The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  Putting his notebook back into the top pocket of his uniform jacket, PC Alan Hobson left the counter and strolled up the aisle to meet him. They came together next to the upright freezer that was displaying discount peas, frozen fish fingers, and crinkle-cut chips. Hollingsworth, always a one for a bargain, noted the price and decided to come back later to restock the fridge in his new flat.

  ‘Morning, Luke.’ He lifted his cap and scratched away at the bald spot on top of his head. He put his cap back on. ‘We’ve got an armed robbery. Got away with a hundred and fifty quid and some change. This guy came in just after seven o’clock, just as Mr Singh was unlocking, pushed through the door and knocked him over. We got a witness who was outside at the time. That’s him sitting over there. His name is Basil Hope. He was coming down the alley between this and the next building when this fellow came rushing past him’. He pointed to the blue dome on the ceiling above their heads. ‘It’s all on CCTV. There’s another over there.’ He pointed above the checkout to where Singh stood.

  Hollingsworth looked up. ‘Good.’

  ‘Guess who the perpetrator was?’ he sniggered.

  ‘Just tell me, all right? I’m in no mood for guessing games. I got a sore head, and I’ve missed breakfast.’ Hollingsworth was well known among his colleagues at Kent Street for being a lover of food; any food.

  ‘Ah, yes. I heard you lot were down at the Bear last night. How come I wasn’t invited?’

  ‘It was CID only. No plods. Now, can we please get on with this? Who was our bandit?’

  ‘Superman,’ replied Hobson. He paused, waiting for Hollingsworth’s reply. None came.

  Hollingsworth just stared blankly at Hobson. Hobson continued speaking. ‘He wore a ski mask and was dressed up as Superman. Even had the big letter “S” on his chest. Cape, tights, the whole bleeding works. He was supposed to have had a shotgun in a bag, but he never showed it. He was described as being white, five feet six, slight build and about twenty-five years old.’

  Hollingsworth stared him straight in the face, frowned, and said, ‘Okay. It's time I had a word with Mr Singh.’

  ‘Okay, great. We’ll leave you to finish off. We’re off shift in half an hour,’ said Hobson.

  ‘Hang on a minute, don’t go just yet,’ said Hollingsworth, as they walked back up the aisle to the checkout.

  ‘Mister Singh? I’m Detective Constable Luke Hollingsworth. So, you say this man had a sawn-off shotgun in the bag he was holding. He threatened you with it, but you never actually saw it. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said a distressed Singh. ‘That is correct. No, I did not see it, is what I mean. He said it was in the shopping bag he was carrying. It was a sort of a cloth bag, and he said if I didn’t hand over the money, he would shoot me.’

  ‘And you described him as white, five feet six, slight build and about twenty-five years of age. To the best of your knowledge, does that description fit any of your customers?’

  Trembling slightly, he said. ‘Many, sirs. Oh, many indeed.’ A flash of recognition suddenly spread across his face. ‘Oh, yes. I am not very good with your accents, but I think he was Welsh. He sounded Welsh. He said to me, “Hand over all the money in the till, you effing bastard”.

  ‘Welsh,’ repeated Hollingsworth softly.

  Hobson looked forlornly at Luke Hollingsworth and raised his shoulders.

  ‘Mister Singh,’ said Hollingsworth. ‘I can see this has shaken you. I think I’d better call you an ambulance.’

  ‘No. Really, sir. I’m fine. I just need to sit here for a while. If you wouldn’t mind, Constable,’ he said, looking over at Hobson. ‘Would you mind fetching me a glass of water from out the back?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Singh.’ He turned and set off down the aisle, to a door at the far end marked “Staff Only”.

  ‘Did he touch the counter?’ Hobson returned and handed Singh the water.

  ‘No. When that man hit the door, I was knocked to the floor.’ Ah, I see. Am I thinking that you are thinking, sir, maybe of fingerprints?’ But maybe this is not possible, you see, because he stood back from the counter and he was wearing gloves,’ Hollingsworth nodded slowly.

