The Bungalow-4

Continued from Chapter 3: The Bungalow-3 | ABCtales

“You’re looking bright and breezy, all things considered. Harrow was good, then?”

“Oh yeah. I had a couple more pints of cider. They’ve got those big old double-deckchairs in the garden - fell asleep on one of them. Barmaid woke me up; then I got an Uber back home.” Hales thrust a hand into her grey trackie bottoms and scratched her arse, then pulled her white T-shirt down to cover her midriff. “So what you get up to then after, Budgie?”

“I completed the walk – to South Hawke.”

“Good, was it?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“So what’s at South Hawke then?”

“Nothing much. Car park.” He stirred his coffee again.

“Good car park?”

“Er, yes. I suppose so.”

“Rum do in the field behind your house, weren’t it?”

“Yes - came home to find the whole place taped off. Had to be escorted to my own front door.”

“Me too. Pikey, weren’t it? I mean, a pikey got wasted. That’s what Auntie Hilda said, anyway.”

“Yes, I believe it might well have been.”

“Only good pikey’s a dead pikey – you said…”

“It’s very tragic.”

“Whoo! You’ve changed your tune since the last residents’ association. Send them all back to Ireland on a ship, and then scuttle it.”

“Well, we mustn’t speak ill of the dead, I suppose.”

“One of them was up here, yesterday morning. Tree surgeon – touting for business.”

“Yes, that’s perfectly possible. My doorbell rang -didn’t answer. It’s usually some fish salesman, brush salesman…I haven’t the energy these days.”

“Well, we ought to make a move if you want to make that nine thirty from Coulsdon.”

“Nine thirty-nine.” Hawke fished his phone out of the pocket of his brown cords. “Leave it three minutes. It’s just coming away from Gatwick now.”

“OK, if you like. What you going to do in that three minutes? Sing me a song?”

“You wouldn’t want that.”

Hawke glanced at Realtime Trains again. “OK, it’s at Horley now. Time to get up and go.” He gathered up his belongings – his small rucksack and the huge maroon down jacket which he shrugged on.

“Why you wearing that huge jacket? Must be eighty degrees.”

“Got to take it somewhere; wearing it’s the easiest way of carrying it.”

She held open the front door. “Where you taking it?”

“Charity shop … in Barking. It’s spare – me and Marjorie had identical ones. Before she died, I promised her I’d donate one of them. Just never got round to it until today.”

“You’re going all the way to Barking to donate a jacket? There’s loads of charity shops in Coulsdon – even more in Purley.”

“Ah, it’s a specialist charity. They organise adventure holidays for deprived kids in the East End.”

He slammed the passenger door of Hales’ orange Ford Fiesta while Hales settled into the driving seat. “That’s why I’m going early, want to get there before I see the guys at the Victory Services Club. Thanks for bringing it forward, by the way.”

“That’s quite OK, Budgie. Suits me – got a few errands to run.”

They inched slowly down Hilltop Lane; the police cordon was still there at the end, at the crossroads on Rook Lane. Hawke wound the window down. “Just nipping into London for the day. I promised your WPC I’d keep my phone switched on. In case you wanted to talk to me.” The bored PC nodded, unhitched the tape and waved them through. Hales indicated left.

“No, go straight on.”

“You sure, Budgie? It’s quicker on the main road.”

“We’ve got time.” He looked at Realtime Trains. Just clearing Redhill. We’ll be spot on.”

She cancelled the indicator and headed down Church Lane. Hawke turned around in his seat, then pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of his bag. “Papa thirty five. Delta, Papa…”

“What you doing, Budgie?”

“That old Beemer. Could be an unmarked police car…”

“Yeh what? Police cutbacks must be worse than we thought if they’re driving around in thirty-year-old bangers.”

“Could be completely rebuilt, mechanically. They do that, puts people off their guard. No one would suspect if of being an unmarked cop car.”

“Except you, Budgie. This anything to do with the murder?”

“Only very peripherally.”

“You didn’t perry-ferrily bump off this pikey did you, I hope?”

“No! Would you suspect me of doing a thing like that?”

“I dunno, Budgie. You’re a dark horse.” The scrunched over the cattle grid at the top of Farthing Down. “God, always sets my teeth on edge, that thing.”

“You’ve got another one to look forward to, at the bottom.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Hawke looked behind. The old Beemer was still following. It hadn’t pulled into the dog walker’s car park, a popular destination at that time of the morning. The sun was burning off the few remaining wisps of cloud in the cobalt-blue sky. “Going to be scorchio. You’re sure going to be cooked in that big old jacket, Budgie.”

They pulled into the station car park at Coulsdon South station just as the 09.39 Thameslink eased to a halt. Hawke leaped out of the car and waved his thanks to Hales as he headed to the platform entrance. He glanced up and down the platform as the doors slid shut; he was definitely the last one onto the train.

The old black BMW purred down Brighton Road towards Coulsdon town centre. Perhaps he was being paranoid. Still, a little paranoia was no bad thing.

To be continued in Chapter 5