‘But what about the scorch marks?’ objected Mo. ‘And the extra-terrestrial that was seen just up the road from here? Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?’
The detective shrugged. ‘To be honest, the whole thing scares the pants off me. Especially as Gill had come to Warminster specifically to write an article about UFOs. We found a rough draft of it in his refuse, by the way.’
‘Really? What was the gist?’ I asked, with a sudden surge of interest.
‘It was a sceptical article, that much I can say.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ predicted Mo wearily, ‘UFOs are all weather balloons, or the planet Venus?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Pity, I thought he might have come up with something more original.’
‘What about the post mortem?’ I enquired.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, the cause of death would be a start.’
‘The wound to the chest, caused by extreme heat – that’s what killed him.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Between midnight and one in the morning.’
‘Were any organs removed?’
‘Yes, part of the lower colon was missing.’
‘That supports Bob French’s theory,’ said Mo excitedly. ‘The aliens could have removed the tissue for analysis, as in the animal mutilation cases.’
‘Can we concentrate on the human suspects for now?’ I implored. ‘What about Maggie Campbell-Farr, the hoteliers’s wife? She was one of the last people to see Dominic alive. Does she have an alibi?’
Ince consulted his notebook. ‘She was working on the accounts in the hotel office with her husband Major Campbell-Farr, between 11.15 and 2.30 in the morning. Another member of staff can vouch for that.’
‘How fortunate.’
‘But there’s another twist which you may want to know about. The woman who lives opposite Dominic’s cottage saw a young lad trying to break in there, around 9.30 on the evening of the murder. She called the police, but by the time we arrived the boy had disappeared. Whether it has any bearing on the case is another matter, of course.’
Just then Dominic’s father, having finished paying his respects, began walking back towards the car.
‘I must get out of here!’ he called out, waving his stick at us. ‘There’s evil in this place. Can’t you sense it?’
We looked at each other blankly.
‘Please, drive me back to town. I’ll catch the very next train to London.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that Ince is so open about the investigation?’ commented Mo, as we sat in the Tudor Tea Rooms, studying the somewhat restricted menu.
‘I can only think that Bob French has asked him to co-operate with us.’ I speculated. ‘They’re very old friends. And French likes you because of your interest in UFOs. But I feel Ince may be allowing himself to be unduly biased towards an alien solution to the problem. That could hamper his efforts.’
‘Maybe you’re biased the other way,’ retorted my colleague.
‘For the time being I remain neutral. What are you asking me to believe, anyway? That the extra-terrestrials killed Gill because he was writing a sceptical article about them? Could they read his mind?’
‘There is evidence that they use telepathy, yes.’
I threw down my menu in frustration.
After a pause Mo said: ‘But if it’s human suspects you want, there’s no shortage of dodgy characters in the eco warrior’s camp – they’re protesting about fracking in the area. It’s only a few miles away from where Dominic was killed.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The farmer who found Dominic’s body told me. He has trouble with them himself.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘They do drugs, play loud music – that kind of stuff. And they don’t like people trying to move them on.’
‘You should have mentioned this before,’ I said, getting up from the table. ‘It’s important that I cover all the conventional hypotheses.’
Mo looked slightly crestfallen. ‘Aren’t we going to eat?’
‘Afterwards,’ I insisted.
The eco warriors had settled in an expanse of scrub, just off the main road between Warminster and Trowbridge. The noise from their combined radios and ghetto-blasters was formidable, and could be heard from miles away. Their accommodation consisted of an eclectic mix of cars, vans, caravans, and even lorries.
Our arrival at the site was greeted with some suspicion, probably because we looked as if we might be emissaries from the council. Having established our independent credentials, however, we were able to make a few discreet enquiries, and discover that Dominic Gill had visited the place two weeks earlier. Strange orange lights had been reported locally, and Gill had been most anxious to speak to anyone who may have spotted them. A man called Doddy was pointed out to us; he had apparently conversed at length with Gill.
We approached Doddy’s customised Ford Transit van with some trepidation, because it was being circled at the time by a couple of rather fierce looking Alsatians. Fortunately they turned out to be harmless enough. The man himself, like most of his itinerant brethren, had knotted hair, and wore green trousers tucked into high laced boots.
‘Excuse me, I understand you had a chat about strange lights with this person last week?’ I began, producing the photo of Dominic.
Doddy looked up momentarily from the barbecue he was preparing. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘He was found murdered in a field not far from here. We’re investigating his death. Don’t worry, we’re not policemen.’
‘What do you want to know, then?’
‘Everything you can remember about your conversation. By the way, why did he talk to you, rather than anyone else on the site?’
‘It was me who saw the orange thing in the sky.’
‘The UFO?’ asked Mo.
He shrugged. ‘Could’ve been. He wanted me to draw a picture of it, anyway.’
‘I see. What else did you talk about?’
‘Asked if I was on drugs – which I wasn’t. Then we took him to the place where I saw the light – over the other side of that hill.’
