by Bill Kitson
‘I can see how that might stick in your memory,’ Nash agreed. ‘Can you tell us anything more about the Subaru near the allotments? Colour, for example?’
‘It were a sort of mucky green,’ Turner told him. ‘And it were ought four red chester.’
Nash glanced at Lisa, who looked completely nonplussed.
‘Sorry, I don’t follow you,’ Nash was forced to admit.
‘Superdo near t’ allotments. It were an ought four red chester.’
This time Nash caught on. ‘You mean a nought four registration?’ Turner nodded. ‘2004. You can’t remember the number, can you?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘If you remember anything else, let me know. Or DC Andrews,’ he added. He saw the sparkle in Turner’s eyes and threw in a further incentive. ‘If it’s after the weekend you can tell Sergeant Mironova.’
‘I’ll do what I can for ’er, Mr Nash,’ Turner promised with a salacious leer.
Chapter eight
The murder kept Nash busy throughout Saturday. When he returned home, he found a note on the breakfast bar. ‘Got to go to Milan tonight. See you soon, x.’
Nash smiled. She was teasing him, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He settled down for the evening. He’d reports to read, but decided they could wait. He flicked the television on to watch Match of the Day. The theme music hadn’t finished before he was sound asleep. He slept through two hours of TV before dragging himself to bed.
Next morning he felt refreshed and was up and about before 7 a.m. He brewed coffee and sat at the table. He pulled the folders out of his briefcase and began studying them. The report on the caravan fire confirmed Curran’s suspicions. Nash’s face was grim as he read the cold facts.
He turned his attention to the Vickers file. There were only a few days before the prisoner would be released. He picked up his phone. Fifteen minutes later, he set off for Felling Prison.
‘I want you to reconsider your decision. If you come back, there’s going to be trouble. It’s already started. Your house was broken into a couple of nights ago. You nearly didn’t have a home to go to.’
Vickers lifted his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The intruders set a fire. The fire brigade managed to put it out before it did much harm.’
‘What was the damage?’
‘The fire was contained in the lounge.’
‘And that’s all it was? The fire, I mean? There wasn’t anything stolen?’
‘Not that I’m aware.’ Nash saw the prisoner relax.
‘So, it’s started already.’ Vickers didn’t seem particularly upset or shocked. He’d been concerned about something, though.
‘You were expecting this.’
Vickers nodded. ‘I knew something would happen.’
‘Because of what you’ve done?’
Vickers’ laugh was devoid of humour. ‘Because of what I represent.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Some people regard me as a threat. But I can’t expect you to understand.’
‘Why don’t you try me? In a few days’ time you’ll be out of here. That doesn’t mean you’ll be free. You’ll be watched by us; your movements will be restricted. There are people who won’t be happy until you’re dead. And yet you still insist on returning to Helmsdale? You must be crazy.’
If Vickers was alarmed, it didn’t show. ‘The ones who fear me; they’re the reason I must return.’
‘Then tell me what you know; what you suspect. Give me some idea how to protect you.’
When Vickers replied, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘My life doesn’t matter. Other things are more important. I’ll tell you when I’m back in Helmsdale. Not before.’
Monday morning found Tom Pratt in Helmsdale along with Clara, listening to Nash. ‘That was it. I tried to make him change his mind. I suggested he put the house up for sale and move elsewhere. He wouldn’t hear of it. I told him how much the house is worth. He wasn’t interested. He reckons people are after him because he represents some sort of threat. About what, and who they are, he wouldn’t say.’
‘You don’t think this is an act?’ Clara asked.
‘It could be. Or it may be Vickers doesn’t know anything.’
‘Do you still think he might be innocent?’
Pratt looked surprised by her question. ‘You’re not serious? Mike, you’ve read the evidence. There can’t be any doubt.’
Nash explained his reservations. Pratt shook his head. ‘I don’t agree,’ he muttered.
‘Let’s see what Vickers has to say when he’s in Helmsdale. In the meantime, we’ve more pressing problems.’
