'The Gardener'

‘The Gardener’

by Harry Riley

(this is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead, is entirely coincidental)

Reuben Ackroyd was a gardener, a very keen and enthusiastic gardener. He could be seen most days, summer and winter, rain or shine, pottering about in the garden at the side of his little cottage in the Yorkshire village of Bradstock, deep in the dales. Here was a man at peace with himself and content with his lot. He always had a cheery wave, a chat and a smile for the old ladies as they passed on their way to collect their pensions from the post office. He had lived here as long as anyone could remember. At first there were two of them, Reuben and his wife, but she had been a bad lot and had left, many years ago, along with the butcher’s son, one bright sunny day while Reuben was at work in the churchyard (he had been the gravedigger until the fashion for cremation made him virtually redundant) Now he would dig as a favour for the vicar and purely for free, to support the struggling church. Most of the flowers that filled the old Norman church every week came from his garden. He would fill up any remaining time doing favours for the elderly, gardening and odd jobs. If ever a man was destined for sainthood it was Reuben. He hadn’t harboured any ill will for his wayward wife or her young lover and had remarked, whenever taxed on the subject, that she was a lively young thing and “he hoped the two of ‘em were happy together and had a far better life than he could have offered in this sleepy little village.” He just wished she had kept in touch with a letter or a phone call now and again, so he could wish them well, like any true Christian should.

One of Reuben’s big successes was the fruit and vegetables, grown in his large greenhouse. He had built it himself and the whole of the ground inside had been lovingly nourished with organic manure over the years. He sold this tasty produce to the locals as they regularly beat a path to his door. There were juicy red tomatoes, melons, and squash, grapes and even peaches. Any surplus he sold to the local greengrocer. One day however, peace was shattered in the village as the lone pilot of a paraplane (a sort of motorised parachute) had a problem with his machine. He was flying quite low and a flock of geese got tangled up in the elliptical wing and brought him down with a crash, right through the middle of Reuben Ackroyd’s greenhouse. The pilot was declared dead at the scene by the medics and unfortunately so was Reuben, who had been spraying his tomatoes at the time. The dark, richly fertilized loam, that had been so brutally disturbed, now gave up a secret of its own. The rescue services were amazed to see the lids of two coffins, laying each side of the narrow pathway. The forensic specialist was later able to confirm the skeletal remains were those of Reuben’s wife and her lover, the butcher’s son. Reuben had conscientiously tended their graves, and in death they had helped to provide him with a little income.

End

‘The Five Pound Note’

by Harry Riley

(Note: The characters in this story are purely fictional and resemblance to any person living or dead is entirely coincidental)

I960 was a bad year for Police Inspector Andy Walker of Merebrook Central Division. The year had started with so much promise. First there was his promotion from Sergeant, after ten years in the force and a particularly fine piece of detection work on his part, in breaking up a vicious gang of thugs. A promotion his pals said was long overdue, and a few others though, had said, should never have come. It’d been his best year for personal crime results. He was a steady copper, didn’t cut corners, well not too many anyway, and he was careful not to rub his superiors up the wrong way (he was on first name terms with Superintendent John Smedley.) But then along had come the Chase murder and it all went belly-up.

On a routine patrol in the Victoria Chase District, in the early hours of Saturday morning, he’d caught site of Warren Lambert, a well-known burglar, with pockets bulging, just emerging from a dark alleyway. He’d signalled for Mike Henshaw, his driver, to pull over so they could have a word with the little wretch, but on hearing the car screeching up to him he’d bolted, back up the alley, the way he’d come. Andy jumped out and shouted for him to stop, as Mike drove round the corner to try and cut off escape at the other end of the narrow passageway.

As he came to a bend in the alley, Andy lost sight of his quarry and later emerged in the next street empty-handed, just as Mike pulled up alongside, simultaneously leaning across and winding down the passenger window. “Where did the little blighter go?”

Andy knew what must have happened; just beyond the bend there was a gap in the iron railings that bordered the old Victorian cemetery. Lambert must have seen his chance, ducked through and hidden behind one of the big, gothic style marble tombstones.

He would be long gone now. No matter, they’d have him tomorrow, at his digs on the Green.

Two hours later a call came through of a suspicious death, only two blocks from where they had seen Warren Lambert. When Andy and Mike arrived there was already a uniformed bobby at the scene along with the ambulance. It was the home of a wealthy entrepreneur.

They rushed up the stairs as indicated by the young police constable and carefully entered the bedroom. There sprawled on the bed was the heavily bloodstained body of a male. He looked to be in his early forties. Andy recognised him immediately as Brian Fallows, the owner of the property and a man whose features appeared regularly in the Merebrook Evening Post. He was quite dead.

“Why did he have to live in a poxy area like this, with all his brass?” Mike sighed.

Andy peered closer at the corpse. “I don’t know Mike, but he’s paid a heavy price. Been bludgeoned on the back of the head with something heavy by the looks of it and I bet I know where we’ll find the murder weapon - a burglars gemmy, I’ll warrant!”

They were told by the P.C. that a window on the ground floor had been forced and that the perpetrator had probably exited the same way, as there was blood on the windowsill.

Both Andy and Mike spent the next thirty minutes going separately through all the rooms of the house, hunting for clues, before departing and leaving the constable on duty outside the front door, waiting for forensics to turn up with their kit.

Andy was correct. As dawn broke they found a bloodstained gemmy shoved down a crack behind a broken headstone in the cemetery. It was placed carefully into a plastic bag so as not to disturb any fingerprints.

