by David Beard
CHAPTER 14
Monday July 10th
Dexter was once again the first into the office on Monday morning. His punctuality had been prompted by a phone call from Clive Tiley who told him he had made some important discoveries over the weekend and he wanted to discuss them with him as soon as possible.
He spent the time waiting for his subordinate to arrive by trying to catch up on the interminable paperwork that covered his desk in ever increasing piles. The in-tray for internal memoranda was so high that he decided to turn all the correspondence in it upside down so that he would guarantee to wade through them in chronological order. He was well aware his actions were largely to do with work avoidance, but at least he was making some effort. He decided to have nothing to do with his e-mail, which he suspected would be sufficient to keep him going for the rest of the day and which would relegate his other desk jobs, once again, to never being completed. His computer remained resolutely switched off.
Clive Tiley breezed in just after seven thirty and sat down facing him.
‘Where’s the peppermints?’ he asked.
‘I need a bloody personal source to keep you going: a peppermint mine.’
‘Well, the Irish have Guiness wells so why not?’
‘Do they, I never knew that!’
‘There’d be more money in it than police work, I bet.’
Smalacombe threw his pen down on the desk and looked up. ‘Yea, but all that digging, going underground, pit ponies! No, I’ll stick with this I think,’ he said waving a chunk of papers in the air. ‘Oh I don’t know though,’ he added as an afterthought as he threw the sheaf back on to the desk, burying his pen beneath it. ‘So, what’s all the excitement about?’ He fished in his pocket and handed him a tube with only one sweet missing.
‘Do you remember when we first interviewed Hempson in the Dog and Rabbit pub and I thought I saw somebody I knew?’
‘You do that all the time.’
‘There was a guy at the bar. Well, Saturday night, after we got back, I had some mates down from Bristol. You know how it is; we got talking about old times.’
‘Is this going to take all day Clive, I’ve got three weeks work sitting on this desk top.’
‘Oh bollocks.’
‘To a superior officer?’ Smallacombe mocked.
‘Bollocks, sir,’ Tiley riposted.
‘That’s better, now what is this all about?’
‘Look, I’m just filling you in. Well, this guy’s name cropped up and it hit me like a Lennox Lewis uppercut. He’s called Kelvin Budge and it clicked immediately. He’s based in London, comes from Poplar originally, but he and some cronies came down to Bristol and did an armed robbery: The Bristol Building Society and they ballsed it up. It was one of the first cases I ever worked on. Budge got five years. So, yesterday I came in and did some research.’
It still seemed to be taking a long time for Smalacombe but he hoped it was leading somewhere so he exercised great patience and gave Tiley his head.
‘Budge is bad news all round. He’s spent the best part of his adult life inside and his youth as well, in institutions, YO, the lot. He’s been nicked for GBH, armed robbery, trafficking, extortion…’
‘A really nice guy, but not a specialist then?’ quipped Smalacombe.
‘Specialist at being caught more like. Anyway, in the nineties he was nicked in west London for a prostitution racket, living off immoral earnings, brothel keeping, massage parlours as fronts, you know, the works. But, the prosecution case collapsed because of the evidence of a star defence witness.’
Smalacombe suddenly alerted himself. Surely not, he thought. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, meaning exactly the opposite.
‘Anna Turle destroyed the whole of the prosecution’s platform.’
‘Well well well! What do you know?’ Smalacombe breathed out and whistled. He put down his pen. He’d had enough of paperwork for one day. ‘Good work, Clive. So, just coincidence that he was down here at that time?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘How did she get him off the hook?’
‘Oh, it seems the local nick had set him up. They embellished the evidence to put it politely. Turle knew the business and knew who was running what and apparently it wasn’t Budge at all.’
‘I think we need to see if the Budgie sings, don’t you?’
‘I like that.’
‘I bet it’s not the first time it’s been said.’
