Local Legend

  “Paul Trembling scores a winning goal with this highly enjoyable mystery, which has more exciting twists and turns than the beautiful game itself.”

  AMY MYERS, author of the Nell Drury and Tom Wasp crime series

  “Trembling turns ordinary people inside out, dead or alive, and you recognize all of them, even the murderers. The biggest twist is in the reader’s heart when you understand the human failings that led to murder.

  Trembling’s inside knowledge of people adds as much authenticity to his Local crime series as his insider knowledge of CSI procedures. Even when the crime scene has been cleaned up by the villain, Trembling knows exactly where that last trace would be found. Ultimately, he shows that the biggest crime is how people treat each other. Murder is just the fallout.”

  JEAN GILL, author of The Troubadours Quartet

  “A compelling mystery told with an extraordinary insight into the heights and depths of human nature. Paul Trembling has a gift for making heroes out of ordinary people.”

  FIONA VEITCH SMITH, author of The Death Beat

  Books by Paul Trembling

  Local Poet

  Local Artist

  Local Legend

  Local Killer (coming in November 2020)

  Text copyright © 2019 Paul Trembling

  This edition copyright © 2019 Lion Hudson IP Limited

  The right of Paul Trembling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by

  Lion Hudson Limited

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Business Park

  Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com

  ISBN 978 1 78264 277 0

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 278 7

  First edition 2019

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Photos: Tunnel by Jake Oates/

  Unsplash; Children © Amirul Syaidi/

  Shutterstock

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  I too have lost a brother: this book is dedicated to his

  memory. No matter how much time passes, Philip,

  you are never forgotten and always missed.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  CHAPTER 1

  “I’m not saying that sport is corrupt. But money and corruption go together like nuts and bolts. And there’s a lot of money in sport.”

  Adi Varney, quoted in Adi Varney – A True Legend by Graham Deeson

  A lot of things start at weddings. A new life for the happy couple, obviously. New relationships among the guests, quite frequently. A fight, sometimes.

  For me, June and Rob’s wedding was the beginning of the end to a very long story.

  I picked my place card out of the detritus of the meal, and ran my thumb over the name. Nice clear font, slightly embossed printing, and they’d spelled my name right.

  “GRAHAM DEESON”.

  Perhaps a bit more businesslike than was right for a wedding, but on the whole I approved. Having some good contacts in the area, I’d been asked to recommend a printer who’d do a quality job at a reasonable price: I was glad to see that they hadn’t let me down.

  I picked up the card next to mine, and checked that as well.

  “SANDRA DEESON”.

  It had a smudge of something on it, which I carefully wiped off. And finally admitted to myself that I was bored. Weddings are OK, up to a point. I like the ceremony and I’m always ready for a free meal. But I’ve never been one for parties. Not the loud and crowded sort, anyway. My idea of a social occasion is a quiet meal in a good restaurant with a few friends, and the reception was well past that point.

  It had taken a while, since Rob’s mates – mostly van drivers – had been wary of June’s colleagues, who were all coppers. However, with a bit of alcohol to remove inhibitions, they realized that police officers were basically just people, and the party took off.

  The live band helped. A local group – pretty good, actually, but they were really hammering it out, and it wasn’t doing my ears much good.

  But now the wedding photographer was on the prowl, looking for less formal but more revealing images of people celebrating. I don’t look good in photos. Even when I was younger, my lugubrious features had always made me appear miserable, however hard I smiled. Now, with thinning grey hair and sagging jowls it looked as if I had something to be miserable about.

  Time to make a move.

  I turned to my wife, who was deep in conversation with a young woman I had been introduced to earlier. David Macrae’s wife, I recalled. I hadn’t realized that the Detective Inspector was married – apparently she’d just moved down from Scotland, and was giving Sandy the full details.

  “Sandy – I’m going for a walk, get some fresh air,” I told her.

  She nodded, looked around. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Over there by the buffet table, talking to that CSI girl. Alison, is it? Discussing something technical about photography.” Our son had spent a good many years wandering the globe and in the process had discovered an interest.

  I glanced over to the far side of the room, checking he hadn’t moved, but his dark blond hair was still where I’d last seen it, along with a paler-blonde ponytail. Sam had been fortunate enough to inherit his hair colour and good looks from his mother: I often wondered what he’d got from me.

  Sandra peered through the crowd until she’d identified Sam, and nodded again. There was still a part of her that was afraid he’d take off again and disappear back into the world. I was almost certain he would. “OK, love.” She returned to her conversation.

  I weaved between the tables, picking up odd scraps of conversation on the way. Old habits. I’ve had a lot of useful leads that way.

  “… I kid you not, this bloke must have been seven foot tall…”

  “… If you know you can’t handle them, why do you keep on…”

  “… I bet you’ve arrested every one of my mates!”

