An Accidental Death: A DC Smith Investigation Read online

  Twenty minutes left. How good a swimmer was Wayne Fletcher? They hadn’t asked that and should have done, needed to, tomorrow. Rugby player and year eight boxing champion maybe but he might have been a very average swimmer, despite what the girl had said in her statement, perhaps making it more likely that he drowned accidentally and never reached the canoe.

  What else? Reg Harrison had been surprised at how the canoeist had pulled the boat from the water but they’re only fibre-glass or plastic, aren’t they? They had not asked anyone what sort of canoe it was. He made notes in his Alwych then, tutting to himself, but that was the point of thinking it through like this. What was it Miller used to say? If you’re going to start turning over stones, you’ve got to turn them all over, every bloody one, even the littlest pebble…

  Whenever he arrived back downstairs, she would say something like ‘Another one solved!’ or ‘If they back-paid you for all the hours you’ve done up there, we could afford that caravan’. He never got the back-pay, naturally, but as he stood at the cooker tonight he said another silent prayer of thanks that they did have the caravan for those final years, for those long weekends and the slow, careful walks through the pines, over the dunes and onto the shining, endless, empty beaches at dawn and dusk.

  Later, after the boxing, he couldn’t sleep – too much remembering could do that. He went downstairs and stood in front of the shelves of CDs. He ran a finger lightly along the rows, allowing Sheila to choose, and smiled, unsurprised, when he stopped at ‘Journeyman’. OK then, they could have the old argument again about who really was the finest of them all, and next time he would make her listen to Dave or Rory or Carlos. But for now, as he sat down on the sofa and put on the headphones, it would be no hardship to listen once more to ‘Old Love’, even though he didn’t really want it to leave him alone. Not yet.

  Chapter Seven

  They were halfway across the yard when Smith stopped. Waters carried on a few more steps and then turned and waited for an explanation. He followed the pointing finger up to the sign that read ‘Pisces Marina – chandlery and boat-hire’.

  ‘Get a picture of that, will you? I expect you’ve got a fancy camera on your phone – mine’s run out of flash bulbs.’

  Waters did as he was asked.

  ‘Any particular reason? I’ve got the details in my book if we need them.’

  ‘Just another one of those funny little coincidences that I don’t find very amusing. We’ll have another session later, put it all together then and see what we’ve got. Come on, let’s find this Mr Riches.’

  The receptionist fluttered a little as Chris Waters explained who they were, fluttered and blushed and smiled before going to find her employer in the offices behind the front desk. When he caught the young detective’s eye, Smith raised his eyebrows, grinned and nodded towards the girl; Waters frowned, as if he had missed something significant in the investigation and Smith’s nodding became instead a slow shake of the head.

  On her return, the girl was followed by a short, fat, balding and red-faced man, his pink shirt already damp under the arms although it was not yet nine o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I have to say, we go from one extreme to the other. The last time we had a canoe stolen, I got a PCSO and a letter advising me how to avoid becoming a victim of crime. Now I get the flying squad. Which one of you is senior?’

  Smith held the man’s stare, nothing more, and it was Waters who eventually pointed to his colleague in answer.

  ‘Right, come on through.’

  Timothy Riches’ office had ‘MD’ in gold lettering on the door and too much executive-style furniture for the space available. He sat down in the high-backed swivel chair and waved the two policemen into the lower chairs in front of his desk. Leaning forward then, his finger over the intercom button, he asked if they wanted coffee. Both declined and the MD shrugged and sat back in the chair that was just a little too large for him.

  ‘I don’t suppose you checked your records but this is the fourth canoe stolen this year. It’s about time you took some notice. After all, we pay-’

  ‘Your rates and taxes, which pay our wages. Yes, quite right, sir, and if this matter is not quickly resolved to your satisfaction, I think you should write to your MP.’

  Riches looked from Smith to Waters and back again.

