Murder on the Wold

By Kevin Hurst

An intriguing double crime mystery, with several plot turns; accompanied by observational humour and whimsical characters.
A slain body (shot through the eye, indicating a gangland killing) is found in dirty scarecrow's clothes; whilst, simultaneously, a young schoolgirl is abducted from her exclusive private school.
Both crimes take place in a quiet English countryside village, sending the ill prepared local police on a wild and often misguided chase to find and catch the perpetrators.
Based in England, this unusual novel, with its sardonic humour; takes you from 'Down Under' Australia, to Scotland's capital, and the forests of darkest Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Hurst
• Release date: Feb 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463142684

Kevin Hurst

Born in Liverpool UK, Kevin Hurst emigrated to Australia in 1973 and has lived in Sydney for the last 46 years. His working life has been spent in managerial positions, in a wide range of manufacturing industries. Since retiring 12 years ago, his time has been spent pursuing a golf ball around heavily treed but shaded areas; and trying to hit a small white ball during Lawn Bowls. A recent attempt at Tennis, lead him to write his first novel instead. He is an active organisational member of a Probus club, a social golf club and a Lawn bowls club. In case there was some spare time, he has enjoyed travel, cinema, theatre, and exercise. He has done very little reading of books - so why he chose to try and write one is a mystery in itself.

Book preview

The name ‘Cotswolds’ (an area of the UK) – comes from the old English words ‘Wold’ meaning gentle rolling hills, and ‘Cots’ - the winter time sheep shelters, hewn from the popular local ‘Cotswold’ stone.

The district is home to numerous quaint towns and villages, attracting tourists from every part of the world.

Places such as ‘Bourton on the water’, ‘Broadway’, ‘Chipping Camden’, with some names based on the districts name, such as ‘Stow on the Wold’.

These and many more surrounding villages, provide a peaceful home for those seeking the quaint and picturesque.

Some villages, however, have more sinister sounding names such as ‘Upper Slaughter’ and ‘Lower Slaughter’.

Don’t let the names fool you, these towns are also just as charming as the others.

Nevertheless, could it be that in this quiet, and charming countryside, an ominous manslaughter could take place, or even an outright ‘Murder on the Wold’?

But clearly this would never happen, not among the peace-seeking residents in the tranquil surrounds of the benign Cotswolds.

Or could it?

Murder on the Wold

By: Kevin Hurst

Copyright © 2019 Kevin Hurst

Smashwords Edition

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HEALTH WARNING

Generous traces of toilet humour will be encountered within several chapters of this book.

Those genteel readers, diagnosed with a delicate disposition, should seek advice from their medical practitioner, before proceeding further.

Those reading further, without taking heed of this warning, do so at their own risk.

The author cannot be held responsible for the unruly behaviour and thoughts of characters, who simply got out of hand.

Cast of Main Characters

This should be of considerable value to slow readers, who manage 2 chapters a month, and those who, similar to the author, are starting to lose the plot rapidly anyway.

Joe Farmer………………………………………Retired Farmer

Lizzie……………………………………………His lovely wife

Tom Stark ………………………………………Person of interest to the force

Elsie Stark ……………………………………...His wife

Detective Constable Mildred English…………..Rooky CID officer

Detective Inspector Alex Pease

Inspector Charles Snaith

Phil Proudman………………………………….Desk Sergeant

Chief Supt Hastie……………………………….Lover of fine foods

Chief Constable Cyril Fryer

Detective Sergeant George Mallard…………...Carries lots of weight at station

Sergeant Christine Molyneux……………….Specialist in crimes against women

Sergeant John Lysaght…………………………Journeyman-‘old school’ cop

Charles de Moraine…………………………….Local Mayor and Businessman

Margot de Moraine…………………………….His wife - allegedly

Anastasia de Moraine………… ………………Daughter

Bram de Kok…………………………………..Security guard for the Moraines

Jim Bradbury………………………………….Ex-local Football star

Susan………………………………………….His wife

Ms Withers……………………………………Headmistress of exclusive school

Cassandra Lennon….........................................English Teacher at same school

Eric Stone………………………………..…...Local Plumber

John McCrindle…………………………..…..Standover man, and hitman

Michael Jones……………………………..….Sales Executive

Derek Young…………………………….…...His flatmate

Kevin Bates……………………………….….Local Richard Cranium

Cathy Mullen………………………………...Local ‘Greens’ council member

Paul Schneider……………………………….Excretory orifice of the media

Inspector Doug Birrel………………………..Senior Officer of the SCDEA

Murray D. McCallister…………………...…..aka Duncan Maxwell

Samantha Green……………………………...Ex fellow student of Anastasia’s

David Green………………………………….Her Father and Science Teacher

Vince Giordano………………………………Night club owner

Lou…………………………………………...His Minder (aka Chien Fou)

Inspector Ian Warner…………………………Head of ‘Operation Charlie’

Vincent Van Morris……………………..…..Old Morris van, past its use by date

CHAPTER 1

"Eleanor Rigby."

