But where was she? Had they got her in the café, perhaps hidden away in one of Steve’s back rooms? If that was the case, then sooner rather than later they were bound to bring her out.
Then another car drove up. Grimshaw wiped vapour from the window and peered out. There was no mistaking the identity of the two men who got out of it: Mosley and Beamish.
Beamish locked the car doors and tested their handles. Then unhurriedly, and with no effort at concealment, they walked in where for the moment even Grimshaw feared to tread.
Chapter Eighteen
When Mosley and Beamish went into Steve’s there were eight motor-cyclists sprawled round a table covered with bright red grease-spattered plastic. Kevin Toplady was sitting apart from anyone else, looking morose and friendless. He had a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich that had cost him every last penny he possessed.
Bootsie and Len Saunders were alone at one of the other tables. A plate of egg and chips had just been put in front of Saunders. Bootsie was not eating. The atmosphere was a permanent blend of cigarette smoke and deep-frying.
There was a stir among the main body of riders when the detectives came in. They were an out-of-town bunch who did not know Mosley by name or reputation, but who recognized the pair as policemen. They struck up loud conversations intended to convey trite, absurd insults – remarks about curious smells and beating up demonstrators. When Mosley and Beamish tried to walk the length of the room to reach Bootsie, outstretched legs obstructed their progress, and there was no spontaneous effort to move them. Kevin was looking white-faced and frightened. Saunders looked superciliously amused when he saw that he and Bootsie were the immediate target. Behind his counter Steve himself, a sick-looking, fleshless, middle-aged man, was obviously ready with a torrent of disclaimers.
Mosley and Beamish pushed their way past the riding-boots and clutter. Chairs were scraped along the floor so that it would be even more difficult for them to come away.
‘Can I get you anything, Inspector?’
Steve brought out Mosley’s rank in case anyone was in doubt.
‘No, thank you. We shan’t be here long.’
He looked at Bootsie.
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Saunders said.
‘Then keep out of it,’ Mosley told him, in a tone that not many people had ever heard him use. ‘Unless you badly want to get in on this. Where is she?’ he repeated to Bootsie.
‘Where’s who?’ Bootsie asked.
For a moment Mosley looked at her with pity for her meagre intelligence.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know how long you think you can make that line spin out.’
‘Don’t tell him anything,’ Saunders advised her.
Mosley twisted his torso to look squarely at him.
‘I’m still not sure at the moment how deep you are in this, but if you want to dig a little hole for yourself you’re welcome. It isn’t twopenny hapenny charges that are going to come out of this, my lad. And if any harm’s come to that child, I don’t have to tell you what sort of sentences are going to be handed out.’
‘I’ve had nothing to do with any of this.’
‘Frankly, you’ve been puzzling me,’ Mosley said. ‘Frankly, I haven’t been able to fit you in. Till now. Something’s just occurred to me. I think I’ve got the measure of you now.’
Two men came up to the counter and lurched deliberately against Mosley’s table as they passed.
‘Miss Bateman wouldn’t have dared to come into Bagshawe Broome,’ Mosley said. ‘So somebody must have delivered the vital message. There’s a question of a note pegged to a clothes-line. Let’s put that down to you, shall we, Saunders? That should see you home.’
The two who had come to have their tea mugs refilled were now breathing over Mosley’s shoulders. He got up and thumped the table with a spoon.
‘Out there there’s the biggest concentration of my friends these hills have ever seen. I’m going to send Sergeant Beamish to get a team together, and we’ll have them do spot-checks on any of your bikes that are still on these premises ten minutes from now: brakes, tyres, insurance –’
No one moved – but the volume of their voices diminished noticeably.
‘Sergeant Beamish –’
There was a not very hearty ironic cheer as Beamish picked his way through the impedimenta. Mosley sat down again and turned to Bootsie.
‘Where is she? Would you like me to closet you with her father for a few minutes?’
Bootsie looked at him as if she were assessing many issues at once. She must surely know that the irresponsibilities of the last two years ended here: there was a strong-willed, prosaic air of finality about Mosley.
‘Don’t you feel relieved that this is all over?’ he asked her.
She closed her eyes for several seconds, then spoke wearily.
‘I don’t know where she is – but no harm will have come to her.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘She can look after herself, can that one.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not a safe assumption. At least, it’s one that I daren’t make. When did you last see her?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘At Waterbrigg Hall?’
‘That’s right.’
‘She slipped your guard? In that case, why hasn’t she arrived home?’
‘She’ll be in no hurry to get home – any more than the rest of us are.’
‘Don’t talk in spirals. What are you trying to say?’
‘Janet Morrison slipped off because she’d decided to go it alone.’
‘Go what alone?’
‘Get the ransom money.’
Three or four of the motor-cyclists got up in leisurely fashion and started picking up their gear, making it clear that they had not sunk to instant co-operation. Within three minutes, every one of them had left. Kevin Toplady also got up and started sidling with the pack towards the door. But Beamish was returning through it and pushed him back with the flat of his hand against his chest.
‘Bring him over here,’ Mosley said.
