Jai’s history is as exotic as her raven black hair, almond eyes, alabaster skin and bewitching smile. Her English academic father died in Hong Kong soon after Jai Li’s birth, leaving her much younger Chinese mother to complete her science degree, become a Professor herself and eventually move to England and Oxford.
The Professor’s daughter proved a similar prodigy, sailing through academic challenges and then, for reasons never fully clear to me at least, opted for Forensic Science even though she swore she had never watched a single episode of any of the American CSI franchise. At thirty-three, she already has eight years as Head of Ancaster’s Scientific Services, Forensics to the general public, ‘The SS’ to colleagues. A department that she has built to be nationally respected with a growing international standing of her own. The only question being: why remain in Ancaster County when academia or the Met have undoubtedly been calling.
“And the perfume?” I ask.
“We know our job DCI Cade,” she says smiling. “Perfume aroma is hard to keep as evidence though come in and sniff a number of specimens that we will obtain and describe it in detail to me perhaps? We will check the clothes too, it lingers in textiles. Could get in an expert if budget allows.”
At her instigation, each of her twenty-strong team has at least two specialisms beyond the general. Ken, the officer with her today, is expert in crash impacts, blunt instrument weapon marks, and footprints. He is far better than any external consultant we would struggle to afford, and finally speaks to say he is ‘relishing something different here.’ Jai Li’s smile lights up the gloom, even as she plods across the jagged soil of the field and another van arrives, disgorging two more of her officers and spotlights.
***
The squad room is warmer than the crime scene, but only just.
My team are still in their outdoor clothes, ‘muffled up to the nines’ as Sam would say. Yet I detect a buzz in the air, as we gather round the spindly conference table.
I allot tasks for pursuing this case, and the burglaries. People are to juggle those lesser cases, following up on any of the leads already generated using uniform or the phone where possible. All think my conclusions on the burglaries and farm thefts make sense.
On the dead woman, Whittle is to pursue the owners of all the cars through the registration numbers, and then split them up with Parsons to do initial phone interviews. To ask what the dinner party was about, who was there, what time they left, did they see anything suspicious, might we have a look at their car without a warrant just to eliminate them from our enquiries?
Too sharply I stress, “No mention of this camera or the body being moved, simple traffic accident as far as we know, routine, do not spook anyone. Albion House is home to a billionaire banker and his family. The guests will likely be the great and the good locally, nationally, even internationally, so be polite, firm but thorough. Any problems, come back to me quickly.”
Softer now, “Leave the Hakluyts, local big wig Lord D'Eynscourte who was there too - I know his car and his shape as passenger - and the drivers and occupants of the silver Bentley, to me though please, DC Whittle, Sergeant Parsons. I will check with Albion about CCTV coverage of the incident site too.”
Gadd will chase where the camera was bought and collect traffic camera footage from the nearest locations at either end of the ten-mile minor road where the accident happened, studying the material for Sunday night and Monday morning. He is also to check local expensive hotels, holiday cottages and high end restaurants to see if they remember the dead woman.
“I do not think she is local, see if anyone remembers her. Last meal was Italian so possible lead there – send uniform with pic.”
Fenwick is to visit all the local houses within ten miles, only a half dozen in total, and try to find out if they know her and how the woman got to the scene.
“No car parked in view so far, and I will have uniform doing a drive round in a ten-mile radius but check taxis as I imagine she got out there that way, and if they were picking her up again, they will likely know her local address.”
***
The DCs are about to scamper off to their tasks for an hour and then go home early ready for a long day tomorrow.
Nobody is best pleased when Gadd stops them by saying, “Hmm, the camera, Sir.”
The others roll their eyes, probably wondering as I am how Gadd can prolong proceedings even a moment, when he is clearly cold.
His words stumble, “The camera probably has an automatic Wi-Fi patch, hmm, a feed uploading through to the dead woman’s account on a server, instant archiving.”
Whittle and I are interested, the others less so, as he goes on, “The camera will likely carry the details of that account, give us her name or the means to find it.”
I am off the pace, I should have realised that, could have known her identity earlier in the day myself and perhaps discovered the link to my mother. Idiot.
Whittle is quicker, “And could it be live streaming, putting these on the web, Tony?”
He examines the menu more closely now, “No, that facility is turned off. If it was on, we would have heard surely, it would have gone viral?”
Another thought occurs to me, “We also need to find her mobile phone, I will have the ditch dredged tomorrow and the field searched, we could do with a really bright techie idea to find her phone too, DC Gadd. Well done on the camera.”
“Liaise with forensics, see if you can track down the account where the camera uploads to. And any other technical thoughts you have too.”
It is embarrassing to see a grown man beam with pride, but Gadd does so now. The three DCs scurry off to begin their labours even this late as I email them all my notes, and upload the images and video to our digital file on the case. ‘For our eyes only.’
I ask Parsons to come into my office, which she does with as much ill grace as she can muster in mere body language and facial expression.
