“That’s a pretty common name. There must be hundreds of them.”
Lunch had intervened by the time they’d walked back from the common with the wind now gusting on and off in their faces and wild sprinkles of rain assaulting them from all angles. There had only just been enough time to haul off the outerwear and almost run to the lunch table to be there for the start. So it was well past two before they were seated at the kitchen table in Cynthia’s bungalow, hers being the closest to the main hall and the restaurant. Cynthia had fetched a small soft brush from her make-up bag and painstakingly cleaned all the bits and pieces the common had brought to bear on the credit card so that the totality of the information it had to reveal was there in front of them. The signature on the back had completely worn away and some of the numbers had only become clear after they employed the magnifying glass which Cynthia kept in a small case in one of the kitchen drawers.
“Charles Willis,” Gladys read out for what must have been the third time. “But how do we find him? There’s a phone number for the credit card company on the back. We could try calling it.”
Cynthia shook her head firmly. “That won’t get us anywhere. Data protection, you know—they wouldn’t give away any information.”
Gladys picked up the card and tapped it on the tabletop. “In that case, what about getting George involved?”
Her friend sat back and considered. “George” was George Skelton, a rotund, larger than life character with a luxuriant greying beard who had moved into the Village at about the same time as the two of them but into one of the larger bungalows—there were two models on offer—because at that stage he had his wife Miriam with him. She had sadly died soon after and George had been struck down very hard, although his children had managed to persuade him to stay on in the Village. Both Gladys and Cynthia had been among those who had done their best to care for him from day to day.
“He’s still mourning,” Cynthia objected.
“Yes, but this would give him another interest, wouldn’t it? And with his background…”
Cynthia looked uncertain. She knew exactly what Gladys was referring to—George Skelton had been a senior police officer, rising to detective chief superintendent, no less. “I doubt if he could help now.”
“Why not? He must still have plenty of contacts. You remember, it wasn’t that long ago when he told us he’d been to a reunion with some of his old mates—cheered him up no end that did. At least he might be able to make some suggestions as to what we could do. We should add him to our taskforce.”
“Taskforce? Taskforce to do what exactly?”
“Why, to get together enough evidence to convince the police to take the case out of cold storage and find the murderer, of course.” Gladys made the statement as though it was the most self-evident fact in Christendom.
Cynthia shook her head. She feared that they might be heading down some rip-roaring path to a great objective, which in reality was much more likely to be a boiling burst of activity which would rapidly crumple down to nothingness. Also, she was very concerned that their quiet, predictable way of life might be threatened. She valued her freedom apart from the rigid mealtimes to determine how she spent her days. She had looked forward to sitting out on her porch going through her book collection with a glass of wine at her side whiling away sunlit afternoons whenever they presented themselves. Occasional breaks from the routine to please her friend could be tolerated but any more than that would have to be resisted. The trouble was that trying to restrain Gladys once she had the scent of battle in her nostrils wasn’t a job for the fainthearted.
“The police worked on that case for weeks, if not months, dear, and they couldn’t solve it. It’s one thing to view the scene of the crime and get tied up with some caricature posing as a golfer. It’s quite another to get too involved.” She laid stress on the word “involved”, making it sound like a communicable disease. “And anyway, what can old fogies like us do which the police couldn’t?”
Gladys picked up the credit card and shook it in her face. “Come on, dear, we have a clue here. A clue which the police didn’t find.”
Cynthia didn’t flinch. “That card might not even have been there then. There’s no evidence to suggest it has any connection with the murder.”
“Apart from the date on it.” Gladys put the card down. She couldn’t prevent her voice being clouded by uncertainty. “I suppose the police did fingertip searches then.”
“I’m sure they did. You see plenty of pictures of them on the telly on their hands and knees getting down and dirty.” They had a little giggle, which lightened the atmosphere. A momentary picture jumped into Cynthia’s mind of a row of young policemen with their bums in the air, trawling their way through the undergrowth. She dismissed the image just as quickly as it had appeared. Then she paused for thought. “Of course, the trail was a lot narrower then, as you found out…”
“…so the fingertip search might not have been quite so intensive when they moved away from the immediate location of the body…”
“…especially when they started encountering the really vicious nests of nettles and brambles. Unlike you, they wouldn’t have had a golf club to swat them away. I don’t think Rupert was too impressed with the way you were swishing his prized five iron around.”
Gladys laughed out loud. “He should think himself lucky I didn’t rip those ridiculous trousers off and give him a swish with it.”
“If it weren’t for him of course, we wouldn’t have found the card.”
