The Village Fate

by William Hadley

  In the pub Angus complained about having to buy Claudilia lunch in a pub she actually owned, it was like paying her to eat with him.

  “Are you comparing me to an escort?” she asked “Because if I were a lady of negotiable virtue, I’d cost a lot more than a ploughman’s lunch.”

  Angus junior asked if escorts charged different rates for lunch times and dinners.

  Claudilia changed the subject, in case his father knew the answer.

  At two o’clock everyone was back at their pitches. The fairground was ready to go, their music was playing and the car parks were full to overflowing. The ex-wife of a second division footballer, one who’d briefly been something in reality T.V, was booked to open the fete. According to Angus junior she’d taken part in a programme called “I’m almost a celebrity and I’ve have a boob job, don’t get me out of here ‘cos I need the publicity.” or something like that anyway.

  On the stoke of two she rang a bell and the fete was open. You could throw a wet sponge at the pastor and raise funds for the church, or kick a football though an impossibly small hole to win a mystery prize. Pick a lucky ticket and you’ll take home your choice from someone else’s rubbish, or thrust your arm into a barrel of bran and pull out a foul tasting lollypop. There were innumerable ways to be parted with your pound coins, and all in the name of charity.

  Claudilia walked amongst the crowd, noting which stalls were busy and which were not. The rifle range was doing well, there seemed to be a constant queue of shooters waiting their turn. Holly was taking the money and explaining that two pounds bought you six shots. Angus senior was loading and making sure everyone was safe. Angus junior was setting, collecting and scoring the targets. Most of the pellets went into the targets or the straw bales they sat on. A few of the more wild shots went over the top and dropped into the river. None had sufficient power to reach the far bank.

  It was half past three when Angus loaded a rifle and looked up for the next shooter. He found himself face to face with DS Josie Robinson. “Hello Detective, come to try your hand at shooting. I’m afraid it’s not quite the police range at Hindlop.”

  “I’m not firearms trained.” she replied. “But I think I can manage one of these.”

  “Come on mummy,” called Rose, from outside the roped off area.

  It had been a quiet start to Saturday at Stratford police station. DS Josie Robinson had attended the morning briefing to find the usual Friday night drunks and fighters cooling off in the cells. Some would go home without charge before midday. Others, especially the drunk drivers, would be summoned to appear in court. The bridegroom they’d found drunk, naked and handcuffed to a traffic light was taken home in a patrol car. Josie was sure that he, and his orange painted scrotum, would appear in the station’s Christmas party slide show.

  Josie had updated her paperwork and filed some outstanding reports. She checked the personnel roster and saw that PC Tipton was also on duty. She tapped his number into her Airwave handset. The weather was good, a warm sunny day and Josie would rather not spend it cooped up inside the station. It appeared that the house breakers and shop lifters were having a rare day off as well, maybe they wanted to make the most of the sunshine too. Paul Tipton answered her call and they arranged a trip out to Wimplebridge. He could tick the box marked “show the human side of the police by appearing at community events.” Josie just wanted a snoop around, and if she happened to run into her husband and children, well that would be a happy coincidence.

  Standing side on to the targets she squeezed the rifle butt into her shoulder. Josie took six shots in quick succession. She’d not lied about firearms training, but all officers have the opportunity to shoot at the force range. Josie had been there several times. The assessors noted her accuracy and she’d been offered firearms training. In the end she’d declined, giving her interest in CID as the reason. Privately she felt her instinct as a mother was too strong. If it came to the crunch she wasn’t certain she could take a human life, and that would make her a liability on a firearms team. But she was still an excellent shot and practiced whenever she got the chance.

  Angus junior retrieved the target, and having calculated the score he gave it to his father to check. The paper target was perforated around the centre. The ten mark, the centre of the target, was punched clean through twice, three further pellets had torn holes in the nine ring and the final one was an eight. An impressive score and it put her right at the top of the board, fifty five out of a possible sixty. Angus junior was impressed, from fifteen metres that was exceptional shooting, well up to club standard he thought. Angus shot for his school and had expected to win with his score of fifty three.

  “Great shooting,” said Angus handing her the target as a souvenir, “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.”

  “Is there a prize?” she enquired.

  “Yes, dinner for two at the Belcher’s Arms, sponsored by Macintosh Energy.” Where did that come from he wondered. There was no talk of a prize when he set up the stall, now he was sponsoring a meal for the winner.

  Josie was delighted. She took her target to Peter and bent down to show it to Rose. “That’s where mummy’s shots hit. Isn’t she clever?”

  “Not really,” said Rose “you missed all the other numbers.”

  Josie and Peter were still laughing as they walked towards the ice cream van.

  PC Tipton was enjoying his afternoon of community policing. He’d guessed the weight of the pig, and how many sweets were inside the jar. He’d banged down a big hammer and made a bell ring. Then he threw a hoop over a peg and won a pink teddy bear. He gave his prize to a little girl with pigtails who’d missed with all of her hoops. She beamed a gap toothed smile at him, then ran off with the bear to her parents. …Give it ten years and he’ll be arresting her for selling drugs behind the Co-op. I bet she won’t smile at the nice policeman then.

