by Jennie Finch
This time tea was accepted and they sat in around a rattan table, nibbling at their biscuits and exchanging the necessary initial information. After confirming the basic details with Miss Taylor, Sergeant Lynas nodded to Dave to take over.
‘Ah, well, can you describe what happened for us please?’ he began hoping his nervousness didn’t show too much. There was something about her that made him uneasy. She reminded him of one of his teachers from secondary school – one of the old-fashioned, no-nonsense women who had taken no prisoners, demanded his best efforts and, ultimately, helped put him where he was. Miss Taylor was watching him, a tiny gleam of sardonic amusement in her eyes. Dave returned her look, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He had a horrible feeling she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Miss Taylor’s record of events was clear, crisp and impersonal, as if she were describing events that had happened to someone else. She confirmed there had been no obvious sounds of a vehicle stopping nearby and her description of her assailant was similar in enough ways for Dave to conclude this was the same man. Of course, she could not give much in the way of detail, to help identification.
‘He had something over his head, squashing his face. Probably a stocking or something similar,’ she said when he pressed for some identifying features. ‘I could not see his face at all. I did not notice any scars or anything like a tattoo either, though it was all over rather quickly. I was a bit ashamed of the fuss I made after it was over but the surprise rather shook me up and I was reading a horror story at the time.’
She gestured to a small bookcase under the long window crammed with paperbacks by James Herbert and Stephen King.
‘My guilty secret,’ she murmured with a wry smile.
Dave smiled back, nodding in understanding. ‘Well, he got here somehow. We must hope the scene of crime team can help us with the details. It’s a lot easier with some idea of the suspect’s appearance, obviously.’
Miss Taylor gave a little frown. ‘Perhaps I can help with something,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t tell you the colour of his eyes but he was blond.’
Dave glanced up sharply. ‘I thought you said his head was covered? How can you be sure …’
A sharp tap on his ankle from Sergeant Lynas stopped him mid-sentence.
Miss Taylor blinked at him and gave her wry smile again. ‘Oh yes, he was definitely a natural blond.’
Dave bent over his notebook, scribbling an unnecessary and elaborate series of notes as he felt himself begin to turn red.
‘Ah, of course – well, thank you. That is very helpful,’ he mumbled and stood up so abruptly he almost overturned the rattan table.
Miss Taylor reached out and steadied the tea tray before rising to her feet and holding out her hand.
‘I believe your crime scene colleagues are still at the back of the garden,’ she said. ‘If it is any help, I have not cleaned the windows since it happened, though it has rained several times and so anything … useful, shall we say, may have gone by now. Perhaps you could let me know when I may scrub everything down?’
‘Certainly,’ said Dave, shaking her hand. ‘Thank you for the tea. You have been very helpful. Oh.’ He turned back from the door. ‘We may need to check a few things later. Would it be alright to contact you?’
‘Please, any time,’ said the indomitable woman as she guided the two men towards the conservatory door. ‘This is much quicker, out to the back garden. Last time I looked your colleagues were over there, under the willows.’ With a nod and a smile she was gone and Dave heard the faint click of a key in the lock. Despite her calm exterior, this incident had rattled her, he thought.
Sergeant Lynas was grinning as he picked his way across the lawn, sticking to the paving stones to avoid any lingering trace evidence that might be left on the lawn.
‘You’re going to share that all round the station, aren’t you?’ said Dave gloomily.
‘Nah,’ said Lynas. ‘Just the Detectives’ room. Actually, you did pretty well for a first interview. Don’t you look so downcast – least we know he’s blond.’
‘A natural blond,’ said Dave and then his sense of humour reasserted itself. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t dye his hair green or something. I don’t fancy the identity parade if we have to rely on this sighting.’
Lynas grinned at him. ‘I’ll make you organise it, if it do,’ he said.
