Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

The Case of the Easter Bonnet

Good Friday, 1995. In their usual box at the Theatre Royal, John and Olga Hitchman were enjoying the new production of The Seagull unaware that a thief had just forced his way into their mansion on Lyncombe Hill. There would be rich pickings. The Hitchman family had made millions out of Bath stone and expanded into mineral extraction world wide. John had succeeded his father as company chairman.

The thief was a high earner in his own line, a top professional, identified only by the name the press had given him: Macavity. ‘For when they reach the scene of crime — Macavity’s not there!’ runs the line in T.S.Eliot’s poem. Burglar alarms and security lights didn’t inhibit this cat burglar one bit. In the previous six months he had neutralised four expensive systems in the Bath area and profited by upwards of fifty thousand pounds. He picked his victims shrewdly, studied their routine and struck when they were not at home. He knew what he was after this time: Olga Hitchman was from a Russian emigre family. She owned a Fabergé egg her great-grandmother had been given by the Tsarina as an Easter gift in 1911. Gold, of course, intricately crafted, enamelled and inset with emeralds and rubies, it was insured for a six-figure sum.

It was to be Macavity’s present to his partner Jenny. Her Easter Egg.

Eventually he found the correct combination and removed the prize from the safe. The job had taken under two hours. He had left no prints and he took nothing else. He was out and into his black Alfa Romeo and away along the drive. Another coup for Macavity. Except that on his way downstairs he passed through a sensor he hadn’t been aware of. It triggered an alarm at Manvers Street Police Station and a response vehicle passing down Wellsway was diverted to the house.

With screeching tyres the police car turned into the long drive leading up to the Hitchman residence. Macavity met them almost head on. His reaction was swift. He veered left onto the turf to bypass them. His powerful engine roared, he swung onto the road, and accelerated. The police had to turn to give chase, and he got away.

Bath’s outsize detective, Superintendent Peter Diamond, ambled up the drive next morning and looked at the tracks the car had made. “Our mystery cat made a mess on your lawn, I see,” he remarked light-heartedly to John Hitchman, who was unamused.

Those tracks were useful. The police were able to get a clear tread pattern and establish which tyres had been fitted to the car. Moreover, the driver of the patrol car was convinced that the thief had been driving an Alfa Romeo sports model. The Police National Computer carries records of all registered cars. The Alfa Romeos of that type in the Bath area can be counted on one hand.

Towards noon, Diamond drove over the cobbles in front of the Royal Crescent and found a space two cars away from a black Alfa Romeo. All other enquiries had proved negative.

This Easter weekend had turned out fine, but chilly, particularly on the exposed slope where the Crescent is sited. Diamond stood rubbing his arms by the sports car while the sergeant compared the tread pattern on the tyres. “No chance, I’m afraid,” the sergeant said finally.

“You’re certain?”

“These are another make altogether, sir. Mind you, they’re new. They’ve still got some shreds of rubber where they were taken from the mould. It’s worth asking when these were fitted.”

A man in a blue sweatshirt and black jeans answered the door and before Diamond had opened his mouth said, “Piss off, will you? Out of it. Get some fresh air.”

It was only when Diamond felt some pressure against his leg that he realized the remarks were meant for a cat, a large ginger tom that was trying to return indoors. The man put a foot against its rump and steered it away from the door. “You’ve got to be firm with them,” he said. “I don’t want it cluttering up the flat all day.”

Diamond explained who he was.

The young man, whose name was Mark Bonney, invited him in. He introduced Diamond to his partner, a dark-haired woman in a denim suit. She offered to make coffee.

In the next twenty minutes, Bonney insisted that he had not been out at all the previous evening. He had watched a video with his partner and they had retired early. He had not used his Alfa Romeo since Thursday, two days before.

“I was looking at the tyres,” said Diamond. “They’re brand new. Changed them recently, did you?”

“Thursday afternoon,” said Bonney. “Want to look at the receipt? It’s right here.”

It was from Tyrefast in Weston and the date was clearly written as 13/4/95. Thursday. The robbery had been on Friday evening.

“That seems to settle it,” Diamond had to concede. “I’ve no further questions, Mr Bonney. Thanks for the coffee.”

After the door was closed, Bonney and his partner watched discreetly from the window as the portly detective walked across to his colleague, shaking his head.

“You’re brilliant,” Jenny said. She had taken out the Fabergé egg and was holding it to her chest. “Brilliant! How did you manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“The receipt. You had the new tyres fitted only half an hour ago, for God’s sake.”

“No problem,” said Bonney, putting an arm around her. “I changed the date myself, as soon as I was given the receipt. The lad wrote his 5 like a letter S. All it wanted was an extra stroke across the top. Now they’re convinced I haven’t used the car since Thursday.”

They watched Diamond return to the police car, still shaking his head. Before getting in, he hesitated.

“What’s he staring at?” said Jenny.

“My car,” said Bonney. “Oh, Jesus! That bloody cat!”

The ginger tom was sitting forlornly on the Alfa Romeo, pressing itself against the still faintly warm bonnet.

Diamond strolled across and put his hand flat to the bonnet. Then he gestured to the sergeant and they approached the house and knocked again.

Macavity was about to be nicked.