Showstopper

5

Paul Gilbert had spent the whole of his life in Bath without ever visiting the village with the uninviting name of Cold Ashton. He’d driven past the sign halfway up the A46 hundreds of times. What he found when he finally made the turn was a street of ancient stone houses along an exposed ridge, some of them rather grand, but no shop, no school and no pub. After riding through on his moped, he decided he hadn’t missed anything except the gorgeous view along the length of St. Catherine’s Valley.

Diamond had told him to visit Gripmasters. A half-mile up the road was a line-up of dark green trucks with the company name on their sides. Almost hidden behind them was a single-storey tin-roofed building that would have fitted better into a trading estate than a village older than the Domesday Book. He parked the moped and went in. The front office was managed by a large woman wearing a tin badge that said Hard of Hearing Please Speak Up.

Gilbert did so, twice. The second time, he seemed to be understood. He showed his ID.

“And I’m Mabel,” the woman said. “The boys call me Able Mabel.”

Don’t go there, he told himself. “I’d like a few words with the manager.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The manager.”

“That’s me, darling,” she said. “There isn’t anyone else.” Spacing his words, he explained what he needed to know and she looked at her computer screen. “Jake Nicol is new on our books. The job with Swift is the first we’ve given him. He moved down here from London with good references and the National Rigging Certificate, experience with big companies in film and TV. HGV licence. All we could ask for. When Swift and Proud told us they wanted extra muscle we called him up. No reason to think he wouldn’t be reliable.”

“He hasn’t called in to say he’s ill or anything?”

“I haven’t heard a thing.” She grinned at her own remark and pointed to the phone. “It lights up when a call comes in.”

“He did two days with them,” Gilbert said, “and then went AWOL.”

“Alcohol?” No question she was seriously deaf.

“Absent without leave.”

“They told me. I tried calling him and got a message saying he couldn’t be reached.” She looked at the screen again. “He’s forty-two, unmarried, lodging at Fairfield Park.”

“I know. I’ve been there.”

She was being as helpful as she could. “His truck was returned at the end of the day.”

“He drove a truck?”

“One of ours. With the equipment in, scaffolding, track rails and that. My riggers take more stuff than they ever need when they’re on location.”

“Charmy Down, in this case?”

“I treat them all the same, my dear. Some of them try it on, but they soon find out I’m a married woman who won’t take nonsense from anyone.”

She hadn’t heard properly.

“Charmy Down, the old airfield.”

“Airfield? Are you talking about Charmy Down? Is that what you said? You have to speak up with me. Yes, that’s where they were filming. They’ve moved down to Pulteney Weir now.”

“Did you see him the evening he returned the truck?”

“Have a heart, darling. They finish after dark. The grips are always first to arrive and last to leave.”

“How would he have got home to Fairfield Park from here?”

“Say that again, would you?”

He did so.

“There’s no need to shout. Just don’t mumble. They park their own transport here while they’re working. If you look up the far end, you’ll see some private cars and motorbikes. His blue Vespa isn’t there now.”

He’d learned as much as he was likely to get from Able Mabel. He wrote down a number to call if she got any news of Jake.

On the moped again, not much wiser about the missing rigger, he started back towards Bath on the A46. Charmy Down was only two miles down the road, so it made sense to visit the place where Jake had last been seen alive. As a boy, Gilbert had gone there a few times to fly model aircraft with friends. He’d heard that Beaker people from the Bronze Age had been the first to live here, but the barrows had been levelled in 1940 when the Ministry of War had taken over and constructed a base for the night fighters of 87 Squadron. The old airfield was on a plateau about 600 feet above sea level with a main runway almost a mile long. The RAF had given up the place soon after the war.

He’d visited there only once since his childhood, as a police officer, to help deal with a rave. The enterprising youth of Bath and Bristol had managed to get a generator up there, a sound system, stages and strobe lighting, not to mention a supply of illegal substances. Complaints about the noise in the small hours of Sunday morning had come in from seven miles away.

Silence reigned now. The exposed landscape made the airfield a desolate and windswept scene. Gilbert wished he’d asked where exactly the TV shoot had taken place.

