by Ted Tayler
“I can understand where Crook was coming from. Detroit yes, a sleepy West Country town, well. it just never happens.”
“No, thank goodness. That brand of extreme violence is still largely confined to the cities. Although, knife crime is becoming rife in every corner of the country. That killing was over fifteen years ago now. We made progress on Crook’s legacy campaign in the aftermath of his murder. The subsequent inter-gang slaughter meant the head of the snake had gone from both criminal outfits. The hiatus those deaths caused encouraged witnesses to come forward in the way James Crook intended. Sadly, the positive benefits dried up as we gradually lost the initiative. Our attention switched elsewhere. Historic sex offences for one. Don’t run away with the idea we’ve parachuted you into a war zone, Gus. It’s nowhere near as bad as it was back then. It’s not crime-free and nasty things are liable to crawl out if you turn over stones; which knowing your reputation will be exactly what you’ll do. On the flip-side of the coin, plenty of decent people live here. You’ve only got to see what’s happening downstairs to recognise loads of people care about their fellow man.”
“You had better get your skates on,” said Gus. “You know where I am if you need to update me before next Monday. I’ll keep you abreast of everything we are doing as we progress our enquiries.”
Geoff Mercer nodded and this time the handshake was far more friendly.
“Glad we cleared the air and managed that drink together last week,” he said.
“The Bear’s a busy pub, isn’t it? The ACC’s Personal Assistant, Mrs Jennings was in there I noticed. She stopped me for a word as I left.”
“I saw her too. Vera was with her friends in that club they formed. We call them the last of the few.”
Geoff laughed so much at his own comment that Gus wondered what he’d missed.
“Sorry, Gus. It’s not funny, really. I told you how fortunate I was my marriage survived despite me being a workaholic. A group of not so lucky ladies started getting together socially a few years back. Some were divorced, others separated. One by one, they’ve found new partners. There is only a handful left now.”
“So, Vera’s divorced?” Gus tried not to sound too interested.
“They’ve been separated for a time. Only a matter of weeks I believe before she loses the ball and chain. Vera had the afternoon off to visit the solicitor on Thursday. It may be a touch cruel, but young Kassie Trotter started calling them the few. She said the FEW stood for - the frustrated ex-wives club.”
Gus tried to make light of what he had learned.
“There’s more to Kassie Trotter than meets the eye,” he said, “a mischievous sense of humour wasn’t what I expected. It beats me why Mrs Jennings is still not spoken for though. Or her other three friends. They were more than presentable.”
“Sorry, spoken for and more than presentable? Those are rather old-fashioned expressions, aren’t they?”
“They were in common usage when I was a young man, Geoff. No doubt I would find I’m out of touch if I looked for someone to grow old with now Tess has gone. The language would be the least of my worries. Nobody meets at the youth club, or the local hop anymore. I bumped into Tess in a pub and the rest was history. It’s all done on an app these days, so they tell me. I would have no chance.”
“Chris and I met in a pub too. It was a different generation, that’s true. Youngsters today do things differently. Blimey, I can remember not getting past first base for weeks. Today, most of them have done the business before they choose in Year Nine which subjects they’re studying for GCSE.”
“All our yesterdays. I’ll let you get back to Devizes. I think I’ll have a wander around the town, then check out The Crown when it opens. Research. To see what’s on the menu ahead of next week’s bonding session.”
Geoff got in his car, but before he closed the door, he called out.
“Gus, what the kids get up to today is irrelevant. The last of the FEW are almost as old as us. I’m not in a position to find out, but I guess they will talk roughly the same language as you did back then. If you’re thinking of getting back in the game, that is.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to move on. I feel as if it would be betraying Tess’s memory.”
“Tess wouldn’t have wanted you to be miserable. Why not dip your toe in the water, take someone to dinner, no strings? Look for someone to be a ‘plus one’ at a Police Federation function. There’s bound to be a lady out there just looking for company.”
With that, Geoff Mercer gave Gus a friendly wave and was gone. Gus stood alone in the car park and took stock. They had a decent base from which to work. By all accounts, both of the serving officers in his new team had a good track record. Davis might have a father with a murky past, but young Neil started with a clean slate.
Hardy sounded a terrific prospect who had suffered a life-changing accident. Gus had met people with a range of disabilities in his career. This was the first time he would have the opportunity to work with one of them. It might pose problems, but they had to overcome them. The team owed it to DS Hardy. He’d moved mountains just to get to this stage in his recovery. Alex Hardy was fiercely independent. Driving himself to and from work was not going to be an issue.
Then there was Lydia. Twenty-five. What had the ACC told him? Gus couldn’t remember Truelove giving her full name or any description. Surely, there must be a note on her background somewhere? Was it at home in that thinner file he had skipped through? Perhaps he overlooked it. Because when he started reading it, he was erring on the side of giving a return to work a miss.
It was the Daphne Tolliver file that got him seething with anger that such a selfless soul should be killed so callously.
