by Linda Coles
“Ha ha,” Ruth said. She still hadn’t picked her spoon up and taken a mouthful.
“I'll speak to you later. Have a good one,” she called. Amanda was off.
While it was still early, she was leaving later than she normally did. Traffic was starting to build; buses resumed choking out black fumes. Croydon was waking up and going to work. Since it was a clear morning, a few local commuters walked, backpacks slung across their shoulders.
The electric gate at the rear of the station slid back and she pulled into the staff car park. There were already a handful of cars parked up, some from the night shift. Jack's wasn't one of them. She entered the building through the rear entrance and went straight to the coffee cupboard for her morning fix. Tea was her preferred first drink of the day, but as soon as she got into work, it was coffee she craved. The machine chugged into action, sending little pockets of steam into the air as it heated the milk. She dropped her bag on her desk as she passed it and took her mug across to the window to watch the world go by while it was still quiet. Even on a sunny day, Croydon was a town like any other concrete mass. There was nothing particularly nice or particularly nasty; it was a nondescript regular concrete town, with regular people, regular crimes and regular everything else. You could have put the whole town up in the north of England and it wouldn't have looked out of place. Double lines of traffic ferried folks to destinations all over the country.
She focused on a red car below and wondered about its occupants, where they were headed, what their life was like, where they'd been. What was in store for them today? Crime hit the innocent as well as the guilty, and when those innocent folks got caught up in something out of their control, it could be a treacherous time. There was nothing more disconcerting than finding yourself explaining where you were and why you had gone there just because somebody had been murdered or kidnapped or gone missing. If you didn’t have an explanation or an alibi, your whole life could be turned upside down. You almost needed to provide one each and every day just in case, and being at home with your loved one was not enough. It happened all the time. She picked out a white van further down the road and wondered the same. Was it legitimate? Was the driver up to no good? Where were they going? She'd never know.
A noise behind her brought her back to the present. It was Raj.
“Morning, Amanda,” he said brightly, as always. Raj never seemed to be in a bad mood, which was just one reason why everybody liked him.
“Morning, Raj,” she said, turning to face him fully. He always looked smart, and today was no different. Slim and fit, he wore a dark navy suit with a pale blue shirt and his black hair had been gelled back neatly into place. He was a good-looking man, though not Amanda's type, obviously, and he was popular with everyone.
“We might get some news on the autopsy today,” he said. “I know everybody's concerned about DI Dupin, and I suspect he'll be relieved at some good news.”
“Good news?” Amanda enquired.
“Well, yes. Dupin didn't kill that guy on purpose. It was a freak accident; something must have gone on and I hope the autopsy will show it. Then we can all get back to normal, and Dupin can come back to work.”
“I certainly hope so; it can't be easy having that hanging over your head. I'll call Faye later this morning if she hasn't called me. I know she was waiting for some specialist to take a look at some aspects of the autopsy, so that's what's taking the time.”
“Well, fingers crossed,” Raj said.
And she watched as he walked towards the coffee cupboard for his own morning caffeine fix.
His shoes were almost as shiny as her own.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the time Amanda had finished her coffee, several other officers had filed in and a gentle hum of conversation filled the room. It was the usual stuff: what had been on the telly last night, what had happened down the pub or banter over the sports match. Did men talk about anything else? She could hear Jack coming through the door, reciting French lines from his learning app. Why he had picked French she wasn't entirely sure. She’d have to ask him.
“Bonjour, Madame,” he said with gusto as he reached Amanda's desk. He just needed a beret on his head, she thought, smiling inwardly.
“Ah, bonjour, Monsieur.”
“As-tu bien dormi? J'ai bien dormi.”
Amanda looked at him blankly.
“That's as far as my French goes, Jack. School was a long time ago, and there's not much call for it around here. Now, Polish or Croatian would be a different matter.”
“I asked if you slept well. I slept well.” He took out his earbuds.
“Well, that’s good to know, and yes, I did, thanks.”
He perched on the corner of her desk, one leg swinging. “Tres bien.” He smiled and looked like he was about to add to it, but Amanda cut him off.
“I know what that means. Why are you learning French anyway? What's it for?”
“Oh, I plan to go one day. I’ve never been. I'm quite partial to a croissant occasionally, or a spot of art gallery mooching. I'm not all about bacon sandwiches, you know.”
Amanda smirked. “You could have fooled me.”
“Well, I'm off to make a café au lait. Need a refill?” Amanda raised her eyebrows at him, knowing full well that café au lait would never materialise. It would be something coffee-coloured, but who knew what. Jack's coffee attempts were random at best.
“I'm good, thanks,” she said. She watched him disappear into the coffee cupboard and waited for the cursing to start. Today must have been a good day, though, because all she could hear was the putt, putt, putt of the coffee machine and the next thing she knew, Jack was back hovering around her desk, coffee in hand. Mission accomplished.
“So, I did a bit of bedtime reading last night. I took the file home, the one I showed you about Michael Hardesty.” He sipped, white foam sticking in his moustache. He must have felt it because he rubbed it away with the back of his hand.
“What did you learn?”
