Time and Tide

by Peter Grainger

  He said, ‘Before we leave, you should know that my detective constable is a fan of yours, Miss Shapiro. Only on the drive down this morning, he was playing me some of your music.’

  Then it was Waters’ turn to take the hand that was offered to him – small and slender, frail as it disappeared inside his own for a moment, but her eyes had lit up with pleasure.

  ‘Really? Goodness me! It never ceases to amaze me, how music crosses the generations! What were you listening to this morning?’

  Resolutely, Waters refused to look at Smith. The face would be perfectly straight to anyone that didn’t know him well, but Waters would see the amused expectation, the right eyebrow arched a fraction more than the left, as he waited for the detective constable’s response.

  ‘ “This Little Broken Heart”,’ said Waters, thanking God for his memory and simultaneously praying that this would be enough.

  ‘Oh yes – well, that’s the one, isn’t it? But there were others, too. You know that, of course…’

  ‘Yes.’

  Smith said, ‘It’s the retro revival, Miss Shapiro. They’re all into it these days.’

  She turned her attention to him then, and Waters felt relief, almost gratitude, even though it was Smith who had pushed him off the side and into the deep end in the first place.

  ‘I know, sergeant. I still get requests. Phone calls… Would I like to appear here, or sign some old LPs there, and so on. I don’t but it never quite dies, you know. Music is a very powerful thing. A mysterious thing…’

  And then, quite unexpectedly, she turned her back on them and looked out through the huge window, as if they had already left the room. There was quiet, and then faint sounds from the bar below her apartment, the world getting on with its business. Waters wondered whether they were expected to leave now, to step quietly out of her presence, and he looked at Smith.

  Smith was at work. He was staring to the right of her, through into the office, and then his gaze travelled slowly around the room once more, meeting Waters on the way but hardly pausing; then he half turned to look at the walls behind them, seeing more pictures, more posters, framed Golden Disc awards, framed headlines from the music papers of half a century ago. One of them read “Julie Can Do No Wrong!”

  She sighed, and still looking away, said, ‘The past. There’s no escaping it. All through your life, you keep moving forward, but it gets harder. You go slower and slower, and then one day you find you’re not moving at all any more. You’re just caught in it, the past. Trapped, you are…’

  Those last three words were spoken differently, with an inflexion from her own past, re-arranged, though there were only three of them, into a poetic echo from the hills and the valleys of south Wales. Those last three words had been spoken by Gwyneth Williams.

  They found their own way back downstairs. There was a short corridor before the entrance into the bar, and Smith stopped there and said, with a lowered voice, ‘Have you read “Great Expectations”?’

  Waters nodded and said, ‘A Level. My English teacher was nuts about it.’

  Smith was waiting, assuming that he didn’t need to explain any further.

  ‘Miss Havisham?’

  ‘All that’s missing is the wedding dress. Or maybe the last outfit Julie Shapiro performed in…’

  ‘Thanks for dropping me in it, DC.’

  ‘All good training, keeps you on your toes. You were very convincing.’

  Mark Williams walked across the end of the little corridor carrying a cardboard box full of potato crisps into the bar; he didn’t notice them standing at the foot of the stairs.

  Smith said, ‘Well, we need to get on. We need the list of who was in the bar last night, and the guest list for the bed and breakfast rooms – we’ll assume it’s genuine for now, and not the cut-and-pasted version already. But you should find out a bit more about Julie Shapiro, now that you’re a fan.’

  ‘Really? You think there’s-’

  ‘In your own time, obviously. Nothing to do with the case.’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Only two of The Queens Arms’ rooms had been let on the night of the fire, and both parties had checked out that morning – one could hardly blame them. Waters had their details from the register and he would contact them as a matter of routine, but nothing was likely to come of it; one address was in Coventry and the other was in Reading, and it was difficult to imagine a scenario in which either Mr and Mrs Wilkinson or Mr and Mrs Hurst would have set fire to the public house in which they were sleeping overnight. There was an outside chance they had heard or seen something the previous evening, that was all.

  Mark Williams gave them his list of names for local people who had been in the bar that night, and it was a very short list – it had only five names upon it. ‘Wednesdays are always quiet,’ Williams had said by way of an explanation. Smith had glanced at it, folded it and put it into a pocket, but once outside in the car-park he had taken it out again and handed it to Waters.

  The third name was Sam Cole. There might be more than one man with that name, of course, especially in this locality, because Cole was a common surname here, but Smith didn’t fancy those odds and said as much to Waters, especially as the fourth name was Arthur Sands. Smith knew him only by sight but this was another man who had boats and who ran them out of Barnham Staithe. Waters gave back the list and said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  Smith gave him the car keys again, and said, ‘I’m thinking that one of the people we’d like to speak to about the murder of Bernie Sokoloff has access to a boat at short notice. Head back to the office, and don’t play me any more retro revivals. I’m confused enough as it is.’

  Two minutes later, Waters turned right onto the Hunston road. He looked across at Smith as he did so, and saw that he had his arms crossed, a frown on his forehead and his eyes shut. Waters took some comfort from that – he wasn’t the only one who thought this investigation was becoming more puzzling as the hours passed by.

