On Eden Street

by Peter Grainger

  Cara Freeman picked up the salt cellar and examined it closely, as if it might offer an unexpected lead. Then she said, ‘One: Wortley could be dead as well. He might as well be for all the traces we can find of him – at the moment.’

  There was a touch of gentle mockery in those words, something Waters hadn’t noted in her before. Up to now, it had been infrequent sarcasm in potentially lethal doses.

  He said, ‘We don’t have anything back yet on his mobile or his bank account. They might turn up something. What’s number two?’

  ‘Your “instinct”? Is that how you work? I had you down as the analytical type, sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. DC always…’

  Waters looked embarrassed, like a boy caught out in a habit he couldn’t break. Freeman said, ‘Go on. If you’re doing it his way, so much the better as far as our clear-up rate is concerned. What were you going to say?’

  ‘He always said that detective work is about doing a small number of things well. Never assume that any scrap of information is worthless – something can change and that scrap becomes valuable intelligence, so keep everything tidy. Know the numbers. He always studied the latest crime statistics, the national trends, and he’d use those to calculate the odds in a particular case. He said that analysis isn’t identical with logic – you can be creative in the way you analyse.’

  Freeman was listening intently. She said, ‘He meant, thinking outside the box. What else?’

  Waters said, ‘I’m not sure I can get it all into one paragraph. He had his own views on everything to do with detective work. Some of them were unconventional.’

  The sandwiches arrived, delivered by Micky in person rather than his assistant. He nodded to Freeman, and she said, ‘These come highly recommended, Mr Lemon. Is the bacon free range and organic?’

  Micky looked at Waters but there wasn’t much he could do to help.

  ‘Dunno. It tastes all right, though.’

  Then he walked away, no doubt thinking she was a bit of an odd one. Or an acquired taste, Waters said to himself. Freeman lifted the top slice of bread and added a small amount of tomato sauce; Waters, in honour of his mentor, added liberal quantities of the brown variety.

  Freeman said, the sandwich still on the plate in front of her, ‘OK, another time. But what was his motivation? What got him out of bed in the morning?’

  Waters thought, the fact that it was empty perhaps had something to do with it. Still, he understood Freeman’s question – he had already learned that exceptional performance in anything is based around something exceptional in the need to do it in the first place.

  ‘He was always focused, whatever we were working on, but the taking of a life… That seemed to get to him. If you hurt someone, you can apologise and make reparations. If you steal from them, you can pay the money back. But if you kill them? He seemed to take that personally. It wasn’t just a job, and being on or off duty made no difference to him, not when he was on a case like that. He spent hours of his own time looking for Zoe Johnson.’

  She had finally taken the first bite, and he could do the same. After a few seconds, Freeman stopped chewing, looked at him and said without words, fair enough, this is a pretty good bacon sandwich. She ate more, then paused and said, ‘Maybe it was personal for Smith. Maybe there was something in the past. An early case, something like that.’

  This was more than making conversation. Freeman was still quizzing him, still digging, and he thought, that’s the same thing, the relentlessness I’m talking about. She cannot get over the fact that Smith didn’t agree to work for her. She’s trying to solve the riddle vicariously through me, the closest thing she can find to the detective who got away.

  But she was right, of course. There was something in Smith’s past. Waters didn’t know the details, didn’t even know the outline of it, but Murray had said to him once that something had happened in Belfast, the first time Smith was there, as a soldier, undercover for military intelligence. It was something of great moment that had haunted the young officer for the rest of his life, which meant that it was haunting Smith to this day. It was presumably, then, something to do with the taking of a life.

  Waters said, ‘Perhaps. He never discussed it with me.’

  Freeman ate more of the sandwich, her professional gaze travelling around the café, noting perhaps one or two interesting individuals – individuals Waters already knew by reputation. And that surprised him, but it was so – Kings Lake was his patch now. Micky Lemon wasn’t the only ear to the ground he could have a word with when information was needed. Some he had inherited, others were his own discoveries.

