Time and Tide: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  Smith’s hearing seemed as sharp as ever. He could tell straight away that this was the same female detective, and early on he heard her say the name Jacobs several times. Reeve was focused on listening and making brief notes in pencil, in her large, flowing hand – Smith could get five times as many words on a page of A4 as the detective chief inspector. The Dagenham detective did virtually all of the talking for the next three or four minutes; all they heard from Reeve was an occasional ‘OK’ or ‘I understand’ or ‘Yes, we will’. And then, as the first signs came that the call was coming to a conclusion, Smith heard another name mentioned – a name that made him doubt his ears after all, because that could not be true, he could not have heard the woman say that name.

  Reeve reacted to it as well, though, with ‘Really? This isn’t a joke?’

  No, not a joke, and the name was repeated. Why hadn’t Wilson or Terek picked it up? If anyone had damaged their hearing with too much loud guitar, it should have been Smith himself, surely?

  Reeve put down the phone and blew out her cheeks. She wrote one more note to herself and then told them what she had just discovered. Nicholas Jacobs was as clean as he appeared to be, a respectable businessman and family man who lived in a nice part of Ilford, if there is such a thing. But Sergeant Fuller had called a man – a retired detective superintendent – who knew a man who knew Nicholas Jacobs’ father, or more correctly, who had known him way back in the 1970s and 1980s. Francis Jacobs had been Frankie Jacobs, and Frankie Jacobs had been old-school – an East End villain of the first order.

  Detective Inspector Terek looked slightly alarmed when he spoke, as if he might have misunderstood.

  ‘Bernard Sokoloff is or was a business partner of the son of the man who brought a defamation case against the woman who owns The Queens Arms? The pub outside which we believe Sokoloff was last Saturday an hour or two before he was killed?’

  Smith said, ‘Looks that way.’

  Each detective in the room was re-examining the chain of evidence in the light of this extraordinary development – an over-used word perhaps, but surely justified here. Now, unexpectedly, there was a glimmering of a motivation, no more than a will’o’the wisp over the marshes, but a light where there had been only darkness up to now.

  Smith said to Reeve, ‘Just how naughty a boy was Frankie Jacobs, ma’am? Top drawer? Did he have connections?’

  ‘Yes, he did. How did you know?’

  She must have guessed that he had heard the name during the phone call, but she never let on to Terek or Wilson. That’s how myths are born and legends grow, but the reality was more down to earth, as it always is. Smith had sharp ears and sharp eyes, and he was very good at thinking about what he had heard and seen with them, that’s all.

  When he didn’t answer, Reeve said, ‘Jacobs grew up in Bethnal Green. I don’t suppose he did much at school but he soon got himself an apprenticeship – in protection and demanding money with menaces. In fact, he went to the same school as his future employers…’

  ‘Who happened to be brothers?’

  ‘Yes. Frankie Jacobs was a member of the inner circle for a while.’

  Terek was too young to remember it all, of course, far too young. He looked from Reeve to Smith and back again, and then Reeve said, ‘The Kray twins. Frankie Jacobs knew the Kray twins.’

  ‘And so you have to wonder,’ Smith was saying to his team of three half an hour later, ‘exactly what it is our Julie has written in those memoirs. I said she was a woman with stories to tell, but I had no idea that this was coming down the line. I’ll bet things have livened up in Dagenham this morning! Well done, Waters. Another bit of fancy Googling. Well done to everyone. John, ever thought of going onto Mastermind? The criminal records of north-west Norfolk, 2001 to the present?’

  Murray took a long pull at the monstrous mug of tea before pressing a key and bringing his own computer screen back to life – then he began to read the central case notes again, preparing for whatever the new direction might be now that the Jacobs story had come to light. Sometimes he still missed Maggie’s presence in room 17, even though it was more than a year since she had resigned to look after their son. Those were the good old days, of course. Everyone moves on but with DC going, things would never be the same, or even close… And these thoughts about Maggie were not just nostalgia, for which, he told himself, he didn’t have a lot of time – someone would now be going back to have some serious conversations with this Julie Shapiro, and Maggie would have been the natural choice for that job.

