The Rags of Time

by Peter Grainger

  ‘I was a bit surprised when you began to answer my questions on his behalf, DC.’

  ‘A sprat to catch a mackerel – it led on to the question about the Wednesday night. I think he was lying about that. I think the whole story is a fabrication.’

  The two of them were in her office, Reeve sitting at her desk and checking her emails while she talked, and Smith standing by the window that overlooked the rear of the station with its solitary lime tree, its faded green lawn and its one bed of bright marigolds bravely holding up their heads despite the worsening summer drought.

  Reeve said, ‘I don’t see your certainty about that. Everything he said fits. It even explains the thing that has bothered you from the start – the reappearance of the murder weapon. OK, it happened a day later than one might have expected, and he isn’t the most likely killer we’ve ever encountered but you’ve caught more than a few odd ones in the past. He’s perfectly rational. On the present form, he’ll plead guilty and will only need a barrister for mitigation. It’s a walkover and a win, and it will be another one credited to your team, DC.’

  ‘A walkover unless we get one of those annoying judges who decides to read all the evidence.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘His story about the handkerchief doesn’t match what was found on the handle. I’ve asked Waters to chase this today but the fibres were not from a white handkerchief or a white anything.’

  Reeve closed her laptop and gave his comment serious consideration before she responded.

  ‘I see that. But we don’t often get convictions based on what we don’t find, do we? We have to go with what we do find. He said he was wearing the robe. So while he was using the handkerchief to wipe the handle, the robe snagged and left behind some of its own fibres. If the analysis tells us that the fibres came from one of these Franciscan robes, we know he handled it, don’t we?’

  There was a black cat sitting in the shade of the lime tree, and Smith thought, never in all my years at Central have I seen a cat in the back courtyard. Where has it come from? What is it doing here?

  ‘No, we don’t know that. All we would know then is that someone possibly wearing a Franciscan robe had handled the shovel. Sorry, Alison – you’re looking at me as if I’m trying to be awkward but I’m not. He waited twenty four hours because he needed time to reflect upon his actions? I’m not buying that. At the friary he told me that the argument that took place in his office - the evening before he went out after dark to interfere with the evidence - was, and I quote, “a dispute about doctrine”. I’m not buying that either. Debating the finer points of Catholic theology while he’s planning to go out and move a murder weapon? How likely is that?’

  There were approaching footsteps and Smith expected Detective Superintendent Allen to appear with his usual immaculate timing but it was Waters, holding a piece of A4 paper. Smith had been in full flow, and so, when he said to the detective constable ‘Go on!’, it must have seemed a little abrupt.

  ‘The fibres are sheep’s wool from a coarse cloth that has been through relatively few if any modern processes. Probably just bleached and then dyed a dark brown – they can get us a chemical analysis of the dye if we need it. Quite a loose, heavy weave, possibly made by traditional methods, so an unusual and distinctive material that should be easy to match to its source. I’ve got a reference number to speed things up if we need to do that, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, Chris.’

  Smith said, ‘Well, it doesn’t sound like anything that Brian Davis would have been wearing, does it? I think Wilson’s going to have to unarrest him as well. In some respects this case could already be breaking records.’

  Reeve said, ‘It does sound very much like what Brother Jeremy is wearing, and wears pretty much every day from what I understand. We need to get a sample.’

  Smith turned to Waters.

  ‘Have you seen the interview we’re in the middle of with the person that you arrested a couple of hours ago?’

  ‘No, DC.’

  ‘Good. Here’s the scenario. A man confesses to a crime and his confession is almost perfect – a couple of little, niggly details don’t quite fit but he scores, let’s say, ninety five per cent. If he actually committed the crime, how do we explain the five percent?’

  Three or four seconds were all that Waters needed.

  ‘Depending on the exact details that he gets wrong, I’d say that’s within a natural margin of error. No-one can remember one hundred per cent of what they did or said; if we ask enough questions, we can always trip people up in the minutiae of any story.’

  ‘Very good – I’m sure we can all agree on that,’ with a confirming glance towards DI Reeve. ‘And well done for using the word ‘minutiae’ correctly. Now, the same situation and the same confession but this time the man didn’t do it. How do we explain the ninety five per cent?’

  Ten seconds this time.

  ‘Well, the first thing we do is to discount the c-word…’

  The use of “coincidence” was banned from discussion in team Smith in all but the most trying of cases. They must be getting close with this one but Waters decided not to risk it. He continued with, ‘So either he is the world’s best guesser or someone told him the story of what happened and he has an excellent memory.’

  When Waters had gone, Smith said, ‘I just think that we have to rule it out.’

  ‘How? How do we rule it out for certain? Get someone else to confess?’

  ‘That would be helpful. Especially if it’s the right person…’

  She thought, and this is what happens, time after time. Is it intentional? Is it some form of genius? Does he create these situations, situations so labyrinthine that only he can sort out the mess, or are they the unintended result of his peculiar way of viewing the world and its inhabitants? Jeremy Hayward looks good for this and seems positively eager for us to lock him away for twelve or fifteen years; John Wilson has been making a real effort recently – not that I don’t know why – but if Smith is right, we’ll be back to square one as far as inter-team relationships are concerned; and any moment now, Detective Superintendent Allen will walk through that door and say, why have you paused the interview? She wanted to say to Smith then, does it always have to be this hard, but did not because he would have some annoyingly clever answer to that as well.

