by Bill Kitson
The first of the traumas came courtesy of the postman, who delivered the winter feed bill. Then there had been the problem with the tractor and the expense involved in repairing it. Coming on top of those, her request had been like a red rag to a bull.
He had stormed out of the house and jumped into his Land Rover, pausing only to allow his dog to jump onto the passenger seat. The Border Collie sat bolt upright, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth, eager for work.
As they drove towards Black Fell and the fields he rented on the lower slopes, his mind was full of the events of the previous day, a day that had been wasted trying to fix the tractor. He had worked on it until late afternoon, only to find that a vital component needed replacing. A call to the dealer provided more frustration, as they didn’t have one in stock, and would have to get one from the continent. That meant airfreight, at a frightening cost.
As he pulled up alongside the hedge that shielded the pasture from the road, the farmer noticed that the gate had been left open. He muttered something extremely impolite about walkers who treated the countryside as their private playground without giving any thought to those who had to work the land, and opened the car door. ‘Come on, Gyp, let’s see if the little buggers have strayed now someone’s given them an escape route.’
The farmer glanced towards the field, but the hedge was too high to get a view of the land. It was only when he and the dog reached the entrance that they stopped, neither of them able to believe what they saw. Or rather what they couldn’t see. Gyp looked up at her master, her expression one of puzzlement.
‘Oh shit! Oh hell, no! The bastards!’
The dog didn’t understand the words, but the tone of voice was sufficient to tell her that all was far from well. The field, which should have contained almost a hundred ewes and lambs, was now empty. Ramblers hadn’t left the gate open.
Only a week earlier he had received an email from the National Farmers’ Union warning of the increased danger of sheep theft. The circular had cited some statistics that made for grim reading. He remembered the easy sympathy he had felt for those who had suffered such losses. The tyre tracks in the soft mud close to the entrance and the disappearance of his whole flock told him that the threat had been no idle one. He felt physically sick. The feed bill, the tractor repair, even the new kitchen, all paled into insignificance compared with the loss of stock with a value close to ten thousand pounds.
‘Good morning, boss.’ Sergeant Binns stood to attention and saluted Clara as she walked into the reception area of Helmsdale police station.
‘Jack, if I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were taking the piss.’
Binns smiled and relaxed. ‘In your capacity as leader of the CID team here, I have some work for you and your minions.’
‘Go on, tell me the worst.’
‘Let me see – what crime are you least expecting today?’
Clara sighed. ‘It’s a bit early in the morning for quiz questions, Jack.’
‘How about rustling?’
‘Rustling?’
‘Yep, I’ve had a farmer from Drovers Halt on the phone a few minutes ago to report he’s had ten thousand pounds worth of sheep stolen.’
Mironova stared at him in surprise. ‘That sounds like a lot of sheep.’
‘Around a hundred at today’s prices, according to what he told me. He reckoned they were fetching over a hundred pounds apiece at last Thursday’s mart.’
‘That’s not somebody killing for their own use.’
‘Not unless they’ve an extremely large freezer,’ Binns agreed. ‘From what the farmer said, in between the swear words, there were tyre tracks leading into the field from the gate. The sheep were on summer pasture over at Black Fell, which is fairly remote and ideal – ideal for the thieves, I mean.’
‘How would they do it though? That’s a lot of animals. You were brought up around here; you know how these things work better than me.’
‘I was thinking it over before you arrived. They’d need a big wagon for a flock that size. And they’d have to be experienced with sheep. Added to which they’d need a good dog. Even then it would be no simple matter, working on strange terrain at night.’
‘Once they’d got them into the wagon, what would they do with them? I mean, where would they take them?’
‘Good question. Wherever they went, they’d need paperwork.’
‘You mean a bill of sale, something like that?’
Binns shook his head. ‘They’d need passports.’
‘Passports? For sheep?’
‘I’m no expert, but I believe all livestock must have a passport these days. And if you want to move them from one location to another you must also have a valid movement order in place beforehand. That requirement was brought in after the foot-and-mouth epidemic, I think. You’d be better off checking the exact requirements with someone who knows more about it than me. A field officer from DEFRA or someone from the NFU for example.’
‘I’ll do that. First, though, I’d better send someone to talk to the farmer and have a look at the crime scene.’
Binns passed her the incident report form. ‘One thing I will say. By now those lambs will have been slaughtered and hung in an abattoir somewhere.’
‘Hung?’
‘You have to hang them for a few days before butchering them otherwise the meat will be tough and tasteless. The bigger the beast, the longer it takes. Lambs need about a week, I believe. From memory, cattle could take anything up to three weeks.’
It was as if Nash’s departure was a signal to the local criminal fraternity to spring into action. Clara and her colleagues found themselves investigating a string of incidents some petty, but some more serious.
Superintendent Jackie Fleming arrived from Netherdale HQ for a meeting with Clara. ‘Is there anything we should be particularly concerned with? Given that all unsolved crimes are a worry, obviously.’
‘Yes, there is something Viv Pearce discovered during a conversation he had with one of his informants. It seems there are now two suppliers of hard drugs operating in our area. That’s bad enough in itself, but it may also be a contributory factor to the rash of petty thefts, as users steal to feed their addiction.’
