Scrap 8

SCRAP 8
Fat Frank is feeling very pleased with himself. He now has enough cash to buy the Fairlane he’s had his eye on. Beautiful motor, 6 litre engine, masses of chrome, white wall tyres. Frank loves American cars. Like him, they are big and brash, showy and powerful. He’ll get Scotty to drive him up to Chatham on Saturday and do a deal, then he’ll stop by to visit Patsy and take her out for a spin, a nice meal and a few pints at the Barge. With any luck she will ask him to stay overnight. He may as well take his laundry too. She’s a good sort is Patsy. He drifts to sleep with the radio playing tinnily by the bed.
Two hours later the caravan shakes as DS Roberts bangs on the door with his fist. The thin aluminium dents easily but he is in no mood for finesse. ‘Open up Ridley, I’d like a word,’ he calls loudly, continuing to thump his fist against the door.
Frank stirs from his dream, ‘Alright, alright,’ he yells back, ‘I’m coming.’ He places a foot on the water pump switch and runs his hands under the tap, splashes cold water over his face and head.
‘Mister Ridley!’ Frank snatches open the door as Roberts aims a fist at it and stumbles across the threshold. ‘Do come in,’ invites the big man. He gestures for his visitors to sit, parking himself on the edge of the bed. ‘I hope this is important,’ he says, ‘I was having a lovely dream and I’d like to get back to it.’
‘Where were you between the hours of 3 and 5 this morning?’ asks Roberts. ‘Down the dockyard asleep in the queue like I am on most week days, why do you ask?’ Staples is writing in a notepad. ‘Can anyone verify that sir?’ he asks. Frank tries to see what the young man is writing but it is in shorthand. ‘The security bod can tell you. He logs all the comings and goings. I got there about 3.30, had a bit of a chat then got my head down in the cab.’
Staples has already heard this from the security guard but has also heard from other sources that Frank’s van had been seen parked off the Low Field Lane at around 5.45am. ‘So you weren’t in the vicinity of the Low Field Lane at about 5.45 then?’ Frank shrugs, ‘Not me, mate. Dead to the world by then.’
‘Is that your van outside?’ asks Roberts, knowing very well that it is. ‘The old Thames, yes,’ says Frank. ‘Mind if we take a look?’ Frank gestures ‘Be my guest.’
Staples and Roberts closely inspect the van inside and out. The muddy tyres seem to be of particular interest. Then they realise that the whole site is a quagmire. The van has a few lengths of rope and a spare wheel in the back. No trace of any cable. ‘Will that be all then, officers?’ Frank asks innocently. ‘For now,’ says Roberts, ‘But we may be back.’ Frank sees them back to their Rover which is now splattered in mud. ‘I’m not planning on emigrating,’ he says.
Frank returns to his caravan, locks the door and peeks through a gap in the curtain to watch as the police car slides slowly away.