came around the side of the house.
She was a stern looking woman, aged about 50, overweight and in a dress that looked as if it had seen better days. Her hair was swept back into a bun at the back of her head. Eddington pursed his lips as she advanced towards the garden path that led to the gate, her bust thrust out aggressively like the front end of a battleship, as was her bottom lip. Eddington ruminated that he was glad he wasn’t married to her.
“Can I help you?” she asked, in a somewhat belligerent manner. Her eyes held his, she folded her arms and he noted the manner in which her mouth turned down at the corners.
“Yes, I was looking for Tim,” he replied, returning her gaze with an effort. Eddington had confronted many hardened criminals in his time, but this grim looking woman was in a league of her own. Nevertheless, he was damned if he was going to lower his eyes.
“Who wants him?” there was a discernible hardening of the tone.
“Roger Eddington,” said Eddington, aware that the name might mean nothing to her, though it should certainly mean something to Tim Salmon. Their paths had crossed once or twice in the Cromwell Arms and also the cricket ground. He refrained from stating what he was, he didn’t want Mrs Salmon’s alarm bells to start ringing - yet!
“He’s in his workshop.”
“Oh yes, where’s that?”
“It’s down the street, round to the left, next door to the doctor’s surgery.”
“I’ll find it.”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh just wanted to talk about old times, mainly to do with cricket,” said Eddington. He turned on his heel and climbed back into his vehicle before she could ask any further questions. As he started the engine and eased away he noticed that she had come out through the gate with a view to continuing the interrogation, but he gave her a cheery wave and a broad smile, receiving a stony glare in return, and slowly drove away from her. He turned left at the next corner and looked for the doctor’s surgery; he spotted it straight away and saw the old brick and timber building standing next to it. There was a battered facia over the front double doors, which were open, there was some faded lettering which read “Salmon Engineering”.
He parked with two wheels on the grass verge and ambled over to the workshop. He entered it and stood uncertainly, then spotted a man at the far end working with a welder. He was concentrating upon what he was doing so Eddington decided to wait and the other eventually looked up, gave a hand signal in acknowledgment of his presence and switched off the welding torch. He came slowly over to Eddington, removing his face mask. Eddington recognised Tim Salmon.
“Hallo, Roger, you want me?”
Tim Salmon was a grey haired man in his 50′s, about 5′9″ in height, with about three day’s growth of grey beard on his features. He had a large nose, and bushy eyebrows. There was a trace of unease about him as he observed Eddington, his eyes dropped to Eddington’s clip board. They didn’t know each other too well, being limited to occasional meetings in the village, in the pub or in the cricket pavilion, but sufficiently to be on first name terms as Eddington had played a few games for the local cricket side. Salmon also knew Eddington was police and to him the clipboard indicated an official visit.
“Yes, how are you keeping, Tim?”
“Alright. Whassup?”
“I need some help with some enquiries we’re making.” replied Eddington.
“Enquiries? What about?” Salmon did not appear to be too ecstatic.
“We’ve been called to John Accrington’s old house,” explained Eddington. “Have you been up there recently?”
“No, not for a few weeks now.”
“Oh,” Eddington looked down at his clipboard and pursed his lips. “I was told that you and your wife had been there a few days ago, and that you were in the house.”
“My wife is the cleaner there.”
“She was, so I’ve been told,” said Eddington. “But she isn’t now, is she? How did you manage to get in.”
“My wife…er…has her own key.”
“If she has, she shouldn’t have, the lawyers sent down and relieved her of that key about two weeks ago. How did you get in?”
There was a silence and Salmon’s eyes began to move from side to side. Eddington sighed to himself, he knew the signs, years of experience had taught him to recognise when a man was lying.
“You have a key, haven’t you, Tim?” he threw in the first name again to try and get closer to the man. Eddington wasn’t after an arrest and a charge sheet, he merely wanted the key and to regain any stolen property. Then as far as he was concerned the matter would be over. He liked spending time in the village occasionally, especially during the cricket season, and he didn’t particularly want to put anybody local in court or in jail, especially anyone connected with the cricket club, though as far as Edna Salmon was concerned the latter idea did have its attractions.
The silence persisted and Eddington probed a little further, still trying to alleviate the situation.
“You probably had two keys didn’t you, Tim,” he said, offering a lifeline. “All we need is the second key you’re holding. You shouldn’t have it really, should you? Maybe you forgot you had a second one when the lawyers sent down for them.”
“Yes … yes…!” muttered Tim Salmon. “Yes, we had a key each.”
“Bloody liar!” Eddington thought, but all he wanted was that key, the one that Tim Salmon had clearly cut for himself before Matthew Pelham had sent for the original.
“You’ve probably been keeping some stuff in your cottage for safe keeping, haven’t you, Tim. With empty houses there’s always the risk of theft isn’t there? The lawyers have carried out an inventory, they know what’s miss…er…been removed for safe keeping. They’ve secured the house now safe and sound, so it can go back now. It’s all safe and sound. Alright?”
It plainly wasn’t alright, but Eddington could almost read the thoughts going around in Salmon’s head. Better get rid of the stuff and return it now, better that than the humiliation of being branded a thief in the village, and the possibility of a heavy fine or jail.
“Yes, I can see that,” Salmon mumbled, and looked uneasily around the workshop as though expecting his wife to materialise.
“So what have you got?” asked Eddington, taking his ball point pen from his pocket and adjusting the clipboard so he could write on it. “Can you remember them all or should we go to your house?”
“Well, er…there are only a few items. We didn’t want them to get damaged.”
“Like the ornaments from the desk, maybe, I can understand that. They were possibly valuable and could lose value if they were damaged by vandals,” said Eddington in a placatory fashion. He deliberately referred to some items specifically - he remembered what had been mentioned by Richard Bilston - to persuade Salmon that he was aware of what had been removed. He moved his pen down the page as though checking items, he hoped Salmon wouldn’t move his position and see that the printed page was bare of any itemised written entries. “Shall we go and pick them up, then?”
“What? Now? Do we have to do that now?”
“Might be for the best if we did, Tim,” said Eddington. “The lawyers are sending down somebody to check everything over again this afternoon, we don’t want them to start asking questions and making two and two make five. You and I know what the situation is, but they might twist it, and try to make something of it. You know what these city lawyers are like. They’ll love it if they can milk the estate for court costs.”
The mention of court and costs appeared to strike home.
“Yes, alright, just let