Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1) (19 page)

Andy Charters was behind the bar of the Dog and Duck when Evans walked in. There was the usual smattering of drunkards seated around the room, each trying to find escape through inebriation. The decor was seventies at best and not in a positive way. The only thing that looked clean were the packets of crisps stacked at the back of the bar.

‘Thank God it’s you, Harry.’ Charters laid down the dirty cloth he was holding. ‘You’ll catch the buggers what robbed me. There would be about five grand in the safe last night when I locked up. When I came in this morning the safe was empty and the door was standing wide open.’

Evans looked around the dingy room and ordered a bottle of beer, not trusting the glasses to be clean or the draught beers or spirits to be undiluted.

‘That’s a lot of money to take in a bar this size. Don’t you bank on a daily basis?’ Evans knew from experience the Dog and Duck was not one of the busier watering holes in the little town. Located halfway along St Johns Street, it never attracted the younger crowd. Instead it attracted seasoned drinkers searching for oblivion. Patrons left here in a wobbling mess of unsteady limbs powered by memory rather than purpose. Tourists were wont to take little more than a step or two inside the door before turning around.

‘I’ve been busy for a couple of days and haven’t managed to get to the bank since Monday morning.’ Charters had a belligerent attitude which rankled Evans.

‘Even so, that’s only three days’ takings. That means you’ve been averaging over fifteen hundred quid a day. That seems bloody good to me for a place like this.’

‘And what exactly do you mean by that like?’

‘Fuck off, Andy. You can’t make money like that in shithole like this.’

‘Just catch the buggers who did this and get me my money back will you. I’ll also need a crime number for insurance purposes, like.’

Evans eyed a jar of pickled eggs as he took a slug from his bottle. It sported a green tinge he didn’t like the look of.

‘I bet it was those buggers who’ve been targeting all the other pubs an’ hotels around the area like. They’ve been all over the news and your lot haven’t been able to catch them.’

Evans ignored Charters’s rebuke. Instead he strode behind the bar. Opening the till he lifted out a handful of notes, scowling as he flicked through them. He replaced the notes, grabbed Charters by the collar and hauled the bigger man through the door that led through to a stockroom-cum-office.

‘What are you doing, Harry, like?’

‘Where are your till readouts for the last week, Andy?’ Evans’s voice raised to a near shout, enjoying the fact the larger man was visibly quaking.

‘The… the… the till roll ran out. I just got a new one this morning.’

‘Where’s the receipt for it?’

‘I threw it in the bin.’

‘Bollocks, man. You are too greedy to do that. You’d have kept it for your accounts, suspect as they most probably are.’

Evans stormed back to the bar and after a quick investigation of the till held a depleted till roll an inch from Charters’s nose.

‘So you’ve had a busy morning have you, Andy?’

‘Aye, that’s right like.’

‘Bigger bollocks. You have only got about a hundred quid in that till when you discount the float; you’ve done bugger all trade this morning. There are seven customers in that bar and none of them looks as if they can afford more than a few drinks. You’re trying to pull a fly one, Andy, and I can tell you now that it just won’t work.’

‘What do you mean, trying to pull a fly one?’

‘The bullshit you’re trying to peddle. Five grand in three days is unbelievable for a shithole like this. You’ll be lucky if you do that a quarter.’

‘I was robbed by those bastards who’ve been doing over pubs an’ hotels all over Cumbria. There ain’t no way you can prove otherwise.’

The defiance and resistance shown by Charters made Evans change tack. ‘In the absence of till readouts, we’ll take a look at delivery notes for the last month, your accounts and we’ll start interviewing every customer out there to see just how busy you have been this last week. I’ll call Jennings brewery and speak to Walter Wiley. He’ll know exactly what kind of turnover a place like this should be doing. If he says five grand in three days is the norm, I’ll believe him.’ Seeing the colour drain from Charters’s face he added one final damning threat. ‘Mind you, I could inform Customs and Excise, Environmental Health and the tax office this place needs a thorough inspection instead.’

