Crime Figures

“Mrs Delaney?”

“Yes…”, she says through the narrow gap as the door to 22c Alexander Road is opened on a chain.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Delaney. I’m Victor Scott from The Electric & Gas Agency. I’ve come to check that everything is working properly on your installation. Here’s my badge.”

“Just a minute, I’d better let you in, hadn’t I?”

“That’s the idea Mrs Delaney. I just need to check a few things. I won’t keep you long”.

The caller is a man of medium height, with dark hair, greased back over a thinning patch. He is wearing a slightly crumpled polyester suit which is not exactly new, now is it. He has darting eyes and there are thin red veins showing on his cheeks, giving an impression of an outdoor life and good health. Actually the man calling himself Victor Scott is not in the best of health. He suffers from stomach ulcers which would be eradicated were he to stick to his medication and at least pause from the heavy use of alcohol. He carries the unmistakable scent of a heavy smoker which, incidentally, masks some of his body odour. This unpleasant mixture is fortunately lost on Mrs Delaney, whose sense of smell, never that acute, has more or less departed completely now she is in her eighties.

He follows her as she shuffles down the small passageway behind the front door of her sheltered accommodation. As usual she is wearing a thin floral housecoat, one of three she has, all the same, from the catalogue she’s been using for many years. Underneath she has a heavy wool blend skirt into which she has tucked a slightly yellowed synthetic blouse. Her brown-stockinged legs lead to unevenly worn, fluffy slippers. Behind her the caller carries a black expandable travel bag, all zips, slightly too large to be properly described as a briefcase.

“Where do you need to look”, Mrs Delaney asks. “In my kitchen?” But the visitor has already spotted her living room and has gone inside and is looking around. A small, elderly dog of uncertain breed sleeps on a cushion on one of the two leatherette easy chairs. Like its owner, it no long has keen senses so does not stir.

“What a lovely room,” Mr Scott says smiling as Mrs Delaney joins him. “You have made it so personal and special,” and he moves a little nearer the wood effect shelf over the gas fire on which are family photos: her late husband in uniform, her only son and her three grandchildren, taken some years ago when the youngest was only two. He’s at secondary school now.

Mrs Delaney is slightly disconcerted by his familiarity. She was perhaps expecting a more routine visit from the stranger. “The meters are only read from the outside”, she says, not sure what Mr Scott really wants.

He smiles gently, trying hard to put her at her ease. “It’s not that type of inspection, Mrs Delaney. I need to check some of the paperwork regarding your installations.”

She has no idea to what he is referring, which of course is his intention.

“Do you have somewhere where your keep your important papers and documents”, he asks. “What I probably need to see will almost certainly be in there… By the way, what’s the name of your delightful dog?”

“That’s Buster,” she tells him. “He’s been with me for 14 years now.”

They are both standing facing each other in her front room. And as if he knows he is being regarded, Buster lets out a small sigh and twitches in his slumber.

“Patrick does my papers”, Mrs Delaney tells her visitor. “Everything is in files. I never go near them. You need to come when he’s here.”

“That might be best”, says Mr Scott, well-practised in appearing affable. He has rightly guessed that Patrick is the son, pictured in black and white on her shelf. “When do you think he’ll be here next?”

“He always comes on Mother’s Day”, Mrs Delaney says, though she is not sure when precisely that will be. It is more a sign that she approves of what she sees as her son’s reliable devotion.

“Perhaps it would be helpful if I had a little peep today then,” he ventures, and at the same time wonders if now he’s pushing a little too hard.

The elderly woman pauses, ponders, and then offers: “I’ll go and get the box.”

“I can help you, it’ll be heavy and awkward,” he says, purely guessing, and impertinently he follows Mrs Delaney into the privacy of her bedroom as she bends down to pull something from the bottom of her walnut-veneer wardrobe.

More stocking than she would regard as decent is visible but she has not realised he is behind her. He watches her move two shoe-boxes and reach deeper inside to drag out a concertina-style personal file box. “Here, let me help you”, he offers, reaching forward and making Mrs Delaney start with surprise. She is confused. He is far too forward for her liking, but at the same time she does not want to appear rude - and he is, after all, an important official.

He picks up the box, noting that it has a suitcase-style lock to prevent the top flap from opening. “Where do you keep the key?” he says, his voice dripping with entirely manufactured bonhomie.

“I think Patrick must have it”, she says, her unease now replacing her wish to be polite and compliant.

“Let’s sit down and think, then”, says the visitor carrying the box through to the front room. “You couldn’t make us a cup of tea could you? I’m parched. You look as if you make really a really good cuppa,” and he laughs slightly.

