“Up to a tenner.”
“What?”
“You can have whatever you want as long as it doesn’t come to more than a tenner.” Gareth brought the truck to a halt for a red light and turned to face her.
“My God, Gareth,” Laura said, a mischievous smile on her face, “you really know how to treat a lady, don’t you?”
3
“Morning team,” Detective Superintendent Malcolm Griffiths said as he walked into the principal briefing room of Wymondham police station. Around him, the group of uniformed and non-uniformed police officers stirred into life. Some of them cradled cups of coffee from the vending machine in the crew room. The brighter ones amongst them had stopped at the Costa Coffee place that had sprung up a year after Norfolk’s police headquarters had relocated to Wymondham. It was maybe ten miles outside Norwich, but the purpose-built block served them much better than the old city centre one in Bethel Street.
Malcolm thanked a young policewoman in plain clothes as she handed him a latte from Costa.
“Thanks, Constable,” he said. “You’ll go far.” There were a few titters from the surrounding policemen, along with a couple of sneering glances aimed at the young woman.
“Morning, sir,” the fresh-faced policeman at the front of the room said as Malcolm took his seat in the front and centre of the briefing room. This was Morning Prayers, and Malcolm was the duty superintendent for the day. The policeman prodded at a remote control and the Norfolk Police crest emerged on the screen at the front. “Not much to report this morning. Quiet night in the main.”
Malcolm tuned the policeman out as he went through the events of the previous evening. Apart from a drunken scuffle after the pubs emptied that had left one youngster in hospital and the other in nick, there wasn’t much at all. Malcolm stifled a yawn. He’d not slept well for some reason, and it wasn’t the usual four in the morning pee that men of his age, as his doctor put it, were prone to that had disturbed his sleep.
“Sir?” Malcolm shook his head to clear the cobwebs as he realised the young policeman was talking directly to him and not the rest of the room.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?” Malcolm said, knowing that the entire room would know he’d not been listening. In front of him, the policeman was waving a piece of paper.
“We had this come in earlier. Bodily remains found up at Cley. The duty super said he would leave it for the day shift.”
“Who was the super last night?”
“Carmichael, sir.”
“Noted. One less Christmas card for him this year, then.” Malcolm ignored the polite laughter from the gathered policemen. “Any more details?”
“It’s a hand, sir. Found off the coast by a fisherman.”
“Just a hand?”
“I believe so, sir, yes.” The policeman looked down at the paper to refresh his memory before continuing. “A member of the public, a Mr John Bywater, found it in a lobster pot.” He paused, as if he was waiting for questions. “He’s a fisherman.”
Malcolm waited for a moment before saying anything, wondering if any of the gathered policemen would attempt a joke of some sort. He tried to think of something himself, if only to raise another polite laugh, but he couldn’t think of anything. Neither, it turned out, could any of the others.
“Okay, thanks. That sounds interesting. I might take that one myself. Who’s assigned to me today?”
“It’s me, sir,” the young policewoman who had given him the coffee at the start of the brief said.
“That explains the coffee, then,” Malcolm replied, smiling at the young woman to show her and the others he was joking. “So, Constable Hunter,” he continued, “it looks like we’re taking a trip to the seaside.”
It took them almost an hour to get on the road. After Morning Prayers had finished and Malcolm had allocated his shift their tasks for the day, he got waylaid by the Assistant Chief Constable who wanted to talk to him about the monthly crime statistics. More specifically, why were they up and what was Malcolm going to do about it? Malcolm managed to extricate himself by telling the ACC that he was working an active case up at Cley, and the sooner he got there, the sooner the uniforms that were guarding the scene could get back out on the beat. Visible Policing was one of the buzzwords of the moment in Norfolk Police, so Malcolm was sure to play on that.
