by Jennie Finch
Alex groaned and closed her eye. ‘I hate it when you get technical. I don’t suppose you would consider just killing me now would you?’
Sue rose and headed for the door. ‘Not yet but I’m sure I’ll feel like it in a week or so,’ she said over her shoulder.
The news came through mid-afternoon and it was with some relief Pauline unlocked the main door to the building.
‘Is he still out there?’ asked Lauren peering round her senior.
‘Looks like it,’ said Pauline. ‘Oh, hang on, he’s coming over. Lauren, can you phone up to Eddie and Gordon please. Ask them to come down.’
Lauren scooted back to the relative safety of the office and called the two men before taking up position at the front counter. After all, she thought, if there was going to be any fun in the office she wanted to be part of it. Her half-day was ruined and she had no idea when she’d see Dave. And she’d not even been able to give him his birthday present … Her attention switched back to the door as the strange man from the car park pushed it open and stepped inside. Eddie leaned on the counter looking as cordial as possible whilst Gordon wandered over to greet the newcomer.
‘Ah, sorry about the wait,’ he said. ‘Bit of an emergency. All cleared up now though. So, who have you come to see?’
The stranger glanced around at them nervously and fished a slightly crumpled letter out of his pocket. He opened it.
‘I’m supposed to meet Garry Nugent,’ he said, ‘but that was at ten. I was here but I couldn’t get in.’
His voice was soft, a little high and with a slight London accent. Lauren watched as he looked around, his eyes glancing off them in turn until he came to her. She waited for the inevitable double-take as he registered her height, only partly disguised by the stepped stool she was using, and held his eyes when he turned back to her for a moment. He flushed a deep crimson and swallowed hard before focussing on Gordon, who was now grinning with enjoyment at his discomfort.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Gordon asked, putting on his ‘seasoned professional’ face. ‘Mr Nugent is the senior here and as such does not have a direct case load.’
Bit of an understatement, thought Lauren. Garry spent considerable energy keeping as far away from the clients as possible, a good thing for all concerned in her opinion. She studied the new client carefully and decided she didn’t like him very much. He was dressed in faded jeans, sneakers and a checked shirt and his clothes seemed to hang on his thin frame as if intended for someone just a size larger. He was very pale with washed-out eyes, and his hair, what there was of it, stuck out in little spikes where he had been running his fingers though it in frustration during his long wait. She glanced at his hands and noted the tell-tale smudge of nicotine between the index and second fingers of his left hand. He was a caricature of a newly released prisoner. The newcomer shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable under their collective scrutiny.
‘Here,’ he said, offering the rather crumpled piece of paper to Gordon, who took it with some reluctance. There was a pause as Gordon scanned the letter and then he cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Ah, I see. Well, I think perhaps an explanation is in order,’ he said, and he held out his hand. ‘Welcome to Highpoint Probation. Sorry about the mix-up but it has been rather an odd day.’
Gordon turned to the assembled company and said, ‘This is Richard Peddlar. He’s our new officer, coming in to take over from Alex.’
There was a moment of deeply embarrassed silence as they stared at Garry’s latest recruit, the awkwardness stretching out until Eddie recovered himself and stepped forward to shake hands.
‘Well, hey, welcome. Come on up and we’ll let Garry know you’re here.’
Lauren struggled to contain a giggle that bubbled up inside and threatened to undo all of Gordon’s diplomacy, but she felt Pauline’s eyes on her and slipped hurriedly down from her stool and stood hidden behind the counter as the men left the room, a much relieved Richard Peddlar in tow.
Pauline stalked round and fixed her with a glare. Nothing was said, but Lauren ducked her head and hurried back to her desk much chastened. This was, she decided as she sorted through Sue’s Part B notes, one of the worst Mondays she could remember.
PC Brown missed it on his first sweep as he was focussing on the bank of the canal. Reaching a tree that marked the hundred-yard limit from the spot where the wallet had been found, he turned and retraced his steps, eyes scanning the grass verging the old tow path. The wind was getting up again and it was cold out on the bank. He glanced sideways at the dark water rolling slowly past, thick and brown with mud from the early winter storms and suppressed a shudder at the thought of drowning in that foul soup. As he turned his attention back to the path he saw something glint in the last fragments of sunlight. Just a flash but enough to reveal a metal object lying in the longer grass a few yards from his starting point. Stepping carefully so he didn’t damage any of the immediate area he peered down at the object, parting the surrounding growth with a stick.
‘Sarge,’ he called, ‘come and have a look at this.’
The two men stood and stared at it for a moment. ‘Well, what do you make of that then?’ said the sergeant finally.
PC Brown shook his head. ‘Damned if I know, Sir,’ he said.
The sergeant moved away down the path towards the main search area and signalled to the photographer who was hanging around looking bored.
‘What the hell is that doing here?’ he muttered as he began to record the scene, working hurriedly as the light faded.
‘No footprints so maybe it was thrown here,’ commented PC Brown.
‘Reckon you may be right,’ said the sergeant, ‘but what the hell is an old brass candlestick doing all the way out here?’
