Threadbare Read online

  The Parking Enforcement Officer left his moped just behind the Vauxhall. The car had already been checked and it was neither taxed nor insured and probably did not have an MOT. He tried all of the doors; it was locked. There was no damage to the locks or the windows. Whoever had parked it must have had a key. It had been reported stolen a week before from the back of a farm near Bedale. The number plates had been covered with mud, probably the reason that ANPR had not discovered the vehicle on the road. Checking the car’s history, it was registered to a Samuel Peterson of Drover’s Cottage who according to the DVLA had owned the car from new. He tagged the car with two large adhesive posters to show that the Police had acted and left.

  Samuel was seventy-six, a retired farm labourer. The car had been left at his employer’s farm. He had decided to stop motoring when it needed road tax, a test and insurance, so to find it gone had been a mixed blessing. Not hearing from the police after five days, he believed it to be burned or broken up. However, that was short-lived as the police had telephoned to inform him that the car had been located. He had been given a collection address and a warning about not taking the vehicle on the highway until it had been taxed and insured. Samuel had slammed the phone down in disgust, not because it had taken so long to find, but because now he would have to put his hand in his pocket.

  Within an hour of receiving the call there was a knock at the door.

  “Mr Peterson?”

  Samuel was a little taken aback. “Aye. How can I help?”

  “The police have located your stolen car.”

  “I know, they rang. I need to get it collected. No tax nor nowt see, so I can’t drive it. I could do with it scrapping to be honest. Never use it like.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I work for a company called Car Returns. We specialise in returning stolen vehicles. Normally our fees are covered through your insurance but I’ve been informed that your car is uninsured.”

  “Don’t use it as I said.” Samuel nodded. “So how much?”

  “£200 in your case, Mr Peterson.”

  “It’s not worth that … it can go for bloody scrap. I’ll ring ’em. They’ll give me £100 and I’ll be done with it. So, you’ve wasted your time coming here. Do you always wear gloves when it’s warm?”

  “Dermatitis unfortunately. I cover them with cream and then wear the gloves. It helps. The car is locked but undamaged as far as the locks and windows are concerned. Do you know how it was stolen without a key being used?”

  “Aye. I leave the key in the barn. Likely whoever took it, found it.”

  “Do you have a spare key?”

  Samuel nodded. “On the hook.”

  “When the scrap people you are going to call come, they may need it. You might get more for it if there’s a key. May I use your toilet?”

  Samuel pointed the way before looking at the hook. There was no key.

  “Bloody key’s not there. It’s always bloody there!” he grumbled to himself, lifting his cap and scratching his head.

  Within minutes the visitor was back. “Sorry did you ask me something?”

  “No key. Should be there. I’ll be beggered, it’s always there!”

  “You probably put it somewhere else. I’m sorry to trouble you. Good luck with the scrappers. Please remember you have a short time to retrieve it.”

  Samuel escorted him to the door.

  “Without a key it will be worthless.” He paused at the door and turned. “I have a friend who could help. I know he would give you the hundred, if that’s what the slaughtermen of the car world will offer for it. He’d pay now.” He chuckled. “I know that for sure as I have the money with me.”

  “What? Slaughtermen? What are you on about?” Peterson flushed a little and stepped back, unsure as to how he would proceed.

  “The scrap men, Mr Peterson, the scrappers, the killers of cars. You just sign over the V5 registration document and …” he fished in his pocket and brought out some cash. “One hundred pounds and the car’s off your hands.”

  Samuel thought for a while as his eyes focused on the money being counted. “One hundred and twenty and it’s a deal.”

  There was a pause as the stranger stopped counting and was about to return the cash back into his pocket. He looked at Peterson and waited. “Okay. Providing you have the documents to hand. I can’t be here all day.”

