The Norfolk Probationer

by Allan Jones

Halsting Hall stood in six hectares of formal gardens, not quite so manicured as they were in their heyday. Melissa drove the panda car up to the main entrance, parking right in front of the steps.

  Stephen Collins, the curator, and Sir Michael Garrod, Chairman of the Board of Governors, met the two police officers on arrival then took them through the galleries to where the stolen exhibits had been located.

  The art on display was all owned by the National Trust, as was the building and grounds. The art was located in two long halls on the left side of the building, one on the ground floor, the second directly above it. These were connected by the entrance hall and a double staircase from the front entrance up to a balcony leading into the upper gallery. A separate lift access to the higher level was available from the rear of the ground floor hall.

  “The Canaletto was here, on the wall of the balcony, the main feature” said Collins, “the Mellon was here, and a small miniature was here, on the right.” The area of wall and balcony in the centre had been cordoned off by the forensic team but no-one was working inside the tape at the time.

  Sir Michael said, “I can understand the Canaletto, I think it was what they came for, but the other two, why they took those paintings I have no idea, Sergeant.”

  Catrin looked at the locations of the paintings in relation to the exit route. From the Canaletto they would have had to go down one of the two staircases. On the left were two small paintings.

  “You probably give them too much credit in selectivity, Sir Michael. If they had chosen to run the other way it would have been the pair of over there that they would have swept in as a bonus, I suspect,” she said.

  “It was that… crass, then, just a swipe along the wall, do you think?” said Sir Michael.

  Catrin replied, “Most art thefts are that crass, as you put it. They came for the Canaletto, as you say, it has a large valuation attached; the others were thrown in for good measure.”

  “Do you know who did this, Sergeant?” asked the curator.

  “No. We are pursuing enquiries, Mr. Collins. We are hoping that Mr. and Mrs. Pickersgill will give us additional leads; they saw the perpetrators, I understand.”

  “I am going to see them later myself,” said Sir Michael. “I understand that Mr. Pickersgill tried to stop the paintings being stolen. I need to thank him personally.”

  Catrin said nothing. She had not yet interviewed Mr. Pickersgill.

  She turned to face Collins. “What are the most recent valuations on the Canaletto and the two other paintings, please? And do you have good quality images of them, front and back, plus the provenance documentation and the most recent insurance documents? I would like to see all of them.”

  Garrod saw it was getting into detail, confirmed he wasn’t needed further and took his leave.

  “Constable Nunn will come along too.” said Catrin. The probationer could then see how these enquiries unfolded, including dealing with the boring details.

  As he passed over the documentation, piece by piece, Stephen Collins talked about each painting.

  “The Canaletto is from his later English period, when the quality was coming under attack. Do you know much about this, Sergeant, may I ask? I know that the Art & Antiques people at Scotland Yard are very knowledgeable, but I am not trying to embarrass you. I just wonder what level of detail you need.”

  Catrin said, “I have a degree in Art History, Mr. Collins, so I am a generalist, in that sense. But I know that was also the period during which Canaletto was questioned about whether he was an impostor; his work was felt to have declined so much.”

  “Yes, Sergeant, that’s the background, you have it, I see. So this is one of his poorer works, to be honest – but it is still a Canaletto and very valuable. It is one of his views of the Thames, this one thought to be a smaller section of the view across to Greenwich that he had painted more effectively earlier.

  “It could still command a couple of million pounds at auction, though,” he added.

  Catrin was noting the size, 85 cm by 35 cm. It was an ideal suitcase, back-of the car, drug-dealer size. It was a big name artist, had a big money tag attached and was transportable. They wouldn’t care about artistic merit; late or early Canaletto wouldn’t matter.

  On display in a smaller gallery with limited security in place and fewer people around, it would be just the thing the Sloan brothers would go after, she thought.

  “We put another water scene next to it, one by Campbell Archibald Mellon. It is a painting from early in the last century, a lovely scene of Barton Broad, nicely realised. Personally, I far prefer it to the Canaletto though its value is in the low thousands. I wanted to show the contrasting tranquility of the Broads against the busy Thames, side-by-side.”

  In Catrin’s early teens her family had a week’s holiday on the Norfolk Broads in a small ‘Broads Cruiser’. She had fond memories of the holiday and her parents still had one of her watercolours painted during that trip framed at home. She kept trying to get them to replace it with one of her later paintings but they would have none of it.

