The Treetop Murders

By Peter Tranter

Talented snooker player Oliver Castle and Claire Roberts are a team. Late one night, Claire discovers the naked body of their friend, Julie Stevens, tangled in the upper branches of a tree. Everyone believes Oliver wouldn’t hurt a fly, yet the police suspect him, especially following two more murders for which he has opportunity, potential motive and no alibi.
To clear himself, Oliver has to solve the case. Drawing on a skill he does not know he possesses, he does so, only to find he can kill, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Tranter
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9780980876673

Peter Tranter

I have had my ups and downs. As far back as I can remember I have always wanted to write. I started a school magazine (as a diversion from Latin lessons), largely written by myself (in schoolboy English), which continued to be produced after I left school. Other successes include a 50 minute radio play broadcast by the BBC, (great), numerous articles (over 50) published in local and specialist magazines, and a story outline for a Garth cartoon, which ran for several weeks in the Daily Mirror, a U.K. national daily paper (great again). Then the Editor axed the series which had been running for 40 years! Another paper I wrote for closed immediately afterwards (Gympie Life!). The actress Pauline Collins wanted to play the lead in a screenplay of mine. For a variety of reasons, the key, most probably, the difficulty of obtaining appropriate finance, the project fell through (very sad).In the U.K. I turned a ₤2 million loss making business into profit in 3 months and so the owners sold it (they couldn’t before!) and I was made redundant (don’t be too successful!) Being jobless and over fifty no one wanted to know me (you too?). Needing to eat I drove a taxi. On one trip I was challenged by three pretty teenage girls to write a whodunit. The Treetop Murders was the result (We were driving up a steep wooded hill at the time.) It is selling (fantastic!) For an excerpt click here. I have been a Marine Radio Officer on the Queen Elizabeth and on other ships, a charity fundraiser for paraplegics, a Business Systems Analyst and programmer, a bread delivery salesman and I’m often involved in building projects, planning, bricklaying, wiring up and plumbing. D.I.Y is challenging, most projects are for the first time so I make many of the novice's first copy cost mistakes but what I get is what I want and not someone else's (maybe received or conditioned) views. Very satisfying; it is cheaper, too! I was born in the U.K., living there until I married a second time. I now live in Queensland, Australia in 6 acres of long grass and tall gum trees amongst which I can often be found searching for golf balls. In between, as always, I continue to write and publish in various formats. I have to. I cannot help it.

Book preview

Talented snooker player Oliver Castle and Claire Roberts are a team. Late one night, Claire discovers the naked body of their friend, Julie Stevens., tangled in the upper branches of a tree. Everyone believes Oliver wouldn’t hurt a fly, yet the police suspect him, especially following two more murders for which he has opportunity, potential motive and no alibi.

To clear himself, Oliver has to solve the case. Drawing on a skill he does not know he possesses, he does so, only to find he can kill, too.

The Treetop Murders

by

Peter Tranter

Wyuna Press Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Peter Tranter

ISBN: 978-0-9808766-7-3

The Treetop Murders

Table of Contents.

Prologue

Chapter_1 Sunday Night. In Bracken Wood.

Chapter 2 Early Monday Morning. Above The Chippie.

Chapter 3 Monday 3.30 a.m. Where Were You, Sir?

Chapter 4 Monday 8 a.m. Very Strong, Very Scratched, Very Sick.

Chapter 5 Monday 10 a.m. Infill Evidence.

Chapter 6 Saturday Evening to Sunday Evening. Weekend Outing.

Chapter 7 Sunday 7.15 p.m. Ginger Knows!

Chapter 8 Monday 10.30 a.m. Staff Initiatives.

Chapter 9 Monday 11.30 a.m. Mystery Trips.

Chapter 10 Monday Noon. Pay Dirt.

Chapter 11 Monday Noon. + Don’t Keep It To Yourself!

Chapter 12 Monday 1 p.m. On The Spot.

Chapter 13 Monday 1.30 p.m. Under The Table.

Chapter 14 Monday 2 p.m. Water and Plants.

Chapter 15 Monday 5 p.m. In a Rush.

Chapter 16 Monday 6 p.m. The Letter and Bottle.

Chapter 17 Monday Afternoon. Video Games.

Chapter 18 Monday Afternoon. Sequence, Pattern, Prediction, Fact.

Chapter 19 Monday Late Afternoon. Darren Delivers the Goods.

Chapter 20 Monday Early Evening. Pidgeon’s Plot.

Chapter 21 Sunday and Monday. Sarah in Doubt.

