Hung Out to Die Page 8

  And the way the siblings syphoned up the tricks certainly seemed to bear out Jon’s reluctant praise. With their pale, podgy faces set in total concentration, they easily won the first round, trouncing their opponents by a wide margin, narrowly losing the second, but then sweeping most of the tricks in the third and fourth.

  So far, so usual, but no one afterwards ever quite understood what happened next. At the end of the evening, just as a smirking Betty and Bobby were about to rise and collect their prize, Desmond rose and, leaning over their table, whispered in Betty’s ear. The few who noticed wondered why she looked first astounded, then angry, and then frightened.

  No one however, was prepared for what followed. As the prize – £20 – was being presented to them, the Turbills mumbled something to Elias, who either couldn’t hear what was being said, or didn’t believe what he was hearing. When they repeated it, almost inaudibly, but with a clearly seen look of intense dislike thrown in Desmond’s direction, he finally believed the unbelievable. He then made an announcement that those who later heard about it likened to the impact of other major world events, and all swore they’d forever remember where they were and what they were doing at the moment they first heard of it.

  “L-L-Ladies and Gentlemen,” began Elias, his voice quavering even more than usual. “B-Betty and Bo-Bobby h-have asked me to…to d...donate the prize to the Almshouse charity,” and he then sat down rather suddenly.

  After a rather long, stunned and disbelieving silence, he clapped, to give the hint to others, and, eventually, everyone followed, even as they plunged into shocked conversation.

  When Desmond later told Gwilym what had happened, the Welshman almost passed out with the strength of his full-bellied, joyous laughter.

  “I didn’t twig at first, they just seemed bloody good at reading the cards and knowing each other’s mind, both totally believable, their being related and living together.”

  “What alerted you?”

  “Nothing specific. I just noticed that they both moved about more – not noticeably, but enough – when they first picked up their cards. Bobby, for example, chewed his thumb, and then moved his lips in a pursing motion six times – and he later turned out to have six spades, which, that time round, were trumps! An added cough meant they held high trumps, a scratched nose, meant they were low. Betty made no movement on one round, and it turned out she had no trumps, and so on.”

  “Surprised no one picked it up over the years, though.”

  “Yes, but they were clever. After the tea interval, their signs changed. I bet they never used the same ones too often, or won every week, so why would people suspect? I’ve warned them that, if they ever do it again, I’ll tell Elias. He’d love a reason to ban them for life!”

  “Poor sods,” sympathised Gwilym. “A lifetime of cheating buggered up by trying it on with the wrong guy!”

  Desmond laughed. The Turbills certainly had had bad luck. During their earlier London days, both he and Gwilym had been avid gamblers in some of the best casinos in London, until they’d realised that their burgeoning theatrical business offered a more than big enough gamble in itself. During their time in the gambling world, however, they’d met many professionals of varying degrees of honesty, who’d shown them a number of the simpler methods for fleecing the unwary.

  Not only that, but one spin-off from their gambling days had been the two shows they’d done as a result. The first, a major musical, was set in a casino and, later, a ‘whodunit’ was set around a gambling party. In their research for the two shows, they’d come across even more ways to fleece the gullible, so, as Gwilym had laughingly said, the rural shysters’ never had a chance.

  Chapter 11

  Desmond, having got back from a long evening walk with Huffny – from which she’d recovered considerably more quickly than he had – was focused on the latest attendance figures for three of their shows. Having now got used to the puppy sitting under his desk and nibbling his toes, he was totally absorbed in his work when the phone rang, cutting across his concentration. Any irritation he felt quickly disappeared when he heard Gwilym’s voice spluttering and gasping on the other end. “Gwil? Gwil! What’s happening! Are you alright?”

  When the sputtering didn’t stop, he dropped the phone and hurried across the green,bursting through the Rose and Sceptre’s door.

