Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

The ten minute walk back up to the garage took him past Ted’s local drinking hole, and as it was one of the town’s old pubs it had that interesting look from bygone days, so as he had time to spare, he pushed the door open and went in.

It was warm, mellow and cosy inside with the aroma of real ale still hanging in the air, and as yet, hadn’t been ruined by a chrome and glitter re-vamp.

Over the countless years, the old pillars and beams had acquired a dark lustre which gave a feeling of old world charm, and bright colourful paintings of horse riding scenes hung around the plaster walls while gleaming polished oak tables and chairs stood dotted around the room on a thickly piled carpet of autumn colours.

Walking over to the curving oak bar, he looked at it all in appreciation, and dropping the Bergen, sat down and saw there was yet another early drinker, a wiry old man dressed in well worn country clothes.

He was sat at the far end of the bar and taking small sips from a half pint mug of beer while passing the time with a crossword puzzle, and turning, glanced over to Frank.

‘He’s in the cellar.’

Frank looked across, ‘Pardon?’

‘Dave, the landlord, he’s changing a barrel in the cellar.’

Frank nodded, ‘Okay, thanks, there’s no rush.’

The old man looked him over, ‘Are you one of them there, backpackers then?’

Frank glanced to the Bergen, and looking back, saw the old man had bright inquisitive eyes, flabby jowls, a bent nose, no hair, and was sucking on a stubby pencil.

‘No, those days are long gone, my car’s being repaired in the garage.’

The door behind the bar was suddenly kicked open and a tubby man barged in carrying boxes of crisps. He had receding hair, a moustache, and eyes that looked hard at Frank. Grunting, he put the boxes under the bar and stood up, panting heavily.

‘Mornin, and what can I get you?’

Frank ordered a pint of Guinness and a ham roll with mustard, and watching the landlord pull the pint, saw he in turn was glancing at him through low sullen eyes.

‘We don’t get many strangers in here.’

He said it coldly as though Frank should have asked permission to come in.

‘His car’s in the garage,’ chirped the old man, as if explaining Frank’s intrusion.

The landlord softened a little, ‘I see, and would that be Ted’s garage?’

Frank jerked his thumb, ‘The one just up the road.’

The landlord nodded, as if satisfied, ‘That’ll be Ted’s. A good mechanic is Ted.’

‘ … And he’s not tight with his money, either,’ scowled the old man.

Frank smiled, and taking out a roll of money, laid a twenty pound note on the bar.

‘Have one yourself, landlord, and take one for Mr …’

The old man finished his beer with one swallow and pushed the half pint mug away.

‘That’s very civil of you, young-un, I’ll have a pint.’

Frank grinned, and picking up his Guinness, took a good long swallow.

‘Christ. You were ready for that, young fella.’

‘I sure was, and this is the first for long time.’

The old man smiled with a quiet understanding, and picking up his foaming pint, winked at it and took a swallow. Turning, he looked along to the big man. ‘Do you fancy a game of darts, then?’

Frank was tempted, but had other things on his mind, ‘No, sorry.’

The old man stared down into the froth of his beer, ‘No bugger does these days, there’s no time for people. Huntin’, shootin’ and fartin’ that’s all folks do around here.’

Frank looked back and saw the old man was missing the days of village life.

‘I’ll tell you what though, I hope to be back in a week or so, we could have a game and the loser buys the drinks. So how does that sound to you?’

The old man gave a toothy smile, ‘You’re on, young-un, and don’t forget your wallet.’

Frank grinned, and having finished his pint, slung the Bergen over his shoulder, and with a cheery wave goodbye to the old man, walked out eating his ham roll.

The landlord sneered as he watched him leave, ‘Bloody strangers.’

The old man swung round, knowing only too well that the landlord’s cruel mouth could easily stop a stranger from ever setting foot inside the pub again.

‘A big bugger though, wasn’t he, and built like a brick shithouse. So it’s a good job you didn’t insult him, like you usually do, ‘cos it wouldn’t be easy serving pints, not with your head shoved up your arsehole.’

Walking on up to the garage, Frank crossed over the forecourt and saw Ted talking to Len, the pump attendant, and looking up, he called over.

‘It’s all arranged, old son. Len will look after things while I run you over to Sherston.’

‘Are you sure, Ted, I could easily get a taxi.’

