Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

  We all stare at the images, making extra notes on the printed copies in a file that Fenwick hands to us, brushing off the crumbs from the croissants he has devoured as he does so.

  “Excellent work you three,” the ACC comments warmly, putting a glow on their faces.

  ***

  The first image departing is of Creel’s car driving out at eleven thirty p.m. precisely, according to the time line on the dead woman’s camera.

  “Chief Superintendent Creel was driving, he does not drink, his wife is visible with him, they arrived home in Ancaster City at twelve thirty a.m. from local CCTV there according to DC Gadd, which is right for the weather conditions,” the ACC reports, each phrase like a drop of acid on the subject. “I interviewed him this morning and he confirms all this.”

  “DCI Odling does not leave while the woman is alive, hence no photo.”

  At three minutes past one a.m. comes the sleek red Jaguar of Cambridge Professor Michael Bartlett leaving with his wife, who is clearly driving with him beside her.

  The DCs have unearthed a picture of a plump self-satisfied man in his fifties. It appears along with bullet points that he is a Professor of Theoretical Physics, Master of his college, and has visiting positions also at Harvard and Sydney Universities.

  Admirably calm, Fenwick reads from his notes, “Contacted him this morning, caught him at Heathrow, about to fly to Switzerland, Cern he boasted as if I should know, confirmed he and his wife were at the dinner party and time of departure, saw nothing untoward. Can talk to us in detail Saturday on his return, prefers to do it in person in Cambridge.”

  Cal Tech Professor Joe Tasker leaves at eight minutes past one. Bullet headed, immensely tall and broad, a typical American football star which he was at college level, with a particularly gung-ho and aggressive bent, who took up a multi-million professional playing contract on graduation with a major-league team. Badly injured in his first year, he had to retire and returned to academia where he has flourished as a scientist of note.

  Fenwick’s deep voice bounces off the walls above the sputtering gas noises, “He and his wife came up from Heathrow in a car hired by the D'Eynscourte Bank, with chauffeur, and returned to Cambridge where they are staying with the Bartletts. Been friends for years.”

  Gadd cuts in nervously now, “Both the Bartletts and the Taskers went directly back to Cambridge, I tracked them on CCTV all the way, came off the M11 at the time they should have done for the time of night and weather conditions.”

  Fenwick adds that the Taskers have also gone to Cern, but are willing to see us on Saturday morning.

  Whittle gets in on the act, “Both Professors have written a string of books, articles, won awards, both tipped for Nobel prizes at one time.”

  I am rapidly flicking through the biographies of Tasker and Bartlett on their University websites, “What are their particular academic specialisms DC Whittle, Fenwick, beyond Theoretical Physics?”

  “May give us a clue as to what the dinner party was about?” I ask quizzically, more to myself than the rest as they shake their heads and I indicate I will follow up.

  At one fourteen a.m. is the official limousine of the Conservative leader of Ancaster County Council, a ruddy faced local farmer. Fenwick intones his name and “OBE, accompanied by his wife Eleanor, she was wearing ….” And stops in embarrassment at what was clearly a joke that found favour with Whittle earlier while they worked alone. The wife is renowned for wearing outlandish outfits whenever possible, sometimes when it is highly inappropriate.

  “Sorry,” Tom booms, visibly colouring even in the semi-darkness we all inhabit. Oddly everyone laughs heartily: partly with Tom, partly at our local politicians. After all, some years ago our then council leader finally resigned, having done a year in prison for corruption even while thinking that he could simply resume his leadership of a billion-pound council operation with a tag on his leg while on parole.

  The fifth car to leave at one nineteen, is the official car of the Bishop of Ancaster, his chauffeur driving but no wife ‘through illness’, Whittle tells us. She has been granted a telephone audience with the man himself this very morning. Interestingly his wife is known usually to be excluded from any gatherings where secrets might have to be kept.

  My mind drifts in the mild warmth and semi-darkness. I imagine Tom floated the idea of sound effects for this slide show, with some religious dirge at this point. I will ask him later.

