The Rags of Time: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  ‘I hope so. But he’s going to know who wrapped it up and wrote on the card as well. We will be sentenced equally, as co-conspirators.’

  Back at her desk, Serena said, ‘Who’s going to write up this morning? It should be you, really, as the junior officer. You need the experience. And besides, Wilson likes you.’

  Waters said, ‘You did most of the talking.’

  ‘I had to take control or we would have been there until Wednesday. I know history’s meant to be boring but that was off the scale. Mr Usborne needs help. We’ll end up investigating him for making someone yawn themselves to death.’

  Waters had drifted off as usual.

  ‘You’re wrong about history. It doesn’t have to be boring. I had a teacher who made it all come alive – Mrs Curry. When she taught us about the English Civil War, it was like a drama series. We couldn’t wait to get in there to find out what happened next…’

  Butler gave him a worried look and said, ‘I thought everyone already knew.’

  ‘Mrs Curry was the main reason I went to uni. To read history.’

  ‘God…’

  Serena Butler was examining her face in a small compact mirror and it was impossible to say whether her exclamation was related to what she had just found there or to Waters’ choice of degree subject.

  ‘What about you? Where did you go to school?’

  ‘I didn’t quite a lot of the time, and I can’t remember much about when I did. It wasn’t just history that was boring. I quite liked science, and I didn’t have to try very hard in maths.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  She put the mirror away, and began turning on her own computer, answering without looking at him, ‘A bog-standard midlands comprehensive.’

  ‘You must have passed your exams, though.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  Butler had put up the barriers that he had seen before whenever anyone asked about her past. Her amused contempt for his academic qualifications wasn’t unique in the force by any means, even today, but he could imagine her being one of those clever, difficult girls who made Thursday afternoons a misery for all but the most hardened of teachers. She didn’t have his pieces of paper, then, but she had other qualities that he was still afraid might be more valuable in a police detective. She had an exceptional capacity for doubting everything and everyone, and she got people, especially, he suspected, men. Waters knew that she had a past in the police force, that she had come to Kings Lake under a cloud and he guessed that everything he had just thought about her was only a part of a rather complicated picture. But she was typing away now, probably using the writing of the report as a means of avoiding further conversation.

  ‘What’s this?’

  They turned simultaneously in surprise, and saw Smith standing a few feet away and pointing at his desk. Somehow he had opened the creaky door and crossed the room without them realising he was there.

  ‘Hello, sir. It’s a welcome back present from your team.’

  Serena could also be absolutely charming when she turned on her smile, and Waters saw the cross look on Smith’s face soften a little.

  ‘Oh, right. Only you have to be a bit careful about surprise packages when you’ve just come back from where I’ve come back from.’

  Serena laughed and Waters realised that she must know more about where Smith had been than he did himself. Smith was at the desk now. He picked up the parcel, felt the weight of it and frowned – the gift was exceedingly light for its size and Waters wondered whether he would guess before he opened it. The fingers examined it briefly and there was a look at both of them, a look that they recognised – he knew something was up. Then he unwrapped it slowly and deliberately. When that was done he held it out at arm’s length and admired it in silence for a long four or five seconds.

  Smith said, ‘This really is very thoughtful of you both.’

  He turned it upside down, and then Waters could see that Serena had cut the label flap off the box and stuck it on the bottom. Smith read it aloud.

  ‘Disposable Cardboard Pulp 1.3 Litre Slipper Bed Pan.’

  Waters could see that Serena’s face was absolutely straight but he wasn’t sure what expression was on his own. Practical joking was endemic among some of the teams at Kings Lake. Waters had developed enough self-confidence and understanding of his sergeant to engage in the banter that was a part of a detective’s daily life but this was the first time he had been involved in taking the mickey quite so proactively.

  Smith turned the bedpan up the right way again and placed it on his desk, still looking at it thoughtfully.

  ‘One point three litres. That’s a lot when you think about it, isn’t it?’

  Serena said, ‘That avoids spillages. But we thought it was ideal for you, sir – it does take a lot of pee. And we know you can’t employ that Swedish nurse forever.’

  Smith looked at Waters then, recalling the telephone conversation they had had a fortnight ago, before he went to Belfast, when he had Waters believing that he would be laid up in bed for weeks after having some cartilage removed from his knee.

  ‘Yes, I thought that’s where this was coming from. Well, detective constables, thank you very much. I can assure you that if I do ever have occasion to use this item, I will most definitely be thinking of you both.’

  Wilson was coming across from the other side of the large, open-plan office. He growled a good morning at no-one in particular and then caught sight of the object on Smith’s desk. After a stare at it and a look at each of them, he said to Smith, ‘Are you sure you haven’t come back a bit too early?’

  Waters glanced at Serena but she had already turned back to her report of the morning’s interview – it was one thing to make a joke or two within their team but quite another to provide ammunition for DS John Wilson.

  Smith said, ‘Yes, I should be alright. It’s just a precaution. I was explaining to them that I’m leaving a few of these around at strategic points in case of emergency. So that they can fetch one in case I’m incapacitated.’

