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  ‘Thank you. I’d like to have a look round there when it’s quiet, rather than full of people, if that could be arranged.’

  ‘If you can make next Friday, that would be perfect. Ellie’s off on a school trip with the netball team, so Jason and I are planning a long weekend in our place at Twin Lakes. They’re classed as temporary homes and you can’t live in them permanently, but they’re like moveable bungalows, really. You and Eleanor could stay the night, if you’d like to.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we could manage that, because of the boys. But thanks for the thought.’ And thanks for the presence of Jason at this mobile home on Friday, Bert thought. Some women thought CID men were glamorous conquests, even when they were as stolid and uninteresting as he was. ‘Friday sounds perfect. I’ll clear it with my boss. And I can easily drive up and back in the day. It can’t be more than fifty miles from here.’

  ‘It’s almost exactly that. Bring your golf clubs.’

  ‘I’ll do that. It’s much better that I seem like a friend on a social visit, if I’m to discover anything. That way, people won’t be immediately on their guard against me.’

  A game of golf whilst on paid police duty: things were looking up.

  He was a big man and very black. Most people found him intimidating, at first. But George Martindale was warm and friendly; his broad smile and large, very white teeth helped people to feel at ease with him.

  He was a very physical man. He worked long and hard with the council road team, and he never shirked his share of physical work, even when the foreman wasn’t present. He was popular with the mixed gang of people who worked with him, because he was always willing to do more than his share, always cheerful, and always willing to accept his ration of the sometimes dubious banter which passed as humour during the rough and tumble of the working day.

  George took racism in his stride. He never seemed to get upset when clumsy taunts were offered to him as wit. He was from Jamaica, he said. He never revealed whether he had been born there or whether he was a first-generation immigrant of Jamaican parents. No one was quite sure about his age and he never volunteered it. Early thirties, most people thought, but it was difficult to be certain, because he had an unlined face and clear dark eyes and not a grey hair among the crinkly black ones which grew so plentifully upon his large head.

  There was an incident on this warm May day which showed that George Martindale should not be treated lightly. His formidable physique in itself made people cautious, but he was so affable that sometimes they didn’t even consider that he might turn aggressive. Afterwards, it seemed to most of his fellow workers characteristic of George that he should react violently not on his own behalf but on someone else’s.

  The latest recruit to the gang was a stringy youth who was barely seventeen and who looked two years younger. Damien Field was willing but not over-bright; his temperament, combined with his physical limitations, led to a series of gibes from his insensitive seniors. When your thin arms worked with spades and picks, when you struggled hard to control the vigorous movements of a pneumatic drill, you were an easy target for men seeking to lighten their day with cheap humour.

  They were repairing the pavement and road outside the main entrance to a now derelict building. The repeated passage of heavy lorries had caused serious potholes as well as broken flags over the years. It was heavy work and young Damien endured a series of gibes about his physical weakness. They became cruder and more sexual as the day went on. The fact that Field reacted only with a weak smile and an unconvincing pretence of finding the comments amusing only incited greater insults. According to his harassers, he was now not only incapable of getting a girl but incapable of ‘giving her one’ if he did. Damien didn’t feel strong enough or well-established enough to tell his insulters to get lost.

  In this context, that only made them bolder. They would go on baiting him and get ever more obscene until they wrung some sort of violent dismissal from him. Damien vaguely realized this, but he felt that if he turned aggressive they would bludgeon him and drive him out of this job he so badly needed. His dad was out of work and his mother was an invalid, but he couldn’t tell them that. It would only show further weakness.

  It was when Field almost lost control of the pneumatic drill, saw it sliding out of his grasp towards the horizontal, and had to switch it off that the day’s incident occurred. The worst of his tormentors, a squat man with grimy tattoos upon his brawny forearms, was delighted to see Damien defeated. ‘Too strong for a raving pooftah like you, those machines! Young lad with a delicate skin like yours could do much better as a rent boy in Brum. I could put you in touch with a man who pimps for young nancies like you, if you asked me nicely.’

