Breaking Point (15 page)

‘You said you
might
have taken the camera,' said Paget softly. ‘Is it
might
or
did,
Mr Green?'

‘All right, so I
did
take the camera, but that's all I took,' Green burst out. ‘I wish I'd never laid eyes on the bloody thing. But what was I supposed to do, eh? I mean, the van was just sitting there the whole day. I just wanted to see what was inside, that's all. He said they were going to get rid of it where nobody would ever find it, but I knew there was some sort of gear inside because I heard it banging about when they drove in over the kerb. I thought they were going to take it to the crusher, and I couldn't see stuff going to waste if it was any good, so I worked the lock and got it open. I didn't dare take much in case they knew what was there and had a look inside before they got rid of the van. But when I unrolled this piece of rag and found the camera, I couldn't pass that up. I mean, it would have been a crime to put that in the crusher, so I got a stone about the same size and wrapped it in the rag and put it back.'

‘And the film?' Tregalles said sharply. ‘What did you do with the film, Bernie?'

‘There wasn't any film.' Bernie saw the look of scepticism on both their faces. ‘Honest to God! I'm telling the truth,' he said desperately. ‘There wasn't any film.'

‘You keep saying
he
told you this and that, but you also mentioned
they
. How many were there?' asked Paget.

Bernie clasped his hands in front of him and concentrated his gaze on them. ‘Two,' he said so quietly that Tregalles had to ask him to repeat the word for the tape.

‘Let's have their names, then. Assuming they really exist, of course.'

‘Oh, they exist all right! But I only know one, and I wish I'd never met him, because it's his fault I'm here now. But I never had a choice, did I? Not with the wife who's always banging on about her poor brother, and how he almost went to gaol for something he didn't do, and it's not his fault if he's down on his luck and all he needs is a bit of a helping hand. But I'm telling you, the bastard's rotten through and through, but she can't see it.
Won't
see it, more like.

‘Yeah, that's right,' he said, meeting Paget's gaze for the first time. ‘He's my brother-in-law; the wife's brother, Gerry.'

‘Full name and address,' Tregalles said.

‘Gerry Fletcher, and he'll bloody kill me if he ever finds out I shopped him. So if you could sort of keep it quiet about where you got his name . . .?'

‘Address,' Tregalles said.

Bernie gave a sigh of resignation. ‘He lives over Lyddingham way,' he said. ‘About halfway between Lyddingham and Whitcott Lacey. It's a conversion. Used to be a pub, but they turned it into two cottages, and his is the nearest one to Whitcott. They're out there all by themselves. You can't miss them. The pub's name is still over the door. It's called the Mason's Arms'

‘I know where that is,' Tregalles said. ‘What does he do for a living – other than kill people and nick their vans?'

Green ignored the jibe. ‘Last I heard he was working for some removals business. Used to be a long-distance driver for one of them inter-continental firms. Been all over in his day, France, Germany, Italy and the like, but he packed that in sometime last year. Said it was too hard on his back, all that driving them big vans, so he's working local now.' He snapped his fingers. ‘RGS, that's the one! RGS Removals and Storage. Came in a year or so back. Built that big storage place out Whitcott Lacey way. A big barn of a place out there all by itself. Locals didn't like it; they reckoned it would look ugly. Spoil the look of the countryside, they said – not that it isn't spoiled already with some of the crap they're putting up these days – and fought it tooth and nail. But it went through, of course, and it doesn't look all that bad, sitting back there behind those trees. You can hardly see it from the road.'

‘Married? Single?' Tregalles asked.

‘Gerry? Single – well, more or less. I think he might be living with some bird called Rose. Least he was. Don't know her last name.'

‘What does she do?'

‘Dunno if she does anything. I only ever saw her the once. Ran into her and Gerry while we were out shopping a couple of months back. He never actually said they were living together, but they had a lot of stuff in their trolley. Shirley – that's the wife – reckons they are.'

‘You said Fletcher
almost
went to gaol once. What was that for?'

‘Something to do with Customs. Never did know exactly. Gerry always said it was a case of mistaken identity, but I reckon there must have been something to it, because it was about that time when he started to complain about his back and said he couldn't take the long hauls any more.'

