Prologue
Someone once told Ben Drummond that he was ‘too bloody cantankerous to die’. It wasn’t meant as a compliment but Ben, being Ben, took it that way. Ironic, really, since it was his sheer cussedness, his awkward, obstructive, cantankerous nature that killed him. That, and a 9 millimetre bullet.
Standing at the far end of the duty garage, Ben felt even more belligerent than usual. He’d been stuck here doing cars all day: and Ben hated doing cars. Some Scenes Of Crime Officer’s liked cars: you could recover some good stuff from cars. There was a lot of shiny metal and glass to take fingerprints, there were often cig ends in the ashtray, or bottles under the seats. You had a good chance of bringing something back if you went and did some cars.
Ben didn’t give a shit about bringing anything back – not for a crappy little stolen car job. Twenty-five years he’d been in the job, and he shouldn’t be spending his time on piddling small stuff. In Ben’s not very humble opinion, anything less than an aggravated burglary was a waste of his time and experience. But Slippery Mick had come over all officious that morning, and started on about sharing jobs out equally: so Ben was here doing cars, while kids with 10 minutes in the job were on burglaries and assaults. Stuck in a damp, cold, badly lit garage, bugger all good for any sort of proper forensic exam anyway, on a damp, cold badly lit day at the arse-end of October, looking at his sixth car of the shift. And this one wasn’t going to lift his mood either, because it was a burnt out wreck. Waste of time, the dimwit PC who had the case shouldn’t even have requested Scenes Of Crime.
Unless, perhaps, this was something a bit special? Involved in something serious perhaps – kidnapping, armed robbery? Please, at least a GBH! With a flicker of interest, Ben looked through his paperwork, dug out the incident log, and swore. Just a bloody Taken Without Owners Consent. Bunch of kids had TWOC’d it for a joy ride, torched it for fun. The owner hadn’t even reported it until it had already been put out by the Fire Brigade. It was that important.
Well, he wasn’t going to waste any time on this one. Not even worth getting his kit out for.
Ben dumped his file on the fire-blackened bonnet, began scribbling on a report form. Ten minutes for this one, he thought, then back to the station for a cuppa and maybe a sausage cob.
Behind him, there were footsteps on the damp concrete, which he ignored. Garage staff, he presumed. Probably brought another one in. Well, if they were thinking of asking him to do it before he left they’d think again bloody damn quick.
‘Hum – make, Vauxhall Cavalier.’ Ben frequently muttered to himself whilst working. ‘Condition – severe fire damage, engine and passenger compartment, all windows out: boot…’
‘That’s my car.’
Scowling, Ben put his pen down and turned round. The man standing a few yards away was hard to make out: the random failures of the strip lights had left him in a pool of shadow, back lit by the bright halogens further down.
‘What?’ Ben growled.
‘Are you Police?’
‘Scenes of Crime Officer. And this is a forensic examination area. Not open to the public. Garage office is over the other side.’
The man stepped a bit closer, more into what light there was. Ben saw a dark beard, chunky dark coat, eyes shadowed by a baseball cap. ‘That’s my car there.’
‘I’m nearly finished with it. Go over to the garage office, you can sort things out with them.’
‘Did you find anything in the car?’ The man spoke sharply, demandingly: Ben almost smiled. He loved the chance to be truculent, obstructive, and downright rude if possible.
‘Like I told you, this is a forensic examination area. Contact the Officer in the Case if you’ve got any questions. Now bugger off!’
The man had kept his hands in his pockets, seemingly casual, but there was no doubting the aggression in his voice or in the way he leaned forward as he spoke.
‘Tell me what you’ve found in my car!’
And for a brief moment, Ben was tempted to say ‘Sod all mate. Sorry, it’s a negative.’ But that would have gone against a lifetime’s habit, and instead he snapped back: ‘Can’t tell you that. Police business. Now piss off out of it!’ And for the first time that day, he felt almost happy. He was staring straight at the man, glaring in joyful fury, and so was barely aware of the hand that came out of the pocket, or of what it was holding, or of the muffled thud.
But he felt the massive impact in his chest, the tremendously powerful blow that flung him back against the scorched metal of the car: flung him back and spun him round, so that he was grasping at the roof, trying to pull himself up, but he had no strength left, none in his arms, none in his legs, and he couldn’t stop himself slipping to the floor. He thought of his radio, but he couldn’t move to reach it, and already it was very dark, even darker than normal…
And then it was utter black, and Ben Drummond hadn’t even had time to realise what had happened to him.
*
The shot seemed to echo for a long time, the acoustics of metal walls and concrete floor extending it’s lifetime beyond the normal. The man with the gun stood listening while they faded – not looking at the body, but at the entrance to the garage. He did not expect interruption from the garage staff, who were watching telly in their portacabin on the other side of the yard. However, just in case, he looked and listened for a while longer, with his pistol hanging casually from his hand.
Finally satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to the body, slumped face down on the dirty concrete.
He had certain business to conduct here, business made more difficult by Ben Drummond’s intransigence. Which, in the man’s mind, was reason enough to shoot him. Even now, the business did not go well: he swore several times in frustration. But he was a practical person, and did not linger pointlessly. When he had done as much as could reasonably be done, under the circumstances, he left. The whole thing was something of an irritation, especially as his intervention now seemed unnecessary. But at least he’d made sure if it. It might not have been the best solution, or the ideal outcome, but it had been dealt with quickly, and on the whole, satisfactorily. He took some pleasure in having tied up all the loose ends.
*
In the garage, nothing moved. Even the pool of blood from beneath the body had stopped spreading. In the poor lighting it was hardly distinguishable from the oil stains nearby as it slowly congealed on the wet concrete.
Chapter 1
A week after Ben’s murder, the Scenes Of Crime office was still in a state of shock. Alison – big, bouncy, irrepressibly bright and bubbly, was near tears.
‘I still can’t believe it.’ she quavered. ‘I keep expecting him to walk in at any moment.’
‘I know, Ali, I know.’ said Doug, consolingly. ‘We all feel the same. It’s just not believable.’ Doug was usually the one to bring some calm reason into a situation. With his rimless glasses and neat, grey-shot beard he had been accused of looking like a stereotype psychiatrist: truth was, he was the sort of person people instinctively felt they could trust.
Marcie, just back off leave, was finding it hard to adjust to the news: she felt like she had a weeks worth of trauma to catch up with. Like Ali, she kept expecting Ben to shamble in at any moment, with a sarcastic comment and a dirty joke. She’d cried herself when Doug phoned her at home with the news, cried more when she saw it on TV. Not that she’d got on with Ben – not any better than most people, anyhow – but a sudden hole had appeared in her world: a permanent absence of something that had seemed solid and enduring.
But one of the biggest shocks, she thought, was seeing Alison Patrick so distraught, considering that she and Ben had disliked each other intensely.
‘What I don’t understand,’ she wondered out loud ‘is why anyone would shoot a SOCO anyhow? Have they got any ideas yet?’
‘Drugs.’ grunted Mac.
‘You’ve heard that?’ asked Doug. ‘Mick and Jimmy won’t say a word about it.’
Mac – Philip MacAlistair, but no one ever called him Phil, even if they knew it was his name – was of the same generation as Ben, and had been in the job about as long. Short and solidly built under an unruly mass of iron grey hair, he’d been the closest Ben had had to a friend in the department. If Ben had had anything like a friend anywhere. Marcie thought he seemed a bit less upset than Ali. He shook his head as he answered Doug.
‘Not heard, no, but it’ll be drugs. Always is.’
‘Scary thing is’ put in Sanjay, ‘It might have been any of us. Ben hardly ever did cars. Just sheer bad luck. Scary.’
From the silence that fell, Marcie deduced that the same thought had occurred to everyone else, but no one had wanted to put it into words. Sanjay was the quietest one of their team, possibly also the brightest, and definitely the best looking, but when he did say something it was straight to the point. Even if no one else wanted to go there.
‘So, where are our revered Seniors?’ asked Mac. ‘We supposed to wait all day for them, or what?’
‘They’re in conference with CID’ said Doug. ‘Message was , everyone was to get their jobs and then sit tight – they want to make some sort of announcement.’
‘OK – time for a brew, then. Anyone want a cup?’
The way it worked in their office was that the city was divided up into operational areas and all the SOCO’s took one – or two, if they were shorthanded. Then you had to search the Force computer system for any incidents in those areas that had been referred for Scenes of Crime examination. Which meant that the busier it was, the longer you had to spend on the computer before you could even get started.
It was made worse by the fact that there wasn’t enough computers to go round, especially not with all the shifts in. Marcie had to wait twenty minutes before she could get on one. And of course – sod’s law – it was at that moment that the missing Seniors made their entrance, along with Marcus Hubert-Hulme, Head of Scientific Support (which included Scenes Of Crime).
Marcus was widely known throughout the Force as ‘The Prof’ – not just because he looked like a professor, white beard, glasses and all, but because he was in fact a Professor – of Forensic Science. With, apparently, an international reputation in the field.
Ben, as Marcie recalled, had referred to The Prof as an ‘over-educated ivory tower ponce’ who ‘knew less about real SOCO-ing than a cow knows about flying.’ Marcie herself thought that The Prof was a pretty good boss, in that he mostly kept out of the way and let them get on with it.
An expectant hush fell over the room.
‘Ahem – Ladies and ah – Gentlemen…’ The Prof was unremittingly formal on all occasions. ‘As you know, your Senior Scenes of Crime Officers here at Ash Ridge Police Station – Michael and James – have been heavily involved in the investigation, relating to our murdered colleague, Mr Benjamin Drummond. My thanks to them for what has undoubtedly been a personally difficult task for them, carried out with the usual professionalism and – er – competency.’ There was a brief pause: Marcie wondered if they were expected to applaud.
Gathering himself, The Prof resumed. ‘Certain facts have now come to light –not yet to be made public, of course, but it was felt that you the colleagues of the – ah – deceased – should be kept informed.’
‘So we don’t read about it in the paper, after being kept in the dark for a week’ whispered Doug, sitting on the desk next to Marcie.
‘I rely on your discretion, of course, not to talk to the Press…. However, the facts I referred to… A full forensic examination of the vehicles Mr Drummond had examined on that day has revealed a bottle of Morphine Elixir, a controlled drug, concealed beneath the seats of a Ford Mondeo estate car.’
