Riddled on the Sands (The Lakeland Murders)

by Salkeld, J J

  ‘Twenty seven.’

  ‘OK, let’s look at something else. Do you know what ‘compunction’ means?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because it’s used in the letter. Can you think of anyone you know who might use a word like that?’

  ‘Not since school. And I’ve proved them wrong, haven’t I?’

  ‘I’m sure you have. When the writer says ‘me and my kind’ who do you think he might be referring to?’

  ‘Poofs is what I thought.’

  Hall smiled. ‘So you think you’re being threatened by a band of well-spoken homosexuals?’

  Jane sputtered out a laugh, but quickly regained her self-control. She reached across and straightened her pad and pen on the desk.

  ‘Maybe’ said Perkins, a little defensively. ‘What else could he be talking about?’

  ‘You think it’s a man?’

  ‘Yes, no, I’m not sure. Look, it’s your job to find out who sent this, isn’t it? I’m just a hard-working businessman.’

  ‘It is our job, you’re absolutely right. So leave it with us and we’ll see what we can do. And if any others arrive, bring them straight in to us. Don’t even open them next time, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever you say. But what are you going to actually do now? Am I going to get protection?’

  ‘You mean are we going to have you and your property watched twenty four hours a day, a car outside your house, that sort of thing?’

  Perkins cheered up. ‘Aye, that’s the idea.’

  Hall’s face was as expressionless as usual, and Jane wondered where he was going. He couldn’t just be having a bit of fun with Perkins, could he? It would be out of character, thought Jane. But this time Jane was wrong. ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. We just don’t have the resources, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So you’ll just wait until he starts destroying stuff or attacking me or something, is that it?’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, Mr. Perkins. But if you can’t give us specific names of people who you think might have done this then we don’t really have anything to go on.’

  ‘So it’s my fault now, is it?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m just trying to explain the realities of the situation. People who don’t have much contact with the Police always think we have a lot more people available to help them than we actually have. But we’ll log your concerns, and we will make some enquiries. And we’ll let you know if we come up with anything, OK?’

  Perkins didn’t look as if it was OK at all. He stood up quickly, and his chair toppled over backwards behind him. ‘I’d better go and get on with posting my stuff then. I just hope I don’t get mugged on the way.’

  Hall smiled. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely at all, Mr. Perkins. But, just out of interest, what’s in your parcels?’

  ‘This and that, you know. Collectibles, a couple of electronic things that I buy wholesale from a contact in China, a few CDs, some old books. Nothing worth mugging me for, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What kind of books?’

  ‘The kind that people pay for. I don’t know, do I? I’m a trader, I buy and sell anything. What it is don’t matter.’

  ‘Everything has its price?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Hall nodded. Jane glanced across at him, but he was as impassive as ever. She thought that Perkins could have told them that he’d just sacrificed a pregnant panda in the station car park and Hall’s reaction would have been much the same. But now she knew him well enough to be absolutely certain what he would be thinking about Perkins, and she agreed entirely with that view. Perkins made even Ray Dixon look like Melvin Bragg, a regular Cumbrian cultural colossus.

  Hall held the door open for Jane, and did the same thing all the way back to his office. There were five doors in total.

  ‘Is it worth a look then, boss?’ she asked when they got there.

  Hall glanced back at the letter.

  ‘I should say no, especially given the fact that we lose Ray in a fortnight.’

  ‘So you haven’t got him a stay of execution?’ He could hear a slight tone of surprise in her voice. He felt like saying that he wasn’t a bloody miracle worker.

  ‘Blimey Jane, you’re almost as bad as he is. He’s only retiring, not being ritually beheaded by the Chief Constable in the presence of the Lord Lieutenant. To my certain knowledge Ray counted down the days to his retirement for fifteen bloody years at least, and it’s only in the last few months that he’s been doing all he can to hold on.’

  ‘It’s the recession, boss’ said Jane, in what she fondly imagined was a passable imitation of Ray Dixon.