“I didn't learn much, actually, which is the point. Wasn't anything in there that I didn't already know about, but it was good to jog my memory. But something is nibbling away at my gut. Something isn’t quite right. Those witnesses, for one: they sounded a bit convenient.”
“What do you mean, convenient? There were witnesses at the scene, I assume?”
“Yes, but the McAllister family were well-connected and I can't help thinking that they are behind this somehow. Same with the prosecution solicitor. I don't know, but I'm going to have another look. And it would be better if I could do it with your say- so, boss lady.” He wiggled his eyebrows comically at her. They needed a trim.
“That’s not really down to me. You know that, Jack. In Dupin's absence ‘Jim-lad’ is looking after these things temporarily, and I don't want to have to ask him for anything unless I really have to. So, it's up to you. I'll turn a blind eye, but we haven't officially got permission for time to be spent on a case that was put to bed years ago.”
Jack sipped his drink, staring off somewhere over Amanda’s shoulder.
“I can't see it hurting, though,” Amanda went on. “There’s not too much going on at the moment. Have you got something in mind?”
“I thought I might go over to the prison and see Hardesty. He's been there a good few years now. Did you see the press conference last night, with Japp?”
“I caught the last minute or two on the news, but other than that, no. Did you?”
“I watched from the sidelines out the front, watched him squirm. Those reporters don't take any prisoners, and I can't say he filled me with confidence. But that's Japp. He looked well-polished in his uniform finery.”
Amanda sat back in her chair and tapped her pen against her bottom lip. “Right. If he asks where you are, I’ll cover for you. What time are you headed out?”
“I may as well go first off when I finish my coffee. It's only around the corner. They probably won't let me see him without an official
appointment, anyway, though I may as well try. I have a cunning plan.”
“Well, good luck with that. Oh, and before I forget, I met a woman last night outside the pizza shop—”
Jack’s eyes lit up in mock horror. “Don't tell me Ruth and you have had an argument and you're already on the lookout? Though I have to say, it’s a strange place to pick up someone.”
Amanda waved her hand like she was batting a fly and said, “Don't be stupid. No, I met a woman who knows you, silly. She said she was a friend of yours from way back and a friend of that man from the book club who died a couple of years ago, Peterson. She said her name was Vivian.”
Jack stood open-mouthed.
“Funny, I’ve never heard you mention a ‘Vivian’ in all the years I've known you.”
Amanda couldn't resist putting it out there and watching for his reaction. She got one. Jack's cheeks flushed crimson. Amanda leaned forward. “Gotcha,” she said with a grin. “You've got to tell me more now. Who is Vivian? She seemed really nice. So come on, then. Tell me. Who is she?”
“Like the lady said, we were friends,” he said defensively.
“Were friends? She didn't say you ‘were’ friends.”
“But I haven't seen her for a long time, so we are more acquaintances now, I guess. In fact, the last time I saw her was after Peterson's death. I interviewed her.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Well, I've got work to do. I'm going to see if I can get in and see Hardesty and leave you to your fantastical mind. I'll be on my mobile if you need me.”
Amanda sniggered under her breath that she had riled him up a bit about a woman. When he was well out of earshot, she mumbled to herself, “That was a bit mean, Amanda. The guy is allowed a personal life.” She stood and stretched and headed back to the coffee cupboard for a refill. From the doorway she could see Jack gathering the manila folder and its contents again before he headed back out to his car.
She frowned. If Vivian had been interviewed during the Peterson case, she’d be on file.
“Worth taking a look,” she mumbled to herself. “Out of nosey curiosity.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The prison was situated on the site of the former Banstead Psychiatric Hospital. The ancient, crumbling building had been bulldozed and a modern prison built in its place; it housed all kinds of inmates as well as remand prisoners. The last time Jack had met with Michael Hardesty was when he’d been on remand 15 years ago. Jack navigated his car over the mini-roundabout and headed for the main reception block.
It was a modern-looking concrete building from the outside; it could have been a new hospital but for the enormous chocolate-coloured main doors that reached almost two stories high. They were a bit of a giveaway that something a tad more sinister than a children’s ward was behind them. Jack parked his car and made his way to the visitor entrance, a separate building opposite that looked like a cheap motorway motel. He hadn't taken Amanda's advice and called first, but he was hoping that as a serving police officer it wouldn’t be an issue and they’d see fit to let him in. He glanced at the plastic Sainsbury’s bag in his hand.
He approached the reception desk and a huge, unsmiling man in uniform looked up from one of his many screens. He looked like he belonged to a beanstalk somewhere, Jack thought. He smiled as pleasantly as he could manage. He’d dealt with many prison staff it his time and one thing they all lacked was a sense of humour. It must be a prerequisite at the interview stage that they didn’t smile a great deal. The only jokers who operated between these walls were the inmates.
As usual, the officer’s smile didn't appear to be working at all, though he did say “Good morning.” Jack placed the bag on the counter, and the officer glared at it disapprovingly.
