A Killing Kindness (15 page)

Dalziel shook his head.

'Pity. It's usually a good do. By the way, I hope  your lot are going to clamp down on those tinkers a bit more promptly this year.'

'Tinkers?'

'The gypsies. It's always the same. Give some  people an inch. Because they've been coming for  centuries, we put up with them for a couple of weeks while the Fair's on. But is that enough?  Oh no. It was nigh on September when they got shifted last year, and then half of them were  back before Christmas. There's no shortage of wet  wonders in this town, either, that'd like them to  be let stay here permanent. What I say is, they call  themselves travellers, well, let them travel. You got  the message?'

'Did I? What was that?' asked Dalziel.

'The other day. One of their ponies got loose by  the Aero Club, nearly killed me as I was taking  off. It's not the first time either. I told one of your  men to let you know. A funny-looking bugger.  Wouldn't have been out of place in a caravan  himself!'

'Aye. I think I did hear something,' said Dalziel.

He glanced at his watch. He was going round to the encampment anyway, but Middlefield didn't  know that. There was no harm in making a virtue  out of it. There'd come a time when he might want  to trade off favours with Middlefield.

'I've got a moment now,' he said. 'I'll look into  it myself.'

'Will you? Good man. I knew I could rely on  you, Andy. I often say, if men like you and me  had the running of this country, we'd soon set  it right!'

The Mercedes purred away.

Dalziel raised a hand and smiled after it. Running  this country from a kraut car! It took a lot to make him feel liberal, but Middlefield could manage it.

'Get fucked,' said Dalziel.

'Pardon?' said the gateman at his shoulder.

'Not you,' grunted the fat man, climbing into  his car.

'Though on second thoughts,' he added as he  closed the door, 'why not?'

The Aero Club seemed deserted but as Dalziel was  peering through the club house window a voice behind him asked him civilly what he wanted.

Dalziel didn't like to be crept up on and was  ready to reply most uncivilly till he turned and saw  the man was wearing a tracksuit and gym shoes  which explained the quietness of his approach.

'Police,' he said, showing his warrant card.

'About the break-in? I'm Greenall, CFI.'

'Eh?'

'Chief Flying Instructor. To tell the truth,' added  the man, smiling slightly, 'the only Flying Instructor. I've got an assistant, Roger Minstrel. But he's  away on a course. So I do everything. Including  tending bar when our girl doesn't turn up or she's  rushed. Will you have something for the heat?'

He had opened the club house and led Dalziel  into the bar as he spoke. The fat man's estimate, lowered by the track suit for he despised joggers,  rose sharply.

'Nice place,' he said, looking round after he'd  reduced the level of his malt by an inch.

'You haven't been here before?'

'There's few places that serve drink round here that I've not been to,' said Dalziel. 'But it's many  a year since I was in here. It's been tarted up  since then.'

'I dare say. It's the social side that makes money  in clubs,' said Greenall. 'Any club. You need to be  packed at night to be viable.'

'That doesn't sound as if it makes you happy.'

'I'm a flier,' said Greenall. 'I came out of the  RAF and wanted to stay in the flying business.  Running discos for teenagers isn't my idea of the  flying business.'

'I thought all you lot ended up flying Jumbos,  earning millions, and putting the smile on those  air-hostesses you see in the ads.'

'I failed my last air-crew medical, that's why I  came out,' said Greenall, sipping the grapefruit juice he'd poured for himself. 'They're just as strict  at the commercial end. Light planes and gliders is  all I'm good for.'

'You look fit enough to me,' said Dalziel, glancing from the fruit juice to the track suit.

'I live in hopes. A bit of jogging, bit of squash.  With a bit of luck, I might get back to the real stuff  one of these days.'

'You don't like gliders, then?'

'Oh, the gliders are all right. That's something  quite different. But the small planes are like getting into a rubber dinghy after you've been captaining  a battleship.'

'Still, at least they must go slow enough so that you can see things as you pass.'

'They do that,' agreed Greenall. 'Useful for some  kinds of police work, I dare say. Though choppers are better. Still, if you ever fancy a trip, just say  the word.'

Dalziel smiled at the unlikelihood of this and  finished his drink.

'Let's have a look at the damage?' he said.

