by Vic Marelle
She had been embarrassed throughout the session, but afterwards it had got even worse. Every time she met one of the group she just knew from their expressions that they were mentally undressing her. She couldn’t look any of them in the eye – so she stopped going to the group. And for the same reason she couldn’t work in the tea shop on Tuesday evenings either. The final straw had been when Mike Johnson had put that sketch in his shop window. Up until then it had only been the art group that had known, but once the sketch was on show, all and sundry started coming to gaze, gawp – and to point their grubby little fingers at her. It just wasn’t nice at all. Of course it was fine for Mike Johnson because it was attracting people to his art sessions, and it was alright for the Windsor tea Rooms as well because it was attracting new clientele there too; come on, lets go and have a cuppa with the nude model. Both businesses were making money out of her misery. It just wasn’t fair.
No, the artist had not propositioned her and no, she had not flirted with him. What an imposition! He was old enough to be her dad for heavens sake. Actually, all the sessions were group sessions, she knew of no one-to-one sessions at all and definitely no sex. Mike wasn’t like that. He lived for his art. Entirely. Absolutely.
Well, thought Fraser, Helen might well hold Mike Johnson in high esteem, but when a young woman had entered The Palette just an hour and a half ago, hadn’t Mike Johnson immediately locked up and switched the window lights off? And hadn’t the two of them then gone upstairs, where the blinds had been immediately closed? And hadn’t everything stayed that way until five minutes ago when they had come back downstairs? Again, he looked across at the shop. The lights were still off but he could just about see the artist and the woman in the gloom, and they certainly seemed to be very familiar with each other. However it was interpreted, it was certainly a one-to-one session of some kind or other. But was it art?
Eight
Wandering over to his office window, Detective Inspector Don Radcliffe took a swig of his coffee – though calling the liquid coffee was erring on the generous – and took in the view. If peering through any of the police station’s windows was intended to provoke inspiration, at that particular moment it wasn’t delivering any degree of success. The sky was overcast and the view depressing.
Once an essential element of a central development that combined the local court, police, ambulance, and fire services on a rectangular plot, over time, what had seemed like forward thinking and an aid to efficiency had become just the opposite. Houses once lived in by policemen and firefighters so that they could quickly be on-the-spot and ready for action had been sold off. The fire station had passed its sell-by and needed replacing. Some police operations were being handled from a portable cabin and as more and more officers became car owners (not to mention the move from beat bobbies to car based operations), its car park had long since been closed to the public. And then had come the final straw. As one of many financial cuts put in-place by a new coalition government to correct the excesses of its predecessor, the court building had been closed.
From his window, Radcliffe stared out at further evidence of decline. Though lauded for its Victorian heritage and promoted by the council as England’s Classic Resort, the face of Southport had changed. And not everyone thought that that was for the better.
Directly opposite, what in the hey day of the British motor industry had been a showroom for British manufactured cars had been swallowed up and resurfaced as a Tesco Express. Just out of sight to his left was Southport’s famous Lord Street, once a centre of up-market shopping with furriers, chocolatiers, gown shops and other top drawer establishments. Now, despite its wide pavements and remaining iron awnings, all the classy shops had gone, replaced by Debenhams, Starbucks, Next, remainder bookshops, one of those dreadful shops where nothing costs more than one pound, and more charity shops than locals were comfortable with.
The phone on Radcliffe’s desk brought him up with a start. Modern telephones were confounded instruments. Why did phones now bleep, jangle, or even play a tune but never make the very sound that they should? What was wrong with the familiar ring of a telephone bell? You might offer to ring somebody later but you wouldn’t say that you would give them a chirp, a bleep, or a blast of Colonel Bogey would you? And when you did make a call, doubtless you would be greeted by a computer voice giving you a string of options instructing you to press one for this, two for that, or any other number dreamed up by the confounded computer. There was more chance of getting a full line of numbers on a lottery slip than proceeding through a computerised telephone system with correct numbers in less than twenty minutes.
With three major cases on the go and numerous others needing his input, the phone was both a blessing and a curse; the odds were equal on it either bringing instant information or wasting interminable time on useless conversation. On this occasion it was neither. The call was short and to the point. He was being summoned to a meeting with his immediate superior. The summons was not particularly welcome. Whatever the topic, you could not cover your backside where Chief Inspector Arthur Handley was concerned. Known colloquially as Handy Andy, Handley had been a bit of a whiz in his time so knew all of the dodges, which made it virtually impossible to dupe the guy. There was no going off on your own agenda because Handy Andy would always second-guess, not only your course of action, but even your thoughts – or so it seemed. But then again, if you needed support then you could bank on it. And when Handy Andy called, a trip down the corridor was non-optional.
……….
In contrast to the harsh vinegary taste of the discount store instant coffee he had left on his own desk, the rich aroma that greeted Radcliffe as he entered his superior’s office was closer to that of the finest Italian coffee house.
‘Thanks for coming Don,’ the chief said, indicating one of two chairs positioned facing each otherin front of his desk in an arrangement that put the visitor at a disadvantage, requiring him to squirm at right angles just to face the senior officer. ‘How are your cases going?’