I know she will take it as a slight even as I ask, “I would like you to take on the roles of Office Manager and Evidence Officer until we get a permanent one, Sergeant, to set everything up please - case books, evidence threads and recording details of our activities, you as contact point with Uniform and Forensics and Intelligence.”
Diplomacy even now makes me add, “I would like you out detecting Sergeant Parsons as I know that is your strength and desire, but needs must. For now.”
Parsons listens, bleak of face, but her cold reply surprises me, “Bare-bubs the DCs, I understand.”
She is gone. ’Bare-Bubs,’ Ancaster speak for fledging birds before they have their true feathers.
***
“How is your mother?” is a throwaway remark that hides much. I have answered my phone only because I know the caller.
Unseen I spread my hands to say my mother is fine but Acting Inspector Amy Grayling persists bluntly, “She had a row with a woman in Merian market Saturday morning, was very upset, Jo the old server at the fruit stall told me.”
Amy’s parents had retired early to Merian from London, and Amy visits every Saturday without fail from Ancaster City where she lives. The noise and bustle of the country market is still a thrill to her two young children, and the hot chocolate with marshmallows galore floating helps make it a much-enjoyed family morning out.
My voice will not speak, as she goes on, “Description matches your dead woman that I have just seen the report of, Caleb?”
What is there to say?
I know. I am looking into it? A coincidence? Ask her to keep quiet about it for the moment? I say all those things, hearing in her breath that she is disturbed but will do as I ask. Even knowing it will all come out as it always does.
My body shivers as she ends the call, words softly beguiling, “Do take care.”
33
In the ring, Daniel helps me sort my fighting gloves, mouthpiece and protective headgear. The next nine minutes are going to be taxing. A professional boxer trains five hours a day, five days a week, wit
h rigorous control of lifestyle, food, exercise and development. I am an amateur dabbler in comparison.
While Jason looks at least twelve years younger than me, in his prime, possibly a weight above me. Shadow boxing in his corner he seems to have gloves as dazzling as motes of dust flashing through sunlight on a summer’s day. Still, the courtesy is always that the professional respects the amateur and treats him gently, especially when it is just a technical work through for specific skills as here.
I am clad in the white shorts and purple sleeveless vest of the club as Daniel delicately laces wrap around my hands as he has for almost thirty years. Almost eight feet long, the wrap is crucial to keep boxers from breaking their hands and wrists when landing punches. Gloves themselves are almost no protection against the human hand slamming into hard objects so the wrap is carefully looped around thumb, wrist, hand, knuckles and back to the wrist over and over.
Jason sees me watching him and flashes an arrogant grin while his muscles, bulging and bronzed in bicep, chest and stomach, give off a sparkle as he is encouraged by an entourage of manager, trainer and corner man.
As we meet in the middle of the ring, his eyes are hard with what seems real hatred and anticipation. Perhaps he needs to psych himself up. I hear his manager Dizzy Edge’s oily voice from the corner say distinctly, ‘Let’s see him kiss the canvas Jase.’
There should be no question of his looking for a knock down. Is this just geeing his boy up or serious intent without the traditional courtesy? Either way, I need to concentrate. I visualise the way I want and need my hands and body to move in the ring as the bell goes. We dance around, only the scuffle of our boots on canvas heard now. I sense rather than see the groups of other boxers stay their training to watch as taut tension is suddenly in the air. I hear Daniel’s ‘Holy Trinity of Boxing’, as the old man calls out what he makes you chant when young and always wants to be in your head no matter what. ‘Footwork, Timing, Hit’. Much like being a detective but with everything verbal there. Get yourself poised, time things and strike decisively. Two activities alike too in needing stamina, control, focus, intelligence, experience and the ability never to reveal your thinking or feelings so as to throw the opponent off whenever possible.
The Trinity has often deserted me in life these past seven years. I have just been battered on the ropes repeatedly, taking the blows people throw. What else could I do? Colleagues were fed a line from on high, there was some little evidence and the usual suspect is always the husband and father. The things parents do to their kids, as the poet Larkin says; the scrapings on paper of another irrelevant wordsmith. My mild concentration goes then. I am instantly bereft at the thought of Grace, all baby blonde prettiness and trusting love, and what as a parent I may have done to her. Through my neglect. Lost her.
Sensing my attention lapse, Jason immediately launches a combination of punches - three jabs to the face in rapid succession that I instinctively parry in part, a cross to my stomach which sinks in such that I grab hold, pulling him close, before he can strike again.
“Come on Pops, at least try,” is a hiss in my ear.
“Focus boy, focus,” growls Daniel from my corner.
The referee calls for us to break. We shimmy, sway, Jason jabs, jabs, jabs, and I block most away with defensives arms and elbows. But the boy is so fast that two more follow, catching me on the side of the face. I feel the bruising blossoming already where his glove has thrashed the head guard against my skin. Jason moves back, slinking around me, first one way, then another, no hint of sweat while I am perspiring mightily.
