“Then if that’s the case I think I owe you an apology and a pint,” Peter said after an awkward pause. He stood and walked to the bar leaving John with the student.
“I’m sorry about all this, I didn’t think my dad would react in such a way. It’s stupid to say but he is probably a little jealous that you have been getting on with my mum.”
John nodded, “Yeah I thought that might be an issue but there have been problems for me since I tried to rescue Fleming. Something doesn’t add up with his death and because I was in the area I’ve been targeted by the local plod.”
“You make it sound like there is some sort of conspiracy against you.”
“Not a conspiracy, just a misunderstanding based on a lack of information. They’re beginning to annoy me and I don’t like bullies of any sort. Organised thugs are the worst kind,” John stopped speaking as Peter Hart came back over with two pints and a bottle of cider for his son.
After placing the drinks down on the table, John noted some of the beer had spilt from the pint glass when Peter used his right hand. It shook ever so slightly and Peter quickly moved his hand to his trouser leg wiping it dry, “I hope this makes up a little for the way I have behaved.”
“I’ve been through worse, don’t worry about that. I take it Spencer has been to see you?” John asked with a raised eyebrow before he took a drink.
Peter inhaled deeply, “Frank comes in here; as does every other member of the Hollingswood police department. One or two of them will no doubt be in here later. He bounced a few ideas off us last night.”
“I thought as much. He came to see me and felt that there was more to George Fleming’s death than just suicide.”
“He thought you being here was too much of a coincidence. However most of us here agreed that it was likely to be suicide. Lewis said he saw you in the Hollingswood Arms and that was good enough for me. George Fleming hadn’t been right since his wife passed away a couple of years ago and he left a note which was signed.”
John sucked his front teeth before speaking, “There was a note? Was it handwritten?”
“Errr no it was erm typed but like I said it was signed by him,” Peter answered.
“Definitely his writing, I’ve seen it before and it was his signature.”
“How did you see it? Come on Peter, there is no way Spencer would be stupid enough to bring evidence in here.”
Peter looked very uncomfortable and lowered his voice a little, “One of the officers took a photo of the letter. Something of a morbid conversation piece in here. You know how it is, just because you don’t work the job anymore doesn’t mean you stop looking at what’s going on with a cop's eye.”
John let a grin creep across his face. He now had something he could use against Spencer, not much but enough to further antagonise the detective when he next saw him, “Well I’ll let you off this once, if I could have a look at the photo that is. Did he send you a copy?”
“Yeah he did, I doubt he’d want you seeing it.”
“It can be our little secret,” John’s grin turned into a more predatory look.
Peter consented and took out his phone, it was not particularly new and was scratched and dented suggesting it had been in his possession for quite some time. Passing it over to John, the ex-officer leaned back putting his arms out and across the back rest, one of which was behind his son. John raised the phone up and expertly switched on the Bluetooth of the phone, finding his own when he searched for it and then discreetly sent the image to himself. Feeling the vibration in his pocket to confirm he had received the file, John took a moment to scan the picture, before returning the phone to Peter in its original state.
“Simple case really,” Peter said pocketing his phone and picking up his pint glass with his left hand.
“You said you knew Fleming’s handwriting, can I ask from where?”
“Most people who live in Hollingswood will have seen it. He writes in the local newsletter that has his signature on the bottom of it. Fleming was a beloved member of the community around here, the work he did looking after those kids taking them on trips was one of the best things available to children in the area. What are you supposed to do if you don’t excel at rugby or football around here, there are no other facilities. Sure there’s a tennis court but that only gets played on during Wimbledon. No, most kids end up hanging around parks drinking alcohol. George made a difference; he took people out swimming, kayaking or spelunking, just things that you wouldn’t think of.”
“He took them swimming?” John asked.
Peter stared at him with an angry look on his face, “I know what you are thinking but no, he wasn’t like that. He was devoted to helping children not hurting them.”
John held up his hands, “It’s an easy assumption to make. Not many people get involved in kids without some sort of motive. Look at whats-his-name, the knight of the realm who used to work on TV. He raised loads money for charity and when he died it may have taken some time but it came out he had a thing for young girls. People like that put themselves in scenarios where they look after impressionable youngsters and unfortunates who don’t have someone to turn to. You know I’m right, you must have seen it.”
“I trusted him enough to let Lewis go on those trips, I think that shows what sort of man he was,” the atmosphere was becoming frosty again and Peter was very stern in the way he had spoken to John effectively ending all conversation on the matter.
Sensing it was not worth pushing John drank his beer leaving the group in silence. Lewis who had remained silent throughout the exchange broke the tension, “So aren’t you glad the football season is nearly back?”
Chapter Twenty Five
For the rest of the night the trio chatted amiably about sports and other trivialities but all the while John was anxious to leave. After a couple more drinks he left deciding to walk the unlit leafy path back to the cottage. It was a shorter route and he could use the time and serene surroundings to clear his head.
