by D Attrill
“Yeah, do.”
“I think someone’s been after you guys by the way.”
“Could you get back in touch please, Greg?” Layton called from the depths “I think that might be a pissed off park-keeper wanting a little talk.”
“It’s a chap from Saddleworths Scrap Merchants actually. According to Amy, they’ve rung repeatedly, since Thursday.”
As Armitage made a call at the medical room, Garstone went straight back to the office. He saw the slip of paper on Leyton’s desk and called the number, craftily using her receiver.
“Ullo, Saddleworth’s.” A surly, middle-aged voice slurred on the end.
“Morning, sir. D.C. Garstone, Midelson Road police. I understand you called.”
“Aye. Umpteen times.” This man sounded unamused at his delay “We had summat of a do, here, Thursday morning.”
“Got you sir. Go on.”
“Some bloke with a car came through, were wanting after a couple of bits and bobs. My assistant supervisor talked him against it, but he still went wading inside.”
“I’m afraid we don’t deal with these minor cases, sir.” Garstone looked round himself, then then decided to risk it whilst all was quiet.
“OK, go ahead.” he whispered “Taken anything?”
“He said he was after a spare exhaust or summat like. Couldn’t catch what he were saying though: he spoke so fast, it might have as well been Japanese.”
“Sir, once again, did this guy steal, or try to steal, anything from your premises?”
“Might have done. Problem were, he was out the gates again, even before the dogs had time.”
Garstone had only one way left of finding if this guy was a time waster. “What sort of car - can you remember?”
“Vauxhall Corsa, I think.”
Garstone didn’t listen to the answer. He was looking round to see if Leyton had returned.
She had indeed strode into the room, that very second.
As he got down the details, Leyton got out one of her wide-eyed smiles.
“It looks like we have finally found our way out of the office.” She was beckoning Garstone to grab his coat.
Leyton wondered if she had the wrong directions, as she soared up the leafy A-road, away from Sheffield’s hectic suburbia. A signposted turn-off finally showed, just as they reached the village of Deepcar.
She trekked down the short, dilapidated driveway she’d found, where only an estate of abandoned businesses stood to welcome her party. The one active gate they saw was the second at right – a dark red double steel door that stood invitingly ajar. Behind it, a rusting barrier appeared raised as if on a permanently redundant basis.
“Sc…l…wths.” Armitage read the surviving letters aloud. “Must be in disguise - they’re run down as the rest of them are.”
Leyton slinked warily into the drive. She watched her way along an awfully decomposing ground, while ignoring the chatter from the back of the car.
Her worst obstacle was the wide figure that came, pounding towards her car. The man’s cubish, moustached head, and an almost hidden tie, made him out as a manager right away.
Taking off his hard hat, he came right by Leyton’s window.
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, luv.”
“I believe you reported an attempted theft, sir.” Leyton displayed her card.
“Ah... yeah.”
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s ok. It’s just I weren’t told to expect a…” the manager froze… “Ok, right well...you want to park up next to us cabin? Assistant supervisor’s out at moment so he won’t mind.”
Leyton obliged. She found the space between the markings much more generous than anything at the station.
Climbing out of her door, she saw both DCs already staring across the site. She swallowed her observations as they eyed the car shells, stacked up at least seven metres high.
“He’s not having us look through all that is he?” Armitage whispered to Garstone.
As they were motioned through the fence into the scrap vehicle area, he probably worked out the answer.
Leyton however hated the sound behind her, more than the sight in front. She winced at the whirring crusher motor, as someone else’s one-time pride and joy was being pulped into oblivion. At least it didn’t have a body inside this time, unlike one of Garstone’s favourite Bond films.
“Saddleworth’s me name, I forgot to say. Brian Saddleworth.”
“The boy behind the business?” Leyton nodded.
“Aye, literally, now. Took over when me dad died, late twenty-twelve”
Not sounding one for conversations, Saddleworth stopped to point them ahead.