‘No, it’s okay. There’s a breakdown truck for sale on the other side of Cirencester and I’ve been meaning to take a look at it, so I’ll drop you off first, and drive on over.’

Collecting the service van keys from the office, they walked out to the backyard, and while Frank stowed the Bergen amongst the tools, Ted tried to start the tired old van, but finally the engine coughed and gradually spluttered into life, and turning, Ted grinned.

‘She needs a service.’

Driving out onto the Sherston road, they didn’t notice the Mercedes taxi pull up and stop exactly where it had a few hours earlier, but this passenger was a tall, blond young man with piercing blue eyes and he seemed angry as he paid off the fare, and stepping out of the car, slammed the door and walked into town, and somehow he looked out of place as he stormed up the road in his smart city clothes.

As Ted’s old van clattered along, Frank knew he would be up to his ears in one of Tonabie’s mind games tomorrow, and if he had any sense, he would book into a quiet country pub, have a huge steak, a belly full of Guinness and sleep the sleep of the dead, but that couldn’t happen, not yet, because he owed Robin Sheverill at least this much.

He came out of his thoughts as the sign for Sherston flashed by, and slowing down, Ted steered into a lane of overgrown hedges and high trees, and as they came to a halt, Frank saw two signs standing back into the hedge.

One sign read, No Through Road, and the other, Sheverill’s Farm - Organic Produce.

‘Thanks Ted, I’ll bale out here, there’s no point in bringing you into the spotlight.’

‘Fair comment, old son. So will you be needing me anymore?’

‘No, it’s okay. I’ll make my own way from here, and thanks for everything.’

‘It’s a pleasure, and your old Range Rover will be ready when you need her.’

3

Sheverill’s lane was enclosed by an avenue of tall trees that held the tread of his boots in a still, deathly silence. Walking on, he saw a rabbit ahead of him in the lane.

It stopped abruptly, and sitting up on its hind legs, wrinkled its nose to his scent before scampering off into the undergrowth.

Frank smiled at the bobbing white tail, but walking on round a bend of high trees, stopped dead in his tracks.

In front of him was a picture postcard farmhouse from days long since passed, it was enclosed by rose gardens, and within the surrounding dry stone wall was an ancient wooden archway that sent a twisting path up through the gardens to a porch so large it easily held the massive, studded oak front door, and Ivy had been left to ramble wild, and over all the countless years had covered the solid stone frontage and climbed up around the windows to the timeless slate roof.

Standing in the courtyard were two cars, a sports BMW and a bright red Ferrari Dino, and over by a paddock he saw stables and a horse box hitched to a Range Rover.

The smell of serious money was everywhere, but he felt puzzled as he looked at it all, because Sheverill’s government wages would never be enough for this kind of life style.

Curious, he walked on towards the archway, but as he crossed over the courtyard he saw two expensive suitcases standing next to the BMW, and looking closer, could just make out the word,
Dublin
, on the torn remains of a flight tag.

Suddenly, a soft rumbling came from somewhere over to the right, and a man of about fifty walked into view, wheeling a barrow along a path that led around the house.

He was short, muscular, and had that look about him as if he’d spent a lifetime outside doing hard rugged work, his face weather-beaten, his white hair windblown.

He wore a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, mud stained green trousers and gum boots, and seeing Frank by the cases, stopped and shouted out in a rough guttural voice.

‘Hey. What the fuck are you up to?’

It didn’t take much to read his thoughts, so Frank moved away from the cases.

‘Afternoon. The name’s Lewis, and I’m looking for Mrs Sheverill.’

The man’s steel grey eyes flicked back and forth between Frank and the cases.

‘Well you won’t find her down there.’

Frank didn’t smile. This man was a nasty piece of work, and no mistake.

‘I’m in the right place then, I wasn’t sure.’

The man laboriously wheeled the barrow over and dumped one of the cases into it.

‘Could be. Depends what you want with her?’

‘I see. Well I’ve called about the death of her husband, Robin.’

His cold eyes narrowed, ‘Oh. Him …’ He said it as if he’d just stood in dog shit.

‘Well if you ask me, that’s good riddance to bad rubbish.’

Frank tightened up in surprise, ‘And why do you say that?’

The man lifted the other case into the barrow and looked back through vicious eyes.

‘Because he was an arrogant, money grabbing, first class bastard. That’s why.’

