Acting Up

Chapter 2-1

Chapter Two

Brompton Village Area

(Three Weeks Earlier)

Alan Churcher was feeling on top of the world. It was a beautiful, sunny May afternoon, and the landscape around him was alive with colour as millions of wild flowers highlighted the lush green background of the West Berkshire countryside.

As he drove his old, blue, Ford Transit van gently though the narrow lanes Alan knew this was his true home. The views that he had once casually taken for granted now filled him with joy. He was born in the countryside, he belonged in the countryside.

Everything he could see was in stark contrast to the grey stone walls of the prison in Oxford. The place from which he had recently been released.

The air here was fresh and clean. Alan expanded his chest and breathed it in deeply. It were as though he was using its purity to wash away the dark memories that has taken up permanent residence inside his head. Thoughts that kept taking him, mentally kicking and screaming, back to that evil-smelling cell.

He could vividly recall the body odour, the stale smell of cigarette smoke, and the all-pervading stench of boiled cabbage that always seemed to be present. There was no escaping that smell. It hung in the air all day and all night.

It was only now he was free that he realised how good simple fresh air could taste. And it smelt so sweet!

To make it even more perfect, the roads were empty of other traffic. There were no cars and there was nobody out walking. Alan felt he had the world to himself and, once more, he had the freedom to embrace it.

That was the best of it, the absence of other people. Unlike the prison, there were no crowds here. No hustle, no bustle — and especially, no need to constantly look over one’s shoulder for that nutter with the home-made knife. The one who would cheerfully slice a man’s face to ribbons just for the fun of it.

These days Alan loved his solitude — but he still missed his brother.

Frank, when he was alive, had given Alan stability and confidence. Frank was the older brother in every sense of the term. It was Frank whose active brain had been responsible for all the scheming and all the planning. Alan never had the need to think when Frank was around.

Alan wasn’t too good at thinking for himself. His was the role of the loyal assistant. He was always the lieutenant, never the captain.

However, as he piloted the van along the quiet lanes, now that he finally understood the true meaning of freedom, he vowed he would never again return to that hated prison. He would die first.

Of course, technically, he wasn’t completely free from custody. The trial judge had actually sent him down for a three-year stretch for the manslaughter of the retired s*x worker, Suzanne Hoskins. However, with good behaviour, and a favourable probation officer’s report, he had been released early on licence.

This meant he was now subject to “recall”. One small transgression, or a failure to obey instructions from his probation officer, could very easily result in his being immediately taken back inside to complete the remainder of his sentence.

That was not going to happen!

Alan was acutely aware of his vulnerability, and he drove accordingly. No speeding, no jumping lights, and definitely no swearing at other drivers. His van was totally legal, and he always remained completely sober when he was driving it.

He had spent his first few weeks of freedom living quietly with his mum at their secluded cottage near the village of Brompton. Alan had felt safe there, away from the dangers and temptations of the outside world; but it couldn’t last forever. Also, one of the conditions of his release had been that he seek gainful employment.

So, he borrowed a few quid from his mum and used it to get the van properly serviced and MOT tested. Getting third-party insurance had proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated, but a local broker, an old friend of his late dad, had taken pity on him and had found him a sympathetic underwriter at one of the smaller companies.

Once the vehicle was roadworthy and insured, Alan was ready for the road. He took out a small ad in the local paper and advertised his services as an odd-job man.

This casual labour was work he knew well. He had acquired a variety of skills from being brought up in the countryside during his boyhood and, although he was no craftsman, his work was sound and reliable — if somewhat under-priced.

He had quit school at fifteen years of age and gone to work with Frank. They ran the family business of helping mostly upper middle-class folk, usually from London, with the maintenance of their homes in the country. Their “piles” as they called them.

Alan and Frank used to joke about that.

“Can you sort out my piles for me, young man?” Frank would say, putting on a high-pitched “posh” voice. “Sorry, madam,” he would answer himself, this time in a baritone, “We don’t do back passages!”

No matter how often he heard it, Alan always laughed.

Sadly, the young men’s service to the local community hadn’t been restricted to doing odd jobs. It was their side-line in supplying certain illegal substances to several of their clients that had ultimately, if indirectly, led to their downfall.

Frank used to like to downplay their role as drug dealers.

“We’re no different to the ice cream man,” he would often say. “Only we deliver candy to stuff up their noses instead of into their gobs.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same is it? It’s doing people harm.” Alan was never keen on that side of their business.

“Look, mate,” his brother would answer. “They’re grown-ups making their own choices. We don’t go around making small kiddies fat, or rotting their teeth, now do we? Looking at it that way, the ice cream man is far more of a wicked villain than ever we are.”

Alan tried not to think too much about Frank these days. His brother’s death in a blazing wreck nearly two years previously still gave him bad dreams. Frank had been his best and only true friend and Alan felt his loss keenly. Tears were never far from the surface whenever he thought about his lost sibling.

