The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  The young man had been preparing to leave with the rest of them. When Smith spoke, he turned, looked and then came back to stand facing them with the guardian.

  ‘You wished to speak with me?’

  A resonant voice, deeper than expected and without a trace of accent.

  ‘Just so that I can say everyone has had the same opportunity, sir. I believe that you were at the friary when Mr Randall’s body was found - that would be on Tuesday the 18th of June.’

  ‘I certainly was. I went down to Eastlingsands on the Wednesday morning.’

  Brother Jeremy had not moved away, and Smith considered the ins and outs of that, like the last phase of an eye test when the optician drops lenses in and out and says ‘Better with – or without?’ After due consideration and a pause just long enough to be noticed, he decided - better with.

  ‘You perhaps already know then that we’ve spoken to the friars and asked them if they had seen or heard anything suspicious before the body was found. Just the same thing as I’ve been talking about this morning – any small details that might shed some light on what took place down by the river that night.’

  Brother Andrew didn’t hurry his answer; he frowned a little and treated the question - though he had not actually been asked one – with due respect.

  ‘I’ve heard all about it, obviously. In a small community we are perhaps more prone to gossip than we should be! But if there had been anything that I could tell you, I would have done so immediately.’

  He spoke simply, clearly and beautifully – there was no other word for it – and he spoke like a man older than his years. Brother Jeremy had watched the young man as he did so, and then turned his gaze onto the policemen, as if to say ‘Satisfied?’ There was something almost fatherly in the way he did that – something protective and even proud. Smith remembered then what Joe had said to him, how these two friars had shared interests and shared walks in the countryside; Brother Joe with his mop and bucket and these two wandering about together, talking about trees.

  Was that the briefest of nods from Jeremy before Andrew began to turn away, as if they had finished here?

  Smith said then, ‘Only I know you have a particular interest in the countryside, sir – the wildlife. Badgers, isn’t it?’

  There was a look from the young man, then, to the older one, a look that was difficult to measure. Brother Jeremy shrugged, smiled at him and said, ‘More gossip!’ Andrew came back to his original position with a smile of infinite patience, striking in someone so young.

  ‘I would say – sergeant, isn’t it – more than an interest. An interest makes it sound like a hobby. Like collecting stamps. I would say that I have a love for the natural world, for all of God’s creatures. For me, this is the surest way to God himself because these creatures are without blemish, without sin. They show us in their own natures one of the many faces of God. They show us how to live at peace in this world. In refusing to see this, we contribute to our own damnation.’

  It was not, to put it mildly, the answer that Smith might have anticipated – he had only asked about badgers, after all. The guardian’s expression this time said, well, you deserved that – it was plain that they were dealing with his star pupil here. Smith sensed Alison Reeve watching him, too, and perhaps wondering how he might respond.

  ‘Do you know, sir, I’m almost embarrassed to say this now but I’ve never seen a live badger, just the odd one dead on the road.’

  Brother Andrew said, ‘In that you are not alone. I imagine that more people have run them over than have taken the time to study them in their natural environment. In the speed of the motor car, everything becomes a blur, and we don’t see the damage that we do, the carnage that we leave behind. It has become a metaphor for the way we lead our lives.’

  Reeve said, ‘Thank you for your help, all of you. You can contact us easily if anyone remembers a detail that might help us in the investigation…’

  But Smith said, as if he hadn’t heard her, ‘I’ve seen the sett down by the river, though – Steven Harper showed it to me this week. He says it might be centuries old, which I thought was fascinating. I mean, how deep are those tunnels? When you look at the amount of soil they dig out, you have to be impressed. And how many badgers live in a sett like that? Different generations? They must have quite complex social lives as well.’

  The lines of sight between the four members of the group formed a perfect cross; Reeve and Brother Jeremy were regarding each other as were Brother Andrew and Smith. The detective inspector smiled a little apologetically at the guardian and turned to Smith, about to give a more obvious nudge to say that they were done here, and she saw on his face an expression that she recognised – the expression of the peculiar second cousin twice removed, one step away from the village idiot. She closed her mouth then and looked back at Brother Andrew.

  ‘They do indeed, sergeant. All credit to you for realising that much. Watching a sett regularly, one soon comes to recognise individuals. They are as diverse as people. In my humble opinion.’

  ‘I don’t know about that – you sound like a bit of an expert to me. When do they have their young?’

  ‘In February. They have an unusual strategy that involves delayed implantation of the fertilised eggs. The cubs first appear above ground in April but now is the best time to be watching them, with the short nights. Sometimes one sees them for a full hour before darkness.’

  ‘Really. And you can just sit there and see them going about their business?’

  Brother Jeremy was smiling openly at the policeman’s ingenuous interest, and the look that Reeve returned said, yes – we have to humour him sometimes.

  Andrew said, ‘You can, if you observe some obvious precautions, such as keeping downwind and very still, making use of the available cover.’

