by Frank Smith
Returning from lunch, Ormside found Tregalles studying a large-scale map of the area around Whitcott Lacey and Lyddingham. ‘Still looking for Ballybunion, are you?’ he asked innocently. ‘You won’t find it on that map, Tregalles; I told you it was in Ireland.’
‘You know where you can put your Ballybunion, don’t you?’ Tregalles muttered, still scanning the map. Then: ‘I’m trying to remember exactly where this RGS Removals and Storage is out there. I’m sure I’ve seen it, but I can’t remember if it’s on this side of Whitcott Lacey or the other.’
‘You could always phone and ask.’
‘I could, but if I’m going out there to pick up Gerry Fletcher, I’d rather not talk to them beforehand.’
‘Then ask Emma Baker.’
Tregalles frowned. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
Ormside rolled his eyes. ‘Call yourself a detective?’ he sniffed. ‘Emma Baker serves behind the bar in the most popular pub in the area, right? She might even know Fletcher. Chances are he drinks there, and I’m sure she can tell you exactly where RGS is. Give Molly a shout at Green’s place and see if Baker is still with her.’
‘Yes, she’s here,’ Molly said when Tregalles asked the question. ‘I’ll put her on.’
‘Have you ever seen a man by the name of Fletcher in the Red Lion?’ Tregalles asked Emma. ‘Gerry Fletcher?’
‘Fletcher?’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I think I know who you mean. Fortyish, whey-faced, grubby-looking, fair hair, ponytail, ring in his ear – is that him? Comes in quite regularly.’
The description Bernie Green had given them was not quite so unflattering, but the ponytail struck a chord. ‘Sounds like him,’ Tregalles said. ‘Did you ever see him with Mark Newman?’
‘No, and I can’t see Mark having anything to do with him. Why?’ There was a catch in her voice as she said, ‘Have you found something, Sergeant? Please tell me if you have.’
‘I wish I could,’ he told her, ‘but we are following a lead. And while you’re here, can you tell me where RGS Removals is?’
‘It’s on the Lyddingham road – well, a bit off it behind some trees, actually, but you can just see it from the road, and there’s a sign. About two, maybe two-and-a-half miles up the road from Whitcott. Come to think of it, this man Fletcher might work there, because he’s been in several times with a man named McCoy, who works there. He’s also been in with another man; Roy something-or-other I think his name is. Does Fletcher have something to do with Mark’s disappearance?’
‘We think he may be able to help us,’ Tregalles said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘And thanks for your help, Emma. Have you had any luck over there?’
‘Afraid not. They haven’t found anything of Mark’s other than the ladders and the roof rack. Still,’ she said hopefully, ‘that could be a good sign, couldn’t it, Sergeant?’
What she was really saying was that they hadn’t found Mark Newman’s body, which was a plus in her eyes. ‘Could be,’ he said as lightly as he could manage. ‘Would you put Molly back on?’
‘Are you coming in?’ he asked when Molly came on the line.
‘Might as well,’ she said. ‘They’ve turned everything inside out; even had the sniffer dog in, but they found nothing. I only heard one side of your conversation with Emma, but it sounds as if you have something.’
‘Could be the break we’ve been waiting for,’ he told her. ‘But I have to go now. Talk to Len when you come in. He’ll fill you in.’
Tregalles took with him a young constable by the name of Lyons. His first name was Francis, but the only one who ever called him that was his mother, because he had been nicknamed Leo since his first day at school. He was tall and thin, a fresh-faced youngster with pale skin and red hair. He didn’t look strong enough to compete in marathons, but that was what he did whenever he had the chance.
Tregalles drove into the RGS compound and parked in a space reserved for customers. Business appeared to be brisk as he and Lyons got out and made their way inside the cavernous building.
There were three loading bays with direct access to the warehouse and a storage area for containers. A fourth bay, separated from the others by a floor-to-ceiling breeze block wall, looked more like a garage, complete with pit, compressor, hydraulic hoist and a bench full of tools.
