But For The Grace

by Peter Grainger

  Allen said then, “I hope that it has also been explained to you that you have a right to legal representation in these circumstances?”

  “It has been explained with admirable clarity by Sergeant Smith.”

  “And so I assume that you are waiving that right at present.”

  Ralph Greenwood looked closely at the empty chair beside him before answering, “So it would seem.”

  Allen was undeterred – he had met hard cases like this before.

  “Most people in this position would choose to have a solicitor present, Mr Greenwood.”

  “I suppose that would be because most people in this position are guilty of something.”

  Superintendent Allen gave the suspect his best be-it-on-your-own-head look and said, “Would you please confirm for the tape that you are waiving your right to legal representation in this interview?”

  “I confirm for the tape that I am waiving my right to legal representation. Would you, superintendent, please confirm for the tape that I am neither under arrest nor under caution?”

  Allen glanced at the camera for a split second as if to check whether there was, after all, a local news reporter hiding behind it.

  “You have not been arrested or cautioned at this point in time other than to advise you of your right to silence, Mr Greenwood.”

  “‘At this point in time?’ Ridiculous phrase – I don’t know how or why it has found its way into the language. Nevertheless, I have not been cautioned today as to my right to silence. Is that because you are making a de facto assumption that I am already aware of that right under the law? If so, I would like to know on what basis you are making that assumption.”

  Allen was looking at Smith now.

  Smith said, “Mr Greenwood was not cautioned as to his right to silence, or to its adoption’s possible implications in a future court appearance, in the previous interviews as it was not deemed necessary by me. The caution has not been given today – in the absence of the interviewing officer, and in view of the fact that the tape isn’t actually running yet, sir…”

  To his credit, Allen never blinked. The entire interview so far was re-wound in spirit, the tape and camera were switched on – much to Waters’ relief he had something to do – and Ralph Greenwood was given his statutory right to silence, which he promptly declined with an ironic “at this point in time” and a friendly smile.

  Perhaps that smile deceived Allen a little. He seemed to adopt a more amenable approach once the interview was properly underway, and his opening remark was “I know that you’ve already had a couple of chats with Sergeant Smith – he has told me a lot about you.”

  “Really?” Greenwood had replied. “You do surprise me, superintendent.”

  “Why is that? We do talk to each other!”

  “No doubt. But I cannot imagine that Sergeant Smith knows a lot about me. That he knows something, I am certain, but a lot? I doubt it…”

  It would be wrong to say that things went downhill from there – they just trundled along at the same level for an hour or so before Allen thanked Mr Greenwood for his assistance and asked Smith to ensure that he was safely returned to Rosemary House. It wasn’t incompetently done but it was uninspired, and Smith wondered what Waters was making of it. The whole thing could have been avoided if they had listened – this is what happens when you formally interview a clever man who knows at least as much about the law as you do, and have no sodding evidence! In boxing terms, Allen had not laid a glove on Ralph Greenwood, and all three of them – Greenwood, Allen and Smith – knew it. Afterwards, Allen had dodged away quickly, saying that they would meet after reviewing the tapes; it was just as likely, thought Smith, that he was trying to think of a way of losing them.

  Only once had there been a moment when all in Interview Room 3 had held their breath. In the last few minutes Allen had suddenly asked, probably out of simple irritation, whether Ralph knew anything about the death of Joan Riley that he had not told them. Greenwood had paused before answering, “Yes, I do.”

  No-one had said, well, what is it – everyone had simply waited for him to tell them.

  “I haven’t told anyone how much pain she was in from her multiple fractures. At our age, they never heal properly, you know. I haven’t told anyone how afraid she was of another fall or how courageously she faced that fear. I haven’t told anyone what a fine woman she was and how much I admired her.”

