Chapter 2: Meet the Millers

1100hrs Monday, April Fool’s Day 2019

DAY 1

With my brand new warrant card safely tucked into its wallet, I left Thurston Hall and walked down the drive towards the nearby Thurston railway station to catch a train back to Bury. A traffic patrol car stopped alongside me and the police officer driving the car lowered his window.

“Where you headed, Sarge?”

“The Premier Hotel in Bury,” I said, surprised he should know my rank.

“Hop in and I’ll give you a lift.” I thanked him, got in the car but before I fastened my seat belt he held out his hand. “I’m Jim Barlow.”

I shook his hand. “Ajay Dolihaye. How did you know I’m a sergeant?”

“Heard you announce yourself at reception as I was passing by,” he said and put the car in gear and continued down the long sweeping driveway before turning right onto the main road. He slowed down for a sharp left-hand bend before continuing. “What’s the Met doing up here in carrot crunching land?”

I explained I had transferred from the Metropolitan Police and he asked me where I would be living. “You don’t want to be in the section house on the Westley Estate with the Plods. It’s like Sodom and Begorrah there on a Saturday night!”

I told him, I was hoping to get digs in Bury St Edmunds with a Mrs Miller in Castle Road and was going to call on her after lunch.

“Yeah, she takes policemen as short term lodgers; her late husband was in the Suffolk Police,” Jim said as he stopped the car at a set of traffic lights on red. “Castle Road is across the other side of town from the Premier and it’s quite a walk.” The lights changed and we continued towards Bury. “I’m patrolling the A14 until midday but I can pick you up at the Premier later and drop you over to Castle Road. Shall we say at one o’clock at the hotel?”

“That would be great. Thanks a lot, Jim, I really appreciate the offer.”

“You can buy me a pint in the Goat and Compass this evening. The pub is in Whiting Street, only a short walk from Castle Road.

We pulled into the Premier Hotel car park. As I got from the car I thanked him again.

“I was in the Met for six years,” he said. “I know what it’s like to work in The Smoke. Coming here saved my sanity and my marriage. See you back here at thirteen hundred hours.” With that, he drove off and I went to my room.

Jim was as good as his word and dead on one o’clock he pulled up alongside me in the hotel car park. I had a backpack and small suitcase with me which I threw in the boot of the patrol car.

“Busy morning?” I asked him.

“There are even more plonkers on the roads in Suffolk than in The Smoke,” Jim said. “1 booked three for speeding, five for using mobiles while moving, and a pair in a lay-by shagging their brains out. That last one is not exactly a traffic offence but two artic’s passing nearly piled up while staring at the scene.”

After about ten minutes of driving along a dual carriageway that skirted the centre of Bury Jim pulled into a bus layby near a Pelican pedestrian crossing on the dual carriageway, and popped the boot.

“This stretch of the A 1302 is the Parkway.” He pointed to a large building surrounded by a car park on our right. “That’s the Waitrose supermarket complex, and you can walk through the car park to get to the Goat and Compass in Whiting Street.” He then pointed at a gap in the wall bordering the A1302 on our left. “Castle Road is reached through that walkway. It became a block ender when the A1302 was made into a dual carriageway about ten years ago and the Waitrose complex and the Arc Shopping Centre were constructed.”

I thanked him, promised to be at the Goat and Compass by 7 p.m, got from the car and retrieved my baggage from the boot. Jim waved as he drew away and I noticed the passing traffic had slowed down considerably when spotting the patrol car ahead of them.

27 Castle Road was a substantial bow-fronted detached 1950’s built residence, one of the few detached houses in the street and the end house of the street. I rang the bell on the oak door of the large brick-built porch and moments later the door was opened by an attractive female in her early twenties.

“Missus Miller?” I enquired, thinking I may have misread the slip of paper and got the wrong house.

“Miss Miller,” she said. “My mother is Missus Miller. But do come in, we’ve been expecting you.” She ushered me in and I caught the whiff of CoCo Noir. My cheating ex often wore that perfume and for a moment anger welled up in me. “You can dump your kit in the porch,” the girl said. “My name is Deborah. We already know that you are Ajay Dolihaye.”

