Only the patter of snow is heard for a moment before a car slows and passes behind the front trees. My steps ring out on the rutted snow as I approach their van. Andrew Miller has spent his life with the force, resentful and bitter for a decade that he did not get the Head of Department job he always says should have been his. ‘Political correctness gone mad, a woman, multi-ethnic, PhD, pah, ticking boxes, not done on ability or local knowledge,’ was his public whine until he was officially warned to keep his opinions to himself.
The young one is Josh Sunley. I remember Jai Li once discussing how to manage this difficult boy with Amy. His father, a business man with a sprawling empire made up of giant holiday caravan parks along the coast, is of dubious reputation even if no actual convictions. The boy’s three-month unpaid internship, led to his present twelve-month probationary traineeship. It no doubt came about on the golf links with father playing regularly with the Chief Constable and Creel or possibly in discussions to save local society from itself in their Lodge. I know Jai Lai did not want the young man on her team despite his degree in Forensic Science. She finds him arrogant, his work slapdash, his manner unprofessional.
Both are ‘Odlingites,’ the pair who were on Pippa’s case originally, who parked on the footprint and tyre tracks, the pair who ‘found’ the white paint on her body from Sam’s van and missed the fact that the body had finished in entirely the wrong place given the point and direction of impact.
The two righteously ignore me, pack their blue suits away, slam the doors and move to leave. Unfortunately, I am now stood by the driver’s door of their van, blocking their way.
“I need an initial report please Officer Miller?”
His voice sneers, “Tuesday morning, end of shift now, Cade.”
His colleague hastens from his side of the van to support his partner, a young man who likes conflict, ‘on the prod’ given the chance apparently. He is dressed in black trousers, a black roll neck jumper, a black coat, all topped off with a neatly trimmed black beard beneath his black hair. ‘A hipster’ presumably, a movement committed to authenticity, the ‘real,’ whether that be beer, food, politics, the self, whatever. Perhaps I can provide a taste of real life for him.
Fenwick comes up beside me then, while Whittle hangs back a few yards behind us, her loyalties presumably split.
“Normal practice Officer Miller. You give the lead detective and senior officer a summary, especially for a case that will be worked over the weekend when you are off, one that cannot, should not wait.”
Miller makes to use his bulk and push past me but my hand waves him to a stop even as the young man seems to smile in anticipation.
“Tuesday for scum, no earlier,” Miller spits out. “Just get out of my way. Senior officer, my backside.”
My eyes flick from him to his companion, all lacquered hair and arrogant righteousness, as the latter says haughtily, “You heard him. Who do you think you are?”
A pause then but the red mist is rising and I move closer to within a foot of Miller even as I lose the battle to control myself. Fenwick stirs, Whittle’s feet scuff nervously even as I sense Sunley smile proudly in her direction at his own bravado.
My eyes are icy on Miller’s bloodshot face, “Do I look as though I care what you think Trainee Sunley, or about your shift end Officer Miller. Summary. Now.”
Miller’s face is instantly unsure, aware there are witnesses, eyes darting everywhere, fearful of my aggression. It is one thing wanting to boast about how he took me down a peg or two. Having to actually do it is quite another. The story of Cyclops and Donkey will undoubtedly have circulated also. While I am a senior officer and protocol dictates, he must give a summary. He glances nervously at Sunley, who has probably heard many a boast this afternoon that Miller can and will sort me out given the chance when I arrive. Stupidly the boy seems to have believed it.
Perhaps Miller can also see my inner thoughts somehow written clear on my frozen face. For what has come to mind shocks even me as I regret that Whittle and Fenwick are present to witness what I am about to do. For three decades, I have lived as a warrior, a boxer adhering to the honour of ‘the sweet science,’ following the rules and ethics of the great sport. Jerry is the opposite, a street fighter, willing to strike without warning in any and every way to greatest effect. I have never been so. Now I intend exactly that.
