Fatal Decision Page 14

  “They wouldn’t hear of it though, I bet.”

  “Just look at that,” said Gus.

  Everything about the property they were visiting clashed with its neighbours. The other houses on this Avenue on the Greenwood estate looked drab and unloved. The Attrill’s front garden was filled with flowers. It boasted a water feature and hanging baskets either side of the door.

  Most front gardens on either side of the road had been paved over or laid with gravel which leeched onto the pavements. Many had rusting white goods instead of floral displays. It had become the modern way.

  A cheery, red-faced man answered the door. He looked to be the same age as Gus.

  “Hello there,” he said, “you must be from the police. Come on in.”

  “Good morning, Mr Attrill. I’m Freeman, a civilian consultant with Wiltshire police. This is Ms Barre, one of my colleagues on the Crime Review Team. Is Simon at home?”

  “He is, when your people called yesterday afternoon they said you wished to talk with the three of us. My wife is through here, in the conservatory. Simon is playing in the garden. We can call him in when you’re ready.”

  Mr Attrill led them through the kitchen and into a utility room. A patio door opened into the conservatory that ran the width of the rear of the house. Gus remembered Tess had spoken about adding an extension to their bungalow.

  He hadn’t been as keen. The way this room faced meant the Attrill’s had the sun until late evening. It was clear they loved it. There was no escaping the warmth of the sun. If he sat out here for any length of time, he would fall asleep.

  Gus and Tess wouldn’t have been as fortunate. Their back garden was in the shade by two in the afternoon this time of year. He preferred the open air he enjoyed at his allotment.

  Mrs Attrill was a cheery-faced individual too. She jumped up from her chair, letting her knitting drop onto the floor.

  “Welcome,” she cried, “can I get you something to drink? How about a cool glass of lemonade? Call Simon indoors, darling, will you?”

  Mr Attrill went to the conservatory door while his wife scuttled off towards the kitchen.

  “She likes to keep busy,” he said to Gus as he passed, “she won’t check if you prefer a hot drink. It’s just her way.”

  “A cold drink will be just fine,” said Gus.

  He gazed out of the conservatory window. The front garden looked good, but this was great.

  Every square inch had been utilised. Mr Attrill was walking back with Simon now. He had been in the greenhouse in the far right-hand corner. Simon towered over his father and was a giant, as Megan Morris had described him. He shuffled along holding his father’s hand.

  “I was watering the plants,” said Simon, “who are you?”

  “This man and lady are from the police, Simon,” his father said as they reached a wooden bench by the door. Simon sat on it. He didn’t seem to want to come inside.

  “We wanted to ask you about Mrs Tolliver, Simon,” said Gus, “do you remember her?”

  “I never see her now. I miss playing with Bobby,”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw her with Bobby, Simon, on Battersby Lane? It was a long time ago now.”

  Gus could see Lydia and Mrs Attrill through the window. Simon’s mother looked agitated. She wanted to come out to be with her son.

  “Let’s go inside, Simon. Mum’s got a nice glass of lemonade for you. She’s made it especially. Because you helped with the watering.”

  “Thirsty work,” said Simon, “The plants get thirsty too, in the summer.”

  The three men made their way indoors. Simon sat next to his mother. His father stood to the side and invited Lydia and Gus to sit in the remaining chairs. A pitcher of lemonade and five glasses stood on the glass-topped table in the centre of the room.

  Lydia got her first good look at Simon Attrill. He was huge. His hands were the size of dinner plates. His manner was child-like but his features were those of a thirty-year-old who reminded her of the archetypal farm labourer who spent his days in the open air. He could have been handsome and yet as soon as he turned his face towards you it was plain to see the damage done by that dreadful childhood accident.

  “Tastes good,” said Simon, smacking his lips after demolishing half a glass in one mouthful.

  “Tell Mr Freeman about the last time you saw Bobby, Simon,” said his father.

  “I got my knees wet. Mum made me change my trousers when I got home.”