  ***

  The Forensics Officer moved to the back of the garden to inspect the arched, corrugated metal shed that was slowly being strangled by ivy. A common approach path had been established by the CSI and had been clearly marked along the overgrown, crazy paved flagstones. The paint-peeling door hung twisted at the top hinge, causing it to pull away from the frame. The edge of the metal surround was simply a filigree of rusty, jagged edges; how it remained standing was anyone’s guess. To her surprise the door opened freely, breaking the silence with a deep screech. It made a shiver run down her neck and reminded her of finger nails running down a blackboard. She giggled behind the mask; it brought back memories of her school days.

  The inside was dark but the large hand lamp she held powered light into the furthest recesses. The entry had been checked previously and the only partial print found had been lifted earlier. Internally it was a mish mash of rubbish. A spider hurriedly crossed a web that spanned the upper doorway. From what she could see, whatever was no longer used in and around the house, but might one day come in useful, was stored in here – if stored were the correct term. Her father had the same mentality with his garage; he would throw nothing away. The job was going to be like archaeology, but on a vertical scale, as she progressed from the front to the back. The oldest objects would probably be at the back unless of course, now that it was full, items were just tossed in. Whatever the case, it was going to take some time to sift through. She had placed the lamp on the shelf and tapped together her gloved hands. “In for a penny,” she whispered.

  It was the unusual sound breaking the silence that first attracted her attention, a brief and almost inaudible sizzle that seemed to emanate from somewhere near a metal box that was sitting on one of the cluttered shelves to her right. She paused and listened but heard nothing. On closer inspection, the box appeared to have been touched recently, many of the other items along that same shelf were festooned with cobwebs and dust, but this, to her experienced eye, contradicted that. She was confident that it had recently been moved. Bringing extra light and the camera, she began to photograph the object and its surrounds. Even though there was a web attached she knew that could have been woven within the last twelve hours. Carefully, with her colleague now next to her, she moved closer.

  The box had the appearance of an old green ammunition tin. There were markings on the lid next to a thin metal handle but they were worn, scratched into the surface and from the angle they viewed it, illegible. However, along the side she could see the initials GL painted in white. “George Lyons,” she said out loud. The lever lid catch to the front was not fully locked down leaving a small gap along the front edge. She took a mirror from her box and leaned forward whilst extending its telescopic arm. Once positioned, she angled it close to the narrow gap. Fine LED lights positioned around the mirror shone through the fine gap. Tilting her head, she saw it.

  “Snake!” she squealed. “It’s in there. Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell … big one … hate snakes.” She moved backwards towards the Forensic Manager who was standing in the doorway.

  When she had calmed down, they discussed their next move. The folding handle on the top of the ammunition box was upright.

  “If the clasp-type lock holds, we can lift the box out into a secure space and get the contents removed.” She deliberately did not say the word snake.

  Collecting an extending gripper, the manager moved and locked onto the handle before taking up a forward stance. He checked the weight and looked to see if the lid would hold on the unsecured latch. It did.

  “When I have this outside, I’ll secure the lid temporaril
y and swab it. Check your phone for the RSPCA, they, I know, have a snake specialist and we’ll need them here ASAP. Let them know it’s probably a Russell’s Viper if it’s the same one that killed Lyons. Mention also that some cruel bastard’s locked it in a tin, it might be relevant as we need to keep it and us safe.”

  The CSI frowned on removing her phone. Some guy uses a snake to kill and her colleague has sympathies for the snake.

  Once the call was made, they were advised to cover the box with a ventilated container and leave well alone as it would be fine. Snakes only eat once a week.

  On completing the task, the manager lightened the mood. “When I was a kid, I kept a grass snake for a couple of years. Bloody thing escaped more than once but I remember I lost it for days. It was only by chance we found it. My mum flippantly said there could only be one place it could be as we’d looked everywhere; she was right, it had managed to get inside the piano. Me and my dad had to strip the antique to pieces to get it out. As you can imagine after that episode it had to go. I swopped it for a pond yacht.”

  “The piano or the snake?” she giggled.

