The sergeant’s first words to her were, “Got some news, guv,” which did not constitute music to Isabelle’s ears. She said in reply, “Keep it until we’ve negotiated our route to the motorway, Sergeant.”
Havers opened her mouth, seemed to think better of whatever she intended to say, then shut it. She kept it shut till they reached the M5. Isabelle barely had time to accelerate before the DS began her recitation. They’d not had breakfast, so Isabelle had been in hope that Havers would hold her tongue and her flapping lips until they’d at least got to a Welcome Break, but such was not the case. The bloody woman spoke as if she, too, had downed a large cafetière of coffee the moment she’d rolled out of bed.
She recited as if ticking items off a list, including details and confirmations of alleged facts that she’d not been asked to confirm in the first place. Listening to all of it, Isabelle understood that once again the sergeant had gone walkabout during the previous night. Her excuse of “looking for something to eat, guv, after the kitchen was closed” was so ridiculous that Isabelle wanted to interrupt her by asking exactly how dim the sergeant thought she was.
Havers obviously did not want an interruption as she piled the information on, just below the speed of light. Yes, Ludlow had trouble with binge drinking among the young people; yes, the PCSO was frequently charged with dispersing binge drinkers; and “this is what’s interesting,” there was also an eyewitness account of the PCSO sometimes piling drinkers into his car for delivery to . . . wherever. Possibly to their parents, to the police station, to their accommodations, or to . . . the eyewitness couldn’t say. He turned out to be an individual by the name of Harry Rochester, who slept rough in the town.
Isabelle interrupted the general flow with, “It’s commendable that you’ve sought more confirmation for the PCSO’s story, but I’m not seeing your point.”
“It’s this. What Harry can’t confirm is that there was binge drinking going on the night when Druitt was arrested.”
Isabelle would have closed her eyes to shut all of this off had she not been driving. As it was, she saw the sign that gave two miles as the distance to the Welcome Break, and she sent thanks heavenward for her deliverance. She said, “Let’s stop for breakfast, Sergeant,” and when Havers looked determined to carry on, she added, “Let’s speak more after we’ve eaten.”
Havers’s enthusiasm about relating her various discoveries had not curbed her appetite, Isabelle discovered. Although there were more fashionable—not to mention nutritious—offerings like fruit, yoghurt, and nuts from a Caffè Nero, the sergeant went for the full English breakfast available cafeteria-style. For her part, Isabelle chose a latte and a banana from Caffè Nero, whereupon she joined the sergeant at a table and watched her tuck into watery scrambled eggs, sausage, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, mushrooms, toast, and a triangle of something that looked like breaded cardboard. She also had a pot of tea into which she dashed milk and several packets of sugar.
“Now,” Havers said between mouthfuls, “what’s interesting is that the IPCC never talked to Harry Rochester, guv. They didn’t even know he was involved.”
“I can’t see that he was involved.” Isabelle had taken to drinking lattes through a straw. It was so much easier than doing battle with a takeaway cup and its frustrating plastic top, she found. She took a pull of it, found it lukewarm, sighed, and thought about taking it back. Too much trouble, she decided, rather like Sergeant Havers. “From what you’ve just told me, Mr. Rochester’s sole contribution to our knowledge is that, yes, binge drinking goes on in Ludlow.”
“But, like I said, he doesn’t remember if there was any drinking that night, guv.”
“Can I point out that what a vagrant recalls or doesn’t recall is hardly substantial because he is a vagrant?”
“This bloke’s no vagrant,” Havers countered. She waved her fork for emphasis, a slice of the sausage hanging perilously upon it. “He lives rough, true. But he’s claustrophobic.”
