“You know, someone’s been making threats against Ken Francis. They’ve trashed his studio and, yesterday someone set fire to it. We’re thinking it’s quite likely to be the same person.”
The policeman was staring at him now. He wanted to know if it was him. Had he already made up his mind? I can’t tell you what I know. I just can’t. “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t do anything like that.” He felt the eyes upon him, assessing him, judging. Bracing for the next question, he waited patiently, wondering what it would be but the policeman asked nothing further and slowly returned his gaze to the sea.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tom Janssen’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts regarding Mark McCall as he came to the end of the path, reaching the main road. A small lorry rumbled past, the branding denoting it as one making deliveries to small food stores. Trotting across the road in between two oncoming cars he headed to his left. Tamara had offered to pick him up which he was grateful for, although the thirty-minute walk back to the station was perfectly manageable. Glancing at his watch, there was some time to kill though. The agreed meeting place was a small convenience store on the edge of the village, a landmark that she should be able to find easily enough. If not, there was always the sat nav.
He found Mark McCall a strange young man. Not a view garnered by his illness, though. It was far more than that. The family were well known amongst those who worked and lived locally. Their reputation well earned, if overstated sometimes by the locals. Stories and descriptions of events could be magnified over time making the participants appear darker, the events far more unacceptable than perhaps they were. Not that the McCalls needed much elaboration. Mark was different to his father and siblings. That was clear to him and yet Mark’s distrust of those in authority was equally as strong. Thinking back to his own childhood, perhaps that wasn’t so odd. As much as your thoughts and feelings towards the world could be shaped by your peers, more often than not it was your family who nurtured your world view. The arguments he used to have with his own father, infrequent though they were for they had a wonderful relationship, only came about once he reached an age to form his own opinions along with the courage and conviction to voice them. This was a rite of passage to adulthood, something everyone goes through. However, thinking on it, he still grew up to be a pretty decent carbon copy of his father with similar values and outlook.
Somehow, Mark McCall was distancing himself from how his family approached life but how far the apple truly fell from the tree, he couldn’t yet determine. He was confident there was still a chance he could breach the barrier erected around the boy and get to what he really knew. Unable to force it, though, it would take time. Sadly, in a murder case, time was a luxury.
Approaching the village boundary, he came to the little shop, an old brick building converted into a store offering the basics you might need prior to making a trip to one of the larger supermarkets in town. The shop doubled up as a post office with a small counter at the far end. This was probably what made the business viable. Only two other customers were present, an elderly man was off to one side paying close attention to the magazines on display, leafing through one on fishing. Janssen passed by him and retrieved a bottle of water from the small fridge unit humming away in the corner.
The lady alongside the till was chatting to another woman leaning casually against the counter with one hand holding a crutch, keeping her upright. Not that she appeared in any discomfort as the two merrily conversed about nothing in particular. Two friends passing the time of day. The sense of intruding was strong as he approached, their conversation ceasing. It was as if they were fearful he might overhear their discussion. Placing the bottle on the counter, he smiled and the lady returned a warm greeting.
“Are you working on the murder of that poor young girl?” He was taken aback and must have looked startled judging by her reaction. “You’re Tom, Annabelle’s boy, aren’t you?” At mention of his mother, he relaxed. “We used to work together back in the day.”
“I see, yes. I’m sorry, you caught me off guard,” he replied. The woman alongside chimed in as well.
“Terrible business. Are you going to find out who did it?” He was about to reply with a standard response but didn’t get the chance. “I do hope it’s not one of us. I doubt it is. We get all sorts passing through here at all times of the year. Getting up to no good, many of them. You’ll have your work cut out if he’s already moved on.”
Janssen found himself smiling politely. They lived in an area with one of the lowest recorded crime rates in the country and yet fear of outsiders and crime itself was still evident. It was only a matter of scale perhaps. Certainly, if you wanted to feel depressed about the state of things all you need do was pick up a paper or put the news on the television. “The investigation is ongoing. We’ll get to the bottom of it, I’m quite sure.”
“I dare say you’ll be speaking to that artist chap whose moved into the old Banks place.” This was the elderly man talking, piping up from across the shelving behind them. He ambled around to join them. His hands were empty and Janssen figured he was killing time with the reading material while his wife talked.
“Do you mean Ken Francis?” he
