In the country of France, in the region of Provence, in the Department of Var, a black, cold, eerie, stillness enveloped the village of Three Hills.
The occupants of the picturesque, but decaying, old village, had been abed for several hours.
Even the new road, which connected the village to the nearest city and coast in one direction, sweeping the eastern outskirts and then inland to join the motorway in the other, was silent.
It was so quiet, and the darkness so dense that a rodent broke covers and searched the pavement edge of the T junction heart of the village. This was normal for the season, just as it had been earlier, at midday, for old men to pavement sit, gossiping, remembering, and hoping that the monotony of their experience would be broken by the bump of a tourist vehicle coming up the hill, and turning across traffic without knowing that locals continued to take the original right of way.
It was cold enough for everyone to have closed both window and shutter, but on the outside, noise carried from street to street, and area to area.
No one in the old village subsequently reported to having been awoken by the gunshots, and even those living in the quixotic shaped buildings leading up to the landmark summit of the principal hill had been undisturbed by unnatural activity. From the top western slopes, the dwellings overlooked the second hill, and beyond to the unpopulated side of Little Hill from where the shots had come.
Two communities occupied the second hill.
On the lower east and south slopes there was a small post war development of public housing, including prized accommodation for the elderly, overlooking terraced municipal grounds, with safe play for young children, two tennis courts, a kickabout plot, a scatter of shrubs and simple seating.
None of the occupants of this distinctly working class appendage were disturbed by the bangs, but a few souls had stirred, unaware why, in the private, middle class modern properties on the western upper slopes of the hill, bordering the single tarmac road which wound round into the place known locally as Newlands valley.
The dozen homesteads of Newlands had also been created after 1945. In the back to nature climate and prosperity of the sixties, the owner of this fertile, sheltered land, had grasped that idealistic townsfolk would pay well for a comparatively small area of land to build a home, and as a sideline, run a few chickens, and grow vegetables and fruits, including the grape.
All the residents had once been newcomers to the village and were still collectively branded as strange folk for their way out choice of living place rather than any known quirks of behaviour. They were not considered to be villagers and were treated as only slightly better than the commuters and those who owned the holiday lets.
The occupants of the picturesque, but decaying, old village, had been abed for several hours.
Even the new road, which connected the village to the nearest city and coast in one direction, sweeping the eastern outskirts and then inland to join the motorway in the other, was silent.
It was so quiet, and the darkness so dense that a rodent broke covers and searched the pavement edge of the T junction heart of the village. This was normal for the season, just as it had been earlier, at midday, for old men to pavement sit, gossiping, remembering, and hoping that the monotony of their experience would be broken by the bump of a tourist vehicle coming up the hill, and turning across traffic without knowing that locals continued to take the original right of way.
It was cold enough for everyone to have closed both window and shutter, but on the outside, noise carried from street to street, and area to area.
No one in the old village subsequently reported to having been awoken by the gunshots, and even those living in the quixotic shaped buildings leading up to the landmark summit of the principal hill had been undisturbed by unnatural activity. From the top western slopes, the dwellings overlooked the second hill, and beyond to the unpopulated side of Little Hill from where the shots had come.
Two communities occupied the second hill.
On the lower east and south slopes there was a small post war development of public housing, including prized accommodation for the elderly, overlooking terraced municipal grounds, with safe play for young children, two tennis courts, a kickabout plot, a scatter of shrubs and simple seating.
None of the occupants of this distinctly working class appendage were disturbed by the bangs, but a few souls had stirred, unaware why, in the private, middle class modern properties on the western upper slopes of the hill, bordering the single tarmac road which wound round into the place known locally as Newlands valley.
The dozen homesteads of Newlands had also been created after 1945. In the back to nature climate and prosperity of the sixties, the owner of this fertile, sheltered land, had grasped that idealistic townsfolk would pay well for a comparatively small area of land to build a home, and as a sideline, run a few chickens, and grow vegetables and fruits, including the grape.
All the residents had once been newcomers to the village and were still collectively branded as strange folk for their way out choice of living place rather than any known quirks of behaviour. They were not considered to be villagers and were treated as only slightly better than the commuters and those who owned the holiday lets.
Newlands residents woken by the shots returned to sleep without concern. Any outside playing child’s laughter, or cry, a dog’s bark, or the bang of a door, could be heard across the valley during the active part of the day. Such was the constant solitude that it was common for casual visitors to lower voices down to whispers once they realised that sound flowed until it bounced back off the surrounding wooded hills.
One resident subsequently told enquirers that he had assumed the cause of the unscheduled awakening had been the backfiring of a car, somewhere, most likely on Little Hill, arriving late, or setting off early. It was an acceptable consequence of the holiday trade located on the hillside farthest away from the village centre.
The only other exit from the valley was a single pot holed track which cut across a wooded plateau before joining the tarmac road created when holiday villas were built on the undeveloped Little Hill.
