“Until then, certain responsibilities reside with you.”
“Yes, sir, I know that, and I take those…”
“Chief among those responsibilities is the mandate to handle all the minor problems,” Heln said. “If we must divert personnel and resources to Knight’s Crossing for each piddling little thing, why have a resident constable at all?”
“A missing child…”
“Is merely a lost thing that needs finding.”
Again, Ware bit her lips.
“Find it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Use the resources at hand,” Heln said. “Use your initiative. Come up with innovative ways to solve problems. That will impress those in a position to help you. You still want a promotion?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Very much so.”
“How can I possibly promote interest in you if you can’t handle a trifle like a lost boy?” he demanded. “Asking for help is a sign of weakness, which is why I am going to forget you called.” He paused. “You should forget as well.”
“I’m not sure I…”
“Begging our help for every minor problem makes you seem ineffective at best, incompetent at worst,” Heln said. “Ineffective or incompetent, I’d be a fool to mention your name to those who can help you. Do you think me a fool, Constable?”
“No, sir, absolutely…”
“There are others seeking advancement, who would appreciate their names being whispered into the ears of the right people.”
“I do appreciate your help, sir.”
“Then show it, Constable, by doing your job.”
“Yes, sir.” She wanted to ask what to tell Mildred Drinkwater, mother of the ‘lost thing,’ but dreaded the answer. “I will do my…”
The line was dead.
PC Hillary Ware put the telephone down and sighed. She had met Heln three times, the first before her interview, a ‘casual and off-the-record discussion’ about her goals. She assumed it standard for all applicants, but later learned it was not. That was a week after submitting papers to take the place of PC Albert Dorry, retiring after fifty years as resident constable, who now frequented the Broken Lance Pub where he ‘held court.’
Overawed that she, a mere village girl, had been summoned to the office of a Superintendent, she did not at first notice his stature, or lack thereof. She herself was only five-foot-five, but she could have balanced a lunch plate on Heln’s head. She listened to the little man expound on progressive police policies, the need for proactive recruiting, and a regrettable lack of cultural, ethnic and gender diversity in the Hammershire Constabulary. Most of the time she had no idea what he was on about, but managed to nod in all the right places, and not smile even once.
Then came the interview itself, sitting in a windowless room in a too-hard chair before a panel comprised of Heln, a thin man with a kind smile who told her he was Chief Superintendent Henderson, and a frightening old dragon who was introduced as Assistant Chief Constable Karen Ramsey. The interview lasted thirty minutes, the most harrowing half-hour of her life. Even now, she recalled neither their questions nor her answers. She remembered how out of place the little man looked, like a schoolboy who had wandered over to the head table. And she also recalled her own terror.
She had no idea how many others were interviewed, but she knew for an absolute fact she was the only applicant actually from Knight’s Crossing. Had there been any other she would have known. It was that kind of village.
The call that she had been selected left her no less gobsmacked than it had Albert Dorry and the other nay-sayers. It was not until six weeks later, after her basic police training and upon the eve of her installation, that she saw Heln the third and last time.
“Congratulations.” They were in his office. The station in Stafford was dark and quiet. “Looking forward to the job?”
“Oh, I am, sir,” she had replied. “Very much so.”
“Not everyone thought you the best candidate, PC Ware.”
“Oh?” She liked the sound of ‘PC Ware,’ but not the idea she had been a dark horse. “But obviously a bit more than the others?”
“Eventually, but not at first.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
“Others were more experienced or more connected,” Heln said. “They also interviewed better.” He paused. “Much better.”
She shifted nervously in her chair.
“Some thought you too naive.” Heln said. “Modern police work is more than pinching villains and tossing them in the nick.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, eager to seem more sophisticated. “I see the role of police as protecting the weak, maintaining order.”
He bestowed an indulgent smile. “The goal is to create a more inclusive environment. People with a sense of community will not indulge in antisocial behaviour. You see that, of course?”
She nodded, though she was not quite sure she saw it at all.
“When we’ve eradicated conventional crime by eliminating the roots of such activity,” Heln said, “we can then proactively move forward to tackle other, even greater policing problems.”
She leaned toward him, eager for knowledge.
“Issues such as cultural insensitivity and social injustice.”
She sat back, forced a slight smile and nodded.
“Fortunately, I saw a potential in you I found lacking in all the others,” he said. “I brought the board around to my view.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your belief in me.”
He smiled. “Tomorrow, you will officially take over from your predecessor, PC…” He fumbled for the name.
“Dorry, sir,” she said. “PC Albert Dorry.”
He waved aside the detail. “The old giving way to the young, a chance to shed the past’s bigotry for enlightened tolerance.”
Ware bit down on her lips. Albert Dorry was a crusty old man, as full of faults as a rejected cornerstone, but he made sure no man in Knight’s Crossing beat his wife, no drunk went on violent jags, and yobs knew better than to cross him. He kept the peace.
“I understand resident constable is a lowly start, but I want you to look beyond that, Ware,” Heln continued. “I want you to consider the future—your future.”
