by A. B. King
“I’ve phoned the girls,” she said as he reached the foot of the stairs. “They will be back here before ten-thirty. I’ve told them that their only hope of a meal at lunchtime is to come back and get cleaned up first.”
“A wise precaution,” he agreed. “So, if you are ready, we will cross over to the flat, and then you can do whatever women do when they want to make themselves look even more attractive than they already are.”
He glanced at her as she stood there in jeans and tee shirt, and then added, “Mind you, you look good enough to eat already!”
“That would spoil your lunch,” she remarked solemnly, but from her expression he could tell that his spontaneous compliment had gone down well.
They strolled leisurely over to the flat in the warm sunshine, and this time Martin felt no sense of secret guilt upon venturing into her personal domain. He glanced round as they crossed the few yards from the front door of the house to the garage and saw no-one about, nor did he really expect to. Within himself he felt quite sure that within a day or two at the most June would agree for him to phone the police and get the man picked up, and the need for constant vigilance would then be over.
It was a little stuffy inside the flat, and June flung open some windows for ventilation.
“There are some magazines on the table there,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
With that she disappeared into her bedroom leaving him to his own devices. He glanced briefly at the magazines, but they were all women’s periodicals containing little that caught his attention. He stood up from the chair he had settled in on entering the flat and strolled around, looking at the titles of a few books reposing on a small table before examining the prints on the wall that he had observed during his first visit.
There was “Sunrise on Dartmoor,” which showed a rather bleak landscape with a rather dilapidated cottage off to one side; mostly shrouded in mist, but with evidence of the sun rising to one side of the background. Then there was “The Weald in Spring”, which depicted rolling Down-land, with scattered farms and distant woodland, and a stream meandering towards the foreground. There was an angler sitting in the shade of the tree to the right of the picture, presumably waiting for a nibble from a trout or something similar. “The Victorian Farmyard” was probably the most interesting of the four prints, showing in some detail the open door of a barn, with plough shears and other farming impedimenta scattered around. There were a number of chickens in the foreground, and a rather cute looking girl in period costume feeding them.
His personal favourite was “Autumn Leaves.” It showed the interior of a wood, with the foliage resplendent in a full range of autumn tints. Some of the leaves were captured by the artist in the act of falling, and could be seen eddying in a light breeze that was sweeping them up against the bole of a spreading oak tree. For his money, the painter of “Autumn Leaves” had really captured the spirit of what he was trying to portray. He was still gazing into the depths of the picture as June returned into the room.
“How do I look?” she asked, as he turned round to look at her.
“In a word: wonderful!” he exclaimed immediately. “Who needs dinner when I can feast my eyes on such a delectable sight!”
“That is the corniest chat-up line I’ve ever heard in my life,” she snorted, yet he could see that she was pleased none-the-less.
Privately, he was really more than impressed. She had changed into a full light summer skirt with a thin white blouse that did nothing to hide the small but firm curves of her body. She had done her hair in a way that no longer betrayed an aggressive defiance of the world, and there was just the hint of cosmetics on her face. She wore matching white sandals, and the ensemble was completed by a small white shoulder bag that hung easily from one shoulder.
He had suspected that she was attractive almost from the first time he had seen her, and now that she was smiling and radiant instead of scowling he suddenly realised that she was truly beautiful. Not just in the physical sense, but in personality as well. He could well understand any man falling for her charms, and that in turn brought unbidden to his mind the fact that she was married. Not only married, but married to a sickening pervert whose brutality towards her beggared belief. He felt the hackles rising on the back of his neck as he thought of the man, and just what he would like to do to him if he ever had the chance.
“We’d better get back to the house,” she said. “I expect the girls will be back at any time now, and they will wonder where we’ve got to!”
They left the flat, and the girls returned as expected a few minutes later. June supervised the domestic side of things whilst Martin fetched the car and a short while later they were heading off to Wellworthy. As they drove down, Martin arranged with June for her to take the girls on a shopping expedition, and to meet him at the ‘Rose and Crown’ at one o’clock, by which time he felt he would have finished his various calls in search of additional information.
He parked his car in the same place as before, and as soon as it was safe the girls exited the car and made a beeline for the nearest music shop.
“I promised I would treat them to the latest CD they want,” June explained as they sped off down the road, “don’t worry, I won’t let them go over the top.”
“Just so long as I don’t have to listen to it!” he groaned. “In keeping with common sense, let them have what they want, particularly in the way of clothes, and use the charge accounts.”
“Don’t worry,” she repeated smiling. “In spite of appearances, everything is under control!”
As she exited the car, Martin cautioned June to call him on her mobile phone if she even caught sight of her husband. Although he didn’t think it likely that the man would attempt anything aggressive in broad daylight on the street, remembering how she had been mown down by car with the intent to kill or seriously maim her once before meant that he didn’t want her to take any chances.