  The room was full of detectives, detective sergeants and subdued waiting. The Frankie Jacobs revelation had been taken upstairs by DCI Reeve, accompanied by DI Terek, who really was having quite a start to his career in Kings Lake. ‘Upstairs’ in this instance would mean first to Detective Superintendent Allen, and then it would go higher, right up into the clouds, because, thought Smith ruefully, we’re back into organised crime territory, the gangland connection. Even though he was increasingly convinced that the whole business was personal rather than professional – allowing that crime can be considered in that way – the powers that be would automatically want to view Sokoloff’s murder as part of a wider conspiracy until someone proved otherwise.

  Of all the detectives in the room, the worst at subdued waiting was Serena Butler. After three more minutes of it, she said to Smith, ‘So, what would you do next, if you were running this, sir?’

  He smiled, and perhaps she thought he was thinking, not that old question again, it’s a long, long time since I was running a show – but if so, she was wrong. He was remembering the day she was brought up to his desk by the then Detective Inspector Reeve. Sullen and resentful, and hurt because she had been betrayed by a senior officer in the oldest way of all, it had taken him weeks to work around those issues to see if she was worth saving. You need all sorts to make a good team. You need an immovable object, a rock like John Murray; you need a sideways-thinking daydreamer like Christopher Waters; you need a bundle of impatient static energy like Serena Butler.

  ‘No,’ he said, so that all three could hear him, ‘You lot tell me what you would do next. Imagine for a moment that this seat is empty. Tell me what you’re going to do next.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Murray was the closest, as one would expect with his years of experience. There are occasions when the timing of interviews is critical, and this was one of them. If there were connections between the eccentric woman living a life of seclusion on the Norfolk marshes and the family of a once-notorious gangster living out his final days in Esher, then it was important to make sure that one could not alert the other before certain questions had been asked and certain facts had been established. Murray’s answer to Smith’s question had been, in short, organise and coordinate the next lot of interviews, and that’s what was happening.

  At 11.30 hours then, on that Monday morning, the 19th of September, Detective Sergeant Fuller and friend would pay a visit to the Beech Green Health and Fitness Centre, where they would ask Nicholas Jacobs a series of carefully prepared questions, centred on the relationship between Bernard Sokoloff and Jacobs’ father, Francis. At exactly the same moment, there would be a knock on the door of a splendid villa in the Surrey countryside, where, it had already been established, Francis Jacobs was currently in residence, having recently returned from his equally splendid villa near Cannes. A Detective Chief Inspector Jacqueline Lilley would have another well-prepared list of questions for Mr Jacobs senior, first about his relationship with Bernard Sokoloff, but also perhaps some much more complex questions about the appeal court case in 2014 and the fact that Julie Shapiro had planned to publish libellous material about him. It was thought likely that Mr Jacobs might wish to have legal representation at some point during these proceedings, and arrangements were already in place to invite him to a nearby police station.

  And finally, also at 11.30 hours, four detectives from Kings Lake Central would arrive once again at The Queens Arms public hou
se at Overy on the north Norfolk coast to interview Julie Shapiro for the second time.

  DCI Alison Reeve, Smith, Murray and Waters spoke briefly in the car park before entering the building. There was no more sunshine and little prospect of its return by the look of the low, grey clouds scudding down from the north west; when the wind gusted briefly, a little dust-devil of dry sand whirled its way out of the car park and onto the single-track road that carried on down towards the quay.

  It was Smith who pushed open the door to The Queens Arms, and who was met by the only half-surprised stare of its manager. Williams said, ‘Again? How many times before it’s police harassment, eh?’

  ‘And a very good morning to you, too, Mr Williams.’

