‘Sam’s our resident petrol head,’ Ed said, as they followed Reynolds into the glass porch, three empty terracotta plant pots on the floor.
‘What do you drive then Sam?’ Reynolds asked, bending down to swap his shoes for slippers.
‘Audi A5, 3 litre Quattro.’
‘Very nice.’
‘And what do you grow?’ Sam said, nodding towards the pots. ‘Tomatoes?’
‘Very perceptive,’ Reynolds smiled.
He led them through a small hall into the sitting room.
‘Please take a seat. Tea?’
‘We’re fine,’ Sam said, ‘but don’t let us stop you.’
Reynolds left as Sam settled into the armchair opposite the settee.
The room was not what she expected from a widower: carpet, surfaces and windows all spotless, the pleasant smell of fading air freshener and furniture polish mixed with a hint of tobacco like a subtle musky aftershave.
Now who’s being sexist Sam?
At either end of the windowsill were two framed photographs, both black and white: one, a young Ray Reynolds and his bride, the other, a class photograph from his police training school days.
‘You sure you don’t want one,’ a shout from the kitchen, the noise of tea-making in the background.
‘We’re fine thanks,’ Ed said.
Reynolds walked back into the room carrying a red mug of the ‘Keep Calm Carry On’ variety and a white plate with six Club biscuits. He sat next to Ed, opposite Sam.
‘So,’ he said, raising the mug to his lips. ‘I take it this is not a social call saying as neither of you have been here in your life.’
Sam looked at him as he sipped on the tea. ‘It’s not a social call although I would have been much more comfortable if it had been.’
Reynolds leaned forward, put the mug on a coaster on the coffee table, and sank back into the settee. Sam looked at the copy of the Telegraph on the table, open to the crossword, the same pen across the half-finished grid.
‘Spare me all the pink and fluffy stuff Sam,’ he said. ‘I come from a time when the job got done without consideration for all that emotional intelligence shite.’
Sam blushed. ‘Very well. As you know we are investigating the death of Jeremy Scott.’
‘Is that why you’re sitting opposite me?’ Reynolds’ eyes glared. ‘Recreate the interview set-up?’
There was no friendly smile.
‘You were the interviewing officer when Scott was arrested for offences of child sexual abuse,’ Sam said.
Reynolds sighed loudly. ‘And your point is?’
‘Just looking for confirmation to start with.’
‘Well you obviously know, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,’ Reynolds picked up the mug, sipped and waited.
Sam said: ‘Do you know Archibald Leach, also known as Cat?’
Reynolds stood, walked to the fire-surround, and picked up a pack of cigarettes. He lit one but didn’t offer them around.
‘This is going to take a long time if you propose asking me about everybody I met in my police career.’
‘When did you last see Cat?’ Sam said, keeping her voice neutral. She wasn’t going to allow Reynolds to get under her skin, but she intended to get under his.
‘Monday morning,’ Reynolds answered. ‘He’d been staying here for a few weeks. Left Monday about half-nine to go back home. I remember because it was the day of the pensioners’ party. You were there Ed.’
He drew on his cigarette. ‘Is there a point to all this?’
‘If you just bear with us,’ Sam said.
Reynolds blew smoke down his nose, stared at Sam.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Ed rates you and I’ve seen how you come across well on the TV. I’m sure you’ll get promoted again but sometimes you’ve got to forget all the shite coming from the latest management fools masquerading as detectives and just ask the questions.’
He stubbed out his half smoked cigarette in the metal ashtray on the fireplace and reached for another. He pointed the open packet towards Sam.
‘Thanks.’
Sam took one and reached for her lighter.
‘There you are, you’re starting to build your rapport,’ Reynolds said, sitting down next to Ed. ‘Just forget about the PEACE interviewing model or whatever they call it now. What was it back in the day?’
He drew on the cigarette and blew out smoke.
‘Prepare and plan, Engage and explain, Account, Closure and Evaluate. PEACE. Load of bollocks. Sometimes you’ve just got to come out and ask the question.’
He’s treating this like a game. Or a lesson.
