“Not sympathy. It’s difficult to find a victim in all this, if what happened is what I think happened but that doesn’t mean I cannot do my job. If you think I can’t do that, say so, pull me off it.”
He hadn’t meant to sound that abrupt. At the doorway, before he opened it, he had turned and said, “Thanks, Alison.”
“For what?” She looked as if she was expecting another cynical remark.
“For never asking.”
“Asking what?”
“What my answer was, to her question.”
Playing the Albeniz piece had made him think of Julian Bream. The CD had not been spinning more than a couple of minutes when his mobile rang. It was Marcia Williams. He looked at the screen for a moment, then switched off the CD player and walked up to his office.
“David? I meant to call earlier. Is it too late?”
“Depends on what for but I reckon ‘too late’ is my default position these days. Is it about Saturday?”
In an odd way he was hoping that she wanted to cancel – the same thought had crossed his mind more than once.
“Yes. I don’t know this restaurant. Is it really posh? I was wondering what to wear…”
Somehow the conversation lasted six minutes – he noticed that when it was finally over. During it he signally failed to give any sartorial advice whatsoever but he had realized immediately that the call had been less about what to wear than about establishing, at least on her part, some sort of intimacy before they met for dinner. He really did not want to read anything into that – but had it worked for her? He tried to recall exactly what they had talked about in those minutes but it was difficult; that was the problem with idle chat, of course. It was idle – not important, not memorable, but it was, nevertheless, crucial to be able to carry it out. And then he fell to wondering why it was crucial, and concluded that it was so only if one had certain ends in mind; if one did not, it would soon become little more than tiresome. Sheila had never been afraid of silences. She sought them out on the high tops in the Lakes and the Yorkshire moors, and sometimes he had been the one who wanted to speak but who had learned to be quiet. In those moments she had been somewhere without him but he was happy – happier than he had realized at the time – to wait for her return. Most women are not like that.
He had turned on the computer for no particular reason. Marcia had not cancelled - she had said twice that she was looking forward to it, and after the second time he had felt obliged to say something similar. Now, as the home screen loaded, he knew that he should not have said it. Why had he done so? Because there is an expectation, something deeply ingrained socially or culturally which says that a single person must still be in the game, must still want to be even if they deny it until they are blue in the face. Smith could acknowledge it in himself – it would ‘nice’ to have some company, a friendship away from work, but at what price? Intimacy seemed to be what many were willing to pay but the thought of it repelled him a little.
Another email from Jo Evison. For a man who refused to believe in coincidence it was somewhat troubling, as if the two women were in some sort of conspiracy.
‘Sorry to be a pain. What about meeting up instead of a phone call? I’m in Norwich a week tomorrow, the Friday. I could drive across on the Saturday. I’ll probably go up to the coast anyway, so… Let me know, Jo E.’
Two Saturdays in a row spoiled by worrying about what to wear, what to say, what to do next and what not to do? He didn’t think so.
‘I don’t want to string you along. I don’t fancy being written about that much – best to say so and have done with it. There are plenty of other murders – hope that doesn’t sound too harsh. Best of luck with whatever you tackle next, though.’
He read it over before he sent it, and thought that it was pretty polite – he could have just said that he was washing his hair.
Chapter Eighteen
“Well, sergeant, this is a little embarrassing, isn’t it?”
Ralph Greenwood stood in the doorway of his room, watching as it was searched by Waters, Richard Ford and Julia Conroy, a young female constable that Smith had met for the first time that morning. Smith was in the corridor, close to Greenwood; a few yards away, Alison Reeve stood with Irene Miller but there was little or no conversation between them – the manager was there to steer away any residents who wanted to know what was happening. She was not at all happy at the decision to take Ralph to Lake Central for yet another interview, and head office had already been consulted.
“Sorry about that, sir. As I’ve already said, not my idea.”
“Oh – I don’t mean for me. For you!”
Smith looked up at the older man and the amusement in the bright blue eyes seemed to be genuine.
“How is that then, Ralph? I hope you don’t mind if I call-”
“Sergeant, I already consider us the best of friends, old chap. Do you know your Dickens? As to this matter, you did appear to be in charge of it for a while, despite your rank – you don’t mind, do you? – but now the brass have taken it over. Lack of progress, I suppose. But you’ve done all the donkey work and now they move in to get the glory. Still, not the first time you’ve seen that, I’m sure.”
“Do you think there is any glory to be got in this, Ralph?”
Greenwood’s slight shrug and considered expression seemed to acknowledge that the question was a good one but he said nothing in reply to it. They watched as Waters unplugged the laptop and held it up towards Smith, who nodded.
“The authority covers the removal of any devices that might move the investigation forward, so…”
“Feel free, sergeant. You’ve already had a look but obviously you can do more at the station. And I imagine there is a specialist department somewhere that can ‘drill right down’ as they say these days. It’s all quite diverting – but I do feel for you, as I say.”
