Some By Fire dcp-6 Read online

  "Blimey, I'm not going in there," I said. I worry about dogs.

  The more Dave hammered the more demented the dog became. It sounded as if it might rip us limb from limb. "Don't make the hole too large," I pleaded. "It might leap out."

  When the first board had moved a little he used the half-shaft as a lever. Nails screeched as they were uprooted. Dave knocked some bits of glass out and moved higher up the plank of wood, feeling for a new purchase.

  "Let's have a look," I said. He stepped aside and I peered through the triangular gap. "It's light inside," I told them. "Looks like fluorescents, take it right out."

  One minute and a ripped shirtsleeve later the plank fell to the floor.

  The dog barks had subsided to a hoarse staccato, but no slavering face appeared at the gap. It must have been tied up.

  "Bloody hell!" exclaimed Nigel. "Is that what I think it is?" Inside was a jungle of foliage, illuminated from above by bluish strip lights.

  "I knew it!" Dave declared triumphantly. "I knew it! Cannabis!

  Cannabis sativa. At a guess the variety commonly known as skunk."

  "Ah," I said, 'but what's that I can see at the far end, just inside the doors?"

  "Friggin' heck!" he exclaimed. "A white van."

  "Of the variety commonly known as a Transit," Nigel added, and his grin made Sparky's ruined shirt completely worthwhile.

  Everybody agreed that the fish and chips were superb. There was no substitute for fish taken straight from the sea. It made a big difference. We were late, but Shirley's annoyance soon evaporated when she saw our buoyant mood.

  "So who caught them?" asked Daniel, Dave's son, as he pushed his empty plate away.

  "I did," his father replied; "We caught one each," I said; "We bought them," Nigel confessed, all more or less simultaneously.

  Nigel had left his car outside my house. He came in with me and we did some phoning. James Nelson was sixty-three years old and had no criminal record. It was different for his sons, Barry and Leonard.

  They'd been in trouble all their lives, starting with shoplifting and progressing right through to burglaries, via a couple of fracas. Up to then they'd concentrated on breaking into industrial premises and shops, which is regarded as a less serious offence than burgling domestic premises, and carries a lighter sentence. They'd had the lot: cautions; probation; community service; fines; and extended holidays at the Queen's expense.

  Sometimes the system doesn't work.

  Or perhaps it did. They'd both kept out of trouble for over two years, which were personal bests. Alternatively, perhaps they'd paid attention to what their teachers said at the Academy of Crime, and thought they were now a lot cleverer. If so, they were mistaken. Jails are filled with the failures, the ones we catch; the smart ones we never even know about.

  I rang Jeff Caton to tell him the good news, but his wife told me that he wasn't home yet.

  "Not home!" I exclaimed. "Not home! We've been home hours' She agreed to tell him to phone me as soon as he arrived.

  When it's on my patch I have the final say, so we met at ten on Sunday morning. Dave and myself went to see James Nelson while Nigel, Jeff and a DS from the drug squad met at the rhubarb sheds, armed with a search warrant.

  Nelson lived in a run-down farmhouse just a few hundred yards from the row of terraced houses. More abandoned vehicles littered the yard and a German shepherd dog, chained to a wheel-less Ford Popular, gave an early warning of our approach. Judging from its teats it had just had pups. I moved to the other side of Sparky as we passed it.

  "Are you James Nelson?" Dave asked the leather-skinned man who opened the door. He looked at least seventy, so we couldn't be sure. He wore a vest and dangling braces, and wouldn't have looked out of place in a documentary about Bosnian refugees.

  "Aye," he replied warily.

  "I'm DC Sparkington from Heckley CID, and this is my senior officer, DI Priest. I think you'd better let us in."

  My senior officer] Dave was at his Sunday best and I was impressed.

  The inside of the house was all Catherine Cookson. Not the wicked master's house, and not that of the poor girl who is left orphaned and has to dig turnips every day with only a broken button-hook to raise a few coppers to feed her six younger brothers and sisters and keep them from the lascivious clutches of the master. This belonged to the stern but kindly blacksmith who throws her the odd horseshoe to make soup with, who is in love with her but knows that she is really the master's illegitimate daughter and can never be his.

