But For The Grace

by Peter Grainger

  At first she had made as if to apologise for the fact and then, oddly, she had brought herself up short, looked Smith in the eye and said, “No, I do not.” Smith had asked her how well she had got to know the people who visited her friends – she had named one or two, including Astra Maitland – but gave nothing away about her opinions of them. The next line had been to ask her to tell him again about what she had done on Saturday the 6th of December last year. When she looked a little blank, Smith had said, “That’s the day your friend died, Mrs Bishop…”

  This answer was more hesitantly given, as if remembering was an effort – was she trying to remember what happened that night or what she had told the detectives in her last interview? When she had finished, Smith looked into his notebook for some seconds and sighed. Then, “Mrs Bishop, in your work as a nurse, in your long career caring for the sick and probably saving lives, did you ever have responsibility for dealing with the bodies of those patients who had died?”

  “Yes. A number of times.”

  “That was something that you were able to do?”

  “One has little choice in the matter – and one gets used to it eventually.”

  “You see, while you were sitting alone in your room that Saturday night someone went into Joan’s room after she died. We believe that they probably touched the body. Have you any idea who might have done that, Mrs Bishop?”

  Involuntarily the elderly woman had glanced at Irene Miller before answering.

  “Of course not!”

  “Why ‘Of course’, Mrs Bishop?”

  The question had taken her off-guard.

  “Because – I – well, obviously I would have said something.”

  “To whom?”

  She was floundering a little, the most easily confused of the three and even Smith seemed to have felt a pang of guilt – at least, Waters had that impression.

  “To Irene – to the police?”

  “You are saying that you would have called the police if you had suspected any such thing? Quite right because to interfere with a body, particularly when knowing that the body itself is evidence of other criminal acts, is a serious matter. But you didn’t tell anyone because you knew nothing about any of this until I told you just a moment ago – is that correct?”

  Smith had told her that she could go shortly after that, and she was halfway to the door, leaning on Irene Miller’s arm when he called out to her, “Oh, Mrs Bishop, I need your professional opinion on another matter.”

  She had stopped and turned towards him.

  “Mr Collins seems to be suffering with his arthritis again. I wondered if he had mentioned it to you. I expect they ask you about things like that.”

  “It’s an affliction of age – we all have it somewhere.”

  “Mr Collins seems to be suffering badly in his hands.”

  She straightened up a little more and said, “I’d say his hip is worse.”

  “Ah, would you? Which one?”

  She tried to think – Waters could see her eyes going right and then left as if they would find the correct answer. Had someone else already been asked the question?

  “I think he has it both sides. It comes and goes.”

  “Yes… A bit like my faith in human nature, Mrs Bishop.”

  As they were leaving, Irene Miller walked them to the outer door. She had asked if they would be back and Smith had, after an ironic frown at Waters, replied that one way or another he feared that she not seen the last of them.

  “So you’ve got the visitors to look at. Anything else?”

  “I’m going to ring Ralph Greenwood’s GP this morning.”

  Alison Reeve looked round at the three faces as if to say, is this really all we have left? Waters, Murray and Smith waited, relieved in their different ways that it was not them who now had to go and report progress to the senior officers’ weekly briefing in half an hour.

  “OK, go national on the check into the visitors. If you’ve only checked everyone else out on the local database, go back and do those nationally as well. Find me something – I don’t like the way this is heading, just when our ‘Ongoing’ percentage was beginning to fall.”

  Smith watched her walk briskly past the one small window of Incident Room 1. Then he said, “I don’t know what she’s complaining about – my ongoing percentage has been nil for years. It doesn’t make you happy. Let’s deal with the important things first. How’s Maggie doing, John?”

  Well, it seemed, but she was refusing all anti-sickness drugs, so mornings were still somewhat traumatic – and she was still fretting about letting DC down.

  “Daft…woman. Chris, I hope you’re taking all this in – morning sickness? You and Clare should go and do an early visit before you get carried away. How many texts have you had today? I thought you must have a mini beehive in your pocket yesterday. Fetch us some coffee and then you can sneak in a reply. John, let’s divvy up these visitors.”

  They discovered that Martin Collins’ younger brother, who had visited him one day in late summer, had a conviction for fraud and a suspended sentence hanging over him, but try as they might they could not turn that into the remotest likelihood that he had graduated from fiddling his accounts to supplying heroin. Nevertheless, an email was sent to the Nottingham force to double check on the man’s character and known associates. When Waters found nothing for Astra Maitland, Smith went across and made a couple of suggestions but these too proved fruitless. He said that he wasn’t surprised – she was bright, from a well-to-do home and had Ralph Greenwood watching over her; even if she was going to be naughty, she wasn’t likely to make silly mistakes. Waters continued to look at the blank results screen; then he went onto the University’s web pages and tried various searches but none would provide student lists. Smith said he knew why – “It’s a lefty place, isn’t it. Even without data protection policies, they wouldn’t be especially helpful. I was there on a case once – we were as welcome as a fart in a lift. If she comes up clean, she comes up clean and that’s that.”

