Denial of Murder (16 page)

‘We'll tell them that …' Swannell looked about him and allowed himself to enjoy the rural tranquillity, the foliage, the blue sky, ‘we'll ask them to go over the scene with a particularly fine-tooth comb.'

‘Yes, I'll also ask Harry if he wants to come down as well; he might want to see this.' Swannell pressed a number.

‘Good idea.' Brunnie fell silent as Victor Swannell spoke into his mobile phone. Like Swannell, he found it deeply pleasant to be out of the city and he found himself pondering the joy of being a constable in the Hampshire Constabulary and working in an environment such as this: the fields, the woodlands, nature's bounty, the wide, blue sky.

Swannell stopped talking and put his phone in his pocket. ‘They reckon it will take them two to two and a half hours to get here, as getting out of London will take a lot of time … and Harry wants to come. So, do you want to wait or do you want to walk?'

‘I'll wait,' Brunnie replied without hesitation.

‘Thank you.' Swannell smiled his reply. ‘I rather thought you'd say that. I'll take the car, though; those houses might be further than they look.'

‘Fair enough. I'll make sure the cottage doesn't go anywhere.'

‘It's a hard job you've talked yourself into,' Swannell grinned as he turned away and walked towards the car. ‘Try not to let the pressure get you down.'

Swannell drove the car slowly and carefully away from Scythe Brook Cottage down the track towards the row of houses which could be seen in the distance. He halted the car upon approaching the houses and got out of the vehicle, leaving the driver's-side window wound down so as to enable the car to ‘breathe' in his absence. He walked towards the line of houses, six in all, which stood in a terrace; each, he noticed, had a small plot of land in the front and a larger, much larger parcel of land in the rear. They were built of red brick with roof tiles in a darker shade of red. The date 1887 was set in stone above the door of the first cottage in the terrace. Swannell walked up to the door and politely and reverentially knocked on it using the metal knocker provided. It was opened by an elderly man who blinked curiously at Swannell.

‘Good day, sir.' Swannell held eye contact with the man. ‘Police.' He showed the elderly homeowner his warrant card. ‘It's nothing to be worried about – I'm just making inquiries.'

The man remained silent. He made no response at all.

‘The cottage … back there,' Swannell pointed from where he had come, ‘Scythe Brook Cottage. Can you tell me if you saw or heard anything unusual there in the last few days, particularly over the last weekend?'

Still the man did not reply. He merely stood there in old, crumpled clothing, blinking absentmindedly at Victor Swannell.

‘Anything at all?' Swannell pressed. He brushed a persistent fly from his face.

Again, no response.

‘Any unusual sounds or movements that you might have noticed, especially over the last weekend?'

The elderly man continued to blink and look vacantly at Swannell for a few moments and then shut the door.

‘Well, thank you anyway, sir,' Swannell said to the door, ‘your public spirited cooperation is deeply appreciated.' He walked to the next house in the terrace, knocked upon the door but could not raise any response from within. At the third house, upon his knocking, the door was opened by a man who seemed to Swannell to be in his early middle years. He was dressed in white, summer lightweight trousers and a green T-shirt. He had a neatly trimmed beard and light framed spectacles.

‘Don't mind Eric,' the man said affably.

‘Eric?' Swannell replied.

‘The old boy in the first house.' The man examined Swannell's identity card. ‘Metropolitan police,' he remarked, ‘how interesting. Yes, Eric, he's lost it,' the man tapped the side of his head, ‘up here. Poor old soul. It's all gone … all of it … but he's very placid.'

‘Yes, I got that impression.' Swannell put his ID back inside his pocket.

‘Yes, the old boy, lovely old soul he is. We keep an eye on him and the welfare people call and he gets meals on wheels delivered … all that sort of thing … you know, the care-in-the-community package or whatever it's called. So how can I help the Met?'

‘It is in connection with Scythe Brook Cottage … half a mile or so behind me.'

‘Yes, yes, I know it; in fact, you can't get to these houses without driving past it. If you glance at the map you'll see that the stream which runs at the side of the cottage seems to form the shape of a scythe, a straight handle and then a wide curve for the blade. The cottage is next to the “handle” of the scythe.'

