Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1) (15 page)

Jonny Green was trying to work out why he’d allowed himself to be talked into this. Steve had been insistent it would be easy money. He should have stuck to his guns and refused to come along.

Both he and Steve were dressed in dark clothes, gloves on their hands.

Darkness enshrouded them as they parked in the lay-by. Climbing over a gate they followed a short farm track which led them past the back of the Drover’s Inn.

A half-rotted timber gate offered them passage through the blackthorn hedge that separated the track from the grounds of the hotel.

Hefting a crowbar in his hands, Steve levered the hooked end into a window and applied a firm but steady pressure, intending to pop sash from frame.

Inexperience foiled him. He’d made the mistake of not levering the frame next to the catch. The rotten wood of the window gave way and the glass shattered.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Don’t be soft. You know what an old drunk Armstrong is. He’ll be too pissed to hear anything.’ Regardless of his bravado, Steve held an ear by the smashed window listening for sounds of discovery.

Jonny hid in a bush, watching the upstairs window for signs of Armstrong.

Both lads were familiar with the layout of the small hotel. Attracted by the opportunity for a spot of underage drinking and a pretty barmaid, they had become frequent visitors to the public bar attached to the property.

Placated by the lack of imminent discovery, Steve removed as much glass as he could from the frame and climbed through after putting on his balaclava. Following his friend’s lead, Jonny readied himself then went through the window. They made their way to a storage room, head torches throwing illumination wherever they looked.

Crossing to the wooden cabinet where Armstrong stored bottles of spirits, and more importantly left the tills overnight. Steve again went to work with his crowbar. Inside the small room, the sound of wood splintering was deafening to Jonny. Lifting a hand to silence Steve, he listened but heard nothing.

Steve emptied all the notes from the tills into the backpack he’d been wearing, while Jonny was pulling out a case of vodka from the bottom shelf. Various bottles of spirits which lined the shelves followed the cash into the backpack.

Laying the full case of vodka beside the window, Jonny was about to climb through when a light blazed into the room. He and Steve whirled round to see Armstrong standing in the doorway, a cricket bat in one hand. His bowling-ball gut overhanging the one item of clothing he wore: faded pyjama bottoms.

Armstrong’s eyes were unfocused, but his jaw was set with determination. His fingers tightened around the cricket bat as he prepared to defend his property.

Unsure what to do, Jonny froze. His heart said run and his head agreed, but there was no way they could both get through the window before Armstrong caught up with them.

Armstrong’s tales of his life in the army flooded back to Jonny’s panic-stricken mind. The boxing medals were in a display case above the bar.

Armstrong advanced on them. His voice an adrenaline-tinged slur. ‘Ya bastards. Thought you were gonna rob me, did you?’

Steve lifted his crowbar and held it in front of him as if it was a sword. Armstrong swung at him with the cricket bat, but Steve deflected the blow.

The fight between Steve and Armstrong motivated Jonny into action. Bursting open the vodka case, Jonny lifted a bottle in each hand and threw them at Armstrong.

The first bottle missed as Armstrong ducked beneath it, but the second landed on the side of Armstrong’s head before smashing as it made contact with the floor.

Steve wasted none of the advantage gained from Jonny’s missiles. Stepping forward he swung his crowbar catching Armstrong just above his left ear. Even as Armstrong was falling, he was heading to the window, pushing Jonny through first.

Running down the track, Jonny was aware of his body dumping the adrenaline that had entered his system during the brief fight. His legs were unsteady and a cold sweat was enveloping his body. Ahead of him, Steve was stumbling as he ran. He too would be experiencing the same problems.

As they got into the car another concern hit Jonny.

‘D’you think old Armstrong will be all right?’

‘Yeah. I didn’t hit him that hard. Just enough to stun him.’

‘I bloody hope so.’ Jonny’s mind turned to worry over Armstrong. He hoped the old guy was OK. It was bad enough hitting the old pisshead with a crowbar. He didn’t want him to suffer any permanent damage.

‘We did it, though. We got the money.’

Jonny didn’t answer his friend. He was too busy looking at the blood on his glove.

Wednesday

Evans addressed the team. ‘We’re all gonna be uncles and aunties to our new colleague’s son, Alan Geoffrey Campbell. The proud father is having a small head-wetting get-together tonight. We will all be there. No excuses will be accepted, except death, and then only if a written letter is received one week prior. Understood?’

As well as a good piss-up, tonight Evans wanted to give Campbell the chance to get to know the team away from work. He hated the idea of team-building sessions, but experience had taught him a night in the pub was always good for morale.

