by Salkeld, J J
‘So do you know who’s been shooting on your land, say in the last year or so?’
‘No, but Bobby Sanderson, our farm manager, will do for sure. Shall I give him a ring and ask him to drop in? He won’t be far away.’
Plouvin reached into the pocket of his green cord trousers, and eventually fished out an old mobile phone that looked as if it had been run over by a tractor.
‘Bobby? It’s me. Look, could you drop in to the house for a minute? Yes, now. There are a couple of Her Majesty’s finest here, and they’d like a word with you. No, coppers, they’re cops. OK, see you in a minute.’
Plouvin put the phone back in his pocket.
‘Can I offer you two officers a drink while you wait?’
‘No, thanks’ said Hall. ‘I assume that Mr. Sanderson isn’t far away.’
‘Two minutes, tops. He was helping a couple of the lads with hay-making.’
‘Tell me’ said Mann, ‘do you keep any shotguns, or other weapons, in the house?’
‘Oh yes. We’ve got three shotguns, all licensed. Would you like to see them?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Follow me then. The gun cupboard is in my office.’
Hall got the impression that very little work got done in Plouvin’s office, and the whisky tumbler on the desk confirmed that impression. It was almost the only object in the room that looked as if it had been handled recently. Plouvin fished about in his pocket again, produced some keys, and unlocked the gun cupboard. Then he unchained the guns. Mann took each gun out in turn, broke it, and examined each weapon carefully.
‘And your cartridges, sir?’
Plouvin handed over a metal case, which Mann opened and noted down the brand of cartridges inside.
‘None of these guns has been fired recently. Am I right?’
‘Yes, certainly. I can’t remember the last time I used one of them, and Bobby Sanderson has his own. Of course my brother does too. He inherited the good guns, needless to say, along with the house. They’re a metaphor, if you like.’
Mann returned the cartridges without comment, and placed the guns back in the case. Then he watched Plouvin lock up. They heard Plouvin’s name being called from somewhere in the building.
‘In here, Bobby. In my office.’
Hall decided that Bobby Sanderson was about sixty, though it was hard to tell because of the farmer’s tan, and also concluded that he didn’t much like David Plouvin. It wasn’t difficult to guess that: it was something about the way he stood and listened to what his boss had to say. Hall thought he’d seen Ray Dixon adopt much the same posture when Hall was speaking. Plouvin was asking if Sanderson shot regularly in the fields around Long Meg.
‘Aye, a few of us shoot around about all these fields, pretty regular, like’ he said.
‘Could I have a list of the names and addresses of the other shooters?’ said Mann.
‘No problem. They’ll all have licenses, like, no problem there.’
‘I’m sure they will’ said Mann, ‘we just want a quick chat, that’s all.’
Ten minutes later the two policemen were standing back in the yard.
‘How long since those guns were last used?’ asked Hall.
‘A good while, months I’d say.’
‘But not years?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why, do you want the lab to take a look? I expect he’d give them to us, voluntary like if we asked. Because if one of them did shoot our victim then even pissed-up Plouvin must know that we can’t match back to the weapon.’
‘No, let’s leave it. I was just curious. Come on, let’s go and call on your friend Christopher.’
The two men walked out of the yard, and as they headed for the big house the heavens opened, without so much as a raindrop of warning. By the time Hall caught up with Mann under the shelter of the massive porch the rain was bouncing off the gravel. Hall could feel the water running off his hair and under his collar. It didn’t take Christopher long to answer the door, and he didn’t comment on the state of the two officers.
‘You want to see my guns?’ he said.
‘Your brother called, I take it’ said Hall, noticing Mann’s confused expression. The twins did seem to have that effect on people.
‘He did. The stories of twins’ telepathy are greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid. Sometimes I do know exactly what my brother is thinking, but only if he tells me. Anyway, follow me. They’re through here.’
The two policemen followed Plouvin along some kind of service corridor, and into a room on the right hand side. As well as a gun case there was a long bench, an oak cupboard and a few pairs of boots, and some crusty looking coats on a stand. It looked as if the place hadn’t been entered in years.
‘I’m not the shooting type’ said Plouvin, over his shoulder. Then he walked forward, and ran his hand along the top of the cupboard until he found the key to the gun cupboard. Hall could see that Mann was going to say something, so he held his finger to his lips. Plouvin didn’t see, because he was trying to get the case unlocked.
‘My father always said there was a knack to this lock’ he said, stepping back and holding up the key. ‘But, needless to say, I don’t seem to have it. He wouldn’t be surprised either, I’m sure.’
‘May I?’ said Mann, who took four or five attempts to get the lock to turn. When it did open there was a loud grinding sound.
‘I’d give that a drop of oil if I were you, sir’ said Mann. He took out all five guns from the cupboard one-by-one, looked at each in turn, then put them back.
‘Do you know when these were last fired?’ he asked.
‘I don’t, sorry. Certainly not in my time here. My older brother might have used them of course, but you’d be going back a few years now.’
‘Two years, isn’t it, Mr. Plouvin?’ asked Hall.
