She clicked the mouse a couple of times and half-turned the computer screen so that Smith could see she was looking at an email on the force’s own internal system.
‘It’s from Jackie Bayliss. We started Hendon together. We meet up sometimes, send emails, cards – we’ve stayed in touch. She’s at Norwich, about to head the family liaison units across the county. And she has two kids. Where did I go wrong? No, don’t answer, thank you. Anyway, this morning I got this – I’ll cut out the social bits: “You’ll never believe who I just saw, walking down the corridor, large as life. Do you remember Dominic Fox? ‘Course you do, how could we ever forget! I sort of spoke to him, and he looked at me but right through me, as if he had no idea who I was. But I’m sure he knew me. What was he doing here? Why isn’t he running the Met? That’s what we always said, isn’t it, by the time he was thirty? God, I hope he isn’t after a job here!”.’
Alison Reeve looked at Smith, who said nothing.
‘I’ll explain in a minute. I emailed her back and said, well who was he with? Where was he going? She replied “He was heading upstairs towards the big boys – one of their PAs was with him, I don’t know whose exactly. And there was a tall coloured girl as well. They both looked really sharp, know what I mean?” I do know what she means. Fox was the superstar of our year, or at least that’s what we all believed. I don’t need to explain any of that to you, I know. But destined for greatness. He went straight into the Met, fast-tracked, the lot…’
‘And then?’
‘And then he disappeared. You all sort of keep track, don’t you, keep an eye open for who’s going where and how quickly? Well, I did. He just went off the radar, years ago, until now. I’d forgotten about him.’
‘He went sideways, then.’
Reeve knew what he meant – Dominic Fox had been examined, assessed, reviewed by the nameless, faceless men and women that inhabit the back offices of the corridors of power, and he had been found to be what was required by the security services. He had gone sideways and by now he had gone upwards as well.
‘I can’t say I didn’t think any more about it – it’s been on my mind on and off, makes you think about old times, the other people you knew… What you hoped for. Sorry, soppy stuff. But then, about half an hour ago…’
‘He called you himself and said that it had always been you?’
‘About half an hour ago I got a call from Norwich. Assistant Chief Constable Devine’s office, would I mind holding on the line.’
The faint smile that had lingered on Smith’s face since his last comment disappeared.
‘A.C.C. Devine did come onto the line. He even made a little small talk with me.’
‘You must have been terrified.’
‘He wanted to be sure that the body of that poor young man that drowned had been released for the funeral. There had been a complaint from the family, as I already knew, but no blame attached to the officers concerned, all had behaved properly, it was just unfortunate that… And was it all now resolved?’
‘Ah. And you said?’
‘That we still had one or two lines of inquiry open.’
‘And then he said, just as a matter of professional interest, what are those lines of inquiry?’
‘I was suitably vague. I said that we were making some efforts to trace someone that we thought might have been a witness to the drowning. He laughed at that. He said that anyone who saw such a thing would have come forward by now.’
Smith’s face had hardened somehow, Reeve could see that, and there was a note of sharpness as he sped them both through the conversation that she had held with a very senior officer a short time ago.
‘What else did he want to know? How many officers? How much police time do you intend to waste on this?’
‘Some of that. He wanted to know whether I had any experienced officers looking at it. When I said yes, he said-’
‘What’s his name?’
Chapter Eleven
So, where did she go wrong? Is that how she really sees her life, Smith thought as he rearranged the pens and pencils, the ruler and the highlighters on his desk at home before the golden hour. Perhaps. It was hard for men and probably harder for women. He had no time for the mindless misogyny that still lingered on in the backwaters of the police service, and his own ideal team would always consist of two of each; he could recall an investigation in which two women questioned a brutal young thug so effectively that he had, without even realizing it, ended by calling one of them ‘mum’ – the boy even sent her a thank you card from the detention centre. But it was even harder for them to maintain a relationship and as for having children… He had no idea how some of them managed it.
But Alison Reeve was bright and he had not misjudged her nerve. She had confessed to him that she’d been on the point of telling him to leave it, that there was too little to go on to justify the time required – but then she understood the implications of the email and the telephone call just as clearly as Smith himself, and neither of them had bothered to utter the word ‘coincidence’. It was no such thing. A delayed burial, a ‘complaint’ from bereaved parents? Such matters were so far below the lofty purview of an A.C.C. that it was ludicrous – and for him to call in person? That was actually foolish, and bound to arouse someone’s suspicion. Devine must have been seriously rattled to make such an error of judgement.
Smith had not looked at his watch but somehow the hour had begun. This Fox character and his sidekick had come in person, presumably from London; they had been in head office bright and early, too, as he had asked Reeve to check the time on the first email – 09.20. Why not simply phone, email, send a text or a tweet? (It looked as if he was getting the hang of this social media thing at last.) Easy – first, face-to-face underlines the importance of their message to the recipient; second, they get to frighten said recipient a bit; third, not a trace is left behind. It had then taken the Assistant Commissioner four hours to come up with a cover story, which was about par for the course.
