The Dudleys of Budleigh Read online

  There was very little evidence that he had any real enemies. Every now and again, a Dudley was mentioned in a newspaper report. No Dudleys were named in any Facebook or Twitter posts.

  In spite of the negative comments, he did appear to be good at his job. In fact, some may consider him to be too good. He stuck rigidly to the letter of the law. Researching through the local online newspaper, he did appear to win many of the cases with which he was involved. Frank assumed that this was the reason that he was able to charge what seemed like rather high fees. No wonder he lived in the affluent part of Budleigh Salterton.

  Frank saved some of the most interesting links and articles into his Evernote account and then closed down the computer.

  ***

  The next day time passed slowly as Frank and Ella waited for a phone call from Elsie. They didn’t dare go out. A jigsaw on the dining room table saw remarkable progress made during the day. Eventually, in the late afternoon, it was Alf, PC Hydon, who phoned. He told Frank to meet them at the small local police station in Otterbury. Frank dressed up warmly in preparation for a cold, long night. Ella prepared sandwiches and snacks as well as a large flask of hot, sweet tea. She put a blanket and the refreshments into a small branded sports bag – a relic of more active days.

  Seeing as the station was in Otterbury, Frank was able to walk the ten minutes from their house. It was just after half–past five when he arrived. Alf, PC Hydon, was standing at the door. When he recognised Frank, he smiled. “Hello. Mind if I check the bag?”

  He rooted around in the bag before taking out the refreshments and the blanket. He gave the blanket a good shake. “Looks like there’s enough food and drink for the four of us!”

  “You can thank Ella for that!”

  “I will. In the morning.”

  Alf put everything back in the bag and moved aside. He opened the door and beckoned him in. “They’re already in the cell. Just knock on the door.”

  The police station was normally unmanned. It had one cell which was surrounded by three linked rooms and a reception area. Although it was early evening, all the lights were on. Frank crossed the small reception area to a door on which were stencilled the words Holding Cell.

  Frank knocked. WPC Knowle asked in a firm voice, “Who’s there?”

  Frank replied “Frank Raleigh. Your name is Elsie.”

  “Hold on, whilst I unlock the door.”

  The clang of keys sounded like the soundtrack of an ancient horror movie. Eventually, the door opened.

  “Come in and I’ll lock the door behind you.”

  “Thanks.” He had to push the door quite hard to make it move. It was heavy and felt extremely sturdy, extremely secure. Even if it were left unlocked, he didn’t fancy his odds of rapidly exiting the room in an emergency.

  WPC Knowle relocked the door and put the bunch of keys down underneath her chair. Frank looked around and placed the sports bag in the nearest corner — to the left of the door.

  “Mind if I check the bag?”

  WPC Knowle rooted around in the bag, taking out the refreshments and the blanket. She, like PC Hydon, gave the blanket a good shake. “Cor, you’ve got enough here to feed and fuel the four of us! Thanks.”

  “Ella’s the one to thank!”

  “I will. In the morning.”

  The cell, like the reception area, was brightly lit. There were three chairs and a fold—down bed. There was no window. The walls, like all the others in the building, appeared to be made of stone.

  The three plastic chairs had been placed in a triangle with two of the chairs nearest the door. WPC Knowle sat in one of those two. Anthony, Mr Buckerell, sat in the one furthest away from the door. Frank sat down in the one empty chair.

  “I defy anyone to break in,” he said. “Two steel doors, one locked, the other guarded by a man mountain. Stone walls all around us. It’d take a bomb to kill us!”

  “Urgh!” groaned Mr Buckerell. “Shut up!”

  “Mr Buckerell is not particularly enjoying today. He’s eaten hardly anything, drank nothing and says he feels ill.”

  “So would you if…‌.urgh.” Mr Buckerell groaned again.

  “We called in at a doctor friend of mine near Princetown and he found him to be in the best of health.”

  “Do you trust this doctor?”

  “With my life!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, the doctor is my dad!”

  Frank’s smile disguised his surprise.

