Time and Tide: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Why not? It doesn’t have to be here. He’s got no ties that I know of – he could go anywhere in the county, or out of it, come to that. Someone should at least be helping him to get ready.’

  ‘Someone who knows him well, you mean.’

  ‘I feel a bit responsible for him coming off the fast-track. I wouldn’t want him held back just because I won’t be here to get him onto it again. Waters shouldn’t have to wait around while a new DI sorts himself out – and I don’t mean that disrespectfully in any way.’

  Alison Reeve sat down and waved him into another chair. When he accepted the invitation to informality, it seemed somehow significant, as if they both understood that there would not be many more such occasions.

  ‘Well, DC, there’s going to be a vacancy, isn’t there?’

  When he nodded, she added, ‘You’ll have to forgive us – we’re still getting used to the idea. But I will make sure that in discussions with DI Terek, staff progression is on the agenda, and Waters will be on the list. I think Serena might be getting itchy feet as well. You should take it as a compliment.’

  ‘You mean, now that I’m going they finally have the chance to escape?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. What’s your take on this case, now that everyone else is out of the room?’

  This was the moment at which he might have told her about the text if she was still his detective inspector and he was still her sergeant – and if it made operational sense to do so, of course. After the telling off behind closed doors, they would have worked out together how they could use it to get to the next stage of the investigation, making sure that the join was invisible to all who might come after them, especially the defence counsels. But now there was a new face in the widening space between them, and telling her the truth would put her in an impossible position; this time he would have to work the whole thing out for himself. Apart, that is, from whatever Detective Constable Butler managed to piece together… That might be interesting.

  In answer to her question, he said, ‘Bernie Sokoloff seems to have retired and gone legitimate years ago, but he was a pro at one time, a hard nut. Jacobs probably had a choice of people whom he could have sent to deliver the message but he chose Sokoloff. Then Sokoloff goes back a couple of months later, presumably because the message hasn’t got through. As far as we know, he still went on his own, which is peculiar if, as we are told, he was kicked out of The Queens Arms by three locals. Why not go mob-handed on the second occasion? I’ve been over this twenty times in my head and each time it’s a bit less convincing. I don’t think we’ve had even half the tale yet.’

  ‘Any point in interviewing the old lady again?’

  Smith looked suitably offended, being somewhat closer to Julie Shapiro in years than he was to Alison Reeve.

  ‘I don’t think she has much idea what’s going on other than that these loyal fans are defending her good name. There’s the decent, hard-working woman in the kitchen but I don’t think she’s in on anything either. All we have is the three wise monkeys, and they’ve had time to get their ducks in a row. Which is a worrying image, I’m fully aware of that, ma’am.’

  She thought it over, and in the space Smith could hear other voices in other offices along the corridor. He could pick out Detective Chief Superintendent Allen saying a few words about liaison and communication and cooperation to another unfortunate soul who had yet to hear the message of salvation, and there was an odd sort of comfort in the realisation that some things will never change. DCS Allen would be preaching that same sermon long after Smith had left the building.

  Reeve said, ‘Well, we have three months to sort it out. We don’t want you leaving with your last proper case unsolved. If everyone needs a pep talk, that’s what I’ll say – “This time it’s for DC. Let’s give him a proper send-off!”’

  She was smiling but it was an awkward moment, and he was grateful when her phone began to ring.

  Within seconds of returning to his desk, Serena was there with the original piece of paper in her hand. She waved it around before handing it over and said, ‘It’s a name we already know.’

  ‘Peter Vince or Johnny Fisher?’

  ‘Vince. How did you get hold of that number?’

  ‘Best you don’t know for now.’

  She caught alight quickly – it was one of the things he liked about her.

  ‘Well, I could just call Martina back and ask her, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, and then you’d know nearly as much as me. But if it went pear-shaped later on, and it might, you’d find yourself in front of another one of those interview panels where three people you’ve never met ask really awkward questions before telling you that you’ve buggered up your career again.’

  It was the ‘again’ that got to her, just as he had intended; her hard work and her ability had got her back on track since she had arrived at Kings Lake. Now she needed to develop a better sense of which battles were worth fighting.

  ‘OK…’

  ‘Good. But what have you worked out for yourself?’

  ‘You didn’t have Vince’s number before you spoke to Martina, so you must have had someone else’s. It was someone who has been in touch with Vince. You’ve seen some call details or texts, something like that.’

  He didn’t answer – that way there was nothing she could repeat if she was ever asked about the matter, protecting them both – but she read approval in his face.

  ‘So, now you have intelligence that shows Vince and someone else were communicating about something pertinent to the case.’

  The same look from Smith, and then he started sorting out the pieces of paper on his desk.

  ‘And there are probably only two other people that might be?’

  She stared hard at the top of his head, waiting, and realised that he had a tiny bald spot where the crown of his hair used to be.

  Eventually he looked up and said, ‘I’d say “Clever girl!” but that didn’t end too well in ‘Jurassic Park’, did it?’

