by Keith Nixon
“I can do that too.”
Wyatt raised her hands in surrender at Gray as Pfeffer finished cleaning.
“I’ll come back when you’re done,” said Pfeffer and retreated.
“What was that all about?” asked Wyatt.
“I’ve no idea,” lied Gray. “Hormones?”
“Brilliant.” Wyatt’s expression was flat and unimpressed. “Hormones explain everything about a woman, right?”
“Anyway, back to social services. I’d like to speak with someone about the process of fostering because the person whose house we found the baby in was a carer.”
“The shoebox baby.”
“I’m not using that phrase.”
“The baby in the box is quite a mouthful.”
“Will you check, or not?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
Wyatt glanced around the office area before sliding closer. “What about going out for dinner soon? I feel like I’ve hardly seen you.”
“Sure, I’d like that.”
“Good.” She squeezed his arm. “See you later.”
“Don’t forget to make that call.”
“It’s only been a minute; I haven’t got dementia.” Wyatt rolled her eyes and walked away.
Gray returned to his office, wiggled his mouse and woke up his laptop. There was an email waiting him from Clough confirming the PM on the baby for first thing tomorrow morning.
Gray entered the Police National Computer database and searched for Andrea Ogilvy. Three records were returned. Two noise complaints from neighbours; some shouting and screaming late at night a few months apart. Uniform had attended and spoken with both parties.
The third was from a family on behalf of whom Andrea had temporarily housed a child. The allegation was that Andrea’s husband, Gordon, had been spying on one of the children. However, the follow-up notes stated the claim was unsubstantiated and taken no further.
“Here you go.” It was Wyatt in the entrance, holding out a yellow post-it note. “Alexander Vardie, he’s a senior practitioner. The frontline social services team report into him.”
“That was quick.” Gray took the note.
“I don’t hang around, Sol. You should know that.” Wyatt winked and left.
Gray picked up his phone, dialed Vardie’s number, but the call simply rang before dropping into voicemail. “Mr Vardie, this is DI Gray from Thanet Police. I’d appreciate it if you could call me back on this number. There’s an important matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Just then Ibbotson wandered into the Detectives’ Office, wiping his hands on his trousers, meaning he’d just come from the toilets. As Ibbotson passed by Worthington he patted him on the shoulder.
Gray stood and called to Ibbotson from his doorway. “Ted. I’d like a word.” Worthington looked over his shoulder, but Gray ignored him.
“Of course, sir.” Ibbotson was usually a pleaser. Ibbotson never said no to any request from a senior officer. Gray suspected that if he asked Ibbotson to jump out of a window the man probably would. Yet he’d ignored a direct request from Gray regarding Worthington which made it all the more surprising.
“In my office.”
The sergeant blinked. When the sergeant was inside the room Gray closed the door then leant against it, arms crossed.
“What’s the matter, sir? I hope I haven’t done something wrong?”
“Why was DC Worthington in St Peter’s today?”
“Sir?”
“It’s a simple question. DC Worthington is not supposed to work outside of the station unless expressly agreed by me.”
“I thought it would be a good idea to bring him back into the fold, as it were.”
“Do you recall our first discussion after your return to work interview?”
“DC Worthington.”
“And my view of how I wanted you to manage him and his behavior going forward, right?”
“I remember.”
“And in turn I clearly recall you stating you understood and would act accordingly, right?” Ibbotson nodded. “Then what the bloody hell happened to the ‘not unless expressly agreed with me’, part sergeant?”
“Nothing.”
“Meaning you deliberately ignored my request?”
“Not exactly, sir. You see, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Jerry and in my opinion he’s a really decent bloke. He’s capable and we’re short-handed. It seemed wrong not to use him properly.”
“By wrong, you mean I’m wrong?”
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
“Not in so many words. You didn’t discuss any of this with me first. Why?”
“Sir, as your sergeant I do have the opportunity to use my initiative from time to time. You’re extremely busy.”
“And as your inspector I’m able to hand down my wishes and expect them to be adhered to. In this case you expressly went against my order.” Ibbotson cast his eyes down, shifted from foot to foot. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just…” Ibbotson shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t say, sir.”
“Go on, I’m giving you permission – this time.”
“Okay, it’s just people think you’re biased against Jerry.” Ibbotson stared straight at Gray now. Ibbotson was correct; Gray did have a prejudice, and with good reason. “That you don’t like him.” Also, true. “And your perspective isn’t right.”
Here, Ibbotson was mistaken. Worthington was a dirty cop, only Gray couldn’t prove it. Not yet. So, Gray had been making Worthington’s life as difficult as possible until the evidence came to light. Except, Ibbotson seemingly wanted to act as a buffer between them.
“Who are these people, sergeant?”
Ibbotson took on a pained expression. “I’d rather not say. I was told in confidence.”
“Would ‘they’ happen to be one Jerry Worthington?”
