Prepared to Die

by Peter Dudgeon

  As for you choosing Robinson … well … I’ve got enough shortcomings of my own without whining about God not seeing fit to equally distribute the gift of intelligence.”

  A look of smug approval overtook Edwards’s face. He opened his bottom drawer and extracted a black laptop bag, passing it to Daniel. “It’s a new machine. Password is ‘password1.’ Set up a new one immediately. I’ve secured you a room for the three of you to work in.”

  “Here, in Lincoln?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let me guess, 42A. No … 42E.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks, but after today, we won’t be needing it. We’ll find a space to work in Blaine. We’re stretched enough without a commute to get to witnesses and the crime scene.”

  “Robinson and Aitken live in Lincoln.”

  “Let me worry about that. Before I leave, you might recall … some months back you said you had someone checking whether Fallon had previous.”

  Edwards huffed, “Do me a favour, focus on Hewitt and Jackson would you?” There was a stalemate during which Daniel refused to take the steer. Edwards conceded, “In answer to your question, yes, he had previous but nothing serious. He was cautioned for a breach of the peace and for shoplifting, nothing in the last ten years. It’s all in the file.”

  Daniel made to leave, “Anything else Ted?”

  “I know it’s only the two of us … but could you get back into the habit of calling me sir or DCI Edwards?”

  “Sure.”

  “And we’ll talk regional dress policy another day.”

  “No doubt we will.”

  Outside Edwards’s office, Daniel sent Robinson a text, asking him to meet with himself and Aitken in 42E at 09:30. On route to that bleak meeting room which lurked in the bowels of the building on the ground floor, Daniel stopped off at the canteen. Beyond double doors the bustle and buzz of overlapping voices told Daniel where everyone had vanished to.

  Half a dozen officers stood at the counter, staring through the greasy sneeze screens at bacon and black pudding. A dozen more sat at tables, their helmets and hats upturned on tabletops as they munched. Edwards wasn’t kidding about the staff turnover, Daniel barely recognised anyone. Deciding there wasn’t time to queue for a proper coffee, he headed to the vending machine by the door marked ‘Exit only.’

  As the drink hissed and spat its way into a beige cup, Daniel heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Christ, that’s never Daniel Sheppard is it?!” said DS Jerry Cliff. Daniel turned to greet him and reeled a little at his old acquaintance’s appearance. He was shaved bald. The last time Daniel had seen Jerry he’d had thick blonde hair. More striking was the scarring around his left eye-socket and the glassy, lifeless look of the eyeball itself.

  “Guess my new look gave you a bit of a shock eh?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be, I’ve got used to it. It happened two years ago. Stabbed on the high street by a woman, would you believe, as I tried to come between her and her boyfriend. They were kicking shit out of each other in the town centre. I was off duty … but we’re never really off duty are we Daniel?” A slap of camaraderie landed on Dan’s upper arm. Actually, Daniel did used to be able to forget about work out of hours … when Alison was alive. “Of course, I’m not much use to them now. Still maintained the rank but I’m mostly doing admin. I don’t think Edwards wants this as the face of the police service.” He made a circling gesture around his face with the back of his hand and laughed.

  “That sucks … gives you grounds for complaint, though. There’s something in the disability act about-”

  “Let it go DI Sheppard.” And he laughed but Daniel couldn’t quite manage to reciprocate with a smile.

  Daniel’s mocha had long since dispensed. “Listen, Jerry I’ve got to go. But I’ll call you in a couple of days, when I’m settled in, for a catch up.”

  Jerry said that would be just fine by him. With a stoop, he walked off towards the silver warming dishes of cooked breakfast, scratching the nape of his neck as he negotiated his way between tables. Daniel suspected there was a broken man behind the chirpy facade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was 09:25. Daniel stood sipping his mocha and looking out of the narrow, inadequate window. He shook his head as he watched a woman in a purple shiny tracksuit pushing a supermarket trolley full of crisps and energy drinks past the white ‘Police’ sign outside the station.

  Daniel had staged the room. In the middle, three equidistant chairs faced each other. He’d pushed four tables out of the way against the walls.