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Jo had sent back, in answer to his question, There’s a long weekend here in early October. Does that work for you? We could make some plans then.

  Make some plans? Smith had almost choked on his toast before he realised that there was a subsequent text.

  Sorry, that sounds bad! I’m talking about for the book. That’s what we said, isn’t it?

  Yes, there had been an understanding, which had come initially from her, that if the book about the Andretti case was to be worked upon at all, then it would have to come first, before anything else. It would be improper and inappropriate and just about every other word beginning with an ‘i’ for ‘anything else’ to be going on while she researched and interviewed him for such a book.

  And after all, there had been only words and looks and a few shared experiences - fish and chips, ice cream - upon which to base thoughts about ‘anything else’. Oh yes, and the kiss on the caravan steps late that night before he drove back to Kings Lake. A rather chaste affair, her lips on his right cheek, but he could still recall her perfume and the whispered ‘For now…’

  He had sent back Yes, that works for me. We’ll make arrangements nearer the day, realising that early October was only a couple of weeks away. Through the kitchen window he could see there was more rain in the sky, but the weather was still mild, making everything in the garden grow again.

  Some cases are never solved. The statistics involved can be made to perfom all sorts of gymnastics, as always, and if a case is never officially closed one can argue that it might yet be solved – it is unsolved as yet, so to speak. But the reality is that as of the August in the year of the Sokoloff murder, and according to the Home Office’s own figures, almost sixteen hundred other murder cases remained unsolved across England and Wales. One might assume that in the general scale of things that’s not too bad but this would be a naïve thought; in percentage terms it is far higher than most
of us would guess. Those sixteen hundred cases represent almost twenty five per cent of the total known to the police.

  Smith knew those numbers, and the thought crossed his mind more than once during the rest of the day – was there really a one in four chance that this case would not be solved? He found a spotless piece of A4 paper and wrote the words of the text message in the centre; then he drew lines out from it and noted down a long list of possibilities, ideas and interpretations until he had something resembling a piece of modern art – starburst in graphite, or something like that. When he had done with it, he folded it twice, put it in the bottom drawer of his desk and locked it away. No answers had magically appeared but it was part of a process that had served him well, and his subconscious mind would already be at work on what the conscious one had mapped out for it.

  The detectives knew that they were going over material for the third or fourth time and that’s never a good sign; sometimes something that has been missed is found that way, but too often it implies that there is nothing new to consider. Murray had written a list of the ways to make a car disappear and had been given a couple of Wilson’s people to work through it; car auctions, second-hand dealerships and scrapyards in Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire would be contacted. They would visit the nearest ones themselves and get the assistance of local detectives and uniforms for the ones further away.

  Waters and Serena were preparing to re-visit the Royal Victoria Hotel as instructed by DCI Reeve, but it was routine and neither of them believed that anything had been missed in the earlier visits. While waiting for her opposite number to conduct the next interviews south of London, Reeve herself had begun looking into the company that was to publish Julie Shapiro’s revelations – it had been easy enough to find from the libel court case records that Waters had located. What she discovered was interesting enough for her to call Terek, Wilson and Smith up to her office.

  ‘The publisher is Readwell which meant nothing to me but they’re part of Parker and Hollings, which does. That’s a major player in the publishing business. I got put through to the publicity department first. They refused to discuss the contents as commercially sensitive but I got the definite impression that they were pleased I’d rung up – they clearly think this book is going to make waves and lots of money as a result. Then I started pulling rank – I think I might have been temporarily promoted to Chief Superintendent – and got a legal person. She told me that their lawyers have been all over it and they think it’s now watertight. The print run begins in October, there’s advertising in place and they want it out for the Christmas market.’

  ‘And that,’ said Smith, ‘is why Frankie Jacobs got Sokoloff to go back for a second visit. When that went quiet, he sent in the back-up team to look for him, and they delivered the message in a different way.’

  Terek said, ‘Ma’am – maybe we should consider whether The Queens Arms is still under threat?’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll speak to Superintendent Allen, and get him to involve the uniform patrols in the area. The interviews in London are due to happen about now, so we’ll know something tonight. Any developments at our end?’

  At five o’clock, Detective Chief Inspector Reeve spoke to the assembled team before most of them went off duty. At Greenwich PMS Ltd, there had been complete cooperation with the police. The Lexus’s journey to Norfolk had been fully logged, and the two men, both employees, had been interviewed. They had made the visit on company business to view and collect details of some property for sale in, of all places, Kings Lake. This had taken longer than expected, and the potential vendors had bought them a late dinner. Instead of staying overnight as intended, therefore, the men had returned to London early the following morning.

  And, thought Smith as he listened to this, it will all check out because Frankie Jacobs is a professional. He did forty years in organised crime and never served a day’s time – there are lots more of these people around than the public ever imagines.