Mac nodded in satisfaction, with a ‘told you so’ expression on his face.
‘Traces of this drug were also found on used examination gloves in Mr. Drummonds pockets. It is now believed that during his examination of the Mondeo, Mr. Drummond had found and recovered some of these drugs, but was unfortunate in that the drug dealer came to the garage in order to reclaim them. It appears that the offender, or offenders, took not only the drugs, but also Mr. Drummonds paperwork and exhibits relating to all the vehicles he had examined that day.’
‘We cannot say at this stage whether or not Mr Drummond resisted them, or if he was shot to prevent identification. However…’ The Prof removed his glasses, and looked at them for a moment. ‘However – we do intend to find out.’ He looked up again, looked around the room. ‘In our business we see much of the worst of human nature – and it’s consequences. We are used to seeing victims, and I would hope that, as professionals, we always do our best to bring the offenders to justice. But this time, ladies and gentlemen, this time it has reached out and touched us personally. Mr Drummond – Ben – was one of us. He spent his career achieving justice for others: we will do no less for him.’
Marcie felt herself both moved and comforted. Inspirational speeches weren’t The Prof’s forte, but it was clear he felt this deeply and spoke from the heart. The quality of the silence that fell suggested that the others had heard the same.
The Prof replaced his glasses. ‘Well then – thank you for your time. Your Seniors will keep you informed of other developments. It is anticipated that Mr. Drummond’s funeral will take place shortly: it has been agreed that the Force will show it’s solidarity on that occasion, and it is expected that all of you will wish to attend. Scenes of Crime cover for the City will be arranged from other Divisions, so you will be free to do so. Ah – that is all. Please resume your duties.
The Prof left with his entourage, and a subdued buzz of conversation broke out. ‘Told you!’ said Mac, with what Marcie thought was an unseemly degree of satisfaction. ‘Drugs! Told you, didn’t I?’
‘You did, Mac’ Doug agreed. ‘You did indeed.’ He paused, frowning. ‘But what I’m wondering is, how come Ben missed some of the drugs? Come to think of it, if the offenders came back to get the drugs, how come they left some?’
‘They were probably in a hurry.’ said Ali, drifting over to join in the conversation. ‘They shot Ben, took the stuff he’d recovered, and legged it.’
‘Not that much of a hurry.’ said Marcie. ‘They took time to get all his notes as well. And if they’d hidden the drugs in the first place, they’d have known where to look for the rest.’
‘Perhaps they thought that Ben had got them all?’ Sanjay suggested.
Mac was nodding. ‘Yeh – but Doug’s right. Ben wouldn’t miss anything like that. He’s like – he was like a bloody bulldog, if he thought he was on to something. He’d have gone through that car like a dose of diarrhoea – I can’t see him missing any bottles of morphine.
‘My point precisely’ said Doug, ‘and so delicately put.’
Speculation was interrupted by the return of Slippery Mick – so called because it could be damn near impossible to get a straight answer out of him. ‘Ok, meetings over!’ he announced. ‘Let’s get out and fight crime! Who’s going to Northdale?’
‘Ah – that’d be me, Mick.’ said Marcie.
‘Good. Can you drop in at Callahan’s and do a car, since you’re in the area? OK?’
Marcie felt a little twist in her stomach. ‘Callahan’s? As in Callahan Recovery? Where Ben was shot?’
‘Of course. Problem?’
‘Ah – well – I just thought that they weren’t taking cars in there anymore. ‘Cos of the investigation.’
Mick took on a shifty look. ‘Scenes finished with now. That part of the investigation’s over – they’re opening up again. Only – there’s a car there that Ben didn’t get round to looking at before… Anyhow, we want it sorted, ASAP. If you don’t mind, Marcie. Won’t take long, it’s a burn-out. Just eyeball it, write up a negative report. No sweat.’
‘Didn’t I hear that we’re dumping Callahan’s?’ asked Doug. ‘Breach of contract – inadequate security?’
Mick was now definitely living up to his nickname. ‘Possibly.’ He muttered, not meeting anyone’s eye. ‘It’s under discussion - but don’t mention it, Marcie, OK?’ Slippery Mick slipped off to his office with some speed.
‘Why do I get the feeling that something warm and smelly has just been dumped on me?’ Marcie wondered aloud.
Mac snorted. ‘Jimmy and Mick should have sorted it as part of the investigation. Probably got too excited when they found the drugs – anyhow, Mick’s panicking a bit now, because if Callahan’s get the shove, they’re not going to co-operate with any more investigations. Which will leave our Senior SOCO’s with an embarrassing loose end…’
‘Might as well do it anyhow.’ Doug said to Marcie. ‘Get Slippery Mick out of a hole and he might look on you favourably next time you ask for leave.’
‘Yeah, sure – like I’ve got a choice?’
Examining a burnt out car, even one which someone else should have done, didn’t bother Marcie much – as Mick had said, it wouldn’t be a big job. Going to Callahan’s was never a joy, but if it was likely to be the last time, she could live with it. But seeing where Ben had died… was uncomfortable.
‘Go there first.’ she thought. ‘Get it out of the way.’ Logging out of the computer, Marcie gathered her gear and headed for the station car park.
Northdale had once been one of Faringham’s more exclusive areas, and there were still some quite pleasant parts – mostly around the centre, or ‘Old Northdale’ as the residents insisted on calling it, though without any official sanction. East Northdale, next to the University, had been largely taken over by student accommodation and the associated support services – bars, fast food outlets and video rentals. West Northdale, out near the edge of the city, was a confused mixture of old housing, new tower blocks and light industry.
It was out in this part of the city that Callahan’s Recovery had it’s premises, a badly built and poorly maintained warehouse. On the basis of the cheapest bid, Callahan’s had acquired the police contract to recover stolen and suspicious vehicles from the city area, and to provide facilities for forensic examinations of the same. They had then set out to maximise their profits by keeping investment to the minimum. The vast shed was unventilated in summer, unheated in winter, and poorly lit in any weather. Other facilities were minimal or non-existent, and the staff were as surly and unhelpful as they could get away with.
Along with every other SOCO in the City Division, Marcie had been complaining bitterly about Callahan’s from the beginning: but meetings, consultations and complaints had failed to produce any change. Getting rid of Callahan’s was a move that would delight every SOCO: it was a pity that one of them had to be killed to bring it about.
One advantage about waiting for the seniors was that the rush hour was over, and it was only 20 minutes after leaving Ash Ridge nick that Marcie pulled the SOC van up to the rusty gates. It took another 5 minutes of blowing the horn before someone ambled out of the office and came over.
‘So what do you want?’ he growled. A beefy young lad in dirty overalls with ‘Callahan Recovery’ barely discernable on them.
Marcie opened the window and leaned out. ‘Scenes of Crime’ she explained, as if it wasn’t written all over the side of the van. ‘You’ve got a car for us.’
‘No we haven’t. Haven’t had any cars in since your mate got himself shot.’
So now it was Ben’s fault? Marcie bit back a sharp retort. ‘It’s from before then. Cavalier. Burnt out.’
‘Oh. Thought you’d done that.’
‘I’m here to do it now – er – Neil?’
‘Yeah, Neil. Thing is though – it’s out in the yard.’ Neil gave her a worried look, as he should. Out in the yard meant exposed to the weather, which meant a much reduced chance of finding any useful fingerprints or DNA. The car should have stayed undercover until a SOCO had signed it off. Marcie doubted if anyone had, which was why Neil was looking worried.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ she said reassuringly. ‘It’s burnt out anyway, and the fire brigade would have soaked it. Outside won’t make a difference.’ In this dump, it might even be better, she thought. ‘I just need to look at it, OK?’
‘Oh – OK, then.’ Neil fumbled for his keys, and finally swung the gates open. ‘Over there in the corner.’ He pointed.
Marcie drove over, got out, and looked at the wreck.
Whoever had torched it had done a good job. Some burnt out cars had no more than a small charred hole in a seat. But this one had been burned by an expert. There was barely a patch of un-scorched paint from the headlights as far back as the boot. All the windows were out, and as she peered through the holes, Marcie saw that the seats were reduced to a twisted metal framework. She wrinkled her nose at the smell: a burnt out car may not be the worst smell in the world, but it’s strong, distinctive and unpleasant enough.
Inside, the floor was deep in ashes and blobs of melted plastic, still soaked from the fire brigades efforts. Nothing was left of the steering wheel or dashboard.
‘Your mate got shot just there.’ said Neil from behind her.
Marcie jumped and hit her head on the door frame. ‘What?’ she snapped, glaring at Neil.
Neil grinned at her. ‘Mind your head!’
‘Yes, thank you! What did you say about Ben?’
‘He was standing just about where you are when he was shot. Leastways, that’s where we found him, on the floor. That’s his blood on the door.’
‘What!’ Marcie turned quickly, and crouched to examine the door she had been leaning against. It was hard to see against the scorched and now rusting metal, but there were dark reddish brown stains smeared down the side.
Marcie felt her guts twisting. Why hadn’t Mick told her? She wouldn’t have thought that even Mick would fail to mention it.
Fighting for a calm voice, she turned back to Neil. ‘Was… was it you who found him?’
‘Yeah!’ said Neil eagerly. ‘Well, me and Pete. See, we were over in the office, and Pete said, ‘Time to lock up.’ So I went out with the keys, only the SOCO van’s still here. So I told Pete, ‘SOCO’s still here.’ Thing is, we’d thought he’d gone long since.’
Marcie nodded. ‘That.. was when?’
Neil shrugged. ‘About five o’clock – ish. Anyhow, Pete says, ‘Go and tell him to get a move on, we want to lock up’. So I went to the shed, and looked round – couldn’t see ‘im. Shouted a bit, ‘cos he didn’t answer. So I got Pete, and we went looking. And then Pete says ‘Over here, Neil!’. And there he was, laying down next to that Cavalier.’
