On the left of the foyer was the large general office. Each of the six girls had her own word-processor, printer and telephone, with shared use of the fax and photocopier. All six were proficient in French, German, Spanish and Italian, while one also specialized in Japanese and another — Pat, in fact — in Russian.
Una hung her jacket on the coat rack and walked over to her desk, flicking through the pile of mail which lay, envelopes neatly slit open, awaiting her attention. She moved round behind the desk and had just seated herself when, following a knock on the door, the manageress came in.
Eve Bundy was in her early fifties, a trim, efficient woman with a lifetime spent in office management. Her short, well-styled grey hair and smart suit instilled confidence and she ran her staff firmly but fairly. She also doubled, when need arose, as Una’s private secretary.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Drew, but I wonder if you could spare a minute?’
Una had retained her maiden name for business purposes. ‘Of course, Mrs Bundy. Come and sit down.’
The woman did so, crossing her slender ankles. ‘It’s about Pat.’
Una looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘I had a phone call from her last night. She was very upset. She still is.’
Una said stiffly, ‘Mrs Bundy, she handed in her notice. I didn’t dismiss her.’
‘Yes, I know that.’ The woman flushed. ‘I wish you’d let me know her last piece of work was unsatisfactory. It might have been easier if I’d dealt with the matter.’
‘By which you mean,’ Una said drily, ‘that you’d have been more tactful.’ Mrs Bundy was the only person from whom she’d accept implied criticism. Similar instances had arisen before, when Una’s sharp tongue had caused upset or offence and the manageress had had to smooth things over.
Though her flush deepened, Mrs Bundy didn’t reply directly. ‘Although I’m not making excuses for her, she has been under a strain at home. Her daughter has chronic asthma, and I gather none of them has had a good night’s sleep in weeks.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Una sat back, tapping her pen on her desk and waiting for the manageress to come to the point. Which she now did.
‘The fact is, Miss Drew, she deeply regrets her outburst, apologizes for what she admits was slipshod work, and wonders whether you’d allow her to withdraw her notice.’
Una drew a deep breath of relief. ‘In the circumstances,’ she said, ‘I have no objection.’
*
Sergeant Jackson put his sandy head round Webb’s door.
‘Thought you’d want to know, Guv; another shop raid, and more serious this time. Someone’s been hurt.’
Webb swore softly. ‘Where was it?’
‘Patel’s the newsagent’s, Dick Lane.’
‘A racial attack?’
Jackson shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so. More likely opportunist, like the others.’
‘And someone’s hurt, you say?’
‘Mrs Patel, the owner’s wife. Don’t know the details; Joe Kenworthy phoned in a couple of minutes ago.’
Webb pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll take a look at this one myself, Ken. I was talking to DCI Bennett from Lethbridge; they’re having the same problem, same MO. Let’s see if we can nail them before they do any more damage.’
The previous day’s rain had cleared, the sky was high and blue with scudding clouds, and it was possible to believe that spring was after all just round the corner. Even Station Road looked quite pleasant, and after months of scuttling, heads bent, from one shelter to another, shoppers were thronging the pavements in the bright sunshine.
Jackson whistled softly as he turned the car into the narrow entrance of Dick Lane. In this backwater the shouts from the school playground contrasted sharply with the silent group huddled outside the newsagent. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, keeping them at bay.
Jackson, suddenly sobered, stopped whistling and drew the car into the kerb. Before he’d switched off the ignition Webb had the door open and was striding across the pavement.
The constable straightened. ‘If you wouldn’t mind going round the back, sir, to preserve the scene—?’
‘Of course.’ Webb walked swiftly down the narrow alley alongside the shop, pushed open a gate in the wall and let himself into the back premises.
The interior was dim after the bright morning. A young Asian woman was sitting on a chair clutching her arm, round which a hasty bandage had been wrapped. Her husband stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, while he tried to answer the police sergeant’s questions. Through the door leading to the shop, Webb caught sight of an open cash till and empty shelves.
Thomson broke off as he came into the room. ‘Morning, sir. An ambulance is on its way, but when they heard it wasn’t urgent they said it could be twenty minutes.’
Webb nodded. ‘Mr and Mrs Patel? DCI Webb, Shillingham CID. What exactly happened?’
The slightly built Asian moistened his lips. ‘Well, as I’ve been telling the officer here, the morning rush was over and about nine-thirty I came through here as usual for a smoke, leaving my wife in charge. I start work at five every morning,’ he added defensively, as though they considered him to blame for his wife’s injury.
‘I’m sure you’d earned a break, sir.’
Patel nodded gratefully. ‘Well, I’d just picked up the paper when I heard a commotion at the front, and my wife cried out. I rushed back and there were these three men. One held a knife against Sharmilla, one was at the till, and the third was sweeping packs of cigarettes off the shelves into a black plastic bag.’
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking nervously in his throat. ‘Well, of course I shouted and ran forward, and the one with the knife slashed at my wife’s arm, yelling that if I made another move, it would be her throat next time.
