Antman

Antman Page 9

by Robert V. Adams

  'Did you say she?'

  'Yep.'

  'Old news. I've already met her at the dead pig fiasco,' said Mander.

  Sergeant Brill was passing the doorway and looked in. 'By the way, you two bloody washerwomen, the incident room is now the murder investigation room, with DCI Winchester in charge.'

  'When was that decided?'

  'Don't ask me,' said Mander. 'I'm looking forward to a long weekend in my caravan at sunny Runswick Bay, watching frets rolling in off the North Sea.

  Brill put both hands on the desk. 'Rumour has it that somebody leaned on Bradshaw and said this is how it's bloody gonna be. So I advise you to watch yourselves with her. She's probably got friends in even higher places than the bloody Masons.'

  'That's not funny. You wanna be careful where you make that kind of remark,' said Mander.

  'Yeah, watch Bradshaw's left trouser leg when he's next in. It's always at half mast,' said Morrison.

  'Come to think of it, your handshake's a bit suspect, Morrison,' said Mander.

  'See what you've missed. Serves you right for taking leave during a busy period. That woman eh?'

  'Yes. What about it?'

  'In this Station. With him?'

  He motioned next door.

  'Morrison!' Bradshaw bellowed from the adjacent office, as if on cue. Bradshaw's office was like himself, large and lean. It was almost bare of furniture apart from his own desk and chair, offering no place for the visitor to feel relaxed.

  'Sir?'

  'Bring me those expense claims, pronto.'

  Any doubts about whether Bradshaw's intervention was coincidental were settled in the next minute. The Superintendent scrutinised each sheet of paper before signing it grudgingly. He leaned across the desk, rising slightly off his seat with his weight carried on his outstretched arms, palms down on its polished surface, like a spider about to leap forward on its prey. Morrison returned to the main office. Brill spoke slowly and deliberately to him:

  'Now Superintendent Bradshaw has finished with you, I want to say I've heard quite enough about caravanning exploits to last me the rest of your possibly quite short career. I want this Station to be known for its efficient work, not for the quality of its caravanning holidays. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, sir,' Morrison answered obediently.

  'Get on then, man. And wash your mouth out. We've a woman DCI working in this Station and I want no more sodding language fouling this effing place up.'

  'We've WPC's. Why the song and dance about this one?'

  'Because she's new, because she's joining us temporarily so she's taking her impressions back to another Force, because she's a good bit higher in rank than you. Three reasons enough?'

  'Definitely, sir.'

  'So watch your bloody ps and qs. I'm off to lunch now. I want a full report on any developments as soon as I return.'

  'Yes, sir.' Morrison looked round and there was Mander dancing a miniature jig behind Brill's back as he left the general office, mouthing 'This is bloody pot calling bloody kettle black, over and out.'

  * * *

  Detective Constables Andy Dobbs and Bob Livesey were in the locker room, coming on duty for the first time that week.

  'Winchester,' said Livesey

  'Rifle or cathedral?' Dobbs asked.

  'Keep your witty remarks to yourself. Neither. It's her name. Christine Winchester.'

  'I can tell you a bit about her,' said George Tenant, who'd come in to the room halfway through the conversation: 'I've heard she turned down accelerated promotion at one point. By coincidence, I think I've already met her.'

  He wasn't put off by the 'Ooohs' this remark stimulated.

  'At the scene of the dead pig fiasco, and in the car park at HQ. I helped her move some box files from her old office.'

  'He's going to tell us he found out her back box files are seldom used.'

  'You're a crude bastard. No wonder you never made it through the sergeant's exam.'

  Tenant had unzipped his trousers to tuck in his shirt.

  'Look at Mr bloody cocky, waving it about.'

  'How is it other people know they've sent a woman to replace Dave Berringham and I don't.'

  Tenant tapped the side of his nose. 'Not enough of this, lad. Keep your nose to her grindstone, eye on your balls.'

  'You are a dirty bastard.'

  'Fast mover, this lad.'

  'Fancies his chances.'

