Buried Secrets: The Freeman Files Series: Book 11 by Ted Tayler (highly recommended books txt) 📗

Lydia sat back and enjoyed the ride as Alex took them cross-country, via Chapel Knapp and Gastard, until they reached Corsham. He threaded his way through town traffic towards Cross Keys and then crossed the A4 London Road.

“I bet that road was busier before they built the M4 motorway,” said Lydia.

“It was a major coaching route,” said Alex. “Bath to London in two days. All that stopped in the middle of the nineteenth century when the railways took over. That was when Swindon stopped being a quiet market town. If Brunel had chosen a different route, we might not have heard of it.”

They were soon in the village of Biddestone, and Alex slowed as they passed the duck pond before turning onto Cuttle Lane.

“Maddy and Alan lived in that semi-detached house there,” said Alex.

“How far is it to the Crown pub?” asked Lydia.

“A mile and a half,” said Alex. “We’ll stop in the car park behind the pub and have a nosey around before we go inside.”

The car park only contained half a dozen vehicles. Five o’clock on a Wednesday evening marked a lull in trade for the pub that had stood beside the Chippenham to Bristol road for six hundred and fifty years.

Alex and Lydia strolled out onto Cuttle Lane to get their bearings.

“Duncan ran here from home,” said Alex, “then he turned around and ran back past his house into the village. A quick circuit of the housing estate topped up his mileage to six miles.”

“Are you lost?”

Lydia turned towards the voice that had come from behind them. A tiny white-haired lady stood in the lane with a Jack Russell terrier straining at the leash.

“No, we’re not lost,” said Lydia. “Thank you for asking. Do you live close by?”

“My cottage is behind the hedge, dear. It’s early for me to be walking Nipper, but my sister’s calling round later.”

“Have you lived in the village long?” Lydia asked.

“All my life, dear,”

Alex had kept his distance as Nipper seemed keen to live up to his name. He came closer when he heard the dog walker’s reply.

“We’re with Wiltshire Police,” he said. “I’m DS Hardy.”

“I’m Tilly Spiers,” the lady replied. “It’s ages since we saw police officers along this lane.”

“Ten years ago, perhaps?” asked Lydia.

“I expect it would be, dear,” said Tilly. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

“Did you know Alan Duncan, Mrs Spiers?” asked Alex. “He lived in a house further along the lane towards the village; just past the chapel.”

“Oh, yes, dear, everyone remembers Mr Duncan. Officers in uniform, detectives, and Crime Scene Investigation vans everywhere; it was an exciting time. My sister remembers when they used Castle Combe for a feature film. You couldn’t move for theatrical types and tourists for months. Of course, this was different because it was a murder.”

“Did you speak to the police at the time?” asked Alex.

“A young man, dressed like yourself, not in uniform, called on me one afternoon.”

“Was that a DS Tallentire?” asked Alex.

“Oh, I can’t remember what he said his name was, dear. He was too young to be a detective, I thought. I usually walk my dog between half-past six and seven in the summer. I told the detective about the stranger.”

“You had seen a stranger in the village, Mrs Spiers? When was this?” asked Alex.

“I left my cottage and walked the dog to the end of the road by the Crown. As I came back, I saw him sat in the beer garden. The sun had been high in a cloudless sky since dawn. It was a scorcher, yet he didn’t wear a hat, nor did he use the umbrellas they have sheltering the tables. He sat on a seat close to the wall and kept glancing along the lane as if he expected someone. I tried to place his face, but I couldn’t. He wasn’t a local.”

“If I showed you several photographs,” said Alex. “Do you think you could pick him out? What can you remember?”

Mrs Spiers looked across the lane into the field and thought for a while.

“He was seated, partly hidden by the wall,” said Tilly. “I could only describe his head and shoulders to you with any confidence.”

“That would be good enough,” said Alex.

“His hair was cut short. I would guess he was around thirty-five years of age. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt, and I could see a tattoo high on his right arm, but I wasn’t close enough to tell you what it said.”

“The tattoo featured a word or words rather than pictures or symbols. Is that what you mean?” asked Lydia.

“Yes, dear,” said Tilly. “It wasn’t one of those complicated things they go for these days.”

Alex took the profile photos that Blessing had produced and placed them in random order.

“Take your time, Mrs Spiers,” he said. “Have a good long look at each photo and tell me if you recognise anyone.”

Tilly Spiers studied the first submariner that Alex showed her. The old lady shook her head.

“Too old, dear,” she said. Alex knew what to expect with the second photo.

“Not him,” she said. “That stranger’s hair was definitely not ginger.”

Alex kept turning over photographs.

“That’s Mr Duncan,” cried Tilly Spiers. “That wasn’t nice, DS Hardy. Alan was well-liked in the village, he always smiled when he ran by, or if he cycled past with his friend.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Spiers. Just one more to look at.”

“That’s him,” said Tilly. “As sure as I’m standing here. He’s a few years younger in that picture, but that’s the man sat in the beer garden that evening.”

Alex showed Lydia the photo, but she already knew it was the only one they hadn’t identified.

“Did you see Alan Duncan later that evening?” asked Alex.

“He passed me as