Bright Spark

by Gavin Smith

  “Christ Jesus, you do think you’re on TV.” She shrugged and leaned forwards. “I’m not sure what you’ve found out about Nigel and it seems you’re not about to tell me. But let me tell you two things for free.

  “First, I know he had history with my parents’ next-door neighbour, but that doesn’t make him unusual. The man was a pig, despite the fact that neither his superiors nor yours seemed willing to do anything about his antics. Second, if you want some quo, you have to give me some quid.”

  “Ok.” He shrugged inwardly. “Firth is in custody on suspicion of the murder of Dale Murphy’s wife and kids. Murphy himself is missing. We know you’re representing Firth in a civil claim against Murphy. And so…”

  “And so I’ve become more interesting than my eye-witness parents. How do you know about my connection with Firth? You have heard of legal privilege, I take it? Come to think of it, how do you know where I live?”

  “And so I’ll need to take your statement. Covering your relationship with Firth. His grudge against Murphy. What he said about it. What he said he would do about it. And so forth.”

  “Just hold on a second.” She felt the hot dappling of blood in her cheeks and the rough edges of moulded plastic under her clenching fingers. A withering defence was called for, but she knew she was about to emulate her brother and seek solace in a neat, orderly sequence.

  “First.” She flicked out a finger and surprised herself by rising to her feet, taking the floor, building up a head of oratorical steam. “Legalities. You may recall Magna Carta. Acts of Parliament. Codes of Practice. The Law as a proper noun. Client-solicitor confidentiality is all but inviolable. I can’t tell you about communications with my client. You shouldn’t have rummaged through my correspondence with him.”

  Harkness had opened his notebook and his chewed biro was jotting at a leisurely tempo.

  “Second. You use the term ‘in custody’ to cover a multitude of procedural sins. He is in fact in hospital, having been arrested on spurious grounds and in a manner resulting in serious injury to him. In fact, it seems plain that the police’s actions against Nigel – by which I mean your actions - will no doubt bear further investigation.

  “Third, I don’t represent Nigel in a criminal capacity. But if he chooses to seek my advice on any aspect of today’s events, I’ll be happy to oblige him.” She paused, hands on hips, breathing deeply.

  “That’s nice, dear. Would either of you care for a nice cup of tea and an almond slice? The kettle’s on.” Mrs Jennings had appeared at the patio door, wiping her hands on an apron, smiling evenly at both combatants.

  “That would be absolutely lovely, Mrs Jennings. Two sugars, please.” Harkness felt Sharon’s glare and shrugged theatrically. With luck, she’d keep betraying herself.

  “Not now, mum.” She snapped.

  “I’ll bring enough for two,” Mrs Jennings retreated indoors, smile undimmed. “It’s lovely weather for afternoon tea.”

  “So. Where was I? Oh yes. The short answer is no, I won’t be providing a statement.”

  “But any solicitor is allowed to breach confidentiality in order to prevent further serious offences occurring. The ‘gloating rapist’ scenario.”

  “Thanks for the lecture. If you’re trying to elicit hints about my conversations with Nigel, I’m afraid I’ve calmed down and got a grip on myself. I’ll just say that nothing in my dealings with Nigel has led me to conclude he’s any danger to anyone. So, unless a judge compels me, I’ll be keeping Nigel’s confidence.”

  “So you’re surprised about his arrest.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” She sagged back into the chair and allowed herself a brittle laugh. “Yes and no. Next question.”

  “Can we start again? We got off on the wrong foot and it’s probably my fault.” Harkness slammed shut his notebook and laid it on the table.

  “You change your interview strategies more often than you change your socks, sergeant.” She reclined, gently nibbling her thumbnail.

  “Yep. I’m good, bad and mediocre cop in one lanky package.”

  “Well there certainly appears to be enough room.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Was she flirting or mocking? It didn’t matter. Bantering was an improvement on bickering. “I went to a post mortem today. A young woman called Suzanne Murphy and her two children, both under ten but old enough to know what was happening to them. All three burned to death.

