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2024-10-29 19:42:56There was mail for me the next morning. A hand delivered letter. I picked it up after I had closed the door of the outer eight by ten office, skirted the table and chair and pushed open the door marked “PRIVATE.”
Behind the door lay my office which was a bigger room than the reception office and I immediately made myself a black coffee with the small travel kettle I kept in the bottom drawer of my desk with the water from the communal kitchen. I parked myself behind my desk, sipped the coffee from the chipped mug, ordained with the badge of Arsenal Football Club and opened the envelope. With the letter was a cheque for my services. It was quite a substantial fee. I immediately read the letter:
OXMARKET ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY
87 CHANDOS AVENUE
OXMARKET
SUFFOLK
IP14 2NS
01445-752028
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COUNTER MEASURES 13
High tide had pushed into the inner harbour and the boats tied up along Oxmarket Quay towered over me as I headed south, past a forest of masts and radar grilles and satellite pods. The clock tower on the town hall could be seen above the steeply pitched roofs and dormer windows. I skirted piles of lobster creels and great heaps of tangled green fishing net. Skippers and crew were off loading supplies from vans and four-by-fours on to trawlers and small fishing boats, today nowhere near over before preparations were being made for tomorrow. Overhead the gulls wheeled endlessly, scraps of white against a clear blue sky, catching the midday sun and calling to the gods. At Buckingham Avenue I looked along the length of this pedestrianized street with its ornamental flowerbeds and wrought iron benches. On a Friday and Saturday night it would be thick with teenagers gathering in groups and cliques
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She came immediately and I studied her attentively in view of DI Silver’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white dress with a rosebud on the shoulder. She was holding a matching clutch bag that was covered in silk rosebuds.I explained the circumstances that had brought me to Chandos Avenue, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Captain Godden indifferently with tepid approval, it was only at the mention of John Kately did she approach animation.“That man’s a crook,” she said sharply. “I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen – constantly investing money for his plumbing business.”“Are you sorry that your father is dead?”She stared at me.“Of course. But over the years I’ve learnt to keep my emotions in check, so I don’t indulge in sob st
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The music from Turntable was pulsating in the Cellar & Kitchen, competing with the babble of voices and drink-induced laughter. I ordered a pint for me and a brandy and lemonade for Kimberley and we leaned on the bar and waited for the barmaid to finish serving us. The place was heaving, all the tables were full and a crowd three or four deep were gathered round the bar. The windows were all steamed up, like the majority of the locals who had been there from the start of the gig. Our drinks arrived, thumped down in a beer puddle on the bar. I dropped my money in the same puddle and caught the look the barmaid threw me. She swept the money into her hand and returned a moment later with a beer towel to wipe the counter dry. I gave her a winning smile and she replied with a sullen scowl.&nb
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After the helicopter had left, the man who had replaced Zoë as Oxmarket’s local GP, joined us and gave us all the information that I required. Ian Hammond had been found lying near the window, his head by the marble window-seat. There were two wounds, one between the eyes and the other, the fatal one, on the back of the head. “He was lying on his back?” “Yes. There is the mark.” He pointed to a small dark stain on the floor. “Couldn’t the blow on the back of the head have been caused when it hit the floor?” DI Silver asked.Much to her annoyance I had sent Kimberley off to use the many facilities available to the guests within the restored grand Neo-Jacobean mansion. They varied from a twenty metre p
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The bar was empty except for Sir William Frederick Patterson who was sitting by himself playing patience in an alcove formed by the left hand of three bow windows. We walked across the heavy carpet, noticing the rich background music of Hans Zimmer filling the room. “You must be Detective Inspector Paul Silver and John Handful, the consulting private detective,” he said as we came up. “And you must be Sir William Frederick Patterson.” DI Silver responded, sharply. “Please join me,” he said waving to two chairs that faced him. “Just let me finish this. Drink?” “Yes, please.” I said and we sat down and waited. He beckoned to the barman who came over
