station, Spence spoke to the three of them.
“Good work all of you. I think you’d agree that was a pretty tough session today.”
Traynor, with a broad smile on his face, said, “Next time Spence, you get “Ms” Palmer.”
“Bit of a man-eater eh? Okay, I want you all to go through your interview sheets and we’ll swap notes tomorrow morning. Good work on the finance checks Traynor. Ferguson, you head off to Marlborough. Take it easy. WPC Grant, you and I are going to pay a visit to Mrs Davidson, whom I suspect you would agree was not the most popular member of staff?”
Mumbles of agreement all round.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mid-June
There was a growing feeling of anticipation amongst the thousands of people who had gathered. The hum of conversation was getting louder. Young girls were calling out to each other while serious middle-aged men had their cameras set up to take their time-lapse pictures. Few had managed to get any sleep since the midnight ceremony, “the darkest hour”. As they awaited the dawn ceremony, the rising of the sun behind the Heel Stone, the excitement mounted. This year’s summer solstice at Stonehenge was blessed with perfect weather. As the dawn broke and the sun appeared, there was wild cheering.
Constable Christine Jones had never attended a summer solstice ceremony before. She had only recently arrived at the Amesbury station and she loved it. Amesbury was less than thirty five miles from her home in Swindon, but it seemed a world away. The open space of Salisbury Plain was a far cry from the cramped flat she had grown up in on the Walcot Estate off Queen’s Drive in Swindon. And now here she was with the Druids, the hippies, the new-agers and the just plain inquisitive watching the sun rise.
“Look at them Chris, a load of bloody loonies.” Christine Jones’ partner, Sean Masters, did not share her fascination with what was happening.
“Oh come on Sean, I thought your lot were into voodoo and all that stuff.”
“Just because my parents are Jamaican does not mean we believe in black magic.”
Christine Jones laughed, and gently pushed him; she had learned quickly how to get a reaction from her partner.
Sean Masters got the joke, smiled, and said, “Okay, well done again. Anyway, we are supposed to be mingling, come on.”
There were police present but the crowd was well-behaved, and no trouble was expected. Alcohol had been banned but there was a strong sweet smell in the air that suggested that alcohol might not be needed to get this crowd in the mood. The police had been instructed, “informally”, to turn a blind eye to the presence of marijuana but to keep a look out for any harder stuff.
Sebastian McPhee stood on his platform, his white robes flowing in the light breeze as he spoke to the crowd.
“Behold the rising sun. Let us pay homage to this life force.”
Sebastian McPhee was a member of the Druid Grade that dealt with rituals, judgments and ceremonies. He was in his element. However, his fifteen minutes of fame came to a sudden halt.
Just south of the main circle of Stonehenge is a small area known as the South Barrow. The attention of McPhee and many of the crowd was suddenly drawn towards screaming that was coming from there. Christine Jones and Sean Masters raced over to the source of this noise. They found two teenage girls crying and yelling at the top of their voices, hugging each other. The two young officers were soon joined by some of their colleagues, and together they did their best to keep the crowd back.
On the edge of the South Barrow was the body of a man. He was about thirty, was badly overweight, had a thick dark beard and his hair was in serious need of some shampoo. However, the condition of his hair was no longer of any importance. His throat had been neatly slit from one side to another.
“Bloody hell, what is this, a human sacrifice?” Sean Masters was not joking this time.
Late November
Monday morning. Almost a week since the murder of Roger Davidson and Spence was beginning to feel concerned. By this stage he expected his gut to be telling him something, pointing him to certain lines of inquiry. But his gut was telling him nothing.
Spence liked to work in a collegiate manner. He was in charge, and he knew he would get the kudos from a result, and he knew he would earn the opprobrium of failure. However, he encouraged what might be called an esprit de corps. On this Monday morning he had his key team sitting around a large circular table that he used for such meetings.
“Right, let’s bring everything together. I’m sure that you don’t need me to tell you that we are not getting anywhere. I don’t mind telling you I do not have any idea what is behind Roger Davidson’s murder. So, this morning we are going over everything. And remember, you know the drill, speak up, argue, speculate, and disagree with each other. In this room this morning I expect your honest answers. If you think I am talking crap, I want to hear it. Let’s start with you Traynor, fill us in again Constable on the Davidsons’ financial affairs.”
“As you know Spence, Felicity Davidson’s father is loaded. Stockbroking, going a long way back, and he came out of the GFC rather well.”
Ferguson piped in.
“You should see his place outside Marlborough. Massive. Two four-wheel drives, a Porsche, horses. You get the picture.”
Traynor continued:
“So there’s no real mystery about where the money came from. The father bought them the Merton Ave house and little Rebecca is already signed up for the Badminton School near Westbury.”
“So no money problems, no debts, no gambling issues,” said Spence.
“That’s right Spence. Though I did discover one thing. There were obviously lots of deposits and withdrawals over time, but I noticed a pattern. There were regular withdrawals of £150 or £200 from a separate account Roger Davidson had in his own name, not jointly.
Spence asked, “How far back does this go?”
“Almost two years. It was £150 for almost a year, and then over the past few months it was £200.”
Spence paused for a second and then asked, “Okay everyone, what do we make of that?”
Ferguson spoke up, “Do you think he was being blackmailed? Paying someone off to keep quiet about his affair with Patricia Patel perhaps?”
Traynor agreed.
“He had a lot to lose Spence: his father-in-law’s favours, the house – which was in Felicity’s name incidentally – not to mention his career move.”
“Maybe, but I think no. Anyone blackmailing Roger Davidson would know how high the stakes were and they would know that they could get a hell of a lot more. And as far as we know, Patricia Patel has only been on the scene about six months. Have another look at that Traynor, see if there are any direct transfers, that sort of thing. WPC Grant, what are you making of Felicity Davidson?”
Joanne Grant enjoyed these sessions. Spence might tease her a lot of the time, but she knew Spence was sincere when he said he valued everyone’s
