by J G Alva
“I agree with you,” DCI Brown said. “That’s partly why you’re here. You are a seasoned officer. You did come up the old fashioned way. She will be looking to you for guidance. I would hope that you will give it, freely.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“Also…”
“Yes?”
Ben hesitated again.
“I’m concerned that her attainment of the title of Detective Constable, at such a young age, has been based less on her ability, and more on who she knows.”
DCI Brown made a disapproving clucking noise. He sniffed, shuffled papers on his desk.
“Or who knows her mother, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell you this, DI Lewis,” he said, his voice low and slightly menacing. “Such a person would not be allowed in my division. She’s good. Will you take my word on that? I might even go so far as to say she has a gift. That’s why I have requested she work with us, here. Not because of undue influence.”
Ben was sweating ever so slightly.
“I trust your concerns have been appropriately addressed?” DCI Brown asked him.
“For now, yes,” Ben said.
Brown seemed amused at this.
“Yes. For now. Very well. In that case, can you go down and fetch her? She’s in a café down the street. I think it’s a Starbucks.”
“Café?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why is she in a café?”
Brown blinked.
“Because I sent her there. She arrived early, and I didn’t have anything for her to do. Besides, the sawdust was irritating her allergies.”
“Allergies?”
A sense of unreality touched Ben. This morning had a vague flavour of the absurd about it, like a Carry On film.
“Is everything alright, DI Lewis?”
DCI Brown was giving him that stare again.
Ben nodded. Sure, everything was just fine. Just tickety-boo.
“Then I’ll see you back here with your new partner in” – Brown looked at his watch – “twenty minutes.” He smiled. “Consider this your first assignment.”
◆◆◆
Starbucks.
Bustle. Noise. Screaming children.
Just like home.
Ben lingered in the doorway, ostensibly to let a sudden throng of people push passed him to the door, in truth to give him the chance to study DC Sarah Goodchild with fresh eyes…and without her aware of his inspection: she was oblivious to his arrival as she had her nose in a book.
She sat in the corner. There was no way to be nice about it: she was a plain woman. Not ugly, but certainly no raving beauty. A wallflower, his father might have called her, and perhaps it was no coincidence she sat in a seat against the wall now. At only twenty six, she was young for a detective. Her hair was dark, thick, but short cut around the ears; a sensible haircut, like she might operate heavy machinery or chop up fish guts for a living. Her glasses were a decade out of date. Her body seemed in good proportion, but it was hard to see under a shapeless black cardigan and what appeared to be men’s slacks. Her face seemed to have a slightly haughty air to it; a fat bottom lip stuck out petulantly.
Ben walked over and without preamble sat himself in the seat opposite her.
She looked up from her book.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Ben smiled widely.
“Can I help you?” She asked. Her voice was deeper than he had expected.
“I was thinking you might hinder me personally, but I could be wrong.”
She dropped the book down further, narrowed her eyes.
“You’re Detective Inspector Benjamin Lewis,” she said.
“I am,” he confirmed. “And you are Detective Constable Sarah Goodchild.”
“I am,” she too confirmed.
He nodded at her book and asked, “what are you reading?”
She flipped the book back so he could read the title: The Magus, by John Fowles.
Ben nodded, completely adrift. He had never heard of the book, or the author.
“Have you read it?” DC Goodchild asked, and there was an amused arrogance in her tone. She knew he hadn’t.
“Not unless it was recommended on Top Gear.”
She nodded, less certain now. He thought she might not know what Top Gear was.
“Let me read you some of it,” she said. “Listen to this: men love war because it allows them to look serious. Because they imagine it is the one thing that stops women laughing at them.” She looked at him. “Do you think women laugh at men, DI Lewis?” DC Goodchild asked, taking off her glasses.
“In my experience, most definitely. Especially when I try and dance.”
“You dance? You are full of surprises.”
Ben narrowed his eyes.
“What is it you think you know about me?”
“It’s not what I think I know, it’s what I’ve inferred.”
“And what have you inferred?”
“Do you always ask so many questions of your new partners?” She challenged.
“All part of being a detective, I’m afraid. And being a detective, I’ve observed your careful side step of my question.”
DC Goodchild nodded. The amusement left her eyes then.
“My inferences,” she confirmed.
“Indeed.”
He waited. She looked suddenly awkward.
“It’s not from personal observation,” she said, as if regretting this turn of the conversation.
Ben looked around as he said, “I know what your inferences are. Now let me give you mine: if this conversation was an attempt to impress me with your wit and education, then it’s not a very good attempt. Personally, I think it would be better if you kept the fact that you are an inexperienced university graduate to yourself. Surely, to highlight that which you so sadly lack – namely, experience of law enforcement – must only emphasis your disadvantages. Which is not smart at all.” He paused before adding, “and starting off on the wrong foot with a superior officer cannot do you any good either.”
DC Goodchild turned her head away awkwardly.
Thinking that he might have been a little overzealous on the offensive, he said, “listen. I’m old and I’m cranky. And I don’t especially like surprises.”
