‘Aye, well, it’s this tackle that old Henry Burgess left –’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Mosley –’
‘I take it that not all the small stuff was made over for Dickie Holgate to dispose of –’
‘Oh, no – not by any means. We always make it a point to let him have a few things he can expect to make something on – but there were one or two items worth putting into one of our own sales.’
‘Such as?’
There was an influx of sharpness in Mosley’s tone that made the young man look keenly at him.
‘Let’s have a look at your list, shall we?’
Lummis went to a cabinet and brought out a file, which he seemed to think that he and Mosley were going to read together. But Mosley took it over to the window, as if it needed daylight. When he came back with it he brought out a notebook and made a laborious business of noting down three items.
‘Where are these articles now?’
A nineteenth-century silver tankard in mock-Elizabethan style; a colour-printed plate by Pratt of Fenton; a ceremonial sword, HM Diplomatic Service –
‘They are in our strong-vault, over in our auction rooms.’
‘I fear I shall have to relieve you of them for the time being. Against receipt of course. And Mrs Nancy Batham – Henry Burgess’s niece? I take it there’d be one or two small objects she took a fancy to, and that didn’t go forward to the sale or to Dickie Holgate?’
‘I’d have no paper record of anything like that,’ Lummis said.
‘No – of course you wouldn’t,’ Mosley said, not without a touch of malice. ‘Those things would have changed hands before the District Valuer put his nose in, wouldn’t they?’
Lummis looked uneasy.
Don’t worry. We live and let live – sometimes,’ Mosley said.
He next reappeared in the Market Place carrying the objects, roughly parcelled, under his arm. Miley Morrison had transferred himself to his throne on the cattle trough, where he was in solemn consultation with a small man in a cloth cap whose features had the foxiness of a happy mental defective. Miley missed nothing of Mosley’s movements. He watched the inspector go over to speak to Harry Bamber, who was about to get aboard his milk-float. They were too far away for Miley to hear what was being said.
‘Can you remember, Harry, what sort of an order you used to deliver to Henry Burgess?’
‘Pint a day ever since I’ve been on the job. All except when Mrs Toplady was doing for him. Then it was a pint and a half, bar Sundays. And six eggs every Monday morning.’
‘Never any more than that?’
‘Funny you should mention that, Mr Mosley.’
‘You don’t seem to be laughing?’
‘You know what I mean, Mr Mosley. Twice – no, three times – he put out more empties than usual – oh, say half a dozen. And I thought to myself, the old bugger must have thrown a party. Only they weren’t my bottles. Foreigners. Gledholt Dairies, over in Yorkshire. Ripon. That’s it – Ripon.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, now you’ve got me. Fair while ago now.’
‘Before or after Mrs Toplady’s day?’
‘During her time. I expect she was the one who put them out – having a clear-out. They could have been in the house a long time. But it struck me as odd – all that milk from as far off as Ripon.’
‘I expect there’s a perfectly feasible explanation.’
‘I expect there is, Mr Mosley.’
Mosley next loitered in the vicinity of the municipal refuse collectors, waiting to pounce on a round-shouldered little Pakistani who was carrying rubbish out of a chemist’s shop in an old zinc bath.
‘Nah, Neddy.’
‘Nah, Mr Mosley.’
The Asiatic spoke with true local vowels, but with his countrymen’s timbre of extreme politeness.
‘Dickinson Road, Neddy. Bowland Avenue. Were you ever on that round?’
‘Every Thursday, Mr Mosley.’
‘Ever pick up anything unusual in Bowland Avenue?’
‘Unusual, Mr Mosley?’
‘I was thinking of the old man who lived alone in the big house. Did he ever throw anything away that you wouldn’t expect an old man to have?’
The Pakistani laughed.
‘We found a pair of pink knickers once. And the week after that it was nylon tights. It was a funny word the foreman used. What was it, now? Transvestite, that’s it. He said old Henry must be turning into a transvestite.’
