The Norfolk Probationer

“Catrin, it’s good to see you again.” The middle-aged sergeant had a Norfolk accent. Neil Selman also had a genuine smile; she had met him before. He was not the high-flyer, aggressive sort, barely concealing their irritation about a Metropolitan Police officer invading their ‘ground’. She suddenly chuckled inwardly; his accent and her own Welsh lilt would make a television producer despair; they liked their detectives to have nice neutral accents.

  “Neil, despite the circumstances, it is nice to be back in Norwich. How are the Pickersgills doing?”

  “Sleeping now, both of them – and, I am glad to say, not as bad as first thought now they are through the first shock of it all. He has six stitches in his scalp and a lot of bruising developing. Eve Pickersgill is bruising where her assailant slapped her. It has worn her out; she was in a wheelchair and didn’t have a lot of energy, anyway. The doctor says her oncologist will see her tomorrow, to see if there are additional complications. They are both in observation overnight but if they do well they will be home tomorrow.

  “She is feistier than her husband, though. She told me she was concerned that her evidence wouldn’t be considered in court if she was dead by the time of the trial – and we haven’t caught anyone yet.”

  He smiled; clearly he liked the woman’s attitude. The two detectives and the young WPC were sitting in one of the cafés at the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital. Melissa was quietly absorbing their conversation.

  “Could you get a police artist with her?” Catrin asked.

  He nodded, “I have Valerie; you know, Valerie Milburn, she’s coming in, lined up for tomorrow for both of them. I wanted to do it tonight but the doctors said ‘No’. But you could do it yourself, Catrin.” he smiled.

  Catrin laughed and said, “Oh no, Neil, even if I did, it would never stand up in court. As soon as DI Marshall mentioned the ‘circle’ tattoo on the neck I had an image in mind. If I am right, we are looking at a pair called the Sloan brothers, Martin and Kevin, from Hounslow.”

  She looked over at Melissa. “There was a similar theft of two Picasso drawings and a painting by Sir Alfred East a little under a year ago from a small gallery near Tunbridge Wells. No-one was injured, it was broad daylight. Two men in security uniforms walked out calmly with the three framed items in sleeves marked ‘Trident Security Services’, nodding at the security guard. Someone had timed a shutdown of wall alarms and the CCTV system to coincide with the operation. There weren’t even any tourist photos or videos we could draw on; the place wasn’t exactly humming like the Tate.

  “One drawing turned up two months ago stored in a nice case in the boot of a car in Shoreditch. It was found by a drug squad shutting down a big ‘club-drug’ amphetamine sale. Arts & Antiques are still looking for the other two.”

  Catrin could see that Melissa Nunn was starting to look a little lost.

  “One of the security guards saw a ring tattoo on the neck of one the thieves but couldn’t identify the person sufficiently to allow us to pull the Sloan pair in for it. But Kevin Sloan has a tattoo exactly as the guard described and they are very close to the people in the Shoreditch drug operation.”

  DS Selman said, “Nunn, what DS Sayer is getting at is that the art isn’t stolen for someone who likes art. It’s simply an underground currency. I will hold your Canaletto worth a million or two until the second shipment of drugs arrives to complete our deal.”

  Catrin watched the young WPC take it in.

  She said to her, “Forget about the Thomas Crown Affair, Melissa. The people who did this probably would think stealing Leggo bricks or a Canaletto was much the same job. They know more about door locks and security systems than about art.”

  Sergeant Selman said, “We have an alert out for the pair, based on the information that DI Marshall supplied.”

  Catrin said, “The Met are watching their parent’s home; they will turn up there sooner or later, we think. They have in the past.”

  “Well, there is not much to do here now, unless one of the Pickersgills takes a turn for the worse. I am heading home myself. Catrin, I suggest you check into the Travelodge; we have a room for you there. Nunn will take you and drive you around while you are here, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Sarge,” said Melissa, looking mischievously at Selman, “This is very interesting; even more exciting than filling in for lollipop ladies off sick.”

  WPC Nunn’s duties last week had involved mainly rush-hour traffic control at a roundabout undergoing construction work and three calls to schools, to cover at short notice for crossing guards that had called in, unable to attend.

  Catrin looked at Selman and they smiled. They both understood that looking after kids crossing the road was more important than a Canaletto.

  “She needs a change, Catrin,” sighed Selman.

  II

  While she had been travelling up to Norwich, DI Marshall and Catrin had been in a long conversation about both this case and the preparations for her appearance at court in Scotland next week. She had found no time to talk to friends and cancel some plans. After being dropped off at the hotel and checking in she called Melanie.