  The images continue. Sixth car out at one twenty-six is a large Audi 4 x 4, belonging to and driven by a forty-year old Junior Minister for Education, also the Conservative Member of Parliament for the large farming area south of Ancaster City. He was accompanied by his male partner of ten years standing.

  Number seven at one thirty precisely is a white Rolls Royce a la John Lennon fame, owned by Billie Bostridge, with his chauffeur and body guard in the front and the local multi-millionaire and entrepreneur, and his fourth wife in the back.

  Gadd again as we stare at the flickering image on the large screen, “I tracked all of these people back to where they live or were staying, all got there in the appropriate time.”

  Which means they could not have doubled back and moved the body. Just like all the rest so far.

  I nod in genuine admiration. To have tracked all of these cars to their destination in only a morning is a triumph. Yes, he has used Automatic Number Plate Recognition, known by all as APNR, but still it requires diligent focus. We say airily, ‘We traced the car’s movements’ but it is far from easy. At Intelligence, I had once suggested we appoint a ‘Super Recogniser,’ to specialise in visual recognition of people, numbers, details, cars, whatever; an ability some people have to a high degree and most do not. Such an officer would be a real help on live and cold cases. The Met were the first to do it, the F.B.I. followed and naturally Ancaster Police said ‘No’ because of the source of the idea. Now, perhaps our squad has its very own ‘Super Recogniser’ of faces, cars and anything visual in DC Gadd who is clearly animated by such quests.

  ***

  Out of respect, and the natural excitement of the chase, the room concentrates now as we reach the critical juncture: the impact and violent death at one forty. The dead woman’s first photograph of this final sequence of her last moments shows the green convertible as a dark shadow moving past and away from her towards the Albion House drive. The next image reveals it as a mass of green metal in the glare of lights coming out of the gates, the second car turning onto the wrong side of the road

  The convertible has a distinctive personalised number plate, who would expect anything else? It belongs to a company owned by the Hakluyts.

  The ACC intervenes, “Interview with them tomorrow DCI Cade, I arranged it, they are away until late tonight.”

  In Cuckoo Clock Land, no doubt, I think, “No, Milan,” she says, reading my thought.

  DC Whittle follows up, “The CPSO who covers the area says it is likely the green BMW of the son, Louis, twenty-one, known as Rocco. Same car went out at seven forty p.m.”

  “Parked outside an Ancaster City restaurant and then a night club,” Gadd interrupts.

  “So why no lights?” asks Jai Li.

  I hesitate, waiting for someone else to answer and when no one does say, “Might be the boy ‘going black’ as he came in and thought the road was clear. Growing trend.

  Turn your lights off at night and drive a road you know well, testing your memory and driving skill to stay out of trouble.”

  “Insane. Now. The silver Bentley and its occupant and driver?” the ACC interrupts bluntly.

  Whittle is embarrassed as she admits we still do not have that information.

  The images of the dead woman’s final moments are played out on screen once more as Whittle explains, “It was hired by the D’Eysncourte Bank for two special guests, with a chauffeur supplied.”

  Firmly despite her nerves Whittle goes on, “The car hire agency at Heathrow either do not know who the guests were or will not tel
l. They assume it was the chauffeur driving but permission had been requested and given for the guests to drive if they so desired. I spoke to the manager, tried every which way to get him to talk but he just would not give the guests or the chauffeur up without checking with his area manager.”

  Fenwick tries to cover Whittle’s narrative of her failure, “The car hire website says they supply only high end cars for VIP clients who want discretion - embassies, politicians, banks.”

  He trails off as the ACC states, “No customer-client privilege, lean on them, hard. We will close the office down, go through all their paperwork if needs be.”

  DC Whittle recovers slightly, “We have got the agency to hold and not touch the car.”

  “Thoughts?” asks the ACC, her face close to mine as she turns. A friendly gesture but also fraught with danger.

  I distract, “Odd that all of these important people talked to us so rapidly - usually they would be dismissive or hard to get hold of?”

