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Authors: Vic Marelle
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his chance when Kevin announced that he
would brew up for the three of them, Simon took down the book Kevin had
referred to earlier and flipped quickly through its pages. Clearly a log for
the workshop, he looked for the date of the attack on Johnson. In an almost
undecipherable scrawl, there was an entry ‘PA – ex – van’ which
obviously meant Peter Archer / exhaust / van. So, just as the police had said,
Archer had been in the workshop fixing the exhaust on his van at the time
Johnson was being attacked. PA appeared on other dates as well, usually
followed by Van or Pickup, which squared with Kevin’s comment that his dad
carried out most of the maintenance on their vehicles. The log put Archer in
the clear for the attack but put doubts on financing any expansion of the
caravan park unless money was coming from the Johnson’s.
‘Sugar Simon?’ shouted Kevin from the back of
the workshop.
Quickly putting the log back where he had found
it, Charlton followed the voice, to find a tall thin man of about 28 or 30
standing with Kevin, both of them nursing mugs of tea. ‘No thanks,’ Charlton
responded, accepting a mug of what looked like thick brown soup. Kevin
introduced the mechanic as his friend Rick, Rick Worth – an apt name
because anything he didn’t know about cars just wasn’t worth knowing.
Six
Ducking under some low hanging branches and
pushing foliage to one side, Inspector Frank Davies followed his guide along a
narrow path. Though only a couple of hundred metres from the main road, the
silence was broken only by the occasional sound of hens clucking, or high
volume and quite strident birdcalls. Looking down with distaste at his highly polished shoes and light beige
trousers that were quickly becoming encrusted with dirt he exclaimed
impatiently, ‘Where is it? I hope it’s worth this bloody trek when we get
there. I should be at the Vincent discussing next year’s budget over a slap-up
meal with the Chief and his wife, not trudging through the undergrowth in this
God forsaken place getting filthy.’
As it wound through the trees, the path took a
turn to the left and opened out slightly. In front of them was some sort of
ruin. Hardly a building anymore, it had degenerated into a hotch potch collection of odd walls, seemingly with no
connection and being rapidly overtaken by trees and undergrowth. Rising about a
metre out of the forest floor in front of them was a circular brick
construction that could be a well, while to their left, a tower grew out of the
undergrowth.
‘What the hell is this place,’ he grumbled,
picking his way through the undergrowth carefully. ‘I’ve driven the main road
every day of my life for the last few years and didn’t know it existed.’
‘It’s all that’s left of Lydiate Hall,’ came the reply. ‘I don’t know the history but it’s been in this state
for years. Local historians and walkers come around but that’s about it these
days. Looking at what’s left, it’s in a precarious state and there’s going to
be an accident sooner or later when some more masonry falls. There’s nothing
holding these walls up – all the corners and supporting walls have come
down already.’
Reaching the well, Davies could see that the
tower was actually a chimney breast. Rising up out of the undergrowth some two
stories and capped by the remains of chimneys it seemed surreal. Gaping holes
that had once been massive fireplaces remained on the ground and upper floors
but along with the floors themselves, all the connecting walls had long since
fallen down. He followed his sergeant around a dangerous looking buttress, past
a wall of magnificent mullioned windows – now glassless – into what
at some time had clearly been a rather grand stately room with yet another huge
old stone fireplace that looked quite baronial. Ducking to avoid fronds and
branches and slipping on the uneven ground, the sergeant made for a gap between
the window wall and
would brew up for the three of them, Simon took down the book Kevin had
referred to earlier and flipped quickly through its pages. Clearly a log for
the workshop, he looked for the date of the attack on Johnson. In an almost
undecipherable scrawl, there was an entry ‘PA – ex – van’ which
obviously meant Peter Archer / exhaust / van. So, just as the police had said,
Archer had been in the workshop fixing the exhaust on his van at the time
Johnson was being attacked. PA appeared on other dates as well, usually
followed by Van or Pickup, which squared with Kevin’s comment that his dad
carried out most of the maintenance on their vehicles. The log put Archer in
the clear for the attack but put doubts on financing any expansion of the
caravan park unless money was coming from the Johnson’s.
‘Sugar Simon?’ shouted Kevin from the back of
the workshop.
Quickly putting the log back where he had found
it, Charlton followed the voice, to find a tall thin man of about 28 or 30
standing with Kevin, both of them nursing mugs of tea. ‘No thanks,’ Charlton
responded, accepting a mug of what looked like thick brown soup. Kevin
introduced the mechanic as his friend Rick, Rick Worth – an apt name
because anything he didn’t know about cars just wasn’t worth knowing.
Six
Ducking under some low hanging branches and
pushing foliage to one side, Inspector Frank Davies followed his guide along a
narrow path. Though only a couple of hundred metres from the main road, the
silence was broken only by the occasional sound of hens clucking, or high
volume and quite strident birdcalls. Looking down with distaste at his highly polished shoes and light beige
trousers that were quickly becoming encrusted with dirt he exclaimed
impatiently, ‘Where is it? I hope it’s worth this bloody trek when we get
there. I should be at the Vincent discussing next year’s budget over a slap-up
meal with the Chief and his wife, not trudging through the undergrowth in this
God forsaken place getting filthy.’
As it wound through the trees, the path took a
turn to the left and opened out slightly. In front of them was some sort of
ruin. Hardly a building anymore, it had degenerated into a hotch potch collection of odd walls, seemingly with no
connection and being rapidly overtaken by trees and undergrowth. Rising about a
metre out of the forest floor in front of them was a circular brick
construction that could be a well, while to their left, a tower grew out of the
undergrowth.
‘What the hell is this place,’ he grumbled,
picking his way through the undergrowth carefully. ‘I’ve driven the main road
every day of my life for the last few years and didn’t know it existed.’
‘It’s all that’s left of Lydiate Hall,’ came the reply. ‘I don’t know the history but it’s been in this state
for years. Local historians and walkers come around but that’s about it these
days. Looking at what’s left, it’s in a precarious state and there’s going to
be an accident sooner or later when some more masonry falls. There’s nothing
holding these walls up – all the corners and supporting walls have come
down already.’
Reaching the well, Davies could see that the
tower was actually a chimney breast. Rising up out of the undergrowth some two
stories and capped by the remains of chimneys it seemed surreal. Gaping holes
that had once been massive fireplaces remained on the ground and upper floors
but along with the floors themselves, all the connecting walls had long since
fallen down. He followed his sergeant around a dangerous looking buttress, past
a wall of magnificent mullioned windows – now glassless – into what
at some time had clearly been a rather grand stately room with yet another huge
old stone fireplace that looked quite baronial. Ducking to avoid fronds and
branches and slipping on the uneven ground, the sergeant made for a gap between
the window wall and
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