‘Inherited wealth, Sergeant – the scourge of Britain. Do you know that under one percent of the population own seventy percent of the land in Britain? And it’s the same families that owned it in the nineteenth century. I bet this Leyton family have been here for generations; one of their ancestors probably fought on the winning side in some historic battle and was rewarded with the house and land.’
Gheeta had never really been able to label Palmer as Left Wing or Far Right. His political observations had varied from ‘blow up the House of Lords and all the hereditary bastards inside with it’ to ‘stop all the benefit payments and then the lazy gits would have to find a job.’ Palmer didn’t sit on the fence on any subject and said what he thought, which is why Mrs P. always took him aside before one of her WI or Gardening Club social evenings at the Palmers’ and gave him strict orders on what not to talk about – and it was always politics, the unions and the judiciary; absolute no go areas. Or better still, say nothing about anything and just smile nicely and pour the drinks.
The panda car turned off the road and up a two hundred-yard pebble drive to The Manor House, pulling up outside a large stone porch that jutted out from the three-storey seventeenth century building. Large ground floor windows reflected the midday sun and the whole place was surrounded by beds of rhododendrons in full flower; wisteria coated the front walls, hiding the parlous state of the mortar and crumbling stone beneath.
The driver stepped out and opened Gheeta’s door.
‘I’ve been told to wait for you, Sergeant. No rush, I’ll be here.’
Gheeta looked at Palmer over the car’s roof. He had heard the driver.
‘That’s fine, hopefully we won’t be too long. Have a quiet nose around the outside if you would.’
He gave the driver a knowing nod. Meanwhile the large oak-panelled front door inside the stone porch had opened, and Mrs Stanley Leyton emerged to greet them.
Obviously wealthy, she was a woman of sixty years plus in ‘county’ clothes that suited her admirably, pleated thick wool two-piece and sensible shoes. Her light brown hair was shoulder length, feather cut and highlighted just to the right amount, and the outstretched hand of welcome had enough gold in its rings to start a jewellers shop.
‘How do you do? I’m Margaret Leyton, Stanley’s wife.’
She shook Palmer and Singh’s hands as Palmer introduced himself and his Sergeant.
‘I hope you had a pleasant journey. Do come in.’
She led them into a large open hall, the half-panelled walls hung with large painted portraits of what Palmer took to be the family ancestors. Most were draped in the traditional cloaks of ermine and velvet of the titled few; ermine sounded so much better than stoat, which was the animal that originally wore the skin. Gheeta noted the peeling ceiling and poor condition of the oak wall panels. Perhaps the family’s wealth wasn’t as robust as Mrs Leyton’s outfit suggested.
They were greeted in a large, dimly-lit lounge by Stanley Leyton MP, a rather portly gentleman, round-faced and follicularly challenged, which is what the PC brigade called bald men these days; his attempt to cover the bald head with an ill fitting and awful wig really didn’t work, and actually called attention to it. Tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers completed the ‘country’ look.
Introductions over, Palmer and Gheeta were offered a large old sofa that had seen better days, while the Leyton’s sat on a pair of equally distressed leather-button arm chairs. Gheeta noted that the carpet was nigh on threadbare in parts. In fact, the overall poor state of the place was bewildering her a little; after all, MPs got a very good salary and lots of expenses. But it didn’t look like this MP spent any of it on his ancestral pile.
Drinks were offered and refused. Gheeta took her laptop from her shoulder bag and opened it on her knee, ready to make notes.
‘Well,’ Stanley Leyton said with an inquisitive smile. ‘Your Sergeant was a bit evasive on the phone, Detective Superintendent; but I imagine this must be about something quite serious to bring you all the way down here. Either that or you’ve heard how good the local fish and chips are, eh?’
He laughed at his own little joke. Mrs Leyton’s expression showed she was not at all amused.
‘I am sure Mr Palmer has not come all the way here for the fish and chips, Stanley.’
She gave a condescending nod and smile to Palmer.