‘Ah, yes, that would be about right. I don’t remember the exact date that he left, but I’ve got all the paperwork from the lawyers if you want me to check.’ Plouvin looked at Mann. ‘Affairs of the heart, Sergeant. What are we to do?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir’ said Mann, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
‘I find that hard to believe, Inspector’ said Plouvin.
DCI Hall laughed nearly all the way back to the car. ‘Well at least you got a promotion out of it. I think you’ve made a friend there, mate.’
Ray Dixon didn’t bother driving all the way back to Kendal to change. He kept an old leather jacket in the boot of his car, and with that on and his tie off he felt ready for his Police-sponsored pub crawl. He didn’t even mind that he’d be on soft drinks, except for a half with his pie. The job wouldn’t be right otherwise.
And if DCI Hall had been able to see Dixon that afternoon he would have been surprised, and at least mildly irritated, to see him driving past several likely looking pubs, because he had absolutely no intention of starting with the ones nearest Long Meg. Ray Dixon was heading straight for Appleby. He’d been a copper for a long time, and he was certain that if it wasn’t for all that political correctness everyone would have agreed with his assessment from the off. Their victim was a Traveller, just had to be.
It was only tea time when he arrived in Appleby, but the town was already heaving. There were 4x4s and panel vans abandoned everywhere, lots of uniformed Police, the odd pair of slightly nervous looking RSPCA Inspectors, and locals who looked like they were all hurrying home, before the real fun and games began. Dixon found a parking place up by the castle and walked down the hill towards the church. It was drizzling, and none too warm, but he didn’t mind. He’d be inside in a bit.
The first pub he went into was already very busy, with groups of men drinking hard and fast, but Dixon still heard the volume drop before he even reached the bar. His old leather jacket seemed to have lost its magic, because he was sure he’d never been identified as a copper so fast in his life.
But he didn’t mind that he’d been spotted, and he just stood and waited his turn at the bar. While he
was waiting he had a good look round the room, not at the people but at the plates of food in front of some of them. He sniffed the air, and he was trying to calculate the meat to gravy ratio in the pies. He decided that he could do better. So he just ordered a mineral water. ‘A what?’ the barman had asked, and then Dixon flashed his Warrant Card and showed him the picture of the Long Meg corpse.
‘That’s him you dug up at the stones, is it?’
‘Yes. Have you seen him before? In here, like.’ Dixon had to lean right across the bar so that the publican could hear him.
The publican shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t. He’s not local, definitely not a regular anyway. But if you’re here because you think he might be a Traveller then I’ve no idea. I just take their money, and try to make sure that they’re not taking mine. I don’t look at their faces. When they’ve had a few trouble can flare up over the slightest thing, believe me.’
‘Have you thought about closing while the Fair’s on?’
‘Of course I have. We used to do that, years ago. But now we need the money, so we take the risk. There’s just no choice these days.’
Dixon thanked him, and did his best to get round the tables, showing his picture as he went. Some of the groups of men turned their backs, but a few were happy to talk, though not for long. Dixon was careful not to ask intrusive questions, and always showed his picture before his welcome was exhausted. On all but one of the tables he got nothing but immediate head shakes, but when he showed it to a group of five or six older men, sitting at a table near the door, he sensed a hesitation from the man nearest him, and maybe an exchange of glances between two Travellers on the edge of his vision. But they still shook their heads.
‘Are you sure? This man is a murder victim, and we want to do right by him. We’re not interested in what he’s done, we just need to know who he is. Are you sure you can’t help, lads?’
This time the head shakes were firm and immediate, so Dixon left his glass on the table, nodded to the group of men and moved on. He might have imagined it, but he thought that some of them watched him until he left the pub.
The next one yielded nothing, and so did the one after that, although at least he finally found a pie that was to his liking. Good gravy too. The fourth pub he visited was less busy, perhaps because it was further from the river, and he found the landlord without any difficulty. He showed the picture and the landlord shook his head immediately, then reached over the counter and took it from Dixon.
‘Hold on a minute’ he said, and left the bar. Thirty seconds later he was back with a glum-faced woman, who he introduced as his wife. She didn’t look suited to the pub trade.
‘Joy does the B&B’ said the landlord. He showed her the photo. ‘Didn’t this bloke stay here, Fair time, a year or two back?’
‘Aye’ said Joy slowly. ‘That’s the one who booked for three nights but only stayed two. Never came back on the Saturday night. Left his washbag behind too, didn’t he, John?’
‘That’s right. I’d forgotten that. I called his mobile a couple of times, and texted as well, but he never got back to me.’
‘When was this? Last year, or the year before?’
‘Last year’ said Joy.
‘And you’re sure? Do you remember anything else about him?’
‘Not really. They all look the same, don’t they. love? Travellers, I mean.’
‘How about what he was wearing?’
‘Oh, aye’ said Joy. ‘He had a big gold chain on, massive it was. But then they all do, don’t they?’
‘Anything else you remember, anything distinctive about him?’
‘Not really. Big designer logo on his T-shirt.’
‘Do you remember which one?’
‘No, sorry. They’re all the same to me too, love.’
‘Any visible tattoos, piercings, anything like that?’
‘Aye, he had tattoos on his arms, both, I think.’