Although it had been a week since the onset of her illness, Sue didn’t like leaving Alex on her own. The office was only five minutes’ walk away and once her temperature came down there was nothing she could do to make her friend more comfortable or speed her recovery, and Garry, who had been half-way decent about the whole thing, as she had to admit, had decided he could no longer spare her.
‘I’ll be back around lunch time,’ she said, fussing around the room and tweaking curtains and pillows. ‘You just stay in bed and bloody behave yourself all right?’
Alex was reaching the bored and impatient stage of illness, the time where she really felt she should be getting better and was confounded by her own weakness when she tried to do the slightest thing.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she muttered. ‘Just go will you? Stop mucking about with stuff. At least the Carnival’s moved off to Glastonbury so I might get some sleep at night.’
Sue pulled a face at Alex’s back and went downstairs. She had some sympathy with the last sentiment. The Carnival carts based in town went out to the surrounding towns and villages at night to replay the whole thing over several weeks. Despite the lateness of the hour they returned with lights on and music blaring deep into the night, especially if they’d emerged winners in one of the smaller regional shows. The Iron Beehive seemed to have been particularly successful this year and the whole thing was beginning to seriously get on her nerves. Stepping out of the house she hesitated, then pulled the front door shut behind her. It would be fine, she thought. Of course it would.
PC Brown stood at the side of the autopsy room, hands behind him and back straight as he watched the pathologist begin work on Michael Franks. From the outside he was the picture of professionalism. Inside he wanted to bolt from the room and hang over the nearest available sink, but one of the younger sergeants had already left at the first sign of intestines and he felt the eyes of the Taunton police on him, appraising, measuring, testing his resolve. Dave Brown was ambitious as well as clever and he clenched his teeth, tightened the muscles around his stomach and refused to show the slightest discomfort. He recalled the words of his mentor at Hendon, a tough and often foul-mouthed sergeant with a full twenty-five years exper
ience behind him. He’d pushed Dave hard, testing his determination, questioning his choice of career and coming close on occasions to driving him from the course. As his time at the college was coming to a close, the man changed from enemy to valued teacher and Police Cadet Brown understood he had been preparing him for the next few tough years ahead.
‘There’ll always be those who are jealous,’ the sergeant had said. ‘Those not as able or those not as willing to put the work in. Don’t listen to them. You keep your head down, do the best you can and you should make sergeant in record time. Just remember, you’ll be younger and less experienced than half the men you’re leading so you need to be better than them – smarter, quicker and tougher all round. Good luck.’
They had shaken hands and that was the end of his training. He’d caught the train to Somerset the next day and had scarcely had time to stop and muse on life since. One thing he did know for sure, however, was that if he ran away from the autopsy he’d ruin two years of the hardest work he’d ever done. So he stood in his allotted place and tried to concentrate on the voice of the pathologist. Suddenly he heard his name being called.
‘Ah yes, you’re Constable … Constable Brown isn’t it?’ The pathologist was staring at him and gesturing with one red-gloved hand. ‘Come over here where you can see properly. You won’t learn anything over there. Come on.’
He waved several students aside and Dave Brown found himself up close and personal with his first post-mortem. Over the next twenty minutes or so he discovered some smells don’t fade with time, that the average human brain weighs about a kilo and a half, and Sticky Micky’s last meal had been some sort of meat hotpot washed down with an excessive amount of natural cider. As he left the hospital he was gratified to receive a nod of acknowledgement from the detective sergeant in charge of the case. It was almost worth it, he thought, as he clambered into the car and made his way back to the station in Highpoint. Despite the chill in the air he wound down the window, convinced the smell of Michael Franks was still clinging to his uniform.
Alex woke from her post-lunch nap feeling better – surprisingly better. She raised her head from the pillow, ready to surrender again at the first sign of the monstrous headache’s return, but apart from a slight humming in her ears all seemed well. She slid her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, waiting again, but her vision stayed clear and the room, so recently a spinning nightmare, was still. She was bored, she realized. Bored almost to the point of madness. What first – a book perhaps? There was a small television in the spare room – maybe she could get that and set it up next to the bed. Then she thought of the kitchen. Coffee! Oh, she was so sick of water, fruit juice, more water mixed with juice – it had to be coffee. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet, grabbing for the doorframe as her weakened body trembled. After a moment she felt better again and began to make her unsteady way downstairs.
The open staircase loomed before her, tempting and terrifying in equal measure and she clung to the banister rail, taking one step at a time, both feet safe before trying the next. Shaking all over by the time she reached the safety of the ground floor, she dropped into the armchair nearest the stairs and closed her eyes for a moment. The cold woke her twenty minutes later. Her eyes were sticky and the sickness she’d suffered over the past week threatened to return as she wriggled her way out of the chair and lurched over towards the kitchen door.
‘Pathetic,’ she muttered to herself through gritted teeth. ‘This is just ridiculous. A few days in bed and I’m reduced to crawling like a baby!’ Somewhere deep inside a little voice was telling her to get back upstairs whilst she could still manage it but ahead of her, just on the front of the shelf in the kitchen, she could see the coffee tin. A souvenir of happier times, it was decorated with stylized designs from continental railway posters. She’d loved it the moment she’d seen it in the shop and it was one of the few items to survive the great purge of memories that preceded her sudden and unexpected move to Somerset. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the rich, heavy aroma, anticipating the dark, almost buttery taste of that first sip. She felt herself wobble and opened her eyes hurriedly. Damn, she was weak. Physically weak and – admit it – a coffee junkie too.
