Sitting in his van at the remote campsite he had found on the internet, Ricky was deep in thought. The rain drumming down on the roof was good cover. No one was going to go traipsing around in the darkness in a muddy field, poking their nose into things that didn’t concern them.
This place was perfect. Just a few miles along the Downs from Eastbourne, on the outskirts of a picture postcard village called Alfriston. A campsite in a large, wooded field half a mile up a deserted farm track, behind a rain-lashed tennis club.
This wasn’t the time of the year or the weather for tennis or camping, which meant no prying eyes. The owner didn’t look the prying type either. He’d driven up with two small boys who were squabbling in the car, taken his payment of fifteen pounds for three nights in advance and shown Ricky where the toilets and shower were. He’d given him a mobile phone number and said he might be back some time tomorrow in case anyone else showed up.
There was only one other vehicle on the site, a large camper van with Dutch plates, and Ricky was parked well away from it.
He had food, water, milk – stuff he’d picked up from a petrol station shop – enough to keep them going for a while. He popped the lid of a can of lager and downed half the contents in one long draught, wanting some alcohol to calm his nerves. Then he lit a cigarette and took three long puffs in quick succession. He wound down the window a fraction and tried to flick the ash out, but the wind blew it straight back in on his face. He closed the window and, as he did so, his nose twitched. Some unpleasant smell had come in from outside.
He took another drag on the cigarette and another swig of the lager. He was deeply disturbed by the call with Abby just now. By the way she had hung up on him. By the way he kept misreading the bitch.
He was scared that she meant what she had said. The words were replaying over and over in his head.
I’ll give you back what I’ve got left.
How much had she spent? Blown? She must be bluffing. It was impossible that she had got through more than a few thousand during the time she had been on the run. She was bluffing.
He would have to raise the stakes. Call her bluff. She might think she was tough, but he had his doubts.
He finished the cigarette and tossed the butt outside. Then, as he closed the window, his nostrils twitched again. The smell was getting stronger, more insistent. It was coming from inside the van, very definitely. The distinct sour reek of urine.
The old woman had wet herself.
He snapped on the interior light, scrambled out of his seat and into the rear of the van. The woman looked ridiculous, her head poking out of the top of the rolled-up carpet like some ugly, hatching chrysalis.
He pulled the gaffer tape away from her mouth as gently as possible, not wanting to hurt her more than was necessary; she was already in a high state of distress and he was scared that she might die on him.
‘Have you wet yourself?’
Two small, frightened, eyes peered at him. ‘I’m ill,’ she said, in a weak voice. ‘I’m incontinent. I’m sorry.’
Sudden panic gripped him. ‘Does that mean you’re going to do the other thing too?’
She hesitated, then nodded apologetically.
‘Oh, that’s great,’ he said. ‘That’s just great.’
93
As Glenn Branson was walking back to his desk after the 6.30 p.m. briefing on Operation Dingo, his mobile phone rang. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar Brighton number.
‘DS Branson,’ he answered. Then immediately recognized the rather smart voice at the other end.
‘Oh, Detective Sergeant, apologies for calling you a bit late.’
‘No problem at all, Mr Hegarty. What can I do for you?’ Glenn continued walking.
‘Is this a good moment?’
‘Absolutely fine.’
‘Well, the damnedest thing just happened,’ Hugo Hegarty said. ‘You remember when you and your very charming colleague came back this afternoon, I gave you a list? A list and description of all the stamps I purchased for Lorraine Wilson back in 2002?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well – look – this could just be one of those strange coincidences, but I’ve been in this game for too long and I really don’t think it is.’
Glenn reached the doorway of Major Incident Room One, and stepped inside. ‘Uh huh.’
‘I’ve just had a phone call from a woman – sounded like a young woman, and rather nervous. She asked me if I would be able to sell a collection of high-value stamps that she has. I asked her to give me the details and what she described is exactly – and I mean
Still holding the phone to his ear, Branson went over to his work station and sat down, absorbing the significance of this. ‘Are you really sure it’s not just coincidence, sir?’ he asked.
‘Well, they are mostly rare plates of mint stamps, desirable for all collections, plus some individual stamps. I doubt I would be able to remember from five years ago whether the postage marks on these are the same. But to give you a bit of a steer, there are two Plate 77 Penny Reds – I believe the last sale price fetched one hundred and sixty thousand pounds. There were several Plate 10 and Plate 11 Penny Blacks – they’re worth between twelve and thirteen thousand pounds each – very easily tradable. Then quite a substantial quantity of Tuppenny Blues, plus a whole raft of other rarer stamps. It might be coincidence if she had just one or two of these, but the same items, the same quantities?’
‘It does sound a little strange, sir, yes.’
‘To be honest,’ Hegarty said, ‘if I hadn’t gone through the files today to compile the list for you, I doubt I would have remembered it was such an exact match.’
‘Sounds like that might have been a stroke of good fortune. I appreciate your telling us. Did you ask her where she obtained them?’
Hegarty dropped his voice, as if nervous of being overheard. ‘She said she’d inherited them from an aunt in Australia and that someone she’d met at a party in Melbourne told her I was one of the dealers she should talk to.’
‘You, rather than anyone in Australia, sir?’
‘She said she was told that she would get a better price in the UK or in the States. As she was moving back here to look after her elderly mother, she thought she would try me first. She’s coming over tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock to show me them. I thought I would ask her a few discreet questions then.’
Branson looked at his notes. ‘Do you have an interest in buying them?’
He could almost feel the twinkle in Hegarty’s eyes as the man replied.
‘Well, she said she was in a hurry to sell – and that’s usually the best time to buy. Not many dealers would have the kind of ready cash needed to buy this lot in one go – it would be more usual to break it up into auction lots. But I’d want to ensure they were all certificated. I’d hate to part with all that money and get a knock on my front door from you boys a few hours later. That’s why I rang you.’
Of course. This isn’t about Hugo Hegarty being a dutiful citizen. It’s about him protecting his own backside, Glenn Branson thought. Still, such was human nature, so he could hardly blame the man.
‘Roughly what value would you put on these, sir?’
‘As a buyer or a seller?’ Now he was sounding even more wily.
‘As both.’
‘Well, total catalogue value at today’s prices, we’re looking around four – four and a half million. So, as a seller, that’s what I would be aiming to achieve.’
‘Pounds?’
‘Oh yes, pounds.’
Branson was astonished. The original three and a quarter million pounds Lorraine Wilson had come into had gone up by around thirty per cent – and that was after a substantial number of them, probably, had been sold off.
‘And as a buyer, sir?’
Suddenly Hegarty sounded reticent. ‘The price I’d be willing to pay would depend on their provenance. I’d need more information.’
Branson’s brain was whirring. ‘She’s coming to you at 10 tomorrow morning? That’s definite?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Katherine Jennings.’
‘Did she give you an address or phone number?’
‘No, she didn’t.’
The DS wrote the name down, thanked him and hung up. Then he pulled his keyboard closer, tapped the keys to call up the serials log and entered the name Katherine Jennings.
Within a few seconds a match came up.
94
