen?’
After what seemed an age, the old man emerged from the toilet and bid his farewells. Tiley, feeling much better disposed towards him now that he realised his information was little short of a bombshell, followed him slowly to the door and helped him out. When he returned, Smalacombe was bubbling.
‘This really is good stuff, Clive. It all bloody adds up doesn’t it?’
‘Does it? I don’t follow.’
‘Well, if that was Hempson on the bridge…’
‘But we don’t know that do we. I mean everyone who is anyone has a four by four around here.’
‘Just listen for a moment. If it was Hempson, then I reckon it sounds like the sort of activity where he stopped to pick someone up: someone who had found the body and stolen the rings.’
‘Oh come on! That’s too pat.’
‘Why? You’re driving along; see someone you know in the middle of the night. What would you do?’
‘Granted! But, who the hell would be wandering around at three ‘o clock on a bloody Sunday morning?’
‘I’ve got a good idea, Clive.’
‘Yes, so have I,’ Clive answered, his eyes flashing when it suddenly dawned on him.
‘I think we should give Mr. Hempson a visit so he can tell us himself. And this time we’ll see him here in the interview room not the bloody pub car park,’ Smalacombe announced with satisfaction.
‘I’ve been told to close it down.’ Tiley said quietly. ‘Super told me to do it yesterday.’
Smalacombe looked at him in askance. ‘What, the pub?’
‘No. Here.’
‘So, where the fuck do I fit in? That’s bloody marvellous that is. If she wants to save money, the least she could have done was told me.’
‘I think she did tell you, but excuse me for saying so; she felt you were dragging your heels. That’s why she told me.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘I was going to tell you earlier, but we got waylaid. They’ll still be working here for the rest of tomorrow. I wasn’t going to clear it out until Monday at the earliest,’ Tiley paused to see the reaction. ‘In any event I wasn’t going to do anything until I discussed it with you,’ he added rather sheepishly. ‘I’m pretty sure she knew that too. That’s why I’ve mentioned it now.’
‘Well, pardon me for looking like an arsehole; I’m only the bloody chief inspector around here.’
‘I’ve played it by the book, Dexter.’
‘You’re right. Not your fault. Time to make a phone call I think.’
Smalacombe rang Hempson on his mobile and arranged to meet him at five. He advised him to bring a brief with him if he felt he needed one. As it turned out, Hempson was confident enough of his own position to come alone. He breezed in and greeted the detectives as long standing acquaintances. It was an action that did not go unnoticed by the chief inspector. People who adopt defensive positions were always the ones with something to hide. On the other hand, Hempson was no fool and he may have decided that a show of nonchalance was likely to reduce the detectives’ suspicions. Smalacombe had seen it all over the years. Forever on your guard was his motto.
It was Tiley who opened the questioning. ‘Sometime ago we asked you to account for your movements on the night Anna Turle died.’ Hempson nodded. ‘You told us you were home all evening.’ Hempson nodded again. ‘Can I ask, in the light of you having time to consider these things more carefully, whether you would wish to revise that statement?’
‘Why would I?’
‘It’s because, in a nutshell, Mr. Hempson, I don’t believe a word of it.’
Both detectives looked at him straight in the eyes and he tried to avoid their gaze. It bolstered Tiley’s confidence and he was sure that old man Harvey was right; it was Hempson he saw.
Hempson took a deep breath. ‘All right, I was out. I have a lady friend.’ The two looked at him with an air of boredom. ‘Come on for goodness sake, I am single now, or had you forgotten, my wife has left me.’ He paused, but Smalacombe and Tiley remained unmoved. ‘She lives just up the road from here.’
‘Well, if you give us her name we can see if she will…’
‘Oh, don’t bring her into it.’ He looked around him and then managed to stare back at Smalacombe. ‘She’s married, it wouldn’t go down too well if…’
‘Even bastards like us can be discreet, sir. Why go home so late at night? Surely it would have been sensible to stay for breakfast,’ Smalacombe pointed out.
