Threadbare

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Three hooks held various items of outdoor clothing and below that a rack housed a selection of footwear, wellington boots, some stout hiking boots and in contrast, a pair of slippers.

  The visitor looked down; the mail trapped beneath the blue protective overshoes brought a smile. Within the hour he had walked every room, there was no need to rush as Billy Hurst was on holiday for another few days. The same order was to be found everywhere. He found the item he was looking for and slipped it in his bag. The gun he placed on top of the kitchen cabinet. He would come back when the owner returned home and hopefully he would be tired from travel. Besides, he had another visit to make.

  ***

  Quinn had identified three firms which held the weapons described by Finch; one was a working knacker’s yard in Lancashire and the others were a Wildlife and a Safari Park. He noted that they all had personnel trained in the use of the guns and they had kept records logging when and where they were if off site. Local officers had visited each venue and could confirm that their holding the weapons met the requirement of the licence so it was likely that the guns used by Finch and Lyons were unregistered.

  The names from the back of the photograph had been added and link lines drawn on the whiteboards but no further information had yet been forthcoming. He had set the computers within a fifty-mile radius, looking for all residents by the name of William and Bill along with those called Charlie and Charles. The tedium of police work could often reap the greatest rewards but the list was endless. It was then just a case of narrowing the search parameters and simple police work.

  In his office, Owen sat at his desk as Quinn looked over his shoulder at the screen. The list comprised two hundred and twenty-seven names for Bill, Will, Billy and William.

  “This is too wide. How far apart in distance are the two deaths?” Owen looked on Google maps. “See, Bedale to Knaresborough is about twenty-five miles. Let’s say for the moment thirty as a maximum and we’ll guess Knaresborough to be the central point. How many names will we have left?”

  Owen moved sideways to allow Quinn full control of the keyboard. “Knowing from where we draw the circle is critical but it reduces the number to one hundred and eighty-four. Interesting, we have females here too giving their addresses and electoral link. If we get rid of those … we have reduced it by sixteen!”

  “Select them in alphabetical order and then age categories. Let’s assume that Bill is within ten years of Peterson. Now what do we have?”

  “Thirty-seven, sir.”

  Owen smiled.

  In the Incident Room, Stuart Park checked the latest additions to the whiteboards in the Incident Room, suddenly paused and felt his face flush. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He slammed his fist on the wall and three officers turned to look. He shook his head and held up a hand as if in apology and left. Owen was still at his desk when Stuart walked in, Quinn was leaving.

  “Sir, Sniggy. Just been checking the boards and I note we have reference to a person called Sniggy, possibly written on the back of a missing photograph from the crime scene at the farm.”

  Looking up, Owen said nothing but dropped his pen and sat back.

  “When I interviewed Peter Finch, Lyons’s friend, he mentioned that he had a nickname … Sniggy. I added it to my notes but forgot to add it to the bloody report.” Park raised his eyebrows in embarrassment.

  “Sniggy?”

  “Sorry. As I said, just forgot.”

  “You’ve spotted it, you’ve followed procedure and checked the boards. That wouldn’t have slipped through HOLMES had you …” he stopped himself making the officer feel any worse. “But we humans are simply that, human and we get there in the end. So, Stuart, if the name refers to Lyons then Peterson should be on there too. The key now is to find the others before they possibly go the same way.”

  ***

  Leonard watched as Karl took the snake and carefully walked to another room. He stood to follow and went to the door. “Can I see where he lives, Karl?”

  “Stay there, Leonard. Remember our promises and remember our secrets. If you do as you’re told when you come again, you’ll be able to hold the snake. Do you think he’ll be wet and slimy or dry and smooth?”

  “Kaa in the park is cold.” Leonard could see the open door a short distance up the corridor. Karl’s voice seemed so close yet so far away.

  “Are you sitting down, Leonard, or are you in the wrong place?” The voice was firm but nonthreatening.

  Leonard immediately moved back to the lounge and sat on the carpet, his finger on his lips. “I’m being good, Karl. Promise.”

  “What was my question, Leonard?”

  “Forgotten, Karl.”

  “When is your birthday, Leonard?” Karl asked as he entered the room. He had washed his hands and was wiping them on a towel. He could see from the blank expression on his friend’s face that he was unsure. “I wonder how old you are Leonard. I’ll talk to your lovely mother. You never know but if it’s soon I’ll see if we can make it a very special birthday.”

  Leonard moved his hand to his mouth, failing to control his excitement. Saliva dribbled off his chin and onto his knee.

  On returning to the resident’s lounge, Leonard and Karl spotted his mother. She was in the conservatory, her eyes closed, the sunlight spreading across her legs like a blanket. Karl looked at Leonard and put his finger to his lips. “Let her sleep, Leonard, we’ll just walk in the garden for ten minutes as there’s something I want to show you.”

  They moved towards the French windows but Leonard in his excitement knocked a chair that clattered on the tiled floor. Leonard squealed, it brought Penny to her senses. “You’re back.”

  Leonard turned and went to her, eager to reveal that he was to get a surprise on his birthday but it was a secret. Karl promptly laughed as he picked up the chair.

