No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  It’s simple physics, really. The Ford Focus weighs considerably less than my Volvo estate, and has a smaller, less powerful engine. They might have had momentum on their side to begin with, but their strategy was based on knocking me off the road with the first hit. Now we’re side by side, almost locked together and speeding up towards a blind bend. A glance sideways and I get a glimpse of two young men. One has his hands fixed firmly on the wheel, the other stares through the open passenger window at me, eyes narrowed in concentration as he aims a gun in my direction.

  I slam on the brakes as he fires, the gunshot sounding strange over the noise of the engine. I’m thrown forward against my seatbelt as the car comes to a surprisingly swift stop, the bullet disappearing somewhere over the bonnet. The Ford carries on towards the corner at speed. I see the tractor first, and remember what it was that was niggling me about the recently harvested field. The straw’s been baled, and neatly stacked in piles ready to be carted off to a barn somewhere. It’s that time of year when the country lanes around here are filled with massive farm machinery.

  The Ford doesn’t lock up as the driver brakes hard; all modern cars have got ABS now. What they don’t teach outside of an advanced-driving course of the kind the Met put me through a few years back is that you’re meant to steer out of the way of danger while standing on your ABS-equipped brake pedal. Most people freeze up and plough straight on into whatever’s in the way. There’s nothing I can do but watch as the dark silver car smashes right into the front of a lump of metal the size of a house, with wheels bigger than I am and a fork lift on the front sporting twin spikes. It’s not a fair fight.

  27

  ‘You say the other car overtook you and tried to force you off the road, Ms Fairchild?’

  To be fair to them, the first local squad car turned up within five minutes of my making the 999 call. They set up roadblocks either side of the accident and had a diversion in place in double time. Against all expectations, both the driver and passenger in the Ford Focus were alive when the first ambulance arrived. One died during the wait for a fire crew to come and cut them out of the crumpled mess which was all that was left of the car. The other lasted a little longer, but not much. The tractor barely had a scratch on it. Now I’m leaning against the front of my Volvo giving a statement to a grey-haired sergeant who looks like he’s seen far too many RTAs in his long career.

  ‘It’s—’ I’m about to say Detective Constable Fairchild, actually, but then I remember I’m suspended, my warrant card probably still in Detective Superintendent Bailey’s desk drawer. If he hasn’t binned it already. ‘Yes, Sarge. They’d been following me for a while, then they pulled past and slammed into the side of me.’

  He’s seen the Volvo, its none-too-pristine white paintwork now dented and scratched, but he raises an eyebrow at ‘Sarge’. Not many civilians would know one uniform rank from another.

  ‘You’d be related to the Fairchilds of Harston Magna, I take it.’ The sergeant notes something down and I can’t help thinking this would be much better done at the nearest station, perhaps with a warm cup of tea and a biscuit.

  ‘Yes. I grew up there. Left for London a few years back.’

  ‘And where were you going when this happened?’

  Do I tell him the truth? If I do, then there will be more questions. They’ll find out that I’m with the Met and then that I’m suspended pending an investigation into possible corruption within my unit. Word will get back to Bailey, and then Christ alone knows what will happen. On the other hand, the passenger whose body is being stretchered into a waiting ambulance right now had a gun and fired it at me. Sooner or later someone’s going to find that; I don’t believe he had the presence of mind to toss it out the window before they hit the tractor.

  ‘I was going to Kettering to do some shopping.’

  The sergeant looks at me in that way sergeants do to young constables who are being economical with the truth. I open my mouth to tell him what’s really going on, but a noise distracts us both. A horribly familiar looking Range Rover inches past the poor uniform constable tasked with keeping the road closed. The sergeant mutters something under his breath that just about sums up my own feelings about the situation.

  ‘Wait here,’ he says, before setting off towards the Range Rover. I ignore him and follow, catching up just as he’s reached the driver’s side and its slowly opening window.

  ‘You can’t come in here, sir. This is a crime scene.’ I almost pity the poor fellow as he looks up into my father’s angry face.

  ‘Do you know who I am, officer?’

  ‘I am well aware of who you are, sir. And it makes no difference. This is a crime scene and you can’t come in. Please reverse back to the cordon and wait. We won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll have your name and number, officer. I’ll be taking this up with the Chief Constable, you know.’

  It’s been a long day, a long week. My nerves are frayed, the adrenaline rush of the latest attempt on my life subsiding to leave me twitchy and irritable. I step past the sergeant before he can respond, hold my father’s imperious stare for the first time in a while.

  ‘You won’t be taking this up with anyone. You’ll move your car back beyond the cordon or I’ll have it impounded and you’ll be walking home.’

  ‘Constance? What the devil—’

  ‘That’s Detective Constable Fairchild. And don’t pretend you didn’t know that I was here. Or are you in the habit of visiting Kettering of an afternoon?’

  ‘I . . .’ He starts to protest, but I can see the confusion in his eyes. It gives me a warm glow, even as I realise he has come here because someone has told him I’m in trouble. Infuriating as it is that he feels he needs to rush to my aid, it’s not been an hour since the crash. Who’s told him, and how did they know?

