Losing Ground (18 page)

A similar view was implicit in what was being said in the half-empty boardroom. Robert Selby had made no move to leave after Lionel Perry had strode out. He had been left with Derek Hitchin.

‘And what was all that about, might I ask?’ said the project officer.

‘Your guess,’ said the financial controller tautly, ‘is as good
as mine. All I did was pass the time of day with the fellow from Calleford Construction, although I must say I did wonder where the bank came in. They’re our bankers as well as Calleford Construction’s. And they’re acting for this Stuart Bellamy who wants to buy us out, too. He referred us to Douglas Anderson there for any assurances about the validity of his offer and his capacity to come up with the money. It’s all a bit worrying.’

‘Sure,’ said Hitchin half-heartedly.

‘So is something else,’ said Robert Selby, unusually forthcoming. ‘We’re very vulnerable to a take-over at this moment because we’ve got all this land at Tolmie. A good landbank is a very valuable commodity these days and you can bet your bottom dollar that Calleford Construction knows all about it. They couldn’t have chosen a better moment to try to gobble us up. I suppose Stuart Bellamy knows that too.’

‘A babe in arms could work it out,’ said Derek Hitchin. ‘We all know that land’s the one thing that Calleford Construction always wants. They can’t get enough of it especially now there’s not enough to go round, anyway. Not now.’

Selby said, ‘We all know that Calleford Construction is poised for a hostile takeover and I can tell you that the speed of response of the targeted company is what matters. It’s critical to the outcome.’

Hitchin began to look interested. ‘And Lionel’s dragging his feet? That it? Or is he holding out for a better deal from this Bellamy fellow?’

The financial controller drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Lionel could be playing a very deep game, of course. Very
deep. With box car numbers, probably, because he hasn’t asked for any recent ones from me.’

‘Like chess, isn’t it?’ said Hitchin chattily.

‘Except that we’re all pawns,’ said Selby, now sunk in gloom.

Derek Hitchin shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s the knight’s move that’s always the surprise. It can go in any number of ways.’

‘Not quite,’ said Selby, taking this literally. He sat quite still and silent for a moment. Then he lifted his head and said half to himself, ‘I wonder exactly what Lionel’s playing at.’

Detective Inspector Sloan tilted his chair back on its hind legs, circled his hands round a large mug of coffee and said, ‘Crosby, have you ever tried doing one of those puzzles where you are given some facts such as Tom is taller than Dick but not as tall as Harry so who is the shortest?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Or even,’ he said reminiscently, taking another sip of coffee, ‘one where you have water running into a bath at so many gallons a minute while it’s running out through the plug-hole at another given rate and you have to work out how long it will take to overflow?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re a lucky man.’ Sloan set the mug down on his desk. ‘You might even be said to have led a charmed life.’

‘Why didn’t they put the plug in, sir?’

‘Exactly, Crosby. Why not?’ Sloan pulled his notebook towards him and squinted down at his own handwriting. ‘We are, you realise, faced with some similar problems but with one important exception.’

‘Sir?’

‘We don’t have all the facts.’

‘No, sir, but why did they want the bath to overflow anyway?’

‘They didn’t say,’ responded Sloan gravely. ‘Now today we have plenty of problems but not enough facts. Suppose, Crosby, for starters you list the problems. In date order, as they say when they haven’t got a computer doing the hard work for them.’

Crosby frowned. ‘The theft of the portrait?’

‘Come, come, Crosby, the theft of the portrait was why we were called in. The action began well before that, with some person or persons unknown starting to look for the present Filligree of Tolmie. The woman at Arms and the Man told us it was a good month or more ago. Learning who that was is one of our problems.’ He set his mug down. ‘Only one of them, of course. Knowing why they wanted to find the man is another.’

‘Then there was the theft of the portrait,’ said Crosby doggedly.

‘Preceded by the break-in,’ said Sloan pensively. ‘Incidentally, I’m not quite sure why the museum had to be broken into.’

‘Because someone wanted the portrait,’ said Crosby.

‘I would have thought myself that taking the portrait while the museum was open would have been easier than breaking in.’ said Sloan. ‘After all, the portrait itself wasn’t alarmed. All anyone had to do was wait until that gallery was empty, slit the painting round the edges, roll it up, and take it away.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What does that suggest to you?’

