by Danny Miller
‘Je … sus … bloo … dy … we … pt!’
His legs were up in the air, and he flipped over and barrelled down to the bottom of the stairs. As he hit the hall floor, face down, he just managed to raise his head to see the front door opening, a pair of feet darting out, and then the door slamming shut.
Tuesday (1)
The settled morning mist hung like a membrane around the base of the trees, and the ground was hard with frost underfoot. It didn’t take long to find the protestors. There they were, crouched around a campfire, making themselves their morning coffee. In the clearing there was a Volkswagen Beetle and two camper vans, some single tents, and some family-sized ones. There were probably about fifteen people in all. Some looked like out-and-out hippies, others looked like the more thoughtful environmentalist types he’d read about.
As Clive Banes came into view they stopped talking. With his mousy and thinning hair, pilling grey polyester trousers, black moulded-sole BHS shoes and saggy navy duffel coat, he usually looked as inconspicuous and unthreatening as a mild-mannered geography teacher perusing the general-interest section of a bookshop. However, the protestors gathered around the campfire had good reason to be paranoid, and he probably looked like a copper to them.
But he put them at their ease – he was good at that. Banes prided himself on his disarming ability to slip into any guise, to talk to people at their level, befriend them, and gain their trust. It was all part of what he did, what he’d learned as a kid. When you grow up in institutions, you learn how to keep your head down, below the parapet. To keep quiet until danger passes, not speak until spoken to. Just in the same way you learn how to curry favour, to tell good jokes, pay compliments and sing for your supper. You make the best of what talents you’ve got, and when the opportunity strikes – you take it.
‘Hello, hope you don’t mind, I’ve parked down the way there. I heard people were protesting, thought I’d come and take a look. I hope you don’t mind.’ The big smile and wide-eyed innocent look he flashed them seemed to work. They all nodded in recognition. ‘I used to live in Denton. Only spent a couple of years here, when I was a child, then we moved.’ That was good, he thought. It gave him an emotional angle, but if they questioned him on details, he was just a kid at the time. ‘When I heard they were planning on cutting down all the trees and building on the woods, I had to come back, take a look.’
‘What they’re doing is an abomination,’ said an older man, probably in his fifties, in a cagoule and wellington boots. ‘This place has never been officially designated an area of outstanding beauty, so the developers have jumped all over it. They’ll be doing it all over the country if we don’t stop them. Scarring the land with their carbuncles.’
‘Yes. It’s terrible.’
A tall hippy type rose from a crouch. He was wearing camouflage army fatigues, paratrooper boots, and his lank hair was matted together. ‘We have to man the barricades, brother, or they’ll take what’s naturally ours! Are you with us?’
He wanted to say, ‘No, I’m with the Woolwich.’ But they probably wouldn’t be amused, viewing him as capitalist scum. Instead he said, ‘They won’t be building this far in, will they?’
The older man pointed up the path, a path that was big enough to drive up. ‘We’ve got people camped up there to stop them if they try. There are more of us than them, that’s for sure, and our numbers are growing.’
Clive Banes looked impressed, and commended them for their principles and resolve to stand up to such dark forces. They seemed to like what he said, and told him they’d be happy to have him at their side if he wanted to join the protest. The tall hippy picked up a battered-looking acoustic guitar and began to strum it and sing Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is Your Land’. They all joined in.
Mid-song, he waved his goodbyes and made his way up the track. He saw cars and camper vans parked up there too. He carried on until the track petered out to just a muddy path, bordered by denser foliage and trees, impossible to get a vehicle up. Away from the campfire the air smelt earthy, damp, and redolent of pine. A smell, ironically, he recognized from the little scented green tree hanging from the rear-view mirror in his van. On the road in one of those, things could get pretty gamey. Banes lifted his head up to the darkening sky, the trees greedily cramming out what light there was, and breathed in nature. He then spotted a glint of metal. He knew it was his man. Hiding in the woods. It was an Abi Monza 1200 CT touring caravan, circa 1972. The red Ford Cortina with the black vinyl roof was probably about the same age as the caravan. He’d seen the car before. In Longthorn Hospital’s visitors’ car park. He’d made a note of it. It was a good idea of the man he was after, Kevin Wheaton, to be here, to blend in with the protestors. It’s certainly what he would have done, to hide in plain view; there was anonymity in a crowd, even if it was an angry and protesting one.