Ray Dixon was quite certain that he’d found his man. He looked at the landlord.
‘Do you have the man’s name? How did he book? How did he pay?’
The landlord held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Joy does the all the bookings and that. You go through to the office with her, and she’ll sort you out.’
Joy sighed heavily as she walked along the corridor ahead of Dixon. It smelt sweetly of stale beer. Dixon was even more certain that he’d had his pie in the right pub.
‘Here’s the register’ she said, pulling a tattered book from the desk in the small office. ‘Last year the Fair started on the 5th, so it would have been around then. Between the 4th and the 10th anyway.’
Dixon flicked back to the right dates. There were four bookings that matched.
‘I’m going to need to borrow this, OK?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Thanks, now can you tell me if you had any email contact with any of these four?’
Joy sighed again. ‘Give me a minute. I’ll have to look on the computer. I expect you’ll want print outs?’
‘Yes, please. By the way, did you keep the washbag? You know, in case the owner remembered.’
‘No, chucked it out ages ago.’
‘That’s a pity. And you didn’t keep anything from it?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Anything.’
‘No. Now, do you want these print outs?’
Dixon phoned Hall as soon as he was back in the car.
‘Well done, Ray. Fantastic job. How many booked online?’
‘Three of the four. the other one booked on the phone, and paid in cash. The landlady couldn’t be 100% certain, but she was pretty sure that he was the one who never came back for his stuff.’
‘So that’s our man.’
‘I reckon so, aye.’
‘OK. Can you make out the name and address from the register?’
‘Aye, I can. You want me to get it checked out?’
‘Yes. Call the incident room, and tell them it’s top priority. I want to know the second they do.’
‘Chances are it’s a false name and address.’
‘Probably, yes, but let’s see. And get the other three checked out as well. I want the others spoken to, tonight, to see if they had any contact with our man. Any problems, any news, I want to know. I’ll leave my phone on.’
‘Will do. You want me to go back to the office on my way home, boss?’
‘No, thanks. Just get the wheels turning on those checks, and tell your hosts that we’ll send a car for them in the morning. If we don’t get an ID the easy way then we’ve still got plenty to do to get this bloke’s name. But you’ve done excellent work today, Ray, well done. Pie’s on me next time we’re out and about.’
‘With extra gravy, boss?’
‘You can bloody float it in gravy, for all I care.’
Jane Francis was still out when Dixon called Hall at home. He’d texted, asking if she’d be in for supper, and she’d said to go ahead without her. He knew better than to ask where she was, or what she was doing. In turn she knew that, since his divorce, he had no expectations of permanence, and no sense that he had a right to influence her actions in any way. Outside work he never even offered an opinion on anything that she said she, or they, might do in the future. To her surprise she found herself asking him what he thought more and more often now, and being slightly annoyed by his cautious, diplomatic responses.
It was nine o’clock before Jane returned to Kendal, and parked outside the terraced cottage where the third vehicle on her list was registered. She didn’t even bother to look at her phone before she got out of the car, because there was no chance that Andy would text again, even if she never returned home. But she did look at her notes before she got out. She had the details of the passengers, both men, who had been in the other two local cars, and she’d check them against the PNC in the morning. All she had to do now was capture the same details from this one, and then she’d be finished for the night.
Jane p
ut her notebook back in her bag, got out of the car and knocked on the door two down from where she’d found a parking space. The Astra estate with the registration number she was after was right outside the house.
‘Mr. Williams? I called earlier. DC Jane Francis, from Kendal Police Station.’ Jane heard herself make a mistake, but didn’t bother to correct it this time. No-one ever looked properly at Warrant Cards anyway.
‘Aye, come in. Fancy a brew?’ Williams was tall, thin, and about forty five. He seemed relaxed enough.
‘No, thanks. I’m just on my way home. It won’t take a minute.’
‘No problem. Come in to the kitchen. I’m just cooking.’
Whatever it was smelt good, and Jane suddenly realised how hungry she was. Williams put some spaghetti into a pan of bubbling water. ‘You mentioned something about the Windermere Ferry on the phone.’
‘That’s right. Do you remember using the ferry, on Saturday the 1st of the month.’
‘Oh aye, quite early it was. We were going fishing.’
‘We? Who else was with you?’
‘My mate, Phil Mann. We usually fish together. But you know what they say; what happens on a fishing trip stays on a fishing trip.’
‘And does anything happen? On your fishing trips, I mean?’
Williams broke eye contact. ‘Aye, well, you’d be surprised.’
Jane took that as a no, and changed the subject.
‘Phil Mann? Any relation to Ian? If so, I work with him.’
‘Aye, that’s right. I’ve met Ian a couple of times. Quiet bloke, real fitness fiend. Used to be in the army. Fancies himself as a bit of a hard man, I hear. They never are though, are they?’
Jane had no intention of putting him right. ‘That’s the one. Have you got an address for Phil?’
‘Don’t know the number, but he lives on Fellside somewhere. Do you want me to ring him?’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll find him, no problem. What I wanted to ask you, ask you both really, was if you noticed anything on the crossing west across the lake, from the Kendal side to the Coniston side if you like.’