  “Secret you say?” Penny ruffled Leonard’s hair and they both laughed. Karl stood to the edge and said nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cyril Bennett lay on the lounger. The sea lapped the white sand metres from his feet. The umbrella offered perfect shade but the white fedora pulled over his eyes momentarily blacked out the world and soon he drifted to sleep. A large catamaran breezed past, the sail full. A large white tarpaulin tied to the boat’s thin, steel shrouds formed a horizontal sunshade giving protection to the passengers who were enjoying the coastal trip. The music, a rich reggae beat, seemed to drift along the turquoise water. To some it was a brief moment of pleasure, to others an annoyance but for the moment it was neither for Cyril. It filtered into his dream turning it into a nightmare.

  He heard the noise as he approached his office, the beat penetrated the building accompanied by shrieks of laughter but the onslaught was nothing to what he faced on opening the door. His office was full. People seemed to fill every space as Owen and Hannah danced on his desk whilst others clapped and laughed. He scanned the room. On a chair near the centre sat Liz Graydon. A girl wearing a Venetian mask lifted her head as if presenting an award. Cyril, amazed, focused on her face. How could it be? She was dead. At first she was laughing but from the corner of his eye, at the far side of the room, he noticed a huge man in tight pink trousers. It was Charles. He pointed to Cyril and then he withdrew a hat pin from his shirt collar. Cyril tried to shout, Charles, stop! but no words came. He tried again as Charles bent to kiss Liz; she slumped forward, lifeless. Both she and Charles immediately turned to smoke and drifted towards the light. There, in their place, was Wendy, his stepmother. She was on all fours and naked, his father was kneeling behind. He was laughing and staring directly at Cyril. I’ll make a man of you yet my son, were the words that seemed to drift above the music, quickly followed by everyone’s laughter.

  All of Cyril’s emotional and traumatic past was played out here in what seemed like some bizarre theatre. He was getting hotter and felt like a child again. It was at that moment Owen kicked the computer screen with great force. Cyril dashed towards it. Owen! he screamed at f
ull volume. The authority in his cry carried back over the sea to where the boat had long since been. A number of heads had turned to see from where the plea had originated and they watched as Cyril sat bolt upright with some force as if trying to catch the screen. People continued to watch, a moment’s entertainment in what had been a long and lazy day. Julie, sitting on the next bed, reacted instinctively; she had experienced his dreams in the past. Dropping her book, she thrust a hand across to grasp Cyril’s arm.

  “Cyril, stop. Cyril! It’s a dream.” Her voice was calm but assertive and she felt the rigidity drain from Cyril’s body. She could see the sweat running from his forehead.

  Cyril stopped and saw his own feet, the sand and then the sea. Immediately he turned to look at Julie, his eyes red. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and shook his head before looking at his hands. They were shaking.

  “Bloody hell that was so real, so real.” He explained what he had just witnessed and Julie at first laughed but then moved closer and wrapped him in her arms.

  “You’re not used to doing nothing, Cyril. For the first time in years you’ve laid ghosts to rest and occasionally they will fight back. They will try to win and weaken you. It’s because you’re worried about the station and your team. That’s expected, the dreams or nightmares are natural. It’s all part of the catharsis. Remember what Caroline, your counsellor, told you after Liz’s death? She told you that Liz might return and she did, but she also told you that over time she would slowly leave you and …”

  Cyril nodded.

  “With the reunion with your family and your father’s death, the wedding and the planning we’ve had to do, all of those things will dredge those fears and anxieties from deep within, no matter how far down you believe you’ve buried them. This is not the first, neither will it be the last nightmare but we will beat it together, my darling. Ring Owen if you’re concerned. Have a chat, not necessarily about work. Let your Best Man know you’re thinking about him and the team and how proud you are of him and of them. It’ll put your mind at rest but you must learn to trust them and open up more, allow your emotions to surface. They’ve never let you down yet and besides, there’ll come a day when you’re simply driving a desk and others will be at the sharp end so you’d better get used to it.” She acknowledged that he found showing and expressing his emotions a major problem. It had taken him an age just to tell her that he loved her. She presumed correctly that he had been emotionally starved as a child and taught that males were expected to be strong and demonstrate a stiff upper lip.

  Cyril looked at her. He knew that everything she said was true but in real terms he had brushed his feelings and emotions under the carpet. “There was one thing that was even more strange. They were all there, the people from my past, apart from one person.”

  Julie knew immediately to whom he referred. “Your mother, Cyril?”

  He pulled a face. “How did you …?”

  “Was I in this dream?”

  Cyril shook his head. “No.”

  Julie just held his two hands. “And why is that?”

  He smiled. That thought was a step too far, although he accepted it was because they were the two people who meant the most to him. To hide rather than to surrender that thought, he allowed the barrier to begin to fall again and his expression swiftly changed. “I need a beer, and for you my beautiful wife?”

  “Sex on the beach would be lovely.”

  Cyril looked askance and giggled. “Sorry?”

  “Cocktail, not a demand, Cyril.” She chuckled. “It’s killed your sense of humour, that dream, hasn’t it?”

