Hoax!

By Alex Binney

Scotland Yard’s murder squad are called in to investigate the killings of three farm workers when the enquiries by the Devon police reach a dead end, but they soon have more murders and a kidnapping on their hands.

It seems that all the crimes may be connected, but is there a serial killer on the loose or are there several culprits with very different motives? Someone is covering their tracks carefully, and no sooner is one layer of deception peeled away than another is awaiting the detectives’ skill and experience to uncover the next mystery beneath. Few of the victims are blameless, it would seem, and some of the most respectable members of the community may have more than one secret they would rather not reveal...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Jun 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857792938

Alex Binney

Alex is a well established English author of murder mystery novels. He took early retirement as a manager from a major UK bank to pursue his first love of writing murder mysteries. Over the years he has devised numerous plots which he did not have chance to bring to his readership whilst pursuing his bank career. Divorced, he lives in Plymouth, Devon, UK, and you can correspond with him on Facebook.

Book preview

Hoax!

by Alex Binney

Edition 2 for Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Alex Binney

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

HOAX

Definition:

An act of deception; a trick or a practical joke

Chapter ONE: Absent Friends

Cedric Pedlow urinated over the kale. In his drunken state, his aim was not particularly accurate, with the result that he walked from the field with saturated shoes.

Ha! Look at the state of ’im! exclaimed Herbert Witless. ’E’s ’alf-pissed.

Jasper Snell gazed through bloodshot eyes at the spectacle in front of him. Reckon you’m right, he slurred.

It was a case of the kettle calling the pot black.

The three inebriates broke into a guffaw before proceeding along the back lane off Grier Road. Farm labourers, they all worked for Graham Drinkwater on his four hundred acre farm, and lived close to one another in tied cottages.

On Saturday nights the three friends got together for a game of darts in the local pub, The Red Cow, and imbibed several pints of the local bitter. They always stayed until closing time before staggering back to their cottages.

This Saturday night had been no different, except that they had managed to get in one more round of drinks than normal, resulting in their increased inebriety.

Good job it’s Sunday tomorrow, observed Jasper.

Yeh, agreed Cedric. I shall ’ave a long lie in.

I won’t, groaned Herbert. The boss ’as asked me to work.

Jasper raised his eyebrows in disbelief. What for?

’E wants me to ’elp get the ’ay in.

Why only you? What’s wrong with me and Cedric? complained Jasper.

Dunno. s’pose ’e thinks you two don’t pull your weight.

Cedric and Jasper became immediately angry. Why, you…

’Ang on, ’ang on, protested Herbert. I was only jokin’. ’E does want you to work tomorrow. ’E asked me to pass the message on to ’e, but I forgot until now.

You gormless git! spouted Cedric.

You thick turd! added Jasper.

The three men broke into more guffaws as they staggered up the lane.

Because of their drunken state, they were initially oblivious of the grunts and groans coming from behind one of the nearby hedgerows.

There, minus her knickers, was Elsie Manners, making body-bruising love with one heavy-handed farmhand known as Maurice Turner.

Gor, I love thee, Elsie, puffed Maurice.

Shh! Keep your voice down. You got’n in yet?

Dunno… feels like it….

They rolled over in the grass like a couple of heavyweight wrestlers.

Eventually, Elsie staggered to her feet and slapped Maurice across the face as he got up.

’Ere, what’s that for? shouted the surprised farmhand.

Maurice Turner! she screamed. You’m worse than useless! You couldn’t make love to a puddin’!

Pulling on her knickers, Elsie stomped off across the field, leaving a bemused Maurice scratching his head in amazement.

Lord knows, thought the farmhand, I did my best. There’s no satisfyin’ that woman. It’s not as if she’s an oil paintin’. ’Er shouldn’t be so fussy.

As he was pulling up his trousers, he was conscious of three faces peering at him over the hedge.

What are you three buggers chortlin’ at? asked Maurice in his embarrassment. She’s a difficult woman to satisfy, is that Elsie.

Yeh, but you like ’em like that though, don’t ’e, Maurice? laughed Cedric.

Before Maurice could say anything, Jasper chipped in with: ’Er made short work of ’e.

