by Vic Marelle
‘What a bloody nonsense,’ burst in Davies. ‘If Archer had been nicking cars and pocketing the proceeds then he would have been able to spend some money on his ratty little caravan site. Have you seen the state of his house? His son calls it a chalet but it’s more like an old garden shed.’
‘Quite so Frank, but I didn’t say that he was inside the operation, I said he was involved. I meant involved as in knew something about what was going on. I think that he then got himself bumped off before he could cause anyone any trouble.’
‘Really Don. That’s a bit far fetched.’
‘Maybe, but I’ll have a better idea this evening when I’ve talked to the poor sod that got himself crushed out at the college.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Davies. ‘The whole thing sounds a bit far fetched to me – and the bloke was still in a deep coma the last I knew.’
‘Not as far fetched as you might imagine. Patrick Ainsworth regained consciousness earlier today so I am going down to Town Lane after we finish here. He is still in intensive care but able to talk to us according to the doctors. Debbie is there at the moment holding his hand.’
‘I’ll come with you then,’ remarked Davies. ‘It will be interesting to hear what this bloke has to say.’
‘It will indeed,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘The big picture is beginning to come together and with a little bit of luck we should be able to wrap this all up before MIT take it away from us. Not forgetting their help of course.’
‘You must be bloody joking. Don’t put my name on all this,’ opined Davies. ‘I don’t want to be included in so much conjecture. You know my position. No connection between the three deaths and certainly no connection between the deaths and the car thefts. You are way out of your depth here Don.’ Turning to his superior, Davies added, ‘And I suggest that you make sure that you are happy with this before you pin your name to it Arthur – there’s so much that’s circumstantial or conjecture that it leaks like a sieve. Somebody is going to look foolish when MIT start going through it.’
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ offered Radcliffe. ‘We have recovered quite a bit of hard evidence that CSI are working on now. It should all be wrapped up by tomorrow morning don’t you think Arthur?’
Before Handley could answer, Davies snorted and laughed. ‘You must be bloody joking,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You’ve nobody in clink yet and only the guy from the college in prospect. And by your own admission, you’ve not recovered any documentation either. These blokes are good Arthur,’ he directed at the DCI, ‘you’ll need more than you have got to catch them.’
‘Frank,’ said Handley rather sombrely. ‘Just keep an open mind on this. We need to think like a team, or at least discuss things in a gentlemanly fashion.’
Gentlemanly fashion? What sort of words were those for a senior policeman? Davies raised his eyebrows – a movement that all three had used within the last few minutes.
“I think that the time has come to move on,’ said Handley, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out some printed documents, turning to look at Radcliffe and nodding.
‘Thanks Arthur,’ responded Radcliffe. ‘I think we’ve worked out how the team work. When the guy nicks a car he’s wearing mechanics overalls so he doesn’t look out of place and isn’t challenged. It’s only taken a short distance for the tracker to be disabled and false plates fitted. That all takes less than ten minutes. The car can then be driven to wherever they store them and if our ANR picks it up, all that happens is that it shows up as a valid registration so the car won’t get stopped.’
‘That sounds neat Don, but tracker units cannot be disabled like that. That’s the point.’
‘I grant you that. Actually, I thought they were foolproof too, but according to one of the CSI lads you can buy a unit on the Internet that jams trackers and mobiles. I suppose that they must disable them properly when they get them to wherever they store them.’
Pausing to get his breath, Radcliffe held his hand out to Handley, who passed over the documents he had taken from his drawer.
‘We’ve picked up some V5 registration documents – I don’t know yet if they are genuine or fakes – but it looks as though they alter the identity of the cars, you know, engine and chassis numbers, to make it a clone of a car legally on UK roads that’s not been stolen, then complete a reg doc to go with it. Then they can export the car.’
‘You’ve been watching too many TV programmes I think,’ replied Davies. ‘You don’t need a registration document to put a car on a ship.’
‘I’ll take your word for that Frank, but when it comes to legalising the cars at the destination, valid UK documents will be required. They can’t use the car’s real registration can they even if they forged a duplicate V5, because it would come up as stolen when any check was made.’
‘Nice theory Don, but a bit fanciful. And all guesswork too. I doubt MIT will buy it. Like I said, you’ve no suspects and no hard evidence.’
‘We’ve got four blokes downstairs Frank that have started to blab like babies. We know who lifts the cars, where they are stored, who changes all the numbers and where they do it,’ said Radcliffe.
‘And we know who’s at the top too. We’ll have them all locked up before the night’s out Frank.’
Davies looked at them both incredulously. ‘So have we been going through all this just so that you can gloat?’ he asked Radcliffe. ‘Is this just to show what you have done while I have been on other tasks?’
‘Not at all Frank. We need your help here,’ replied Radcliffe.
‘They’ve been bloody clever,’ added Handley. ‘As well as using cloned plates to move the cars around, they are also using them for their own cars too.’
Handley had then outlined how they believed that the car thieves had cloned the registrations of some respected local people and used them on their own cars. It was a clever ploy. If a car was seen in a suspect situation and checked by police – or picked up on ANR – as soon as it was seen to be one of the local good guys it would be left alone. Handley had then read out three registration numbers.
