In these situations she had no choice but to accept that from him but there was still the twitch of irritation at the corner of her mouth whenever he said it. Once his identity was confirmed, they would act immediately on getting access to McFarlane’s accounts, she said, both at the building society and at any other bank accounts they could find – go back at least a year and look for any other large sums going in and out. Also, full background checks right back to primary school – Waters might take that seriously – and an address, please, and an employment history, and so on. Could they find anything in his past to connect him with Jimmy Bell? And the rest that followed was clear, simple and purposeful. Smith allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation at how much she had learned, as he waited for her to ask him what he wanted to do next.
When he said that first he wanted to go back to the platform, this week if possible while the same crew was on the fortnight shift, he had anticipated the look of alarm on Waters’ face, and did nothing to dispel it straight away. Before he could explain why, Reeve had interrupted.
‘It’s too soon to confront McFarlane, in my opinion, DC.’
‘Mine too. He might not be there – I doubt if the company man works the same shifts as the roustabouts and engineers. I won’t make a point of seeing him, even if he is there.’
‘OK. So why go?’
He wanted to take an evening flight like the one that Jimmy Bell took, he wanted to speak to the head of security again, he wanted to go over the details of Bell’s communications with and from the platform. And he wanted to take a walk round after dark, just like Jimmy Bell did.’
‘A reconstruction?’
From Serena Butler, the first time that she had spoken in a meeting without being prompted to do so.
‘Sort of – a one-man reconstruction.’
Reeve said, ‘You’re going alone?’ which was good because it suggested that she had already agreed in principle.
‘No need to tie up two people – you’ve got plenty to do here now.’
‘And this will mean staying overnight, and coming back when?’
‘Friday morning, if we can arrange it. I’ll get my PA to sort it, he knows the ropes now.’
Waters seemed to be so relieved that he nodded with some enthusiasm. Reeve could see that there was more to it but if he wasn’t saying so now, there would be a reason. And she could also see that there was something else, and so she asked.
Smith said, ‘I’m convinced that whatever happened to Bell was to do with his life onshore, not with his brief spell on the platform. We ought to look into everything we’ve got on that – including this,’ putting the Velvet MSC card on the table.
Five minutes later, after he had told them what he proposed, he could see that they had reacted in an interesting variety of ways: O’Leary was plainly itching to get back to the office to tell Wilson, John Murray looked moderately amused, Waters was still trying to understand, Dunn had just had everything he had been told about Smith confirmed, Serena Butler was somewhere between two places called Excited and Aghast, and Reeve was scribbling a note to give herself a few more seconds to think.
It was the detective inspector who spoke first.
‘I’ll go and see if Superintendent Allen is still in the building.’
He left the station on time, there being no point in waiting for an answer there and then. Charlie Hills had been at the counter, filling in a heap of forms.
Smith said to him, ‘You know what, Charlie? When they pull this thing out from under you, they’ll find two indentations where your elbows have been for the last forty years.’
Charlie lifted his arms, checked and then replaced them in the identical spot.
‘Any idea when?’
The duty sergeant shook his head.
‘This year, next year… Sometime never, I hope.’
Smith leaned his own elbow on the polished wooden surface as if it was the lounge bar of an old-fashioned pub.
‘The things we’ve seen go on over this counter, eh?’
‘Ah – and literally over it sometimes. Remember those travellers, the ones who were going to knock the building down if we didn’t release their dad? That was a lively evening.’
‘I do. What had we pulled him in for?’
‘Driving without due care and attention.’
Smith was laughing to himself at the memory.
‘And it caused a small riot! I believe you had to get your truncheon out, Charlie.’
‘Probably the last time I did, DC.’
Now they were both smiling at the memories of more simple and straightforward times.
‘And your boy?’
‘Yes – they made him a director. Any time you want a new car, just give me the nod. You wouldn’t get more than a fiver for your old one but he’d do you a deal.’
Smith had to come to the defence of his vehicle once again.
‘That car has got a hundred thousand miles in it yet.’
‘Right. So what’s it done already?’
‘A hundred thousand miles.’
Two young uniformed women came from the station behind them, crossed the foyer and went out through the main entrance, talking and laughing, taking no notice of the two men at the counter. Smith and Charlie Hills watched them go, and then Charlie said, ‘I reckon that’s about what I’ve got on my clock, too.’
‘This is why I like to pop in here every day, Charlie. I find it uplifting and motivating.’
‘Happy to oblige, DC.’
‘In fact, I’m so uplifted, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask you. Ah – no, I haven’t. There used to be a joke shop in town, in an alleyway off St George’s, near the pub on the corner. Is it still there?’
‘Yes, as far as I know. What are you after – a disguise? Or are you planning to entertain us at the Christmas dinner? With the way you tell jokes, DC, I’d rather you played something for us. Remember that night in the Jubilee Social Club?’
‘More than ten years ago, Charlie…’
‘Ten years? Never! But you still play?’
‘A bit – just to amuse myself, you know.’
