Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 6

  “To be frank with you, I’m actually surprised he’s come back after his behaviour with Natasha.”

  I opened my notebook to indicate my interest, and Natasha was duly summoned. I don’t know what it is, but I find there is something incredibly sexy about a woman speaking in broken English – though slightly less so when English is actually her first language… I tried not to look too disappointed when I realised that I had let my imagination run away with me and that Natasha wasn’t a mysterious Russian émigré after all. She was actually from Birmingham.

  The girl explained that she hadn’t long been working at the hotel when Mr Erskine had come for his usual massage. After twenty minutes of massaging his back, he had turned over and it became obvious that he was, in Natasha’s words, ‘quite excited’. She had then asked him if he wanted ‘hand relief’, to which he had replied enthusiastically in the affirmative, whilst licking his lips and muttering something along the lines of: ‘wait until I tell them about this down at the golf club’. Natasha explained she had then slipped out of the room, only to pop her head back around the door five minutes later to enquire if he had finished yet.

  “I don’t know what sort of establishment he thinks we run here,” added Hitler, “but, after that, I decided it was better if I dealt with Mr Erskine in future.”

  I had no doubt in my mind that she would deal with things with a firm hand. Aside from a randy customer, I had gleaned nothing new to add to my investigation, and I still hadn’t managed to find out the spa prices. Finally, I came clean and explained that I was looking to treat a friend and asked if they had any ideas.

  “Would she like a facial?”

  I told them that it was a nice thought but that she really wanted a spa treatment.

  Half an hour later and I was back at the police station. The bank had already phoned to confirm my initial theory that the card had been used in a small town a thirty-minute drive from Sandford. CSI also contacted me to tell me that they had managed to get a decent fingerprint-lift from the locker. I was in the middle of updating my notes when Gwen and Jess walked into the room.

  “I thought you were supposed to be leaving early for your hot date?” I asked.

  “So did I,” she replied, “but we got tied up with a job, so I had to cancel.”

  Sadly, that is the reality of policing: you can never guarantee that you’ll be off duty on time. Often, even if you plan something on your rest day, you can find that your plans are cancelled by the constabulary if a big case comes along, or you’re unexpectedly called to attend court.

  I made a suitably sad face, and then, after letting a few seconds of silence elapse to illustrate how sincere I was, I launched into the tale of my hotel scammers. Gwen and Jess seemed suitably impressed at the level of thought that had gone into pulling off the stunt, and made all the right noises at the salient points of my story.

  When I had finished my tale, they began relating the adventures of their own arrest caper. Where mine was a planned and well-executed operation, it appears that in their escapade ‘thought’ had taken a back seat. Gwen explained that on the Black Estate, two twenty-two-year-old female chavs were hungry…

  The story begins with the local pizza shop taking a phone order for two twelve-inch pizzas and two large drinks. When the delivery driver had pulled up outside the address twenty minutes later, two masked girls had run out of a side alley brandishing a knife and demanded the food. The driver had duly handed over the goods, and the girls had then lifted the lids to examine their booty. “Mine’s the pepperoni – yours is the meat feast,” one was heard to comment as they swapped the boxes over before disappearing into the night.

  The driver clearly wasn’t too traumatised by his ordeal as he finished the rest of his deliveries before driving to the police station to report the robbery. When they were given the job, Jess and Gwen’s first port of call was to the house the food should have been delivered to. As they stood chatting to the two girls who answered the door, Gwen asked Comms to ring the phone number that had called the order in to the pizza shop. From one of the girls’ pockets came the unmistakable sound of a mobile phone ringing. Automatically, she answered it only to discover that it was actually the police on the other end of the line. When Gwen and Jess escorted the pair through the house and into the kitchen, they found the crusts from the pizzas plus the boxes in the bin. To cap it all, when they were interviewed, one replied with indignation: “How could the driver have possibly known it was me – I was wearing a mask!”

