Authors: Michael Wood
He had to obliterate thoughts of disappointment, and concentrate on believing that he was right. That would be how the police would handle it; every possibility had to be followed through to a conclusion, satisfactory or otherwise.
He picked up his CLUES file and flicked through the notes he had accumulated. He found the sheet of paper on which he had recorded an earlier conversation with his friendly GP - Dr Philip Grearson, when he had been concentrating on the ‘sniffs’ element of the conundrum.
Ben had assumed that, if Professor Metternich was indeed saying that the man who killed him was called Summer and that he sniffed, then it had to be more than just a normal cold sniff, for it to be worthy of such important recollection.
He had, therefore, asked Dr Grearson what might be the cause of an habitual or noticeable sniffing habit. Dr Grearson had suggested that it might be caused by a condition called rhinitis - an inflammation of the nose’s lining membrane. It was usually suffered by people who had been constantly exposed to irritants such as airborne chemical powders. Or it could be hay fever. Ben had discounted the hay fever possibility, since the Metternichs had been killed long after the hay fever season had passed.
So, as things stood at that moment, he was looking for a man who lived locally, who used someone else’s identity when perpetrating his crimes, and who might have worked in a chemical environment. ‘Piece of cake,’ Ben said, sardonically to himself, as he realised that he might have won an initial skirmish, but the war was far from over.
As a last act, before going down to prepare the evening meal for Helen’s arrival, he checked to see why he had not seen an account of Mr Summer’s death in his pile of mountain rescue and police reports. Thumbing back through the reports, in datal order, he suddenly stopped. Spread before him were both sets of reports on Mr Summer. He couldn’t believe it. He had either overlooked them, or they hadn’t registered as relevant - he hadn’t entered him on his victim list - or he simply couldn’t remember the name because he had read so many.
Whatever the reason, it taught him a salutary lesson. From now on, he would have to be even more diligent, and check back on everything recorded, at all stages. Now, he knew how the police must feel when the media inform the public, in retrospect, that the police could have found their target sooner, had it not been for a clerical cock-up.
As he hid the files away, and prepared to go downstairs to Helen and normality, he tried to leave behind the most unwelcome discovery of the day - the horrific fact that the victim list was now longer.
*
The next morning, with Helen already off to work, and before he imprisoned himself in his office to continue the search for victim commonality, Ben strolled outside the cottage to receive nature’s healing balm. A walk around the lawn, feeding the pheasants and squirrels and mallards, a survey of the lake and the sky above to see where the geese and ospreys and buzzards flew, a listen to the breeze in the huge surrounding trees, a worshipful gaze at the heavenly fells, eternally watching over them in an arena of incomparable beauty, and his soul was calmed and ready to take on the world again.
As he turned to go back in, he heard a vehicle splattering along the dirt track that leads to the cottage. He waited to see who it was. A police car, travelling quickly, appeared from out of the trees, and pulled up beside him with unnecessary abruptness, scarring the gravel. Bill Unwin, and a constable he didn’t recognise, wasted no time in getting out of the car.
‘’Morning Ben,’ Bill said. ‘Sorry about that.’ He indicated the scarred gravel, then looked with disdain at the constable. ‘He thinks he’s bloody Schumacher. Otherwise, he’s not a bad bloke. Constable Murphy meet Ben Foxley, our local scribe.’
Ben shook hands with the constable, while he addressed Bill: ‘So you
have
got a uniform,’ he scoffed, and winked at the constable. ‘I’ve only ever seen him in golf gear, you know. He told me he had a job, but I never believed him.’
The constable smiled, and Bill Unwin let the nonsense go. ‘A coffee would go down well,’ he said. ‘Early start this morning.’
‘Of course, come on in,’ Ben offered, and led them inside. ‘Busy on that A591 thing I suppose?’ he said, as they sat down in the kitchen and he topped up the percolator.
‘Hole in one,’ Bill said. ‘Feet haven’t touched the ground since it happened. The smart boys from headquarters are investigating it, but they’ve got us running around doing all the donkey work as usual. Still, it’s better than being stuck in the office dealing with that flaming media crowd - there’s dozens of the bastards - God knows who pays them all!’
Ben was puzzled. This was the first time that Bill Unwin had ever visited him at home. Up to now, their socialising had been restricted to the 19
th
hole. And this at a time he claimed to be very busy.
Even though Bill seemed relaxed and friendly, Ben was on guard; something that would not have occurred to him had it not been for Sophie Lund. Even so, it still took an effort of will not to take Bill upstairs to show him all the reports, and what he had discovered, and invite him and his colleagues to take over from him. It would be such a relief to let it all go.
‘Helen at work?’ Bill asked, conversationally, as he took the proffered cup from Ben. ‘Thanks.’
‘Yes...early starter,’ Ben replied, as he sat down with his own cup. ‘So what brings you out here so early? Come for a bit of four-wood coaching?’
‘If only,’ Bill grumbled. ‘No…it’s an official call, mate....’
Ben held his breath.