We shook hands. Her grip was firm and her palm felt hard as if she was used to manual labour. Deborah was a corker notwithstanding her workingman-like hands. Her light brown hair hung to her shoulders framing a vivacious, triangular-shaped face with a retroussé nose, fulsome pouty lips, and blue eyes. I’m a fool for retroussé noses and pouty-lipped females. She stood a head shorter than me and even dressed in a rather baggy tee shirt and scruffy jeans it was obvious she had a well-shaped figure. I expect she took as close an inventory of me but like most females did it without making it obvious. We entered the living room where an older version of Deborah sat at the table pouring tea from the same type of brown china teapot my grandmother used. She finished pouring and stood up to greet me. Mrs Miller may have been an older version but was as attractive as her daughter, with a similar facial shape and features. Her hair was a lighter shade, more a honey blonde colour, and cut to chin level reminiscent of 1960’s models, and her eyes were violet-blue and mesmerising. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse so her figure was not only better displayed than her daughter’s but also well on a par with her daughter’s. I estimated her to be in her mid-thirties but whatever her age she was decidedly bonkable.

“Hello, Sergeant, I’m Molly Miller. I hope you will be happy here at number twenty-seven.” She had the local, Suffolk, accent but her voice was clear and melodic and was the sort of voice I could listen to for hours. I gazed at her pouty red-lipped mouth as she spoke, then shook myself out of the carnal thoughts going through my mind.

“I thought you would want to ask me questions before deciding to have me as a lodger,” I said.

“You have Janice Rawlins’ seal of approval,” Molly said with a smile. “That’s better than being A1 at Lloyds.”

I didn’t know what she was on about but supposed Janice Rawlins, in her role as PA to the deputy manager of HR, was able to scan personal files and let Molly know the background of her prospective lodgers. I assumed the Millers would now know the reason for my transfer to Suffolk.

She picked a up a cup of tea from the table. “I’ve put milk in your tea, Sergeant...”

“Please call me Ajay or Josh – Joshua – Missus Miller. Milk is fine but no sugar.”

“I’ll call you Joshua if you will call me Molly,” She said and handed me the cup with a heart-stopping smile.

We drank our tea and made small talk. They asked about my parents and my siblings, questions that I managed to deflect without too much trouble. It became more difficult when they asked questions regarding my fiancée. I had put in a request to transfer from the Met to the East Anglian Constabulary when my fiancée relocated to Norwich after a promotion. It took over four months before the transfer was granted and two days after having the transfer approved I had a ‘Dear John letter’, or rather a ‘Dear AJ text’. Just the thought of that day was enough to bring on the fury I thought I had quelled. Molly must have noticed the angry expression on my face. “Is there something wrong with the tea, Joshua?”

“No, nothing like that, Molly. Just a spasm a of indigestion from lunch.”

We finished our tea and Molly showed me to my quarters. She surprised me by leading me back through the porch, where I picked up my gear, and around the side of the house to another entrance.

“The house was altered to make a granny flat. This side door is a separate entrance to the flat upstairs which consists of an en-suite bedsit.” She pointed to a door at the foot of the flight of stairs. “That door leads into the dining room of the main house where breakfast is served. It can be bolted on this side to have privacy when required.” She grinned at me. “My guests are allowed to entertain visitors so long as the visitor does not expect breakfast!”

“I won’t be having any visitors, Molly, so the door will remain unbolted.” She gave me a puzzled look then turned and headed up the stairs. I followed, watching her jiggling buttocks with pleasure. There was a definite sway of the hips but whether that was for my benefit or not I couldn’t say. I also noticed she wore stocking, the retro type with the seam running up the back of the leg. The thought that Molly wore suspenders gave me a warm glow in the groin area, a feeling I hadn’t experienced for nigh on six months. I had badgered my ex to wear suspenders and stockings, as it was a fantasy of mine to shag her while she was wearing that gear. She did wear them once but complained all the time of the discomfort. In fact, we had our first row over my ‘schoolboy fantasy’.

We reached a small square shaped landing with two doors. Molly pointed to the door to the right.