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We entered the imposing circular dining room, and stood for a few moments at the wide double-doored entrance. I casually looked around and could almost smell the affluence in the room from the few guests already seated for lunch. The room was filled with round tables, covered with immaculately white tablecloths and fresh flowers in the centre of each, beneath bright crystal-like chandeliers. Even the gleaming cutlery appeared to be silver. The head waiter greeted us and led the way to one of the smaller tables in a comparatively quieter part of the dining room. Once we were seated the head waiter barely waved a hand and a waitress dressed in a creamy white blouse and a slim black skirt with dark tights arrived with the menus and I ordered a large bottle of sparkling mineral water. We perused the menus in silence until the waitress returned with the water and poured two glasses.&
COUNTER MEASURES 19
The day after I returned from Onehouse Island, Maria Ashe, was waiting for me in my outer eight by ten office and I motioned her into the room with the door marked “PRIVATE,” and shut the door behind me. She was an attractive red-head in her early thirties and she had hired me to find out if her husband was having an affair. We had first met at the café, Julie’s Place. She had been nervous about hiring me. A newbie. Some could get cold feet. Others had feet of clay. They wanted someone to peek behind the curtains, but they are frightened of what they might find. She had used the phrase “seeing someone else” which sounded politely courteous coming from her lips. Most spouses tended to voice their mistrust in cruder terms. &nb
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Mortuaries were places where the dead stopped being people and turned instead into being bags of meat, offal, blood and bone. I had never been sick at the scene of a crime, but the first few times I had visited a mortuary the contents of my stomach had fairly quickly nearly been rendered up for examination. Eventually, the body bag was brought into the post-mortem room and the corpse of Vasily Kutziyez was laid out on the autopsy table, beneath the hum and glare of powerful halogen lighting. The room was antiseptic with a stinging aroma of chemicals. Voices were kept muffled, not so much out of respect but from a strange kind of fear. The mortuary, after all, was one vast memento mori and what was happening to Vasily Kutziyez’s body would serve to remind each and every one of us that if the body were a temple, then it was possible to loot the temple and scatter its treasures and reveal its preciou
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COUNTER MEASURES 32
DI Silver put money in the machine and got out two coffees. “White, no sugar.” I took the coffee with one hand. In the other I held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was my shirt. “Do you want to tell me what happened then, John?” He sat down next to me. I sipped the coffee, it tasted awful. “Professor Stephen Baker lured Cairo Nickolls, Robert Trefoil and Bernard Catterall to his house, drugged them and then systematically cut them up.” “Jesus,” DI Silver exclaimed. “What did he drug them with?” “Chloroform.” I replied. “It’s vapour depresses the central nervous system of a patient, allowing the Professor to cut them up without them even knowing.” “But why?” “He wanted justice for the murder of Jenny Davies.” I replied. “As pathologist on the case he provided the evidence for the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, a certain Gerard Forlin. It should have been an open and shut
COUNTER MEASURES 31
I found a deserted corner in the Waggoner’s Rest while DI Silver ordered a pint of Wellington Bomber for himself and a pint of Calvors 3.8 for me. He had already sipped his drink on the way over to the table and when he sat down he wiped away a white moustache of froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. Suddenly, a scuffle broke out at the bar, apparently over a woman. A glass fell to the floor, followed by a hush in the bar. Then everyone seemed to calm down a little. One man was led outside by his supporters in the argument. Another remained slumped against the bar, muttering to a woman beside him. “Where’s Robert Trefoil?” I asked, referring to the landlord. “Today is his day off,” DI Silver replied. &ld
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A sandstone arch marked the entrance to Oxmarket Woods. The narrow access road, flanked by trees, lead to a small car park, a dead end. This was where I met DI Silver; his car was parked amongst the fallen leaves. Thirty yards from the car park was a signpost pointing out several walking trails. The red trail takes an hour and covered approximately two miles. The purple trail is shorter but it took in an Iron Age fort. Fallen leaves were piled like snowdrifts along the ditches and the breeze had shaken droplets from the branches. This was ancient woodland and I could smell the damp earth, rotting boles and mould: a cavalcade of smells. Occasionally, between the trees I glimpsed a railing fence that marked the boundary. Above and beyond it there were roofs of houses. &n