  Now he was thirsty so he joined the queue at the refreshments tent. No drinking on duty of course, but he could have a cold Coke and he waited by the bar till his turn to be served. The tent was busy, mostly with beer drinkers who, by the look of them, were set for the afternoon. His attention was drawn to one man, he’d just returned to a group at a table. He had a pint in his hand but looked unsteady on his feet.

  “You should’ve seen that woman who shot just now, bloody hell boy, she can hit a target. ‘Recon she’d take out a rat’s eye at fifty paces,” said the elderly drinker. “I don’t know who she is but she came in the car with that policeman.” Paul did his best to be looking the other way but carried on listening. “It’s a bloody good thing Miss C isn’t shooting this year,” continued the drinker after taking another mouthful, and spilling half of it down his shirt. “Or that woman might be floating down the river like the fisherman last week.” Another drink, and more of it down his shirt. “She doesn’t like competition does she? Got to win at all costs has Miss C.” The last of his pint was shared between his mouth and his clothing. “If someone looks like they’re going to beat her she takes them out of the game, if you know what I mean.”

  Mrs Harris was horrified. She was queuing for drinks with Maggie and Alan, the younger of the Belcher children. Alan was too young to go on his own and Maggie wouldn’t take him, they’d compromised and all gone together. She’d seen the policeman in the queue, and noticed the way he was standing. He was trying to look relaxed but that loud mouth had his attention.

  Her husband! the stupid sod had said too much, and now the policeman was curious. She needed to act before he started asking questions. Mr H couldn’t handle his beer, so mostly she kept him away from it. But the village fate was different, everyone had a drink at the fete and if he had a few more than he should; well she’d just take him across the road to their cottage and let him sleep it off.

  She leaned down to Alan and asked if he would take a message to Mr H. “very politely Alan, would you whisper to him that he needs to go home and get Jasmin and Sapphire for the ferret down the trousers c
ompetition.” Alan laughed at this, then ran off towards Mr H and his friends. Next Mrs Harris handed a five pound note to Maggie. “Get drinks for yourself and your brother will you Maggie, and take one to aunt Claudilia. Tell her I’ve had to go home, I need to sort out a little problem.”

  PC Tipton was at the front of the queue. He paid for his drink and carried it away from the bar. The constable was hoping to get a good look at the drinker, and maybe have a word. What had he meant by “she’d be floating down the river.” It must have been DS Robinson he was talking about, and he’d heard about the man who’d drowned, but that was an accident, nothing suspicious, not as far as he knew.

  Paul looked around the tables, the man’s drinking friends were still there, but he’d gone. His glass was empty so perhaps he’d popped to the loo. The constable started a conversation with some youngsters in the queue and waited for the man to come back. After ten minutes the youths had been served and there was no sign of his mark. Paul had no further reason to be hanging around, not without looking suspicious anyway. He left the drinks tent and went in search of his DS.

  When Mr H and Alan had left the table Mrs Harris peeled away from the queue. Safely out of sight of the policeman she snaked her arm through her husband’s. She thanked Alan for his help and sent him back to his sister. Quickly, but not so fast they would attract attention, she steered her intoxicated husband across the green, away from the drinks tent and toward their cottage.

  “Harris you’ve got a big mouth,” she said firmly. She only called him “Harris” when he was in trouble.

  “Why sweet-pea, what have I done?”

  “Don’t you sweet-pea me,” she scolded. “Blabbering on about pushing that woman in the river. Couldn’t you see that policeman was listening.”

  “He was nowhere near; he’d not have heard me.”

  “He was just in front of me in the queue, and half the county heard you.”

  “He wouldn’t know who I was talking about.”

  “How many Miss Cs do you think there are in this village Harris?” snapped his wife. “Best you go home, sober up and don’t show your face down there again, not today.”

  “But I’ve got to put a ferret down my trousers,” he said.

  “No you don’t. That competition was taken off the programme last year.” The committee decided to drop that contest after a tattooed lady from London had a go. She had a great number of piercings, some on show and some hidden. The ferret was down her jeans for a very long time, several minutes in fact, and when it came out, it was holding something like an earring between it’s teeth.

  “Oh yes, I remember now,” said Mr H with a drunken smile. Somewhere he still had the ring.

  It took PC Tipton some time to locate the CID officer. He found her with Peter throwing hoops over a bowl, she was trying to win a goldfish for the children. When they had a fish each Josie was able to leave her family and she re-joined her uniformed colleague. Paul recapped the conversation he’d overheard and asked for her opinion.

  “Well it’s wasn’t our case,” said Josie. “and it’s been signed off as an accidental death. But we can’t ignore new information if that’s what this is. So we’ll have a good look around for your drinker and his mates, if we find them we’ll see if we can get them talking. You never know, all that beer might loosen a tongue or two. If we don’t find them we’ll go back to the station, I’ll put a note on the file and email it to Hudson. You can write it up in your notebook, and we’ll both be smelling of roses if the case is ever reopened.”

