A/N: I don't own Ashes to Ashes... same old story.
Sorry, all, I had hoped to post another chapter before Twelfth Night, but it was not to be. That means that the final, most Christmassy chapter is likely to be posted some time in late January. 'Twas ever thus.
Many thanks to the kindly quartet who reviewed Chapter 3 - Gem6 and GeneHuntress, it's great to hear from you gals again!
Feedback on this chapter would be much appreciated...
True to the Chief Constable's word, the Police 5 team were on the phone to Alex within the hour, and for the rest of that day she was immersed in preparations for the programme. She was acutely aware how embarrassing the situation was for Gene. His own disastrous appearance on Police 5 had been the talk of the Met. By appearing on the show instead of him, she would spare him further embarrassment, but she knew that if she was a success, it would show him up. She compromised as best she could by referring every stage of the process to him and making it clear to Shaw Taylor and his team that Gene was leading on the case.
She was somewhat glad for an excuse to get out of the office the following day. Chris insisted on putting up the Christmas decorations and was clambering from desk to desk to affix swags of tinsel and paper chains to the light fittings. It was like having an enthusiastic Newfoundland puppy jumping from one piece of furniture to the next. Beating a retreat, she noticed that Gene had shut his door and was clearly making his office a decoration free zone. She could sympathise.
Her close liaison with the Police 5 team paid off, enabling them to pack the maximum amount into the slot allocated to the case. They were able to display Mr Van Hatten's replica violin to the cameras and include, not only a full account of the circumstances of the disappearance of the Stradivarius but also the ID artist's image of the suspect taken from the Barnetts' description, detailed photographs of the violin, grainy footage of the last time it had been played ten years ago, and footage of Josiah winning the Van Hatten scholarship the previous year, playing his own violin. Shaw Taylor very helpfully allowed Alex to speak about the team - she insisted, the team's - theories about the lucky amateur thief. She closed with an impassioned appeal.
"This was not an opportunistic crime. It was carefully, cunningly, deliberately planned." Butter him up and he might be proud enough of himself to become careless. "This theft was has blasted a promising young artist's debut in London. He and the orchestra were our country's guests, and they have been repaid for the beauty and joy their music brings to millions, by this cruel and cowardly robbery. If you are able in any way to help reunite Mr Peal with his violin, you will earn not only his everlasting gratitude but that of countless music lovers across the world." Even though, if the violin's found, it'll be on a one way ticket back to Mr Van Hatten's vault. "Please call the hotline. We're waiting to hear from you now."
Shaw Taylor closed with the habitual admonition to "keep 'em peeled", and after the cameras stopped turning he shook Alex's hand and pronounced it a pleasure to work with her.
Somewhat against Gene's better judgement, but with Alex's encouragement, Chris had been put in charge of the hotline. Before she could get back to CID, he had received his first call.
"Hello, is that the hotline for the theft of the violin from the Barbican Hall?"
"Yes, Ma'am, it is. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I didn't see your suspect leaving the Barbican, but I think I was sitting behind him all through the concert."
"Really, Ma'am? That's very interesting. Please go on - oh, and can I 'ave your name an' number, please? For the records, like."
"Oh, of course. My name's Elsie Marchant, and my number's 01 253 5352. My husband John and I were at the concert, and a man wearing an overcoat was sitting in front of us. He had his hat on, and I couldn't see a thing. I asked him very politely if he would take it off because I couldn't see, and the brute refused, even when my husband spoke to him sharply. Eventually I told him that if he didn't remove it, I'd complain to the attendants. He took it off then, but with a very ill grace, I must say. But he kept the overcoat on, all through the performance."
All the time she had been speaking, Chris had been making frantic notes. He managed to signal to Shaz to pass him a copy of the seating plan, and she picked up an extension phone to help him with the note taking.
"Thanks, Ma'am, that's very helpful. Where were you sitting?"
"In M18 in the stalls, my husband was in M19. I don't know which seat the man in the coat was sitting in, but it was in the row in front, right between me and the platform."
"An' did you get a look at 'is face?"
"He had big glasses and a brown moustache, just like the picture in the programme. But after he'd taken the hat off, I couldn't help noticing that his hair was coal black and curly. It didn't match the moustache at all. I thought it must have been a bad dye job."
"An' did you 'ear 'im talk?"
"Not a word. He just shook his head when I asked him to remove his hat."
"Thanks very much, Ma'am, that's a big help. I'll call you back if we need to talk to you again."
"Thank you, young man. Goodbye."
He and Shaz hung up, and they grinned at each other across the desk.
"Result!"
"What is?" Gene demanded, emerging from his office.
"We've 'ad a call from a member of the audience. She 'ad Overcoat Bloke sitting in front of 'er."
"Bingo. Which seat was 'e in?"
Shaz looked up from the plan. "Mrs Marchant was in M18 in the stalls and she said that the man in the coat was blocking her view of the platform. That means he must have been sitting in L18 or 19."
"And?"