Ibbotson straightened up, like Gray was insulting him and Ibbotson took exception. “Not at all!”
“Really?”
“Sir, I’m not a liar!”
“Let me make this very plain, sergeant. I do have a problem with Worthington and it’s not something I’m going to spend time explaining to you now or in the future other than saying my reasons are valid and supported by DCI Hamson. Worthington is well aware of my feelings too. I expect him here in the station from now on until I say otherwise. I don’t want any further lateral thinking by you or anybody else on this matter and I do not want you listening to anything Worthington has to tell you. Is that plain enough for you and these people?”
“One hundred per cent, sir. Is that all?”
“Yes.” As Ibbotson’s hand was reaching for the door handle Gray said, “Ted.”
Ibbotson glanced over his shoulder. “Sir?”
“Be careful of Worthington. He’s not who or what you think he is.”
“Door open or closed, sir?”
“Open, thanks.”
Gray watched Ibbotson stalk back across the office and drop into his chair. Worthington must have said something because Ibbotson’s eyes flicked up to Gray before he shook his head at his younger colleague.
Gray suspected Ibbotson would continue his one-man crusade on Worthington’s behalf. If he did then he’d find himself sharing a sinking boat with his desk mate.
“Are you all right?” Pfeffer, in the doorway.
“It’s nothing.”
“Don’t be fooled by Ibbotson,” she said. “He’s passive aggressive, that one.”
“I’ve worked with his type before. What can I do for you?”
“Just to let you know I’ve organised a courier to get the DNA samples into the FSP for analysis.”
The Forensic Service Provider was a Government approved accredited laboratory; private companies operating under contract to the Home Office and responsible for running the National DNA Database. The NDNAD, as it was otherwise known, had been established in 1995 as a centralised facility for the storage of
DNA profiles and was now the largest database of its kind in the world. The service had proven a highly successful tool for solving crimes and now 23 million profiles were stored and continually increasing with every sample of human material, saliva or hair for example, collected from a crime scene being entered. The police were empowered to take DNA samples and retain them if the suspect was convicted of an offence.
FSP technicians evaluated a discrete genome of the otherwise massive DNA chain – just sixteen markers. They also assessed the sex of the person whose DNA they checked. Besides this, the analysis didn’t reveal personal aspects like physical appearance or race. There were over 6 million profiles on record, the majority of which were white, northern European and men. NDNAD didn’t come without controversy. Civil liberties groups regularly attacked the storage of DNA as a privacy infringement, something Ogilvy had alluded to with his initial protestations about a sample being taken.
“You prioritised it, right?”
“Of course.”
“And requested a familial search too?”
Which meant an examination of the DNA database for close relatives, those who shared a significant proportion of their DNA – not an exact match but near enough. Statistically, close relatives lived in or near the immediate proximity of the offender.
“Of course, sir. Some of us don’t need to be told what to do all the time.”
Gray checked his watch. Kent Police dealt with an FSP up in the Midlands. “The transportation alone will take three or four hours.”
“It is what it is and testing probably wouldn’t have started until tomorrow morning at the earliest, even if they were right around the corner.”
Gray sighed. “I guess.”
“What’s the rush? This is a cold case.”
“People need answers, Melanie.”
“People always need answers. This one’s no different, is it?”
“When children are involved, cases are usually more sensitive, in my experience.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
Pfeffer stepped further into the office, pushed the door partially closed. “What you said earlier, about being done with kids.”
Gray frowned, trying to remember the specifics of the conversation. “Okay.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Well, yes. I’m a bit too old for children these days.”
Pfeffer was going to say something else but there was a brief rap at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Ibbotson, leaning inside, sounding anything but apologetic, a glower still on his face. “We’ve had a call from the hospital.” He checked the notepad in his hand. “A Doctor Maltby. He wanted to let us know about a patient who came into Accident and Emergency at the QEQM earlier, a young man.” The QEQM was the Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother hospital in Margate, not far from the station. “He’d been mauled by a dog. Quite badly.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Pfeffer.
“Did you get all you needed?” asked Gray.
“One hundred per cent.” Pfeffer retreated.
“Why call us?” asked Gray of Ibbotson.
“Because this wasn’t the first time he’s seen an attack like this. There’s been a couple of dog attacks and on neither occasion has the patient wanted to report it. Doctor Maltby thought we should know. Do you want me to send somebody along?”
“I’ll be at the hospital for the PM on the baby tomorrow morning. I’ll go to A&E then, see what this is all about.”
Gray’s internal phone rang. Hamson.
“Have you got five minutes, Sol? I want to discuss the baby in the box.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“That’s the trouble with superiors,” said Ibbotson as Gray put the phone down. “Always unreasonable.” He was gone before Gray could respond.
Five
DCI Hamson’s office was on the first floor. A large, rain-spattered window in one wall gave a view of the English Channel’s choppy brown waters and the traffic travelling along Fort Road. Hamson seated at her desk, her back to the vista, stood as Gray entered, motioned to the conference table tucked in one corner.
