by Penny Grubb
‘And you’d both been out?’
‘Yes, parish meeting. First Tuesday of the month. Ted Balham never turned up, but that wasn’t unusual. I wasn’t in the house five minutes before the telephone went. Tremlow in a blue funk. Told him to ring the emergency services; said I was on my way.’
Tremlow’s house stood at the bottom of a crescent of similar houses, bathed in hot sunlight, the shadows short, reflective surfaces glinting as though a giant hand had sprinkled glitter round the street. The gardens were neat for the most part with a couple of makeshift wooden fences spoiling the overall effect. Tremlow’s wore an air of genteel neglect, faded paintwork and dingy net curtains. Annie walked slowly up the path matching her pace to the colonel’s. He ignored the front door and headed round the side of the house. Annie looked out down the back garden to see if the track across the fields were visible, but the vegetation was too thick and high.
At the sound of locks being drawn back she turned to the house to see a door swing open. Tremlow looked smaller than she remembered from Terry Martin’s funeral, slightly bent, dark hair thinning unevenly. The skin round his face and neck hung loosely in folds, his expression haggard. Annie saw sleep deficit in eyes that looked as black as though he’d been punched.
With a fussy and nervy manner he invited them in to sit at a small Formica kitchen table.
‘Charles, this is Miss Raymond. She’s a private detective, looking into the death of that reporter chappie.’
‘Oh dear.’ Tremlow pulled at his earlobe. ‘Do they think it’s murder then?’
‘No, no. Pull yourself together, old chap. Miss Raymond wants to know how it happened that’s all. I thought we’d go through it together for her.’
‘But we’ve done all that for the police. Why do we have to keep going over it?’
‘I’ll tell you what, Charles. You’ve not had a proper cup of tea, have you? Shall we let Miss Raymond make us a fresh pot?’
Annie looked round to locate kettle and cups. She’d had office placements where she’d made fewer hot drinks for people, but if it would get the information she needed she was happy to chuck a few tea bags about.
Tremlow glanced at her sideways. ‘It’s all in a bit of a state. The woman who does for me is away.’
‘Miss Raymond isn’t interested in domestic details, Charles.’
Yes, thought Annie, as she retrieved three cups from the heap of dirty dishes in the sink and rinsed them under the tap, she’d rather have interrogated Tremlow on her own. The colonel was used to the direct approach. You wanted something, you barked out the order and expected to get it. But Tremlow was the sort to whom you gave free rein; let him talk about what he wanted, steer gently but don’t badger for detail as the colonel did now.
‘The night of the last parish meeting, Charles. You remember? You talked to me on the telephone.’
‘Of course I remember. I’ll never forget.’
‘Tell Miss Raymond about hearing a noise outside.’
Annie lined up the cups as she listened. Tremlow had his back to her. At least he would talk in front of his old buddy. On her own, she might not have made it over the threshold. She picked up a metal tin labelled ‘Tea’.
‘People have been on at me for a long time about securing the kitchen door, but it’s never been like that round here. What if something happened in the night? How would anyone get to me? I don’t like to lock myself in.’
Annie thought back to the sounds of bolts sliding as he’d undone the door for them. She prised the lid off the tin and pulled a face. Loose tea, not bags. What on earth did you do with loose tea? She had a vague idea it needed a teapot and a complicated filter.
‘I put my hearing aid in to see if I could tell where the noise had come from and there was this dreadful clatter. I said to Frank, you’ve got to come round, Frank. I’ve an intruder.’
‘Did you see Terry Martin before he fell?’ Annie eased the question in as she lifted a rotund china teapot from the side of the sink.
‘No.’
The bald negative nonplussed her. Inside the pot lay the cold but fierce remains of the last brew. She tipped them down the sink and watched the patterns. She couldn’t see the future in them but at least they told her the leaves went directly in the pot.
Tremlow’s account went in loops like the roads round the village. He backtracked, changed his mind about what had happened when, and over everything he sprinkled comments about the woman who did for him.