Involuntarily, Marcie glanced at the floor: she was standing in the same place, relative to the car, that Ben would have fallen. She took a quick step back, with cold chills running down her. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Well – first off, we thought he was ill. Heart attack, or something. So Pete says, ‘Help me get him up!’ thinking we’d take him over to the office. So we started to carry him out, then I said ‘Shit – he’s bleeding!’ And Pete said ‘Bloody hell!’ and we put him down again. Then he said ‘Go and phone the Ambulance.’ I ran back over to the office, and when I’d phoned the Ambulance, I thought, better phone the Police as well. Then I went back, and told Pete ‘Ambulance is on it’s way.’ And Pete said, ‘We’d better not move him. But we’ll have to make space to get the ambulance in.’ So I got on the forklift, and we shifted some cars around. Then a copper arrived, and then the ambulance came, and they said ‘He’s been shot!’ And next I knew, there was coppers and CID everywhere.’
Marcie nodded, thinking. ‘Neil – when you moved the cars around – did you move this one as well?’
‘Of course we did!’ Neil was indignant, as if his word was being doubted. ‘Like I said, we had to make room for the ambulance. And this ‘un was right next to him.’
‘So where did you put it?’
‘Well – just here, of course. Out of the way.’ Neil paused, then decided to cover his back. ‘Like Pete told me.’
‘Ah. So – when the Police came, this car was already out here? Nowhere near the body?’
‘Well – yes. Suppose it was.’
‘And did you tell them about it?’
Neil look confused. ‘They didn’t ask about this car. They asked where he’d been found, and we showed them, and they asked what cars he’d done, and we showed him. But they didn’t ask about this one.’
Well, of course they didn’t, you pillock, thought Marcie. By the time they got here, it was nowhere near the body – just an old wreck over in the corner of the yard, along with a lot of others. And if they didn’t ask the right questions….
‘Where’s Pete now?’ she asked, looking for some corroboration.
‘Off work. Stress. Hasn’t been back since then. I’m here on my own just now.’
‘Right. Well – stick around. I’ve got to talk to someone.’ Marcie got out her mobile.
‘Mick – it’s Marcie. I’m at Callahan’s. You know that Cavalier you sent me here for… well, there’s a bit of a story with it…’
Marcie repeated what Neil had told her, and listened to a long silence, as Mick absorbed it. Finally he came back to life.
‘OK, Marcie, good work. Um – you can carry on and finish the car. Just as normal.’
‘But Mick…’
‘Yeah, I know Marcie – strictly speaking, you should have a Senior down there, as it’s connected with a murder. But, thing is, this doesn’t make any difference. We know why Ben was shot, and it’s nothing to do with that car. So in actual fact, it’s really just a TWOC, and that’s no problem for you, is it Marcie?’
‘Well, no, Mick – but…’
‘Look, Marcie, just treat it like any other TWOC, OK? Fine then. See you back at the office.’
Mick hung up. ‘Thanks.’ Marcie said to herself. ‘Thanks very much.’
She looked at the Cavalier. ‘Just like any other TWOC? I don’t think so, Mick.’ For a start, she’d get a swab of that blood. Ben’s blood. Mick would hit the roof: he’d never allow it to be submitted. If it got matched to Ben it could screw up Mick’s carefully constructed scenario of what had happened – though he was right, it probably wasn’t relevant. Still, if anything came up later, Marcie didn’t want to be the one accused of doing a sloppy job.
She went back to the van, got her kit out, and set to work.
Half an hour later, she’d got a full series of photographs, exterior and interior, and two swabs of the stain on the side – correctly tested first, to confirm it was blood and not a tomato sauce spillage. There were no unburned areas to fingerprint, so she was now looking speculatively at the boot. It was the only (relatively) undamaged area of the car, and she was wondering if anything inside it could have survived. Only one way to find out.
It was locked, of course. She got out a crowbar and poked around a bit, but with no result.
‘Hey – Neil.’ she called.
Neil had been watching from a distance. ‘Yeah?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Come over here and pop this boot open for me.’
‘Well – we don’t have a lot of tools here at the moment. Might need to get the fork lift on it.’
‘OK. So get the fork lift on it.’
Neil grumbled off, and in due course, came back in the fork lift. After much manoeuvring and swearing, he managed to get the fork blades under the boot lid, and wrenched it open.
‘There!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘So what’s in it.’
‘Nothing.’ said Marcie with disappointment, looking in. ‘Spare wheel, jack. But I had to check. Stand back, Neil, I’ll need photos.’
She snapped off a few frames, and stepped back, thinking. Was there anything more to be done?
‘That it then?’ asked Neil.
‘I’m not finished yet.’ she said evenly. ‘I’ll let you know when.’ She went back to the van, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up her crowbar again. Leaning through one of the Cavalier’s back windows, she stirred through the sodden black ashes.
Something caught on the crowbar: she pulled it out gently. A few lengths of bent wire – perhaps the framework of a bag of some sort? She scraped at another solid lump, and thought that it might have been a roll of gaffer tape.
Aware of Neil’s impatient stare on her back, Marcie transferred her attention to the front of the car, but here it was nearly all melted plastic from the dashboard. Any other items were permanently entombed in the shapeless grey mass.
For the sake of completeness, and to piss Neil off thoroughly, Marcie went round to the other side. There was some glass left in the driver’s window: she eyed it warily, and gave the door an experimental tug.
To her mild surprise, it creaked open. As it did so something shifted in the door pocket. Peering in Marcie saw something lighter than the surrounding ashes.
Dropping the crowbar, she felt cautiously down with gloved fingers: brushed through a layer of char and pulled out a thick wad of tissues. Scorched brown on the outside, the inner layers were still white. She sniffed cautiously: the faintly acrid chemical smell was familiar… windscreen wipes? The outer plastic cover had mostly burnt off, but the dampened tissues had survived surprisingly well.
Interesting, but not very exciting. No forensic value. Marcie dropped them back in the door pocket, and as she did so, she saw something else: a small, dark regular shape. Something that had been underneath the wipes. She reached in again, gave the object a tug.
It resisted at first, but then, with a firmer pull, it came free, shedding ash and melted plastic as it did. She lifted it into the watery daylight, cautiously wiped off the residual soot.
A flash card. Marcie felt a thrill of excitement. A digital camera storage card. Which might or might not have anything interesting on it: but it was, as Doug would have said, ‘better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.’
She slipped it into an evidence bag, and got out the mobile.
‘Technical Forensic Unit, Sam Goodwin.’
The TFU was up at HQ, the clever part of Scenes Of Crime, which dealt with things like computers, mobile phones, and – she hoped – flash cards. ‘Hi – Sam. Marcie – City Division Scenes of Crime. Listen, I’ve just recovered a Compact Flash card from a burnt out car. Will you be able to get anything off it?’
There was a pause. ‘Perhaps – depends how bad it is. Does the case look melted?’
‘No. Just very dirty. It was in a heap of ash, but underneath some wet windscreen wipes, which seem to have protected it from the worst of the fire.’
‘OK, might be possible then. If it’s just smoke damage, we can clean it up and try to download anything it might have. But if the chips themselves are damaged, forget it. Send it up, we’ll have a look.’
‘Great – thanks, Sam.’
‘No problem. But – one thing, Marcie – could it be the legitimate owners? No point it going to a lot of trouble just to recover the family’s happy holiday snaps!’
‘Good point. I’ll check it out. Thanks again.’
Marcie hung up, and gave Neil a big smile. ‘See? Persistence pays.’
‘You’re finished now?’
‘Oh, not just yet. I’d better take some more photos – and then write up the scene report…’
In the end, it was another half hour before Marcie pulled the van out of Callahan’s. Neil hastily slammed the gates shut before she could change her mind.
Marcie still hadn’t decided what to do about the flash card. Ringing the owners number from the incident log had connected her to an answering machine, but she wanted to know now, so the card could be submitted today. She could just go ahead and send it anyhow, but if it did turn out to be legitimate, Sam would be pissed off with her, and she’d rather keep him friendly: he was too useful to antagonise.
She looked at the log again. The registered keeper’s address wasn’t far away, in Old Northdale – and in fact – yes – she had a burglary to attend just a few streets away. OK, then, she’d drop by, and see if anyone was in. Then at least she could say she’d done her best with it.
She thumbed her radio. ‘X-ray Mike Two Seven to Control.’
‘Go ahead, Two Seven.’
‘Show me resumed from Callahan’s, please, and travelling to – ah – 34 Cyrus Street, for related enquires.’
‘Ten Four.’ The operator didn’t sound very excited: but Marcie was feeling quite cheerful: today was getting interesting.
Chapter 2
Cyrus Street was lined with dark, cold trees and red brick Victorian mansions. They had a gothic look to them, with a tendency to break out in odd little towers and elaborate balconies. Cue organ music in the background, thought Marcie.
No. 34 appeared typical, apart from the very new steel fencing that cut off the view of all but the upper storey. The industrial strength gate was a match with the fence, and to complete the set a pair of CCTV cameras stood guard. Clearly, these were people who took their security seriously. Apart from getting their car nicked.
A speaker grill was set into the gate post. Marcie pressed the button. A long pause. She pressed it again, and one of the CCTV cameras swivelled to stare down at her. She gave it what she hoped was a confident smile, rather than a nervous grimace.
‘Yes?’ said the speaker, curtly.
Not about to waste time on formal greetings, Marcie noted. ‘Marcia Kelshaw. Police – Scenes of Crime.’ She waved her I.D. card at the camera. ‘Are you Mr. Maddox?’
‘What do you want?’ the voice demanded.
‘I want to speak to Mr. Maddox, in connection with your vehicle that was stolen. The Cavalier.’
There was a pause. ‘Wait.’ The voice snapped. What for? Marcie wondered. Probably not ‘wait while I get the kettle on and we’ll talk about it over a cuppa.’
There was an electric buzz, and the gates began to swing smoothly open, inwards, gradually revealing a poorly kept gravelled area, an overgrown garden, and the front of the house, almost choked with laburnums. A white Transit van and a middle aged Mercedes saloon in silver were parked on the drive.
The front door opened, and a man strode briskly out. Thirty – something, Marcie thought. Dark hair and beard, padded black coat, hands thrust into the pockets, leaning forward slightly as he walked towards her. There was something aggressive, almost threatening in his manner: Marcie had been about to walk forward to meet him, but then changed her mind. Instead, she gave an involuntary glance around. The street was deserted. She fingered her radio for reassurance, and held up her ID again.
‘Well? What is it?’ Marcie wasn’t good at accents: she thought it might be a touch London.
