THE CASE OF THE HIDDEN FLAME
ALISON GOLDEN
&
Grace Dagnall
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CHAPTER 1
CONSTABLE JIM ROACH made quite sure that he wasn’t being watched and then took a long moment to assess his appearance in the mirror. There would be only one chance, he knew, to make a first impression, and he was determined to single himself out as a man of both neatness and integrity; someone to be entrusted with the most challenging, perhaps even the most dangerous investigations. The new boss could well be his long-awaited passport to promotion. He might – the thought made his breath catch in his throat – even get to see a dead body for the first time. That was certainly worth a minute’s close attentiveness to ensure that his tie was straight, his uniform spotless, jacket buttons gleaming, and his hair neatly in place under his blue constable’s cap.
There. Perfect. He grinned conspiratorially at the face in the mirror and returned to the tiny police station’s reception desk, where he busied himself with a quite unusual energy. “Shipshape and Bristol fashion,” he muttered as he straightened the lobby chairs and then belatedly flipped over the calendar of fetching Jersey shoreline postcards from August to September. Behind the desk, there was a smattering of filing waiting for him, put off repeatedly for weeks, but accomplished in about six minutes, once he put his mind to it. The perennially available deck of cards was slid into a desk drawer. “No solitaire this shift, Constable Roach,” he admonished himself. “The new boss wouldn’t like it.”
Familiar footsteps could be heard strolling into the reception area from the small hallway beyond, where the “new boss” would have his office. These were followed by an even more familiar voice, its Cockney accent robustly unchanged despite six years in Jersey.
“Bloody hell, Jim.” The man stopped and stared. “Are we trying to win a contest or something?”
“What’s that, mate?” Roach asked from behind the flip-top reception desk.
“I’ve never seen the place so tidy before,” he explained. “Expecting company, are we?”
Barry “Bazza” Barnwell loved nothing more than needling his younger colleague, especially when Roach let slip his desire to get ahead in the Constabulary. Barnwell was older than Roach but he was as content as could be to remain what he called a “beat cop,” while Roach had dreams of a sergeant’s stripes and then much more. Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector. Chasing down terrorists and drug runners and murderers. That was where the action was. Gorey, pleasantly unchallenging as Barnwell found it, was merely a stepping stone for Constable Roach.
“It never hurts to put your best foot forward,” Roach explained, continuing to tidy stacks of paper behind the desk.
“What do you think, eh?” Barnwell asked, leaning on the desk. “Once Mister High And Mighty arrives, you’ll be immediately seconded to the bloody SAS or something?” he joked. “‘Our man in Tangiers’ within a month, is it?”
“Bazza,” Roach replied wearily, polishing the much abused desk top with a yellow duster. “You may be happy on this little island, but I’ve got aspirations.”
“Have you, by God?” Barnwell chuckled. “Well, I’d see a doctor if I were you, mate. Sounds painful. Not to mention a likely danger to yourself and others.”
Roach ignored him, but there was little else to occupy them during this relaxed, summertime midmorning. Besides, Barnwell was having too much fun.
“I don’t know if you’d be cut out for armed police or the riot squad, you know,” he was chattering. “Chap like you? What is it now, a whole, great big, overwhelming five arrests… And three of those for tax evasion?”
This got Roach’s goat. “There was that plonker on the beach who was trying to do things to that girl. Remember that, eh? Saved her honor, I did.”
Barnwell doubled up laughing at the memory. “Oh yeah, first-rate police work, that was. She was only there because he’d already paid her a hundred quid, you wazzack. And he was only trying,” Barnwell added, between convulsions of mirth, “because he’d had a skin full at the Lamb and Flag and could barely even…”
Saved by the phone. It was an old-fashioned ring – Roach had insisted – not one of those annoying, half-hearted ones that went beep-beep but a proper telephone.
“Gorey Police, Constable Roach speaking,” he said, ignoring Barnwell’s descent toward the reception room floor in a fit of his own giggles. “Yes, sir,” Roach said crisply. “Understood, sir. We look forward to meeting you then, sir.” He replaced the receiver.
“You forgot the ‘three bags full, sir,’” Barnwell offered.
“Get yourself together, mate,” Roach announced purposefully. “Our new overlord approaches.”
“Who?” Barnwell asked, straightening his tie and biting off the remnants of his laughter.
“The new DI, you unmentionable so-and-so. And if you show me up, so help me…”
Roach became a whirlwind once more, carefully adjusting the time on the big wall clock in the reception area, one which looked as though it had done a century’s steady labor in a train station waiting room. Then, to Barnwell’s endless amusement, he watered the plants, including the incongruous but pleasingly bushy shrub in the corner, and trundled through to the back offices.
“Mind the fort, Constable Barnwell,” he requested formally.
The hallway led to the DI’s new office, hastily refurbished, which Roach already knew was in “shipshape,” and a second office that was occupied by Sergeant Janice Harding. Janice was their immediate superior but given the regular antics of the two constables, she often felt as much like a nanny or a middle school dinner lady.
“Sarge, he’s on his way from the airport in a cab,” Roach announced.
