by Giles Ekins
She had the job in Simpson’s for which she was grateful even if it was not the most exciting job in the world. What she really wanted was to become a crime writer, and so once a week she went to a writing class at the community college on West Street and was teaching herself to type with more than two fingers on her Dell laptop. She had a few ideas for a novel, but she had another project in mind, which for the moment precluded any serious attempt to write.
Chloe was, however, an avid reader and devoured crime novels, gritty reads like Martina Cole or Val McDermid. And especially Nordic noire, her favourite was Steig Larsson’s ‘Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ trilogy; she enjoyed anything by Joe Nesbo, Lars Keppler and especially Leif GW Persson’s brilliantly acerbic Swedish Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström, who divided the world into his own brilliant self on one hand, and everybody else as fuckwits on the other.
Well, she thought, I’ve known enough fuckwits to prove Bäckström’s theory, my life has been overflowing with fuckwits.
Thirty-Two
The September sun broke through the clouds, casting deep shadows into the depths of Westwick Woods as a line of police began their search of the fields and woods to the rear of the Jarrett house.
As soon as Superintendent Claybourne had confirmed approval for the searches, the Search Coordinator, Inspector Mick Bremner had quickly put teams in place It was a murder investigation and so took priority over any other ongoing business.
The line of police, in uniform but without their helmets, wearing wellington boots and carrying long broom handles slowly began to walk across the field towards the woods.
Another team, in protective clothing and wearing rubber gloves and white masks over their mouth and noses, were raking through piles of rotting rubbish at the council refuse dump, rubbish from the dustbins of the Fallswood area. In addition to the rakes that the grumbling police were carrying, they each had a Stanley knife to slit open any sealed plastic bags. They were told look out particularly for any blue plastic bags.
The men were hot in their protective suits and the swarms of flies that gathered about their heads made the task even more unpleasant. And then there was the smell of rotting garbage. Dozens of scavenging pigeons and urban gulls seemed oblivious to the men as they raked through the mound of garbage, squabbling and screeching as they darted between the green wellies to seize any tasty morsel of discarded food that came to light. Overhead, a pair of red kites swooped and soared, more cautious but equally ready to take their share of the bounty below.
‘Supposed to be a day off today,’ grumbled one of the men, ‘only came in for a bit of overtime, if I’d known I was going to be raking through this shit, I’d’ve stayed at home and bugger the extra money!’
‘Think of it this way, you’re raking in the overtime!’
‘Yeah, there is that, if it wasn’t for these fucking flies in your face all the time.’
Thirty-Three
David Jarrett was not pleased to be asked to attend another interview, pacing back and forth, and rapidly made his displeasure known as Grace and Terry entered the interview room.
‘Well, well, well. Look who it isn’t, DCI Grace Swan, boss lady piggy. So, you must be DS piglet Horton.
‘Take a seat David,’ Terry Horton said, ‘insulting behaviour won’t get you anywhere.’
‘Depends on where you want to go, doesn’t it,’ he responded, still pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. ‘Besides, there is nothing I like more than riling officious piggies.’
‘Sir down and stop behaving like a stupid schoolboy,’ Grace snapped at him.
Reluctantly he sat down, but was not done with his childish, antagonistic behaviour. ‘Not against the law, is it, taking the piss out of coppers? Or perhaps it is, now this seems to be a police state, dragging innocent folk off the street for nowt.’
‘If this was a police state, David, you’d be in a cell with your testicles wired up to the mains,’ said Terry, annoyed before the interview had even begun. But he determined not to screw it up like last time. ‘Keep a hold of your temper, the little bastard is only trying to rile you.’
‘Oh, that sounds truly shocking,’ Jarrett answered, enjoying himself as Grace gave a quick nod to Terry, who switched on the recording equipment. ‘So, what’s this all about anyway, I told you all I knew yesterday?’
‘Before we start, David, may we take a DNA swab from your mouth, it’ll only take a second?’ requested Terry.
‘And if I refuse, you’ll tie me down and take it anyway, right? Oh, shit, all right, go ahead then.’
