Bury in Haste (17 page)

‘Yes, but …’ The constable hesitated. ‘Not the river, bodies have a way of coming back to the surface down at the weir. As for burying him … Sorry, sergeant, it’s not my place to criticise, but that’s a heck of a large assumption.’

‘It was a heck of a large haul, worth indulging in a bit of amateur grave-digging for,’ Jakes said. ‘Eighty thousand pounds in used notes, being delivered to the factory for wages.’

Deepbriar let out a low whistle. ‘I didn’t realise it was that much.’

‘The villains chose the right week, it was more than double the normal amount, because staff had been putting money into a Christmas saving scheme, as well as getting paid their annual bonuses.’

They carried on towards Belston police station through the darkening end of the afternoon.

‘Was there any hint that Rudge was involved?’ Deepbriar queried.

‘Plenty of them, but if he was behind it he’d covered his tracks pretty well, there was no evidence at all.’

‘What line of business is he in? Legitimately, I mean.’

‘Good question,’ Jakes said. ‘We know he’s owns half a dozen houses on the Burrow Road, and it’s said he’s involved in the motor trade. And transport of course, he’s supposed to be behind one of the big firms that do the run to London and the channel ports.’

‘I heard some of his men were stirring things up on the picket line during the strike. I suppose if that company was one of his rivals he wouldn’t mind seeing them in trouble. You think Rudge could be the man Pattridge was working for when he was doing these odd driving jobs?’ Deepbriar pondered.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Since he mentioned them to his girlfriend they were most likely legal, and she said that was in Falbrough, not Belston.’

Deepbriar nodded and changed tack. ‘Didn’t I hear that the van delivering the payroll was sent at an unusual time, and by a different route that week?’

‘Yes, the bank manager cooked up the idea with Somerson,’ Jakes replied gloomily. ‘There were only supposed to be four people who knew about it, and one of them was the driver.’

‘He wasn’t suspected?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘He’d been with Somersons all his life and was about to retire with a generous pension, but he was so badly hurt in the attack that he didn’t live long to enjoy it.’ Jakes sighed. ‘The fools didn’t even send along a guard, they thought nobody would suspect the van was carrying that amount of money if the old man was alone.’

‘You say there was a fourth person in on the secret,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Who was that?’

‘The bank manager’s secretary. Everybody was pretty sure she must have been the one who gave the game away, but she was questioned by half a dozen different coppers and not one of them could shake her, she swore she hadn’t told a soul.’

‘But the gang were lying in wait, so they had to know the route,’ Deepbriar mused. ‘Maybe there was something that was missed at the time, somebody else who could have found out. Was there anything on paper? A map, or written instructions?’

‘No. And nobody could have overheard what they were talking about either, they met in Somerson’s office, and we checked it out, that building’s two hundred years old and the walls are solid stone, about a foot thick. Three floors up, and it wasn’t the day for the window cleaner.’

Jakes turned in under the blue lamp that shone bright in the increasing gloom. ‘I don’t know that there’s ever been a case that left us with so little to go on.’ He stopped for a quick word with the desk sergeant then led the way to an empty room. ‘Right, let’s see what Mr Pattridge’s friends left behind. A bank wrapper or a Somerson’s envelope is probably asking a bit too much.’

‘Why not wish for an incriminating letter in Rudge’s own handwriting, while you’re at it,’ Deepbriar said, emptying the bag out on to the table, tipping it upside down and giving it a shake. It didn’t look a very exciting haul: a pair of worn shoes; three socks, all darned at toe and heel; a shirt with the collar missing; a pullover, thin and rather faded from much washing; a single cuff link in the shape of an anchor, with half the silver plating rubbed off, and an envelope addressed to Mr A Pattridge at 5 Alma Villas, Belston.

‘There, what did I say?’ Deepbriar offered the envelope to Jakes, but the sergeant motioned to him to open it.

‘From Hemming and Cole, Estate Agents and Valuers. “Dear Mr Pattridge,”’ he read aloud, ‘“Our representative, Mr Michaels, will be happy to meet you at 3 pm this Wednesday to discuss the purchase of Low Rooking Garage and attached cottage.”’ He checked the date. ‘A few days before the robbery,’ he said.

Jakes whistled. ‘So Pattridge was thinking of buying himself a bit of property.’ He waved a hand over the items on the table. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if Mr Pattridge could afford a gallon of petrol, let alone a garage.’