  “Both. The piano was ruined.”

  “Pond yacht? For a piano and a snake? Doesn’t make sense."

  “That small boat nearly cost my brother his eye but that’s a story for over a beer.”

  ***

  Quinn put down the phone and walked over to Smirthwaite’s desk. Brian looked up.

  “Apparently one of the carers had a visitor during their time at Lyons’s house – Tuesday morning he thinks it was. As the carer was getting ready to leave, they noticed someone try the door and as the carer was at the door, he opened it to be confronted by a bloke in his mid-sixties. Said he was just checking on George as he was an old friend. The carer asked him to wait and went to inform Lyons but as they both returned to the door the bloke was nowhere to be seen.”

  “What did George say?”

  “Said it was a pity it wasn’t a lady friend and that the carer had been working too hard and needed a holiday. Made light of the situation.”

  “We need a full description, Quinn.”

  ***

  The smile spread across Samuel’s face as the stranger agreed to his price. He had done well.

  “V5 and everything you have for the car and,” he paused, looking Samuel directly in the eye, “when you’ve collected all that I’ve a simple question for you to answer.”

  Samuel moved to the hallway and began to rummage in the understairs cupboard. He was almost invisible apart from one boot. Pulling a cardboard box towards the entrance door, he settled in the confined space before blowing the dust away from the surface. He immediately began to cough.

  “Are you alright, Mr Peterson?”

  “Fine.”

  There was a rustle of papers and the occasional cough.

  “Bingo!” he spluttered and started to move out backwards.

  “Hang on. Wait. Pass them to me first.” A quick check showed they were the documents. “Now for that question before we go any further.” Samuel stopped, turned and something cold touched his temple.

  ***

  Once the snake had been removed the box could be searched, further swabbed and checked. Inside was a small plastic bottle of oil, some brass caps and a thick piece of old thread. It was all photographed, measured and catalogued.

  “Blank cartridges. Old too. Look like .22. Possibly a starting pistol.” He held up the bottle against the light. “Looks fine enough for gun oil.”

  “It is, after all, an ammunition box.”

  “No gun though, unless it was eaten by the snake, making it twice as deadly!” The Forensic Manager winked and smiled. His colleague pulled a face. The items were bagged and tagged and the rest of the shed was searched.

  Chapter Eight

  Control received the call at 14.23 and April Richmond and Quinn were parked outside the cottage within the hour. The familiar blue and white tape fluttered, strung loosely between various vertical objects. A single police officer stood by the gate and a CSI van was parked close to the cottage. Quinn noticed a photographer, probably from the local paper.

  “They’re like vultures, ma’am. They must communicate with death in a similar way. They find it first!”

  April laughed. “You learn quickly, my friend.”

  Light flecks of rain hit the windscreen immediately changing her mood. “Perfect, talk about timing, Quinn. It’ll make the CSI’s job interesting if they’re hoping for evidence outside.” As she spoke a pop-up gazebo-type structure was erected between the gate and the porch.

  When they left the car, the farm smell was particularly pungent. They checked in with the officer on the gate before donning overshoes and gloves. Both ducked beneath the tape and walked on the step plates that led to the open front door. The Forensic Manager looked across and signalled. It was clear from the sign that he needed two minutes. April scanned the room taking in as much information as possible. Most of the activity was out of view in the hallway.

  She stared at the clock on the mantelpiece and heard the rhythmic tick, each sounding tired and slower than a second, complementing the look of the room. The space seemed claustrophobic, the yellowing walls and the heavy net curtains appearing to keep natural light at bay. “Darkness and dirt make good bedfellows, Quinn.”

  “Picture missing off that wall,” Quinn announced. “These walls have neither seen a duster nor paint for a few years. There’s been some smoke and nicotine deposited too, enough from a lifetime of smoking!”