  Waters said, “I thought she was our best bet, DC. Once you discount her, what have you got? No likely visitors for the other two, and then you’re looking at someone else entirely being involved.”

  Smith nodded – this was what he had seen coming. He went back to his desk, found Ralph Greenwood’s files and then the telephone number that Irene Miller had given to him yesterday. It was a mobile. With any luck he’d get through directly – doctors’ receptionists were the worst of the lot.

  “Good morning. Am I speaking to Doctor Ibrahim? Good. I wonder if you could help me…”

  Smith explained who he was and what he wanted in general terms – then he mentioned Ralph Greenwood’s name. Waters watched and listened. After about twenty seconds, he saw Smith close his eyes, and that was followed shortly by the customary sigh.

  Smith said, “No sir, no caution and no charges…” and then listened some more. “Well, yes, it is in connection with a serious matter but…” Smith caught Waters’ eye and made a gesture towards the mouthpiece, a complicated gesture that began with a clenched fist and somehow became a single finger. “Very well, sir. Yes, I see… Before you go, Doctor, can I ask you something else? It’s not actually about Mr Greenwood’s medical records as such. Are you able to tell me whether you hold any other documentation for him – such as any instructions about treatment in the event of serious illness? Well, I mean terminally serious… I see, you are not able to tell me that either. Thank you so much. May I say what a pleasure it has been to – oh, he’s gone.”

  He replaced the phone and immediately wrote a record of the conversation such as it was in his notebook. Then he looked up at Waters and said, “Dr Ibrahim was either very carefully chosen or very well-briefed – probably both. Ralph could have been standing behind him and working him with a pedal. You’ve got to hand it to the old boy.”

  After a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the whirr of a printer in the corner, and even that sounded
slightly bored.

  “John, any ideas?”

  John Murray switched off his monitor – he was always funny about things like that, thought Smith, and was probably already worrying about future energy bills when Maggie stopped work.

  “Check every visitor in the book?”

  Smith nodded glumly; they were reduced to that, the sort of mindless, repetitive search that produced a result about one time in a thousand – but they had nothing else. He turned to Waters.

  “Starsky? Or are you Hutch? I can’t remember… Anyway, any bright ideas from you? Have you yet turned the full force of the university-educated brain onto this case?”

  He was only joking, of course, but Waters had not forgotten the silent drive yesterday back from the Tuck Stop to Rosemary House; he wanted to contribute something to make up for that careless remark. He had learned already that Smith, whilst utterly loyal to the colleagues he trusted, was not averse to letting them know if he thought they were out of line or not pulling their weight. So he offered one tentative idea.

  “We’ve assumed that someone must have brought it in, the heroin.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, there are other ways things can get into a building. Maybe someone sent it in, had it delivered.”

  Smith and John Murray exchanged glances. After a short silence, Smith said, “You’re not telling me you can order this stuff from Amazon now?”

  Murray said, “He’s got a point, DC. A tiny little plastic bag could go into an ordinary envelope. We know cocaine gets imported like that.”

  Smith considered it.

  “OK… That place must get a stack of mail every day. There’s about zero chance that they keep a record of who gets what but it’s worth asking. Chris, you can do that. Phone Irene Miller and find out what happens to the post. Talk about long shots, though. If we aim any further out we’ll have to take account of the curvature of the earth. We need to keep at this, boys. I’ve a horrible feeling that-”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the event that he was about to predict took place. The door to Incident Room 1 opened and DI Reeve entered; Detective Superintendent Allen’s head could be seen out in the corridor, framed by the little window to her left.

  “DC, could we have a word?”

  After his customary Thursday night dinner of baked beans on toast – “a balanced and nutritious meal that you should not feel ashamed of” according to the booklet he had bought for twenty pence on a market stall, ‘Healthy Eating for Happy Singles’ – Smith refused to go up to his study and do his usual hour of unpaid overtime. “A word” had turned into quite a lot of words; after a couple of minutes, Reeve had suggested that the three of them adjourn to her office – this type of conversation was best not carried out in a corridor.

  Superintendent Allen had pushed for details of the Rosemary House investigation until even Smith’s memory gave up and he had to resort to his notebook – nothing was more likely to make him feel like a probationary constable and his answers had become progressively more sardonic. He had known that it was happening, had not failed to see the warning glances from Reeve but had carried on regardless. As he explained what they had done and why, and then had to listen to Allen’s facile suggestions, he wondered what lay behind this; the ACC’s mother had not come up on any radar as needing to be spoken to or even of, and there was no hint of press interest, which was the most usual reason for Allen to start having problems with his underwear. And then Smith wondered whether this was, for the Superintendent at least, a slightly more subtle manoeuvre – was this about Smith’s refusal to consider a transfer? Was Allen out to make his life here uncomfortable in order to encourage him to reconsider?

  After some twenty minutes, Allen had said, “Well DC, what are you going to do?” DC? Invariably he was either ‘Smith’ or, if they were trying to get him to retire, ‘David’. He decided to ignore the change in nomenclature for now, and said that basically, he intended to wait. Now he leaned back on the sofa and replayed the conversation that followed.