  “And she’d been knocked about. A life of drudgery and suffering snuffed out by an arsonist in a few very long minutes of terror. Dale Murphy is nowhere to be found. He might have done the deed, but that just doesn’t fit. He might have been murdered somewhere else. But either way, he was the one with enemies.

  “One of those enemies was a convicted arsonist who lived nearby. That arsonist held a big enough grudge to hire you to sue the arse off Murphy. That arsonist may have come to blows with Murphy in a pub last night. That arsonist was surveying the crime scene today. That arsonist had something to hide and ran. That arsonist is your client. This is not a game.”

  “You don’t have to lay it on that thickly. What exactly do you suppose I can do? What do you think I can tell you?”

  “You need to give me something. Firth could have hurt your family too. At the very least, you need to give me a statement explaining where you fit.”

  She frowned, chewing the thumb-nail vigorously now.

  “But I haven’t lived at my parents’ house since before the Murphys moved in. And I’ve hardly visited since I found out where Murphy lived…..”

  She reeled as if she might draw the words back.

  “So when did you make that connection? Did Firth tell you or did you tell Firth? How many people did you tell?”

  “No. Not without a court order.”

  “Did you give him that address?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “What on earth were you thinking?”

  “I said I’m not going to answer that. I’m not bloody stupid. Take that any way you want.”

  She pressed a hand to her temple and fixed her eyes on the ants milling around the cracked brickwork of the patio, envying them their lives of consuming purpose unburdened by thought. Of course she knew that her parents’ latest neighbour was also the subject of one of her many cases. Lincoln wasn’t that big a town. Yet she’d allowed herself to be goaded into the appearance of guilt. It was time to go on the offensive again.

  “You want a statement? Fine. It’ll say who I am. Who my parents are. Where they live. My job. Who I represent. My bra size and favourite colour too, if you’re desperate for detail. But that’s it. And you might try a more honest approach next time.”

  “Yes. I might.” He rose to his feet to jolt the knots out of his back. “But this is a murder investigation. I just haven’t got time to stick in a production request and wait a fortnight.”

  Her head was shaking gently, chin raised, eyes downcast.

  “Ok. I might have been – no, was – wrong to mess you about. And look at it this way.”

  He glanced at his book, unused to interviewing anyone without its comforting bullet points, thought bubbles and crazed doodles.

  “If I’m right about Firth, he needs to be stopped or he will kill again. No appeals, no due process, just charred flesh on a slab.” He winced – that was too pungent. Perhaps the devil’s view would sway this advocate.

  “But let’s say he’s innocent. Either way, I need to know. The worst thing about the good old, bad old days wasn’t the number of patsies the cops squeezed confessions out of. No, far worse was the number of murderers who roamed freely because the cops wasted their efforts on easy targets. If you could change that….”

  “Can’t you sit down?” she urged, hearing the clinking of porcelain on a tray. “It doesn’t feel much like an appeal to reason when you’re looming like that.”

  “Its orthopaedic rather than melodramatic but you’re right.” He wedged himself back into the chair.<
br />
  “I’m onto you, sergeant,” she said, sliding her chair to make room for the enormous tea-tray gliding towards them on the outstretched arms of her mother. “I know your secret. You bore your victims into submission.”

  “Excuse her manners, officer. Lovely girl but always too much to say for herself.”

  Marjorie placed a thoughtfully arranged tea service centrally on the garden table with barely a clink or rattle. A fat teapot squatted snug under an embroidered cosy, its handle angled towards Sharon. Milk and sugar were on Harkness’s side. Between the two fine china cups on matching saucers lay a dozen almond slices fanned out on a doily.

  “Do I really own a tea cosy? And china?”

  “No dear. As I said, I brought a few essentials from the house. I’ll leave you to it, then, officer.” Marjorie paused only to smooth the spotless napkins before retreating to the house.

