Doha, Qatar – mostly sailing and diving in
the gulf I’m sure he’s doing some work here too but he won’t tell me what it
is. So hot. My sweetest, your Mummy.
(3g46t12dgp Pune)
Up the steps two at a time, across the veranda and into the
hall, Dunstable Downes laid his coat across the outstretched arms of the seven
foot grizzly his grandfather had shot in the Yukon in ’92. He breezed into the
library followed by Toddington where he found Miss Strensham, erstwhile nanny,
governess and present guardian, seated in state eating McFarlane and Lang’s
Royal Scot biscuits, her jowls trembling as she ruminated.
Strensham was in her usual chair which gave her a clear line
of sight through the door and through both windows to the front and side of the
house. She had the presence and inscrutability of Kubla Khan. She was
crocheting – one of those things people crotchet and give to relatives who put
it in a draw and never use then give to someone they don’t like. The tea tray
was laid out in front of her on a broad oak table alongside the Telegraph
crossword, a copy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary and a pen.
Strensham was old school, a Norlands trained nanny first
employed to take care of the neonate Downes as his parents headed out on
another escapade. She came with impeccable references and the ambition to
broaden her experience by working for commoners. She was wearing her regulation
sensible shoes, stockings, tartan – Hunting Stewart – skirt, pale lavender
cardigan over white blouse, silver broach with purple garnet, her pure white
hair in a tight chignon, fair skin and – DD was delighted to see – a twinkle in
her eye as she peered over the top of her rimless spectacles at him. A slight
pursing of the lips and wrinkling around the eyes betraying a smile. She was
pleased to see him.
“Mr. Dunstable. It’s yourself I see?” she intoned, conjuring
up the gentile Edinburgh of Miss Jean Brodie.
Just then Mimms, the housemaid, burst in all rosy cheeks and
shy and flustered.
“Ooo Master Dunstable,” in a west country accent, “I’m so
glad to see you. Welcome home,” she said in a curtsying voice as she placed a
small tray on the table containing a frothing tankard of ginger beer and a very
robust looking peanut butter sandwich. The latter, a Mimms classic, with
exactly the right proportions of butter, peanut butter and sea salt on white
crusty bread baked that morning in the kitchen by Mimms herself.
“Mimms, you angel.” DD threw his arms round the poor girl
and, hugging her, planted a wet kiss on a chubby cheek. Mimms squealed and
pinker, shier and even more flustered she gasped and giggled and hurried from
the room with her hand over her mouth.
“Dunstable.” It was all Strensham needed to say, the
accompanying look carried a weight of reproach. He really should not be
embarrassing the poor girl, but it was his first day back and he could afford a
few indulgences.
ooooo
Breakfast was taken the following morning as usual en
famille in the vast working kitchen to the rear and right of the house. The
morning sun poured in the broad east facing French windows. Mimms fluttered
like a butterfly replenishing platters of toast, bacon and eggs, and dishes of
homemade jam, marmalade and fruit, perching momentarily on her high chair at
the bar to sip tea or nibble toast, like a bee browsing for nectar in the
borders. Miss Strensham sat in an aura of calm orderliness at one end of the
table eating porridge while Toddington and Clackett with their farmer’s
appetites ploughed through the rest of the fare.
They were often joined by tenants or tradesmen they dealt
with who knew it was always open house to them at Cahuenga. This morning
Chieveley, the carping accountant who always visited on DD’s return to brief
him on the state of the family’s financial affairs, was present.
Colin Chieveley was one of those people with a gift for
dressing inappropriately for both the weather and the occasion. He wore clothes
that you remember people wearing when you were a child and that looked dated
even then. Where do people get clothes like that from? This probably accounted
for his pale and puffy complexion and his clammy limp handshake. He always put
Dunstable in mind of a monitor lizard. Perhaps it was the way he kept sticking
out his tongue to moisten his lips.
Today he was wearing an ill fitting grey suit made out of
some shiny man-made fibre. All the buttons on the jacket were fastened tightly
across the Christmas paunch he had been trying to lose since before the war and
the maroon cardigan his mother had knitted. This had the structural effect of
lifting the collar and shoulders of the jacket in way a way that was
reminiscent of Elvis in his sequined jump suit phase. His lank and thinning
hair was plastered back flat except for a little quiff on his crow which
stubbornly refused to be wetted, gelled or glued down.
However, it was his vigilance, his integrity and his
encyclopaedic knowledge of matters fiscal and financial not his dress sense
that was his USP and that endeared him the Downeses. His adept management of
their pecuniary resources and the transparency – the regular and fulsome
updates in person in writing and in diagrams – not only ensured the continuity
of the Downes lifestyle but it enabled them to carry it on with confidence.