Entry to the store-room had been through a  forced window, not much more than eighteen  inches square.

'Kids, your constable reckoned. They only took  a few bottles, about as much as a couple of youngsters could carry. He went along to the gypsy  encampment and had a look round, but naturally  he didn't get anywhere.'

'Naturally?'

'Well, they're fairly expert in hiding things, I  should imagine.'

'You've had some other bother with them, I gather. Or with their livestock.'

Greenall grinned and ran his fingers through  his blond hair, looking younger than his forty  years.

'You heard about Mr Middlefield? He was very  upset. Not that he wasn't right. It could have been  very dangerous. It's happened a couple of times, horse straying I mean. But this was the first time  there'd nearly been an accident.'

They went outside together and looked towards the distant encampment.

'I'll have a word with them myself,' said Dalziel.

'Can I get through that fence without rupturing  myself?'

'There isn't a gate, if that's what you mean.  But kids and ponies don't seem to have any difficulty.'

Dalziel looked down at his ample girth.

'It's not the eye of a needle, is it?' he said.

'No. And it's not much like the kingdom of  heaven over there either,' said Greenall.

But the scene as the two men strolled together  across the grass had something idyllic about it. There were a couple of traditional wooden caravans, brightly coloured. But even the modern trailers were not unattractive as their polished surfaces gave back the morning sun. There was scarcely  any movement. A fillet of smoke hung almost  straight in the still air. Half a dozen dogs lay in  the shade under the wheels. Ponies grazed. A  trio of children wrestled in the grass. Distantly  the sound of other children at play drifted from  somewhere out of sight.

Only when they reached the picket fence did the  scrap and the litter which surrounded the caravans  become truly apparent.

'Here we are,' said Greenall, pulling back the  fence where it had been detached from one of the  main stakeposts.

'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'You not coming along?'

'I don't think so. I mean, if you find anything,  then of course I'll co-operate. But I don't want to  be always appearing on the side of the complainers.

They're a nuisance, I know, but they've got a right  to exist, haven't they? And at least they try to stay  free, you've got to admire them for that.'

'Free?' said Dalziel. 'I've seen better-looking  gaols!'

He strode away, pleased to feel his political  equilibrium, upset by Middlefield's extremism, had  been restored by Greenall's liberalism.

As he approached the caravans, the dogs and  children watched him warily, but he could see no  sign of adult life. He made no particular effort at  stealth, but he could move extremely lightly for  a man of his bulk, and as he slipped between two caravans, it amused him to think of a fat, urban  policeman being able to steal up on these sons of  nature unobserved.

Then he was seized from behind, his arms pinioned at his side, and he was thrust so forcefully  against the side of a caravan that the vehicle  shook.

'Fucking snoop around, would you? What's  your game, fatty?' said a rough voice close to  his left ear.

Too close.

Dalziel jerked his great cannon-ball of a head to  the left. There was a sickening clash of bone and  flesh. The grip on his arms slackened. He shrugged it off and turned to the thickset, dark-skinned man  at his side.

'I'm a police officer,' he warned. 'Who are you?'

The man rushed at him.

Well, he'd been warned, thought Dalziel, and hit  him in the stomach. Once was really enough, but it  was as well to be sure, so he hit him again in the  same spot.

Then he stood back and waited for the man to  show signs of being ready for communication.

'I'll ask you once more,' he said finally. 'Who  are you?'

'You've bust my gut,' gasped the man.

'Name!'
snarled Dalziel.

'Lee. Dave Lee.'

'I might have guessed. It's a hobby of yours, assaulting policemen.'

'I didn't know you was police. I thought you was  another of them council snoopers.'

'And it's OK to thump council officers, is it?'  queried Dalziel. 'Well, you may be right. This your  caravan? Let's have a look.'

He went up the steps, thrust open the door  and entered. A woman in an inadequate shift  was standing in the narrow living area. Dalziel  ignored her and looked around. The place smelt  of sweat, tobacco and sex, but it looked clean  and tidy enough. There was a richly coloured  carpet on the floor and a sense of extra space  was given by two large, ornate, cut-glass mirrors.  One wall was almost covered by a mahogany  display cabinet which held a strange variety of  traditionally patterned china, crystal bowls and  vases and some goblets and smaller objects in what  looked like silver.