Making the connection to Captain J. Hamilton was automatic and instinctive but for the sake of thoroughness he re-examined it anyway. Whichever way he looked at it, though, he came back to the same conclusion. At some point between Friday morning and this morning, someone had reported to someone else that one Detective Sergeant Smith was wandering the countryside, and disturbing the retirements of Her Majesty’s loyal officers. And someone had taken it seriously enough to set the cogs in motion over a weekend.
Lots to think about. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing for five minutes – slow the heart, lower the BP, clear the mind… Alison Reeve had not said anything so naïve as ‘Go get them’, whoever they happened to be. Instead they had exchanged a meaningful glance before she said, ‘I won’t keep you too busy this week, just ease you back in gently,’ and he didn’t need to say anything at all. She looked at the cigarette packet and listened to the story about the disappearing bonfire, asking only the questions that Smith himself would have asked in her position. At the end, she had said to him, ‘Any thoughts about this Hamilton character? Any ideas?’
‘He told me he had the house through family connections, and I think he had a bit of difficulty with my council estate twang. It’s old school tie, isn’t it?’
She had nodded and said, ‘We know you can’t be good so be-’
‘Yes, m-. Bugger it, I don’t know what to call you. Think of something.’
And then there was Waters. When Smith had returned to his desk, there had been a note – ‘Calling in to see Barry on the way home’. Getting a newbie mixed up in anything faintly political would be a crime in itself; on the other hand, Smith needed at least one more pair of hands and drawing in an experienced officer might cause more problems than it solved – someone like Maggie would soon smell a rat in this lot. If he could confine the boy’s interest to finding the canoeist – who had, Smith was now certain, had an encounter with Wayne Fletcher – and keep the other stuff quiet, it might work out.
If it didn’t, he might have to drop Waters over the side unceremoniously but DI Reeve would help out now that she was on board.
So tomorrow they would call on Little Lithuania, the complex of old chalets and mobile homes on the western side of Kings Lake which housed many of the immigrants who had arrived in the past couple of years. Some worked in local factories, a few had found employment in the docks but most of them still travelled out in the minibuses every morning, out to the fruit farms, the vegetable fields and packing sheds – providing food for people too vain or idle to work in such places themselves any longer. He reprimanded himself for the thought and said aloud quietly to no-one in particular, ‘It’s a funnier old world than it used to be.’
Visiting such places to warn about the dangers of home-brewed vodka had been the last thing on his mind until the discovery of the cigarette packet. His jacket hung on the back of the chair. He took out the packet, still wrapped in the evidence bag. It should have been logged in but then he’d have to log it out every time he wanted it, as he would tomorrow. And it would then need a case number, which still did not exist; a perfect example, as if he needed another one, of bureaucracy getting in the way of the work. And they wonder why people take shortcuts.
Closing his notebook, he realized that underneath it lay the form instructing Pinehills to put up for sale the caravan and its pitch. He had completed it and signed it – it only needed posting and the thing would be done with. On Sunday he had driven up there with the piece of paper, thinking that he could have a last look round and make sure that it was all tidy after the last rental before going into the office and giving them the form; and then, somehow, he had forgotten about it until the drive home. That was Mrs Salmon’s fault, Shirley Salmon, the owner of the site and a friend of his and Sheila’s since they first bought the van. She’d made a fuss, and then a cup of tea and then another as they talked over old times in her sitting room. She had scolded him – ‘You don’t even keep one weekend for yourself now. Don’t make excuses, I know how well you policemen are paid!’
She didn’t mention Sheila, was obviously avoiding doing so, and he both appreciated her sense of delicacy and was saddened by it. People could be too thoughtful, sometimes, until the very absence of Sheila from their conversations – in that place most of all – became a presence itself, like a shadow in the room cast by something that was missing. He had sat for an hour in the caravan and she had been with him there, making sandwiches for the beach in the little kitchen, telling him to go outside so that she could make the bed, brushing the sand off the foldaway steps. Memories are real, he thought, and will not turn to dust at the mention of her name.
Mrs Salmon had said, ‘Stay tonight, David. It’s a blues evening, open mic. Some old friends would love to see you. You could play…’ But he couldn’t obviously, told her about the early start, that blessed school and the talk he had to give.
Sitting at the desk, he couldn’t remember which meal he had taken out of the freezer. Not really hungry, as it happened. Charlie Hills had said, ‘Any time you fancy one, DC.’ He looked at his watch but it was a bit late for that now.
‘Sergeant policeman, you must understand. I am not leader of this community. We are not a gang, not a political party.’
‘Just ‘Sergeant’ will be fine, sir. Yes, I do understand what you are saying but-’
‘Because I am old, does not mean I lead, yes?’
If that was a smile disappearing off Waters’ face as Smith looked round at him, he might find himself leading these negotiations after all. Andrius Radvila’s intense, piercing eyes looked hard into the policeman’s face – things could proceed no further until this point was understood by both sides. Ranked behind the middle-aged Lithuanian were three more men of decreasing age and increasing size, his sons; the closest was plainly the oldest, the furthest away the youngest, still a teenager. And further back still, peering warily out from the kitchen of the mobile home, were the women – Radvila’s wife, still handsome, and a younger one, a daughter or daughter-in-law.
