Buried in the Past

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Changing the subject, Mike,’ Clara added, ‘I checked voters’ rolls looking for relatives of Graham Nattrass and there are no families called Nattrass living in the area. I checked back via the Gazette’s new online service and came up with an obituary for Mrs Grace Nattrass, widow of F. G. Nattrass. She died six years ago, but there was no mention of how long he’d been dead.’

  ‘Six years,’ Nash said. ‘Isn’t that about the time that Graham Nattrass moved into his flat?’

  Clara nodded. ‘I thought some of that furniture looked a bit old-fashioned for somebody of Nattrass’s age. I bet he moved there after his mother died. That would explain the healthy bank balance, and the sports car. If he sold the family home, he’d have plenty of cash to spare. What’s more, the initials of the husband mentioned in that obituary interest me. I checked with the registrar’s office and the “G” stood for Graham.’

  ‘Which puts Graham Nattrass’s background to bed. All we have to work out now is why he was killed in the identical manner to Ray Perry’s uncle twenty odd years ago.’

  ‘That still leaves the unanswered questions of who attacked Ray Perry and what happened to Frankie Da Silva,’ Pearce pointed out.

  ‘True, and although we’re no nearer working either of those out, I’ve an idea that the fate of Frankie is the key to the whole puzzle – don’t ask me why.’

  The meeting broke up without the team reaching any further conclusions about the way forward. Pratt remained seated when the others left. He appeared deep in thought. ‘What’s troubling you, Tom? You’ve obviously got something on your mind.’

  ‘That obvious, is it? Not troubling me exactly, but I was just going over everything I heard about this missing woman, this Frankie Da Silva. Do you remember that trip we took out to Bishops Cross? To the site where that murder victim was found? I wondered if that was the same woman.’

  ‘Remind me of the details again.’

  ‘The post-mortem showed that the woman had been dead for a long time before the phone call that tipped us off. Bear in mind, I’m going from memory. I seem to remember something about the pathologist testing the soil beneath the body, and concluding she’d been killed elsewhere. The body had been attacked by a wide variety of predators, so there wasn’t as much for us to work with. Given the way the science was in those days, the pathologist did the best he could, but nowhere near what Mexican Pete can achieve nowadays.’

  ‘Yes, I remember, and didn’t you say the body had been exhumed, and a DNA sample taken? As part of a cold case review, as I remember it? In which case, Mexican Pete should be able to trace that result. It may lead nowhere, but it might answer a whole load of questions. Unfortunately, it might also raise a whole lot more.’

  Nash repeated their conversation to Clara.

  ‘You don’t subscribe to the notion that she cashed in the diamonds and is now sitting on a sun-kissed beach drinking cocktails, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I ever did. However, this one seems about as far-fetched from what little we know at present.’

  In the holiday cottage the chirping of Phil Miller’s mobile surprised him. Not that he should get a call, but that there was any signal in this outlandish place. Tension was immediate, but the caller ID on his screen relaxed him.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ he sighed heavily.

  ‘You mean you haven’t got it?’

  ‘Oh yeah, like, I’d choose this spot for a bloody holiday, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘No progress?’

  ‘Only the wrong sort.’

  ‘So, what’s our next option?’

  ‘I’ve got to try and backtrack from the boy’s adoption. We know the mother didn’t give him up. She wasn’t available. So it had to be the relative named on the papers. The only problem is I can’t find any trace of her. She was at the Harrogate house, though.’

  ‘Did you get all the papers? You’re sure you didn’t miss anything?’

  ‘You saw them.’

  ‘What are you planning to do next?’

  ‘Try and trace this elusive relative.’

  ‘Do you want me to come back up? Everything’s running OK down here.’

  ‘Tempting, but there doesn’t seem any point, yet, apart from keeping me company. One of us having to suffer this place is bad enough. When we’re in a position to go after the stuff; that’s when I’ll need you to be here.’

  ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.’

  Although the club was in London, it wasn’t one of the more salubrious West End nightclubs, where the rich and famous gather in the full glare of the paparazzi. It was, to be honest, a dive. The ground floor comprised a large bar, alongside which a gathering of presumably tone-deaf punters gyrated to an uninspiring selection of music.

  Upstairs, some of the rooms were given over to gambling, despite the fact that the premises weren’t licensed. In yet more private rooms, men were entertained by specialist club employees. Here, the gambling was with the clients’ health, betting against contracting any number of sexually transmitted diseases. The premises certainly weren’t licensed for this type of activity. In fact, the rumour was that the only reason the police didn’t oppose renewal of the club’s licence was that with the place open, they found it easy to locate members of the clientele who were wanted for a variety of offences.

  The owner of this, and a dozen other similar clubs, by the name of Trevor Thornton, was seated on a bar stool at one end of the counter, watching the Friday night throng. Thornton, known to his close associates as Mr T, bore no physical resemblance to his famous namesake. In fact this short, balding and tubby middle-aged man was about as far away from the other Mr T as could be imagined. They did share one common trait, however, the ability to strike fear into those who had crossed them. In Thornton’s case it was via several bouncers who doubled as enforcers and bodyguards.

