But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  At ten thirty he sat alone in the incident room, such as it was. Just the one board had anything pinned to it, the rest huddled uselessly in the corner. Some files lay untidily on a couple of the desks, and there was someone’s unwashed mug from the previous day, looking about as purposeful as Smith felt. He had been on the point of going to look for Waters, sarcasm at the ready, until he recalled that Waters was attending a de-briefing on the case he had been working with Detective Sergeant Wilson’s team for the past month.

  He took out his notebook and turned back to the pages that covered their interview with Kipras Kazlauskas. As soon as Kipras had left the room, Smith had written down the words exactly – “She was…very kind to everyone. Helpful to everyone. Not mean like some…very kind”. They had asked him to explain why he had used the word ‘generous’ and that was what he had said, but haltingly, awkwardly, even guiltily. What had Joan Riley given to him? A soft toy? A chocolate bar from the sweet trolley? Or money?

  When he called Rosemary House, he got straight through to Rita Sanchez, who sounded a little disappointed – she seemed to think that the interviewing part of the investigation must be over as no detectives had turned up this morning. ‘The interviewing part’ thought Smith; little did she realise that there were no other parts in a case like this one. She explained to him that there really was no need for residents to have sums of cash in their possession, that it was actively discouraged as a potential source of conflict and possible theft. The allowance system was set up to avoid all of that, and it worked very well.

  When she had finished speaking, he complimented her on how well everything was being run, how efficient her office was, and then he said that if a visitor had brought in some cash for a resident and given it to them directly, then obviously she and the management could not be held responsible. To her knowledge, had that ever happened?

  “Yes, once or twice it has happened.”

  “Recently, Ms Sanchez?”

  “No.”

  “And, I presume, never involving Joan Riley.”

  “No.”

  “Could you tell me whether it has ever happened involving her friends, Nancy Bishop, Martin Collins, Ralph Greenwood and Elspeth Grey?”

  “Not to my knowledge. There would be no point – all these people have everything they need.”

  Smith thanked her and said that he looked forward to seeing her again next week; she seemed nonplussed by his words and the phone call ended in an awkward silence, and a slight smile on Smith’s face.

  He picked up the visitors’ book and looked again at the entries for the morning of the 6th of December, just to be certain – yes, both daughter and son-in-law had visited. On reflection, then, it was fortunate that today had not worked out. If it had, he would only have questioned Sarah Bradley but it would be more useful to interview them both. No work had been done on these two, all the office intelligence-gathering focus having been on the staff so far.

  Neither had criminal records, not even a caution. Smith had to admit, in the privacy of his incident room, that this computerized database was easier than the old system - the hours they used to waste flicking through illegible reports and record cards! Now, click, click, click and it was there in front of you. Sarah Bradley didn’t seem to exist at all on the Interweb – the name he used to aggravate Waters and co – but using Google he did eventually find one Anthony Bradley, proprietor of Lake Bodyworks. He looked at the company’s website. Vehicle body repairs, insurance work undertaken, but with an emphasis on high-end customized work, lots of photos of the mad things young men with more money than sense do to cars. Pictures of said Mr Bradley and others standing by their handiwork, grinning away. Smith called the Bradley’s home number and left a message – he would like to speak to them both at home at nine thirty next Monday morning. If this was inconvenient they should let him know, and he left his mobile number.

  Footsteps outside the room had Smith looking expectantly at the door but no-one entered, and the steps carried on down the corridor. Perhaps they were closing early today, it being a Friday. He got up and decided to go for a stroll, see if the canteen was functioning yet.

  It wasn’t but Charlie Hills had under his counter the means to make a cup of tea. Even he wasn’t to be seen when Smith arrived there but a shout of “Shop!” had him out from the back office in a matter of seconds.

  “Charlie, I’m gasping.”

  “Finally realized you’re a fish out of water?”

  “You and me both. The tide’s gone out and left the likes of you and me behind, Charlie.”

  Charlie filled the kettle from a jug and switched it on.

  Smith said, “One of your lads is in the garage business, isn’t he?”

  “Jonathan. He’s been at Mertons since he left school.”

  “Doing alright, then.”

  “Talk of him being made a director this year.”

  Smith could hear the note of pride in the answer though Charlie’s face looked as stern as ever.

  “Good lad! How old is he, Charlie?”

  “Thirty bloody two. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything makes me wonder.”

  Charlie filled the two mugs with water and mashed the teabags with a spoon. Smith looked faintly aghast at the procedure but said nothing, the canteen situation being what it was.

  “Do you know anything about Lake Bodyworks, Charlie? They’ve got a place on the Western Industrial Estate.”

  “No, never come across it. Don’t have accidents.”

  “We don’t all have your willpower, Charlie. I suppose your boy would know something about them, though…”

  “No doubt. Want me to give him a call?”

  “Just a general talk-in-the-trade, health-check sort of thing would be helpful.”

