MURDER ON OXFORD LANE
By Tony Bassett
1
It had been no surprise to Harry Bowers to learn that someone was sleeping with his wife. He had known about it for several weeks. He even knew who the man was.
But it had come as a great shock to discover the shameless creep had been bold enough to pay occasional visits to his wife at their family home. He’d learnt this through a chance remark made by his young daughter.
Tonight, for the first time since the shocking secret about these visits was revealed just before Christmas, the two men were due to meet again. They could hardly avoid it. They sang beside each other in the church choir.
As he travelled home in his car from the railway station, Harry vowed to remain calm and see how the evening developed. For the present, he would say nothing to his wife. After twenty minutes following country roads, their imposing Georgian mansion loomed up before him in the twilight.
The black, two-metre-high gates to the estate, just outside the village of Norton Prior in Warwickshire, swung open. He put his white Audi into gear and the car swept up the driveway, past the tennis court and the pink rhododendron bushes. The neatly-trimmed conifers stood like sentinels, casting eerie shadows across the gravel.
At last, he came to a halt by the stone steps that led to the red, colonial-style front door. The property tycoon, who was thirty-nine, strode past the two white gothic pillars standing on either side and turned the key.
‘Must get a move on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Choir practice starts at seven fifteen and I was late last week.’
The house seemed quiet as he pushed open the door and walked in.
‘Maggie, are you here?’ he asked, his deep voice echoing round the vaulted reception hall.
‘Of course, I’m here. I’m always here,’ came the reply. Margaret Bowers strolled from the kitchen, looking as stern as a sultan’s mother.
‘I saw the credit card statement this morning,’ he announced.
‘I wondered when you were going to bring that up.’
‘You’ve gone a bit mad at the sales, haven’t you? We’ve hardly got Christmas out of the way.’
She rolled her eyes and adjusted the long dark hair she’d tied behind her head. ‘I don’t have to account for my spending. I needed some new clothes.’
‘We should’ve discussed it first,’ he insisted.
She scowled. ‘You’ve never got time to talk about anything.’ She then climbed the oak stairs and disappeared from view.
Harry hurriedly cooked himself a microwave meal. The days of cosy family meals round the table had long since passed.
After bolting down his pasta meal, he raced upstairs and took off his grey suit. He pulled on his blue jeans before returning downstairs and snatching his hymn lyrics from the writing bureau in the living-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly a quarter to seven.
‘I’d better get moving,’ he told himself, glancing in the mirror to comb his short, dark hair. After slipping into his dark-blue trainers and pulling on his black overcoat, he rushed out into the bitterly cold January air.
It was a clear night with a slender crescent moon and stars visible in the sky. Leaves, brittle with frost, crunched beneath his feet as he made his way along the Worcester Road towards the church.
He passed two black-and white cottages and then a row of trees, tall and thickly clumped together. He darted in and out of their shadows on the pavement as he walked. Above the rumble of the traffic, he heard the church bell in the distance toll seven times. He quickened his pace.
In his mind, he rehearsed the hymn they were due to perform at Candlemas in just over three weeks’ time: ‘Of the Father’s love begotten, Ere the worlds began to be, He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending he, of the things that are, that have been, and that future years shall see, evermore and evermore!’
Within ten minutes, he had reached the churchyard, which stood on the corner of Martyrs Lane, enclosed by a solid stone wall. Behind the monuments to the dead stood the floodlit Norman church of St John the Martyr, rising like a beacon in an ocean of darkness.
Harry turned into the lane, passing the pair of terraced cottages on his right, and was pleased to see the lights were still glowing at the village newsagent’s, Norton News, housed on the ground floor of an Edwardian villa.
‘Another cold one, isn’t it?’ he muttered to the shopkeeper as he climbed the three steps into the shop. Harry undid some of his coat buttons, reached into an inside pocket and handed over a pound coin.
Smiling, the proprietor passed him a packet of mints and his change. ‘Cold enough for snow,’ came the reply as Harry refastened his coat and left.
He had only gone a few steps when he noticed the very man who was sleeping with his wife, James Hockley, walking slowly up the pavement towards him.
Harry crossed the lane and waited by the dark, timber lychgate. Taller than Harry and with dark, ginger hair, Hockley glared when he noticed his fellow-tenor.
Harry had never intended to be confrontational. He had wanted his rival to admit to the affair and promise to end it. But now face-to-face with him, his anger erupted and dominated his emotions. There was something about his rival’s swagger that antagonised Harry.
‘You can wipe that smirk off your face!’ he bellowed.
Hockley, a PE teacher who kept himself extremely fit, quickened his pace, as he approached, his face incandescent with rage. He was cursing Harry, calling him “an old drunk.”
‘Are you going to wipe it off for me?’ he hollered. ‘Come on then.’
He lunged at Harry, his punch engaging with his jaw. The blow sent him flying backwards so that he struck his head on the churchyard wall. He lay almost motionless on the frosty ground, moaning.