Lennon & McCartney

‘Waits at the window…..

….All the lonely people.’

Some 7 years ago – Rose bay police station – A salubrious suburb of Sydney, Australia

It was late autumn, but the mercury was still reaching up to twenty eight degrees in the shade, and it was more than warm enough to sunbake in the direct sunlight, for the multitude of solar worshippers, spreadeagled on their beach towels.

Converting and storing these rays into a practical source of energy - yet to be developed.

The scene was rather like some ancient religious ceremony.

People were lying prostrate, worshipping their two principal Gods – Carcinoma Basal and his senior – Carcinoma Squamous.

Those more devout worshippers, who were lying prostrate for most of the day, were paying homage to the supreme leader of these male Gods – The Goddess Melanoma.

Despite it being a weekday, there were still many yachts, launches and kayaks out on the harbour and its foreshores.

As a green and yellow Manly ferry made its way eastward, it appeared that the Captain Cook rocket ferry from Watson’s Bay, on its way to Circular Quay, was about to collide with the larger vessel, when it disappeared from view; only to soon emerge safely, seemingly being spat out like an anal exhale from the ferry’s backside.

The angles of vision from the foreshore can be very misleading.

Around midday, with its colours enhanced by the sun’s rays, a bright red Ferrari was dangerously weaving its way through traffic, cutting off other vehicles.

It screamed out its high pitched fart, during its accelerating moments, still maintaining limit breaking speeds around bends, despite being in lower gears.

Brake pads squealed in protest against the cruel treatment being ditched out by the attention seeking driver.

the car screeched to a stop on the busy New South Head road.

The driver chose to park illegally on this bustling thoroughfare, rather than taking the quieter road, off the main clearway.

This had become standard practice for these people, who would simply tear up the parking ticket when returning to the vehicle, ignoring subsequent notices.

And feeling wrongly victimised, if the vehicle were to be towed away, or clamped.

Two well-heeled and stylishly attired ladies tried to get out of the vehicle as elegantly as the low seats would permit.

Weakening muscles from the impending approach of middle age, made the task of avoiding the exposure of the entire surface area of their upper limbs impossible.

The expensive, but miniscule area of fabric; whose origin would most likely remain one of ‘Victoria’s secrets’ added to the display.

The failure to achieve this manoeuvre, with any modicum of modesty, gave rise to a cacophony of car horns blaring out their appreciation of this erotic flash of flesh and lingerie.

The two ladies, one bleached blonde and one natural brunette, then sauntered across the busy road without any conscious thoughts or care for the heavy traffic, which now had to accommodate this additional hazard.

Momentarily all the approaching vehicles from both directions screeched to a halt, resulting in a further outburst of car horns, whose combined and dissonant output, resembled the tuning up session of a thirty piece orchestra.

The blonde held up one finger, which could have been misinterpreted as ‘I’ll only be one minute’.

Both ladies went into an unusually attractive edifice for a police station, with its warm golden sandstone appearance, complete with Greek columns.

They went through the middle of its three arches, and eventually approached the front desk.

The taller blonde lady, in a voice displaying the remnants of a cockney accent, demanded to see someone senior, since they wished to report the case of two missing persons – namely their respective husbands.

Right, well can I have your names please?

They both gave the officer severe and questioning looks that said –‘you mean you don’t know who we are?’

They both waited for several seconds for him to rescue himself from this display of ignorance.

Unfortunately his face remained impassive, as he patiently waited for their response.

Following a few more seconds of this ‘stand-off’, the blonde lady reluctantly imparted the requested information, with suitably pursed lips, to indicate her annoyance at not being recognised immediately.

Oh right! – so let me get this straight, you’re Audrey, and so you Madam, must be Eleanor – is that right?

Correct – well done officer. My word - you have done your training college proud. You must have come top of your year.