“Down there, somewhere, that were where he went: about fourth to the right. Took off like a rocket, he did. Take care how you go, any road. Make sure you stick to them flat bits, alright?”
“Thanks.” Leyton let Garstone - the expert on all such gristle - guide her to their alleged destination. Brambles hung horizontally across the aisle, looking to grow from within the vehicles themselves. Even Leyton ended up studying the various wrecks as they worked past each pile. The eerie face, of a black Ford XR2’s rear lights and plate stared out at her. A rusty smell swept her away as she remembered her grandfather’s old shed, and also the summer bench he’d left unfinished at the time of his passing. As she was forced to look the other way, a silver VW Polo set her afreeze with further emotion. Her first ever car had been one of those - an A-level present from her parents.
“Shag me laughing.” Garstone had stopped sharply, right in front. “Take a butcher’s at this, both of you.”
Leyton and Armitage stumbled through, into a square-like clearing.
Garstone was standing in the middle, looking down on a lake of old reg plates scattered everywhere round him.
“Spare exhausts, my arse.”
“Sleeves rolled up, boys.” Leyton told them “we may just have something to look at here, I reckon.”
(ii)
Becky did indeed possess the nerve to return to Fiona’s after her unexpected scolding earlier this morning. Arriving back at 28 Primula Drive, she felt uneasy about ringing the bell, so she batted the door timidly with her knuckle. She was finally, although slowly replied by the occupant.
“Hi...” Becky became very wary of her own words - she didn't dare bring up the topic unless Fiona was to.
“Are you alright?” Fiona asked, sounding unsteady. “You look a wee bit spooked, duck.”
“I was just rehearsing my apologies.”
“For whit? About the toy? Aw, forget all about that. It’s water undae the bridge. Come, make yerself comfy.”
Becky was shown in, unsure if she was talking to a twin sister of Fiona’s instead.
Her employer was suddenly as merry as ever again, offering her a big mug of coffee and a couple of chocolate brioches.
Scarcely minutes later, with Fiona off out to catch the ‘weekend shop’, Becky was left to her own devices again.
It was so much like earlier had just been a dream. Seeing the broken bus lying on the table established this for herself. Fiona would have put it back on the stair if she’d really meant it earlier.
It didn’t feel that real to her even now - why would someone leave her child with a sitter just for an hour at the shops? Surely her boyfriend’s wallet wasn’t that expansive.
She ordered herself not to ask Fiona questions: it could prove intrusive as well as foolish. Becky got on with her latest session, trying to keep her head free from rubbish. She added the final two splashes into Izzy’s bottle, ensuring he had the designated amount. Fiona was one person whose bad books she was determined not to get into again in the space of one morning. She still confided in herself that her outburst had been a one-off meltdown - everyone had their ‘times’. Becky thought it best simply to chill out herself: enjoying another morning keeping Izzy entertained, as well as being entertained by him.
Screwing the bottle tight,
she then watched his eyes widen as it sailed towards him - a sight Becky treasured in every child she’d ever sat. Izzy took a notably shorter swill from the bottle this time. He then just sat up and gazed at her as she held it waiting for the next.
“Like another drink then, little man?” she gently offered, bringing the bottle nearer to him. “Come on then. One… Two, …open wide…Thre….”
Izzy hesitated slightly then put his small teeth round the bright red teat. After supping on it only briefly, he suddenly backed away.
“Ahhhhh.” she chuckled, “I know what it is you want.” She fumbled round inside the fridge door. “Izzy wants some more brekky, eh?”
She placed the Chicken & Ham Harricotts on the table and re-applied his bib.
“Here it co-omes.” she sung, propelling an overladen spoonful towards him. “Open wi-i-ide, it’s a big one for you this time.”
Izzy’s lips stayed shut in reaction.
“No, come on, Izzo, heh heh, I can’t feed you through a mouth that’s not open can I? Let’s see those lovely teeth of yours.”
Izzy maintained the stance, much to her surprise.
