Free Murder at Swann's Lake by Sally Spencer Page B

“From what Doris told us, Robbie hasn’t felt much of a need for one of those for quite a while.”
    â€œWouldn’t surprise me if she’d been puttin’ somethin’ in his tea to cool his ardour,” Woodend opined. “Well, it would have been cheaper than takin’ him to the vet’s, don’t you think?”
    When there was no reply, he turned to look at his sergeant. Rutter was closely examining a brown paper envelope. “Have you found somethin’, lad?” the Chief Inspector asked.
    â€œI’m not sure,” Rutter said, laying it on the desk. “You take a look at it.”
    Woodend shovelled the last few beans into his mouth – no point in wasting them – and picked the envelope up. He’d never seen one quite like it before. It wasn’t square, but it was squarer than most office envelopes tended to be. And it was made of stronger paper, too – so strong it was almost cardboard.
    â€œInterestin’,” he said. He looked at the address. “Mr Alexander Conway, 7 Hatton Gardens, Doncaster. Who the bloody hell’s Mr Alexander Conway when he’s at home?”
    â€œLook on the other side, sir,” Rutter advised him.
    Woodend turned the envelope over. A crude sketch map been pencilled in on the reverse. It showed a road, marked as the A628, and a town labelled Peniston. Just before the town, an arrow was pointing to the side of the road, and below that were the words, ‘Lay-by, 3.00 a.m., Mon 26, 50,000 cartons’.
    â€œWhat do you make of it?” Woodend asked his sergeant.
    â€œWell, it’s obviously a map of somewhere, sir.”
    â€œIt’s a map of one of the main roads into Yorkshire, you ignorant southern bugger,” Woodend said. “What else?”
    â€œIt seems fairly obvious. Whoever sketched out the map . . .”
    â€œProbably this Conway bloke.”
    â€œ. . . did it because he wanted to arrange a meeting with someone else—”
    â€œProbably Robbie Peterson. Or somebody who was workin’ for him.”
    â€œAgreed. Wanted to arrange a meeting in a lay-by outside Peniston at three o’clock in the morning, on the 26 th of last month.”
    â€œOr next month,” Woodend pointed out. “Or the month before. But whatever month we’re talkin’ about, it’s a funny time to have a meetin’, wouldn’t you think?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œFunny place, too. Hardly congenial. So why arrange it then and there?”
    â€œBecause they didn’t want to be seen?” Rutter suggested.
    â€œGo to the top of the class,” Woodend said. “What about the last two words – ‘50,000 cartons’?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Rutter confessed.
    â€œThat’s because you’re not thinkin’, lad,” Woodend told him. “We’re agreed that whatever they were shiftin’ was probably illegal, aren’t we?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAn’ when you’re dealin’ in stolen goods, what are you lookin’ for? Well, the first thing is as little weight per item as possible. That’s why people steal televisions rather than washin’ machines. An’ the second thing you want is the highest possible resale value. So what would fit the bill in this case?”
    â€œDiamonds?” Rutter suggested.
    Woodend smacked his own forehead. “50,000 cartons of
diamonds
? Are there enough diamonds in the whole bloody world to fill 50,000 cartons?”
    â€œSorry, sir, that was stupid,” Rutter said. He thought again. “Cigarettes!” he exclaimed.
    â€œExactly,” Woodend agreed. “An’ I’m bettin’ on
cork tipped
cigarettes.”
    â€œYou’ve lost me,” Rutter admitted.
    â€œMost of the fags made in this country don’t have cork tips,” Woodend explained. “But because poncy buggers like you can’t handle a real