‘Sarah? Front office here. There’s a lady here to see you, a Leilani Hayes? Said you’ll know what it’s about.’ The caller had a raspy, smoker’s voice.
‘Mmm, I don’t recognise the name.’
‘She wants to speak to the female officer from the Oxlaine last night. I checked the log and you came up.’
‘Oh. Okay, I’ll be down in a minute.’ She put the phone down and spun around, stepping straight into Joel’s chest.
‘Hi.’ She stepped back, bumping her bum on her desk, causing her stationary to rattle.
‘Hello. Sarah, right? We’ve not properly met. I’m Joel.’ His deep voice reverberated through his hand as she shook it; or as he shook hers, his whole hand almost enveloping her palm.
‘Yes, hi.’
‘I transferred here last weekend and we’ve not had a chance to speak. How are you finding all this fast track business? I started out in the sticks, and then they moved me here. Mavenswood is where the work is, it seems.’ He casually sat on the edge of the opposite desk, the fabric of his steel-blue suit gently resting on his chest, hiding a physique as exquisitely tailor-made as the garment covering it.
‘Loving it. Love it. It’s all been fantastic.’
‘Don’t you find it…intense?’ His big, dark eyes and wide smile, contrasted with sharp, high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut cocaine, displayed dominant strength wrapped in an innocent, open appeal.
‘Yes. Very much so. That’s, that’s precisely the word I’m thinking of.’ She shook her water bottle to take a drink, not realising it was empty. ‘I’ve got someone waiting for me in the front office.’
‘Okay, sure. We’ll finish this conversation another time.’
‘I’d like to take a look at that mobile phone report a little later, if that’s okay?’
‘The texts? It’s really not pleasant reading. Which one in particular grabbed your attention? The church-bound buggery or the fisting?’
‘Oh, no, not the texts.’ I’m blushing. I know it and he knows it. ‘I’ve just never seen one before. A phone examination report, that is. Didn’t really need that sort of thing on uniform. Don’t need to examine a phone to know who’s called your daughter a slut in the street or parked so badly it’s criminal, now do you? I don’t want to read the texts. Definitely not my thing. I should go.’
‘Sure.’
She darted out of the office to avoid any further eye contact.
Five
The rooms next to the front office had to be booked in advance for statement taking, out-of-custody interviews, returning property and a long list of administrative tasks required of police officers. People tended to book the rooms with a half an hour extra either side to allow for any problems—appointments turning up late or officers being caught out on jobs and not getting back in time. Sarah accepted this was a common problem, but people that failed to tell the front counter staff that an appointment had been cancelled irked her. Each room had a sheet of paper taped to the glass window of the door with the date, the time, spaces for the officer’s name and the reason for the booking. The front counter staff changed these every morning and today was no exception. Despite the lists being full, all three rooms were empty.
‘Is anyone in these?’ Sarah peered round to the front desk to see a lady in her forties in a civilian uniform. Her red-brown hair came to a fringe over a face that had seen too much sunshine and not enough SPF.
‘Have a look through the windows.’
‘I can see no one’s in there, I was wondering if they’ve cancelled? Or they’ve called to say they’re running late?’
‘Does anyone ever call? Room three is free all day.’
Room three was always free. It was the smallest room and had been tagged on when the reception area was refitted. Whoever had organised the station’s refit miscalculated the sizes, leaving excess space which, as the cramped interior showed, wasn’t nearly enough to house another full-sized room. Room three remained as a testament that some people were good at architecture and some were good at policing and those disciplines should never cross. Sarah walked past the two empty rooms, choosing not to use them in case the forgetful officers were on their way back in, and opened the door to room three. Each room had two doors, one that opened into the police station offices and the other into the waiting room. Sarah opened the second door and called Leilani in.
‘Sorry about the space.’
Leilani’s slender waist slid past the side of the desk with no trouble at all. She scrolled through her notifications and flicked the switch on the side to turn her phone on silent. She wore her Oxlaine uniform, white shirt and pencil skirt, minus the buttoned black waistcoat.
