Lock gates 

Spring, a time of renewal. In the west of England, it is marked, of course, by the regreening of the trees, by the profusion of wild flowers sprouting up again on the verges of country roads. Winter wheat is about to be harvested and the spring wheat planted. This is also the season when most lambs are born, and, in celebration of Spring, Englishmen make sure to obtain a leg or shoulder from their local butcher to serve to their families roasted with mint sauce, new potatoes, peas and other suitably boiled vegetables. Or some families have other ways of preparing the same meat. 

In Silbury, it has become a tradition among three friends to gather, along with their husbands and children, at one of their houses for a common Spring Festival celebration. This year the house in question is that of Kamala Peiris, situated at the corner of Mabel Lane and Vale Road. The house backs onto the River Forge, and Kamala has a small rowing boat that her children often use for rides up and down the river. They also intermittently try their hands at fishing, though they have never yet caught any of the quite abundant trout that inhabit the stream. Kamala and her family had come from Brigstow to Silbury some five years previously when she was promoted by the Western Provincial Bank to be its manager there. She was now about to move on to another branch in nearby Sowdon but had decided to maintain her residence in Silbury so that her children would have continuity of education at Silbury Grammar School. She was also keen to maintain her close friendship with the other two women gathered on this occasion, on the 6th of April 1969. 

One of these friends was Anna Kaboré, proprietor of the Red Cow Inn in School Lane and, since 1966, a Borough Councillor. Anna was also what in these parts they call a newcomer, that is to say she was not a born and bred Siburian. She and her husband had previously lived in London, where she was a social worker and he a sous-chef in a five-star restaurant. There had come a time when they opted for a quieter life in more rural surrounds, and the tenancy at the Red Cow had also become available at that same time six years ago. Paramanga Kaboré still cooked but now only simple fare for the horseracing crowd that formed their clientele, as well as for the odd paying guest in the couple of rooms they had available for travellers. Anna tried her best to promote social concerns on the oCuncil, though mostly she was frustrated by the hidebound tendencies and lack of work ethic of her fellow Councillors. 

And the third friend was Police Inspector Fatima Dieng. Fatima had come to Silbury at the same time as Kamala to take charge of the town’s police station, which was also located in Mabel Lane, though at the other end, close to where it meets Sarum Road. Fatima had transformed the way in which the local police force worked, getting her officers out into the community, learning as far as possible what might be happening before it became a problem. She focussed on crime prevention and would not get overstressed on issues, such as a little underaged drinking, that were better left alone. Not everyone in the town, nor at the County Constabulary in Scowbridge, was convinced about Fatima’s policing methods. Some in the town were also scandalised that her teenage daughter, Hadidjatou, was in a longstanding relationship with a white boy. Fatima was unconcerned. Things needed to change. A new kinder, fairer, more inclusive Britain needed to emerge. And she wanted to be part of that change. 

Here they were then, the Peiris, Kaboré and Dieng families, nine persons in all, gathered for their traditional Spring Festival lunch, not boiled fare in this case but a hearty mutton biryani, with onion raita and cabbage and carrot varai, all lovingly prepared by Kamala’s devoted husband, Gamini. After eating, over-eating more like, they all sat out on the patio at the back of the house on what was a most pleasant sunny day for the time of year. Across the river was the laundry for Silbury College, the noted public (meaning private) school in the town, and behind that again was a new development of six large houses for which construction had recently just concluded. In bad need of some exercise they decided to take a walk over in that direction. 

The adults strolled out of Kamala’s house and across the bridge over the river on Vale Road. The children all preferred to ride their bikes. Coming into the new development, as yet unnamed, they noticed that every single one of the houses had a sold sign outside of it. 

“That’s strange,” said Chitra, Kamala’s twelve-year-old daughter. “Ranil and I were biking around here yesterday, and they were only just putting up the for-sale signs then. How could they all come to be sold in just one day, and on a holiday weekend when the estate agent offices would be closed?” 

“Strange indeed,” Fatima responded, “though hardly anything criminal, I’m sure. All the same, it will be interesting to know who these new close neighbours of yours will be, Kamala. I’ll see what I can find out, as, I’m sure, will you and Anna.” 

Fatima did not get a chance to ask her fellow police officers about the new housing development till two days later. Monday was a bank holiday, and the station ran with only half of its normal staff. On the Tuesday they all gathered for their regular review of the week just past and planning for this new one. Understanding that it wasn’t really police business, at least for the present, Fatima broached the question that had been on her mind, and that of her friends, only towards the end of the meeting. 

“There is one more thing that I wanted to ask you all, and I have to admit this is just idle curiosity on my part. I was walking around the new housing development off of Vale Road on Sunday, along with a couple of friends. We noticed that all of the houses are already sold, though apparently they were only available for sale the previous day. At least that’s when the for-sale signs were put up. I wondered if any of you might know anything about the sales and the new owners. The houses are all quite substantial, so their occupants are also likely to be or become prominent residents of our town.” 