Deepbriar felt around in the bottom of the bag in case he’d missed anything, and pulled out a photograph, worn around the edges and with a crack across it, as if it had been folded and kept in a pocket or wallet. It was a picture he’d seen before, of two boys proudly holding their new watches, standing on either side of their father. On the back, written in pencil but hardly faded at all, as if the inscription was more recent than the picture, were the words ‘Happy days’.

The Belston police station canteen was much larger than the one at Falbrough, but thanks to the flu epidemic it was almost empty when Deepbriar and Jakes walked in. A long-faced uniformed sergeant sat alone in one corner, while by the window two constables who looked as if the sum of their years would barely add up to Deepbriar’s age, were sharing a plate of sandwiches. Jakes went to the counter and ordered tea. Without consulting Deepbriar he bought two rather unappetising slices of fruit cake.

‘Hello, Ted,’ Jakes said, taking his tray to the table where the solitary sergeant was sitting. ‘This is Constable Deepbriar, from Minecliff. Constable, this is Ted Cosgough. He was desk sergeant at Northern End when I was as green as those two infants over by the window.’ He put the cake down in front of the man and drew out a chair, giving Deepbriar a nod of invitation to do the same. ‘Thought you might be getting peckish, Sarge.’

‘Thanks.’ The man stirred slightly and reached out for the first slice, dipping it into his almost empty mug of tea. ‘I could do with a refill.’

Deepbriar took the hint and returned to the counter. The lugubrious sergeant had to be Jakes’s source of local information.

They watched in silence as the man devoured both pieces of cake, dipping each mouthful in the fresh mug of tea. He then washed everything down with yet more tea, finally pushing the plate and mug away, and looking at Jakes. ‘I hear you’re searching for a missing man.’

‘Two,’ Jakes replied, with a rueful look at Deepbriar; evidently it was not the time to mention Tony Pattridge.

‘Nobody in Belston’s going to miss Joseph Spraggs much,’ Cosgough said, fishing in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and a match.

‘Especially not Sylvester Rudge,’ Jakes agreed.

‘You heard that? When our chief inspector heard about Mrs Spraggs coming in and accusing Rudge of being involved he put out a few feelers, discreetly of course. It didn’t take long to find out Spraggs had made an enemy of Belston’s favourite businessman; they’d had a few words, but as far as anyone could tell that was as far as it had gone.’

He paused, taking a long draw on the cigarette. ‘Anyway, if you really think it’s a murderer you’re after, it’s not Rudge’s style. Anyone who gets on the wrong side of him might be in danger of getting roughed up a bit, and one or two minor villains have left town in a bit of a hurry after he’s fallen out with them, but I never heard of any of his enemies doing a total vanishing act.’

‘There’s another reason why he doesn’t seem a likely suspect,’ Deepbriar said, and he explained about the prior disappearance of young Joe, who shared the name of the missing man, but had nothing else in common with him.

Cosgough shook his head. ‘That can’t have been Rudge’s chums,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. They’d be nursing a few broken bones if they made a mistake like that.’

‘But who sets out to kidnap a man without knowing exactly what he looks like and where to find him?’ Jakes mused.

‘A contract killer,’ Deepbriar said, ‘if he was just given a name, and maybe the place where he could pick up the man’s scent. How about this? Joe Spraggs was making a delivery to Falbrough a few hours before he was abducted, and we know the older man, Joseph, was often in the Queen’s Head. Suppose young Joe went there for his lunch that day? Anybody asking for a man by the name of Joseph Spraggs might have had the wrong one pointed out to him.’

‘You’ve been reading too many of those American penny dreadfuls, constable,’ Cosgough said. ‘Contract killers? Come off it!’

‘So you think two men of the same name going missing within a few days of each other is a coincidence? That’s about as likely as an outbreak of flying pigs,’ Deepbriar replied, unabashed.

‘He’s got a point,’ Jakes said. ‘But let’s get back to Rudge. Mrs Spraggs says he threatened her husband, so he’s got to be our best suspect. Maybe the other Joseph Spraggs had also come up against Rudge in some way, and whoever was given the job of dishing out his comeuppance got the wrong man. Then when they picked up the right one, and he was supposed to just get a bit of a beating, perhaps he had a heart attack or something.’

‘Or they went a bit too far, killed him by mistake. Then they disposed of the body, and came up with this idea of packing a few of his clothes so everyone would think he’d left home.’ Deepbriar concluded.