I ain’t ’avin’ nothin’ more to do with ’er, grumbled the injured farmhand. He walked over to the hedge and joined the three friends.

Best thing too, agreed Herbert. You don’t know what you could catch off the likes of ’er…

Fwaw! exclaimed Maurice. ’Ow much ’ave you three blighters ’ad to drink? You smell like a bloody brewery.

Not much, lied Cedric, unconvincingly. Just a couple o’ pints, that’s all.

Oh, yeh. And the rest. You must be mad. ’Erbert told me earlier today that Mr. Drinkwater wants all three of ’e to work tomorrow.

That’s bloody marvellous, innit? observed Cedric. ’E tells you, but ’e forgets to tell us.

I couldn’t ’elp it. I just plain forgot, confessed Herbert.

Stupid ’eifer! uttered Jasper. You could ’ave got us into a lot of trouble if’n you’d not told us.

Well, I did tell ’e, so stop complainin’. Herbert was unrepentant.

Maurice sighed. I’ve heard enough of your drunken chatter. I’m goin’ ’ome to me bed. Night, lads.

Night, Cassanover, grinned Herbert.

Yeh, you go ’ome and dream o’ Elsie, laughed Jasper.

Cedric had to have his say. You can practise on that blow-up doll you got at ’ome, Maurice.

The three drunks burst into more loud guffaws, which increased in intensity when Maurice gestured violently at them, before turning on his heel and walking back to his parents’ house at the other end of the lane.

As they staggered along the moonlit highway, little did Maurice realise that that would be the last time he would ever again see his three friends alive.

* * * * *

He was ploughing a field when Roger Cramm came running over to him.

He couldn’t hear what he was shouting over the noise of the engine, so he turned it off.

What did ’e say?

You’re wanted over at the farmhouse.

What’s up?

Dunno, said Roger. Mr. Drinkwater looks pretty upset, though. There’s a policeman with ’im.

Oh. That don’t look good, replied Maurice, scratching his tousled blond hair. Best be getting’ over there.

He disengaged the plough, and raced the tractor across the field. Once through the gate, it was only a matter of a hundred yards or so up a muddy lane to reach the farmhouse, known as Old Memories.

Maurice climbed down from the tractor and walked swiftly up to the front door. Pulling off his grimy wellingtons, he removed his bobble hat and knocked on the door before entering.

Is that you, Maurice? called a voice from another room.

Yes, Mr. Drinkwater, he replied respectfully.

We’re in the lounge. Come on through, will you?

Maurice did as he was bid and came face to face with a police officer.

This is Detective Sergeant Ratchett from Plymouth C.I.D. He’d like to ask you a few questions, said Graham Drinkwater.

Yes, sir.

Maurice looked the detective straight in the eye. He was a surly-looking man with steel-grey eyes that seemed to look right through you, and hawk-like features.

When he spoke, his voice had the rasp-like quality of coarse sandpaper. I believe you know three employees of Mr. Drinkwater by the names of Cedric Pedlow, Herbert Witless and Jasper Snell?

Yeh, that’s right.

When did you last see them?

Why, last night as a matter ’o fact.

Where?

Burscombe Lane.

Burscombe Lane? Where’s that?

’Tis off Grier Road, near The Red Cow.

The Red Cow. That’s the local pub?

Yeh.

Were you drinking with them?

No, I met them when I was on my way ’ome.

On your way home – from where?

I was with a lady friend.

Her name? Ratchett was recording everything that Maurice was saying in his standard issue notebook.

I – uh – ’er’s called Elsie Manners.

Maurice! Graham Drinkwater was showing his disgust. How on earth could you contemplate going out with that woman?

If you don’t mind, sir, intervened the detective sergeant. And how would I be able to get hold of your lady friend, Mr. Turner?

" ’Er lives on ’er own in a cottage called The Retreat in the centre of the village."

The woman is the local whore, Sergeant. Drinkwater could not contain himself.

Sergeant Ratchett allowed himself a wry smile. He turned his attention back to the farmhand. So you met the three gentlemen when you were out walking with your girlfriend?

