by Alex Walters
'As you say, Inspector.' She gestured vaguely towards the typewriter, indicating the need to get on with her work.
'I know you probably don't like me, Mrs Sheringham. And I'm sure you don't approve of my relationship with Mary–'
'It's none of my business, Inspector.'
'You probably blame me for everything that's happened here over the past few weeks.'
'On the contrary, Inspector. But it's been a great shock. Especially poor DC Marsh.' Even now, Winterman noticed, she couldn't bring herself to use the young man's Christian name. 'He would have gone a long way.' Her eyes were glistening with tears. Not for the first time, Winterman found himself wondering about the mysterious Mr Sheringham.
'It was a great loss–'
'As for that other one,' she went on, almost spitting out the last word, 'I can't pretend I ever really liked him. But he took us all in. I still can't quite believe it.'
'It's hard to credit.'
She looked at Winterman almost as if seeing him for the first time. 'You know, when we heard you were being posted here, we all assumed you were coming to keep an eye on us. Not just to head up the unit, but to spy on us. It was DC Hoxton who put that idea into our heads. Kept grumbling that HQ didn't trust us, thought we must be up to all kinds of fiddles. That was why they were sending another inspector to keep an eye on us.'
'You had an inspector here before.' Winterman remembered the outdated nameplate on his office door. 'DI Cross.'
'We were bigger in those days. Five or six constables, a couple of sergeants and the inspector. The place went into decline, and we expected they were going to shut us down, transfer us all up to HQ. So it was a surprise to hear they were sending another senior officer down here.'
'I think it was mostly to do with getting me out of their hair. You'll have heard the gossip, I don't doubt.'
She didn't take the trouble to disagree with him on the last point. 'That was what DC Marsh said. But DC Hoxton kept grumbling that there was more to it than that. He said that was why Superintendent Spooner kept sticking his nose in down here. Those were his words, you understand.'
'Superintendent Spooner?' Winterman recalled his own surprise at Spooner's informed knowledge about the office and his assumption that Spooner must be close to Mrs Sheringham. 'Did you see a lot of him?'
'Not a lot.' Winterman was interested to note that Mrs Sheringham's skin had taken on a colour which, in anyone else, he might have associated with a blush. 'But he had a habit of turning up unexpectedly. And he phones me regularly. Just for a chat and an update, he says. He always used to ask me a lot of questions about the other members of the team. Especially about DC Hoxton. I suppose the superintendent did have suspicions about what was going on here. DC Hoxton did take a few liberties. With the car, for example. But perhaps the superintendent had some more serious suspicions about DC Hoxton. Perhaps that was why he had you posted down here.'
It was an interesting theory. It had seemed a remarkable coincidence – that it all should have blown up just when Winterman was sent down supposedly out of harm's way. Was it possible that he'd been sent down here for quite the opposite reason? Because Spooner wanted someone to find out what was going on?
Winterman would never know for sure. But it would be typical of Spooner to get someone else to do his dirty work for him, and it made sense of Spooner's odd little speech about who Winterman's friends really were. If it were true, it left Winterman feeling uncomfortably manipulated.
'There's no question Superintendent Spooner has his wits about him.' Looking to change the subject, Winterman gestured towards the typewriter. 'Do you have enough work to be getting on with?'
'Plenty. I was going to have a word with you about these reports.' She pointed to a thin sheaf of papers stacked neatly by the side of the typewriter. 'There are four now. Three from the local constabulary, and one passed down from HQ.'
'Reports?' Winterman reached out and picked up the uppermost typewritten sheet.
'Break-ins. There seem to have been several locally.'
Winterman skimmed quickly through the short report, drafted by one of Brain's counterparts. It was trivial stuff – a burglary in one of the local villages. The intruder had gained access to the rear of an isolated cottage while the owner was away for the night. No obvious damage had been done. The report speculated that the intruder had succeeded in picking an aged lock on the rear door. Only a few low value items had been stolen. The owner had noted a small amount of cash, a few trinkets and ornaments, and some tinned foodstuffs.
