But For The Grace

by Peter Grainger

  “You do have one.”

  “I was answering your question. You may ask.”

  Smith’s smile became a grin as if he hadn’t had this much fun in years.

  “Very good! Ralph Greenwood, do you have an advance directive lodged with your medical practitioner?”

  “I find that rather too personal a question, and one that I do not feel obliged to answer.”

  “Entirely within your rights, sir. Of course, we do also have the right to examine anyone’s medical records. Ms Miller and I have already had that conversation. I assume that she will at least know the name of your doctor.”

  The interview had long ago taken unexpected turns; Irene Miller simply nodded rather vaguely when Smith looked at her this time.

  “You have that right if you have reason to believe that a serious crime has been committed, sergeant.”

  “Well, absolutely Ralph. And there’s not much doubt about that, is there? A fatal dose of heroin? Sounds quite serious to me.”

  It was the first time that it had been said to anyone other than Irene Miller herself. She looked at Greenwood but there was no visible reaction on his face; he continued to look at the detective sitting in front of him for a few seconds before he spoke.

  “Goodness me. Is that what happened?”

  No-one said anything for several seconds. Ralph Greenwood looked towards the door and then seemed to be listening for something – possibly the sound of the young detective on his mobile phone. Smith managed a surreptitious look at his watch; only five minutes since Waters went out. He needed to give him a bit longer than that but Greenwood was under no obligation to remain here, and he was the sort who would have no qualms about getting up and leaving as soon as he felt like it.

  “Yes, Ralph, that’s what happened. It’s a bit of a puzzler, to be honest. I mean, in a care home?”

  Something about the phrase seemed to irritate Ralph for a moment.

  Smith said, “It’s not the first thing you’d think of as the drug of choice in a care home, is it? I’d imagined perhaps a glass of dry sherry while Mrs Reed’s back is turned, or maybe a relative sneaking in with a bottle of single malt at Christmas – but heroin? It’s evil stuff, I can tell you. I’ve cleared up too many messes because of that – lives blighted, pretty young teenagers lying dead for days in bedsits… Most people have no idea.”

  Irene Miller was watching Smith rather than Ralph now. She sat slightly behind and to the side of the elderly man, and her look seemed to be saying, what are you doing, where is this going?

  “The thing is, Ralph, I can’t see how it arrived here in the first place. I’m going to be honest now and ask for your help with this because, let’s face it, you’ve got a lot more about you than some of the people in here. As a resident and an observant one at that, have you any ideas about how heroin could have been brought into Rosemary House?”

  Greenwood was a proud man – Smith sensed that more and more. He hated the thought of being in a ‘care home’, that was obvious, even though for some reason he had opted to remain there when his family had offered to take him back. Could be all sorts of reasons for that, though. But was he also a vain man? Could he resist the chance to ‘help’ the police? To show off just how smart he really was? Could he resist the opportunity to play games with the rather shabby detective sergeant who had been a little too much in his face for the last few minutes?

  “Well, sergeant, I believe it comes in rather small packets. Somewhat easier to smuggle in than a bottle of single malt.”

  “Yes, I’ve got that far. We’re only talking about a tiny amount needed to help an elderly lady end her days, aren’t we? But who? That’s my problem. Who comes into Rosemary House who also has the right kind of contacts out there to find that sort of thing? There can’t be many such people – I think that’s the way I’ve got to go with this now.”

  Ralph nodded. He seemed to be thinking it over carefully. Smith glanced up at Irene Miller again; once he was certain that Ralph’s eyes were not upon him he gave the manager a tiny shake of his head and hoped that she would understand.

  “So I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Ralph. The most likely person is one of the younger carers – someone who knows the scene in Lake, someone who either for money or out of some mistaken sense of idealism has brought that heroin into the building. They perhaps didn’t even know what it would ultimately be used for. What do you think?”

  The suggestion had brought the predicted look of shock to Irene Miller’s face but she had grasped his warning shake of the head – nothing else could explain her silence at that point. Ralph understood her position, though, and he half-turned to her with an amused expression before he responded.

  “I cannot imagine what Irene makes of your suggestion, sergeant! No doubt it is possible. Do you have someone in mind? I’m not asking you to tell me any names, naturally.”

  “There aren’t many carers young enough to fit my profile, Ralph. It shouldn’t take long to track him down – or her, obviously.”

  Ralph Greenwood picked up the qualification instantly, and despite himself Smith felt a long-forgotten flutter of excitement mingled with doubt – it’s a very odd sensation when one realizes that one might not be the smartest person in the interview room, even though you are the one asking the questions. But whatever Ralph said now, if he said anything at all, would tell Smith something.

  “Sergeant, for what it’s worth, I’d say it was more likely to be some occasional visitor. We get them in all ages, classes and sizes. They bring gifts and sit in the residents’ rooms, out of sight. A small packet, you say? Easily done. I don’t think any of our carers would risk their job, let alone their freedom.”

  Waters re-entered the office, making a show of closing his phone. Ralph nodded to him and then turned a smile towards Smith. A knowing smile. To end abruptly now would be tantamount to a confession and so Smith opened the file on the table in front of him.

