He placed his phone on the table beside the locks, the picture that Waters had sent him on display. After thirty seconds it went dark, and Smith clicked it on again, looking up at Aves as if he really did want his professional opinion on all this.
‘My colleague, DC Waters, took this picture of the lock on the walkway gate that first time we looked around. It wasn’t an accident, by the way – I asked him to take it.’
Again Aves looked down at the three locks, and then again up at Smith because there had been a change of tone now. Something had hardened in the vacuum salesman’s voice.
‘After that, I examined the locks on other gates and things. They all looked as you would expect after three months’ exposure to sea air – discoloured and dull. The only one that looked all bright and shiny, like the one that’s been in my bedroom drawer, was the one on the walkway that James Bell passed along before he disappeared from view. Now all this is probably just one meaningless coincidence, but I would like you to tell me why you put a new lock on that gate, and exactly when you did so, Stuart.’
If Stuart Aves had said, ‘Don’t be so bloody daft, man – you’ve been reading too much Sherlock Holmes!’ Smith would not have been surprised, but that wasn’t what happened at all. Aves thought for some few seconds and his expression changed as he did so. Then he took a breath and began to talk.
‘I noticed the lock was missing when we first searched the platform for Bell. I didn’t mention it to anyone else but I went back the same day and fitted a new one – that would have been on the Wednesday, the day before you turned up. It wasn’t until afterwards I realized that the lock not being on there might have… I don’t know, played a part in it.’
‘How do you mean, played a part in it?’
‘Well, if that’s how he got onto the crossing walkway. He could have got knocked off there, a big wave gets close to it, or he could have climbed up the side-mesh. How should I know what was in his head? But if that gate was unlocked, open even? Well, it shouldn’t have been, should it? That comes down to me – and that’s why I never said anything.’
Smith touched the phone screen again and looked at the image of the lock. Then he said, ‘It would have saved me some bother if you had mentioned it straight away.’
‘And it would have caused me some – I wouldn’t be sitting here for a start. I’ll lose my job over this.’
Smith raised an eyebrow and looked back at the head of security.
Aves said, ‘But fair enough, I know what you’re thinking – a man’s life and all that. I’ll hold up my hands up to it now. That’s where he went, through that gate and over the side, and it should have been locked.’
He seemed almost eager to take the responsibility for it all now – the relief of a guilty conscience unburdened? Smith put the locks back into his pocket, and closed the leather case around his phone.
‘We really don’t know that, Stuart. It’s just one possibility among many. This will go into my notes obviously, but if I were you, I wouldn’t go handing in my resignation just yet. We all make mistakes…’
Aves wouldn’t let it go.
‘Where do you get many possibilities from? He went down there, it’s on the CCTV, and he never came back.’
Smith watched, surprised by the man’s sudden insistence.
‘If you’re waiting for a body, you’ll not see it. The sea’s been wild the past fortnight, and what with the tides, it could be anywhere. He went over the side. What other ‘possibilities’ are there?’
Smith was wondering whether they served coffee in the smoking room all night – they ought to, what with the twenty four hour operation. He looked at his watch. Eleven thirty, and well past his bedtime, too. He stood up.
‘Thank you for being honest with me, Stuart. I’ll be in touch if there is anything else but we’re done here for now.’
When he left the security office, Aves was still watching him – with an odd sort of expression, a kind of reluctance, as if he did not want him to go, as if he did not want to let the detective out of his sight. Smith thought, I suppose everyone gets lonely out here.
Waters studied the photo with unconcealed delight and then showed it to Mike Dunn. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. John Murray came around the table, looked at the screen closely and said, ‘Groucho Marx playing the pirate king,’ and walked back to his desk.
It was Waters who responded to Smith’s ‘Well?’
‘You seriously got on board the helicopter looking like that? And sat there for the whole journey?’
He nodded. Of course it was ridiculous, but that was the whole point, and he wondered whether he would have to explain it to all of them.
Dunn said, ‘And nobody took any notice?’
‘To be a little more precise, Mike – nobody noticed. I’m certain of that.’
For the moment, Waters could not get past the humour of it, and so Smith decided that he would help him to do so.
‘If you aren’t too busy this morning, go through the whole passenger list exercise again for my journey. Choose a few at random and contact them. See if they noticed anything odd about their fellow travellers yesterday afternoon.’
It was a chore that had produced nothing last time, save for some perplexed comments from some of the interviewees, and Waters pulled a face.
Smith said, ‘If anyone does make a rude comment about my appearance or my behaviour, you have my permission to put it up as a wall display. And have you got anything on the bulk deliveries to the platform yet? I don’t mind if you tell me this stuff before I have to ask…’
It was addressed to them all, and a more business-like atmosphere formed out of the warm, stale air in the office; it was almost April and Smith would have turned off the heating a month ago. That would pay for at least one more DC in the department.
Waters said, ‘There is a regular delivery out of Lake’s port once a week.’
‘Which day?’
‘Wednesdays.’
