Not even Ed missed the days of rewinding and fast forwarding tapes.
They reached the second floor.
Bev was sitting behind one of the eight desks in the large office that the detectives who weren’t involved in the HOLMES Room functions worked from.
‘Morning Bev,’ Sam said. ‘What have we got then?’
There was nobody else in the office; everybody already out and about.
‘Not a lot,’ Bev said. ‘Guy goes into the shop, buys the headlight. It’s the only one sold on Saturday anywhere for miles. The quality of the CCTV is good; the chances of identifying the buyer are not.’
‘Why?’ Ed asked, moving behind Bev so he could see the screen.
‘Keeps his head down, keeps his baseball cap low.’ Bev said.
Bev tapped one of the keys. The inside of the shop came into view. Bev was right; the quality was TV-like.
‘Here he comes,’ Bev said, touching the screen to point him out.
Sam and Ed watched him walk into the shop, head bowed, black baseball cap pulled low and join the queue. After the three men in front were served, he propped himself against the counter.
He never looked up.
After a short conversation, the salesman walked away, presumably to the stores, and returned soon after carrying a cardboard box. The man in the baseball cap nodded, handed over a note, took his change and walked out past the people who had formed a new queue behind him.
‘Would the storeman recognise him again?’ Ed asked, standing up straight.
‘He doesn’t think so,’ Bev said, without looking away from the screen. ‘You saw how busy it was the few minutes our man was in. It was like that all morning apparently. Always is on a Saturday.’
‘Blue jacket, dark brown trousers, and white trainers.’ Sam said. ‘Not exactly distinctive.’
Ed asked Bev to zoom in on the man’s feet.
Ed moved closer to the screen. ‘Thought so. Stan Smith trainers. Re-released this year. They’re more of a fashion statement now for the young and trendy but chummy there doesn’t walk like a young gun. More likely to have worn them years ago and fancied going retro.’
Ed asked Bev to play the footage from the Shots And Saves complex.
She minimised the film they’d just watched and keyed up another.
Ed leaned forward, peering at the screen. ‘Same cap, same clothes, same trainers.’
Same walk?
‘Play it again Bev,’ Ed said. ‘Watch how he walks in comparison to the guy who bought the headlight.’
Ed walked to the window and rested his back on the windowsill while Sam and Bev studied the screen.
‘See how he seems to bounce on his heels?’ Ed asked them.
Sam and Bev nodded.
‘But more importantly,’ Ed continued, ‘it’s the way his arms hang loose by his sides with the palms facing backwards. Now play the one of him walking with Pritchard before the abduction.’
Ed remained by the window. He’d seen everything he needed.
‘You’re right,’ Sam said, concentrating on the screen. ‘Same walk, same cap, same clothes and as we’ve said before, it’s as if he’s surveillance trained.’
Ed rejoined them at the laptop, the last image still frozen.
‘That walk’s pretty unique,’ he said. ‘Not enough for identification granted but I knew a cop who walked like that. I just need to pop out. I’ll bring you up to speed when I get back.’
‘Before you go,’ Sam asked. ‘The cop you’re talking about. Surveillance trained?’
‘And then some,’ Ed said. ‘One of the best DCs in Hampshire. Undercover specialism...’
He paused for effect. Sam and Bev stared, waiting.
‘Infiltrating paedophile rings.’
Chapter Forty-One
John Elgin trudged through the streets, hands in pockets and head down, eyes hiding under the peak of his Harris Tweed Gold Barleycorn Baker Boy hat. He needed to speak with Harry Pullman, see if there was any progress on the tape.
He scanned the car park. Harry’s car was there. The 4x4 and BMW from yesterday were not.
The pub doors were open.
Elgin quickened his step and took off his cap as he stepped over the threshold.
He’d never seen the barman before: thick neck, thick arms, hands like shovels, polished head, no more than twenty five, wearing a white tailored shirt and black trousers.
Definitely more at home in front of the door than behind the bar.