Mosley walked a few yards along the pavement and stood for some moments looking intently but remotely over at Veronique’s Boutique. Veronique’s Boutique had a ribald reputation in Bagshawe Broome. It was remarkable how overstaffed the shop seemed to be with bedworthy young saleswomen, and how many men went in whom one would be surprised to know to have legitimate purchases to make there. Then he turned away as if he had either learned nothing or made no decision, moved off with unhurried dignity towards the police station, still carrying the tankard, the plate and the ceremonial sword.
He rang a police station in one of the smaller towns and asked if Detective-Sergeant Beamish was on the premises. He was not. He was out on duty.
‘Ask him to phone me here at Bagshawe Broome as soon as he comes in. I’ll wait here till he does.’
As soon as Mosley had left the Market Place, Miles Morrison unseated himself from the trough and ambled like a High Noon duellist towards the dust-cart. When Miley moved anywhere except between the trough and his spot south-south-east of Bert Hardcastle’s kiosk, it was a signal of impending events. Men looked on with focused interest. Miley put a hand like a bear’s paw on the shoulder of the Pakistani.
‘What did he want?’
‘Who, Mr Morrison?’
‘Mosley.’
‘He was asking about Bowland Avenue.’
‘What’s up in Bowland Avenue?’
‘Nothing’s up there, Mr Morrison. He was asking if we ever found anything there.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘A pair of pink knickers, sir, and some nylon tights.’
‘Are you trying to take the piss out of me?’
Morrison moved his free hand suddenly. The Pakistani cowered.
‘No, Mr Morrison, sir. You know me, Mr Morrison.’
Miley went back to the mental defective on the trough.
Mosley sat writing copious notes in the police station. It was two hours before Beamish rang.
‘I have it on unimpeachable authority, Sergeant Beamish, that you have a vested interest in the Soulgate Manor job.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve –’
‘I’ve got a few of the bits and pieces here.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Mosley went over to Bert Hardcastle’s for a sandwich.
Chapter Six
It would be the ruin of Beamish, Detective-Superintendent Grimshaw had said.
It was a matter of indifference to Mosley and Beamish whether they were going to prove the making or unmaking of each other. After several spells of case-work together, they had become friends, each learning to anticipate the other’s mind – and each deriving an occasional flush of pleasure at the success of his as opposed to the other’s system.
Mosley showed Beamish his collection of fenced objets d’art, and Beamish saw at once that it was no mere matter of retrieval that was satisfying the inspector.
‘This is the first connection we’ve picked up between the two cases,’ he said.
‘Let’s not leap before we’ve looked. It could possibly be two sets of villains getting rid of their stuff through the same receiver. Yet I can’t help thinking –’
‘It’s the same sort of loot. What about the modus operandi?’
‘It wasn’t so much a modus operandi as sheer opportunism: move in and take what’s there.’
‘I know next to nothing about the Lytham St Anne’s break-in. Lytham’s not our territory.’
‘They sent us carbon copies, just in case. It
was one of those well-to-do houses on the front. Near the windmill. Do you know Lytham? Owners away for the winter. In the Canaries. The evidence isn’t clear about how many people took part. It was either four who spent a fortnight in the house, or two for a month. Or pro rata.’
‘They lived in the place?’
‘Squatted. Very skilfully – yet of course without respect for the house or anything in it. None of the neighbours had an inkling that there was anyone on the premises – yet they left behind a minor mountain of filth: convenience food packets, stinking food cans, empty wine-bottles – lying about under beds, stuffed in wardrobes. Aerosolled graffiti on brocaded wall-paper and moulded ceilings. Of course, it may not have been too difficult lying doggo. Those houses have well-enclosed gardens.’
‘Like Dickinson Road and Bowland Avenue?’
‘Precisely.’
‘So you think there’s been someone living in Bowland Avenue since Henry Burgess’s death?’
