Working the lump, it was called. After the war thousands of Irishmen came over to England to repair the damage done by the Luftwaffe, and, later, to build the motorway network. They worked in gangs, for gang masters, and didn’t bother with inconveniences like health and safety, or taxation. It was a hard-drinking culture, with tales of thirty pints of beer per day quite common. If you didn’t fit in, you were out on your neck. The smart ones sent their money home and returned to the Old Country as rich men, the dumb and the gullible wrecked their bodies and paid the price. It looked as if Threadneedle senior was somewhere in between, but his son had been more ambitious, had seen beyond where the next drink was coming from, had glimpsed the distant, sunlit uplands and decided he wanted to bask there. And who could blame him?
Jeff Caton was in the office when I arrived back at the nick, looking harassed.
‘Tell me about the robbery,’ I said. It was closer to my heart than chasing vandals and pandering to high society.
‘It’s frightening, Chas,’ he replied. ‘The kids are terrified and their parents are not much better. I don’t think there’ll be much sleeping done in that household for a week or two. The villain with the dog babysat the husband and children while the other one took the mother to the cash machine. It was straining at its leash and foaming at the mouth, trying to get at them. The tosspot holding its chain was barely in control, they said.’
‘Descriptions?’
‘Both above average height and well built. Wearing overalls and wrap-round shades, with NY baseball caps pulled down over their faces. And they wore surgical gloves.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’m coming to the conclusion that the general public know more about forensics than we do. How’ve you left it?’
‘Serena’s still with them. I’m seeing West Pennine in the morning to compare notes. A couple of neighbours report seeing a Jaguar that might be interesting. Dark grey, no number. We’re checking for stolen ones.’
‘So nobody local springs into the frame?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but it will be interesting to see where the other robberies were. It might give us an idea where they’re coming from.’
‘Their locus of operations. Don’t hold your breath. It might be easier to find the dog.’
‘I know. Pit bulls are not everybody’s idea of a four-legged friend.’
His phone rang and a second later Dave and Brendan came bustling through the door.
‘Caton,’ Jeff said.
Dave walked to the coffee-making table and held a cup up and I nodded a ‘Yes, please’.
‘We haven’t taken delivery yet, Mr Wood,’ I heard Jeff say, then: ‘Yes, it’s a pity this morning’s victims hadn’t been supplied with it. OK, I’ll chase it up.’ He replaced the phone.
‘What was that about?’
‘SmartWater. Mr Wood wondering if we were any nearer to getting some.’
‘Neighbourhood Watch will have complained,’ I said.
SmartWater is a magic liquid that you spray on valuable items and around windows, et cetera. We weren’t sure how it worked but it made villains glow in the dark, and therefore more easily identified. At least, that’s what we’d been led to believe it did. We’d never actually seen any. A neighbouring town, Todmorden, had pioneered its use and witnessed an immediate reduction in home burglaries of eighty-four per cent. I couldn’t help thinking that a decimal point had been mislaid, but about six months ago the good citizens of Heckley had forked out ten pounds per household and were still waiting.
‘Did you see Threadneedle?’ Jeff asked.
I gestured towards the others as Serena came in. ‘Wait until this lot join us.’
Dave brought my coffee and collected another chair for Serena as she hung her jacket behind the door. Brendan fetched a chocolate chip muffin from his desk and seated himself next to Serena.
‘My, you look smart, Mr Priest,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘And … mmm … that’s a nice aftershave you’re wearing. Have you been anywhere special?’
‘Oh, you know, Serena, just interviewing witnesses.’
‘So, did you see her?’ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
‘Who?’ I wondered.
‘You know who!’ I couldn’t see her feet but I suspect she stamped one of them.
‘Mrs Threadneedle?’
‘No! Ghislaine.’
‘Oh, her. She’s, y’know, very nice.’
‘Uh!’
Dave said: ‘So did you find anything of interest?’
‘Not from Threadneedle or Mr Curzon,’ I replied, ‘but I had an interesting talk with Mrs Threadneedle, after he’d gone. Apparently he was a racehorse owner and she reckoned he had shares in Shergar.’