‘No ma’am, we haven’t.’ Why had he used the royal ‘ma’am’? She wasn’t aristocracy. Must be the surroundings. ‘We are investigating a double murder.’
That shook them. Both the Leytons were obviously not prepared for that bombshell. They looked quickly at each other, Stanley Leyton turning so fast towards his wife that his wig nearly slipped off and he had to adjust it. Mrs Leyton was the first to react.
‘I hope you are kidding us, Mr Palmer?’
‘I am afraid I’m not.’
‘What can we possibly have to do with a murder, let alone a double one?’
Stanley Leyton was quite white. Palmer smiled.
‘Don’t worry, sir. We are not accusing you of committing murders.’
Stanley Leyton visibly relaxed into the armchair.
‘Thank God for that.’
He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his shiny brow. Gheeta knew what was coming; she’d seen Palmer do his relax them and then hit them scenario many times.
‘But we know your father’s looted Nazi gold is the reason for the murders.’
He fixed Stanley Leyton with a look of hard steel. Stanley Leyton didn’t actually physically squirm in the chair, but inside his mind was crashing around his brain like a ball bearing being shaken in a box, looking for a non-existent exit. Palmer waited.
Mrs Leyton was first to react again. This time she stood up, crossed to an old oak refectory table by the massive window that looked out onto a lawn that seemed to stretch for miles, and poured herself a large glass of something from a decanter. She took a long drink before turning back to face Palmer.
‘Bloody fool, I told him it was stupid. As usual he didn’t listen to me.’
She fixed her husband with a glare that could kill.
‘You stupid know-it-all, fool! You and your pal Plant, and his mate Fenn.’
She sat back in her arm chair.
‘I told you, didn’t I? I said they were a bunch of spivs.’
Stanley Leyton had regained a little of his composure.
‘Do I need a lawyer, Inspector?’
‘Chief Superintendent,’ Palmer corrected him. It had taken him a long time to achieve his rank, and he was very proud of it.
Margaret Leyton was scathing.
‘Ha! A lawyer – and how do you think you can pay for one, Stanley?’
She turned to Palmer.
‘Mr Palmer, would you please tell us what has happened, and how involved we are?’
‘Of course. But first, please tell me the story of you, the gold, Plant and Fenn.’
Gheeta quietly pressed the record button on her laptop. She had positioned it on her knee so the camera was pointing at the Leytons. Margaret Leyton took the lead.
‘Mr Palmer, as you can see it doesn’t take a genius to notice that despite the outside appearance of this house it is, to put it mildly, falling to bits. Unfortunately, it is my husband’s family seat and we have tried over the years to remedy the problems; but the dry rot, damp rot, rotten roof and a host of structural defects – caused by it being built on old ancient sand dunes and having no proper foundations – has meant we were pouring all our money down an ever-widening hole.
‘We’ve re-mortgaged it and have bank loans up to our ears on the damn place, but it has finally beaten us. We can’t sell as the negative equity against the money owed is several hundred thousand pounds, and we can’t put it into the safe hands of English Heritage or a similar organisation because it is not of any great historical interest. There are thousands of old rotting manor houses in the UK, and this is just one of them; and even if they were t
o be interested they would only take it debt free, which is impossible.’
‘Up the damn creek without a paddle,’ said Stanley Leyton.
‘Be quiet Stanley.’
Margaret Leyton continued.
‘We had a few old oil paintings – nothing of any great value but they were insured for about forty thousand. We’d known Charles Plant for several years, having used his services to sell various pieces of my jewellery over the years; he would find the best specialist sale room for them and handle the whole episode. That small income and Stanley’s salary as an MP kept us afloat day to day, but didn’t mend the big leaks. So, when Plant suggested selling the paintings we happily agreed. It would mean a few more years’ grace, and just like Mister Micawber, we hoped ‘something would come along’.’
She sighed heavily.