  Waters drove Smith’s car while he sat in the back with Ralph Greenwood. In the couple of hours that they had spent in the station, the snow had continued to fall, steadily and straight down onto the frozen streets. The main roads had been kept clear by traffic but once they were into the suburbs and heading for Rosemary House the surfaces became compacted snow and Waters had to slow down and drop the gears. Smith had wondered then whether he had ever driven in such conditions before, but they hardly drifted and they arrived at the car park without incident.

  Little had been said. When Ralph opened his door, Smith told him to wait until he was outside himself. Sometime earlier the path to the entrance doors had been swept but already fresh snow had begun to fill the cleared area – he would see the old man to the door.

  He took Greenwood’s arm without asking and there was no objection, no attempt to pull away. Under his other arm, he held the laptop which Superintendent Allen had concluded did not merit further investigation at this stage. A few feet from the door was a lowered kerb, hidden by the snow and as he stepped forward, Ralph’s foot slipped from it and he stumbled, losing a little of his balance. Without Smith’s grip he would have fallen; as it was, he half-twisted to save himself and it was then that Smith glimpsed the look of pain, strong and involuntary pain, that took momentary possession of the face, even of the sharp blue eyes.

  Ralph Greenwood was immediately aware that more than his foot had slipped in that split second. He laughed aloud and thanked Smith for his assistance, said it was his fault for talking about the elderly and their falls, a silly coincidence… He disengaged his arm from Smith’s and straightened up, demonstrating that he was well again and once more in control.

  Smith said, “If you’re sure you are OK, then. I don’t mind seeing you indoors.”

  “No need, sergeant, but thank you.”

  He turned away from the doors and looked across the floodlit car park to the gardens beyond – Smith did the same. It was still snowing, a little less heavily than earlier on but it was clear that there was much more to come from the great darkness overhead. Only their car tracks and footprints showed in the white, smooth covering, and the rose bushes and bare shrubs held a little V of whiteness in every fork. And then there came the silence that only snow can bring, new snow that softens the edges of every sound, that muffles every tread, the silence that seeps into familiar things and slowly freezes them into a stillness. In the car, Smith could see only Waters’ patient hands gripping the wheel, waiting, and behind them, in the building, there was no sign of life.

  Ralph Greenwood said, “Isn’t this beautiful?”

  “Yes. The more so because it’s been a long time coming, I suppose.”

  “In the end, sergeant, it is only moments like this that matter.”

  Moments like fresh snowfall, thought Smith, or perhaps the sun’s faint friendliness on the wall some lonely rain-ceased midsummer evening? He could hear the older man slowing and deepening his breathing to take in more of the pure, cold air.

  “You alright, sir? I thought you might have hurt yourself when you slipped.”

  “Really, sergeant, I am fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  They stood for a few more seconds watching the fall of snow, and then, without taking his eyes from it, Greenwood said, “Have you read any Joyce, sergeant?”

  “I don’t think I have – I suppose I would remember. But I’m sure my wife did, if that’s any help.”

  “Did? You are divorced?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh – my apologies, and condolences then
. Why are you sure that she would have read Joyce – if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “She was an English teacher.”

  “I see.” There was a short pause before he said, “I never had an extended formal education. I left school at fifteen, took the first job I could get and worked all my life in an office. But you already know what I did for a living, sergeant! It’s of no importance now. But I discovered literature all by myself, you know – completely self-taught. I often think it’s the best way. Do you know who said ‘Nothing worth knowing can ever be taught’?”

  “No, I don’t, but I can see what he was driving at.”

  “Absolutely. But anyway, Joyce ends one of his stories with snow falling just like this. I could even quote for you the closing sentences, but fear not, I won’t. I think it’s probably the best short story that I’ve ever read.”

  Smith turned at a movement behind them. Irene Miller was standing at the door inside, waiting to open it and let Ralph back in – she rubbed her arms to show that it must be too cold for him to be standing outside.

  Smith said, “I’ll look it up, Ralph. I should be able to manage a short story. Irene is here – you ought to be going inside.”

  Greenwood finally took his eyes away from the ever-whitening world, looked down at Smith and laughed as he stepped towards the door.

