The Cyclist

by Tim Sullivan

  'It wouldn't've happened if she'd been here,' answered Jean.

  'And how d'you work that one out?' Andy asked. Cross noticed a distinct change of attitude in Andy with his wife. He seemed irritated, angry. Maybe he was still annoyed by the previous day's scene at the restaurant. He was no longer the protective presence for her that he had been in their first meeting. Well, it couldn't be easy living with a drunk, thought Cross. Particularly one who started so early in the day. He imagined she must be in quite a state, every night, when Andy returned home from work.

  'Well, she wouldn't have got pregnant for a start.'

  'You can't know that. Don't be stupid,' he replied.

  'Don't call me stupid,' she spat, as if it was a reiteration of something she'd already said several times before.

  'Was it easy for you to get time off work?' Ottey continued.

  'Yeah, my boss understood. He knows the situation,' he said, instinctively looking at Jean.

  'And what's that supposed to mean?' she said.

  'What d'you think? The miscarriage, obviously.' He turned back to Ottey. 'I'll work a few nights to make up for it. We're twenty-four hours, seven days a week.'

  'You sound like a bloody advert. Why don't you give her your card while you're at it?' said Jean.

  'Oh shut up, Jean. If you've got nothing better to say, why don't you just go and wash?'

  'We'd rather she stayed,' said Cross.

  'What do you do for work, Andy?' Ottey asked.

  'I'm a plumber,' he replied.

  'You work for yourself?'

  'Used to. Thinking of going back to it, as it happens,' he said.

  'So, who do you work for now?' Ottey went on.

  'South West Plumbing.' There was an indiscernible pause as the two detectives took this in.

  'Oh, I know them; they're all over the place,’ Ottey said.

  'Yeah, it's a big fleet.'

  'Light blue, with the owner plastered all over them. He must be quite a character, face all over town,' she went on.

  'Yeah, he does love himself a bit,' Andy laughed.

  'I didn't see a van outside. Do you leave it at work?'

  'No, no; we bring them home. It's the black transit,' he said.

  'Why a black one?' she asked.

  'My regular one's having a service.'

  'Just a service?' she asked.

  'Yep.'

  'No repairs at all?'

  'Well, they'll fix anything they need to,' Andy said.

  'Anything need fixing?' she asked.

  Andy thought for a moment then, when nothing came to mind, he pursed his lips and shook his head, quickly followed by, 'Oh, what am I talking about? The back door. It got broken into.'

  'Recently?' she asked.

  'Yeah, last week.'

  'Last week and you forgot?'

  'No, just slipped my mind. That's all,' he said.

  'Okay. Andy, where were you the night of the eighth?' Ottey asked.

  'The eighth? When was that?' he asked.

  'Two weeks ago Tuesday,' she replied.

  Andy got out his phone and checked his diary.

  'Normal work day, then I was back here with Jean. Back at eighteen thirty, according to this. I do everything on the twenty four hour clock. We need to keep the hours for our time sheets.'

  'Isn't that all computerised these days?' she asked.

  'Exactly, which is why we keep a note. The computer isn't always right; the wifi drops out all the time and it never accounts for travel properly. It's like one of those sat navs. It records a journey in your work log by how long it thinks we should take, sometimes the way the bloody crow flies, by the look of it. Has no idea of real traffic and delays. So we have to cross-check,' he said. Cross had a feeling this man was trying to be as helpful as possible. Or at least come across that way. Ottey looked at Jean.

  'Can you confirm that, Jean?'

  'Yes,' she said.

  'What did you do that night?'

  'Can't really remember. We had dinner, probably watched a DVD,' she said.

  'There's nothing worth watching on the TV these days,' said Andy.

  'Funny, that's exactly what DS Ottey says, isn't it?' said Cross, joining the conversation for the first time since they arrived.

  'Yep,' she concurred.

