Chapter Sixteen
Police and Thieves
Superintendent d’Ascoyne wasted no time hunting down Inspector Marshall before he had a chance to escape the station, once their Monday morning briefing had finished, pulling him into his office to pass on the Chief Constable’s instructions, and reinforce his orders as to how he was to proceed with his investigation. The new protocols did not go down well with his best maverick detective.
‘We can’t do this properly, sealed up and stuck in the station, sir; these people need to see the locations where these attacks occurred. Then we can have some kind of meaningful discussion. How long will they stay?’ he asked, referring to the Home Office representatives and the MI5 officers they had been ordered to accommodate.
‘I’ve no idea, but we can’t dictate to them what happens and where. They’re…’
‘In charge?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You said as much this morning, sir…’
‘I did not.’
‘Sir, with respect.., we’ve never had any proper criminal investigation start without the investigating team visiting the scene of the crime. It’s a fundamental part of good casework! They’ve got to see the locations of these shootings– and the context.’
‘I can’t overrule the Home Secretary. It’ll be the end of my career. And yours.’
‘He’s a cabinet minister, sir. They’re certainly no friends of people like us. I don’t much like being patted on the head and told how to do my job by a lot of politicians and trigger-happy goons in suits who think they’re on a higher plane of intelligence. If I’m still in charge, then we do it my way. We go to the crime scenes, whether the press are there or not, then we have a meeting. We’ll find nowt sat on our lazy arses in the bloody station.’
D’Ascoyne bridled at the remark but decided to say nothing. He was hoping to shorten their encounter by allowing his inspector to blow hot and cold. But Inspector Marshall wasn’t going to be cowed.
‘We do things the way we always do them. Or you can take me off the case. I can’t see how they can reasonably object to being shown the scene of the crime; they must have some flexibility of approach.’
‘You’re not going to stir things up, Ray?’
‘I’m not sitting on my bloody hands, smiling sweetly with my trap shut, like a nun at a strip club, sir. If it’s my investigation, we do it the right way. Our investigation – our rules. Just remember sir, if this goes tits up, you can bet your arse we’ll get put in the frame. The Home Office and MI5 aren’t going to carry the can if they can fit us up. We do it the right way then there’s no comeback.’
‘Don’t do anything. Until I speak to the Chief Constable.’
‘What’s wrong with talking to these people when they arrive?’
‘They’re already here – so I’m told. I don’t want you to…’
‘What?’
‘Make a scene? Oh come on Super…’
‘Will you just try for once Ray…?’
‘How did your meeting with the Chief go on Saturday?’
‘It was… cordial…’
‘We could always send our visitors for a Mexican, sir.’
‘That’s not funny. They were all back on duty yesterday – after the food poisoning episode I trust?’
‘Everyone on the roster, sir. Just a bit pink about the cheeks. Both sets…’
‘Didn’t we apprehend a reporter interfering with the crime scene?’
‘Yes sir. Wolfie Crawford. All in my report.’
‘Where is he, did we caution him?’
‘We took him to A&E with our walking wounded sir, as he was unconscious when he was found. Apparently he was discharged by our lot into the custody of four men from the Home Office who just appeared by magic after he was checked by the doctors. They wheeled him out handcuffed to a patient transport trolley into a white Transit – Moyne said he was more or less forced to sign the custody transfer document by two Security Service goons packing holsters. The van had a sandwich escort, high performance BMW saloons front an’ back. They set off like Niki Lauda with James Hunt on his arse. We haven’t heard a thing from them since they bloody kidnapped him.’
‘Where are you going now Marshall?’
‘George and I are following up a lead, sir. I’m not sure it’s going to amount to anything, but there’s nothing else in my in tray so we’ll take a sniff.’
‘Just make sure you’re back for two o’clock, for the next meeting at 2.30. I want us to look as though we know what we’re doing.’
Chapter Seventeen
At the Kenwith Valley Gorge Museum
Derek decided to called Alan Chipping, his contact at the museum.
‘Alan, it’s me… I thought I’d try and catch you early.’
‘Derek! Hello… I was wondering when you’d be in touch.’
‘I’ve been keeping my head down over the past few days, for obvious reasons. Are you alone there?’
Alan leant back in his swivel chair, as much as he dared without toppling over, to check the next two aisles in the archive room.
‘I think so, yes. Fairly certain, it’s just me and the cleaners at the moment – do you have news?’
‘This isn’t the time to be flippant.’
‘I wasn’t being flippant, I can hardly justify being jocular can I? Working on the fringes of a war zone, if you’re on edge it’s hardly fair to take it out on me, so – can we start again..? Do you have news?’
‘I’m sorry Alan, I’m a little tense.’
‘Apology accepted… may I repeat my question again?’
‘Yes of course. I do have some news of sorts, depending on whether you believe in curses,’ he muttered.
‘Curses? Are you sure? Is this about your find?’
