Thursday
Gary got the impression that Corrie knew very little about
the van. She had merely done what anyone with a new boyfriend might have done.
She had suggested looking to see if the van was in the drive and if it was,
they could use it for a couple of hours. On what she based that assumption was
not clear to Gary.
The drive to where Gig Shaw and Corrie had picked up the van
to go on their outing was long enough for Corrie to become quite chatty.
“Have you done that before?” he asked.
“They don’t use it all the time,” she said.
“And they know you use it, do they?”
“No, but I can’t drive and Gig’s car is being serviced, so
it was my idea to borrow the van. It was lucky that it was parked outside with
the keys in the ignition. I left a note that we had gone for a run and would be
back for tea.”
Gary drew up opposite the semi that was pointed out to him.
“I live in the other half ,” she said. “It’s nice being near
my sister.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Sometimes,” said Corrie mysteriously. “We Gates all live
together I still live at home. That’s my window up there with the pink nets.”
“Surely your parents aren’t Gates as well.”
“Why not?" It’s a name like anyone else’s.”
A perfectly valid comment, thought Gary.
“How are you all related then?” he could not resist asking.
“My parents are Gates, so me and my sister were born Gates.
Then my sister met a fella and his name was Gates as well, but no relation. Dad
checked. My sister got married and became Mrs Gates instead of Miss Gates like
me.”
“I expect you have friends staying overnight in that nice
house of yours, don’t you?” said Gary, curious to know if Gig Shaw lived there.
Probably not, he decided, given that they had gone into the
woods on a damp November day for their twosome.
“Sometimes, but my parents live here when they are not on a
cruise.”
Gary wondered where the money for cruises came from, but
these days, cruises were all the range and people went into debt to pay for
them. Then they usually paid that debt off before booking the next trip on
credit. Or they just got deeper and deeper in debt. The next step was crime.
“So your name is still Gates then.”
“I’m not married to anyone, if that’s what you mean. Except
for Gig – and he doesn’t live here – we’re all Gates – but not the ones you
open and shut.”
Gary smothered his amusement. He did not want to stop this
flow of trivia.
“Where are your parents now?”
“Abroad.”
“On a cruise? It must be to somewhere warm,” said Gary.
“Dad’s a hairdresser on cruise liners and my mum goes
along.”
“Lucky her,” said Gary thinking he had overdone his
speculating.
“Mum helps with the catering,” said Corrie.
“That seems like a good arrangement,” said Gary.
“Because they are hardly ever here, I look after the house.”
Corrie got out of the van, went to the semi with blue lace
nets at the window and rang her sister’s doorbell. There was no reaction.
“She’ll be at work,” shouted Corrie. “You can put the van
back in the drive. My sister goes to work on her bike.”
Gary wondered why she had told him that, but he was more
interested in the relationship between the various members of the Gates clan
since it seemed to include the gardening and transport service offered in the
Gazette.
As if to put Gary’s mind at rest, Corrie again told him that
the Gates brothers were not related to her parents. It was a coincidence that
they had the same name, so her sister was not married to a relative.
Corrie’s insistence that everything was above board was
starting to irritate Gary. It was obvious that the Gates’ relationships had
been the subject of speculation.
“If we were all named Smith,” she continued, “no one would
question our relationship.”
Gary could not find fault with that argument. It was a bit
of a snub, but he put it down to being constantly questioned about the name.
“When I marry Gig, I’ll stop being a Gates,” she said.
Gary wondered if Gig Shaw knew what Corrie was planning.
***
Chris, Ned and Gig climbed out of the forensic van. Gary
wondered if Mr Shaw had said anything of interest. Ned went to examine the
garage. It was locked.
“You can’t go in there,” Corrie shouted.
“We’ll have to now we’re here,” said Gary, avoiding a
mention of the Gates brothers probably having collared the ecclesiastical
valuables.
“You’ll get into trouble if you do,” said Corrie.
“Shut up,” said Gig. “These people are police. They can do
what they like.”
“Correct, Mr Shaw,” said Gary.
Ned fetched a small bag of tools from the forensic van.
Strictly speaking it was breaking and entering since they did not have search
warrant, but Gary would organize one retrospectively.
“One of these keys will fit,” he said. “If not, I might have
to force the lock.”
“You can’t do that,” said Corrie.
“Yes, we can,” said Ned.
“I’ll be in trouble for letting you,” sniffed Corrie.
“Let’s look inside the van again, shall we?” said Chris in a
conciliatory tone.
