Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

Dismissive, “Join the Sergeant.”

  Bitter, “Go. Now.”

  My anger has erupted without words, contempt hanging in the air so that I do not need to say, ‘And good Riddance.’

  Everyone looks around anxiously, as wind suddenly lashes the windows and thunder crashes outside.

  Yet we all hear the soft female voice, “Another fine mess you have got yourself into DCI Cade?”

  26

  The woman has slipped in unobserved by any of us. Who knows how long she has been silent in the shadows? We all stand alert when we hear her voice, even Gadd managing to get to his feet without further ado.

  Assistant Chief Commissioner Mary Hamnet, tall, thin, her dark hair with flecks of grey drawn back in a tight bun and minimal make up, is dressed in a dark business suit, blue blouse and highly polished but hardy boots. Aged fifty, long married to the police force alone, she carries her authority naturally after thirty years of distinguished service even without the resplendent ceremonial uniform and stripes of myriad medals. Her load is heavy. Chief of Operations for Uniform and C.I.D., with an ever-shrinking budget to combat traditional crimes like violence and burglary and burgeoning ones like knife attacks, people trafficking, child abuse and digital crime. The legendary former Head of Ancaster C.I.D.. The woman who dragged that department kicking and screaming to serve modern society using forensics, profiling, systematic approaches and slick squad organisation while still allowing for flair, imagination and instinct to forge a criminal-catching machine to be proud of.

  She fought then, fights now, for one law for all. Rather than one serving the rich and powerful elites who expect the police to accept their betters and do as they are bid. An uneasy battle in a place like Ancaster County, with one toe in the twenty first century and the others in the seventeenth. Three months ago, she took over ultimate responsibility for C.I.D., an official response to the poor state of things. Judging from the papers, minutes of meetings and memos that came across my desk at Intelligence, some of them heavily redacted. Strife was immediate and bitter with Creel, the previously unfettered department chief.

  “Ma’am,” Parsons says deferentially and the others murmur the same. I nod my respect.

  The ACC walks to the white board, picks up a duster and rubs the offensive words away before she turns towards Parsons.

  “I trust you two senior officers are getting along and can forge Major Crimes 2 into a team to be reckoned with?” she asks gently, her soft voice contradicting the baleful stare she fixes us both with.

  We all know she knows that a bitter clash had been in progress, conflict that should never have been aired, certainly not in front of the DCs. Swinging on its steel links, one of the two neon lights above us gives up the struggle then, bringing semi-darkness even as snow drifts down once more.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Parsons repeats, looking straight ahead at a blank wall, ram rod straight now. I say nothing.

  The ACC’s voice is heavy then, “What happens on tour, stays on tour.”

  We all five nod.

  The ACC brightens as her smiling gaze sweeps the room, “You three DCs - Fenwick, Gadd, Whittle - you all have great abilities and potential, that is why you are here in our elite, Major Crime. The Sergeant and DCI are two of the sharpest detectives I have ever come across. Learn from them.”

  “I see we are going to be tight lipped today then DCI Cade?” the ACC winces once more as she turns to me. “Report please.”

  I briefly detail the cases we are about to deal with.

  “Hardly Major Crimes territory, but early days, ease you in gently,” is her pithy comment.

  ***

  Dismissing the three DCs to their reading, she points the Sergeant and I into my wardrobe sized office, closing the door behind her. We are shoe-horned together while she sits at my desk, nodding affectionately at the large framed photograph of my wife and daughter that faces her from one side. Perhaps remembering she was at Grace’s 1st Birthday Celebration, a friend, a visitor to our home for years before that from when I became a DC on her team.

  “Now DCI Cade,” she says heavily, “tell me about why old Sam Aystrup was in a cell at police HQ, likely facing charges for a hit and run accident that killed a homeless woman and obstructing the police? And why you were first on scene?”

  I cough to give time for thought, and then tell of how Sam rang me up in the middle of the night, insisting on my help, my buying him breakfast and taking him back to Odling who harangued and arrested him.