Forensics confirmed that the wall safe under the carpet in the parlour had been opened and that it was empty. The owner’s wife turned up at the police station in a drunken state and said she had been out all night at the casino and a taxi had taken her home to find her husband dead and all his cash stolen, some ten thousand pounds by all accounts.

Warren Lambert was easy to find and even easier to break down under questioning. Another good result for Andy, but the burglar insisted he had found no cash and had not located the safe, much to his annoyance. It was a matter of hurt pride with him. He put his hand up to the murder, as the victim refused to say where he kept his money and had clubbed him in a fit of temper.

A fortnight later the Superintendent had called Andy into his office and had stiffly informed him he was to be suspended. He was being investigated for theft relating to the murder at Victoria Chase and this was more than he ought to have been told.

Of course it was all nonsense but Andy could not explain how his bank account had been swelled by the recent addition of ten thousand pounds.

Andy knew he was innocent but mud sticks and back at the station they all knew he’d been experiencing financial difficulties and that his marriage was going through a rocky patch.

Quite clearly somebody had set him up, but for the life of him he couldn’t think who it would be.

He was used to a strictly regimented working day and had never been out of work so long. It was several months now and just before Christmas the Super had rung him to say that papers had been handed to the CPS and that he would be formally charged with theft.

Charlotte, his wife of thirteen years had just walked out after their last big row and had even taken Columbus, their pet spaniel. A letter had popped through the letterbox to say his house was being repossessed through non - payment of arrears. This had happened because his bank account had been frozen.

He had spent a very lonely and miserable Christmas trying to work out where it had all gone wrong. Even Mike, his best pal, had kept away. Andy Walker was a pariah!

He would be going to court and had been advised to get himself a good lawyer, but the evidence was pretty damning. He had been in the “Fallows” parlour; all alone and could easily have found the safe and stolen the money. The really damning evidence - evidence that would send him to prison as a bent copper, was that he had suddenly become ten thousand pounds richer.

Now it was the start of a new year and he walked disconsolately along the country lane and stopped to look over the five barred field gate at the bleak wintry scene. All he had ever valued was going or already gone. A figure stirred on the other side of the hedge and an old tramp appeared wearing a torn army coat and covered in muddy leaves, apparently from sleeping in the hedge bottom. He stared at Andy with damp rheumy eyes and approached the gate, dragging his feet. “Would you have a cigarette for an old army veteran mister?”

Andy replied that he was sorry but he didn’t smoke.

“Ha well, no matter, they’re killing me anyway, maybe I’ll last a few hours longer.” He coughed and continued in a wheezy voice, “I don’t suppose you could let me have the cost of a breakfast…to set me up for the day?”

Andy was touched, he still had food himself at home, in the fridge and the freezer, but all the money he had in his pocket was a five-pound note. He dug deep and gave the man his very last fiver. He had his troubles but this man had nothing. At least if they sent him to prison he would have a roof over his head.

“Thank you – god bless you mister, you don’t know what you did today, you’ve saved my life!” The old soldier gratefully took the money, saluted awkwardly, and shuffled slowly away.

Andy smiled, he felt better already.

The next day he received news that Warren Lambert had revoked his earlier confession to murder, claiming it was made under duress and also denied the gemmy was his, saying it must have been planted. Now his erstwhile colleagues were digging into his past and somebody had dug up a photo of Andy sharing a drink with the dead man at a shindig, in company with several councillors and businessmen. Tongues were wagging. “Who then, had murdered Brian Fallows?” It was as inevitable as night follows day, Andy Walker was accused of coolly planning and executing the murder before his shift began, and just after Mrs. Fallows had left the house in a taxi, headed for the gambling club, and of laying the blame at the feet of Warren Lambert, a man of slow intellect. Mike Henshaw was quizzed and admitted under questioning that Andy had not been his usual self for several weeks before the murder and that he had been quite crabby of late.

The trial by jury was pretty conclusive and Andy did himself no favours when he insisted, against his council’s advice, that he should give evidence in the witness box to prove his innocence. The Prosecutor had a field day. Andy was tied up in knots and quickly lost his temper. Sitting in court, listening to his future being decided he studied the faces of the jurymen and women. There was one man among the jury whose face seemed slightly familiar, especially around the eyes, the man was listening intently to every word spoken and kept glancing up at him, but no, this man was nobody he could place. He was found guilty and sentenced to death for murder. The judge, wearing his black cap, described him as the lowest of the low, a bent policeman, trusted to preserve the values of the community. There would be a lot of people dancing on his grave.

The prison chaplain was a friendly chap; he asked Andy if he wanted to confess his sins to the lord. There was something about this man, his voice and his watery eyes that troubled the condemned man. He had met him before, he was sure of that – but where?

There was to be an appeal but the prison Governor told Andy not to get his hopes up as they very rarely succeeded. The home secretary had to have new, solid evidence.

A lot though, was going on behind the scenes, Superintendent John Smedley received a tip off from an anonymous caller, began to have serious thoughts and ordered a watch to be put on Charlotte Fallows. She was seen leaving the casino one night in the company of

a policeman - Mike Henshaw and the pair’s movements were closely monitored. They must have suspected they’d been seen, for they were picked up at Dover trying to flee across to the Continent. Charlotte Fallows claimed it had all been Mike’s idea to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. He was jealous of Andy Walker’s success on the back of his endeavours and believed he was being overlooked. They might have got clean away had it not been for the anonymous caller and the fact that a scruffy old tramp had caused a big ruckus at the docks and had attracted the attentions of the police as he begged the two fugitives for money. Only a fiver mister, he had said, “just a fiver for an old war veteran, could you please?”

End.