Police, Arrests & Suspects

by John Donoghue

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Sandford…

  “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, how nice you think my new hairstyle is.” Jess had wandered into the briefing room and was now doing a twirl, showing off her new look.

  “So what’s this in aid of?” asked Chad.

  “It’s a dual celebration,” declared Jess. “Not only is it Valentine’s Day, but it’s also my birthday, and yours truly is getting an early finish this evening as I have a hot date tonight!”

  “Ooh, how romantic,” cooed Gwen. “You’ll have to tell us all about it tomorrow.”

  “But if it starts with: ‘He was the perfect gentleman’, then I’m not interested,” muttered George.

  “Oh, just ignore the statue from Easter Island,” voiced Gwen, slapping George’s knee. “He’s just jealous because his hidden admirers take their job very seriously over Valentine’s.”

  “You what?” said George, looking up with a perplexed expression on his face.

  “She means they stay well hidden, and that you didn’t get any cards,” laughed Ron.

  “I did!” remarked an indignant George, producing a dog-eared card from inside his stab vest with a flourish, only for it to be immediately whipped out of his hand by Geezer.

  “Roses are grey, violets are grey…” he read aloud, whilst holding it out of George’s reach. “Hang on – it’s from his colour-blind dog!”

  “It doesn’t say that!” objected our Lothario, as he made attempts to snatch it back, but it was too late as Ben now had it in his clutches and was studying the message with interest.

  “Isn’t it strange how your mum, Santa and your secret Valentine all have the same handwriting?”

  “You bunch of…” His comments were drowned out by the laughter of his colleagues as he snatched his battered card back off Ben before it could do a full round of the station. I was chuckling along with the rest of the shift when Jess came and stood in front of me.

  “Well, John, what do you think of my hairdo?”

  I must admit, I preferred the old ponytail to her new bob style, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  “It’s fantastic! Best thing I’ve seen all day!”

  “Oh, you could have at least pretended to like it!” she pouted. I guess my face must have given it away.

  “I was pretending!” I protested. From the look she gave me, I hadn’t made things any better. I really must work on my Oh, my gosh! You’ve got a wonderful new hairstyle expression.

  “Hey, Jess,” I began, in a bid to divert attention from my unintentional slight, “remember when that woman rang in to report a bad haircut? Just how bad does your hair have to be to warrant a 999 call, eh?” My efforts were met with a stony glare.

  “I don’t think you’re helping there,” whispered Gwen.

  “No, no. Not that I’m saying yours is bad…” I was starting to turn red. As I looked over I could see Andy and Lloyd grinning at me and back-pedalling an imaginary bicycle from their seats on the other side of the room, whilst Ron and Chad were standing behind Jess, pretending to dig a giant hole with an invisible spade. Over in the corner, Andy was miming trying to fit his foot in his mouth, whereas Gwen just stood shaking her head.

  Before I had time to redeem myself, Barry strode in to start the briefing, clutching the handover log. “Before we begin, who’s supposed to be over at the Sandford Manor Hotel?”

  My colleagues and I exchanged blank looks.

  “I’ve had a call from the hotel saying someone was supposed to be there over an hour ago. Did the last shift say anything before they went off?”

  The blank looks were now accompanied by head shakes and Gallic shrugs.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Any volunteers, then?”

  My hand immediately shot up. Not only would it be a chance to extricate myself from an awkward situation, but I also hoped that a cup of tea and a nice biscuit might be on offer at the hotel.

  “Thanks, John. No idea what it’s about, but they sounded quite curt on the phone. If you could get over there sharpish…”

  “No problem, Sarge,” I replied, springing from my seat and making my escape; but not before pointing at Jess’s hair and giving her two thumbs up. She responded with a solitary finger.

  Five minutes later and I was on my way to the hotel, enjoying the peace and quiet of the country roads after my earlier embarrassing faux pas.

  Sandford Manor, with its distinctive honey-coloured stone and set against a backdrop of beautiful landscaped gardens and enchanted woodlands, dominated the landscape. Built as a celebration of wealth, it was the archetypal Jacobean country house with its sophisticated symmetry, grand entrance hall, elaborate carvings and Renaissance-inspired decoration. Nowadays, it was the haunt of the rich and well-heeled who wished to relax in luxury, surrounded by attentive staff.

  I always enjoy my trips to the Manor as it’s always a welcome change to be surrounded by opulence. In turn, the hotel staff are always delighted to see the police; our presence providing that extra element of reassurance for their guests. They encourage us to drop by, and we are often rewarded for our diligence with a hot beverage and, if we happen to time it just right, a sample from the chef’s home-made biscuit platter. A trip to Sandford Manor is always a pleasure and I smiled to myself as I drove up the long, sweeping, tree-lined drive.

  However, before I had even slowed to a halt, my smile evaporated. The sound of my engine appeared to have attracted a group of angry-looking individuals outside onto the gravelled entrance to the hotel. As soon as I opened my door the shouts and questions began in earnest.

  “You said you’d be here hours ago!”

  “Have you got my watch with you? It’s a Rolex!”

