by Paul Finch
‘You wouldn’t be living if you’d come after me a few years ago, mate,’ Budd said under his breath, though he’d now slouched against the gate, shoulders heaving. ‘I’d have had you back in the day, no problem.’
‘You almost had me as it was, you stupid great lummox.’
‘Gonna take another shot at me, are you? Now I’m cuffed and can’t fight back.’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Heck leaned into him. ‘Why don’t I get that pitchfork and shove it up your arse – like you tried to do to me?’
‘Tut, tut, Vinnie,’ Gail said. ‘Don’t tell me we’re going to add attempting to murder a police officer to your list of achievements?’
A groan tore itself from Budd’s palpitating chest. ‘Look, please …’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t go back to prison, I just can’t.’
‘Why not? You’ve been there often enough before.’
‘Small stuff. You know it’s always small stuff, Miss Honeyford.’
‘It all adds up, Vinnie.’
‘Last time I was up … few rabbits, couple of snipe. That’s all it was. Beak slapped me wrist, but said he was sick and fed-up seeing my great ugly face. Those were his exact words, the cheeky bastard – “my great ugly face”. Said if he saw me again I’d go down for a proper stretch.’
‘It won’t be a magistrate this time,’ Heck said. ‘You know why? They can’t give sentences long enough.’
‘Come on, Miss Honeyford!’ Budd protested again. ‘I’m a poacher, I’ve never denied it. I didn’t know who this bloke was …’
‘I clearly identified myself,’ Heck countered. ‘Several times.’
‘You going to take his word for it?’ Budd asked her.
She chuckled. ‘You think I’m going to take yours?’
‘All right, look, I admit it,’ Budd said. ‘I knew he was a copper. Last time I was up at the Grange, I saw him – he had one of them jackets with “Police” on it.’
‘That was you, was it?’ Heck said, pleased that at least one mystery was solved.
‘I was only poking around.’
‘Looking for something to pinch, you mean.’
Budd almost seemed affronted by that. ‘Just noseying! Seeing what was in the sheds!’ He turned to Gail. ‘Thing is … I went at him with a pitchfork, yeah. But I didn’t want to get arrested, see, so I panicked. I wasn’t actually trying to kill him.’
‘Save it for the interview,’ she said.
Budd looked genuinely distraught as she unfastened the cuff binding him to the gate. His cheeks had reddened until they were almost purple, but his shoulders slumped as Heck twisted his arms behind his back, locking them together – there was no strength left in him to fight. ‘Listen,’ he said, as Heck marched him through the gate, pushing him chest first against the Punto while he searched his capacious pockets. ‘I know …’ Budd was still so exhausted by the chase that he struggled to get the words out. ‘I know something that may interest you.’
‘That opportunity’s gone,’ Heck replied.
‘It’s about Mr Lansing.’
Heck glanced up at him, and then at Gail.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘You … you obviously want to know what happened to him. I mean, that’s what you were doing at his house, yeah?’
‘Never mind us,’ Heck said. ‘What do you know about Harold Lansing?’
Budd shrugged. ‘Local bigwig. Decent bloke actually. Spoke to him in the pub a couple of times.’
‘Did you witness his accident?’ Gail asked.
‘No.’
‘Nothing else to talk about, is there?’ Heck said.
‘But I saw what happened after.’
Again, the two cops glanced at each other. Budd had watched them studying the crime scene – it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to deduce that they thought the tragic event suspicious. They had to be careful how they played this.
‘Tell us exactly what you mean by that,’ Gail said.
‘I wasn’t there at the time; I admit it. But I saw something weird later that day. I think it may have had something to do with it.’
‘Okay, we’re all ears.’
Budd eyed them warily. ‘You’re not going to dump that heavy shit on me – that attempted murder stuff?’
‘Depends what you’ve got for us,’ she replied.
He shook his head. ‘No way. I can’t make a deal without some kind of guarantee.’
