“Your list of cases is vital to the stakeholders in our county, our community, and thus to us DCI Cade. We are ‘laddering’ cases as policy and to achieve targets and cases allotted by myself take precedence. These are structural challenges that will be followed to reflect efficient monetising of our efforts.”
I have a vague idea of what he means and suspect Creel is the same. I say nothing. ‘Laddering’ is now well established, a practice where cases are prioritised on the basis of, well to be brutally honest, how important the victim is or how the story will play in the media or how expensive the investigation will be. Sometimes, but seldom, the nature of the crime itself and effect on victims are also considered. The Head of C.I.D., one Calvin Aloysius Creel, trained accountant, makes those decisions.
Non-urgent cases are put on the lower rungs, in a lower category, left for forty-eight hours or even longer without response beyond uniform if needs be, depending upon their workload and public attention. In effect, it means that budgets and the influence of key groups in the county - farmers, corporate landowners, the local authorities, big local businesses, the rich, the powerful, the media, anyone who can shout the loudest and longest to some effect - decide which cases are dealt with properly.
As ever the wealthy and influential get their way, the poor or those without any clout, lose twice over - by having a crime committed against them, and then having the police treat it slowly, or with inexperienced coppers, or with less resources, or even not at all.
‘Laddering’ on its present basis means the end of good policing for me. To the extent that my force now only deals with burglaries done on victims with even number addresses for a month, odd numbers the next month, and so on.
My reasoned note as Head of Intelligence to the Chief Constable on the policy document recommending this idiocy had been returned with a scrawled note by a secretary that said merely, ‘Noted.’ I had explained that once the burglars figured out - or were told - whether we were dealing with even or odd numbers that month, they would target the ones we were not sending detectives or forensics to. So, it had come to pass as the data began to come in. The number of burglaries had risen sharply, the clear up rate had plummeted with criminals from miles around seizing their opportunities, adopting a policy of ‘burglary selected by house number’. Any fool could see it would happen yet the Kafkaesque approach is not to be challenged, yet alone changed.
“Are you there DCI Cade?” Creel repeats several times. I grunt that reception is poor; if only that were true and I did not have to listen to this Public Relations and Policy blather.
He goes on, “So we have two areas of concern. First, various burglaries over the past two weeks - two this very weekend, one a burglary and arson at D'Eynscourte Church of England Primary school, one a burglary at the offices of the local newspaper in Merian –are of high concern. Neither crime discovered until this morning when people went back to work. I have reassigned from Uniform to give these to your new squad from tomorrow with crime scenes sealed. PR will announce the high-level treatment today.”
I do not ask if they were even or odd numbers for the addresses.
I search desperately for some birds or animals to distract me, to lift my spirits within this barrage of crass modernity that I am powerless to stem. Even nature has deserted me. Falling snow almost whispers as it touches me, tree and soil and dissipates
Creel’s voice goes relentlessly on, “Secondly, on your case list, thefts from farms: quad bikes, sheep, cattle, even two tractors last week taken away on a low loader. A million pounds’ worth in the last four months. All in your area. The Chief Constable wants to meet our Phase Five objectives within our three-year plan for improvement of service to our customers in terms of specification, deadline and budget and solving these will facilitate this.”
In other words, the farmers are revolting. And we must quieten them. An old joke but I like it. Creel jabbers on but his whine recedes as my mind moves elsewhere. The reality that flows from all this gobbledygook jargon about targets, budgets, ‘laddering,’ PR, stakeholders and policy is far worse. Senior officers, those in power, the elites control the system now. They re-write the rules, manipulate and conceal. Sat in Intelligence the documents passed before me, irrational or unethical or simply often mad, and I was powerless. During that time, Creel has ruthlessly ridden this development of power accruing at the top, made it his own, basked in his glory within it. Protecting those he favoured, catching villains less important than achieving targets, getting crime rates down on paper, meeting budgets, working to policy.