‘Are you Mr. Maddox? The owner of the Cavalier?’
‘Yes! Of course! I was told it was burnt out – a wreck.’
‘That’s right. It was, but we were able to carry out a forensic examination, and this was recovered – do you recognise it?’ She held up the flash card, in its clear plastic evidence bag.
Maddox looked at it, and for a fraction of a second, an expression flashed across his face. Shock? Horror? Fury? It was gone too quickly for Marcie to identify. But the intent gaze he turned on her was definitely threatening. She took a step back.
‘Where did you find this?’ He wasn’t quite shouting, but it sounded as if he wanted to: and he took a step towards her. A long step, cancelling out her retreat so that he was almost in her face. Marcie moved back again, uncomfortably aware that another step would put her up against the van.
‘It was in the drivers side door pocket. We need to know if it was left by the offenders, or if it’s yours.’
Maddox’s face now showed indecision. He half reached for the bag with his left hand – his right was still deep in his pocket. Since Marcie had it in her left hand, he was having to reach across, and Marcie was able to pull it back out of his reach.
He glared at her with such concentrated fury that she felt her legs weaken. ‘I – I can’t let you have it.’ she gasped out ‘Unless it’s yours of course, and you can have it if it’s yours, if you can identify it, you’ll have to sign for it, but we have to be sure you understand, because it could be evidence, of – of a crime – and it has been in a fire so it may be useless, probably is of course, but we want to be sure and of course if you’re claiming it is your property that’s not a problem…’ she was aware that she was gabbling, that fear had sent her tongue into overdrive, but she was finding it hard to stop. ‘Only, if it was left by the offender it might have come from another crime and if so we’ll want to try and match it up even if it’s completely ruined because it was in a fire, and the car’s completely gutted but if it’s any use to you you can have it back if it’s yours of course….’ Somehow, she managed to regain oral control and stuttered to a halt ‘I, I just need, need to kn-know if it’s yours. That’s all.’
For another moment he stared at her, a cold, unrelenting anger in his eyes. If he tries to take it again, thought Marcie, he can have it, and forget getting a signature.
But something in her flood of verbal incontinence had made it through to him. Abruptly, he stepped back.
‘It’s not mine’ he said, brusquely. ‘Never saw it before.’ Without another word, he turned sharply and strode back to the house. The gates swung silently shut behind him.
Marcie found herself leaning back on her van, legs quivering. ‘Th-thank you.’ She whispered. ‘Thank you very much.’
It was a good ten minutes before she could climb shakily into the van, another five before she managed to start the engine and drive away. She felt the CCTV camera’s staring at her the whole time.
Back at the office, at the end of the shift, Doug was incensed. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? he asked. ‘He could have been done for assault!’
Marcie shook her head wearily. ‘He didn’t do anything, Doug. I couldn’t even say he was abusive – didn’t swear, didn’t shout. It was just the way he looked at me!’
Mac laughed. ‘A man looks at you and you go weak in the knees, eh, Marcie?’
Doug glared at him. ‘Piss off, Mac. Can’t you see she’s been scared shitless?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was that bad.’ Marcie put in hastily, overlooking the fact that she had been scared shitless. How she’d got through the day she wasn’t sure: fortunately all her other jobs had been routine burglaries, with no unusual problems. ‘It was just – he seemed – dangerous.’
Mac gave a sort of shrug. ‘Well, I suppose after what happened, we’re all a bit jumpy.’ He caught Doug’s eye. ‘So, ah, sorry.’
‘It’s OK, Mac. Perhaps I did over-react a bit.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t me.’ said Ali. ‘I’d have just given it to him.’
‘But he said it wasn’t his.’ Doug pointed out.
‘He was lying.’ They all turned to look at Marcie. ‘Well, I think so. It was the way he reacted when he saw it. I’m sure he recognised it.’
Mac scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘If that’s so, then there could be something dodgy on that card. Something he doesn’t want to be connected with. But now he’s denied ownership, it could be difficult to tie him in with it.’
‘Do you think it could be connected to Ben?’ asked Ali. Which was exactly what Marcie had been wondering.
‘I don’t see how.’ said Doug. ‘Ben hadn’t even got to examine it.’
‘Hmm – actually…’ Marcie began, and told them about the blood, and the way the Cavalier had been moved. ‘I suppose I’d better run it by Mick, hadn’t I?’
‘You should tell somebody’ Doug agreed. ‘I think Mick’s at court, but Jim’s around.’
‘Better Jim than Mick.’ said Ali. Marcie nodded. Picking up a copy of her report on the Cavalier, she headed for the Senior’s office.
Whereas Mick was tall, slender, with thinning blonde hair and watery blue eyes, Jim was chunky, dark-eyed, with curly brown hair. Mick was slippery, reserved and up-tight: Jim was open, approachable and so laid back he was almost horizontal. Mick fancied himself as God’s gift to women: Jim might have been God’s gift to women, if he hadn’t been gay. He was on the phone when Marcie knocked on the open door: he smiled, waved her in and moved his feet off the spare seat, without breaking his flow.
From the end of the conversation she could hear, Marcie gathered that he was bullshitting an officer about the probable results of an examination. Apparently, he’d made promises that forensic science couldn’t deliver and was now blagging his way out of it. Since he was very talented in that area, it didn’t take him more than a few minutes: he hung up and looked expectantly at Marcie.
‘Jim – let me run something by you…’
She proceeded to tell him the full story, including her suspicions about Maddox – but downplaying her fear, and emphasising his reaction to the flash card. Jim listened without interruption, but he quickly lost his usual expression of lazy good humour and began to look more serious than she’d ever seen him before. When she’d finished, he sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk while he thought about it.
‘Well – yes. Thanks for coming to me with this, Marcie. Good work, especially finding that flash card. Thing is though, there’s some – ah, issues here which you may not be aware off.’ Jim paused, ran a hand through his hair.
‘When it happened – Ben getting shot – well, it was a bit of a cock-up right from the start. Ben’s, really. You know how bad he was at following any sort of procedure?’
Marcie nodded. Ben had been notorious for not following any rules but his own.
‘Well, Ben hadn’t called his location in to Control. They had no idea that we had anyone at Callahan’s that day. The first report they got – from those dickheads down there – was that someone had collapsed. Control got the idea that there had been some sort of industrial accident, and they sent the nearest spare copper – who turned out to be a young lad still on probation. Shouldn’t even have been on his own, but there was a bit of trouble kicking off in the city centre, and they’d sent most of their resources over there.’
‘Anyhow, this lad walked straight into a murder scene, without knowing what it was. He’d been told ‘industrial accident’ so that’s what he assumed. His first thought was to get everyone out to safety – including Ben. Callahan’s staff had already moved Ben once, and when the ambulance crew arrived the PC had taken him out of the shed and was busy trying to revive him. Already long past that, of course. Hell of a shock for him, when they told him that Ben was dead, and shot dead at that. Even so, it wasn’t until CID arrived and someone noticed the SOCO van over in the corner that they started putting two and two together. Good at that sort of thing, CID.’
‘Well, anyhow, by the time me and Mick arrived the crime scene was totally compromised – by Callahan’s and the PC. Poor old Ben had been moved at least twice and there was blood everywhere, so it was hard to say exactly where the shooting had taken place. That older bloke ….’
‘Pete?’ suggested Marcie.
‘Yeah, him – he’d got himself taken off to hospital, suffering from shock. The other one, Neil – none too bright at the best of times, and by this time he’d been asked questions by the PC, the ambulance crew, CID – he was having trouble remembering his name, let alone what cars he’d moved where. Even if anyone thought to ask him. Which is why no one knew about that Cavalier until now.’
‘But now you do know.’ Marcie pointed out.
‘Yes, of course.’ Jim leaned forward earnestly. ‘And you did exactly the right thing, Marcie. Technically speaking, I suppose Mick should really have come out to the car when you called him. But – as he said – this doesn’t actually change much as regards Ben’s murder. We’ve got the drugs connection, we know why Ben was shot – exactly where was always a bit iffy, like I said, but it’s not the main concern now. The investigation is looking at tracing the drugs. And Marcie – this is a big thing, you know?’
‘Er – yes, sure – big in what way?’
‘Well, as far as I know it’s the first time that a SOCO’s been murdered in the course of his duty. I’m sure you’ve seen that it made the national headlines. What you may not know is the amount of interest at high level – government level, Marcie: the Home Secretary’s been phoning the Chief Constable about it. There’s a lot of pressure coming down the line to get this sorted, and quickly. Introducing this Cavalier won’t help anyone. It would confuse the investigation, cause a lot of problems, without actually changing anything significant. We don’t want to open a can of worms. You see what I mean?’
Marcie nodded. She saw what he meant, alright. She didn’t like it, but she got the point. ‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Just put in your report. Don’t submit the blood. We’re ninety percent certain it’s Ben’s, anyhow. Keep it in the freezer. Send the film up, but we don’t need to request prints.’
‘What about the flash card. And Maddox?’
Jim shrugged. ‘What the hell? Submit the card. It might give us a clue about the TWOC’er. If it’s not completely wrecked by the fire. Not much we can do about Maddox, if he’s denied knowledge of it. Have to let that go. OK Marcie?’
She nodded, a little dubiously: Jim picked up on it.
‘Marcie – you’ve done everything right. You came across some information, you’ve reported it, it’s out of your hands. If it hits the fan, you’re in the clear, OK?’
‘Yes, sure – it’s not that though. It’s just that I’d hate to think we’re missing something. It would be like letting Ben down, somehow.’
Jim smiled reassuringly. ‘Trust me, Marcie – it’s not connected. No way.’
‘OK then. Thanks, Jim.’
‘Any time.’
Marcie left feeling happier, but not entirely comfortable with the feeling. Knowing Jim’s reputation for expert bullshitting, she wondered if she could trust his reassurances. Not that she had much choice.
In any case, she had to put it out of her mind when she got back to the SOC office and found it empty. The late shift had got their jobs and were out and about: her shift had gone home. Which meant she was running late, and on her first day back from leave as well…. She hurriedly filled out the paperwork and tossed the flash card into the submissions box. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.
She clattered down the stairs to the car park with coat, bag and keys, whilst simultaneously trying to call the child minder on her mobile. Fortunately, a friendly copper happened along at the right time to hold the door open.