Hempson was unnerved by Smalacombe’s assuredness. He seemed so confident, even about the timing. ‘Her husband was on the way back; he phoned from Heathrow to say he had got an earlier flight.’
‘Bit inconvenient!’ Hempson refused to rise to the deliberately abrasive comment and sat, tight lipped.
‘But, you wouldn’t go this way back to Ashburton would you? I mean, you would cut across over Challacombe surely.’ Smalacombe’s knowledge of the area was unexpected and it cut off Hempson’s escape route by saying that that was the way he drove. Hempson realised the police had solid information about him and he needed to be careful. His answer was plausible.
‘I always go this way, around Two Bridges; it’s a better road and it’s actually quicker. Anyway, I live just off the A384 as you well know.’
Tiley picked up the plot again. ‘So, you did pass by the bridge on the night of the murder?’ The question hit Hempson hard; the trap had been set to good effect. It was a crushing comment. In the first instance he assumed that if he played along with the police and didn’t contradict their assumptions, he would be able to control the interview but the significance of admitting the details of his journey had not registered with him until it was too late. He was between a rock and a hard place. He shifted uneasily in his chair and beads of sweat appeared on the line on his forehead that his cap had furrowed after years of constant use.
‘Yes, but…’
‘No yes buts, Mr. Hempson, this is very serious business. You passed by the scene of a murder of someone you knew and you chose not to tell us about it.’
‘Look, I didn’t murder Anna Turle. How could I have known she was dead at that time?’
‘We’re not saying you did. We know who murdered Anna Turle but we are still looking for Rebecca Winsom’s assailant, or had that escaped your attention?’
‘I didn’t murder her either.’
‘We might be asking you to prove that, sir. What would you want with Anna Turle’s earring? Keepsake perhaps?’
‘I thought in English law the onus of proof lay with the prosecution? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Hempson answered defiantly.
‘Well, if you tell us your entire story of that night, then perhaps we can explain it to you.’ Tiley advised.
‘Why did you stop at the bridge?’ Smalacombe suddenly asked in a quiet matter of fact voice, deliberately not raising his head but this time looking down at the desk as he continued to write notes. Tiley stared at Hempson intently who in turn stared at the top of Smalacombe’s head in the hope he would eventually have eye contact. It took sometime for him to answer as he carefully weighed up his options as to how best to do so without incriminating himself.
‘You don’t have to answer, Mr. Hempson. If you would prefer to wait and seek professional advice, we understand,’ Smalacombe said in conciliatory tones whilst still studying his notebook. Hempson shook his head; he had decided to carry on.
‘I saw Eli. He was by the bridge. I thought at first that he was drunk. Well, it’s not that unusual. He works for me sometimes. You know, bit of this, bit of that.’
‘What was he doing there at that time of night?’
‘Do I have to spell it out?’
‘Not really, but it would help for the record.’
‘He was poaching, as usual. Trout maybe, as he was by the river. It’s pretty routine stuff for him.’
‘Are they not your trout then?’<
br />
‘No, it’s all Duchy’s rights. We just turn a blind eye. It’s how he earns his living. Well, he’s not hurting anyone.’ He paused as if he had arrived at the end of a paragraph and then began again. ‘He never takes his pick-up when he is out at night. It’s a dead give away to see it parked up somewhere and the law are pretty suspicious of him anyway.’
‘So, you gave him a lift home.’
‘Yes.’ He paused for moment and then added, ‘but he wasn’t drunk, he was just bloody terrified, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Of course, I soon found out the following morning. As a matter of fact I thought it was him that did it, but I didn’t tell anyone because it seemed too extreme. Anyway, call it not co-operating with police enquiries if you like, but I couldn’t have shopped him. I don’t think he is capable of such a thing. I mean, he’s a bit of rogue, but he’s no murderer.’
