The Lost Soldier (2 page)

Rachel Elliot from the local newspaper, the
Belcaster Chronicle
, had been sent by her editor to cover the meeting. The brief note Drew had left her simply said, “
Public meeting, Charlton Ambrose village hall. 7.30. Proposed
housing development.
”
When she had arrived, it was to find the little village hall humming with expectation and Rachel felt with a tingle that there must be more to this public meeting than she had anticipated.

As the evening had progressed, the split in the village over the proposed “Charlton Ambrose Enhancement Scheme” had polarised into two distinct camps and, despite an occasional voice of reason, feelings were running high.

Rachel had never met Mike Bradley before, but his reputation as a hard-headed business man preceded him and she had watched with interest when he rose to his feet. An impressive man in his late forties with thinning sandy hair and a florid complexion, there was a sharpness in his pale hazel eyes, an underlying ruthlessness, which Rachel recognised had brought him to his present position. She felt those eyes rest on her for a moment, taking in her reason for being there, as she waited, pen poised for him to speak.

Confidently and rather patronisingly, Rachel thought, Mike Bradley explained his planned development of the old allotment patch that he had bought from the parish council. Deftly he fielded questions about the number of starter homes, the size of the other, executive homes and the proposed new village hall. As she made notes on what he said, Rachel had to hand it to him, it was a thoroughly professional performance from a man who knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. He remained calm and unruffled in the face of a fair amount of acrimony from the anti-development lobby, and it wasn’t until Cecily Strong dropped her bombshell that Rachel saw him lose his cool. Then the flush of red creeping over his collar and the gleam of anger in his eyes would have warned all the staff in his office to keep their heads down; nor were these signs lost on Rachel. She watched with interest as, entirely forgotten by those talking excitedly around him, Mike Bradley rammed his papers into his briefcase and prepared to make a swift exit. Clearly, all he wanted to do now was to get out of this dreary hall and find out who had cocked things up.

Rachel intercepted him as he stepped off the platform. He scowled at her as she barred his way, but she’d been in her job long enough not to be intimidated by his bully-boy tactics.

“Mr Bradley,” she smiled up at him. “I’m Rachel Elliott, from the
Belcaster Chronicle
, and I wondered if I might ask you a few questions…”

He forced his face into the semblance of a smile and said, “Certainly, Miss Elliott, any time. Just give my secretary a call.” He reached into his inside pocket and extracted a card, which he handed to Rachel. “I shall look forward to seeing you. Now if you’ll excuse me…” He didn’t exactly push her out of his way, but as she later told Drew Scott, her editor, “He just barged past me and headed for the door.”

She had stowed the card into her pocket and glanced at the platform where Paula Sharp was still deep in conversation with David Andrews, the planning officer. Rachel knew where to find each of them when she wanted to, so she turned back to the body of the hall to talk to one or two of the Charlton Ambrose residents. It was beginning to empty now, but she saw that one of the more vociferous of the “anti” lobby, who had identified himself to the meeting as Peter Davies, was still chatting to a tall man in his early thirties, and she went over to him.

“Excuse me, Mr Davies?”

Peter Davies looked up and said gruffly, “Yes. Who might you be?” He was a short, stout man, probably in his fifties, but looking older, with a round face and untidily cut grey hair hanging over the collar of his old tweed jacket. He scowled at Rachel, the lines round his eyes and mouth indicating that this was an habitual expression, not that he was particularly annoyed with her.

“Rachel Elliott,
Belcaster Chronicle
. I just wondered how you felt about this proposed development… in principle I mean. I gathered from your comments this evening that you have reservations.”

“Reservations!” Peter Davies gave a harsh laugh. “I’ll say I have, and what I want to know is how that bloke Mike Bradley’s got as far as he has with it. How’s he managed to get his hands on our allotments, for a start? How come the parish council can sell them from under us?”

“I imagine because they belonged to the parish council,” replied Rachel lightly, “but I shall be asking about that, don’t you worry.” She smiled at him and said, “Can you tell me any more about those trees? About the Ashgrove… is it called?”