Smith overcame the impulse to walk away immediately. Greenwood was right, of course, it was embarrassing but not quite for the reasons that the man might have imagined. The loss of his ‘authority’ in the case was irrelevant – as a sergeant one has little, and that, after all, was one reason why he had accepted the rank. What annoyed him was the way in which first his advice and then his strongly expressed opinion had been ignored; Allen had listened to both that morning with thinly-veiled contempt, before ordering that the search warrant should be drawn up and that the suspect – Allen’s word – should be brought in “for a proper interview”. And beyond the insult to his own feelings, Smith had a sense that this course of action might have all sorts of unintended consequences; when he voiced that thought, no-one seemed willing to listen.
Ralph Greenwood said, “So who is in charge now, sergeant?”
“I expect that Detective Superintendent Allen will want to conduct the interview.”
“Goodness – Detective Superintendent! Is he very formidable?”
“I’ll have to leave you to make up your own mind on that, Ralph.”
The three young officers were making a fingertip search of the room – they could be at it for another twenty or thirty minutes at least. He could hurry things up – it was an absurd waste of time – but Reeve was there and it was up to her. He approached her and said, so that Irene Miller could hear, “I’m going to have a wander, see if I can find Martin and Nancy.” Then he looked directly at the manager and said, “No more questions, just a quiet word in case they are bothered by all of this.”
He walked away without waiting for comment or consent.
Their doors were closed. He could have knocked but that would be more intrusive than he wanted to be at that moment. It was lunchtime now, and they might be in the dining area but when he watched briefly from the doorway he could not see them. The room was only half full, and it seemed to him that the whole floor was quieter, more subdued than he had known it up to now. On the way to the social room, the final place that he might find them, he passed two elderly men standing in the corridor. They were talking
but stopped as soon as they noticed him, and then they watched him approach, staring openly with the truculence of those who have nothing to lose by rudeness and nothing to gain by politeness. Smith said good afternoon as he passed and neither replied. He stopped and looked around at them – then he pointed to the large, flowery letters on the wall beside them that spelled out ‘Friendship’. Still nothing.
The social room was empty. It didn’t matter that much, and he hadn’t really come to reassure them – he had wanted to see whether they had been rattled by what was, to all intents and purposes, a police raid in which their close friend would shortly be taken away for further questioning. One of them might have gone a bit wobbly… But never mind.
He walked across to the window, the window by which he had first spoken to Ralph Greenwood. It was only a matter of days ago but seemed like weeks. Odd, but a case could do that to your sense of time; you delved so quickly and deeply into people’s lives that knowledge which would usually have taken years to acquire, in the normal course of relationships, was yours sometimes in minutes.
In the car park he could see the two police cars, right outside the entrance, no attempts at subtlety this time. The only thing missing was flashing lights and a couple of black-shirts from the armed response unit, automatic weapons at the ready in case Ralph made a break for it. He gave an involuntary shake of the head. Stupid.
As he watched the scene, wondering how long he could reasonably stay away, his thoughts went back to the weekend again, to the Saturday night. It hadn’t been a disaster. Conversation had taken place, pleasant conversation with some smiles and a little laughter. The food had been excellent – she said so several times – and their table for two had been in an alcove from which they could watch the street and talk about the people who passed by under the lamps. Marcia had worn a skirt and blouse, with a French-looking scarf – a clever touch, Smith had thought – and she looked altogether a lovely, mature, sophisticated woman. Smith couldn’t imagine what he had looked like in comparison – he could only be certain that it had not been a handsome, mature, sophisticated man. And then afterwards, after the meal, as they drank coffee… Why is it always at coffee that things are really said? And would it have been so difficult for him to have talked about what he was looking for rather than what he was not? The thought, the search for an answer, distracted him, and then he looked out of the window again.
Snow had begun to fall properly after a fortnight of anticipation. The air and the ground were so cold that every flake appeared to be settling. Beyond the grounds of Rosemary House, the distant cityscape was disappearing in a white mist. Winter had come at last.
He watched it fall, the snow, and it was soothing in an odd sort of way. For a minute or two he was able to think of nothing but this event out in the frozen air, beyond all human calculation and control. The world was being transformed before his very eyes.
It was only when he finally turned around that he realized he had not been alone at all. The woman who sat in one of the deep armchairs was tiny and twisted to one side by her age but her eyes were open and fixed firmly on Smith – they might have been so for several minutes. Leaving the room meant that he would walk within a few feet of her chair and it would have been rude to say nothing at all. He halted and said good afternoon.
“Snow.”
“Yes, at last. It’s been on the cards for days, hasn’t it?”
“I’ve seen plenty of it. 1947…1963. People make too much fuss.”
“Nice for the children, though.”
“Mine never liked it. Do yours?”
“I don’t have any, sorry to say.”
“Plenty of time yet, for a man like you. Get a younger woman.”
