Chapter Sixteen
The police eventually finished poking around in the graveyard and the archaeology resumed.
It warmed my cockles to see Arty making his way across the garden, kettle in hand.
When he arrived at the backdoor, I was ready with a couple of T-shirts I’d made during the hiatus.
Yet, I was nervous as I saw him approach.
I didn’t know if he’d feel differently about things now that the world was abuzz with gossip about what had or hadn’t gone on here in regard to Lennie.
I didn’t know if he was coming in friendship or because he had no choice if he wanted to boil the kettle.
He was wearing an ordinary T-shirt—was that a sign he wanted to disassociate himself from me?
I shoved the new T-shirts I’d made for him into the microwave.
I took a deep breath as I answered the door. He jumped slightly, his hand raised to knock.
“Hi,” I said. “Kettle?”
“Yes, please,” he said and I stepped back to let him in. We stood in an awkward silence as he filled it with water and plugged it in.
“Getting on alright down there?” I asked.
“Getting back into our stride,” he said. “After the”—he paused—“break.”
It was quiet for a moment, then, “Did you see me on TV?” he asked. “I’ve never been interviewed by a journalist before. Luckily, I had one of those cravats you made, so I could dress for the occasion.”
“That was lucky.” I searched for something to say and found myself staring at his T-shirt, wondering again if there was a message in there.
He looked down, then back at me. “Everything else is in the wash,” he said. “I should buy some more clothes. Or do the washing more often.”
I took my chance. “Would this help?” I pinged open the microwave and held out the new tops. He took them off me and inspected them.
“For me? Wow! Yes, thanks.”
“It kept me busy while we were all waiting for the police to finish.”
“Yeah, did they find what they wanted?”
“I don’t know what they wanted,” I said, telling myself it wasn’t a total lie. I only had a general idea.
“Well, they’ve gone now, so hey ho, we can all go back to normal. I wouldn’t take any notice of the gossips: There’s two sides to every story.”
Which left me wondering what the gossips were saying and if Mrs. Billings could enlighten me. She probably could, but it’s often best not to ask questions you won’t like the answers to.
“Anyway, better get back to it. Will I see you down at the site soon?”
I nodded. “I’ll bring biscuits.”
“Lovely, we’ve missed them.” He picked up the T-shirts. “Why were they in the microwave?”
“Keeps them fresh,” I said.
“I didn’t know that.” And off he went, leaving me with the promise of biscuits and more chats and the knowledge that he hadn’t been scared off.
I sang myself a few lines of “Rasputin” and did a little dance.
I was disappointed only that he hadn’t changed into one of the T-shirts right there and then in the kitchen.
***
Following Emma’s visit, I kept an eye on the forum, which expanded its scope and began calling itself Whatever Happened to Lennie Green and Doug Newman?
You had to join to be able to read the comments, so I put myself up there as LooseEnds.
I looked along the list Mrs. Billings had shown us, revealing who was in the forum.
AllEars was there, along with NoseyParker, who was either an innocent bystander or had the worst pseudonym in the world.
Most of the chat was similar to the theory about Lennie having been chopped up:
Are they sure the body’s really him?
Mafia hit.
Hit-and-run.
My heart stood still. Who wrote that and how did they know?
The next person said he would have been in the road, not the river, if it had been a hit-and-run and their attention was diverted away, but it left me feeling uneasy.
Then Emma, a.k.a., AllEars, steered around it and asked:
Did anyone here know Lennie Green?
You’d need to ask in Great Beadington, we’re all Upper Iffley here, one of the pseudonyms said and the chat went quiet for a while, maybe sensing an outsider.
What about Doug Newman?
Oh yes, he was Upper Ifflian through and through, Mrs. Faulkner wrote. His family’s farmed that land for generations, and Doug’s granddad and great-great-uncle are both on the war memorial.
What do you think happened to him?
Well, he was found in the water, wasn’t he?
I mean, how do you think he got there? Do you think there’s a serial killer in Upper Iffley?
I gasped, and if I gasped, knowing what I knew, I could be sure other residents around the village were gasping too.
We had a series of burglaries back in 2006, Mrs. Chambers wrote. They broke into our shop, the post office, and the pub, but that’s the biggest crime wave Upper Iffley’s ever seen. It’s not the kind of place you get a serial killer.
Anyway, you need three murders to make it a serial killer, Mary Bishop wrote.
That gave me pause for thought. If James and I bumped another one off, maybe the police would go looking somewhere else for a serial killer.
Or even better, James could be the third victim.
After that, the spree could come to an end.
But it was quite a risk; it had all the makings of a plan that could backfire badly.
