A Village Not So Green (John Harper Series Book 1)

by Edward Holmes

  It was comfortable and cosy, idyllic for someone who wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of the surrounding fields and for that exact reason John felt uncomfortable since he was used to working and living in a city. Still, it would be a good base and it had the added benefit of a well stocked library of books, plus some supplies provided by the Jones which included a range of real ales.

  After throwing his bags on the bed they retired to the living room. It was the largest room in the house and accommodated a three piece suite and an old wooden rocking chair. Sitting down on the couch that had one too many throw covers over it the detective opened a bottle of Black Sheep Ale, he had taken from the pantry, with the handy opener and knife that he always carried, before passing it over to Peter and then picking another for himself.

  Peter took a swig of his drink, “Ahhhh that hit the spot, don’t tell the missus about this,” John smiled and nodded.

  “Thanks for this place, Simon never mentioned how much you wanted for rent.”

  “If all goes well we will just chalk it up as favour. You see at the moment I’m rather on the fence over this whole matter,” Peter sat in a leather chair that was on rockers and slowly began to move it back and forth, “In my opinion Bailey was a bit of a weirdo and most of the time a prick to anyone who lives around here. The road you came down technically goes over his land and it was his responsibility to maintain it, and as your suspension can probably attest to he did a very poor job of that. He was cheap that way and it makes perfect sense to me that he would be out fixing the roof in the rain. He wasn’t that bright to begin with, so if he fell and died it’s just a case of natural selection.”

  “The problem is that Tom Bulloch who lives next to the Bailey farm said he heard a gunshot. Tom has been in the neighbourhood watch for years and if he heard a shot then I believe him.”

  “A shot? I’ve not heard anything about that.”

  “Well around here it is no surprise to hear gunfire. Lots of fields and farmers, and there are the occasional poachers who prey on the pheasant farmers. What peaked Tom’s attention was the fact that it was a raining. Nobody goes out during that sort of weather and considering that there was even warnings over electrical storms, I doubt Harry would go out hunting anything with the risk of a lightning strike. He told the police when they came round but they found nothing to suggest that there was anything untoward, in fact they dismissed it as simply thunder but he swears blind he knows the difference between gunfire and a thunderclap,” Peter took another pull on his beer, “It could just be a wild goose chase but something just doesn’t sit right here. Especially since the man drowned to death outside.”

  John spluttered a little bit of his drink, “What do you mean he drowned? All I heard was that he fell and hit his head. Did he land in a puddle?”

  “He did, that’s what knocked him unconscious but he fell facing upwards, the rain fell into his open mouth and eventually drowned him.”

  Rubbing his chin of any excess alcohol John exhaled slightly, “Well that seems a little implausible.”

  “That’s what I thought but Mary, she was a nurse by the way, said she had seen something along those lines on the ward back when she trained up, however that was vomit on the lungs. Terrible way to go but like I said it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  John was surprised at the anger in Peter’s voice but it was a clear indication of what people thought of the deceased. People often hid their feelings over the recently departed and much like with questionnaires they gave the answer what they thought was wanted. It showed a great deal of personality to speak his mind about such a subject to a person he had only just met. Yet the vehemence in Peter’s voice was a little concerning.

  “You don’t sound too upset about his death. Why even bother finding out if he was murdered or not?”

  “I may not have liked the guy, I’m pretty sure he killed one of our dogs, but I didn’t want him dead, not now anyway. The main reason is the wife and her friends on the watch are making life a little uncomfortable, since they don’t like the idea of a possible murderer running around Hollingswood....., well another one anyway. I think that’s enough talk about this for now, hope you like broccoli because as part of you rent you can have mine.”

  Chapter Four

  The roast dinner was heartily welcomed by John as he could not remember the last time he had had such a good homemade meal. Mary had made both lamb and chicken for her guest and accompanied it with different types of gravy to suit the meat, and the usual accoutrements of vegetables. After finishing their meal the Joneses suggested going down to the nearest pub, John readily agreed with that idea on the insistence that he bought the first round.

  The Blacksmith’s Arms was a small converted house, with a low ceiling and wooden beams running along it. The bar itself was well stocked and had a variety of real ales and ciders as it was a CAMRA affiliate. John was impressed with the selection and brought over a large glass of white wine for Mary and two pints of a recommended beer for himself and Peter, to one of the tables. The walls all had the same faux leather seating attached which showed signs of heavy use as did the wooden chairs such as the one John sat in opposite the couple. They were in the nearest seating area next to a large fireplace and a HD flatscreen TV which was attached to the wall and showing the highlights from a rained out cricket match. Making idle conversation John let his gaze wander over the clientele and the surroundings, whilst still maintaining an interest in what was being said.

