Charlie began digging by having Freddie arrange a meeting with his solicitor, Daniel Gaskins of Gaskins and Colroyd in Slough. However Gaskins proved very much less than welcoming. He was a cold fish of a man, in a dark solicitor’s suit and a neatly striped tie, with a drawn, hungry face, and he listened without expression as Charlie outlined his suspicions about Gay Manion, pressing his fingertips together in a little tent, the tips of his forefingers resting against his chin.
‘You’re making a very serious allegation, Mr. Tindal.’
Charlie waited.
You have nothing to prove what you are saying.’
‘I will.’
‘You will what?
‘Collect proof.’
‘How?’ Gaskins’ voice was chilly.
‘I’m going to talk to everyone who might know anything.’
‘And repeat your suspicions?’
Charlie nodded. He had been a journalist for too long to be put down by somebody hiding behind legalese.
Gaskins frowned, and turned to Freddie. ‘I think Mr. Tindal plans to embark on a very dangerous path. You might both find yourselves playing with fire.’
Freddie was silent. But Charlie was not about to be bested.
‘He can’t be any worse off than he is now.’
Gaskins’ mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I think you are quite wrong, Mr. Tindal. A minor has sworn out a statement against him, alleging a very serious offence, and now you appear to want to compound his troubles.’
‘Can’t you get the police to look at the case again?’
‘The police have the case in hand, and we’ll be able to challenge and test their evidence in Court.’
‘But that could take months.’
Gaskins smiled thinly. ‘These things take time.’
Charlie realised that he was getting nowhere. But he could not resist a final shot. ‘You don’t seem to care very much for clearing Freddie’s name.’
Gaskins got to his feet, and spoke to Freddie, wholly ignoring Charlie. ‘I think Mr. Tindal must leave.’
The police proved no better. Charlie talked to a helpful woman at Slough police station, explaining that he was a freelance journalist, a friend of Freddie Hoskins looking into the case, and managed to reach DI Rowton. But Rowton politely declined to meet him face to face.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss it. Mr. Hoskins had been charged, and the matter is sub judice.’
‘I think he’s been framed.’
‘Oh, do you?’ The policeman’s voice sharpened. ‘By whom?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve got a story together.’ Charlie hung up. Now he was on his own, and he must dig for victory.
First he called Freddie, asking him to made a list of everyone in the village whom he regarded as a friend, or might have regarded as a friend before his arrest. People who liked Freddie, had liked Freddie, might prove helpful. Friendship is friendship.
Then he set out visiting, because digging cannot be handled over the telephone. It is one thing to call a policeman, expecting to come up against a blank wall anyway, but something quite different when seeking scraps of gossip, and he struck paydirt when he called on Frances Goodhew. Frances had kept a weather eye on Gay Manion since the St. Wilfred coffee morning in Mrs. Hartland’s garden, and had heard some unpleasant whispers.
‘Laura Owens, the woman who cleans for Gay Manion, told one of the women who does the church flowers that Geoffrey Derricks, the housefather at The Firs, misbehaved himself with one of the boys at the home.’
She proffered a plate with biscuits and slices of home made cake. It was just after eleven, and she had insisted on them coming into her neat and comfortable home for a refreshing cup of tea. Nothing could persuade her that Freddie would molest a teenage boy.
Bella looked thoughtful. ‘Will she talk to Charlie?’
Frances shrugged. ‘She might. She’s Welsh, and she likes a good gossip. She’s also a very moral woman. In the old days people would have called her prudish.’
Charlie called at Mrs. Owens’ home the same evening. The Owens lived in Chalfont St. Peter, behind the church, in a small Victorian cottage surrounded by a garden kept as neat as a new pin. He left Bella in her Mercedes in the village carpark, and knocked with trepidation, because he only had one chance, and he must not blow it.
A balding middleaged man in a cardigan and rumpled trousers and carpet slippers opened the door, eyeing Charlie suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’
Charlie stood well back, and smiled politely. It is a truism of journalism that standing too close to a door invites rejection, because the person behind the door feels invaded. ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs. Owens.’
The man scowled. ‘I’m Mr. Owens. What do you want of my wife?’
This was Charlie’s moment of truth. He held the man’s eyes with his own. ‘My name is Charlie Tindal. My wife partnered Freddie Hoskins in the Fulmer antique shop.’
‘What’s that do with Mrs. Owens?’
‘Freddie’s been arrested for sexually assaulting a boy at The Firs. I’m told your wife works there, and may have knowledge of assaults by another man.’
The man was silent, plainly mulling over Charlie’s words. Then he turned and called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got a man here for you, Laura.’
