Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  The excavation presents a problem. A string of questions will ask why a detective inspector has a huge pit in his oversize shed. It has been difficult enough explaining ownership of the prestigious property, let alone now having to justify what he wants to do with it.

  With the incriminating botany removed, McMaster phones Jeff Main.

  Main responds: ‘Done as you asked, Phil. A little encouragement has accelerated the deal.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know, right. Whatever motivational speech you or she laid on him won’t be doing him any good now. Caruso’s sprawled out in my shed and he ain’t going nowhere. Don’t know who dumped him, or why, but you can bet your bollocks he won’t be the last if word of our arrangement gets out.

  ‘I’ve called the locals. Very soon there’ll be cops crawling all over this place. So here’s the solution, right: We’ve had a working relationship since Weston passed you my file. You’d noticed discrepancies and brought them to my attention and to the Caruso’s solicitor, right. You never heard of Jill, and you never met Angelo Caruso. Just cite conflict of interest if need be. You’ve nothin’ to worry about, so long as you keep that professional face of yours cool and detached. In the meantime, what’s the delay with my settlement? Should be done and dusted by now.’

  * * *

  DS Roy Street pricks his ears at the mention of Caruso. He loiters around the office door like a vagrant picking up discarded betting slips from Ladbroke’s floor. Street knocks and enters the inspector’s office. ‘Sorry I’ve got such big ears sir, was on my way out. Couldn’t help overhearing the Caruso name. I’ve got the file on the old man; you got something new?’

  ‘Plenty. We got another Caruso down. Angelo. Any connection?’

  ‘Angelo’s the son. We’ve crossed swords. Piece of work too. Has form for burgs, drugs and assaults.’

  The inspector hoists an eyebrow. ‘Well he won’t have any more. Mac’s just found him in his shed. Suggest you get over there right away. I’ll arrange SOCO and support.’

  ‘Something not adding up here. I’m just off the phone from that ex-copper, Watts, you know, the bitch who tipped in Marchant. She’s somehow got her nose in everything and only just told me about a body in Mac’s shed.’

  ‘Have nothing to do with her. You’ve got an investigation to conduct. On your way. Hold up. What’s her place in this? On second thoughts, you might make something of her getting bloody info before we do. Grill her. If she’s as much as overstayed a parking meter, do her.’

  Street shrugs his shoulders. ‘All right. Are we to assume Mac’s got something to do with it?’

  ‘Come on Roy. You know the drill. We don’t assume anything. We start with a blank sheet and do our job. Just make sure you follow the book.’

  ‘The only way I work.’ Street returns to the incident room and taps WDC Plumpton on the shoulder: ‘We’re off. Got a good one.’

  They share a vehicle to McMaster’s property, Street promoting general chat under the umbrella of learning more about McMaster.

  ‘Never had much to do with him,’ replies Plumpton. ‘Sort of does his own thing. Inspector’s prerogative I suppose. Got a reputation as a womaniser. Not my scene to go out with work colleagues, least of all a near-retired gov’nor.’

  ‘He tried it on you then?’

  ‘Nah. I don’t even go to the pub. Anyway, I’m not his type. Lose a few kilos, I might come up okay. Happy enough with my pets.’

  ‘Word has it he’s on the take.’ Street slips in.

  ‘No go zone. I’m not getting into that. You’re right, it’s all around the office, but I’ve got no first-hand knowledge. I wouldn’t be shoving my nose in there.’

  ‘Wise. Very wise.’

  They pull into Ashton Hill’s drive and pass two stumps standing like lost children in a carnival – totally out of place, dwarfed by their surrounds.

  ‘Look at the size of those mothers,’ pipes Street. ‘Must have been one hell of an impact.’

  Plumpton scrunches her face. ‘This is where it happened? Where the DI copped it?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s talk of rivalry between the neighbours, which explains why I have a drawer full of Caruso-related files: old man Caruso’s suspicious death; the wife as a suspect; Mac’s hit; and now Angelo. He didn’t live with the oldies, but was there often enough. Won’t be any more though – except in spirit.’