“That leads to the granny flat.” She indicated the other door “That leads into the upstairs corridor of the main house and like the door downstairs it can be bolted on this side to allow you privacy.” Molly opened the door to the granny flat wrenching me back from my memories. “Here you are, Joshua. Home sweet home,” and she handed me the keys. “I’ll remind you I do not provide an evening meal; however, there are plenty of pubs and restaurants in town. Breakfast is from seven to...”

“I have to be at Thurston Hall by eight tomorrow morning, Molly, so will not require breakfast.”

“You can’t go off to work without a breakfast inside you. However, they serve a good breakfast at Thurston Hall. The canteen is on the top floor in the opposite corridor to where CID have their offices.”’ She grinned at my look of surprise. “I work in the canteen several days a week and would be there today if Deborah wasn’t home.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “I can go in early tomorrow and have breakfast before my interview with Detective Superintendent Fuller at eight. I’ll set the alarm on my mobile for six and have plenty of time to walk to Bury station and get the train to Thurston.”

“Deborah can give you a lift to the station in the morning. She always gets up at six, and tomorrow she is going to the gym at the leisure centre near the station. She will be more than happy to take you.”

I thanked Molly for volunteering her daughter and began to unpack my few belongings. Molly paused in the doorway on her way downstairs. “Deborah and I will be going out later this afternoon, Joshua. Feel free to come downstairs and watch the telly at any time. That one,” she pointed to a 32-inch screen Hitachi in the corner, “is on its last legs, and the screen flickers at times, usually during the best bits!”

“I won’t be watching much telly tonight,” I said. “I’m meeting a colleague in the Goat and Compass in Whiting Street at seven this evening.”

“They do a very good steak and kidney pudding in the Goat, and the beer is the local brew, Greene King. If I don’t see you later I will see you in the morning.” She gave me another brilliant smile before leaving and I continued my unpacking.

1630 hrs Monday, April Fools’ Day 2019. 27 Castle Road

I assumed Molly and Deborah were in the car I heard leaving, so went downstairs for a nose around. I didn’t go through their bedrooms looking in their knicker drawers or anything pervy like that, just a recce’ to get an idea of the layout of the house. The garden backed onto the wall alongside the A1302 and the traffic noise was horrendous. ‘Not much chance of a good night’s sleep ‘ I thought. Actually, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The windows were triple glazed and there was no sound of traffic in the house. I looked at the photos on the mantelshelf in the living room. Most were of Deborah; in school uniform, with cap and gown at Uni, and most surprising, in Royal Navy officers’ uniform. There were no photos that I could see of the late Mister Miller.

At 6 pm I set off for the Goat and Compass and after a couple of wrong turns finally arrived at about 6.30pm. I ordered the steak and kidney pudding and it was as good as Molly had said. I had only just finished when Jim Barlow and a couple of other people entered the bar. I waved them over and Jim made the introductions.

“Jack Dodge, known as Jammy Dodger on the account of his success with women, and Mike Proudfoot and Sharon Douglas.” He indicated each in turn and I shook each hand. I bought a round of drinks at the bar, they all drank Greene King’s special bitter other than Sharon who had a glass of the house white, and I had my usual pint of draught Murphy’s. Jim and the other three were in the traffic section and were off shift for 24 hours. We sat and chatted and I gave them a bowdlerised version of my time in the Met. When they learned I had been in SO 6, the Diplomatic Protection Squad, their eyes bugged out.

“That is serious stuff, AJ. Were you armed?” Sharon asked.

I had been but made light of it. “Not all the time and most of the time was spent freezing my bollocks off while the ‘client ‘was having a good time in some posh restaurant or club while the hired help stood like frozen lollypops outside in the cold and wet.” I gave them a few names I had ‘protected’, stressing the fact that a team would consist of two or three up close and personal with the client while others, observers /marksmen would be on over-watch, which was even colder being stuck up on a roof for hours on end. I had done that more times than a few.

I called it an evening at 9 pm blaming my early appointment with Superintendent Fuller and left them with a promise to meet them at the same time on Wednesday.

“It’s Pub Quiz night on a Wednesday,” Jack Dodge said. “Our team will be short of Mike, who has pulled an extra night duty, so we hope you can fill in for him?”