  Hollingsworth walked over to where Basil Hope was sitting quietly by the rack displaying various flavours of potato crisps. Hollingsworth introduced himself. When quizzed, he agreed with Singh’s description of the man.

  ‘Yes, Constable. He was wearing a Superman costume. When he came running past me out in the alley,’ he said, ‘he was putting on one of those black plastic macs. You know the ones I mean? The ones you can carry in your pocket. But as I told your constable here, he had no bag when he came past me. One thing I did notice was the sneakers he was wearing. They were bright pink.’

  ‘Bright pink,’ Hollingsworth said slowly. ‘Mr Singh made no mention of them.’ He called over to PC Hobson.

  ‘He would have had to hide what he was wearing before coming in here and going out the other end of the alley into the High Street. He must have had the raincoat in the carrier bag. He’d have had to remove that balaclava ski mask. He would have also had to have been wearing it before coming into the shop so he would have taken it off out in the alley.’ He made a note to check the CCTV from the High Street.

  Hollingsworth looked at Hobson, who, anticipating the next question, said, ‘Andy Miller is out searching the dumpsters. He went into the alley just before you came in’.

  ‘Good,’ said Hollingsworth.

  Right on cue, like an actor coming on stage, the bell above the door tinkled and Andy Miller came in. In his hand, he held a shopping bag.

  ‘Found this in one of those dumpsters just up at the far end the alley.’

  ‘That looks very much like the one he was carrying,’ said Singh.

  ‘And there’s something inside it,’ said Miller. He held the bag open for inspection. Expectantly, both Hollingsworth and Hobson peered into the open bag.

  They both lifted their heads from the bag and exchanged puzzled looks. With Singh and Hope looking on, five pairs of eyes watched as Hollingsworth put his hand into the bag and drew out a carrot.

  Chapter 5

  ‘A carrot? Bloody hell,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Bob Carter in amazement. ‘Are you seriously telling me, Luke, that Singh was robbed by a man dressed up as Superman and armed with a carrot. Was it a double or single barrel?’

  ‘No, sir. It was just a normal carrot,’ he said, not picking up on it. ‘I’ve sent it off to forensics.’

  ‘You sent the carrot off to forensics? You realise, Luke,’ said Carter, ‘that forensics can’t work miracles? I don’t think they can get prints from a raw carrot. And knowing that lot down there, they would have eaten it by now.’

  ‘No, sir,’ he said, feeling hurt. ‘I’m not talking about prints from the carrot, I’m talking about prints from the bag.’ Seeing the hint of a smile on Carter's face, he realised the DCI was joking. He ignored it and carried on talking. ‘We have him on the shop’s CCTV, so I’ll get some prints run off and circulated and get one put on our web page.’

  The web page was the brainchild of Superintendent Watkins. “Let’s get the people of Kingsport on our side”, she’d said to Carter. It was her idea to reach out and keep them informed and up to date on crimes in the area. Get groups like Neighbourhood Watch involved. Advise the public on crime prevention and how to make homes more secure. Get people to report suspicious activities.

  Unlike Carter’s former boss, Superintendent Marsh, Watkins was hands-on following every investigation no matter how small. Carter admired Watkins for what she did. Marsh, however, went for the quiet life, setting himself apart from others. He spent most of his time watching the clock and counting the minutes until it was time to go home.

  ‘I’ve also asked to get the tapes from the security cameras on the High Street.’

  ‘Don’t hold too much hope with the street cameras,’ said Carter, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘Two were
out of commission all last week. I don’t think they’re back online yet. And also, remember that thirty per cent of the cameras out there are just dummies; deterrents. Which, if my calculations are right, only leaves ten covering the whole town.’

  By the time Hollingsworth walked out from Carter's office some five minutes later, word about the holdup had already spread through the CID, and as he was heading to his desk, Jill Richardson called out. ‘Eh, what's up, Doc?’

  He shook his head at her. ‘Smart arse.’

  ‘If it’s any help, Luke,’ Detective Sergeant Mike Reid called out from behind his desk, ‘I think I have a theory as to how he got away unseen. You seem to forget, old son, he’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.’ DC Bill Turner joined in the laughter.

