The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

  There was no question in that but the policeman seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from Steven Harper.

  ‘We don’t object to them looking if they’ve asked permission and it won’t do any damage to crops. To be honest, it would be handy if someone did find a hoard – what with the price of wheat these past few years, we could do with some of the cash.’

  Smith nodded and looked at his watch.

  ‘Have you got a few more minutes, Mr Harper?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I’d just like to carry on along this path a little further. If you could show me the way, I would be grateful.’

  As Harper had said earlier, after another hundred yards or so, the footpath left the river and began to climb the hillside on their left, which was steeper than it first appeared, steep enough to produce something of a sweat in the heat. They paused in the shade of an ancient hawthorn, more a tree than a bush, and Smith hung up his jacket on one of its branches – they were coming back in a few minutes, he said, no need to carry it about. Not a high crime area, is it, and Harper had smiled at the irony. And Smith thought, we must look like an odd couple alright, me in my shirt and tie, him in his overalls and boots. He had wondered about Steven Harper, it was true, but there was nothing now that concerned him – his thoughts had moved in quite another direction.

  As the hill levelled out, they came to an old brick wall, that soft, reddish brick so characteristic of parts of north Norfolk. The wall was a good eight feet in height and ran alongside the footpath for a surprising distance. Smith didn’t need to ask whether this was at the back of Abbeyfields. At approximately the mid-way point, there was a solid wooden door with an iron handle but no locks or bolts. Smith took hold of the handle and pushed, pulled and twisted it to no discernible effect – it was firmly secured from the other side, just as one might have expected.

  Harper said, ‘It’s not far round to the front if you wanted to go in.’

  ‘No, thank you. One visit from me per day is quite enough for most people.’

  Smith leaned in towards the gate and examined the upper hinge, the knuckles of which were visible where the door had shrunk a little away from the frame over the years. Then he crouched and studied the ground in front of the door. He said, ‘Well, it may be the back door but someone makes good use of it.’

  Smith stood up and Harper said, ‘It’s the quickest way down to the riverside, which is the prettiest walk, I suppose. We see them about now and then.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Father Jeremy, usually along the river. I’ve seen him sitting on the riverbank a time or two.’

  Smith nodded and thought ‘Father Jeremy’ – the Harpers, or at least Steven Harper, didn’t have much to do with the friary, then. He said, ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘There’s a younger one that I don’t know. Only ever seen him from a distance but he walks miles sometimes, I’ve seen him right down on our fen fields beyond Lowacre. Always has his robe on, you know, the full robe. Sometimes he has the hood up as well. Looks proper medieval! If you met him in the half-light, you could get a fright!’

  Smith looked up and down the footpath as if he was anticipating that very sight, and then said, ‘So the lady who was out jogging and found the body would have come this way, too – either from the Upper Mill road and down, or up from where we parked the cars.’

  ‘Marie that was, from Lowacre. We know Marie. She runs out to Upper Mill and then comes back this way early most mornings. She’s a very fit woman.’

  Smith could not resist a glance but Harper was quite serious and straight-faced; there was something almost naïve about him that sat oddly with his responsibilities and his obvious dedication to the family business and the farming life. In the past someone would have found him a wife, a farmer’s daughter, but perhaps there were very few of those available nowadays for such a young man. It was a pity.

  Back at the vehicles, Smith thanked him again for his time, and told him that someone had been arrested on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Mark Randall – he felt he owed Harper that. There wasn’t much surprise shown but he would enjoy relaying the news to his mother, and it was also a way of reminding him that he might at some point be needed to identify the man he had confronted back in April.

  Harper said, ‘So it was him, was it?’

  ‘The man that we have arrested and the man you met might be one and the same, Mr Harper. I couldn’t say much more than that.’

  John Wilson was saying, ‘So if that interview goes as planned…’ when the door to the briefing room opened and Smith walked in. Every detective currently working the Randall case was there, along with Detective Inspector Reeve and Detective Superintendent Allen. Smith had the feeling that the meeting had been underway for several minutes but he had received no text or call asking him to be there – perhaps he wasn’t meant to be there but he put up a hand in apology and took the first available chair.

  Wilson waited long enough for it to be noted that the interruption had been an inconvenient one and then he continued, ‘So what we do next is to lean on Michael Symons. He’s in interview room three and I’ve given him just enough to think about to make him start to sweat. I’ll show him that we know how many lies Gareth has been caught out in already and ask him to reconsider the alibi he’s given him. If he won’t and we can show that Stone never was at his place that night, Symons might be looking at a conspiracy charge himself.’

  DI Reeve said, ‘John, we’d have trouble making that one stick.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, ma’am, but Symons doesn’t,’ and Superintendent Allen nodded his approval. Smith could not disagree – putting the alibi under pressure in that way was exactly what he would have done himself.

  Reeve said, ‘Again, well done to everyone for this morning’s efforts. You know getting the soil sample results back will take a while but the top-up voucher receipt is an ace, as far as I’m concerned. I can’t wait to hear how he’s going explain that.’

