A Cotswolds Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘Did this man Baker prefer charges?’

  Stafford shook his head. ‘He was happy enough to leave it there. I suppose he was shattered by Keene’s reaction. And the fact it was he who ended up on his back, bleeding, wouldn’t have helped his ego. No, he up and left too, went up north. Clarke says he was last working for a haulage firm in Doncaster. But you get the picture as I see it?’

  Crow smiled. ‘How do you see it?’

  Stafford inspected his closed fist, opened it and looked at the palm of his hand as though the secrets were all concealed there. He tapped his first finger. ‘As I see it, Andrew Keene isn’t all he’s made out to be. First he put it about that he was made redundant, when really he got the sack.’

  ‘A natural reaction.’

  ‘But it tells us Keene isn’t above lying if it suits him.’ Stafford tapped a second finger. ‘He’s at the site when Lindop died.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Thirdly, from what Forsyth had to say, there could have been a good reason for Keene not liking Lindop too much — the van business.’ Stafford inspected his third finger. ‘But what’s most important of all is the fact that though Keene is supposed to be a bit dreamy, quiet, even gentle, it’s on record that not so long ago he used a piece of chain on a driver who was taunting him. And used it to good, bloody effect. So, given the right circumstances, Andrew Keene could get violent. Summing it all up, if I may — Keene was there, he had opportunity, he might have had motive, and he could well be the kind of man who is subject to fits of uncontrollable violence.’

  Crow sighed. ‘You think we should see young Keene as soon as possible.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I agree,’ John Crow said, and rose to his feet.

  CHAPTER 4

  The dust hung in the late afternoon air, a golden haze that rose lazily until it seemed to touch the intense blue of the sky above Foxholes and edge it with grey-gold cloud. From the top of the hill, where the grass was springy under his feet, Andrew could look down into the quarry and see the stores where he worked, the cutting machines, and the lorries that trundled daily into Northleach. Beyond the quarry were the woods, and the long lifting skyline that stretched into the distance; honey-coloured and grey limestone, dusty roads, grey-walled villages, the golden stubble of fields flanked with clumps of green trees.

  Nearer to hand, on the face of the cliff, the men still worked. Andrew’s day was over but there were others to whom overtime was the way in which they made a decent living. They clung to the cliff like small dark mice, busying themselves at the quarry. They took out the stone with crowbar and wedge, and then lifted it with pickaxe and shovel, for it was too soft for blasting. It was made up of a myriad shells and tiny fossils and under the thud of dynamite the stone simply crumbled away. Crucial to the beauty of the Cotswolds, essential to preserve the character of Cotswold building, the stone was too expensive to lose so the ancient ways had to do. It was only occasionally that dynamite had to be used, to open up a new area, to cut a new corner — and it had not been used much of recent months.

  Andrew sat down on the springy turf and stared back down the hill into the quarry. This was one of the economic realities of life: neither he nor Sara wished to leave the Cotswolds but it was not easy to afford to live there. The coming of the baby made things even more difficult, but what chance did they have? Rich men came out of their retirements from Birmingham and London to drive cottage prices to undreamed of heights. A house selling for four thousand pounds ten years ago would now fetch over thirty thousand on the open market. Sara’s nest egg, the legacy of her parents, dwindled in significance when viewed against house prices. Andrew’s salary here at the quarry was hardly enough to convince a bank manager he could handle a loan, and a building society manager simply shook his head when asked about the possibility of a mortgage. So what was to be done? The site had been bad enough before — but it had been quiet, at least. Now, there was a constant drift of cars parking, roaring past, creeping along the road outside the site, few of them actually daring to come on to Lovesome Hill Caravan Park but all wanting to see the place where a murder had been committed.

  The sun seemed to fade momentarily and Andrew thrust all thoughts of Chuck Lindop from his mind. Somewhere, high above on the wind, a bird was singing. Andrew sat and watched the grey-haired man climbing slowly towards him in the afternoon sunshine.