  For a Sunday night it was relatively busy with a good crowd of people in the other room, however the conversation was not boisterous or loud and the average age he estimated at was around fifty. Everyone seemed to know each other and when a new person came into the building from the front door eyes dropped on them till recognition was confirmed, normally followed by a call of greeting and the offer of a drink or the calling in of a past beverage debt. Due to this camaraderie John felt a little put out and he noticed a few looks in his direction, nothing that set off the keen alarm bells of his tuned danger sense, but enough to feel uncomfortable. Past the customers his eyes scanned the walls which were covered in sporting photos and memorabilia, apart from one corner by the bar which had some medals on display. From the angle where he sat John could not see what they were for and made a mental note to check the next time he went to the bar.

  Mary made her excuses and left for the ladies room whilst the men both watched the cricket, “In my opinion I’m glad they dropped him. He’s overrated and frankly they only played him for the publicity and marketing they received from having a flash dumb looking player in the side,” Peter stated.

  “You’re preaching to the choir there mate, I saw England in Melbourne a couple of series back when we got whitewashed and I’ve never seen a lazier player. Hands in his pockets in the field, not walking in and dropping catches as if the ball was made out of wet soap, utter rubbish. Problem is everyone forgets the innings where he doesn’t score because when he does get in it is usual due to some flamboyant shots that get a lot of attention,” John said passionately. Sports in general was one of his favourite topics and he remembered that three day test vividly, especially since it cost him a small fortune travelling halfway across the world to watch what was one of the most embarrassing displays of an England cricketing side.

  Before they could get further into the intricacies of the cricketing world Mary returned with another couple in tow. They looked roughly the same age as the Joneses and John stood to greet them, as they were introduced, “This is Rachael and Tom Bulloch they live just down the road from us.”

  “Hi I’m John,” he offered his hand and then his chair to Rachael as the couple moved to take up seats.

  “Nice to meet you John,” Rachael replied, she was younger than her husband upon closer inspection. She was a little shorter than John with golden hair that showed no signs of age, but was probably dyed judging from the rest of her well groomed appearance. The blonde locks offset her blue eyes w
hich matched the rather tight fighting jumper and jeans she was wearing.

  Her husband grabbed John’s hand with a little undue pressure, who was also shorter than the police officer. Tom also held onto the handshake a beyond usual social convention as he looked him up and down. John was not surprised he got that a lot from small men who were always trying to prove their self-worth, especially from ones like Tom who were losing their hair, “So what do you do then John?” he said sitting down, dark green eyes staring hard at John.

  Giving himself a second to collect himself he sat in his chair and tried to made himself comfortable before looking up and saying, “Oh I’m a writer.”

  Mary raised an eyebrow and went to say something but her husband gave her hand a squeeze and shook his head ever so slightly. Rachael asked, “That’s so interesting. Have you written anything we would have read? I’m somewhat voracious when it comes to books.”

  Her husband followed that, “Yes, what have you written?” Tomstill seemed very suspicious of John, which was not too surprising since he was being lied to; some people where more attuned to detecting deception than others. However, John was more experienced than most at lying.

  “I doubt it. Most of my stuff has been freelance work for sports publications. However I did manage to get a book deal not so long ago, which is the reason I’m here to be honest,” John settled into his lie, something that he was very good at, having worked undercover in his youth. He knew to build his untruths around something real, and his sporting knowledge and general trivia provided him with a sound foundation.

  “Sounds fascinating, so what is this deal then?” Rachael said sipping her vodka and tonic.

  Taking a sip of his own beer John’s eyes flicking over the woman next to him and then more importantly at her husband who he knew he had to convince, “Well not so long ago I worked as a journalist in Manchester, you find out all sorts of stories meeting different people like that, and I started jotting down some of them down as ideas. It was enough for a book before long and after a while I sent it in as a manuscript. Luckily I was used to rejection, which made it easier when the publishers turned me down,” that line got a little laugh from the group which he grinned at and waved off, noticing that Tom did not even crack a smile, “After a couple of reedits I finally made some headway and they agreed to publish and offered me a deal for another. Well my first book comes our soon and I’m supposed to give them my first couple of chapters and draft for the second. Problem is with the hectic end to the football season plus some other stuff I’ve basically done nothing. So I’m here for a couple of weeks to shut myself away, gain a bit of inspiration and get writing.”

  “So you’re not published yet then?” Tom asked.

  “Not in book form no. Most of my stuff is written for press agencies but there are a couple of my own articles online,” John knew that if Tom was to keep prying a quick search on the internet would reveal little about a writer with his name. Luckily John knew a couple of sports journalists and a photographer who he could use for this, “just have a look for James Baker online.”

  “James Baker?” Mr Bulloch continued to press.

  “I have a pen name since there was once a porn star by the name of John Harper and I didn’t want the comparisons,” another set of laughter this time Tom actually seemed a little more at ease, “Seems I need another drink after that little interrogation, anyone want anything?”

  Nobody said anything and he went to the bar ordering another beer and having a look at the medals by the bar once he had done so. He was giving himself a break away because he was certain that right now Tom Bulloch would be on his phone utilizing the free wireless internet on offer, to search for James Baker’s writing history. John recognised the decorations and awards when he got closer, and further investigation proved correct his suspicions that it was a haunt for the local police. Although the ale was good and he was enjoying the company, John knew that it would be difficult to ask questions in the there and still maintain his secret identity. There was the added danger of being recognised, although he had never worked in Merseyside, he was known in the North West for some of his previous cases.