DC Goodchild sneezed into her handkerchief suddenly.
“Are you ill?” Ben asked.
She shook her head, wiping her nose.
“No. I’m allergic to testosterone.”
Ben stared at her.
“I thought it was sawdust.”
She gave him a grim smile.
“I’m allergic to a lot of things.”
“Not hard work, I hope?”
She shook her head, wiped her nose again, tucked the handkerchief away.
“Look,” she said, and hesitated, cleaning her throat as well. She made an effort to meet his eyes. “I don’t like surprises either.”
He waited.
She didn’t continue; it seemed as if she did not know how to continue. An apology, of sorts, that had not left the starting gate…and perhaps all the apology he was going to get.
“Alright,” he said for her. “So we’re both a little off balance.”
“I’m also well aware that I am…inexperienced. But I’m willing and eager to learn.”
“So are you saying that, if we dance, you’ll let me lead?”
She smiled slightly and inclined her head in the affirmative.
“Yes,” she said. “I will follow your lead. Even if, by your own intimation, you’ve confessed that you are not a good dancer.”
Ben wanted to sigh but didn’t. He felt like a man about to scale a mountain…or perform some other thankless task.
He indicated her coffee cup.
“Are you finished? We have a meeting in about ten minutes.”
“The room’s ready?”
He nodded.
She gulped the last of the coffee and stood
up, as did he.
She held the cup aloft, shook it in front of him.
“A Soy Chai Tea Latte,” she said. “I’d recommend it.”
“Soy milk?” He said, as she dropped the cup in a nearby bin.
“I’m intolerant to dairy,” she said seriously.
“Of course you are,” he said, smiling brightly and following behind as she led the way out.
◆◆◆
Helen had left her welcome cakes on the table in the Briefing Room.
The room was being modelled into what Ben thought of as capitalist moderne: fluorescent strip lighting, cupboards built into walls, a screen and projector overhead, a collection of tables in a U shape around the screen, all in variations of blue and blue-grey.
In contrast, the view out of the main windows was very impressive. Perhaps the room’s only saving grace.
Ben and Sarah sat next to each other at the table, opposite the unfurled projector screen, and eyed the stodgy offerings from the Bekstone kitchen in front of them. With trepidation, Ben thought, waiting for the others to arrive.
Ben indicated the cakes and said, “do you…?”
Sarah shook her head.
“I’m on a diet.”
“Right.” Of course.
At that moment, Kip Taylor entered the room, clutching a large desk phone, a laptop, and various folders, all of which looked as if it would spill from his hands to the floor…until he was actually able to drop them onto the table, which he did, with an arresting clatter.
“Kip,” Ben said, with surprise, and rose.
“Ben,” Kip said, pushing his glasses up his nose. He shook Ben’s offered hand, and Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “Alan said you were on the team.”
“Alan?”
Kip smiled.
“DCI Brown.”
Kip was only twenty four, an asthmatic, thin, red haired man, who worked in the IT section of the MCIU.
“You’re in this too?” Ben said, returning to his seat. “Well. That’s good to hear. You still doing those Krav Maga classes on the side?”
“Yep,” Kip said, trying to sort the file folders and equipment into some sort of order. “Got twenty four members now, three classes a week. You should come.”
“I should,” Ben said. “But as soon as I get home, the wife has to put me in chains.”
“Why’s that?” Kip asked, completely serious.
“Afraid I’ll shit on the neighbour’s lawn, I think,” Ben said, and after a moment in which Kip looked genuinely shocked, he broke into a high wheezing laugh.
Sarah shot him a disapproving frown.
Helen preceded DCI Brown into the room, Brown shutting the door behind them. She sat next to Ben and whispered, “have you had a cake yet? What do you think?”
Ben patted his stomach.
“I’ve just had breakfast. But I will. I can promise you that.”
Helen dimpled and patted his arm.
Brown stood in the centre of the U of tables, his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, shuffling through some paperwork in his hands.
Almost as if he had forgotten everyone else was there, he looked up suddenly and said, “oh. Right. This is Francis Taylor, our IT civilian support.” Brown indicated Kip. He looked at him then. “Do you know when the computers’ll be in, Francis?” He asked.
“This afternoon,” Kip said, nodding vigorously.
“Uh-huh.” Brown went back to his paperwork.
“It’ll take me a good couple of hours to set up the network though, so don’t expect anything until early this evening.”
Brown looked at Kip. He did like to give people the old beady eye, Ben thought.
“Right,” Brown said, and he sounded slightly disappointed with Kip. That’s how he got things done, Ben thought: made you feel bad for letting him down. That, and the stare.
“Helen Bekstone I think you already know,” Brown continued. “She’s our Head Administrator.” Brown smiled when he said, “I managed to pinch her from MCIU. Don’t ask me what I had to promise to secure her.” Helen giggled. “And over here” – Brown indicated Ben and Sarah – “are Detective Inspector Benjamin Lewis, and Detective Constable Sarah Goodchild. I’m sure you can all get to know each other better later. Right. For now, it’s down to business. Why we are all here.”
