The period after Christmas is harvest time for burglars. Garden sheds, bedrooms and hallways are bristling with new bicycles, power tools and electronic gadgetry. All desirable and highly portable. We'd raided three shops that claimed to 'Buy 'n' Sell Owt' and two of our cells were now stuffed with several thousand pounds worth of goodies, all still under guarantee.
"He said it was an unwanted present," was the excuse of the week.
"What an ungrateful little sod he must be," we'd respond followed by,
"Get your coat." There must be hundreds of fifteen-year-olds in Heckley who didn't really want another 21-speed, chrome moly-framed Muddy Fox mountain bike. Just think what they could buy with the thirty quid they'd get for it at the hock shop.
We contacted grandparents and favourite aunties and asked them to find the receipts and anything else that might bear a serial number, and a few lucky people had their presents returned. Some were still gift-wrapped The rape wasn't so straightforward. Maggie took Janet Saunders on a tour of the town's hostelries without finding Darryl. They had a quick look in the Tap and Spile on two evenings but avoided the landlord. We couldn't be sure how pally he was with Darryl and didn't want him scaring off. We dabble in something called sector policing. Certain officers are allocated areas of town and they try to familia rise themselves with the more visible characters who live there. Jeff Caton, one of my DCs, knew the landlord of the Tap! and gave him a reasonable character reference. He'd once alerted us to a drugs dealer who was using the pub to do business but was himself suspected of selling consignments of booze brought in cheaply from the Continent.
That's the sort of villainy I can live with. I wasn't sure whether he'd finger one of his better customers for a rape, but in the absence of any other line of action decided that in the next day or two I'd better have a word with him myself.
At ten to nine on the morning of the thirtieth of December I ran up the front steps of City HQ and asked the WPC manning personning? the front desk to direct me to the Dr. Jordan incident room. This was the big day, when I took over the enquiry. Walking down the corridor I contemplated Field Marshal Montgomery's pep talk to the Eighth Army prior to the battle of El Alamein. That should rouse them I thought.
Or should I make it Henry V's Agincourt speech? Then again, if I gave them a compilation from the two they might not recognise the sources.
At the door to the incident room I paused and looked at my watch, other hand poised over the handle. I was four minutes early, but that was how I did business and they'd better get used to it. I turned the handle and marched in.
Sparky was sprawled in a chair, his feet on another talking to Nigel who was sitting nearby. The only two others in the room were engrossed in the Sun crossword "Good morning," I said.
"Morning, sir," said the two City HQ detectives, brushing the tabloid to one side. 6 "Morning, Boss," Nigel added. Sparky swung his legs to the floor and nodded.
"So, where's everybody else?" I demanded.
"We're it," Nigel told me.
"Four of you?"
"There's another four on observations, sir," one of the City DCs interjected. "Well, two on duty and two off'
Nigel did the introductions. I knew them by sight but had never worked with either. We shook hands and I gave them the bit about not calling me sir. Formalities over, I asked Nigel to fill me in with the story so far.
The last known person to see the doctor alive was a junky known as Ged Skinner. There was an entry in the doc's diary giving Skinner an appointment at six thirty p.m." about two hours before the estimated time of death. He had a drugs-related record nearly as long as the Duchess of York's last bank statement and DCI Makinson was convinced that he'd done the deed. Motive: possibly theft of a prescription pad.
Or maybe just sheer wickedness because the doc wouldn't prescribe. I had to admit that it sounded likely.
"The trouble is," Nigel continued, 'he's done a bunk. According to his common law wife he'd arranged a ride in a lorry down to London, straight after his appointment with the doctor. She said he had friends there that he was close to, someone he'd grown up with in care, and he tried to see them every Christmas. He'd be gone for about a week, definitely back for the New Year, she reckons, if he hasn't run away completely. We've alerted the Met, but it's like looking for a needle in a needle stack."
"Do we know for sure why he was seeing the doctor?" "Yes. He was on methadone. It's all in the doc's records."
"So maybe he went round expecting to collect a week's supply."
"That's what we thought." "And the doc wouldn't play ball?" "Could be."
When someone is on a heroin withdrawal programme they are often prescribed methadone as an alternative, to wean them through the bad times. Some people swear by it, others claim it is more pernicious than the heroin. Many junkies prefer it, as the high is more controllable and the quality is assured. Normal treatment is three doses a day, and the doctors often only issue a prescription for one day at a time. Ged Skinner was going away for a week. Maybe he got stroppy.
"Are these the reports?" I asked, pointing to a foot-high pile of papers.
They nodded.
"Great," I sighed. "So, where does Mr. Skinner normally live?"
"In a squat in the Nansens," one of the DCs told me.
The Nansens were a quarter-mile square block of terraced houses built at the turn of the century to house mill workers and named after the great Norwegian explorer and scientist. If only he could see them now.
"How many others live there?"
"About six adults, plus kids and dogs."
I grimaced and nodded. "Have you two been on all night?" I asked the City DCs.
They had.
"Right, then get yourselves off home, after you've told the others not to move if Skinner comes back unless they have some back-up. And to let me know. I wouldn't mind being there when we lift him. OK?"
When they'd gone Sparky said: "I think they prefer working for you rather than Makinson."
"Mr. Makinson has his ways," I replied, 'and I have mine. Sometimes I think I could learn a few things from him."
Nigel started pulling his coat on. "Short meeting," he said. "We can't do anything until he shows. Do you need me?"
"Yes. Do you have a warrant to search the squat when Skinner shows?"
"Er, no idea. You can do it, can't you?"
"If we arrest him. What else are you on with?"
"The Sylvan Fields burglaries. A few complications need sorting."
"Fair enough. I'll have a couple of hours here reading the file, see if anything jumps out at me. What're you doing, Dave?"
"Three or four scrotes to interview, see how well their stories have been rehearsed. Some stolen property to identify, and the dreaded paperwork, of course."
"In other words, not much," I said. "In that case, meet me in the Tap and Spile at lunchtime, if you can. I think it's time to have a word with the landlord."
"About the rape?"
"Yeah."
"What time?"
I glanced at my watch and at the pile of reports. They'd grown since my last look. "Oh, er, let's say twelve thirty eh?"
"Right."
Sparky was following Nigel out through the door when I shouted:
"Dave!"
He poked his head back round it.
"And don't forget," I told him, 'knowledge catches crooks."
He nodded and repeated my words. "Knowledge catches crooks. I'll try to remember."
It was the quietest incident room I'd ever been in. For two hours the phone never rang. It looked as if nobody knew I was there. Somewhere there should have been several other officers taking care of the assorted jobs that come with a murder enquiry: control staff, SOCO, liaison officer, correspondence diary, HOLMES expert, et cetera et cetera. It looked as if Mr. Makinson hadn't thought it necessary to tell them that I was taking over. Everything was tied up, and all I had to do was lift the culprit and keep him in cold storage until he returned. I thought about getting annoyed, but decided that life was too short.