Bury in Haste

by Jean Rowden

  ‘Whatever it is will have to wait,’ Jakes said, ‘I’m off duty in …’ he consulted his watch, ‘… exactly forty-four minutes.’

  ‘Forty-four minutes will do, Sergeant,’ Deepbriar replied, pushing the door to behind him, ‘seeing as you plainclothes types can get the use of a car any time you want. I need help with a spot of evidence, and Sergeant Hubbard told me to pass it on to you, said he’d clear it with Inspector Stubbs. Might already be too late, seeing that I couldn’t get anyone to turn out on Saturday, but it hasn’t rained, and I covered it up, so it might still be fit to use.’

  ‘Exactly what are we talking about here?’ Detective Sergeant Jakes dragged a pad of paper towards him.

  ‘Boot print. Belongs to somebody who’s been committing acts of criminal damage, robbery and arson at Quinn’s Farm. A photograph would be good, but a cast would be even better.’ Deepbriar handed over a map. ‘I’ve marked the exact spot, and written directions on the back.’

  Jakes sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get it done. Is that it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m a bit worried about an old tramp, goes by the name of Bronc. He was in the Speckled Goose last Saturday week, and I think I know where he spent the next couple of nights, but after that he seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘That’s what tramps do,’ Jakes said. ‘They move on.’

  ‘Yes, but not without their belongings; people who don’t have much tend to hang on to what they’ve got,’ Deepbriar said. ‘And this man’s a creature of habit, he has a routine, visiting the same places according to the time of year.’ He had spoken to a few more people in and around Minecliff over the weekend, but had found nobody who’d seen Bronc later than Monday the previous week. ‘I just thought I’d mention it, maybe you’d ask around here, some of the older coppers will know him. He’s used to living rough, but I don’t like to think of him lying outside somewhere if he’s been taken ill. Weather’s getting a bit nippy.’

  ‘Yes, all right. I take it you didn’t mention this to Sergeant Hubbard? He won’t like it.’

  ‘Smacks too much of missing persons,’ Deepbriar agreed. ‘Lord knows what he’ll say if I try to organise a search party.’

  ‘Just make sure you do it when I’m off duty,’ Jakes said. ‘Talking of missing persons, Inspector Stubbs asked me to pass this on to you.’ He produced a letter on heavy duty paper, with an impressive printed heading. ‘It’s from Morton and Childs,’ he added unnecessarily, handing it to Deepbriar.

  Stripped of legal jargon, the letter was a request for assistance in tracing the whereabouts of Anthony James Pattridge, once of Oldgate Farm, sole benefactor under the will of his father, Colin, recently deceased.

  ‘But he’s not been seen in Minecliff for a year,’ Deepbriar protested, ‘how am I supposed to find him?’

  ‘Local knowledge,’ Jakes replied, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Though to be honest I think this business is being passed around like a hot potato, I know for a fact that Inspector Martindale had this letter on his desk yesterday. I shouldn’t worry, just ask the regulars in the Speckled Goose. You could put a couple of pints down as legitimate expenses.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Deepbriar grunted, ‘the solicitors can’t have tried very hard, they’ve not even had time to put a notice in the newspapers yet. As if I haven’t got enough to do.’

  ‘It’s not exactly urgent, just something to do in a quiet moment, eh? The request’s probably got something to do with the Superintendent having been to school with old Archibald Childs. If he asks I’ll tell him I left it in your capable hands.’ Jakes grinned. ‘Nothing else the CID can do for you?’

  ‘Not unless you want to play Prince Charming once you’ve taken a cast of that print, and find our Cinderella.’

  ‘I’d say that requires local knowledge too, wouldn’t you, Constable?’ The younger man pushed himself to his feet. ‘Actually this suits me nicely, chance to get away before somebody gives me something else to do.’

  Deepbriar followed him out into the corridor, to find that most of the crowd had gone. Sergeant Parsons beckoned from the door. ‘Come on Thorny, you don’t want to miss this. You village bobbies don’t get much fun. Time to see a bit of action.’

