Persons of Interest: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  He said, ‘I had three experienced and competent officers with me, ma’am. It was very much a team effort. I don’t think anyone needs to be singled out, with respect.’

  ‘I’m sure that you don’t!’

  She was smiling openly at Alison Reeve, and then she turned back to Smith.

  ‘You said that there was something you wanted to raise about this morning’s briefing?’

  When he asked her to turn back slowly through the pages of her intelligence files, the ones that she had only flicked through earlier, she frowned and glanced again at DI Reeve. Sergeant Terry looked as if he would prefer to slam the laptop shut before Smith could make a grab for it.

  Freeman said, ‘I take it this is more than idle curiosity?’

  ‘Personally, I think there’s a lot to be said for idle curiosity but no, I might have seen something interesting on one of those pages, ma’am. It’s only a ‘might’ – and I might be completely wrong about it.’

  Sergeant Christopher turned the intelligent screen on again and, with a nod from Cara Freeman, he began to swipe the pages from right to left. After a dozen or so, he looked at everyone with an expression that said, shall I continue? Smith knew roughly where it must be, and waited.

  ‘OK – that’s it.’

  The page had four faces, all male. None of them were the conventional mug-shots taken in the corridors of police stations, and two at least had been photographed at long range, including the one that immediately had all of Smith’s attention. The name that had been under the image had been blocked out.

  He pointed and said, ‘Who is that?’

  DCI Freeman said, ‘I’m afraid that idle curiosity won’t get you an answer to that one,’ and Sergeant Terry looked suitably relieved; he had probably spent hours redacting all the sensitive information in these files, and now that work was being justified.

  Smith’s features froze, save for a tiny muscle that worked below the scar on the side of his face. Alison Reeve had seen the look before and knew that he would walk away rather than ask again to be told something, anything, about the man whose image was on the screen. She also knew that he would not have asked at all if it had not been potentially important.

  She said to Freeman, ‘Without giving us a name, can you tell us what his part is in the investigation?’

  ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure where the phrase comes from but – he is a person of interest. He has been a person of interest for a long time.’

  Smith said, ‘It’s American for ‘a suspect’. Ma’am.’

  There was a pause while Freeman looked hard at Smith and then at the image on the screen – she was making up her mind about one of them, and quite possibly both.

  ‘This man’s file was passed on to us at Regional long before the current operation. The previous squad had him in their sights for years. He has been questioned several times but never charged.’

  Reeve said, ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Always and only. The intelligence we have suggests that he is a major player, the sort who can keep everything at more than arm’s length. He has a large house in several acres of Essex, and I believe I’m right in saying that his children attend top-notch fee-paying schools?’

  She looked at Terry, who nodded.

  Freeman said, ‘So, Sergeant – why the interest?’

  Smith was still looking at the face on the screen. Arresting Turkish seamen was all well and good, the Albanians were only heading in one direction now and Duncan Bridges had some difficult questions to answer, but here in front of him was one of the faces of the people who really matter, the men who make millions from misery, the men who live in mansions while the users they ultimately supply sink deeper into the mire.

  He said, ‘Well, ma’am, you might ask him to account for his movements on Saturday the 23rd at around twenty one hundred hours.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was in Kings Lake, outside the public house we were keeping under observation.’

  DCI Freeman was standing so still that she might have just been painted there, and Sergeant Terry was staring at her as if she had been.

  Smith continued, ‘It’s in my report for the arrest of Katherine Diver, the private investigator that we took off the streets for her own protection. I wrote that the assault on DC Waters and her arrest were witnessed by several members of the public, one of whom kindly offered assistance. It was him.’

  He thought, if this goes on for much longer, we’re going to have to check that she’s still here with us. To move things along, he added, ‘And you were right about the money, ma’am. That was a thousand pound suit he was wearing, and he was carrying a leather briefcase. I expect he had an important meeting to get to, but he seemed very public-spirited, I have to say.’

  DCI Freeman said slowly, ‘Is there any possibility that you are mistaken, Sergeant?’

  Smith did not react to that and so she looked at Alison Reeve.

  Alison Reeve was shaking her head.

  It is always difficult, judging how much everyone should be told and what information should be restricted, made more difficult in this case, of course, because of the strong suspicions of an internal leak, but even so, Smith concluded as he sat at his desk, someone was to blame. Someone had got this one wrong. If he had seen that face at the first briefing, he might well have accepted the man’s offer of assistance, even if it was not quite in the way that the person of interest had intended it. It would have been useful to know what was in that briefcase, for example. Wilson and Dunn would have kept a record of everyone entering The Wrestlers but Smith would bet next month’s salary that this chap was not on it; he would have walked on by after seeing plain clothes policemen making an arrest outside the very pub that must have been his destination.