  ‘What do you suggest, DC?’

  ‘I’ll go back to Abbeyfields now. At the very least we should get some sort of corroboration of Hayward’s movements to see if they fit his story.’

  ‘But that’s not the real reason you’re going, obviously.’

  And Smith too could see down beyond the surface of this conversation, see that Alison Reeve was being pulled this way and that by the growing complications of her position. It’s what happens – the higher up the ladder you climb, the further you have to fall. You stop taking risks. Sometimes you even avoid doing the right thing. He kept silent.

  ‘And just you? You said “I’ll go back”.’

  ‘I can’t see any need for a team to go in there; in fact, it might be counter-productive.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The remaining people will already be shaken up by what’s happened today. In my opinion, we’re more likely to get somewhere by having a quiet word than by going in mob-handed and turning the place over.’

  Perfectly reasonable and probably true, but she couldn’t let it go.

  ‘OK. Just you and me then.’

  And she could see that he could see what she was doing – would he give way?

  ‘Yes, we could do that – I don’t think the two of us would be seen as a mob. But…’

  He hesitated and plainly thought about how to put what he wanted to say next.

  ‘But there is someone that I need to speak to one-to-one, someone who can give me the low-down on what’s gone on since we took their man away. I’ve built a bit of a relationship with him and-’

  ‘You don’t want me getting in the way.’

&n
bsp; Neither a yes nor a no answer would do in this situation, and anything else could certainly make things worse – Smith could see that she was having something of a management crisis. And he was aware of the time. There were things he needed to arrange before he set off for the friary.

  ‘Me. Your boss. You don’t want your boss getting in the way?’

  She plainly had something else to say and so he continued to wait in silence.

  ‘This is why some of them hate you, DC.’

  She saw then that his eyes narrowed slightly before he responded.

  ‘That I’m not a team-player? Nothing new, ma’am. I’ve heard that all my life.’

  ‘It’s more than that. It’s this sort of conviction that only you can see the truth, only you can get to the bottom of things, and only you can deliver the right result. It’s a sort of…’

  ‘Arrogance, ma’am?’

  She sighed as she answered him.

  ‘Yes. At least that’s how some people see it. I don’t. I owe you a lot and I like to think that we’re still friends whatever happens here but…’

  He thought, fatal error, ma’am – you cannot be friends with us and manage us properly. We can be friends later, when it’s all over, when at least one of us has moved on, but not now, not in the job. Dougie Waters is my friend now but when he was in my team, that’s all he was – a member of my team. There were times when he would have said those words to her but she already looked a little upset. And he was still aware of the time ticking away.

  ‘Ma’am, I really am happy for you to lead the charge this evening. There’s just this one chap who would be more forthcoming if he is only talking to me. Probably only take five minutes.’

  ‘I could sit in the car. Take a stroll around the grounds…’

  ‘Bring your knitting.’

  She told him to depart then in Anglo-Saxon.

  But when he was at the door, she said, ‘Two things. If there is a chance of you making another arrest tonight, you do not go to Abbeyfields without some sort of back-up in place. Second thing – have you made your funeral arrangements yet?’

  ‘I’m really not expecting that much trouble, ma’am.’

  ‘Because if you haven’t, and I know it’s become a terrible cliché, you cannot go sailing into the furnace unless they’re playing ‘My Way’, DC.’

  On his way down the stairs to the office Smith began humming the tune and concluded that it was true, he did have a few regrets. Detective Superintendent Allen passed him on the way up, giving him barely a nod, and Smith thought to himself, but you’re not one of them.

  Waters and Richard Ford – where had he been all day? – were at the former’s desk; Waters was beginning the real induction process, and Smith watched them for a brief moment. That works, of course it does. Waters isn’t experienced enough himself to become a full-on partner but ways must be found to get these two to operate together sometimes.

  ‘Oi! I hope you two aren’t planning to wash your hair tonight.’

  Richard Ford gave a start and went slightly paler.

  Waters said, ‘I was planning to get someone to wash it for me, DC.’

  It appeared that young Christopher had got over his discomforts of a day or two ago.

  ‘Waters, you are insatiable. It could be a medical condition. I’m having a word with your father. Ford – do not be misled by this person. Do not associate with him outside these four walls.’

  But Waters had moved on already.

  ‘What’s happening tonight, DC? What’s going down?’

  ‘Going down? You are, to the community centre where you can re-take your English O Level if you’re not careful.’

  But there aren’t O Levels any more. There haven’t been O Levels for a very long time, and neither of the young detectives quite understood what he meant. So he just got on with it and told them what might be going down.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  As he turned off the Lowacre road and began the gentle climb towards Abbeyfields, Smith thought that of all the places he had concluded cases, this must be one of the prettiest. Arrogance, you see, he told himself – making the assumption that he was about to do such a thing… But it was, nevertheless, a beautiful evening. The time was approaching half past seven and the sunlight, though still strong, had that flat, even quality that photographers love. Patches of shadow from the roadside oak and ash trees made pools of dimmer light that alternated with splashes of sun as the car made its way steadily up towards the stone pillars that marked the entrance into the grounds of the friary.