‘Julie – it’s Marcie – sorry, I’m running late again.’ She reached her car, dropped her keys, and knelt to scrabble for them whilst carrying on the conversation. ‘I’ll be about half an hour – maybe a bit longer, traffic’s building up. Kids alright? Good. Thanks – see you soon?’ She found her keys, dropped her bag, opened the door, dropped her phone, swore, picked everything up in a heap and dumped it inside. As she went round to the drivers side, the phone rang: she swore again, dived into the pile and managed to retrieve it.
‘Hello – Marcie Kelshaw.’ Trying not to sound out of breath.
‘Marcie – it’s me. Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you at home, just got the answering machine. Thought you’d be there by now.’
Marcie’s husband John was accustomed to working long hours himself, but he didn’t much like Marcie doing the same. He didn’t like Marcie working for Scenes Of Crime. He didn’t like Marcie working.
‘Hello, love. Been a busy day – I’m on my way now.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They’re fine, John. I’ve just spoken to Julie. No problem.’
‘Well – anyhow, the reason I’m ringing is that we’ve run into a bit of a problem with the SuperScan launch. They’ve called a crisis meeting: I’m just going there now. I can’t say when I’ll be home, could go on a bit.’
Pause, while Marcie took a deep breath. ‘OK, love. I understand. Do you want me to keep some dinner for you?’
‘No – you go ahead and eat with the kids. I expect we’ll get something sent in. Got to go. Love you!’
‘Love you too.’ Marcie tossed the phone back in the front seat pile, and drove off, concentrating very hard on the traffic.
Marcie and John had first set up home in a comfortable but unpretentious semi in South Herrick. Julie Cregg had been their next-door neighbour: when John decided that increasing prosperity meant a move out of town to the village of Ashford, Marcie had practically begged her to take Roy and Kady on. It added a significant distance to her journey, but she considered it more than worth while to have the kids in a familiar environment that she and they felt secure with. John had been bewildered by this. ‘There’s a perfectly good nursery in Ashford.’ he pointed out. But Marcie, none too enthusiastic about the move, had made it a condition of her compliance.
A bus had broken down on the main southbound dual-carriageway through Herrick, making the traffic congestion even worse than she’d feared. By the time she pulled up outside Julie’s house, she was scared to look at her watch. Roy and Kady (officially Katy, but at two and a half Roy hadn’t been able to get his tongue round it. Now she was two and a half and wouldn’t answer to anything but ‘Kady’) were running out of the front door before she could switch the engine off.
“You’re very late.” Roy announced judgementally as he reached the car.
“And you’re getting far too much like your Dad.” Marcie replied, a little sharper than she’d intended. Actually, people always said how much like her he looked, with his unruly brown hair and the expression of wide- eyed innocence. But he was showing more and more of John’s traits as his character developed: imaginative, intelligent, with the ability to shut out the rest of the world almost completely in order to concentrate on whatever had captured his attention.
He also had John’s irritation with anything from the real world that intruded: as now. “We’re going to miss Ninja Knights!” he complained with a five-year olds passion for the really important things in life as he clambered onto his booster-seat.”
“Sorry about that.” Marcie said, half to Roy and half to Julie, who gave her a weary shrug. Kady sat patiently as she was strapped into her chair. Marcie wondered, as she often did, just where the genes had come from for that pale blonde hair – not to mention the calm and gentle disposition. Neither had any obvious connection with her or John.
“I’m hungry, Mummy.” she stated matter-of-factly. Not complaining, just making sure Marcie knew.
“Mummy’s been busy!” Roy informed his sister before Marcie could speak. “She was finding fingy-prints to catch robbers.”
“Fingerprints, Roy.” Marcie corrected. One way in which he did differ from his father was in his wholehearted enthusiasm for her job: he considered that he had the coolest Mum in the world, which did a lot for her self-esteem. “Yes, darling, I’ve been busy.” She clipped the final buckle into place, apologised again to Julie, and got back behind the wheel.
“Listen, kids,” she announced with as much cheerful authority as she could muster. “There’s a lot of traffic, so it’s going to be a bit longer getting home tonight. Please behave yourself in the back and let Mummy concentrate on her driving, or you’ll make us have an accident.” Having thus passed all responsibility to her children, Marcie got her Focus back in the commuter stream heading out of Faringham. Which immediately slowed to a crawl. Despite her efforts to concentrate on the traffic, she found her thoughts wandering back to the days events.
Could that Cavalier be connected with Ben? Jim had been very keen to reassure her otherwise – but what made him so certain? If all Ben’s paperwork had been stolen, it was only speculation that he hadn’t examined it: and he had been standing right next to it when he was shot.
There was a bit of a queue over the South Herrick bridge. ‘Roy hit me!’ wailed Kady. Calm and gentle she was, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t stand up for herself.
‘Don’t hit your sister, Roy.’ Marcie admonished.
‘She poked me!’ Roy complained.
‘Didn’t poke!’ said Kady with righteous indignation.
‘Settle down, both of you!’ Marcie answered, with what she hoped was loving parental firmness, and not tired parental irritability.
The traffic was moving again: once over the river Marcie turned off into the maze of country lanes that ran up behind River Heights.
Of course, if Ben had examined the Cavalier, he hadn’t found the flash card. If he had, would that have been taken as well? But it was unlikely it would have been found. A straightforward examination of a TWOC’ed and burnt-out car wouldn’t merit the degree of examination Marcie had given it: she wouldn’t have bothered herself if Neil hadn’t told her about the blood.
In fact, Mick had told her to give it a negative report. He was going to be pissed with her tomorrow.
They finally pulled into the driveway of Mill Cottage. It was a picturesque little place, all warm red brick and glossy white wood. Not so little, either – it extended a long way back, right to the river which had once powered the mill. John had loved it from first sight: Marcie couldn’t deny it’s attractiveness, but worried about the long-term maintenance of wood frames and old brickwork.
She also questioned the value of a beautiful house that she never had time to admire: arrival home meant the end of independent thought for a while, as she plunged into the routine of teatime, bath-time, story-time and bedtime. She missed John: it was hard enough with two to share the load. By the time the last request for another bedtime drink had been denied, she felt ready to drop herself. Instead, she put a glass of wine by the bath, and settled down for a long soak.
She woke up in a cold bath, with tyres crunching on the gravel outside. Dragging herself upright, she wrapped a towel round herself and crossing to the bedroom, peeked out through the curtains. Johns BMW had indeed pulled in: but John was still at work: briefcase open on the bonnet, he was talking earnestly into his mobile while he sorted paperwork.
Marcie stood and watched him for a few moments. It occurred to her that she hardly ever did that anymore.
There was a time, in the early days of their relationship when she couldn’t look at him enough. She had wanted to fill her eyes with him, fill her mind with his image. She had wanted to capture every subtle nuance of his lean face, every wry smile, every little furrow in his forehead when he was concentrating on some problem. She’d even stared at his hands sometimes, admiring the strength and sensitivity in his long fingers. When she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at photographs of him.
She tried to recapture that now, looking down on him, to put aside her own annoyance to see him as he was now. Not so very different, if she was objective. The sandy hair was perhaps a touch thinner, the face a bit more lined, the tall lanky body perhaps a bit softer at the middle and more stooped at the shoulders. The differences she perceived were more subtle: the way he smiled less and frowned more.
Or was that just her own perception, born of frustration?
She turned away and looked at herself in the full length wardrobe mirror. How much had she changed she wondered? Nondescript brown hair, cut short nowadays because she couldn’t be bothered with the time for long hair. Light hazel eyes, a little wide apart – in good moments she thought they gave her an innocent look. Or naïve and permanently surprised by life. Sharp nose, good bones, reasonable skin tone… as for the rest, not bad, considering two pregnancies.
The door slammed. She pulled on a comfortable old track suit and went down stairs.
Seen close up and in the light, John looked tired and a little grey – skin and hair both, Marcie thought. ‘How did the meeting go?’ she asked brightly.
‘We’ve got something together.’ he answered with a half smile. ‘An action plan… don’t worry, it’ll come together.’
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No – a glass of wine?’
Marcie poured him one, and another half-glass for herself, to be sociable. They sat together in the living room. Her favourite place at the end of the day, it was at the back of the house where the mill machinery had once been. Somehow, it managed to be spacious and cosy both at the same time, with solid comfortable furniture tucked away in the odd angles that history had left in the architecture. A real fire would have been nice: the living flame came close enough and was easier to light.
All in all, a good place for relaxing and talking at the end of the day, with News 24 on to catch the headlines.
‘Um – how was your day?’ asked John. He sounded as tired as he looked, but at least he was making the effort to be interested.
‘OK – not bad, for a first day back at work, you know!’ Marcie answered, thinking it better not to share any details.
‘Anything happened about that colleague of yours – the one who got murdered?’
Oh, don’t bring that up! Marcie thought – though it was a natural enough question, considering. ‘Ben Drummond. Yes, they’ve found drugs in one of the cars he examined. So it’s probably drugs related. Keep that to yourself, though, John – it’s not public knowledge yet.’
Probably best not to mention that she’d spent the morning recovering swabs of Ben’s blood.
John nodded, and sat thinking for a moment. ‘Marcie…’ he began.
Oh, no, here we go again, she thought.
‘In view of all this’ John continued ‘I really wish you’d think again about this job.’
Marcie gave him her best smile. ‘John – I know you’re concerned, and I appreciate it – but I was talking to one of our Seniors today, and he told me that this is the only case on record of a SOCO being murdered in the course of duty. I’ve got more chance being run over by Elvis in a UFO than of being shot!’
He managed a laugh. ‘But there’s really no need for you to work at all.’
She sighed. So predictable. ‘We’ve been over this before.’
‘You could have more time for Roy and Kady.’
Marcie winced. That was below the belt. She suppressed her first inclination, which was to lash out with ‘So could you!’ Instead she kept her tone even. ‘Roy and Kady are doing fine. Julie’s a brilliant childminder.’
‘Yes, but I really don’t think…’
Time to change tack – she most definitely did not want a full scale fight tonight.
‘John, do you remember what I was doing when we met?’
He laughed properly then. ‘You were up to you knees in shit!’