  There was a big iron range, with a built-in set-pot and a fire glowing in the grate. Pans and strange implements hung from the beams and two squadrons of houseflies were engaged in a dogfight around the light bulb, which was on because the curtains were closed. The temperature must have been in the nineties. We sat down, and a black cat which I hadn't seen bolted for safety from under my descending backside.

  "Are Barry and Len in?" Dave asked.

  Mr. Nelson shook his head.

  "Where are they?"

  "They'm don' live 'ere. What they'm done now?"

  "Is there a Mrs. Nelson?"

  "No. She passed away, twelve years sin'."

  "I'm sorry. So where do Barry and Len live?"

  "Abroad. Tenerife."

  "How long have they lived there?"

  "Bout two year, why?"

  "Do they ever come home?"

  "Oh, aye, now an' agin."

  "When were they last home?"

  "Dunno."

  "How about six weeks ago?"

  "Aye, about then, I suppose."

  "And about a month before that?"

  "It could o' been."

  "What do they do for a living in Tenerife, Mr. Nelson?" I asked.

  He switched his gaze to me and clenched his hands together, squeezing and relaxing his fingers, as if milking a cow. "They'm 'ave shares in a bar, or so they'm tells me. Dunno for sure."

  "When are you expecting your sons home again?" I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his hands and back to me.

  "Dunno."

  "Do they write or phone to tell you?"

  "No, they'm just turn up."

  "Without warning?"

  "Aye."

  "Do you look forward to their visits?"

  He didn't answer.

  "You had to raise them yourself," I stated.

  "I did me best."

  "But they gave you a hard time?"

  No answer. His fingers were long and swollen at the joints, and one nail was blackened and about to fall off. He wore a wedding ring, but it had been relegated to his pinky because of the swelling. And all the time he squeezed and relaxed his hands, as if the rhythm gave him some comfort.

  "Mr. Nelson," I began. "Do you own the rhubarb sheds that back on to the M62?"

  The kneading increased in fervour. "Aye," he replied, his head down.

  "What do you grow in them?"

  "Rhubub," he replied, looking up at me. "I grows rhubub. My boys, Barry and Len, they'm use the other 'un. Don' ask me what they'm grows in it."

  "But you've a good idea, haven't you?"

  He lowered his head again. "Aye, I suppose so."

  "What do you think it is?"

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  "Pardon."

  "Drugs, I reckon."

  "So why haven't you reported it to the police?"

  He looked at me as if I'd asked him if he ever sniffed when his nose dribbled. "Cos they'd do for me," he replied.

  "Are you scared of your sons?" I asked.

  He looked at his hands and didn't answer.

  "Do they knock you about?"

  He mumbled something I didn't catch. "Could you say that again, please," I insisted.

  "They've given me a tap, now an' again," he said.

  I looked across at Dave. He said: "Put the rest of your clothes on, Mr. Nelson. We have a warrant to search the sheds and we'd like you to come with us."

  If only to
hold the flippin' dog, I thought.

  The other three were scattered around, looking for birds' nests or that long-lost part of the vintage car. As we pulled up they emerged from the greenery and congregated around us. Jeff and the others had arrived home from the fishing trip after midnight, and his eyes resembled the proverbial piss-holes in the snow. In the car Mr. Nelson had explained that he came every day, to feed the dog and fill the generator. There was an automatic irrigation system, so he never had to touch the plants.

  The dog leapt about with joy when he unlocked the door, and after a great deal of fussing it settled down with what looked like a dustbin lid full of cows' feet. I measured the length of its chain and added a yard for safety.

  "Oh my Gawd!" exclaimed Jeff when he saw the Transit. He pointed at the aerial, the tax disc and the mark on the windscreen.

  "Oh my Gawd!" he repeated, then: "It's it. This is it. You jam my so-and-sos."

  "Good policing," I told him. "Jammy's nothing to do with it."

  "I'll ring for a SOCO," he said, producing a mobile phone.