  Freeman said, ‘Smith spent hours of his own time looking for that missing girl, you said. A bit like you spending your Friday night chatting up the tarts on Eden Street. I hope you’ve got a good story ready for when you explain that to the rest of them on Monday morning!’

  She gave him an unexpected, friendly, off-duty smile, and it was in that apparently trivial moment that the last of his doubts about joining the squad disappeared. An instant later, his phone was ringing. Waters looked at it, shook his head a little in disbelief and said to Freeman, ‘Talk of the devil…’

  ‘Smith?’

  He nodded and she said, ‘Well, don’t keep the man waiting on my account.’

  Waters took the call and a voice said, ‘Afternoon, boy wonder. Where are you?’

  ‘We’re at Micky’s, eating bacon sandwiches.’

  Smith picked it up immediately, as Waters had intended.

  ‘Someone from the job? Somebody important?’

  The café was noisy and Waters couldn’t be sure how much of the other side of this conversation Freeman would hear.

  ‘Yes on both counts. What’s up?’

  There was a short pause while Smith thought this over. Freeman was politely looking away.

  ‘Well, something is up. I’ll have to sound a bit cagey now. Probably best not to do this on the phone anyway. What are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘Not a lot. Why?’

  ‘I’d better check something first. Have you been leaving pictures of dead homeless people at certain places around Lake? That sounded wrong. Have you been leaving pictures of people who subsequently became homeless and then died, around the town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ve just had a funny phone call that didn’t make me laugh. And they mentioned that it was a feisty young female detective constable handing out these images. I’m never sure whether that word is a compliment or not but she sounded familiar. Would it have been an erstwhile detective constable from my old team?’

  ‘Yes, again.’

  It was impossible to guess whether Freeman was picking up any of this.

  Smith went on, ‘Right. Well, she should hear this story as well, if she isn’t busy thrashing a squash ball or Mike Dunn.’

  Waters gave a short laugh and said, ‘That’s history now.’

  ‘She’s given up squash?’

  ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘Oh, good. I think… Anyway, I don’t want to be any more involved than this, which is passing on to you something that might be of use in your investigation. He was a veteran, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes and no, this time.’

  ‘Yes and no? Dear God – I’d hoped things might have improved since my time. But seriously, this phone call I had might be important but it’s complicated. I’m not being coy. There’s a reason I can’t just come out and tell you. Three o’clock for afternoon tea?’

  ‘Yes from me. I’ll call the other party involved.’

  Freeman looked back when he put his mobile away, and said, ‘Just a social call?’

  ‘Yes. He was asking whether I’d sold my flat yet.’

  Discussing the details of cases with people who have left the force is a disciplinary offence; Waters didn’t know Freeman nearly well enough to tell her exactly what Smith had just told him.

  There
was a spot of tomato sauce on her plate. With the last crust of bread, the detective chief inspector carefully wiped it away and then she ate the remaining evidence that there had ever been a bacon sandwich in the vicinity.

  ‘Good. I think it’s great when we keep in touch with old colleagues. When you see him, tell him from me he’s a decent judge of a sandwich.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  As Waters drove around the last bend and the expanse of saltmarsh opened up before them, Serena said, ‘Is that it?’

  A hundred and fifty yards down the single-track road that ran along the top of the shingle ridge, was the sandstone and flint cottage, Drift’s End. It stood alone on the edge of the marsh, and beside the little estuary that runs from the village of Marston to the sea half a mile beyond. Serena hadn’t been here before. Yes, Waters said, that’s where he’s ended up.

  She said, ‘It’s the back of beyond, isn’t it? Very pretty, though. Property prices out here are crazy. How did he manage it?’

