The Rags of Time: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Several people had greeted Smith since they had sat at the table – denial seemed pretty pointless. He made a full and frank confession.

  ‘Well, it’s a charming place. Lots of atmosphere and really friendly. You used to come here with Sheila?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so lots of these people knew her, too… Is this difficult for you?’

  Her directness continued to surprise him, even though having met her aunt, he was beginning to see where it came from. It didn’t make him uncomfortable, though, and it might even be one of the things that he liked about her.

  ‘No. Different rather than difficult.’

  ‘Different for me, too – I’ve never been anywhere like this! But if it does get difficult, you only have to say. I don’t want…’

  She looked at him and then away, and he thought, sometimes it’s just easier to say what you do want.

  She said, ‘I don’t want to intrude, if that isn’t too presumptive a choice of word. This is your life – I feel as if I’ve blundered into it sometimes.’

  He hadn’t considered that at all.

  ‘I don’t think of it that way – my life? It’s just life. We buzz about like atoms and occasionally we collide with each other. Sometimes the results are good and sometimes they aren’t. I’m not sure we have much control over it, to be honest.’

  She thought it over and said, ‘And sometimes there’s a nuclear explosion…’

  ‘In a confined space like this that would be awful.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at her watch but he already knew the time – almost half past ten. The music was over and the conversation at the tables around them had dropped to the quiet hum of an evening winding down; one or two couples had already left. At the bar, Smith could see Shirley Salmon wiping glasses and chatting to the two girls. When he caught her eye, she smiled and raised her eyebrows impishly. It’s true, he thought; we don’t have much control over it – the women do.

  Outside, it was a warm night. The fine-weather cloud that had built up in the afternoon was breaking apart, and stars shone through the deep blue spaces. They passed squares of more earth-bound light, the curtained windows of caravans, and heard voices talking, laughing, through open doors and windows. One elderly man sat smoking on the steps and said good evening as they passed – Smith realised then with some surprise that he hadn’t had a cigarette all day, and that he didn’t want one now either. When they left the club, Jo had taken his arm as a sister or a friend might, but when they reached the caravan she held onto it as she turned to face him.

  ‘There’s a spare bed – I don’t need to tell you that really, do I? You could stay. We could all have breakfast together and go for a drive on a Sunday morning. You could show us more of this lovely coastline.’

  ‘Probably not what your aunt had in mind when she agreed to come up here!’

  ‘She wouldn’t mind at all. She likes you – she told me.’

  ‘And why would she tell you something like that?’

  ‘Because I asked her.’

  He smiled and told himself that he should have known better than to inquire. She was still holding his arm and waiting for his proper answer.

  ‘It’s a nice thought but I think both of you will benefit more from each other’s company than from mine. When someone has died – that’s family business. I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  She shook his arm then and laughed a little, and when she laughed he felt himself weakening, felt the strength going out of him and into the formation of something new and almost unexpected. When he spoke again, the words seemed to come from someone standing fractionally to the side of him and he felt his own surprise at what this other self was saying.

  ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘OK. But not maybe.’

  She kissed him then, just the mere brushing of her lips over his. Then she let go of his arm and watched as he went to his car, climbed in and started the engine. She was still watching as he drove away, standing by now on the first step and he had to look away.

  Watching him go, standing on the first step, exactly the way Sheila used to do on those occasions when he had been called back to work, and when she was staying on because of the school holidays. Funny, he thought, as he drove along the harbour road into the little seaside town with its one amusement arcade, its fish and chip shop and ice-cream kiosk; funny, but the longer you live the more things seem to echo. Maybe, if you live long enough, that’s all there is – echoes and the echoes of echoes. That would be strange indeed.

  When he left the town and was on the straight, dark road, he switched on the radio and recognised the chord changes of ‘My Generation’ immediately; the G walking down into the F, the pounding of the bass, the insanely perfect drumming. With the window wound down in the warm night air, things were not looking awful cold but the final line caught and held him for a good part of the drive home to Kings Lake. And beyond and below all that, all that had happened today, he knew there was a face looking up at him, a face that he had almost forgotten.

  Paolo Harris.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday had been a day of almost perfect peace, and a timely one because Smith had much to think about. Briefly, he wondered whether there was anyone he knew left at Hunston. He doubted it. If he turned up and began asking questions, the implication would be that whoever was in charge there had missed something, and that was never welcome. He could look into the records of the incident last year, but to what end? Harris would be in his late twenties now. It was Andretti, his uncle, who had murdered the girls, there was never any doubt in Smith’s mind about that; somehow the boy had become involved in the last offence, but that didn’t mean… It might just be a – coincidence. And then, briefly, he was angry with himself – not for that – but because he knew that a part of him didn’t want to know what had taken place in Hunston last year. When you no longer want to know, that’s the beginning of the end, isn’t it?

  Nothing more from Jo, and he wondered whether she too was reflecting on what had taken place the evening before – reflecting and perhaps regretting. He considered sending her a text just to say that he had enjoyed the time spent with them but she might misunderstand, might find meanings between the lines that would only complicate things further. In the end, he exercised his right to silence.

