Losing Ground (19 page)

‘Not our problem.’ Paul Pullen firmly endorsed this. He spent a lot of his time trying to keep his wife from picking up problems that were not hers. The Berebury Preservation Society was one of the safer areas into which he had been able to channel her energies. At least it had been safe until now.

‘There’s just one thing,’ said Jonathon Ayling. ‘The police have interviewed me and warned me that I may be charged with breaking and entering.’

Wendy Pullen bristled. ‘Why?’

‘It was because of my shoes.’ There was a mock solemnity about his answer.

‘Your shoes?’

He nodded. ‘My shoes. They found little shards of glass in them…’

‘What’s that got to do with…?’

‘…that matches the glass in the broken window in the Greatorex Museum.’

The room fell silent. Then Wendy said grimly, ‘Jonathon, what have you been up to?’

‘Trying to save Tolmie Park,’ he said. ‘That’s what you all wanted, wasn’t it?’

‘Call coming in from Stuart Bellamy, sir,’ said Detective Constable Crosby, handing over the telephone. ‘He’s just got home from work and found a burglar in the house. At least he thinks it was a burglar. He sounds pretty upset to me.’

Sloan took the receiver and waited. Nothing about this case would surprise him now. Nothing.

‘Absolute chaos, Inspector,’ insisted Stuart Bellamy. ‘It’s absolute chaos here.’

‘Go on,’ said Sloan evenly.

‘I must have disturbed him, whoever he was, when I opened the door. He scooted off pretty quickly I can tell you. Thank goodness,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Yes,’ agreed Sloan soberly. Tackling burglars was not for your amateur. Any policeman would say that. ‘Anything taken?’

‘Who knows?’ wailed Bellamy. ‘The whole place has been turned over. It’s a complete tip. What my wife will say when she gets back from her mother’s I daren’t begin to think. I’ll be a dead man and she’ll go bananas. Do you know, he’s even ripped all the cushions open. What do you make of that?’

‘I would say that your intruder was looking for something,’ said Sloan, unsurprised, making a note to send a scene of crime officer around as soon as possible.

‘But what?’ asked Bellamy hoarsely.

‘I can’t answer that,’ said Sloan, asking pertinently, ‘can you?’

‘Me? How should I know what a burglar wanted? I – we – don’t have anything particularly valuable. My wife likes that Moorcroft pottery – but that hasn’t been touched.’

Somehow Detective Inspector Sloan did not think that some Moorcroft vases had been what the thief had been seeking. ‘But,’ he concluded aloud, ‘we can’t tell yet whether or not he found what it was he was looking for.’

‘But why should he want anything at all that we’ve got in our house?’ asked Bellamy.

‘I can’t answer that question either.’ Detective Inspector Sloan was beginning to think he could make a sporting guess at it but he did not say so. There was just the one item that he knew of that had gone missing that day.

A portrait of Sir Francis Filligree, fourth baronet, taken from the Greatorex Museum.

It was only after he’d rung off that Sloan remembered the Anglo-Saxon artefacts that had gone missing today, too.

Minutes later Sloan was reporting to Superintendent Leeyes.

‘So we have to add attempted burglary to today’s activities, do we, Sloan?’

‘It looks very much like it, sir.’

‘It seems to me, Sloan, as if a thorough grounding in mid-sixteenth century Italian politics would have been a help to you today.’ Superintendent Leeyes was a lifelong admirer of Niccolò Machiavelli. ‘In my experience that’s what you need when local authorities come into things and as for pop stars…’ He rolled his eyes in a gesture of despair.

‘Jeremy Stratton, their planning officer, did report the attempted bribe to us, sir,’ ventured Sloan.

‘Only when he was threatened by exposure,’ pointed out Leeyes.

‘He still needn’t have done.’

‘But there’s no evidence anywhere for either, is there?’ said Leeyes irritably. ‘No independent witnesses, for instance. He could have made the whole thing up.’

‘In that case,’ persisted Sloan, ‘we would need to be asking ourselves why he did. Knowing even that could be just as important.’

Superintendent Leeyes blew out his cheeks and pronounced
something that had been a lifelong maxim in his own working life. ‘When in doubt, Sloan, confuse the issue. That’s what they might have been doing. All of ‘em.’

