Road Closed (9 page)

‘That’s peanuts, that is,’ Cal had sneered when Ray had boasted he was a member of Stan’s gang. ‘Nicking pennies from the sweet shop. Don’t know why you bother. I wouldn’t waste my time on a loser like Stan.’

‘I’m in a gang,’ Ray protested. That counted for something.

‘That’s your first mistake,’ Cal replied. He launched into a rant against gangs in general, and losers like Stan in particular. ‘Calls himself a gang leader, huh. He couldn’t lead a bunch of geese. Listen.’ He leaned across the table and pushed his empty glass towards Ray. ‘No point working in a gang. That way, you’ve got to share it all out, see? You stick with me. I’ll see you all right. And there’ll be just the two of us to share out the dosh.’ Ray was listening so intently, he picked up Cal’s glass without realising it. ‘Mine’s a pint,’ Cal said. Ray nodded. Somehow, Cal was always telling him what to do. Ray couldn’t seem to refuse him anything.

Working with Cal was a step up from being in Stan’s gang. Everyone knew not to mess with Cal. Ray was a nobody, but he was learning fast. Once he started to organise his own jobs, everything would change. He would still work with Cal, from time to time, but as an equal. Because he wouldn’t need Cal any more. He would be number one with his own second-in-command, some young lad grateful to learn the ropes from him.

The bus came. Ray hopped on board, humming. He wasn’t going to say anything to Cal about his plans. He wouldn’t let on until afterwards. He imagined Cal’s face when he came home one night with his haul.

‘Where have you been?’ Cal would ask, suspicious.

‘Just done a little job.’ Ray would casually empty his pockets on to the table, gems and gold jingling and sparkling. ‘Here you go, Cal. Take that to make up for the job we bungled the other night, the one where we left the loot behind because you panicked. Here, take this.’ He pictured himself handing a diamond encrusted watch to Cal. His eyes would light up with excitement while Ray watched, cool yet sharp.

‘You’re a genius,’ Cal would say. ‘This little beauty must be worth at least…’

‘A quid,’ the bus driver’s voice cut into Ray’s daydream. Ray sighed and handed over his fare.

15

Hangover

Geraldine woke late on Sunday with a pounding headache. She felt as though she was starting a cold. Her throat felt tight and her eyes were watery.

‘Serves you right,’ she muttered at her pasty reflection. Not yet forty, and successful in her career, she had been drinking alone at night. She resolved to take herself in hand. But first she had to hurry or she would be late for work. She left as soon as she had dressed, intending to grab a quick breakfast at the station canteen, but was held up by roadworks. She strode into the police station, ignoring her headache with a determined smile.

The desk sergeant returned her grin. ‘Someone got lucky last night,’ he said and her spirits dropped. Lucky with a bottle of cheap red wine. She was too late to run to the canteen for a hurried breakfast. The briefing was about to begin.

‘You all right, gov?’ Peterson muttered under his breath as she stood beside him. ‘You look…’ He stared at her eyes with genuine concern.

‘Hung over?’ she whispered. Peterson was about to reply when Kathryn Gordon marched in. The DCI glanced round the assembled officers. Then she turned to the Incident Board. A picture of an old woman had been added, linked to Thomas Cliff by a large question mark.

‘This,’ she pointed at the picture of the old woman, ‘is Evelyn Green who died on Thursday night during the course of a break-in. Death appears to have occurred from natural causes – but it seems there may be a connection between
these two deaths.’ She tapped the picture of Thomas Cliff. ‘DI Bennett has been heading up the team looking into a spate of burglaries on the Harchester Estate. Without much success.’ There was a shrill edge to her voice and Geraldine wondered if Kathryn Gordon was feeling out of sorts. She looked even paler than usual and her eyes seemed to burn with an unhealthy glare. It crossed Geraldine’s mind that the DCI looked as though she had a hangover too.

‘Evelyn Green died in the early hours of Friday morning. She was ninety, living alone in a large house on the Harchester Hill Estate. On Friday morning her son, Elliot Green, found his mother lying at the foot of the stairs.’ Gordon glanced at her notes. ‘The MO estimated the time of death at around two thirty on Friday morning.’ She gave Bennett a curt nod.

