The Rags of Time: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Waters watched and listened as Smith explained that Brother Jeremy’s memory had not failed him in the slightest – and not for the first time Waters heard Smith explaining it in such a way that might suggest that he, Smith, had been the victim of some dreadful fall from grace instead of simply choosing to get the elevator down to the second floor. Leaving people with that suspicion seemed to amuse the detective sergeant but there had, no doubt, been times when it worked in his favour during an investigation – an ageing policeman on the way down being perceived as less of a threat, perhaps, than an enthusiastic and ambitious young one on the rise.

  ‘And now, gentlemen, how can we help with your inquiries? Is there news?’

  ‘At this point, it’s customary to say that our inquiries are ongoing,’ said Smith, ‘which basically means that we haven’t arrested anyone yet. There is an active line of inquiry, and we thought that it would be useful to come and have another word with your people.’

  ‘May I ask to what end? We were all told together about what had happened – another sergeant came out and spoke to us. He was very business-like and said that we would not be troubled any more than necessary. He thought that we had simply been unfortunate in having the poor man discovered on land that belongs to the friary.’

  Smith said, with the briefest of glances at Waters, ‘I’d have to agree that it was unfortunate, sir, but I’m not sure that it was simply so. In view of what Mark Randall appears to have been doing in that field, he was not on friary land by chance, was he?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you, sergeant. I apologise for that. I realise that you sometimes have to view the world very differently to the rest of us. Please explain.’

  And Waters thought, he was an academic, Brother Jeremy, judging by his comment about his past life and the fact that Sheila Smith had called him in as an expert witness concerning the poetry of John Donne, and he is the senior man here too, for some time, judging by the behaviour of Brother Paul towards him – I wonder why he’s having problems following what DC is saying. But then, it might be true; Waters knew that he himself did look at the world differently now, after a year confronting the surprising readiness of others to break the law when it was to their advantage. Sometimes they didn’t even need that excuse.

  Smith said, ‘Of course I’ll explain. Mr Randall was a metal detectorist – a hard-core one, if you’ll forgive the expression. He was a treasure hunter. That’s why he was on Abbeyfield land. This site, this whole area has a long history of archaeological finds, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Ah, I see your point now. Yes, of course it does, and I have no doubt that Mr Randall knew that if he was, as you say, ‘hard-core’. I’m sorry to say that he isn’t the first of his kind to be found on the estate.’

  ‘No, that’s right, just the first one to be found murdered, sir.’

  ‘It sounds brutal when you put it that way, sergeant.’

  ‘I’d describe it as a fairly brutal murder. Did you read about it in the local newspaper or see it on the local news?’

  ‘I was - we were - aware of those developments, obviously. Personally, I did not dwell on the details. In our work, we see enough of man’s inhumanity to man. To have it demonstrated to us here, in our home, is indeed unfortunate.’

  ‘But not simply so…’

  Waters saw the wry smile at the corners of the Franciscan’s mouth before he spoke again.

  ‘No – obviously not. How can we be of assistance?’

  Waters took notes as Brother Jeremy talked and Smith listened. The treasure hunters had been a regular nuisance for several years. It seemed to come in waves, he said – there would be nothing for a month or two, sometimes longer, and then various individuals would be seen hanging about the lanes and tracks, and vans would be found parked in gateways where they had no business. Two years ago they had disturbed the nests of stone curlews that had been made on the Harpers’ land; the RSPB wardens had tried to detain them as egg collectors and there had been considerable unpleasantness that night, with threats of violence and retribution. Brother Jeremy had said then, ‘It is hard to believe what lurks beneath the surface of our tranquil home, sometimes. People do not realise… Except for gentlemen like yourselves who are probably only too aware of it.’

  ‘What’s the attraction, though?’ Smith had said. ‘Have they ever found anything of real significance?’