Not exactly. I ’ad already said goodbye to ’er for the night, and I was on my way ’ome when I comes across ’em.

I see. So what happened then?

During this conversation, the sergeant was seated in a comfortable armchair (as was Graham Drinkwater) whilst Maurice felt he was very much on parade as he stood before them, bobble hat in hand.

Nothin’ much. Just general chat. I was only with them fer a few minutes. It was getting’ quite late and they was supposed to be workin’ fer Mr. Drinkwater today. What’s this all about, anyways?"

I’m asking the questions, Mr. Turner, was the curt response. So you went your separate ways after a quick chat. What time was that?

I dunno, I don’t possess a watch. Say ’alf past eleven?

And they didn’t say anything to you that might explain why they didn’t turn up for work today?

No, sir.

Ratchett let out a deep sigh. All right, Mr. Turner, that will be all, thank you.

Maurice beat a hasty retreat and went back to his ploughing, wondering what had happened to the three farmhands.

After he had gone, Ratchett lifted himself from his chair and said, Well that’s the last of your workers I’ve interviewed, Mr. Drinkwater, and we are no further forward. Obviously, I have some leads to follow up after those interviews, and I’ll let you know if we find out what’s happened to your men. At the moment, I have three worried housewives who are concerned about their missing husbands. It’s strange all three men have gone AWOL. Have any of them done anything like this before?

Drinkwater got up from his chair. No, never. It’s most strange. I know they like their drink, but they have always been reliable. Never missed a day’s work, even when they’ve had the ’flu.

"I think I’d better have a word with this Elsie Manners, despite your opinion of her, in case she can throw any light on this affair. Can you direct me to The Retreat?"

* * * * *

The Retreat was a tumbledown cottage in the centre of Ogbury, which itself was a picturesque village on the fringes of Exmoor in the county of Devon. It had a thatched roof, much patched where the reed had rotted over the years, and a brick chimney that looked in danger of collapse. He lifted the brass knocker on the front door and announced his presence.

After a minute or so, the door opened with an enormous creak, and there before him stood a portly, unkempt woman with bright ginger hair.

Miss Manners?

Yeh…

Ratchett showed his ID. May I have a word?

She waved him inside the cottage and allowed him as far as the parlour before she said, What do ’e want?

Do you know Herbert Witless, Cedric Pedlow and Jasper Snell?

Yeh, but not very well. They’re all taken.

Did you see any of them last night?

No, why?

They didn’t return home last night. Do you know why that might be?

Probably pissed, I expeck.

That wouldn’t prevent them returning home.

It would if they got totally rat-assed. They’re probably sleepin’ it off in some ’aystack or other.

Ratchett looked at his watch. I doubt it. It’s two o’clock now. They would have sobered up by now, or at least be awake to the world.

In that case, I can’t ’elp ’e. Like I said, I don’t know ’em that well.

Ratchett gave up. He could hardly believe the state of the woman before him. She was wearing a polka-dot frock with stains down the front of it, her hair was a dishevelled mop and her stockings were around her ankles. On top of that, she had hairy arms!

He was glad to leave.

Thank you for your help, Miss Manners.

No problem, officer.

* * * * *

The next stop was to interview the three wives.

Detective Sergeant Ratchett first called on Mrs. Sylvia Witless in her neat, but small, tied cottage at Little Hampshire, a small hamlet on the fringes of Graham Drinkwater’s farm.

She showed him into a cramped lounge where they sat down.

I’m afraid we’ve drawn a blank so far, Mrs. Witless, he began. I need to ask you some questions about your husband, if I may.

The lady nodded. In contrast to Elsie Manners, Sylvia Witless was neatly dressed, hair tied in a bun, with a faint smell of perfume coming from her direction and the merest application of lipstick. The lounge was clean and tidy and dust-free. However, the lady was clearly distressed.

Has your husband ever done anything like this before?

No, never.

Do you have any children?

No. I can’t have any I’m afraid. I got problems in that direction.

I’m sorry. How are your finances? Do you have any money worries?

We get by. When ’Erbert gets ’is wages, I take what I need out of ’em before he spends it on beer ’n fags.