Chapter 22 Monday 7 p.m. Murder in View.

Chapter 23 Monday 7.15 p.m. Amateur Sleuth.

Chapter 24 Monday, Dusk. Confession!

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THE TREETOP MURDERS

Prologue

Some of the householders drew back their curtains to find out what was going on. No one knocks on first floor windows, do they? Oh, but they had forgotten about skimpily clad young ladies able to pass by some ten feet above the ground. It was dark and so it was only afterwards, as the cherry picker moved along and its taillights became visible, that they realised how it was done. Everyone agreed it was the giggle of the week.

There were very narrow front gardens to the houses which lined the alley. Some of the houses had been divided into flats, complete with fire escapes that used up what little space separated house from pavement, so it was easy enough for Lee to position the vehicle within easy reach. Julie had come out of her first floor flat onto the fire escape, wearing only her nightdress, and stepped onto the platform at the top of the cherry picker’s extension arm. She gripped the safety rail, shouted to Lee who was in the driving cab below, to get moving, and then, as they drove slowly down the alley, was able to reach and knock on each first floor window that they passed.

Mrs. Baggage, peering out from the first floor bedroom window of number 11, which had not been sub divided, watched Julie all the way.

Such carrying on! she muttered. She’ll come to a sticky end, she will. Reluctantly shutting out the night’s adventure, by releasing the curtain, she turned to her husband. He was sitting on the bed, removing his socks.

You never drove one of them vans, Fred, did you?

Fred looked up. What vans, Baggy?

Them with a thing comes out of the roof and has a place where you can stand on top, replied Mrs. Baggage, picking up one sock. She waited impatiently for the other.

Never seen one of them, Fred said, holding his ankle and scratching his veruka.

Leave it alone. Yes, you have. So you can reach lamp posts and telephone wires.

Comprehension dawned. That’s young Lee, over the road. He dropped the other sock.

So it may be, Mrs. Baggage retorted. She gathered up the second sock, sniffed, and then put both carefully in the top drawer of the dressing table. They would do another day. Meanwhile Fred had ambled over to the window and parted the curtains.

I can’t see anything.

You’ll be too late for your funeral. I saw what I saw. It was her turn to sit on the bed. Go in the bathroom while I get ready.

Fred followed the habit of their lifetime. Bit late for him to be out, he told her as he left the room. Emergency call, perhaps?

Mrs. Baggage snorted. Emergency my eye! Knocking on our window, indeed. She was practically naked!

Who was m’dear?

Don’t m’dear me. The young trollop on the roof.

Fred’s eyebrows rose, his heart beat a little faster, and without further comment, he accelerated into the bathroom. He shut the door, opened the window and peered out hopefully. Ah, there it was, parked down by the corner. He leant out further. There was no girl on the platform. Damn! They must be in the cab. While his other half got herself ready for bed he searched the street, this way and that, and saw nothing save a couple of cats and two of his neighbours, also scanning the urban landscape. Sixteen and a half minutes later he heard the bed creak, as he always did when she climbed in it. Ah, the van was moving. Perhaps he would see something now. He craned out further but his only reward was to see the van disappear round the corner into Fisherman’s Quay. Damn again.

Fred Baggage closed the window. Oh well, he reflected; sixteen and a half minutes had passed rather more quickly than usual. He opened the bathroom door, aware of ideas put into his head, and wondered if she would be in the mood.

’Ave you done your teeth?

Fred turned back into the bathroom, all ambition stilled.

*

One young man, who had not sighed resignedly at a minor reverse and gone to bed, was Oliver Castle. He was in the snooker club, bent over a practice table. He had just missed a shot for the third time in a row that earlier in the day he had been executing perfectly. He drummed his fingers on the green cloth, and then straightened. Jane, behind the bar, saw him and came over.

Problems?

Oliver wrinkled his nose. Yes and no. I’m potting the balls well enough but I keep getting out of position.

Jane understood. The next shot becomes much more difficult.

It certainly does! This morning you’d think I’d got the balls on strings. Everything worked. I felt I was ready for the regional finals. Now, well, the cue ball should be next to the green, ready for that red over the middle pocket. He indicated the target red with the end of his cue. Instead I’m up against the cushion and its damn near impossible.

Jane grinned. Even for you?

Even for me. I’m not good enough. Not nearly good enough.

No one in the club can beat you.

I’ve got to do better, Oliver muttered, bending over his cue. He took his time, and then played the shot. The target red dropped neatly into the middle pocket whilst the cue ball ended up handily placed for the black.

There you are! Jane cried. Perfect.