‘And that something was Stanley’s father’s gold bars, which you obviously know about. God, I wish we’d never found them. Shortly after Stanley’s father passed away ten years ago we had a letter from the bank saying that there was a safe deposit box in his father’s name, and as executor and prime beneficiary of his father’s will – only beneficiary in fact – it was now Stanley’s property. No need to tell you what was inside. We thought all our Christmases had come at once; all our financial problems would be solved. And then we noticed the Eagle and Swastika on the bars.
‘We should have handed the box in to the War Reparations Committee; we should have done anything but what we actually did do. We stupidly asked Plant for his advice – our big mistake. He said we’d get nothing by handing the bars in, and that he had contacts who could sell them quietly and nobody would know.’
‘How many bars?’ Palmer wanted to know.
‘Two hundred and fifty.’
‘Two hundred and fifty?’ Palmer said, taken aback. ‘That’s a lot of gold.’
‘Yes it was, and at that time, according to Plant, about six million pounds’ worth. We could see an end to our financial problems and a new life.’
She paused and shook her head slowly.
‘But life’s not like that. It’s never easy. Things don’t just fall from Heaven without the Devil waiting to make the catch. Plant brought the Devil in, a chap called Fenn – they came to see us. Fenn was an auctioneer who assured us he had buyers for the gold who would ask no questions, pay by cash, and then he could launder the money through his auctions somehow and pay us out legitimately, with no questions being asked. We should have stopped then; alarm bells were ringing in our heads, but debt collectors were ringing at the door. The letters from the banks and debt collection agencies were coming thick and fast, and we grabbed what we thought was a financial lifeline.’
She paused and took a deep breath of resignation. Her shoulders had slumped, and the haughty lady who had met them at the porch was looking somewhat deflated now, as the realisation of total defeat overwhelmed her.
‘Apart from Plant and Fenn, was there anybody else involved?’
Palmer knew there must have been. George Gregg had said that Plant and Fenn were small-time, and this amount of six million was definitely big-time.
‘Yes, that was when it all went wrong. We had an uninvited visit from two men about six months ago. At first, I thought they were from the police or some government agency and we’d been found out, but it soon became apparent they were quite the opposite – a very nasty pair of thugs, and they knew all about our little scheme. They knew Plant and Fenn; they said they were working with them in moving the gold, and they wanted half the proceeds or they’d tell the authorities and the press. Stanley’s career would be over, the gold would be impounded, and that would be it; we’d be bankrupt and basically persona non gratis everywhere.
‘I lied and told them we were nearly at the end of the gold bars anyway, but they had already been told by Plant how many we had and that only eight had been sold off. I lied and said Plant had got it wrong, and that we’d told him twenty-five bars, not two hundred and fifty, he must have misheard. They got very rough – pushed me about a bit, gave Stanley a black eye and made lots of threats; and when I still insisted that we’d only got a few bars they rang Charles Plant and he spoke to me and advised that we handed the lot over. There was about two hundred bars left, and he assured me it would be okay and we’d get our half of the money. I trusted Charles, so we did just that.
‘They went but left us in no doubt as to what they could do to the house with a can of petrol and a match if we ever mentioned them to anybody. Funny really, we’d already thought about setting the place on fire; but it’s not insured anymore, couldn’t afford it, so that wouldn’t be a way out. So, we had to say yes to a fifty-fifty split and gave them the bars for Fenn to sell. They said they would take their half from him as it sold through the auctions, and he’d bring us our half. They knew the whole set up.’
‘Have they been back since?’
‘No.’
He turned to Gheeta.
‘Sergeant, show Mrs Leyton the mug shots of Fenn, Plant, Robson and Finlay.’
He turned back to Mrs Leyton.
‘Tell me any of these people my Sergeant shows you that you recognise.’
Sergeant Singh stepped across to Mrs Leyton with her laptop and pulled up a picture of Plant.
‘Yes, that’s Plant.’
A picture of Fenn.
‘Yes, that’s the auction chap Fenn.’
A picture of Robson.
‘He’s one of the two that came here.’
A picture of Finlay.
‘He’s the other one that came here – a very threatening pair. I hope they are the ones who have been murdered.’