  The plants were in orderly rows, close together and about chest height.

  We spread out and walked between them, trailing our fingers through the fronds and all wondering what they were worth and if there was any harm in it. At the far end Dave hammered some new nails through the loose plank so the local youths couldn't steal the evidence. Jeff rejoined us. "He's on his way," he said.

  I pulled two leaves from a plant, gave one to Jeff and popped the other in my mouth. "Make you feel better," I told him. Strolling back through the rows I plucked another. At the far end Jeff emerged from the adjacent row and poked his tongue out at me. On it was a chewed-up ball of what might have been spinach. I did the same to him and we both giggled like schoolgirls in an art gallery.

  Dave and I took Mr. Nelson back to the station. Some use the Nice Cop and Nasty Cop routine; others rely on the bastinado, beating them on the soles of their feet until they co-operate. We seduce them with a bacon sandwich and a mug of hot sweet tea. After that, he'd have told us anything.

  He didn't know when his sons were coming back, but agreed to tell us as soon as they did. If he had the opportunity. The burglaries had coincided with their visits and he had wondered if they had committed them. We assured him they had, and he shed a few tears.

  When Jeff and Nigel returned we sat Mr. Nelson in an interview room with another sarni, making a statement to a nice police lady, while we had an operations conference in my office. I wasn't happy about asking him to grass on his sons. Blood, as they say, is thicker than prison soup.

  "The alternative," Jeff said, 'is to put out an APW on them and hope someone tells us when they come into the country, or mount an observation operation."

  "One's unreliable and the other's expensive," Nigel said.

  "We could just watch out for the van moving," Jeff suggested.

  "Still expensive," Nigel countered. "We could be waiting weeks. I think we should rely on Mr. Nelson."

  "We're asking him to shop his sons," I said. "It doesn't seem fair.

  Plus, he might not get the opportunity. Or he might change his mind; he's obviously scared of them."

  "Let's ask the technical support boffins to fit the van with a bug,"

  Dave suggested.

  "Sadly, it belongs to Len," I said. "If it's not Mr. Nelson's van he can't give us permission."

  "We could say we didn't know."

  "It would be inadmissible," Nigel told him.

  "So what? We'll still nab them."

  "And it'll get kicked out!"

  "We can't fit a bug," I said, 'but there is a way Mr. Nelson could."

  They all looked at me.

  "He could just happen to drive the van into Electronic Solutions on Monday morning and ask them to fit it with a Tracker," I explained.

  "Who would pay?" Nigel asked.

  "We would," I replied.

  "They cost about two hundred pounds."

  Dave turned on him. "If you don't mind me saying so, Nigel," he began, 'you're growing into a right management cop."

  "Nigel's right," I said before an argument could develop. "Money's tight, but I'll make a case out for it. Jeff, how much would a surveillance operation cost?"

  "God knows!" he gasped.

  "Think of a number."

  "Er, ten thousand pounds."

  "That'll do. Two hundred for a Tracker is a bargain. Have a word with Electronic Solutions in the morning, see if they'll do it cost price.

  Or, better still, free. Tell them we'll take our fleet business away from them if they won't. Then ask Mr. Nelson to take the van in."

  Electronic Solutions are auto electricians in Halifax. They tune our pursuit cars and fit various gizmos to them. The Tracker is a patented device that is more usually fitted to top-of-the-range vehicles like Porsches and Jags. It is secreted away somewhere and is completely passive until activated by a signal from a tracking station. If the car is reported stolen the signal is transmitted to it, and from then on its movements can be followed to within five yards. According to the literature some owners have had their vehicles found within minutes. Sadly, we're not allowed to plant bugs in vehicles without the consent of the owner. It's regarded as unsporting. Going to court with evidence gathered in such a manner would be misguided and overoptimistic, like ringing the Scottish Assembly and asking to reverse the charges. These days we're not allowed to gain evidence by trickery, subterfuge or deviousness. Confessions are acceptable, most of the time, but not always, and video evidence is good. Courts love video evidence, because TV doesn't lie. Get a decent tape of a crime in progress, show it on Look North, and the villains queue up to shout:

  "It's me!" They're the same inadequate souls who appear on afternoon TV shows like Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer, confessing to owning a Barbour coat or having sexual relations with an armadillo. After that, putting your hand up for blagging Barclays Bank is positively high class. No, we couldn't fit the Transit with a bug, but Mr. Nelson could.