  They edge along the drive, Plumpton in awe of the imposing mansion growing before her. ‘Do we have to bow or curtsy? What is this place? Downton Abbey? Bit of the old silver spoon in the family?’

  ‘I think that’s enough, Laurel. He’s still your inspector. But to answer, no one’ll say. Holds his cards against his chest. Look, there he is.’

  McMaster stands at the end of the drive motioning Street to continue to the rear of the property.

  Street parks. Approaches McMaster. ‘Hello. Very impressive.’

  ‘Thanks. What you’re about to see isn’t.’

  Plumpton tags behind, absorbing all around her: the distant dam and huge mountain of soil; the new rear fence marking out the recently realigned boundary; and the rear vista of the inspector’s home, its slate roof cutting into cumulonimbus clouds.

  Street follows McMaster into the shed. Watches him remove the plywood pit cover. Peers below. Takes control. ‘Okay. Stand back. We’ll treat this as a crime scene.’

  Two SOCO officers contain the area. One erects a portable floodlight to illuminate the deep shaft while a colleague removes the ladders for forensic analysis. Another snaps a series of photos. Camera flashes bounce from the galvanised steel walls, spotlighting the coroner. He looks to the pit: ‘I’m going down. Need to see the body before you guys get to it.’ He won’t risk misdiagnosis by allowing the deceased’s premature removal. The point of impact and body position is essential to determining cessation of life.

  Strapped into a safety harness and with two torches dangling from his belt, he plummets to the earth’s core. He reels off a dozen photographs, examines bruises and limb placement, and checks the deceased’s pockets for ID and possessions. Nothing.

  A uniformed officer hauls a stretcher from the pit, pulling on a block and tackle chain like an exhausted campanologist.

  ‘Know him?’ Street directs the question to McMaster.

  ‘Yeah. My neighbour.’

  ‘Any idea how he came to be in your dungeon?’

  ‘Let’s put this right first up. It’s not a bloody dungeon, it’s the makings of my wine cellar. And no, I’ve no idea how he got there.’

  DS Street is not intimidated by McMaster. His status as an inspector of police means nothing in the course of an investigation. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, sir, it’s an unusual location for a cellar.’

  McMaster smiles. His ability to neutralise suggestions and accusations is unrivalled. ‘Well, sergeant,’ he condescends, ‘it’s only unusual because it doesn’t make sense to you. The situation is, a covenant on the main building forbids structural changes. That prevents me removing a wall where I wanted to sink a set of stairs. The next best place, which may seem strange to you, but is practical, is to burrow under my shed where I’ll be brewing strawberry wine. The ‘dungeon’ as you so ignorantly describe it, will serve for aging and storing my product. You may not appreciate the art of viticulture, but research shows that the deeper the cellar, the easier it is to maintain a stable temperature of 15 to 16 degrees centigrade. I could never have gone that deep under my house, so this location doubles the benefits.’

  Street scratches his head, furious at allowing himself to wander off course. ‘Okay. You know the deceased, but you can’t say how he came to be in your cellar. Could I conclude that whoever dropped him there is after you?’

  McMaster pitches his voice, but maintains control: ‘Conclude what you want. I’m 22-years in the job, right? There’s plenty who want me out of
the way. So what’s the point of your question?’

  ‘Purely procedural. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I do. And I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll answer nothing more unless accompanied by my solicitor. I can arrange that now or we can do it at the office.’

  Street is flummoxed. He has nothing concrete to attach suspicion to his superior. ‘No, that’s fine inspector. We’ll leave it at that for now. You can wait outside, thanks.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ McMaster’s indignant voice enunciates outrage. ‘You want me outside while you’re poking your nose around in here?’

  ‘Procedures, inspector. You know that.’

  ‘Only if I’m a suspect. As it stands, I’m a member of the public who’s phoned in a possible crime. In fact, it’s more than possible, right, because the guy certainly didn’t place himself in my pit, er, cellar.’

