Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “Oh –” Anne started to get up. Marnie gestured to her to stay in her seat. “But, Marnie, I haven’t washed up the cups yet. I’m disorganised this morning.”

  “Never mind. I’ll do them while the kettle boils. Let’s just all relax.”

  Anne settled back and smiled faintly across at Estelle. She was on the edge of her emotions and feared that if Estelle asked her about finding Luther, she would flood the office with tears.

  “Hi, Anne.” She glanced at the papers on Anne’s desk. “You keeping the show on the road as usual?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that my travel folder you’ve got there?”

  “I took it from the car, one less thing for you to worry about.”

  Estelle took a couple of deep breaths, blinking. Anne felt a lump rise in her throat.

  “If there’s anything you need, Anne, just let me know.” Estelle’s voice was low and hesitant.

  “It’s okay, everything’s here. I’m just going to total it all up and file it. I’ll write a cheque for Marnie to sign.”

  Grateful to have something to occupy her, Anne finished putting the receipts and slips into chronological order on the desk and opened the spreadsheet program on her computer. In the background Marnie was spooning ground coffee into the pot, and the kettle was humming. Anne chewed her lip. Nothing seemed to be going right for her that morning. Even the simplest of tasks was confusing her.

  “Problem?” said Estelle.

  “What? Oh, no. I seem to have mixed up your baggage tag and boarding card with the ticket stubs. I’m all fingers and thumbs. What with the change of flight, I’ve got everything jumbled up. I’ll just sort these through.”

  “I would’ve done that before giving them to you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get it right, sooner or later.”

  The smell of fresh coffee wafted across the room, and Marnie brought the tray over to the desks.

  “Black without for you, Estelle, white without for Anne, black for me.” She sat on the corner of Anne’s desk. There was an awkward silence.

  “I expect you’ve made plans,” Estelle began. “It’s the summer fete today, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not sure –”

  “You have to be there, Marnie.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “You mean I’m a complication.”

  “You’re not a complication.”

  “But?”

  “But … you are a factor, of course.”

  “Is that all? Why don’t you just go into town and join in the fun. I’ll be all right here. I’m not going to do anything stupid, Marnie, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Fun? Estelle, fun isn’t quite the right word.”

  “What is?”

  “Look, it’s complicated.”

  “Spell it out. I’m a big girl, I’ll understand.”

  Marnie paused. “Since Brandon was killed, things have gone bad, much worse than they were before. There could be real danger. And now both sides of the political divide – extremists – are threatening trouble.”

  “You mean Luther’s death has made matters worse?”

  Marnie stared into her cup. “It looks that way.”

  “They’re going to need someone with a cool head like you in town today, Marnie. You’ve got to be there.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Estelle. The presence – or absence – of one solitary woman isn’t going to influence things that much.”

  “Don’t you believe it. It could make all the difference.”

  Anne carefully clipped the travel receipts and tickets together, slipped them inside the folder and wrote a figure on a yellow post-it note. She stuck it on the flap for Marnie’s attention.

  “That’s decided, then,” said Estelle. “You’re going into town … and I’m coming with you.”

  *

  Bartlett stood looking into the skip, exuding frustration. His impatience had transmitted itself to the SOCOs, who were working faster, heaving rubble out over the side with jerky movements. They had cleared half the contents and were sweating in their all-enveloping tunics. DS Croyland was fretting in the background, aware of Bartlett’s greater experience, but worried they might be damaging evidence, compromising a crime scene.

  Bartlett stomped back to Marriner and Lamb. “Ridiculous!” he growled. “It’d take a gang of navvies to bury anything that deep. What’s been going on here?”

  “Beats me,” said Marriner. “The neighbour insists she rang as soon as she heard the shouting.”

  “She described it as like someone calling out for help,” Cathy Lamb added.

  “Did she say how many voices she heard?”

  Marriner pursed his lips. “I’m not sure. Martin talked to her.”

  Bartlett called to DS Croyland to join them. He repeated his question.

  “She just said she heard someone crying out. It sounded as if he was being attacked or chased. Then there was a clattering sound and the shouting stopped suddenly. She made the three nines call straight away.”

  “Sergeant, what’s your assessment of the situation here? Are you assuming someone was attacked, probably murdered and concealed in the skip?”

  “It would appear to fit the facts, sir.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  Croyland half-turned his head in the direction of the skip. “So far we’ve recovered some clothing: a baseball cap and a black shirt.”

  “Exactly. You think they had time to undress the body for some reason as well as hide it?”

  “Well, do you think we should stop searching, sir?”

  “That’s the point. Now that we’ve started, we have to go on. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Croyland looked as if his approach was finally being vindicated.

  “And that’s what we’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Sorry?”

  “My assessment,” Bartlett began, “is that we’ve found all there is to be found in that skip.”

  “But you said –”

  “I know what I said. But unless I’m very much mistaken, there isn’t a body concealed under that rubbish.”

  “There wasn’t enough time to conceal it,” Marriner added.