As ever, the first respondent to Fatima’s question was Sergeant Joyce Banda. She was extremely ambitious, ever eager to show off her knowledge of any matter. The problem was that generally she would either have an erroneous analysis of the problem at hand, or she would actually not know anything about it. That was the case now. 

“Ma’am, that is indeed very strange, and possibly also suspicious, unless, of course, it’s a coincidence, which it might be. Did you want us to investigate?” 

“You’re right, Sergeant. Those would appear to be more or less all the possibilities.” Fatima responded in a way that would not devalue Banda’s contributions. “I don’t think though that we have any grounds to open an investigation or to waste police resources. As I said, this is purely idle curiosity on my part.” 

Fatima then looked at Constable Nguyen Chi Man. She was the one member of the team who had lived all of her life in Silbury. She had local contacts and knowledge that none of the others could rival. She was also, though one might not think it to hear her speak, very insightful in her judgements and analyses. 

“Ma’am, the Sergeant do be right. This have strange and suspicious written all over it. I don’t be knowing many of the details, but I tell you this. The builder do be from out of town, not, so I did hear, even from anywhere in Shoatshire. None of the workers was from Silbury. They was all brought in every day from somewhere else, I don’t know where. There do be three estate agents in Silbury, and none of them was handling the sales, only some firm I never heard of before. 

“That be all I can say. I know not who is the buyers. It would be informative though to be knowing about mortgages and stuff like that.” 

Informative, thought Fatima. Constable Nguyen never ceased to amaze her. The problem was what to do now about all the information she had presented. Was it sufficient to warrant taking the matter further in an official way? Perhaps Constable Hiranthi Senanayake would give her some time to think further, while she gave her opinion. Fatima wasn’t terribly confident. Senanayake rarely volunteered information, even when she had it. 

“Was there anything you would be able to add, Constable Senanayake?” 

“No, ma’am,” Senanayake responded, “I don’t know anything.” 

Fatima kept them all waiting for a couple of minutes before she made up her mind about what to do next. 

“I’m still convinced, for the moment at least, that there are no grounds to open a police investigation into this matter. At the same time, there do seem to be some suspicious aspects to the development. We shall not, therefore, actively go seeking any information, but I should like you to keep your ears to the ground and remain attentive to anything anyone might have to say on the subject, or to any other information that may otherwise become available.  

“As they say, or rather sing, in one of my favourite operettas: You may well be suspicious, but don’t let that make you capricious, though you should always stay curicious.” 

Constable Nguyen let slip a huge guffaw. The Inspector had done it again. 

Two weeks later, the Silbury police force was concluding its investigation into a spate of vandalism in the town. At the end of their meeting, having agreed the substance of the stern warnings they were to give to the youths concerned, and their families, Fatima raised again the question of ownership of the houses in River Park, as the development off Vale Road had now been named. Sergeant Banda predictably was the first to speak up. 

“Ma’am, I’ve made it a point to walk past the development every day for the past two weeks. Almost everything is still the same. The houses have stayed empty. The only work being done inside the estate is by a landscaping company that is organising the gardens of all the houses. Constable Nguyen told me that it is not a Silbury firm, not from anywhere around here. Its vans don’t indicate the name of the company at all.” 

Nguyen nodded and said: “Ambani Gardens and Landscaping do be based just outside of Brigstow, Ma’am.” 

Banda looked irritated but continued: “There is some further construction work that I noticed. Some sort of brick archway is being built at the entrance of the estate.” 

“Gates,” said Nguyen, “they is putting in gates.” 

Again Banda looked uncomfortably at Nguyen and then at Fatima herself. Time to intervene. 

“Sergeant, I’m very glad that you have been keeping an eye on the situation at River Park, and I’m sure the information you have shared today may well prove very useful, possibly even vital.” 

Banda looked relieved, as Fatima brought the meeting to a close. 

Fatima sat for a while at her desk staring into space. Then she picked up the telephone and asked to be connected with her friend and colleague, Superintendent Hema Mirchandani, at the County Constabulary in Scowbridge. Superintendent Mirchandani was one of Fatima’s most devoted supporters within the police force. Three years previously they had worked together on an extremely sensitive case involving the murder of a student at Silbury College, who happened to be the daughter of the then Home Secretary. She had also saved Fatima from disciplinary action following an attempt by the former Chief Constable, now dismissed and disgraced, to frame her on trumped up charges of collaborating with a criminal organisation in Brigstow. 

“Hema,” said Fatima, after they had completed the formalities of greetings between two friends, who had not spoken for some weeks, “I wonder if I could ask you for help in finding out some information that could be of interest to the police, though it probably actually isn’t.” 