Brown put down the paperwork and stared at them all in turn. He seemed oddly amused, as if this was an audacious prank he had somehow managed to pull off.
“Well. To start, let’s go back. About a year ago, I went to our Detective Chief Superintendent with an idea. This idea was in part inspired by recent events within the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s jurisdiction, and in part by events of a more personal nature. However, it transpired that this idea had not been in my mind alone, but also in the minds of other Chief Superintendents…as well as in the minds of certain men in the government. The idea, to put it simply, was to form a new division within the constabulary, dedicated solely to respond to prolific multiple murderers. That is, to serial killers.”
The room was silent a moment as that sank in. Ben looked at Sarah; she was wiping her nose with a handkerchief.
“Statisticians would have us believe that there are two serial killers active in the UK at any one time. It is my belief – shared by DCS Graham and a few others – that this is perhaps an optimistic figure. Optimistic in the sense that it would be nice if it were so few. I believe that there are more. A lot more. But due to certain…deficiencies shall we say, both in the police force and in the way that statistics are compiled, this figure is not accurately captured, if you’ll forgive the pun. Well, we voiced our concerns, both at home and in London, and it must have reached the right ears because, about three months ago, we secured funding from the government to create a new task force, separate from CID. We run parallel with CID, we work with them, but we are not answerable to them. We are answerable only to the Detective Chief Superintendent himself. And of course you” – and here Brown indicated his audience with a sweeping gesture – “are answerable to me, as your supervising officer. Everything clear so far?”
Heads nodded.
“So. That covers why you are here. Now let’s cover the why you. Specifically.” Brown turned away from them, rubbing his hands together. His head cocked to one side; he seemed to be thinking. Before he turned, his hands linked themselves behind his back, and Ben had the sneaking suspicion that he might have been a man of rank in the army. Maybe not a Colonel, but certainly a Captain or a Major. He gave off that air.
“Each of you have been chosen because you each have a unique skill. Helen, we worked together in Gloucestershire; so you know that I’m well aware of how efficiently you can support a department. I’ll expect nothing less here.” Helen nodded seriously. “Francis, of course, you provide very necessary IT support. In the past, it has been my failing not to appreciate the importance of IT within a working police department. That will not happen again. Francis” – and here Brown looked to Ben and Sarah – “comes highly recommended from the MCIU.” He turned back to Kip. “But we only have you on loan, is that correct?”
Kip nodded.
“How long for?” Ben asked.
“I’m going to flit between departments,” Kip explained. “But on paper I’ll belong to the MCIU. That’s who I’ll report to. You shouldn’t see any decrease in IT support though. For you guys, I mean.”
Brown paused, but then continued, “DI Lewis, you were chosen for three reasons, and it’s those three reasons, I believe, that put you slightly ahead of some of your equally proficient colleagues.” He began counting them off on his fingers. “One, your experience as a detective. I believe it’s been five years now, is that correct?”
“Six this month.”
Brown nodded, as if he already knew it.
“Two, your extensive knowledge of firearms, both professionally and personally. You’re an Authorised Firearms Officer. And I see you spent some time in the Armed Response Unit?”
“
Yes, I did.”
“For those who don’t know much about the Armed Response Unit, can you elaborate?”
“Of course. Principally, we dealt with incidents involving firearms, or with siege situations.”
“Can I ask why you left?”
Brown was looking over his half-moon glasses at him. It seemed Ben had his full attention for the moment.
“Yes. The Armed Response Unit was good work, but it wasn’t…enough.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I wanted to be a Detective.”
“To detect, no doubt.”
“I wanted to stop the bad people, DCI Brown.”
“And starting a family didn’t factor into your career decisions at that time? The Armed Response Unit is dangerous work, after all.”
Ben rubbed his chin, in part to cover a smile. There was no fooling this man.
“They might have done,” Ben admitted.
DCI Brown nodded, smiling himself, and then leant over to look at a sheet of paper he had left on the table beside Kip.
“And where does your personal interest in firearms stem from?”
“My father had guns. He was in the army. A Brigadier. He’d used them all his life, and it was something he wanted to pass on to his son, I suppose. I ended up sharing his interest.”
“I see you shot in competitions,” Brown said, reading the sheet.
“Only when I was younger.”
“And why did you stop?”
Ben smiled when he said, “the handgun ban in the UK in 1997 made practical shooting competitions for handguns almost impossible. I favoured handguns. That was my forte. My father was more of a rifle man. Between us we covered the scope of most practical shooting competitions.”
“You were in a team with your father?”
“Yes. Together, we reached UKPSA level 3.”
“Which is?”
“Championship matches. They usually consist of twelve stages, and use different scenarios, and different equipment.”
Brown nodded.
“Are we to be an armed response unit?” Ben asked.
Brown smiled.
“Yes. We will have authority to carry firearms. I’m not a hundred percent sure that we will need them, but I like to err on the side of caution. You, DI Lewis, will be our Authorised Firearms Officer. DC Goodchild does not have that training. As of yet,” he added, with a smile directed at her.
