Persons of Interest

by Peter Grainger

  ‘So, how do you cook them?’

  He fried them in butter and lemon juice with a dash of the wine and a grinding of black pepper. They were done in little more than five minutes, and within another five the delicate white flesh was flaking away from the bone at the merest touch of a fork.

  Afterwards she said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten fish that tasted better.’

  ‘It’s all in the cooking – catching them is the easy part.’

  ‘Of course. So next time you can catch them and I’ll do the cooking!’

  He raised his glass and said, ‘To the next time,’ and she followed suit. Then they took the rest of the wine to the long sofa at the end of the caravan and watched the people go by. Last night something had come up, she said, and then this morning the traffic out of London had been terrible until she reached the M11. Once or twice he noticed her closing her eyes, not sleeping but just enjoying the change of pace; she seemed to lead a very busy life.

  Several times during the preceding week he had wondered how the evening might end. He could leave soon, after tea, and give her the peace and quiet that many came here for – and writers need peace and quiet, don’t they? He could stay on and they could go down to the clubhouse where she would meet members that knew him – fortunately there was no band tonight and so she would not have to endure what Waters and his girlfriend had to suffer when they came down in the autumn. After that, he could drive home – or she might suggest that he stayed over, the caravan being able to sleep six, after all. On the back seat of his car was a small bag, modestly packed for an unexpected night away, a bag that did not make too many assumptions. But for now, with the late afternoon sunshine giving a golden edge to all that it touched, they should take a walk in the woods.

  ‘It smells like Scotland and feels like Dorset. I have to say – it is lovely here.’

  They stood at a gateway along the path that runs by the landward side of the woods, looking out over the huge expanses of the grazing marshes. When we show someone new something that matters to us, that really matters, there is always a moment of uncertainty – will they see it too, will they understand? And if they do not, what then? Do we go back to a place that we thought we had left behind? How much of what we already love are we prepared to sacrifice in the name of a new friendship, a new relationship?

  But Smith could see that she meant it. Half a dozen skylarks were in full song in front of them. She turned her head and pointed up into the sky at the nearest one, and then she lifted the binoculars and focused again on the two soaring buzzards – the common variety, she had told him, not the rare honey ones – as they drifted higher on the thermals from the dunes. Other people were on the path behind, cycling, walking children, walking dogs, but for the moment they were alone in the gateway, and the scent of wild honeysuckle was all around them.

  He said, ‘I like the autumn here – a fine, clear, still day in the early autumn. That sense of an ending, it sharpens the appreciation of what you have left, I think – makes you value every minute of it. In the spring there is almost too much still to come, so much you can sort of waste it... if that doesn’t sound too daft.’

  ‘It sounds quite philosophical – as if you’ve thought about it a lot.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. But I have felt it, I suppose.’

  ‘Thoughts and feelings, eh? The old dichotomy.’

  She lifted the binoculars again but the two birds had gone now.

  He said, ‘Well, as my mum used to say, “You know what thought did...”’

  ‘No, I don’t, actually. Does anyone?’

  ‘She had several answers – one was “Nothing, but he thought he did.” Another one was “Ran away with another man’s wife” but I’m not so sure about that. Anyway, I think we should head through the woods and have a look at the sea. The tidal range here is huge, and with the full moon, it-’

  The sound of a ringing mobile phone had them both reaching for their pockets – Smith could feel that it was his from the vibration but he wondered as he took it out whether she had hers set to the same old-fashioned telephone bell. He looked at the screen and then made the apologetic face that says ‘Sorry but I need to take this one’ and she nodded, moving a few steps away before he felt the need to do so himself.

  She watched him. It was a woman’s voice, the words indistinct but making the usual remarks about calling at the weekend, so it was work. And it was someone that he knew well, though she would have found it difficult to explain how she had sensed that. The conversation, such as it was, moved on, Smith still saying very little. Once or twice his eyes met hers as he listened – he asked a couple of brief questions, and then a frown that she had not seen before settled between the brows. He turned away a little and she noticed for the first time the old scar on his cheek, and wondered how it came to be there. Everything in his tone and body language was telling her that he would be leaving soon, and she had missed her chance to give him her own news, and to see how he took it – she wanted to do that rather than to say it in another phone call or an email.

  He said into the phone, ‘Yes, a couple of hours,’ listened again and then asked, ‘What time tomorrow morning?’ When he had the answer, he said OK, and ended the call.

  She said, ‘A case.’

  He had an odd smile and didn’t respond immediately.

  ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Pretty serious for the dead chap. Sorry, force of habit...’

  She could see that he was still thinking hard.

  ‘Why you? Lake must have people on over the weekend.’

  He looked at her fully for the first time since the end of the phone call.

  ‘Well, that’s just it, really. I’m not doing the investigation – in fact, I’m being investigated. Someone has been investigating me all day, and now they want to interview me tomorrow morning. That was Alison, my boss. She’s going to brief me tonight on what she knows.’

