Three Steps to Hell (6 page)

“Get your jacket we’ll have a walk into town.”

“Oh, by the way I’ve got a message for you Sarge, I’ll tell you on the way.”

Both men took a short stroll into town. Dave Sweeting explained that the message he had for Tom was from the PC who took Dorsey home. That his story checked out about the car running out of fuel and that there was some blood on the passenger seat of the car and also some on the handset of the public telephone kiosk in the old café layby on the coast road. Also that Scenes of Crime had been asked to take samples from both.

“Where are you taking me for lunch Sarge?”

“To the Bull in the Market Square.”

“Oh real upper class lunch then,” laughed Sweetface.

Although fairly close to the coast, Brampton was not a tourist seaside town as it had a very rocky and quite treacherous coastline dotted with a few very small sandy coves. Most of these were owned by private landowners like the Petersons and some were occasionally visited by dog walkers, ramblers and locals where permitted, but were generally very quiet and virtually unused. Brampton itself was an old rural market town. Many years ago the existence of the town had revolved around a bustling cattle market which was where the cinema and leisure centre stood today. As a town it catered adequately for the needs of its 80,000 inhabitants and boasted an excellent array of general shops and leisure facilities. The main shopping areas in the High Street and the Market Square were home to many successful family trading outlets which competed well with the normal High Street chains. A general market took place in the Market Square every Saturday and Wednesday.

The Bull public house was situated on the eastern corner of the Market Square opposite the clock tower. The Bull was a very scruffy town pub frequented by many of the local criminal fraternity, general drunks and troublemakers. A scruffy pub with an immense large screen TV in one corner for the football. When football was on it was not a nice pub to be in. The landlord, Eric, a burly, loud Yorkshireman tolerated his clientele well, mainly because they all spent a lot of money on drink and if trouble arose, he and his staff were always ready, willing and able to deal with it, in fact, seemed to enjoy it at times. He had himself been on the wrong side of the law many times as a youngster in Yorkshire but got on fairly well with Tom. He considered him a good and fair copper and felt that it was always useful to have a friendly down to earth contact at the police station for when things did go wrong.

Tom and Dave sat in a quiet corner of the lounge bar. Tom put his hand on the table and cringed as his hand stuck to the wood. It wasn’t the cleanest hostelry in town. The pub was usually quiet during lunch as it catered for light lunches for passing town trade, market traders and unselective office workers not too fussy about their surroundings. The evenings were a different matter. If it was an evening visit both Tom and Dave would have to endure unpleasant comments and gesticulations from Eric’s unsavoury customers and the atmosphere would be far more hostile. Tom quickly explained the purpose of his visit then said,

“What do you fancy Dave?”

“If we’re eating in here, a tetanus injection first, then a cheese and onion sandwich and coke, please Tom.”

(Sweetface would always refer to Tom by his first name in public places, as they preferred to appear anonymous members of the public whenever possible).

“I’m just going up to the bar to have a two minute chat with Eric, I’ll order while I’m up there.”

Tom found Eric busy at the bar serving a couple of very pretty young girls of about 21 or 22, his eyes focused solidly on one of the girl’s ample and revealing cleavage.

He finished their order.

“Oh, hi Tom, didn’t see you there.”

“No, your eyes and imagination were busily engaged elsewhere, I think Eric.”

Eric laughed and replied, “Only pleasure I get these days Tom, just looking.”

Tom ordered lunch and quickly spoke with Eric regarding Evans’ explanation about a fight at the pub the night before with some guys from out of town.

“Load of rubbish Tom, neither Evans nor his mate Dorsey have been in here for about a week. I always make it my business to know when Evans is in the bar so I can watch him like a hawk ‘cos he’s nothing but bloody trouble when he’s pissed as you well know. No, it was really quiet in here last night, no strangers, no trouble, quite boring really. I heard a rumour recently that Evans has actually had a job driving a lorry or a van doing deliveries or something.”

“Do you know who for?”

“No idea but I can keep an ear open if you like.”

“Yes let me know if you hear anything Eric.”