‘I did wonder at the source of the name,' Swannell replied. ‘Thank you.'

‘It's been rebuilt, but the original cottage pre-dates these houses by a hundred years or more … and these cottages are all that remain of a country estate. The “big house” was a fine old Victorian mansion which was demolished and the land sold off to neighbouring farmers. These houses were built to home the estate workers and were sold at auction when the big house was pulled down. The “big house” was a lovely old building, but the owner didn't maintain it properly … or he couldn't afford to … in the end it was so full of rot that it had to be pulled down before it fell apart … so it was demolished and the land sold off. It was the only thing he, the last owner, could do.'

‘I see … but the cottage,' Swannell pressed, ‘did you see or hear anything unusual at the cottage over the last few days, particularly over this last weekend?'

‘It was rented out,' the man replied, ‘I can tell you that. It's not unusual, especially during this time of the year. They stayed after the weekend, stayed until Monday … that's not usual … but not really very unusual either. It seems most renters want the cottage for a weekend. The last lot of renters had a coal fire on Monday evening.'

‘Monday?' Swannell confirmed. ‘Are you sure it was on the Monday?'

‘Yes, definitely the Monday evening. I do recall that – coal smoke has a very distinctive smell, you know. I only got a whiff of it by the time it got here, but it was coal,' the home owner said. ‘I manage a toy shop, by the way, and this is my day off.'

‘I'm sorry?' Swannell replied. He was taken by surprise at the man's sudden disclosure.

‘Just in case you were wondering what I do for a living and why I am at home during office hours in the middle of the week,' the man explained, ‘I manage a toy shop and this is my day off. Harris is the name.'

‘I see,' Swannell smiled, ‘thank you, Mr Harris, but I really am only interested in the goings on at Scythe Brook Cottage over the last few days.'

‘All right … A bit naughty of them,' Harris continued, ‘it was a bit naughty.'

‘Naughty?' Swannell queried. ‘What do you mean?'

‘To burn coal,' the man explained, ‘this being a smokeless zone. Coal has a distinctive smell.'

‘Yes, I know,' Swannell replied, ‘I know what coal smoke smells like.'

‘Nobody was going to report them, not all the way out here in the country,' Harris continued. ‘I just stood on my doorstep … just here, and enjoyed the smell.'

‘You enjoyed it?' Swannell queried.

‘I think it smells lovely. Coal smoke smells divine.' Harris spoke with clear fondness. ‘I always think it smells very homely … but they must have brought it with them; there is nowhere round these parts that any old soul can buy coal.'

‘I see,' Swannell replied. ‘And that was on Monday, you say?'

‘Yes,' Harris nodded. ‘On Monday. The night before last.'

‘What time of day was that?'

‘Late … dark had fallen. So it would be sometime after ten in the evening. We are near the solstice now, so very light nights, but strangely, I thought, there was no laughter or music.'

‘Laughter or music,' Swannell queried, ‘is that usual?'

‘Yes, you see renters occasionally eat out, have a barbeque, and when they do there's laughter and music but not last Monday, just silence and the smell of coal smoke.'

‘That's interesting,' Swannell commented.

‘I thought they had gone on the Sunday,' Harris added. ‘I drove past the cottage on Sunday afternoon and the blue van had gone but then I noticed that it had returned on the Monday when I got back from work.'

‘That's also interesting,' Swannell said. ‘Helps us to pin down their movements.'

‘I assumed then that they had stayed on for an extra day,' Harris added.

‘Did you see any of the renters?' Swannell asked hopefully.

‘No,' Harris replied firmly, ‘I didn't. Usually I do, but not this time. They kept themselves well out of sight during the day anyway. Came out for a bonfire on Monday night, though, didn't they?' he added with a smile.

‘Do you think that your neighbours might have seen or heard anything?' Swannell glanced along the row of terraced houses.

‘I really doubt it,' Harris replied. ‘This is known locally as “death row”. I am the youngest person in these houses. All my neighbours retire early each evening, and all have their provisions delivered, like old Eric, whom you have just met. Sorry if I have been of little help.'

