In This Bright Future: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  Fox waited for a few seconds to see if there was any more to come, and then he said, ‘If I didn’t know your history, Detective Sergeant, I’d say that you missed your vocation. You understand the business. It’s a shame that you didn’t stay on.’

  ‘It was a little too dirty a business for me.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You picture yourself as more of a moral crusader.’

  They had reached the border. Beyond it there is no black and white, only endless shades of grey. Both had spent time there but it was a country more familiar to Dominic Fox now than to Smith, and so Smith chose not to step over the invisible line – life, as he tells himself often these days, is too short.

  Smith said, ‘Are we done here?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll have to put you down as a risk, but a minimal one for now.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very reassuring.’

  ‘No – thank you. It was a pleasure, really.’

  Smith stood up and reached for the walking stick.

  Fox said, ‘How is the knee coming along? I hope you haven’t been overdoing it. Arthroscopic meniscal resection, wasn’t it? I’ll end up having that myself – too much rugby.’

  Cocky little sod, can’t resist showing off – that’s a weakness that a really devious bastard would be able to exploit, Mr Fox, but not me, not now, not interested.

  ‘One thing surprises me, sergeant. I thought, when you realised who we are, that you would have one or two questions of your own.’

  Smith had the guitar case in his other hand now.

  ‘Just one, maybe. Did you ever actually go there?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where it says, on your sweatshirt.’

  ‘Yale? Yes I did, as it happens. One year postgraduate, international relations.’

  ‘That’s nice. Most of mine live in Bournemouth.’

  Fox took a moment to understand and then thought it worth a smile.

  ‘And yourself? Queen’s, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. That was only a bit of cover.’

  ‘Yes, of course. So where did you study?’

  Careless, Mr Fox. Always read the whole file.

  ‘Rourke’s bar, mostly. It taught me everything I needed to know.’

  Outside, because he had appeared unexpectedly, Mr Slab flinched and looked at the girl. She arched an eyebrow and he resumed his meditation on the true nature of bonded aggregate materials. She nodded and smiled beautifully as Smith approached, and he almost expected her to say ‘Enjoy the rest of your trip with us, sir.’

  As he passed her, Smith said, ‘Good morning. I hope you’ve improved on your parking skills,’ and left it at that. He needed some fresh air, and didn’t look back.

  After a short walk to the front – he simply could not allow that the forward-facing end of this thing justified the word ‘prow’ or even ‘bows’ – he returned to his table in the restaurant. It was still available but someone had removed his coffee, and so he had to buy another, which is doubly annoying when it’s rubbish in the first place. Still nothing on his phone, no messages or missed calls; it seemed to have expired some hours ago though the battery was at eighty three per cent and there was a signal thingy at the top. Not the usual one though – that might be the problem. Is that a special you’re-on-a-boat-do-this signal thingy? Why don’t they produce a little booklet, a manual that you can carry around with you, like the old Haynes ones for cars? That was in the days when you could service your own cars, of course… And then there is this business to think about still, this latest run-in with the dark forces of national insecurity. Messy, Smith, he thought – just a little messy. He went through it again as if it was a chore but knew, further inside, that he was grateful for it because it meant that he could forget for a while about the other matter.

  When they were about twenty minutes out from the port, his phone burst back into life like a demented bat, with beeps, buzzes and chirps. He had messages galore, and even voice mails. Well, four messages and a voice mail. One from Waters – sent yesterday, where had it been? – said ‘Hurry back. U r gna love this new 1. In the paper as the Metal Detector Murderer’. U r gna love? Nothing like this had ever been received before and it needed to be dealt with immediately. There was no way that he, Smith, could be off for another week. Then a message from Shirley Salmon at the caravan site telling him that the band were playing on Friday night, they had asked was he going to be there, and could he bring his Strat if he was? And two messages from Serena Butler. Oh dear. The first was sent late last night – it read simply Ring me. The second was from quite early this morning – Ring me as soon as you get this. Oh dear, oh dear. The voicemail was also from her, recorded just a couple of hours ago. He pressed play and listened, eyes closed.

  ‘DC, where are you? We’ve been trying to get in touch since yesterday. Maggie went into labour last night, and she’s having a bit of a bad time. John’s with her, obviously. Call me if you pick this up. You were only going to Belfast, weren’t you? Not Belize? Give me a call, DC’

  He tried to, straight away, but the phone was engaged. When you are someone prone to thinking a little too much, real life often comes to the rescue but he could have done without this. Having a bit of a bad time? What does that mean, exactly? Is it a medical term? We’ve been doing this for ten million years now – surely we are prepared for all eventualities? He dialled again – docking in five minutes, people starting to move towards the departure doors – and this time Serena answered.

  He said, ‘Hello, it’s me. We’ve just come into Birkenhead. What’s the latest?’

  ‘Still no news. John’s been texting me so I can tell people but I haven’t heard anything for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Do we know what the problem is?’

  ‘Men. They all have big heads. And there must be some reason why they’re not doing a C section.’

  It sounded like the sisterhood was in full cry at the moment, and this was already in danger of becoming a little too detailed on a cup of bad coffee and a piece of flapjack. He decided to remain objective.