  The mention of mobile phones had reminded me that I needed to ring Mr Erskine to let him know that we’d had a forensic hit on the locker. I dialled the number and prepared to give him the good news.

  “Good evening, Mr Erskine. Just to let you know that we’ve got an excellent fingerprint off the locker, which is a great start in helping us to identify and, ultimately, track down the thieves. They may still have your watch in their possession, and, if we pick them up, hopefully, there’s a good chance that we might get your Rolex back for you. I know you didn’t have a good massage today but it seems you might get a happy ending after all…”

  Click. Brrrrrr.

  I looked back at Gwen and Jess with surprise. “I don’t believe it – he’s put the phone down on me!”

  Chapter 4

  The Queen of False Alarms

  Jessica came racing down the stairs from the canteen, slinging on her body armour. The sergeant and I were stood chatting in the corridor and we both looked up at her expectantly.

  “Domestic in the old part of town,” she informed us as she sped past. “Eileen and Geoffrey Crawford. Ring any bells?”

  Barry and I gave each other a little nod of recognition. I dashed out to the panda car after her and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “Fire up the Quattro!” I instructed.

  “You what?”

  “Just start the car,” I muttered.

  A minute later and we were nosing out of the station yard, ready to merge into the busy traffic, announcing our intentions with blue lights flashing and a series of whoops from our siren.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Eileen Crawford,” I remarked to Jess as she began manoeuvring through the gaps in the traffic. “She’s a bit of a legend. She thinks she knows the law back to front, and will try and bamboozle you with ambiguous legal parlance and quote subsections of obscure legislation at you, although most of the time it’s wrong. The truth of it is that she thinks she’s better than anyone else and can be very condescending if you dare to disagree with her. I would be surprised if she didn’t record everything, too. She’s always looking for an opportunity to put a complaint in if she doesn’t get her way.”

  My colleague glanced over at me, her face betraying her concern. I also thought it best to prepare Jess for the type of ‘heinous’ crime that we could expect to encounter when we eventually arrived at chez Crawford.

  “The last time she called us was because her husband’s snoring was keeping her awake. She had woken him, and when she had told him the reason why, he had sworn at her, turned over and immediately gone back to sleep. She then rang 999 to demand that her husband be removed forthwith and arrested. When they asked her where he now was, she replied that he was lying next to her. ”

  Seeing a look of disbelief cross Jessica’s face, I continued.

  “The time before that, she had rung in claiming that her husband was wrecking the house. When we got there it transpired that after getting up off the sofa he hadn’t straightened the throw properly.”

  Eileen and her husband, Geoffrey, were actually highly educated people. They had both held good jobs at the local university, but their big downfall was alcohol. ‘We work hard and we play hard’ was their mantra. In reality, ‘play hard’ should be substituted for ‘we drink every opportunity we get’. As a result, they no longer had good jobs at the university. In fact, neither one had a job at all now nor a driving licence. Consequently, they had been forced to move out of the
ir large five-bedroom house in one of the neighbouring villages and into rented accommodation in the town.

  “I came here expecting a dump,” remarked Jess as we pulled up outside the house.

  “I’m sure they’d let you use their facilities if you ask nicely,” I reassured her.

  “You’re terrible! No, I meant because you said they’d spent all their money,” giggled Jess.

  It was a modest house in the old part of Sandford, but the Crawfords were a testament to the power of an overdraft and maxed-out credit cards. Keeping up appearances was important to both of them but particularly to Mrs Crawford. Mr Crawford was normally an amiable enough chap, whereas his wife was a different kettle of fish altogether. We leapt out of the vehicle and raced up the short path past the neatly arrayed pots of winter clematis and ornamental berry bushes.

  “Afternoon, Geoffrey,” I announced as the door was opened by a male in his mid-fifties, gin and tonic in hand. He was impeccably dressed in a maroon cashmere V-neck jumper, tie and dark green corduroy trousers but, somewhat incongruously, was also sporting an enormous pair of red fluffy slippers. I involuntarily raised my eyebrows.