She went on to describe the development of River Park, the curious, simultaneous sale of all of the properties in the estate, and the subsequent non-arrival of the new owners. She admitted that the inquiry was more in the way of personal curiosity, but once she had indicated who else was curious, namely Anna Kaboré and Kamala Peiris, Hema understood why her friend’s interest might have been piqued. She also understood why instinctually Fatima might want to be better informed. 

“Fatima, I’m always delighted to be of service to you,” Hema laughed, as she got her chance to enter the conversation. “I have a friend at Scotland Yard whose regular beat includes the area around Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where the Land Registry is located. I’ll ask her to go there tomorrow and hunt out the records you need, and she can pop those into the post for you. You realise, I hope, that His Majesty’s Government levies a fee for its records, possibly as much as three shillings for each, which you’re going to have to reimburse to my friend. We’ll also add the cost of a bottle of something to recompense her for what will be personal time spent on this, don’t you think?” 

They agreed that, once Hema had found out the cost of the records sought from the Land Registry, and provided the name and address of her friend in London, Fatima would immediately send her a postal order for that amount plus a further ten shillings, quite a considerable sum for a police inspector. She hoped that her friends might offer to help share the costs. She certainly didn’t want to have to own up to her husband that so much money had suddenly disappeared from the family budget. 

Three days later, Fatima arranged to meet her friends Anna and Kamala at lunchtime at the Red Cow. The three of them sat in Anna’s spacious kitchen there with a pot of tea and sandwiches to hand. Fatima laid on the table a foolscap manila envelope, which she then slit open with a pen knife and with some degree of theatricality. 

“These, ladies, are the records from HM Land Registry pertaining to all the properties in River Park, which I have obtained through the good offices of our friend, Hema Mirchandani, and at some considerable expense, which I have had to shoulder personally. I just thought I would mention that.” 

Pulling a sheath of papers from the envelope they looked at them one by one. For each property there was a map showing its location and boundaries. Then there was a typewritten Title Summary giving the title number, name of owner, amount of purchase, tenure, and lender’s name and address.  

In every case the information was almost identical. Of course, the title numbers were different, and there was some minor variance in the purchase amounts, as the land areas and sizes of houses also differed slightly. But in every case the tenure was freehold. The lender’s name and address were listed as none. And every single property had been purchased, and was now owned by Fortress Property Services Ltd, with registered offices in Oldcastle, a very long way indeed from Silbury. 

Kamala was grinning. 

“I got the same information, though I didn’t need to pay for it. I had a telephone call this morning from our branch in Oldcastle. The manager thought I should know about the large purchase of property here by a company that has at least some of its accounts at the Western Provincial there. On behalf of Fortress Property Services Ltd the branch issued a banker’s draft in an amount of approximately £ 43,000. No mortgage. No loan. Just paid outright, which is what my colleague, whom I don’t know by the way, found so strange. Also strange was that the draft was drawn in favour of a company with an almost identical name: Fortress Developments Ltd, with registered offices in Gatesforth, which, as I’m sure you know, is just two miles away from Oldcastle on the other side of the River Prong. Fortress Developments apparently doesn’t bank with the Western Provincial, so my colleague wasn’t able to tell me anything about that company. 

“However,” Kamala continued after taking a sip of her tea, “she was able to tell me a little bit about Fortress Property Services, not too much as it turns out that they conduct all of their business with the bank in writing, only sending one representative from time to time in order to sign documents that require witnessing by the bank manager. That is always done by the Company Secretary, a Mrs Amalhe Mbeko. It was also her signature on the request for the banker’s draft. 

“Oh, and all of this is strictly confidential bank information, so I never told you anything, right?” 

They all laughed about Kamala’s deliberate indiscretion, but then they fell quiet, until Fatima broke the ice. 

“Well we do have corroboratory information from two reliable sources. The problem is that it doesn’t really tell us anything of any significance, except, of course, for the continuation of the pattern of strangeness surrounding this housing development, and I do feel in my bones that something here is definitely not right. I suppose we just have to keep our eyes open and ears to the ground. Perhaps we’ll learn something more when the houses get occupied by actual people, if indeed that will happen. 

“Oh yes, and meanwhile I’ve spent one pound twelve shillings for something that Kamala got for free.” 

Anna and Kamala agreed to share the cost of obtaining the land registry records, each giving Fatima the sum of ten shillings and eight pence. She left burdened by quite a weight in coins. 

And then she decided that their obsession with River Park had gone quite far enough. There was other business to which she needed to give her attention. She didn’t ignore it completely, but she also didn’t deliberately allow the matter to take up any of her working time. Over the next couple of weeks Kamala would telephone from time to time to say that someone had moved in, and then all six houses had been occupied, and the gates and guard house at the entrance to the development had been completed. That seemed to be that. 

Then one evening came the call to her home telephone from Mrs Ros Saveth, the proprietor of the Second Row public house in Downs Hill Road. The two knew each other mainly from the time when, in 1966, they had captured an arsonist paid to intimidate business owners in the town. 

