An Unsafe Pair of Hands

by Chris Dolley

  Which was when another thought struck him. What if she’d phoned the wrong person? Someone who knew exactly what was happening up at the stone circle. Wouldn’t that be a motive for murder?

  He glanced at his watch. How long did it take to get phone records? He’d requested them hours ago.

  “There’ll be blood on the murder weapon,” said the pathologist, bringing Shand back to the present. “Unless it’s been cleaned, of course.”

  “Would the murderer have any blood on them?”

  “Not if they were careful. But if they moved the body afterwards…”

  “You think the body was moved?”

  “Only from what I was told. She was laid out on an existing grave, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but what about lividity? Is there anything to suggest it was a while before the body was moved?”

  “Lividity is consistent with her being moved very soon after death. Either that or she lay in the exact same position before being moved.”

  “What about time of death?”

  “I see no reason to change the earlier estimate. 12:45, Saturday morning, give or take the usual hour.”

  Shand decided to leave. It was getting late and he had most of the information he needed. That and the gory business was about to start. The opening up and the examination of the internal organs. Something he didn’t need to sit through. He’d leave it until later to find out what she’d had for her last meal.

  “Leaving so soon?” asked the pathologist with a smile.

  “Press conference,” said Shand. “We try not to face the cameras with vomit down our shirts.”

  ~

  Shand was late and out of breath by the time he reached Sturton police station. Jimmy Scott from the Press Office had driven over from Sherminster HQ to brief him. He was waiting in the foyer tapping his watch. “Cutting it fine,” he said between pursed lips.

  Very fine. But then it hadn’t been Shand’s fault. The press had filled the small station car park. You couldn’t move for large vans and satellite dishes. He’d had to circle the town square twice looking for a parking space. And he’d had to stop at a chemist on the way over to buy paracetamol when his head threatened to explode. Not to mention rushing back to his hotel room to change his suit.

  Now he was hot, sweaty and waiting for the paracetamol to kick in.

  Jimmy led him along a labyrinthine set of corridors, filling him in as they went.

  “It’s a full house. A very full house. TV, the nationals and a few overseas media. I’ve given them the basic handout. Names of victims, and the fact they were both locals. I’ve tried to play down the whole body on top of a grave aspect, but that’s what they’re all focussing on. That, and the stone circle. I think they want a serial-killing druid story.”

  Something that Shand hadn’t considered. He wondered why. It made about as much sense as any other.

  “Whatever you do,” continued Jimmy, “watch out for Kevin Tresco. He’s the local hack, works for the Echo. You know the corruption investigation? All the suspended DIs? Well he broke it. Now he thinks he’s the next Bob Woodward. You know, Watergate? So watch him. He’ll be out to impress the Fleet Street crowd, and won’t care how he does it. Wouldn’t put anything past him. So keep him sweet.”

  Keep him sweet. Words flying along a corridor. In a few minutes he was going to give his first ever press conference and he hadn’t a clue what he was going to say. Something he’d been putting off all day, waiting for that one piece of evidence that would break the case and give him something to announce – this is what happened, here’s what we’re looking for. A simple statement delivered with confidence. A plea to the general public for assistance, and a big smile for the media.

  But he didn’t have that one piece of evidence. He didn’t even know what kind of a crime he was investigating. A bank robbery/abduction gone wrong? A murdered witness? A wife murder? A dispute between neighbours? A ritual killing? Or even a serial-killing druid.

  Tomorrow would be different. He was sure of it. If only the press conference could be delayed. There was the forensics on the book of matches to come back, the phone records, the club in London, Annabel’s computer – once they cracked the password – maybe even tracing the location of Annabel’s mobile phone.

  Though that wasn’t going to be as straightforward as he’d hoped. The phone company had got back to him while he’d been changing at the hotel, one leg in his spare trousers and hopping all over the floor. They’d traced the mast. A mast that covered nearly sixty square miles – encompassing one town and eleven villages, including Athelcott. If it had been a city they’d have triangulated it to an individual apartment, but this was rural Wessex and a single mast that served eight miles of link road, fifteen miles of major roads and countless minor ones.

  And the phone had stopped transmitting – either the battery had died or someone had switched it off.

  “How are you feeling,” asked Jimmy. “You look a little stressed.”

  “Adrenaline,” said Shand, feeling like a boxer being led to a bout he’d forgotten to train for.

  ~

  The conference room was packed – people, cameras, cables, furry microphones on poles. And lights. The brightest lights he’d ever seen. The stage glowed like a rock concert.

  Doubt and panic. He still had no idea what he was going to say. A man who prided himself on preparation and attention to detail, he felt naked and exposed. He should have allowed himself at least an hour to jot down some notes, work out what he was going to say. All that time wasted driving to the bank and back.

  ”Should be easy for you,” said Jimmy. “What with your press office experience.”

  Shand forced a smile, masking his churning insides as he peered out from the wings. His spell at the Inspectorate press department hadn’t prepared him for anything like this. His occasional meetings with journalists had been informal affairs – off the record briefings at pubs and dinner parties. This was a bear pit.

