by Sally Rigby
How would they take him wanting to investigate a case they’d already closed?
They could complain, but that wouldn’t stop him. He had questions and he wouldn’t rest until they were answered.
Chapter 7
6 May
Seb glanced up at the kitchen clock on the far wall. It was eight-thirty and time to contact the police. They had every right to refuse his request, although they might acquiesce and let him see it on the QT with him being an ex-officer. Unfortunately, he had no connections with the Market Harborough force and didn’t know the size of their CID. It was bound to be small, but that shouldn’t make a difference to their ability to assist him.
He googled the number and called it.
‘Good morning, Market Harborough police, how may I help you?’ a male voice answered. He had to be careful how he worded his response as the front desk acted as a gatekeeper. He wanted to keep quiet that he was investigating the case. In a small town like this, if it did turn out that the death was suspicious, he didn’t want to alert anyone unnecessarily.
‘I’d like to speak to someone in CID, please.’
‘May I ask what it’s about?’
‘An existing police matter. My name’s Sebastian Clifford.’
He doubted very much that they’d know him from working at the Met.
‘One moment, please, and I’ll put you through.’
‘DC Bird,’ the female officer answered. She sounded young. And bored.
‘Good morning, my name is Sebastian Clifford. I’d like to speak to you about the Donald Witherspoon case.’
‘There is no case,’ she answered, her tone flat and dismissive. ‘It was recorded as a suicide by the coroner.’
‘I’d like to view the police report, if I may.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m related to his wife, and she’s asked me to look into it.’
‘Why?’ the officer repeated.
This was going to be more difficult than he’d assumed. He’d have to tell the officer more than he’d originally intended.
‘Mrs Witherspoon believes that her husband’s death wasn’t suicide.’
‘Both the police and coroner’s reports would disagree, so what makes Mrs Witherspoon think she knows better?’ she responded sarcastically.
He could sense the rolling of her eyes. Didn’t they provide interpersonal skills training in Market Harborough? If she’d been one of his officers, she’d have been reprimanded for her manner.
‘Nevertheless, I would still like to read the police report,’ he cajoled, already having the measure of the officer. One word out of place and she’d most likely end the call.
‘So you can tell us how we got it all wrong?’
Clifford stifled a laugh at the continuing belligerence in DC Bird’s voice.
‘I also wondered if you could contact the coroner’s office for a copy of their report as you won’t have it on file as there was no prosecution involved?’ He chose not to respond to her comment.
‘You seem to know a lot, are you a lawyer?’
‘No, I’m a former officer.’
‘That explains it.’ Her tone softened a tad. ‘Where did you serve and what rank were you?’
‘I was a detective inspector at the Met in London.’
Silence hung in the air.
How was she going to deal with his reveal? Provincial forces often had a stereotypical view of officers from the Met, believing them to be full of their own self-importance. Some officers, maybe. But in the main it was untrue.
‘What? So now you’re here with your big city experience to tell us we messed it all up and us country bumpkins don’t know what we’re doing?’
‘Not at all. My cousin has asked me to look into the case while I’m here. I’d like to see the police report if there’s any chance that you could do that for me, please?’
‘What evidence does your cousin have for believing his death might not be suicide, bearing in mind both CID and the coroner’s office have investigated?’
Should he tell her? If it meant she’d let him see the police report, then he had no choice. He could threaten to speak to her DS, but he got the impression that it would have no impact. If anything, it might work against him.
‘If you could please keep this to yourself. My cousin doesn’t believe he would commit suicide and leave her and their children in such a dire financial situation.’
‘Despite what he did to all those people? That’s rich.’ He winced at her facetious tone.
‘There’s also the fact that he didn’t own a gun like the one he supposedly shot himself with.’
He waited for her next comment …
‘He left a note.’
She was only answering in the same way he had when Sarah had first approached him.
‘Which also had some anomalies.’
Was she going to ask what they were? He didn’t want to play all his cards at once, in case he did have to go higher.
‘It seems to me that your cousin is clutching at straws because she’s finding it hard to deal with such a tragic situation. Tragic on so many levels.’
She wasn’t wrong. Even if his death turned out to be suspicious, it didn’t change the fact that he’d ruined so many lives in pursuit of a good life for himself.
‘Maybe she is,’ he admitted, allowing his uncertainty to show. ‘But, nevertheless, I promised to look into it for her. Will you help me or not?’
‘Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’
‘When? I’m not staying long.’ What he didn’t want was for her to put his request to the bottom of the pile. He needed the information straight away … if not sooner.
‘Don’t push it just because you used to be inspector, and I’m a lowly DC.’
He coughed to hide the laugh which had erupted from his throat.
‘I have no rank to pull. And even if I did, it’s not the way I operate.’
‘I’ll check out a few things and phone you later this morning. Take it or leave it.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, giving her his number and ended the call.