“What do we know so far?” asked Hamson.
“Not much. The PM is tomorrow, and DNA tests are scheduled, including a familial search.”
“They’re bloody expensive,” said Hamson.
“The tests themselves aren’t.”
“Granted, but it could throw up a long list of relatives flung far and wide, each of whom would need tracking down and talking to.”
“But what’s the other option, we don’t check at all? How would that look?”
“Budgets are tight.”
“In my humble opinion we should do all we can.”
“Humble, you?” Gray shrugged. “You should have checked with me first.”
“Why?”
“So, I could talk with Marsh.” The Superintendent and a political hack, in Gray’s opinion.
Gray made a pfft sound. “Just politics for the sake of it, frankly.”
“Managing upwards is essential. You should try it sometimes. If I don’t speak with Marsh in advance about stuff like this and it subsequently comes to his attention, then I’m up for a bollocking.”
“Getting dizzy up at the top, Von?”
“I’ll let you know when I get there. And I’ve had a visit from Underwood.”
Bethany Underwood was the station’s press officer. “I didn’t realise she was back from maternity.”
“For more than a month, Sol.”
“We’re not really what you’d call friends.”
“Is anyone?”
“Do you mean with Underwood or me?”
“Both.” Gray frowned. Hamson said, “The press has got wind about the baby in the box.”
“Already?”
“A neighbour heard what was going on and called one of the red tops.”
“Got to love the salacious press. Anyway,” Gray shrugged. “It’ll blow over. Something will happen with Brexit to bury the story.”
“Actually, it’s just the opposite. People are sick of politics and online stories move fast these days. The news has gone viral.”
“Sounds like a spreading disease.”
“Not far off.” Hamson went back to her desk, picked up her laptop, pointed to the screen. “Take a read.”
The headline screamed, ‘Gruesome Discovery!’ above a photo of the house on Ranelagh Grove. Gray frowned as he skimmed. The article described the shock of Ogilvy finding the child as recounted by an unnamed third person – not Ogilvy – followed by several paragraphs of speculation as to who the baby could have been without any actual basis for the assumptions. In a separate text box was a brief biography of Andrea Ogilvy and her time as a foster carer.
“You’re the maverick cop, by the way,” said Hamson. “Clearly the reporter doesn’t know you.”
“So I figured.” He got through to the end of the article.
“Underwood’s phone has been ringing off the hook. She’s having a busy time dealing with reporters.”
“That’s her job, isn’t it?”
“Sure, but you know how she is. She’ll want to discuss strategy with you.”
“Strategy.” Gray rolled his eyes. “Jesus.”
“Humour her, will you?”
“Is that what we’re supposed to do now? Indulge people?” Nobody seemed willing to actually work these days.
“She’s just back from having a baby.”
“You told me, Von. And I’m not sure why that’s relevant. Equal opportunities world and all that.”
“Good God, Sol.”
He pointed to the laptop screen. “The journalist knows a hell of a lot for an investigation which only started this morning.”
“There’s a reference to, I quote, a person with intimate knowledge.”
“I assumed that was tabloid bullshit.”
“Reading the details, I’d tend to think they wer
e telling the truth.”
“For once.”
“Any thoughts who it could be?”
“One.” The obvious choice. “Worthington. He’s got form.” Worthington had previously been suspected of working with an Albanian gang, providing them with inside information.
“He was there?”
“To my extreme irritation, yes. And it was him who coined the phrase shoebox baby.” Hamson screwed up her face in distaste. “Ibbotson decided it would be good for our Geordie friend to get out and about. We’ve had words.”
“Who’s running the case?”
“I’m DI, so me.”
“Not Ibbotson?”
“He’s got enough on his plate.”
“Are you sure?”
“Von, we’ve been through this. I’m not going back to being totally office based. If that’s your position I’d rather Ibbotson become DI in my place.”
“Which isn’t happening.”
“Then discussion closed.”
Hamson pinched the bridge of her nose. “Whatever. I’ve got better things to worry about.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
“Have you got Wyatt involved?”
“I’ve asked her to contact social services.”
“That’s it?”
“Why would she do more?”
“Given her previous experience with children it would make sense.”
“We don’t know enough yet, Von, we’ve barely scraped the surface.”
“How are you two?”
Hamson possessed few friends, yet she and Wyatt had become close, with Gray as their common focus. “We’re fine. Really, you don’t need to be concerned.”
“Okay.”
“Why, what’s she said?”
“Nothing, just asking.”
Gray stared at Hamson for a long moment, but her expression remained unfathomable.
“Anything else I should know?” she asked.
“There’s been a dog attack on a kid.”
“Oh my God. A child?”
“No, a teenager.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“I wasn’t implying it did. We only learned because a concerned medical professional called earlier. The attack sounds deliberate.”
“How?”
“The animal was set on the kid, and there’s been more than one apparently.”