Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “And you tipped him off, outside the pub?”

  Galloway didn’t respond, so Wild carried on fishing. “So what’s the score — do you owe him money?”

  Galloway shook his head. “No. He . . . er . . . well, he got me some grass recently.”

  “Congratulations, Ben, you are a complete moron.”

  ”You telling me you’ve never tried it?”

  ”Not buying it from someone I went to school with, as a serving police officer.”

  ”So what happens now, Skip?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see that there are many options.”

  “Look, I can take you to Jeb. I know where he lives. He’s not dangerous — the two of us could go right now. That’s got to count for something, hasn’t it?”

  Wild glanced behind them, where two coppers were heading through the door. “Okay, I’ll leave word for Marsh at the front desk.”

  Wild drove while Galloway gave directions. Galloway changed before his eyes, no longer merely a nephew of a uniformed sergeant or the local boy who made CID. It wasn’t exactly depth but another side to Galloway that at the very least made him more interesting. Besides, as Wild reflected on the largely silent drive over to Jeb’s place, he was never happier than when he had a problem to solve.

  Chapter 20

  The house was much grander than the poky little cottage Wild had expected. The drive held two cars but had room enough for another three. Wild recognised Jeb’s car from the car park, after he’d followed him from the Labyrinth café. There was no plan other than to gain access to the property and ask some questions, but the last thing Wild expected was for Jeb to answer the doorbell.

  He didn’t seem surprised to see them. “You’d better come in.”

  Galloway hesitated at the threshold. Wild nudged him in and a plaintive voice called out from along the hallway.

  “Have we got visitors? We weren’t expecting anyone.”

  Jeb eased a door open. “Just some friends of mine, Grandad. They’re not stopping long.” The television volume went up and a door closed.

  “I, er, live with my grandparents — they brought me up. Come through to the kitchen, it’s warmer there.” Jeb stopped and squinted at Wild. “You’re police as well, then?”

  Wild was in no mood for friendly banter. “Well I’m not a bloody social worker. Nathan sends his apologies — unavoidably detained.”

  Jeb grinned. “I thought it was too good to be true — Nathan coming up with money at short notice like that, before the funeral and everything. I said as much to Pauline, only I never turn down an offer of easy money. You know that, right, Ben?”

  Galloway sank into an old wooden chair that Wild had down as an antique. Jeb leaned against the cream-coloured range, hands behind his head, and stretched. He may as well have strutted like a peacock.

  Wild wasn’t in the mood. “You haven’t asked what we’re doing here.”

  Jeb’s eyes dulled, the way a dog’s face blanks when it looks like it’s thinking. “Is Pauline okay?”

  “She’s in custody, if that’s what you mean. We picked her up after your disappearing act.” He spotted eye contact between Galloway and Jeb.

  Jeb’s face reddened. “Yeah, I was all set to meet up with Nathan, and Pauline went on ahead. Then I started having second thoughts . . .”

  Wild thought he’d seen better acting in a third-rate soap opera. “You’re full of shit. Get your coat.”

  “I’ll just have a quick word with Nan and Grandad.” Jeb didn’t wait for permission.

  Wild searched in his jacket pocket for a mint. Have you been here before, Ben? Recently I mean.”

  “No, Skip. Not for years.”

  Wild sucked hard on a mint. “Right, two things: one, for fuck’s sake stop calling me Skip — it makes me sound like a sheepdog. And two, are you really telling me that you bought grass from Jeb out on the street?”

  Galloway blinked slowly as if he’d been punched. “No, I’m not saying that. I met him up at the abbey ruins. We all used to go there in our teens.” His eyes softened. “It was just a bit of puff.”

  “And when did this act of genius take place?”

  Galloway gulped hard, as if he’d swallowed a brick. His hand gripped the edge of the table. “That’s the thing, DS Wild. It happened the night Alexander Porter was murdered.”

  Wild stared into space, rather than give in to the urge to knock some sense into Galloway. “And when you say the night . . . ?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But definitely after ten o’clock. I only came back from training that afternoon. I just thought what the hell, live a bit, you know? I didn’t see as there’d be any harm.”

