He booked the French restaurant, Sandrine’s, after due consideration, a table for two on Saturday evening. He had not been there for years, of course, but as far as he knew the ownership had not changed. He thought about ringing Marcia to let her know but it was already late and he had no idea what she might be doing – instead he sent another text. This was how matters were carried on these days, he’d read about that in a Sunday supplement, and so he must be a la mode, for a change. Then he emailed Jo Evison about her book. The more he thought about it, the more impressed he was but if he was too enthusiastic, she might get the wrong message – she might assume that he was keen for her to make her next one about Andretti. He typed it several times before he was happy enough to click send – ‘I finished your book. It’s good, you know your stuff, but I’m not sure there is anything new to say about the one I worked on all those years ago. Still, thanks for the offer, Regards, …’ and then he spent some minutes wondering how to sign off. None of the alternatives seemed appropriate. In the end, he just left it saying ‘Regards’.
He was on his favourite site for ordering new strings when he heard a ping and saw the tiny icon in the bottom right-hand corner telling him that he had new email. She had replied immediately: ‘Hello David – or should I say DC? Glad you liked it. I’m not sure there is anything new to say either – that’s why I would like to talk again. Can I ring you when I get back? At a conference in Munich until Friday. PS if I don’t hear I’ll assume it’s OK to ring. If it’s not, just text ‘no thanks’ and I’ll leave you alone, promise, Yours, Jo.’ After the message itself, it said ‘Sent from my iPhone’. At a conference in Munich… A conference for writers or one for consultant forensic profilers? Or something else entirely, as she seemed to be a woman of numerous parts. He could stop it all now with two words. He clicked reply but typed nothing. After thirty seconds the screen got fed up waiting and went to his saver, a picture of the beach at sunrise, the beach just west of Pinehills, no more than a couple of hundred yards from the caravan.
Thinking about Sheila then, he went downstairs and found the book of poems that had been there in the back of his mind since he first visited Rosemary House. Larkin had been her favourite, even the ones with the four-letter words, and when she read them aloud to him she said those words, laughing – the only time in her life that he heard her use such language. He flicked through it now and found the one that had come to mind. It was all there, in every verse – stanza, Sheila would say – the physical decay and the mental anguish. He had thought he would read it aloud in her memory but could not, he now realized, trust himself to do so. ‘The Old Fools…’ Yes, he had seen some like those Larkin described as he walked around Rosemary House that first day – the vacancy, the staring, the hollow, haunted eyes; but then too he had met Martin and Nancy and Ralph who still seemed to have the power of choosing, whose only weaknesses were in their ageing joints, muscles and bones. Old age, it seemed, could take one in any number of ways, and he could not help wondering which it would choose for him. Well, as the poet said, we will find out.
He found the line she loved, the glimpse through the window at a lost world – “The blown bush at the window, or the sun’s faint friendliness on the wall some lonely rain-ceased midsummer evening.” Isn’t that beautiful, she had said, lying on the couch behind him until he turned to look, and saw once again that it was empty now.
Chapter Fifteen
In full regalia, Gloria Butterfield QC made stately progress towards them across the huge foyer of the Crown Court building. Smith and then Waters stood up to mark her arrival at the little circle of chairs that they had occupied for the past few minutes.
“Detective Chief Inspector no longer? Sergeant Smith? What on earth did you do? At first I couldn’t believe it was the same person – I thought there must be another Detective Smith!”
They shook hands and Smith introduced her to Waters – she shook his hand firmly as well. She was tall and imposing – there was no other word for it. In her demeanour there was something of the ageing PE mistress but the voice was rich and sonorous. When she dropped it, as she did now, it became low and almost ludicrously seductive.
“Do you mind if we sit here? My junior has our present client in the cupboard they call our room. If he saw the police he might make a run for it again – obviously I’m talking about our client, not my junior… Smith, tell me what happened. Explain yourself.”
As Waters listened to Smith explaining himself, he realized that perhaps for the first time he was hearing genuine respect in the older detective’s conversation; the two people never used each other’s Christian names – Smith was simply ‘Smith’ and she was ‘Mrs Butterfield’ – but there was clearly a deal of mutual admiration between them. Old cases were mentioned and knowing looks were exchanged. One or two other names, of police officers and lawyers, were passed back and forth for brief consideration; some had retired, it seemed, and some had passed away. Waters had a sense for history and felt it reverberating between the two as they spoke of their meetings in times past.
Then, after a look at her watch, Gloria Butterfield was speaking of the present.
“Well, we are very grateful for your help, and very fortunate that it was you two who made the arrest in this case,” with a look to Waters – she must have remembered his name from the case notes. “Mr Subic senior asked me to say thank you to you both. Your statements will help us in what we have to say in mitigation. We might not need to call you, Smith, if the prosecution behave themselves, but it is good to know that we can do so if necessary.”
“How is Petar doing?”