“That’s right, the Ashgrove. Well, them was planted after the first war, see. In memory, like. Two of them is for two of my great uncles, Uncle John and Uncle Dan, my grandfather’s brothers.”

“Are they?” Rachel was fascinated. Peter Davies had made no mention of the trees himself whilst expressing his opposition to the development and, Rachel thought wryly, he probably hadn’t given them a thought until Cecily had spoken of them. “So you won’t be keen on those trees being cut down.”

“I will not,” Peter Davies said firmly. “We have to show respect for our dead. Them trees has been there for nigh on eighty years, and no developer,” his tongue rolled round the word, “no developer is going to march in here and cut them down.”

“How many trees are there?” asked Rachel with interest.

“Eight,” answered Peter Davies, “or nine.”

“Who are the other ones for… I mean, in memory of?”

Peter Davies shrugged. “I can’t remember,” he said. “One of them’s for old Cecily Strong’s brother, that’s for sure. You’ll have to ask about, though I shouldn’t think there’s many left what knew any of them now. Except Cecily, of course. Cecily’d probably remember. She’s a bit queer in her attic these days, but she does remember stuff from when she were a girl.”

“I’ll ask her,” said Rachel. “Can you tell me where she lives?”

“Yew Tree Cottage, next to the church.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Davies, you’ve been a great help.”

She turned to the other man, smiling. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” she said, “but I’d be very interested to hear what you think of the village enhancement scheme.”

“Nick Potter,” said the man. He held out his hand and his grip was firm. He was tall, well over six foot, with broad shoulders, and as Rachel shook his hand she was aware of a controlled strength. He had a thatch of fair hair, worn a little too long, and his eyes, smiling at Rachel now, were a deep-set blue.

“Mr Potter,” she said easily, “I remember, you spoke at the meeting…” her mind raced as she tried to hear again in her head the words that voice had spoken earlier “…about how much of the village green might be lost.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“And how do you feel about the proposed development?”

Nick Potter replied, “I am actually in favour of it, in principle. We do need more housing in the village, especially more affordable homes for young couples, but it needs to be considered carefully, and to be done in the right way.”

“And what about the Ashgrove?” asked Rachel.

“Well, I knew nothing about the trees until this evening. I’m a relative newcomer to Charlton Ambrose…”

“Blow-in,” muttered Peter Davies, who was still standing beside them.

Nick Potter glanced across at him and grinned. “Yes, Peter, a blow-in. But it is my home nonetheless and I don’t want it ruined with over-development, or development badly planned.”

“And you think this plan would be over-development?” Rachel asked.

“I’m not sure,” Nick Potter replied. “Clearly Brigstock Jones have to build enough houses to make it worth their while at all, especially if they also have to put in the road and build a new village hall. But a housing estate of that size could well change the character of the village, and must be given serious consideration before it’s approved. I shall be writing to the planning authority with some questions that I think should be taken into account.”

“Including the trees?” asked Rachel quietly.

Nick Potter shrugged: “Well, if I don’t, others will. Clearly they are going to be extremely important to some people.”

The lights began to go off in the hall and Rachel looked round to find that the three of them were the only ones left and that the caretaker was hovering at the door.

“I think that’s a hint we should go,” said Nick Potter with a grin.

“I think you’re right,” agreed Rachel. “Thank you for your time.” She handed them each one of her cards and added, “If you think of anything more about all this, please do give me a call.”

They left the hall then, the two men heading off together into the darkness of the village, Rachel to her car.

When she got home, Rachel drew the curtains against the cold damp of the night and poured herself a glass of wine before she switched on her computer.

What an evening it turned out to be, she thought. I was expecting a very dull meeting and it was fireworks all the way.

It was exactly such unpredictability that Rachel loved about her job. On the
Belcaster Chronicle
, no day was like another; no day boring. Though many of the jobs were routine, mundane even, Rachel loved talking to people, and learning their perception of the world. Hearing what was important to them, fascinated her. If she had the sniff of a story, she was like a terrier, worrying at it until she had discovered all and made it her own.