‘I fully appreciate that, Mr Radvila. You are not being held responsible for anything. But I have been told that I should speak to you. You are held in great respect.’
Radvila half-turned his head towards his oldest son, who translated something that Smith had said. Then there was nodding and a smile for the first time. A hand indicated a chair behind Smith and the two of them sat down – everyone else, it appeared, was to remain standing.
‘Sergeant, can I offer you… You will drink with me?’
Please don’t let it be vodka, thought Smith.
‘We have your English tea. Or coffee or fruit juices.’
‘A cup of tea would be very good. Mr Radvila.’
‘Andrius now.’
He turned and spoke in Lithuanian to his wife – Smith heard the kettle being filled and the sound of cups in the kitchen. Waters was still standing behind him, facing the other men, who did look a little less defensive now that their father had sat down with the policeman. Perhaps they assumed that Waters was his own son – he’d put that to him later.
‘There is no false distilling here, sergeant.’
Interesting that he knows the proper word, though, thought Smith – he had not yet used it himself.
‘We are understanding of the dangers of this. It has happened in my own country long before we come to yours. People go blind, die. We do not bring this here.’
‘Thank you for making that clear – Andrius. Am I saying that properly?’
An approving nod, shared by a couple of the sons.
‘We are not here to investigate anyone. Only to make sure that the risks are known to your young people. And one of the risks is that they could be arrested for a serious offence. We don’t want that at all, do we?’
‘No, sergeant. And I think your young people have enough of the alcohol risks without anyone making more of it. I have been to Kings Lake Saturday night.’
It was a fair point, and Smith did not hide the fact from Andrius Radvila. They talked some more and the tea came – Waters got some too and it was all served in proper cups and saucers. Smith made a point of thanking Mrs Radvila and she acknowledged that graciously before returning to her kitchen. He asked about the work that they were doing, and Radvila held out his two hands.
‘See this. What is this?’
He pointed to the staining on his fingers, a purplish blue around the tips and into the edges of the nails. Smith said that he didn’t know – was it some sort of fruit?
‘Very good – you are detective! But one time these hands were stained other colours. I was a printer. In English you say master printer, I think. Much government work. Once these hands print the laws of my country – now they pick blackcurrant in yours. Eh! We do not complain. Economic crashes, digital revolutions, all gone in a second but we survive.’
As they talked, other heads appeared in the doorway, having heard about the visitors. Greetings were exchanged and other conversations began. Two of the sons wandered off to speak to people outside now that they could see there was no threat from the visitors. It was difficult not to admire them, thought Smith; their resilience, their determination to make the best of things and their genuine politeness. He felt in his pocket, and feigned surprise when he took out the evidence bag.
‘Ah, Andrius. Before we go, I wonder if you could help me with this. One of our constables picked this up. We wondered where it came from originally. Everyone knows we’re all hopeless with languages…’
Radvila took the bag, held it up and then passed it to the remaining son, the eldest one who still stood behind his father.
‘Tomas is the clever boy. He will know this.’
Tomas glanced at the packet, turned it around once and spoke aloud for the first time – accented but clear and accurate English.
‘Not ours, sergeant. You are about a thousand miles out in your assumptions.’
‘With respect, I’m not making any assumptions or accusations.
It was an honest appeal for your help.’
Radvila turned to his son, sensing the change in tone.
‘Then you have my apologies, sergeant. These came from old Yugoslavia. From Bosnia.’
‘If I say so myself, Chris, it’s an example of the brilliant use of time and police resources.’
Waters sat in the passenger seat as Smith drove back to the station; he was examining the cigarette packet again, and didn’t look up from it as he replied.
‘Yes. I could include it in my log pages, how to combine community liaison with the furthering of an inquiry. They might ask me to go into detail at my next review.’
Smith took his eyes off the road for a moment.
‘Well, it’s not that brilliant. I’m sure we could come up with a better example.’
‘Don’t worry, DC. You can’t further an inquiry that isn’t actually taking place, can you?’
‘Explain.’
‘There’s no case number. There’s no file apart from the wallet thing you lock in your drawer and take up to DI Reeve occasionally. There’s no team on it – I know I don’t count yet. So there’s no inquiry, is there?’
‘Next time you see your dad, give him a message from me.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tell him the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.’
Waters smiled and Smith thought quickly.
‘Look, you’re right. This is an odd one. They happen from time to time. Funnily enough, I was thinking about this last night. You’ve been useful but you might be better off out of it.’
‘Why?’
‘This could be a bit - I don’t know - political? I can’t see for certain how it might go yet. It’s probably not the sort of thing you need to be involved in at the moment. If ever.’
‘DC Murray thought you found something at Manley Hall.’
‘Oh, did he? Well… But that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s too cute to have asked me what it was. Not that I’m saying there was anything, you understand, but if there had been…This sentence is about to disappear up its own backside.’
An Accidental Death: A DC Smith Investigation Page 10