  “Where’s Gwil? What’s happ...?” and stopped dead in horror as he saw his partner leaning back against the shelf behind the bar, doubled over and shaking. “God Almighty! Somebody do something!” he shouted, pushing his way through the crowded bar and hurrying across to him. “Gwil! Gwil! Here, sit down; I’ll call an.....” He trailed off as the Welshman raised his head and his frightened partner saw that he was incapacitated, not by a heart attack, but by laughter.

  “Bloody hell, Gwil. I... I...” Desmond stopped, struggling to get his breath back. A mixture of fear and his unaccustomed sprint across to the pub had him perilously near fainting.

  “Oh God! I’m sorry, Des, so sorry, but it was so funny!” and, with that, Gwilym and half the pub went off again into peels of helpless laughter.

  “Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” Desmond roared, only adding to the general hilarity.

  Eventually, his partner had calmed down sufficiently to tell him what had happened.

  Desmond eventually discovered that their mirth had been caused by a set to between Owen Sampson, owner of Corbett’s field, and Dennis Hickwell, the Chairman of the local branch of the ‘Walking is War!’ Group. The latter, extremely drunk, had, in his fume-filled stupor, been muttering moodily about ‘them as’ll stoop to owt’ to stop honest ramblers,’ and casting dark glances at an equally drunk Owen Sampson, sitting on the opposite side of the bar.

  “Then,” Gwilym again started laughing, “Dennis sort of fell off his bar-stool, tottered over to old Sampson and tried to thump him, missed, fell over, sat on Sampson’s dog, and got bitten for his pains as he sprawled on the floor! Sampson, outraged that his dog had been upset, bent down and tried to thump Dennis in turn. He also bloody missed and fell off his stool – face first into Hickwell’s crotch. Looked like he was giving the other old fool a blow job! Everyone was howling with laughter over that, anyway. Then John Foster, who’s clashed with them both over the years, capped it with ‘Now take it nice and slow, Dennis, lad; it’s no good rushing that sort of thing, you know how he likes it,’ which set everyone off again! That’s why I phoned you, it was too good to miss,” said Gwilym collapsing again into laughter.

  “Poor old Sampson. I don’t like the bad-tempered old bugger, but to have his face in Hickwell’s crotch! God, it makes me feel ill,” chuckled Desmond.

  “I didn’t know what Hickwell meant at first, but when we’d pulled the two silly buggers apart, he started off again, and almost accused Sampson of putting Debra in the field just to stymie the ‘Walking is War!’ ramble!”

  “Silly old sod,” murmured Desmond.

  “Yes. It puts a whole new complexion on things, though, doesn’t it?” responded Gwilym, suddenly serious again.

  “You’re right, it does. I wonder if the police know this yet?” queried Desmond.

  *

  “Thank you, Mr. Owen. No, we hadn’t picked that up,” confirmed Bulmer when Gwilym saw him first thing the next morning. “You’re right, it does rather change things, doesn’t it?” he added, as he mulled over the information just passed onto him. “We shall be having words with Mr. Hickwell very soon, very soon indeed. I’ll be very interested to hear his reasons for not telling us this,” he murmured, looking forward to it. “From what you say, the new route would have taken the walkers within feet of where Ms. Addison was found. Do you know when it was changed and why? And how many knew about it?”

  “It was changed only the night before, at Eleanor’s party. As to ‘why’, it was to throw off Sampson, who they expected to be manning the supposed route.”

  “So anyone could have heard them changing the route?”r />
  “I doubt it. Hickwell speaks very quietly, as I’m sure you picked up on – and he’s such a secretive old sod anyway that he’d have had the room cleared of people and then swept for bugs if he’d had his way!” Gwilym responded, only half-jokingly. “When you do speak to him,” he continued, “see if you get him to confirm whereabouts in the room he was standing when he spoke to whoever he spoke to, and at about what time. Maybe also who was standing near them at the time. Desmond can then run his mind back over the Evening and see if he picks anything up. He’s got that sort of mind,” he shrugged, in answer to Bulmer’s look of inquiry.

  “Worth it, I suppose. It’s amazing how much is overheard at that sort of do,” agreed Bulmer.