  By now Wild was leaning against the Aga, warming his back while he massaged his temples. “You do realise what you’ve done?” One look at Galloway confirmed the worst. Of course he didn’t. Wild offered him a mint. “You’ve probably given Jeb an alibi for the time of the crime, and as soon as he puts that in a statement, you are royally screwed. On the plus side,” he crunched his own mint, “at least it rules him out as a suspect, so your career sacrifice isn’t a total waste.”

  Galloway looked up like a startled rabbit and for a moment Wild thought there would be tears. Not on his watch. “Pull yourself together. We have to figure out a way through this.”

  Wild heard voices in the hallway. He signalled to the door and Galloway followed him out. Jeb was waiting. As the three of them reached the front door, Jeb’s grandmother poked her head out of the lounge.

  “Don’t forget your jacket, Jeb. We’ll wait up for you. Is Pauline coming over tonight?”

  Jeb became a twelve-year-old again, trying to save face in front of his mates. “No, Nan. Don’t fuss, and don’t bother waiting up.”

  ”Righto,” she beamed, as they were halfway out the door. “Have a lovely time.”

  Jeb let out a heavy sigh and turned to Wild. “Am I coming back tonight? If not, I’d like to let them know.”

  Wild took out his car keys. “We’ll see.”

  By the time they were back on the road, Jeb had regained his self-confidence. Wild was half surprised he hadn’t brought along his guitar for the performance.

  “I dunno what you think you’ve got on me,” Jeb leaned forward a little from the backseat. “Only, Benny boy and me, we’ve got a bit of a connection that might change your mind.”

  Wild shot a glance to Galloway and there was something in the response that prompted if not pity then a glimmer of empathy. He put his foot down as he navigated the lane, farm gates flashing by.

  Jeb found it all very amusing. “Steady on, mate, you’re not in London now.”

  Wild shifted down a gear and as he approached a pulling-in point muttered to Galloway, “Brace,” before pulling sharp left and hitting the brakes. The car slid through muddy tracks and ended on the verge. A few seconds later a tractor rumbled by, the driver shaking his head in disbelief. Wild unclipped his seatbelt and twisted round to face the rear passenger.

  “Shut your mouth or I’ll come over there and do it for you.”

  Jeb’s face took a puncture. He tried furiously to open the rear door, despite still having a seatbelt on. Nothing doing.

  “Central locking, dumb arse.”

  Jeb paled and Wild followed his line of sight to Galloway’s impression of acute embarrassment.

  “Don’t waste your time looking at him, it’s me you need to worry about. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You might say that Ben Galloway bought cannabis from you on the night that Alexander Porter died. And I’ll say that Detective Constable Galloway was pursuing enquiries about alleged drug dealing in the local community. And while we are all busy arguing the toss, my detective friends will be ripping your lovely grandparents’ house apart, along with their precious grandson’s reputation. And that’s just for starters. Do we understand one another?”

  Jeb gave a feeble nod. Galloway’s face resembled a dustpan without a brush. Wild turned round and put his seatbelt
back on. He could still feel his nerve endings singing in unison, like a sub-dermal hallelujah chorus. He was back in the game.

  He restarted the car. “So, Jeb, this is how it’s going to go down. We will interview you about Nathan Porter and whether you can shed any light on the death of his father. For the purposes of the interview, I don’t give a shit what deals you do as far as grass is concerned, as long as you’re not supplying to kids. But don’t think I won’t come back to your house with just cause if there’s even a hint that you are trading in or supplying anything else. Are we clear?”

  Jeb spoke to the rear-view mirror. “I don’t know anything about Nathan’s dad’s death. And that’s God’s honest truth. Well, I know they didn’t exactly get on, what with his dad’s drinking over the years and Nathan’s gambling. But all I’ve done is lend them both money and then chase them up for payment. That’s all I have to say.”

  “Save it for the police station.”