He detected interest in her voice and that could only be a positive thing.
Whether she’d let him have the report, however, remained to be seen.
Birdie replaced the phone after her conversation with ex-Detective Inspector Clifford and stared at it. Was he really from the Met? He could be anyone. She wasn’t going to consider helping until she knew more about him.
She googled his name and her jaw dropped. Bloody hell. He was royalty. There were photos of his dad, a viscount, standing next to the Queen. There was also an article about his family which mentioned Sebastian being in the force. What the hell was the son of a viscount doing being a police officer, or even an ex-police officer?
She opened more of the results on the screen. This was interesting. He was part of a special squad, tasked with investigating fraud overseas, that had been disbanded after being compromised by one of its members. Was it him?
Was he fired, or did he resign?
Could he be trusted?
She was in enough trouble as it was, without adding to it.
Her gut told her that he was genuine. And it rarely let her down.
Should she show him the file? She was bored to death at the moment. The phone had hardly rung and the filing was up to date. She went over to the cabinet and pulled out a buff-coloured folder which contained everything there was on Donald Witherspoon’s suicide. She hadn’t been involved in the case as the body had been found on her day off. Except it could hardly be called a case, considering how little work it entailed.
The file was thin. A few scribbled notes. Copies of interviews with the wife, the family who found the body, and the suicide note. No witnesses? That would be most unusual at Foxton Locks.
Surely it wouldn’t hurt to let Clifford look at it. Then again, she didn’t want to get herself in trouble with Sarge, which she would if he found out. But why would he?
Birdie pursed her lips as an idea popped into her head.
Could she get away with it? Yeah, of course she could.
She’d help Clifford with his investigation. That way, if it did turn out to be murder and she was involved in solving it, she could say goodbye to desk duty. If it did turn out to be nothing, then no one need know that she’d helped him. She had nothing to lose. It was a win-win situation.
She copied the contents of the file and then phoned him. First making sure that no one was around to hear.
‘Clifford,’ he answered almost immediately.
‘It’s DC Bird. I’ve decided to help you.’
There was a long pause. Had he hung up?
‘I don’t recall requesting your help, I asked for a file,’ he finally said.
She hadn’t expected this reaction. He should’ve jumped at the chance to have some assistance. Well he’d got it whether he wanted it or not.
‘The file and I come as a job lot. Take it or leave it.’
‘What about your work?’ he responded almost immediately.
‘I’ll fit it in around my shifts.’
Would that be possible? Sleep was overrated, anyway.
‘Can you get hold of the coroner’s report for me?’
‘I have a contact there who might be able to assist.’
To refer to him as a contact was a bit of a stretch. She’d had a drunken fumble in the pub car park where they’d held the police Christmas party last year, with a guy who worked there. She’d persuade him to let her see it.
‘Excellent. When can I have the documents?’
‘Meet me at seven tonight at the Red Lion pub in Little Bowden. The food’s good and you can shout me dinner.’
Did he just laugh? It would be a small price to pay for her help.
‘As you wish, DC Bird. I will meet you at the pub and dinner will be on me. What’s your first name? I can’t call you DC Bird all the time.’
‘Lucinda.’ She cringed at the sound of her name which she despised. ‘My name’s Lucinda. But use it even once and you’ll regret it forever.’
‘Noted. So what do I call you?’
‘Birdie’s just fine.’
‘In that case, Birdie, I look forward to meeting you this evening. And you may call me Seb.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’ Ooops. Did she just say that out loud?
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing. I’ll see you later. You’ll recognise me by the hair. It’s red and wild.’
She ended the call before insulting him further.
The day might have started off badly, but now things were looking up.
Chapter 8
6 May
Seb drove out to Little Bowden, which was on the outskirts of Market Harborough. He’d intended on bringing Elsa, thinking they could eat outside, but at around five o’clock, it clouded over and the heavens opened. The worst of it was over, but as he was about to leave it had begun spitting, so he fed her and left her at the house. She’d probably sleep for most of the time he wasn’t there, which he thought would only be a couple of hours.
When he reached the pub, he parked in the street opposite and stared at the building, which was painted cream, and had a delightful thatched roof. Hopefully, the food would match the quality of the exterior. As for the company, he had to admit that he was eagerly anticipating meeting with Birdie, and not just because she was bringing the documents he required. He’d found her refreshingly amusing, although whether they would manage to work together remained to be seen.
He glanced at his watch. It was six fifty-five, so only five minutes before they were due to meet. He crossed the road and pushed open the dark wooden door, ducking his head as usual when he entered buildings like this. The room was empty apart from a couple seated at a table in the corner and two men standing beside the bar, with pints in front of them.
‘Can I help you?’ the bartender asked as he approached.
