She had not finished until gone ten the previous night, having personally supervised the search of Colin Ranworth’s modest home, and seen his car taken off to the automobile forensic workshop on the outskirts of Landshaven. Then, having detailed Czarniak to search Ranworth’s office and personal locker on the harbour, she had gone home.
The entire evening had been a complete waste of time. If Ranworth were the killer, he had successfully disposed of the murder weapon and Olivia’s underwear.
Once home, she spoke briefly to Drake on the telephone, and while he sympathised, he admitted that he did not believe Ranworth was the man they were seeking.
“He’s a user, not an abuser.”
And she had cancelled dinner with Drake for that?
To be greeted by Trentham in a vile temper, was not the best start to the day, and she rose irritably to his demand.
“What are you talking about, Neville?”
He checked his watch. “Almost twenty to ten, and you’ve only just turned up for work. I’ve been here since half past eight, and I’ve already had Colin Ranworth on the phone, and the chief constable. Ranworth is protesting about your high-handed attitude in arresting and questioning him yesterday, and the chief constable is on the way over here after receiving a formal complaint from Marc Shawforth, concerning the repeated questioning and release of Rachel Jenner.”
“Colin Ranworth paid Olivia Bradley for sex on Sunday night.”
“Nonsense.”
“Try telling that to the pathologist.”
Sam drew a breath and silently counted to five. She reached to her in tray, picked up the top folder, opened it and selected the DNA analysis received the previous day. She passed it across the desk to Trentham.
The chief superintendent picked up and took in the information on the single sheet, and blanched. “Oh my God.”
Sam went on the attack. “I am not John Jenner, I’m not Frank Barker, and I’m not Vernon Oxley. I will not overlook evidence. Ranworth was one of the last people to see Olivia alive. I was within my rights to bring him in for questioning on suspicion, and if he doesn’t like being interrogated by the police, perhaps he should find some other channel for relieving his urges.”
The furious station commander was gone, and in its place was a timid, shocked individual, stunned by the revelation. “I didn’t know.”
Sam was barely mollified. “I suspected as much. And as far as I’m concerned, the chief constable can go to hell. When it comes to the deaths of Olivia Bradley, Alex Walston, or the Villiards, if I had one shred of evidence against Rachel Jenner, I would have detained her, but I don’t. And finally, I really don’t give a toss about Marc Shawforth and his complaints.”
She flopped back in her chair, and again mentally counted to five, but the exercise did little to ease her irritation.
“As a matter of interest, can you tell me how we come to have Ranworth’s DNA on file?”
Trentham sat down, and shook his head sadly. “Drink-driving offence. It must be, oh, nine or ten years ago now. A Christmas party at the Rotary Club. I was there with Gerda, my late wife, and Colin was there with his wife. He had too much to drink. We tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. Insisted he was perfectly capable of driving home. He hit a parked car. Wrote his car off, broke his leg, but his wife was killed. Hefty fine, banned from driving for five years, and ordered to take a retest. He avoided prison by the skin of his teeth. He was given two years, I think, but it was suspended for two years.”
“The high and mighty of Landshaven, I imagine?”
“The judge was not a Landshaven man, Samantha, but yes enough of the town’s more important people spoke up on his behalf. He was lucky, but mark you, since that night, he’s never been known to take a drink when he’s driving.”
“Lucky?” Sam sneered. “Privileged is what he was.” Once again she made an effort to suppress her anger, but did not entirely succeed. “Quite frankly, Neville, I am pissed off with the way things are working out. There seems to be a concerted effort to avoid calling the upper echelons of Landshaven society to account, particularly Colin Ranworth and, for all I know, Marc Shawforth. I don’t know and I don’t care how things worked in CID in the past. When confronted with violent crimes like these, I will question everyone I need to, and if the top dogs don’t like that, they can do the other.”
There was a knock on the door, and without waiting, Drake opened it and stepped in.