‘I’ve already set the wheels in motion with the Met and they’re happy to co-operate. They say he has an address in Hackney but he’s never there. However, he frequents a number of old haunts that he can’t stay away from. They’re pretty sure they’ll pick him up within a couple of days. They’re looking for him anyway. on other charges.’
‘Will that put us to the back of the queue?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. They know it is a murder enquiry. Problem is, as they want him too, they won’t release him for us, so we’ll have to go up there.’
Smalacombe got up from his desk and walked around in an agitated fashion. He stopped and idly looked out of the window.
‘What’s the matter?’ Tiley asked, aware that Smalacombe was on to something.
Smalacombe raised a finger. ‘Just wait a minute.’ He stood watching the traffic below and looked across the city. The cathedral towered above its surroundings, despite the high-rise buildings around it. This was a scene he had observed many times before but, as was often the case, he wasn’t studying it. In fact, it hindered his thought processes. Tiley watched his back closely and said nothing.
Eventually Smalacombe turned and sat down. He looked pleased with himself. ‘Have you got a mug shot of this guy?’
‘How many do you want?’
‘Just the one. The guy who sold the rings in Newton had a London accent.’
‘You’re right. I hadn’t made the connection,’ Tiley concurred, feeling aggrieved that he had missed such an obvious point.
‘If it was Budge who got the rings, is it any wonder Eli was petrified,’ Smalacombe reasoned.
‘Out of his league, I’d say.’
‘So, how does this affect our investigations?’
‘It lets Hempson off the hook.’
‘So, what do you think? Did Rita Golding contact Budge to come down and look after her mate?’
‘She could have done. After all, he owes her one, but if she did, she was too late.’
‘Perhaps she paid him to come down after Turle’s death to exact revenge. Hired killer! What I said to the boss days ago.’ Smalacombe deliberately reminded Tiley of their interview with their superintendent as he was so dismissive of such a thesis.
‘Well, that puts Golding right back in the frame again, doesn’t it?’
‘If Eli was flashing his finds around in the pub it wouldn’t have taken Budge long to cash in.’
‘You’re right, Dexter and the earring in the pool, which has bothered us all along, smacks of some solid head like Budge throwing it in to show that the job was completed.’
‘I was confident we were onto our man on Saturday, now I’m far from sure. When the Met get back to you, we’ll get up there PDQ.’ Smalacombe’s body language told Tiley he was itching to return to his desk jobs, so he stood to leave.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot, the Duty Sergeant told me to tell you that the boss wants to see you at nine,’ Tiley explained as an afterthought. Smalacombe checked his watch. It was just after eight. ‘I’ll do an hour of this. What the bloody hell does she want?’
‘All that lot filled in I expect.’
‘What about yours then? Haven’t you got a pile to be getting on with?’
‘I know when I’m not wanted.’ Tiley reached across the desk, took another peppermint and made for the door.
‘The rate you eat them, Sergeant, it’d be cheaper to go back to smoking again,’ Smalacombe complained.
‘Ah, but you wouldn’t buy my fags would you?’ Tiley grinned and hurried ou
t.
Smalacombe tried to prioritise the work in front of him and he made a judgment about what pieces Sheila Milner would be pressing him for. Whenever she wanted to see him on a Monday morning it was always about bureaucracy never about case details and always it was accompanied with a rocket about returns that hadn’t been completed. He had to admit that the offending documents were usually of the previous month. As she so often succinctly put it, ‘I haven’t had the ults yet, Dexter let alone the insts.’ When he shuffled them in priority piles he was astonished to find that there were a number of forms marked urgent that were not even ultimos but three months old and one of them had ‘very’ scribbled in red felt tip preceding the urgency stamp. What were these, penults he wondered? Prepenults perhaps? He decided he would begin with the one that had been marked.
By five to nine his interest in what he was doing had waned and he was bored and frustrated because every time he went to fill something in, it needed figures from some statistical reference or report that he hadn’t read and couldn’t find. Much of it was on the department’s database but he was determined to avoid switching on his computer as it was programmed to open his e-mail box first. With considerable relief, he put away his pen, took another triple X from the tube that was now three quarters empty and wandered off, up the corridor to Sheila Milner’s office.
