by Danny Miller
Tuesday (6)
‘It’s very … awful. I mean, no offence, but you can tell it’s the work of a madman. Or a two-year-old child. Or a mad two-year-old child. Mmm?’
‘He wasn’t always that way,’ said Kevin Wheaton with an earnest tone in his voice. ‘The system did it to him.’
Clive Banes nodded his approval at that. ‘So true, Kevin, so true. No truer statement ever made than that one. The system did it.’ Banes turned away from the painting that was propped on the small blue Formica table in Kevin Wheaton’s caravan. Either side of the table were padded benches that could be converted into beds. Banes and Kevin Wheaton were drinking beers.
‘What happened there?’ asked Kevin as Banes lifted the can of Hofmeister to his lips.
Banes looked at the still livid stripes on the back of his hand. ‘A cat scratched me. Big … ginger Tom sat on a wall. I think I might need a tetanus jab. Teach me to be so good-hearted.’ Kevin looked like he was about to share a tedious cat anecdote, so Colin cut to the chase. ‘So, you’ve found no clues on the painting, nothing that means anything to you?’
‘Like I said, nothing. You saw yourself, nothing on the back, nothing hidden on it. I’ve looked all over.’
‘Tell me again, what he told you.’
‘Conrad?’
With an edge of impatience to his voice, Banes said, ‘Yes, Conrad, of course.’
‘When he got ill, knew he was dying, he just told me he pulled off a big job and buried the loot in Denton. Didn’t tell where he’d got it from and I didn’t ask. I did ask him where, but he couldn’t tell me. He just said he’d done some paintings, paintings that showed where it was buried. And he gave them to his old friend Ivan Fielding.’
‘Paintings?’
‘Yeah, painting. He liked painting. Wasn’t any good at it, but he liked it.’
Banes leaned forward, to spell it out for the thief. ‘No, you said paintings. Paintings. Plural, as in more than one.’
Kevin took a swig of his beer and pondered this. ‘Yeah … so I did. Paintings. I think that’s what he said – in fact I’m sure he did. But this was the only one I found at Ivan’s. I mean, unmistakable. I’d seen Conrad’s paintings over the years, they used to let him out into the grounds to paint. And they were all rubbish. Like this, but different. But all rubbish.’
Banes stood up and considered the picture again. Not that he really needed to, the tight little two-berth caravan offered more or less the same perspective wherever you stood. The composition was mainly blue for the sky, green for the land, some brown lines for trees, maybe some stumps and logs. He got close to the painting, and with his finger he traced what could have been a hill that went up sharply and off the canvas.
‘That makes sense. Cunning old Conrad: he sent them one at a time so you couldn’t get the whole picture. So it wouldn’t mean anything until you had them all, like a jigsaw puzzle.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Banes shrugged. ‘Maybe he thought it was safer, in case it got into the wrong hands. Maybe it was his way of toying with us. Who knows how his mind was working towards the end.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, what did he tell you about the painting?’ said Kevin.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Yes. Nothing.’
‘Well, he must have told you something, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘You’re not going to like this, Kevin.’
‘I’m not too sure I like you anyway, Clive.’
Banes smiled; it was sly and knowing. ‘Conrad told me that he’d told you where he’d buried his fortune. He said, “Kevin knows.” And that after he died, you were going to find it.’
Banes was right, Kevin didn’t like this. ‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘You didn’t know about the painting?’
‘No. Not until you told me.’
Kevin Wheaton drained his can of Hofmeister and crushed the tin in one effortless clench. Banes saw the power in the stocky thief’s frame, and slipped his hands into his coat pocket. Ready for whatever Kevin might want to throw at him – a punch perhaps, a barrage of indignant rage and swearing. Whatever it was, he was ready.
But all he got from Kevin was another question: ‘Did you know about Ivan?’
‘No. Not until I got to Denton, then I read about it in the local paper. The death of an art dealer. Seemingly natural causes. Signs of a break-in at his home. Police still investigating whether they’re connected. It was the kind of thing I was looking for. I put two and two together. Doesn’t take a genius to work it out.’
