by Ted Tayler
“What this is about, Sir,” his former boss cautioned.
“Sorry, boss. I’m out of the habit. Anyway, I am out. I’m retired.”
“Look, let’s cut to the chase, Gus. You’re a natural detective who considers a bucket load of facts and instinctively selects the most important like a prospector sifting for gold. You understand people, whether they’re villains or victims. Eyewitnesses tell you things in an interview that they didn’t realise they knew. Suspects reveal things they definitely didn’t want you to learn they knew. You can’t teach that. It’s innate. You’ve either got it, or you haven’t. You have. I never did. Maybe Mercer never did.”
Freeman looked about to say something, but the ACC held up a hand.
“Whether you rate him as a thief-taker or not is irrelevant. He’s a senior officer these days and you will treat him as such. Is that clear?”
“As clear as mud,” Freeman shrugged, “you still haven’t told me why I have this.”
He waved the thin folder.
“As for what’s in this weighty tome on my lap, that’s still a mystery.”
“We need you, Freeman. I’m setting up a Crime Review Team. Its role is to review cold cases with a fresh set of eyes in tandem with our state-of-the-art digital facilities. Our computer whizz-kids will carry out the number-crunching and in-depth search routines for you. This will allow a small investigative team under your guidance to take on specific cases that might profit from more old school methods.”
“Superintendent Mercer is in charge of this proposed set-up, I assume?”
“He’s responsible for the investigative team. We have a digital support group that is separate and available to everyone.”
Gus Freeman tapped the main folder. He wanted to get a clear picture of what was on offer before jumping into it.
“Let me get this straight. I’d be reviewing a set of cases and be free to work them as I saw fit?”
“Exactly. Geoff has overall responsibility, but his existing staff is already divided into small teams which he expects to function without his direct involvement.”
“Cushy number,” Gus said.
The ACC scoffed.
“Come on, Gus. It’s no longer a freewheeling force on a jolly. If it ever was. The government’s cutbacks have bitten deep. The budget for this Crime Review Team would be small. Most of the County’s resources are committed to getting the immediate crime figures under control. Cold cases rarely get a second chance these days. Backroom staff numbers have been cut just as hard as front-line officers. It was a devil’s own job to persuade HQ to authorise taking on a young graduate to strengthen the team.”
“A graduate?” asked Gus Freeman. “What do I want with a wet behind the ears lad that needs me holding his hand? I would need solid, experienced officers…”
“I’d better not see you holding hands with this one, Gus. People would talk. She’s twenty-five and… well, you’ll find out later.”
“Can she make a decent cup of coffee?” asked Gus, with a grin that showed he was only taking the piss.
“Yes, very funny. I don’t need to remind you things have changed even more in the past three years since you handed in your warrant card. Watch your step. You need to thank Geoff Mercer for persuading the top brass to take her on. It’s getting harder to get youngsters in through normal channels. This channel has opened and we might encourage the brighter ones to become community officers. Get them in through the back door.”
“I can’t argue with the logic behind that,” agreed Gus. “They can concentrate on prevention, rather than actual policing. While they absorb the time-consuming grunt work, trained officers can tackle more serious issues.”
Gus considered the implications of accepting the ACC’s proposal for a few minutes. Truelove bided his time and said nothing. There was a tap at the door. Vera returned with two teas in delicate china cups and a plate of bourbon biscuits.
As she swept past him to return to her desk in the outer office, Gus breathed in. He couldn’t place the fragrance. Tess preferred Chloe. Not that he could remember the last time he bought it for her. A bottle lasted her ages. There was still an unfinished one in the dressing-table drawer.
Gus hadn’t thrown any of those personal items out yet. The brush that still held precious strands of her greying hair. The necklace he’d given her on her thirtieth birthday. Trinkets that reminded him of the exact minute and place they were bought.
Her wardrobe stood empty now, but he’d held back a scarf she loved. Its role now was to cover those personal items in the dressing-table drawer and in return he hoped it would preserve the scent of her they contained.
Her clothes had been hard enough to part with. A lot of them she hardly wore and would have been prime candidates for the charity shops. How was he to know what was saleable and what should be dumped? He decided, in the end, to throw everything into the recycling.
That way there was less chance he’d have seen Frank North’s missus strolling through Urchfont village wearing Tess’s winter coat.
“I’m not sure I even want to come back to work,” Gus admitted. “I take it from the paperwork in this folder I’d be working in a consultancy role. No official rank. I made it to a full Detective Inspector before I retired. Will this Crime Review Team be my thing? How can I be sure this isn’t a pity party? Poor old Gus Freeman. Sat alone with only an allotment to look after.”
“It was never like that, Gus. I promise you. We don’t get many murders in this county. Despite that, questions have been asked. Why is the clear-up rate so low? I believe your attention to detail and understanding of how people tick at every level of society will close several of these cases after far too long. What do you say?”
“There’s nothing here to say where we’ll work. If I read the brief correctly, I’d have two Detective Sergeants and this girl. Will we have a window out onto London Road too, sir?”