  Returning to the table and he chatted amiably to the couples. He also made sure to turn the majority of his body away from the rest of the bar as a precaution but still maintained a eye on the door, something he did out of protective techniques drilled into him from years of working in dangerous situations that had now become second nature to him. He even found himself forgetting that he was supposed to be doing some semblance of work and was relaxing, enjoying the company of people he usually would not associate with. That enjoyment was still a little hindered by the nosey neighbour.

  “John, if you don’t mind me asking but what is this book that you are endeavouring to write?” Tom inquired.

  “It was difficult when I started to choose. You see, I have such a wide taste in genres and my first book was more of anthology of incidents I’ve come across, so with this one I took a plunge and have started writing about a murder mystery. Luckily I know the Jones’s nephew who has helped with a few details. I’m always looking for new ideas so if you have any, feel free to suggest them and who knows I may even put you in my novel.”

  “I’m sure you could get some good stories from the people in here,” Rachael offered, “half of the local busies are in.”

  “What about you, my love,” Tom said, “you’ve helped out the police in the past.”

  “Well it was a long time ago,” his wife had suddenly become coy, but John suspected it was more for show, “you see, John, I worked as a model in my youth. There was a disappearance in the village over twenty five years ago and I looked a little like the unfortunate girl so I played a part in a reconstruction for the appeal into her disappearance.”

  “I take it they didn’t find her.”

  Rachael shook her head and John could tell from the look of the group of people around him that this was a well-known incident, “No, they never did. They did arrest and charged a man for her murder, though.”

  “And the national television coverage gave my wife here a little break in the business,” Tom said with obvious pride.

  “Well at least there was one benefit to come out of that gruesome event. The murderer must have been particularly cruel to have disposed of the body so well.”

  They all nodded, “I remember it well. They came to the hospital to look around,” Mary said, “Martin Wills, the bastard, had worked in the canteen there and the detectives at the time thought that he might have disposed of poor Janine Bennett in the incinerator. They never found anything but I remember the searches. Everyone in the village came out to help, they combed every square inch of the local woods even going so far as to dredge the local reservoir.”

  “Who knew such a quaint little village had such a grizzly past?”

  “There are always secrets if you know where to look,” Rachael said. The conversation moved away to more genial subjects, till they were asked to leave by the landlord. Walking back to the cottage coupled with the large meal he had eaten and the alcoholic beverages partaken was enough to send John straight to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  John woke early as he usually did, but happily rolled back over to sleep a little longer, a rare treat. Still he was up before nine and after drinking a large glass of water and eating a browning banana he set off for his morning run to sweat out the alcohol in his system. Dressing in tracksuit bottoms, an old grey hooded jumper and a pair of well worn trainers with his pedometer sensor attached to the laces he was ready for his exercise. He stretched himself on the wall around his temporary cottage and then set off at a light jog down the dirt path towards the main road. It was over a quarter of a mile and along the way he saw a number of rabbits; that ran across his path, disturbed by his footfalls. He went past the Bailey farm but refused to stop his rhythm by investigating. Turning right, he ran uphill, it was steep and tired his legs quickly but it felt better than putting an incline
on the treadmill at his usual gym.

  After half a mile of houses either side of the road and a few side streets were he came across a catholic church on his right-hand side. John crossed himself as he went past and got a number of stares from a group of mothers who were dropping off their children. He smiled at the thought that it was because of his lean body but it was probably the unshaven mess that was near their young offspring. Shaking his head he powered on past more houses and a nursing home. There seemed to be a lot of people out early in the village, which surprised him since he assumed that it was more of a suburban hub for the cities of Liverpool and Manchester, with most of the residents of working age commuting out early in the morning.

  Following the curvature of the road he noted the first few shops in the village; a bakery, chemist, sandwich shop and a post office. On the corner was a petrol station, not one of the bigger companies so the prices were even higher than the extortionate prices found around the country. A labour club was next opposite another church, this one Methodist with ample car parking but high security fencing all around it. A noticeboard in front of it had a few scraps of paper attached to it that were sodden and flapping in the wind, the plastic glass casing broken and cracked, he did not stop though pushing the pace as he went past the main shopping centre, if it could be called that.

  A small bank affiliate which was yet to open, a dry cleaners whose sign was cracked and falling, next to the independent bookmakers he had heard about was next, followed by travel agency which was a surprising sight to still be in business. John narrowly avoided knocking over a large heavyset man who was coming out of a newsagent carrying a large number of papers; he apologised and sprinted on past a takeaway restaurant and a Co-operative store, which was opposite a gastro pub and restaurant called the Hollingswood Arms. The road got even steeper and he passed three more pubs, a library and a small police station before it plateaued again. He had worked up a decent sweat now and yet as he turned the corner he saw a large hill in the distance with a beacon on the top. It was a good three miles away but it was a goal to reach and bowing his head he ran on as faster.