  * * *

  Wild and Galloway were minutes into a formal interview, where Jeb had immediately waived his right to a solicitor, when somebody knocked on the door. Wild was pleasantly surprised to see Marnie Olsen enter the room with a folded note in her hand. He spoke aloud in a contrived voice for the benefit of the recording. “PC Olsen has entered the room with a note for DS Wild.” He opened the paper barely wide enough to read it, as if shielding it from the CCTV. “This interview is now suspended while I attend to a related matter. PC Olsen will remain in the room until my return.”

  Olsen hovered by his vacated chair, uncertain whether she ought to sit down. He left her to figure it out for herself. As Wild closed the interview room door behind him, DI Marsh’s frame filled the end of the corridor like a spectre. She beckoned him towards her with an icy finger.

  “How are you getting on with Jeb Walsh?”

  He tried to stay cool under her scrutiny. “So far he has confirmed he lent money to Nathan and also to his dad in the past. It seems that Alexander Porter was trying to help pay off his son’s debts.”

  “And Nathan’s bruises?”

  “Jeb says that he and Nathan had a bit of a drunken altercation, that there was no assault because Nathan gave as good as he got, and that Nathan will back him up. Unless Nathan was too pissed to remember, in which case Jeb is fairly certain there were witnesses in the pub.”

  “And that pub was?”

  “The Wheatsheaf, where we picked up Pauline Henderson.” He tried his best smile. “I don’t think you pulled me out of the interview to ask how it was going. What’s up?”

  “New information has come to light, following a disclosure by Pauline Henderson.” DI Marsh waved a tired hand across her forehead. “Let’s go get some machine coffee.” She waited at the stairs so they could walk side by side. “I hardly know where to begin. According to Pauline Henderson, an email came to the solicitors where she works, a few weeks ago, enquiring about a US soldier who was stationed locally in the run-up to D-Day.”

  She waited expectantly at the machine until Wild cottoned on that he would be paying.

  “With sugar, thanks. So, the relative of this GI emailed asking for any information about him. Apparently, Pauline hasn’t exactly been ‘discreet employee of the month.’ She forwarded the email to Jeb and then deleted any record of it. Jeb smelt money and started communicating with the great-nephew, swapping emails and setting himself up as a private investigator.”

  Wild sipped his tea and extended a hand, palm upwards as encouragement. “I dunno, taking money under false pretences?”

  “Ah, you see that’s just it. We have no evidence so far that money has ever changed hands, but this,” she waved her hand in the air, “distant relative has travelled all the way here.”

  “On the strength of an email?”

  “That’s what Pauline Henderson wants us to believe.”

  “Nah, I can’t see it. There has to be more to it than that.”

  “And that’s why I wanted you out of the room.”

  Wild did his thinking aloud. “So what’s the relevance, if any, to the death of Alexander Porter?”

  DI Marsh smiled. “Let’s just call it an unknown factor. Maybe it’s a coincidence and maybe it’s nothing at all, but it’s going up on the whiteboard. This American has been in contact with Jeb, and Jeb has loaned money to both Nathan and his dad, and Nathan’s dad is dead.”

  ”So you want me to go back into the interview and confront Jeb about this Yank?”

  Marsh threw him a kindly smile, the sort a crocodile might offer a wildebeest midway across the river. “Not quite. I want to speak to Jeb myself to find out the Yank’s whereabouts and then I want you to go and see him. I’m also thinking of releasing Nathan Porter, unless there’s any more information on his phone that could assist our inquiry in other directions.”

  Wild’s eyes widened. This was starting to feel like professional collaboration. “I say let him go, keep the other two in and put the pressure on Pauline. She has more to lose, both her reputation and her job at Hollings & Gresham where her aunt also works. All I know about Jeb is that he lives in a nice house with his grandparents — any idea what they did for a living, by the way?”

  Marsh got up from the canteen chair. “Dr James Walsh was the local GP, like his father before him. Their son and his wife died when Jeb was still a toddler so they brought him up. Imagine how disappointed they must’ve been. He works when he feels like it and lives on their generosity the rest of the time.”