As it turned out, his superior was in good humour. She had clearly had a good weekend and was refreshed, raring to go. Perhaps her old man had given her a seeing to? But, did she have an old man? Surely, as a detective, he should have found out by now!
Smalacombe unobtrusively put down the three folders, containing the forms he had completed, on the corner of the desk. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to such a measly amount but he felt it necessary to show that something was coming forward. To his great relief this gesture seemed to have satisfied her on this count. She acknowledged them with a brief ‘Thanks,’ and then she moved on to other things.
‘Can you give me any indication how much longer this Winsom case is going to take, Dexter?’
‘Not really, Sheila, we’ve actually made great progress these last few days, but I can’t make any promises. You know the drill; we may be going up a blind alley.’
‘I just can’t afford to have you tied up this long.’ She lent back in her chair with her elbows on the arm rests and held a yellow pen in both hands, horizontally in front of her. ‘We’ve got to sort out recruitment; two DC’s are leaving.’ Smalacombe raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t I get to know anything around here,’ he moaned, still annoyed about the closure of the incident room.
‘I only found out yesterday,’ she reasoned and looked at her watch. ‘It’s only ten past nine now. I could have rung at midnight I suppose.’ She thought for a moment. ‘When you’re out on a case like this, communications just fall apart. Do you know how difficult it is to contact you at the moment?’ Before he had time to answer she gave him some additional moans. ‘You never have your mobile on. You never answer messages promptly. How am I supposed to keep in touch?’
Smalacombe knew she had a point but it was essential he turned his mobile off at critical times: it interrupted his thoughts, destroyed his concentration and even more it was downright disruptive to receive a call in the middle of an interview. However, he had to concede that it did cause her problems. ‘OK. Point taken,’ he said. ‘Where are these guys going?’ he asked, referring back to the departing detective constables.
‘One’s got promotion in Bristol and the other is going to be a market trader or something. There’s also a budget crisis,’ she carried on enlarging upon her concerns.
‘So, what’s new?’ Smalacombe interjected.
‘Can’t you pass the Winsom case over to someone else? Bob Gent is back next week.’ This sounded a decidedly unacceptable idea to Smalacombe. He had enjoyed getting back to hands on and he and Clive had done a good job so far. Besides, it was good for morale for the force to see people like him getting their hands dirty again rather than earning large salaries for filling out forms that anyone could do.
‘I can’t let this one drop, Sheila,’ he said. ‘You know this is high profile. If the press sense there is a hint of a downgrade they’ll crucify us,’ he thought for a moment and then added, ‘again!’
Sheila Milner was decidedly uneasy about this but she had to acknowledge that Dexter had a point. However, she was in no position to give him carte blanche. ‘I’m going to have to set a deadline. And, what about this conference you’re booked for next week? And the Chief Constable’s conference the week after?’ she said.
In the heat of this investigation he had forgotten about all of those sorts of commitments. He hadn’t checked his diary for a fortnight. He was due to address a conference at Exeter University on ‘Contingencies in Rural Policing.’ It would help if he knew what it meant! He hadn’t even thought about it, let alone prepare a forty-five minute address followed by a question and answer session.
Then there was an in-service training course for new recruits at Newton Abbot. Well, he had done that before and he had got all of his presentation for that on Power Point. Piece of cake! On top of all of that, there was the regular three monthly meeting chaired by the Chief Constable when he would have to deliver his report. Bloody facts and figures and no short cuts either, they had to be right. It will take ages, he thought. He looked at the superintendent blankly, ‘Can’t you do it?’ he said, his mouth operating before his brain had prepared it, which left him wishing he had said nothing.
‘Of course, I can’t,’ she answered sharply and then reflected for a moment. ‘I could do the training I suppose; might be good for everyone to see that I do something hands-on.’ Smalacombe thought that was a good idea. She stared at him closely. ‘You weren’t nodding then were you?’ she asked.