Chapter Four
Gordon, Alex mused as she embarked on the long, solitary drive to Kent, had been very decent about her request for a day’s leave, especially considering the lack of notice.
‘I think you deserve at least a day off after your sterling efforts last week,’ he had said when she phoned him on the Saturday. ‘I hear nothing but praise for your professionalism. Don’t worry about covering your duties. I’ve got Ricky pencilled in for most of them, including an extended shift in the family court.’
Alex grinned at the thought of Ricky Peddlar, the scruffiest and most egregious of officers, forced into the pit of conventional misery that was the family court. It required tremendous tact, patience and sympathy – all qualities Ricky, in Alex’s opinion, lacked completely. She was glad she had no groups scheduled for the day, however. She didn’t see why they should have to put up with him. It was bad enough being on probation and having to attend the day centre every week without having three hours of Ricky Peddlar thrust on you.
She started out very early in the morning, before dawn, her route written out on a large piece of paper beside her on the passenger seat. Deciding she wanted to give the motorways a miss, she cut across the Levels on the Westonzoyland Road, skirting the old airfield and passing Iris Johns’ house in Middlezoy. It was eerily still on the marsh at night and she was glad to see the end of the rynes and canals when the road reached the relative civilisation of Somerton. She stopped for a sip of coffee from her flask before turning on to the A303, a road that led past Stonehenge as it headed east. She had timed her journey perfectly and the sun was rising as she pulled into the car park opposite that most magnificent of monuments. There was no-one else around and she slipped through the gate, marvelling at the size and setting of the great stones.
She felt strangely privileged to have the circle all to herself. There were rumours the authorities were considering fencing it off more permanently, a typical knee-jerk reaction to the recent free festivals and the violent events nearly two years past when the New Age Convoy had clashed with local police, an encounter now glorified with the title ‘The Battle of the Beanfield’. Whilst the truth of that incident was still hidden in layers of contradictory witness statements, the impact on the free movement of travellers was considerable and the possible loss of access to something as beautiful and important as Stonehenge saddened Alex deeply.
After a quick rest she drove on, concerned now about the likely traffic and possible delays around the capital. Already well acquainted with horror stories about the new M25 motorway, she had planned a route away from the ring road but as her journey began to slow to a crawl at junctions and through the towns of the south-east she began to question her decision. One town seemed to bleed into another as she tried to count them off in her head, one house-lined road indistinguishable from another. Dorking, Reigate, Godstone, Sevenoaks – would this journey never end, she wondered as the minutes ticked by, but the miles covered seemed stuck at the same place on her trip monitor. Finally she turned off towards Maidstone and cut across the rolling downs towards Sutton Valence and the entrance to the prison.
She pulled into the car park and collapsed, exhausted by the stress of the last seventy miles. The coffee was beginning to wear off and she felt gritty, sweaty and utterly drained. Just the idea of the return journey made her head pound and a familiar sense of panic swept through her body. Forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths, she leaned forwards and rested her head on the steering wheel, closing her eyes and trying to think calm, cool thoughts. A rap on the window made her jerk upright, her vision blurred and heart racing.
>
‘I thought you had fallen asleep,’ came a familiar voice and her mother opened the passenger door and smiled at her. ‘I’ll just put my bag on the back seat, shall I?’
Unfastening her seat belt, Alex opened her door and went round to greet her newly released mother. Dorothy Norman looked – well, just the same as ever really. Her brief sojourn as a guest of the Prison Service seemed to have had remarkably little impact on her.
‘Well,’ said her mother, meeting her daughter’s gaze with a steady look of her own. ‘Did you expect me to be shaven-headed? A few tattoos, perhaps?’
Despite herself, Alex laughed and reached out to hug the indomitable woman.
‘You never know,’ she said. ‘Some people find it a real trauma. I sometimes think all sentences should be about a week long. After that people get to know the system and it stops being so frightening. Give them a week and most prisoners would never go back again.’
