Breaking Point

by Frank Smith

  Tregalles looked at Paget and just shook his head. ‘Go on then,’ he told Bernie, ‘let’s assume that there actually was a man in the pub. We want to know when you bought the camera off him, and we want a description of this mysterious man. And if it turns out you’re wasting our time and giving us false information, we will have you for obstruction as well, so make sure you get it right first time, because you won’t get a second chance. Understand?’

  The man swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I think it was last Saturday week,’ he began hesitantly, but Tregalles stopped him there. ‘I don’t want to hear what you think it was, Bernie; I want to know exactly when it was, so stop mucking about and get it straight.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it was a week ago Saturday; I remember now. But I don’t know what I can tell you about what he looked like. I mean he was pretty ordinary. A bit taller than me; sort of average-looking. I don’t know what else to say. Honest to God, I don’t.’

  Paget scooped up the plastic bag containing the camera, and stood up. ‘We’re wasting our time here,’ he told Tregalles. ‘Perhaps his memory will improve in the peace and quiet of the cells.’ He looked at the clock. ‘This interview is terminated at 16.22.’

  Five thirty, and Paget was on the point of leaving for the day when Tregalles came into his office. ‘Green’s been lying his head off,’ he said. ‘They found two ladders and a roof rack in the yard where he stores stuff next to the house. The ladders and roof rack appear to match those in the picture Emma Baker gave us, but we’ll soon know for sure, because I spoke to Emma and she told us what to look for.

  ‘And for a man who says he makes his living by doing a bit of this and a bit of that, he’s got a lot of expensive gear in the house. Flat screen TV, computer and a laptop for the wife; sound surround, that sort of thing.’

  ‘By “that sort of thing” I presume you mean the sort that falls off the back of a lorry?’

  Tregalles nodded. ‘They’re checking serial numbers on everything,’ he said. ‘They reckon it’s stuff that’s been nicked at some time or other, so even if he didn’t nick it himself, he’s been doing a bit of quiet fencing and trading on the side. His wife isn’t saying anything.’

  ‘Are we quite sure he doesn’t have form?’

  Tregalles shook his head. ‘Not under the name of Green at any rate, but we’ll see what happens when they run his prints. He probably does the odd bit of business in the pubs, but he didn’t come by those ladders or the roof racks from some bloke flogging them in the Black Swan.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Paget, ‘the very fact that some of Newman’s equipment has been found in Green’s yard could mean there is evidence there that will tell us what happened to Newman. I want the house and yard sealed off, guarded through the night, and a full-scale search of both first thing tomorrow morning. And just in case Mrs Green is involved, I want her out of there tonight. And let’s make sure that Green finds out what’s happening; it may just shake him up a bit.’

  Paget sat back and thought for a moment. ‘Better get someone over to the Black Swan as well,’ he said, ‘and check out the story Green told us. Now that we know about the ladders and roof rack, his story about buying the camera there doesn’t hold up. But it may be that he meets his contacts there to arrange delivery or payment for stolen goods, so have his picture shown around to see if anyone remembers him and anyone he may have met there.’

  ‘Right,’ Tregalles said as he stood up to leave, then stopped at the door. ‘Emma Baker reckons she can identify the roof racks,’ he said. ‘She says Newman painted them recently with Rustoleum metal paint, and the leftover paint is still there at the cottage. She says Newman scratched his initials on some of his tools, but she’s not sure if he did on the ladders.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve arranged for the paint to be picked up first thing in the morning in case Forensic needs to do a comparison with the paint on the roof racks, and Emma is prepared to come in as well if we think she can help.’ The sergeant grimaced. ‘I didn’t really want to call her,’ he confessed, ‘because I knew it wouldn’t take her long to realize that now that his stuff has started to turn up, the chances of finding Newman alive are pretty slim. And I was right. She picked up on it straight away. I think that’s why she offered to help.’

  ‘Perhaps she can,’ said Paget slowly. ‘It might save us from overlooking something that she would recognize as belonging to Newman if she could be there during the search of Green’s premises. Do you think she’d do it?’

