A Normal November: The Freeman Files Series: Book 15

by Ted Tayler

  “Half a mile away, Luke, why?”

  “Robinson made two trips a year for three or four years to an address in Ponting Street. Tom believed the dates corresponded to the dates his parents died. The lady in question was an old school friend who built a business based on a Shakespearean character.”

  “You’re on speakerphone, Luke,” said Gus. “Do I need to cover Lydia’s ears?”

  Luke told them what he’d learned from Tom Spencer.

  “Will you be back in the office soon?” asked Gus.

  “In the next twenty minutes, guv,” said Luke.

  “Alex will bring you up to speed. It’s unlikely we’ll get back before three. I hope you’ll have good news for us by then.”

  “Intriguing,” said Luke. “What a morning I’m having. See you two later.”

  Gus drove to Farnborough Road and parked outside the address Luke had given him.

  Ralph Robinson and his wife lived in a modest, three-bedroom, semi-detached house. At least, Gus presumed the wife was still there. Tom Spencer’s revelation had caused a giggle from his passenger, but Raj Sengupta had done his best to keep Ralph’s name out of the spotlight.

  Gus pressed the doorbell.

  “What is that tune?” asked Lydia. “It sounds familiar.”

  “Edelweiss,” said Gus. “A glance at the front garden and the Venetian blinds in the windows suggests nothing much has changed here for decades.”

  A short, stocky lady with silver hair, wearing a rumpled cardigan and knee-length skirt, opened the door.

  “Mrs Robinson?” asked Gus.

  The Simon and Garfunkel tune played in his head despite his best efforts. The lady on the doorstep couldn’t have been further from the image of the film character.

  “Are you the police?” she asked.

  “Mr Freeman, a consultant with Wiltshire Police, that’s me,” said Gus. “My colleague Ms Logan Barre and I are here to speak with your husband.”

  “Ralph’s in the conservatory. Go to the end of the corridor into the kitchen, and you’ll find the door open. I won’t join you if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs Robinson,” said Lydia. “We’ll try not to keep him too long.”

  “It makes no odds to me, love.”

  With that, Mrs Robinson returned to the lounge and closed the door.

  “Happy families,” said Lydia as they made their way through the kitchen to the sunlit conservatory beyond.

  Gus noted that the rear garden confirmed his view the couple had lived here since they married, and as the marriage soured, so did any care and attention to the decorative order of home and garden.

  Ralph Robinson looked every bit of his seventy years, as did his wife. The reason for his spending the mornings in this room was plain. It had the best of any sun, and as he was a heavy smoker, his wife had banished him from the house. Gus thought these days Ralph was lucky not to have to stand in a makeshift shelter outside in all winds and weather.

  “Sorry about Betty,” said Ralph. “She’s a miserable cow, has been for years. Once the kids grew up and moved away, we discovered we had little in common.”

  “We’re not marriage counsellors, Mr Robinson,” said Gus. “We need to clarify a few points on the information you gave to the police two years ago. Remind us again what you were doing on Ponting Street that morning.”

  Ralph Robinson studied Lydia for a second. Lydia stood and closed the door to the kitchen.

  “We know the truth, Mr Robinson,” she said. “Please don’t insult us.”

  “I told Betty I was taking flowers to put on my mother’s grave,” said Ralph Robinson, lighting another cigarette. “I was going to see an old friend. I hoped it could become more than a business arrangement between us, but Jane stopped answering my calls after the police spoke to me. Betty suspected I’d been seeing someone but never asked. She wasn’t interested. Betty lives her life, and I live mine, what’s left of it. These fags will be the death of me within eighteen months to two years, the doctors tell me. Fat chance of giving them up after you’ve smoked since you were fourteen years old. I’ll be better off out of it anyway, the way the world’s going.”

  Happy families indeed, Gus thought. Time to get back to the matter at hand.

  “We’re interested in what you saw as you made your way from the car to your appointment, Mr Robinson,” said Gus.

