A Very Private Murder (9 page)

An hour later I was heading towards the M62 and a steady slog home. It had been a worthwhile trip and there’d be no paperwork to complete. That’s always a bonus. Monday, if nothing else had turned up, we’d put the file away with a note to review the case in twelve months and concentrate on proper crime, like the pit bull robberies. The shandy was making its presence felt so I stopped at a Little Chef for a pee and a coffee.

I’ll never learn. I visualised big Dave lighting his barbecue on their back patio, sausages defrosted, lager in the cooler, wife Shirley tossing the salad and supervising the jacket potatoes. If I’d guessed right I might be in for an invitation. I dialled his mobile number.

Mad Maggie Madison answered it. ‘What are you doing there?’ I asked, wondering if I’d pressed a wrong button.

‘We’re on a shout, Charlie,’ she told me. ‘Your phone was switched off. Where are you?’

‘I
am
supposed to be on holiday. I’m in East Yorkshire, heading home, sitting in a Little Chef car park about five minutes from the end of the M62. Are you with Dave?’

‘That’s right. The grey Jag used by the pit bull gang may have been spotted by the ANPR system. One was picked up on the Manchester orbital about half an hour ago. It’s a ringer. Two men believed to be in it. The proper vehicle is locked away in its garage in Formby. Everybody and his giddy aunt are out looking for it. We’re assigned to the M621, on our way.’

‘Who’s in control?’

‘They are, until we have a sighting this side.’

‘Tell them where I am, ask if I can help.’

‘OK. Will ring you.’

I went back in and bought a couple of chunky Kit Kats. My appetite was returning and it might be a long day. I was drumming my fingers, studying the map, when the phone rang.

‘It’s Maggie. Control will be grateful if you could stake out between J35 and J36, eastbound. They’re believed to be on the M62, heading your way. Should be in that area in less than one hour unless they turn off, which is likely. You’re the backstop, that’s all. Observe and report only. Don’t follow. If they leave the motorway before then we’ll let you know.’

‘Understood. I’m on my way.’

‘So where’ve you been?’

‘Walking. Ravenscar to Robin Hood’s Bay and back.’

‘Alone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Umph!’

I was on the wrong side. Junction 35 is where the M18 turns off to the south and it was unlikely they’d come that far, unless they were heading for Hull. I ran through the possibilities. They could have been taking the car to the docks, to export. They could have been on a job. They could have been out on a reconnaissance mission, looking for the next job. They could have been visiting their invalid father in Withernsea who had just had his prostate reamered out, and that thought made my eyes water. I didn’t care. Police work should be fun, I tell the troops, and this was fun in the sunshine. I put my headlights on and gunned it.

The tyres squealed on the J35 roundabout, which added to the feeling of urgency, but once I was back on the motorway, pointing in the right direction, I eased up, looking for somewhere to stop.

I found a traffic car ramp and gently reversed up it, perching on top. It’s something I’d always wanted to do. Once upon a time you could drive straight up them, but a lady driver apparently fell asleep at the wheel and launched herself into space off the top of one, so they’ve all been modified at a cost of several millions. Now you have to drive past and reverse. I adjusted the door mirror so I could see the traffic approaching from behind and reported to Maggie that I was in position.

My window was down and I could feel the sun burning the right-hand side of my face. I didn’t want a lopsided tan so after fifteen minutes I got out of the car and stood with my arms resting on top of the open door, facing backwards, watching the madcap, endless stream of traffic hurtling towards me.

I read the names on the sides of the lorries, trying to get a snapshot of what proportion were from the Continent and what were home bred. Eddie Stobart went by, all the way from Penrith, followed by Longs of Leeds. A brief gap gave way to Norbert Dentressangle from sunny France, James Irlam, Deveraux Logistics and several unpronounceables from the Eastern bloc.

And then there were the contents. What were they all carrying? Wine and window frames; socks and socket sets; chickens and chickpeas? Plastic buckets, frozen fish, plasterboard, steel girders, feminine requisites?

