Luck and Judgement

by Peter Grainger

  ‘DC?’

  Waters was holding up a mobile phone.

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘In the bottom drawer.’

  ‘Very good. And you’ve just picked it up…’

  Waters didn’t understand until he looked down at Smith’s own hands and saw the clear plastic gloves.

  ‘It’s not a crime scene, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe examining the phone will help us to decide.’

  Waters glanced at Roy Henman in the doorway and got back the raised eyebrows that mean ‘Oops’. Then he blushed.

  Smith said, ‘Here. Put it in a bag.’

  Then he held up the bag and looked closely.

  ‘Seems new, doesn’t it? Anyway,’ turning to Henman, ‘we’ll take it with us, just in case it helps. We don’t have a warrant, so we aren’t seizing it. Just thought I’d make that clear.’

  There was nothing else. A notebook would have been nice, or a diary with Jimmy’s innermost thoughts all laid out for inspection. Or a letter received, or a wallet with a few receipts, some sort of indication that the man had - or has, Smith corrected himself – a life outside that personnel file. He wanted to see if the phone turned on then but waited – the two of them needed to be alone before he did that. Instead, he went back to the wardrobe, took down the leather belt, rolled it into as small a size as possible and pushed it into another plastic bag. He held it up to the mess manager and said, ‘And the same for this.’

  Less than an hour before take-off but now something else had cropped up – they needed to speak to the roommate, now that they knew there was one, of sorts. Smith turned to Henman again.

  ‘Shouldn’t his roommate be here? If Jimmy Bell was in George’s team, which is now indulging in a spot of generator-wrestling, surely this chap should be here? What’s his name, by the way?’

  ‘Jack Brighty. He’ll have slept as soon as he was off-shift. Canteen maybe, or film room. Or the pool room? Jack’s a smoker, he might be in the smokers’ lounge.’

  ‘There’s a smokers’ room? I thought it was all no smoking. Nobody told me. Bugger!’

  ‘We passed the time of day a few times in his first tour, you know, just a nod really. I only spoke to him the one time, must have been during the first day or two he was here, as soon as I found out who was sharing the room. I looked him up and said hello, said he could use anything in the room. Just being friendly. Everyone forgets stuff first time out. I didn’t realise he’d been out before.’

  ‘But you found that out. Did he tell you himself?’

  Jack Brighty was fresh-faced and young, in his early twenties, but he had the confidence of an older man; he’d broken away from home and was still in the first flush of male independence. Status, money and freedom can do wonders for a boy. He drew on the cigarette before answering.

  ‘No. Someone told me afterwards.’

  ‘Can you remember who?’

  That question was more unexpected.

  ‘No… Why?’

  ‘So somebody knew him from before? Recognized him?’

  ‘No idea. It was just canteen talk. New faces get talked about for a day or two. He perhaps told someone himself he’d been on a rig before.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  As far as Brighty knew, Jimmy Bell had kept himself to himself in that first fortnight on board. That was not so unusual – everyone adapts to it at their own pace. George Layton was a tough manager and would have outed him if he wasn’t up to scratch, so he must have been doing alright. The room had been tidy, never any problem there, but Bell had not used any of Brighty’s things, despite his friendly offer – not as far as he knew.

  ‘And he never mentioned home or anything about life back onshore?’

  ‘No. What do you reckon’s happened to him, then? ’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. Sorry for taking up your break. It seems a bit cheeky, but is there an email address or a phone number we can reach you on? If we need to check any other detail, or something? Can you swap info with DC Waters here? The thing is, we haven’t come across many people who knew him yet – good lad.’

  He watched as Waters and Brighty exchanged details. Brighty got up then, said goodbye and went off to a fruit machine where a couple of mates, who had been making a point of not watching them, proceeded to quiz him about what the police were after.

  Smith was debating whether, in view of the fact that he had not been told about the smoking room until after four in the afternoon, it was acceptable to have two in succession – he’d still have one left for after dinner tonight – when Waters said, ‘Sorry about the phone.’

  ‘Not important this time, but it might be next. Just get into the habit. Also, some of the places we have to put our hands, you never know what you might catch. I could have caught all sorts over the years – it doesn’t bear thinking about. You alright with me smoking?’

  ‘Yes. It doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘Because you can always go outside. Good that, isn’t it? Makes a change these days, the smokers get to stay in…’

  ‘You didn’t answer Jack’s question. What’s happened to James Bell?’

  ‘No. You tell me what you’ve got so far.’

  Waters took a few seconds before he responded; Smith might still be partially in DCI mode.

  ‘As I see it, there are three ways to go over the side. You slip, you jump or you get pushed.’

  ‘I cannot fault your reasoning or your mathematics so far.’

  ‘The last one requires a motive unless a lunatic did it-’

  ‘And even they have motives – we just don’t understand them.’

  Waters carried on steadily. Smith’s asides were still amusing and interesting but they were no longer unexpected.

  ‘And we haven’t found any sign of anyone having such a motive yet. We might do so when we take a closer look at James Bell, of course.’

