It Never Goes Away

by Tom Trott

  DCI Noël “Penny” Price had moved from the Metropolitan Police to Sussex Police three years ago. Three years of knowing me, and it hadn’t taken her a week to hate me. I forget what it was we had fallen out over.

  I had never told her, of course, but she was better than most. She wasn’t bent in the traditional sense: she never planted evidence, never had a suspect worked over, and she never took money to look the other way. But she was beholden to other powers: pride, ambition, and her superiors. Three things I never had, and maybe that was why we were never going to get along.

  She was carrying a file, a laptop, and a coffee. She always wore razor sharp suits and flat shoes, and today she paired them with a sharp coat. I’ve described her before as the world’s only reluctant blonde bombshell, but like me she was out of her youth now and although she was weathering age better than I was, it had started to leave its inevitable marks.

  She put down her pieces, opened the laptop, then woke the recording device on the table. There was a loud beep as she held the button. She waited five seconds before she spoke:

  ‘DCI Price conducting interview with Joseph Grabarz, PC Wu in attendance.’

  She looked me in the eyes for the first time and leant back in her chair. ‘You’re uncharacteristically quiet.’

  I just raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Not got any one-liners?’

  I took another sip of coffee.

  ‘Why don’t you take me through your statement, Joe.’

  It was a test, an opportunity to note any minor deviances and use them against me at a later date. I kept it as similar as I could and I saw her eyes scanning across the page as I went.

  She gave a wry little smile. ‘Wow, that’s almost word for word.’

  It’s a classic intimidation technique: they either note differences and question you on them, or they make you worried it sounded rehearsed. Either way will get under a guilty person’s skin.

  I took Clarence’s office and car keys from my coat pocket and passed them over the desk. She used a pen through the ring to pick them up and deposit them onto a piece of paper.

  ‘Will you consent to officers entering your flat to obtain the clothes you were wearing last night?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we need to eliminate fibres from your clothes when cataloguing evidence from the scene. And the body.’

  I frowned, then barely nodded.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Grabarz nodded his head.’ She looked back up at me. ‘We’ll also have to keep your clothes from today. We’ll do that afterward and give you something to put on. Obviously your car has been seized, we’ll give you a receipt for it but don’t expect it back within the week. We’d also like to do some fingernail scrapings. And I noticed you seem to be looking after a friend’s disabled badge; don’t worry, we’ll be sure to return it to its rightful owner.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘So that there’s no confusion: the body has been preliminarily identified as Clarence Alderney, and preliminary evidence suggests that he was murdered. Did you know Mr Alderney?’

  ‘You know I did.’

  She didn’t react to that. ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘We’re in the same line of work.’

  She scribbled a note in the file. ‘When did you last see him? Alive.’

  ‘I don’t know. Not for months.’

  She kept writing. ‘Why did he want you to meet him?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

  She nodded, then looked up at me. ‘So why didn’t you report the body when you found it?’

  ‘I wanted to find out the reason he asked me there.’ I thought it was important to reply without hesitation.

  ‘You thought that was a greater priority than reporting a murder?’

  ‘I, or someone else, could have been in danger. Plus he wasn’t going to get any deader.’

  ‘Instead you let vital evidence be destroyed. Remind me what you do for a living?’

  I didn’t rise to it.

  She pushed a shock of blonde hair under the border of her woollen hat. It was almost as cold inside the station as it was outside.

  She finished a note and looked up. ‘When you returned and found the body missing, why didn’t you report it then?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to report.’

  ‘So you thought nothing more of it. You went home and slept until three in the afternoon, then worked on a separate case. What was that one about?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Not even in this situation?’

  I just shrugged.

  ‘We could get a court order.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  She went to speak but I raised my hands diplomatically.

  ‘I can ask my client if they’re willing to let me disclose the nature of their case. If they’re not, I’m afraid you’ll need that court order.’

  She scribbled some more notes. ‘Can you describe the axe for me?’

  ‘It was a wood-splitting axe, it looked fairly new, like something you could buy from a garden centre or B&Q.’

  ‘Metal blade?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wooden handle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She had filled a page with notes. She turned it over and kept going. ‘Do you have any idea in which direction his car was driven?’

  ‘There were tracks leading in both directions.’

  She nodded again. ‘So how do you think the body made it into your car?’

  ‘I guess they did it when they took the Mercedes.’

  ‘How did they get the boot open?’

  ‘The same way they took the Mercedes. I had both keys.’

  ‘Then I assume we’ll find your fingerprints inside the Mercedes when it’s found.’

  ‘No, I was wearing gloves.’

  She scribbled this down eagerly and I realised I had probably made a mistake. She was being unusually nice to me. ‘Did you take anything from the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you take anything from his office?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you take anything from his body?’

  ‘Only the keys.’

  ‘So why do you think they did it?’ She always started with “so” when she was trying to catch me out, it rather gave it away.

