‘Fine,’ she said, feeling suddenly charitable. ‘I know the Hoxworthys – or rather my mother does – so I’ll do the talking
when we’re there.’ Rachel’s mother, Stella, a woman of indomitable energy, was a local farmer’s wife and an authority on the
successes, failures and scandals of the area’s farming community.
Steve didn’t answer, and they walked on in silence to the outskirts of the village, until they reached the Red Bull, a long,
low, whitewashed establishment with a thatched roof: a certainty for a picture postcard.
‘Looks like a good place for lunch,’ Rachel said, holding out the olive branch. ‘If we get time for lunch, that is.’
Steve grunted in the affirmative. ‘What did you make of the boss’s briefing this morning? Do you think the victim could be
this pop singer, Jonny Shellmer?’
Steve shrugged. ‘The boss seemed pretty certain. But then he always does.’
‘Do you know anything about Shellmer?’ Rachel asked as they reached the lane that led out of the village. The narrow roadway
was overhung with budding plum trees which promised a good late-summer crop.
‘Bit before my time,’ said Steve thoughtfully. ‘But he was very big in the late sixties and seventies. One of the bad boys
of rock – drug convictions, smashed-up hotel rooms: the usual. He’s just sold a big place in London and
rented a place around here – in Whitely, I think. I read that he’d decided to stay here permanently and was looking for a
place around Derenham. It was in the paper the other day. He’d given some money to some village hall appeal in Derenham because
he wanted to move there.’
‘I presume the boss knows about all this?’ she asked, impressed by Steve’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the doings of ageing
rock stars.
‘He’s been to the
Tradmouth Echo
offices so he’ll know about the Whitely place and the Derenham money. And as for the rest, I suppose he’ll have found out
for himself by now.’
Rachel admitted to herself reluctantly that Steve was probably right. But all the same, she’d mention it to Wesley when she
got the chance. She seized every opportunity to speak to Wesley.
‘Actually …’ Steve hesitated.
Rachel looked at him impatiently. ‘What is it?’
‘This, er, girl I’m seeing is a big fan of some of these old rock groups. I’ll, er, ask her what she knows about Jonny Shellmer.’
Rachel looked at him, stifling a grin. So Steve’s love life had taken a turn for the better. Although he boasted of his conquests
in the clubs of Morbay, Rachel suspected that his success rate wasn’t high. ‘You do that, Steve. What’s her name?’
‘Melissa,’ he replied with a mixture of affection and pride. Maybe it was the real thing, Rachel thought, reflecting on some
women’s odd taste in men.
They had arrived at the gates of the Old Vicarage. Through the local grapevine Rachel had heard that the place was up for
sale. If Jonny Shellmer was looking for a place around Derenham, the Old Vicarage would certainly fit the bill. The gates
were rustic and rusty rather than impressive, but if Shellmer had bought the place, all that might have changed: electronic
gates with elaborate security devices would probably be
de rigueur
for a former rock star’s hide-away.
On the lane beside the gates was a small cob cottage, pink washed and thatched, with a neatly painted sign announcing that
it was called ‘Vicarage Lodge’. Pretty to look at but probably dark and cramped inside, Rachel thought. She had lived in the
countryside too long to take a romantic view of such places – that sort of thing was for townies.
She turned to Steve. ‘We’ll do the cottage first. All right?’
Before he could answer, she marched up to the smartly painted front door and let the grand lion’s-head knocker fall three
times. After a few moments the door opened an inch and a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
Rachel poked her warrant card around the door. ‘I’m DS Tracey and this is DC Carstairs. Tradmouth CID. We’d just like to ask
a few questions about the incident near here yesterday. May we come in?’ She spoke with confident efficiency and her no-nonsense
approach seemed to work. The door opened wider to reveal a woman in late middle age. She wore tight black leggings and a huge,
silky blouse; her silver hair was stiff and elaborately coiffed, the sort that required regular shampoos and sets.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said with a hint of reluctance. ‘But I never saw nothing until all them police cars arrived with
their sirens blazing. Shouldn’t be allowed in a place like this. People come here for peace and quiet, you know.’