  He was stocky in build, fifty years of age, and he wore his hair in an uncompromising iron-grey stubble. His eyes were bright blue, with the faraway look that a man who lived his life out of doors often held, and his skin was toughened by wind, burned by sun. He had a stolid face and a character to match; not easily moved, he gave an impression of solidity, of strength, of stubborn determination. He was a Cotsaller and as proud of it as all Cotsallers were; he belonged to the ‘noicest parrt of England’, he claimed he could do almost anything with stone except eat it, and the blackthorn stick he used to help himself up the hill had been fashioned by his own hands. His name was Sam Dixon, and Andrew was waiting for him.

  It was possible Sam Dixon sensed it. On other days he would have glanced at Andrew, nodded and walked on to the bus stop over the rise where the afternoon workers’ bus came along at five thirty-five and six-fifteen. He would have stood there, leaning gently on his stick with his knapsack on his back, a little apart from the others, saying little, going his own way. But not today. He came up out of the quarry, saw Andrew seated on the grass and he paused, then stopped. He turned and looked around at the hills about them. He said nothing for several minutes, then slowly he raised his stick, pointed it unwaveringly towards the tiny village nestling against the far slope.

  ‘Them roofs . . . loimestone slate, did yer know that? Quite an arrt, puttin’ them there. My fayther did them, farty year ago now. That village, he used to tell me, can yer guess how many size of slates there? Near thirty — and each of them ‘as a name. Long Bachelors . . . Short Wivetts . . .’ He shook his head and fell silent again, musing.

  ‘Things were different then,’ Andrew said, ‘When your father worked about here, I mean.’

  Sam Dixon nodded. ‘Aye. All good Cotsall stone then. None of this Bradstone mix . . . They say it looks like stone, but oi know it’s gravel and cement mixed in moulds and it don’t look the same, not to me. Yer can’t tell me otherwise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t try to.’

  Dixon grunted. He glanced back at Andrew, hesitated, then sat down carefully. He gazed around at the distant hills and said, ‘You was waitin’ for me.’

  ‘That’s right. I thought we ought to have a talk.’

  ‘Talk’s easy.’

  ‘Sometimes it can help.’

  The bright blue eyes looked at him, sharp and belligerent. ‘I never saw things that way,’ Sam Dixon said. ‘Fer me, talk was niver the way.’

  ‘Times — and circumstances — change.’

  Dixon continued to stare at Andrew, the hostility still bright in his eyes. ‘We’re talkin’ around something, Andrew Keene, and I’ve no patience for that sort of thing. I like direct talkers, no beatin’ about the bush. So what do yer want to say?’

  ‘The dynamite.’

  Sam Dixon’s eyelids dropped. He turned his head away. When he made no reply, Andrew said, ‘It had to be you, Sam.’

  ‘Why do yer say that?’

  ‘I have to keep a book. No explosives go out of the store unless I open up and get a signature for the sticks. We haven’t done any blasting for weeks now, and there’s no signature in the book. I’ve been there in the store most of the time and I’ve signed out or given out — nothing. But . . . well, the police have been around. I had to do a check for the Colonel. Sure enough, there’s a couple of sticks missing. The Colonel got excited, wanted to know what happened to them. I couldn’t tell him, didn’t tell him. The police will be coming back. They’ll be questioning every person who had access to the store over the last few months. They’d ask you, Sam.’

  ‘So?’

&n
bsp; Andrew’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard. ‘Three weeks ago you came into the store — remember? You told me the Colonel wanted me down at the quarry, I had to go at once, you offered to stay and keep shop while I was out. I went to the Colonel — he wanted to speak to me but seemed vaguely surprised I’d come at once. Lunch-hour would have been all right, he said.’

  Sam Dixon picked at the turf with his stick. His head was lowered now, his shoulders hunching.

  ‘It had to be then,’ Andrew said. ‘You lifted a couple of sticks, hid them outside the store, picked them up later.’

  ‘Didn’t see me do that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t be proved, then.’ Dixon’s sharp eyes glanced at Andrew.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘No, I can’t prove it. Maybe the police will be able to.’

  ‘You’re going to tell them, then?’

