The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  Once more, a seagull’s cry soared into the air. But this time Adrian realised he’d been mistaken. That plaintive wail was no sea bird imitating a child. It was the real thing.

  Marie took the basket inside, and Matthew, dropping the binoculars onto his chest, got off the car and rested his arms on the roof. Adrian stared at him, unable to articulate a single word. Just for something to do, he delicately eased off his jumper. With a glance at the houses beyond the hedge, he opened the boot, yanked out his weekend holdall and rolled up his stinking jumper in the plastic laundry bag. Unusually for him, he didn’t even wonder if the silk-cashmere mix would be salvageable. He pulled on a T-shirt while still shaking his head. A baby. It made no sense.

  Matthew appeared, staring with the same uncomprehending look as before, and reached into his bag for a water bottle. He sat on the edge of the open boot and swallowed several large gulps, before turning his gaze to Adrian.

  “I believe the modern expression is, What the fuck? Is senility assuming control so soon, or did two men sail into that bay and hand over a baby?”

  “I don’t understand. I’m tired and confused and can’t believe what we’ve just seen. Matthew, my instinct is to call Beatrice.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree. We’re out of our depth. Fetch your device and let’s call the boss. Hopefully she’ll still be up. She’s on surveillance.”

  As Adrian returned to the passenger seat and located his mobile, he heard a noise. An engine approached.

  Matthew hissed from the boot, “A car’s coming, hide!”

  It was too late. The car was following the same route they had taken, and when it turned the corner, its occupants would have a clear view of them both and their vehicle. But it didn’t turn the corner. The car slowed almost to a halt and pulled into the driveway of the cul-de-sac. Adrian snatched his camera, and stepped up onto the bumper of the Focus, using the wild hedge as a screen. Matthew repositioned himself in the doorway, leaning back against the roof, binoculars in hand.

  The hesitant approach suggested this was the driver’s first visit. Unlike Marie, who’d clearly known exactly where she was going. After parking on the drive behind the SUV, both the front doors opened. Adrian’s nerves hummed and he took a second to check that no one had crept up on them while their attention was focused elsewhere. Apart from the ruckus created by birds, insects and wind, the lane was silent.

  The driver, wearing jeans and a rugby shirt, came around the car to meet the passenger, a woman. Taking her hand, he leant to look into her face, as if concerned. She had blonde highlights, and was a good foot shorter than him. Adrian’s lens followed them up the path, and caught Marie as she opened the door. He got shots of every single thing.

  He removed the camera and looked at Matthew. “What now?”

  “Did you take a photograph of the number plate?”

  “Several. Let’s call HQ.”

  Beatrice was not happy about being woken after a ‘bloody wretched night’. Her terse tone persuaded Adrian to hand the phone directly to Matthew. Adrian resumed his perch on the vehicle and waited to catch someone coming out of the house, while trying to pick up the drift of what Matthew was saying. Both efforts were fruitless. Finally, Matthew returned with his phone.

  “She wants to talk to you.” They swapped places and Matthew trained his sights on the close.

  “Adrian, listen to me. Leave now. You have photographs, a vehicle registration and plenty of evidence for us to work with. If there really is a child involved, you have no choice but to report this to the South Wales police. Leave now, please, and go to the nearest police station. If either party in that house suspects you of watching them, you are in serious danger. I don’t need to tell you what the consequences could be and I’m not there to watch your neck. Adrian, are you listening?”

  He was, mostly. But his attention was drawn by Matthew, who stood alert as a meercat. Adrian hopped onto the bumper beside him and raised his camera.

  “Absolutely. Understood. We’re going now. Call you later!”

  Adrian caught a few shots of the couple placing the now-silent basket in their car and swung into his seat. Marie remained out of sight.

  Matthew rushed to the driver’s side, waiting till he heard the other vehicle’s engine before starting the car and pulling away with minimum noise. They continued in the direction of Cardiff, both constantly checking the mirrors. After a mile or so, Adrian saw a farm track, and suggested a stop. Matthew drove in for several yards, so they couldn’t be seen from the road. A few seconds digging in the glove compartment provided Adrian with a map, and thus a good reason to be there, which he unfolded across the dashboard. They returned their attention to the mirrors. Three minutes passed. Five. Seven.