‘Thank you.’ said Terry as he unwrapped the swab and swirled it around inside David Jarrett’s mouth before bagging and writing up the details on the envelope. ‘Right, this is an informal interview with Mr David Jarrett who is here voluntarily,’ he continued, ‘present are DCI Swan and DS Horton.’
‘Voluntarily my arse! Why am I here, I ain’t done nothing? This is police harassment and I’m going to make a formal complaint.’
‘That’s your right, David, a right, by the way, you would not enjoy if this was a police state,’ answered Grace tartly, also annoyed at Jarrett’s antics.
‘Yeah, whatever,’
‘David, ‘Grace continued, ‘we need to expand on the statement you gave regarding your movements, prior to discovering the body of Donald?
‘Like I told you yesterday, and probably the day before that, and will probably tell you the same thing tomorrow. It was a shock though, I can tell you that. And the blood, blood everywhere, on the floor, across the table. And his head, his head all battered about like that, fair made me feel sick, I can’t stand the sight of blood, just a small cut on my finger can make me feel nauseous.
I mean, I know we didn’t get on, like. We had our rows and that but even so, I didn’t want to see him dead like that. I still can’t really take it in.’
‘I understand that it must have been a shock, anybody would be shocked, but we do need to establish your movements and set timelines for that day,’ said Grace.
‘I went to the library, like I said.’
‘What time was that?’ Terry asked
‘The same time as I already told you, couldn’t say exactly ‘cos I don’t have a watch. I mean, what do I need to know the time for? Don’t even know what day of the week it is sometimes. So why you do keep going on about it all the bleeding time?’
‘David, according to the library automated lending records, your library card is recorded as showing that 4 books were returned at 9.39 and 3 books were checked out at 10,13.’ Terry stated, reading from a print-out recovered from the library. ‘But you told us it was about 10.30 you went to the library when in fact it was an hour earlier, why was that?’
‘Because…I…don’t…have…a…watch, how many more times.’
‘You have a mobile, you can easily see the time on that.’
‘OK, I got the time wrong, but so what, it’s not a crime, is it. Besides, I didn’t have my mobile with me that day?’
‘But, was that you, in the library, if so, are the timings, right?’ Terry pressed.
‘Yeah, of course.’ CCTV from the library had already confirmed David Jarrett’s presence but Grace and Terry were trying to detect untruths in his account by studying his facial expressions and potentially noticing a variation when he lied. His eyes flickered to the left as he told the truth.
‘So, we’ve established you spent 34 minutes in the library, ‘ Grace stated. ‘What did you do then? What did you do between 10.13 when you left the library to 1,37 when you make the call to the emergency services. That is three and a half hours. What did you do in that time, David? It is very important you tell us, without all the flippancy and nonsense’
‘Not much as I told you. I mean, Garside is hardly a hive of activity, is it. It’s just one step away from the cemetery and about as lively.
‘CCTV show you on the High Street and then on Moor Street, timed at 10.27’
‘Sounds right, just moochi
ng about, had a quick look in WH Smith’s, that’s about it.’
‘Then what, there’s still nearly three hours unaccounted for?’ asked Terry.
Just then, a wasp, nearing the end of its short life, landed on the desk between them and began to crawl slowly across towards David, who flinched away.
Terry took a tissue, hovered over the dying insect before snatching it; squashed it between his fingers and dropped it into the waste bin.
‘Good on you mate,’ David said, ‘wasps and spiders, they really give me the creeps.’
‘It was dying anyway, they all die about this time of year.’
‘Even dead I can’t stand them, I just freak out. Pathetic in’t it?’
‘No, I don’t like spiders either,’ said Grace. ‘Now, David, we still have two hours unaccounted for, don’t we?’
David Jarrett scratched at an itch on his nose before answering. ‘Went for a drive, didn’t I?’
Grace and Terry glanced at each other, this was information received from Traffic, information they were keeping to themselves. If David Jarrett claimed that he not driven anywhere else but town they could catch him out in an untruth. ‘You didn’t mention this yesterday, did you? Why not,’ pressed Terry.