‘Can’t stop,’ a worker told him when the sergeant caught his attention. ‘Mid-month removals. Been going like blue-arsed flies since the weekend,’ he called over his shoulder as he continued on his way.
‘I’m looking for the manager. A Mr Skinner?’ Tregalles called after him.
‘Office,’ the man said, jerking a thumb upward to a row of windows overlooking the loading bays. ‘Last one at the end of the corridor. Stairs are over there,’ he added, pointing.
Tregalles and Lyons followed directions and discovered a set of wooden stairs leading up to a corridor that ran the full width of the building. There were windows on both sides of the corridor, one side looking into the offices where heads were bent over desks strewn with paper, while the windows on the other side of the corridor looked down on a narrow strip of gravel punctuated by potholes and weeds between the back of the building and a chain-link fence.
The door to the office at the end of the corridor was closed, but Tregalles could see two men inside. The man seated behind the desk was big. He wasn’t young by any means, but he looked as if he could shift a grand piano all by himself. Shoulders the width of the proverbial barn door, thick neck, bald head, round, shiny face, and a stomach that made it difficult for him to sit close to his desk.
The man who faced him across the desk could be anywhere from forty to fifty. Lean, lined face, hair turning grey, he sat hunched over in his chair, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers.
As Tregalles raised his hand to knock, the man behind the desk looked up and caught his eye. He said something to the man facing him, who got up and came to the door. ‘If you’re looking to make a booking,’ he said, ‘they can take care of you in the office at the other end of the corridor.’ He began to close the door, but Tregalles held it open and displayed his warrant card.
‘Detective Sergeant Tregalles and DC Lyons,’ he said, loud enough for the man behind the desk to hear. ‘We’re looking for Mr Skinner.’
‘Detectives?’ The big man frowned as he lumbered to his feet and came out from behind the desk. ‘Roy Skinner,’ he boomed, extending his hand in greeting as Tregalles and Lyons entered the office. His hand engulfed that of the sergeant, who wondered if his fingers would ever come apart again when he finally withdrew them from the big man’s grasp. ‘And this is Jack McCoy, my foreman.’ The second man merely nodded, for which Tregalles, hand still stinging, was grateful. ‘Detective Sergeant – what was the name again?’
‘Tregalles. And Detective Constable Lyons.’
‘Right.’ He stood there for a moment in the middle of the room as if trying to decide whether to return to his seat and invite them to sit down, or ask what they wanted first. He chose the latter and looked concerned as he asked, ‘What’s this all about, then, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Not an accident, I hope?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Tregalles assured him, ‘but we would like to ask you about one of your people.’
Skinner eyed Tregalles suspiciously. ‘What’s his name, then, and what’s he supposed to have done?’ he demanded as he walked back to his desk and sat down. McCoy had already returned to his seat, and it was almost as an afterthought that Skinner waved Tregalles to the only remaining chair. Lyons was ignored completely.
‘His name is Gerry Fletcher, and we’d like to talk to him. Is he here?’
Skinner cast a quizzical glance at McCoy and said, ‘Is he, Jack?’ Then: ‘Jack looks after the day-to-day running of the place,’ he explained, ‘so everyone, other than the office staff, reports to him. Is Gerry about, Jack?’
McCoy eyed Tregalles narrowly as he took another drag on his cigarette before butting it. ‘He’s doing a few errands in t
own,’ he said. ‘What do you want him for?’
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘Not for a while, I shouldn’t think. He’s got quite a bit to do, so he may not come back here when he’s finished. He may go straight home.’
‘When you say he’s in town, which town do you mean? Broadminster?’
‘That’s right. You probably passed him on your way here.’
‘Can you tell me what he’s driving?’
‘Just hold on a minute,’ Skinner broke in. ‘Before we go any further, I’d like to know why you want to talk to one of my employees. It must be something dodgy if they sent out two detectives to talk to him, so I want to know what’s going on. What’s he supposed to have been up to, then?’
