Persons of Interest: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  Waters looked back at Smith, reached inside his jacket for the little notebook that seemed to have recently replaced the mobile for this purpose and wrote down the registration number. He recognized the silence that followed and did not disturb it – it was the sound of Smith getting interested.

  ‘Right, let’s do a quick audit. We came here to see Lucky’s sister because he had about his person - though not literally - the out-of-date phone number of an out-of-date Kings Lake copper, and she happens to live in Kings Lake. She says that she has had no recent contact with her brother and has no idea about why anyone might have attacked him but you and I both picked up on two things – one, she thought we were here about something else and almost let it slip, and two, there is some sort of other family business going on. While we are sitting here thinking about all that, a young lady turns up and goes into the house – a young lady who looks as if she could be asking directions for the Cannes Film Festival but almost certainly isn’t. And as you rightly observed, it’s probably not the first time that these two have met. However, our starlet drove past first time and then came back looking for the address – so where were the earlier meetings?’

  Waters said, ‘Do you want me to run the number now? I can call the station while we wait here.’

  ‘No. Let’s clear off before Mrs Fellowes notices us, if she hasn’t already. We’ve got a few more pubs and cafes to tick off before the meeting tomorrow afternoon, and we’re busy tomorrow morning, just in case you’d forgotten.’

  He hadn’t but the reminder set his stomach turning over – the two of them had been asked to attend the Crown Court where Gloria Butterfield QC would complete her mitigation in the trial of Petar Subic. It was likely that Smith would be asked to make a statement – it was possible that Waters too would be asked to speak in the open court for the first time in his career. Even though he would only be expected to give a factual account of the arrest, the thought was terrifying.

  Smith was driving now.

  ‘So, we’ll do a few places this afternoon and maybe get back to the station in time to start following up on the Roydon Hill mystery – if not, tomorrow will do, as it’s not actually a part of anything we’re supposed to be doing. Then you can meet me tonight for some overtime and we’ll visit yet more sites of great salubriousness, and sit in the car and talk about life and that... What’s up? You’ve gone all quiet again. Just remember, when we’re outside the courtroom and the hordes of paparazzi want our pictures, show them your good side. I’d say it’s the right but I can take a few on my phone if you like, just for practice.’

  Chapter Ten

  Waters had not seen the sign that had apparently passed between the judge and Gloria Butterfield but Smith assured him that it had been there – not a nod or a wink, just a look, Smith said. Whatever that look had looked like, it meant that he, the judge, had heard enough, that no more of the court’s costly time needed to be spent on this particular phase of the proceedings, and that Waters’ potential contribution would remain forever only that. He was hugely relieved and slightly disappointed.

  Petar Subic had stood up when the judge began his summary, even though his honour had begun by saying that the sentence would not be given until the afternoon – Subic stood up and nobody told him to sit down. He seemed to be even taller and more impressively built than when he entered the prison on remand almost ten months ago – much time must have been spent in the gymnasium as well as on the English lessons that Mrs Butterfield had mentioned. The cast that had been on his arm during the early court appearances had long since been removed, and now he stood facing the judge, listening intently and sometimes nodding in agreement as the judge made a succession of points about his involvement in the tragic death of Wayne Fletcher.

  The Subic family were in the public gallery; Waters recognized Mirsad and his wife, and their daughter Hanna wearing a dress for the first time, as if nothing had been disregarded that might influence the sentence to be given by an old English judge in the famously fair English legal system, and beyond them were other family members that Waters had never seen before. The girl took her eyes from Petar only to glance occasionally at the judge – for her, Waters thought, there are only three people in the room: Petar, herself and the man who is about to decide their destiny. Whatever that destiny is, Petar Subic is a lucky man.

  Wayne Fletcher’s own relatives sat a few feet away from the Subics, and with them were Melanie Carter and Steven Neale - the two students had caught Waters’ eye more than once in the morning, not with smiles or nods or giggles, but with simple acknowledgements. They were, he reminded himself, still at school but no longer young – sudden death had seen to that. He remembered then a comment of Smith’s at the time, that the ripples from such an event grow smaller with the passing of time, that they might even seem to become invisible but they never actually come to an end in the lives of those that knew the victim.

  Smith had spoken clearly. His account of the arrest and the subsequent interviews had been factual but had conveyed too the impression that Petar Subic had been the most cooperative and contrite of suspects – he had even corrected himself and said that ‘suspect’ was hardly the appropriate word because as soon as he was in custody, Subic had confessed all. At the end, the judge had thanked Smith and pointed out to the court that the words of such an experienced officer would carry weight in his own considerations. Hanna Subic had smiled at that, and then the judge had said, “However...”

  Waters looked around the courtroom as the judge began to speak. This was how it ended when one had been successful – a roomful of people facing one way, and a single individual facing the other, them in silence, waiting, him or her speaking words that are weighed down with authority, words made heavy by centuries of history and precedent. The hours, weeks and months of investigation, the notes, the meetings, the knocking on doors, the waiting in cars, the getting punched on the nose, the having guns waved in your face – all of that comes down to this if you have in the end been successful. It was difficult to make sense of it at times.