  Hollingsworth looked up at the wall clock and mumbled, ‘Bollocks to the lot of you.’ Hoping they were still serving breakfast, he ignored their laughter and headed off down to the canteen.

  ****

  Dave Lynch pushed himself up out of his chair, picked up the notebook from the desk, walked over and made himself a coffee. He took a few sips, then, with the mug in one hand and a notepad in the other, he made his way over to where Marcia Kirby sat tapping away on her keyboard. He put the mug down on her desk and pulled a chair across from the desk opposite and sat down.

  ‘So, what have you come up with, Dave? Anything interesting?’ Kirby said, clicking the top of her pen. Somewhere distant and sounding muffled, a phone rang twice, then stopped.

  He opened his notebook, glanced at what he’d written and then said, ‘Eades is not in our system. Richard Eades is squeaky clean. Not even a blinking parking ticket.’ He looked up. ‘I did check the emergency call centre, and it came from the phone box on Mill Lane. It was logged it at two-ten. That phone box is just on the edge of the Norton industrial estate. That’s about four miles from the farm as the crow flies. The caller hung up without giving any personal details. I listened to the tape. It was a man with a soft Irish accent.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kirby, leaning back in her seat and staring out of the window.

  ‘I’ve checked with the DVLA, and Eades drives a red 2009 Honda Civic hatchback. The photo they sent me from his license is matched to the ones we found up at the farm.’ She brought it up on the screen. ‘There it is.’

  At that moment, Carter came out of his office, walked over to them and said, ‘They’ve found tire tracks of a motorcycle just outside the back wall on the farm — the one where the door opens out onto the field at the back. The scene searcher said the tracks clearly show directions of travel to and from the woods further up the hill. They did a search of the farm buildings, and there’s no sign of a bike there. Tim Bryant is onto it. He said he’ll get a cast made of it just in case it is relevant. I didn’t come across any registration paper for a bike in the office.’

  ‘When we checked with that house further down the road,’ said Lynch, ‘the guy said he heard a bike go past about five thirty, but he reckoned it came back, past his place, two minutes later. Whoever it was, found the gates locked and just turned around. This fellow we spoke to is on the night shift. He works at the hospital. Night porter. He told us he leaves home for work about ten. After the bike, he said, it was quiet. Nothing else came up the lane.

  Not a sound all evening.’

  Kirby looked at Carter. ‘So, whoever it was, never came back or, maybe he came back he through the woods later. That would explain the tracks. But why leave it outside the wall?’

  ‘Let’s say, for argument's sake, that our friend on the bike did start the fire, and he wanted to get at Eades. He could have come in from the other way. All he had to do was just freewheel down the slope. All nice and quiet. And don’t forget one thing. The padlock was securing the main gate so our firebug would have been forced to find another way in. The only other way would have been through the woods. If it was him that came around earlier in the evening why did he wait until later to come back? And another thing. That padlock was on the inside of the gate. Eades had locked himself in. Now, why would he do that?’ asked Carter.

  ‘Maybe he was expecting some kind of threat? Maybe he was afraid of our man on the bike? Maybe he knew it was coming?’ queried Dave Lynch.

  ‘It’s a possibility, Dave,’ said Kirby.

  Carter perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘I’ve asked forensics to take a look at that call box. With any luck, it may not have been used since that call was made. Maybe we can get some prints from it. We need to find out just who our mysterious caller was. Dave, get up to that phone box. See if forensics have come up with anything.’

  Lynch went over and took his jacket from off the back of his chair. As he walked off, Kirby called to him.

  ‘Oi,’ she called.

  He turned as he struggled into his jacket. ‘What?’

  ‘Take your coffee mug with you — don’t leave it on my desk. I’m not doing your washing up.’ He came back over, retrieved the mug, took it over to his desk, then headed out across the room and through the swing door.