  “Finally there is the small painting. It is three inches by two inches, but in a frame with a larger over-mat, so it was nine inches by six inches on the wall. It is a work by the miniaturist George Engelheart; an exquisite portrait of Miss Deidre Foster, daughter of a local alderman at the time. It is probably worth around two thousand five hundred pounds, I expect. It has some small damage at the corner, so it is not perfect.”

  He didn’t mention, Catrin noted, the reason for the placement of it next to the water scenes. From what she had seen in the brief tour through the collection it seemed a miscellany and, other than they were in the Hall previously or were National Trust paintings of the area, the exhibition seemed to have no real structural theme to her.

  Catrin said nothing but she was also a little mystified as to why the Sloan brothers would have gone to the trouble to take this miniature. It wasn’t the sort of thing that had ‘underground’ value. Perhaps Martin or Kevin wanted to impress an old aunt with something for her mantelpiece. If it ended up at their parent’s house they may find it on a future search.

  She said, “Thank you Mr. Collins. Now could we go back to the gallery and, from what you know, could you take me through the robbery? I realise you were not present but I understand you did receive a report from the security guard immediately afterwards, a Mr. Tranter. And of course, he will be interviewed also.”

  Collins said, “He is at home now, with the shock of it. Frankly, he is upset with himself that it happened so easily.”

  They went back to the gallery at the top of the stairs.

  “There were only three visitors at the hall at the time, if you don’t count the people visiting the gardens. Well, we don’t get a lot at any one time, unless we have an event, then we may get a busload. Generally it is a small steady stream, a carload here and there.

  “There are only two guards, one at ground level, one upstairs, patrolling, and the person on ticket sales at the information desk, Mrs. Marsh. Most visitors have National Trust memberships, so she is not often tied up selling tickets.

  “The two intruders must have some knowledge of the way the hall works and had disconnected the alarm on the Canaletto; the other two weren’t connected to alarms. They came in wearing uniforms, walked past the desk where Mrs. Marsh was selling a ticket to a woman, then went up the stairs. Then she and Mr. Cartwright, the guard on the ground floor, heard a commotion. The two men flew down the stairs with the paintings and were out the door before either of the staff members could react.

  “Mr. Tranter had been in the washroom. He ran out through the long gallery upstairs as Mr. Cartwright reached the top of the steps. He saw Mr. Pickersgill on the ground, his head bleeding and Mrs. Pickersgill in her wheelchair by him, crying, with blood coming out of the corner of her mouth. He went to help Mr. Pickersgill. Mrs. Marsh had already called the police by then.

  “How long has Mr. Tranter worked here?”


  “Tranter? Over ten years; he was formerly an army man. I have no doubts about him. The guard at ground level, Mr. Cartwright, has been here about three years now. He worked previously at another National Trust property, but for how long, I don’t recall.”

  Catrin nodded. She would have them checked out.

  “And did you talk to this customer who bought the ticket?”

  “Not personally, but Mr. Tranter did. She is a nurse in Norwich, it turned out. She ran upstairs once Mrs. Pickersgill called for help and looked after the couple until the ambulances arrived. I don’t think she was involved, if that is what you are thinking. The police have her details.”

  Catrin worked on the basis that anyone could be involved until they were ruled out. She knew that the nurse was on the interview list.

  “And when did you find the CCTV inoperable?”

  “We didn’t touch it; we thought it was best to leave it to the police. When the police technician came over and said it had nothing on the hard drive I asked the same question. The woman said that it wasn’t visibly inoperative; it just wasn’t recording from any cameras. You could see the images on the various monitors and the system seems to indicate all is well, but there was no record being retained.

  “I don’t understand it all. She said it was a sophisticated sabotage; not like cutting a wire or something. It had been disabled remotely through the computer control system, but you will need to talk to her about it, I think.”

  Catrin said, “You have been very helpful Mr. Collins. I will probably be back to see you but Nunn, we need to leave now.”

  Outside, WPC Nunn said, “Where to, Sergeant?”

  “We are going to the hospital, Melissa, to see Sergeant Selman and the Pickersgills.”

  “I will check where he is, but he is probably there, I expect.” Nunn answered. She talked into her personal radio.

  In fact, Neil Selman was still waiting for the agreement of the doctor to interview Mr. Pickersgill. The policeman had already talked with Mrs. Pickersgill.

  When Catrin arrived, she joined him just as the nurse came along, nodding it was finally agreed that they could go in. “Dr. Ansell says he seems free of signs of concussion, but take easy with him, he has had a shock.”