‘A shame people don’t get to hear it, though. But yes, I reckon that shop’s still there.’
Smith thanked him and made for the exit. Then he stopped and turned.
‘Charlie, have you done this fitness test yet?’
‘Aye, and it bloody near killed me, huffing and puffing up and down with a load of youngsters. Pointless. I half thought about failing it but the wife wouldn’t want me at home all day. You?’
‘Next week.’
‘You’ll be alright, no fat on you. That’s what does for you, the spare tyres. You’ll be fine. Goodnight, DC.’
Chapter Thirteen
Smith had arranged to go in a little late the next morning, in view of what he had planned for the evening; already he had had a text from Waters saying that the flight had been arranged without a problem as the Thursday helicopter was rarely full. Marinor in Lake had been informed, and they would let someone on Elizabeth know that he was coming. He lay in bed for an extra fifteen minutes but it was no good – he was better up and doing something. Sitting on the side of the bed, he flexed his knee a number of times without a problem; perhaps all he should do was to let it rest until next Thursday and hope that it would hold up for the assessment.
Amongst the spam emails – how had they found him, and were they just guessing which parts of his anatomy he was dissatisfied with? – he saw one from Jo Evison: David, thank you for being so understanding. You’ll be delighted to hear that Wanda took your threat completely seriously. This must not happen again, so that’s why I’m letting you know that I am up in Norfolk again this weekend – I’m meeting with Juliet’s parents. This one seems to be happening faster than I had planned. We’ll need to talk again soon, might ring you while I’m up there, Jo.
As he packed his overnight bag, he thought about that. Suddenly, it was very real. It was one thing to talk to so
meone about a possible book, a book in theory, but now it was going to involve the Richardsons, Juliet’s parents. Would he, at some point, need to speak to them? How would that feel after a decade without their lovely daughter? How would he feel, seeing them older, greyer and sadder, as they must inevitably be? More to the point, how would they feel about seeing him again, if it came to that – surely it could only bring back the most painful of memories for them? He would be about as welcome as a ghost at the feast.
There was time for some coffee. He sat at the kitchen table and thought about the present case as a distraction. Forensics from the flat might be another week or more – there really was no telling. If there was strong evidence that David Carter had been there, they would need to go back to him and question that further, but Smith had no sense that he was of interest; he had arrived at the martial arts competition on time, and could not have been back in Lake before midnight. The chances were that he was not among the little group of men seen outside Bell’s flat some time before that.
Soon, then, they would need to go back to the contact list on the blue phone and work through that systematically, and the same applied to the laptop – was there something they had missed among Bell’s online socializing? Routine, routine… Nothing in any of that excited him. McFarlane’s PA was more interesting, but that needed careful handling; presumably she had just been a means of contacting her boss, but one could not presume too much. Was she full-time on Elizabeth? Surely that wouldn’t be necessary – he needed to know more about the company man’s schedule. And perhaps the busy bees in the office today would find some link, or even just the possibility of one, to the life and times of Jimmy Bell, something that would explain first how they might have known each other, and second, why Donald McFarlane might have kept that fact a secret.
It was time to go – a quick visit to the office and then the drive out to the East Denes airfield. The house was silent. He walked around as he always did before leaving for any time longer than the working day but no windows were unlocked, no appliances had been left on that did not need to be, no lights were burning unnecessarily, there was not even a plant that required watering. Everything was organized and ordered, to the point where the place was almost independent of him; he might leave for a fortnight or a month and find it unchanged upon his return. It was reassuring – a quiet, safe, eddying backwater in the stream of a life, but this morning it left him, as he left it, with a faint sense of melancholy.
Later, as Smith sat watching the rain blowing against the window of the East Denes departure lounge, Serena Butler stood waiting outside Detective Superintendent Allen’s office with a sense of foreboding. She couldn’t help it, even though DI Reeve had explained to her that this was a formality; she had stood in similar places too many times in the past few months to accept that this occasion would be different - that it would not end in her own humiliation.
Reeve had been inside a good ten minutes – perhaps there was a problem after all. A tiny part of her hoped so, but the rest of her, the part that had joined the force eight years ago with the dream of becoming a detective, wanted this challenge, wanted the experience and the thrill. Another uniformed officer walked by, another face that she did not yet know, and she thought, what does this look like to them? It looks as if I’m on the carpet. How many of them already know how I ended up in Lake? How many of them are thinking, she’s been at it again, and she’s only been here a couple of weeks?
Then the door opened and Reeve asked her to come in. The superintendent was seated at his desk and he did not stand when she came in – instead he seemed to ignore her for a moment, as if he had suddenly found something interesting among the papers on his desk. She looked across at the inspector, who seemed unconcerned and nodded for her to behave in the same way – presumably the DI had not had to do this in front of an Assistant Chief Constable in the recent past.
Superintendent Allen looked up and asked them both to be seated.
‘So, the redoubtable Smith strikes again!’
He was smiling at her. She glanced at Reeve, who was not smiling, who did not seem amused even, and then back at the senior officer.