  ‘Which bit?’ I replied calmly.

  ‘Putting the body in your car, obviously.’

  I stared blankly. ‘I have no idea. Maybe they thought it would be funny.’

  She scribbled this down undeservingly, and then kept going for a couple of minutes until she had filled another side of A4.

  ‘Ok, thank you, Mr Grabarz. DCI Price, concluding the interview.’ She held her finger on the button until it beeped again. ‘PC Wu, could you please inform the desk sergeant that Mr Grabarz is ready to surrender his clothes, bring two small evidence bags, and tell the sergeant to get the team ready: Mr Grabarz is going to take us for a drive.’

  The officer disappeared in a flash.

  Price closed the file in front of her and looked me dead in the eyes. ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘You should have reported it, you know you should; and I know why you didn’t, I know you too well, sadly.’

  ‘That’s strange, I don’t feel I know you at all.’

  ‘That’s because I’m complicated. You’re simple.’

  I smiled, it was a good comeback. ‘Amaze me with your powers of psychology,’ I dared her.

  She leant forward. ‘You didn’t report it because you wanted to look into it yourself, and you were worried we’d waste so much of your time that the trail would go cold.’

  I wasn’t going to tell her she was right. ‘You know, if I’d stayed their waiting for you the killer could have killed me too when they came back.’

  ‘Or you could have seen who it was.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to take that risk, I t
ake my safety very seriously.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she nodded.

  ‘You want me to take you on the walk from the bus stop to the farmhouse? I should be able to do it blindfolded by now.’

  She ignored that and changed the subject. ‘You know, you’re lucky you got me and not the android.’

  “The android” was the nickname given to the latest senior officer to move down to Brighton’s sunnier climbs. This time from Manchester. I didn’t know his real name. His nickname had been earned up north due to his strict following of the rules, like a computer that cannot deviate from its programming. In some ways I had to admire that level of commitment; it’s the ordinary officers who think their righteous I can’t stand. A truly righteous person is someone I have never met.

  ‘What are you up to these days?’ she asked. ‘I hear you’re successful and yet we hardly ever see you. You used to be in the paper every couple of months.’

  ‘Since starting the agency I haven’t had quite so many murders and kidnappings to solve.’

  ‘Not still promoting conspiracy theories?’

  I smiled despite myself. ‘No.’

  ‘Would you mind telling some other people that? You started these “Brighton Bogeyman” rumours and I’m glad you’ve stopped, but now I hear them from everyone else.’

  ‘Police officers?’

  ‘No, not police officers, they’re not that stupid.’ She frowned. ‘But on the street every other dealer and pimp claims to work for Max just to scare off the competition. And if someone disappears, Max got them. If a stash house gets busted, Max did it. Funny thing is, they’ve heard of Max, the Society of the Twelve, all of it, but they wouldn’t have a clue who you were or how the legend got started. I’m surprised you haven’t used it to sell your services. Instead, you’re like every other private dickhead now: long lenses and entrapment.’

  I was too busy checking my nails to pay much attention. ‘It’s all about information,’ I replied.

  She sighed. ‘Yeah, well, you leave the information gathering to us on this case, ok?’

  ‘I would be lying if I wasn’t wondering why you were being so nice to me,’ I told her, ‘I was expecting to be charged with something, even if it was bullshit.’

  ‘There’s no law that says you have to report a crime. Just a basic moral duty baked into most humans.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I deadpanned.

  ‘Plus I know that when you murder someone you’re not stupid enough to leave the body in your boot.’

  PC Wu returned.

  ‘They’re ready for Mr Grabarz, but the sergeant says there’s a problem with the location.’

  Price grumbled, then told me to follow Wu. The officer led me through the grey maze to a changing room where I was left to strip and put on the grey plimsolls, grey drawstring trousers, grey baggy T-shirt, and grey jumper they gave prisoners. I was made to surrender the Tidy-smelling blanket. My clothes and shoes were then taken away to be catalogued with everything else. Next, their assigned torturer arrived to take scrapings from under my fingernails. He didn’t care that it hurt. Price found me and threw me a new blanket, they didn’t have coats for prisoners.

  She led me back down to the underground car park and into the back of one of the 4x4 BMWs they get to use on special occasions. We emerged into William Street in convoy with another BMW and a Vauxhall. It was still darkest night.

  Five in the morning is the quietest time in the city, the drunks and clubbers get home around four, and the earliest workers have only just woken up. I didn’t see a soul as I watched the silent city drift by through the window. We went round the old gardens of the Steine, past the grimy shopfronts of London Road, up past the great houses of Stanford Avenue, joining Ditchling Road at the Fiveways. From there we cruised the usual route up past the school and the golf course, over the bypass, and onto the country road. We pulled up just short of the bus stop, blocking one side of the road. CSI men jumped out of the Vauxhall and started examining the dirt by the bus stop, no doubt looking for tyre tracks. Cameras started flashing in localised lightning storms.