Heck opened the Punto’s rear door. ‘The only guarantee I’ve got for you, Vinnie, is that there are no rabbits or snipe where you’ll be spending the next twenty years.’
‘Come on, Miss Honeyford … look, I can’t go back inside. They bully me!’
Even Heck was thrown by that. He gazed up at the man-mountain in disbelief.
‘I know it’s stupid, bloke of my size.’ Budd’s cheeks burned again, but this time with shame. ‘But they pick on me because they think I’m someone – and I’m not a young bloke anymore. I can’t take it, I’m telling you. It’s a fucking nightmare.’
‘Tell us what you saw, Vinnie,’ Gail said. ‘If it’s any good I just might be able to persuade DS Heckenburg to drop the charges.’
‘It happened on 6 July, right? When Mr Lansing got killed?’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘It was about … I don’t know, eight-ish in the morning. I was up in Gatcombe Wood. You know that place?’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s off the main road, about six miles north of Rosewood Grange. I’d been out all night and was checking my traps when I sees this vehicle park at the end of a track. When I say track, I mean like a muddy hollow. There’s no road surface or anything. The only folk who go down there normally are shaggers.’
‘What kind of vehicle?’ Heck asked.
‘Didn’t see the number plate, but it was a Land Rover.’
This time Heck and Gail tried not to glance at each other, though the same thought occurred to both of them – about the four-by-four on the bridge over the Mole.
‘What colour?’ Gail said.
‘Green or grey, not sure which. Kept my head down, you see … waiting till they’d gone.’
‘And?’
‘Well, two blokes got out in gloves and overalls.’
‘What made you think this had something to do with Lansing’s death?’ Heck asked.
‘Seemed a bit out of place.’
‘Nothing you’ve told us is out of place so far, Vinnie,’ Gail replied. ‘Could have been a pair of forestry workers, farm labourers …’
‘For half a sec I thought they might be legit too,’ he said. ‘They had some roadworks gear in the back of the car. You know, cones, barriers, “Road Closed” signs and stuff.’
‘And what decided you they weren’t legit?’ Heck asked.
‘The masks.’
‘Masks?’
‘Yeah.’ Budd nodded. ‘This was the really weird thing. This was the bit that put the shits up me. They both had masks on. And they were laughing and high-fiving each other. Like they had something to celebrate.’
‘Did they take these masks off?’ Gail asked.
‘Maybe … they were stripping their overalls off. Had jeans and T-shirts underneath. But I didn’t hang around to see. I told you, it freaked me out … I skedaddled.’
‘Specifically what freaked you out?’ Heck asked.
‘Them bloody masks. I wasn’t close, I didn’t get a really good gander, but I recognised them all right. It was Laurel and Hardy.’
‘Excuse me?’ Gail said.
‘I’m telling you.’ Budd shook his big, shaggy head, perplexed. ‘One was Stan Laurel, the other was Oliver Hardy.’
Chapter 11
‘Look, I want to help,’ Vincent Budd said for the eighth or ninth time, ‘I’m just not sure whether the Land Rover was green or grey.’
At the other side of the interview-room table, Heck tried to contain his frustration. ‘Try and think, eh? It could make all the differe
nce.’
‘They’re similar colours early in the morning. Especially under the trees.’
‘You know, Vinnie, you’re here to assist with our enquiries, but there’s nothing to stop me arresting you right now and dragging your arse down the corridor to Custody.’
The poacher’s saggy, jowly face had a greyish tinge, and was bathed in sweat even now, a good two hours after the chase had finished. If possible, it paled even more. ‘Don’t even joke about that – not after I came here willingly.’
‘I’m not joking,’ Heck said. ‘Me and you exchanged punches. I ought to lock you up just to cover my back. I’m taking a big risk not doing. And now you’re bloody stonewalling me.’
‘I’m not stonewalling you. Look, I’m doing my best, I promise …’ Budd’s words tailed off as he involuntarily shuddered and mopped more sweat from his brow.
‘You all right?’ Heck asked. ‘You want me to take you to hospital?’
