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

by Edward Holmes

  John closed the door behind the PC and watched the police van turn around in the Jones’s driveway and then drive away down the lane. Immediately he picked up his phone and rang Simon, “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Is it, John, is it?”

  “Thanks for coming out this morning. Just a quick question Simon?”

  John could hear the exasperation down the phone line, “What?”

  “When you spoke to the local plod this morning did you mention I was a copper?”

  “I did and they were not happy at all. Apparently even though there are only about five officers in the area, they got a little pissy saying that you had no right to be in their jurisdiction without informing them. I must admit they were a little rude.”

  Anger rose through him and instead of throwing the phone, he crushed the can in his hand, resulting in the cuts on his hand beginning to bleed, “Simon you asked me to come down here to help find out the truth about Harry Bailey. It was your idea to keep my profession secret to the rest of the village. Now I’m out in the wind.”

  “Did you want me to lie to fellow boys in blue? They had a right to know eventually and if you can smooth them over you could be useful to their investigation if they pursue one.”

  “Simon, remember when I said there was something here? Well the man who died last night was a friend of Martin Wills. You know our rules, there are no such things as coincidences.”

  His words were greeted by silence, “Two people dead who knew a murderer. Is there anything else?”

  “Other than saying you screwed me hard in the arse, no not really, other than Bailey was apparently selling his farm, so that could be the catalyst for all of this.”

  “Huh well I’ll keep trying to make your life hell for the years of piss poor reports and not solving crimes recently. If you need any more help feel free to ring Detective Inspector Holt,” Jones cancelled the call leaving John standing in the kitchen feeling impotent to the situation.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frustration normally drove John to doing something active to clear his mind, however the after effects of the carbon monoxide poisoning and the fury he felt at Simon had ensured that his throbbing headache had increased in intensity to full blown migraine, including the lack of vision in one eye. Deciding any more running would further exacerbate the problem, John was resigned to staying in his cottage. Cooking a fried breakfast of bacon, eggs, mushrooms and sausages with toast and baked beans on the side, he sat down with his laptop in front of him on the kitchen table, music playing out of the tiny speakers. After a few tentative first bites he felt much better and quickly finished the food.

  With his stomach settled he took a cold beer out of the fridge, placing it on his forehead as he lay down on the couch. His notebook was open next to him, a line drawn under the name of George Fleming. Taking his phone out of his pocket he text Hannah to ask how her shift was and to thank her, and then messaged Lewis to ask if he knew anything about Fleming. With his left eye still blurry he could barely read so just lay there listening to his music, waiting for a reply.

  Once again a knock startled him, this time from slumber. Struggling to wake up, he rolled onto the floor and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The sun was now setting indicating he had been asleep for a good few hours. The fading light made it difficult to see who was at the back door and he was still wondering who it could be until he opened the door to reveal Tom Bulloch.

  “Tom?”

  “Hi John, I was just going for a walk and thought I’d pop in and see how you were doing?” Tom said. He was wearing a polo shirt and jacket and a pair of jeans not unlike what John had on.

  Since he had only opened the door a little and his hands remained out of sight, his left on the frame and right on the handle respectively, John could not tell if the man was asking about his rescue attempt last night or just out of courtesy, “I’m fine Tom, how you doing?”

  The short man stood there looking uncomfortably, running his hand through the wisps of his thinning hair before he managed to say “I know it’s ridiculous to say since I only met you last week but would you like to go for a drink at the ‘Smiths?’

  “Just you and me,” John asked his right eyebrow raised quizzically, “surely your wife would be much better company?”

  “Ahhh Rachael is out on hen do this weekend in Newcastle, so I’m home alone. It is a rarity I’m back from work and there is no one around so I’m at a loose end. With the Jones’s away as well there are few people around here I can tolerate, so do you fancy going for a drink?”

  “Errr I’m not feeling a hundred percent to be honest.”

  “I knew it was a long shot but I thought you’d be up for it. See you around then,” Tom said flashing a grin which did little to hide his disappointment.

  John inhaled sharply, “Tom, give me a second to put some shoes on and I’ll come with you. Would you like to come in?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Tom replied coming in and sitting down in the living room as John went to the bedroom to find some socks and his boots. Tom continued, “I’ve not been in here for years. Pete and Mary have done a good job with this place.”

  John rolled his eyes as he sat down on the bed to pull on a pair of black socks. He must be softening in his old age because with his dislike of Tom he would have usually avoided him like the plague but the boredom he was suffering and the whining tone in the voice of Bulloch had been enough to make him agree. Realising he had not responded John cleared his throat and said, “Yes, it is quite a nice place. I’m very grateful to them for letting me stay here.”

  Tom did not reply and John walked in to see the man looking at the notebook, “What is this?”

  “Personal property,” John said as he walked over and took the black Moleskine from the man, forcibly closing the cover and pulling the elasticated band over it.

  “Then why was my name in there linked to Harry Bailey’s death? And I thought you are a writer, that doesn’t look like ideas for a novel,” he said pointing at the offending book in John’s hand, as he stared angrily up at the detective.