  ‘Well, I’ve done all I can to get him a twelve-month extension, but I don’t think he’s got a snowball’s chance. Doesn’t stop him asking me three times a day if personnel have come back with a decision, though. Anyway, let’s talk about this letter.’

  ‘You think it’s worth talking about? According to Perkins he hasn’t got an enemy in the world.’

  ‘I doubt he’s got many friends either. But that letter is odd, isn’t it? Tell you what, ask the intelligence team to see if they’ve got anything similar on file. I doubt it, but you never know. It reminded me of some of those letters you see in the local papers, when people start getting worked up about the kind of things that most of us don’t even notice. You know the kind of thing, someone moved a park bench, why do kids wear hoodies? Rearrange the words ‘hell, going to, and handcart’.’

  ‘So you’re thinking it’s just some harmless old crank letting off steam?’

  ‘Like I said, can criminals spell?’

  ‘And like I said, you’re a terrible snob, Andy Hall.’

  ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ said Ian Mann, who was suddenly filling Hall’s doorway.

  ‘Of course not. Come on in, Ian. And perhaps you can settle an argument. Can criminals spell?’

  Mann thought for a moment.

  ‘Well, the ones we never actually manage to nick probably can.’

  Jane and Hall laughed.

  ‘All right clever-clogs’ said Hall, ‘what’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s about that MISPER from the weekend.’

  ‘What MISPER? I didn’t see anything in the summary report this morning. Just some fisherman washed off his boat down at Morecambe Bay. So that’s Lancashire’s problem, not ours.’

  ‘Not quite Andy. First of all he set out from Flookburgh, and that’s on our side of the Bay and is in Cumbria. Second, he wasn’t in a boat, he was on a tractor. So that’s still technically our patch, even if it underwater half the time.’

  ‘So he was a farmer then? Did I misunderstand the report?’

  ‘No, he was the kind of fisherman who goes out between the tides, when the Bay is dry, and collects the fish from his nets, picks cockles, all that. Name of Jack Bell, fifty-five, lifelong fisherman. Knew the Bay better than anyone alive, the Queen’s Guide included, or so they say.’

  ‘Got you. My kids did a sponsored walk with the Queen’s Guide a year or two ago. Walked right across from Grange. So how come this Bell is missing? Did he hit quicksand or something?’

  ‘Don’t know. Coastguard and rescue services are still searching. Nothing yet, but it’s a huge area, a hundred and fifty square miles when the tide’s out.’

  ‘Blimey, that sounds like a hell of a job for someone. But it’s not really one for us, is it, Ian? Not unless a body or something turns up. And I assume it hasn’t?’

  ‘No, not yet. Apparently it will probably wash up somewhere in the next day or two. They think they spotted the tractor this morning though, but that’s it.’ Mann stopped, and Hall waited for him to make his pitch. Because it had to be coming. ‘Thing is, boss, I’ve had Mrs. Bell on the phone.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Jane picked up a wary tone in Hall’s voice, because despite his hard-man exterior Ian Mann was a bit of a soft touch when it came to damsels in distress, everyone in the station knew that. ‘And what did she have to say f
or herself?’

  ‘That Jack would never get himself in to trouble. He was always much too careful, and even when he’s had problems in the past he’s always had plenty of time to get off the Bay.’

  Hall nodded. He’d heard much the same before, and many times too. People just found it hard to accept that accidents do happen. And Hall thought that Ian Mann should have known better.

  ‘Look, mate. Even if she’s right and he’s super careful he could still have had a heart attack, a stroke, anything. I’m sorry, Ian, but what she says doesn’t alter the facts, does it? Her husband’s gone missing, and there’s nothing in it to interest us. And I assume the neighbourhood Bobby is looking after her?’

  ‘Aye, but she’s just a kid. Jan Wilding, you know her?’

  ‘No. But I’m not sure what you want from me here, Ian, honestly I’m not. As far as I can see there’s nothing in it for us. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I wanted to drive down there, ask around a bit. Maybe try to get out to the tractor, if they’ve found it. Off the clock, like.’