He dismounted and followed the fence along the southwest side until reaching a grey stone block with an inscription like a memorial. He hadn’t heard of much loss of life in action and there were no names on it. The stone turned out to be a recently erected memorial to the airfield and all the units and personnel who had served here. These, he knew, included members of the American Air Force, based here in 1944 before the D-Day invasion. For many years after the war, US veterans would visit to see where they were once stationed.

Until the Americans arrived, this had been a night fighter station. One of the main perils wasn’t the Luftwaffe; it was the feature Gilbert had admired from Cold Ashton. St. Catherine’s Valley was notorious for updraughts that bedevilled the landing approach for the main runway. So many casualties occurred that the pilots called it Death Valley. Up to twenty aircrew were killed in training battling those air currents. In comparison, the number who died in action against the enemy was seven.

An older relic than the memorial was one of the pillboxes he remembered from his visits here as a boy. He climbed on top for a better view. The runways were grassed over now, hunting territory for flocks of birds. To his left was the control tower, a derelict four-square, two-storey structure with a small viewing tower on the roof. He guessed this might have appealed to the TV director as an image, so he wheeled his moped in that direction.

On the turf ahead was a cross-hatch of recent tyre tracks made by heavy vehicles. Spinning wheels had made ruts of mud that convinced him this was where the TV transport had parked, not right up against the control tower, which would have spoiled the shoot, but thirty yards away.

He gave himself a virtual pat on the back. His deductive skills were coming in useful. You don’t get to be the investigating officer without noticing stuff like that.

The tower was in a poor state, with every window smashed and parts of the brickwork gone. Even so, it conjured thoughts of Hawker Hurricanes and Westland Whirlwinds revving up, barrelling along the flare-lit runway and taking off into the night sky to do battle with the Luftwaffe.

His thoughts had a sudden interruption — the sound of barking. What could a dog be doing out here? There wasn’t one in sight.

It could only be from inside the control tower. If there was a dog, there might also be an owner. As investigating officer, Gilbert knew where his duty lay.

A disturbing memory from his childhood surfaced. Caught in a narrow alleyway, he had been attacked and bitten by a spaniel that was probably as terrified as he had been.

From the deep pitch of the barking, this animal was no spaniel. It must have heard him coming.

He couldn’t shirk it.

The entrance was above ground level, up some steps. The door was long gone. The barking had stopped, as if the dog was listening. It could be lying in wait, ready to leap on him.

Gilbert decided it would be a mistake to creep upstairs. Better to announce his presence. He reached the first step and shouted, “Anyone there?”

Another outbreak of barking and quite an echo with it.

“All right, all right,” Gilbert said, feeling anything but all right.

The dog hadn’t yet appeared at the doorway. Gilbert mounted more of the steps, repeating the same words of reassurance. He was hoping his friendly tone would make an impression.

He crossed the threshold.

And heard growling, a low, vibrating note of menace, definitely from inside the building. Surely any dog guarding its territory would have made an attack already.

Could it be tied up? Or trapped?

He was in the main passageway, getting accustomed to near darkness. On each side were open doorways to rooms whose original purpose he could only guess. The one to his right was empty except for some disconnected wires and cables. Probably the communications officer using a teleprinter would have been housed on this level.

He checked the next.

Empty.

The main control room would have been upstairs for better views of the sky, but he didn’t think the sounds had come from above.

The growling had stopped — or had it? He thought he could hear something from a room to his left. He took a step forward, felt his foot strike some piece of rubble. The sound was answered at once by a bark from the room opposite.

No dog would wait so long to check on an intruder. It had to be tethered. Gilbert repeated those hollow words, “It’s all right,” stepped across the passageway and looked inside.

The biggest dog he had ever seen hurled itself at him, teeth bared and snarling.

He went rigid with shock.

By a few inches he escaped having his throat torn open.

The dog had reared up to head height, forced to its hind legs by the length of the rope that held it.