The DI cleared his throat. ‘On Thursday night, Evelyn Green’s house was broken into. We’re looking for a local gang who’ve carried out a series of burglaries on the Harchester Hill Estate. We think they could be responsible for this break-in. Only this time something went wrong. Evelyn Green seems to have disturbed them. The following morning her son called on his mother on his way to work and found her dead at the bottom of the stairs. A bag stuffed with her valuables was also discovered. It appears to have been dropped down the stairs after she fell. The bag was lying beside her at the foot of the stairs, and several chains and various items of jewellery had fallen out on top of her and beside her.’ He lifted up a khaki haversack in a plastic evidence bag, put it down again, and counted theories off on his fingers. ‘One, she heard the intruders, packed all her valuables in a bag and was trying to escape, or two, the bag belonged to the intruders. They’d filled the bag with the victim’s jewellery, and were making their escape, when she disturbed them and fell – or was pushed – down the stairs, and they dropped the bag and ran.’

‘Were they likely to run off without taking the jewellery if they’d already collected it in a bag?’ someone asked.

‘Five things,’ the old DI replied, counting on his fingers again. ‘One, we found a desk drawer had been broken into. It looks like a pro. In his statement, the victim’s son told us she kept her jewellery locked in that drawer. She seemed to think it was a kind of safe, because it locked. Two, he didn’t recognise the bag as belonging to his mother and three, some of the jewellery was found on top of her body suggesting it was dropped on her from above, after she’d fallen. The post mortem report’s not back, but the medical officer thinks she was unconscious as she fell down the stairs, most likely dead before she reached the bottom.’ He paused to check his notes. ‘Four, a chain scratched the vic’s face after she was dead which means the jewellery fell on her after she died. And five, she’s got bruises on her upper arms which look like someone was holding her tightly, or at least grabbed hold of her, not long before she died.’

‘If the jewellery was dropped after she died, someone was there when she fell down the stairs,’ the DCI said. ‘Which means they must have realised she might die, and they just ran off.’

‘They could’ve panicked,’ Peterson said, ‘and not stopped to find out.’

‘Or realised it was too late?’ someone added. ‘If she was already dead.’

‘Or they pushed her down the stairs and didn’t care if she was dead.’

‘Or wanted her dead so she couldn’t identify them.’

‘If they’d summoned an ambulance…’ The DCI didn’t finish her sentence.

‘So it’s aggravated burglary?’ a constable asked.

The DCI shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to indicate the intruders were carrying weapons, so we can’t treat this as
aggravated burglary. But we could certainly be trying for a prosecution for manslaughter.’

‘She was ninety,’ a young police constable said.

‘Yes,’ Kathryn Gordon sounded tired. ‘The medical officer at the scene thought it was a heart attack that killed her, which fits her medical records. She might have had a heart attack and fallen down the stairs. It may be that we’ll never discover exactly what happened. But even if the post mortem confirms death from natural causes, as seems likely, she died during the course of a break-in so the impact of the burglary will be taken into consideration. But before we argue about the charges, we need to find these burglars. They’re dangerous men, out there on the rampage, and we seem to know very little about them.’ She turned to Bennett with an impatient gesture.

The DI nodded. ‘There’s a pattern. It’s been going on for a number of weeks, the same burglars. They’ve broken into five properties, all on the Harchester Hill Estate.’ Several local officers nodded. Geraldine knew the estate was in the expensive part of town. The houses were large and detached, many of them bordering on Harchester Hill Park.

‘Do we have any idea how many of them are in this gang?’ the DCI asked.

‘We think two from the footprints. They wear trainers, two different sizes. No distinguishing features.’

‘How do you know it’s always the same two? Do they leave their footprints every time?’ a voice called out.

‘We suspect the break-ins are connected to a robbery at a framing warehouse last month, just north of town. Two men were caught on CCTV but they’re impossible to identify. Several items were stolen, including a handful of glass cutting tools. Each one is the size of a pen and contains a diamond chip. At the time the loss was reported the investigating officer assumed the cutters were stolen for the value of the diamond chips, which isn’t much. But each of these properties has been
entered by cutting a section of glass out of a window to make the window catch accessible. The glass cutting is fairly neat. It’s reasonably skilled, but anyone with a steady hand could learn to do it. We’ve taken statements from all the victims, and checked the neighbours. No one has seen anything. There’s not a lot more we can do beyond advising the public on their security systems.’ Bennett shrugged uncomfortably.

