Persons of Interest

by Peter Grainger

  Waters could see Smith turning it over, examining it from different angles, even though the case was out of his jurisdiction.

  ‘OK, Nigel, thanks for that. Look, I don’t want to put you on the spot, and if you need to tell Inspector Terek that I’m here, go ahead. If you could just hang on a few minutes, though, so that I can get in and see my man, I would appreciate that and-’

  Hinton was walking away, speaking as he went.

  ‘At the moment I am not DC Hinton, I am Hinton the coffee and biscuit boy – milk and two sugars, the third one today. Good luck with your old acquaintance.’

  Smith said, ‘Come on, we’re late now, and I’ve a feeling that the first man we need to meet isn’t the type to do a lot of waiting.’

  When they turned the corner, the prison officer was waiting, however, shoulders back, chin in, feet slightly apart, hands behind his back in a posture reminiscent of one that Waters had often seen Smith adopt. He nodded towards Smith as they approached, looked up at Waters directly for a second or two with sharp blue eyes, and then back at Smith – he didn’t need to explain that an explanation was required.

  ‘My colleague, Detective Constable Waters, from Kings Lake. Chris, this is Senior Prison Officer Ward.’

  There was no offer of a handshake this time and Waters was glad that he did not hold out his own in the hope of one.

  ‘How do you do, Detective Constable. If you don’t mind, I’ll find you somewhere to wait while your colleague comes inside.’

  Smith accepted it immediately, and Waters realized that it was what he had been expecting. Off the main waiting area was a slightly more comfortable, smaller lounge with the sign ‘Official Visitors’ Waiting Area’ on the door – there were magazines on the low table, along with the latest official reports on the prison and its facilities. That’s where they left him. After a moment, he sat down and picked up a glossy thing called ‘Life After Life’ – on the cover, three men in a garden, all posed in various productive ways, digging, hoeing, pushing a wheelbarrow all on the same few square yards of ground, all looking into the camera and smiling, as if they were only there to model the nice grey uniforms.

  Chapter Six

  ‘You’re looking well, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And I can say the same, Billy. The life suits you.’

  Smith did not look at the prison officer taking his seat on the right side of the room but he was aware of the head turning and the momentary pause; he would have to make some comment or Senior Officer Ward might think that he had been lied to for some obscure operational reason. If the officer thought that, there would be no chance of another such meeting.

  ‘There’s been a change of rank, though, Billy – it’s plain old sergeant now. No doubt that’s why I am looking so young and sprightly.’

  Slater really did look fit, with less spare weight than Smith remembered, and it would be down to the excellent facilities in the prison gym, far superior to those found in Kings Lake Central police station. If his mind had not been elsewhere, Smith would have enjoyed exploring the irony.

  ‘Have you been a naughty boy as well then, sergeant?’

  ‘Not with regard to that, Billy. The chief constable and I came to an understanding a few years ago. I expect the news will reach here eventually.’

  Ward seemed to be satisfied. He had taken his seat a few yards from them, sitting side-on at a small, folding table – but one which was, nevertheless, still screwed to the floor. From a pocket in his uniform jacket he took out a small transistor radio of ancient pedigree and a set of in-ear headphones. They watched as he plugged them in, turned the set on and tuned it by hand with a dial on the front. If he knew that they were watching, he never once acknowledged it – in this place he had plainly become a grand-master of the art of not-listening.

  Slater said, ‘He’s a big cricket fan. It’s the first match of the one-day series.’

  Smith knew that – if he was lucky he would catch the highlights later that night.

  Smith said, ‘So, how much longer, Billy?’

  ‘Another four.’

  ‘With or without?’

  ‘I never count on parole. It’s my fourth spell too, so... But it’s pretty crowded in here these days. You lot must be on permanent overtime, the rate they’re bringing them in. I might get lucky, if the people they want to lock up are worse than the ones they’ve already got. But I can do another four, no problem.’

  ‘And after that? What will you do?’

  ‘I thought I’d get an apprenticeship with British Gas.’

  Smith smiled and after a moment so did Billy Slater. Though still in his forties, he was truly old school, and believed absolutely in the adage that if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. His area of expertise was the theft of agricultural machinery, which sounds mundane until one understands that a single tractor can be worth more than a hundred thousand pounds and that some specialized drills and harvesters will cost three or four times that amount. Slater operated on an international scale, exporting the stolen machinery all over the world with all the correct documentation, and nothing was ever taken from a barn or a field that had not already been sold. At his trial, the judge had complimented him on his accountancy skills but unfortunately these did not extend so far as the investigating team being able to find out where most of the money had gone. That alone had probably doubled his sentence to twelve years. The judge had also spent several minutes in his summing up explaining that Slater’s poor career choice had been a loss to British business, particularly in the important area of exports, and Slater, through his QC, had thanked the judge for those kind words. It had been a very civilized trial.

  ‘Anyway Billy, thanks for seeing me.’

  ‘That’s alright – sergeant.’