“Inspector, there’s been an incident at the pub, and I need a police officer to come and investigate. Actually, I’d be really grateful if you could come yourself. It’s rather complicated, and I don’t think I can explain it adequately over the telephone.” 

Fatima agreed to come right away and, having first stopped to pick up Constable Nguyen, arrived fifteen minutes later at the Second Row. Entering the public bar, they were signalled by Mrs Saveth’s husband to go on through to the parlour behind. There they found Mrs Saveth herself, stood brandishing a cricket bat over two young women who were bruised and cowering on the floor. On seeing police uniforms all three began to talk at once, until Fatima insisted on complete silence. 

“I’ll speak to you one at a time. Mrs Saveth, could we please go to your kitchen, so I can hear your version of what happened here? Constable Nguyen, please remain here with these two young women. You can get them to give you their particulars, and I’ll join you all later.” 

In the kitchen Fatima asked Mrs Saveth, who put the cricket bat away in the adjoining toilet, to tell her what had happened that evening at the Second Row “from start to finish”. 

“Well,” Mrs Saveth began, “we had our usual Wednesday evening crowd in. It’s almost always locals and regulars here. Visitors don’t tend to come to this pub, but more likely to the ones in the town centre. Each of our regulars has different evenings when they come in. Wednesdays tend to be the evening when they get together for a game of cribbage. At eight o’clock there were about ten to twelve people in the snug, when those two youths came in. They ordered pints of brown ale with whisky chasers, downing them quickly, so that they were quite drunk within half an hour of getting here. 

“My husband and I take turns at the bar when it’s not too busy, and we both work there if the place is full and at closing time. At this time he was at the bar, and I was watching something on the telly.” 

“What was the show?” asked Fatima. “I just want to triangulate the time in my notes.” 

“University Challenge. Anyway, then I heard loud noises from the snug, including the sound of broken glass. I went there immediately and saw my husband hiding behind the bar and these two women each holding a broken beer bottle threatening to cut him. One of them was shouting: You don’t tell me when I’ve had enough, bolshie! This is my country, and I decide here. You don’t like it, you go back where you came from! 

“That might not be the exact words that she used, but it is what she was saying. 

“Well, you know me, Inspector. No one treats my husband like that. And I hate racial discrimination in all circumstances. So, I walked straight up to the one that was shouting. She tried to stick the broken bottle in my face. I dodged it and rabbit punched her straight in the throat. The other one was just watching wide eyed, so I did the same to her before she could do harm to me or anyone else. Then I dragged them into the parlour and tied up their wrists and ankles not worrying, I might tell you, if that would hurt them. The rabbit punches had knocked the wind out of them, so they weren’t in any position to resist. 

“Then I made sure that my husband was all right and had a quiet word with the few customers that had stayed. It was only three, and they’re still in the snug, if you want to talk to them. I promised them a free pint each, if they’d stay and speak to the police. Yes, then I telephoned you. Oh, and I cleaned up the broken glass.” 

“As far as you know, this all started when your husband asked the two women if they hadn’t had enough to drink, is that right? You don’t know of anything else that might have been said between them.” 

“That’s all I know,” Mrs Saveth responded, “but my husband was saying they had already been saying that they didn’t like this pub, and it was a pity it never got burnt to the ground three years ago.” 

“OK. Thank you,” said Fatima. “I’ll let you get back to the bar now and relieve your husband. I’m going to speak to these two women in your parlour and have Constable Nguyen talk to your remaining customers.” 

Fatima returned to the parlour and had a brief hushed conversation with Nguyen, who then left. 

“Now. Who wants to speak first?” 

“We can’t talk with our hands and feet bound like this,” said the taller of the two women. 

“You’re doing fine so far,” Fatima answered, “and I don’t intend to unbind you until I know that you are not a threat to me. So why don’t you tell me your stories?” 

It was the shorter one who spoke now: “What you need to know, copper, is that these people that run this pub are very violent. Because of nothing that filthy foreign man started telling us we weren’t welcome here and we had to leave. All we were doing was having a few drinks and a few laughs, and spending good British money here. Then the woman, the one that’s married to the foreigner, comes in and assaults us. Now we should be pressing charges against her, but we don’t want any trouble that may be a problem with our employer. All you have to do is let us go, and there won’t be any more trouble. Definitely we are not coming back here again.” 

“We’ll have to see about that,” said Fatima. “Your story contradicts entirely what Mrs Saveth, the proprietor, has told me, and I know her to be a trustworthy person. We’re also checking what other customers at the pub saw and heard this evening. If their testimony does corroborate what I’ve been told by Mrs Saveth, and what Mr Saveth may also have to say, then I’m afraid I’ll be taking you into custody. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to change your story?” 

The two sat quietly, until the taller one said: “We’ve nothing more to say until we’ve spoken to our solicitor. Those are the orders we have.” 

Constable Nguyen then returned to the parlour, and a further whispered exchange ensued. 