‘You want to know the reason? Well, I didn’t think it any of your business, and besides your entire attitude pissed me off. Patronising, treating me like a kid. David this and David that. I never gave you permission to call me David, so from now on, you address me as Mr Jarrett. And please and thank you won’t come amiss neither.’
‘I’m sorry you think we patronised you., Mr Jarrett, it certainly was not our intention, just that this is an informal discussion and we thought it would be friendlier this way’ Grace answered soothingly, as emollient as warm baby oil.
‘Yeah, whatever but with friends like you two, Pinky and Perky, who needs enemies, right?’
Thirty-Four
The line of searching policemen had reached the woods and made their way through the murkled shadows of the thick oak and sycamore canopy, suddenly chilled as the temperature dropped in the harsh shade. The searchers prodded and poked with their broom sticks into the ground-layer of bushes and shrubs. Insects buzzed in their ears as birds, startled by the presence of the searchers screeched a warning. Wood pigeons and doves cooed as a raucous parliament of crows argued and bickered deeper in the woods.
Pc Alan ‘Poxy’ Poxon was bored. Bored stupid, thinking about last night’s row with his girlfriend Sue. I was not chatting up Ellie Walkerdine up, just being friendly like, and certainly not staring at Ellie’s chest, impressive though it was. Consequently, his mind was not fully on his task. He desultorily poked his stick under a bush, thick and heavy with green shiny leaves and thick grass around the base. He was about to move on when a flash a blue caught his eye. He felt a sudden flush of guilt, if he had missed it and it turned out to be something of importance, then his inattention could have jeopardised the entire investigation.
‘Sarge’ he shouted, raising his arm. Sgt Ben Noble took one look and reaching into the bush with a gloved hand, pulled out a blue plastic bag tied with a green wire tie. He carefully undid the tie and opened the neck of the bag and looked inside. The find was then bagged in an evidence bag and sent for forensic examination.
. ‘Good lad,’ Noble complimented Poxon and another guilty flush surged into his cheeks. ‘Christ, I could so easily have missed that.’
But the search was not over, and the line straitened up again and continued through the woods
Nothing was found at the council dump.
Thirty-Five
‘But what really pissed me off.’ David Jarrett said, ‘and still does, is not being able to get into my house and all that shit. So yeah, I didn’t tell and I’m not apologising for that, right? ‘Specially since, there’s no harm done, is there?’ David continued.
‘That remains to be seen, doesn’t it, Mr Jarrett?’, Terry responded with heavy emphasis on the word mister, ‘So, you went for a drive. Where? And why?’
‘Up onto the moors, I like it out there, Dunford Edge, you know?’
‘Mr Jarrett, CCTV shows that a Volvo V40, registered to Janet Jarrett, drove along Penistone Road that morning. Was that you are driving it?’ asked Grace.
‘Yeah, like I told you.’
‘Penistone Road is on the way to your house. Did you stop off at home that morning?’
‘No way, why the fuck would I? It was so oppressive. Donald and Janet yelling and screaming at each all the time, I couldn’t stay in the house, not with all that shit going on. So, I went for a drive. So, what? I do it all the time, I like it out here. It’s fresh and clean.’ He looked up and stared at Grace and Terry. ‘No smell of pigs, you know what I mean.’
‘Mr Jarrett, does it amuse you, to be offensive?’ Grace asked gently, knowing that to rise to Jarrett’s insults was exactly what he wanted. David stirred uneasily in his chair and scratched his nose before answering.
‘I suppose it does, but you know, I’m bored and upset, I know you don’t believe me, but I am upset about Donald and Janet. I know we didn’t get on sometimes, but they were still my parents.’
‘Not adoptive parents.’ Terry noted as a single tear rolled down Jarrett’s cheek. ‘Is that put on? he wondered.