  ‘I’m not hurt, but I need to help the police with their enquiries. You’re getting in the way.’

  He stares at me, uncertain. Yesterday’s conversation has had some small effect on his attitude towards me, but I’m not so naive as to think he’s worried about my welfare beyond the point at which it reflects badly on him. He’s not a man who backs down easily though.

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back to Aunt Felicity’s, OK?’ It’s as much of a bone as I’m prepared to throw him. Far more than I’d have given him a week ago. He stares a moment longer, then nods almost imperceptibly before reversing slowly back the way he came.

  ‘Detective Constable, eh?’ The sergeant takes no time to get back to business.

  ‘Met. Special Task Force for Organised Crime. I’m off duty, on leave.’

  He gives me that special sergeant’s look again, then relents. ‘And the old man’s your father, eh? Can’t see him being too pleased about that.’

  ‘Until yesterday I’d not spoken to him in five years. I’d be quite happy if it was another five before I had to again.’

  ‘Yeah, well. There’s still the matter of this.’ The sergeant nods in the direction of the mangled Ford Focus. ‘I might not be a high-flying detective in the Met, but I can see there’s more to it than meets the eye. You want to come back to the station and give us a full statement?’

  I look at the crash scene, my scratched and dented Volvo, and finally back to the cordon where my father’s Range Rover is backing and performing a poorly executed three-point turn.

  ‘Lead the way.’

  There’s nothing quite like a mug of tea to settle the nerves. And if there’s biscuits too, then all is fine in the world. I think I might have visited Kettering police station once as a primary school pupil on an outing, although that might have been the fire station now I think about it. Whichever, it’s an unmemorable building, but surrounded by uniformed officers and the bustle of police administration I feel calmer than I have in days. Sergeant Colin Jacobs, he of the greying beard and suspicious nature, directed me to a comfortable interv
iew room and arranged for a cuppa before going off to make some calls. I know at least one will be to my station in south London, and now I’m intrigued to see how far Roger DeVilliers’ influence reaches.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he says as he comes back into the room. He’s alone, I can’t help but notice. I’m not being charged with anything, just giving a statement.

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ I lift up the last of a plateful of chocolate digestives, raise my mug. ‘I don’t get this kind of treatment at my own station.’

  ‘Yeah. I had a word with your boss. Seems you weren’t entirely honest with me about being on leave.’

  I put the biscuit back again. I’ve had too many already, but lunch was a long time ago. ‘I don’t know what he told you, but I’m not here to cause any trouble.’

  ‘And yet somehow you have. We’ve two men in the mortuary, a stolen car on false number plates and a gun found lying in the grass at the verge. Forensics are looking at that, but they tell me it’s been fired once, fairly recently.’ Police Sergeant Jacobs leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. ‘Tell me, Detective Constable Fairchild. Should I be calling in my friends from CID to interview you? Maybe under caution?’

  I take a sip of tea before answering. ‘If you were going to, you’d have done so already. Look. I know this is a mess, and not the sort of thing anyone wants happening on their patrol, but those two idiots who died? I couldn’t give a shit about them. They were trying to kill me. They’re not the first, and I doubt they’ll be the last. I’m more worried about that tractor driver and what he’s going through right now. Poor bastard didn’t deserve any of this.’

  He looks at me in silence for a while, and I reckon he must have been plain clothes at some point. A beat copper wouldn’t be taking this much interest just for an RTA report. Maybe this posting was his way of winding down towards retirement. If so, I’ve kind of ruined that for him.

  ‘So, if you’re not here to cause any trouble,’ he says eventually, ‘what are you here for?’

  It’s a very good question, and one I don’t have a ready answer to. ‘Nowhere else to go, I guess. I left London because someone broke into my flat and put two bullets through my mattress. If you’ve spoken to Gordon Bailey you’ll know he thinks I did that myself to divert suspicion and get Professional Standards off my back, so I’m not exactly getting much support from my team.’

  Jacobs nods at this. ‘Any idea who the two loons in the Focus are?’

  ‘Not a scooby. They started following me in Birmingham. Didn’t want to take them home, so I was coming here, actually. Reckoned if I pulled into the staff car park they’d back off. I thought they were just tailing me. Seems they were actually waiting for a suitable spot for a hit.’

  ‘Do I need to know what you were doing in Birmingham?’ Jacobs shakes his head, lets out a deep sigh. ‘No. Not really. You’ve done nothing wrong, Ms Fairchild. At least not here, anyway. I’m sorry it happened, and it’s possible one of my plain-clothes colleagues might want to speak to you at some point. You weren’t planning on leaving the country though, were you?’

  ‘Not until I’ve cleared my name. Found out who wants me dead and dealt with that too. If you need to get in touch, you’ve got my number. I’m staying at Folds Cottage in Harston Magna at the moment. My aunt will know where I am if I’m not there.’

  ‘Not at the hall?’ Sergeant Jacobs raises a laconic eyebrow that suggests he’s dealt with my father too often before.

  ‘No. Not at the hall.’

  ‘Well, that’s probably enough to be going on with, then.’ He gets up with a weary sigh. ‘We’ll be in touch in due course.’

