None the Wiser, page 4
‘Only another eighteen months to go, then?’
‘Only eighteen months.’
‘You’d better hope they don’t want to learn the drums next.’
She clenched her jaw while he wiped at his eyes and tried to compose himself, then slowed the car, and pointed to the house opposite.
‘We’re here.’
She shut her car door and stalked across the lane towards the terraced cottage.
‘Jan. Wait.’
He caught up with her, buttoning his jacket, then reached out and pulled her to a stop on the pavement.
‘I won’t say another word about it. I can see how much it means to you to get your boys into the right school.’
‘Thanks.’
He nodded, then turned his attention to the gabled house and ran his eyes over the façade.
‘She’s doing all right for herself, helping out at a church.’
‘The officers who took her statement this morning said her husband died two years ago. Heart attack. Completely out of the blue, apparently. He was a board member of a city firm for a number of years, made some sensible investment choices, left his wife with a house that had been completely paid off, and a nice monthly income from the share portfolio.’
Turpin narrowed his eyes. ‘Makes you wonder why she needs a job at the church then, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s voluntary, Sarge. She doesn’t get paid.’
By the time she had finished speaking, he had already cleared the three shallow steps to the cottage’s front garden and rapped on the door.
She trotted after him, reaching the coir mat on the front step as the door opened and red-rimmed eyes peered out at them. She was surprised at the woman’s appearance. She had expected an older woman, but guessed that Helen was only in her late fifties.
She wore black jeans and a cream-coloured cashmere sweater, her dark brown hair kept at shoulder length.
The sweet aroma of fresh baking wafted over the threshold, and Jan gritted her teeth as her stomach threatened to rumble.
‘Mrs Wilson?’ Turpin introduced them both, then patted the outside of his jacket and frowned before turning back to Jan. ‘Have you got some business cards?’
She nodded, rummaged in her handbag, and held out a dog-eared card to the woman.
‘I spoke to the police this morning,’ said Helen as she peered at Jan’s credentials.
‘I appreciate that, but I’ve been appointed as the deputy Senior Investigating Officer on this case,’ said Turpin, ‘and it’s usual for us to speak to witnesses as well in these sorts of circumstances.’
The woman stepped to one side and held open the door for them.
‘You had better come in, then. I suppose you want tea.’
Turpin stepped over the threshold after wiping his feet on the mat, leaving Jan to close the door.
‘Only if you’re having one.’
The woman didn’t reply, and instead led them through a narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back of the cottage that had been extended out from the original floor plan.
A six-seater dining table had been placed at the far end next to a window seat that provided a reading nook overlooking the garden. The property backed onto fields, a lone tractor passing the barbed wire fence along the boundary as it rumbled across the landscape.
Two wire cooling racks sat on a worktop next to the oven, with neat rows of cupcakes lined beside the beginnings of a sponge pudding.
‘That smells wonderful,’ said Jan.
‘I find it relaxing,’ said Helen as she began to tidy and stack bowls in a dishwasher. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I sometimes bake for fundraisers in the village but it’s not like it was years ago. The food safety rules are a nuisance – it puts a lot of people off from helping out these days.’
Helen placed a stainless steel kettle on the stove and lit the gas, then turned to the two detectives. She gestured to the dining table, and joined them as they took their seats. ‘Anyway, you’re not here to talk about that, are you?’
‘Are you here on your own?’ said Turpin. ‘Do you have a friend or family member who can be with you at this time?’
Helen shook her head. ‘I have friends in the village I can call if I need them later.’
Jan pulled out her notebook from her bag and uncapped a pen.
‘Can you take me through the events of this morning?’ said Turpin. ‘I realise this is very traumatic for you, but it’s essential to our enquiries.’
The woman nodded, and sniffed. ‘It’s one of the busiest days of the year for us. We had set up almost everything yesterday after the christening, but I arranged with Father Carter to come in early today to check the flower arrangements and help him get ready before the congregation began to arrive.’
‘What time did you get to the church?’
‘About seven o’clock, I think.’
‘Did you drive, walk—’
‘I drove. I had the boxes of cleaning stuff with me, and it’s too bulky to carry that far.’
The kettle began to whistle, and she pushed herself up from her chair, fussed around selecting cups for them, and then set down a tray on the table.
‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’
Jan tipped a splash of milk into her mug, and noted that Turpin did the same – no sugar.
He picked up a spoon and stirred his drink before turning his attention back to Helen.
‘How long have you worked at the church?’
‘Two years.’
‘Seamus Carter had been in the area for nearly fifteen years – what happened to the last sacristan?’
‘She retired. Mary O’Brien was her name. Even after she stopped working there, she still attended Mass every Sunday until she died about eight months ago. She had an enormous stroke, and because she lived on her own, she didn’t receive help in time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Turpin paused, and took a sip of tea. ‘Why do you work at the church?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you need the money?’