Sarah breathed in as she closed the door and then knocked her knee on the side of the table trying to sit comfortably on the cold metal chair. The family trip to Paris had taken its toll on the waistline and she made a mental note to take Heather up on her offer of free Zumba classes. Zumba. Even sounds like a dessert. One chocolate Zumba, please.
‘Never mind the space, how about that woman on reception? She allowed to talk to an officer like that?’ Leilani brought her back from the warm, fresh smells wafting from the patisseries of Paris to room three’s claustrophobic stale air.
‘It’s pretty standard. Dealing with the wide range of characters we get coming in here hardens a person, I guess. You should meet the custody sergeants.’
‘Some kid was screaming his lungs off in there whilst his mother was on the phone. Listening to that all day would make anyone pretty blunt.’
Mavenswood Police Station was a beacon for the dregs of the county. Crime reports could be made online, or even by text message, leading to fewer people visiting police stations. It was cited as a reason for closing so many and reducing the opening hours of the remaining few. The new initiative revolved around putting police back into the community by having the beat bobbies work from police boxes based at supermarkets and shopping centres. Sarah had loved her time in uniform, but was glad Dales’ offer to tutor her kept her away from working out of her local Tesco. There was no danger of anyone suggesting the CID office moved anywhere near that amount of alcohol.
Sarah smiled. ‘My name’s Sarah, I’m a DC with CID upstairs. You work at the Oxlaine, right? My colleague mentioned you had something you’d like to report.’
Sarah knocked her elbow on the wall as she opened her notebook. The chairs were nailed down and the desk was a thick plank of lacquered wood that jutted out from the wall. Someone had deemed that safer than having movable furniture as, should some disgruntled ne’er-do-well decide to kick off, there’d be no danger of having a table thrown in your face. Nice in principle, but for the rest of the time, it was incredibly uncomfortable. Leilani looked at Sarah’s notebook. Sarah casually covered it with her hand.
‘Sorry, just being nosey. Your job fascinates me.’
‘It’s okay. It’s all confidential, so I can’t really let anyone see it,’ said Sarah, not about to admit she’d only hidden today’s bland to-do list written in a series of wavy, unintelligible scribbles that a graphologist would struggle to decipher, and be thoroughly disappointed by once they’d done so. The fact it was her round to clear out the forensic drying room was far less exciting than whatever was running through Leilani’s mind.
‘It’s silly really. It’s my boyfriend. The other week, he hit me. Not hard or anything. I originally didn’t want to do anything about it, but when I told my sister, she said I should at least report it. I wasn’t going to, but when your colleague spoke to me at the Oxlaine, I figured I'd forced myself to mention it.’
‘There’s nothing silly about it. That’s very serious. It doesn’t matter how hard it was, laying a hand on you in any way is a step too far.’ Women excusing their partners for acts of violence was something Sarah encountered all too often.
‘I know. I know. There’s a little more. He’s been taking money from my account. A few hundred here and there. I only want it logged, in case i
t goes too far.’
‘It’s already gone too far. It’s entirely your decision, but these kinds of things often start small and only get worse. If you want to make a statement and tell me what happened, I can arrest and interview him. At the very least you should be looking to get out of the situation. Do you live together?’
‘No.’
‘Any kids?’
‘No, we’ve not been together that long. I’m absolutely sure I don’t want it taken any further just yet. He’s not likely to do it again. He’ll stop taking the money, too, he’s just a little short at the moment.’
‘Don’t make excuses for his behaviour. Listen, I can’t force you. But I’d like you to strongly consider it. If you feel in danger again, call 999 straight away. If he’s taking money from you there are other evidential avenues we can follow, depending on how he’s been doing it. CCTV at cashpoints, tracing bank transfers, that kind of thing. Whenever you feel ready, we can talk about the best way to proceed.’ Too much of the hard sell was likely to leave Leilani less inclined to return if she needed help. It sometimes took years for domestic violence victims to find the strength to come forward and, despite Sarah’s desire to help as soon as possible, she didn’t want to risk alienating her.
