Then he went through to the box-room that was his home office and wondered whether he would keep notes on this case, the murder of Mark Randall. These Alwych notebooks were the duplicate history of his own cases, going back to the very beginning of his time as a detective. But this was not his case, and he could summon up little enthusiasm for it. More needed to be done, obviously, but Gareth Stone was a good prospect and would have been under strong suspicion even without Smith’s small input today.
He sat down at the desk and thought about Steven Harper – opportunity in abundance and motive, too, if his feelings about the intrusions onto their farm were anything to go by. If the case against Gareth Stone faltered, Harper was one to speak to again… His father, Ted Harper, they had not seen – business with the bank his wife had said – but he was another potential witness. And then there were the missing friars, two of them. Men who lived in close proximity to the place where Randall’s body had been found and who might have seen or heard something. Perhaps they too had seen Stone’s vehicle parked in the area – it wouldn’t be much but sometimes you don’t need much to start the avalanche that sweeps a suspect’s defence away. Sometimes just removing or adding a pebble will do it. Finally, still making mental notes rather than written ones, he remembered the badger diggers who Steven Harper had told them must have been active within the past month or thereabouts; yet more people who might have seen or heard something out there in the darkness on the night that Mark Randall died. Finding them, of course, would be difficult if not impossible but Harper had mentioned a case two years ago. That was a starting point. Lots of loose ends, then, that few others would be bothered with if they were given the go-ahead to charge Gareth Stone. Smith could amuse himself for a couple of days tying these up and it would give him the perfect excuse to keep out of the way.
He went through to his bedroom and opened the window wide, the heat of the day having accumulated upstairs – it would be a difficult night for sleeping. There was still cloud overhead but it had lifted and thinned, leaving a radiance from the full moon above it that would mean the night would not become properly dark either. In the gloaming, the garden looked a little ghostly, and the white roses seemed to glimmer, as if they were giving off sunlight that they had stored within during the hot afternoon. They were strongly scented, those white roses, an old variety they had bought from a tiny, out of the way nursery in the Cambridgeshire fens on one of their Sunday afternoon drives, and he was half-tempted to go down again just to breathe it in. Why are scents stronger in the darkness? And don’t they say that the sense of smell is the last of the senses to go as one shuffles off this mortal coil? Dear me. What a melancholy sort of evening it had become.
Might as well finish it off in style then, he decided as he got ready for bed. Jo Evison had been in his thoughts several times today, ever since he had heard that bird at Flints Farm. She knew her birds, of course, and he wondered whether she had ever heard a golden oriole in England. It would have been reason enough to text her or even to call, but there had been nothing for some weeks now. If they had kept in touch, a call about an unusual bird would have seemed natural enough but now, after such a long silence, it would seem odd and contrived. Odd he could accept but not contrived as well. Better to face the facts here, Smith, he told himself in Major Agassiz’s voice; this bird has well and truly flown. And that oriole might have gone as well, what with all the people milling about the Norfolk countryside after dark.
Chapter Seven
Desk Sergeant Charlie Hills was by nature a two-fingered typist, but sometimes, when the muse was upon him and there were words to be produced that contained lots of a’s, e’s and s’s, the middle finger of his left hand would join the party. He typed ‘assessment’ with some panache, therefore, but then had to stop and count the s’s, undoing any gains he had made in the time taken. And all the while he knew that DC Smith was watching him from the office behind the counter to which the public of Kings Lake brought their worries and concerns, their criticisms and complaints, their lost dogs, their found wallets and disused air rifles. He always said that it was the sheer variety of what could come over that counter that kept him so enthusiastic about the job. And the colleagues, of course, like Smith, who was now attempting to put the kettle on quietly so that he could steal another mug of tea. Smith would disguise this theft by poking his head out at any moment and asking whether Charlie would like one as well – and if he answered yes, as he would, Smith would then ask whether he would like a biscuit with it. At that point Charlie would have to reveal where the latest hiding place was, and that would mean finding another hiding place or he would, in a couple of days, find an empty packet instead, with a cryptic message inside it.
‘Charlie, can I make you a mug of tea?’
‘Yes. The biscuits are behind the old typewriter on the bottom shelf of the cupboard. I’ve counted ‘em, so don’t stick any in your pocket for later.’
A voice called back, ‘That’s the trouble with the world today – there’s a distinct lack of trust in it.’
Without looking up or desisting from his two-fingered typing, Charlie Hills muttered, ‘My problem is a distinct lack of biscuits about twice a week.’
But Smith had heard him nonetheless – ‘Charlie, I’ve told you time and again. I’m on a diet. You need to widen the search for the culprits.’
Charlie looked down at his own expansive middle regions and said, ‘And I’ve told you that I’d believe you if you had an ounce to lose in the first place. Diet my backside!’
Smith was in the doorway then, seemingly examining the said region.
‘Yes, I see what you mean, Charlie. I’m not sure that there is a diet to address that area in particular. I’d say it’s more a question of doing some appropriate exercises. Have you considered forward lunges?’
