Persons of Interest: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  He had underestimated her again; she had read more deeply into the case than he had imagined.

  He said, ‘If I remember correctly, the alibi involved a magistrate and a vicar at the very least. It was a local planning meeting about how to develop and promote tourism in Hunston. Andretti spoke several times. I always thought that he had made a point of doing so. But he was there until almost midnight. His van was serviced the week before, so we had mileage records. He went home after the meeting – there was no way that vehicle went another twenty odd miles that night.’

  ‘Another vehicle?’

  ‘He had a car, a Rover saloon, but it was clean, not even any sand in the tyres. If he removed every grain of sand, he deserved to get away with it.’

  The break hadn’t lasted many minutes, then. He drank the last of the tea as he listened to her thinking it over. Not a sign of the blackbirds since he had sat down, though.

  Jo said, ‘It was one of the main elements of the defence, wasn’t it? They tried to use it to cast doubt on everything else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He felt tired and didn’t particularly want to go on with the story – but she was bright and she had about her that doggedness that he had seen in every good detective he had ever worked with. Sooner or later she would get there, she would see it.

  ‘You said that you thought he had made a point of speaking at the meeting. To be noticed? To get it in the public record?’

  ‘A couple of the people I spoke to said that he had never shown that much interest in local politics before.’

  ‘Which implies that he was deliberately constructing an alibi. But her body was placed there that night... How can you be certain of that?’

  He was walking slowly along the lawn towards the bushes.

  ‘That’s easy enough to remember. Those dunes are used by local nudists on certain weeks of the summer. They had had a meeting in the exact spot the afternoon before. Despite the distractions, I think they would have noticed her, the way she was found.’

  He stopped walking - for a moment the girl was sprawled there in front of him on the lawn.

  ‘Nudists? Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a big thing – if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  She was laughing down there in Cockfosters.

  He went on, ‘We had to interview them all, of course, but don’t worry – they were clothed when we did so. We didn’t ask for a full reconstruction of the day before. We just took down their particulars.’

  ‘Stop! That’s enough! I’m surprised that you aren’t at the caravan on such a lovely weekend. Is it booked out?’

  ‘No. A couple of things came up, you know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, I do...’

  Before he could even make the bet with himself, she had returned to it, had not stopped thinking it through despite his attempts to distract her for now.

  ‘But you know that he killed her, and the jury were one hundred per cent behind you. You also accept that his alibi for that night was sound.’

  Sooner rather than later, then.

  ‘Yes. Bearing in mind that he froze the bodies of course. He murdered her two or three days before she was found.’

  Silence, because it was a lot to say, however short the sentence might be in which she was about to say it.

  ‘Even so... He must have had an accomplice.’

  ‘As far as placing the last body was concerned – yes.’

  He reached in and found that the nest was cold and empty. Underneath it on the ground there were no more little corpses to be buried, and he straightened up. Three had made it, three had got away. Three out of four isn’t bad.

  ‘That isn’t mentioned in anything I’ve read so far.’

  ‘It was mentioned in the trial, briefly. The defence QC did his best to wind us up with it, asked why we hadn’t pursued it further – and we were able to show that we had, as far as was reasonable. The judge, God bless her, told him that it did not alter the de facto case against his client, and politely told him to get on with it. For some reason, the papers never ran with it.’

  ‘And you did pursue it? You tried to find his accomplice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Most people would have left it there.

  ‘Did you, find him?’

  ‘I think so. We just never found the proof.’

  ‘Let me get this absolutely straight, David. Andretti had an accomplice, and you know who it was. You have a name?’

  ‘And an address. And his shoe size. We checked tracks in the dunes but it’s impossible with sand.’

  He could picture her face, the light blue eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘I assume that you would have told me this before I actually ended the book.’

  ‘Assume nothing...’

  ‘Oh, very good. I know my ABC. Believe no-one. Check everything. But I can’t write it without mentioning this, can I?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re not, are you? It’s on the very back burner, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But this makes it much more interesting. I don’t know what to do now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it – the story’s been around for ten years, it’ll wait another one or two. Of course, if he is launching an appeal...’

  Her heard her say ‘Oh no!’ at the thought, and suggested that the best thing to do was to make herself a cup of tea, Assam, proper leaves, drunk from a china cup with matching saucer.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Smith knew that the Monday would be one of those days when he would not get out of the building once he had gone into it. He would interview Cameron Routh who, mercifully, could nod, shake his head and give short answers now that his jaw had been wired back into place, and Serena Butler had jumped at the chance to do the same with Tina Fellowes. Everything would be taped and videoed, and then reviewed periodically by senior officers before the next stage while the interviewees rested; with interlocking investigations into at least three major offences, they needed someone to go from room to room, clipboard in hand, checklist at the ready, and Sergeant Terry Christopher was in his element.

  Bridges had been arrested by two traffic officers on a back road in Hertfordshire in the small hours of the morning – not luck but technology had caught him as he headed for London. The click of a mouse can send a vehicle’s details to every police officer in the country, or rather to their computers; if that vehicle then passes through a beam of light attached to one of those computers, there are beeps and messages on screens. There had been no car chase – Bridges had gambled that it was a routine stop that early in the morning and he had lost. In one way, Bridges had his wish; he was now back in London.

