Time and Tide: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  There were, as some say, certain formalities to be carried out at this point, and DCI Reeve was taking out her iPad in readiness, but one remarkable fact was already apparent to Smith – either Julie Shapiro was a consummate actress or she did not know that Bernard Sokoloff was dead.

  Reeve held the image out towards Julie Shapiro and said, ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  There was a moment of recoil, even from the pixels on the screen, before the answer came – ‘Yes, I do. That’s him, the man who came into the bar in July. He was an ugly brute then and he looks no better in that photograph. Have you arrested him?’

  Reeve said, ‘No, he isn’t under arrest. Have you any idea of this man’s name, Miss Shapiro?’

  She shook her head emphatically.

  ‘No. I don’t think he ever said it. Why would he? It would be stupid to tell us his name while he was making threats, wouldn’t it?’

  DCI Reeve put the iPad back inside her handbag, and the look that she gave Smith was a familiar one – it said, OK, take over.

  ‘Miss Shapiro. You said-’

  ‘Julie, please!’

  An honour that he had dreamed not of… The use of names, Christian and otherwise, in police interviews is worthy of a thesis in itself. Subtly, relationships and dynamics can be shifted – does one want this person at a distance, or can one use the more intimate first name to step inside their guard and deliver a killing blow?

  ‘Thank you. Julie, you said a little while ago that this concerned… Pardon me, but I wrote it down. Here it is – “some private business to do with my previous life”. I understand that a person in your position has to be careful about what they reveal,’ – and she liked that very much – ‘but if we are to understand what has brought about these threats, we’re going to need to know more about the cause of them.’

  She was silent then, looking directly at neither of them but further back, in space if not in time.

  Smith said, ‘Was this person trying to extort money from you? Was it some sort of blackmail attempt?’

  Julie Shapiro shook her head, still not looking at him.

  ‘In that case, was this person trying to force you to do something. Or maybe not to do something?’

  Now her head was motionless. Smith caught Alison Reeve’s eye. His own expression was asking quite plainly, do you want me to go for it now? Her answer was yes.

  ‘Julie. Are you planning to publish your autobiography again? Was this man trying to stop you from doing so? Was this man here on behalf of Francis Jacobs?’

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

  Murray and Waters were sitting at the same table as the one that Smith and Waters had used a few days ago. It was almost midday but still only three people were present on the public side of the bar – the two detectives and the unhealthy-looking individual who was leaning his head on his hand and his elbow on the bar itself. Waters could not see the man’s face but it occurred to him that he might have died in that position some time earlier; no-one would know for certain until closing time.

  ‘Not on duty, thanks, John. Not with DCI Reeve upstairs.’

  ‘I meant a coffee or a tea. We could be here for a while yet. It’s my guess they’re onto something upstairs.’

  Mark Williams had done one of his disappearing tricks again; every few minutes he went through the door behind the bar, and maybe he was creeping up the stairs to listen in on whatever it was Smith and the boss were saying.

  ‘Oh, right. There is a coffee machine. But DC would probably be annoyed if he thought we’d used it. He doesn’t approve of most of them. There’s an up-market one at The Royal Victoria Hotel…’

  ‘Oh, good. Unfortunately, we’re stuck here. Not much of a place, is it? I can’t think this pays its own way. It’s my guess they still live on her money.’

  ‘Still, a coffee would be good.’

  Williams reappeared and stared over at them, as if he had been hoping that they might have left in his latest absence. Murray got up then, as if he had taken the look personally, and Williams watched him all the way to the bar. Murray asked for two coffees, and the bar manager made some comment that implied now he’d have to go all the way back into the store-room to make that happen. Murray was silent as Williams walked away.

  The exchange had woken the thin man from his stupor. Waters saw Murray nod to him, and then the two of them began a low conversation, of which he was able to hear not a word. He thought, John’s another oddball – you rarely get behind the poker face he shows to the world but he can chat away to a drunk whom he’s never met before in his life. What can the two of them possibly have in common?

  And then Murray was handing something over – his contact card. The drunk nodded as if he’d been given a twenty pound note, and slipped it into a pocket as Williams reappeared and headed for the coffee machine.

  When Murray sat down, Waters said, ‘What was that about, you and the old boy at the bar?’

  ‘He’s not so old. That’s what the drink does. He wanted to know what we were doing back here, and so I gave him a snippet.’

  ‘And? Why the card?’

  ‘He said he’s always in here, just as you’d already said. He lives on some sort of boat down at the quay. So I said there can’t be a lot goes on here that he doesn’t know about, and when he said, ‘No, there ain’t,’ he had a funny look on his face. I didn’t push it, I just gave him my number and the price of a pint or three.’

  Waters was thinking it over when Murray said, ‘Mostly it falls on stony ground, but sometimes you get lucky.’

  Chapter Thirty One

  Julie Shapiro hadn’t seen that coming, not at all, and it was easy to understand why; she had only this moment told them about the man who made the threats in July, the man that Frankie Jacobs had sent, but the two detectives already knew all about him. How? Had her nephew told them much more than he had admitted to her? For a moment, as she stared at the detective sergeant and then at the detective chief inspector, her face sagged a little, and for the first time she looked every one of her seventy years.