Even in the moment while Miller contemplates his response and possible fate, and Sunley is already preening his enhanced reputation for being present at my being publicly shamed, my feet brace easily into position.
Nobody expects a head butt, full in the face, my head snapping forward from the waist, smashing into Miller’s nose, bang. It will be perfectly done, a synchronised balance of force, timing, impact and surprise. And Jerry assures me that if you do it right it does not hurt to deliver, while the victim will have broken bones and not recover for months if he ever fully does. All the humiliations of the past seven years, of this week, of my mother’s suffering over her sister without my even knowing, of the Press Conference today, will be overcome in a moment. Before in a split-second I step to my right and do the same to the overweening youngster.
A head butt changes the game of life, adds a feral deranged savagery to events, like bringing a sawn-off shotgun to a school yard fight. Sweet revenge.
***
The thought of the school yard whirls me back to meeting Bess there all those years ago. Even as Fenwick moves to block me from Miller, who steps quickly backwards, fear all over his face. How Bess would hate me even thinking of such violence as this. The image comes of her handing over my tiny baby, crying from colic’s clutching pain that comes unbidden to Grace’s tiny frame. I deflate, the red mist clears and no head butts are delivered.
The voice is like a whip across all our cold faces, “Summary, now, Officer Miller. For DCI Cade.”
Jai Li Arden, Head of Scientific Services is to the side of us, presumably having walked down the drive and heard proceedings.
Miller is clearly relieved, but gathers himself to succinctly report that the property was entered by picking the front door lock, a modern burglar alarm system disabled, the place expertly if quickly searched.
His local burr looks for extra efficiency as he clearly calculates that Jai Li arrived with the car noise, and has heard everything.
“Oddly a pristine crime scene save for the dead woman’s presence in a few places. No DNA, fingerprints, nothing broken, no other physical evidence visible as these very careful burglars likely wore crime scene suits, trace of suit material on one table.”
His voice gathers pace, “No tyre tracks in the lane or drive, a few footprints, one set small and one large at the edge of the back field but they look like standard boots you can buy anywhere. Josh has taken imprints. We photographed it all, including the yellow jeep in the garage.”
He stares resentfully as she says quietly, “Good, now that was not hard, was it?”
She stares at Sunley and Miller in turn then, “You can both go, see me in my office Monday seven a.m. sharp. Without fail.”
A childish protest from Sunley, “But we have done nothing …”
Before he is cut short by words that bite out like acid dripping on flesh, “I heard it all young man. Lie to Daddy, not me. Get out of my sight.”
62
The emptiness of my home Incident Room pains like a lost limb. Everything has been taken, bar the desk, its chair and stool, the computer on it, all marooned in the centre as my flashlight checks nothing else remains. Jerry has been thorough.
Sadly, I can do no boxing over the weekend for I am supposedly not present hereabouts until Monday. I have parked three miles away, car hidden, creeping furtively in through the wood to my back door. I leave everything in darkness. After all I am not here. My cottage is to be empty. Jerry will join me shortly and we will await any night time burglars that may fall into our lap and get the answers to what the burglaries for documents and photographs are all about: how they
link to the Hakluyts, Chinese bankers, Pippa Langstaffe and crucially, my mother. Only then will the culprits be handed over to the police.
Pippa talked to my mother, who logically may have talked to me and handed material over so my cottage should be next. It would also be another step to perhaps destabilise me – if Daniel is right that someone has that plan also.
The burglars, and it seems clear they are the same two seen by Sam, seem to have much local knowledge and are always several steps ahead of us. The obvious thing is a leak in the police, probably on my team. Hence, reluctantly, I have baited a trap for tonight with Whittle and Fenwick believing I am away, Parsons and Gadd being told I am absent Saturday night. Whichever night the burglars come will narrow down the possibilities for the leaks. The weakness comes if my squad talk to one another about it but that is unlikely as their Christmas Market duty is busy and taxing. Another danger is that a senior officer like Odling or Creel can easily check my obligatory electronic diary to see where I actually am, but then they will leave a search trail. No scheme is fool proof but it is at attempt at least: scope and lure.