  “Not urgent?”

  “No.”

  Charlie added what was probably milk from a carton, and then two spoons of sugar to his own mug. He passed the other to Smith. For a moment the station was eerily quiet, and they drank in silence as if they had no wish to disturb it. Then the outer door opened and someone entered. Smith turned around to see the face of an angry woman, a dog’s lead in one hand and a small, frightened boy in the other. As she advanced upon the counter, Smith, keeping one eye upon her, upended his mug and said, “See you later, Sergeant Hills.”

  Waters reappeared after lunch. He didn’t say anything about Wilson’s team de-briefing and Smith decided not to ask – an uneasy peace had developed over the past couple of months and he was happy enough for that to continue undisturbed. For the want of something better to do, Smith began to update Waters on the interviews that they had had the day before, but within a couple of minutes Alison Reeve had also arrived, asking to be brought up to speed herself. Smith invited her to sit down and join in. When the scent in a case was strong, he was inclined to say as little as possible, not wanting to jinx anything or be distracted; this case was, at present, quite the opposite of that sort, and talking things through with new people might throw something up.

  Smith was not surprised when Reeve began by considering who had a possible motive to help Joan Riley take her own life – it was where he always began himself, and some of her formative years as a detective had been spent working alongside him. Like him, too, she had concluded that Joan Riley had played a significant role in her own death, based on what they knew so far. Smith reported that after Monday morning he would know more about the estate that Mrs Riley had left, about her will, hopefully, and about the family situation. Reeve opened her tablet and looked at her diary – she would make herself available, having met Sarah Bradley already. Money, said Smith, was a possible motive, was almost always a possible motive, and one reason why the law was framed as it was. Moving on, it was difficult to see how anyone else would benefit financially from the woman’s death, but he then explained what had happened during the interview with Kipras Kazlauskas – they now had more questions about him than when they started. Waters took
out his notes and spoke about the young Lithuanian’s background; Smith wondered whether it would be possible to find out why he left his medical course at university but it seemed problematical. Both Smith and Maggie Henderson felt that he had not been open about why he had said that Mrs Riley was ‘generous’, and it was clear that for some reason he had not told them that he left Mrs Riley’s room unguarded for some minutes on the evening of her death. More than one resident had said favourable things about Kipras, that he was better than most of the carers, different, and it seemed that he had a closer than usual relationship with Joan Riley.

  Reeve stood up and went across to the display board where the grainy images of the staff were pinned up, with their names in capitals written underneath. Kipras looked out from there, a little uncertain but with a smile, nevertheless.

  “He’d be on my list, DC, and not at the bottom of it. Lots of opportunity, too. ”

  Smith nodded but said, “Telling us about the chairs would seem a bit daft if he was involved and just wanted to keep out of it – on the other hand, it could be a smart move, a neat little distraction.”

  Waters went back into his notes with new interest, checking to see if anything else he had found out might be relevant.

  The interview with the GP would be at her surgery on Monday afternoon. Alison Reeve was already busy then but Smith could see that she viewed that one as a matter of routine anyway. Maggie would probably be back but if she was not, he would take Waters with him. They might even go to the park while they were out and let him off the lead. Waters smiled briefly but didn’t blush or comment – and then Smith realized that the early days were already over, that Waters was no longer an awkward newcomer. Smith ought to find out exactly what he had done in Wilson’s team, and how well he had done it.

  He told them about the residents that they had interviewed so far, about the Famous Five. They laughed at one or two things that he said, and he realized how difficult it was to convey to someone outside the nature of that confined and cloistered existence – he had not meant to be funny about those people, and felt somewhat guilty that he had.

  Reeve said, “Mr Greenwood sounds like a character.”

  “Oh yes.”

  Something in the tone of those two words caught Reeve’s attention.

  “What’s it like there?”

  “Like? To be honest, it’s a bit…troubling? If you know what I mean.”

  “Explain.”

  Could he, just like that?

  “It’s well run, pretty safe, warm, no-one has complained about the food. But all those lives shrinking away, the horizons getting narrower by the day… Talented, hard-working people, just like us.”

  They had both smiled and he realized that that was the price one paid for living an ironic life – people expected nothing less from him, and nothing more.

  “No, for once I’m serious, folks. It makes you think. Not one of them in their prime ever imagined they’d end up in Rosemary House or anywhere like it, but they have.”

  “Tempus fugit…”

  Both of them looked at Waters, and then at each other before Smith said, “Can you do The Times crossword?”

  Smith’s mobile began to ring and he picked it up from the table. Reeve watched the look of concern spread over his face, and within a few seconds she had guessed the subject of the conversation.

  “Does she?” Smith said, and then, “Well, you do that, straight away. Do you need anything? Need a lift? No?”

  The caller spoke again, Smith nodding, glancing at Reeve.