“Well, one has to give him that I suppose—it was stuck in the ground as if it had been thrown like a dart. When it dropped it must have missed all the obstacles and gone straight down. It formed a barrier to stop the balls rolling any further. I could only just see the tip of it poking out.”
Cynthia considered again. “As you say, there’s nothing to be lost from having a chat with George. We’ll need to choose our moment though.”
**
That moment came in the bar over a brandy after dinner. The bar only opened at set times before and after mealtimes and brandy was a twice-a-week luxury on Saturdays and Wednesdays. That day being a Wednesday, dinner was consumed a little more briskly than usual in the hope of getting one of the more prized spots in the bar near the windows overlooking the common. George had managed to insert himself there first and consequently secured the most coveted seat right in one corner. The round table in front of him was small, allowing comfortable seating for only two more members of the Village community. It was strictly residents only in the bar.
When Gladys and Cynthia took the chance to join him, George summoned up a sad smile of welcome. He raised his brandy glass and, as he had a clear sight of the barman waved for two more. “Might as well make the most of the hand-outs,” he said. “After all, they charge enough for us to be here. I still wonder whether I shouldn’t have moved out after, well, you know…” His voice tailed off and he stared morosely into his half-empty glass.
“There’s all kind of support for you here, George.” Gladys slipped into her best schoolteacher mode. “Not only the two of us. And your children thought it was the best plan too, remember?”
“That’s true, and they do come round regularly. My grandson appears occasionally as well.” George drained his glass and handed it over for a refill just as the two fresh ones he’d ordered made their appearance. “I enjoy the activities here and the trips out so there’s no problem filling up the time. There’s some good in it, I suppose. What about you ladies—you keeping busy?”
This was the ideal prompt for Gladys to relate how she had come across the review of the Pennington cold case in the paper. George perked up as he listened to her. “I remember that case—well, who around here doesn’t? I wasn’t directly involved, mind you. I was working in London by then, but it’s strange that it’s remained unsolved when there were obvious suspects with a motive.”
“And with unshakeable alibis apparently.”
“Hm, well in my experience alibis aren’t sometimes all they seem.” He took a glance around the bar, which was rapidly filling up. “Good thing we got in here early. They slow the service down of course to make sure they don’t have to give us too much. It’s two glasses max—I’m sure that’s what they’re told.” He tried to lock eyes with the barman who was dealing with new arrivals. “The first one’s fast enough—the second’s a different matter.” He waved his hand above his head and managed to achieve an answering signal. “That might do it. Now, let’s see, where were we?”
“Talking about the Pennington case,” Gladys persisted. “Cynthia and I took a stroll on the common to the exact spot where it the body was found.”
“Which was also the place where Pennington made his original contact with the family, as I recall. On Christmas Day, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Gladys went on to tell him about Rupert the golfer, which elicited a lengthy snort from George.
“Some of these people shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a golf course, even one on a common.”
“Well, I went in search of the ball—and I found this.” With a dramatic flourish she laid the credit card down on the table. George glanced at it and his shrewd eyes fastened on the expiry date. He picked it up and carefully examined both sides.
“Where exactly was this?” He listened as Gladys described her trip into the undergrowth. After she concluded, he sat back, still holding the card in both hands. “So, either the police missed this at the time or it wasn’t there. Seems quite a stretch though, considering the card expired, what, around six months after the crime. Hm, Charles Willis, Charlie Willis, that rings a bell somewhere. I’ve had to deal with plenty of villains in my time and they’re all stored away in here.” He tapped the side of his head where the hair had been reduced to a semi-circular, untidy fringe leaving a white cone decorated with a mass of freckles forming a shape remarkably like a lighthouse.
“We were wondering if you might be able to help us find him,” Cynthia piped up.
The shrewd eyes transferred over to her. “I might be able to make a few calls. If it’s the Charlie Willis I’m thinking of, he was certainly active at that time. Small-scale though. He was the sort who would usually get caught while the bigger fish swam away into the channel. Of course, he might be dead or it might be someone else entirely. I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much.”
“We thought you might join our taskforce.” Having originally pooh-poohed the taskforce idea Cynthia was now starting to warm to it.
“Taskforce—to mount a further investigation, you mean?” George gave a laugh which came right up from the bottom of his throat, the kind of sound which might be produced by someone who hadn’t laughed for a long time. His mood was further enhanced as his second glass of brandy was slid in front of him. “Well, why not? It’ll give us something to think about, won’t it? May I take the card? I’ll let you know what I find out tomorrow. No promises, mind, but we’ll see.”
He lifted his glass. “Now, cheers—good brandy this, even if they do ration it out!”