  “They must have gone back the way they came,” Adrian suggested.

  “Yes, it looks that way.” Matthew made no move.

  Adrian sighed. “I don’t know about you but I think we should find the nearest Prêt-a-Manger and indulge in a ...”

  “Hang on a sec! Here she is.”

  Marie’s vehicle rumbled past and continued into the dappled shadows of the tree-lined lane.

  “Right, come on then.” Adrian folded up the map but Matthew shook his head.

  “We can’t follow her. Not any further. Firstly, we promised Beatrice. Secondly, if she sees the car again, she will certainly suspect observation. No, we’ve done our bit.”

  “So what now? Should we locate the nearest police station?” Despite his tiredness and discomfort, Adrian’s adrenalin was still pumping.

  “Hmm. You know, I wonder if it might be more diplomatic to deliver our evidence to the Pembrokeshire force. After all, it is their territory and might just redeem Beatrice in the eyes of the local inspector. We’ll need to make statements and possibly accompany them to the scene.”

  Adrian gasped. “You know what we could do? Go to the pub!” He sat up, energised by the thought.

  “It’s a little early for me.”

  “Not now. Tonight. Those men hang about all day and go to the pub in the evening, remember? They’ll be there this evening. Listen, why don’t we check into a hotel? Then I can clean myself up, send these photos to Beatrice and we can both get some beauty sleep. Later, we’ll drive back to Pembrokeshire and give our evidence to the local police. Tonight, we could lie in wait at the pub and identify them to the undercover officers. We could actually be present at the arrest!”

  Matthew glanced at him, with a growing smile. “That’s not a bad idea. It does seem a shame to miss the excitement of the final scene, after we’ve done all the donkey work. It would be foolish to pass up such an opportunity. Very well. There’s a Travelodge a few miles back. But we ought to tell Beatrice what we’re doing.”

  Adrian clapped his hands together. “Hell, yes. And we’ll promise to be careful, not take risks, etcetera. I can shower, shave and perform other necessary ablutions, and possibly even call my friend the barman. Turn around! To the Travelodge!”

  With a smile, Matthew began reversing. “I wonder if I should buy a hat?”

  “Sorry?”

  “A hat, to obscure my identity. The ponytailed chap has seen me before, albeit briefly, but if he were to recognise me, it could complicate matters. He might put two and two together and make a run for it.”

  Opportunities were falling into Adrian’s lap like ripe fruit.

  “You know, a half-decent haircut would probably be a better disguise. We’ll see if the hotel has a proper pair of scissors.”

  Chapter 32

  The sense of triumphant purpose and excited discussions as to the possible outcome of the evening, which accompanied the drive west, came to an abrupt halt. Fishguard police station was closed. Matthew and Adrian stood in front of the door and read the notice detailing opening hours.

  Adrian was shocked. “I can’t believe it actually closes! It’s not even five o’clock. What happens if there’s an emergency?”

  “One dials 999, naturally. Emergency Se
rvices. These rural police stations don’t need to be open around the clock. Crime rates hardly match London’s and the expense is unjustified.”

  “Well, we have to call the emergency line. We can’t let them get away.”

  “Hmm. Could we really say this is an emergency? All we’d planned to do was hand over our evidence, give statements and assist the police in identifying potential suspects. Which wouldn’t even be necessary when they have photographs,” said Matthew.

  Adrian’s Have-A-Go Hero headlines were fading fast. “But what about the arrest? If we don’t grab them tonight, they’ll sail out of here and we’ve lost them. All because the station is closed. It’s ridiculous!”

  “I suggest we stick to the plan. We go to the pub, keep our ears open, glean what we can and add that to our report. Then we return here in the morning, with a full dossier. The police can subsequently use our information to apprehend these men. All is not lost, Adrian.”