  ‘lt’s not all straying sheep and supervising the hoopla at the vicarage fête, you know,’ Deepbriar said solemnly. ‘Remind me to tell you how I nearly met a Martian.’

  By eight o’clock Constable Deepbriar had already had enough of his new assignment. He was crouching uncomfortably in the police van, squashed between Sergeant Parsons and a youngster he didn’t know, a fairly new man who was recovering from flu. Deepbriar found himself thinking longingly of nights spent patrolling the lanes around Minecliff; the young constable had a perpetual sniff, which was beginning to get on Deepbriar’s nerves.

  The van swerved round a corner and Deepbriar was bounced off Parsons’ ample frame for the tenth time in as many minutes. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Cosy in here,’ Parsons said. ‘Shame they don’t use WPCs for this kind of job.’

  Deepbriar nodded gloomily, reflecting that with his luck, even if they did, he’d be posted alongside a woman like Bella Emerson.

  ‘They reckon this’ll be settled by the end of the week,’ the sergeant said hopefully. ‘They’re a rough lot though, some of these drivers.’

  ‘Drivers?’ Deepbriar asked. He had a vague idea Martindale had told him who the strikers were, but he hadn’t been paying much attention, being more concerned about the prospect of getting home to his bed. ‘What’s the company do then?’

  ‘They run a fleet of lorries, nearly fifty of them. Everything from local deliveries to bloody great trucks going all the way to Scotland.’

  Deepbriar recalled that Peter Brook had mentioned outbreaks of violence between drivers of different transport companies when they’d been mulling over Joe Spraggs’s disappearance; perhaps old man Wriggle had upset one of the big carriers by trying to muscle in on somebody else’s business, though with only one run-down old lorry it didn’t seem likely.

  Making conversation was a distraction from the continuous sniff on his other side. ‘I’d have thought with such a lot of competition the drivers would have kept their heads down rather than scrapping with their bosses.’ Deepbriar said.

  Parsons shrugged. ‘Trouble is, so many men came out of the army able to drive, and a lot of them thought that setting up with a couple of lorries was an easy way to make a living. They’re undercutting some of the bigger firms, and when the big boys feel the pinch they try to save a bit of money on their wages bill. This lot were threatened with dismissal if they didn’t take a drop in pay. They decided to fight, but there’s plenty who’ll do the same job for less, that’s why they set up the picket line.’

  The van finally lurched to a stop and Parsons opened the door. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get to it, here’s a chance to show these Belston cissies what the Falbrough lads can do.’

  Deepbriar groaned and Parsons laughed, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Never mind Thorny, at least there’s no chance of meeting any little green men out there.’

  For the first quarter of an hour the picket was peaceful, but the numbers around the gate of the transport yard were growing all the time, stretching the line of policemen ever thinner. Obviously the drivers had found some support, probably from men feeling the pinch as Belston’s heavy industry struggled in the tide of closures following the end of the War.

  ‘This is getting a bit warm,’ Parsons said, as the human barrier wavered under the pressure. ‘Still, I was glad to be getting out of the office this morning.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Deepbriar asked, thrusting out a knee to deter a spotty youth who was trying to crawl between them.

  ‘There’s this woman. Says something’s happened to her husband. She’s hardly left the station all weekend. You’ve only got to mention the name Spraggs and Hubbard’s face turns purple.’

  ‘Spraggs?’ Deepbriar half turned, but at that instant the pickets lunged forw
ard in a concerted attack, and the police line was in retreat, helpless against the sheer numbers of men heaving and shouting, intent on reaching the entrance to the depot. Two men who were trying to break the strike ran for their lives, taking refuge inside the firm’s offices and barricading the door.

  Deepbriar never saw what hit him. One minute he was stepping backwards as the line tried to hold the onrush, his left arm linked with Parsons’ right, then his helmet was knocked over his eyes and he was falling. A flash of light lit up the darkness, and he knew no more.