  “Well, thanks for your input, Ralph. I hope you don’t mind if I call on you again at some point.”

  “You’ll always find me at home, sergeant.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will. I couldn’t help noticing your photo here. It’s a good one, isn’t it – different to everyone else’s. Who is this?”

  “My granddaughter.”

  “Oh, I thought it must be. Astra, isn’t it?”

  Ralph didn’t answer – he seemed intent on remaining absolutely motionless.

  “I know because a couple of people have mentioned her already. Her name is in the visitors’ book regularly – nice to see a youngster staying in touch like that, isn’t it? You must be proud of her.”

  “I am.”

  “Pretty girl, too.”

  Smith angled the photograph round slightly so that Waters could see it, as if he needed confirmation. When he looked back up at Ralph, there was no trace of the smile, nor of the irritation that sometimes replaced it for a moment; what Smith thought he could see there now was anger under an iron control.

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Tsh – a wonderful age to be! What does she do?”

  “She is a student.”

  “Ah, aren’t they all these days? Can’t be far away though, if she visits you most weeks…”

  “She is living at home for her first year.”

  “And that must be here in Lake, then. Where is she at college, Ralph?”

  “University. She is at UEA.”

  Smith said to Waters, as if he didn’t already know it, “That’s one of the proper universities. At Norwich. What’s she studying?”

  “IT.”

  “Oh, that’s the thing, isn’t it. ‘IT’ covers a multitude of sins, though. I expect she just calls it that so she doesn’t have to explain all the complicated things to oldies like us.”

  “A BSc in Computer Science.”

  “Well, it’s good to see girls getting involved in everything these days, I say. Well done, Astra.”
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br />   Ralph Greenwood’s hands were very large, and the fists were gripping each other tightly enough to make the knuckles go white.

  “Anyway, you’ve been most helpful, sir – thank you. I’m sorry to bring up these subjects in a place like Rosemary House but what can I say? We all have a job to do. What we actually need is for a case of assisted suicide or something to go through the courts right up to the top, to the House of Lords, say, with proper reporting so that there could be a public debate. Because it’s not straightforward – I can see that, and it makes you think about what your own wishes will be when the time comes. I mean, only recently I was talking to someone involved in the CLARIFY campaign, and that opened my eyes, I can tell you. Have you come across that group, Ralph?”

  The indulgent smile had returned – the detective seemed to be nattering away like a tea-lady.

  “I can’t say that I have, sergeant.”

  “Well, that’s what they’re after, a case to mount a campaign around, get the whole issue into the open. Like that thing years ago – oh, it must be donkeys’ years ago now – when the South African investments scandal blew up. Was it moral for British banks to be investing in South African natural resources? Never mind moral, was it even legal? That went to the Lords in the end, didn’t it? And then everyone knew where they stood. I can’t for the life of me remember what the case was called, though… Anyone?”

  Smith looked around at the room’s other three occupants. Waters’ face was a blank. Irene Miller was looking back at him as if he was soon to be admitted as a resident needing special care, and now it was her head that was shaking a little. Ralph Greenwood’s ironic smile was still there but somehow it seemed as if it had stiffened a little, as if it had become a mask that he was gazing through at the detective sergeant who knew perfectly well the name of the case to which he was referring.

  “Oh well,” said Smith, “I expect it’ll come back to me when I least need it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Immediately afterwards, Smith had said to Irene Miller, “What did you mean when you said that you and Ralph had had your moments?” She had explained that Ralph was, in her opinion, a man of considerable intelligence combined with strong ideas and firm principles. At times this brought him into conflict with ‘authority’, usually on behalf of another resident rather than for himself; they had had some lengthy debates.

  Smith had said, “Do you like him?”

  The question had taken her by surprise. After a moment she replied, “Yes.”

  “So do I, as it happens, but I imagine that he gets up some people’s noses…”

  She had smiled.

  “Such as Mrs Reed – I imagine she takes a more old-fashioned view.”

  The detective sergeant had a way of making remarks that were not questions but which nevertheless invited confidences.

  “Ralph usually comes to me these days.”

  “How much freedom does he have? Sorry if that’s the wrong word but it’s sort of complicated – you have locked doors and codes that the residents don’t know, so they are confined. I’m assuming Ralph doesn’t know the codes, of course.”

  “No, he won’t know them but I’ve never known him ask to go out unaccompanied. Ralph is different to most, as you have realized. He has more independence than the others, more ‘freedom’ as you call it. He can be useful once you get him onside – he’ll talk to other residents and help to resolve issues.”

  “He has a mobile phone?”

  A minor hesitation before “Yes. We generally don’t allow it. They can pester relatives and cause a lot of unnecessary worry but there is no question of that with Ralph.”

  “He doesn’t like the idea of being in ‘a care home’ though, does he?”

  They were standing in her office. Through the window Smith could see an ambulance in the car park, returning one of the residents from a visit to the hospital, presumably. Irene Miller had thought about her reply for several seconds before she made it.