  Adrian hesitated. “Apart from us missing out on the action. Oh hell, you’re right. Let’s go back to the B&B. Do we have to tell Beatrice?” He caught Matthew’s expression, sighed and reached for his phone.

  The two men sat on the harbour wall in Porthgain, processing their orders. DI Stubbs had laid down the law. Adrian tried every which way to maintain his indignation, but had to admit the justice of her argument. Matthew was to go nowhere near Ponytail and his associate. As far as Beatrice was concerned, the passage of time, the black polo neck, black moleskin trousers and the short back and sides, which showed off his silvery temples in contrast with the rest of his thick black hair all counted for nothing; he could still be recognised. That meant endangering themselves, or wrecking any investigation if these people chose to move their operation elsewhere.

  She granted permission for Adrian to go to the pub, to observe and keep his ears open, but forced him to promise several times to do nothing risky, nothing to draw attention to himself. As if he would.

  “And whether you hear anything or not, first thing tomorrow morning, you go to the local police and tell them everything. You must. I’ve left a message for Inspector Howells and given him your number. Adrian, I really don’t have time to deal with this, so I’m relying on you two to do things properly. This is now out of your hands.”

  “We will. First thing. But Beatrice, you needn’t worry. I’ve got a natural skill for covert people-watching. I do it all the time.” A brighter thought crossed his mind. He could now spend the evening chatting to Lyndon without neglecting Matthew. Luck was on his side once again.

  He handed the phone to Matthew to say his goodbyes and wandered along the sea wall. He spent several minutes watching a large boat pitching and swaying with the movement of the waves. Sailing didn’t look all that much fun. Strike world cruise from the To-Do list.

  Matthew approached. “She’s not budging. Looks like you’re on your own this evening.” He handed back the mobile.

  “It seems totally unfair, but I have to say she’s right. You can’t risk being spotted. So what will you do with yourself tonight?” asked Adrian.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. I shall head over to the fish restaurant and indulge myself. I feel more concerned for you, sitting alone in a busy pub, trying to overhear any information about a pair of shady characters. Part of the fun of this is the teamwork and now I have to leave you to it.” His expression gave away sincere concern.

  “Matthew, you’ve forgotten my barman. My evening might turn out to be a tiny bit more than spying and surveillance.”

  “Of course! The chap with the cheekbones. In fact, that’s even better, because you can sit at the bar and talk to him. You’ll be able to eavesdrop on any conversations as they order their drinks. Well, this has all come out rather well!”

  Adrian laughed and turned his mind to the next problem. Your sartorial challenge, should you wish to accept it, is as follows: to dress like a nondescript tourist, while still demonstrating style and class to those who count. How to stand out while fading away?

  The clientele of The Clipper Inn on a Saturday night was a varied bunch in terms of dress and age, but all were uniformly loud. Adrian sat on a bar stool, drinking a spritzer, pretending to read the local paper and exchanging shy grins with Lyndon. They were able to have a few brief conversations at first, but as the pub filled, Lyndon had no time for anything but pouring beer, wrestling with the till and rushing to the next customer. Adrian’s perch allowed him the full view of the low room. The smugglers had not made an appearance.

  Just after nine, Adrian began to get bored. The paper was a typical local rag, so if you didn’t know these people who’d won scholarships to Aberystwyth, or been elected to the County Council, all you could do was criticise their choice of clothes. And even that was shooting fish in a barrel. Crossword completed, even if a few answers didn’t quite fit, he’d exhausted the paper and had no one to talk to.

  He sighed, the door opened, and in they came. Ponytail and a truly grim-looking older guy gave the room a quick scan, then made straight for the bar. Although he stood several feet away, Adrian could hear his accent as he ordered two pints of lager. Irish, certainly, but there was something else, a guttural sound which made his voice unusual. Propping themselves against the bar, they turned inwards, their backs to the rest of the customers. This gave Adrian the perfect opportunity to note details.