  The tattooed man was pinned against the grimy bricks of the windowless wall before he knew what was happening. He heard the stitching at the throat of his thick cotton shirt tear as his head was forced backwards, saw the button soaring yards from him as the pressure fired it away. The words from George Martindale came hot and loud in his ear. ‘Lay off him, you stupid bugger! The lad’s doing his best and he needs the work. It’s hard enough for him, without stupid bullies like you making his life a fucking misery! I’m warning you, Jackson, for the one and only time. You’ll be no use to man or woman without your balls. And that’s how you’ll be, if you don’t lay off the lad!’

  Jackson couldn’t speak: his throat was in too tight a grip for that. The bricks felt as if they were grinding the back of his skull. He nodded frantically, his eyes bulbous with panic and physical stress. Martindale relaxed his grip very slowly. That in itself was a sign of his physical strength. His huge, straight arm supported most of the squat man’s weight; he held him hard against the wall until he gradually allowed him to descend again on to his own feet. George kept his black, rounded face within a foot of his victim’s. Jackson tried not to look into it, but he couldn’t fail to be conscious of the dark brown eyes which glared so closely and so contemptuously down upon him.

  Jackson wanted to say that he hadn’t meant any harm, to whine out that it had only been fun and he hadn’t meant to hurt the lad. But it wouldn’t have been convincing and he knew it. He pulled at the neck of his shirt and turned away from Martindale without looking at either Damien Field or any of his workmates. The boy’s champion watched Jackson’s retreat, then said to Damien, ‘You need to keep those drills very upright. Once they’re off the vertical, they soon go out of control. Most of us had trouble with them, when we started.’

  The young man started the machine again, carefully obeying his mentor’s instructions. George Martindale moved back to the other end of the workings and resumed his own work. The six other men in the gang fell silent. They did not look at each other for quite a long time.

  Twin Lakes was a pleasant place amid pleasant countryside, with the Welsh hills rising to the west of it and the rolling countryside of Shropshire to the north.

  Twin Lakes Country Holiday Park was the full name. These weren’t permanent homes – or not officially so. They could be moved from site to site on the complex, with the use of a huge vehicle to carry them, though it was rarely necessary to do anything so radical. But they were about as far from caravans and other forms of temporary residence as you could imagine homes to be. They had full sanitation, double glazing, and central heating. And gas and electricity were metered to every one of the 110 homes on the site.

  Their walls were thin, as befitted their official ‘holiday home’ status, but they were better equipped and more comfortable than the houses which many British city-dwellers occupied. You were not allowed to live at Twin Lakes for the whole year: to maintain their ‘temporary’ status, all residents had to move out during the month of January. The owners of the site used that month for serious maintenance work. One or two of their tenants who had no other residence chose to spend their single homeless month in Spain or Florida, so as to fulfil their obligations as temporary residents at Twin Lakes.

  Debbie Keane was one of tho
se few who had lived increasingly on the site over the years since the beginning of the twenty-first century. Her husband, Walter, had a reputation as a recluse which he was happy to cultivate, but he used all the facilities of the site. He hadn’t played crown green bowls at all until he had come here, but after a decade and more of practice, he was the best player on the site. He had become so by playing much of the time alone, for the site was quiet during the working week and almost deserted for many of the winter months.

  Walter was fifty-five now, and the opportunities afforded by Twin Lakes suited one of his age and leanings. The nine-hole golf course was only 2200 yards long, so that length was not a problem. But it was tricky, and had become more so as the trees had grown taller and wider and thus narrowed the fairways. Walter and Debbie knew every lie upon the course and every one of its tricks; they were also respectively the Chairman and the Secretary of the handicap committee, which administered the number of shots allowed to the golfers who played cheerfully round here at the weekends.

