The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

  Her phone buzzed with a text. It was Mike Dunn, down in the canteen saying that their own interviewing of Alan Fitch was still on hold – something that Mike must know that she already knew. Was he texting her for the sake of it? Maybe. They got on well and neither of them was at an inappropriate point in their lives to spend some time together socially, but she had already been there and done the entire relationship-at-work thing, hadn’t she? That had ended very badly indeed – it was the reason she was sitting here as a detective constable this very day, and not somewhere else as a detective sergeant. Not that this was a bad gig; far from it, in fact. It could have turned out much worse than this. Alison Reeve had been really supportive and Smith was, well, not a line manager she was likely to forget in a hurry. She had learned things and understood things here; if she ever felt like going for promotion again, she might stand a better chance after this.

  She sent Mike a text saying that he could, if he liked, bring her a coffee on his way back to work, the ‘work’ in capital letters followed by a couple of exclamation marks, and then returned to her notes of the interview so far. This, for example, was something that she had acquired from Smith, the meticulous making of a record of everything, however apparently trivial. There was little enough to write as yet – Alan Fitch seemed like a pro compared to Levi Street, who was young, liked soft-top cars and designer gear… Ah, that might be it. You evil sod, Smith! Who else might be in on a joke like that?

  Her phone buzzed again. This was the trouble; men don’t know where to draw the line, and if you show the slightest interest they…

  The text wasn’t from Mike Dunn. It was long and apparently sent in error, intended for someone else she thought until she reached the end of it. Then she looked around the office before she read it again several times, just to be sure.

  Glad to have found you at last. It’s taken us quite a while. We so enjoyed your visit to the Velvet Club all those months ago. We often watch the tape we have of you and a fellow officer visiting our establishment, and we wonder what the tabloid newspapers might make of it. The security tapes are genuine of course but it’s amazing what clever young people can do with computer-generated images these days, isn’t it? The things that you both got up to without even knowing it! Anyway, we are very happy to have a friend inside the police service. As a demonstration of how serious we are, a copy of the tape will shortly be left at Kings Lake. Let’s hope you find it before anyone else does! We will be in touch again soon. Look forward to working with you, Detective Constable Butler. What fun!

  Keep calm and look around – no-one watching, no-one to notice the blood draining slowly out of her face. She thought back to the investigation into the disappearance of James Bell. There had been security cameras on the outside wall of the club when she stood there with Smith, pretending to be Mr and Mrs Smith; they had remarked on them, and there were probably more inside though she hadn’t noticed those at the time, what with the excitement of the strangest undercover work that she had ever done. Then they had sat in the bar and made conversation with some of the members, sat and chatted to Marion, the wife of Donald McFarlane. Smith was certain that he was the man behind the killing of Bell but they had never come close to arresting him, let alone bringing a charge. Somebody that smart was more than capable of making a blackmail threat like this one. But what exactly were they into if they wanted ‘a friend’ inside the police service? Smith had always believed that the killing of Bell had been about the revenge of a cuckolded husband but what if there had been some sort of organised crime involved? That could lead to a threat like the one now sitting at the top of her message list.

  It might be no more than a threat, some sort of practical joke. One part of her said find Smith immediately and tell him, let him deal with it even. But if it was a joke, he would join in the laughter and she would look as naïve as Waters. And they all knew her history by now, her involvement with a married senior officer at another station. One sex scandal is enough in any woman’s career. If these people really had created some sort of digital porn disaster movie, superimposing her face – and even, God forbid, Smith’s face – onto other’s people’s intertwined bodies, the embarrassment level would need to be measured on a Geiger counter. If such a thing really existed, no-one else must be allowed to see it before she did herself.

  ‘Will shortly be left at Kings Lake’? They meant the police station, didn’t they? Where? Is it already in the building, sitting on someone’s desk, waiting for her to find it? How does Superintendent Allen get his post every day? But if they wanted to use it against her, it would make no sense for anyone else to have it first, so stop panicking, Serena. They wanted her to see it, her alone, so that they could lean on her, turn her into a bent copper… That wasn’t happening but she needed to find the tape, look at it and see past the horrors; there might be clues as to where it had come from, there were bound to be…

  ‘You alright?’

  Mike Dunn was there with two cartons of coffee and two Danish pastries. She nodded a little excessively.

  ‘Only you looked a bit worried. Something in the case?’

  ‘No! Nothing at all. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘No problem…’

  He was plainly intending to sit in Waters’ seat and chat, and she couldn’t have that, not now. She told him that she was busy for a few minutes, had to get this done before they interviewed again, that she would catch up with him shortly. Mike Dunn wandered away, and she realised that he was genuinely disappointed, which only made things worse, if they could be. She needed a plan before DC came back; trying to hide anything from him was a nightmare.

  The internal phone rang on her desk and she jumped and then had to look round cautiously to see if anyone had noticed.

  ‘Is that Detective Constable Butler?’

  It was Sergeant Charlie Hills and he sounded cross – he didn’t usually use anything other than her first name. She said that it was Detective Constable Butler, and how could she help.

