An Accidental Death

by Peter Grainger

  Smith nodded – in a way it was the central question, the axis upon which the whole sad sequence of events now turned.

  ‘Yes. I asked Petar in the initial interview, and Hanna when I met her at her father’s home. They didn’t know. He really wasn’t armed – not even a penknife. I think it was about confronting the man they believed had murdered their family, about coming face to face with him before he had the chance to die and escape them. I can understand that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From what I can make out, when he realized that Wayne Fletcher was dead, Petar went to pieces. He kept on going because he couldn’t think of an alternative but he must have been in a state of shock. Hamilton’s people found him and roughed him up – they worked out enough to realise that he wasn’t a common or garden burglar, though quite how they linked him to Bosnia I don’t know yet.’

  ‘DC? You said ‘yet’.’

  ‘Did I? All I meant was that I’m still thinking it over. You know, force of habit.’

  ‘You need to stay out of it now.’

  ‘Definitely. I’m going to go and polish up my drugs talk. Waters reckons I could get onto Britain’s Got Talent with it, whatever that is.’

  ‘He did well.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a good lad. Lots of promise, if you ask me.’

  ‘Next week I’m going to move him on, though. Put him with someone else.’

  ‘Good God yes – before he picks up any nasty habits, couldn’t agree more.’

  Smith was halfway out of the door, waiting to see if that really was the end of it. They looked at each other for a moment and then Reeve said, ‘Thanks, DC.’

  He found Waters in the usual place, sitting at the end of his desk. He looked quite at home there now and Smith decided to leave giving the news of his impending departure to Alison Reeve. Smith sat down and stared pointedly at Waters’ nose, even shifting his head slightly to alter the perspective, until the young detective became self-conscious. The bruising was going already and it didn’t seem too bad at all – but the nose would never quite look as it did before it was broken. It was pushed ever so slightly to one side. Smith thought that it added a little interest, a little distinction – a sort of slightly rugged touch to an otherwise rather young-looking face.

  ‘Alright? What’s happening?’

  Waters had already developed the habit of reading over the duty log every morning, and of picking up what progress other teams were making; this was more than just gossip – it was how good operators made the connections that others couldn’t see.

  ‘You heard about Budgie?’

  ‘Yes. He had me worried for a couple of days but I feel happier now. It’s a lesson in how not to return lost property to its owners, if you ask me.’

  ‘I had a phone call this morning, from Steven Neale. Well, you did – they passed it to me.’

  Smith looked more interested at that.

  ‘Really? What did he want?’

  ‘Well, news that someone has been charged has got out, obviously. He asked me whether they would need to id anyone or be interviewed again, but really I think he just wanted to talk to us. He said thanks, from both of them.’

  ‘Don’t get many of those. Good on him.’

  ‘We had a chat. He said he’s thinking of joining the force after uni.’

  ‘That’s taking gratitude too far. I hope you put him right. I mean, look what’s happened to you.’

  ‘I said that if he needed any advice, he should get in touch. With me, that is – I gave him my number.’

  Waters was expecting some sort of comeback, some remark about phones and numbers, but then he noticed that Smith’s attention was now focused across the room. O’Leary had entered, and was at his desk on the far side. Smith reached into an inside pocket and took out an envelope, which he dropped in front of Waters.

  ‘Just give that to O’Leary, will you?’

  When Waters returned, Smith was still watching O’Leary, watching and waiting with the same fixed expression that Waters had seen in the bedroom at Woodhurst Road – it was not a look, he now realized, that he ever wanted turned upon himself. When O’Leary arrived at their desk, Waters did not move.

  ‘What the hell is this, DC?’

  Smith glanced at the paper in O’Leary’s hand and shrugged.

  ‘I hold this bill to be self-evident…’

  ‘What are you on about? Why have you-’

  ‘It is self-evidently a bill for a new phone. My old one went mad and started replicating itself with unfortunate consequences. I thought you might like to make a contribution.’

  ‘Why the f-’

  ‘O’Leary, there are children present. Have a little think about it. A contribution or a name, I don’t mind which. At the moment this is just between you and me and the bedpost here but…’

  O’Leary threw the paper onto Smith’s desk and walked quickly out of the room. Waters looked at it upside down, and was surprised to see that it really was an invoice for a new phone. He looked up at Smith.

  ‘Your phone? I never really understood what happened that night when-’

  ‘And the state of ignorance is sometimes bliss. Leave it at that.’

  ‘Can I ask you about something else, then? What Hamilton said, about when you were in Ireland – he said that you should understand. Understand what?’

  Smith considered something for a few seconds.

  ‘Northern Ireland – not an adjective an historian should miss out, is it?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘A few people worked undercover there – basically the young and gullible ones. Sometimes they were pretty effective but the republicans had a sort of unforgiving nature and very long memories, a dangerous combination. They didn’t always seem to grasp the idea that someone’s term of duty had ended or even that they had left the British army.’

  ‘Right.’

  There were no further questions and Smith clearly approved of that. He seemed to shake himself and assumed his bright and optimistic countenance once more.