  ‘Who are ‘they?’ said the friar. ‘We do not know what these ‘nighthawks’ might have taken over the years, and that is just a part of the problem; they destroy the historical record when they steal artefacts. But what keeps them coming back, I suspect, is the Lowacre Hare. Surely you have heard of this?’

  Smith looked at Waters straight away, as if he must bear the full responsibility for either hearing or not hearing of the Lowacre Hare – after all, he had a degree in history. Explaining that his interest was in modern European political movements beginning in the late nineteenth century would cut no ice whatsoever; it was simpler to confess to ignorance immediately, and so he did. Smith looked appropriately disappointed on behalf of the West Norfolk division, and asked Brother Jeremy to explain.

  It was, or rather it is, a golden hare – literally a hare made of gold. The eyes are made from red glass that is thought to be Roman. The Anglo Saxons, said the friar, were already recycling. The hare stands on its back legs, as they do today in the fields of spring, and the ears form a loop through which the golden chain or leather thong would have passed, because the whole thing would have been a pendant for a lady of the highest status. It was large for an Anglo Saxon piece – the friar showed perhaps four inches between his finger and thumb – and now rested in the British Museum.

  Smith said, ‘Do you have any idea of its value if it were ever to be sold?’

  ‘It’s monetary value? Not really – but I imagine it would be considerable.’

  Waters said, ‘How was it found?’

  ‘Oh, legitimately, by a local vicar who was an enthusiast. It must be at least thirty years since, perhaps forty, long before my time here. I don’t know whether he was using a detector or simply doing a little excavation. It wasn’t Sutton Hoo,’ with a glance at Waters to see if he had managed to hear of that one, ‘but it is the best known of several important finds in the area. Some years ago we had the Time Team researchers here for a couple of days, though no programme was subsequently made. So we are on the map, archaeologically speaking, and that is why we suffer these intrusions from time to time.’

  Smith was quiet, thinking all this over, as if he found it interesting; he probably does, thought Waters. You notice that if you spend any amount of time in his company – he gets interested in things to the point where sometimes he seems to have forgotten that there is case to be worked. The route back to the business in hand could be a circuitous one. Then he saw that Smith was looking at him with the do-you-want-to-have-a-go expression.

  Waters said, ‘When was the last time there were nighthawks around, before the discovery of Mr Randall?’

  Brother Jeremy furrowed his brow before he answered – ‘That we know of? Oh… That would be back in April, I think. Yes, towards the end of April.’

  Smith had refocused quickly – ‘April? Just a couple of months ago? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing of any great moment. Joan Harper telephoned me to say that someone had been seen on one of the lower fields – the usual thing, wandering about looking at the ground, as they do. She was alerting us. The Harpers might have had a word with them – I don’t know.’

  Smith said, ‘I’m not clear as to who owns the land, sir. Is it all one estate? Does it all belong to your Society?’

  The friar laughed in a kindly enough way at that.

  ‘If only, sergeant! The Harper family owns most of what was the original estate, bought piece by piece over many years, I believe. The ownership of the house here and the grounds and our few fields is so complicated that even I don’t fully understand it. In short, there is a trust which has to ensure that som
e sort of Christian organisation is active here. This has been a site of worship for more than a thousand years, and one of the last of the Devereux family wanted that to continue, even when they had to relinquish Abbeyfield themselves. The history is quite fascinating. Writing it down might be my retirement project.’

  Waters said, ‘Wasn’t there a Benedictine monastery here at one time?’

  Smith shot Waters a startled look but one which also managed to convey that the honour of the West Norfolk Division had been restored by this intervention.

  ‘There was, constable. A small one, admittedly, and mostly gone. The stone was used in other parts of the house later on, but we have two walls, a corner and a window space remaining. If you would like to see any of this before you leave…’

  Smith said, ‘Very kind of you to offer, sir. Coming back to this incident in April, was it on the same field where Mr Randall’s body was found?’

  ‘Either that one or the adjacent one. We, that is the trust, own two fields this side of the Kings Lake to Lowacre road but we don’t farm them; they are sub-let to the Harpers. Is this significant, sergeant?’