He walked back to the main office to collect Constable Kate Hunter, his temporary partner for the day, and noticed some of the leering looks that her colleagues gave her as she grabbed her stuff. Malcolm was tempted to say something to them, but at the same time he didn’t want to make things worse for her if she was getting stick off the others. A few months ago, the two of them had been involved in a missing persons case which hadn’t ended well, and he enjoyed her company. It wasn’t a physical thing; it was because she was a damn good policewoman. Keen, a good eye for detail, excellent with people. She had, in Malcolm’s opinion, all the attributes of an old-fashioned copper along with a very good grasp of the new technologies that they had at their disposal. When he was a constable, the police still kept their files in filing cabinets and contacts on Rolodexes.
“All set, Kate?” he asked her as they walked to collect the pool car.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Good to go.”
“Kate, I’ve told you before. If it’s just the two of us, then it’s Malcolm. You only need the sir if there’s other people about. It just makes me feel old.”
He saw her open her mouth for a second, a sly grin on her face, before closing it again. The obvious response was you are old, but she had obviously thought better of it.
“Yes, sir,” Kate said. “Sorry, I mean Malcolm.”
As they drove out of Wymondham and onto the A11 dual carriageway that led to Norwich, Kate fiddled with the sat nav in their unmarked car.
“What do you think, boss?” she asked him. “A47 out towards Fakenham or back into the city and take the Holt Road?”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” he replied. “You choose. I’m easy either way.” He waited as she paused at a set of traffic lights and programmed the sat nav, pronouncing the name of the town they were visiting—Cley—to rhyme with eye. “You can tell you’re not local, Kate,” Malcolm said with a smile. “It rhymes with clay, not eye.”
“What is it with this place?” she replied with a grin. “Why can’t you lot just say the place names like they’re spelt?”
“You’re not in that London now, Kate,” Malcolm said, turning his attention to the papers he’d printed out to read on the journey. It was the initial report from the uniform that responded to the call, and some notes from his predecessor on the night shift.
“What have we got?” Kate asked a moment later.
“It’s a hand in a glove. Dredged up in a lobster pot, apparently.” Malcolm looked at the photograph in the papers that the uniforms had e-mailed down. “Looks like a neoprene glove in the photo, so probably a scuba diver.”
“So it is our man, then?” Kate replied.
“Almost certainly,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Almost certainly.”
4
Annette McGuire cupped her hand around her mug of tea, watching as her next-door neighbour’s cat tip-toed across the small lawn in her back garden. The large ginger tabby had been a bone of contention between them since she and Philip had moved in, seemingly preferring to use their garden as a litter tray instead of going in its own house. The neighbours had denied it until Annette’s husband, Philip, had taken a photograph of it squeezing one out while staring at the camera with a feline look of contempt.
If he were here now, Philip would be charging down the garden with the empty washing-up bottle he had filled with lemon juice and water to use as a deterrent. But she’d not seen Philip for nearly three weeks. Annette watched as the cat finished its business and slunk away to climb back up the fence. She turned away from the kitchen window and made her way into the lounge.
Annette and Philip had bought the house e
arly last year when they had returned from Australia, where they had both met while working in a holiday resort. She hadn’t wanted to come home, but Philip’s parents were getting on, and he told her it was his duty to be near them. Near them and his inheritance, she had thought at the time.
It was functional at best, tired at worst. An ex-local authority house on a council estate about twenty minutes walk from the city that was a mixture of other privately owned houses and ones still run by the council. It was pretty easy to tell the difference as the privately owned ones all had new front doors. She had wanted to sell up a few months ago and move to somewhere more upmarket. Money wasn’t an issue—one thing Philip was very good at was money, and they didn’t have a mortgage any more. She’d found a lovely house in Cringleford, an up-and-coming suburb a bit further away from Norwich. But Philip was having none of it. This was, he had told her, their home.