Mrs. Owens was small and neat and nervous in a print frock. She stared at the man on her front doorstep with mistrust. Gay Manion had been trying to tighten a screw on her, and she was not happy. First it was a matter of keeping her mouth shut, and collecting a nice fat cash reward. Then Mrs. Manion had begun hinting that she might care to picture an antique dealer where she had seen Derricks and his fancyboy. Laura might have been prepared to square payment with discretion. But she had never lied in her life, and she had no intention of starting.
Charlie began again. ‘My wife was Freddie Hoskins’ partner.’
Laura Owens sniffed. ‘I heard tell you’d run off to France.’
Charlie looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I’ve come back to try and help him.’
She sniffed again. ‘They say he went for one of the boys at The Firs.’
‘Did he?’ Charlie’s question was quick, and direct.
Mrs. Owens took a step back. ‘Why ask me?’
‘I was told you work there.’
‘People talk a sight too much.’
‘You don’t think he did?’
She shrugged. ‘He wanted to buy a table from Mr. Derricks – he came to The Firs once or twice.’
‘Did Derricks have a crush on one of his boys?’
‘He might have.’ But now her voice was uncertain.
‘Did you ever see him go into a hut with one of the boys?’ Now Charlie was quoting direct from a copy of Thomas’ statement held by Freddie, but transposing Derricks for Freddie.
‘I might have.’
Mr. Owens touched his wife’s arm. He had also watched Gay Manion trying to create a web of falsehood, and he had felt fear. ‘You’d better talk to the man, love.’
Laura Owens took a deep breath. ‘You’d better come in.’
Later, when Mrs. Owens had spoken at length, and Charlie had listened, and taken notes, and drunk a cup of tea with too much milk and much too much sugar, he knew that he was virtually home and dry. He now had eye-witness evidence of Derricks mating the boy, and Mrs.Owens had told him of Gay Manion’s attempts to buy her silence.
‘She told me she was going to sell everything to the Sunday papers when the case came to court, and she said she’d made a mint. She said nobody would bother me, and that she’d look after me.’
Her husband nodded. ‘She came on very strong, wanting Laura not to say anything. She said Mr. Hoskins was known to be like that, and that it would be the boy’s word against his. She said Laura couldn’t say he hadn’t done the same as Mr. Derricks, but she just wanted Derrick’s name kept out of it, because she said he was a good man, and the boy had led him astray. Then she wanted Laura to say that she had seen Hoskins go into the hut, but Laura wouldn’t do it. So she told her not to tell anyone.’
‘So she swapped one for the other?’
‘Seems like it.’
Charlie got to his feet. He had his story in place, and he had closed up every loophole. He would call on Gay Manion in the morning.
Gay Manion and her husband lived in a comfortable house looking out over Fulmer Common. Mr. Manion was a retired company director with a passion for golf, and took little interest in his wife’s plots and politicking. He had heard whispers in the club bar that she might have helped expose a notorious homosexual, but it was a topic he preferred to avoid. He was a product of an era when such behaviour ranked as a criminal offence, and he felt he was too old to change his views.
He was therefore totally unprepared for an outburst of shouting and screaming, just as he was finishing his breakfast, and hurried to the front door. But Gay had slammed it shut, and was seated in a hall chair, fumbling with their telephone.
‘What’s up, dear?’
‘A man is outside, accusing me of the most dreadful things.’ Gay succeeded in punching out three digits, and spoke into the telephone. ‘I want the police. A man’s assaulted me. He’s got a big black Mercedes-Benz, and he won’t go away.’
Fulmer police station was only minutes by accelerating police car from the Manion’s home. Woman Police Constable Sheila Hanson was a good driver, and she respected her speed limits, but she caught the black Mercedes just as iwas drawing away from in front of the complainant’s house. She signalled to the driver to stop, watching him pull onto the verge and get out of the car. He was white, middle-aged, about six foot tall, slim, with short brown hair, and weighing about eleven to eleven and a half stone, in a dark blue shirt, cream chinos, and well polished black shoes. She parked neatly behind the Mercedes. He did not look like a lot of trouble.
She assumed her most formal manner, a uniformed WPC on official business. ‘Excuse me, sir. But have you just come from that house?’ She gestured at the Manion’s home. Gay Manion had already opened her front door cautiously, and was now marching across the road.
She pointed at Charlie, taking care to keep the policewoman between them. ‘That’s him, officer.’ Her voice rose to a shrill screech. ‘That’s the man.’
WPC Hanson stared at Charlie. ‘Have you assaulted this woman?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I haven’t touched her.’
‘He came marching up to the house, and accused me of all sorts of dreadful things.’