‘If she hadn’t been away … can’t manage on my own … what’ll happen if she won’t come back…?’
The colonel badgered Tremlow to keep him on the right track and Annie didn’t know how to stop him.
‘Never mind about that, Charles. Stick to the facts of the evening … You’re overwrought, that’s all … perfectly able to look after yourself …’
‘Where did it happen?’ Annie asked.
‘I’ll show you.’ Tremlow surprised them both by getting suddenly to his feet. ‘Come on.’
‘Now, Charles, is this necessary?’
The colonel put out a hand to stop his friend but Tremlow shook him off and marched to the door. ‘D’you want to see or not?’ He shot the question at Annie.
‘Yes, thank you.’
Tremlow led them to the fence that separated his garden from his neighbour. ‘There, look.’ He pointed up at the next-door house where a metal skeleton of scaffolding clung up one corner. ‘On that platform there. That’s where he was standing. I saw him plain as day.’
Annie shot Tremlow a quick glance but said nothing.
‘The scoundrel must have been trying to make his way round the edge to get in through the bedroom window,’ the colonel said. ‘That’s what the policeman thought.’
‘And that’s where he died.’ Tremlow shuddered.
Annie’s gaze followed his pointing finger. A trench had been dug at the base of whatever was being done to the house. Jagged shards of concrete lay about. It was quite a distance to fall.
‘Is it an extension they’re having done?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ the colonel said, then turned to Tremlow. ‘Charles, you need a nip of good malt and a few hours’ sleep.’
‘No, it’s repairs. That house is in a terrible state.’
‘Come on, Charles. I’ll not take no.’
Tremlow sagged as he succumbed to the pressure of his friend’s hand under his arm, and turned to the house. Annie glanced back at the scaffolding tower. ‘Were they in that night, the people who live there?’
‘No,’ Tremlow snapped. ‘I told you, she’s away.’
‘Don’t over-excite yourself, Charles.’
‘I don’t believe in drink, but if it’s medicinal … I haven’t had a wink of sleep since that night.’
‘And they’re still away?’ Annie’s gaze ran over the scene of Terry Martin’s death.
‘Holiday. No one can contact them.’ The colonel answered her. ‘Come on, Charles. Don’t over-excite yourself.’
Annie left the colonel fussing over his friend. He waved her off with the assurance he could call out a neighbour to give him a lift back. ‘Don’t you worry. Think I’d better stay on here a while.’
Annie felt troubled as she drove away. Tremlow was obviously traumatized by what he’d seen but even so his account was all over the place. He must have been a nightmare as a witness. She’d drop it into conversation with Scott tonight. Confusion she could understand, but that bald ‘No’ sat uneasily with the statement ‘I saw him plain as day’.
Annie drove back to the centre of Milesthorpe, parked the car beside the Green and strolled through the heart of the village towards the post office and general store.
The shop window was busy with handwritten notices. Some had been there long enough that the sun had leached the words away and left only yellowing card. She paused to skim them. Items for sale from cars to puppies; services on offer … gardening … guttering … no job too small. She imagined a new notice i
n the middle with a photograph of Terry Martin: Did you see this man in the week after Milesthorpe Show?
It was no surprise to be greeted by name when she went inside. She chose a steak pasty and an apple and asked that the former be heated. While it revolved in the microwave behind the counter she chatted about Terry Martin. Of the half dozen people in the shop, they hadn’t all met him, but were all eager to add their morsel to her store of knowledge.
When she asked if anyone had seen him in the week following Milesthorpe Show, several voices piped up. Annie probed for detail – where and when? What was he doing? Who was he with? Disappointingly, no one could better the ‘threeish on Sunday’ she’d had from Heather Becke and Mally Fletcher. From then until Tuesday evening remained a void.
Mentally she filed the information as she strolled back towards the Green.
At some stage, she must approach Doris Kitson, the third of the trio, but what could the woman tell her that she hadn’t already had, however confused, from Colonel Ludgrove and Charles Tremlow? The order was important and at the moment her gut told her that Doris Kitson would be more useful in confirming the tales she heard from others, than as a source of fresh leads. Already, she’d unearthed a new angle on Terry Martin. It sat uncomfortably close to his dealings with the three girls but she didn’t have to use everything she found.