  Carter stood for a few moments thinking, then said to Marcia Kirby, ‘Get onto Maidstone. Have a chat with DCI Carver over at the Regional Organised Crime Unit. See if

  Eades rings any bells with them. Just because he’s not in our system, it doesn’t mean they don’t know him. With what was found today, they’ll certainly be looking at him, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied.

  Carter turned and walked over to Jill Richardson. He leaned over her desk to see what was on her screen.

  ‘Jill, what are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘Just tidying up the last of this paperwork on those break-ins and thefts from the caravan park from last week, sir. Nearly finished. Young Peter Burton is up in front of the juvenile magistrate on Wednesday. He thought he could get away with it because Daddy has pots of money and sat on the county council. How wrong he was. He’s just one spoilt little brat. If you ask me, he needs a swift kick up the arse. God knows why he did it. A thirteen-year-old on a pot-fuelled rampage. It’s not as if the little bugger was short of money. His dad gives him twenty quid a week. Would you believe it, sir, twenty quid? At his age, I counted myself lucky if I got two shillings to go to the pictures with.’ She sighed. ‘Kids of today. I don’t know, I just can’t work them out. He’ll likely get off with a slap on the wrist and be told not to do it again. No-one seems to give a shit about the three poor old pensioners that he terrorised.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, Jill. I agree with you. Things have changed. Today’s criminals have more bleeding rights than their victims. I had a feeling you nearly had this one wrapped up,’ he said, looking at her screen. ‘I told Luke you’d give him a hand with this Superman investigation.’

  She peered around the side of her computer over to Hollingsworth’s desk and noticed his jaws moving slowly up and down. Next to his keyboard, and in easy reach of his hand, was a half-eaten Mars Bar.

  ‘Looks like I might have to swap my handcuffs for some Kryptonite,’ she said.

  Hollingsworth turned his head and was about to say something to her, but was beaten to it by Carter, who, walking off towards his office, said, ‘I heard that. And go easy on the carrot jokes.’ He smiled. ‘I think Luke’s had enough for one day.’ He said it so everyone else in the room could hear. He continued walking towards his office, went in and shut the door.

  It was just a little after midday when Detective Inspector Ted Baxter pushed his way in through the double doors of the CID office. He headed straight to Carter's office, tapped lightly on the door and entered. Carter was talking on the phone. Without being asked, Baxter plonked himself down in the chair and loosened his tie. He took out a packet of mints from his pocket and popped one in his mouth, then held them out to Carter. He declined, shaking his head.

  ‘That sounds promising. Okay, thanks, Tim.’ Carter put the phone down and looked at Baxter. ‘How was it?’

  ‘The autopsy on the suicide?
Courtney Armstrong?’ said Baxter. ‘It was a straightforward suicide. There were no signs of foul play. All doors of the car were locked from the inside. Had to use the wife’s set to get in. The ignition key was in the on position, but the engine had run the tank dry. He had a history of mental instability, suffered from mental depression and had cancer. His blood alcohol content suggested he’d drunk at least two bottles of vodka beforehand. Broadbent found nothing suspicious. “Classic symptoms” is how he described it.

  We should get his full report tomorrow. He’ll send one off to the coroner as well. He didn’t go into detail, but he said to tell you that he’ll be doing your burns victim after lunch. He didn’t tell me much about that one.’

  Carter nodded. ‘Okay. That, by the way, was forensics on the phone. I’ll tell you what,’ he glanced at his wristwatch, ‘it’s lunchtime. Let’s go and grab a sandwich in the canteen, and I’ll bring you up to date.’

  Chapter 6

  On Mill Lane, Dave Lynch leant against the side of his car, watching, as Tim Bryant and two of his technicians busied themselves around the graffiti-tagged phone box. Their white Transit van, which was parked on the opposite side of the lane, had come straight from finishing up at the farm. A few cars slowed down as they passed, the drivers trying to see what was going on.

  Lynch felt he was being watched, but not by a motorist. He turned around. Two small boys on the opposite side of the road, with only their heads showing over the top of the council dumpster they were hiding in, tried to remain inconspicuous while watching quietly what was going on.