‘You must be joking,’ exclaimed Davies. ‘I don’t recognise the first two, but this one is mine!’
‘They really take care of the details too,’ added Radcliffe. ‘They are using your reg on a car that’s exactly the same model.’
‘Yes,’ replied Davies, ‘but my reg is a personal plate, they can’t match the driver to the car as well, can they? Bloody cheeky or what?’
‘Perhaps they are too clever to be true,’ observed Radcliffe. ‘Your reg is FJD, correct?’
‘You know it is. Francis John Davies.’
‘We have names Frank, but we’ve not found the top man yet,’ added Handley. ‘Does the name Fraser Downing mean anything to you?’
Davies frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘No, should it?’
Handley didn’t answer directly, just looking at Davies for a few seconds, letting his question hang in the air. ‘Are you sure it doesn’t mean anything Frank?’
‘Not at all. Any clues?’
Pursing his lips, Handley opened the brown file that had been put in front of him earlier, placed a finger on a photograph and slowly rotated it 180 degrees, finally sliding it across the desk in front of Davies. The photograph showed a Jaguar next to an industrial building.
Looking at the photo, Davies again shook his head, then looked up and said ‘That’s my reg. And the car looks like mine too. It’s not of course. Oh, I see – Frank Davies and Fraser Downing. FJD fits us both. The cheeky buggers. Where was this taken.’
Handley looked down at the folder. Closing the cover he put one elbow on his desk and cupped his chin in his hand, fixing his eyes on Davies. Under his DCI’s stare, Davies shuffled in his chair, finally averting his eyes and again looking down at the photograph in front of him. Clasping both hands together on top of the folder, Handley responded, ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me Frank?’ he said.
‘Christ A
rthur,’ responded Davies wearily. ‘That’s not my car if that’s what you are suggesting. Like you said, my reg must have been cloned. I’ve not been up Pool Hey today. When you told me to take the afternoon off I went for a quiet lunch and then out to the garden centre before going to fill up with petrol. That’s where I was when you called and I came straight back. Since then I’ve been at the Ramada and back here to the office. What bloody time have I had to traipse out to Scarisbrick?’ Tapping the photograph he added, ‘What’s the relevance of this picture anyway - what’s going on?’
‘You are not making this easy Frank,’ replied Handley, opening the folder and pushing another photograph across the desk. Watching Davies intently he laboriously repeated the action until a series of photographs had been set out in front of Davies, raising his eyebrows questioningly when Davies looked up to meet his stare.
‘If that isn’t your car and you did not go anywhere near Pool Hey Lane Frank, why do those photographs show you bringing things out of the building and putting them into your boot?’
Davies opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the right words. Moving the photographs around he stared at them in disbelief. Finally, looking up, he repeated that the photographs did not show his car and that the person was most definitely not he. Handley then told Davies that the temporary assignment researching conference policing had been a very worthwhile exercise, but had actually been brought forward a month to keep Davies away from the murder and car theft cases.
While he had been at the Ramada with the Home Office men, CSI had removed items from his boot – the items that he had been photographed loading up at Scarisbrick. Other items recovered had helped to build the picture, linking him to the murders and the car thefts. Indeed, when shown photographs, each of the suspects being held downstairs had identified Frank Davies as Fraser Downing.
Handley turned to Radcliffe. ‘It’s time Don please.’ Turning to Davies he added, ‘I’m sorry about this Frank, but we’ll do it by the book.’
‘Francis John Davies,’ intoned Radcliffe. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of multiple car theft and exporting stolen vehicles. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Initially none of the three spoke, Handley being the first to break the silence.
‘I would advise you to stop this charade Frank,’ he said. ‘You have dealt with your fair share of villains in your time so you know the score. Come clean and tell us everything about the setup, who did what and some names of course, and we will do what we can for you. You are still one of us so if we can help we will. Your claims so far just don’t stand up Frank. They don’t gel with the facts as we know them – or the proof that we already have.’
‘This whole escapade is a fix up,’ claimed Davies. ‘For the last time, I don’t know this Downing bloke and that isn’t my car. That’s not me in the photographs either. I’m going to find out who’s set me up and I’ll have his guts for garters. I can’t believe that you have been taken in by this. Christ, if I find out who it is I’ll bloody kill him.’
Handley and Radcliffe exchanged glances.
‘It’s funny that you should mention killing somebody Frank,’ said Radcliffe. ‘The three deaths are linked to the car thefts. We know that for a fact and I think you already knew that too. Now, as DI Handley has already said, it would be in your own interests to cooperate. I’m sure you don’t want murder added to the charges.’
‘Murder!’ Blurted out Davies. ‘Murder?’ What the hell are you talking about? I’m not involved with murder. Don’t talk so bloody stupid.’
‘You’ll have time to go through all that,’ responded Handley, ‘but for now you will be held downstairs.’ Pausing momentarily he then added, ‘Just think of this Frank, police officers get a rough time inside. I can protect you while you remain with us but not in prison.’ Turning to Radcliffe he added, ‘Thanks Don. Take him down will you please.’
