The Danger Within

Seventeen

‘Where do we go from here, boss?’ asked Saslow as the two officers left Helen’s House.

‘Well, we certainly should talk to Gill Quinn again as soon as possible, and her son,’ Vogel replied. ‘But we need her in a better state. So it’s probably best to give her a bit more time to recover, and leave it until this afternoon. Meanwhile, let’s head back to the incident room and liaise with the team.’

‘Right, boss. Should we take a doctor with us when we do go to see Gill, do you think?’

‘Yes, we definitely should. For all sorts of reasons. I want those ears of hers looked at for a start. If the pictures we’ve just seen are genuine, and I have little doubt that they are, we need a proper medical record of what has been done to her. I’d like to get hold of the same doctor who saw her this morning. What was her name again?’

‘Lamey. Dr Louise Lamey.’

‘Do we have a number for her?’

‘I’ll get it, boss.’

She did so using the car’s hands-free, then Vogel called the doctor with his phone on speaker.

He heard Dr Lamey gasp when he described the burns which had been inflicted behind Gill Quinn’s ears.

‘You know, I have heard of this sort of thing,’ said Dr Lamey. ‘The most horrible abuse inflicted in such a way that its effects are not immediately noticeable. But I didn’t think about that this morning. I didn’t examine Mrs Quinn at all really for physical injuries. I do apologize, Mr Vogel...’

‘You’ve no need to, doctor,’ Vogel reassured. ‘We called you in to deal with a woman in shock, and to attempt to calm her down. None of us had any reason to suspect at the time that she had been abused in that way, and she had been physically examined in hospital before being admitted for the night. They missed it there too. But they also were not looking for signs of abuse. Gill Quinn’s only other visible injuries were some old bruises on her ribs which she explained away.’

Vogel asked if the doctor could accompany them to see Gill later that day. They agreed on three p.m.

As soon as the two officers arrived at the incident room at Bideford police station DI Peters hurried towards them.

‘I was just going to call you, boss,’ she began. ‘We’ve had the headmaster of Elm Tree, Gill Quinn’s school, on the phone. Wynne Williams, his name is. He’d just heard about Thomas’ death. We had a team designated to contact him and arrange an interview, but they hadn’t got to it yet. Sorry, boss. Anyway he was totally distraught. Almost hysterical. Kept demanding to know where Gill was, if we were holding her in custody. Even said he wanted to see her. Almost demanded again. It was a bit excessive, boss...’

‘Well, a head and deputy head would work pretty closely together,’ remarked Vogel, who had never been one to jump to conclusions without evidence to support them. ‘And I’m sure everyone at her school, and indeed Thomas Quinn’s place of work, will be pretty upset. Are you saying his reaction was more extreme than you would have expected from someone who was merely a work colleague, or rather her boss, I suppose? Is that it?’

‘Yes. That is exactly it. And Williams’ concern was almost entirely for Gill. Not the dead man. How can I put it, he spoke about her as if she was someone he was very close to. Very close indeed.’

‘I see,’ said Vogel. ‘Well, we’d better check out just how close they are, then. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Lake and Jamieson talked to Thomas Quinn’s business partner late last night. There had already been mentions on local news, but Quinn hadn’t been named. Patel was totally taken aback, apparently. Hadn’t seen any news bulletins. This is their report.’

DI Peters began to read from her phone.

‘“We arrived at Jason Patel’s home at ten forty-four p.m. and informed him of Thomas Quinn’s death. He expressed deep shock. He asked at once if we knew who was responsible for his death. We told him that our enquiries were proceeding and we needed him to tell us about his whereabouts that day. He said it wasn’t his whereabouts we should be worried about. He answered our questions willingly enough, but he was clearly very uneasy. He said that he’d been at home all day yesterday watching cricket on TV. England versus Pakistan apparently. He’s separated from his wife and lives alone, and claimed to have seen and spoken to nobody all day, except the boy who delivered a pizza at around six o’clock”...’

DI Peters paused.

‘There’s more routine stuff, and then this. “As we left Mr Patel asked if he could have police protection given that he was a close colleague of a man who had been violently murdered. We told him this would not be normal procedure at this stage, unless there was a specific reason for it. We asked if there was a specific reason. He muttered something about this not being a normal situation, which neither of us heard properly. When we asked him to repeat it, he said it didn’t matter. He was probably worrying about nothing. We tried to push him without success. But both of us thought his reaction was a little curious, and that he might have information which he hadn’t revealed.”’