  More doubt. Had he made effective use of police time? Eight hours into the investigation, countless man-hours expended and they were still collecting evidence. Had he misdirected the forensic teams? Shouldn’t he have let them start analysing the data from the circle instead of insisting they search the Benson and Marchant houses first? That book of matches could have been important. Something he could have given to the press.

  The press. They were growing restless. Four o’clock had come, gone and was probably decomposing somewhere on stage.

  More panic. His reputation was on the line. Fifteen years of exemplary service about to be wagered on ten minutes of question and answer. Ten minutes which had to go well and be seen to go well. To show everyone, to show Anne, that he’d been right about the move to CID.

  “They’re waiting,” said Jimmy. “Remember what I said about Tresco.” He leaned forward to point him out. “He’s the guy in front with the long straggly hair and the cheap suit.”

  Shand glanced at the reporter; a thin, sharp-featured man in his late twenties.

  “Remember,” said Jimmy. “Keep him sweet.”

  Shand walked out to a flurry of clicks and flashes, almost feeling his way along the stage, the lights were so bright. He took the middle chair of three behind a long table, the one with the microphone. The far chair was already taken. Someone he didn’t recognise. Another press officer? The Chief Constable? Shand’s mind blanked as he shook his hand. Jimmy settled into the other seat. Everyone sitting down, a room waiting, every face turned towards Shand.

  He began, almost on autopilot, giving the basic details of the case – the names, the village, the time frame, where everyone had been found. His mind drifted further ahead. What was he going to say next? What was he going to leave out? It was such a fine line: say too much and you tip off the killer, say too little and you miss the vital witness – the woman who saw the car or the handbag you omitted to mention.

  He talked about the missing murder weapon. “We’re looking for a garden
spade. It may have been dumped from a car early this morning.”

  “Any idea where?” shouted one of the reporters

  “Somewhere north of Athelcott.”

  “How far north?” asked another.

  “Probably within ten miles,” said Shand.

  A sea of hands rose and fell. Everyone shouting questions at once, Shand looked from one side of the room to the other. He could feel the press conference slipping away from his control. Should he ignore the questions and press on with his statement? Did he have a statement?

  “And we’re looking for a handbag,” said Shand, trying to retake the initiative. “Probably dumped from the same car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A large four-door saloon with leather interior.”

  “What make?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What colour?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But it has got four doors?” asked Kevin Tresco.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And presumably four wheels?”

  Laughter. It was only a few people, but it totally threw Shand. Why were they laughing? This was a press conference about a murder. Tresco smirked from the front row, looking around at his colleagues, lapping up the attention. Shand swallowed, confused, desperately thinking of something to say.

  Tresco didn’t give him the time. As soon as the laughter died down, he was back. “You don’t have much to go on do you, chief inspector? A man of your experience. Tell me, how much experience do you have?”

  Shand hesitated. He was used to impressing people with his CV. His Masters in Criminology, his time lecturing in the States, his years in Training Branch, his secondment to the Home Office, the Met, the Inspectorate of Police. He’d been a high-flyer all his career.

  But now it sounded hollow. All theory and admin. That’s what Tresco would see.

  “I’ve been in the force for fifteen years.”

  “Mmm, impressive,” said Tresco, looking down at his notes. “And how many of those years were in CID?”

  Jimmy Scott reached over and took the microphone from Shand. “I don’t think that question’s relevant. Can we move on, please? Next question.”

  Tresco kept going. “How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”

  Shand opened his mouth to answer, but Jimmy cut in. “Kevin, this an open press conference, let someone else have a chance.”

  A reporter at the back repeated the question. “How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”

  Kevin Tresco leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and smirked.

  Shand took the mike, his mouth suddenly dry, his palms oozing a cold sweat. “This is my first murder case,” he said.

  “Isn’t this your first case ever, chief inspector?” said Tresco, now standing up. “In fact, isn’t this only your second day on the job?” He turned to milk the reaction from the press corps. An excited buzz, a flurry of camera clicks. “What do you think of that, Mr. Shand? Do you think it right an outsider with no experience should run a local murder enquiry?”

  Uproar. Shand suddenly felt very alone, the table elongating by the second taking his colleagues with it. The room doing the opposite – contracting – a sea of faces pushing closer. Open mouths, lights flashing, questions everywhere. Tresco in the front leading the chorus.

  “I know what my readers think.”

  A sneer, a pointed finger, that irritating laugh.

  “Have you got one single lead?”

  Everyone was watching. His own people in the wings, countless viewers at home, Anne. His career was incinerating before his eyes.

  He had to say something, do something. The schoolboy in him wanted to get back at Tresco, wipe the smile off his face. Destroy him with one withering remark.

  Another voice. One from memory. What was it his old boss at the Press Office used to tell him? If you want to kill a story, give them a better one. Something they want to hear. He glanced down at the table. Saw the folded newspaper. Bold headlines – Asylum Seeker Row Deepens. He remembered the camp a few miles outside Athelcott. The barracks, the high fences.

