1911021494

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  Harry Mowbray’s memory was vague, and his daughter, who lived with him, informed the detective that her father suffered from significant memory lapses. Melsom saw the vacant expression on the old man’s face and didn’t pursue the matter. He returned to Swanage to visit the veterinary surgery. Here he made better progress and spent the rest of the morning searching through old records with the aid of Shona, the receptionist. It was Shona who found the entry, dated July 1989. Both animal corpses had been examined within a week of each other.

  ‘Those initials are for Mr Eastways. I think he was the senior partner until he retired. It was quite a long time ago,’ said Shona. ‘I only came here three years ago when the last receptionist moved away. She’d been here for yonks. She doesn’t live locally anymore but we still have her phone number. I can phone her if you like. Apparently she knew everything that went on.’

  ‘If I can just have her name and number please, that will be fine. And for the vet, if you have it.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Shona with a smile. ‘Let me know how you get on. Please?’

  * * *

  Colin Eastways still lived locally and kept in touch with the practice and many of the farmers he used to serve. He ushered Melsom into his lounge and offered him some coffee.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally remember cases involving pets from that long ago, but these two incidents were most peculiar. They should both still be on record at your place because the local police were involved.’

  Melsom cursed himself for yet again missing the obvious. Why hadn’t he checked the records at the station? It was obvious that the incidents would have involved the police in some way.

  ‘Anyway,’ the retired vet continued, ‘none of us doubted that the same culprit was responsible for the two incidents, though the second was more serious. The kitten had just been strangled as far as I remember, but the puppy had been partially strangled, then had its throat cut and its tongue sliced off after death.’

  ‘And both had been thrown onto the top of the Agglestone?’

  ‘Apparently, yes. We didn’t see that. The bodies were brought to us by whoever found them. Why the interest now?’ asked Eastways, then said, ‘Ah. It’ll be that body found on the rock last week. I understand. But surely there’s no connection after all this time? These incidents with the animals were twenty years ago. Maybe more.’

  ‘I can’t comment, sir. But we follow up every lead. Were the owners of the animals ever identified?’

  ‘I really can’t remember. But I can tell you who may be able to help. Our receptionist at that time was Maria Ogamba. She lived in Studland and knew everything and everybody. The trouble is, I don’t know where she lives now.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir. I already have her details from the current receptionist. She had the same idea as you.’

  ‘Nice to know they’ve still got staff who are on the ball.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘I miss it, you know. I try to keep in contact with some of the farmers and clients, but it gets more difficult each year. So many people have moved away or died.’

  Melsom didn’t know what to say to this. He finished his coffee and stood up.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful. Please contact us if you remember anything else, no matter how trivial it may seem.’

  He phoned the former receptionist as soon as he got back to the car, but there was no answer. He returned to the station. Marsh and Sophie were both pleased with the information he’d obtained.

  ‘Do you seriously think there’s a link?’ he asked Marsh.

  ‘Well, it seems a bit peculiar, doesn’t it? But the similarities with the dog are really unusual. The slit throat and the tongue removal. And the vet said that it was reported to us? Go down and see Tom Rose and find out where the records might be. With a bit of luck they’ll still be around.’

  It took Melsom the rest of the morning to find the details of the animal incident. They told him nothing new. The investigating constable had made minimal notes. There was no record of the owners.

  ‘It doesn’t show us in the best light, does it?’ he said to Marsh over lunch. ‘I mean, I can get more information from vet records than from our own.’

  ‘They might have had other priorities, Jimmy. We don’t know what else was going on at the time. Maybe he never managed to find out anything else. Look on the bright side. You’ve still got the receptionist to contact. And if that doesn’t work, get back over to the village and pick the brains of some of the old people. Someone will remember something, believe me.’

  He didn’t need to make another visit. He tried the phone number he’d been given for Maria Ogamba again and this time she answered the phone.

  ‘Of course I remember it, Officer. It was very weird, and there was a bit more to it than most people realised.’

  She now lived in Dorchester. Melsom made arrangements to call on her that afternoon.

  * * *

  ‘Well! What a handsome young man!’

  Maria Ogamba gave a throaty laugh. ‘You’re safe to come in, Constable. I don’t bite. Leastways, not much.’

  She led Melsom through to a small sitting room, and went to make them a pot of tea.

  ‘You know, it’s about time that some of you lot followed up that wicked crime. But it’s not exactly recent, is it? What’s taken you so long? Was the paperwork a bit difficult?’ She laughed.

  Jimmy smiled rather nervously and took out his notebook.

  ‘Mr Eastways said you’d probably remember what happened better than anyone. Could you just tell me, and what your thoughts were?’

  ‘Of course, Jimmy. You did say your name was Jimmy, didn’t you? My memory isn’t what it was, you know . . .’

  She looked at him from under lowered lashes. ‘Only joking!’ Her grey curls shook as she laughed.

  ‘Where shall I start? Well, it was Harry Mowbray that brought the little kitten in. He worked in one of the timber yards, so he walked across the heath to work some days and so did Ray Potts. Harry lived in the same row of cottages as me, four doors along, I think.’

