Murder on Exmoor
Page 10
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Chapter 9
It was getting on towards the end of August. Warm summer days could still be expected for at least the next four to five weeks and then it would be autumn. Then the late holiday-makers to North Devon would mainly be hillwalkers and those couples whose kids had grown up and moved out, and who were experiencing a revival of their own youth.
Joe, true to his promise, had traveled to Heathrow to meet Bruce’s plane. It had meant leaving Lynton at midnight for the 5 hour drive. He had drunk three Starbucks to keep himself awake. He waited at the arrivals barrier for the passengers to come through. He looked up at the board: BA016 landed at 04.50. As the trickle of people coming through the swing doors turned to a flow, he spotted his friend. He had somehow expected a cowboy hat with corks to ward off the flies, but it was the same old Bruce. A large trolley bulging with suitcases suggested that his friend had managed enough time in Sydney to stock up on Australian goods. He was always going on about how he missed Vegemite sandwiches for his lunch or mid- morning snack.
An old man came through the double doors just after Bruce. For a second Joe’s heart missed a beat; Seth’s death still haunted him at night. He hoped that after a time he would forget that crunch as the truck knocked him down. He had removed the bull-bars from it and repainted any scuffs that might be a giveaway to an inquisitive local policeman. Nevertheless, he had been relieved to read in the newspapers that Seth’s death had been reported as an accident. The most likely explanation was that the driver had not even known that he had hit anyone; it was not unheard of on those unlit country roads. He pushed those thoughts from his mind as he greeted his old friend.
“Hey Bruce, over here, mate!” He shouted as he ducked under the rope that separated disembarking passengers from the friends and family who waited on the other side.
Bruce had that slightly shellshock expression that so many long haul passengers wear when they finally reach their destination. He let the rucksack that he had been struggling with slip to the floor.
“What a trip. Twelve bloody hours to Singapore then the same again for the trip here. Thank God that’s all over.”
“Good to see you, man. You’ve got the old suntan, I see. I s’pect you’re ready for a nice cuppa and a chance to rest up. You must be knackered.”
“You got that right; I’m whacked.”
Joe slapped him on the back.
“Welcome home, sport.”
Bruce was content to simply follow as Joe pushed the trolley through the crowd towards the lifts that led to the carpark.
Having wrestled the overloaded trolley out of the lift and cursed the families that seemed intent on hugging their relatives and chatting instead of just getting out of the way, they finally reached the carpark. Joe instructed Bruce to guard the luggage while he went to sort out the parking ticket. He blinked at the machine. He’d only been there a couple of hours and it had cost him nearly eight pounds. He grunted and put a handful of coins in the slot.
Bruce slumped against the trolley as he watched the taxis pull up alongside the curb to collect their passengers. He vaguely took in the sight as drivers struggled to put their luggage in every conceivable space in the already crowded vehicles.
Joe waived the stamped exit ticket at his friend as he reclaimed the trolley and indicated to Bruce to follow him. Fortunately he had written the row and space on the ticket.
“Here we are, sport. You can just stretch out and relax while I get us back to Devon.”
Joe hoisted the large suitcase and Bruce’s backpack into the back and gave the trolley a quick glance to make certain he had left nothing before he climbed in and turned the key.
“Better buckle that seatbelt, Bruce, we don’t want to get a hefty fine,” he told him as they exited the carpark ramp.
Soon they were out of the airport complex and on the M25. Bruce dozed off almost immediately and Joe concentrated on his driving. He did not want to miss the exit for the M3 towards the West Country.
The early commuters switched lanes in their efforts to cut every second possible from their journey to work. ‘Bloody fools’, Joe muttered to himself. He wondered how anybody could face that every morning and then have to repeat it all over again on the way home. The road sign indicated that they were nearing the end of the M3.
As he flicked on the indicators and crossed to the inside lane, his friend awoke with a start.
“Let’s stop in at a café or something, Joe. I’m parched and busting for a leak.”