  'I don't watch television myself so I wouldn't know.' Cross went on. 'I listen to the radio, though. Well, when I say "radio" it's really only Radio 4, although I do like Jazz FM for, well, jazz obviously. And there's no beating Radio 3 for classical – they play symphonies in their entirety. I can't really be doing with these stations that play Bach's best bits or Mozart's greatest hits. Did you see Alex that night?' Neither of them answered. 'Mrs Swinton?' he asked.

  'What? No, like I told you, we haven't seen him in months,' she replied.

  'Okay...' he said, then took an inordinate time to write something down in his notebook. He looked up at the two of them as if he expected them to have something further to say. They said nothing, looked at each other, then back at him. Yes, he was still staring. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he asked, 'Mrs Swinton, how did you feel about Debbie being pregnant?'

  'What? Well...' she said, trying to search for a response.

  'Only sixteen,' he went on.

  'What are you trying to say?' she asked.

  'Nothing. I'm merely asking you how you felt,' he replied.

  'We were disappointed, if I'm honest,' said Andy. Jean didn't bother to contradict him.

  'Were you angry? When she told you?'

  'No,' replied Andy.

  'More... sad,' Jean added.

  'When did she tell you?'

  'A few weeks ago.'

  'When you last saw her?' Cross asked.

  'No, I think she phoned,' said Jean.

  'Really? Not the sort of news you'd expect to hear over the phone,' he said.

  ‘Why not?’ said Jean.

  'Well as you know, things have been a little tense recently,' said Andy, jumping in. He looked at Ottey, who smiled reassuringly. She often did this to fill in for Cross.

  'Of course. Well, that's all pretty straightforward,' said Cross. 'I think we've got all we need. You were here. Together. Didn't see Alex.' If you didn't know him, you’d think Cross was a little plodding, dense even.

  'No,' Andy affirmed.

  'Thanks again for your time,' said Ottey.

  As they walked towards the front door Cross stopped and looked out of the back window into the garden.

  'What do you keep in your shed?'

  This seemed to take Andy by surprise, as if it'd come out of the blue. 'Um, lawn mower, garden stuff and, well, a load of crap to be honest. You know how it builds up.'

  'Big lock for a "load of crap", said Cross, 'and quite new by the look of it.'

  'I keep my tools in there overnight. Not safe in the van. Like I told you. It was broken into last week,' he said.

  'But you can't decant the entire contents of the van into the shed every night, surely?'

  'No, no, I'd be at it all night,' he laughed. 'Just the power tools, things people like to nick. I mean, it's pretty secure. Like last week – they couldn't get into the van, but they make a right mess of it trying.'

  'They'd be safer in the house, wouldn’t they? Having said that, looking at that shed, they'd probably be safer in the van,' Cross said.

  'Jean doesn't like them in the house.'

  'Of course,' said Cross, as if this was a very valid point he hadn't thought of. 'And that’s a pretty mighty lock.'

  'Yep.'

  'Did you change it recently?'

  'I did, as it happens. We had a break-in a few months ago. Chased the bloke off, but the lock was screwed. We've got a motion detector light on the back of the house now. Floods the garden if anything moves, and sends a text to my phone,' he said.

  'No!' said Cross, seemingly impressed by such technology. He turned to Ottey. 'Did you know there were lights that could send texts to people?' he asked h
er.

  'I did not,' she replied.

  'That's amazing. Could you show me how it works?' he asked.

  'George, I really don't think we have time for a demonstration,' she said. They made a move to leave, then Cross stopped again, and said to Andy apologetically, as if he knew that what he was about to ask was probably out of the question.

  'Is it all right if I have a quick look?' he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the shed,’ said Cross.

  'No,' replied Andy.

  'No?' said Cross, sounding genuinely surprised that such an innocent enquiry should've elicited this response.

  'I think we've told you all you need to know,' Andy said.

  'Really? I don’t think that’s possible in all reality, is it? I mean, how can you know how much we need to know when you don't actually know how much we already know? What might be useful to us, in the course of our investigation?' Andy offered no response so Cross insisted, 'I'd like to look in the shed.'

  'Don't you need a warrant for that?' asked Jean.

  'A warrant?' Cross asked, as if he couldn't work out why she would say that. 'Why would you want us to go to all that trouble?'

