Before we left the Crab and Basket’s car park, just on the off-chance I phoned Don Simpson, telling him what Dilly had handed over. I had a strong impression that he was leaving the building, and why not, at eight fifteen at night? But he sounded interested enough, and invited us over. Meanwhile, he’d check on what had happened to our cars.
He greeted us with a smile that edged towards perfunctory, nonetheless reaching out a surprisingly slender hand for the DVD, which he slipped without comment into the player in the opposite corner of his office from the coffee-machine. Almost as an afterthought, but a welcome one, he switched on the machine too: ‘Decaf at this time of night? Growing old’s a bugger, isn’t it?’
The footage from the motorway cameras showed more JCBs than I for one knew existed, though I admit my expertise was somewhat limited. Then there was a lot of complicated farm equipment that looked eye-wateringly expensive. Don watched with a deepening frown that said, clearly enough, that someone should have told him about this before. He jotted vigorously. ‘And where might that JCB be heading? To your site, of course. To clear it, no doubt.’
‘It’s an SSSI,’ I said quietly.
‘Which means none of this should be happening anyway. Why haven’t the Planning department got back to me?’ he demanded rhetorically. ‘Cuts, I suppose. Look at the size of those things. What can they need all those for – bloody hell!’ Freezing the footage, Don smacked the side of his head theatrically, and reached for the phone. His short conversation ended with the suggestion that his interlocutor got his or her arse back in, presumably to the CID office.
He started the footage again. This was of a young woman I vaguely recognized as a reporter for TVInvicta, doorstepping – or rather gate-stepping – a middle-aged man wearing a suit so sharp he could have cut himself on it as he tried to drive his shiny new Range Rover out on to the road. The registration was clear. Don jotted.
She didn’t get very far with her yelled questions about the developments on his land, which turned out, as the camera panned first to the departing vehicle and then to the beautiful sign on his gate, to be Elysian Fields. Don snorted with laughter. ‘Do they buy truckloads of Ambrosia rice?’
‘Is it still available? You know, the tinned rice pudding,’ I added for Theo’s benefit, because he didn’t seem to have picked up Don’s food of the gods quip. ‘I was practically reared on it.’
‘Why haven’t I seen this before?’ Don asked.
‘Dilly assured me she forwarded everything to the police – but says she’s heard nothing. Maybe she sent it to the wrong email address or something?’
‘Well, we’ve got it now. Looks like the basis for a good piece of investigative journalism: these reporters can sometimes ask questions we can’t, you know. This wasn’t one of your headings, Jodie!’ He gave a crack of laughter.
‘It should have been. This is my thesis, Don, for what it’s worth. Elysian Fields and Double Gate – and don’t forget that so far my enquiries haven’t found out who actually owns either organization—’
‘I can find who owns the Range Rover for starters,’ Don said, tapping his computer and jotting. His eyebrows bobbed up and down over the furrows of his forehead. ‘Sorry. Carry on.’
‘I think Elysian Fields and Double Gate are a front for something. Right? And I keep seeing on the news pieces about post office raids, carried out by JCBs that are then loaded on to convincing-looking low-loaders and driven away. Possibly, just possibly, to the building sight we flew over in that chopper.’
‘So this could be a multi-storey car park for earth movers?’ Theo suggested, disbelief dripping from his voice.
‘It’s supposed to be a cow shed, according to a friend of mine,’ I said, wishing I didn’t have to. ‘Have you had a chance to check out the photos yet?’
‘They’re in my case to look at when I get home,’ Don admitted. ‘But let’s see the rest of this, shall we?’ He pressed the zapper.
‘Ah, you won’t need to do any homework,’ I said with a comradely grin. ‘That’s the moving version of our stills. Dilly said it was part of a nature programme.’
‘At least we’re spared a soundtrack,’ Don said dourly. ‘Have you noticed how the music gets especially emotional and dramatic when a lion or whatever kills some poor defensive antelope and starts tearing it— Hey up!’ He froze the footage. ‘You’re right, Theo,’ he said, as generously as if he’d not noticed Theo’s sarcasm. ‘It does look like a multi-storey. And that looks like a container to me. Down there: can you see?’
‘Not a cattle truck,’ Theo, back on our side, put in helpfully. ‘What’s that – in the opposite corner? All those – they look like giant chocolate rolls.’
‘Turf,’ I said. ‘Rolls of turf. You can just see the green fringes peeping out at the edges. Some lawn!’
Theo pointed. ‘Can you get back to the frames showing the top of the construction? Look, there are heaps of what looks like soil over there. This sounds crazy, but it’s by no means a new idea. If you want to hide something from the air then it’s a very good idea to make it look like the surrounding countryside. Nuclear silos; aircraft hangers – that sort of thing. Suppose that’s what they’re doing.’
‘Weapons of war?’ It was Don’s turn to snort in derision.
‘More likely proceeds of crime and stolen property,’ I said. ‘There’s more farm equipment there than even a big conglomerate can use, surely. We’ve got people trafficking from Eastern Europe to the west; is there parallel heavy plant and equipment trafficking in the opposite direction?’
‘Bloody right there is. At one point manufacturers made it easy for thieves: each one of the same batch of tractors or combine harvesters had the same key, would you believe? Things are better now: most sensible farmers fit tracker devices which sound an alarm when someone moves a vehicle out of a yard. So if you want to steal them you must get them into a container as quickly as possible to shut off the signal. And I suppose, though I’m not expert in such matters, a place like that would provide cover for your containers. It might even prevent the signals being transmitted while they’re prepared for export. Yes?’ he called tetchily in response to a quiet knock.
One of the tiniest police officers I’d ever seen put her head round the door and slid into the room. She was so petite I only realized she was an officer when Simpson grudgingly, even disparagingly, I thought, introduced her as DI French.
‘She’s in charge of the unit dealing with agricultural theft. And you’ve been doing all her work for her.’ He ejected the DVD and flipped it to her. ‘Say thank you kindly.’
I winked at her and she responded with an almost invisible smile; we both knew whose side I was on.
‘So which of you would be investigating Burble’s death, assuming it’s in this context?’ I asked. ‘Money’s only money, but this was someone’s life. And, to be selfish for a moment, in what context are the attacks on me to be dealt with?’
DI French looked horribly blank.
‘You go and invite Range Rover man to come and have a conversation with us, French, will you? I’ll sort out a search warrant. Best go mob-handed, and have some armed back-up. No heroics, French, from anyone. If you’re protecting that much money,’ he continued, pointing at the DVD, ‘you don’t fight fair. And we’re running out of good officers. Keep a team on to it all night and tomorrow, if needs be. You won’t get them all in one fell swoop. Oh, and get the ports and airports alerted. The gang may not be taking flights to Eastern Europe, but that’s where they’ll be headed when we start picking up the big cheeses.’
She left. Theo rose to leave too. ‘Our cars?’
‘How did you get here?’
I smacked the side of my head. ‘Hire car. Oh, bloody hell. Sorry. It’s exactly the same colour and model as the one that was driven at me. Why on earth didn’t I ask the rental people who else they’d loaned one to?’
‘Perhaps because it wasn’t your job to poke your nose in? And they wouldn’t have told you. Shouldn’t have, anyway. Which rental company?’ He pressed a button on the phone. Someone was going to get on to it. Now. His smile had a valedictory quality about it.
‘Ted Vesey’s envelope?’ I prompted him, not moving.
‘Tomorrow. I promise you. Time to go home.’ He nodded in Theo’s direction. He was fast asleep.