  He wondered how Aitken and Robinson would take to the method. Until his mid-thirties Daniel had operated like most of the detective sergeants he’d met. His modus operandi had been to invite theories then shoot down any which didn’t hold water. He’d been renowned for his logic and demanded high standards of the teams in his charge. Until he met a man who changed everything.

  As the trolley-pushing woman disappeared over a humped back bridge, Daniel’s thoughts drifted eight years hence to that chance encounter. Alison had been sitting at the window seat, watching an inflight movie using cheap-overpriced headphones, which the stewardess had dished out with a Vegas smile. Titanic was showing, and Daniel had questioned the appropriateness of playing a disaster movie as in-flight entertainment; particularly one based on a real life tragedy. He’d been flicking through a Minorcan tourist leaflet, which boasted about seemingly few activities to engage in whilst on the island, when he decided to introduce himself to the slender man who sat on the aisle seat next to him.

  The man was dressed in pristine black jeans and a tight polo neck without motif; not an ounce of fat on him. He had a neat grey goatee, yet his skin was without a wrinkle or blemish. His black, wavy hair had grey streaks and was slicked back. Daniel said hello and they exchanged the usual banalities about where they hailed from; the man - in a neutral accent - stated ‘the mid west’ as though that explained anything. Daniel asked, “What do you do?”

  “I change climates.” A curious response which left Daniel with little to say. So he continued with what was, in hindsight, a pretty lame inquiry.

  “What does that entail, on a day to day basis?”

  The man had just smiled and said, “If I can understand you, I think you will understand me.” It was transpiring to be the most bizarre yet alluring conversation he’d ever had.

  “That’s easy enough. I’m a Detective Sergeant in the Lincolnshire Police Service.”

  “New to the DS position?”

  “Yes, how did you guess?”

  “My name’s Jonah.” He extended his hand and Daniel, rapidly slipping his brochure into the seat pocket in front, shook it.

  “Tell me about a typical case. Describe it to me, the people, the room. Change the names of the innocent, if you like.”

  Perhaps he should have just shut the conversation down at that point, but somehow this man was already under his skin. Daniel described, as best he could, the process and the people involved in his most recent case. The investigation centred on a body found decapitated and scattered along the banks of a field-side ditch. He mentioned no names, giving each team member a letter instead. Jonah quizzed him about the people, how they looked, how they reacted through each conversation.

  Jonah then went quiet for a while, with his eyes closed. Daniel wondered if he’d nodded off. But the man wasn’t sleeping. Jonah opened his eyes and said, “Two weeks.”

  “Sorry, two weeks?”

  “That’s how much quicker the investigation would have been if you’d truly listened.” He went on to explain how the person labelled DC’B’, the youngest, least confident member of the investigative team who’d made the key connection between the murder and an earlier drugs raid, knew about this long before she put the theory forward, but was looking for permission to be wrong. This permission should have been in the air, but wasn’t because Daniel hadn’t created the right conditions. Jonah declar
ed, in a way that miraculously carried no air of superiority, that Daniel had a lot to learn about climates.

  For the next two hours, Daniel asked open questions, hungry for this man’s knowledge. After about an hour of vagueness - it was clear that the man wasn’t going to share his expertise easily or lightly - Jonah sketched out a series of diamonds on a napkin; his approach to creating effective dialogue, then went on to explain how it worked in great technical detail. He finished with a question, “Tell me if I’m wrong, but when you’re assessed for the police, you’re tested on what you observe, and in your ability to talk. You were never tested on your ability to truly listen. It’s the same all over the western world. There is discussion aplenty, but rarely true dialogue.”

  The plane’s landing gear juddered onto the tarmac and the conversation ended. Daniel and Jonah said their goodbyes, and Daniel shook off a strange desire to follow Jonah through the arrivals lounge to ask for his phone number. It had taken until the mid-point of their week in the sun for Daniel to stop boring Alison about that man; he sensed she was getting sick of hearing the name Jonah.

  And so Daniel had started reading and experimenting at work. He’d read book upon book about dialogue, some practical, some impenetrable, some spiritual, one steeped in the traditions of native Americans.