It was ok, Oliver admitted. But I shouldn’t have got into a mess in the first place.

You’re too critical, Jane said, heading back for the bar where Richard Sterling, another member of the club, was waiting. He was holding up an empty pint glass.

Coming, she acknowledged, then, to Oliver, Either that or you’ve something on your mind.

Too right, Oliver retorted. He potted the black and left the cue ball nestling nicely positioned for the next red.

You’re obsessed, Jane called, over her shoulder. She reached the bar, took the empty glass from Richard, and then went round to the back of the counter.

Same again?

Yes, love, same again.

As she drew the pint, Richard turned to watch Oliver, and then looked back to Jane. You’re right. He is obsessive.

The glass was full. Thoughtfully, Jane put it on the counter, wiping away a tiny spillage. Maybe that’s the problem.

Ta, love. Richard sipped the beer and sighed with satisfaction. Ah. They taste better when you pull them. He looked again towards Oliver who, having potted another red followed by the black, was repositioning the latter on its spot. Bloody brilliant, he is.

Maybe.

Look, love, the last time he and I played he beat me by over a hundred. Cleared the table he did when there were still ten reds left.

Jane nodded. I remember.

And all the time I swear his mind was somewhere else.

Really?

He was worried about Julie. He told me.

We all wanted to help.

Of course we did. Richard took a longer pull from the glass. This is good stuff, Jane. I tell you what, though, I’d give it up to be as good as Oliver.

Jane smiled. Yeah, right. She became more thoughtful. Perhaps, well I know you’ve got to practice a great deal. Maybe, though, you can be too intent.

How do you mean?

When we’re crowded in here and I’m rushed off my feet I’m only half conscious of what I’m doing. I pull the pints automatically. I’ve done it so often I don’t have to think. There is no time, anyway. I hardly spill a drop.

Ah, but you couldn’t do that if you hadn’t had lots of practice beforehand!

It’s odd, though. When there’s time to take my time, like just now, well, sometimes I make a mess of it.

I ain’t complaining.

No. But if I try to be careful, and concentrate, it can go wrong.

Funny thing, tension.

Maybe, Jane suggested, Like when I have to keep a close eye on you jack asses the other side of the bar, there’s no time for worrying about spilling the beer. I just do it.

Richard grinned. What, spill the beer?

You know what I mean.

Ok. So get that girl of his to cuddle up to him.

Claire?

Yes, Claire. He grinned again. Or get her to cuddle up to Lee, or Ginger. That’ll distract him.

Now you’re being silly.

Yeah. Claire ain’t the type.

Oliver leant his cue against the table and came over. That’ll do for tonight, he told them. It is time to go to work, anyway.

Jane here thinks you concentrate too much, Richard said.

Maybe.

Maybe a change of scene? Jane suggested.

Oliver shook his head. No. I need to practice. I don’t need distractions.

None of them knew that Oliver was about to become the prime suspect in a murder case and if that did not distract him, what would?

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*

Chapter One. Sunday Night

In Bracken Wood.

Claire paused at the foot of the cliff top path. It was one of her favourite places, but she was not going home that way tonight. It was dark, the moon only fitfully showing through the thickening cloud, and although in daylight the cliff walk presented no special dangers, at night it was distinctly hazardous. The cliffs themselves were steep, composed of sedimentary rock. The sea constantly eroded the base, cutting deep into the fabric of the land, undermining the layers above until, deprived of support, they crumbled into the sea below. Not much survived on the treacherous mud slope the sea’s action produced. An oak tree had managed to establish itself about fifty feet below the summit not far, horizontally, from where Claire now stood, but several years ago a large chunk of crumbling rock face had carried away most of the crown of that solitary tree, leaving only a jagged stump some five or six feet in length. It was dangerously pointed.

Claire turned away from the sea and headed inland, following the longer but safer route home. There were no dangers here, unless they were human ones. Claire was fully confident she could handle any situation she might meet. The path did cut through Bracken Wood for some five hundred yards, and that might be a bit scary, if you were foolish enough to let your imagination run away with you. Claire smiled to herself. That type of girl she was not. To her, life was exceedingly simple. You made up your mind what you wanted and then you set out to get it.

She reached the wood and without hesitation plunged onwards down the broad, rutted path. Above her, the moon found a break in the clouds and the effect of that was to make her uneasy. It was darker in the shadows cast by the trees and a great deal brighter where no tree happened to be. In between was a kind of no man’s land of varying shades of grey. That could be a little scary, if you let it get to you. However, she knew the shadows moved because the breeze, though it was slight, was stirring the branches. Was that the only source of movement? She glanced involuntarily over her shoulder and thought maybe one of those shadows was a bit more substantial. No, it was very unlikely there was anything solid out there. It was easy to misinterpret the varied patterns of light and shadow; in the end, though, it was just moonshine.