  If RSCU had any sense, they would not question the man about that Saturday, even though Smith had suggested it. Smith had met the type before, and there would be a plausible explanation and a convincing alibi for his presence in Lake; better to add it to the intelligence file and hope that it was the final piece in some future jig-saw. The man had some nerve though – what had he said? “Do you need any assistance, officer? I’m assuming that you are an officer...” and Smith had confirmed it for him! Oh well, he’d better warn Waters that Sergeant Terry Christopher might wish to grill him about his pavement encounter with Ms Diver, about wrestling outside The Wrestlers in front of an audience of master criminals.

  Not two minutes later, the office door opened and Waters entered. Smith looked down at his desk calendar – free to valued customers of Rampton’s Hardware Store – and frowned.

  ‘Have I lost a day or have you gained one? You’re not due back until tomorrow.’

  Waters was approaching their group of desks, and he looked quite cross – the novelty took Smith by surprise.

  ‘I thought I’d come in and see how John is for myself, rather than just watching it on the telly – and as no-one has called me about it.’

  Oh dear. This is an unfortunate consequence of building team spirit; they start worrying about each other out of hours.

  ‘He’s fine. It was just a scratch. He’s home already, making mobiles to hang over the cot I expect. If he’d died, I would have given you a ring. How’s your dad?’

  Chris Waters looked suitably aghast at the apparently callous answer but said nothing before he collapsed his six foot something into his usual chair. He didn’t look very rested for someone who had gone away for a couple of days of meditation and recuperation after a life-changing event.

  Smith said, ‘You alright? And how’s your dad?’

  ‘Yes, he’s good, sends his regards. Says the bloke he employed instead of you is useless. I met up with some old student friends in Norwich last night. Drove straight over as I’m going back to the flat, just thought I’d call in...’

  Yes, thought Smith, and you didn’t want to drive too early because you had one or two with the old mates last night, and you’re going home to catch up on some sleep rea
dy for tomorrow. Ah, youth. Still, he’s been in the office for three minutes and hasn’t mentioned Clare or the break-up.

  Smith said, ‘Alright, then. As you’re not on duty yet, I won’t give you anything to do.’

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘The big news has been the bust, obviously. Superintendent Allen expects to be nominated for a BAFTA – at least I think that’s what someone said. Anyway, the whole hostage thing has been kept right out of the local news. We ought to let Diver International Investigations know what’s happened as she did behave herself in the end. I was going to give her ring next, before I’m dragged into a meeting. I quite understand if you don’t want to but you should be safe enough on the end of a phone line.’

  Waters was already reaching for the piece of paper in front of Smith.

  ‘She helped us out – I can say that, can’t I? It’s a sort of thank you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Confucius said “Be nice to people who have already shown that they can beat you up”.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  He was carrying the paper and his phone out of the room, which wasn’t particularly noisy. Smith let him get to the door before he spoke again.

  ‘By the way – what did you decide?’

  ‘What about?’

  The boy was definitely preoccupied.

  ‘This place!’

  ‘Oh. Dad said it was a straight choice between learning the job and learning about the job. So I’ve decided to stay here at Kings Lake if there is a job. I’m going to write a letter to my sergeant tomorrow.’

  ‘I expect he can hardly wait to receive it. I expect he knows he’ll get some of the blame for someone dropping out of the programme.’

  Waters was smiling at him as he backed out of the doorway.

  Well done, Dougie Waters. Good decision.

  He didn’t know exactly what time they would begin the meeting – he had simply been told to be ready for it. The notes lay in the first drawer of the desk, and he took them out to go through them once more. The central thing, the damning thing, was the statement from Stuart Routh, which ran to three A4 sides in the end. It wasn’t clear how it had begun, who had approached whom, and Routh himself seemed genuinely uncertain about that, but where it had ended was plain enough; in return for an occasional nod or wink, Detective Sergeant Patrick Chambers had received goods in kind. Never cash, never anything that would show up in a bank statement, but a couple of nice holidays had been booked in his name, and some expensive appliances had found their way into his kitchen. And if he needed a deal on a car, there was a very obliging garage down in Marshways that always took care of any friend of Mr Routh.

  When the proposal came from London for a one-off, unbelievably lucrative transaction using Routh’s long-standing importation arrangement, yes, he had mentioned that he had the local police sorted out. He admitted to Smith how stupid that had been, trying to impress the big players. Oh good, they had said – that might be useful...

  The day after he had pulled out and told them where to go, they began taking his operation apart. When three of his street people had been stabbed, the rest refused to go out. Other members began to drift away to the opposition, not difficult to buy. His deal with the port people doubled in price overnight. A month ago, he warned the Londoners to back off because he knew too much – he told them that he had placed what he knew with a solicitor, to be revealed in the event of his untimely demise, thinking that he had been clever enough in actually doing just that, and a week later his youngest brother had been taken off the streets, along with the girl. If they had killed him, Stuart, he might have had his revenge, but no amount of revenge would have been worth Cameron’s life, and they knew that.