  Waters could see Jo’s Volvo by the side of the cottage. As far as he knew, the two of them hadn’t bought a second car, and this meant they were both home, unless Jo was out walking the dog. There was a dog now, a rescue puppy he had met for the first time on his last visit. He said, ‘Well, he didn’t – they did. Jo had a house in London, her family house which was worth a lot. When DC sold his place in the spring, they put their money together and ended up here.’

  Serena said, ‘Oh… That’s quite romantic, isn’t it?’

  This merited a sideways glance but Serena appeared to be serious.

  She said, ‘She was a writer, wasn’t she? True crime and all that.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Waters replied, ‘she still is. She’s younger than DC and I don’t think she had plans to retire just because he has. She’s also ex-Met. She was a DI in an earlier life.’

  Serena had met Jo Evison once, at the hospital last January, a meeting that hadn’t lasted more than a couple of minutes. She reflected on what Chris had just told her as they covered the last few yards and he pulled in beside the Volvo, and said then, ‘She sounds a bit scary. He might have met his match.’

  She was looking at Waters, waiting for his verdict on the suggestion, but he hadn’t time to give one because DC had already appeared at the side of the cottage, as he invariably did. You could never drive up that track without him knowing you were on your way.

  The dog was probably a Labrador springer spaniel cross, Smith said, but even the vet wasn’t certain and at different times you could see all sorts of things in the way she behaved. The coat was short and thick, but longer around the neck, giving her a kind of ruff, and though mostly black, she had a white patch around her left eye, one spotted ear and a dappled chest. She had grown since Waters’ last visit but she remembered him and twisted in and out of his long legs when he sat on the sofa in the lounge, before deciding that Serena was the more interesting visitor today. She attempted more than once to climb onto her lap and lick her face, producing firm words from Smith before eventually being physically removed and told to sit in her basket in the corner of the room. She did so, tail still wagging, and coiled up ready to launch a new assault as soon as the human attention had gone elsewhere.

  Smith studied the dog and said, ‘I was saying only this morning, maybe we should have gone for a guinea pig instead.’

  When he spoke, the dog’s attention was immediately fixed upon him.

  Serena said, ‘Layla’s a lovely name for her, though. It suits her.’

  Waters saw the look between Smith and Jo, a half-smile that meant the name had some significance for them, some private meaning. Then Jo said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on and take her for another walk. We’ll leave you in peace.’

  Serena said, ‘We had a dog when we were kids. We used to take him for long walks over Chartley Moss. You don’t realise at the time it’s something you’ll miss doing.’

  Jo said, ‘You’re welcome to come along. It isn’t due to rain again, though we’ve found the forecast isn’t always reliable, living here on the edge. If David isn’t too long, we could all go.’

  Still odd, hearing him called that, but the man in question said that despite the insinuation he could be very concise when necessary and by the time someone had made the tea and it had been drunk, they’d be ready for a walk. Why not the long one, all twelve miles to Wells and back? Waters looked suitably concerned at the prospect but no one else took up the challenge – just a smile from Jo before she went off to the kitchen.

  Smith was seated in an armchair between the wood-burning stove and Layla’s basket. He settled back and the dog crept out and pushed her way underneath his legs, then she put her head between her paws and watched the two visitors. Smith shook his head and said, ‘As you can see, I’ve got my work cut out here… But anyway, this phone call. It seems you’ve been upsetting some of my old acquaintances in Lake. Well, one of them, and he wasn’t really upset, just concerned.’

  Waters said, ‘Who is it? And why did he get in touch with you instead of someone in the squad?’

  ‘Remember the name Joseph Ritz?’

  Waters did, as Brother Joe from the Abbeyfields Priory at Lowacre. Smith went on, ‘That’s him. We were looking for whoever whacked that unfortunate young man with a shovel, and-’

  ‘Mark Randall.’

  ‘Yes. And Brother Joe was very helpful in that inquiry. Anyway, he’s the top man at the friary now. He took over not long after Brother Jeremy was convicted and Brother Andrew went on a very long retreat, courtesy of Her Majesty. I first met Joe at the hostel for the homeless he was running on Waterfall Road.’