***
Forlorn at my desk in the echoing emptiness, bleak darkness and cold mist envelops. I knew this was coming. Jerry texted me by lunchtime to say that he and two of his trusted merry men from London had shifted everything to our agreed back up hideaway, ‘Without anyone being any the wiser in this gloom.’ If Parsons tells of what she thinks might be in my Incident Room, there will be nothing to see now. They have even hoovered the carpet and dusted so no imprints remain.
My thoughts turn to my afternoon at Pippa Langstaffe’s expensive rental hideaway, turned upside down but with nothing of value taken. And there was much - expensive furniture and kitchen gadgets, two huge televisions, a Sonos sound system, antique decorations - that should attract normal thieves.
Jai Li looked distinctly nervous, almost afraid to be left alone with me after the fracas. Fenwick and Whittle gave me a mere nod as they made to get warm in their car, leave and join our squad at the Christmas Market. They wanted to be off: away from me and my bout of apparent near madness, so they can eat and ‘enjoy’ the atmosphere of their working evening.
I called them back, getting their reluctant and then full and excited attention during a five-minute briefing to be repeated confidentially to Parsons. We part with them wishing me a safe journey to Cambridge and London; my warning them that even colder weather is closing in this weekend, a tradition of the Ancaster Christmas Market.
Jai Li and I were left to explore Pippa’s cottage alone. A PC who is to guard the property till midnight arrived. In the open plan kitchen and dining room, and then a quaint sitting room cum study, it was impossible to miss the similarities to the other burglaries.
Jai Li clarified quietly, “Every book is rifled open just like the Met report on her London home.”
There was no computer, laptop, iPad or video camera, yet chargers for each sat waiting. There were no data storage devices, whether hard drive or memory stick. Data, images, notes, surely the stock in trade of a journalist and film maker, were nowhere to be found on a bare desk top. Together we moved upstairs to find two sumptuously large and beautifully decorated bedrooms in chaos with mattresses slashed and drawers upended.
Jai Li lingered in Pippa’s front bedroom, a mess of scattered clothing, as I check the unused back one. Standing by the bedside cabinet she called me through, asking me to close the door while pointing to the door handle, which had a clear fresh mark beneath in the pristine white paint. I leant a nearby chair against the door; it fits exactly, making an ever deeper and wider slash in the paintwork.
Jai Li’s voice was soft, “She jams the chair against the door for extra security even with the alarm on? What is she afraid of?”
I murmured almost to myself, “Her friend said she has been spooked ever since she came back from China, thought she was being followed.”
The sharp chime of my phone startled both of us in the silence. Fenwick tells me that the yellow jeep had a GPS tracking system and we might be able to trace her movements in the weeks before her death from it. The Forensics pair had barely looked at the vehicle without following up on this when he told them, but Gadd could get the data tomorrow if I want. I do. Jai Li agrees we should.
I did not want to leave her in that lonely frozen place, even with a uniform downstairs, but I am impatient, making to join Jerry at my cottage when Jai Li called me back once more.
“Over here Sherlock, you have missed something.”
Smiling then, she pointed to the bedside cabinet, where there is the liquid imprint of a small square on the polished wood. A bottle? We search for it but to no avail. She wipes her finger on the imprint and holds it up for me to sniff.
Jai Li looked wide eyed as I said, “The unique Alabama perfume. Pippa definitely had some and the thieves took the bottle, spilling some on here in the process?”
I explained the banker’s lack of any explanation for the dead woman having a bottle of the perfume before finishing, “Covering the Hakluyts’ tracks?”.
“The plot thickens,” Jai Li’s voice and eyes were thankfully back to their teasing norm with me again. Since I have so few friends, or even acquaintances who will talk to me, I am oddly grateful.
She snapped open the bag she carried, pulling out tweezers, cloths and an evidence bottle of her own as she said,” I will try and capture this famous perfume, but you are sure it is the same?”