  “No, he doesn’t. It’s not a term I like myself. We are a residential home for the elderly who need some level of care.”

  “A fine distinction – if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Nevertheless, it is one, sergeant, and I had the impression that you were using that term in order to provoke a response from Ralph.”

  Then Smith himself had paused momentarily.

  “Well, we all have unpleasant aspects to our jobs, Ms Miller. Before I go, can I ask about this issue of his medical records?”

  Ralph had his own GP who visited privately about once a month. There was an expectation that his records at the home would be updated on a regular basis but she could not be certain that this always happened when it should – they had had to ask about developments in the past. Ralph fully understood his own medical issues and felt able to manage his own treatments. He had made a hospital visit quite recently but she was not aware of any significant changes resulting from that.

  “You don’t know what it was for?”

  “No. Lots of our residents make visits. It is sometimes a while before we are officially updated but anything serious we know about straight away, obviously.”

  He arranged with her that they would return after lunch and speak with Martin Collins and Nancy Bishop; he didn’t need to ask her to be there this time. It felt as if she would insist upon it now.

  He told Waters to drive out onto the bypass – it was time that he was introduced to the true gastronomic gems of Kings Lake if he was determined to hang around the place. As they travelled, Waters began to talk about his visit to Ralph Greenwood’s room. Smith interrupted him.

  “Hold on, first things first. Did you, as they say on the TV, find the drugs?”

  Waters looked concerned.

  “No, DC. That’s not what you said, you told me to-”

  “I know what I said, I just thought you might have a quick look. Anyway, carry on.”

  Waters slowed down and inched the old Peugeot around some roadworks – BT laying fibre optic, maybe. His own connection in the flat was equivalent to camels crossing the desert on a very hot day.

  “As it happens, I did have a quick look…”

  After a deleted expletive, Smith told him to get on with it.

  “Well, the laptop doesn’t have a password. People who do that are either careless or confident. I looked for the things we said and there’s nothing, not one of them. He looks at chess sites quite a lot, and he obviously still follows legal matters and court cases but none of them relate to what you’re looking at in Rosemary House. Several different news sites – he likes to keep up. One or two medical ones, you know, Netdoctor, that sort of thing.”

  “Can you see what he’s been looking at on them?”

  “You’d need more time for that, and probably more expertise than I’ve got, DC. I might seem like a wizard compared to you but-”

  “Yes, yes, I get it. What else?”

  “The delete bin is empty. It isn’t set to do that automatically, so someone has manually cleared it, recently. There’d usually be something in it.”

  “Someone’s been tidying up, then.”

  “I’d say definitely. The hard drive had a major defragment over the weekend.”

  “Really? I think my doctor told me to get one of those when he last checked my blood pressure. What the hell is it?”

  Waters explained patiently – when files are deleted, spaces are left behind but in the wrong places for the computer to re-use them efficiently. Defragmentation reorganizes the location of the computer’s files to improve its effectiveness.

  “Very nice. Now in old-speak?”

  “A lot of material has been deleted recently. There’s more, though. When you delete a file from a hard drive, it still leaves evidence of itself behind – a footprint. Those footprints can be read by someone with the right knowledge until that space is written over again.”

  “Go on. Do we need to take this laptop into custody?”

  “You mig
ht get something but someone has almost filled the drive with new stuff in the past few days.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Pictures.”

  “Pictures? What of?”

  “It looks sort of random. Gardens, boats, landscapes. Nothing particularly connected to Ralph’s interests as far as I can see. Hundreds of high quality images – pictures take up the most space on any drive.”

  Smith gave him directions and then sat in silence for a couple of miles of bypass.

  “Are you saying that someone has deliberately filled it up to cover their tracks?”

  “That’s one possible interpretation of what I saw.”

  After another silence, Smith said, “Remind me not to introduce you to any more lawyers.”

  As they walked across the rutted and pot-holed lorry park, Smith pulled his duffel coat tighter and said that if he happened to own a brass monkey he’d be checking it to see if it still had all its necessaries right about now.

  It was lunch-time and the windows of the Tuck Stop were steamed up and running with condensation. Inside there was noise – male voices, the repetitive electronic rattle and thump of fruit machines and somewhere at the far end country music whined from a jukebox. But there were spaces at the high counter and Smith leaned both elbows on it as he studied the menu chalked on a blackboard. He was relieved to see that it was strewn with misplaced apostrophes - Floyd was still running things.

  A heavy man in chef’s whites appeared at the end of the counter from a doorway that led into a kitchen. He had remarkable jowels, hanging down far beyond the jawbone like the ears of a basset hound. When he saw Smith he gave the briefest nod of recognition and returned to the first circle of his ancient iron range, leaving what could only be one of his sons to take the newcomers’ order.

  “Steak pie medium rare, chips and gravy,” said Smith.

  The youth wrote it down, all of it, on a pad, and then looked up at Waters.

  “Oh, er, the same, thank you.”

  An ‘X 2’ was scrawled by the first order, and then the figure backed away a little before turning and disappearing into the kitchen. At some point he had been told ‘Police’ but by whom or exactly when, Smith could not be sure.