  'If it's the same one. I asked in the office afterwards and they gave me the gossip on her. Young, thirty-ish, extremely attractive, no current attachments, likes smart men and smart cars. First class degree from Oxford University so right out of your league.'

  'Smart, high achiever. Sorry Andy, that rules you out as well,' said Bob.

  'You'll have to do something about the rust on that old Vauxhall,' said Tenant.

  'Shut it. Just because you're already smarming your way in with her, Georgie Porgie. Remember what happens when you kiss the girls.'

  'Woah, guilty minds speak most.'

  'Who said I'm even interested? I haven't got your one-track mind.'

  * * *

  It was three hours since the body had been found. Bradshaw was back in his office.

  DC Morrison made a mistake. Mug of coffee in hand, he was peering out of the office window at a helicopter hovering over the streets to the rear of the car park.

  'Ah, Morrison.' Bradshaw took a deep breath. 'Free and looking for something to occupy you?'

  'Not exactly, sir.'

  'A woman's body has been found.'

  'Yes, sir. I know.'

  Bradshaw rocked back on his heels. 'You know, sir?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Bradshaw recovered quickly from his surprise. 'Bad news travels.'

  'Sir.'

  'Then you'll probably know she's thirty-ish. No ID yet. Suspected foul play.'

  'No, sir.'

  Bradshaw tried, and failed, not to let his satisfaction show.

  'Is DCI Winchester on duty yet?'

  'Haven't seen her, sir.'

  'Phone headquarters. Ask them if they've any reports anywhere in the county in the last two weeks of bodies found in suspicious circumstances.'

  'Who shall I report back to?' Morrison sensed the situation between Bradshaw and DCI Winchester was potential dynamite and had no wish to be around for any detonation.

  'Sergeant Brill of course.'

  'Sir.'

  'On second thoughts …'

  Morrison's hopes of being let off the hook were raised momentarily then dashed.

  '… make that the last month or so. Don't just ring Forensics. They've a locum in place of our regular. Check with the undertakers as well. You can't be too careful. Another nail in the coffin of quality, eh?'

  'Yes, sir.' Morrison turned towards the doorway of the general office. He showed no sign that he'd recognised any witticism buried in this remark. Constables Tenant and Morrison, sitting opposite each other, looked sideways at him and exchanged glances and shrugs. They were used to not understanding what Bradshaw was on about.

  Bradshaw's face didn't crack. Morrison was wondering why he should check with undertakers when the body had already been found.

  'Yes, sir what? Don't speak unless you know what I am referring to.'

  'I do, sir.'

  Morrison should have known better. Whenever he was under pressure, Bradshaw turned out his hog on the softest ground. By that standard, Morrison was mud.

  'What then?'

  'Well, sir, we're having problems getting reports on substances in time.'

  'Substances in time!' roared Bradshaw. 'What would they be? Clocks filled with smack? Ha!'

  'Er, I may have put that rather badly, sir. I meant the reports from Forensics take rather longer than we would like.'

  'How absolutely regrettable, old boy,' said Bradshaw in a sarcastic imitation of Morrison's verbal sophistication. 'Which substances would you say are particularly affected, old chap?'

  If Morris
on was affected, he gave no sign:

  'All sorts really. Substances in plastic bags and that sort of thing.'

  'Plastic bags! More drugs, in shopping bags perhaps. Your pushers go to Asda or would they prefer Sainsbury's, or maybe a few tabs from the quaint village shop, with toilets next door where they can wash their hands afterwards.'

  'No, sir.'

  'No sir what!'

  'No shopping, sir. Drugs, syringes and so on.'

  'Go back to your Open University degree Morrison and stop bothering your head with practical policing.'

  Morrison was heartily sick of constantly being pulled down.

  'Sir, it wasn't the OU but law and criminology at the local Uni. Can I check what you said just now, sir? Don't you trust Forensics?'

  'Good lord, yes. With my life, as it were. Listen to me, Morrison. I'm not casting aspersions on the medical profession. We can rely on our regular people in the mortuary. They're part of our own forensic team as it were. But if one is sick, another is on holiday in the Bahamas and a third is out on another job, we remain hesitant about relying too heavily on the locum pulled in from another area. That's what I mean about questionable quality. Comprendes?'