Rachel refrained from saying that the area wasn’t some sort of theme park, that people had to conduct their everyday lives
and businesses there. She also noted that the woman showed no curiosity as to why the police cars were causing a disturbance
in the first place. They were led into a small, low-beamed living room decorated in an unexpectedly modern way; bare floorboards,
stark white walls, panels of snowy voile at the windows, and angular modern furniture. Somehow Rachel had expected chintz
– and lots of it.
It was clear from the outset that Rachel and Steve wouldn’t be invited to make themselves at home. The woman made no move
to sit on the white linen sofa but stood there, arms folded in front of her brightly patterned chest.
‘Do you live here, madam, or are you here on holiday?’ Rachel began, sensing that the woman wasn’t going to make it easy for
her.
‘Neither,’ was the non-committal reply. Her accent wasn’t local: somewhere near London, Rachel guessed.
Steve, not setting much store by etiquette, sat himself down on what appeared to be a modern take on the traditional director’s
chair. The woman shot him a hostile glance but said nothing.
Rachel rephrased the question. ‘Is this your house?’
‘No.’ There was a pause. The woman’s silky blouse undulated around her ample bosom as she shifted her stance.
‘Well, can you explain what you’re doing here?’ asked Rachel with a touch of impatience in her voice. She was tired of guessing
games. Steve looked across at her and grinned. It wasn’t often Rachel lost her cool.
‘We’re house-sitting. Me and my Alec. Answered an advert, we did. We look after people’s places when they’re away.’
‘So the owners employ you to look after this cottage?’ The woman nodded impatiently. ‘And how long have you been here?’
‘Since October. They just come here for the summer, you see. They live in London most of the time, but they’re in Tuscany
at the moment.’
‘All right for some,’ mumbled Steve automatically. Rachel turned and gave him a withering look.
She asked the woman’s name, and was told reluctantly that it was Gloria Treadly. Rachel, like the heroine in the story of
Rumpelstiltskin who gained the upper hand over her tormentor once she knew his name, at last felt she was getting somewhere.
‘And do you know the owners of the
Old Vicarage?’ she continued more confidently.
Gloria Treadly shook her head. ‘Some old colonel and his la-di-da lady. Never talked to the likes of us unless they wanted
something. Up for sale now, it is. They’ve gone off to the south of France,’ she added bitterly. Rachel diagnosed a bad case
of social envy here. She wondered whether looking after the holiday homes of the rich was really the right job for Gloria
Treadly.
She returned to the matter in hand. ‘A body was discovered in a field near here yesterday and we’re treating the death as
suspicious. Have you noticed anything unusual at all? Or seen any strange vehicles parked in the lane?’
Steve took out his notebook and sat on the edge of the uncomfortable-looking modern chair expectantly.
‘There’s been all sorts of comings and goings what with the Old Vicarage being up for sale. All them car engines … it’s like living on a main road. There’s been this big BMW going into the drive at all sorts of times and other cars racing
up and down. Not that I have time to stand and watch, of course,’ she added righteously.
Steve and Rachel exchanged looks. For someone who claimed to have seen nothing, Gloria Treadly was surprisingly well informed.
‘And did you see any cars around on Wednesday afternoon or evening?’
Rachel, tired of standing, sank down into a nearby chair, a blue plastic specimen that hadn’t been designed with the human
posterior in mind.
Gloria too sat herself down on the hard white sofa, her large bright blouse spreading around her like a parachute. After a
shaky start she was just getting into her stride.
‘Let’s see, what day is it today? Friday.’ She wrinkled her brow in an impressive display of thought. ‘I reckon that BMW was
up at the Old Vicarage a couple of times on Wednesday and I saw a yellow sports car going up there in the late afternoon.
And then the BMW was there yesterday in the middle of the morning. There was a little red car
there too, and after that had gone a yellow one shot out of the drive – it might have been the sports car but I didn’t see
clearly. Then later on all hell broke loose and the police started dashing up and down the lane, so I wouldn’t have been able
to hear anything going down the drive for all the commotion,’ she finished disapprovingly.
Rachel stood up, unable to trust the seating any longer. ‘Thank you, Mrs Treadly, you’ve been very helpful. We might have
to come back some time and talk to your husband as well.’
Gloria Treadly looked mildly affronted. ‘Alec’s not my husband. He’s my son.’
‘I’m sorry. But we’d still like a word with him.’
