...Chapters 3 & 4
Click here for chapter 4

** (3) **

It was late in the afternoon on a blustery Saturday afternoon in mid November. The clocks in the village of Wet Rain Hill had not yet reached five, but the day had already yielded to nightfall. Following the heavy rain that had fallen much of the previous night, strong winds had arrived earlier in the morning like an extreme antidote. All visible traces of the rainfall in the village had now been blown away. And the buildings, the leafless trees and the few people on the streets reeled under the onslaught of the wind.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” remarked Detective Sergeant Alan Crawford, sitting watching the soccer-results being announced on television. “Better than last week’s performance, anyway,” he said, commenting on the favourite local team’s performance to his son who was also watching beside him. David Crawford nodded in agreement and continued viewing the results. “And at least they didn’t loose again,” added Alan Crawford.
“But Sunderland won!” noted his son with artificial bitterness, referring to Newcastle United’s local rivals. “No! I don’t go in for this rivalry; they’re both local teams and I’m glad to see both of them do well,” countered his father. Checking the soccer results was a ritual they followed most Saturday evenings during the soccer season.

They were sitting in the cottage belonging to Alan Crawford’s mother, situated next to the primary school on Main Street. Together with his wife and son, Alan Crawford visited his mother every weekend, except for the occasions when his work schedule did not allow for it. His mother, Elsie Crawford, was seventy-nine years of age and had lived in Wet Rain Hill first as a child, and after living elsewhere for most of her adult life, had returned to the village around five years ago. She had decided to buy the old stone cottage, which was up for sale at the time she was looking to move back into the village, the moment she first set eyes upon it. The cottage faced onto Main Street, whilst from the back there was a splendid view of both Wet Rain Hill and Menzie’s Hill. It had a living room, which led off into a small kitchen at the side. The original cottage bedroom and bathroom opened onto the living room. The cottage also had two extra, relatively modern, dormer bedrooms built into the roof, accessed by a wooden staircase that led up from a small hallway by the front door. It was in these dormer bedrooms that Alan Crawford and his family stayed during their weekend visits. Elsie Crawford preferred to use the bedroom downstairs in order to avoid the stairs during the night. She was still agile and in good health, particularly for a woman of her age; but of course she was no longer the same young girl who had once played on and run down Wet Rain Hill.

The afternoon television sports programme finished and was followed by the early evening national news. Following this, there was a local news programme that began with the report of a murder of a young woman in Newcastle-upon-Tyne the previous night. Alan Crawford shook his head in dismay on hearing this news. He worked for Durham Constabulary: the police force that covered the county directly to the south of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. But he was sure to know some of the people who would be involved in the murder investigation. “God what a shame,” sighed Rhoda, Alan Crawford’s wife. “A young girl, not much older than you are, David.”
“Will they catch him?” asked David looking at his father.
“I suppose that they will catch him eventually,” replied Alan Crawford. “But these murder cases can sometimes drag on for years. It’s getting better, nevertheless, with the use of new technology such as DNA testing and the increasing exchange of information between different police forces over the Internet. It’s much easier to solve these cases, however, when the suspect knew the victim, which is in the majority of cases. Otherwise it’s old-fashioned detective work, eyewitnesses, clues and the like. Of course, some of our eyewitnesses these days are not human. There are security cameras posted all over the city. Some are put there by the police as a very effective crime prevention measure, whilst others are private security cameras that the police can also use. In fact, the centre of Newcastle-upon-Tyne is at the moment the most closely monitored city centre in all of Britain.”
“But haven’t all these security measures just pushed the crime elsewhere?” suggested his wife.
“Yes, I suppose so. There is some evidence that crime rates in rural places, away from the conurbation, have increased, especially in relatively isolated places such as…”
“Don’t say Wet Rain Hill!” interrupted his mother. “You wouldn’t want to frighten me, staying here all by myself during the week, would you?”
“No mother, I wasn’t going to say Wet Rain Hill in particular, just rural Northumberland in general. This is particularly true for the crimes of house breaking when the premises are unoccupied. But thankfully, violent crime, including murder, is very rare. And did you know that England has one of the lowest murder rates in the world, including in comparison to France and Germany? Believe me, I don’t think you have anything to worry about here, mother. Nothing remarkable ever happens in Wet Rain Hill anymore.”
“Well I hope so. But mind you, I was speaking to Esther Williams at church last week, and she reckons that someone has taken her cat.”
“How does she know that it’s been stolen?” asked David, appearing slightly amused by this particular example of rural crime. “Maybe it just got bored and ran away,” he suggested. “That cat certainly wouldn’t run away,” contended Elsie Crawford. “She’s had it for years. And besides, she told me that another friend of hers who lives in the Forestry Flats also lost her cat recently.” The Forestry Flats was a small local-authority housing estate situated in the village and located behind the northern part of Main Street, not far from the village church of St George’s. The forestry commission had originally built the homes for their workers over half a century ago. “How many cat owners are there in the village?” asked Alan Crawford.
“I’m not sure, but there won’t be many cats left at this rate,” responded his mother, adding: “Maybe it’s something you could get the police to look into, Alan.”
“Well, if it turns out that there is a problem, kids being cruel to animals, or something like that, I could get on to my colleagues in the Hexham Constabulary about it, and maybe they can get the RSPCA involved,” suggested Alan Crawford.
“Or ask them to keep a look out for any would-be cat burglars, or should I say cat thieves!” his son said, grinning.
“No jokes either, please, about it raining cats and dogs last night,” added Alan Crawford.
“Come on, let’s eat. Everything is ready and the tea is made,” interrupted his wife.