  “Even policewomen have fathers.”

  “Of course. So apart from that, has the day gone well?”

  “It’s been a breeze. We’ve driven around most of Dartmoor in an unmarked police car. Down some country lanes where the tarmac’s been replaced by grass. We doubled back and forth all afternoon. No—one followed us. No—one knows we are here, except for my Sargent in Exeter and the Assistant Chief Constable. She’s the one who gave me permission for all this skullduggery.”

  “How are you feeling, Mr Buckerell?”

  “Urgh!”

  “He’s not the most effusive of conversationalists,” WPC Knowle smiled, “But then I’m not sure I would be in his situation.”

  Frank turned towards the silent solicitor. “Don’t worry, Mr Buckerell. We’ve put all this together to make certain you’re safe. You’ll be perfectly OK. This weekend, you’ll be able to keep all your friends enthralled by this story. Next year, you’ll probably be laughing about it!”

  Mr Buckerell just stared at Frank with a deep frown over his hooded, tired eyes. If looks could kill, Frank thought. Oops, perhaps, that wasn’t the best phrase to use at the moment. He kept his ruminations to himself.

  There was no clock in the cell. Every now and again, Frank surreptitiously looked at his watch. Quarter to seven. Time passed so slowly that it felt like midnight already. Frank poured three cups of tea. Two were drunk. The other turned cold.

  At seven o’clock a distinct chill enveloped the cell. The seventh hour of the night. Nobody moved.

  ***

  At ten past seven, WPC Knowle went to the door, took out her walkie talkie, and called out, “Everything OK, PC Hydon?”

  There was a crackle of static before PC Hydon replied. “Yes, quiet as a graveyard out here.”

  “Urgh!” Mr Buckerell was not amused.

  “We’ll check every ten minutes as planned. Unless the situation changes. Over and out.”

  ***

  At twenty past seven, WPC Knowle went to the door, took out her walkie talkie, and spoke into it, “Everything still OK, PC Hydon?”

  “As quiet as a mouse.”

  “Speak to you in ten minutes.”

  She sat back down, took out her notebook and jotted down the events from seven o’clock.

  ***

  At half–past seven, she again stood up and activated her walkie talkie. There was a crackle until she moved closer to the door. “Everything OK, PC Hydon?”

  “Yep. It’s getting boring out here.”

  “Good, that’s exactly how we want it to be.”

  She sat back down. Mr Buckerell was feeling the strain. His whole face was definitely paler than it was earlier.

  “Are you OK, Mr Buckerell?”

  “Urgh! Course I am. When this is all over, you’re taking me out to the nearest pub and buying me a slap–up meal!”

  ***

  At twenty to eight, WPC Knowle again got up, went closer to the door and again activated the walkie talkie once more.

  “Everything still OK, PC Hydon?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Looks like it’s been a fuss about nothing. No—one comes near the place. Even the dog walkers have given tonight a miss.”

  “Speak to you in ten minutes.”

  ***

  At ten to eight, a smile almost appeared on Mr Buckerell’s face. True, it may have been a grimace, but Frank gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was trying to smile.

  Once more, WPC Knowle stood up, went to the door. Once mor
e she activated the walkie talkie. “Everything OK, PC Hydon?”

  There was silence. No crackle. No reply.

  “PC Hydon, Alf, are you there?”

  The strain was beginning to tell even with WPC Knowle.

  For the third time, she asked: “PC Hydon, are you there?”

  There was a crackle, then a small voice replied, “Sorry about that. Call of nature. When a man’s got to go, then a man’s got to go.”

  “Don’t you ever do that again. Stay alert at all times. Speak to you in ten minutes.”

  ***

  Frank gazed at his watch as it moved slowly but surely towards the hour mark. At one minute to eight, Mr Buckerell turned to him and started to say, “Eight? Urgh!”.

  “Seven fifty—nine,” replied Frank.