She looked up. In a moment, another cloud would extinguish the light. She stopped, and stared. She did not panic. She did not scream. Swallowing heavily, she reached into her pocket and found her mobile phone. It was comforting to grasp the firm, smooth plastic case and know that help was there for the asking. Of course, she could ignore what she had seen, but that would not do. Sooner or later, someone else would come this way, perhaps tonight, more likely in the morning. Questions might well be asked. Inevitably, her presence here would be discovered and then there would be yet more questions. Why had she failed to report it? Because she did not want to get involved. God knows that was true, but it would not go down very well. Could she lie, and say she saw nothing? She might get away with that, and yet it was not very satisfactory. Besides, she had to live with herself. No, despite rising unease, she must do what most other people would do. Call the police.

The moonlight was enough to identify the keys of her mobile phone, even without the backlight, and she pressed rapidly. Her call was answered promptly. As coolly and as carefully as she could manage, she described what she had seen. She listened to the calm, efficient voice that instructed her to do nothing, touch nothing and to stay where she was. Of course, she muttered. She flipped the lid shut and sank to the ground. Propped up against the trunk of the nearest tree she waited for help to arrive. It was possible someone else might be near at hand, walking the path, or even hiding in the bushes. No, do not think like that. It would only lead to panic. She knew she had to stay cool and watchful, at least until the police arrived. That was very important. She did not look up again.

*

A small, town based patrol car was the first to arrive, reaching the edge of the wood only six or seven minutes after Claire’s call. Designed with the need to negotiate narrow urban streets, and congested traffic, it was totally unsuited to the churned up muddy track that lay between it and the position reported by Claire. Very soon, it became obvious to the driver that to go on would be to invite trouble. It would not look good to get bogged down. Walking the rest of the way was far from ideal, but if they got stuck, they would have to go on foot anyway.

We’d better get out, the driver said.

The other nodded. Leaving the headlights blazing, both officers, one a WPC, jumped out and hurried forwards. They reached Claire just as a police four-wheel drive Land Rover, also pulled up. Claire blinked in the glare of the headlights, saw the officers, and shivered.

Here Miss, the WPC said, kindly. Up you get. She produced a blanket and wrapped Claire in it. Then she led her to the security and comparative warmth of the interior of the Land Rover.

Detective Sergeant Jeremy Smith directed operations, pending the arrival of superior officers. He was in his middle thirties, already passed over for promotion, and well aware of that fact, and knew too that, barring a major success, he was likely to be passed over again. He was anxious not to make a fool of himself in tricky situations but yearned for a chance to show what he believed he could do. Since the phone call, a few minutes ago, he had been fervently hoping that here, at last, was an opportunity to shine. Reason suggested otherwise, the circumstances surrounding the call were far too bizarre. The whole thing could easily prove to be a hoax. However, you never knew, and so far, at least, so good. The girl was there, as reported, and the location was right. It was possible, although unlikely, that what she had described was, in fact, true. It was time to find out.

Rig up the lamp, he told his assistant, Detective Constable Carter.

Up to ten minutes ago, Carter had been carefully writing up the log of the night’s events. It was a boring, tedious chore, which was true of much of the paperwork, however necessary. He had not joined the police to fill out forms and write up interminable logbooks. The callout, though, was much more to the point. This was what he was there to do, investigate incidents, sort out problems, and help people. It was with considerable enthusiasm that he rigged the powerful light to the bracket on top of the cab and switched on.

A beam of light shone horizontally across the muddy path, showing up the tracks of many vehicles. Forensics might make something of them but, Smith thought, their own wheels had significantly added to the mess. There was no help for that. In a choreographed action, he would have driven alongside rather than on the actual track. Here, though, there was no room. Besides, if you always were so cautious in order not to destroy potential evidence, pending the investigation of a possible incident, which just might prove to be some kind of crime, well, you would never get anywhere! No way. He concentrated on directing Carter.

Up a bit. That’s it. Pan left.

The beam swept slowly across the mid branches of a succession of trees, pausing momentarily when the spot shone on an owl that was watching them. Save for a solitary, slow motion blink, the owl was impassive. Curious beings, these humans, it might have been thinking. Haven’t you seen an owl before? Stare at me if you like. What you are seeking is much higher up.