As Frank stared at him, he wondered if they were talking about the same person, and then a sneer passed over the man’s ugly face while his piggy little eyes glistened.

‘So are you one of his poncy mates, then?’

Frank began to tense, but decided to let his anger be still for a little while longer.

‘Not exactly, but we did work for the same firm, so I’ve called to offer Mrs Sheverill my sympathy. That’s all.’

The man laughed in his face, ‘You’d be better off bringing her a bottle of Champagne.’

Staring into his piggy eyes, Frank wished he was a lot younger, because right now, he was beginning to feel a serious need to give him a good hard kick in the bollocks.

‘I’d still like to see her.’

‘If you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

He seemed unsure for a moment, but grudgingly pointed down the long path.

‘Knock at the kitchen door, my Martha will sort you out.’

Frank felt an unmistakable heavy tension as he walked down the long path, and when he heard the barrow being trundled along at his ankles, a gut feeling told him that something was badly wrong with this place.

The twisty meandering path led him through bushes before opening out into an area of seats around a pond, but he was surprised, because the smooth stone of the fountain had been sculptured in the shape of a handsome naked boy, and in his arms was a girl, just so beautiful and voluptuous she could almost be alive.

They were passionately entwined together, and while they made pornographic love the fountain sent twinkling droplets of falling mist to slide down over bottoms, muscle and breast, and while his large erect penis had half entered her, orange and red goldfish swam around them in a scene of ever changing patterns in the lily pond.

He frowned, because you wouldn’t find this in a garden centre, so it must have been commissioned, but who would pay good money to sit in the sun and gaze at pornography, and then he saw there were now three paths leading away from the lovers circle.

The right hand path wandered off to a thatched cottage, just a stones throw away, and it was surrounded by perfectly kept gardens of flowers, vegetables and luscious fruit, and from the red brick chimney, wisps of lazy smoke were carried away on the breeze.

The central path disappeared through the bushes and shrubs towards a line of large old fashioned greenhouses set back in a broad clearing from the tree line, and in the weak sunshine their myriad panes of glass seemed to glint back eerily.

Taking the path to the left, he found it meandered through trees and bushes before arriving at the kitchen door of this brooding and sombre old house.

Knocking, he heard the wheel-barrow trundle to a halt behind him, and sounds of grunting as the cases were taken out and thrust down.

Suddenly, the kitchen door was snatched open and there stood a female version of the man who was now standing directly behind him.

She had a scrubbed clean look and wore her immaculate starched pinny to its full length, and though she kept her white hair severely held in a tight bun, he thought she might look kindly if she smiled, but instead she looked him up and down through piggy little eyes, and ignoring him, stared questions to the ugly man until his voice came back in a venomous, and almost hate filled snarl.

‘He says his name’s Lewis, and he wants to see ma’am, about you know who.’

The woman stared hard, her eyes blinking rapidly, and when she looked back to Lewis, her little eyes became vicious and hooded while a cruel sneer twisted her thin mouth.

‘Now is that to be sure, and what indeed would you be wanting with her?’

Frank had been no stranger to trouble or bar fights through his life and could smell a spoiler from across the room, but this ugly old bitch was stood right in front of him.

‘As I’ve already explained, to your, husband …? Robin was a colleague of mine and I would like to offer Mrs Sheverill my sympathy for her loss.’

She stood for a moment as if in a trance, her face solid while a tick played in her eye, and when she came awake, pointed a hard stubby finger and prodded him in the chest.

‘Now you listen to me, my lady has done more cryin’ over that thing of a man than is ever fit and proper for a body, so do you understand, enough is enough.’

As Frank looked at her, he began to wish he was far away, and anywhere but here.

This was all wrong, a joke played on him for his good intentions, a waste of time, but a door on the far side of the vast kitchen swung open and a tall, amazingly attractive, dark haired woman stepped into the room, and as she stood there, wearing nothing more than the shortest of creamy white bathrobes, he thought she was probably more beautiful than any wild imagination could conjure up.

She had coal black hair that fell in shimmering waves to her shoulders and framed an exotic face of smooth tanned skin that shone as if with an inner glow, her smooth brow and high cheek bones casting an arrogant beauty. Her rich red lips so full, and eyes of black liquid pearl that radiated out dark light from behind half-moon, platinum glasses. She was a dream, a dream come alive.