  “Your name is in here because I believe you are a suspect in the death of Bailey. I think you are a viable candidate for his murder, due to your overprotective nature over your wife. You knew that they were close and surely her spending all that time with him during the week would upset you. The vindictive and cruel method of death suggests that there was a strong emotional connection between the victim and the murderer.”

  Tom stepped back and crossed his arms defensively, “How can you even suggest it was a murder? The man fell. To assume that I was involved is just ludicrous; I was at home in bed asleep.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that apparently you said that you had heard gunshots in the night. If you were asleep why would you say that?”

  Tom pointed at him, “What if I did? That further indicates that I didn’t do it.”

  “You had motive and opportunity as well as means. Saying you heard something just throws the investigation in another direction, doesn’t it?” John said raising his voice. The atmosphere was thick in such small confines, the two of them staring daggers at each other.

  “And that means nothing,” Tom replied coldly.

  “It does when I am copper.”

  It took a split second for the words to register but when they did the demeanour of Tom changed completely, he raised his hands showing his palms in supplication, “I swear I had nothing to do with his death,” the tone of his voice changing from aggressive to one close to pleading.

  “And why would I believe you? Especially since you now know that I am a police officer.”

  “Because I didn’t do it,” Tom said his voice going even higher, “Aren’t you supposed to investigate and reveal the truth?”

  “That’s what I am here to do,” John could continue to push him but the headache was returning and he did not want things to get ag
gressive in the Jones’s cottage, “I’m sure you saw when you looked through the pages that there are other names in my notebook. You are one of a few possible suspects.”

  “But I didn’t do it. I was with my wife in bed.”

  John raised his hand, “That is no defence. She may have been asleep and you could have snook out. I will however continue to investigate till I have all of the information. To that end do you know a George Fleming?”

  “The man who committed suicide last night?”

  “So you did know him then?”

  “I heard that name this morning when I went to the shops. I can honestly say that I have never met that man; I don’t even know what he looks like. I should go if you have finished interrogating me. Strange thing is I don’t like being accused of killing a man and then questioned if I know another dead man.”

  John raised his hand pointing towards the door, “Feel free to go. Sure you don’t want that pint?”

  “I don’t want company that much, Detective,” he said. Stalking to the door to leave, he opened it but before he went he turned and said, “Oh and you should look at Jeremy Bradhurst since you have his son’s name in there. I saw him and a police officer on the farm the other week and there was only one other time I saw Harry so jittery and that was when his field caught fire.”

  With a loud bang Tom slammed the door shut leaving John with even more questions than before. Sitting on the armrest of the couch he took out a pen from the back of the pad, opened the page to his list of suspects and added another name before putting a question mark next to Tom Bulloch.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hannah replied late into the night to his message and suggested that he come the Bird I’th Hand on the Sunday since she would be finishing her shift early and she wanted to ensure that he was getting a good meal. Her son also responded that he knew of George Fleming and would try to find out more information on him. Lewis was however going out yet again so said that if John went to the pub, Lewis would tell him everything as it was a little too much to text. John was pleased that his young sidekick was helping him and he was touched since he had a feeling that the student was colluding with his mother to look after the detective.

  Waking up after a long sleep John felt much better but still felt that a run would not be the best thing for his recovery. His dislike of Tom did not stop him from wanting to discover the truth over Bailey’s death and to that end he decided to take another look around the farm. Picking up a walking stick from the umbrella stand to aid him, John set off.

  The weather was overcast and grey and the field was covered in flocks of birds. A large gaggle of Canadian geese patrolled the centre of the cropland, hissing and squawking at encroaching woodpigeons that quickly flew off at the sight of the larger birds. Three pheasants wandered down the lane in front of John, fluttering a little when he got close to them. The lack of people had allowed for a brief moment for nature to take over the land and restore a more ancient order. It was peaceful and serene and made John very aware he was disturbing things, but a lot less than the distant sound of a gunshot in the wooded area to his left that sent what seemed like thousands of birds aloft. It was followed by another shot, the distinct report of a shotgun. Once he neared the head of the road and the outer barns that made up the perimeter of the Bailey farm, he could make out a silver vehicle near the gates to the forest that was probably the transport of the culprits.

  The only route round to the entrance, other than going back on himself, took him past the farm and within ten minutes John had crossed over to the tree line. From the road he had suspected that it was Anthony Bailey’s new Jeep but once he got close enough he realised it was a much smaller 4x4. Another car was parked ahead of the utility vehicle, a much older dark blue family saloon. It was covered in mud and showed signs of heavy use. The tires sank low into the dirt and the bodywork was covered in scratches which were probably due to the thick brambles and the overgrown trees that had started to cover the pathway. No one was visible and John was very aware that he was wearing dark clothing, not the best protection for a man walking through a shooting gallery.

  John had two choices to find out who was there; one involved boring waiting, the other involved risking his life. Very aware that his boss has told him not to risk himself any further in Hollingswood, John ducked under a low hanging branch as he entered the woods thinking "Anything to piss off Simon".

