by Karen King
Max and his mum returned as I was taking the diaries out of the basket.
‘I’ll come round straight after tea,’ he promised. I could see he was dying to find out what had happened that afternoon.
‘Okay.’ I took the diaries upstairs, sat on my bed and opened the first one. The name Samuel Whittington was written in black handwriting on the inside cover, with the date 1920 underneath. I remembered Gran mentioning Joe’s name was Whittington, so guessed that Samuel must be his father. There was a date at the top of the first page – I couldn’t make it all out, but it looked like April. It was filled with old-fashioned black handwriting, with loops and curls that made it difficult to read.
I glanced through a couple of pages. Evidently Old Joe’s parents ran some sort of smallholding. I guess a lot of folk did back then. His father wrote about crops and how the chickens were faring, and that a cow had just given birth. I read a number of similar agricultural anecdotes before one particular entry caught my eye.
‘Amy! Max is on his way up!’ Gran shouted. Not that I needed telling: I could hear his footsteps on the stairs.
‘What’s up, Amy?’ he asked as I opened the door.
‘Look at this,’ I told him. ‘I think it could be another piece of evidence.’ Max eagerly picked up the diary and read out the entry.
PODCAST 3
Go to www.amycartermysteries.com/sabotage-3
Max looked up from the diary, wide-eyed. ‘Wow! Wait until Old Joe hears about this.’
‘We must show him this before he thinks about accepting an offer for his cottage. We’ll go round first thing in the morning,’ I said.
Chapter 12
No Accident!
‘I was hoping you would pop in to help me in the attic today,’ Old Joe said when we arrived early the next morning. ‘A reporter’s coming to interview me about my family history this afternoon, for a local newspaper. Apparently, my family is one of the oldest families in the village,’ he added proudly.
‘Hey, you’ll be famous!’ Max grinned. ‘We’ll have to get your autograph.’
‘You’ll have to treat me with a bit more respect, you mean,’ he replied, his eyes twinkling.
‘Well, I’ve found out something else about your family history,’ I told him. ‘This diary was written by Samuel Whittington – was he your father?’
‘He was indeed. He came from a good family you know. Very intelligent, loved his books. Was quite a scholar, my dad.’
‘Well, just listen to this.’
Old Joe listened in surprise as I read out the diary entry. He looked thoughtful. ‘1920 you say? Before I was born. I was the youngest of eleven, you know, and my dad died when I was but a lad, but Mum often talked about his fascination with the Romans.’
‘I can see why,’ I told him. ‘We read some more of your dad’s diaries last night. Once he’d found that ring, he was certain that other stuff must be buried, and he dug up most of his land searching for more treasure.’
‘Well, maybe there is a Roman settlement under my land,’ Old Joe said. ‘It’s all very interesting, but as far as I’m concerned, whatever’s buried there can stay there. I’m staying put.’
‘I think you’re going to be under a bit of pressure to sell.’ I told Joe about Mr Smythe leaving the B&B and the conversation I’d overheard. ‘I don’t think they’ll give up easily. They’re fanatical about this Roman stuff. They really think they’re going to be millionaires.’
‘I know. Mr Smythe turned up at my door yesterday and was quite annoyed when I told him I wasn’t selling. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of him.’ Joe sighed. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe that all these people are suddenly so desperate to buy my little old cottage.’
‘You could hold out for a very good deal if you wanted to sell,’ I told him.
‘I could, Amy, but I don’t want to sell. I just want to be left in peace. This Roman stuff took over my dad’s life, and now it looks like it might do the same to me.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, let’s go up and sort out the attic. I need to find some good photographs of my parents and one of myself as a child for the reporter this afternoon.’
We spent a couple of hours up in the attic and found quite a few photos of Joe and his family – one of him when he was about eleven made us chuckle. He had spiky fair hair and was wearing short socks and knee-length shorts, with a catapult sticking out of one of the pockets.
‘You look a right terror,’ I told him.
‘I was a bit of a lad, I admit,’ he said, his grey eyes twinkling. ‘But we never got up to the sort of stuff that the kids do today. We had a bit more respect, you see. We didn’t make a nuisance of ourselves or damage other people’s property. We’d get a good belting if we did, and no mistake.’
