Luck and Judgement Page 5

  ‘I’m not going to ask who the others are in case it cheapens the experience for me.’

  ‘Very wise. How were your flights yesterday?’

  ‘Delightful. But I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as Waters did. He’d be thrilled if you asked him about it.’

  She was thinking about her response to that, and Smith thought, yes, we know each other too well sometimes.

  ‘Right, if I find the time… What’s happening about all that? Straightforward or not?’

  ‘I’m briefing them in five minutes, Incident Room 1.’

  ‘You want me to come down, don’t you?’

  ‘Only if you really, really want to…’

  ‘Two minutes. I’ll need some fresh coffee – I don’t know how I know this, but I do.’

  Incident Room 1 now had an intelligent, interactive whiteboard. Smith had wondered whether the money might have been better spent recruiting some more intelligent, interactive officers. Tucked away in one of the cupboards behind him were several of the old A2 display pads but Smith had resisted the temptation to get one out and prop it up on the easel; he would save those for proper crimes. Instead he had asked DC Serena Butler to take the minutes on the laptop, and these were appearing quickly on the whiteboard screen in front of them all. They could adjust, correct and suggest improvements; she would save it, file it and email them all copies which they could access instantly from anywhere on their new mini-tablets. And then they could make additional notes out in the field and these could be emailed back to everyone else, who could then add further comments of their own, and suggestions and questions and – he had to stop thinking about the possibilities. Endless possibilities seem to lead to possibilities without end, making the act of coming to a conclusion more difficult than ever.

  But at least it had involved DC Butler in the work of the team. She could type quickly, he had to say that, and she didn’t make many errors; all of James Bell’s actions and possessions had an apostrophe in the right place. He’d make that call to Paul Harrington as soon as this briefing was over.

  ‘Right then, people. Thoughts.’

  John Murray looked as if the sleepless nights had begun already but it didn’t matter because he was never the first to venture an opinion anyway. Waters still seemed to be a little green around the gills, even though the flight back had been a great improvement on the flight out to the platform. Alison Reeve had seen it all before and sipped at her coffee. Smith saw DC Butler take a surreptitious look at the others after a few seconds of silence.

  He said, ‘What we generally do here is have a chat – just a kick-around really. Then, if it’s not obvious what people need to do, I tell them.’

  She nodded but didn’t volunteer to kick off.

  Smith said, ‘OK, I’ll start. Does anyone know what’s happening down at the front desk?’ He wasn’t keen on the idea of Charlie Hills knowing something that he didn’t, and if he could find out in advance, it might offer opportunities.

  Reeve said, ‘It’s a county-wide thing, that’s about all I know. They’re redesigning entrances to police stations.’

  ‘Oh, good. That’s what they’re doing with the money saved by not filling vacancies and closing down units like Frosty Winters’ divers. Much more of this and they’ll need to redesign the exits as well, so that all the people who want to leave can get out more quickly.’

  Waters looked as if he was about ready to say something, and Smith raised an eyebrow in expectation.

  ‘DC, we should have a look at the phone now.’

  ‘Good idea. Would you like to do the honours? I mean, it won’t make any difference if you accidentally – you know what I mean. Here you are.’

  Waters took the phone in the bag, and then made a show of putting on a plastic glove – one of those Smith had given him yesterday – before laying the phone on the desk and pressing the on switch. All eyes were watching, and all ears heard the beep as the screen lit up a pale blue.

  Waters said, ‘What now?’

  ‘Well, poke about a bit. See what you can find.’

  ‘Chris? No, you can’t do that yet. DC, let’s work through the rest of the information you picked up yesterday.’

  It was an awkward moment. Smith did not look at Alison Reeve after she had spoken.

  Waters was given the task of writing an email and a text message which would be sent to the crew and passengers on the Tuesday afternoon flight – had anyone spoken to James Bell or noticed anything that might help the police in their inquiries? The message would be passed on via Marinor and the company that ran the helicopter; Waters’ name and number were to be the contact point for any feedback from that.

  Serena Butler would begin looking at James Bell. Was he known to the police? Smith said he would take a side bet on the outcome of that if anyone was interested but the room was still unnaturally subdued. Before that, she needed to contact Marinor’s personnel office because the promised digital folders had not been emailed across. Neither had the details of the two phone calls that Bell had made from the Elizabeth. Smith thought, I hope it isn’t going to be one of those, where everything has to be chased. There doesn’t seem to be much sense of urgency about the disappearance of one of their own. Talking of which, one of his first jobs would be to speak to Mrs Bell – that could not be left over the weekend. And he still had no idea whether she had been contacted already. This was untidy.

  When the three DCs had left the room, Smith folded his arms and said, ‘Yes, I know. Warrant.’

  ‘You put us both in a difficult position there.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I have to go through it now, just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case of a case! If at some point there are charges and the evidence is challenged, or the means by which it was obtained. You know all this, DC. Why make me do this?’

  ‘You don’t have to do it. We don’t. I can make this one go away, and then we can spend our time making entries for the design-a-new-police-station-entrance competition.’