“Oh dear. Doesn’t Izzy-Wizzy want his seconds then?”
Kneeling down, she looked at him. His eyes had dropped, as if he wasn’t getting something else he’d expected. Giving up on hints, she reached across the table for the latest tasks, basically yesterday’s with a couple of extra entries scribbled on the bottom.
“Erm….that’s right… tha-a-atssss…ok too….done both those….” she pondered as she thumbed along the entries…. “erm….erm…. oh… hold on…”
She folded the top half of the sheet away so the bit she was reading would stand out.
“….Yeah…11am, ...bed till dinner, unless hungry....TOYS. Yep, that’ll be it. Oh Becky, you silly old fruit.”
Lifting Izzy out of his seat, Becky galloped upstairs and placed him upright into his cot.
“There you go.” She sat him so that he had the PlayRail’s Sqeezy Shapes hanging in front of him.
She sat him so that he had the Playrail's Squeeze shapes hanging in front of him.
While Izzy played away, she plumped for the bedroom's eye-catching violet-blue finish which she could see through the railings of the cot. Although it was showing signs of degradation, children's stickers had still survived, that dated at least two generations down the line. ‘Cabbage Patch Kids’ faces stared at her from all corners, amidst a ‘George, Zippy and Bungle’ and at least half of a full ‘Transformers’ collection. An old tallboy cupboard standing near the door looked so old and unused that it might have any dust left to drop. Above her, a stripy black/white light shade shadowed down on the single bed in the corner. All other daylight came from outside via the small window, which had a quarterlight, the size of a cereal box. It was a wonder as to the point of having curtains. Stuff piled on the bed seemed to have arrived since yesterday; there were endless bags and a bulky cardboard box.
She could smell food coming from around one of them.
It was actually off her hand. She realised she’d forgotten to wash this morning's breakfast away.
“Auntie Becky just needs to go to the wee-wee room.” She watched down on Izzy, who was obviously more interested in his games than her. "Would you like to play me a tune while I'm in there?”
She handed him the two PlayRail shapes closest - the blue star and the green square - then shot guiltily into the bathroom. Turning the hot tap on, Becky totally smothered her hands in soap and prayed that none of the chocolate brioche, encrusted in her palms, had passed to Izzy by accident. That would be fatal for getting her way back onto Fiona’s good side. Trying to hurry, before her employer’s heating bill peaked, she yanked off the hot and applied both hands to the cold instead. As the copper pipes continued their song, another high-pitched sound joined in - that of a very young male child…crying.
Izzy’s howls seemed louder and also pained.
Becky jogged back into the bedroom to see what the matter was this time round.
Izzy had fallen over in the cot. He was obviously trying to reach the two other toys on the PlayRail furthest away, yet his little limbs had proven too short to stretch. Becky tried not to forget the downfalls of his disability.
“It’s Ok,” She calmed him “Auntie Becky’s here.”
She lifted the bawling tot upright, desperately hoping there would be no visible injuries.
Noting the position of the PlayRail’s Squeezie Shapes, she slid the green and blue across to group with the others and then helped Izzy towards them again.
The tot suddenly quietened, as if he had a switch on the side of his head.
He took a couple of lunges forward at the toys, tugging them almost right off. He was giggling uncontrollably, as much as he’d just cried. Becky watched as he swung them about, boisterously, batting them like a ping pong. She borrowed the other two and slid them back and forth very slowly, as to tease him slightly. It only prolonged his laughter, which by now was nearly deafening.
Nonetheless, the sound of a door mechanism downstairs succeeded in disturbing the moment.
“HELLO-O-O!” sung Fiona was singing aloud, almost choir-like as she stepped in, below. “You up there, lovey?”
“No, I’m down here now.” Becky humoured, skipping down the stairs to greet her back.
“Aye, and he’s still up there….everyone’s somewhere different, heh heh.”
She laughed, disarming herself of two bagfuls of Spar groceries.
“He’ll be fine on his own for a moment.”
