Losing Ground

by Catherine Aird

  ‘No, no. But perhaps by buying time to assemble opposition. And by planting something like animal bones and shells for us to find to confuse matters.’

  ‘Away from the seat of the fire?’ she said, ‘to be sure you did find them?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And sending for us,’ put in Burton, putting his oar in with what Sloan considered quite unnecessary vigour, ‘just in time for us to find them before the roof falls in.’

  ‘It’s been done before,’ said Dr Murphy. ‘Many times.’

  ‘Dr Dabbe says they’ll all have been calcined long before anyone could have got to them,’ said Sloan. Dizzy blondes weren’t supposed to be so knowledgeable.

  ‘So we’ll need a species specific microsatellite marker,’ she sighed.

  ‘But Dr Dabbe’ll be letting us know all he can,’ said Sloan, since as far as he was concerned Dr Murphy might have been speaking in tongues.

  ‘And us, too, all in good time, I’m sure.’ She gave both men a dazzling smile. ‘Now, what you need to watch out for are two fellows calling themselves loss adjusters and loss assessors. They’re like Kilkenny cats together and they’ll each want access here before the other and you’ll be darlings, won’t you, and not let either of them on site until I give the word.’

  ‘Right,’ said Burton before Sloan could speak.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Sloan stoutly.

  Dr Colleen Murphy turned round and indicated Detective Constable Crosby, still guarding the entrance to the fire-damaged site. ‘Now, do you think that the dear boy over there would let my two assistants through that barrier of his? I can see that they’ve just arrived.’

  This time the glow did not extend to Detective Inspector Sloan.

  ‘Well?’ said Jeremy Stratton, the planning officer, when Melanie Smithers arrived back, hot and dusty, at the Berebury Council offices. ‘Tell me all. Who’s done what exactly?’

  ‘Someone’s set the Victorian bit alight,’ said the conservation officer, wrinkling her nose, ‘that’s for sure, but I couldn’t get near enough to see if the ballroom had been obscuring a cross-wing on the older part.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘We all have our priorities.’

  She flushed. ‘Don’t be beastly. The fire hadn’t got that far anyway.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you, Jeremy,’ she responded hotly, ‘with your one-man crusade to meet all government house-building targets with the least possible bother to all concerned but let me remind you some of us have other things to consider.’

  ‘So presumably had the fire-raiser.’

  She frowned. ‘That’s what’s so funny. You see, Berebury Homes aren’t planning to do anything they shouldn’t for the old house conservation-wise.’

  ‘Bully for them.’

  ‘We haven’t had to object to anything in our department.’

  ‘That’s suspicious for a start,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Jeremy. We’ve always found them very…well, very cooperative.’

  ‘I should say that makes a change, too.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she admitted, ‘but we at conservation aren’t the stumbling block anyway, are we?’

  ‘No,’ said Jeremy Stratton immediately, ‘but we at planning are. Seeing as it’s a greenfield site they want to develop and not one in the local plan. I wouldn’t put it past them to argue that the estate is just a garden and therefore a brownfield site.’

  Melanie Smithers sighed. ‘No, but large brownfield sites aren’t all that thick on the ground any longer, more’s the pity.’

  ‘You can say that again, my girl.’ Jeremy Stratton jerked his thumb in the direction of his own office. ‘Every patch of waste land that I can find that isn’t in the flood plain has got its new houses…’

  ‘It’s awful little boxes,’ said the conservation officer.

  ‘…on it already and now the developers’ land banks are running low, too.’

  ‘So that only leaves the greenfield bits like Tolmie,’ she said, adding without heat ‘and by the way I’m not your girl.’

  ‘And the flood plain. Don’t forget the flood plain, although it isn’t popular with everyone. The insurance companies for starters.’

  ‘Which should make enabling development for Tolmie Park good news all round,’ she said.

  ‘But especially for Berebury Homes,’ said Jeremy Stratton. ‘They wouldn’t stand a cat’s chance in Hell of building in those grounds otherwise.’