Winterman glanced through the remainder of the reports. Similar stories, each a few days and a few miles apart. The last report, prepared by Brain himself, described an apparently identical burglary in a house on the outskirts of Framley. This time, the mode of entry was slightly more puzzling in that there was again no evident damage to the property and the owner had recently fitted modern locks on the exterior doors. Winterman knew from experience, though, that the owners who protested most vocally about the quality of their domestic security were the ones most likely to have forgotten to lock up.
Again, the items stolen were of minimal value. A couple of items of jewellery – which Brain implied had been over-valued by the owner – an overcoat, and, as in the first case, some foodstuffs. Winterman looked up. 'Sounds like some down-and-out. Getting some food and a few bits and pieces he can sell.'
'Or gypsies.' Mrs Sheringham's tone was somewhere beyond disapproval, suggestive of utter bafflement at an alien way of life.
'Sounds more like someone acting alone,' Winterman said, neutrally. 'Have we picked up any reports of anyone unfamiliar in the areas concerned?' It was safe to assume Mrs Sheringham would already have explored these avenues.
'Not really. I spoke to some of the local PCs. There were one or two rumours of strangers but nothing substantive.'
'Do we tend to get many of these kinds of offences locally?' In the town, burglaries were relatively commonplace, but Winterman imagined that out here many people still felt able to leave their doors unlocked.
'Very few. We have a small spate of break-ins a year or so back, but that was a little different.'
Winterman vaguely remembered what Hoxton had told him about Marsh's over-enthusiastic pursuit of the perpetrators. That conversation felt as if it had taken place in another lifetime. 'A little more serious?'
'A little. There were several burglaries at some of the bigger houses in the area. Including Professor Callaghan's if I recall correctly.'
Winterman had little doubt about the efficacy of Mrs Sheringham's powers of recall. 'Professionals?'
'As it turned out, no. We'd assumed it would be. They were stealing some quite valuable items. Ornaments, painting, some jewellery. I remembered Professor Callaghan was particularly exercised because they'd been through his library and had taken one or two rare books. Seemed to know which houses to tackle, and had a good idea which items were most saleable. The experts told us they were likely to be professionals because most of the stolen items weren't things you could dispose of locally.'
'But the experts were wrong?'
Her expression indicated that particular outcome was far from unexpected. 'Apparently. We'd almost given up and handed the case back to HQ. If they were professionals, they weren't likely to be based locally. But DC Marsh had some sort of hunch it was a local matter after all. His view was that the selection of the victims suggested local knowledge. For the most part, they weren't particularly wealthy people. Better off that the average but not exactly rolling in money. DC Marsh thought that even if the burglars themselves were from outside the area, they were obtaining information from someone local. He kept pursuing it, even when we'd more or less given up officially.'
'And he was successful?'
'In the end. He was persistent, and finally he picked up a tip-off from one of his informants. It turned out to be two youths from one of the neighbouring villages. You know the type. They'd been in and out of trouble for petty crim
es. I suppose they'd become a little too ambitious. Anyway, we raided their houses – their parents' houses, in fact – and found several of the stolen items hidden in one of them.'
'Did they admit the burglaries?'
'Denied all knowledge. Even claimed they had no idea how the stolen items had found their way into the house. Didn't even have the nous to come up with a plausible story.'
'They were found guilty?'
'One of them was – the one found with the stolen goods. He's still locked away. It was his third or fourth conviction for theft, and by far the most serious. The other one was acquitted in the end.' She spoke with some disdain. 'His accomplice refused to implicate him and the evidence of his involvement was only circumstantial.'
'That's very interesting. You know, Mrs Sheringham, I think we could make a very effective team.'
For a moment, Winterman thought she smiled in response. A second later, she had returned to her typing with a dismissive nod of her head, and he was left unsure whether it had been anything more than his imagination.