Chieveley briefed Dunstable over breakfast on the income and
expenditure since they last met - just
the headlines – brief and to the point – before giving Strensham and Toddington
a more detailed account for the past month. He presented some papers for them
to sign before handing DD a brown envelope containing a wad of cash and a
cheque book.
“Let me know if you need any more, but I think that’ll do it.”
He knew from experience that he could trust Dunstable to be responsible with
money.
As breakfast drew to a close, Dunstable stepped out to see
Chieveley off. As they came around the corner of the house a sleek black
vehicle was snaking its way up the drive. The seductive curves of the Riley
12/4 Kestrel Fastback of Inspector James Frankley, darling of the Greater
Mercian Constabulary’s CID, glided to a halt on the gravel in front of them.
The door swept back and, deftly touching the wide brim of his fedora in a
gesture of greeting and courtesy, Frankley stepped out and stood facing the two
onlookers.
DD mused how it was that Frankley knew every single thing
about dress that Chieveley did not know – and more. Such knowledge seemed
entirely appropriate for someone with matinee idol good looks - square clean
shaven chin; pencil moustache; grey eyes; slicked back hair with side parting;
the widows peak; the light athletic frame of a centre back. The expression
lines on his face, a little more deeply engrained than when they last met,
conveyed a sense of worldly wisdom, life experience, sympathy and compassion
which drew you in, encouraging trust – perhaps one of the reasons Frankley had
proved so successful in the interrogation of witnesses, friendly or hostile,
victim or perpetrator.
Dunstable was delighted to see him. He loved this man, his
integrity, his passion for justice, his relentless determination, and, though
he lacked the lateral thinking of some of the great detectives, he could read
people and there was no one DD would rather have at his side in a fist fight.
But what Frankley lacked in intellectual horsepower he more than made up for in
humility, acknowledging his limitations and not being afraid to seek assistance
– even from a schoolboy.
Dunstable and Frankley’s paths first crossed in ’48 on a
case which later became known as the Tolladine Tunnel Murders. It was a classic
locked-room-mystery. No one could fathom how the murderer was managing to
despatch his victims and escape unseen in broad daylight. Dunstable, having
followed the case in the national press and knowing the area where the
atrocious crimes had taken place, wrote to Frankley with a suggestion that blew
the case wide open enabling the capture,
prosecution and conviction of the culprit. Since then, Frankley had routinely
consulted him on tricky cases with consistent results and a deepening
friendship.
Having seen Chieveley away, the two walked back to the
kitchen where Mimms was busy clearing up the debris. DD poured coffee as they
sat at the table and caught up.
Eventually, Dunstable asked, “Is this just a social call, or
is there a case?”
Frankley smiled. “It’s always good to see you and to visit Cahuenga
but, yes, I must confess we do have a little problem that’s troubling one of my
teams and you may like to have a think about it.” Dunstable nodded in
appreciation and anticipation.
“In recent months there have been a number of lorry hijackings
across the region – cigarettes and spirits mainly – low volume, high value
goods – being moved tax and duty free between warehouses and the docks, heading
for export – manufacturers only have to pay the Revenue when they ship the
goods to the final customer – it’s a concession the government make because the
amounts of tax on those goods are so great. And of course exports are not taxed
anyway.
So the thieves are not only getting away with extremely
valuable gear, if the goods are being sold back into the UK market, the
government is losing literally thousands of thousands of £’s in revenue. So
it’s all got a bit political. The Chief Constable is being squeezed and of
course he’s putting the bite on me and my team.
But that’s not the puzzle. Here’s the thing. The hijacked
lorries, minus cargo, are turning up all over the country quite randomly.
Normally we would expect some pattern, or for them not to be found at all. The fact that they are all nicked in our
region suggests a local firm are running the operation and they must have a
base near here where they are holding and distributing the stuff. But why go to
all the trouble of ditching the lorries at such a distance and at all points of
the compass.
Now we have had bulletins out for the lorries sometimes
within an hours of the heist but in not one case have the lorries been spotted
and with the distances they have been taken we would have expected at least one
of them to have been seen en route.”
DD frowned. “Intriguing.”
“I’ve made some notes for you.” Frankley handed him a manila
coloured folder about 1½ inches thick. Dunstable raised his eyebrows. “Have a
look and let me know if you have any ideas.”
They walked out into the sunshine. They could hear Clackett
hammering something in the workshop. Toddington was washing the Morris.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Frankley. “Enjoy your holiday.”
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