The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  ‘Exactly.’ she said, looking thoughtful. She scraped the spoon around her bowl, cleaning up the last of her rice pudding. ‘Eades could be in danger.’ She licked the spoon and put it back in the bowl.

  ‘Aye, I thought of that,’ Carter said. ‘Too bad they've got no more timber coming in. We could've set up a nice little trap.’ He grabbed his glass and swallowed the last of his beer.

  ‘Trouble is, they made sure they covered their arses by taking that phone.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s any chance of him coming back,’ she said, ‘now he knows his drugs have gone, do you?’ she said.

  He waggled his finger at her. ‘They don't know we have their drugs. That’s the one thing the public doesn't know of. Let’s think this out for a moment.’

  George Sutton came over to collect up the empty plates.

  ‘Thanks, George. That was great — best chips in town,’ he said, as he came over to clear away the table.

  ‘No complaints from me either. That steak was delicious. Say thanks to the wife for me, George.’ Marcia smiled up at him.

  ‘Glad you both enjoyed it.’ He threw the tea towel over his shoulder and gathered up the plates.

  ‘While you’re at it, I need some more thinking beer.’ Carter looked at his watch. ‘Bring us back a half, will you, Marcia? Do you want another?’

  ‘This will do me fine,’ she said, holding up her glass. ‘I’d better be going. Mother will wonder where I’ve got to.’

  Sutton came back a few minutes later, put the half down, then sorted through Carter’s loose change that lay on the table.

  ‘Cheers, George,’ said Carter, as Sutton walked off.

  He made sure Sutton was out of earshot before saying. ‘What if we use him as our goat?’

  She blinked in surprise. ‘Pardon.’

  ‘You know. It’s what they used to do in India to trap rogue tigers. They’d tether out a goat. We use Eades as our goat. We stake him out and see if our tiger takes the bait.’

  ‘You’re kidding, surely?’ Her face showed disapproval. ‘We could be putting his life in danger. This so-called tiger of yours has nasty claws. We’ve seen what he can do. Torture, murder, arson.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Marcia, I’m not kidding. I’m bloody serious.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’ she asked.

  He ran his finger slowly around the top of his beer glass and said, ‘Suppose we drop the charges on condition he helps us. His lawyer is right. He’s no criminal. On Monday we tell the press it was not Eades that perished in the fire, it was Hakim, and that Eades was abroad and had no knowledge of what happened until yesterday. Which is the truth? Our bikie friend will read all about it, and I guess that he’ll want to try to claim back what's rightfully his. We have to make sure we have someone to babysit Eades.’ He looked at his watch. Would she still be up? ‘I’d have to run it past the super first. What do you think?’

  She thought about it for a few moments, finished her drink, shook her head and said, ‘I suppose you realise if this goes tits up and the shit hits the fan, you and I could end up getting an early pension.’ She gave him a concerned smile.

  He grinned back. ‘I knew you’d like it. So, I take it you approve?’ Without waiting for her to answer, he fished in his pocket for his mobile and pulled up Janice Watkins’ number.

  Chapter 14

  Friday

  Luke Hollingsworth left the cafeteria with a slice of toast in one hand and a plastic cup full of coffee in the other. He made his way along the corridor and entered the “Custody Suite”. Hollingsworth looked around for Sergeant Crane. Crane was nowhere in view. He stopped for a few minutes to examine the raincoat and pink sneakers in the evidence bags, then went through the security door and along the passage to the cells. Here, Hollingsworth stopped at the second door. To free up a hand, he put the slice of toast in his mouth, then, sliding back the observation panel, he peered in. Edward (Gummy) Bear lay curled up on the bed covered with a blanket, and was snoring loudly.

  He slid the panel back in place, then made his way back out to the “Custody Suite”.

  Tom Crane had now appeared and was talking on the phone. He hung up just as Hollingsworth came in. As he walked past the custody board, he noticed Richard Eades’s name was not there. The only name on the board was Edward Bear and the cell two. Next to his name was written, DD — drunk and disorderly. He was Crane’s only guest.

  ‘What’s happened to Eades. Where’s ‘e gone?’ enquired Hollingsworth, indicating the board with an upward flick of his head.