‘Pint of Peroni please.’
Not even a grunt in response.
Elgin put the five pound note in the barman’s hand. It looked like a postage stamp.
‘Where’s Harry?’
‘Left,’ the barman said, bending down to rearrange some glasses on the bottom shelf, like a circus contortionist in the space made tight by his bulk.
‘What, for an hour or two?’ Elgin asked. ‘When’s he due back?’
The barman stood up and leaned across the bar on his huge arms. ‘Left as in packed in.’
Elgin stopped dead with the Peroni still six inches short of his lips.
‘You’re kidding,’ nonplussed, disbelieving. ‘When did all this happen?’
The barman turned and fiddled with the optics. ‘You auditioning me for Mastermind? How the fuck do I know?’
He spun on his heels, surprisingly deft for a big man.
‘They needed a new manager, rang me and hey-presto, here I am.’
He stretched his hand towards Elgin. ‘Jason Tonks.’
Elgin’s hand was enveloped in a bear’s paw with a vice-like grip.
‘Now, I’m here to serve, you’re here to drink. I’m not here to answer questions.’
‘Well you can answer mine.’ Ray Reynolds walked to the bar wearing a pair of bright yellow golfing trousers.
Jason Tonks looked him up and down: ‘You’re either wearing those as a joke or you’ve just finished your Ronald McDonald shift and forgot to change. Jesus.’
Reynolds turned to Elgin. ‘Alright John. Who’s the comedian?’
Elgin looked at the barman. ‘Jason Tonks meet Detective Superintendent Ray Reynolds.’
Tonks remained impassive.
‘Retired,’ Reynolds said. ‘I’ll have a pint of…’
He walked along the bar looking at the hand-pulls. ‘Titanic Plum Porter.’
He stared at the barman. ‘Let’s hope you last longer than the ship.’
Reynolds smiled. The barman didn’t.
‘Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it young man. Now where’s Harry?’
‘Gone,’ Tonks told him. ‘Left.’
‘Gone where?’ Reynolds asked.
Luke appeared from the cellar. ‘Warmer climes Mr Reynolds, warmer climes.’
Luke walked to the punters’ side of the bar and sat on a bar stool. ‘Do me a mug of tea, Jason.’
He looked up at Reynolds, one arm resting on the bar.
‘After what happened to dad, Harry decided things wouldn’t be the same so he took early retirement,’ Luke said. ‘Can’t say I blame him. We gave him a nice package.’
He glanced at the Rolex on Reynolds’ wrist.
‘Obviously not as good as yours, but we can’t all get police pensions. He asked me to say goodbye.’
Reynolds picked up his pint. ‘All a bit sudden?’
Luke shrugged, kept the story spinning.
‘Nothing to hang around for,’ he told Reynolds. ‘Wife gone, just him and Dean. Said he was going to London and then off, flying to wherever. Said he might try Argentina.’
Reynolds sipped his beer, nodded his approval to Jason Tonks.
‘Never mentioned anything to me,’ another drink, two swallows this time.
‘Why would he? Once the filth always the filth.’
Luke smiled and waited for a reaction. He got none.
‘Harry enjoyed reading about escaping Nazis and loved Diego Maradona,’ Luke enjoying himself, seeing how far he could go.
‘Argentina seems the perfect combination. He said he might go and watch Boca Juniors, Maradona’s first club.’
Reynolds watched him, face blank, and raised the pint back to his lips.
‘He discussed a lot with you in a few hours,’ he said mildly, not taking the bait.
‘He certainly did,’ Luke told him. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.’
‘Talking of irons, where’s your Mat?’ Reynolds licked foam from his top lip.
Luke grinned. ‘Another one who wanted to travel, get away from this place.’
‘Everybody seems to be flying away,’ Reynolds took two more mouthfuls of the black liquid. ‘Or have they gone swimming?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Word is,’ Reynolds said, putting the glass back on the beer mat, ‘your dad liked to see people having a splash in the water.’