‘On the contrary. I think they struck camp when the old man died. But God knows how long he’d had house-guests.’
Beamish whistled between his teeth. There was still a sparkle of boyishness about him. When he was impressed, he was apt to react openly.
‘They didn’t squat in Soulgate Manor. They were in and out within an hour. We know that from local statements. They did the job while the owners were dining out – and they got in by battering-ram tactics – no subtlety at all.’
‘How many of them?’
‘No reliable evidence. I wouldn’t have said more than two, actually inside the house. You could perhaps add a driver and a look-out.’
‘And only small things taken?’
‘Strictly portables only.’
‘And the loot eventually trickles into Garth, Bowland Avenue, Bagshawe Broome. Some of it’s exposed for sale on Bagshawe Market. I have a gut feeling. Let’s go and look over what’s left in Garth. You might recognize something you’ve heard described.’
They walked along Dickinson Road, poorly lit and deserted at nine-o’clock in the evening, not even a retired citizen walking his dog. The inhabitants of the big houses – many of which had now been adapted as blocks of flats – were all securely armchaired in front of Dallas or Hurricane Higgins – except, that is, for one man.
It was the movement of this man’s foot against fallen leaves that gave him away. He had been doing his best to merge into the foliage in a deep-set gateway, but immediately he knew that he had been seen, he optimistically changed his tactics and stepped out into full view as Mosley and Beamish were almost upon him.
‘Good evening, Mr Mosley. Evening, Mr Er –’
It was Miles Morrison – hundreds of significant yards removed from his normal orbit of activity.
‘A trifle off-course, aren’t we, Miley?’ Mosley asked him aggressively. But Miley opted for the soft, bright answer.
‘I do quite a bit of walking on fine evenings these days, Mr Mosley. There’s no need for anything as violent as jogging. I always say that a brisk walk –’
‘You weren’t walking just now, Miley. You were skulking.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr Mosley. Skulking’s not a nice word. I stop every twenty minutes to do deep breathing exercises. I was reading in one of my wife’s magazines –’
‘Keep it up, Miley. You’ll need to be in the best of health when I finally catch up with you.’
They walked smartly on. Behind them they heard Morrison set out back towards the town centre in the direction from which they had come, hoping no doubt to convince them that he had not been about to show an interest in Bowland Avenue.
‘We won’t go straight there,’ Mosley said. ‘I’d like to go in by the back way for more than one reason.’
So he took Beamish by a public footpath between houses to Westwood Park, where he had confounded two old-age pensioners by disappearing through the privet two days ago. But he did not pay any attention at first to the back end of Henry Burgess’s garden. Instead, he led them towards a side-road that petered out drearily along the western boundary of the park. It was a dismal end of nowhere because, like Bowland Avenue, the road-making had never been finished. But there was a difference. Bowland Avenue had never been made-up because old Bowland had never intended that it should be. But this other road – Westlands Way – was a projected extension of an estate that had been abandoned in mid-construction, sub-contractors unpaid, in the recession of the 1970s. The last house to be finished was seventy-five yards away, and the road from there to here had been left half concreted. Some of its kerbstones had been laid – or partially laid. The footings of some of the houses, and markers for their gardens, had long been overgrown. Concrete had cracked and crumbled in hard winters. Trenches dug for drains had been left unfilled-in, leaving weather and weeds to do the job unevenly.
‘We’ve work to do here by daylight,’ Mosley said. ‘Or at least you have. Asking around at those houses up there. I’ve been wondering how they managed their transport problem. They must have had wheels of some sort or other and they must have had somewhere inconspicuous to park. I’ve already found how they got into old Henry’s garden. I disappeared through that rabbit-hole on Saturday afternoon, quickly enough to risk giving two old ’uns a heart-attack apiece.’
He had not gone through a gap in the privet. There was a trenched groove, scooped out under the hedge between two of its more widely-spaced roots. It could afford very rapid entry for an athletic man – and even the less than agile Mosley made short work of it.