The teacher looked around to make sure there were no witnesses to the assault. Then he regained his composure and proceeded along the lane towards the church hall, acting as though the event had never happened. He hadn’t thought of the consequences of his action until that moment. Now it occurred to him that Harry might recover and stumble into the hall, battered, bruised and berating him. What would happen then?
While the choir began rehearsing their fifth century hymn inside the small, brick-built hall, Hockley remained uneasy. He tried hard not to worry about Harry making a sudden appearance and concentrated on the lyrics. Nearly half an hour passed. Surely his fellow-tenor should have recovered by now and joined them?
He continued feeling unsettled and, when the practice was over at a quarter past eight, he didn’t linger to exchange gossip with other choristers. He was keen to return to the scene in Martyrs Lane.
He was relieved to find the businessman was no longer lying by the lychgate. There was no blood by the wall or on the leaf-strewn ground. There was no sign that any skirmish had disturbed the peace of the night.
So where was Harry? Had he slunk off home? Had a passer-by attended to his wounded head? Had he been rushed to hospital? There was no clue and no one to ask.
He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a familiar number. Within a minute, Margaret Bowers answered.
‘James. Is everything all right?’ she asked. She had not been expecting him to call.
‘I know this might sound strange but is your husband there?’ he wondered.
‘No. He goes to the church hall on a Tuesday.’
‘I know,’ said James. ‘I saw him in Martyrs Lane before the choir practice started, but he didn’t show up at the hall. I’m just wondering what’s happened.’
‘Not like you to worry over Harry,’ she muttered.
‘I know, but this is a real mystery. Look, I may as well tell you. We had an argument . . . ‘
‘Oh, here we go . . .’
‘We had an argument just a few yards from the hall. I’m sorry to say I lost my temper and hit him.’
‘I’m sure he’s survived worst.’
‘I hit him probably a bit harder than I should’ve done. I left him on the ground.’ A sudden urgency crept into his voice.
‘He was all right. He was still moving. Just a little dazed. That’s all.’ He paused for breath before adding: ‘I can’t understand why he failed to show up for choir practice and there’s no sign of him in the lane. I’m wondering if he’s gone to hospital.’
‘Unlikely. They’d have phoned me if he’d been taken in. Look, don’t worry, James. He’ll turn up. He always does, more’s the pity. But I expect, when he does, he’ll be baying for your blood.’
2
Sunita Roy was in the ground-floor ladies’ washroom facing a row of basins when her phone rang. She pushed the two partly-shut doors to make sure there were no eavesdroppers before answering.
‘You took your time,’ said her sister, Tulika.
‘What d’you want? I’m late for work,’ replied Sunita, inspecting her long, dark hair in the mirror.
‘Sunita, you really are the limit. You haven’t called Mummy and Papa for weeks. And don’t tell me you’ve been too busy.’
‘You know why I haven’t phoned them. They haven’t forgiven me for defying Papa’s wishes.’
Tulika, a trainee solicitor with a Birmingham law firm, sneered. ‘That’s no reason to act like you have. It’s as if you’ve disowned them. They’re both concerned that they haven’t seen you or even heard from you.’
‘Tulika, I’m trying to build myself a future. I’ve turned my back on my old life.’
‘For God’s sake, why don’t you at least find the time to give them a call,’ said Tulika, raising her voice.
‘If you’re going to shout at me, I’m not going to carry on this conversation,’ said Sunita as she hung up. She sighed before glancing back at the mirror and tidying her hair. She cared for her parents, but they had upset her more than she could admit to her sister.
She grinned and nodded at a young, uniformed constable emerging in the doorway.
‘Good holiday, Sarge?’ the dark-haired woman asked.
‘Wicked time.’
‘Bloody hot, I’d imagine.’
‘I love the buzz of Kolkata and seeing the relatives, but I missed England and, in a way, I’m glad to be back. Anyway, it’s time for the reckoning.’
‘Don’t worry – he’s in a good mood,’ came the reply as twenty-five-year-old Sunita slipped past her and climbed the stairs to the CID section. She hurried to her desk and began scrolling through her computer messages..
‘Sunita, have you got a moment?’ the deep voice with a rich Birmingham accent rang out across the open-plan CID office.
The young sergeant, who was slim and five feet seven inches tall, picked up her small, black notebook and hurried across the beige carpet to her boss’s room - the last of four private offices partitioned off at the side.
DCI Gavin Roscoe was standing in his open doorway, casting his eyes round the office, as she reached him. ‘Yes, sir?’
He smiled. ‘Good holiday?’
‘We really enjoyed ourselves, thank you, sir. I know it was awkward, needing time off so soon after starting here.’
‘No problem. I hear you sorted out some drunk on the flight back?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll have to tell me all about it. Right now, I want to brief you and Brett Dawson about a job.’
He was still trying to make up his mind about his new sergeant. She always dressed smartly and sounded intelligent when she spoke. But she lacked practical knowledge. Would she really fit in at Heart of England Police after her three years with the West Midlands force, he wondered?
He beckoned to the young constable by the drinks machine.
