Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “How was the additional three months’ rent paid?” asked Jo.

  “By bank transfer this time,” Alan replied. “I was out of the country, of course, so a cheque was no good to me. I sent her my account details and she arranged the transfer. No problem.”

  “I will need to check these transactions just to get details of her bank, account number, etcetera,” said David. “I’ll need your permission to do that. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alan. “Look, I know you probably can’t tell me much, but is Mrs Coleridge’s death suspicious or what? I heard it was definitely suicide. Has something new turned up?”

  “No, nothing like that, Mr Venables – Alan,” said David, “it’s just that we have her on our records as Mrs Deverall. But we now know that her maiden name was Coleridge, so we’re just tying up loose ends. By the way, how did you find out about her death?”

  “I phoned on the day that she was due to leave just to wish her luck and to thank her for being a good tenant, and this Anderson guy answered the phone and told me what had happened. By the time I got back everything was taken care of. It was a bit spooky to tell you the truth. There was no evidence of anyone ever being there.”

  “And the man who set all this up, can you describe him?”

  Alan thought for a moment.

  “Tall, slim, dark hair, good-looking guy, actually. Well spoken, good clothes… the sort you don’t mind doing business with, even if he gently gets one over on you.” He smiled.

  David stood up, extending his hand.

  “Thank you very much, Alan. You’ve been extremely helpful. We’ll let ourselves out downstairs.”

  They reached the entrance foyer.

  “How did you get here?” asked David.

  “Rob dropped me off.”

  “Good, we can get straight back to Parkside, then, and go through… Jo?”

  Jo was staring at a large vase of flowers on a table beside the door.

  “Alma Deverall died nearly five weeks ago, right, and was buried three days later? But those flowers on the grave were fresh; can’t have been there more than couple of days. So somebody just might be visiting the grave on a regular basis.”

  “And the only person at the funeral was Mr Anderson,” said David. “God, talk about the bleeding obvious. I’ll drive, you get on to Rob.”

  Tom Brown’s second trip to the estate only served to reinforce his first impression – that the community had been socially regenerated by a simple act of violence carried out, it seemed, by a single person; the ‘Pied Piper’, as one resident called him – getting rid of the rats so the townsfolk could come out to play.

  His visit, however, was soon interrupted by the appearance of the local press who had obviously been alerted to his presence. It was still low key, but not what he wanted.

  “Why are you here again, Mr Brown? Are you still sticking by what you said on your last visit?” Tom recognised Tony Dobson, a local reporter whose ambition to date had comfortably out-stripped his integrity. The reporter was in his late twenties, medium height and slim. He was good-looking with strong features, spoiled somewhat by their always displaying a look of either cynicism or outright disbelief.

  “And what exactly do you think I said on my last visit?” Tom pushed back, aware that a different word used could be extrapolated into a different message.

  “You said that you empathised with the residents in their support of the man who carried out the killings.”

  “I think you are misquoting me in the interests of controversy – again – Mr Dobson,” he replied, aware that he was surrounded by people who were just as interested in his responses as was the reporter. “However, to answer your first question, I am here to talk to my constituents about any issue they would like to discuss. There is more than one thing going on in the world, you know.”

  “And my second question?”

  “Just remind me what it was again,” asked Tom, playing for time.

  “Are you still sticking by… ?”

  “Oh yes. Let me say this slowly, Mr Dobson, so there’s no confusion this time. I am aware that these good people feel a sense of relief at the removal of a threat to their security and safety. I fully understand this and definitely do empathise with that feeling.” He looked round, beaming at the crowd. “Never have I seen such a sea of smiling faces and I am realistic enough to know that the appearance of their Member of Parliament is not going to create that sort of effect.”

  He was rewarded with laughter all round, and one elderly lady shouted, “You can come round and appear to me any time, Tom,” generating further laughter.

  “Now you all heard her say that, didn’t you?” Tom addressed the crowd in general, feeding off the positive atmosphere, and clearly annoying Tony Dobson. More laughter. “What’s your name, my dear, so I can find out where you live?”

  “Annie Berryman,” the lady replied, “and you don’t need to find out, I’ll write down my address for you.”

  There were whistles, whoops and laughter from the crowd. Tom laughed along with them, then gradually raised his hands, appealing for silence.

  “But there is a serious issue here. If we condone the act which removed this threat then we substitute one problem with another. In fact we would get the same problem back with different faces – and we would deserve to.”

  His audience was now hushed, but still positive, evidenced by the nodding of heads throughout the crowd. He addressed the reporter personally, a spontaneous reconciliation borne out of the general good feeling he was getting as feedback.

  “It’s a delicate point, Tony,” he said, the reporter nodding in response to the use of his first name. “On the one hand, you cannot but feel happy for the people whose lives have been turned around by what has happened. But on the other hand, we must condemn the act itself. The challenge that we face, as your elected representatives, is to create this same effect, but within the boundaries of law and order. And we need to do something different from what we are doing now to bring that about.” Still looking at the reporter, he added, “Thank you for your questions, Tony.”