‘And — that was it. It was all over in a minute. The other two ran out, and the one holding my wife dragged her to the door. I thought — I thought for a moment they were taking her with them. Then he suddenly flung her away, dashed out and slammed the door behind him. It’s a wonder the glass didn’t break,’ he ended prosaically.
The girl on the chair made a whimpering sound.
Webb bent down to her. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ She nodded, her eyes full of tears. ‘The ambulance shouldn’t be long.’ He straightened. ‘Now, Mr Patel, these men; can you describe them?’
‘Not really. They wore woollen helmets, with holes for their eyes.’
‘What colour helmets?’
He hesitated. ‘Dark green, I think. Yes, green.’
‘What else were they wearing?’
‘Jeans, leather-type jackets, trainers.’
Yob uniform, Webb thought in frustration, worn, unfortunately, by half the male population.
‘Were they tall, short, fat, thin?’
Patel shrugged helplessly. ‘Average, that’s all I can say.’
‘And their voices — any accent?’
‘Only one of them spoke. I think he was white, but apart from that—’ and he shrugged again.
Perhaps it was optimistic to expect the man to identify an accent. ‘Did you notice which way they went? If they had a car?’
Patel shook his head. ‘I was too busy seeing to my wife.’
Webb said reflectively, ‘You say you always come through here about nine-thirty. Might they have known that? That your wife would be alone in the shop at that time?’
The man stared at him in horror. ‘You think they could be customers?’
‘If not, they certainly struck lucky.’
A siren sounded outside, becoming progressively louder, and through the shop door Webb saw an ambulance draw up. The crowd on the pavement parted like the Red Sea, allowing the men through with a stretcher, and a moment later they appeared at the back door.
A swift examination, however, showed the stretcher to be unnecessary, and within minutes the young woman was being led outside.
Patel turned to Webb. ‘Sir
, have you finished here? I must lock up and go with my wife.’
‘Go by all means, but there’s no need to lock up; scenes-of-crime officers will be here shortly, and in the meantime PC Kenworthy will remain on guard outside.’
The man hesitated briefly, then hurried after his wife. Webb and Thomson conferred for a moment before following him. By the time they reached the pavement, the crowd, still for the most part silent, was watching the ambulance disappear down the road.
‘Did any of you see what happened?’ Webb asked them.
They shook their heads. They were mostly women, some middle-aged with shopping baskets, some younger, with babies in prams. But a man at the back spoke up.
‘I saw the van arrive,’ he volunteered.
‘What van?’
‘That the robbers got out of. Blue Bedford. Can’t remember the number, but it was B-reg.’
Webb’s voice quickened with interest. ‘So you saw them go into the shop?’
‘Not exactly. I just saw it draw up as I turned into my gate.’ He nodded at a house across the road. ‘But a moment later there was a crash as they slammed the shop door and I ran to the window to see what was going on. That’s when I caught a glimpse of the last one getting in.’
‘Description?’
‘Quite heavily built, wearing jeans and a jacket. He pulled off the helmet as he shut the van door — dark hair, I think, but like I said, I only caught a glimpse.’
‘Did you see any of the others?’
‘The driver stayed in the van, but from where I was, I could only see his arm and shoulder through the window.’
‘You’re sure he didn’t get out?’
‘’Course I’m sure; he had the engine running all the time.’
So there were four of them. Webb turned to the intent, listening faces. ‘Can anyone add to that?’
A young woman said hesitantly, ‘I did see them run out, three of them, but I was quite a way down the road. One was carrying a black bin-bag. The last one flung himself into the back of the van as it was already moving off.’
‘Thank you. Anyone else?’
There was no further response.
‘Right, well, if you two would give your names and addresses to the officer here, we’ll contact you later for statements.’
The young woman looked alarmed. ‘I won’t have to go to court, will I? I don’t want them knowing who I am.’ She shuddered.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. All right, ladies and gentlemen, the excitement’s over, you can go home now.’
And with a brief nod which encompassed them all, he climbed into the car beside Jackson.
During the afternoon, the report came through on the shop. No fingerprints on the till — the thief had worn woollen gloves — but a few fibres had been lifted from it and the door handle.
They’d had more luck with the floor, though. The pavement had been wet after the previous night’s rain, and there was a wealth of blurred foot marks. SOCO had retrieved clear prints of two different shoes which, since they’d been superimposed on the others, had presumably been left by the gang. Both had been made by trainers.
‘Until we match up the fibres and the trainers, we’re no further on,’ Webb commented gloomily. ‘Can you think of any villains with this MO, Alan?’
DI Crombie regarded him over the top of his spectacles. ‘The only ones that come to mind — Johnnie Harris and his gang — are inside at the moment.’
‘Sure? No chance they’ve been let out early?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘Might be worth phoning the nick to make sure they haven’t legged it over the wall.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it; they’re still touchy over that hanging they had.’
‘OK, so suppose Harris is in the clear — for this one, at least. Anyone else?’
‘There are the Barclay twins, but they’ve been keeping their noses clean lately.’
‘No harm in sending Partridge and Manning round for a chat. What about the snouts? Pussy Barlow still on the ball?’