  “I am in Norwich, Melanie, and I will be here tomorrow, at least,” she said without preamble.

  Catrin’s sudden changes of plans were now well understood by Melanie Farrell and her partner Jean Hughes; they had both known Catrin a long time but Jean had known her a lot longer. She had grown up in Pontypridd with Catrin.

  Melanie said, “So you spineless beast, you want me to tell Liz to cancel. Is that it?” Both humour and frustration came over the phone in Melanie’s voice.

  Liz Marshall had a gallery off the Fulham Road that included art pottery decorated by Catrin, thrown and fired by Jean.

  “No, I want you and Jean to go tomorrow instead of me and meet the buyer and talk about my art, about my conflict with the work as a police officer and … tell her about the Celia Thaxter influence on me. Even Liz doesn’t know about that yet. It will be someone the buyer knows about, I am sure. It’s called delegation, Melanie. Keith Marshall told me to delegate more.”

  Melanie laughed. “So you are using Liz’s brother as the excuse. Wait until I tell Jean.”

  Catrin said, “Well, she did make the vase, I only slapped some underglaze paint and some enamel on top of it.”

  Melanie replied, “I will make sure that the exquisite decoration technique, ‘slappa di enamelo’, is explained to the client when she asks.”

  “I knew you were impressive. Thanks. Love to Jean. Bye.”

  Catrin Sayer was twenty-seven years old, fit, average-looking she thought, with collar-length dark blonde hair. She grew up in Pontypridd and had attended the University of Aberystwyth. From early on she had two ambitions; to become an artist, a painter, and to get a job as a policewoman. Both of those goals had been realised although for a long time she saw them in conflict. Now they went well together sometimes; at others, like today with the sudden change in plans, the conflict arose afresh.

  She had joined the Metropolitan Police from university and, in doing so, ended up breaking a relationship that had lasted most of her time at Aberystwyth. The guy, also a Fine Arts student, couldn’t reconcile Catrin being on her way to a First Class Honours yet wanting to become ‘Policewoman Plod’, as he termed it. That had been nearly seven years ago and apart from two short-term relationships she hadn’t found a partner yet.

  Her probationary period and service years before joining the Art Crime Unit were spent in South London, in Lambeth and Brixton as a uniformed officer. The latter part had been an assignment in support of drug squad activities and it been a hard introduction to the grimier side of police work. A case nearly three years ago in North Wales had brought her into the ACU; it had required an undercover role for an officer posing as a Welsh student. She had subsequently joined the unit as a detective constable and was now in her first year as a Detective Sergeant.

  Her friend Jean had studied at Cardiff School of Art & Design to become a potter.
Along the way she met Melanie, who came from Yeovil. They had finally ‘come out’ that they were gay and, with help from Jean’s father and some grants, the two women had set up a small boutique pottery in the Spitalfields Art Market complex in London.

  The convergence of Catrin and Jean in London had led to Catrin’s ‘other life’; days off from police work spent decorating ceramics made by Jean. These pieces were ‘high end’, one-off items. Now some of that work had caught the attention of others and had been gallery-exhibited; Catrin and Jean were becoming known as ceramic artists by a broader audience.

  The gallery, ‘Liz’s Place’ featured only contemporary British artists but had steady clientele, many being international collectors. One, an American collector, was now going to meet Melanie and Jean tomorrow with a promise that Catrin would meet with her as soon as she returned to London.

  III

  Catrin went for a run early the following morning. In some hotels she used the exercise facilities but liked, if she could, to get outside. It was chilly but dry and she soon warmed up. Heading along Tombland towards the spire of Norwich Cathedral she enjoyed the old streets and buildings, looking forward to the unimpeded view of the cathedral as she got closer. She liked the city of Norwich with its well-preserved older buildings.

  As she ran she was musing how right Detective Chief Inspector Worsley, the Art Crime Unit head, had been in the meeting before her formal interview four years ago.

  “The work in the ACU can be intrusive into normal life, to be frank. I see on your résumé that you played volleyball at university and now play in the Met region badminton league. Well, regularity of time for sport isn’t guaranteed in this job.”

  Catrin had made it clear she understood and it wasn’t an impediment; she was keen to get the position. Over time she realised that she did miss team competitions and it also screwed up her art work royally at times – but she liked her job, that was the bottom line.

  She ran through the Cathedral grounds and headed back to the hotel. A shower, breakfast and out with the probationer to the scene of the crime were the items for the morning.