“She never will. She enjoys taking policemen apart far too much to give it up. OK everyone, let’s get to it.”
When he checked his phone that afternoon, he discovered that there had been another development in his social life. A message from Marcia said that her plans had changed, that she would be available for dinner on Saturday after all, if he still wanted to, dot dot dot. Had she been surprised by his asking and just needed time to think? Had she actually been booked up but had now rearranged things because she would rather go out to dinner – with him? He could text back and say that now he was booked up but he would see if he could… But it was unlikely a woman as smart as Marcia would believe him. And why play games? Still, now he would need to choose a restaurant and then book it, and what did he have to wear that wouldn’t be… And what about afterwards? He’d heard that women these days have different expectations.
He turned his attention back to the case. The plan was to go through the personal and medical files of Martin Collins, Nancy Bishop and Ralph Greenwood line by line, looking for anything, absolutely anything that might give them a new starting point – because it was clear now that they would need to speak to them again. The second interview is always different, more difficult and often more threatening as people are asked to repeat answers or to go into more detail about matters that they would rather forget.
Without looking up, Waters said, “Nancy Bishop was a nurse.”
“Yes. So?”
“She wouldn’t be too squeamish, then. She’s probably closed a few dead eyes in her time.”
It was a sound point. They continued reading. Smith had Ralph Greenwood’s folders in front of him again. To Smith he seemed to be the most interesting person – not in the criminal sense, not yet a ‘person of interest’ – and yet they knew less about him from these files than they knew about the other four. Why was that? What was missing? No recent additions to the medical notes – perhaps he was just healthier than the others. And no advance directive, the only one of the five folders without one of those. Smith went back to the personal file. Again, less informative about the subject’s earlier life than the others; it simply stated that he worked in London for many years as a solicitor’s clerk. He thought back to his two meetings with the man, in the social room that first morning and then talking to him in his room, the room that was different to the others. Were those the conversations of a solicitor’s clerk? Was that the room of a retired solicitor’s clerk? Laptop, internet connection, mobile phone, chess set… And books, lots of books in a couple of bookcases; he hadn’t looked at the titles - should have one so, what people read can tell you a lot - but they were proper books, he was sure of that.
He returned to the front page with its photograph, and that was different, too. The others had recent pictures, just portraits obviously taken in Rosemary House, taken for the record, for the file, commemorating the moment at which independent life had come to an end – hence perhaps the sadness that glimmered through the attempts at smiles. But the photograph in Ralph Greenwood’s file was not taken in the home; he was half turning away from the camera, mouth parted in a surprised smile. The girl in the picture with him must have come from behind and put her hands on his shoulders as the picture was taken – a petite, pretty girl with short, almost cropped blonde hair. Behind the two of them was a table laid out for some sort of party, a family party, Smith guessed. Hadn’t Irene Miller said something about a granddaughter? This might be her.
He’d said it himself, days ago – if anyone can tell us what goes on at Rosemary House, it’s Ralph Greenwood. And what had the man said, with a gleam in his eye, something about the lack of forensics? Was that pawn to king’s four, an opening move? Not a shred of evidence, not even a shred of proper intelligence but…
“Chris, I did a Google thingy on this one when we started and drew a blank. You have a go.”
Waters reached for the files and tapped away at his keyboard. A few mouse clicks, a shrug and then more keyboard, more mouse clicks. Smith watched and thought ‘And that’s modern policing for you.’
He went down to the canteen, fetched two mugs of tea and two cereal bars from the vending machine. Waters took the cereal bar but not the tea, which meant that Smith could down one quickly and then sip the second in a more leisurely fashion. He dipped the cereal bar into it experimentally but it wasn’t great. Then he looked at his phone to see if Marcia had replied yet – no. Waters frowned and went back into the folders which reassured Smith that he hadn’t missed anything obvious – Ralph wasn’t easy to find, after all. But then, he mused, Ralph’s life was a while ago, his real life, his work as a solicitor’s clerk in London. That was life before the internet, before the digital footprints that everyone was now leaving behind them for eternity.
Smith took the photographs out of the folders and went down to copying machine. After various interesting failures, he managed to get it to enlarge them so that they would not look too silly on the whiteboard. He felt a little guilty at putting them up there; old age pensioners as suspects looked somewhat desperate but it was at least evidence that an investigation of some sort was still taking place. He wrote up their names and then drew a circle around them which he labelled ‘Close Friends’.
Almost forty five minutes had passed since he asked Waters to do the first search – one had to admire the boy’s persistence. He’d gone back to the folders several times and stared at the screen several times; now the intervals between bursts of activity on the keyboard were growing longer. Five more minutes and then it would be time for a re-think.
He was heading towards the door with the empty mugs when he heard “Got him!”
Smith found himself looking a newspaper, or rather at a photostat copy of one. It was grainy and a little blurred but the photograph was clear enough – a man shaking hands with a dignitary wearing a chain, a local mayor or something, both looking into the camera. Around and behind them a group of men, mostly middle-aged or elderly, one or two of them sporting their legal get-up of robes and wigs. The image was not sharp enough to stand up as evidence in a court of law but underneath it the caption was not in doubt – ‘After thirty five years of service, Mr Ralph Greenwood retires as clerk to the chambers of Fitchett and Royce, Lincoln’s Inn’. Smith found the date and did a quick calculation; Ralph had gone the full distance and not retired until he was at least sixty five.