Chapter 79
'I can't believe it,' Mrs Griffiths said. 'After all that's happened–'
Brain shuffled awkwardly across the kitchen floor, struggling as always to find the right words. 'This is nothing, really, Mrs Griffiths. It could have been much worse.' He closed his mouth, recognising from her expression that his attempt at empathy had been typically clumsy. He had been only a word or two from telling her she had been lucky.
'I know I'm making a fuss about nothing, Bryan. But it feels like the final straw.'
'I didn't mean–' Oh, shut up, Brain told himself. Just get on with the practicalities. That's what you're good at. 'I just meant we can get this fixed very quickly. I'll get Bob Pritchard to come and look at it later if he's free. He does all the joinery down at the station.'
Mrs Griffiths peered at the bolt, which had been torn physically from the back door of the house. 'Is it likely to be expensive?'
'I've given Bob plenty of business over the years. This won't take him five minutes. He'll do it for free, I'm sure.' Brain wasn't at all sure but he had already decided that if necessary he would pay for the repair out of his own pocket. 'You didn't hear anything?'
'No. I'm surprised because I'm not a heavy sleeper. But my bedroom's at the front of the house.'
Brain examined the doorframe with what he hoped resembled an expert eye. 'From those scratches, it looks like it was done with a crowbar. If he did it slowly, it probably wouldn't make much noise.'
'What about the lock?'
It was a good question. The lock was old and didn't look particularly robust, but it had been opened rather than broken. 'I'd say he picked it.'
'Sounds like a professional then?'
'I wouldn't assume that,' Brain said confidently. He had already discussed the recent spate of break-ins with his colleagues in other areas, and they had concluded that the culprit was likely to be some itinerant down-and-out. 'If it was a professional, he'd probably have been more choosy about what he took.' Brain didn't add that a professional would probably also be more choosy about the houses he broke into. 'You'd have lost some valuables.'
Mrs Griffiths looked sceptical. It occurred to Brain – characteristically just a few seconds too late – that although the missing items weren't valuable, they had undoubtedly cost Mrs Griffiths money she could ill afford. 'I suppose you're right. Mind you, it's a large part of this week's ration down the drain.'
That was true enough as well, Brain thought. The intruder had helped himself to various foodstuffs – a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, some home-baked biscuits, fruit. 'Have you noticed anything else missing?'
'Not really. I can't swear there's nothing gone because I haven't been through everything yet, but there's nothing obvious.'
'We think it's a vagrant. There've been several break-ins around the area recently, and it's been mainly foodstuffs and odds and ends stolen.'
'Poor soul. I don't approve of this, but you have to feel for someone like that, don't you?'
'I suppose so. There are a lot around. Ex-servicemen, some of them, as well.'
'Makes you ashamed, doesn't it, after everything they did for us. They shouldn't be reduced to this.'
'Times are hard. Though it doesn't justify criminality.' That was the kind of thing, Brain supposed, that a policeman ought to say, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it. 'Is your Mary back here this evening?' He had understood that Mary had not been in the house the previous night when the break-in had occurred. He knew as well as Mrs Griffiths did where her daughter had spent the night, though he assumed it would be tactless to raise the matter.
'She'll be back soon. I'll feel a lot better when she's here. That's the worst thing about this. The thought that someone else was in the house with me and the kiddies. Even if it is just some poor soul down on his luck.'
'I'm sure that's all it is, Mrs Griffiths. But it's not a nice thought all the same. I imagine we'll catch up with him sooner or later. Either that, or he'll move on.'
Mrs Griffiths turned and looked again at the open back door. Outside, there was the small well-tended garden. Beyond that, the open fenland and the dyke where, weeks before, she had found the tiny child's body.
'Let's hope so, Bryan. Let's hope so.'