Several woodland tracks branched across the plateau and one of these led to the villa, the Little Paradise. Although secluded and apart, everyone in the village knew the English owner Paul, and that from early spring to late autumn he entertained parties of young women. Once a fortnight he would bring guests to the only hotel for a meal, and unlike those using the holiday homes, or the commuters, he used the village stores, and out of season, he employed locals to upkeep the property, and he contributed financially to both church and village developments on a regular basis.
There was genuine shock and disbelief at the subsequent revelations.
On this early autumn, midweek night, all but one of the nine holiday villas, with their individual pools, on the upper South and East slopes of Little Hill were unlet, or empty. Even the secretive, middle aged Parisian couple, with their year round flow of friends and loud late night parties, had made one of their rare returns to the capital. Occupying the villa nearest to Little Paradise they stayed away from the subsequent media interest, returning only to clear possessions before placing the property on the market.
The only people in residence were an English couple, the Hancock’s, who were having an extended holiday to mark the husband’s retirement from a life of behind the scenes public service in a government department.
Mrs Hancock was a light sleeper. She had sat up startled, expecting her husband to immediately explain why.
`Something on one of the farms was a response which failed to satisfy Mrs Hancock’s insatiable curiosity.
Bill Hancock had spent many an hour contemplating the rest of his life while pretending to study the assortment of fruit and vegetable growers who filled the coast road plain below Little Hill. It was rare to see something different so concentration on the future would only be broken by the sudden escape of noise. Daytime sounds hung in the air, begging to be noticed, but at night they were unwelcome, disturbing his latest fantasy, built up from a close encounter with a topless nymph on an expedition to a blistering beach at the end of Summer.
No person therefore, was subsequently able to express certainty over the number of shots fired, or at the times they occurred.
This was to prove significant, although the Hancock’s were adamant that there had been a single ricocheting crack sometime after they had been first roused. Mrs Hancock’s widely televised interviews on this point were crucial to media acceptance of subsequent official reports.
With his seasoned understanding of the way the world worked, Bill considered the event funny peculiar, and his instinct was to say nothing in public and make a hasty return to their modest suburban home at Carshalton, in Surrey. However, Irene, Mrs Hancock, argued that after years selflessly accepting the anonymous life required by his work on civil emergency planning, she was entitled to a few seconds recognition on the media stage. She would then readjust to remaining a devoted, loyal wife and mother, furthering and protecting the welfare of her extended family, and enabling Bill to relax and enjoy her retirement gift of life membership to the Oval. The latter would get him out of the house between April and September, and challenge his ambition to move permanently to Southern France. All she had to do was to rekindle his boyhood support for Crystal Palace and she would be safe from his plan. She had been left to bring up the children and make a social life of her own, and now she had no intention of changing routines or relationships, because he wanted to reinvent their lives.
While British media exploited Mrs Hancock’s meagre knowledge, the French and the mainland Europeans, concentrated on Peter Medeme, or more precisely, Medeme`s dog, whose persistent barking continued until Peter went outside his Newlands home to discover what was upsetting the animal. Whether the owner resembling “Chubby Chops” has been affected by the smoke and flames retching above the Little Hill plateau, or something unrelated, never mattered, because immediately Peter looked up, he acted, and within seconds of his phone call, the village siren summoned households into feverish activity.
Apprehension mingled with excitement among the inhabitants of the old village as many had relatives and friends in areas likely to be affected by any woodland fire.
Squads of civilian volunteers made their way to assembly points outside the Town Hall, in the market square, and to the visitor’s car park adjacent to the floodlit boule pitches which were the envy of the Department. At these points they were asked to wait while official services investigated the blaze, and decided if, and how, they would be deployed. After a surprisingly brief period they were advised to return home as the fire only involved the buildings of Little Paradise, and not the woodland.
Thus the quick response of Peter Medeme and Chubby Chops made them instant celebrated heroes.
Meanwhile there had been fear rather than panic in the middle hill properties, and in Newlands valley.
It had been an exceptionally bad year for fires in the region as the scarred landscape along parts of the A.8 testified.
Precautionary preliminaries were commenced by those living closest to the woods before the siren sounded the end of the alert.
Uninformed agitation best describes the reaction of some of the commuters living on estates on the far side of the Three Hills village, along the new bypass road. They could see nothing, and no one took time to contact and explain the succession of fire, police, medical, media and other less conspicuous public vehicles suddenly coming and going along the highway in the middle of the night. Many were unaware that three intermittent blasts on the siren, repeated twice at night, signalled the potential risk of spreading fire in the neighbourhood and called for a general preparedness, and volunteer assembly.
Although, following what Bill recognised from his national service as a gunshot, he had persuaded Irene to return to bed, the sound of the siren provoked both to partially dress, go downstairs and for Irene to make tea while he went outside to investigate, having under her administration, first smothered all bare skin with anti mossi lotion.
Once on the veranda he could see and hear the blaze soaring over the brow of the hill. Although unaware of the specific meaning of the sirens he may have been the only person who made an immediate connection between the gunshots and the fire.
