Tonight I lost it. Still in debt, still an alcoholic. That woman screaming at me, just like my Rita. Right. Tipped me over.
Why am I doing this? Killing mi sen? Obvious. Nothing to live for. Skint. Jail for years if not. My boys still think nothing of me, say I might as well be dead for them. I am dead to my wife who I loved, love.
Now I am.
James’
76
Derek Stephenson’s long thin face is exhausted, eyes bulging out as if on stalks. Hands cupping and twitching in need of a cigarette he cannot have as he repeats, “Why did the silly sods not answer the phone if they were there, never have gone in, never have happened?”
His thin arms are covered with red and green tattoos of strange creatures appearing to writhe whenever he moves. The duty solicitor sits beside him in the drab interview room of Merian’s police station, which is buzzing with the events of the early morning.
The Yorkshire DCI sets the bleep of the recording machine in motion and announces all present. My eyes linger still on a copy of Rudd’s letter I have in the file before me. I always thought Rudd deeply conflicted, but who knew he had such feelings or words within him.
The dour Yorkshireman leads questioning. I expect Stephenson to adopt the constant refrain ‘No Comment’ so beloved of low life thinking themselves so clever of late, little realising that all it does is restrict them in court later. But his lanky frame is taut if open as he readily admits all the burglaries from Rudd’s list, that a fence put him up to it and got Rudd’s expert inside knowledge on board. The lawyer’s pen scratches on his pad as he notes all this.
“Weak, desperate guy, agreed to it but only if we never told Wayne and Duane. Just wanted to impress ‘em with money but pissed and gambled it away as usual.”
His voice is rough edged, constantly coughing, eyes on ours, “Not hard secret to keep, Wayne is not around and ‘Cat’ is as thick as his Dad.”
Stephenson will not give up the fence. A shame. For him. As Yorkshire police raided the man’s house an hour ago near Leeds and found the loot from two burglaries this young man has just admitted to.
Knowing the conflict that is to come, I interrupt while he is being somewhat co-operative.
He is suspicious but sneers an answer, “Yes I know Mr Bull, met him once at Rudd’s house, and Duane got me a job on the estate through him, see him around at work, sometimes.”
A laugh, “And met Odling with Bull once, fat fudge.”
He is genuinely contemptuous at the next question, “No, not broken into cottage in Aisby or Lilburne, Merian newspaper office nor a school, not worth getting out of bed for, do not piss in your own patch either, our motto.”
His telling, Rudd’s written words are both adamant they were not involved in the burglaries that seem to swirl round Pippa’s death.
He does not answer when I ask who put him and ‘Cat’ up to following me, harassing me a week last Monday, eyes all over the place rather than facing me.
Conflict comes then as Stephenson’s arrogance is dented. The DCI reads out a further charge of ‘aggravated burglary’ which gets no response as the prisoner airily shrugs, his eyes wandering above our heads. His interrogator goes on to warn that a charge of manslaughter, and possibly murder, will be added if the latest female victim dies from her injuries.
Stephenson is all anger then, rising up to his full height but sitting quickly again as the Yorkshire DCI growls ominously, “Sit pal.” The solicitor’s pen is frozen in mid-air and then laid down.
“Not me, Jimmy hit the woman,” Stephenson almost shouts as the solicitor tries to shush him and asks for time with his client.
My fellow DCI is expressionless, eyes and voice grinding onwards, “You were part of the robbery, you are as responsible as him.”
Genuine contempt stills the room, “Your attempt to blame a dead man is noted, Derek. Admirable.”
Stephenson blusters, “But it is the truth, no word of a lie. He lost it, his fault the people were in, he rang, said no reply. Pissed bugger probably rang the wrong number or only rang for a few seconds. Folks need time to wake up.”
The DCI leaves the boy terrified of being branded a murderer. He does not tell him that the fingerprint in the woman’s blood on a table belonged to James Rudd. Coming from a split in his gloves, which had been recovered at their house and had James’ DNA in them.
“Not me,” Stephenson says sharply. “I heard the commotion in their bedroom, heard thwacks and Jimmy shouting ‘Rita, you bitch’ over and over again. Said the woman looked like his old lady who run off.”
Neither of us explain that if you are involved at all in an aggravated burglary, then you are guilty even if you do no actual violence yourself.
“And did you have a gun with you on the job?” the Yorkshire DCI asks.
Stephenson moves to stand again, thinks better of it as all save his lawyer move towards him with menace until he answers, “Did not know he would get guns out, went back to his house for money we still had stashed and then gonna run. But he said no, gonna stay, got the guns out, could not persuade him so I ran.”
The machine is switched off. The writhing serpents of the tattoos are still. Stephenson is offered breakfast to be fetched from Bert’s Café, ‘need a fag more’ he says, while being advised he will be transported to Leeds later this morning.
He looks up quickly then, fear still in his eyes, “I think he was shooting at me when we come out, knew I would shop him for trying to kill that woman. Just went mad.”
***
As I walk down the corridor Parsons shows Duane Rudd out of the second interview room. His eyes are tired, bloodshot, and he reeks of booze as he tumbles towards me before she can stop him, spitting anger.