“Very well,” said Fatima aloud. “You two are coming with us to the police station, where you will remain for the night. Once there you can give the constable on duty the name of your solicitor, and we shall arrange for her to come and meet you tomorrow morning.” 

The next morning, at the police station, Fatima and Constable Nguyen were preparing to question the two young women they had arrested the previous evening at the Second Row. Their solicitor, Mrs Meledi Mbeko had been contacted and was expected shortly. No interview could take place without her presence. 

As they went through the questions they should ask, and who should say what, in which order, there was a knock, and Constable Hiranthi Senanayake put her head around the door. 

"There's a telephone call, Ma'am, from Mrs Ros Saveth. Do you want to take it?" 

"Yes please, Constable," Fatima replied. Then she looked at Nguyen. "I wonder what else she needs to tell us now. I thought we'd already got the full story from her last night. Was there something significant she had omitted to mention?" 

The instrument on Fatima's desk rang, and she picked up the receiver. 

"Good morning, Mrs Saveth. How are you feeling today, and how is your husband?" 

"We're quite well, thank you, Inspector. There was something I wanted to ask you. I want to withdraw my complaint against the two women you arrested in my pub yesterday evening. I've realised today, after speaking further with my husband, that there was a misunderstanding. No one was threatening him, and I overreacted." 

Fatima thought for a moment, putting her hand over the mouthpiece. Then she whispered to Constable Nguyen: "Go to the switchboard, so you can listen to this conversation. Don't say anything. Something very strange is going on." 

Then she spoke into the telephone. 

"Sorry for the hiatus, Mrs Saveth. I just needed to get the person with whom I was speaking in my office to leave, so that we might converse confidentially. 

"Now, could you please confirm my understanding of what you just said?  Do you want to withdraw your complaint? Are you saying you will not be willing to make a formal statement, or are you still willing to do so but with different contents from what you told me, and which I noted, yesterday?" 

Mrs Saveth was now silent for a minute or so. Then she said: "Yes, I want to withdraw the complaint, and, no, I do not wish to make any formal statement. I'm very sorry, but, as I said, it was all due to a misunderstanding. 

"I apologise too for the waste of police time." 

"And that is the full reason?" asked Fatima. "A misunderstanding?" 

"Yes." Mrs Saveth's response was terse. 

Fatima continued: "Well, without your statement, as the main complainant, it will be difficult for the police to proceed with any charges against these individuals. We do have the testimony of your customers, but that was simply to corroborate what we had heard from you. 

"I hope you realise that, in these circumstances, the two women we presently have in custody could themselves now make their own complaint against you for an unprovoked assault. By your own words this morning, it would seem you could hardly dispute that. 

"What would you say?" 

"I'm sorry, Inspector, but that is my position. And, on the possibility of a charge of assault against me, I shall just have to take my chances. I do not wish to make false representations." 

Mrs Saveth's voice was dull. It was almost now as if she were reading a prepared text. And at that moment the line went dead. She had severed the connection. 

Half a minute later, Nguyen was back in Fatima's office. 

"What do you make of that, Constable?" 

"Very strange, Ma'am. It's not just what she were saying but how she did do it. That did not sound like the Ros Saveth that we knows." 

"Exactly, Constable," Fatima replied. "Well, I suppose we shall have to release these two women we have in custody. Is their solicitor here yet?" 

"Yes, Ma'am. She have been with her clients this last quarter of an hour." 

Fatima and Constable Nguyen were heading to the police station’s interview, when they saw Mrs Mbeko coming towards them in the corridor. 

“Inspector, I wonder if I might have a word with you alone before you proceed with your interview of my clients.” 

“Certainly,” answered Fatima. “Please step into my office. 

“Constable Nguyen, could you please wait for us next door?” 

Once inside Fatima’s office, Mrs Mbeko went straight into her speech: “Inspector, I’d like to do you a favour here. You may think that you have a good case against my clients, but I’m not sure it will really hold up in court. From what I understand, you have verbal testimony at present but no signed written statements. I have reason to believe that some, if not all, of your witnesses may change their stories when it comes to signing a formal document. 

“On the other hand, you could simply drop all charges now, and the problem will not be a problem any longer.” 

“Well, as it happens, that was indeed my intention,” Fatima responded. “But I have to confess I’m surprised that you have such good and rapid intelligence regarding witness statements. Would you like to tell me how you came by that?” 

“Ah,” said Mrs Mbeko. “That would be privileged information. Sorry.” 

“Just one further question,” Fatima ploughed on. “Do any of your family members happen to live in the northeast in the vicinity of Oldcastle and Gatesforth?” 

Mrs Mbeko did not reply immediately but seemed for a few seconds to weigh up what should be her answer. Then she said: “Not that I know of. What prompted the question?” 

“Oh, just a name I came across recently, though I can’t remember where, a newspaper or something probably. Anyway, let us go and release your clients formally.” 