Gloria pressed her lips together and nodded warily. Rachel guessed that at some point in Gloria’s past the police had not
been welcome visitors.
‘Just one last thing,’ Rachel said casually as Steve was putting his notebook away. ‘Have you or your son ever been up to
the Old Vicarage?’
‘No. Never,’ was the sharp reply as Gloria opened the front door wide to let them out, avoiding any eye contact and anxious
to see the back of them.
When they were a few yards down the road, Rachel turned to Steve. ‘Do you think she was telling the truth when she said she’d
never been up to the Old Vicarage?’
‘No way,’ Steve answered with an unpleasant grin. ‘She was lying through her teeth – and they’re probably false and all.’
Rachel nodded. It would be worth keeping an eye on Gloria and Alec Treadly.
Lewis Hoxworthy could hear his mother in the kitchen. The clattering of plates and pans told him that she was washing up.
It would never have occurred to Lewis to offer to help: washing up was her job and he had better things to do.
He glanced at the poster above his bed, at the mounted knight in his gleaming armour riding off to some unnamed
medieval battle. Then he closed his eyes and the sights and sounds of battle swirled in his head; the clash of steel, the
panicked whinnies of the horses, the terrified cries and rough oaths of desperate men facing death or mutilation.
He could almost smell the fear. Fear was something he knew well. He had experienced it many times when they had picked on
him at school.
But not any more. Everything would change now.
He checked the pocket of his coat. He was only taking one: just a sample to whet the appetite of the man he was to meet. He
looked at his wristwatch, a sleek, black, expensive birthday present. The ferry was due to leave Derenham for Tradmouth in
fourteen minutes. It was time to go.
He crept downstairs, the soles of his soft white trainers making no sound on the brightly patterned carpet, and when he left
the house, he shut the front door softly behind him. As he trudged down the lane towards the river the old barn loomed up
on his right and he averted his eyes, trying not to look at the place. He hadn’t been near it since that day when he had made
his discovery; when he had seen that vision of hell itself.
A couple of vehicles passed him on the road: a battered yellow Mini that had seen better days and a gleaming Range Rover.
He glanced back as they came to a halt by the old barn. Something was going on: probably those archaeologists his dad was
talking about last night before he went out to the Red Bull.
But Lewis hurried on. Digging up the past interested him – although he would never dream of admitting this to Yossa and his
mates. But at that moment money interested him more.
And with any luck he’d soon have money – and lots of it. Money made you somebody. Money bought respect and friendship. Everything
would be different when he had money.
Rachel Tracey marched slightly ahead of Steve, heading for Hoxworthy’s Farm.
‘Shouldn’t we have called at the Old Vicarage?’
‘It’s for sale. There’s nobody living there. It can wait till later,’ she answered sharply.
‘She said there’s been cars up there.’
‘Probably the estate agent showing people around,’ she said smugly. Sometimes Steve didn’t think.
‘I still think we should have a look at the place.’
‘Thinking of buying it, are you?’
He fell into sullen silence as he tried to keep up with her. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said breathlessly, smarting from her words.
‘We’ve got a lot of work to get through, that’s all,’ she said pointedly, not slowing her pace. ‘You should get more exercise,
Steve,’ she added with a grin he couldn’t see.
The old barn was looming up on her left. Not far now. There was a car parked outside the barn, a car she recognised; a battered
yellow Mini. She slowed down as a familiar figure emerged from the great barn doors.
‘Well, if it isn’t the lovely Rachel. Hello, stranger. Long time no see.’ Neil Watson stepped forward, a wide grin on his
face. ‘Is Wesley about?’
‘Hello, Mr Watson. I thought I recognised the car.’ She looked at the vehicle with distaste, wondering, not for the first
time, whether the thing had a valid MOT. ‘Inspector Peterson’s gone over to Whitely with Chief Inspector Heffernan.’
Neil’s grin widened. ‘Ooh, we are being formal today, Constable.’
‘Sergeant, actually,’ she said coolly.
She had always been a little wary of Wesley’s scruffy friend. There was something anarchic about the man, a disregard for
appearance and authority, that made her instinctively suspicious. But Wesley seemed to like him so, she told herself, he couldn’t
be that bad. Perhaps she just felt uneasy with someone so passionate about uncovering the past that he put it above the conventional
concerns of the modern world.