“Oh, I have, sir,” she said. “I hope to be a detective one day, to work in the CID.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “With your youth and gender, you can be fast-tracked into administration. I can help you.”
Ware smiled thinly. She was sure Superintendent Heln had her best interests at heart, but she failed to see how she could help people by chaining herself to a desk.
“I appreciate your offer, sir, but I have my heart set on…”
“Or you might fail probation.”
Even now, months after he had said those five words in the most affable of tones, she recalled the feeling in her stomach, as if she had swallowed a pound of cold lead. He had smiled all the while, a smile that recalled to her the expression once seen on the face of a weasel toying with its prey.
“Good luck with your appointment,” he said. “Should you need wise counsel, feel free to contact me. I’ll be watching your progress with interest. Dismissed, Constable.”
A loud banging brought her back to the present. Before she could answer the pounding, the door flew open.
“Is this how you look for my Harold?” Mildred Drinkwater put bony hands on bony hips and thrust her angular face forward. She had the appearance of a stork ready to devour a bug. “Sitting at your desk doing nothing?”
“I called Stafford to ask for more searchers, Mildred,” Ware said. “You know we don’t have near enough people for the outliers. They just won’t go where we need them most.”
“Lubbering cowards, the no good lot of them,” Mildred said. “But Harold wouldn’t go near those places. He’s a good boy.”
“He’s a young boy,” Ware said. “They’ll go anywhere.”
“No sense in a mite’s head, sure
,” Mildred said, citing a village adage. “But Harold is a good boy. He listens to his mum. Anyways, I don’t know I want more strappers in poking around. Likely it was a strapper what took him, it seems.”
“We have no evidence of that.”
“What are you doing about Henry Winsell?”
“There’s nothing to do about Mr Winsell,” Ware said. “He let me look through Venture Cottage, which he did not have to do. No sign of Harold, or that he had ever been there.”
“Lebbie Rodgers says…”
“Lebbie Rodgers is a prat, and so are all his yob mates,” Ware said, her tone sharp. “If it was night and he or his mates said it was dark outside, I’d look, just to make sure. Always trying to make trouble, and not above telling porkies to get a good row going.”
“Well, he is a mooncalf,” Mildred admitted. “But maybe this time he’s right about…”
“If I had even a sniff that Mr Winsell was involved, he’d be in my holding cell,” Ware said. “Lebbie and his mates don’t like him, that’s all. He’s just a man who keeps himself to himself. He doesn’t make trouble for others, and he don’t look for any himself.”
Mildred frowned. “Ain’t natural, him never going out. Always has everything delivered. Pays cash too. Notice that?”
“Nothing against the law,” the constable said. “Besides, if he never goes out, how would even know Harold?”
Mildred’s lips twisted in frustration as she tried to find fault in Ware’s logic. Finally, she vented: “He’s a strapper!”
Ware sighed and shook her head. Henry Winsell’s real crime was in being an outsider. She thought about pointing out that half the villagers now living in Knight’s Crossing started out living elsewhere, but that would have been akin to pouring paraffin on a smouldering fire.
“So, when do they get here?” Mildred demanded.
“Who?”
“The police from Stafford,” Mildred said, regarding Ware as she would a slow-witted child. “When do the other searchers get here to look for Harold? You said you called for help, so when do the bloody strappers get here?”
After a moment, Ware said: “No one is coming, Mildred.”
Mildred’s face darkened. Her skin, stretched like parchment over sharp bones, seemed on the verge of ripping.
“I asked,” Ware said. “My request was denied.”
“By who?”
Ware hesitated. “One of the people in management. I’m not sure of the name.”
“I have half a mind to report this to the Chief Constable.”
Ware stood, feeling tired and sick. She grabbed a scrap of paper and a biro, then scribbled a number she had committed to memory, but never thought she would use. Her radio crackled.
“This is Ware.”
“No trace along Valen Lane, Hillary,” reported a tinny voice.
“Very well, Howard.” She turned away from Mildred, from the hope that had flashed across her face. “Move your group north.”
“Okay.”
Ware turned back to the missing boy’s mother. The hope that bloomed had vanished. “I have to go, Mildred.”
“Please find him, Hillary,” Mildred said. “He’s all I have.”
“I’ll do the best I…” Ware’s words trailed off. How hollow they sounded, even to her own ears. “We’ll find him.”
Ware departed, leaving Mildred alone in the tiny office behind the Village Hall. The distraught mother sighed. She knew the girl was trying her best, but she would have much preferred Albert Dorry on the job. He was a drunken git with his best years decades behind him, but if anyone in bloody Stafford had told him no about anything he would surely have had their guts for garters.
Mildred started to leave, then looked at the paper Ware had left on the desk. Her lips moved as she read the name, but no sound emerged. Moving around, she sat, picked up the phone and punched in the number the new constable had jotted. She hesitated before the last digit. She had never called Stafford before, much less talked to anyone important enough to have his name in the papers. She pushed the last number before her nerve fled.