“How the hell did you find that?”
“It was a last, long shot. I went into the online archives of the London Evening News. Each year is a separate file, so you have to enter the search details every time. I should’ve started further back – but we got there in the end.”
Modest as ever but Smith could see how pleased Waters was – he’d buy him another cereal bar at some point.
“Is it any use?”
Smith was reading the short article as he answered.
“Well, there’s not much in this but it tells us one thing. ‘Solicitor’s clerk’ doesn’t quite cover what our Mr Greenwood did in his working life, or at least the latter part of it. Do you know what a ‘clerk to the chambers’ is?”
“Not really. ‘Chambers’ is barristers, isn’t it?”
“That’s it. And Lincoln’s Inn is sort of Barristers’ HQ. They’re more spread out these days but I reckon the top lot still want chambers in the Inns of Court – certainly that was true in our Ralph’s time. The clerk to the chambers runs the business, literally; organizes all the admin, allocates cases and supervises the work of some of the cleverest people you’re ever likely to meet. I think I can safely say that what you just found is quite useful.”
And then Smith fell silent. He appeared to be staring down at the files on the table in front of him but Waters soon realized that his attention was elsewhere by some considerable distance. After a couple of minutes, Smith stood up and walked to the room’s only window; this did not face the outside world, only the corridor, but Smith stood there for another minute or two as if he was gazing at mounta
in scenery or a view of some distant ocean. At one point he shifted into the now-familiar at ease pose, right hand holding left wrist, shoulders back; Waters couldn’t see but he thought that Detective Sergeant Smith might have closed his eyes.
Waters looked away and back at the screen. He saved the newspaper page and then reopened a search screen. Light flickered on his face as he moved the mouse and began to read.
When Smith returned to his desk, Waters looked up and said, “I’ve just been onto a careers site. The starting pay for a barrister’s clerk is pathetic but some of the chambers specify an Oxbridge degree! It’s mad!”
“Forget starting pay. I’ll bet the best clerks to chambers can write their own ticket. I expect Ralph’s office whip-round was more than you’ll earn this year.”
Waters glanced at his watch.
“We ought to go and see him, DC. There’s still time.”
Smith didn’t answer straight away and Waters guessed that this was one of the matters that had been occupying him – what the best next move was and when it should be made.
“Yes, I know. There is time but I’m not sure it’s the right time. Leave it until tomorrow morning, after we’ve been up to the court offices. Do some research on those chambers he worked for. They’ll have websites now. Do they specialize? Some do, get expertise in certain types of case. See if you can connect them to any well-known trials in the last few years that Ralph was working there – it doesn’t matter what. I need to run something past DI Reeve.”
“Ah, Smith, on your way to see me, no doubt.”
“No, sir, DI Reeve as it happens.”
Smith could have kicked himself; going upstairs always involved some risk but he should have considered this more carefully, knowing that Allen wanted to speak to him – he should have come up by the back stairs.
“Never mind, as you are here…”
Smith pulled across his usual chair, the little plastic one that had been positioned to hide an untidy tangle of IT cables in the corner. He saw the irritation on the face of the superintendent but ignored it, standing almost to attention until he was invited to sit down.
“DI Reeve tells me that your first thoughts about joining the new Regional Serious Crime Unit are not very positive.”
“Well actually, sir, I’d go further than that.”
“Really? Further than the Regional? I don’t understand.”
“No, I mean that my thoughts about it are quite negative, sir.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I still think you should consider it, Smith. I’m not naïve enough to say you should think about your career, which is…Which is…”
“Over, sir?”
“Of course not. But you are a serving officer with a great deal to offer a new unit like this. The people leading this will need some experienced men as well as…”
A look of mild panic appeared on Allen’s face as he realized that Smith might fill the conversational gap once again with suggestions of his own, suggestions that Allen knew he did not want to hear.
“As well as the young and ambitious detectives that such a prestigious group will undoubtedly attract. You would be a steadying influence. And, of course, the cases would be the kind of challenging and complex ones that would be worthy of your particular talents. I’m sure that you are sometimes bored by what Kings Lake has to offer you these days!”
Smith was quiet for a moment. Allen was selling the idea hard, and there had to be a reason for that beyond the fact that he was hoping for a quieter life.
“The Subic case was far from boring, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. And this current business at Rosemary House is getting more intriguing by the day.”
“Really?”
It was the word ‘intriguing’ that worried him, Smith could see that.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know if DI Reeve has brought you up to speed since this morning but we could have some major developments soon.”
“Excellent. Developments such as?”
“Well, a possible exhumation, sir.”
As the blood slowly drained from the superintendent’s cheeks, Smith wondered where it actually goes when it does that – does it all end up in your feet? Waters could probably find the answer with his internet-searching skills.