  I take the cue, rise to leave myself. It’s only when he opens the door for me that Jacobs speaks again.

  ‘Thanks, by the way.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For telling your father to leave the scene. He’s a pain, but he’s a very well-connected pain too.’

  I shrug. ‘That’s kind of why I left home in the first place. Never could stand bullies getting away with it.’

  28

  Rain clouds have gathered and it’s getting dark by the time I park outside the front door to Folds Cottage. I had to take a diversion on the way back from Kettering police station, the road still closed where the accident happened. I’m lucky they didn’t impound my car, I guess, but it’s looking very sorry for itself. At least it still works.

  Cat twines herself around my legs as I open the door and let myself in. I find Aunt Felicity in the kitchen, peering over the top of her spectacles at a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Nobody’s perfect, I guess.

  ‘Earnest told me about the car crash. You OK?’

  It occurs to me as I pull out a chair and sit down heavily that she’s the first person to ask me that. None of the police or paramedics at the scene seemed concerned about my wellbeing, and my father was clearly more worried about the damage that might happen to his reputation than that which had happened to me and my car.

  ‘Truth be told, I’m a bit sore. My neck feels like it’s cricked, but that’s hardly surprising.’

  Aunt Felicity puts down her paper, takes her spectacles off and folds them carefully before letting them hang from the cord strung around her neck. She stands up slowly, a little arthritis in those hips, then walks around behind me and begins to massage my shoulders.

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Constance.’

  ‘Only my mother calls me Constance.’

  ‘Would you prefer Connie?’ Aunt Felicity pauses her pummelling for a moment, then moves to the small of my back. ‘From what I heard, the two idiots in the other car tried to overtake on a blind bend. Why do I get the feeling that’s not exactly how it happened?’

  ‘I told you before. About the price on my head?’

  The hands stop. ‘Yes. And you said it was a London thing. That they’d leave you alone if you moved out of town.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. That’s what should have happened. I don’t even know how these two knew where I was.’ Except that I do. My phone with its hidden surveillance app. Adrian and his silent friend. Roger DeVilliers. Only that doesn’t make sense. DeVilliers wouldn’t want me dead, would he? And if he did, then why not yesterday when he had me abducted?

  ‘It seems to me that Northamptonshire is not far enough away, dear. You need to disappear for a while, wouldn’t you say?’

  I’m enjoying the neck massage, but Aunt Felicity’s words surprise me so much I break away from her touch and look around to see if she’s joking.

  ‘Are you serious? Fairchilds don’t duck and run when there’s trouble.’

  ‘Now that’s your father talking. And truth be told he’s the most terrible coward.’ Aunt F. flexes her fingers, knuckle joints popping like a street fighter. She walks over to the Aga and puts the kettle on, massage over. At least my neck and shoulders feel a bit more loose now, although how I’ll feel in the morning is another question altogether.

  ‘You reckon it’s that easy? I mean, what if they follow me? That’s three times someone’s tried to kill me now.’

  ‘And none of them have succeeded yet, but there’s nothing to suggest they won’t keep trying. You need to disappear for a while. Long enough to take stock at least, work out what’s going on.’

  ‘I can’t disappear. I need to sort this out. I need to clear my name and find out who killed Pete. Quite apart from anything else, I’m going to be out of a job soon, and then how am I going to pay the rent?’

  Aunt Felicity pours boiling water into the teapot, swirls it, then chucks it down the sink. She spoons three teaspoons of tea leaves into the warmed pot, then follows up with more water from the kettle. There’s something very calm and soothing about the action, far more so than dumping a tea bag in a mug and mashing it around until its stewed enough. There’s also something quite aggrav
ating about her calmness.

  ‘You worry about the little things, Constance. I know you will never stoop to asking your father for money, but he’s not the only one who can help. Ben has far more than he needs, especially now that he’s courting that DeVilliers girl.’

  ‘I can’t ask my brother for money. That’s as bad as asking Dad.’

  ‘Then I’ll stand you a loan. I’ll lend you my car too.’

  Now I’m confused. ‘Your car? Why? I’ve got a car.’

  ‘And the people you don’t want finding you know what it looks like. You’ll need something less recognisable or you won’t get far.’ Aunt Felicity pours a cup of lightly stewed tea, checking the colour beneath the light over the worktop before handing it to me. There’s a jug of milk already on the table, but no bowl of sugar. Such desecration would be frowned upon by the Tea Fairies.

  ‘You make it sound like I’ve a long way to go. I’m not running away from this problem.’

  ‘Of course not, dear.’ Aunt Felicity brings her own cup to the table and sits down opposite me. ‘But you need a bit of time and space to think things through. You can’t do that here, and you can’t do that in London. There’s really only one other place you can go, don’t you think?’

  I stare at her maddeningly smug face for a whole minute, trying to work out what she means. I don’t have anywhere else to go. And then it dawns on me with a sense of both excitement and dread. The far north of Scotland, grouse moors, salmon fishing and the sort of deep boredom that can turn a child to a life of crime.

  ‘Newmore? But won’t Dad be going there—’ I stop mid-sentence, remembering the date. He should be up there now.