  Melanie Smithers might have been young and inexperienced but she wasn’t silly.

  ‘Which makes the fire there funnier still, doesn’t it?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Well, sir,’ temporised Detective Inspector Sloan in response to another urgent demand for a progress report from Superintendent Leeyes, ’so far all we’ve got is a sort of a go-ahead from the fire brigade.’

  ‘Called their dogs off, have they?’

  ‘Not quite, sir, but they’ve turned their hoses off,’ said Sloan.

  ‘Comes to the same thing,’ snorted Leeyes.

  ‘Which means that they’ve more or less left the field free for us.’

  ‘Keep me in the picture, Sloan,’ said Leeyes. ‘I’ll be in my office.’

  Resisting a strong impulse to respond to this, too, Sloan turned back to the fire officer at his side. ‘You were saying…’

  ‘That there’s one thing I can tell you for free,’ said Charlie Burton as Dr Murphy went over to greet her assistants.

  Sloan maintained a commendable silence. He wanted to know more than one thing, much more.

  ‘And that’s that we were meant to put this fire out before it had spread too far,’ said Charlie Burton.

  This was something that Sloan had already worked out for himself. So, no doubt, had Dr Murphy.

  ‘If,’ said Burton, ‘we hadn’t had that three nines call from the telephone box the whole place would have gone up in smoke before anyone knew there was a fire there.’

  ‘Talking of smoke,’ said Sloan, ‘surely that would have been seen from the road sooner or later?’

  ‘You must be joking,’ said the fire officer. ‘No one would have seen anything from the road until the building here was practically a burnt-out wreck.’

  ‘Which, oddly enough,’ murmured Sloan pensively, half to himself, ‘doesn’t seem to have been what the arsonist had in mind.’

  Charlie Burton jerked a thumb. ‘Remember, when that pile was built the distance from the gate to the house was what mattered to snobs like the Filligrees. The longer the better if you wanted to keep up with the Joneses.’

  ‘You knew them, did you?’ said Sloan, straight-faced.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said the fire officer, shaking his head, ‘but my wife’s granny was a skivvy there when she was a girl. Before the war.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Dunno. Died out, I expect.’ He pushed his helmet back on his forehead. ‘She used to talk about the grand parties they had there in the old days, although she’s really lost it mentally now. All the maids would have new outfits for a really big do.’

  ‘Other times, other days,’ said Sloan absently. ‘Tell me, does this fire have any of the hallmarks of an insurance job to you?’

  The fire officer shook his head again. ‘The place was empty, wasn’t it? Not full of antique furniture or anything like that. And that doesn’t explain the heap of bones or why they’re sitting on what looks like a heap of old bits of seashell.’

  ‘Nothing,’ declared Sloan fervently, ‘explains either.’

  ‘Now who’s coming?’ grumbled Detective Constable Crosby as Dr Colleen Murphy’s two assistants hastened to her side. He was looking back down the drive to the point where it joined the road to Tolmie. ‘If anyone else turns up we’ll have to start a queue.’

  ‘You’re a long way from being into crowd control,’ said Sloan with some asperity. ‘And never forget, Crosby,’ he added, quoting his o
ld Station Sergeant and early mentor, ‘interested parties are always of interest in any police investigation.’ He wouldn’t be surprised if that applied to arson, too.

  In spades.

  Had there been any doubt about whether Randolph Mansfield, architect, and Derek Hitchin, project manager, were interested parties, they very soon dispelled it.

  ‘We shall need to brief the insurance assessors,’ began Mansfield.

  ‘And see whether we need to get the structural engineers in…’ chimed in Hitchin.

  ‘The safety aspect, too…’ said Mansfield. ‘That comes into it.’

  ‘And see where we shall need to deploy our resources…’ Hitchin was already peering round the site.

  ‘Conservation area…’ That was the architect.

  ‘Planning people…’ That was the project manager.

  ‘But safety comes first,’ said Randolph Mansfield.

