Losing Ground (9 page)

The fire officer shook his head again. ‘The place was empty, wasn’t it? Not full of antique furniture or anything
like that. And that doesn’t explain the heap of bones or why they’re sitting on what looks like a heap of old bits of seashell.’

‘Nothing,’ declared Sloan fervently, ‘explains either.’

‘Now who’s coming?’ grumbled Detective Constable Crosby as Dr Colleen Murphy’s two assistants hastened to her side. He was looking back down the drive to the point where it joined the road to Tolmie. ‘If anyone else turns up we’ll have to start a queue.’

‘You’re a long way from being into crowd control,’ said Sloan with some asperity. ‘And never forget, Crosby,’ he added, quoting his old Station Sergeant and early mentor, ‘interested parties are always of interest in any police investigation.’ He wouldn’t be surprised if that applied to arson, too.

In spades.

Had there been any doubt about whether Randolph Mansfield, architect, and Derek Hitchin, project manager, were interested parties, they very soon dispelled it.

‘We shall need to brief the insurance assessors,’ began Mansfield.

‘And see whether we need to get the structural engineers in…’ chimed in Hitchin.

‘The safety aspect, too…’ said Mansfield. ‘That comes into it.’

‘And see where we shall need to deploy our resources…’ Hitchin was already peering round the site.

‘Conservation area…’ That was the architect.

‘Planning people…’ That was the project manager.

‘But safety comes first,’ said Randolph Mansfield.

‘I’m sure it does,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘but our investigations take priority and everything else will have to wait.’ From where he stood he could see Dr Murphy and her assistants hard at work.

‘And, of course, we need to brief our boss on the extent of the damage,’ said Hitchin. ‘As soon as possible.’

Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. The person he had to brief was Superintendent Leeyes, sitting like a waiting spider at the centre of a web. When it came to deploying his own meagre resources the way ahead was less clear. In theory, police reinforcements should be being summoned as of now but they shouldn’t be called out at all just for a case of arson already being investigated and a possible prank.

‘The development here is of great importance for the economy of this part of Calleshire,’ said Mansfield in the high-handed tone he used for everyone who wasn’t either an architect or a client. Actually some clients got the high-handed tone, too, should they show signs of wanting their own way and not his.

Detective Inspector Sloan sighed again. If there was one thing that wasn’t the concern of the constabulary, it was the economy.

Derek Hitchin was taking a great interest in the burnt-out shell of the billiard room. ‘Thank God we’ve got the drawings.’

‘What drawings?’ said Sloan.

‘Architectural ones.’ Hitchin nodded in the direction of the building. ‘We had to have a full survey done when we applied for Listed Building Consent, didn’t we, Randolph?’

‘We did. Delay will be a factor when it comes to restoration, though,’ said Mansfield.

‘If it does, that is,’ said Hitchin. ‘The planning officer may look kindly on the demolition of this section, although if you were to ask me I would say that repairing this wreck shouldn’t be too difficult.’

Randolph Mansfield turned to Sloan. ‘Delay, Inspector, is the biggest weapon in the armoury of the local authority.’

‘And time’s money,’ said Hitchin.

Sloan, professionally interested in weapons, considered this one – delay – with detachment. Who wielded the weapon could be important, too. Even now. Then there was the old Viking tradition that whoever removed a weapon from a death wound was obliged to avenge it. He turned back from this intriguing thought to look at the bare bones of the damaged building, such rafters as remained looking for all the world like ribs. He gave the two men from Berebury Homes a long look and said, ‘But you will understand that as far as our investigations go, gentlemen, your money and your time don’t come into the equation.’

There was something surprisingly satisfying, decided Detective Inspector Sloan, about sitting back in his own chair in his own office. He found he relished it. He pulled his chair up to the desk – his desk – and drew his in-tray towards him. There was the usual pile of routine communications waiting for his attention but, sifting quickly through the dross, he found the one that he was looking for: the message from the Greatorex Museum.

It was from Hilary Collins and was accompanied by a
printed copy of the museum’s thumbnail photograph of the missing portrait of Sir Francis Filligree. Sloan studied the picture before handing it over to Detective Constable Crosby. ‘Get that blown up, will you, Crosby? As big an enlargement as you can.’