  “Going inside, sergeant? I don’t think there’s much chance of that, do you?”

  Smith shook his head and said, “Not much.” He held out the laptop to Greenwood.

  Irene Miller had the outer door open for him now. He went through it then turned to face Smith.

  “How will you look that story up if you don’t know what it’s called?”

  “Sorry – getting slow in my old age. What is it?”

  The outer door was on a graduated spring and was closing itself slowly upon Ralph Greenwood as he said, “Easy enough to remember. It’s called ‘The Dead’.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘You are an egoist (or an egotist – I had to look them up, they mean the same). “I don’t fancy being written about that much”? You would not be. Take another look at the book. I’d say that less than ten per cent is about the detective in charge of the investigation, and a lot of that is her talking about the work of her junior officers. You’ve assumed that you would be the focus but that isn’t so at all. My interest is, and has always been, on the perpetrator and his victims – and in particular how the two are related psychologically, socially and even culturally.

  ‘Egotism is, to be fair, common amongst detectives for all sorts of reasons. I’d like to think it’s why I gave it up – ie not being egotistical enough – but I now suspect that writers suffer from it just as much. To assume that the world wants to read about your ideas and opinions is surely one of the high peaks of egotism. But I digress, as usual. Turn me down by all means, but make sure that it is for the right reasons – I really don’t want to write about YOU that much!’

  Reading the email for the third or fourth time on his phone on Tuesday morning, he had to smile again. Feisty, in an intellectual sort of way, a clever-with-words sort of way. He had to reply to that, of course, and that was what she wanted. She thought that if she could build some sort of relationship with him then he might, in the end, agree to what she wanted. Everyone plays these games, it seems, but as the day wore on, he found himself thinking more than once about how he would respond to Jo Evison.

  There had been the briefest of meetings with Allen and Reeve. The superintendent was suddenly very busy with preparations for a conference in Leicester at the end of the week; he had said pointedly to Smith that the new serious crimes unit would be on the agenda, as if Smith had one more opportunity to make the right decision. It was left to Reeve to tell him, after Allen had left the room, that they had decided to wind down a little the investigation, such as it was, into Joan Riley’s death. Smith would continue to oversee it and follow up personally any developments, and it would, naturally, go onto the list for a monthly review.

  “So more or less what I suggested last Thursday?” Smith had said.

  “More or less,” Reeve had agreed.

  The three of them, Smith, Waters and Murray, spent the rest of the day working through the lists of visitors to Rosemary House. Late in the afternoon, they reviewed progress and concluded that although three or four names still eluded them, the chance of these being in any way involved was minute, so small that they could not justify three of them continuing to work on the case after tomorrow. In the morning, Smith and Murray would complete any outstanding paperwork, while Waters would go to the Crown Court with two of Wilson’s team. The ATM case had reached its conclusion – the first case in which Waters had been involved to do so – and the jury was very likely to be back in the morning. Waters’ presence was not needed in any way other than to give him the experience, and he had been nervous about asking to go; Smith told him that it was vital he should in order to appreciate just how boring the Crown Court was for ninety eight per cent of its existence.

  At six o’clock, sitting alone in the canteen, Smith finished the plate of pizza and chips. The Happy Singles guide would probably have something to say about the nutritional value of that but at least he wouldn’t have to cook tonight. He was on his third cup of tea and wondered whether he could get away with a cigarette, if he held it under the table. Denise and Mel were out of sight in the kitchen – he could hear their voices but they wouldn’t dob him in, not after he saved them from the mouse in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago… But better not.