  The police moved swiftly, following Gwilym’s information, and the late afternoon saw a now somewhat chastened Dennis Hickwell being re-interviewed. Under some pressure from a rather irritated DS, he had eventually managed to remember key details from the party. Armed with these, the early evening found Desmond sitting quietly in the side sitting room, gently letting his mind drift back to his mother’s party. Feeling his sock being tugged and hearing a number of smallish growls, he then got up, picked up Huffny, and put her out of the room before trying again.

  From what Hickwell had said, the conversation had been somewhere just before nine o’clock. ‘He was anxious to leave and have his usual early night,’ according to Bulmer’s notes, hence his certainty about the time. He was equally certain of where he was standing, ‘far end of the room, away from the bloody fire’, apparently it was making him ‘sweat his bollocks off.’ Thus armed, Desmond settled back down and let his mind drift.

  As he slowly began to recall images from the party, Desmond realised the time-frame of the ad hoc meeting of the ‘Walking is war!’ committee had overlapped with part of his conversation with Jemma. A pity, in some ways, he thought, as he knew that his attention wouldn’t have been on the room to the same extent as it had been before she appeared at his shoulder. It did, however, at least give him an anchor point from which to start.

  As ever, when he did this sort of thing, he was always amazed at how much detail his subconscious had actually picked up. This time was to be no exception. He’d been standing by one of the three big bay windows at an angle to the end of the room, where, he seemed to recall, Hickwell had been standing somewhere to his left. Relaxing and breathing from his belly as he’d been taught, he let his mind go back over the evening. Fast-forwarding over the early part, he quickly came to the period just before Jemma caught his attention. Slowly, images came into his mind; people laughing, drinking, eating. Nothing at all unusual, just the signs of a very enjoyable party. As he focused his mind on the area where Hickwell had been standing, faces slowly came into view. At first, he seemed to be standing alone, muttering to himself as he frequently did. Then he gestured to someone out of Desmond’s vision. Irritated, Desmond couldn’t see directly who it was. As, however, Lenny Ferguson, a long-time crony of Hickwell’s and, Desmond knew, a keen member of ‘Walking is War!’ appeared at Hickwell’s shoulder, he assumed it had been him. They were joined after a moment by Hetty Smith, also a fanatical member of the subversive little group. The trio soon had their heads together, occasionally casting furtive glances around the room. Assuming he’d got the right moment, Desmond let his mind drift to those standing within earshot of the three conspirators.

  Laurel Bellamy’s face came into view as she talked with no great enthusiasm to Jennifer Orbison while carefully watching Piers as he slithered around the attractive young wife of Joe Edmunds, a local farmer. Bloody hell, Desmond thought, the man wasn’t even discreet. He was standing only feet away from his increasingly agitated wife, just the other side of the whispering trio.

  His mind pleasantly swirling, now adrift from all conscious thought, other faces swam into Desmond’s view. He saw Jon Martin laughing at some joke told by Peter Orbison, with Louise and Jennifer exchanging comical looks of bafflement, clearly not ‘getting’ whatever amused their menfolk. He saw Maisie and Duncan Asbury, moving away from the wall near Hickwell and edging slyly towards himself and Jemma. No change there then, he thought. They were loyal, even servile workers for Jemma, and seemed to believe it gave them personal access 24/7. Long-standing residents, they still had strong London links, and travelled down often. It was always ‘on the Lord’s work’, linked to the large London chapel they’d attended for years, before they moved to the village. Desmond quickly let his mind drift past them.

  Ah! he thought, now that is interesting! He saw John Wilson, ostensibly talking to his wife Harriet, but seeming to be edging slowly nearer to the three plotters. Then, as though conscious of being too obvious, he stopped, and, smiling awkwardly, gave a little shake of his head to her. Definitely something to follow up, thought Desmond as his mind drifted slowly on.