  The other three detectives filed in behind Smith and all were looking at Williams. He stared at them for a moment and then back at Smith, making the hands spread, I don’t know what else I can do gesture.

  Smith said, ‘You are correct, Mr Williams. It looks as if this is going to become a regular thing until we’ve got to the bottom of it all. In view of that, I was wondering whether we could book a couple of rooms to save us driving back and forth from Kings Lake. Could you do us a discount as it’s past the peak of the season?’

  For a second or two, Williams was nonplussed, and Smith saw his gaze going back over the three people that stood behind him. Then the Welshman said, ‘If there wasn’t a lady present, I’d tell you where to stick your discount. What d’you want this time?’

  The bar was open but empty, apart from the same thin man who sat on the same stool and in the same posture as when Smith and Waters had entered the pub for the first time several days ago. He was watching the performance with the curious, anaesthetised detachment of the experienced alcoholic, his mouth half open as if waiting for the punchline that would never come.

  Smith introduced the rest of the team, adding a cheerful ‘Who you’ve met before’ for Murray and Waters. It was Reeve who took over and answered Williams’ question.

  ‘On this occasion, Mr Williams, we would like to speak with Miss Shapiro again, in private. Would you let her know that we are here?’

  The manager had not been expecting that – his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, he said, ‘What the bloody hell for? She couldn’t tell you anything last time, could she, and now there’s four of you? Mob-handed! Think she’s goin’ to put up a fight, do you?’

  Reeve let a few seconds pass before she said quietly, ‘If you would let Miss Shapiro know we’re here, sir.’

  Still Williams made no move. His gaze left Smith and Reeve and travelled behind them – Smith knew that the bar manager was meeting and measuring a look from John Murray. It would be like trying to stare down a brick wall, and about as effective as shoulder-charging the same. When these interviews were being planned two hours earlier, one of the variables considered was the likely reaction of Owen Williams, and that was why Murray was here in the first place.

  ‘Or,’ said Smith, ‘we could find our own way up to the room as we’ve been before, sir. I can see you are busy.’

  Williams said, ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Has she just come down with something?’

  ‘No, you… I’m talkin’ in general, like. She shouldn’t ’ave all this stress and worry. She has medical conditions.’

  Smith was tempted to inquire at that point about Williams’ own hypertensive history – he was dark in the face and breathing unevenly with suppressed anger, but he, Smith, would rather have Williams down here in the bar and worrying about what was being said upstairs by his aunt than in the back of a police car or an ambulance.

  Alison Reeve said, ‘I can assure you that we do not intend to upset your aunt in any way, Mr Williams. Nevertheless, we do need to speak to her, and at the moment you are preventing us from doing so. Please either let her know that we are here or stand aside.’

  Another three or four seconds and then Williams made an oddly theatrical and ironic gesture, literally moving to the side and sweeping back with his right arm. Smith stepped forward, followed by Reeve; it had been agreed that Murray and Waters would remain in the building while the interview took place. They were at the door into the corridor that led to the stairs when Williams said, ‘Oi! Is she going to need a solicitor or something?’

  Smith said, ‘Difficult to say, isn’t it? We’ll have to see. But if so, she should be alright with one of her fancy London lawyers.’

  ‘Fancy London lawyers? What are you talkin’ about, man? I think you’re off your head half the time!’

  Smith looked a little hurt that his sanity had been questioned, before he said, ‘Really? I was only referring to the ones Ms Shapiro had in the libel case a couple of years ago.’

  He waited but Williams said nothing more, and then the door to the stairs closed behind them.

  Reeve said, ‘DC, you sail too close to the wind sometimes. Was that wise?’

  ‘Maybe – maybe not. But did you see his face when I mentioned the London lawyers and the libel case? Our Mr Williams isn’t just an angry man, ma’am. He’s a frightened one.’

