Silent Crimes

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  Tim sat down and held his head in his hands. After a while he looked up. ‘Okay, you win. We’ll go.’

  ‘It’s not a question of winning, Tim. It’s not some kind of competition we’re in. I’d go to the Channel Islands like a shot at any other time, but this is a favour to the one person who’s always been there for me in recent years. Surely you can see that?’

  He gave her a faint smile. ‘Yes, I can. It’s just that I’ve never had close family, not for years anyway. I suppose I’m just too set in my ways.’ He ran his hand through his sandy hair. ‘I promise to be more cheerful and understanding in future.’

  ‘Just be yourself, alright? Though a few more smiles wouldn’t do any harm.’ She sniffed. ‘I think dinner’s ready. Pour some wine, will you? I could do with a good slug.’

  She opened the oven door. Interesting. He’d caved in far more easily than she’d expected.

  *

  Some twenty miles further north in Bristol, Trent Baker was making his way from the city centre to the Bedminster area, warily scanning the faces of the people he passed. The street was busy — there were far too many faces passing by too quickly for him to see if one of them recognised him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t get out of the habit of checking. Someone, somewhere, might notice his cherubic features and start to think. He needed to be on his guard, prepared, in case he became the object of a revenge attack. Maybe he was already on someone’s list. If so, he was probably safer here in a big city than out in some rural hamlet, working on an isolated farm like that one on the Quantocks where the problems had got too much. Wouldn’t somewhere like that be where they’d expect to find him? And what is more, where he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Here, in these hordes, he was just another mister nobody, a face in the crowd, a stranger in the bus queue. As long as he kept sliding through life with the minimum of friction, he should be okay. He looked up at the sky. It was starting to rain again, which was always a blessing. He wore long sleeves all the time to cover the scars on his arms, and he knew how out of place they looked on warm sunny days.

  Trent joined a bus queue, ducking as the lady in front of him put up her umbrella. She must have spotted his sudden movement because she turned and apologised for her clumsiness.

  Trent smiled at her. ‘No worries.’

  ‘Want to share?’ she said. ‘There’s room for two.’

  He looked her up and down. She was attractively dressed for an older woman. Might he be in with a chance? He could do with some comfort after all these empty years. He pulled up his jacket collar. ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Her smile faded and she turned her back on him. He wondered what it would feel like to slide a long, slim knife into that back. Pity that he was no longer in possession of his favourite one. The police would have gotten rid of it by now, melted it down for scrap in a furnace somewhere probably. Just then a bus appeared and began to slow down. Umbrellas were being lowered and the people in the queue began to push forward, rooting around in their pockets and purses for tickets, passes and money. Trent suddenly changed his mind and walked away. Did he really want to be trapped inside a crowded bus with a load of tired, irritable commuters? Better to be out in the open air. It was only a fifteen-minute walk, after all. And the rain was easing off. Good. He had a busy evening ahead of him.

  *

  Catherine Templeton was in the bedroom of her flat in Bath, trying to decide on a suitable outfit for a first date. She was standing at the wardrobe, sliding dresses and skirts aside, pulling out the occasional item and tossing it onto the bed. This pesky rain! She’d decided days ago on a thin, strappy dress in a wheat colour, along with a matching cardigan, but that might not be a good idea in this cooler, wetter weather. She suffered from cold legs at the best of times, and maybe this wasn’t the ideal night to show them off. Would Russell be offended if she turned up in jeans? Even with a sparkly top? Oh, sod it. I can’t be arsed with all this. Would he be worrying about what to wear? Not bloody likely.

  She replaced the skirts and dresses, and pulled out her tightest, sexiest jeans along with a blue silky top. They would do. She knew she looked good in them, particularly with a pair of attractive ankle boots. After all, it wasn’t as if they were going to the Ritz, just the Italian restaurant close to where Russell lived. She glanced at her watch. Perfect. Just enough time to get made up and changed. She could then arrive a reasonable few minutes later than they had arranged, allowing Russell time to get settled in, ready for her.