The poacher waved it away. ‘I’m fine, fine. Just bloody knackered. Don’t tell me you’re not.’
The door swung open and Gail entered, carrying a tray of drinks and a computer printout. She shoved the latter at Heck. ‘Here’s a list of all the Land Rovers stolen in England and Wales in the last two months. None of them are green or grey.’
Heck snorted, as if he’d expected nothing else.
Gail placed two steaming mugs down, one for each of them. The third she kept for herself. Heck scanned quickly through the printout. There were only six items on the list in total; of those, two had been recovered before Harold Lansing’s accident on the Mole, and none had been stolen anywhere south of Birmingham. It didn’t help much, but no less than Budd’s inability to determine the colour of the vehicle he’d spotted in Gatcombe Wood, as that meant they wouldn’t be able to tie it in with the vehicle on the bridge overlooking the river.
‘SOCO gone up there to make a tyre cast for us?’ he asked.
‘They’ve said they’ll go but they reckon it’s a fool’s errand. God knows how many courting couples have been parked up there since.’ She switched her attention to Budd. ‘Were you actually there, Vinnie, or weren’t you? It isn’t difficult to distinguish green from grey.’
‘It is if it’s early in the morning,’ he replied. ‘If you ever went out at that time, you’d see what the light’s like.’
‘You cheeky sod. I must have worked nights and earlies a thousand times, if I’ve worked them once.’
‘Well you know what I’m talking about.’
‘This is futile!’ Heck slammed the printout down on top of the incomplete witness statement.
‘Listen …’ Budd shrugged. ‘I can say it was green. Or grey. If that’s what you want.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well.’ Budd shrugged again. ‘You’ve already let me off this one. So perhaps if another occasion were to arise in the future …’
Gail glared at him. ‘Are you trying to play us, Vinnie? Is that what all this is about?’
‘No, no, it’s just, well, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch—’
‘No one is scratching anyone’s backs,’ Heck interrupted. ‘We don’t tell lies in court.’
Budd looked baffled. ‘Since when?’
‘And we certainly don’t rely on members of the public telling lies for us,’ Gail added.
‘All we want from you is the truth.’ Heck pushed Budd’s mug across the table. ‘So take five minutes and drink your tea, and try and remember what you saw.’
The two detectives stepped out into the corridor, leaving Budd perplexed and alone.
‘How’s the ankle?’ Gail asked.
Heck grunted. ‘Stiff, but the pain’s easing.’
‘Well, whatever happens next, we’ll need more than Vinnie Budd’s word. He’s a poacher and a petty thief, but he’s mainly known round here for being a wino and a gobshite. Give him a couple of beers and he’ll tell you anything. Any decent defence would rip us a new one if he was all we had.’
Heck sipped tiredly at his tea.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘I’m thinking that roadworks gear in the back of the Land Rover was most likely used to temporarily close the road, if they needed to. You know, make sure they had time to pull this thing off without other road users interfering.’
She mused, indicating that she supposed this was possible.
‘I’m also thinking Laurel and Hardy,’ Heck said. ‘I mean – how weird is that?’
‘I don’t know … you commit a crime, you wear a mask. I don’t suppose it’s incumbent on you to find one that makes you look like a criminal.’
‘A toy plane. Laurel and Hardy masks. Seems to be a kind of joke shop vibe here.’
‘Joke shop?’
‘What kind of goofballs are we dealing with?’
‘You’re not saying you think killing Lansing was just a bit of fun?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s be sensible, Heck. Whatever Vinnie Budd saw in that wood may or may not be related to this case, but it doesn’t change the fact that whoever’s responsible for Harold Lansing’s death will be found somewhere among his personal contacts.’
‘The fact?’
‘Heck, we need to stop chasing around the countryside after idiots like Budd, and get into the guts of Lansing’s affairs. In fact …’ She checked her watch. ‘I’m expecting a callback from FIU any time now. Can you finish getting Budd’s statement?’
‘Sure, go on.’