“And there is a good story here, I know it,” she muttered as she waited for her screen to come up, and looking through her notes she began to consider how she would tackle it.

There were several aspects to be considered, and she soon realised that there was enough here for more than one article. She needed far more information, but if she could get it, she knew the story would continue to run. She certainly needed to talk to Cecily Strong, but there had been no point in chasing out after her this evening.

I need to see her in her own home if I can, Rachel thought. I want her to be at ease when we talk. She’s the one who’ll know about the Ashgrove and the men it commemorates.

Rachel spent most of that night working at her computer. Her piece on the meeting in Charlton Ambrose was the easy part. She settled for a factual account, offering each side of the “development” argument as it had been presented, before that was, everything had been complicated by the Ashgrove. Of course Cecily’s revelation was the high spot of the evening, and Rachel explained the problem posed by the trees, but she decided she wanted to research the Ashgrove and its history in depth before following that part of the story any further. Here was a chance to build a story on her own, to develop it and follow it through. It was a chance she intended to seize. There were plenty of angles that needed following up, and Rachel wanted to get them mapped out in some detail before she put them to Drew Scott.

So, she worked all night, listing the things which had caught her attention, small things needing further exploration; expanding the notes she’d made, both at the meeting and afterwards, when talking to Peter Davies and Nick Potter. Determined to put everything down while it was still fresh in her mind, Rachel finally crawled into bed as the red figures of her clock radio flicked to four-forty-five.

When she arrived at the offices of the
Belcaster Chronicle
next morning, Rachel headed straight for Drew’s office, and found the editor behind his desk, a mug of thick black coffee at his elbow and his eyes glued to his computer screen. He glanced up as Rachel came in.

“Morning, Rach. Good meeting?” He grinned. He knew she hadn’t particularly wanted to go, but that was tough.

“I’ve e-mailed it in,” she told him, “but I’ve brought hard copy for you to look at as well as I want your OK for some investigation.” She handed him her copy with the headline:

DISCORD IN CHARLTON AMBROSE

“Some life to it then,” he grinned as he glanced through the piece. “Mike Bradley not having it all his own way this time?”

“No,” Rachel agreed. “Do you know him?”

Drew laughed. “Oh yes. He’s been trying to ride roughshod over people in this town for years. Same last night was it?”

“Pretty much,” Rachel agreed, “at first anyway. Then something unexpected came up and he was all red face and bluster.”

Drew laughed. “Sounds familiar. What went wrong?”

Rachel outlined briefly the problem of the Ashgrove. “The thing is,” she went on, “I’d like to follow up on this one, Drew. There’s more to this than meets the eye. There are two main aspects as I see it. One is the proposed development and the other is the history of the Ashgrove. I want to sound out local feelings on the housing scheme and to interview Mike Bradley about the project. That’s one story, but then there’s the Ashgrove itself. I think there’s a real human interest story about those memorial trees. Perhaps I could discover descendants other than Cecily Strong—she’s the one who brought the matter up at the meeting—and Peter Davies who still lives in the village. A bit of investigating. But there’s no time for this week’s edition.”

Drew looked thoughtful. “OK,” he said. “It’s an interesting enough story. Get as much background on it as you can, and then if it comes up to scratch we’ll run it as a spread. Jon can take some pictures.” He tapped at his keyboard for a moment or two studying the layout of various pages of the paper, and then nodded. “We’ll run your account of the actual meeting this week and if it all stacks up, follow it up with your article next week. Right, get on with it,” then, as an elated Rachel turned away, he added, “Don’t forget to pick up today’s list from Cherry on your way out.”

Cherry, in the outer office, handed her a list of jobs Drew wanted covered, the magistrates’ court, Belstone St Mary’s primary school nativity play, Christmas bazaar at St Joseph’s. All pretty run of the mill, but Rachel didn’t care. Now she also had something worth getting her teeth into, and she was determined to give it her best shot. She fished Mike Bradley’s card out of her bag, rang his secretary and made an appointment to see him at five o’clock that afternoon.