I knew he was thinking of Skinhead and his gang. I hoped Old Joe had seen the last of them.
‘These will do for now,’ Joe said, picking up a photo of his parents and one of himself aged about five. ‘I’ll have to get all these photos in some sort of order and stick them in a couple of albums. In fact, I’ll buy some albums when I’m out today and maybe you kids could come back tomorrow and help me organise them?’
‘Sure. I’ll finish reading the diaries tonight and bring them with me too,’ I told him as we made our way down the stairs. ‘Good luck with your interview. You’ll have to tell us which newspaper it’s going to appear in.’
‘I will.’ He opened the back door. ‘Thanks for your help. It’s much appreciated. I’ll just collect the eggs before Connie arrives.’
‘Connie?’ I asked, as we all stepped outside.
‘The reporter.’
CRACK!
I looked up and saw in horror that the drainpipe was coming away from the cottage wall above our heads. ‘The drainpipe’s falling down!’ I screamed, grabbing Max’s arm as I leapt out of the way. We both fell in a heap on the ground.
CRASH! The drainpipe crashed to the ground, missing us by a fraction of a centimetre. Joe wasn’t so lucky, it caught him on the left shoulder, sending him sprawling.
‘Arrgh!’ he yelled as he hit the ground with a thud, rolling over onto his side.
‘Joe!’ Max screamed. ‘Oh no, he’s hurt!’
I scrambled to my feet and ran over to Joe with Max close behind me. We knelt down beside him. ‘Joe! Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Help me up,’ Joe raised his head and held out his hand. I reached out to grab it.
‘Don’t move him!’
I spun around and saw PC Lambard running up to us. With all the commotion, we hadn’t heard the police car pull up. ‘Keep still and let me take a look at you,’ he said, kneeling over Joe.
‘I’m all right. No need to fuss,’ Joe said, pulling himself up onto his elbows.
‘Just take it easy. That was quite a blow you took. Let me look at that shoulder.’ PC Lambard pulled Joe’s shirt aside to reveal his wound. An angry purple bruise had already formed on it. ‘Can you move your arm okay, Joe?’ he asked.
Joe obliged, wincing a little as he moved his arm around in its socket.
‘I don’t think it’s broken, thank goodness, but I reckon it’s going to be painful for a while,’ said PC Lambard. ‘You’re very lucky – if that pipe had landed on your head, it could have caused some serious damage.’
‘It just winded me, that’s all. Now, help me up, will you?’
PC Lambard gently helped Joe to his feet, then walked over to the cottage and studied the wall where the drainpipe had broken off, fiddling with the loose wall brackets.
Joe rubbed his shoulder and looked at the huge piece of pipe lying on the ground. ‘The old place is falling apart,’ he groaned. ‘And so is its owner!’ Joe added with a half-hearted smile.
PC Lambard returned from his inspection with a worried frown on his face. ‘The bracket screws have come loose, but I don’t think this was an accident, Joe. I believe that someone loosened those screws to make the drainpipe fall down.’
Joe stared at him. ‘Yo
u mean someone did this deliberately?’
PC Lambard nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’m pretty sure this was an act of vandalism. I’m worried about your safety, Joe. You and these kids could have been seriously hurt.’
‘I told you that someone was sabotaging your cottage,’ I said. ‘They think it will force you to sell up.’
‘What’s all this? I think you’d better tell me what’s been going on,’ PC Lambard said. ‘Let’s step inside for a minute and talk about this. You kids should come too.’
PC Lambard insisted on making us all a cup of tea – with two sugars each to help with the shock. Then we sat down in the lounge and Old Joe told the officer about the offers he’d received for the cottage, and about all the problems he’d had with the cottage recently.
‘It just seems too much of a coincidence,’ I said. ‘I’m convinced that someone’s causing all this damage on purpose, to force Joe out.’
‘Maybe it’s that skinhead and the other yobs,’ said Max.