Heck watched as she walked away along the passage to the CID office. If he was brutally honest with himself, he suspected that Gail was probably right. Lansing, for all his reputation as a good egg, had been a self-made multi-millionaire with his fingers in a number of different pies. It was impossible to imagine there weren’t at least a few naughty secrets somewhere in his background. He’d also reached a stage of life where he’d moved widely in well-heeled circles. Thanks to his ex-girlfriend, he’d even mixed with the fashion and showbiz crowd. He’d likely known and interacted with a significant number of individuals who, for all their wealth, lived outside the norms and conventions of Middle England. But then again … when Heck considered the nature of the two accidents, doubts gnawed at him. The aeroplane incident in particular had been like something from a silent comedy. His thoughts wandered back to a major case of the recent past, when he’d been confronted by the ‘Desecrator’ murders. On that occasion, the victims had been abducted and tortured to death on specific feast days – Good Friday, St George’s Day and so forth – in a perverse fashion designed to mock the legitimate festivities normally associated with those events. But if the purpose of those crimes had been to offer insult to the communities that normally celebrated such events, the purpose of the toy aeroplane attack was, seemingly, to snigger.
To chuckle.
To have a giggle.
Heck considered the second, fatal accident. That was less of a clever joke. At least on the surface. Anyone could veil a mirror to prevent someone spotting a reflection, but if that was the case why had Lansing persisted in pulling out onto such a dangerous road? And how, if someone had simply obscured the mirror, was there any guarantee it would have led to Lansing’s death? The more Heck pondered it, the more that too felt like a joke or dare – as if the perpetrator had said: ‘Let’s see if we can make it work. This’ll be a hoot.’
Heck knew from bitter experience that some small minds were all too easily amused. Several times he’d investigated so-called ‘thrill killings’, where the victim was unknown to the perp, and there was no sexual or financial motive – it was one of the most incomprehensible types of crime, committed purely because the gruesome act itself, and the complexity and challenge of arranging and carrying it out, was a source of excitement in its own right.
He went back into the interview room, where Budd sat with hands clasped on the table in front of him.
‘Well?’ Heck asked.
‘Sorry.’ Budd
regarded him worriedly, as if such a failure might merit a punitive response. ‘You want the truth. I can’t be any more truthful than green or grey.’
Heck stared at him long and hard, before resuming his chair and picking up his pen. ‘At the end of the day, honesty’s always the best policy.’
When the witness statement was finished and signed, for what it was worth, and the burly poacher was trudging off home with a stern warning ringing in his ears, Heck strolled back through the station to the CID office. En route he passed a window looking out on the personnel car park, where two figures caught his eye. One of them was Gail. She stood stiffly with arms folded; a tense, irritated posture. Towering over her was the tall, angular shape of DS Ron Pavey. The big guy was talking at her rather than to her; keeping it quiet, but, from the speed of his delivery, laying down the law.
When Gail finally came back indoors, she looked surprised and perhaps a little vexed to see Heck already at his desk, flipping through paperwork.
‘Thought you were waiting for FIU to call you back?’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘No rush. No one at Bramshill is ever going to get off his arse to do anything quickly for the likes of us.’ She sat, shifting documents to check her answering machine, but its steady green light indicated that no messages had been stored. She puffed out her cheeks before booting up her PC – and catching sight of Heck slouched back in his chair, hands in pockets, watching her.
She raised a querying eyebrow.
‘There’s a problem with your theory that Lansing may have been hit by a pro,’ he said.
‘I didn’t say I thought he’d been hit by a pro.’
‘Okay … hit by a business rival, a jealous ex-lover or someone.’
She regarded him coldly; the more amenable personality that had emerged during the last day or so had evaporated. She gestured, implying he should explain.
‘There isn’t much traffic passes Rosewood Grange,’ he said. ‘If you were the one trying to kill Lansing, how would you make sure he drove out in front of a speeding car? Would you really just be prepared to cover the safety mirror and hope for the best?’