Buried in the Past (21 page)

‘Excellent. Anything else?’

‘I spoke to the chief, gave her a quick update and told her you’d fill her in with the detail once the operation is over.’

Nash waited a few minutes before making a phone call. When he was connected, Nash quoted an extension and was put straight through.

‘Is DI Shaw there, please? Brian, Mike Nash. I need another favour.’

‘Another? Don’t you think we’ve any crime of our own to solve?’

‘Come off it, Brian, we both know you’ve been sitting around swilling coffee and eating bacon butties, waiting for me to give you something to do.’

Shaw’s initial response was unprintable. ‘What is it this time?’ he asked with mock weariness.

‘I need to know what motors Phil Miller and Corinna are driving. My lad’s done a DVLA search and they’ve five cars between them. I wonder if someone could have a quiet squint at the place they keep them and see what’s missing. I need to know tomorrow if you can – so I can arrest them.’

‘Really! That might not be as easy as you make it sound. But leave it with me. I’ll see what we can do.’

The next morning, the solicitor phoned to say that he had met with Frankie Da Silver’s alleged sister and gave Nash the woman’s description. Viv was despatched to take his statement. Mironova told him that DI Shaw had rung back and supplied them with the details of the cars to watch out for.

Five minutes later Nash’s phone rang. ‘That was the bank. It’s all set,’ he told Clara. ‘The securities clerk has made the appointment as we arranged. Someone claiming to be Frankie Da Silva rang. Apparently the caller made all the right noises. She apologized for failing to pay the annual service charge for the safety deposit box and asked how much she owed. She’s been out of the country, or so she said.’ Nash paused and reflected. ‘Actually, that part’s
almost true. Anyway, she’s promised to rectify the error tomorrow morning, after which she told the securities clerk she wants to go through the contents of the box. I’ll bet she does.’ He grinned, but Clara found it about as comforting as the snarl of a tiger.

Before 8 a.m. next morning the team was assembled in the CID suite in Netherdale. The room was larger than the one in Helmsdale and as most of the morning’s action was going to take place nearby, it was the obvious choice. The armed response unit members were clustered in a group at one end of the room, the bags containing their weapons a sinister reminder of the potentially dangerous operation ahead.

‘As soon as Sergeant Binns arrives, I’ll start the briefing,’ Nash told them. He glanced at the wall clock. ‘I’d like everyone in position by 9.30.’

‘Can’t we begin without Jack?’ Mironova asked. ‘After all, he won’t be coming with us.’

‘I know that, but I’ve asked Jack to take charge of things here when we leave, and I want him to be fully in the picture in case anything goes wrong.’

As Nash finished speaking, the outer door opened. Everyone looked, expecting to see Binns. Instead it was Tom Pratt whose ample form filled the doorway. ‘Come in, Tom,’ Nash gestured to the newcomer. ‘We’re just waiting for Jack.’

‘He’s on his way now. He had to field a couple of phone calls first.’

‘Take a seat, Tom.’ Nash turned to his colleagues. ‘Tom and Jack have been involved in this case from the beginning, twenty-five years ago, so I felt it was only fair they should be in at the death.’

Binns hurried in. ‘Sorry, Mike, I couldn’t get off the phone,’ he apologized. ‘One RTA to deal with, then a bloke from the Health and Safety Executive who wanted to carry out an inspection today.
He took some getting rid of, but I put him off.’

‘How did you manage that?’

Binns smiled. ‘I told him we’re about to arrest a couple of highly dangerous homicidal maniacs and we’ve the building crawling with armed officers.’ He grinned at the ARU team. ‘When I told him one of these characters made Jack the Ripper look like Paddington Bear he decided to postpone the visit.’

‘Right, let’s get on with it.’ Nash turned to the sergeant from the ARU. ‘I’m not anticipating this ending in a shoot-out, but the people we’re about to detain are ruthless, determined career criminals. Furthermore, they’ve everything to lose, so we can’t afford to take any chances. Fortunately for us, the location should work in our favour. The building they’re going to visit is halfway along a
cul-de-sac
. That means we should be able to block the one exit and seal off their escape route, whether they’re using their vehicle or on foot.

‘Added to which, I hope we’re going to catch them unawares. As far as they’re concerned, they think everything is going to plan.’ Nash paused. ‘Their plan, that is; not ours. They’re away from their normal territory, which means not only are they out of their comfort zone, but they’ve no chance of picking up rumours of what’s about to go down. They’ve no reason to suspect we know they even exist.’

‘What you’re saying is, we’re a sort of belt-and-braces option?’ the officer suggested.

‘Partly.’ Nash smiled grimly. ‘But for the most part, you’re here in the devout hope that you won’t be needed.’ Twenty minutes later, when Nash was satisfied everyone had the facts clear, he signalled an end to the briefing. ‘OK, I want you to make your way to the site and take up your positions. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I just want a word with Jack and Tom before I leave.’