  Street stands firm: ‘And as I’m sure you’ll understand, inspector, as a member of the public you should see that we must isolate the area. Now if you don’t mind…’ Street extends his arm toward the side door and continues his examination of the shed to ascertain the mode of entry for whoever had dumped Angelo’s body. He concludes the roller doors’ mechanism would rattle through the night; the side door lock and surrounding framework show no forced entry. He inspects the strawberry plants. Casts his eyes to empty receptacles alongside, and to moisture and soluble fertilizer lining the troughs. Errant leaf and stem fragments bear no resemblance to strawberry runners. As Street collects a sample of the greenery, the coroner approaches from behind.

  ‘Roy, got a problem. When do say you got the call on this?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. Why?’

  ‘Aside from the problem of finding a dead guy, I estimate the time of death at more than 48 hours ago. Could be up to 72. Might explain the stench down there.’

  Street checks his notebook. April 29. 1217 hours. He’d logged the time on receiving the details from his duty inspector. ‘Christ. Why is nothing easy in this job? What can you tell me about his condition? I mean, was he done here or was he done elsewhere and just dumped here?’

  The coroner shakes his head. ‘Bit early for all that. Blood lividity suggests movement post-mortem. The guy went through a horrific fall. Must be a thirty-foot drop. We’ve got broken bones that might have fractured from that rather than through an assault. However, there’s no injury likely to have caused death, unless a rib’s gone through a lung. Leave it with me and I’ll call you as soon as I get a break. Sorry. Bad choice of words.’

  McMaster hangs around the shed knitting together conversations and comments. He is pleased to hear the possibility of Angelo having been murdered elsewhere. Less heat on him.

  He warms to the need for a serious chat with Jeff Main. There is a major disparity between encouragement and eradication. He understands it is too late for anything to be done about Angelo, despite his demise being fortuitous. His problem now lies with Main, for he has the potential to squeal under questioning and point the finger at anyone remotely associated with Angelo Caruso.

  XXXVII

  I roll into Ashton Hill’s courtyard to be confronted by a pseudo used car dealership. Battenberg blues and yellows decorate the front line. An unmarked sedan I recognise as Street’s, and a white van I assume to be SOCO’s, sit under the portico. A scruffy Vauxhall hides behind them. McMaster’s. I reverse onto the lawn, and leave my Focus next to a planter box – unlocked, should I need to make a fast exit.

  I walk to the rear of the property. Blue and white tape wavers between trees and a veranda post. White-overalled officers search the shed perimeter. I approach one, with my jacket wide open below an even wider smile – which the guy doesn’t even notice (the smile, that is) – and learn that Street and McMaster are inside the shed. I get the official wave to step aside. Fifteen minutes’ later emerges Street and a woman who might as well have ‘police’ stamped on her forehead. McMaster accompanies the pair. I don’t want him to spot me, but Street does. I will him to approach, but my hopes are dashed when he continues jovialities with McMaster. I pray that he will not be swept into McMaster’s spell.

  Street walks on, his back to me. I’m frantic to draw his attention. His offsider sees my gestures and bounds over. Introduces herself: ‘DC Plumpton. And you are?’

  I detest those leading questions. The little Pomeranian detective, short, squat and senseless (my initial appraisal) fronts up with her sing-song “and you are?”’ I am not the archetypal bitch, except when sleep deprived: ‘Waiting for DS Street. I have information.’

  ‘And you are?’

  Fuck me. ‘And I are what?’

  ‘Your name. What was your name?’

  Bitch. ‘Oh, my name. Well it was, and still is, Olivia Watts. I’m a private investigator and I’ve previously spoken with DS Street about the Caruso matter. There’s a link to what you’ve found in the shed so I want to speak to the sergeant about it.’

  ‘Well, as you can see, he’s busy right now. You can pass anything on to me and Roy’ll get it when he’s finished with the inspector.’

  She calls him Roy? Nice pairing that is.

  I overlook the familiarity. ‘Nup, it’s okay. It’s probably all under control. Perhaps he could phone me when he’s free.’ I hand Plumpton a business card and trek back to my car. I glance behind and see Street ogling me. I jiggle down my skirt.