  It was Alison Reeve who ended the silence.

  ‘Miss Shapiro, as I said earlier on, there have been some developments. Our inquiries have led us to believe that there is a connection between the man who has been threatening you, and a Francis Jacobs. This has to be the same Francis Jacobs who brought an action for a potential libel against you two years ago. Naturally, we have to assume that these matters are all linked together in some way.’

  ‘But…’

  Julie Shapiro went to pick up her coffee mug, reaching out for some hold on normality if not sanity, but she changed her mind, and Smith could see why – the hand was shaking.

  ‘But if you know all this, why haven’t you arrested him?’

  ‘You mean the man who threatened you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Smith and Reeve had interviewed together many times, and only rarely needed to make eye contact; after perhaps five seconds it was Smith who said, ‘We haven’t arrested him because he’s dead, Julie.’

  Shock? Surprise? Relief? Whatever emotions rippled over her face in those few seconds, one thing was abundantly clear – she had not known of this.

  ‘Dead? How? When?’

  ‘We’re still establishing some of the details, Julie. But you’ve probably heard that a body was found at Barnham Staithe a week ago. It was him, the same man.’

  She was taking time to process what she was hearing. Smith managed another mouthful of the coffee and a look into her office off to the right of the lounge. There was the table with its desktop and screen, a printer, a couple of box files and some papers loose on the desk. He’d like, in the ideal world, to get a look at those. The answer to all this might be lying over there, just a few feet away.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘His name was Bernard Sokoloff.’

  No – she had never heard that before either.

  Julie Shapiro said, ‘I’m sorry… I just don�
��t…’

  Reeve said, ‘It’s alright. These things always come as a shock. Take your time.’

  ‘A shock? Yes. I don’t watch the news very much, and I don’t speak to many people. Someone must have mentioned the fact that a man had drowned but I don’t remember who… Surely that was before the fire? If it wasn’t him, who were the other two men?’

  Smith said, ‘That’s still actively under investigation, Julie. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to that occasion in July when you first encountered Mr Sokoloff. You said that you went downstairs, which you don’t often do, and that’s where you met him. Was this in the bar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us – and I realise that you might not know the answer – but can you tell us whether Bernard Sokoloff had actually stayed here at all? Was he staying here as a guest in one of the rooms?’

  ‘I believe that he stayed here the night before I met him – or rather before he accosted me.’

  She looked faintly disgusted at having to admit that such a character had been allowed to enjoy their hospitality.

  ‘Thank you. And so, your nephew would have met Mr Sokoloff then. And there were also some gentlemen, you said, who were involved in asking him to leave. Were these guests too, or some of your regular patrons?’

  Julie Shapiro had begun to recover her wits – enough to realise that the detective sergeant was now proceeding apace with his inquiries. She said, ‘Mark did meet him, and so did some of our regular customers. Thank goodness they were there. If you are wondering why they haven’t told you all this, and I can see that you are, sergeant, it’s because they are loyal. We have friends here. Friends who are ready to protect our good name.’

  After a silence, Reeve said, ‘Protect your good name from what exactly, Julie?’

  ‘From gossip. From those tabloid newspapers, and from the scandal-mongers.’

  Scandal-mongers? It was a phrase from another age, and probably the one in which Julie Shapiro preferred to spend most of her days. Smith had sensed that they were about to go into the second half of her performance, and that they could do without, in the light of what had already been revealed this morning.

  He said, ‘Julie, you’ve been very helpful and we are grateful, but we shouldn’t - you should not – underestimate the situation into which this places some people. Bernard Sokoloff made some unpleasant threats, and we will need to know much more about that, and now his body has been found within a few miles of your home, in circumstances that are suspicious. Your nephew and probably some of your friends witnessed your confrontation with him but did not come forward with the information they had when we first spoke to them; to be specific, we showed them Mr Sokoloff’s photograph and none of them admitted to seeing him before. I’m sure you can see that we’re now going to ask further questions about all that.’

  Julie Shapiro was not a fool. Smith could see her realisation that the conflict between what she had told them just now and what her nephew among others had been telling the police for the past week was not going away until it had been thoroughly examined by the officers in front of her.

  Alison Reeve said, ‘Julie, we need to clarify a number of points with you. Are we correct in thinking that Bernard Sokoloff was here, when you met him in July, representing in some way a man called Francis Jacobs?’

  A slow and reluctant nod of the head.

  ‘And that this is the same Francis Jacobs who in 2014 brought an action for libel against you?’

  Another nod, and then, ‘He brought a joint action against the publisher and me. He did not succeed – the ruling advised us only to reconsider the way in which some facts had been presented. The judge said that he was acting on the cautionary principle to avoid a future offence rather than to punish anyone for an offence already committed. He said that there was a clear case to argue that publication might be in the public interest.’

  Two years ago, thought Smith, but she can remember parts of the ruling word for word. Reeve was taking her time before the next question.