  ‘I see. It might seem obvious to you, sir, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. Still…’

  ‘I have introduced several people to watching wildlife, sergeant. If you are serious about it, I could show you the ropes, as they say.’

  And the sergeant looked at the inspector as if he might need her permission before he said, ‘Well, that’s a kind offer. Evenings is the time? I can’t do anything before next week, and I’d need to check my diary… Could I ring you?’

  Andrew smiled – ‘I don’t have a mobile phone. But you could leave a message at the office and I could call you back to make an arrangement. I should say that this isn’t a case of popping down, having a quick look and going off to the pub. One makes a commitment, an investment of time. More than one person has found the whole experience rather spiritual.’

  Smith said, ‘I understand that. It’s kind of you to make the offer and I hope that I can take it up. Sorry ma’am, I got a bit carried away. We should leave these gentlemen in peace now, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Thank you, DC. I now know far more about badgers than I ever wanted to. The delayed implantation sounds like a good idea, though.’

  They were back at his car, having left her own vehicle down at the field along with the various others that arrive whenever there is forensic work to be done and a site to be searched.

  Smith said, ‘An important way of preparing for one’s senior years is learning to keep an open mind and a willingness to engage in new activities that stimulate the central cortex. I saw that in a Panorama programme so it must be true, if it was on the BBC.’

  ‘And you think that watching some badgers frolicking about of an evening is going to stimulate your central cortex, DC?’

  ‘It might do even more than that. You heard what the man said – I might have a spiritual experience as well. Two for the price of one.’

  Smith adjusted the rear-view mirror but as yet he had made no attempt to start the car. Reeve took out her phone and looked at the messages, of which there were several. Then she said, ‘The shovel’s on its way, according to Richard Ford – I asked him to let me know. How did he take the news?’


  ‘Very well, all things considered. He didn’t realise that life as he has known it has just come to an end, of course.’

  ‘Don’t give me that! You can’t give it up, DC. You love this job.’

  One of those silences – have you said the wrong thing or a thing so right that it hurts?

  ‘Maybe. Some of us do. The only problem is that the job doesn’t always love us back, does it?’

  ‘Oh dear… Perhaps you should go and visit the badgers. You sound as if you need a spiritual experience.’

  He was still looking into the mirror and making no move to start the engine.

  Alison Reeve said, ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but I’ve got a thousand things I need to be doing this morning, starting with getting back to the field. We’re not hanging around here for any reason, are we?’

  He turned the key then and the car started with the familiar kick and splutter of an ageing diesel engine.

  ‘Probably not. But I thought I might have a nibble there for a moment or two.’

  They had passed a side gate on the way back to the car from the meeting room, and through it he had glimpsed one of the friars, standing back a little way but clearly watching the progress of the two police officers as they left the main building. It was Joseph Ritz. Did he have something he wanted to say, something that he would rather not say in front of the others? Smith had given him five minutes and he had not appeared. He put the car into gear and pulled away slowly, still checking in the mirror, but no-one stepped out of the side gate.

  Reeve said, ‘You don’t have anything here, do you? I know you said they’re an odd lot and after meeting Brother Doolittle I’m not going to argue with that – but there’s nothing else, is there? Or are you seriously interested in seeing his badgers? I wish I hadn’t just said that, by the way, it sounds so wrong…’

  The car passed through the old stone pillars of the once-grand entrance into the Abbeyfield estate and turned left down the hill into the green-wood valley of the river Laveney.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more wildlife, as it happens. Had you heard that I recently found a golden oriole? No? I can see wildlife being a good antidote to spending my days dealing with low-life. So yes, I’d like to see his badgers. But it’s like I said earlier – it might be two for the price of one.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had not been a pleasant morning in the open-plan office shared by the detective teams at Kings Lake Central. As he watched Detective Sergeant John Wilson alternately sitting and glaring at his own monitor and then stalking around the room glaring at other people’s, Christopher Waters concluded that if a week is a long time in politics then it can be an eternity in a police investigation. News of the discovery of the shovel had circulated quickly and everyone had worked out for themselves what the implications might be for the man they had under arrest and already charged; there had as yet been no team meeting but Wilson was making it clear that he wanted everything they had done so far to be checked and effing double-checked before senior officers arrived and began asking how this effing cock-up had occurred. Reading what Serena had produced so far – she was returning the favour on the other side of the desk that they presently shared – Waters reflected too on the differences between the two sergeants that he had worked for at Kings Lake. For a start, Smith would not have called this an ‘effing’ cock-up – at least, not in front of the ladies.

  It might not be a cock-up at all, of course. The shovel might incriminate Gareth Stone and then it was game over for him, but if you accepted that the shovel had not been missed during the search - and Wilson for one was not prepared to rule that out until he had personally grilled all the officers responsible - then there was definitely something else going on, something out of the ordinary. Waters had not yet made himself a badge that said ‘WWSD?’ but he had learned to step away and to think backwards when complications like this arose. Kings Lake Central was behind the times in some ways, and he had grown used to the occasional mockery of his academic qualifications – even agreed with it sometimes – but now, when dispassionate objectivity was needed, he knew that three years studying history at a very good university had not been a complete waste of time. Re-examine the evidence for and against the argument, consider each link in the chain of logic – the same chain that seems to imprison you can be your anchor in a storm.

