CHAPTER 12
It was thirty-seven million pounds, to be precise, Pat learnt later as Sue printed off the letter that was supposed to have been filed the morning Henry died.
Or at least when he was discovered washed up on the pebbles.
His exact time of death was difficult to ascertain, as no one knew when he’d hit the water, and the sea had not given up its secret until he was discovered.
Pat managed to get a table seat on the train back down to Southbourne.
She had pulled a large notebook out of her bag and was jotting down ideas, theories about who could have possibly wanted Henry dead.
The principal suspects were Derek and Dorna.
They both had motive and opportunity. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Pat had seen Dorna knocking back bottles of champagne in the Green Lion just a day after Henry’s body was found and the planning objection hadn’t been filed at the town hall.
But Derek had form with violence; he had already been aggressive towards Henry, the black eye, the coercive control.
Henry might have told him about the cease and desist order that he was planning, so Derek probably knew the game was up, and yet Henry had agreed to come and spend the night at Fin du Monde.
Henry, what were you doing? Did you think one last attempt at romance would reform Derek’s character?
Maybe he’d thought it would make his trip to the town hall the following day easier. Only he’d never got there.
Her mobile rang in her bag, interrupting her thoughts.
‘Prichard Knowles!’
‘I know it is, I can see. Your name comes up on my screen along with your photograph.’
‘So, I went to the barn,’ Prichard ignored her completely, ‘and I have to say that the bats are definitely no longer there. I’m not sure what our perp has done to get rid of them, but they are no more.
Maybe she smoked them out. I don’t know.
It does smell a little of smoke, but that could just be the local teens, you know, indulging in the ganja. ’
‘The ganja? Where on earth did you get that from?’ Pat laughed.
‘The ganja? That’s what it was called in my day. I don’t know. I didn’t partake, of course, but I knew plenty who did. Anyway, I did some further digging. I was looking through the pile of old guano at the entrance, just to check if there was anything fresh. But no.’
‘What is your expert opinion?’
‘I am quite an expert, actually,’ declared Prichard, sounding a little defensive.
‘I have been a member of the Bat Conservation Trust for the past twelve years and I have a bat detector that translates ultrasound into a frequency we can hear. Did you know a single bat can eat around three thousand tiny bugs a night? And there are fourteen different bat species in the UK …’
While Prichard continued to empty his knowledge bank of everything he knew about bats, Pat stared out of the carriage window, her forehead pressed against the glass as the train slowed and stopped at Lewes station.
She looked up and down the green and white Victorian platform.
She had always liked Lewes. It was a pretty town by the River Ouse, historical, architecturally interesting, with a castle, and a little bit deviant at the same time.
Most especially on Bonfire Night, when the townsfolk paraded through the streets holding the flaming crosses of the seventeen Lewes martyrs, Protestants who were burnt at the stake for their faith.
They also set fire to an effigy of Paul V, who was Pope at the time of Guy Fawkes, just for good measure. It was quite the spectacle.
As was what was happening on Platform 2.
The train began pulling away and Pat did a double-take.
Surely not? DS Stevens, in some sort of passionate embrace with an older man!
Pat could see his thick silver hair, a briefcase, a camel coat, a flash of a gold cufflink catching the sun.
Were they leaving, or had she just arrived?
Either way, they were not holding back. She was out of uniform, in stonewashed jeans and a baggy blue jumper.
His hand was grabbing her backside, his fingertips digging into her denim-clad buttocks.
She was standing on the tips of her trainers in order to reach his lips.
It was definitely Amanda Stevens. Pat would recognise that tight little brown bun anywhere.
The man looked familiar too, but she couldn’t place him. Pity she couldn’t see his face.
‘… so the guano contains—’
‘Prichard!’ hissed Pat down the phone, free hand cupped around her mouth. ‘I’ve just seen DS Amanda Stevens kissing some man I am prepared to bet money on is not her fiancé on Platform 2 of Lewes station!’
‘DS Stevens! Well I never. How do you know it’s not her betrothed?’
‘No one grabs someone’s backside like that if they’ve been engaged for years. This was passionate, this was rampant. It was lust.’
‘Does anything get past you?’
‘I’m afraid it does, but this didn’t, it was definitely lust.’