The idea caused a real stir on the forum, with everyone advising each other to be home before dark and check their doors were locked to avoid becoming the third body.
Then someone calling themselves BigDreams wrote, I don’t think it’s very helpful to be speculating like that. You’ll only cause upset for the victim’s families and anyone who is a bit nervous. We’ll all be jumping out of our skin whenever we see a spade.
A spade? Mrs. Faulkner said.
Or anything you could batter someone with, BigDreams wrote. A hammer, a poker, a frying pan. We’ll never look at household items in the same way.
We never will, Mrs. Chambers agreed.
So Emma went back to her earlier line of questioning: Does anyone actually know what goes on in Langley Hall? I mean has anyone visited there recently? Does anyone speak to the owners?
Evidence-based analysis was not de rigueur on Whatever Happened to Lennie Green and Doug Newman? The participants were usually happy to spout whatever came into their heads, but still, it was a while before Mrs. Chambers wrote:
You’d best ask Brenda Billings about that. She’s up there every week, poking about.
To which Mrs. Billings replied, Don’t know what you mean by “poking about.” I’m up there giving the place a good clean and polish. Nothing more and nothing less.
I’ve seen the things on your mantelpiece, Brenda. And I’ve seen some of your charitable donations.
What are you saying, Betty? Mrs. Thrussell asked Mrs. Chambers.
If you’re making allegations, you’d better have evidence, Mr. Billings said.
That’s right, Mrs. Thorpe chimed in. Brenda’ll have you for libel.
Or Eric and Terry can have a straightener outside the King’s Head, Mr. Faulkner suggested.
Terry was Mr. Chambers, and disputes in Upper Iffley were generally decided by a fight outside the pub, a straightener.
In this case it would be Messrs. Billings and Chambers on behalf of their wives.
Once done, the matter would be considered settled, and regardless of the outcome, nothing more would be said.
It was an interesting local spectacle, but Emma was not tempted by straighteners.
How does James Dixon make his money? she asked.
Everyone knew that and if she didn’t, she’d clearly not done her homework. There was a chorus of “cryptocurrency!”
Why does he live here and not in London? she asked.
Views were more mixed on this, ranging from:
Why would you live in London when you could live here? Exactly.
And, He fell in love.
Followed by, No, he didn’t, they hadn’t met when he moved back.
To, He fell in love with Langley Hall. Who wouldn’t?
Emma moved on. Why do you never see him in magazines and news columns, hobnobbing with celebrities?
That stumped them, until, eventually, BigDreams spoke up again. Not everyone is an extrovert and seeks the limelight, some people just quietly get on with it and don’t look for public acclaim.
That level of modesty didn’t sound much like James to me, the person who wrote that couldn’t have known him, but it was enough of an answer for Emma and she went on to her next question.
Has anyone invested in his business? Would you recommend it?
Oh yes, Mrs. Faulkner was the first to pipe up. We moved our savings there when he showed us the graphs.
Us as well, Mrs. Chambers said.
And me, said Mary Bishop.
We weren’t sure at first, said Mrs. Thrussell. But in the end, the Dixons are a village family and you trust someone you know. There was an emphatic series of “yeses” and “absolutelys” to this.
We’re going to be the richest village in England in a few years, Mrs. Thorpe said.
Has anyone ever tried to withdraw a crypto coin? Emma asked.
Well, that just goes to show what you know, Mary Bishop said. You’re not supposed to withdraw them for ages.
Think of it more like a retirement plan, Mrs. Faulkner said, which was exactly what James had said to me when I’d asked for my money back.
It’s more like growing an oak tree than watercress, Mary Bishop continued, but did Mary Bishop have time left to grow an oak tree? Rumor had it that her sixteenth-century cottage had been built around her.
Aren’t some of you ready to start treating yourselves?
Won’t you be wanting to spend that money soon?
Emma was putting it politely, but it would not have been unreasonable for the Chambers to have rung up their till for the last time several years ago, and the Faulkners were senior to the Billingses.
If they had all invested around the same time that I had, and it seemed fair to think that they had, whose retirement should we be thinking of?
Who are you anyway? You don’t seem to know much about the village, Mrs. Faulkner asked.
Emma ignored the question and went back to her earlier theme.
You see entrepreneurs like Sir Alan Sugar and Deborah Meaden here, there, and everywhere, they’re more than just business tycoons, they’re celebrities. Why not James Dixon? she asked. He’s an inspiration to us all, shouldn’t he be flaunted?
They remained stumped, but I wasn’t. The reason James lived out in the sticks and kept a low profile was because his business was a Ponzi scheme.