‘There’s no need for that, Harry.’

‘There’s every need, you stupid bugger. Attempting to defraud an insurance company is a serious crime. There’s no way you did that kind of turnover. By rights I should be arresting you right now.’

‘Please, Harry. You don’t know what it’s like trying to run a business these days.’ There were tears in Charters’s eyes, desperation etched onto his downcast face.

‘This is what you’re gonna do: on Saturday night every drink you sell will be a pound. Whether it’s regulars like that lot out there or folk you’ve never seen before, every drink they buy will be a pound.’

‘I’ll barely cover my costs at that—’ Charters tried to protest, but Evans held a finger to his lips to silence him.

‘I wasn’t finished. Every pound coin that is collected will be given to the old folks’ home on Meadow Road. If you only run out of one drink, then I’ll be back on Sunday morning with a warrant for your arrest. You are not allowed you refuse to serve anybody for any reason other than they are too intoxicated to stand or they are trying to start a fight.’

‘That’ll ruin me.’

‘It’s that or jail. Your choice.’

Resignation and defeat filled Charters’s face. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Good man. I’ll call the old folks’ home and have them drum up some publicity for your very generous offer. It would be such a shame if the only people turned up were your regulars. Oh, and you better call the brewery to make sure you have plenty of stock in.’ Taking pity on the man, Evans threw him a crumb of comfort: ‘If you clean this place up then you may just win a few more regulars from Saturday night. Might help you out long term.’

Evans turned his back on Charters, smiling as he overheard him grumbling under his breath about bastard police taking the law into their own hands.

As Evans walked along St John’s Street towards his car, he took a call from Bhaki, who informed him that he’d arranged for a tracker to be put onto a quad bike due to be delivered later that day.

‘Good lad.’

‘What’s the score with the surveillance of it?’

‘DCI Grantham said one of us must join a uniformed officer every night. I’ve contacted a farmer close to the quad’s new home, who’s agreed to let us hide in one of his sheds. That way we’ll be close at hand.’

‘Right then. Inform Totty Tits that she has drawn tonight’s straw. You and her can do alternate nights until we catch the buggers.’

‘OK, guv.’ Bhaki paused for a moment before asking what Evans wanted him to do next.

‘Organise a minibus from Carlisle to Keswick for Saturday night and fill it with off-duty coppers. I know of a very special offer from a kind publican. No brass, mind. I want to be the highest-ranking officer there.’ Evans then gave Bhaki the details he’d learned from the George, and told him to scratch the Dog and Duck from their enquiries.

‘Anything else, guv?’

‘Aye. I want you to get a second tracker organised as well. Just don’t tell DCI Grantham. Keep it between us, I’ll find a way to get it through the budget.’

Next on Evan’s list was a visit to the Lakeland Hotel. He wanted to drop in there before heading back to the station. The drive of nineteen miles took him twenty-five minutes as he was held up by a procession of tractors leading cattle trailers towards Penrith Market. Try as he might there was no safe way he could get past them on the busy A66. As he drove, his mind wandered back to the familiar ground of the impending trial. It was never far below the surface. He’d stood in court many times over the years. The victims and their families always conformed to one of three stereotypes. Some would sit in silence, their faces a stony mask. Others would weep throughout, inconsolable in their sadness as painful memories were re-visited in the courtroom.

It was the third group he expected to belong to. They looked at the accused with open hatred, cheering every point scored by the prosecution, jeering when a sentence was pronounced. It was these people he felt sorriest for. They had no way to contain or manage their grief and anger. They would be chastised by the judge, removed from the court if their behaviour went too far. Upon returning home, the memory of their outbursts would shame them.

Yates’s trial would be a formality. Grantham and his team had built a solid case against him. Janet had identified him before she died. A CCTV camera had footage of Yates entering the building which housed their flat. Twenty minutes later the same camera had caught him coming out, scratches from Janet’s long nails distinct on his face.