Presumably he would need to explain the significance of that as well, but Murray simply looked at Smith and said, ‘Convenient…’
He called them all together then, noting that Serena Bell, who had been silent since he entered the office, was barely able to look at him, let alone speak to him; he could well imagine why, and wondered for a moment whether the whole idea was a dreadful misjudgment on his part. He told them about the locks and the interview with Stuart Aves, and waited for a response.
Mike Dunn said, ‘Never stand up, though, would it? Not as evidence.’
Smith said, ‘Evidence of what? That he’s a bit incompetent and doesn’t always tell the whole truth? If those were criminal offences, there wouldn’t be many people outside the nicks, would there?’
But Murray, who had worked with Smith much longer than the others, had seen it differently.
‘The point is that this Aves saw it as evidence, and it made him talk a bit. What did you make of him, DC?’
He told them – odd, under the circumstances. Someone who at first seemed to see the second police visit as a waste of his time, as an annoying inconvenience, but who ended up wanting to take responsibility for the disappearance of James Bell. It was John Murray, too, who, after some thought, asked the crucial question at the end of that.
‘Was he fitting a story around the disclosure?’
Smith said, with a look at Dunn, ‘Or what he thought was a disclosure of evidence – he might have been. He had a little think about it before he made his confession.’
Waters said, ‘He’s head of security. You think he has something to hide?’
Smith shrugged and said, ‘Maybe. I was interviewing him as a witness and he really wanted me to believe his theory about what happened to Bell. When someone really wants me to believe something, I start wanting not to believe it. But let’s get back to the really interesting thing.’
Dunn said, ‘Which is?’
‘My disguise.’
After a short silence, Murray complet
ed his hat trick.
‘If people really do get onto the helicopter like zombies, wearing these suits with hoods, plugging in the earphones or whatever – well, it could have been any one of us on there yesterday. Apart from the fact that you went around and spoke to people after you arrived, there’s no proof that you ever went there.’
Waters said, ‘There is, John. The security pass is logged at both ends.’
Smith had always enjoyed the sound of pennies dropping slowly. He looked around at them, one by one. Murray had seen it minutes before; Serena was still somewhere else – the approaching interview with himself and Reeve, no doubt; Dunn had yet to get used to the way this team worked and Waters had the faintly surprised expression of an infant who has just discovered that walking is quicker than crawling.
Just to be certain, Smith said to him, ‘And if I had given you my pass yesterday afternoon?’
He hadn’t seen Alison Reeve look so excited in years, and he thought to himself, she really does need to get a life – I wonder what happened to that young solicitor. But then in an operation like this one, and especially one taking place where this one would, there was an undeniable frisson of, well, excitement. He was yet, however, to feel it himself; the dim sense of foreboding seemed to be getting in its way.
‘So, Serena and I talked this through last night, DC. We came up with a scenario…’
The silence said eloquently, are you ready for this, and he nodded.
‘You are a businessman – we’ll say in security so that if you get in and anyone decides to quiz you, you’ll be able to talk your way through. You’ve married a younger wife, but I’ve said to Serena that she needs to dress older rather than younger or the gap will just look too wide-’
‘Thanks for that, ma’am.’
‘And you’ve both decided that to keep things ‘interesting’ you want to spice up your love life. You don’t have any experience in these matters but a friend of your wife told her about this very exclusive, very discreet club where one can meet like-minded people. It actually must be very discreet – we can’t find anything online, no phone numbers, nothing. I’m sure it’s done by word-of-mouth, recommendation. So, tonight,’ with a reassuring glance at Serena, ‘your wife will call in and see what she can find out. That will be more interesting to them than some needy-looking man knocking on the door. She’ll have the card with her, and if it’s necessary she will mention the name James Bell.’
Smith shook his head but Reeve over-ruled him.
‘I know that might blow it but at that point what do we have to lose? If we can’t get past the door, it’s all irrelevant anyway.’
He did not look convinced, and Reeve probably guessed some of what he was thinking; if Bell had been hurt, the people who did so were still at large. There was an outside chance that they were in some way connected to the Velvet MSC – and now a young female detective was mentioning his name at the front door.
He said, ‘Is Serena doing this alone tonight?’
‘No – I’ve had to cancel my visit to the opera. I’ll be parked nearby, where I can see her, and there will be a uniform car around the corner. I suggested a wire but Superintendent Allen didn’t see that it was needed – and we can’t name the club as a suspect.’
‘Even though it is a bit suspect…’
‘I think Serena will be fine. It’s a shot to nothing and if she doesn’t get anywhere, we haven’t lost a thing.’
Smith was considering it from various angles as he sat and listened. He ought to be around himself tonight but Reeve seemed to have it covered – and the two women would perhaps have things to talk about that his presence might inhibit rather than help.
He said, ‘If this place is as low-profile as you say, they might want to check us out beforehand.’
‘Thought of that. We’ll give them an address and a phone number to go with it if they ask – yours. If they do something basic like the electoral roll, that’ll do. We can’t come up with much more, not whole new identities for something like this.’
Smith was still thinking and Serena was still saying nothing.
