by Edward Figg
‘Looks as if your man has had a change of clothes,’ said Marchbanks.
Carter picked up the packet, straightened it out. It read, ‘Clairol Nice & Easy 112A Root Touch Black’.
‘Yes, but what did he change into?’ wondered Carter. He tossed it back on the bench and said. ‘So, now we know that Harris has changed his hair colour. He’s dyed it black. It’s no wonder he dyed it. That white hair of his stood out like dog’s balls on a snake.’
‘We found this in his jacket,’ Marchbanks said, showing Carter a photo.
Carter stared at it. It showed two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders. He tapped the photo with his finger, ‘That one’s Harris.’ He looked closer. ‘Wonder who the other one is?’ He studied it more closely. ‘If it weren’t for the hair colour, you could easily mistake them for twins.’ He slipped the photo into his pocket, then looked at the clothing on the bench. ‘Where were these found? Your DC said something about a stolen car?’
‘Yes. The car was found in a public car park down by the beach. It was reported stolen from Folkestone last Wednesday.’ He paused. ‘So… where’s your man been hiding for the last five days?’
Carter put his hand inside the backpack and pulled out some bits of straw. He lifted them to his nose, sniffed and then dropped it back on the bench. He’d already noticed some hay and small bits of straw sticking to the jumper when he examined it. ‘I think he’s has been holed up on a farm somewhere.’
Carter indicated the straw he’d dropped on the bench, then reaching over, he picked up the jumper and showed it to Marchbanks.
‘A barn maybe?’ guessed Carter.
‘I think you could be right sir. In fact, come to think of it, there’s was a lot of it on the floor of the car. We know the owner of the car is a shopkeeper, not a farmer.’
‘He’s a very resourceful man is our mister Harris. It’s why, maybe, nobody could find the car. He’s had it stashed away in the barn somewhere. He’s had this all planned out. When he stole that car, he drove it straight to a barn somewhere or some other place they store hay. He couldn’t afford to be discovered so he’d have to have a barn that was seldom used. He knew exactly where one was.’
The door of the room opened, and in walked DC Penrose. Carter studied the man as he approached. Penrose was tall, a little over six foot, and walked with confidence and determination. His blue eyes reflected power and authority. Under it all, Carter thought he saw a trace of boyish humour. The smile on his darkly handsome face never faltered. Carter could see why the man had made an impression on Kirby. He remembered seeing the look in Kirby’s eyes when Penrose had walked away from their breakfast table that morning. It was one he’d never seen before. The look reminded him of the feeling he had when he was around Christine.
Penrose looked around the room. His shoulders seemed to sag slightly when he saw the only two occupants were Carter and Marchbanks. Carter guessed that Penrose had been hoping to see Kirby.
He addressed Marchbanks ‘You wanted me to drive the DCI down to the terminal sir? I have a car ready. Oh, by the way, sir, DC Collins has just phoned in. He’s down with the flu. Sounded real rough. Said he won’t be in for at least three or four days. I must admit, he did look a bit under the weather yesterday.’
‘Looks as if you’ll have to do the job of two men then,’ said Marchbanks. He turned and spoke to Carter. ‘I afraid I can’t spare you anyone else, sir. I just don’t have the manpower.’ Marchbanks, realising that Carter didn’t know Collins from a bar of soap, said. ‘He was the other DC I’d assigned to help you, sir.’
‘Ah! It’s OK, we’ll just have to get along without him.’
Chapter 21
Carter stood looking out from one of the open control room windows, shaded his eyes from the glare and stared out over the vast expanse of harbour. He sniffed the air. The unmistakable smell of salt, mingled with fuel and oil drifted in on the breeze. The sea, that morning, was like a rippling blanket of silver as it sparkled beneath the sunny sky.
