Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  Terek had left this up to him. There were good arguments for alerting whichever duty solicitor was likely to be called to the unusual nature of the case – if the solicitor had had time to prepare, it might allow things to proceed more quickly. It was just a matter of whom he called… If he did this now, he could inform the duty sergeant, who would be sure to let the solicitor know that his or her services were indeed required this afternoon. It was, then, purely a matter of deciding whom to ring.

  Waters looked up from his desk. Everyone was busy either reading their screens or writing notes but he wasn’t taken in by that – certain people here had the ability to listen in to one’s calls whilst carrying out the full range of a detective constable’s duties. He waited, biding his time, and five or six minutes later saw Mike Dunn make his way to the printer on the far side of the office. Sure enough, Serena also had some printing that needed doing, and she went across to join the queue, carrying a couple of files for camouflage.

  Waters made his call, and it was answered on the third ring.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There must have been a moment in the middle of that Monday afternoon when Shirley Salmon realised something had gone disastrously wrong. She was an intelligent, practical woman, and maybe it was as soon as she saw the two vehicles – one white Volvo saloon, unmarked, and one Octavia estate in full police colours – pull up outside her office on the Pinehills caravan park. The detective inspector had said on the telephone there were a few more questions resulting from the further investigations that had taken place since they were last here a week ago, and although he had asked where Oliver would be, she would not have thought then that a calamity was about to befall them both, would she?

  She would have recognised the inspector who supervised the tests in her office, and the kindly liaison officer who had spent so much time with the bereaved family, but there were two more detectives this time. One of them was very thin and very pretty and speaking with a foreign accent – that one spoke to Oliver as soon as she met him, the way most people do not. But there were also two uniformed men who waited outside the office, looking large and a little awkward, as if they’d rather be somewhere else.

  Waters hadn’t been there and he could only imagine what took place between the fragments that Terek and Ann Crisp had shared with him when they arrived back in Lake Central at a little after five pm. Neither was he to be involved in the interview – that would be carried out by Detective Inspector Terek, Marta Dobrowski and Ann Crisp. He could only presume that Alison Reeve was still not in the building. Shirley Salmon would be present, naturally. The boy’s father was abroad, working in Dubai, and there were three other, younger children to be cared for in Norwich. Shirley spent a long time on the telephone, and then Terek spoke to Oliver’s mother, asking her to confirm that Shirley was to act as their representative and Oliver’s guardian. It was also, Waters was later told, the boy’s mother who asked about legal advice and told Terek that she wanted a solicitor present from the outset, and so the call was made by the duty sergeant.

  The three of them had gathered around Waters’ desk, and they went over what Marta had told them in the briefing before the team went to Pinehills. It’s one extra chromosome, that’s all, an extra copy of number twenty-one, so Oliver Salmon has forty-seven, instead of forty-six like you and me. About one in a thousand babies have it, and about forty thousand people are living with the condition in the UK today. From that single extra chromosome come dozens of other differences – it affects every aspect of life. There is no environmental cause and no one is to blame. It is chance, that is all.

  Marta Dobrowski had paused and looked around at the roomful of officers – she didn’t need to say it then, that we are just the lucky ones, winners in the lottery. She spoke with knowledge and conviction, and the eastern European accent made her seem more doctor-like than detective. In the pause, Waters had wondered about her story, how she came to know what she clearly knew well, and moments later she had told them. She had grown up with a younger brother who had the same disability. She’d said, ‘His name is Antoni, and he lives in Warsaw. He is a funny man and we love him very much.’

  Another pause, before ‘It is important to see the person first, and then the disability, not the other way around. And to understand the difference between disability and disease. Down’s syndrome is not an illness.’

  There had been questions, some of general interest, some more clearly focused on the implications of this for the investigation. Serena had asked about IQ. The severity of the disability varies a lot, Marta had told them, but typically, if it is moderate, the IQ will be around 50, equivalent to a child of eight or nine years old. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is the most important thing to remember. This boy might be high-functioning but even then he will be operating more like a young teenager than an adult. With an offence like this…’

  Marta looked about her, shrugged and said, ‘Very difficult.’

  Serena said, ‘Have you seen a case like this before?’

  Waters saw it, the fraction of a second in which the Polish woman glanced towards the most senior officer in the room. Allen’s face was impassive as he stared back at her.

  ‘No, never. People with Down’s can be frustrated, communication is difficult. They often understand more than they can say. They can be clumsy, awkward. But in my experience, not violent, not intentionally. Obviously, I do not know of all cases. There might be some precedent, somewhere.’

  O’Leary had said something to Wilson, followed by a brief, whispered exchange of words. Wilson was telling his detective constable to go ahead and ask whatever it was. Eventually O’Leary had Marta’s attention, and he said, ‘What about sex?’

  The laughter had been predictable, and she had clearly been in England long enough to understand the humour of it. Someone called out, ‘It’s alright, love, it’s not a proposition!’

