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Authors: Michael K Foster
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laughing. Even Mason saw the funnier side.
‘Vic,’ said Mason, wiping the tears from his eyes.
‘There’s been another development, boss,’ said DS Miller, flicking through his notepad. ‘Both Anderson and Riley were active members of the Green Party. In Riley’s case, he relinquished his membership six months prior to his being murdered.’
‘But they were both active members?’ queried Mason.
‘Yes,’ Miller nodded.
‘Good work, Vic. We need to get uniforms to run a few discreet checks into these people’s social activities. I’m looking for a connection . . . what brought these people together.’
As the briefing came to a close, Mason made a special point of reminding everyone about the next meeting time. ‘That’s ten-thirty tomorrow morning, Constable Ellis.’
‘I’m on it, boss,’ Ellis replied.
Mason shook his head despairingly as he returned to his office.
Chapter Ten
Locking the car door, David Carlisle stood for a moment and took in his new surroundings. The inn had appeal, and an hour’s long drive from South Shields had given him a thirst. There was nothing to suggest why the inn was named – The Hanging Tree. Even the sign above the door offered few clues. Locals preferred to tell the tale of a notorious murderer called William Winter, a hardened criminal who was caught, tried and executed in Newcastle in 1791 for the murder of Margaret Crozier. Winter’s body was purportedly hung from a gibbet not too far from the inn. It was that kind of place.
It was with no surprise that Carlisle found the innkeeper an obese, middle-aged self-appointed voice of the community. The locals fared little better. Steeped in petty prejudices delivered in low whispers, they formed part of the inner sanctum of matters of unimportance. To Carlisle’s approval, free drinks readily opened up minds and soon tongues began to wag. The ringleader, a man in his late sixties, had a dry sense of humour and cynical, darting eyes filled with curiosity. He wore a grubby threadbare jacket, buttoned down shirt, and a pair of baggy brown trousers slung low at the waistline. Every now and then he would bang the table with the flat of hand, and raise his empty glass as if to attract attention towards it. Nobody paid much attention, which annoyed him intensely.
‘And what of this stranger you talk of?’ Carlisle said.
The innkeeper stared at him quizzically. ‘He wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap around the village, that’s for sure.’
‘Was he aggressive?’
‘Nah, he was more withdrawn, I’d say.’
‘What did he look like?’ Carlisle asked.
‘He was scrawny looking, with a pockmarked face and dark inquisitive eyes. He always wore black gumboots, a knee length coat and wool Beanie hat pulled down over his ears.’
Carlisle watched as the Innkeeper continued to wipe the top of the bar down with a stained wet beer cloth. He was determined to get to the bottom of it, find a way of teasing the information out of these people. Theirs was an isolated community, full of suspicion and mistrust. It was precious moments like these, that he wished he was a fly on the wall.
‘So where was he living?’
‘Rumour has it that he was sleeping rough,’ the innkeeper shrugged.
‘Do you know where?’
‘Yeah, a place called Barrow Burn. It’s North of here, near Shillhope Law.’
‘Did he speak to anyone?’
‘Not to me he didn’t,’ the innkeeper replied. ‘From the moment he set foot in the bar, I knew he was going to be trouble. There was something about him, if you know what I mean.’
‘Menacing?’
‘Yeah, menacing. That’s the word I was looking for. He had those horrible shifty eyes, spooky looking. Mind, he never caused any bother.’
‘It sounds like he was a bit of an unsociable sod.’
The innkeeper eyed him with suspicion. ‘He was more than that, mister. This one definitely had a chip on his shoulder.’ Arms unfolded now, both hands firmly placed on the bar top in
‘Vic,’ said Mason, wiping the tears from his eyes.
‘There’s been another development, boss,’ said DS Miller, flicking through his notepad. ‘Both Anderson and Riley were active members of the Green Party. In Riley’s case, he relinquished his membership six months prior to his being murdered.’
‘But they were both active members?’ queried Mason.
‘Yes,’ Miller nodded.
‘Good work, Vic. We need to get uniforms to run a few discreet checks into these people’s social activities. I’m looking for a connection . . . what brought these people together.’
As the briefing came to a close, Mason made a special point of reminding everyone about the next meeting time. ‘That’s ten-thirty tomorrow morning, Constable Ellis.’
‘I’m on it, boss,’ Ellis replied.
Mason shook his head despairingly as he returned to his office.
Chapter Ten
Locking the car door, David Carlisle stood for a moment and took in his new surroundings. The inn had appeal, and an hour’s long drive from South Shields had given him a thirst. There was nothing to suggest why the inn was named – The Hanging Tree. Even the sign above the door offered few clues. Locals preferred to tell the tale of a notorious murderer called William Winter, a hardened criminal who was caught, tried and executed in Newcastle in 1791 for the murder of Margaret Crozier. Winter’s body was purportedly hung from a gibbet not too far from the inn. It was that kind of place.
It was with no surprise that Carlisle found the innkeeper an obese, middle-aged self-appointed voice of the community. The locals fared little better. Steeped in petty prejudices delivered in low whispers, they formed part of the inner sanctum of matters of unimportance. To Carlisle’s approval, free drinks readily opened up minds and soon tongues began to wag. The ringleader, a man in his late sixties, had a dry sense of humour and cynical, darting eyes filled with curiosity. He wore a grubby threadbare jacket, buttoned down shirt, and a pair of baggy brown trousers slung low at the waistline. Every now and then he would bang the table with the flat of hand, and raise his empty glass as if to attract attention towards it. Nobody paid much attention, which annoyed him intensely.
‘And what of this stranger you talk of?’ Carlisle said.
The innkeeper stared at him quizzically. ‘He wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap around the village, that’s for sure.’
‘Was he aggressive?’
‘Nah, he was more withdrawn, I’d say.’
‘What did he look like?’ Carlisle asked.
‘He was scrawny looking, with a pockmarked face and dark inquisitive eyes. He always wore black gumboots, a knee length coat and wool Beanie hat pulled down over his ears.’
Carlisle watched as the Innkeeper continued to wipe the top of the bar down with a stained wet beer cloth. He was determined to get to the bottom of it, find a way of teasing the information out of these people. Theirs was an isolated community, full of suspicion and mistrust. It was precious moments like these, that he wished he was a fly on the wall.
‘So where was he living?’
‘Rumour has it that he was sleeping rough,’ the innkeeper shrugged.
‘Do you know where?’
‘Yeah, a place called Barrow Burn. It’s North of here, near Shillhope Law.’
‘Did he speak to anyone?’
‘Not to me he didn’t,’ the innkeeper replied. ‘From the moment he set foot in the bar, I knew he was going to be trouble. There was something about him, if you know what I mean.’
‘Menacing?’
‘Yeah, menacing. That’s the word I was looking for. He had those horrible shifty eyes, spooky looking. Mind, he never caused any bother.’
‘It sounds like he was a bit of an unsociable sod.’
The innkeeper eyed him with suspicion. ‘He was more than that, mister. This one definitely had a chip on his shoulder.’ Arms unfolded now, both hands firmly placed on the bar top in
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