‘I will, I promise.’ Leilani’s harassed tone suggested she’d already had this conversation with family and friends prior to drumming up the courage to talk to a complete stranger about it. It took courage to do, and Sarah wondered had they not been at the Oxlaine yesterday whether she’d have come forward at all. ‘It’s been a busy two weeks. It’s like I’ve been at work twenty-four seven.’
‘I know that feeling.’
‘You’re right, I shouldn’t moan. You must have a crazy schedule.’
‘Sometimes the hours aren’t so bad, money’s tight and the overtime sweetens it all at the end of the month.’ Sarah wanted to earn Leilani's trust, and if there were two things almost everyone could bond over, they were not having enough money and not having enough time.
‘True, I’ve had to pick up a second job to make ends meet. Old Mr Semples doesn’t pay quite as much as I’d like.’
‘He seems like a nice guy to work for, though.’
‘Have you met Valerie?’
‘Yes, briefly.’
Leilani shuddered. ‘If you could, could you keep this away from work?’
‘Of course, everything you tell me is absolutely confidential.’
‘Thanks so much, and thanks for listening. You have no idea how good it feels to get it off my chest.’
‘Remember what I said, anything else happens, make sure you call it in. And if you change your mind about making a full complaint, come back and ask for me.’
‘Thanks. I will. Pinky promise.’ She raised the little finger on her right hand and stood up. ‘Well, in the nicest possible way, I hope I never see you again.’
They both smiled and Sarah walked her out.
‘I doubt we’ll be seeing her again.’ Dales sat on half of Sarah’s desk. Taking the job as her tutor had cost him a lot of the creature comforts he’d been used to at the Major Crime Team. Due to the refit, there weren’t enough desks for the incumbent staff, meaning both Dales and Hayward had to snuggle up on the end of their tutees’ workspaces, for the time being at least.
‘I’ll log it on the system in case of a recurrence.’ Sarah moved two tea-stained coffee mugs from her side of the desk back to his and put her notebook down. They’d agreed to be civil about the desk situation, but if Dales didn’t start washing up more often, they’d soon come to blows.
‘She wouldn’t have any trouble finding another boyfriend.’ Dales perved out of the window whilst Sarah sat down and swivelled in her chair, making use of the space while she could.
‘She a looker, is she?’ Hayward tried to peer over his taller colleague’s shoulders.
‘Escaping abusive relationships has nothing to do with looks. There’s a lot more to it than that.’ Sarah underlined the notes in her book.
‘There’s never more to it than that.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell Mrs Dales.’
Dales came away from the window. ‘She won’t listen. Too. Busy. Shopping. Matt, where’s that tutee of yours?’
‘Keeping a mirror company somewhere I imagine.’ Hayward shuffled some paper in front of him. ‘Smart lad. He’s just the kind of hoop-jumper the bosses seem to want these days. Fast track detective programmes, management schemes. Next they’ll be skipping their early careers entirely and taking them straight in at chief inspector.’
‘That’ll never happen.' said Dales.
Sarah had one ear on their conversation whilst she logged into her archaically slow computer. Dales and Hayward were from a different generation of policing. Hailed as legends by some and berated as dinosaurs by others, officers like Dales and Hayward had trouble adapting to modern methods. The sharper modern lens had revealed smudges on an era once seen as a golden age of policing.
‘Our day is over, Dales. Look around the room. It’s mid-morning and there’s a full fleet of car keys on the wall and a DC sat at every computer, frantically completing paperwork in fear that at some point a crime will come in and they’ll have to leave their comfortable, health and safety approved desks. All sharply turned out, of course, clean shaven and polished shoes. They’d make an excellent impression on the public, if they ever got to see them.’
Dales laughed at his old friend. ‘You need that holiday you’ve been talking about. And be careful who hears you. One day one of these overworked, form-filling automatons may be the one saving your life.’ He winked at Sarah, who smiled and typed quietly.