  Jo Evison didn’t have any idea what to say.

  Smith looked his watch and said, ‘It’ll only take me an hour and a half to drive back, so we can have a quick look at the sea if you like.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, if this is a full-on internal investigation...’

  He had already taken a few steps into the wood.

  ‘Come on. I’m looking on the bright side – for the first time in my life, I’m a person of interest.’

  Chapter Two

  The Sunday morning was as beautiful as the Saturday before it but in all other respects the two days seemed to be a million miles apart. Now he sat looking at fifteen foot fences topped with razor wire while a prison officer examined his ID card in the cubicle, and another stood outside it, looking at him; the last time he was here he had driven through with just a nod to an old boy who probably had The Sun crossword half-completed in front of him. Further down the line of vehicles parked on the left, he could see two marked police cars, with one of the uniformed officers positioned outside the building – no doubt he would have to show his ID again if he ever got that far.

  Alison Reeve had told him everything that she knew. When he looked at the number, he had half-laughed and said that there must be some mistake because that was not his – then he realized and saw her nodding because she had been there before him. It was not his number now, but it was the number of the phone that he had been using last year before O’Leary reprogrammed it on behalf of Her Majesty’s secret service. Or rather, before he gave it to someone who was actually capable of doing such a thing. Then he had said to her that surely the phone companies recycle numbers that are no longer used – was it all some bizarre coincidence? No – that had all been thoroughly checked by Huntingdonshire’s finest; the number had not been reallocated, and the last person to own it – in fact, the only person ever to own it – was one David Conrad Smith. Imagine their delight, she had said, when they looked him up and found out what he did for a living.

  ‘And imagine, too,’ she had said, ‘Superintenden
t Allen’s face when they told him!’ because that was the level it had been passed on at, superintendent to superintendent, before it found its way back down to detective inspector and then to detective sergeant.

  Smith had said, ‘They called him on a Saturday morning?’

  ‘Quite early, I believe.’

  ‘And then he had to come into the office?’

  ‘It being a potentially serious matter, yes he did.’

  ‘Dear me...’

  His sad shake of the head could hardly convey how badly he felt about all that.

  No, he had never heard of Lionel Everett, and it was not a name that one was likely to forget. He had suggested looking him up on the national records database – he was definitely going to be there unless there had been a truly awful miscarriage of justice – and Reeve had refused; she had been warned off doing anything that might compromise Huntingdon’s investigation into how a detective sergeant’s mobile number came to be in the possession of a murdered prisoner, and that would certainly include allowing the said detective sergeant to gain access to the dead man’s records. She had said to him. ‘DC, don’t log on at all until this has been sorted out, just to be on the safe side,’ and it was then that he realized that she at least was taking this seriously.

  The uniformed man did check his ID again and then asked him to wait inside the door – the officer had been told to call someone when Smith arrived. The staff entrance and reception area had all been redesigned since his last visit but, to be fair, that was a few years ago now. He thought about Charlie Hills, still bravely clinging on to his wooden counter as if it was a piece of flotsam in a storm at sea, hoping against hope that they had forgotten about Kings Lake Central reception but there was little chance of that – the entrances to everything are being redesigned as often as the mission statements up on the walls are being rewritten.

  The detective approaching him – there is no mistaking us once you know what to look for, he thought – must be of a similar vintage to himself, or not far off it. He might be the DI too, but that was not so certain, and by the time the two of them had shaken hands Smith knew that he was not.

  ‘Hello. DC Hinton – Nigel.’

  ‘Smith, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘From Kings Lake, yes? Sorry, have to check...’

  Smith showed his ID for the third time.

  Hinton said, ‘Right, I’ll take you down to DI Terek. He’s the SIO on it... Until we hear anything different.’

  They set off along the corridor. Something in Hinton’s last words had caught Smith’s attention – it would be wrong to quiz a detective constable in this situation but they didn’t have to walk in complete silence, did they?

  ‘Is he new to it, the SIO bit?’

  ‘New to most bits, as far as I know. He’s not my regular DI.’

  ‘I see. You just got an unlucky one, a nasty weekend job.’

  ‘Something like that. He’s very keen, though, DI Terek.’

  ‘Oh good. That’s what we need, lots of keen DIs. Young, too?’

  ‘Yes. It’s almost like you’ve met him before.’

  ‘I think I probably have, Nigel. Several times.’

  ‘I know who you are. Sit down, please.’

  As introductions go, it could have been a little warmer. Smith had held back his impulse to put out a hand, guessing that it would have been refused. The inspector had looked him over from head to foot, while Smith kept his own gaze firmly on the face of the man who had sent for him. It was a thin face, a little pock-marked from teenaged acne, and the spectacles were rimless ones, with lenses that seemed to achieve nothing but magnify the pale grey eyes behind them.