  The old man was partially bald and needed his remaining hair combing, but they weren’t touching his scalp due to the bruising from the blow.

  “Do you remember what happened, Mr. Pickersgill?” Sergeant Selman asked after introductions.

  “Too right I do, I grabbed the frame of the Canaletto and the younger man hit me, it felt like my head exploded and I went down. That’s what I remember.”

  The man looked exhausted but sounded feisty and irritable, Catrin noted.

  “Did you get a good look at the man?”

  “Yes I did, Sergeant, and of the other one as I moved over to grab the painting. But I don’t know how to describe them, really.

  Selman said, “A police artist is with your wife now, so when she is finished, she will come in here and help you.”

  The old man asked, “Can’t I go in and do it with Eve? It might be easier for us.”

  Catrin said, “It’s best if we get your impressions separately, Mr. Pickersgill; afterwards you can compare and improve them together.

  “You are Welsh then?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pickersgill.”

  He seemed to have forgotten Catrin talking to him while they were being introduced at the beginning of the interview. She had mentioned then that she worked with the police in London but came originally from Wales. The two sergeant exchanged glances; Selman hadn’t missed it either. Catrin decided to mention it to the nurse or the doctor on the way out.

  They pieced together his story, taking him gently back in sequence from arrival at the Hall to his departure in the ambulance, rather than have him jump around on the details.

  He and his wife had gone upstairs in the elevator at the back of the gallery area and worked their way back through the long gallery to the front balcony. He was looking at the Canaletto and his wife at the “little painting” when the two men came up upstairs and went straight for the painting in front of Pickersgill.

  “Between you and me, if they had been watching the stairs, they might have thought the top gallery was empty as no-one came up before them in the time we were up there. They didn’t think about the lift.”

  He seemed pleased with his analysis. Catrin smiled to herself. So many witnesses morph into Sherlock Holmes in these situations.

  “As he grabbed it from the wall I said, ‘Hey you,’ and pulled on the frame and he hit me.”

  Catrin said, “Which way did you fall, Mr. Pickersgill?”

  “I don’t know. Eve will know. When I came to I was on the left of the Canaletto position with a woman saying she was a nurse kneeling by me, telling me that I had to lie still.”

  That was why they swept right, picking up the Mellon and the miniature, thought Catrin; he was in the way on the floor.

  “One of the bastards hit my Eve.” he said. “You need to get them.”

  “We do, Mr. Pickersgill and we are trying to, I assure you.” said Sergeant Selman.

  Pickersgill kept on talking, “They will probably say I was a bloody fool for trying to stop him. The reporters, I mean.”

  He looked at Catrin. “Where did you get that scar then, can I ask?”

  “In the line of duty. People have called me a bloody fool too for the same thing. Between you and me, we know better. You are a brave man, Mr. Pickersgill.”

  She saw the smile on his face and Melissa Nunn keeping her face neutral as she looked at the scar again; Catrin wondered if Melissa would question her about it later.

  “Can I go and see my wife now?” he asked.

  Selman said, “Yes, if the doctor says so, but after she has finished with the artist. Then I want you to do the same identification exercise with the artist as soon as possible. It will probably be the most useful thing you two can do to help us catch these men. You and Mrs. Pickersgill can help us a lot.”

  On the way out Catrin and Nunn popped in on Eve Pickersgill and she introduced herself. The bruising on the left side of her face was consistent with a heavy slap, catching the cheekbone with the fingers and the jawline with the palm she thought. Catrin wanted to know what Mrs. Pickersgill had done to make the thief hit her, but it would have to wait.

  Catrin said that she would have some questions later, perhaps tomorrow, and said hello to Valerie, the artist. She took a peek over at the image development; it was looking good, it had detail she recognized, but she refrained from commenting at all.

  Valerie worked now with a laptop and an electronic drawing pad rather than pencil and paper, she saw. When she had first met the police artist on a case she was drawing in the traditional manner, rejecting the early computer and identikit technologies. Now she was using a high-end computer system.

  A paperback novel with a handmade lace bookmark was on the bed next to Mrs. Pickersgill. She had obviously been reading before the artist arrived, which was a good sign for her recovery.

  Later, they were back at Norfolk Police HQ comparing the sketches each of the victims had produced with the mug shots of the Sloan brothers; Valerie had simply emailed the files over to Sergeant Selman.

  Allowing for Mrs. Pickersgill having a better eye for detail, Catrin thought, they were consistent and bore a good resemblance to the suspects, the Sloan Brothers.