  April had not noticed the picture; she had been too focused on the clock. She turned in the direction of Quinn’s finger and saw the albino silhouette stain on the wall where it had obviously hung for many years. She was soon interrupted by an introduction.

  “DI Richmond if I’m not mistaken?” The manager smiled, his voice declaring his uncertainty. “I remember you from that case with the bloody remembrance crosses. Strange affair. Anyway, I digress. The body, male, we know to be a Samuel Peterson, seventy-six years old. He’s lived here for approximately twenty-five years. Farm labourer and still does a bit, or did according to the cottage’s owner. He found the victim at about 13.00 but he can’t be accurate as to the exact time. He was positioned under the staircase, partly in the cupboard, his head resting on a damaged cardboard box. First responder has been and gone. Didn’t request an ambulance. The farmer who found him thought he’d banged his head badly when coming from the cupboard.”

  “The police doctor?” enquired April whilst trying to look further into the hall way.

  “Requested immediately by the paramedic. She’s with the victim now. As you’re aware, Samuel has been shot. Unusual weapon too.”

  April waited as the CSI laboured the point as if to create tension. Both she and Quinn stared in anticipation.

  “A captive bolt gun.” Collecting a camera from a box on the side, he flicked through until an image came on the small rear screen. “It’s a Cash, probably fifty years old. Serial number has been removed so we can assume it was stolen or held illegally. It was filed away a number of years ago and may well have belonged to Peterson. Many farms at one time killed their own animals but now they’re no longer permitted to hold and use this type of weapon but that doesn’t mean to say they don’t have them. It’s either a .22 or a .25. We’ll know shortly.”

  Within minutes the doctor came through from the hall, her mask, head covering and safety glasses still over her face. Sweat gleamed in droplets on her forehead. She pointed outside. Quinn and April moved onto the path. The cool air had an immediate effect on the doctor as she pulled the mask below her chin and lifted the glasses. She rested her case on a step plate.

  “Goodness me it was warm and tight under the stairs, glad to breathe fresh air.”

  Quinn breathed in and frowned. He did not consider the air particularly fresh as all that filled his nostrils was the pungent odour of manure.

  “Time of death about 11. Possibly suicide using a humane killer,
a captive bolt gun. The gun is to his side. The bolt destroyed a considerable part of the temple and forehead area and death may not have been swift nor immediate. It could have been slow from the evidence I’ve collected. Suicides can be like that. He had obviously gone under the stairs for something and it can only be assumed it was the gun. This one fires using power load blank cartridges so they make a bang but considering the location of the body within the property and the house itself, nobody would have heard it but it’s worth asking. The other type of captive gun, as you may well know, is fired using compressed air … they’re relatively silent.” She picked up her bag. “I’ll have more for you once we’ve had a much closer look. Will anyone be joining me or my colleague? If so, I’ll send the details.”

  Quinn looked at April and pulled a face.

  “DI Owen may well. He seems to have grown somewhat accustomed to the more involved area of your work, doctor.”

  “DI and not DS? He’s done well. Pass on my congratulations. Must fly.” The doctor was careful how she passed and made her way to the gate. She turned and called. “Forgot to ask. How was the wedding? Who’d have imagined it. Never thought Flash would marry. I tried to snare the bugger but … another lamb to the slaughter!”

  April raised a thumb.

  “An old flame! Who’d have thought it? Must have been close to know him as Flash. Come, Quinn, we need to have a long chat with the farmer. Do we have a name?”

  Quinn smiled. “We can walk, five minutes tops or we can drive.”

  “I need the air and the rain has stopped.”

  “Why do people say the stench of the farmyard is good for the appetite? Destroys mine!” Quinn replied in all seriousness.

  ***

  The red Vauxhall started first time. He tossed the picture from the cottage wall onto the passenger seat. He would now stick to the side roads and avoid any unnecessary contact. Checking the rear-view mirrors, he moved off from the double yellow lines. A large pool of engine oil had collected where the car had been sitting. Things were going well for him.