Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (7 page)

‘Always was a bit of a one for the ladies as I recall,’ said Logan. ‘Didn’t get the name Donger Doyle for nothing.’

‘Ee-yuck,’ said Swann, guessing that the guy must be into his sixties by now and trying to blot out the inevitable mental image. ‘Did you know him then?’

‘Not really. I never worked with him directly, and he kept himself to himself most of the time. As far as us blokes were concerned anyway. – You ask him if he thought it was murder?’

‘I decided I’d leave that to you.’

‘Good plan.’ He leaned back in his chair, swung his feet onto the desk and opened his newspaper.

Not for the first time, Swann wondered how he’d ever made it to detective sergeant and was about to leave when the phone rang.

‘Get that, will you?’ said Logan, without looking up from his paper. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

Swann reached across the desk for the receiver. ‘Yes?’

It was a result at last. Not a major one but a result nevertheless. She grabbed a pen and wrote down the details.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, putting down the phone and pumping the air with her fist. ‘Detective Constable Maggie Swann strikes again.’

Logan cocked an eye at her over the top of his newspaper. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve done something useful for once.’

But her self-satisfaction was more than a match for his sarcasm, and she rode the punch without flinching. ‘The whole bloke and dog on a moped thing seemed a bit unlikely to me, so I thought I’d—’

‘—Find out whether there are any other vehicles registered in his name?’

This time, her smugness took the full force of the blow and threw in the towel. ‘Camper van,’ she said in a bland monotone. ‘VW Transporter.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ said Logan with a wink and a click of the tongue.

Swann held up the middle three fingers of her right hand, the knuckles towards him.

‘Read between the lines,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sandra’s contentment of earlier that morning had evaporated completely, and she was in no mood to be messed about. She had interrogated the two chambermaids until she was satisfied they really didn’t know anything about the missing envelope. They’d told her about the strange man who had come into what they now knew to be her room and about how he had retrieved the mad dog from the room that was actually his.

Their story was far too bizarre to have been invented, Sandra had eventually concluded, and she doubted they would have had the wit to have concocted such a tale even if they’d wanted to. However, partly to reassure herself and partly out of spite, she had insisted that they turn out their pockets. Not surprisingly, they had objected strongly, but they had given in when she’d threatened to call the police.

There could only be one explanation for the missing envelope. The chambermaids’ strange man with the mad dog must have taken it, but how he knew it was there and why he had stolen it was a total mystery. She was almost certain it must have been the same man she had bumped into on the stairs since it was unlikely there had been more than one guy with a dog in the hotel. She also recalled how furtive he’d seemed. At least she’d be able to recognise him again, so this chance encounter had been fortunate indeed. Even so, a few more details wouldn’t go amiss.

‘Don’t muck me about,’ said Sandra, glaring at the hotel manager from the opposite side of his desk. ‘Just give me the name and address, and I’ll be on my way.’

‘The thing is, madam, we can’t go giving out the details of other guests willy-nilly,’ the manager said with his best attempt at an ingratiating manner.

‘Willy-nilly? Willy-nilly? Now you listen to me, matey. I’ve had a very valuable item stolen from my room – a room in
your
hotel, I might add – and I’m still not entirely convinced that one of your staff wasn’t responsible.’

‘That’s a very serious accusation, and I really must insist that—’

‘Insist all you like, pal, but unless you give me what I want I’ll have you so deep in scandal this place will be about as popular as a Chernobyl Travelodge.’

She knew she was bluffing and the manager probably did too, so after some further exchanges of Sandra’s threats and the manager’s flustered protestations, she decided to try a different approach. Softening her voice, she pointed out that this particular guest had broken the rules by bringing a dog into the hotel, so why should he show him any loyalty?

She could tell from the pause which followed and the expression on his face that this idea held some appeal for him. Perhaps he saw it as a way of exacting revenge on the wilful transgressor of his precious rules, or maybe he was beginning to believe that this she-devil in front of him really could cause serious trouble. Whatever the reason, his fingers hovered briefly over his computer keyboard and then started rattling away at the keys. Peering into the monitor, he read out a name and address while Sandra wrote them into her notepad.

‘Thank you
so
much for your cooperation,’ she said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

Just as she opened the office door, he called out after her. ‘There will of course be a charge for the broken cistern lid I’m afraid.’

‘Quite right,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll tell him when I see him, shall I?’

* * *

Trevor was happy to be back behind the wheel of his camper van once again and by the look of her, so too was Milly, who lay curled up asleep on the passenger seat beside him.

He had arrived at the garage to find his van raised high up on a hoist, and the mechanic he had spoken to the previous afternoon was tinkering away at the underside with a large spanner.

‘You’re in luck,’ the mechanic had said. ‘The part arrived earlier than I’d expected. Few more minutes and you should be on your way. What time did you say your brother’s funeral was?’

‘What?’ Trevor had completely forgotten the lie he had told in an attempt to get the van repaired as quickly as possible.

‘Newcastle, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh, er… yes, that’s right, Newcastle. Brother’s funeral, yes. Er… three-thirty, I think.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Er, well… we weren’t that close really.’

The mechanic had stopped what he was doing and given him a look before resuming his work.

A little less than an hour later, the van was rolling along at a steady forty-five miles per hour. Trevor’s wallet was almost £200 lighter as a result, and with the hotel on top, he had already spent nearly £300 on unforeseen expenses.

‘We might have to cut down on your dog food at this rate, Mill,’ he said.

Milly lazily opened one eye and then immediately went back to sleep.