‘Bollocks? You still remember the pneumonic for it,’ she said.
She watched Reynolds, his stiffening forearms a spotlight on the rising anger he was trying to hide from his face.
‘What was the purpose of Cat’s visit?’ Sam asked, lighting up.
Reynolds leaned against the arm of the sofa and crossed his legs. ‘He’s terminally ill,’ he told her. ‘Cancer. A bloody shame really. He’s riddled with it. Just like me.’
Ed snapped his neck towards Reynolds. Sam’s mouth dropped.
‘Only it seems he gets to check out before I do,’ Reynolds’ tone had never changed.
‘I’m sorry I had no idea,’ Sam said, thrown and scrambling.
Reynolds pulled on the cigarette and looked at the glowing end, thin smoke winding upwards.
‘As I said, save the pink and fluffy stuff. I’ve had a good life, a good wife too. She passed. Two years ago.’
Another deep draw and a tap into the ashtray.
‘All the scum contribute nothing and end up running around for years while good people like my wife and Cat die too young,’ Reynolds putting feeling into it now. ‘No justice in the world.’
He turned to look towards the window and smiled at the photograph.
‘We had so many plans for retirement,’ he said, almost as if he was talking to himself, or maybe his wife. ‘She had to put up with all sorts over the years...the callouts, the late nights, the cancelled family get-togethers. I always promised I’d make it up in retirement. The two of us planned to take up yachting. Five years in and along comes the cancer.’
Reynolds’ voice was starting to break, a thin mist over his eyes, but he held it together.
Another draw and the cigarette, half smoked like the last, stubbed in the glass ramekin dish by his feet.
‘We couldn’t have kids,’ his laugh was short, ironic. ‘My fault. Low sperm count but she never blamed me. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this’
Reynolds reached for the tea with a shaking hand and stared into the mug.
‘So much for being the big man,’ a flash of self-loathing not pity on his face. ‘No lead in this pencil.’
Sam could feel his pain, empathise with it. She was a widow. All that time working towards retirement and then, whoosh. Everything blown away.
But Sam had to move from emotion to question. ‘We’ll need to go and see Cat. I’ve got some questions for him.’
She flicked ash in the ashtray by her chair.
‘You’ll be lucky.’ Reynolds smiling now, reaching for the iPad on the coffee table.
‘Cat knew it was over,’ he said. ‘He wanted to do it at a time and in a manner of his choosing.’
Reynolds swiped a finger across the screen and passed the tablet to Sam.
Local yachtsman feared drowned.
The headline was from the website of a local newspaper in the Hamble area.
‘We said our goodbyes on Monday morning,’ Reynolds was speaking as Sam read. ‘Cat drove back home and rang me first thing Tuesday.’
Sam was trying to take in the words on the screen.
A local man, 59 years old, is feared drowned after his yacht was discovered adrift on The Solent near the entrance to The Needles on Tuesday morning. He had last been seen sailing alone out of Buckler’s Hard Yacht Harbour some hours earlier.
‘The sea was his life�
��s hobby,’ Reynolds said. ‘Even used to take underprivileged kids sailing with him.’
Sam’s eyes stayed on the screen. Buckler’s Hard, where ships were once built for Nelson’s navy, was a tranquil setting on the Beaulieu River and a marina where she and Tristram loved to berth. She’d told him many times if they ever bought a boat of their own Buckler’s Hard would be her home.
The coastguard was alerted to a VHF radio distress call at 11.25am. The RNLI attended and found the boat empty but with no apparent problems. A search is still underway.
Reynolds had been watching her read.
‘They might find him eventually but he jumped,’ he said now. ‘Better than waiting to die, the way Cat saw it. As for me, well...’
Reynolds looked suddenly like a man drowning in loss.
He lit another cigarette and spoke again.
‘I was just like you back in the day,’ he said. ‘People rated me like Ed rates you, told me how good you were the other day at the pensioners’ party.’
‘Why then?’ Sam asked him. ‘Why take the law into your own hands? I don’t understand.’
Reynolds studied her, a game player once more, moving the pieces.