“DC Jack Rutherford,” Jack said firmly. “I'm hoping that Michael Hardesty will agree to see me this morning.” The officer raised an eyebrow in question and Jack answered before the man opened his mouth. “No, I haven't made an appointment and since I was not far away, I thought I would drop in on the off chance.” He opened his carrier bag and pulled out a tin of assorted luxury chocolate biscuits. “But I haven't come empty-handed. I dropped in to Sainsbury’s and picked up a little something for you and the boys so your cuppa isn't so wet this morning.” He slipped the tin towards the man, who looked down at it with interest. On the lid were images of various delicious-looking chocolate biscuits, and Jack could see it was going to do the trick. The man grunted his approval and pulled the tin closer to his ample stomach.
“So, what do you say?” said Jack. “While you're dunking those with your pals in the tea room, might I have a chat with Mr Hardesty? It's been a good few years since I was last in here.” He looked around the reception area. “You've done it up a bit.” The man raised his eyebrow questioningly and again Jack wondered if he might actually speak. He pre-empted him just in case. “I'll just wait over here,” he said. “If you wouldn't mind telling Mr Hardesty I'm here?” The officer pulled the tin of biscuits closer to himself. Jack wondered if his pals would in fact see any of those chocolate biscuits at all. It didn’t much matter, as long as it granted Jack entrance.
“I'll see what I can do,” the guard said, running his hand over his heavily Brylcreemed head. He picked up the telephone and turned his back to Jack, who could see white flakes across the tops of his mountainous shoulders. Having seen the man run his hand over his greasy head, Jack wondered what the telephone handset held by way of bacteria. He was reminded of the grubby windows in the squad room and the petri dish of bacteria growing all around them. He bet the man's keyboard was slippery with grease too.
A moment later the call was finished and the guard turned back around to face Jack, who wandered back so the man didn't have to shout.
“He'll be ready in ten minutes.”
Jack said his thanks and sat back in one of the plastic chairs alongside the window. As he sat down, he heard the Sellotape being taken off the biscuit tin seal, then the faint tinny sound of the lid lifting. Jack smiled to himself. He knew what breaking bread meant; that's why he'd stopped for the tin of biscuits. It was a nice thing to do, a custom, and the reason you found a chocolate on your pillow in an upmarket hotel—a gift. It had worked back in ancient times, so it should work in a concrete prison near Croydon, he’d reasoned. It was £5 well spent.
Jack was tempted to go back to his French app while he waited, but he’d no doubt get disapproving looks as he repeated the sentences out loud. Instead, he pulled out the manila folder and flipped through the pages like he was a barrister about to see his client.
Fifteen minutes later, the guard called him back over to his desk.
“They’ve put him in an interview room for you. I'll take you through.” Still no smile, no nothing. The man appeared to wear a permanent, flat mask of jowly skin. Jack wondered if he was married. Poor woman, if he was. He followed the broad, dandruff-covered shoulders down through concrete corridors with locked doors on each side, and on to an interview room that looked like any other he'd been in. Its concrete block walls had been painted a depressing pale grey, and the only furnishings in the room were a Formica table and two plastic chairs. He couldn't see any cameras or any audio equipment, but he asked anyway.
“I'm assuming we won't be overheard,” Jack said. “This is private between Michael and the police.”
The man nodded, which Jack took to mean he was correct, and left the room. Jack sat down in one of the chairs, placed the file on the table in front of him and waited. A couple of minutes later he heard voices approaching from the corridor and he looked up to see Michael Hardesty enter with another officer. His hands were cuffed in front of him, but the first thing Jack noticed was how frail the man now seemed after so many years. While he was still tall, there wasn't much of him. Jack was reminded of a young Rodney Trotter - a walking rack of bones with thin skin holding everything together but without his jovial sidekick. Prison life hadn’t been kind to him over the years; he wondered if the man was ill.
Michael sat down in the other chair, his eyes never leaving Jack's. The officer left them to it.
“Why now?” Michael asked, without any preamble.
“Good question,” replied Jack.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“How have you been, Michael?” In hindsight it was probably a stupid first question.
“How do I look like the I've been? Let me ask you again,” Michael said. “Why now? After all these years, you come and see me. Not that I particularly want to see you, but I'm curious what brings you here now. Has something happened to Barbara or Cassy?”
“No. Not that I am aware of, anyway. I'm here on another matter. It's good of you to meet with me today.”
“I’ve hardly got a busy social calendar.” Michael rolled his eyes sarcastically. “You’re something to fill the abundance of time with, that’s all.”
Jack ignored the comment. “There is a case at the moment that we are working on, and it has some similarities to your own case back then. And me being a picky individual, I thought it would be a good idea to come and talk to you about what happened all those years ago.”
Michael scoffed loudly. “You’re only now taking an interest in the sentence that I should never have had, in the fact that I should never have been put away for murder?” he said incredulously. “At best it was manslaughter, but I've been stuck in here almost since the turn of the century—and it feels like the nineteenth century. So, I'm not sure I can tell you much more, DC Rutherford,” he said. “But fire away. It will pass the time.”
Jack nodded his understanding. He’d be pissed at being in prison for murder, too, if he hadn’t done it. “Can we go back to the accident and what happened that night? I know you've been through it a million times, but just humour me.”