  Wild smiled. If only you knew. It took him a few seconds to realise that he’d been ousted from his own interview. So be it. He figured he’d use the free time to catch up on paperwork and continue his own research project: Operation Which-bastards-scratched-my-car.

  He was professionalism personified when it came time to release Nathan Porter. As he’d anticipated, the good news caught Nathan off guard.

  He sounded humbled, as though Wild had personally done him a favour.

  “You . . . you’re letting me go? Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

  Wild knew they had no evidence to charge him with anything. A lack of emotion was hardly a crime. If that were the case, Steph would be awaiting sentence in the case of the slaughtered marriage. He didn’t bother explaining the extra communication with Jeb Walsh on Nathan’s mobile — Nathan would figure it out soon enough. And if he wanted to make a complaint, so be it. On balance, though, Nathan would probably have his hands full with the funeral. Assuming the body had nothing left to tell the pathologist.

  Wild wondered whether Nathan’s release would spark an attack of conscience — not that he was expecting any last minute disclosures. His expectations were fulfilled. Nathan scurried out of the station and looked skyward. Wild watched him from the doorway, slightly distracted by a man at the desk complaining that in the twenty-first century he shouldn’t have to produce his driving documents in person. There was always one unhappy customer.

  Later, while Wild was updating the case on the whiteboard, a door swung at the far end of the room. He glanced to his left to see Sergeant Galloway approaching. For once, the team room was virtually empty, bar one of the admin staff feverishly inputting data. Wild nodded to the sergeant and they played a game of handshake top trumps.

  The sergeant looked flustered. “Hello there, erm . . .”

  “Craig or Wild, either is fine.”

  “So how is it all going, Craig?”

  Against his better judgement, Wild stood to one side and introduced the board. “I feel like we’re missing important pieces of the puzzle. That’s why it’s been invaluable working with Ben — you can’t beat local knowledge.”

  Sergeant Galloway’s chest visibly swelled. “That’s good to hear. And like I said when we met—” He looked across at the admin person, who hadn’t strayed from his task, and then lowered his voice. “We’re all in this together so if I can be of any assistance . . .”

  Wild murmured encouragingly. The last time he’d heard that they were all in it toget
her was 2008, when a bunch of bankers watched the ship go down from the comfort of their luxury escape yacht. His mobile rang, delivering the name of a small hotel where the American visitor might be staying. He made a note of the details while Sergeant Galloway awaited his attention. “Listen, I need to go and speak with someone who’s visiting the area of our investigation — an American tourist.” He flashed a note in front of Sergeant Galloway. “I don’t suppose you’ve run into him on your travels? It’d be helpful to get some background before I give him the knock.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “I can ask around the uniforms. It would be no trouble at all. I could even come with you if you like?”

  Wild gave it a moment’s consideration. “Yeah, alright then.”

  Sergeant Galloway liked to talk. And talk he did. About Ben and how he’d made the transition from uniform into CID, and all about the local communities, in ways that Wild hadn’t expected. Twenty minutes in a car and Wild understood so much more about rural life in all its pettiness, its formality and the dignity it placed on tradition and the family. It was the next best thing to learning a foreign language.

  He threw the sergeant a bone or two, referring to his years as a copper in London and, in a show of camaraderie and balance, reinforced all his colleague’s preconceptions about metropolitan life.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong, Craig,” Sergeant Galloway waxed lyrical, “I know that there are more opportunities in big cities, especially for people with ambition — like our Ben. But I can’t see as how so many people living cheek by jowl and squeezed into housing estates can do anything other than breed alienation and crime.”

  Wild would have conceded the point had he not prepared a comeback. “I’ve been here less than a month and I’ve seen vehicle theft, antisocial behaviour and much more.” He fixed the sergeant with a momentary stare. “Not forgetting the murder of Alexander Porter.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Craig, but I’m still not so sure.”

  “Oh, it’s murder,” Wild insisted. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  There were six cars in the hotel car park, and as they arrived a well-dressed couple were unloading cases from the back of a 4x4. Meantime, two darling children threw gravel at one another while Mummy and Daddy tried to ignore them.