  Morrison nodded uncertainly.

  'Don't forget, Morrison. Check the body!'

  'Sir.'

  * * *

  Brill came into the office in a hurry.

  'That body they found near Beverley. Preliminary forensic report's ready.'

  The Station phone rang. Brill put the call through to Bradshaw, adding, 'Suspicious circumstances. Beverley Westwood. Some of the flesh had been removed.'

  A collective groan spread rapidly among the other officers in the room.

  'Spare us the gory details.'

  'Forensics said somebody rang from this office.'

  'Who rang?'

  'I did,' said Morrison. 'Superintendent Bradshaw's orders.'

  Brill pulled a face and walked out of the office, carrying a report he'd been writing.

  'If it's another pig,' muttered Tenant, 'put me down for some chops for the freezer.'

  'I'll have a pound of sausages,' a voice called from the other end of the office.

  'You're sick,' said Morrison.

  'There were signs of the flesh being eaten.'

  'How can you tell?'

  'We know what it's like to live with bloody piranhas.'

  'Flown in from the Amazon, or swam across the Atlantic, round the channel and up the chuffin' Ouse?'

  'Nothing so exotic. Young men round here getting hungry for it on their way home from the pub.'

  'You're bizarre. Not lost your peculiar hangups about women.'

  'Do not doubt the seriousness of the situation,' said Tenant pompously, in an exaggerated imitation of Bradshaw.

  'For pity's sake give over,' said Morrison. 'A woman's been found dead.'

  Silence fell. The other officers shuffled uneasily. Brill returned, having deposited the report with a typist. At that moment, Bradshaw called out from his office:

  'DS Brill? Have you an officer free?'

  Tenant grimaced and mimed Bradshaw's words again, raising a smile from the others.

  'Always busy, sir. But I can release one,' said Brill, striking a judicious balance. He nodded to Morrison, who left the room. Tenant, behind his back, melodramatically acted out the horrified facial expression and struggles of the person being dragged by invisible forces to a dreadful fate.

  Morrison took a deep breath and picked up his case.

  'I'll be off.'

  'Wait a moment, Constable. Wheel yourself down to where the action is. Beverley Westwood. You can give some relief to the team.'

  'Too many chiefs here. Bradshaw says this, someone else says that,' muttered Morrison.

  'What did you say?' Brill asked sharply.

  'I said where's Beverley.'

  'For God's sake, man. Have a look at the map and try walking ten yards to the other office. Do I have to spell out every detail? Contact the local team on the spot before you leave here and make yourself known to them.'

  Brill was halfway out of the nearest door, when a woman's voice came clearly across from the doorway on the far side of the room:

  'Before you go, Constable.'

  Both men turned.

  'Right,' said Brill, the wheels turning rather rapidly in his head, 'Inspector Winchester, is it?'

  'I am Detective Chief Inspector Winchester, yes, Sergeant.'

  'Detective Chief Inspector Winchester, well I never,' said Brill, 'and no one even informed me you were arriving today.'

  'I actually started before today, at the scene of the pig incident.'

  'Ah, the pig. What a shame you've just missed our Detective Superintendent Bradshaw. I was just saying to Morrison here –'

  'I heard what you were saying, Sergeant. I suggest it will be advisable to leave, Constable – your name, Constable?'

  'Morrison, ma'am.'

  '– to leave Constable Morrison here a few minutes or until I've had a brief meeting with everybody.'

  'Why yes, ma'am, absolutely. But if I may say, ma'am, there is some urgency. The world won't wait, etcetera etcetera.'

  'That's fine, Sergeant, you can brief me on what Constable Morrison is doing. Morrison, you don't need to wait. Sergeant, bring all the relevant papers to me in my office, immediately. You can give me a verbal update on action taken so far. I shall want a meeting with everyone in the team as quickly as possible. We'll make that,' Chris looked at her watch, 'half an hour from now.'

  'Which office, ma'am?' The question sounded innocent. He was stirring.

  'I'm glad you mentioned that, Sergeant. That's another job for you before we meet. I'll be clearing my car out. I shall need some help to carry stuff in.'