Tom thanked Eric for his help, picked up the drinks he had ordered and walked back to the table where he had left Sweetface who had disappeared. Tom looked around the bar. Dave Sweeting was now talking to the same two girls that Eric had been leering at. Tom sat at the table alone for a few minutes until he returned.

“Did you see them Tom, they’re gorgeous, thought I’d better go and say hello.”

“I bet you did Dave, you just can’t leave it alone can you?”

“Just doing my job, finding out about two gorgeous new chicks in town. They work at the bank, I think I’ll need to open a new account.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d love to make a deposit as well and not of cash!” chortled Tom.

“Certainly would,” Sweetface replied, “Several deposits!”

“How does that gorgeous Cheryl of yours put up with you Dave, one glance of a pretty face and generous cleavage and you can’t help yourself?”

“You’re getting old Tom, been on your own too long, we need to find you some gorgeous 40 year old to stir up the old lustful feelings again.”

“Trust me I still get the feelings, just don’t get the offers.”

Tom and Sweetface made an effort to eat their barely filled, semi stale sandwiches washing away the unpalatable taste with regular mouthfuls of Coca Cola.

Tom related fully the conversation he had had with Superintendent Davies about Peterson and the purpose of their afternoon trip to East Point. He also fully briefed him about the incident during the night with Wayne Evans.

“Sweetface, I worry when you’re looking thoughtful, I can hear the cogs in that brain working. I bet you’re thinking about making a deposit with those two girls from the bank again?”

“No surprisingly enough Tom I was thinking about work.”

“Go careful mate,” said Tom sarcastically.

“It was just something Martin said to me this morning, it might be of interest in relation to Evans. I sent Martin to search the home address of one of the lads who was in for the school job last night. He is a lad who lives in the same cul-de-sac as Evans, probably about 10 or 12 houses up, nearer the main road. Martin said just as he was finished he saw a black motorcycle leaving the cul-de-sac at speed with two burly undesirable looking individuals on it. He felt that it had probably come from outside Evans’ home or very nearby. Apparently as they rode past, Martin was walking back to the CID car, which they obviously recognised. The pillion passenger raised his visor, shouted “Catch us if you can pig” and stuck two fingers up at him. He couldn’t get the registration number because the plate was so small and bent up underneath the rear mudguard.”

“Probably some of Evans’ lovely friends been to visit him and see if he’s okay.”

“Yeah, probably Tom.”

During the stroll back to the office Tom called in at the bakers to see if he could have a brief chat with Evans’ girlfriend Sue, but discovered that she was off for the rest of the day. Back at the office Tom tidied his desk, picked up his personal radio and the keys to one of the CID cars.

“Are you ready Sweetface, book us out.”

Tom was very strict over the maintenance of the duty book, making sure all his Detectives booked out of the office with details of where they were going and the time, just in case he needed them urgently or one of them got into problems and wasn’t heard from for a while. Brampton was a difficult area for personal radios and there were quite a few black spots that affected both radios and mobile phones.

“Where are you off to Sweetface?” shouted Martin from the other side of the office.

“Sarge has been so pleased with my work that he’s taking me to the seaside at East Point for the afternoon. He says if I’m really good I can paddle in the sea. I’ll bring you some shells back.”

Martin smiled and laughed as the two men left the office. There was always a good banter amongst the staff in the office, something which Tom quietly encouraged as he felt it lifted them a little from the sordid, dismal and disheartening side of their work and was good for morale. Something Barry Lowe could neither grasp nor comprehend. He felt it showed a lack of discipline. In Tom’s eyes DI Lowe understood very little of real police work. Tom had worked with Detectives in many CID offices and in his experience there had and would always be an office comedian and an office clown, as in any workplace. As they passed the Superintendent’s secretary’s office, Anne shouted, “Tom, Mr Davies says that this afternoon is fine with Mrs Peterson, she’ll be expecting you.”