He wondered if Corrie was actually protecting that garage
from curious eyes. If so, did she know what was in it?
“What do the Gates brothers do for a living?” Chris asked.
“Cut trees down, mainly,” said Corrie. “And doing up
gardens, but they aren’t gardeners. They do removals as well.”
“So we should gardening tools in the back of the van, shouldn’t
we?”
“I expect so. Why do you want to know that?”
“Because we are the police,” Gary said.
“You heard, Corrie? They’re the cops,” said Gig.
“But if they do gardens, why did they leave the van here?”
said Chris, who was now quite interested in the circumstances that had brought
them there.”
“They’ll be big tree-pruning,” Corrie said confidently.
“They’ve got a special truck for that with a branch chipper.”
That made sense.
“Have they?” said Gig.
“You saw it once when they cut the tree down in front of
your office,” said Corrie. “You told me.”
“Oh, that tree,” said Gig.
“Where is your office, Mr Shaw?” said Gary.
Gig Shaw indicated that he did not want to say.
“Yes, where is it?” said Corrie. “I could visit you.”
“We don’t get visitors,” said Gig.
“Everyone gets visitors.”
“We don’t and shut up,” said Gig.
Gary wondered what kind of office that could be if he particularly
did not want Corrie there. He would ask the guy when Corrie was not around.
Corrie played into his hands by announcing that she would go
home and fetch a cardi. It was cold standing around and the blankets were damp.
“You aren’t dressed for the weather,” said Gary. “Where’s
your coat?”
“At home. The van’s warm inside if you leave the engine
running, and anyway, we warmed each other when we went into the woods,” said
Corrie. “There’s a wooden lookout there, so we climbed the steps and did it in
there, but we needed the blankets.”
Corries openness was gobsmacking. As soon as she had trotted off, Gary repeated
his question to Gig..
“It’s almost red light,” Gig said. “Corrie can’t go there.
The only females who go there are our hostesses.”
“I suppose you mean prostitutes,” said Gary, amused that Gig
Shaw was using euphemisms. Up to now he hadn’t met a pimp who was embarrassed.
“Is it your brothel?”
“Not so loud,” said Gig. “We’re very respectable and it’s
actually my father’s business. We only negotiate with respectable clients, so
it’s an escort agency.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Gary, who could not believe
that Gig Shaw was as naïve as he made out to be.
Why was it that some people involved in prostitution thought
it was as respectable a trade as any other – and that included the clients who
were the first to publicly denounce such institutions? Gary had come across
that phenomenon more than once. It was the kiddology that clients who patronised
such places liked to indulge in. You got what you paid for in that trade, like
any other business arrangement, so suppling the ‘needs’ of the affluent was not
just about selling them hostesses to hold hands at events.
***
“I’ll get you a free hostess for your next conference,” Gig offered.
“Apart from that being a bribe, I don’t need one,” said
Gary. “We don’t have that kind of conference at HQ.”
Corrie came bounding back dressed for the cold, damp
November weather in a pink home knit. Gary thought she must be refreshingly
innocent to Gig Shaw if he was accustomed to dealing with the sort of young
woman he defined as hostesses.
“We’re the ‘Birds of Paradise’,” said Gig, slipping a
business card across to Gary while Corrie went to look at what Ned was doing to
the delivery van. “You can order one without a conference.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Gary, thinking that the vice
squad should py them a visit a.s.a.p.
***
In the meantime, Ned had opened the back of the Gates’ van
again. There was nothing in it except for a drum of lethal-looking fertilizer
liquid with a fiery skull and cross-bones on the label. Otherwise the interior
of the van was surprisingly pristine.
“You could have got in the back of the van for you know
what,” Ned told Corrie.
“It stinks,” she replied.
“I’ll do the garage door now,” he said.
“On your head be it,” said Corrie, probably quoting her
brother-in-law.
***
The garage door was oiled and easily opened once the lock
had been dealt with. Gary switched on the light at the door to reveal Aladdin’s
cave.
Corrie gasped.
Gig was quite surprised.
“Does your sister do mail orders, Corrie?” he wanted to
know.
“She joins biros up some weekends,” she said. “I’ve helped
her, but it’s hard work making any money at it and it hurts your fingers.”
“I wouldn’t want that,” Gig said.
Ned, who was always equipped for photography, filmed the
contents and took a few photos. Gary got out his cell phone and video-recorded
the systematically sorted booty before phoning HQ to instruct Gisela to send
the security van to 20, Mozart road. He phoned Nigel to ask him to register the
booty when it arrived at HQ since it was clearly stolen property. Gary also phoned
Cleo to tell her that something had come up and would be home eventually.