Sarah wondered if Dales regretted sticking his neck out for her over the events at Sunbury. He hadn’t given much away about her performance on the fast track so far. He’d been moved from the Major Crime Team over on the other side of the county. She estimated the distance added at least an hour each way to his daily commute in good traffic. They’d had a meeting in the first week where he’d outlined the programme, explained how to record her evidence in her portfolio and the range of targets she had to meet. The format was similar to the initial training programme, requiring her to complete a series of observed tasks as part of investigations into serious and complex crime. Broken windows and drunken abuse wouldn’t cut it anymore. They scheduled meetings every two weeks to discuss her current cases, but Dales had postponed the first one to the end of the month, saying they hadn’t done enough worth talking about.
‘The holiday will have to wait, but I’d love a cuppa.’ Hayward swung on his chair to face Sarah, with his hands resting on his belly.
‘Yeah, love one.’ Dales squeezed past Sarah, sat down and started flicking through her notebook. ‘No extensive note-taking this time?’
‘She didn’t really say—’
Hayward cut her off. ‘Put the kettle on love. Two sugars for me. Come on, Dales, you not got this one trained yet?’
‘Are you gonna?’ Sarah looked at Dales.
‘No. It’s more fun watching you do it.’
As she stood up, she saw Detective Inspector Manford leave his office and walk towards her, raising his hand as if stopping traffic. Launching a verbal pot of hot coffee at Hayward’s face would have to wait.
‘Matt, where’s Joel?’ asked DI Manford.
‘No idea, Charles.’
‘It’s DI Manford, Sir or Gov.’ Hayward was nearly twice Manford’s age and had identified the DI as a good sport on day one. Management fast trackers were an insecure bunch. Manford had become an inspector within his first five years of service. He’d previously been an area manager for a camping store, which someone important seemed to think gave him the required experience to tell people of Hayward’s service what to do. ‘You should know where your tutee is. You’re supposed to be observing everything he does.’
‘He’s in the shitter, Gov. Probably best we don’t observe what goes on in there.’ Dales couldn’t help himself.
‘R
ight, well, we’ve had another suicide and, as your programme dictates, you’re the first port of call.’ Manford rolled the sleeves up on his white pinstripe shirt, the lines as perfectly straight as the razor-sharp seams on his black trousers. Rolling up the sleeves tended either to mean that someone meant business, or that a fight is about to kick off. In this case, it meant Manford was nervous around these two old-timers. He pushed his curtains back from his forehead with a move that made him look like a child movie star from the 1980s. ‘Whoever has the smallest workload should turn out.’
‘Nah. We’ve ticked that box with the Amblin Park hanging.’ Hayward wanted to push Manford, just to see what he was made of. An old-fashioned inspector wouldn’t string out a request with little justifications; they’d just tell it straight. ‘You’re doing it’ was all they needed to say. The new breed sugar-coated everything until it was as soft as candy floss, and just as robust. Manford looked over at Dales, asking with a glance rather than risking being rebuked.
‘We’ll go,’ said Sarah. She couldn’t bear to watch Manford’s in-house management communication course fail him in the face of Hayward’s brazen lack of interest. ‘I need one for my ticky-box sheet.’
‘Thanks.’ Manford passed her the log with all the details. ‘Sheila Hargreaves, forty-four years old, found in Room 334 of the Oxlaine Hotel around 11:30. She hadn’t checked out, so the porter went to her room and found her on the floor with white powder on the bedside table. Uniform are there; the scene guard is on. Give me a call once you know a little more.’
‘Oxlaine? They’ll start charging us room and board soon. Gov, when are we getting our own desks?’ asked Sarah.
‘You’ve not got your own desk?’
‘No, coming up for a month now.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s a pain with the refit going on. There’s far too much of things we don’t need and far too few of things we do. How about you, Hayward? Got a desk?’
Death's Privilege Page 3
