The Altered Case

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Yes, really, it was . . . it really is the unusual nature of payment that makes it stick out in my old mind.’ He took a long, loving sip of his drink. ‘Plant hire is a risky business; a lot of folk want to hire plant in order to sell it, usually overseas.’

  ‘So our boss told us.’

  ‘Yes, hurts the business, the inconvenience of having to wait eighteen months before a new piece of kit can be delivered and of course the insurance premiums rocket.’

  ‘So we understand,’ Webster commented. ‘An unfortunate business all round.’

  ‘Hence the need to be able to identify our customers.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, the customer who wanted to pay cash . . .’ Evans glanced out of the window. ‘What can I remember about him?’

  ‘Alarm bells?’ Ventnor suggested. ‘Dare say the request to pay cash in hand made you suspicious?’

  ‘Yes . . . I am remembering now. I seem to remember that although we were doing good business overall at that time, and the Bobcats were in particular demand, we had two of them sitting in the yard. Both nice and clean and fully serviced because we had had time to wash them, so it must have been a bit of a quiet time for trench digging.’ Evans took another sip of his drink. ‘I recall that we were not happy with the cash payment but the customer was most insistent . . . and he wanted it in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Webster commented.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, possibly the crime had been committed by then, rather than being anticipated.’

  ‘I see. Now I kid you not, it was only when he agreed to deposit not only the full cost of replacing the machine but also agreed to add fully thirty per cent on top as surety that we agreed to hire it for cash. He was unlikely to steal it and try to sell it then you see. Cost of replacement plus thirty per cent, he wouldn’t get his money back if he sold it on, no questions asked.’

  ‘That’s not cheap,’ Ventnor commented. ‘So the customer was monied?’

  ‘Must have been,’ Evans agreed.

  ‘So you hired it on those terms?’ Webster confirmed.

  ‘Yes.’ Evans nodded. ‘He said he would send his man in.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ventnor interrupted, ‘so you never saw the customer?’

  ‘No, the negotiation was done by phone.’

  ‘All right . . . sorry I interrupted.’ Ventnor smiled. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Yes, so the next day a gentleman arrived carrying a suitcase. Said suitcase was full of twenties and fifties . . . the sum agreed . . . all of it.’

  ‘No wonder you remember it,’ Webster gasped.

  ‘Yes, it’s coming back to me and is doing so with great clarity.’ Evans grinned. ‘We were still a little wary so we offered him a cup of coffee while we counted it.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ Ventnor guessed. ‘Get his dabs as a bit of extra insurance?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’ Evans tapped the side of his nose with his right forefinger. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey, as they say. We wiped the mug down first and handed the coffee to him on a tray.’

  ‘Clever.’ Ventnor winked at Evans. ‘Good move.’

  ‘Yes, we thought so. When he left with the Bobcat we picked the mug up using a ballpoint pen through the handle, put it in a large manila envelope and left it on one side, but he returned the digger on time the next morning and said, “You can wash my prints off the coffee mug now”. So he was just as clever as we thought we were. Anyway he collected the suitcase full of cash and drove away. We washed the mug and that was that.’

  ‘Were there any indications that you recall as to where he used the machine,’ Webster wondered. ‘I emphasize, that you recall?’

  ‘None that I can recall, as you say.’ Evans stroked the knee of his plus four trousers with a large, fleshy hand. ‘Like I said, he returned the Bobcat the following forenoon so whatever it had been used for it wasn’t a big job. Thereafter I am afraid the memory merges with other returned hires, no details about the return have stayed with me.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Webster nodded briefly. ‘We believe that it was used overnight so it could have been a larger job than you might have thought.’

  ‘No reason why it shouldn’t be used during the hours of darkness. Plant is often used at night, to minimize disruption of traffic, for example.’

  ‘I see. How did he transport it?’

  ‘A trailer, he brought a suitably sized trailer behind his Land Rover . . . ran it on to the trailer and towed it away, nothing of note about the Land Rover or the trailer . . . metal frame, aluminium ramps. We did take a note of the number plate of the Land Rover.’ Evans held his hand up. ‘Sorry, don’t get excited, we did it as a safeguard and when the Bobcat was returned we destroyed the paper with the number plate on it, just as we washed the mug with the man’s prints on it. The man and his boss had played the game, you see, kept to the agreement.’