Jeff looked sideways at me and Dave gave a polite cough. Jeff said: ‘And did they buy these shares from the same Nigerian diplomat who sold them the ones in the London Eye?’
‘OK, OK,’ I responded. ‘I’m only reporting what she said, and she was slightly under the influence at the time.’
‘She likes a drink?’
‘Or the drink likes her. She also told me that her husband had an Irish father but he changed his name to Threadneedle because it sounded more English. Does that make sense?’
‘Probably,’ Dave agreed. ‘If he had business ambitions he may have wanted to join the Freemasons, and I doubt if they admit Irishmen.’
‘Or Catholics,’ Jeff suggested. ‘I can’t see them allowing Catholics in. Is he one, do you know?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Uh!’ Serena snorted. ‘I thought we were supposed to be the ones with the tribes and cults.’
Jeff turned to his computer and tapped away at the keyboard. I said: ‘I’ve been thinking, Dave.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was a documentary on TV a few years ago about the Kennedy assassination.’
‘There’ve been dozens,’ Serena declared.
‘I know, but this one was a bit different. The Dealey Plaza, where it happened, was lined with spectators wanting to see the president. And the first lady, of course. About half of them had cameras, and as the cavalcade drove by they all snapped merrily away. But as well as photographing Mr President they made a record of all the people in the crowd at the other side of the road. The FBI appealed for the photos and eventually identified almost everybody there. I remember that they came tantalisingly close to getting a snap of the top of the grassy knoll.’
Dave said: ‘So it’s Shergar and who killed Kennedy, is it? Don’t you think you might be aiming a little too high for a small-town DI?’
‘Listen, buggerlugs,’ I replied. ‘Whoever did the painting was probably there, in the crowd. Let’s ask for the photos and see who we recognise. It’ll keep the boss off our backs if nothing else.’
Jeff swivelled his chair round and bugled a ‘ta-da!’ as he came to face us again. ‘Guess what?’ he demanded.
‘We’re all agog,’ Dave growled.
‘You’re not going to believe this. According to Google, Shergar won the 1981 Derby and three other classic races, before being retired to stud, which is common knowledge. But this is the best bit: when it went to stud the owner, who just happened to be the Aga Khan, sold thirty-four shares in the horse at a cool quarter of a million each. Your friend Mrs Threadneedle could have been telling the truth.’
Wednesday morning I left Dave in charge of the Curzon Centre massacre enquiry and went with Jeff to talk to our cousins in Lancashire. We took our big map with us and marked on it the locations of the first three pit bull robberies and the whereabouts of the cashpoints they’d used. Ours was way out on a limb. It looked as if they’d decided things were too warm on their side of the Pennines so they’d spread their wings. When we compared descriptions and MOs it was obvious that it was the same gang. A grey or silver Jaguar had been seen near one of the incidents so we alerted the automatic number plate recognition system to look for stolen ones.
‘What about the dog?�
�� I asked my opposite number. ‘Have you had any success looking for that?’
‘We’ve appealed for information,’ I was told, ‘and replies have come flooding in. You’d be amazed how many pit bulls – or pit bull lookalikes – there are in Manchester. We’re following them all up.’
We stopped for a bacon sandwich on the way back and I rang Dave. ‘How’s it going, sunshine?’ I asked.
‘Pretty good, mon capitaine. The Gazette has agreed to publish an appeal for photographs and Radio Pennine said they’ll find a slot for us, too. And guess what – fingerprints have found a partial on the paint tube. Haven’t made a match yet, though.’
‘That’s great. And what about the CCTV tapes? Any joy with them?’
‘Ah,’ Dave began. ‘That’s where it all goes a bit pearshaped. Unfortunately they’re all recorded on DVDs. We can play them in the office on a laptop but we’ve only got one that’ll do DVDs. I’ve left the Spice Girls watching them in the control room at the Centre, but I had to lean on the manager there. He’s a bit of a jobsworth.’
‘What about Miss McArdle?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t she overrule him?’