Suddenly a tall, thin girl with similarly knotted hair popped her head out of the van. ‘What’s happening? What are you talking about?’ she demanded, looking at us warily.
‘That journalist bloke. He’s been murdered,’ explained Doddy.
‘Who did it?’ enquired the girl.
‘We don’t know yet,’ I replied. ‘He had terrible burns to his chest, and a wound to his abdomen.’
‘I knew something like that would happen!’
Doddy gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid, Annie.’
‘He insulted the spirit of the stone,’ continued the girl, with a visionary light in her eye, ‘and he got his punishment.’
‘What spirit is this?’ asked Mo, intrigued.
‘There’s a Druid’s stone up on that hill, there. It’s been a holy place for thousands of years. When I showed it to the journalist he sneered – said it was just a block of granite. He actually kicked it. That’s when I hit him.’
‘You hit him?’ I repeated, swapping a glance with Mo.
‘Yes, and told him to have more respect. He ran off down the hill.’
‘It was nothing,’ assured Doddy, who was beginning to regret his partner’s candour. ‘She just lost it for a moment, that’s all. She’s weird.’
At that Annie disappeared back into the van in a huff.
‘Well, we’ve kept you from your barbecue long enough,’ I said, giving a signal to Mo that I wanted to terminate the interview. ‘Thank’s for the information.’
‘Any time,’ replied Doddy affably.
Once we were out of earshot Mo said: ‘We should have got her to talk a bit more.’
‘I think she told everything there was to tell. In any case, I’ve had my fill of the supernatural
for one day. I couldn’t stand to listen to any more of it.’
We returned to the hotel to be accosted by a large woman in a sunshine yellow dress which was hardly befitting to her years.
‘Telephone message, Mr. Webster,’ she chimed, emerging from the dining room and waving a piece of paper in front of her like a flag. ‘Which one of you is Mr. Webster?’
‘That’s me,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, of course. Here you are, then. I’ve written down all the details. By the way, will you be dining with us this evening?’
‘As far as I know, yes.’
‘Oh, wonderful! It’s just that the chef has got something rather special lined up today. Well, I hope to see you later.’
She hurried off upstairs leaving us in little doubt that we had been addressing Maggie Campbell-Farr, of questionable reputation.
‘What’s the message, Sherl?’ asked Mo peering at the note.
‘It’s from your cosmological friend Bob French,’ I replied, ‘asking us to go round to his house as soon as possible. He’s got new information relating to the Gill case, or so he says.’
French lived in a quiet thoroughfare called Founders Lane, in the more elegant quarter of the town. His house was small, though perfectly proportioned.
My knock was answered almost instantaneously.
‘Come in – quickly, please,’ he entreated, ushering us inside with a vigorous flap of the hand. Before locking and bolting the door he glanced anxiously up and down the road, evidently fearful of being under surveillance.
‘Apologies for the cloak and dagger welcome. But one does have to be careful.’
‘Of what?’ I asked.
The question went unanswered. Instead we were directed into French’s den which was overrun with papers and books, and polluted by thick blue wreaths of tobacco smoke. I coughed and screwed up my eyes, which prompted him to waft the air ineffectually with a magazine.
‘A smokey atmosphere has been known to concentrate the mind, at least according to your namesake,’ he remarked, cocking an eye at me. ‘I would open a window, but absolute secrecy is essential. Please, take a seat.’
He made a final adjustment to the curtains, masking out every ray of daylight. Then he picked up a remote-control and aimed it at a video recorder.
What we proceeded to watch was a film taken at night, evidently by a camcorder. In the centre of the screen was an intensely bright orange light which pulsed in a stroboscopic fashion, and was occasionally obscured by swaying branches. The camera zoomed in to reveal a smooth, metallic, dome-shaped structure directly underneath.
‘Now, watch very closely!’ ordered French, edging towards the television in his excitement. He was breathing hard, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his slanting brow.
One could make out a small figure emerging from behind the metallic dome. It had a streamlined body, with a disproportionately large head, and circular eyes like lamps. It walked stiffly away from the craft into more open country, and seemed to be carrying an implement – similar to a metal-detector – with which it made a sweeping examination of the terrain. Suddenly it swung round and looked directly at the camera, as if aware of being filmed. It’s chilling, unfathomable eyes flickered – then it came towards us with an accelerating stride. At this point the picture went out of focus and began to shake violently, before coming to an abrupt end.
French switched off the video. His expression was triumphant.
‘Well, gentlemen? Reactions?’
After a judicious pause Mo pronounced: ‘If that’s genuine it could be the most important piece of evidence in the history of Ufology.’
The researcher flushed with pride. ‘I haven’t played it to anyone else, you know.’
‘How did you manage to get the pictures?’ I enquired.
‘Ever since that report of a humanoid in Upton Bray I’ve been camping out on a hill nearby. For weeks I saw nothing. Then, on the Sunday before last, just after midnight, I spotted the orange light, behind the big copse. I pointed my video camera at it, and the results you’ve seen for yourself.’