“You must understand, Gus. A new low-priority department has to be thankful for what they can get. Did you ever visit the station where Dominic Culverhouse was based? Or Phil Hounsell before him?”
“I can’t say I ever had the pleasure,” replied Freeman, “but if I remember right, it was a Victorian building, typical of hundreds like it around the country. They stood on the corner of High Street and Church Street. Right in the middle of everything. Very useful on a Saturday night when the pubs shut, and fights broke out. In the Seventies, it would have closed overnight. By the turn of the century, it was gone for good. Replaced by a big, shiny open-plan glass and metal monstrosity as remote from the public as possible.”
“There is a new building on the town outskirts,” said the ACC, “but Mercer has secured you a unit on the first floor of the Old Police Station. To give it its official title. There’s a Food Bank and a charity shop on the ground floor. As you can tell there have been a few changes since Culverhouse left.”
“Is there anyone else upstairs? How can we keep things secure?”
“The other offices are unoccupied. The authority never sold the premises. We lease parts out. A lift was installed at the rear to allow potential firms access to the upper floor. Other than that, the only structural change involved the removal of the old cells. The new building you hinted at has a modern custody suite as you would expect.”
“Hot showers, duvets and wide-screen TV, I presume?”
“Things haven’t got that bad yet, despite what newspapers might have the public believe.”
Gus eyed a second bourbon. Vera could make a good cuppa; he gave her that much. It might be an idea to drop in to see the ACC again.
“How long do I have to think this offer over, Sir?”
“Twenty-four hours. Read the weighty tome tonight and return it tomorrow afternoon. Give me your answer then.”
“Will Vera be downstairs waiting for me?”
“Just sign in, Freeman. Keep your Visitor’s pass and make your way up here by two o’clock. I’ll get Geoff Mercer to join us.”
“I’m confident that what’s inside that folder will whet your appetite, Freeman. You’ll want to nail the bastard responsible as much as I do.”
CHAPTER 4
Vera fixed him with those green eyes as soon as he left the ACC’s office. He wasn’t sure what she saw. A scruffy sixty-one-year-old widower, or supper?
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Freeman,” she purred.
Gus felt the heat of her gaze as he made his way to the ground floor. The officer on duty at the Reception desk glanced up when he breathed his huge sigh of relief at not tripping and making a complete arse of himself.
“Please remember to sign out, Sir,” the officer called out. Gus walked across to the desk.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. So, I’ll hang on to this pass.”
“Right you are. Have a nice day.”
Gus sat in his car for a few moments before belting up and starting the engine.
Was it a blessing that if he accepted this consultancy role it meant working in the next town, six miles away? Or a curse, because he wouldn’t see Vera with her curvaceous body and long legs every day?
Why was he even thinking of her? It was too soon to be thinking of moving on, wasn’t it? Tess had been his soul mate. The two of them against the world.
If he’d lost Tess twenty years earlier, it might have made sense to find someone to share his life. He was too old now. He had come to terms with his solitary existence. Only a fool would believe they might attract a woman as beautiful as Vera.
The two folders lay on the passenger seat. A difficult evening stretched before him. He shook his head to clear the memory of Vera’s green eyes which seemed to bore into his very soul. He needed his wits about him. Things promised to be difficult enough without the complications she might cause.
Despite the colder than forecasted start, the afternoon now felt pleasantly mild. Although he didn’t need to work on the allotment, he knew the solace it would offer could assist his decision.
On arrival at the bungalow, he dealt with the soup portions and stacked the boxes in the chest freezer. Detailed and dated, ready to retrieve when required. As he closed the freezer lid, he considered the ramifications of a return to work.
He had spent the past three years tending that allotment. It was a peculiarly British tradition that carried over from WWII and the ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign. Yet there was a resurgence over the last twenty years of growing vegetables and fruits. Younger faces were dotted around. Even here in the village. Bert Penman had probably held his plot for fifty years, if not more. Frank may have only tended his since the last time he came out of prison. There was no shortage of people wanting to grab a plot when it became vacant. He’d been fortunate the waiting list was short. A hard winter killed off regulars that Bert had been friends with and Gus only had to wait six weeks before getting his opportunity. It’s an ill wind.
The allotment he took over had been worked regularly by someone experienced. Much of the back-breaking work was done. Gus spent most of his time deciding what he intended to grow and checking with others like Bert on when to sow, how to tend the plants and when to harvest the crop.
The supermarkets cornered the market in regimented size and shape of carrot and bean. Maybe an allotment holder struggled to match their price but you couldn’t beat the taste of that first crop of new potatoes you grew yourself. Gus kept a bag of petit pois peas in the freezer. Sacrilege, really, but peas were a bugger to grow. He’d tried the first year, despite others telling him not to bother. He’d selected the first pod which looked to be mature enough to harvest based on Bert’s advice.
Gus had run his nail along the seam, teased the pod open and gazed in wonder at the six green gems inside. He sat outside his shed, savouring each one, remembering the first experience at five years old in his grandfather’s garden.