  That one sounded interesting, but I moved on, found an exit, and stepped out into a cool summer evening.

  The Stag is a bit of an architectural disaster. It started off as an unremarkable village inn. Then it had a big single-storey dining area added on and became a gastropub. The development of a major road network nearby suggested other possibilities to the owners, and they built a two-storey extension and made it into a hotel – or motel. Do we still use that word? Finally, as an afterthought, they put in a semi-permanent marquee at the back and advertised it as a “function room”, which was where I’d just escaped from.

  It wasn’t the place I’d want to begin married life, but it wasn’t my choice. Apparently, Rob and June had some history with the place, first date or something. And at least the catering had been OK. Especially the gateaux. I’m very fond of gateaux.

  There was a wide terrace along the back of the gastro section of the pub, opened up for eating during the day but closed now
it was dark. The restaurant itself was crowded and doing good business, but I ignored that, preferring the relative quiet of the lawn on the other side. It ran down to a stand of trees and some picturesque ruins a few hundred feet away. They had made a nice backdrop for the photographs earlier. I suspected that they had been placed there for just that purpose. I wondered if there were builders who specialized in fake ruins.

  The original pub building at the end of the terrace was now a separate bar for guests in the hotel section, which stretched off beyond it – a drab and featureless concrete slab that should never have been given planning permission in my opinion. But nobody had asked me.

  I glanced into the bar as I strolled past. It was crammed full of rustic charm – horse brasses, quaintly rusting farm implements, and, of course, a stag’s head. Not nearly as crowded as the restaurant, just a few people sitting here and there, nursing drinks.

  And sitting on a bar stool was Adi Varney.

  I nearly missed seeing him altogether. He was with two other people, half hidden by a tall, thin man in a suit. But just as I glanced that way, he was leaning back, glass to his lips, and I saw him in profile.

  I stopped. And stared.

  Of course it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. Not back in England, back home again. Not after all these years.

  But it looked like him, just like him, and a big bubble of joy burst out of me and even while I was still not believing it in my head, my body was at the window, banging on it and shouting, “Adi! Adi! Hey – Adi – it’s me!”

  A middle-aged woman sitting nearby jumped, and splashed her drink. She gave me a furious look which I barely noticed.

  Adi didn’t respond, perhaps didn’t hear me. They’d put some thick double glazing in the old windows, and the bar was on the other side of the room. He just sat there, cradling a drink and looking at something in his hand. A mobile, probably.

  The thin man looked round as I continued to bang on the window. He touched Adi’s shoulder and said something. Adi glanced up and saw me.

  He looked puzzled. Frowning. Looked right at me – and looked away again.

  Not a flicker of recognition. As if he didn’t know me at all.

  I stood, staring through the window, not understanding. It must be the light, I thought. There’s a reflection on the glass or something. He can’t see who it is.

  I moved along to another window, a bit closer to where Adi was, and tried again. A bit more carefully this time. No frenzied banging, just a gentle tap. Less gentle, though, as he continued to ignore me.

  The other man with him looked around, and frowned at me. Not a puzzled frown. More of a warning, a “back off” sort of frown. He was a big bloke, wide shoulders straining at a black leather jacket. He looked as though he was used to telling people to back off.

  The thin one, an older man, was saying something to Adi. Who shrugged and stood up, finishing his drink.

  They all headed for the door, without a glance back in my direction.

  I looked around for a way in, saw a fire door at the far end of the old pub. Of course, it was locked from the outside. I hammered on it with the heel of my hand with no effect.

  Beyond the original buildings was the long concrete block of the hotel accommodation. I started running. They hadn’t bothered landscaping this end of the site – it was all rough ground and scraggly bushes. Hard going for anybody, let alone someone with all my recent health problems. I was panting hard by the time I rounded the end of the building – at which point it occurred to me that it would have been quicker to go back into the marquee and out the front.

  Too late. It was further to go back now, and there was at least a path this side, running down towards the hotel entrance.

  I burst into the lobby, and the young man at reception jumped up in alarm – as well he might, when a panting, sweating, balding middle-aged man suddenly charged through the front door and ran at him.

  “Sir? Do you need an ambulance?” It was a reasonable question, under the circumstances.

  “N… N…” I gasped, and waved my hands ineffectually. “No!” I finally managed to get out, as he picked up a phone. “I’m OK.” Pause and gasp again. “Really. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  The lad didn’t appear convinced, but he put down the phone and gave me a wary look. “Was there something else I could do for you, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ve just seen someone. In your bar. An old friend. Adi Varney?”

  “Adi Varney?” He frowned, then his eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean the Adi Varney? Adi Varney the footballer?”