Fatima collected Constable Nguyen from her office next door, and they all went to the interview room, where were waiting the two young women who had been detained the previous evening. 

“Constable,” Fatima began, “could you please tell me the names, addresses and occupations of our two detainees?” 

“Yes, Ma’am, they are Miss Janaan Konnar and Miss Het Iyer. They have common lodgings at the home of Mstr Prakash Tamang, 46 Cherry Orchard. They are presently employed as security guards at River Park.” 

There it was again: River Park. Fatima gave no hint of surprise but just continued. 

“Miss Konnar and Miss Iyer, I have come to inform you that no charges will be laid against you. I had you arrested yesterday on what I thought at the time were reasonable grounds, and in order to preserve public safety. I now recognise that I was in error. You are free to go.” 

The shorter of the two women, Miss Iyer, leapt up from the chair where she had been sitting and shouted at Mrs Mbeko: “Then we will want to bring a complaint against that bloody publican and her bolshie husband for the pain we have suffered, won’t we, solicitor?” 

Mrs Mbeko remained icily calm and said quietly: “No, we shall not want to do anything of the kind. We shall simply depart from the police station and regain our freedom. And, Inspector, I should like to thank you for your prompt action to rectify what might have been an unfortunate error, and for your kindness in admitting your mistake personally. It is rare that we see a public official take such responsibility.” 

Mrs Mbeko shepherded her two clients reluctantly from the room and the building. Meanwhile Fatima directed her gaze at Constable Nguyen. 

“What did you make of that?” 

“That Mrs Mbeko do be a snake, Ma’am,” said Nguyen. “She did not mean what she say about admiring your honesty, if you’ll excuse my directness. It do be what you always say, Ma’am, everything is about something else.” 

“Well I don’t want to take credit for that saying, as I read it in a news magazine from the journalist that, I believe, first coined the phrase,” Fatima responded. “But, indeed, it is very apt here. There’s more to this than meets the eye, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.” 

That evening Fatima, Anna and Kamala had their final get together prior to Kamala’s leaving the bank in Silbury for her new job in Sowdon. They went out of town to nearby Boundhill to eat and drink at the Slow Left Arm pub there, with Fatima, the one teetotaller of the group, doing the driving. The food was not at all up to their expectations, but that wasn’t their principal purpose in being there. It was to chat, especially about transitions. 

“You’ll never guess where my successor is going to live,” Kamala began to tell her story. 

“River Park!” Fatima and Anna responded in unison, and they all dissolved into laughter that was almost, but not quite, humorous. 

“No, but that’s it exactly,” Kamala continued. “I only just found out, as she’s written to the bank to transfer her account from the branch where she’s working at present. I have to admit, I’m still fascinated by that place. It seems so strange.” 

“It’s not really all that strange,” said a voice behind them. “It’s just an example of how housing for decent people will increasingly be developed, what with all the violence and lawlessness that we face in today’s Britain. I live there myself, and I’m glad that I do. I feel safe there in a way that I don’t when I’m out in the street, especially at night.” 

The speaker stepped out of the dark area of the bar in which she had been standing, then stopped and said: “Oh, good evening, Mrs Kaboré. I didn’t see that it was you sitting there.” 

“Mrs Modi,” Anna replied, “I also didn’t recognise you at first. Let me introduce you. These is Mrs Kamala Peiris, who was until today the manager of the Western Provincial Bank in the High Street. She starts tomorrow as Manager of the one of the bank’s branches in Sowdon. And this is Inspector Fatima Dieng, who is the senior police officer in Silbury.  

“Anna, Fatima, this is Mrs Poonam Modi. She’s recently been appointed as the Silbury and district representative of Sitwells Brewery, which owns my pub, also this one and the Second Row in Silbury. Is that right, Mrs Modi?” 

“Yes, it is,” she replied, “and I’m glad to see that you maintain loyalty to the brewery even on your night out. Who is looking after the Red Cow this evening, your husband?” 

“That’s right,” said Anna. 

“Well perhaps I’ll drop by later to see how he is doing. Good evening to all you ladies. I have to go now.” 

She left, and Kamala immediately said: “Did you see the way she looked at you when you were introduced, Fatima?” 

“Yes, I did, and I think I may have an inkling of why that may be. But I can’t talk about it at present. 

“I do have a question for you, Anna. Why would your brewery need to have a representative here in Silbury now? There’s never been one before, has there?” 

“No, that’s right,” said Anna. “I also thought it strange, when Mrs Modi first came to the pub. Previously the brewery had supervised all of its establishments directly from its head office in Scowbridge. It seems now they’ve decided to experiment with decentralisation of their inspection staff, and they’ve started with Silbury as the pilot. Mrs Modi told me the management think they can save costs in this way. Personally, I’m not bothered where the inspector actually lives. It does, however, irk me that she seems to be in and out every week. We never before felt that we were under quite that level of scrutiny, and nor is it in any way necessary.” 

