The Altered Case

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘And long shots have paid off before,’ Yellich added, ‘in fact they have paid off most handsomely. Frankly, the thought of letting an investigation grind to a halt for the sake of turning over a stone is . . . well . . . shall I say, it is a thought which provides me with no comfort.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Hennessey echoed. ‘I don’t have the fortitude to withstand such guilt and despair.’

  ‘That I can well understand, very well understand,’ the man replied, ‘and in fact I might indeed be able to help you, gentlemen. Do please take a pew.’ John Bateman by the nameplate on his desktop, of Marshall and Evans Plant Hire Co. Ltd, was a tall, thin man whom, both officers noted, was immaculately dressed, though not wholly to the taste of either Hennessey or Yellich. The plum coloured suit, the yellow tie, the small, almost ladylike watch he wore, it was a dress sense which did not appeal to the officers. The man, the officers also noted, had only one arm. The left arm seemed to have been lost just above the elbow, and the left sleeve of his jacket was hitched up to the shoulder and held in place with a large safety pin. He tapped his left arm as he saw the officers, noting the image he presented. ‘They offered me a prosthetic arm but I declined, I mean, everyone can tell it’s plastic. I have the same attitude to false teeth. If they had any medical value I would wear them, but they are just cosmetic. If I had lost my leg I would have used a crutch. I just have no time at all for cosmetics, no time at all.’

  ‘I confess I have the same attitude.’ George Hennessey adjusted his position in the chair in front of Bateman’s desk, which had looked soft but in the event had proved itself to be surprisingly hard. To his right he observed Yellich, who sat in an identical chair, making the selfsame discovery.

  ‘Yes, I believe that I must have inherited that attitude from an elderly relative of mine. He left one of his legs behind him during the retreat to Dunkirk and I have early memories of him powering along the pavement with a crutch under each arm and me running behind him trying to keep up with him. He just seemed to carry all before him, and he once told me that he walked much more powerfully with two bits of wood under each arm than he had ever done with two good legs. He drank like a fish and he had a wild temper, and if he got into a fight he’d sort out the whole pub with his crutches, or so I was told in later years. I never really knew him. He died when I was still very young but his legend lived on after him, it still does in fact. Folk in our village still talk about him. I lost my arm in a motorcycle accident, nothing so heroic or patriotic in my tale of woe.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hennessey replied, as a pain stabbed at his emotions.

  ‘Well, the old “put it into context number”, I suppose. I was the pillion, the driver lost his life. My Great Uncle Benjamin Bateman lived without a leg for seventy of his ninety-three years. I dare say I can live without half of one arm, and, like I said, at least I am still here . . . and my friend is in his family plot. You must put these things in context and just knuckle down and get on with life.’

  ‘Is the correct attitude.’ Hennessey rested his hat on his knee. ‘Quite the correct attitude.’

  ‘Your long shot may just pay off, gentlemen; it just might well pay off. This modest little company keeps all of its records for the five years required by the Inland Revenue and we continue to keep them out of interest, thus forming a company archive, although it is not a complete historical record. There are some gaps, I have to warn you of that. Some have been lost, inexplicably vanished, and we once sacked an employee for gross inefficiency together with an offhand and abusive attitude towards customers. So she walked out and when she had gone we found out that she had removed a few old ledgers with her, just out of spite. We wondered what was in the large shopping bag she carried. She took them because she knew how much we valued them. She probably burned them. Other ledgers were thrown out by an over zealous employee who was just “making room”, she said, for more recent documents. Either way, ledgers have been lost . . . taken, thrown away or just vanished as if we have a poltergeist on the premises.’ Bateman paused and held eye contact with Hennessey and Yellich, ‘So all I can do is check . . . September, thirty years ago . . . I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘If you’ll be so good.’ Hennessey inclined his head.

  Bateman stood. ‘I’ll go a few years either side, see what I can find.’ He walked out of his office.

