I start on seeing a framed quotation hidden at the back of the wardrobe as I reach for a clean scarf.
‘A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry and see a fine picture every day of his life. (Goethe).’
Save that Bess had removed the glass, inserted ‘or woman’ after ‘man’ in her neat long hand. This once had pride of place beside the window as she made music and looked out. We tried to live up to it, a little. I can hear her joyful laughter, see the toss of her burnished hair as the sunlight glinted on it when we laughed over the German poet’s corrected quotation.
Suddenly, it is all too much. I have to leave. I rush down, past Parsons waiting in the hall, slam the front door behind me and walk quickly to the edge of my meadow, slipping through a gap in the high hedge to stand, gulping the cold air into my lungs. Nothing moves on the land. Even my usual companions this month, raven, snape and pipets have deserted me.
I do not know how long I stand there. Another incident of erratic behaviour for Parsons to add to her compilation and damning report on my mental state, no doubt. I return slowly. She is not downstairs in my hall, kitchen, or lounge.
Parsons comes down the stairs, almost sheepishly, mumbles about using the loo, more subdued than angry now. I walk her down the lane to my steel gate, let her out, open the door to her car parked outside and watch as she drives away.
A brush of movement in the bushes by the gate. I stop, look but then dismiss it as the wind or paranoia as the gates clang behind me. Still I almost run back to the cottage. Why was Parsons upstairs, why not use the downstairs loo? Has Parsons found Amy in my house asleep?
The door to my secret room is firmly locked and alarmed from when I left it much earlier. Jerry, all tall lean muscle in his t-shirt and black jeans, comes out. Parsons had pushed his door open, been astonished when he reared up from beneath a blanket. Did she see Amy though? That door is tightly closed and takes some noisy effort to open. I doubt it.
Amy appears from the bathroom then and I introduce Jerry as, “The cavalry, one of the good guys.”
Her smile is taut, her stare at Jerry searching, “Good.”
Her words are tense, “I was in bed when Sergeant Parsons tried the door but thankfully it stuck, I think she searched the other rooms though. I watched you lead her out Cal.”
I nod, understanding how bad it could look for her – to her husband, her parents, her kids - even if the truth is entirely innocent. It would put her beyond redemption with Creel and Odling too.
“I must get to the hospital, ring my kids,” she says. Jerry and I stand and watch as she walks around the side of the meadow, losing herself against the hedges and trees, back to her car beyond that woodland. A prudent woman Amy, not trusting herself to be seen in the middle of the night or early morning at the notorious DCI Cade’s residence.
“Your Sergeant Parsons was checking out the rooms up here,” Jerry says as Amy disappears. “Who for? Why?”
“Creel and Odling I imagine,” I say with real sorrow.
Jerry’s response is practical, “I know she did not get in but I will get the Incident Room boxes and materials shifted pronto today. All deniable then should she snitch.”
I nod again, we have long had a fallback plan. Still I cling to the belief that Parsons has not sunk to being a spy against me.
Even though she did not gain entry to my Incident Room, to an experienced copper such as Parsons, my door of heavy weight steel and reinforced surrounds, three serious locks and the hum of an inner alarm, could only raise suspicions about what was within and hence of me. Creel and Odling would love grounds to search my house as they did once seven years ago and this could be it.
***
I finally get my breakfast undisturbed by histrionics as Jerry departs to see his Gran and arrange ‘the removal.’
If Parsons reports me, so be it, though Jerry will have the room stripped out quickly this morning. Stupid to keep the physical artefacts for so long as I have long had everything digitised and securely hidden in the Cloud. Ironically, just like the dead woman.
Any hint to those in authority of that Incident Room even existing and I could be doomed with the police. That would mean the end of my career, my pension, and being able to use police facilities to investigate the loss of my family. It would free up an opening for a DCI though, a job Parsons craves and used to merit. She would certainly gain favour with Odling and Creel for grassing, perhaps not so much with the ACC.