The Crawford family sat around a table at the back of the cottage living room taking their meal. Thick wool curtains were drawn over the patio doors, which led out into the back garden. The cottage was centrally heated. Most of the windows were double-glazed; the patio doors, however, were not. The coldness outside penetrated the cottage more easily at this point, with whispers of cold air finding unseen gaps around the edges of the windowpanes. The patio doors rattled and shook as the wind blustered and howled. The conversation at the meal table ranged once again over the previously discussed topics: the soccer results, the murder the previous evening in the city and the disappearance of some cats in the village.

When staying in the village at weekends, Alan Crawford and his wife usually visited the Blackbird public house across the road for a few drinks on a Saturday evening. They were just about to get up from the table in order to start getting ready to go out, when a knock was heard at the cottage door. At first, it was thought that it might just be the wind, which seemed to be growing increasingly more ferocious by the minute. But the knocking persisted, and appeared to be deliberate. It was Alan Crawford who eventually stood up and went to the door. As he opened the door, a strong gust of wind suddenly seized it and attempted to push him back against the coat hangers attached to the wall behind. “Alan, we’re really sorry to bother you, but we wanted to catch you just before you went out,” exclaimed a familiar voice from the doorstep. It was Jack Hume from the cottage next door. Standing with him was his beautiful, pleasant and ever-smiling Thai wife, Nok. “Please come in, both of you!” ordered Alan Crawford enthusiastically. “Glad to see you both,” he added, as they entered into the warmth of the cottage. Jack and Nok Hume gave a collective sigh of relief when the door was finally closed behind them. “What a night!” exclaimed Jack Hume.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” agreed Alan Crawford. “I just hope this wind doesn’t take any tiles off the roofs. Can I take your coat, Nok?” he added. Even for the short distance of a few yards from her home to Elsie Crawford’s cottage, Nok Hume needed to be wrapped up warmly. She had only been in Britain for about three months and had even found summer to be at times unbearably cold. Autumn in Northumberland was indeed beautiful, with the ever-changing brown hues of the trees and fields. But an outsider, especially one from considerably warmer climes, could surely never get used to the unrelenting cold and dampness and could not but be perturbed at the looming prospect of even more severe weather during the winter months.