‘Guesswork,’ Cosgough was disparaging. ‘You know better than that, lads, you haven’t got a single fact to hang a case on.’ He was silent for a moment, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the first. ‘Tell you one thing, though. If Rudge was involved, you can bet he was out of town at the time. And that he’ll have a cast-iron alibi.’

T
here was a long drawn out silence at the table, as Jakes and Deepbriar considered what Cosgough had told them. ‘So maybe we should go and ask Mr Rudge where he was the first week of November,’ Jakes suggested at last.

‘Not a good idea,’ Cosgough said. ‘Rudge eats police officers below the rank of chief inspector for breakfast. But you’re in luck, as it happens I can tell you. It was the first thing we checked when Mrs Spraggs made her complaint. He was in London, seeing an old friend and getting his teeth fixed in Harley Street or some such place.’

‘Was he gone by Saturday the first?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘Took the evening train on the Friday,’ Cosgough said. ‘Which is one thing that suggests Rudge wasn’t in on it. Spraggs didn’t go missing until the following Thursday, and that’s the day Rudge came home, on the late train, the one that gets in at half-past nine. On past experience I wouldn’t expect him to run things that close.’

‘But young Joe did his vanishing act on the Saturday afternoon! You must admit, sergeant, it does seem to fit. I don’t suppose you know where Rudge was last Christmas?’ Deepbriar went on nonchalantly.

Cosgough laughed. ‘You’re thinking of the Somerson case. He went in the opposite direction for that one. North of Scotland. Staying with posh friends at a castle. Lord and Lady whatnot, sheriff of the shire and Justice of the Peace or some such.’

‘What about the men who work for him?’ Jakes asked. ‘I’ve heard he always keeps a couple of strong-arm types close to hand.’

‘He didn’t take them to Scotland with him, but we couldn’t find anything that put them near Somerson’s van.’ Cosgough was suddenly thoughtful. ‘It seems they did go to London with him though. So if there was a mistake made, it’s just possible he was using an outsider, who didn’t know exactly who this Spraggs was.’

‘Or what he looked like,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Joe’s half Joseph’s age for a start.’

‘We were hoping you might be able to give us some idea about who he would have used, Ted,’ Jakes said. ‘Is there a list of his known associates?’

‘There’s nothing official,’ Cosgough replied, ‘Not with Rudge and the chief constable rubbing shoulders at functions every night of the week. Nobody would dare commit anything to paper. I can give you a few names. Spraggs was a minor player, and as far as we know he never worked directly for Rudge, but let’s see. Wilky Bright. He’s always hanging around. And Gordon Frith, though he’s inside now, doing time for assault.’

‘Wilky,’ Jakes said. ‘We heard about Wilky in connection with somebody else. Any more?’

Cosgough dragged smoke deep into his lungs. ‘There’s one who fancies himself as a ladies’ man, always smartly dressed. He’s small fry, trying to muscle in on the big time; where Rudge is he’s usually not far away. I can’t think of his name. Berty is it? No, Barty, Barney. Barney Rimmer, or Simmonds … something like that. It’ll come to me, and when it does I’ll let you know.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Nice talking to you lads, but I’ve got to get back to work. If you’re trying to finger Rudge for this business I wish you luck, he’s been running rings round the law for thirty years, I can’t see us stopping him now.’

‘He’s right,’ Jakes said, slumped back in his chair once Cosgough had gone. ‘It’s all nothing but guesswork. We need evidence.’ He looked at his watch and straightened suddenly. ‘And finding it will have to wait. I’m sorry, Thorny, but I’m off duty until Monday. My sister’s getting married tomorrow, and if I’m not at my Mum and Dad’s house by seven o’clock there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘What do you suggest I do?’ Deepbriar asked, following Jakes from the canteen. ‘Anything you want me to follow up?’

‘I still think Bronc is our best bet, if we could only find the old man’s body, that would give us a place to start. Did you get anywhere with getting permission to search the aerodrome?’

‘The only person who could tell me who holds the key was away until next Wednesday. According to the Ministry, the local police should know who it is,’ he added gloomily.

‘And that’s you.’ Jakes turned and grinned at him. ‘Ain’t life grand? I’ll see you at Falbrough on Monday morning, but until then you’re on your own. Only one piece of advice, Thorny, stay away from Rudge, we don’t want the chief constable on our backs.’

It was barely daylight. Apart from the new layer of fallen leaves lying sodden in the mud, Wriggle’s yard looked very much as it had the day Deepbriar had gone there looking for young Joe; the gate stood open and the ancient lorry was parked facing the exit. At first glance the place was deserted, but as he leant his bike against the fence a metallic noise caught the constable’s attention and he walked around the Atkinson, to find Joe Spraggs picking up a piece of pipe to load into the back.