  They had sent copies to Keith Marshall and were now talking to him on a speaker phone with Selman’s boss, Inspector Geoffrey Tyler, also with them in the room.

  Catrin would occasionally look at Nunn. She was silent, totally absorbed in the investigation and the discussions.

  “Keith, these are close enough I think, don’t you?” said the Norfolk inspector.

  Marshall replied, “For a warrant, yes I will go with that. We haven’t any sighting of them at their mother’s place yet so we should widen the alert nationwide. Will you do the media, G
eoff?”

  “I will arrange for the Chief Inspector to do it, Keith. He actually likes this sort of thing.”

  It was endemic among police officers that they hated the job of doing a media briefings unless they had a career interest in public relations.

  When they finished the call, DI Marshall called Catrin in private on her mobile.

  “You seemed a bit out of sorts on the call, Catrin. Is it the Scotland thing?” he asked.

  “No sir, that is on my mind a bit, I have to admit, but something is not quite right here. It’s bothering me, but I can’t pin it down. We have interviews with the two security guards from Halsting Hall this afternoon. If it’s alright with you I will stay over for one more chat with the Pickersgills and travel back tomorrow rather than head back this evening?”

  “Catrin that’s fine. Do as you see fit.”

  Over the last few years Marshall had come to trust Sayer’s feel for things; as often as not something came out of left field and moved a case forward.

  Early in the evening Catrin went across from her hotel to a ‘card and gift’ shop and bought a birthday card for her mother, the goofiest ‘Happy Birthday, You Are Six’ she could find. She planned to write it the following day on the train.

  Reading the report of the interview with Mrs. Pickersgill had caused her unease, she realised, so she wanted to interview her, preferably by herself. The Pickersgills had been discharged late-afternoon and taken by ambulance to their home, a small bungalow in Hellesdon on the west side of the city. Apparently a younger couple in the bungalow next door would look after them and, given Mrs. Pickersgill’s condition, the doctor felt as much time as possible at home would be best for them.

  Catrin went back and did some research on the work of George Engelheart, the miniaturist, and then looked again closely at the image in the painting, a young woman smiling demurely, wearing a lace bonnet typical of the Georgian period in which Engelheart miniatures were first popular.

  She thought she saw it now; the element of the case that had been bothering her.

  Neil Selman and Catrin had dinner together and caught up on the case and gossip of their different police services, different jobs. Catrin had been to Norwich two years earlier to consult with an art historian at the University of East Anglia and had met the local man then. He had been impressed by her style; knowledgeable, keen but without the sense of ‘centre of the universe’ superiority they saw in other visitors from London.

  That had been before she got the scar and the promotion, but she didn’t seem a lot different now to him; a little more tired, perhaps. Experience comes along with wear and tear, he knew.

  She told him what was on her mind and he nodded his agreement with her conclusion.

  “Do you want me to come with you, tomorrow?” he said.

  “No Neil, it’s probably best that it isn’t local if it goes downhill; the media will have a field day. I will leave Nunn in the car also. She will pout but….”

  He looked at the younger officer. “Catrin, just remember Nunn is young and good at her work, though. We all have to grow. You did. I remember you telling me how different you found plain-clothes work from the work in Brixton; someone took a chance on you.”

  He’s right, she thought. She would see tomorrow how to play it with the young probationer.

  IV

  Outside the bungalow, as Melissa switched off the engine Catrin said, “Nunn, you should stay in the car, I think. I won’t be too long.”

  She looked at her, judging the WPC’s reaction.

  The young constable was clearly crestfallen. “Yes, Sergeant, if you say so. But I think it is really crappy, I do. I have been up half the night worrying about this, knowing we were coming over this morning.”

  Catrin looked serious but smiled inwardly. “Why?”

  Melissa said, “Because you are going to arrest that poor woman for stealing that small painting, that’s why. Aren’t you?”

  Catrin looked at her. “Melissa, you had better come in with me after all. You think too much like a detective to be working as an occasional stand-in for a lollipop lady, I believe.”

  Ted Pickersgill showed them in, surprised at the unannounced visit. “Eve is resting, Sergeant.”

  Catrin was quite firm. “Nevertheless, I would like to talk to her, if you could wake her please, it is important.”

  He was away a few minutes and came back, ashen-faced. “She will see you now. Can I come too?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Pickersgill, you need to be there.”

  Eve Pickersgill was sitting up in bed when they walked in.

  “Sergeant, the Engelheart painting is in my bag. Ted didn’t know until I told him just now. He had nothing to do with it, I swear.”