Gazing at her in that quiet moment, it seemed as though she were looking back to him as if she were in a dream herself, but she shivered and began to walk over, her pearl and sapphire earrings lightly swinging to the hypnotic rhythm of her hips, such full curving hips carried on long sensuous legs and bare feet.

‘Who is it, Martha …?’

Listening to her voice, he thought it to be soft and almost musical, but noticed the hard casual edge and authority of an upper class background which gave a glimpse of the self-possessed woman within, the aroma of her warm body flowing sweetly to him.

She looked into his eyes, but with an almost far away, disinterested curiosity as she asked her musical question once more.

‘Who is it, Martha …?’

Flashing a quick glance to the ugly woman, he thought she seemed nervous.

‘His name’s, Lewis, ma’am, and he’s called to … He wants to speak to you, ma’am, and it’s about Mr Robin. He says he’s from his work.’

Watching the scene, he saw a dark cloud pass over Mrs Sheverill’s eyes as her body became as solid as iron, her gaze changing to icy detachment.

‘I see, another of you. Well ... do you have some identification?’

The sudden chill in her voice, caught him off guard, and taking the ID from his pocket, held it up to her withering glare.

‘Well, Mr Lewis, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip. You see, I’ve already told your Intelligence people everything I know, so I will bid you good day.’

‘But, Mrs Sheverill, this isn’t how it seems. I’m not here officially, you see.’

She stood motionless, ‘Oh? Then to be precise, just how is it, Mr Lewis?’

‘Well to be honest, I’m really here because your husband saved my life some while ago, and when I heard … Well, I just wanted to call and say how sorry I am.’

Looking at him, her eyes grew wide as she listened to his flustering words, and when the realisation finally dawned, her face creased-up as she smirked to him.

‘Good lord. Then are you saying you’re here on a point of honour?’

‘Well, yeah. I suppose so. Or something like that.’

‘Oh dear. Well in that case I’m afraid your trip has most certainly been wasted, and although I hate to shatter your illusions, the thing is, I couldn’t care less.’

He stared, ‘You don’t care, that your husband is dead?’

‘No, actually I don’t. So if you’ll excuse me, I really must get on.’

‘But Mrs Sheverill, he was a good man, a brave man, a fine soldier.’

‘Mr Lewis. Is it absolutely necessary that I must go on repeating myself, and surely it’s not too difficult to understand, even for brave soldiers that my husband’s death means nothing to me, nothing at all. Now please, go away.’

‘Look, Mrs Sheverill, I can understand that you didn’t know much about his work, but if you’d let me expla …’

Her dark eyes blazed, ‘Mr Lewis, I don’t want to know. So please go away.’

‘But if you did know, just a little, then maybe you would …’

‘I would what? Love his memory? Oh for god’s sake, don’t make me laugh.’

The ugly man picked up the cases and impatiently pushed to Frank’s side.

‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but shall I take these upstairs?’

She looked at him, her expression becoming incredulous at his blatant interruption, and in no more than a moment, her frustration changed to pure maniacal fury.

‘No, damn you, you may not take them upstairs. Just leave them in the hall and go, disappear and get out of my sight, you horrible little shit.’

The man’s ugly face drained as he rushed across the kitchen, and slamming the cases down in the hall, scurried back, waving his arms and cursing as Mrs Sheverill glared in a fury, and looking back to Lewis, he saw her dark eyes were now wild, her chest heaving.

‘Mr Lewis, you say you’ve come to see me on a point of honour, but I don’t know what the hell you expect me to do, give you a frigging medal or kiss your arse.’

Feeling numb with disbelief, the tiredness let his anger rush through.

‘Look, Mrs Sheverill, if it wasn’t for your husband I would be laying in a bomb crater with my eyes pecked out, stone dead and as cold as a witch’s tit, because he was a damned good soldier, and I for one have good reason to be sorry he’s gone, so if you don’t care, that’s your business, but don’t make fun of his honour with me.’

She stood back on her heels, as if unable to believe she’d been challenged, her beautiful coal black eyes now suddenly catching fire in a blaze of fury.

‘Mr Lewis, don’t you dare lecture me about my husband, or his crappy honour, and at the risk of overstating my case I will tell you the simple truth, that while you may be sorry, I am not, I am not sorry in the least, and if that makes me the wife from hell, then so be it because I just don’t fucking care. Is that finally understood?’