If she is wise she will now use one of the red-handled alarm bell-pulls to call someone from the warden’s office. She senses that her visitor is really overstepping the mark, but nevertheless she succumbs to the request for tea.  So she wanders through to the small kitchen and fills and plugs in her chrome Swan kettle with a rather lime-scaled interior.

Two cups with saucers on a tray, the small milk jug from the holiday in Frinton, two teaspoons and another in the sugar bowl, the everyday brown teapot with cream and green highlights round the middle. Normally she would add wrapped biscuits if Patrick were here, but this Mr Scott will have to do without. She waits for the kettle to boil and pours a little of the water in to the pot to warm it first. Then she carefully measures two teaspoons of PG-tips plus one for the pot and uses the rest of the boiling water to make the tea.

She carries the tray through to the front room, manoeuvring though the two doorways, her swollen left ankle twinging as she twists herself sideways.

The man who called himself Victor Scott has gone. The file box, its lock forced open and now bent, is empty. Buster is still sleeping soundly, oblivious to the need for guard duties.

At first Irene Delaney fears that her caller is still in the house. Perhaps he is using the toilet. She puts down the tray on the glass-topped side table with the lace doily and goes out into the passage, only now noticing that the outside door is ajar, her West-Country Landscapes calendar flapping in the draught. She now understands that her visitor has gone and with him whatever was in her file box. She uses the intercom, rather than the alarm-pull, and speaks to someone called Stacey in the warden’s office.

Stacey can immediately tell from the hesitant, incoherent way Mrs Delaney is speaking that something is very wrong at 22c. She assures her that someone is on their way and, in less than a minute, Karen Gupta and Gordon Hertus have let themselves in and are sitting with the very upset and confused resident. Inappropriately, Buster is now on the floor wagging his tail, expecting attention and treats, unused to being ignored. The tea tray stands to one side also un-appreciated, the pot now cooling.

The police have been called, so too has Brian Firth, the manager of the Beech Housing Association, who has left his team meeting in mid-session. Stacey is trying to contact Patrick Delaney but there is no reply from his home number and she now realises that they do not seem to have a mobile or work number for their resident’s next-of kin.

***

Ellis Whiteside, alias Victor Scott, opens the zipped bag and empties a large pile of papers onto the sofa, which has an indeterminate colour. He is perched on one end of it leaving well over half of it for the contents of the old lady’s files. They fill all the available space, one or two getting smeared with remnants of lamb Rogan Josh which has congealed in an expanded polystyrene container left overnight on the same sofa.

An almost empty Stella lager can stands on the floor by Ellis’s feet, its pull-tag hole now filled with a crushed Superking cigarette, still slightly smouldering. Some of the papers spill onto the floor as Ellis starts sifting through them. He appears to know what he is looking for.

A woman called Maureen wanders into the room, her dyed blond hair spiked and unkempt. She has tired eyes and a sallow complexion. She wears nylon garments which might be night attire, and there again might not be. She looks as if she could be in her late forties but in fact she is 32. Her make-up is smudged and her demeanour is nonchalant veering towards surly. If Ellis has noticed her it doesn’t show.

“Got a fag?” she asks, and almost without interrupting his paper shuffle he motions towards the brown-black pack with a deterrent image on it lying on the arm of the sofa. Maureen leans forward, breast escaping from her loose clothing. Ellis doesn’t notice as he continues with the paperwork. He has found some documents which look promising to him. Bank statements, a cheque-book and now an envelope containing a tissue-thin pin number. He moves them to one side and continues to sort through other pieces of paper.

Maureen leaves the room to light her cigarette and to make a cup of Asda instant coffee with milk and two sugars. She has not offered to make one for Ellis, even though they have been living together for almost three years.

Ellis has got little further when Maureen returns, the steam from her mug and the smoke from her cigarette merging in the airless room. She leans against the doorframe, taking a long drag, her eyes now fixed on documents Ellis is still sorting through.

"What's all this then?" she asks, her voice raspy with catarrh. "Another old dear?"

Ellis doesn't even look up. His fingers flick through a birth certificate from 1945 and a booklet for premium bonds. "Seven grand," he mutters, a sharp, nervous edge to his voice. "In the Nationwide. And the card’s right here. With the PIN."

Maureen’s surly expression shifts slightly, a flicker of genuine interest piercing through her tired eyes. "Seven? You sure?"

"Look for yourself," Ellis says, tapping his finger against the bank statement. The ulcer in his stomach gives a sharp, burning twist, reminding him he hasn't eaten anything today. He stands up, his suit jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. "I need to get to the branch in town before they flag the card.

