Troubled Waters (12 page)

Saturday 29
th
November

I struggle to get up out of bed. It’s my back again, of course, after the punch-up with the fracking protesters. It must have improved, though, because I had forgotten about it.

No time like the present. I rummage through my business cards for the last time I had needed a physio. It’s in Crewe town centre. I call and a receptionist advises that an appointment can be made for three days hence, but I decline as I’m not sure I can wait that long. I check the internet, and there is another physio practice on a small industrial estate on the outskirts of Sandbach. A message in an angry female voice announces, ‘I am driving and will call you back.’ Whatever happened to customer service, I wonder.

I have breakfast and wait a little longer; it must be a long drive. I give up, then I remember that the son of one of my neighbours has a degree in sports sciences and has done work for the Welsh rugby team and the local hospital. Knowing them well enough to be cheeky, I tentatively walk round and plead my case. His mother laughs and is unsympathetic when I tell her it all started with playing golf, but fortunately she does confirm he will be there later in the day and would be delighted to have a look at my back. I thank her very much and hope he feels the same.

I busy myself with office work and keep out of Cyril’s way; I’m definitely not feeling up to doing farm chores. The time arrives and I pop round. Nathan is in his early twenties, a tall, well-built lad, obviously a rugby player. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but he shows me through to a back room that is set up as a proper physio studio complete with professional table. He even takes notes and asks me questions to ascertain background. After an hour of probing and pulling around, he tests my reflexes with a hammer and pronounces that I haven’t slipped a disc or broken any bones. I’m relieved to hear that there is nothing serious. He says it will ease after a few days, but they always say that, don’t they? He adds that it’s most important to keep moving, and gives me some stretching exercises to do three times a day. A few minutes later I’m on my way, minus a few quid, of course, but only half of what it would have been on the high street.

***

The man sat on his own in the middle seat of the third row of the SAS Airlines afternoon flight to Oslo, and appeared to be reading something on his Kindle Fire. He occasionally moved his head fractionally as he smiled to himself, attracting the attention of the young female on his right who was gazing out of the window. She tried to glance down to see what he was reading, but was unable to make it out owing to the size of the font. She gave up and went back to her daydreaming, while he dreamt of money.

He only had one visit to make in Oslo before boarding another flight to his next destination. Upon leaving the arrivals hall, he hailed a cab, getting into the back and placing his cabin bag on the seat beside him. He gave the driver directions to the downtown branch of Citibank. He asked the driver to wait, as he expected to be only a few minutes. He had arranged in advance to meet the manager, in order to make a transfer of the balance in his account to a Swiss bank, and then close the account.

A quarter of an hour later, the man emerged from the bank and returned to the cab. He instructed the driver to take him back to the airport. Paying off the driver, he walked into the departures hall, where he bought a ticket to a new destination, paying in cash. Moving on to a currency desk, he bought euros before checking the information board. The gate for his flight was not yet open, so he bought a newspaper and sat in a coffee shop to wait.

***

I’m in the office early this Tuesday morning. Amelia is late, which is most unusual, and there has been no phone call. We didn’t speak over the weekend, and she was at a funeral yesterday while I worked from home. She finally arrives at nine forty-five, flustered.

‘Bloody car wouldn’t start!’ she exclaims. ‘I had to call out the RAC.’

‘What was the problem this time?’ I enquire, knowing she’s had problems before.

‘Battery again. Took him two charges before it started properly.’

‘French cars,’ I observe wryly.

‘That’s exactly what he said,’ she groaned. ‘Advised me to buy a heavy-duty battery, as the one I’ve got is only just powerful enough, and because I don’t use the car every day and only do a low mileage it doesn’t retain the charge. He said I’d be better with a Ford.’

‘Common knowledge,’ I remark, to show sympathy.

‘Your face doesn’t look that bad now,’ she observes.

‘Anti-inflammatory over the weekend,’ I answer.

‘Got something to tell you!’ she says gleefully. ‘I’ll get the coffee first, though.’

I get my head down again, trying in vain to reconcile the bank statement with our cash book. Even Amelia’s dodgy car battery is more exciting, but it’s the intrigue in her comment that is really holding my attention.

Coffee cooling, she begins. ‘After the gym class last night, I went for a drink with Suzy and Sophia. We were going over the night of the murder, when they were in the Lowry Hotel. They got to talking about men, as girls do, observing the odd celeb and footballers – which ones they might go out with, etc., and they let slip something about Marian.’

‘Yes, and…?’

‘Well, she inferred that she didn’t need to look at anybody in the bar as she was already fixed up.’

‘But she was married!’ I mention.

‘Yes, I know, but she was clearly having an affair,’ Amelia stresses.

‘Do the police know about it?’ I demand. ‘I know they suspected from information coming back via the fracking protesters.’

‘I doubt if they do. The girls gave me no indication they had told the police about it. So what do we do?’

‘Tread carefully for now,’ I reply. ‘Let me think about how we approach it. We don’t want the girls to think we are passing on information, but then again they must have realised when they were discussing it with you last night that we couldn’t keep information like that to ourselves.’

‘You’re right, but after a few glasses of wine?’

‘I agree. Maybe we have another chat with them, suggest they make the approach themselves.’

‘Diplomacy,’ Amelia confirms.

At one o’clock Amelia gets up to pop out for lunch. ‘I thought we’d have smoked salmon salad with pasta from M&S.’

Amelia’s on a diet and informs me that I could lose a pound or two too. Since I twisted my back a few weeks ago on the golf course and have not exercised since, some weight has crept on. The fracas with Barry Milton and the fracking protesters has only further aggravated the situation.

The pasta was bland. ‘You said you were up to your eyeballs in pasta yesterday after all our visits to Peroni,’ I observe.