  Hennessey and Yellich relaxed in their chairs as best they could. They both read a neatly kept office which spoke of efficiency. A large green vase of flowers on Bateman’s desk softened the room, as did a colour photograph of the Yorkshire Dales landscape in high summer in a wooden frame which hung on the wall behind his desk. Framed photographs of yellow and green painted earth-moving machines of various sizes hung on the walls of cream-painted plaster. The room smelled powerfully of air freshener, despite an open window, which looked out on to the main street of Catton Hill village. Within ten minutes Bateman returned carrying six slender ledgers, still glistening from evidently being wiped with a damp cloth.

  ‘They were very dusty, as you might expect, so I wiped them down.’ Bateman handed three of the ledgers to Hennessey and three to Yellich.

  Hennessey took hold of the ledgers he was given. ‘Thank you, appreciated.’

  ‘Just the covers,’ Bateman added, ‘the pages might be a bit dusty still.’

  ‘We’ll cope with that.’ Hennessey opened the topmost of the ledgers at random and saw entries in neat, copperplate letters and numerals. He thought it to be very Victorian in appearance and commented upon it.

  ‘Yes.’ Bateman resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘I dare say you could say that, Victorian . . . quite appropriate. I think we must have been the last plant hire company to introduce new technology and the last to computerize our records. My father didn’t like the new machines, as he called them. He was very conservative by nature and he didn’t trust what he couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Your father?’ Hennessey queried.

  ‘Yes, my father. Why, is that a problem for you, sir?’

  ‘No . . . no.’ Hennessey shook his head. ‘It’s just your nameplate, Mr Bateman; I assumed that you were an employee of Marshall and Evans.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Bateman grinned. ‘It does confuse people at times but you see Messrs Marshall and Evans retired and my father bought the business, and as part of the sale he was allowed to keep trading under the good name of the company. It is quite a standard business practice. So we then continued to trade as Marshall and Evans and they sold the company for more than it was actually worth on paper; the good name counted for something, you see. You can sell a good name.’

  ‘I see.’ Hennessey thumbed through the ledger. ‘Beautiful handwriting.’

  ‘Indeed . . . we have had our lean years. I mean, which company hasn’t? But unlike the majority of plant hire companies we are not tied solely to the building trade. Our customers include farmers and the agricultural industry as a whole. The building of houses might come to a stop from time to time as the national economy rises and falls but there’s always wheat to be harvested, potatoes to be scooped up in huge quantities and loaded into the back of huge bulk-carrying lorries, you’ll have doubtless seen the like . . . and there’s always ditches to be cleared. All used to be done manually, but nowadays it’s all done by machine, most of which are hired for the purpose.’

  ‘I see,’ Hennessey said again. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘So,’ Bateman continued, ‘it is because of our agricultural clients, and only because of them, that we have kept afloat in the inevitable lean times.’

  ‘You are indeed fortunate.’ Yellich also leafed through the ledgers.

  ‘Yes, we are.’ Bateman nodded. ‘And we are not unappreciative. We have a wide client base and farming has meant that this is a stable local economy. It takes a lot to bring agriculture to a standstill.’

  ‘Dare say that’s true.’

  Bateman leaned back in his chair. ‘So . . . if you would like to examine the ledgers at your
leisure, gentlemen, I can let you have a small office. It has a small desk and a lovely view of our backyard,’ he added with a grin.

  Hennessey and Yellich gratefully accepted the offer of the small office and settled down to leaf through the ledgers while fortified by cups of tea provided by the smiling receptionist. Looking at the entries for September of the year in question, one entry caught Yellich’s eye and he drew Hennessey’s attention to it. It was a very significant entry because it was the only entry to record that the hire had been paid for in hard cash. All the other entries read either ‘cheque’, ‘credit card’, or ‘charge to account’. Laying the other ledgers to one side Hennessey and Yellich carried that particular book to Bateman’s office. Upon tapping on the door they were warmly invited to enter.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about this entry here, Mr Bateman?’ Hennessey rotated the ledger and laid it on Bateman’s desk. He indicated the relevant entry.

  ‘Cash,’ Bateman read, ‘that is quite unusual, pretty well unique in fact.’

  Hennessey stood upright. ‘That is why we are interested in it, from a police officer’s point of view.’