If Parsons is not in league with anyone, then what might she suspect? That I am investigating the truth of my lost family. That I am growing cannabis in my back bedroom?
Tonight, I plan to return to the postcards. I have visited six countries, spending a month in each. Bizarrely, painfully, the postcards in my room arrived on the very anniversary day of my family going missing. From whom or whence they come, I know not but I cannot believe it is my wife.
I have scoured the underworld locally, regionally and to a degree nationally. Nothing has born any fruit. Normally with an investigation, I take the situation, the characters involved, their known back-stories and possible motives. From there my mind works to create the probable story of what has happened. Only one narrative usually fits all the evidence. Narrative, my specialism in Literature at University, applied to real life.
Miraculously, it had always worked. Save for the one story that matters more than life or death, my own family, where I am slowly and surely being garrotted by my own failure.
45
“I will destroy this little shit of a drone journalist, Caleb, he brings my profession into disrepute.”
Even posh girls swear. The soft aristocratic voice is accompanied by eyes flashing steel. Lucinda never appears in her headquarter’s office until ten a.m. yet is here at my cottage by nine after an hour’s drive on icy roads. I had texted her news of the Blair incident. Her outrage means she does not even question it when I suggest a fresh coffee and a walk outside to ‘clear our heads.’
I want to avoid the bugs but more I simply want to enjoy the high tinkling song that stunned me as I walked earlier with Parsons. My vast white meadow is silent. Scanning as we walk, I hush Lucinda, point, there, ten yards away against the hedge, a shore lark. Two tufts of feathers on its yellow head like black satanic horns. Rare in Britain, seldom seen at all beyond beaches and coastal fens where it finds food away from Scandinavian winters. It must be lost, ten miles inland, perhaps misled by the whiteness everywhere. A female adroitly lands before the pair skim the ground and are gone east to the seashore.
I sigh, lead Lucinda into the shade of my copse. She is angry that the drone might have hurt someone or caught me ‘in innocent flagrante’ to use her phrase, with Parsons or Whittle, ‘or me darling, I take a nice photo.’ I do not say: Or Amy?
Lucinda is all seriousness, “Someone has it in for you, young man, setting you up for a photo of DC Whittle arriving - or more likely leaving in the dark with an overnight bag, a picture and caption tells its own story no matter the truth.”
Her visit bodes ill, “But more, a delicate matter needing no paper trail. At present.”
While in charge it seems that DCI Odling had ordered there be no press coverage of the dead woman in the ditch, specifically forbidding Lucinda from telling any media of the incident or issuing an appeal to identify the body, as would be normal practice. Such a blackout can be justified for operational reasons in highly unusual circumstances, but there are none such here.
The key to any case is identifying the victim. That leads to possible motives and hence likely culprits. Victimology. Knowing your victim also opens up mobile phone contacts, evidence in their home, background from friends and family which is usually key. Not wanting to know the identity of the victim smacks of either crass inefficiency or a cover up. We agree the ACC needs to be told, adding to the mound of dubious decisions and actions by Odling.
It gets worse. Once my squad had the case on Tuesday night, Lucinda and her assistant got the deta
ils and image from me, staying late to issue a county wide press release and ‘get the image out there so locals might tell us who she is.’ We had agreed no mention was to be made of my involvement or of the body being moved after landing in the field.
The two local Ancaster county radio stations covered the story with a description on Wednesday morning, placing the less horrific photograph of the dead woman on their websites but without response to date. As expected, no regional press or television thought the story of a rural hit and run of sufficient interest and so the image remained buried purely on local radio websites. Lucinda did not even bother national media.
I comment that at least the Merian Standard comes out on Friday morning and we should get responses then from anyone who has seen our victim.
“If they carry the story at all,” Lucinda says heavily.
“The little shit of a reporter cum editor – another misuse of the word - blocked the image going on their website, Facebook and Twitter feed, or any mention of the case.”