  ‘It all checks out,’ said Reeve, ‘I’ve already made a couple of calls. The property is in the development area behind the old cattle market. When they were asked about Mr Jacobs, both the men in the car said that they had heard of him as the company chairman but that they had never met him in person. One of them has GBH on his record, eight years ago. Nothing since. We could go into the minutiae of their meetings with the local company here but I’m guessing we’d never get enough detail to put them in Overy at a specific time.’

  She pressed the screen on her iPad and sighed before she began again, and that told Smith all he needed to know about DCI Lilley’s visit to Frankie Jacobs. Of course, he had never met the two men, just as he had never met most of the employees of his companies. The fact that they had visited Norfolk on business and that the woman who was planning to libel him lived in the same county was a commonplace coincidence; Mr Jacobs’ granddaughter, who happened to be present again, said that she hoped the police had not troubled her grandfather over anything as trivial as that.

  DCI Lilley had then moved on to the matter of the intended publication of Miss Shapiro’s memoirs. Yes, Mr Jacobs was aware of recent developments. His own lawyers were still in discussions with the publisher but they had been refused sight of the latest material. There might be another appeal, and there would certainly be a private prosecution if the content libelled Mr Jacobs in any way. Naturally, he had made no attempt to threaten or cajole Miss Shapiro in person – he believed in dealing with this sort of thing through the proper channels.

  So, thought Smith, I’ll never meet this Frankie Jacobs but you have to give him some credit – he’s still in the game and probably enjoying it. Then his phone vibrated and he looked around a little surreptitiously before sliding it out and seeing that there was another message from Jo. With his thumb he moved things about and waited for it to open, feeling a little guilty, like passing notes during class at school. All she had sent was Looking forward to it, but he wanted to reply, just to keep it going. Idle chit-chat, his mother would have said, but it meant something…

  When he looked up, Detective Constable Butler was watching him, no doubt thinking that he was still up to no good with his undercover operations. She frowned, still cross that she wasn’t a part of it, so Smith winked slowly and comically with his right eye, as if he was about to astonish them all and solve the case, and she had to look away to stop herself laughing.

  ‘So it doesn’t look,’ said the DCI, ‘as if we’re going to get much more input from our friends down south as far as the murder of Bernard Sokoloff is concerned. There are plenty of old scores to settle as far as Frankie Jacobs is concerned, and DCI Lilley tells me she might find reasons to visit him again, but that isn’t going to shed any more light on our case. It’s down to us, as I said earlier on. There will be another briefing at nine tomorrow morning.’

  None of Smith’s team had a late duty, and they all went home soon after. Murray was taking Maggie and young David to see her sister in Wisbech, and he never gave the case another thought. Serena Butler had a match to play that evening which if won would put her up to third on the squash ladder – Smith’s secret with Martina niggled her a little but not for long. Chris Waters tidied his flat, put the last of Katherine’s things in a box, wondered for a while what could have happened at parties forty five years ago that was so dreadful it had cost Sokoloff his life, and then began to work through the materials he had gathered concerning promotion to detective sergeant. Ford had mistakenly called him ‘sir’ yesterday and everyone had laughed, but it had got him to thinking.

  It took Smith only ten minutes to write up his notes at home. After he had eaten, he turned off the television and the house became very quiet. The wind swirled around the chimney, and as the light faded there was a spattering of rain against the windows. He went upstairs, turned on the amp and played BB King’s ‘Blues Man’ all the way through. Then he wandered through a few bars of ‘Layla’ and stared thoughtfully into the future, a couple of weeks into it, when t
here would be voices and conversation in the house again.

  The Atlantic low that had formed to the west of Ireland deepened a little as it travelled north east overnight, bringing more wind and rain across England. By dawn, the worst of it had left the Norfolk coast but the skies remained low, heavy and grey, and the first gales of autumn had taken leaves from the willow trees and set the reedbeds swaying on the marshes. Over Holkham, the first cries of wild geese that year drifted down from leaden clouds, though the cattleman who heard them never saw a single bird.

  By half past nine, the weather seemed to be clearing a little. On the quay at Overy, a solitary figure limped up towards The Queens Arms and slowed near the car park, as if there might be a chance that the pub had opened ahead of its usual autumn hours. But the doors and windows were closed against the world, and the man walked on.

  After the first bend and out of sight of the pub, he was the only living, moving thing in the landscape apart from the gulls. The gulls love these winds – he had noticed that before. They wheel and dive and soar, sometimes giving those mournful cries, mournful to our ears but perhaps cries of delight as they are thrown this way and that by the wild and whirling air, like kids on a roller coaster He stood and watched them for a moment because he was not in a hurry and because the ulcer on his leg was getting worse again, and hurting.

  Then he walked on with the slow, steady plod of the tramp that finds its origins not in any form of determination or willpower or hope but in only the lack of a better alternative; if the past has been pretty miserable, how much worse can the future be? He knows about the past, alright. He’s up and down this road so often on Shanks’s pony that he even knows its past – he can read the signs. Here on the third bend is the place where someone pulled up hard onto the verge, the tracks are still there despite the rain. Someone driving too fast or maybe they met another vehicle and had to pull off sharply. Happens all the time.