An Accidental Death: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  After that, it became a blur. Every time there was music, the weeping and sobbing increased as if they were in some way a part of the performance, the awful improvisation of sorrow and grief. There were addresses, and the best, and therefore the worst, of them came from the school principal. He was honest and sincere about Wayne Fletcher, and it was clear that, love him or hate him, Wayne had been a larger than life character that no-one would ever forget. The silence at the end of that, and the moment of uncertainty then as members of the family seemed to be wondering what to do next, was almost unendurable. The service ended with the playing of Wayne’s favourite song, a love song, and somewhere in that mass of heartbroken people, thought Waters, is a girl called Nadia.

  Outside, Smith said that he would go on to the burial. It was phrased to give Waters the opportunity not to do so but he walked with Smith to the car and got in. It was a short drive, and all that passed between them was Waters muttering ‘I don’t know what to say,’ and Smith’s reply, ‘Nobody can prepare you for it.’

  Waters realized that he had no idea about how to behave in such a situation, and so he followed Smith. They stood well back from the mourners around the grave as the formalities were completed by the priest – the half-familiar phrases from films, the queue of relatives in some sort of order waiting to pick up a handful of earth, the sad faces of people looking into what has been and what is to come. Gradually the numbers thinned but still there were Melanie and Steven, as if they could not quite believe it yet, as if Wayne might yet swim back around the bend in the river.

  Waters wondered when Smith would decide to go. He looked again and saw the same fixed expression as had been there at the back of the church, an expression impossible to read. Then Smith looked back at him and asked again if he was alright. A weak sunshine coloured the scene in front of them, and Waters noticed for the first time that a few leaves on the lime trees surrounding the graveyard were already yellowing although it was only the beginning of September.

  ‘When you’re in front of a promotion board, one of the favourite questions is ‘So what motivates you in your daily work, Chris?’

  ‘Promotion? I’ll be relieved if I get through my six months. So, what’s the correct answer?’

  ‘Oh, there are lots, you can buy them in books. But you could think about this,’ and Smith nodded towards the little group still standing at the graveside. ‘I’m just not sure how you put it into words.’

  ‘Revenge? Justice?’

  ‘For the victim? For Wayne Fletcher? Not how I see it, he’s beyond all that. Death’s the end of all. But look at the misery we’ve seen today. And it’s endless, it goes on rippling backwards and forwards through all these lives forever. I don’t know about justice. I’ve never seen myself on a white charger, righting wrongs – but we have to catch people so that they can’t create all this again. And so that other people get the message – you will be caught, you will pay. We never know how many selfish acts we prevent when we show people the consequences, but we have to keep showing them the consequences. These are the consequences.’

  Smith had raised a hand, palm open towards the new grave.

  ‘You think it’s just selfishness?’

  ‘Just? Makes it sound trivial. All crime is caused by selfishness, I say. It’s the ‘Me first, my needs first’ attitude. Take that away and you’re about one step from paradise. Don’t ask me what the last step is, I don’t know, but it sounds good.’

  Waters looked ahead and wondered whether he should ask another question.

  ‘Have you been to many of these?’

  ‘A few, but that’s still too many.’

  ‘Did you go to any of the Andretti victims?’

  In the silence, he regretted that and wished he could take it back.

  ‘The last two. I wasn’t on it before that. If I had been, I would have gone to those as well.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have. My dad said no-one wants to talk about it still, so-’

  ‘And you should listen to your dad!’

  Smith was wagging a finger, not offended.

  He said, ‘You must know plenty about it. They even wrote books. I never read them. But that was worse, ten times, a hundred times… How do you measure it? This,’ pointing, ‘was an accident, I’m sure of it; even though someone caused it, they didn’t mean to kill the poor boy. You need to grasp that – like in a traffic ‘accident’ someone is usually still held responsible and punished. But those girls were not accidents. That was the ultimate form of selfishness, self-gratification, his needs first. Yes, I went to those funerals but I can’t remember them. That’s how terrible they were.’

  Two figures only remained at the graveside – a man and a woman, middle-aged, standing close together and staring down. Waters felt the lump forming again in his throat and looked away.

  Smith said, ‘Come on, we’re done here. Let’s get to work.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  After lunch, they sat down and talked about Smith’s plan. He had changed his mind about informing DI Reeve, mainly because Waters was involved – if it had been an experienced officer, he would not have bothered but this needed another pair of eyes. Partly to cover himself, he acknowledged, but chiefly because he wanted to do right by the new detective. So they went over it until Waters had asked all the sensible questions and had a clear grasp of what Smith was trying to achieve. Then Smith picked up the internal line and arranged to see Reeve in her office.

  She sat and listened, wrote down a couple of points as Smith was explaining and then summarized what he had said to be sure that she understood it fully.