  Cameron and Tina had never seen a man with tattoos during their captivity. The foreigners had turned up at the cottage every other day or so, and it was the younger one who had hit Cameron and handcuffed him when he had tried to run out, shouting for help. From time to time they had heard other men there as well, but they had not had sight of them. Most of the time, the woman was there on her own. Her name was Marta. She didn’t speak much English but had been kinder to them as the days had passed – Tina said she thought that the woman might have let them go in the end, and when he heard that Smith thought that there was no need to shatter the illusions of someone so young, someone who had been through enough already.

  In a break, Smith had wondered whether they had enough to tie Bridges to the kidnapping. It’s always better to have more in the courtroom that just the words of officers, and he would avoid using Waters’ late-night encounter with them if he could, but only if... Dunn had come into the room then, and when Smith raised the point, he was told that Wilson had got pictures of the three of them in Harper Gardens, pictures taken on his phone that were more than good enough. That was quick-thinking on Wilson’s part.

  He said to Dunn, ‘Well, Mike, my team gets smaller as the weeks pass by. Today I have one, and on Wednesday when Waters gets back it’ll be up to two – that’s if he hasn’t
decided to move on as well. I doubt if Murray will be back before the baby is born. He’s being discharged this afternoon, by the way. What I’m trying to say is, I can have another go at getting you transferred across to me if you want.’

  Dunn said thank you and looked uncomfortable. Smith took the view that they had enough to do without worrying about each other’s sensitivities, and told him to come straight out with it.

  ‘It’s absolutely nothing personal, DC, but Wilson and me have got on alright working together over the past few days. We’ve had a few laughs. He isn’t so bad when you get to know him. I’ll stick if that’s OK with you. I know you can ask anyway, and I’d understand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. You can’t put a price on being in a team that you like. And for the record, despite what people think, I reckon Wilson is a good copper in lots of ways.’

  As Dunn walked away, relieved at getting that over with, Smith thought to himself – yes, in lots of ways Wilson is, they’re just not my ways.

  Detective Constable Nigel Hinton phoned him just before lunch on Monday.

  ‘Sir? I just wanted to update you.’

  ‘Let’s say David, thus emphasizing the fact that we do not have and never have had any formal operational contact with each other in this investigation.’

  ‘What investigation is that, David?’

  ‘Exactly. OK, update me.’

  ‘There is one thing before I do, as we’re talking about names. Are you also DC Smith?’

  ‘That depends on whether money is going to change hands. I can be. Why?’

  ‘I overheard a bit of a conversation up here this morning.’

  ‘Right, well, after deleting all the expletives, what was left?’

  A superintendent in conversation with a DCI and Inspector Terek, agreeing that they could finally get on with the Littlemoor murder investigation now that lot in Norfolk had sorted themselves out. Smith’s name had been mentioned in it.

  Hinton said, ‘I guessed it had to be the same Smith but I didn’t realise who you were.’

  ‘That’s alright, Nigel. I don’t realise that myself half the time.’

  ‘No – I mean that it was you. I remember the Ice Cream Murderer thing.’

  Smith closed his eyes and stopped breathing for a few seconds – what would he give to forget the Ice Cream Murderer thing?

  ‘A long time ago now. Update me!’

  Hinton had, he admitted, panicked at first. Did the message from Billy Slater mean that Lucky Everett’s killer was soon to be discharged? He had spent an afternoon with an assistant governor of the prison, going through all the imminent discharges, cross-checking them against the list of inmates who had been of any interest in the investigation, and there had been nothing significant. Then, deciding in desperation to be completely open, he told the governor about the anonymous information that they had received and the man had said that discharges were not the only way out of the place. They looked then at the forthcoming transfers, and the name leapt out at Hinton immediately.

  ‘Aaron Bristow. He was on our long list – connections to some major dealers and a thoroughly nasty piece of work. I’m looking at him more closely this morning, and that’s why I called. I’m certain we can find links from him to some of the people involved in your drugs bust. A biggie, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Apparently. I’m always the last to know the details.’

  ‘One of your lot is on the news this morning, talking about taking the fight to the drugs barons.’

  ‘Let me guess – sharp suit, gold-rimmed glasses, thin on top, making at least three sincere glances into the camera.’

  ‘Of course you’ll know who it is!’

  ‘No, been told nothing, haven’t seen it. But I know who it is. Where’s your suspect now?’

  ‘His transfer has been deferred, and inexplicably he’s ended up in solitary. He isn’t going anywhere. I’ve told Terek that we should leave him there to sweat for a couple of days. Anyway, I’ve just given a load of good stuff to Inspector Terek, and I’m calling to say thanks. At the moment he thinks I can walk on water.’

  Charlie Hills came into the office, caught Smith’s eye and then began chatting to Serena Butler while he waited. Smith asked Hinton for more details of his elevation to the sainthood.