Radcliffe knew what was coming next. He would be asked to drop one of his cases and put more effort into an alternative. Usually the case to be dropped would be the one Radcliffe was most interested in and the one to be favoured likely to have some connection with a local official using Handy Andy to his or her personal benefit. Currently however nothing seemed to be moving forward particularly quickly – and none had any connections to local dignitary either. Perplexed, Radcliffe waited on his superior for more clues.
‘Is there any progress on the Johnson attack?’
‘It’s reached a bit of a brick wall at the moment Arthur,’ he replied. The two men having been friends for many years, first names was the rule in private – the exception being when an unpalatable order was about to be meted out. ‘Johnson is still adamant that he recognised his brother-in-law’s voice but the bloke was seen elsewhere at the time. On the other hand, there’s a notion that Johnson might have been doing a bit more than giving art lessons at his studio, which opens up the possibility of a jealous husband on the rampage. I’ve got Kyle Fraser looking into that at the moment, but in reality we are not actually moving forward.’
‘And what about the cars?’
Car theft was not a new phenomenon, particularly in the tourist season when day-trippers flocked into town and, run ragged by hordes of young brats, left their cars unlocked. Handley was however referring to a higher than normal number of expensive cars going missing in recent weeks. On the basis that anybody able to buy a car worth almost as much as Radcliffe’s house could darn well go out and buy a replacement if it got nicked, Radcliffe hadn’t paid much attention to the thefts, delegating their investigation to lower ranks, justifying his lack of involvement by presenting it as being in the interests of good experience. How could that be explained without actually admitting a complete lack of interest on his part? The answer to that was with difficulty. Or where Handy Andy was concerned, not at all.
‘Car th
eft is a constant irritant Arthur.’ Hoping that the lack of detail available to him wouldn’t backfire, he continued. ‘But whether these more upmarket cars going AWOL are just coincidence or indicative of a new trend, or even interconnected for that matter, I couldn’t say. I’ve got a couple of constables checking them out as they pop up but there’s nothing jumping out at the moment.’
Leaning back in his chair, Handley dipped his head to peer over his half glasses at his subordinate, raising his eyebrows in an expression that shouted from the rooftops that he knew exactly why there had been no progress.
‘Come on Don.’ The eyebrows had lowered but the look remained. ‘You’ve had no interest from the start and the way you delegated the cases is tantamount to pigeon holing them. You can’t do that just because people are having their Mercs and Ferrari’s nicked while you are driving around in a repmobile.’
‘That’s a little unfair Arthur. There’s always been a bit of car theft and the trippers don’t help when they leave their cars unlocked or their keys lying about.’
‘Quite.’
Radcliffe could see that they were now coming to the point of the meeting. Hopefully he wasn’t going to be detailed to check up on stolen Nissan, Vauxhall or, God forbid, Tata pickups for the next fortnight. Handley’s inquisitive look had disappeared so no doubt some sort of pronouncement was coming. He was as easy to read as a first grade schoolbook. First he made himself comfortable and more relaxed, and then he would get all chummy to create a Mr Nice Guy impression. When he was in the ascendancy and clearly in his comfort zone, the instructions were about to be delivered. Wait for it – here comes Mr Chummy!
Reaching across to a side table where a coffee machine was going through the last rights, puffing, blowing and hissing a gorgeous smelling roast blend into a serving flask, he took two cups and filled them. ‘Is it still two sugars and one spoon of creamer Don?’
Of course it bloody was. The old fart had gone through this same charade so many times previously that Radcliffe often played with the idea of changing his preferences just to see if any notice would be taken. Privately he thought that if the truth be known, Handley would not be listening for a reply and would add the sugar and creamer as if by rote anyway.
Passing the aromatic brew over, Handley continued, ‘There maybe a connection between some of these latest car thefts Don, but I agree with you, I don’t think that they have anything to do with the hatches and shopping cars that get nicked on a normal basis. There is a world of difference between nicking an old VeeDub or a Fiat Panda and the theft of a virtually new luxury car and it needs sorting quickly before it gets out of hand. You say that the Johnson case isn’t going anywhere. If it is just a family feud with the brother-in-law then their solicitors can battle it out, and if it’s a love triangle he’ll get thumped again so we might get lucky with more clues. Either way, there’s no point wasting any more time on it. But the car thefts are looking nasty so I want you to take those over and see what you can find out. If you want to keep the Johnson case active, give it to the constables for the time being, but concentrate on the cars please Don.’
What a bummer. Car theft for heaven’s sake. Most of the owners of these high value chariots, or previous owners as they were now called, fell into the pompous pratt, self centred egomaniac, or effeminate hairdresser categories, none of which were his favourite category of person to spend time with, let alone sit with while they prattled on about the loss of their essential toys. In any case, car theft didn’t warrant an officer of his rank – did it?
‘Oh, come on Arthur, they are just cars when all’s said and done. Louise and Sean can handle it. Nicking a heap of tin surely isn’t as important as thrashing somebody within inches of his life. We’ve got to catch the culprit before Johnson gets whacked again Arthur, not after.’