  “Yes, that Adi Varney!” Was there another one? “He’s in the bar – was a few minutes ago, anyway.”

  The receptionist shook his head, regretfully. “No, sir. You must be mistaken. That bar’s for hotel guests only, and I’m pretty sure that Adi Varney isn’t one of them. More’s the pity – I’d love to be able to call my dad and tell him we’ve had Adi staying here!”

  I took a longer look at him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, so he wouldn’t have been around when Adi was in his heyday. But his dad would have been.

  “You a Vale supporter, then?”

  His face lit up. “Third generation! Used to be there for every home game – me, me dad, and me grandpa!” In his enthusiasm, a bit of local accent began to creep in. “Me ma as well, sometimes. Me dad can’t get out much nowadays, so I don’t go so often. And they’re not doing too well just now, are they – not like the old days.”

  “That’s a fact. Only just escaped relegation last season – and to be honest, that was better than they deserved.”

  We shared the sad look of loyal fans who’ve been let down by their club.

  “You wouldn’t mind just having a look at the guest list, would you? Make sure that Adi’s definitely not on there?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t do any harm, I suppose.” He turned to the computer, punched some keys, and studied the screen. “No, sorry. Twenty-three guests currently, none of them a Varney. But I can’t see someone like him coming here in any case. He’d be at a five-star place somewhere.”

  The lad had a point. Adi had always been ready to enjoy whatever money could buy him. I scratched my chin, baffled.

  “OK, so perhaps he came in as someone’s guest? Visiting someone who is staying here?”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve been on all evening, and I’m pretty sure that he didn’t come through here.”

  “But if he’d been here earlier?”

  “Maybe, but if Adi Varney was in the hotel, someone would be bound to recognize him and the word would get around.”

  That was a thought. The bartender must have seen him.

  “Could I go through to the bar and ask in there? Just to put my mind at rest?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to let anyone through apart from guests…”

  “Just for a few moments. I’ll just look, ask a few questions – no trouble, I promise.”

  “OK then. For a Vale supporter!”

  He nodded to a door just past the reception desk.

  “Thanks.” I slipped through quickly, in case he changed his mind.

  The bar had filled up a little since I’d looked in from the other side – there was another entrance that came directly from the guest rooms. The one that Adi and his companions had been heading for, I decided, as I looked around and got my bearings. They certainly weren’t here now. The woman I’d caused to spill her drink was, though – fortunately engrossed in something on her mobile. I stayed well clear of her as I made my way to the bar.

  The barman looked up as I approached and took on a wary expression. He had obviously seen me banging on the window.

  I held up my hands. “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. It was just that I thought I saw an old friend in here – someone I haven’t been in touch with for years – and I was trying to get his attention.”

  He relaxed slightly at my explanation. “Yes, sir. I understand.” He had a definite tra
nsatlantic twang.

  “His name is Adi Varney.”

  He returned a polite but essentially blank look. “I don’t know the name, sir.”

  “Adi Varney the football player. England international, top league goalscorer…”

  “I guess you mean football as in soccer? Sorry, sir, I’m not much of a sports fan.”

  “Over from the States?” I hazarded a guess.

  “Yes, sir. Taking a little time out from law school.”

  “OK, so you wouldn’t know about Adi Varney. But he’s a really big name round here. Ask your colleague out in reception.”

  The barman picked up a cloth and began wiping down the bar. Every barman does that while they’re having a conversation.

  “So he’s like the local superstar? And a friend of yours as well?”

  “That’s right. We were born in the same hospital, grew up on the same street. And Adi played for the local team for his entire career. So in these parts he’s a really big deal – nearest thing we’ve got to a superhero! But I haven’t seen him in years – not since he went out to the US. California. Are you from that way?”

  He shook his head. “Boston. Never been further west than Chicago. I guess it must have been a surprise, seeing him after all this time?”

  “You can say that again! Listen, he was sitting just about here. Do you remember? Reddish brown hair, little moustache, a sort of roundish face?”

  “Yeah, I remember him. Didn’t hear his name, though.”

  “Is he staying here at the hotel?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure. The guy with him is though, because he had the tab put on his room.”

  “The man with the black jacket?”

  “No. I didn’t know him either. It was Mr Lonza who was signing for everything.”

  “Lonza?” It wasn’t a name that was familiar to me.

  “Sure. Rocco Lonza. Hey, you think you were surprised to see your friend here? Well, it was one heck of a surprise to see Lonza, I can tell you! Never expected a guy like him to turn up in a place like this.”

  I still had no idea whom he was talking about, but he seemed happy to talk and I was happy to let him. Hotel staff are often a bit tight-lipped about their guests – but bar staff are the best bet for a bit of information. Especially when they are essentially just passing through.