  Wilson hesitated just long enough to realise that they had all seen him do so, and just long enough for Smith to go on.

  ‘With the old official retirement age becoming a thing of the past, we’re all going to have to make some adjustments and allowances. I think.’

  It is remarkable how much can still be conveyed with just two words of Anglo-Saxon – Wilson managed to convey a great deal with them. In the silence that followed, Waters could see Serena Butler’s face trying not to laugh at itself in the monitor screen, and that made him look away himself, at Jefferson and O’Leary who were watching from the other side of the office.

  Then he heard Wilson say curtly to Smith, ‘A word, outside.’

  ‘This isn’t still about the bedpan, is it?’

  No, said Wilson. He was handing the two members of Smith’s team back to him this morning, as soon as he had the report from their interview with Mr Usborne of the Historical and Detecting Society. Assuming that Smith himself was now up to speed with the case that they were all to be working on, he, Smith, could then check in with DI Reeve again and see what she wanted him to do next. Wilson was back to his usual brusque and off-hand self, at least where Smith was concerned, and on the point of turning away when Smith stopped him with a word.

  ‘John?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t need to speak to Alison. You’ve got a handle on this, I’m sure. Tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll work around you on it.’

  That was the closest Smith had come to offering the peace pipe since the row over the McPherson case almost two years ago. He had hoped that after the four of them – Wilson and himself, Mike Dunn and John Murray – had taken out the two Albanians at Honeyhill Cottage, things might at least have got back onto an even keel. Now Wilson was watching him warily, saying nothing.

  Smith said, ‘I can’t say fairer than that. You’ve been working it. It’s your case.’

  Wilson said then,
‘I’m looking at the other two detectorists, his mates. There’s a lot that doesn’t ring true. I’ll be pulling them in later today or tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What sort of thing isn’t ringing true?’

  ‘Phones… And there’s a witness statement describing someone very like Gareth Stone at Randall’s place early the next morning. He never mentioned that when we spoke to him last week.’

  ‘Sounds decent. Is there anything I can tidy up?’

  Wilson was hesitating again, and Smith waited, trying to look as sincere as he felt.

  ‘OK. Badger diggers were another possibility. There’s been some on the estate this year. There’s the spade connection which your boy Waters made, obviously, but no motive. I’ve had someone look into it – I can pass on to you what there is later today if you want.’

  ‘Good. We’ll take that. How far did you get with the friars?’

  Wilson managed a smile.

  ‘I didn’t succeed in getting any of them into the frame. We weren’t there long – just informing them what was going to happen next. I don’t know how much they understood. From a different planet, aren’t they?’

  Smith nodded but it was unclear whether or not he was agreeing with that.

  ‘I could have another go. I think I know the bloke in charge – at least I used to. Someone might have remembered something.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Before you go, how did those two behave?’

  He was looking back through the glass panel into the office.

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘She’s an awkward cow sometimes…’

  ‘I take it you are referring to Detective Constable Serena Butler?’

  Wilson knew Smith well enough not to be troubled by that.

  ‘The lad is alright. If ever you think he needs some proper management and career development, let me know.’

  ‘Rest assured, John – you are top of my list for that.’

  Wilson was away this time, his broad back turned to Smith, the hairline across his neck as sharp as the razor that had shaved it. Had they just managed after all that to get back to where they had begun? It was impossible to say.

  Chapter Three

  Brother Jeremy stepped out of his study for a moment, onto the terrace and into the sunshine. He thought to himself, busie old foole, unruly Sunne, but this was no foolishness, in truth – it was a simply beautiful day. Behind him and to his right stood Abbeyfield House – one might have said Abbeyfield House still stood, for it had been there, parts of it, for more than five hundred years. There had been additions and subtractions through the centuries but now, today, he thought, the place seems to have come to terms with itself – it would be difficult to imagine it more fetching and peaceful than it was here and now in this glorious English summer. The great lawns and vast acres of parkland had long gone, of course, along with the aristocratic family that had owned this portion of the county, but there was still a lawn of good size stretching down to the gate, and on it a few of the remaining trees – some proper English oaks, an evergreen holm oak, two huge sycamores and some of those obscure foreign conifers that landowners once thought added an air of distinction to their country residence.

  In front of him, Brother Jeremy could see through the hedges the land of the old estate that sloped gently away, good rich farmland, looked after sympathetically by the Harper family now – decent, God-fearing people, pillars of the parish church in Lowacre. Beyond the village where their fields were flatter, they farmed intensively but up here there were mostly pastures and meadows, some still with their spring and summer retinues of wild flowers; he had never discussed the matter with the Harpers but liked to think that they managed the land this way out of a sense of respect for the history and charm of the Abbeyfield estate.