  ‘Well, you can stop treating this reception desk like a public convenience. Just because your boss does, doesn’t mean all the minions can as well.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, I-’

  ‘Sergeant Hills.’

  God, he was really annoyed.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant Hills, but I don’t know what you are referring to – a public convenience?’

  ‘Some days all I do is take bloody messages for plain clothes, and then I get my tea and biscuits nicked for the privilege. Now it seems I’m a sodding sub-post office as well.’

  ‘Sorry, still no idea…’

  She winced and waited for another part of her anatomy to be bitten off.

  ‘Fine! Play it your way! I’ll cut to the quick! Are you expecting a package because there’s one here waiting for you on my desk.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  When she arrived at the counter, Charlie was on the landline. He glanced at her and then continued the conversation, which seemed to be about, of all things, the abattoir business and the slaughter of lambs – she had done her spell in uniform and remembered with a shudder the random and at times ghastly nature of the things that they had to deal with on a daily business. No, she couldn’t go back to that, not after being a detective… Face it, she said to herself as the telephone conversation dragged on – you love this job. There’s nothing else you would be half as good at, and now, once again, you’re at risk of losing it. How do you do it, you stupid woman?

  There was no sign of any package on the counter; if there had been she could have just picked it up, waved an apology and retreated to the loos. Behind Charlie was a table with various papers, public information leaflets, box files and a bicycle seat but no sign of it there either. She tried to catch his eye but the desk sergeant seemed to be engrossed. Despite her worries, she listened in and Charlie was saying ‘I can just imagine how stressful that must be for them… Yes, I know it’s a long wait but sometimes these things cannot be avoided. I’m afraid that we ha
ve to follow the due process… Yes, sir, I’m sure that justice, as they say, will prevail.’

  Justice will prevail? For dead sheep? She had heard the rumours that Charlie Hills was involved from time to time in the local amateur dramatics society but this sounded like a really badly scripted soap. Now he was watching her and listening to a voice on the line – just listening for what seemed like an age before he put down the receiver without saying another word to the caller.

  He raised his eyebrows and said to Serena, ‘Yes?’

  She simply had to ignore his bad mood – there were more important matters at stake.

  ‘Where’s the package, Sergeant Hills?’

  ‘What package?’

  ‘The one you called me about less than five minutes ago.’

  Some sort of recognition dawned in his large round face, and he began looking around, frowning – he had forgotten what he had done with it. She had to control her breathing and fight down the impulse to get the old man in a headlock. Never mind allowing voluntary extension of police service; retirement should be compulsory at fifty.

  Charlie said, ‘Right, got it. It’s on the table in the back office. I put it there for safe-keeping. Go on through. And just remember that I’m busy enough here without providing a post-box service.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He stood aside and allowed her to pass through the old-fashioned lift-up counter flap. She was almost in the back office, could see the package on the table, a small cardboard box, when Charlie Hills said, ‘Just a minute. Is that thing business or pleasure?’

  She was stunned for a moment; the box appeared to be unopened. Why had he asked such a thing? She had to give the correct answer but wasn’t sure what that might be.

  ‘It’s work, sergeant. I’m not having Amazon parcels delivered here, despite what you might think.’

  Charlie was more his usual, business-like self now.

  ‘Fair enough. But if it’s work, you’d better open it in there. Security, health and safety… And rules of evidence, if it’s anything that might be used in a case.’

  The phone began to ring again and Charlie swore and turned away to deal with it. If she was quick, she could undo it here while he was busy. It would be a CD surely, that’s all – she could wave it under the desk sergeant’s nose, show that it was harmless – if only – and escape with it. A quick look to see what they had done and then she would go to DC.

  When she picked it up, she wondered whether Charlie’s caution had not after all been advisable. It was a small, square box – very light but surely a CD or DVD would have gone into an envelope or a jiffy bag? It was addressed fully and formally to herself at Kings Lake Central Police station but there was no postage – it had been hand-delivered, then. There would be CCTV, and Charlie might have something useful to say if it came to that. She shook it but there was no movement. What exactly had she been sent? Charlie was still talking behind her, and so she ran a nail under the tape and eased open the top flaps. Scrunched up brown paper used as a protective wrapping… She lifted out whatever it was and removed the paper to find herself holding a Disposable Cardboard Pulp 1.3 Litre Slipper Bed Pan. She turned it over and sure enough, there was the label that she had stuck in place.

  There were voices outside the little room, Smith’s voice first.

  ‘Where is she, sergeant?’

  And then Charlie Hills, ‘In the back office, sergeant.’

  Smith appeared in the doorway. He looked at what she was still holding in front of her with two hands, like a chalice in a church service, and said, ‘You admired mine so much you decided to order one for yourself? Good choice, Detective Butler. It matches your hair…’

  And it also made a surprisingly effective Frisbee.