  Catherine made her entrance precisely eight minutes late. She’d noticed a number of admiring glances on her way from the bus stop, and not all of them from men. She looked around. Shit. No Russell. The manager eyed her with a raised brow.

  ‘A reservation for Poulter? For two? At seven o’clock?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Let me show you to your table. Mr Poulter isn’t here yet.’

  Catherine ordered a gin and tonic, and sat for twenty minutes sipping it. Where the hell was the man? She tried calling him several times but there was no answer. She was ravenous by now, having skimped on her lunch. She waited another half hour then ordered a starter. She was tucking in to king prawns in garlic butter when Russell wandered in. He looked flustered when he saw her eating. Before he sat down, the manager drew him aside and whispered in his ear. He listened with a look of embarrassed horror on his face.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said as he sat down. ‘I thought I’d booked for eight thirty.’

  Catherine seethed with anger. ‘I’ve already ordered my main course, so I’ll eat that, then you can pay the bill and fuck off for all I care.’

  And that was just what she did. Studiously ignoring Russell’s confused pleas and entreaties, she ate steadily then stood up and walked out, still furious. She hadn’t felt so enraged since that business with Trent Baker more than a decade earlier. Who the hell did Russell Poulter think he was to treat her like that?

  Chapter 9: Mischief-Making

  Tuesday Night

  Judy woke with a start. She looked at the clock beside the bed. It was twelve fifty, only an hour and a half since they’d come to bed. She turned over and found she was alone. Where was Tim? He’d come to bed at the same time as her. In fact, she’d been a few minutes after him, but she’d fallen asleep quickly. Maybe he hadn’t. Had it been him getting up that had disturbed her sleep? She listened for the sound of water running or the toilet flushing, but there was just silence.

  She thought she heard a rustling outside. She rose, went to the window and pulled the curtains gently aside, peering out. Nothing seemed to be moving but she kept watching. After a few moments a shadow seemed to detach itself from behind a bush and slide into the deeper shadows at the side of the house, out of her view. Could it be Tim? If so, what the hell was he up to? She watched for a further couple of minutes but saw nothing else. Maybe she’d imagined the movement.

  Judy went out to the landing. The bathroom was in darkness, the door open. There was no sign of Tim. Where was he? She looked down the stairwell and spotted a faint glow coming from the lounge. Could he be watching television? Maybe he hadn’t been able to fall asleep. She walked silently down the stairs and peered around the lounge door. Why was she nervous?

  And there he was. He seemed to be dozing in an armchair, his eyes closed and an open book on his lap. She walked forward, stepping on a floorboard, and he opened his eyes wide.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Why on earth are you down here, Tim?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to read for a while. I must have dozed off.’

  ‘Were you outside? A couple of minutes ago?’

  ‘Outside? No, of course not. Why?’ He certainly sounded as if he’d only just woken up.

  ‘I thought I saw a movement in the back garden just now.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe it was a cat or a fox. Whatever it was, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I thought it was taller than that, about the same height as a person. Maybe it was just a t
rick of the moonlight. Are you coming to bed?’

  He yawned. ‘I guess so. I’m sleepy enough now.’

  As he stood up she glanced at his pyjamas. Was there a patch of damp at the bottom of the left trouser leg? It was difficult to be sure. But why would he have been outside, prowling around in the bushes at this time of night? She shook her head wearily. Now wasn’t the time to follow this up.

  *

  Russell Poulter stayed up into the early hours, in utter despair. What had gone wrong? His world had turned upside down in the space of twenty minutes and he was at a loss as to how it had happened. He’d booked the restaurant for eight thirty, he knew he had. So why were both Catherine and the manager convinced that the reservation had been for over an hour earlier? After the pithy comments that she’d flung his way, he was in little doubt that their relationship was over before it had even begun. Ignoring all his apologies, she’d eaten her food quickly, gathered her jacket and bag, and flounced out.