His training did come into good use, as he chose to ignore this unnecessary sarcasm.

So I assume the two husbands you are referring to are Geoffrey Windsor and …..

"Brilliant – you know I think you’re destined for the top position here, my young fellow.

Tell me though, rather than you continuing to waste our time, can we see someone more senior now?

Given, of course that you are now fully aware of who we are.

You see, I don’t like engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed person."

Sergeant Danny Rigby still managed to maintain his decorum, irrespective of his burning desire to tell this rude lady, where to get off.

Together with the numerous expletives running through his head.

In a measured tone, he replied - I will be able to arrange that very soon, but before I do, I really do need to get some additional information please.

It was then that the quieter of the two, Eleanor, chose to speak up in a pleading tone, with a voice similar to a young child.

"You don’t know what it’s like to be alone – every time my husband goes away on a business trip, I get extremely stressed, and that’s on the occasions when I know his whereabouts.

This time I don’t know where on earth he might be, and I’m afraid I just can’t cope.

I am not getting any sleep, I can’t handle the isolation and loneliness – so you must find him.

I am waiting day and night, staring out of the window looking for him.

No telephone calls – his mobile is not answering – I can’t go on like this."

Audrey took hold of Eleanor, patting her on the back to calm her down, and suggested that she take a seat, before fronting up once again to the police officer, who then proceeded to ask them another question.

Tell me – when was the last time you each saw your husbands, and do you know what their last planned activities were?

Audrey, once again responded for both of them – "It was four nights ago, they were going up the coast to Newcastle, in order to sort out some business. They are both well-known and important business partners; which, if you knew your stuff lad, you’d be well aware of these details.

Two hours after our husbands left, they came back for some proof of identity papers, something to do with some international transactions; so they took their passports and the like."

Could it be that they were planning to go overseas maybe?

Don’t be ridiculous, they wouldn’t be doing that without telling us.

Based on my current observations, if I was your husband, I’d be giving it some pretty serious consideration.

"Anyway, they should have been back two days ago, but there is just no sign of them.

Neither of them is answering either of their phones, and only yesterday we both noticed that there is very little money left in any of our accounts – they both appear to have taken an awful lot of money up north for this business deal.

So, as you will understand we are extremely worried that something terrible might have happened to them.

I mean, they could have been attacked and robbed for all we know.

Oh – and I have just remembered, in case you need this information for identity purposes; Geoffrey had recently decided to also grow a moustache and beard – he wants to look like his business partner for some crazy reason.

God knows why, as his beard is a reddish blonde whilst his buddy’s beard is quite dark – so they don’t look alike anyway.

Tell me - are there any reports of car accidents on the Newcastle freeway?

They were both in Eleanor’s Maserati, and I know they always drive too fast in it."

"I will check for you, but we haven’t heard of any significant incidents in that area.

There is a senior officer I’m aware of, who just might be able to provide some help regarding this situation, but he currently resides at headquarters.

Would you both like to take a seat in the room over there, whilst I try to contact him?"

He rang police headquarters in Parramatta and asked to speak to Inspector Ian Warner, whom he knew to be in charge of ‘Operation Charlie’.

He also believed that this specially formed force was very interested in the activities of these two missing ‘gentlemen’.

The response when Warner came to the phone was quick and terse –

"They said that they’re looking for them! What the bloody hell do they think my team has been doing for the last 72 hours?

Keep them there, I’m coming right over – I’m not holding out much hope of course, but I’ll see if there’s some possibility that they can throw some extra light on the subject."

When Warner hung up the phone, he continued to fume about something that was causing him considerable concern regarding the failure of ‘Operation Charlie’, a task force set up, to catch these two ‘lowlifes’.

A ‘sting’ had been set up at The Newcastle docks, expected to catch them both red-handed, but they didn’t show.

He continued to fume internally -

There has to be a leak somewhere, they must have been tipped off.

Someone on my team is on their payroll – but who for goodness sake?

In recent weeks, Warner had become quite concerned about the lack of results from task force ‘Charlie’, expecting the hierarchy to eventually pull the plug on the funding.

Other officers had begun to avoid his company, in case he snapped their heads off, with the fear that his short fuse could ignite at any moment.

It took him an hour before he arrived at Rose Bay, since the purpose of this visit did not warrant the use of a siren along the M4, which had not yet recovered from the rush hour, where it regularly took on the role of a temporary car park for several hours on weekdays.