The garden was damp, with clammy spiders’ webs that fell across their faces. A feral cat fled over an avalanche of loose rubbish into deep shadow. Beamish touched Mosley’s sleeve.
‘There’s someone in the house.’
There was the faint movement of a source of light in one of the upstairs rooms. While they were watching, the torch disappeared from the bedroom, and evidently the door was closed behind it.
‘It might be Dickie Holgate,’ Mosley said. ‘He’s got a fair amount of property to collect from here and he’s not likely to do that during valuable trading hours.’
But after five minutes in which there was no further manifestation, he changed his mind.
‘If it was young Holgate, he’d have shown himself again by now. He wouldn’t be taking pains to conceal himself. I’ll stay here. You go round to the front. If you do see anyone, play it by ear. If all’s quiet, come back here in an hour.’
Left alone, Mosley sat down on a pile of rubble, patient and motionless. An owl hooted in one of the trees in the Park. The cat, taking courage, stalked back to its original ambush. A shoot of overgrown rambler tapped arhythmically against a window pane. There was no further sign of movement in the house. Mosley’s breathing was slow, deep and regular. Then somewhere in the night a woman screamed. It was in front of the house, but it was not loud and it was not prolonged. Mosley did not stir. He was happy to leave this to Beamish.
The sergeant was back very shortly after that, characteristically elated and carrying something in a white plastic bag that reflected what light there was in the night.
‘I’m afraid I’ve given an old lady rather a scare. I was standing back in the shadows, and she came out of the front door of Garth – quite openly – and out of the garden gate as if she had every right to be using it.’
‘There’s no other way in which she could come out. What sort of old lady?’
‘Well, when I say old, she could have been anything from her mid-fifties to mid-sixties. Rather a pompous and self-conscious little soul, I’d say.’
‘Stately as a galleon?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t you know that song? Round glasses, shelving bosom, moves like royalty on walkabout?’
‘You’ve got her.’
‘Primrose Toplady.’
‘I’m afraid she thought she was about to be mugged. And for good measure I sort of flapped my raincoat at her. She started to scream – I’ve no doubt you heard her – so I
clapped my hand over her mouth – not roughly. The moment I released her, she shot along Dickinson Road. She dropped this.’
He held out the plastic.
‘So I suppose we shall have a patrol out here in no time.’ he said apologetically.
‘I doubt it. Mrs Toplady won’t be drawing attention to whatever she’s been up to. I’m glad you didn’t give chase. It would have been premature to have caught her.’
‘Well, she seemed so obviously local, I felt sure we’d have no difficulty tracing her. And it would surely be better to do that in daylight – after passions have cooled.’
‘What was it she dropped?’
‘I looked at them under a street lamp. It’s a pair of china dogs, one of them smashed beyond repair. I wouldn’t think they have much value. They’re not even nice china dogs. They don’t even look doggy. Whoever designed them just didn’t appreciate a dog.’
‘You shall have the supreme pleasure of returning them to her in the morning,’ Mosley said, ‘and asking her any embarrassing questions that come into your head. I think you’ll quite enjoy a session with Primrose Toplady. Let’s attend to Garth now, shall we?’
Mosley had a small but quite useful collection of picklocks in his pocket, but the back door was bolted on the inside. The window catches were amateurishly but firmly wired up.
‘I got in by the front door on Saturday. The latch was no trouble. But it’s a pity to keep advertising our presence. I dare say Miley is still keeping look-out.’
‘Uh huh!’ Beamish said suddenly.
Someone else had entered the house – this time without precautions. Mosley thumped at the kitchen window, rattling it violently in its frame.
‘Let us in, Dickie!’
Dickie Holgate drew the bolts and stood grinning at them.
‘What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?’
But Mosley seemed disinclined to fraternize with him.
‘Never mind about that. You just get on with whatever work you’ve come here to do.’
What Me, Mr Mosley? Page 4