Before another fast combination of jabs unleash. One slashes me on the side of the head followed by a heavy cross to my exposed jaw that I deflect as I stumble slightly, another jab hits home above my eye and an uppercut is blocked that would have been square on my chin and a decisive punch even through my head guard. My defensive arm is slightly out of position and three more punches hurtle in to hit though not cleanly. They hurt and slow my movement out of trouble even as the bell goes. He catches me with a late blow to the side of my body when we are out of time. Round One is Jason’s by a long way. He is clearly a skilful, well-schooled fighter. All I can hope is that I do a little better in the remaining six minutes, show him the combinations they want him to face.
“Palooka,’ a thin voice says as I return to my corner. I see Jason’s dismissive leer over his shoulder as he says it again to be sure I hear.
***
My head is ringing, jaw and teeth aching, as I sit on the stool and Daniel busies himself seeing to a slight cut on my cheek and one above my left eye. The inside of my bottom lip is bleeding. Daniel uses a crystal of pure alum against the cut, stinging with a tangy taste of chemicals. He mutters darkly about his Holy Trinity but my mind is elsewhere.
“Palooka’ is the ultimate insult in boxing. It means a tenth rater, a nobody, a bum, a lousy boxer with no ability who usually gives up his fights very quickly. You are a tomato can for kicking, a punch bag there for the hitting. The word comes from a 1920’s comic strip in the United States that featured a slow-witted and inarticulate boxer called Joe Palooka.
But it is not just the demeaning insult from a fellow boxer who I am supposedly helping with this sparring bout. As a favour. At their special request. More. “Palooka’ is a key part of the media campaign that Creel orchestrated against me. It is the insult that was attached to me by the media seven years ago and ever since. Once Creel had branded me the only suspect, the reporter cum photographer on our local freebie newspaper, infiltrated this very boxing gym one night soon after the accusations against me were first out there. He photographed me just ending a bruising punch bag routine, almost out on my feet, pouring out sweat, heaving mightily as the punch bag swung back and hit me even as I was dreaming that I was battering Odling and Creel. This tall, gangly reporter had captured the moment and various newspapers regionally and nationally, and numerous websites made hay with the image.
Instead of planning for the next round with Jason, my mind reverts to type and a tangent.
***
I leap back to what happened in the first year after my family disappeared. Rumours soon spread far beyond the police that I was guilty. A host of coppers maintained media contacts and were not beyond taking a fee for gossip or information or make-believe. Creel and Odling had undoubtedly briefed some national media themselves whether as an underhand tactic to pressurise a man they genuinely thought guilty, or just out of malice, or for reward, and possibly all three.
The journalist photographer in the gym, a Creel toady and now editor of the Merian Standard on the basis of his self-proclaimed ‘fearless investigative journalism’, actually broke the story of my being the prime suspect in the local rag and sold it to a regional and a national newspaper to be published all on the same day under his by-line.
I remember the words well. ‘Senior police sources now admit they are pursuing no other avenues in this case. DCI Cade was the only suspect for the murder of his beautiful wife and innocent young child,’ he wrote and then blatantly lied, ’In boxing circles he has always been seen as a palooka.’
National newspapers, radio and television took up the word and the cudgels for truth and justice, which involved delving mercilessly into the innards of my life. Tabloid reporters followed me everywhere, hounding me day and night. It was a juicy story: a star detective uses his skills for the most heinous of crimes and gets away with it. It did no harm, in media terms, that Bess was beautiful and Grace so poignantly innocent and pretty. Where they got the pictures of them from I never discovered but they did. Ever eager for their five minutes in the limelight, everyone who hated me or mine, including the Rudds, spread any malicious gossip they could.
A small army of reporters camped in my mother’s village for a week. Nothing could be done even though Lucinda in the force’s Media Office did her best. The baying pack were in full cry. I merited regular mentions on local radio, regional television news and on national peak time tw
ice. A local Member of Parliament asked a question in The House of Commons no less about whether a man suspected of murdering his own family should still be able to work as a senior police officer. The Prime Minister said he did not understand and would look into it. The issue featured on national radio phone-ins and a television discussion show. Someone should do something, roared another erstwhile local MP. Shortly before he was found guilty of rigging his expenses and dutifully paid thousands of pounds back without any punishment at all. The leader of the County Council and everyone down to the lowliest parish representative had their dismissive say. Calls to sack me without a pension were legion.
It did not help that I showed little emotion, no public tears or breakdown. My very attempt to retain some silent dignity damned me still further in the public eye. I had refused to do the usual ‘sob broadcast’ to ask for the public’s help in the early days, knowing Bess would recoil at such. Whatever I said, it did not help. Why bother? I stopped responding.
Two members of the boxing club told the News of the World that I was so ‘out of control’ that Daniel was not allowing me to spar with anyone ‘because Cade could be vicious’. A palooka and someone people were afraid of at the same time; quite a feat. Copious amounts of free drink secured this thought which the two young men always maintained after was a made-up quote. The newspaper never did print the retraction agreed with Lucinda and Daniel’s explanation that ‘Cade is too distraught to spar when you need your full wits about you, sonny.’ The old trainer and a few others threw two more journalists and three photographers out of the gym at various times. The police were called. To protect the intruders who proclaimed they were only ‘working in the public interest.’
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 20