This was the third and final month of the Hancock’s once in a lifetime holiday. After the first two weeks on their own they had been joined in succession by their two married and one unmarried children, together with the three grand children, one belonging to Christine, the eldest, and David’s two, their younger son.
During the first of these family visits they had been persuaded to walk up the hill, along the main track road and discovered Newlands valley, and then the road down middle hill which enabled them to return to Little Hill or go on to the village centre. They had seen the offshoot tracks, but although each family group had re-discovered the valley, they had no knowledge of the Little Paradise villa.
Irene would gain years of vicarious enjoyment from the reported goings on within half a mile of an experience which apart from family visits she had considered a waste of time and money.
Coinciding with venturing outside, Bill had witnessed the passage of the village fire tenders, and then a number of other vehicles. He considered this odd because the quickest way from the village centre to the Newlands valley properties was up middle hill where the road was wide and made up all the way. Perhaps the gunshot and the fire were not connected, but in any event it was not time for speculation
His first reaction was to summon Irene to make an overnight pack while he gathered travel documents and currency, and prepared a flask of coffee.
Experience, based on countless behind the scenes reports of major civil incidents, had forced him to accept the unpalatable conclusion that in a real communal emergency, plans and guidance manuals were of little use. You needed the right people with the right training and both were rare.
The first unwritten rule of emergency planning, therefore, is “there will be chaos,” and which will become worse the greater the number of different agencies involved.
The second rule is, “look after you and yours.”
Just when they were ready to leave the siren sounded again and the passage of vehicles ceased. He then decided that Irene should remain ready while he went to take a look.
Bill liked to make notes. These could not be described as a diary. Before he went back to bed and tried to sleep, he wrote, “The flames quickly changed to smoke, the siren sounded again, an all clear? Roadway quiet again, for a time. I wanted to take a look.” Later he added “in the same way that everyone slows down on the motorway when there is an accident on the other side of the road.”
Irene was so surprised by his decision that she made no effort to restrain him.
His exploration did not get very far, for a manned police barrier blocked the track at the point it branched to Little Paradise. This surprised and made him very curious. After a work time of always having to be sure that his precise whereabouts were known, his first act on arriving at the villa had been to report his presence to the police. He had found a closed part time office. The event brought home the implications of retirement. No one cared anymore about him on a day to day basis. He included his wife and children in this thought.
His French was competent and the officers were not impressed by the explanation that he had a professional interest in emergencies. He was told to wait. Bill became anxious that the length of his absence would worry Irene.
He did learn that there were fatalities, and that he and his wife would be interviewed about what they heard, later that day.
`Their refusal to let me progress was not surprising, `he told Irene, attempting to soften her frustration at being left behind by appearing to recount everything he had said, and had been said to him.
`You know those tracks off into the woods; one of them leads to a large house. The fire has destroyed the buildings but did not spread to the woodland. `
`Was anyone hurt? `
He side stepped the anticipated question using the Whitehall honed technique which avoided having to lie.
`Someone is going to call round with the latest information. `
For thirty years Irene had tolerated his alleged official secrets act evasiveness, but was damned if she was going to put up with it in his retirement.
`There were people then, at the house. Any children? `
`No children, ` giving a partial answer.
`There is nothing for you to worry about. Let’s see if we can get some sleep before its time for me to go for the bread. `
He knew more than he was telling her. He always did, but she did not press further. That was not her way.
When he announced what they were to do, or made a judgement about a matter which she did not share, she never responded, but painstakingly chiselled away until she thwarted his intentions, or better still, got her own way. He knew this and schemed to get his way on something else.
His original plan for the holiday was to find somewhere beachside and cosmopolitan; a taste of sophisticated living and the daily opportunity to look at almost naked female bodies. She had selected this quiet rural setting and accommodation which enabled the family to visit. The concession was the swimming pool and occasional visits to a public beach. He would have time to adjust to the life she had planned for them.
When Bill woke he felt he had not slept.
After years of a sharp, unnatural, waking to catch the 7.29 and which left no time for day dreaming, he now enjoyed returning to bed after a pee, reflecting on the previous day and debating how to use the freedom now available. He had survived Whitehall by keeping careful notes, precise minutes of what he did and said, who was present, who was not, but which offended no one. Invariably when he was subsequently challenged over an issue, however minor, he was able to refresh his memory with the appearance of an accuracy which usually convinced.
In his new situation he could be more open with his opinions, but he maintained the previous approach. He knew that that when out of their home, Irene carefully inspected everything of his. He knew she resented that he had a private world. He understood and still cared for his wife. He remembered the young girl who had given herself completely to him, he remembered the childbirths, the illnesses, and the hours spent helping the children with their home work, attending school activities. He did not resent the life she had created for herself, and wished to maintain.
But he also had no intention of sacrificing whatever life he had left, for her, or for the children.
He wanted more.
There had to be.