  Crane opened the custody book. ‘Well, according to the night log here, the DCI came in just after eleven. He spent some time with him. We released him at eleven forty-five. All charges dropped.’

  Hollingsworth stroked his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘Strange. Why the hell did he do that? What’s the old fox up to?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, well. No doubt he’ll tell us at the briefing.’

  Crane shut the book. ‘Was there anything else I can help you with, DC Hollingsworth?’ enquired Crane.

  ‘Yes, sarge. You weren’t around when I came in. It’s Gummy Bear. I’ve just looked in on him. He’s dead to the world, sleeping like a baby. By the way, that number two cell smells like a load of cats have died in a brewery.’

  ‘Lord, tell me about it. I’ve been on to the night shelter. I asked them down there to come in later. They’re going to take him away, get him fumigated, washed and scrubbed up. Poor sods, I don’t envy them that job. Mind you, they should be used to it by now — they’ve done it enough bleeding times,’ he said, sniffing like he was sampling the air.

  ‘After he’s had his breakfast, sarge, and before you throw him back out on the streets, I’d like a word with him about those items of his over there.’ He pointed to the bags on the bench. ‘They’ll have to go to forensics.’

  Crane opened the custody log, looked up at the clock and entered the time of Hollingsworth’s visit to the cells. He turned in his seat. ‘Okay, Luke. I’ll give you a call the moment his lordship is up and about.’

  ‘Cheers, sarge.’ He made his way back up to the second floor.

  ****

  Carter picked up the phone on the second ring. ‘Carter.’

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. It’s DCI Carver, Organised Crimes.’ The man sounded cheerful.

  Carter swivelled his chair and looked out of the window at the clouds that had dominated the morning sky, leaving a few transitory patches of blue. Though they were mostly white, there was a hint of greyness about them suggesting that rain could play a significant part in the day ahead.

  ‘Good morning, DCI Carver, and what pray, may I do for you?’

  ‘Just thought you’d like to know my lads have had a quick look around Chalk Lane Farm. It didn’t take them long. They soon found out how they were getting the stuff into the country.’ His voice seemed to turn into a sneer. I’m surprised your team didn’t see it. They had a unique idea. They were using—’

  ‘Hollow logs,’ said Carter, jumping in before Carver could get the next words out.

  The only sound to come from the other end of the line was Carver’s breathing. There was prolonged silence. Carter smiled to himself. Carter one, Organised Crime Unit nil. ‘I assume you’re talking about the timber stored in the pigsty?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised what we know.’ Carter wasn’t about to reveal he’d only recently found out about it himself.

  ‘How is the rest of the investigation going, by the way?’

  ‘Progressing, progressing.’

  ‘If you find anything that might be of interest to us— There was a pause before he said, ‘you will let us know, won’t you?’

  On a need to know basis, Carter put DCI Carver right at the bottom of his list.

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘I would also like to have a word with Eades.’

  ‘Okay. Leave it to me. I’ll get back to
you. Is there anything more I can help you with?’

  ‘No. I’ll let you get on. Thanks, bye.’ He hung up.

  Carter put his phone down, looked at it and said, ‘Pompous git.’

  ‘Hope you’re not referring to me?’

  Carter looked up. Dave Lynch was standing in the open doorway, smiling.

  ‘No, Dave,’ he chuckled. ‘Come in. I was talking to DCI Carver. The jumped-up sod thinks his team is god's gift to crime detection. Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘what can I do for you?’ He pushed back his shoulders, stretched and yawned.

  ‘The DNA results have come back from the lab. The samples that were taken from Ajmal Hakim’s room confirms it was him in the fire.’

  ‘Okay, Dave, thanks. I’ve got a plan hatching. I’ll go over it with all of you later on today. Oh, by the way, one other thing. Get in touch with Hakim’s cousin, let him know what’s happened. You’d better let his landlady, Mrs Habibi, know as well. Make sure the cousin has her details will you? No doubt they’ll want his personal effects.’

  ****

  Edward Bear was in reception. His first words, as Hollingsworth sat down next to him on the bench, were, ‘I’ve got a complaint. I told that sergeant there,’ he pointed over to Crane, who was staring back at him from behind the glass wall of the reception desk, ‘and I’m telling you. That toast was cold.’