"You going like that?" Maureen asks. "You look a state, El."

"It doesn't matter what I look like at the cash machine, does it," he snaps, stuffing the Nationwide card, the cheque-book, and the PIN slip into his jacket’s inside pocket.

***

Back at 22c Alexander Road, the small living room feels crowded. Brian Firth, the Housing Association manager, is speaking in a low, urgent voice to PC Evans, who is writing in a notebook.

Karen is sitting on the leatherette chair, gently rubbing Mrs Delaney’s cold, veined frail hand.

"It's my fault," Mrs Delaney whispers, her red-ringed eyes fixed on the empty, bent concertina file on the table. "I should have known. Patrick told me."

"It is not your fault at all, Irene," Karen says softly, using the resident's first name to comfort her. "These people are clever. They know exactly what to say.”

Gordon enters from the hallway, holding a china mug of tea he has made for Mrs Delaney. It is decorated with a hunting scene. 

"The police are checking the CCTV at the main gate," Gordon says to Brian. "But he probably parked down the lane where the cameras don't reach."

Just then, the phone on the side table rings, its loud enhanced bell making everyone jump. Buster lets out a sharp, startled bark.

Karen reaches over and answers it.

"Hello? Yes, Patrick. Thank goodness. No, your mother is safe, but... well, you'd better come down straight away. There's been an incident."

***

Ellis doesn't wait for Maureen to reply. He slams the flat door behind him, his heavy, hurried footsteps echoing down the concrete stairwell. Left alone in the quiet, smoky room, Maureen stands by the sofa for a long moment. She looks at the scattered remnants of Mrs Delaney’s life—the birth certificate, the old premium bonds, the random paperwork.

She takes a final drag on her cigarette and crushes the butt into the Rogan Josh container.

Ellis thinks she’s stupid. He’s thought so for years. But Maureen knows exactly how this goes. Ellis will take the seven grand, spend half of it on drink and the horses, and leave her with nothing but the rent arrears and the smell of his cigarettes and sweat.

She walks into the bedroom. Beneath a pile of dirty laundry at the end of the unmade bed, she finds what she’s looking for. Ellis’s spare mobile phone. It’s a cheap, pay-as-you-go handset he uses for "business."

Maureen punches in a number she knows by heart.

“Terry? It's Maur," she says, her voice flat and cool. "Ellis has just left the flat. He’s got a Nationwide card with seven grand on it, and the PIN. He’s heading to the the High Street right now."

She listens for a second, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her smudged lips. "Yeah. Fifty-fifty, like last time."

She hangs up, turns the phone off, and drops it back into the laundry pile.

Ten minutes later, Ellis Scott is standing outside the Nationwide building society. His stomach is burning fiercely now, a sharp, twisting pain that makes him press one hand against his shirt.

He slides the card into the machine, his fingers trembling slightly as he punches in the four numbers from the pin slip.

Correct PIN.

He selects Balance Inquiry first, to see how much is still in the account.

Before he can press another button, a heavy hand falls on his shoulder. It grips him with a strength. Then another.

"Alright, Ellis?" a low, unfamiliar voice whispers right into his ear, heavy with the scent of cheap aftershave. "Terry wants a word about some paperwork."

Ellis turns, his cheeks draining of colour as he sees the two men he knows by sight flanking him and swivelling him away from the machine.

Before he can say any more he is steered firmly toward a car idling at the kerb. The cash machine bleeps behind them, the screen flashing a warning ‘Transaction Cancelled’.

***

By evening, 22c Alexander Road is quiet again. The police have gone, and Brian Firth has returned to his housing meeting. Patrick Delaney is sitting on one of the  leatherette chairs, holding his mother’s hand. He looks older than he does in the photograph on the shelf, his hair thinning just like his father’s.

"The banks frozen it all, Mum," Patrick says gently, leaning forward. "The wardens called them straight away. Not a penny was taken. I’ll sort it all out properly tomorrow."

Mrs Delaney nods slowly, though she isn't really listening. She is looking at the glass-topped side table, where the brown teapot with the cream and green highlights sits cold and neglected.

"I made him a lovely pot of tea," she says softly to the room, her voice trailing off "But he had gone."

On the rug by her slippers, Buster lets out another long, heavy sigh, and falls back to sleep.

***

Terry is on the phone.

“The lads got to Ellis, but by the time they’d bundled him in the car, the bloody thing had been cancelled. Ellis was messing rather than just taking the money. They didn’t know.”

Maureen croaks back down the phone. “Does he know who tipped you off, Ter?”

“Dunno, I think he’ll work it out, girl.”

He will…