Sloan didn’t know whether this sentiment had come from Machiavelli: it could well have done. ‘I don’t think matters could be more confused than they are at the moment,’ he admitted. Attempted burglary, attempted bribery, definite arson, confirmed burglary all contributed to a melange of broken laws that he could well have done without. And that didn’t include anything that lunatic Jonathon Ayling had in mind.

‘Don’t count on it, Sloan, that’s all. That light at the end of the tunnel could well be a train coming the other way.’

‘Yes, sir, I’m sure.’ With the superintendent there was always too much hope about. ‘The only thing that seems quite clear at the present moment is that some person or persons unknown want to delay the start of the development at Tolmie Park for reasons that are not immediately obvious to us.’

Leeyes grunted.

‘And that either the same people or others are looking for the present members of the family of Filligree of Tolmie.’

‘Then we shouldn’t be surprised at there being backhanders about, should we, Sloan?’

‘No, sir,’ he said. The superintendent had never been surprised at the suggestion of backhanders anywhere – everywhere.

‘What isn’t at all clear,’ Leeyes rumbled on, ‘is where the theft of the portrait comes into the development question. If it does.’

‘In connection with which, sir, we’re just going to execute a
search warrant at Jonathon Ayling’s house.’ Perhaps Crosby had been right about someone not wanting the portrait found. Perhaps it was what had been taken from Stuart Bellamy’s house. If something had been.

‘About time, too,’ grunted Leeyes.

‘And we’ve now had some feedback from Companies House,’ said Sloan, picking up a message sheet. ‘Lionel Perry is the biggest shareholder in Berebury Homes. His wife has a substantial holding, too…’

‘That’s a lot of family eggs in one basket,’ observed Leeyes.

‘And so has Robert Selby – he’s their finance man.’

‘Putting his money where is mouth is?’

‘Only in a manner of speaking, sir.’ Sloan countered phrase with fable. ‘He might just have worked out on which side his bread is buttered and he of all people – being in finance, that is – should be in a position to know.’

‘Or,’ said Leeyes trenchantly, ‘he might know something that we don’t.’

‘All our thoughts on that are still open.’ Detective Inspector Sloan turned back a few pages of his notebook. ‘Nobody else in the top echelons of the firm seems to have more than a token holding.’

‘Eggs in other baskets, I suppose.’

‘Or no eggs,’ said Sloan. He bent his head over his notebook again.

‘Or not wanting to put them in the firm’s basket,’ said Leeyes.

‘I can only say that the two things that seem to have really upset Lionel Perry so far are the bones and the lobster shells.’

‘Not the fire?’

‘No, but I swear he didn’t know about either the bones or the lobster shells until I told him and that shook him.’

‘These lobster shells, Sloan,’ Leeyes frowned. ‘What do you make of them?’

‘A shot over someone’s bows but who it’s meant as a warning for, I don’t know. And what about, I don’t know either.’

‘Then find out, Sloan,’ said the superintendent testily, ‘and soon.’

After he’d clambered into the passenger seat of the police car Detective Inspector Sloan allowed himself the luxury of a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day, Crosby. We should be able to knock off after this and get some proper food.’

Detective Constable Crosby, thus encouraged, notched up the speed of the police car.

‘Jonathon Ayling should be back home after work by now. After we’ve searched his place we can all go home.’

Jonathon Ayling was indeed at home.

And strangely indifferent to the production of a search warrant.

‘Too late,’ he said dully.

‘Nevertheless…’ began Sloan.

‘Come this way.’ He led the two policemen round the back of the house and pointed to a small window. It had obviously been forced and now dangled drunkenly on a broken hinge. ‘Breaking and entering.’

‘Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander,’ muttered Crosby.

‘Anything taken?’ asked Sloan, who had known stolen
goods go missing again and again, especially when being sought by their rightful owners.

‘Like a portrait?’ said Crosby under his breath.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Ayling, still stunned. ‘It’s absolute mayhem indoors. It looks as if I only just missed him.’

The house, Sloan could only agree, was in a poor state. Every drawer had been emptied onto the floor and upstairs in the bedroom, the mattress overturned and the wardrobe ransacked. Just like Stuart Bellamy had reported only a little earlier.

‘What do you suppose someone was looking for?’ asked Sloan.

Jonathon Ayling didn’t answer him. All he did was stare at a room turned upside down.

‘And have they found it?’ asked Sloan.

‘I couldn’t say,’ responded Ayling stiffly.