Following his arrival, Audrey Windsor wasted no time in asserting herself, with her customary confrontational approach.

"Well thank you so much Officer for granting us an audience; and wasting another hour of our lives.

Now since you’ve kept us waiting so long, I sincerely hope that you are far more efficient in helping to find our husbands."

Warner was taken aback initially, an uncommon experience for him, as he collected his thoughts.

What the f---k!

Where does this rude bitch get off?

Hold on a moment Ian lad – keep your cool, and just stay focussed on the main purpose of this meeting.

"Well! I wish I could control Sydney’s overcrowded roads – but I can’t.

So let’s get down to business.

I have heard all the details you have given to the young officer here, but I have a few additional questions myself.

Please tell me again, everything you know from your last discussions, what their plans might have been; right up to when you had discovered that they might be missing and uncontactable."

"Oh! Do we have to go through all this again?

I’ve already told all this to the young boy here."

It came as no surprise to him, that after he interviewed both spouses, nothing of use was forthcoming, regarding the likely whereabouts of the absconding duo; or what other plans they might have had, as he pondered to himself -

It was interesting to hear that they had planned to go up to Newcastle, but didn’t arrive.

Given the reception party set up for them, this has confirmed that they had to have been tipped off. We’ve even sighted the drugs in the container addressed to one of their shelf companies.

Although, taking their passports with them indicated that they must surely have planned to leave the country, abandoning both wives – or was this just another of their devious diversions.

Next task - Immigration information on departures.

Bugger – and we had them on toast, bloody informant – I’ll get him.

"Is this the best you can do, just asking us some useless questions?

Why don’t you organise search parties?

What about some appeals via the media?

Surely you’re not completely useless?

Come on Eleanor, we’re wasting our time with this lot.

Let’s go and talk to the newspapers."

When Audrey and Eleanor returned to the car, they observed a traffic policeman taking down details of the vehicles registration.

At the same time a tow truck was reversing into the space in front of the car.

Excuse me young man, what do you think you’re doing?

Is this your car madam?

Yes, of course it is!

Well I’m sorry but this is a clearway – no stopping or parking during these hours. You’re very lucky you just missed being towed away, but there’s still this fine to be paid.

He smiled as he handed over the appropriate paperwork.

"I’m afraid you’ve made a big mistake officer, that rule’s for the general public, not us.

Let me just make a note of your name if I may – thank you."

The traffic cop at least received some reward despite this rude treatment, as Audrey put on another erotic display, whilst attempting to lower herself slowly into the bucket seat.

She tore up the paperwork and drove off, leaving the policeman considering whether to follow in pursuit, and perhaps add a speeding fine to his daily tally.

After twenty seconds, he decided this would be worthwhile.

Warner smiled to himself having witnessed this entertaining encounter, and was about to leave the station, ready to brave the first wave of early afternoon rush hour traffic, going west this time.

***

Some days before the visit by the wives to the Police Station and on a sunny day at the New South Wales golf course, the junior pro took the two golf bags away from the cart hired by the two missing ‘fugitives’, and put them in their respective storage areas.

The big blond man had tipped him generously, which he boasted about for several months; he didn’t see the other gentleman, and assumed he was already in the bar drinking.

Several days later, in the long term car park at Sydney’s Mascot airport, the shuttle bus dropped a businessman at his usual undercover spot for the second time in a week.

On the first occasion he had noticed and joined in with other spectators engaged in the close examination and admiration of an expensive sports car.

A larger group was surrounding the car on this later day, so he decided to join in again.

However, what was drawing the attention of the onlookers this time was the considerable damage that had been inflicted on the bodywork, presumably by vandals, who had spray painted unflattering slogans, aimed at those with money.

He reported it to the car park management, who in turn notified the police and provided CCTV footage from the previous days.

This turned out to be of little use in identifying the hooded culprits, with their spray cans; as the night-time footage provided nothing other than dark ghostly images at an acute an angle.

It was, however, the Maserati that Warner was interested in, and its presence at the International airport, confirmed what he had recently discovered, being the exodus of one of the parties to another country.

The CCTV footage on the date of arrival at the car park, was also at night, with the driver leaving the car and car park, stealthily and mostly out of the cameras vision.

The task now was to check with immigration and airline records in order to establish what flights were taken and to what final destinations, at the approximate time that both villains seemed to have disappeared off the radar screen.

