by Vic Marelle
Ducking under the tape they entered the path and after a few metres of open ground were soon walking through a tight avenue of trees and foliage. They walked in silence. Shoes no longer crunched harshly on gravel, their footsteps becoming eerily quiet on a carpet of soft earth and leaves. The track turned acutely to the right so that they were walking parallel to the farmyard, then just a few metres on took an abrupt turn into the wood. Dense foliage blocked out the sun and masked sky. The old well flanked by a wall overgrown with ivy and creepers loomed out of the wood, behind which was the remains of the room where the body had been found. Davies could see the attraction of the place to lovers of English heritage, amateur historians – and courting couples – but wasn’t seeing anything new as far as the enquiry was going. Retracing their steps along the path, Davies stopped and scanned around as they reached the farmyard. In the short time they had been in the wood, most of the cars outside the farm shop had gone. Across the yard he could see the entrance to the Hay Loft Tea Shop but the stone building of the farm shop prevented him seeing anything else.
‘There’s something here that is shouting out to me and I don’t know what it is, It can’t be right that our bloke wasn’t killed in situ and wasn’t killed elsewhere either, because it has to be one or the other, So where on earth was he killed and how did he get here? More to the point, who is he? And why so much activity over this side when the cars outside the Hay Loft have hardly moved?’
‘I guess that it takes longer to order and eat a breakfast than it does to buy a lettuce or a few carrots. Do you fancy another coffee?’
With nothing more to be accomplished either in the wood or the ruin, Davies felt that they were at a dead end – literally. Declining the offer of yet another drink – he would drown in caffeine if he drank even one more cup of coffee – he told Lescott to compare the Hay Loft waitress’ statement with those of the farm shop workers. Perhaps some sort of pattern could be identified that might lead them forward. Well, perhaps not.
……….
Just a few miles away from Lydiate Hall, Davies’ colleagues were also huddled in conversation, their investigations also going nowhere. High value cars were disappearing into thin air and Mike Johnson’s attacker was no closer to being caught than he had been a month previously. The view out of the window was as depressing as usual and Radcliffe was expecting the phone to ring at any moment with a summons to deliver a summary of progress, such as it was, to Handy Andy.
The common links they had found were a bit tenuous, All the cars were less than three months old, the few with trackers fitted had been disabled within minutes, and if you made allowances for the ones that hadn’t yet been nicked then the whole lot fit roughly into regular groups. Not a lot linking them then.
‘There’s more than that Guv,’ responded the sergeant. ‘It all points to a well organised operation because although all these cars are well protected as standard with Thatcham approved alarms and immobilisers, not a single vehicle alarm has been reported sounding off in respect to any of these thefts. Whoever is nicking them knows exactly what they are doing. Of those with tracker units fitted, a couple transmitted immediately but when our lads went to the last transmitted location the cars had vanished into thin air.’
‘A couple? What about the others? Why didn’t they all transmit?’
Kyle Fraser looked at his superior, whose nonplussed expression said more than words. The inspector was not a car enthusiast and knew no more about their security than the average man in the street. Perhaps less. This would have to be taken slowly in words of one syllable. Kyle explained that there were in fact a number of vehicle location tracking systems and that depending on the manufacturer and the system they might transmit all the time or only when needed. Some also recognised a separate signal carried by the owner and used that as verification while others did not. With some the car had to be reported as stolen before the tracker was activated remotely.
Radcliffe struggled to see why there should be two systems. Why didn’t all the systems work all the time? What was the use of a tracker if it wasn’t switched on? And what, if anything, had the tracker units told them?
‘Both of the cars with trackers that were transmitting when the cars were stolen were taken to the same back lane and then the signal just went off within a few minutes. Our lads were quick getting there but the cars had just disappeared.’
‘Perhaps they just disconnected the battery and then put the cars on a trailer.’
‘No, the tracker units have their own power supply. Like I said, somebody knew what they were doing alright.’