  Tregalles nodded. ‘I’m sure she would,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think she’d be only too happy to be part of it and help us out. I’ll have a word and let you know.’

  Grace made sure she left town on time that evening. Charlie had been sympathetic, but clearly disappointed that she wasn’t prepared to confide in him, and he’d made it clear that he was not prepared to lie for her or say she had been working overtime when that was not the case.

  ‘And I wouldn’t ask you to,’ Grace told him. ‘I have never told Neil that I was working overtime; never used you for an excuse, and I’m not asking you to back me up in any way. I have to admit that I have allowed Neil to think I’ve been working overtime, and I feel guilty about that, but I have to sort this out in my own way, and I need time.’

  ‘What if he asks me point-blank about your working overtime?’ he said. ‘I covered for you yesterday because I wanted to find out what it was all about, but I’m sorry, Grace, I won’t do it again if he asks.’

  ‘I know,’ Grace said quietly, ‘and I don’t expect you to. But as I said, Charlie, I just need time to resolve this in my own way, that’s all.’

  Charlie sighed. ‘Neil’s no fool, you know,’ he said. ‘How long do you think you can keep this up, Grace? He’s bound to become suspicious at some point. Wouldn’t it be better to tell him whatever it is you’re into? The man loves you, Grace; I’m sure he would understand and help you if you would only give him the chance.’

  How long could she keep it up? she wondered now as she made her way home. As Charlie had said, Neil was no fool, and there had been times when she’d caught him looking at her in a way that made her wonder if he wasn’t already suspicious about the number of times she’d been late coming home.

  And then there were Neil’s probes about her flat in Friar’s Walk. Why didn’t she give it up? Why keep it now that she had moved in with him? Thank God he didn’t know about Perelli’s offer or he would really be wondering what she was up to. She hated keeping him in the dark, but she was convinced it was for the best.

  Two months. That was how long it had been going on, and she couldn’t see an end to it. The situation was becoming desperate; she was becoming desperate. If only she could get a full night’s sleep! Thank God Neil didn’t know how many hours she’d lain awake or roamed the house while he slept.

  She crossed the bridge and the house came into view. Good, Neil’s car wasn’t there. She had time to wash and tidy up – and try to calm herself before he arrived.

  Eleven

  Wednesday, March 19

  Ormside had a message for him from the night duty custody officer when Paget arrived the following morning. ‘Looks like Bernie Green’s memory has improved after a night in the cells,’ he said, ‘and he wants to talk to you. Shall we have him in? He’s not due to be arraigned until eleven.’

  Paget shook his head. ‘Tell him we’re busy for the moment. Let him stew a bit longer.’

  And they were busy, which was fine with Paget after days of wondering if they would ever get a break. The team had been dispatched to search Green’s house and yard, and Molly Forsythe was on her way to pick up Emma Baker and the remains of the paint she said had been used on the roof rack.

  Forensic came back with the information that many of the prints found on the camera were blurred or indistinct, but those made by Green and Trader Sam were plain enough. There were also prints inside the camera, two of which belonged to Green; a partial that might belong to Emma Baker, and two other
partials, as yet unidentified. It was thought that one might belong to Newman, but there was not enough of it to make a positive match.

  ‘It could belong to Emma’s sister, since it was her camera,’ Paget pointed out, ‘so let’s get someone out there to take her prints for comparison.’

  At nine o’clock Paget told Ormside to have Green taken into an interview room, then went up to Alcott’s office to spend the next half hour or so going over the morning’s influx of paper with Alcott’s secretary, Fiona. Alcott was over in New Street, sitting in for Brock while he was away on the course, so Paget was sitting in for him – at least in theory. In fact it was business as usual, with Fiona doing ninety percent of the work. Efficient as ever, the secretary had everything sorted, together with explanatory notes where necessary, and ready for him to sign or deal with.