  “Alright, John. Get off there now straight away. And call me, if there’s any news. Call me any time, you know that…”

  Reeve said, “Maggie?”

  “Yes, sod it. He took her to the GP just now, and the doc wasn’t happy. John’s on his way to the General with her. I said I’d run it past you.”

  She waved it away, stood up and said, “You let me know too, if there’s anything I can do.”

  When she had gone, Smith looked at Waters – “And then there were two. Better get your cape out of the wardrobe, by the look of it.”

  He had decided in advance that this would be a weekend without work but there was just one note to make in his Alwych at home. On the way out of the station he had stopped to say goodnight to Charlie as usual, and he’d received some intelligence about Lake Bodyworks. Before the financial crash they had made a lot of money customizing cars, proper high-end jobs that sometimes were featured in the trade press and the specialist magazines. But the past couple of years had seen that sort of spending dry up – surely to no-one’s surprise, thought Smith – and they were probably in a bit of bother as far as money was concerned. Charlie’s son had employed a technician who had been laid off by LB last summer.

  Smith checked the website again on his PC – Tony Bradley was the sole proprietor, or at least he had been when the website was constructed. It probably meant nothing and proved even less, but an injection of cash might come in handy for Tony Bradley’s little company.

  Later, after beans on toast, a perfectly balanced meal according to some cook on the television, he stood facing the shelves of CDs. After staring at them for a while he said aloud, “Well, we’ve almost been through the lot again. Just this one left, I reckon.”

  He placed the disc into the tray and watched it slide silently into the player – just a compilation, a sort of greatest hits thing that he had bought in her memory a couple of years ago – she wouldn’t have been able to resist it.

  He sat on the leather couch, leaned to one side to rearrange a few cushions and then slumped back again. “Do you know, he’s pushing seventy and he can still play like this, when he can be bothered. Seventy! Who’d have thought it?” He smiled and closed his eyes as the guitar began to climb the scales. When he couldn’t see that she wasn’t there, she sometimes almost was again. The silly games we play.

  “So, is there a care home for old rock musicians? Does that much money enable you to make ‘other arrangements’?”

  The kind of thing they would have talked about idly and amusingly for hours on end, here on this couch, especially in the final few months. They had bought it especially, a four seater, so that she could lie down and there would still be room for him to sit at the end, close by. And he thought, well, she was spared Rosemary House – she knew that, had said as much. He remembered the poetry book then, the one he had thought of in Irene Miller’s office yesterday. It would be up there on the shelf but he wasn’t ready to take it down and find the poem yet, not tonight.

  Tempus fugit… He listened to the end of track five, one of her particular favourites. Then he picked up the house-phone, went upstairs to his desk, took the card out of the drawer and dialled Marcia Williams’ number.

  Chapter Eleven

  Afterwards, when Jane Waters asked her if it had been a date, she had to say that she wasn’t sure. She had an association dinner that evening, so they had arranged to meet for lunchtime coffee at the Old Minster hotel in town. Arriving a few minutes early, she had expected to be waiting for him, but he was already there and had secured two seats in an alcove with a window that looked out over the market square. When he saw her walk in, he stood up, came across to her and asked her what she would like to drink – they were standing close to the bar then, with a young waitress already in attendance. Marcia Williams thought that he would consider a latte as nothing more than frothy milk but she asked for that anyway; Smith was looking at the small bags of speciality coffees that the hotel sold from the counter as a sideline.

  He pointed to one and said to the waitress, “Any chance of making me a pot of that?”

  “I can find out for you, sir,” and she disappeared around the corner of the bar.

  They smiled at each other, both perhaps trying to remember how their last conversation ended, how it had led to them being here this afternoon.

  “You obviously like your coffee.”

  “Not all of them. To be honest, I prefer tea at wo
rk and don’t drink coffee in the evenings, so it’s a weekend treat, really. But I like Costa Rican.”

  The girl returned and said, “That will be fine, sir. I’ll bring it over to you.”

  Before they sat down, he took her coat and hung it on a peg in the alcove – then he had pulled out her chair before taking his own. There was an unselfconscious and unabashed quaintness about his manner that she rather liked, novel though it would have seemed to her usual social acquaintances. But then, he was older than her by some ten or fifteen years… She sat looking at him for a moment, quite unable to read his thoughts, and decided to get one matter out of the way immediately.

  “Have you thought about Douglas’s offer?”

  “Yes. I haven’t come to any conclusion yet, but it was flattering to be asked. I assumed that you were a part of the presentation.”

  “And I assumed that you would assume that.”

  They both smiled – fifteen all.

  “It’s a genuine offer – he’d be thrilled if you accepted it.”

  “We used to work together pretty well, so…”

  “Even if you don’t, you should stay in touch. I’ve spoken to him twice this week and he’s mentioned the evening both times. I don’t think there is anyone else from back then that he’s in touch with any more.”