  She drank the last of her coffee.

  ‘What do you mean, make it go away?’

  ‘The assumption is that he went overboard, either accidentally or intentionally. It’s as good an explanation as any other, and we can just go along with it. A body might get washed up on the pleasure beach at Cromingham which will keep the Coroner happy – a quick service of remembrance and everyone else is happy as well. Except maybe his wife and daughter, I don’t know about them yet. But we don’t need to dig any deeper than necessary on this.’

  She was thinking about it, and he thought, sometimes the cynicism gets away from me for a minute or two, like a dog escaping under a garden fence, but it isn’t fair to direct it at Alison Reeve. She had covered his back more than once since he took the career move back down to detective sergeant.

  He said, ‘Go on then, do the warrant thing.’

  ‘Technically it could be argued that you need two. A warrant of execution to seize the phone, and then a search warrant to examine its contents.’

  ‘Two? That’s a new one. I reckon I should get into the warrant business which is about to go into exponential growth by the look of it.’

  ‘As you well know, you don’t need a warrant to search the phone if you believe that an offence has been committed or if you believe that the phone itself has been obtained dishonestly. Do you believe either of those things?’

  Smith sighed a little too melodramatically.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know what to believe any more. Of course, I might have some more idea of whether an offence has been committed if I could get a look at the phone…’

  ‘Right, we’re done with all that. So we just make this one go away, yes?’

  When did she learn how to handle him? Had she learned from him how to handle him when he was her boss? She knew perfectly well how he would respond to that.

  ‘He just doesn’t look right for a jumper – Waters said that straight away. And bef
ore you say anything, I did all the jokes on that yesterday. If he did, we should at least find out what brought it about. As for falling off, well, as soon as Terry Christopher went for that, I knew it couldn’t be true.’

  She stood up and walked around to the laptop that had been projecting the minutes onto the screen. It had fallen asleep and she nudged it back into wakefulness by swiping a finger across the track-pad. Then she sat down and read through the notes again.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That address in The Towers, it’s the pits. He must have been on hard times to put a woman and a child in there. This job on the platform pays well, more than enough to get something better in a month or two – a lucky break. So why disappear now? One or two things don’t quite add up. To me.’

  She noted how he said that, dismissively, just tagged on to the end, as if to say, I know it’s trivial, and we have more pressing matters. It was a way out for her; if she said leave it, then he probably would.

  She said, ‘So how did you get on with DCI Freeman?’

  ‘Very well. We’re having a hand of bridge next week.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ve got the first part of my own DCI coming up. You probably already know that.’

  ‘And as you can see, I’m doing my damnedest to make sure you don’t get it.’

  It was a sort of apology, and she smiled.

  ‘Is there any other way off these platforms?’

  ‘Jet-pack? Not really.’

  ‘OK. I’ll look after this, see if I can find a way of booking it in so it’s legal. But you cannot have it for you know what.’

  She picked up the phone in its evidence bag, and turned it off through the plastic.

  ‘And we’ll treat it as a missing persons for now. That leaves everything open. When are you going to see Mrs Bell?’

  ‘This afternoon, as soon as Ms Butler has done the basics. Talking of whom-’

  ‘Good. I have no meetings. I’ll come with you. Make it for two o’clock if you can. Bye, DC.’

  Waters’ email only needed two spelling and one punctuation correction, which, Smith told him, for someone with a first with honours in Modern European History, was very good. Then he was to get in touch with the comms girl on Elizabeth, and ‘no sending any of those selfie things’.

  Smith wandered over to John Murray and asked after Maggie, glancing at the screen as he did so, but there was no need; Murray’s paperwork – even though it was often not on paper these days – was rock solid. It would take him, he said, another couple of days to wrap up the Fairmead junior mafia. Maggie was well but bored, Murray said, and occasionally quite bolshie; Smith said that he was pleased things were improving as she was bolshie most of the time at work – yes, John should pass that on as soon as he got home that evening.

  Serena Butler had not been trying to catch his eye but had already made progress. Rather than lean over her desk, Smith pulled a chair across and sat down beside her. As a teenager and in his early twenties, James Bell had been a handful. There were warnings and later convictions for drunkenness and disorderliness; on two occasions he had been involved in more serious violence in pubs, resulting in a conviction for assault and a suspended prison sentence. That seemed to do the trick but some years later – three years ago, in fact – he was charged with deception involving a credit card. The case was dropped but left on file. Finally, and to Smith’s disappointment, less than two years ago uniform had been called to The Towers in Lake as a result of a domestic disturbance between husband and wife. Cautions had been issued, and the officer who reported the incident had noted her concerns that the wife might be at risk of violence in the future.

  Smith said, ‘The name of the woman, just to double check?’

  ‘It’s here,’ pointing, ‘Lucy Jane Bell.’

  ‘Right. Lots of this early stuff was up north, wasn’t it? Here we are… Aberdeen, Aberdeen, Wick? What was he doing there? And one back on Tyneside. Can you pull out the relevant bits and do us a summary? So how are things going here? Settling in?’