  ‘Now - I’ve got a question for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What are you up to this weekend?’

  Waters’ face fell and he drew back from the desk a little. Smith frowned.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is there something I-’

  ‘You took me off-guard there, DC. But you don’t want a lift or picking up from somewhere, do you?’

  Eventually Waters smiled.

  ‘Oh, very droll, very amusing. It’s definitely time you were off, you cheeky b-’

  Chapter Twenty

  When he opened the door, he was surprised to see so many people. There must have been twenty tables, each with several chairs, and each table already had its own group, sitting, talking and drinking. To the right was the bar, and at the opposite end was a small, low stage, with a microphone, drums and guitars on stands but no sign of anyone getting ready to play. They went right towards the bar and he was aware of heads turning, partly because they were strangers, of course, but partly because the girl that held onto his arm was uncommonly pretty.

  At the bar, there were two empty stools and she sat on one of them while he ordered drinks – he didn’t need to ask what she wanted now and he knew she was pleased by that. While he waited, he looked around at the crowd again, looked for the one familiar face but the place was only dimly lit and he couldn’t see everyone. The woman behind the bar gave him his change with a smile and he tasted the beer; real ale, no gas and ridiculously cheap. He said thanks and asked her if she would like a drink herself – she said no with another smile and walked away to the next customer. He’d never done that before and hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. He sat on the other stool.

  ‘Is he here?’

  She was looking over the crowd too but he wasn’t sure that she would be able to remember him on such a brief acquaintance.

  ‘Can’t see him. He might have done what he said and left this afternoon, before we arrived. There’s no
telling with him.’

  ‘Nice of him, though, the caravan and that…’

  ‘Yes. He feels pretty guilty, though he won’t admit it. I could probably get money if I tried.’

  She laughed and punched his arm, or at least she tried – it felt more like a friendly tap.

  ‘You know that case you told me about? I asked my mum about it, and she could remember it all. The papers called them the Ice-cream Murders.’

  Perhaps he should not have mentioned that but it had been public knowledge for a decade now, and he’d feel foolish saying to a girl, ‘Sorry, I cannot talk about my work.’ He took hold of her hand and she squeezed back – he knew how she would be looking at him and he continued to focus on the people in the room, denying himself the pleasure of her face for another long moment.

  ‘Best not to mention it if he turns up. But your mum’s right. They didn’t use that name for it until he was caught though – no-one knew how he was freezing the bodies. They had looked into it as a line of inquiry but no-one thought of an ice-cream seller. It’s easy afterwards, of course.’

  In the silence, he knew that she was wondering, curious as everyone is about such things, wanting to know more but not wanting to offend or seem prurient.

  ‘My mum said that they found a list at his home, a list of names.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Real girls, some with addresses.’

  ‘That’s true as well.’

  She had frightened herself just saying it aloud – he could tell.

  ‘So – do you think that afterwards, when he was caught, someone went round… Had to go round and tell these girls that they were on that list?’

  ‘I know they did. It was part of the investigation – how he chose his victims. They would all have been informed.’

  ‘Just imagine being told that…’

  She was staring down at the floor now, lost in the horror of it. He pulled at her hand to bring her back to the here and now, and to him.

  ‘Marco Andretti got life, and in his case it will be. You can buy your Ninety-nine with a flake and feel pretty safe.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it! It’s horrible!’

  She let go of his hand, reached inside his zipper and dug her nails into his back – but not too hard. They looked at each other then and nothing was said but when he sipped at the beer it tasted odd, different to before.

  Someone was on the stage, tuning a guitar, and then another man tapped on the microphone and said, ‘One, two – one, two.’ Somewhere in the crowd a voice cheered, and the man said into the mike ‘Thanks, we’ll see you again sometime.’ The door at the side opened and another half a dozen people came in, found friends and sat down; he thought that some of these must be from the town, there were not this many staying on the site this late in the season. The place would soon be full.

  And then he could see DC coming towards them from the darkest part of the hall, weaving between the tables and returning people’s hellos as he passed by them. He looked different again, jeans, T shirt and trainers. Waters noticed for the first time a small tattoo above the right elbow, and then he noticed too how well defined the muscles of that arm were.

  They shook hands, and Waters said, ‘I don’t know if you remember Clare?’

  ‘Of course I do! How’s Mr Riches? Pisces gone international yet?’

  She had slipped off the stool and took the hand that Smith offered her, blushing.

  ‘I don’t know! It was only temporary. I’ve started my training.’

  ‘Doing what? Sorry, force of habit and a habit of the force!’

  ‘Accountancy. Very boring!’

  ‘Who with? Sorry!’

  ‘Bellars and Co.’

  ‘Go-ahead company, aren’t they? Out on Morton’s Business Park, insurance. Tell you what, he could do with some more insurance if you ever move over into sales.’

  She didn’t quite know how to take him, and Waters intervened, laughing.

