Authors: Patricia Scott
“Mr. Reginald Godsell? Chief Inspector Fowler. Thank you for coming in so promptly. Take a seat, please.” Fowler stood up to greet the small man in the postman’s uniform coming into the Vicar’s side room which had been made available to the police for interviews.
Reg Godsell’s thin, brown weathered face looked apprehensive. He was glad that the delivery of the parcel and letters to the Maddocks’ farm had been the last for him that morning. He had hardly any recollection now of pedalling back to the post office on his bike, after he’d found that girl’s body in the crop circle. He’d poured out the details of his terrible discovery over the post office counter to Liz Brown, who put a tumbler of whisky into his shaking hand, and phoned the local policeman.
“You discovered the body when you took a walk in Mr. Maddock’s field this morning, to take a look at the latest crop circle, Mr. Godsell?”
“That’s right I did, Chief Inspector,” he said, attempting to make himself comfortable on the wooden chair.
“And you said to PC Cromwell, Mr. Godsell, that it was at eight twenty five when you knocked on Tom Maddock’s door with the post, and then you reckon five minutes later you came across Sandra Peterson’s body?”
“That’s right, because Pam Maddock asked if I would like a cup of tea. But I checked the time with my watch and said I’d have to get back. I wished afterwards I’d had that cup of tea and given that field a miss,” he confessed. “I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It’s been in all the local papers.”
“So that’s what made you stop off on the way to look in the field, Mr. Godsell?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced and wrestled with his cap in his lap. “I wanted to see why such a damn fuss had been made about the latest crop circle. We’ve had crowds of people coming to see it. The Maddocks have done well out of it. And that’s good after all the trouble he had with his cows, three years ago. They nigh on lost everything they owned and then some. They deserve some good luck now.” He groaned. “But I wish it were someone else who found her. I know I shall never bloody forget it as long as I live.”
“Can’t say I blame you, Mr. Godsell. But because you found her, it does mean that we can tackle the crime all the quicker. You didn’t touch her or remove anything at all from the scene? It’s most important.”
He shook his head slowly. “No, sir. I knew as soon as I saw her lying there that I couldn’t help her. And I’ve had some life saving training, Inspector.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me personally about Sandra Peterson, Mr. Godsell? Anything at all?”
“Well — Liz Brown told me that Sandra’s letters were sent to her in care of the post office. She asked especially like. She didn’t have ‘em addressed to her home. She weren’t staying at the old water mill with her folks. Not this time. She were camping out in a tent with that weird bunch of misfits up on Kilernee Hill.
“She was in the Fox and Goose last night in the company of that cocky young feller Jason Macey in the Saloon bar.” He shook his head. “You could hear ‘ern arguing and swearing way out in the street. She used some pretty blistering language for a young woman. S’pose it comes with mixing with the riffraff on the hill. She came out soon afterwards. Laughing fit to bust. Looked as if she’d got the best of it too. If that’s all, Chief Inspector, I’ve got to get back.”
Fowler smiled and stood up. “That’s all, thank you, Mr. Godsell. You’ve given us something to work on.”
As Reg Godsell left, Jason Macey, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, sauntered through the open door into the church hall which was being used as the incident room.
Phew!
He
couldn’t
be
anybody
else
, Bob Fowler thought as he looked up to see Macey make his entrance. Viv was right. At first sight it was like looking at a young Oliver Reed.
Fowler stood up holding out a hand. “DCI Fowler. Mr. Macey? Good of you to come so promptly. Take a seat, please.”
The thick black brows frowned then the incredibly blue eyes lighted on DC Gerry Coombe who was new to their division, seated in the hall close by, checking files on a PC. She looked up and Macey smiled at her. She blinked and smiled back. Ian Peale, standing beside Fowler, scowled. He had his eyes on her too.
Fowler chuckled; his sergeant had been cultivating the pretty blonde DC’s attention since she first arrived in the division two weeks ago, and no doubt hoped to get a date with her by the end of the week.