“Morning all… Oh. Sorry. Is this a formal bollocking, or can anyone join in?”
“Stay where you are,” Sam ordered. “Because I am just as pigged with you as I am with anyone else.”
Drake smiled. “Oh dear. What have I done now?”
She pointed a shaking, accusing finger at him. “Ducked the issue, that’s what. I’ve been asking you about your conclusions for the last two days, and you’ve refused to commit yourself.”
“Because I haven’t finished formulating them, is why, and I didn’t want to influence your investigation with half-baked ideas. Nothing’s happened to change that situation, but I’ve had Iris on the phone, bleating for the report, and advising me that the chief constable is on his way over and he’s likely to scream at me as well as you.” He shrugged. “Not that I give much of a toss about him.”
Sam would have spoken up, but Trentham got there before her. “You can’t give us an idea of your conclusions?”
“I just said, no. I haven’t reached any conclusions… Well, I have, but they’re completely without foundation. To be honest, I only called in to see whether you had any fresh information on any aspect of the case?”
“Nothing.” Sam bit the word off. “Is Rachel Jenner guilty?”
“Possibly.”
“And that’s all you can say after four days?”
“Yes. Or would you prefer me to lie? Tell you that she’s definitely guilty or definitely not guilty? You need evidence, Sam, and you don’t have any. Right now, if this is your mood I’m gonna clear off and grab a cup of coffee—”
The buzz of Sam’s telephone cut him off. She snatched up the receiver. “Feyer?” She listened for a moment and then offered the receiver to Trentham. “George Enright.”
The chief superintendent listened, thanked the desk sergeant, and passed the receiver back. “The chief constable’s in my office. He wants to see all of us, you, Samantha, me, and you, Wesley, immediately.”
Drake scowled. “Tell him I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Wesley—”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.” And with that, Drake marched out of the office.
Sam pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, for God’s sake…” She got to her feet. “We’d better get up there, Neville.”
The mood in the lift to the fifth floor was one of silent trepidation. Chief Constable Hugo Farrington was known for his temperamental outbursts, and both knew precisely what was coming.
Coming up to his sixtieth birthday, Farrington posed a tall, commanding figure, always impeccably attired in his uniform, his head of silver-grey hair, perfectly offsetting the navy blue. Like many other officers, Trentham included, Farrington’s career began with him tramping the streets of a small, Lincolnshire town, from where he climbed slowly, steadily through the ranks until he reached his present, vaunted post, where he ruled with an iron hand, but a hand which, in Sam’s opinion, was more concerned with political balance and financial acuity than the root and grass matters of crime and punishment.
He did not disappoint them. The moment they walked into the chief superintendent’s office, to find Farrington occupying Trentham’s seat, the chief constable laced into them.
“What the hell are you people playing at?”
Sam would have answered, but Farrington was not yet finished.
“And where the hell is Drake?”
Trentham was not disposed to answer. Sam cleared her throat. “He said he’ll be along in a few minutes, sir.”
It was as if they had
lit a second fuse. “Does he know who I am?”
Without waiting for an invitation, Sam sat facing their livid commander. “He knows, sir.”
“Then—”
She cut him off. “With respect, sir, Drake is not himself. He’s still feeling the after-effects of his partner’s death earlier in the year. It makes him slightly, er, temperamental. He sees any instruction as a challenge, and he’s only too ready to rise to it. If you will permit me, when he does turn up, you should treat him with kid gloves.”
“When he turns up, he’s in for a rude awakening. I will not be kept waiting by civilian hangers on.” He turned fierce eyes on Trentham. “Sit down. I have news for both of you, and since it’s nothing to do with Drake, I might as well get it out of the way now.”
Trentham took the chair alongside Sam.
“I had an irritated call from Marc Shawforth yesterday, demanding to know why Rachel Jenner has been brought in twice for questioning on these killings, and released both times.”
Trentham cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we, er, we cannot, that is, we don’t have any evidence placing her at the scene of either crime.”
