Murder on Exmoor

by P. J. Thurbin

  “That lot are gettin’ all worked up over some stupid contest as to who’s wearin’ the worst jumper. Bloody mad if you ask me. Next it’ll be whose got the biggest bloody feet. They need to get a life.” He looked at the papers that lay on the table. “Put that lot away Bruce, for god’s sake. We agreed to have no papers. You just need to go to the Customs House at Sydney Harbour, show them the Bill of Lading an’ tell em that you’re glad to be home with your stuff from the ‘old country’. Just make a few cracks about hating the bloody poms and you’ll be right as rain.” He laughed. “Once you put the cases with the furniture and the other junk in the truck you’ll be away. No problemo amigo.”

  “Look, Joe, that’s alright for you, but it’s my neck what’s on the line. I get caught and it’s 20 years in jail for smuggling, or god knows what.”

  Joe could see that one little slip-up and Bruce could ruin the plans that he had spent weeks perfecting. He had some talking to do. He went over again what they had agreed. He made sure that Bruce was clear about each step. Bruce sat there fidgeting with his beer glass while Joe continued to try to re-assure his friend.

  “I know you thought we should have handed all of it over, Bruce. But that’s all water under the bridge now. We kept a fair chunk for ourselves. That’s only right; we found the bloody stuff. We’ve got plenty stashed away in that giant bloody safe at my garage. Your share of the money we got’s in the Bank.”

  “But I still don’t see why we had to put my share in a joint account, Joe.”

  “I explained all that. S’pose you need cash while you’re away? That way I can I take care of it from here. You don’t want a bank account in Australia as they could trace you if they got suspicious.”

  “If you say so, Joe. I guess it sounds okay the way you explain it.”

  “Look Bruce, no one suspects anything. The reward’s enough to keep our cash flow going and get the Toyota and the stuff to Australia. Everyone thinks that I’m as happy as a pig in clover runnin’ the garage. You’re going back to Australia to buy your dream farm and find yourself a girl to marry.”

  “Joe, don’t joke around about getting married. You know how I feel ever since Joan died.”

  “Sorry, mate, I was just messing about. I know how you feel.”

  “Okay, but are you sure we’ve covered our tracks, Joe? I’ve got a feeling that something’ll go wrong. Some bugger’ll sniff around and find some little thing that we overlooked.”

  “It’s a perfect story, Bruce. They even had that article in the local papers saying what good and sensible blokes we were.” They both laughed at the picture it conjured up.

  “But the next bit’s where we get caught. I know it,” muttered Bruce, as he reached for his half empty glass. Joe leant forward as the noise from the bar area grew louder. “Someone’s obviously won that stupid contest,” he muttered.

  “Look Bruce, we’ve got the gold and a few of those silver dishes in that big old safe in the garage. No one’ll ever find it and I can sell off bits through that friend of mine in Barnstable if we need more cash. He’s got a mate in London who knows this fella what has contacts with people who want that sort a stuff for their private collections; no questions asked.”

  “That’s all well and good for you, but what about my bit. I don’t have a clue about all this money laundering stuff you keep going on about.”

  “I keep telling you Bruce; just see yourself as the delivery man. Once you’re clear of Customs, you drive the truck up the coast to Brisbane. It’ll take about a day, at most. Then go to the bed and breakfast I already booked for you. It’s a quiet private little place, so no one will bother you. Ashbourne House, it’s called. You’re booked in as Barry Manlow. Just think of Manilow. They’ll know it’s not him ‘cause you can’t play the piano.” His attempt at getting Bruce to relax was wasted.

  “But what am I supposed to do there?” Bruce asked.

  “Just sit tight. This bloke I told you about’ll contact you. He’s the one who’s got a warehouse over at Eagle Street Pier. He’ll come over and collect the truck and dump the bloody furniture and get our stuff from the false floor.”

  “But what about the truck?”

  “I told you before. He’ll bring it back to you in Brisbane. Then all you have to do is just drive it back to Sydney, sell it or give it away to some stupid backpackers and get a ticket back home. You’ll be back in Devon before you know it. I’ll meet you at the airport. Alright?”