  Beatrice was right. That hair was utterly horrific. From the front: a sharp face with an unfortunate chin, framed by dark brown hair. Short sides, floppy fringe. All perfectly acceptable until you noticed the harshly bleached fronds splayed across his shoulders. He wore dark jeans, a faded black hooded sweatshirt and battered trainers. His accomplice looked worse. White-grey hair cut short and the dour, miserable lines on the man’s face made Adrian think of a US Army drill sergeant. Some faces bear the imprint of their most frequent expressions; you can recognise a veteran smiler, just as you can spot someone used to frowning. This man’s face had spent far too long showing contempt. His green Army surplus shirt and black combat trousers indicated a man inordinately fond of pockets.

  Lyndon shot Adrian a significant look as he spotted them and the next chance he had, he came along the bar under the pretence of retrieving some ice.

  “Have you had a word?” Lyndon asked.

  “No. And I don’t intend to. I just want to find out a bit about them. See if you can serve them next time, get into conversation, you know.”

  Lyndon shrugged. “I’ll try. But I’ve served these two before.” He indicated the stuffed pike in its glass case above the fire. “I’ve had more fun talking to him. By the way, what you doing later?”

  The chef appeared through the kitchen door. “Lyndon!”

  Lyndon took his ice bucket and scooted back into the fray.

  It took another twenty-two minutes. Eventually, Adrian watched the older man signal to the barmaid and elbow his colleague. Lyndon ducked in front of the approaching girl and picked up their glasses. The guy was quick, Adrian had to admit. Ponytail leant onto his right buttock and reached around to pull his wallet from his back pocket. An idea began to form in Adrian’s mind. Ponytail paid for the drinks and replaced his wallet in his jeans. The ‘conversation’ wasn’t going well. Lyndon made another comment, but received nothing more than a blank stare. He shrugged and moved off to serve some shrill Italians.

  Lyndon spoke from the corner of his mouth next time he hurried by.

  “Nothing. Miserable sods. You going to have a go?”

  Adrian shook his head. “No. But I’m going to lift his wallet. When you ring the bell for last orders, ask them a question or spill their drinks or something. With the rush to the bar as well, that should cover me. Can I borrow one of your little waiter’s pads?”

  “You serious? First time anyone’s asked me to create a distraction. You be careful, right? If you get smacked in the puss, I’m not taking you home tonight. Here you go. I want it back after, mind.”

  Adrian grinned, masking his nerves. Would Beatrice
approve of his picking the pocket of a child trafficker? The thought made him pause. But a good detective should seize every opportunity. He’d be careful. He wasn’t stupid and here was a chance to prove it. Professional athletes rehearse their moves in their minds, over and over until the sequence is perfect. No reason why a wine-merchant, rich tenor and part-time detective couldn’t do the same.

  Lyndon directed several meaningful stares across the bar as the clock ticked closer to eleven, but Adrian refused to be distracted. He kept as still as possible, not drinking, not watching, but focusing on his inner picture of a successful lift.

  “Last orders, ladies and gents, last orders.” The landlord, stupid git, came out of the kitchen and rang the bell, taking both Adrian and Lyndon by surprise. Adrian slid from the stool and hurried along the bar, with the rest of the ‘just one more’ crowd. Lyndon shifted into position and picked up the two almost empty glasses from their targets.

  “Oi! We haven’t finished those!” The older man’s arm shot out and grabbed Lyndon’s wrist.

  Adrian rushed forward, pressing himself against Ponytail and slipping out the wallet with his left hand, apologising all the while.

  “Shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did I spill your drink? Everyone’s in such a hurry tonight. That bloke shoved me off balance.” He looked over his shoulder in disgust at some imaginary figure. Ponytail frowned but said nothing.

  Lyndon apologised and replaced the drinks, offering to serve them fresh pints before the crowd. The two men agreed and Adrian slipped away to the bathroom, with his booty. He sat on the toilet seat, and flicked through the wallet. Cash in both Euros and sterling, a driving licence in the name of Eoin – how on earth was he supposed to pronounce that – Connor, and a set of business cards. Lannagh Farm, Kilmore Road, Ballyharty.