‘Let's get back to the night you hid the van in your yard. What, exactly, did Fletcher tell you?'

‘He didn't
tell
me much at all,' said Bernie, ‘but he was pretty scared. He said he had to get the van off the streets before daylight, because he'd be in deep shit if he was caught driving it.'

‘So you must have known that whatever it was he was involved in, it had to be something serious; something criminal, and yet you made no attempt to report it.'

‘Yeah, well, like I said, he's Shirley's brother.'

‘You mentioned a second man. What can you tell us about him?'

Bernie shook his head. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘He stayed in the car out on the street both times.' He saw Paget's eyebrows go up. ‘Honest to God, I'm telling you the truth. See, he followed Gerry in a car, and he stayed in it while Gerry drove the van in, then Gerry got in the car and they left. Same thing happened that night when they came back for the van. He stayed in the car, then pulled out and followed Gerry when he drove off in the van.'

‘When did all this take place?'

‘Week ago Friday. Like I said, Gerry came banging on the door about half six Friday morning just as we were getting up, and said he had to find a place to hide the van. I told him to bugger off and find somewhere else to hide it, but he kept on about how he could go to gaol, then Shirl got in on the act, so I gave in when he promised he'd have it out of there as soon as it was dark Friday night. Even then the bastard lied. Didn't turn up till close to midnight, but at least the van was out of there and I was glad to see the back of it and him.'

‘You said the second man stayed in the car, but you must be able to describe the car at least,' said Paget.

‘It was dark. It was just a car, and to tell the truth I didn't hang about watching it go.' His voice turned to pleading. ‘Look, I'm doing the best I can, for Christ's sake! I don't know what kind of car it was. And to tell you the truth, I didn't
want
to know.'

‘Right,' said Paget as he looked at the time. ‘We still have half an hour before we have to get you to court, so we might as well make sure we've got everything right. Let's start with Gerry Fletcher arriving at your house on the morning of Friday, March the seventh. What time did you say that was, Mr Green?'

Returning from lunch, Ormside found Tregalles studying a large-scale map of the area around Whitcott Lacey and Lyddingham. ‘Still looking for Ballybunion, are you?' he asked innocently. ‘You won't find it on that map, Tregalles; I told you it was in Ireland.'

‘You know where you can put your Ballybunion, don't you?' Tregalles muttered, still scanning the map. Then: ‘I'm trying to remember exactly where this RGS Removals and Storage is out there. I'm sure I've seen it, but I can't remember if it's on this side of Whitcott Lacey or the other.'

‘You could always phone and ask.'

‘I could, but if I'm going out there to pick up Gerry Fletcher, I'd rather not talk to them beforehand.'

‘Then ask Emma Baker.'

Tregalles frowned. ‘What's she got to do with it?'

Ormside rolled his eyes. ‘Call yourself a detective?' he sniffed. ‘Emma Baker serves behind the bar in the most popular pub in the area, right? She might even know Fletcher. Chances are he drinks there, and I'm sure she can tell you exactly where RGS is. Give Molly a shout at Green's place and see if Baker is still with her.'

‘Yes, she's here,' Molly said when Tregalles asked the question. ‘I'll put her on.'

‘Have you ever seen a man by the name of Fletcher in the Red Lion?' Tregalles asked Emma. ‘Gerry Fletcher?'

‘Fletcher?' she said slowly. ‘Yes, I think I know who you mean. Fortyish, whey-faced, grubby-looking, fair hair, ponytail, ring in his ear – is that him? Comes in quite regularly.'

The description Bernie Green had given them was not quite so unflattering, but the ponytail struck a chord. ‘Sounds like him,' Tregalles said. ‘Did you ever see him with Mark Newman?'

‘No, and I can't see Mark having anything to do with him. Why?' There was a catch in her voice as she said, ‘Have you found something, Sergeant? Please tell me if you have.'

‘I wish I could,' he told her, ‘but we are following a lead. And while you're here, can you tell me where RGS Removals is?'