She drove down the hill to the livery yard where fields and stable blocks spread out in front of her. In contrast to her reception elsewhere in the village, Annie’s arrival generated no interest. She climbed out of the car into a dusty yard filled with vehicles, diesel fumes and the clatter of hoofs. She crossed to the edge of the field to investigate a strand of glitter that twinkled at her just the other side of the fence. This close she could see it was exactly what it looked like, a long strand of gold and silver Christmas decoration. Thick, heavy-duty stuff that might have been designed to dress a town centre. She reached forward to touch it, but just in time spotted the thin line of wire that tracked its path. Electric fencing disguised behind tinsel. Nothing was quite what it seemed around here.
She walked back towards the stable blocks, assuming they’d be the hub of activity, but found no real focus, just clusters of people all busy with ponies or the weird-shaped leather-bound accoutrements of the horsy world.
‘Hi, Annie!’
Annie spun round at the familiar voice. Mally sat astride a small brown pony. ‘Hi, Mally. Is that … uh … Boxer?’
‘Yup. Rubbish, isn’t he? But he’s all right just to ride out now and then. I won’t bother with him when I get my new horse. Grandad’s going to suss me out a proper horse. Better than Steele even.’
Annie smiled her acknowledgement of Mally’s good fortune in the new horse.
‘That was Steele’s.’ Mally pointed to one of the stables ‘He had to have the end one when he was down here ’cos he was highly strung.’
Annie, who had understood ‘better than steel’ to mean hard as nails realized Mally spoke of the pony that had had to be sold. If money were as tight as it seemed, she didn’t fancy Mally’s chances of a fine new horse. She doubted even her doting grandfather could deliver.
Before Annie could respond, a voice bellowed, ‘Mally, didn’t I tell you…?’
‘Yes, Tina,’ Mally shouted, as she spun the pony through 180 degrees and clattered off round the side of the building.
Annie looked to identify the owner of the megaphone voice and found herself facing a small, slim woman with short-cropped hair, skin-tight black jodhpurs and a T-shirt several sizes too large.
In answer to Annie’s query, she said, ‘Yup, glad to tell you what I can. But give me five minutes. I need to finish up.’
While she waited, Annie fell into desultory conversation with a few of the other hangers-on, mostly parents with no useful role to play as their offspring tidied away their equine charges. The people she spoke to were aware of ‘an accident on a building site in the village’ but none had known Terry Martin. She learnt that the field’s deadly decorations were part of the ethos of the yard. Any pony stabled here must learn to be as fearful of tinsel as of lions.
‘She hides the wire behind the stuff and trains them with the electric fence at full so they get a hell of a jolt.’
‘Can’t they just learn not to touch the wire?’ Annie wondered.
‘That’s what they do in most yards, but Tina Hain’s a bit … well … odd. She says she’s not having the expense and hassle of batteries and wires in the outlying fields. She has a point, but it can cause havoc in the fancy dress if some outsider turns up dressed as a Christmas tree.’
Annie laughed as the woman moved off to collect her child.
By the time she followed Tina into the bungalow that nestled behind the stable blocks, Annie knew this would be her last interview in Milesthorpe for the day. Had she known what five minutes meant in Tina Hain’s vocabulary she could have nipped back to the village for a chat with Doris Kitson. Too late for that now. She must be back in time to update Pat on all that had happened, and to explain Scott’s presence before he turned up.
‘Terry Martin,’ Tina said, as they sat down. ‘Odd little guy. I used to like him, but he got a bit creepy those last few weeks.’
‘Had you known him long?’
‘Oh yes. Terry did the shows for years. Did some good photos. He used to take videos and get stills off them.’
‘Mally’s grandfather said you’d had a word with him about Terry.’