‘Skinhead? Do you mean Terry Morris and his gang?’ PC Lambard asked. ‘You’ve been having a bit of bother with them, haven’t you, Joe? I got your message that they broke your window yesterday, that’s why I popped by today.’
‘They let my chickens loose too,’ Joe said, ‘but I don’t know about all the other stuff that’s been going on. They’re just kids.’
‘Nasty kids,’ Max added with feeling.
PC Lambard frowned. ‘I’ll have a word with Morris and his gang, but I agree with Joe, it doesn’t seem the sort of thing that kids would stoop to. I’ll do my best to keep an eye on the place, but you need to be on your guard, Joe. You could have been seriously injured, and we can’t dismiss the fact that it could happen again.’
‘Aren’t you going to question Mr Dawson and Mr Smythe too?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got no grounds to. I can’t go accusing them without any evidence,’ PC Lambard said. ‘Have any of you seen anyone hanging around the place?’
We shook our heads.
‘Well, I’ll pop by as often as I can, but you should all take extra care. You could be in great danger. I can’t emphasise that enough.’ PC Lambard stood up. ‘I don’t want any heroics, mind. If you see anything suspicious, let me know right away.’
So, I was right. Someone was deliberately targeting the cottage. Someone who wanted to drive Old Joe out. Someone who could have done him – or us – a serious injury today. Whoever it was, I had to think of a way to trick them into revealing themselves before anyone got really hurt.
Chapter 13
Another Suspect
We were halfway home when I had my brilliant idea. If we told the reporter what was going on, she could get some publicity for Joe. People should know that someone’s trying to force Joe to sell his home. Then, whoever it is might be shamed into giving up the fight.
‘Let’s go back,’ I told Max, quickly explaining my idea.
‘Joe won’t like that,’ he said. ‘He won’t like us interrupting his interview.’
‘We won’t interrupt it. We’ll wait for this Connie to leave, then we’ll tell her about it. She’ll have connections being a reporter. I bet she’ll be able to do something.’ I turned my bike around. ‘Well, I’m going back, even if you’re not. You can go home if you want to.’
Naturally, he followed me.
At first I didn’t recognise the dark blue car parked outside Old Joe’s cottage, but as soon as the door opened and a woman with curly brown hair stepped out, I knew who it was. Mrs Langham. I watched as she walked over to the cottage. Joe opened the door before she reached it, greeted her with a smile and she stepped inside.
‘I didn’t know she was a reporter,’ Max said.
‘Neither did I.’ Is that why she was asking so many questions about Old Joe? Was it also why she’d moved herself into the B&B? But what was so interesting about Old Joe’s family, and how had she heard of him? The first time I’d seen her, she was taking pictures of Old Joe’s cottage, and then she’d questioned me about him. Was she really a reporter, or was she working for Mr Dawson? Or perhaps she was an accomplice of Mr Smythe. Maybe that’s why he’d left the B&B just as she’d arrived.
‘Well, are you going to tell her about it or not?’ asked Max.
I thought about it. ‘No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want to find out what she’s up to first.’
‘Do you think she might be involved in the sabotage?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s something suspicious about the way she just turned up out of the blue. I’ll see what Gran knows about her.’
Gran was sitting in the private lounge when I got in, giving Fluffy a cuddle. Mr Winkleberry was out for once, so now was my chance to talk to her properly.
‘I’m putting the kettle on, Gran, do you want a frothy coffee?’ I asked, knowing that always sweetened her up. I wanted to get her in a real talking mood.
‘That’d be lovely, thank you,’ she said, smiling.
‘I saw Mrs Langham over at Old Joe’s today,’ I told Gran as I brought her coffee in. ‘Did you know she was a reporter?’
Gran nodded. ‘Yes, she told me. She works for the Blue Herald.’
That floored me. So she was genuinely interviewing Old Joe then.
‘Why was she at Old Joe’s?’ Gran asked.
‘She’s writing an article about his family.’
‘So that’s why she’s been asking so many questions about him, then.’ Gran sipped her coffee. ‘Well, that’s nice for Joe. I must buy a copy of the paper when it comes out.’