  “I thought it best to check if the woman was dead myself before calling anyone out officially,” I end dryly.

  Her tone is disbelieving, “Very thoughtful.”

  After a long silence while she studies the dark day outside, “And the complaint this morning that Mr Aystrup attacked a man in a cafe while you were having breakfast and you did nothing, even put the complainant in handcuffs and forced him to pay his bill when the cafe owner was not bothered?

  Matter of fact then, “Likely charge of Assault and Battery there too for Sam, DCI Odling informs me and not sure what will happen if there is a formal complaint against you.”

  I sigh, speak calmly rather than in disgust, “Two of them were attacking Sam, he just pushed one away. I will swear to that, as will the cafe owner and four other people. If anything, the two much younger men should be on charges. They owed the cafe owner almost £2,000 between them, had been conducting a campaign to ruin the business and help a nearby competitor they know. The two men paid it willingly on credit cards, shopkeeper accepted it gratefully. I should have brought them in for intimidation and sexual harassment.”

  Both women stir as I go on, “The cafe owner had complained previously, but police told them nothing could be done.”

  The ACC’s eyes narrow at this, she does not ask who dealt with it but will have looked at the record as I have – Sergeant Edgar Brocksom, friend and confederate of Creel and Odling.

  Instead the ACC nods, her eyes wide, “Sexual? Surely not harassing the schoolgirl with multiple sclerosis?”

  I shrug and she goes on, “And why should Sam call you and not 999 when he finds a dead body?”

  I will myself to keep a steady but not intense look directly at her as I answer this obvious question, “I live very near, family friend, he was scared, confused perhaps, he trusts me.”

  Her eyes wander outside, “Hmm, odd that, he says the same thing. To me, in his cell, early this morning before release. A man who has been law abiding forever, and never been scared or confused in his life.”

  The silence lingers and the Sergeant shifts uncomfortably. I continue to hold the ACC’s gaze, knowing she knows something is amiss but cannot know what.

  “And do you buy the conclusion from DCI Odling and Chief Superintendent Creel that Mr Aystrup ran this poor homeless woman down and tried to cover it up by calling out a friendly copper?” she asks, her eyes suddenly piercing through me.

  I shake my head, “No, if he did anything wrong, he would admit it. I went as I genuinely did not know if something serious had happened or not, and the woman likely died hours before Sam’s road garbage collecting took him there.”

  The next question is laden, “And the paint and glass from his van, his van, on her body, and at a possible impact point a hundred yards from the Albion House gates that I have just examined?”

  My mind races now. I thought the ACC had appeared to show public support for my new squad and for me; after all it is her initiative to spread the detecting load and get new energy into it. Parsons and I are undoubtedly her chosen appointments with Creel fighting against them to the last.

  I did not expect the ACC to have known about, let alone to have read the paperwork on a likely hit and run death, sadly a minor crime by today’s standards. Nor to come out and cross examine me about it. Nor to have visited the scene. The possible assault and battery charge, and complaint against me, are also clearly well thought through as rapid spoilers of some kind on someone’
s part. While also being very President Trump like in being based on ‘alternative facts,’ otherwise known as lies.

  When I shake my head about the paint evidence against Sam, the ACC deviates again. Why had I taken him off for over an hour? He is old and was cold. It is a weak response but I give it nevertheless.

  My thoughts are heavy. I do not like fencing with the ACC, lying to her in effect, but what else can I say. Accusing fellow officers of lax work, a mistake, the stench of corruption and wrong doing within hours of being back leading Major Crimes, would hardly be wise. While telling of Sam seeing my mother with the dead woman only two days before her death is something I simply cannot do, unless and until I know what it means.

  I make an effort at diplomacy, “I did not see any white paint on the dead woman when she was in the ditch, who by the way is hardly a homeless person. I got close to check she was dead. And his van was not damaged at all when I took him off for breakfast.”

  I let the thought linger, “I can vouch for that – it was unmarked when we left it at the scene.”

  The ACC’s face is stern, the stress on ‘unmarked’ being stronger than I intend.