CHAPTER 2

"Here comes the sun."

George Harrison

‘Sun sun sun, here it comes’

The Cotswolds, England - Monday August 3rd

The time was one hour before midnight.

In the pitch darkness of the night, two men (one very tall and one very short), were dragging another man, carefully through a field of plants.

The man being carried, appeared to be in a drunken stupor.

The two men carrying him, appeared to dismantle a statue of some form, and then spent an inordinate amount of time, trying to get the supposedly inebriated one into an upright position, using poles dug into the ground.

Following this strenuous activity and despite the unusually warm night, they inexplicably placed the overcoat and hat from the simulacrum, over his body.

They then chose to just leave him there, presumably to sober up, whilst they both departed back into the darkness.

***

Tuesday August 4th – very early morning

Sleep was, at best, very fitful - when it did occur, he would dream that he was suffocating and being strangled in a steamy back street in Calcutta; only to wake up in a lather of perspiration, with a damp pillow case under his head and a dishevelled bottom sheet.

It was one of those hot and humid nights – the stifling heat, which had compounded over several days, was radiating into the bedroom from the stone walls and slate roof that had insulated this home from the extremes for over a century.

This night they were no longer performing their insulation duties.

Their heat storage capacity was at overload, and was releasing their pent up energy into the internal confines of the upstairs bedrooms.

Cuddling your partner, without at least some intervening fabric, was totally prohibitive, for fear that bodies could become permanently fused together.

Relief was not forthcoming despite superfluous top sheets being kicked off to the floor.

The comfort reading was registering in a territory yet to be quantified by the British Standards Association.

It was 3am in the morning and Joe, who always suffered from an exothermic reaction during sleep, gave up the idea of trying to doze off and went downstairs, where it was slightly cooler.

He was sitting on the sofa, lavishly attired in just his boxer shorts, which had numerous access points allowing him to scratch any familiar round objects that he might inadvertently come across; and whenever the need might take his fancy.

He switched on the TV where an old episode of ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ was being re-run.

This one had a lady with breasts of considerably different sizes.

She was so embarrassed with them, that she would never let her husband see her undressed.

This left Joe thinking - She’s obviously missed the incongruity of the situation, since she is now displaying this disproportionate and mismatched bust to the whole nation.

Well at least her hubby has now finally had a chance to see ‘em.

He switched over to the Olympics, screened live from the other side of the world.

As the advertisements were about to come on, the parting announcement was – Coming up next – Beach Volleyball – so stay tuned.

Joe’s attention took on an extra level of urgency, as he shifted around in his seat in heightened anticipation, as he waited for what turned out to be another 15 minutes.

The closing shot was of the rear view of a tall, bronzed and bikini clad young lady signalling with two inverted fingers held next to a semi exposed posterior – this was the teaser, guaranteed to retain a constant and loyal audience of viewers - Joe included.

There was yet a further 15 minutes before the next announcement -

Following the fencing – Yes it’s over to the beach for the Volleyball, don’t go away now.

Another teaser shot was displayed of a young nubile woman diving full length for a ball with her bikini top struggling to contain its highly mobile contents.

Sometime later – Now we are going directly to the beach for the quarter finals of the volleyball.

At last! About bloody time!

Today’s first match is the Men’s quarter final between the USA and Brazil where…..

"You’re kidding! I guess it’s back upstairs then."

When Joe arrived at their bedroom, the image that presented itself to him was one of both alluring sexuality and complete serenity.

The difficult decision was finally made after a lengthy deliberation, which could only be reached by averting his eyes from this vision splendid.

So it was off to bedroom number two then, to see if he could at least get a little extra sleep, before he was to have his pre-planned, busy and exerting day.

Little did he know, at this point in time, that it would have been far more beneficial to him if he had decided to stay in bed, or at home for the rest of the day.

***

As dawn broke, in the very early hours of this summer morning, a bald- headed man of short stature made his way into a field, and commenced the digging of what appeared to be a trench, or maybe a grave.

This early start may have been to avoid the heat later in the day, but more probably - prying eyes.

CHAPTER 3

"Something in the way she moves."

"Attracts me like no other"

George Harrison

The Urban dictionary states that ‘An English Summer’ promises clouds, rain and cool breezes, in lieu of sunshine and warmth.

Given the several hot days already experienced this year, Joe considered the erroneous nature of this quote -

Well, this dictionary is wrong and must be corrected, because England has a warm and sunny summer every year, without fail.