Crosby gave a prodigious frown but said nothing.

‘To me,’ said Sloan, ‘it suggests that the thief or thieves were at work during the hours the museum was open.’

‘Like Jonathon Ayling?’

‘I think, Crosby, a search warrant is indicated there. I’m seeing the super next and then we can go.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Crosby’s frown disappeared. ‘So that was why it was overnight yesterday. Then early this morning the fire got started.’

‘No, Crosby, before that – possibly also overnight – was the planting of the non-human bones on some very genuine lobster shells. That could have been done before or after the fire was set but as we don’t know exactly when someone was last in the billiard room we can’t put a date or time on it. Lobster shells don’t grow on trees.’

Detective Constable Crosby didn’t contest this statement. Instead he applied himself to his own mug of coffee. A muffled sound emerged from its depth. ‘Nor do bones,’ he said.

‘True,’ said Sloan. ‘And Lionel Perry didn’t know about the bones or the lobster shells. I’m sure about that. Shaken to the core, he was, when he heard about them. I find that very interesting, Crosby.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The detective constable sounded far from riveted. ‘Then what?’

‘Not a lot, you might say,’ said Sloan, ‘except an attempt at bribery and corruption – some might call it blackmail – and a little bit of arson. Not a lot of that either, mind you,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Just enough to delay the
development at Tolmie Park without jiggering it completely.’

Crosby brightened. ‘Sir, is it to do with that thing they’re always saying in court about time being of the essence?’

Detective Inspector Sloan set his mug back on his desk. ‘You may have got something there, Crosby, but probably not in the way you think.’

‘The Preservation Society must want as much time as they can get,’ said Crosby, ‘and Berebury Homes must want to get cracking on building as soon as they can.’

‘Someone doesn’t want them to, if what that planning man, Jeremy Stratton, says is true,’ pointed out Sloan. ‘They – whoever they are – said they were prepared to lay out good money in the cause.’

‘I thought councils always held things up as long as they could anyway,’ said Crosby. ‘Surely they don’t need bribing to do that.’

‘For one so young, Crosby, you are very cynical.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Which reminds me, Crosby, of someone else who is also prepared to lay out good money.’

‘Sir?’

‘If, Crosby, your employer instructed you to buy a property on his behalf no matter what it cost but the present owner didn’t want to sell, what would be your next course of action?’

‘To offer him a bit more,’ said Crosby promptly.

‘And if that didn’t do the trick?’

‘I’d report back to head office,’ said Crosby, displaying a touching faith in those at police headquarters.

‘And if you were then told that your job was on the line because you hadn’t succeeded in getting the offer accepted?’

‘I’d lean on the owner all over again.’

‘You would, would you?’ murmured Sloan.

‘After all, if he was in it for the money, you’d think he’d sell in the end.’

‘So you think Lionel Perry is only holding out for a better offer, do you?’ said Sloan.

‘Well, wouldn’t you, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Sloan thoughtfully, ‘I think I would, but if that didn’t work? What would you do then?’

‘Then I’d smell a rat,’ said the detective constable.

‘I think, Crosby, you could be right. I’m beginning to get a distinct aroma of rattus rattus, deceased, too.’ He said, ‘And having smelt a rat, what then?’

The detective constable frowned. ‘I think I would want to have a good look round for the rat.’

‘Well done, Crosby. We need to know why there is a conflict of interest. After all, I suppose you could say that all crime amounts to a conflict of interest,’ mused Sloan, putting this interesting thought aside for further consideration in a mythical future when he himself had more time. ‘And why on earth should anyone be searching for the present Filligree of Tolmie now? Tell me that.’

‘Dunno, sir.’ The constable shook his head. ‘Perhaps someone wants to steal his identity. Strikes me as a bit sinister, all the same. I hope we find him before they do, that’s all.’

‘Perhaps they needed his portrait to help find him,’ mused Sloan.

‘Or not let anyone else find him,’ said Crosby. ‘Had you thought of that, sir?’

Sloan stared at him.