Within a foot of me, eyes raging and hands pushing Parsons and a PC back as they try to restrain him, “Ya bastard, buggered up my family, ruined my life, tried to frame Wayne, drove bro away with lies, lost my Mum, fukking killed me Dad tonight, yer.”
Exhausted, face riven with angry frustration, he allows himself to be led away but turns to scream a final thought, “You will get yours Cade, I promise. I am just glad you lost your wife and kid.”
They take him out to a patrol car as heads pop out of other rooms along the second -floor corridor.
I have not moved as Parsons returns to report, “Watertight alibi for Duane tonight – his mates, nightclub manager and two PCs who were called to a disturbance. Looks like can cover himself for most of the other burglary dates we threw at him that he could remember. Need those checking. My gut. Not involved, knew nothing about it.”
An afterthought, “Bull, his Uncle got him a lawyer, here to take him away to his home. I never knew that connection.”
***
In the squad room, the DCs have first editions of national newspapers spread across the conference table. It is a slow news day, or is it good news management? For the announcement of Ancaster’s proposed University is everywhere. ‘The heart of a global chain of knowledge and progress, and it is English’ as one thunders. A quick skim; all their editorials are welcoming, some gushing.
BBC 24 Hour News has a heated discussion on the matter. Our local MP and government minister from the Albion dinner extols the virtues: jobs while building, jobs to run the campus, investment, prestige, world-wide involvement in an exciting project that places us at the cutting edge of many spheres of thought. Another speaker agrees, as long as all those skills and knowledge meaningfully involve British people and are not foreign nationals working in our country and non-British students studying.
I congratulate my squad for the drone arrests, last night and the murder case before saying they should knock off for the day once all the paperwork is done.
None of the media makes the connection that Pippa Langstaffe died ‘in suspicious circumstances’ outside the house of major players in the University project, where presumably everyone received their final briefing.
A dozen copies of a special twenty-four page colour
edition of the Merian Standard is brought into the squad room. It has adverts from local, national and international firms galore extolling the venture. Photographs of the Ancaster launch, and images of what the new campus will look like, are eye-catching. The minimum of text spells out the major elements with quotes from all the speakers.
I move to have a quiet word with DC Whittle, who bears two large plasters on her head after visiting Merian’s cottage hospital. Very quiet after her ordeal of being shot at, she shakes her head that it is not necessary. Tom’s smile says he will look after her.
I shiver, suddenly realising that in the heat of things I, as usual, had been clinically calm but my mind will shortly mull over every nuance of events for what I did, did not do, what I arguably caused and could have suffered. Mull over what I did to James Rudd. To their whole family in times past and present. What I might have done differently?
***
Far from full this night, the gym is unnaturally cold as warm up exercises and jump-roping work their magic. Heavy bag training seems right. I pay attention, focus on the point aimed at. Lazy eyes mean vulnerability - in fights, from a swinging bag, in life. Stay balanced, feet grounded, hands and feet constantly moving.
Sweat is leaking down my face and into my eyes now. I concentrate harder. A push-punch will only sway the bag around as arms get tired and then it may brush quickly back and hurt. A fast snap punch jolts the bag in place with a big smack of sound. They say ‘a blind man can tell who is hitting right.’ The sound of clean hits means you are working to build up efficient power. Three to six punches in a combination, waiting for the heavy hanging weight to ease towards you, bag always at arms-length in distance, not too close, nor too far away.
At the limits of concentration, I rest a few moments but this is what separates the good from the poor. Don’t wait. Always be throwing or preparing punches, even when you relax within the process, two seconds, watch the bag swing and then on again.
Daniel sees me pause, comes over, hisses, “In conflict boy, nabedy gives you a ten second break to catch ya breath. Once you stop punching, the other guy starts.”
I nod. It is a lot like running, ‘less power, more breathing, relax.’ My punches are crisp and frequent, I feel so fluid as everything else in my life falls away. Six punches on one sweet spot on the bag, move away, pick another point, five punches, listening for the sweet snap sound.
And then it dissipates, I feel empty, light headed. I need to eat, it has been hours since I did. Still I finish. It is the way of the gym. I pound the light shining bag with, small rivers of sweat streaming down my face and back now as I recover, feel stronger, float like a balloon, hurling exquisite combinations like a title contender. Until everything deflates and I slump exhausted, towel around my neck, gulping air and water to survive.
***
Jerry finds me newly showered and dressed in the empty dressing room.
“Thought you’d be here, saw the news about the Rudds,” he says quietly, bearing coffee and a sandwich.
We sit opposite each other as I tell him of the Chinese women’s statements, the Rudd death, Stephenson’s arrest and interview, and ‘Cat’ Rudd’s threat.
His face is thoughtful as I quietly ask, “Is everything alright Jerry, you have seemed withdrawn, down ever since you got here?”
His voice is almost ethereal above the slap of feet on floor and fists on punch bags, sounds that filter through from the gym, “My gran. She does not seem herself.”
I place my hand on his arm. The closest family he has ever had. No words are needed.
“Chuck Adams recognized you? A tough man but he seemed genuinely nervous?”