"There's a block of five seats there that were sold to five different people at the box office on the day booking opened. L18 and 19 were both paid for in cash. No details held by the box office."
"Shit." Gene looked over Chris's shoulder at his notes. "The suspect 'ad black 'air. That's why 'e didn't want to take 'is 'at off."
"Because then they'd see the moustache was a fake," Shaz agreed.
"Bolly was right. It was a disguise. An' that means the only ID we've got is of the back of 'is 'ead."
They got another call shortly afterwards, from a resident of the Barbican Estate who had seen a man in an overcoat, carrying a violin case, walking through the estate towards Moorgate at 10.15. She was at pains to point out that it could well have been an innocent member of the public, but the timing was right. However, she was adamant that the man had been clean shaven and had not been wearing glasses.
"Because 'e'd ditched the disguise once 'e was clear of the Barbican," Gene said bitterly when Chris reported to him. "Must 'ave nipped into a corner an' pulled the tash an' specs off."
"If it is 'im, we've got the direction 'e took, though, Guv?" Chris said hopefully.
"If it is, yes, we 'ave. We can try for sightings in the Moorgate an' Liverpool Street area. Supposing 'e 'adn't pulled on a false beard by that time."
The phone in Gene's office rang, and he raced to pick it up.
"Hunt."
"Ah, Hunt. I saw P5. Please pass on my congratulations to DI Drake for being such an effective ambassador for the Met."
As opposed to me, you bastard. "Certainly, Sir."
"Any feedback from the appeal?"
It was the question he had been dreading, but he determined to sound as optimistic as possible. It's what Bolly would do. "Two good leads so far, Sir."
"Only TWO?"
"Yes, Sir. One from a member of the audience who believes she was sitting behind our suspect. She's identified the seat 'e was in, but unfortunately the Barbican Centre 'asn't got any details for 'im. Must 'ave paid in cash at the box office."
"So that trail's gone cold."
"It would appear so, Sir, but we'll check with 'em again. The other's from a resident on the Estate who saw a man with an overcoat an' a violin case 'eading for Moorgate fifteen minutes after the robbery. Tomorrow we'll get uniform to doorstep the estate an' look for eyewitnesses at Moorgate an' Liverpool Street stations."
"Not much progress yet, then."
"We'll keep at it, Sir."
"You'd better. I want a result, Hunt."
He held the receiver away from his ear as the Chief Constable slammed the phone down, then hung up and emerged from his office, just as Alex walked in.
"Drake. Sorry, nobody 'ere wants your autograph."
She ignored his rudeness, knowing how her success on the programme must rankle with him. "Have we had any calls on the hotline, Guv?"
"Two from the 'otline an' one from the Chief Comestible."
"Oh."
Chris and Shaz quickly updated her on the calls while Gene grabbed a much needed tumbler of whisky. She was disappointed by the lack of response to the appeal, but insisted on taking a positive view. "Maybe someone will remember something overnight and call tomorrow, like Emma Owen."
"Yes." Gene did not sound convinced. "I've told the Chief Calamity, we'll get plod into the area tomorrow to doorstep the estate an' talk to passers-by in Liverpool Street an' Moorgate, an' they can put up posters."
"What with?" Ray said gloomily. "The ID sketch from the Barnetts' description's worthless. It shows 'im with the tash an' specs. An' the fiddle was in the case."
Gene sighed, loth to admit that his faithful sidekick was right. "We'll use one of the photos of the fiddle. Might jog the memory of someone who saw the programme."
"But what if the man our witness saw in the Barbican Estate wasn't the same as the one the Barnetts and Emma saw?" Alex objected. "He might belong to another orchestra. This close to Christmas, there are concerts all over the place."
"In which case the fiddle-nicker might 'ave gone off in another direction."
"I'm afraid it might. At the very least, I'd suggest widening the uniform cover to include Aldersgate and Chiswell Street."
Gene groaned. "Whatever. In the meantime, it's beer o'clock. Last one out of 'ere buys the first round."
The whole team decamped to Luigi's in short order, where Gene's temper was further shortened by the Christmas soundtrack pumping over the loudspeakers. Alex could only be grateful that it did not include any violin music, which would probably turn him feral.
They were well into their main courses when they became aware of an altercation at the entrance. A man was trying to enter and was being held back by two waiters.
"NO!" they heard Luigi shout. "I tell you again, NO!"
Gene levered himself to his feet and headed for the entrance, with Alex, Ray and Chris at his heels.
"What's goin' on?"
"Perdono, Signor Hunt." Luigi looked more harrassed than usual. "It is only the waiter I sacked two nights ago for almost killing you with his stupid Christmas decorations." He turned to the newcomer. "You are a danger to my clientele, Emanuele! You nearly kill my best customer. I tell you again, no job for you!"
"I am not asking for a job," the young man replied with dignity. "I must speak to the great detectives. It is about the stolen violin."
"Wassat?" Gene demanded.
"I saw the beautiful lady on the television. She said, to come to you if I had any information."