“There’s a place I know on the A303 in only another 10 minutes or so where we can get a bacon sandwich and some chips. I could use some breakfast myself. I made the mistake of stopping at some dive on the way up near Taunton; cost a bomb and the food was awful.”
“I was sorta surprised to see you at the airport; thought now you’re rich you might send a taxi to pick me up.” They both laughed at the idea.
Joe pulled into what was once a popular truck-drivers’ stop. Now that the M4 took most of the West Country traffic, it was deserted, apart from a couple who had stopped on their way to work for a coffee.
An unshaven man stood behind the counter. An old-fashioned tea urn gave out a trickle of steam that even on a summer’s morning managed to make the place feel clammy.
“Two teas, milk and sugar. Bacon sandwich and some chips,” Joe told the man.
“Is that two bacon sandwiches?” The man asked.
Joe wanted to say – you ‘eard me. Just bloody well do it you numbo but thought better of it. It was the only place open apart from McDonalds, and that would mean queuing up. He just nodded and went and sat down with Joe.
“I’ll bring your teas,” the man called across to them.
Joe just waved. He was too tired to have an argument.
“You’ll feel like you’re back home as soon as you get some tea and a few chips in you,” Joe said as he joined Bruce at the only table in the place that was not covered in dirty plates and cups. “I think I’m more tired than you, mate. I hate that drive to the airport.”
“Don’t you have to go to work when we get back?” Bruce asked.
“No work for me today. The bloody toffs can wait for their precious cars to be fixed.”
Bruce shook out a generous dollop of HP sauce onto his sandwich and sipped his tea. He took one bite and pushed it, along with the greasy chips, aside.
“You must really be zonked,” Joe said. “Never saw you push your food away before.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, Joe.”
“What’s that? You got yourself hitched or something down in Australia?” He started to laugh and then remembered about Joan, although Bruce had not seemed to notice.
“It’s no joke. I think we might be in trouble with the Australian police.”
Joe put down the thick china cup. “How’s that?”
Bruce explained that he had sold the Toyota to a couple of backpackers in Sydney.
“There’s a big underground car park downtown and anyone who wants to buy a camper van or whatever. You know for seeing the outback. They just -----.”
Joe was getting impatient. “Get to the point, mate. You said something about the police. You had all the papers and you already told me that you got the stuff to the bloke in Brisbane.”
“No, that bit went okay. After I unloaded the stuff there I just wanted to shift the truck and get back home. Nobody told me.”
“You’re not makin’ sense pal. Nobody told you what?”
“After I’d got rid of the truck, I had to wait for a flight back to England. That was when I spent three days in Sydney. I got a cheap hotel so no one’d be able to trace me.”
Joe was tired and Bruce was beginning to try his patience.
“Just get to the point, sod it,” he shouted at his friend.
“I’m trying to, Joe. Anyhow, while I was in Sydney I heard on the radio that the police wanted to speak to a Ray Smith.”
“That’s the nam
e that was on those false vehicle documents I got from that bloke in Bristol; cost a bomb.” said Joe.
“Well that part was okay, Joe, but it turned out that the kids who bought it went to have it serviced and the bloke at the garage found what you’d done to the chassis. It was all on the news the next day. It said that the police had found traces of gold and silver.”
“Did you do go to that bloke I told you about in Brisbane to get the license plates changed like I told you?”
“I did just like you said,” Joe. “He said he’d filed off the engine number and took the ID labels off the doors and everything. He even checked that the new registration documents made out to Ray Smith were okay and gave me the blue copy of the safety certificate as well.”
“So there’s no way the truck could be traced back to the one that came into Sydney on that container ship.” Joe laughed. “So what’s the problem? There’s no way a bunch of dumb Aussie police are going to trace it to you, mate. Relax and finish your tea. I want to get home and get some sleep. My god, Bruce, you nearly gave me a turn then.”
Bruce still fretted as they drove off.