  ‘Fair play,’ Ventnor mumbled, then he asked, ‘What can you tell us about the two guys, the one on the phone first . . . the customer?’

  ‘The customer, as I recall, he was old money, posh . . . relaxed . . . used to getting his own way but relaxed with it. Calm authority I seem to recall. He wasn’t brassy, excited, overbearing new money, or like someone who had just scooped the jackpot on the football pools, nothing like that. Male, as I have indicated. Couldn’t put a finger on his age range, possibly younger adult rather than older adult, you’ll appreciate that my memory is clouded by the mists of time.’

  ‘Yes, fair enough,’ Webster conceded. ‘The second man, the one who picked up the Bobcat . . .’

  ‘Yes, him, I remember more about him, helped by the fact that I set eyes on him and spoke to him. So . . . so . . . well he, on the other hand, was not monied, not as I recall, by his manner nor by his appearance, though appearances can be misleading . . . the bankrupt who dresses well and the millionaire who wears denims . . . but I thought him to be scratching his pennies, again as I recall. He struck me, if I remember correctly, as a factotum, but a factotum who could be entrusted with a great deal of money. It was the case, I thought, that he was a most reliable and trustworthy employee, as if an old family retainer, or somebody who had a gun pointed at his head so as to dissuade him of the notion of doing a runner with the money, or perhaps he just didn’t know what was in the suitcase . . . but the third option would have been a risky one for the customer, I would have thought, but who knows?’ Evans raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘We hope we will get to know,’ Ventnor replied drily. ‘Do you recall anything else about him?’

  ‘Well, I doubt he’ll still be alive, I can tell you that. He was older than I was, much older, and this was thirty years ago.’ Evans sipped his whisky. ‘I do remember calling him “sir”, not just because he was a customer but also . . . in fact more so, because of my natural deference to age. I am the product of a very traditional childhood and was brought up to show proper respect to my “elders and betters”. Mind you, as I grew up I found myself challenging the logic of that notion. I mean, are our elders necessarily our “betters”? You know my grandson has the correct logic, if you ask me; he has a sign on his bedroom door which reads, “Why should I tidy my room when your generation has made such a mess of the world?”’

  Webster and Ventnor laughed softly.

  ‘Mind you.’ Evans raised a finger with a gleam in his eye. ‘I countered that,’ he continued with an equally gentle laugh. ‘I got hold of a sticker which read, “Grab yourself a teenager while they still know everything”, and next time I visited my daughter and her husband, I stuck it on his door above his sign. He was not amused by all accounts, my grandson I mean, he was not amused. My son-in-law thought it was a huge joke but my grandson tore it off his door and shredded it.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Ventnor replied. ‘Teenagers take themselves very seriously.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Evans continued to grin. ‘They don’t like being put right, teenagers don’t. But
if the old factotum is still alive, he’ll be a hundred up by now and we men don’t live forever, not like women. They just go on and on.’

  ‘We can try and find him,’ Webster said. ‘We can but try.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the right attitude, you can but try. I remember he was of stocky build . . . and –’ Evans raised his finger again – ‘he was a Scotsman, that I suddenly remember.’

  ‘Scottish?’ Ventnor sat forward. ‘That is useful, that will narrow the field down considerably, quite considerably indeed.’

  ‘Imagine it would.’ Evans swilled the whisky round his glass. ‘The Scots gave us this stuff and he was a Scotsman. Strange how it all floods back. I recall in my mind’s eye a stocky, ginger-haired bloke, short but barrel-chested. He wore a tartan cap. I remember I commented on his accent. I really was trying to get as much information about him as I could . . . still suspicious, you see. So I commented on his accent.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ventnor replied, ‘understood.’

