Cross walked up the main street of the village to the local shop. It had become an outpost of a nationwide chain of supermarkets recently, but according to Tom was still run by the man who’d owned the shop previously. He’d been there for forty years. Quite astute business of the supermarket to keep him on, thought Cross. It would alienate the village less and he would already be aware of their individual needs. His name was Patrick Withey.
‘How often did Mr Moreton shop here?’ Cross began by asking.
‘A couple of times a week. He did his main shop on a Thursday,’ answered Withey.
‘Did you know him well?’
‘As well as anyone could say they knew Alistair. He actually worked for me for a while.’
‘In the shop?’ asked Cross.
‘No.’ Withey laughed at the absurdity of this notion. ‘He would’ve frightened the customers away. He did my paper round. Oldest paper boy in the UK, I used to joke.’ Cross wasn’t exactly sure why this was a joke, as in reality it was quite probably true. ‘He wouldn’t take any money either. Told me to put his wages in the collection box at the church.’
‘And did you?’ asked Cross.
‘Of course,’ answered Withey slightly affronted. ‘He said it was a good way of getting him out of the house and taking some exercise. Always on time, early in fact, as he often helped me sort out the orders.’
‘Why did he stop?’
The shopkeeper paused for a moment, as if maybe aware his answer didn’t reflect well on him or the village.
‘People complained,’ he said finally.
‘Why? About what?’ Cross asked.
‘They didn’t like him delivering their papers,’ he said awkwardly.
‘What time did he do his round?’ Cross went on.
‘Six thirty in the morning.’
‘Then presumably no one saw him.’
‘Not initially, no, then someone did. They were leaving early one morning to go on holiday. When it got around, people complained. They said they’d cancel their order if he continued. I know it was wrong, but that was before I sold the business and things were tough,’ Withey explained.
‘I see.’
‘And now look what’s happened; I couldn’t believe it when Tom told me yesterday. It’s definitely murder, is it?’
‘I would say so, yes,’ replied Cross. ‘How often did you see Mr Moreton?’
‘Every day. He’d come in to get his paper. The Telegraph.’
‘Every day,’ repeated Cross, writing it in his notebook.
‘Well, when I say that. Except for the last couple of weeks,’ Withey said. ‘He stopped coming.’
‘When was this?’ asked Cross.
‘Like I said. The last couple of weeks. I went up to see if he was all right. He said he’d been under the weather. So, I asked him if he’d like the papers delivered till he was back on his feet.’
‘And what was his reply?’
‘He said yes. He’d like that.’
‘So, you saw him.’
‘Yes, just that once.’
Withey thought for a moment then suddenly looked up. ‘Oh God, you don’t think it could be someone from the village, do you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think anything as yet but more to the point – do you? After all, you must know everyone here,’ asked Cross.
‘Look, he wasn’t popular in the village, but that was mostly because people thought he was a little odd. The way he kept himself to himself and didn’t really want anything to do with the village or the people,’ Withey replied.
‘Unless it was a parish meeting,’ Cross pointed out.
Withey smiled at this. ‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you? Yes, he was a great one for causes or, more accurately, points of principle as he constantly told us. A great one for a point of principle, Alistair.’
‘Which wouldn’t have added to his popularity I should think.’
‘Village gossip is exactly that. It’s not something that is particularly interested in the truth. Far from it. Take the Turnbull girl nonsense, for example.’
‘Go on,’ said Cross making a note of the name.
‘She was a young girl who went missing from the village about six or seven years back,’ Withey told him. ‘She was eleven – Kylie. Everyone was out looking for her, everyone except for Alistair, but that was completely understandable in the circumstances.’
‘Why?’ asked Cross.
‘People had started pointing the finger. Said if anyone local had taken Kylie, it had to be him. He was the last person seen talking to her. They arrested him in the end.’
‘I thought no one in the village talked to Moreton,’ Cross said.
‘On the whole, yes. But people had noticed her talking to him quite a lot before she went missing. The police then got a warrant for his house and searched it. They found some of her hair on a chair,’ Withey went on. ‘He claimed he had helped her with her reading.’
Cross continued to write in his notebook.
‘Kylie was dyslexic. But for everyone the hair made it a foregone conclusion. You lot charged him. It was all over the papers. “Retired teacher took girl”. It was disgraceful. Then Kylie turned up. She was in London. Run away. Having trouble at school, but mostly trouble at home with her stepdad. She accused him of abusing her. As soon as she saw Alistair had been arrested, she went to the nearest police station. Backed up everything Alistair had told them. He was teaching the poor girl to read. She was very grateful. She liked him for taking the time.’
‘I do remember that now,’ said Cross.
‘But even now people still think he did it. When nothing actually happened. Can you believe how stupid that is?’ said Withey. ‘Kylie and her family moved away a year later. Without the stepdad.’
‘Is he still here?’ asked Cross.
‘Malcolm? Yes,’ replied Withey. ‘You don’t think… Come to think of it he was one of the first to point the finger at Alistair. Straight-out accusing him of being a pervert and taking her. They had a massive row after she pitched up. Alistair attacked him.’
‘Did anyone witness that?’ asked Cross.
‘Dozens of people. Went after him with a stick in the pub. A bamboo cane, like from a garden.’
‘What’s this individual’s surname?’ asked Cross.
‘Fisk. Malcolm Fisk. Tom barred him. He’d always have a go at Alistair after he’d had a few drinks, apparently,’ Withey went on, as if he was convincing himself out loud that Fisk had to be a prime suspect.
‘Where does Mr Fisk live?’ asked Cross.
‘Number twenty-seven on the lane. But he’s a long-distance lorry driver, so chances are he won’t be at home.’
Cross put a card on the counter.
‘If anything else occurs to you, call me on this number,’ Cross instructed him.
‘I assume you’ve heard about the neighbours,’ Withey went on as if he wanted to prevent Cross from leaving.
‘The couple from London?’
‘Yes. He had a lot of trouble with them,’ Withey continued.
‘What are they like?’ Cross asked.
‘Couldn’t tell you really. The only time she’s been in the shop, she made a point of saying they did all their shopping in London where the produce was so much better and brought it down with them. When I asked if they wanted the weekend papers, she replied they came into the sticks – her expression, not mine – to get away from all that.’
As predicted, Malcolm Fisk wasn’t in. Or if he was, he wasn’t answering the door.