Bill had been very good at his job, collating information, preparing reports in the form requested by the upper echelons that got younger as he aged.
If only the young could see the old as having been young, and if only the old could remember when they were.
He did not resent their rapid rise, sweeping in waves around and over him, insisting on the latest staff college, or MBA credo, as much as he did their free life style. Because of his specialist role he rubbed shoulders with service chiefs, those who ran so called voluntary organisations, the cynical men who kidded others they ran local government, and those responsible for the emergency services. He spent a lot of time at committees and in role plays observing the interaction of people and afterwards over lunchtime sandwich, or evening drink, he learnt something of the lives led outside the work role
He had seized the opportunity to retire early on a full pension although he was fully aware that his wife significantly differed in how they should use the time which became available to him.
He wanted a taste. He would settle for a taste of fruit forbidden. Regarded with suspicion by work colleagues as the man who never lost his head Bill was becoming desperate to do so.
The next morning had commenced with a clear, crisp sun, although tinges of smoke lingered.
Bill was not the only regular whose visit to the bakery was late.
The place was full to the door and those who completed purchases struggled to get away. Everyone was intent on buying and going home, but a sombre reserve replaced the usual banter.
News of the grim tragedy had rapidly spread. A man presumed to be Paul, the owner of Little Paradise, together with three young girls, had died in the fire. There was no mention of gunshots, but that the four had been found together in the remains of a bedroom.
Ever since his last visit to the beach Bill had found himself increasingly preoccupied with the sense that he had allowed life to pass him by.
Irene had insisted on sitting in shade to read a Catherine Cookson. He stretched out in the full sun, and after only a short period he had become hot enough to leave the mat and take a long swim.
When he returned he was stunned to find that a young topless creature and her male partner were inexplicably stretched out on their backs in unusual proximity, so that it would be impossible for him to stretch out his left hand without touching some part of her body.
He smiled to himself, and at her, as he lay down but there was no response.
He held breath as he watched from the corner of an eye, her breasts move with natural breathing.
He became the shy adolescent, afraid of girls.
He also became fixed in position and only relaxed when the couple ran into the sea. As casually as he could, he looked over to Irene, but if she had observed the development she showed no indication, concentrating on the book.
Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon. They returned. Sometimes she lay on her tum, sometimes on her back; sometimes she went for a dip alone. Bill became so hot that he decided he had to have another swim even if this meant they had departed by the time he returned.
At first he thought this fear had been realised, as when he got back there was only one mat and towel, by his own, belonging to the male. She must have gone but he wanted to be sure.
Irene came to say she was tired and wanted a drink. He lied and said he wanted so spend a little longer and did not want a drink,
`You go, ` he prayed, and she had.
He would not be long, he would come over and they would go back.
He was rewarded; it was the girl who had been for a dip.
Bill prayed again. Again he was answered.
She lay down on her back, wide eyed.
He could not resist looking at her, not directly, not confrontational, but he knew, she knew, he was looking at her.
Her breathing became stronger while he held his.
He wanted to say, something, anything. He failed.
He went to find Irene and drove to the villa in virtual silence.
The event disturbed him and continued to do so.
He speculated on what might have been.
The news was that a man, perhaps even older than himself, had been found in a bedroom with three young women, disturbed him more than their deaths. This reaction disturbed him even more.
He told Irene about the deaths, pretending he gained the news at the bakery, but he waited till they breakfasted before admitting that the police were coming for a statement about the gun shot. This provoked a morning of conversation, but Irene’s chatter failed to erase images of the girl on the beach, despite the reality that old men with young girls usually ended in disaster.
It was not until they were clearing away the remains of lunch, eaten on the outside table, that the officials arrived: a full car load, three men and a woman, none in uniform.
While Bill had demonstrated his ability to converse in French, the spokesperson, the female, explained that the written statements were to be taken in English and she introduced a bilingual colleague who would assist.
The woman intrigued Bill. For once he did not assess the nature of the flesh under the smart, body shaped cloth.
Who was she?
Why had she really come?
Questions he asked himself but failed to answer.
She had given her name and those of the others, and said what they did, handing her photocard for him to check, but she had effortlessly engaged him in conversation before her details had fixed in his memory. Subsequently he could only refer to her as `the woman,’ which made her even more interesting and mysterious.
He was surprised that after confirming their knowledge of the events of the night, they were required to provide the facts of the holiday visit, including who else had stayed with them, their home details and if any of them could have had contact with the occupants of the villa. The `woman’ also requested information about their lives in England and clarified his former work status especially that he was not permitted to disclose further without prior clearance.
Even before the woman returned with representatives of the English speaking press he had warned Irene to be cautious, but she was not for listening, especially as at the point of departure `the woman’ had revealed the contents of the official statement.
“The bodies of three young women, and a man in his late forties, were discovered in the remains of the master bedroom of the burnt out property….”
“Each bore fatal bullet wounds.”