And there are myriad ways to achieve those, without improving actual policing. If you do not meet the targets of getting crime rates down, then it is easy for him: change the definition of certain crimes and suddenly, hey presto, many things are not recorded as crimes at all and the figures work. If some recidivists are just too active and targets not being met in rehabilitation in the community, offer them financial help for travel to find work elsewhere. Perhaps call your invented and innovative scheme “New Horizons.’ Ship them hundreds of miles away. If they do not want to take up the offer, the heavy mob visit and harass until they do. Rumour has it that Creel hopes for a gong from the Palace for this wheeze.
My mother and I spent a magical two weeks in Moscow and St Petersburg when I was a teenager. Visiting the Kremlin and the Hermitage we saw reflections of life and art under Stalin and now Putin, that same bombardment of never ending double think as Creel spews out. I learnt of what Stalinist tradition calls ‘Tufta,’ the falsification of facts and statistics to meet the diktats of unaccountable power. The system wins by stealth, whether capitalist or tyranny.
The police are now a world within their own world of fantasy, making things up to suit their own purpose, bartering, essentially giving away any suggestion of justice for all. Yet insisting they are being ‘transparent.’ Creel is the accepted if not revered master of all of this. The only question being: why has he not moved on to be a Deputy or Chief Constable by now, where he could wreak even more havoc than he has in Ancaster County?
I yawn as the man drawls on, “These cases should be subjected to priority level applications, Category A cases in other words.”
He is dismissive, “Stay out of the hit and run of this homeless woman today. I know what you are like. We must have cross department, cross service integrated programmes as our paradigm but separate authority too when needed, as here.”
He pauses. I do not reply. How can you comment on words that are just rudderless nonsense from a man with such a dinginess of spirit? With that he is gone, a mouth like a slash in his face, sanctimonious wheedling superior smile and all. As with Odling and Rudd, I feel unclean.
For how does Creel know the dead woman is homeless and killed in a hit and run? Odling only pronounced that conclusion a few moments ago. Did Creel tell him what to conclude?
11
Odling almost skips back towards me, a smirk of triumph on his beetroot face, sweating even from his half minute or so of effort. He pats his mousy hair back into place to hide his bald crown, and makes PCs Smith and Marshall laugh out loud with a snide remark. Those two have arrived from the other direction, one on either side of Sam, who they have collected from my car. My friend does not laugh.
Suddenly I know what is to come, even if I cannot quite believe it. The wind gusts now, sculpting a tear from my own eyes as I seem to be underwater, everything opaque, silent save for the eerie reverberations of the snow hitting branches and soil. The squad of officers have been dismissed and climb into a mini bus, their mouths opening wide but I hear no words. Drowning, I turn away to watch the morgue’s grey van pull up. The two men within see where the body is positioned, grimace and moan though their words spill away in the air. Still I cry inwardly, ‘She is someone’s daughter, sister, wife, mother, have a care.’ Nature grieves too. I see a great tit laid on the grass verge. Its eyes misted, helpless, hopeless, turned wildly towards me as I move to reach, pick up, warm, comfort it
.
I feel dizzy, beyond this place, as a hand touches my arm. I turn to see DC Whittle’s mouth opening, but no words being spoken. Face puzzled, she repeats her message as the eerie sounds in my ears recede.
Odling arrives, observing me closely too as her voice, devoid of life, repeats again, “Sir, DCI Odling would like a word?”
My eyes go to the controlled bustle of the crowd of starlings sweeping suddenly along the field’s length, above our heads and away. How I wish I could join them. Caressing the great tit, I find it has died, weighing little, tears beneath its eyes.
Odling beams like a manic director relishing the drama he is contriving now with an audience of the two PCs and Sam beside him, Whittle and myself facing. All their eyes are drawn to the bird, perished through lack of food, in my hands as I lay it tenderly on the grass-verge.
Odling snorts and says contemptuously, “Watch and learn DCI Cade, watch and learn.”
He continues, nursery rhyme style as though to a child, enjoying the guffaws of the two PCs that come like canned laughter in a poor television sitcom.