Banes turned around and walked back down the path, past the little encampment with the hippies, the middle-aged sandal-wearing liberal types and the Rambo done up in his army-surplus chic. He gave them a nod as he passed. They barely acknowledged him. Which was perfect, just what he wanted. There was only one track out of the woods for cars, so he’d wait at the bottom for him. Then he’d follow Kevin Wheaton, and take the necessary action.
It was the 9 a.m. ‘morning scrum’ at Eagle Lane, when a DS or DI stood in front of the incident board where the ongoing cases were chalked up and talked through their progress, or lack thereof.
Whilst the morning scrum was usually held in the CID incident room, with every officer sat at or on their desk, nominally paying attention as they drank their teas and coffees and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, today was different. The team had been ushered by DC Clarke into the conference room, where Detective Inspector Jack Frost was waiting for them. Straight back, arms crossed.
Marked up on a flip chart in big red letters and underlined was a new case: IVAN FIELDING.
But as the troops trooped in, none of them were looking at what was written up on the flip chart, they were all ogling what was laid out along the conference table. There was a large and lavishly decorated Georgian silver-gilt punchbowl; eight tall silver candlesticks; a suite of jewellery by Cartier that contained platinum, ruby and diamond drop earrings, a necklace and bracelet; six oil paintings that had been cut out of their frames, all country scenes, circa 1800; eight Meissen figurines depicting a chamber orchestra; a coin collection featuring Krugerrands and sovereigns; and a large jewellery box out of which were spilling gold chains, brooches and rings like from a pirates’ chest.
‘What’s all this, The Generation Game?’ said DC Arthur Hanlon.
‘More like Going for a Song,’ said DS John Waters.
‘No rotisserie or cuddly toy, bit crap this week,’ joined in PC Simms.
‘Why are you in civvies, Simmo?’ asked the unnecessarily tall Pete ‘Lofty’ Pattison, a DC recently transferred from Rimmington.
‘At least he can find a suit that fits him,’ said Clarke, coming to Simms’s defence.
‘If you love him so much why don’t you marry him?’ quipped Lofty Pattison.
‘Shut up, Lofty, or you’ll be back on traffic duty in Rimmington.’
Once the banter had been quelled, and all the officers were gathered around the table, they got back to their ogling and making impressed whistling sounds, and guessing the value of the items presented.
‘This little lot I found under the floorboards of Ivan Fielding’s home,’ said Frost. ‘Who’s Ivan Fielding? For those that don’t know about the case, he’s a retired art and antiques dealer, found dead at his home Sunday lunchtime. PC Simms first noticed that there’d been a break-in, with his trusty magnifying glass.’
Cheers went up for Simms.
‘Bet that comes in handy when he needs a wazz,’ said Arthur Hanlon.
More laughter. But it quickly petered out as all eyes turned to see Superintendent Stanley Mullett enter the conference room.
‘As you were, as
you were,’ said Mullett, taking a leisurely stroll around the table as he inspected the goods. ‘Carry on, Jack.’ The super picked up the red leather Cartier jewellery case.
‘I believe it’s the good lady wife’s birthday coming up, so we’ll turn a blind eye if you like, sir,’ said Frost.
Everyone laughed, dispelling some of the tension that always built when Mullett entered a room. The Denton superintendent was very hands off, seldom involving himself in the nitty-gritty of the incident room. He was presidential in his approach, preferring to work from his oak-panelled office, into which his secretary, the much-admired Ms Smith, shapely in her tight-fitting trouser suits, would call officers when he wanted to be kept up to date and hand out his instructions. It was an arrangement that suited everyone.