He watched the others file out of the room before turning to Binns. ‘I’ve a job I want you to see to whilst I’m out. I’m expecting some visitors’ – he glanced at the clock – ‘who should be here in half an hour or so. Tom knows the details and he’s going to collect them, but I want you to make sure they’re comfortable and have everything they need. Here’s what I want you to do.’

The Porsche slowed to a halt. Not, as Nash had anticipated, in the cul-de-sac itself, but on the main road that crossed its end. Parking was at a premium. The only space available required the driver to manoeuvre in a tight three-point turn. Luckily, the action gave Pearce, who was nearest, opportunity to read the number plate. He checked the registration against the ones written on his pad and lifted his radio. ‘They’re here,’ he told Nash. ‘Red Porsche, parking on Cross Lane.’

‘I see it,’ Nash acknowledged. ‘Hold your positions, everyone. Let’s see what they do before anybody moves.’

They waited, tension mounting. Nash glanced at the time on his dashboard display. ‘Ten minutes to go,’ he said into his radio. ‘Everything ready inside, Clara?’

As she replied, her signal was broken up by static, caused by the fabric of the building, Nash guessed. Nevertheless, he made out her message: ‘All set in here, Mike.’

‘Passenger leaving the car,’ Pearce reported. ‘It’s the woman. Hang on; let’s see if the driver comes with her.’ They waited. ‘No, looks as if she’s going alone.’

‘Get that, Clara?’ Nash asked.

‘OK, Mike.’

‘It’s what we expected,’ Nash told the listeners. ‘Everyone remain in place until she enters the building. We don’t want to spook the driver.’ Nash was conscious that most of the ARU team, apart from their driver, would be inside the body of the Transit, and unable to see what was going on.

He watched in his rear-view mirror as the woman walked confidently down the cul-de-sac towards and then past him. He transferred his gaze to the Porsche. There had been no further movement from within the car. ‘Looks as if her partner’s leaving it to her. Everyone wait for my signal.’

Two minutes passed slowly, time the waiting men would have sworn was much longer; especially those blind to what was going on. ‘Right, she’s safely inside,’ they heard Nash report at last. ‘Pull the van down that alley opposite the end of the cul-de-sac, just beyond their car. Once you’re clear of the driver’s line of sight get out of the van and wait there, ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Whatever you do, don’t show yourselves until we’ve sorted things out inside. Viv, you’re our eyes and ears outside, OK?’

‘No problem, Mike.’ Pearce watched Nash get out of his car and enter the building, before returning his gaze to the Porsche, whose driver was still visible, even through the tinted glass window.

The interior of the bank was deceptively spacious, especially for so small a town. The woman ignored the four cashier positions and headed for the reception desk set at right angles to the tills where it formed a barrier to the administration section of the branch.

‘Good morning,’ the receptionist greeted her. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I have an appointment with Mrs Simmons.’

‘What name is it, please?’

‘My name is Da Silva, Francesca Da Silva.’

‘Please take a seat. I’ll get Mrs Simmons for you. I believe she was on the phone a few seconds ago.’

The woman rose from her desk and entered the second office on her right. A minute passed before she emerged, accompanied by a tall, good-looking young woman with blonde curly hair. The
receptionist
returned to her seat, and the woman approached the visitor and held out her hand. ‘Francesca Da Silva? I’m sorry, I don’t know if it’s Mrs, Miss or Ms.’

The visitor smiled as they shook hands. ‘Just call me Frankie, everyone else does.’

‘Very well, do you have the documents I asked for?’

The visitor took an envelope from her handbag. ‘There’s my driving licence and the receipt you need. I also put the overdue money for the safety deposit box in with them. I’ll need a receipt for that’ – she smiled – ‘for the Inland Revenue, you understand. It’s not all plain sailing, being a tax exile.’

‘Of course, no problem.’ Mrs Simmons studied the paperwork. After a moment she nodded. ‘This all appears to be in order. Would you care to follow me? I’ll get one of the cashiers to process the payment and get your receipt whilst I’m retrieving the box for you.’

She led the visitor into a windowless room which contained nothing apart from a table, two chairs and a telephone. ‘Take a seat; I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’ll take a few minutes, I’m afraid.’

Left on her own, the time dragged. There was nothing to look at but the box key in her hand, four drab walls and a door that remained stubbornly closed. Eventually, however, the door opened and the blonde woman returned carrying the box. The customer’s attention was distracted when she realized someone else had also come into the room. She frowned. This wasn’t right, surely?

‘I’m sorry about this,’ the blonde told her, ‘but my colleague needs to be along, and he has a couple of questions to ask. For security, you understand.’

Her momentary alarm eased, she nodded graciously. ‘Of course.’ Bloody red tape, she thought.

The man smiled encouragingly. ‘Only one question, to be exact,’ he told her, his tone relaxed. ‘I need to know how you managed to get here today. I mean, it must have been difficult, when, to my certain knowledge, the rightful owner of that safety deposit box has been dead over twenty years. That is, of course, if you really are Frankie Da Silva, and you’ve returned from beyond the grave. Because if not, I’d say your real name is Corinna Perry, and you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder.’