‘Lauren, get your profiling head on: I want to discuss these break-ins on our journey south.’

‘Why, where are we going?’

‘To see a man about a car.’

‘I thought that was all cleared up?’

‘Not to my satisfaction it isn’t.’

A desk phone shrilled out its chime. Lauren picked up. ‘Yes, ah-ha, I see, thanks for letting us know, Yvonne; we’ll look into it right away.’

‘What’s the crack?’

‘That was control, there’s been a break-in at the Drover’s Inn at Melmerby last night and three different farms in the Silloth area have been turned over as well. They are sending all the details to Chisholm now but gave us a call in case he wasn’t at his computer.’

‘They have obviously never met him then. Jabba, get all the details printed so Bhaki can compare them against known robberies from other licensed premises. Then I want you to tap into the power grid companies and start looking for any residential or small commercial property that has an unusually large electricity usage. When you have the list, the Nymph and Bhaji Boy can do a few visits to check out the premises.’

‘It would be hacking not tapping, sir; and fat people have feelings, too.’

‘Potayto, patahto, I’m not interested in what it’s called, just write the fucking programme, get me my answer and stop your bloody whining.’

‘Sir, did you get a reply from DCI Grantham about planting homing signals on some quad bikes?’ Bhaki changed the subject in the hope of preventing one of Evans’s legendary rants about how you could no longer call a spade a spade.

‘No. He’s probably not in yet, I’ll call him later.’

As Evans left with Lauren to go about his daily terror regime, he stopped off at the duty officer’s front desk and made a murmured request. When he saw the smile on the sergeant’s face he knew he had got his own way. Pushing his luck to the limit, he dashed out to his car and came back with a pair of rolled up posters, which he gave to the desk sergeant along with specific instructions on where he wanted them hung.

As they headed south on the M6, Lauren took a call from Chisholm. Listening to one side of the conversation, Evans could tell something was wrong.

‘Well?’

‘That was DS Chisholm, the email came through about the Drover’s Inn robbery.’

‘And?’

‘The cleaner found the manager lying on the floor covered in blood when she went in this morning. He’s in an ambulance on his way to Cumberland Infirmary.’

‘Poor bugger. Is he gonna be OK?’

‘Chisholm didn’t have that information.’

‘I hope the old bugger’s all right. He’s a good man. He’s hit the drink hard since his wife died a few years back.’ Evans realised what he’d said and reflected that most people would say the same of him.

Lauren kept her eyes down as she related the rest of the information to Evans. Apart from the injury to the hotelier, there were signs of damage to the property this time.

‘A CSI team from Penrith are en-route and the responding DC is staying on until we get there.’

‘Best hurry then.’ Evans added another twenty miles an hour to the already illegal speed he was driving at.

Evans parked behind the CSI chief’s car. He figured he would be leaving before the CSI team, and this way if they wanted to leave sooner they couldn’t without speaking to him.

Deep in the recesses of his mind lurked a significant clue as to the identity of one of the thieves, but he couldn’t coax it to the fore. Past encounters with this surety had taught him to embrace the feeling without haste; the connection would come sooner if it weren’t pursued.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Evans started after Lauren who was marching towards the entrance of the Drover’s Inn. He caught up with her just as she entered the main bar area. As they went in, both were stopped by the crime scene manager, who was taping off the area.

Evans leaned his head in and surveyed the area. A pool of blood was soaking the carpet over by the bar. One of the CSI technicians was photographing everything, while another was taking swabs.

This was a massive development in the case, as the thieves hadn’t encountered any resistance on their other jobs. With luck the owner would recover and be able to give them a description of the thieves.

Evans said nothing, preferring to stand and absorb the feel of the crime scene. He took in every detail: the cloying smell, the broken window allowing a cool airflow into the room, the regular splat of water dripping onto stainless steel coming from behind the bar. Mingled with the landlord’s blood was broken glass, a section of it held together by a Smirnoff label.

When something piqued Evans’s interest he used his mobile to take a picture.

What really got his attention was the broken window. The bench seats below were coated with glass fragments indicating the window had been smashed from the outside.

‘What d’you reckon, guv?’

‘Either the crew we’re after are getting desperate or it’s someone else.’

Evans went through the building. In the main office he found files but no safe, or a space where one had been. On his way back to the bar he found a cupboard hanging open with a few bottles of spirits inside it. A cash drawer containing only small coins rested on one of the shelves. The door had been levered open.

The obvious deduction was the cupboard had been used for storing bottles of spirits. It was just bad management the cash drawer from the till was left in there as well.