Gus strolled from Church Street onto the High Street. There were still dozens of people visiting one of the two units inside the old station. He passed the Imperial Dragon Chinese Restaurant and noted it was takeaway only on Mondays, which was a shame. If he decided to take Geoff up on his team bonding suggestion a meal in a place like that would have been a possibility.
As he drew closer to Market Square, he began to see the familiar indications that the traditional shopping pattern was breathing its last. There were a handful of independent retailers still fighting to stay alive. He recognised the name of Patel’s newsagents. Daphne Tolliver had advertised in there when she searched for part-time work.
A pet food store, a unisex hairdresser and a camera shop, were surrounded by estate agents and building societies. The banks in town had closed. Two national clothing outlets had a branch on the Square, both for women, both with massive discounts plastered across the windows. It looked so depressing.
Gus knew that on the outskirts of town there were supermarkets, DIY stores and the usual array of fast-food outlets that out-of-town shopping centres featured. They were all alike. You could be anywhere. Drive two hundred yards further on and you reached the light industrial estate with a family pub owned by a chain with similar establishments up and down the country. They served the same ice-cold drinks, offered identical menus and did it at a price the independents couldn’t hope to match. Town centres might have to bring back public hangings as a form of entertainment to get anyone to visit them in the future.
“Well, this won’t cheer me up,” thought Gus, as he rounded the corner and left Market Square. Then he saw a light at the end of the dark tunnel. Two restaurants. One either side of the road. An Indian and an Italian. Not a risqué joke. Both restaurants offered fine dining by candlelight and takeout. Happy days, if he found a ‘plus one’ for a night out.
Twenty minutes, and he’d covered the most significant elements of the heart of the town. The Crown was open. Could it be opening time already? Gus checked his watch, then spotted a sign that said they served breakfast until noon and a choice of a wide variety of coffees. If he wanted something stronger, he had to wait until eleven o’clock. He ordered a black coffee, which proved almost as difficult to rustle up for the sixteen-year-old behind the c
ounter as the exotic varieties on offer.
Gus studied their menus for lunchtime snacks and evening meals. They served the usual fare. Steaks, pies, fish and one solitary option for a vegetarian on the starter and main course. It might do for a team-bonding evening, but not for anything more important.
Hark at me, he thought, making plans without even considering who might be interested. So, Vera Jennings was soon to be divorced? So what? The fact she wasn’t seeing anyone, if Kassie was correct, could mean she’d sworn off blokes altogether because of the way she’d been treated by her old man. Or, she was only interested in snaring a bloke with enough money to provide her with a pricier car.
Of course, if he did decide to take a leap into the unknown with someone, he could always cook at home. Either his home-grown vegetables would melt their heart, or the limited number of recipes he’d mastered would persuade them he needed rescuing. What a nightmare.
Gus finished his coffee and walked to his car. A steady drive back to Devizes and he could take a quick look at those folders again this afternoon while he checked on his allotment. He had to make the most of the free time he had left.
After preparing a quick snack to take with him to the allotment, he flicked through the items the ACC had given him that related to HR matters. Any forms that needed signing and sending off had been completed. Ah, there it was, a brief CV for Lydia Logan Barre.
The Forensic Psychology graduate was born in Edinburgh in 1993. Her mother was Scottish and her father Nigerian. Lydia was adopted at birth by a white couple living in Dundee. She had a happy childhood, in spite of racial bullying at school and remained close to her adoptive parents.
When she left school, she had ambitions to become an actress. She attended part-time classes at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama in Glasgow. Lydia then switched her focus to the MSc at Glasgow Caledonian University, which she completed last summer. Gus knew this was her first full-time job, but it impressed him that Lydia must have supported herself while she did her part-time stint in Glasgow. He wondered what prompted the switch to such a markedly different discipline. That was something to monitor.
The brief notes told him as much as he needed before meeting Lydia on Monday. The picture showed a striking looking young woman with coffee-coloured skin and a head of hair that resembled reddish-brown curly corkscrews. That girl was going to make an impact wherever she went. If he’d ever seen anyone more confident in her own skin, he couldn’t remember them.
Gus took his packed lunch and the murder file with him as he left the house. Time to catch up on revision. He soon sat in his comfortable chair and became lost in the tragic events of 2008.
Reviewing the murder file once more just brought home how different it was dealing with a fresh corpse and a cold case. When a body was discovered, the information to be gathered still lay out there somewhere. If you found the right information, you could find the killer. In a cold case, the work had been done for you. The autopsy had been performed. All the photographs handled a hundred times. The forensic results were catalogued. Witnesses had been visited and interviewed. Sometimes more than once.
He knew the members of Daphne’s family still around would never get over her violent death. Any suspects they had identified in 2008, even if soon exonerated, would still be tarred with the experience for the rest of their days. Neighbours would cross the road to avoid speaking to them. The stench of suspicion never left them.
The information within the covers of the folder would soon be scattered across the Crime Review Team office. Four pairs of eyes would examine every piece.
