But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  They found a table by one of the windows. Waters rubbed the condensation away and peered out at the lorries parked there, at least a dozen of them, mostly long forty tonners. One or two must have been parked overnight – frost still covered the ground beside them where the early morning sun – now only a memory – had failed to penetrate. As far as he could tell, the transport café had no rooms to let; the drivers must have slept in their cabs. He turned his attention back to the men who drove them. Some sat alone, chewing or drinking from huge white mugs, reading The Sun or The Star, while others had grouped themselves into twos or threes, talking. From somewhere came the smell of cigarette smoke but it was impossible to see anyone indulging, at least with a casual glance around. Above the counter on the wall was a standard printed sign that said ‘No Smoking’. Over the top of those words someone had scrawled ‘The Goverment says’.

  “This is a handy place. I’ve picked up a few leads here, I can tell you. When we broke up the illegals racket in the docks a few years ago, my best bit of intelligence came at that table by the door. Good lorry drivers are a mine of information, and I still keep a few on my books. Think about it. Even today, almost everything worth nicking or selling has to be moved.”

  Waters looked again at the men – mostly middle-aged, mostly needing a shave, mostly showing no interest whatsoever in the only two people in the room who were blatantly of a different profession.

  “Any of them in here now?”

  “I recognized a couple of faces when we came in.”

  Waters hadn’t noticed that at all. Perhaps these men were not uninterested or unaware of the police presence; perhaps they were making a point of not showing any interest in it.

  Smith said, “We’re not friends with these people. That’s the last thing anyone wants. But sometimes we can help each other out. Most drivers will do a little baccy or booze for friends and relatives but they don’t like being hassalled about more serious stuff. It makes their lives more complicated. If they know they can talk to you without any comeback, they will, after a while. It takes years. And you don’t offer these blokes money for information, not ever. It’s mutual back-scratching; if they’ve done you a good turn, they might mention your name when some uniform pulls them over for talking to their missus on the phone.”

  The food arrived, brought by the same youth who took their order, a hefty plate balanced in each hand. The pies were twice the size of any one could find in a supermarket, steaming hot and burned to a crisp around the pastry edges; a small mountain of chips rose up above the lake of gravy and on both plates there was also a heap of mushy peas. The waiter said “Alright?” and then departed without adding “Enjoy your meal.”

  Waters said, “We didn’t order peas.”

  “Ah, that’s just Floyd saying hello. He’s a man of few words but many pies. Years ago, not long after he opened here, he started getting a problem with bikers, the hairy sort. One Saturday night he’d had enough, so he set about them with the proverbial baseball equipment. Some of these hard men tried to bring charges but the local force couldn’t find enough evidence, even at the hospital. Charlie Hills could tell you all about that. Uniform drop in here pretty often – they eat well and Floyd doesn’t have too many problems nowadays.”

  The food was hot, salty and surprisingly good. They ate in silence for some minutes until they were full but there were still chips remaining on both plates. Smith sat back and patted his stomach as if to reassure it – then he picked up a chip, dipped it in the brown sauce and ate it.

  “Right, back to work. When Manuel notices us, we’ll get some tea. Thoughts on Mr Greenwood?”

  Waters had been expecting the question.

  “A character. He was enjoying the interview some of the time but then something would annoy him. I couldn’t decide whether he likes the police or not, to be honest.”

  “Probably knows too much about us.”

  “I thought it confirmed everything the QC told us about him. Was that just a lucky shot, that she knew him?”

  “Yes and no. It was years ago, when the lawyers were even more of a closed shop than they are today. Everything was in four places in London, and they all knew each other; once I knew he’d been at Lincoln’s Inn I reckoned there was a fair chance Mrs B, QC, would have come across him.”

  “And that’s why we didn’t interview him yesterday.”

  Smith nodded as he made the T sign to Floyd’s offspring.

  “It made sense, to see her first. Do you know what struck me? I gave him the chance to lay it off on one of the staff, didn’t I? I said, most likely one of the young carers. He wasn’t having that. Why not?”

  The question was as much to himself as to Waters.

  “Trying to protect Kip. When you said ‘Him’, Ralph knew what you were getting at, for sure. We know they’re fond of him.”

  “Yes – but this is where it gets complicated, at least to my puny, ageing brain. One scenario: Ralph knows nothing about what happened to Joan Riley; for all he knows, Kip was involved but because he’s their favourite carer, he decides to protect him, telling us that he doesn’t think it was the said young man who assisted in her suicide. Or her dying, whatever. Another scenario: Ralph does know something about what happened to Joan, maybe he knows a lot. Now, we’ve pretty much concluded that Kip was not involved, but Ralph doesn’t know that – in fact, I suggested the opposite. Ralph could have tried to put us off the scent by letting us go after Kip, or another one of the young carers, but he doesn’t. He actually points the finger at one of the visitors. As it happens, I agree with him.”

  Two large mugs of tea arrived with as little ceremony as the meal itself. As the plates were being removed, Smith said, “My compliments to your dad, young man. Tell him he isn’t losing his touch.”

  The surly astonishment almost gave way to words but then the young man thought better of it and left them in peace.