In fact, last year, summer fell on a Tuesday, and lasted the whole day.

I can remember some summers lasting a whole week.

This year, England was having one of those very rare hot summers – the first heatwave was in early July, when it was 40 degrees on Wimbledon’s centre court – certain rail tracks had buckled causing widespread train delays.

The heat had not relented for several days.

Joe thought to himself -

I’ll bet climate change deniers are now getting a roasting (pun intended) from the media – lengthy hot periods like this are as rare as rocking horse poo.

The Met Office Heat Health Watch had issued an alert level 4 on all the local media, advising people to drink large amounts of water (although the UK was in a severe drought) and despite some century old plumbing and low water pressures, residents were now participating in far more showers.

The public was advised to save water, and to shower with a friend.

This became so much fun, particularly for those who were fortunate enough to have found the right friend to join them in this frolic, resulting in more cleansing romps taken, for longer periods.

Far more water than the average was now being consumed.

Today’s temperature was predicted once again to go into the mid to high 30’s - England was sweltering.

Joe Farmer was getting ready to visit his allotment, and was putting on his paint splattered shorts that displayed knees more gnarly than a vine-hosting tree.

I suppose I’m mad going to do work in this heat, but it’s either that or throw away a couple of hundred quids worth of produce.

To protect himself from the stifling heat he decided to don an old threadbare T-shirt, together with his battered, moth-eaten hat, to shield himself from the sun.

He was often described mockingly by his close friends, as the pinnacle of sartorial elegance.

Today was no exception, and he was ready to proudly put himself on public display. The truth being that he didn’t give a toss about his appearance or what other people thought – currently being in his late autumn years (or in golf terms, let’s say he was about to approach the 16th tee) and having had a satisfying and rewarding life, he was more than comfortable in his own skin.

Joe was always referred to as ‘Farmer Joe’ – this made sense as he was once a farmer before retiring.

In fact, he came from a long line of farmers whose surname was Farmer.

Both of his sons were carrying on the tradition on neighbouring farms.

He muttered to his wife -

I see that round yellow UFO is still up there in the sky, burning off all my hard work at the allotment.

Lizzie was a social worker in the area and despite the lovely quaint villages that surrounded their own cottage in Crickleton, her workload had increased from the new areas of East Crompton, Lower Crompton and Mutchwurse.

The recent build-up of pressure, had yielded several resignations.

Lizzie herself had tried to retire on several occasions, but as an invaluable member of the team, she was persuaded to stay part time for 3 days a week, (despite her workload increasing).

She finally agreed to carry on, as there were certain families and children that she did not want to abandon.

With her body language providing superior communication skills, she provided friendly constructive advice.

Delight or disappointment with results being transmitted via the multitude of muscles around her eye sockets.

Lizzie was probably the most knowledgeable person in the region regarding the dysfunctional families and their gambling, drinking and drug problems.

Domestic violence and the abuse of neglected children topped her list of concerns.

These people lacked conflict resolution skills.

Lashing out being their first and only ingrained choice of action, a habit of generations.

Joe’s over-simplistic advice to her was –

"Go tell ‘em to erotically intertwine their bodies more often – that will help to nullify their aggressive feelings.

It’ll be similar to that other remedy, where it’s damn near impossible to be angry and whistle a tune at the same time."

The major frustration for social workers, besides the workload, was the limitations of exactly what they could do to resolve problem situations.

Being wrong if they tried to get children away from their dysfunctional birth parents and completely in the wrong if despite their ignored recommendations for separation, some serious harm came to a child from one of those parents.

The problem seemed to get worse in the past two to three years, inevitable with the congruent increase in drug consumption.

Lizzie had recently teamed up with Detective Constable English at Crompton Police station, running voluntary educational classes at the community centre, aimed at men who had behaved violently with their partners – it was early days and it was therefore too soon to measure any success rate.

They didn’t expect to solve all the problems in the immediate future, but it was more important to start with some small steps rather than do nothing.

To feel cooler, Lizzie chose to wear her ice blue kaftan dress.

For added comfort she didn’t utilise any mammary gland support.

Joe’s visual delights for the day had already been fulfilled.

Despite the intention of the dress to be loose fitting – this one hugged in the right places for Joe.

He often said she was the apotheosis of cuddliness.

"You know sweetheart – I’m pleased to say that you’re definitely all Woman – not like those hydrogenous, emaciated stick insects, who strut their stuff on the catwalk.