“He sounds it. Whit’s he uptae, anyhows?”
“He’s just got the Playrail going. He does get a little enthusiastic doesn’t he, especially for one who can’t stand or walk.”
“Disnae let nothin’ stop him, I tell ye. He’s gonnae become a hell of a rock star, one day.”
While Fiona was making upstairs to see him, Becky prepared herself another coffee, and one for her host. As soon as she’d unscrewed the lid she savoured the aroma: you could drink this stuff just by smelling it. The moment lasted, only to be ruined by a huge gushing genie of steam from the kettle.
She grabbed a second mug.
“BECKY, GET THE FUCK UP HERE RIGHT AWAY!”
Answering her friend’s sudden shriek, she stuck the mug on the worktop and returned up to the bedroom.
The second she entered, she was landed on furiously by Fiona.
“What do you call that then?” she was scowling, pointing towards the cot.
“It’s h...his PlayRail.” Becky replied, registering the object in question.
“No’ give me that crap!” Fiona manhandled her across “It wasn’t like that when I went out, half nine!”
“I adjusted a couple of the Shapes slightly, so he could play with them more easily.” Becky admitted innocently “I thought y....”
“I thought I told you no’ to move his things about.”
“He fell over in the cot. I had to do something.”
“Why don’t you do something, now... like get the fuck out my house?” Fiona was hollering, her face having turned burgundy. “You're no’ fit, lookin’ after ma bairn, let alone no one else’s!”
Becky turned away, her eyes bagging up with tears. Scuttling downstairs, she picked up her bags, and checked quickly for any items she’d left on the breakfast bar earlier. She then made a distressed, though discreet exit.
(iii)
Wearing men’s style shoes certainly paid a dividend for Leyton in the right places: strictly not least on this sea of steel excrement she was forced to tread. Dozens of rusting shapes sat underneath her feet, just as if a floor had last existed fifty years ago. Whether it were exhausts, suspension remnants, grilles, rotting maidenheads or even registration plates she picked up to look at, the orange darkening dust made up an irritating gas, filling the wintry air. Still, to all the three detectives sifting amongst it, some things went into territory.
Singling out as many W-reg plates
as they could from the detritus around them didn’t take an age. Most cars stored here, seemed 15-20 years old on average. Either way, it was likely their assailant had chosen this place already aware that plenty of plates were here, even if he had entered the yard under a false pretence.
The theory was difficult to hold onto. She struggled to find anything else on the floor that was fully intact. Tons of rusted shapes sat around her feet; yet even as a driver she wouldn't recognise most without Garstone’s expertise. Her DC didn't appear much more clued-up himself. He stood there studying them like pieces off a crashed sci-fi starship.
Leyton thought it a wonder that this theft had even got as far as ‘attempted' - there was scarcely anything salvable enough to stuff inside one’s own jacket. She finally gave up getting her hands dirty, and passed the various sprockets on to Armitage to make sense of. The best match her second DC could manage was ‘possibly a bit from his father’s old ’72 Triumph Dolomite.’
While the boys were occupied, she pressed herself to a spot of self-imposed role play, putting herself in the shoes of an average scrapyard thief. She needed to test out a theory for herself - how likely realistically could someone tiptoe in and take a complete exhaust away under his arm in two seconds?
She saw one of the shells nearest, a silver-blue Datsun, long devoid of its driver's door.
Loads of stuff must have gradually gathered inside here - scrap workers usually slung things to one side whilst not sure yet about slinging or selling.
This idea also proved useless without a torch at hand. The November sunset seemed to fall at 2.15 in the afternoon; despite being bereft of a door the bodies were still virtually pitch black inside the footwell.
(Lost 2.5 minutes there already.)
She kept picking out different bits, none of which resembled anything exhaust-related.
As the canary-coloured sky above her formed a fried-egg combination with the clouds weaving slowly by, warring words between her two DCs summoned her back to the real world.
“Do you remember what it is we’re looking for?” Garstone had grabbed a plate from the pile.