In Evans’s mind she hadn’t committed suicide. She had died. A broken heart had killed her. Taking the pills and vodka was a symptom, nothing more. As a husband he’d failed her. He’d been unable to mend her broken heart. To salve her wounds with love. His own grief and rage distracting him from her needs.

The fact his last case was escalating annoyed him. He didn’t want his last case to be a failure, even if it was a soft case. What he wanted was to go out with a bang, to catch a killer or rapist, not some common robbers. He wanted to walk into that court with a conviction as his last act as a policeman.

To distract himself, he put in a call to control and had them patch him through to DS Murray. He spoke to Murray for a few minutes to see what he had discovered about the robbery. Dismayed to find out that it fit the pattern of the gang he was after, he cut the call and resumed his vehement condemnation of every driver who slowed him down.

When Evans at last entered the Lakeland Hotel reception, he flashed the girl behind the desk his warrant card and asked for the manager. While the girl went off to find the manager Evans paced the reception floor, ignorant of the neutral decor that populated all such conference hotels. The striped wallpaper in earth tones and fleur-de-lis-patterned carpets of the Lakeland would have assaulted his eyes had he not been so wrapped up in his thoughts. A mechanical whirr followed by a whoosh got his attention when an automated air freshener shot a cloud of sandalwood at him.

‘Sergeant Evans? I’m Dean Lennox.’

Evans fixed the man wearing a pinstripe business suit with a glare. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Evans.’

‘Sorry.’ The word was automatic. ‘One of your colleagues just left here about twenty minutes ago. Why are you here exactly?’

‘Because he’s a DC and I’m a DI. I’ve come to check he hasn’t missed anything. Also I’m the lead officer on all the thefts involving licensed premises.’

‘Oh, right then. So you’re the person responsible for catching these burglars? Or not, as the case seems to be.’

‘Just show me round and stop with the attitude,’ Evans made sure his expression knocked the insolence from the manager.

Lennox said little as he showed Evans his office and the safe.

‘What about the alarm? Where’s the control panel?’

‘Unfortunately, the alarm isn’t working. Head office won’t let me employ a local firm to fix it and the company they use have been fobbing me off for a fortnight.’

‘I bet they will now.’ Evans laughed at the distressed look on Lennox’s face before spotting something hanging on a wall.

Images flashed through his mind as he recalled all the other venues that had been turned over. It fit. This was the connection he had been trying to make. Reaching out he took the calendar from the wall. Emblazoned across the top was the logo for Stockcheck UK. In smaller print was the name Victoria Foulkes, accompanied by a mobile number and an email address.

‘When was the stocktaker last here?’

‘Yesterday. You surely don’t think it’s her, do you? I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. Victoria is the last person I’d suspect.’

‘And that, Mr Lennox, is why I’m a detective inspector and you are a jumped-up fuckwit.’

Lennox was speechless as he stormed away from Evans.

A quick conversation with the receptionist got Evans the information he was after. Whistling to himself, Evans climbed into the BMW and set off towards Carlisle in a more positive frame of mind. Exulted at having a firm lead, he followed the wagon in front without commenting on the driver’s skill or making any attempt to get past. He pulled off the M6 at junction 43, then drove along Warwick Road, turning onto Victoria Place, past Cumbria College. He crossed the river and went up Stanwix Bank onto Scotland Road. Turning into the car park behind the Cumberland Park Hotel, he parked the M3 and went inside.

The hotel was created from a row of terraced houses that had been knocked through into one long building. There were lots of different levels separated by two and three steps apiece as the hotel followed the contours of the hill. The brick exterior was clad in decades-old ivy.

As he went into the main building, Evans spied Victoria Foulkes typing figures in an office behind the reception. Across the desk from her a receptionist-cum-clerk was talking on the telephone.