  Cyril frowned and bent before kissing her forehead. “It was frightening and too real. Too real.”

  ***

  It had meant a very early start for Stuart Park as he researched the local papers for reports on the races held at Ripon, in particularly the Great St Wilfred’s Stakes, the richest race on the calendar. If the Bostocks were correct the picture should be within the archive and it was the photograph that he really needed to locate and then any editorial that supported it. His early error made his quest even more critical, and he knew it was going to be slow work. Most copies were held on microfilm but there might still be details held on file. Contacts he had built up over the years had directed him and he now had two papers – the rest were on microfiche and an original copy detailing the day and date of every race. It was a piece of luck but within minutes he had the photograph for which he had been searching. It was taken in 1986. It showed four individuals all grinning at the camera. There were also others in the shot but it was clear that the four were together. Two horses stood behind and beyond the sign, Ripon Races – Yorkshire’s Garden Racecourse.

  “There can be no doubt where this was taken,” Stuart said out loud and he read the editorial accompanying the photograph but his language soon changed. “Shit!”

  ‘Samuel Peterson and friends enjoying a successful day at the races …’

  He photographed the image and sent it directly to Owen partly out of uncertainty, but mainly out of guilt.

  Studying the photograph carefully he could see that there was no acknowledgement as to who the others were, only a description of the winning horse and jockey. He needed to check the other two local papers, maybe they were more detailed. Once he had familiarised himself with manipulating the computer containing the microfilm, he could understand its value. Again, however, there was only the photograph and the same article beneath on one copy, and only the photograph on the second. There was, for Park at least, a glimmer of hope – the article was attributed to the reporter Frank Fitzpatrick. He jotted down the name.

  Three phone calls later Stuart had tracked down the reporter. Fitzpatrick was now employed freelance in London and working as a news reporter for a major television company. Park was also heartened to hear that Frank had kept all of his notebooks and recordings of interviews from his early career and that there might be a chance that further details that did not make the editorial would be somewhere on file. It was this sense of achievement that fed his love of the job, the sleuthing; it made it challenging but also so worthwhile. All he had to do now was await an evening call from Mr Fitzpatrick.

  ***

  The report of the rustling should not really have arrived on Owen’s desk, it should have been handled by a lower rank, but he had glanced at the content before passing it to Quinn to direct it to the relevant department. He had informed Quinn that the killing of thirteen sheep was not on his radar as the deaths he was dealing with seemed more appropriate to his new office. Within the day and to Owen’s astonishment Quinn had brought it back with good reason.

  “Sir, I’d like to put this back on your radar I think you said. I strongly believe that in some way it’s relevant to the case.”

  Owen looked up and frowned. “Rustling near Ramsgill, relevant, right … How?”

  “Sir, it has a certain ring to it and there’s a connection; slaughtermen and a farm labourer who was constantly short of money, experts who knew how to handle sheep and how to kill and possibly butcher.” Quinn stabbed a finger on the file. “I had a quick word with the community officer who went to the scene. Thirteen killed and the meat taken. But, sir, that’s not the real issue. There’s a greater problem that we and those outside the farming industry would fail to spot. All farm animals are treated with medication. Sheep are no different and owing to the way that food entering our food chain is monitored and logged, this is taken into consideration. If they’re killed too soon after they’ve been treated there is a possibility of those medicines or chemicals entering humans. There is no way of knowing where it’s come from once the meat is removed during one of these clandestine collections. The passport system only works on the full carcass. People will always buy if the price is right.”

  “Lyons and Peterson are dead, Quinn. They didn’t rise up and come back to slaughter sheep in Ramsgill.”

  “No, no. Not them. They were probably involved in the past, s
mall fry, but it may have got them killed. This new attack. Is someone clearing the way?”

  Owen tapped his finger on the desk. “Did Crime Scene Investigation take place?”

  “Indeed. It’s on file. There are more incidents like this occurring nationally, usually a secluded spot close to a road, possible trees to conceal the activity and from which to hang the animal.”

  “How do they see? Catch the sheep? After all, farmers need dogs.”

  Owen’s phone signalled a mail. He checked. It was the photograph from Stuart Park. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Red lights I’m told, but as to the capture …”

  “Red lights, Quinn?

  “The ones you strap to your head.” He could see his boss had been distracted by the mail.

  Owen looked again at the image and checked he had a connection to the printer. He heard the machine come alive before spewing the picture to the side. “Samuel Peterson.” He flicked the paper’s edge. “But who are the rest?” He handed the picture to Quinn. “1986, The Great St Wilfred’s Stakes, Ripon Races. This was the picture taken from Peterson’s house. One looks like Lyons to me, the one on the left. According to Bostock one was known as Sniggy, and Lyons’s mate and colleague informed us that he’d had that nickname most of his life.”

  “Sniggy and death by snake,” Quinn proffered. “And Nutter, if I remember the notes from our trusty farmer was Peterson and his death …”

  “Cracked the nut,” Owen whispered. “Some bugger’s playing bloody games and I mean bloody. We need to know who the other two are and we need to know pretty damn quick.”