Squabbling seagulls flew overhead, some, in their endless search for food, were harassing a group of passengers as they waited by their cars to board one of the waiting ferries. Further out, more gulls could be seen dive-bombing the turbulent wake that streamed out behind another ferry as it headed out of the harbour entrance. Their wings were a blur of motion. As the ferry moved into the open sea, its bow lifted as it met the oncoming swell. For a few minutes, Carter watched the ferry until it disappeared into the misty haze that started to slowly drift across the water.
Hearing voices, he turned to see Baxter and Reid enter the room.
‘What did DI Marchbanks want?’ queried Baxter.
Carter told him about the discovery of the backpack found in the stolen car.
‘So,’ said Reid, ‘the crafty sod has changed his appearance? He would’ve been dead easy to spot with that white hair of his.’
Baxter’s mobile rang. While he was answering it, Carter said to Reid. ‘Where’s Marcia got to?’
‘I left her outside talking to DC Penrose. She was giving him the lowdown on Harris. Said she wanted to make sure he was up to speed on what was to happen today.’
Carter knew that Penrose was fully aware of what was happening because he had been at the briefing that morning along with all the others. He smiled to himself feeling sure that Marcia was about to open a new chapter in her life. He knew it would be good for her because most of her off duty time was spent looking after her mother. Inwardly, he felt pleased for her.
Baxter joined them. ‘That was Jill. They have eye ball on the house and the Keane’s are loading up a trailer. Bill Turner walked past and had a bit of a nosey.’ He looked down at the notebook he held in his hand. ‘Just as a check, she gave me the registration and the make of the car they’re driving. It checks out with the one that Marcia got.’
‘Good,’ replied Carter. ‘Mike, give it to Sergeant Taylor. He’ll see that passport control gets it. They can inform us the moment the Keane’s arrive. Ted, make sure you tell Richardson and Turner to come straight here to the control room.’
Reid went off to find Taylor. Baxter took out his mobile and called Richardson.
Carter walked around looking at the surveillance screens. On the one, marked ‘front entrance’, he noticed Kirby and Penrose standing close to one another. Carter tried to decipher her body language. The tilt of her head and the touching of her neck. Was she sending Penrose a message? As he stood there watching, he smiled and hoped Penrose was better at reading the signals than he had been with Christine. Carter remember getting the same signs from Christine the day that he and Mike Reid interviewed her at the café. He never even noticed. If it hadn’t been for Reid picking up on it, he’d still be sleeping alone. Again, he smiled.
‘Why beat around the bush?’ Carter thought. ‘Why can’t they just come out and bloody say what they mean?’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Women… I’ll never understand ‘em.’ He wandered off looking for Baxter.
Carter walked in to the office that had been allocated to them just off from the main control room. It had four desks, all with phones. On one desk sat a computer. Carter was happy to see there was facilities for making coffee. In the room with him were Reid, Taylor and Baxter. Ted Baxter was examining the contents of the backpack that Carter had earlier brought back with him from Marchbanks office.
‘Almost forgot,’ said Carter, taking the photo out from inside his jacket pocket. ‘This was in the jacket.’ He handed it to Baxter.
Baxter examined it. ‘That chap with him has to be his brother. I remember Albert Streeter saying that Harris had shown him a photo of the pair of them together. Streeter said they looked like two peas in a pod. He wasn’t bleeding kidding either, was he?’ He passed it over to Mike Reid.
Laughter came from outside in the corridor and a moment later, in walked Marcia Kirby and DC Penrose. They stopped laughing as they came in and both looked around at the others in silence. Everyone stared at
them. It was as if they’d both been caught doing something they shouldn’t have.
Penrose was the first to speak. ‘I was just telling Mar… err… Sergeant Kirby here all about…’
Penrose’s explanation was cut short by Taylor who had picked up the photo that Reid had put down on the desk.