A harsh jest deflects without an answer, “Good to know I still have it Caleb.”
Thursday
77
ACC Mary Hamnet is like a caged tiger, prowling the conference table of her office at headquarters while Sergeant Parsons and I sit still, mute, both surprised at the ACC being so unexpectedly forthright.
Chief Superintendent Calvin Creel, our beloved head of C.I.D., and Detective Chief Inspector George Odling have failed to resign for more lucrative work with the University project as she anticipated.
“Obvious thing for them to do, why they have taken so many risks – to protect their future employer, occurred to me after I heard the announcement. Perhaps it may still happen but why are they hanging around?” she sighs.
Worse, the Chief Constable has stopped the inquiry into the two’s recent behaviour and re-instated them both to their previous powers save for any control of my squad.
As the ACC continues to stalk and rant, my mind drifts away to this day seven years ago. I was happy, sat on a stark hillside in the Brecon Beacons, decision made that our lives would change and the police would soon be history for me. My family were alive, at home, I would see them within a day. Before my world collapsed. Seven years spent counting the days, weeks, months, seasons; only half aware as the flowers flourished then faded; noting rather than enjoying birds singing, reproducing, seeing their fledglings flee the nest, migrating themselves.
The ACC is bitter about the statements from the Chinese women and how any institution could be so high handed about a woman’s death and our judicial process as The D’Eynscourte Bank has been.
“And we are supposed to accept their stomping on our laws and justice because of investments and jobs?” she barks.
Parsons ventures that perhaps we can interview the women when next they are in the UK to which the ACC is brutal, “A phalanx of lawyers with them, the media circus, all and sundry on our back for endangering the University project and the women saying it was the chauffeur and he blaming one of them but he knows not which.”
She reveals that surprisingly the Senior Prosecutor from the Complex Case Unit of the Crown Prosecution Service has looked at such a low priority file with more speed than anyone can remember. Needless to say, he cannot see any case for anyone to answer, save possibly the chauffeur Mark Castle. Inculpatory evidence, anything to prove them guilty, against either one of the Chinese women is virtually non-existent and only physical evidence, the footprint is exculpatory in our jargon, proving the chauffeur innocent. The conclusion is the file stays open but nobody is to be charged at present.
The two women explore other avenues to progress as I only half listen, my memory back last night in Martha Loam’s basement where I spent several hours with the materials from my Incident Room which is now decamped there. Focusing on Bess and Grace was soothing somehow. Miss Loam eventually came and led me to her spare room, where I dreamt my dream, plunged into nightmare and then enjoyed a hearty fried breakfast with my favourite of pancakes and syrup thrown in.
“Little treat for you dear,” my old teacher had said before softly asking how I felt about Sam staying with my Mum in our old family home in Lilburne.
“Wonderful, I approve,” I had answered, while concentrating on Ancaster sausage, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and hash browns, along with thick dark tea and home-made marmalade.
“Tell them both that dear, they are worried.”
I will. Happiness is to be grasped whenever wherever.
***
The ACC pours us each a fresh coffee from a newly delivered pot of coffee, before continuing to pace her spacious office, desk stacked with four piles of files, a large screen computer, and tall green plants in every cranny.
No one touches their drink. She becomes practical then.
“Find me something conclusive and soon.”
Over Rankin she is also scathing. My squad was partially formed to target Rankin and bring him to justice. Instead I had argued for concentrating on his two lieutenants, Hildred and Pridgeon. The outcome is they are both dead, and Rankin has slipped away, seemingly with his wife, daughter and two grandchildren.
“Two weeks ago, private plane to America, short hop to Vancouver, disappeared totally, house sold to a local surgeon would you believe, all assets liquidated and abroad without trace. We were suppos
ed to be watching, Major Crime and Drug Squad, both never got hold of the ball, let alone dropped it.”
I do not venture that this all happened before my squad even formed. Perhaps, I, the force should have been on the case far earlier as our priority as we did know the changeover of power in the crime hierarchy was rumoured to be imminent.
Then comes the ACC’s renowned lack of patience when things are at a standstill. Where are we on the identity of the dead man found in Ister, and presumably linked to the drugs and Rankin mess? No progress. Parsons says fingerprints have brought up nothing and that no missing person on registers locally or nationally matches the description. His image on television, in the daily Ister Telegraph and some national papers had produced not a single serious response. Clive Hildred, the man charged with his murder, was just told to dump the man outside the school at a particular time and day by his brother after finding the man already dead in a warehouse as he was told he would. He has no idea who the victim was.
“No clue at all, how is this possible?” barks the ACC, sitting with us at the conference table now.
“CCTV of him arriving by car or train? Europol, F.B.I., widen the search, shall we? You say he is likely foreign from his physiognomy – try an expert to tie down the area of the world he comes from perhaps or a few Embassies?”
Parsons nervously explains that we have already tried these steps without result and Gadd, our ‘Super Recogniser’ cannot find a single glimpse on CCTV of the dead man while still alive.
A moment of calm in this fierce tirade. The ACC troubles Parsons to fetch us sandwiches, fresh coffee and ‘Cade’s infernal pastries please Sergeant, put it on my tab.’
***
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 48