“That is not something that we undertake lightly, Smith, as you well know. Authorisation – at the highest level. I’d rather you did not go bandying that idea about until you, until we, are absolutely certain.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
Once again in an interview with Superintendent Allen, an uneasy and uncertain quiet seemed to have come upon them, a hiatus. Smith smiled politely, and nobly took upon himself the responsibility of moving things forward.
“So this new role would be based where, sir?”
Allen clutched at the question as if it was a life-raft and unfathomable depths yawned beneath him.
“Ah. Well, you could often find yourself using our facilities here, and you would always find a welcome, Smith, you know that. But obviously the operational base itself would be at the county headquarters.”
“At Norwich, sir?”
Allen nodded, and now it made sense. Smith would be off the local payroll completely, as well as out of Allen’s thinning hair. The element of his salary that was protected when he moved down the hierarchy made him expensive; if he was replaced at all it would be with an inexperienced and inexpensive newbie at a third or even a quarter of the cost.
“I’d like to thank you for the opportunity, sir. As it happens, I am considering my options at the moment.”
“Really? Well, you know you can approach me at any time, Smith. Retirement, at last?”
Paddling away furiously, Allen looked as if he had finally caught a glimpse of a palm tree on a distant shore.
“Not exactly, sir. You see, I’ve had another offer.”
“Oh, right…”
Smith stood up, ready to leave. It was the kindest thing he could do, in the circumstances.
That evening he took a lot longer than the allotted hour to think over the case, and then there were some personal matters to consider as well. Murray had come back with the news that Elspeth Grey had been cremated, and so that potential avenue of investigation was firmly closed. Smith was relieved in a way but also disappointed for Superintendent Allen – he would not break the news to him for a while yet. The short meeting late in the afternoon with DI Reeve had also produced a result – they could prepare a request for a search warrant and have it ready at short notice; the issue of whether it needed to cover all of Rosemary House when only one room might be examined was unusual but was resolved by a phone call to the office of the police solicitor in Norwich. These days most suspects were in custody or under arrest before a search and an inspector could OK it but in this case he had to be careful. Arresting the elderly and infirm without very good cause could lead to all sorts of complications and horrible headlines.
So, thought Smith, it’s that time, that moment when you have to place your bet before the spin of the wheel. He had not, he knew, entirely eliminated everyone else. For example, he should ask to see Joan Riley’s will, but what is the use of experience if you don’t sometimes rely on it? He was certain that the will would be unchanged, that there would be no recent alterations, and he based that on his meeting with her daughter and the daughter’s subsequent interview with DI Reeve. Everything in her behaviour suggested that she was telling the truth. Smith didn’t like the husband very much but the man had no opportunities to influence his mother-in-law that Smith could see, and he had the impression that Mrs Riley might well have had enough about her to come to the same conclusion as Smith about her son-in-law. The senior staff that he had interviewed in Rosemary House had opportunities but no motives; none of them seemed to have had a close enough relationship with Joan to have risked imprisonment, and the residents’ financial affairs were well insulated from those who managed their lives at the home. Kipras Kazlauskas did have that sort of relations
hip with the woman; in one way that was an odd friendship but Smith had been convinced by the Lithuanian’s story. Even the things he had not told them the first time around made sense: Kipras had been afraid of losing his job but the fear of prosecution for assisting a suicide never seemed to enter his head, suggesting that the idea of it had never occurred to him. Dr Tremewan… If she had any involvement at all, if she had decided it was time to put the beliefs of, what was it, CLARIFY, to the test, why on earth would she have then drawn their attention to the previous death at which she attended, that of Elspeth Grey? Unless she saw herself as some sort of martyr to the cause, wanting to be in the public spotlight, raising the profile of the issue? It was possible – but he didn’t believe it.
On that night, the 6th of December, Joan Riley’s death had been carefully planned. Heroin had been obtained in advance. That he could not make out yet, not at all. Smith knew half a dozen places that he could drive to now, within fifteen minutes of his home, and reasonably expect to find some, but how it had made its way into Rosemary House he could not see. Nevertheless, it had done so. It must have been carefully hidden, in a building in which various care and cleaning staff could go through the resident’s rooms on a regular basis. Hidden for how long? If Elspeth Grey had departed in the same fashion, maybe for some months. Or did whoever was doing this just have the amount required brought in as necessary?
Then, on the night, someone had prepared the drug, dissolved or at least mixed it into a drink, and left it in her room. They had entered the room with her, unseen – no-one had been reported as being with Joan during that afternoon or early evening. They had moved the chair that she could not have shifted herself, and had perhaps even sat with her until the drug took effect. Afterwards, someone had gone back into the room, unless Olive Markham’s unheard of event had taken place, and closed her eyes after her death. But that someone had missed the opportunity to remove the glass, the most obvious piece of evidence of wrongdoing. Whoever it was, the opportunity had been created by Martin Collins’ unfortunate situation in the gentlemen’s toilets – a ten minute window, at most. In those ten minutes, someone had gone through a locked door, if Kipras Kazlauskas was to be believed. And Smith did believe him. It was an intricate plan, one that required timing and a cool assessment of the risks involved.
But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation Page 17