Having watched her walk down the road to the music shop, he decided that his first port of call would be a second visit to his late uncle’s solicitors. He didn’t really anticipate gleaning much additional information from Mr Dobson but there was always the chance that he might let some small item drop that would help to resolve matters. On entering the musty smelling premises he was greeted once again by Miss Grayson who informed him that Mr Dobson was with a client and would be free in a few minutes if he would care to wait. Martin agreed, and settled down with a well-thumbed edition of ‘Country Life’ magazine of doubtful vintage after he had first ascertained that Jim Perkins was out, and not expected back until later in the morning. He had just reached a particularly uninteresting article about the decline of dairy farming when the receptionist announced that Mr Dobson was free.
The Solicitor greeted him in a friendly fashion and enquired if he would like tea, which he politely declined, declaring that it was not his intention of taking any more of Mr Dobson’s valuable time than was absolutely necessary.
“Then what may I do for you,” the solicitor enquired.
“I’m still trying to sort out a few things at Springwater House,” Martin explained, “and being in Wellworthy this morning I thought I would look in to see if you could spare me just a few moments. I am particularly interested learning more about an old acquaintance of my uncle’s, a police Sergeant called Burton, and I wondered if you could tell me anything about him?”
“Sergeant Burton?” Mr Dobson muttered half to himself, “Ah, yes, I do recall the name. That was a long time ago, must be at least a quarter of a century. May I ask why you are making enquiries about him?”
“I saw my late uncle’s former housekeeper yesterday, Mrs Jefferson, and she mentioned him. What she related made me rather curious, and if possible, I would like to speak with him just to verify a few matters.”
“Ah, I see. Yes, I remember Mrs Jefferson, how is she?”
“Not too good, I’m afraid.”
“I am very sorry to hear it.”
The
solicitor scratched his head thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Sergeant Burton,” he mused. “Ah yes, I seem to recall your uncle mentioning him. He was an officer in the local force at that time as I recollect. Yes, it comes back to me now; he was the man who discovered the bodies in the car after that dreadful murder that occurred in Wellworthy a good many years ago. A terrible business that was; quite a ‘to-do’ I can tell you; papers were full of little else for weeks afterwards. I don’t suppose you heard much about it, being a stranger to these parts; it was quite a local sensation at the time.”
“I have heard the crime mentioned,” Martin admitted. “I know little about it.”
“As far as I can recall, Sergeant Burton was on duty that day, and he came across this car with two men in it. He thought at first that it was a road accident, only when he checked he discovered that they had both been shot to death. It must have been a terrible thing to come upon, particularly in such a quiet, law-abiding place as Wellworthy. It’s the sort of thing you might get in a busy city, but nothing like that has ever happened here before, and never since, I’m thankful to say. As far as I know, they never caught the killer or killers either; dreadful business, absolutely dreadful.”
“And Sergeant Burton?”
“Ah, yes. Well, as I understand it, he was never the same man again after that. Being a rural police officer he had never come up against anything even remotely like it before and it shattered his nerve by all accounts. He was placed on sick leave and as far as I recall he retired from the force not long afterwards. Very sad end to what I understand was a promising career.”
“Does he still live locally?”
“I really don’t know,” Mr Dobson said, spreading his hands expressively. “I did hear that he had moved right away from the area almost as soon as he retired. Whether that is true or not, or where he went to I wouldn’t know. Like I said, it was all such a long time ago now.”
“You say that my uncle mentioned him to you; can you recall what he said?”
“My dear Mr Isherwood, as I have said, it was all a very long time ago now!”
“Of course, most unreasonable of me,” Martin agreed. “I just wondered if you could remember if my uncle spoke of him as a friend, a chance acquaintance, or perhaps even been concerned by him in any way?”
Mr Dobson appraised him with a mild questioning look in his eyes. “As near as I can recall,” he said slowly, “the doctor referred to him as an old school friend who had recently looked him up. Somebody had told me that they had seen a police officer visiting Springwater House, and I initiated that explanation when I next saw your late uncle by asking if everything was all right, mentioning the report of a police visit. That was the answer I received. To the best of my recollection Sergeant Burton was never referred to again.”
“I see.”
“May I enquire what it was that Mrs Jefferson said that has made you so curious?”
Martin had been half expecting the question, and had already decided that until he was a bit more certain about things himself he wouldn’t reveal all that the old housekeeper had confided in him.
“She seemed to think that Sergeant Burton wasn’t quite the friend he claimed to be. Nothing concrete, only I think it was clear she didn’t like him much.”
“I see, well, I shouldn’t place too much credence upon an elderly domestic’s views if I were you. I seem to recall that Mrs Jefferson took a dislike to a good many people.”
“I’m sure you are right, I was just curious.”
It was obvious that there was nothing more to be gained by pressing the enquiry, and Martin decided to let the matter drop there. He really hadn’t learnt very much, yet the little he had gleaned more or less corroborated what he had already been told. He wound the conversation up, thanking the solicitor for his time, and promising to advise him when his decision concerning the future of the property had been made.