  Then the strangest thing happened. For the first time since Frank had entered the cell two and a half hours ago, Mr Buckerell got up out of his chair. He glared convulsively around the room as if looking for someone. He staggered, almost drunkenly, towards the door, before clutching his heart. His whole body shook before with a terrifying groan he collapsed, hitting his head on the steel door and knocking over WPC Knowle, Frank and both their chairs in the process.

  “Anthony?” cried WPC Knowle, “Anthony?”

  She felt his wrist for a pulse. She felt again, this time frantically by his neck.

  “Impossible. This is impossible,” she exclaimed.

  She activated her walkie talkie once more and shouted into it. “Alf, call an ambulance. Now!!”

  Chapter 3 – A Very Bizarre Scenario

  “The note said You will die in the seventh hour of the night on the seventh day of the year. And he did.”

  “But how? We were there by his side. The door was locked. No—one came in. No—one went past PC Hydon. We even had back—up. There were five undercover policemen stationed out of sight all around the building. Even PC Hydon didn’t know they were there.”

  It was now ten o’clock. The last two hours had been hectic. WPC Knowles fumbled and stumbled but eventually opened the cell door. An ambulance had arrived within minutes from the local node point, according to the paramedics. Both Frank and Elsie knew it was useless.

  “He was dead the moment he stood up. I could see that. It must have been a massive heart attack.”

  Frank nodded. “The strain and pressure was simply too much. Poor man. I didn’t particularly like him but no—one deserves to die like that.”

  Frank and WPC Knowle were sat in the reception area of the small police station still shocked and stunned.

  “A minute later and the note would have been completely wrong.”

  Frank had a puzzled expression on his face. “Do you suppose someone, somehow knew about his heart?”

  “Even if they did, how did they know he would fall down dead at that precise moment?”

  “You’re right. It’s impossible.”

  “Who was his doctor?”

  “No idea at the moment. I presume it’s someone in Budleigh. We’ll need to find out and contact them.”

  PC Hydon opened the outside door and Ella pushed past him. She immediately went up to Frank. He stood up and they hugged each other as if scared to ever let go.

  Frank had phoned Ella as soon as the Scene of Crime team and the detectives had finished their initial examination of the site.

  PC Hydon went into one of the other rooms and returned with two more chairs. Ella had brought a huge flask with her. She quickly poured out four cups of very hot, very sweet tea.

  They all sat down facing each other, Ella with one arm draped over Frank’s shoulders.

  “Nobody came by me. Even when I had my call of nature, I was only metres away. I could see the door. No—one went in. No—one came out. Honestly!” PC Hydon was quite shaken.

  “And even if they did, the door was locked. I saw Elsie, WPC Knowle, lock the door and then later struggle to unlock it.”

  “But no—one came past me.”

  “I believe you, Alf,” said Frank.

  “It’s impossible.”

  Ella took her arm off Frank and turned to the others. “I have no idea what went on this evening. Why don’t you all tell me the story from beginning to end? It might help. You may be able to work out how it all happened.”

  “Wait a minute,” said WPC Knowle. “Why are we worrying? Mr Anthony Buckerell died of a heart attack. Frank and I both saw it happen before our very eyes. No—one killed him. There is no murder to investigate. Only a tragic accident.”

  “I seem to remember you said that exact phrase last time!” Ella responded.

  “Fair play. But this time, Frank and I both saw what happened.”

  “WPC Knowle is correct. We both saw the strain and stress he was under. He started to go pale about ten minutes or so before he died.”

  “It just seems a very bizarre scenario,” Ella mused.

  “Yes,” said WPC Knowle. “Were we right to look after him so carefully? Should we have brought him here? Is it our fault he’s dead?”

  She voiced exactly what Frank had been thinking.

  WPC Knowle’s phone rang. She answered it and quickly moved off into one of the side rooms to talk to whoever was calling her.

  The other three could hear little of the conversation except for Elsie’s regular comment of “Yes sir.”

  When she came back in the room she looked pale and even more shocked.

  “What’s the matter?” Ella asked.

  “That was the Assistant Chief Constable. They’re rushing through the post mortem. If he did die from a heart attack, then I’m in for a disciplinary review. It could mean dismissal.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ella cried.