  ‘Thank you for explaining that, it’s useful. When Bernard Sokoloff spoke to you in July, when he made threats, was it about the same matter? Was it about the publication of your autobiography?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are intending to publish it with the judge’s recommendations?’

  Smith’s eyes went back to the papers on the desk. What he wouldn’t give…

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Reeve said, ‘And so we have to assume that Mr Jacobs knows about this. Has he been in contact with you in person? Or you with him?’

  ‘No. The publishers’ lawyers have informed Mr Jacobs’ lawyers that we are now going to proceed. A legal formality in view of the previous case, or so I am told.’

  Smith said, ‘As a matter of interest, Julie, do you know when that legal letter was sent to Mr Jacobs?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I have copies of everything. It was sent early in July.’

  And the sending of that letter, he reflected, was the beginning of the end for Bernard Sokoloff. We’ve got more than half the dots now, and we can soon start joining them up.

  Reeve was doing a thoroughly good job of proceeding with care and precision – he even felt a momentary pride in the fact. He could see, too, that she was about to move things into the next phase.

  ‘Julie, I’m going to ask you some questions next about your relationship with Francis Jacobs. I’m correct, aren’t I, in assuming that you do know him personally?’

  ‘It would be more correct to say that I knew him, once.’

  ‘And I do appreciate that this might be difficult. Also, I should ask you whether, in view of the circumstances surrounding Mr Sokoloff’s death, you would like to have a solicitor present. If so, I am perfectly willing to move this interview to Kings Lake, and you can-’

  ‘I have done nothing to break any laws, and nothing of which I am ashamed.’

  That, thought Smith, is almost certainly true, and almost certainly going to be the truly tragic element in this business. If anything, Julie Shapiro was sitting up straighter now and looking the detective chief inspector in the eye.

  Reeve said, ‘In that case, Miss Shapiro, please tell us how you came to know Francis Jacobs.’

  The thin man at the bar had drunk at least two of the one or three pints that John Murray had paid for, but he was still thin. Waters stared at him but it was impossible to see where the beer was going once he had swallowed it. If the man was indeed an alcoholic, and if he drank beer like that every day here in The Queens Arms, he should surely have the shape and consistency of a water balloon. Everywhere one looks, there are mysteries like this.

  He said to Murray, ‘We could go for a walk outside. Just down to the jetty to look at the boats.’

  An hour and half had passed since Smith and DCI Reeve went upstairs to interview the landlady. Murray and Waters had drunk two coffees each and eaten packets of crisps and ginger biscuits. Three elderly ladies, ramblers with proper lace-up boots and those walking poles, had called in for half pints of shandy and cucumber sandwiches, but they had now departed and the guest list was down to three again. Mark Williams looked more miserable than ever.

  Murray said, ‘If you want to go and look at the boats, go ahead. I don’t suppose we both need to be here all the time.’

  ‘To be honest, John, I can’t see why we needed to be here at all.’

  ‘Ours not to reason why… But I know DC wanted someone to keep an eye on the man behind the bar. I can do that on my own.’

  Waters studied Williams again.

  ‘He’s a nasty piece of work – I’ve seen it. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s Welsh.’

  Waters glanced at his companion before he said, ‘John – that’s a bit, you know, racist?’

  ‘I don’t think Welsh is a race. It’s more a state of mind. It’s a culture. You can call me culturalist, I don’t min
d that. But they’re an awkward lot. You’ve only got to watch them play rugby. They come in low every time.’

  Despite the peculiar logic, Waters took time to show that he was considering the matter in that light – this was the first time in two years that Murray had shared personal thoughts on matters other than a case.

  ‘Maybe that’s because they’re generally a little on the short side. Take Mr Williams. He’s only five-’

  The door to the stairs behind the bar opened and Smith appeared. Williams flinched at the surprise, and then Smith was beckoning to Murray and Waters. When they reached the bar, Smith picked up the guest register from the shelf beneath the spirits bottles and held it out towards Waters.

  ‘Take this and log it in, detective constable.’

  Williams stepped forward, trying to take hold of the book, and Smith held it away from him until it was safely in the detective constable’s hands.

  ‘What the hell for? You can’t just take it, man! That’s a legal document, that is!’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Williams, but it’s alright – we’re in the legal business ourselves. And we can’t build a legal case without evidence, can we?’

  ‘Evidence? I thought from the start that you’re bloody crazy! What’s in there that can be evidence?’

  Williams was inches away from Smith, and their eyes were locked together – they were of similar height but the Welshman was much more heavily built and his obvious anger had pumped him up into the prop forward that Murray had been talking about just moments before. Waters sensed that Murray himself was only a split second from going over the bar if Williams laid a hand on Smith.

  ‘In this case,’ Smith said, in the infuriatingly friendly tone that was designed to drive a suspect to the very edge of whatever cliff Smith wanted them to fall off, ‘it’s more a question of what’s not in there, isn’t it?’

  Five slow seconds passed before Smith ended the eyeball to eyeball confrontation. He turned to face Waters and said, ‘So, log that guest register in as exhibit one, please. And let the station know that Mr Williams will be joining us for lunch again. He might even be staying overnight, so tell them to get our nicest room ready, just in case, would you?’