Smalacombe passed over a small piece of paper and his pen. ‘If you would be kind enough to write down your lady friend’s name and address, sir...?’ Hempson snatched the pen in a petulant manner and wrote. He made no effort to pass back the note and dropped the pen at its side.
‘Is that it then? Can I go now?’
‘Certainly, Mr Hempson but I wouldn’t advise you to nip off to Spain or somewhere. We’ll probably need to see you again and next time I would advise you to bring some professional support with you.’
CHAPTER 13
Saturday July 8th
The traffic going west was heavy. It was Saturday morning in early July and change-over day as the tourist industry liked to describe it. As it was still early in the season, there were less cars going east, carrying families wending their way home taking them back to their suburban tribulations and to work on Monday.
Smalacombe and Tiley had planned to get to the Dog and Rabbit at about twelve thirty. As they left the A38 and began the steady climb up to the moors, they were sure they had got it just about right. ‘I’ll show you where Grimspound is,’ Smalacombe said, as the hedgerows disappeared and they came to open moorland.
‘Oh great,’ said Tiley with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever. Instead he returned to the matters in hand. ‘What’s your take on Hempson’s story?’ he asked.
‘Well, Eli doesn’t have a mobile, so I doubt he planned the pick up.’
‘Unless they already knew the body was there,’ Tiley interjected, ‘and planned it previously.’
‘I’m not sure that works. What would have been the motive to take all of the rings? If they wanted to blackmail Winsom then the earring was sufficient.’
‘Eli took the rest for some pocket money.’
‘Yes, but it still doesn’t work. If you wanted to blackmail someone, you’d do it all yourself. I mean, it’s not something you’d ask the butler to do for you is it? Are you suggesting they were in it together?’
‘Possible! Can you think of a better idea?’
‘I think the meeting was pure coincidence,’ Smalacombe said with a finality that concluded the conversation. ‘In any case, the one thing Eli doesn’t have is a London accent.’
They drove along in silence. Smalacombe’s last comment so confused them neither could continue with the train of thought. As they turned a hairpin in the road Smalacombe slowed even more and pulled in to the side and stopped. He wound down his window and pointed up to his right. Tiley’s eyes followed the infant stream up to the high moor and could see what appeared to be an ancient field with granite boulders for walls, nestling in a broad valley between two tors on either side. It was covered in dark ling that was preparing itself to burst into an undulating swell of purple in a few weeks time. ‘That’s Grimspound,’ Smalacombe explained. ‘Good place to take the kids on a Sunday afternoon.’
‘Well, mine hasn’t even seen the light of day yet, so it’s a bit premature don’t you think?’
‘Will I ever make a countryman of you, Clive?’ Smalacombe realised it was a question he had asked his colleague before and he anticipated the answer.
‘Not a chance!’ Tiley’s predictable reply bounced back with all the enthusiasm of an inveterate urbanite. He paused for a while as he didn’t wish to appear to dismiss his boss’s interest out of hand. When the car started up and they pulled away he returned to business once again. ‘So, what do you really think then?’
‘I’m not an expert but I understand it’s probably a Stone Age settlement.’
‘No, not the bloody stones, I mean what about Hempson?’
Smalacombe shook his head. ‘My guess is that Eli saw the women dump the body. I suspect his immediate reaction was that there might be something in it for himself, make a bit from the rings perhaps, and he held back the earring for a bit of blackmail or something like that.’
‘But, you’ve just acknowledged, it wasn’t him who sold them on in Newton. It was someone with a London accent.’
‘True! Perhaps he sold them on to an intermediary.’
‘He’s not the type.’
‘Oh, yes he is. Have you checked him out?’ Smalacombe didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Well, I have. One point I will agree on though, he’s not a murderer. He wouldn’t have been so chatty in the pub that morning if he had that to hide. He’s had a string of offences; mostly poaching it’s true, but there’s also receiving. As a kid there were a number of charges resulting from pub brawls, ABH, that kind of thing and he’s been nicked for unlawful possession of a firearm, a shotgun. It was confiscated, of course, but the local nick is convinced he still has another one but they can’t find it. Who do you think it is killing all the deer around here?’