‘It's on the Lyddingham road – well, a bit off it behind some trees, actually, but you can just see it from the road, and there's a sign. About two, maybe two-and-a-half miles up the road from Whitcott. Come to think of it, this man Fletcher might work there, because he's been in several times with a man named McCoy, who works there. He's also been in with another man; Roy something-or-other I think his name is. Does Fletcher have something to do with Mark's disappearance?'

‘We think he may be able to help us,' Tregalles said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘And thanks for your help, Emma. Have you had any luck over there?'

‘Afraid not. They haven't found anything of Mark's other than the ladders and the roof rack. Still,' she said hopefully, ‘that could be a good sign, couldn't it, Sergeant?'

What she was really saying was that they hadn't found Mark Newman's body, which was a plus in her eyes. ‘Could be,' he said as lightly as he could manage. ‘Would you put Molly back on?'

‘Are you coming in?' he asked when Molly came on the line.

‘Might as well,' she said. ‘They've turned everything inside out; even had the sniffer dog in, but they found nothing. I only heard one side of your conversation with Emma, but it sounds as if you have something.'

‘Could be the break we've been waiting for,' he told her. ‘But I have to go now. Talk to Len when you come in. He'll fill you in.'

Tregalles took with him a young constable by the name of Lyons. His first name was Francis, but the only one who ever called him that was his mother, because he had been nicknamed Leo since his first day at school. He was tall and thin, a fresh-faced youngster with pale skin and red hair. He didn't look strong enough to compete in marathons, but that was what he did whenever he had the chance.

Tregalles drove into the RGS compound and parked in a space reserved for customers. Business appeared to be brisk as he and Lyons got out and made their way inside the cavernous building.

There were three loading bays with direct access to the warehouse and a storage area for containers. A fourth bay, separated from the others by a floor-to-ceiling breeze block wall, looked more like a garage, complete with pit, compressor, hydraulic hoist and a bench full of tools.

‘Can't stop,' a worker told him when the sergeant caught his attention. ‘Mid-month removals. Been going like blue-arsed flies since the weekend,' he called over his shoulder as he continued on his way.

‘I'm looking for the manager. A Mr Skinner?' Tregalles called after him.

‘Office,' the man said, jerking a thumb upward to a row of windows overlooking the loading bays. ‘Last one at the end of the corridor. Stairs are over there,' he added, pointing.

Tregalles and Lyons followed directions and discovered a set of wooden stairs leading up to a corridor that ran the full width of the building. There were windows on both sides of the corridor, one side looking into the offices where heads were bent over desks strewn with paper, while the windows on the other side of the corridor looked down on a narrow strip of gravel punctuated by potholes and weeds between the back of the building and a chain-link fence.

The door to the office at the end of the corridor was closed, but Tregalles could see two men inside. The man seated behind the desk was big. He wasn't young by any means, but he looked as if he could shift a grand piano all by himself. Shoulders the width of the proverbial barn door, thick neck, bald head, round, shiny face, and a stomach that made it difficult for him to sit close to his desk.

The man who faced him across the desk could be anywhere from forty to fifty. Lean, lined face, hair turning grey, he sat hunched over in his chair, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers.

As Tregalles raised his hand to knock, the man behind the desk looked up and caught his eye. He said something to the man facing him, who got up and came to the door. ‘If you're looking to make a booking,' he said, ‘they can take care of you in the office at the other end of the corridor.' He began to close the door, but Tregalles held it open and displayed his warrant card.

‘Detective Sergeant Tregalles and DC Lyons,' he said, loud enough for the man behind the desk to hear. ‘We're looking for Mr Skinner.'

‘Detectives?' The big man frowned as he lumbered to his feet and came out from behind the desk. ‘Roy Skinner,' he boomed, extending his hand in greeting as Tregalles and Lyons entered the office. His hand engulfed that of the sergeant, who wondered if his fingers would ever come apart again when he finally withdrew them from the big man's grasp. ‘And this is Jack McCoy, my foreman.' The second man merely nodded, for which Tregalles, hand still stinging, was grateful. ‘Detective Sergeant – what was the name again?'