And how has he appeared to you lately? Any changes in mood? Did he seem worried about anything?

No, ’e’s bin ’is same old ’appy-go-lucky self.

Do you talk about things between you, exchange confidences?

What’s confidences? I’m confident in ’im, if that’s what you mean.

No, no. I meant do you share each other’s secrets?

Secrets? We ain’t got no secrets in this ’ouse. ’Erbert ’asn’t got the brains to ’ave a secret.

So, he hasn’t said anything to you recently that might explain his temporary disappearance?

Sylvia put her hands to her face in obvious despair. No, nothin’.

Thanking her for her help and promising to keep in touch, Ratchett moved on to the other two wives.

The result was the same. Neither Hilda Snell nor Edith Pedlow were of any help in throwing any light on their husbands’ disappearances.

There was nothing left for Ratchett to do but to report his findings back to his chief inspector in Plymouth C.I.D. It had been a toss-up as to whether the Exeter office or the Plymouth office investigated this case. The chief constable, who was holidaying in Spain (but had been informed of the incident), had opted for Plymouth because of the greater experience of their officers there, it being a much larger city. This annoyed the people in Exeter where the Devon Constabulary’s offices were situated.

However, there was to be a tragic outcome in this case which was to involve the London Metropolitan Police’s Murder Squad.

Chapter Two: An Eerie Spectre

In the sleepy Devon village of Ogbury, all was quiet. All, that is, except for a couple of tomcats out on a midnight prowl. They had spotted one another behind old Bill Wortleberry’s fence, and now squared up to one another with hunched backs and threatening hisses.

Quiet you blasted animals! cursed old Bill from his bedroom window. He liked his sleep, did old Bill, and was most vexed when this sort of thing happened.

He could see the cats were not going to let up, so he filled an old enamel pot he kept under his bed (on account of his weak bladder) with water from a broken-down sink in his bedroom, and projected a liquid shower towards the animals. Unfortunately, as he did so, he let go of the pot, which landed with a clatter on his garden path.

The cats scattered.

Damn! uttered Bill. He picked up a torch from a chair by the side of his bed and made his way downstairs. It was a cold night for early August, and he felt a chilling draught as he opened the front door in search of his enamel pot.

As he played his torch up and down his small garden, he heard voices. He shone a torch in the direction from whence they came.

Who’s that? he cried out.

It’s all right, Bill, replied a voice he knew well. ’Tis Constable Tonker.

What are ’e doin’ out at this time o’ night?

Can’t stop to talk now. I’m with Sergeant Ratchett from Plymouth C.I.D. There’s a bit of excitement down by the river. I’ll tell ’e about it tomorrow.

And with that, he was gone.

Bill scratched his head in bemusement. What on earth could that have been about?

Ah! He let out a gasp of satisfaction. He caught sight of his enamel pot. Gingerly on tiptoe (for he was still in his pyjamas), he nipped over to the spot and picked up the blessed article.

Within minutes he had settled back into bed and had fallen fast asleep.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, down by the River Galpy, which lies to the north of the village, there were scenes of great activity and excitement. Car lights, flares and hand torches lit up the night. There were several people talking excitedly as they peered over the riverbank. Sergeant Ratchett told them to move on as he and Constable Tonker climbed down into the shallowest part of the water in their wellington boots.

They pulled at something. It was obviously very heavy. A few minutes later, it was clear what the object was: a body. They pulled it up onto the riverbank and went back into the water again. A short while later they had fished out another and laid it by the first one. Back they went again and, to the astonishment of all, pulled out a third. This time, there was not enough room on the narrow bank to place the third, so they dumped it unceremoniously on top of the others.

And there they lay, their eyes looking skywards, having all the appearance of dead fish.

It was an eerie spectre.

Presently, more police cars appeared and the crowd of onlookers was told to disperse, save one – Clarence Burkett.

Out of one of the big black Austins climbed Chief Inspector James McQuayle of Plymouth C.I.D. He was a mountain of a man. Standing six foot six in stockinged feet, he weighed twenty stone easily. He had a temper to match his frame and, being half- Irish, had a fighting spirit that gave way to no one. He was feared and respected throughout the force.