  She regarded O’Leary with a serious face and said, ‘No, I only have to look at him to see this… But you ask about people with Down’s and having sex. I’m not the expert, I know only from my brother’s situation. I believe that most males do not develop the sperm, but some of the females can be fertile, just not very. They have the feelings and the emotions like the rest of us but I believe sexual activity itself is not common.’

  Waters looked at his watch. Almost six o’clock – the duty solicitor was most likely in the building by now. How long would they have in the first interview? Were there special conditions if the subject was mentally disabled? His own duty had ended an hour ago, and in another hour Serena and Ford would also be free to go. Tomorrow there would be new instructions, but what these were would depend very much on what others discovered in the interviewing of Oliver Salmon.

  Serena said, ‘If she’s right, and sexual activity is rare, what does that do for the motive? This doesn’t take us any further forward, does it?’

  Ford said, ‘Marta said they do get frustrated.’

  ‘She was talking about communication then, not sex. We don’t need another O’Leary over on this side of the office, Richard.’

  Serena was still inclined to put Ford in his place, as the new boy – the Christian name was deliberate.

  Waters said, ‘Marta was very good but as she told us several times, she isn’t qualified, she isn’t a medical expert. If this goes anywhere with Oliver Salmon, my suspicion is we’ll have experts all over it. But you’re right. I’ve got a few questions myself since she talked to us. She said violence was unusual; Michelle Simms died a seriously violent death. Marta said that physical development is inhibited. I haven’t seen Oliver but if he’s the average five foot and a couple of inches, how did he move a dead body?’

  Wilson walked past the office and glared in, before his heavy tread continued along the corridor. Any moment now, then…

  Waters continued, ‘There’s more. According to Marta, there’s a seventy-five per cent chance of congenital heart conditions. Again, picking up a nine and a half stone bod
y and carrying it one hundred and fifty metres, with no ill-effects?’

  After a few seconds, Ford said, ‘But sarge? His saliva? In her mouth and on her blouse?’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  Wilson came back along the corridor. He stopped in the doorway to the office and Waters was getting out of his seat before he heard, ‘A word please, Sergeant Waters.’

  When they were outside, Wilson pulled the door to and hissed, “Christine effing Archer? What stunt are you trying to pull with that?’

  Waters put his hands into his pockets and looked down at Wilson – there was five inches’ difference in their height, and that was just one of the reasons, he suspected, why the older man always gave the impression of wanting to thump him first and ask questions afterwards. Waters didn’t think it was all personal; Wilson probably wanted to knock most tall people down to size.

  ‘There is no stunt, John. It was the first number I rang after Terek told me to look into it. Her office answered, she came to the phone and said she was available.’

  ‘That’s the bloody point! You rang her office first? You know what a pain she is. We could’ve had Andrew bloody Brown sitting in there!’

  Wilson had checked the rota for himself before coming down here to complain.

  Waters said, ‘I don’t think it’s going to make much difference in this case, John.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t? But then you’re not going to be one of the people sitting in there, are you? Is that what this is about, feeling a bit pissed off because you’re not centre stage for once? A bit threatened without your mentor to watch your back all day long?’

  This was not the first occasion Wilson had alluded to Smith like that – the resentment seemed, if anything, to have grown since the two of them last set eyes on each other. The look of puzzlement on Waters’ face was at least partly genuine when he said, ‘I think you’re reading too much into this. Christine Archer is just a duty solicitor. The chances are she won’t be involved after tonight.’

  Without another word, Wilson turned an angry back and walked away. When Waters went back into the office, it was obvious both detective constables had been watching and listening. Serena said, ‘Consulting on the case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Productive?’

  ‘Very.’

  It was twenty minutes to seven in the evening, and for all they knew they might be the only people in the building. The air conditioning seemed to become noisier. Waters went to his desk and made a show of tidying up before he told the two of them to do the same, ready for a change of direction tomorrow morning.

  Serena said, ‘What about what we’ve been doing? All the stuff with Barry Simms, Michaela and Graham Fletcher?’

  ‘As I said, leave everything tidy. Dates and times onto everything, then file it.’

  She turned away towards her own desk – then she stopped and turned back to Waters.

  ‘So you think this one’s over, then?’

  He shrugged and looked back at her blankly. If you didn’t know him, you might think the detective sergeant had lost interest, or even that Wilson had been onto something when he suggested Waters had tried to sabotage the interview because he wasn’t a part of it. But Serena Butler did know Waters pretty well by now, and she didn’t believe either of those things. So she and Ford did as he suggested, and at seven o’clock they said goodnight and left Waters alone at his desk

  It had been his worst night’s sleep in years. Waters had waited until half past nine to see if Janey would contact him but she hadn’t done so. He sent her a text then which she read straight away, but no reply came until a quarter past ten. She said she was sorry but they’d been out on the boat on the evening tide, mackerel fishing with some of Sam’s friends, and they hadn’t been back long. She’d call him tomorrow evening when he wasn’t at work…

  The comment about not being at work was deliberate – she was still cross about Sunday morning. It’s the job. Who hadn’t warned him about it in the past few years? Even Terek had said it a few days ago, how carefully he had considered matters before proposing to the lovely Mrs T… And she might be, you never can tell.