What Charlie had considered was unprintable but by now Smith was ready to move the conversation forward into the realm of work. He brought the two mugs of tea out to Charlie’s desk, and produced the packet of shortcake biscuits from his jacket pocket. Taking one out, he examined it carefully for structural weaknesses before dipping it into the tea; Charlie’s taste in teabags was awful and this was the only way to make it drinkable. Then he looked up and said, ‘Badger digging.’
‘What’s that? A toast?’
‘No, it’s when some blokes with shovels and dogs…’ but then Charlie’s withering look altered the direction of the conversation. Smith told him that he had just been reading about a case of it in the Lowacre area two years ago – three men had been convicted and fined. Had Charlie heard of anything since? These matters were invariably dealt with by uniform.
‘No, not come to my attention, DC. Is this about your dead detectorist?’
‘Yes, sort of. But he’s not mine, Charlie. Mark Randall and I had nothing in common and we’re not going to get any closer as a result of his demise. I’ve just been doing some background reading – anyone up there after dark might be a useful witness. As they are unlikely to volunteer their services, however, I wondered whether it might be worth paying a visit.’
Charlie Hills took two biscuits. They were not very big and that way he might end up having consumed at least half of the packet for a change.
‘As I say, I’ve heard nothing about it. I remember processing those people when they were brought in – unpleasant sorts. Hard to believe it still goes on in this day and age, isn’t it? But the last I heard, you’ve got a good prospect for Mr Randall anyway.’
Charlie’s ‘the last I heard’ was disingenuous, to say the least; he knew more about the criminal history of Kings Lake, and more about the criminal history of its police force, than anyone else in the building. If the computer servers ever went down – and Smith for one was certain that it was more a matter of ‘when’ than ‘if’ – they would need to find a way of downloading what Charlie Hills was carrying around inside his head.
‘Yes. Gareth Stone is either terminally dishonest or very guilty. I haven’
t looked at his interview tapes yet but there’s a hive of activity upstairs. They’re organising a day trip out to his place as we speak. Probably only be you and me left in the building.’
Charlie halted the progress of another Buttery Shortcake towards his mouth.
‘You not invited?’
‘No. Too many cooks and all that. It’s John Wilson’s show and good luck to him. I’m just a sweeper-upper on this one.’
‘The DI alright with that?’
‘Yes. She’ll have her hands full with the CPS today, depending on what they can find at Stone’s place. They’ve got until eight o’clock tonight to charge him. If I can find another witness to his vehicle or him being in the area recently, it might help.’
Charlie Hills shrugged and then turned to look into the foyer. A door had opened but he could see that it was two uniformed women using the public entrance. When he turned back, Smith was on his feet, finishing the mug of tea.
Smith said, ‘So I’m off on my tod, out to the Abbeyfield friary. A pleasant drive. Might even do a bit of bird-watching. Did you know I found a golden oriole, Charlie? I could be a natural-born twitcher…’
‘I’d always assumed you might be a natural-born twit, so it’s possible, DC. Anything on Richard Ford yet?’
Which meant that Charlie had heard the decision had been made even though the paperwork was still to arrive.
‘Yes, but it’s not official, so mum’s the word.’
‘What we expected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bugger. He’s a good lad.’
‘Yes. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m off. See you later, Charles.’
No parting insult or barbed compliment – DC seemed to be in something of a hurry to get out into the fresh air. Charlie went back to his typing and thought to himself, why not, we’ve done our share, the old campaigners, we deserve an easy day now and then. It was a few minutes before he realised that the packet of Buttery Shortcake had also gone for a ride.
The Peugeot had parked in the same spot and the driver did not sit in it for very long, but by the time he arrived at the friary’s entrance doors, Brother Jeremy had appeared to greet him in person. The guardian asked whether there was any news and whether the detective sergeant had further questions that he might help to answer. Yes and no, was the response. There was some news – a man had been arrested and might be charged later that day – and the questions would be for the two young men to whom Smith had not been able to speak on his first visit. If his memory served him well, Brothers Joe and Andrew.
‘Your memory serves you very well, sergeant. Joe is here this morning, working in the greenhouses, I expect. I’ll take you to him.’
The building had the inner coolness that comes only with centuries – the warmth of the morning had not yet penetrated the thick, stone walls. Smith followed through the dimly-lit passages until they arrived back in the sunshine – a spacious courtyard, with a herb garden at its centre and a lean-to glasshouse forming an L-shape along the south and west-facing walls. There were two men tending tomato and pepper plants, one that Smith recognised from his last visit and one that he did not. Brother Joe was in his early forties, overweight and sweating with the heat under the glass; both men had taken off their robes and Joe’s yellow T-shirt was damp on his back and under the arms. When Smith was introduced as a policeman, Brother Joe made no attempt to conceal his surprise.
Brother Jeremy said, ‘I mentioned it, Joe. They are making general inquiries about the poor soul who was found in Asher’s field, that’s all.’
And Smith thought, he takes his role as a guardian seriously. Thinking about it, he was present at all the other brief interviews, taking us round, introducing us personally and then listening as we spoke to the friars.
Smith said to him, ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll just need five minutes with Joe. Will you be back in your office when I’ve done?’