Officers turned away as Radcliffe and Davies reached the custody suite, not wanting to be lured into conversation. Confused, they suddenly busied themselves with papers and documents that normally would have played second fiddle to exchanging pleasantries with a popular officer. Usually he could not move within the station without somebody throwing out a “Hey Frank, have you heard the one about . . . . .?” But now he would be the one that they would be talking about. “Hey Joe, have you heard about Frank Davies?”
‘I’m sorry to ask sir,’ said the custody sergeant, obviously ill at ease, ‘but will you put your things in this tray please? It’s procedure. I have to do it sir.’
‘I know you have to bloody do it,’ replied Davies, emptying his pockets of loose change, wallet and mobile phone.
‘OK, I’ll see him in,’ said Radcliffe after the formalities had been completed, an almost imperceptible nod of thanks being offered by Davies.
As they walked down the row of cells towards the last, keeping him away from drunks and others, Davies heard the swell of voices behind him and knew only too well who the topic of conversation would be.
Epilogue
Sitting on the balcony sipping a chilled juice as a gaily-painted boat sailed slowly past, Debbie Lescott relaxed in the late afternoon sun. Where previously she had thought the house to be remote and away from essential conveniences, now she could see it from his point of view. When he strolled onto the wide balcony, a magnificent panorama unfolded where he could relax in his own little world, the only intrusions being the twittering of birds or the putt putt of a boat chugging by on the canal. Yet for all that, Tesco and the retail park were actually no more than ten minutes drive away, and Southport town centre fifteen. Yes, she could see the attraction.
The noise of a glass door sliding back brought her back into reality.
‘Why do you insist on coffee when the sun is high and the air is warm and stuffy?’ she asked. ‘I am sure that you would enjoy this juice more.’
‘No way,’ he replied sitting in the patio chair next to her. ‘I like my coffee – especially Bewleys. And in any case, a hot drink cools you down more because it makes you sweat.’
‘A likely story,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘I don’t want to be sweaty anyway,’ wrinkling her nose, ‘give me a chilled juice anytime.’
‘Well that’s where you are wrong. Go out into the desert and the Bedouins will never drink anything chilled, they drink water at air temperature and hot tea. They should know what’s best in hot temperatures after all.’
A horn sounded. The old man on the passing boat was waving his woolly hat and smiling. Simon waved back.
‘I’ve seen that barge before,’ she said. ‘Do you know the guy?’
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Old Amos spends his time just sailing up and down the canal. Sometimes he only goes as far as Wigan then turns round, but once a year he goes all the way up to Leeds. That’s not easy because opening and closing the lock gates at his age is a bit of a strain. It’s his life though. He loves it. I don’t suppose he could stay in one spot for more than a couple of days now.’ Turning to face her he added, ‘and it’s a narrow boat, not a barge Debbie.’
‘Barge, narrow boat, does it matter Simon?’
‘To you and me, no, but to those on the canal I suppose that it does. It’s like the difference between a Jaguar and a Daimler. Most people wouldn’t spot the difference unless the Daimler’s fluted radiator or better trim was pointed out, but a Daimler owner would turn in his grave.’
‘I wondered how long we could sit out here in the sun before you mentioned cars. What is it about you men and cars, especially Italian cars? I’ve had enough of cars to last me a lifetime.’
‘I suppose that we appreciate Italian cars because they are stylish and we are a bit hot blooded. Anyway, I was hoping that you would fill me in and bring me up to date.’
‘If you mention cars once more Simon Charlton, I’ll
really fill you in, buried alive. And never mind hot blood, you’ll make my blood boil’
‘OK, point taken. But it’s frustrating you know. I was quite involved at one point and really put myself out to help, but when push came to shove I was left out in the cold. I pointed your beloved Don Radcliffe in the right direction but I lay awake at night wondering how he brought the various aspects together and how he actually found out that his colleague was a bent copper. I don’t think that I would have seen that Debbs. I mean, you don’t really suspect someone you’ve worked closely with for years do you? They even shared an office didn’t they?’
‘Don’t call me Debbs please Simon. My name is Deborah and I like Debbie, particularly the way you say it, but Debbs reminds me of my father and brings back some uncomfortable memories.’
Taken aback, Simon studied her. He could see hurt and sadness. Perhaps anguish even. ‘I didn’t know,’ he offered, ‘really I didn’t. What happened?’
‘Later Simon.’ Brightening, she seemed to distance herself from what had obviously been a painful memory, holding out her empty glass. ‘Any chance of another?’ she said, ‘with plenty of ice cubes.’
Inside, she could hear the clink of glasses and the rattle of ice cubes as he prepared her drink. There was also hissing and clunking like that of a small steam train so presumably he was making another of his much loved cups of coffee too. No wonder the guy was always on the go – he must be filled to the brim with caffeine. With a week off work, all she wanted to do was to relax, to chill out and daydream, thinking of nothing in particular and definitely not the events of the past couple of weeks. Looking forward wasn’t entirely a good option either. So much was vague. So much was uncertain. And so much was out of her hands so could neither be planned nor manipulated. If she didn’t want to look back and couldn’t look forward, all that remained was to enjoy the present or let her mind float away in idle dreams. Or both.