Nok Hume retrieved four small packages from her evidently large pockets before handing over her coat to Alan Crawford. The two guests were then led into the living room. The rest of the Crawford family had already heard the sound of the familiar voices in the hallway. Elsie Crawford beamed with delight when Nok Hume appeared in the living room, and immediately went forward to greet her with a warm hug. “How are you, flower?” she asked. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“I’m very well, thank you. I hope we not disturb you,” replied Nok in her perfectly understandable, but grammatically imperfect English. “Not at all; how can you ever disturb me, petal?” replied Elsie Crawford. “And Jack, it’s wonderful to see you as well! Isn’t there a terrible gale blowing outside? But at least it’s not raining again. Then again, on second thoughts, I think that I might after all prefer the rain; especially if this wind starts removing tiles off the roofs.”
“It is extraordinarily bad,” agreed Jack Hume. “We even found it an effort to walk the few yards from next door. But these cottages have withstood a fair few onslaughts from the British weather in their time, I dare say, and they are still standing. Let’s hope that tonight proves to be no exception.”

Jack Hume was a balding and pleasant featured man of almost indeterminate age. He could be aged anywhere from thirty-five years to fifty-five years of age. In fact, his age was exactly in the middle of that range: he was forty-five years old. His wife, Nok, was evidently younger than he was. And based on appearance, it might similarly be difficult to precisely determine her age. In fact, she was twenty-nine. Though, she could still easily pass for someone who had not yet reached twenty-one years of age.

Room was made for the visitors to sit on the large sofa facing the gas fire in the living room. The gas fire beamed warmth across the room from within an old slate fireplace, which at one time had burned wood and coal. Without being prompted, David reduced the sound volume on the television set, and shifted his position to an old oak armchair that had once belonged to his grandfather who had died nearly six years ago. This diminution in sound from the television appeared to amplify, or emphasise, the noise of the wind raging outside the cottage. Not only could the wind be heard impressing itself upon the windows and doors of the cottage, but it also howled rather eerily down the old chimney shaft.

But before anyone had the chance to make any comments about the gale blowing outside, Nok Hume handed one of the packages that she had brought to each of her four hosts. “It’s something from my country, Thailand” she explained. “I hope you like it,” she added hopefully. “Oh you shouldn’t have bothered, sweetheart,” protested Elsie Crawford receiving her gift. “Nevertheless, pet, it’s very kind of you.”
“It’s to express our thanks for the help you gave us,” explained Jack Hume.
“Yes, you help us last week. You help us a lot” explained Nok, referring to the help given one week ago to the Humes in unloading and unpacking the tea chests of belongings that had arrived by delivery van at their cottage. The shipment had arrived from Thailand six weeks later than had been originally promised, and the Humes were now pursuing an explanation from the shipping company for the lateness in delivery. “No need to say thank you,” responded Alan Crawford. “We are the ones who should be thanking both of you for being such wonderful neighbours to Elsie. We appreciate that very much.”
“Yes, lovely people,” added Elsie Crawford in response to her son’s comments. “I really couldn’t ask for better and kinder neighbours.” Nok Hume’s face flushed slightly at this complement.

Alan Crawford was the first of the four recipients to remove the wrapping paper. “Why this is very nice; a silk tie from Thailand! I shall certainly wear this tonight,” he declared, placing the tie against his chest. “And thank you very much as well! This is really beautiful,” said Rhoda Crawford, unfurling a brightly coloured Thai raw silk shawl. “This will also be worn tonight. But really, both of you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for us. Christmas seems to have come rather early.”

