18. RED WINE FOR LUNCH

An arrest is made.

“That’s about that, then, Trayda,” smirked Reuben Richards as they made their way to his car. Their suspect, Richard Hampton of Happy Valley Naturist Park (to give it its full title), was being carted off in a separate police car whilst they were returning to Sandy Shores in an unmarked vehicle.

“You’re sure, Reuben?” she asked.

“I couldn’t be less sure, Trayda,” he replied, frowning at the doubt he thought he could detect in the tone of her voice. “The man’s the only one for miles around with any motive, for starters. He admits to following his good lady and discovering she wasn’t in the Shell and Cockle where she was supposed to be going, and that he was fully aware that she had little indiscretions all over the place. And suddenly here he was faced with a big indiscretion: David Stokesey who it seems she was actually quite fond of.”

“And that’s a motive, bearing in mind that by his own admission he isn’t exactly heterosexual?” murmured Trayda.

“Oh, that’s nothing but a c**k and bull story,” smirked Reuben. “I realised that straight away. You must have seen Mrs Hampton. You must have noticed that she’s quite a looker, and you must have also noticed that her old man’s running towards middle age with quite an appetite bolstering his six pack! The truth, Trayda, is he isn’t the man he was and she’s losing interest now that he’s bloating up a bit.”

“Well, Reuben, it’s your case and if you’re right, well done for sorting it out so quickly.”

“You think he’s innocent don’t you, Trayda?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Firstly, if he followed Mrs Hampton, why did he decide to batter Mr Stokesey over his head several hours later? Secondly, why has he fabricated a tale illustrating an almost unbelievable sexual orientation when he could quite simply have produced an alibi, thus clearing himself?”

“An alibi? What alibi?” asked Reuben, swerving to avoid a mobility scooter that was hogging what was already a very narrow lane. “That devil needs locking up!” he growled, and waved his fists as he passed it by.

“He’s a liability,” agreed Trayda. “A cleric by the name of the Reverend Arthur Candice. You might learn something if you check up on him, Reuben, because I don’t think he’s quite the godly person he makes himself out to be.”

“Him? On that electric scooter? He’d be hard pushed coaxing that over the rocks to where our body was found, climbing off it and battering the poor blokes head in!”

“It still might be worth it,” Trayda insisted, “it’s what I would be doing if I was in your shoes anyway. Leave no stone unturned, that was always my motto, and it we’ve got an eccentric vicar racing everywhere on one of those things I’d have asked myself where he’s been to be returning to his church this way.”

“You’re being daft, Trayda. An easy life has got at you! He’s a holy man, for goodness’ sake, and men like him don’t go murdering ice cream men! He’ll have been visiting the sick or the dying, that’s what.”

“Just think about it. And while you are, think on this: if Mr Hampton really is our killer, why did he strip his victim naked? Because if he did that after killing him he was making a very obvious reference to nudity, and he runs a nudist camp.”

“You don't think he’s our killer, do you? If you’ve got a watertight reason for believing him innocent you’d better tell me before I go and make a fool of myself,” grunted Reuben.

“I’ve got doubts, and there are questions that need answering before I’m convinced,” said Trayda, “look, there’s Angela. You can drop me off here if you like. I won’t be allowed anywhere near your interview room so I might as well leave you rather than go all the way to the station with you.”

“You shouldn’t have left the force, Trayda,” he said, “but I’ll bear your thoughts in mind.”

They pulled up, and Trayda climbed out of his car, and waited while Angela joined her.

“I’ve had a most interesting chat with a little man who likes to walk his dog up and down the beach,” she said, “and he’s pretty sure that whoever killed the ice cream man, it wasn’t the Naturist Camp bloke.”

“It wasn’t?” asked Trayda.

“It wasn’t, confirmed Angela, “because as far as he knows the Happy Valley boss doesn’t have eyes for ladies, not even for his beautiful wife, but does spend an awful lot of time staring at him and his dog through rose-coloured binoculars whilst he himself is perving at naked ladies playing tennis!”

“Is he sure?” asked Trayda.

“So he says,” smiled Angela, “there’s no accounting for the ways of men, is there? Come on, Tray, let’s go for a drink at that lovely little pub, and maybe a bite of something tasty.”

oo0oo

The Shell and Cockle was as quiet as it always seemed to be when the two women, breezed into the bar for refreshment. The same barman was there, polishing drinks glasses in a bored and desultory way.

“What can I get you ladies?” he asked.

“Two glasses of your house red,” ordered Trayda. “And something to eat?”

“Today the steak pie is rather good,” intoned the barman, “I had a portion myself earlier, so I can recommend it from experience and not just because I’ve been told to.”

“Then we’ll have that. And chips.”

She sat down with their wine, again at the seat in the corner where they’d sat before. The bar was quiet without even the intrusive sounds of music.

“How did you get on at the nudist place with your Inspector fellow, then?” asked Angela.

“Not so well,” frowned Trayda, “he seems convinced that the murder was a crime of passion and that the Hampton bloke was guilty. He’s carted him off for questioning, and I only hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“What do you think, Tray?” asked Angela, “after all, back in the day you had quite a reputation for ferreting out the truth.”

“Me? I’m not so sure,” frowned her friend, “there’s something that doesn’t ring true. For instance, why would he have stripped the poor man naked? I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried undressing a dead persons, but they say it’s quite difficult to do, and it would have been even harder on a beach at night. There’s not much light pollution in this neck of the woods, and although the moon was out it wasn’t all that bright. And if Mr Hampton is as he says, a closet gay man who got married in the vain hope it would cure him of something he was ashamed of, and his wife was aware of what he is, why should he suddenly strike out at a bloke who rumour has it was only one of an army having a fling with that same wife? It doesn’t ring true to me.”

“Might he have been jealous even though he didn’t have much of a romantic drive himself?” asked Angela, “I mean, might he have been jealous that there was someone out there who fancied the one woman he ought to have been turned on to himself, but wasn’t?”

“And murder because of it? I doubt it,” frowned Trayda.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another customer, and when Angela saw who it was she groaned.

“He’s a nuisance,” she muttered to Trayda quietly, “zooming around on that scooter of his, threatening life and limb of believers and unbelievers alike!”

“Why, dear women,” croaked the Reverend Candice, “it’s most unusual to find anyone in here this early! A pint of your best, barman, if you please.”

“You nearly caused an accident earlier,” Trayda told him, “on that scooter of yours in the middle of the road.”

“Aw piffle,” he replied, frowning, “a man must get to where he needs to be, and the road’s so narrow he puts his life at risk if he rides in the gutter!”

“Then maybe you should walk?” suggested Trayda.

“I could if I wanted, but I don’t want to!” snapped the vicar, “I’ve got the blasted thing and I mean to use it! Though I could walk if I wanted. I have got legs, you know.”

“So I noticed,” smiled Angela, trying to remove whatever tension ha suddenly descended onto the room.

“Not as shapely as yours,” he said suddenly, and smiling as if the very idea of a cleric admiring female legs was something to be marvelled at.

“Thank you, sir,” smiled Angela, whilst Trayda scowled.

“I had a lady friend with shapely legs once,” he said quietly, “and a lovely lady she was too. She died, you know, quite young, too young to die, and she had a boy. You know what? I was trying to bring her back to life, massaging her heart and so on, even trying the kiss of life, and he caught me at it! He thought I’d done her in! Silly boy. Yes, that’s what he was: a silly boy. Loved his football, though, some team or other, always wore the right kit, he did, white shirts and blue shorts, it was. But he was such a silly boy...”

© Peter Rogerson 05.04.19