  And finally, away to his left – for his study was in the very corner room of the ancient building – two meadows sloped down a little more steeply to the Laveney, the stream that was their boundary, and which had been the boundary of the Abbeyfield estate since time immemorial. The water sprang out of the chalk beneath these gentle hills five miles to the north-west and by the time it reached Lowacre it had become, to Brother Jeremy at least and perhaps to one or two others, a wonder, with its intimate, secret bends beneath the alder trees, its easy glides of shallow, sparkling water, its long green tresses of waving weeds, even a small population of wild brown trout that no-one was ever given permission to angle for, though he had no doubt that a few were taken illicitly every season. And there were kingfishers, too. After this afternoon’s weekly meeting, if there was time, he would go down to see the kingfishers.

  The friar turned away from the scene before him, aware that he was indulging himself more than he had intended, and then caught the smell of the coming luncheon in his nostrils. He examined the sudden desire for food within himself, smiling at the foolishness of his stomach which seemed to have forgotten that he had now, as a penance, chosen to fast on Mondays. Be hungry, he said to that part of himself, be as hungry as you like for the will is only a muscle, and the more I use it, the stronger it becomes. When penances become pleasures, we know that we have taken steps that bring us closer to God.

  The sound of a vehicle then on the road beyond the hedge, out of sight but climbing up towards the gates, the engine note rising as it did so, the gearbox being shifted from third into second as they approached the final bend. He could not remember whether visitors were expected. Brother Paul was responsible for that now, and making a good job of it. Perhaps there was a booking into the conference room or the retreat – either way, it need not concern him as guardian of the Society of Saint Francis.

  He stepped back into his cool, dim room, his place of work for today, but watched through the open double doors, idly curious still about the visitors. Now he could hear the sound of wheels on the gravel – the gates would be open of course, to welcome the travellers and the tourists who often found their way to Abbeyfield as a listed building of interest – and that meant that the vehicle would shortly appear on the far side of the lawn. He squinted a little against the brilliance of the sun, and then Brother Jeremy could just make out a car edging its way slowly around towards the front entrance – maroon coloured, not new, not the hire car of wealthy American tourists, then… Just an old Peugeot saloon that pulled up on the square of gravel close to the open doorway. Two men got out and looked at the building. One of them was quite tall and young, blond haired in the bright light, and the other was none of those things but vaguely familiar.

  Brother Jeremy stayed there in his room and got on with the accounts. He had not been able to recall the man but after more than twenty years at Abbeyfield many faces had come and gone – it might be nothing that he need be concerned with, and sooner or later the younger men would have to learn to manage without him.

  Nevertheless, it was not more than three or four minutes before he heard voices and footsteps approaching along the passageway that led to his room, followed by the inevitable knocking at his door. He clicked save on the spreadsheet, got up and went to open it himself – he was not a managing director or a headmaster, after all, but a servant like everyone else.

  As the three of them entered the room, Brother Paul said, ‘Brother Jeremy, the police are here. This is Sergeant Smith, and this…’

  He had forgotten and looked embarrassed. The older policeman looked around at them all and said helpfully, with a smile, ‘Isn’t?’

  Waters introduced himself and Brother Paul disappeared gratefully back into the passageway. He was very young, it seemed, no older than Waters himself but already he wore the brown robe and white rope of the First Order of the Society of Saint Francis. As did, of course, the guardian of the Abbeyfield friary; they continued to stand as Brother Jeremy greeted them properly and said that this must be about the sad business of the body that had been found in the field by the river the week before last.

  It is, said the older detective
, responding to the look of puzzled recognition on the face of the friar with a reassuring smile, as if to say, not to worry, you’ll remember me shortly.

  Brother Jeremy said, ‘We have met, sergeant, but for the life on me… I do apologise! Was it here? Have you visited us before on another matter?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t here at Abbeyfield, sir. Try the West Luffenham Community College.’

  ‘Oh, going back a few years, six or seven of them at least! We did outreach there for a while, drugs education, when Brother Dougal was here with us. And I, of course, did a little teaching one term, with some sixth formers. Lyrical elements in the devotional poetry of John Donne.’

  ‘That’s it, sir. I think you’ve almost cracked it.’

  ‘Sergeant Smith, you say? It was a Sheila Smith whose class I was taking – not taking, not really teaching. She found out about my past life from Brother Dougal and invited me in to talk to them. It was an absolute pleasure. But when did you and I…?’

  ‘There was a reception one evening when the new sixth form building was opened. That’s when we met, sir.’

  Of course it was – he remembered now. He stepped forward and they shook hands, smiling, and Smith steeled himself because it was inevitable now.

  ‘And how is Sheila, sergeant? Still at Luffenham?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. She passed away, a little over three years ago.’

  There was a moment of silence. Then the friar reached out again and took Smith’s hand between both of his own. He said, ‘I am most sorry to hear that, deeply sorry. I remember her as an inspiring teacher. A terrible loss.’

  They sat down then at the friar’s invitation, but something was still troubling him. After a moment he said, ‘Sergeant Smith? You might have to forgive my memory, which is not what it was, but surely I recall that you were a rather senior officer? I seem to remember that coming up in the conversation that evening. But I might be wrong, I might be wrong…’