The grin had vanished but like Reynolds, Luke was keeping his reactions in check.
‘I wouldn’t know about that Mr. Reynolds. I was just a kid when you and dad were sparring.’
He looked at his Omega. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a business to run.’
Luke walked back behind the bar, a look to Jason Tonks as he passed and headed for the cellar.
‘Fancy a seat John?’ Reynolds asked Elgin, who had watched the exchange without a word.
They chose a table in a quiet corner.
‘What do you make of all that then?’ Reynolds asked.
‘Not my job Ray,’ Elgin uncomfortable. ‘Not yours anymore. None of us getting any younger.’
‘Did Harry get the package you needed?’ Reynolds asked.
Elgin looked around. ‘Not here Ray. I appreciate the advice you gave me when I rang but the matter’s closed now.’
Reynolds sighed and looked into Elgin’s face.
‘John you’re not at one of your council meetings. Did you get it or not?’
Elgin looked away, shook his head. ‘No.’
Reynolds finished his drink and stood up.
‘Must dash. Catch up with you later John. Keep smiling.’
Declan Doherty fiddled with his red neckerchief as he leaned against the bonnet of his black pick-up.
Watching the youngsters chasing each other around the caravans always made him smile. Others would be arriving throughout the week with their parents and grandparents, Saturday’s wedding getting closer by the minute.
He still found it hard to believe she was seventeen and all grown up.
Where had it all gone? Those years since he married in Seaton St George? It seemed one night he went to bed a teenager and when he woke he had a wife, two daughters a grandson and two granddaughters.
At 61 he had already outlived the 33% of his community who die before they’re 59.
The wedding venue, booked and paid for by a friendly Gorgio, would be kept secret, announced only after the marriage ceremony. That was the way.
No Gorgio establishment wanted a gypsy wedding; no grandfather of the bride wanted its location made public and the big day ruined because the hotelier got wind of it and cancelled.
He watched the car approach and park in between the pick-ups and Mercedes, watched the police officer get out of the car.
‘Morning Declan,’ the policeman said.
‘And a fine one at that. What can I do for you?’
‘More what I can do for you.’
The men shook hands, a mutual respect going back decades.
‘You’ll be wanting a drink.’
‘I’m fine. I don’t want to keep you. It’s just a quick visit.’
‘Do you want to go inside?’ Doherty indicated his twin-axle caravan.
‘Thanks, but this won’t take long. Mary O’Neil.’
‘What about her?’ Doherty wondering where this was headed.
‘Luke Skinner’s been telling everybody how he picked her up when she was in town last year, took her to one of their pubs, gave her a few drinks and then filled her with his Gorgio man-seed. His words not mine.’
Doherty gave it some time. ‘And you’re telling me this because?’
The policeman was scanning around the site, taking it all in.
‘I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I thought you should know what he’s putting about.’
Doherty said: ‘In case I want to take the law into my own hands you mean?’
Now it was the policeman’s turn to let a short silence speak.
‘Luke might be a loose cannon now his dad’s dead, but what you do with the information is a matter for you.’
Doherty spat on the ground.
‘I heard about Billy,’ he said. ‘No loss. They’re all low-life scum.’
He kicked a stone with his brown brogue boot.
‘But I thank you for taking the time to come and tell me,’ Doherty said. ‘Better than one of the hot-heads overhearing it in the pub.’
The men shook hands.
‘Enjoy the wedding,’ the policeman said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very proud.’
Declan Doherty nodded, smiled.
Same old fox; never misses a trick.
‘And don’t worry,’ the policeman told him. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
Doherty watched him drive away, took the tobacco tin out of his waistcoat pocket and rolled a cigarette. Mary O’Neil wasn’t married but she was one of theirs.
He put the cigarette to his lips, licked the paper, sparked-up with his trusty Zippo.
Only cheeky bastards like the Skinners would dare say something like that.