  ‘Just the two of you, one parked outside the Subic house and the other keeping watch on the back entrance. You said it’s a public footpath? I’ll admit I don’t know that part of the city. Anyway, DC makes the call on his mobile to Mr Subic, saying that as he has already offered to cooperate, and as he is an important member of the ex-pat community, could he let us have a list of all the Bosnian families he knows in Kings Lake. If I were you I’d say something like “As soon as possible” – if it seems urgent it might provoke more of a response. Of course, he might say no but that doesn’t matter because you don’t really want the list, right?’

  ‘No. But if he quietly hands one over, that might tell us something in itself.’

  ‘The idea is to make Mr Subic think that you’re onto something – that there will soon be teams of officers visiting various addresses all over Lake. If he knows the whereabouts of someone connected to your investigation – and that’s still a big ‘if’ – he might decide to warn them.

  ‘Next problem – he phones them up. This game is then over. But he might go in person, either in a car, in which case DC follows, or out of the back of the property on foot. That really doesn’t seem very likely to me… But if so, then Chris is watching. You would then follow on foot at a very safe and discreet distance, having called DC on your mobile. DC would come and find you - you’d then have to improvise between you a way of keeping sight of Mr Subic. So far so good?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She winced again but Smith was constantly aware of Waters’ presence beside him and so ignored it.

  ‘If the person you are looking for, and it might be this Petar Subic, is inside the Subic house, then no-one there will need to go anywhere, of course. At least not in a hurry – Subic could keep you waiting for the list while he made other arrangements. We can’t keep the place under surveillance based on what you’ve got so far. This is pretty well full of holes, isn’t it?’

  ‘So are fishing nets but they still catch things now and then. Ma’am.’

  ‘I want to make one thing clear. If by some miracle you do think you’ve discovered where Petar Subic is, no attempt to detain him is to be made, not by the two of you. We already have indications that he might be violent. You get some back-up. Call me directly if there are problems with that but do not go in yourselves. OK?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

&nbs
p; This time it was Waters, and Smith tried to hide a smile before Reeve glanced at him.

  ‘Right. Now, following a recent directive from wherever directives come from, as mobile phones will be important in this operation… And I suppose it is an operation now… Anyway, I have to remind you to ensure that both of your phones are fully charged and functioning properly. No, DC, I am not joking. Would you like to see the memo?’

  ‘Not really, ma’am.’

  ‘Finally, when are you doing this?’

  ‘I thought tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Then, if anything turns up, we should be able to get something organized for the afternoon.’

  Reeve looked at her diary, scribbled something there and closed it.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. This afternoon we’ll drive over there and get familiar with the roads and footpaths so that Chris has a rough idea of the area and what goes where. And then we might call in on Mrs Budge.’

  Smith drove out towards Gorsefields at a steady pace and checked the rear-view mirror regularly but there was no indication that anyone was behind them. It was the only thing that he had not shared with Waters or Reeve – or with anyone, come to that. He wondered whether he should have done so, if not with them then at least with some responsible grown-up; that was the procedure in the old days. Of course, whoever it was might be staking out the Subic house already – have to keep an eye open for that as they drove around – or they might have found their man. So many ‘mights’ in this…

  Waters was excited, Smith could see that and feel it – he could almost remember what it felt like. Let him enjoy that but it meant one more thing for Smith himself to worry about – the first rush of adrenaline has been the undoing of plenty of investigations, and this one was so wobbly that Smith knew they would only get one chance, if they got one at all.

  He stopped briefly outside the house, no sense in giving bad luck a chance, just to show Waters where the car would be, and then they drove on for another couple of minutes, parked and walked across to where the footpath ran up behind the houses. They considered the best places to stand and wait, and Waters even had the sense to check that his phone reception was good enough when they agreed on the bus stop. It was some fifty yards from where the path met the road but had clear sight of it; if someone appeared, he would be able to follow them easily in either direction without crossing over. The only hazard Smith could foresee was an irate bus driver when Waters refused to get on board.

  When they set off across the city for the Docklands estate, there was still no sign that anyone else was interested in what they were doing. Smith considered briefly changing the plan that he had put into place to deal with that eventuality tomorrow, and then ticked himself off for being tempted. Why make it easy for them? A long time ago, getting into the wrong car had saved his life. You shouldn’t forget things like that, Smith.

  He knocked several times on the glass pane in the door, and it rattled as if it was about to fall into the hallway beyond.

  ‘You are about to meet one of the criminal masterminds of Kings Lake.’

  ‘I thought you said this boy was a bit of a joke.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Budgie, I’m talking about his mum.’

  Waters looked around as they waited. The flat was on the third level of a six storey block, one of three or four identical towers built sometime in the late sixties. The grey concrete of all of them was weathered, and stained where rust had seeped onto the surface, and the serried ranks of windows looked out over the city like tired eyes. The concrete walkway that they had come along to get here had graffiti so predictable that you didn’t notice it any more, very much like the people who had to live here, Waters guessed. Beyond the towers, rows of two up, two down terraces, accommodation for workers built a century ago when the docks were thriving, the largest and busiest on the east coast, before the cranes and containers came.