“Ah. Well. The fact that a claustrophobic individual who domiciles in doorways cannot recall whether there was binge drinking going on on a particular night more than two months ago is—”
“But the IPCC’s report says that the Hart and Hind publican did confirm it. It also says that the other pubs in town confirm that Gary Ruddock rang them up like he said, leaving Ian Druitt time to string himself to a doorknob. But here’s what’s interesting, guv, the owner of the Hart and Hind has a little business going on on the side that he’d probably like Ruddock to turn a blind eye to—I’m talking about the rooms he lets out by the hour, it seems—so he’s got reason to go along with whatever Ruddock asks him to say, right? And all those other pub owners Ruddock rang . . . ? When you think about it, they had no way of knowing there was bingeing going on that night in Quality Square. They only know what Ruddock told them was going on. What we have could mean—”
“Sergeant, stop.” Isabelle pointed out to Havers what she had been pointing out every which way since they’d first arrived in Ludlow: what their job was. When she’d done so, she added, “Our part now is to get to London and to write the report that we’ve been asked to submit to Hillier to give to Quentin Walker, after which our part is to get back to our own work. I hope you see that, Sergeant.”
“I do. Except—”
“I also hope you’re about to say that you’re planning to commence working on that report the moment we arrive in Victoria Street.”
Havers averted her eyes. She looked down for a moment before she answered. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
Isabelle had checked on Havers before coming over to Tower Block. The sergeant had been beavering away. Now her own part was to speak with the assistant commissioner, and she was relieved when he finally showed up, twenty minutes later than scheduled and with a meeting to attend in just ten more minutes.
He was speaking on his mobile as he came out of the lift, saying, “It’s parents’ day, Laura, not grandparents’ day. Please inform Catherine that her father will not be attending as he has more important things to do than watching all the mummies engage in a pancake race . . . Of course I’m joking . . . No. I cannot be there . . . Darling, no. I’ll see you tonight . . . Of course.” He shoved the mobile into his jacket and said to Isabelle, “Seven grandchildren at school are six too many. Have you a report?”
He opened his office door and made a gesture for her to enter. He said to Judi-with-an-i, “I’ll need to cancel Stanwood. Schedule something next week. First thing in the morning,” before following Isabelle inside and shutting the door behind them. The fact that he made no offer of coffee, tea, or water indicated that he wasn’t going to give her more than a few minutes.
She said to him, “Sergeant Havers is seeing to it, sir. I’ll have it to you by the end of the day. Or tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Then why are you and I meeting?”
Isabelle readied herself. She needed to be apologetic but not submissive. “I wanted to apologise for last evening.”
He hadn’t told her to sit and he didn’t himself sit. He merely stood at the corner of his desk and took her in and allowed her to take him in: a big man, full head of iron grey hair, always slightly florid of face, handsome without being the least bit pretty. He would seek to intimidate her. She would seek not to be intimidated.
“What about last evening?” he asked.
“I’d taken a sleeping pill. My former husband and I are in a dispute that’s been weighing on my mind, and on the occasional night I have trouble sleeping. Your call last night awakened me. I’m terribly sorry.”
He was silent. She reckoned he was comparing her story to what she’d actually said on the phone when she’d assumed Bob was ringing her. She knew that she hadn’t sounded like someone coming groggily awake from sleep unless, of course, she’d been having a nightmare and assumed the phone call was part of that dream
. Hardly likely. But she’d known the second she heard Hillier’s voice that she was going to have to have this conversation with him.
She added, “I rarely have to use the pills. I’m afraid they’re of the don’t-take-if-operating-heavy-equipment variety. I’ve actually never spoken on the phone to anyone once I’ve taken a dose and . . . well, I hope you understand, sir.”
Still, he was silent. Damn the man. He was generally readable, but that wasn’t the case now. She could feel the backs of her knees dampening. She was, she told herself sternly, one hundred percent Isabelle Jacqueline Ardery now, and she fully intended to remain that way. There was enough on the line.
When he finally spoke, it was to say abruptly, “What are we giving to Walker? He’s going to want something to hand over to this Druitt fellow in Birmingham. What’s it going to be?”