  Julie Shapiro offered to make them coffee. Smith had glanced into the well-equipped kitchenette and his hopes had been raised but she used instant out of a supermarket jar; when it arrived, it was weak and semi-skimmed milk had added insult to injury. The three mugs, however, were identical, and he recognised them as coming from a local pottery near Holt – why buy expensive, hand-made crockery and then fill it up with freeze-dried fake coffee? Still, Alison Reeve was capable of making beverages even worse than this, so when she said that it was very nice, she probably meant every word.

  They had agreed that she would lead in this interview. When the view across the marshes had been duly admired and they were seated around the coffee table in the lounge – Miss Shapiro seemed to have understood that this was to be a more significant interview than the previous one – Reeve said, ‘Thank you for seeing us again. I know that you’ve already spoken to Sergeant Smith but since then there have been some developments. We would like to-’

  ‘Is this still about the fire?’

  The interruption had been unexpected. After a moment, Reeve said, ‘Yes, perhaps. In an indirect way…’

  Then she waited and watched, exactly as Smith himself would have done.

  ‘What are these developments? Have you caught the men who did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you think these men, the ones who caused the disturbance in the bar, you believe that they started the fire?’

  ‘We think it likely.’

  Julie Shapiro took her time over a sip from the coffee mug, and Smith prayed that DCI Reeve would hold her nerve and wait; something had altered in the woman’s demeanour since he last spoke with her.

  ‘I see.’

  Again, do not speak – she is bringing herself around to saying something new, and what people offer you is often worth twice what you manage to drag out of them with questions. Julie Shapiro put down the coffee mug, folded her hands and straightened her back before she spoke again.

  ‘Very well, then. It’s time to put an end to this. Sergeant, I am very sorry but when you and your charming young detective constable talked to me about this before, I did not tell you the whole truth. This is not the first time that we have been threatened.’

  Neither Reeve nor Smith made any move – it is all too easy to frighten away the bird of truth. They watched and waited.

  ‘I don’t want any of the people downstairs to be blamed for not telling you these things. They do it only to protect me – they think I need protecting much more than I do. But someone could have been killed in that fire, and I won’t let this go on any longer.’

  Reeve said, ‘I’m sure that if you tell us everything that has happened, we can help, Miss Shapiro.’

  ‘Very well, then.’

  Another pause, and another performance, Smith realised; Julie Shapiro was making the crowd wait for their favourite number
.

  ‘A few weeks ago I was accosted by a man downstairs in the bar. I don’t go down every day, you understand, I don’t want to get in the way, but I was down there and a man approached me. It was about some private business of mine, to do with my previous life, and I don’t need to go into details about that but this man was very unpleasant in the end. There was quite a scene. I left the bar, and then my nephew and some of the other gentlemen had to ask him to leave. This man was swearing and saying that I hadn’t heard the last of it, that sort of thing, very threatening he was.’

  Our language is the ground of our being and our identity. Smith could hear no lilting Welshness in her tones but the choices of words and their arrangement in her sentences were from the valleys. Perhaps it is easier for us to change the way we say things than what we have to say.

  Reeve said, ‘You said “a few weeks ago” – can you be any more precise about when this happened?’

  She thought and then said, ‘It was sometime in July – the middle of the month or thereabouts.’

  Smith and Reeve avoided looking at each other but he had no doubt that she was aware of the significance of that date; they might be just inches away from being able to put Bernard Sokoloff inside The Queens Arms for the first time. His card had been used to buy petrol near Hunston on the 17th of July.

  ‘Ms Shapiro, I get the feeling that that wasn’t the end of the matter?’

  ‘It was not. Not last week but the one before, Mark told me that this same man was back in the area – he had been seen by someone who remembered him. Mark said I was not to go out and about in case this man saw me. I did stay in for a while. In fact, sergeant, when you saw me walking near Barnham, that was the first time I’d been out in a week. I thought it was finished with and then we have this fire. It’s him, isn’t it, the same man? Only now it seems that there are two of them trying to frighten me. But someone could have been killed, and I want it stopped now.’