  “Are they in custody?”

  “Where are my credit cards? I need them back!”

  “What’s kept you?”

  “Did you catch the crook that ran off?”

  Walking toward the impressive main doors with my head swimming, my tormentors followed me on either side, firing questions as they went. I was encircled as soon as I got to the reception. I felt like General Custer at the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

  “Can you all please stop!” I shouted above the melee. “Can someone just tell me what all this is about?”

  “No, Officer,” came the angry response from a rather irate-looking businessman. “YOU can tell us what it’s all about!”

  My bemused expression seemed to have wound my besuited inquisitor into some sort of apoplectic frenzy. I half expected to see steam shooting out of his ears at any second.

  “Well, let’s start with you taking over an hour and a half to get here, shall we?” he challenged. Now, I’m no Hercule Poirot, but I could detect a distinctly sarcastic tone to his question.

  “Who told you I’d be here by then?” I asked him, lowering my voice in the hope that he would do the same.

  “THE BANK! THE BLOODY BANK!” Judging by the sheer volume of his response, my tactic had clearly failed.

  “The bank?” Before I had time to seek further clarification, the duty manager had stepped forward to intervene.

  “Look, Officer, you can understand why Mr Erskine is a tad vexed?”

  It sounded like a bit of an understatement to me. At the risk of incurring the wrath of the entire maddening crowd, I explained that I had no idea what he was talking about, but that if he started from the beginning, then I might be able to assist. My response was met by a loud chorus of exasperated sighs and mutterings. Several in the crowd wandered off, complaining that they had far better things to do than to listen to the whole story again. Soon the only people left were me, the duty manager, the spa manager, a still angry Mr Esrkine and the young receptionist.

  “Would you like a cup of…” Before she could finish her question, the manager shot her a withering look as if to indicate that I hadn’t yet earned any privileges. I suspected that a biscuit would definitely be off the cards.


  “You have to see it from our member’s perspective.” He indicated towards the seething mass of rage perched on the edge of a chaise longue who was currently staring intently at me. “Mr Erskine has come to use the facilities at the spa and, regrettably, his locker has been broken into. Whilst it appears that the police have promptly arrested those responsible, it’s actually been left to the bank to contact our guest and to arrange for you to come out and see him. In fact, there has been a distinct lack of communication from the constabulary in relation to this.”

  “You incompetent flatfoots!” Erskine added, pressing home the point. “It’s just as well you lot aren’t in charge of communications at my company!”

  “The bank?” I repeated. I registered his barbed comment, but it was the manager’s revelations about the bank that I was most intrigued about.

  “Yes, lucky for me that someone there bothers about customer service!” Erskine sneered. I was then, in a less than polite manner, taken through the whole scenario again. “Don’t you follow any procedures in Sandford Police?” he jibed, leaning back into his seat, satisfied that he had made his point.

  I excused myself, and retreated to a distance that was out of earshot of both men before I made a quick call to my colleague, Gary, who was based over in the next town. After a brief conversation, I was back and ready to face Peter Erskine. Admittedly, I had been more than a little frustrated by his accusations and put-downs.

  “We do have procedures, sir,” I countered, picking up on his last point. “And could I suggest that you give your bank a ring and check theirs?”

  “Your superintendent will hear about this!”

  “First of all though, sir, I would urge you to give your bank a ring and cancel your cards.”

  “Have you not been listening?” Erskine started to shake uncontrollably. “THE BANK HAS ALREADY DONE IT!”

  “Sir, if you could just keep your voice down and make the call, I’ll explain.” I then proceeded to inform him why I had contacted my colleague earlier. Last year, Gary had dealt with an almost identical crime involving what I suspected was a very similar modus operandi:

  First of all, the alleged ‘wife’ arrives at the hotel and explains that she has forgotten all about a special celebration and books a last-minute spa day for her ‘husband’. She pays in cash, thereby avoiding any credit card trail.

  The following day, the ‘husband’ comes in and, as he is here for a spa day, no one bats an eyelid when he carries a bag into the changing room where he sits waiting for a suitable target to arrive. When one is identified, he makes small talk while noting which locker his victim has used. When the coast is clear, the target’s locker is forced open and the valuables are stolen. A quick text to an accomplice ensures the getaway car is waiting outside the fire exit to whisk him away.

  The operation is then stepped up a notch, whereby the next stage escalates the whole incident from a simple theft to a clever fraud by someone making a call to the hotel pretending to be from the bank.

  My audience had been nodding sagely as I had gone through the opening stages of the crime, but the last revelation generated a series of bemused looks.

  “Well, how could your bank possibly know that you were here today?” I asked.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Erskine replied quietly. It seemed like the wind was slowly being taken out of his sails.

  “And the story that the police had stopped two men, and that one had run off was a fabrication,” I added. “At this stage, we were unaware that anything had occurred.”

  “But why would they say that they had recovered two of the cards?” interjected the manager.

  “To make Mr Erskine think that the game was almost up – to make him think that we had foiled the criminals before they’d had a chance to close the deal. As a result, he let his guard down, making it easier to get the card details from him.”