  The problem had been compounded by the fact that Russell never reacted well in emotionally charged situations. His mind always went blank, as indeed it had on this occasion. He’d panicked and kept muttering apologies when he should have been trying to find out the cause of the mistake with the table reservation.

  At least he could check now. His phone had gone missing somewhere at work, which is why he’d missed Catherine’s calls, but he could use his tablet to check back through his emails. He switched on and sat back, scrolling through the screen. There it was — his original reservation for eight thirty, made at the start of the week. But there was another message in his inbox, received at midday and as yet unopened, stating that the restaurant had agreed to his phoned request to alter the booking to seven o’clock. Russell frowned. What request? He hadn’t made any request for a change in the time. It couldn’t have been a simple mix-up because Catherine had somehow also been informed. What was going on? Come to think of it, how had his phone gone walkabout at work? He rarely took it out of his pocket and had hardly used it at all today. No, something odd was at work here and Catherine needed to know. The problem was, how best to go about the task of winning her round? She hadn’t left him in much doubt that she wasn’t keen to see him or speak to him again. Ever. He looked at the time. Maybe the best thing to do was go to bed for a few hours and sleep on it. He was dog-tired, and it wouldn’t do to turn up to work tomorrow feeling like hell. He had another meeting with his software team scheduled for nine o’clock. Some of them were just not pulling their weight and needed to be warned that times were getting tougher.

  *

  Meanwhile, Catherine had calmed down somewhat and was mulling over what had gone wrong. After leaving the restaurant she’d taken a taxi to a bar close to her home. There, she’d ordered several glasses of chilled white wine, rebuffed an attempted pick-up by a fat bloke wearing a hoodie (really! Even if she was angry, frustrated and approaching middle age, she still had some standards), and finally taken a taxi back to her flat just before midnight.

  None of it made any sense, she could see that now. She’d had coffee with Russell Poulter several times at the fitness club where they’d met, and he’d always seemed so sensible and organised. Shy, of course, and a little slow to latch on to her hints about meeting up for an evening out, but he’d come across as thoughtful, if a bit on the dull side. So what had gone wrong? She tried to remember what he’d said during the ten minutes it had taken her to devour her cannelloni, but she’d deliberately closed her ears to his pleas. She did remember now that the date had originally been fixed for eight thirty, despite her own preference for an earlier time. Hadn’t Russell said that he couldn’t make it any earlier because of a visit to see his mother in hospital? Yes, that was right. So she’d been pleasantly surprised when the text message had arrived at midday telling her he’d rearranged the time. This was all too weird. He’d acted exactly as if he wasn’t aware of the change that he himself had initiated. It was laughable, really — as if anyone else would gain from spiking their date and ruining their relationship before it had even begun.

  Catherine froze. Trent Baker. Wasn’t he due out of prison about now? That evil, scheming, twisted bastard, that angel-faced, poison-dwarf. Had he traced her somehow, even though she’d moved here to Bath, while he was inside? Oh, Christ.

  *

  At home in Bristol’s Southside, Trent Baker shook the water from his raincoat and hung it in the hallway. Two o’clock. Bloody hell. It was late for him, but he wasn’t working tonight, and the time had been well spent. Sowing seeds of discord was more satisfying than he’d anticipated. Maybe he was in the wrong job. Working as an office cleaner, he didn’t get much chance to make use of the human interaction skills he’d developed in prison and he’d wondered how his little scheme would work out in practice. As it happened, it had gone like clockwork. Nothing like a spot of mischief-making to keep the world moving forward. It was a shame that he hadn’t actually been present in the restaurant to witness the results of his machinations, but he had waited across the road and watched her storm out. Had she hit the poor sap? Had she cursed and stamped her foot like the Catherine of old? Maybe both, if her temper hadn’t mellowed during the intervening years. Oh, this was such fun. Was there time for a quick celebratory glass of Scotch before he went to bed? You bet! He’d nicked the Scotch in question from an easily distracted shopper in the car park of the local Tesco. He looked at the label. Fine single malt. Way beyond his slender means and tasting all the better for it.