Okay, Phil, what have we got? he barked.

Three bodies. No identification on them as far as we can see.

Who reported this to us?

The gentleman over there with the Alsatian. Name of Clarence Burkett.

The detective called him over. Mr. Burkett, hi. I’m Chief Inspector McQuayle. I understand you reported this incident to us?

Yes, sir. Me and Rosie ’ere were having a late stroll along the riverbank when suddenly ’er starts barkin’, excited like. ’Twas unusual fer ’er to act up like that, so I peered over the riverbank and I could just make out these dark shapes in the water. Rosie got even more excited, so I know’d somethin’ was up. That’s when I called ’e.

McQuayle smiled at the old man before him. He had a white beard that almost covered his face and a mop of greying hair that was halfway down his back. A grubby grey coat and shabby sneakers completed his scruffy image. The dog had remained quiet, obviously well trained. Thank you, Mr. Burkett. Was there anyone else around when you discovered the bodies?

No, sir. Not a soul until your men arrived.

Right-oh. See that policeman over there? Give him your details will you, in case we need to speak to you again.

The old man shuffled over to the officer who was holding a notepad in his hand.

Where the blazes did all these people come from, Ratchett? demanded the chief inspector.

I think it was the police sirens that drew them out of their houses. It’s probably such an unusual event in a quiet village like this, that curiosity got the better of them. We’re moving them on now, sir.

McQuayle noticed Tonker was crouched over the bodies, looking at them intently.

Tonker, what are you staring at? asked the chief inspector, as he approached him.

I know these three men, sir. They work on Graham Drinkwater’s farm – or did. They be Cedric Pedlow, Jasper Snell and ’Erbert Witless.

Strewth! That was what I was investigating earlier yesterday – their reported disappearance, said the detective sergeant.

Mcquayle looked askance at him. And you didn’t put two and two together just now when you said they had no ID on them? You’re hardly the sharpest pencil in the box, are you, Ratchett?

The sergeant blushed in embarrassment. Sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking.

Is the pathologist on his way?

Should be here at any minute.

As if on cue, up pulled a Triumph TR2, out of which climbed a whiskery gentleman carrying a black case.

Ah, Professor Harber. Just the chap, greeted McQuayle. He led the pathologist to the three bodies.

As Harber crouched over them, he said, Can I have some more light, please? And will someone lift this body off the other two.

Two burly policemen stepped forward, removed the top corpse and laid it on the concrete pathway above the bank.

After examining all three cadavers, Harber approached McQuayle and said, They didn’t drown. I shall be able to confirm that when I get them on the slab. I’ll bet you I won’t find any water in their lungs.

What then?

There’s ligature marks round their necks. All three were garrotted by either a thick wire or a cord.

Really? How strange. I’m sure they didn’t queue up and watch each other being throttled. I wonder how that came about? mused McQuayle.

You’re the detective, said Harber. You work it out. Anyway, I’m off. Get them to the lab when you’ve finished.

After Harber had gone, McQuayle shouted to Ratchett. Get this area cordoned off, will you? And let’s get some preliminary pictures taken.

Right, sir. Benson!

A middle-aged constable strode energetically forward and listened to Ratchett’s instructions. Then he rejoined his colleagues and got to work. Constable Tonker was given the task to ensure no more villagers intruded on the scene.

Once the photographer had finished, the bodies were placed in a waiting ambulance and taken directly to Professor Harber’s pathology lab.

Tonker was then summoned by McQuayle, who wanted to talk to him about the three dead men.

Beg pardon, guv, interrupted Ratchett, but you’ll find most of the information you want in the report I’ve left on your desk in Plymouth.

No doubt. However, Tonker may be able to add to that from his local knowledge. Now, Constable, what can you tell me about the three men?

Tonker lifted his helmet and wiped his brow. Not much I can tell you, sir. They’re three local lads; never been in any kind o’ trouble. Went to the local school, Calfield Secondary Modern. When they left at fifteen, they all went to work on Graham Drinkwater’s farm. They’ve been there ever since, fifteen years or more.