Perched on those long gangly legs likely to snap in half at any moment.

You know, I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife!

How will they ever survive the next famine?"

Thank you darling – but it’s androgynous.

What is?

The stick insects – it means having the appearance of both sexes.

Yeah, whatever.

Anyway Joe, it was like sleeping next to an oven last night with your body temperature – I really do believe that you’re an alien of some sort.

"Well, haven’t I always told you I was hot in bed?

I’ve never had a complaint yet from all me admirers."

Joe – changing subject - are you really going out looking like that?

I’ll be werkin’ so in this hot weather, I’m leaving the cravat at home.

The shrugging of shoulders and shaking of her head, signified her reluctance to pursue this discussion any further.

Joe decided to go early to his allotment before it became too hot to work comfortably. A tall broad shouldered man, originally from Liverpool, looking much younger than his 74 years, despite a weathered face with deep crevices on a constantly knitted brow.

His calloused hands would challenge the strongest of industrial strength moisturisers, and his fingers and knuckles appeared to demonstrate several varieties of sailor’s rope knots.

His bushy eyebrows were like the loose knotted wires of a telephone exchange, and would probably require a hedge trimmer to maintain some degree of control.

Joe’s deep sunken eyes were like sinkholes in the snow.

His high cheekbones provided a sinister appearance to strangers.

Whereas he was a jolly laugh a minute character, full of bonhomie – much loved in the village.

He gave Lizzie a kiss on the cheek, and went to leave; returned and kissed the other cheek.

When Lizzie first met Joe, she was a little apprehensive when she saw the size of his rough beefy hands, fearing that he might be just another uncouth groper or possibly an over enthusiastic fondler.

She was pleasantly surprised to find that he was in fact, well educated in the gentle craft of tender caressing, and needed no extracurricular training in the art of love.

Now he was feeling fruity -

"I suppose a ‘bumsen’s’ out of the question, after all it is Tuesday morning and I’m feeling that my virility is not showing any signs of dissipating.

I’m in the mood for some ‘Carnival Knowledge’.

I would really like to get to know you a lot more – in the ‘biblical’ sense, that is."

On your way, yer randy bugger, no time for a ‘bumsen’ – anyway it’s too hot and I’m up now, with lots of catching up to do on me paperwork, even if it is me day off.

Most cultures are quite comfortable with swear words from another language – as it doesn’t sound so bad to them.

This was mostly because they either didn’t know what it really meant – or had never heard it before, so it was considered bland and did not have the harsh sounding guttural crudity of those handed down from Anglo Saxon times.

After watching Liza Minelli in Cabaret use the slang German word ‘Bumsen’ for intercourse – they had both adopted it for their future use, since it seemed softer and slightly more sophisticated – at least to English speaking people – the Germans, on the other hand, would be appalled.

Come on Joe, besides me paperwork, I’ve got a lot of tidying up to do around here, so off yer go.

But isn’t the cleaner comin’ today?

Yeah, but I don’t want her to see the place untidy, do I?

Now it was Joes turn to shake his head in bewilderment.

Fortunately, Joe realised that he had to get the runner beans and carrots out before the constant heat got to them – so he fought against his ardour, ignoring the seductive sparkle that now appeared in Lizzie’s dark brown eyes, and against the rumblings in his auxiliary lower brain/loin region (where the bulk of male thought processing usually takes place).

As he left the house, the heat hit him like a blanket of air from a convection heater.

Instead of walking today, he decided to drive; thereby avoiding being too drained before he even got there – as he also hoped to plant some broad beans and cabbage.

He stepped into his 45 year old Morris Minor Van (about to start its fourth odometer lap), which gave out the usual groans of a much laboured suspension and chassis.

The van was still going in its own quirky way, with the occasional creak, splutter and rattle; beautifully decorated with various transfers and artwork on the sides, covering up most of the rust areas, and earning the much deserved nickname of Vincent Van Morris.

In the back were old cabbages and cauliflowers, possibly a year or two old, and some part remains of a pheasant hanging from the roof.

Joe thought that the resultant methane gases in the back contributed to his very economic fuel consumption.

Joe, using his twisted logic, explained to fellow drinkers at the pub, that the increasing petrol price spiral, was as a result of transporting it, which was now costing so much more, since petrol was getting so much more expensive for the tankers delivering it.