  ‘... I will take note, too, of Mr Subic’s subsequent demeanour during his time in custody and his lengthy period on remand. He seems to have taken every opportunity to better himself, and in that, sadly, he is indeed an exception. I also acknowledge his statement that he wishes to return as soon as possible to his native country, and that he is willing to serve the remainder of any custodial sentence there – this is a welcome change from what I usually hear in these situations. That he has potential as an athlete I have no doubt, and I accept that the Croatian rowing federation do have a genuine interest in him. Mr Subic has many supporters. Nevertheless, the meeting of those two young men on the afternoon of the 24th of August last year had tragic consequences for one of them. It was, we can say, simply fate that they happened to meet there, a coincidence that was itself tragic...’

  Waters saw the look from Smith towards Gloria Butterfield but her expression of professional boredom never altered – there had been not a mention in the courtroom of what Petar Subic’s purpose had been as he paddled the canoe upriver towards the Manley Park estate, not a mention of the involvement of any security service in the pursuit of the man. Had a deal been done? Waters understood enough by now to know that nothing so crude was necessary – it had simply been understood that if the defence behaved itself, the establishment would acknowledge that in its decisions.

  ‘... to be accepted that a custodial sentence of some description is inevitable. This court is now adjourned until this afternoon, when I will give my final summation and pass sentence.’

  In the foyer, Gloria Butterfield came across and thanked them for attending – she made a point of addressing Waters by name and rank to show that she had not forgotten him. She seemed in good spirits, unperturbed by the judge’s last words which clearly implied that Peter Subic was facing more time in prison, but then, he thought, her work is done, whatever the result; tomorrow she will be in a different courtroom with a d
ifferent defendant but with the identical professional distance between them.

  Her final words to Smith were, ‘My junior will let you know the result. An interesting case – keep them coming. Let’s hope we’re on more opposite sides next time!’

  Smith smiled until she was out of hearing and then said quietly to Waters, ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘What will he get?’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to the airport this afternoon, that much was obvious, and I didn’t think he would be. The judge will have guidelines and he’ll already know of precedent sentences but I doubt that there are many of them. It’s very much up to him – he could go up to three or four years, I suppose, even though he accepted that the death itself was accidental. He didn’t like the idea that the body went back into the water... They’re not keen on things like that. On the other hand, he won’t want Lady Butterfield launching an appeal, will he?’

  Mirsad Subic was approaching, and Smith turned to face him.

  ‘Sergeant Smith, I come on behalf of my family to thank you again. That terrible night it could have ended so differently. You have our gratitude forever.’

  They spoke for a minute or two, and Waters listened and watched. Smith immediately asked questions about their plans, the young people, and exactly what the rowing federation had said, and Subic was happy to explain; Smith had achieved his aim once again - he was out of the spotlight of their everlasting gratitude.

  ‘So, sergeant, if ever I can be of assistance, you must contact me.’

  They shook hands but before Smith had let go, he had asked his question.

  ‘It just so happens, Mr Subic, that I do have one thing I wanted to ask you. How much do you know about Albania?’

  Quite a lot, was the answer. Albania has a fully functioning, free health care system, a relic from its days as a socialist republic; the literacy level for school leavers is above that of the United Kingdom and it retains some of the finest unspoiled natural landscapes and forests in eastern Europe. It has a thriving service economy and wishes to join the European Community. ‘But none of these things are helpful to you, sergeant, because you want to know about gangs, yes?’

  Smith was unabashed and said yes to that.

  The higher than expected rate of murders, said Subic, is probably related to the old notion of the blood feud which persists throughout the Balkan countries but strongly so in Albania. Honour matters more than life, especially in the traditional rural communities – when that is combined with a willingness to break the law, there will be conflicts between loyalty to one’s family and village and the demands of the modern autonomous state. And, of course, like all these countries, Albania has a complicated history with many racial, cultural and religious tensions – fortunately, in this case, Subic said with a smile, Great Britain could not be held responsible for much of it.

  It was a five minute lecture and took Waters back for a moment to the university that he had left a little less than a year ago. That hardly seemed possible – surely it was at least another life-time? Smith was listening, nodding and sifting through what they were being told for anything that might relate to what they had discovered this week in Kings Lake. Was there an expatriate Albanian community in Lake? Mirsad Subic said that he was not aware of one. The media talks about Albanian criminal gangs coming to Britain – what would motivate them to do such a thing? Subic thought a little before he answered – this required speculation and he was a lawyer, a man more comfortable with facts.

  ‘Albania is a small country, in terms of its population. Like any business, perhaps they wish to expand... And England is seen as a soft touch, I’m afraid. Also, lots of people here want and can afford the products and services they wish to supply. I am sure that I do not need to go into detail for you, sergeant. But if there is anyone you would like me to talk to, I will do so.’