  Reeve looked at Serena Butler and others followed her example; after an awkward first few months, Serena’s star was beginning to rise again. She had been on the verge of promotion to detective sergeant before her transfer under awkward circumstances from Longmarsh - Smith wondered how long she should leave it before making the application again. She caught his eye now and frowned, mainly because she was embarrassed by the attention.

  Superintendent Allen said, ‘And let me add my congratulations. It isn’t often we get a result as quickly as this – and yes, I know it isn’t technically a result yet but sound work has been done here, a real team effort. Well done, John.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  DI Reeve said, ‘We haven’t disclosed the top-up receipt to Stone yet but I think it will be worth letting him know that we are questioning Michael Symons. John, who are you going to take in with you when you interview Symons?’

  When a senior officer gives you that choice, you know that they think you’re doing well, that you’ve earned the right to reward another member of your team – if she did not think that, she might have taken the second interviewer role herself. Wilson looked around at everyone but Serena and then said, ‘Detective Constable Butler, ma’am.’

  No-one could argue after what had already been said – it would be seen as deserved after what she had contributed already but Smith waited for the look from Wilson, and it came eventually; just an upward, sideways glance that said yes, even the awkward squad in your team are working with me now.

  ‘Anything to add before we finish, sergeant?’

  Superintendent Allen had not been able to resist the opportunity to shine the spotlight in Smith’s direction. Rather than give him the opportunity to say in as many words, so what exactly have you been doing this morning while the rest, led by Wilson, have been covering themselves in glory, Smith gave a clear, factual account of his movements in the past three hours. It was followed by a short silence.

  Then Allen said, looking first at DI
Reeve and then at Wilson, ‘We have already spoken to the people at the friary, haven’t we? That was done immediately, on the day the body was discovered? And they had witnessed nothing?’

  Wilson answered – ‘Yes, sir. But DC thought he knew the person in charge, sir. He thought he might be able to… Find out if anything had been missed, sir.’

  ‘And had anything been missed?’

  Every face was now watching Smith and waiting for the answer. What Allen was doing was out of order, to the point of being unprofessional, but Smith knew that he had given the man this opportunity as well as reasons enough to exploit it; usually the best way around trouble is straight through it, and so he said brightly, ‘Too soon to say, sir.’

  Allen said with an edge, ‘Ah, of course. No doubt you will let us know in good time. And then, after your visit to the friary, you went for a walk in the countryside with a farmer, a Mr Harper. Is he pertinent to the investigation, Detective Inspector – as far as we ordinary mortals are aware?’

  After a pause, Reeve said, ‘Not as far as I am aware, sir. No doubt-’

  ‘A sharp focus is what gets results,’ said Allen, looking around at the assembled detectives, ‘with everyone in the team facing and pulling in the same direction. Sharp focus, concentration and collaboration. Goals are scored by individuals but they are made by teams, remember that,’ as he got up, and if he had then walked around the table, shaken Wilson’s hand and embraced him, Smith would not have been astonished. He felt a little sorry for Chris Waters and Serena Butler, though; Allen’s words had embarrassed them and they would not look at him for the moment. John Murray would have found a way of surreptitiously poking his middle finger into the air, and Maggie Henderson would have sniffed as if the room suddenly had a most unpleasant odour in it, but John and Maggie were not here.

  There was a lot of concentration and collaboration in the air then, as people left the room in two and threes, Serena with Wilson, listening to his plans for the interview they were about to begin, and Waters with Mike Dunn, who was the only person who caught Smith’s eye on the way out and winked one of his own. Alison Reeve stayed behind until everyone else had departed. When Smith said nothing, she said, ‘Ouch?’

  ‘Allen? He’ll have to try harder than that.’

  ‘I know. But you’ve come back as soon as you could, DC. If you need a bit more time, it can be arranged, you know that.’

  ‘I had a fairly minor operation on my knee.’

  ‘OK.’

  Reeve looked at him, looked away and then back again.

  Smith said, ‘If you agree with him, the superintendent, you only have to say. If you think I’ve lost my ‘focus’.’

  ‘DC, I would never… You know that. But since you came back, you’ve been a bit – remote? I know it wasn’t the operation. You went to Belfast. Did something happen? Is something bothering you?’

  He was quiet for a moment before he said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What is it, DC?’

  He was standing by the table. When he put out a hand and leaned against it a little she thought, this is it, he’s going to tell me something awful, I knew it…

  ‘OK. As you’ve asked me. You’re the senior investigating officer in this case. Why would you even have a dork like that in the room for a briefing? You didn’t invite him, did you? Tell me you didn’t invite him.’

  ‘No, I did not invite him – he invited himself. Occasionally he takes an interest in what I’m doing. I think it’s called being my boss.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s what you have to discourage. It’s called learning to manage upwards, I believe – not that I’m au fait with all the modern theories. In my time we just made sure that we kept them distracted with a rattle while we got on with the job.’

  She was annoyed, and he thought, I must just be having one of those days.

  Reeve said, ‘Well, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll soon be one of them myself.’

  ‘Still time to change your mind about that, ma’am…’

  ‘Oh – like you did?’