  “They were a present.” He obviously felt the need to apologise for his footwear as he let us in. “I don’t really care for them much to be honest with you, but ‘she who must be obeyed’ bought them for me for Christmas so I feel like I’ve got to wear them now.” He then raised each foot in turn to show me the full technicolour glory of his massive furry boots. “You should get yourself a pair.”

  “I could say exactly the same thing,” I grinned.

  “So why have we been called today, sir?” enquired Jess.

  “Lumpy mashed potato,” came the reply.

  Jess and I exchanged glances, whilst Geoffrey rolled his eyes heavenwards.

  “You had best see ‘the Queen of False Alarms’, who will no doubt explain all in her own inimitable style.” He then disappeared off into the lounge with his G&T, waving liberally with his free arm in the general direction of the stairs.

  We ascended and began peering around each of the doors in turn, searching for his wife. We eventually found her in the master bedroom, where she had apparently taken to her bed following the trauma of the vegetable-related incident. She was sat, propped up by several pillows, with the heavy, pure white duvet pulled up to her middle. From the waist up she appeared to be immaculately dressed in a lilac silk dressing gown, a single string of pearls adorning her neck, whilst a pristine black bob perfectly framed her slightly elongated face. Unfortunately, the portrait was somewhat spoilt by her purple teeth – a product of years of drinking too much red wine.

  “How can we help you today, Mrs Crawford?” I queried as I stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she replied tersely as she looked up from her reading. “You’re a bastard!”

  Eileen and I weren’t on the best of terms since I had refused to ring the actual Queen on her behalf and inform her that one of her loyal subjects was being restrained against her will by a uniformed oaf. The reason why I had refused to carry out her request was that I doubted Her Majesty would have particularly thanked me for disturbing her Sunday tea to tell her that I was actually preventing an extremely drunken Eileen Crawford from running barefoot into the traffic on the nearby motorway during one of her drinking bouts. Relations between us had been a little strained ever since.

  “Why have they sent you? I told you I didn’t want to see you again.” I was finding it hard to decide whether she was speaking in italics or just slurring her words.

  “Well, to be frank with you, I’m not exactly delighted to be here,” I replied, “but I don’t have the luxury of saying which homes I will or won’t go to – it’s my job. You rang 999 and told the operator it was an emergency. We’ve come to see if we can help.”

  “I don’t want you in my house.” Eileen pointedly turned away, put on her reading glasses and continued reading her newspaper.

  An awkward silence descended, disturbed only by the gentle snoring emanating from a rotund-looking dog lying fast asleep at the foot of the bed. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was a corgi – bred originally, I am led to believe, to register gas fitters.

  “So what’s happened?” asked Jess in an attempt to break the impasse.

  “Ah, at last a sensible voice in the proceedings!” The glasses and paper went down, and Eileen was ready to engage. “I want that man downstairs arrested.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes, young lady, my ‘so-called’ husband. He may come over as a mild-mannered gentleman, but he can be a monster!”

  I had a bizarre image in my head of a cross between David Niven and Frankenstein. Maybe those were his actual feet and not comedy slippers after all…

  “And can I ask why I’m locking him up?”

  “Mise en place!” she declared emphatically, “Mise en place!”

  Three words that meant nothing to either me or my colleague. I thought it might be something to do with cutting sandwiches into triangles, but that was just a guess. They always seem to taste nicer that way.

  “I think you’re going to have to help us out here,” Jessica prompted.

  “Mise en place, my dear,” she repeated. “It’s from the French – MISE. EN. PLACE.” She repeated each syllable in turn, slowly and loudly, assuming that would explain all.

  Our facial expressions must have given away the fact that we were no closer to understanding why her husband ought to be in custody. “Nope. Still nothing,” declared a confused Jessica.