  “You had better tell me what happened, Mrs. Pickersgill.”

  She looked at her husband. “When that man hit Ted the other man dropped the two paintings he had taken from the wall; he was distracted I think. He had tried to hold the different-sized frames together in one hand. They went flying but all I could see was my husband going down.

  “Then the little painting, the one I had been looking at, ended up by the wheel of my chair. I picked it up and in defiance I pushed it up my dress and held the sides down hard as I could against the seat. I thought, if Ted would try to stop them I would do the same with the one that came to me. I don’t know why, other than I was so angry.”

  She swallowed nervously.

  “To hit my husband and destroy our pleasure there! I had been lost in looking at the little painting; it was the lace, you see. I am, at least I was, a lace maker, a good one if I say so myself.”

  She pointed. Melissa turned and saw the conical lace-making pillow and a set of lace bobbins in an open shoebox together on a side table. A she looked she heard Sergeant Sayer speak, “Yes, I noticed your bobbins when I came in the room. You also did the covers on the chair backs in the living room, I think.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And the bookmark in the novel you were reading yesterday.”

  Eve Pickersgill looked at Catrin, realizing the implication. “So that’s what made you think…”

  “Go on Mrs. Pickersgill.”

  “The man slapped me but I think he was not prepared to pull me out of the wheelchair or put his hand up my dress. Then he and his partner ran with the other two paintings. I didn’t want to keep the little painting under my dress, obviously, so I took it out and put it in my bag as I wheeled over to see Ted, shouting for help. He looked so bad, with that blood on his head.

  “Old people,” said Ted, “our skin gets very fragile. The little sod wouldn’t have knocked me down if I was younger, I can tell you that.”

  Eve continued, “Then it was just turmoil and I was with the nurse, then the ambulance people and… then I was on my way to the hospital.”

  She looked at her husband, “But even before I got there I had decided to keep it, for the next while. To look at the lace, just look at it. I don’t know why, I have never done anything like this before but to me it is just beautiful. I know how to make lace but I had no idea how someone could paint it so… realistically.”

  She paused, letting out a sigh.

  “I would have told Ted later on and we could give it back then and apologise, I thought. He would have made me turn it in there and then, if he had found out.

  “You know, Sergeant, I am seventy-six. For the last six months we have been going back to places we used to visit over the years; for the last time for me at least, if not Ted. I won’t be going back to Halsting Hall so, that’s what I did, and that’s why.

  “Are you going to arrest me now?’

  Catrin said, “Would you like to get the painting out, please?”

  Eve opened her bag and carefully pulled the small, framed painting into view. It was wedged in the pages of a magazine to provide some protection as well as hide it from view. A captivating miniature, Catrin saw. Despite the size, the intricate lace work on the edge of the bonnet w
as quite clear, as the photograph of it from Collins had shown her last night.

  Catrin said, “The law on handling stolen goods is quite broad, Mrs. Pickersgill, but it does require the goods to be stolen.”

  Eve said, “I only wanted to borrow it.”

  Catrin smiled ruefully, “Mrs. Pickersgill, to borrow, you need prior permission of the owner, which you don’t have. I think you should call Mr. Collins now and then you can put him on to me. Please just tell him you found the painting in your bag now, nothing else.”

  Catrin pulled out her mobile as she spoke and keyed in Collins’ number, taken from her notebook. They listened to the older woman speak to the curator and then say she was passing the telephone over to Sergeant Sayer.

  “Sergeant Sayer, this is good news but very peculiar, not to speak up before, I mean,” was Collins first comment.

  “Well, Mr. Collins, it is only two days and they have had a very trying time. You know, Sergeant Selman and I both noticed yesterday that Mr. Pickersgill was slightly confused during his interview. We reported it to the nursing staff when we left. Although I didn’t interview Mrs. Pickersgill until now, I see the same thing in her. I am no doctor but they may well have been discharged from hospital prematurely. It is a balance, I know, for the doctors, wanting them in their own home as much as possible, given Mrs. Pickersgill’s overall health.

  “We were talking though events when she suddenly said, ‘It’s in my bag’. It was at the bottom, underneath a magazine. Constable Nunn and I were quite astonished and relieved. It appears the man who robbed you hit her because she wouldn’t let go of the Engelheart painting. She saw her husband put up a fight and wanted to do the same.”

  They all were watching Catrin as listened.

  “Thank you, Mr. Collins; I am sure the Pickersgills will look forward to the visit of Sir Michael. And Constable Nunn will be bringing the Engelheart painting over to you later today.”