  ‘Do we know it’s a boy, then? They’ve been keeping that a secret – if they even knew themselves.’

  ‘No, I don’t think we do. That’s just me taking a wild guess.’

  ‘Not that wild, is it? I mean, you’ve got a fifty fifty cha-’

  ‘DC – you need to get back here.’

  ‘Do I? Why?’

  Just how far do the duties of a godfather extend these days? Was he expected to go straight to the delivery suite? And then what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just won’t go right until you are. Hurry up.’

  That was the end of the call, more or less. What on earth did she mean? There was no sense in it, no logic, no reason. What did it matter where he was when all this was going on? The ferry had docked now and he grabbed the guitar case and set off for the exit. Christopher Colgate was leaving the ship and woe betide anyone who got in his way this time – if they did so they would have to deal with Sergeant David Smith or Captain Stuart Reilly as well, or even the three of them together. They had a train to catch.

  He sent two more texts to Serena Butler, one either side of Birmingham as they went north of it, asking for updates and receiving short, non-committal replies. As he travelled east, the land became flatter and the late afternoon became early evening. He felt the shift in the long train and knew that they were on the last great bend as the railway begins to curve down south-east towards the Wash. Kings Lake was a matter of minutes away, and once again, as a journey neared its end, his phone began to ring. He looked and saw that it was Serena Butler, and just for a moment he thought that he might not answer it, not speak to her until he was safely at home. Then he pressed ‘Accept’ because in the end that’s what we have to do.

  She talked, he listened and then he thanked her and said that he would see her tomorrow. The train’s wheels began that squealing, almost a screaming as the brakes are applied on a turn. Squealing, almost a screaming.
Like a baby. John just called me, she had said. Big John Murray, who kicked down doors after people had shot him, had just called her and he was crying on the phone. It was over. They were both OK. And it was a boy.

  Smith knew many of the taxi drivers in Lake – they were a key resource and he ought to check that Waters had already begun a collection of his own – but why was it this particular one tonight? What had he said to Helen Reece? An example of the unexpected synchronicity of events? He told the man his home address and they had a brief conversation because the taxi driver recognised him too. Then Smith sat back and watched the familiar streets swing by without seeing them at all.

  This was the driver who had taken him first to the home of Mirsad Subic that night, and then on to where Hanna Subic was hiding and guarding her cousin and her lover, Petar. Just a few hours earlier today, he, Smith, had encountered again the man who had followed Captain Hamilton up those stairs, who had listened to the confrontation between the unseen detective and the corrupt Army officer, and who had concluded that the best thing the security services could do on this occasion was to quietly walk away. Now Smith was riding along with the same taxi driver in what was, when he thought about it, probably the same cab. Synchronicity hardly did it justice.

  But what do these things mean when they happen? Surely we should not let them influence our actions and our reasoning minds, Smith. Without reason, what do we have? What do you in particular, Smith, have if your actions are no longer to be guided by the clear, cold light of logic?

  He thought about the answer for two more minutes, knowing which crossroads he would need to make the decision by, and knowing what the decision would be. If he did not do this now, he would not be able to sleep tonight. If he did not do it at some point, he might never get a good night’s sleep again.

  He leaned forward and said to the driver, ‘Sorry, mate. Change of plan. Can you take me to the central police station?’

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Detective Inspector Alison Reeve played badminton every Wednesday evening. A serious case or a serious cold might cause her to miss a week but, those things apart, the game was one of the regular fixtures in her life. She liked the physicality and the speed of it – how many people know that a shuttlecock can travel at two hundred miles an hour? – and she liked the competition, and the camaraderie of the changing room. Sometimes there was half a lager in the sports centre bar afterwards but generally she was away to her apartment by half past eight. Tonight of all nights, however, the club secretary, Rose Rumbelow, wanted to speak to her. If the club did get promotion in the county league, and it was looking more likely now, wasn’t it, they would need to think seriously about the roles of captain and vice-captain, and did she, Ms Reeve, as one of the most experienced players, have any thoughts about that?

  Only one, and that was “Me? Not likely, not now!” but Mrs Rumbelow was one of those earnest, well-meaning stalwarts found in every amateur sports club in the land and it wasn’t easy to let her down gently. It was almost nine o’clock before the detective inspector could get away. Still light though, as she drove back across the city towards the riverside, still people out experiencing the warmth of this most pleasant of summers. She wound down all the windows and enjoyed the rush of air. Anyone noticing her as she passed by would have seen an attractive smile on her face, one that for a change she was making no attempt to hide. She had plenty to smile about.

  Some public houses become police public houses, and The Lighterman’s Arms was one of them. For a quick drink after work, The Chequers in Honey Lane was the place of choice, just a minute’s walk from the station, but for a ‘do’ it had to be The Lighterman’s down by the river. Tonight there was a bit of a ‘do’, and Alison Reeve was hoping that she hadn’t missed anyone through arriving almost an hour later than she had hoped. Parking her car, she recognised several of the others but there was no sign of the old Peugeot that belonged to DC. He was on convalescent leave but surely he would not have departed before saying hello to her? Not tonight of all nights.

