Their computer research suggested that the journey, which would in large part be by major road and motorway, would take somewhere between fifty minutes and one hour. So it was shortly before ten when Gladys slowly backed her car out of the garage which was linked to her bungalow and then down the slightly sloping driveway on to the road under the watchful gaze of George and Cynthia. This was all done with what might have seemed to any outsider to have been an excessive amount of caution as traffic on the Village roads was mainly limited to residents’ cars and their visitors. There was negligible risk of meeting anyone outside this group, or indeed anything larger, as all deliveries were made to the main hall and bins were placed outside the gates on appropriate days. However, with the bright red car, especially at the start of an ‘adventure’, Gladys was keen to make no mistakes. She brought the car to rest alongside the pavement and wound down the window. The others gathered around.
“Right—first off, have you got the card safely put away?” George asked.
By way of answer Cynthia unzipped her handbag and produced an envelope which she opened to reveal the card inside enveloped in a folded piece of plastic.
“And you’ve made a note of all the details?”
“Yes—and I’ve even taken a copy.”
“Only one?”
“Here’s a spare for you.” She passed across a sheet of A4. “This is worse than dealing with Gladys and she was a teacher. You don’t have the same excuse.” After her session with David the previous day she was feeling more buoyant and ready for the day ahead.
He smiled. “I’m used to asking questions too, remember? Just important to make sure we get the basics done.” His tone became more serious. “Now when you get there you’ll have to play it by ear because we have no means of knowing what kind of reception there’ll be, but in general be reticent. Don’t ask them stuff—wait and see what they’re ready to tell you. Try and get in touch by midday. I won’t be worried if there’s a little slippage but by twelve-thirty I will be. Now you’d better be off.”
Cynthia slipped round to the passenger side of the car and climbed in. She’d programmed the satnav the evening before so now she pressed the button and the routing flashed up. With a wave to George, Gladys eased the car away. He stood in the pavement watching them go. When the gates to the Village closed behind them and Gladys had negotiated her way out on to the main road, the adventure had truly begun.
The journey passed without incident in bright weather and after they’d made the last important turn Cynthia’s eyes were fastened on the screen. “Five minutes to go,” she announced, “and it’s coming up to eleven so that’s ideal. Now their road is off to the left and it looks like a narrow one—Old Cottage Lane it’s called. There are three turnings before it.” She counted them off as they passed, the first two accessing into what looked like a crescent of ex-council houses and the third a muddy track leading off towards a church in the distance. “Just round this bend—it’s a sharp turn.”
They came on it suddenly, and although Gladys was obediently following the speed limit, she still had to wrest the steering wheel round sharply. Old Cottage Lane led sharply uphill over a messy surface which caused the car to lurch from side to side. High hedges obscured any view and the branches of spreading trees folded overhead so that even with a shafting winter sun flickering through, the place seemed dark and uninviting. It was only when they reached the top that the change happened.
The old cottage was right there in front of them located on a plateau with view of undulating countryside stretching out to the right and left. The sunlight, now unrestricted, streamed across grassy fields and woodland, heightening colours of green, brown and yellow and glistening on the vegetation. In the distance a herd of black and white cows grazed lazily against the horizon. It all reminded Cynthia of a David Hockney painting. Gladys brought the car to a halt in front of the cottage itself.
It was a low-slung building with cheerfully painted white walls interspersed with small square windows and black down struts. The roof was of black slates. All around it the tops of bushes and shrubs poked above the walled garden and Cynthia could just make out a pale archway of wood ready for a summer harvest of runner beans. On the other side of a little gate a gravelled pathway led up to a brown, weathered front door. “Come on,” said Gladys. “This is it.”
They walked forward and Cynthia pulled on a handle next to the door which produced an instant ring. The door opened a fraction and a pair of eyes fastened on Cynthia. “Are you Miss or Mrs Tilling?” It was a deep voice but unquestionably female.