  She wasn’t annoyed; she was really annoyed. He raised both palms in the universal gesture of submission, and smiled something like an apology – this was not a bridge he was ready to burn.

  He said, ‘Sorry if you think I’ve put you on the spot with the superintendent, even if he is a dork. As my boss, would you like to direct my labours for the rest of this day? I feel a sudden need to collaborate, ma’am.’

  She didn’t believe him for a moment but he had done enough to put out the fire.

  ‘Can you watch the video as they interview Michael Symons? I was going to do that myself but as you’re here… Let me know what you think when it’s done. And then you ought to write up what you’ve been doing this morning anyway, just in case he, you know, Superintendent Allen…’

  And then after a pause she said, ‘What exactly is a dork?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know but I’m very sorry I said it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s an Americanism.’

  ‘True. That’s not like you at all, DC.’

  She had left the room and half-closed the door before she stopped outside and reversed the sequence of events. She looked at him hard before she spoke.

  ‘You haven’t actually got something, have you?’

  ‘What’s this? You trying to get me back on the sick-list?’

  ‘No, idiot. I mean to do with this case. You haven’t found something? You haven’t, God forbid, got a feeling about it?’

  Smith thought back to his earlier encounter with the superintendent and then said even more brightly, ‘Too soon to say, ma’am!’

  Chapter Nine

  When they put down those old parquet floors donkey’s years ago, they could never have imagined that they would be the best surface from which to clear up vomit – plenty of water, plenty of Jeyes fluid and a few swills with a mop and it was gone. Whoever had been on duty last night hadn’t done much of a job and he smelled it as soon as he came into the hall but he had not complained. They were always short of volunteers, especially so at this time of the year; come Christmas time there would be a little surge of Christian charity, otherwise known as Protestant guilt, and all sorts would turn up for a week or two, bright-eyed, burning with a newly-discovered desire to fulfil the eleventh commandment but the flame had invariably guttered and gone out by the end of January. Joseph Ritz got down on his knees then and with an old towel wiped away the remaining water because whoever had thrown up had done so just inside the doorway, and the water was a health and safety hazard. He wondered whether they had been sick on their way in or on their way out. And he had to smile at the health and safety thing as well – the last thing the clients of St Ann’s had to worry about was slipping over and landing their backsides. Still, if they did so, they could make a claim these days, and that might be one way out of the abyss, as long as they could still get legal aid…

  All done. The idle thoughts came to an end as well, and he sat back on his heels, still on his knees. Bars of evening sunlight streamed through the windows high in the wall behind him and formed his own shadow in front – the shadow of a kneeling man. It would be easy to close his eyes and enjoy a moment of contemplation but he did not do so. Instead, he kept them open and thought about his own path to this place and this moment; long and winding, steep and narrow at times, through thorns and deserts, and lonely, as it has to be. Not praying – he didn’t pray nearly as much as the rest of them, and had stopped worrying about that – and not even talking to God; not telling God anything but showing him something. Showing him that the vomit can be cleaned away, washed away with a little water. And some Jeyes.

  He had been hearing voices, real ones, for a minute or so and was not surprised when his name was called by Billy McCann, the words ‘Brother Joe?’ echoing around the hall. Billy stood in the doorway at the far end, afraid to come in and disturb what he imagined were devotions.

  ‘What is it, Billy? Ar
e we in business already? Do we have a customer?’

  ‘We do not, Joe. It’s the police here, asking for you.’

  Police, heavy with emphasis on the first syllable and light on the second, the way they say it in Glasgow. Joe got to his feet, smoothed down the robe and picked up the mop and bucket. Police? Twice in one day? It must be some sort of a sign.

  ‘Oh, it’s you again.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The proverbial bad penny at times. One of the hazards of my line of work. I can see you have a few of your own.’

  The detective nodded down at the cleaning equipment.

  Brother Joe said, ‘If I told you someone knocked over a vase of flowers, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?’

  ‘Not without some sort of corroboration, sir; no, I wouldn’t.’

  Joe set off again, crossing the ante-room of the old Methodist Chapel and then turning left along a short passageway that took them out into the open air. There was a tap on the outside wall and he turned it on, sluicing out the bucket and rinsing the mop in it at the same time. Smith had followed him and now stood watching the operation, his hands behind his back. Joe glanced up at him as he worked and noticed that the man’s tie had disappeared into a pocket somewhere and that he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, as if he was about to do some serious work of his own. They might as well get on with it, then.

  ‘Let me guess, sergeant. You’ve had a look at your records and found something interesting. The photo is a bit out of date and the last address is wrong but the name is unusual, so you’ve come back to ask if this is the same Joseph Ritz. Yes it is. Next question – have I murdered anyone in the past fortnight? No. I was convicted of fraud. The other thing, bound over to keep the peace, was after I’d been on the streets a while. A few lads were having a laugh, tormenting an old dear who was sleeping in a doorway. I got involved and got another conviction for my trouble. Because I failed to declare all this in our first interview, you have returned to give me a proper grilling. How am I doing so far?’