‘We have to check every household within a couple of miles of the incident. It’s routine stuff - ask if anybody saw or heard anything unusual - check if they’ve got a chunk of concrete missing from one of their walls. Chances are it’s not a local thing...she could have come from anywhere. But we have to go through the motions.’
‘We’ve done Linden House at the top of your lane. I’m right in thinking there’s only you and the Manor and Tony Williams’ farm down this end of the lane?’
‘That’s right, Ben said, brightly, disguising his relief. ‘Oh, and there’s Tony’s dad’s house just behind the farm. Old Bill’s retired...have you met him...quite a character.’
‘Here’s another old Bill who wishes he was retired,’ Bill joked, as he gulped his coffee.
‘I don’t suppose you have any leads on the woman’s identity yet?’ Ben asked, looking to pad out his piece for the Tribune.
‘We do, actually...’ Constable Murphy blurted out, only to be stopped in mid sentence by a frowning Sergeant.
Shaking his head at the constable’s stupidity, Bill said: ‘It’s not ready for official release yet, Ben, so you can’t use it. But, yes, we do have the name of the woman. She’s a Filipino. She’s been on the missing persons list for the last four years. Apparently it’s not unusual for Filipinos, and lots of others, to go missing in this country every year, but only a few make their way on to the missing person’s list. That’s because they’ve disappeared deliberately, and their relatives don’t report them as missing, they are in on the act. They arrive on temporary visas and just disappear into the crowds. This one’s different. Apparently, her parents have been pestering us to find her ever since they reported her missing about four years ago.’
Ben shook his head, as he thought of the torment of those poor people. ‘Have they been told yet?’ he asked, quietly.
Bill nodded. ‘I believe so,’ he said, sadly. ‘It’s a terrible job...I’ve done a few of those myself.’
The room went quiet for a while, as each pondered the awfulness of it all, staring blankly at the floor, or into their coffees.
‘Poor soul,’ Ben mumbled, and rose to pick up the pen and note pad they kept beside the kitchen telephone. ‘I won’t use it until it’s officially released, but could you give me the woman’s name while you’re here. I want to make sure I get the spelling right.’
Bill looked at Constable Murphy. ‘You’ve got it in your notebook, haven’t you?’
Constable Murphy nodded, and hurriedly withdrew his notebook from his pocket. He thumbed through the pages, then stopped. ‘The name I’ve got here is Vilma Tapales…V.I.L.M.A, T.A.P.A.L.E.S,’ he spelled out.
Ben noted the name on the phone pad, and drained the last of his coffee. The others followed suit shortly afterwards.
Bill Unwin stood up. ‘Right, let’s get this over with.’ He looked at Constable Murphy. ‘Got yer notebook ready?’ The constable waved it.
‘Right, Mr Foxley, Bill said, earnestly. ‘Have you seen or heard anything unusual or suspicious in this vicinity in the past week? And no wisecracks please.’
Ben studied for a moment, then said, seriously: ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look around your property?’
‘Really?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Go ahead, but don’t mind the mess.’
As they started on a tour of the house, Ben hoped he hadn’t left anything on his desk upstairs. He was pretty sure he had hidden all the reports away, but he remained on edge until they came downstairs a few minutes later.
Next they went outside to look in the garage, and finally came back to the front door, where Ben joined them.
‘Sorry we had to do that, mate,’ Bill said, genuinely. ‘But we can’t make exceptions.’
‘That’s okay, Ben agreed. ‘I understand. Where to now?’
‘The farmhouse and then the Manor, and then up to Bassenthwaite village. Thanks again for the coffee.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
As they moved off to the car, Bill turned and said: ‘By the way, I like your paintings.’
Ben breathed a sigh of relief as they drove away. Then he stepped outside his front door and took in his wondrous surroundings again. He needed an extra helping that morning.
Chapter 30
Scarness Manor is a rarity. Nestling in woodland, over-looking Bassenthwaite Lake, it is one of very few large houses allowed to be erected close to the shores of a lake; all Lake District villages and towns being built away from the shores, in order to leave the lakes in their natural, pristine, settings; the one exception being Lake Windermere, where early lake-side development was allowed, much to the consternation of local poet, William Wordsworth.
The 12-bedroomed manor was built in 1880 by a wealthy, land owning, Baronet from the east coast. It was his holiday home, built for the purposes of hunting, hawking, fowling and fishing.
He had it built in a gothic style, with steep roofs, tall chimneys, timber balconies, basement wine, coal, and laundry cellars, and surrounded it with formal gardens containing imported Canadian Redwood trees.
From its elevated position and grand, spacious rooms, there is a grandstand view of the lake and its surroundings. Yet, because of the surrounding woodland, and high hedges, nobody can observe its occupants.
It was this guaranteed privacy, together with its location and cellars, which had persuaded ex-bricklayer, and rising Scottish pop star, Jed Samson (alias Andrew McFeeters) to buy it. With the help of some trusted building site mates from Glasgow, he turned the wine cellar into a recording studio, hiding the previous doorways, from the hall and from outside, with panelling, and installing a new trap door entrance in the wooden floor of the lounge, hidden by an ostentatious Persian rug. This was where he churned out his songs, took his alcohol and drugs, and entertained his mates and female fans.