  He completed his reading of Serena’s records and looked up at her; she was still busy with his own and didn’t notice him. She regularly professed a dislike of the routines and procedures, the bureaucracy that could make a nonsense of days at a time, but her written work was immaculate as far as he could tell. And she still saw things in people that he did not, which was annoying, but then, as Smith would say, that’s not on the syllabus at any university. Waters shrugged that off and went back to his chain; no-one was watching and so he opened the case files and studied the photographs of the murder scene. There was one of Mark Randall’s hand trowel lying on the earth three or four feet from his body. It was rather sad – a strange little emblem of mortality, in a man’s warm hand one moment and then orphaned forever by a thunderbolt from above… That’s all they use though, isn’t it, hand trowels? Scraping away at the surface like official archaeologists do; his own interest had been in the origins of modern political ideas but he knew that much. Why would either of them, Randall or Stone, have had a shovel with them that night? Going around illegally and after dark, having to carry the cumbersome detector, you wouldn’t take any more equipment than was necessary. Was a heavy shovel necessary? Or had Stone taken it with him deliberately, as a murder weapon? Very odd choice, when you think about it – any one of half a dozen common objects could have been concealed in a bag and done the job as effectively.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a whisper from Serena Butler.

  ‘Have I missed out lots of full stops?’

  ‘None as far as I can see. I’m giving this a good solid B.’

  ‘Why only a B if it’s got all the full stops?’

  ‘You need to vary your sentence structure more.’

  Waters heard the beginnings of an unladylike reply before the door opened and DI Reeve came in followed by Smith. Reeve gave a general nod to the detectives in the room and then began a quiet conversation with John Wilson. Smith headed for his own desk beside Waters’ and Butler’s, sat down and frowned. After a decent interval, Waters said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Meles meles.’

  Serena pulled a face as if she knew what this was, and Waters said, ‘Is it contagious?’

  ‘No. It’s the Latin name for the European badger. DI Reeve and I have just been hearing about its remarkable ability to delay the implantation of the fertilised egg into the womb. DI Reeve thinks this is a very good idea, and so do I – especially for young people like yourselves.’

  He looked at them both, one after the other.

  Serena said, ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll mention it to my GP the next time I’m seeing him about contraception,’ and Waters had to smile to himself and acknowledge her growing skills at surviving in this team – at the mention of the word ‘contraception’, Smith had blinked a little and asked what had been going on in the office while they were out.

  Investigations can go into limbo. There was no point in sending anyone out because there was nothing to be done until something was known about the shovel. All the reports were double-checked, copies were made of these and of the video files of the interviews and backed up onto separate drives. Reeve held a short briefing explaining that the work done so far was sound and that she and Detective Sergeant Smith had begun the process of asking potential witnesses about who or what had been seen in the Abbeyfields area over the past twenty four hours; depending on what forensics came up with, they might all find themselves going door-to-door, not that there were many doors in the area. Waters looked at Wilson then but his face was impassive. Then DI Reeve left the room and the quiet descended again. Several of them took an early lunch �
� Butler and Waters invited Smith to the canteen but he declined. Waters could see that he was on a page from criminal records but not a name, and Smith was not ready to share what he was thinking at the moment. There would be no point in asking, that was for certain.

  Joseph Ritz had told the simple truth – he had not embroidered it and he had omitted nothing of significance. Still, a Franciscan friar who had served a bit of time – you don’t come across one of those every day. Maybe it’s more common than you think, though, Smith… He took out his Alwych – almost full, soon be time to take the cellophane wrapper off a new one, a moment he always enjoyed - and ran the other names, finding nothing more. In doing so, he had left a trail of his own – a senior officer could look at his use of the database and ask him why he had accessed Joseph Ritz’s record and why he had made the searches that he had. It was unlikely that anyone would do so but if they did, what answer would he give? I was at a bit of a loose end that day we found the shovel and were waiting for the results? Hardly good enough but it was more than that anyway. More than that but not much – almost nothing, in fact. The thing is, ma’am, I can’t figure out why Brother Jeremy made that assumption – that we had arrested someone who’d been digging up badgers for the murder of Mark Randall; no-one had mentioned it to him and it certainly wasn’t in the press because I’ve got the papers and checked and I’ve even looked at the local news pages online – not a mention of it. So why…? He just made a guess, ma’am? But why that guess? And then, before that, the day after the body was found, one of the friars disappears for almost a fortnight.

  Where did he go? On a religious retreat, ma’am. Yes, I realise that’s not a very remarkable thing for a priest to do but I don’t think it was prearranged, I think he went in a hurry. Why? Because Dolly Argyris told me. Yes, the same Dolly Argyris that we once arrested for torching a rival taxi firm’s premises. She was never charged and…