‘It doesn’t pay, detective. It’s a voluntary role. And, I don’t need the money – when my husband died, he left me with enough insurance cover to pay off the mortgage. He was a wise man, detective. He invested well, and I’m grateful for that.’
‘So, why the part-time job at the church?’
She set down a cup of tea, her features clouding. ‘Because I’m lonely. I only learned to drive after Derek died, and I’m not that confident. Yes, I can drive around the village and I can get to the supermarket and back without any trouble, but it’s not like I’m going gallivanting around now that he’s gone. Besides, I like to help.’
‘Do you socialise much in the village?’
‘I didn’t, until recently. As you can imagine, it took me a long time to get through everything when I lost my husband. I miss him dreadfully. But a couple of friends from the church and I have gone out for a drink at the pub a few times in the past three or four months, and I’ve started taking art classes once a week at the church hall.’
‘Back to this morning. What happened when you arrived at the church?’
‘When I got there, the door was open – I mean although it had been closed, it wasn’t locked. I called out to Father Carter, but there was no answer. The lights were still on, well some of them, anyway. It looked as if they’d been left on from last night. I couldn’t see him anywhere in the church, so I made my way through to the office thinking he’d be there—’ She brought a shaking hand to her mouth, and closed her eyes. ‘There was so much blood.’
Jan fought down her own memories of the crime scene, and noted how patiently Turpin waited while Helen composed herself.
Eventually, the woman opened her eyes and hugged herself. She blinked.
‘What did you do?’ said Turpin, his voice calm.
‘Obviously I realised he was dead – and I’ve watched enough television to know I shouldn’t touch anything. I felt sick. I ran outside, and managed to get to the car park before I threw up. I still had my handbag with me and my phone, and that’s when I phoned nine-nine-nine.’
‘Had Seamus argued with anyone recently, do you know?’
She sighed, leaned forward, and clasped her hands together on the table. ‘I know he and Terry, who owns the pub, had a slight altercation last month – it’s the car parking, you see. The pub and the church share an easement, and there’s a footpath that runs between the church and the pub car park. There’s some sort of by-law that stipulates that no vehicles should block the footpath at any time, but often people will leave their cars behind and walk home if they’ve had too much to drink, and then of course they’re late picking them up the next day, so people can’t use the footpath to get to the church for Sunday Mass. I can’t believe Terry would harm Father Carter over that though, not like that. What was done to Seamus was the work of evil.’
Chapter Eight
Mark thanked Helen, then hurried down the footpath to where Jan stood next to the car, her forehead lined with concentration.
‘Where to next, Sarge?’
‘The pub, I think. Let’s find out how much of an “altercation” our church priest had with the publican last month.’
He climbed in, and buckled his seatbelt as she started the engine.
‘I can’t imagine an argument over an easement would be bad enough to give him a motive for murder.’
‘Me neither, but we need to rule it out.’
He peered out of the window as she steered the car along the winding lane from Helen’s house and took a right-hand turn that led them through the main part of the village.
The church and pub were at the far end, and as they progressed through Upper Benham, he noted the village store and post office maintained a thriving trade – no doubt helped by gossip about the priest’s death that morning.
He watched a group of people gathered on the pavement outside the shop, and wondered if Carter’s murderer was amongst them. Pale faces stared at him as the car passed, and he turned his attention back to Jan.
‘Do you know this place at all?’
‘Upper Benham?’
‘Yeah.’
She shrugged. ‘Not well. I think we’ve driven through it a few times on our way to Wallingford, but we’ve never stopped. I’ve never really taken any notice of it until now.’
‘Typical sleepy village, then?’
‘I checked the database after this morning’s briefing. Apart from a couple of minor break-ins a few years ago, there’s nothing. Picture-perfect, you could say.’
He grunted under his breath as she steered the vehicle around the picturesque duck pond, three white ducks bobbing around on the water’s surface in the middle. Wooden benches had been erected on the grass verges next to the pond, but were currently abandoned. He imagined that at weekends the space would be filled with families having picnics.
He turned his attention to a building facing the duck pond, and realised as he ran his gaze over the chiselled lettering below the middle chimney stack that the three terraced cottages had once been another pub. The gardens looked well established, and he supposed the pub had gone out of business a long time ago.
‘What’s the name of the pub next to the church?’
‘The White Horse. That place there used to be called The Red Lion – I think it closed about eight years ago.’
‘So, this publican we’re about to interview must be doing well for himself if he’s the only pub in the village.’
‘You’d hope so. My cousin owns a pub up in Wales and it’s bloody hard work.’
Moments later, Jan slowed the vehicle and steered it into the gravel-strewn car park to the White Horse.
Turpin climbed from the car and stretched his back, casting his eyes over the building in front of him.