  Bruce stood up and walked over to the bar. He returned with two more beers and some whisky chasers.

  “You’d best go light on that whisky, Bruce. You don’t need a hangover.”

  “Sod it. I’ll be alright. Just explain to me again how we get the money back to England and how can we trust someone won’t crook us?”

  “It’s like I told you, Bruce, the bloke’s a friend of Lord Farleigh’s. He lost some money in a card game and I heard him ask this bloke to do some money laundering for him. I got hold of a letter the bloke wrote with the details of what they were doing. It gave everything; you know, names of banks and places they were using, all that sort of thing. Anyway, I made a copy. Good job I got on with old Farleigh’s secretary,” he grinned and smacked his lips. “I put the grip on this bloke when he came down one weekend to go shooting with Lord Farleigh and his cronies. He owed me a favour because I promised to keep quiet. So I called it in. That’s how it was easy to set it up.”

  “But I still don’t understand how it works,” Bruce said.

  Joe explained that the gold and silver would be shipped from Brisbane to Jakarta or even to Shanghai and then sold on to fences, dealers and antique collectors.

  “There’s a regular market for that sort of thing. The money gets paid into an off- shore account in the Isle of Man. It’s just a boat trip from Liverpool, so our money’ll be close to home,” he laughed at the thought.

  “But then how do we get at it?”

  “This bloke told me that they can make some sort of investment in the UK that’s exempt from tax. He said there were a lot of Arab and Chinese syndicates operating in the property business in London. They even have some money invested in government projects. We can get the money whenever we want it. The bloke said it was called ‘round tripping’. He said they do it all the time.”

  “But won’t they want some of it? I can’t see them doing all that for nothin’.”

  “Course, no one ‘spects them to work for nothin’. They get 10% plus some costs. But don’t worry, there’ll be plenty left for us.”

  The fact was that Joe was not entirely clear how it worked himself. He relied on his grip on Lord Farleigh’s friend to make the thing work. He also knew that this way, if anything happened to Bruce, there would be no link back to him. He would just deny everything that Bruce said. Meanwhile, he had plenty of gold and silver in the safe at his garage. If Bruce got caught and locked up, then so much the better, he would have it all to himself. On top of that, he had nearly 200,000 in the joint account. He rationalised that he had made all of the arrangements, so it was only fair.

  “How long do you reckon it’ll be before all this is over and we can spend our money, Joe?”

  “I reckon about twelve months, worse case. But then buddy boy, we’ll be in the clover.”

  Joe had not realised that he had raised his voice to overcome the noise from the bar. He glanced at the two people who occupied the next booth.

  “That bloody old couple are earwigging,” he whispered to Bruce.

  “You’re getting as paranoid as me, Joe. That’s old Megan and her brother, Seth. She couldn’t hear you if you sat next to her and shouted in her ear. They come in here once a week just like clockwork. She does cleaning for people up in Lynton and he’s got a saddlery repair shop or something over near South Molton or Brayford or somewhere; cantankerous old bugger by all accounts.”

  They drank up and then Joe drove them back up the steep winding road to Lynton. He bade Bruce farewell and reminded him to call
when he had offloaded the Toyota and was ready to fly home. As he put his truck away he couldn’t resist taking another look in the safe. His future was all in one spot. Just like the blokes what stashed it away all those years ago, he thought. Poor sods. Wonder what happened to them? A bunch of bleached bones buried somewhere on the moor. He laughed at the thought. ‘Their loss is my bloody gain’, he muttered as he went to bed.

  ***

  Cynthia hugged Katie and Ralph and Lance gave Kate a hug and clapped Ralph on the back as they prepared to go home. They said that the holiday had been just the tonic that they needed.

  “We’ll expect to see you both at our housewarming party when you get back,” Cynthia called as they turned their car around and headed out.