  ‘Can’t be traced.’ Bateman glanced up at Hennessey and Yellich. ‘Is that the reason for your interest?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hennessey replied, ‘yes, it is. All other forms of payment leave a paper trail but hard cash . . . hard cash . . . the good old folding brown and blue, especially if used and untraceable, has always been a favoured method of doing business in the criminal fraternity.’

  ‘So I believe . . . so I believe.’ Bateman looked at the ledger. ‘So what does the entry tell us? Well, the first thing it tells us is that it dates from the time before we took over the business, just by a couple of years, so we won’t be able to tell you anything about it other than what is in the ledger. The handling agent is given as “E.E.”, that would be Edward Evans, of Evans and Marshall. He is still with us.’

  ‘Still alive?’

  ‘Yes, very much so. The plant in question, a Bobcat 322 . . . it’s a mini digger, the smallest design of digger there is.’

  ‘I think I know the type,’ Yellich observed.

  ‘Yes.’ Bateman glanced at Yellich. ‘Small, green-painted machines. They are very popular with gangs who dig up the pavements or the roads to access gas and/or water mains. The operator often looks to be quite cramped in the cab but they really are a very handy bit of kit, they have a long “reach”, as we say, they can get a long way down into the ground. They are designed for digging long, narrow trenches rather than excavating holes or large, deep foundations, and we often hire them to farmers who use them to clear their ditches. They also have a small shovel under the cab at the front, and so can be used like a very small bulldozer.’

  ‘So good for digging graves,’ Hennessey asked, ‘and also good for filling in of same?’

  ‘Ideal, in fact some of the larger local authorities have bought them for that purpose. They can do in less than an hour what a gravedigger would take a working day to do.’

  ‘We have an interest in a hole about three feet wide and up to six feet deep.’

  ‘So, a grave.’ Bateman raised his eyebrows. ‘You were not joking?’

  ‘Nope.’ Hennessey retained a serious expression. ‘Not joking at all. Police inquiries rarely are a laughing matter. You will shortly hear about it in the regional news bulletins and read about it in the press. I dare say it will be the talk of the local pubs this evening.’

  ‘I see. Well I live to the north of York so I won’t hear anything in the pubs . . . but yes, three feet wide, six feet deep . . . that size hole is well within the capacity of that type of machine, the Bobcat 322.’

  ‘So what can you tell us about the other vehicles hired out about that time, particularly on that same day?’

  Bateman leaned forward and read the ledger. ‘All larger types . . . scoopers, the ones used to lift grain into the back of bulk-carrying lorries, as I mentioned earlier . . . just the right time of year to hire those things out to the agricultural sector.’

  ‘So the cash hire stands out?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it does; not only is it the method of payment which makes it stand out but it is not the sort of machine we would hire to farmers in September.’ Bateman leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s a bit too close to harvest time for ditching.’

  Hennessey sensed the beginning of a lead in the investigation. ‘And the hire charge is what you would expect, not unduly inexpensive or unduly expensive?’

  ‘No, it’s about right.’ Again Bateman consulted the ledger and turned the page back. ‘Look, here is a similar machine . . . a Bobcat 322, hired out in the previous March . . . that would be for clearing ditches . . . and the fee is the same, but . . . but you know there would be a huge cash deposit involved, so much more money would be involved than appears here in the ledger.’

  ‘There would?’

  ‘Oh yes, take it from me, gentlemen, take it from me.’ Bateman smiled. ‘It is a necessary insurance against theft.’

  ‘Theft of plant?’ Yellich confirmed.

  ‘Yes,’ Bateman explained, ‘plant, you see, is in great demand and it is very expensive, with a long waiting list for new stuff, and about that time, just as we took over the business, there was a spate of plant thefts.’

  ‘Plant thefts as well . . .?’

  ‘As well.’

  ‘It’s just that one of my officers interviewed a retired police officer who reported that thirty years ago there was a spate of car thefts, hence my comment of “as well”,’ Hennessey explained. ‘I doubt they would have been linked.’