  Waters said, “I sort of see what you’re driving at… But it isn’t a big deal, is it?”

  Smith had reached into the pocket of the duffel coat that was hanging on the chair behind him. Absent-mindedly he took out the cigarette packet, then realized and contemplated it sadly – a choice between tea in the warm or smoking out in the cold.

  “Well – it is if we’re going with scenario two, which is that Ralph knows something about this but he doesn’t accept my idea of going after one of the carers. A proper villain would have grabbed at that – yes Smithy, get after those carers! I think our Mr Greenwood really is a man of principle, and he wasn’t willing to see an innocent person being blamed. However, I also think he knows something. I think he knows a lot. So where is this leading?”

  He gave Waters a couple of minutes. This was difficult and subtle, delicate and sinuous but how else is a young detective to learn? Because people too are all of those things, and if you don’t learn to work out people you remain a clodhopper, a slave to procedures and processes, someone who pursues targets rather than wrongdoers.

  After doing his staring thing for a while Waters said, “Well, if we’re going to look at visitors, we should probably start with…”

  “Ralph’s visitors – good point. When we get back, grab the book and make a note of every visit in the book for him. Go back six months. No, make it a year. We know one person who will figure a lot, of course.”

  “His granddaughter.”

  “Whose favourite subject is?”

  “Yes, I’d picked that up. She’d know more than enough, or should do. So do we need to take the laptop?”

  “Not yet. Whoever did it thinks they’ve done enough. They might well have done but we won’t play that yet. What else?”

  One of the lorries roared into life, pulled out of the line and swung close to the window. The building shook a little and they watched the vehicle as it was driven out onto the bypass – a forty tonner from Germany, heading north.

  Waters said, “He knew the case, didn’t he? The Crown versus DeVries – I looked it up
again last night.”

  “Of course he did. One of the biggest legal deals in decades and Fitchett and Royce had several top people involved in it.”

  “Why didn’t he say anything?”

  Smith shrugged and started to pull on the duffel coat.

  “It surprised him, and he’s a cautious man. He wanted time to think that over, the fact that we’d taken the trouble to dig it out from his past.”

  “Why did you? You had to work hard to make it relevant, and even then it seemed a bit…laboured.”

  Suddenly Smith was ready to go, impatient, and Waters was hurrying to catch up.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that. But it’s not a play, is it? We’re not performing it for some arty-farty drama critic’s benefit. Somebody died. I wanted Ralph to get the message about him and me.”

  They were at the door, and Smith was buttoning the coat against the cold that awaited them.

  “What message?”

  “That our relationship is moving on. That I’m getting serious.”

  As soon as they arrived back at Rosemary House, Smith was brisk and business-like. In the foyer he pointed to the visitors’ book and said, “Can you do that now? Do all three – Mr Greenwood, Mr Collins and Mrs Bishop. Fifteen minutes? I’ll be in the manager’s office.”

  At the sound of voices, Rita Sanchez appeared at the door of her room. She stared for a moment until Smith said, “Good afternoon, Ms Sanchez. Is there a problem? A message for me?”

  She shook her head and disappeared back into her office. Smith glared at the empty doorway for a little longer and then walked towards Irene Miller’s room. Waters had already opened the visitors’ book and was flicking his way back to last year. This was a moment to look busy; he must have offended in some way and now had some work to do.

  When he knocked and entered Irene Miller’s office twelve minutes later, Smith and the manager were both present but no conversation was taking place. That it had been was evident on Miller’s face – she was pale and concerned about something.

  As soon as he saw Waters, Smith said to her, “OK then, we’ll see Mr Collins.”

  She left the room and Smith held out a hand for the notebook. Waters had written three lists on three separate pages to make it easier. None of them was very long but Ralph had had more visits than the other two combined. Smith glanced at all three and pulled a face that seemed to convey mild but unsurprised disappointment.

  “No more pussy-footing, I think. See what happens… Worth looking out for any sign that Ralph has been to see them since this morning. I left him long enough.”

  He had said it – well, not exactly as a joke but in a jocular fashion. The room had gone rather quiet and now the older of the two detectives was looking back at him, a cold, hard look that made him a little uncomfortable.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Collins?”

  “I said, well, I just said as I’d never have guessed that she were a…”

  “A what, sir?”

  “A drug addict is what I said.”

  Collins felt foolish and his huge, old engineer’s hands twitched and flexed as if looking for something solid to grasp and work with – anything to avoid this confrontation with a policeman who was nothing like as friendly as he had seemed the last time they met.

  “And is that what you believe to be the case, Mr Collins? Because if it is, if you know something to that effect, it is your duty to tell it to me now. This is a serious matter. If it is not the case, if what you have just suggested about Joan Riley is not the truth, then to have said it at all was – irresponsible, to say the least. If it was a joke, it was in very poor taste, particularly if she was, as you have said, a good friend of yours.”

  Waters had to look away from the old man. He caught sight then of Irene Miller, who seemed equally uncomfortable. The silence that followed Smith’s words became oppressive and Waters could hear Martin Collins swallowing and breathing heavily.