'Who the hell's this?' demanded the woman.

'Mrs Lee?' said Dalziel, turning his attention to  her as if he hadn't noticed her till now. He let his  eyes move slowly up from the rather flaccid breasts  clearly visible through her shift to her face, the left  side of which was stained with a fading bruise.

'That's nice,' he said. 'You'll make a matching  pair.'

Behind him Lee spoke sharply in what he took to be Anglo-Romany and the woman retreated to the sleeping area and began to pull some clothes on.

Dalziel moved around the trailer opening drawers and cupboards, looking under cushions and  behind curtains.

'What's your game, mister?' demanded Lee.

'Thought you were never going to ask, Dave,'  said Dalziel cheerfully. 'I'm looking for stolen property. I haven't got a warrant, so why don't you  shoot off and call your lawyer?'

'What stolen property?' demanded Lee.

'Break-in at the Aero Club last night. Bottles of booze,' answered Dalziel.

Lee laughed harshly. And with relief? wondered  Dalziel.

'No stolen booze here, mister. Look all you  like.'

Dalziel returned to the living area and stood in  front of the display cabinet.

'I believe you, Dave,' he said. 'Your gut's too big  for the window. You ought to watch that. I nearly  lost my fist in there just now. This is nice stuff. The gypsy bank, they call it, don't they? Worth a pretty  penny, I'll be bound. Good investment, no bother  with the tax man.'

He opened the cabinet and took down a plate. 

'What rank did you say you was, mister?' demanded  Lee with sudden suspicion in his voice.

'Detective Superintendent,' answered Dalziel.

'And you says you're looking for a couple of  bottles of booze?' said Lee incredulously. 'Here,  watch that stuff!'

A cup had nearly slipped from Dalziel's hand.

'Sorry,' he said. 'That's sharp of you, Dave,  spotting that. You've got to be sharp in your line  of work, no doubt. Whatever it is. Me too. Spot  what's not quite right. Now, I'd say this is not quite  right, but I'm no expert.'

He had taken down from the extreme end of the  topmost shelf a plain stone jar.

'Here, copper, you've got no right!' protested  Lee. 'You said you'd no warrant. Right, you can just  fuck off and get one before you touches another  thing here!'

Dalziel opened the jar.

'Flour,' he said. 'Looks the real stuff. Not this  modern muck with all the goodness bleached out  of it.'

He took out a handful and sniffed at it.

'Oh yes,' he said to the woman who was dressed  now and standing watching him with a look of  complete indifference.

He held it out to her. She looked away. He opened his hand, spread his fingers, let the flour  filter through on to the rich red carpet.

'The real stuff,' he repeated taking another  handful. 'But it can't be all
that
valuable, can  it, Dave? I mean, it's in with the family antiques  here, though.'

The second handful followed the first.

He dipped in again.

'Hello,' he said. 'I think it's getting lumpy.'

He withdrew his hand. In it was a gent's gold-plated digital watch with an expanding bracelet.  Carefully he blew the flour off it.

'Still going,' he said. 'It's like a telly ad, isn't  it?'

In went the hand again. And out.

This time his find was a tight roll of five-pound  notes.

He put them down beside the watch.

In again.

'I think that's it,' he said. 'No, hang about. Nearly  missed that.'

That
was a gent's gold signet ring. He tried it on  his stubby little finger and looked at it admiringly.

'There it is,' he said. 'I was CPO once, Dave.  Crime Prevention Officer. Persuading people not to leave their valuables in silly places was one of the jobs. Oh, these
are
your valuables, aren't  they?'

The man and woman exchanged glances.

'Never seen 'em in my life,' she said.

'And you, Dave?'

Lee swore foully and said nothing more but  looked around with a kind of wild contemplation.

'Aye, lad,' said Dalziel cheerfully. 'I'm on my  own, so you could try thumping me, but I thought  we'd settled all that already. Or you could run, in  which case either I catch you and break a leg so  you can't run no more, or else I send for some  of my lads who'll break
both
your legs when
they 
catch you. Best thing is to have a quiet stroll with  me back to the Aero Club and on the way you can  tell me all about the ponies of yours that keep on  straying.'