‘Right Janet, well that’s two men we need to get back to. Saslow and I have some time to kill before we go to see Gill Quinn again. Unless there’s anything else we should look into here, then I think we’ll take on Messrs Patel and Williams ourselves.’

Vogel paused, thinking.

‘One last thing, have you appointed a FLO to the Quinns yet?’

‘Yes boss, Morag Docherty. She’s recently completed the course, and I thought as she’d already been involved in the case and spent time with Gill that she’d be a good choice.’

‘Excellent. Is she with them yet?’

‘Not quite, boss. I think I woke her up when I called, to tell the truth. But knowing Docherty, she’ll soon be on her way.’

‘Right, tell her to report to me directly,’ Vogel instructed.

He and Saslow decided to visit Wynne Williams first.

The headmaster and his wife lived on the outskirts of the village of Abbotsham in a pretty detached cottage with rural views. There was a parking area set back off the lane outside, and the cottage itself was approached by a winding footpath. As the two officers reached the front door they could hear raised voices from inside, loud and clear enough for them to be able to decipher some of the rhetoric being heatedly exchanged.

They heard a woman’s voice initially. High-pitched. Perhaps slightly hysterical.

‘Why don’t you admit it...?’

‘I keep telling you. There’s nothing to admit. I wish there was to tell the truth...’

‘I’ve no doubt about that, you pathetic—’

‘Look, she’s in trouble,’ the man interrupted, his voice very slightly quieter. ‘I have to find her. I must go to her...’

‘Oh, do what you bloody well like.’

‘I bloody well intend to...’

‘Yes. As bloody usual...’

There was some slamming of doors, and then silence.

Vogel and Saslow glanced at each other without speaking. Vogel rang the doorbell.

There was no response. He rang it again. Long and loud.

Eventually a woman of middle years, average height and weight, answered the door. She was wearing a dressing gown and slippers, and didn’t look as if she had bothered that morning to even put a comb through her unruly brown hair. She also looked harassed, and when she spoke, although her voice was no longer raised, she still sounded irritable.

‘Yes?’ she queried.

‘Mrs Williams?’ enquired Vogel.

‘Yes,’ she said again.

Vogel introduced himself and Saslow.

‘I need to have a word with your husband, Mrs Williams,’ he said.

Mrs Williams sighed. ‘No prizes for guessing what that’s about,’ she muttered.

Vogel thought her voice might be slightly slurred. Had she been drinking? If so, that was not necessarily untoward for lunchtime-ish on a Sunday. But it may have partially explained the level of her angry participation in the exchange he and Saslow had overheard.

‘You’d better come in then.’

She led the two officers into the hall.

‘Wynne, get yourself down here,’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘It’s the police.’

An anxious looking man quickly appeared on the landing. His thinning grey hair was tousled and his eyes were red-rimmed. But at least he was fully clothed, in clean ironed jeans and a plaid shirt, and he looked considerably less dishevelled than his wife. However, he was clearly upset and uneasy.

He didn’t give Vogel or Saslow time to speak, immediately asking, ‘Have you come about Gillian? Is she all right? Where is she now? Is she still at the police station? I want to see her. Is she hurt? I want to help...’

‘Mr Quinn, we are investigating the murder of Gillian Quinn’s husband,’ Vogel recited sternly. ‘I am DCI David Vogel. DS Saslow and I are here to ask you some questions, and we are not able at this stage to give you information concerning Mrs Quinn, nor indeed anyone who might be helping us with our enquiries.’

Wynne Williams looked vaguely bewildered. ‘I just want to help,’ he repeated. There was the merest hint of Welsh lilt in his voice. His eyes were gentle and intelligent. He had a pleasant open face. He looked like a schoolteacher, and Vogel could easily believe that he was normally a good headmaster.

But none of this matched with the petulance of the angry outburst, presumably from him, which Vogel and Saslow had just overheard.

‘Good, so perhaps we could sit down somewhere and talk properly?’ Vogel suggested.

The other man nodded his head in a distracted manner, glancing uneasily at his wife who had so far remained silent, but had been looking on disapprovingly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, get on with it, Wynne,’ she snapped.