  Smith was looking at Serena now, and the penny dropped. She said, ‘I’ve been there twice this week, asking about two different people. But I don’t think I met the man you’re talking about. There were two volunteers, a young man and a middle-aged woman.’

  Smith said, ‘Joe wasn’t there. As I said, he runs the Abbeyfields Priory now, but he’s continued the outreach work he set up in Lake. He was on the streets himself once, and isn’t ashamed to admit it. If there were more Christians about like Brother Joe, I could be tempted to go to a carol service now and again. Joe visited the hostel yesterday evening, and what does he find on the desk in the cupboard he uses as an office there?’

  Not much had changed; you still had to work out at least some of the answers for yourself.

  Waters said, ‘A photograph,’ and Serena said, ‘Of someone he recognised?’

  The right eyebrow twitched upwards, which meant that they were both correct.

  ‘I had several chats with Joe Ritz during the Randall investigation,’ Smith said, ‘and I remember saying to him if he was ever having any trouble that involved the police – and working with the homeless, you’re going to – he should give me a call. I left him my card. He remembers hearing about a copper being attacked last Christmas but the name – my name – was never released. He assumed I was still on the job. So, early this morning, he rang me. I imagine he’d been pondering all night about what to do.’

  Serena said, ‘Do about what? Who did he recognise?’ and Waters thought, because he knew the way Smith’s mind worked, this isn’t something straightforward.

  Smith said, ‘Whom.’

  ‘I don’t know, DC! You tell me!’

  ‘I am telling you. In that question, the person recognised is the object of the sentence. Therefore, it’s “whom”, not “who”. Hasn’t Waters told you there’s a grammar paper in the sergeant’s exam?’

  The straight, dead-pan delivery could fool you even now, just for a second or two. Before she could stop herself, Serena glanced at Waters to check, even though she knew it was ridiculous.

  Satisfied, Smith said, ‘This is the end of my involvement, people. I’ve passed it on as I said I would. Brother Joe is busy with some sort of retreat or pray-in at the friary tomorrow but I said someone would contact him on Monday. He’ll be at the hostel in the morning. It ought to be one of you two, pe
rhaps both would be good. Chris, you’d be a half-familiar face which might help.’

  Waters said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Joe’s in a bit of a quandary. That’s something best explained by him. And here’s the tea. We’re drinking Ceylon at the moment, single estate. I’ll bet you’ll love it.’

  Waters didn’t disguise his doubts – Smith had shared some peculiar-tasting stuff with him over the years. Serena had regained her composure and said in her posh voice, ‘Whom’s photo did Joseph Ritz recognise, DC?’

  Smith said, ‘Yes, very good, highly amusing. Nearly as amusing as you’ll find the answer interesting, I suspect…’

  He drew it out for a few more seconds and Waters had it, though he didn’t have the time to say the words. It was Smith himself who said, ‘Both. He recognised both of them.’

  When they were back in the car and leaving Drift’s End, Serena said, ‘Jo’s all right, isn’t she?’

  And Waters answered, ‘Yes’ but added silently, as long as you keep on the right side of her. She was rather protective of the injured Smith as Waters had discovered on his first visit to the cottage early in the summer; there was to be no worrying him about work or the department, especially about the Harrison case, which would soon be coming to trial.

  Serena said, ‘When we were out with the dog, she told me she thinks he’ll get bored. He’s done everything that needed to be done at the cottage. He’s virtually rebuilt the garage so they can get the car in it for the winter. The garden looks beautiful.’

  Waters couldn’t resist saying, ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t get bored with Jo. Maybe that’s what she’s really worried about.’ For which he received the customary punch on the arm. It was inappropriate for a detective constable to do this to her sergeant, of course, but they were not on duty – in the office Serena did behave with reasonable decorum. Maybe she was hitting him as a friend.