The traffic began to increase as Trevor looked out for signs to Bramham Park and the Leeds Festival. He still wasn’t convinced this was a good idea, but he’d realised when he’d got to the garage that he’d forgotten to hand in the ticket and the index cards at the hotel reception. Returning to the hotel had not been an option, and at first, dropping them all into the nearest litter bin had seemed to be the most sensible alternative. But wasn’t that part of the reason for this whole trip? To stop being sensible for once in his life and just go wherever his fancy took him?
Be open to whatever might come his way, like Steppenwolf said in
Born to be Wild
?

Well, the ticket had come his way, so why not make use of it? What had he got to lose? It wasn’t as if he had any other plans for the day, and besides, he’d guessed from the index cards that there must be something in a locker at the festival site, and his curiosity nagged at him to find out what.

He eventually located the car park that was designated on his ticket, and after queuing for about twenty minutes, a young woman in a fluorescent yellow tabard approached his open window.

‘Can I see your ticket please?’

Trevor handed it to her, and she examined it before tearing off the perforated stub. Passing the larger portion back to him, she suddenly noticed Milly, who was now sitting bolt upright on the passenger seat and intently observing all the activity around her.

‘You do realise you can’t take dogs into the main arena, sir?’

Trevor glanced at Milly as if he had forgotten she was there. ‘Oh right. Of course.’

‘Unless it’s a guide dog or a hearing dog, that is.’

‘A what?’

‘Hearing dog. You know, for deaf people. Mind you, I don’t know why any deaf people would want to come to a thing like this.’

‘Quite,’ said Trevor and then followed the directions she gave him until he found a parking space.

‘I hadn’t thought about you not being allowed in,’ he said to Milly. ‘You’ll be all right here for a bit though, won’t you? I’ll probably only be gone for an hour. Two at most.’

The dog looked directly into his eyes and wistfully cocked her head to one side.

‘Oh Jesus, Milly. – Okay, half an hour tops.’

She cocked her head to the other side and gave a flick of her tail.

* * *

A thickset man with a shaven head and wearing one of the ubiquitous yellow stewards’ vests started to hold out his hand for Trevor’s ticket and then stopped. ‘Sorry, mate, but there’s no dogs allowed into the main arena.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I said there’s no dogs allowed into the main arena,’ the steward repeated but at a slightly increased volume.

Trevor responded with a faint shrug and tapped his right earlobe with his forefinger.

The steward gestured towards Milly and shook his head with exaggerated emphasis. ‘Dog. No. Not here,’ he shouted, and with a sweep of his arm he indicated the area beyond the ticket barrier behind him.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m very deaf, you see.’

‘Might be one of them hearing dogs,’ another steward chipped in.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Shaved Head. ‘Don’t we need some sort of proof though?’

‘Dunno, mate. Never ‘ad one before.’

Shaved Head turned back to Trevor and clearly enunciated the words, ‘Do – you – have – a – certificate – or – summat?’

Trevor tilted his head forward as if straining to hear the steward’s words more clearly. ‘Sir… ?’

‘Cer – tif – i – cate.’

‘Get on with it for God’s sake,’ came a male voice from further back in the queue.

Shaved Head craned his neck to identify the voice’s owner, and to judge from the narrowing of his eyes, whoever it was would be getting a hard time of it when his turn came to have his ticket checked.

‘Oh just let him in, Phil,’ said the second steward as he fixed a blue plastic tag around the wrist of a middle-aged woman with long, greying hair. ‘We’ll be here all day otherwise.’

‘Quite right,’ said the woman. ‘This man clearly has a severe disability, and you’re treating him like some kind of criminal.’

‘And who asked you, Mrs Gandalf?’ Phil’s apparently tenuous grasp of the concept of customer relations seemed to be being tested to the limits.

‘Well really,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you to your employers.’

‘Yeah? And how you gonna do that when I’ve banned you from the site? Now piss off on yer broomstick and let me get on with my job.’

The woman stood open-mouthed for a moment and then stormed off, shouting ‘Fascist pig’ over her shoulder.

‘Come on, baldy. Get yer finger out.’ It was a different male voice from the queue, and once again Phil appeared to make a mental note of his soon-to-be victim.

‘Oh for—’ he muttered and held out his hand. ‘Give us yer ticket then.’

Trevor stared blankly back at him.

‘Here.’ The steward snatched the ticket from him and attached one of the blue plastic bands to his wrist. ‘Next.’

Trevor turned to walk away but immediately turned back again. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

‘Now what?’

‘Can you tell me where the lockers are?’

The steward flung out an arm and pointed at a large marquee about a hundred yards away. ‘See the big yellow tent? T’other side of that is the food area. Through there, and the lockers are on the left.’

‘Thank you,’ said Trevor and instantly realised he’d forgotten the deaf act. Still, the steward didn’t seem to have clocked it, and he set off towards the marquee with Milly trotting contentedly at his heels.

‘Oi! You with the dog! Get back ‘ere!’

Trevor didn’t need to look round to know who was yelling at him, and he quickened his pace until he had merged into the thick of the crowd.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She was well aware that a hundred and twenty quid for a one day ticket was extortionate, but Sandra didn’t have time to shop around. Her only priority was to get into the festival and catch up with the bastard who’d nicked the envelope before he screwed up her job completely. What was the name the hotel manager had given her? Terry…? No, Trevor. Trevor Hawkins. That was it.

‘So how do I know it’s genuine?’ she asked the first tout she had come across outside the main entrance.