‘I wonder how she heard about him though?’ I asked, knowing that Gran was very good at putting the guests at ease and getting them to talk about themselves.
‘No idea, but journalists have their sources, don’t they?’ Gran replied.
So, bang went my theory about Mrs Langham then. That left Mr Smythe, Mr Dawson or that yob Skinhead and his gang. My money was on Mr Smythe. If he was mean enough to steal my bracelet and threaten me into keeping quiet about it, he was certainly capable of forcing an old man out of his own home.
How could I work out which of them was guilty? I decided that I had to interview them all. But the difficulty would be finding out where Mr Dawson lived and where Mr Smythe was staying since he’d left Beachview. I decided to take a ride over to Tilmouth, where Mr Smythe had met his friends. Maybe I’d bump into them again. I grabbed my micro-recorder and digital camera, and set off early before Max could insist on joining me. He was okay in small doses, and had his uses, but hanging around with a kid like him all the time was not really my scene.
I was in luck. As soon as I arrived in Tilmouth, I saw Red Lips coming out of a hairdressing salon. She walked right past me without as much as glancing my way, so thankfully she didn’t recognise me. I cycled slowly behind her as she walked up the road and turned down a side street. I figured she wouldn’t be walking far, not in that tight skirt and those high heels. I was right. She stopped at a house about halfway down the street and went inside.
I cycled past and then noticed a narrow path that I was sure would lead round to the back of the houses. I cycled down it, then left my bike propped against a wall. I counted back two houses so I knew which one Red Lips would be in. The back gate was wide open and Mr Smythe’s car was parked on the patch of ground opposite. I peered into the yard … there was no one in sight, so I crept in, then froze as I heard the back door creak open. I looked around in panic for somewhere to hide, quickly ducking behind a water butt just as Mr Smythe came walking out of the house. He was carrying a bucket of foamy water and a sponge, and was obviously going to clean the car.
He’d almost left the yard when Red Lips strutted out, shouting, ‘Don’t just walk away from me when I’m talking to you!’
‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve made up my mind.’ Mr Smythe carried on walking.
What a chauvinistic prig, I thought. If I were Red Lips, I’d want to punch him.
‘I don’t see why we have to do e
verything Neil says,’ Red Lips shouted, looking furious. ‘I don’t want to remortgage our home to buy that old cottage. Here’s something you clearly haven’t thought about – what if there aren’t any Roman ruins there?’
‘Of course there are! All our sources say so, and those kids dug up that bracelet, didn’t they? Do you know how much that’s worth? Five thousand pounds. Just think what other stuff is buried there. We’ll never have to worry about money again.’
Five thousand pounds! So that’s why he stole it from me!
‘Look, we can’t make the old guy sell!’ Red Lips followed him out of the yard, slamming the gate shut behind her. I could hear them arguing outside. I glanced at the house, wondering if I’d have time to sneak in and find the bracelet. After all, the back door was open so it wasn’t breaking and entering, was it? And the bracelet was mine, so it wasn’t stealing. I had to chance it.
Without another thought, I raced into the house and looked around for the checked jacket I’d seen Mr Smythe wearing yesterday at the pub; the one he’d kept the bracelet in. I scanned the kitchen. No sign of it there, so I ran through into the lounge. No luck there either. I’d have to look upstairs. As I dashed along the hall, I caught sight of a bunch of coats hanging on hooks. And there, among them, was the checked jacket. I yanked it down and rummaged through the inside top pocket, taking out a dark blue velvet pouch. I opened the pouch and pulled out the bracelet. I’d got it.
Slam!
Someone had come in.
I hastily stuffed the empty pouch back into the pocket, hung the jacket back up, then headed for the front door. I opened it and slipped out quietly as I heard Red Lips’ heels tapping along the kitchen floor. Please don’t look out of the window, I prayed as I ran across the front garden and jumped the low wall. I just hoped Mr Smythe hadn’t spotted my bike propped against the wall. It’s not exactly the sort of bike you forget. I crept down the pathway and poked my head around the wall. Mr Smythe was still cleaning the car. I waited impatiently, wishing he’d hurry up and finish.