  “You’re an enforcement of the law. Her Majesty’s law of the land,” proclaimed the figure who had trailed Marjorie silently into the garden, stooping his shoulders and fluttering spatulate hands at his chin as if that could hide his six foot frame and fizzing corona of curly, grey-speckled hair.

  “I didn’t do anything didn’t see anything saw nothing at all. Regarding noisy nuisance neighbours all quiescent now. In case you ask legal questions. Do what I’m told now after formal legal complaining. No actionable erroneousness.”

  “It’s alright, JJ. He’s not here about you,” said Sharon, finding a soothing tone and smiling widely. “It’s all to do with my work. My office work. Ok?”

  Harkness focussed his attention on the tea service. He didn’t have the measure of this new family member and silence was the safest option.

  “Ok, SJ, ok. Still not seeing anything but holding and keeping my peace pipe and minding my q’s and t’s.” The voice thickened to the point of hysteria, stage laughter without a finale.

  “Be a good boy, now, Jeremy. Stop wasting the policeman’s time. Your father needs your help,” instructed Marjorie, standing tall, voice flint-edged now.

  Jeremy jabbed a hand into his jaw, jolting his head towards the patio door and stumbling back into the house. His ribs heaved under a skinny, thrash-metal t-shirt as he chuckled or sobbed to himself.

  “Just shout if you need more tea. I’ll listen out.” Marjorie followed Jeremy, diminishing again into her chosen role, voice emollient.

  The curtains shadowing them hung limp again, sails craving a propelling breeze.

  “I could get used to this.” Harkness devoured an almond slice in seconds in a frenzy of nostalgia for his last square meal. He gestured to the teapot. “Will you be mother?”

  “I will never be my mother.”

  “But she seems lovely.”

  “Doesn’t she? By the way, do you want me to pour or not?” Sharon stared pointedly at the milk jug.

  “Alright then.” Harkness poured an inch of milk into the cup, pinching the delicate scrolls and folds of the jug’s handle between thick, calloused digits, with his pinkie extended in a parody of delicacy. “You believe that milk first makes a difference?”

  “You should always let it temper for a while before you pour on the boiling water,” she said, pouring. “Apply the heat too quickly, things get sour.”

  “That’s me told.” He grappled with the hallmarked sugar tongs.

  “I pegged you as a ‘milk and three sugars’ kind of guy.”

  Harkness made the second lump his last, hating being predictable.

  “Formal legal complaining?”

  “Ah. Jeremy. He’s my elder brother but I’m still his big sister.”

  “A dangerous felon, is he?”

  “Nosey, aren’t you?”

  “It’s in my job description alongside intolerant, sarcastic and fat.”

  “Once or twice, he knocked his ball into next door’s garden. Not the Murphys - the other side. Then he half-demolished the fence and smashed a pane in their greenhouse getting it back. He’s clumsy. They were old and grumpy.

  “A PCSO called in and had a word with JJ. Didn’t know what to expect and went away mortified. Mum hammered the lesson home. To her mind, having a uniformed official knock on the door with cap in hand is shameful or dire. Now JJ thinks he’s Al Capone.”

  “Is your dad ok?”

  “You know he’s not. Lung cancer if you must know. Anyway, I thought you were in a headlong, desperate pursuit of a murder suspect, you know, one of those frantic races against time I’m always reading about.”

  Harkness sipped daintily at his tea and helped himself to another almond slice.

  “I am. But right now, what I’m desperate for is the inside scoop on Firth versus Murphy and I’m trying to wear you down with blather.”

  She slumped, shook her head, sipped her tea, savoured it then allowed herself a brittle laugh.

  “You don’t give up. Neither do I. We’re both professionals. Name, rank and serial number is all you get from me. That and a solid tip – you are wasting your time with Nigel.”

  “Mind if I finish these almond slices then? I’m famished.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Inevitability found him on Carholme Road at 4.30pm and clapped its sweaty mitts on his shoulders. He glared through the late afternoon haze at the red traffic light, willing it to change yet tempted to let it pin him to his sticky seat and will him into the sleep he was aching for. Nobody would mind. Nobody would know. What else could he usefully do in this meandering, lazy river of caravans and people carriers, all clogging the city’s arteries in their headlong retreat from bank holiday fun?