***
For booty it was and not mail order stock. There wasn’t
enough of it for that, and you would not stack laptops, CD players and other dozens
of items in their original boxes in a garage unless they were obtained illegally.
He would confiscate the whole lot forthwith.
There was no visible system. The Gates brothers had kept
what they could get away with. Gary speculated that if they delivered stuff to
stores it would be easy enough not to unload quite all of it. You did not even
need to break and enter. The ‘finders’ of objects that had dropped off lorries might
find themselves subject of investigation, but the Gates brothers had slipped
through the net up to now.
“What have we here?” he said officiously for Corrie’s
benefit as he counted how many laptops there were. “Did you know about all
this, Miss Gates?”
“I don’t know nothing about anything,” she sniffed. “It’s
not my garage.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” said Gary. “What’s in those
big boxes at the back? Surely not duvets, as it says on the labels.”
It wasn’t duvets. It was ecclesiastical ornaments.
“If I’m not mistaken, this outing was worthwhile after all”
said Chris, who had been anticipating a crappy mission to a semi in the
suburbs. “And there isn’t even a corpse!”
“I hope there isn’t,” said Gary. “It would have been tedious
without the ornaments and it’s turned out to be a real success story.”
“That just goes to show,” said Ned, holding up one of them.
“This is a 15th century candlestick. Priceless. Look at the jewels
on it.”
***
Gary made arrangements for the Gates brothers to be picked
up when they parked their tree-cutting truck to unload the tree waste at the
local municipal recycling centre.
It was better if the part-time gardeners were taken to HQ
quietly. Bill Gates lived in that other semi, but where did Been live? On being
asked, Corrie said she didn’t know.
Ned would secure the garage by changing the lock in case it
was not possible to remove all the stolen goods that day. He and Chris would
make a list of everything, including counting the church relics while they were
waiting for the security van to arrive. Chris would then accompany it back to
HQ. Everything should go well because they knew who the driver was and Ned
would drive with him.
There was nothing more that Gary could do, so he drove back
to HQ to report back to Nigel, who would then be so kind as to compile a
report, to which the information Chris and Ned were gathering could be added.
***
At the cottage, Cleo had completed her agency work,
including the formulation of a contract for Mr Sloane. It was now nearly three
o’clock and Grit, probably the best grandma in the world, had steered her small
charges into the children’s room to play. The few minutes for Cleo to reflect
on progress in the Monks case were, however, not to be, as she had discovered
when Mr Sloane rang in an over-excited state.
Yes, she would want to know about an important discovery and
yes, he should come right away.
Despite herself, Cleo was curious. Gary’s phone-call from
somewhere in the Middlethumpton suburbs had already told her about the re-discovery
of the ornaments and now she was sure that Mr Sloane was going to contribute a
bit more to the mystery.
***
“Before you say anything, the good news is that the ornaments
have been found,” she announced as Mr Sloane stepped in swathed in a two yard
long scarf over his army parka.
“That’s really good news,” he said as he unwound the scarf
and draped it around the hat rack.
“Were you in the army, Mr Sloane?” Cleo asked, looking at
the military-style parka.
“Oh, this,” he said, hanging the garment on a peg. “I’m not
a fighter. A conscientious objector. I got the coat at an army and navy store.
What’s good enough for a soldier is good enough for me,” he explained.
“Awesome, Mr Sloane,” said Cleo.
“And waterproof.”
“Awesome!” she repeated.
“I’ll have to leave at four. I’ve arranged to collect Joyce
from school,” he said.
“Just sign your contract and explain why you phoned me, Mr
Sloane. I won’t stop you from leaving!”
“It’s these,” said Sloane, pulling two rolled documents out
of a parka pocket. “I think they’re important.”
It should be mentioned that Mr Sloane was speaking in a rather
loud voice that was almost shouting, but without a stammer. Cleo, who had
encouraged Sloane to breathe more often and talk louder when speaking, now
regretted her therapy in case it woke the babies, but it drew Grit into the
living-room.
“Let me look,” said Grit.
“Where did you find them?” Cleo asked.
“Where the ecclesiastical treasures were. I went to check
that we had found everything and they were tucked into a niche,” declaimed
Sloane. “The bottle they had been in had smashed. I just drew them out.”
“Wow!” said Cleo. “I didn’t know bottles could be that old.”