‘That is bad news. It tallies with something the chief constable mentioned this morning. There’s a report due from the new Drugs Intelligence Unit, warning of an increase in class A substances being brought into this part of the country. I don’t suppose Viv’s informant gave him anything really useful, such as names?’
Clara shook her head. ‘No such luck. Apparently, whoever these pushers are, they’ve got the locals scared shitless. Nobody’s talking, and what little Viv did get had to be prised out of his contact.’
‘Keep the pressure up for more details and I’ll enlist uniform branch to keep a special lookout for transactions taking place. If we can catch someone in the act of dealing, or in possession with intent to supply, we might get them to talk and give us a lever on the operations that way. I’ll have a word with the chief and see if she can get any background information, and as soon as that report is available, I’ll let you have a copy.’
In the flagship restaurant of a large chain the head chef paused outside the door of the manager’s office and looked over his notes. Only when he was completely satisfied did he raise his hand and knock on the glass panel of the door.
‘I’ve prepared the draft for the next season’s menus. There are quite a few changes, and the whole thing is subject to our suppliers being able to deliver the right stuff at the right price.’
He passed over a sheaf of papers. The manager skim-read the sheets, pausing when his eyes zeroed-in on one specific item. ‘Venison?’ he queried. ‘That’s a bit of a departure for us, isn’t it?’
‘Yes and no. We had a lot of success last winter with pheasant, partridge, and wild duck. If we add venison in the various guises I’ve listed there, it will hopefully enhance our reputation as a great venue for classic Br
itish food, the best of which is game.’
‘Venison will be very expensive. What if it doesn’t sell? What if everyone gets reminded of Bambi when they see it on our menu? It could have the wrong effect altogether.’
‘They didn’t think of Disney cartoon characters when we put duck on the menu,’ the chef pointed out. ‘And, you believed that lamb was going to be too expensive to serve regularly, but our supplier got it for us at a price that enabled us to make a healthy profit. Why not ask them?’
‘OK, leave it with me. I’ll give it some thought.’
It was all very well the head chef making bold statements such as those, but with five branches under his control the manager had to make sure they could all deliver to the same high standard. However, he had to admit that he had entertained similar doubts regarding the other game dishes and they had proved highly successful. Not only that, but venison wasn’t a lot different from beef or lamb. His mind made up, the manager reached for the phone to check with their meat supplier. The next hurdle to overcome was the price. If it proved too expensive that would be a showstopper.
The meat factory manager was in the middle of dealing with a labelling machine that had been spewing tickets all over the floor when he was summoned to the phone to discuss a potential order. He spoke with the restaurant manager and was about to return to his repair, but decided to place a call first. Inside his own office, he closed the door before speaking to his contact. At the end of the conversation he phoned the restaurant and reported he had successfully sourced the venison, quoted a price, and added his usual stipulation – the transaction would have to be cash with no paperwork involved. When his terms were accepted, only then did he return to the problem machine.
Two nights later, PC Geoff Riley was working the late shift. He’d been stationed at Netherdale HQ for five years and to some it might have seemed like the road to nowhere, but Riley didn’t think so. The stress he saw on the faces of officers he met from big city beats, and the horror stories they told made him glad he’d opted for the quieter life of a rural posting. Even when the cutbacks hit, he knew there was less chance of his job being threatened than elsewhere, because they were already operating on the bare minimum staff levels.
It had its disadvantages, though. When someone was off sick, for example, there was frequently no cover available. That was the case at present. As he drove out through Kirk Bolton village, he passed the house of the colleague who should have been alongside him in the car. The previous week his colleague had struggled with a drunk, fallen and slipped a disc.
Not that he felt the need for backup or expected trouble this evening. The matter that was taking Riley out to Bishop’s Cross was routine. Late night drinking was now legal, but the complaint was to do with the noise generated by customers at the Red Lion, and that couldn’t be tolerated.
He dealt with the rowdy drinkers, who had been indulging in an impromptu karaoke session, and shortly after 1a.m. set off back towards Netherdale. It was a dark, moonless night and the woodland alongside the country road was like a black curtain, shielding the Winfield Estate from prying eyes.
As Riley steered the car round a right-handed bend he saw a brief flash of light in his peripheral vision. Instinctively, he braked, slowing the patrol car as he scanned the woodland. He was about to accelerate, convinced it had been his imagination or a distorted reflection from his own headlights when he saw it again. Whatever it was, Riley felt sure it had no right being there.
He slowed even further until the car was creeping along as he puzzled over what was going on, and what he should do. He tried to remember the lie of the land. If he’d got his bearings right, there was a gate a few hundred yards ahead leading to a ride, cut through the woodland to act as a fire break.
As he turned the next bend Riley saw the gate and in front of it, parked nose out from the woods, was a Transit van. Of course, it might be a courting couple, but he didn’t think so, not if they wanted any comfort. If it wasn’t a courting couple, it had to be poachers. He pulled to a halt and contacted the Netherdale control room, thankful he had a signal. ‘I’m on the Bishop’s Cross to Kirk Bolton road, by Winfield Estate. There’s a suspect vehicle parked in a gateway. A Ford Transit, I think, but I can’t make out the registration number without getting out of my car. It’s covered in mud. It could be somebody doing a spot of poaching, or it could just be someone having a bit of leg over. I’m going to take a look. I’ll get back to you in a couple of minutes with the registration number.’