‘Sorry, Mr Skinner, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the moment. All I can tell you is that we believe he may be able to help us with our enquiries into an incident that probably has nothing to do with his employment here. And while we’re on the subject, what is his position here?’
Skinner cocked an eye in McCoy’s direction, who shrugged and said, ‘Driver, loader, you name it. Bit of a mechanic as well. People who work for us have to do anything and everything; it’s that sort of job.’
‘I must say I was surprised at the size of the place and the activity downstairs,’ Tregalles said. ‘It seems almost too big for the area.’
‘That’s the argument people used when they were trying to stop us from coming in here,’ Skinner said, ‘but it’s not. You see, we’re a distribution point for the local area, and we combine several functions. You’ll see all sorts of big-name container carriers off-loading here. Some of them will bring in as many as four furniture containers at a time. They off-load here for local distribution, and by local I mean anything within roughly a forty-mile radius. We use smaller carriers to take the individual containers on to their destination, or we store them here, depending on what the customer’s instructions are. Of course, we do a lot of local moves as well.’
‘And you’ve been here how long now?’
‘Two years, give or take.’
‘And how long has Fletcher been with you?’
It was McCoy who answered. ‘Four or five months, something like that. Used to be a long-distance driver for one of our affiliates, but it got a bit too much for him; away from home a lot, and those long runs can take a lot out of you over time, so they asked if we would take him on. I think he grew up around here, Tenbury Wells or somewhere near there.’
‘Ever had any trouble with him?’
McCoy butted his cigarette. ‘Like what?’ he asked.
‘In any way. Would you call him a reliable worker?’
‘He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t,’ Skinner growled. ‘Slackers don’t last long round here.’
‘Mr McCoy . . .?’
The foreman shook his head. ‘He does his work like everyone else. As Mr Skinner said, if you don’t pull your weight around here, you don’t stay long.’
‘What do you know about him off the job? Do you socialize at all?’
‘Socialize?’ McCoy chuckled softly. ‘We see enough of each other at work. Our boys work all hours, day and night sometimes, and when they do go home they hope to hell they aren’t called out again to do a rush job. A few of us might go down the pub the odd time on a Friday or Saturday night, but even that doesn’t happened very often.’
‘Right,’ Tregalles said. ‘But I still need to know what sort of vehicle Fletcher is driving. And the registration.’
McCoy looked to Skinner for direction. ‘You don’t just want to talk to Fletcher, do you?’ Skinner said. ‘You’re going to arrest him, aren’t you? Why else would you want to know what he’s driving? You’re going to have him picked up, aren’t you, Sergeant?’
Tregalles’s expression gave nothing away. ‘As I said in the beginning, Mr Skinner, we need to talk to Mr Fletcher, but that is all I can tell you at the moment.’
Skinner stared hard at Tregalles for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Might as well give it to him, Jack,’ he growled. ‘The sooner we get this thing sorted, the better. But what I want to know is, will we be a man short tomorrow?’
‘It’s entirely possible,’ Tregalles said. ‘In fact, I’d say it’s more than likely.’
Twelve
‘That’s right, a Mazda pickup, red, or at least it used to be. I’m told it’s pretty badly faded now.’ Speaking on his mobile phone after leaving the RGS compound, Tregalles gave the description and registration to Ormside, along with a list of the places Fletcher was visiting.
‘But time’s getting on, and his foreman seems to think he’ll be going straight home when he’s finished, so that’s where Lyons and I are going now.’
‘Any reason to believe they will try to warn Fletcher?’ Ormside asked.
‘They might try to contact him to ask what he’s been up to, but I have no reason to believe the company is involved in any way. In fact, their main concern seemed to be whether or not he would be in to work tomorrow. Anyway, we’d better be getting on, so I’ll keep you posted, Len.’
‘Looks like we’re in luck,’ said Lyons a few minutes later as they came within sight of the roadside cottages. There was an open space in front of the two cottages, and a small red truck with rusted bodywork was drawn up with its bumper almost touching the rough stone of the cottage on the left.