“Mrs—and this is my friend Gladys, who’s come with me.”
The eyes transferred to Gladys and then the door was thrust fully open to reveal a short woman, probably not much over five foot with stringy dangling red hair dressed in a light waxed jacket, black trousers and well-worn brown shoes. She was hanging on the collar of a large dog with matted hair not unlike the colour of the shoes. As soon as the dog caught sight of the visitors it started to bark raucously. Gladys and Cynthia took a step back in unison. “Oh, belt up, Julius,” said the woman and the dog relapsed into a prolonged guttural growl. “I’m Maria Willis. You have something for us?”
“Er… we were hoping to see Mr Willis,” Cynthia answered. “You see, what we found belongs to him.”
“Oh, right.” The dog started another barking session to which its owner’s response was to apply a well-aimed kick to its rear. It disappeared through an open doorway and she went to shut the door. “He likes to sound fierce.” She hesitated. “With my brother, well he wants to meet you even though I told him he didn’t have to bother. You see, he’s not well, in fact not at all well. He’s in a wheelchair permanently now—he needs a lot of care. It’s motor neurone disease and I don’t think he’s going to live much longer, so please don’t give him any stress.”
“We won’t, I promise.”
Maria stared at each of them in turn. “You’d better come this way.” She led them out of the small stone-flagged hallway into a neatly furnished living room dominated by a high black fireplace. Logs were crackling in the grate, producing a cloying warm atmosphere. “Please sit down.” She indicated two heavy armchairs covered in material with a green floral pattern. “I’ll fetch him. Would you like coffee or something?” The something wasn’t specified but in any event the two friends had agreed that they would refuse any such offer, even though they would probably have been on their second cup by now at the Village. The woman took the lack of an instant reply as a negative and went off. Gladys and Cynthia only just had time to sit down before she reappeared, followed by a smoothly moving wheelchair.
Cynthia was barely able to stifle a gasp when she set eyes on the man occupying it. They had a number of residents at the Village who required regular medical attention, but this man looked in far worse shape than any of them. He was sunk down in the seat with his legs dangling down loosely in front of him and his arms flopping on to the armrests, one of them pushed forward to operate the chair. His face was a creamy pallor with dark, deep-set shadows under his eyes and sunken cheeks. Yet when he spoke, his voice was firm and clear. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “You say you have something which belongs to me.”
“We do.” Cynthia delved into her handbag, produced the envelope and set the credit card on a table within his reach. He picked it up and examined it. A look of concern appeared in his eyes. “I looked everywhere for this all those years ago. Where did you find it?”
“On Corrington Common while we were out walking.”
The look of concern became more pronounced. “Where on Corrington Common?”
Gladys cleared her throat. “In the undergrowth near the last trail on the golf course.”
“Why did you look there?” The questions came at them like stabs with a knife.
Gladys gave him a succinct account of the errant golfer and how she had helped find his ball. When she’d finished, he gave a short laugh which held no humour. “Funny how fate intervenes. Do you know what happened there?”
“Yes—everyone does. It was where the body was found in the Pennington murder case.”
“And my credit card has been lying there in the bushes and mud for thirty years until someone goes nosing around and finds it. I dropped my wallet when I was there. I thought I’d picked up everything, but it was dark and I obviously missed that card.” He paused. “Well, go on, aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing there all those years ago?”
“We’re only here to return your property,” said Gladys, “not ask questions.”
He laughed again. “Shall I tell you what I think you are? You’re a couple of inquisitive old bats who have nothing else to do except poke their noses into stuff which should be of no concern to them and play at being amateur detectives.” Maria put up her hand but he waved her away. “Don’t worry—if it hadn’t have been them, it would have been someone else. It’s all right. Have you told the police about your find?”
Cynthia shook her head. She wasn’t sure how long George had been retired except she knew he definitely was.
“So how did you get our address? The credit card company wouldn’t have told you.” There was an edge of sharpness in his voice.
