Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Chapter 11

  Santers the solicitors sat on the edge of a trading estate, big on parking and low on character. When Wild arrived, Marsh was already waiting in the car park, a bottle of mineral water in her hand. At least, it looked to him like water — she was Scottish after all.

  DI Marsh led the charge, striding confidently through the double-glazed doors. A sharp suit met them, teeth and tan on display like a party hostess. Wild took an instant dislike to him. The DI stuck to her water so Wild accepted a coffee.

  The suit introduced himself as Corey. “We recently audited our case files and Mr Porter’s was one of them, so when his name came up—”

  Wild glared. “And how exactly did that happen?”

  “I’d rather not say, unless that’s pertinent to your investigation. Surely what matters is that I contacted the police?”

  Wild felt like pinning a medal to Corey’s forehead.

  DI Marsh reined Wild in with a gesture. “It would help us to view the contents of Mr Porter’s will.”

  The suit flipped a page over with a flourish. “Any profit from the sale of the house, after monies outstanding on the property, to go to the son, Nathan Porter — there’d been some equity release, so I understand. The three fields — two arable and one not actively farmed—”

  “Fortune’s Field.” Wild chipped in to try and join the conversation.

  “If you say so. Anyway, all three fields are bequeathed to a Mr Edwin Causly, who rents one of them for arable farming.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?” Wild pushed the point home. “I understand land has emotional attachment as well as monetary value.”

  Corey’s eyebrows danced. “Perhaps it’s not such a surprise if Mr Porter and Mr Causly go back a number of years. Plus, Mr Porter’s son moved away to Scotland, I believe, so he’d be unlikely to come back and till the soil.”

  Marsh’s antenna twitched. “Where did you come by that information?”

  “Oh, you know.” Corey oozed discomfort through his suit. “People talk.”

  “Do they, indeed?” Marsh twisted her bottle top like it was a chicken’s neck.

  Wild heard two narratives, the one spewing from the solicitor and the one in his own head. Porter must have had cause to migrate his generosity from Mr Elleth to Mr Causly. And maybe generosity didn’t come into it at all. He nodded to himself and scribbled a couple of notes.

  Corey finished his speech and sat back, arms open, inviting questions. Wild kept schtum and enjoyed the show, taking notes like a good DS.

  Marsh stopped wrestling with her water. “Did you know Mr Porter well?”

  “Nope, not at all. We do radio campaigns from time to time — we did one a couple of weeks ago, actually. Mr Porter said he contacted us after hearing one of our ads.”

  Marsh chewed it over. “Not your usual client, I would have thought.”

  The solicitor flashed his perfect veneered smile. “We’re here to serve anyone who needs us.”

  Wild entered an X in his scorebook. Points deducted for not answering the question. He liked how Marsh operated, noting the way she put the solicitor through the wringer without raising her voice. A masterclass. Mr Marsh, if there was one, must surely know his place.

  Afterwards, they sat in Marsh’s car, recapping. “Any thoughts, Craig?”

  This would be his chance to impress, would being the operative word. “It’s odd that the bulk of Porter’s estate isn’t left to his son — surviving heir and all that.” He tapped the dashboard. “No, that’s not it. The odd thing is that no one else finds it odd. And switching loyalties between farmers — does that suggest a possible motive?”

  Marsh sipped her water. “Money’s always a strong motivation. Check how the field rents are paid and whether both farmers are up to date.”

  He started to get out of the car and then thought better of it. “Ma’am, can I ask you something? Is there a reason you’re leading this investigation from the passenger seat?” He cringed at how badly that had come out.

  Marsh smiled faintly. “Is that what you think? I’m disappointed in you, Craig. I took you to be smarter than that. Porter’s death is fortunate — not for him of course. It’s a golden opportunity for you to prove yourself. I need a sergeant I can rely on, and you need a fresh start.” She reached into the door pocket. “So get the job done and don’t fuck it up. Peppermint cream?”

  He waved away the bag. “I’ll see you back at the station, ma’am.” As he opened the car door and glanced up, he saw Corey peering at them through the window.