  Strangely, though his reputation for getting results grew stronger, people dismissed his methods, some to the point where they refused to work with ‘that hippy.’ It was a good job Edwards had been a numbers man (and a close friend) Daniel’s case closure rate kept his job secure. Robinson had been one of those sceptical, dismissive people, and now, as Daniel heard footsteps approaching outside the room, and looking at the four diamonds he’d drawn on a dry-wipe noticeboard, he braced himself for a meeting laced with tension.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Daniel was relieved to discover the footsteps belonged to DC Aitken. She sat with Daniel in the triangle of chairs. Each chair had a moulded grey plastic seat with a fist sized hole, the purpose of which Daniel could never fathom (perhaps it was made for those who had a fetish for tickling the lower backs of colleagues). One chair was empty; Robinson was already five minutes late. Daniel had explained to DC Aitken the way he wanted them to communicate, elucidating the diamonds. He wasn’t sure she’d taken it all in, despite her smiles and nods. That was okay, she had a student’s alacrity; she’d pick it up.

  “So, what’s your first name?” asked Daniel.

  “Anna.”

  “Anna Aitken … you know you’ve got a statistically higher chance of becoming famous with a name like that.”

  She had one of those faces incapable of hiding emotion. A bunch of freckles gathered on the crinkling bridge of her nose and those keen eyes had the be-nice-to-me quality of a puppy’s. “Sorry sir, I don’t follow.”

  “Alliterated. Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse … Anna Aitken.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose so,” She coloured up. Daniel was starting to muse on whether she was the most taciturn DC he’d ever worked with, when Robinson walked in, carrying a burgundy Costa Coffee cup. He wore a thick green bomber jacket, unzipped over a beige shirt which looked like he’d dripped egg down it. His face had its usual ruddy hue, a web of broken capillaries merging into one. Daniel suspected this was a sign of Robinson's alcohol dependency, though, as far as he could recall, drinking had never noticeably impacted on his work. His brow had a glossy sheen of sweat. He’d put on a good two stone since Daniel had seen him last.

  As Robinson dumped his laptop bag on a table he caught sight of the diamonds, rolled his eyes and sighed. Aitken must have spotted this; she looked at Daniel with concerned eyes. Daniel smiled reassuringly at her.

  “Robinson, good to see you.” What he really wanted to say, was, ‘You’re late and quit with the attitude, you’ve not even sat down.’ Still he had to act with serenity; anger doesn’t induce the right climate.

  Robinson responded with a nod and humphed down onto the chair which must have been uncomfortable given his thighs’ girth.

  “Edwards tells me you’re SIO on this,” said Robinson, whilst still regarding the wall.

  “That’s correct. Do you know DC Aitken?”

  Robinson looked at her, “We worked together a while back?”

  She nodded with a smile (forced?) and said, “It has been a while” as she extended a hand. Robinson wiped his palm on his grey trousers and held hers. Aitken withdrew from their handshake the second it was polite to do so. Daniel got the sense that - with her short, neat, clean nails and fresh skin - she was impressed by neither Robinson’s personal hygiene nor his appearance.

  “Still using this crap?” asked Robinson, eyes lingering on the four diamonds on the board.

  Daniel remained stolid, despite the attack. “I’m still using this method, yes. And whilst I’m SIO, we all will. Before we get stuck into the details of this case, it’s important that we don’t start out with any mental baggage. To give this case one hundred per cent focus, we don’t want to be distracted by the nagging demands of everyday life. So let’s get it off our chests.”

  Aitken looked at Daniel with wide eyes as if concerned about what she might have to say. Robinson appeared to be on the brink of another eye roll.

  To create climates, we role model the behaviour we want to see.

  “I’ll get us started,” said Daniel. “Earlier this year, my wife died after a long battle with the cruellest form of multiple sclerosis. It’s taken me until now to feel capable of coming back to work. Coming back hasn’t been easy and I thank you in advance for your support and all the effort you intend to put into this case. And Robinson …” he seized eye contact, “I’ve also been concerned about us working together. I know you don’t believe in my methods and I respect your right to hold that view, but I’ve been anxious about it, and hope that we can put past differences aside and work constructively together.” Robinson’s look didn’t shift at all, his eyes fish-cold. “I’m also really excited to get to know DC Aitken, as we’ve never worked together before.”