  After that he went to bed, but sleep would not come. If he wasn’t thinking about Janey, it was the case, over and over, round and round, trying to see it from the one angle where everything would fit and make sense. Periodically he managed to drift off a little and then Wilson’s mean face would rise up out of the pit of his own resentment, making even more ludicrous accusations than those in the office yesterday evening. Somehow he, Waters, had inherited the feud that had divided the department long before he arrived in it. How could such a thing have happened?

  He went in early on the Tuesday, and the first person he met was DCI Reeve. She seemed alright, with no sign of a cold or a cough, and no complaints about digestive disturbances. She was on her way to the coffee machine, offered to fetch one for him – it was, he noted, liable to become a habit – and they met again at his desk a few minutes later.

  As the senior investigating officer, someone had kept Reeve informed. She asked Waters how much he knew about what had taken place last night, and when she heard his answer, she said, ‘Well, you need to know. Come on, I’ve come in early to sort this out. I’ve had a blow-by-blow account but I haven’t seen it for myself. You might as well watch it with me.’

  He followed her down to the media suite. There was a technician sitting in there with the back off a monitor. Reeve told him what she was looking for and he pointed her towards the bench on the other side of the room, saying he’d just set that up as a spare – find the file on the central recorder and press play. After a thank you, she asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a break for ten minutes, and he left the room.

  Reeve said to Waters, ‘From what I’ve been told, it doesn’t last long. Christine Archer put us under pressure straight away. She was quoting government guidelines about the interviewing of vulnerable persons which even Marta Dobrowski had never heard of. Have you met Christine Archer?’

  Reeve looked at him and waited for an answer – she was probably giving him a chance to explain himself.

  ‘No, ma’am. Not in any official capacity. I haven’t been in the interview situation with her myself.’

  ‘But you know her by reputation?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  When nothing more came, Reeve found the file she was searching for, double-clicked and it began to play immediately. She watched the opening three minutes, no doubt checking that procedurally there were no mistakes, and Waters had his first look at Oliver Salmon. He was seated between his aunt and Christine Archer; Ann Crisp sat back a little and to Shirley Salmon’s right side. With the video camera mounted above the table at one end, but slightly behind the interviewing detectives, one could see the interviewee’s face from an angle of forty-five degrees to the front.

  When Detective Inspector Terek mentioned Oliver’s name as the list of those present was read out, the boy looked around at Shirley Salmon and smiled broadly, and his aunt said something like ‘Yes, that’s you.’

  Terek finished the list, stated the time at which the interview was beginning, and was five words into his next sentence, when Christine Archer interrupted him for the first time.

  ‘Have you been advised of the defendant’s condition by Social Services, the Probation Service, or by a psychiatrist or other professional? If so, you should have the advice given in writing for me to examine now.’

  Terek said no, they had not. This was merely an initial interview to establish-

  ‘Because under Home Office Circular 12/95, that is your responsibility. Detective Inspector Terek, I think you said…’

  Archer sat with a pen poised over her notepad, ready to write his name. If anyone had briefed her on how to unsettle this particular policeman, they had done a first-class job.

  Terek said, ‘Mrs Salmon is Oliver’s aunt. She knows him very well. She has explained to us-’

  Christine Archer turned to Shirley
and said, ‘Do you have qualifications in psychiatry or a related discipline?’

  ‘No, course not. But…’

  Ms Archer made another note.

  Shirley went on, ‘… but I do want to get this over with. It’s some ridiculous misunderstanding. I don’t want this dragged out. They can ask their questions and then we can all go home.’

  Without taking her eyes from the screen, Reeve said, ‘She doesn’t see it coming, does she? Mrs Salmon doesn’t suspect anything. She didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘There are, I’m told, several more exchanges between our DI and Ms Archer. I’m sure that in another place and time they’d have got on like a house on fire. That, ironically, might be why he did something I would not have predicted, something I don’t think I would have done myself. However…’

  She fast forwarded the video several times in short bursts, until Ann Crisp was seen to leave the room. There was a pause during which little was said, and Oliver looked about the room and yawned. Then Ann reappeared with a file which she placed on the table in front of Terek.

  The detective inspector said, ‘For the record, Constable Crisp has returned to the room. We have managed to establish with Mrs Salmon’s help that Oliver does like to walk around the caravan site at Pinehills while he is staying with her. She has told us he has his own key to their accommodation – that he was given this key for his eighteenth birthday.’