  In here Slater would have a strong sense of hierarchy and he would perhaps find the former senior officer’s lowly status amusing, if not incomprehensible. But Smith would have to lead the way – Slater would offer nothing as a volunteer. Faintly, Smith could hear the cricket commentator’s voice; if Slater trusted Ward, it was likely that Smith could do the same.

  ‘Obviously you know why I was in here yesterday morning.’

  ‘Apparently there had been a murder, and you’re a policeman – that’s two and two, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Not only would he have to lead, carefully; he would need a little patience.

  ‘But it’s not quite that simple, is it? You know this is well off my patch but you haven’t mentioned that at all. It’s almost as if you aren’t that surprised to see me, Billy.’

  Slater leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table between them, and interlacing the fingers of both hands. They were big, mechanic’s hands, not perhaps quite what one would have expected on a clever, white-collar criminal – but this place was full to bursting with people who would upset your expectations, given the least opportunity. And Senior Officer Ward saw that movement towards the detective, though his head never moved a millimeter.

  ‘Go on, sergeant.’

  ‘Did you know Lionel Everett?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it anything more than a passing acquaintance?’

  ‘We had the odd word. We had a shared interest in the countryside.’

  ‘But you never had a working relationship, outside in the countryside?’

  ‘Not really the sort of person I’d be doing business with...’

  ‘Not out there, I can see that. But what about in here?’

  As he waited, his eyes fixed steadily on those of Billy Slater, Smith had something confirmed – something surprising; this was not simply cat-and-mouse, not just an old con making the most of a diversion from the numbing daily routine. The precautions that Slater had taken, through Ward, in setting up the meeting were for real, and even now Slater was calculating how much he should say and how he should say it. But Senior Officer Ward’s mere presence here, let alone the relationshi
p between convict and officer that it implied, told Smith that Slater was indeed still a prisoner of high status, one who would normally have little to fear from the typical, petty brutalities of life inside. In short – of what or whom was he afraid?

  Slater said, ‘Someone told him that I had connections to Lake.’

  ‘More than connections, Billy. Norfolk, Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire all within an hour’s drive in a low-loader? It was a prime business location for you.’

  Slater paused, ignoring the attempt to keep things light-hearted, and Smith noted that, too; mentally, he shifted position, sensing that he would get further by going more slowly and quietly.

  ‘He came to see me twice, but I’d already been told he was asking questions, even before the first time.’

  ‘Right. So what did he want?’

  ‘None of the usual stuff. Mostly a con wants to know how he can make a phone call, or how he can get a better cell-mate, or a transfer to another wing. Sometimes they want a bit of legal advice...’

  Smith managed to keep the smile small and inside.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Everett asked me about who I still knew up in Lake. He wanted a name.’

  A movement to the side caught their attention – Warder Ward had looked at his watch.

  ‘I sent him off, said I’d look into it. This was about a fortnight ago. By the time he came back, he’d already had a warning, and I asked him if he really wanted to go any further with it.’

  Slater was tense and somewhat paler than he had been at the beginning, sitting very still as he spoke quietly.

  Smith said, ‘What sort of a warning, Billy?’

  ‘Someone emptied a bucket of piss under his cell door.’

  ‘Oh, nice.’

  ‘That’s like an amber traffic light.’

  ‘And Everett decided to ignore it. What happened then?’

  ‘I didn’t give him a name as such.’

  Slater wanted his own role in all this to be clear, there had to be no misunderstanding.

  ‘But you did give him something.’

  Slater was looking back at Smith, perhaps already wondering whether he had said too much.

  ‘You gave him a phone number...’

  Smith sat back in the chair. The room and the corridors and other rooms beyond them were absolutely silent apart from the minute voice buzzing away in Warder Ward’s ear-piece. The officer’s eyes caught those of Smith and narrowed slightly; it meant that the time was almost up.

  ‘How the hell did you know it? I’m not even sure mobiles had been invented the last time we met.’

  Slater shrugged, and Smith concluded that the answer to the question, though potentially interesting, was not the most important issue at present.

  ‘Billy, do you know if he tried to call the number?’

  Telling Slater that the number was out of date seemed pointless and cruel, under the circumstances.

  ‘I don’t think he meant to – I got the feeling he wanted it for someone else.’

  ‘Someone else? Someone in here?’

  Slater leaned in a little more, his voice lower and more urgent.

  ‘No. It was family stuff – he had something going on outside. He started to tell me and I said I didn’t want to know. And the only reason I’m telling you, Chief In – whatever you are now - is because he didn’t deserve it, not to be cut up like that. Some do but he was just an ordinary little bloke. It’s all getting out of control.’

  Ward cleared his throat. Smith had to choose his final questions carefully, but before he could do so, Slater spoke again.

  ‘And nobody’s safe. If I start getting questioned now by your lot, the ones looking into it, I could end up the same.’

  Slater was too proud a man to ask but Smith understood. On the other hand, there were some promises that he could not make.

  ‘If I have to pass anything on, I’ll keep your name out of it. I can find a way.’

  Slater nodded and unclasped the big hands, making ready to leave.