She laughed with him. ‘You exaggerate. It was only calf-deep!’
‘Norrington Sewage depot. How more romantic can you get!’ They laughed together then: she felt the tension easing. ‘I was trouble shooting their software – those days, we took any work we could get to get the company up and running! Last thing I expected to see was a vision of loveliness wading through the muck!’
‘Admit it – it was my perfume that really attracted you!’ Still laughing, they hugged.
‘So what attracted you to me?’ John asked, his arm warm around her.
‘Oh – well, let’s see.. good looking, intelligent, - better dressed than most people round a sewage farm..’
‘No wellies, you mean! But do go on!’
‘You were intense, and energetic and enthusiastic – you chatted me up with a detailed account of sewage control software….’
‘Over a plastic cup of coffee in the canteen…’
‘Not that I understood one word in ten, but I loved the way your eyes sparkled when you got to the really clever bits!’
That was before you got into the management side, and got prosperous, and tired, Marcie thought with an unexpected pang of loss.
‘So anything else?’
‘Well – what girl could resist the man who gave her a hand up out of the shit!’
They laughed again. John finished his wine, then gave her a quizzical look. ‘Was this just a change of subject, or is it going somewhere?’
She sat back, met his gaze. ‘My job then wasn’t just wading in shit waiting for a tall handsome stranger to rescue me. I went all over the county’s water system, doing chemical analysis of the purification process at every stage. It was busy, varied, with a lot of travelling around. Lot of working on my own. Quite a responsible job, for my age. I was lucky to get it, and I loved it. Apart from the smell, but you get used to that. John – I gave that up to marry you. And I’ve never regretted it. But...’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m that sort of person, John. The sort of person who likes a job with some shit in it. And I like this job, Scenes of Crime. Different sort of shit, but a lot of other things are similar. Do you see?’
He looked at her for a long moment, with a half-smile on his face. ‘I don’t think I do, entirely, but I take your point. Sort of.’
She smiled back, relieved. ‘That’ll do then.’
‘Only – be careful, Marcie. Please.’
‘Always.’
He nodded, and they shared a kiss and a hug, somewhat spoilt by his jaw-breaking yawn. ‘I’d better get to bed. Early start in the morning!’
‘What – after you’ve worked so late? I thought you might want to sleep in, and maybe take the kids over to Julies?’
‘Sorry, no chance. We’ve figured out what to do, but it’s going to take a lot of pushing and shoving to get it working – and we’re on a tight schedule, launch is just a few weeks away!’
For a moment, a flash of the old John showed through the tired business man – the computer wizz-kid who saw problems as challenges and challenges as victories waiting to be claimed. Marcie felt a surge of relief to see that, deep down, it was still the same John Kelshaw who had helped her out of the sewage tank ten years ago.
‘Anyhow – shower and bed, for me. ‘Night, Marcie.’
‘Night, love.’ Marcie busied herself with some tidying up, then caught the news headlines. Ben’s murder had already dropped off the top slot, she noticed.
She turned everything off, checked everything was locked up (much more careful about that since she’d been in the job) went up to bed, and slipped in beside John, who was already snoring gently.
Tired though she was, thinking about Callahan’s had brought to mind the other events of the day. She went over her examination: had she missed anything? Had she done anything - or failed to do anything – that Mick might pick up on?
Nothing sprang to mind. Drifting now, she thought about Cyrus Street. No. 34. Maddox. She shuddered slightly as she remembered the cold, intense fury of his eyes, as he reached for the flash card and she held it away…
There was something strange about that… He’d reached with his left hand – reaching across his body, because Marcie had held it in her left hand – while his right hand was kept firmly in his pocket.
Deep in his pocket.
Marcie was suddenly wide awake again. If Maddox had reached with his right hand, he might easily have grabbed the flash card off her.
‘Perhaps he was left handed?’ she whispered to herself. John grunted in his sleep.
Perhaps he was, but that wouldn’t stop him using his right hand. But he’d kept it in his pocket. As if he was holding on to something. Something he didn’t want to let go of, and didn’t want to bring out either.
She shook her head. ‘Shut up Marcie. Stop speculating. Go to sleep.’
Eventually, she did.
John I always had the idea that the longer two people were together, the better they’d understand each other. It must have been two other people: because there’s no sign of that happening with me and Marcie. I realise that she wants to work, and that she wants to do something interesting. But joining the Police – OK, Scenes Of Crime – that I’ve had trouble with. Last nights discussion helped a bit. I think I can see her point of view better. But I don’t think she understands mine. I’ve always wanted to excel as a provider for my family. To make sure they had everything, and more. To do that, I’ve made sacrifices. I’ve moved into areas of work that – to be honest – I’m not totally comfortable with. I’m not sure that Marcie really appreciates that, and I’m not sure how to explain it to her. When I try, it sounds like I’m boasting about my success, or whinging about hers. Hopefully, this won’t go on much longer. SuperScan is almost ready for launch, and I’m really excited about it! It’s going to move us into the big league! The AI filtering programme alone… OK, maybe I do tend to get a bit obsessive about it. I know Marcie thinks so. But I’ve invested a lot of time into this. If it comes off, then I’ve made it, big time. After that, I’ll be able to choose my own projects, run them my way… I’ll be able to follow up some interesting ideas of my own, do what I really want to do. But for now, I need Marcie’s support. There’s a few last hurdles to cross, and I’m not sure if we’ve cracked all the problems. That crisis meeting asked some questions I couldn’t answer, and it didn’t look good. I need to find time to go back over some of the basic programming. Something’s not quite right, and I’ve spent too long on the management side of things. If this goes bad, I could be in deeper shit than Marcie ever saw at the sewage farm. I need her to be 100% behind me on this. The problem’s not just picking up the kids when she’s on a late shift. That sort of thing I can cover. Nobody could say I’m not flexible! But I get this feeling that her focus is somewhere else. And this colleague of hers being murdered hasn’t helped. I hope it doesn’t sound callous, but my concern is for Marcie. What would me and the kids do if something happened to her? She gets impatient with me when I worry, but I can’t help it. I don’t think she appreciates how much I care about her – or how much I need her. I suppose I always knew she was a bit of a free spirit. It was one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place. Pity I didn’t realise the implications.
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Someone once told Ben Drummond that he was ‘too bloody cantankerous to die’. It wasn’t meant as a compliment but Ben, being Ben, took it that way. Ironic, really, since it was his sheer cussedness, his awkward, obstructive, cantankerous nature that killed him. That, and a 9 millimetre bullet.
Standing at the far end of the duty garage, Ben felt even more belligerent than usual. He’d been stuck here doing cars all day: and Ben hated doing cars. Some Scenes Of Crime Officer’s liked cars: you could recover some good stuff from cars. There was a lot of shiny metal and glass to take fingerprints, there were often cig ends in the ashtray, or bottles under the seats. You had a good chance of bringing something back if you went and did some cars.
Ben didn’t give a shit about bringing anything back – not for a crappy little stolen car job. Twenty-five years he’d been in the job, and he shouldn’t be spending his time on piddling small stuff. In Ben’s not very humble opinion, anything less than an aggravated burglary was a waste of his time and experience. But Slippery Mick had come over all officious that morning, and started on about sharing jobs out equally: so Ben was here doing cars, while kids with 10 minutes in the job were on burglaries and assaults. Stuck in a damp, cold, badly lit garage, bugger all good for any sort of proper forensic exam anyway, on a damp, cold badly lit day at the arse-end of October, looking at his sixth car of the shift. And this one wasn’t going to lift his mood either, because it was a burnt out wreck. Waste of time, the dimwit PC who had the case shouldn’t even have requested Scenes Of Crime.
Unless, perhaps, this was something a bit special? Involved in something serious perhaps – kidnapping, armed robbery? Please, at least a GBH! With a flicker of interest, Ben looked through his paperwork, dug out the incident log, and swore. Just a bloody Taken Without Owners Consent. Bunch of kids had TWOC’d it for a joy ride, torched it for fun. The owner hadn’t even reported it until it had already been put out by the Fire Brigade. It was that important.
Well, he wasn’t going to waste any time on this one. Not even worth getting his kit out for.
Ben dumped his file on the fire-blackened bonnet, began scribbling on a report form. Ten minutes for this one, he thought, then back to the station for a cuppa and maybe a sausage cob.
Behind him, there were footsteps on the damp concrete, which he ignored. Garage staff, he presumed. Probably brought another one in. Well, if they were thinking of asking him to do it before he left they’d think again bloody damn quick.
‘Hum – make, Vauxhall Cavalier.’ Ben frequently muttered to himself whilst working. ‘Condition – severe fire damage, engine and passenger compartment, all windows out: boot…’
‘That’s my car.’
Scowling, Ben put his pen down and turned round. The man standing a few yards away was hard to make out: the random failures of the strip lights had left him in a pool of shadow, back lit by the bright halogens further down.
‘What?’ Ben growled.
‘Are you Police?’
‘Scenes of Crime Officer. And this is a forensic examination area. Not open to the public. Garage office is over the other side.’
The man stepped a bit closer, more into what light there was. Ben saw a dark beard, chunky dark coat, eyes shadowed by a baseball cap. ‘That’s my car there.’
‘I’m nearly finished with it. Go over to the garage office, you can sort things out with them.’
‘Did you find anything in the car?’ The man spoke sharply, demandingly: Ben almost smiled. He loved the chance to be truculent, obstructive, and downright rude if possible.
‘Like I told you, this is a forensic examination area. Contact the Officer in the Case if you’ve got any questions. Now bugger off!’
The man had kept his hands in his pockets, seemingly casual, but there was no doubting the aggression in his voice or in the way he leaned forward as he spoke.
‘Tell me what you’ve found in my car!’
And for a brief moment, Ben was tempted to say ‘Sod all mate. Sorry, it’s a negative.’ But that would have gone against a lifetime’s habit, and instead he snapped back: ‘Can’t tell you that. Police business. Now piss off out of it!’ And for the first time that day, he felt almost happy. He was staring straight at the man, glaring in joyful fury, and so was barely aware of the hand that came out of the pocket, or of what it was holding, or of the muffled thud.