Inexplicably, when his husky voice degenerated into an impersonation of a rusty chainsaw, the public seemed to like it even more, and millions gave him their hard earned money in exchange for a small disc containing this sound. As his fame spread, so did the houses.
Now a superstar, with houses in London, Los Angeles, New York and Bermuda, he rarely visits Scarness Manor. He keeps promising his third wife, and scattered children, that they will all spend a cosy Christmas there, but it never happens; something else always crops up.
However, coming from the tenements of Glasgow, he has no intention of selling the Manor, or any of his other properties. He keeps them as an investment for his old age. He does not intend to live his last years like his aged parents did. Now, all his houses are looked after by local agents and caretakers, as he tours the world, bringing happiness to the masses, his accountant, his bodyguard, his hairdresser, his bank manager, and through him - his ex-wives and mistresses.
Some of this historical information was imparted to awe struck new boy, Constable Murphy, by Sergeant Unwin, as they drove through the cast iron entrance gates - the scene of many hysterical gatherings in the past - up the dual carriageway drive, a beautifully trimmed high hedge separating the two roads, to the imposing front door.
As they pulled up, they spotted a man in cap and overalls, standing on a ladder, trimming the high yew hedge that bordered the formal gardens.
Having seen them arrive, the man climbed down the ladder, switched off his hedge trimmer, and came over to greet them. ‘’Morning...can I help you,’ he said.
‘Are you the caretaker?’ Bill Unwin asked.
‘Aye.’
‘Is there anybody else living here at the moment?’
‘No.’
‘Your name is?’
‘Baxter.’
Constable Murphy had started making notes.
‘Well, Mr Baxter, we’re making some routine enquiries about the death of a woman found on the A591 not far from here. Have you heard about it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Have you seen or heard anything unusual or suspicious in this vicinity in the past week or so?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look around the house and the stables?’
Baxter hesitated. ‘I’m not sure...it’s not my property...maybe you should talk to the agent…he’s in Glasgow.’
‘This is serious police business, Mr Baxter,’ Bill said with authority. We can come back with a search warrant in a couple of hours, and you’ll have to let us in, so why waste our time?’ He was bluffing; he didn’t fancy the extra hassle of contacting the Agent.
‘Aye...alright...I suppose it’ll be okay,’ Baxter said, timidly. ‘I’ll fetch the keys’.
He walked about 20 paces, disappeared through a door in a section of the building that jutted out from the rest, and soon reappeared, carrying a bunch of keys.
‘Is that separate from the rest of the building?’ Bill asked, indicating where Baxter had come from.
‘Aye...that’s my place,’ Baxter said. ‘It used to be part of the servants’ quarters, when it was connected through, but they bricked it up inside and made it into a separate place for the caretaker to live.’
‘Right, let’s go,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll have a look in there later.’
They climbed the stone steps to the large oak front door, and Baxter let them in; the noise from the heavy cast-iron door lever and handle echoing down the empty hall.
They spent about half an hour wandering around the elegant rooms, Bill occasionally expressing his disgust at the tasteless modern furniture he found under the dustcovers, and constantly having to drag Constable Murphy away from the plethora of show-biz photographs scarring the walls.
Next, they visited the stables, which had been converted into garages, then the old coal and laundry cellars, now full of gardening equipment, canoes and old bikes, and finally the caretaker’s cottage.
There was nothing suspicious to see in any of the locations. The only things that caught Bill’s attention were signs of recent activity in the laundry, which, Baxter explained, had been caused by him moving the ladder and hedge trimmer that very morning, and a small tub of baby’s nappy cream on the mantelpiece in the cottage. The baby’s smiling face on the colourful container had caught his eye in the austere room. But it had raised no questions in his mind; it, obviously, having other uses apart from nappy rash relief.
‘Thanks for that, Mr Baxter,’ Bill said when they gathered again outside the front door. ‘Sorry to disturb you. We’ll let you get back to your hedges.’ He turned his head, looking in all directions. ‘You’ve got a lot to take care of here, haven’t you. It must keep you busy?’
‘Aye...that it does,’ Baxter replied.
‘Do you ever get a visit from its illustrious owner?’ Bill asked, conversationally.
‘No…I’ve never seen him all the time I’ve been here.’
‘And how long is that?’
‘About a year and a half.’
‘He probably prefers the sun of Bermuda these days,’ Bill scoffed. ‘It’s alright for some, eh? He moved towards the car. ‘Come on Murphy,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘Let’s go and make
our
fortunes by talking to the good folk of Bassenthwaite.’
They got into the car and roared off, leaving the caretaker staring at two small piles of displaced gravel. Absent-mindedly, he levelled them back into place with his foot, then turned and walked up the steps into the manor.
Inside the manor, he walked to the far end of the hall and entered the large lounge. He crossed the polished wooden floor and removed a dust cover from a high backed rocking chair, and slumped into it. He started the chair rocking gently, and closed his eyes. Slowly, his thin lips parted in a half-smile, though, such was his emaciation, it looked like a skeletal sneer.