  ‘Doubt it too.’ Bateman nodded. ‘Plant theft tends to involve organized crime, not teenagers looking for kicks. People . . . gangs would hire plant and just didn’t return it, even when they left a deposit up to the value of a replacement machine because they could sell it for more than its value, even its value when brand new, because builders, especially overseas builders, will pay more than the list price of an earth mover if they can have it in a few days’ time, rather than wait eighteen months for a new one.’

  ‘I see,’ Hennessey replied quietly, ‘that explains a lot.’

  ‘Yes, and it helps the thieves that plant is very easy to conceal,’ Bateman added. ‘Unlike stolen cars it is rarely driven on the public highway and when it is it is often only for a very short distance. Usually they are carried on roads on low loaders which are always street legal, or are kept on farms or building sites so they don’t look out of place, or in the yard of a dodgy plant hire company . . . even less out of place. So anyway, we put a stop to that form of theft by charging a massive deposit, about twice what the vehicle would cost new, and when the word got round that we were doing that we got no more requests for cash hires.’

  ‘So we need to talk to Edward Evans. Where can we contact him?’ Hennessey asked. ‘I assume he hasn’t retired to Spain?’

  ‘No . . . no.’ Bateman smiled. ‘He retired locally. He’s a member of the York and Malton. They went early in life, just forty years old when they sold up and retired. He’s a sprightly seventy now, very sprightly. I have found that people age at different rates. Mr Evans has retained much of his youth . . . even if only in his attitude.’

  ‘So, still compos mentis?’

  ‘Oh yes, he still has all his marbles.’

  ‘So,’ Hennessey queried, ‘the York and Malton?’

  ‘Sounds like a building society, doesn’t it?’ Bateman mused. ‘In fact it’s a golf club . . . very upmarket, him and his 1960s’ Bentley. They are a right pair of characters, him and his old car.’

  ‘You sound like you belong to the same club,’ Yellich commented.

  ‘I do . . . my family does.’ Bateman shrugged. ‘So perhaps it’s not so posh after all.’

  Carmen Pharoah walked homewards and she did so slowly. She chose not to heed her colleagues’ advice and ‘walk the walls’ as the speediest way to transit the ancient city; rather, on that warm, September afternoon, she wa
lked the pavements. Her route when she walked the pavements took her down Micklegate, over the Ouse Bridge, into Low Ousegate and left into busy commercialized Coney Street, thence on to Blake Street with its solid Victorian buildings, into the graceful curve of St Leonard’s Place and finally to Bootham Bar and Bootham itself, perhaps a pleasant forty-five minute stroll, York being small as well as ancient. Yes . . . a car brought her North . . . not untrue, and she was pleased to have been able to explain to the warm and helpful Adrian Clough that her reply to his question was not facetious nor sarcastic. It was a car that had carried her husband’s life away one night as he was crossing the road. He was late, the night was dark, the driver was drunk. Both she and her husband had been so very proud to be Afro-Caribbean employees of the Metropolitan Police. She a Detective Constable and he an accountant, both still in their twenties and both learning the great truth of her father-in-law’s edict, ‘You’re black, that means you’ve got to be ten times better to be just as good, ten times faster to remain level with the competition, ten times more intelligent to be just as brainy. ‘It is,’ he had said, ‘just the way of it’.

  It was little comfort to be told that he wouldn’t have known anything, it was instantaneous, nor was it any comfort to know that the driver was to be prosecuted, ‘We’ll throw the book at him’. It was not just that she had been robbed of the man she loved, and she knew him to be the only man she ever would love, but he had been robbed of his life . . . all that glittering future . . . his career, his fatherhood . . . all . . . all taken away so cruelly, the familial line which had come to an end, the children that will never be . . . and their children, and their children.

  The guilt had come a few days later, the guilt of surviving, the sense of shame that she was alive and he was not, and with it the sense of a debt to be repaid, a penance to undertake and so she had transferred to the north, where it is cold in the winter, where the people are insular and do not like strangers. The sort of place where a stranger might get invited to take part in a game of darts, but only if they had been going to the pub every night for the last ten years. Here she had come, and here she will stay until she felt her debt had been fully repaid. She let herself into her small flat on Bootham and showered and changed into casual, comfortable clothes.