Within twenty minutes it was standing room only in his van. He had sent the women away. He spoke eloquently and despite the expected resistance he got his way.
Within an hour of the policeman leaving, four pick-up trucks, without registration plates, screeched into Scaramangers’ car park.
Pixie Carlton was in one of them.
Declan Doherty had argued for his inclusion: someone who had suffered like he had deserved to be present when the Skinners got theirs, and he wasn’t so blind to see what his girls already felt for the outsider.
Had Jason Tonks checked the live-stream CCTV he would have seen what was coming...15 armed men marching across the car park en masse, aggression mixed with honour and a dose of outrage.
Pixie wasn’t allowed out of the pick-up.
Pick-axes and iron bars were a sign to anyone passing by they weren’t just calling for a quiet one.
When the door burst open, an Apache war cry hit the pub like a sonic boom and although they had probably never read him, what followed was straight from the teachings of military strategist Sun Tzu - subduing your enemy without fighting is the supreme art of war.
Jason Tonks’ mind wasn’t fast enough. He was dragged across the bar and smashed over the back of the head before his brain ordered his body to react.
One of the invaders, a tall, wiry man with black curly hair, shouted: ‘We have no beef with anyone in here. Leave now. Do not speak to the police about this. Ever.’
Everyone, including John Elgin, rushed forward quicker than punters scrambling for a ‘Black Friday’ bargain.
Three travellers stood at the front door ushering everyone out.
The tall wiry one pulled Tonks’ head up by his ear. ‘You the boss man here?’
‘Yes.’
‘We want Luke Skinner. Where is he?’
‘Out.’
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get up and walk out without looking back. Understand?’
Tonks nodded.
‘Anyone upstairs?’
‘No’
‘On your way then.’
Tonks, still dazed, staggered past the three men at the front door.
One of the gang went downstairs and disconnected the CCTV system while two removed the cameras. The kit would be recycled, sold in another town. They’d all get a drink out of it.
Two ran to one of the pick-ups. One grabbed a number of plastic crates; one grabbed the large jerry can.
>
Every bottle of spirit in the pub was put into the crates. Thanks to Mat Skinner and Geoff Mekins smashing everything up on Friday, the stock was high and the bottles full.
The floor was then doused in petrol, the biggest puddle under the window.
Booze, CCTV and men all loaded, pick-ups off the car park, the tall, wiry one stuffed a rag into a half full bottle of whisky - Irish for luck - lit the rag and hurled the bottle through the window.
He was sprinting away while the bottle was still airborne and launching himself into the nearest truck as the first explosion spread orange flames ten feet high.
The pick-up convoy sped away.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘It’s already kicking off with the Skinners,’ Sam said, looking up from her computer as Ed appeared in the doorway. ‘Scaramangers has been torched.’
He sat down and listened as Sam filled in the details.
When she finished Ed’s face was split with a grin.
‘What goes around comes around,’ he said. ‘They’ve brought plenty of misery so I’m not going be crying now they’re getting some in return.’
When Sam asked if he was sorted, Ed’s expression became as blank as Jayne Culley’s.
‘You had to pop out,’ Sam gave him a verbal nudge.
‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ Ed said. ‘I just needed to sort something out at the bank. Keep Sue off my back.’
Sam nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This UC from Hampshire.’
‘Cat.’
‘Sorry?’ Sam’s turn to be thrown.
‘Cat, that’s his nickname, better than Cary.’
‘You’ve totally lost me,’ Sam said, pushing her wheeled chair away from the desk.
Ed was all patience. ‘Cat, the man with two surnames, Archibald Leach.’
‘I’m still playing catch-up,’ Sam said, shaking her head.
‘He was born Archibald Leach, same real name as his father’s hero, Cary Grant.’
Sam had the look of a schoolgirl staring at a board full of algebra.
‘So imagine you’re at training school,’ Ed said. ‘Do you want to be called Archibald, Archie or Cary? He didn’t want any. Someone came up with Cat.’
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