  A small, nervous, thin-faced man sidled up to Thornton, who inspected him, aware that the man had something to say. ‘What do you want, Freddie?’

  The tone was brusque, but the newcomer was used to that. Freddie ‘The Ferret’ Perkins was a betting shop clerk who made a precarious added income by peddling information. This sideline involved the collection and distribution of news items that didn’t make it onto TV, radio, the press or the internet, although in many cases the subject matter ended up in all of them.

  ‘I got a bit of a puzzle, Mr T, and I thought, my friend Mr T’s just the man to solve it for me.’

  If Thornton was offended by Freddie’s claim of friendship, he didn’t show it. Freddie often chose an obscure method to introduce the news item he had to impart and he guessed this was another example of just such an oblique approach. ‘Ask away, Freddie, you know I’ll answer you if I can.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I heard on the grapevine that an old friend had suffered an accident. More of an acquaintance than a friend, really. Someone who hasn’t been seen around these parts for a long time’ – Freddie gave a sly, sidelong smile – ‘hasn’t been seen anywhere, truth to tell. And the thing is, I was quite surprised when I heard that one of his nearest and dearest had gone dashing off to the place where this happened. Obviously, they’d gone to visit the sick, I thought. Except that I then found out that they’d rushed off there before the accident happened. Well beforehand, in fact. And I found that really curious, as if they knew it was going to happen, if you understand me.’

  ‘Presumably, if the person you’re referring to had been ill, they might have been summoned to his bedside,’ Thornton pointed out. ‘I don’t see anything unusual in that.’

  The Ferret nodded in agreement. ‘That’s exactly what I thought, Mr T, except that the information I was given was that the illness was a sudden one, an extremely sudden illness. A hit-and-run accident that remains a mystery, as I understand it.’

  ‘I agree, that certainly sounds odd. Can you tell me anything more? Lik
e the names of the people we’re talking about? Then I’ll be able to judge if there’s any interest for me in this story.’

  ‘I think I can assure you of that,’ Freddie told him, making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger indicative of the passing of money.

  He was right, of course. He always was. One of the reasons Freddie had survived so long was his ability to judge how much a story was worth, and who to sell it to – or who not to sell it to. Mr T pulled out his wallet and placed ten twenty-pound notes on the bar. Freddie smiled. Thornton’s eyes opened wide. ‘This has to be really good,’ he warned Freddie, adding yet more notes. ‘For five hundred, this has to be really, really good.’

  Freddie, who had been something of an amateur magician in his younger days, made the notes disappear into his pocket in the blink of an eye. ‘The injured party has been a guest of Her Majesty for many years, a quarter of a century or so. This was the result of an unfortunate encounter with an old friend of yours, someone who was in the motor trade. Shortly before that, as I recall, the man’s uncle had passed to the other side, and many people believe the two events weren’t tragic coincidences.’

  ‘Ray Perry? You’re talking about Ray Perry? What makes you think this is worth five hundred quid? It would be if the bastard was dead.’

  ‘Yes, that was what I thought at first. I thought, that’s interesting, but no more than that. Maybe some folk would place more significance on it than me, but no, not really valuable. Then, when I knew that my revered employer was dashing off up north with the man who is now making her eyes sparkle, long before Raymond’s accident, I got to wondering why. And at the same time, I wondered why Ray had opted to go to such an out of the way place. Why would someone like Ray Perry want to go there, unless there was something in that place that attracted him? And what could that be, I wondered?’

  Freddie paused, but Thornton didn’t interrupt. He knew there would be more to come. Freddie always saved the best until last. ‘And then I remembered something I heard a long, long time ago,’ Freddie continued, ‘and I started to wonder if perhaps they’d all gone looking for something. Something they thought might be there, in this out of the way spot. Like on a sort of treasure hunt, perhaps.’

  If Freddie had any doubts about Thornton’s interest, the final couple of sentences resolved them. ‘Treasure?’ Thornton asked. ‘What sort of treasure?’

  ‘Well, it could be all sorts of things, but I do recall hearing of something that was said to have gone missing at around the same time as Ray Perry went into solitary confinement. A large collection of diamonds, that were worth a lot of money, even in those days. What they would be worth today is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Where is this place that seems to have attracted so much attention all of a sudden?’

  ‘It’s a small town in Yorkshire, I believe.’

  ‘How did you get to know all this?’

  Perkins explained. ‘The thing is, a few weeks ago I was right outside the office at the time and just happened to overhear a phone call. Then, a bit later on, when I went into the office, I saw an address written down on a pad. Then after I heard the news about Raymond I got to thinking, I bet all this would interest my friend Mr T, so I came to tell you.’

  ‘You don’t happen to remember that address, by any chance?’

  ‘I can do better than that, Mr T’ – Freddie passed Thornton a slip of paper – ‘I copied it down, see, so I didn’t forget. Even got you the postcode.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Freddie. That story was worth the money after all.’

  There was one other piece of information that Freddie could have passed on, but he thought it better to keep it to himself, for the time being, at least. In a few days he would have the documentary evidence and when he had that, the money he’d just got from Thornton would be chickenfeed compared to what he could earn from the other news.