‘Who says I have?’ he said. ‘What do you think? I wanted to use my last few weeks righting some wrongs, wanted justice for some long ago victims?’
Reynolds caught Sam staring at his thick, black hair.
‘I didn’t want chemo,’ he said, blowing out smoke. ‘Seen too many go through it. Might have got me some time but at what cost? Four days a week feeling shit getting it done, next day wiped out, one good day and then the last day’s shit because you know it’s all starting again tomorrow. No thanks.’
He worked on the cigarette and let more smoke join the rest turning the air in the room toxic.
‘So what do you think you’ve got?’ Reynolds a man used to being in control, wanting to know what Sam knew.
Ed was finding it hard to look at him. He heard Sam answer.
‘As well as Jeremy Scott we’re looking into the death of Julius Pritchard who was snatched from the street,’ she said. ‘He was in the company of a man who looks like Cat.’
‘Looks like or was?’ Reynolds’ smile was sly, teasing.
‘Looks like.’
‘Not good enough then is it?’ Reynolds let the smile grow and got to his feet.
Ed remained in his seat, the smoke making his eyes ache.
‘Let’s cut through the bullshit,’ Sam said, her eyes locked on Reynolds’, her expression a challenge.
Is this direct enough for you?
Reynolds sat, controlled again. He leaned forward, stubbed out the cigarette, and unwrapped a mint biscuit.
‘A bit oppressive Sam,’ he said. ‘It’s not the late seventies now you know. Were you still in nappies then?’
He bit into the biscuit.
Sam sat. Silent. Waiting.
‘That was a time when policewomen made the tea and looked after lost kids,’ Reynolds said. ‘Before they got big ideas.’
Sam ignored the jibe.
‘There are a number of things connecting you to these crimes.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Reynolds said, popping the last of the chocolate biscuit into his mouth.
‘You interviewed Jeremy Scott years ago then watched him walk. That must have been hard,’ Sam said.
‘My job was always to put them before a court,’ Reynolds straight batting. ‘After that it was down to the jury.’
Ed turned his head to look directly at him, offended by the answer, the words nothing he would ever have expected to pass Ray Reynolds’ lips.
‘Then,’ Sam was saying now, ‘there’s your friendship with John Elgin.’
‘So?’
‘He was abused by Scott. His grandson was abused by Pritchard and van Dijk.’
‘And let’s not forget Linda Pritchard,’ Ed joined in.
‘Fucking hell Ed. I thought you’d lost the power of speech.’
Ed ignored Reynolds’ sarcasm.
‘Nee Avery, previously known as Elizabeth Doherty, a snout of yours for years, informing on Billy Skinner’s businesses after she was dumped by him.’
Reynolds turned his eyes back on Sam. ‘Is this the best you’ve got?’
He unwrapped another biscuit. ‘I know all of these people, so that makes me a killer?’
‘Everything was so well planned,’ Sam said.
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere,’ another cold smile. ‘If you had anything you’d be asking me these questions down the nick.’
‘Believe me,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve got more than enough to take you into custody.’
‘And I’d sit and say nothing,’ Reynolds shot back. ‘You’d have struggled to get a charge back in my day, but now? Not a prayer.’
Reynolds sat forwards, narrowing the gap between himself and Sam, chess players without the board.
‘Trust me I will get the evidence if you’re involved,’ Sam said.
‘And trust me it’ll never get to court,’ Reynolds’ eyes locked on hers.
‘You wouldn’t know what evidence looked like if it smacked your tight little arse. Like all modern coppers, you haven’t got a clue.’
It was Sam who broke the uneasy silence that settled, Ed watching and wondering where she would move next.
‘Maybe I should arrest you anyway,’ letting Reynolds think about it, the consequences.
‘So you lift me and then what? Try to get me charged, get me on remand, let me die there, surrounded by the scum-bags I spent a lifetime putting away,’ the bitterness as biting as the smoke grey haze in the room.
‘But all you were bothered about was getting them before a court,’ Sam pushed.