  ‘About time, too!’ Green burst out when Paget and Tregalles finally entered the interview room. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept at all; his eyes were bloodshot, the flesh around them was dark, and his hands refused to stay still. ‘I’ve been asking to talk to you since six o’clock this morning, but I might as well have been talking to the bloody wall for all the notice they took down there.’

  ‘We do have other things to do, Mr Green,’ said Paget mildly as he and Tregalles took their seats. He nodded for Tregalles to start the tapes. ‘So what is it you wanted to tell us? Thought a bit more about this man who sold you the camera, have you?’

  Green pursed his lips. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said, ‘and I might have got a couple of things wrong, if you know what I mean. See, I got confused yesterday when your lot jumped me in the camera shop, then brought me in here and started firing questions at me. I got a bit muddled.’

  ‘Are you saying you wish to change your story?’

  ‘Yeah, well, a bit here and there.’

  ‘Like the bit about the ladders in your yard, for example? The ones with your prints all over them? And the roof rack? Must have been a bit difficult getting those home from the Black Swan.’

  ‘Along with the body,’ Tregalles put in. ‘Where did you bury it, Bernie? Save us digging up the whole yard if you tell us. What did you do with Newman’s body?’

  Green’s eyes grew wide and his hands made pushing motions as if they could somehow ward off the allegation. ‘Honest to God, I don’t know anything about a body,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I mean, I might have taken the camera, but he told me I could have the ladders and racks for storing . . .’ He broke off and took a deep, deep breath as he sank back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘Storing what?’ snapped Tregalles. ‘Newman’s body? Is that it, Bernie? Someone drove into your yard and said, “Don’t mind if I drop this body off for a day or two, do you, Bernie?” Deliver it in a white van, did he, Bernie? With roof rack and ladders?’

  Colour darkened Green’s face. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he breathed, ‘and I told you, I don’t know anything about a body; it was the van, and he told me I could have the rack and ladders because he knew I could use them in my work. He wanted it out of sight because it might be recognized and remembered with the ladders on.’

  ‘You said you might have taken the camera,’ said Paget softly. ‘Is it might or did, Mr Green?’

  ‘All right, so I did take the camera, but that’s all I took,’ Green burst out. ‘I wish I’d never laid eyes on the bloody thing. But what was I supposed to do, eh? I mean, the van was just sitting there the whole day. I just wanted to see what was inside, that’s all. He said they were going to get rid of it where nobody would ever find it, but I knew there was some sort of gear inside because I heard it banging about when they drove in over the kerb. I thought they were going to take it to the crusher, and I couldn’t see stuff going to waste if it was any good, so I worked the lock and got it open. I didn’t dare take much in case they knew what was there and had a look inside before they got rid of the van. But when I unrolled this piece of rag and found the camera, I couldn’t pass that up. I mean, it would have been a crime to put that in the crusher, so I got a stone about the same size and wrapped it in the rag and put it back.’

  ‘And the film?’ Tregalles said sharply. ‘What did you do with the film, Bernie?’

  ‘There wasn’t any film.’ Bernie saw the look of scepticism on both their faces. ‘Honest to God! I’m telling the truth,’ he said desperately. ‘There wasn’t any film.’

  ‘You keep saying he told you this and that, but you also mentioned they. How many were there?’ asked Paget.

  Bernie clasped his hands in front of him and concentrated his gaze on them. ‘Two,’ he said so quietly that Tregalles had to ask him to repeat the word for the tape.

  ‘Let’s have their names, then. Assuming they really exist, of course.’

  ‘Oh, they exist all right! But I only know one, and I wish I’d never met him, because it’s his fault I’m here now. But I never had a choice, did I? Not with the wife who’s always banging on about her poor brother, and how he almost went to gaol for something he didn’t do, and it’s not his fault if he’s down on his luck and all he needs is a bit of a helping hand. But I’m telling you, the bastard’s rotten through and through, but she can’t see it. Won’t see it, more like.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, meeting Paget’s gaze for the first time. ‘He’s my brother-in-law; the wife’s brother, Gerry.’

  ‘Full name and address,’ Tregalles said.