The air was muggy and the temperature suggested that more rain was coming. Cloud cover obscured the moon leaving little light to navigate by. John was familiar with the path having run along it the week before but with the overhanging trees it reduced the light even more. John was briefly tempted to switch on the torch application on his phone but he decided against it as his night vision was developing and he would ruin it by using artificial light.
Branches around him cracked and animals ran through the foliage, disturbed at the late hour by the human. It was eerie and the darkness seemed to close in on him making John feel claustrophobic. You’re just winding yourself up here. Keep calm and go through what you have planned for the rest of the week. I should go through a psychological profile on this killer. To be honest I think Lewis would find that really interesting, I know I did when I first started working on forensic profiling. As long as he doesn’t want me to speak to his father again, I’ll quite happily go through the process with him. I could even get something to eat and see Hannah all at once.
John shook his head at the thought of Peter, part of him felt sorry for the man since he too knew what it was like to have a relationship break down due to the rigours of the job but he was angry at the Hollingswood police department. The closeness of the village provided lots of problems for an outsider trying to gain information and the defensive nature of the police had made John feel very uneasy. When he saw people act like that his thoughts went to secrets and collusion. Lewis might have jokingly said conspiracy before but John knew that cover ups and quick solutions were bread and butter to the lazy.
“Come on John try and enjoy your time here,” he said into the night air, a breeze rolling across him, “no one has got it out for you. It’s just too much time on your own.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,” a voice said from behind him, it startled John and he went to spin round to see who had spoken when he was struck on the back of the knees dropping him to the floor. John let out a yell before a kick
struck him in the ribs knocking the air from his lungs. Instinctively he went to protect his body in the foetal position but another kick caught him on the back of the head causing him to try and protect too many parts of his body at once.
As he lay on the cold wet ground and felt more kicks hit him he realised he recognised the voice of Keith Birkett, “You’d better stop, I’m a copper dickheads,” John managed to say through gasps of air.
“I don’t give a flying toss who you are; nobody lays a finger on me,” Birkett said and John heard the whish of air parting before he felt a wooden bat land squarely on his back. Again he yelled out knowing that there was only the smallest of chances that someone would hear him down such a deserted track. Even the pheasant breeders, who might have been out that late, were nearly a mile away.
The beating lasted for another couple of minutes before he was left on his own but he had passed out at some point so he had no idea how long it had been. Once he was awake it took him another ten minutes before he felt strong enough to move.
God that hurt. I don’t think I’ve broken any limbs but my ribs are on fire. I can hardly breathe. Probably bruised them at the minimum. Taking short sharp breaths John managed to sit up before tentatively standing. His whole body ached and he could barely walk, the back of his knees severely bruised. Resting his weight up against a tree he spat out some blood and delicately touched his left eyebrow with his left hand. The fingers came back wet and he suspected it was not just mud and water from the ground. With his right arm hugging his ribs for extra protection he hobbled his way forward. That’s the second time that bastard has hurt my ribs.
Nearly an hour later John stumbled through the doorway of the cottage. Shedding his soiled clothing, he opened the fridge freezer and lifted with what little remaining strength he had three bags of ice towards the bathroom. Running the cold water he emptied the ice into the bath and went and got himself a beer.
“Once I get in there I doubt I’ll ever see my bollocks again,” he mumbled as he steeled himself to get into the bath. Blood from his eye dropped into the bath, the crimson liquid swirled in the moving water diluting quickly and broken up by small floating pieces of ice.
Stepping into the water he shivered before sitting down and then plunging his head under the surface. More blood left his body and as he rested his head on the side of the bath, he looked down at the bruising that indicated where the blows had landed. Too many injuries for his sore head to count, he closed his eyes and drank as much of the beer he could stomach.
“I hate Mondays.”
Chapter Twenty Six
John awoke in the bath; the water was now pink from his injuries and there was light streaming in through the window. Weak arms failed him as he rolled out of the bath and landed on the cold tiling. His body was extremely pale and as he used the sink to pull his body up he noticed in the mirror that his lips had turned blue at some point. Shivering uncontrollably he made his way to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, pulling as many covers over him as he could in an attempt to increase his body temperature.
The aches and pains of his injuries seemed small issue compared to the freezing nature of his body. Toes and fingers struggled to gain sensation as he lay in a ball, the thick red covers over his head. With his eyes closed to the world he tried to focus on keeping his core warm. I’m supposed to be intelligent and I’ve gone and nearly killed myself falling asleep in the bath.
Without a watch or clock he had no concept of time as he rocked himself gently nearly falling asleep again. He was woken by a banging on the kitchen door. Even if he had wanted to get up his body failed him and he just groaned from under the duvet.
He heard a disturbance in the kitchen, “John are you ok?” a call came out from inside the house; it was the sing song voice of Hannah.