‘Anyway,’ David continued, ‘I know I run off at the mouth sometimes, but that is just me. And I often regret what I’ve said as soon as I’ve said it.’ ‘Is that a local trait? Grace wondered, thinking of Fred Burbage. ‘The thing is, I don’t much like myself, so why should I bother to like anybody else?’
‘Is that an apology then?’ Terry asked.
‘No way, man, just saying, is all.’
‘You drive out into the country, you drove out to Duncombe Edge the day your parents died? ,What did you do there?’ asked Grace.
‘I like it out there, as I said, the fresh air, the views, the peace of it, gives me time to think.’
‘To think about what, in particular?’
‘Poetry, and if you say one word about that, then I’m out of here.’
‘You think about poetry? Come on, David, that doesn’t sound like you,’ Terry said, scornfully.
‘That’s right, take the piss, why don’t you? I knew you would. As it happens, I write poetry. Maybe not very good ones, but so what? You can easily check, I write my poems in a notebook, an out of date leather-backed Mont Blanc Filofax. Nobody uses Filofax any more do they, but Donald used to give them out as Christmas presents to important clients, there’s still some left. I use them to write my stuff in. They’re easy to carry about and then I …what’s the word, transcribe them onto my… my confiscated computer, you’ll find a file called, would you believe, ‘Poems’.
The one I wrote that day.’ David continued, ‘is called ‘Dunmore Edge’ and I wrote it that day sitting on that bench that overlooks the valley and Dunmore Reservoir and it’s, like, fresh in my memory. I can quote it if you wish?’ and he closed his eyes and recited
‘Black granite crags,
jutting proud,
Stretching across the wind-wracked moors,
On the backbone of broken dreams…’
‘That’s all right, thank you,’ said Grace
‘I ain’t finished it yet.’
‘Maybe not, but thank you. However the fact that it’s in your note book or on your computer, tells us nothing,’ answered Grace, even though she was intrigued, how incongruous that this unpleasant, ill-mannered lout. there was no other word, should write poetry. Fred Burbage had mentioned a file called ‘Poems’ on Jarrett’s laptop made a note to follow it up.
‘No, but I date them. In my notebook, I write down the date and where I’ve …composed them.’
‘David, you know we can check your movements from your mobile phone. We can triangulate the position from the signal masts,’ Terry said ‘but on the day in question, your phone is recorded as being at home all day. Why was that? If you’re going out into the countryside, you’d t
ake it with you in case of a break down, wouldn’t you? Did you leave it behind deliberately, so we couldn’t check your movements?’
‘Nah, bollocks to that. It’s simple, the battery was flat, stone cold dead. It’s an old phone and the battery only lasts about ten minutes. I couldn’t be arsed to hang around at home while it charged up, not with all the shit that was going down.’
‘You could have charged it up in the car,’ Terry said, checking the inventory of items found in the car,’ there’s a charger attached to the cigarette lighter.
‘Yeah, but it was for Janet’s phone, an iPhone 6, mine’s only a four, the charger wouldn’t work, different connection.
‘We will of course check that.’ answered Grace, making a note.
‘Yeah, do that, why don’t you.’ David smirked, pleased he’d ‘got one over on the pigs’
Grace was about to say more when there was a knock on the door and Emma Cox entered.
‘Dc Emma Cox has entered the room,’ Terry said for the tape. She bent down and whispered into Grace’s ear.
‘I’m going to have to terminate this interview at this point,’ Grace said, ‘I’ve been summoned away. David, Mr Jarrett, we’ll continue another time.’
‘Can’t wait, after all you pigs rule my life, don’t you?’
Grace nodded to Terry, who switched off the recorder and followed Grace and Emma out of the room.
Thirty-Six
Grace, Terry and Emma made their way up to Grace’s office. Terry closed the door behind them and sat next to Emma.
‘What’s this all about, Emma?’ Terry asked., annoyed that the interview had been interrupted.
‘Uniform have found a blue plastic bag in the woods behind the Jarrett house, full of bloodstained clothes. Men clothes. Jeans, socks, T-shirt and jumper,’
‘Bingo!’ Terry said excitedly, ‘We’ve got him,’