  ‘As it happens, Assistant Chief Constable Devine is following this case, he has taken a personal interest in it, which is why he has dispatched us here so early this morning.’

  Riches was nodding, his mouth slightly open.

  ‘It may be, sir, that a serial canoe thief is operating in the area.’

  ‘I see, er, sergeant. Quite right. I – you have some questions?’

  ‘Just a few, sir. Obviously, we need to get out and in pursuit as quickly as possible. We need to see your records for canoes hired last Saturday.’

  Riches pressed the intercom button. Somewhere it gave a half-hearted buzz and then resigned itself to an intermittent crackle. Riches looked up at them, pressed it again with even less success and finally called out ‘Clare!’

  They waited, Smith smiling, Riches sweating and Waters practising his upside down reading so that he could avoid laughing out loud.

  ‘Clare!’

  The receptionist appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I need the boat hire records for the weekend.’

  She came into the room, walked behind Riches’ desk and began to type on the computer keyboard. Riches explained – ‘It’s a new system. I don’t have the time to get to know all the day-to-day stuff…’

  Clare straightened up, tall, slender, darkly pretty, and glanced again at Waters. Riches turned the screen towards them.

  Waters read it and said to the girl, ‘Those are cruisers. Could we have canoes?’

  Riches tutted and said to Smith, ‘Can’t get the staff these days.’

  ‘I know, sir. We have the same problem with youngsters. They seem to have no psychic powers at all. I don’t know what the schools are teaching them.’

  The second screen was the one that they needed and Clare left the room, after being told to get Barry to fix the intercom again. Without being asked, Waters was up and close to it, making notes. As he did so, Smith could finally start work.

  ‘Obviously, you take a deposit for these boats. How much was it?’

  ‘For that type of canoe, fifty pounds.’

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘That’s the point, sergeant. It was one of our wooden canoes, proper Canadian-style. Several hundred pounds to replace, if you can find one. If I claim on the insurance-’

  ‘Yes, I see, much more of this and you could be facing bankruptcy. What name did he use, DC Waters?’

  ‘Jones, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right. Makes a change from Smith, I suppose.’

  Riches’ small mouth had fallen open a little again.

  ‘You mean that he-’

  ‘Undoubtedly, sir. A hardened criminal. Do the times match up, more or less, DC Waters?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so, sarge.’

  Smith had to suppress a smile of his own then, at how quickly Waters had slipped into role.

  ‘Right, we need to speak to whoever actually did this bit of hiring out, Mr Riches.’

  Riches pulled the screen back round, peered at it and said, ‘Ah, that was Barry.’

  Barry wiped his hands on his overalls as if he was expecting to shake hands. Smith looked pointedly at Riches but the latter failed to understand until he heard the words, ‘Thank you for your assistance this morning, sir. We can take it from here.’

  When the managing director had left the workshop, Smith took out his cigarettes and offered one to the nervous-looking mechanic-come-electrician-come-dogsbody.

  ‘You’re not in any bother, son. We just need some info on a customer here last weekend.’

  Barry remembered him. It was the name, it just didn’t go with the foreign accent. And five brand new ten pound notes like th
ey’d just come off the printing press; at that Smith told Waters to nip back in and speak to Clare – do they do routine checks on all notes? No, said Barry, in answer to the next question, there were no bags or rucksacks around when he pushed the canoe and its occupant off from the platform. Seven o’clock when he, Barry, had left, he’d stayed on a little just in case the bloke was running late but he never showed up. Barry had phoned Mr Riches and left a message, you had to, just to cover yourself.

  Waters reappeared, shaking his head. They didn’t check them here but the cash was banked on the Monday and they would have heard by now if any of the notes were forgeries. Finally, Smith asked to see another of the Canadian-style canoes. Barry took them into the boathouse next door and pointed to one on the rack, in for repair.

  ‘Can you lift it down from there, Chris?’

  He could, but only just - it took two hands and some straining muscles.