  The ACC nods bleakly, “And yet there Mr Aystrup sat in a cell all night - but without any of the new Major Crime Team 1 questioning him in over twenty-four hours. Funny that, don’t you think?”

  ***

  Parsons and the DCs go off on their inquiries. The ACC departs back to HQ in her chauffeur driven car.

  I am about to slip out for fresh air myself when I am stopped by the arrival of Lucinda Balfour-Forsythe, Head of Communications for Ancaster County Police.

  A highly efficient and effective woman, she has helped to protect me from the media swarm as far as is possible for the past seven years. Daughter of a local solicitor, an Oxford graduate, aficionado of all things Gin related, and devotee of Western movies, she has remained a steadfast support throughout my troubles.

  Still a visit from her is never a good sign. In her late forties, attractive, stylish and down to earth Lucinda was one of the first female news editors of a national daily and then of a television news operation. She only returned to her native Ancaster City ten years ago to ‘have a life’ with her teacher husband and see her children regularly.

  Lucinda wraps me in a hug before we sit and the braying voice of the local hunting and shooting fraternity from which she hails asks, “Strong silent type as ever darling? John Wayne in ‘The Searchers’?”

  She is laughing at herself, being the one who suggested I take that persona in public from the outset seven years ago.

  She might loathe the London media madhouse but Lucinda never willingly strays from the relative urban delights of Ancaster City and I ask the obvious, “Good to see you. And you are in the sticks Lucinda because …?”

  “You dear boy, you. The star in my media firmament.”

  We sit and my disappointment shows as she goes on, a serious tone uppermost now, “Unless I, we, can help it. But Fake News and Social Media make it increasingly difficult to get anything factual out there.”

  I listen dispassionately to what I already feared as she explains. I need to be careful of the media for the next few weeks for two reasons.

  “First, there will be snappers out for shots and video of you - heading Major Crime 2 now, seven years since the tragedy, the media keep diaries and have space to fill, and just need you on a juicy case and hey presto, Cade’s the Boy.

  “Doubly unpleasant this time as social media will no doubt carry ‘fake news’ stories of you. ‘Echo chambers’ on social media will spread every bad mention of you to anyone interested, and ‘filter bubbles’ will constantly guess that readers want more bad news about you and direct people to it. Once the waves begin to crash against us, like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the flood barrier while drowning, we will be too late. Best to try and avoid it, hard as that is.”

  I nod glumly, remembering the circus when it all happened and on different anniversaries since. Being hunted by the press pack is precisely what it feels like, with journalists at my windows, doors, in my garden and meadow, bothering my neighbours and friends. My mother, my Cambridge tutors and contemporaries, even Bess’ elderly maiden aunt in London who brought her up, suffered harassment from the media. Perhaps my mother has anticipated the same again and gone off to avoid it.

  “Difficult but try and not be caught in any situations where a photograph might be taken and be manipulated to give the wrong interpretation. You know, looking angry, handcuffing anyone, flirting with a woman, playing with a child, even slavering over a bacon sandwich like that politician. Careful what you say or email to anyone.”

  I explain I live like a recluse, work and home is my world and my present slate of cases are every day.

  “And boxing,” she reminds me, striking a pugilistic pose. “Not quite a recluse there?”

  Her voice is sympathetic but firm, “Second, there is already interest from press, television, radio, internet outlets who want to interview you, do pieces on you. I have Channel 5, ITV, even big Japanese and American outfits, would like to do fly-on-the-wall films following your first few cases back in harness so to speak.”

  I appreciate the ‘are’ as she continues, hurtful for being so matter of fact, “The Cades are a nice middle class attractive family, just like the McCanns, and something mysterious and bad has happened. It is what it is, horrifying and fascinating at the same time to many.”

  Real concern then as she places her hand across the desk and onto my arm, “Be careful, refer anything to me, ask me, anything, day or night, your squad too, tell them, tell your Mother too. This is coming, trust nobody.”

  “Got it.”

  “Shame I have to go, was hoping we might have lunch somewhere,” Lucinda says, rising now with a sultry leer in her voice. “Start some rumours big boy.”