From the darkness behind, a voice said, “Caesar. Sit!” The other end of the rope was gripped by a man with a white beard of biblical size. It was difficult to see much else. He was on the floor wrapped in a grey blanket.

The dog heard the command and flattened itself to the ground, still growling.

Gilbert managed to find words. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m entitled to ask the same question,” an educated voice answered, “allowing that I was here first and didn’t send you an invitation. Quiet, Caesar.”

Caesar heard and cut the growling.

“If you want to be friends with us, show him the back of your hand. The back, not the palm. Not the fingers, absolutely not the fingers. When he’s caught a whiff of you, he’ll calm down.”

Gilbert was doubtful, but it mattered awfully to humour the dog’s owner. He extended his right hand to within a yard of what he judged as the limit of the rope.

Panting mightily, but without more barking or growling, Caesar stood again and strained to reach him. Gilbert withdrew his hand and swayed back.

“Steady,” the man said — and he was speaking to Gilbert, not the dog. “It’s not good to show fear. Once he’s pressed his wet nose to your skin, he’ll be your friend for life. Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m Paul Gilbert.” This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was with the police. “What breed is it?”

“I can’t tell you. There’s some Great Dane for sure and some Rhodesian ridgeback and I suspect a dash of Pyrenean mountain dog gives him the shaggy look. The united nations in a pooch. I acquired him two years ago from some unfortunate whose wife delivered an ultimatum: dog or divorce. He’s interested in you. A few inches closer and we’ll have some peace.”

There was such certainty in the instruction that Gilbert believed it. He plucked up the courage to reach out again.

Another urgent reminder. “Fingers tucked in.”

He made a fist, offered the back of his hand and felt the touch of damp — and not only from the nose. A warm, slobbery lick completed the inspection.

Exactly as promised, the huge dog became docile, returned to its owner and squatted beside him. Crisis over.

“If you’re looking for a place to doss down, I suggest you try the officers’ rest room upstairs,” the man said. “Every room is draughty, but that’s got the best views.”

“I’m not here to doss down.”

“Why disturb us, in that case?”

“I heard the barking and came in to see if the dog was in trouble.”

“How civil. I’m sure he appreciates your concern.”

“You live here?” Gilbert asked.

“A temporary guest. I don’t stay anywhere for long. Tomorrow we’ll head down the hill into Aquae Sulis for what’s left of the tourist season.”

“Have you been to Bath before?”

“Every summer for at least ten years. I come here for the history, the architecture, the civilised living and, best of all, the coins that drop into my tin mug.”

“You’re a traveller?”

“On the whole, I prefer gentleman of the road. I’ve been called everything from crusty to scrounger. Governments do their best to demonise us because we’re a comment on their failed policies. Like the polar bear, I’m one of an endangered species.”

Now that his eyes were getting used to the poor light, Gilbert could see the evidence of what he’d heard: a vintage coach-built pram to his left heaped high with objects useful to a tramp, like a folded groundsheet, frying pan and billycan. Yet the man talked as if this was the Athenaeum Club.

Gilbert asked how long he had been living like this.

“I lose track. I’m a Londoner originally. My business went into liquidation soon after the collapse of Lehman Brothers. We were starved of finance. How long ago was that?”

“I’m not sure,” Gilbert said.

“There you are. You’re halfway to throwing off the shackles like me and finding freedom beyond the reach of broadband.”

“No chance.”

“You could become a free spirit. ‘Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere.’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

A tramp quoting Shakespeare. Gilbert was lost for words.

“How are your feet?” the gentleman of the road asked. “You need healthy feet and a sturdy pair of boots. What are you wearing — trainers? They’ll soon get holes.”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m not a traveller,” Gilbert said. “I’m just visiting the airfield.”

“Out for an afternoon walk?”

“Something like that.”

There was a pause for thought.

“Are you about to tell me I’m trespassing on Air Ministry property?”

“I believe the land is privately owned now.”

“That’s all right, then. The owners won’t begrudge me resting up for a few days. They must have taken a fat fee from the television people.”

Gilbert’s interest quickened. He might have found a witness. “Were you here while they were filming?”