“I heard the phone five minutes ago, Roach,” she complained, standing suddenly. “It took you that long to tell me?”
Normally immune to any kind of fluster, it was both unique and amusing to see Janice sent into such a tizzy over this new arrival. Roach suspected that her interest was less in the possibility of career advancement and more in the new DI’s reputation as a good-looking, old-fashioned charmer. There hadn’t been a lot of luck with the men lately, Janice would concede, a point of particular concern given Jersey’s limited supply of eligible bachelors. And, with Harding rapidly approaching her ‘Big Three-Oh,’ it was high time for that to change.
Janice brushed down her skirt, and ignoring Roach’s looming presence in her doorway, tidied her hair in the mirror.
“Well, Roach? Is the reception area looking…”
“Shipshape and Bristol fashion,” Constable Roach reported proudly. “And his office is just how he asked for it.”
“And what about Constable Barnwell?” she asked. She leaned close and whispered, “He hasn’t been drinking, has he?”
“Not that I can tell,” Jim whispered back.
“Good. We could all do without dealing with that nonsense, today of all days.”
She shooed Roach out of the way and carried out her own inspection of their small police station. Roach shrugged as she found a number of things to improve – straightening the framed map of Jersey on the main wall and the two portraits of previous police chiefs – and then he went to find Barnwell in the station’s equipment room.
“Remember what I said,” Roach called out with all seriousness. “Professionalism and respect. You hear?”
“Loud and clear, future Chief Constable
Roach,” Barnwell quipped, hanging spare uniforms up in a neat line. “I’ll make sure there’s no getting off on the wrong foot.”
Roach eyed him uncertainly. “You really want to be in here when he arrives or behind your desk where you belong?”
As luck would have it, Roach was answering a phone call from a member of the public when the new DI walked in, a black suitcase in each hand and dressed in a smart, grey suit. It was a relief not to have to look busy as he noted down the details of a stolen bicycle, lifted during the night from a back garden shed a few miles away. Sergeant Harding handled the introductions.
“Detective Inspector Graham, I’m so pleased to meet you and to welcome you to Gorey,” she smiled. “I hope your flight was smooth?”
Graham set down the suitcases with a sigh of relief and smiled back, extending his hand. “Very smooth, thank you, Sergeant.”
“Oh, you can call me Janice,” she said, five times more flirtatiously than she had planned and ten times more than Graham would have preferred.
“And this must be Constable Roach?” he asked, approaching the desk with his hand out, just as the tall, red-headed man was finishing the call.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Roach said, just as he’d practiced.
“Anything interesting?” Graham said, glancing at the phone.
“Stolen bike, out near the golf course. Not unusual for this time of year. I’ll head over there in a moment and take a statement,” Roach said.
The station’s only other permanent appointment appeared and was introduced by Harding. Roach watched the new boss’ demeanor as he took in the burly six-foot frame of Constable Barnwell with a curious interest. Was he looking for signs of drink? Roach wondered if that particular piece of intelligence had filtered up to London or not. If so, what did the top brass know about him? Was Graham here to ensure that a potential high-flyer was given every chance to prove himself? A golden future offered itself to Roach in those heady moments. Then it was back to earth.
“I’ll take that statement,” Janice told him rather curtly. “I can do it once I’ve dropped off DI Graham at the White House Inn.”
There would be, Roach saw at once, absolutely no discussion on this point. Fifteen minutes alone in a car with their new arrival was apparently well worth the tedious grunt work of noting down this rather routine complaint.
“Very good, Sarge,” Roach replied. “You’ll enjoy the White House, Detective Inspector. Nice place.” He thought on for a second. “Roomy.”
“I’m sure I will,” David Graham told him, refusing a polite offer of help with his suitcases. He slid them into the trunk of Harding’s blue-and-white police sedan and still fawning over him like an adolescent, the Sergeant drove him along the coastal road toward Gorey itself.
“You’ve arrived in just the best part of the year,” Harding enthused. “The tourists can be a nightmare, but there never seems to be more than we can cope with,” she said. “It will make a big change from London.”
Graham was soaking up the scenery; the small, neat houses by the road, the farms with walking, fluffy clouds that must have been sheep, the pleasant mix of sultry summer warmth and upbeat, fun-loving energy that Jersey had become famous for. As they approached the cliffs on which the seaside resort of Gorey perched, the green fields gave way to sparkling blue ocean and the marina beyond, festooned with pleasure craft of all sizes.
“Beautiful,” Graham found himself saying. “Not a lot like London, you’re right there, Sergeant Harding.”
Tourists were gathered in little knots, eating ice cream, deciding where to have a late lunch, sometimes popping into one of the local shops for supplies.
“The White House Inn is up on the hill there,” Harding pointed. It was an imposing, solid building, aptly named. Its paintwork shone brilliantly in the early afternoon sunshine. It reminded Graham of a rural French chateau, uprooted and then plonked on this towering cliff, providing perhaps the most spectacular and restful views on the island.
“A little B&B would have done the trick, you know,” Graham admitted.