“Well. As you know, all my clients are innocent, Smith, but it is a pleasure to have one who is also completely honest. For that alone, we must do our very best for him.”
“A likely outcome?”
She smiled and was not to be drawn.
“I am hopeful. Of course, the case does have some political dimensions to it which have so far remained, what shall we say – out of sight? They will probably remain out of sight unless we are forced to appeal the sentence. Perhaps his His Honour will bear that in mind…”
It was a glimpse of the ruthless intelligence that, among other things, made Smith respect this barrister for the defence. Waters had been in the station long enough now to have heard the disparaging remarks about defence counsels; now he was seeing the matter from a different perspective. Mrs Butterfield was drawing the meeting to a close when Smith spoke again.
“I was wondering whether I might ask you a question on another matter, Mrs Butterfield. Entirely off the record, naturally.”
“Goodness, how interesting. And you know how fond I am of irregularities! What is it?”
“I was wondering whether you have ever worked out of Lincoln’s Inn?”
“The very thought! I am a Grays’s Inn girl, sergeant, and always have been. Why on earth do you ask?”
Smith took his time before answering.
“I would like to mention a name to you, Mrs Butterfield.”
Waters saw the look that passed between them, and he saw too the analytical cogs of the machinery of the law begin to engage as she chose her own words with care.
“Is this a person of interest?”
“Possibly.”
“Has he or she been arrested or charged at any point so far?”
“No.”
She looked at Waters and said, “Young man, I should really ask you leave at this point but as you are here in Sergeant Smith’s company, I’ll trust his judgement. What is the name?”
“Ralph Greenwood.”
Her eyes gave nothing away.
“Of Fitchett and Royce, Lincoln’s Inn?”
“Yes.”
She raised her eyebrows and thought for some seconds.
“I believe that he retired a good few years ago. He was clerk to the chambers for as long as I can remember. And I cannot comprehend how he has come into your purview, Smith.”
“It would be wrong
of me to burden you with details, Mrs Butterfield. I was simply wondering whether you had any knowledge of him, as a clerk to the chambers.”
She could see what he wanted, some sort of character reference; the only question was whether she would provide one.
“I never worked with him, obviously. But the Inns are a closed and intimate world, even today. What can I say? Mr Greenwood was something of a legend. He was old-school. I’m sure that he would have worked his way up from office boy to managing the chambers but I do not know that for a fact. What I do know is that he was famously good at – organising things. It’s difficult to grasp if you haven’t worked in such an environment. The clerk has to understand the personalities and relationships of clients and solicitors, and of barristers, clerks to the court and judges. He has to know how to manipulate the listings process without ever appearing to do so. He has to develop along the way a deep knowledge of the law. He can be the difference between a chambers being financially successful and impoverished. As a junior, I met him once or twice in the course of business, but I never got to know him. I think that’s all I can say.”
Smith stood up and thanked her. As she returned to the cupboard that held her innocent but nervous client and her no doubt awestruck junior, to the wood-panelled courtrooms where justice lives and sometimes dies, Smith watched and waited until she was out of sight. Then he reached into his pocket, took out his car keys and handed them to Waters.
In response to the unasked question he said, “Rosemary House.”
Irene Miller did not immediately grasp what Smith was saying.
“Well, I’m sure he will either be in his room or the social area – you can go straight up and see, sergeant.”
Smith shook his head.
“Not this time, Ms Miller. This is a second interview. When we go back and question people about things that they have already told us, it can get awkward. People can start assuming that we did not believe them or that they are under suspicion. I’d rather approach it differently this time.”
“I see.”
She didn’t, not at first, but then as she thought about what Smith had said, Waters saw the lights coming on.
“Sergeant, are you implying that Ralph was somehow involved?”
“No. I am implying nothing – I’m saying that we need to speak to Ralph again to go into a bit more detail about some of the things that he has told us and that other people have told us since, and that I’d rather do it in your office this time. Also, unless Mr Greenwood asks for his legal representative to be present – and I don’t think he will – I would prefer it if you sat in with us, just in case he gets upset or stressed, even though I don’t think he’ll do that either. While we’re at it, I’d like the same arrangement to be in place for when we speak to Nancy Bishop and Martin Collins again, if you don’t mind.”
She had been standing in her office – now she sat down at her desk and looked at Smith.
“What a situation… Is there anything else I need to be aware of? As the home manager I know that there are some circumstances in which I have quasi-something status. I expect that covers this.”
At that point Smith explained the arrangements for the search warrant. It covered the building but he could only see the need to look at one room at present. He wanted to do so this morning, with her agreement. It would be done discreetly, without the resident being aware of it on this occasion. She was free to telephone Inspector Reeve herself and confirm these arrangements. And they’d need a pass key.
Waters watched her closely. In the car, Smith had told him that they were in a grey area here, and if asked DI Reeve might well want more explanations from Smith about what he was intending than he felt inclined to give. But then Irene Miller waved it away, and took a spare key out of her desk drawer.