  Smith knocked again and they heard a muffled shout from within.

  ‘Here we go. Stand by your beds.’

  The door inched open. It was on two chains, one at eye level and another somewhere above the knee. An eye peered out of half a face, but it was a huge face, oval and pale, the colour of uncooked pastry.

  ‘Huh, what do you want?’

  ‘And a good afternoon to you, Brenda. I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d drop in – purely a social call.’

  ‘That’ll be the effing day.’

  ‘Are you letting us in? I’m only concerned about your reputation, having a couple of the filth on your doorstep for twenty minutes. Word soon gets around, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Let me put the dog away.’

  She disappeared. They could hear the low, threatening growls of a dog that had gone way beyond barking – a dog that really did want them to come in, preferably uninvited. Smith turned to Waters and said in a matter-of-fact voice ‘That’s Satan, Satan the Staffy. He’s much worse than he sounds.’

  Brenda Budge returned, took off the chains and opened the door. They followed her down the hallway and then right into a living room. Waters had expected some sort of squalor but the flat was clean and tidy, carpeted throughout, with even a couple of prints of country scenes on the walls. Through into the kitchen, he could see that it was well equipped – washing machine, tumble dryer, micro-wave – and the units were modern and stylish. He searched around for other things to examine, while he gathered himself to look directly at Mrs Budge – for she was truly a mountain of a woman, with a body as round as her face but many, many times larger. She sat slowly into the sofa, converting it into a single seater armchair, and waited for them to find a place of their own.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  She pointed at Waters while she continued to look at Smith.

  ‘My new assistant. Don’t get any ideas, Brenda, I think he’s spoken for. When they finally put me out to grass, young Christopher might be taking over my patch. I’m walking him round and introducing him to everyone.’

  Brenda Budge turned her small green eyes towards Waters and stared for some seconds, until it became a little uncomfortable. Then she looked back at Smith and said, ‘He’s got a lot to learn.’

  Smith nodded and said, ‘Yes, youngsters the world over, eh? Is Jason in?’

  ‘I thought as much. He’s behaving himself, Mr Smith. I told you I’d sort it.’

  ‘Gave you his word, did he?’

  She flared for a moment but held back the awful torrent which Waters had guessed she was capable of unleashing – was she afraid of Smith? Was it some odd sort of respect?

  ‘You know I don’t get out much, what with my health and all, but I don’t need to. Plenty of eyes and ears around here to tell me what goes on – you know that. He’s not back on the cars.’

  Smith leaned back in his chair and met her gaze.

  ‘Well, somebody is, Brenda. You know how we work. We have to-’

  They all heard the click as someone closed the front door quietly, took two or three steps in the hall and then stopped. Smith raised his eyebrows towards Mrs Budge, and then she bellowed, ‘Jason!’

  A few more seconds passed before a painfully thin youth appeared in the doorway. In quick succession he tried surprise, toughness and nonchalance but nothing lasted and the end result was only uncertainty as he looked from his mother to the policemen and back again, hoping for a clue. A tattoo on his neck was half-hidden by the collar of his denim jacket, and the gold stud in his eyebrow failed to make any statement other than that it was a mistake, too.

  ‘Hallo, Jason.’

  ‘Mr Smith.’

  ‘I must warn you that anything you – no, sorry, only joking, very bad taste. Write to your MP. Have you been stealing expensive cars again?’

  ‘No, I have not. If-’

  ‘Because somebody has, and he does it exactly like you do.’

  ‘Not me, Mr Smith, I swear it.’

  ‘On your mother’s grave no doubt. Only she’s not dead yet. Perhaps you have a fan, a copycat car thief.
’

  ‘Not me, no way. I’ve applied for a job and everything, ask mum!’

  Mrs Budge nodded, perhaps with a hint of pride that such an application had indeed been made. Encouraged, Jason stepped further into the room and kept talking.

  ‘Someone has nicked my M O, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My M O. I did hear something a couple of days ago…’

  ‘Your ‘M O’? What’s that stand for then?’

  Jason smiled, revealing the gaps in his front teeth that had appeared one by one when he was first finding his place in the Kings Lake criminal hierarchy.

  ‘Modem operandi.’

  ‘Modem operandi? When did your son start speaking Latin, Brenda? I’m almost lost for words.’

  ‘He has applied for a job, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask what doing – I’ve had enough shocks for one day.’

  Smith turned back to Jason.

  ‘You said you’d heard something, son. What was it?’

  Not for the first time, Waters saw someone thrown off balance by the unexpected reference back to something they’d said earlier. Jason panicked a little and looked at his mother before answering.

  ‘Not much, only I knew a car had gone. A Merc, wasn’t it?’

  Smith said nothing, gave nothing back.