It was a leisurely fifteen to twenty minute drive to East Point along the A693 Coast Road. Because it was not a tourist area this road was generally quiet and was a spine road serving many of the very small villages to the east of Brampton. It was a drive that Tom was very fond of as he enjoyed being out of the town and would savour the views of the rolling countryside and distant ocean. It was a beautiful day for such a drive. The early mist had long cleared, the sun was out and the feeling that summer wasn’t far away was in the air. After about 12 minutes driving Tom came upon a signpost showing a right turn - ‘East Point 2 miles’. This was not a road he was familiar with. It was only wide enough for one way traffic with small inlets cut into the hedgerow so that oncoming traffic could squeeze past in places. Because of the care needed on this road it seemed like a very slow journey. So far they had only seen two large detached houses on this stretch of road, both set well back from the road, imposing dwellings with what appeared to be extensive grounds. At some points there were stunning views out to sea and Tom slowed a couple of times to enjoy the scenery. It looked like they were getting near the end of the road when Sweetface saw a large gated drive on the left.

“Perhaps this is it Sarge.”

As they drew close they saw a sign on the gate ‘East Point Farm’.

“No apparently the house is called ‘Colmar Grounds’, a name derived from Colin and Maria I suspect.”

They continued for about 300 metres round a very slight left hand bend to find that the road had come to a dead end and found themselves confronted by two high and very ornate wrought iron gates with a large name plaque ‘Colmar Grounds’.

“Well I think we’ve found it Sarge, they must be very security conscious, the size of the gates and all the high fencing.”

“Doesn’t seem to fit very well with such a lovely coastal setting does it Dave?”

Dave Sweeting got out of the car and approached the gates to find a large black box with a button and loudspeaker. He pressed the button and a female voice answered, “Who is it please?”

“DC Sweeting and DS Lancaster from Brampton CID to see Mrs Peterson.”

“Hold on one minute,” the voice replied. After about 30 seconds the voice came again.

“Drive down the drive until you see the main house, the front door is right in front of you.”

Sweetface then heard the electric gates start to open and returned to the car.

“This looks like quite a place Sarge!”

“Certainly does Sweetface, a bit posher than our normal stomping ground.”

The drive was about a quarter of a mile long. A fairly wide well maintained tarmac drive with a cattle grid just inside the gates. They noticed two semi detached brick built cottages almost hidden by hedging adjacent to the main drive. Both looked empty and had the appearance that they were being renovated. As they approached the main house there were two small tarmac farm type drives going off to the left leading to an array of enclosed renovated farm buildings that looked like they had been converted for commercial use, with several vehicles parked nearby.

The main house was an imposing sprawling farmhouse. It was difficult to guess at its date of origin as it appeared to have been extended and updated in quite a few areas, but Tom imagined probably about 1920’s or 30’s, with a circular gravel turning and parking area leading directly to the front door. The grounds around the house appeared well tended and for a moment took Tom’s thoughts back to the gardening he had to get up to date with at home. Tom parked next to a gleaming, brand new red Range Rover. The car parked, both men walked towards the ornate mahogany front door, its large brass knocker and letterbox gleaming in the afternoon sun. The door opened before they could knock and they were greeted by a very petite plain looking middle-aged woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Hardly what Tom had envisaged from the Superintendent’s description of Mrs Peterson.

“Mrs Peterson?” Tom enquired.

“Oh no,” said the woman

“I’m Jackie, Mrs Peterson is in the kitchen. I’ll take you through.”

She started to lead the way up the large entrance hall towards a closed door. “Don’t worry about Jasper, that’s Mrs P’s dog, he’s a bit playful but very friendly. He’ll jump up a lot when I open the door.”

“What sort of dog?” enquired Tom.

“Black lab about a year old now.”

“I’ve got one myself,” Tom said as Jackie opened the kitchen door.

Jasper had obviously been desperate to see who the visitors were because as the door opened wide enough to get through, he pushed through, bounded out and launched himself at Tom in a large puppy greeting sort of way. His front paws had a firm impact with Tom’s testicles which nearly took his breath away. He doubled over with the sudden pain and dropped his clipboard. As he bent over to collect his clipboard and papers from the floor he tried to disguise his discomfort by stroking the still boisterous dog. He scowled at Sweetface who was finding the whole incident rather amusing.