But he felt the massive impact in his chest, the tremendously powerful blow that flung him back against the scorched metal of the car: flung him back and spun him round, so that he was grasping at the roof, trying to pull himself up, but he had no strength left, none in his arms, none in his legs, and he couldn’t stop himself slipping to the floor. He thought of his radio, but he couldn’t move to reach it, and already it was very dark, even darker than normal…
And then it was utter black, and Ben Drummond hadn’t even had time to realise what had happened to him.
*
The shot seemed to echo for a long time, the acoustics of metal walls and concrete floor extending it’s lifetime beyond the normal. The man with the gun stood listening while they faded – not looking at the body, but at the entrance to the garage. He did not expect interruption from the garage staff, who were watching telly in their portacabin on the other side of the yard. However, just in case, he looked and listened for a while longer, with his pistol hanging casually from his hand.
Finally satisfied that there would be no interruptions, he slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to the body, slumped face down on the dirty concrete.
He had certain business to conduct here, business made more difficult by Ben Drummond’s intransigence. Which, in the man’s mind, was reason enough to shoot him. Even now, the business did not go well: he swore several times in frustration. But he was a practical person, and did not linger pointlessly. When he had done as much as could reasonably be done, under the circumstances, he left. The whole thing was something of an irritation, especially as his intervention now seemed unnecessary. But at least he’d made sure if it. It might not have been the best solution, or the ideal outcome, but it had been dealt with quickly, and on the whole, satisfactorily. He took some pleasure in having tied up all the loose ends.
*
In the garage, nothing moved. Even the pool of blood from beneath the body had stopped spreading. In the poor lighting it was hardly distinguishable from the oil stains nearby as it slowly congealed on the wet concrete.
Chapter 1
A week after Ben’s murder, the Scenes Of Crime office was still in a state of shock. Alison – big, bouncy, irrepressibly bright and bubbly, was near tears.
‘I still can’t believe it.’ she quavered. ‘I keep expecting him to walk in at any moment.’
‘I know, Ali, I know.’ said Doug, consolingly. ‘We all feel the same. It’s just not believable.’ Doug was usually the one to bring some calm reason into a situation. With his rimless glasses and neat, grey-shot beard he had been accused of looking like a stereotype psychiatrist: truth was, he was the sort of person people instinctively felt they could trust.
Marcie, just back off leave, was finding it hard to adjust to the news: she felt like she had a weeks worth of trauma to catch up with. Like Ali, she kept expecting Ben to shamble in at any moment, with a sarcastic comment and a dirty joke. She’d cried herself when Doug phoned her at home with the news, cried more when she saw it on TV. Not that she’d got on with Ben – not any better than most people, anyhow – but a sudden hole had appeared in her world: a permanent absence of something that had seemed solid and enduring.
But one of the biggest shocks, she thought, was seeing Alison Patrick so distraught, considering that she and Ben had disliked each other intensely.
‘What I don’t understand,’ she wondered out loud ‘is why anyone would shoot a SOCO anyhow? Have they got any ideas yet?’
‘Drugs.’ grunted Mac.
‘You’ve heard that?’ asked Doug. ‘Mick and Jimmy won’t say a word about it.’
Mac – Philip MacAlistair, but no one ever called him Phil, even if they knew it was his name – was of the same generation as Ben, and had been in the job about as long. Short and solidly built under an unruly mass of iron grey hair, he’d been the closest Ben had had to a friend in the department. If Ben had had anything like a friend anywhere. Marcie thought he seemed a bit less upset than Ali. He shook his head as he answered Doug.
‘Not heard, no, but it’ll be drugs. Always is.’
‘Scary thing is’ put in Sanjay, ‘It might have been any of us. Ben hardly ever did cars. Just sheer bad luck. Scary.’
From the silence that fell, Marcie deduced that the same thought had occurred to everyone else, but no one had wanted to put it into words. Sanjay was the quietest one of their team, possibly also the brightest, and definitely the best looking, but when he did say something it was straight to the point. Even if no one else wanted to go there.
‘So, where are our revered Seniors?’ asked Mac. ‘We supposed to wait all day for them, or what?’
‘They’re in conference with CID’ said Doug. ‘Message was , everyone was to get their jobs and then sit tight – they want to make some sort of announcement.’
‘OK – time for a brew, then. Anyone want a cup?’
The way it worked in their office was that the city was divided up into operational areas and all the SOCO’s took one – or two, if they were shorthanded. Then you had to search the Force computer system for any incidents in those areas that had been referred for Scenes of Crime examination. Which meant that the busier it was, the longer you had to spend on the computer before you could even get started.
It was made worse by the fact that there wasn’t enough computers to go round, especially not with all the shifts in. Marcie had to wait twenty minutes before she could get on one. And of course – sod’s law – it was at that moment that the missing Seniors made their entrance, along with Marcus Hubert-Hulme, Head of Scientific Support (which included Scenes Of Crime).
Marcus was widely known throughout the Force as ‘The Prof’ – not just because he looked like a professor, white beard, glasses and all, but because he was in fact a Professor – of Forensic Science. With, apparently, an international reputation in the field.
Ben, as Marcie recalled, had referred to The Prof as an ‘over-educated ivory tower ponce’ who ‘knew less about real SOCO-ing than a cow knows about flying.’ Marcie herself thought that The Prof was a pretty good boss, in that he mostly kept out of the way and let them get on with it.
An expectant hush fell over the room.
‘Ahem – Ladies and ah – Gentlemen…’ The Prof was unremittingly formal on all occasions. ‘As you know, your Senior Scenes of Crime Officers here at Ash Ridge Police Station – Michael and James – have been heavily involved in the investigation, relating to our murdered colleague, Mr Benjamin Drummond. My thanks to them for what has undoubtedly been a personally difficult task for them, carried out with the usual professionalism and – er – competency.’ There was a brief pause: Marcie wondered if they were expected to applaud.
Gathering himself, The Prof resumed. ‘Certain facts have now come to light –not yet to be made public, of course, but it was felt that you the colleagues of the – ah – deceased – should be kept informed.’
‘So we don’t read about it in the paper, after being kept in the dark for a week’ whispered Doug, sitting on the desk next to Marcie.
‘I rely on your discretion, of course, not to talk to the Press…. However, the facts I referred to… A full forensic examination of the vehicles Mr Drummond had examined on that day has revealed a bottle of Morphine Elixir, a controlled drug, concealed beneath the seats of a Ford Mondeo estate car.’
Mac nodded in satisfaction, with a ‘told you so’ expression on his face.
‘Traces of this drug were also found on used examination gloves in Mr. Drummonds pockets. It is now believed that during his examination of the Mondeo, Mr. Drummond had found and recovered some of these drugs, but was unfortunate in that the drug dealer came to the garage in order to reclaim them. It appears that the offender, or offenders, took not only the drugs, but also Mr. Drummonds paperwork and exhibits relating to all the vehicles he had examined that day.’
‘We cannot say at this stage whether or not Mr Drummond resisted them, or if he was shot to prevent identification. However…’ The Prof removed his glasses, and looked at them for a moment. ‘However – we do intend to find out.’ He looked up again, looked around the room. ‘In our business we see much of the worst of human nature – and it’s consequences. We are used to seeing victims, and I would hope that, as professionals, we always do our best to bring the offenders to justice. But this time, ladies and gentlemen, this time it has reached out and touched us personally. Mr Drummond – Ben – was one of us. He spent his career achieving justice for others: we will do no less for him.’
Marcie felt herself both moved and comforted. Inspirational speeches weren’t The Prof’s forte, but it was clear he felt this deeply and spoke from the heart. The quality of the silence that fell suggested that the others had heard the same.
The Prof replaced his glasses. ‘Well then – thank you for your time. Your Seniors will keep you informed of other developments. It is anticipated that Mr. Drummond’s funeral will take place shortly: it has been agreed that the Force will show it’s solidarity on that occasion, and it is expected that all of you will wish to attend. Scenes of Crime cover for the City will be arranged from other Divisions, so you will be free to do so. Ah – that is all. Please resume your duties.
The Prof left with his entourage, and a subdued buzz of conversation broke out. ‘Told you!’ said Mac, with what Marcie thought was an unseemly degree of satisfaction. ‘Drugs! Told you, didn’t I?’
‘You did, Mac’ Doug agreed. ‘You did indeed.’ He paused, frowning. ‘But what I’m wondering is, how come Ben missed some of the drugs? Come to think of it, if the offenders came back to get the drugs, how come they left some?’
‘They were probably in a hurry.’ said Ali, drifting over to join in the conversation. ‘They shot Ben, took the stuff he’d recovered, and legged it.’
‘Not that much of a hurry.’ said Marcie. ‘They took time to get all his notes as well. And if they’d hidden the drugs in the first place, they’d have known where to look for the rest.’
‘Perhaps they thought that Ben had got them all?’ Sanjay suggested.
Mac was nodding. ‘Yeh – but Doug’s right. Ben wouldn’t miss anything like that. He’s like – he was like a bloody bulldog, if he thought he was on to something. He’d have gone through that car like a dose of diarrhoea – I can’t see him missing any bottles of morphine.
‘My point precisely’ said Doug, ‘and so delicately put.’
Speculation was interrupted by the return of Slippery Mick – so called because it could be damn near impossible to get a straight answer out of him. ‘Ok, meetings over!’ he announced. ‘Let’s get out and fight crime! Who’s going to Northdale?’
‘Ah – that’d be me, Mick.’ said Marcie.
‘Good. Can you drop in at Callahan’s and do a car, since you’re in the area? OK?’
Marcie felt a little twist in her stomach. ‘Callahan’s? As in Callahan Recovery? Where Ben was shot?’
‘Of course. Problem?’
‘Ah – well – I just thought that they weren’t taking cars in there anymore. ‘Cos of the investigation.’
Mick took on a shifty look. ‘Scenes finished with now. That part of the investigation’s over – they’re opening up again. Only – there’s a car there that Ben didn’t get round to looking at before… Anyhow, we want it sorted, ASAP. If you don’t mind, Marcie. Won’t take long, it’s a burn-out. Just eyeball it, write up a negative report. No sweat.’
‘Didn’t I hear that we’re dumping Callahan’s?’ asked Doug. ‘Breach of contract – inadequate security?’