Out in the sunshine once again he debated whether to visit Dr Rawlinson, or to attempt to locate the car dealer mentioned by June. Glancing at his watch, he felt pretty certain that the surgery would be pretty busy at that hour, so he decided to locate Barn Lane to see if Mr Castleman was still there in business, and if he could throw any light on matters. He strolled up the high street and presently spotted the turning he was seeking, and as he rounded the corner, at the bottom of the lane, where it curved slowly round to the right, he saw what looked like a car-breakers yard with a sign hanging out side proclaiming it to be the home of ‘Castleman’s Quality Cars’!
Strolling down the lane towards the rather seedy looking establishment he found it easy to believe what he had heard about the place. Just inside the shabby chain-link fencing there were a couple of elderly vehicles that looked as if they had been well ‘tarted-up’ with big ‘for sale’ banners in their windscreens, and beyond them, round the side of the solitary brick building that obviously did duty as a sales office he could see a wide selection of rusting car bodies that spoke of the yard’s principle business, breaking vehicles for spares. He decided that the ‘breaking’ side of the business might be the best line of approach.
As he neared the entrance he observed a heavily built man of about his own age or perhaps a few years older, dressed in a filthy boiler suit, and busily polishing away at an old Vauxhall Cavalier. The man looked up as he approached, thrust the rag he was using half into a torn pocket and advanced to meet him. There was a sort of plastic smile on his stubbly face that obviously indicated that he looked on Martin as a potential customer.
“Good morning, sir,” he greeted him. “Beautiful weather we are having. How can I help you?”
Martin almost visibly winced at the man’s forced heartiness. Without a doubt he saw Martin as yet another potential mug to be easily fooled into buying some overpriced wreck that had been cleverly bodged sufficiently to fool anyone not particularly well versed in such matters. He decided that it might suit his purpose to play the gullible potential client.
“Are you Mr Castleman?” he enquired.
“I am indeed.”
“Oh, good, I was recommended to come and see you in person; a friend of mine to whom you sold a car a few years back said that if I was in this part of the world I should certainly look you up. He assured me that if anybody can help me then you were the man!”
“Castleman’s Quality Cars always trade on their good name,” the man said without a trace of guilt or modesty, “Satisfaction Guaranteed, that’s our motto! Now, take this Cavalier; only a few ever made of this particular version you know, and we were very lucky to get hold of it. In spite of its age it has only done about twenty three thousand miles all told, and the engine is as good as new. It was owned by an elderly man who hardly ever took it above forty, so this has to be an absolute snip.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure it is a bargain,” Martin cut in, “only I don’t actually want to buy a car right now.”
“You will be very sorry to miss this one sir, particularly as I can do you a deal that nobody else can match. Mind you, the offer is only open for twenty four hours, and naturally it will have to be cash and not terms you understand, but most definitely well worth it!”
“I’ll certainly bear it in mind,” Martin said struggling to keep a straight face as he kept up the pretence of not being that bright. “I actually came to see you about something else.”
“You want some spares?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then may I ask just exactly you do want?”
“Well, it’s like this. A good many years ago I owned a Ford Cortina. Things got a bit tight, and I sold it. My wife thinks it’s pretty certain it has long since been turned into scrap, only DVLA at Swansea have no record of that happening. For purely sentimental reasons I now want to track it down if humanly possible. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have discovered that some years ago it was sold to a man called Carpenter. I’ve managed to trace Carpenter to Wellworthy, but no further. I think it is possible that he may have
sold the car while he was here, and as everybody tells me that you are the man to see about cars, I thought I’d drop by and see if you can help me run it down?”
“Well, if you don’t mind me asking, if your wife is so sure it has been scrapped, why come here?”
“I told you; because there is no record at Swansea of that ever happening. You don’t need me to tell you what the law says about scrapping a car, so I think it still exists somewhere, and I just need to find out where it went to from Wellworthy.”
There were a few moments silence, and Martin continued to pretend that he wasn’t that bright, because he could sense that the man was weighing him up. He smiled vacuously and waited to see what would happen.
“Well, if there is no record at Swansea of it being scrapped, then I suppose you could be right; it may still be in existence somewhere,” the man agreed at last. “I still don’t see how I can help you?”
Martin pretended to look uncomfortable, moving from one foot or another.
“Look,” he said in what he hoped would be interpreted as a hesitant and slightly guilty tone of voice, “I don’t for a moment imagine that the car itself is any more than a rust-bucket by now; what I really want is the number plate. Clapped-out or not, I’m happy to buy the car just to get it. Now, I was told that you have no end of contacts in the trade and might just be able to track it down for me. Getting my hands on that car would be worth a lot to me, and even if you can only get the plates, I will pay anything within reason, and no questions asked about how you found them!”