  This brief impromptu speech drew applause all round, including from the reporter himself, who raised his hands above his head to ensure Tom could be seen him clapping along with the rest.

  Tom checked his watch, saw that it was 4.30 and remembered his meeting with Grace. He walked back to the library car park, where they had left their vehicle, followed by his two security attendants and a small group who had dogged his every step since he arrived. His final calling point was the library itself, where he chatted and joked with a couple of the librarians and a few customers. As he turned to leave he saw the notice.

  “Justice or Law,” he read aloud, and then went on to read the details of the proposed meeting.

  “Have you got a copy of this?” he asked the librarian.

  “I can take a copy for you,” she replied, removing it from its blue-tack support and rushing across to the photocopier as if concerned that he might change his mind.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the copy and bestowing on her his biggest smile of the day. “Goodbye, everyone.”

  Grace was working in her office when he got back. Hers was an exact mirror image of his own – same size, same desk and tilt-and-swivel, same arrangement of chairs and cabinets, and the same two windows at right-angles to each other on the outside walls. The rest of the staff had left for the day, and she had kicked off her shoes and draped her jacket round the back of one of the wing chairs facing out over the rear garden.

  “We won’t share our preparation schedule with Andrew,” he said. “He wants me to soft-pedal for the time being, pending the outcome of the investigation. The problem is, with the election in less than eighteen months, we don’t have any time to spare in getting something radical onto the agenda and into people’s minds.”

  “I hope you’re not intending to use the word ‘radical’ to describe this, especially with the general publi
c. I think that might be unwise. And you would expect Andrew to be a bit cautious at this stage, wouldn’t you? After all, if it turns out this has been a contract killing by another gang who are just waiting to move in, ‘Cullen Field – Dream Haven’ could be a very short-lived phenomenon.”

  “Why do I always feel that you’re telling me off, Grace?” said Tom.

  “I’m just offering a few words of caution – all well-intended, as always. You’re the boss; you don’t have to take any notice of them,” she replied.

  He showed her the notice about the debate.

  “This is really good timing,” he said, “because it gives us a chance to quantify people’s views using this group as a sample. It would certainly be useful to pick up the sort of words they are using so we can build on those. I thought I might get a couple of the guys to dig around a bit and try to find out how many are likely to be going, and from where. I mean whether it’s just the villagers or if many from the estate are planning to attend.”

  “How will we find out?” asked Grace.

  “Well, at the library they had a list next to the notice for people to sign if they intend to go – it had quite a lot of names on already. I assume there are other notices around the estate, and if they have the same arrangement we could get a good idea.”

  “To what end, exactly?”

  “Well, I had considered going along myself if it was worth it,” he offered. “I mean if there was a big enough attendance… ”

  “I’m not sure that’s a very good idea,” said Grace. “For a start… ”

  “Good,” he interrupted, “because having considered it, I decided against it. But I do think someone should go. What are you doing next Wednesday, Grace?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” said Tom, “about somebody going anyway. I thought you would be lower profile than me.”

  “Don’t forget I did the first tour with you,” she said. “Talking to residents, picture in paper and all that. I know I’m not in your celebrity league, but someone might recognise me.”

  “I’m sure they will, Grace. You’re a very memorable presence, but would that matter? Anyway, I’m sure you could wear some sort of disguise,” he said, with a very wide smile this time.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “I’ve got a canary suit at home I once wore at a hen party. I could go in that.”

  “You went to a hen party in a canary suit?” exclaimed Tom.

  “It was many years ago,” said Grace, seeming to regret that she had shared such a personal secret with him. “If you think I should go, then I will, of course,” she added, getting quickly back to business.

  “That’s not how it works, Grace, and you know it. I’m asking you if you think it’s a good idea and whether you feel okay about going. You don’t have to do it. I won’t sulk if you don’t.”

  “No, that should be okay,” she said. “Bet it’s a real eye-opener, in fact.”

  “Which is exactly the reason for going,” he said. “Settled then. Thanks, Grace.” He looked at his watch. “Right. Chairing a meeting in exactly one hour at local council office. That just gives me time to boil an egg and change into my chairing-a-council-meeting suit – no tie tonight, I think – decisions, decisions! – then Westminster Ho! tomorrow, for a full day preparing for the Inner City budget fiasco. Christ, it was so much more relaxing in the Marines.”

  It took David and Jo less than ten minutes to get from Darlington Road to the cemetery. Even so, by the time they arrived the site had been cleared and restored with only the senior officer remaining to check with them about when they might be recalled.

  “Not sure yet, Rob,” said Jo. “Could be a day, a week, who knows?”

  “Well, from our point of view – I don’t have to say it, but I will – the sooner the better.”

  “Understood,” she said, “and thanks for a great job.” She looked around the site; there was absolutely no sign that the SOCOs had been there at all.