  ‘Well, that’s it, sir. We don’t know and we never do until other bits of the jigsaw turn up – sorry about the worn-out metaphor. It seems a bit of a coincidence that the same field more or less had detectorists just a few weeks apart, but maybe it isn’t. If they are anything like the serious egg collectors, their intelligence will be very good. Some them are fanatics and extremely knowledgeable as a result. But to be frank, we’re just dotting i’s and crossing t’s today. As I said earlier, there is a good line of inquiry already underway. If you could just tell us how many brothers you have in residence, my colleague will write down their names and we’ll have a quick word with them. Then we’ll leave you in peace.’

  There were seven Brothers. Smith made a very good joke about finding seven brides but Waters had no idea what he was talking about; Smith was in a generous mood and explained that it wasn’t entirely Waters’ fault that he was so ignorant. First computer games and now this satellite and subscription television business meant that few young people were experiencing the joy of Sunday afternoons when there was nothing else to watch but a classic Hollywood musical. But only seven, Waters had repeated – not much of a monastery, is it?

  ‘No,’ said Smith as they sat outside it in the car, the windows wound down, letting out some of the heat that had accumulated inside disperse, ‘it isn’t. But that’s nothing to do with how many men are in it. They’re not monks, so it isn’t a monastery at all. Brother Jeremy told us that twice – they are friars, so this is a friary. Have you got something else on your mind? What was that text about that you read just now when you thought I wasn’t looking?’

  Nothing on God’s green earth would have persuaded Waters to reveal the contents of the text, but you always had the feeling with Smith that he had already half-guessed correctly.

  Waters said, ‘Nothing important. Just someone cancelling for tonight.’

  ‘Someone?’

  Smith knew perfectly well who it was – in a moment he would make a joke about Katherine needing a night off from beating him up or teaching self-defence to a class of Royal marines. He decided not to answer.

  Smith said, ‘Never mind. I think I’ve got some of those classic musicals on DVD. You could pop round and we could watch some. ‘High Society’. ‘Singing in the Rain’. ‘White Christmas’…’

  ‘‘White Christmas’? In this weather?’

  Smith gave a vague ‘Hmm’ as if he was reconsidering his choices but this was all idle nonsense – Waters knew that Smith was, underneath it, processing what they had learned from the friars and wondering whether there was anything else to be followed up while they were out here. It might make sense to call at the farm owned by the Harper family. But Smith had been right – Waters was having a little difficulty focusing. The text had been from Katherine. She wasn’t exactly cancelling tonight, just rearranging. It’s this heat, she had written – it’s making me feel funny again. You know how this heat makes me feel funny… Be here by seven or else! And Smith wanted to talk about prehistoric musicals?

  ‘I’ve just remembered – I’ve got to water all the containers tonight, so you can’t come round. Sorry. So we’ve had a word with five of the brothers, which leaves two to go. One was outreaching – is that actually a word? – in Lake, and the other is on some sort of retreat where?’

  ‘Essex. Somewhere near Southend.’

  ‘Right, well from my memories of Southend they ought to be doing it the other way round. It’s the Southend people that need to be going on retreat. Permanently, if they’ve got any sense.’’

  ‘Seriously, DC? Are you really going to follow up on those two? None of the others knew anything. They’re in a bit of a bubble, aren’t they? I’m sure it’s a very nice bubble but…’

  Smith was silent, seemingly considering Waters’ view, but equally he might be wondering why Waters hadn’t learned one of the fundamental lessons yet. Sensing his mistake, instead of retreating himself Waters pushed on with it.

  ‘This Brother Andrew, the one who’s in Essex, wasn’t even here when Randall was killed. Jeremy told us that.’

  There was another pause before Smith slowly and quietly, ‘What Brother Jeremy actually said was that he thought Brother Andrew had left a day or two before but he’d have to check. He didn’t check while we were there, and I chose not to pursue the point.’