Gheeta went back to her seat as Palmer rubbed his left thigh, which was beginning to ache from being positioned too long in the lopsided armchair whose cushion stuffing had given up the ghost decades ago.
‘No, they are both alive and kicking. It’s Plant and Fenn who have been murdered.’
He rose and with a slight hobble made his way to look out of the window as the shock sank in with the Leytons.
‘Oh my God.’
Stanley Leyton was shaking.
‘Are we in danger Inspect- Chief Superintendent?’
‘I would think so sir, yes. The murders are linked to the gold, and you are too. Word spreads fast in the criminal underworld, and if some other gang gets the idea that there could be more gold where that lot came from, you might well get a visit… or two.’
Gheeta thought Margaret Leyton was looking rattled for the first time.
‘Mr Palmer, what should we do?’
Palmer turned and faced them.
‘Do you have somewhere you can go and stay?’
‘My mother’s house in Dorset. She doesn’t like Stanley much – she’s staunch Labour, but needs must.’
‘Okay,’ Palmer nodded. ‘I’d get yourselves packed and off to mother’s as soon as you can. I will have a twenty-four hour guard put on this house; I don’t think there will be any attempt to get to you or the house, as the criminals know we are investigating and will probably lay low. But you never know.’
‘Do we take the rest of the gold with us?’ Stanley Leyton asked.
Palmer was surprised.
‘What ‘rest of the gold’? You said Robson and Finlay took it.’
‘We had ten other bars hidden in the garage.’
Palmer thought for a moment. The images of concentration camp POWs flashed through his mind.
‘It is stolen gold, sir. However, my interest in this case is one of murder, not theft. But our case report, which we have to send up to our superiors each day-’
He gave Sergeant Singh a sideways look.
‘-will have to mention it as the catalyst for the murders, and also that much of the original hoard is still intact. What the powers that be do with our report, and who they pass it onto is up to them.’
He paused for effect.
‘What you do with the gold you have is up to you. Not my place to offer advice.’
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Gheeta smiled inwardly. That was a nice way out guv, she thought. If Palmer had seized the gold as evidence she really didn’t want to be travelling back on today’s equivalent of the Brighton Belle clutching two hundred thousand quid’s worth of gold bars. And the paperwork at the office tomorrow would be horrendous.
Margaret Leyton had made a decision.
‘It will go into the bank tomorrow, and I will contact the Ministry of Defence War Office and make them aware of my deceased father-in-law’s war looting.’
In the car on the way back to the station, DS Singh had to ask the question.
‘That was a wig on his head wasn’t it, guv?’
Palmer smiled.
‘Wasn’t the best fitting syrup I’ve ever seen.’
‘Syrup?’
‘Cockney rhyming slang: syrup of fig… wig. You should know Cockney rhyming slang, living where you do.’
‘The Barbican?’
‘Yes, if you come down out of your tower and mix with the locals round the back streets you’d hear a different language altogether.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard some of that different language drifting up to my ‘tower’ late on a Saturday night when the pubs turn out.’
Chapter 20
‘Right then,’ Palmer said as he swung his feet up onto his desk, tipped his chair against the wall in his usual manner and looked across the office to Gheeta, who was finishing off yesterday’s daily report of their visit to the Leytons ready for delivery to Bateman. ‘Robson’s waiting in the interview room downstairs with his brief. I think I’m going to play it like a fishing trip – not let him know just how much we know; make it seem like we are in the dark and searching for leads. But I’m going to throw in a bit of bait that will get him really worried.’
‘You don’t like him much guv, do you?’ Gheeta said as she continued to tap out the report.
Palmer swung his feet down and the chair banged onto the floor. He stood up.
‘Would you like a bastard who threatened to murder your young family and burn down your house? And all said in front of a judge and jury. I know it was nearly twenty years ago, but Harry Robson was a very nasty piece of work then; and leopards don’t change their stripes.’
LOOT & I'M WITH THE BAND: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series by B.L.Faulkner. Cases 5 & 6 (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad cases Book 3) Page 7