  David checked his watch. “Omar should be setting off about now with our lot for the surveillance team. Firearms should get here about the same time. We’ll do the briefing away from the buildings so we don’t attract attention. Then we should be able to get the first shift started within a couple of hours. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to speak to Mr Croft. I understand he looks a bit like Brad Pitt.”

  “I’ll get on it right away,” said Jo.

  Jeremy Croft, the site manager, turned out to be a couple of inches shorter than Jo, very thin and with wispy grey hair combed straight back and stuck to his head with some sort of gel. Jo guessed he was in his mid-fifties. He was eager to help and his bright eyes showed rapt attention as they sat in his office while Jo explained their presence.

  “We’ve received a tip-off, Mr Croft,” she lied, “about a serial vandal in this area who is targeting graveyards. There seems to be a pattern which would put yours as the likely next site for his attention.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mr Croft, “I’m surprised I haven’t heard about it at the area meetings. How strange no-one mentioned it… ”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you can ask why at the next meeting. In the meantime, we would like to set up a round-the-clock watch. Is there anywhere you could accommodate two officers without them getting in your way and attracting too much attention?”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Well, there’s an office we could free up, I suppose. Let me show you.”

  They walked back to the foyer and he indicated a small room off it close to the outer door.

  “This would be perfect, Mr Croft,” said Jo. “Thank you, so much. We’ll try not to be a nuisance.”

  She would do Mr Croft the courtesy of telling him the truth at a later date, she decided, when it was all over. For the time being it was better for him to have a much less alarming explanation for his staff as to why the building was to be occupied by police until further notice.

  “On our way, sir. ETA in fifty minutes.”

  Omar Shakhir spoke into the hands-free from the unmarked police car.

  “Good who have we got?” asked David.

  “Baxter, Drury, Wheeler and, last but not least… ”

  “Yes, thank you DC Shakhir. Stop trying to build up your part. See you soon.”

  Twenty people stood round a grave in the corner of the cemetery grounds furthest away from the chapel buildings, heads bowed like a group of mourners. They comprised David and Jo, the four detective constables from Parkside, and fourteen officers from the Special Firearms Unit.

  “So, briefly, one last time,” said David. “Two teams of nine each working twelve hour shifts. Each team comprising two DCs stationed in the chapel, working as spotters; and seven SFOs in two vehicles, one on the main road near the gates and one on the street down the side of the grounds. We’ve got the length of railing removed, Jo?”

  “Yes, sir, and tape across the gap to look like it’s in the process of being replaced. We might have to rethink that if it goes on any length of time.”

  “Okay. That’s for cemetery working hours, of course. I’ll leave you to decide if you want to move one or more SFOs into the chapel after the staff leave. And remember – as if you wouldn’t – if this is the guy we’re looking for, based on what he did, he’s extremely dangerous. No heroics, please. Any questions?”

  No one had.

  “Another thing, and this is for the DCs. Remember, you are here as spotters only and in the event of a strike, you stay out of sight until the suspect is immobilised. Understood? I’m looking at you, Calamity Jane,” he said, addressing DC Baxter. “You do understand the expression ‘no heroics’ I assume?”

  “Sure do, Sheriff,” said Catherine, making everyone laugh and easing the tension. David smiled and continued.

  “You will, of course, need to exercise maximum discretion if he turns up in daylight when there are a lot of people around. In that situation the on-site pair in the chapel will need to advise the unit of the situation and let them decide
. Needless to say, optimum caution. Police Complaints have enough work to be going on with already.”

  The first surveillance shift was in place by 6.00 pm. The office – from which two DCs would maintain their watch – was perfectly sited so that both the headstone and the cemetery gates, which were permanently open, were clearly visible. The entrance to the cemetery was from a semi-residential road which also hosted a few restaurants and small bars, and which had been widened to incorporate parking spaces for both residents and customers. The Chapel of Rest and other buildings formed a small complex about fifty yards inside the gates at the end of a gravel drive.

  Detective Constables Catherine Baxter and Geoff Drury settled to wait. They knew this could be a complete waste of time; and, even if it wasn’t, it could be days or weeks before the man might show again. Or they could be very lucky…

  The Dog and Duck public house dated back to when Meadow Village was first established over 250 years ago. The double front doors opened directly into the main bar which was the extent of the original hostelry. Since then it had been tastefully and aesthetically extended, with the addition of a smaller bar at the rear and a large dining room to the right. The main bar now incorporated a ‘snug’ which was generally kept empty for meetings and small parties and which Jed Smithers, the landlord, referred to grandly as his Corporate Entertaining Suite. There were open fireplaces in both bars and the dining room and the place retained its late eighteenth century feel throughout.

  That evening the main bar was buzzing with anticipation.

  “Much better than no interest at all,” said George. “Just run through the list again, Fred, slowly this time so we can actually absorb it.”

  Fred sighed and read from the sheet in front of him. He was unusually tall for someone in his mid-seventies, slim and upright and strikingly handsome in his way. He was a great favourite within the group, with a permanent twinkle in his eye and usually a joke for every occasion. But he was showing clear signs of anxiety over the escalation of the event.