A telephone rang in faraway Stafford, then Mildred heard a crisp voice say: “The Chief Constable’s office. Whom may I tell Sir Geoffrey is calling?”
* * *
“Let me explain this to you, both of you, very carefully, lest either of you misunderstand your roles in this case,” Superintendent Heln said. “You are to observe only, not participate to any degree. You are to advise and assist the resident constable, PC Hillary Ware, as needed and as requested. You are not in charge, Chief Inspector. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, perfectly,” DCI Arthur Ravyn said. “The resident constable of Knight’s Crossing is new and needs to earn the respect and trust of the village. We will certainly help any way we can.”
Heln gazed across the massive desk, searching for some trace of mockery or resentment. He frowned at Ravyn’s mild face. Some claimed he faintly resembled the actor James Mason, though Heln saw nothing of it. His stance was relaxed, hands loose at his sides. Ravyn had always been good at hiding his feelings. Too good.
“And I expect you to keep your sergeant under control, Ravyn,” Heln continued. “I want no more complaints about him.”
Detective Sergeant Leo Stark felt tension across his shoulders and gritted his teeth, but otherwise remained motionless. In the past, he might have come across the desk at the little martinet, but now merely stared ahead, looking out the window at some complex clouds decorating the morning sky.
“There have been no complaints, sir.” Ravyn paused to allow Heln an intake of breath, then added: “Of which I’ve been made aware. If you would be so kind as to forward them to me I will of course address any issues, any I feel merit attention of course.”
“Sergeant Stark should keep in mind he is no longer in London, Chief Inspector,” Heln said. “Country folk have country ways. He forgets how intimidating he can seem.”
Ravyn glanced at Stark. “Ah, well, this is Hammershire, isn’t it, sir? Nothing we can do about local prejudice, is there? Expecting long-time residents to change their ways is a tall order, isn’t it?”
Heln’s brow furrowed slightly at the faint emphasis he thought he heard on the word ‘tall.’ Stark was too tall by half, with long arms and legs, and Heln resented the snarky smirk he imagined on the sergeant’s lips most of the time. With a coat like a charity shop reject, Stark looked nothing like a Scotland Yard detective. Heln still did not know what Stark had done to get chucked out of the Met and banished to the wilds of Hammershire, but he resented that Stark had served in the Capital at all. That Stark had lost something that Heln would have trod over any number of bodies to attain infuriated the superintendent to no end.
“Sergeant Stark has never been anything but professional in his dealings with the public,” Ravyn said. “In fact, I’ve placed several letters of commendation and appreciation in his personnel jacket, so he must be doing something right.” He paused. “As I said, if you will forward the complaints to…”
“Another time, Ravyn,” Heln snapped. “This is a minor case, and I want it closed quickly. Back at the end of the day, case solved, with none of your usual grandstanding.”
“If there is nothing else, sir,” Ravyn said. The chief inspector turned to leave, and Stark followed suit.
“I’d like a word with you, Sergeant Stark,” Heln said.
“Sir, when a child is involved…” Ravyn started to say.
“He will turn up, with or without your help,” Heln said. “This will take only a moment. Please close the door behind you.”
Heln waited for the solid click of the lock. “Have a seat, Stark.”
“Since it will only take a moment, sir, I’ll stand.”
Heln shrugged. “How are you getting along, Stark?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Heln gave him a smile without warmth. Stark felt as a mouse might have felt before the obsidian eyes of a grinning stoat.
“
Are you really?” Heln asked. “When Ravyn is asked, he says the same thing. According to Dr Lehmann, the chief inspector is not ‘fine’ at all. He says the chief inspector is repressed, withdrawn, very much a… What were Dr Lehmann’s exact words? Ah, yes, a ticking time bomb.”
Stark frowned. Information like that was confidential. After the murders in Little Wyvern he had had an unimpressive compulsory session with Lehmann. Evaluations were available to administration, but Heln had crossed a line that should not be crossed.
“It’s not anything you don’t already know,” Heln said, quickly. “You, of all people, know how he is. I am concerned about you. Despite your refusal to help us, I’ve no desire to see you hurt.”
“I’m touched by your compassion, sir,” Stark said.
“The thing about time bombs is they do explode,” Heln said. “You don’t want to be next to one when it does. It might not be today or tomorrow, but it will eventually explode.”
“Maybe not,” Stark said. “I’ve seen men break, but I don’t see that in Mr Ravyn. He can handle anything Hammershire offers.”
“You think so?”
“I do. After all, Hammershire isn’t London.” A corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smirks. “And this Constabulary isn’t Scotland Yard, not by half it isn’t. Especially in the higher ranks.”
Heln reddened.
“DCI Ravyn is a very capable detective,” Stark said. “I count myself lucky to be assigned to him.”
“Others are not as complementary. He goes through assistants like tissues, for a reason. Will you evince the same loyalty when he falls and threatens to take you with him?”
“I’ll be fine,” Stark said. “Mr Ravyn will be fine.”
“According to Dr Lehmann, Ravyn’s tendency to repress…”
Murderer in Shadow Page 2