  First of all, though, she had to find John Murray. He had promised them two hours before he went back to the hospital, the two hours between eight and ten o’clock, and in that same phone call he told her that all being well he would be bringing them home tomorrow. Even in a crowded bar, John Murray isn’t difficult to find; she watched him for a moment talking to John Wilson, Simon O’Leary and Phil Jefferson and thought how it is that certain things, such as the births of babies, cause us to lower all the guards and let in others that we spend the rest of our time keeping at a distance. And then she thought how differently this might all have turned out if the bullet fired through the door a few weeks ago had travelled six inches to the left. We live suspended by such fine threads and ought to be more grateful for each and every day that they have not broken.

  He thanked her for coming, put his arms around her and almost kissed her cheek – John Murray! But it was the baby thing again, not the drink, because she could see that he was teetotal tonight. The baby thing. It was something you had to consider, especially past thirty, a year or two past thirty now, but again, not today, not tonight.

  ‘Where is everyone, John?’

  The bar was full of people, most connected to Lake Central, but he knew whom she meant.

  ‘They were on a table through there, in the Riverside lounge.’

  ‘OK. I’ll go and catch up. Oh, I almost forgot,’ and she handed him the envelope that she had carried from the car. ‘It’s just a card. I’ll get a gift when I’ve spoken to Maggie, I know you won’t have a clue!’

  The end of the bar already had a covering of cards and a handful of gifts. Murray put hers with them and picked up a little silver box tied with a red ribbon. He handed it to her and said, ‘Guess who this is from.’

  Reeve took out the rattle and shook it, and then she turned it in her hand and examined it closely, like an exhibit in a case.

  ‘It’s beautiful. It’s an antique surely – hallmarked, the lot. Maggie will love it!’

  There was a name inside the lid of the box, a shop in Belfast, so guessing wasn’t so hard.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Through there with the rest.’

  She returned the rattle to its box and handed it back to Murray.

  ‘I’ll go and say hello. Give Maggie my love – give them both my love! I’ll call her as soon as I know she’s home.’

  The Riverside lounge was quieter. She saw their table by the window that overlooks the water, and the river was shining in the dusk, the lights from the beer garden outside glimmering a little on the calm surface. Waters was there with a girl, and Serena and Mike Dunn. They waved to her and pulled out a chair from the nearest table. Spirits were high, and she decided there and then not to ask anyone how they were getting home or to be around when they actually made the attempt.

  Waters said, ‘Detective Inspector Reeve, this is Katherine Diver.’

  There was a faintly regal note to the introduction, followed by a pause and then laughter. The two women shook hands, and Reeve thought, so this is her. Tall, thin, blonde and striking – literally according to DC, if you’re not careful. Beautifully casual dress as well, expensive clothes. And the owner of a start-up private detective agency? No wonder Waters’ sergeant cannot make you out yet.

  Alison Reeve said, ‘So where is he?’

  Serena answered, ‘He went outside for a smoke about five minutes ago. We were talking birth horror stories and it was too much for him!’

  Laughter again, and then Waters said, ‘Did you know he was actually in the station last night? Charlie Hills told me this afternoon. I tried to bring him up to speed on the Metal Detector Murder story just now but he seemed more interested in my text speak. He said I was murdering the English language…’

  Katherine Diver said, ‘He’s a dear, isn’t he?’

  Reeve caught Serena’s eye and then looked away. Yes, he’s a dear alright, and if my memory serves me well, he’s a d
ear who has already saved you from a very close encounter with a couple of Albanian cutthroats. Your first case might have been your last. She stood up and said, ‘I’ll go and have a word before he disappears completely.’

  There were other people sitting out in the beer garden but he had managed to secure one of the wooden picnic tables closest to the water’s edge. He was alone, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, and as she approached she saw him draw on a cigarette. There was a small glass in front of him, too small for a soft drink – someone must have given him a lift to The Lighterman’s Arms.

  Reeve said, ‘Hello. The excitement in there too much for you?’

  He looked up and smiled. They had known each other for a long time, ever since she was a rookie detective and he was a DCI going places and wishing that he wasn’t – they needn’t bother with the usual empty greetings.

  ‘No, but the gynaecology is. At least, that’s what they think – I know it’s a wind-up but it gives me a reason to come out here and have one of these.’

  ‘A cigarette or a drink?’

  ‘Both. They go together well. Like rhubarb and custard.’

  He wasn’t drunk – she had never seen him drunk – but that wasn’t the first glass of whiskey he had had this evening.

  ‘How was Belfast?’

  ‘Plus ca change…’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were going. Had you planned it? I didn’t know you still had friends out there, DC.’

  He smiled at that and she wondered what he had found amusing. She waited then to see if he would explain – instead, after the smile, an odd expression that she did not understand before he looked away from her and across the darkling river. An evening breeze stirred through the long tresses of yellow blossom on the laburnum tree behind him and then died away.

  ‘How is the knee? That’s a fancy walking stick!’

  He lifted it up a little for her to see properly.