‘We have at that Don,’ replied the Chief, ‘but just at the moment the Johnson case isn’t moving, while Councillor Ashcroft has had his nice new Bentley nicked right off of his driveway.’
So there it was. That was the crunch. Councillor Ashcroft and his beloved showing off Bentley. If Councillor Ashcroft’s employee had had his car nicked, nothing would have happened, but because it was Mr Golf Partner himself that had had his shiny new swanking machine stolen, everybody had to jump through the hoops.
‘With respect Arthur, it doesn’t make any difference whether the car belonged to a councillor or not, it’s still been stolen and that’s no different to any of the others that have disappeared. Louise and Sean can follow it up.’
‘I thought that too Don, but when Councillor Ashcroft called me I pulled the files to have a quick look so that I could be aware of the facts when I called him to get him off of our backs. When I checked it seemed to me that there might be a pattern beginning to emerge, and certainly there is a difference between the normal car thefts and these newer cases. The ordinary cars either turn up after a bit of joyriding or get broken for parts and we have a good idea who is doing what. These recent cases are altogether different though. None of them have turned up, they just disappear off the face of the earth. But that’s not what caught my eye Don. Each one looks like a one off case, but when you lump them all together it’s interesting. I went back eight months and what seemed to be random thefts turned into a series of groups, with similar numbers of luxury saloons, high performance Bimmers, and Italian supercars. I don’t know how to read it but it is too much of a coincidence.’ Picking a stack of folders up from one side of his desk, Handley dropped them down on the other side, next to Radcliffe.
‘I took these files from Louise and Sean, and now I’m passing them over to you. Give them the Johnson files and see if you can make sense of this.’
……….
Radcliffe cast his eyes down the list of stolen cars. First a Ferrari, then a Jaguar, followed by a Range Rover. Clearly each was an individual case. But when 47 cars over a period of nine months were considered they split ever so conveniently into groups of around six. In a luxury group there were four Bentley’s and two Rollers. An Italian supercar group comprised two Ferrari’s, one Maserati, a Pagani and two Lamborghini. A couple of groups had been repeated and with eight BMW’s, four Mercedes and five Jaguar’s, some groups were either more or less than the six car norm, but there was a general pattern that definitely looked interesting.
‘I’ve heard of Ferrari and Lamborghini, but what the devil is a Pagani?’ he asked the sergeant, accepted as Southport nick’s resident car enthusiast.
‘Another Italian supercar,’ came the quick response. ‘Came on the scene in the early nineties, set up by a bloke called Horacio Pagani in Modena, Italy. Incidentally, that’s where Ferrari came from.’
Looking at the list and Radcliffe’s scribbled attempts to group the stolen cars, Fraser pointed to the BMW, Jaguar and Mercedes groups.
‘You’ve made a mistake there,’ he remarked.
Radcliffe couldn’t see any errors in his scribbles. They didn’t fit the magic number six but eight, five and four were close enough not to matter.
‘OK clever clogs, You’ve lost me. Why don’t they split eight, five, four?
‘They do split that way by brand, but if you look at the models there’s a much better grouping. If you put the BMW M5 Series and the Merc SLS in a group of their own, the remaining three Bimmers fit nicely with the three Mercs in an exec group and the only group that isn’t six cars is the Jag group which is only five.’
Radcliffe looked perplexed. What the devil was an M5 Series, and why would three BMW’s fit better with some Mercedes cars than with other BMW’s?
‘Look at the actual models,’ said the sergeant. ‘One of the Mercs is an SLS AMG and five of the Bimmers are M’s which are really hot. They are super fast – and super expensive too, so they fit together as a luxury high performance group. Put the remaining Mercs and BMW’s together and hey presto, you have another group of six.’
Radcliffe thought for a moment. If the sergeant’s suggestion was correct then w
ith the exception of the five Jaguars, the whole inventory had been compiled into neat groups of six. So where did one group of five fit the picture? Raising his eyes, Radcliffe voiced the conclusion both men had reached.
‘Meaning that the next car to be nicked might be a Jag?’
‘It would seem logical I suppose,’ replied Fraser. ‘If you want me to follow up on what we have, shall I pass the Johnson files onto Louise and Sean?’
Radcliffe didn’t want to lose sight of the Johnson case but the spin put on the car thefts by Fraser had captured his imagination. You just didn’t get cars being stolen in batches like tins of beans on a supermarket shelf, so why did these fit so precisely into groups of six? Perhaps the thefts warranted more attention. And perhaps Kyle Fraser’s automotive knowledge might come in useful too.
‘No, not for the moment. You and I can work both the Johnson and cars cases together, but overall we will work as a foursome. Sean can concentrate on doing the legwork on the Johnson case and Louise on the cars.’
Radcliffe glanced back at the list. He had to agree, if only reluctantly, that Handy Andy did seem to have stumbled on something and that the sergeant’s information, if correct, definitely linked the thefts. But why were they stolen? Where had they disappeared to, and how?
‘Kyle, you are the car buff here. What’s the common denominator?’
‘I can’t see one,’ responded the sergeant, ‘other than regular groups of cars that is. Do you think that they were stolen to order?’