They continued to talk for another hour or so before driving back to their respective homes, but the conversation turned to matters other than River Park and the people associated with it. Indeed, Anna and Kamala both had the distinct impression that Fatima deliberately steered it in an alternative direction. 

In addition to the River Forge, there is another waterway of some significance close to Silbury. This is the Forge-Abona Canal that was once a major trading artery bringing barges laden with various goods, including casks of imported brandy and locally produced salt pork and mutton, between Brigstow in the west and Redfolk in the east, from where the barges could proceed to and from London along the River Tamis. Nowadays the canal no longer served as a trade route but was used by recreational boaters and fisherwomen, both of whom contributed financially to the upkeep of the waterway through the payment of fees for its use to the Forge-Abona Canal Authority. 

Twice a year the Authority would organise a canal clean up. Usually this merely entailed volunteers on boats trawling the waterway to pick up debris that had been left or dumped there. This might include old prams, discarded boots, cigarette packets and beer bottles. Once every five years or so, the Authority would empty a section of the canal by pumping out the water between two relatively distant locks in order to inspect the canal lining and repair it wherever needed. This was a major piece of work that required the contributions of numerous workwomen and volunteers. It also always attracted a lot of onlookers, who were interested to see what might be dredged up. 

Fatima was there on this occasion, accompanied by Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake. She wanted to gauge whether there might be any need for crowd control, which she would then hand on to her two colleagues. On this occasion the group of onlookers appeared small and good natured, so she directed Banda and Senanayake to make sure the organisers knew how to contact the police in case of need and then return to the police station. Senanayake was to come and fetch Fatima in an hour and a half. There was someone meanwhile with whom she needed to speak. 

She had spotted Mrs Ros Saveth almost immediately upon her arrival at the canal and judged that this was an excellent opportunity to press her on her reasons to change her account of what had happened in her pub the last time they had met. She approached her from behind and whispered a request to follow her along a nearby footpath. Once they were a reasonable distance from everyone else and could not be heard, she opened the conversation. 

“Mrs Saveth, we have some unfinished business to conduct.” 

“Inspector, I don’t want to have any problems,” was Mrs Saveth’s response. “Couldn’t we just leave it alone?” 

“I’m not here to cause problems for you, Mrs Saveth, and I didn’t even come here looking for you. I promise you the police are not going to try to reopen this case of assault, but I do need to understand. I just don’t believe that you, of all people, would allow an obvious instance of attempted assault, with racial undertones, against your husband go by without response. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who backs down to bullies. You know full well that such bullies thrive on perceived weakness and come back again and again to the victims that don’t stand up to them.” 

This little speech from Fatima had a visible effect on Mrs Saveth. She looked in turns enraged and ashamed. 

Finally, she said: “You’re right, of course, Inspector. And you’re a good person, whom I’ve always looked up to. I trust you, and I do owe you an explanation. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a long story. 

“Recently the brewery that owns the pub where I have my tenancy, Sitwells, has appointed a district inspector based in Silbury.” 

“Mrs Poonam Modi,” interjected Fatima. “I met her briefly the other evening at the Slow Left Arm in Boundhill.” 

“Well, the morning after you had taken those two young women into custody, Mrs Modi came into my pub, accompanied by another woman, whom she didn’t introduce and who didn’t say much at all during the entire time that she was there. They didn’t want to have any drinks from the bar but asked if my husband could go and make them a cup of tea. 

“Whilst he was gone, Mrs Modi started talking about the incident in the pub the night before. She seemed to know all of the details, but she started telling me I had made a big mistake. What I thought had happened was not what really transpired. My husband had not told the full truth, and the customers that had remained in the bar were sticking up for him out of loyalty, but they too were not telling the truth. There were other witnesses that would be able to tell the real story and who could be produced if this went any further with the police. She, Mrs Modi, had to protect the good name of the brewery and not be connected with any miscarriages of justice. 

“When she said this, the other woman smiled broadly, but she still stayed quiet. 

“As you can imagine, because indeed you do know me, this made me very angry. I told them that my husband doesn’t ever lie, or even exaggerate. I trust him, and I know what I saw when I entered the bar, the broken beer bottles and the taunts and threats towards my husband. I know when I am physically threatened, which I was, and I know that I don’t retaliate unnecessarily. With my training from my army days, my use of force can be lethal. 

“That made the other woman mad, I could tell, but still she kept her peace. 

“So then Mrs Modi says she doesn’t want to start an argument with me. The good name of the brewery is her only concern. If we can reach an agreement on how best to proceed without putting that good name in jeopardy, then all well and good. If, on the other hand, we can’t agree, then perhaps a change of tenancy would be the best course of action. 

“That was one of only two times that the other woman spoke, and on this occasion she just hissed ‘yes’. 