“The preliminary evidence is that the man killed the women, set fire to buildings and turned the weapon on himself, in a premeditated act.”
`The woman’ had continued: “The identities of the four people are not being released until the relatives have been contacted, but three came from England and one Scotland.
When the woman`left Irene cried. She always did at news of tragedy, but this time he felt her pain. He was also ashamed of his previous response.
The proximity to real death made Irene feel sick.
She missed not being able to share the experience with her daughter and her sister. Bill wished he had not got them involved and wanted to end the holiday. However once the world’s media had assembled and created international interest in what Irene had to say, she relished the celebrity status.
For thirty six hours there had been nothing much for the media to do other than the interviews with Irene, photographing Chubby Chops and scouring the village for gossip, about which the village was initially reserved. The less said the sooner the circus left.
The media obeyed the order not to breach the three meter high, wire mesh fencing, which protected the ground of Little Paradise from chance walkers in the surrounding woods, and they made no attempt to use the helicopters or light planes from the nearby airfield. They obeyed because of a commitment of full access to the site and the promise of information which made heard it all before editors utter oaths of pleasure.
It was not in fact the allegations of a crime of passion or Paul’s antecedents which surprised the professional scandal vendors, but the unconventional behaviour of the authorities with their openness and candour about who the people were, what appeared to have happened, and what they had been up to. For the rest of the month both universal tabloids and the serious broadsheet feasted from official disclosure.
And that should have been, and would have been that, except for the doing up and selling of old village properties as prices rocketed with the municipal decision to change Three Hills from a quite village with a few holiday properties, into a major tourist stop along with St Tropes and the Mayle trail. Public fascination with the macabre and with the sordid, and with those who act out dark desires and fears guaranteed an endless stream of visiting voyeurs. Most of the villagers absorbed and exploited the instant media created legend without question.
Irene’s notoriety continued for a while after they returned to their Carshalton home with its Wallington address. Bill avoided the limelight but supported his wife’s obsessed interest by collating all the available public information. Long after everyone else had stopped discussing the event, Bill had questions, which he did not share with Irene. One of these was why it had been necessary for the French authorities to make direct contact with his children and take statements confirming that they had no contact with the Little Paradise and its occupants.
Seven years later Bill met me in chat room and in the way strangers can quickly talk freely about their past as well as present lives and our respective failure to believe the official story of the deaths at Little Paradise created a bond and renewed determination to uncover the truth.
The only other exit from the valley was a single pot holed track which cut across a wooded plateau before joining the tarmac road created when holiday villas were built on the undeveloped Little Hill.
Several woodland tracks branched across the plateau and one of these led to the villa, the Little Paradise. Although secluded and apart, everyone in the village knew the English owner Paul, and that from early spring to late autumn he entertained parties of young women. Once a fortnight he would bring guests to the only hotel for a meal, and unlike those using the holiday homes, or the commuters, he used the village stores, and out of season, he employed locals to upkeep the property, and he contributed financially to both church and village developments on a regular basis.
There was genuine shock and disbelief at the subsequent revelations.
On this early autumn, midweek night, all but one of the nine holiday villas, with their individual pools, on the upper South and East slopes of Little Hill were unlet, or empty. Even the secretive, middle aged Parisian couple, with their year round flow of friends and loud late night parties, had made one of their rare returns to the capital. Occupying the villa nearest to Little Paradise they stayed away from the subsequent media interest, returning only to clear possessions before placing the property on the market.
The only people in residence were an English couple, the Hancock’s, who were having an extended holiday to mark the husband’s retirement from a life of behind the scenes public service in a government department.
Mrs Hancock was a light sleeper. She had sat up startled, expecting her husband to immediately explain why.
`Something on one of the farms was a response which failed to satisfy Mrs Hancock’s insatiable curiosity.
Bill Hancock had spent many an hour contemplating the rest of his life while pretending to study the assortment of fruit and vegetable growers who filled the coast road plain below Little Hill. It was rare to see something different so concentration on the future would only be broken by the sudden escape of noise. Daytime sounds hung in the air, begging to be noticed, but at night they were unwelcome, disturbing his latest fantasy, built up from a close encounter with a topless nymph on an expedition to a blistering beach at the end of Summer.
No person therefore, was subsequently able to express certainty over the number of shots fired, or at the times they occurred.
This was to prove significant, although the Hancock’s were adamant that there had been a single ricocheting crack sometime after they had been first roused. Mrs Hancock’s widely televised interviews on this point were crucial to media acceptance of subsequent official reports.
With his seasoned understanding of the way the world worked, Bill considered the event funny peculiar, and his instinct was to say nothing in public and make a hasty return to their modest suburban home at Carshalton, in Surrey. However, Irene, Mrs Hancock, argued that after years selflessly accepting the anonymous life required by his work on civil emergency planning, she was entitled to a few seconds recognition on the media stage. She would then readjust to remaining a devoted, loyal wife and mother, furthering and protecting the welfare of her extended family, and enabling Bill to relax and enjoy her retirement gift of life membership to the Oval. The latter would get him out of the house between April and September, and challenge his ambition to move permanently to Southern France. All she had to do was to rekindle his boyhood support for Crystal Palace and she would be safe from his plan. She had been left to bring up the children and make a social life of her own, and now she had no intention of changing routines or relationships, because he wanted to reinvent their lives.