  “Where was Bobby the last time you played with him, Simon?” asked Gus.

  “Going into Lowden Woods. I watched them until I couldn’t see them anymore.”

  “Did you see anyone else come out of the pathway after they had gone?”

  “I walked home. I’m not supposed to be out too late,”

  “So, there was nobody in the Lane or on Lowden Hill when you were walking home?”

  “Only the man, but he was too far away for me to tell who he was,” said Simon.

  “On the hillside?”

  “Now you see him, now you don’t,”

  “He disappeared behind the trees, is that what you mean?”

  “Now you see him, now you don’t. Can I go back to finish watering the plants now?”

  “I think so,” said Gus, nodding to Mr Attrill. He took Simon back into the garden.

  “You have a beautiful garden, Mrs Attrill. It must take hours to keep it this good,” said Lydia.

  “My husband describes his garden as a labour of love. He transformed the space from a rough meadow into what we have now. It’s been a peaceful haven for over twenty years. A place where I have recovered from a serious illness. It helps the three of us physically, and spiritually. We feel very blessed.”

  “This is definitely a garden that stops you in your tracks,” said Gus. “It must be a joy to live with throughout the year,” said Gus, “it puts my garden to shame.”

  “I don’t even know what all the flowers are,” admitted Lydia, “I’m a city girl.”

  “At the moment we’ve got red-hot pokers, allium, ornamental lilies, begonias and freesias. I like the gravel paths that zig-zag through the beds. We plant the vegetables among the flowering plants. Simon loves the colours and finding cabbages and lettuces hidden behind a hydrangea. It’s an adventure every day for him.”

  Mr Attrill had returned. He stood in the patio doorway.

  “Is that it, then?” he asked.

  “He confirmed what we knew. That he was the last person to see Daphne Tolliver alive, apart from her killer. The man he saw in the trees up on Lowden Hill was most likely the person responsible and is one of two men we now wish to identify as soon as possible. Simon was at least a hundred yards away from the person on the hill. He says he couldn’t tell who it was. Unless he knew him very well, it’s unlikely he could tell at that distance. I think it’s everything we can hope to learn from him. We’re very grateful for your cooperation, both of you.”

  Mr and Mrs Attrill walked to the front door with Gus and Lydia. They stood on the doorstep and watched until they drove away.

  “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” said Lydia, “it’s as if he’s still eight in their eyes. They don’t treat him as an adult. Surely, it would be better for his future if they prepared him for what’s coming?”

  “Simon’s mother said the garden helped her recover when she was seriously ill. Perhaps it was a mental illness, and she’s never come to terms with what happened. Simon’s father may be the only one with a grip on reality in that household.”

  “Where would the man have been heading from that point on the hillside?”

  “Search me. Anywhere on the Westbourne estate, the town centre itself and surrounding villages. He could have had a car nearby.”

  “We’re no further forward then?”

  “I asked if there was anybody on the hillside. He said it was a man. We now know for certain it wasn’t a woman. Would he have said boy if it had been someone Gavin or Carl’s age? I believe so. He wo
uld have associated them with someone only a few years older than himself. In his eyes. He saw someone who was a man, even then. Over twenty-one.”

  “Our next port of call will be a totally different experience,” said Lydia.

  “The Manor House? The sooner we get this over the better. Alex reckons the General Manager has dementia. He was the chef when Daphne Tolliver began working there. The Minister’s wife has a reputation for liking a drink. We’d better get over there before she starts swigging the sherry.”

  The Manor House was an imposing property. Gus had needed to interview the odd Lord and Lady in his time. Usually when they had been burgled, or there were poachers on their estate. He parked the Ford Focus to the far side of the stone steps leading to the front door.

  “A longer walk this way, guv,” said Lydia.

  “I thought it best not to lower the tone by parking my jalopy slap-bang in the middle of the driveway. I know my place.”

  “Do you approve of my outfit today, guv?”