“Well, Inspector, there is almost nothing that would make me back down from my principles, especially my trust and regard, my love for my husband. But this pub is my livelihood. We have nothing without it. We put our life savings into the business. If we lost it, I don’t know what I would do. It’s so difficult to get a foot into a business with all the racial prejudice there is around. People take one look at my husband, the colour of his skin, and just shut the doors in our faces. They don’t want to hear that he is human just like them and deserves the same consideration they would give to anyone else. 

“I remembered some of my military training. When opposed by overwhelming force, a tactical retreat is always the best course of action, until you have worked out where to find your enemy’s weakness and then mount a counterattack. I agreed to go along with their version of events, but I told them I wasn’t going to ring you until they had gone. 

“Then they left. They didn’t even wait for their cups of tea, which my husband brought out just as they were at the door. But before they left, the other woman did say one thing, which was ‘don’t forget to tell Dieng’, or something like that. I do remember that she specifically used your surname.” 

That was quite a lot to take in, and Fatima took time to think about it. 

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the woman that came with Mrs Modi to your pub? Did you get the impression that she was connected with the brewery?” 

“I don’t really know,” Mrs Saveth responded, “but I am almost completely certain that the two are not professionally related. On the other hand, the other woman was clearly the more important of the two. Other than that, all I can say is that she was well built without having any excess fat at all, probably very fit, probably a handful in any hand-to-hand combat. Oh, and she always looked particularly hateful whenever my husband was present. There was definitely more than the usual prejudice we’re used to seeing. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I think she would have liked to kill him. 

“If you were to ask me, which you don’t necessarily have to do, I’d also say that there is more to this than meets the eye. Mrs Modi works for the brewery, yes, but she and the other woman clearly have other loyalties too, loyalties to some very nasty people who are very powerful indeed. That was another reason why I thought it best to beat a tactical retreat, rather than confront them and lose everything.” 

“And she specifically mentioned my name? That was, in fact, the only thing she said during your encounter that had any substance?” 

“Indeed,” said Mrs Saveth. “That was the only time she felt the need to add anything to what Mrs Modi was saying to me.” 

“And is there anything I might need to know about Mrs Modi?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs Saveth replied. “As I said, she just turned up here a few weeks ago. Before that the brewery used to organise its inspections by staff working at the head office in Scowbridge, and those were very infrequent indeed. Now we are under much more frequent scrutiny, which is not actually conducive to the efficient running of a business. Apparently, it’s supposed to be a cost saving measure that the brewery is piloting in and around Silbury to see if they will do it in the rest of the county and beyond. Anyway, we put up with it, as long as it doesn’t become too intrusive, which it just did.” 

“Yes, that’s what Anna Kaboré also told me.” 

Fatima thought again for a while and then said: “Let me tell you what I think. I don’t pretend to understand what is really going on, but I agree with you there is certainly more to this meets the eye. This very clearly isn’t just about a bit of bother at the local, even though that is also part of it. 

“For some reason, powerful interests do not want to put something - I don’t know what - in jeopardy by allowing these two young women to face justice for the petty crime they have committed. Of course, it’s not the trial and punishment that they fear but what could be thrown up in interrogation, and in the wider investigation that that might provoke. Otherwise, why would they go to so much trouble to lean on you, in a very crude way indeed, to make sure that our suspects would be released?” 

At that point, they were both disturbed by a slight noise and both instinctively plunged in its direction running through undergrowth and bushes till they had covered some two hundred yards. Finding nothing, they both stopped quite winded and laughed. 

“Do you think someone was there?” asked Mrs Saveth. 

“Of course, I do, and so do you,” Fatima replied. “Our common military training kicked in as soon as we both heard what must have been a faint noise. But whoever was watching us clearly also had the same or similar training and experience. She was able to evade us even though we must have been running directly at her.” 

“Would she have heard what we were saying? Do you think she might be connected with the woman who visited me, along with Mrs Modi?” 

“No,” said Fatima. “We were being watched but at a distance from which no one would be able to eavesdrop on our conversation. Also, as I said, this person has military training, and I am convinced she still practises all those skills on a regular, perhaps daily, basis. This was someone else and something else. I don’t know what, at least not yet, but I don’t think we need presently worry about it too much. 

“I must get back to the canal. Constable Senanayake should already be there with a police car to bring me back to Silbury, and she may start asking questions, if she can’t find me there. Before I go though, I have one more question for you.  

“You spoke about a tactical retreat. Do you have any ideas on how you will be able now to identify your enemy’s weaknesses and begin to exploit them to your advantage?” 

“No,” said Mrs Saveth. “I’ve been wracking my brains, but for the life of me I have no ideas on what to do.” 

“Sorry,” Fatima continued. “I had said that was my last question. It wasn’t, but this one may be. Are you open at all to some assistance in working out what to do, and then in doing it?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then,” said Fatima, “as one old soldier to another, can I please volunteer my own support? Whatever you are facing, I am facing too.” 

Again, Mrs Saveth said: “Certainly.  

 “I would welcome your help, Inspector.” 

 “Call me Fatima.”