‘I think you can,’ said Sloan.

There was an uneasy silence

‘You see,’ went on Sloan in a conversational tone, ‘if the portrait of Sir Francis Filligree has been stolen from here it can only be for one reason.’

Jonathon Ayling still did not speak.

‘And that,’ said Sloan implacably, ‘is because someone might be able to recognise a current member of the Filligree family from it.’

Ayling sank onto a bedside chair, head in hands. ‘I know. That’s what he said.’

‘Who?’

‘The guy who wanted it stolen – well, taken, anyway.’

‘Theft is theft,’ chanted Crosby sententiously.

‘This fellow said in this case it wasn’t theft.’

‘Who?’ asked Sloan again.

‘The one I met in the pub. The Claviger’s Arms over at Almstone.’

‘Go on.’

‘I was talking about what we were going to do about the development at Tolmie – I’d had a few by then – well, quite a few, actually – and this guy who was there asked what. I told him I thought if a few Anglo-Saxon bits and pieces were to be discovered there, that it would hold things up a bit.’

‘It would,’ agreed Sloan. He’d learnt that much about planning today. ‘Go on.’

‘He thought that sounded a great idea.’ Jonathon Ayling said ‘I did, too. After all, they’d be taken straight back from whence they came. Bound to be. And it wasn’t as if they were anything in themselves.’

Detective Constable Crosby gave a low growl. The unimportance of the intrinsic value of stolen goods had been the subject of one of the lectures he’d had to attend.

‘Go on,’ commanded Sloan.

‘He asked where I was going to get them and I said the museum and he said well if I was going to do that, would I take the portrait as well – just to have it kept safe. He was going to give it back later, no questions asked.’

‘Oh, he was, was he?’ began Crosby.

‘Who was he?’ barked Sloan.

‘Didn’t give me his name – just his mobile phone number. He didn’t want the portrait himself – I was just to keep it safe
and then give it back when he said. It’s well and truly gone now, all right.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Sloan, an eye, as always, on the essentials.

‘Can’t say that I took a lot of notice at the time. You know how dark it is in these really old pubs and anyway I was pretty plastered by then.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Sloan. ‘Give me his mobile number as quickly as you can.’

Jonathon Ayling handed it over and then there was an uneasy silence as it became clear that the mobile telephone was not going to be answered.

‘There was one thing about him – the man in the pub – that I do remember,’ offered Ayling. ‘He was ginger-haired.’

‘Come on, Crosby,’ snapped Sloan, tossing the telephone back to Ayling. ‘We haven’t got time to hang about.’

‘Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. Where to?’

‘Wherever it was Ned Phillips said he lived. You’ve got the address in your notebook. Quickly, now.’

‘Almstone village,’ said Crosby, flicking through his notebook at speed. ‘I’m sure I’ve got Ned Phillips down as living in Almstone. Yes, here it is.’

‘You’d better be sure,’ said Sloan grimly, as they scampered for the car in the manner of drivers at start of the old Le Mans race. He reached for the microphone before he’d even slammed the car door shut, calling up police headquarters as Crosby started up the car.

‘Attention, attention,’ said Sloan as Crosby slammed his way swiftly up the car’s gears. ‘Any car within reach of
Almstone village to attend One Five – Fifteen – High Street, Almstone, and ensure personal safety of a man going under the name of Ned Phillips. Over.’

The crisp impersonal tones of the Controller came in response. ‘Message received, caller. Please identify your position.’

‘Between Larking and Tolmie,’ said Crosby.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Sloan.

‘What was that, caller?’

‘About seven miles south of Almstone on the Larking road,’ said Sloan.

The microphone came to life again. ‘Two cars attending from Calleford, caller.’

‘That’s miles away from Almstone,’ groaned Sloan.

‘Their ETA not yet known.’

‘They’ll be too late,’ said Sloan.

‘And one on its way from Luston,’ said the voice over the air.

‘That’s farther away still.’

‘Further information on the nature of the emergency required, caller. Is it a domestic?’

‘No,’ Sloan said into the microphone. ‘Not a domestic. A serious attack possibly imminent.’ That was the trouble with today, he thought. People were beginning to think that only husbands and wives hit each other. Personal safety wasn’t only about battered husbands and wives.

The controller was obviously thinking along other, different, lines. ‘Are body armour and firearms likely to be needed?’