  “An argument outside the garage,” said Ralph. “Two men, forty years old maybe, having a slanging match over something of nothing. The man in the overalls wanted his van checked over, and the mechanic refused.”

  “That mechanic was the garage owner, Richard Chaloner,” said Gus. “Someone shot him dead inside the workshop a mere seven hours after that argument.”

  “I realised that after the news broke,” said Ralph. “I’d seen both men in town over the years, but I wasn’t on speaking terms with either of them.”

  “Where might you have seen them?” asked Gus.

  “The man with the van worked at properties along this road. I could have approached him to get this place in better order, but he didn’t have his name or contact number on his van. He must have got his business by word of mouth, I suppose. I could have asked someone for his number, but I couldn’t be bothered. The other man had his face in the papers from time to time. He was always showing people how well he was doing by sponsoring charity events. You know the sort. I’m surprised he didn’t stand for the council.”

  “You didn’t see them together at any other functions?” asked Gus. “Did you and your wife belong to any clubs or societies?”

  Ralph stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Do me a favour. No, that morning was the only time I can recall seeing them together, but I knew their faces. They’d both lived in Swindon for years, born here, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “At what time did you return to your car?” asked Lydia.

  “Just after twelve,” said Ralph. “A maximum of an hour was what Jane allowed.”

  “The van driver had left the garage by then?” asked Gus.

  “Someone was moving a car from the workshop onto the forecourt, and the man I saw earlier was taking another car inside. But, apart from that, the street was empty, except for the odd car driving through.”

  Gus couldn’t see Ralph Robinson adding anything valuable to what they already knew. He could tell Lydia was uncomfortable with the smoky atmosphere, despite the open windows in the conservatory. He’d grown up with the smell as his parents both smoked. Just like Ralph Robinson, the habit had taken them to an early grave.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr Robinson,” said Gus. “Don’t get up. We’ll find our way out. We won’t disturb your wife either.”

  Ralph Robinson lit another cigarette and picked up his newspaper. Lydia led the way outside, and Gus closed the front door firmly behind them. As they walked to the car, Lydia shook herself.

  “I wish we could stop in Chippenham, guv. I want to go home to shower and change clothes. How can people live that way?”

  “We can make the detour after we’ve dropped by Cath Fryer’s place, Lydia,” said Gus. “I told Luke we wouldn’t get back until three. Robinson was as much use as a chocolate teapot as far as giving us any little gems he’d kept hidden two years ago. A pathetic individual who will stay on the fringes of this case. We won’t need to return here, thank goodness.”

  Cath Fryer had been home for ten minutes when Gus parked on Ponting Street for the second time that day. A jolly woman in her early fifties, she welcomed them into her home like long-lost friends. The difference between the Robinson and Fryer households couldn’t have been more marked.

  “We’re earlier than we thought,” said Gus. “I hope that hasn’t inconvenienced you, Mrs Fryer.”

  “That’s alright,” she replied. “Mr Freeman, wasn’t it? I think that was the name the young man gave when he rang. Who are you then, my dear, another police officer?”

  “Ms Logan Barre,” said Lydia. “What a lovely ho
use you have.”

  “We try, my dear,” said Cath. “My husband did most of the work on the house himself, and he’s a keen gardener. I work in Dean Park in the mornings. Then, in the afternoons, I potter in the garden at this time of year. Dave can put his feet up in the evening.”

  “You still work at the care home then, Mrs Fryer?” asked Gus.

  “Oh yes, it’s where Dave’s mother went after his father died. I started volunteering years ago, and they offered me a part-time job. When the kids were young, I stayed at home, but I needed something to keep me busy when they flew the nest. I don’t enjoy sitting around.”

  “We’ve spoken to several people about the events surrounding Richard Chaloner’s death,” said Gus. “You told the police you saw a young man outside your house, wearing a bomber jacket. His behaviour made you suspicious of his intentions.”

  “That’s right,” said Cath. “What can I say? He was there when I came home. He didn’t budge when I tried to pass him on the pavement, and he hadn’t moved an inch when I came out again with a letter to take to the post box. An hour, just hanging around. I didn’t like the look of the lad.”

