dreams he’d had about trawling the bottom of a murky sheet of water and getting hold of a handful of pale dead flesh.
‘Frank Crane.’
‘It’s Terry Jones, Frank. How are you doing?’
‘Nice to hear from you, Terry.’ It was too, DI Terry Jones had once been Crane’s boss when he’d been in the force.
‘Marvin Jackson. Ted tells me it’s time for some collar-feeling .’
‘I’m certain he’ll admit to the fancy guns. Otherwise he knows he’ll be a suspect for Donna’s death. She was definitely into him for money.’
He gave Jones the details of what had happened between Jones and his sister. ‘He’s scared shitless about any of that coming out. He knows he’s just got the one option.’
‘Bloody good effort, Frank. I’ve been in touch with Leicester, that’s where the guns were sold in a district auction. A go-between put them in the sale, then the gang bought them back themselves, cash down. It only cost them a small commission and then they’ve got a bona fide bill of sale to show private buyers they’re the legal owners.’
‘Clever stuff.’
‘No one can fix these things like Dougie. The police still haven’t nabbed the gear but they know damn fine who’s involved. If your friend Marvin coughs we’ll be able to establish a link between Dougie and the gang, and we should be in business.’
‘Glad I could help, Terry.’
‘Tell me, are you still working on the Jackson case?’
‘The Jacksons rehired me. I told them your people would be making a fresh start, but they’d not take no for an answer. I’ll not get under your feet.’
‘You never do. And as far as I’m concerned, the more brains involved in that particular can of worms the better. You must come for a bite of supper one night, Frank …’
Jones put down his phone. Christ, he wished Crane were back. There’d been big trouble. Crane had fixed some evidence against one of the most evil types the city had ever known. Top class lawyers had picked up on it, Crane was out. Jones sighed, turned back to the file on the antique guns. It hadn’t been just down to Crane, but also to Ted Benson, he was sure of it. He was sure too that Crane had taken the burn for the lot, as he was single and Benson had kids and a sick wife. That was the sort of bloke Crane was, apart from being the sharpest Jones had ever had on his team.
It had been a clear day and the setting sun was now a bright sliver through the dense trees of the low hills that surrounded the two sheets of water. Mallard, moorhens and Canada Geese clucked softly at the water’s edge, their night quarters beneath overhanging foliage. Crane climbed the curving flight of wide stone steps that ledfrom the lower to the upper reservoir. He spotted the straw hat almost instantly, on the head of a plump man in rimless glasses, who sat on a bench at the side of the perimeter track, gazing out over still water.
Crane sat on the same bench, about a yard from him. His faded blue eyes darted to Crane’s through strong lenses. He had soft, pink, blobby features that gave an impression his face had no real bone structure. He wore a neatly ironed blue shirt and chinos. ‘Looking for company, dear?’ he said hopefully, in a high, slightly wheezing tone.
‘Are you Ollie?’
He gave a little smile. ‘Perhaps I should say, “Who’s asking?” like they do on the telly.’
‘Frank Crane.’
‘It’s a nice name and you’ve a nice friendly smile, but I don’t believe I’ve seen it before, so it makes me just a tad wary.’
‘Remember a young woman called Donna Jackson, Ollie?’
‘Dear boy, if you’re a bobby, despite that disarming cotton shirt and those form-fitting linen trousers, I shan’t even admit to being called Ollie. I’m Bill Brown to the police, Frank Crane, always was.’
‘I’m just a private investigator, working for Donna’s parents.’
‘Don’t believe I like PI much either, dear, it’s like saying you’re not a crab but a
‘Frank Crane.’
‘It’s Terry Jones, Frank. How are you doing?’
‘Nice to hear from you, Terry.’ It was too, DI Terry Jones had once been Crane’s boss when he’d been in the force.
‘Marvin Jackson. Ted tells me it’s time for some collar-feeling .’
‘I’m certain he’ll admit to the fancy guns. Otherwise he knows he’ll be a suspect for Donna’s death. She was definitely into him for money.’
He gave Jones the details of what had happened between Jones and his sister. ‘He’s scared shitless about any of that coming out. He knows he’s just got the one option.’
‘Bloody good effort, Frank. I’ve been in touch with Leicester, that’s where the guns were sold in a district auction. A go-between put them in the sale, then the gang bought them back themselves, cash down. It only cost them a small commission and then they’ve got a bona fide bill of sale to show private buyers they’re the legal owners.’
‘Clever stuff.’
‘No one can fix these things like Dougie. The police still haven’t nabbed the gear but they know damn fine who’s involved. If your friend Marvin coughs we’ll be able to establish a link between Dougie and the gang, and we should be in business.’
‘Glad I could help, Terry.’
‘Tell me, are you still working on the Jackson case?’
‘The Jacksons rehired me. I told them your people would be making a fresh start, but they’d not take no for an answer. I’ll not get under your feet.’
‘You never do. And as far as I’m concerned, the more brains involved in that particular can of worms the better. You must come for a bite of supper one night, Frank …’
Jones put down his phone. Christ, he wished Crane were back. There’d been big trouble. Crane had fixed some evidence against one of the most evil types the city had ever known. Top class lawyers had picked up on it, Crane was out. Jones sighed, turned back to the file on the antique guns. It hadn’t been just down to Crane, but also to Ted Benson, he was sure of it. He was sure too that Crane had taken the burn for the lot, as he was single and Benson had kids and a sick wife. That was the sort of bloke Crane was, apart from being the sharpest Jones had ever had on his team.
It had been a clear day and the setting sun was now a bright sliver through the dense trees of the low hills that surrounded the two sheets of water. Mallard, moorhens and Canada Geese clucked softly at the water’s edge, their night quarters beneath overhanging foliage. Crane climbed the curving flight of wide stone steps that ledfrom the lower to the upper reservoir. He spotted the straw hat almost instantly, on the head of a plump man in rimless glasses, who sat on a bench at the side of the perimeter track, gazing out over still water.
Crane sat on the same bench, about a yard from him. His faded blue eyes darted to Crane’s through strong lenses. He had soft, pink, blobby features that gave an impression his face had no real bone structure. He wore a neatly ironed blue shirt and chinos. ‘Looking for company, dear?’ he said hopefully, in a high, slightly wheezing tone.
‘Are you Ollie?’
He gave a little smile. ‘Perhaps I should say, “Who’s asking?” like they do on the telly.’
‘Frank Crane.’
‘It’s a nice name and you’ve a nice friendly smile, but I don’t believe I’ve seen it before, so it makes me just a tad wary.’
‘Remember a young woman called Donna Jackson, Ollie?’
‘Dear boy, if you’re a bobby, despite that disarming cotton shirt and those form-fitting linen trousers, I shan’t even admit to being called Ollie. I’m Bill Brown to the police, Frank Crane, always was.’
‘I’m just a private investigator, working for Donna’s parents.’
‘Don’t believe I like PI much either, dear, it’s like saying you’re not a crab but a
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