And she made no attempt to follow when Wynne led Vogel and Saslow into a comfortable, if rather old fashioned, kitchen at the back of the house. There were chintzy soft furnishings, and orange coloured pine units, reminiscent of the previous century, lined the walls. A large orange pine table stood in the middle of the room.

Williams gestured for the two officers to sit at the table. He seemed about to join them, before remembering the niceties of hospitality that would probably come naturally to him in less stressful circumstances.

‘Would you like a cup of something?’ he enquired.

Vogel immediately answered in the negative for both himself and Saslow. He had just had a cup of coffee at the incident room, and he wanted to press on as quickly as possible. A busy afternoon and evening lay ahead.

Williams sat, his body language more than a little awkward, rubbing his hands together nervously in front of him.

‘I’d like to start by asking you your whereabouts yesterday afternoon,’ Vogel began.

Williams looked alarmed. ‘You want to know my whereabouts?’ he queried. ‘Me? I mean why? You don’t think—’

‘Just routine, sir,’ Vogel interrupted.

‘Oh yes, of course. OK. I was here, all day. We have a new curriculum for next term which needed sorting out. People think schoolteachers only work part-time. We actually work longer hours than almost anyone. And if you’re the head, well, it never stops really—’

‘I’m sure you’re right, sir,’ interrupted Vogel. ‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘Well, my wife, of course. Marjorie. She went shopping in the morning, Sainsbury’s, I think, but she was here the rest of the day.’

‘Thank you, sir. Now can you tell me how long you have known the Quinns?’

‘I’ve known Gillian for about seven years,’ responded Williams. ‘Since she came to Elm Tree. She trained to be a teacher as a young woman but abandoned her career to bring up her son, only returning when she felt he was old enough to look after himself. Like quite a lot of women do. I was appointed headmaster a couple of years later, and a couple of years after that the position of deputy head became vacant, so I appointed Gill. She’s a very good teacher, you know. Excellent. A good organizer too. And everybody loves her. The children. The other teachers. Everybody. It would be terrible if all this spoiled things for her, you know. Terrible. She could still have quite a career...’

Williams let the sentence tail off. Vogel wondered if he’d eventually started to listen to what he was saying. He studied the man wordlessly for a few moments.

‘Mr Williams, Thomas Quinn has been murdered,’ he said eventually. ‘As you are well aware. And, as you would expect in such circumstances, his wife is helping us with our enquiries. She is one of a number of people doing so, yourself included, but, as the wife of the violently deceased, she is very much a person of interest to us. I do hope you understand that this is likely to overshadow all other considerations and anything else in her life until this investigation is completed.’

Williams looked suitable chastened. ‘Yes. Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest...’

‘Mr Williams, you just spoke at length about Gill Quinn, but you have not yet mentioned the dead man at all. Surely you must have known him too, didn’t you?’

‘Not really, no. I hardly ever met him.’

‘Gill, or Gillian, as you call her, was your deputy. I would have thought you would have crossed paths with him on a number of occasions over the years, at events at the school for example. Is that not the case?’

‘Well, I met him obviously. But not often. He very rarely came with Gillian to anything at the school. He had his own work. I don’t think he was interested in hers.’

‘I see. Did you not socialize at all? You and your wife, maybe, with the two of them?’

‘Socialize? With Thomas Quinn? No. Definitely not.’

Williams’ voice changed slightly, becoming sharper, verging on the aggressive.

‘Was there any particular reason for that?’ asked Vogel conversationally.

Williams opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. Vogel waited.

‘Yes there bloody well was a reason,’ Williams blurted out suddenly, as if no longer able to contain himself.

‘I couldn’t stand the man. He was a cruel manipulative bastard. He made Gillian’s life a total misery. He was a control freak. She had no freedom at all. And he hurt her too.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Vogel.

‘It was obvious,’ Williams replied. ‘Well, I thought it was obvious. She tried to hide it from me. But she couldn’t in the end, though she just told me that she and Thomas were having some problems which started after their boy had left home, and she was sure they would sort it out. Greg never got on with his father, apparently, and I don’t blame him. And Gillian was clearly very unhappy in her marriage, whatever she said. Some days when she came to work you could see that she’d been crying. But it wasn’t until last year that I found out he was actually violent towards her. It would have been just after the school reopened following the first lockdown, she stumbled coming through a door and I heard her cry out. She grasped her side as if she was in pain. She said it was nothing, that she twisted herself getting out of her car, but I just kept on at her. Eventually she admitted that Thomas had hit her, several times, and hurt her quite badly. I was horrified. I told her she should do something about it. That I would help her. She should see an expert, maybe report him to the police. We had become quite close by then, you see...’