‘A pint of stout, please. I’m meeting someone here and would like somewhere quiet to talk and eat. Where do you suggest?’ Seb asked while his drink was being poured.
‘The dining room’s your best bet. Most people eat in here or outside during the week. There’s a table at the far end where you shouldn’t be disturbed. It’s through there.’ He pointed towards the back and to the left. ‘Here’s the menu. You’ll need to come back here to order.’
‘Thanks,’ Seb said, taking the menu, picking up his drink and heading off.
The dining area had a homely feel and was light and airy. The table in the corner was next to the fireplace. It was the perfect spot for him to meet with Birdie as it was unlikely their discussions would be overheard.
He strummed his fingers on the table and glanced at the time on his phone. She was ten minutes late. Surely she wasn’t standing him up. That would be ironic, considering he hadn’t intended working with anyone, let alone someone he’d never even met, as he much preferred to be alone. It meant that if anything went wrong, he only had himself to blame. But as she had the information he wanted he wasn’t left with a choice. Once she’d handed it over, he might consider phasing her out of the enquiry. He’d make that decision in due course.
‘Here you are.’ He looked up, and standing in front of him, a smile on her face, holding a half-pint in her hand was Birdie. It couldn’t be anyone else. She wasn’t wrong about the wild red hair.
He stood, towering over her, and held out his hand. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I asked at the bar if they’ve seen anyone strange.’ She shook his hand. A firm grip for someone of her size.
He frowned. ‘Strange?’
‘As in, not from around here. This is a locals’ pub, and they know most of the customers. The guy behind the bar told me you were tall. But bloody hell, I hadn’t realised you were that big. You’d make a great goalie. Do you play football?’
‘Rugby’s my game.’
‘League or Union.’
‘Union. I’m not fast enough for League.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said nodding. ‘Cricket’s my sport.’
They sat, and she placed a paper carrier bag on the far end of the table.
‘Is that the report?’
‘In here is everything you asked for, including the coroner’s report,’ she replied, patting the bag. ‘You owe me big time for that as I had to reacquaint myself with someone who, after a Christmas party, I’d hoped never to see again.’ She pulled a face.
He laughed. ‘Despite having only just become acquainted, I imagine you manged to deal with the situation in a satisfactory manner.’
‘That’s beside the point. So, if you’re thinking of dropping me now you have what you want, think again.’ She leant forward slightly and locked eyes with him.
Was she a mind reader in her spare time?
‘I won’t insult your intelligence by saying the thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but knowing how you’ve already gone over and above what I would expect then you have my word that you won’t be excluded from the investigation.’
‘As you’re a viscount, of course I believe you.’ She smirked.
Already? He should get a sign printed and then he could hold it up when he was asked the inevitable question.
‘I’m not a viscount. My father is. And, before you ask, I don’t inherit the title, my older brother does.’ He paused. ‘I don’t spend my days playing polo, either. Nor am I related to the Queen and we definitely don’t hang out together. I think that just about covers everything.’
‘Touched a nerve, have I?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side, her green eyes twinkling.
‘You follow a long line of officers who have something to say about my background.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve learnt to deal with it.’ He shrugged. It annoyed him, but he’d grown used t
o it. It came with the territory.
‘It’s not that. I always thought I was unique, especially in the force, and now you’re telling me I behave just like the rest of them. Crap.’ She bowed her head, and glanced up at him from under her lashes, grinning.
Working with her was going to be most entertaining. Not that he envisaged them being together for long. It wouldn’t take them long to look into the case. He expected to be back in London by this time next week at the very latest.
‘From the little I know of you, I doubt that very much.’
‘Come on, let’s order some food, I’m starving. All I’ve eaten today is a bag of crisps.’
‘Here’s a menu,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘I already know what I’m having. A medium rare rib-eye steak with a large portion of fries, please. No salad. You have to order at the bar.’
‘I’m on my way,’ he said, as he stood and made his way into the other room.
After ordering their food, Seb returned to the table and sat opposite her.
‘Did they say how long it would be?’
‘I didn’t ask, but as there are very few people in here I suspect not long. While we wait, tell me about yourself. How long have you been in the force?’
‘What’s this, an interview?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘I joined at twenty-one after a string of boring jobs, the longest lasting six months at a local kennels.’
‘You’re a dog lover?’
‘Yeah. But the owner was a bastard and didn’t treat them well. I told him what I thought, and he fired me.’
He approved. Not of her being fired, but the fact she chose to stand up for the ill-treated animals.
‘I have a yellow lab. I’ve left her at the place I’m renting.’
‘Why didn’t you bring her with you?’
‘The weather.’ He took a sip of his stout. ‘You’ve stayed in the force, so you must enjoy it?’
‘If I say it’s my vocation, it makes me sound like a do-gooder. But I love it. The five years since I joined have flown by.’