Kevin came and sat at the table, keeping his distance from Bootsie – and his eyes off her.
‘I’m arresting you three,’ Mosley said. ‘We’ll go into the details in the charge-room. For two of you thefts from Soulbury Manor will be on the bill of fare, also Lytham St Anne’s, Henry Burgess’s Garth – and a share of Janet Morrison for all three of you.’
‘I want my solicitor,’ Kevin said.
‘Have you ever met one?’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘Your privilege. I should have cautioned you, shouldn’t I?’
He did so now, patiently and clearly.
‘I’ve had nothing to do with –’
‘I know. You’ve had nothing to do with Janet Morrison since you so gallantly ran for it from the Cottage Hospital. I suppose you think that stands to your credit. And Saunders – you can’t escape that note on the clothes-line.’
‘I’d no idea what was in it.’
‘Write that down, Sergeant Beamish. We’ll count it as a confession.’
Mosley breathed in and out deeply, but it was not a sigh.
‘What do you think we shall get?’ Bootsie asked him.
‘I wouldn’t like to try to guess. It will partly depend on the judge’s ulcers. There are some things the courts don’t like at all: kidnapping children is one of them. Criminal damage in other people’s houses is another. It will also depend on what hope they see for you. You could get a suspended sentence – or you could go down for a stiffish spell. But I’ll tell you one thing: sooner or later you’ll find yourself in the machine – social workers, probation officers, trick-cyclists, aftercare. Make the most of them. They vary – but they have been known to help. I can quite imagine you’ll shine in group therapy sessions. You might even end up a social worker yourself. I’ve known funnie
r things happen.’
Grimshaw fumed. This time it was going to be a disciplinary panel for Mosley – and if a once-promising sergeant like Beamish had no more sense than to get himself embroiled to this extent, that had to be his own look-out. Grimshaw could not remember that a detective-inspector had been disciplined while he had been in the Force, but there was going to be no backing away from it this time. He made a note to set this in train tomorrow morning. It went on his clipboard, so it was as good as done.
He was aghast at Mosley’s nerve – at the man’s thickness. By rushing in as he had, he had wrecked the evening’s operation. Should he himself go into the café now and do his best to sweep up whatever had been shattered? He was irresolute: it needed thinking out carefully.
Then Beamish came out with firm steps, holding his back straight. He walked out of sight behind the far flank of the squalid hutment. What on earth could he want to be doing there? Grimshaw came out of his car intending to follow Beamish and confront him. But Beamish was not away for long. He came back and opened the café door again. As he did so, a crowd of motor-cyclists swarmed out, and Grimshaw saw that Kevin Toplady was also trying to shove his way through. Beamish pushed him back in again with the palm of his hand. And that was another thing. That amounted to technical assault – in front of all those young hoodlums! It was the sort of incident the Force was never allowed to hear the last of.
There was an intolerable racket as eight motor-cycles started up. They rode away with their engines revving full blast. Any hope Grimshaw might have had of listening at the door or windows of the café was stillborn. He had to go in, to retrieve anything that could be retrieved of his strategy.
At a table in the far depths of the café, Mosley appeared to be holding out at length for the Bateman girl’s benefit. Grimshaw stood and listened. What the blazes did Mosley think he was now – an Old Testament prophet?
Mosley finished his homily, got up and came towards Grimshaw, smiling in a manner that was meant to be either disarming or insolent.
‘These three are under arrest.’
‘You’ve arrested them?’
Grimshaw wondered if there was any way – deep breathing, or something like that – by which he could keep his blood pressure under reasonable control. He was beginning to feel the pulse behind his retinas.
‘You told me, with Sergeant Beamish, to clear up once and for all these thefts from unoccupied premises.’
‘Thefts! Pettifogging thefts! Candlesticks! A tarnished old sword! China dogs –!’
‘No, sir, I think you’re forgetting. The china dogs were –’
Grimshaw could see silver flashes.
‘Never mind about the bloody china dogs, Mosley. Where’s the child?’
‘They don’t know, sir.’
‘Have you made a thorough search of this place?’
‘No, sir. Waste of time. She’s not here.’
‘How can you say that if you haven’t looked?’
They had to look now. Beamish had to be left on guard while Grimshaw and Mosley went over the kitchen, the storerooms and the dingy private quarters. Steve made no difficulty: he was only too anxious to show himself in the clear.
Then they had to do the garage and outhouses: dirty, stinking and cluttered with junk.
‘We’ll have to call up a squad to turn every stick of this over, Mosley.’
‘You won’t find her,’ Mosley said.
‘If you’re so damned sure of that, where is she?’
‘That I don’t know for certain. Have you the OS sheet in your car, sir?’
‘Of course. Why? Do you think her whereabouts are likely to be marked on the map?’
‘I just want to check on something.’
Mosley studied the sheet under a pencil-torch, made dividers of a finger and thumb to measure distances.
‘Yes. That’ll be it. That’s where she’ll be. Upper Akehurst.’
Upper Akehurst was a joke village, remote even by the standards of this place.
‘Why Upper Akehurst?’
‘I’m just trying to put myself into the child’s mind, sir.’
