didn’t have anything delivered from the shop in Burnham Norton – that’s the nearest. We’re trying to track down the postman. The alarm’s been disabled – wires cut. Council offices open in an hour, so we can always trace them from the council tax roll if all else fails.’
Second homeowners paid less than the full council tax, Shaw recalled, getting a discount of five per cent – although it had once been a whopping fifty per cent. The only way, it seemed, was up. Shaw wondered if the council would one day start charging
extra
for second homes. It seemed unlikely given that all the major parties strained to remain aspirational. Labour, he recalled from the last election, wanted a flat, equal rate.
‘OK, Bill. Let Paul Twine know you’re on it. Thanks. We’ll just nose about.’
Dismissed, Cooper left them to it.
The room contained several items of memorabilia from the original school. A handbell on a rope hung from a metal stand. Two wooden settles placed against one wall were engraved with the school name and the old council initials: BVDC – Burn Valley District Council. The blackboard had been left, fixed to the largest wall, where it would have faced the class, lit by the natural light flooding in through the windows.
This had proved too much of a temptation to the burglars.
DOMESDAY BOOK 1086
BURNHAM MARSH POP. 134
17 OCTOBER, 2014
BURNHAM MARSH POP. 0
Shaw considered the graffiti for a few moments, coming to the conclusion that the burglars might regret this particular inscription, because it potentially revealed so much: premeditation, education, erudition, and an ability to put together an effective polemic. Hardly the skill set of the average burglar. And that last line was surely a bit of propaganda – population
zero?
Could that be true? Shaw recalled that the second-home rate in north Norfolk was ten per cent, higher in some villagers. But a hundred per cent? For a start they’d seen the man with the mower outside the villa up by the seawall.
And then there was the date: October the seventeenth. The day their victim died out on Mitchell’s Bank. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep these two cases apart.
If the village was empty they needed to get an overview of the number of break-ins. And they’d need forensic back-up quickly.
Shaw did a circuit of the kitchen, a boot room, the three bedrooms, a walk-in shower, and an office. He’d been to three other burglaries which they were treating as the work of the so-called Chelsea Burglars – two converted barns and an old windmill – so he had an idea of the gang’s modus operandi. While they didn’t treat the target properties with complete respect – drawers on the floor, pictures examined and discarded, wall safes hammered out – there was never anything wanton about the damage. They’d simply been in a hurry. He’d attended enough violated homes to know what burglars were capable of: precious ornaments smashed, food and drink half-consumed, pictures ripped out of frames, books pulled down from shelves. And worse, much worse. But the picture here was quite different. There was a measure of control, even restraint.
Back in the main room he found Valentine taking a note of the graffiti.
‘Thoughts?’
‘This line, about population zero – that’s got to be bunk. We’ve seen at least two this morning. And there’s a pub as well.’
THIRTEEN
T he Ostrich was at the far end of the lane beyond the ruins of the church, built slightly into the sea-wall bank. It was whitewashed, with eggshell-blue window frames, and a sign showing a heraldic shield incorporating the eponymous exotic bird – a common local symbol along the coast, an echo of the Crusades. Shaw recalled a local newspaper story covering the sale of the business by Adnams, the brewers, to a village cooperative. A micro-brewery had started up in Burnham Deepdale and they took their ‘Burnham Beers’. There were three picnic tables outside, and an
Second homeowners paid less than the full council tax, Shaw recalled, getting a discount of five per cent – although it had once been a whopping fifty per cent. The only way, it seemed, was up. Shaw wondered if the council would one day start charging
extra
for second homes. It seemed unlikely given that all the major parties strained to remain aspirational. Labour, he recalled from the last election, wanted a flat, equal rate.
‘OK, Bill. Let Paul Twine know you’re on it. Thanks. We’ll just nose about.’
Dismissed, Cooper left them to it.
The room contained several items of memorabilia from the original school. A handbell on a rope hung from a metal stand. Two wooden settles placed against one wall were engraved with the school name and the old council initials: BVDC – Burn Valley District Council. The blackboard had been left, fixed to the largest wall, where it would have faced the class, lit by the natural light flooding in through the windows.
This had proved too much of a temptation to the burglars.
DOMESDAY BOOK 1086
BURNHAM MARSH POP. 134
17 OCTOBER, 2014
BURNHAM MARSH POP. 0
Shaw considered the graffiti for a few moments, coming to the conclusion that the burglars might regret this particular inscription, because it potentially revealed so much: premeditation, education, erudition, and an ability to put together an effective polemic. Hardly the skill set of the average burglar. And that last line was surely a bit of propaganda – population
zero?
Could that be true? Shaw recalled that the second-home rate in north Norfolk was ten per cent, higher in some villagers. But a hundred per cent? For a start they’d seen the man with the mower outside the villa up by the seawall.
And then there was the date: October the seventeenth. The day their victim died out on Mitchell’s Bank. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep these two cases apart.
If the village was empty they needed to get an overview of the number of break-ins. And they’d need forensic back-up quickly.
Shaw did a circuit of the kitchen, a boot room, the three bedrooms, a walk-in shower, and an office. He’d been to three other burglaries which they were treating as the work of the so-called Chelsea Burglars – two converted barns and an old windmill – so he had an idea of the gang’s modus operandi. While they didn’t treat the target properties with complete respect – drawers on the floor, pictures examined and discarded, wall safes hammered out – there was never anything wanton about the damage. They’d simply been in a hurry. He’d attended enough violated homes to know what burglars were capable of: precious ornaments smashed, food and drink half-consumed, pictures ripped out of frames, books pulled down from shelves. And worse, much worse. But the picture here was quite different. There was a measure of control, even restraint.
Back in the main room he found Valentine taking a note of the graffiti.
‘Thoughts?’
‘This line, about population zero – that’s got to be bunk. We’ve seen at least two this morning. And there’s a pub as well.’
THIRTEEN
T he Ostrich was at the far end of the lane beyond the ruins of the church, built slightly into the sea-wall bank. It was whitewashed, with eggshell-blue window frames, and a sign showing a heraldic shield incorporating the eponymous exotic bird – a common local symbol along the coast, an echo of the Crusades. Shaw recalled a local newspaper story covering the sale of the business by Adnams, the brewers, to a village cooperative. A micro-brewery had started up in Burnham Deepdale and they took their ‘Burnham Beers’. There were three picnic tables outside, and an
Similar Books