‘You have been of some help, Mr Harris. We didn't know when the fire was but now we do … the van leaving on Sunday but returning on Monday … and the renters keeping out of sight, it's all useful. Very useful. It's all very useful.'

Close at hand, but out of sight, a cuckoo sang.

T
he woman had a long, thin, drawn face, with sunken eyes and long, greasy, shoulder-length hair. She had long, bony fingers which she wrapped round the door as she peered out at Penny Yewdall and Tom Ainsclough through the narrow gap which she permitted between the door and the doorframe. She glanced wonderingly at the officers' identity cards and then gazed at Ainsclough and Yewdall in a seemingly confused and timid manner.

‘Look,' Yewdall spoke calmly, ‘we assure you that it would be a lot easier if you would let us in – much, much easier. You see we, my colleague and I, are from New Scotland Yard. We are members of the Murder and Serious Crime Squad and we are not at all interested in crimes that can be dealt with in a magistrate's court; anything lower than crown court material is of little concern to us. The crimes that we investigate get people put away for life, not fined twenty pounds and bound over to keep the peace.'

‘We can smell the cannabis,' Tom Ainsclough added, with a serious tone in his voice, ‘and we are not bothered about it, not in the slightest. All London smokes dope, we know that. Just don't smoke spliffs of blow in our presence. We just want some information, then we'll be on our way: we're not here to toss your drum.'

‘Yeah …?' The woman suddenly sounded hopeful in a pathetic, almost childlike manner. ‘So this is not a bust?'

‘It's not a bust,' Yewdall assured her. ‘Just keep it out of sight until we've gone.'

‘All right … all right.' The woman opened the door and revealed that she was wearing a faded gold-coloured T-shirt emblazoned with the name ‘Benidorm' and a short denim skirt. Her thin, almost emaciated legs stopped in a pair of ancient, much worn and torn sports shoes. Penny Yewdall thought the woman to be in her late thirties, possibly older. She was, thought Yewdall, like so many people one meets in London, people who have immersed themselves in the ‘hippy' lifestyle and are unwilling or unable to move on and take their place in the adult world of employment and civic duty and personal responsibility, like men in their sixties who keep their hair in ponytails, use expressions like ‘far out' and keenly urge others ‘to keep it together'.

‘So what do you want?' the woman asked. ‘What can I tell you?'

‘We believe that Cherry Quoshie lived here?' Tom Ainsclough glanced up and down Tredegar Road, Tower Hamlets, London EH3 and saw unsurprisingly that the road had been largely redeveloped since the end of the Second World War, though a few of the flat-roofed, three-storey Victorian houses had escaped the wrecking ball, one such being situated near the junction with Ordell Road, and being the last known address of Cherry Quoshie. The remaining buildings in the area, he noted, were flats built in the sixties.

‘Lived! Lived, you say?' the woman spluttered. ‘She still does live here.' The emaciated woman spoke in a strong east London accent.

‘No, she doesn't.' Penny Yewdall remained calm. Her voice remained warm. ‘Can I ask if you are a relative?'

‘No … no … not by blood, anyway, but you can see that,' the woman replied anxiously. ‘I mean, last time I looked in the mirror I was a white bird. Cherry is a black chick and we are not related by marriage.'

‘Yes … sorry … but we have to ask,' Yewdall explained calmly. ‘In circumstances such as these we always have to be sure as to whom we are talking … it's essential.'

The woman seemed to the officers to become even paler, her sunken eyes widened, her narrow jaw slackened. ‘What do you mean … in these cir-circumstances?' the woman stammered. ‘And did Cherry Quoshie live here? Murder and Serious Crime Squad? Just what on earth has happened? What are you saying? What's going on …?'

Yewdall drew a deep breath and said, ‘I'm very sorry but we believe Cherry Quoshie to have been murdered.'

The thin and wasted woman gasped loudly and then staggered backwards with weakening knees into the hallway and sat heavily on an upright chair which stood beside and beneath a green payphone which was bolted to the wall. ‘Oh …' she gasped again, equally loudly, ‘oh … oh …' The woman buried her head in her hands and she too breathed deeply. ‘I wondered where she had gone. I mean, I have not seen her for a few days right enough … but murdered … not Cherry … not her …'