  “Was he a stranger?” asked Gus.

  “I’d never seen him before and never saw him again after that day.”

  “It was November, so I don’t expect you were pottering in the garden later that afternoon,” said Gus.

  “Oh no, dear, I watch Christmas films on television in the afternoons during November. They’re always soppy and sentimental, and Dave wouldn’t watch them with me, but after a morning at the care home, sometimes I just need to take my mind off things.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the street that afternoon?” asked Gus. “Anyone across the road at the garage, perhaps?”

  “The film hadn’t long started when I had to switch on the light in this front room,” said Cath. “The skies got very dark, and the next time I looked out, it was raining hard. Someone had closed the garage doors. The lights were still on, Richard and his men were working inside. As I closed the curtains to shut out the awful weather, I saw a man looking into the garage window. He had to stand on tiptoe.”

  “Can you describe him?” asked Lydia.

  “A Rastafarian,” said Cath, “wearing one of those floppy hats.”

  “Had you seen him before?” asked Gus.

  “I don’t think so, my dear, but he wasn’t there long. I thought he was trying to attract the attention of someone inside. Why he didn’t go to the side door, I don’t know. Then, it started raining harder, and someone picked him up. A car drove past slowly and parked further along the street.”

  “Outside Stan Jones’s house,” said Gus. “Yes, he told us this morning.”

  “Poor Stan,” sighed Cath Fryer. “He’s had a rough time of it in the past few years.”

  “Stan told us you and his late wife, Jeanie, were friends,” said Gus.

  “Jeanie was more of a mother to me,” said Cath. “A lovely lady. I miss her.”

  “Stan mentioned his son, Stan, and the young lady who jilted him at the altar,” said Gus.

  “Tara Laing,” said Cath. “I’m hardly likely to forget that day. We were outside the registry office, Dave, and me, waiting for them to come out. I’ve still got the box of confetti I bought to throw over them. It was the final straw for Jeanie. She lingered for a further eighteen months, perhaps two years, but the fight had gone. Young Stan went away soon after and only visited his father twice a year at most.”

  “Did you meet Tara?” asked Lydia.

  “Oh, yes, dear,” said Cath. “Quiet as a church mouse she was, gave no one a clue she would do something so cruel. I know it’s not right to say, but if you stood on Stan’s right-hand side, he was a handsome lad. Without the accident, he could have had his pick of the girls around town. Tara seemed happy enough whenever we saw the two of them together. But thirty minutes before she was supposed to walk into the registry office with her dad, the silly girl decided she couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Did Tara marry and have children with someone else?” asked Gus.

  “Not a bit, Mr Freeman. Tara’s in her thirties now and recently retired from a career as an adult film actress. As if young Stan didn’t have enough pain in his life. I pray he doesn’t find her on the internet. She had the nerve to call herself Jeanie Jones. No, before you ask, I have watched none of her movies. A bloke Dave works with mentioned her to him a year or two back. He went to school with Tara Laing, remembered when she was with Stan Jones and that Dave had mentioned what happened on the wedding day.”

  Gus shared a glance with Lydia.

  “Is there anything you want to ask Mrs Fryer, Lydia?”

  “I think we’ve got what we came for, guv,” said Lydia. “and more besides.”

  “I’m here in the afternoons if you ever want to chat again,” said Cath.

  “You’ve been most helpful,” said Gus. He was eager to get moving. Once they were outside on the pavement, Lydia turned towards the car.

  “One more call to make before we stop by your place, Lydia,” said Gus. “Mrs Fryer said the chap at the window appeared to be trying to attract someone’s attention.”

  Lydia followed Gus across the road. The first face to appear was Harry Simpkins.

  “Is Matt Merchant around?” asked Gus.

  “Here I am, Mr Freeman.” Matt Merchant appeared from behind a Renault. “I hope this is a genuine visit. Anne Marie is at college this afternoon, we’re short-handed, and customers are waiting.”