  Somehow she made the millimeter that she moved away from him feel like a yard.

  ‘Fine, thank you, sir.’

  ‘You can drop the sir, day to day. We’re not that formal.’

  ‘Fine, then.’

  ‘It always takes a bit of time adjusting to a new station, different ways of doing things.’

  She didn’t answer, just sat and waited.

  ‘So you must know Paul Harrington…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He tells me that he spends his days pursuing illegal cockle-pickers now.’

  It was a chance for her, an acquaintance in common, an opportunity for gossip, and again she rejected it.

  ‘Look, I’m going to see Mrs Bell this afternoon. I’d planned to take you along but the boss has just jumped in, so… Next time, yes?’

  ‘OK. I don’t mind.’

  He thought, is this personal? I don’t buy the cheapest deodorant on the shelf. Has she spoken to anyone else here?

  ‘So, when we’re out this afternoon what else are you going to look at for James Bell?’

  ‘Whatever you want, sir.’

  ‘No, Serena, that’s not how I work, most of the time. You’re not new at this, are you?’

  Ah – annoyance, just for a moment.

  Smith said, ‘I’ll be honest, I haven’t read all the papers that came with you, for two reasons. One, I’m rubbish at protocols, and two, I’d rather not know until someone has had a chance to show what they can do. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what can you do? Can you think for yourself?’

  He had been speaking quietly but the room was listening now.

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Right, do some thinking then. How are you and James going to spend the afternoon?’

  He had not meant to be this direct but it seemed to be working – at least he had some reaction now.

  ‘If we had his phone, we – sorry, sir.’

  Smith held out the backs of both hands.

  ‘See the marks? Severely rapped across.’

  Her mouth seemed to tighten a little as if she was fighting back a smile. Smith reached into his pocket and took out his notebook.

  ‘But we do have this. I took this number from his personnel file. It might be that mobile or it might not but it’s the one he put down on his application form. You could trace this one. We don’t have any warrant as yet but if you ask nicely, phone companies will sometimes tell you whether a number has been used recently, as long as you don’t ask for too many details. What else?’

  She was copying down the number from his notebook.

  ‘Bank account activity?’

  ‘Good. It’s on my list for Mrs Bell but you can make a start. And he might have an account that she doesn’t know about – he wouldn’t be the first. Ninety per cent of people are with the big six. Give the Lake branches a ring and see what they are prepared to divulge. Any accounts in that name? Some might pull procedures but it’s surprising what you can get if you sound a bit lost or play the anxious family card. Write everything down and contact me if anything interesting crops up while I’m with his wife – you’ve got my number. Or you can ask Waters – he thinks he’s got my number.’

  He was almost back at his own desk when she called out to him, the most noise she had made yet.

  ‘Sir?’

  Some things were obviously going to take longer than others. He stopped and waited.

  ‘We could always ring that number, the one he gave for himself.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And see if it is that mobile…’

  A decent idea, that had not occurred to him yet – it would have done in time, he thought.

  ‘Nice. Find out where it is and make sure it’s switched on. Knowing DI Reeve, it’s already in the evidence room. Waters will help you to find it. I don’t suppose we need a warrant to ring it but just make sure I’m out of the building when you do it.’


  He put down the landline in Interview Room 3 and thought about what Paul Harrington had told him. It made a lot of sense. The way she dressed, for example, in greys and browns, smart but very conservative clothes – not cheap but not at all stylish. No jewellery and no discernible make-up, and her hair cut so unremarkably that he had trouble picturing to himself what it actually looked from fifteen minutes ago.

  Harrington had not named the senior officer concerned. He would have done if Smith had asked but he had not done so – the chances were that it would be someone known to Smith. The affair had become public knowledge and the man’s wife had made threats, one of which she had carried out. The chief constable was not a happy man when his personal mobile had lit up one Saturday afternoon in the lounge of the North Norfolk Golf Club – nine over par was his worst round of the year, and on the Monday morning in the office he began laying about him with a six iron in some sort of recompense. There had been investigations and interviews. The sergeant’s panel that she had been due to take, after three good years as a DC, was cancelled for fear that her situation had influenced her selection for it. At that point the Police Federation entered from stage right and it all threatened to become a pantomime.

  ‘Dear me,’ Smith had said. ‘Just promise me one thing, Paul.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  Both officers had been offered transfers out of Longmarsh at their present levels, and both had accepted, but in Serena Butler’s case it had been done grudgingly. Whether or not she had technically been scorned Smith could not say, but there was some sort of fury buried deeply beneath those drab trouser suits and tweed skirts.

  ‘Also,’ Harrington had said, ‘I think she might be nervous of older men.’

  ‘I’ll warn Charlie Hills. Talking of which, have you had your station entrance redesigned yet?’

  ‘No. Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Almost certainly nothing but that doesn’t matter. There is a woman on her way to you. She looks a bit different but she has a wonderful sense of humour. As soon as you meet her, tell her that joke about the English policewoman and the Irish horse.’