Following a few drinks at the pub, Joe was often seen sitting in the drivers seat of his unusually quiet Vincent whilst four of his mates (with a promised lift home) were heaving, wheezing and pushing Vincent towards the late night service station a mere three miles away, some of them passing their own homes on the way.

Vincent was not averse to the occasional loud backfire, causing significant consternation with the terrorist sensitive neighbours of the region.

In some ways though, the Police units were thankful of the practice drills that resulted from the vigilant phone calls, sometimes SC019* had been alerted.

When Joe indulged in one of his regular farting sessions in the van, it was usually in unison with Vincent’s backfires; closely resembling an orchestra’s wind and percussion sections, during the closing bars of the 1812 overture.

Vincent often displayed an obstinate reluctance to start on most occasions.

Today was no different, but after five attempts, four swear words and two threats of violence, he started.

The journey to the allotment took him through the very scenic countryside of Crickleton Road, which like many English countryside roads must have originally followed an existing wayward calf path, meandering every which way, and therefore limited the speeds that could be safely achieved – much to Vincent’s relief.

Joe travelled west from the village, where there were numerous houses and clusters of cottages (some of them listed buildings – protected from major alterations).

The cottages were particularly attractive with garden beds and hanging baskets in full bloom, displaying nature’s full spectrum of colours.

The major feature of the larger more sedate houses was the attractive honey coloured oolitic limestone (more commonly known as Cotswold stone).

Joe considered how interesting it is that the architectural designs of houses and major buildings back then were so superior to today’s minimalist boxes.

Hmm! Given that most Architects these days must sniff copious quantities of glue each morning, you’d expect them to be a bit more creative.

All the cottages and houses in the Cotswold villages had character with their unique biscuit coloured bricks, sparrow pecked quoins, thatched rooves and colourful gardens.

As he left the village proper, Crickelton road snaked through the unspoilt rolling English countryside yielding a beautiful vista of the hills and valleys.

Taking in this panoramic spectacle, he thought back to his grandfather, who was killed on the Somme, and his own dad – a navigator on a Lancaster bomber, shot down over Germany and held as a P.O.W. for three years, which affected his psyche for the rest of his life; and like many others, could never bring himself to talk to anyone about the things that happened in the war.

Just looking at this glorious scene, I reckon that’s one of the things they were fighting for – well at least their sacrifices weren’t in vain.

Despite the heat, Joe was looking forward to his few hours involved in an activity where he was highly competent, and which had now become an enjoyable hobby.

Little did he know that, today was not going to turn out quite as simply as he had originally planned, with an unexpected guest, waiting at the plot of land.

CHAPTER 4

"Strawberry Fields forever."

Written by John Lennon

Credited to

Lennon & McCartney

The allotment used to be a commercial strawberry growing enterprise, called ‘Strawberry Farm’.

Eventually becoming known as ‘Strawberry Fields’, following the 1960’s Beatles’ hit.

When the business closed ten years ago – the council, following considerable lobbying, rezoned it as an allotment for private ratepayer use only.

By contrast to the beautiful countryside, the allotment itself was a very dull, functional scene, with some de-hydrated vegetables, and protective netting covering the dry brown soil.

Bang in the middle was the exception.

A commercial concern, operated by the village florists – The Thompsons.

This was illegal, of course, contravening the councils strictly enforced rules on users.

No one bothered to do anything about it, particularly since the Council Chambers were often decorated with an abundance of floral colour.

Invoices for these goods must have lost their way through their highly complex mailing system.

Thompson’s section displayed a magnificent explosion of colour amongst the drabness of the remaining acreage, and also provided a pleasant fragrance in contrast to the putrid smell of rotting vegetables.

Joe arrived at the allotment at 9:00 a.m. when the temperature had already reached 25 degrees centigrade.

Not a zephyr of breeze in the air, or even a wisp of fluffy white clouds in today’s crystal clear azure sky.

In all my years living in this country, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen weather stay as good as this for so long.

The sun was blazing away, with some hours to go, before nearing its peak.

Joe had to squint, causing his crevice like wrinkles to become deep ravines.

Fortunately his superciliary entanglement provided some protection, as the squinting caused these eyebrows to fold across the dark fissures surrounding his eye sockets.

He noticed that the usual perfumed aroma from the Thompsons flowers was not so prevalent today, but in its place was a far stronger whiff than the customary odour of decomposing crops.

Tommy Stark was at the far end of the allotment digging away, but