Gus thought of them as pieces of a jigsaw. He couldn’t wait to put those pieces together.
CHAPTER 7
Monday, 9th April 2018
The alarm should have woken him at seven o’clock. Gus had been awake for at least an hour, thinking of what lay ahead. He silenced the annoying ring and sat up in bed. The job itself didn’t faze him. It was the prospect of meeting new people he knew very little about.
Gus needed to establish a hierarchy that would benefit the team’s overall effectiveness. He had to avoid bashing Hardy and Davis over the head with his former rank and obvious age and experience. They would understand the processes. Unless they made an absolute Horlicks of something, he needed to sit back and let them demonstrate the level of their skills.
Lydia was the real unknown quantity. Yet the merit pass she received last summer marked her as a more than capable student. They would be lucky to hold on to her for long. Once she had work experience under her belt, she would be moved quickly into a more senior position. The ACC relied on Gus to mould her into a shooting star. A gleaming success of his burgeoning back-door recruiting programme that helped alleviate the wounds the austerity cuts had delivered.
Whatever he did, he must resist limiting Lydia’s involvement, so she felt her contribution was an irrelevance. She had a fiery character, according to Truelove. He had to balance out his three staff members’ individual input. Horses for courses were all very well. Alex Hardy’s mobility issues needed delicate handling. It made for an interesting morning. Solving the cold case might prove easier than keeping them happy.
His suit hadn’t suffered too much in its recent outing. He just had to decide which colour shirt to wear. Gus shoved the pink one further along the rail. It wasn’t a day for pushing the boat out. Today called for one of his several white, button-down collar shirts and a brightly coloured tie to lift the mood. His hair refused to play ball. Despite the comb being exactly where he had left it. Wetting his fingertips to stick the offending spikes to his scalp didn’t help. It still looked as if he’d stuck his fingers in a light socket.
Gus sighed and left the bungalow with his folders and set off in his trusty Focus.
He found one important alteration to the car park when he arrived, at a few minutes before half-past eight. Either the ACC or Geoff Mercer had exercised their rights as the landlord to refresh the white lines. In addition, there were now four spaces next to the rear wall of the building with a ‘Private Parking - Police Personnel Only’ notice on display.
The remaining number of spaces were available for staff from the businesses on the ground floor. Whether the fresh layout balanced out the four spaces the CRT had grabbed, Gus couldn’t tell. It wouldn’t affect deliveries. There were already spaces on High Street with dropping-off restrictions in front of the Old Police Station.
Once upstairs in the office, he chose a desk and sat in the chair. This would do. He could keep tabs on his three staff members from here and the whiteboards and other displays would be visible. Which of the three remaining desks would be best for DS Hardy? Was it an idea to split the two guys up and fit Lydia between them? Decisions. Decisions.
Gus had twenty-five minutes before anyone else was scheduled to arrive. He started loading the boards with photographs from the crime scene. A map of the surrounding area. A breakdown of the victim’s family, neighbours, work colleagues, employers and anyone who could have come into contact with her.
“Do you need a hand with that, Sir?”
Gus turned to see who had exited the lift. A young man, late twenties, six feet tall. He wasn’t overweight, maybe thirteen or fourteen stones, but he looked solid, rather than athletic. His brown hair was cut short, his brown eyes looked bright and alert. He was smartly dressed, and it wasn’t hard to work out which of his team had arrived early to impress his new boss.
“You must be Neil Davis,” said Gus, shaking the newcomer’s hand. “Good to meet you. No need for the ‘Sir’. I’m a mere consultant now. My DI rank is ancient history. I know it will take you time to adjust from something that’s second nature. I’d prefer ‘guv’ when we’re in here or out in the field. In social surroundings, I’m happy for you to call me, Gus.”
“Right you are, S… guv. Are these the contents of the murder file? We were told the first case under review was the 2008 Tolliver murder, but it was before my time. I read the press reports on t
he case over the weekend. It was a brutal business.”
“Good to see you’re not coming in cold,” said Gus, “The ACC and Superintendent Mercer have chosen well. This is a case that deserves to be resolved. The downside is that if we fail miserably, I’ll be back tending to my allotment and you’ll be reassigned, pronto.”
“We had better not fail then, guv,” said Neil, sorting through items that Gus had spread out on the desk and quickly finding what he wanted. The boards started to take shape. The CRT office was coming alive.
Gus looked at the wall clock. Ten minutes to nine. The other two should soon be on their way upstairs.
“Let’s take a break from this, Neil and test out the amenities. I saw a Gaggia in the restroom when Superintendent Mercer showed me around last Monday. I won’t make a habit of it, but a decent cup of coffee will be a good ice-breaker when the others get here. We can chat about the day ahead while the four of us rate the cuppa against the swill most station machines cough up.”
“Blimey, guv, a Gaggia is a step up from what we usually get. This office must have cost a packet to fit out.”
They didn’t hear the lift descend to the ground floor over the sounds of the coffee maker. A minute later, Gus and Neil heard voices in the office and walked back from the restroom.