  Her eyes are glacial as I go on, “And two cars that went in - Lord D'Eynscourte’s and DCI Odling’s do not come out, on camera at any rate?”

  Her voice is caustic as the others are suddenly intent on their files, “And M’Lord has already been interviewed about this - by you I understand - when I had the belated honour of ringing him about it this morning?”

  I sigh feebly, “Before I saw the photographs, did not know he was there, just talked to him as a friend to help Sam, thinking he knows all that goes on locally and would talk about the dinner party.”

  Her contemptuous harrumph is loud, echoed silently by all.

  From being on a high, the meeting is suddenly deflated. By the fact that we still do not know the identity of the dead woman. Despite Gadd’s attempts to crack where the camera was uploading her photographs to and thus the woman’s account and identity. Despite uniform visiting hotels, bed and breakfasts, restaurants and local villages within a fifteen-mile radius. Deflated through the ACC’s clear irritation with my murky behaviour. By us still not knowing who was actually driving that night.

  The ACC was always thus, expecting results, not excuses nor even reasonable reasons for failure. It can make you very nervous but DC Whittle is not so easily put down. She brings up their conclusions as her and Fenwick stand either side of the screen, pointing to the bullet points and images as they go.

  The County Council Leader, the Bishop, Bostridge the entrepreneur, the MP, have all been interviewed on the phone. They saw nothing odd on leaving, know nothing about any road accident or incident. They could not identify the dead woman when her image was sent through to them. Everyone listed the dinner guests as themselves and their partners, the Hakluyts, the Professors and wives and Lord D’Eysncourte who was alone.

  Whittle reads from her notes now. Everybody stressed the dinner party was just ‘a social gathering with general social chit chat,’ with ‘nothing untoward about it.’ The words of those two quotations stare harshly out from the screen.

  I stir. The ACC instantly consults her notebook.

  The three DCs are staring at us, wondering at the excitement that has suddenly reared.

  “Precisely those words, DC Fenwick, DC Whittle - check your notebooks please,” the ACC is stern.

  They do so, nodding vigorously as they relate ‘untoward’ and ‘general social chit chat’ as being said by all the dinner guests.

  The ACC is thoughtful as she says softly, “Those are the precise words Chief Superintendent Creel used to me in our interview today, DCI Odling too.”

  I say nothing of Valentine parroting the same phrases to me.

  When I was a young DC on the ACC’s squad before her present promotion, her well used saying was ‘Methinks there is conspiracy afoot.’ Instinctively we both murmur the same now.

  ***

  The DCs, glowing with the warm congratulations offered by the ACC, hurry to carry out new tasks given.

  We have agreed the diners interviewed must have been instructed what to say and what not: to reveal a little including the names of most guests, but not mention the key things - the silver Bentley and the diners it carried, and the reason for the dinner party. Whoever urged this approach, missed the obvious warning. Not to use the very same words they are briefed with. It is so easy - and obvious - to simply repeat the key words or phrases like ‘nothing untoward’ and ‘general chit chat.’

  The ACC is in my office chair, scathing as Jai Li and I stand in the gathering storm, “These people, they think they see all, know all, decide all and can reveal what they want when they want.”

  Face red with anger, “Only they know the bigger picture, a woman is dead and they are playing silly buggers - well, if needs be we will have them, charge them, all, for cooking up a cock and bull story I will be bound.”

  Her eyes turn to me, accusing that I know more than I am telling, have been spinning a yarn also.

  I squirm even as she rises and the two depart.

  38

  The gym is sweltering as always, packed with men and women battling others and themselves, six heavy bags all occupied, a dozen speed bags too. Shadow boxers have dappled faces lit up with concentration, jump ropers perspiring, a small circle hurling medicine balls into each other’s midriff. I can smell enough sweat to slake the thirst of thousands of buzzing insects as trainer’s bark instructions. Sounds of grunting, pain or exertion, rat-a-tat concussive blows, surround me.