I say nothing, knowing there is more to come as Lucinda finishes her coffee, hands me the mug and searches her pockets for a cigarette, forgetting that she gave them up several years ago.
She shrugs in disgust, “This so-called editor had a visitor yesterday and suddenly the image and story were pulled from having a big spread in the newspaper and all its sister papers across the county, let alone immediately on their social media outlets. When we might well have got some response there, we have in the past, people often look local online.”
I nod, knowing who paid the visit even before she tells me. Though why Odling, and presumably Creel who is pulling the strings, are willing to take so many risks to thwart the investigation of a mere hit and run is beyond me. They tamper with and fabricate evidence at the scene, dub the victim ‘homeless’ to downgrade the matter, frame Sam, hold him for a night without any questioning to delay and bury it. They do not recuse themselves as they should, are obstructive in answering the ACC’s questions and now Odling is openly obstructing my investigation.
I am no journalist but by hard personal experience I know the paper’s way of thinking. This would be one of the biggest stories of the year for this local rag: ‘Unknown woman killed in mysterious circumstances near the famous ancient Albion House.’ Unless there is a bigger story being dangled - my demise for instance.
Contempt has replaced anger from Lucinda, “Any reputable media outfit, serving the local community as they claim, would make it a front page and an inner page splash. What else has this journo got? Pigeon race results?”
How does she know of these shenanigans? The first hint of a smile appears. She has her own source in the Merian Standard offices, and will have in every such media outlet in the region without doubt.
***
The snow swirls around our protective cordon of trees and Lucinda shivers, even as she pulls up the image of the dead woman on her phone and laughs, “Been nagging me - I even stopped mid gallop yesterday. Gave my horse Mose a real surprise.”
Serious again, “I think I should know this woman, but just cannot recall her name. Ok if I send it out to a few police media chums, totally confidential - press officers at the Met and Thames Valley forces - all people I trust? If I think I know her, they definitely might, especially as you reckon she is London based.”
We agree to keep our knowledge of Odling’s intrigue quiet, save for Lucinda informing the ACC who can decide what action to take.
But our Head of Communications will complain formally to the ultimate owners of ‘this Merian guttersnipe.’ She will press ‘Old Chubby’ to run our story with a big splash. ‘Old Chubby’ turns out to be ‘kind of an old friend and colleague from my days at the London coalface,’ now Chairman of the company who owns and runs the Ancaster County group of twenty freebie newspapers, the only newspapers left in the county.
“He will not know about the decision to block the story, but I will tell him, without mentioning Odling of course. Ethical kind of guy Chubby, especially if he thinks there might be poo flying about - at them later.”
Seeing Lucinda out of my steel gates, I walk back invigorated by the rare bird I have been privileged to see even this darkest of days turn to light grey. I start in wonder at a strange noise: my own laughter. My visitors are few for many years: my mother, Sam and Jerry. Yet any press photographer might have snapped me with one of four women this night and morning: Amy, Parsons, Lucinda and Marcia if the ruse with my DC had not been foiled by pure chance. It is ironic that they got no image at all.
46
Fenwick and I pull up together. I have roused him from his bed with my phone call, but people here are already gone or are readying themselves for work. The Rudds’ house is different: dark, silent, empty of vehicles and inhabitants.
We stand in the desolate back yard, staring at the derelict shed, the forlorn car engine and debris from a quad bike, enjoying the snow-covered woodlands that separate the six former council houses from my meadow two miles away. I do not tell Fenwick that I potentially need muscle, and knew asking for uniform assistance would be pointless.
After following me for a day it would be a logical next step for the Rudds to try to rob my mother’s house, especially as they may have heard by word of mouth or on the bugs that she is staying with Ms Loam. I had planned to question the Rudds, hard, and take them in if necessary, relying on Jerry to link their bugs to wherever they were receiving what was transmitted. I should have known they would have fled after almost being caught; if they were the burglars at my old home.