Cargoes. You could write a poem about them. The driver of a Christian Salvesen artic gave me a wave and I acknowledged with an inclination of the head. What was he taking to Hull that they needed thirty tons of in such a hurry? How about:

Hey, it was fun! An Audi swung into the overtaking lane without signalling and the Mitsubishi he nearly sideswiped blared his horn. Where was I?

I could’ve been a poet if I hadn’t made it as a cop. I was working on the next verse, about a white Transit loaded with double-glazing, trying to find a rhyme for ultraviolet radiation, when I saw the Jaguar.

He was cruising in the middle lane, not drawing attention. I didn’t react: just kept staring into the distance, chin resting on my folded arms as he went by, but my eyes were swivelling to clock his number and my hand was reaching into my pocket for the phone.

‘Target has just passed me,’ I reported, without turning to watch him go. ‘Heading east at about 70.’ I pulled out into the carriageway and as I approached the next exit the helicopter came clattering by, closely followed by the East Yorkshire cavalry. The instruction was that I should turn off the motorway, do a U and go home, but the old Captain Scott spirit prevailed and I pressed on. Instructions are there to be broken. I didn’t hurry: just ambled along below the legal limit.

Two men were face down on the hard shoulder when I arrived, protected by a phalanx of police vehicles, light bars flashing, as their wrists were cuffed. They’d given up without a chase, trusting that bluffing their way out of trouble would be easier than running from it. Guns were being holstered and all the uniforms were grinning like it was Mardi Gras time. I parked half on the grass and went to introduce myself.

Ten minutes later the Heckley troops arrived; first the ARVs, followed by DS Caton in his hot hatch. We held an impromptu meeting on the hard shoulder and it was agreed that East Riding could claim the collars but Heckley was having the bodies. It’s almost impossible to rise to your feet with your hands handcuffed behind your back, so two burly traffic officers kindly hoisted the suspects upright and we shared them between our ARVs, one to go to Heckley, one to Halifax. The helicopter did a low pass and headed off back to base and the rest of us followed suit.

They were half-brothers called Carl and Sean Pickles, and didn’t have a dog with them. Carl was taken to Heckley and the clock started. We had up to thirty-six hours to link him with the robberies, but first we talked about the car. They’d bought it for three thousand pounds from a man named Andy who drank in the Lamb and Flag, one of Heckley’s more traditional watering holes.

‘Three thousand pounds?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s worth about six times that.’

‘From a dealer, maybe,’ he told me, with mock helpfulness, ‘but a lot less on the street.’ Any moment I was expecting him to say that he was as surprised as I was to find the car was a ringer: ‘Straight up, Inspector, I’ve been ’ad as much as anyone.’

‘What’s Andy’s second name?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Isn’t it on the paperwork?’ I fenced around with him for fifteen minutes or so, and discovered that his insurance certificate was in the post, as was the car’s V5 registration document. He thought brother Sean was a pal of Andy’s and had taken care of all the legal stuff. Over in Halifax, Sean was saying the same things about Carl. Andy was in serious financial trouble, the implication being that it was with drug dealers, and needed three big ones asap. They’d taken the car off him to help him out of a tight spot.

‘Do you have a dog?’ I asked.

‘A dog? What sort of dog?’

‘Any sort of dog?’

‘No.’ We stared at each other across the table until he broke the silence. ‘Andy had a dog,’ he said, and almost licked his lips. What he meant was that if we found any dog hairs in the car they belonged to invisible Andy and his amazing talking tripe hound. The detention clock had started at
five-thirty
p.m. and we could hold him for twenty-four hours, plus another twelve on the super’s authority, which would take us to early Monday morning. It was going to be a great weekend, and my name would be mud to several wives and children.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. ‘Keep Monday morning free,’ I told him. ‘We’ve booked you an audience with a magistrate.’