‘She’d taken some time off. Not back until Friday.’
Terrific, I thought. I’m dragged in from my holiday and she goes gallivanting off on hers. ‘OK, we’ll see you back at the factory.’
‘How’ve you gone on?’
‘Not bad. It’s the same gang, possibly based in north Manchester and using a grey Jag. It should be enough. See you.’
Fierce dogs arouse strong feelings, and Thursday morning the calls started trickling in. It’s not illegal to own a pit bull terrier, but there are restrictions. It must be on a lead and muzzled when in a public place, and neutered. I can’t imagine why anyone would want one but they are particularly liked by men with beer guts and tattoos. The Aga Khan, we learnt, divided Shergar into forty shares worth a cool ten million, and kept six shares for himself, raising eight and a half million for his pension fund. Unfortunately, the IRA kidnapped the horse one sunny day when a major horse fair was taking place and the lanes and byways of that fine land were clogged with horseboxes and trailers, making the job of the Gardai almost impossible. The popular belief is that poor old Shergar proved too much of a handful for his kidnappers and was killed and buried somewhere in the wilderness, but as there has never been any proof of its death the insurance company – surprise, surprise – has refused to pay out.
‘What are we looking for?’ Dave asked when I handed him the list of nineteen dog owners.
‘Use your intuition,’ I said, adding: ‘There should be one of those high-pitched dog-scarer whistles at the front desk. I’d take that if I were you.’
‘Do they work against pit bulls?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘In that case I’ll settle for a .38.’
As he was pulling his jacket on Maggie shouted for me and we both strode over to her desk, where she was studying the CCTV recordings on her Lenovo laptop.
‘Have you found something, Maggie?’ I asked.
‘I think so. Look at this.’
It was timed at 00.14 on 14 May 2007, in other words, early Monday morning, before the official opening. The system was set to take a snapshot every second and the camera was pointing at the raised dais area, with the curtains in front of the plaque clearly visible. Suddenly a figure appeared, striding jerkily towards the plaque in giant leaps, like someone’s early attempts at moving cinematography. He was wearing a security man’s fluorescent jacket that engulfed him, a woolly hat pulled down over his eyes and his sweatshirt hood pulled over the hat. Successive frames showed him standing in front of the plaque, then the curtains were open, then he’d painted FUC, then the curtains were closed again and he’d turned towards us, but with his head lowered to hide his face, as if he knew we were watching.
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Can you get a still off it?’
‘Um, I imagine so.’
‘Not that it shows us much.’
Maggie said: ‘No, but now that we know the time we can race through all the other disks and possibly trace laddo’s route through the Centre.’
‘Brilliant. Let me know when you have more. Meanwhile, I’ll try to placate the boss.’
Mr Wood had gone off for the day so I rang the chief constable’s office and his secretary put me through, which was a surprise. I’d been rehearsing my ‘tell him I rang’ line but instead I found myself relating all about the fingerprint and the CCTV and suggesting that we back-pedal with the investigation in the short term but keep it on the books in case we ever made a decent ID. The newspapers had been reasonably subdued in their reporting of the incident, partly due to bad news from Iraq, and it made sense to let things fade away, like snow in April, and the CC agreed with me. It wasn’t a target point, but we were off the hook and I could concentrate on catching robbers. Except that I couldn’t help feeling that there was still some unfinished business with Mayor Threadneedle and his affairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
We’d had a warm spring and now the cherry and mayflower trees were bowing down under the weight of blossom they carried, like virgin brides in some Eastern ritual to mark the dawning of the new year. I was driving down the Parkway, away from Heckley, determined to salvage the remnants of my holiday.