  “But the woman at the bank confirmed all my security questions,” protested Erskine, still desperately holding onto the faintest glimmer of hope that he hadn’t been scammed.

  “You could have said anything,” I told him. “They had no idea what the answers were – what your mother’s maiden name is, what your last transaction was – they just agreed to whatever you said.”

  “I suppose you never ask the bank for any passwords to confirm that they are who they say they are,” added the spa manager.

  “Exactly! And, finally, they weren’t interested in the three-digit security number on the back of the card. That was just a bluff. They probably assumed you wouldn’t remember it anyway – who does? It was just a clever way of manoeuvring the conversation around to getting you to reveal your PIN number.”

  Erskine now sat in silence, trying to reconcile how he, a leading captain of industry, had allowed himself to become a victim.

  “I believe that you probably also told the man that you chatted to in the changing room that you were having a massage. That gave the thieves a window of opportunity to work within. They wanted to drive as far away from the scene of the crime as they possibly could, but they still needed to call the hotel and get your card details before you returned to your locker. If you had discovered the theft first, you would have called us and the bank straight away and blown their plan straight out of the water. This way, they still had control of the situation. They were able to con the card details out of you, and then by pretending that they had called us on your behalf they bought themselves an extra hour with which to make good their escape.”

  Erskine looked like he had heard enough, but, regardless, I continued with my tale as the two managers and the receptionist clearly hadn’t, and were sitting on the edge of their seats, listening intently.

  “Draw a radius of thirty minutes’ travelling time from here and that’s where they probably made their initial call from, and where they then used the stolen bank card once they had the PIN number.” My audience was enthralled. “Add on another hour’s drive from there, and that’s where our crooks probably are now; well out of our area, and into another county.”

  “Get that man a biscuit!” declared the manager triumphantly when I finished my account. As the receptionist hurried off, I radioed to request CSI to attend, and then asked to view the hotel’s CCTV.

  The gang had been meticulous in the execution of the whole operation. The getaway car had been captured driving off on the CCTV, but the crooks had covered the possibility that the vehicle might be checked by using false plates that would almost certainly have been ditched by now. There was no way that the male and female could have avoided being caught on camera, but I didn’t recognise either of them. They were most likely travelling criminals, executing their scam all over the country.

  By the time I had finished reviewing the camera footage and returned to the seating area, Mr Erskine had departed; the spa manager had now resumed his duties, the receptionist was back at her desk, and so I was left with just the hotel manager. As I sat down, one of the serving staff came over with my coffee, and I was also presented with a couple of the Valentine chocolates.

  “It’s the least I can do to make amends for my reaction earlier,” apologised the manager. “It’s the chef’s special creation,” he explained, pointing to the hearts, “One milk chocolate and one dark.”

  I thanked him and gave my drink a stir. “Oh, and before I go,” I enquired, “would it be possible to have a look at the massage rooms?”

  “Very good!” he replied excitedly. “I’d never have thought of that!”

  Never have thought of what? Then it dawned on me: following my explanation of the villain’s MO, he obviously now regarded me as some sort of master detective – an Inspector Morse figure, seeking inspiration and clues from the places our victim had visited.

  “I’ll get it sorted ASAP,” and with a click of his fingers he summoned the receptionist and instructed her to fetch the masseuse, suggesting that I was about to open a new line of enquiry. The girl gave me an admiring look before returning to he
r desk to telephone the treatment room. I was loath to burst his bubble and tell him that I was just curious to see what it looked like – and check the prices out – as I was planning a treat for my friend, Miss Jones.

  “Whilst we’re waiting for the head masseuse,” he added, “please help yourself to the chocolates. What do you think of them?” He was clearly keen to get my opinion.

  I unwrapped the dark chocolate heart, took a bite and adopted an expression of extreme concentration as I savoured the taste. Now that he obviously regarded me as a man capable of complex thought, I felt I had to offer him the in-depth analysis that he was clearly anticipating.

  The chocolate had that sharp tang that you’d expect with such a high concentration of cocoa. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was a sophisticated flavour – almost classy. There was something else, too: it was rich with a pleasantly sour aftertaste. I had no idea what it had been mixed with, but I was impressed.

  “Well?” He was sitting on the edge of his seat awaiting the verdict.

  “Bitter… tart…”

  “I beg your pardon!” My considered response was interrupted by the arrival of the masseuse who now stood above me with an outraged expression on her face.

  “No! No, I wasn’t insinuating you were a…” Before I could protest my innocence, she indicated for me to follow and I hurried after her, but not before the receptionist had caught my eye, winked and mouthed: ‘Hitler in tights.’

  Once within the confines of the treatment room, Hitler gestured for me to sit down and then asked how she could assist with my investigation. I realised I was going to have to keep up the pretence of looking for clues – at least for now – and asked if today she had noted anything different about Mr Erskine’s appointment.

  “Can I be blunt?” she began. Normally, I might have replied with a quip that she could so long as I could be Philby, but she didn’t look like the sort to appreciate a little Cold War humour; instead I just nodded.