‘So what about the others, the ones that had to be reported and activated?’
‘The units might have been disabled before the cars were actually reported.’ adding that in most of the cases the owners had been inside a building or office for quite some time and didn’t realise that their cars had been stolen until later. As a result exact time of theft couldn’t be defined and there was a possible two hour window with the majority. Councillor Ashcroft for example had been in his house for several hours when he noticed that his car had gone. There was something interesting with one of the sports cars though. Just before the Pagani had been stolen a witness had seen somebody giving it the once over. At the time the witness had thought nothing of it other than perhaps there was a mechanical problem with the car because the guy was wearing overalls.
‘Now there’s a thought, responded Radcliffe.
‘What, the Pagani broken down? I doubt it Guv, it was only six weeks old.’
‘No Kyle, we might have a lead here. If whoever lifts these cars is wearing overalls then most people around will just think that he is a mechanic and won’t raise the alarm. That’s a pretty good cover. And if he actually is a mechanic – and you say he seems to have a good knowledge of the trackers and the cars – he can easily bluff his way out of any questioning if he gets stopped when he is approaching the car or even when he is driving it away. A mechanic in overalls could bluff his way past virtually anyone – except if he was stopped by the actual owner. It’s a pretty good cover.’
Radcliffe thought about the possibility. 40 cars could not just disappear into thin air so some sort of storage would be required. Fancy supercars and luxury limos would look out of place in a back street garage or mainstream dealer so if his hunch was right they could be looking at a more upmarket operation. Yet most of those dealers were in the cities – in this case the two nearest being Manchester and Liverpool. Better to make some local enquiries first though so as not to look a complete pratt if the hunch did not play out.
The phone jolted him back into the present. There it was – the summons to present progress.
‘Radcliffe.’ It was a terse response anticipating an abrupt demand. ‘Right Sir, I’m on my way.’
Replacing the phone and turning to his sergeant he gave instructions to check out all premium car sales outlets on their patch. Some subterfuge should be used to cover his enquiries. Under no account should he let them think that they were under scrutiny. Just see if they had workshops for maintenance, whether there were sizeable storage facilities, and, most important, get the registration details of any cars on display that met the descriptions of those stolen. All they needed was one vehicle that they could link with the sequence of thefts and with a little bit of luck the whole operation would be split open like a tin opener on a can of beans.
Eleven
Debbie Lescott pumped the air with her fist. Eureka! At last there was a breakthrough. Nothing had come to light when she had compared the statement taken from the waitress at the Hay Loft with those of other employees at the farm but on an off-chance she had run the registration of an old van at the site through the Swansea DVLC computer and come up with the registered owner. It did not belong to the farmer or to one of his employees but to a man living in Crosshill Village, just a few miles away. Why would somebody leave his van parked up five or six miles away from home for three or four days? Why indeed.
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br /> Following her intuition with a phone call, she had established that the owner was of about the same age as Mr Dead but was not at home because he was currently two hundred miles away. A quick visit followed by a visit to the morgue with a family member had then established identity.
‘Good work Debbie,’ commented her boss. ‘I knew that there was something jumping out at us but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Now we have an identity, all we have to do is find the poor bugger’s killer.’
But it wasn’t all plain sailing. One could guess that he had arrived in his van and from what the waitress had told them he had been hanging around the pond quite early on, so presumably he had been waiting for somebody. But for whom had he been waiting? Then again, at what point did he end up being killed? And, crucially, where had he been killed and how had he been moved into the wood?
‘Now we know his identity, a little digging around might throw up some background to point us in the right direction,’ responded the sergeant.
‘Quite so Debbie,’ replied Davies. ‘But in reality it only puts us at the starting point. With most murders we know the victim’s identity from the beginning. We’ve only just got there.’
……….