  He was watching Big Jim, the blacksmith, hammer a horse shoe to shape. Nothing unusual in that, the village smithy was a favourite place, and he wasn’t the only youngster who came to stand in the doorway, offering to work the bellows and thus enjoy the warmth of the forge when the weather was cold. But today there was something unpleasantly loud about the ring of metal on metal. It was hurting his head, each strike thudding against his ears like a blow. The fire was uncomfortably bright too, the red and orange glow shot through with painful white lightning. He wanted to leave, but when he tried to turn away his feet wouldn’t move. A small sound of frustration escaped his lips.

  ‘Thorny?’ The voice was familiar, and pleasant somehow, but it didn’t fit, it didn’t belong here. He tried to think why, and finally worked it out. Mary hadn’t lived in Minecliff as a child, so she’d never been in the smithy, not when Big Jim was alive. With one last reverberating crash of the hammer against red hot metal, the dream burst, and he was back in the present; the pounding became the throb of the pulse in his aching head. Deepbriar screwed his eyes tighter shut against the pain.

  ‘Mary,’ he whispered. A hand took hold of his, and he squeezed it, taking comfort from the familiar feeling of the roughened skin on her fingers. From somewhere beyond the persistent hammering he heard another sound; she was crying.

  ‘Don’t, love,’ he said, his voice sounding as if it was echoing from an unimaginable distance. ‘I’m fine,’ and with that he sank easily down into the blackness again.

  By the time he came round again he was, if not fine, at least a great deal better. He opened his eyes, and although the brightness was uncomfortable it didn’t hurt too much. In answer to his query a bustling nurse told him his wife would be in at visiting time that evening; relatives were only allowed in during the day under special circumstances, and once he’d regained consciousness that privilege had been withdrawn.

  A screen was trundled back, giving him a view of the rest of the ward. There was a contraption of levers over the next bed, holding up a leg encased in plaster. Turning his head he saw a familiar face grinning at him.

  ‘Sarge?’ Deepbriar drew his brows together, puzzled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, you were the first to go down.’ Parsons went on to describe the near riot that had followed Deepbriar’s collapse, the strikers carrying the police line halfway to the yard entrance before smashing through it. He dwelt with relish on the way his leg had been broken when he was swept up against a concrete gatepost. ‘Hurt like the blazes. It’s a wonder there’s only the two of us in here. I didn’t see the last of it myself, got carted out of the way by a couple of the lads,’ he finished cheerfully.

  ‘I remember being in the van on the way to Belston,’ Deepbriar said, ‘it’s a blank after that.’

  ‘Not surprising,’ Parsons said. ‘That was a nasty knock you got, you had us all worried for a while, wondering if you’d ever come out of it.’

  ‘How long have I been here then?’

  ‘Work it out for yourself.’ The sergeant pulled a wry face. ‘They’ll be cooking fish for our dinner tonight. Out cold you were, until about eight o’clock this morning.’

  ‘You mean it’s Friday?’ Deepbriar sank back, digesting the magnitude of having lost three whole days. ‘No wonder I’m starving,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll need to be to enjoy the food in here, it’s all bloody slops and gristle.’ Parsons cast a guilty glance towards the door. ‘Have to watch my language,’ he explained. ‘That sister, she said if I turned difficult she’d wash my mouth out with soap and water. Reckon she would too. A man feels so flipping helpless with his leg hoisted up in the air.’

  Parsons wasn’t exaggerating, the food wasn’t good. Although Deepbriar ate everything they gave him, he was still very hungry when visiting time came around.

  ‘Well, you’re certainly looking a lot better,’ Mary said, as she bent to kiss him. He was amazed to see that her eyes were damp with tears.

  ‘I’ve got the mother and father of all headaches,’ he grumbled, and she gave a quavering laugh.

  ‘Now I know you’re all right,’ she said, ‘if you’re well enough to start complaining.’

  ‘It was just a knock on the head, nothing for you to get upset about,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, with you lying there like the dead, when I’d sent you off in the morning without even giving you a spot of lunch. And I’d hardly spoken a word to you in a week! I felt so guilty, and all because of that business over Madame Butterfly. As if it mattered, a silly little show in the village hall!’ Suddenly the tears were flowing, though she made no sound, and turned her head away so nobody else would see. He reached out to take her hand.