Reeve continued, ‘To be honest, this is a long, long shot and I’m surprised that he,’ pointing upwards, ‘went for it. He says he’ll wait to see if forensics comes up with anything, and then I think he might pull the plug. It’s a good training exercise, though.’
Smith said, ‘Have Bell’s phone number as well, the iPhone one. We know it’s unlikely that anyone would answer but it’ll sound more believable if you can give it. And you need a story for how you knew him. Mention The Wherryman pub. It’s a bit rough but then, if you knew Bell, they’ll think that you like a bit of-’
‘DC!’
‘Well, if we’re going to be getting into our parts… Have you heard about my performance yesterday?’
At last a smile on Serena Butler’s face.
Reeve said, ‘Talking of costume, DC. If this comes off, you’ll need to dress the part. You want to look like a man trying too hard to impress a younger woman, a lively young wife. You need to look a bit… Desperate.’
They both watched him as he thought about it.
‘For a man of my experience, that won’t be easy.’
‘But I have every faith in you. You’re bound to have a few clothes you last wore ten years ago – those are the ones you’re looking for, DC.’
Now they were both smiling as they watched him, picturing it, no doubt. The phone on Reeve’s desk buzzed, saving him from further humiliation. The DI answered it and he glanced at Serena Butler. She had retreated again, though, and he thought, we are going to make a very odd couple indeed if this thing ever flies.
Reeve put down the phone and said, ‘He wants to see you. It’ll be about this.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Now Smith, about this writer business.’
Allen had said that there were various things he wanted to mention but he had decided to begin with ‘this writer business.’ Smith was momentarily annoyed again, and wondered as he waited whether he could make any other threats against the too-anxious-to-please young lady he knew only as Wanda.
‘Obviously it would have been better if you had mentioned it to me yourself. I am your commanding officer and I’m not sure how Norwich got involved. Perhaps you still have friends in high places…’
Allen gave his bleakest smile as he let that thought hang in the air between them.
Smith said, ‘Not the case at all, sir. I can only apologise on behalf of the author and her agent, whose assistant got involved quite unnecessarily.’
‘The author and her agent, eh? So you are talking to these people already. It might have been wiser to check this through with me before letting matters get so advanced.’
Smith could only sit and suffer in silence; having apologized once, he would not be made to do so again, not by Detective Superintendent Allen. The more he wriggled, the more pins the senior officer would stick into him.
‘Anyway, it’s about the Andretti murders. If you could fill me in – better late than never.’
Yes, thought Smith, I’d love to fill you in, and then he explained in words of one syllable what had taken place so far concerning the possibility of a book at some future date. Allen listened and nodded once or twice as if he was a wise old judge hearing a case that had baffled younger legal minds, and Smith thought, dear God, please don’t let him give me advice, it’s been a long week.
Allen said, ‘And this Joanne Evison was a detective inspector before she went native?’
Smith nodded, not able to trust himself to respond to the absurd phrase.
‘She has already published similar books?’ and Smith gave him the title of the one that he had read, ‘They Went Up The Hill’. Allen wrote it down on the jotter in front of him.
‘I see…’
… Well, there’s a first time for everything, obviously. Smith waited on – it looked as if a verdict was at hand.
‘I’ve looked into it. Andretti is a cl
osed case, nothing left on file, nothing else that could conceivably cause it to spring back to life!’
Long experience had taught Smith that there was no point in judging the detective superintendent’s utterances by the normal standards of what is appropriate, decent or even intelligent but Allen was breaking new ground here. The look of pained surprise on Smith’s face was genuine.
‘And there are, of course, plenty of precedents now, what with the public’s prurient interest in such cases.’
A lot of Ps in there, even for this grandmaster of the alliterative phrase.
‘If you feel that it’s wise, Smith, the force will have no objection at this preliminary stage. Should you have any worries later on, you could always come back to me.’
Well, thought the object of Allen’s concern, in an unstable universe almost anything is possible.
‘And if Mrs Evison,’ – in Allen’s world, it seemed, all female writers were married – ‘needs at any point to interview your current commanding officer, then I would be happy to oblige.’
The many hours that Smith had spent playing poker in the barracks on Salisbury Plain all those years ago had never been more useful than at that moment. Smith thanked his superintendent with a straight face.
The second matter was ‘this proposed undercover operation’. Reeve had given the impression that it was a lot more than proposed but Smith kept his silence about that, too. He did have to explain how he saw the case of James Bell, fully aware that Allen was testing what Reeve had already told him by asking for Smith’s version of it; if there were significant differences, the superintendent would take the route of least resistance and greatest personal safety – his own, obviously. But, apparently, there were no significant differences. Allen told him that his chief concern was the position in which this placed Detective Constable Butler, in relation to her detective sergeant – he then felt it necessary to point out that this was, in fact, Smith.
‘You do fully appreciate, Smith, the circumstances under which DC Butler made the move to Kings Lake?’
He said that he did.
‘I am assured that emotionally she feels able to take on this role, and clearly she wants to demonstrate to us what she can do – but women, as you and I both know, feel these things differently to, er, men. They feel them for longer. Don’t they?’
Luck and Judgement: A DC Smith Investigation Page 19