‘So all you had to do was follow me?’
Banes considered this carefully before answering. ‘You could say that. But don’t feel bad about it. Conrad gave you some information, and you got the painting. Conrad gave me some information … and now I’ve got you.’
Kevin shot to his feet, his inky fists clenched, blue blotches against white, bloodless, furious. ‘I loved Conrad! I loved him like a father … You were just a fucking screw!’
‘No, Kevin, I was never that, I was an orderly in the infirmary. I was there to look after him, to make sure he was comfortable …’
‘I should kill you now! Who would know?’
Banes closed his eyes and breathed steadily, almost Zen-like in his concentrated calm, his eyes closed to the danger in front of him. His hands in the pocket of his heavy duffel coat, his right shaping itself around the haft of the ball-peen hammer. He counted to eighteen in his head. Then the next thing he heard was the familiar sound of gas escaping from a can of beer as the ring was pulled. Banes opened his eyes to find Kevin sat back down and glugging on a new can of Hofmeister.
‘Kevin, you’re not a killer. You’re a good man who’s lucked into a fortune.’
‘And what are you?’
‘The man who’s going to make sure you realize that dream of the good life and help you get your hands on that fortune. The reason Conrad told me about you was because he loved you, he loved you like a father would. He died without issue, you were the closest he ever came to a son and heir. He thought the world of you, Kevin, wanted you to have his fortune. And the way I looked after him, he trusted me. He trusted me to look after you, he wanted me to look after you. That’s why I’m here, Kevin, to look after you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Well, that’s not strictly true, is it? I mean, you’re already being sought on a potential murder charge.’
Kevin balled his fist and hammered it down on the fold-out Formica table, almost snapping it off its aluminium hinges. ‘I never killed anyone!’
Banes made some placating gestures, then in a hushed voice said, ‘I know that, but the law don’t. So we have to make sure they never find out, right?’
Kevin Wheaton wasn’t the sharpest knife in the caravan cutlery drawer, Banes knew that. But he wasn’t entirely stupid and without qualities. And he wasn’t a killer; Banes knew that was one quality he didn’t possess. So there Kevin sat, looking daggers at him, but not prepared to actually take one out and plunge it into Clive Banes’ chest. With this little fact firmly established between them, Banes pressed on.
‘We can work together, Kevin.’
‘Why should I trust you? You’re just some geezer who happened to be at Longthorn.’ His anger returned. ‘You weren’t a friend of Conrad’s, you’re just a bloody screw!’
‘No, Kevin, that’s not true. You see, I may not have known Conrad as long as you, but it was my preordained fate and good fortune that I should meet him. You see, I was sitting in a pub one day, just minding my own business, reading the classifieds. I was between appointments and was looking for a “new challenge”, as they say. I got talking to a couple of blokes who saw me circling jobs in the paper. They were temps who worked at Longthorn. They said they were always looking for people. I had some experience working in a retirement home, said I’d
give it a try. They told me some of the funny stories about some of the nutters they had locked up there. One of them, who worked in the infirmary, said there was an old bloke in there, dying of cancer, kept calling out in the night that he had stolen a fortune and buried it.
‘These blokes in the pub didn’t take him seriously. Why would they? The place was full of nutcases. They told me his name. Conrad Wilde. For some reason, it stuck in my head. I liked the name, it was impressive. So I did my research. Looked through library press cuttings, archives, made it my purpose to find out about Conrad Wilde. You could say, Kevin, that I got a bit obsessed with it, like a detective. I found out that Conrad was a top-class burglar, a master of his trade. I also found out something else. What do you know about the Bond Street Burrowers?’
Kevin Wheaton, with his mouth ajar, shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’
‘In 1967 an undisclosed fortune was stolen from a vault in a private bank. Shortly after the robbery, Conrad Wilde was sent away to prison for an old job he’d committed much earlier. As we know, he never resurfaced. And neither did the proceeds from the Bond Street job. Coincidence? I don’t think so.’
Kevin Wheaton’s dull eyes sparked into life. ‘You think Conrad did the job and buried it here?’