“Oh, nonsense,” Harding said, waving him away. “We wanted you to feel welcome here. I’d be happy to help find you somewhere more permanent, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable at the White House for the time being. The tea room has the best cakes on Jersey and…”
“There’s a tea room?” Graham interrupted, his curiosity instantly piqued.
“Yes, indeed. They have all those “frou-frou” types of teas, if you like that kind of thing.” Harding chuckled. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, biting down his enthusiasm. “Just good to know, ” he added with a slight smile.
The lobby boded well, high-ceilinged and tastefully decorated with flowered wallpaper, statues and a venerable grandfather clock which thundered out the two o’clock chime just as he was checking in.
“Ah yes, Detective Inspector Graham,” the clerk said, finding him quickly on the reception desk’s tablet. “I’ve put you in one of our nicest rooms, overlooking the marina.”
“Splendid,” Graham said. “Is the hotel busy at the moment?”
His black hair swept back by copious gel, the clerk reminded Graham of an extra from a pulp novel set during the Roaring Twenties. All that was missing was the pencil moustache and a quick blast of the Charleston.
“Almost full, I’m glad to say. Mostly long-termers,” he said, and then explained further when he saw Graham’s quizzical expression. “Retirees, sir, people who prefer to live a more active lifestyle rather than checking into one of the retirement homes here on the island. There’s plenty to do,” he said, handing Graham a brochure from behind the desk. “Sailing, swimming, windsurfing, fishing.… Enough to keep anyone out of trouble,” he winked.
“Trouble?” Graham said, quickly.
“Just my little joke, sir,” he smiled. “Here's hoping you’ll have a quiet stay in Jersey. We’re a pretty unspectacular bunch, I’m glad to say.”
“Splendid,” Graham replied again, rather automatically, as he scanned the brochure. “I’ll unpack and then maybe try a pot of one of your famous teas.”
“Best on the island, sir,” he said proudly, handing Graham his key. “I do hope you enjoy your stay.” He tapped the tablet a few times and scuttled over to welcome a group of tired-looking Germans who were sweating profusely with the weight of three truly gigantic suitcases.
A well-traveled and rather sophisticated man despite his rustic Yorkshire roots, Graham was not easily impressed by hotel rooms, having seen many. However, his room at the White House Inn was large with a comfortable bed, and boasted a view of the ocean, the marina, and Gorey beach that was simply breathtaking. He opened the windows wide and took three long, deep breaths of cleansing sea air.
“Entirely adequate,” he mused to himself before heading down to the tea room in the hopes of a delicate Assam or Darjeeling. “Yes, indeed. This will do nicely.”
Nearly one hundred feet below, a tall figure of purposeful – one would almost say military – bearing was striding down the beach on his afternoon walk. Colonel Graves, a man whose retention of his army title was not simply an affectation but rather also a statement of his values, brought down his tall cane into the sand with a mechanical precision that in its very rhythm pleased him greatly. It was important to keep one’s own traditions, he’d always felt. Especially during retirement, when one was apt, in the absence of care and discipline, to become addled and flabby, two things which were anathema to the sixty-year-old ex-officer.
In an open-collared, eggshell-blue shirt and pressed khaki shorts, he was every inch the self-exiled retiree, enjoying hard-earned sunshine and spending hard-earned savings. For him, a lifetime of service had left little time for family or even courting. There had been women, of course, but none who had wanted to stick by the kind of chap who would jet off to war every few years, returning each time a little more cynical, a little less certain of his belief in the fundamental goodness of humanit
y, each time somehow older than before. He had survived the Argentine fighter bombers strafing his ship in the Falklands, the best efforts of Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard, and six months among the Taliban of Helmand before something in him had simply said stop. And so, to Jersey, where he busied himself keeping in shape, visiting the old German fortifications from World War II, and keeping an eye out for Miss Right.
Or, he chuckled – hang it all, we only live once – Mrs. Right, for that matter.
It was just this attentiveness, which usually let not a detail pass by, which brought him to a discovery both heartbreaking and, even for a military man, unbearably gruesome.
Just where the beach met the sea wall, the sand swelled up into a mini dune, perhaps four feet high, studded with tufts of grass and a discarded soda bottle, Graves noted with distaste. But then there was something else, and it attracted his eye because it absolutely did not belong.
It was a dainty, pale, human hand.
“Well, what in the blazes…?” he muttered darkly.
His first thought, given the location, was that this might be someone washed onto the beach from the ocean. An unfortunate migrant, perhaps, dead from exposure and then deposited here at high tide. This would hardly be his first encounter with a corpse, but a quiet beach on this idyllic little island was the last place he’d expect to see one. He frowned and slowly approached the small rise of the dune, peering at the hand as if it might transform into something innocuous, and this strange moment might then be discarded as no more than a reason to visit the eye doctor.
He knelt by the dune and carefully smoothed away a little of the sand that covered what was clearly the almost translucent skin of an inanimate forearm. At once, the Colonel knew that this was no washed-up asylum seeker. Nor was this some prank, the kids burying their mother in the sand and then forgetting about her as ice cream and soda beckoned.
There was a silver bracelet, rather expensive, which shone brightly now in the sun. And it was instantly familiar.
02 The Case of the Hidden Flame Page 1
