by Bill Kitson
‘I agree,’ Nash said after some thought. ‘I think one of us should go to the mart and ask the auctioneer and the other officials if they can remember any strangers hanging around during the sale.’
Clara groaned. ‘By one of us, I suppose you mean me? I’ll go now. One other thing, Mike, regarding those fingers found at the Boar’s Head. We’ve been through the MISPER cases for the years Mexican Pete suggested, but we couldn’t see anything from our area that would match the woman, which suggests she must be from elsewhere.’
As she reached the door, Lisa stopped her. ‘Clara, hang on. I was wondering, does Professor Ramirez know his nickname is Mexican Pete?’
Clara burst out laughing. ‘Of course he does. He’s not that dim. Everyone calls him that.’
‘I know that, but he’s Spanish, not Mexican.’
‘Blame the Ballad of Eskimo Nell.’
* * *
The landlord of the Black Bull public house close to Helmsdale town centre was due to bank the pub’s weekly takings. Conscious of his own safety, and mindful of the warnings issued by the police and his insurance company, he tried to vary the process as much as possible.
In Helmsdale that was more difficult than in larger towns and cities. There were only two routes from the Black Bull to the bank and both of these involved crossing the market place. The landlord’s choice was to either exit via the front door, entering the square via Bakers Alley, or by going out of the back door, emerging onto Butchers Alley and from there reaching the market place. Both ginnels were narrow and dark, presenting prime locations for an ambush if one was being planned.
Having reached the main road, there was little the landlord could do to change his route. At one time, there had been six banks and four building societies in the town, but following the banking crisis and the economic downturn, and after a couple of mergers, there were now only three financial institutions represented in Helmsdale.
Apart from choosing the route, the only other variant the landlord could rely on to prevent anything untoward happening was the time of day he set off for the bank. On most occasions, he went in the afternoon, but occasionally he opted for the morning — on one occasion even reaching the bank as their doors opened, much to the surprise of the cashier.
If there was to be an attack, the one place the landlord felt confident that it wouldn’t happen was in the pub’s back yard. In winter, this area was used to store empty barrels and beer crates. These were cleared away in spring to make room for a couple of tables and some bench seats, the addition of which led to the yard being re-classified as a beer garden. This was in spite of the fact that the only plants growing there were the moss and weeds that sprouted from the crumbling brickwork of the walls.
It was those walls, together with the locked and bolted gate, that gave the landlord confidence for his safety within the yard. The walls were over seven feet high, and at some point, one of his predecessors had enhanced the security by adding the extra deterrent of broken glass set into concrete on the wall tops. Used beer bottles, of course; Yorkshire innkeepers don’t believe in waste.
A couple of days after the market day muggings, as the robberies had been categorized by the Netherdale Gazette, the landlord set off for the bank, informing his live-in girlfriend of his intention to call at the butchers to collect some meat on the return leg of his excursion. She glanced at the clock, noting that there was ample time before the scheduled hour for opening, and then returned to her study of a Sudoku puzzle that was proving obdurate.
It was only when two regulars, their thirst in need of quenching, arrived and banged on the pub door that she realized her lover had failed to return. She unlocked the door expecting to find him standing there with them, shamefaced and keyless, but there was no sign of him. She ran to the back door, her alarm turning to panic as she opened it to see him lying face down on the concrete. Her screams brought the drinkers hurrying out, forsaking the chance of a pint in their need to find out what was wrong.
* * *
By the time Nash arrived at the pub yard, the victim was seated in a chair brought outside by one of the regulars. A few seconds later, when DS Mironova joined them, having phoned CSI to request their presence, Nash asked the victim if he felt well enough to tell them what had happened. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we all go indoors,’ Nash began. He gestured towards the newly arrived ambulance crew. ‘These guys will help you, I’m sure. Once we’re in the warmth, you can explain how you were attacked.’
‘Sorry,’ the paramedic said, ‘you can talk to him on the ambulance.’ Then added, ‘After we’ve checked him over and bandaged his head.’
Nash watched as the paramedics assisted the landlord onto a stretcher and wheeled him onboard. The publican was barely able to stand unaided, and when he moved, it was like watching someone of extreme age and infirmity.
‘CSI will be about half an hour,’ Clara explained. ‘I assume that’s why you wanted the yard clear, to prevent contamination of the scene.’
‘A bit late for that. But, while we’re waiting, let’s hear what mine host has to say.’
The landlord’s opening words were familiar to both detectives. Nash had lost count of how many times he’d heard a victim say, ‘It all happened so fast.’ Having listened to the tale of a balaclava-clad figure that had appeared out of the hiding place created by a stack of crates containing empty bottles, Nash asked if the victim could describe his assailant.
Nash was beginning to think nothing positive would come from the interview until he asked how the victim had been knocked out.
‘I don’t know,’ the landlord admitted, ‘one minute I was grappling with the bastard, the next I felt a burning pain on the back of my neck and I went out like a light. I must have banged my head on the wall or one of the crates as I went down.’
One of the paramedics, monitoring his patient, interrupted. ‘There’s a mark on his neck that I reckon might have been made by a Taser.’ He pointed to the twin circular bruises. As Nash examined the discolouration, he asked the landlord, ‘Was he behind you when this happened?’