Frost carried on. ‘As Dr Maltby stated in his initial report, Mr Fielding died of a heart attack, and other complications brought on by his alcoholism. Then Dr Drysdale also found there were some marks on his body, his chest and around his neck, which may indicate that there was some kind of struggle before he died. This evidence is weak on its own. But it was our very own eagle-eyed PC Simms who discovered in the kitchen that a square of glass had been cut out of a window. It was a professional job, diamond-tipped cutter, glass removed, latch slipped, then the glass put back in place. And once the burglar was in the house … jackpot. A house that would pay dividends, full of quality goods worth nicking. And yet, nothing was taken.’
‘He’s disturbed by Ivan Fielding, there’s an altercation, Ivan dies, burglar didn’t plan on that and flees the scene empty-handed,’ offered up Hanlon.
‘I think that sounds about right, Arthur. Oh, there was one thing: a painting was discovered to be missing by Ivan’s daughter. It was apparently completely worthless and Ivan might have got rid of it himself. But it’s all in the report.’
Mullett cleared his throat, loud enough for all to look at him. Once he had everyone’s attention, he said, ‘Jack, I’d like a word. Alone, if I may.’
‘Can it wait? I’m in the middle of a briefing.’
‘From what I’ve heard, no, it can’t wait.’ Mullett’s eyes swept those gathered around the conference table and he uttered ominously, ‘Now, please.’
Everyone looked at Frost. Their DI waited a moment, then gave a quick nod. A nod so quick you’d have had to be paying really close attention to catch it. It was the team’s deference to Frost, and not to Mullett, that clearly rankled with the superintendent. It was only when Frost had given them the nod that they filed out of the room, studiously avoiding Mullett as they did so.
Frost could feel his cheeks prickle with anger.
Once the room was cleared, Mullett said, ‘First off, what’s this about DS Waters attending the scene of a crime? He is strictly desk-bound until further notice.’
‘I was on call, he phoned up and asked me if I wanted to go for a …’ He caught himself in time. ‘… a cup of tea. At the local café. We were in the car when I got the call.’
‘I’ve made my position very clear on Waters. We see a bright future for him; his full and carefully managed recovery is of the utmost importance.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s County’s blue-eyed boy.’
Frost and Mullett fixed each other with uncertain looks at that last comment. But the super let it go.
‘I spoke to Chief Pathologist Drysdale,’ said Mullett. ‘He told me about Ivan Fielding’s state of health. And he also told me your ludicrous theory on his fresh shirt. According to you, this whole case hangs on a safety pin from Wilson’s dry-cleaner’s being left in it.’
Frost’s mouth gaped, in both confusion and frustration. Eventually he got it together and said, ‘It was an observation, one of many. I believe that’s what we’re paid for.’
‘A common enough oversight, I’ve done it myself, I even use the same shirt service. What else do you have? A panel of glass was removed? That’s not proof of a burglary; the glass may have been cracked and Mr Fielding might have replaced it himself.’
‘Not according to Forensics. It had been cut, fresh slivers on the kitchen floor.’
Mullett dismissed this point like he was swatting away a fly. ‘It’s thin, Frost, very thin. And without any items being taken, can we really say that it was a burglary?’
Frost went to say something, but Mullett raised his palm imperiously. The super then pulled out a chair and sat down, inviting the DI to do the same. Frost pulled out the chair in front of him and lowered himself down into the seat, gingerly, trying to control the pained grimace that was creeping across his face as each bruised rib and vertebra adjusted to his new position. Once he was down, his spine pressing against the back of the chair, he breathed an involuntary sigh of relief.
Nothing escaped Mullett. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, man?’
‘That’s what I was going to get on to next in the briefing, before you cleared the room. Last night, when I retrieved this little lot’ – he nodded to the swag on the table – ‘there was someone in the house. I obviously disturbed them. They pushed me down the stairs and made their escape.’
‘Did you get a look at them?’
‘It was dark. And I was too busy trying to stop myself from falling down the stairs – I failed on that score. But I did succeed in not breaking my neck. You’ll be happy to hear.’
Mullett wasn’t happy to hear, or certainly didn’t look it. ‘I see no case here. A robbery where nothing was stolen, and a murder where the so-called victim obviously drank himself to death and had a heart attack.’