  Andrew shrugged. Dixon eyed him for a long moment and then dug his stick viciously into the grass. ‘Bugger it!’

  ‘It was you, Sam, who blew up the generator at the site, wasn’t it?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yer seem to know a bloody lot!’

  ‘No, not know. Guess. It’s not difficult to guess at the truth when you hear . . . rumours.’ Andrew hesitated. ‘There were rumours, Sam.’

  ‘I don’t bloody well doubt it!’ Dixon’s face became almost savage for a moment, then he looked sideways at Andrew. He shook his head. ‘I haven’t arsked you how your missus is gettin’ on.’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘And the youngster?’

  ‘She’ll be in intensive care for another day or so. Trouble with her breathing, but not serious. She should be all right.’

  ‘That’s good.’ The blue eyes became hazy, clouded with memories. ‘Never met your missus, o’ course. Saw her with you once though, in Stowford. Fine-lookin’ girl. Reminded me of . . .’ He swore suddenly, viciously. ‘Aye, I blew that bloody generator! Rumours, you said! Damn it, when it’s not rumours, but when a worm that crawls in your gut, takes the manhood out of you, addles your brain and makes yer feel madness is aroun’ the corner there’s nothin’ left to do, but to . . . blow a generator!’ He laughed, but there was a deep bitterness in the sound. ‘What a bloody feeble way to try to solve a problem, hey? I could have taken this blackthorn to her, but what would be the good? It was all done, and there was only the gut anger in me, and I just wanted revenge, you know? So there it was — a chance, I took it, grabbed the sticks like you said, and there in the darkness I made a big bang. But what the hell for? She’s gone, and that was her doin’ not his. He’d played his part in the game, but it was her doin’ when she left. Took a bloody big slice of my life, she did, not in years maybe, but in . . .’ He waved his hands helplessly, trying to find a word. Heart trembled on his lips but he was too angry to admit it, enunciate it, and he discarded it. ‘She went off to Oxford and what’s left? Just work, and the thought there’s no fools like old fools. Forty-five can’t marry twenty-five and sleep peaceful. Maybe that’s why it went that way in the end. If suspicion’s got nothing to feed on, but is still there, maybe the woman suspected feels she’s got a right to be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself, Sam.’

  ‘I didn’t! Not then, anyway. No — I blamed that man Lindop! And what did I do about it? Hah!’

  He struggled to his feet, a stocky angry man with bristling hair and wild blue eyes, a lonely man, an embittered man. He glared at Andrew Keene.

  ‘Ye’ll tell them?’

  Andrew hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, I’ll not tell the police.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you?’ Dixon demanded suspiciously.

  ‘It’s not my business. It’s their problem, not mine.’

  ‘But they’ll know the stuff came from your store. How you going to get around that?’

  Andrew shrugged, making no reply. Sam Dixon stood staring at him, puzzled. They knew each other through the quarry, and not well; Sam Dixon was accustomed to passing the time of day and no more. He was obviously surprised that Andrew Keene should even in the slightest way endanger himself for Sam Dixon, and the surprise bothered him.

  ‘I don’t like to be beholden to any man,’ Dixon said gruffly.

  ‘You’re not beholden. As you’ve already said, I can’t prove you took the dynamite or that you blew the generator. I . . . I just wanted to find out for my own reasons, and I wanted to warn you that the police will be sniffing around.’

  ‘They—’ Dixon hesitated, ran his tongue over dry lips — ‘they’ve no idea yet who killed him, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘They’re not thinking there’s a connection between the generator . . . and the killing?’

  Andrew glanced at Sam Dixon; the man’s face was suddenly pale. He shook his head doubtfully. ‘I just wouldn’t know. But one thing I do know — I’ll be saying nothing to them about what you’ve said.’

  Dixon grunted, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He frowned. ‘Aye . . . well, I don’t understand this, Andrew, but I’m . . . grateful. I don’t mind standing up for myself, but . . .’

  How could Andrew explain? How could he tell Sam Dixon about the dark horror of that night, explain that he knew Dixon had had nothing to do with Lindop’s killing?