“Thought it would be best if I came in now,” Macey said. “Save wasting your time and mine.” He sat down stretching out his long legs in the faded jeans. His expensive white trainers were noticeable muddy Fowler noted. He’d done his fair share of walking lately. It couldn’t be that comfortable up in the protesters’ camp with all the rain there had been overnight.
“Thank you, Mr. Macey. You know, of course, why we would like to speak to you?”
“Sandra Peterson, she’s dead.” Macey leaned back on the wooden chair, rocked it slightly, and then glanced back through the open door into the hall, taking in the activity going on there and at the notes attached to the large board on the wall close by. He frowned when he saw the photograph of Sandra Peterson pinned up there and studied it for a second or so before his gaze came back to the Chief Inspector’s face. His scowl brought Reed even more to mind. “And you want to know my movements for last night. Right?”
He crossed his brown muscular arms across his blue sweatshirt, casting another quick look at DC Coombe as he did so.
“That’s correct, Mr. Macey. So when did you last see Miss Peterson?”
“Last night.” Macey smiled charmingly again for DC Coombe, and said, “Sandra came to the camp. We were going to discuss our plans for the protest today.”
“So what time would that be, Mr. Macey? When you discussed these plans to cause further disruption to the residents of Lower Milton and the police?”
He grinned back at Fowler. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it, Chief Inspector?” He thought for a moment. “It was about ten thirty... I think. Could be later though. Can’t remember much about it.”
Fowler leant forward, arms on the table. “I have been informed that you were seen first in Sandra’s company in the Fox and Goose last night. But she left before you, didn’t she, Mr. Macey? After a noisy disagreement in the saloon bar. Did you quarrel like that often?”
Macey shifted in his creaking seat, looked up at the high ceiling and then at Fowler. “Occasionally. So what? She said she had to go somewhere.” He shrugged. “Didn’t tell me where. And I took exception to it. She’d been a cow earlier. She rode back to the camp on her bike.”
He fell silent for a moment obviously thinking it over carefully now.
“You saw her later in the camp, Mr. Macey?” Peale intervened leaning over the table. “We can check up on it.”
Macey gave him a sulky look. “Yeah... I caught up with her again eventually. She was changing in her tent then.”
Bob Fowler studied the young man’s face carefully. “So she was actually staying in the camp. Not at home? Why was that?”
Macey nodded. “Said she’d rowed in the week with her old man. And she wanted to be where the action is, you know. She looked good in the TV news. She was a real asset to us. Made people sit up and take notice, you know. And that was good for our cause.”
Peale snorted in the background. But made no comment.
“So what happened when you caught up with her, Mr. Macey? Did you argue again or make up? Did you try to keep her there? The word is you’d been drinking...”
“So I was pissed. So what?”
He shifted in the chair again, crossed his legs and looked uncomfortable now. “Tell me how things really were between you, Mr. Macey? Not good by the sound of it.”
Macey glowered at Fowler. “You’re trying to make a fucking case against me! I would like my solicitor here if this interrogation is going to continue.” He stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back noisily. “She was bloody willing before her old man interfered. We were good together.” He challenged Peale’s eyes and the eyes of everyone else listening around them now with his loud defiant declaration.
Fowler gestured with his hand. “Will you sit down again, please, Mr. Macey. I am not finished with you yet. Did you row with her again last night in the camp? Did you try to stop her leaving?”
Macey got up to lean over the table. Shaking it with his pressure, he thrust his scowling face close up to Fowler’s, “She didn’t want to know, man. She wouldn’t stay in the camp with me. Told me she had to see someone. Wouldn’t say who it was.”
The belligerent sharp tone of his voice changed suddenly to that of a spoilt child. He sat down again his hand went to his shoulder. “I tried to kiss her, she slapped my face hard and — and I hit her back. I grabbed hold of her and the bitch tore my shirt. Used her nails on me...” He relapsed into a moody silence and scowled.
Fowler said quietly, “And what did you do next, Mr. Macey? After she pushed you off? Did you try it on again? You didn’t go after her?”