  Not again, thought Melsom. Why hadn’t he thought to ask how they knew the heath and what they did for a living? He was becoming a little depressed about his deficiencies as a detective.

  ‘You can tell I’ve been thinking about it, can’t you?’ She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t normally remember something in this much detail, you know.’

  ‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Ogamba.’

  ‘Ms, Officer. I never got married. My man was a real rascal. He fathered my children and then buggered off. Fancy leaving a beautiful woman like me, eh? Can you believe it?’ She roared with laughter.

  Melsom smiled weakly.

  ‘It was me that made the entries in the records, you know. Neat writing, eh? Did you read them? But that was only the medical details. The poor kitten had been strangled, then a week later the puppy came in. It was terrible. What kind of person could do that to a poor young animal? But you know all this already, don’t you?’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘I think the animals were from the farm, you know, and had been taken onto the heath deliberately. One of the men who found them said that they’d seen an old sack thrown away by the rock. There were lots of kittens on that farm. The cats lived in the barn and kept the rats and mice away. They had dogs as well, and the one that came in was about the right size for a litter of collies that had been born a good few months before.’

  ‘But who would have done it? Killed them, I mean?’

  ‘And in that horrid way. It was just awful to see that puppy’s injuries. I remember hoping that it hadn’t suffered much.’ Maria’s face had lost its cheer. ‘There was a camp on the farm at the time. Some kind of youth group. They were using the field closest to the heath. I reckoned at the time that it was one of the lads from there. No other animals were ever found after they’d gone. They were a bunch of tearaways from some estate in Southampton. Most of them were fine, but there was a small group that went
out looking for trouble. They were there for nearly two weeks.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else about them? The organisers? Anything like that?’

  ‘You’re asking a lot, young Jimmy. I think the organisers came every year for about three or four years, but with a different bunch of lads each time. I remember that they were from a church, but the lads weren’t. They were probably from the local parish, maybe a youth club or something. There was no problem any other year, but that group had a couple of nasty types in it, so I heard. The leader’s name was Paul. That’s all I remember. He was there each year. The church? I don’t know. It was somewhere over on the east side of the city in a rough area. I think it was a modern building. Well, that’s the picture I have in my mind, so it must have got there somehow. Maybe from talking to him, cos I can’t think how else I’d get a picture in my head.’ She stopped. ‘And that’s it. I can’t remember anything else. So do I get my kiss now?’

  She looked at him solemnly, and then burst into laughter. ‘Your face is priceless. You can come visit again anytime, young man.’

  Melsom finished his cup of tea and left hastily.

  * * *

  ‘This might be leading somewhere, Jimmy,’ Barry Marsh said. ‘It looked like a no-hoper when that old chap first called in, but something’s coming out of it. Well done. Look, I could leave it all to you since it’s really your baby, but I do know a DS in Southampton. It might save time if I contact her to see if she can identify the church. Is that okay by you? If she can’t help us then I think the boss knows a DI there.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  Marsh phoned through to Gwen Davis, a detective sergeant in the Southampton city force. He told her what they knew about the church and the youth group and asked if she could help narrow down the possibilities.

  ‘From what you’ve described I’d guess three, Barry. Two Anglican and one RC, and all in the East End. The area was flattened by bombing in the last war, so most of the buildings date back to the fifties. The two Anglican ones are St Crispin’s and Oakfield Parish. The RC one is St Bede’s. They’re your best bets. Get back to me if they don’t work out, and I’ll have another think.’

  ‘Thanks, Gwen. How are you, by the way?’

  ‘I’m fine. Let me know if you fancy meeting up for a meal or a drink. I’m still around, you know.’

  ‘Okay, Gwen.’

  Melsom was grinning at him when he looked up.

  ‘You didn’t hear that, Jimmy. But you’re allowed to have heard the earlier bits.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. Didn’t catch any of the church information. Selective hearing.’

  Marsh tore off the page of notes and passed it across. He waved Melsom away and settled back to his own work. He was still trying to make sense of the complex web of contacts for the farmhouse bookings and harbour records. The two farmhouses had been rented out by different letting agencies and to different clients. An agency in Poole let Brookway Farm and one in Bournemouth let Marsh Copse Farm. This latter farm had only been occupied for a few days. Those agencies had been acting on behalf of different clients who turned out to be a small finance and loan company based in Kidderminster and an estate agent office in Weymouth. Marsh had contacted all the organisations in the chain so far, but had made little progress. Each time he moved one level back in the complex web he merely uncovered another level that gave up no really useful information. Each organisation claimed to be merely acting on behalf of another, with all contact being done by telephone. He decided to follow the trail of payments. Bank accounts wouldn’t lie.

  The money trail for the bookings took him back over exactly the same ground, with each agency paying the next for rent, deposits and any other bills. Finally he began to get somewhere, because the convoluted trails for each of the two farmhouse rentals led back to a single organisation, a small insurance company with an office in Wolverhampton. He phoned the number he’d been given only to hear the familiar ‘number no longer in use’ message. He swore and slapped his hand down hard on the desktop.