Alongside Trentham, Sam’s frustration rose once more. Did her immediate superior have to sound so timid when dealing with the CC?
It did nothing to assuage Farrington’s fury. “You have modus operandi, man. This girl on the beach was murdered in exactly the same way as Barbara Shawforth.”
Trentham did not answer, and Sam, eager to dissipate her anger, spoke up instead.
“MO may well be an indicator, sir, but we need solid evidence to back it up, and we don’t have any.”
Farrington glowered at her. “Then let me give you some, Chief Inspector. This morning, shortly after I got to my office, I received a report from ballistics. I ordered the information to be suppressed, but you will receive the report later today.” The chief constable paused to stress his announcement. “The pistol which killed Walston and the couple on their farm was Rachel Jenner’s.”
The colour drained from Trentham’s face, but Sam was merely surprised.
“I didn’t know Rachel Jenner owned a firearm. We searched the lodging house and her room yesterday, but we found nothing.”
“It was her service pistol,” Farrington declared. “Her firearms authorisation was revoked eight years ago, but the pistol was never returned to York.”
Sam was still perplexed. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. Surely, when an officer’s firearms authorisation is revoked, the pistol should be returned to the station armoury.”
At last, Trentham found his voice. “We’re a small station, Samantha. We never had more than two or three AFO’s, and at the time, there was only one other. Tom Hacton. When an authorisation is revoked, the weapon is placed in a sealed container, and returned to the main armoury in York.” He concentrated on the chief constable. “With respect, sir, I remember sealing that pistol in the container myself, and I put it in the dispatch bag for return that evening.”
“It may be that you did, Trentham, but it never arrived. I’ve already initiated an inquiry in York, and I’m ordering you to look into your procedures to ascertain precisely what happened to it. However, it seems clear to me what happened. Where was the dispatch bag left? Behind reception, no doubt. Jenner obviously sneaked in sometime during the day broke the seal, stole the weapon, and resealed the container.”
Sam did not believe it. The containers in question were padlocked, and Rachel would have needed the combination for that lock. She did not get a chance to say anything as Farrington continued to rant at them.
“This station is fast becoming a joke. Your leadership, Trentham, is called into question, and your investigative abilities, Feyer, are in doubt. I want results, and I want…”
He never finished telling them what he wanted. A knock on the door interrupted him, it opened, and Drake stepped in bearing a smile of greeting which took in them all.
“Morning, Chief Constable, Neville, Sam.”
Farrington rounded on him. “Where the hell have you been? I asked for you to come here immediately.” He stressed the final word.
Drake smiled again and took the seat alongside Trentham. “I went for a cup of coffee. I asked Sam and Neville to tell you I’d be a little late.”
“When I demand your attendance I expect—”
Drake cut him off, but the pleasant ambience of his greeting was gone. In its place was a hard edge of steel. “I’m not one of your thin blue line, Farrington. I am a civilian consultant, and I expect to be treated with a degree of courtesy. I don’t snap to attention just because you order it. Ask me to turn up here, and I will be here. Demand, and I’ll show up when I damn well feel like it, and if you’re not happy about that, you come and look for me.”
Both Sam and Trentham were stunned by his onslaught.
For his part, the chief constable was almost apoplectic with rage. He made a concerted effort to bring his temper under control. “I have news for you, Drake. As of now your contract with the police is terminated.”
“What contract?”
About to rage on, Farrington fury was brought to an abrupt halt. “Your contract with us; the police service.”
“I have no contract. I am a bona fide, authorised consultant, and I work when you call me.”
Farrington’s anger returned. “Not any longer, you don’t. I don’t care where you’re up to with the report Iris Mullins asked for, but get it off to her, and get out. I don’t want to see you again.”
Drake got to his feet. “Very well. But if you think I will leave Landshaven, you’re mistaken. I will stay here until I find proof that Rachel Jenner was framed four years ago. When I find that proof, I will naturally pass it on to Chief Inspector Feyer and her team… and I’ll also pass it to the press. Not only that, I will inform them of your efforts to bury police inefficiency on an altar of political expediency.”