‘Yes, it is about the find. According to your very generously-proportioned friend Lawrence, there are two curses attached to it. Most historical objects that are considered unlucky usually make do with one, so that was a pleasant surprise. He didn’t want to touch it with anything greasier than his napkin. It’s cost me half a day and a restaurant bill that I’m still in awe of, to find out I’ve made a discovery that no one wants to touch.’
‘Well, thank you for letting me know. One of those coins is at my house. What did he tell you about this curse?’
‘Only that anyone who comes into possession of it dies within the year,’ said Derek, uneasily, ‘according to those historians who’ve studied its origins. I for one would be very pleased to hear an alternative viewpoint, though at the moment that doesn’t seem very likely to be forthcoming.’
‘Can I call you back later?’ asked the historian, beginning to fret.
‘It won’t make any difference if you disposed of it, sold it or lost it Alan,’ said Derek brutally. ‘If you’ve handled it, the end result is the same. I don’t know where we go from here. I just thought I’d do you the courtesy of letting you know. If only your colleague had been as candid with me, before he ate a hundred and eighty pounds worth of game and vegetables at my expense.’
‘I wish I’d never touched that coin.’
‘Did you hear what I said Alan?’
‘Yes, yes… I’m sorry, I just drifted away there for a second,’ he explained, still stunned. ‘What on earth did you order for goodness’ sake?’
‘Soup, stew and apple tart, though I can’t repeat the names of the dishes your friend stuffed himself with. I couldn’t even read most of the language on the damn menu – it was all in French.’
‘I feel a little guilty now Derek. I’d forgotten he had such an appetite.’
‘It’s not your fault he eats for three. With a little adjustment I should be able to put it on the partner’s expense account, but that’s the least of my problems at the moment. I
don’t expect you come across much in the way of cursed relics – do you Alan?’
‘Not usually, no.’
‘I can offer you an amulet,’ added Derek, abruptly.
‘An amulet? You– give me, an amulet?’
‘Yes… an amu…’
‘I know what an amulet is. We’ve got five or six trays full of the damn things in the archive. I had no idea you were interested in things like that.’
‘I’m not, well I don’t… sorry…’ said Derek, stumbling over his words. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s just not something I’m comfortable divulging. My mother used to make charms and my father swore by them,’ he said, lying with a fluency that only a man of the law could fake. ‘My aunt made – pardon me –makes them too. I’ve always worn one,’ he said, imagining his hands around the neck of Violet Penrose.
‘Derek, you really are an enigma.’
‘Mine gives me peace of mind.’
‘Yes, you do lead rather a charmed life, don’t you? If you’re offering to give me one, I certainly won’t refuse it. Where does she live, your aunt?’
‘If you’d like me to get you one, then I’ll bring it to you. She doesn’t like people visiting. It sets her off.’
‘Sets her off… Sets off her what?’
‘She has to spend hours cleaning other people’s energies out of her house, she says. Muttering things with hazel twigs and a candle.’
‘Can amulets protect against curses? Aren’t curses more powerful?’
‘Look, I’ll drop it off as soon as I can. I don’t think you need to worry too much at the moment.’
‘That’s all right for you to say. I’m not going to sleep tonight.’
Shaking The Tree
Marshall and Broadhead visit Derek Beautimann
‘Right George. Let’s go and visit your favourite law firm and speak to Mr Beautimann.’
‘Are they open today? It’s Bank Holiday Monday,’ added Broadhead, tutting.
‘His firm offer people legal advice to the under 25s for a set fee today. Their way of “giving something back” to the community. Quite nice of them actually, though they do get a lot of publicity for it. It’s the only day of the year you’ll get a cheap tip at BB&T.’
‘They won’t like us turning up on the off-chance.’
‘Don’t you think so George? Do you know – that never crossed my mind,’ grinned Marshall,‘ but as we need to speak to him in working hours, we’ll not be able to wait until he’s gone home, will we? It’ll be a nice excuse to see Shirley anyway,’ said Marshall, referring to the receptionist at Beautimann, Buerk and Trippe. ‘She’s a very nice lady, unlike the er, partners – and very nicely turned out,’ he beamed, roguishly.
‘Are we walking?’
‘We certainly are, waste of a good pair of shoes taking the car.’
Beautimann Buerk and Trippe kept offices in a large mansion block on Plantagenet Place, overlooking a small park enclosed by railings where office workers took their lunch breaks and the residents of the other buildings nearby went to read or exercise. The law firm occupied three floors above ground level, though the basement held a small cafe called Six Steps, which was popular with students and artists and was named after the number of steps it took to enter from the pavement above.
Inspector Marshall took off his old hat as he walked in through the open front door of BB&T, turned left and strode bumptiously into reception, hanging back momentarily to hold open the half-glazed door for his sergeant. Marshall winked at the duty receptionist, resting his forearms on the top of the tall counter. ‘Hello love,’ he said cheerfully, leaning cheekily over the divide. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Beautimann. Could you tell him Inspector Marshall and Detective Sergeant Broadhead would like to ask him a few questions. Shirley not in today?’ he asked, looking carefully for any sort of adverse reaction from the woman behind the typewriter. Broadhead stood slightly behind and to the side of his superior, wearing his best withering gaze as they tried to unsettle their prey.