‘Bugger me! I know that face. It’s Tommy Harris.’ He turned holding the photo so all could see. He waited for a reaction. He looked as if he was expecting them all to applaud. None came. ‘He was in Border Security. Got himself killed about two years ago, I think it was.’ He took another look at the photo. ‘It’s him for sure.’ Taylor went on to explain. ‘They were removing a container that had been confiscated from a truck. It had a load of counterfeit gear in it. Full of ‘Armani’ shirts it was, if I remember rightly. The container swung while it was being put in place and poor old Tom Harris was trapped between it and another container. Real messy. He was killed instantly. I sometimes use to run into him at the pub, the one just down the road. Some of us used to go there after work sometimes. So, he’s the brother of your George Harris. What a small world. He used to live somewhere up at Saint Margaret’s Bay, had a farmlet or something. His told me once, he wanted was to raise Alpacas when he retired… well… well. Who’d have guessed it.’ He looked at the photo and slowly shook his head.
Carter rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few seconds then asked Taylor. ‘Can you get me his old address?’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll see what I can do.’ He disappeared off down the corridor.
‘You think he could be holed up somewhere there?’ said Marcia Kirby, picking up on Carter’s thinking.
‘Maybe, maybe not. If his brother’s place was there then it stands to reason he’d know the area. The only thing that bothers me is why dump the car and backpack here in town? Saint Margaret’s Bay is some four miles away. No… I think he’s lurking somewhere close by.’
‘Dumping the car could just be a red herring,’ added Ted Baxter. ‘He wants us to believe he’s hiding in town when all along he could be hiding somewhere out at Saint Margaret’s Bay.’
Carter glanced at his watch. He was surprised to see it wasn’t even yet nine o’clock. There was still a good eight hours until the Keane’s ferry, he thought. Harris could still be caught. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He reached out for the water jug and poured himself a glass.
His brain was in processing mode. He sat down and started to slowly work through the options.
******
Thirty minutes later, Mick Taylor came back with the information Carter had asked for. He came into the office. ‘Sorry it took so long sir, but once I had Tom Harris’s address I thought it might be worth checking up on the new owners in case there was any connection between them and George Harris.’
‘And was there?’
‘No sir, there wasn’t,’ replied Taylor.
‘It was worth a try. Good thinking anyway sergeant.’
‘The reason there is no connection between the new owners and George Harris is because Harris still owns it.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Carter, surprised. He rose to his feet and walked around the desk to where Taylor was standing. ‘Well. That’s a turn up for the books.’
‘When Tom Harris died, the property was inherited by his brother, George Reginald Harris. He’s the one who’s got it now.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Baxter, who was sitting at one of the desks, listening. ‘So, that’s where the bastard’s hiding.’
‘Looks like maybe he is there,’ admitted Carter.
Carter gave it some thought for a moment, then said. ‘I’ll let DI Marchbanks know what’s happening and put him in the picture. He looked at Penrose. You know the area? I’d like you and Sergeant Kirby to suss this place out. Don’t get too close just in case he is there. See if there’s any sign of activity. If he is there, we can call DI Marchbanks for backup. I’m not taking any chances on this now we’re that close. We’ll need to go in mob-handed. Sergeant Taylor can go with you as well.’
‘I’m quite happy to go sir, but you must understand that I don’t have any authority up there. It’s out of my jurisdiction.’
‘You can go along as moral support. Marcia, you call me the moment you find anything. No heroics. Is that clear?’ She nodded. ‘Right, off you go, and be careful.’
******
Penrose rested his elbows on the roof of the car and focused the binoculars on the distant building at the bottom of the hill. Standing close to him with the breeze gently disturbing her hair, Marcia said. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘No, all seems quiet. Nothing moving. No signs of life.’ He straightened up and handed her the binoculars.
Penrose had pulled the car off the gravel track, parking it in a small lay-by, not far from the cliff’s edge. Above their heads, a flock of seagulls glided quietly on the updraft. As Penrose stood by the car watching the gulls it suddenly brought back a long-forgotten memory. It was when he and his brother were growing up on the coast of Cornwall. Sometimes, when storms rolled in from the Atlantic, they would go up onto the clifftops and throw stones over and watch as they were catapulted skyward, pushed back up by the strong updraft that rushed up the face of the cliff.