  The Keanes had the golf ‘sewn up’, in the rueful phrase of most of the people who used the facility. But it was not a very long or a very serious course and most people enjoyed the exercise more than the winning. And the Keanes indisputably knew more about the golf here and the people who played it than anyone else in the world, so it was logical that they should be in charge. The fact that they were willing and eager to offer their services and perform the complicated work they claimed was necessary to support their judgements was also very much in their favour. When you came here to relax at the weekends or on holiday, you didn’t want to be bothered with boring administrative matters.

  Walter sailed the lakes alone in his dinghy, because Debbie claimed that she didn’t trust water and that it was good for her husband to have a hobby which enabled them to get away from each other. For her part, she was quite happy to walk her fox terrier in the extensive woods which formed the borders of the property and ran round the edges of the lakes which gave the place its name. The dog died in 2013, but Debbie continued to walk the familiar paths alone. She enjoyed the exercise, she said, as well as meeting the other owners, whom she quizzed in the woods on her daily walks.

  Debbie was insatiably curious. She knew the business and most of the activities of almost everyone on the site, and she made it her interest and occupation to discover anything she did not know. Some thought her a tiresome busybody, but most regarded her with amusement as a harmless gossip. In exchange for a little information about their own lives, she provided them effortlessly with anything they cared to know about their fellow occupants.

  Walter Keane was more of a puzzle to them. He said little and seemed to regard his wife’s nosiness with an amused detachment. He was above such things, his silence seemed to say. He had his own concerns, which were far more important than the tittle-tattle which seemed to be of such concern to Mrs Keane. What exactly these concerns were, beyond bowls and golf and a little sailing, was not very clear. Recluses read a lot and thought a lot, didn’t they? Perhaps that was what Walter Keane did, during the long hours and long days when Twin Lakes was but thinly populated.

  There were more people around in midweek, now that May and the longer days were here. People took days off to make up long weekends, and those without children of school age sometimes took their holidays at this time, when the site was at its late-spring best and ancient towns like Hereford and Ludlow were easier to explore than they were in high summer.

  Debbie Keane moved among the thirty or so people on the site and gathered information. Then she went back and related it to her husband, who listened dutifully and said very little. That is what people thought happened in the holiday home in the prime position by the lake. Walter seemed to be very patient and indulgent with the garrulous Debbie.

  They would have been surprised to know the reality of the situation.

  On Friday 17th May, Detective Sergeant Bert Hook drove north from his home near Tewkesbury and wondered just how much of a wild goose chase the day was about to provide.

  In his home, Lisa Ramsbottom had not struck him as an alarmist. She had seemed apologetic about even contacting him. But when you felt that some unknown person was threatening you and perhaps your loved ones, it was no doubt difficult to keep a due sense of proportion. He’d seen it a couple of times before in his career and he understood it. The staid and sensible Bert felt he might even panic himself, if he was threatened like that. And he would certainly feel very violent, if anyone menaced Eleanor or the boys.

  It was a pleasant drive. His milometer showed him as he skirted Leominster and approached Twin Lakes that he had come forty-eight miles. It was deep in the country, not far from the Welsh border, but he found it easily enough by following Lisa’s detailed instructions. She was waiting for him at the office near the entrance when he arrived, a shapely figure in sage sweater and dark green trousers. She waved cheerfully at him, brushing back her dark blonde hair as the barrier rose to permit him to drive on to the site. ‘I thought I’d meet you here. People struggle to find the right unit when they’re all coloured light green and all look so similar from the outside.’

  She was plainly nervous. He wondered if, now that she had brought him all this way, she felt that her fears were exaggerated and ridiculous, a feeling no doubt encouraged by the warm sun and the high white clouds scudding across the clear blue heavens. He said, ‘It’s probably better that you don’t announce me as a policeman to anyone we meet here. People tend to clam up, or at least not speak as freely as they would normally, when they know there’s a copper around.’ He grinned, trying to dissipate the tension he felt between them that he should be here. ‘Even one as off-duty and intent upon playing golf as this one is.’