‘Good morning, Mr Deepbriar,’ the young man said. ‘You’re out and about early.’

‘Morning, Joe. Didn’t want to miss catching you,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘You know we’re looking into what happened to your Dad’s cousin, the other Joseph Spraggs.’

‘Yes. Do you really think he was supposed to be the one they carted off when they came here?’

‘It seems that way.’

‘Mum said his wife was frantic because nobody would listen to her. Emily’s still upset, she keeps going on about it. I suppose she’s imagining how she’d feel if I hadn’t turned up again.’ Joe frowned. ‘I’m glad the police are taking it seriously. I mean, Joseph’s one of the family, even if he is a bit of a black sheep.’

‘Actually the police at Belston had done a bit of asking around about Joseph Spraggs before his wife came to see me,’ Deepbriar said, ‘so they’d made a start. They should have told her. Not that they got very far, and we’re not doing much better, but at least we’re looking. That’s why I’m here, I need to ask you a question.’

‘Right you are.’ Joe heaved the last length of pipe into the lorry and slapped some flecks of rust off his sleeves, then he turned to face Deepbriar. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘That other Saturday, the first of November. In the morning you made a delivery to Falbrough.’

‘That’s right. They’re building a new estate where the nursery used to be. Mr Wriggle got the contract to supply all the pipe work.’ He gestured at his load. ‘This is the last of it.’

‘As I recall, you’d taken a packed lunch with you. But did you by any chance go into the Queen’s Head? Maybe for a beer at lunch-time?’

Joe shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever been inside the Queen’s Head, not that I remember.’

‘Did you call in anywhere else that day? The post office, or a shop?’

‘No. I didn’t even stop at the transport café on the way to Gristlethorpe, like I usually would, because I didn’t want to be late for the show. Is that all you wanted to know?’

‘Yes, that was it.’ Deepbriar did his best to hide his disappointment; his theory about how the mix up over the two Joseph’s had occurred, had just been thoroughly demolished. ‘Thanks, Joe.’

Deepbriar cycled homeward sunk in gloom. It didn’t look as if he had much talent when it came to detection. He had nothing to work on, he could only follow Jakes’s vague suggestion that he should continue looking for Bronc, but he’d be going over old ground and looking for a trail that was getting colder by the day.

Back at the police house, Mary was busy in the office.

‘You weren’t gone long,’ she said, putting a file back on to a shelf.

‘No,’ he agreed absently.

‘I think I’m wasting my time here. Can’t you think who they might have given a key to? How about the Colonel, he’s a military man?’

‘I had already thought of that,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I asked him yesterday.’

‘Bert Bunyard’s farm is nearest to the gate, but if he’d had a key he wouldn’t have had to break in through a hole in the fence,’ Mary remarked. ‘You know, I don’t believe they ever sent that letter telling you about it. Maybe the person at the ministry forgot.’

‘Could be. Perhaps there isn’t a key,’ he said, sniffing, ‘not in Minecliff anyway.’

She was already flicking through the papers in another file. ‘There’s only that one folder left to check, perhaps you’d do that. I have to go in a minute, or I’ll miss the bus, and there’ll be no beef for your dinner tomorrow.’

‘All right, love, thanks. I think you’re right, there was no letter. I’m sure if I’d been told who the key holder was, I’d remember.’ Deepbriar lifted down the remaining file. ‘It won’t be in here, there’s no way I’d file it under traffic.’

‘Unless it got caught up with something else. You might as well look, since it’s the last one.’ She left him to his fruitless search, coming back a few minutes later with her coat on, carefully inserting a lethal-looking pin through her red felt hat. ‘Bye, love.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘What I don’t understand is, if you want to have another look at the airbase, why don’t you go in the same way as before?’

‘Because last time I could say I was following a suspect, which makes it all right to use the hole in the fence, although even for a police officer that’s officially classed as trespassing.’ He sighed. ‘The ministry are a bit over zealous if you ask me. I’ll just have to make my search unofficial, and anything I find will need to be discovered all over again once we get hold of the key.’

She laughed. ‘Poor old thing. You’ve got a face as long as a wet weekend. Why don’t you have your elevenses a bit early? There’s a fresh fruit cake in the tin.’

