The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

Reeve agreed in the end and told Smith that the plan was to arrest Davis if he showed any sign of leaving the station; all rather peculiar, Smith had to admit, but one could never predict how an individual would behave in these circumstances. They had a man in the interview room who had come voluntarily but who was refusing to answer any questions, who was plainly frightened about something but who was not yet asking to leave – and who would now be arrested if he attempted to do so. One for the training manual, really, he had said to DI Reeve but she hadn’t responded other than to say that he, Smith, needed to be back at the station as soon as, please, no scenic routes on the way back, and then he could tell that she wished she hadn’t said that and the call ended a little awkwardly.

  Waters went with him out to Threeways – the first time he had ventured out to this part of their patch. They took the road west out of the town, and down the last or the first of the Norfolk hills; within ten minutes they were crossing the low-lying fields that mark the beginning of the flat lands south of the Wash, much of the area that is now below sea level thanks to the shrinkage that has taken place since the Dutchmen drained the marshes some three hundred years ago.

  Smith said, ‘Well, this is it. Your first visit to the wild west fen. If you think Princes Street on a Saturday night is a bit iffy, you should meet some of the characters who live out this way. Come to think of it, you’re probably about to do so.’

  Waters took a look out of the passenger window before he answered.

  ‘It’s just farms, isn’t it?’

  ‘There are some big farms out here, and some small-holdings still growing fruit and flowers, and a bit of specialist veg. But there are also lots of in-between people, the ones who like lots of privacy. Like that bungalow there, in the trees – he’s what, a good quarter of a mile back from the road but look at the locks on the gate we’re passing. You can’t get down there other than by walking, and I guarantee you won’t take them by surprise. They might be legit… And I might be the long-lost great grandson of Scott of the Antarctic.’

  Waters turned a little to study the bungalow amongst the trees as they left it behind, and then he twisted back to watch the road ahead – it needed some watching as the dips in it were alarming at times. He knew this was due to the land still contracting as the peat beneath continued to dry out.

  He said, ‘I didn’t copy anything off your notes this morning, DC.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll go for great minds think alike rather than fools rarely differ.’

  ‘It just seemed like common sense to me, to speak to Wildlife Crimes at some point.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about common sense…’

  Waters thought for a short while, still watching the road ahead but taking more interest in the scattered cottages and bungalows now – and it was true that many of them seemed to be hidden behind fences or gates or tall, out-of-place conifer hedges. He wondered about their lives out here in the silence, with just the occasional drone of an aircraft overhead or the rumbling by of a tractor to break up the monotony.

  Then Waters said, ‘I’m surprised you don’t put in for the WCU yourself, now that you’ve found a Golden Oriole…’

  It was some sort of pit-bull terrier and it was on a chain long enough to allow it to get right across the track. They had parked at the locked gate and walked for maybe fifty yards before the dog launched itself towards them out of a kennel half-hidden by a cluster of blackthorn bushes. The chain brought it to a sudden halt and the dog reared up on its hind legs, half-barking, half-whining in frustration that it could not reach the two interlopers and welcome them properly.

  Smith and Waters stood still, both knowing enough not to look directly at the dog – after perhaps twenty seconds it returned to its four feet and maintained a low, threatening growl. There was no way past the animal, of course, and no means of alerting the owners that they were here, other than hoping that they had taken some notice of the dog.

  Smith said, ‘That chain looks new, which is a bit of a comfort… Unless it’s an imported one. Are the Chinese dumping finished steel goods as well?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I think there’s a poster of that dog up in the station. I’m guessing it’s one of the illegal breeds.’

  ‘Dear me. Not that particular dog, is it? Just our luck to get one wanted for murder. I’m sure he’s got a heart of gold once you get to know him, just like his owner – who is, I believe, taking a look at us right now from inside that corrugated shed, the one next to the house.’