  She closed the call.

  “You two,” she said, “are going to get some recognition from the Nation Trust. Sir Michael Garrod is busy organizing it, whatever it is.”

  Eve Pickersgill was sighing with relief, but she still came back feisty, “Knowing that lot, I will be dead by then. They don’t move fast.”

  Melissa said, “Well, you could always ask him to loan you the Engelheart; say you have quite taken to it.”

  “At least you won’t be arrested or put in gaol,” said her husband, “thanks to these two officers. Thank you Sergeant Sayer, it’s very good of you.”

  He was choking up. The revelation had been a second shock to him.

  Catrin was standing up ready to go.

  “I wouldn’t put you in gaol, Mrs. Pickersgill. I think you would stir up too much trouble with real villains. You would probably cause a riot.”

  She shook their hands. “You two take care now. Enjoy each day.”

  They pulled up to the entrance to Norwich Station. Melissa said, smiling, “I will get your case, Ma’am,” and was out and round to the back of the car in a flash as Catrin climbed out.

  “I am not a ‘Ma’am’, Nunn; that’s for Inspector rank and above, even a probationer should know that.”

  The young officer brought her case round and said, “Catrin, I don’t think it will be too long before everyone including Sergeant Selman will be calling you ‘Ma’am’. It has been a real experience, this last couple of days; I have learned a lot. Thank you.”

  As Catrin walked away she called back, “Melissa, be careful that you don’t put your foot through the Engelheart.”

  She heard the laughter coming from the car as the driver’s door closed.

  On the train she pulled out her birthday card and started writing in Welsh:

  ‘Dear Mum, Sorry I will miss your sixth anniversary in sobriety. I had thought I would be able to come home for the celebration at your Alcoholics Anonymous meeting but I will be heading up north and away again. It is very busy at work.

  I am so proud of the way you have pulled everything back together and how you and dad are enjoying life. I love the relationship you and I now have. I will be thinking about you on Sunday evening.

  All my love, Catrin.’

  ‘Heading north’ was vague enough. Not Scotland. Not a court summons to appear in Glasgow. It would cloud her mother’s day badly.

  She sent a text to Keith Marshall saying she was on the train, on her way back. Was there any news on the Sloan brothers?

  The email from Melanie that she had skipped over earlier said that all had gone well with the client at Liz’s Place. She hadn’t blinked as she paid £480 for the vase.

  “Liz said afterwards that you made it up about the Celia Leighton Thaxter influence because she was American and so was the client. Jean told her she remembered you getting excited about the potter years ago. Anyway, you are having lunch with Liz and Mrs. Eugenie Kowalski at the Millennium Hilton on Saturday. No cancellations this time. She is interested in talking to you and perhaps buying more pieces in the future.”

  Catrin smiled, remembering years ago how Jean had reacted to her excitement over images of pottery made by Celia Thaxter. Catrin had said Celia was an extraordinary woman; a nineteenth century hotel-keeper, poet and potter who had lived on the Appledore Islands off the coast of Maine.

  “It looks like Portmeirion ‘Botanic Garden’ to me,” Jean had said; a popular commercial dinnerware design.

  “Stick to moulding mud,” Catrin had responded.

  Her mobile rang as they came into Colchester. It was Neil Selman.

  “Nunn told me. Catrin, you have been teaching my probationer to pervert the course of justice. But I won’t tell my Inspector.”

  Catrin chuckled.

  “Neil, she had worked it out, she’s smart; the poor woman was awake half the night worrying about it, she said. I was sure she would take her baton to me if I put the cuffs on Eve Pickersgill. It was an act of self-defence.”

  She heard the laughter down the phone.

  He said, “Anyway, she is over the moon with you, I can tell you. Will you be continuing with this case now, Catrin?”

  “Someone within ACU will be, probably DI Marshall, but not me. I will be heading north, to Scotland. I am called as a witness in a case there next week. It’s complicated.”

  “Good luck, Catrin, thanks for your help and… you take care up there.”

  We may be rural East Anglia, he thought, but he was sure the trip north and the scar on Catrin Sayer’s cheek were closely linked indeed.

  Notes

  I hope you enjoyed this short story which is positioned in the timeline of Catrin Sayer’s career shortly before the events of ‘The Falmouth Model’.

  This book and the first two full-length Catrin Sayer novels, ‘The Chinese Sailor’ and ‘The Scottish Colourist’ are available as ebooks from on-line ebook suppliers.