  ‘I’ll see you get a full refund,’ said Hollingsworth, sarcastically. ‘Look, after what you did out there on the street yesterday, you should thank those lucky stars you haven’t had the book thrown at you. All you got was a penalty notice without payment. Normally, you’d have to pay the fine. Sergeant Crane is not too pleased about that.’

  ‘That Sergeant Crane fellow over there, said you wanted to talk to me before that woman down there takes me off.’ He inclined his head sideways towards a portly-looking woman in a grey dress sitting on the couch near the main exit, reading a magazine. ‘It's about those clothes I was wearing, ain’t it? The ones they took off me last night. I swear to it. Honestly. I got them legit. Found them in a wheelie bin, honest I did. When can I have them back?’

  ‘Not yet for a while, you can’t. No. We believe those shoes and the raincoat you were wearing belonged to a man who held up a convenience store on Monday morning.’ He paused a moment for it to sink in. ‘So, whereabouts did you find them? Where was this bin?’

  Bear scratched away at his head, sending a great cloud of dandruff whirling through the air like a little snowstorm. Hollingsworth was glad he was upwind and sitting well clear of the fall-out.

  ‘It might have been Wednesday, but I’m not too sure, coz things have been a bit fuzzy lately.’

  ‘Think hard,’ said Hollingsworth. ‘It’s important.’

  Bear’s eyes suddenly lit up. ‘Is there a reward? That man the other day — Mr Carter — he gave me twenty quid.’

  ‘Yes, and look where it gotcha. A night in the cells. Look, maybe we can sort something out later? For the moment, concentrate. Where was this bin?’

  Bear screwed up his face in concentration. ‘It was on the Moreton Estate. I’m sure it was. It was raining.’ He looked up at the ceiling and went off in a world of his own. ‘It always rains over there.’

  ‘What street did you find it on?’

  He came back to earth. ‘Can’t remember. All those streets look the same to me.’ He turned and looked at the woman down on the other bench. She had finished what she was reading and looked over at the two of them.

  ‘My head hurts.’ All of a sudden there came a big grin. His toothless gums appeared. ‘A lemon tree. The place had a big lemon tree in the front garden.’

  ‘Great. Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Hollingsworth took a few moments to think it through, then said. ‘If we drove you around, do you think you could, maybe, find this house with the tree?’

  He shook his head slowly and sucked in his breath. ‘Helping the fuzz twice in one week could severely ruin my reputation you know. People are going to think I'm a grass.’

  ‘The sergeant over there has the last word on your penalty notice. He feels you should pay that fine. Maybe I could persuade him it’s a waste of his time. What do you think?’

  ‘Look. Let’s not get too hasty about little stuff like that, shall we? I think you’re going a bit overboard with it. Anyway, I ain’t got any money.’

  Knowing it wouldn’t be true, Hollingsworth said sadly, ‘Well, in that case, you’d do unpaid community work.’

  Bear sat there thinking about it for a moment or two. The word “work” cut through him like a knife. He sniffed and, coming to a decision, said, ‘Ok. I'll come with you.’

  ‘Good man.’ Hollingsworth stood up and beckoned to the woman. ‘Now, you go with this nice lady, and she’ll tidy you up and make you smell a bit better, and then, when you’re nicely cleaned up, we’ll come over and pick you up, okay?’

  Bear nodded. After a few words with the lady in grey, he saw the pair off the premises, then headed back towards the stairs.

  As he drew level with the reception desk, Crane leaned both arms on it, and with a smile on his face, said, ‘Luke Hollingsworth, you’re a cruel, devious bugger and no mistake. You knew darn well that notice didn't carry any monetary fine.’

  ‘I knew that, so did you, but he didn’t. I noticed Bear signed that with an ‘X’ so if he can’t write, then it stands to reason he can’t blasted well-read either? Just as well, hey sarge?' He waved his security card at the automatic door. It opened with a loud buzzing sound. Just then, a woman came into reception through the sliding doors. A cold blast of air followed her in making the magazines on the bench flutter. One slid to the ground. She made her way towards the desk. Hollingsworth gave her a quick glance, pushed open the door and headed up to the CID office.