  There were several sheds, each in a different provincial style but all in a similar state of disrepair. Most seemed to contain the wrecks of cars, and between the sheds, on the overgrown verges of the track, were yet more wrecks of cars, vans and old minibuses. The bonnets were raised on some of them as if someone was at work, but the insides of the bonnets and the exposed engines were as rusty as the vehicles themselves – they had been raised months or years ago and no-one had taken the trouble to close them. Behind a grimy, cobwebbed window in the corrugated shed, Waters could see a face.

  The man who eventually stepped out was younger than either of the detectives had expected – Wilf Baxter might or might not be thirty. He came towards them slowly, arms and legs a little bowed as if he had ridden horses all of his life, making plenty of eye-contact with them both – he was only Smith’s height and build but the white singlet revealed tightly-muscled arms and a thick, powerful neck. He stopped a few yards short of them, leaving the dog between them and the dog looked up at him, its demeanour entirely changed by Baxter’s presence – it was wagging its tail now.

  Smith said, ‘Mr Baxter? Wilf Baxter? I’m Detective Sergeant Smith, and this is Detective Constable Waters – we’re both from Kings Lake Central police station. But I think you already know all that, if you’ve spoken to Ted Greene this morning.’

  Just a single nod and then, ‘So what do you want?’

  The voice was accented with the slow, gently curling syllables of the fens but the eyes were quick and calculating; Waters remembered Smith’s warning about the kind of people they were likely to meet this morning.

  ‘Five minutes of your time, Mr Baxter. I imagine you’re a busy man. Ted thought that you might be able to help us with a bit of background on someone we’re currently interviewing. Brian Davis from out at Gaultways.’

  Waters had seen Smith play interviews every which way by now. Often he was so indirect or apparently out of focus that even the accompanying officer had no idea how they would reach their destination from here, but now, with Wilf Baxter, there was an unusual brevity and openness. If this wasn’t some form of respect, it was certainly intended to give Baxter the impression that it was.

  Baxter had not reacted to the name in any visible way. When he next spoke it was to Smith but with a sideways nod to his companion.

  ‘I spoke to Ted. He mentioned you. Didn’t say nothing about him.’

  ‘We usually work in pairs, Mr Baxter.’

  ‘That’s nice, then. But if I’m talking to Ted Greene, he’s always on his own…’

  There was a pause. Somewhere beyond the cottage a rooster crowed. Smith looked that way and saw washing on a line and children’s toys and bikes on the lawn beneath. Baxter had a family here but there was no sign of them. They had, he knew, been told to keep quiet and out of sight because the bogeyman was paying them a visit.

  Baxter said, ‘I’ll talk to you because Ted mentioned you. Your friend here can keep out of it.’

  Smith looked up at Waters with raised eyebrows. This was partly about game-playing, about whether Baxter could dictate the terms, but it was also about the laws of evidence, which Baxter would know better than any rookie police officer; there is a significant difference in a courtroom between his word against mine and their word against mine. It looked as if Baxter might have something useful to say but it would not be down to him directly as to whether he said it in front of Waters.

  Smith said, ‘Detective Constable Waters. Mr Baxter
does not get to decide whether you participate in the little chat we’re about to have. It’s your decision. If you’re happy to stay here and keep Fido company, so be it. If you’re not, we will leave Mr Baxter in peace.’

  Waters caught the disbelieving smile on Baxter’s face but it faded as their eyes met and the stare held – after several more seconds, Waters said, ‘No, it’s fine sergeant. You go ahead. I’m sure the dog and I will have plenty to talk about. I’m going to start by asking him what breed he is.’

  The point was not lost on Baxter; as he walked away to the shed with Smith, he glanced back at Waters and said to Smith, ‘Don’t forget, I’m supposed to be doing Ted Greene a favour here…’

  The conversation lasted about a quarter of an hour and during it Smith learned a number of things about badger-baiting that he didn’t want to know and a couple of things that he did – the names of the two men that Brian Davis had associated with since he had returned to the practice after the convictions two years before. Quite where Wilf Baxter fitted in to all this was not clear – as Ted Greene himself had said, Baxter was one of those people who just seemed to know things. Perhaps he was involved, perhaps not; Smith made a mental note to ask Ted Greene when he called and thanked him for this, but for now what mattered was that he had the names. He thought that they might already be on the list that had been compiled but could not be sure – you’re slipping, Smith, he told himself, because years ago you would have had a mental photograph of that list and there would have been a pinging sound when Baxter first mentioned them. He had not quite reached the point of needing to write them down before he forgot them, thank goodness.