Evans was in the process of looking for the first responder when he was approached by a young DC who introduced himself as Ben Thompson.

‘What is it, lad?’

‘I’ve just had word from the hospital, sir. Mr Armstrong died a few minutes ago. DC Garrett who went down with him said there was massive internal bleeding through a skull fracture.’

‘Thanks for letting me know, son. Now I want you to go through his things and try and identify his next of kin. When you have a name, speak to your sergeant or DI and arrange for someone to deliver the death message.’

Turning round he waved Lauren across. ‘I want you to get on to DI Hughes at Penrith and let him know what’s happened here. We now have a murder inquiry to deal with. I’m going to use DC Thompson as my contact until I get a report from CSI, who will now have to give this a proper going over, instead of the quick glance they give for thefts.’

‘Sir, I’ve identified the next of kin. It’s his daughter. She lives in Southampton.’

Evans produced a card with the numbers of all of his team and handed it to Thompson. ‘Here, call DS Chisholm. Tell him what you know about the daughter and he’ll do the rest. When you’ve done that, find out what you can about the staff here, so that you can call one of them in to lock the place up again when CSI have left. You’ll also need to call out a glazier. DI Hughes will be informed that as of now you are under my command so get cracking with that lot and then call me. Understood?’

Heedless of the answer he went in search of the CSI chief to inform her it was now a murder case.

She was busy taking samples and lamenting the fact that so much of the crime scene had been contaminated by paramedics. Evans looked at the CSI chief, amazed at how CSI attracted so many good-looking women, all of whom must have a ghoulish streak to want to tackle such a macabre task.

Collecting Lauren, Evans left the CSI chief to her job after getting her promise to provide a report as soon as possible.

‘Surely we’re not leaving, sir? We’ve got the murder case you’ve been after.’

‘Of course we’re leaving. You don’t really think I’m gonna waste all day fucking about here when we could be making ourselves useful elsewhere. We’ve seen the scene. We’re now going to have a discussion on the way to our next call. If we have any further queries, DC Thompson is on the ground for us.’

Lauren fell silent as Evans hurtled back towards Penrith. Evans wasn’t talking as he contemplated the new turn the case had taken. At any minute he expected a call from Penrith CID demanding they handle the case. By involving Thompson he hoped to placate them long enough to solve the murder himself. Melmerby was without doubt on their patch. Located halfway between Alston and Penrith on the twisting A686, the small village was a farming community through and through. As far as he could figure, this was a different kind of robbery from the other ones. Entry had been forced, there was no safe to steal from, no alarm. The empty cash drawers spoke of a lower level of sophistication altogether.

He took his phone back from Lauren who had been forwarding the pictures to Chisholm and called his sister. After a brief conversation about family matters, he asked her about last night’s local news. A regular watcher of the news, she was the one person he could rely on to have seen it.

He got the information he wanted and ended the call as soon as he could.

‘Sir?’ Lauren was looking at him as if awaiting a divine pronouncement.

‘You first, lass. What do you reckon?’

‘Well. I’m not sure, sir.’ A pause as she considered her words. ‘But I don’t think it’s connected. There was an amateurish feel to this one. All the others were clinically done, whereas this one was haphazard. My best guess is that it’s someone else.’

Evans smiled to himself, proud she’d reached the same conclusion as he had.

‘According to my sister there was a piece on the news last night warning publicans and hoteliers of the robberies we’ve been investigating.’

‘On Border Crack and Deeks Aboot?’

‘Aye.’ Lauren’s use of the nickname for the now replaced Border News and Lookaround amused him. ‘I bet it’s some chancers who saw the news and decided robbing pubs was a good idea.’

As Evans was pulling off the M6 at Lancaster, a call came in from an unknown number.

A press on the screen. ‘DI Evans.’

‘Sir, it’s DC Thompson. I just thought you should know, one of the CSI team has found blood on a piece of broken glass still in the smashed window.’

‘Good work, lad. Get them to have the lab rush it through. I want to know who that blood belongs to by this time tomorrow.’

‘I’ve already made the request, sir.’

‘Keep me posted.’

As he ended the call, Evans made a mental note that Thompson was a bright lad who would be an asset to his team. Then realisation hit him. He wouldn’t be a copper in a few days, let alone have a team to manage. He’d be on the scrapheap. Sure he could take any of the jobs he’d been offered, but he despised the idea of being a glorified security guard instead of a detective. He couldn’t bring himself to play deputy to someone else’s sheriff.