an
excerpt from...
Murder at Northleigh Manor
by William Stewart
CHAPTER ONE
A telephone call on Tuesday, July 5, 1994 heralded the biggest challenge of my career, and it was to change my life dramatically, turning it upside down in a way I would never have imagined.
The cursor on my computer screen blinked at me, as if taunting me to type in the last paragraphs of the article. It had to be good, like the punch-line of a joke, something to remember the article by. I glared back at the screen wondering how to finish. ‘It has to be punchy,’ I muttered through teeth that slowly chewed round the end of my Biro. It was another good article, I knew that. The drug pushers would boiling angry when it was printed. Not that I minded what they thought. You see, I have a mission, even though every new article brought death threats. The Glasgow Times was fast getting a reputation for hard-hitting, but accurate reporting, and I was a part of that.
***
The phone at my elbow chirruped. I ignored it. If there was one thing that gets up my nose it’s the phone ringing just as I’m about to get inspiration. It rang again. I uttered a few totally inappropriate curses under my breath, and picked it up, and slouched back, keeping one eye on the screen, still trying to find that elusive inspiration.
‘Hugh,’ Patrick Mullins the Irish Scot editor of the Glasgow Times, barked. ‘Listen.’
I heard the line click and knew that we were now sharing the line with a third party.
My boss said, ‘Tim Dancer’s on the line.’
I sat up; an interested expression replacing the scowl – Tim Dancer, the Chief Editor of the South Coast News, something of a legend. I gave a polite ‘Good morning, Mr Dancer.’
My boss, renowned for not mincing words said, ‘Hugh, shut up, and just listen. Tiny, repeat what you’ve just said.’
‘I want Hugh Hardie to come and work for me.’
‘Just like that. You want to pinch my best investigator,’ barked my boss, not renowned for his tact.
Neither man wasted words, ‘As I said, Paddy, my boy, you owe me one, in fact, Paddy, more than one. I want your man Hugh Hardie for a special job.’
‘No,’ my boss barked. The two of them were the best of friends but they growled and barked like two dogs having a friendly fight.
‘I’ll let you have Fiona Grant back for a while. Some family problems in Stirling.’
‘I’m not running a charity here, you know. Fiona’s a good girl but not in the same league as Hugh.’
‘I know that, but she’s been here two years and done well. She won’t let you down. Promise.’
‘She does and I’ll put you through the shredder.’ Paddy suddenly exploded into high-pitched laughter, at the thought of that, for although I’d never met the man, I knew him to be a mountain of a man; six feet five and eighteen stones, with his corporation pushing his trousers to their limit.
Tim caught the joke and for several minutes the line between Glasgow and Southampton rocketed with laughter. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be part of the joke, but I had my own little laugh.
‘Tell me what all this is about,’ said Paddy.
‘Can’t. Too secret for the wires to hear. Anyway Mr Hardie, there’s a booking on the six o’clock flight to Southampton this evening. I’ll meet you, we’ll talk and you can come back tomorrow morning. I’ll book you in somewhere for a bed. OK?
All I could manage was a weak, ‘OK, Mr Dancer,’ and hung up, blanked off the screen, then jogged along the corridor to see Paddy, (Though it was always ‘Chief’ to his face) whose wizened appearance and steel-rimmed spectacles always reminded me of Ghandi, but like Ghandi, he was no fool.
‘We go back a long way, do master Timothy and me. One day. No longer, mind!
‘But I’m not sure I want to go to Southampton, Chief. I mean, I’ve got all these projects lined up, then there’s the club.’
‘I know all that. But this is your career, remember. Others would give their last pint to be offered a chance to work with Dancer. Hear what he has to say, then make your mind up. Fiona, so Dancer says, is doing well. If you take the job, whatever it is, then you can brief her. Now off you go and get yourself down to the airport.’
I finished off the article with a devil-may-care flourish, quickly scanned it, spell-checked it, saved it to a floppy, switched off the computer, cleared up my desk, made sure no sensitive material was lying about, and left.
***
There was no mistaking Tim Dancer, as he pushed his way through the small crowd to greet me. When Tim Dancer wanted to, he could be charming and very, very persuasive. His broad smile was as big as he was, as was the black Stetson he always wore, which added inches to his massive height. ‘Hugh Hardie? Good to meet you.’
I found my own large hand crushed in one hand and another was knocking the breath out of me as it hit me in the middle of the back. I’m no weakling. For years I’d kept myself very fit at the gym, and in my spare time enjoyed hill running. I felt diminutive beside this man, but I liked him immediately.