  Not another word was spoken until the car was twenty seconds away from the turn down towards Barnham Staithe. Smith opened his eyes and said, ‘What time is high tide today?’

  ‘DC, I don’t have a…’ but he did, when he thought about it and completed the rough mental calculation. ‘It’s still on the rise for another hour or so.’

  ‘OK, good. I knew you’d come in useful one day. Make a right and head down to the Staithe. Maybe Sam Cole hasn’t set sail yet.’

  Analysing phone records is much more boring than analysing the results of a post-mortem, especially when you’ve participated in the process that has produced those results. Serena Butler was keen to do another one, well aware that her CV had already become a better one as far as an application to the county’s new murder squad was concerned. It had been in the back of her mind for a while, and now that DC was going, it was plain that things would never be the same at Kings Lake Central – this would be a good time to think hard about her next move.

  Sokoloff’s phone record for the past three months was two screens long and she had the necessary self-discipline to begin at the beginning and work her way through meticulously. He made regular calls to several land-line numbers which were easy to trace, and they all seemed to be related to his business at the health club. There were also frequent calls to and from the mobile number which Serena already recognised as belonging to Anneliese Nowicki – calls frequent enough to tell her that they were a close couple rather than the reverse. A very subjective deduction, of course, but nevertheless it might be significant; if that was the case, then surely Miss Nowicki had some idea what he was doing on the weekend that he drove up to Norfolk. And if she did, something was preventing her from saying so.

  Serena Butler found the call that booked The Royal Victoria, and then the first of three to a mystery mobile number. She guessed the explanation immediately, because she had seen this before – it was a burner, a pay-as-you-go mobile phone bought anonymously for cash in any store on the high stree
t, and quite untraceable until you have it in your hand, preferably complete with fingerprints and DNA. Even then, you cannot be certain that it was used by the person on whom you just discovered it.

  One call made to that number on Wednesday the 7th of September, a few minutes after the call that booked the hotel in Norfolk; the second call made late in the afternoon of Friday the 9th, after Sokoloff had arrived at The Royal Victoria, and the final call to the burner late in the evening of Saturday the 10th, at 22.26, which was almost certainly the night on which he was killed. This was important stuff, then, the fact that the call to the mystery number was his penultimate call, giving as it did a time at which he was still alive. It was important too in that it suggested that Sokoloff was communicating with someone at key moments in his trip to Norfolk.

  The penultimate call. Serena Butler looked at the last number, which Sokoloff had dialled seconds after the previous call had finished. It was an odd number, and not in the sense of not being an even one. The first four digits were 0333. That’s not an area code, obviously – that’s a contact number for an organisation. She wrote the full number down on her notepad, opened another screen, typed it in and pressed enter. The result was clear, absolutely clear, right at the top of the results. And this was Bernard Sokoloff’s last call?

  She looked around room 17 then, to see who was here. There was no sign of DI Terek but DCI Reeve was at John Wilson’s desk. Then, to be certain, Serena Butler took out her own mobile phone and dialled the number. Five rings and then a pleasant woman’s voice, asking for her membership number and whether she had to hand details of exactly where she had broken down or been involved in an accident. Serena apologised and said that she had called in error. Then she shut her phone and stared at John Murray until he noticed her. Her eyes went pointedly to her screen, and then back to him. He was already getting out of his seat. That’s what it means, to be a part of a team.

  ‘Arson, you reckon?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about that, Sam.’

  ‘Well, I can’t recall the like of it – not round here, not in my time.’

  Sam Cole seemed to have taken the matter personally, as if certain offences had been acceptable in his time around here but this was not one of them. The three of them – Cole, Smith and Waters - were standing in his office; Janey Cole had left it as soon as the policemen walked in without even a glance at Waters or a word of recognition to Smith. As far as Smith was concerned, she could hardly have behaved more suspiciously after her last encounter with the detective constable – the two of them had been in touch since then, probably through the deadly mediums of social media. In the old days, someone would have had to write a letter and wait for it to be delivered – time aplenty in which to have second and third thoughts.

  Sam Cole was finally answering the question that Smith had put to him.

  ‘Yes, I was there with Arthur for about an hour. We had a pint but it was business, really. Arthur’s got a couple of boats that need to come out this winter and we’d gone to see about getting the right trailers. We didn’t see no-one likely to set a fire, and we would’ve done if they was there – it weren’t that busy.’

  Smith said, ‘How often do you get over to The Queens Arms, Sam?”

  ‘Not very. Marjorie’s been there for years, she does a nice lunch, but the beer’s nothin’ special. The place ain’t what it used to be, years ago. Just the court of Queen Julie, really – not that she deigns to appear in it very often. You never see her. Sits up in her room or goes wanderin’ about the dunes at all hours. It’s a funny ol’ set-up.’

  ‘And you’ve not heard of any other bother over there at all?’

  ‘No.’