The pub appeared to have been extended over the years, its thatched roof stretching across both the original footprint and that of a newer looking extension. Two tall chimneys poked through the layers of combed wheat reed, and a television satellite dish had been fixed to the side of one chimney, its white disc jarring against the more traditional brickwork.
Behind him, a crow called from its roost in the churchyard before its mournful cry was drowned out by the engine of a car passing by.
Blackberry blossom covered the brambles that climbed the stone wall between the properties, a promise of fruit laden with flavour only months away.
The whole atmosphere conspired against the chilling scene he’d witnessed at the church only a few hours ago, and an involuntary shiver crossed his shoulders.
‘Is this freehold or leasehold?’ he said as she pocketed the car keys and joined him.
‘Leasehold. The current owner has been here for three years – I took a look at the initial statements that have been gathered so far, and it sounds like Terry Benedict has turned the place around since he’s been here. I did an Internet search on the place this morning, and the pub company nearly closed it down before he took over because it was losing money hand over fist. The locals were up in arms.’
‘He’s well respected, then?’
‘Seems so, yes. Doesn’t suffer fools, either. One of the regulars told uniform that when Terry first arrived, he banned six people in the first week for unruly behaviour and drunkenness.’
‘He must serve a good beer to keep this place going.’
‘He’s won a few awards, according to the Good Pub Guide. I get the impression that’s how he got rid of the youngsters – he stopped serving what they like to drink, and so everybody else came back.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him.’
He led the way across the car park, then held open the door into the pub for Jan.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he heard the low sound of a blues guitar playing through speakers set into the ceiling, the three-chord sequence interrupted on a regular basis by the sound of glasses clinking together from the direction of the bar.
Above his head, dark exposed beams broke up a plain white ceiling, while his shoes echoed on a parquet flooring that showed signs of wear and a well-trod path to the bar.
The walls had been painted a deep russet on one side, while on the others a patterned wallpaper provided a backdrop to a number of prints and photographs depicting the village.
A figure appeared behind the bar, rising from a crouching position before taking a step back in surprise.
‘Sorry – I didn’t hear the door open. Just restocking the fridges.’
‘Terry Benedict?’ Mark held up his warrant card.
‘That’s me. I presume you’re here about Seamus.’ He shook his head, then reached across the bar for a towel and wiped his hands. ‘Terrible business, that.’
‘Did you know him well?’
A sad smile crossed the man’s face and he pointed at a brass plaque pinned to one end of the bar. ‘We used to call it “the confessional”. It’s where Seamus used to sit of an evening, and we always used to laugh at the fact that people would tell him anything. It was a running joke between us.’
‘Did he mind?’
‘I don’t think so. He used to say it was an occupational hazard.’
‘How long had you known each other for?’
Benedict dropped the towel back onto the bar and moved to a cash drawer that had been left beside the till, lifting it into place and turning a key on top of the register. A series of green-coloured digits flashed to life on a screen, and then he turned back to them.
‘He was one of the originals who was here when I first arrived. I think every village has them – the ones who congregate at the bar of an evening or on a Sunday lunchtime. Seamus was different to the others though, in that he didn’t try to tell me how to run my business,’ he added, his face rueful. ‘I’ll miss chatting with him, to be honest.’
‘You got on well with him?’
The man’s mouth thinned. ‘Most of the time. We had our differences over the years, of course.’
‘Tell me about the car park. I understand there may have been an issue between you and Seamus about that.’
Benedict sighed, gestured to a table with four chairs, then ran a hand over his hair. ‘So, now I’m a suspect, am I?’
Mark pulled out a chair for Jan, then lowered himself into one opposite the publican.
‘Best I ask the questions. Well?’
Benedict leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘It all came to a head last month. To be honest, he’d been nagging me on and off all year, but I think there was a particularly big wedding on the Saturday morning. We had a private party here on Friday night, and of course the car park was full. Anyway, a few of the locals chose to walk home so they could have a drink, and I think a lot of people planned to call in when the pub opened the next day to collect their keys. By then, it was already bedlam out there because half the wedding guests couldn’t park at the church.’
‘So, they opted to try and park at the pub instead? How does that work – it’s your land, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of. There’s an easement between the church and the car park out there. The agreement is that the church can use the pub car park as an overspill for events – the by-law has been in place since the 1930s, and of course there weren’t that many cars around then.’
‘Ever investigated whether the easement could be changed?’
‘No. We had always muddled along before.’ He shrugged, and dropped his hands to the table. ‘Seems stupid now, in hindsight.’
‘Did you and Seamus argue often?’
‘No, not at all. We used to bicker light-heartedly of an evening if he was in for a drink – he loved a debate, and it was always entertaining. I can’t believe he’s gone.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him?’
Benedict shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking about that all morning. It’s a close-knit community here – and I realise how rare that is in this day and age. The youngsters move on as soon as they’re able, usually when they go to university, but a lot of people my age have been here for a number of years now, and quite a few people retire from London and move here.’