Nash explained about the body found near the allotments. ‘We need a description circulating to the media. I want a description of the dead man in tonight’s paper,’ Nash told Clara. ‘Call the Gazette. Ask them to send someone over. The sooner we get identification, the sooner we can start looking for a motive. At present we’re just sitting on our hands singing psalms.’
‘That’s an interesting concept,’ Clara commented.
‘Any clues from the crime scene?’ Pratt asked.
Nash shook his head. ‘SOCO reported this morning. It didn’t amount to much. There are some footprints in the undergrowth close to where the body was found. Apart from that we’ve a sighting of a car. But they could be coincidence.’
‘Hardly conclusive. Anything more on the caravan deaths?’
‘Only to confirm it was arson.’
‘No clues on that either?’
‘Forensics picked up a substance from the undergrowth close to the caravan. It was semen. They’ve gone for DNA profiling on it. It’s probably nothing to do with the fire. On the other hand, we’ve to look at every scrap of evidence.’
‘If that’s all, I’m off back to Netherdale. I’m seeing your friend King this afternoon. He’ll want a detailed report. Shall I give him your love?’ Pratt saw Nash’s expression. ‘Very well,’ he laughed. ‘I won’t bother.’
Clara watched the superintendent leave. ‘He’s in a genial mood today. Surprising when you think what’s going on.’
‘He’s not got long to go to his pension, that’s probably got a lot to do with it. How was your weekend? Did you get high with the galloping major?’
‘That man’s got far too much energy.’ Clara saw Nash’s raised eyebrows and blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant. He had me dashing up and down mountains all day Saturday and yesterday. I’ve come to work for a rest. How was your weekend?’
‘Nothing special, except I found out I don’t have amnesia.’ Nash explained about the practical joke.
‘Good for her,’ Clara approved. ‘It’s time somebody took you down a peg or two.’
‘For that you can make the coffee.’ Nash scowled.
When Clara returned, Nash handed her some paperwork. ‘These are the notes I made after I’d seen Vickers.’
Clara’s coffee had gone cold by the time she finished reading. ‘Your doubts about Vickers are stronger than ever.’
‘Yes. Either he’s bluffing or there’s something wrong about the whole case. One thing’s certain. He doesn’t care what happens. Nothing’s going to stop him coming back to Helmsdale.’
‘Are you visiting him again?’
‘I said I’d pick him up on Friday.’
‘Then we’d better start planning.’
They were interrupted by the phone. Nash answered, and after a few seconds he began to smile. ‘I thought you were going to be longer. What do you want to do? That’s fine. I need all the help I can get. No, she’s not much help. All she does is sit here, making snide remarks about my love life and being generally insubordinate. And her coffee’s lousy. Give me chance to clear it with HR. Call me later today.’
‘Pearce?’ Clara guessed, as Nash replaced the receiver.
‘Yes, the second leg of his holiday was cancelled. Something to do with an airline strike. He wants to come back to work.’
‘And the cr
ack about me being insubordinate? What did Viv say about that?’
‘He said, “Nothing’s changed then”.’
Appleyard was in his study. After a few minutes’ thought, he picked up his pen and started to write. He set down a few sentences, paused and read them aloud.
He gathered his thoughts and began scribbling again. Eventually he put his pen down and read through the speech, altering a word here, a phrase there.
Appleyard would need to show it to Rathmell before the residents’ meeting on Friday. He made a note to print off a press release. No point in making the speech if nobody read or heard it.
He picked up the phone to call Rathmell. He felt a glow of pride: he was about to announce a new political philosophy. ‘Where do you want to meet?’ he asked eagerly.
Rathmell frowned. ‘I’m a bit pushed for time. Better make it in Helm Woods. If you drive along the road by the river, you’ll come to a picnic area opposite the bridge over the Helm. Take the path through the woods. After about a mile it crosses the path for Kirk Bolton. Turn right and you’ll see a clearing. I’ll be waiting for you there, seven o’clock tonight.’