The constable gave it a cursory glance. ‘Wouldn’t have thought that was worth stealing myself, would you, sir?’

‘Somebody did,’ said Sloan briefly.

‘But,’ persisted Crosby, ‘what would you want to steal something like that for?’

‘Money, maybe,’ said Sloan, adding slowly, ‘Or maybe not.’

‘Not my money,’ said Crosby firmly.

‘Or the view, perhaps.’ The constable’s money, Sloan knew, went on taking advanced driving courses.

Crosby screwed up his eyes. ‘There isn’t much of that in the picture apart from the man and his wife. Just some trees in the long grass and the house.’

‘And a particular view of the house that isn’t visible anymore. That’s what the lady at the museum said. A view of great interest to the conservation officer at the council, too, and a view of a house where there has been a mysterious fire. As for the rest, Crosby, we don’t know yet,’ said Sloan, adding absently, ‘but we will one day.’

‘There’s something else that’s a bit funny, sir,’ said Crosby. ‘There’s someone in the frame who wants to buy the place…’

‘While it’s still smouldering is a bit soon for a fire sale to be on the cards,’ murmured Sloan ironically.

‘He says he wanted to buy it before the fire,’ said Crosby. ‘And he says he wrote to Berebury Homes to tell them so.’

‘That’s different,’ said Sloan more alertly. ‘What does he want it for? Building twice as many houses on site as all the others?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Check him out, Crosby. Money laundering can take some strange forms.’ So, he sighed, did the transactional fraud on which he should be working this minute.

Crosby was still looking at the museum’s reproduction of the portrait. ‘Looks as if Sir Francis might have been a bit of a lad to me. He’s a redhead for a start and they usually cause trouble.’ He tilted it to the light and took another look. ‘With an eye for the ladies, I should say. That’s a pretty little wife beside him.’

‘I think the artist – any artist – would have seen to that,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan. ‘Probably wouldn’t have got paid if he hadn’t and for your information, Crosby, it’s known as artistic licence.’

Crosby swept the photograph into a document case. ‘One thing you can say for the camera is that it never lies.’

Reminding himself to have a little chat later with the detective constable on the subject of evidence as it related to digital photography, Sloan said, ‘And when you’ve seen to the photograph you can find out as much as you can about Sir Francis.’

‘But he’s been dead for the best part of two hundred years,’ protested Crosby. ‘Or is it three?’

‘Since Nelson lost his eye, anyway,’ agreed Sloan, ‘but it’s not a crime to set light to animal bones and pile them on crushed shells and unless there’s definitely been arson out at
Tolmie Park, the theft of the portrait and the damage to the display cabinet in the museum are the only offences we’ve got to go on.’ He pointed to Hilary Collins’ note. ‘She says they’re still running through their records of the Anglo-Saxon artefacts in their keeping at the museum.’

‘Sounds painful,’ commented Crosby.

‘To see if anything’s missing from their collection,’ said Sloan repressively.

‘I can’t see anyone wanting to steal bits and pieces like that, either,’ said Crosby.

‘And while you’re seeing to the Filligree family history,’ went on Sloan, who had now thought of at least one reason why the Anglo-Saxon pieces could have been taken from the museum, ‘I’m going to try to get hold of an animal osteologist.’

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

Detective Inspector Sloan sighed. ‘An expert on non-human bones. There’ll be one at the university. Bound to be.’ He wasn’t quite as sure of this as he would once have been, media studies seeming to have overtaken the sciences, pure and applied.

‘I would have thought a butcher would do.’ Crosby sniffed.

‘Very probably but I must remind you, Crosby, that the Courts prefer expert witnesses.’ The fact that the superintendent held them in the deepest distrust, he felt was better kept from the constable’s young ears.

‘Or a vet,’ said Crosby mulishly.

As far as Sloan was concerned he was willing to accept the great interest evinced by the police sniffer dog on site as
incontrovertible evidence although he didn’t suppose any Court would.

‘What you want, Crosby,’ said Sloan neatly, ‘is not a vet but a Baronetage. And when you’ve found one, we’re going round to the bank.’