Thorny Deepbriar took his wife’s advice, and along with a generous helping of Mary’s cake he sneaked an exciting ten minutes with Mitch O’Hara, so he was in a more cheerful frame of mind when he wheeled his bicycle out again and headed up the hill. Instead of taking the route by which they had recovered Ferdy Quinn’s pig, he went to the main gates. These were made of two layers of thick mesh and stood nearly eight foot high; topped with barbed wire, they made a formidable barrier. Bert Bunyard had hinted that somebody went in that way, but if so they must have had a key, because the chain and padlock showed no signs of tampering.

The passing years had left the road into the airfield very overgrown, but only in a few places had the concrete vanished entirely beneath a layer of dirt and weeds. Deepbriar bent down, taking a closer look at the ground. He could barely believe what he was seeing. There were tracks. A vehicle had gone in here, some time ago; a week or more maybe, he couldn’t tell exactly, but there could be no mistake. Despite the rain that had fallen since, there were still faint indentations where the wheels had passed. The marks weren’t clear enough for him to be sure it was the same vehicle that had left the tracks in Wriggle’s yard, but they looked as if they were the right distance apart. Was this what Bert Bunyard had seen?

Full of a fresh determination, the constable hurried to the place where the badger trail passed under the fence. There were miles of old concrete roads on the airfield, simply getting back to the gate on this side of the fence would have taken him half an hour on foot. He crouched to force his way through the gap, holding the bike by the saddle and pushing it in front of him. A pedal snagged on a low branch at the very moment that the front wheel hit a root. The bike slewed sideways, the handlebars twisted and the whole machine bucked as if it were suddenly alive. With no room to get out of the way, Deepbriar was sent crashing to the ground with the bike landing painfully on top of his legs.

It was amazing how many projecting parts a bicycle had, and at that moment all of them seemed to be sticking into him. At the expense of more bruises, a scratched face and a nasty tear down the sleeve of his greatcoat, he pulled free. Muttering words he wouldn’t dare use in front of Mary, he wrestled the bike through the gap somehow, emerging smeared with mud from the wheels and grease from the chain. Hot, cross and dirty, Deepbriar eventually pushed the machine on to the concrete surface and climbed into the saddle.

Back at the entrance, this time on the inside, he scanned the ground. The tracks were no easier to see, and they faded out in a couple of yards, leaving nothing to suggest which way the vehicle had gone. He sat astride his bike, one foot on the ground, deep in thought as he stared down at the slight indentations in the grass. Had dead men really been brought this way? Bronc, Spraggs, maybe even Tony Pattridge? Could the cellar where Joe was held have been an air-raid shelter?

‘Hello, Mr Deepbriar.’

The constable jumped as if he’d been shot, almost tumbling over for the second time that morning.

‘Sorry,’ Harry Bartle said apologetically as he came freewheeling along the concrete track and braked alongside Deepbriar. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘You shouldn’t be here, Harry, this is Air Ministry property.’ Deepbriar was ruffled by his display of nerves. ‘Did you come through the fence?’

‘Yes. Sorry,’ Harry said again, ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I followed you.’ He grinned. ‘The whole village knows this is where Bert hid the pig. You know, I think plenty of other people know the way in. Billy Tapper and his mates have been ferreting up here more than once, and George Hopgood knows somebody who’s been rooting about looking for scrap metal.’

‘If that’s true he could find more than he’s bargained for,’ Deepbriar said, ‘that’s why the fence is there, because there’s unexploded bombs all over the place.’

Harry shrugged. ‘He never had much in the way of brains. Serve him right if he blows himself up. But you’ve not come looking for unexploded bombs. Did Bert hide something else up here?’

‘That’s no business of yours, even if he did,’ Deepbriar said sharply. ‘As it happens I’m concerned with more serious business than Bert Bunyard’s feud with Ferdy Quinn.’

‘You’re still looking for Bronc.’ Harry’s eyes shone with detective fervour. ‘You think this is where the murderer hid the body, is that it? The aerodrome is an awfully big place for one man to search on his own, Mr Deepbriar, can I help?’

‘Certainly not. This is a police matter, Harry. You’re trespassing, and I can’t allow you to stay. This isn’t like looking for a man who’s worst crime is leaving a couple of gates open. You’d best get off home.’

‘Right you are.’ Crestfallen, Harry turned his bicycle round and rode slowly back the way he’d come. Deepbriar watched him go, feeling mean. If there was an official search then there was every chance they’d be calling for volunteers before the next week was out, it wouldn’t have hurt him to tell Harry that, instead of sending him off with a flea in his ear.