“Fancy a coffee Mr Cade, and you Tom Fenwick,” a voice tinkles, bright and serene, much like the shore lark I saw earlier.
Tracy Kemp’s kitchen is as spotless and smart as she, and her twins Jade and Josh, who are sat munching Shredded Wheat with raspberries, each lost in a book propped up on the table.
Crackling in her pristine nurse’s uniform she makes us a bacon sandwich and real coffee as she explains, “They love to read so library visit every week is set in stone, and they get to buy a new book a month if they are good. They are. Our pride and joy.”
We are firmly told to sit beside the children, even though we try to leave as she must be in a hurry.
The pert young woman will have none of it, “No, my Mum will come and take the kids to school shortly and I am not on shift for another hour.”
With the biggest eyes imaginable, in a fresh round face like her mother’s, Jade pulls my sleeve, points and points to a word, asking I think what it means and how to say it.
“She likes to learn a new word a day,” Tracy says over her shoulder at the stove. “Writes it in her Word Book.”
I spell it out, ‘may hem,’ and the little girl’s mouth rolls the two syllables around individually and then joins them as a whole with a satisfied smile.
“A commotion, a fracas,” I say softly, but am met with a shake of the head even as I panic and say, “havoc, pandemonium.”
She shakes again, more vigorously, as I smile in reassurance and ask her to read the sentence, “You can often work out the meaning from the words around it.”
She reads and I say instantly, “Trouble, mayhem, all of those words mean much the same. Some trouble.”
Jade’s smile is a delight, “Lots of may hem in this book Mummy.”
She finishes her breakfast as our sandwiches and steaming coffee are placed in front of us. After clearing their places, the twins disappear quietly off upstairs.
“Mayhem with the Rudds?” Tracy asks once the twins are out of earshot.
“Just a word,” Tom manages between mouthfuls of what is clearly his second breakfast.
“Need carting off the lot of them my Matt says,” is her comment. “We have no dealings at all, they don’t bother us, we don’t bother them.”
When did she last see them?
“A hell of a commotion with the dog well after midnight, early hours Tuesday morning, not hide nor hair since, all cars roared off soon after, no con
sideration for working folk.”
She has not seen Mr Bull or a fat middle aged man, and is surprised when we ask about Wayne.
“That pervert? Not been around for years thank God.”
Jade has left her book on the table and I turn it over as they talk of old school days. It is clear Tom was as smitten with Tracy then as he is with Marcia now.
The blurb for ‘The Wolves of Willoughby Chase’ by Joan Aitken says, ‘There are wolves outside the walls, but for two cousins the real danger lies inside.’
As I finish with the crisp home-made bread and the glistening fried bacon and grilled tomato within, the advertising flash across the front catches my eye.
‘THE book of choice for most ten-year olds.’
Their talk goes on, a flat echo of story and laughter, as the room swirls and cants at odd angles before my eyes. I do not answer a question, concentrate hard to lay the book down, to stand without a stumble and depart. The twins are the same age as my Grace will be now, would have been at the village school with her, perhaps her friends. After all Bess was friendly with Tracy as they went through the throes of pregnancy together.
Tom gets a peck on the cheek and stands embarrassed at the front door while Tracy hugs me tightly and whispers, “I pray every day for Bess and little Gracie Mr Cade, and for you and your Mum.”
Tom has noticed my malaise and walks close with me to my car.
“Wonderful thing what you did for Trace guv,” Tom says gruffly before I close my car door. “And her Dad, his dementia, your ….” And his voice trails off as my face blackens; he is about to mention Bess’ passion for researching and dedication to helping such sufferers.
I want to be gone, alone, but he has to carry on it seems and tell me what I already know, “Trace gets pregnant at seventeen, Matt marries her like he always planned from when they were twelve, and you help her get a job at your wife’s surgery, to get this council house, and your Mum and wife help with her life ambition to train later as a nurse. The talk of my village, lots of villages, Merian too, and now they are moving to their own house.”
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 28