He nodded briefly at Sam, and marched to the door with the chief constable’s voice ringing in his ear.
“Drake… Wait…”
Drake slammed the door as he left the room.
Sam’s temper had been steadily rising again. She let out her breath in a hiss. “Jesus H Christ.” She looked up sharply at Farrington. “I told you, sir. I warned you he wasn’t the man to tackle in such an abrasive manner.”
“Be careful you don’t follow him, Feyer.”
In the aftermath of her husband’s conviction, Sam had met and dealt with the demands of the police hierarchy. They held no fear for her then and none now. “If you’re going to fire me, get on with it, but I will have my say. Wesley Drake may be a friend but I wish Iris Mullins had never sent him here. On the other hand, if he says Rachel is innocent, you can bet your life she is. And if you think he won’t carry out his threat, you’re mistaken. He will. He’ll prove her innocence, and then he’ll go to the press with it, and not just the newspapers, but television, radio, online; any channel he can think of. He might even bring the problem up with his father, and get him to ask questions in The House.” She made the effort to calm down. “While he was working with us, we had some measure of control over him. Not much, I’ll grant you, but at least it was there. Now, we have none, and he will make us look bigger fools than we already are.”
Farrington looked to Trentham for confirmation.
“I’m afraid, Chief Inspector Feyer is right, sir. Drake is a perceptive man, but he’s a loose cannon, and he’s better on our side than opposing us.”
Farrington, cooling off by now, looked back to Sam. “What do you suggest?”
She sighed. “Let me have a word with him, sir. I may be able to talk him round, but it will require some… not climbing down, as such, but certainly a willingness to compromise.”
Farrington wasted no time thinking about it. “Very well. Tell him I’m prepared to listen, and see if you can get him back here.”
Chapter Thirty-One
By the time Sam reached the second floor, Drake had
gone. As she hurried to the ground floor and out to the car park, she took out her mobile phone, and rang Trentham’s office to tell them she was leaving the building, in pursuit of Drake, begging her commander to ask the chief constable to wait.
His car was gone. She leapt into hers, fired the engine, and hared out of the car park, racking her mind for his possible destination. There was only one option: his hotel.
In breach of all the rules, she switched on her emergency lights, accelerated rapidly along the inner ring road, traffic moving out of her way, pulling into the kerbs on both sides, giving her room, and as she drove she recalled his mobile number, punched the connect button, and put the phone to her ear.
“I think I’ve said all I have to say, Sam. It’s not you. But I won’t—”
She cut him off. “Where are you, Wes?”
“My hotel, where else? I told Farrington, I won’t leave Landshaven until I finish the job I started.”
“Good. Stay put. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
“There’s no—”
Sam killed the call, and accelerated along Stanhead Road, turned sharp right into Castle Road, and floored the accelerator. With the natural curiosity generated by a police car with emergency lights blazing, people paused and stared after her. Many of them were probably holidaymakers making their way to the castle, and her speeding vehicle might well generate concerns that they would not get to see the Norman ruins.
A mile further on, she screeched into the hotel car park, and killed the engine.
Drake was standing by his car, his face a mask of foreboding. Sam climbed out and hurried to him. “I’ve managed to talk the chief constable round. He’s willing to listen to you.”
“He can sod off. I am sick and tired of men like him, men who are more concerned with the possible effects on their career than they are looking for the truth, and if he wants to take me on head-to-head, then I’m up for it.”
The pressure of the morning’s events finally reached a critical level, and Sam screamed at him. “STOP IT. JUST STOP IT.”
Her raised voice drew the attention of pedestrians. Like a police car with its lights and sirens cutting through the morning, a stand-up row in the street was an acceptable focus for attention. She decided she did not care, and continued to rant at Drake.
The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2) Page 18