He had wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
Bert Penman called across to him.
“Told you. Waste of bloody effort. You’ll never get enough of ‘em home to make it worth bothering.”
The voice of experience. Gus ripped up the pea sticks at the end of the season and never bothered trying to grow them again. He would never forget the taste of a pea straight from the pod as long as he lived. That was enough. He could cook the supermarket variety to go with a piece of battered cod and a few chips. The fresh ones would have been wasted.
Those experiences were priceless. Was he prepared to lose them to return to work full time until these potential cold cases got resolved? He was torn.
If at tomorrow’s meeting he could ensure his trips to the allotment were curtailed, not stopped altogether, then maybe he could work around it.
This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Everything had been delayed this year because of the dreadful weather but in the coming weeks, his second earlies and first main crops of potatoes needed planting. He had half a dozen varieties of green vegetables, plus his onions and leeks lined up to join them.
How many hours must he commit to these cold cases in the proposed consultancy role?
Those matters needed a lengthy discussion tomorrow. Even if the digital support facility the ACC took such pride in covered the research work, there would be dozens of witnesses to re-interview. If they were even still alive after all this time. Gus had sneaked a peek at the dates on the larger folder. This murder occurred ten years ago. The victim was sixty-eight years old. Time marches on.
He decided to stop agonising over the dilemma for an hour. His mind and body needed sustenance. After a hot meal and a glass of wine, he loaded the dishwasher and left it to do its business. He picked up his evening’s main reading material and wandered to the allotment. Frank’s bonfire had expired. Bert was probably tucked up in The Lamb enjoying an early evening pint after his afternoon’s labours. A husband and wife on a patch on the far side appeared to be finishing up for the day. They were too far away to notice him.
After he’d unlocked the shed, and fetched out his chair and a book, he made himself comfortable. He had the allotments to himself.
In the distance, he could just hear the sound of traffic if he tried. Close by, the sound of birdsong from the trees provided an accompaniment to his musings. The rustle of tiny animals in the undergrowth on the edge of the allotments were his other companions as the sun slid from the sky.
The folder remained unopened on the upturned wooden crate by the shed door. Gus turned his attention first to a dog-eared copy of the journals of his favourite philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard. In the dark days after Tess’s death, he searched for answers. Neither of them was particularly religious. Tess had shrugged her shoulders and recounted a comment she overheard from one of her students back in the day: -
“If there was a God, how come the Pet Shop Boys had a number one hit?”
That had been as deep as their conversations went.
Since her death, Gus needed to explain the reason for it happening when it did, only months after the final third of their life together began. The Danish philosopher was a mystery to him when he first discovered the copy he now held. It had been cast aside in an old suitcase stored in the loft along with other textbooks and novels Tess collected over the years. She never mentioned it, nor could he ever recall her reading it in his presence.
Gus threw the suitcase and the rest of its contents into the boot of the Focus and it joined a raft of other items disposed of at the recycling site that weekend. Something stopped him from including this book. What had Tess learned from it? Could it provide clues? He had already found the perfect spot to delve into its contents. Where he sat now, alone in the countryside, next to the cemetery and the green shoots of new life in the soil by his feet.
Kierkegaard explored the emotions and feelings of individuals when faced with l
ife choices. His key ideas included the concept of subjective and objective truths and the three stages of life’s path. But there was so much more. Gus realised he had just scratched the surface.
Everything in his life up to the point of his retirement had been about uncovering the truth. To find what the people he interacted with knew of a particular series of events. He concentrated his whole life on understanding people and their motivations. Why did they lie, steal or kill? How was what they said relevant to the case he investigated? Nothing else mattered. Did it mean they themselves were guilty or had they revealed a fact that showed him the path to finding the person who was?
Gus had copied one quote on a scrap of paper that spoke to him and took it home. He placed it on the table next to his favourite chair. It remained there still, tucked under a coaster. It became a constant point of reference to how his life might benefit from a new beginning.
‘One must first learn to know himself before knowing anything else. Not until a man has inwardly understood himself and then sees the course he is to take does his life gain peace and meaning.’
Gus ran his fingers down the spine of the journals. When did he ever analyse his own feelings? What sort of man was he? How did others perceive him? In the line of work he had chosen it was common for a police officer to be mistrusted, disliked or even hated. Was that solely because of the job? For their part, officers didn’t give a toss what other people thought of them. They developed a hard shell and got on with finding the truth. That became their be-all and end-all. Had he been that way to the exclusion of every other emotion?
Tess had been the only woman he loved; the only person whose opinion of him he ever cared about. She loved him in return, of that he was certain, but did she see flaws in his make-up that she was prepared to overlook? She’d never offered an opinion, and he’d never asked. Maybe, deep down he didn’t want to know the answer.
As he finally picked up the cold case folder, a thought struck him. His musings over such existential matters and the meaning of life would soon be clouded by old witness statements and freshly unearthed clues.