  “I had noticed. The Attrill’s garden had more show of colour than you, which makes a change. You only need to tone it down, Lydia and maybe the classy Mrs Pemberton-Smythe will give you a few pointers.”

  Lydia was on the verge of taking issue with her boss. As she turned towards him she saw he had a twinkle in his eye.

  “Touché,” she quipped.

  Gus rang the bell. His hand was poised to ring again when it opened. A short, fat woman in a black dress and wearing a white apron looked at them.

  “Please?” she said. Gus wasn’t sure whether she was Spanish or Italian.

  “We are here to speak with Isaac Crompton. It’s the police. We have an appointment.”

  “Please?” the lady repeated and waved them into the large hallway.

  “I think we’re supposed to wait,” said Lydia.

  The lady of unknown Mediterranean origin waddled away to the rooms on the right-hand side of the staircase.

  Gus heard her knock on a wooden door. She went inside and thirty seconds later she reappeared.

  “Please?” she said, more loudly, so they heard her and beckoned them to come forward.

  “Crompton must be along here, I assume,” said Gus, “I wonder what we’ll find.”

  They almost reached the doorway when they heard a cultured voice call out.

  “If you wish to interrogate Crompton, he should have a responsible adult present. I’m the only one who can get any sense out of him these days.”

  This must be Joyce Pemberton-Smythe, Gus thought.

  “Good morning,” said Gus, “I’m Freeman. I’m attached to Wiltshire Police as a consultant looking into the Daphne Tolliver murder back in 2008. This is my colleague, Ms Barre.”

  “Poor old Daffers. We do miss her. Thank you, Maria, you can scoot off back to the kitchen now. I’m sure there’s plenty for you to do.”

  With a brief bob of her head, the servant accepted she was dismissed.

  “Maria joined us eighteen months ago. She came highly recommended by the agency. My Portuguese is non-existent and her English hasn’t progressed much.”

  “Please,” said Lydia.

  “Exactly. Maria makes it cover pretty much everything. Most Brits are just as bad when they travel overseas so we can’t complain. I speak French like a native but sadly Maria didn’t get much schooling in Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Who’s that?” A disembodied voice came from beyond the open door.

  “Only me, Crompton,” said Joyce, and she entered the room. Gus and Lydia followed her.

  The old man sat in a window seat overlooking the lawns to the side of the Manor House. He had a beautiful view of the Italian garden beyond and Gus could see the vast expanse of Lowden Hills in the distance. Despite the warmer weather, Crompton had a rug covering him below the waist.

  “Crompton, these are the people I mentioned yesterday. They want to talk to you about Daphne. Mrs Tolliver. Do you remember?”

  The old man had been studying each of them, one by one. He turned towards the window.

  “Daphne,” he said, “she asked me to call her Daphne, not Mrs Tolliver. That was a long time ago. I miss talking to her.”

  “How long has he been like this?” Gus asked, quietly.

  “Around eighteen months ago, I noticed his short term memory was on the blink. That’s why we employed Maria. We couldn’t rely on him to cook our meals on time. When my husband is home, we are on a tight schedule. We entertain guests, of course, and Crompton’s vague grip on things left us with empty plates and bemused guests on a couple of occasions. Your Chief Constable was among them. He plays golf at North Wilts with Leonard.”

  “Do you mind if we check a few things ourselves,” asked Gus, “he remembers Mrs Tolliver from ten years ago. All may not be lost. Was there any reason he didn’t leave here and seek treatment elsewhere?”

  “Look, I am aware what ordinary people think of the likes of us who still have staff waiting on us hand and foot,” said Joyce Pemberton-Smythe. It was the most animated she had been since they arrived. She walked over to Crompton and placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder. “He’s been part of Leonard’s family for fifty years. He came straight from the Savoy at twenty-one to work for Leonard’s father. Crompton became indispensable as our General Manager. When his eyesight began to fail we employed a series of cleaners. Daffers was the first. Nobody since has been as conscientious. As far as Leonard and I are concerned, old Crompton has a home here for as long as he wishes.”