  ‘You think we should do that, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, so do I. Carry on.’

  ‘The second one, jumping, also requires some sort of reason. His line manager said he wasn’t very happy. Jack said that he wasn’t very sociable. He was new on here which might explain both. The room was-’

  ‘Berth.’

  ‘The berth was empty, no personality, but again, he was new, still settling in. I can’t see anything yet which would explain why he jumped overboard. The photograph in the personnel file? He didn’t look like a jumper.’

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘Well, they’re usually about five foot eight, with reddish hair, glasses and a limp.’

  ‘Yes, very good. What about number one?’

  ‘Almost everywhere has safety mesh. You would have to make a determined effort to slip over it. You could but – I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘So you haven’t come to any conclusions, which is probably wise. What about the phone? Think you could manage to turn it on in the plastic bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If we do, and it contains some really obvious thing, like a message from the Mess Manager saying We will get you tonight, we’ll have to miss that flight.’

  Waters looked at his phone – they had about fifteen minutes before they had to be at the security gate, and still needed to collect items from the communications and personnel desks.

  ‘We should probably look at it properly tomorrow morning, at the station.’

  ‘OK.’

  Smith was trying to leave the last third these days, and he was almost there now. He took just a small pull so that he did not go past it.

  ‘Funny thing, though. There wasn’t a charger, was there, for that phone? Did you see one in the drawer or by the bed?’

  Waters thought, closed his eyes as if it might help, and then shook his head.

  ‘Must have had one. Bit odd, taking the charger and leaving the phone, if that’s what he did. Time to go and see that young lady for the last time. I think she took a bit of a shine to
me.’

  They had forgotten to allow time to put on the survival suits. As a result, they had been late to the departure queue, and there had been some black looks from those waiting ahead of them. The last two seats on the Sikorsky had been together at the rear of the aircraft. They were strapped in, and Smith had wedged his briefcase down between his knees and the seat in front – as a loose item, it should have been placed in the small luggage compartment at the back but further delays might not be welcomed.

  The engines had started and the blades were turning but at nowhere near their flying speed – pre-flight checks were underway. Smith was next to the little window, nothing more than a porthole. The sea looked calmer but that was perhaps no more than a trick of the failing daylight – it would still be a bumpy ride back to East Denes. The engine note rose a notch and the helicopter shifted in response Next to him, he could sense Waters tensing up a little.

  Smith said, ‘Before we leave the airstrip, remind me to go into the office and see if we can get a passenger list for the flight out on Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We ought to speak to someone who was on there with him. He might have said something.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then we can have a nice quiet day in the office tomorrow.’

  He saw the rueful smile at the corner of Waters’ mouth, and knew that the younger man understood what he was trying to do. No point in trying to avoid the subject, really.

  ‘What did you think of the flight out, then?’

  It took a second or two for Waters to answer.

  ‘It surprised me. I’ve been on plenty of planes but this is nothing like that. I expect you get used to it. These guys treat them like taxis.’

  ‘You can get used to anything.’

  ‘Have you flown in something like this before?’

  ‘A few times, in the dim and distant.’

  ‘In the Army?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Waters waited for a while before speaking again.

  ‘I just can’t believe how it moves about in the wind. I never was that keen on the swings as a kid.’

  Smith said, ‘You should try climbing down a rope out of one in the middle of the night, into an inflatable. If you let go too soon, you fall into a Norwegian fjord, and if you’re too slow, you have do it at least twice more. They said it was to teach us life-saving skills but I’ve never been in a situation where it would have helped in the slightest. Until now, maybe…’

  Perhaps this conversation hadn’t gone quite as he had hoped. He glanced at Waters and saw that a smile of sorts was still there. The engine note rose again, and Smith adjusted the ear protectors. Then the horizon through the window began to tilt again. The pilot faced into the brisk north-easterly, gaining height quickly before making a 180 degree turn towards the mainland. Beneath them, Elizabeth began to shrink away, the flare of her gas curling brilliantly into the coming night.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Shop!’

  Not that he made a point of arriving five minutes before the day shift was due to start just to annoy Charlie Hills. As he shouted, he banged on the wooden counter a couple of times for good measure. Nothing. He shouted again, this time leaning on the counter and bending forward to see if he could make out Charlie’s large rear-end obscuring the tea-making facilities that had their unofficial existence in the right-hand back office.

  Instead, someone much smaller appeared from the left-hand side – someone with a cross look and a headscarf. Smith stared in undisguised surprise; that is much more than a headscarf, he told himself – that is a proper, full-on hijab. Beneath it she had a constable’s uniform, and he read her name tag in a moment: Station Officer Samantha Bijarani. He looked up at her face again to be sure that he had not at first been mistaken, and he had not – she was white. Inwardly he told himself off for making assumptions but his self-flagellation was interrupted.

  ‘Yes? How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, you could tell me what you’ve done with Charlie Hills.’