“What have we just found there DC Whittle?” Odling trills, pointing to where they have just been with the two forensics officers, seventy yards past where the men from the morgue are lifting the dead woman upwards.
“Paint chippings and glass from a car, Sir,” the young DC says flatly, her gaze five feet above Odling’s head.
“And what colour was the paint DC Whittle?” he asks in a sing song tone.
“White, Sir.”
“And what colour paint did we find on the dead woman DC Whittle?”
“White Sir.”
I stir within but say and show nothing, not wanting to look at Sam. The tra-la-la of ’Sir’ from Whittle, which Odling clearly insists on as a way of demeaning her, is irritating beyond measure.
“And what colour is Mr Aystrup’s van DC Whittle?”
The man would be a poor poet, I think, but this is ludicrously effective in its own way.
“Dirty white Sir.”
“And does it appear Mr Aystrup’s van has been in a collision DC Whittle?” Odling laments.
She hesitates before his sharp look drives her on.
“Bad scratches along right near side front and side bonnet, and broken headlight commensurate with a collision with someone or something.”
“Sir, please DC Whittle, always address me as Guv or Sir,” Odling says affably, winking at the two PCs, “at least while we are on duty.”
The last remark reeks of innuendo. But shows how clever Odling is. It could be taken, if you do not hear the built-in leer, as just good management, saying that the lower ranks can be more informal off duty with him. Whittle does not respond, merely continues staring above Odling’s head as he seeks his tithe of obedience. ‘Odling the Odious,’ as he is universally known amongst the female ranks, positively glows. It is impossible to see how he has inveigled three women into marriage. Three rapid divorces perhaps betray the deeper truth.
Sam is stood in shock, eyes lost in the mist, face white even before snow falls gently on him. I am powerless to do more than give my ever law abiding friend a consoling smile when he turns to me, my eyes and slight shake of the head trying to say that it will not end here and I will sort it. I will him to say nothing about the colour of paint I found, what we explored, our conclusions earlier.
Sam nods slightly in understanding, his voice low as he ignores Odling and the PCs entirely and addresses only Marcia Whittle, “Were no marks at all, Miss, no broken headlight at all, not when I left my van here two hours ago with yon police buggers. Write that down, will you please?”
Odling formally cautions Sam then, informing him that he will be taken to the squad room in Ancaster City for questioning in connection with the woman’s death. Charges likely to follow might include: dangerous driving, wasting police time and possibly manslaughter. Sam steps abruptly back at this last. The flanking Smith and Marshall take a firm grip on him and he goes slack.
Ever brave, Odling comes close to Sam then, “If you resist, Aystrup, we shall be forced to put you in handcuffs, do you understand? Given your age even I would prefer not to, but we will.”
They do anyway, harshly pulling his hands together behind him with mocking looks at my impotence to do anything even as my eyes tell Sam our time will come.
Odling is wheedling now, “Why not make things easy on yourself Samuel, may I call you Samuel - I am convinced that the white paint and the glass on the body and at the impact point down there - will be from your van? Likely tyre marks there are yours too.
I laugh, “You can almost guarantee it.”
Odling’s impact point is fifty yards past the body, way away from the Albion gates. Sam’s van had no marks, no broken headlight when I photographed it earlier. As a fit up, this is crass in the extreme, a case which a decent lawyer will blow out of the water quite easily, especially with my stills, samples and stronger explanation of what actually happened. Of course, they have no inkling of the evidence I gathered. So why bother? To muddy the waters, gain time perhaps, but it is surely a risk even for the almost omnipotent Creel and Odling? And what on earth can make such actions worthwhile for them.
Odling ignores me, as he seeks to persuade, “Just tell us what happened and we can all get out of the cold Samuel. Tragic accident, poor road conditions, sad but these things happen. Understandable. You will be home by tea time. And the first instinct is always to cover up.”
“You should know,” I murmur to myself but only Whittle hears and does not react.
“Understandable and we could likely forget the attempt to cover up if you hold your hands up,” Odling finishes, “Now.”
Sam’s face is stony. He does not respond and is led away like a slave of old.