Crombie wrinkled his nose. The little ex-cat burglar had a peculiarly pungent aroma which tended to cling to the station walls after his visits. ‘I’m glad to say I’ve not seen him lately. I’ll have a word with Jones, he’s his snout.’
Webb glanced at the reports on his desk. ‘House-to-house didn’t get us very far. At that time of day, the people living opposite were either out at work or washing up breakfast dishes in the kitchen; not, anyway, staring usefully out of their front windows.’
He reached for his phone. ‘I’ll just give Malcolm Bennett a bell; we’re keeping each other informed on these raids.’
He doodled on his pad till Malcolm’s voice came over the line
‘Hi, Malc; how did the family celebrations go?’
‘Fine, thanks, though I could do without the after-effects.’
Webb grinned. ‘Well, if you didn’t already have a headache, this would give you one: there’s been another raid.’ Rapidly he apprised him of the details. ‘At least we’ve got fibres black wool — and the shoe-prints. It’s a start. We’re doing a check on all B-reg blue Bedfords, but it could well turn out to have been stolen. And that’s about it for the moment. Hope your head improves — take a couple of aspirins!’
Bennett smiled bleakly as he put the phone down, then looked up as a tap came on his door and a DC put his head round.
‘Someone to see you, Guv. Your son-in-law.’
Bennett frowned. ‘Neil? All right, you’d better show him in.’
What the hell did the boy want? he thought irritably. As he’d mentioned to Dave, the headache which had been threatening all day was now bearing down painfully and for once in his life he was clock-watching. All he wanted was to go home, settle back in his own armchair and have forty winks. A sign of age, no doubt — or perhaps just the unaccustomed wine last night.
Even at the best of times, he thought ruefully, Neil was one of the last people he’d want to see. He’d tried to like him, God knows, for Sally’s sake and to preserve family harmony, but the boy didn’t make it easy. He was still smarting from the barbed comments over dinner about his lunch with Dave. Neil came into the office looking unusually ill at ease and closed the door carefully behind him. Bennett nodded to the chair opposite his desk and he sat down.
‘Now, what’s all this about? I’ve not much time to spare.’ Neil cleared his throat. ‘Actually, it’s a bit embarrassing.’ Bennett leaned back in his chair and eyed him shrewdly.
‘In my experience, when people say that, they’re usually after a loan.’
To his surprise, the young man flushed scarlet.
‘My God, don’t say I’ve hit the nail on the head?’
‘I’m afraid you have, yes.’ His eyes fell before his father-in-law’s suddenly gimlet gaze. ‘I made a rather unwise investment which didn’t turn out as expected.’
‘Which race was it in?’
Neil’s eyes flew to his face. ‘Now look—’
‘All right, only a stab in the dark. But if you’re strapped for cash, why don’t you approach your own father?’
The young man’s knuckles whitened. ‘I did. He couldn’t help.’
‘So you reckoned that a flush policeman, who can afford to splash out on lunch at the Grill, would be a better bet?’
Neil said in a strangled voice, ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize. But we really are in a jam, and I—’
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Well, my immediate need is for five thousand, but—’
‘Five thousand? God, I thought you were going to touch me for a couple of hundred!’
‘It’s only a temporary hitch. In a month or two, everything will have worked itself out.’
‘I wish I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that. So your father won’t play ball, eh? Does he know something I don’t?’
‘He’s — helped me out before,’ Neil said unwillingly.
&nbs
p; ‘And have you repaid him?’
‘Not yet.’ The admission was barely audible.
‘Then can you give me one sound reason why I should throw good money after bad?’
‘For your daughter and grandson?’
Bennett’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s got nothing to do with them, has it? I’m willing to bet they wouldn’t see a penny of anything I gave you now.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Neil, I don’t think it’s in your best interests. If this has happened before, it’s time you learned to use your money more responsibly, and you won’t do that if you go bleating to someone every time you get your fingers burned.’
‘But I really am desperate, Malcolm! If I don’t come up with the money, I stand to lose everything I’ve put in already. Look — I don’t quite know how to say this, but — well — you’ll be leaving something to Sally eventually, won’t you? If you don’t want to lend me the money, how about giving her something on account? I’d pay her back later.’
Bennett gave him a long, hard look, and Neil’s own eyes fell. Then the older man said heavily, ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. If you’re so desperate, how about selling that flash car of yours? Or that set of golf clubs you’re so proud of? Let’s face it, you’re not exactly destitute. You can raise the money all right if you have to, but it will mean putting yourself out and no doubt losing a bit of face in the process. Which, all things considered, might be no bad thing. Now get out, for God’s sake, before I lose my temper completely, and don’t ever mention this matter again.’
For a long moment the young man held his gaze defiantly. Then, without a word, he got up and walked out of the room. Bennett sat staring after him. Then, slowly, he lowered his aching head into his hands.
3
Barbara Wood dismissed her class and, having gathered her things together, followed them more slowly down the black-and-white tiled corridor as far as the staff-room. Her last period of the day was a free one, and she was grateful.
David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone Page 3