  After warm up I pound the light shining bag with everything I have, sweat in rivulets down my face and back as I feel lighter and lighter, stronger and stronger, hurling combinations like a title contender until everything falls apart and I slump exhausted, towel around my neck, gulping air and water to survive.

  Daniel is there suddenly, concerned, “Wat is wrong with ya boy, go haime, rest.’

  I nod I will, refuse his offer to take me home, to cook and care for me tonight. Jerry will be there. Satisfied he leaves me to encourage or admonish some other soul. My gaze follows as he wanders around the dedicated young people come to hone their rage with the world to a fine point of violence - and control. For many, it is here they shed their skin of poverty, unemployment, being low on the chain of life or having no purpose. Here they hopefully lose their hatred and fears, gain respect in themselves and from others for a while at least as to what and who they are and will be.

  ***

  Burning to the touch fish, chips and mushy peas are soon steaming on my plate in the renowned restaurant, ‘Mr Fish, Mrs Chips,’ attached to the takeaway just off Merian’s market square. It is full of people eating before doing their late-night Christmas shopping but I manage to find a small table in a corner, behind the decorated festive tree, almost hidden from sight. The pretty teenage waitress comes to me immediately, says nothing about my black and yellow face, takes my order and returns soon after with the food which I smother with salt and vinegar so that it crackles, just the unhealthy actions my mother and Bess forbade when I was out with them. If I ever even got in such an eating place.

  A few customers begin casting glances my way, whether because of my notoriety or the colours festering around my face. I regret coming in. This used to be a regular haunt growing up and when I was a beat copper here, and the food is wonderful. There is an ulterior motive too beyond my favourite meal of days gone by before health became such a consideration. Finishing up I pay with a decent tip and leave just as one group of new arrivals, large ruddy middle aged men and women, are beginning to talk loudly - about me, the disgrace, their disgust, the normal.

  I have also seen my waitress put on her coat and slip out of a side door. I find her huddled against the cold and wet in the side alley, struggling to keep her cigarette alight. She looks up startled, wary now of my battered face, even more so when she recognises me as a customer. My warrant card calms her. Still she looks round nervously to be sure people will hear her if she cries out even as I explain who I am and that I had heard she was a waitress at the Albion House dinner party on Sunday night. She
is one of the Overton twins Sam mentioned as working there.

  “Bit different to here I imagine?” I say.

  Like a suspicious cat, she remains skittish for the next ten minutes, smoking three cigarettes in that time, even as she repeats that they were warned not to discuss what they saw or anything they heard. With anyone. I tell her about the dead woman, ‘just left like a sack of meat in a ditch,’ show the pretty picture of the body’s face, and my thought that it has to be a car from the dinner party that caused her death.

  “Probably just an accident but still we have to find out. You would not need to give evidence, or even give a statement.”

  She thaws, asks me about my bruises, I inevitably joke, ‘You should see the other man, he hurt his fists, a lot.’ A bright girl, this job is regular and pays well three weeknights and one weekend in two, enabling her to save for University while still doing her A levels. Her mother knows my mother. I mention the connection. Both single parents, they worked together as nurses at the Ancaster General Hospital. She nods; my mother once told me of this girl’s hard work, her hopes and dreams to be a doctor and that she works here.

  Squashing her cigarette end beneath her foot, the girl’s voice quavers above the wind, “Mum says you two are salt of the earth, no truth in the stories about you if she is any judge.”

  Her flat tones catch as she realises what she has said, “Oh, sorry, I did not mean to blurt that out.”

  My smile is warm, possibly for the first time today as I explain I could just do with knowing who was at the dinner party and what it was all about. I will not reveal my source.

  She still swears me to secrecy before telling me anything. She had done some serving of starters, sorbet courses and desserts as one London girl was ill and back at the waiting crew’s hotel. Details tumble out then with more colour than I perhaps need. The London chef was ‘a groping pig,’ his assistants the same. The London waiters thought they were ‘God’s gift to us peasants’ but she was glad of the extra money and enjoyed it.