  Hinton went around the desk and took the vacant chair beside the inspector. Then he picked up a pen and took out a notebook but Smith had the impression that the older man would, if given the choice, have preferred to sit with the interviewee. Terek was doing the usual, keeping him waiting, and so Smith had a look around the room, which must belong to a senior PO, what with all those folders full of regulations and standing orders. Several of his army mates had ended up in this service but he had never fancied the idea himself – putting the wrong-doers in here was surely more interesting than watching them for years on end once they had arrived. And he had known a few cases of the officers themselves getting involved with the inmates in the wrong way; inevitable really, what with the cleverest criminals being about as smart as the cleverest lawyers – whoever was SIO in this investigation should bear that in mind... He looked at Hinton then and smiled. If Terek was waiting for Smith to speak first, they ought to arrange for some tea and biscuits, and maybe some lunch as well.

  ‘How well did you know Lionel Everett?’

  Good heavens – straight in with an assumptive close!

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  At least Terek was looking at him directly now.

  ‘What do you mean? Either you knew him or you did not.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the name, sir, but of course some criminal types have been known to use an alias. It’s possible that I did know ‘Lionel Everett’ under another name. It might be useful if I could see a photograph of him.’

  Smith glanced down at the folder on the desk – Everett’s prison record. Terek looked at it too. He has to weigh this up now, thought Smith – the young inspector, charged with the delicate task of interviewing a fellow officer, a rather experienced fellow officer at that, really wanted to retain the initiative and show that he was not intimidated but in charge. On the other hand, the request was not an unreasonable one, given the odd circumstances. Which way will he go, then?

  ‘There is no need for that at the moment. I’ll re-phrase it for you, sergeant – have you ever encountered anyone using the name Lionel Everett?’

  ‘No, sir. Well, not until this case, obviously.’

  But he could see that the idea of the photograph was now firmly planted in the inspector’s mind – it was the next obvious thing to do, and he couldn’t do it.

  ‘Have you recently given your number to anyone – to the sort of person who might have passed it on to Everett?’

  ‘No. But it wouldn’t matter if I had, would it? Not recently.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not my number any more. It hasn’t been for about the last nine months.’

  Terek must have known this but he seemed flustered – he coloured up a little, a patch of redness appearing on the side of his neck.

  ‘Yes, I know that. When I said ‘recently’, I – you know where this number was found, don’t you?’

  ‘I believe that it was found in Mr Everett’s cell rather than on his person?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  Smith thought, it’s a bit like University Challenge now.

  ‘So if it was a shared cell, it might have belonged to someone else. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your-’

  ‘We have already considered that, Smith. The other occupant had no knowledge of the number.’

  ‘Or he says that he hasn’t, but some of these characters...’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Anyway, sir, it might be worth giving me the cell-mate’s name at some point, just to see if he is known to me. But apart from that, I cannot shed much light on this. It’s a mystery to me at the moment.’

  Hinton, who had in the end taken no notes, looked from Smith to the inspector. Terek, however, was not done with it yet.

  ‘Smith, you must know some of the inmates here – you must be responsible for some of them being in here.’

  Had there been a subtle change of tone in that? Even the possibility was worth the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I would think so, sir. I’d be happy to go through the full list and highlight any that I think I know. Of course, I had that number for years and we give it out, and we give out cards with it on, and we don’t keep a record, do we?’

  Terek looked a little surprised – it was entirely possible that he did keep s
uch a record.

  ‘And if it would help, I could sit in on any interviews with those people. As I say, I can’t account for it but I will be giving it some more thought – I don’t like the idea that he was attacked because he had my number, if you see what I mean.’

  Terek’s smile was somehow even thinner than his small mouth.

  ‘I don’t think anyone is suggesting that, sergeant.’

  ‘In which case, it might be just one of those coincidences. Sir.’

  Hinton spoke then for the first time.

  ‘There is another possibility, sir. Everett had the number because he thought he might be attacked. Someone else gave it to him. Perhaps he was going to ring it.’

  Smith said, ‘And perhaps he did. Someone here will have a phone. The phone company might be able to help with that. Did you ring it yourself, sir? I would have done.’

  Terek said, ‘No, as I said to Hinton at the time...’ but Smith didn’t catch the end of it, his attention being taken by the look of amused alarm on the detective constable’s face.

  Hinton walked with him back to the entrance door. As he opened it for Smith, he said, ‘Bit of a funny one, sir, but I don’t think it’s got legs, do you?’

  A nice, polite way of asking whether Smith himself really did intend to give it some more thought, perhaps. Smith looked about the car park through the glass door and unbuttoned his jacket – the temperature had risen several degrees since he came inside.

  ‘Difficult to say. If there is a connection up to my neck of the woods, someone will need to look into it – I’m not sure how the politicians will want to handle that, and I’m not sure that your DI and I have established a close working relationship yet. What do you reckon?’