Chapter 80
Winterman pulled the Wolseley in to the side of road and gazed out at the large Victorian villa. He was still unsure about the wisdom of what he was doing. He told himself that technically he wasn't disobeying Spooner's orders. Spooner had told him not to bother Hamshaw, but hadn't said anything about Professor Callaghan. On the other hand, Winterman couldn't persuade himself that Spooner would be happy.
He climbed out of the car, adjusted his hat and reached back into the car to pull out his raincoat. It had been sunny earlier but the sky had clouded and was threatening rain.
As he made his way up the short front path to Callaghan's door, it opened to review Callaghan standing inside, wearing his hat and overcoat.
For a moment, Winterman felt he had succeeded in catching the older man off guard. Something in Callaghan's expression suggested Winterman's presence was more than merely unwelcome.
If this were the case, Callaghan recovered quickly enough. 'Inspector. What brings you here? I'm afraid it's not a good time, as you can see.' Winterman suspected the tone would have been much less amicable if Callaghan had not had a ready-made excuse to turn him away.
'I'm sorry, sir. I won't delay you more than a moment.'
'I'm afraid you won't delay me even for that, Inspector. I'm really in rather a hurry.' Callaghan was already moving past him.
'Of course, sir. I just wanted to speak to you about some break-ins that have been reported.'
It was a half-hearted attempt to delay Callaghan's progress – Winterman had concluded the chances of doing so were minimal – but, to Winterman surprise, Callaghan stopped and turned, a frown on his face. 'Break-ins, Inspector?'
'Yes, sir. We've had several in the area over the last week or so.'
'Really, Inspector? What does this have to do with me?'
It was a good question. Winterman decided to follow his intuition. 'You haven't experienced any incidents of that kind yourself, sir?'
There was a pause before Callaghan responded. It was only momentary but long enough to give Winterman the true answer to his question. He could sense Callaghan weighing up precisely what information Winterman might have.
'Not in the last week, Inspector. I must say, much as I appreciate your concern, this does seem a highly individualistic approach to policing. Are you proposing to speak to every local citizen?'
Winterman smiled. He now knew two things. First, that Callaghan had indeed suffered a break-in. Second, and much more interesting, that he was prepared to lie about it.
'Am I correct in thinking you did suffer a burglary a year or so ago, sir?'
'I'm sure you've consulted your files, Inspector. I can't recall exactly when i
t was, but yes, I was burgled.'
'Just over a year ago.'
'I don't pretend to understand the significance of this, Inspector, though no doubt you have your motives for accosting me in this way. Are you suggesting this burglary a year ago is somehow connected with the current spate of break-ins?'
'I'm just checking up on some facts, sir.'
'What kind of facts, Inspector? You'll find that the perpetrator of my particular burglary is safely behind bars.'
'So I understand, sir. I also understand that there was a suggestion he might not have acted alone.'
Callaghan blinked, clearly disconcerted by Winterman's level of knowledge. 'As I'm sure you're aware, Inspector, an accomplice was charged but acquitted because of lack of evidence. That might have been avoided if your colleagues had prepared their case more effectively.'
Winterman recalled that the colleague in question had been Paul Marsh. Callaghan obviously had few qualms about speaking ill of the dead.
'Can I ask what was taken in the burglary, sir. I understand there were some books and papers?' When in doubt, Winterman thought, follow your gut. It may not always bring you to your preferred destination, but it gives you an interesting journey.
There was another, almost imperceptible hesitation. 'There was some disruption in my study, if that's what you mean, Inspector. But I fear the burglar – or, as you say, burglars – were rather out of their depth. Some old books were stolen, but only one or two rather ostentatiously bound affairs. Far from the most valuable items in my collection, I'm pleased to say.'
'And papers, sir?'
'Not as far as I could tell, Inspector. I don't recall reporting any missing. Of course, it's possible that something might have been removed from the files but if so it couldn't have been anything of significance or I would have noticed its absence.'
Almost a denial, but not quite. Enough space to allow Callaghan some quick footwork if, for example, it were to turn out that Winterman had tracked down some missing document.