‘Very good, Kevin. And once I put two and two together … I applied for the job at Longthorn. And one week later I was working in the infirmary and making myself known to the great man. Gaining his trust. Sneaking him in fine ten-year-old malts and those big cigars he liked. We became friends. He trusted me. And I knew it wasn’t the morphine-addled rant of some madman. I asked him about the ’67 job. He winked at me, but he would never say for definite if he’d pulled it off. Did he tell you?’
Kevin shook his head blankly. His answer seemed genuine enough, but still Banes was doubtful. In these situations, he’d learned, there was always something to hide.
‘Are you sure, Kevin?’ he pressed.
Again Wheaton balled his fist, but stopped short of hitting the table, as it looked like it couldn’t take another pounding. ‘I bleedin’ said he didn’t, and he didn’t. That’s the way it is with thieves. You don’t ask too many questions or you come across like a grass. Conrad told me what he wanted to, and that was good enough for me.’
‘I believe you. And I hope you believe me when I say there’s a fortune buried out there, and it’s my destiny to find it. And it’s yours too, Kevin. You believe that, don’t you?’
Kevin finished his German lager. He was calm now. In fact, Banes could see that Wheaton seemed almost hypnotized by his words; his clear and measured explanation was obviously comforting to him. The none-too-bright thief was finding succour in someone else knowing what they were doing, taking charge and showing him the way. Wheaton said he believed him.
Banes stood up, stretched, and stamped some life back into his feet that had been tucked under the little table. The flow of blood gave him a renewed sense of urgency. ‘We have to act fast, in case anyone else knows.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I know for a fact that the morphine loosened his tongue, that’s how I found out. The blokes I met in the pub who used to work there and told me about him, they obviously knew. But I’m wondering, who else did he tell?’
‘Who else would believe him?’
‘I did. All it took was some research. A little effort.’ Banes turned his attention back to the painting. ‘Which brings us back to this little puzzle here.’ He sat back down on the vinyl padded bench opposite Kevin to ponder the picture.
‘Another beer?’
‘Very kind of you, Kevin, very kind.’
As Kevin pulled two beers out of the fridge, Banes picked up the evening edition of the local paper that was folded on the bench beside him. It was the one Kevin had been reading in the pub. The front-page story about the Denton Woods protest had piqued Banes’ interest earlier and he read on avidly.
Wednesday (1)
‘Why exactly are we meeting here?’
‘I’m having my office refurbished.’
‘Really?’
‘You sound surprised, Stanley?’
‘I confess I am. I always thought it was … rather perfect as it was.’
Stanley Mullett had been called to this 7.30 a.m. walk around the duck pond in Rimmington Green Park by Assistant Chief Constable Winslow. Both men were sheathed in their police-issue overcoats to keep out the biting cold; the winter sun wasn’t due to make an appearance for at least another hour. The pond was large enough that three times around it was more than adequate exercise for this time of day. Winslow swore by it as his daily constitutional. He enjoyed throwing some stale bread to the flotillas of ducks and the stately hissing swans, prodding the occasional rough sleeper to move on, and he’d even boasted of stopping a mugging once. But for Mullett, being asked by Winslow to join him seemed most irregular, most irregular.
‘I’m a firm believer that one’s office space should reflect the occupant.’
Mullett agreed. Then he gave an involuntary shiver as the thought of Jack Frost’s abomination of an office flashed through his mind. ‘So what are you having done to the office?’
‘Bigger. Just made bigger.’
Mullett had always known it was wise to attach himself to Winslow’s star, he was nothing if not ambitious, and certainly on the up.
‘How’s Operation Country Mile going?’ the ACC asked.
‘Very good. Keeping order, gathering intel. We’ve already identified some subversive forces. Though they’re rather easy to spot, mainly because they have Anarchy written across their T-shirts and leather jackets, and most have anti-social haircuts.’
‘Anti-social haircuts?’
‘Oh, you know, dyed lurid colours, spiked, or just unkempt.’
‘Yes, yes. Although, to be honest, they’re not the ones to worry about. As you say, easy to spot, the foot soldiers. The prince of darkness is a gentleman.’