‘He remembers, does he? It was like talking to a wall. He has a real blind spot where that child’s concerned. “Mally can look after herself … Mally can do no wrong.” He’s right of course, she’s a tough nut, but Terry was what … nearly forty? Mally’s a kid. I didn’t like the way he was hanging about her like he was pestering her for something.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘Uh … Not that Mally would come clean about it and, of course, Terry denied it. He spun the old man a line about doing a big feature on Mally. He always could talk a big story.’
‘Mally seems very angry. More so than the average girl her age. Is it to do with losing her pony? I gather it had to be sold.’
‘It was the divorce settlement. It was all pretty rocky. Her mother barely managed to hold on to the house. Mally’s father went to Withernsea with his new piece. Not that Mally’ll hear a word against him. She was always a daddy’s girl.’
‘And a grandaddy’s girl.’
Tina laughed. ‘Yeah, too right. She has him round her little finger. Mind you, it’s no wonder she’s grown up like she has. It’s been daggers drawn in that family for years. The old man never got on with Mally’s father, always sided with his own daughter against her husband. The marriage never stood a chance. It’s a wonder they lasted as long as they did.’
‘I spoke to Heather Becke earlier. She told me you’d barred Terry from your land.’
Tina nodded. ‘It was that business with Mally. Probably there was nothing in it. I don’t know. But when I found out—’
‘Found out what?’
‘Look, like I said, maybe there was nothing in it, but they wouldn’t say what it was about. Terry had been giving her money.’
‘Mally?’
‘Possibly Kay and Laura, too. I didn’t like it. And when they wouldn’t come clean, that was it. I wasn’t risking the reputation of the stables with any funny business.’
Annie decided to end this line of questioning. Whatever was or wasn’t going on Tina didn’t know for sure and Annie didn’t want to hear any theories. She switched to another track. ‘Heather Becke was amazed when I told her Terry had filmed the horse show.’
‘You mean the Showcross? He certainly didn’t. You’ve got that wrong.’
Annie rummaged through her bag and flicked through the edited DVDs. She pulled out the one labelled Milesthorpe Show (ponies) and threw a glance at the TV in the corner. ‘I’m afraid he did. Do you want to see?’
Tina looked taken aback, but reached for the di
sk and slotted it into the player. The film started abruptly into the crowds and noise of Milesthorpe Green, then cut to a young girl propping a number against a low fence.
Tina’s expression darkened. ‘Yes, that’s the Showcross course. He’s come in through the bottom gate. Look, you can see he isn’t concentrating. The camera’s all over the place.’
They watched the disjointed shots unfold until they reached the sequence that had amused Annie first time round, before she knew what a punch the film’s finale held. Two ponies thundered towards a small obstacle and suddenly swerved out. The camera lurched as Terry Martin backed away hurriedly. Flying hoofs … mud … and then Terry tripped. Annie hadn’t noticed until she’d made the edited version, but he’d backed into someone. The shot gave the briefest glimpse of a pair of legs half-tangled in his before it cut.
The film stopped.
Annie looked up in surprise. She watched Tina click a button and take the film through a jerky backward sequence. Click. Again the two ponies thundered at the obstacle. Again Terry Martin leapt back out of their way. Again he tripped. Click. Stop. Rewind.
This time through, a familiarity about the faces all but hidden under helmets and straps caught Annie’s attention. She knew those riders. Kay rode the pony nearest Terry Martin, and it was Laura on the other small brown one – surely Boxer – who swerved out pushing Kay into the camera.
Tina stopped the film. Annie looked at her; read her expression. She remembered the subsequent sequence of winners and amongst them Laura Tunbridge on her small brown pony accepting a red rosette and a cup. She watched Tina closely as she asked, ‘That was Mally Fletcher he tripped over, wasn’t it?’
Tina nodded. ‘The conniving little bastards!’
Annie let out a sigh. She’d have to bone up on the ins and outs of the rules of Showcross to know exactly what had happened but, as realization dawned, she felt a weight lift. A different reason for Terry Martin’s odd hold over the three girls came on to her radar.
They’d cheated to win that cup, and he had them on film.
CHAPTER 11