  Cynthia and Lance had sold their houseboat to a group of jazz musicians who wanted somewhere they could make noise and not get any complaints; the houseboat on the River Thames was ideal. After the sale had fallen through on the place at Clapham that they had originally thought would become their dream home, they had finally settled on one at Wimbledon Common. It was only a 10 minute drive to both Gypsy Hill and Dorich House.

  Once they had waved their friends off, Ralph relaxed in front of the fire and thought about packing and heading back to work in just a few days’ time. It was a prospect that he would have looked forwards to only a few years ago. Now, as teaching was increasingly treated as a job rather than a vocation, it had lost some of its appeal. His reverie was interrupted by the phone ringing.

  Katie called down from upstairs that she would get it. Ralph reached for his book. He figured that if it was one of Katie’s friends that she would be at least an hour. He was wrong.

  “Ralph, that was Marian. She’s getting those blackmail threats again.” Katie came running down the stairs. ‘One hand for the ship and one for yourself’. The old sailor’s doggerel ran through his mind. “Don’t you realize that those stairs can be lethal?” He muttered as Katie flopped down in the chair opposite him.

  “So what’s all that about Marian?” Ralph asked.”

  “You’re never going to believe this. Marian got another call demanding money for the photos.”

  “But if Kaminsky’s dead, that can’t be possible.”

  “I know, but some weirdo must have seen the article in the paper and put two and two together.”

  “Unless it’s a bluff. Was anything about the photos in the newspapers?”

  “Evidently. She said that some reporter had been sniffing around the University and someone must have said something about her and Daniel Kaminsky.”

  “Putting the boot in is more like it. Either someone doesn’t like her, or else they’re holding a grudge of some sort.”

  “Who would do that, Ralph?”

  He paused a moment before he replied. “I need to go to Brayford again. If it’s someone in the village, then the only person who knew anything about the photos would be Ann Bishop. You remember, she’s the woman that the newsreader said had identified Daniel’s body; probably an old girlfriend; a women scorned, as they say.”

  “That’ a typical chauvinist remark, Ralph. It could have been anyone. Whoever it is, Marian sounded pretty upset because her fiancé knows that she had an affair.”

  “An alcohol induced fling.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, he’ll have to think hard before he gets over that,” said Katie. “I know you, Ralph, you’d have a fit. So don’t get on your high horse.”

  “I read that he was out on bail. I expect Marian’s told him about the call and let the police know?”

  “She didn’t say. Do you think I should call her back?”

  “Just leave it. I’ll get over to Brayford tomorrow and see if I can get a word with this Ann Bishop. If someone is muscling in on the act, she’d want to stop them. She was a friend of Kaminsky’s; she identified his body. Well, that’s where I’m going to start.”

  ***

  Ralph had looked up Bishop in the phone book and fortunately

  there was only one: Frederick Arthur. The address was Long Acre Farm, Brayford.

  Having resisted getting a SatNav fitted in the Jag meant that he relied on local maps. Long Acre Farm was not marked. He spent a while driving around the narrow lanes and trying to make sense of the map in relation to the road signs. Eventually he stopped by a strip of land that sported two goals posts and called to a couple of lads who were kicking a ball about.

  “Am I right for Long Acre Farm?” They stopped and stared at him. One of them muttered something to his friend.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Bishop.”

  “It’s up that rutted lane at the cross roads, mister; ‘bout a mile. Just follow those cow paddies,” the older boy shouted as he looked at the well-kept Jag.

  Ralph thanked them and drove off; he wondered what it would be like to grow up in a small Devon village with little prospect of getting a job. He could see why most youngsters either moved on to the bigger towns or settled for working on a farm. He thought that if he were in their place he would have opted to work on a farm until he was old enough, then he would have joined the Navy.

  He edged his way slowly down the rutted lane. Fortunately it was dry, and the cow dung was not as bad as the boy had predicted, otherwise it would only have been passable with a four wheel drive. There was no sign for Long Acre Farm, but he assumed the run down house with a few outhouses at the end of the track must be it. As he switched off the ignition and went to get out of the car, two sheep dogs ran up barking and running around. A burly man appeared from the side of the house; he held a shot gun.