‘I have no doubt, Detective Constable Butler, that you have already realized that Detective Sergeant Smith has experience that belies his rank. Nevertheless, you should not be swayed by that, you should not be persuaded by it into taking on something, anything, that makes you feel uncomfortable. What has been suggested is, to use a rather worn-out phrase, above and beyond the call of duty, and I for one would completely understand if, having had time to reflect, you have decided not to involve yourself in it.’
It had the ring of an over-prepared speech at a political party conference, the sort made in side-rooms, away from the main event. As far as she could tell, he was asking her if she had changed her mind. She answered without looking at the detective inspector sitting beside her.
‘It was DI Reeve who asked me if I’d do it, sir, and I haven’t changed my mind about it.’
The superintendent said, ‘Ah, well, the detective inspector knows the detective sergeant of old. I’m sure that you are in safe hands as far as she is concerned!’
Serena Butler had senses sharp enough to feel the implications both of what the superintendent was saying and what he was not saying. She had already realized, too, that Kings Lake was no different to Longmarsh – that the investigation of crime, or at least the ordinary officer’s experience of it, was determined as much by politics as by procedures laid down in any handbook.
‘As far as this particular,’ and then he seemed to hesitate over his choice of word, ‘operation is concerned, your file here tells me that you don’t have directly relevant experience. Is that so?’
Every time that she saw her file in the hands of a senior officer, she bristled, and that was why there was a pause long enough for Superintendent Allen to look up at her.
‘Yes, sir. But I have had plenty of time out in the field in a variety of situations. I think that this is something that I can do, and with respect, sir, I don’t think that it would be a particularly dangerous environment in which to do it.’
She sensed DI Reeve sitting back beside her, the body language suggesting that the inspector thought she was capable of looking after herself.
‘That’s as maybe, DC Butler. ‘Dangerous’ comes in many forms. The potential wasting of police time here, investigating why a man might have jumped or fallen from a gas rig, might be seen as dangerous by some… And then there is the matter of placing an officer in a possibly compromising situation, which poses dangers of a different kind.’
He means, she thought, morally compromising, and that is his way of telling me that he has read my file from cover to cover – not that he would not have been told all the juicy details that are not recorded there by some senior officer at Longmarsh anyway. And this is probably his way of telling me that he knows what sort of woman I am, even if he doesn’t really know what sort of a police officer I am. She waited until the anger was past – she had given up too much of her self-respect these past few months to let this rather obnoxious man see that his words had annoyed her.
‘I have confidence in Detective Sergeant Smith’s judgement, sir.’
Somehow she had already realized that that would aggravate the superintendent more than just about anything else she could say. Allen had closed the file then, taken off his reading glasses and sent the two women on their way.
The squalls had passed, leaving the late afternoon grey and gloomy. For a few minutes Smith had wondered whether the weather was poor enough to prevent their taking off on time, but no-one else seemed at all concerned. After speaking to the same young lady at checking in, where the same basic procedures had been carried out, he had stood by himself in the waiting area, making a point of speaking to no-one whilst remaining in full view.
The same safety video was playing in the lounge, and about a dozen men sat in there, taking little notice of it; some spoke to their neighbours
briefly, while others waited in silence, and Smith remembered what Waters had said, that for them it was no more than catching a bus or the tube to work. Though it was late on a Thursday afternoon, there was that feeling of early Monday morning, another long week ahead. When the girl appeared and announced that there were ten minutes to go before they should line up, Smith made his way to the washroom. It was empty, and so he did not need to go into the cubicle. From his bag he took out the two items that lay on the top, ready. The false moustache he had trimmed a little so that it looked now only comical rather than ludicrous; even so, it felt like a yard-brush under his nose when he pressed it into place. Then he considered the eyepatch again. To get it, he had to buy a complete pirate’s get-up – well, a hat and a short plastic sword as well as the patch. Afterwards, he realized he could have got something more acceptable from a chemist’s but that would defeat the object, the point he was trying to make. Eyepatch or no eyepatch? After another ten seconds, he put it on, and then pulled up the hood of the safety suit, just like some of the others he had seen waiting in the lounge – no doubt you could close your eyes then without being noticed.
Finally, he took out his phone, switched on the camera and took two pictures of himself, just as Waters had shown him yesterday afternoon. The result was satisfyingly dreadful. Then he made his way out of the washroom, along the corridor past the lounge which was now empty, and out towards the sheltered bay where the queue was waiting. He was at the back, just where he wanted to be.
Smith removed the eyepatch before climbing out of the helicopter and into the coming windswept darkness – stepping accidentally off the helideck and into the sea was an unlikely event but there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. The pilot – a different one, older and more conventional-looking – had addressed the passengers briefly before and at the end of the flight, turning around in his seat to face them. Smith had sat still, his face half-covered by the shadow from the hood but still feeling a little absurd and wondering how he might explain himself when he was discovered. But the moment never came – if anyone had spotted his pantomime appearance, they showed no sign of it.
Luck and Judgement: A DC Smith Investigation Page 17