  * * *

  Back on the road, Wild pondered which firm of solicitors would be best to handle his divorce. Steph had long since moved out of their flat in Enfield to ‘make space,’ as she’d put it. Make distance, more like. So when the divorce papers had come from her solicitors — the ones he had to use whenever he wanted to contact her — he wasn’t entirely surprised, more a case of disappointed. ‘Unreasonable behaviour’ had seemed like a disproportionate slight on his character when he’d first read it, but getting shit-faced at a police do — an event he hadn’t been invited to — well, that had played right into her hands. You couldn’t save a sinking ship, she’d said. And that night he’d scuttled it in spectacular fashion.

  He tried not to think about the fallout from the raid the following day either. Maybe it was fortunate he only had fragmented memories. Three arrests, one discharged firearm — in his direction — and a scumbag who escaped justice. No one blamed him to his face though, which was probably the only up-side of a breakdown.

  Wind forward a few months of sick leave and therapy, followed by closed-door discussions — mostly about him rather than with him — and then a Police Federation rep stepping in to suggest mediation to agree the terms of his and Steph’s permanent separation. Terms and conditions, more like. No contact, except through Steph’s solicitor, no interviews, obviously, and no comments on their (failed) relationship. She hadn’t needed their marital home, but buying him out ensured he had no base left in London. Sure, he got to keep his job and rank, but the price of that was being exiled to the shires. Not exactly a brave new world.

  His brain shifted back into focus at the first roundabout for the police station. For all its downsides, police work was the perfect antidote to introspection. Other people’s problems, the chase, the authority to penetrate their lives and examine their secrets, and — when things played out the right way — job satisfaction like no other. It was a wonder more people didn’t join the force!

  Ben Galloway met him before he’d made it through the double doors upstairs. “Fancy a coffee, Skip, and I can update you on my progress.”

  Who was he to deny his subordinate? The canteen was sparse, tables shining and abandoned. He bought hot drinks and chose a table by a window. As he sat down he noticed a couple of uniforms in the car park, standing closer to his car than he liked. He needed to be casual. He opened his trusty notebook with a blank expression.

  “Who are those two? Marsh says I need to learn names and build relationships in the station. Unfortunately, I’m crap at that.” He tapped a pen against his notebook and noticed Galloway nodding in agreement.

  “Right, well, the tall one’s Glen Ebury and the other one is Simon Rush. Top blokes, both of them.” The way he said it reeked of the playground and the false respect given to the tougher boys.

  Ebury and Rush pointed at the car as they stood together. Not exactly subtle. He’d let it go for now, but he’d come back to it. He always did.

  Galloway’s progress report sounded like a bad play rehearsal, a monotone rendition of names, places, and dates of birth — altogether a pub quiz of an investigation.

  Wild lowered his tea mug. “What do you make of Edwin Causly?”

  Galloway frowned, as if he hadn’t fully understood the question. “Oh, there’s been Causlys in that area for generations.”

  Wild smiled at what sounded like a character reference.

  Galloway hadn’t finis
hed. “They’ve farmed Porter’s big field since the thirties. Even longer, probably. Mr Porter’s father bought the land from the previous owner at the end of the war.”

  “Why didn’t they buy it themselves then?”

  Galloway rubbed imaginary cash through his fingers. Wild nodded and thought back to Porter’s house. How the mighty had fallen.

  “Tell me more about the family — beyond their pedigree, I mean.” He could see Galloway was struggling. “Who are they related to?” He held back from adding, ‘Everybody else, I imagine’.

  Galloway relaxed a little. “Old Mr Causly’s son, Peter, died during the war. The son’s widow moved in with them. Good people. Go to church regularly, you know. Not much else to say.”

  This was starting to feel like an Archers omnibus. “And the widow’s family?”

  “She was an Elleth — died a few years back. Her brother’s still alive and farms the other field — with help of course. Neither of them are getting any younger.” That was it. Done and dusted.

  “And what’s the score with the middle field?”

  Galloway drank his coffee. “Fortune’s Field — nothing’s farmed there. Never has been. It’s a medieval burial ground.”