  Alison Reeve had said ‘That’s why some of them hate you, DC.’ A strong word and one that he had never used in his life with serious intent. Hate. Hatred. To loathe, to detest, to abhor, to despise. Was that really how some of them felt about him? Looked at rationally, one had to conclude that those were disproportionate responses; he might go so far as to say that he could be mildly annoying at times, if pushed, but surely ‘hate’ was somewhere beyond the pale. Nevertheless, emotions have the disconcerting tendency to trump the cards of reason, however rationally one plays them, and he knew that what she had said had troubled him in some way. That’s why you’re thinking about it now, he told himself. The plain fact was that once upon a time he would not have given her words a second thought – water off a duck’s back his mother used to say – but recently such things seemed to bother him more.

  And before he left the building, Reeve had called him and said, ‘I’ve just had my knuckles rapped again.’ That would be Superintendent Allen – Smith remembered passing him on the stairs. In the end, you cannot defeat these people and what they represent; the group-think, the deadening conformity of the official mind-set, but you can fight a long and glorious rear-guard action. Of course, calling it ‘glorious’ was arrogance again, but it had certainly been ‘long’. The question no longer at the back of his mind, however, was whether it was finally over.

  Detective Inspector Reeve’s knuckles had been rapped again – his fault. He glanced at his own then, on his left hand, holding the steering wheel, pulling it round to the left as the friary appeared ahead of him. Those knuckles had been sore and a little swollen for a few days; not for the first time and it was only a touch of arthritis but he had not been able to play as freely as usual for a week or so, not been able to perform those BB King bends. When it had cleared up, he would get it back but you wonder, you do have to wonder how long it will be before you don’t, before you realise that a part of you has gone forever.

  The heavy oak door was open and Smith stepped into the crepuscular coolness of the old building. There was no-one in sight. He waited and listened to the silence for a long time before eventually, somewhere away to the left, he heard very distant voices – perhaps just a single voice. The kitchen was that way, and he set off along the corridor. He had travelled perhaps twenty paces when a friar stepped out of a room on the right and turned towards him – Brother Paul, the young man who had first escorted him to Brother Jeremy’s office. Paul’s face had an expression of fear as soon as he realised who the visitor was, and that’s something that you get used to, Smith thought – but this was the fear of the innocent, not of the guilty.

  There was no point in any pretence now; Smith asked where he could find Brother Joe.

  ‘In the kitchen, I think. That’s where he – where he was.’

  Smith thanked him and moved on but the voice came again from behind him, and he stopped and turned.

  ‘Brother Jeremy? Is he…’

  ‘Is he what, sir?’

  ‘I was just wondering. Is he well?’

  ‘When I last spoke to him, he seemed very well.’

  The young man looked relieved but said nothing more – Smith nodded, turned away and resumed his journey to the kitchen.

  Joseph Ritz was there alone, wiping down a work surface, his broad back towards Smith. Men had been wearing that brown robe tied with that white cord for eight hundred years and without seeing the face this could have bee
n any one of them; it was the robe that mattered and those three knots, and the men who inhabited the robe and the cord were all no more than guardians, custodians of The Rule and The Principles by which they lived their lives. For a brief moment Smith envied them their certainty and this simplicity – and then he remembered that the uncertainty and complexity of the world with which he was all too familiar had found its way into this place. The rules and principles by which he had lived his life would be needed to restore some sort of peace, even here.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’

  The friar turned but without much sign of surprise.

  ‘It’s you. Christ’ - followed by an apologetic glance upwards - ‘you certainly know how to upset the bloody apple cart. When I talked to you, I had no idea that… Are you still holding him?’

  ‘Yes, he’s still at Kings Lake.’

  ‘Is he going to be charged? I’ve got to tell you, I think that’s crazy.’

  ‘Why? You have some other theory? Anything else you want to tell me?’

  Joe half-turned away and finished wiping down the metal sink-drainer.

  ‘After what’s just happened? I reckon I should just keep my mouth shut!’

  Smith waited until the man was looking directly at him again.

  ‘I need to speak to Andrew Waring, Joe. Any idea where he might be?’

  The friar took a few seconds to finish what he was doing and, no doubt, to think before he answered. Then he folded the cloth neatly, put it into a cupboard under the sink and turned to face Smith again.

  ‘This place has been in a state since your visit this morning. I’ve spent most of the day trying to screw their heads back on, just to keep a sense of order. And we had a coachload of Americans to look after as well, they’ve only just left. Paul thought we should call the Archbishop, if not the Vatican.’

  Smith said, ‘Problems are just opportunities looked at the wrong way round – that’s what the positive thinkers say, isn’t it? Whatever the outcome with Jeremy, I doubt whether he’ll be back, Joe. This place will need a new guardian. It might benefit from a new sort of guardian, as well.’