Turning over the open sign to read closed, Mike Johnson switched off the window lights and made his way through to the back office. Having the lights on in the first place hadn’t really been necessary on a summer afternoon with the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky, but for some reason the public expected that the lights would be on if the shop was open for business. Turning them off clearly indicated that the shop was now closed. But why couldn’t passers by just read the sign swinging in the door? Then on sunny days there would be no need to waste money having the lights on. Not that it had made any difference. The sum total of trade had been just two customers all afternoon. And from the meagre amounts they had spent he doubted whether there would be sufficient profit to pay for the electricity consumed by those confounded window lights anyway.
Small and cramped, the office was nothing more than a partitioned area at the back of the shop. This was where he worked - where he designed on the computer, where he set up his courses and planned his future. It was a solitary environment, but had anyone else entered, they would have been in no doubt to whom the space belonged. The complete wall opposite the door and facing anyone entering the tiny room, was filled with framed photographs of the artist, mostly shaking hands with local councillors and dignitaries, and smiling falsely for the camera. Positioned for impact, they reassured him of his celebrity status every time he entered this inner sanctum, while the adjacent wall was hung with his original artworks. Along the one wall not filled with Mike Johnson images or art, ran shelves packed with art reference books and an art DVD library. Created to give a little privacy while he worked, the room was barely large enough to house a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet.
Sitting down he booted the computer up and viewed the accounts. Actually, there was no need to view anything for he knew every figure off by heart. Every day he checked the same depressing spreadsheet hoping for a minor miracle. But it never happened. He was the local celebrity. He was Mike Johnson the celebrated artist. He was the Mike Johnson called on by the local newspaper and the radio station to comment on art matters. He was the Mike Johnson from the shop that only sold the best artists’ materials and ran the best teaching courses. But according to the spreadsheet, he was also the Mike Johnson that was deeply in debt.
The computer screen clearly showed that The Palette was losing its struggle to stay solvent, and the lack of sales pointed to why, but Johnson could see no immediate solution. Where once his art classes had been oversubscribed with long waiting lists, now, thanks to the local Technical College running evening classes that those on benefits could attend free of charge, his pupils were few and far between. Even the classes he could run were never more than half full. And that affected sales in the shop too. Fewer classes and fewer students meant fewer customers in the shop. It was worse, for where once The Palette had been the only place in town to buy a blank canvas, paints, brushes or easels, the art materials departments in the new multiples that had opened up had taken away his monopoly. Not to mention the shops selling everything for one pound, for even they sometimes sold comparable art materials.
Closing down was not an option. Just think of the loss of face in the town – and also back home in the village. What a disgrace that would be. Mike Johnson the failed businessman. Mike Johnson who used to be the local celebrity, who used to drive a Jaguar, who used to live in a fantastic house. No, he wasn’t going to become Mr Used To Be, so that was not an option. As business gurus kept telling him, the only way forward was diversification. Forget that they used the term in respect to widening the scope of a viable business that had reached a sales ceiling, as far as he could see the principle was also good for a business that was on the floor if the means of diversification were to hand. And the means were.
Sliding out a drawer in the desk, Johnson pulled out two A4 sheets and held them in his shaking hands. Although confirmation was not required, they confirmed the computer’s message of doom and gloom. And like the spreadsheet, he knew their contents word for word without having to read them again. The letter from the bank had arrived two days ago. Repayments had been missed so with immediate effect The Palette’s business loan was being called in. In addition, the business account, which was the lifeblood of the art shop and currently well overdrawn, must be returned to credit within seven days. The clock was ticking and seven days was now five. Moving the bank letter underneath, he again read the credit card company threat. They also had lost their patience and were taking steps to get back their money. Fourteen days to pay off the debt or he would be in court. That particular letter had arrived quite some time ago, so as with the bank there were only a few days left. But he didn’t have any money to give either of them.