  “No,” replied Elsie, “that’s the way the ACC likes to work. Give them enough rope to hang themselves. If it goes wrong, it’s not her fault.”

  PC Hydon stood up. “Well, I’m off duty now. So are you, WPC Knowle. I suggest we all go home, get a good night’s sleep and see what the morning brings.”

  Frank stood up as well. “An excellent suggestion.”

  “Elsie, we’re on the other end of the phone. We’ll do whatever we can to help.” Ella gripped Elsie’s arm and smiled.

  “Thanks. Both of you. I’ll let you know when I know anything more. Goodnight.”

  The four of them left the Scene of Crime team to their jobs and exited the building.

  ***

  The morning was dismal. Persistent rain and a biting cold wind. It was symptomatic of both Frank and Ella’s mood as they stared out of the lounge window. They couldn’t see Mutter’s Moor. It was covered in low cloud.

  Just before lunchtime, the phone rang.

  “How would you like to be unpaid consultants in a murder investigation?”

  “Is that you, Elsie, I mean WPC Knowle?” Frank had picked up the phone and was surprised by the confident, enthusiastic voice on the other end.

  “Yes. I’m told the post mortem showed up some pretty amazing facts.”

  “Tell us more!”

  “I can’t — I haven’t read it yet! The four of us are going to meet at Anthony’s house in about half an hour. OK?”

  “Yes, of course. See you there.”

  Frank and Ella arrived at Anthony Buckerell’s house exactly twenty—eight minutes later. In the gravel drive were two police cars, one needing a clean and the other looking spotlessly immaculate. The rain had stopped but the cold wind still prevailed. They got out and made their way to the front door. The door was guarded by a police constable who must have been half the size of Alf Hydon. He opened the door and stepped aside to let the pair in.

  “In here,” WPC Knowle called from the front room.

  Standing in the middle of the room was a police lady who looked and acted as if she were of vastly superior rank.

  “So this is Frank and Ella Raleigh?”

  “Good afternoon. I expect you’re the Assistant Chief Constable,” said Frank.

  “Yes, absolutely
. How did you know?”

  “I recognised your rank badge.”

  “Excellent. Please sit down. Don’t worry. We’ve already had the room checked for evidence.”

  Frank and Ella sat together on a plush sofa. The ACC took one of the armchairs and WPC Knowle sat in another whilst PC Hydon sat on a wooden chair near the window.

  “Community relationships are so important,” the ACC began. “I’ve heard the story about you in Sidmouth. I’d like you to help out WPC Knowle and PC Hydon with our little problem here in Budleigh Salterton.”

  Ella gripped Frank’s hand.

  “I’m not sure my wife is quite ready to step back into her crime—fighting role.”

  “Is that true, Mrs Raleigh? Because if you’d rather not help us, then I perfectly understand.”

  Ella sat there silently contemplating. Eventually, she said, “I’d like to know more before I answer.”

  “Fair enough. Let me tell you, if there is any hint of any verbal or physical violence directed towards you, my officers will whisk you away from the situation and that will be the end of your contribution. I will NOT endanger any member of the public at any time in any of our investigations.”

  “Fine words,” mumbled Frank.

  “Not just fine words but true words. I mean what I say.”

  “I think I believe you,” began Ella.

  “However, if my police colleagues decide to let you in on any evidence that comes their way, you are to treat it as confidential. Short of signing the Official Secrets Act, you are NOT to share our way of working with other members of the general public.”

  “We understand.” Frank nodded.

  “Yes, but why you are telling us all this official mumbo—jumbo?” added Ella. “I thought the solicitor, Mr Buckerell, died from a heart attack?”

  “So did we. But it seems my colleague’s first impressions were somewhat off the mark. Anyway, I need to go to an important meeting in Exeter and as much as I’d love to stay here and help, I’m going to leave you in the very capable hands of WPC Knowle and her colleague, PC Hydon. I have given PC Hydon the findings of the initial post mortem.”