  ‘I was still wary of criminal intent on his behalf and I remember he looked away and down at the floor and said, “Aye, I made a lassie pregnant when I was down here with the army and so I stayed”. So I thought, good for you, Jock, squaring up to your responsibilities like that. Any other guy would have gone home and left the lass struggling alone with a newborn infant. Confess I might have done just that if I was in his situation. I mean, if I had been up in Scotland and I had made a Scots girl pregnant, then knowing me I would have likely said, “I’ve heard the poem darling, and your heart might be in the Highlands, but mine isn’t”.’ Evans paused. ‘Well, I don’t know, possibly I would have stayed, my seed and all that, or brought her south with me, but I doubt that I could tear myself from my roots because of a single moment of indiscretion. I love this part of the world you see, just love it, but I do recall feeling a little more reassured when he told me that.’ Evans shrugged. ‘He was evidently an honourable man, so I felt a little safer letting him take the Bobcat away. Even though I had the suitcase full of money, I still felt more reassured by his attitude to that girl all those years earlier.’

  ‘So he was a Scotsman who had a wife and child and who lived in this area?’ Ventnor confirmed.

  ‘Yes, he seemed to be familiar with the area, drove here and drove away again quite confidently,’ Evans replied. ‘Didn’t seem to have a map, didn’t ask directions. I thought him to be in his sixties then.’

  ‘And ginger haired?’

  Evans glanced out of the window. ‘Yes, fiery ginger hair, if not red haired . . . more like red hair really, very Scottish.’

  ‘Would you recognize him again?’ Webster asked, and then added, ‘Allowing for the passage of time?’

  ‘I can only say possibly,’ Evans replied. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Photographs.’ Webster turned to Ventnor. ‘I was thinking of photographs.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ventnor smiled. ‘He might have been known to us, so by the passage of time, you mean going back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Webster nodded. ‘Mr Evans here might be able to recognize the gentleman in an earlier phase of the man’s life. Could you look through our albums, sir?’ Webster turned to Evans.

  ‘I could, certainly won’t do any harm but he didn’t seem like a felon. As I said, he seemed to me to have a sense of duty and a sense of ethic about him.’ Evans held eye contact with Webster. ‘But, yes, I am willing to look at your photograph albums; might be worth a flutter. When would you like me to call in?’

  ‘A.s.a.p.’ Ventnor replied.

  ‘Well, you’ll need me more sober than I am now.’

  ‘You’re not driving any more today, sir?’ Ventnor enquired with a note of caution in his voice.

  ‘Just onwards from here to the Fifties club . . . just had two and mostly it was ginger. I’ll be all right. I’ll have lunch, then three or four more of these lovely little gems. After that the pretty little popsie will take the wheel. She’ll have lime juice and soda for the rest of the day, I’ve got that bit covered, got it well covered. I couldn’t get by without being able to drive. So you see the popsie has her uses. So shall we say ten of the clock upon ye morrow forenoon? Suit you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Suits admirable.’ Webster smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled.’ Evans grinned. ‘That will take me very nicely to yardarm time, lovely, lovely yardarm time. I’ll have the dragon drive me into York.’

  ‘Micklegate Bar police station, sir,’ Ventnor added.

  ‘Yes, I know it. So I’ll look at the photographs then I’ll call in at the old pub, have lunch, stroll over to the popsie’s. You know it sounds like a good day is about to shape up for me tomorrow. Retirement is like a long holiday, I can tell you. I can’t recommend it too highly. You two young fellas should look forward to it. You know I was talking to a popsie just the other day, not my floozy over there –’ Evans indicated Molly who was still perched upon a bar stool, still looking indignant – ‘but another popsie, and when she asked me how old I was, I said twenty-five, and she laughed out loud and said, “Come on”, so I said, “I mean it, I’m twenty-five. If you are as old as you feel, I am twenty-five”.’ Evans stood. ‘Life is good, it is still very good.’

  George Hennessey read and then carefully re-read the report which had been faxed to Micklegate Bar police station, for his attention, from the forensic science laboratory at Wetherby. He relaxed back in his chair as he read with a great deal of interest that, as Dr D’Acre had surmised, four of the five skeletons were related: parents and two daughters who were full siblings. The fifth skeleton, a young adult female, had no genetic link to the other four skeletons. He glanced up at Webster and Ventnor who sat in front of his desk patiently waiting for him to complete reading the report. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the fifth victim, who is she? A friend of the family who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? An unconnected victim of a second wholly unconnected but contemporary crime?’

  ‘I dare say that is for us to find out.’ Webster smiled.