Elsie Crawford received a similarly styled Thai shawl and expressed her thanks by giving Nok another warm embrace. David was the last person to open his present. It turned out to be one of the most unusual presents he had ever received. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the small stuffed crocodile he was now holding, measuring no more than one foot in length. “Thank you very much, both of you,” he said, as he ran his hand over its hard, squat, and scaly body and tail. He turned the reptile so that it eyed him straight in the face. The raised eyes were dark and soulless like obsidian glass. Its jaw was fixed in a permanent gape, revealing a set of numerous white razor-sharp teeth and a fleshy white interior that was the mouth. All of this gave the impression that the crocodile was smiling at him, albeit rather unpleasantly. “Don’t worry David, it’s not an endangered species,” announced Jack Hume. “Thousands like it are reared in crocodile farms in Thailand for their meat. The Chinese enjoy crocodile meat because they believe it will make them strong and fearless just like a crocodile. We packed it together with the rest of our stuff that came last week. In fact, its mother is next door.”
“The crocodile’s mother?” queried David.
“Well not really its mother,” corrected Nok Hume. “You saw last week, David, the wooden carvings that we shipped over from Thailand. You remember that one of them was a big crocodile?”
“Yes, I remember it. Anyway, once again, it’s great. I really appreciate it. Thanks very much,” he responded. He had noticed that there were traces of a fine white dust or powder lodged between its scales. And in a slightly exaggerated gesture of concern for the sheen of the reptile’s skin, and also perhaps wishing to further demonstrate his appreciation of the gift, he licked his index finger several times and polished the scaly specimen as if it was in fact a crocodile shoe.

** (4) **

Later that same evening, Alan Crawford sat together with his wife in the Blackbird public house. They had managed to brave the strong winds and to make the short journey down Main Street on foot. At a table in the corner of the main lounge of the public house, with a pint of his favourite Cuthbert’s ale, he recalled what Jack Hume had said to him earlier in the evening. Not long after the Humes had finished distributing their gifts, two essentially separate conversations had developed in the cottage living room. One of these involved Alan Crawford and Jack Hume, and the other the ladies. Nok Hume had occasionally turned aside to speak to David, probably because it took a great deal of concentration on her part to follow in detail what was being said by the ladies spoken in what was not always standard English, not to mention the speed of the delivery. David Crawford, for his part, had sat mainly in silence watching the television.

“I don’t know if you overheard, dear, but whilst you ladies were talking amongst yourselves, Jack Hume had something rather interesting to say to me,” said Alan Crawford.
“Oh, what was that?” inquired his wife.
“Basically, he told me that he was worried about Nok’s safety.”
“Nok’s safety; what’s happened?” responded Rhoda Crawford. But before her husband had a chance to reply, she continued: “Alan, this village is not on your beat. We come here to visit your mother, and that’s all. We like it here because you don’t have to be a detective sergeant or a policeman. There’s no one here to bother or observe us. We can go out for a drink, just like we are doing now, without worrying if there is some undesirable in the vicinity who recognises you or knows you. You know how difficult it is for a copper and his wife to have a decent social life. We all care about Nok, but if there’s a problem, Jack should get the local police force in Hexham involved with it.”
“Steady on, dear! If you will listen, he doesn’t want me to do anything. He just asked for some advice.”
“Advice about what?”
“Well, apparently there’s a man in the village who’s been giving Nok some, we could say, unwelcome attention. In fact, it’s the strange character my mother has mentioned to me a few times before. He moved into the village about a couple of months ago, and lives in a small rented flat just before the Forestry Flats, on Church Lane. My mother saw him snooping around behind her cottage a few days ago. Well, apparently Nok also saw him behind the Humes’ cottage last night. Naturally, she was very scared.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was just hanging around, as if he wanted to see inside the cottage. And it’s not the first time this has happened, either. Jack also told me that on one occasion, this character came into their takeaway when only Nok was around, and said some strange things.”

About two months ago, Jack and Nok Hume had opened a small Thai takeaway restaurant in the village. It was located in a small enclosure of shops within the Forestry Flats. The same premises had previously been used as a Chinese takeaway, but the Humes had taken out a new lease, and after some minor renovations had opened a takeaway restaurant called the Siam Kitchen. The menu they offered included traditional Thai dishes such as Thai green curry and Tom Yam Gung. In addition, they offered the perennial local favourite Asian dish: chips with spicy gravy sauce. The takeaway restaurant was only open in the evenings except on Saturdays when it was also open at lunchtime. Despite the smallness of the village, it was thought that the restaurant could still operate as a viable business because in addition to the villagers, there was extra custom from visitors, particularly people with cars living in the nearby villages and homesteads. To assist them, the Humes had recently employed an assistant and a cook, effectively relieving themselves from the day to day responsibilities for food preparation.