  Hall didn’t look convinced. ‘What’s your case load like?’

  Mann shrugged. ‘Much the same as usual.’

  ‘You mean as dull as ditchwater. All right, off you go, but only while you’re on duty, Ian. And do me a favour and take Ray with you. Because if I hear him moaning on one more time about being forced out I’ll end up charging myself with conspiracy to murder in advance of the fact.’

  Mann grinned. ‘You’d get away with diminished responsibility though, eh, Andy?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck. Now sod off, and don’t you dare come back here dripping and walking sand into the carpet tiles. You know what the Super thinks about a messy office.’

  Mann was going to say something about the state of Hall’s office, which had files on the desk, the meeting table and the floor next to his desk, but he decided not to risk it.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Ian’ said Hall, who in this case had guessed right. ‘And maybe a tidy desk does equal a tidy mind, but where’s the interest in that?’

  Ray Dixon volunteered to drive to Flookburgh. ‘I could do with the expenses, Ian’.

  ‘All right. But on two conditions. First that there’s nothing organic actually decomposing in your car, and second that you don’t bang on about being kicked out. You’re not being fired, you’re retiring. Deal?’

  ‘Deal. And I don’t know why you all keep going on about my car. I clean it whenever there’s a V in the month.’

  ‘And how long have you had it?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘So how often have you cleaned it?’

  ‘Twice, and I’ll do it again this November, whether it needs it or not.’

  As usual Ray Dixon drove as if he was on an economy run.

  ‘Get a move on, Ray. It’s low tide in an hour and I want to get a ride out with the Coastguard to look at this tractor. It’ll be underwater before we get there if you carry on at this rate.’

  ‘It’s my petrol we’re using, Ian. So they’ve found it then, the bloke’s tractor?’

  ‘Looks like it. The chopper spotted it again about an hour ago. Half covered in sand already, but they’re sure it’s a tractor. About two miles out, apparently.’

  ‘Do you want me to come as well? Only I’ve not brought my wellies.’

  Mann laughed. ‘You’re all right. You do what you do best, and take a stroll round the village, chatting up the old dears.’

  ‘What am I after?’

  ‘Usual stuff. What was Bell like? Friends, enemies, rumours, anything you can get.’

  ‘Was? So you reckon he’s fish-food then, Ian?’

  ‘You’ve got a lovely turn of phrase, Ray, I’m going to miss that. But unless you pick up anything to suggest he’s done a Reggie Perrin then yes, we can assume he’s dead. But don’t you let on that’s what we think, because you’re bound to bump into a cousin or something. Officially he’s strictly a MISPER, nothing more. You know what these little villages are like.’

  ‘I do. My folks’ families both come from round there.’

  ‘That explains a lot. Anyway, it’ll give you something in common with the locals.’

  ‘The same gene pool?’

  ‘Aye. On both sides of the family, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Dixon laughed. ‘It’s over-rated, is diversity.’

  Mann leaned over and looked at the speedo. ‘Drive to the limit, Ray, for Christ’s sake.’

  Dixon accelerated, very gently, to 60. ‘I’m going to have a miserable old age, thanks to you, Ian.’

  ‘Ray, you’re not even fifty-five. And you could get another job, you know. There’s no law against it.’

  ‘I want this job.’

  ‘But why? Until the last month or two you’ve done nothing but moan. Even by coppers’ usual standards you’ve turned grumbling into a bloody art form. Like modernist poetry it is, sometimes. Andy Hall told me that, so it must be true.’

  Dixon considered the point, and slowed back down slightly.

  ‘Well, aye, being a DC is a shit job, no doubt about that. The lowest of the bloody low. That’s a given, like. But the alternative is even worse.’

  ‘Being at home, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. Did I tell you that she’s got a list as long as your arm of all the jobs I’ve got to do? She was talking about getting a wall chart to put them on, and some marker pens. A bloody wall chart, all colour-coded. I’d rather be in the cells.’