‘Now, would I ever?’
‘Yes, you bloody would,’ she said and smiled. She replaced the pen on the table. ‘Have you closed down the incident room yet?’ she asked returning back to the more immediate matters.
‘I was going to talk to you about that.’
‘I thought you might. I was out of order and I’m sorry but I could tell you weren’t going to do it.’ Her explanation surprised Smalacombe but in an odd sort of way he empathised with her. ‘I’m under tremendous pressure from on high. Do you know by how much we’ve overspent this year?’ Smalacombe didn’t, nor did he want to know either. He’d made the point and she’d done the honourable thing. There was nothing more to be said.
He walked back to his office with a worried look. The conference was a blow, so engrossed had he been with current events. How the hell he was going to find time to prepare himself for it, he had no idea. He sat quietly and considered it carefully. He realised that he was fortunate to have Clive as his number two and he had been very impressed by his competence; he would simply have to be left to get on with it. But, then again, what was this job all about? Was it catching villains or addressing poxy academics for them to write papers that no one would read and that no one would agree with anyway? It was no contest, but as he mulled it over so he became aware of a host of more obscure parameters.
He had no need to make a name for himself; the only career move he was now contemplating was retirement, but if he didn’t sort this out satisfactorily that may come sooner than expected. He concluded that the problem was none of these things but firstly, one of self-respect. He certainly had no desire to make a prat of himself and secondly his professional pride meant it was important to show that his contribution to the debate about policing in the westcountry was a high profile one. After all, there was no one on the force with the specific and exclusive experience that he had of mixing rural policing with the demands of the urban areas. But were these sufficient reasons to make it so important?
Like so much else around him this was about image and conveying an erudite message to the public and the media. It was about attitudes he had spent years openly despising, and now t
o his horror he was articulating to justify his own position. As a chief inspector he had to acknowledge that he too was now caught up in it. The force couldn’t function properly without the public awareness of its professionalism and how it intended to tackle the problems of ever increasing crime. Gone were the days of an authoritarian command that carried on regardless. Doing it was no longer sufficient, they had to be seen to be doing it and in the right way. He picked up the phone and dialled Clive’s internal number. Well, somebody will be pleased with the situation he mused.
As Smalacombe waited for Clive Tiley to arrive it occurred to him that there was not much that could be achieved on the case until Budge had been interviewed. As a result there seemed to be no need for him to pass over to his sergeant extra responsibilities in the immediacy, although it would be advisable to let him get on with things on his own. That would certainly give him the remainder of the day to prepare himself for the conference at the end of next week and with luck the case would be all sewn up by then.
‘You wanted me, boss?’ Tiley enquired as he entered.
‘Yes, have you found an alternative source for your peppermints yet?’
‘Not such a reliable one as I have at the moment, I’m afraid.’ He saw the remains of the tube he had sampled earlier and reached across. Smalacombe slammed his hand down on it, snaffled it up and put in his coat pocket.
‘You’re going to have to be brave, lad and suffer the withdrawal symptoms.’ Smalacombe beamed whilst Tiley smiled broadly. ‘Clive, I’ve got to ease up on the case for a while. I’ve been told that I’m neglecting my other duties.’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘I have a bloody conference at the end of next week that I must prepare for. So, I shall be incommunicado for the rest of today at least. Can I leave you to ensure that all the paper work on the case is up to date and will you shut down that bloody incident room and move it all up here before she chews my balls off?’
Tiley smiled and felt no need to comment. Having got that off his chest, Smalacombe then turned to other immediate problems. ‘Look, as soon as you hear from the Met concerning Budge, make all the arrangements, I’ll fit in. Make sure that they know exactly what we’re doing. I don’t want any fits of pique about interfering on their patch. In fact, there’s not a lot more we can do until we see this guy. I reckon, whilst we’re up there, that we see Rita Golding as well.’