  Allen had said, “Wait? Wait for what?”

  “Another development. We’ve all had these cases, sir. Sometimes there is nothing else you can do. We’ll go through every visitor for the past year if necessary and we will monitor the situation.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Well, we’ve established a reasonable relationship with the management of Rosemary House. I will keep in touch with Irene Miller.”

  “You will keep in touch… And what sort of things might she able to tell you in, say, a month’s time, that might enable you to solve this case? I don’t follow this line of reasoning, I have to say.”

  Smith had seen the expression on Alison Reeve’s face – surprise and concern. He knew what lay behind it; she had never seen Smith pushed like this, and she would probably end up feeling somewhat embarrassed for him. Something had altered in him then.

  “Well, I don’t mind explaining it to you, sir. Irene Miller is not a stupid woman. She will now be more vigilant and be looking for certain behaviours amongst her residents. I will make sure of that. Or something might be said that sheds some light on Mrs Riley’s passing, now that we have been in there and upset a few people. One of them might be overcome with remorse and make a full confession. Who knows, we might even get another body and be able to do some proper forensics next time.”

  Allen’s face had shifted slowly from irritation at assumed incompetence to alarm as he realized that Smith was perfectly serious.

  “Are you telling me, Smith, that you think there is even a remote possibility that this will happen again?”

  “It’s at least a remote one, sir. I think it’s already happened at least twice. We’ve got at least three other people in the same group signed up to the do-not-resuscitate club. A third one would, of course, make it officially a serial matter – but I’m not sure whether you can technically have a serial suicide. For obvious reasons.”

  When he had glanced at Reeve, she had her eyes closed briefly, but she had opened them before Allen turned to her.

  “DI Reeve – your views? Personally, I find it unthinkable that we do not act to prevent what Smith has suggested might happen. If it ever got out that – and we could have prevented it? Everything possible must be done.”

  “I agree, sir, but DC-”

  “Absolutely everything. Smith, this Greenwood character. You clearly have some suspicions?”

  And Smith hesitated – where was this going?

  “That’s all they are, sir. There’s nothing else, not one shred.”

  “Even so. Have you pushed him? We don’t need to be too subtle, too psychological if lives are at stake, do we? He has only been interviewed at the home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why not get him in, shake him up a little? I don’t need to explain any of this to people as experienced as you two, do I?”

  Allen had smiled then, showing lots of teeth, as if he had revealed to them the one idea that they had failed to consider.

  Smith said, “Well, a couple of thoughts spring to mind. First, he is seventy four years old, so there are considerations as to his own well-being and mental state. The second reason might appear to be contradictory to that but actually isn’t; Mr Greenwood would probably rather enjoy such an invitation. Sir.”

  “Enjoy it? Not in my day, sergeant! Why-”

  “With respect, sir, you won’t have come across too many like Ralph Greenwood.”

  The interruption had brought things to some sort of conclusion.

  Superintendent Allen had said, “Nevertheless. You and your team have tomorrow to make some sort of further progress. I want to see you both on Monday morning – Alison, my PA will contact you about that. If necessary, I will conduct the next interview with Mr Greenwood myself.”

  Smith went upstairs and into the back bedroom – the guitar room. He picked up the classical acoustic, settled it across his knees and pulled across the six strings. They were still new, s
till rich in tone but had now stopped that initial stretching – they were perfectly in tune. Without thinking he began to play ‘Mallorca’. When Allen had left the room with the self-satisfied air of a man who had managed to find time in his busy day to instruct his juniors in the finer arts of their craft, Reeve had begun to apologise, and Smith had then interrupted her.

  “Really, I don’t give a monkey’s whatever. What’s he do all day but pull rank on people? He won’t achieve anything and he might make things worse – but as long as I’ve said that, my backside is covered, isn’t it? That’s the name of the game now.”

  “DC? You’re allowed to be cynical but not bitter.”

  Spain… They had been once, on a cheap package holiday to Malaga. He had heard guitars in the backstreets, in cafes and from deep shadows on sultry evenings. They should have gone back, said they would one day, to the interior, to the heartlands of the Sierra Nevada, following the true music up into the hills.

  When he did not respond, Reeve had said, “As it’s all being said today, I need to ask you something myself, DC. I mentioned this a few days ago. If this is a difficult case because of you and Sheila, you need to say so.”

  Smith had been honest then, and said that he couldn’t remember exactly what he had told her – it was more than three years ago and a lot had been going on then.

  “You told me that she asked you a question. They had brought her home, and you were caring for her. You had several weeks off, I remember. I expect you had many conversations but – you told me that she had asked you the question. So, if you’d rather not deal with this case, I would understand. Completely. And it would not go any further. In fact, why not let Super Allen get his hands dirty for a change?”

  He had said, “I don’t think it has caused me any problems with this. It was a while ago now.”

  “Still – you don’t dislike Ralph Greenwood. Is that because you have some sympathy – for what he might have done? Sorry to go on, David, but, well, I’m trying to consider all points of view here.”