  Chapter 12

  Wild liked to do his thinking away from the office. In London, that would have been the pub or a greasy spoon, but here it only took a few syllables to raise eyebrows. ‘Not local, then?’ was the frequent refrain, sometimes in more colourful language. His solution was the tourist spots — those designer cafés where everything was organic or gluten-free, even the bacon rolls.

  The Labyrinth didn’t call itself a café. No, the hand-painted symbol and child-like lettering declared it an eatery and community hub. He’d found it by accident, lured by the scent of decent coffee, like the stuff Steph used to grind by hand at home. For all he knew she probably still did, in her new flat in the city.

  He went inside, dimly aware of a piano version oldie playing in the background — the low-key stuff where there’s nothing to hum along to. He waited behind a family of four who felt the need to go through the menu aloud, in great detail. As they reached the counter and continued the great debate, he wondered whether to skip lunch in favour of a bag of crisps. A pinafored woman, aged probably late thirties, with a scarf tied at the back of her hair like a soviet factory worker, moved along the counter and beckoned him over to a second till.

  “Can I help you?”

  He smiled. “You just have.” He glanced up at the board again. “Coffee and a piece of walnut cake, please.” He held out a tenner, simultaneously hoping he’d get change while remaining doubtful. Mental multitasking.

  The ground floor was packed so he advanced upstairs in search of some peace, automatically swerving past one open room at the sound of a screaming brat — the very young variety. There were other doorless rooms along the corridor. In one, a couple sat, cocooned in headphones, their feet touching under the table as they ate a rainbow salad without looking up from their mobiles. They didn’t seem to notice, or mind, his sneer at their modern romance. In the third room, the one that was just right, a woman Wild figured to be in her late fifties sat engrossed in a hardback book. It must have been good because she didn’t even look up when he walked past her to the window table.

  He positioned himself by the window and took a forkful of cake, gazing down at the courtyard. Guitar music filtered up through the gap in the window before the minstrel came into view. His leather waistcoat, cowboy boots and fitted jeans marked him out as an arsehole even before Wild saw the ponytail. His only redeeming feature was his musicianship. The minstrel drifted to a sunlit corner of the courtyard and belted out Guitar Man by Bread, with abnormal highs and lows that still managed to sound melodic. And still an arsehole. Wild had him pegged at maybe early thirties — old enough to know better. A girl appeared, presumably from a table outside, and dropped some coins into a top hat. An actual top hat. Her red and white polka-dot dress epitomised summer and youth, and other things that Wild had come to despise. He caught the odd word, something about a party needing live entertainment, and then shared laughter. She sidled up close to the musician, obscuring Wild’s vision with that dress and her perfectly tanned limbs, and the sun in her auburn hair. Wild turned his attention briefly back to his cake and coffee, pausing to notice how she practically skipped away. Mr Top Hat slipped a hand inside his jeans pocket for an instant and then struck up a tune. Wild thought back to the buskers outside Camden Town underground station, and the way the dossers lined one of the walls, forcing commuters to run the gauntlet on their way home. This guy, though, judging by his clothes and guitar, he wasn’t so desperate.

  Wild had started to lose interest, if not disdain, when a familiar face appeared in the courtyard: Pauline Henderson, from Hollings and Gresham. Wild held his coffee cup mid-air, as if moving might give him away. Pauline and the Merry Minstrel locked eyes and she put her hand against his neck and kissed him. He took part, of course he did, but she was the one making the effort. They spoke too quietly for Wild to hear and after a short exchange she left him. Within seconds of her departure, Mr Top Hat was on his mobile phone.

  Call it suspicion or metropolitan prejudice but Wild was long enough in the tooth to know when something didn’t smell right. He ditched his coffee, wrapped what remained of his cake in a napkin and pushed the table back. By the time he made it downstairs, the musician had packed up his guitar and was putting on his top hat. Sadly, not a prop. Wild passed him and stalled a few paces on, pretending to check his phone for an imaginary text.