The Lake District was my intended destination. I felt in need of a strenuous challenge, dragging some clean air through my coked-up lungs and the feel of a decent altitude beneath my boots. I’d spent the evening before poring over my maps and had decided that the Coledale Round, near Keswick, was worth a revisit. It was a tough walk but had the advantage of several dropout points if it all became too much or if the weather changed. Then it would be a speciality goulash in the Dog and Gun, a couple of pints of Jennings and sleep like a zombie in my favourite B&B. Paradise. I’d had a perfunctory glance at the map for East Yorkshire, but when it comes to landscapes I prefer the wild and rugged to the pretty-pretty. I found the stately home symbol representing Curzon House and drew a circle around it. The area looked interesting, with miles of criss-crossing footpaths, but it was in the Yorkshire Wolds, not renowned for their altitude, and I decided it might be worth a visit sometime in the future. Not now, though; today we were heading for the mountains.
So why, when we reached the motorway, the car turned east instead of west, I’ll never know. I didn’t fight it or waste energy justifying the decision; I just settled down for the drive and looked forward to renewing my acquaintance with Curzon House and its surroundings.
I did a five-miler in the morning, taking in a medieval village called Low Ogglethorp, which was just a bumpy field, and a couple of churchyards, before arriving back at Curzon House, near the village of High Ogglethorpe. A painted wooden sign told me that the village was a regular finalist in the Yorkshire in Bloom competition. Near the end of the walk I called in the Boar’s Head for a ham sandwich and a pint, apparently arousing the displeasure of the landlord who was in a deep discussion with a woman sitting on a bar stool with what could have been a gin and tonic before her. It could equally have been a glass of water, although the portion was rather small for a water. She was furtively dragging on a cigarette, her enjoyment enhanced by the knowledge that in another six weeks the anti-smoking bill would come into force and she’d have to go outside for her nicotine fix.
‘Your sandwich’ll be ’ere in a couple of minutes,’ the landlord told me as he returned from placing the order with someone in a back room. He gave me my change and topped up my drink.
‘Is there a B&B in the village?’ I asked and the woman cleared her throat in readiness to speak. He beat her to it.
‘Phyllis ’ere runs one,’ he told me. ‘Don’t think she’s rushed off ’er feet at the moment, are you, Phyl?’
‘Not at the moment. Brad and Angelina only stayed the one night. It’s twenty-five pounds, if you’re interested. En suite bathroom and full English breakfast included.’ She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, pressin
g the butt next to her two earlier ones. A spiral of blue smoke climbed from it and I thought that the ban couldn’t come soon enough for me.
‘Sounds fine,’ I said. ‘Book me in.’
‘Just the one night?’
‘For the moment.’
‘Will you need an evening meal?’
I hesitated, but the landlord stepped in with his three pennyworths: ‘Phyl’s the best cook this side o’ Market Weighton. Her steak and kidney is worth dying for.’
I wasn’t too sure about the recommendation, but I placed my order for seven-thirty. I had a feeling that – what was the expression? – they’d seen me coming and ganged up on me, and I’d fallen for the drop of York, as my dad would have put it. Never mind, I thought, Phyllis’s cooking would no doubt be better than I’d find in a pub, and more wholesome, and I was partial to a decent steak and kidney.
‘You’re with the press?’ the landlord hit me with as I lifted my pint of Copper Dragon to my lips. I took a slow sip, considering my reply.
‘Ah, you keep a decent pint. The press? No, not me.’
‘You’re wearing good gear. A bit over the top for these parts, if you don’t mind me saying.’
I looked down at my three-season boots, my Tog 24 shirt and my rucksack leaning on the wall just inside the door. He was right: it was a warm day and I was overdressed for a summer’s lowland walk.
‘Do you get many press people in the village?’ I asked.
‘A tidy few.’
‘What’s the attraction?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘How about a certain Miss Curzon?’
‘Curzon? Curzon?’ he mused. ‘New one on me. Mean anything to you, Phyl?’
‘Never heard of her,’ she replied.
‘Your loyalty is commendable,’ I told them, knowing that their loyalty was as substantial as the blossom on the trees that lined the village and, like that blossom, would go whichever way the wind took it. I decided to play a high card. ‘I’m police,’ I said, reaching for my ID, ‘and I’m here for the walking. And the beer.’
The landlord took hold of my card and studied it. ‘A detective inspector,’ he read. ‘Detective Inspector Priest.’
A Very Private Murder Page 5