While British media exploited Mrs Hancock’s meagre knowledge, the French and the mainland Europeans, concentrated on Peter Medeme, or more precisely, Medeme`s dog, whose persistent barking continued until Peter went outside his Newlands home to discover what was upsetting the animal. Whether the owner resembling “Chubby Chops” has been affected by the smoke and flames retching above the Little Hill plateau, or something unrelated, never mattered, because immediately Peter looked up, he acted, and within seconds of his phone call, the village siren summoned households into feverish activity.
Apprehension mingled with excitement among the inhabitants of the old village as many had relatives and friends in areas likely to be affected by any woodland fire.
Squads of civilian volunteers made their way to assembly points outside the Town Hall, in the market square, and to the visitor’s car park adjacent to the floodlit boule pitches which were the envy of the Department. At these points they were asked to wait while official services investigated the blaze, and decided if, and how, they would be deployed. After a surprisingly brief period they were advised to return home as the fire only involved the buildings of Little Paradise, and not the woodland.
Thus the quick response of Peter Medeme and Chubby Chops made them instant celebrated heroes.
Meanwhile there had been fear rather than panic in the middle hill properties, and in Newlands valley.
It had been an exceptionally bad year for fires in the region as the scarred landscape along parts of the A.8 testified.
Precautionary preliminaries were commenced by those living closest to the woods before the siren sounded the end of the alert.
Uninformed agitation best describes the reaction of some of the commuters living on estates on the far side of the Three Hills village, along the new bypass road. They could see nothing, and no one took time to contact and explain the succession of fire, police, medical, media and other less conspicuous public vehicles suddenly coming and going along the highway in the middle of the night. Many were unaware that three intermittent blasts on the siren, repeated twice at night, signalled the potential risk of spreading fire in the neighbourhood and called for a general preparedness, and volunteer assembly.
Although, following what Bill recognised from his national service as a gunshot, he had persuaded Irene to return to bed, the sound of the siren provoked both to partially dress, go downstairs and for Irene to make tea while he went outside to investigate, having under her administration, first smothered all bare skin with anti mossi lotion.
Once on the veranda he could see and hear the blaze soaring over the brow of the hill. Although unaware of the specific meaning of the sirens he may have been the only person who made an immediate connection between the gunshots and the fire.
This was the third and final month of the Hancock’s once in a lifetime holiday. After the first two weeks on their own they had been joined in succession by their two married and one unmarried children, together with the three grand children, one belonging to Christine, the eldest, and David’s two, their younger son.
During the first of these family visits they had been persuaded to walk up the hill, along the main track road and discovered Newlands valley, and then the road down middle hill which enabled them to return to Little Hill or go on to the village centre. They had seen the offshoot tracks, but although each family group had re-discovered the valley, they had no knowledge of the Little Paradise villa.
Irene would gain years of vicarious enjoyment from the reported goings on within half a mile of an experience which apart from family visits she had considered a waste of time and money.
Coinciding with venturing outside, Bill had witnessed the passage of the village fire tenders, and then a number of other vehicles. He considered this odd because the quickest way from the village centre to the Newlands valley properties was up middle hill where the road was wide and made up all the way. Perhaps the gunshot and the fire were not connected, but in any event it was not time for speculation
His first reaction was to summon Irene to make an overnight pack while he gathered travel documents and currency, and prepared a flask of coffee.
Experience, based on countless behind the scenes reports of major civil incidents, had forced him to accept the unpalatable conclusion that in a real communal emergency, plans and guidance manuals were of little use. You needed the right people with the right training and both were rare.
The first unwritten rule of emergency planning, therefore, is “there will be chaos,” and which will become worse the greater the number of different agencies involved.
The second rule is, “look after you and yours.”
Just when they were ready to leave the siren sounded again and the passage of vehicles ceased. He then decided that Irene should remain ready while he went to take a look.
Bill liked to make notes. These could not be described as a diary. Before he went back to bed and tried to sleep, he wrote, “The flames quickly changed to smoke, the siren sounded again, an all clear? Roadway quiet again, for a time. I wanted to take a look.” Later he added “in the same way that everyone slows down on the motorway when there is an accident on the other side of the road.”
Irene was so surprised by his decision that she made no effort to restrain him.
His exploration did not get very far, for a manned police barrier blocked the track at the point it branched to Little Paradise. This surprised and made him very curious. After a work time of always having to be sure that his precise whereabouts were known, his first act on arriving at the villa had been to report his presence to the police. He had found a closed part time office. The event brought home the implications of retirement. No one cared anymore about him on a day to day basis. He included his wife and children in this thought.