  As they walked back to the car, Smith said, ‘It’s a marvellous thing, isn’t it, this free exchange of people and ideas. I suppose some of our lot are going over to eastern Europe and expanding their own operations, and we just never get to hear about it. I hope so. I wouldn’t like to think that this is all one way.’

  There was a note on Smith’s desk, telling him that Charlie Hills had been up looking for him earlier in the morning. Smith thought about going back down to reception but he had only just climbed the stairs and his knee was aching. He picked up the internal phone.

  ‘Hills intelligence services.’

  ‘You can’t be very busy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You answered the phone straight away. And hills aren’t very intelligent – there can’t be a lot to find out. I think this is a con-trick.’

  ‘Maybe. But you seem to keep falling for it, the number of times I’m finding out stuff for you. Can I go now?’

  ‘No. What have you found out for me today?’

  Smith could hear the rustling of paper.

  ‘I spoke to John Cunningham. He kept saying that he didn’t have the hard numbers, so I said that soft ones would do, even though I didn’t really know what he was on about. But the number of finds of weed and associated delights during routine stops has just about halved in the past six months. They are very happy about this, and when I told him who was asking, he said to tell you not to go and - how can I put this politely? He said in colourful terms that that curious small man of questionable parentage better not go poking around de-stabilising the aquatic craft. But I think he still likes you, really.’

  ‘Halved in six months? And they don’t know why?’

  ‘Of course they do – it’s more effective policing.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. Don’t forget to let the phone ring a few times. And play a recording of a busy office in the background. If you want to get on in life, these are the little dodges that will get you there.’

  He put the phone down and looked around. There was no sign of Murray and Butler but he had no need to worry on that score, and if Serena was still complaining about this all being a waste of time, she would also be wasting her own breath – John Murray would say little, wait until she had shut up and then move on to the next place. Waters was busy at the screen – if the telephone conversation with Charlie had taken five minutes, there should be some sort of result any moment now. D I Reeve was... well, he didn’t know. It wasn’t really clear what the ranks above sergeant were doing while all this street pounding was going on. Smith had the impression that there were even more meetings than usual but with whom or what about he had no idea. Albanian diplomatic staff, maybe? She had said that they would be told something tomorrow, after the teams had been out for a couple of days.

  He needed to find Mike Dunn and have a word about Jack Fellowes. A glance at his email showed nothing further from Nigel Hinton, and Smith guessed that the Huntingdon detective had acted quite independently of his seniors in sending the information about Lionel Everett. Smith shook his head and tutted to himself – he really could not approve of that sort of behaviour.

  When he looked around again, Waters saw him and raised his hand like an eager-to-please pupil, his eyes immediately going back to the screen.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was a Ferrari 360 3.6 Litre Modena F1.’

  ‘Is that the one with the semi-automatic gearbox?’

  Waters peered more closely at the screen and then began typing again. Smith stared for a moment, briefly rested his head on one hand, eyes closed, elbow on desk, and then pulled himself together.

  ‘Actually Chris, that bit can wait until later. Any news on the owner?’

  ‘Something or someone called Strand Classics.’

  ‘Right, that’s a high-end dealership out on the Peterborough road. Possibilities?’

  ‘She works there?’

  ‘Or?’

  Waters thought a little longer – Smith always seemed to find additional ‘possibilities’, however thoroughly one examined a situation.

  ‘She might own it, the dealership. I mean, if you did
own something like that you’d drive the cars around, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Or she had just nicked it and it hadn’t been reported yet. Or she was test driving it. Or she has bought it but the paperwork hasn’t gone through yet. Those will do for starters. Give them a ring and find out where the car was yesterday and who had the keys. They don’t have to tell you that over the phone, and with their stock list and client list, they might decide not to – in which case you’ll have to go over there and wave your ID about.’

  ‘On my own?’

  ‘Well, your ID isn’t that heavy, is it? It doesn’t need two pairs of hands. The one thing I don’t want you to do is interview her without me there if she does happen to be about – I’d like to hear what she has to say myself.’

  He left Waters making notes prior to the phone call, just as he would have done himself thirty years ago. They were the only two people in the room. Everyone else was out on the street corners or watching for the usual suspects in the usual locations, which was exactly what they were supposed to be doing – if Reeve or Allen came in, he would need to have a story ready. But most of the usual suspects seemed to have disappeared from most of the usual locations. Had anyone else apart from John Murray and himself noticed that yet?

  A look at his watch told him that the afternoon was moving on – the judge ought to be back and at it by now. Policemen usually have strong views about the sentence that the criminals they have caught should be given but in Petar Subic’s case Smith had very mixed feelings. It had, after all, been an accidental death in which, ironically, drugs had played a part; if Wayne Fletcher had not smoked cannabis before going into the river, would the outcome have been different? Just how much had his own behaviour contributed to his own death, then? Drugs, he thought, seem to have become a rite of passage, a part of growing up – except that, for some, they mean that you don’t get to grow up. It isn’t many, and the legalisers might argue that it isn’t statistically significant, but they don’t have to knock on the doors with the news, do they?