  “You still there?” enquired Harkness’s mobile phone, perched on the dashboard next to the rear view mirror.

  “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  “Sorry. Had to tell someone to piss off.”

  “And that took five minutes?”

  “Boss was trying to send me home. Always takes longer when you’re being polite.”

  “You could have called back.”

  “No chance. It’s not often you answer your phone. Couldn’t let you slope off again.”

  The lights changed briefly, allowing him to inch the Mondeo over the stop line. A siren whooped somewhere behind him and blue lights fluttered across his wing mirrors. He shrugged inwardly. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go to get out of their way. 360 degree awareness. Get out there. Own the road. More gas. Get yourself seen. If you can see the oncoming car, you can plan that overtake properly. Go now. Now! Clip another wing mirror and you’re off the course. Driver-training mantras looped through his head.

  “Get the hammer down, you utter cock. Drive like you mean it.”

  “Come again.”

  “Not you. Anyway, what about you? What news?”

  “We should meet. Very interesting lack of cooperation at the prison and some under the counter intel on what a premiership shit Murphy was. Is. Whichever.”

  “I abused legal privilege and antagonised Firth’s ambulance-chasing lawyer who also happens to belong to the Jennings clan. You couldn’t make it up.’”

  “A fair day’s work then.”

  The blue lights behind him hadn’t moved, trapped like electric butterflies behind the smeared glass of the driver’s side mirror.

  “These new response drivers are just spineless. So, what news from the office?”

  “Aren’t you my supervisor? Don’t you know?”

  “You’d think so. 360 degree awareness. Horizon scanning. Pro-active policing. I’ve heard of all those things.” Harkness squinted as a shadow passed across the sun.

  “Engine off. Phone off.”

  “Slowey, I’ll ring you back.”

  With a start, Harkness found the bulky form of a black-clad police officer looming at his door, leather gloves gripping the sill, eyes shaded beneath the lowered peak of his cap. Twisting in his seat, he glimpsed the cop’s partner behind the driver’s seat of their liveried BMW, busily tapping data into a touch-screen computer.

  “I sa
id phone off,” growled the cop, reaching in to kill the engine and take the keys.

  Harkness was dazed by this new inversion, mute as outrage and confusion jostled for space. The old movie line came back to him and he had to stifle nervous laughter: ‘if you’re not cop, you’re little people.’ He needed to offer proof that he was a member of the club.

  “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” barked the cop as Harkness reached for the warrant card still clipped to his belt and amply hidden by his gut.

  “I’m job,” he shouted back. “DS Harkness, Beaumont Fee. You must be off your division or I’d know you.”

  “Course you are, petal. Put your hands on the sill right there. Keep ‘em in plain sight.”

  “You are joking.”

  “Do you see me laughing?”

  “I’m a DS on a murder enquiry,” Harkness declared with patient indignation. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I suggest you take some time to get your facts straight before you do something stupid.”

  “What exactly are you threatening me with, sir?” beamed the cop, head cocked expectantly for an answer.

  “Hang on. I get it.” The cop’s partner had left the BMW and was standing off, watching impassively behind mirrored shades. “You know who I am and that’s why you’re here. Where you from? East or South Division?”

  “In one, Sergeant. East. Enjoying our trip to the big city.”

  “What else? Someone report this heap of junk stolen?”

  “Not quite. I’m sure we’ll find some construction and use offences without too much effort though. Them tyres are balder than Kojak.”

  “So what now?”

  Guilty memories fluttered like bats disturbed from their hanging slumber by unwelcome light. A thousand minor transgressions wheeled and screeched: driving half-cut; sharing a joint at a party; a few unethical punches and kicks to prone suspects who deserved it; witnesses coerced into better versions of the truth. A thousand faltering footsteps on a hard road. Who were these bastards to make him feel like he hadn’t earned his privileges?