  She was still on edge, despite her determination before he came that she would not be so. ‘Our little course here isn’t up to the standards of Ross-on-Wye, where you usually play.’

  ‘It will be quite good enough to test me, Lisa. I’ve only been playing for two or three years – since I was finally persuaded to give up cricket. I’m more energetic than effective, as John Lambert puts it. He’s one of those depressing straight-down-the-middle golfers.’

  She was impressed by his proximity to the great man: even Lisa had read in the local press of the doings of John Lambert. She said, ‘You’ll have more time to improve, now that you’ve finished your Open University degree.’ She had thought that Hook would be flattered by her recollecting his recent graduation, but he seemed more embarrassed than pleased. She said, ‘Turn left here. We’re the third one along, overlooking the lake.’

  ‘Beautiful spot.’ He wasn’t being merely polite. The unit really had a splendid site, looking across the widest part of the larger of the lakes. As if they had been waiting for their cue, two swans with five week-old cygnets moved across the water beneath them, scarcely twenty yards away.

  ‘There were six last week. We think the pike’s taken one. Nature red in tooth and claw, eh?’ A man with curly hair which matched exactly the dark blonde hue of his wife’s came forward with outstretched hand. ‘Jason Ramsbottom. Pleased to meet you, DS Hook.’

  ‘Bert, please. I’m here on pleasure bent. And hopefully also to allay your wife’s fears and assure you that you are not in danger.’

  Jason glanced for a moment at his wife. ‘To allay both our fears, Bert. You tell yourself not to be stupid, that it’s just some crank up to mischief, but when someone sends you threatening notes, there’s still a nagging fear when you’re trying to get to sleep at nights.’

  ‘You’ve had notes?’ Bert’s interest quickened. There were possibilities with notes. People gave things away when they committed themselves to paper.

  Jason Ramsbottom went into the kitchen, opened one of the top drawers in the row of compact cabinets, lifted out a cutlery tray, and extracted two sheets from beneath it, using a pair of salad tongs to avoid contact with his fingers.

  Bert said admiringly, ‘You know all about fingerprints, then. Yo
u’re familiar with our procedures.’

  Jason grinned ruefully. ‘I read detective novels. I watch crime series on TV. It’s hard to avoid them, nowadays, but I also enjoy them. You’ll find these things have got my prints and Lisa’s prints on them, though. We handled both of these before we knew what they were. You don’t expect that this sort of thing will ever happen to you.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. And it never does happen to most people, despite today’s more violent society.’ Bert took the salad tongs and handled the two significant items with the same care Ramsbottom had shown, laying them down carefully on the table by the window, where the light was brightest.

  ‘That was the first one.’ Jason pointed to the thin white card nearest to the window. The message said simply: YOU ARE LINING YOURSELF UP FOR DEATH. The letters were all capitals and had been cut from newspapers or magazines.

  Bert glanced up into the two anxious, expectant faces. ‘Where and when did you receive this?’

  ‘It was delivered here on the sixth of April. It was there when I got up at seven twenty in the morning. We reckon it could have been delivered at any time after seven thirty on the previous evening. We hadn’t been to the door since then. My first thought was that it was a belated April fool joke. It seemed so outlandish, and we simply weren’t prepared for it.’

  Jason poured out his information quickly. It was plainly a relief to speak about something which he had hugged to himself for weeks. Hook checked the date in his mind. ‘That was a Saturday.’

  Lisa nodded. ‘The Saturday after Easter. The site was crowded. We reckon there were certainly well over a hundred people here. It could have been anyone.’

  ‘Which may have been why the sender chose that day. If it was a he, that is.’ Bert looked carefully at the second message. The method was almost identical, with letters cut from printed material and stuck to what seemed to be an identical thin white card. HEED YOUR WARNINGS. THE TIME IS NEAR.