‘I notice there’s no soundtrack,’ I remarked. ‘Why is that?’
‘It’s a mystery to me. Certainly the microphone was working at the time, but when I came to play back the film the sound had been wiped. There have been many instances of UFOs interfering with electronic equipment. This may be another of them.’
‘Will you go public?’ asked Mo encouragingly.
‘Oh, definitely,’ assured our host, drawing back the curtains, ‘but only when the time is right.’
‘What do you make of it, Sherl?’
‘Well, I’m no expert,’ I replied non-committally. ‘But from a layman’s point of view it’s intriguing, to say the least. Weren’t you scared at the time?’
‘Of course I was,’ replied French. ‘When the creature came towards me I ran for my life – it was an instinctual reaction.’
‘But how does all this relate to Dominic Gill’s death?’
French peered at me owlishly over his glasses. ‘Just suppose Gill had been approached by a similar creature. Being an ambitious journalist he would have wanted to stand his ground, in order to get a scoop. It may have led to a direct confrontation between him and the alien, which resulted in those horrific injuries.’
‘You may have something there,’ said Mo, turning to me for a comment.
Before I could offer one French had headed for the door, and was beckoning us to follow.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Mo.
The ufologist held a finger to his lips, and led us in silence through the kitchen, out to the back garden. There was a shed at the far end, into which we were shepherded.
‘A precautionary measure. My house has almost certainly been bugged,’ he explained, closing the shed door firmly behind us.
‘Who by?’ asked Mo.
‘MI5.’
I looked incredulous. ‘What gives you that idea?’
‘The day after I shot the video I returned to the place where the craft had been, to check for physical traces. While I was examining the earth I sensed that someone was watching me. Later, I was followed all the way home by a man on a motorbike.’
‘Are you sure you’re not imagining this?’ I asked. ‘It would be natural to become a little paranoid, having experienced what you’ve experienced.’
French shook his head ruefully. ‘If only it was paranoia. A few days ago a man called Mr. Rogers called me – at least that’s the name he used. He told me I had been filming illegally and that all my videos would have to be confiscated by the authorities. There were security implications, he said.’
‘You didn’t recognize his voice, I suppose?’ Mo asked.
‘No. All I remember is that he was well spoken.’
French wiped the sweat from his face with his cuff, then lit a pipe with trembling hands. ‘You’re the first people I’ve talked to about this. I hope I can trust you?’
‘Of course you can,’ replied Mo, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘Let’s put the aliens on one side for a moment, and return to first principles,’ I suggested, as we wandered back towards the hotel through the town centre. ‘To know your murderer you must first know your victim. Who could give us an insight into Dominic Gill’s personality?’
Mo pondered for a moment. ‘How about that barman, Lonnie Stewart? Everyone seems to confide in him at one time or another. I’ve watched them do it. Perhaps Dominic opened up to him?’
‘Excellent idea, Mo.’
‘I should warn you, though, Lonnie’s memory tends to let him down sometimes.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, he told me he’d had “a few words” with Gill on the night he was killed. But Kate Chormley said they were chatting for half an hour at least. That’s quite a discrepancy.’
‘It certainly is. Why didn’t you mention it before?’
Mo looked sheepish. ‘I was going to, then there was all
that fuss about Bob French’s video.’
‘Do you get on well with Lonnie?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Right, as soon as we get back to the hotel I’d like you to strike up another conversation. Try to establish exactly what he talked to Dominic about. While you’re doing that I’ll seek out Major Campbell-Farr.’
We arrived at the Falcon within a couple of minutes, just as a shower was threatening to spoil the evening. I watched my friend’s gangling form disappear towards the bar. Then I went up to the desk and requested to see the owner of the hotel.
After some delay the Major emerged, looking flurried and slightly annoyed at being disturbed. He was dressed in sober tweeds and had an excessively lined face.
I explained that I was investigating the recent murder, whereupon he invited me into the little back office.
‘We don’t get many murders here, as you can imagine,’ he said, in a clipped, turfy accent, motioning me into a functional chair. ‘The news has spread like wildfire. Are they any nearer to finding out who killed the chap?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. There is a far-fetched theory circulating that aliens were involved.’
The Major raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. I believe you’re in the process of building a centre for UFO studies?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How’s it coming along, by the way?’
‘We’re ahead of schedule, which is pleasing.’
Behind that well-bred, military facade, however, I saw a definite flicker of anxiety. It had to be exploited quickly.
‘The press haven’t linked the murder with UFOs – yet,’ I said. ‘Mind you, being cynical for a moment, any such publicity for Warminster would benefit your conference centre enormously, wouldn’t it?’
‘That would be cynical,’ agreed Campbell-Farr laconically.
‘You must have sunk a good deal of your own money into the project, surely?’
‘I have a number of backers.’
‘Were you aware that Gill was writing a very sceptical article which sought to discredit the whole idea of flying saucers?’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘If he’d lived to publish that article it could have affected your business rather adversely.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 7