“When Sergeant Havers completes the report, I’ll give it a look,” Isabelle told him. “If anything needs . . . further work on her part, I’ll instruct the sergeant to do it. I met with Mr. Druitt, sir, and I didn’t find him unreasonable. He’s in great distress over his son, as you can imagine. But as no one can ever know another person entirely—particularly a child grown into an adult—I do think he’ll see reason.”
“Which is what?”
“That while his son might not have been what he was accused of being—a paedophile—the fact that he killed himself with no evidence to indicate there was anything like foul play suggests that he did have a reason to do it, even if we can’t say exactly what that reason was. And Mr. Druitt must come to understand that it was suicide, and that it’s actually no one’s remit to find a reason for it. Neither the first investigating officer—DI Pajer—nor the IPCC were looking for a reason, nor were they expected to. They were investigating exactly what happened that night and in the aftermath. We can add to that that we’re happy enough to turn our report over to the CPS—in fact I do suggest that, as our best next step if Druitt remains unhappy—but as neither the IPCC nor we have found a case to prosecute, the likelihood of the Druitt family getting a prosecution is very remote.”
Hillier hadn’t taken his eyes off her, which Isabelle felt was rather more intimidating than necessary. She and he were, after all, supposed to be on the same side. She decided she had said enough, and she would wait for his reply. Through his bank of office windows, she could see a flock of pigeons flying in magical unison against a true blue sky. Until he spoke, she would watch them.
Hillier finally said, “Yes. I like that. I think that will do very well.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “And again, I’m terribly sorry—”
“Take them often, do you?”
It was the abruptness that warned her to have a care. She said, “Sorry?”
“Those . . . pills of yours. Do you take them often?”
“Rarely, sir. Hardly ever, in fact.”
“Good. See that it stays that way. We’d hate to lose you to making a mistake with them one night.”
“Of course, sir.”
He went to the user side of his desk, an indication that their meeting was over. She thanked him for his time and turned to leave. She was at the door, her hand on the knob, when he spoke again.
“Keep on with Sergeant Havers, will you? There will be something. Just give her time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And rope,” he added. “Of course she’ll need rope.”
VICTORIA
LONDON
At least the journey back to London hadn’t been as trying as the trip to Ludlow had been. Given, it had begun early, but Barbara had long ago set her mobile’s alarm to play the final moments of the 1812 Overture at a casual suggestion from DI Lynley, and it did the trick when required to do so, virtually catapulting her out of bed the moment the cannons began to fire. She was in her tiny bathroom when a knock on her door turned out to be Peace on Earth with a tray of early morning coffee. He’d just delivered one to “your companion,” he said, and he reckoned she might do with one herself. It was on the house, he told her. He looked as sympathetic as a bloke with overlarge earlobes could look at half past five in the morning.
She’d been discouraged at first that there was to be no breakfast at the hotel prior to their departure. But then the Welcome Break had come along, as had DCS Ardery’s invitation to get stuck in. She was glad she’d done so, because when they finally arrived in Victoria Street Ardery assigned her the task of writing a report that would prove fully acceptable to AC Hillier. She was to have it completed by four o’clock, Ardery informed her. She added that she would be waiting to have a thorough look at it the moment Sergeant Havers had completed it and before the DS set off for home.
This, Barbara knew, was verbal shorthand for what she herself was meant to do. There were certain requirements attached to this piece of writing, and if they weren’t met, she was going to have to alter the report until all parties were satisfied with it.
She’d got nowhere with her recommendation that listening to the 999 call ought to take precedence over writing a report that was to be presented to a member of Parliament and, potentially, to a grieving father. Ardery had maintained her position that a recorded call wasn’t going to get them anywhere new. To this she’d added that she was “truly getting tired of hearing you bang on about it, Sergeant, since all you argue is that it must be listened to without presenting any clear reason for doing so. Have you a reason that I’ve missed in all the backing and forthing we’ve done on the topic?”