  It is a curious, though well known fact that when people foregather at a bar, they often forget the existence of the person who has just served them drinks. Many professional and personal secrets are leaked out within the hearing of members of the bar staff. Some scandals reach the general public this way, which is probably why journalists are so fond of barmaids. Or at least, that’s one of the reasons.

  Candy, the barmaid at the club owned by Thornton, had listened to his conversation with Freddie without understanding much of what they were discussing. The names were unfamiliar, the events they referred to had happened before she was born. Nevertheless, she stored them in her memory. One word had stood out, a word that interested Candy greatly. The word was diamonds. Not only that, a fortune in diamonds. Now that was sure to be of interest, Candy thought. Because Candy had her own secret, a boyfriend she adored, much more so than his ex-wife had done. Sadly, even without matrimonial duties standing in his way any longer, Candy could only see him occasionally. The frequency of their meetings was curtailed by the antisocial hours she worked, and also by his duties as a detective in the Metropolitan Police.

  Half an hour later, Thornton walked into the upstairs room, where a game of blackjack was in progress. The croupier in charge of the roulette wheel was spinning the ball idly, watching it bounce around the various numbers before settling. There were no punters around the table. Thornton wandered over. ‘How do you fancy a holiday?’

  The croupier eyed his boss with interest. When Thornton mentioned a holiday, it usually meant a trip to Spain. He wasn’t averse to that – if someone else was paying. And when Thornton went on holiday, he always took the croupier along, not for his expertise with the roulette wheel, but for his other talents. In addition to relieving gamblers of their hard-earned, he also acted as Thornton’s minder. It was this talent that led to his nickname.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Yorkshire, I’ve just heard a very interesting story. Apparently there might be a small fortune in diamonds up there, and we might be able to get our hands on them.’

  ‘Whereabouts is it we’re going?’

  ‘Some place called Bishops Cross, near Helmsdale.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Neither had I until half an hour ago. Let’s just hope the satnav can find it. I want to make an early start in the morning. I’m off now to sort out somewhere to stay and book rooms. Be at my place first thing.’

  Thornton stopped at his office where his second in command was watching the CCTV monitors. ‘I’m going away for a few days.’

  ‘OK, Mr T. Anything special you want sorting?’

  ‘Better ask someone to fill in on the roulette wheel for a few nights. I’m taking Mr Muscle with me.’

  chapter nine

  It was late when Candy awoke, as often happened when she’d been at work. Thornton’s club stayed open until the last punter had been relieved of his cash in any of the various ways Thornton had devised, either by the exorbitant drinks prices at the bar, the less than favourable odds in the casino or by the services offered by the hostesses in the ‘entertainment suite’, as Thornton described the private rooms.

  Candy wondered about getting up, when her mobile rang. She fumbled on her bedside table for it and grunted something that might have been, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, but I didn’t get home until gone five, so I’m still in bed. What do you want?’

  ‘Apart from you, nothing.’

  ‘That’s not fair, saying things like that when I’m here in bed alone and you’re miles away.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘You’re not what?’

  ‘Miles away, I’m sitting in my car outside your front door. I was going to ask about coming in, but if you’re in need of more sleep, I’ll go away.’

  ‘Don’t you dare! Hang on a minute while I let you in. If you want coffee, though, you’ll have to make your own.’

  ‘I can assure you, coffee was the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  Several hours later, Candy woke again. She looked at D
etective Sergeant Brian Shaw, who was asleep alongside her. She snuggled up to him, wanting him to wake up. Wanting him. Without opening his eyes, he reached across and pulled her closely and began to nuzzle her neck.

  Later, they talked. ‘How was work?’ he asked.

  She knew why he asked what was a fairly mundane question. Thornton had tried to enlist her as one of the hostesses and got quite nasty when she refused. That had been dealt with very smartly, courtesy of the sight of a Metropolitan Police warrant card and the threat of closure of the club.

  ‘Fairly boring,’ Candy told him. ‘The place is going downhill, I reckon.’

  ‘I thought it was already at rock bottom.’

  Candy smiled. ‘Maybe, but it doesn’t help with Thornton buggering off up north somewhere.’

  ‘What’s he done that for? I thought he’d get lost north of the river?’

  ‘It’s got something to do with diamonds, although exactly what I can’t be sure. I only heard part of the conversation. Bloody customers needed serving.’

  ‘What on earth has Thornton got to do with diamonds?’

  ‘It was something a character called Freddie told him. Thornton must have thought the info was good because he paid Freddie a monkey without whingeing, which is out of character.’

  ‘Five hundred? That’s steep. It must have been really good news. Who is this Freddie bloke? Do I know him? Is he one of your regulars?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve only seen him in the club a couple of times. Thin-faced little runt, sly manner. He has a nickname, some kind of animal. Weasel? No, that’s not it.’

  ‘Freddie the Ferret? He’s selling info to Thornton? Wow, what’s he got? A death wish?’

  ‘I don’t get you. Why is it a death wish?’