With shaking hands she filled the kettle and rummaged through the cupboards for a beaker, spoon, sugar and her precious little French cafetiere. The smell when the hot water hit the ground coffee was intoxicating and it was hard to wait until the water turned dark, deep brown and the last of the beans nestled up at the top. Finally it was ready and she pushed down, so carefully and slowly in one smooth movement, watching as the scalding liquid cleared and the grounds were trapped below the metal filter. Two sugars first, then the coffee and only then a dash of milk … as important a ritual as any addict getting a fix, she thought, putting the used cafetiere in the sink and lifting the beaker carefully. Now, if she could just get back upstairs before Sue arrived home again.
The journey up the staircase took twice as long as the trip down and she was exhausted by the time she sank into her bed. Greedily she sucked at the hot, bitter drink, relishing the rush of caffeine through her system but even this could not keep her awake long. She had time to regret the fact she’d forgotten to grab a book before she fell into a deep sleep.
Out on the Levels a group of men converged on the village of Woolavington, arriving by car at intervals until all six of them were settled in a private room at the back of the Royal Arms pub. The landlord served them in person before retiring discreetly to make sure he was seen by his more regular customers in the bar. Times were hard, he reflected, and he needed the money, but he was not entirely happy about the arrangement. Pulling himself a half he tried to put it out of his mind and began a round of greeting and jokes in an attempt to lighten the sombre mood in the bar. The death of Micky had cast gloom over customers and staff alike and rumours his drowning was being investigated by the police had done nothing to help business, as the more nervous drinkers (or those with nervous and vocal wives, he thought) were staying away. Add in the damn Carnival dragging people from one end of the county to another and he’d be lucky to make the wages bill this month. He nodded to his wife, on standby near the kitchen just in case there was a call for food from his guests. Responding with a scowl she retreated from view wiping her hands on her apron as she went. Another problem, he thought glumly. Somehow he had to tell her there was likely to be more ‘bookings’ for the top room and he’d already agreed to them.
Upstairs an arrangement was being hammered out by representatives of five groups, all from different areas but with common interests.
’Tis no point us all fighting each other,’ said a man at the head of the long table. ‘We got a great opportunity here, not likely to be coming again soon. With Derek gone and young Newt banged up they is like headless chickens and all that business is open for the taking.’
A tall, blond man in his early thirties rose and addressed the group. ‘I agree. Tom here knows the Levels far better than we do but we all know how useful this area can be. With the Johns gang out of the way we can open it up and use our contacts, make a safe base for operations. I’m in and I suggest you all join us. What about you Mark?’
His companion, an older man with thin brown hair and piercing green eyes nodded slowly. ‘Reckon you may be right,’ he said. ‘We got to sort out a few things first though. I’m not so sure about this new stuff.’
Several heads bobbed in agreement, mainly from the older men around the table. ‘Right,’ said a heavy-set man with a short, grey beard and a crooked nose. ‘There’s plenty of return from baccy and such. Don’t see we need to be branching out into this new stuff. What’s in it that’s worth the risk then, Geoff?’
The blond man nodded at the speaker. ‘We all respect Walter’s experience,’ he said smoothly. ‘He’s been operating in Exeter longer than some of us have been born and no-one knows the business better.’
There was an appreciative murmur around the table and
Walter dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘Still,’ Geoff continued, ‘things change and if we want to keep ahead we need to change with them. There was a time when you could only take about twenty quid abroad with you and there was a market for anything fancy and foreign but now with this Common Market it’s only worth bothering with smokes and booze. And booze is a problem what with the weight and breakages. Lot of breakages we seem to be getting round about Christmas Jimmy.’ He gave the man opposite him a hard stare.
Jimmy shrugged, affecting indifference. He was middling height, average build and with mousy hair. There wasn’t one single distinguishing characteristic about him which made his life very easy. No-one gave him a second look, not even the police hunting for the transport boss who was running trucks loaded with a fortune in smuggled alcohol and perfume.
‘Stuff gets knocked around,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes we need to take a bit of an off-road path so a few bottles might get damaged. I hope you’re not suggesting my lads are on the dip?’
When he turned his head to stare back at Geoff there was nothing ordinary about his face. Suddenly it had hardened, his pale hazel eyes gleaming as he radiated anger at his opposite number in the ports. Geoff met his gaze and for a moment the table fell silent as the two men squared up to each other. The tension was broken by Tom at the other end of the table, his voice calm as he said, ‘Now then lads, we’m all businessmen here and I hope we can all respect each other. See the problems from our colleagues’ point of view. En’t no need for none of that.’
Despite his soft words there was a ring of authority in his voice and the two men shifted in their chairs. The last member of the group leaned forwards and raised his hand. He was the youngest of the six men, short and stocky with a brawler’s build and crude tattoos on his knuckles. The group looked at him curiously as the only stranger amongst them.