  * * *

  As Sam Dixon walked away towards the bus stop the police car nosed over the rise and came running gently down towards the quarry. Some twenty yards away from Andrew it slid to a halt. There were two men in the car, apart from the driver. One of them Andrew recognized as the burly detective-inspector who had taken a statement from him the morning after Chuck Lindop had died.

  It was the other man who now got out of the car.

  He was over six feet tall but stooped slightly. He wore no hat and his head was bald, his forehead domed, his eyes deep-sunken. He was thin, so lean his clothes seemed almost to hang on him, but there was a lightness in his walk that suggested he had been subjected to no illness. Moreover, as he walked towards Andrew he smiled and the smile had a genuine warmth that made one forget the skeletal appearance of the man himself. As he drew closer Andrew could see his eyes too, and detected in them a compassion rare enough to be noticeable.

  ‘My name is Crow — Detective Chief Inspector. You’re Andrew Keene, I gather? I thought it might be useful if we had a chat.’

  With no more formality than that Crow stretched his tall scarecrow form on the grass beside Andrew, leaning back with his head on his hands, staring at the blue sky. The engine of the police car died as the driver switched it off. There was the distant murmur of the workers’ bus over the hill and then there was only the bird again, high above them, singing.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ Andrew asked. His mouth was dry, his heart beginning to thump, but he managed to keep his voice steady enough.

  ‘Oh, various things. You’ve made your statement. I’ve read it. There’s just a few points I’d like to take up with you.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Crow raised his head, smiled as he looked at Andrew as though to suggest there was no such need to hurry. He came up on one elbow.

  ‘Omissions,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll try to explain. Your statement mentions the following facts: you were at the site all evening; your wife began to have labour pains; you heard the sound of an explosion when the lights went out but did not investigate because you wanted to stay with your wife; you heard no sound of a fight; you stayed with your wife until Ruby Sanders came to the van and heard your wife crying; you ran to the Hartley bungalow and called an ambulance — and that was it?’

  Andrew licked his lips. ‘Yes, that’s about all there was.’

  Crow’s eyes were sad. ‘No omissions?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘There are always omissions. People forget. They recall things later. You haven’t recalled anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Crow sighed
. ‘Pity. I’d better come clean with you, Andrew. In any investigation arising out of a murder the police have to do all sorts of things — many of them unpleasant. Perhaps the most unpleasant task — at least, I find it unpleasant — is the peeling away we have to do. A man’s life is like an onion — peel off one skin, there’s another inside. You get told, you learn just so much, until the next layer is exposed. In the middle, somewhere, is the truth — except that the truth is too deep, too personal, ever to be exposed completely.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know.’

  ‘That may be so. But there are still things you haven’t told us. The explosion at the generator, for instance. There’s more than a chance the dynamite came from this quarry — we suspect it did. You’ve no suspicions in that direction?’

  ‘I can’t account for any loss of dynamite,’ Andrew said stiffly. ‘It’s possible some was stolen, of course.’

  ‘You don’t know who might have taken some?’

  ‘No,’ Andrew lied. Crow watched him carefully in silence for a moment, and Andrew felt as though a layer was being stripped away. He began to redden. ‘I’d have told you if I’d suspected anything.’

  ‘Would you? Why?’

  ‘Because—’ Andrew floundered momentarily — ‘because I . . . I knew Lindop.’

  ‘But you had no reason to like him.’ Andrew went cold. The quick flush that had stained his face faded and he was unable to meet Crow’s glance.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ Crow said patiently. ‘We talk to everyone, and that means relationships between individuals are seen from different angles. One of the people who gave us information was Jack Forsyth. He told us about the sale of the van to you. He reckons that Chuck Lindop conned you, Andrew. Lindop sold you a van but gave you no proof of ownership, no evidence of the sale. Forsyth told us he asked you for the receipt but you could produce none. Have you found it yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s the chance Forsyth might argue the van is really his, since it’s on his site. But that’s between you and him. I’m more interested in what was between you and Lindop.’