Despite his best efforts, work had been slow coming in. Alan assumed it was because of his status as a gaolbird. Consequently, the past month had been very quiet, and he had secured only a couple of small commissions. Those little jobs had mostly involved labouring. Heavy, dirty work; not very pleasant and not at all well-paid.

But beggars can’t be choosers. So Alan didn’t complain, and he had cheerfully taken on anything that was offered.

It had come as a welcome surprise when he got the call this morning to go and do a little plumbing job. The phone had rung while Alan was eating a late breakfast, so Mum had answered it. Through an open door Alan could hear her speaking to the caller.

“Oh, hello… Yes, it is, would you like me to get Alan?” “Okay then, just give me a second to write it down.… Oh yes, he knows where that is. What time would be convenient for him to call. Yes, he’s brilliant with plumbing, he’ll be happy to help. Goodbye then. Thank you, Mr Mortimer.”

Mum came through to the kitchen with a big smile on her face and a note in her hand.

“That was Raymond Mortimer. He wants you to fix a leaky tap.”

“I don’t know any Raymond Mortimer.”

“He’s Miss Anne’s new husband. You know, Miss Wilson as was.”

Alan certainly did know Anne Wilson (as was), he had known her for years. She was the owner of Bluebell Wood, and it was she that had made the gruesome discovery of Suzanne Hoskins’ body almost a couple of years back. Alan was, to say the least, a bit surprised to be invited to do work at her house.

Of course, it was now fairly generally known that Suzanne had actually been killed by her husband, Steven Hoskins, not by Frank or Alan — as had been originally suspected. So maybe Alan wasn’t as despised as he assumed himself to be. He could always hope.

“What time does he want me there?” he asked.

“Oh, not until a bit later this afternoon. He says he’s out all morning, so any time after three.”

“Right-o.” That was good. It gave him time to finish his breakfast and give the van a wash. Frank used to say that first impressions mattered — and Alan didn’t want to let himself down over something simple like arriving at a customer’s house with a dirty van; especially now that things seemed to be finally looking up.

It was twenty minutes past three when the large residence, known as The Grange, came into sight. Alan drove through the gate and onto the gravel driveway. He immediately noticed a smart, classic, 4.2-litre E-Type Jaguar parked outside the house. The car was a convertible, about ten years old.

Alan felt a pang as he remembered that his brother had died at the wheel of a Jag.

That particular model was the much sought after XJ6. It had been lovely. It was the best car Alan had ever driven. It was sleek, powerful, and luxurious. However, the car had been badly serviced by a local garage, and the use of incorrect hydraulic fluid had indirectly led to brake failure, with fatal consequences.

For Alan, the recollection of the crash was as clear today as it had ever been. And, alongside the prison, it was a constant presence during his waking hours. It also sometimes haunted his sleep at night. In his dreams, Alan could see and even feel the heat as the car went up in flames.

Even worse, was the memory of the sight and smell of the thick black smoke from the fire. The fire that had consumed Frank’s body. In Alan’s dream, the smoke writhed and twisted and became a gloating demon that chortled gleefully as it made off with his brother’s soul.

It was a strange thing, but in Alan’s dreams, Frank was screaming in agony as he was dragged off. However, in reality, his brother had been dead from the impact long before the fire had broken out — and well before the petrol tank had gone up. Alan obviously knew all this, but the vision in his dreams still tortured him.

Alan took a deep breath and shook the memory from his head. He parked up in a corner, facing a large bush, and the gravel under his boots made a crunching sound as he walked across the drive to the big house.

In response to his knock, the front door was opened by a fair-haired man in his late twenties. He was wearing a blue and white rugby shirt and a pair of flared Levi jeans. The fair-haired man tilted back his head and, as he looked at Alan down his nose, he gave him a hard searching glare.

“Er, Mr Mortimer?” Alan said politely. “I’m Alan from Churcher Brothers, sir. I’m told you need some work doing.”

As though frightfully bored with the tedium of it all, the man didn’t bother to speak. He simply sighed and beckoned Alan with a crooked finger. Alan followed him indoors then through the house and on into the large kitchen at the back.

Arrogant bastard! Alan said to himself. Too full of himself to even speak to the likes of me!

Inside the kitchen, the man, whom Alan presumed to be Raymond Mortimer, pointed towards a large sink in the corner.

“Tap.” He said tersely, breaking his silence. “Leaks a bit. Needs fixing.”

He then he sat on the edge of a large wooden table in the middle of the room and folded his arms. From this vantage he had a clear view of the sink, as well as everything Alan was doing.

Alan put his canvas tool bag down in front of the huge, square Belfast sink unit. The tools made a clanking sound as they made contact with the hard floor tiles. From the bag he removed a large wrench, which he placed on the top of the bag. He then began turning each of the taps on and off, watching the flow of water as he did so.

“You’ve been here before haven’t you?” said Raymond Mortimer finally. His voice was clear and crisp with a slight trace of an upper-class accent.