Up a bit more, Smith commanded.

The lamp was now shining nearer to the treetops. A flash of white, but it was only the moon, briefly competing. It was the next tree which held what they were seeking. The beam steadied, wavered as Carter gulped, then steadied again.

Good god!

Smith had hoped this was going to be his night, but even he was shaken by the horror of the moment. Draped face down on the first substantial branch of the tree was the naked body of a young woman. Smith glanced back to the Land Rover. Both the women were watching, staring white faced through the windscreen. The WPC put a comforting arm round Claire. Smith nodded his approval as the WPC turned Claire away.

Ok. Turn it off, Smith growled, softly.

Obediently, Carter flicked the switch and the light went out. I’ve locked the lamp in position, he said, helpfully.

Smith lifted an arm in acknowledgement, though whether Carter could see that was debatable. Beyond dispute was the fact they needed help, and lots of it. The murderer could still be in the woods. He, or she, could be watching them. It had to be murder, of course, unless that was a dummy up there. They made very good ones these days so that was not beyond the realms of possibility. Clearly, the first priority was to get up that tree and find out.

Carter joined Smith. I could shin up there, he offered.

Smith hesitated. It might not be murder at all. The girl might, just might, be alive. If Carter could get to her, get her down, there was a chance they could do something to help. However, if she was dead, then the act of moving her could destroy a great deal of information. It was a dilemma. Inwardly Smith seethed, wracked by indecision. Why couldn’t he have a nice clean corpse, on a library floor, in a large country house? Check the pulse, check for respiration, and then, satisfied the victim was beyond help, carefully, methodically, record the scene and gather the forensic evidence. Or call in those who could. While that was happening, he would interview all the occupants of the house, one of whom had to be the murderer. That was fiction, of course. This was the real world and everyone in town, including the many visitors, was a potential suspect. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff looked like a bloody hopeless task. What he did next was crucial.

Which would be worse, an error of commission, or of no action? Smith shook his head, undecided, but the shaking of his head implied a negative. Carter was looking at him, expecting instruction.

Wait.

Smith fetched night glasses from the cab, rejoined Carter, and carefully studied the girl in the trees. Her head was resting on the branch, her face towards them. Her eyes were open and staring. Her left arm hung down, her left breast crushed against the branch supporting her, and somehow her feet had been arranged, perhaps jammed (don’t guess, he told himself) against the main trunk so that her stomach, left hip and left leg all lay along the branch. From this distance, there was no indication of life. He said as much.

She’s dead.

Carter hesitated, appreciating Smith’s difficulties. Looks like it, he agreed, finally.

Their dilemma was resolved by the arrival of the fire engine, quickly followed by an ambulance. They too churned up the track. Smith thought, irreverently, that forensic would tell them the murderer arrived in an ambulance, or fire engine. Probably! Hmmp! Both vehicles pulled up behind the Land Rover.

Switch on the lamp, Smith told Carter.

When the dead girl was once more in the spotlight, Smith directed the fire fighters to manoeuvre their vehicle closer to the tree. It was quickly done. Within a minute, the ladder was extending upwards, pushing aside smaller branches which were in the way.

Careful, Smith warned. We’ll bring her down gently. There is no rush. She’s beyond help.

It was a risk; she could be in a deep coma and not dead at all. However, a decision had to be made. He was paid, not enough mind you, to make them.

Ok. Stop there.

One of the fire fighters started to mount the ladder. Alongside him, a paramedic was keen to go aloft.

I’ll go first, if you don’t mind, Smith said, firmly.

The fireman gave Smith a quizzical look, as if to say this is our job. I joined the fire brigade to climb ladders! In the face of Smith’s stare, with a sigh of disappointment, he gave way.

Smith was not going to tell them that this was the first time he had climbed a fire fighter’s ladder. Strangely, he felt quite comfortable. That was pleasing. As he neared the girl in the tree, his confidence grew. Each glance he took in her direction added confirmation to what he already knew. She was certainly real and she was definitely dead. As he reached her, Carter called up to him from below.

We’ve got a visitor.

Smith glanced down, surprised at the distance to the ground. Carter was pointing to where, by the first police car, a young man was standing.

Hold him ’til I get down, Smith called. And send for forensic.

They’re on their way, Carter replied. It sounded better than I’ve already done that.

Carefully, so as not to dislodge the body, Smith examined the dead girl. He grasped her left wrist. There was no detectable pulse although that was hardly definitive evidence. He dug his own nails hard into the soft part of her ring finger. There was no reaction at all. He