  ‘I’ll phone you,’ he yells. I wave an acknowledgement. Plumpton gawks.

  I must have been mad to agree to DS Street’s invitation for an ‘unofficial’ chat.

  I sit in his kitchen, cup of tea at one side, folder of information at the other. I’ve offloaded detail of Angelo’s relationship with his father, only to learn that I knew far more than did Street himself. And now I’m caught at crossed purposes.

  Having described Gillian’s association with McMaster to Thornton, I believe it equally responsible to brief Street – but I don’t know how far and how deep to tread. My allegiance is to Thornton. It would border on betrayal to impart prejudicial knowledge to anyone else.

  ‘I’ll order in takeaway. What’s your fancy?’ Street asks.

  I hadn’t planned on dining with the guy. I am abusing the social call as a relationship building exercise between the constabulary and my practice. Any information I can extract about McMaster and his current predicament will be a bonus. Hunger dictates my reply: ‘Chinese would be great.’

  ‘My favourite. I’ll go the Beef and Blackbean,’ he smiles.

  I’m forever wary of the guy who offers dinner. There’s always an ulterior motive – and it’s not because he thinks you’re hungry. ‘Sweet and Sour Pork,’ I reply. ‘With cashew nuts.’

  He lays the table as if he is expecting royalty or the Chief Constable. One and the same, some would say. A bottle of wine shivers in an ice bucket.

  Here we go. Chateau Le Gopner. He’s interested in more than files.

  Since my tête-à-tête with Hamilton Holt months earlier, I’d resolved to never again hook up with work colleagues. Ever. Street isn’t technically a colleague, but the association, if fostered, would be too close for comfort. I’m not going to be a second-time-’round victim of locker-room banter.

  We eat and drink, exchange life histories – red penned from my side – and eat and drink some more. His mercury rises to the point where he expects me to warm to his advances. There’s no invite to his bed, but he suggests we ‘retire’ to the settee where it is ‘more comfortable’. As I sink into the slippery velour, he asks my reasons for snooping around McMaster.

  I explain that my role in another investigation has crossed over, and that McMaster is common to both matters. That isn’t enough to satisfy him. But I hold the cards. When I let on that I witnessed, or close enough to it, McMaster’s driveway incident, he shows his true colours.

  ‘If you don’t reveal your knowledge, I’ll
do you for withholding information.’

  At this point I consider the television line: ‘In that case I’ll seek legal advice,’ but doing so will jeopardise our connection. Thornton’s paying me good money. It is in my interest to prolong proceedings so I might play a pivotal role in nailing McMaster. His involvement in this, and the threats to Rose Hernandez, could see him admonished or ‘invited’ to resign. The force does not need preying deadwood like McMaster.

  I release tiny amounts of information like a garden enthusiast’s drip-watering system trickling tiny droplets whilst the main volume remains in the pipeline. ‘I already had a file on McMaster,’ I lie. ‘Started out as an anonymous harassment case. Surprised me when I found he was a police inspector. I have a complainant who will state that McMaster stopped her for a nit-picking motoring offence and later subjected her to various demands, the nature of which I ask you to respect my withholding for now.

  ‘As a result of info from this complainant, I sat off the McMansion as I call it, at what turned out to be a calamitous time. I did not see who cut the trees, nor did I witness anyone depart the driveway (another lie) after the tree fell. I heard the crash and raced straight across the road from the lay by and attended the victim.

  ‘Triple nine will have my call recorded at about 5.30 – 5.40, when I requested ambulance and police. I was there when ambos extricated the inspector from his car. Also there, was a panic stricken woman I now know to be Maria Caruso, the neighbour. She was in a bad way, so I escorted her the few hundred metres to her home where I met her son of a bitch son, Angelo Caruso. My feeling is that he had something to do with his father’s death.’

  Street casts me a strange look as if I am reciting the Never Ending Story. ‘We might never know. It’s Angelo Caruso who was down the hole.’