  It was impossible to say whether Smith had found what he wanted when he took the sudden decision to go down to the Staithe, but Waters had noticed one thing as they arrived and parked the car – here were boats galore of all shapes and sizes. He stepped back into the doorway to have another look at them, blinking into the sunshine, and saw then that Janey Cole was sitting on the wall again. She had been watching the doorway and he saw the end of her quick look down at the clipboard she was preparing for the next trip out to the seals. He kept watching her until she looked up, noticed him as if for the first time, and gave a little wave of her hand.

  Waters returned it discreetly and went back inside – he did not need Smith on this particular case.

  ‘…thanks, Sam. One last thing – what time did you and Arthur leave The Queens Arms? I’m trying to get the full picture.’

  ‘Didn’t look at my watch but it wasn’t long after nine, couldn’t have been. I doubt we was there more’n an hour… Arthur did the deal he wanted with Johnny Fisher and bought him a drink. We talked for a few minutes after that, and then we was away.’

  Smith was looking at Waters as he took the list out of his pocket again. He glanced at it and said, ‘Who’s Johnny Fisher, Sam?’

  ‘He bought Drake’s chandlery business up in Wells a few years ago. Done alright for himself, fingers in all sorts of pies – but I’m not suggestin’ anything untoward, so don’t go arrestin’ him on my say so! That’s who Arthur went to see about the trailers. He’s alright.’

  ‘So he hires out boat-trailers. What about boats?’

  ‘Aye, he’s got several. Short-term and long-term hires, an’ everything else you need.’

  Smith was looking down at the list again, long enough for Sam Cole to look at Waters with a raised eyebrow. It was Smith who spoke next.

  ‘Was there anyone else you knew in the pub last night, Sam? Local people we could talk to, I mean.’

  ‘Johnny was with Peter Vince, who’s got the garage in Wells.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know Peter Vince. They’re regulars at The Queens Arms, aren’t they?’

  It was the first leading question in the conversation, and Sam Cole was aware of it immediately. For the moment, Waters had forgotten about Janey Cole out in the sunshine – he knew why Smith had looked at the list and why this line of questioning had developed seemingly from nowhere. Now he was watching Cole, and wondering how he would respond to being led like this.

  ‘I reckon they are. Two of the fans – you know what I mean. All the more reason not to think they’d set fire to the place. Quite the opposite, I should say.’

  That was enough for Smith. He shook Cole’s hand for the second time that week, thanked him and the three of them went out of the office. Cole raised an arm and pointed to his watch for Janey’s benefit; she nodded and began to walk down towards the Lady Ann. There would be another group of visitors ready to head out to sea, and the tide was rapidly filling up the creek.

  Smith said, ‘I see you still have your assistant, Sam. I thought she was going back to university.’

  ‘She is. Tomorrow’s her last day on the boat, and we’ll drive her back at the weekend. Could be her last trip ever if she gets a job next year. Been helping me out since she was a twelve-year-old, and now look at her.’

  Then Sam Cole stared at Waters as if he had better not.

  Back in the car, Smith said, ‘I’m hoping you understood why that particular little interview was considerably more interesting than we could have expected.’

  ‘The names Peter Vince and Johnny Fisher weren’t on Williams’ list. That’s why you asked Sam Cole if they were regulars, even though we know they are. They were the two characters we spoke to after Williams had the row with the Lexus men.’

  ‘Slight correction – we know that one of them was Peter Vince because I recognised him myself. I didn’t know the other one but it’s a fair bet that was Johnny Fisher. But you’re right on the big question; if they are regulars in The Queens Arms, how did they get missed off Williams’ list? Sam Cole confirmed it – they weren’t many people in the pub last night.’

  The time had been when Waters would have said let’s go back and ask him about it, but that time had long gone. The man would simply have said that of course they’d been there, Vince and Fisher – he’d just for
gotten the fact, sorry… Not telling Williams that they knew of his unlikely lapse of memory was more useful; it was a tiny piece in a growing puzzle about the landlord of The Queens Arms, a piece in their possession but not yet in his. The rounders bat, the altered register, the reluctance to call the fire service, the omission of names that he knew well from the list of the small number of people in the pub not twenty four hours ago. Something wasn’t quite right about Mr Williams.

  Waters said, ‘We’re due back at Kings Lake this afternoon. We should talk this through with John and Serena, see what they make of it.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting someone, Constable Waters?’

  Waters turned the key and the engine fired first time, as it always did.

  ‘In the first instance? No, I don’t think so, DC.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  A meeting of all the detectives involved in the Sokoloff case was due to begin in twenty minutes. Smith looked at the three members of his team, gathered around Serena’s desk, and then he went through the record of phone calls on her screen once more, double-checking as ever.

  Then he said to her, ‘How long have you been sitting on this?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at John Murray before she answered.

  ‘I wanted you to see it first. I thought…’

  Smith closed his eyes and shook his head, and then he heard Murray say, ‘We both did.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, all of you – don’t put yourselves in the firing line. Especially for me and especially not now.’

  The three of them looked at each other and waited. Across room 17, a few chairs were being re-arranged to face the end from which Detective Superintendent Allen would deliver his next address.