‘Stone the starlings!’ declared Prichard. ‘So she’s having an affair?’
‘It does appear that she might not be entirely faithful to her partner.’
‘Gripping. Will I see you at art club? I do hope so, we have a great deal to discuss.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Pat collected her car from the station and pulled up outside the village hall in Westlinke a good twenty minutes early for art class.
She sat in the moss-mobile in silence, digesting what she’d learnt over the past twenty-four hours.
Henry had been involved with the Boho Golf & Spa protest, working for Save the Seashore pro bono.
He’d mentioned an eco-charity and spoken about his love of nature, but she’d had no idea it was all happening right on her doorstep.
Then again, he’d never been to her house, they’d only met on Zoom, so it was no surprise he wouldn’t have made the connection.
And why would he bring up his activism anyway? She wasn’t a friend.
If Henry and Derek had argued on the green two weeks before his death, and that glistening black eye had been part of it, who else might have seen it?
She looked at the row of brick and flint cottages in front of her, with their matching Farrow & Ball front doors.
A tweak of a curtain caught her eye. Bev.
Of course. She got out of her car and strode across the green, arms swinging, hip grinding, towards the beautifully kept cottage covered in blowsy fronds of pale purple wisteria in peak bloom.
As she approached, she could see Bev at the window, with the guilty look of someone caught twitching the curtains.
She rapped on the door and then hammered with the clawed knocker.
The house was silent. The problem with being a peeking Bev was that you couldn’t pretend to be out, particularly when your visitor had already spotted you.
‘Bev! It’s Pat, I know you’re in,’ she called through the letter box. ‘I really don’t want to bother you. I just want to ask you a question.’ Silence. ‘Bev, I saw you at the window, I know you’re there.’
She waited. Eventually there was the sound of shuffling, and the door opened just a crack.
‘Bev!’ How are you?’ Pat smiled widely in a manner that she hoped looked charming rather than demented. The door opened wider. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘I’m quite busy.’ Bev smiled weakly on her doorstep. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘I’m sure,’ agreed Pat. ‘Thank you. I just wondered if, by any chance, you witnessed, or might have noticed, a fight on the green between two young men, well dressed, about two or three weeks ago. It would be very helpful if you could remember anything.’
‘Hmm.’ Bev looked upwards, pretending to think. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Young men? Good-looking?’
‘Now you come to mention it, I do remember something. It might have been two weeks ago, yes … two youngish-looking men. They came out of the Green Lion. They were already arguing when they left the pub. Their arms were waving all over the place. They were definitely yelling.’
‘Can you remember what they were arguing about?’
‘Well …’ Bev pursed her pink lips, ‘I don’t like to eavesdrop.’
‘No, of course not. But I imagine the noise they were making, the yelling, it would have carried. You couldn’t help but overhear.’
‘You’re right, the argument was quite heated.’
‘Go on.’
‘One of them was apologising, said he’d made a mess of something. The other was shouting, “You owe me,” and the first man was yelling back, “Just let me make it right!” Or something like that. I wasn’t listening, obviously.’
‘Obviously. Would you recognise them, do you think?’
‘Well, it was dark, and you know my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.’ Bev put her hands on her hips, warming to her subject.
‘Of course. But did they look familiar at all?’
‘I’m not sure. But I kept on thinking of their nice shoes in the mud on the green. D’you remember it was wet then? Early April, it always rains. And it was dark.’
‘So what happened?’
‘One of them hit the other and shouted, “You ruin everything!” Something like that.’
‘Right. Go on.’
‘Then he marched off, and the other one jumped up and ran after him saying, “I’m sorry! I can do better!” It was all very odd. I mean, I haven’t seen a scuffle on the green for years. Not one like that, at least.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was proper emotional – like lovers in a film. Have you seen The Notebook? Wonderful film. One minute shouting, next minute one’s chasing after the other begging him not to go. I said to myself at the time, “That’s not a brawl, that’s a drama.”’
‘Thank you, Bev, that’s really helpful.’
‘Oh good,’ she smiled. ‘I’m glad. Why are you asking?’
‘I’m just looking into something for a friend.’
‘That’s nice. Are you off to art class?’ Bev nodded over Pat’s shoulder. ‘I think that’s Jacqui arriving now.’