  Then his mental eye saw Bella, alone in the corner, and, having no immediate need to act a part, with the image of the acutest misery etched on her big-boned face. No wonder, thought Desmond, his mind jolted out of its drift. She’d married late, only some six years previously. Her husband, a teacher at a local private school, was a gentle man, who’s innate calmness and strength she seemed to thrive on. Then, they had been woken very early one morning a few weeks ago with the police banging on the door of the ancient thatched cottage her family had lived in for over a hundred and fifty years. It was the one place, she’d once told Desmond, that she felt safe. It was a feeling that was cruelly shattered that bleak December morning.

  The police were rough and to the point. They had a warrant to search the house. Alan, her husband, had been accused of molesting two of his pupils, and they wanted to take all their computers to see if he had any pornographic images on them. This they duly did and ‘investigations were continuing’. And if they continue much longer, Desmond thought, it will destroy not just Alan, but Bella, who’s tough as old boots exterior hid a very vulnerable, very kind, and very genuine person with a huge heart.

  He remembered he was just going across to her when he saw his mother swoop down and speak quietly to her.

  Then Jemma got his attention and he was less focused on what was going on in the room generally, so his mind slowly drifted back to the present. Nevertheless, he thought, as he gently disengaged from the process, it had been an interesting first journey, and one that had thrown up more than one potential lead.

  Chapter 12

  “Bloody hell, the old girl doesn’t mince her words, does she!” laughed Bulmer, reading Eleanor’s list yet again.

  “She certainly doesn’t. She’s been bang on so far, though,” murmured Calderwood, leafing through a file of papers he’d had sent up from London. He silently hoped that the lady herself never heard Bulmer’s description of her, primarily for his Detective Sergeant’s sake, he thought, smiling. His good humour quickly faded, though, as he took in more of the details emerging from the thick pile of documents in front of him.

  “Bang on the money with the Bellamys, that’s for sure,” he said, reaching for the notes in Bulmer’s hands. “‘A not unpleasant, not very bright girl who is paying a rather high price for what she believed she wanted.’ And, as for Mr. Bellamy, ‘superficially comes across with a hail fellow well met attitude, though one taken from an early, and particularly bad, Hollywood film about England, but underneath a decidedly nasty and, I believe, dangerous individual’.”

  “And she said all that without having seen this,” he said thumping the pile of papers on his desk.

  “As bad as we thought, Guv?”

  “Every bit as bad – and nothing ever proven!” responded Calderwood. Adding to the anger was that the information had taken far too long to reach them, despite the millions spent on ‘super, solve all problems technology’.

  “You were right, Colin. One to you, saying he seemed familiar from your time in Birmingham, particularly with it being way off his usual London haunts.”

  Bulmer nodded. “I was far from sure. He was very much small fr
y in the outfit we were investigating – not to mention his having a different name then and his hair being a different colour!”

  “But you sussed him even before all this stuff came through,” said Calderwood, tapping the file in front of him.

  Bulmer nodded again. “It was the eyes, I think. You know, that sort of blank look, as though there’s no emotion or feeling behind them.”

  Calderwood nodded in turn. He’d also noted the emptiness of Bellamy’s eyes, very much at odds with his surface friendliness. “And we may have struck gold with this little gem,” he remarked, his finger tapping a paragraph at the bottom of the first page. It read: ‘Patrick Beddison’ – Bellamy’s real name – ‘was rumoured to have been working for Jack Rizzio in his attempts to take over the Midlands and add it to his London rackets, though no link was ever actually proven.’

  “More bloody rumours,” exclaimed Calderwood in disgust, “though more than enough, I think, to have our friend in,” he added with some satisfaction. “We’ll have him in at the station in Estwich, I think,” he added.

  *

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Bellamy,” he said the next morning, as Piers, having waived aside his right to have a solicitor present, took a seat opposite with a strange mix of belligerence and nervousness.

  “No need, nothing to hide,” he laughed, almost making it sound genuine. “Always happy to help, Inspector, always happy to help, though I’ve already told you all I can. She’d only been in the village a few months. I scarcely knew the woman, scarcely knew her,” he added, to emphasise the fact.

  “So the rumours that you were having an affair with her aren’t true, then?” Calderwood asked bluntly.