  As the musician exited the courtyard, one of the staff paused from collecting the crockery, brushed away her fringe and called out, “See you later, Jeb,” with a raised inflection so that it sounded like a proposition. Then again, the way she’d smiled, maybe it had been.

  Jeb strutted out like he owned every cobblestone, his cowboy boots clipping and creaking as he walked. Wild gave him a decent head start — a top hat would be hard to lose in a crowd anyway — and took an easy stroll after him. Could be something, could be nothing, he told himself as he fetched out the remnants of his cake. He followed Jeb at a safe distance, all the way to the car park where Jeb climbed into a Citroën 2CV, having taken his hat off first. Jeb lifted up the window and dropped a piece of paper as he drove off. Wild kept walking as the car passed and then scrambled to retrieve the litter. It was a car park ticket for an hour, with only forty-five minutes used. Either Jeb packed a lot into his busking performances or he had other reasons for plying his trade there.

  Wild considered the ways he could identify Jeb. One: A PNC check on the vehicle. Two: CCTV. Three: Go visit Pauline at work, or wait outside the solicitors and see if anyone comes to pick her up. Four: Actually talk to Pauline. Option four was the easiest, only he wasn’t sure why he was so interested in the ‘prat in the hat.’ As he walked round to his own car he rang DI Marsh to put her in the picture.

  “And you’re curious about him why exactly?”

  “He doesn’t smell right.”

  The DI laughed. “I’ve heard worse! You’d better follow your nose then.”

  He finished off the cake remnants in his car, napkin held close to his mouth to catch any crumbs. It was only on opening his napkin to empty it outside that he saw a message in blue ink, accompanied by a smiley face: “Do come again.” He figured he might, at that.

  * * *

  The first face he saw, back at the office, was Ben Galloway’s — a mixture of earnestness and indolence. It gave Wild an idea.

  “I want a private word with you.” He took Galloway off to a side room. Galloway sat down and hunched his shoulders defensively. “Ben, how well do you know that secretary we met at Hollings and Gresham?”

  Galloway relaxed a little. “She goes to church with my mum. Dad doesn’t really bother, unless it’s Christmas or—”

  “Fine.” Wild tried to focus Galloway’s mind by willpower alone. “And what about her niece, their IT specialist?”
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  Galloway blinked a couple of times, as if he were forcing synapses to fire manually. “Pauline? Oh, not so much. I reckon she probably got that job on account of her aunty.”

  Wild strained his gaze for hidden traces of irony. “Yeah, nepotism is a bastard, eh?”

  Chapter 13

  Wild waited at his desk for the call to come through. Nathan Porter, the victim’s son, was attending to make a voluntary statement, fresh in from Kilmarnock. That word still made him smile: voluntary. Like there was any choice in the matter. He flicked through his notes, giving extra attention to the lines ending in a question mark, and took a final sip of lukewarm tea. A phone rang, but it wasn’t his. He looked across and saw DI Marsh stir from her chair, pick up the phone and start speaking. She turned abruptly in his direction, clicked her fingers and pointed towards the stairs. Clearly she’d confused the terms sergeant and servant. As he got up to follow her instructions, she left her desk and opened her office door about a foot.

  “I’ll sit in with you, Craig. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  So much for his plan to give Ben Galloway the wisdom of his experience. He met Galloway on his way down the stairs and broke his heart. Downstairs, Wild was directed to Interview Room Three. He took his seat and breathed in the scent of the empty room, four parts cleaning product to one part body odour, with just a hint of vinyl flooring. He set his notebook and pen on the table and mentally rehearsed what he wanted to say, assuming his DI gave him the option.

  As two voices along the corridor broke the silence, he caught DI Marsh doing an impression of casual. The other voice, presumably Alexander Porter’s son, spoke with the undertone of conformity that strangers brought along when they first visited a police station. Witnesses or suspects, it didn’t seem to matter — no one wanted to be there.

  “Now, are you sure I can’t get you a drink, Mr Porter?”

  Porter followed her in and then paused at the doorway. “Okay, then. A tea would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble. Two sugars. And call me Nathan.”