‘Dinner?’ Tim asked, guiding me towards his car - an expensive Merc, powerful and one that suited this big man, but not high enough to let him ride with his hat on, which he placed on the back seat. I put my small case in the boot.
‘Dinner?’ he repeated, as we drove away from the airport.
‘Please. Where we going?
‘Booked you in to the Crest Hotel in Eastleigh. Good place, Damned dear, mind you. We can talk there. Tell me, how did Paddy take it?’
‘Like a horse that’s had its oats stolen from it. How would you think?’ Tim laughed. ‘I like it. No beating about the bush with you.’
‘Nor you, by what I’ve heard.’ I smiled and thought, I could get along with this man. He smiled and I wondered what he thought of me. He said, ‘Curious?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you’re not going to ask, are you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Bloody dour Scot.’
‘Bloody reserved Englishman.’
We both laughed, for it seemed we both enjoyed the verbal fencing. ‘I can see,’ said Tim, ‘you can give as good as you get.’
‘Aye, but not known for my diplomacy.’
‘We shall see. Here we are,’ said Tim as the car drew into the car park. He was obviously well-known at the hotel and a corner table had been reserved for us and the wine waiter hovered.
‘Not for me, thanks. I don’t drink.’ I said, aware that Tim was dying to say something. ‘A lime and lemonade will do fine.’
My host ordered wine. We chatted about everything except the reason for my being there, and only when we moved from the table to the lounge and the coffee – with liqueurs for Tim – was being drunk, did he lean forwards and beckoned me towards him. Of course I was curious; who wouldn’t be? All sorts of things ran through my mind but nothing remotely like what it was.
‘Right, Hughie, this is it...’
‘Before we go on, Mr Dancer, my name is Hugh, not Hughie, please.’
‘Right, then, Hugh.’ Tim looked at me very keenly. What does the name Brian Chubb mean to you?’
I stared into the distance, concentrating. One of the things I’ve been blessed with is a good memory, and for a journalist that is a boon. ‘Last year, Spring around Easter? Accused of murder. Sentenced three months ago. Right?
‘Right. The background is that Brian Chubb, aged 30, is what they used to call simple, was accused of murdering Jacqueline Walsh in nineteen-ninety-three. There was doubt about the whole thing, but the police were convinced. Anyway, Chubb was found guilty in March of this year and sent to Winchester.
‘So?
‘I’m coming to that. Just wait. I’m not satisfied. I wasn’t at the time, and we ran a fairly vigorous campaign against the injustice of it, and there was a lot of sympathy, but we weren’t listened to.’
‘And you want me to resurrect it? Prove he’s innocent?’
‘That’s about it.’
I felt excitement rising within me. I stroked the scar on my face with my thumb, a scar that arcs its white path from the lobe of my left ear to the corner of my mouth, so that when I smile the scar tightens and pulls my mouth to one side. This gives me a sinister sort of look, which sometimes gives me an advantage when dealing with unsavoury characters. Another thing is that that when I’m deep in thought I stroke the scar. Don’t know why, but there it is. ‘Tell me more, Mr Dancer.’
‘Like what?
‘What would my position be? Where would I live? Salary? What records there are? Would this be my only project? What happens afterwards? What happens if I can’t prove he’s innocent?
Mr Dancer laughed, and when he laughed his whole massive frame shook, and involved everything and everybody within the lounge who responded to this deep laugh by smiling. ‘My!’ he said, with a wink ‘a lot of questions, but quite right. Here’s what I thought. I’ll give you ten percent over and above your present salary. You can devote your whole attention to this. Whether you prove him innocent or not is so important as getting at the truth. Yes, I’d like you to prove he didn’t do it, but... Now about your living. You can rent a flat or a house for as long as you need. What about your wife?’
I hesitated for a split second, and looking him squarely in the eye said, ‘If you’ve done your homework, and I’m sure you have,’ he grinned, ‘you’ll know I haven’t a wife. And before you ask, no, I’ve never married.’ I tried to laugh. ‘Never had the time, you see.’
‘Never mind.’ He pointed the Para motto ‘Ready for Anything’ tattooed on my left forearm, then said, Does that mean you’re still ready?’
I couldn’t help laughing at that. Maybe one of these days, I thought. ‘How long do you think, Mr Dancer?’
He shook his head. ‘Difficult to say, but as long as it takes.’ He pointed at my scar. ‘That looks nasty. Get it in the army?’
Copyright © 2001 William Stewart