“You obviously know what you are doing, but I don’t know how you do this, I really don’t. It makes me ill just thinking about it. Should I go and fetch him?”
When she had gone, Smith turned to Waters and said, “Is John all set up? Good. Text him and say to call you in fifteen minutes. Then just do what we agreed. Don’t worry, I don’t reckon you’ll be breaking any laws – not important ones, anyway.”
“I expect if I don’t crack today, you’ll be taking me to the station next time!”
Smith smiled, Waters watched intently and Irene Miller looked distinctly uncomfortable. Ralph Greenwood returned Smith’s smile and looked around the office.
“Still, it isn’t the first time I’ve been up before the head, is it Irene?”
“You and I have had our moments, Ralph.”
Smith opened the folder and his notebook.
“Ralph, I hope you don’t mind but there are a few more things to clear up. When we met last time it was early days. Since then we‘ve spoken to a lot of people and well, to be completely honest, while some things are clearer, others aren’t. So we’ve got to go back over some old ground.”
“Standard procedure – ask the same questions several times and see if the answers vary at all. Fire away, sergeant!”
Waters made a note then in his own book, as Smith had suggested. He wrote ‘He’s thoroughly enjoying this’.
“Funnily enough, Ralph, I was saying to my boss only yesterday that there’s very little that is ‘standard’ about this case. I’ve never come across one like it before. But I do think that we’re going to come across cases like it a lot more in the future, don’t you?”
“What sort of cases are those?”
“Oh, assisted suicide. Assisted dying, that sort of thing. It’s inevitable, isn’t it, with the ageing population, limited resources and people’s expectations about quality of life? It could become all the rage.”
Irene Miller shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Waters felt for her and fleetingly thought about passing her a note that said something like ‘Sorry, but you haven’t heard anything yet’. The eyes that were locked onto Smith’s were smiling again but seemed somehow a sharper blue than when Ralph had first entered the office, after holding open the door for Irene Miller.
Ralph said, “Well, it’s easy to be glib about these things when one is only, what – fifty?”
“Now then, Ralph, you won’t get round me with compliments! But seriously, I didn’t mean to sound glib. It’s just my way. People misunderstand me sometimes – I expect you have the same problem.”
For a moment the smile disappeared – and then it returned again slowly. Smith’s unconventional approach had not rattled Ralph Greenwood yet, and Waters thought about what Gloria Butterfield had told them that morning.
“What was it you wanted to ask me, sergeant?”
“Well, we are already on the subject, as it happens. Did you ever discuss these matters – assisted suicide, assisted dying – with Joan Riley?”
“Yes. When you are as close as we are to the end of life, these are subjects that tend to loom large in one’s conversations.”
“Did you ever discuss them with Elspeth Grey?”
Still no hesitation, and not a blink of the steely eyes.
“That was some time ago but yes, almost certainly. Elspeth was another intelligent and thoughtful woman.”
“For obvious reasons, Ralph, I would be grateful if you could tell me what Joan’s attitude to the subject was. Did she have strong opinions on how life should end?”
“You would not expect me to put words into the mouth of someone who has died, sergeant. But like most of us, I think the loss of control was a concern. We all like to think that we will have some say in the matter.”
Smith nodded.
“Of course, completely understandable. That explains the advance directive, doesn’t it?”
“I believe that Joan had such an instrument in place.”
“Yes, she did. So did Elspeth Grey. So do Martin and Nancy. I’m sure I’m not breaking any confidences in telling you that, as you do all talk together and these subjects loom large in your conversations.”
Smith glanced a
t Irene Miller – he had forgotten to point out to her all those advance directives in such close proximity. She did look suitably surprised and he wondered whether she would say anything now – he hoped not.
“In fact, Ralph, the only person amongst the Famous Five who doesn’t have such an instrument is – you.”
For the first time, Ralph took a moment before responding. When he eventually did so, he managed to sound a little bored.
“Two points, sergeant. First, I do not see what possible bearing that fact, if it is a fact, has on your investigation. Second, you are making an assumption. You are assuming that because such a document is not present there” – and he pointed with some contempt towards the folder in front of Smith – “that I do not have such a directive in place.”
Smith looked at Irene Miller again.
“Some of our residents have their own arrangements with their doctors, as they are perfectly entitled to do. Obviously we try to keep our own files up to date – we need to be told about developments if we are to offer the best care but-”
Waters’ phone rang. As he answered it, he made the usual vague apologies. After listening for a moment he said to Smith, “Sorry, it’s the station. I should probably deal with this.”
Smith nodded and Waters left the office. At first they could hear his voice outside and then it faded as he walked away from the door.
Smith said to Ralph Greenwood, “I’m sorry if I seemed too personal, Ralph. Sometimes people who don’t know much about police work do not understand why we ask the questions we do.”
It was the tiniest of barbs but it went home.
“Nevertheless, may I ask whether you do have an advance directive like the others?”
“Yes.”
But For The Grace Page 18