  ‘Oh, well, he even asked me this morning why I’d never taken the sergeant’s exam.’

  ‘Very flattering. I assume you’re not intending to but what was the answer?’

  ‘In my experience, most sergeants are bastards.’

  ‘I have to agree there, Nigel. And what does that say about the inspectors that most of them become?’

  ‘I don’t reckon Inspector Terek was thinking that far ahead, but it was nice to be asked. Thanks again for your help with this, DC, and if I can ever return the favour...’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’m just relieved to no longer be a focus of the investigation. Take care, let me know how it goes.’

  When he ended the call and looked up at Charlie Hills, it was clear that whatever it was could not be discussed in the office – too many eyes and ears. He followed Charlie out into the corridor.

  ‘Go on, Charlie.’

  ‘Patrick Chambers has just been escorted from the building.’

  Smith raised an eyebrow in a gesture of surprise that was never going to convince a desk sergeant of Charlie’s long experience.

  ‘I just wondered whether you knew anything about it.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  That was enough. Smith didn’t ‘do’ politics or gossip and so if he wasn’t saying anything it would be for sound reasons – such as not wanting to burden any more people than absolutely necessary with what he did know, especially if it was toxic.

  Charlie said, ‘Fair enough. But it’s funny... Might not be related to anything but two years ago, when there was that investigation into ringing the luxury cars and my boy gave a statement saying his garage had been approached, well, he met Chambers. He said something to me at the time – that he thought the interview could have gone in a whole different direction, if you know what I mean. My lad didn’t trust him.’

  ‘Charlie, you know about internal investigations. If that’s what is going on, and I do say ‘if’, then they’ll go back further than that. Your lad might be interviewed again, yet. It’s up to you whether you want to mention it to him.’

  And again Charlie understood what had just been implied. He told Smith then, about the beer that he and Harry Alexander had enjoyed yesterday evening, catching up on the good old days. It was nice of him, Charlie said, to come down and apologise for being so busy on that first day, and making up for it by suggesting that the three of them go out.

  ‘We called you,’ Charlie said, ‘yesterday afternoon, a couple of times but you were engaged. I hope it wasn’t work that had you so tied up.’

  Jo Evison’s phone call that had gone on for much longer than he had realized at the time; he smiled and told Charlie that it wasn’t all work, that there had been a little play involved somewhere.

  The Tuesday morning began with the debriefing of the raids on the good ship Pacific Star, along with a couple of Kings Lake addresses, and others scattered across the south-east of England. DCI Freeman stood at the front of the room – which contained almost as many bodies as it had just eight days ago when she had first gathered them together – but now she seemed much more relaxed about the whole business. As well you might, Smith thought; street values are always exaggerated but if it was any near the two hundred million pounds’ worth of cocaine that the news was reporting, it was one of the largest ever in the UK, and that made it just about the largest feather that you, Cara Freeman, could have put into your own cap. Harry Alexander was elsewhere this morning but that hardly mattered – the name of the DCI who had helped to manage such an operation would already be floating around in the stratosphere.

  It was all on the big screen, controlled from her laptop, with Sergeant Christopher at hand, his fingers expert
ly poised over a second mouse, ready to come to her assistance should hardware or software fail her, but they did not. She flicked back and forth through the pages that were screens, glancing only occasionally at her notes as she summarized the various elements of the operation; she mentioned the rescuing of the hostages, and Smith was aware of one or two heads turning in his direction, saying how effectively everyone at Kings Lake Central had worked during the difficult circumstances on Sunday afternoon. Then she moved on to the main course, the detention of the Pacific Star and its crew – most of whom turned out to be Turkish – outside the port at 15.35 hours on... More pages skipped over, glimpses of lists of objectives, timelines, dates, faces, vehicle information, maps, much of which they had not seen before and were not going to see properly now. Smith thought, the general public has no comprehension of just how much intelligence-gathering goes into the operations they see reported on the six o’clock news in about forty seconds, the weeks and months of –

  Faces. Was it? It was impossible to be certain, but... He wanted to call out stop, go back a bit. He would look daft but that was not what prevented him – why break the habit of a lifetime? No – there might conceivably still be operational reasons why it should not be mentioned now in a room of more than thirty officers. But it had to be mentioned – he had to see that page again, and soon. The second half of this de-briefing was going to go even more slowly than the first.

  ‘I was in the communications room with DI Reeve on Sunday afternoon. I have to say that what was happening at the other end was very impressive.’

  Cara Freeman expected him to say something in response.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Sergeant Terry Christopher seemed to wince a little at this rather skimpy reply, but Alison Reeve was happy enough with it. The four of them stood at the front of the incident room, the briefing over at last.

  DCI Freeman said, ‘You think very clearly under pressure, Sergeant Smith.’

  He wondered whether she would have liked to add ‘For an old man’ but knew that was being a little unkind to her; when people had done well, he made a point of telling them so – he was simply more comfortable doing that than receiving it himself. And everything is relative. When you’ve had a pistol held to your temple and heard the hammer cock, it affects forever your understanding of ‘pressure’.