‘Do you have an appointment, Inspector?’ asked Maureen, smiling back, though her smile was more of a grimace. The muscles in her face were twitching and her eyes appeared to be flitting from one point in the room to another, in a poor attempt to avoid being locked into the laser beam-like gaze of the two policemen.
‘We’re on official business love. So the answer’s no.’
A young man who was seated by the coffee table raised his newspaper to cover his eyes.
‘OH, HELLO TOM!’ said Marshall loudly. Hope you’re keeping yourself out of trouble lad?’
‘Yes sir, Mr Marshall,’ replied the thing behind the Whitborough Evening News.
‘I’ll see if he’s still with his client,’ said Maureen, reaching for the phone. ‘Actually, I’ll go upstairs and check with him in person, Inspector,’ she continued, thinking fast, ‘there’s been a fault on his extension today, interference or something… Could you wait here please?’
‘A fault on the line! Better get that sorted out then, eh?’ said Broadhead with a hint of sarcasm.
‘I’ll just be a minute…’ said Maureen, hobbling around the edge of the counter to the door in her three-inch heels.
‘How women manage to walk in shoes like that I’ll never know,’ said Marshall drily. ‘What does your missus put on her feet George?’
‘I don’t take much notice in all honesty guv.’
‘She doesn’t totter from one room to another like that one though does she?’
‘No. Except on Friday nights. She wears these strappy heel things to Mecca. I said to her she was gonna break her bloody ankle on their steps one night, but I don’t think she appreciated the advice.’
‘No, they never take it in the way it’s meant, do they? Wives… they always think you’re picking on them. Vera just wears her slippers all the time now anyway. Except when she goes to the doc’s in her pumps… George?’
‘What?’
‘Have a peek about…do you see any CCTV in here? Go over to the door and stick your foot against it – keep an eye out for anyone coming down,’ hissed Marshall. ‘I’m going to have a peek at the register.’
‘Nothing for you to see lad,’ growled Broadhead, as the Whitborough Evening News was lowered to reveal the top half of Tom Hutchinson’s face before it was swiftly raised to conceal it once again.
‘Marshall reached over the counter and picked up the appointments diary and Maureen’s crib sheet-cum-jotter pad.’
‘Guv – there’s two pairs of legs at the top of the stairs. It’s her and a male. Could be Beautimann.’
‘Are they moving?’
‘No. I think they’re arguing…’
‘Arguing? How d’you know that,’ said Marshall, running his eyes over Maureen’s notes.
‘They’re waving their hands about.’
‘Can you see their faces?’
‘Nothing from the neck up, the ceiling void from the next staircase is in the way.’
‘And where d’you think you’re going?’ asked Marshall, glaring accusingly at the young man on the benches who had just stood up and grabbed his bag.’
‘I just remembered I have to meet somebody Mr Marshall,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I forgot.’
‘Sit back down and cover your face up, you little shit,’ snapped the policeman, ‘or you’ll soon find out what an angry copper can do with a document stapler.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Tom, sitting back resentfully on the red leather bench cushion.
‘Hurry up guv, the bloke is trying to pull away, you’ll have about four or five seconds once he starts moving.’
‘I wonder what his legal sec’s doing on reception..?’ asked Marshall, tapping the countertop gently with his fingertips as he ran his eyes over Maureen’s scribblings. Then a folded sheet of plain pa
per fell out between the pages. It was covered in calculations and small sums made up of multiple figures, which Marshall guessed were connected to a list of high value item purchases, as might be imagined by someone who is expecting to come into a large sum of money. The items were written randomly in several places, each word was appended with a question mark and comprised the following: New car? House? Cruise ship holiday? Splurge in London? Nose job? New tits?
‘Ah-ha!’
On the reverse side was a sketch of a very ostentatious antique ring – and a gold coin.
‘They’re moving guv!’
Inspector Marshall span the open diary around and placed it back down on the other side of the divide in one smooth movement, then he put the jotter pad back in its place just as Derek and Maureen reached the bottom of the stairs. Marshall stepped back from the counter and picked up a folding calendar from the leather table mat further down, so he had something else in his hand as the solicitor and his junior colleague entered the waiting room.
‘When’s the Super’s birthday?’ asked Marshall, replacing the calendar again as nonchalantly as he could to disguise his intentions. ‘Hello Mr Beautimann – we’d like to talk to you if we may – about a matter of mutual interest.’
‘Is this an official visit, Inspector? This is our annual charity day.’
‘Unofficially official sir.’
‘Oh. Well we can do this in here in that case,’ said Derek, indicating the door to a small side office, playing for a few seconds grace. My legal secretary will join us.’
‘As you wish sir, unless you’d prefer me to speak to you privately.’
‘Oh? To what end?’
‘I’d like the benefit of your advice sir, as one professional to another. Regarding a matter of mutual interest.’
‘Those words again…’ said Derek slowly, ‘but I’m quite sure I’ve no idea what you mean, Inspector.’
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