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“What were you arguing with Mr Gannaway about last night?” I asked Craig Osborne brusquely. “Look, Mr whatever your name is, please don’t waste my time, I have very urgent business to attend to in London.” “And you’ll have some very important questions to attend to down the police station,” DI Silver bellowed, “if you don’t answer Mr Handful.” I suddenly saw fear in Osborne’s eyes. “We were arguing about something he had stolen from Miss Bellagamba,” he said quietly. “Which was?” “An Anthonie Van Borsom oil painting.” “Pricey,” I exclaimed. &
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At low tide Kimberley and I walked along the beach to Oxham, the next coastal village on from Oxmarket. It was a grey morning. The mist still lingering inland, but at the edge of the sea, the air was cold and clear. It was hard going, walking along pebble and rocks encrusted with tiny, sharp mussel shells. Eventually, we sat down for breakfast at the Inn by the Sea where the bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but passable and boiling hot. “I don’t know,” I said, stretching myself backward. “I believe I could manage another egg and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon. What about you, darling?” Kimberley shook her head vigorously. “Good God, no,” she exclaimed, patting her perfectly flat stomach. “I’m absolutely stuffed.”
COUNTER MEASURES 26
Anna Mitchell surprised me. She was smart and attractive in her dark blue trouser suit, with blonde hair and a pale complexion; she stood out from the rest of the customers in The Old Cannon Brewery. A group of young men at the bar tracked her when she appeared, but they turned away as she sat down opposite me at the table near the window that overlooked Oxmarket Tye’s snow-covered cobbled market square. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Handful,” she said, although there was a frost to her tone. “Thank you,” I said, “may I get you a drink?” “A Prosecco would be lovely.” I walked to the bar and ordered a glass of Prosecco and a pint of Calvors 3.8. On my return, Anna Mitchell thanked me with a con
COUNTER MEASURES 25
The Waggoner’s’ Rest was mid-evening quiet. I was seated in the back room with a pint of Gunner’s Daughter and the latest edition of the Oxmarket Chronicle when DI Silver arrived. He asked me if I wanted a refill. “Have I ever been known to refuse?” He retreated and returned with a couple of pints of the same. “What do you make of the Fuentes case?” He asked me, raising the glass and taking a gulp, exhaling noisily afterwards. “Interesting to say the least,” I said. “Especially the suicide note. Why didn’t she sign it Monique, or at the very least Mother?” “Yes, that was odd,” the Detective Inspector agreed.
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Standing at the window, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my apartment. Clear winter skies and snow covered Suffolk fields. I could see the grey buildings of Oxmarket expanding out before me, but the bright sunlight turned the tired old fishing community into a quaint picture postcard seaside village. The winter made living in Oxmarket worthwhile and tourists didn’t visit at this time of the year, so it felt like I had the place to myself, a private view of a bygone age. Yet, it had character. My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground and I smiled at the memory of the north-easterly sea breeze ruffling through my hair the night before when I had walked hand in hand with Kimberley and her dog Charlie, along the beach in the darkness. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of small feet in my slippers. I didn’t need to look round. I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Kimberley wrapped her arms a
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I went back to my tiny second-floor suite of offices, sat behind my desk and turned on my laptop computer. I logged on to the internet and checked my e-mails, many of which were junk from various finance firms offering payday loans with extortionate interest well above the norm and details of how to claim back wrongly sold PPI. Nestled amongst the trash were three e-mails from the local Oxmarket solicitors, Hogbin, Marshall and Moruzzi: one confirming my fee for the Ashe case that I had just completed, one asking me to research a local health insurance fraud and the third was to check on the security of a local stables that housed the favourite for the Grand National. I replied to each e-mail separately before entering the Google search engine and typing in ‘Junior Ballroom Dancing Champions’ but this turned up numerous