  The driveway was made out of tarmac and gravel and a rusted sign that hung loosely from the gate said that this was the site of a chemical research plant. The name of the company however was not one John was familiar with it and the state of disrepair suggested that it had not been in use for a number of years. It might not have been used for official purposes but there were signs of activity for other things. A large blue drum stood on wooden blocks at the side of the road next to two older containers that had split open and lay on their side full of stagnating water. Walking over to the drum John lifted the lid, struggling with the stiff plastic. It opened with a slight pop and John peered inside. It was full of seeds; chicken feed. This must be the location of the pheasant farm and the site of the poaching. Now he had to find out who was shooting; the breeders or the poachers.

  John spotted a set of footprints to the right of the drum that led into the woodland; there was a little water in the indentations indicating they were fresh. Making sure to step on the other prints he moved his heavy boots through the mud as silently as he could and without them getting sucked down. He used the walking stick to help balance, his free left hand moved branches out of the way as delicately as he could but repeatedly his bandages caught on thorns and he was left to snap the tree to free himself. The uneven terrain and the brambles at knee level that bit into his legs through black jeans made it hard going and John had developed a sweat underneath his t-shirt and leather jacket. To make matters worse John’s foot was intermittently caught by snare wire that was strategically placed across the path.

  He had been walking for over fifteen minutes before he got sight of anyone. The wet leaves that had only just began to fall at the end of summer had soaked John’s hair to his head and he was busy wiping rainwater from his eyes when he saw a figure next to another drum. A double barrelled shotgun was propped up on a tree. John stopped and moved slightly to one side behind a thicker tree. The man was thickset, in his late fifties and wearing a bright red jacket. Green waterproof trousers were splashed with mud as were his dark brown walking boots. He was busy opening one of the drums and pouring in some more feed from a sack that he took out of a rucksack that was resting next to the shotgun.

  John leaned back into the tree dimming his profile as he heard a crashing sound coming from opposite him, “Ben, I found another one of the bastards in the crow trap over by the number fifteen bin,” said a gaunt young man with an open shotgun over his right arm and in his left hand he held aloft a small fox, which was dripping blood as it was missing most of its skull.

  “What are you doing with that thing? The smell will bring its mother and other predators over. Just bury the thing and get back to resetting the traps,” the man called Ben said, only giving a cursory glance at the dead animal, “How many of them were set off?”

  “About three or four I’ve seen so far but all animals, there was a rabbit in one of them and the fur from a fox in the others. Probably this little prick before he pushed his luck one too many times.”

  Ben finished with the industrial bird feeder and replaced the bag of seed into his rucksack, shouldering it as he picked up the gun. Turning to his compatriot he asked, “Any shells or signs of disturbance?”

  “Nothing to my trained eyes, boss. If those bastards are still coming in here I don’t know how they are getting in and they are not using shotguns to kill the pheasants.”

  “I still think we need to stakeout the feeders again. I’ve not seen enough birds and it’s making me think that there have been more than a few poachers getting to them. There are only a few dead from illne
ss and the like.”

  The other man groaned, “Come on, I don’t want to spend another night in a bloody hide waiting for nobody to show up. How many times to you want to do this? The weather is starting to turn for the worse and I don’t fancy getting soaked to the bone.”

  “It’ll be worth it come October first Andy. Get back to checking the traps after you’ve buried that thing and I’ll finish topping up the feeders that are running low. We’ll do a quick check of the fence from the outside and see if anyone has cut their way in here. If all is well for the next couple of days then I’ll leave it but otherwise we’ll do a couple of shifts. That fair?” Ben said looking around as he spoke, both hands now on his weapon.

  “I suppose but I’ve got work this week so I don’t want to be too tired,” Andy seemed a little tentative of staying out at night in the woods, ‘and it is our Charlene’s birthday on Sunday so I won’t be here on Saturday night.”

  Ben stared at him, obviously thinking the same thing that John was, that it sounded like a bunch of excuses. For a moment it looked like the younger man would say something but Ben just nodded, “Just get back to work and we’ll sort something out.”

  John waited for the two men to walk off into the woods in separate directions and made his way back as quickly and as quietly as possible. He reset as many of the snares he could see but he had thrown a number of them back into the brush in fits of anger when he had walked through earlier. The second time through he noticed a well-made hide just off the trodden path. He arrived back at the roadway out of breath and quickly took out his phone taking pictures of the licence plates of both cars. John took a brief moment to look in both cars but there was little of interest inside them so he quickly walked back towards the farm.

  His clothes were now soiled and he did not want to arrive at the pub looking out of place. Before he went to the cottage however he made a detour to the farmyard. There was still some daylight left so John had another look around the barns. He started looking at the walls around the house for any signs of pock marking from shotgun pellets. John was beginning to believe Tom Bulloch about the gunfire that night but was confused as to where the shots had been and why. If someone had shot at Bailey then why did they not hit him?