  ‘Gerry Fletcher, and he’ll bloody kill me if he ever finds out I shopped him. So if you could sort of keep it quiet about where you got his name . . .?’

  ‘Address,’ Tregalles said.

  Bernie gave a sigh of resignation. ‘He lives over Lyddingham way,’ he said. ‘About halfway between Lyddingham and Whitcott Lacey. It’s a conversion. Used to be a pub, but they turned it into two cottages, and his is the nearest one to Whitcott. They’re out there all by themselves. You can’t miss them. The pub’s name is still over the door. It’s called the Mason’s Arms’

  ‘I know where that is,’ Tregalles said. ‘What does he do for a living – other than kill people and nick their vans?’

  Green ignored the jibe. ‘Last I heard he was working for some removals business. Used to be a long-distance driver for one of them inter-continental firms. Been all over in his day, France, Germany, Italy and the like, but he packed that in sometime last year. Said it was too hard on his back, all that driving them big vans, so he’s working local now.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘RGS, that’s the one! RGS Removals and Storage. Came in a year or so back. Built that big storage place out Whitcott Lacey way. A big barn of a place out there all by itself. Locals didn’t like it; they reckoned it would look ugly. Spoil the look of the countryside, they said – not that it isn’t spoiled already with some of the crap they’re putting up these days – and fought it tooth and nail. But it went through, of course, and it doesn’t look all that bad, sitting back there behind those trees. You can hardly see it from the road.’

  ‘Married? Single?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘Gerry? Single – well, more or less. I think he might be living with some bird called Rose. Least he was. Don’t know her last name.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Dunno if she does anything. I only ever saw her the once. Ran into her and Gerry while we were out shopping a couple of months back. He never actually said they were living together, but they had a lot of stuff in their trolley. Shirley – that’s the wife – reckons they are.’

  ‘You said Fletcher almost went to gaol once. What was that for?’

  ‘Something to do with Customs. Never did know exactly. Gerry always said it was a case of mistaken identity, but I reckon there must have been something to it, because it was about that time when he started to complain about his back and said he couldn’t take the long hauls any more.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the night you hid the van in your yard. What, exactly, did Fletcher tell you?’

  ‘
He didn’t tell me much at all,’ said Bernie, ‘but he was pretty scared. He said he had to get the van off the streets before daylight, because he’d be in deep shit if he was caught driving it.’

  ‘So you must have known that whatever it was he was involved in, it had to be something serious; something criminal, and yet you made no attempt to report it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said, he’s Shirley’s brother.’

  ‘You mentioned a second man. What can you tell us about him?’

  Bernie shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘He stayed in the car out on the street both times.’ He saw Paget’s eyebrows go up. ‘Honest to God, I’m telling you the truth. See, he followed Gerry in a car, and he stayed in it while Gerry drove the van in, then Gerry got in the car and they left. Same thing happened that night when they came back for the van. He stayed in the car, then pulled out and followed Gerry when he drove off in the van.’

  ‘When did all this take place?’

  ‘Week ago Friday. Like I said, Gerry came banging on the door about half six Friday morning just as we were getting up, and said he had to find a place to hide the van. I told him to bugger off and find somewhere else to hide it, but he kept on about how he could go to gaol, then Shirl got in on the act, so I gave in when he promised he’d have it out of there as soon as it was dark Friday night. Even then the bastard lied. Didn’t turn up till close to midnight, but at least the van was out of there and I was glad to see the back of it and him.’

  ‘You said the second man stayed in the car, but you must be able to describe the car at least,’ said Paget.

  ‘It was dark. It was just a car, and to tell the truth I didn’t hang about watching it go.’ His voice turned to pleading. ‘Look, I’m doing the best I can, for Christ’s sake! I don’t know what kind of car it was. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Right,’ said Paget as he looked at the time. ‘We still have half an hour before we have to get you to court, so we might as well make sure we’ve got everything right. Let’s start with Gerry Fletcher arriving at your house on the morning of Friday, March the seventh. What time did you say that was, Mr Green?’