  He looked up to find Sophie standing in front of him, peering over the top of her reading glasses.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m just getting frustrated. They’ve tangled up the trails for these bookings really well. I don’t feel as if I’m getting anywhere.’

  ‘But you are, Barry. What does all this confirm?’

  ‘That whoever did these bookings had something to hide.’

  ‘Exactly. If these lettings were totally innocent they wouldn’t have hidden the details so well, and you’d have got some names hours ago. The fact that it’s so complex shows that it’s all been carefully planned. So keep digging. Any luck with the boat, by the way?’

  ‘Not yet. I had a brief chat with Lydia about it earlier, and she’s taken it on. We’ve got it narrowed down to about five possible registrations. She’s out with one of the local guys right now checking up on owners, insurers and harbour records. We should know more by the end of the day.’

  ‘Get yourself a cup of tea, stretch your legs for five minutes, then give it another go. It will unravel at some point, I’m sure, and then you’ll be cheering rather than cursing.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘In fact, I’ll join you. I need to keep you updated on the latest information from Benny Goodall. It really isn’t nice.’

  * * *

  Across at the harbour offices in Poole, Lydia Pillay was trying to make sense of the boat records. She’d also managed to get hold of VHF radio registrations and was working her way through both, with the help of two local officers. In the end, her task was made easier by the fact that owners of boats carrying out legitimate business had no reason to hide their traces. Owner details for small to medium-sized cruisers were clearly listed and matched the records for the radio transmitters. No more than three or four had anything suspicious about them. She checked the details for these against sightings of boats on the quieter, south side of the harbour. And there it was — a medium-sized blue cruise boat with ownership details registered with an agency and its radio registration logged at a different address. She called through to Barry Marsh with the details.

  ‘I’m coming back in,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow them up myself unless there’s something else you want me to do.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I’ve been going back through the lettings for the farmhouses and it’s turned out to be a really tangled web. There’s no daylight yet, but the boss thinks I need to keep at it. I hope something might connect your strand with mine at some stage.’

  ‘How’s Jimmy getting on?’

  ‘He’s across in Southampton, trying to identify something that’s cropped up from the dead kitten lead that came in this morning. It looked such a no-hoper that I was set to file it in the ‘waste of time’ section. But the boss was right again. Something in the report must have tickled her interest and it seems to be paying off.’

  Chapter 16: Midwinter Tide

  Monday Evening, Week 2

  The trouble with redbrick church buildings, thought Jimmy Melsom, is that they just don’t look the part. A few scraps of litter were blowing about in the wind and graffiti was scrawled across the end of a terrace wall opposite the church. Suddenly the sun came out, and the grass in front of the church sparkled. The brickwork seemed to glow as the sunlight caught it. Melsom stepped out of the car, keen to get this over before the rain started again.

  The vicarage was the first building after the Oakfield Parish Church. Melsom rang the bell, which was rather ornate for the plain house. A middle-aged man wearing a dog collar came to the door. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone inside the house, but managed a smile. Melsom held open his warrant card.

  ‘Come in, Officer. Sorry to be so rude. I’ve just come back from the shops and seem to have forgotten the single most important item that my wife asked me to get. Old age, I suppose. By next week I expect I’ll be wandering round in my pyjamas, dribbling.’ He laughed.

  Melsom was shown into a neat sitting room and a
sked if he wanted a cup of tea. He declined. He had drunk enough tea during his visits that day to fill his bladder several times over. He explained the purpose of his visit.

  ‘That was me,’ the minister said. ‘I’m Paul Benfield. I was the curate then, and was offered the position of vicar when my predecessor retired ten years ago. Ruth and I were newly married, and we ran the local youth group for quite a few years. We took them away somewhere every year, and I think we were in Studland about five times. We switched to a scout campsite in the New Forest after that. It had better facilities. Ruth will remember. I’ll get her.’

  He left the room and came back with a petite, neatly dressed woman who was drying her hands on a towel.

  ‘There was one year in particular that the locals remember for a variety of reasons,’ said Melsom. ‘One of them told us that you had a more troublesome group than usual. Is that right?’

  The couple glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ replied Benfield. ‘That was the last year we were there. The farmer was not happy with the behaviour of a couple of the lads, and I couldn’t blame him. It’s not as though they were really bad, because then I would have brought them back early. But they were uncooperative and sullen. And we were aware that they were sneaking off without permission. They were seen in parts of the farm that we’d clearly explained were off limits.’

  ‘The trouble was that they just didn’t see the need to follow rules,’ Ruth added. ‘We’d forbid something, they’d accept, then we’d find out later that they’d gone and done it anyway.’

  ‘Is there any chance you can remember their names?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d want to, Officer, even if I could. People change, you know. Everyone deserves a chance to redeem themselves for their childhood misdemeanours. And it was a very long time ago. Twenty years or so.’

  ‘June, 1989, sir.’ Melsom fidgeted. He felt awkward. ‘And I have to insist, sir. This is a murder inquiry, so the normal niceties don’t apply.’