Approximately thirty seconds later, after Riley emerged from his vehicle, a hunting owl, disturbed by an unfamiliar loud crack of sound, abandoned her intended prey and swooped off into the distance uttering a loud screech of protest.
Riley also heard the sound, also heard the owl, but dimly, through the agonizing pain in his chest. Then both vision and hearing left him as he slumped to the ground.
‘What the fuck did you do that for? You’ve killed a copper, you stupid bastard.’
‘What did you want me to do? Wait for him to arrest us? In case you’d forgotten, those deer on the ground don’t belong to us.’
‘What if he’s rung the number of the van in? We’ll have to ditch it now.’
‘Relax. Even if he did ring it in, it’ll do them no good. That number belongs to a double-decker bus from Leeds. Now, help me get these deer in the van and let’s get the hell out of here.’
Five minutes passed before the control room operator realized Riley hadn’t called back. After several attempts to raise him, the operator contacted the nearest patrol car. By the time the officers pulled to a halt behind Riley’s vehicle, the poachers were miles away, and PC Riley’s body was already beginning to cool in the night air.
A couple of hours later, the Transit van pulled up at the back entrance to the meat processing plant in Leeds. Due to this being a different product to the ones they were used to dealing with, a fresh approach was needed. For one thing, previous deliveries were usually alive upon arrival at the plant. It was a novel experience for them to take delivery of a consignment that was already dead. More than that, owing to the special requirements required for dealing with this type of meat, much of their work had already been done.
The factory manager gave specific instructions to his two most trusted employees. These men had dealt with other late night arrivals, and would ask no embarrassing questions as long as they were paid well for their work – and their silence. The manager signalled to the visitors to follow him. Once inside the privacy of his office, he asked if everything had gone to plan. It was a courtesy question, nothing more.
‘Not really,’ the driver, the older of the two replied. ‘Someone stuck their nose in where it wasn’t wanted and I had to deal with him.’
The manager was curious, but restrained himself from enquiring further. There are some details it is better not to know. Instead he removed the cash box from the safe and counted out the sum agreed beforehand. He thanked them, adding, ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as we need anything else.’
The phone at Clara’s bedside rang. She rolled across the double bed, missing the warmth of her fiancé David’s body alongside her. ‘Mironova,’ she croaked into the handset.
‘Sorry to wake you, Clara, but it’s bad news, I’m afraid. News of the very worst kind.’
‘Why, what’s happened, Jack?’ As she was listening, she threw back the duvet and was reaching for her clothing as he answered.
‘One our uniformed men has been killed. Gunned down in cold blood.’
Clara could hear the anger and distress in Binns’ voice.
‘Tell me the details.’
‘It was, Geoff Riley, based at Netherdale. He’d been out to Bishop’s Cross on a routine matter. On the way back he called in to report a suspicious vehicle parked by Winfield Estate. Looks as if he was shot as he got out of his patrol car, we believe he might have disturbed a gang of poachers. I’ve briefed Superintendent Fleming. She’s on her way.’
�
�Right, I’ll set off as soon as I’m dressed. Lisa’s on call; let her know, will you? I assume Professor Ramirez has been notified?’
‘All being dealt with. He’s organizing the forensic team.’ Binns paused, but Clara waited, aware he wanted to say more. ‘I know Jackie Fleming will have to be SIO on this one, but you’ll be doing most of the detective work. Nail these bastards, Clara. Geoff Riley was as decent a bloke as ever put on a uniform. He didn’t deserve this. What his wife will do, I’ve no idea. It was hard enough before, this will make things intolerable.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maureen Riley is the civilian clerical officer from Netherdale. You know her; she works alongside Tom.’
‘Oh! I didn’t know that. She’s the one who transferred from Bishopton after the station there closed down, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What did you mean about her being unable to cope?’
‘Geoff and Maureen have a son; the Riley lad is disabled.’
‘Oh bloody hell, Jack, that’s terrible.’
‘I know. It makes you feel so helpless. That’s one more reason for wanting to nail the swine that did this. I know it won’t be easy, but you’ll have all the backup you need. It’s what Mike’s trained you for. You’re a damned good detective, and with what you’ve picked up from Mike, you can do it, if anyone can.’
As she dressed, Clara reflected on what Binns had said. The vote of confidence might have been good to hear, but it placed a weight of expectation on her shoulders.
Chapter three
Tony Hartley, head of the unit referred to by their rivals as the Soldiers, had a problem. He was on a fund-raising mission with a particular goal in mind, but things had gone wrong. In the midst of an earlier bank robbery he had lost three of his team. They had netted six figure sums from the raid and a previous security van hijack, which was sufficient to fund the new drug-running operation. But that money paled into insignificance compared to what they were now earning. Such a highly profitable enterprise needed protection. He had got word to his boss, the major, and was awaiting a reply.