Visibly elated by his triumph, Odling has the bravado to move close to me and say, “I shall need a full note of events involving you, DCI Cade, and what this old man said to you while you were ‘having breakfast’ - with the perpetrator.
“I do hope you are not involved yourself in any cover up, something we may have to consider.”
The final words are spat out and I only just control myself from, at the very least, pushing him away.
He is braver than I think, as he stays close to honk, “My case, my team Cade, I am Senior Investigating Officer here, not you. Stay out of this, otherwise you will be back in The Box where the old man is heading. Just like seven years ago - and this time we will get you for what you have done.”
My voice seems to come from elsewhere as I move away towards my car, “And how did that turn out for you and your little friends last time Fudge?”
12
Bess and Grace simply disappeared. One day they were there, life normal and bright. The next they were gone. No sign of foul play. No suitcase or clothes, make up or tooth brush missing. Even Grace’s beloved ’Tom Ted’, the first toy she was given when a baby and which never left her side, was in place on her made up cot-cum-bed. Only Bess’ car was gone, never to be found to this day. Nor any trace of my family or any sighting anywhere despite a world-wide alert and widespread media coverage of what is now infamous as ‘The Cade Mystery.’ You hear about such things. You hope it never happens to you or yours. It had.
Mid December, only eleven days hence is the seven-year anniversary if ‘anniversary’ is the right word. By the following March I was beside myself; in pieces, truth to tell. Just turned thirty, eight years married then, a wife and daughter I loved beyond measure, the youngest DCI the force or any English force had then ever known, my squad’s clear up rate second to none, my wife a local Doctor, life so sweet.
Creel, then a DCI who headed up Major Crime Team A for the north of Ancaster County was in charge of the investigation. As head of the then Major Crime Team B, my area was the southern half while I could not investigate my own family in any event despite my pleading with the then Head of C.I.D. Mary Hamnet. Creel was an incompetent buffoon as a detective, his senior Sergeant
George Odling all self-interest only for what he could get out of any case for himself.
Friends, neighbours, colleagues, strangers, the general public were sympathetic and understanding. Bouquets of flowers and candles piled up at the end of the country lane where once we played ‘Lorries.’ Worse, it was a total mystery. I hated being the object of pity. But I was.
From day one I hardly slept. As dawn broke that following late March morning I was stood outside in my garden, watching two grey squirrels, one in the hazel tree in my copse and one in the oak nearby, as they scurried and leapt hither and thither across the patterned fretwork of branches showing the first buds of spring. I was still on compassionate leave, knowing I had to return to work and soon, once I had convinced the police psychologist I was mentally fit to do so. I craved activity and had to maintain an income in readiness for when my family returned.
At seven that morning Creel himself arrived at our cottage to ask if I might spare an hour to talk the case over. He was in an avuncular friendly mood, so sorry but there were no new developments, this was merely a routine review. ‘Routine?’ I wanted to shove the insulting word back down his throat. Nothing was routine for me these past three months. The then Sergeant Odling drove. Not a word was said for the whole thirty-mile drive from my village of Malvingham, east of Merian, to police headquarters in Ancaster City as the police radio recited news of burglary, mugging, drugs and driving offences, domestics and drunken louts around the county being dealt with from the night before.
As we entered the shiny entrance of County headquarters, something was wrong. There was the normal milling crowd of the public, colleagues and civilian workers in the huge reception area and atrium at shift change over. But none would meet my eye. No one looked sympathetically, came to shake my hand, or offered condolence this day as had become the embarrassing norm. Disgust, even contempt, were in the air. Directed at me.
I expected to go to my own squad room or one of the ‘soft’ interview rooms for the victims of crimes, their families, or helpful witnesses, on the ground floor. These rooms contained welcoming colours, comfortable sofas and arm chairs, coffee tables and flowers. Instead I was led down airless bleak stairwells to the second level of the basement with Creel and Odling ahead, PCs Marshall and Smith suddenly boxing me in from behind in a pre-arranged routine.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 7