His French was competent and the officers were not impressed by the explanation that he had a professional interest in emergencies. He was told to wait. Bill became anxious that the length of his absence would worry Irene.
He did learn that there were fatalities, and that he and his wife would be interviewed about what they heard, later that day.
`Their refusal to let me progress was not surprising, `he told Irene, attempting to soften her frustration at being left behind by appearing to recount everything he had said, and had been said to him.
`You know those tracks off into the woods; one of them leads to a large house. The fire has destroyed the buildings but did not spread to the woodland. `
`Was anyone hurt? `
He side stepped the anticipated question using the Whitehall honed technique which avoided having to lie.
`Someone is going to call round with the latest information. `
For thirty years Irene had tolerated his alleged official secrets act evasiveness, but was damned if she was going to put up with it in his retirement.
`There were people then, at the house. Any children? `
`No children, ` giving a partial answer.
`There is nothing for you to worry about. Let’s see if we can get some sleep before its time for me to go for the bread. `
He knew more than he was telling her. He always did, but she did not press further. That was not her way.
When he announced what they were to do, or made a judgement about a matter which she did not share, she never responded, but painstakingly chiselled away until she thwarted his intentions, or better still, got her own way. He knew this and schemed to get his way on something else.
His original plan for the holiday was to find somewhere beachside and cosmopolitan; a taste of sophisticated living and the daily opportunity to look at almost naked female bodies. She had selected this quiet rural setting and accommodation which enabled the family to visit. The concession was the swimming pool and occasional visits to a public beach. He would have time to adjust to the life she had planned for them.
When Bill woke he felt he had not slept.
After years of a sharp, unnatural, waking to catch the 7.29 and which left no time for day dreaming, he now enjoyed returning to bed after a pee, reflecting on the previous day and debating how to use the freedom now available. He had survived Whitehall by keeping careful notes, precise minutes of what he did and said, who was present, who was not, but which offended no one. Invariably when he was subsequently challenged over an issue, however minor, he was able to refresh his memory with the appearance of an accuracy which usually convinced.
In his new situation he could be more open with his opinions, but he maintained the previous approach. He knew that that when out of their home, Irene carefully inspected everything of his. He knew she resented that he had a private world. He understood and still cared for his wife. He remembered the young girl who had given herself completely to him, he remembered the childbirths, the illnesses, and the hours spent helping the children with their home work, attending school activities. He did not resent the life she had created for herself, and wished to maintain.
But he also had no intention of sacrificing whatever life he had left, for her, or for the children.
He wanted more.
There had to be.
Bill had been very good at his job, collating information, preparing reports in the form requested by the upper echelons that got younger as he aged.
If only the young could see the old as having been young, and if only the old could remember when they were.
He did not resent their rapid rise, sweeping in waves around and over him, insisting on the latest staff college, or MBA credo, as much as he did their free life style. Because of his specialist role he rubbed shoulders with service chiefs, those who ran so called voluntary organisations, the cynical men who kidded others they ran local government, and those responsible for the emergency services. He spent a lot of time at committees and in role plays observing the interaction of people and afterwards over lunchtime sandwich, or evening drink, he learnt something of the lives led outside the work role
He had seized the opportunity to retire early on a full pension although he was fully aware that his wife significantly differed in how they should use the time which became available to him.
He wanted a taste. He would settle for a taste of fruit forbidden. Regarded with suspicion by work colleagues as the man who never lost his head Bill was becoming desperate to do so.
The next morning had commenced with a clear, crisp sun, although tinges of smoke lingered.
Bill was not the only regular whose visit to the bakery was late.
The place was full to the door and those who completed purchases struggled to get away. Everyone was intent on buying and going home, but a sombre reserve replaced the usual banter.
News of the grim tragedy had rapidly spread. A man presumed to be Paul, the owner of Little Paradise, together with three young girls, had died in the fire. There was no mention of gunshots, but that the four had been found together in the remains of a bedroom.
Ever since his last visit to the beach Bill had found himself increasingly preoccupied with the sense that he had allowed life to pass him by.
Irene had insisted on sitting in shade to read a Catherine Cookson. He stretched out in the full sun, and after only a short period he had become hot enough to leave the mat and take a long swim.
When he returned he was stunned to find that a young topless creature and her male partner were inexplicably stretched out on their backs in unusual proximity, so that it would be impossible for him to stretch out his left hand without touching some part of her body.
He smiled to himself, and at her, as he lay down but there was no response.
He held breath as he watched from the corner of an eye, her breasts move with natural breathing.
He became the shy adolescent, afraid of girls.
He also became fixed in position and only relaxed when the couple ran into the sea. As casually as he could, he looked over to Irene, but if she had observed the development she showed no indication, concentrating on the book.
Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon. They returned. Sometimes she lay on her tum, sometimes on her back; sometimes she went for a dip alone. Bill became so hot that he decided he had to have another swim even if this meant they had departed by the time he returned.