‘Yes, but unless you’ve forgotten already, we didn’t actually eat anything at Carluccio’s that night.’

‘Ah! That takeaway was good, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Men!’ she mock-huffs.

Our diplomacy plans prove unnecessary when the phone rings a short time later. It’s Sophia for Amelia. I’m close enough to hear the voice but not the words.

‘Can I put you on microphone so that we can both listen?’ Amelia asks.

‘Yes, of course,’ Sophia answers. ‘It’s about last night.  We’ve been thinking, Suzy and me… you know we’d had a few drinks, but I hope we didn’t say anything out of order?’

Amelia and I exchange glances. I signal for Amelia to answer.

‘You did infer that Marian could have been having an affair at one point.’

‘Oh dear, are we in any trouble?’

I jump in quickly. ‘You could be if you don’t let the police know about this sooner rather than later.’

‘We don’t know for sure, and we can’t be certain it’s even relevant.’

‘I know, but that is for the police to decide,’ I answer.

‘Would you like to us to mention it to the police first?’ Amelia offers.

‘Would you?’ Sophia asks.

‘Certainly, don’t worry. I’m sure they won’t arrest you,’ Amelia reassures her, putting the phone down.

‘Where do we go from here?’ Amelia asks.

‘I’ve got an idea. Its Wednesday tomorrow, and there’s a nine-hole competition at Forest View Golf Club. I can’t play because of my back, but it would be an unmissable opportunity if I didn’t happen to be there when a certain Inspector Bill Lambert came in from his round.’

‘Very crafty,’ Amelia says admiringly.

‘Ah! And there’s more: I haven’t told you yet about Carl Benson, last Friday.’ I go on to relate my impromptu counselling session.

***

It’s Wednesday morning and my back is not troubling me, so I take a chance and load my golf clubs into the back of the Saab. I head off to Forest View Golf Club for some practice on the driving range. The car park is full because of the competition, and I am relieved to see Bill Lambert’s Vauxhall Insignia in a prominent spot close to the clubhouse. He must have been an early bird, also getting some practice in. I manage to find a spot at the furthest point from the clubhouse.

I have a brief chat with the lady on reception, who is twiddling her thumbs until the competition is over. I take my token for one hundred balls and trudge back to the car to choose my allowance of four clubs to take onto the driving range.

The driving range is not busy, and with a few nods I take my place midway along it. Stretching over, I set up, trying to look like the ace golfer I am definitely not. Against the pro’s advice I begin with a driver, a smidge under two hundred yards. Easy. The next two are also good, then it all starts to go wrong: as usual one left, the next one right. I step back to consider my errors. In the booth to my right, and therefore in my full vision, is a young school-age lad. I watch him take his driver, then he coils up like a spring and makes shot after bloody perfect shot, two hundred yards, straight as an arrow. He could shoot the apple off your head. His doting father speaks.

‘Well done, our Jimmy. That’s enough for now. Let’s go have a break and get a cup of tea.’

Sickened, I give up the driver and pick up an iron, and things do improve, just as the pro has told me time and again. After half an hour my back starts to play up and I quit while I’m ahead; the competition should be finishing soon anyway. I chuck my clubs in the Saab and walk back to the clubhouse to wait for Bill Lambert.

Positioning myself at the bar, close to the door where I have a good view of the first competitors, I wave and greet a couple of regulars at the other end of the bar. John, the young bar manager, comes over to serve me.

‘Good morning. Not playing today? Bombay Sapphire, is it?’

‘Yes, please. The back is still not quite right yet. Managed half an hour on the range, though.’

‘My dad’s been bad for months with his back too. Physiotherapy’s not working,’ he informs me, placing the Bombay Sapphire gin and lime on the bar with current favourite: a bottle of Fever Tree tonic water. I’ve taken maybe a couple of sips, and in walks Bill Lambert with a broad on grin his face. He spots me straightaway and we shake hands.

‘Obviously a good round,’ I observe.

‘Played to my handicap. Got three pars, and I’m in with a chance of winning the competition today,’ he says, clearly chuffed.

‘Pint of Speckled Hen?’ I offer.

‘I’ve earned it today.’

John is still standing close by and begins to pull the beer. ‘Coming up,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

I gesture to Bill and we move over to a corner table where we can chat for a few minutes before the bar becomes too busy.

‘I can tell you have something on your mind,’ he correctly observes.

‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘Remember that your inside man on the fracking group said that he suspected Marian Clowes was having an affair but was convinced it wasn’t with anyone from the group? He asked if we could check with the girls from Salford into Work if they had a view on the subject of her having an affair.’

‘That’s correct. It appeared, to Tim Sheldon certainly, that it wasn’t just idle gossip.’

‘Well, Amelia and the girls, Sophia and Suzy, are members of the same gym class. They stopped in a bar after a class and got talking over a drink or two about the night of the murder. The girls told Amelia in no uncertain terms that Marian had virtually confessed to having an affair, but unfortunately she wouldn’t reveal who with.’

‘That’s music to my ears,’ Bill replies. ‘Even if it does further complicate things. I’ve always thought the Barry Milton scenario could be a tad too convenient, and now this does provide another motive.’

‘Actually, now you have potentially three motives,’ I point out.

‘What do you mean?’

I have to pause as two golfers come over to congratulate Bill on his good play. Once private again, I continue.

‘There are actually two whistle-blower motives,’ I begin. ‘One for the Salford into Work fraud and another for the fracking group protest. Marian Clowes affair now provides an additional third motive for a crime of passion. Perhaps she was going to reveal all.’

‘Yes, it certainly muddies the already troubled waters.’

We contemplate our drinks for a moment or two, until Bill beams a smile and offers to buy another round.