Her mother returned the embrace and then, glancing over Alex’s shoulder, pulled away.
‘Wait here will you?’ she said and hurried over to a small group of women who, having emerged from behind the fence, were clustered in the car park, looking around at the empty space. Alex leaned on the car and watched as her mother spoke to each one, exchanging brief hugs and smiles. One woman stood a little apart from the rest, a thin and bedraggled figure dressed only in a light dress and knitted cardigan. She was clutching a handbag but seemed to have no personal possessions or spare clothes with her. Dorothy reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder, leaning forward to speak to her. The woman shrugged and began to pull away, glancing up towards Alex before finally nodding her head. With a sinking heart, Alex watched her mother lead the woman across the car park towards her.
‘Alex, dear,’ said Dorothy. ‘This is Muriel. She has no-one to collect her and I said we could give her a lift to the railway station in Tonbridge.’ The tone was bright and friendly, but underneath Alex could hear the unspoken words so familiar from her childhood. ‘So do as you are told and don’t make a fuss’, was the rest of the sentence. She managed a smile and slid into the driver’s seat, trying to avoid her mother’s approving eyes.
She was a grown woman, she thought angrily as they began the long journey back to Highpoint. A grown woman with a life of her own, opinions of her own and free will, dammit! Except, of course, there often is precious little free will where mothers are involved.
Back in Highpoint, Ricky Peddlar was receiving a regular dressing-down from Gordon. Although he was generally a quiet man, the epitome of politeness, softly spoken and seemingly unflappable, Gordon was not a soft touch and he was extremely angry with the young probation officer.
Ricky shifted in the chair set in front of Gordon’s desk, his eyes sliding over the bookcase, the notice board covered with official bulletins and timetables and coming to rest finally on the acting senior’s desk. It was a mess, a jumble of paper, files and stationery interspersed with pens and a couple of small picture frames.
‘Well?’ said Gordon, cutting through Ricky’s self-absorbed inner dialogue. ‘I would welcome your explanation for last Friday’s absence.’
Ricky blinked and turned his attention back to the older man.
‘I just didn’t feel very well,’ he said, waving one hand vaguely. ‘Perhaps I picked up a bit of a bug during the week.’ He smiled in what he thought was an engaging manner, an effort that fell horribly flat.
Gordon looked at him, wondering just how this idle, smug and incompetent specimen had managed to qualify as a probation officer. More puzzling was why he had chosen the job in the first place. He seemed to have no particular area of expertise, loathed the court duties and acted towards his clients with something akin to contempt. He had, Gordon thought, the empathy of a brick and the tact and tolerance of an enraged pit viper. Most days he was about as likable, too. Gordon tried very, very hard not to allow personal feelings influence his professional actions but Ricky pushed him close to breaking point.
‘I know you have not had any consistent supervision since your arrival,’ said Gordon smoothly. This was true, owing to the extraordinary breakdown of the previous senior probation officer, a man who had been found roaming the building stark naked in the middle of the night.
Ricky’s eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to work out what Gordon was up to. He’d expected some come-back for his absence last week but not any sympathy – real or otherwise.
Gordon opened his desk drawer and pulled out the master diary for the whole team, flipping through the pages and making soft sounds as he scribbled notes on a blank piece of paper.
Ricky resisted the temptation to lean forward as he tried to read what Gordon was writing but the distance and the angle made it impossible. The silence stretched out between them, broken by the sound of Gordon scribbling and an occasional voice from the adjoining offices.
Finally Gordon seemed satisfied with his plan, checking between the diary and the paper. He placed the pen on his desk and looked straight at Ricky who suddenly felt unaccountably nervous. There was a glint in Gordon’s grey eyes, a hint of anger that took him by surprise.
‘It is difficult, working in a new environment and a strange place,’ said Gordon softly, his calm voice at odds with the hardness in his eyes. ‘I sense you may be finding the court work particularly challenging so I think we should ensure you get more practice. You have a light case load at present, right?’