  “Point taken,” said Gus, “we’ll be as careful as we can with him.”

  Joyce sat beside Crompton on the window seat.

  “Do you know what day it is, Crompton?”

  “Every day’s the same,” said the old man.

  “Do you know what year it is?

  “I’m over seventy now you know. It has to be Twenty Sixteen, hasn’t it? Does it matter?”

  “Not really,” said Gus, “what about our Prime Minister?”

  “What about her? She’s not a patch on Maggie Thatcher.”

  Lydia looked around the room. The furniture was superior to what she expected a servant to enjoy. Crompton’s status in the household clearly matched Joyce’s impassioned outburst.

  There were only two photos on display. A family photo, with the four Pemberton-Smythe’s in a professionally shot pose. It didn’t say Christmas 2017 at the bottom, but the two sons looked to be early to mid-twenties. It had to be recent.

  The other was older. Leonard looked perhaps ten, fifteen years younger in that one. He sat in an office. Wood-panelled walls. Might that be his Westminster office? She walked across and picked it up.

  “Could you tell us who is in this photograph, Crompton,” she asked.

  “Mr Leonard,” replied Crompton, “surely you recognise your own local MP? He’s a Junior Minster.”

  “Leonard’s Secretary of State for Justice now, Crompton,” said Joyce, “don’t you remember me telling you?”

  “Oh yes, I remember now.”

  “Can you tell us what this item is?” asked Lydia, pointing to an umbrella, in a wooden hat and coat stand in the corner of the office.

  “Umbrella. Blue. Leonard’s a Tory. He wouldn’t be seen dead with a red one.”

  “How about this?”

  The item in the photo was a white mobile phone.

  “One of those fancy new phones. We use a proper one here.”

  “Crompton means the landline in the hall. It’s not the old black Bakelite type these days. Although it is one of the slimline models from the Seventies. Leonard and I use smartphones, but Crompton wouldn’t know that. No reason why he should.”

  Gus had looked at the photo to gauge what Lydia was aiming at when she first chose it. It made sense to check whether Crompton still had a grasp on recognising day-to-day items. He found his eyes wandering back to the photo. What made him look twice? It would come to him in time.

  “Let’s discuss Daphne, Isaac,” said Gus.

 
The old man sat bolt upright.

  “He never uses that name,” said Joyce, “it reminds him of his parents. They were strong believers in ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’. Crompton had a terrible time of it.”

  “Daphne,” said Crompton, “I miss her company.”

  “When did you last see her?” asked Gus.

  “She doesn’t work here now. Millie does the cleaning now. She’s lazy.”

  “Lasted a month,” said Joyce, “I’ve lost count. Let me think. There have been five since Daffers. I don’t think you’re going to be very lucky, Mr Freeman.”

  Gus agreed.

  “Perhaps we can go somewhere else, madam? So we can talk to you in private?”

  “Of course,” said Joyce, moving away from Crompton. “I’ll get Maria to serve us coffee in the conservatory.”

  Crompton realised his mistress was leaving and tried to stand. The rug slipped to the floor.

  “Oh, Crompton, not again,” said Joyce. The old man wasn’t wearing any trousers. Lydia was thankful he’d put on his underpants.

  Joyce ran back to help him sit back on the seat. She tucked the rug around his stick-thin legs.

  “It must be Thursday,” said Crompton, “I always bathe on a Thursday night.”

  CHAPTER 10

  As they left Isaac Crompton in his room Gus hoped he went the same way as Tess, without warning. He couldn’t face a long, lingering death where he didn’t have his faculties.

  Lydia was at Freeman’s shoulder. She thought how lucky Crompton was in his hour of need to have Joyce Pemberton-Smythe caring for him. Leonard, her husband had a reputation for being strong on family values. Joyce certainly upheld those values here at the Manor House.