The DCI tapped the photo of the fire victim. ‘Thomas Cliff died in a fire at his house on Saturday morning, after the gas had been left on overnight.’ She turned and faced the assembled team. ‘SOCOs have found evidence of a break-in at the Cliff household, similar to the other break-ins on the estate. All the windows in the Cliff kitchen were blown right out, so no one spotted it at first, but the fire boys discovered a small square of glass propped against the side wall of the house. Although it’s not been confirmed, I think we can assume it’ll match the samples of glass cut from windows where this gang have previously broken in. So it’s looking as though the same burglars effected an entry at both properties. Five break-ins. Two suspicious deaths.’

She paused. ‘We’ve not yet spoken to Sophie Cliff about the glass found on her property but we’ve had no report of a break-in at the house so we can assume the gang broke in some time during Friday night or the early hours of Saturday morning. We know how the gas explosion occurred but we don’t yet know why. We’ve been assuming either Mr or Mrs Cliff left the gas on, perhaps by mistake, possibly not. If the presence of intruders in the house that night is confirmed, another possibility opens up.’

There was silence for a few seconds. ‘Whatever happens,’ the DCI concluded, ‘we have to track down these burglars. Check your schedules with the duty manager.’ With a final nod at the assembled team, she swept across the floor and out of the room. Geraldine had a clear impression the DCI
was in a hurry to return to her office. Les Bennett raised his eyebrows at Geraldine and mimed drinking.

She responded with a very brief nod before turning to Peterson. ‘Let’s check out Evelyn Green’s house.’

They reached the Harchester Hill Estate and made their way along wide tree lined avenues. As gateways flashed past her window, Geraldine glimpsed house fronts behind high hedges, and cars gleaming on drives. They drew up outside a large white house. Behind a tall hedge lay a beautifully landscaped garden with a series of small terraces, rock gardens and tiny lawns, and a fish pond. Stone steps led down to a wide house front, brilliant white in the morning sunlight.

‘Must be a nightmare cutting those minute patches of grass,’ Peterson said as Geraldine led the way to the back of the house. One of the windows had been boarded up, a temporary arrangement of card and gaffer tape. The lock on the back door had been tampered with but the burglars had evidently been in too much of a hurry to open it. Instead they had left as they had entered, through the window. SOCOs had photographed footprints on the mud of the flower beds which matched the prints found at the scenes of several other burglaries nearby.

Geraldine gazed around the garden, enchanted. The piece of glass was being scrutinised by forensics who would doubtless confirm that the cutter was the same as that used in other recent break-ins. Geraldine led the sergeant into the house. At the foot of the stairs they studied the marked place on the carpet where Evelyn Green’s body had been found.

‘They must have watched her fall from the top of the stairs, dropped their bag and scarpered,’ Geraldine said.

‘Or they pushed her,’ Peterson suggested.

‘She must’ve seen them,’ Geraldine added. They considered the implications in silence before making their way upstairs.

In a small study they found the desk where Evelyn Green had kept her valuables. Her son had confirmed that the items found with his mother’s body were those she kept locked in the desk.

‘She never takes it all out at once,’ he had insisted. ‘Maybe one piece, if she’s getting dressed up for something, but the rest stay locked away.’

‘I don’t understand why they ran back to the kitchen,’ Geraldine mused as they went downstairs. ‘Why didn’t they go out through the front door? They were already in the hall. Why run all the way back to the kitchen?’

‘It’s a security door,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Double locked. They couldn’t open it without a key or a blow torch or something to cut through metal bolts. They must’ve been panicking or they wouldn’t have left the valuables behind. We know they went along the length of the hall from the stairs. They probably tried the door, couldn’t open it, and ran back to the window they’d left open.’

Geraldine gazed around, picturing two burglars entering the house. In her mind she retraced where they had gone, and how they had dropped their loot and made off in a hurry. But the actors in her film were anonymous. Faceless. She could have passed them on the street, or paid one of them for groceries, or petrol.