  ‘I’m sure it does,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘but our investigations take priority and everything else will have to wait.’ From where he stood he could see Dr Murphy and her assistants hard at work.

  ‘And, of course, we need to brief our boss on the extent of the damage,’ said Hitchin. ‘As soon as possible.’

  Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. The person he had to brief was Superintendent Leeyes, sitting like a waiting spider at the centre of a web. When it came to deploying his own meagre resources the way ahead was less clear. In theory, police reinforcements should be being summoned as of now but they shouldn’t be called out at all just for a case of arson already being investigated and a possible prank.

  ‘The development here is of great importance for the economy of this part of Calleshire,’ said Mansfield in the high-handed tone he used for everyone who wasn’t either an architect or a client. Actually some clients got the high-handed tone, too, should they show signs of wanting their own way and not his.

  Detective Inspector Sloan sighed again. If there was one thing that wasn’t the concern of the constabulary, it was the economy.

  Derek Hitchin was taking a great interest in the burnt-out shell of the billiard room. ‘Thank God we’ve got the drawings.’

  ‘What drawings?’ said Sloan.

  ‘Architectural ones.’ Hitchin nodded in the direction of the building. ‘We had to have a full survey done when we applied for Listed Building Consent, didn’t we, Randolph?’

  ‘We did. Delay will be a factor when it comes to restoration, though,’ said Mansfield.

  ‘If it does, that is,’ said Hitchin. ‘The planning officer may look kindly on the demolition of this section, although if you were to ask me I would say that repairing this wreck shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Randolph Mansfield turned to Sloan. ‘Delay, Inspector, is the biggest weapon in the armoury of the local authority.’

  ‘And time’s money,’ said Hitchin.

  Sloan, professionally interested in weapons, considered this one – delay – with detachment. Who wielded the weapon could be important, too. Even now. Then there was the old Viking tradition that whoever removed a weapon from a death wound was obliged to avenge it. He turned back from this intriguing thought to look at the bare bones of the damaged building, such rafters as remained looking for all the world like ribs. He gave the two men from Berebury Homes a long look and said, ‘But you will understand that as far as our investigations go, gentlemen, your money and your time don’t come into the equation.’

  There was something surprisingly satisfying, decided Detective Inspector Sloan, about sitting back in his own chair in his own office. He found he relished it. He pulled his chair up to the desk – his desk – and drew his in-tray towards him. There was the usual pile of routine communications waiting for his attention but, sifting quickly through the dross, he found the one that he was looking for: the message from the Greatorex Museum.

  It was from Hilary Collins and was accompanied by a printed copy of the museum’s thumbnail photograph of the missing portrait of Sir Francis Filligree. Sloan studied the picture before handing it over to Detective Constable Crosby. ‘Get that blown up, will you, Crosby? As big an enlargement as you can.’

  The constable gave it a cursory glance. ‘Wouldn’t have thought that was worth stealing myself, would you, sir?’

  ‘Somebody did,’ said Sloan briefly.

  ‘But,’ persisted Crosby, ‘what would you want to steal something like that for?’

  ‘Money, maybe,’ said Sloan, adding slowly, ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘Not my money,’ said Crosby firmly.

  ‘Or the view, perhaps.’ The constable’s money, Sloan knew, went on taking advanced driving courses.

  Crosby screwed up his eyes. ‘There isn’t much of that in the picture apart from the man and his wife. Just some trees in the long grass and the house.’

  ‘And a particular view of the house that isn’t visible anymore. That’s what the lady at the museum said. A view of great interest to the conservation officer at the council, too, and a view of a house where there has been a mysterious fire. As for the rest, Crosby, we don’t know yet,’ said Sloan, adding absently, ‘but we will one day.’

  ‘There’s something else that’s a bit funny, sir,’ said Crosby. ‘There’s someone in the frame who wants to buy the place…’

  ‘While it’s still smouldering is a bit soon for a fire sale to be on the cards,’ murmured Sloan ironically.