It was there, the moment of hesitation that Smith had been probing for, and the guardian said that he would, if the detective sergeant thought that he would be able to find his way there again. The detective sergeant didn’t seem to have much doubt that he would be able to do so.
They went outside and stood by the herb garden. There were thymes and mints and rosemarys, all in full flower and the hum of bees was constant, making the sunshine itself seem drowsy though it was not yet ten o’clock in the morning.
Smith asked Brother Joe what sort of outreach work he did in Kings Lake, and then listened with obvious interest to the answer. Joe worked with the homeless and the street-sleepers, putting them in touch with what services were available after the cuts to support for the few charities that were involved in the sector. When he could not help them, he just spent time with them – someone to listen was often as useful as a blanket or a flask of tomato soup. When the policeman didn’t respond straight away, Joe said, ‘It is surprising, I realise that. Not a lot of people know there’s a problem in Kings Lake.’
Smith said, ‘I’ve seen it for myself. You mean down Waterfall Road and the old dock area. And at the back of the Millenium arcade – that’s half-derelict already. There’s only one shelter offering any beds at all, isn’t there?’
‘St Ann’s, and it’s going part-time. I work there on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday evenings. But not many people want to support wasters, do they? Not very sexy, is it?’
There was a low wall around the herb garden and Smith sat on it – he made no attempt to answer the friar’s questions until Brother Joe himself followed suit.
‘You’re right, of course, that’s how most people perceive it. And there’s also the fact that we get more calls for help from charities than we ever used to, more every day judging by my letter-box. And now it’s emails as well. People’s charity gets pretty thinly spread.’
Joe said, ‘Which in itself says a lot about the kind of society we’ve created. Abused children, battered wives, sick people - all competing for pennies, crumbs from the table. And that’s before you think about the environmental disaster that’s happening all around us.’
Smith looked about the courtyard – a sunlit, sheltered, idyllic sort of place on an English June morning – and Brother Joe followed his thoughts. For the first time there was a lighter note in his words as he continued, ‘Alright, this doesn’t look too disastrous. It’s a haven and sometimes I feel guilty about coming back here after I’ve spent a day on the streets. I know you haven’t come to listen to my speeches. Jeremy said you had a few questions…’
There were butterflies among the flowers, too; Smith recognised red admirals and peacocks. He watched them and thought, Brother Joe, you have a past. You haven’t been living in a friary since you were twenty – you’re too angry, you know too much about what’s going on in the world out there, the world of underpasses and alleyways, stinking stairwells, the backstreet dead-ends littered with fast-food wrappers and plastic bottle, the urban cemeteries where used syringes shine like little fallen stars in the uncut grass, the graveyards of hope. Brother Joe was reaching out because something had reached into him.
No, he said, when Smith finally asked his questions. He didn’t wander around Abbeyfield much, especially after dark. He wasn’t much of a country boy, not like Brother Jeremy who knew all about the birds, who had made a proper study of the kingfishers down by the river – and Brother Andrew, who had tried at one time or another to get all of them out to watch his beloved badgers. They were the people most likely to have seen any strangers hanging around, but obviously the detective sergeant had spoken to them already.
Smith said, ‘After yourself, Brother Andrew is the last on the list. I think he’s away on a retreat somewhere. Is that something that you all do?’
‘Yes, from time to time. But some of us use it more than others. I go if I’m reminded to – I tend to get too caught up the world and don’t spend enough time in contemplation.’
Joe said that as if it was a confession but Smith could see that he did not
mean it that way; it might even be some sort of criticism of those who did spend too long, in his opinion, conversing with God about the world instead of doing something to put it right.
‘Of course,’ Smith said, ‘if Brother Andrew has been gone for a while, there might be no point in my contacting him at all. If he was away before the body was found in your field, say…’
Joe understood that another question had been asked, and frowned before he answered it.
‘I can’t say exactly but it must have been about the time the police arrived that he went. A couple of weeks ago? I know he had a taxi that picked him up before breakfast – I remember thinking that he must be getting an early train from Kings Lake.’
‘And it was a taxi from Kings Lake?’
‘I honestly can’t remember that. But that’s what we usually do. We only run one car between us at the friary. It’s a form of abstinence.’
Brother Joe had a sense of humour, and Smith acknowledged it with a smile.
‘I don’t suppose you keep an actual record of who is off where and when – just so that I can avoid bothering Brother Andrew if it isn’t necessary?’
‘Jeremy is very organised, sergeant, but I’m not aware of anything like that. And I don’t think he’d want to know all the details of the places I go sometimes.’
Smith stood up and thanked him for his help. As they walked back towards the greenhouses, he took out a card and offered it to the friar.
‘This is me. I can imagine that there are occasions down on Waterfall Road when you and your clients end up having to deal with the boys in blue. If you ever need anyone to… I don’t know, put in a word, you could give me a ring.’
Brother Joe took it and said he appreciated the offer. As he watched the detective walk away, he thought that wasn’t so bad – I expected a bit of a grilling and ended up having a nice chat in the sunshine. Funny sort of policeman.
The Rags of Time Page 8
