The Garden Party Read online

  Table of Contents

  Recent Titles by Peter Turnbull from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Recent Titles by Peter Turnbull from Severn House

  The Harry Vicary Series

  IMPROVING THE SILENCE

  DEEP COVER

  THE GARDEN PARTY

  The Hennessey and Yellich Series

  AFTER THE FLOOD

  AFTERMATH

  ALL ROADS LEADETH

  THE ALTERED CASE

  CHELSEA SMILE

  CHILL FACTOR

  THE DANCE MASTER

  DARK SECRETS

  DEATHTRAP

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL

  FALSE KNIGHT

  FIRE BURN

  INFORMED CONSENT

  NO STONE UNTURNED

  ONCE A BIKER

  PERILS AND DANGERS

  THE RETURN

  TREASURE TROVE

  TURNING POINT

  THE GARDEN PARTY

  A Harry Vicary Mystery

  Peter Turnbull

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2012 by Peter Turnbull.

  The right of Peter Turnbull to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Turnbull, Peter, 1950-

  The garden party.

  1. Vicary, Harry (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.922-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-340-2 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8216-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-456-1 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Once again, the man found himself drawn with horrific fascination to the note, and, once again, he pondered the clumsy, almost childlike scrawl that was the thickly lined handwriting, as though, he thought, the note had been written by someone holding a wax crayon or a marker pen in his, or her, fist. The man, who would be seen by an observer to be middle-aged, short, but stockily built, and would most likely judge him to be ‘working class’, had read and re-read the note so many times he believed that he could accurately recreate it from memory; not just the simple recall of the wording of the note, but the misspellings and the pattern of the letters. So awed was he by the note that the man had taken not one but two photocopies of it, which he had consigned to the safety of separate places within his house. He read the note for the final time in the natural light of a Monday afternoon in mid-June just before the train on the Northern Line of the Underground system swayed gently as it entered the tunnel at East Finchley, which would take it beneath central London. Reading the note in natural light served to remind the man that despite being called ‘the Underground’ the majority of the track network is on the surface. As the train was swallowed by the tunnel the man folded the note and placed it inside a clear cellophane envelope, and then placed the envelope within the black bin liner which had tightly encased the note when he had discovered it. The man glanced briefly and discreetly at his fellow passengers, who were four in number, it being shortly after midday during the working week, and as always on the ‘tube’ no one spoke, not even those people who were travelling companions, although the man who was carrying an urn of human ashes smiled sheepishly as he and the man carrying the black bin liner caught brief eye contact. Two men, each with a story on his lap.

  The man would normally have undertaken the journey into central London by bus, always preferring to be above ground rather than below the surface, and also subscribing to the view that the best way to see London is from the top deck of a double-decker bus, but he also knew that nothing beat the ‘tube’ for speed and efficiency, and on this day he felt that the speed of his journey was a factor to be considered. He changed from the Northern Line at Embankment and caught a westbound District Line train, alighting from it at St James’s Park. From the underground station he walked along Broadway, which he saw was lined with solid-looking medium-rise commercial premises, and entered New Scotland Yard’s public entrance, close by the permanently revolving triangle which read ‘Metropolitan Police’ and beneath being the legend ‘Working for a safer London’.

  The man felt nervous and wholly overawed as he entered the pleasantly cool interior of the building and walked timidly, cap in hand, up to the enquiry desk. His feeling nervous was not at all helped by the serious-looking, white-shirted constable who stood behind the desk, and who seemed to the man to be looking at him with a curiosity which verged on suspicion. The man, fighting the strange urge to turn and run, eventually reached the enquiry desk and said, ‘To let you understand, sir.’

  A smile. A wholly unexpected smile cracked open the constable’s stern countenance. ‘Scots,’ said the constable. ‘Another Scotsman.’

  ‘Aye,’ the man returned the smile. ‘Long time down here right enough, but Scots . . . yes. We get about, so we do.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Barrhead,’ the man replied, pronouncing the name of his native town as ‘Barrheed’.

  ‘Livingston,’ the constable replied. ‘I don’t see myself as staying down here much longer; it’s not for me. It was interesting at first, exciting even, but the travelling gets to you, such a long journey in and a long journey home.’

  ‘Aye . . . doesn’t it just,’ the man said, ‘but careful though, I said the selfsame thing. Not for too long said I . . .’ he glanced to his left and then a note of regret entered his voice as he said, ‘To think it was thirty years since I said that . . . thirty years . . . thirty long years and here I am, still here. Married a London lassie you see and you know the problem with Londoners?’

  ‘Tell me.’ The constable leaned forward.