Alan Crawford took a drink from his pint of Cuthbert’s ale and then continued: “I saw him last weekend across the road from the Humes’ cottage. He was observing them taking delivery of their shipment from Thailand.”
“I didn’t notice him when we were helping the Humes,” commented his wife.
“He was only there for a few minutes,” explained Alan Crawford. “I made a point of stopping what I was doing in order to glare at him. As soon as he saw that I had noticed him lingering, he walked away up Church Lane to presumably where he lives.”
“You were being a copper as usual!” accused his wife.
”But he didn’t give the appearance of being particularly fazed by my noticing him. I don’t think he knows that I’m a copper. I thought perhaps he was just being nosy, and I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“What sort of advice does Jack Hume want from you, Alan?”
“He just asked me about the laws on stalking. It’s something that’s often in the news these days, particularly with regard to celebrities. But of course the law doesn’t just apply to celebrities. I asked Jack if this character, let’s call him Mr X because none of us know his real name, had said anything to Nok in the way of threats or even racial abuse.”
“And had he?”
“No, he hadn’t. But there was something slightly unusual about the language he used.”
“Language?” queried Rhoda Crawford.
“Yes, language; you see, he spoke to Nok in fluent Thai.”
“He spoke in Thai! How come a weirdo like that can speak Thai?”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe he spent some time working there, just like Jack did.”
“Wasn’t it just a greeting, something perhaps that he had memorised from a holiday phrase book?” asked Rhoda Crawford, before continuing: “Because, funny enough, I just read in a newspaper last week that at an international forum the Prime Minister, Tony Blair, astonished the Thai Prime Minister by asking in perfect Thai where the toilet was! Apparently the Blairs spent their honeymoon in Bangkok, and Tony Blair could still remember how to ask that question in Thai.”
“Well, this character didn’t ask Nok where the toilet was. He asked her: when was she going to start selling Crocodile soup?”
“Crocodile soup!”
“Yes, crocodile soup. You remember what Jack said earlier in the evening about the Chinese in Thailand enjoying that particular delicacy? Anyway, Nok said that Mr X’s spoken Thai was more than merely good: it was, in fact, excellent. Jack went on to explain to me that Thai is an extremely difficult language for a non-Thai to learn to speak, or more precisely, to pronounce correctly. Speaking that language fluently and correctly is, by any means, a tremendous achievement. Something about having to get the tones exactly right when you pronounce the words. What seems to us to be the same word, but pronounced with a slight change in intonation, renders a completely different meaning. Nok said that he spoke the language almost like a native speaker, or at least like someone who had resided in Thailand for a very long time.”
“Is that all he said on that occasion: asking when Nok was going to start selling crocodile soup?” asked Rhoda Crawford.
“He also made a few other incidental comments in Thai, about how pretty she was and the like. But he seemed to think that his comment about the crocodile soup was particularly funny, because as he was finally leaving the restaurant he laughed and mentioned that in future he would be calling round for some Crocodile soup.”
“How did Nok respond?” asked Rhoda Crawford.
“According to Jack, she just dismissed it as a crude double entendre. But before he left the restaurant, she asked him how come he could spoke such good Thai; suggesting that perhaps because he had a Thai wife or had once lived in Thailand. But he never answered her question in a meaningful way, and instead only made a joke about it being a gift from God or Buddha. His impudence aside, you might expect that someone who could speak her native tongue so well would impress Nok. But according to Jack, she felt very bad about her encounter with him. Using a Thai idiom, she explained that she felt that this Mr X had a black heart.”