  ****

  ‘So, the shelter said they’re going to give us a call when they’ve cleaned him up.’ All the time, while talking to Jill Richardson, he was rummaging around inside his desk drawers and taking out some of their contents.

  Jill Richardson peered around the side of her monitor. ‘Lost something, Luke?’

  ‘I could have sworn I put a pack of Smarties in here on Tuesday.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve scoffed them?’

  ‘More like someone’s nicked ‘em,’ he said, in a loud enough voice for others around to hear. He scanned the room, desk by desk, eyeing each one of his colleagues in turn. Bill Turner, sitting two desks away, looked over at him and tossed him a barley sugar. It skidded across his desk and landed in his wastepaper basket. He bent over and fished it out, unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘Make that last ’til lunchtime,’ Turner called out. At that moment, Turner's phone rang. He picked it up. ‘DC Turner,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a lady down here in reception would like a word with you. It’s a Professor Thorp. She said you knew all about it. Bones from Oare?’

  ‘Oh. Okay, that was quick. Thanks, sarge. I’m on my way down.’

  He put down the phone, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the door.

  He walked up to her and held out his hand. She shook it. Her hand was soft and warm.

  ‘Professor Thorp. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for coming. I’m Detective Constable Bill Turner. I take it you have some information for me that might help date those remains that were found over at Oare?’

  ‘Yes, I have, and please call me Diana.’

  Tim Bryant was spot on with his description. Turner guessed she was about forty years old. She was good-looking; not what you’d call classically beautiful but enough to turn heads. He noted her eyes. They were deep blue and spoke openly of intelligence and serenity. Her eyes were mesmerising. They could hold a person prisoner. Her cheekbones weren’t exceptionally high, and her nose was a little too short to be perfect, but there was an undeniable symmetry to her features. It was these that would genuinely captivate any man. She had long black hair lying gently over her shoulder. She wore jeans and a j
acket. Over one arm was a large shoulder bag. Her jean jacket was designer all the way even down to the faux-distressed look of the fabric. She looked more like a hippy than a professor.

  She gave him a look. It was then that he realised he was staring at her and still holding her hand. He quickly let go.

  ‘Whoops. Sorry.’ Turner gave her an embarrassed smile. ‘Would you like a coffee or maybe a tea?’ he stammered.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, that would be lovely.’

  ‘Let’s go along to the cafeteria.’

  He brought two cups of coffee back to their table and put them down. He pushed the sugar bowl towards Thorp and sat down. She opened the bag she’d been carrying and took out some papers and handed them to him. He spent some time trying to decipher their contents.

  When he finished reading, he laid them on the table. He wore a puzzled expression. ‘Do I take it from this,’ he said, indicating the last sheet, ‘that he’s not one of Julius Caesar’s merry men?’ He looked at the doors of the cafeteria as they swung open and two uniformed constables came in, talking loudly. The pair went over to the counter and stood looking up at the chalk-written menu on the board.

  Diana Thorp stirred in a spoonful of sugar, smiled and said, ‘Correct. I shall not bore you with all the technical details and scientific jargon; I’ll just give to the salient points.’ She took a mouthful of coffee, then put the cup back on the saucer and said, ‘Since nuclear testing took place in the late ’60s, we can now use carbon-14 dating. That’s the method normally used to age ancient fossils. We can find the birth and death dates of recent unidentified human remains. I can tell you truthfully that he died well before 1965 because plants and animals living after then have artificially high levels of carbon-14 in their tissues and with the amount of carbon-14 in teeth formed after 1965, we can predict the year of birth to within eighteen months. In this case, these bones were in the ground long before that. But, saying that, they are recent. When I say recent, I mean about our own timescale. From the tests we’ve carried out, I’d say he died somewhere between the years 1900 and 1925. I’m afraid it’s not much to go on. That’s the best I can do at the moment. I was talking to Tim, and he did tell me there was other stuff found there. Material and such. Maybe they can pinpoint a date more accurately? There is another test we can carry out if you’d like but that would take time, and of course, money.’