The kitchen door suddenly burst open. In stormed Mrs Williams. Still wearing her grubby dressing gown and slippers. She was carrying a glass of what appeared to be red wine in her right hand. Vogel’s first impression had been correct, then. She was drinking, all right. And clearly no longer had any intention of remaining silent.

‘Close, close?’ yelled Marjorie Williams, who was probably somewhat more drunk than she had been earlier. Her words were now quite definitely slurred.

‘I should say close! Why don’t you tell the truth, you snivelling coward. You were fucking the bitch. In your office I shouldn’t be surprised. Up against the wall probably...’

Williams stood up and took a step towards his wife.

‘Shut up,’ he commanded.

His voice had become just as loud and angry as hers. ‘Do not say another word. Or I shan’t be responsible for my actions. Do you hear?’

Wynne Williams took another step towards his wife. His right arm was slightly raised and his fist clenched.

Vogel stood up too and, moving at speed for a tall man no longer in the first flush of youth, positioned himself between man and wife.

‘That’s enough,’ he commanded.

Williams looked as if he was about to argue. But ultimately he sat down again, without saying anything more, either to his wife or to Vogel. He lowered his head into his hands.

‘Typical,’ yelled Marjorie Williams. ‘Snivelling coward. Like I said. Pathetic snivelling coward.’

Vogel glanced towards Williams. He thought the man might be starting to cry, but couldn’t see his face. Mrs Williams, meanwhile, was beginning to sway slightly on her feet. She did not speak either, instead taking a deep drink from her glass, dribbling just a little of the wine from one corner of her mouth.

Vogel was a non-drinker. Teetotal cops have always been a rare minority. They sometimes didn’t get an easy ride in the police force either, particularly not in the Met where Vogel had spent most of his career, and a hard-drinking culture had prevailed, certainly during his time there. Vogel didn’t care. Apart from one unfortunate episode in his youth, he had never drunk alcohol. He didn’t like the taste of alcohol nor what it did to people. He particularly disliked seeing women drunk, although he knew better than ever to mention that. He supposed he wasn’t meant to even think it any more, but he didn’t much care about that either. Marjorie Williams was unpleasantly drunk. She might be a very nice and intelligent woman when she was sober, but, right now, Vogel considered her to be thoroughly monstrous. And he wanted nothing more to do with her in the state she was in.

‘Mrs Williams, I need to continue to speak to your husband alone,’ he said. ‘We may well want to talk to you at some point, but for the time being I must ask you if you would be kind enough to leave the room.’

Vogel was being deliberately over courteous. He had always found that confrontation was the worst path along which to travel when dealing with drunkenness. Marjorie Williams leered at him. At least Vogel considered it to be a leer.

‘Thish is my kitchen,’ she said.

‘Indeed it is,’ commented Vogel, in his most reasonable manner.

Marjorie Williams stared at him through watery eyes, which may or may not have been focusing properly.

‘Oh all right, whatever you want,’ she said, after a moment or two. ‘You’re welcome to the useless fucker.’

Vogel watched as she turned round and made her way just a tad uncertainly out of the room.

Well, he thought, he and Saslow certainly had a fair idea of the state of the Williams marriage now. Indeed they had already learned quite a lot about Wynne Williams.

He turned his attention back to Wynne, who was still sitting with his head in his hands.

‘So is your wife right, Mr Williams?’ he asked. ‘Have you been having a sexual relationship with Gillian Quinn?’

William looked up and leaned back in his chair. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. Vogel had been right. He had shed some tears, but mercifully seemed to have remained in reasonable control of himself.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The woman’s wrong. As usual. I’ve never had a sexual relationship with Gillian. I damned well wish I had, though.’

‘What does that mean? Have you made advances which have been rebuffed?’