I am. Pippa definitely had a bottle of the Hakluyts’ perfume exclusive to Lady Macbeth and it was stolen from here, presumably to cover Charles Hakluyt’s link to the dead woman. A long email from DC Gadd answers the special task I set him. He says Polly supplying Pippa’s mobile phone number has brought results; up to a point. He has gone through Pippa’s phone records from her company for the past three months, analysed them and reports his findings only to me for the moment. The only numbers of note are several over the last week of her life to the main number at Albion House, the same to D'Eynscourte Hall, a number in China and two to Mrs Marion Cade on the Wednesday and Friday evenings. He makes no mention that it is my mother but must have checked. So now my friend since childhood and my mother are involved. Both can be explained, I hope. Something else nags me though but is gone even as I reach for it.
There are no photographs, no trace of the one shown to my mother. Presumably on Pippa’s stored Sim card and the phone is still lost to date, or taken, with the dredging of the ditch having found nothing, Gadd reports.
***
Jerry arrives furtively through the woods for our night of adventure, laughing about stake-outs with an American accent. Thankfully he is carrying hot coffee, a vindaloo curry, naan bread, onion bhajis, popadoms, pickles. For later or perhaps breakfast come his Gran’s ham and mustard sandwiches, homemade sausage rolls and mince pies.
Eating in the darkness of the Incident Room, drapes firmly drawn, Jerry reactivates the alarm system from the computer. It marries together the listening devices he strung in a circle around my cottage and the CCTV cameras in the trees. The external security lights will still come on automatically if a warm body appears. The lights should not deter professional intruders; they will know the cottage is empty so who is there to see? Images from the eight cameras appear on the computer screen.
We decide, or rather he dictates, that I should sleep in my bedroom while he watches. He will not hear of us spelling each other. He is spending all Saturday with his grandmother and can sleep a little then, I have to drive two hundred miles to London and work and then drive back so need to sleep. Reluctantly I agree.
“I will call you, should need arise,” he laughs.
I note his all black outfit of jeans, jumper, coat and woolly hat, which matches my own, and bring a smile as I suggest with beards we could be trendy young Hipsters.
As I relate the events of today, his face becomes more serious and then worried when I admit that I almost invoked his head butt approach.
&nbs
p; Jerry murmurs to himself, “Ultimately it is Descartes’ Cartesian notions, a special case of relations, subsets coming together to form a higher set. All of this runs together.”
I nod as he says, “Not stove pipe cases at all.”
I smile slightly. He reveals much about himself by moving in a moment from intellectual wanderings to a term from the Intelligence Services for ‘isolated unconnected cases.’
We disagree on who we are expecting. For me, it is the Rudd brothers and Stephenson who will come tonight or Saturday, having been tipped off by Odling who will have gained information from one of my DCs or my electronic diary. Jerry is adamant that burglars unknown will pounce on Sunday night, the clue that I am away then having been given via the bugs in mock phone calls to my mother he has had me make. He is adamant the devices are too sophisticated for a local, low level technician to fit and run as they bounce from relay point to relay point with the final destination untraceable.
“It worries me Caleb. If I am right, then I should have thought before - they may use a heat seeking device to check the house is truly empty …. we should not be in it, but well-hidden Saturday and Sunday.”
Too late now. But we decide that the next two nights we will hunker down in a nearby copse, which has a small trench within where you can be hidden and below any device scanning the cottage, garden and woods.
***
It is only now that we have our first major argument for many a year.
Piling the now empty food boxes and utensils into two carrier bags, Jerry puts them on the landing and mentions casually at he returns, “My firm had a major project offer today. Big client, big job, hurtles my small boutique operation into the big time.”
I nod, knowing that he is being modest. His company already consults on highly specialized IT areas for most of the major global technology companies. They want his thinking and that of his band of the brightest and best. He sits down beside me once more in the middle of the empty Incident Room.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 38