Corinna reached for the pistol in her handbag, but halfway there she felt her wrist gripped firmly. As the handcuff was snapped in place she looked up at the woman. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Mironova, North Yorkshire Police,’ she told Corinna. ‘Seems as if nobody’s who they say they are this morning, doesn’t it?’

‘And the morning’s only just begun,’ the male detective added.

Corinna watched, numb with shock, as the handcuffs were fastened round her other wrist.

‘Right, Clara, you administer the caution. I’ll send the bank security guard to join you while we deal with her partner in crime.’

Corinna’s eyes flew to his face. So they knew about Phil. Then she relaxed; they might be able to get her for trying to steal the contents of the box, but they didn’t know the rest of it. And even if they did, they’d never be able to prove it. The detective paused by the door and looked back. He nodded towards the table. ‘Whatever you do, don’t forget that box and key. The damned thing’s caused enough trouble already.’

Nash walked out of the bank and down the cul-de-sac. Pearce
watched him pass, then spoke into his radio. Nash glanced to left and right, made sure the road was clear and crossed. He passed the front of the Porsche and stopped by the driver’s window. The
occupant’s
first hint of alarm came then, as the man outside gestured for him to lower his window. ‘Are you waiting for a lady who’s inside the bank?’ the man asked.

‘Yes, why?’

‘I’ve been sent to tell you she’s been detained – and so are you.’ As he spoke, the man leaned forward and added, ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Mike Nash. You’re under arrest.’

Too late, Miller saw the ring of armed police officers who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Too late he felt the handcuffs tighten on his wrists.

Nash watched the prisoners loaded into the police cars before turning to Pearce. He handed the DC the keys to the Porsche. ‘Drive that back to the station, and make the most of the experience. On police salaries it’s the closest you’re likely to get, barring a lottery win.’

Once they were back at headquarters, Pearce appeared
brandishing
a door key. ‘This was in the glove box of the Porsche. Fortunately, it’s got the agent’s address on it. I rang them. Lilac Cottage, Bishops Cross.’

‘Good work, Viv. Tell Clara and get the SOCO team organized. We’ll have a ride out there.’

Their search of the cottage revealed little of interest until Pearce opened the larder door. Nash was reading a brochure from the company who leased the premises. Something about their name, Wilson Dream Holidays, should have rung a bell. He was trying to work out why when his attention was distracted. It was a mistake he would later remember – and regret in years to come.

‘Mike,’ Pearce called out, ‘come and have a look here.’

There was little in the way of food in the larder. Somehow, Nash couldn’t picture Corinna going in much for home cooking. Pearce pointed. Leaning against the wall was a sledgehammer. Nash picked up the weapon and pointed a gloved hand at the head. Pearce saw the stains and a couple of hairs that were stuck to what he guessed was blood. ‘I assume that’s Graham Nattrass’s
blood and hair. Otherwise, it could belong to either Thornton or his henchman,’ Nash suggested.

Nash and Mironova left Pearce in charge at the cottage while she drove him back to Netherdale. ‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Now we interview the prisoners.’

‘Put Corinna Perry in one of the interview rooms, please,’ Nash instructed the custody sergeant. He turned to Binns. ‘Whilst we’re talking to her, I want you to set up another camcorder and tape machine in the conference room.’

Nash stared at Corinna as Mironova switched on the recording equipment. He waited, even after Clara had finished delivering the introductory message. Corinna stared back, her look, her body language shouting defiant arrogance louder than any words could achieve. She’ll be a tough nut to crack, Nash thought. He smiled to himself. He enjoyed a challenge.

Eventually, Nash spoke. ‘It must have seemed like the perfect opportunity’ – he paused – ‘to get rid of poor old Max, who’d become such an embarrassing liability; so you could shack up with your lover. What was the problem with Max? I mean, there were a few problems to choose from, weren’t there? Which one made you decide to do away with him? Was it the fact that so many people were after him? The people he swindled, for one thing. And there was Callaghan, and a few more, trying to muscle in on his territory. Or was it more than that? Max no longer any good in the bed department, perhaps? I mean, you’re a handsome, red-blooded woman. I bet you’d take some satisfying. Wasn’t Max up to it any more? No Viagra or crystal meth in those days. Nothing to give him the stamina you’d need. Or did you simply fancy a bit of fresh meat in your sandwich? I bet that was it. A new lover, a bit of excitement, someone who could do more for you than poor, tired old Max. Was that it, Corinna? Was that why Max had to go?’

Whatever Corinna had been expecting, this line of questioning was a long way from it. Nash was aware of that. Even as he was speaking, he saw her relax, saw the quiet smile. ‘If that’s what you want to think, carry on. It’s all nonsense of course. But even if there had been a grain of truth in your wild accusations, you’d never be
able to prove any of it.’