  He smiled and she did not. After a moment studying him quite closely, she said, ‘Sergeant Hills is on duty but not available just at the moment, sir. I’m sure that I can be of assistance. How can I help you?’

  I was only away for a day, he thought. When I left on Wednesday, everything was normal, as it has been for years and years – with Charlie at the desk, all is right with the world. Now, forty eight hours later, something terrible must have happened.

  ‘Can you tell me whether it is a personal matter, sir, or a police matter?’

  ‘Personal, I suppose. I was just going to say hello…’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Hills is on duty. You cannot simply wander in off the street and-’

  ‘Ah, thought I heard you, causing a disturbance as usual. Good morning, DC.’

  Charlie Hills stood in the right-hand doorway, with an armful of dusty, ancient wallet files. She looked from one to the other before she spoke.

  ‘So you do know this man, sergeant?’

  Smith thought, this could get confusing if someone isn’t careful.

  ‘Yes, I do. He has a long record of involvement with crime.’

  She turned back to Smith.

  ‘Have you come to report an incident, sir? Do you have information that might be of assistance to the police?’

  ‘I do sometimes. Mainly I prefer to talk to Detective Superintendent Allen, though. I usually come here just for a cup of tea. I have milk but no sugar.’

  ‘You come here for a cup of tea?’

  She had turned back to Charlie as if this was all his fault. He stepped forward and nodded towards Smith.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Smith, he is from this station. His friends call him DC but most of them don’t know why. DC, this is Samantha Bijarani. She’s here from Norwich for a couple of days.’

  She said, still without smiling, ‘I see.’

  Smith held out his hand across the counter but she had turned away by then; she might not have seen his offer to shake her hand but he knew that she had. She walked back into the left side office. Smith’s look of surprise was met by a quiet response from Charlie Hills.

  ‘I’ll explain later. You won’t believe it.’

  Wilson was present in the office that the two teams of detectives shared. Smith said good morning as he passed the desk and Wilson looked up and nodded; for DI Reeve’s sake it was better if they were being civilized to each other. And Wilson had helped them with Astra Maitland. He had enjoyed that, of course, just as Smith himself would have done, but if he’d kept quiet about her, Ralph Greenwood’s story might have ended much more awkwardly.

  Smith’s corner of the room already had three people at their desks. John Murray would be finishing the paperwork on the nasty little gang of ruffians from the Fairmead estate who had recently graduated from merely beating up each other to threatening local shopkeepers who were refusing to pay them not to threaten them. Nothing had been carried out yet, and the management had said that a warning would do. It was Smith who had insisted on presenting a full case to all parties concerned and saying that it would be placed on file. A few hours’ paperwork now might save days of it down the line, weeks even, and heaven knows what else in terms of damage to property and person. A stitch in time nips it in the bud, sometimes.

  Waters would stay with him on the James Bell thing. He’s been in Kings Lake for what, seven or eight months now? Smith had sent him off to other offices and departments, and he’d even had a ride round with traffic, but somehow he kept turning up here. At some point Smith had to give Dougie Waters an answer, too, about that job offer - consultant detective, self-employed, pick his own cases. It didn’t sound half-bad but somehow he hadn’t got round to making the decision. He should do one of those cost-benefit analysis things with two columns. Marcia had texted him a couple of times as well, saying no hard feelings about their date, if that’s what it was, she’d still love to see him joining Dougie’s business. You had to a
dmire her professionalism.

  And then there was Serena Butler.

  After telling all three that they would convene with notepads in Incident Room 1 in ten minutes, Smith sat at his own desk and watched her through the gap between the monitor and the old PC tower that was whirring slowly back into life after its unexpected day of rest. Maggie Henderson had managed another two months of light duties before her obstetrician had called time; now she was at home, putting her feet up and kicking her heels, John Murray had said. It took Smith a few seconds to dismiss the image entirely, each time he thought about it. Her replacement was Serena, not from Kings Lake but from Longmarsh out in the fens to the west of the city. She had arrived a week ago, business-like, smartly dressed and, as far as Smith himself was concerned, completely unapproachable. On Wednesday, before the Bell thing arrived by express delivery, he had made a mental note to call Paul Harrington at Longmarsh – Paul would know something about her. He might even know how and why she had been selected as Maggie’s replacement – as merely her boss, Smith knew none of these things.

  Before the briefing, he ought to go and report in to Detective Inspector Alison Reeve, but it was upstairs and his knee was hurting again. He knew it was a cartilage or a bit of one floating about, but they won’t do anything until it seizes up, and even then you can be waiting for weeks. Months, probably. If he rested it for a while, it usually cleared itself. He picked up the internal phone and dialled her number.

  ‘Good morning, DC.’

  ‘How do you do that, ma’am?’

  ‘Do what? Don’t call me ma’am unless there are junior officers present. Or certain senior ones.’

  ‘OK. How do you know it’s me?’

  ‘More technological wizardry. When someone calls, their number shows on my little screen. Because some people have called me many times, I remember their numbers. You are one of those special people.’