‘How about the man I disturbed?’ asked Frost incredulously, his ire mounting. ‘The man that may have caused Ivan Fielding’s death and may have returned to get what he couldn’t get before because he was interrupted by Fielding, and may well have struggled with him, causing his death!’
‘Enough, Frost!’
Frost wanted to throw something against the wall, and there was enough ammunition on the table. But his pay packet wouldn’t cover the damage.
Mullett continued, ‘As you say, it was dark, who knows what you saw—’
‘Are you doubting my word?’
‘What time was this?’
‘Midnight.’
‘Where had you been?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Before Ivan Fielding’s house, where had you been?’
‘I was at home.’
‘Before you got home?’
‘Am I being questioned, do I need my union rep?’
‘Do you? It strikes me as a perfectly innocent question. Which I’ll repeat: where were you?’
Frost could see where this was leading. ‘The gym.’
Disbelief contorted Mullett’s face. ‘The what? The where?’
‘There’s a gym in my building.’ Frost smiled to himself. There was no proof that he hadn’t been there. And in the pub he’d been thinking about going to the gym, so put like that, maybe he had – maybe I just bloody well did go to the gym, he told himself.
‘Before or after the gym, and before you got to Ivan Fielding’s, had you been drinking?’
He was scuppered. ‘I resent the implication.’
‘I saw a can of Skol lager in your car.’
‘What were you doing looking in my car?’
‘I could hardly avoid it. As I parked next to you in the car park I saw the bright yellow can of Skol on the dashboard. Highly visible and highly inappropriate, wouldn’t you say?’
Frost stayed shtum; he wouldn’t put it past Mullett to launch an investigation.
‘I take it these are stolen goods?’ asked Mullett, gesturing to the antiques on the table.
‘I have Rita checking the database now, but I suspect so.’
‘Or they may be his property, his private stock, and he was merely hiding them?’
Frost conceded the point with barely a blink.
‘In which case, again, if they are, they get handed to the next of kin, I imagine, or the tax man. Whichever comes first. I
f they are stolen goods, then you are to hand the case over to the Stolen Art and Antiques Squad. We have one blot on the landscape – the protest against the Denton Woods development. We know they have bused some protestors on to the site – outside agitators to stir up trouble. And we’ve been informed that there are more coming, and intel has told us that amongst them will be anarchists, communists and hooligans spoiling for a fight. Assistant Chief Constable Winslow wants us to up our policing of the area. We want the situation under control and we want to police them firmly.’
‘Half our uniformed officers, and some of Rimmington’s, are on the case already. I don’t see what else we can do. Bring in the tanks? I don’t think we’ve got another Greenham Common or a miners’ strike on our hands, do you?’
‘Have you heard of Operation Country Mile?’
Frost had. It was supposed to be secret, but everyone had heard about it. ACC Winslow, Mullett and the other County supers had hatched the plan. It involved taking pictures of and finding out as much as they could about the protestors, to investigate them, be on the front foot, seek out the agitators and those with ‘subversive’ political ideologies and ‘police them firmly’. Proactive policing. Don’t sit back passively and wait for things to happen, bring the fight to them.
‘No, sir,’ said Frost. ‘Not heard a whisper. Sounds intriguing.’
This put a smile on Mullett’s face, tins of Skol lager in the Metro seemingly forgotten as he launched into explaining Operation Country Mile. It held priority over everything, and he wanted most of CID concentrating on that. Frost nodded along to this, making all the right noises to Mullett, whilst all the time not giving a monkey’s cuss about Operation Country Mile, and what the top brass considered politically or morally acceptable. He was going to crack on with solving a murder case.
Tuesday (2)
Frost was flat on his back on his office floor, looking up at the post-mortem report that had just scrolled off the fax machine. It was pretty much as Mullett had predicted. Ivan Fielding had died of a heart attack and renal failure brought on by alcoholism; the red marks around his neck and bruising on his chest and collarbone were deemed inconclusive by Drysdale, and probably the result of advanced cirrhosis of the liver. The ‘deemed inconclusive’ gave Frost grounds to keep the case open, but not enough to assign to it officers and man-hours.