  ‘The problem with Londoners is that they have got this invisible chain which connects them to the River Thames, just like a Glaswegian has an invisible chain that connects him to the Clyde. Anyway, I am from Barrhead, not Glasgow, so of the two of us, me and our lassie, I was the one to relocate. She had this chain you see, kept her fastened to the river. So I came south and the best I could negotiate was summer holidays and each New Year in Scotland. So take a tip, sir, London girls are lovely, but don’t take one for your wife, not if you want to live in Scotland again, Jim.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ Th
e constable smiled. ‘So what can we do for you, sir?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s about this.’ The man glanced about the spacious reception area as he took the note from the black bin liner and handed it to the constable. ‘I really do not know what to make of it, I really don’t. Might not be anything, but it’s not really my place to say whether it is or not. I put the note in the clear cellophane, but I found it in this.’ The man dropped the black bin liner on the desk.

  The constable read the note but did not remove it from the cellophane. He read the note again and then looked at the man. ‘I see what you mean, sir,’ he murmured, ‘I really do see what you mean.’

  ‘It was in the black bin liner which was in the wall . . .’

  ‘In the wall?’ The constable queried.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, sir. It was in the wall cavity,’ the man explained. ‘The wall has two vertical walls of brick, it was wedged between the two walls that make up the whole wall.’

  ‘I see.’ The constable reached for the phone which stood on the enquiry desk to his right-hand side, and in a slow but confident motion he pressed a four-digit number. ‘Hello,’ he said when his call was answered, ‘Murder and Serious Crime Squad . . . Yes, hello, sir, PC McMichael here, enquiry desk. Can the duty CID officer please attend? I have a member of the public here with me. He has produced something which seems to be a matter for the Murder and Serious Crime Unit. Yes . . . yes . . . very well . . . yes, I will, thank you.’ PC McMichael replaced the handset with the similar calm that he had picked it up. ‘I’ll have to keep hold of these items.’ The constable picked up the bin liner and the cellophane envelope containing the note.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘If you’d care to take a seat just over there, sir.’ PC McMichael took the bin liner and the envelope and placed them on a shelf beneath the surface of the enquiry desk. ‘An officer is coming down to take a statement from you, sir.’

  Frankie Brunnie read the man as he approached him. He saw him to be weather-beaten, muscular about the shoulders . . . ruddy complexion, and thought that he probably enjoys a beer or two, if not something stronger . . . he noted the red patterned shirt, dirty denim jeans, heavy shoes for the time of year, a man seeming to be more comfortable in industrial work wear . . . rough, very rough hands. He introduced himself as the man stood, and he and the man shook hands. The man, Brunnie found, had a pleasing handshake, not vice-like nor offensively loose, just pleasantly firm. He took the man to an interview room set off of the main reception area of New Scotland Yard. The room was decorated in a soft pastel shade of cream with a hard-wearing brown carpet. A polished wooden table and four matching upright chairs were the only furniture. Brunnie read the photocopy of the note the man had produced, the original plus the black bin liner having been carefully filed away for later forensic analysis. ‘Well . . .’ Brunnie smiled and adopted a relaxed body posture, ‘if we could start at the beginning, please, sir?’ He held his pen poised over the writing paper he had brought with him. ‘I am, as I said, Detective Constable Brunnie of the Murder and Serious Crime Squad. You said your name was Mr Brady?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Alan Brady, just plain Alan Brady.’ He glanced nervously about him but for the most part he kept his eyes downcast. ‘I live in Finchley; not the posh part. I am fifty-seven years old and am a builder by trade.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Brunnie wrote on the notepad. ‘I understand from the constable at the enquiry desk that you removed the note from a brick wall?’ Brunnie asked.

  ‘That is correct, sir.’ Brady gave a brief nod. ‘Found it inside the wall, so I did.’

  ‘So what’s the story there?’ Brunnie grinned broadly. ‘I confess I have heard of strange things being found in strange places, but a note within a brick wall . . . that really is a new one; a new one on me, anyway.’

  ‘It’s a new one on me as well, sir,’ Brady returned the grin. ‘I have been sticking bricks together all my days and finding something in an old wall is a new experience for me, but I have heard of such.’

  ‘Oh . . .?’ Brunnie queried.

  ‘Well, occasionally you get a dismantling job, or a renovation, and in such cases a builder will come across a sort of time capsule, something left behind by accident or something deliberately placed there for someone to find years from then . . . an old tobacco tin full of coins, for example; that’s what a pal of mine once found, but I have never found anything until last Saturday . . . two days ago.’ Brady looked up at Brunnie and saw a large, well-built man with shiny, jet-black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He found DC Brunnie’s attitude to be warm, gentle and affable.