  ‘What about paddles, Barry?’

  ‘You only need one if you’re going solo in one of these.’

  He fetched a long, streamlined wooden paddle from the other end of the boathouse.

  ‘Beautiful jobs, these were. Specially made when the place first opened. The old bloke who made these is dead now…’

  Smith examined it, admiring the curve from the shaft into the blade and the rich grain in the wood. He even made a couple of pulls with it before he ran his thumb over the top of the handle, felt something and turned the paddle to look more closely. There was a moment of silence.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Barry looked and nodded.

  ‘Like I said, a few of these were done specially when the place opened.’

  Smith held out the paddle, handle-first, towards Waters.

  ‘Another picture, please. Get several, different angles.’

  Barry couldn’t make it out, thought that he hadn’t explained it properly.

  ‘It’s just the name, isn’t it. The old bloke carved them. You know, Pisces – the sign of the fish.’

  Now the office was busy, with every desk occupied, keyboards chattering and a couple of telephone conversations already underway. Smith glanced around and pulled a face.

  ‘How anyone imagined that open-plan offices would be more efficient is beyond me.’

  Waters shrugged and waited, notebook open and at the ready.

  ‘So use one of the interview rooms, they’ve got direct lines, and they should be free as everyone’s in here rather than interviewing any actual criminals. Get that contact of yours at the school and ask about Wayne’s swimming abilities. I suppose they might need to get hold of a PE teacher but I’m pretty sure that Upham has a pool. If he swam like a tortoise, we could be wasting our time here.’

  ‘OK. What happens then?’

  ‘I’m seeing DI Reeve after lunch. She decides.’

  ‘Just like that? One officer?’

  ‘In the end, it always comes down to someone’s decision. But the better our spadework, the more chance that we can win a bit more time on it. Off you go.’

  Smith had only recently discovered how to rename folders on the computer. He spent a minute or two wondering what to call this one before typing in ‘Accidental Death?’ Then, one by one, he began dragging the photographs and video files into it, along with a summary of what he and Waters had established so far. If there was time, he would get Waters to scan in the witness statements as well – he was sure to know how to do that.

  When he sensed the figure standing behind him, Smith’s fingers stopped. He looked at the screen top left where the silhouette was outlined against a window behind it.

  ‘Seems like a nice lad, Waters. Bit of a pup but pleasant enough. He seemed to think you were getting him to make lists so that he could make more lists, though.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how some people see paperwork, as a chore. Pity that QCs don’t see it the same way.’

  He turned to face Wilson as he spoke. One or two faces in the room were watching.

  ‘I see you’re still scratching around with that.’

  Wilson indicated the screen.

  ‘As I was asked. It’s been left somewhat untidy.’

  The fixed half-smile on Wilson’s face wavered for a moment.

  ‘Charlie was the duty officer.’

  ‘Yes, and he did exactly what he should, apart from leaving a bit of tape on a fence. He contacted CID. You were on CID call all of Sunday.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you sent O’Leary, a DC.’

  ‘And? It was an obvious accidental, nothing he couldn’t handle.’

  Smith half turned the swivel chair back towards the screen and frowned.

  ‘It’s not obvious to me.’

  ‘You’ve got to be having a laugh! He was pissed and drugged up, and then he went swimming in a river full of motor cruisers!’

  More heads had turned as Wilson’s voice grew louder.

  Smith turned again to face him.

  ‘I think it’s worth another look. But you don’t have to worry, Wilson. If anything interesting does turn up, you can read about it in the newspapers.’

  The contempt on the heavily-jowelled face became fury, just for an instant before Wilson twisted away, and crossed the office, laughing aloud and shaking his head. Smith watched him go and then saw Maggie Henderson smiling and wagging her finger at him.

  Ten minutes later, Waters returned. Smith was already learning to read his body language – the long stride and intent look meant that they had another result.