“Well, thanks, I’ll bear that in mind!”
Smith began to move away.
She said, “Are they still out there, the police?”
He stepped back towards her a pace or two and said, “Yes. Do you know why they are here?”
“I don’t listen to any gossip!” She spat the word out as if it had an unpleasant taste. “But two of them were over there for a few minutes just now, talking about it. Mumbling away like they do – I could hear some of it.”
“Some people don’t like the police much.”
“What about you?”
She had twisted herself round to see him more fully. Despite her age, which must be considerable, he was still not sure whether she was toying with him, whether she knew perfectly well who or what he was.
“Some of them are OK, I suppose.”
“My son’s a policeman.”
“Is he? I expect he’s one of the nicer ones.”
“Chief Constable or something, so he says. You can’t always believe what they tell you.”
“I’m sure he’s telling you the truth. What’s his name?”
The light had finally come on.
“John.”
A common enough name still but too much of a coincidence not to be John Devine, Assistant Chief Constable. Great and tempting possibilities opened up before Smith but he knew that he must resist them.
“Well, if he’s Chief Constable, your son has done very well for himself.”
“He was clever at school, always wanted to get on. But,” and then she raised a finger of warning to Smith, “he was a devious little sod sometimes.”
“Really? I find that hard to believe with such an honest mother.”
The lower half of her much-lined face cracked open into a near-toothless smile.
“Well, he looks after me, I’ll give him that. This place is alright. Some of them are friendly.”
“What about the ones who sit over there?”
Smith pointed to the table by the window. Mrs Devine must be, he thought, the oldest person I’ve ever questioned in an investigation.
“Them? Stuck up, hardly ever speak to anyone else. Two of them were there just now, never said a word to me. But I could hear them.”
“You said they were talking about the police. The two of them? A man and a woman?”
“And you ask a lot of questions. You should join the police. I’ll have a word with my son.”
This could go horribly wrong, Smith told himself, but he waited and she picked up the thread of the conversation again.
“There were the three of them but then one was fetched away. The other two were talking about the police cars, muttering. Then they went off as well.”
“Ah yes, I think I know those people.”
“Friends, are they?”
“No, not friends, just people I’ve met.”
With one arm, she pushed herself forward a few inches, so that her face was closer to where he stood; in response, Smith sat down in the adjacent armchair.
She said confidentially, “I can tell you something. They have séances.”
“Really? Where?”
“Over there! Round that table, large as life.”
Smith made a point of looking across the room, as if he was trying to picture the scene.
“What do they do?”
“Hold hands like they are praying or something. Shouldn’t be allowed in public. This is a public room.”
“The three of them hold hands?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and Smith had a vision of how close she was to her own end – he had seen, perhaps, too many bodies in his time. But she was only remembering in order to answer his question better.
“Last time there was four. I expect one’s moved away or they’ve fallen out.”
“Can you remember when it was, that last time?”
“No. Quite a while…”
“Since Christmas?”
“Before that.”
Smith stood up slowly, conscious of the time he had spent there. Mrs Devine watched him, and when he said goodbye, he had to be getting on, she said, “Can you get it stopped? This is a public place.”
He said that he would see what he could do.
Interview Room Three would be quite full w
hen everyone finally arrived. Ralph Greenwood sat in the interviewee’s place, an empty chair beside the one that he occupied. He had examined the recording device and asked about the camera mounted on the wall to his right. Satisfied, he had been sitting quietly and apparently calmly for some minutes. To his left, and Smith’s right, sat Waters and PC Julie Conroy, their seats several feet away from the desk – the space clearly indicating that they were to act as observers or to support the interviewee in some way if necessary. A female officer was expected in that role if the interviewee was a female or a minor; Smith wondered at what age exactly the same principle applied to elderly men. Would he soon get one himself, even sitting this side of the desk?
Speaking to Reeve a few minutes ago, Smith had the distinct impression that Allen had originally planned to interview Greenwood in her company rather than his. She had said something about the fact that as he, Smith, had been involved from the beginning, and had conducted both earlier interviews, it really had to be him who was present at this one. Allen must have given way on that point but if she had been arguing to save in some way Smith’s honour, she had been mistaken – he would have been happier to be out of it entirely now. He had no intention of participating much at all in what was about to take place.
He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows to Greenwood – was Allen keeping the man waiting, thinking that he was raising the pressure? Greenwood’s look in return seemed to say, yes, pathetic isn’t it?
Finally the door opened and the detective superintendent entered. Both younger officers shifted position slightly, as if they thought they ought to stand but thankfully neither actually did so. Greenwood gave the new arrival a vacuous smile and Smith allowed himself a brief one of the same ilk. Allen was carrying a folder that Smith did not recognize; the important ones were already on the table, so Allen’s was probably just for effect.
Allen sat down next to Smith and said, “Ralph Greenwood?” At least he hadn’t followed that with “I presume…”
But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation Page 22