  ‘Thanks again for this weekend, DC, we-’

  He was silenced by the familiar traffic-stopping gesture and an invitation to join ‘them’, whoever they were, at their table. As they moved through the crowd, Smith found a moment to murmur to Waters, ‘You sly dog! Lovely girl. I hope you’ve told her it was all my idea…’

  The band seemed to be in no hurry at all to begin. Various balding, middle-aged men wandered onto the stage and fiddled with equipment, or just stood quietly chatting to one another as if they were on their allotments. But it meant that there was time for Waters and Clare to be introduced to the four people at DC’s table. Opposite them was Ken, a thin, bearded man who nodded once and said nothing more. Next to him was Malcolm, also bearded but with a broad, ruddy face and bright eyes; the banded blue and white rugby shirt made him look like the caricature of an old-fashioned sailor. Three minutes after that thought, Waters discovered that he was a retired ex-navy, ex-merchant seaman who now did ‘a bit of fishing and coast-guarding’. With him was a small, shy woman called Sally who wore a wedding ring and might or might not have been his wife – it was impossible to say. Next to Waters was a plump, welcoming woman whom Smith introduced as ‘the owner of all she surveys, Shirley’. She took their hands in turn, and said that David had already told her all about them, which seemed unlikely. Smith himself sat on the other side of Clare from Waters. She was nervous, not used to so many newer, older people and Waters thought again about how young she was and how careful he should be with her.

  But after just a minute or two she was laughing at something DC had said – then she responded and DC was laughing too. Shirley leaned in and said to Waters, ‘You’ll have to watch your step there!’ nodding towards the laughing couple.

  Waters said in mock seriousness, ‘What can I do? He’s my boss – I have to think about my career.’

  ‘Well, my love, you couldn’t have a better one if it comes to that…’

  Waters looked at them again and listened in. Clare was saying, ‘So what does the C stand for then?’

  Shirley leaned across a little and said so that everyone could hear, ‘Even I don’t know the answer to that!’ As a result, all the eyes around the table were turned towards Smith. He looked at them all and raised his eyebrows in concern, as if he had been trying to avoid this moment for half a lifetime.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s payback time for all the questions I’ve asked you since you arrived here tonight. So, it’s my mother’s fault, god bless her. She was of a literary bent – a high-school scholarship girl who had to leave and work in a shop at fifteen when times got hard. Anyway, she was a great reader all her life. She gave me the Christian name and the surname of her two favourite novelists. The Christian name was David.’

  ‘D H Lawrence?’

  It was Sally, the little woman who sat beside Malcolm.

  ‘Well done, Sal, first prize to you! So, now we’re in the right sort of area – like I said, a woman of literary taste, my mum. The surname begins with a C.’

  Waters remembered the bookcase, went along it in his mind’s eye and found the little volume – it was easy because he had noticed at the time that there were two copies of it.

  ‘Conrad.’

  He caught the brief look in Smith’s eye, a mingling of surprise and satisfaction.

  ‘And whoever said a university education is a waste of time?’

  There was more laughter around the table, and a sudden buzz of conversation. Shirley said that she thought it sounded a classy name, a bit American film star, and Malcolm asked Waters what he had studied. When the conversation moved on, Waters found himself wondering whether those books were DC’s mother’s after all, whether her son had inherited her taste and read them or whether they were only keepsakes. And then Smith leaned across and said quietly, ‘Well, you’re better on books than cars. I suppose it might come in useful some day. But you don’t need to tell the whole bloody station!’

  Waters said, ‘It’s a great name, and a great way to get it, too.’


  Smith considered that for a moment and said, ‘Perhaps she thought I had a heart of darkness.’

  When the first crash of the drums came, they had forgotten all about the band. Then someone turned down the main lights and the stage was lit by two or three small blue spotlights. The conversation in the little hall died away in a moment, and Waters realized that this was why they were here, the odd-looking mixture of people around him – because from the opening notes the band was first class. You did not need to be an aficionado to recognize the crispness and the tightness that came only from years of playing together and an intimate knowledge of the infinite permutations that make up the blues.

  Waters turned to look at Clare. She was staring at the stage. He had no idea whether she had ever heard anything like it before – it seemed improbable but then he knew so little about her yet. The thought filled him with a strange excitement that was almost a fear, as if he was the adventurer about to enter the dark and mysterious continent of their future together. Beyond her, he caught another new expression on DC’s face – his eyes were half-closed and there was almost a smile on his mouth. A hand came out of the darkness and placed a tumbler with a shot of whiskey in front of DC – very pale whiskey, a single malt. He didn’t know that about him either. DC twisted and said a thank you to the departing figure, and then he turned his face back into the music again.

  The applause after the first number was genuine and sustained. It was obvious that the second would be along when it was ready – on stage the players sipped their beer and talked some more, and in the audience some stood and made their way to the bar, including Smith. Shirley said to Waters, ‘Well, what do you think? Not your cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I liked it. My dad’s sort of thing. He’d be in heaven!’

  ‘David knew your dad, he tells me.’

  ‘Yes. They worked together.’

  It was true then – DC had told her about him.

  ‘He’s a dear man to us.’

  There was nothing Waters could say to that.

  ‘You know about Sheila and that, I assume.’

  ‘Yes – well, something. A bit…’