  Price looked over her shoulder from the passenger seat. ‘After you.’

  I climbed out into the cold with the blanket pulled tight around me. The wind froze my ankles above the plimsolls as I swang my legs over the stile. I led Price and two other detectives over the field, the frozen ground mercifully solid; through the kissing gate, which they all checked for nicked fibres before I reminded them the killer didn’t come this way; over the tilled field, through the thick grass, the copse, and onto the road at the bottom of the valley.

  As their feet hit the tarmac it seemed to stick like it was fresh. They were rooted to the spot, I was the only one with the power to move my legs.

  ‘This is as far as we’re allowed,’ the sergeant announced.

  I turned to look at Price with my eyebrows raised. She gritted her teeth.

  ‘The farm, and the road, is private property,’ she explained grudgingly, ‘we can’t perform a search without evidence of a crime. Not without the consent of the owners and so far we have been unable to reach them.’

  ‘That sucks,’ I drawled, ‘who are the owners?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Suddenly I quivered my legs. I looked down at them horrified. They looked at me with a mix of confusion, concern, and some genuine fear. My feet started to walk up the private road, pulling me with them.

  ‘What are you doing!?’ Price demanded.

  ‘It’s not me, I swear, it’s the red shoes!’

  She just frowned.

  ‘It looks like I’m about to trespass onto private property,’ I continued, ‘the only way to stop me is to chase me.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said half-heartedly, ‘come back here.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  I continued my silly acting as my feet sped up, taking me out of sight round the corner toward the house. Once out of view I walked casually again. Twenty seconds later Price caught up with me. She didn’t say anything.

  I led her to the house, and round to the garden.

  ‘That’s where I found him,’ was the only thing I said. Then I watched as she surveyed the scene, kneeling down on the ground, taking hundreds of photographs on her phone. Then she disappeared into the house, where bright white flashes winked off the broken windows as she ran from room to room. Eventually she reappeared and without even looking at me started to march back down the road. I followed close behind her.

  ‘So who are the owners?’ I asked casually.

  She didn’t turn, stop, or make a sound.

  ‘Come on, not even after what I just did for you?’

  ‘What you just did doesn’t make up for what you didn’t do last night, let alone earn you favours. I’ve just been able to look at the crime scene twenty-four hours late, without a forensics team, and when all key evidence has been destroyed.’

  I supposed she had a point so I left it alone. We returned to the officers by the road, then trekked back up to the cars. Price didn’t acknowledge my existence again, instead she barked orders in all directions, and I was driven back to my flat in the Vauxhall.

  A uniformed officer was at the wheel, a CSI woman sat in the front seat and another two were wedged in the back with me. They parked in my vacant space and rode up in the lift to my flat. The uniformed officer’s eyes bulged as he entered, he was forty going on seventy and probably lived in some pokey Southwick bungalow.

  I showed the CSI women the pile of last night’s clothes and they bagged them silently. When they disappeared out the door the officer handed them the Vauxhall key and told them he would be down in a minute. He waited until the lift doors had shut and the whir of movement could be heard, then he spoke:

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be needing anyone new at your agency anytime soon?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘For legwork, I mean. I’ve got a lot of experience.’

  I was hardly in the mood but I put on a smile. ‘We might
actually. Why don’t you give me your number, we’ll get in touch if something comes up.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great, that’s brilliant, thanks.’

  He wrote his mobile number in his notebook then tore out the page.

  I took it and waved him goodnight as the lift doors closed over his eager smile. Once my door was shut I kicked off the prison-issue plimsolls and strode over to the great glass doors that opened onto the balcony.

  Sunlight was still nowhere to be seen, but the night was slowly dying. The sea rippled and the swelling clouds seemed to reflect the waves until the illusions met on the horizon. I leant forward, hands on the glass, and stared out at the blues.

  7

  A Fistful of Salt

  The phone rang at 9:06 a.m. I ignored it. It rang again at 9:07 and 9:08. At 9:09, I answered it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe Grabarz?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Jordan Murrows.’ Local hack.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Have you seen my headline this morning?’

  ‘No, I don’t read newspapers. Who does?’

  ‘I wondered if you had any comment on the story.’

  ‘I haven’t read the story.’

  ‘Who do you think put Alderney’s body in the back seat of your car?’

  ‘It was the boot not the back seat,’ I corrected him. I regretted saying it, it was an old technique to say something wrong and get you on record correcting it, or “confirming” something as they put it in the paper. ‘What do you want?’ I barked.

  ‘I just want your comment. Do you want me to read the story to you?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I thought you might want to get ahead of things. It’s a new regime here now I’m in charge. Bill was too soft on you.’

  ‘Bill hated me.’

  ‘Bill loved to hate you. I just hate you.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I drawled. ‘What have I done to earn your hate, might I ask?’

  ‘The first time we met you were rude to me. You didn’t need to be.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I never forget.’