  ‘It mattered to you,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, love, I shouldn’t have stayed for a drink with young Harry and missed hearing you sing. Even if Mrs Emerson’s voice does sound as musical as a stick pounding on my old mum’s tin bath.’

  She gave him a wan smile, drying her eyes. ‘We all know she’s not very good. It’s just that she puts so much into the production. Without her we’d have had no new sets or costumes at all.’

  ‘I’d rather listen to you singing at the kitchen sink wearing your old pinny, than sit in the Albert Hall listening to her, no matter how grand the costumes and the set were,’ Deepbriar said gallantly. ‘It’s time they let you take the lead part, your voice is better than the whole lot of them.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ She was blushing now, her tears forgotten. ‘You do talk a lot of nonsense.’

  Mary had arrived burdened with a large shopping bag, and, suddenly businesslike, she lifted it on to her lap. Deepbriar sat up hopefully as she delved into it.

  ‘Clean pyjamas,’ she said, taking them out, ‘and I brought these two books that you left on the sideboard. At least you’ll get time to read them now. Then there’s this bottle of tonic that the doctor gave you when you had that cough last month, I’ll leave it with the sister; I thought it might help to build your strength up. And there’s a letter from Auntie May, telling us all about her new grandson. Look, she’s sent a photograph.’

  Deepbriar’s stomach rumbled.

  There was only ten minutes of visiting time left when Harry Bartle appeared at the door, peering hopefully down the ward. Mary Deepbriar rose hastily to her feet. ‘You’ve somebody else to see you,’ she said. ‘Anything you’d like me to bring in tomorrow?’

  ‘A bit of your apple pie would be nice,’ Deepbriar replied longingly. ‘Or some fruit cake.’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s allowed,’ she said, bending to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll have to ask the nurse.’ She hurried away, offering Harry a perfunctory greeting as she passed him.

  ‘Evening, Mr Deepbriar,’ Harry said, ‘I hope Mrs Deepbriar’s not too put out about me coming, but I wanted to bring you this.’ He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small parcel, which turned out to be another book. ‘The Alphabet Murder. I found it in that second-hand shop in Wood Street,’ he explained, ‘I thought you’d be bored, lying here with nothing to do.’

  The constable forbore to explain about the headache which was still thudding away behind his eyes. ‘Thanks, Harry. Everything all right in the village is it? Has Bronc turned up yet?’

  ‘Not a sign of him. He’s really keeping his head down. We’ve asked everyone we can think of. I did find out a thing though. Bronc was in our porch again that Monda
y, at lunch-time. And evidently somebody was in there talking to him for a while, and whoever it was didn’t come into the bar, which could be suspicious, couldn’t it? A couple of people saw the man walking away down the road, and they said he was a stranger.’

  Deepbriar pulled a face. ‘I don’t know Harry, I don’t suppose there’s anything in it. Maybe he offered Bronc a bit of work.’

  ‘Could be.’ Harry looked at Deepbriar anxiously. ‘But I did think it was a bit odd, so I took my bike over to Possington and Cawster on Tuesday, and spoke to a few people over there, asking if Bronc had been around, and I tried describing the stranger too. I hope you don’t mind, I never said it was anything to do with the police, just that I was looking for Bronc and this other chap. Nobody had seen them, anyway.’

  ‘No harm done,’ Deepbriar assured him. ‘Anything else happened out at Quinn’s?’

  ‘No. Old Bob came in last night, he said they’ve had one of those new police cars calling in, he was moaning about it, says they wake him up, driving in and out of the yard at all hours of the night and setting the dogs off, but at least there’s been no more trouble.’

  ‘They’ve not caught anyone though.’

  ‘They never get out of the car,’ Harry was scornful, ‘townies. Couldn’t catch a cold.’

  The bell went then, ringing with a prolonged jangling discord that did nothing to improve the pain in the constable’s head. With the visitors gone the patients were supposed to settle down for the night, although it wasn’t much past eight o’clock. Deepbriar opened the book Harry had left, but he couldn’t read; the letters swam in front of his eyes and refused to make any sense.