  The snow outside the window had stopped again. It wasn’t over though, not according to the forecast – more by the end of the week. He thought about Ralph Greenwood then, and wondered exactly what it was that he and his partners-in-crime had got away with. They had made some sort of pact – Mrs Devine’s séance had confirmed that – but the exact nature of what they had agreed to do for each other, the exact terms on which they had carried it out, had eluded him. To himself he could admit that in the past he might have pursued them a little more ruthlessly. Perhaps, in the end, one has seen too much. Perhaps the messiness of life makes a nonsense of morality and the simplistic notions of right and wrong upon which ‘the law’ was founded. Perhaps he was just getting too old for this. Had Sheila’s death, the manner of it, affected the way in which he had investigated that of Joan Riley? He didn’t believe so. But if he could not be certain, then maybe it was time for him to do some serious thinking

  On the way into work on the Wednesday morning, Smith took a long detour so that he could call in to Rosemary House. The roads were poor again but he did not want to leave things as they were simply by a phone call to Irene Miller – he felt that he owed her more than that.

  In her office, the first thing she said was, “Is it about the post? I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful but we get hundreds of items a week – we cannot keep a record of all that.” Smith had said not to worry, it was only one possible and pretty insignificant line of inquiry. Then she had asked whether it, the inquiry, was over.

  “No. We haven’t closed it and won’t do so for the foreseeable future. There were serious offences and it is likely that the person, or people, who committed them is still in a position to do something similar. Sorry about that but-”

  “Do you really believe that, sergeant? Is it really possible that someone here gave Joan the means to end her life? I still cannot accept it, I’m afraid.”

  Smith thought how much his view of her had changed. She was not concerned about bad publicity or losing her job; her inability to accept what Smith believed to be the truth was personal – she felt that she must have failed if someone like Joan Riley had chosen to end her own life rather than to go and discuss the matter with the care home manager. There must be a dozen reasons why viewing it in that way was being too hard upon oneself but Smith had to respect the woman’s professionalism and sense of responsibility.

  “And I’m afraid that it does remain the most l
ikely explanation. That’s partly why I called. I know I mentioned this on the phone but – well, I just thought we should talk about it face to face. It would help me a lot if you could keep an eye on things, not that you don’t, but this thing in particular. You know, ear to the ground… Anything that concerns you, you have my mobile number. I’d just come in, no fuss, and we could talk it over.”

  She said, “Thank you,” and then after a pause, “You mean Ralph, don’t you?”

  How much should he say? It’s always difficult with an involved third party.

  “Mr Greenwood said nothing that gave us cause for concern during his interview.”

  She smiled. “He has mentioned you more than once since he came back last night. You see, I’ve already started keeping an eye and an ear open.”

  “Well, as I said, it wasn’t my idea. I have my bosses, just like you.”

  “No, no criticism. I think he enjoyed himself. He’s looking upon it as a day out. He seemed quite reinvigorated!”

  Well, thought Smith, as far as Ralph was concerned, the interview was pretty much a walk in the park. He said, “He’s an interesting man.”

  “Sergeant, I think he feels the same about you.”

  By mid-afternoon the statements had all been photocopied, boxed and labelled. Waters had arrived back at half past two, excited and talkative – the judge had not sentenced yet, obviously, but his closing words to the jury, who had convicted on all counts, had been that sentences for an attack on the security of the banking system would be nothing less than exemplary. Someone in Wilson’s team had already opened a book on how many of them would receive double figure terms. As a reward, Waters had been allowed to fetch Smith and Murray extra teas without having to pay for them himself.

  They took a break to drink them and the talk became almost philosophical for five minutes or so – was there any other job with such highs and lows? When you broke a case and saw the guilty get what they deserved, there was nothing else that you would rather be doing, said Smith, nowhere else you would rather be. But when a case gets away from you – worst of all, when you know who did what to whom, and you are unable to find the evidence to prove it, then you feel yourself sinking into the pits of despair. The world has turned against you and the legal system has set traps and snares for its own in some cruel and apparently random game of chance. John Murray thought that surgeons had similar ups and downs – the days you lose a patient must live with you forever – but then, to save a life, to see that person walk and talk again must be something else. Smith could see that but not Waters’ suggestion that teachers must feel equally thrilled and horrified according to whether pupils passed or failed their examinations – no, he could not accept that.