  ‘He set the school’s 100 metre freestyle record when he was fourteen. It still stands.’

  Smith thought long and hard before telling Waters about the bruising on the body; it was a risk of sorts, though the boy did seem trustworthy, and if DI Reeve then decided to leave it alone, as she might, Waters would not find that easy to accept or even understand. After he had told him, and showed him Olive Markham’s handiwork with the pathology lab’s camera, the result was not quite what Smith had anticipated. Waters fell silent, sat back and looked away for several seconds.

  ‘What’s up?’

  The look on Waters’ face as he spoke could only be described as worried.

  ‘To be honest, DC, I thought we were – that you were just sort of playing along with it because of me. That it wasn’t a real case?’

  ‘You thought that this was some sort of practice? It’s pretty real for the family and friends, never mind Wayne Fletcher. I don’t think he’s practising being dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t being callous, I can see all that. But I didn’t think that someone had actually – killed him. I thought we were just looking at possibilities.’

  ‘We are. But as we start to gather information – and that’s all it is so far, not evidence – the possibilities start to become probabilities.’

  Waters was silent again. Smith closed the screen before any other interested parties wandered by, and waited.

  ‘To me, that bruise makes it more than a probability, DC. How else could it have got there on the head? If we measure the embossing on the paddle and the bruise in the photo – software can do that – and they match up, it means he was hit with the paddle. I don’t see how that was ever accidental, and if it was intentional then it was… Murder.’

  Smith held out his hand and patted the air with it – Waters nodded and spoke more quietly.

  ‘But it was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The first problem is, the blow doesn’t come up as the cause of death. It’s indirect. If I deliberately push you off a ten-storey building and you die as a result – not that you’d have much choice in the matter – the cause and effect are directly linked: I murdered you. But if I give you a shove in here, you catch yourself on the corner of the desk as a result and die of internal bleeding three days later, no-one is going to make a murder charge stick, are they?’

  ‘Manslaughter?’

  ‘A better bet, especially if someone can show that I meant to do you some harm, that it wasn’t just a fri
endly push.’

  ‘Hitting someone in the water with a paddle isn’t ever going to be friendly, is it?’

  ‘I can think of better ways of showing affection. Of course, we don’t know that Wayne was in the water when he got hit, do we? See, you’ve got to look at it from all ways. Another thing – why turn the paddle around and use the handle as a weapon? If you wanted to really hurt someone with that paddle, you’d swing it like a club, not poke them with the end of it.’

  Waters breathed out through pursed lips.

  ‘But it’s real case, isn’t it? Whatever happened, it wasn’t a simple accident.’

  Smith gathered the papers into the manila folder and locked them in his desk drawer.

  ‘You discovered the delights of our canteen yet?’

  Waters looked at his watch.

  ‘It isn’t lunchtime for another half hour, is it?’

  ‘It is if we have to start at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘Sorry, DC. Is there anything else I can do with this, to help?’

  Smith stood up, ready to leave.

  ‘Don’t know. Can you think of a reason to ring Pisces again? I reckon you missed a trick there. That Clare was a lovely girl.’

  ‘So I need to read this, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Smith stood up and walked to the window, standing with his feet a little apart, one hand holding the opposite wrist behind his back as if he had been told to stand easy on parade. DI Reeve began to work through the papers and images, noting that they were all clipped together in logical groups, and all the groups were in an equally logical sequence. She glanced up at the straight back, the clean but well-worn jacket, the sensible trousers and shoes, and she wondered about his life now that he was alone. As far as she knew he was still alone – it was hard to imagine him with another woman after Sheila. The two of them were difficult to think of separately once you had spent an evening in their company, and Reeve had spent several of those. Odd that they never had children… Reeve had never asked but she had assumed there was some medical reason for it. They would have made wonderful parents. And then she thought briefly about her own life, wondering why she had never found that person. But then, if you did, you would have to go through the pain of either losing them or leaving them, just as Smith had done.