  And then he was talking, the words coming out of his mouth before he’d had time to think.

  “We do have one very important lead.”

  The room quietened. Shand continued, his voice emotionless. “We’re investigating a link between the murder and local asylum seekers.”

  The room erupted. Shand was almost blinded in the flash of cameras. Questions came at him from all sides. Do you have anyone in custody? A name, a nationality. Are they Muslims?

  Shand held up his hands, then leaned farther into the microphone. “Obviously I can’t go into details at this juncture. But it is a very promising lead.”

  “Is an arrest imminent?”

  Shand smiled and got up. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He shuffled behind the seats, nodding to various people, shaking hands and speaking meaningless words that he instantly forgot.

  By the time he reached the wings, he was in a cold-sweat daze.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “What asylum seeker lead?” asked Taylor, suddenly appearing in the cloakroom mirror. Shand closed his eyes and cupped another handful of cold water over his face. What had he done?

  Besides destroying his career, that is. He’d lied to the press in front of a million witnesses. He’d jeopardised a murder case. And probably made life even worse for tens of thousands of asylum seekers who’d have to wake up to another wave of migrant bashing headlines.

  And all for what? A playground argument with a local journalist. What had he been thinking?

  Easy answer. He hadn’t. He’d been reacting to events when he should have been leading them.

  Shand grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at his face. Taylor was still there. Waiting.

  “An anonymous tip off,” lied Shand.

  “Who to?” asked Taylor. “None of the boys on the desk heard anything.”

  “They wouldn’t have,” said Shand, digging himself deeper. “I took the call.”

  “Oh.”

  Shand pushed through the cloakroom door into the corridor, glad to get out.

  And ran straight into Chief Superintendent Wiggins.

  “Shand!” he boomed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been hiding?”

  Somewhere not as private as he’d hoped, thought Shand, dreading what was about to happen next. Was he going to be taken off the case?

  Wiggins raised his hand and for one horrible second, as the hand arced towards him, Shand thought he was going to be struck. He flinched, he couldn’t help it. Then the hand slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Have to hand it to you, Shand,” said Wiggins. “The way you played Tresco. He really thought he had you. Even I did. But then you pulled that asylum seeker lead out of the hat and his jaw nearly hit the floor. Masterful, Shand. Truly masterful.”

  Shand smiled, not daring to say anything. How long could he keep the deception going?

  He extricated himself as quickly as he could, thanked Wiggins, looked at his watch and hurried off in the other direction. He had to get the investigation back on track, bury the bogus asylum seeker lead, and prioritise the real leads.

  Taylor followed. “Where you going?” he asked.

  “Back to my office,” said Shand. “I need to collate all the information we’ve gathered so far.”

  “You’re not going to the asylum camp?”

  Shand stopped dead, his eyeballs furrowing into his brow. “Of course,” he said, thinking quickly. “I was just going via my office to pick up my personal organiser.”

  Shand smiled to himself. If he ever got through this day, he’d find so much tangled web around his legs he’d never get his trousers off.

  ~

  Taylor drove. Shand sat in the passenger seat planning ahead. He’d go through the motions at the asylum camp. Interview whoever was in charge and slowly bury the lead. An
onymous hoaxer, we get them all the time. Then he’d have a day to find a real lead before the papers started clamouring for another statement.

  It might work.

  “So this anonymous caller asked for you personally?” said Taylor.

  Shand pretended to be engrossed in a sheaf of scribbled notes.

  “The tip off,” repeated Taylor. “The caller asked for you personally?”

  “I don’t know,’ said Shand, feigning indifference, “I just took the call.”

  “In your office?”

  “No, on my mobile.”

  “So they had your number?”

  Shand was beginning to wonder if Taylor had his number too. “How did you get on with Bill Acomb’s son?” he asked.

  There was a pause before Taylor answered. Shand waited, keeping his head down in his notes.

  “Couldn’t track him down,” said Taylor. “But I asked around and he’s got a bit of form – two drunk and disorderlies from two years back. Handy with his fists and doesn’t need much provocation.”

  “Anything recent?”

  “Not that I could find. His name doesn’t come up on any searches. No criminal associations. Maybe he’s grown up. He’s twenty-one now and has a steady job on his father’s farm.”

  “What about Friday night? Anyone see him at all?”

  “No. Which might be significant. According to the landlord, he spends most nights down the Oak.”

  ~

  The asylum camp was four miles outside Athelcott on the London road. It looked like an army camp – high perimeter fence, sprawling single story buildings, wide expanses of grass and asphalt. Only the groups of irregularly dressed adults and bands of playing children gave the game away.

  Shand and Taylor were stopped at the gate, then directed to a parking bay where they were met and escorted to the director’s office. Groups of people watched them all the way, no one saying a word.

  “I’m curious, chief inspector,” said the Director after Shand had made the introductions. “How did you know that Marius Lupescu was missing?”