Rathmell finished the call and dialled another number. ‘Are you free this evening? I’ve to meet the councillor at 7 p.m. in the clearing. I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can. I’ll see you straight after. I’ll bring a rug so we can be comfortable. I’m getting a bit tired of the confines of the car, even the Merc.’ Rathmell cast a swift glance round before continuing, ‘She’s talking about a two- week trip to America, which means I’ll have this place to myself.’
Chapter nine
Netherdale Gazette was not blessed with limitless resources or the backing of a large conglomerate. The paper was owned by the Pollard family. They took an active part in the running of the daily. The founder had been involved until he was into his eighties. His two sons divided their responsibilities: the elder brother ran the newspaper whilst his sibling managed the other family enterprises. When they retired, the editorial duties were handed to the eldest grandson. Nor did the family’s involvement rest purely with the male side: Helen Pollard had been features and women’s editor for many years. Now nearing retirement, she was grooming her niece Becky to succeed her.
Becky, a good-looking and popular girl in her early thirties, was responsible for overseeing such technological advances as the paper could afford. She also acted as staff photographer and relief reporter.
It was in the photography role that Tucker sought her out. He hoped Becky could provide the equipment he needed and teach him how to use it. Becky stared at him in disbelief. ‘You must be joking. Have you any idea how much they cost?’
Tucker shook his head.
‘You’d get no change out of £4,000. And you’re asking me to lend you equipment like that, when you don’t have any idea how to use it?’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Tucker muttered defensively.
‘Why do you want it?’
‘I’m on a story. It might lead nowhere, but I don’t think so.’
‘I can’t let you go gallivanting off with a highly sophisticated digital camera,’ Becky objected.
‘Haven’t you got a spare?’
‘The Gazette’s not made of money. We’ve only got two. One that I use and the other as backup. If mine developed a fault and you’re off somewhere with the reserve, I’d get a right shafting. Sorry, JT, I can’t risk it.’
‘I thought you’d enjoy getting shafted,’ Tucker murmured. ‘So there’s nothing you can do?’
‘There’s an old one you could use. It’s a good enough camera. It’s just not digital.’
Tucker looked baffled. ‘What’s that mean?’
Becky explained. ‘The drawback is you can’t view the images; you have to get them developed. I can lend you the analogue version. Give me half an hour and I’ll get it out and give you a quick tutorial.’
‘That’s great, Becky. But there’s another favour.’ Tucker hesitated.
‘Go on. Spit it out.’
She listened in growing astonishment. ‘Hell’s bells, JT! You don’t want much, do you? What makes you think I’d have that sort of gear?’
Tucker shrugged. ‘I thought you might know someone.’
Becky thought it over. ‘There is a bloke I could ask. But it won’t be cheap.’
‘That’s alright.’ Tucker grinned. ‘I can put it on my expenses.’
Becky gave him a long, cold stare. ‘That’s supposed to be an incentive, is it? Oh, very well, but I’m not promising anything.’
Juris had been worried since Zydrumas failed to return, and had spent a dreadful weekend. He’d decided to go to the farmer but as he set out for the farmhouse, he’d seen the flashing lights. His courage failed him. He’d retreated to the house and locked and bolted the doors behind him. It was only later that he thought that the police activity might have something to do with Zydrumas. That intensified his fear. By Monday morning, when Zydrumas was still absent, he went to seek out his employer, and told him of the Latvian’s disappearance.
The farmer told him of the stabbing and asked, ‘Do you think the dead man might be Zydrumas?’
‘I do not know. I am very much afraid.’
‘We’d better go to the police.’ The farmer saw the look of anxiety on his employee’s face. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. Your papers are in order?’
Juris nodded. ‘Well then, don’t fret,’ the farmer continued. ‘The police in this country aren’t to be scared of, unless,’ he added with the bitterness of experience, ‘they’ve got a bloody radar gun in their hand.’