Putting the demands back in the drawer – a ritual that had been played out every day – he turned his attention back to the computer. Clicking a button the spreadsheet disappeared and was replaced by a promotional brochure for a gated retirement community. Not just any retirement community but one featuring up market executive dwellings. Bounded on one side by trees and with a high wall on the other three sides, the project offered safe and secure retirement homes in an idyllic country setting complemented by lush gardens and all the amenities seniors could wish for; a snooker room, indoor carpet bowls, cafeteria, swimming pool, communal lounge and even a first aid room with resident nurse. If only his brother-in-law hadn’t put a spanner in the works, this would have been Johnson’s salvation. The land was already his, or at least, his wife’s, and if that shit hadn’t fouled things up, then the planning application for the development would have been heard a month ago so they would have been home and dry. In effect, by taking out the action against them Peter Archer was stopping them climbing out of a big financial chasm. Peter Archer was the reason that they were broke.
As a final act before the muck hit the fan, there was a portrait to complete that would at least bring in a small payment. So, after hitting the close down key he turned to go upstairs to the studio for perhaps the last time. The computer whirred and buzzed. An alert popped up on screen asking whether he really wanted to close down. Of course he wanted the computer to shut down. If not, would he have clicked the button? As he clicked to confirm shut down yet again, there was a hammering on the shop door. No doubt it would be yet another unobservant passer by or an illiterate customer who couldn’t read. We are not open, we are closed, go away he thought. Yet perhaps a sale was in the offing. Perhaps somebody wanted to buy one of the paintings displayed in the window sufficiently enough to pay a really good price. Perhaps it would be worthwhile opening up again.
From the office he could see two rather official looking gents standing at the shop door. You could always tell the strong armed ones from bona fide customers – and they always came in twos. Two had come last week demand
ing that he pay up his rent arrears and now here were two more at the most inconvenient time. With no money to pay anybody anything, anytime was inconvenient. Slowly so as not to attract attention he moved back behind the computer monitor where he hoped that he wouldn’t be seen. The lights were off in the window and the closed sign was on the door so with a bit of luck they would go away. He waited in silence. The last thing he wanted at this point was to talk to debt collectors. Each second seemed like an hour. Minutes went by like being inanimate for a day. Every little noise in the old building seemed to be amplified in the relative silence. A clock was ticking almost as loud as a drummer in a rock band and his heart was beating twenty to the dozen. He could hear the men murmuring. Then they stopped and he could hear nothing but silence. He chanced a slow move to the right where he could just see through to the shop. They had gone. Thank heavens for small mercies.
After such a scare he decided to cut and run. The heavies didn’t usually give up and if they knew that he sometimes worked in the evenings they might come back later. So beggar finishing the portrait, it could wait. The best place for him now was anywhere away from the shop. Better still, home and a stiff drink. While he still had a home that is. He turned off the light in the office, walked through the shop, unlocked the door and stepped outside.
‘Good evening Mr Johnson,’ said the tall man. ‘Can we come in for a minute? There are a few questions we would like to ask you.’
With Johnson again seated in the solitary chair and the two men standing, the office was cramped. At first he hadn’t believed them. The tall one had introduced himself as Inspector Davies and his lady accomplice as Sergeant Lescott. Both of them had produced their warrant cards to prove their identities. Perhaps he might be in for another grilling like with the other two. And no doubt these latest officers wouldn’t believe that his good-for-nothing brother-in-law had attacked him any more than the others had. It was a pity that they couldn’t keep one set of coppers on the case instead of keep rotating it around pair after pair. They were always in twos weren’t they? What a waste of public money. At least these two looked pleasanter than those before them. The woman certainly. Arriving as they had when the shop was closed and in darkness seemed a little strange, but where the last pair had been a bit on the brusque side, these two at least seemed to be polite and courteous. Having locked up the shop again and moved through to the office, the senior officer had initially put him at ease, assuring him that they were just following up on a few points and that since they had not been the ones to interview him originally, would he be so kind as to bring them up to speed as it were? Sorry for the inconvenience and all that.