  Smith finished reading it all again, and then closed the file. The smart riverside flat was already empty and, he now knew, up for sale. Stuart and Malcolm Routh had put themselves into their own witness protection programme, and at the moment only Smith knew how to reach them. They were saying that they would only deal with Detective Sergeant Smith because all the others were bent, and when they told him that, Smith had to look away for a moment – if you didn’t at least smile sometimes, you’d bloody weep.

  Waters came back in and put the piece of paper on Smith’s desk. He looked puzzled.

  Smith said, ‘Did she ask for a reward? I mean, they haven’t earned a penny yet as far as I can tell.’

  ‘No. She was very reasonable, and apologized again.’

  ‘For hitting you?’

  Waters said with a sigh, ‘Yes, for hitting me.’

  ‘That’s all alright, then.’

  There was obviously something else.

  ‘In fact, DC...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She asked whether she could buy me dinner as an apology for, you know.’

  ‘Hitting you?’

  ‘And everything else.’

  ‘You said she’s already apologised. She didn’t strike me - pardon the expression - as the sort who apologises excessively.’

  It was becoming clear to Smith that Waters had not yet given the young woman an answer to her invitation to dinner. He leaned forward.

  ‘Chris, are you asking for my advice?’

  ‘Well, an opinion would be helpful.’

  ‘OK. I think I can get this into one word. The word is ‘Run’.’

  ‘Really? Is it because she’s a private, you know, that I could be professionally compromised?’

  Smith could remember her in the interview room, eyes lighting up with a strange delight at the prospect of taking him on until he had convinced her that she was lucky to be alive.

  ‘No, Chris. It’s far more serious than that. My advice has, like the universe itself, now expanded to four words – ‘Run for your life’.’

  He wouldn’t, of course. Waters would always be drawn to the most dangerous woman in the room. Why, if Waters had been a young undercover officer in Army intelligence in the worst days and nights of Belfast, it would have been him drawn to the beautiful Irish-Italian girl who had flashed her dark eyes just once at him over the shoulders of the Republicans she was with at the bar. Never mind the room, Smith thought absently; she was the most dangerous woman in all of Northern Ireland to me.

  Lunchtime, and the office had become busy again. Wilson came in and nodded to him, a nod that he returned in kind – there is nothing like confronting armed Albanians together for creating a bit of bonding. It will be Christmas cards next...

  Suddenly the conversation fell away and some of the people in the room were standing up and looking beyond Smith towards the door. He turned and saw that a very smart uniform had entered, and that the uniform was amply filled by Assistant Chief Constable Devine. A hand came out as he walked into the room, directing them all to sit and get on with what they were doing because what they were doing, the voice taking command now, was excellent work, outstanding work, and each one of them deserved the recognition that they were now receiving in the press and on the media screens. These are the moments that we work for, when the good men – and women – triumph and those that break our laws are punished... It lasted for three or four minutes, and, as far as Smith could tell, was sincerely meant. Long, long ago, ACC Devine had spent a few years in plain clothes.

  When he was done, Devine came forward towards Smith’s desk, leaned one hand on it and spoke quietly.

  ‘Hello, DC. I hope you don’t mind but as I wanted to speak to everyone anyway, I said that I’d pick you up on the way back. We’re ready to begin upstairs. Are you alright to walk out with me, or would you rather come on after a couple of minutes?’

  It was the kind of professional sensitivity that would always elude some other senior officers. All of the people in the room would already know that Chambers had been escorted from the building, that he had been suspended pending an investigation, and all of them would know the likely consequences if the man was found guilty in a court of law. Paedophiles suffer terribly in prison but it can be worse for
a policeman who has to serve time.

  ‘No, sir, it’s fine. I’ll come up now.’

  As they began the walk through the corridors, Devine was silent – nevertheless, Smith was certain that there was something to be said, that Devine had not simply collected him to save someone else the bother.

  Smith said, ‘How is your mother, sir?’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We met at Lily House a few months ago, during the investigation into the assisted suicides. She gave me some useful information. And she mentioned you, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I recall it, the case. She is well, still battling on. I won’t ask what she said about me!’

  Smith could remember it word for word, and thought this would be a really bad time to repeat it. So they walked on and reached the first flight of stairs. On the landing, with the window overlooking the car park and then Kings Lake on yet another fine day – the last, according to the forecast – Devine stopped and turned.

  He said, ‘Smith, I don’t need to tell you what an unpleasant business this will be, if it goes anywhere. I’ve no doubt that you have seen it before. I’ve also no doubt that the man in question will have friends here. It can be difficult for those of us who have to give evidence in such matters, and it can affect working relationships permanently.’

  Smith’s face showed that he had understood all that had been said but he remained silent. Somewhere downstairs and along an echoing corridor, two women were laughing.

  Devine said, ‘DCI Freeman tells me that she has discussed the possibility of recruiting you into the Regional Serious Crimes Unit.’

  One had to admire the woman’s persistence.

  ‘Yes, sir. But it was more question and answer than a discussion.’

  ‘Oh, well, if things do get difficult here, that would be a possibility, wouldn’t it? Two birds with one stone?’