  When he walked out of the shed with Baxter, he had a moment of horrified amusement. Baxter had seen the same thing and he flinched as if about to break into a run. Waters had his backside perched on the grey bonnet of an ancient Morris Minor and the dog had its front paws up on the same thing. Had it cornered him there? For how long? Had it bitten him already? And then Smith could see that the tail was wagging and that Waters was indeed having a conversation with its owner – they looked so friendly as the two men approached that it was possible the dog had owned up to being an illegal breed and was prepared to come quietly as long as the nice young constable held the lead.

  Baxter said ‘Ben!’ sharply and the dog got down and turned to face him.

  Waters smiled and said, ‘He’s a bit of a softy, really. All bark…’

  Baxter was silent and Smith thought, well, that’s you two all square at fifteen a-piece – I don’t think we need to play another point. There was no reason to prolong what had, after all, been a business meeting. Smith thanked Baxter and they walked away. When they got back to the Peugeot and turned, the traveller was still standing on the track with the dog, watching them.

  When he told him the two names, Waters said that one was already on the list and one was not – Alan Fitch was an old associate, and Levi Street was new, though the surname was already known to Smith and he could take a good guess at that man’s provenance. Smith sat and watched the buildings and the ruined cars down the track, and eventually Wilf Baxter exited stage left, pursued by a dog.

  He said then, ‘OK. Phone it in now and I’ll drive us back to the station. If it was down to me, I’d go and have another word with Mr Davis. I’d say, “Do you know either of these gentlemen, Mr Davis? We’re just about to question them under caution – just thought you’d like to know.” He should be bright enough to see the problem. If either of them starts cooperating, he’s in a considerably worse position, assuming that there is a story to tell in the first place.’

  Waters paused, his phone already open.

  ‘You don’t think there is? With Davis’s prints on the shovel?’

  ‘When you’ve made that call, I’ll run through it. Not straightforward as far as I’m concerned. For example, why would someone – no, phone those names through to DI Reeve first. Better to run them by him before they arrest him, I reckon.’

  Waters couldn’t see why but he made the call. When it was done, he waited but Smith wanted to talk about something else first.

  He said, ‘What did you think of Wilf Baxter? He wasn’t very pleased that you made friends with his dog. He’s spent hours training it to savage officials of all types.’

  ‘He’s probably just like the dog. Not as tough as he likes the world to think.’

  When there was no quick response, Waters looked across to see Smith still shaking his head. He asked him why.

  Smith said, ‘When you have finished wrestling with lady private investigators, you might decide to move on to more challenging opponents. I’m telling you now that there are two sorts you should avoid at all costs – I’m using ‘you’ in the general sense, not the particular, so you needn’t get all insulted.’

  ‘I’m not. And these two sorts are?’

  ‘Drunken Irishmen, and travellers. Maybe I should extend that to a third category, which would be drunken Irish travellers.’

  ‘Why them in particular?’

  ‘One, they teach them to fight before they can walk, and two, they don’t feel any pain. If you can’t stop someone by hurting them, there’s only one other way.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You have to kill them.’

  Which was, Waters concluded when he thought about it later, an odd thing for one detective to be saying to another.

  When they reached the station car park, Smith seemed reluctant to go inside. He was staring at the dashboard and Waters followed the gaze but all he could see was the digital clock – it was exactly twelve noon.

  Waters said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘A minute’s silence, I suppose. A friend of mine gets buried this morning.’

  There were times with Smith when you did not ask but Waters couldn’t tell whether this was one of them; he decided that he knew him well enough now to take the chance.