  “Course it weren’t true. I just… Spoke out of turn, that’s all, I-”

  “Let’s be absolutely clear on this, Mr Collins. You are saying that you have no knowledge of anyone, Joan or any other person, providing or using Class A drugs here in Rosemary House – is that correct?”

  “Aye, it is!”

  He had raised his voice, and Irene Miller glanced across at the door. Shouts in here could be heard out in the foyer. She might have to put a stop to this – she hadn’t realized.

  “Good – at least we’re clear on that, Mr Collins. Now I’d like you to tell me again what happened to you on the night of the 6th of December last year. Take your time, don’t miss anything out.”

  Smith’s tone was suddenly more reasonable and not unfriendly but as Collins began to speak, Waters could hear the tremor in the voice – Smith had done that, and done it deliberately. Collins told the story of how he had had to get help, first from Ralph Greenwood and then from Kipras.

  When he finished, Smith picked out a folder from the small stack on the table in front of him. He opened it and leafed through until he found what he was looking for.

  “This is your medical record, Mr Collins. It makes no mention of arthritis.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve never had it diagnosed as such but it’s what it is. We all have it here, for God’s sake, we’re all heading for scrapheap!”

  “Has it troubled you since the 6th of December?”

  “Now and then, it gets a bit stiff, like.”

  “So you sometimes have difficulty walking? A bit of limp, that sort of thing?”

  Collins nodded, and Smith turned to Irene Miller.

  “Is that something that you have noticed, Ms Miller? Obviously if Mr Collins has problems with mobility it needs to be addressed.”

  She was uncertain about to whom she should respond and ended up with her eyes darting between the two of them.

  “I haven’t – I’m sorry, Martin, if you are having problems you should have said.”

  “Ms Miller is absolutely right, sir. You should have this fully investigated before it gets any worse. Scans and examinations, and they can do wonders with those cortisone injections. It’s a bit painful at first, I’m told, but afterwards you should feel like a new man.”

  He gave them all his least convincing smile, and closed the medical file.

  “Mr Collins. I’d say that our investigation is entering its final stages. That being so, I have to give you the opportunity now to tell me whether you know anything about the sad demise of your friend, Joan Riley, anything that you have failed to disclose to us so far.”

  “As it happens, I don’t. Can I go now?”

  Collins left on his own, having refused the manager’s offer of assistance. They all watched him as he made his way to the door – it was impossible to tell whether he was trying to demonstrate a slight limp or to conceal one. Then Irene Miller had turned a silent but questioning face to Smith. The question was probably, did you have to do that, but the detective decided to interpret it as, what next, and said, “Nancy Bishop?”

  When she had gone, Waters looked around the office, drummed a couple of fingers lightly on the table and said, “I don’t think we’re as popular as we used to be.”

  “Occupational hazard, especially near the end. If you’re any good at this, you always make someone unhappy.”

  “I suppose so… Are we near the end? It doesn’t feel like it somehow.”

  Smith nodded and almost smiled properly.

  “That’s because, despite all our best efforts, your basic copper’s instincts are still sound, at least as far as building a case is concerned. There is no case here. We’ve got nothing, zero, zilch. I’m certain in my own mind that the three people we’re looking at now know something about it, and I reckon, for what it’s worth, that they know everything about it. In a court, that certainty is worthless unless I can produce some evidence. I’m not complaining – that’s how it has to be. We can’t go locking people up because coppers think they are guilty. Or we could but then w
e’d have to swear allegiance to President Putin or Kim Jong what’s-his-name, and I don’t fancy that.”

  Waters thought for a moment.

  “It’s funny, but Maggie said something, days ago. She was telling me about the first meeting with Ralph Greenwood – that he had said something about ‘no forensics’. She thought it was odd… Significant.”

  “Yes, well, if Maggie is half as good a mother as she is a detective, that child should do alright. When I heard him say that, some voice in my head said ‘Oh dear’ as well.”

  “And there’s nothing else?”

  “No. We’ll look at the visitors, check up on any iffy ones, check up on them all, come to that, but unless we get lucky, this will all peter out. All we can do is to get Ms Miller to put us on her mailing list for the next one.”

  “Seriously? You think there’ll be more?”

  Smith looked at his watch and wondered why Nancy Bishop was not here yet. Then he pointed with his pencil at the medical files.

  “Eighty per cent of these have a DNR. What’s the betting that Ralph has one tucked away, as well? That would be one hundred per cent. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be totally amazed if we’re back here at some point in the not-too-distant.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What about the interview with Nancy Bishop?”

  Waters could see that Inspector Reeve was not happy but she was not blaming anyone in particular; he had thought about it all last night after Smith had dropped him off at the flat, and it was true – there was nothing that resembled a court case in it. Smith gave a clear and thorough account of the final interview but that could not convey the atmosphere of unease that had prevailed in the room. Irene Miller was expecting the worst after seeing Martin Collins interviewed, and Waters himself had listened with a kind of awed fascination as Smith took a different but still challenging line with the elderly lady. His opening question had been “You don’t seem to get many visitors, do you, Mrs Bishop?”