“It’s just a feeling,” was what Barbara had said with resignation. She set to on the report. Four o’clock was still four o’clock and she knew Ardery would show up at her desk at 4:03 if Sergeant Havers did not present herself and her report in the DCS’s office at the prescribed hour.
She was industriously at it when her mobile rang. It was Gary Ruddock, telling her he’d managed to get the recording of the 999 call per her request. He’d sent it as an attachment in an email. Had she listened to it yet?
“I haven’t,” she told him. “I’ve been caught up with the bloody report for my superiors. But ta, Gary. I hope you didn’t have to pull many strings.”
“Only a few,” he replied. “Let me know if there’s something in the recording that strikes you, eh?”
She said she would do. She took a moment to check her email, figuring that Ardery wasn’t going to pop up beside her like a funfair shooting game’s target. She found his message first: Hears the recording. You mite find something in it. Let me know if you need anthing esle.
Bloody hell, she thought. No wonder the poor bloke couldn’t go beyond the level of PCSO. She was surprised he’d made it that far.
She got onto the attachment and fished in her desk for a headset or earbuds. There were none to be found, which was no surprise. But Winston Nkata was her polar opposite when it came to being prepared for anything. He tossed her his.
She listened to the message. She had the transcript of it memorised, and she found that the message itself was word-for-word identical to it, as Ardery had pointed out to her that it would be. So she listened again. And then again. She wanted to recognise the voice, but the message was—no surprise, really—whispered. Still, she wanted a gotcha! moment, although she would have settled for a mere aha! or a mild very interesting. But there was sod all to hang even a hope on. The sibilant s’s present in the words of the caller could easily have been part of the intent to disguise the speaker’s identity. At the end of the day, she had to admit that it could have been anyone standing at the doorway to the police station making the phone call: from the local dustman to Dracula.
Then she noticed.
As she was about to log off, she saw the date upon which the call had been made: nineteen days before the deacon had been taken to the police station. That detail had been mentioned nowhere, yet it suggested something that wanted noting. In the nineteen days between the
phone call and the arrest of Ian Druitt, something had to have been going on, and what that something was had to have been an investigation giving enough cause to bring the man in. But if that was the case—and it certainly seemed logical to assume so—then why was there no evidence anywhere that some sort of preliminary look into Ian Druitt had occurred?
This, she told herself, was something. This, she assured herself, was a detail that DCS Ardery had to be told about. This, she concluded, shed light on everything that had happened in Ludlow, although the light it shed illuminated the fact that the deacon was probably exactly what the anonymous call declared him to be: a paedophile.
She was turning this over in her mind when Dorothea Harriman showed up at her desk, wearing one of her summery frocks, probably with the hope of encouraging the weather to behave. “Detective Sergeant Havers,” she said. “How did it go?”
“Kept my nose clean, more or less,” Barbara told her. “The occasional use of a handkerchief might have been necessary, but you’re not hearing that story from me.”
Dorothea tapped a stiletto-adorned foot. “I was actually referring to the practice sessions. Tell me you did them nightly.”
“Like a trooper,” Barbara lied.
“Good.”
“Glad you approve.”
“Because we’ve got only two weeks left till the audition for solos and small group performances.” When Barbara looked at her blankly, Dorothea said, “The dance recital? July? Now, what I think is that you and I could do a two-person number. Or we could ask one of the Muslim girls to join us and make it three. I’m thinking Umaymah. She’s definitely the most serious of that lot, and with a Cole Porter tune . . .”
Speaking of tunes, Barbara thought. Time to tune out. What she also thought was that when it came to tap dancing at a public performance, it would be done over or upon her dead body. As Dorothea rattled on, Barbara finally said, “Oh, see here, Dee, I’m nothing compared to the two of you. I’m less than zero. Negative ten or whatever. But you and Umaymah? You should have a go.”
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