John just groaned louder and he was greeted to her face as she pulled down the sheets. Her golden hair framed her face making her features look somewhat angelic as she stared down at him, “Oh my god what happened to you?”
“I got jumped on the way back from the pub and then being an idiot I decided to sleep in my ice bath. What are you doing here?”
“I got a little worried after Lewis told me he had made you meet my ex-husband. I felt sorry for you and I’ve been ringing your phone all morning. You’d not answered any calls from me or Lewis so I came down here. I probably would’ve turned away but there’s blood on the doorframe. Let me have a look at you,” she said sitting delicately on the bed and cradling his head. Her fingers traced the bruises and cuts on his face.
John winced slightly but did not pull away, “Thanks for coming around.”
“I should call the police. Do you know who did this to you?”
“I know who it was but I don’t think calling it in will help. It was your old friend Keith Birkett, he caught me as I was walking home. I didn’t see him or anyone else and I’m sure that the former rugby star of the village will have an airtight alibi,” he said struggling to sit up. Hannah still held onto him but shifted her weight so he could move better. She was wearing a loose summer dress and cardigan, with thick black tights and fleece lined boots, that were better suited to winter than the current month.
“The little bastard, I’ll skin him alive the next time I see him,” her words dripping in venom, “I thought he would’ve grown out of all this. When he was a kid he used to make Lewis’s life hell. Just because he’s from the equivalent of sporting royalty around here he thought he could get away with murder, he must have put nearly every other kid in the village in hospital at some point.”
“Yeah I can imagine.”
“You’re lucky. When he used to play on the farm, he would find it hilarious to tip over hay bales onto the other boys.”
John blinked down hard once and shook his head trying to clear it, “I don’t think he was likely to attack me with a hay bale,” he said in an attempt of humour which he did not feel.
“True. Right, I’m going to make you a cup of tea and try and warm you up.”
“I can think of other ways you could warm me up.”
“Really and what are they?”
With the best deadpan look he could muster John replied, “Bacon, eggs, sausages and some toast sure would help.”
“Considering how bad you are looking I think that would be the best thing for you today,” Hannah said with a laugh, “I doubt you’d manage anything else.”
“You’re probably right to be honest,” John said as Hannah got up and walked towards the kitchen. Propping himself up on his elbow, he called out to her as she went around the corner, “Oh Hannah, I’ve thought of something else that would help, just so you feel a little more appreciated.”
She returned her head peering into the room her hands on the frame of the door, “And what is that?”
“Black pudding, I bought some the other day.”
Rolling her eyes she turned back around calling out over her shoulder, “You’re lucky you are in such a bad way.”
“I’m not that lucky.”
Still lying in bed but now with sensation in his extremities John felt much more human. Hannah sat next to him looking at the notebook he had produced from the bedside table. She flipped through the pages, occasionally stopping and tracing her finger underneath a name or series of words. John tried not to pay attention to what she was reading as he drank another cup of tea, warming his hands around the mug. Hannah closed the book delicately and placed it on her lap, her hands over it.
“You’ve been busy. What does it all mean? I mean I understand that you are working on some sort of investigation but I don’t really get what you have found out.”
John put his left hand on her pair and squeezed them, “Do you actually want to know? This job ended your marriage; I wouldn’t want to bring up bad memories.”
“My marriage ended because my husband got too close to Chloe Bennett, Janine’s mother. He spent so much time consoling her it was like there was another person in our relationship. I
f you think there is something bad going on in Hollingswood I want to help. My son is out there, he knew both men, as did I, and if there is someone out there who could hurt him I want him behind bars.”
“Then what do you want to know?”
“Who did it?”
John sipped his tea and tried to find a starting point, deciding to go with the truthful acceptance of his thoughts, “I don’t know, not yet anyway. If these two incidents are actually murder, then all I can do is work on the victim’s history and try and find a connection. The problem is like you said, everyone knows everyone else. I found something linking them but I don’t know how much else there is to it.”
“And that is the Bennett murder and Martin Wills?”
“Yeah. Bailey went to school with him and Fleming knew him later on. There’s even a picture of them together in the book Hollingswood Homicide.”
“I hate that book; I think I actually threw out our copy when Pete moved out.”
John had been leaning over to pick up his volume of the book but stopped and dropped it back into the bedside drawer, “Well there is that but there are other people who are connected here. If I was to do this properly I’d want to create a psychological profile of the killer and work from there. In fact that was I had planned to explain to Lewis today, I’m pretty sure he would find it rather interesting.”
“I’m sure he would. I used to love that show were the fat guy worked out who the killer was like that.”
John smiled, “It’s a little different to that. Profiles are designed to help narrow down a search field. Sometimes there are thousands of suspects and the best way to remove those people who are just people of interest due to a slight coincidence or an erroneous result from the real culprit.”
A Village Not So Green (John Harper Series Book 1) Page 14