‘Pull in behind the truck and block it off,’ Tregalles ordered, ‘then let’s go and see what Fletcher has to say for himself.’ A curtain twitched behind a tiny front window, but neither detective saw it as they got out of the car. ‘Better take the back in case he tries to do a runner,’ Tregalles said as he put his hand on the bonnet of the truck. It was still warm, so it hadn’t been there long.
They’d done a good job of converting the old pub into two separate cottages. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the name of the pub over one of the doors, it would have been almost impossible to tell which was the original entrance. Built of local stone, the cottages sat at the foot of a steep hill, which, like most of the others in the area, was dotted with sheep. An idyllic setting if it hadn’t been for the steady stream of traffic passing within twenty yards of the two front doors.
The sergeant moved to the front door and knocked, then knocked again, harder, sharper.
‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ a plaintive voice called out. The doorknob rattled and a slim, attractive woman of indeterminate age opened the door. She had long, chestnut-coloured hair, pale, almost translucent skin, and soft brown eyes that narrowed suspiciously when Tregalles held up his warrant card and introduced himself.
‘I’d like to talk to Mr Fletcher,’ he said, preparing to step inside. ‘And you are . . .?’
‘None of your business who I am,’ she said coldly, barring his way. ‘And he’s out.’
‘Is he?’ Tregalles said, feigning surprise. ‘In that case, would you mind telling me what the Mazda is doing here with its engine still warm? We know that’s what he was driving.’
‘Don’t know anything about that,’ she said tartly, ‘but he’s out and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’ She tried to close the door, but Tregalles held it open.
‘In that case, I’ll come in and wait,’ he told her, and thrust the door back so hard that the woman was forced to step back. He took a folded paper from his pocket and held it up. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest, which entitles me to search these premises. So please stand aside, unless you wish to be arrested yourself for obstruction.’
Tregalles closed the door and locked it, pocketing the key before pushing past the woman to move swiftly through the cottage, pausing only long enough to check each room to make sure that Fletcher wasn’t there. It wasn’t hard; the rooms were small and there was virtually nowhere he could hide. Tregalles opened the back door and told Lyons to come inside and check upstairs. The stairs were narrow, the ceilings low, and Lyons had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head as he went up.
‘Now,’ Tregalles said, ‘you must be Rose. Rose what? Let’s have your last name.’
‘Ryan,’ she said grudgingly as Lyons came down the stairs shaking his head. ‘Look under the bed, did you?’ she taunted. ‘I told you he isn’t here.’
‘But he was here,’ Tregalles said. ‘Do you have another car?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she snorted. ‘Does it look as if we’re made of money?’
Lyons was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another.
‘There’s a shed out back,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I didn’t have a chance to check it before you . . .’
The words trailed off because Tregalles was no longer listening. He’d seen the look on Rose’s face at the mention of the shed. He moved swiftly to the back door and out into a small garden overgrown with weeds. Lyons followed, jostling with Rose as she tried to get to the door before him.
‘Gerry, go!’ she screamed as Tregalles reached the shed. The door of the shed was locked, but even as he stood back to kick it in, he heard the unmistakably cough of an engine being started, and he knew exactly what it was. Lyons ran past him, heading for the back gate. Tregalles slammed his foot against the door. A crack appeared in the wood beside the door, but it refused to give completely. The sound inside the shed rose to screaming pitch as Tregalles slammed his shoulder against the door and stumbled through.
The stench of fumes engulfed him and stung his eyes as he watched the motorbike shoot through the wide-open double door at the back of the shed. Lyons, coming around the outside, lunged at the rider, but Fletcher’s fist caught the constable on the side of the face, and Lyons crashed to the ground.
Tregalles ran to help him up. The lad would have a thumping great bruise to show for his efforts, he thought glumly, but that wasn’t going to count for much with Paget when he had to explain how Fletcher had managed to escape.