  “Wat you wan’. This ‘ere’s private property. No trespassers.”

  Ralph had already got out of the car. The dogs sniffed at his shoes and trousers until they were satisfied, then they ran back and stood wagging their tales alongside their master.

  “Mr. Bishop? I wondered if I could have a word with your daughter?” He had taken a chance that this was the place and that Ann Bishop was not the man’s wife. If he was wrong, then he was ready to dodge the first blast. He realised that he sounded a bit like someone in an amateur dramatics’ play. It was partly the effect of the surroundings and partly the shotgun cradled in the man’s arm that made Ralph feel unsettled.

  “Who are you, police? She already identified that body. What now?”

  Ralph thought it best not to get involved in a lengthy explanation while the gun was still pointed at him.

  “Just a quick word, sir. One or two things to clear up.” He realised that impersonating a police officer was an offense, but he had not actually said anything specific.

  “She’s inside. But you make it quick, an’ don’t you go upsettin’ ‘er. Bad enough she ‘ad to see the body.”

  The man turned away and walked off towards one of the barns. Ralph could hear cattle complaining. He had probably gone to milk the buggers, Ralph thought as he picked his way through the cow dung and avoided stepping on a bunch of chickens that were so intent on scratching in what was left of the gravel that they ignored him.

  Ralph walked quickly up the weed covered pathway that led to the farmhouse door. He saw a young woman standing just inside. She must have heard him speaking to her father and come to see who had the courage to face a loaded shot gun. He guessed that she was in her late teens. She reminded him of the hundreds if not thousands of young students that he had taught over the years. She was pretty, in a country way, thought Ralph. Fresh faced, strong features and long brown hair. She faced him with arms folded across her chest, her chin thrust up. It was what his colleagues referred to as ‘attitude’. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she shouted at him.

  “It’s about the photos. I knew that cow’d tell you; the bloody bitch.”

  She turned and went into the house. He hesitated before he followed. Inside an awful smell assailed his nostrils; it was a mixture of boiled cabbage and wet dogs. What had once been pretty lace curtains were now grey and torn. They blocked out whatever light might have
forced its way through the grime covered windows. Katie would freak out if she saw this, flashed through his mind. It looked as though the place had not been cleaned in months. A small fire smoldered in a large open fireplace and the white smoke came straight out into the room. A large, once white sink was full of unwashed dishes. Not house proud, Ralph noted. He decided to use a direct approach. Ann Bishop stood defiantly by the fireplace. He glanced around. Like father like daughter, he thought, and hoped that she did not have her own shotgun.

  “Tell me about Daniel and the photos,” he said. Ralph was eager to get whatever information she had as quickly as possible, and then get out before her father came back.

  “We broke up ‘cos a ‘er.” She almost spat the words out. “Danny loved me. I knew ‘e was a bit wild and Dad ‘ated ‘im. Then she came along. All fancy like. I knew she stayed wi’ Danny tha’ night. He said it were just a bit of a lark when I asked ‘im ‘bout it. Them photos would get us enough money t’ get married. Tha’s wha’ he promised.” There was a quaver in her voice. She had dropped the defiant pose. She was now just a young girl who was unsure of the world that she found herself in.

  Ralph felt a wave of emotion. It shook him to hear how this young girl who had wanted nothing more than to be with her boyfriend, and now it had all slipped away. He thought of others he knew who had far more devious plans, but because of their position and education, or perhaps guile, they had succeeded where she had failed; her Danny was in the morgue, and she was frightened.

  “Dad found wha’ Danny was up to. They ‘ad one a their rows. Dad wanted to beat ‘im up, but when I told ‘im what Mum would ‘ave wanted, he just told ‘im to get out; said he’d shoot ‘im if he came back.”

  Ralph saw that she was near to tears.

  “Danny told me he’d got some money and was goin’ off to Lunnon. I found the photos in an envelope in his cottage. I was goin’ t’ burn ‘em. Then I thought I’d make that bitch pay.”

  She reached up to a shelf at the top of a glass-fronted dresser and handed Ralph an envelope.