‘You could say. More days than not, for some years, except when we were in lockdown and I couldn’t get near her. But not the way you mean. It’s never been about sex. I was in love with her. Head over heels. What am I saying? Was? I still am. I love her to bits. I would do anything for her. I begged her to leave Thomas. He didn’t deserve her. I would have looked after her. Still would.’

‘So you were prepared to leave your wife for her, were you?’

‘No “were” about it. I’d leave Marjorie now like a shot, if Gillian would have me. I’d go anywhere with her. I’d leave everything else behind for her. The job. Everything. We could manage. I’ll stand by her, you know. Whatever happens. Whatever you lot do to her.’

Wynne Williams’ eyes shone with passion. There was nothing gentle about them now. Vogel was beginning to think it might just be possible that he would end up having a certain amount of sympathy for Marjorie Williams.

‘When did you last see Gillian?’ he asked.

‘Friday,’ Williams answered promptly. ‘The day before Thomas was killed.’

‘Was that at school, then?’

‘Yes.’ Williams paused. ‘And afterwards. I may as well tell you, because I’m sure you’ll find out. I persuaded Gill to come for a quick drink with me. There’s a pub just off the Northam road that we use every so often to get away from it all. We call it “our place”. Well, I do...’

Williams paused, smiling slightly, as if he were drifting away from what appeared to be the rather grim reality of his life.

‘Please go on,’ Vogel prompted.

‘Yes. Our place. It was just somewhere to go. I had a bottle of lager and she had an orange juice. She barely drinks, Gillian. Unlike some.’

He spat the last two words out, paused again, then continued without prompting.

‘Anyway, we’d only been there for five minutes or so when Thomas came barging in. He was hopping mad. He threw himself at me, and I think he might have knocked me down, if the landlord hadn’t intervened. Then he just yelled at me to keep away from his wife, and more or less dragged Gillian out of the pub. I followed, but I didn’t know what to do. I thought if I did anything it might make it worse for Gillian. Plus, Marjorie is right about one thing, I am a coward. Physically anyway. Thomas Quinn was a big strong man, and I already knew about his temper. As for me, well... I am as you see me.’

Williams was slightly shorter than average and narrow-shouldered. He had thin legs and arms, but the beginning of a belly. He did not look like a man capable of any sort of physical confrontation. However, Vogel reminded himself that you could never be sure about such things. After all, Wynne Williams had just squared up to his wife with fists clenched, and one arm raised.

‘He half pushed Gillian into her car and ordered her to drive straight home or else,’ Williams continued. ‘He said he’d be right behind her. Then he got into his own car and took off out of the car park after her. But not before he’d shouted another threat at me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That if he ever caught me near his wife again I’d be sorry.’

‘What did you do then? Did you go back into the pub?’

‘No. I went and sat in my car, tried to calm down. I was in a bit of a state. I did try to phone Gillian whilst she was still on her way home, though. I knew she wouldn’t be able to speak once she was with him. But, well, he answered. I might have guessed. I didn’t see it, but he must have taken her phone from her. Not for the first time, I don’t think.’

Williams paused.

‘What did Thomas say to you over the phone?’ prompted Vogel.

‘He said, “You don’t fucking listen, Williams, do you.” Then he carried on threatening me, telling me what he was going to do to me. It was awful. I just hung up in the end.’

‘Did you try to contact Gill again?’

‘No. How could I? Thomas had put the fear of God into me and, anyway, I knew he had her phone. I hoped she might try to contact me. But she didn’t. Not surprising really. She lived in terror of him.’

‘Mr Williams, Thomas Quinn was a successful businessman and a former town councillor. He’s been described to me as a pillar of the community. What he may or may not have done to his wife in private would be one thing, but I’m surprised to hear that he behaved like that in public. Weren’t you surprised by his behaviour?’

‘No. I’d seen hints of his temper before, although nothing as bad as that.’

‘But he could have been recognized. The landlord might have reported him. You might have reported him. At the very least that would not have gone down well locally, would it? A former councillor behaving like that. He could have been charged with causing an affray. The local press would then have picked it up. It might even have had a detrimental effect on his business, mightn’t It?’

‘I don’t know. He was one of those who thought he was invincible. Certainly above the law. That’s the impression Gillian gave me anyway. He did exactly what he liked, without any thought to the consequences. And I’m sure it didn’t occur to him that I would have the nerve to stand up to him in any way at all. He was right, too.’