It was nearly nine thirty, and the Blackbird public house was so full that it was now standing room only. Every time someone entered through the main door at the front, an unwelcome gust of cold air swept through the establishment. Amongst the crowd in the pub, Alan Crawford noticed the vicar from St George’s pushing his way towards the bar. The vicar was wearing a leather bomber jacket, which Alan Crawford found slightly incongruous given his profession. It had been a few years since Alan Crawford had set foot in the village church. Even then, he had only gone as a sightseer, particularly interested to see the church belfry famous for the absence of the original church bell removed during the First English Civil War. He had on other occasions walked around the church graveyard and read some of the inscriptions on the ancient headstones that lent forwards as if they themselves were also finally about to fall over and die. At the time, he had thought that the condition of the stones was a sort of metaphor for the second stage of someone’s death: when there is a total obliteration of even the record of that person’s existence.

He recognised the vicar because there had been occasions when the vicar had called round at his mother’s cottage. His mother was a regular churchgoer, but Alan Crawford was not at all religious; at least, not so in the normally accepted or ritualistic understanding of the word. This had something to do with his feelings about the presence of evil in the world. Because of his job as a policeman, particularly as a detective sergeant, there were occasions when he had to come face to face with something that was perhaps best described simply as evil, albeit manifested through the deeds of men. If there was an omnipotent God, a master of the universe capable of controlling all things, he could not understand why there had to be evil in the world.

Alan Crawford’s musings were interrupted by a further question from his wife. “Alan, has this Mr X, as you call him, ever spoken to Jack? After all Jack worked in Thailand for many years. That’s where he met Nok.”
“No, he’s never spoken to Jack. And moreover, Jack can’t speak Thai very well.”
“But presumably they can both speak English!”
“What I meant was that Mr X has never in Jack’s presence struck up a conversation with Nok in Thai, or in any other language for that matter. Apparently when Jack and Nok were both working in the takeaway restaurant, before they employed the new assistant and cook, Mr X’s behaviour was restrained or normal whenever he came in to buy something.”
“So Jack didn’t ask him any questions along the lines of how come he could speak Thai or what he did for a living in the village?” asked Rhoda Crawford.
“No. There were other people in the takeaway at the time, and Jack said that it didn’t feel appropriate. The few words that were exchanged only related to the food being ordered.”
“So, Jack suspects that this Mr X has taken an unwelcome fancy to his wife. And given that this Mr X has perhaps lived in Thailand before and can speak the language, this is probably the real reason for his interest in Nok. Apart from the fact that she is obviously a very attractive lady,” summarised Rhoda Crawford, before adding: “If I was Jack, I would go and have a private word with this rat bag, and tell him to back off.” Alan Crawford nodded in agreement with his wife’s words. He then picked up his now three-quarters empty glass and took a large draught. “By the way, how old would you say was this Mr X?” asked Rhoda Crawford.
“He seems to be in his late thirties to early forties.”
“And no one in the village has any idea what he is doing here?”
“No. The landlord doesn’t live in the village. Maybe he’s unemployed, or an author, or is running an internet business from his small flat. Who knows?”

The vicar had by now returned from the bar with a pint of beer. He had taken up a position by one of the pillars in the main lounge, and looked slightly awkward standing alone. Alan Crawford continued: “Taking a fancy to his wife is one thing, albeit unwelcome, but prowling outside their house in the dark like a peeping Tom is altogether more sinister. Goodness knows what his intentions are. Obviously Jack is very worried about Nok’s safety, particularly when he is not around. I told him that at the moment there wasn’t much we could do, but that if they caught him prowling again they should call the police without hesitation. I’ll also give the same advice to my mother. The local constabulary might be able to do something that will frighten this character off.”

Alan Crawford drained off the remainder of his beer, and his wife similarly finished her glass of rum-and-Coke. On his way to the bar to buy another round of drinks, Alan Crawford passed by the vicar who nodded at him in recognition. Alan Crawford responded with a nod and a smile. He then had to push his way through a group of about ten young men in their late teens or early twenties who were standing drinking near to the bar. He guessed that most of them were from the Forestry Flats in the village. Alan Crawford cringed at the banality and obscenity of their conversation. He overheard a remark about the vicar being a ‘poof waiting for his boyfriend’. When this remark was followed up by one of the group mincing in the general direction of the vicar, the whole group erupted in hysterical laughter. As he waited for his drinks to be served, Alan Crawford wondered whether he should exercise his authority as a policeman. The vicar was now standing with his back to the group. Alan Crawford was unsure as to whether the vicar was unaware of what was happening or had simply chosen to ignore it. By the time Alan Crawford had paid for his drinks, the loutish group seemed to have moved on to another topic of conversation. Alan Crawford decided to say nothing and moved away from the bar carrying his drinks.