‘What Inspector Johnson was talking about you mean?’
‘They know it’s him but he’s crafty. Remember, Hempson told us he never takes his pick-up when he’s poaching. I suspect he shoots the thing and then hides it and goes back later when the coast is clear.’
‘He’s still got to get the ammunition,’ Tiley reasoned.
‘Yes, that’s a stumbling block. Anyway, to continue, more recently he has had two convictions for drunk driving and, if I have my way and he doesn’t cooperate, this afternoon he’s in for a third.’
‘But, if we are assuming he’s working alone then how come it wasn’t him who went to the jewellers?’
‘I thought I had explained that.’
‘I don’t buy it.’
Smalacombe stopped at the gate of an imposing house set back from the road about a mile or so from Longtor on the Exeter side. Tiley alighted and opened the gate. The sound of the tyres crunching the gravel underneath brought a face to the window and shortly after a lady stood by the front door before Smalacombe had parked up.
As he walked to the door, Tiley caught up with him after shutting the gate behind him.
‘You must be Chief Inspector Smalacombe,’ the lady called out.
‘And you are Mrs. Spicer?’
‘Yes indeed. Won’t you come through gentlemen?’ Imogen Spicer was an elegant woman, in her mid-forties Smalacombe estimated, well spoken and with an air of middle-class confidence that comes with years of being in control of her life. She moved like a dancer and with her hair up it emphasised her beautifully slender neck. Smalacombe fully understood why Hempson would be attracted to her.
‘Is it safe to talk frankly?’ Smalacombe asked as he took the seat she indicated to him.
‘Well, I’m alone if that’s what you mean. Of course.’ She smiled.
‘Your husband is away a lot I understand.’
‘Yes, he has to travel a great deal. That’s the downside of business I’m afraid but if you want all this,’ she paused and passed her hand around in front of her.
Smalacombe wasn’t impressed. He was away a lot too; indeed here he was now on a Saturday morning doing his job when he should be taking the grandchildren out. His unflinching graft had not provided him with anything in comparison to what the Spicers had accumulated. ‘We understand you know Mr Hempson, Mrs Spicer.’
She gave a broad smile, ‘Yes he warned me you would be cal
ling, so let’s not beat about the bush with niceties, Chief Inspector.’ She looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘I bed him when my husband is away.’
Smalacombe was taken aback by her frankness and looked away. ‘Were you…,’ he hesitated, ‘bedding him on the night of Anna Turle’s murder?’ he asked whilst staring at a painting on the wall of what he assumed was a scene of Venice.
‘Yes, I was. I had intended it to be an all night thing but there was a change of flight plan so he had to leave, I’m afraid. Oh, and before you ask, it would have been around two, two thirty, something like that. Perhaps a little later, I didn’t check the time.’
Smalacombe looked across to his sergeant who sensed it was his turn to interrogate. ‘After he left, you received two calls from him,’ he began, ‘one at three fifty four…’
‘You have been doing your homework, Sergeant,’ she replied facetiously. ‘Well, we had some unfinished business, after all he left rather unexpectedly, so he just wanted to talk some more,’ she explained.
‘But, I don’t understand why he phoned you twice. The first call was a long one, forty two minutes and then there was a break of sixteen minutes and then he phoned you again with just a short call.’
For the first time she hesitated; this part of the proceedings was clearly not something she had rehearsed with her lover in preparation for the interview. After a slight pause she explained. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. He heard a noise and looked out of the window and saw someone breaking into his four by four.’
‘What then? He interrupted the call to try to apprehend the thief?’ Smalacombe queried, now realising that something of greater significance than he had expected was emerging from the interview.
‘Yes, that’s right. He rang me back to finish off what we were talking about and he told me he had chased him down the drive but failed to get him.’
‘Did he say if anything was stolen or damaged?’