It was almost three weeks ago to the day that he’d announced he was going out for the day. No, he had told Annette; he didn’t want her to come with him. Nor did he tell her where he was going, what he was going to do, or when he would be back. When he’d not returned by nightfall, she had started to get concerned. Philip was old enough and ugly enough to look after himself, but it was so out of character for the man that it was unusual.
Annette’s older brother, Gareth, had told her not be concerned about Philip’s whereabouts. The two of them didn’t get on anyway, and she knew that Gareth couldn’t care less where his brother-in-law was. But when Philip hadn’t come back by the next morning, she started getting properly worried.
“Maybe,” Gareth had said, “he’s just passed out on a friend’s house after a big night out?” Annette had known that wasn’t the case, which is exactly what she had told the police when she reported him missing a few days later.
The police seemed no more interested in Philip’s whereabouts than Gareth was. The policeman who had taken down the missing persons report had kept checking his phone while he was completing it, stopping half-way through to text someone. Annette had thought about complaining, but what was the point?
It wasn’t that Annette was upset about Philip disappearing. In fact, if he had wanted to leave, she would have helped him pack his bags and given him a lift to the station. The two of them had fallen out of love before they’d even left Australia and had just coexisted in the same house since they’d come home. The only thing approaching intimacy between them was when Philip got drunk. It was always the same. He would get amorous, whether Annette wanted him to or not, and then fail to perform. This would be followed by a battering for Annette for causing it.
Last week, there’d been a visit from the police. It made Annette think that perhaps, finally, they were starting to take her seriously. The policewoman who had visited had been dressed in plain clothes and introduced herself as Detective Constable Call me Kate Hunter. She was young, mid-twenties at most, but seemed very professional. Right until the moment she asked Annette if she thought there was the possibility that Philip might have been having an affair.
Despite herself, Annette started laughing at the memory. Chance would be a fine thing, she had replied.
There wasn’t, Kate had explained, a great deal more that the police could do. Philip was a grown man, not in any high-risk group, and these things happened all the time. That was all very well for the young policewoman to say, Annette had thought at the time. But what was she supposed to do now?
It wasn’t money that was the issue. The house was paid for; they had plenty of savings, and Annette’s job working for Children’s Services for the local council paid well enough. If Philip decided never to come home, she would be fine, financially.
It was more the thought she would have to spend the rest of her life wondering if he would walk back through the door.
5
Laura waved Gareth goodbye and, clutching her briefcase in one hand and her coat in the other, made her way round to the back of the courtroom to the staff entrance. She nodded at the security guard, an elderly man called Max who had been there since she was a law student, and put her bag and coat onto the conveyor belt to be scanned. Once she had passed through the metal detector, she retrieved them both and made her way into the court complex and up to the first floor.
“Morning, Laura,” Paul Dewar, her boss, said as she walked into the defence offices that overlooked the car park at the front of the courtroom. He was dressed immaculately—as always—in a three-piece-suit with a fine navy-blue weave. A gold chain led from his waistcoat to a pocket where he kept a gold watch that had been a present from his father when Paul had passed the bar over forty years previously. Silver hair was swept over his head, revealing a widow’s peak that he’d apparently had since he was in his twenties. He was clutching a fine bone china cup in one hand and the accompanying saucer in the other. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He nodded at a teapot that stood on an occasional table, his jowls wobbling as he did so.
“That would be great, Paul,” Laura replied, putting her things down. “I’m parched.” She made her way to the table and picked up the teapot.
“I see young Gareth dropped you off,” Paul said, returning his gaze to the car park below the building. His face crinkled into a smile, but it wasn’t his normal kind one. This smile had a hint of mischief underneath it. “How nice of him to pop round so early.”
“Paul, please,” Laura said, hiding her irritation under a smile of her own. “My car broke down and I couldn’t get a cab. I called Gareth because I knew he’d be able to give me a lift.”
“Oh, it’s none of my business, my dear girl,” Paul replied. “You’re a grown woman. Excuse my misbehaviour. I apologise.”