On returning back to his seat, Alan Crawford mentioned to his wife that the vicar was standing alone looking somewhat out of place in the pub. She immediately suggested that they invite him over to their table. Alan Crawford was reluctant at first, because he didn’t want to get into an embarrassing conversation on the reasons why he didn’t go to church or what he thought about God. But he also felt some sympathy, especially after what he had just witnessed at the bar. And after catching the vicar’s eye once again, he relented and beckoned to him to come over and join them, which he did with alacrity. “Good evening Mrs Crawford and good evening Mr Crawford,” said the vicar pulling up a chair to the Crawford’s table. He was slightly built, almost gaunt, and appeared to be aged somewhere between thirty and forty years. He had long, unkempt hair, which he unconsciously ran his hands through after sitting down. “Good evening,” responded Alan Crawford and his wife, more or less in unison. Then Alan Crawford started the conversation: “I’m sorry vicar, but I must confess that I’ve forgotten your name, even though we’ve been introduced at my mother’s place on a few occasions.”
“Oh, it’s Geoffrey, Geoffrey Adams,” replied the vicar.
“Yes, sorry, I recall it now. I’m Alan, as you may already know, and this is my wife, Rhoda.”
“Yes, your mother often mentions the both of you; she thinks the world of you. I think she’s a wonderful lady. I do hope she’s fine.”
“She is indeed very well, thank you. She’s back at the cottage watching television with my son,” said Alan Crawford.
“Is she coming to the service tomorrow morning?” asked the vicar smiling. Alan Crawford gripped the beer glass he was holding even more tightly. He was convinced that the reason why the Crawford family didn’t attend church was also sure to be questioned. “As far as I know, vicar, she is going to church tomorrow,” replied Alan Crawford taking another sip of his pint and bracing himself for what he thought was the inevitable. But it didn’t come. Instead, the vicar made a general comment about the rowdy group standing at the bar. Alan Crawford agreed that their behaviour was unacceptable, but did not mention specifically what he had overheard a few minutes earlier. He wasn’t sure whether the vicar had raised the subject because it was considered a suitable topic of conversation for a policeman or because he expected Alan Crawford to go over to the bar and sort them out. Rhoda Crawford, however, seemed to both sense and to resent that her husband was close to being corralled into acting the policeman. But before Alan Crawford could respond further to the vicar’s line of conversation, his wife blurted out what sounded in the situation like a rather silly question. “Do you like Thai or Chinese food, Mr Adams?”
The vicar arched his eyebrows and smiled, before replying: “Are you referring specifically to our village takeaway, Mrs Crawford?”
“I meant Asian food in general. But since you’ve mentioned it, have you ever been to the Siam Kitchen?” asked Rhoda Crawford.
“Well, I do like Asian food. I enjoy Indian curries and Chinese dishes, particularly sweet and sour dishes; all of which I occasionally enjoy cooking myself. But I’m not really into the idea of takeaway food. I’m in no way, of course, decrying the cuisine on offer by the lovely couple, namely your mother’s neighbours, who manage the takeaway in the village. I should add, however, that I do have a slight problem with the Monosodium Glutamate, which I believe most Chinese takeaways use in their dishes. It makes everything taste great, but it has some unwelcome side effects,” explained the vicar.
“So you haven’t been to the Siam kitchen yet?” Rhoda Crawford asked the vicar again.
“Not yet; but maybe I’ll make an exception and try it tonight. That is if I can manage not to get blown down the street by the wind, and if I can make a special request not to have any MSG added,” he replied.
“Now that you mention it, I must ask Jack about this MSG stuff,” stated Alan Crawford. “I’ve heard some bad things about it. The Humes, however, are no longer preparing the food themselves in the takeaway. They’ve now employed some staff to take care of that.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation. Everyone sat pensively, as if searching either for a suitable addendum to the current topic of conversation or for a new subject that they could broach. It was the vicar who broke the silence: “Actually MSG is probably the least of their problems with regard to what some people in the village say is going into the dishes.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alan Crawford, surprised by the vicar’s words.
“Oh, it’s something I’ve picked up from some members of my congregation,” replied Geoffrey Adams. “The Hume couple have become the victims of some rather malicious gossip regarding the disappearance of cats in the village.”
“Jesus, not that old chestnut again!” growled Alan Crawford, temporarily forgetting the inappropriateness of using religious oaths in his present company. “I just heard about the disappearance of cats in the village from my mother tonight. But she didn’t mention that there were any rumours linking the disappearances with the Hume’s takeaway. I suppose it’s just that she didn’t want to give them any credence. She knows that the Humes are not likely to substitute pork and chicken for cat meat.”
“I’m sure the Humes are not stealing the cats,” emphasized the vicar. “But whoever is responsible is apparently not just stealing cats. Sheep from fields around the village have also been going missing in significant numbers according to an article I read last week in the Hexham Courant newspaper. It quoted a sheep farmer from one of the outlying homesteads who complained that he had lost ten sheep alone in the past month grazing on Wet Rain Hill and Menzie’s Hill.”
“What were we just saying earlier this evening, Alan, about crime now being displaced into rural areas?” noted Rhoda Crawford. Her husband responded with a wry smile of acknowledgement.
The vicar continued: “The newspaper article reminded us how, in times past, sheep rustling had been a big problem in this part of the world: the borders between England and Scotland. And now it looks like history is repeating itself again.”
“Hopefully, we won’t have history repeating itself in other respects. After all, we don’t want the village church to be occupied again by Scottish zealots,” said Alan Crawford in an attempt at levity, referring to an event that had apparently occurred during the First English Civil War. But once again, Alan Crawford became conscious that he may have said something not suitable for the company of a vicar. Geoffrey Adams, however, just smiled and made a comment about not having any plans to hide the current church bell down Bell Hollow.