He turned and looked out to sea. The mist from that morning, that had earlier spread out over the sea, had all but disappeared and the sky had cleared to a weak shade of blue.
From their vantage point high upon the cliff he had a clear view across the twenty-one-mile stretch of water to where the clock tower in Calais could clearly be seen.
The channel was busy with shipping. Penrose had come to think of it as a nautical motorway, but with slower speeds. All this shipping was monitored twenty-four hours a day by the Coast Guard Station whose radio mast could be seen a few miles away, pointing skyward, further along the clifftop.
A seagull, protesting noisily about the human intruders, rose from a nearby park bench that it had been perched on and flew off into the morning air.
‘Hang on, there’s movement. Someone has just come out of the front door,’ said Marcia Kirby. ‘Can’t quite see…’
Penrose and Taylor looked towards the cottage but being too far away, could see very little.
After a few moments, Kirby handed the binoculars to Penrose saying, ‘Shit. Harris may be the master of disguises but I can’t see him going that far. If that fellow is Harris, down there, then he’s wasted his money on hair dye. He’s now bald as a coot and aged another twenty-odd years. Whoever that is down there must be eighty if he’s a day and is carrying a walking stick.’ There was hint of frustration in her voice. ‘That is definitely not Harris.’
Penrose looked through the high-powered binoculars for a moment then passed them on to Taylor.
‘No. That’s just some old codger.’
‘OK,’ said Kirby, looking from one to the other. ‘Let’s go down there and have a word. I want to have a look what’s in or has been in that barn at the back.’
Penrose stared incredulously at her. ‘Sarge, the DCI gave strict instructions not to go in without backup.’
‘I don’t think that old geezer down there poses a threat to us,’ she raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you? You two can stay here if you want. I’ll take full responsibility.’
‘No, that’s not the point. No. I can’t let you go down there on your own. I’m coming with you. Your boss would kick my arse into the middle of next week if something happened to you.’
They both turned to Taylor, waiting for his decision.
Something fell from the sky and landed on the bonnet with a resounding splat, leaving the dark paintwork stained with a long white smear.
Taylor looked down at the bonnet and brushed a speck of white from his trouser leg.
He gazed skyward. ‘Bleedin’ birds.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘As I see it, I’ve have two options. ‘One…’ he held up a finger. ‘Stand here and get covered in bird shit or, two…’ he held up a second fin
ger. ‘Come with you in the car and get attacked by a bald headed eighty-year-old with a walking stick.’ A brief pause. ‘Count me in.’
Chapter 22
The bald-headed man who was doing some planting, stopped, put down the trowel he was using and stood up as the three strangers approached. He stared at them suspiciously.
Marcia Kirby had to admit to herself she’d got it wrong. The man was not in his eighties, more like late sixties and the walking stick turned out to be a garden stake. She did get one thing right: he was bald.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ he asked abruptly, holding the trowel out in front of him like a knife, ready to lunge. There was a hint of hostility in his voice.
Kirby held up her warrant card.
‘Morning sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Marcia Kirby and these are my colleagues, Detective Constable Penrose and Sergeant Taylor. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’
The man looked at each one in turn, then, deciding they were no threat, took off his gardening gloves and shook hands with them. ‘My names Archer, Gordon Archer.’ His voice had taken on a much more friendly tone.
‘I was just planting some spring bulbs and doing a bit of tidying up.’
‘Do you own all this property, Mr Archer?’ asked Penrose, indicating the surrounding two fields.
‘No, I rent it. We just have the house, the wife and I. The rest of the property, about ten acres, is rented out to one of the local farmers. He runs a few sheep on it. It helps to keep the grass down. We moved down here from London some eighteen months ago, the sea air here is better for the wife. She suffers from asthma.’ Anyway… how can I help you?’