  The only interruption to the day had been a message from Serena Butler telling him that Brian Davis had been charged with the murder of Mark Randall. He read it several times and took a turn around the garden before replying – Not surprised. Has Charlie started a book on whether it sticks? Not that they had such bets any more. Once upon a time it was commonplace, a means of lightening the mood if nothing else, but such practices had been banned years ago – part of the never-ending and remorseless drive to make the police service seem more professional and business-like. They could never allow the suspicion, Smith had been told, that officers might have tampered with an investigation in order to win such a bet. In all his time Smith had never encountered such an officer but they clearly existed in the minds of those people charged with running the service.

  After a few minutes, Serena had sent back Don’t know and I’m not asking in case it’s another wind-up. Don’t you like the case against Davis? He had to think it through again then, even to respond to a junior colleague while he was off duty. Sometimes it gets to the point of hurting, becomes repetitive and painful like your least favourite exercise in the gym – going over the same points in the same order again and again. He knew well enough what he intended to do tomorrow, after the Monday morning briefing, but he had to be careful about saying much to anyone else, even to Serena whom he trusted now.

  He sent It’s not watertight IMHO. Not yet anyway. CU tomorrow, and she returned with Chris has some funny ideas about it, too. Love your txtspk! followed by a yellow smiley face that was winking.

  He had looked down then at the Sunday Telegraph colour magazine and its two-page guide to mobile phone text abbreviati
ons for older readers – how to make your grandkids think you are cool! He read his final message over, shook his head and muttered ‘Dear God!’ If he had the faintest idea how to delete it, he would have done so immediately.

  Davis was in police custody at Kings Lake, still available for more interviews, but later in the week there would be a magistrates’ hearing at which he would be sent off to Norwich on remand. Fitch and Street were on police bail and due to return on this Monday morning; the plan in the briefing was to interview them again and go over their accounts of the night of June 17th. Lies are forgotten more easily than the truth, and they had also had time to reflect on their relative positions and the potential seriousness of their situation – Davis being charged might in the end encourage them to say more, if indeed there was anything more to say.

  Smith looked around towards the end of the briefing and calculated that there was no shortage of officers to carry out the interviews. When he suggested to DI Reeve that instead of dealing with Street again, he and Waters should go out to Lowacre, she looked surprised but didn’t dismiss the idea – she asked him to explain.

  ‘Well ma’am, now that we know we’re looking for badger diggers rather than metal detectorists, it might be useful to talk to the locals again. That only got a brief mention before but it might be helpful to get a more detailed picture of what’s been going on. I was thinking of revisiting the local farmers, those sort of people.’

  Wilson made an inaudible comment to O’Leary who was seated next to him but Reeve didn’t look in that direction. After a moment’s consideration she said, ‘Fair enough – that has to be worth a couple of hours. If you get anything, phone it in immediately while we’ve got the three of them in the station.’

  Detective Superintendent Allen entered the room, nodded to the assembled group and told Reeve to carry on as if he wasn’t there which to be honest, Smith thought, was what they usually did. But he had a piece of blue paper in his hand and Smith guessed that it was a formal press release blank. Not my case, he thought, as he smiled cheerily at Allen – and for once I’m delighted about that; I wonder whether he’ll go straight for the local television news – it could be on by lunchtime. Or maybe he’s into using Facebook or Twitter now. We’ve got him! You can follow this story on… That could hit the blogosphere or whatever it’s called in a matter of minutes. In the old days you could sit on a story for weeks if you needed to – and sometimes you did – but now… Well, now it had to be now. Instantaneous. Instant coffee, no percolation. Immediate satisfaction, no delayed gratification. When the briefing began to end, he was still reviewing the weekend and its strange new thoughts, that were actually not so strange after all. It’s true, he concluded – this isn’t my world any more.

  Waters was in a good mood, obviously pleased to be out of the office – they were a mile or two into the countryside before Smith realised that what Waters was actually pleased about was not interviewing Levi Street again. They talked over the case, and Waters asked how often it happened – finding yourself part of an investigation that you believed was heading, for perfectly logical reasons, in the wrong direction.

  Smith said, ‘Not often but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.’

  ‘And have you ever seen it go all the way? To a conviction of someone that you believed was innocent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He thought about the phone call from Laurence Cunningham a couple of days ago; there was a little too much synchronicity about at the moment, a little too much irony in the air ready to make fools of the unwary.

  Waters said, ‘That’s something they don’t prepare you for in the lecture room.’

  ‘You can certainly add it to the list. Which is a fairly long list you must have realised by now…’

  ‘I mean, what do you do? Go to the SIO?’

  ‘You could try that – it doesn’t make you very popular. Ma’am, I think we’re after the wrong man. Call another briefing and I’ll explain. The more people have already invested, the more they will shout you down.’

  ‘So – what do you do? You can’t just do nothing.’