“Did you hear anything from that bloke about our money? Shouldn’t it already be in the bank on The Isle of Man by now?”
Joe had not heard back. When he had phoned the number he had been given, the operator had told him that there was no listing for a Williams and Sons Bank either on the Isle of Man or in the UK. He had even driven over to Lord Farleigh’s estate and quizzed the old man’s secretary about Lord Farleigh’s friend who had set it all up. When he called the number she had given him, he was told that they would get right back. So far he had heard nothing. He had begun to worry that it was all going pear-shaped, but he was not about to say anything about it to Bruce.
“It’s fine, Bruce; just a few more weeks. You get your head down and I’ll give you a shout when we get to the turn-off to Lynton. I’ve fixed up the back room over the garage so everything’s all set up.”
When he glanced over at the passenger seat, Bruce was fast asleep, his head against the neck cushion he had bought for the flight home. Joe tried listening to the radio but soon got tired of the banal chatter of the two announcers who seemed to think that people wanted to hear their jokes at eight o’clock in the morning. As they passed Stonehenge, he wondered if there were any finds to be made there. ‘Not likely’, he muttered to himself. That’s probably why they pinched it from the Romans and stuck it in that hole up at Sherracombe. He chuckled to himself.
***
Over the next couple of weeks Joe concentrated on his work and Bruce spent his time looking up one or two contacts in the town and trying unsuccessfully to find a job.
One evening as they sat in the small room at the back of the garage that Joe had fixed up as a kitchen and a place to eat, they talked about what they were going to do about the gold and silver in the safe. Bruce wanted to sell it and move on. He was still convinced that the Australian police would track him down. He had lain in bed thinking about it. In his mind he traced through how they would match the Toyota up with the one that the customs people had on their records using the engine mileage or some detail that the people in Brisbane had missed. They might even find his fingerprints in the cab and match them with the ones they had on file. Then they would contact MI5 or whatever, and he would be arrested. He had even thought out an escape plan.
Bruce selected a night when Joe seemed to be in a good mood. He had bought a pack of beer at the local shop and they had heated up two take-away turkey dinners in the rusty gas oven. It had not been used for years and the inside was covered in grease, but it did the job.
“Look Joe, It’s all well and good for you down here; you’ve got your business and all, but there’s nothing for me. I’ve looked, and I can’t find a job anywhere; once the holiday-makers go, it’ll be even worse. I wanna sell my share of what’s left in the safe and go to London or somewhere and start a new life.”
“You’re still jet lagged, mate. A few more weeks and you’ll be right as rain. We can get the old detectors out and see if there’s anything more out there. They say lightning never strikes twice, but who knows? We might prove them wrong. I know this place over at Dunster; back behind that Castle. Some bugger’s bound to have hid some jewels or something there. Wha’d you think? C’mon, let’s drink to it.” He raised his beer bottle in a salute.
“But we’ve finished with all that, Joe. Let’s have a look at the safe and sort my share out.”
When Bruce was in Australia Joe had begun to think of all that gold and silver in the safe as his. Now that he was back, Joe was decidedly uncomfortable with the idea of sharing. If it turned out that they had been stitched up by Lord Farleigh’s friend, then he would need all the money he could lay his hands on to clear the outstanding mortgage on the garage and live the life style that he had always dreamed about. The little garage there was all fine and good, but he wanted a chain of garages across Devon and Cornwall, and with himself as the boss. He had plans to buy himself a yacht and a Bentley or a Rolls Royce. Now Bruce was back and his contact had done a runner with their dosh, he might as well forget it.
“A mate down the town told me about Seth Raines being killed by a hit and run driver,” Bruce said, his voice interrupting Joe’s reverie.
“What’s that?” Joe asked as he pulled himself back to the conversation.
“You know, that hit and run. The old man. Seems the police never got anyone for it.”
“Who was it?” Joe tried to appear disinterested as he put the beer aside and poured himself a cup of tea.