  “I bet you are,” said Robinson.

  Daniel didn’t rise to it, “I certainly am. Welcome to this small but perfectly formed team.”

  Aitken smiled faintly with tight lips, still appearing anxious.

  “Robinson, why don’t you go next. You’re familiar with the drill and perhaps you can show DC Aitken how it’s done.”

  Robinson gave an inauthentic smile, “I’m late ‘cos I woke up to find my dog had puked and shat all over the kitchen floor. Plus Costa had a queue a mile long. There … how’s that for being honest?”

  “And how are you feeling coming in today?”

  “Look, Sheppard, this is an investigation, not fucking therapy.”

  “Well … thanks for at least partially playing ball. DC Aitken, what’s on your mind?”

  “It’s all good actually. My boyfriend proposed last night,” she lifted up her left hand and used her thumb to wiggle the modest diamond at them.

  “Congratulations,” said Robinson in a flat tone, from an even flatter expression.

  “Yes, congratulations,” said Daniel.

  “And I’m also really excited to be working with you Detective Inspector. I’m here to work hard and to learn. Colleagues say I’m lucky to be chosen.” Aitken had one of those faces which demands little makeup, yet Daniel noticed a tinge of rouge … or had she just coloured a little?

  “Well thanks for that - I hope they haven’t built your expectations up too high. Likewise, I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Robinson said, “Look are we finished with the love-in? Can we get on with this, or what?”

  “We are ‘getting on with it’ but if you mean discussing the case … sure … let’s move onto that now. DC Aitken, you attended the scene, would you care to bring Robinson up to speed.”

  “Sure.” Aitken pulled out a Samsung Galaxy Note, and pecked at it with a stylus.

  “We have two bodies and potentially two victims.
One is a Mallory Hewitt, the other is a Leon Jackson-”

  “Hold on a minute.” Robinson got up, moved to the table, and opened his bag. After some protracted rummaging, he returned to his seat with an A5 notepad and said, “Carry on.”

  “Mallory Hewitt was forty-two and worked as a hedge fund controller for Morgan Stanley. Strangely, he lived in a property east of Blaine, towards the coast. I say ‘strangely’, as I would have thought a person in his position would have lived in the city - must have been doing the Peterborough commute. Anyway, Mr Leon Jackson, thirty-six, was a local architect. We don’t know at this point whether the two knew each other, but I think it’s likely given what Harold Phillips has described.”

  “Harold Phillips?” asked Robinson.

  “Our only witness. He owns the driving range where the incident took place. He said that Mallory turned up shortly before twenty two hundred hours and persuaded him to keep the range open and to mow the grass.”

  “What does that tell you about the relationship between Mallory and Phillips?” asked Daniel as a question for both of them.

  Aitken looked up, somewhere above and beyond Daniel, and gently rocked her head in consideration.

  “Phillips was Hewitt’s bitch,” said Robinson with a snide grin.

  Aitken said, “Mallory was demanding, a powerful man who usually got what he wanted.” Daniel nodded sagely at her elaboration. She continued, “Phillips said he stopped mowing as he saw a car driving up to the range at speed and, not withstanding Mallory turning up, was surprised to have another customer so late. He was parking up the cart along the side of the range when he saw a man who we now know to be Leon Jackson, striding across the range, behind the bays, towards Hewitt who was hitting balls. Phillips saw it all: Jackson picked a club from Hewitt’s golf bag and struck him with it, one blow to the temple and then, once he was on the ground, brought the club down on Hewitt’s face, inflicting multiple injuries. Phillips described it as a frenzied attack. He Left his cart and ran across the grass to try to stop Jackson, fearing he was too late. He’s only halfway there when Jackson, still carrying the club, marches off across the driving range - not running mind you, just striding out - out towards, well, nowhere really. His direction doesn’t make sense, it didn’t appear as though he was trying to escape.”