  She finishes quietly, “Just kidding, one quick question though.”

  My face is a blank, a final point is often when Lucinda is at her most insightful.

  Slightly wheedling, “Chief Superintendent Creel? He would normally do all the press conferences for any major case, likes the limelight whenever he can. Yet I got a note from ACC Hamnet a week ago that she will look after any press interviews for your new Major Crime Team.”

  I shrug as she finishes, “Odd as she hates that side of things - so why?”

  27

  Squad room now empty, I settle for an hour with a pile of files. On the farm thefts, a pattern springs out immediately: deep local knowledge of farming routine and the habits of particular farmers, and only highly sellable items being targeted, possibly with buyers already lined up.

  The burglaries have two distinct trends.

  High-end heavily-alarmed houses with money, jewellery and expensive collectibles like antiques have been hit six times in the past two years. A memory pulls at me and I search Intelligence records of burglaries beyond Ancaster’s borders, finding twelve similar to the north, twelve beyond the southern boundary and five in the nearby West Midlands. All with the same modus operandi: alarms easily disabled when people are out or away. Add in the Ancaster County jobs and you have one burglary a month neatly spaced over almost three years. Reason says it is the same culprits.

  The other pattern is totally different; a school and a newspaper office, nothing taken, nothing enticing to steal so why bother. I email my thoughts to the squad.

  ***

  The worry about my mother lurks within me. It is ridiculous, she should just explain, I could and would help. As it is I am groping in darkness, risking much in the process. I will give her one more day and then have to confront her. But, at times of worry, relax, go to the barber’s.

  There are any number, for men, women or both, in Merian’s town centre. It is clearly a burgeoning occupation and something people will not do without, even in a time of austerity and low wages. My barber is not one of the newer ones, no glitz and razzle dazzle, music pumping, chairs that massage as you sit,
offering the latest ‘back, sack and crack’ for guys, whatever that might be.

  Mine sits near Bert’s café in a two storey Georgian building with a bow shop front that reveals all within like a traditional Ancaster barber of the past fifty years. Outside in December the whole building is of a different tradition; a cosmopolitan delight, decorated in traditional Italian style with a vibrant covering of red banners and garlands along guttering, around windows and doors, and sweeps of cypress boughs from left to right like waves carrying colourful large presents. A huge Star of Bethlehem heads into the sky above with a trail of sparkling stars wishing it on its way. Two toddlers, clutching their mother’s hands, stare wide eyed at the display.

  Within, the long room is sweet-cologne smelling with scissors clicking, electric razors buzzing, water trickling, soft Italian background music and a buzz of talk from three of the four chairs. Subdued lighting strokes the pale-yellow walls adorned with framed black and white photographs of footballers Maldini, Totti, Pirlo, Zola, boxers Ali, Frazier, Sugar Ray Leonard, ballet dancers, Italian movie stars, and opera singers. Coffee is constantly bubbling, dispensed free to customers, many of them coming from Daniel’s gym. While this month the special attractions are the three-foot high Pandora cake, pieces in the shape of stars, making up the tiered pattern of a Christmas tree with every customer enjoying a slice. Dolls of Babbo Natale, the Italian Santa Claus, sit on every wall crevice along with white angels floating heavenwards.

  All goes quiet as the most famous of Italian Christmas songs embraces us all. ‘Tu Scendi Dalle Stelle’ heralds its bewitching poetry; ‘from starry skies descending’ comes the Christ child ‘in winter’s icy sting’ if my rusty Italian has it right.

  I stand in the doorway, scoping out the situation as my friend Jerry would advise. I normally come very early or very late when few if any others are about so as to avoid causing unpleasantness. Today a woman’s head is awash with silver tin foil as her male stylist hovers lest it take off. A red-raced bull of a man, sweats profusely, face partly covered with a steam cloth, inert in another chair. His pig like eyes never leave me in the mirror as I look around. Another customer is all over large tweed suit, chattering away to himself it seems as his hair is trimmed.