  “No, Ted, there wasn’t. This isn’t the scene of a murder. It’s a smoke screen. For what purpose, I don’t know. Or it’s possible that it may be a signal of some kind. Either way, we’re wasting time here.”

  *

  Marnie had the local BBC station playing on the car radio to catch news bulletins as they headed towards the town. The intermittent pop music intruded a festive atmosphere in the Discovery that was out of place. Anne was in the back, gazing out over meadows and woods that were basking in brilliant sunshine under a cloudless sky. A heat haze was blurring the horizon. While they travelled they were immune from the temperature, the car’s air-conditioning humming along with the music. Estelle was in the front passenger seat, her head tilted back against the restraint, eyes closed. At intervals Marnie shot glances in her direction. She had never known Estelle so quiet.

  Ralph had stayed behind, delayed at the last minute by a lengthy phone call from America. He would join them later.

  The last bars of American Pie faded out – Don McLean describing everyone’s feelings on the day the music died – and it was time for a news update. Marnie touched the button to raise the volume.

  There are tailbacks reported on the eastbound A45 south of Northampton where a collision has blocked the overtaking lane near the Brackmills junction. Motorists are advised to slow down in good time and are warned to expect delays for at least the next hour.

  Otherwise traffic is reported as heavy on all roads into the town, so if you’re visiting friends, going to the county cricket ground or wanting to join in the fun at the summer fete at Garfield Primary School, the authorities are advising that you allow plenty of time for your journey.

  The latest position on the police investigation in the town centre is that
officers are continuing to examine a skip that was the centre of a disturbance in the early hours of this morning. They are not yet prepared to make a formal statement, but it’s understood they have recovered some articles of clothing and also a yellow bicycle that appears to have been abandoned.

  Meanwhile there’s a heavy police presence in town, with officers once again brought in from neighbouring forces. The cause of the extra activity is concern that further trouble will break out following the assassination of Britain First Party leader, Garth Brandon, on Thursday and the suspicious death of Mr Luther Curtiss in Cosgrove on Friday. Police are not saying that one death led to the other at this stage, but neither are they denying that there could be a connection between the two incidents. Common to both cases, however, is the fact that there are few clues as to who carried out the killings and no witnesses able to give an accurate description of the perpetrators.

  The Chief Constable has appealed for calm amid mounting tension in the Afro-Caribbean community and the threat of further demonstrations and reprisals from far-right organisations. The one hopeful sign so far is that there have been no sightings of transport bringing potential troublemakers into the area.

  At the county ground Northamptonshire are entertaining Yorkshire in the third round of the Benson and Hedges Cup. Play is underway after the home side won the toss and opted to bat. We’re going over to the match where Rob Murray is reporting.

  Marnie turned down the volume, calculating how to avoid the tailback on the southern by-pass that was her chosen route.

  “Take the motorway north when we reach the M1.” Anne was speaking from the rear.

  Marnie looked in the mirror. “You’re reading my thoughts. The motorway, you think?”

  “We can go up to the next junction and come in from the west. It’s further, but we’ll avoid the bottleneck that way. You’ll just have to cut through town.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Incidents.” This time it was Estelle, her voice quiet and husky.

  “Sorry?” Marnie was straining to hear.

  Estelle cleared her throat. “He said incidents.” Her eyes were still closed. “A man loses his life – that was full of promise and fulfilment – and they call it an incident.”

  “It’s awful, I know,” said Marnie. “But to the media everything is probably regarded as an incident.”

  “It makes it sound as if Luther’s whole life only happened so he could become an item in a news bulletin.” She breathed in deeply and sniffed. “I know the person who did it will relive that moment over and over for the rest of their life.”

  “If they have any conscience,” Marnie added.

  *

  Mrs Vane-Henderson had lost her composure. It was a rare occurrence in a life where order and discipline, especially self-discipline, were watchwords. Now, in the middle of organising the summer fete, she found herself confronted by uncompromising forces brought into play by her own actions.

  The improbable first inkling that all was not as it should be came with a cry from the information desk. Jackie Brice, seasoned campaigner that she was, was standing her ground face to face with a group of black youths. Arms were being waved in jerky movements, voices were raised, fingers were being pointed at her.

  Thrusting her clipboard at the nearest helper with a brusque Hold the fort, Mrs V-H marched across the playground, chin held high, elbows pumping. No-one got in her way. She arrived at the same time as Greg Roberts, the scout master.

  “What’s going on?”

  The Voice of Authority brought the argument to a sudden halt for some seconds. Then everyone started talking at once.

  “Dorothy, I have tried to explain to these young men –”

  “We’re not taking this shit, no way –”

  “You said this was a fete for everyone, and we’ve got a right to be here. We want a stand too –”

  “A community event, you said it was, and we’re the community as much as anyone else, so –”

  “Where’s Serena? We want to talk to her. We thought she was in charge here –”

  Rapid movement followed by the shrill and piercing blast on the whistle took everyone by surprise, including Greg Roberts, whose whistle it was. Mrs V-H had turned swiftly towards him, yanked the whistle from his breast pocket and produced a sound that would have brought a Wembley Cup Final to an end. Greg jumped. Everyone within ten metres winced at the interminable piercing noise. All movement stopped across the playground.