  ‘He says he wanted to buy it before the fire,’ said Crosby. ‘And he says he wrote to Berebury Homes to tell them so.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Sloan more alertly. ‘What does he want it for? Building twice as many houses on site as all the others?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Check him out, Crosby. Money laundering can take some strange forms.’ So, he sighed, did the transactional fraud on which he should be working this minute.

  Crosby was still looking at the museum’s reproduction of the portrait. ‘Looks as if Sir Francis might have been a bit of a lad to me. He’s a redhead for a start and they usually cause trouble.’ He tilted it to the light and took another look. ‘With an eye for the ladies, I should say. That’s a pretty little wife beside him.’

  ‘I think the artist – any artist – would have seen to that,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan. ‘Probably wouldn’t have got paid if he hadn’t and for your information, Crosby, it’s known as artistic licence.’

  Crosby swept the photograph into a document case. ‘One thing you can say for the camera is that it never lies.’

  Reminding himself to have a little chat later with the detective constable on the subject of evidence as it related to digital photography, Sloan said, ‘And when you’ve seen to the photograph you can find out as much as you can about Sir Francis.’

  ‘But he’s been dead for the best part of two hundred years,’ protested Crosby. ‘Or is it three?’

  ‘Since Nelson lost his eye, anyway,’ agreed Sloan, ‘but it’s not a crime to set light to animal bones and pile them on crushed shells and unless there’s definitely been arson out at Tolmie Park, the theft of the portrait and the damage to the display cabinet in the museum are the only offences we’ve got to go on.’ He pointed to Hilary Collins’ note. ‘She says they’re still running through their records of the Anglo-Saxon artefacts in their keeping at the museum.’

  ‘Sounds painful,’ commented Crosby.

  ‘To see if anything’s missing from their collection,’ said Sloan repressively.

  ‘I can’t see anyone wanting to steal bits and pieces like that, either,’ said Crosby.

  ‘And while you’re seeing to the Filligree family history,’ went on Sloan, who had now thought of at least one reason why the Anglo-Saxon pieces could have been taken from the museum, ‘I’m going to try to get hold of an animal osteologist.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. ‘An expert on non-human bones. There’ll be one at the university. Bound to be.’ He wasn’t q
uite as sure of this as he would once have been, media studies seeming to have overtaken the sciences, pure and applied.

  ‘I would have thought a butcher would do.’ Crosby sniffed.

  ‘Very probably but I must remind you, Crosby, that the Courts prefer expert witnesses.’ The fact that the superintendent held them in the deepest distrust, he felt was better kept from the constable’s young ears.

  ‘Or a vet,’ said Crosby mulishly.

  As far as Sloan was concerned he was willing to accept the great interest evinced by the police sniffer dog on site as incontrovertible evidence although he didn’t suppose any Court would.

  ‘What you want, Crosby,’ said Sloan neatly, ‘is not a vet but a Baronetage. And when you’ve found one, we’re going round to the bank.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Calleshire and Counties Bank maintained their head office in the county town of Calleford. The fine Regency building, situated practically in the shadow of the old minster there, projected respectability and stability at every turn. Its mahogany counters were positioned on a chequered marble floor, whilst the tellers were dressed soberly enough to satisfy the oldest and crustiest – and once upon time, the wealthiest – of their customers.

  Nowadays, as Sloan would have been the first to agree, some of the young could be very wealthy indeed: pop musicians and footballers, mostly. And some of the young who weren’t very wealthy behaved as arrogantly as if they were – which was buying trouble, for them as well as for the police.

  ‘We have an appointment with the manager,’ announced Detective Inspector Sloan, pleased to note that the credentials of the two policemen were politely but efficiently inspected. He was not – had never been – taken in by marble and mahogany or the many other ways of giving the illusion of honesty, not even by elegant brochures and thick writing paper, still less by names on the board.

  ‘If you will come this way, gentlemen, please,’ said a well-trained minion.

  Sloan was happy to see, though, looking round, that the Calleshire and Counties Bank had state of the art security protection against robbery.