  "It's not continuous monitoring," Nigel warned. "They need alerting that the vehicle is on the move before they activate the bug. And they'll want a crime reference number."

  "Give them the last burglary number," Jeff suggested. "And once it's activated it should run forever. It's connected to the battery, I think."

  "OK," I said. "Let's go for belt and braces. First of all, find out exactly how the Tracker works, Jeff. Then, if you think it necessary, put out an APW on the brothers. That might give us some notice that they are in the country. Lastly, if you're still not convinced, ask Mr. Nelson to give us a nod when they are around. OK?"

  "Yep."

  I sent Mr. Nelson home with the WPC. His home, that is, not hers. As I walked to the door with them I said: "I believe you told us that your sons held shares in a bar in Tenerife, Mr. Nelson."

  "Aye, so they'm tell me."

  Any idea what it's called?"

  "Aye, it's called t'Pigeon Pie."

  "Really?" I said. You could have knocked me down with a Sally Lunn.

  Chapter 11

  It was back to being a small-town DI for a week. We had an average quota of muggings, fights and burglaries, and Gilbert asked me to go to his Chamber of Commerce meeting to talk about security cameras. In other words, to tell them that if they wanted them they'd have to pay for them. Highlight of the week was when the owner of a Toyota pickup caught a wheel clamper in the act and made a commendable attempt to force the clamp where most of us can only fantasise about. The Toyota owner appeared before the beak and the clamper appeared before a surgeon for some stitches. The good news was that they did his piles at the same time.

  We were hanging fire with the Fox job. A lot was resting on my meeting with him. I talked to Tregellis a couple of times and we discussed possibilities. Fox employed Kingston but might deny knowing him personally. If they were buddies we'd concentrate on Kingston, suggesting that he might be involved with several crimes, including the fire, and en
courage him to tell us what he knew about the man. If he said he didn't know him personally we'd switch tack. I'd bring Crosby into the conversation and tell Fox that we were looking into his ancestry, which was true. Tregellis had asked the War Crimes Bureau, which had extensive German-Jewish connections, to try to find any surviving relatives of a certain Johannes Josef Fuchs who fled Germany in 1940, aged about twelve. I'd asked Crosby to call in at his convenience and donate six hairs from his head, so we could do a DNA comparison with any relatives they located back in the Fatherland.

  Maybe I'd ask Fox if he wanted to make a similar donation.

  After that we'd talk to Kingston. We were flapping around in the dark, spreading shit and not knowing where it might land. We didn't even know if they talked to each other. The fallback plan was to arrest Fox and ask him some searching questions. We'd get no answers and have to release him, but there'd be leaks of information and the papers would sit up and take notice. Every one of them would put a specialist team on the Fox story and they'd turn up more dirt than we could dream about.

  Thursday morning Piers rang me from his home. They'd landed at Heathrow three hours earlier and he'd just staggered in, jet-lagged and weary. I imagined him with a five o'clock shadow and his bow tie askew and wondered what they'd thought of him in Hillbilly Land.

  "Have you brought Melissa back with you?" I asked.

  "No, but she said she'll come," Piers replied. "Those photographs were crucial. At first she denied ever knowing Kingston, but with them we were able to convince her otherwise. When she realised that the crap was about to hit the fan in a big way, and we were willing to make a deal with her, she became more co-operative."

  "What's she offering?"

  "First of all let me tell you about where she lives. It's a shanty town of trailers, not unlike some of those places you see from the train in north Wales, except it's not raining all the time. She lives with an older man who is supposed to be some kind of revolutionary poet or something. They have ties with a ranch up in the hills, and spend a lot of time there. I think it's probably where their redneck friends hang out. They're into the gun culture in a big way, the place was bristling with them."