The conversation swung back to the Humes. Rhoda Crawford remarked how difficult it must have been for Nok Hume to come and live in the village. It was a move that represented a drastic change in culture, not to mention a severe change in climate. The unpleasant rumours surrounding the Humes would surely compound these difficulties. Rhoda Crawford was also mindful of the problem the Humes had been experiencing with the strange newcomer to the village, but chose not mention this. On a more positive note, she noted that most people seemed to have come to accept the Humes as very much part of the village. Many people in the village spoke of Nok’s evident warmth and charm. Alan Crawford mentioned that his mother thought the world of her, and had come to regard her almost as a daughter. In return, Nok had done a lot to assist old Mrs Crawford. She lent a helping hand whenever necessary, and had even begun to introduce Mrs Crawford to Thai cooking, which the latter had taken up with enthusiasm.

The topic of conversation then moved onto the less weighty issue of the day’s soccer results. In the midst of this, Alan Crawford happened to notice a figure hastily entering the pub, and gently drew his wife’s attention to the fact by gently nudging her leg. The Crawfords concealed their interest in this new arrival from the vicar who was sitting with his back to the door, and was not able to see the comings-and-goings from the pub without turning around. Mr X. was visible standing just inside the entrance of the pub. He appeared shocked and disoriented, and seemed to look straight though the crowded bar as if he was transfixed and still viewing something that had previously passed before his eyes. “I believe it’s our man: Mr X. Let’s see if I can get a good look at this fellow,” thought Alan Crawford to himself. “Please excuse me a moment,” he announced, standing up from the table and giving the impression that he wished to visit the gents’. (Click here for Chapter 5)

All material © C. G. Black (2003)