“I was very accommodating. I waited for them to finish before I moved in. I’ve stayed here often, you see. I always try for a roof over my head at night, be it an empty house, garden shed or barn. And I leave the place as I found it. Point of honour.”

“Did you watch the TV people at work?”

“Why should I? There are better ways of spending one’s time.”

“Such as?”

“Foraging for nature’s bounty.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Much more. Nuts, berries, edible plants of many varieties. Wounded pheasants I put out of their misery. Eggs, when I can find them.” He winked. “The occasional past-its-sell-by from the bins at the back of Tesco.”

Now that he had someone to listen to him, the man wouldn’t stop talking. Let it flow, Gilbert decided. Humour him and he may come out with the information I want. “What does Caesar live on? He wouldn’t enjoy that stuff.”

“Don’t have any concerns about him. When he’s hungry, he puts on his dog-at-death’s-door performance, lying flat on the ground with his tongue hanging out and ribs showing and people arrive with tins of dog food. There’s a brand called Cesar and they think it’s amusing to bring him his own signature product. I could get jealous. I’m getting a permanent stoop from carrying his supplies.”

Gilbert got the interview back on track. “Did the TV crew leave anything behind?”

“Not even a bottle of water. They cleared up everything and took it away in their vans.”

“Were you watching when they packed up?”

“I observed from a distance. I can’t think why you’re interested.”

Gilbert decided he’d better front up. “I’m DC Gilbert, from Bath Police, investigating a missing person, one of the crew from the TV unit. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t offer it.”

“Do you mind telling me?”

“It’s no secret. Everyone calls me Will.”

“But you have a surname?”

“Legat. I’m William Legat, which gets corrupted to Will Leggit. Groan if you like. You won’t be the first. A policeman, you said? I like the police. I like the bed and breakfast you offer wandering men like me, but I doubt whether I can help with your investigation.”

Caesar made a whimpering sound and turned to stare at his owner. Maybe the word “breakfast” had done it.

“You watched them leave, then?” Gilbert pressed on, increasingly hopeful he’d found someone who could help. “What time would this have been?”

“Young man, one of the joys of this mode of existence is that I don’t carry a timepiece.”

“Late in the day?”

“You don’t give up, do you? Of course, it was late. They’re on a budget. They cram as much as possible into the day so that they don’t need to come back tomorrow. They work until the light goes and the poor devils left to do the clearing up are there for an hour or two longer.”

“It was dark?”

“Becoming so. I do remember that the last truck had the headlights on when he drove off.”

“About nine, then,” Gilbert said, more to himself than his informant.

The dog started whimpering, pathetic sounds for an animal his size.

“And now we must deal with more pressing matters,” Will Legat said, and lowered the blanket and reached for a pair of mud-encrusted boots. “Caesar is asking to go outside. All this excitement.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You won’t. We’re very fastidious about such things. How would you like it if I followed you into the bathroom?” He pulled on the boots without troubling to lace them.

Caesar was now at liberty, waiting patiently in the doorway, the rope dangling from his collar and across the floor.

Gilbert had tensed, but the dog had other matters in mind.

Legat got upright more easily than Gilbert had expected and at once it became clear he wasn’t the decrepit old man he’d seemed sitting down. He looked to be in early middle age, broad in back and shoulders, certainly strong enough to manage a large dog.

“How tall are you?” Gilbert asked.

“Six two in my socks, according to my tailor.” A joke. He was in a black shirt frayed at the cuffs and combat trousers fastened with a macho-looking belt with D-rings from which hung two large bunches of rusty keys, a bottle-opener and a jackknife. “Oblige me, if you would, by staying here and guarding my things.”

Would anyone want to steal them? Gilbert mused, and kept the thought to himself. He stood aside, uneasy at having surrendered the initiative, but pleased of a few minutes to work out whether there was anything else a competent investigating officer should ask a witness. He heard the leather boots clump along the corridor and down the steps.

Looking about him, he knew what his boss would do to fill the few minutes. Diamond would inspect the contents of the pram and the rucksack in the far corner, making certain Legat was everything he claimed to be.