Ricky nodded, reluctant to give any encouragement to what, he suspected, was going to be a deeply unpleasant outcome.
‘Yes,’ Gordon continued checking one of the diary pages. ‘You had eighteen clients as of last week. That should leave you with at least half the week free so I’m putting you into the family court for the next two months as well as Monday’s magistrates’ court and alternate Fridays.’
Ricky stared at him in horror. Court duty was never popular and the proposed schedule would ensure he was working flat-out every day just to keep up with his work.
‘I’ll speak to Lauren about the admin work involved,’ Gordon continued before Ricky could protest. ‘Obviously there will be a few more social enquiry reports to do and you need more experience with these but you won’t be expected to do them all. You will bring the list to me at the end of each court day and I’ll allocate them. You will do some, of course, but I think you would benefit from a little more guidance. I’ll speak to the team and an experienced officer will go with you for the first few.’ He slapped the diary down on his desk, making Ricky jump. ‘We’ll see how it goes after the first month or so.’
Ricky opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking and rose to his feet. He felt sick at the thought of all that court duty and a slow, deep anger began to burn inside. All those provincial, small-town little know-it alls, watching him and reporting on his work – how dare they!
‘Oh, Ricky?’ said Gordon as he reached the door.
Ricky took a moment to compose his expression before turning back towards the desk.
‘Use today to contact your clients and arrange their appointments for the next month. I’ll check the lists before you leave this evening and you’ll be ready for family court tomorrow. They start at nine so you will need to be here early, in time to pick up the files.’
Gordon managed to keep the smile off his face until the door had closed behind the young officer. He hadn’t wanted the acting senior’s job and was looking forward to handing over to whoever Headquarters appointed, but just occasionally it was worth all the problems it brought with it.
Lauren had left early, taking a little of the time owed her from the extra hours she had put in to Ricky Peddlar’s notes. She was proud of her role as a specialist administrator for first year officers. It involved a lot of patience, the ability to persuade new members of staff to take things slowly and even occasional hand-holding, but overall it was very rewarding. She liked working with the new recruits, often wide-eyed and idealistic but still untouched by the layer of cynicism t
hat came with years of work for relatively little return.
Lauren was a believer in the system and when it worked it was just wonderful – a life pulled from the ashes of prison, a second chance only a few managed to reach out and take – but she knew the successes were the exception and most of the clients slipped away into the twilight of routine offending, a life in and out of prison and a poisonous legacy for their families. She knew she could play a part in the forming of a new officer, helping them develop the skills and attitude that gave resilience, a sense of humour and enough optimism to carry on.
She had supported Alex through part of her first year and still filled that role for Sue. Both were turning into fine officers, but she was struggling with Ricky. Maybe it was his lack of professionalism, maybe it was partly personal but Lauren found him difficult, unsympathetic and lazy. He had a habit of dumping a few scribbled notes on her desk along with the clients’ files and disappearing – who knew where. It would be nice, she reflected, to catch him hanging out in one of the many local pubs but that was unlikely. He never came back after lunch smelling of drink, though he trailed the sour smell of his hand-rolled cigarettes behind him wherever he went.
Lauren had spent most of the afternoon struggling to bring Ricky’s files up to date and wishing she could ask him what some of the scribbles and abbreviations actually meant. He acted as if she were just a typist, someone to transcribe his words of wisdom. Actually, Lauren and the rest of the team knew as much about probation work as the officers and considerably more about the clients than some of them. They acted as a first line of defence for many probationers, solving minor problems, re-scheduling appointments and helping with letters, travel warrants and visiting schedules to prisons. They knew who was related to whom, which families were best kept apart in the waiting rooms and could spot the signs of glue-sniffing or illegal pill-taking with a single glance across the room. Most of the officers were both grateful and appreciative of their experience. Ricky was neither, though he needed the input more than anyone else in the office.
