14. OAC 63

Rosie sets out to possibly retrieve the lost number-plate.

By the time Rosie had returned to her caravan in order to dress in something more appropriate to wear in a crawl through the undergrowth in an ancient patch of woodland, Jerry and Cat had returned to the camp site with the Baur twins.

“We’ve found a … what did you say it was, Jerry … a half something or other, hat, what you put on your head if you’re royalty!” shouted Jack.

“Half-crown, silly!” said a much quieter Jill.

“Half-crown!” agreed Jack, “and Jerry says it’s what people used to spend and that old ones are made of real silver, which makes them treasure, don’t it mum?”

She smiled at her enthusiastic twins. “I suppose it does,” she murmured, “listen, mummy’s found a place in the forest where she wants to take a look around. It’s not far in and nowhere near that disgusting old caravan, and you can come with me if you like but you’ll have to dress in trousers and not those shorts that you’re wearing. I might want to scrabble in a briary thicket.”

“What for, mummy?” asked Jill. “More treasure?”

She shook her head, and explained. “You remember that missing number-plate from the old caravan you discovered, the one with the skeleton in it? Well, I think I’ve found a likely place where it might have been discarded if someone decided to throw it away,” she explained, “and if you’re coming with me you’ll have to get changed now.”

“They can stay with us, Rosie,” said Cat, “they’re no trouble at all and we’ll keep an eye on them for you.”

“I want to come with you, mummy,” shouted Jack.

“And me,” added a much quieter Jill.

It took almost no time at all for the three of them to pull a pair of jeans on each and make sure that their upper bodies were just about protected, and they were ready.

Rosie led the way after explaining she had left a marker so that she would know when they were there, there being near the thicket she wanted to check out. And it didn’t take many minutes for her to pull them to a standstill and point at the sign of twigs she had left. Then she pointed to the thicket.

“That’s where it could be, if I’m lucky,” she said.

From the path it looked exactly what it was, a dense patch of undergrowth lit by a broad shaft of daylight because it was beneath one of the few areas where the canopy of trees didn’t meet but left a patch for the sun to shine through.

“There,” she pointed, “now you two wait on the path and I’ll take a look around.”

She picked up a length of dead wood lying around and forced her way past a sea of nettles until she was next to where a riot of brambles and saplings mingled to create an impenetrable sea of a mixture of new and old growth. That might have disheartened her but for one thing.

Lying amongst them and supported by them was what had to be the missing number-plate.

There could be no doubt about it. Who else would throw such a thing into this little thicket than the person who had ripped it from the derelict van?

Using her stick and struggling to force her way closer to it, she leaned over the thicket.

“Ouch!” she called, “I’ve been stung by a nettle! Be a couple of angels and find some dock leaves for when I get out, will you?”

“What are dock leaves?” asked Jack.

“They’re big,” explained Jill, “and they cure nettle stings.”

“There are loads of different big leaves here,” grumbled Jack, “which ones are dock?”

“I dunno,” said Jill.

“Ouch!” shouted Rosie, “I’ve pricked myself!”

“Rosie!” came Jerry’s voice suddenly, “are you somewhere in there?”

“I’m here!” responded Rosie.

“She’s there and bleeding,” chorused the twins.

“I thought I might lend a hand,” replied Jerry, arriving on the scene with Cat just behind him. “What are you after? It looks dangerous...”

“I won’t be a moment,” replied Rosie. She’d reached the number-plate and could just about touch it, but she was afraid that if she fumbled and dislodged it, the slender metal object might slide down into the thicket, further out of her reach. So carefully she pushed her hand towards it and when she was certain there would be no mistake, she grabbed hold of it and held on to it firmly.

“Got it!” she called.

“What is it?” asked Jerry.

“Someone saw fit to remove this from the caravan where the skeleton was, where we went with your metal detector and found gold, remember? Well if it was significant enough for someone so that on the very day it was discovered after being lost and forlorn for probably thirty years there must be someone who doesn’t want the van identified,” said Rosie.

“And you can identify the caravan from that?” asked Cat.

“There will be records of this number-plate and who owned it,” replied Rosie, “and I’ll have the name as soon as we get back to my van!”

She fought her way back out of the undergrowth until she was standing safely on the pathway.

“Where’s that dock-leaf, kids?” asked Rosie, rubbing the back of her hand.

“There,” pointed Jill.

“No, darling, that’s something else,” said Rosie, and then, “but here’s one!”

She picked a single leaf from the plant she was indicating, crushed it between two fingers and rubbed the juice from it into her hand where a nettle had stung her.

“Docks leaves are very good for this sort of thing,” she murmured, “and that’s completely better! Come on, let’s get back to the van!”

“What’s the number?” asked Jerry.

Rosie looked down at it. True, it might have been weathered and some of the black paint flaked off, but it was still perfectly clear. “OAC 63”, she said, “that’s from a vehicle that was registered ages ago.”

“It’s clever how you know such things, mummy,” murmured Jill.

“I’m a police-woman!” explained Rosie with a chuckle, “and quite a senior one at that!”

They made their way back to the caravan and Rosie attended to pouring a fizzy tropical fruit drink into five glasses, and handed them around.

“I’ll ring Brumpton,” she said when they all had their drinks, “and see if I can find out about that number.”

She was on the phone for some minutes, and then she turned round to Jerry, Cat and the twins, frowning. “Another dead end by the look of it,” she sighed, “that number was registered to the owner of a mid 1950’s power-assisted bicycle. It was called a Cyclemaster, had a tiny petrol engine, and it could never have towed a caravan!

“Someone thirty years ago was being very naughty, putting that number on the back of a caravan and, who knows, on the front of a car!”

“How would they get away with it?” asked Jerry, eyebrows raised.

“It’s cameras that catch tricks like this out these days, and back then there weren’t so many of those,” replied Rosie. “But the Cyclemaster or whatever it was must have been registered to someone, and my officers are researching that one as we speak.”

“Did you find anything in Tom’s van?” asked Jerry.

“Ah yes. This,” grinned Rosie, “so all is not lost.”

She opened the drawer where she had put the disc until her sergeant arrived to see if he could make the computer work.

“This!” she almost shouted, holding it up. “This might hold all the secrets!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Peter Rogerson 03.04.17