"All right, Luigi, you can let 'im in! He's with us. But if 'e breaks anything, 'e can pay for it!"
Reluctantly, Luigi signed to the waiters to release Emanuele, and he coolly flicked their hands from his lapels as he followed Gene and the others to the long table, where Chris found him a spare chair and sat him opposite Gene and Alex. The whole team clustered around them. Once again, Luigi's had become a CID command centre.
"Right. Talk," Gene said tersely.
The young Italian seemed quite unfazed by the attention. "After Luigi sacked me two nights ago, I obtained a temporary job as waiter at the Casa D'Oro restaurant in Ropemaker Street. It is a larger place than this, very elegant. They have entertainments every evening, with musicians playing around the tables."
"And?"
"Last night one of their regular musicians, Michele Lavizio, was playing the most beautiful violin music I have ever heard. I am a music student myself, and I could tell that the quality was exceptional."
"Do you play the fiddle?"
"No, I am studying voice at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. I am a tenor."
Surveying his handsome face, Alex searched her memories of her own time in vain. Did he ever become famous? If so, I don't remember him. Maybe he only ever sang in a chorus, or never became a professional singer at all.
"My friend Giovanni, who obtained the job for me, has been working there three months, and he was as astonished as I," Emanuele continued. "He told me that this man plays there often, but never before has he sounded anywhere near as good as this."
"Ah..." Gene's mental dawn came up like thunder.
"Was he playing there on the night of the robbery?" Alex asked.
"Giovanni tells me that he was not there the night before last, when the Stradvarius was taken from the Barbican. He plays at many different clubs and restaurants in the area, but we do not know which the others are. He arrives, plays a few numbers, then leaves to go to the next one."
"Just like a variety performer," Ray interjected.
"Slippery alibi," Chris said glumly. "We'd 'ave to check all 'is usual haunts."
"Which is what you're paid for," Gene said cruelly.
"According to Mrs Marchant, a man resembling the thief was there all through the concert," Shaz put in. "So he might have taken the night off and let all the places he usually plays at think he was at one of the others."
"What does he look like?" Gene demanded.
"He is a little less than six feet tall, slim, with black, curly hair. That is all I could see, from a distance."
"Moustache? Glasses?"
"No, neither. But the Signora said on the programme that they might be a disguise."
"An' what you've given us matches Beatrice Barnett's description of 'is height an' accent, Mrs Marchant's description of 'is 'air, an' the woman on the estate's description of the man she saw 'eading for Moorgate. Not far from Ropemaker Street."
"Have you been able to get a good look at his violin?" Alex asked.
"Not closely, no," Emanuele admitted, "and it was dark in the restaurant while he played. It does not look exceptional, but he might have used something to disguise it."
"Fire up the Quattro." Gene stood up. "We're off to the Cassa Dorro."
"It would do no good tonight, Signor," Emanuele said quickly. "He only plays there between seven and eight, and I do not know where he is now. I came to you as soon as my shift had ended. He will be playing there again at the same time tomorrow night."
"We can talk to the manager now, and nick 'im when 'e comes back tomorrow."
"Guv. Guv." Alex laid a hand on her impetuous DCI's arm. "If we go there now, we could frighten him away. Then we'll have a bigger job to find him. He may even try to get out of the country. And if it's all a mistake, we'll make fools of ourselves, and think how that would go down with the Chief Constable."
Gene hesitated, unwilling to admit that she was right. He looked down at the long, taper-like fingers on his sleeve, then up into the eyes of their owner, allowing himself to lose himself in those hazel depths for a split second before he regained control of himself.
"Why do I suspect you've got another of your 'are-brained plans up your sleeve?"
"Well, Guv, it's only an idea, but here's what I suggest we do. Book a table there tomorrow night, and ask Josiah to come with us. We can tell him which player to listen out for, and Emanuele can tip us off when Lavizio's coming on."
"No."
"But, Guv, it'll get us in there to hear him, and we'll have the best possible witness with us. He'll know as soon as he hears it."
"An' what if 'e's not sure, or the fiddler legs it while 'e's making 'is mind up?"
"We can put uniform at all the exits."
"He might not play the same fiddle tomorrow."
"Oh, I think he will. He's pleased with himself for pulling the robbery off, and that's making him reckless. He wants everyone to admire his new toy without their realising what it is."
"It'll waste a whole day, an' we still might not get anything."
"Who's to say we can't proceed with our enquiries around the Barbican and Moorgate tomorrow? That'll show the Chief Constable we mean business, and if Lavizio is the thief, he'll think we're running around in circles without finding him. It'll give him a feeling of false confidence."
"Officially, the restaurant is full tomorrow night, but as I work there, I am sure I could get you a table," Emanuele added helpfully.
"Make it for four, if you can. Mansfield may want to come with Josiah."
"My wish is your command, Signora."
" 'Old it right there," Gene snapped. "Who says I'm agreeing to this daft proposal?"
"Just one thing more, Guv."
"What's that?"
"You wouldn't be eating here tomorrow night."
"DONE!"
TBC