McQuayle had pulled out a large cigar from the top pocket in his jacket and proceeded to blow large plumes of smoke into the night air. It made him smile to see the tall angular bobby talking in a secretive whisper, large black eyes out on stalks. He tended to move about a lot, which showed his nervousness when in front of McQuayle.

Anything else you can tell me about them?

Ugh… only that they were all married…

To local girls?

Yus. Oh, except Edith Pedlow, Cedric’s wife. ’Er comes from London.

Do any of them have kids?

Yes, sir. Two o’them ’ave. Cedric’s got two boys, ’Erbert’s wife can’t ’ave any ,and Jasper’s got a boy and a girl. All the kids are below school age."

They’re big drinkers, I understand, chipped in Ratchett, who was aching to join in the conversation.

That’s right, confirmed Tonker. I don’t know ’ow they could afford it on their wages. They’re out boozin’ most nights.

Okay, Tonker. That will be all. Thank you for that.

The constable went back to his original spot to make sure no more villagers came calling.

McQuayle turned to Ratchett and said, Well, Phil, got any bright ideas as to what all this is about?

Not really, sir. The only thing that is certain in my mind is that we are probably looking at more than one murderer. As to motive, well it could be anything. Certainly they always seemed to have a lot of money to spend. Having spoken to the wives, they were clearly unaware that their husbands might have been earning extra money through illicit means. Perhaps they knew too much, or were blackmailing someone. But who’s got money around these parts?

Hmm. Somebody must have. What about Drinkwater?

Possibly. But according to Tonker, the old boy is always pleading poverty and the bank is pressurising him over his overdraft.

That can only be rumour. I can’t imagine that Drinkwater would admit any problems he had with the bank to his employees. Come on, let’s get back to Plymouth. There’s nothing more that can be done tonight. He turned to the policemen that were standing nearby. Okay, chaps, that’s it for the night. Let’s go home.

Before departing, he asked Tonker to hang around for another hour to make sure none of the villagers came poking around.

Then you can go home. We’ll be back at ten a.m. tomorrow to carry out some interviews. Leave the cordon up, although it’s hardly enclosing a crime scene. The murders clearly took place elsewhere. He threw his cigar into some nearby bushes.

Although it was August, the night had become quite cold. Tonker jumped up and down to keep himself warm, muttering all the while. His feet were wet from going into the river. The water had gone over the top of his wellington boots, and it felt as if the water sloshing about inside them was slowly turning to ice.

He stopped for a moment, and started to smile. He had remembered something. He rushed over to the nearby bushes and ferreted around. Presently, he emerged with McQuayle's half-smoked cigar.

He stuffed it in his mouth and sucked hard on it. The embers glowed and relit the cigar.

For once in his life, Tonker thought he had gone up in the world, and he let out a cry of contentment. He watched in satisfaction as the long wisps of smoke climbed slowly upwards into a darkened sky…

Chapter Three: Easy come, Easy go

Every morning at five-thirty, Bill Wortleberry would climb out of his warm bed and make himself a cup of tea. Now that he was long-time retired, it was a habit he found hard to break. As a farmhand, he had been used to rising at that hour, but now that it was no longer necessary, he still had the urge to get up early. If he did not, he always felt that something was not quite right.

His wife, Ruby, thought he was quite mad. She slept in a separate bed in another room, on account of his heavy snoring. Apart from that, they were very close and each valued the companionship after fifty-three years of marriage.

Whatever his wife thought about his early rising did not concern Bill. He would sit there in an old armchair, drinking his tea and puffing at an old clay pipe. When Ruby got up, hours later, she would open all the windows downstairs to get rid of the smoke. This would infuriate Bill, who would complain that the draughts caused his rheumatism to ‘act up’. Ruby’s reply was always the same: You shouldn’t smoke in the house then, should you? It became a particular source of heated debate in the winter when there was a fire burning in the grate.

On a chilly August morning, the day after the bodies were found, Bill was sitting in his chair, drinking his tea as usual, when there came an urgent tapping on his door.

Slowly, the old man got to his feet and tottered into the passage. Grunting and wheezing, he slid a bolt across and opened the front door.