  ‘Yes.’ Hennessey returned the smile. He found over time that he liked Webster’s attitude, he had an enthusiasm, a go-getting attitude which seemed to be lacking in Ventnor. Ventnor, it had always seemed to Hennessey, would work if he was given a job to do, Webster on the other hand had the initiative to find work. ‘Yes, it is as you say, Webster, up to us to find out.’ He laid the report down. ‘So, do you fancy a trip to the Smoke?’

  ‘The Smoke, sir,’ Webster queried, ‘where is that?’

  ‘London, the Great Wen, also known in medieval times as the Great Maw.’

  ‘Wen? Maw?’ Webster was puzzled.

  ‘A wen is a cyst . . . so it is a great blot on the landscape, large and unsightly, and a maw . . . a maw, also from medieval English, is a stomach.’ Hennessey patted his stomach ‘That’s your maw. London is a huge thing which swallows other smaller things.’

  ‘I see, sir, thank you for the history lesson, but frankly,’ Webster replied, ‘I do not fancy a trip to the Smoke, or the Great Wen, or the Great Maw. London is not my favourite place. I could never understand the draw it has, the magnetism that holds folk there. I find far-famed London Town to be dirty and untidy and smelly.’

  ‘And overcrowded.’ Hennessey grinned. ‘I’m with you all the way, even as a Londoner myself. I am in complete agreement with you, complete agreement, but someone has to go and talk to the surviving relative of the missing family, the Parrs.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Webster replied with a groan. ‘Essential . . . has to be done.’

  ‘I’ve already broken the bad news to DS Yellich; he’ll be going with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll be glad of the company.’

  ‘Ventnor.’ Hennessey glanced at Thomson Ventnor.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Missing person reports of thirty years ago, trawl through them, link up with Carmen Pharoah if you have to. We have to identify the fifth victim.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As for me, I have a press re
lease to prepare: witnesses to a crime sought, possibly two crimes, over a quarter of a century old.’ Hennessey reached forward and picked up his telephone. ‘Ah well, I am advised needles have actually been found in haystacks. Oh, thank you for digging up Mr Evans this morning. I read your recording, potentially very interesting . . . a Scotsman with a suitcase of readies. We’ll see if he can pick out a photograph tomorrow. I’ll ask Carmen Pharoah to show him the albums.’

  Thomson Ventnor calmly and methodically read the missing person reports from thirty years previously which had been collated by Carmen Pharoah. There had been many people reported missing in York during that period but only three files remained open. Three persons in the Vale of York had disappeared thirty years previously and who still remained missing. The greatest number of missing person reports of that year had been closed within twenty-four hours of the ‘mis per’ in question having returned home, or had been found alive, either safe and well, or found injured or seriously ill, but nonetheless alive. A smaller number had been closed when the missing person had been found deceased, either through misadventure, natural causes or foul play. Those latter cases were tragic and often traumatic for the family of the victim, but at least those families had some closure once they knew what had happened to their relative. But three families, whose loved one disappeared in the Vale of York thirty years earlier, still, after all that time, had no closure. Of the three open missing person files dated thirty years earlier only one was female. Thomson Ventnor sipped his tea as he read the report.

  Michelle Lemmon was twenty-one years old when she was reported missing in the April of the year in question. She was five feet eight inches tall, dark haired and at the time had been unemployed. She did though, it was reported, sometimes take employment as a part-time barmaid. She had been reported missing by her parents who provided a ‘very recent’ photograph of her, showing her to be an ordinary, plain-looking woman. She was, in Ventnor’s eye, no head-turning beauty, but neither did she seem to be the sort of girl who would have struggled to find a partner. It was, though, the eyes which reached Ventnor; Michelle Lemmon’s soul was, he thought, an angry soul. A very angry soul indeed. Ventnor had observed just that look in the eyes of criminals who had been photographed upon their arrest and charging, as if they had been served some dreadful injustice. The photograph of Michelle Lemmon seemed to Ventnor to be a perfunctory photograph, clearly taken at a photo booth for a passport or bus pass or similar. Yet the anger in the eyes could not be concealed. Her address was given as 197 Third Avenue, Tang Hall, York.