The policewoman looked at Charlie again. Accusations hardly rank on the same level as assaults. ‘You went to her house?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I’m a freelance journalist, my name is Charles Tindal. I’m working on a story about Freddie Hoskins, the antique dealer. I think he was set up, and I think she was behind it.’
‘Behind what, sir?’
‘I think he was arrested on false evidence.’
WPC Hanson knew about the Hoskins case. The whole village knew about the Hoskins case, and she had heard that some wanted to make a martyr of him. But whilst she had powers to prevent one person attacking another, and to ensure that peace and harmonywere generally maintained, she had no power to prevent anyone knocking on doors and asking questions. She made up her mind to defuse the situation, and file a report to DI Rowton at Slough.
She gave Charlie a withering look. ‘I think you’d better go, sir, before you upset this lady any further. You can get in touch with Detective Inspector Rowton at Slough police station if you feel you know anything that might provide evidence in criminal proceedings.’
Charlie got into the Mercedes. But Gay Manion was crimson with fury. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Is that the best you can do, officer?’
‘I don’t think he’ll come back again, ma’am.’ WPC Hanson turned back towards her police car. She had done her job.
Gay walked back to her front door, and suddenly had an icy feeling that nemesis might have begun stalking her. Wreaking vengeance on Freddie Hoskins had been so easy, everything had fallen so neatly into place, and she had been so certain that nobody could gainsay her. But now this Tindal man had come back from France to interfere. She suspected that he might have talked to Laura Owens, and was sure from the questions he had begun asking that he intended making trouble for her.
She picked up her telephone again, to dial The Firs. Fortunately she had noted the number of Tindal’s Mercedes. Now she must warn Geoffrey Derricks to keep his door barred and call Fulmer police station if Tindal turned up at the childrens’ home. She also began thinking about flight. There were Manion cousins in Cape Town, whom they visited every couple of years. Another trip, on the spur of the moment, might be most appropriate. Duncan, her husband, might be put out. But he would understand and agree when he learns that Tindal planned to accuse her of nasty deeds, and their solicitor could handle the house. Yet she also shivered involuntarily when she heard Derricks answer, for she had a feeling that an abyss might be opening in front of her, and for perhaps the first time in her life she was really, really frightened.
WPC Hanson called DI Rowton on her return to Fulmer police station. She was an efficient young policewoman, and she was brief. ‘A woman called me out, sir, about half an hour ago. She alleged a man had assaulted her. I went to her house, and he said he was a freelance journalist called Charles Tindal, and was just asking her some questions. He seemed to believe the woman had fabricated evidence against Frederick Hoskins, the antique dealer.’
Rowton listened in silence, grunted an acknowledgement, and called Berks and Bucks Police headquarters in Reading. Brian Weatherall started this particular ball rolling. Brian could make the decisions.
DS Weatherall was breezy. Hewas a jovial man, keen to make his way in the world, with little time for men who developed cold feet. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. These sort of high profile cases always attract snoops. He probably thinks he can make a bob or two from the tabloids.’
‘He’s married to the woman living with Hoskins, sir.’
Weatherall frowns. ‘Oh,was he?’ He scented a buck attempting to pass. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I think we should interview the boy again, sir.’
‘Good idea.’ Weatherall was immediately breezy again. ‘Call Alison Holderness at County Hall and see how she reacts.’
Alison Holderness reacted very badly indeed. She was a woman who knew goodness when she encountered it, even though it might lie concealed by seemingly unsavoury circumstances. Thomas was her first real paedophile case – though she had dealt with child abuse before – and she remembered having been struck by the boy’s simplicity and straightforwardness. She had heard a great deal about Freddie Hoskins, the Fulmer antique dealer, from sources in the village, but nothing to his credit, and she was not about to change her mind.
She was chilly with DI Rowton. ‘I think we were all perfectly satisfied with the interview.’ She rapped out her words – she was not about to be put upon. ‘We have Thomas’ statement. We have Dr. Suratha’s report. The two add up, in my opinion, to a very strong case.’
Rowton knew when he had met his match. He summoned Helena Johanssen. Sometimes fresh young newcomers could see woods where experienced coppers only saw trees.
But WPC Johannsen had no doubts whatsoever. ‘Hoskins is sick, sir. You could see it when we brought him in. The community needs protection from men like that.’
Rowton gave in, and called Weatherall again. ‘I spoke to Alison, and she says she has a very strong case.’
‘Leave it to her then.’ Weatherall smiled to himself, because this time the buck rested squarely with County Hall and its Youthguard Team leader. ‘If she feels she’s on strong ground, then it’s her choice.’
Rowton replaced his receiver, and WPC Johanssen smiled slightly. The Hoskins case would look good on her career sheet. But Rowton was not happy. He had a feeling that he had been boxed into a vulnerable position, and that trouble would come of it.