He was surprised to see Kevin Tonker standing before him.

’Ello, Kev, said Bill. What’s up?

C – can I come in? It’s bloody freezin’ out here. It’s this blasted fog…

Of course you can. Come in. Keep your voice down; Ruby’s still asleep.

The constable followed the old man into his small sitting room.

Any chance of some tea? asked the policeman, shivering still.

Certainly. I got a big pot in the kitchen. You take a seat, and I’ll be back directly.

Two minutes later and Tonker was gulping down piping hot tea. You’re a life-saver, Bill, he said at length. God, I needed that.

What’s been ’appenin’? asked the old man, mystified.

You tell me. I’ve been down to the riverbank to see if anyone had been messin’ about with our cordon overnight. Got the Plymouth police comin’ up again this mornin’ to question some of the villagers.

What’s been ’appenin’ at the riverbank?

’Tis tragic. Three of Graham Drinkwater’s farmhands ’ave been found murdered. Washed up at the riverbank, they were.

Who was? What are their names?

Cedric Pedlow, Herbert Witless and Jasper Snell.

No! My God, ’ow did that ’appen?

That’s what they’re tryin’ to find out. ’Ave you ever ’eard the like? What’s the world comin’ to, eh?

Bill was stunned. He puffed slowly on his pipe, and then said, D’you know, I watched them boys grow up. They may ’ave been a bit wild, but they was fine chaps. Who could’ve done such a thing?

Dunno, but you can be sure those Plymouth boys will find out. You can’t keep nothin’ secret in a small community like ours. Tonker spoke authoritatively.

I suppose you’m right, Kev. Three dead, eh? There’s goin’ to be quite a to-do about all this. How were they killed?

Throttled with a wire or cord, the pathologist said.

Bugger me. Well, there must ’ave been more than one o’ them, to take out three big men like that.

That’s what our chaps think. I reckon it could ’ave been a contract killin’. You know, where someone pays someone else to do someone in. (Tonker was being very free with his ‘someones’.)

Well, ’tis all very strange. ’Tis very sad for the families involved.

Yus. I just ’ope they don’t expect me to advise the wives this mornin’. I don’t fancy that much.

Tonker had finished his tea. Well, I’d best be goin’. I’ve got a couple o’ things to do back at the ’ouse afore these Plymouth blokes arrive at ten o’clock. Thanks for the tea, Bill.

Don’t mention it, Kev.

Old Bill watched from the doorway as the constable wended his way back to his police house.

It was another hour and a half before Detective Sergeant Ratchett and some of his team turned up. Tonker was walking up to the spot as they arrived.

Okay, said Ratchet to some of his uniformed men, you can take that cordon down. No point in keeping it up any longer. Then he turned to the village bobby and asked, Any problems last night after we went?

No, sir.

Good. Superintendent McQuayle will be along shortly. He’s asked me to get a list from you of anybody you know of that was friendly with the three dead men. So why don’t you pop down to your police house and make out a list of names and where they live. Then meet us back here. Be quick about it, will you.

Yes, sir. Right, sir.

As he was proceeding along Delby Street, the village’s main thoroughfare, Tonker was accosted by one Elsie Manners.

’Ello, Kevin, she said, flashing a saucy smile. You look like you’ve ’ad an ’ard night.

I bloody well ’ave! cussed the policeman. I’ve been down by the river…

You naughty boy…

No, it weren’t like that.

O’ course. It was to do with them there murders.

You’ve ’eard about it?

Sure, it’s all over the village. Anyways, I was down by the river last night with a lot o’ other folk when you brung them bodies in. Gory, weren’t it?

You saw who ’twas?

Yus. Poor old Cedric, Herbert and Jasper.

You don’t look all that upset about it.

Should I be?

Well, I thought Cedric used to be an old flame o’ yourn?

So ’e was until ’e went and got ’isself married. And now ’e’s dead. ’E’s no bloody good to anyone like that, is ’e?

Tonker could hardly believe the callousness of the woman. You’re a nutcase, Elsie Manners. Do you regard everything as coldly as that?

She shrugged her shoulders. Easy come, easy go.