  Brill called out. 'Morrison, the lady needs help.'

  'Sir.'

  'Sergeant.'

  'Ma'am?'

  'I'm not used to being called a lady. We'll stick to normal conventions. Call me boss, or guv, I'm not fussy which.'

  'Not bloody much,' someone muttered. Chris pretended not to hear.

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Brill, standing as though paralysed.

  'What is it, Sergeant? Have you any questions?'

  'No, no, sir er – ma'am, er guv.'

  'Good.'

  'Bradshaw's going to love working with you,' Brill said under his breath as he busied himself at his desk.

  'Sergeant,' Chris called.

  'Ma'am, er guv?'

  Chris appeared at the door.

  'This was in my tray.'

  'That's right, guv.'

  'Will someone tell me what's going on?'' complained an anonymous voice to nobody in particular.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Chris was in the makeshift incident investigation office, peering round a jumble of desks, tables, chairs, computers, boxes of stored stationery and filing cabinets. About a dozen police officers and clerical staff sat about, some working on PCs, others looking in files or doodling on notepads.

  As she addressed her colleagues the talking continued at the back.

  'I'll continue when you're all quiet,' said Chris. From that moment the silence would have cracked like an egg. She carried on as though nothing had happened. 'I'm Detective Chief Inspector Chris Winchester. Pleased to meet you. I'm heading this team while DI Berringham is off. First, this working environment. Who is admin here – hands up please. Right, who is in charge? Come on, who holds the highest grade? Fine, I want you – what's your name? Tracy? – to take responsibility for sorting out the layout of this investigation team's working space by tomorrow. I want all PC workstations which do not comply with EU regulations reported to me with a list of shortcomings and I'll do my best to have these rectified as quickly as possible. You need health and safety issues sorting so you can put your best effort into the job. Clear all unwanted stored items, including stationery, equipment and furniture from the room. Bring any problems to me. Don't liaise with anyone unless you're sure it's
within your existing responsibilities to do so. Check with me and I'll do any necessary negotiating apart from this. If I can't, I'll tell you. You can cry on my shoulder and I'll cry on yours.'

  'It's bloody liaise now, not talk,' said Bob in his own stage-whispered imitation of an Oxford University accent. Chris gave no sign of having heard him.

  'The rest of this concerns everybody. As from this moment, I want every significant incoming report to be passed by me and every action that's part of this team's work to be cleared with me first. This is a short-term device to enable me to come to grips with the stage the inquiry has already reached. I'm not authoritarian, or a dictator by inclination or habit, but I am a newcomer and I carry the can from today if this investigation goes sour. So brief me as fully as you can. Is that clear? Any problems with anything I've said?'

  The indistinct murmur which arose was profoundly ambiguous.

  'I said, are we agreed?'

  There was a ragged, but more recognisable chorus of assent. Heads were nodding. Towards the back of the room, two young men and a woman were whispering; one giggled.

  'Can we share the information?' called Chris.

  They looked up.

  'The joke,' said Chris. ‘Can we share it?'

  One of them coughed.

  'If you must know, miss, it was about you.'

  'Don't be inhibited, man. Spit it out.'

  'Someone found this writing on a piece of paper.'

  Chris walked quickly to where they stood and held out her hand. Reluctantly, the officer handed it over. She read the words out loud.

  'Winchester doesn't like grass, unless she likes your arse.'

  A general snigger followed, then silence as everyone looked at Chris. She stared straight back, slowly surveying the room. She hadn't seen Superintendent Bradshaw come in behind her.

  'Fair enough,' she said. 'I can take a joke, even a childish or smutty one. But I'm not tolerating indiscipline or indecency, harassment or any of those other fashionable features of police forces. I guess whoever passed that ditty on, knows how unpleasant I made it in my last team for people who treat others unfairly. I also reward openness with honesty, honest mistakes with my personal support and professional sincerity with my fullest backing. My idea of this team is that you cover me and I cover you. In return, I expect the highest standards of integrity, and I'll give you my commitment to the same high standards. Is that understood?'

 

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