“Accepted.” Laura scooped two sugars into her own cup of tea. “So, should be fairly swift this morning.”
“I do hope so,” Paul replied. “Little bastards, all three of them.” Laura winced at Paul’s language. He didn’t swear often, and when he did, it was obvious.
“They’re still entitled to a proper defence, Paul,” Laura said. “Or so you’ve spent the last eighteen months telling me.”
“And so the student becomes the teacher.” Paul finished his tea and put his cup and saucer back on the table. He extended his arms out to her. “Laura, my dear. Come here.”
He pulled her into a hug, and she rested her face on his shoulder. He smelt of cologne and Pears soap, which reminded Laura of her grandfather.
“I’m sorry for my comment. It was uncalled for.” He unwrapped his arms and took a step back, leaving a hand on each of her shoulders. “But I like you a lot. And I like Gareth a lot. I see the two of you together and I see myself, all those years ago with my entire life ahead of me.” Laura had been smiling, but she felt it slipping from her face as he spoke. “I just want you to be happy, my dear.”
“It’s not that simple, Paul,” Laura said, stepping away from her boss so that his arms fell to his sides. “You know that. If it wasn’t for you, he would still be in prison for murder.”
“The credit for that is ours, my dear girl, not mine alone.”
“Kind of you to say so, Paul, but that’s not true.” To Laura’s surprise, she felt a lump forming in her throat. She turned away, determined that Paul wouldn’t see her upset. But she couldn’t work out why what Paul had said had upset her.
Three hours and three suspended sentences later, Laura and Paul were done for the day. Done in the courtroom, at least. In the pub next to the court, three young men celebrated their continued freedom with their friends. Laura watched them through the leaded windows of the Wig and Pen—the scene of many a celebration and commiseration over the hundreds of years it had sat next to the courtroom.
“Look at them,” Paul said from his position next to her on the courtroom steps. “Not a hint of remorse from any of them. Little fu–”
“Paul,” Laura said sharply, cutting him off. “You’re in a right old mood today.” She turned to look at him, concerned. “What’s going on?”
>
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “Just being maudlin, that’s all.”
“I’m meeting Gareth for lunch in the Heartsease,” Laura said. “Why don’t you join us?”
“I can’t, my dear. I’ve got an appointment up at the hospital.”
“What? What’s wrong?” She looked at him again, suddenly concerned.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Just a checkup. Bit of an MoT. Gets offered to all chaps of a certain age. I tell you what, though.” He winked at her, a roguish smile playing across his face. “I hope the doctor’s got small fingers.”
It took Laura a moment to work out what he was talking about. When the penny dropped, her face crinkled.
“Ew, Paul,” she said, giggling. “Now that’s an image I can’t get out of my head.” She watched as Paul drew himself up to his full height.
“Mr Dewar?” he said, gesturing with a hand at the empty car park in front of them. “Doctor Acromegaly will see you now.”
Laura started laughing, accompanied a few seconds later by Paul. “I think you should come to the Heartsease with me and Gareth and get absolutely hammered before you go to the hospital.”
“Don’t tempt me, my dear girl,” Paul replied. “Don’t tempt me.”
6
Malcolm tidied the papers away into a neat bundle as Kate parked the car next to a marked police car that was sitting beside an abandoned cafe. He regarded the area in front of them. The car park had room for perhaps twenty cars and was adjacent to the shingle beach. It was around half full, visitors no doubt drawn by the fine weather. On the beach, Malcolm could see a small fishing boat on a trailer attached to a tractor. Around the trailer were two policemen in uniform, and a man in bright yellow waders who was smoking a cigarette. One of the policemen looked up at Malcolm, so he raised his hand to attract his attention. As the policeman started walking up the beach to meet them, Kate blipped the locks of the car. Above their heads, large seagulls soared and swooped, their loud cries sounding tortured.
Single Handed (Gareth Dawson Series Book 3) Page 2