  ‘Billy, thanks. If there’s anything you need – anything I can do?’

  It was an offer he had to make, knowing, of course, that it would be refused.

  ‘One more thing, Billy. You didn’t give a name, but he must have given you some idea why he wanted one. What exactly did he ask for?’

  Warder Ward was turning off his radio. Perhaps play had paused for tea.

  Slater said, ‘He wanted the name of a Kings Lake copper.’

  ‘What – any old copper from Kings Lake?’

  ‘No. One of the rarer sort. One who wasn’t bent.’

  He told Waters some of it as they began the journey back to Lake, enough so that he did not feel like a complete spare part but not enough to put anyone at risk, making no mention of Lucky Everett’s doomed search for a straight policeman. After the first few miles, the conversation lapsed as Smith began the process of analyzing what he had been told. He tried it from different angles, knowing that he would continue to do so for the rest of the day and probably for at least a part of the coming night, and knowing too that he would keep coming back to at least one inevitable conclusion: there could only be one reason why a man like Everett wanted to contact a straight copper...

  No-one ever wants to go there – professionally and personally, it is the dirtiest and most disappointing place that a policeman can go, whichever side of the line he finds himself. Smith had two experiences of it, once seeing a fellow officer, whom he would have trusted himself, taken quietly out of a squad on a high-profile case, never to be heard of again, and once as a senior officer charged with beginning the investigation into the extra-curricular activities and relationships of a detective constable on another force. There was no joy in it, ever.

  Someone at Kings Lake Central? He refused to allow his mind to start listing names, and considered instead what Billy Slater had told him – “It was family stuff – he had something going on outside”. Family? Smith had found no connection between Everett and Lake, not through his criminal doings, and he had already been as far as checking whether there were other associated Everetts at work in north Norfolk who might be occupying hard drive space in records – there were not. It was a pity that Slater had not allowed Lucky to unburden himself a little more, but then Smith had to remind himself that the man he had just spoken with might know more than he had said; it was entirely possible that Slater had, out of a genuine sense of injustice, said enough to have the murder investigated without revealing all that had taken place. The Billy Slaters of this world never tell you everything.

  How much of this could he pass on to DC Hinton? He would not break his word to Slater, first because he had given his word, and second because he knew that Slater had not been joking when he outlined the possible consequences if Smith did so. It was bad enough that Everett had possibly been killed for having Smith’s old number in his possession – to have someone else attacked for having passed it on was unthinkable. He could keep Slater’s name out of it entirely but mention that Everett had had what might have been a warning a few days before – if he, Smith, was running the investigation, that would help. One would assume, of course, that the prison officers, if they knew about the bucket episode, would have already mentioned it. But, as he never tired of telling Waters, to assume makes an ass out of you and me.

  Most of the journey was accomplished in silence. Only as they entered Lake and slowed down for the inevitable, late-afternoon traffic did Waters show that he had been thinking over the same matters as Smith.

  He said, ‘The key to it is why Lionel Everett wanted your number in the first place. But it’s a bit of a funny one, isn’t it?’

  Smith closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head a little. He could hear his own voice saying those very words. Waters really did need to get out of here.

  By six thirty that evening, they had a plan. They had met in the canteen this time, Smith having taken fright at the bill from Micky Lemon – these days you could not just
imagine that such expenses would be cleared without questions being asked. Serena Butler had found a way of searching the database using detailed postcodes as filters – now they had a list of all drug-related arrests, cautions and other intelligence for the areas under their surveillance. It was several pages long and went back for two years. As she handed out the copies, Smith said that he thought this was a fairly good idea; naturally, he could have just ordered this to be done but it was important to let the younger officers discover such things for themselves. When she kept a straight face and thanked him for the opportunity, he was so impressed that he bought her an additional cream slice.

  ‘John, you’ve had more time to have a look at this. Any thoughts?’

  Murray nodded. He said that DC would recognize some of the names and addresses but there had been more changes than he, Murray, had expected since they last had a push on street-level dealing, which was about two years ago; he had first got that feeling in the morning and what he was seeing on the printed records had confirmed it.

  Smith said, ‘What sort of changes?’

  ‘The first impression you get is that there is less going on.’

  ‘OK – let’s stop there, then. We’ll send in the report to Allen and Devine, saying that Lake is yet again bucking the national trends and leading the way in crime reduction. Well done, everyone.’

  Murray was unperturbed.

  ‘What I mean is, we used to see the small deals happening here, there and everywhere, in the key areas, the well-known spots. Every one of the towers had its own blind corners and one or two lads with half a dozen wraps in their pockets. Or we could just follow the known vehicles about and you’d have someone’s round sorted in a couple of days. There was one blue Golf I could set my watch by in the York Road area.’

  ‘Ah, you mean Sonny Green and his crew!’

  ‘Yes. But they’ve all gone, as far as I can see. They’re not the only ones. Of course it’s all still going on but there have been big changes in personnel. And the new lot are not as visible as the old bunch.’

  Smith looked again at Butler’s sheets.

  ‘How recent? When did it begin to change?’