Gilbert stepped across and felt the weight of the rucksack. Heavy, for sure. He heard the clank of tins when he moved it. But he lacked the ruthlessness of Peter Diamond. Opening it would be an invasion of privacy he couldn’t justify to himself. Will Legat wasn’t under suspicion. Their exchange of background information was off to a good start. He wanted the man to feel confident with him.

He was about to put the rucksack back when he noticed a black leather pouch on the floor underneath. Several other odd items were scattered in the corner, two six-inch spanners, some lengths of yellow Kevlar tether, a coil of string and a carabiner used by climbers. He opened the pouch. Inside was another mystery, an encased pulley.

The sound of the boots returning was the cue to drop the backpack.

Caesar was first in, sniffing at Gilbert’s trainers, but in no way threatening.

“That’s better,” Legat said. “He’ll get a proper walk on the airfield later. I would offer you tea, but heating the water takes a while to organise.”

“That’s all right.” Gilbert hesitated before saying, “I happened to notice the heap of spanners and things in the corner. Do they belong to you?”

“Not guilty, officer,” came the answer. “All kinds of rubbish gets left in places like this. If you can make use of them, fill your pockets and I’ll look the other way.”

“They look like a workman’s tools.”

“Could be. Could well be.”

“I’m thinking they may have belonged to one of the TV crew.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Legat said with a show of innocence. “What’s there?”

“Spanners, a heavy-duty pulley that I think is called a snatch block, a carabiner used by climbers. They’re things a scaffolder would have with him. The missing man is a rigger. He builds scaffolding.”

“Ah, yes, your missing man,” Legat said. “You were starting to lose me. Are you thinking these objects belonged to him?”

“I spoke to some of his workmates and saw what they had hanging from their belts.”

“You’re making more sense now. If he wanted to quit his job, he’d discard the tools of his trade. They’re such a giveaway, aren’t they?”

Gilbert was sure some evasion was in play. “Would you mind showing me the belt you’re wearing?”

“This?” Legat hitched his thumbs inside the belt and rattled the keys. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It looks like a rigger’s belt.”

“It’s holding up my trousers. What else would I have for keys and things? They weigh a bit. I need something to hang them on.”

“How long have you had it?”

“What do you expect me to produce, a sales receipt?” He sounded like a guilty man.

“Would you unfasten it and let me see?”

“See what, my friend? It’s obvious what it is.”

“I’ve got to insist.”

“Why? What’s this about?”

“It’s about a missing man who may have been a victim of violent crime.”

“No, no, no. That’s out of order. You can’t accuse me of violence. I’m no angel, but I draw the line at injuring anyone.”

“Then you won’t mind handing the belt over for inspection.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’m entitled by law to use reasonable force to search you.”

“You could try. I can’t answer for Caesar if he dislikes what he’s seeing.”

A telling point. Gilbert said, a little lamely, “I can send for reinforcements.”

“You’ll look silly when it turns out that the belt is mine.”

“I don’t suppose anything you’re wearing is owned by you.”

“So? I recycle things other people discard. That’s to be applauded, is it not?”

“I’m not suggesting you stole it,” Gilbert said, to strike a more conciliatory note. “I’d like to get a closer look in case it belonged to the missing man.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, the heap of items in the corner needs explaining. I’ll get them tested for DNA. But the whole point is that they could have been attached to the belt.”

“If you take it away for testing, what am I going to use to hold up my trousers?”

“What did you have before?”

“String.” Before the word was uttered, Legat clapped his hand to his mouth. It was obvious he’d recently acquired the belt.

Gilbert made a snap decision. “I’ll do a deal with you. You said you were planning to go down to Bath tomorrow. I’ll phone my boss and fix some transport for you. You can travel in style. In return, I’ll need the belt for forensic testing.”

“Transport for me and my dog?”

“Yes.”

“The pram and all my worldly goods?”

“I’ll ask for a van.”

“All right,” Legat said. “Improve the offer and I’ll accept.”

“Improve it? What with?”

“A night in the cells and a fried breakfast.”