“Oh, we have a friend who’s a real dab hand at social media, exploring search engines, all that stuff. He did it for us.” She held her breath. It was the answer they’d agreed on as the best they could do. She just hoped that now it was being tested, it would pass muster.
“Probably someone else with nothing better to do.” He sighed a deep sigh and shifted around in his seat with his limbs constantly trembling. “Well, I don’t have long to go, maybe days, maybe weeks, the doctors don’t have a clue really. Perhaps it’s time I told someone. I put the body there. That’s how I came to drop the wallet; it was while I was shifting the body around to put it down. I remember it like it was yesterday. It had to be just beyond that big oak tree.” He paused and licked his lips. Maria rushed to bring him the glass of water she had beside her and helped him slurp noisily from it. Gladys’s hand fluttered against Cynthia’s. Before she’d gone into teaching, she’d spent some time as a cub reporter on a magazine. One of the best pieces of advice she received from the editor was to know when to ask questions and that the best question is the one which doesn’t get asked. She’d taken that advice into her teaching career. She sensed this was definitely one of those occasions when the question didn’t need to be put. George had said the same. Often when the dam breaks, the water keeps on coming.
“I didn’t kill anyone though,” Charlie Willis went on. “I’ve done a lot of things which I’m not very proud of but killing isn’t one of them. I dealt with the body to satisfy a debt. You see, I owed money to someone who didn’t take it kindly when a debtor couldn’t pay up. When I was jumped by two guys in a car park, I thought I was going to be in for a seriously bad time. Instead, they offered me a way out. If I did a job for them exactly as I was told, the debt would be wiped out. If I didn’t, well that option would be very painful for me and my family. So I agreed—I had no other choice. They opened the trunk of their car and inside was a body bag. It was transferred over to my car and I was told where it was to be put. I had no idea who was in it and I didn’t ask. The next day I had a message confirming that the debt was wiped out. By that time the story was all over the news.”
He signalled for the water again and drank in long straggling gulps. “It was only then that I understood why the placing of the body was so important, on the spot where Pennington knocked the girl over on Christmas Day. The police went for the obvious suspects and when they couldn’t break their alibis, the enquiry ran into the sand.” His eyes closed and Gladys wondered if the river had run dry but it hadn’t—not quite. The eyes flickered open again. “Some meat there for two amateur detectives to feed on, but the proof is right there on the table.” His voice exploded into a shout and his hand gesticulated towards the credit card. “Without it,” the sound diminished again, “that proof goes up in smoke—poof.” His hands came together but he could say no more apart from a throaty grunt which reminded Gladys of the sound the dog had made before the kick had despatched it elsewhere. She stole a look at Maria’s face, which was all concern. She rushed to her brother’s side as his eyes closed again and he slumped back into his seat. “Time for you to go,” she barked at the two women. “You’ve outstayed your welcome.”
They got up and manoeuvred themselves round the shin-high coffee table on which the card rested. Her gesture towards it was brutal and direct. “And you leave that behind.” They walked out into the hall where the dog was now reaching a crescendo behind the closed door and then outside back into the sanctuary of the gleaming red car. They bumped down Old Cottage Lane and, when they reached the main road Gladys pulled into the first convenient layby. “Better send a message to George, dear,” she said, “before he decides to send in galloping reinforcements to rescue us.”
Cynthia grabbed her phone and began texting. In their eagerness to get away she had forgotten George’s instruction to get in touch with him latest by twelve thirty. It was just before that now. Why hadn’t she thought of contacting him? Her thumbs moved smoothly over the keys as she composed the text with meticulous care. Gladys watched her closely until she had pressed the “send” button. Then she pulled out and started the drive back to the Village. “Good thing we remembered to do that,” she commented.
Cynthia could feel her face reddening as she regretted even more that she hadn’t been the one to take charge of corresponding with George. She said little during the remainder of the journey as Gladys put her foot down, intent on making it back in time for lunch.