  ‘Why didn’t you go?’

  The momentary, slight smile told him that the answer, if he received one, might be much more involved than the question – but in the end Smith only said, ‘It’s a long way from here,’ and then he was opening the car door.

  Detective Inspector Reeve was in the main office with Serena, John Wilson and all of his team. Every face turned to look when they entered and the DI’s was happier than they had seen it for a couple of days.

  She said, ‘Nice work, gentlemen. We’re waiting for Mr Davis’s solicitor. He’s using one of his own so there will be a short delay, which works in our favour on this occasion. We’re locating Messrs Fitch and Street.’

  Mike Dunn was at a computer screen but turned to speak to Smith.

  ‘We’ve found Fitch already – guess where he lives.’

  Smith shrugged and said that he had no idea.

  ‘Gaultways – just up the road from Davis. Street isn’t on the system.’

  This time Smith had an idea.

  ‘There are some travellers called Street on a site at Linghill. That’s got to be a fair bet as we’ve just been talking to a Baxter.’

  Reeve called the two sergeants away then to another part of the office, and Smith asked her what had happened with Davis while he and Waters were out.

  She said, ‘I put the two names to him – I assume that’s why you phoned them in. I said that we would shortly be interviewing them both under caution, and he didn’t like it much. I asked again if he wanted a solicitor and he said yes. I think that tells us something.’

  Wilson said, ‘It does. It tells us he’s in it up to his neck and he wants to get his version in first.’

  Reeve looked at Smith, and he said, ‘I’d go so far as to agree that Fitch and Street know enough to justify us pulling them in, ma’am – Davis obviously believes that. But we all know that calling a solicitor isn’t always a sign of guilt. Frankly, if and when it happens to me, I’ll be calling one.’

  ‘Just a matter of time,’ Wilson said.

  Reeve said after a pause, ‘I agree.’

&
nbsp; Smith did a double-take and then half turned as if he was about to make a run for the door.

  Reeve said, ‘No, you fool! I mean I agree about pulling them both in if we can find them, and then straight into interviews this afternoon. I want this at least half-sorted today or we’re going to end up booking bed and breakfast for all the people we’ve got in for interview. John, you and I will stay with Davis; Serena and Mike with Fitch’ – Smith had the ludicrous idea that she was doing a bit of match-making there – ‘and if we find Street, DC, you and Waters will take him. You obviously speak the language.’

  ‘Ma’am – there are officers in this building who might interpret that remark as politically incorrect.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. Fortunately none of them are in this room.’

  But it had bothered her a little, and she added then, ‘Besides, it is foolish to argue that cultural and racial identities do not impact on our crime statistics…’

  Smith and Wilson managed to exchange well-fancy-that looks. The detective inspector, however, was not yet satisfied.

  She said, ‘Well isn’t it?’

  Wilson - ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Smith - ‘Absolutely, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Detective Superintendent Allen turned up a few minutes later, looking cautiously optimistic as he spoke to DI Reeve – this was not unusual when there had been a potentially positive development. She took him across to John Wilson where there was further discussion, probably about the line of questioning they proposed to pursue with Brian Davis. Every detective in the room was busy and the keyboards were clicking away – there was conversation too, but Smith thought that in the good old days at least some of this would have been done as a single group with the SIO pulling together the various strands of the inquiry; at the very least they needed to be aware that there could be three interviews taking place, not one. Nowadays it seemed that communicating with your hard drive or your server was your primary responsibility, and that recording what you are doing is as important as actually doing anything. Which is ridiculous, the public are right, we do spend too much time driving desks around… And while I’m on ridiculous, he thought, just why would anyone carefully wipe all but one of the fingerprints off the handle of that shovel, hide a murder weapon out of doors for a fortnight and then put it somewhere it was certain to be discovered? No-one in their right mind would do that to themselves. He had come across villains who wanted to be caught for all sorts of reasons but Brian Davis was not, from what Smith could see so far, a complicated sort. So if he didn’t do all that himself, someone else did it… But who? And why? And-