‘Dawson, could I have a word?’ he yelled. PC Brett Dawson approached like an errant schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study.
Sunita and Dawson nodded at each other and made themselves comfortable in black vinyl chairs as Roscoe returned to his desk and answered his ringing phone.
‘You’d better knock on a few more doors,’ he was saying. ‘We’ve just got to get more evidence. . . . . That sounds like a good idea. Oh, and Omar, give me a call when you’ve done that. We might think about arresting that lad from Kenilworth.’
The young pair glanced round the room as their boss continued his briefing. Sunita listened with interest to the way he spoke. She realised he was a few inches taller than her, of medium build and with ruddy cheeks. His demeanour reminded her of a harassed uncle she knew in India.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ mumbled Roscoe as he ended his call. ‘A boy of fifteen’s been stabbed. But I’ve got one of our best men on the case.’ He leaned back on his black executive chair and gazed out of the window at a children’s park across the road.
‘Now I’ve got an important job lined up for you two. We’ve had a report of a property tycoon who’s gone missing. Name of Harry Bowers.’ Sunita began writing in her notebook.
‘It’s all right. I’ve got a print-out here,’ said Roscoe. He leaped up and plucked a sheet of paper from the tray of his printer before handing it to Sunita.
‘It’s from a constable at Queensbridge called Underhill. Very reliable guy. Bowers’ wife Margaret called in at the station yesterday and reported him as missing.’
‘Do we know when he was last seen, sir?’ asked Sunita, as she took the print-out from him.
‘Last seen? Let me see. Eighth of January outside the church in Norton Prior. That’s a village three miles west of Queensbridge. All the information’s here. You’ve got wheels, haven’t you, Sergeant?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. My car’s still being repaired.’
‘What about you, Dawson?’
‘Yes sir,’ the constable replied enthusiastically. ‘I’ve got my car with me. We’ll get there in no time.’
‘No need to break the speed limit,’ said Roscoe as he resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘Look, this could be something or nothing. You get a lot of these mispers, as you know, and they usually turn up sometime or other, but we’ve got to look into this with some urgency. Bowers is a close friend of the Assistant Chief Constable.’
*
‘This one’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’ Sunita muttered as they left St James Street police headquarters in Dawson’s red Ford Focus for the twenty-mile journey to the town of Queensbridge-upon-Avon.
‘How d’you mean?’ said the amiable constable, who was four years younger than her.
‘Well, it says in the boss’s print-out it took a week before the wife told police.’
‘Maybe he’s one of these men who’s always going off without telling his family,’ said Dawson, as his car left the busy M42 motorway and headed past Redditch. ‘Most of these missing people turn up in the end. If you ask me, we’re probably wasting our time.’
She glanced again at the CID report . It began by saying that Heart of England Police, which covered Warwickshire and parts of Worcestershire and Birmingham, were growing increasingly concerned for the welfare of ‘a thirty-nine-year-old man from Norton Prior.’
She began reading out loud: ‘Mr Bowers was last seen at approximately nineteen hundred hours on Tuesday, January the eighth while walking to St John’s church hall in Martyrs Lane for a choir practice. Officers are appealing for the public's help in tracing Mr Bowers as he failed to return home and has not been seen since.’
‘What’s the description?’ Dawson asked.
‘The guy’s white, five feet eight inches tall with dark hair and hazel eyes. He’s of medium build and originally from Solihull. At the time of his disappearance, he was wearing blue Levi jeans, a thick black coat, and navy-blue trainers.’
‘He wasn’t taking any chances with the weather.’
‘If you remember that day, it was exceptionally cold,’ Sunita asserted. ‘Anyway, how’re we going to play this? I suppose we should go and see the wife first.’
‘Yes. Underhill, the force liaison guy, says a team have already been out in the streets where he was last seen. They’ve done some house-to-house. They’ve also searched the river and woods.’ Dawson, who was casually dressed in a brown jacket and blue jeans. glanced at her for a second while he ruffled his spiky blond hair.
‘Someone mentioned the boss owns a tea shop down this way,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I expect we’ll be passing it in a few minutes.’
‘It’s in the town’s main street, so I don’t think it’s on our route.’
‘I thought it might be interesting to drive along the high street and see if we can spot it.’
Sunita shrugged. ‘It’s your petrol,’ she sighed.
They entered the bustling Warwickshire market town of Queensbridge, which straddled the River Avon. The car swept along the high street before passing the red-brick police station and some black and white Tudor cottages.
‘That’s the Roscoes’ place,’ said Dawson as he checked his rear mirror and drew to a halt beside the kerb. They looked across. The words ‘Apollo Tearooms’ appeared over the doorway of the quaint Seventeenth Century building. A waitress in a black and white outfit with a white maid’s hat could be seen flitting between tables.
‘So his wife runs it?’ Sunita asked.
‘That’s what I’ve been told. Looks an interesting place,’ Dawson remarked before driving off again.
After passing through open countryside, they reached Norton Prior, an affluent village with period properties and an “Old England” appeal.