He shrugged. “I let her go. I couldn’t do anything else to stop her from taking off again, short of killing her... Could I?” He stopped abruptly and then grinned ruefully. “There were others there that saw her leave. Ask them. She used a bike to get where she was going. It was getting on for midnight then. And I drank some more beer...” He glared back at Peale. “Don’t really know what I did afterwards, Chief Inspector. You can ask anyone there in camp. If you want. They can give me an alibi.”
“I sincerely hope so, Mr. Macey. You say that Sandra left on her bike and didn’t say where she was going? She didn’t come back at any time?”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know, man. She must have thought it more important than staying with me.”
“She didn’t confide much in you, did she, Mr. Macey? Why was that, do you think? She didn’t trust you?”
“Good at keeping secrets, was she?” Peale chipped in impatiently.
“I think she was making a play for Rollo Bell. He’s married but that didn’t stop her, for all I knew she was meeting up with him on the sly.”
“Was there anyone else you can tell us about, who might have been as keen on Sandra as you obviously were, Mr. Macey?”
“Yes,” Macey declared savagely. “Ask that bloody deaf idiot, Martin Robbins, for starters, what he was up to last night. After Sandra left he came charging into the camp on his scooter like he was the Terminator.” Peale and Fowlers exchanged amused looks at this. “Couldn’t make much out of what he was saying but it was obvious he wanted to know where she’d gone. It came to blows when he saw she’d ripped my shirt. Thought I’d attacked her. Bloody idiot. Couldn’t get him to bloody well see sense.”
“So he wanted to know where she was, Mr. Macey.”
“He went bloody ballistic. I couldn’t tell him where she was going. They had to get him off of me. He left soon afterwards. Looked like he was going to find her. Perhaps he did,” he declared belligerently. “He was bloody mad enough to do someone an injury. He was going on about Rollo Bell. That much I could make out. Why don’t you ask him?”
“So you don’t know where he was headed. But it could have been the Bells’ farm. What time was it when he left? If you can remember, Macey.”
“I don’t bloody know where he went. I can’t deal with sign language. It was well past midnight I’d say by then.”
Fowler frowned at this. “And you were still in the camp for the rest of the night, Mr. Macey? You are positive about that?”
“I think so, as much of it that I can remember. Yes, I was,” he added defiantly. “Can I go now? Got things to do.”
“Thank you, Mr. Macey. That is all for now. We may wish to speak to you again later.”
Macey stood up and strolled out leisurely, hands in jacket pocket, through the incident room once again. His eyes were drawn to Sandra’s picture on the wall in passing, and he turned at the door to smile and wink at Gerry Coombe. Peale bristled beside Fowler who chuckled as he watched Macey go out, then he snapped back into action.
“So Martin Robbins next, I think. Could need some help with that interview. The boy’s deaf. Will you take this on, Peale? And DC Coombe please. Go seek him out.” He looked down at the notes on the table. “Sandra’s parents were informed first thing. I have to ask Alan Peterson to identify his daughter shortly. Ask PC Powell to tell you where the Robbins’ house is. You can walk it.”
“Right, Bob.” Peale smiled and looked over at DC Coombe who smiled back. “Ready when you are, Coombe?”
Not far off the main street they found the Robbins’ cottage tucked in close in a narrow lane behind the ivy covered vicarage. If they’d known more about Martin Robbins than they did, they could have been led there by the excessively loud chattering bird noise coming from the garden behind the house.
Peale made a face as they reached the front door step. “Christ! What’s that ruddy row, Gerry? It’s worse than a parrot house.”
“It could be.” She laughed. “Sounds like birds. Lots of them. They must keep budgies,” she said as Peale lifted the brass owl knocker and knocked loudly at the green front door wreathed in mauve clematis and pink climbing roses.
The plump, rosy cheeked middle aged woman that opened up the door to them wore a cream loose jacket over a blue floral print dress and a blue straw hat. There was a small suitcase standing in the hall behind her. She looked startled to see the police identity card that Peale showed her immediately.