Pluke and Wayne listened to the running commentary and, from where they were hiding, they could visualize the scene. Eventually, the man had emptied the rear compartment of the van to pile a dozen or more empty suitcases in the kitchen. Then he entered the house and closed the door to pick up two cases and head for the stairs.
Pluke spoke quietly, ‘He’s taking the cases upstairs, no doubt to pack them with stolen goods. Observer Three – disable the van . . .’
‘Roger,’ said Observer Three. There was a long pause, after which the same constable said, ‘Van disabled. Rotor arm and plug leads disconnected. Over and out.’
‘Received thank you,’ said Pluke. ‘Once all the suitcases are upstairs, they will start filling them with small antique items, this may take a while. I am still concealed but the television is producing some useful covering sounds and Mr Knowles is apparently asleep, I can hear him breathing heavily as if in sleep . . . this is the critical moment. All units to rear of house – prepare to enter the house when I give the order “enter” . . . last man to enter please lock the door and remove the key. Units at front of house, prepare to enter when I give that order, lock the door and secure it internally. Now maintain radio silence as we await the next move. With Detective Sergeant Wain, I am in the front living room to the right of the front door as one enters, in darkness but with radio links. We are now awaiting two things – the probable attempt on the life of Mr Knowles, and the suspects’ departure with several suitcases full of portable and varied antiques. Complete radio silence please. Over and out.’
In the ensuing silence, it was possible to hear a pin drop, apart from gentle and rather weak slumbering noises from Joe Knowles and the burbling of the television set. Upstairs in the solidly built Victorian house, there was not a sound either; they were packing the objects in cases filled with polystyrene foam particles. They were not rushing into carelessness, but not wasting a second in unnecessary chatter; each knew his and her job and each was an expert at packing in this manner. Before long, ten large cases had been quietly filled and were standing inside the bedroom.
‘I’ll help you down with some of those,’ said the female voice which carried loud and clear through the receivers in Pluke’s room. ‘We can stack them in the kitchen before we load them . . . it’ll give us space.’
‘What about him? Is it time we dealt with him?’ asked a male voice.
‘I’ll go and have a look. I’ve got the pillow in case we need it.’
‘I’ll come with you. I’ll open the bedroom windows now and cover the mirrors.’
Pluke and Wain, with radio silence outside, heard the footsteps of the two plotters descending the stairs.
The man said, ‘We can put him in the hallway, it’s got a cold tiled floor, just lay him there. You can use your black pillow if he gets boisterous, that always calms them down.’
The listeners heard footsteps crossing the hall and entering the room in which Joe Knowles lay fast asleep with his shallow breathing.
‘He’s out like a light,’ said the man.
‘Good, let’s do it,’ responded the woman. ‘I’ll take his feet if you can cope with his shoulders. Put him on the floor in the hall . . . that should finish him off. Poor old chap, he was a really nice old man but is certainly on his way out. Well, he is now.’
In Pluke’s room, Wayne mouthed, ‘Now?’
‘No. Wait. We need evidence of an actual attempted murder, not the mere plans.’
And from another of his commodious pockets, he produced a digital camera, checked that it was switched on and waited. They could hear the couple puffing and scuffling along beneath the heavy weight of Joe Knowles, as they hoisted him out of the warm bed and laid him on the bedside mat. Using that as a kind of sleigh, they dragged him through the door and out into the chilly hall with its stone floor, and there they withdrew the mat until he was lying on the stone. He had not woken up; he was still snoring but ever so lightly.
‘Pillow? I’ll do it if you’re nervous,’ said a man’s voice.
‘Would you?’
‘It’s not the first time. If you do it properly it doesn’t leave any evidence.’
‘It’s still in the bedroom, I’ll get it.’
There was a long silent pause and they heard the footsteps of the man on the bare tiles as he approached the dormant figure of Joe Knowles. On the sensitive microphone hidden in Joe’s underwear, Pluke and Wayne could hear his breathing and then footsteps growing louder and louder as they grew closer and closer. Then there was silence as the black pillow was gently placed over his face.
‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Pluke into his microphones.
For a few seconds there appeared to be pandemonium but as Pluke’s camera caught the action with Parkinson holding the black pillow over Joe’s face and Juliet trying to run to freedom but finding all exits barred by uniformed policeman led by Inspector Horsley, they capitulated.
Joe slept through it all and so a couple of burly police officers lifted him back onto the bedroom carpet and once again used it as a sleigh to haul him back to his bedside where they placed him beneath the blankets, still snoring but alive and warm again. Someone switched off the TV set.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Pluke. ‘This is most interesting. Detective Sergeant Wain, will you arrest Roland Parkinson and Juliet Jarvis on a charge of attempted murder, with secondary charges of attempted theft and burglary, the details of which have yet to be ascertained. And Inspector Horsley, perhaps you could arrange to escort these prisoners to the police station for formal processing and detention. There will be no bail.’
Neither of the accused said a word, neither did they struggle. It was pointless.
Pluke spoke again, ‘For the information of Mr Parkinson and Juliet Jarvis, I shall be re-opening previous cases of death and theft that have occurred in Crickledale in recent years.’
Inspector Horsley then asked, ‘Montague, I have Mrs Pluke in my car, you asked me to bring her here. . . .’
‘Ah yes, thank you for that. Bring her in please.’
Somewhat mystified by what was happening, Horsley went outside and escorted Millicent into the house where Joe Knowles was still fast asleep.
‘Millicent,’ announced Pluke. ‘As one of the Crickledale Carers, perhaps you could call a doctor and ask him to examine Mr Joe Knowles in that room. He has had something of a bewildering experience but I feel he is well and is in dreamland. The doctor might feel he should be in hospital, then we must close all doors and windows. When I have finished the paperwork concerned with tonight’s outcome of my cold-case review, I shall come home. Tomorrow, however, I need to speak urgently to Mr Furnival about all this and some other related matters – but that can wait until tomorrow.’
‘I shall be waiting to hear all about it,’ smiled Millicent, absorbing the scene around her. ‘I might even make you a cele-bratory cup of cocoa.’
John Furnival disappeared that night. His car and most of his belongings vanished from the house he had rented and he was never seen again. A description of him was circulated both in police publications and on the internet, saying the police wished to speak to him about matters relating to Crickledale Volunteer Carers but no-one responded.
Within a month, advertisements appeared in local and regional newspapers seeking professional members of staff to fill current vacancies at Crickledale Volunteer Carers. Millicent Pluke declared she would not apply, although she might continue as a volunteer.
© Nicholas Rhea 2014
ISBN 978 0 7198 1604 8 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1605 5(mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1606 2 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1368 9 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
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A Full Churchyard Page 23