  “Oh, it’s genuine,” said Gus. “Do you recall the police mentioning an Afro-Caribbean gentleman outside the garage at four on the day Richard died?”

  “Of course, but as we told you, if they were regular customers, they would use the side door.”

  “How many Afro-Caribbean men aged around thirty do you know, Mr Merchant?”

  “Several, I suppose, why?”

  “Give me a name,”

  “Carlos Watson,”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He plays football for one team that plays at the Gerard Buxton Sports Arena,”

  “Do you have his number?”

  “It should be in the league handbook. I’ve never had cause to ring Carlos before. He doesn’t bring his car here. What’s going on?”

  “Humour me,” said Gus.

  Five minutes later, a red-faced Matt Merchant returned.

  “One mystery solved,” said Gus. “Am I right?”

  “I did not know it was Carlos,” said Matt. “He told me just now that one of his teammates, Delroy West, usually drove him to football on Monday nights. Delroy’s wife had started having contractions, and she wanted Delroy to get her to the hospital. The lads were driving past the garage on the way to Delroy‘s when Carlos remembered me mentioning I worked for Richard. Carlos hoped to grab a lift with me to football but couldn’t make anyone hear. He hadn’t visited the garage before, so he didn’t realise he could have come to the side door. Delroy raced back to Walcot to collect his wife, and Carlos had to postpone the game that night because they couldn’t get a team.”

  “What was it?” asked Lydia.

  “Just a league game,” said Matt.

  “No, I meant the baby,” said Lydia.

  “I don’t know. I never asked,” said Matt.

  “Well, that’s another loose end tied off,” said Gus. “By the way, I know you didn’t know the man in the white van, but his name is Eddie Dolman. A painter and decorator who went to school with Richard. We’ve learned they hung around together as teenagers and as young men too.”

  “I knew he looked familiar,” said Matt, “but I haven’t seen him since that day.”

  “So, that bloke Dolman was here in the morning,” said Harry Simpkins, who had stopped work to listen. “A youngster from London on a day trip, probably to offload drugs, was across the road in the early afternoon, and a West Indian footballer came here later in the day to see Matt. If it wasn’t one of them who killed
Richard, who was it then?”

  “A fair question, Mr Simpkins,” said Gus. “We’ll let you know in due course.”

  “You’ve got someone in mind then, Mr Freeman,” said Matt Merchant.

  “Ever hopeful, Mr Marchant. Ever hopeful. Good day to you both.”

  Gus and Lydia crossed the street to the Focus, and Gus drove them out of Swindon to Wroughton and through the village of Avebury.

  “Have you ever visited this village, Lydia?” he asked.

  “We’ve driven past the stones many times,” she replied. “But Alex and I have never stopped to walk around them. They’re older than Stonehenge, aren’t they?”

  “There’s evidence to suggest they’re older, yes,” said Gus. “The Neolithic monument contains three stone circles, one hundred stones in total around the village. Avebury henge is one of Britain's best-known prehistoric sites and contains the world’s largest megalithic stone circle. History on your doorstep.”

  “Have you ever walked around the site, guv?” Lydia asked.

  “What do you think?” he replied. “Always too busy to stop.”

  When they arrived at Alex and Lydia's house in Chippenham, Lydia invited Gus indoors to wait.

  “You carry on, Lydia,” said Gus. “I’ll sit in the car and ponder the case. I do my best pondering in familiar spots such as this car and outside my garden shed at the allotments.”

  “I won’t be long, I promise,” she replied.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lydia returned. A wide orange headband dragged her damp hair back off her face. The multi-coloured blouse and calf-length skirt had gone, replaced by an orange t-shirt and black leather skirt. A dress that Gus had seen before. To say it was short was generous. Only someone with great legs could get away with it. Lydia didn’t have a problem on that score.

  “I hope you’ll explain the change of clothing to Alex,” said Gus.

  “Don’t worry, guv,” said Lydia. “I’ll tell him you were the perfect gentleman.”

  “I should hope so too, young lady,” said Gus. “I have my reputation to protect.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, they were back in the Old Police Station car park.