  Mrs V-H pointed at Jackie Brice. “You go first, while the rest of us listen.” She enunciated every word through clenched teeth, glaring at the youths. “… without a sound.”

  “These lads came onto the playground demanding a stall. They had no security badges so the scouts asked them to leave until the fete was officially opened.”

  “Asked them politely,” Greg added, quickly closing his mouth at A Look from Mrs V-H.

  “Is that it?”

  Jackie nodded. “Yes. Your instructions were very clear, Dorothy , and –”

  “Yes, all right. I get the picture.” She turned to the gang of youths. “Well?”

  They all began again simultaneously. Mrs V-H raised the whistle towards her lips and silence instantly fell on the group.

  She pointed at the nearest boy, who seemed to be the ringleader. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Winston.”

  Mrs V-H look startled. “Er well, Winston, can you speak for your friends?”

  “You know the score. It’s like Jackie said. We want a stall to put up our sh– … our stuff. We just get here and the scouts start hustling us out. We didn’t do nothin’ wrong. We been here every day on the play scheme, you know we have …”

  “Buzz nearly got himself killed by them thugs,” another interjected, only to be silenced by a raised finger from Mrs V-H.

  “And what is your, er, stuff?”

  They began unrolling banners in the cheerful warm colours of the Jamaican flag, some of them bearing smiling portraits of Bob Marley. One boy held up a ghetto blaster, a box of tapes and CDs swinging from his shoulder.

  “I tried to explain we didn’t have any spare stalls, “Jackie Brice began. “But they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “No isn’t an answer,” Winston said firmly. “No way. We came here to join in, and now you’re saying we got no rights. We live here, man. We all went to this school when we was kids. Did you?”

  “That’s not quite the point … Winston.” Mrs V-H seemed to have difficulty addressing him by his name.

  “Then what is the point?” Behind him, the others were murmuring agreement.

  “Dorothy, may I have a word with you?” It was a quiet voice. No-one had noticed Serena arriving unobtrusively on the edge of the group.

  “Not just now, Serena, I’m talking to these young men.”

  “Dorothy, just a word … please.”

  “In a minute.” Mrs V-H spoke with emphasis. “As you can see, I’m dealing with a situation here.”

  Serena raised her voice. “And you’re not dealing with it very well.”

  All sound stopped. Every eye turned first towards Serena, then to Dorothy for her reaction. It was a simple response. Her mouth opened and no words came out. Serena moved forward, took her by the elbow and walked her a few steps away, speaking to her in a whisper.

  “What are you doing, Dorothy?”

  “Doing? I’m trying to organise the summer fete so that everything runs smoothly, as my events always do.”

  “And do you have plans for unexpected eventualities, like the local community wanting to be involved in their own event?

  “Serena, there is only a limited number of stalls. Have you any idea how much effort goes in to getting all this kind of …” Her voice tailed off. “Stupid thing to say, sorry, of course you have. The summer scheme’s your work, and it’s a brilliant success. I just meant –”

  “I know what you meant, Dorothy, but the key to that success is involving a
ll the community. Come on, let’s find some space for these boys and their music.”

  They turned back to the others, but the damage had been done. The boys were gone, taking their banners, their tapes and CDs and their goodwill with them.

  “Winston,” Dorothy muttered under her breath.

  *

  A horn sounded impatiently, and Marnie knew she was in the wrong. She had gone through the lights on amber, only to find herself blocking the oncoming lanes as she tried to make a right turn. The traffic in front of her had come to an abrupt halt with the Discovery straddling the highway. She raised a hand in a feeble gesture of guilt. She could almost hear the comments from the other cars around her about women drivers – especially the four-wheel-drive brigade – and she guessed that most of them were not sitting cocooned in air-conditioned comfort like her.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured.

  Estelle opened her eyes and stared at the packed ranks of the other vehicles. “What day is it?” She sounded bewildered.

  “Sunday.”

  “Why all the traffic?”

  “That’s what they were talking about on the radio. I must admit, I never expected it to be like this.”

  “It can’t be normal.”

  Anne chimed in from behind them. “Some of the traffic may be coming this way to avoid the hold-up on the by-pass, like us.”

  “True,” Marnie agreed.

  “They said there was a heavy police presence, too,” said Estelle. “I wonder …”

  “What?”

  “Have you noticed how many cars are full? That isn’t usual.”

  She was right. And more to the point, most of them were full of men. All three sat up in their seats and studied the other cars. Marnie was able to ease the Discovery forward by a length, clearing the lanes just as the lights turned back to red. She tried not to think of the bad feeling she had generated among her fellow drivers, and concentrated instead on trying to identify potential trouble.

  “There’s a sticker in the back window of that car there,” said Anne, indicating a Mondeo ahead of them. “Some kind of slogan.”

  As they focused on it, they became aware that the four occupants were Asians. It occurred to all of them at the same time that this might be part of a backlash against the far right.