  “Don’t they teach French nowadays?” Eileen gave an exasperated sigh.

  Before she had a chance to reply, I subtly tried to nudge my colleague’s arm as I knew that no matter what Jess said, it would only serve to play right into Eileen’s hands; but it was too late: Crawford must have seen the tiniest of movements and the advantage was hers.

  “Really, did they teach Modern Foreign Languages at the establishment you went to?” pressed Eileen, relishing the opportunity to display her assumed superior education and standing in society.

  “So, I’ll ask again,” my colleague valiantly persevered. “What has happened today that has necessitated in you calling the police?”

  Yet another exasperated sigh came from our bedridden victim. Clearly, she wanted us to know how much effort she was putting herself to by having to explain everything to us. For my part, I made a mental note to enrol both Jess and myself on the mind-reading course when we got back to the station.

  “I am a practitioner of the mise en place school of cookery.” Eileen addressed us akin to a Victorian school ma’am summarising a lesson. “To wit: I have a professional, organised kitchen and preheat my oven and arrange my ingredients and cooking implements prior to the event, as this is the most efficacious modus operandi in recipes with specific time constraints. Mise en place – the literal translation means ‘putting in place’.” Eileen left a pause, inviting Jess to fill the void.

  “You mean you get the stuff out ready. Yes, carry on.”

  “I was preparing Sunday luncheon in the kitchen area when I asked my husband for his assistance in preparing the meal; namely I required him to cream the potatoes.”

  “Mash the spuds. Yes, I’ve got that.”

  “Well, my husband entered the arena as requested, and, apparently, looked for the required implement within the confines of the drawer. Quite obviously, he didn’t find it there. He then slammed the drawer shut and bellowed: ‘Where’s the fucking masher!’”

  Cue dramatic pause.

  “Well,” she continued after she was satisfied that there was enough tension hanging in the air, “he knows very well that I’m an advocate of mise en place.”

  Eileen was sitting up in bed now. “He should know where the ‘fucking masher’ is! It’s on the ‘fucking surface’ laid out alongside all the other ‘fucking utensils’!” Her face contorted, turning as purple as her teeth, as she venomously spat out the words.

  She fell back
against the pillows, exhausted after her outburst. The flowery prose had wilted under her onslaught. It was hardly an image of mise en place bliss.

  “What happened then?” Jessica appeared eager for Eileen to continue. Even the dog had roused and cocked its head expectantly.

  “Well, the mashed potato was bloody ruined!”

  “And?” We braced ourselves for the dramatic finale.

  “And I rang you and then took myself off to bed.”

  Jess and I looked at each other – just to make sure we hadn’t missed the point. We had received an urgent call for assistance: Where were the threats? The smashed furniture? The broken crockery? The violent assault?

  “I was distraught!” she added, as if to add credence to her story of suffering and deprivation. And here was I thinking that only an onion could bring tears to your eyes – or a turnip if it hits you hard enough in the face.

  “And then what did Mr Crawford do?”

  “Well, he simply sloped off like he usually does.” Her story concluded, she picked up her paper and replaced her glasses.

  “So let me get this straight,” clarified Jess. “He’s shouted because he couldn’t find the potato masher, he’s then gone into the lounge and you’ve taken yourself to bed? And that’s it – nothing else?”

  “Does there need to be?” asked Eileen.

  “Well, when you call 999 there usually is,” I answered.

  As Eileen continued to feign deafness to anything I said it was left to Jessica again.

  “So, what do you want us to do now?” asked my colleague, with mounting incredulity.

  Another elaborate sigh followed. First of all, off came the spectacles, slowly and deliberately, before being carefully placed on the bedside cabinet. Next the paper was ceremoniously folded and set alongside them. Finally, Eileen Crawford turned her full attention to us.

  “Do I have to repeat myself again? I want him taken away and locked in one of your prisons.”

  “For not mashing the potatoes? I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” replied Jessica.