Serena, meanwhile, had been to see the magistrate and had returned with a search warrant. ‘Got the keys?’ I asked, and she jangled them in front of my face.

‘Right here.’

‘OK, let’s go.’

They lived in Heckley. So much for geographic profiling, I thought – the experts had predicted they’d live in north Manchester. It was an ex-council house that had been tarted up at considerable expense to make it stand out from the neighbours. There were pretend shutters framing the windows and a rustic arch around the door, covered in a decent show of roses. The neighbours either side had tried to keep up but had finally settled for matching satellite dishes and abandoned the contest. I wasn’t mocking them. The houses were tidy and well maintained. They didn’t look as if they’d ever had a letter from the council telling them to cut the grass.

We’d arranged for a SOCO to be present and I told him to record the tyre prints on the dirt drive. Serena knocked and pushed the bell button. No dog started barking and eventually a woman aged about twenty-five pushing forty opened the door. She had straggly blonde hair that was brown at the tips and looked as if she’d been disturbed from a hundred-year sleep. She pulled her skimpy top down to cover her navel stud and brushed an imaginary strand of hair out of her eyes. Serena told her who we were.

‘Mrs Pickles?’ I asked.

‘Miss,’ she replied, blinking in the evening sunlight. ‘It’s Miss Pickles.’

‘Is this the home of Sean and Carl Pickles?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you tell me where they are?’

‘Rugby match, I ’spect.’

‘Actually, Miss Pickles, they’ve been arrested on suspicion of stealing a motor vehicle. We have a search warrant, so may we come in?’ I was halfway past her as I said it, with Serena hot on my heels.

On the way we’d discussed what we were looking for. The robbers had worn overalls and gloves, with baseball caps. Any of those would do nicely. Then there was the property they’d taken. It was all small items of high value, but they had no reason to expect a visit from the police, so we weren’t expecting it to be hidden away in secret compartments.

‘What relation are you to Sean and Carl?’ I asked.

‘I’m Carl’s sister.’

‘I see.’ Although I didn’t. We’d need the computer to work out what relation that made her to Carl’s half-brother.

Serena looked upstairs while I did the ground floor. When we swapped over she opened her eyes wide in a look of stage shock. I soon found out why. Only two of the three bedrooms were furnished, each with a double bed, unmade, and a couple of free-standing wardrobes. I glanced in the ’robes and probed the pile of jeans and T-shirts that lay on the floor with my toe. Under one of the mattresses I found what is called a hunting knife, with a
twelve-inch
serrated blade. It probably had nothing to do with the offences but would add some street cred to our black museum, so I slipped it into an evidence bag.

They both had eclectic reading tastes. The magazines on their bedside tables ranged from
Guns ’n’ Ammo
right through to
Nympho College Girls
and
Sex Bizarre
. I picked up a well-thumbed volume and spent a couple of minutes flicking through it. I never realised there were so many types of guns.

The SOCO took a few samples for elimination purposes, as we say, but otherwise the search was fruitless. I had a look in the garage but there was nothing there that grabbed my interest. I told Miss Pickles that we’d be holding her brothers until Monday morning and we left. In the car Serena said: ‘Boss …’

‘Mmm.’

‘I was thinking …’

‘Mmm.’

‘If they are half-brothers and sister …’

‘Ye … es.’

‘And there were only two beds …’

‘Ye … es.’

‘Where did they all sleep?’

I said: ‘Don’t ask, Serena. Don’t ask.’

I was disappointed with the search, but there was nothing I could do about it. I started the engine and drove off. We desperately needed some forensics to link the brothers with the robberies. Without forensics we had no case. We’d do them for the vehicle offences but they were relatively trivial. As I slowed at the end of the street an elderly Ford Escort driven by a baseball-capped youth pulled into it, dragging a plume of diesel fumes behind. I paused and saw him stop outside the house we’d just left. Perhaps our luck was about to change, I thought.