The policeman shook his head disbelievingly. You’re really somethin’, Elsie. ’Ere, where are you off to so early in the day?

It ain’t that early. ’Tis well gone ten. Anyways, it’s for me to know and you to find out. Elsie winked mischievously at him.

Before Tonker could utter another word, Elsie blew a kiss at him and walked on.

Suddenly the bobby came back to the present. Shoot – he had better get a move on and write out that list. How stupid he was to allow that Elsie to chinwag with him. Muttering to himself, he continued along the street until he reached his abode. Once inside, he got out paper and pen and set to work.

In the meantime, two uniformed policemen had been detailed to advise the three dead men’s wives of the fatalities. They were not received at all well, as the news of their husbands’ deaths had reached their ears before the policemen got to them. They demanded to know why they had not been informed in the early hours of the morning after their bodies had been discovered. It was a situation that the two inexperienced policeman had difficulty in explaining away. Nevertheless, they had to arrange for the three women to identify the bodies.

Elsie, by this time, had wandered from Delby street in the general direction of the river. After a quarter of a mile or so, she walked up a steep and narrow winding lane, known locally as ‘The Devil’s Curve’. The incline was very steep at first but, towards the top of the lane, it began to level out. Here, on the right of the path, was posted a direction sign, saying, ‘Public Footpath to Galpy Creek’, which Elsie now elected to take. The footpath was no more than a muddy and pitted right of way that also doubled as a bridle path. Its track took her across one of Graham Drinkwater’s fields and then along a cliff edge. There used to be a fence that ran along the length of the cliff at this point, but it had been knocked down so many times (rather dangerously) by local kids. As a result, the local council refused to renew it. Instead, a notice at the beginning of this dangerous walkway announced, ‘No children under the age of twelve years of age are allowed beyond this point unless accompanied by an adult’.

Elsie laughed when she saw it. ’Ow bloody stupid. You ’as to be up ’ere to read this sign. If you’re a kid on your own, you’re goin’ to ignore it, ain’t ya? Can you see a kid after ’e’s seen this sign, rushin’ ’ome to ’is mum and sayin’, ’Ere, mum, you gotta accompany me up the cliff.’ Bloody daft, I call it.

When she had walked along the cliff edge for about two hundred yards, she crouched down in the grass and looked over.

It was a perfect vantage point from which to observe the full extent of the River Galpy. Immediately below her, Elsie could see the police furiously at work. She saw a handful of uniformed police exploring the riverbank, while others explored the terrain beyond for tyre marks, footprints and the like. There were two detectives overseeing the operations, and barking out commands. There was a photographer taking pictures, where directed by the senior personnel; there were some men in protective clothing who seemed to be taking samples of the soil; and, standing head and shoulders above all the others and chewing a big cigar, was this huge man – obviously the boss.

Elsie stayed there for a long time, watching the hive of activity below. Occasionally she would chuckle to herself, sometimes giggle and, once or twice, break out into a suppressed laugh.

Easy come, easy go, she chortled to herself time and again. Easy come, easy go…

Chapter Four: Hobson’s Choice

It was going to be one of those days, Warren Fellows had decided. Make or break. Decision day.

After he had showered and dressed in his best suit, he had a meagre breakfast of cereal and black coffee. He took up a cup of tea to his wife Wendy, who was still in bed.

Are you off, love? she asked, as he handed her the tea.

Yes. It’s nearly half-past eight. I’m due at the bank at nine-thirty. Mustn’t be late. It’s too important a meeting.

He pecked her on the cheek and said, I’ll ring you later, and let you know how I got on.

When he reached the passageway, he looked in the hall mirror. The face of a good-looking forty-year-old looked back at him. Sure, he had a few grey hairs, but at least he was not going bald and most of his thatch was still a mousy brown colour. He felt his cleft chin lent to his attractiveness, and he always kept himself clean-shaven. He had sky-blue eyes that seemed penetrating when they looked at you. His father’s eyes had been blue, too, and his mother’s a misty grey. Both had passed away in a car crash a few years ago while holidaying in Spain, but he still kept their picture on his mantelpiece. He