“It was old Seth. Remember? We saw him and his sister Megan at the pub. You thought they were spying on us. It was the night before I went -----.”
“I bloody well remember, Bruce. For god’s sake shut up.” He shouted as his cup fell to the ground. He put his head in his hands.
“Joe? You all right?”
After a few seconds Joe stopped shaking.
“No I’m not bloody alright, you fool,” Joe said. “You’ve no idea what’s involved in all of this. You just go buggering off to Australia and I’m left to sort things out. If you must know, we’ve been screwed by that bloke who was goin’ to take care of getting us the money and on top of that someone was blackmailing me.”
“By who? The bloke?”
“No, you idiot, by Seth bloody Raines and his crabby damn sister.”
He told Bruce what had happened; how he had given Seth’s sister the money.
“I didn’t have a choice, Bruce. He was goin’ to tell the police about us; what he saw out there on the moor; weren’t nothing else I could do.”
“What you trying to say, Joe? You mean you’re the one the police are looking for?”
“I had to stop him, Bruce; weren’t no other way to keep him quiet.”
He skimmed over the fact that he had planned it all: the chat in the pub; waiting until Joe was half drunk; and then hitting him with the truck. He phrased everything in vague terms.
Bruce stood up and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“It was an accident, Joe. You can still go to the police; say you never saw him. It was rainy and dark. These things happen.”
“But what about the sister? She’d tell the police about what Seth was up to, and that I’d given her money to keep him quiet. I’d get 10 years or more. I’ve seen it on the tele. They’d say I did it with intent; that’s what they’d say. I might even get life. My God what a mess.”
They sat there, each trying to work out what they should do through a haze of beer.
“What if we just take what we got in the safe and just disappear? Who’d ever now?” Bruce suggested. “Megan’d still believe that old Seth’d just had an unfortunate accident. Why would she suspect anything?”
“She musta known that I was goin’ see Seth that night when he got killed. For all we know she could just be waitin’ before she puts the grip on us good an’ proper. She’d have us over a right barrel.”
“I’m not goin’ to no damn prison. We’ve got to make sure that old crone, Megan bloody Raines don’t say nuthin’ to nobody.” He stood up and gripped the edge of the table. He leant towards his friend, almost willing Bruce to see his point. “If I could get her to come into the garage, I could fix it so she tripped on some tools or some oil or somethin’.”
“I’m not gettin’ involved in no murder, Joe.”
“Too bloody late,” he shouted. “You’re already in for fraud, money launderin’, smugglin’ gold into Australia, the lot. I’ll say you knew everything includin’ about the blackmail. So don’t think you can bail out now. You Aussies got no bloody guts; just a flamin’ bunch of bloody convicts. An’ that goes for you an’ that bloody wife a yours. You’d a looked after her better she’d a bin alive now. You’re just a bloody loser; always was and all always will be.” It had all come tumbling out. He wanted to swallow the last five minutes of his tirade, but it was too late.
Bruce jumped up and took a swing at Joe. The surprise knocked him off balance. As he fell back against a side table, his hand felt the shaft of a hammer. Weeks of pent up anger flooded through his veins. Before he knew it, he had struck out with it, and Bruce crashed to the floor. As he fell he grabbed the table for support and their half-eaten dinners flew across the room and the two beer bottles lay spinning on their sides. Joe watched as the foaming ale spread slowly across the cracked linoleum and mingled with the blood seeping from Bruce’s skull. Joe dropped the hammer and knelt by his friend.
“Bruce. You alright mate?” he called out anxiously. “Come on, stop messin’ around. I never connected. It just hit your arm. Come on, say somethin’.”
Bruce had struck his head on a starter motor that Joe had meant to fit that day. The pool of blood and beer spread out like a fan across the floor. Joe straightened up. He picked up one of the beer bottles and threw it across the room. He looked around at the mess. He thought of calling an ambulance, but he didn’t. With one arm he swept the table clear. Then he sat down in the silent room and began to sob.