The Calleshire and Counties Bank maintained their head office in the county town of Calleford. The fine Regency building, situated practically in the shadow of the old minster there, projected respectability and stability at every turn. Its mahogany counters were positioned on a chequered marble floor, whilst the tellers were dressed soberly enough to satisfy the oldest and crustiest – and once upon time, the wealthiest – of their customers.

Nowadays, as Sloan would have been the first to agree, some of the young could be very wealthy indeed: pop musicians and footballers, mostly. And some of the young who weren’t very wealthy behaved as arrogantly as if they were – which was buying trouble, for them as well as for the police.

‘We have an appointment with the manager,’ announced Detective Inspector Sloan, pleased to note that the credentials of the two policemen were politely but efficiently inspected. He was not – had never been – taken in by marble and mahogany or the many other ways of giving the illusion of honesty, not even by elegant brochures and thick writing paper, still less by names on the board.

‘If you will come this way, gentlemen, please,’ said a well-trained minion.

Sloan was happy to see, though, looking round, that the Calleshire and Counties Bank had state of the art security protection against robbery.

Not, though, it soon transpired, against fraud.

‘Our connection with Tolmie Park?’ Douglas Anderson’s face assumed a regretful expression. ‘Most unfortunate.’ He sighed. ‘Something I’m afraid in the end we had to write off to experience.’

‘Write off, anyway,’ offered Crosby inelegantly.

‘Indeed,’ agreed the manager. ‘I’m afraid we have been given to understand that the borrower concerned is living in considerable comfort in a country which has no extradition treaties with the United Kingdom.’

‘Galling,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan.

‘We all make mistakes,’ said Anderson. He coughed. ‘I must say I considered that the board took a very magnanimous view in the circumstances.’

Magnanimity as a response to failure was not the usual reward down at the police station. Higher ranks didn’t like failure and the press enjoyed a field day and if there was an official enquiry then it was the deputy-heads that rolled.

‘But then,’ added the manager shrewdly, ‘most of the board knew the gentleman in question themselves.’

‘Ah,’ said Sloan. That would have helped.

‘It’s not what you know, but who you know,’ observed Detective Constable Crosby, who cherished the notion that this was why he had not progressed further up the promotion ladder.

‘Golf club,’ said the manager succinctly. ‘He was practically scratch, I understand. Actually, that did have some bearing on the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances alter cases,’ put in Crosby sententiously.

‘The particular circumstance in this case was that the – er – defaulter intended to…’ the bank manager swiftly amended this, ‘told us that he intended – to open a golf course there.’

Detective Inspector Sloan nodded. ‘Quite a good use for the house and land.’

‘That was what my board thought, too,’ said the banker.

’So you were halfway there,’ said Crosby, ‘weren’t you?’

‘True but in this line of country we all get our fingers burnt from time to time,’ said the manager philosophically. ‘They told me to cut our losses as soon as I possibly could.’

‘Fire sale,’ pronounced Crosby knowledgeably.

The manager looked at the constable curiously. ‘Only in a manner of speaking. We still had the deeds – we’d kept them as surety for the loan for buying the estate and fortunately had only advanced the extra funds for the proposed development.’

‘That would have been a help towards balancing the books,’ murmured Sloan, resisting the temptation to say that half a loaf was better than no bread.

The manager moved a pile of papers on his desk fractionally to one side before saying, ‘So we were able to sell the estate ourselves and recoup half the loan.’

‘And keep quiet about the other half,’ pointed out Crosby unkindly.

‘It wouldn’t have done the bank any good to go public,’ said the manager.

‘That’s true,’ said Sloan. He could see that it would have upset the illusion of security engendered by all that marble and mahogany, but he did not say so.

‘That was the board’s view, anyway, when I put it to them,’
said Douglas Anderson a trifle defensively. ‘In fact one of them even quoted an Italian proverb to me –
tutti possono sbagliare.’

‘Tut tut what?’ asked Crosby.

‘It means, “We can all make mistakes”,’ translated the bank manager.

Detective Inspector Sloan envied him. Those holding the office of constable didn’t have any board behind which to shelter. The responsibilities were theirs and theirs alone whatever their rank. It sounded to him rather as if the board had taken the decision to keep quiet unto themselves. Perhaps, like Sloan, they had all been unduly influenced when young by those lines in Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If” about not breathing a word about their loss.