  It was important not to see this as part of Waters’ youthful naivete. He had that instinctive sense for justice and fairness that isn’t found in many people, let alone many policemen. If the system didn’t knock it out of him, it would make him a better detective, though not, perhaps, one who was often promoted.

  ‘Ultimately, sometimes you just have to face it and hope that new evidence comes to light.’

  ‘And the other times?’

  There – that was the quickness that Smith admired.

  ‘Sometimes, if you’re very lucky and very persistent, you can catch the real perpetrator before it’s too late.’

  When Smith turned right into the friary at Abbeyfields instead of going on to the Harpers’ farm at Lowacre, Waters said, ‘I thought in the briefing you said we were going to speak to the farmers.’

  ‘Did I? I must have meant the landowners. I’m having more and more of these senior moments. You might have to drive us back if I forget the way.’

  Smith parked in what was becoming his regular spot but this time, instead of reversing in, he left the car facing the main entrance of Abbeyfields. When Waters made to get out, Smith stopped him, saying that he would bring him up to speed on why they were back at the friary, and then he did so. He mentioned the disappearance from the scene of Brother Andrew on the day after Mark Randall’s body was discovered – a disappearance that was untypical in several ways. Then, during an interview on Tuesday the 2nd – six days ago, something he was quite precise about – Brother Jeremy had made an assumption; he had said that badger diggers were undoubtedly responsible for the attack on Randall. Smith could see no logical reason why Jeremy had made that assumption – he could only make sense of it when he realised that it might not be an assumption at all. Smith paused then but Waters had got it straight away – he said, ‘How did he react when you pointed it out?’

  ‘He just laughed it off, made light of it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Smith told him about the younger priest’s sudden return, the argument between him and Jeremy, and then about Brother Joe and everything else that he had revealed about life in the friary. Joe’s own past was omitted – Smith viewed that as a confidence he had no need to break.

  After a little thought, Waters said, ‘Not much, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  Most of this story had been told as Smith looked out at Abbeyfields rather than at his companion. Yes, it was a beautiful old building that had seen in its time dramas greater than the one in which they were playing their part, but Waters had worked with Smith long enough now to know that they were not sitting here so that the view could be appreciated.

  ‘And we are sitting here because…?’

  ‘I imagine that they recognise my car by now. Seeing it out here might raise the temperature a bit for someone who’s already feeling somewhat on edge. I’ll be interested to see who is waiting inside for us. We’ll give it another five minutes. Have you been to see John’s baby yet? You’ve got nieces and nephews, haven’t you? When do they get so you can have an intelligent conversation with them?’

  Waters said he didn’t know – it hadn’t happened yet with any of his sisters’ children. Now they were both watching the building but there was an almost curious lack of activity for ten o’clock on a sunny morning in July – no-one came out of the doorways and no faces appeared at any of the windows. Nevertheless, after three of Smith’s minutes had passed, the French doors at the far right-hand end were opened and Brother Jeremy stepped out in his robe. He stood on the flagstones, a little in the shade from the corner of the abbey, and looked first down the hill towards the trees that hid the river. Then his gaze travelled slowly around to his right until, with a movement of his head that might suggest surprise, he spotted the car in which they were sitting. A hand went up to cover his eyes against the light as he took a longer look, and Smith,
watching him, said, ‘Oh, goodness me, Brother Christopher – that nice detective sergeant is paying us another visit…’

  The guardian was heading towards them now, stepping forward purposefully enough for Waters to notice that a pair of bare feet in leather sandals complemented and completed his uniform as a man of God. He was an imposing figure, and what Smith had been implying – nothing more – for the past few minutes seemed, on reflection, rather improbable. Nevertheless, Smith was getting out to meet him, and Waters followed suit.

  Brother Jeremy stopped six feet short of them.

  ‘More news, Sergeant Smith? I must say that you keep us very well informed.’

  ‘It’s my detective superintendent, sir. Superintendent Allen. He’s very big on community relations – he calls it the new face of modern policing. The more we communicate with the community, the more they will feel ownership of the force. He doesn’t want us to be perceived as a threat, more as a reassuring presence in their lives.’

  ‘I see. Well, you may inform Detective Superintendent Allen that your diligence over the past week has left us feeling very reassured indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’

  The sergeant was beaming away, pleased at the compliment, and eventually the guardian had to give way and join in – and then he heard ‘I will do that. But in the meantime, is there somewhere we could have a word?’

  Waters looked around and thought that Brother Jeremy’s office was all that one might have expected. There was modern technology of course, but it sat on an oak table that might be two centuries old, and the bookshelves that lined two of the walls must be at least half that age themselves. Many religious books, naturally, with titles that revealed great breadth and depth in the mind that had assembled them – not necessarily Brother Jeremy, of course, though it was Waters’ guess that a good proportion of these had arrived with him – but also some seriously academic volumes of history, and two shelves of the metaphysical poets. If these were Jeremy’s books, they were dealing with a man of sophisticated ideas and high intelligence; he was intrigued to see what Brother Jeremy and Smith would make of each other once the preliminaries were out of the way.