  'Because we know our rights,' said Andy. The tone of the conversation had now shifted significantly. He was no longer the man happy to help, kind enough to get them towels when they got soaked. He was now defensive and they had quickly become unwelcome.

  'Of course you do. But why would you bring them up all of a sudden?' asked Cross, puzzled. They offered no response. 'I'd be grateful for an answer, lest I'm under the wrong impression. You see, I'm thinking it's because you're trying to prevent me from going into your shed. But why would you want to do that if all you keep in there is a "load of old crap"? There has to be another reason, wouldn't you say? If you were me? Another reason for your not wanting me to look in the shed?' He stared at Andy, inquiringly. Andy didn't flinch.

  'We'll see ourselves out. Oh, and commiserations.'

  'I'm sorry?' Andy replied, confused.

  'For Debbie's miscarriage.' He looked at Ottey uncertainly. 'Isn't that what you're supposed to say?'

  Andy and Jean watched them run back to the car in the rain.

  'That man's a bloody idiot,' said Jean as she went back to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. Andy watched the two officers talking in the car, before it eventually pulled out. He wasn't so sure.

  Chapter 24

  The investigation was at a point now where the difference between Cross' approach and that of his colleagues became apparent. Carson and pretty much everyone else wanted to get a warrant for the Swintons' house and shed. But not Cross. It was this difference in approach that went some way to explaining his staggering conviction rate in court. It was a success rate that no other detective in the area (possibly in the country, Carson once thought, but hadn't bothered to check) came anywhere close to. It was the fact that Cross wanted everything in the case presented in the most convincing, vice-like grip of certainty. He wanted it laid out on a plate for the jury. He didn't want them to have any choices if he could possibly help it. He wanted them, in a case where he knew the evidence pointed with no uncertainty to the guilt of the accused, to have no alternative but to find them guilty. So in this situation Carson was having a little trouble understanding why his best detective was resisting his offer of a warrant to search the shed in the Swintons' garden. This was compounded by two events. The first was Cross, at the beginning of the meeting, producing a photograph of the wreckage of the garage in which Alex's polythene-wrapped body was found. He pointed to a large, new-looking padlock still attached to part of the door.

  'It's the same make of padlock on Swinton's garden shed,' said Cross.

  'And now you're going to tell me that it's quite a common make of lock,' said Carson, who knew that this was a habit of Cross' – he would produce something which seemed incontrovertible proof in a case, only to shoot it down himself, immediately afterwards.

  'Exactly,' said Cross. 'So we need to find a receipt, because my thinking is, as they were both used in the covering up of the same crime, Swinton will be in possession of a recent receipt for both locks.'

  'Fine, I'll make sure the warrant covers the house as well as the shed,' said Carson, reaching over for his desk phone. He started to punch in a number, then Cross jumped forward, in a way that surprised himself as much as it surprised Carson, and cut the call off.

  'No!'

  'George,' said Carson, startled and implying that Cross was way out of order here.

  'I don't think we should do that,' said Cross, as near to apologetically as he could. 'Not yet.'

  'What more do you need?' he asked when, as if on cue, Mackenzie came in with what Carson thought had to be sufficient justification for even Cross to be happy to go back to the house with a warrant.

  'As you know, the black transit van used by Swinton was a temporary replacement for his regular one. I've just spoken to the head of the company, the bloke on the vans. I didn't know people still had Bristol accents that thick...' she said.

  'Alice...' said Ottey, encouraging her just to get on with it.

  'Oh yes, I'm sorry. Anyway, it was in for repairs, but not for the back door as he claimed. It had extensive damage down one side. The bloke said it was like a huge gash.’

  'Right, ducks in order George? I'll get the warrant.'

  'No!' replied Cross for the second time.

  'George, for fuck's sake, what else do you need?'

  But Cross was already leaving the office. Carson turned to Ottey. 'Will you do something about him, please?'

  'Sure,' she said. 'What do you suggest exactly?