‘Sort of, more alongside me, I think.’
The only other information they elicited was that the cash taken by the attacker had been inside a cotton bag issued by the bank.
The ambulance had gone, and as he watched the CSI team doing their work in the yard, Nash mulled over what the victim had said. Highest among the questions posed by the statement was, how had the attacker gained entry to the enclosed space? And, equally important, given that the gate was still locked and bolted, how had they left?
He glanced at the wall before calling the forensic team leader across. ‘I think the thief might have escaped over the wall, so would you make sure your guys check the top?’
The officer sighed and looked at Nash. ‘That’s probably the only uncontaminated site in this place with Fred Karno and his army having tramped through it,’ he said pointedly.
Nash signalled Mironova to accompany him back to the station. ‘I think we should leave them to it.’
As they’d left the pub, he said, ‘This looks the work of our friends yet again, or at least one of them.’
‘You mean the market muggers? I agree, but how he got in and out of that yard is a bit of a puzzle.’
‘He must have scaled that wall, there’s no other way. What we need to do is step up our search for crimes with the same MO. These people are too good for this to be their first offence, so we should be able to get details of their previous, and possibly even to identify them. Tom was on with that. Let’s see what progress he’s made, if any.’
The answer to that question, as they soon discovered, was none at all.
‘If they’ve offended before, I can’t find any trace of it. At least, nothing with the same MO or remotely like it is recorded on the PNC,’ Tom told them when they phoned.
‘Maybe they’ve been arrested or convicted for other crimes and changed their MO to prevent getting caught again,’ Lisa sugge
sted.
‘If that’s the case, they’re going to be much more difficult to catch,’ Nash said gloomily. ‘Let’s hope that, like all other thieves, they get greedy and make a mistake, because short of that, we’re up against a brick wall.’
Although Nash hadn’t intended the last statement as a pun, it was to be the brick wall to the rear of the pub that, together with the landlord’s chance remark, that gave the detectives their first clues.
* * *
Nash had travelled to Netherdale HQ for his regular meeting with Superintendent Jackie Fleming. As he was approaching her office, he encountered the head of the CSI team that had attended the Black Bull mugging incident. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you; it’s saved me a phone call,’ the forensic officer told him. ‘Your idea about that wall top paid off. We found skin and blood traces on two pieces of glass, so if the DNA matches someone in the database, we’re in business. It’ll take a couple of days before I know, but in the meantime, if you detain someone, check their arms and legs for wounds. Judging by the amount of blood we found, the injuries will be more than scratches. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything for you.’
Nash thanked the officer and went on to deliver this update along with a status report to Jackie Fleming. Their meeting was well underway when they were interrupted by a member of staff. Maureen Riley worked as civilian support officer, and was the widow of an officer killed in the line of duty. Following his death, she had continued working at Netherdale, where her role complemented that of Tom Pratt. This enabled the small detective force to have someone always on hand when needed, and also gave Maureen a much-needed salary. She possessed an uncanny ability to identify minute evidence that others might have missed. One such instance had led to the arrest and conviction of her husband’s killer. Since then, she had proved her value many times over.
‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but there’s been another incident that I think involves the so-called market muggers.’
Nash and Fleming looked at her, their surprise obvious. It had only been a day since the previous robbery. ‘They must be on a productivity bonus,’ Nash muttered.
Fleming smiled fleetingly, but asked Maureen for details.
‘It’s a bit complicated, but by the sound of what the uniformed men who attended the scene told us, it happened in Bishopton. It’s market day there, and one of the stalls is a caravan stocking cheese, bacon, cooked meats and so forth.’
‘Don’t tell me they’ve stolen the caravan?’ Fleming looked shocked.
‘Not quite, but close enough. According to eyewitnesses a pickup pulled up alongside the back of the caravan and two people, a man and a woman, jumped out. The man had a pair of bolt cutters that he used to cut through the chain securing the generator the cheese van uses for lighting, and to power their refrigerated display units. They switched the generator off, unplugged it, loaded it into the back of the pickup, and drove off. The eyewitnesses thought that because the market was finishing for the day this was the owner loading his unit before hitching the caravan to the tow bar. Likewise, the cheese man thought the generator had run out of diesel, but as he was closing up, wasn’t bothered about refilling it. That gave the thieves ten minutes’ breathing space to make their getaway. Except that they didn’t.’
‘You mean they were arrested?’
Maureen shook her head in answer to Fleming’s question. Nash waited, guessing that there was more to come. ‘No, what I mean is they didn’t leave the town centre. While everyone was busy attending to the generator theft they used the diversion to rob the fruit and veg stall at the opposite end of the market place.’
‘How did they manage that without drawing attention to themselves?’ Nash spoke for the first time.
‘The woman, described by an onlooker as a stunning blonde in a short miniskirt with legs that went up to her shoulders, was selecting vegetables from the stall when a man in a hoodie walked up to the stallholder and whispered in his ear, telling him to give the money apron to the woman or he would slit his throat. He gave her the apron, and then the man told him to sit down on the camping chair he uses on the stall. He did so and the man then gave him a quick burst with a Taser, disabling him for long enough to give them chance to get clear before he raised the alarm.’