  ‘Well I’m going to nick you for wasting Police time if you don’t get a move on.’

  Dixon parked carefully behind the Coastguard 4x4.

  ‘See you back here in and hour and a half, Ray’ said Mann, opening the door. ‘Use your charms and find out if he might have done a bunk, or if anyone’s got it in for him.’

  Dixon watched Mann shake hands with the Coastguard and a couple of lads from the search and rescue teams. ‘He bloody loves all this’ said Dixon.

  And Dixon was right, Ian Mann did love it. Riding out across the sands in the back of a tracked rescue vehicle reminded him of being in the Marines. He was sure he’d been in something just like this, only it was a different colour, and the sand was very dry and very far away from Morecambe Bay.

  ‘Will we be able to recover the tractor?’ he shouted to the man sitting next to him.

  ‘Aye, we can tow it back. But do you want to? It’ll be knackered, like. No use to anyone now.’

  ‘Evidence. There might be evidence.’

  ‘Oh aye. Well there’ll certainly be sand, I’ll tell you that for nowt. Gets everywhere, does sand.’

  Mann turned and looked through the window. The Bay looked flat, featureless, and the shore seemed a long way away already.

  ‘How long ‘til we get there?’

  ‘Just another minute or two. One of the lads will check for quicksand before we get out. Big lad like you, we wouldn’t want to have to pull you out, like.’

  Mann smiled.

  ‘How do you know where the quicksands are, then? Are they on a map?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It moves around with the channels. The sea is always moving everything around, but you get so you know where the soft sands will be, given time. Either that, or you get stuck.’

  ‘Where you found the tractor, is there quicksand there?’

  ‘You can have a look for yourself in a minute. This is it.’

  The vehicle stopped, and the noise level fell. But Mann still heard himself shouting.

  ‘Am I all right to get out?’

  ‘Aye, looks like some of the lads have been out here for a while. They’re giving me the all-clear. Just don’t wander off anywhere, mind.’

  Mann was surprised at how flat the sand was, and how firm. It was slightly ridged, as if ripples of water had been set in sand, and it hardly moved under his weight at all. It was hard to believe that this landscape had been under water just a few hours before, and in a few hours would be again. The clouds had lifted, an
d it was hot when the sun came out. Mann found himself squinting against the glare. He walked over to the tractor, still upright but more than half covered in sand. The trailer was nowhere to be seen.

  The local Coastguard chief, who Mann had known slightly when they’d both been in the Forces, walked over. Mann remembered that his name was Mike something.

  ‘Not much to see, is there? Still, beats being in the office. I’ve been coming out here for years, and nothing beats it. Cleanest place in the world this is, and every time you come out you feel like an explorer. Not a footprint for miles. Know what I mean?’

  Mann did, but he didn’t feel like discussing it.

  ‘Would he normally have been this far out?’

  ‘Not normally, no, but it’s not that unusual. If he was into something good then he’d go out even further. Low tides this week, see, so he’d have plenty of time to get back.’

  ‘So what would he have been after out here? One of the rescue guys said he didn’t think it could be shrimp. Wrong kind of area altogether, he said.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘You’d best ask him. Sounds like one of the fishermen. Which one was it?’

  Mann pointed.

  ‘That’s Sam. Yes, he’s from a fishing family in the village. Just does a bit part-time himself now, but he’d be worth a chat. Tell the truth we don’t usually have much to do with the net fishermen. There are hardly any left, and they know the Bay better than we do anyway. You can have all technology you like, GPS and that, but without the experience this place is dangerous. Never the same you see. The sands are restless, like, moving all the time.’

  ‘So I keep hearing.’

  Mann walked round the tractor slowly. He was beginning to wonder if it was even worth recovering. Maybe it was better to leave it out here as a kind of memorial.

  ‘What about his trailer? All his gear? Washed away, were they?’

  ‘Aye. Probably half way to the Isle of Man by now. I expect the body will be washed up in a day or two, but as to the rest of his gear, no, I don’t think so. The odd thing might wash up, but how would we identify it?’