Clara was giving the Gazette reporter a description of the victim. She’d barely left Nash’s office when his mobile bleeped. At the same time the phone in the outer office rang. He glanced at the text, ‘Michael darling. Leaving Milan tomorrow a.m. Dinner? X.’ He turned his attention to the phone. ‘Mike, there’s a couple of blokes in reception reckon they know the dead man. Shall I get them up there, or do you want them in an interview room?’
‘Bring them here. Whilst you’re at it, get Clara on one side and explain what’s going on.’
Nash eyed the two men. The older looked confident and relaxed. The younger man looked nervous. The farmer gave his name, and introduced his companion. He explained what Juris had told him, and the conclusion they’d drawn.
Nash turned to the younger man. ‘When was the last time you saw your friend?’
Juris spoke slowly and clearly. His English, though accented, was good. ‘I left farm. It was Friday afternoon. We had been making meeting. Zydrumas was to follow. He did not come. I waited at house all of Friday night. On Saturday I had shopping, but was only gone one hour. Still Zydrumas did not come. On Sunday I was at house all day. No one came. So I told to our employer,’ he glanced at the farmer, ‘this morning. That was first I heard of dead man.’
Nash looked at the older man. The farmer nodded. ‘Zydrumas left me about twenty-five minutes after Juris.’
‘This meeting. What was it about?’
‘Zydrumas is in charge of my labour force. We employ workers from Eastern Europe, Lithuania, Latvia and Poland principally. The meeting was to arrange for Juris to take charge at Helmsdale Farm. That would leave Zydrumas free to concentrate on recruitment. I’ve just bought two more farms. That’s going to mean a lot more staff.’
‘The name Zydrumas.’ Nash turned back to Juris. ‘Where’s that hail from?’
‘Zydrumas is from Lithuania,’ Juris replied simply.
‘Are you also Lithuanian?’
‘No, I am of Latvia.’
‘First off, we’d better see we’re not panicking over nothing. I’m going to get someone to take you to view the body. Not very pleasant, I’m afraid. If the dead man is Zydrumas I’ll need you both to give official statements.’
He picked up the phone. ‘Is DS Mironova still with that reporter? Ask her to pop back here.’
Juris had never been in such a place. He looked at the drab grey
walls and shivered. The furniture was purely functional. A small table with a plastic top and matching chairs. No pictures broke up the monotony of the walls; no magazines softened the harsh lines of the table.
A man dressed in a loose-fitting olive-green shirt with matching trousers entered. His costume was as drab as the room. He beckoned them to follow.
Juris looked at the long table covered with a sheet. He swallowed, he knew what was beneath. The pathologist drew back the sheet. Juris stared at the corpse.
‘Well?’
The pathologist’s single word was like a thunderclap. Juris nodded bleakly. ‘This is Zydrumas.’ He turned away, the horror overwhelming him.
Outside the building, the young Latvian leant against the wall to quell the nausea in his stomach and try to stop his knees from shaking.
What would this mean? Now that Zydrumas was dead would Juris’s job go with it? He looked up as the door opened, and the detective ushered the farmer out. Juris’s employer looked equally shocked. ‘We’ve to go make a statement,’ he explained.
The first half of the journey was spent in silence. Eventually, the farmer spoke. ‘I don’t know, lad.’ His employer shook his head. ‘This is a hell of a mess.’
‘What will happen now?’ Juris asked, fearful of the reply.
The farmer had obviously given the matter some consideration. ‘I’ve a farm to run,’ he told the younger man. ‘Three farms,’ he corrected himself. ‘I was relying on Zydrumas to get me the men. Where I’m going to find enough labour, I haven’t the foggiest idea.’
‘Is there no one who can find the workers?’
‘Nobody I know of,’ his employer stated flatly. He paused and looked searchingly at the young Latvian. ‘At least, not until a few seconds ago. I need to think about this.’ They were on the outskirts of Helmsdale before he broke silence. ‘As things stand, I’ve only a handful of workers coming back from last year. At best I’ve only enough to man one farm. I need workers quickly. Do you reckon you could do the job?’