‘Do you think you might try a little direct communication with my mind, Mosley?’
‘Sarah Wainwright lives in Upper Akehurst.’
‘Sarah Wainwright?’
‘Janet Morrison’s bosom friend. The one she was sitting doing quadratic equations with on Bradburn bus-station when she was picked up by Miss Bateman.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve just been checking on distances. We are seven miles from Bagshawe Broome and Janet has already had an active evening. She has walked from Waterbrigg Hall to Penscar Wood. That’s three miles, so she wouldn’t really care to walk back to Bagshawe. She wouldn’t want to go there anyway. Upper Akehurst is four miles from Penscar: that, I think, would be within her capacity.’
‘There are police cars on the move all over the place, Mosley. All she’d have to do would be to raise a hand.’
‘With respect,’ Moseley said. ‘She’ll have been giving any of us a very wide berth.’
‘Why should she?’
‘Because of what she’ll be carrying. She’ll go to her friend’s. She could be there already. Perhaps there’s a report in at HQ.’
Grimshaw broke his wireless ban at last, but neither Upper Akehurst nor the Wainwrights had been heard of at his rear HQ. He therefore sent Beamish back to HQ with two aides to help him with Bootsie, Kevin and Saunders. Grimshaw had decided that now Mosley had nicked them, they might as well stay nicked.
He and Mosley drove, slowly, peering into every shadow, up to Upper Akehurst. The night was frosty, not a shred of cloud to obscure the stars. Here and there a patrol car was parked in a gateway. Grimshaw stopped to tick off an officer whose glowing cigarette he had spotted from seventy-five yards.
They came to Upper Akehurst, a hamlet strung up a winding hill. The Wainwrights’ house was in darkness. If ever door, windows and chimneys symbolized honest sleep within, this was the classical case.
‘Well, Mosley?’
‘Clearly she hasn’t arrived yet. I suggest we knock the Wainwrights up, then they’ll be ready. They’re bound to brew us a pot of tea – they’ll need one themselves.’
‘Mosley – we can’t possibly –’
But Mosley was already working on the door knocker, with a vigour likely to conscript the whole of Akehurst to the reception committee. Molly Wainwright turned out to be a jolly but worried woman. Ted Wainwright was a perpetually worried man. And no – they had had no word from Janet. They were surprised that Mr Grimshaw would think they might have done. It was true the girls were school-friends, and Janet had been here once or twice. But –
Mosley looked at his watch.
‘Perhaps we’ve miscalculated. Let’s give it another half-hour.’
‘If she were on the road, we’d have passed her on the way,’ Grimshaw said.
‘At the sight of any car on the road, she’d have been over a wall.’
It was two in the morning when Janet Morrison tapped the Wainwright’s knocker as discreetly as the Wainwrights’ knocker could be tapped. She looked physically tired, sat down with the dramatic gratitude for a chair. She also looked remarkably clean; she seemed to have a capacity for looking clean in the most discouraging circumstances. And mentally she was untarnished.
‘My goodness – I must have walked twelve miles tonight!’
Mosley was the only one who was not effusive at the sight of her.
‘Don’t exaggerate, Janet,’ he said. ‘It’s not been a step more than seven.’
‘It’s still been a long way,’ she said.
She had reverted now to the brand of genteel speech she reserved for impressing her teachers.
‘I thought I’d better come here, and if you wouldn’t mind ringing people for me, Mrs Wainwright –’
Molly Wainwright lavished hugging affection on her, produced soup and the assurance of a bed. Her own daughter came down the sta
irs, rubbing her eyes, slow to understand what was happening.
‘Did I see you carrying a small bundle as you came through the gate?’ Mosley asked, when the child had been installed at the kitchen table. ‘Where is it, Janet? Hidden up your jumper? See what she’s got under her jumper, Mrs Wainwright.’
Grimshaw was a man of mixed potential and he knew from chastened experience the signs that Mosley was about to deliver the goods. Janet’s natural reaction was to back away, but Mrs Wainwright did not miss the significance of that. She gave Janet short shrift, and brought out a packet done up in brown paper.
‘You must be adept at dodging about woods and fields at night, Janet,’ Grimshaw said, trying to keep the conversation pleasant while Mosley was fumbling with the wrapper.
‘I’m a Girl Guide. We camp sometimes in Penscar Wood, and play wide games round here.’
‘I’m afraid you’re not going to find that parcel’s worth much,’ Grimshaw said. ‘It’s only a mock-up.’
But it was found to be a bundle of a hundred used five-pound notes. Janet explained with sweetness and simplicity.
‘You see, I knew that my mother wouldn’t let me down, whatever my father did or didn’t do. I suppose I was taking a chance. But I got there first and got the money back.’
‘You really are a most remarkable girl for your age,’ Grimshaw told her.
Mosley said nothing.
‘In all the circumstances,’ Grimshaw seemed to be finding it difficult to look Mosley in the eye this morning – ‘And bearing in mind what we achieved last night, we’ll say All’s Well that Ends Well. But this is the last time, Mr Mosley.’
What Me, Mr Mosley? Page 15