“Historians believe the first glass bottles were made in
1500 BC in Mesopotamia!” shouted Sloane
“How do you know that, Mr Sloane,” said Grit. “And don’t
shout!”
“If I don’t shout, I st-st-st-stutter,” said Sloane, proving
his point.
“Oh dear,” said Grit. “Remember to breathe.”
“That’s what Mrs Hurley told me,” shouted Sloane.
“So how do you know about the bottles, Mr Sloane?”
“An archaeologist has to know things like that, Mrs …errr…”
“Stone,” said Grit.
Not stone. Glass,” said Mr Sloane.
Grit left Mr Sloane to Cleo, who was rolling her eyes in
exasperation.
***
“OK. So the bottle is at least as valuable as the documents,”
Cleo said.
“I suppose it would be if it hadn’t been smashed during the
dig,” sniffed Sloane. “But if it had not been smashed I would probably not have
noticed the documents.”
“There’s a good side to everything” said Cleo.
“Can you read them?” said Sloane.
The documents were on vellum and were surprisingly intact.
However, only one was in a language Cleo and Mr Sloane could understand. It was
a list of ‘fathers’.
“I wonder how literally we should take that,” said Cleo,
thinking of that historical record of the village.
“Aren’t all monks called fathers?” said Sloane.
“I suppose so. Maybe they were the only monks living in the
priory at the time the list was compiled.”
“But there are only a dozen of them.”
“I think some monks went to live in the village with the
widows of the guys who had gone to fight for Henry – or against him, as the
case may be. I don’t think monks were sworn to celibacy in those days. That’s
an invention of a Pope, Mr Sloane, not God.”
“We shouldn’t speculate, Miss Hartley,” said Mr Sloane. “Anyway,
Popes are sent by God via white smoke, aren’t they?”
“Speculation is an integral part of history,” said Cleo,
“but let’s not go down that road. Do you recognize the language in which the
long document is written?”
“Baltic, I should think. Cyrillic alphabet. Could be from
anywhere back east.”
“So that mysterious stranger could have written it, couldn’t
he?” said Cleo. “We thought that was a myth made up by the villagers, while it is
probably a historic fact,” said Cleo. “I’ll scan that document and send it to
my colleagues in Chicago at the CEERES institute,” said Cleo. “That language
centre has existed since 1903. They will have other documents written in the
same vernacular.”
“Is that n-n-n-n-necessary?”
“Of, course it is. Do you have any objections?”
“N-n-n-n-no. I’m very impressed,” said Mr Sloane. “I didn’t
kn-kn-kn-kn-know…”
“…I studied sociology there, Mr Sloane. Where did you study
archaeology?”
Mr Sloane was now desperate to set the record straight. He
thought Cleo might be calling his bluff – which she was – and kept up his
stuttering has he confessed in a low voice.
“I-I-I’m n-n-not an arch-ae-o- lo –lo-gist,” he said.
“Shout at me, Mr Sloane. You are stuttering again.”
“I’m not an archaeologist. I’m a jeweller and watch-maker, DAMN
YOU!” shouted Sloane.
“That’s great,” said Cleo, much to Sloane’s surprise. “If
swearing helps, go ahead and curse!”
“I’m VERY SORRY,” screamed Sloane.
***
Gary was not impressed when he overheard the shouting match
that seemed to be going on in the cottage living room.
“We’re having problems with the stutter,” said Cleo.
“I don’t think you should be stuttering or even uttering
expletives near my kids,” said Gary.
“We’ve finished with it now, Gary. Sloane brought me two
documents that were in a bottle.”
“I hope they prove something,” said Gary. “I don’t suppose
they are fakes to support your cause, are they, Mr Sloane?”
“N-n-n-no,” Sloane replied. “They are genuine v-v-v-vellum!”
Sloane was getting nervous.
“You’ll have to show me where you found them,” he said. “You
should have sent for me.”
“I th-th-thought it was Miss H-H-Hartley’s case.”
“That makes no difference. Finds should not be removed until
they have been examined forensically.”
“I never th-th-thought of that.”
“We’ll go there now and you can show me the spot.”
“I can’t do that. I’m meeting Joyce.”
“I don’t care if you’re meeting the Dalai Lama,” said Gary.
Sloane was intimidated.
Cleo thought Gary was being unreasonable.
Joyce rang and said she had a meeting and could Mack pick
her up at 6?
Sloane was trapped rather than rescued.
“The b-b-b-b-bottle b-b-b-broke,” said Sloane.
“You’ll have to breathe more and shout, Mr Sloane,” Cleo
advised.
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