‘Sorry?’
‘An expression. He won’t come snarling, swearing and spitting into the world like Sid Vicious, he’ll be sedately dressed, blending into the populace so as to quietly plan and spread sedition and goad the crowd into action with misinformation – then he’ll slip away quietly into the night.’
Mullett mulled this over. Winslow was well read, privately educated, and knew how to turn a phrase to stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood of his troops.
‘Don’t be fooled, Stanley, they’re as likely to be the sock-and-sandal followers of Mr David Steel’s Liberal Party as they are the beret-wearing brigade of the Socialist Revolutionary Party.’
Mullett was about to congratulate him on this observation, when Winslow stopped in his tracks, reached into the brown paper bag he held in his black-leather-gloved hand and turned his attention to the pond.
‘The red-breasted merganser, and my favourite, the tufted duck. See his fulsome plumage, rather like your colourful agitators at Denton Woods.’
Winslow threw them all the bread in the bag. With this act, the volume at the pond got turned up significantly. Lots of squawking, clattering of bills and flapping of wings. Then the natural pecking order was restored when a grand swan sailed into the fray like an ocean liner surrounded by the smaller grey tugboats of her cygnets.
‘Beautiful creatures. But I hear they can break your arm with a flap of their wings. Anyway. We need to talk about Inspector Frost.’
Mullett hated the way the ACC had rolled that name over his tongue. It sounded like he was contemplating two extremes: either he was going to promote Frost above Mullett, or sack him for harbouring the recalcitrant detective in his police station.
‘What about him?’
‘Whilst most of your CID has been seconded to Operation Country Mile, he seems to be pursuing a burglary.’
‘Well, in all fairness, there are extenuating circumstances—’
‘Yes, I know all about the Ivan Fielding case. I’m not at liberty to tell you everything, because everything has not been m
ade clear even to me. But I have been advised that Eagle Lane CID should drop the case, certainly, for now, anyway.’
Winslow turned his attention away from the ducks, who were also turning away from him once they saw him scrunch up the brown paper bag and put it in the bin. The ACC carried on walking. To Mullett, he seemed agitated, on edge, put into a position he didn’t much care for.
‘Frost has a habit of digging into cases that appear dormant. But to his credit’ – and it pained Mullett to admit it – ‘his instincts, if not always his actions, have proved fruitful in the past.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But in this case, they won’t.’
‘Sir, his investigation is only three days old, I think it’s too early to “drop it”, and I don’t know how we could. Fielding’s family and friends will be expecting answers.’
‘I didn’t say it isn’t to be investigated, just not by Frost, or the Denton force. The case will be looked at, eventually. But I believe Dr Maltby’s report and Dr Drysdale’s post-mortem results give a more than adequate account of Ivan Fielding’s demise.’
Mullett looked surprised at this. This was low-grade detail for someone as lofty as Winslow. ‘Yes, sir. But there is the matter of the suspected break-in, and the stolen antiques concealed under the floorboards and—’
Winslow coming to an abrupt halt was enough to stop Mullett talking. He was shorter than Mullett, but still managed to stare him down.
‘There are ducks that need to be lined up. There are higher forces at play here, Stanley. Forces that go right to the top. Do I make myself clear?’
Higher forces … ducks. At times like this, Mullett really did wish he was in the Masons, as he knew Winslow to be – he even knew which lodge and his position in it. Then he was sure whatever it was could be made clear with a handshake, and he of course would follow unquestioningly. As it was, he was left flailing in the wind. Every exchange with Winslow or other superiors, no matter how casual, felt like an audition for the favoured fraternity. Mullett always suspected that to gain entry to that hallowed lodge he would be set a series of undisclosed moral tests. And this, with its whiff of secrecy and ‘higher forces’, made him feel especially tested. He had to tread carefully; if he followed Winslow’s orders too slavishly, he’d be viewed as weak-willed and disloyal to his own team at Eagle Lane. If he proved too intractable, he’d be considered an unreliable rebel, like one of those sock-and-sandal prince-of-darkness liberal types that Winslow so despised. Mullett erred on the side of caution.