Reynolds sat up straight and jabbed his index finger, the voice a blade.
‘Don’t get arsy with me young lady…And at what point do you propose cautioning me?’
‘I’m just here for a chat,’ Sam staying with it, refusing to let herself be intimidated.
Reynolds said: ‘So what do you want? Me to fill in the blanks for you? The wannabe seeking advice from a real SIO.’
‘Something like that,’ Sam told him, keeping her emotions hidden, any pity for him gone.
Reynolds sat back and crossed his legs, eyes sharp, alert, Ed watching him.
He’s still in this...
‘What’s in it for me?’ Reynolds said evenly now. ‘You’re not seriously expecting me to talk myself onto the remand wing are you?’
Sam looked away. The rule of law sat above everything. Noble-cause corruption, whatever the reasons behind it, was no different in her world to out and out corruption. She despised bent coppers.
Sam looked at Ray Reynolds, looked at Ed, and made her decision.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Maybe I don’t have enough evidence to charge you now and while I might get it, it might not come quick enough.’
Reynolds listened, his mouth a tight line.
‘I have no desire to put a man, retired police officer or not, on remand for the last few weeks of his life...’
Sam fumbled in her bag and found her cigarettes, tugging a Marlboro free.
‘But I want to know what happened,’ she went on. ‘I don’t want you taking it to...’
She stopped, the next words held at a mental road block.
Reynolds said it for her.
‘To the grave?’ He held her gaze. ‘Even if I had secrets, how do I know I can trust you?’
Sam fired her lighter and held the flame to the Marlboro, the taste good as she drew in smoke.
‘You’ll have to take my word for it, but things haven’t changed that much since your day,’ Sam told him. ‘A confession here, in your house, without you being cautioned, is worthless. Any brief in the land will trash it; just say your illness had made you confused, vulnerable.’
Reynolds was quiet, listening.
Sam said: ‘What I want is a confession and then for you to make a written statement between now
and your last day outlining what happened.’
‘A quasi dying declaration?’ Reynolds gave a weak smile. ‘Very dramatic.’
He reached for a new pack of cigarettes and slowly unwrapped the cellophane.
‘You know I always loved that Ealing Comedy ‘Kind Hearts and Coronets’ but the killer, Louis Mazzini, lived to regret writing the account of his murders.’ He took a cigarette from the packet. ‘Why should I write mine? So you can look good, Sam? So my reputation ends in shame, cut to pieces in the press?’
‘So the families can get closure,’ Sam told him.
Reynolds put the cigarette in his mouth and left it unlit while he unwrapped another biscuit.
‘The families of nonces and gangsters,’ he spat the words. ‘Scum who terrified little kids and decent people. This is about you Sam. Not them.’
Ed had been watching in silence but now he spoke.
‘Maybe plenty will call you a hero,’ he said. ‘They might celebrate what you did, certainly the victims of the ones who’ve been killed.’
Reynolds nodded, a gesture to a point well made, but offered another take.
‘What I may, or may not have done, was not done for acclaim or kudos,’ he said. ‘If it was me, it was done out of a sense that the system is broken, the guilty being acquitted, some of them not even getting to trial. Summary justice dished out for the people.’
He snapped the biscuit in half and popped it into his mouth.
‘If it was me, I’ve done you a favour,’ he spoke through crumbs. ‘I’ve got rid of Pritchard and van Dijk, who would never have stopped, and I’ve started a gang war that will end who knows where. Billy Skinner’s dead, may he burn, Luke Skinner running around like a headless chicken, his brother Mat and his boyfriend Mekins vanished. It’s quite a list. Shame about Harry...’
‘Harry Pullman?’ Sam said. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s upped sticks.’
Reynolds gave Ed a knowing glance.
‘We’ve got Harry,’ Ed told him.
Reynolds picked up his mug, the brew only luke warm.
‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he said. ‘And his nephew?’
‘Don’t know,’ Ed answered.
Reynolds shrugged then spoke again.
‘Linda was living a nightmare with Pritchard and Scott’s victims at least know he went in agony. Who exactly lost here?’
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 95