At first he thought this fear had been realised, as when he got back there was only one mat and towel, by his own, belonging to the male. She must have gone but he wanted to be sure.
Irene came to say she was tired and wanted a drink. He lied and said he wanted so spend a little longer and did not want a drink,
`You go, ` he prayed, and she had.
He would not be long, he would come over and they would go back.
He was rewarded; it was the girl who had been for a dip.
Bill prayed again. Again he was answered.
She lay down on her back, wide eyed.
He could not resist looking at her, not directly, not confrontational, but he knew, she knew, he was looking at her.
Her breathing became stronger while he held his.
He wanted to say, something, anything. He failed.
He went to find Irene and drove to the villa in virtual silence.
The event disturbed him and continued to do so.
He speculated on what might have been.
The news was that a man, perhaps even older than himself, had been found in a bedroom with three young women, disturbed him more than their deaths. This reaction disturbed him even more.
He told Irene about the deaths, pretending he gained the news at the bakery, but he waited till they breakfasted before admitting that the police were coming for a statement about the gun shot. This provoked a morning of conversation, but Irene’s chatter failed to erase images of the girl on the beach, despite the reality that old men with young girls usually ended in disaster.
It was not until they were clearing away the remains of lunch, eaten on the outside table, that the officials arrived: a full car load, three men and a woman, none in uniform.
While Bill had demonstrated his ability to converse in French, the spokesperson, the female, explained that the written statements were to be taken in English and she introduced a bilingual colleague who would assist.
The woman intrigued Bill. For once he did not assess the nature of the flesh under the smart, body shaped cloth.
Who was she?
Why had she really come?
Questions he asked himself but failed to answer.
She had given her name and those of the others, and said what they did, handing her photocard for him to check, but she had effortlessly engaged him in conversation before her details had fixed in his memory. Subsequently he could only refer to her as `the woman,’ which made her even more interesting and mysterious.
He was surprised that after confirming their knowledge of the events of the night, they were required to provide the facts of the holiday visit, including who else had stayed with them, their home details and if any of them could have had contact with the occupants of the villa. The `woman’ also requested information about their lives in England and clarified his former work status especially that he was not permitted to disclose further without prior clearance.
Even before the woman returned with representatives of the English speaking press he had warned Irene to be cautious, but she was not for listening, especially as at the point of departure `the woman’ had revealed the contents of the official statement.
“The bodies of three young women, and a man in his late forties, were discovered in the remains of the master bedroom of the burnt out property….”
“Each bore fatal bullet wounds.”
“The preliminary evidence is that the man killed the women, set fire to buildings and turned the weapon on himself, in a premeditated act.”
`The woman’ had continued: “The identities of the four people are not being released until the relatives have been contacted, but three came from England and one Scotland.
When the woman`left Irene cried. She always did at news of tragedy, but this time he felt her pain. He was also ashamed of his previous response.
The proximity to real death made Irene feel sick.
She missed not being able to share the experience with her daughter and her sister. Bill wished he had not got them involved and wanted to end the holiday. However once the world’s media had assembled and created international interest in what Irene had to say, she relished the celebrity status.
For thirty six hours there had been nothing much for the media to do other than the interviews with Irene, photographing Chubby Chops and scouring the village for gossip, about which the village was initially reserved. The less said the sooner the circus left.
The media obeyed the order not to breach the three meter high, wire mesh fencing, which protected the ground of Little Paradise from chance walkers in the surrounding woods, and they made no attempt to use the helicopters or light planes from the nearby airfield. They obeyed because of a commitment of full access to the site and the promise of information which made heard it all before editors utter oaths of pleasure.
It was not in fact the allegations of a crime of passion or Paul’s antecedents which surprised the professional scandal vendors, but the unconventional behaviour of the authorities with their openness and candour about who the people were, what appeared to have happened, and what they had been up to. For the rest of the month both universal tabloids and the serious broadsheet feasted from official disclosure.
And that should have been, and would have been that, except for the doing up and selling of old village properties as prices rocketed with the municipal decision to change Three Hills from a quite village with a few holiday properties, into a major tourist stop along with St Tropes and the Mayle trail. Public fascination with the macabre and with the sordid, and with those who act out dark desires and fears guaranteed an endless stream of visiting voyeurs. Most of the villagers absorbed and exploited the instant media created legend without question.
Irene’s notoriety continued for a while after they returned to their Carshalton home with its Wallington address. Bill avoided the limelight but supported his wife’s obsessed interest by collating all the available public information. Long after everyone else had stopped discussing the event, Bill had questions, which he did not share with Irene. One of these was why it had been necessary for the French authorities to make direct contact with his children and take statements confirming that they had no contact with the Little Paradise and its occupants.
Seven years later Bill met me in chat room and in the way strangers can quickly talk freely about their past as well as present lives and our respective failure to believe the official story of the deaths at Little Paradise created a bond and renewed determination to uncover the truth.
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