  Cross wanted to keep an eye on the Swintons' house overnight, but Ottey couldn’t help. 'I have a parents' evening tonight; what about tomorrow?' said Ottey.

  'Tomorrow will be too late,' Cross replied.

  'Then let's just get the warrant.'

  'No. This way is conclusive.'

  'Maybe we could ask Carson for some help,' she said.

  'I can’t do it. I have a PTA tonight,' said Ottey.

  'Seriously? This is a murder case,' protested Carson.

  'They always are, boss. But I'm not missing this one. Not after the arse-ripping I got from the head teacher last time.'

  'Okay, fair enough, but I don't have any spare bodies,' he said.

  'What? At the risk of repeating you – this is a murder case,' said Cross.

  'We've just had another come in. I've had to take some people off Paphides, just to do the preliminaries on that. Tomorrow will be different.'

  'Tomorrow will be too late,' said Cross.

  'Which is why I'm going to get a warrant and you can get the search done this afternoon, and have the man in custody in time for Josie to get to school,' said Carson.

  'I don't want a warrant.'

  'Why ever not? You have a pair of matching padlocks, a receipt which you are certain you'll find in the house, and a van with damage caused by contact with the side of the garage. Paint traces which will confirm that it was driven by the man whose house I would like to issue the search warrant for,' said Carson, rapidly reaching the end of his tether.

  'You may be persuaded, but a jury may not. My way is conclusive,' said Cross, standing his ground.

  'As would a search be. I don't have the people, so I'm afraid you lose this one. I'll get the warrant,' he said with all the authority he could muster, before looking up and seeing that Cross had, again, already left the office. He was calling for Mackenzie, who was about to protest that she actually had plans for that evening, but he’d gone.

  A couple of hours later Cross and Mackenzie found themselves sitting in the road Debbie's parents lived in. They had stopped off, on the way, at Greggs. Cross bought them both a sandwich. When Mackenzie asked how long he thought they were going to be, doing whatever it was they were about to do – he still hadn't actually told her – he said probably till the early hours. He then watched with interest as she l
oaded up a basket of treats: sausage rolls, crisps, fizzy water, diet coke, nuts and some fruit. When they got to the counter, she turned as she was told the total cost, and looked at him expectantly. It took him a full ten seconds before he reached for his wallet and paid.

  'Can I ask you a question?' she said, as they tucked into the contents of the carrier bag that was propped up between them in her car.

  'Yes,' he replied.

  'Why are we here? I mean, I know it’s a stake-out and everything, but what exactly are we staking out?' she asked. He was about to tell her but then remembered that it was his responsibility to teach her. To make her think, rather than spoon-feed her.

  'What haven't we found, as yet?'

  'The killer?' she joked. He looked at her, but didn't know her well enough yet to ascertain whether she was joking or not. So he didn't react.

  'Of the victim's,' he went on.

  'His mobile phone?' she said, thinking out loud.

  'Correct, but something else.'

  She thought for a moment. 'I don't know,' she said.

  'Something big enough you’d need a shed to hide it in,' he went on.

  'Oh. Ah, right. His bike. He was on his bike the night he was killed,' she said.

  'Exactly.'

  'And you think it's in Andy's shed,' she said.

  'I do,' he replied. She thought for a moment, trying to figure out whether she'd missed something obvious, before she said anything that might make her look stupid. Although, the fact of the matter was, Cross could make her feel stupid when all she'd said was "Good morning". But she thought everything through and realised that she had a perfectly valid question that she shouldn't be frightened of asking.

  'So why don't we just get a warrant to search the shed, get the bike and arrest Swinton?' she asked. He sighed, as he was getting a little weary of explaining this to everyone.

  'Because possession of the bike isn't enough. He could say Alex left it there for him to look after.'

  'And expect us to believe him?'

  'No, but it'd just be another hurdle to cross in court. One we can do without.'

  'But together with the van and the damage to the van. I mean, odds are a jury would convict on that alone.' She immediately regretted saying this, as she'd used this exact expression before and been shot down in flames. So she said what he was about to say, before he had the chance. 'But odds are something we can do without.'