Stuart Bellamy had never kept the office hours considered sacrosanct – or even normal – by some. He didn’t resent this, having long ago found that working for Jason Burke was more of a way of life than having an ordinary job. There were good reasons for this: the odd hours were important from Jason’s business point of view. Some arrangers of gigs who were anxious for Kevin Cowlick to be with them on the night only came to life themselves after darkness had fallen, some were so crepuscular that if they were rung any earlier in the day they answered the telephone rubbing their eyes open. Neither cohort was as lucid as they would have been if they had been in contact later in the day. Disc jockeys were lucid all the same, which was nearly as bad.

And gigs and concert performances were the breath of life to Jason and his group as well as their bread and butter. Fixing these engagements up was only one of Stuart Bellamy’s manifold duties. Another was listening to Jason riding one or other of his hobby horses. His leaping from an attack on the Health and Safety Acts to the purchase of Tolmie Park was in a manner that could be compared with a rider leaping bareback from one circus horse to another as they cantered round the ring. It usually caught Stuart Bellamy on the wrong foot.

‘How are you getting on with that fellow from Berebury Homes?’ he asked Bellamy, as he strummed a guitar in a leisurely way.

‘I’m not,’ said Bellamy shortly. Circumlocution was wasted on the back street boy from Luston. ‘I’ve exactly nix to report, in fact, Jason. Whatever you say to him, Lionel Perry doesn’t want to know and won’t say why.’

‘Funny that,’ said Jason, one ear cocked towards his instrument as he picked out a tune on the guitar.

‘Not even for funny money,’ said Bellamy bitterly. ‘In fact, funnily enough money doesn’t seem to come into things.’

It was this aspect of his pursuit of Tolmie Park that immediately engaged Jason Burke’s attention. ‘Doesn’t make sense to me. You’d better find out why not, then, hadn’t you?’ said Jason.

‘Like how?’ asked Bellamy.

‘Your problem, mate, not mine.’

Stuart Bellamy sighed. Long ago someone had instilled into the young Jason Burke the importance of not shouldering other people’s burdens and he had learnt the lesson well. As far as his manager was concerned even getting Jason to shoulder his own problems would have been something.

‘So go get it sorted,’ said Jason. He hitched himself upright. ‘Hey, before you go, let’s just have a listen to this new disc that’s just come in. I think it’s worth an ear.’

So it was therefore quite late and quite dark by the time Stuart Bellamy left Jason Burke’s house and made his way back to Acacia Avenue and his home.

He knew that something was wrong before he had done little more than put his key in the lock in the front door.
Fumbling for the light switch in the entrance hall, he found that no light resulted from his touch.

Cursing at a spent lightbulb he advanced towards a light switch in another room.

Well before he reached the next light switch he stumbled over something on the floor and fell forwards, conscious of a figure brushing past him in the darkness and out of the front door as he did so. Then all he was aware of was the sound of the door being shut behind him as someone left the house.

And minutes later he was treated to the sight of a house reduced to chaos.

Wendy Pullen looked round her sitting room, once more packed with members of the Berebury Preservation Society. ‘We’ve been overtaken by events,’ she declaimed dramatically. ‘There’s nothing more we should be doing to save Tolmie Park for the time being. Nothing, Jonathon, do you understand?’

‘Yes, Wendy,’ he said meekly. This meeting had been called for soon after he had left work.

‘Not now.’

‘No, Wendy.’

‘If the police are involved then there’s no need for us any more.’ Wendy Pullen had once been recorded on video camera by the constabulary when leading a protest march and had never felt the same way again about those guardians of the peace. ‘Our hands are tied.’

‘As long as none of us had any hand in the arson, that is,’ added Paul Pullen with his customary exactitude. ‘Or the theft of the oil painting.’

‘If we didn’t,’ observed a more percipient member of the group, ‘then it means that someone else also has an interest in stopping the development.’

‘Or accelerating it,’ said another speaker, ‘if they were hoping the whole place would burn down.’

‘Vested interest, either way,’ said a woman in the front row. The speaker, who lived very well on her unearned income, was touchingly naive about how this income was achieved.

Paul Pullen quoted an old saw. ‘Hell hath no fury like a vested interest masquerading as a principle.’

‘Yes – well,’ said Wendy, ‘I don’t think we need to go into any of this just now. Not our problem.’