  When a cat is watching a vole or a shrew in the grass, only the eyes move – the rest of the animal is frozen, focused down to a needle point of concentration. Nothing else in the universe matters but the moment of capture. Waters thought about that as he watched Smith watching the video screen. Detective Inspector Reeve had taken the pre-determined, logical steps in the questioning that had brought the interview to this moment; Davis had admitted that the shovel looked like one that he owned, that it probably was, and only then did Smith say quietly, as much to himself as to Waters, ‘You could ask him where that particular shovel is now, ma’am’ but she did not do so. She took a different route.

  ‘Thank you for being honest about that, Brian.’

  Davis looked a little surprised.

  ‘It’s just a spade. I’ve already told you what I were doing with it.’

  Reeve said, ‘I’m afraid that this particular spade is much more than just a spade.’

  A space then; only those who have been present in such interviews, on either side of the desk, understand the power of such silences. The best exponents of the art of questioning have the innate timing of great musicians or comedians.

  And after it, ‘Does the name Mark Randall mean anything to you, Brian?’

  Davis looked at the solicitor, a thin, bald and bespectacled man in his fifties that Smith had not recognised, before he answered.

  ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  With his attention still fixed on the screen, Smith said, ‘Most people would have said they’d never heard of him.’

  On the video feed, Waters could see that DI Reeve had picked up the answer as well and he had a moment of doubt that he would ever have that sort of acuity; neither Smith nor Reeve had been to university but they had it, and Maggie Henderson, who had given all this up to have a baby and for whom they all seemed to have the greatest respect as an interviewer, had worked in a supermarket before she joined the police service.

  Reeve said, ‘That’s not quite an answer to the question I asked, Brian. You wouldn’t have to know him in order to have heard of him, would you? Had you heard the name Mark Randall before I put it to you just now?’

  Davis did not answer immediately. Smith turned to Waters and said, ‘I think he’s got an idea what this is about. He’s prepared a defence, you might say, and he’s now debating whether a yes or a no is the best fit with it.’

  ‘You think he’s lying, then?’

  ‘Not that simple. I get the feeling that Mr Davis wants to tell us the truth but that he’s worried we’re not going to believe him. He’s definitely heard the name Mark Randall, though.’

  Then Davis said, ‘Yes.’

  Smith shook his head – ‘You see, was that the best choice? Now he looks a little silly for giving the first answer – “I don’t know anyone of that name”. He looks silly because he tried to be clever. It’s hard to be clever if you’re not; might as well be honest instead…’

  Reeve said, ‘Thank you. Can you tell me in which context you heard the name Mark Randall?’

  ‘Eh?’

  The solicitor leaned towards Davis and explained. Then Davis said, ‘I think that was the name of a bloke who was found in a field near Lowacre.’

  John Wilson spoke for the first time – ‘Found dead in a field near Lowacre.’

  Reeve said, ‘How do you happen to know the name of the dead man, Brian?’

  ‘It was on the news.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Mark Randall personally?’

  ‘No.’

  Wilson said, ‘Are you a well-informed man, Brian? Do you watch the news every day? Or did you take a particular interest in this story?’

  Waters saw the frown and the pursing of the lips on Smith’s face, and sensed the disapproval. Smith glanced at him and said nothing. The antagonism between the two sergeants was well-known but Smith had always left Waters to come to his own conclusions about how the two of them approached the work of a detective in their quite different ways. Davis did not respond to Wilson, and Reeve took up the questioning again.

  ‘Leaving Mr Randall aside for a moment, Brian; you have told us that you believe the shovel in the photographs belongs to you.’ She waited and Davis nodded cautiously. ‘In that ca
se, can you tell me the whereabouts of the shovel at this moment in time?’

  Smith lowered his head and covered his eyes with the fingers of one hand. Waters whispered, as if the people on the screen might hear the interruption – ‘What’s up? Is that a bad question?’

  ‘No, just an appalling phrase. What does it mean “At this moment in time”? What’s wrong with saying “now”?’

  Davis was looking increasingly uncomfortable – they had reached the critical point in the interview and he knew it. He could not say it was at home because the police had a photograph of it; he could say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I lost it’ or ‘I lent it to someone’ or ‘someone stole it’ or some permutation of those. But Wilson’s contributions to the interview had made it clear where the whole thing was heading.

  ‘I don’t know. I lost a shovel recently – it might be that one.’

  Reeve nodded at Davis, sympathetically, almost sadly, and said, ‘I am now showing Mr Davis a second photograph of the same shovel which he said earlier he thought belonged to him.’

  While she took out the image from her folder, John Wilson said, ‘Would I be right in thinking, Brian, that you can’t remember where you lost this shovel?’

  Again Davis did not answer.

  Reeve placed the photograph on the table in front of Davis and the solicitor, taking her time in turning it the right way round for them.

  ‘This is the back view of the same shovel – I showed you the front view earlier. Can you see these darker marks? Can you remember if anything like them was present when the shovel was last in your possession?’

  Davis shook his head and Reeve asked him to answer aloud for the record. He said that he could not remember any marks like that.

  ‘Do you know what these marks are, Brian?’

  He said no, he did not, but it was plain that he had made a pretty good guess.