  ‘But you’re going to? Are we going to Essex?’

  ‘Not now, no. But we should speak to him, just to complete the set.’

  Waters gave a slight shake of his head – another mistake that he couldn’t stop himself from making. Smith was looking at him directly now.

  ‘No, I don’t think I’m onto anything. Yes, you and I are only colouring in the background this morning. But if you’re going to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, do all of them, every time. Because on the five hundredth time that you do that you find that suddenly the meaning of a whole paragraph changes. You said you wanted to quit the fast-track program and learn this job the old-fashioned way. This is the old-fashioned way.’

  He wasn’t angry, he didn’t even seem annoyed, but there could be something a little unnerving in him sometimes. You could be larking around, even taking the mickey out of his harmless eccentricities, and he would be going along with it until something, some silliness might affect the doing of the job – and then you noticed that he had a stiletto in his hand.

  Waters said, ‘While we’re out here we might as well go and speak to the Harpers.’

  ‘Good, that’s where we’re going. And on the way you can tell me what John Wilson’s got. He wasn’t very forthcoming earlier on. I suppose if it’s sound, we might be able to cancel Southend, after all. It’s not as if anybody actually wants to go there.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Phones’ was all that Wilson had said but when Waters explained as they turned right out of Abbeyfield and took the Lowacre road, it did seem to be a sound line of inquiry. Randall’s mobile, the one found in his house when it was searched by the police on the afternoon following his death, showed a number of missed calls, beginning shortly after midnight with the last one being made five minutes before two in the morning. How many calls, Smith had asked, and Waters said he thought there had been seven – that’s what he had heard, he hadn’t seen the phone for himself. Smith said it would be interesting to know whether they had been evenly spaced out. Waters frowned and asked why.

  ‘It would tell us something about the state of mind of the person doing the ringing. Were the calls all from the same number?’

  Yes, apparently, and no, they couldn’t trace it easily because it had been a pay and go phone. That’s where it had got interesting yesterday evening. Jefferson and O’Leary had paid Gareth Stone another visit with some follow up questions about his mate Mark Randall, and they had asked for his mobile number – for the purposes of elimination, obviously. He hadn’t
been able to tell them without taking it out and looking. Why is that, they had said – bad memory or a new phone? After some to-ing and fro-ing he admitted it was a new phone, another pay and go, just like his old one. What had happened to the old one? Accidentally dropped it into a bucket of water…

  Smith looked askance at that, and Waters explained that Stone was a plasterer by trade. If he was a stupid one, it was conceivable.

  So, Jefferson and O’Leary had said, what did you do with the old one, Gareth? Threw it into a skip somewhere… And when did all this take place? Not sure exactly – I don’t keep a diary, do I? Just approximately will do, Gareth. We just need to eliminate you from our inquiries. And then, because they would find out anyway from the new mobile he had just produced – unless he could make that disappear as well, in front of their eyes – he admitted that it had been about a fortnight ago, probably just after Mark died.

  Smith slowed the car a little to read the sign by the road ahead and then began to indicate left – the sign said ‘Flints Farm’ in bold letters and then underneath in smaller ones ‘Harper Farms’. There was another sign then that asked drivers not to exceed fifteen miles an hour; Smith put the car into third and obeyed it.

  He said, ‘Observation number one: Simon O’Leary has either found God or had a nasty bang on the head. Observation number two: if Mr Stone isn’t already sitting and sweating in one of our interview rooms as we speak, he ought to be. Even hearing it all third-hand, it isn’t looking good, especially if they can tie him in to being at Randall’s place the next morning.’

  Waters said, ‘That’s the bit I don’t get. Why do that? If you’d just killed someone in, what, some sort of fight over an artefact or something, the last thing you’d do is risk being seen at their property. What was he after?’

  ‘Fighting over artefacts? That’s a bit dry, isn’t it? I see this as more like ‘Treasure Island’ – murdering varmints after a hoard of buried dubloons.’