  The two officers walked around the fete again, they checked in each of the stalls and on all of the rides. Satisfied that PC Tipton’s drinker was not to be found, they made their way back to the cakes for another look at Claudilia, about whom Josie still harboured misgivings. The judges had been to look at her stall …and they better bloody well have liked it, Claudilia was happy to sell them each a large slice of the carrot cake. The one Josie had been admiring the previous day. As they drove out of the village they passed Macintosh Energy. The sign in front of the house now read The Manor, the Range Rover was gone and Angus was throwing himself into village life; Horse riding, helping with the fete and sponsoring a prize were not the actions of a distraught husband thought Josie.

  Still, Josie was uncomfortable, she just wished they had some proof of life for Maggie, if only she’d call Angus, or even send a postcard from whatever sun-kissed beach she was on. Something to show that she’d left of her own free will would be great. But why would she do that? She’d skipped off with a stack of Angus’s money, or his company’s money to be precise, so why would she tell him where to start looking if he wanted it back? Best to stay hidden, and where better to hide than in a crowded mega city. She’d fade into New York’s background, just one of twenty million people.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  On the stoke of four the Pastor was back on stage and in a dry change of clothes. A local band had finished murdering a few well known songs and the primary school had finished their dance show. Pastor Stuart was not a natural orator, a disadvantage in his line of business, but once he’d got to grips with the microphone he asked people to gather round.

  The almost famous ex-wife made no attempt to hide her boredom. She’d opened the fete and now she just wanted to be paid and go home. But first she had to say a few words and give out the prizes. Pastor Stuart droned on about how lucky they were to have her with them, how great the stalls were this year, how fortunate they’d been with the weather and how everyone should “dig deep and give to the good causes.” When people began to wander away he took the hint and passed the microphone to their guest.

  Things started badly, the almost famous ex-wife got the name of the village wrong, she called it Womblebridge. Then she began to plug her autobiography, which she said would be published just as soon as she found someone clever to write it. Her voice was a nasal whine, and as she went through the details of her fight with alcohol and drug abuse people talked amongst themselves. They just wanted her to shut up and give out the prizes.

  Pastor Stuart didn’t want to be rude. But the crowd was bored and was drifting back to the beer tent. Soon there would be nobody left to give the prizes to. He stepped forward and took control of the stage, snatching the microphone from the still not famous ex-wife and cutting her off mid-sentence. Before she had a chance to protest he began reading out the list of prize winners and inviting them onto the stage. The platform filled with happy locals all desperate to get hold of their trophy or prize; and to have a photo taken with someone who was once nearly well known.

  Claudilia’s cake stall won second prize. The judges preferred the paintings by the local art club, and in truth she didn’t mind. If her stall had won she’d have been expected to do it again next year. Now she had a good excuse not to, and she could hand the ceremonial mixing bowl to someone else.

  Third prize went to some pottery figures made by the students at Warwick’s sixth form college. Many of the items on show were for sale by sealed auction, they’d been displayed at the Bridge Inn for a fortnight. There was an intricate chess set, each figure with a different face and each piece hand painted with breath taking attention to detail. Claudilia liked to play on a winter’s evening and she’d put in a bid of three hundred and seventy five pounds. She thought she’d probably win at that price, but if she didn’t then she’d make do with her battered old set at Bindweed Cottage.

  Prize giving had finished, Flemmy Alison had won the “guess the weight of the pig” competition and Pastor Stuart had said there were four hundred and seventy six Maltesers in a giant whisky bottle. He was only thirteen out and the closest by far. The shooting had been won by DS Robinson. Josie wasn’t there to collect it, but Peter said he’d tell his wife and he left contact details with Angus. They would arrange the meal for sometime soon.

  At last they got to the sealed auction. Jugs and plates were sold for tens and twenties. Mr H had won a hideous fruit bowl. His wife would hate it and
Claudilia made a note to look out for it at the W.I. Christmas raffle. Almost everything was gone, just one envelope was still to be opened and it was the one for the chess set. The more Claudilia looked at the uniquely decorated figures, the more she wanted the set …I should have put a decent bid in, I’m bound to lose it to some hooray from Stratford or London, they’ve got more money than sense that lot. The almost famous ex-wife stood on the stage holding the envelope and looking a bit lost. For a moment Claudilia thought she was going to leave, but Pastor Stuart began to talk and people were quiet again. He talked about the sculptor, a talented young man who was going to Brighton University where he’d study material design. He told of how the set had taken many days to make and how the final thirty two pieces were the very best he’d ever seen. It really was unique, and they were very lucky to have it. He took the envelope and opened it. He scanned the crowd and everyone was quiet.

  “The winning bid for the chess set, the chess set with thirty two unique pieces and an early work from a promising young artist. One who’s bound to be collectable in the future...”

  “Get on with it” came a cry from the back of the audience.

  “The winning bid, and I have the cheque here to prove it, is for two thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine pounds.” There was a gasp from the audience. “and comes from Mrs Maggie Macintosh.”