‘So, did you see or hear from Thomas at all yesterday?’ Vogel asked.

‘No, I didn’t. I told you. I was here all day, working. But I have to admit I made sure the doors were locked. I was half afraid he’d make good his threat and come round here. Or send some thug around. I wouldn’t have put that beyond him. People like Thomas Quinn often have someone around to do their dirty work, don’t they? To tell the truth, my imagination was running away with me, Mr Vogel.’

‘What about your temper, Mr Williams?’

‘My temper? What do you mean?’

‘We saw you raise your fist to your wife, make as if you were about to hit her? Maybe you would have hit her if I hadn’t intervened. Is that a regular occurrence?’

‘No, no it’s not. Sometimes she drives me to distraction, that’s all. But I wouldn’t have hit her. Really I wouldn’t. I never hit her.’

‘Not even when she drives you to distraction. Do you not sometimes hit her then? Mr Williams, do you ever attack your wife physically?’

Williams shook his head wearily.

‘You’ve met her, you’ve met us both,’ he replied. ‘Do you honestly think I’d dare?’

As soon as Vogel and Saslow had gone, Wynne Williams tried again to call Gillian Quinn. He had been trying ever since he’d heard the news of Thomas’ death. Her phone had seemed to be switched off throughout. Thomas couldn’t be keeping it from her any more. That was for sure. But Wynne had no idea whether or not Gillian now had her phone with her. He was hoping that she had, and was merely unable to answer it while at the police station. If she was still at the police station. He didn’t even know that. Of course the police may have taken possession of the phone. He just hoped not.

Yet again the phone switched to messages. Wynne was desperate to speak to his Gillian. He really believed he could help. And he was prepared to do anything, anything at all, to help. He always had been.

Just as he was wondering what to do next, Marjorie returned to the kitchen. Still drunk, still angry. But surprisingly lucid.

‘You’re a liar, as well as everything else, aren’t you?’ she remarked almost conversationally.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Wynne muttered.

‘Oh yes, you do. I overheard almost everything you said to those detectives. You just think I’m drunk. Not that drunk, I can tell you.’

Wynne did his best to hide how uneasy that made him feel.

‘So what?’ he enquired, displaying as much assertive disdain as he could muster.

‘So, I know you lied. I know you weren’t here all day yesterday, don’t I? And you’d better keep on the right side of me, or I shall tell on you.’

With that Marjorie started to laugh. And she was still laughing as she turned and left the room, her gait a little uncertain, but at the same time purposeful.

Wynne cursed her under his breath. He also cursed himself. He should have been more careful. Perhaps he should just have told the truth from the start. After all, nothing was much worse than being caught out in a lie by the police. He was pretty sure that it was a criminal offence, perverting the course of justice, or something like that.

There had always been a chance that he might have been seen in the wrong place. That there might be a witness. Or that he might have been caught on CCTV. However, he had thought those were chances worth taking. But now Marjorie knew that he’d lied, and she gave every impression nowadays that she had come to hate his guts. It was quite likely that she would ‘tell on him’, sooner or later. The next time he upset her, or just the next time she got blind drunk — which was pretty certain to be sooner rather than later.

Wynne wondered if he should make a move first, contact the police again and confess what he had done. He thought it probably was his best option now, but, as ever, he wasn’t sure he had the courage.

Meanwhile a large, metallic grey vehicle with tinted windows had just arrived in Northam. It’s occupants followed their satnav to St Anne’s Avenue.

There was, of course, still a substantial police presence at the crime scene there. Several police and CSI vehicles were parked outside number eleven, which was cordoned off, its boundaries watched over by two uniformed officers.

The vehicle motored slowly past without stopping.

Its occupants were alarmed. They had no idea what had happened, or what the police presence might signify. They pulled into the first lay-by they came to and Googled both the St Anne’s Avenue address and the name Thomas Quinn. Immediately they learned that Quinn had been murdered.

This caused them considerable unease. They wondered whether it was an incident unconnected with their visit to the area, or if there was a link — or at least a link with the disquieting activities which had come to their notice and caused them enough concern to warrant their personal attention and their presence in North Devon.

They discussed what they should do next. There were three men in the vehicle. One of them was clearly in charge. He made the final decision. The driver started up again and headed towards Bideford.