‘Where was the woman while this was happening?’ Nash asked.
‘The stallholder said he remembered the couple arriving at the same time. The woman started filling a basket with produce, and then the man attacked him.’
Nash bit his lip. Laughing at that point would have been inappropriate, yet the incident did have its comical side. Not only had they taken a good deal of money, but they’d acquired a generator and taken the opportunity to do a week’s food shopping into the bargain. ‘I’d better get over to Bishopton and see what I can do. Maureen, will you ring Clara and ask her to join me there, please?’
The story they were told by the victims and eyewitnesses in Bishopton was familiar, but added little to the progress of their enquiry. After taking statements from both victims and various onlookers, the detectives returned to Helmsdale, where they compared notes.
‘I reckon our best way of catching these two is to get there before them.’
Clara was used to her boss making odd remarks, ones that usually contained more than a degree of common sense — albeit at times well hidden — but this one puzzled her. ‘How do you mean, “get there before them”, Mike?’
‘I reckon we should try to pre-empt their next move; second-guess them and catch them in the act. If we can detain them, we’ll be able to prove our case via their DNA. If it matches that from the Black Bull, we’ve got them.’
‘That’s all very well, but they seem to strike at random, so how do we anticipate where they’re going to hit next?’
‘That’s a good question, but I reckon I’ve an idea. I doubt whether they’ll return to Bishopton. The mart there is small and barely worth one visit, let alone two. My guess is that Bishopton, like the cheese stall, was a diversion. I think they’ll be hoping we concentrate on Bishopton while they strike elsewhere. If I was them, I’d be eyeing up the chances of a bigger target. I think they’ll hit Netherdale next Wednesday or Saturday.’
Chapter Eight
Nash was in his office later when DC Andrews came in. She’d been through to Netherdale to give evidence in a domestic violence case, and in the process collected some useful information. ‘The DNA results from that broken glass are back, and we’ve no match for it on our database. The result did throw up one surprise, though.’
‘And that was?’
‘According to the lab tech, the DNA pool was matched to an area of Eastern Europe, such as the Baltic region.’
‘That is surprising, but without a more positive match, we’re almost back to square one.’ Nash paused and thought for a second. ‘Actually, that’s not quite correct, because we can at least eliminate suspects whose ethnicity doesn’t tally.’
‘There seems to be little more we can do without catching them in the act, unless you’ve got any ideas.’
‘Nothing springs to mind, Lisa, unless we extend the check Tom made of other forces for similar crimes on their patches even further.’
He saw Lisa’s puzzled frown and explained.
‘The girl in the cafe said she thought the woman spoke with a foreign accent, and we know from the DNA that her partner’s probably not British, so it might be worth checking via Interpol. It’s a bit of a long shot that they’d provide anything useful. Still, it’s worth a try, so get Tom to check it out, will you? No, hang on, give Tom a break. Viv’s rung to say he’s coming back a few days earlier than expected, on Monday, so let him have the pleasure. Obviously, you won’t be needed here until Clara goes on holiday. But, thanks, you’ve been a great help and we’ll see you then.’
* * *
The CID suite door opened wide and Viv Pearce entered.
‘Good to see you, Viv. Glad to be back?’ Nash asked him. ‘Or are you just glad to get
away from nappy-changing duty?’
Pearce grinned.
‘How are Lianne and little Brian?’
‘Both doing fine, although I never anticipated that anything that small could make so much noise — or be permanently hungry. The sooner we get moved, the better. A one-bedroom flat might be great for romance but it’s lousy for parenthood.’
‘Good point,’ Clara commented. ‘But can I ask? Why did you choose to name him Brian?’
Viv looked at her, aghast at her ignorance. ‘My father was named after a cricketer; I was named after a cricketer. I wasn’t about to spoil a family tradition.’
Clara looked to Nash for support.
‘Brian Charles Lara, from Trinidad. One of the greatest cricketers of all time,’ he explained, while trying not to laugh.
Clara decided on a change of subject. ‘Didn’t Lianne mind you coming back to work earlier than originally planned?’
‘No. I think I was getting in the way. She told me that if I didn’t come to work, I’d be making my own dinner for the next month. Faced with that alternative, I really had no choice.’
‘Certainly not with your appetite,’ Clara interjected, as Nash led him through to his office to update him and ask him to start the Interpol search for the muggers.
An hour later, Clara called through to Nash’s office. ‘Mike, Viv wants to see you. He has some answers regarding the market muggers. I think he’s found something. Far quicker than we could have done.’
The information Viv had was sketchy, but it provided Nash with slightly more insight into the possible identification of the couple, as he explained. ‘The French police suspected a brother and sister who they believe were of Albanian origin. Because they had false papers, there’s no clue as to their real names, and the authorities had insufficient evidence to make an arrest. Reading between the lines, I’d hazard a guess that the only reason for the suspicion is that they were in the right towns on the dates that muggings occurred. Having said that, there’s a distinct similarity in the MO of the French offences to the ones committed here.’