  Chapter 10: Probing the Past

  Wednesday Morning

  Detective Constable Jimmy Melsom had a reputation for being slapdash and forgetful, but not on this very special occasion. Today, he’d done them proud. All the detectives invited had chipped in and he’d bought a range of breakfast foods, champagne, and even some decent tea and coffee. The office of Bournemouth CID was festooned with Welcome Back, Lydia banners in red and black — Lydia’s favourite colours. The group of detectives stood about, chatting quietly until Lydia’s immediate boss, DI Kevin McGreedie, alerted by a phone call from reception, looked around at the expectant faces.

  ‘She’s here!’

  The door opened and a slim figure with jet-black hair cut in an elfin style hopped into the room on elbow crutches. She waited until the whoops and cheers had died down before attempting to speak.

  ‘I wondered if you’d do something like this. I’m feeling really nervous but it’s great to be back.’ She accepted the plastic tumbler of bubbly that Jimmy thrust into her hand, as well as the short embrace that went with it. Grinning broadly, she leaned back against her desk, took a sip and raised her cup. ‘Hmmm. I could get used to this.’ Kevin McGreedie, then Matt Silver and Sophie Allen all hugged her warmly.

  Soon, she was asking about their current cases. Fraud and money-laundering provided the current focus for the local Bournemouth CID, but she was intrigued by the VCU’s investigation into the “tramp murder,” as it had come to be called.

  ‘Sadly, we don’t need you on this one, Lydia. Not at the moment anyway,’ Sophie said. ‘But you never know what might crawl out from under the stones we turn over. If we do find something financial, would you be happy to get involved? That is, if Kevin doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I’d want to be in. I can’t get out of the office much, not like this. I’ve been told to ease myself in,’ Lydia said. ‘This week I’m here mornings only, then I have to review things with the boss.’ She nodded towards Kevin. ‘He’ll fuss over me far too much, I know. He’s worse than my dad.’

  Sophie noticed that Lydia was holding herself stiffly. ‘Still sore?’

  Lydia nodded. ‘I’m still on painkillers but at a low dose. I’ll be off them completely by the end of the month. That’s the plan, anyway.’

  ‘We’ll be off shortly, Lydia,’ Sophie said. ‘But maybe I’ll see you next week at the chief constable’s tea party. Look, don’t try to do too much too quickly, will you? I know what you’re like. Kevin doesn’t w
ant to lose you again for any length of time, so just do what he suggests. Okay?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ Lydia grinned.

  Sophie caught the eye of her own boss, DCS Matt Silver. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s great to have Lydia back with us but in fact, just by chance, we have two other things to toast this morning. Kevin’s been under a lot of strain in recent months, but we’re hoping that today will be a bit of a turning point. He mentioned to me just now that his wife’s cancer seems to have gone into remission, and if that isn’t a cause for celebration, I don’t know what is. So here’s to Laura. Long may she remain in good health.’

  The group raised their plastic cups.

  ‘And finally, a bit of news that we’ve been anticipating for some time. Confirmation only arrived this morning. Raise your glasses everybody and drink a toast to Detective Inspector Barry Marsh, a sergeant no longer.’

  More cheers and clapping. Barry looked bemused. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t someone warn me?’

  ‘Because it all fitted in so well,’ Sophie said. ‘Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?’

  *

  They had been back in the Wareham incident room less than an hour before Barry made the first real breakthrough. He’d given up on tracing injuries that might have been caused by an aggressive dog and switched his attention to the only name they had, other than Paul Prentice himself. Within a few seconds of entering the words “Trent Baker” into the main PNC, his computer pinged and a set of records came through. He stared at the screen for some minutes and then called to the other two.

  ‘Look at this lot. Assault, criminal damage, affray, attempted murder, arson. It goes right back to when he was a teenager.’