  ‘But two days ago you were unsticking bricks,’ Brunnie clarified, ‘rather than sticking them together?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Brady replied, ‘that’s correct. The job came by word of mouth, as it often does. Strange it is; one job comes to an end, nothing in sight, you’re looking at being idle—’

  ‘Idle?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Brady explained, ‘it’s an old word for “unemployed” . . . it lasted longer in Scotland than it did in the rest of Britain, I just picked it up.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunnie smiled. ‘Carry on . . .’

  ‘Well, it is the way of it, sir,’ Brady continued. ‘You work your way into the building trade, into the building community. Over the years I have got to know chippies and sparkies as well as other trowels.’

  ‘Trowels?’

  ‘Bricklayers, sir,’ Brady explained, ‘they’re called “brickies” or “trowels”, and we put work each other’s way. Anyway a chippie . . . a carpenter—’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Brunnie grinned. ‘A sparkie’s an electrician.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brady found himself relaxing in Brunnie’s company. ‘Well, it turns out that the chippie is putting up shelves for this geezer over in Barking, so he is.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It’s a bit out of my way; plenty of local brickies over in Barking; but things were a bit quiet and you never ever turn down work.’

  ‘So I believe.’ Brunnie stroked his beard.

  ‘Well . . . it’s fatal if you do.’ Brady cleared his throat. ‘So, anyway, the chippie is working away up in the attic of this geezer’s house and there is this almighty rumble from just outside, and the wife of the gentleman, who is having a study built in his attic, is downstairs and she lets out this almighty scream, so Martin—’

  ‘Martin?’ Brunnie queried.

  ‘Martin Phelps, my mate the chippie.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Brunnie nodded.

  ‘So Martin – good lad is Martin – he runs down the stairs like all the fiends in Hell are chasing after him and he’s thinking that an aircraft has crashed or something, so he is, but what he finds is that a coach, a small one . . . you know the ones that can carry twenty passengers and you only need a normal driving licence to drive?’

  ‘I know the type,’ Brunnie said. ‘Carry on, please . . .’

  ‘Well . . . yes . . . well one of those has crashed into the wall. See, beside the house, to let you understand, sir, is a path which runs from the pavement to the back garden of this geezer’s property.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then there is the wall . . . like a boundary.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And on the other side of the wall there is a small hotel with a car park in front and the motor coach was about to pick up passengers, and it was trying to turn round.’

  ‘And the driver crashed into the wall?’ Brunnie anticipated Brady.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what happened.’ Brady hunched over the table as if getting into his stride of telling the tale of the motor coach and the brick wall. ‘And, anyway, the police, you guys, were called because Martin Phelps says the coach driver didn’t just strike the wall a glancing blow when he was inching forwards; it was more in the manner of crashing into it at ninety miles an hour. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

  ‘All right.’ B
runnie nodded. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘So the police smelled drink on his breath and he is taken away.’

  ‘He would be.’ Brunnie chuckled.

  ‘Fortunate in a sense, he hadn’t picked up any passengers, but he demolished the wall and the motor coach is a tow-in job . . . probably a write-off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So . . .’ Brady continued with what Brunnie sensed was a developing relish, ‘the geezer what Martin Phelps is putting up shelves for now has half a wall blocking the pathway at the side of the house, which is not good news, not very clever at all . . . and the owner of the motor coach hire company is full of liability but he is not wanting to claim on his insurance which, if he did, he reckons would skyrocket his old premium, so he is offering to pay for the rebuilding of the wall out of his own piggy bank.’

  ‘I follow.’ Brunnie spoke softly.

  ‘So Martin, the chippie – he is right on the ball is old Martin – he says to the coach operator that he knows a builder, a good builder . . . bit of a brown envelope merchant but a good man.’

  ‘Being you?’ Brunnie smiled. ‘The brown envelope merchant?’

  ‘Yes . . . I only work for hard cash . . . just cash in hand.’

  Brunnie held up his hand, though he smiled broadly, ‘You’d better not tell me that, just stick to the story, you’re doing well.’

  ‘OK.’ Brady looked sheepish. ‘Thank you, sir, I hadn’t thought . . . but I do declare it to the Revenue.’

  ‘Just not all of it,’ Brunnie grinned. ‘It’s OK, I am not bothered about that, not unless it is a million pound fraud . . . then I might sit up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brady held eye contact with Brunnie for a fraction of a second. ‘Thanks anyway. So Martin bells me and tells me what has happened, and asks me to motor over there and take a butcher’s, so he does. So over I go, it was quiet, like I said . . . give the damage a quick gander . . . give a fair quote to the coach operator and we shake hands . . . all that was about a week ago, a bit more in fact.’