Mick was now definitely living up to his nickname. ‘Possibly.’ He muttered, not meeting anyone’s eye. ‘It’s under discussion - but don’t mention it, Marcie, OK?’ Slippery Mick slipped off to his office with some speed.
‘Why do I get the feeling that something warm and smelly has just been dumped on me?’ Marcie wondered aloud.
Mac snorted. ‘Jimmy and Mick should have sorted it as part of the investigation. Probably got too excited when they found the drugs – anyhow, Mick’s panicking a bit now, because if Callahan’s get the shove, they’re not going to co-operate with any more investigations. Which will leave our Senior SOCO’s with an embarrassing loose end…’
‘Might as well do it anyhow.’ Doug said to Marcie. ‘Get Slippery Mick out of a hole and he might look on you favourably next time you ask for leave.’
‘Yeah, sure – like I’ve got a choice?’
Examining a burnt out car, even one which someone else should have done, didn’t bother Marcie much – as Mick had said, it wouldn’t be a big job. Going to Callahan’s was never a joy, but if it was likely to be the last time, she could live with it. But seeing where Ben had died… was uncomfortable.
‘Go there first.’ she thought. ‘Get it out of the way.’ Logging out of the computer, Marcie gathered her gear and headed for the station car park.
Northdale had once been one of Faringham’s more exclusive areas, and there were still some quite pleasant parts – mostly around the centre, or ‘Old Northdale’ as the residents insisted on calling it, though without any official sanction. East Northdale, next to the University, had been largely taken over by student accommodation and the associated support services – bars, fast food outlets and video rentals. West Northdale, out near the edge of the city, was a confused mixture of old housing, new tower blocks and light industry.
It was out in this part of the city that Callahan’s Recovery had it’s premises, a badly built and poorly maintained warehouse. On the basis of the cheapest bid, Callahan’s had acquired the police contract to recover stolen and suspicious vehicles from the city area, and to provide facilities for forensic examinations of the same. They had then set out to maximise their profits by keeping investment to the minimum. The vast shed was unventilated in summer, unheated in winter, and poorly lit in any weather. Other facilities were minimal or non-existent, and the staff were as surly and unhelpful as they could get away with.
Along with every other SOCO in the City Division, Marcie had been complaining bitterly about Callahan’s from the beginning: but meetings, consultations and complaints had failed to produce any change. Getting rid of Callahan’s was a move that would delight every SOCO: it was a pity that one of them had to be killed to bring it about.
One advantage about waiting for the seniors was that the rush hour was over, and it was only 20 minutes after leaving Ash Ridge nick that Marcie pulled the SOC van up to the rusty gates. It took another 5 minutes of blowing the horn before someone ambled out of the office and came over.
‘So what do you want?’ he growled. A beefy young lad in dirty overalls with ‘Callahan Recovery’ barely discernable on them.
Marcie opened the window and leaned out. ‘Scenes of Crime’ she explained, as if it wasn’t written all over the side of the van. ‘You’ve got a car for us.’
‘No we haven’t. Haven’t had any cars in since your mate got himself shot.’
So now it was Ben’s fault? Marcie bit back a sharp retort. ‘It’s from before then. Cavalier. Burnt out.’
‘Oh. Thought you’d done that.’
‘I’m here to do it now – er – Neil?’
‘Yeah, Neil. Thing is though – it’s out in the yard.’ Neil gave her a worried look, as he should. Out in the yard meant exposed to the weather, which meant a much reduced chance of finding any useful fingerprints or DNA. The car should have stayed undercover until a SOCO had signed it off. Marcie doubted if anyone had, which was why Neil was looking worried.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ she said reassuringly. ‘It’s burnt out anyway, and the fire brigade would have soaked it. Outside won’t make a difference.’ In this dump, it might even be better, she thought. ‘I just need to look at it, OK?’
‘Oh – OK, then.’ Neil fumbled for his keys, and finally swung the gates open. ‘Over there in the corner.’ He pointed.
Marcie drove over, got out, and looked at the wreck.
Whoever had torched it had done a good job. Some burnt out cars had no more than a small charred hole in a seat. But this one had been burned by an expert. There was barely a patch of un-scorched paint from the headlights as far back as the boot. All the windows were out, and as she peered through the holes, Marcie saw that the seats were reduced to a twisted metal framework. She wrinkled her nose at the smell: a burnt out car may not be the worst smell in the world, but it’s strong, distinctive and unpleasant enough.
Inside, the floor was deep in ashes and blobs of melted plastic, still soaked from the fire brigades efforts. Nothing was left of the steering wheel or dashboard.
‘Your mate got shot just there.’ said Neil from behind her.
Marcie jumped and hit her head on the door frame. ‘What?’ she snapped, glaring at Neil.
Neil grinned at her. ‘Mind your head!’
‘Yes, thank you! What did you say about Ben?’
‘He was standing just about where you are when he was shot. Leastways, that’s where we found him, on the floor. That’s his blood on the door.’
‘What!’ Marcie turned quickly, and crouched to examine the door she had been leaning against. It was hard to see against the scorched and now rusting metal, but there were dark reddish brown stains smeared down the side.
Marcie felt her guts twisting. Why hadn’t Mick told her? She wouldn’t have thought that even Mick would fail to mention it.
Fighting for a calm voice, she turned back to Neil. ‘Was… was it you who found him?’
‘Yeah!’ said Neil eagerly. ‘Well, me and Pete. See, we were over in the office, and Pete said, ‘Time to lock up.’ So I went out with the keys, only the SOCO van’s still here. So I told Pete, ‘SOCO’s still here.’ Thing is, we’d thought he’d gone long since.’
Marcie nodded. ‘That.. was when?’
Neil shrugged. ‘About five o’clock – ish. Anyhow, Pete says, ‘Go and tell him to get a move on, we want to lock up’. So I went to the shed, and looked round – couldn’t see ‘im. Shouted a bit, ‘cos he didn’t answer. So I got Pete, and we went looking. And then Pete says ‘Over here, Neil!’. And there he was, laying down next to that Cavalier.’
Involuntarily, Marcie glanced at the floor: she was standing in the same place, relative to the car, that Ben would have fallen. She took a quick step back, with cold chills running down her. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Well – first off, we thought he was ill. Heart attack, or something. So Pete says, ‘Help me get him up!’ thinking we’d take him over to the office. So we started to carry him out, then I said ‘Shit – he’s bleeding!’ And Pete said ‘Bloody hell!’ and we put him down again. Then he said ‘Go and phone the Ambulance.’ I ran back over to the office, and when I’d phoned the Ambulance, I thought, better phone the Police as well. Then I went back, and told Pete ‘Ambulance is on it’s way.’ And Pete said, ‘We’d better not move him. But we’ll have to make space to get the ambulance in.’ So I got on the forklift, and we shifted some cars around. Then a copper arrived, and then the ambulance came, and they said ‘He’s been shot!’ And next I knew, there was coppers and CID everywhere.’
Marcie nodded, thinking. ‘Neil – when you moved the cars around – did you move this one as well?’
‘Of course we did!’ Neil was indignant, as if his word was being doubted. ‘Like I said, we had to make room for the ambulance. And this ‘un was right next to him.’
‘So where did you put it?’
‘Well – just here, of course. Out of the way.’ Neil paused, then decided to cover his back. ‘Like Pete told me.’
‘Ah. So – when the Police came, this car was already out here? Nowhere near the body?’
‘Well – yes. Suppose it was.’
‘And did you tell them about it?’
Neil look confused. ‘They didn’t ask about this car. They asked where he’d been found, and we showed them, and they asked what cars he’d done, and we showed him. But they didn’t ask about this one.’
Well, of course they didn’t, you pillock, thought Marcie. By the time they got here, it was nowhere near the body – just an old wreck over in the corner of the yard, along with a lot of others. And if they didn’t ask the right questions….
‘Where’s Pete now?’ she asked, looking for some corroboration.
‘Off work. Stress. Hasn’t been back since then. I’m here on my own just now.’
‘Right. Well – stick around. I’ve got to talk to someone.’ Marcie got out her mobile.
‘Mick – it’s Marcie. I’m at Callahan’s. You know that Cavalier you sent me here for… well, there’s a bit of a story with it…’
Marcie repeated what Neil had told her, and listened to a long silence, as Mick absorbed it. Finally he came back to life.
‘OK, Marcie, good work. Um – you can carry on and finish the car. Just as normal.’
‘But Mick…’
‘Yeah, I know Marcie – strictly speaking, you should have a Senior down there, as it’s connected with a murder. But, thing is, this doesn’t make any difference. We know why Ben was shot, and it’s nothing to do with that car. So in actual fact, it’s really just a TWOC, and that’s no problem for you, is it Marcie?’
‘Well, no, Mick – but…’
‘Look, Marcie, just treat it like any other TWOC, OK? Fine then. See you back at the office.’
Mick hung up. ‘Thanks.’ Marcie said to herself. ‘Thanks very much.’
She looked at the Cavalier. ‘Just like any other TWOC? I don’t think so, Mick.’ For a start, she’d get a swab of that blood. Ben’s blood. Mick would hit the roof: he’d never allow it to be submitted. If it got matched to Ben it could screw up Mick’s carefully constructed scenario of what had happened – though he was right, it probably wasn’t relevant. Still, if anything came up later, Marcie didn’t want to be the one accused of doing a sloppy job.
She went back to the van, got her kit out, and set to work.
Half an hour later, she’d got a full series of photographs, exterior and interior, and two swabs of the stain on the side – correctly tested first, to confirm it was blood and not a tomato sauce spillage. There were no unburned areas to fingerprint, so she was now looking speculatively at the boot. It was the only (relatively) undamaged area of the car, and she was wondering if anything inside it could have survived. Only one way to find out.
It was locked, of course. She got out a crowbar and poked around a bit, but with no result.
‘Hey – Neil.’ she called.
Neil had been watching from a distance. ‘Yeah?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Come over here and pop this boot open for me.’
‘Well – we don’t have a lot of tools here at the moment. Might need to get the fork lift on it.’
‘OK. So get the fork lift on it.’
Neil grumbled off, and in due course, came back in the fork lift. After much manoeuvring and swearing, he managed to get the fork blades under the boot lid, and wrenched it open.
‘There!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘So what’s in it.’
‘Nothing.’ said Marcie with disappointment, looking in. ‘Spare wheel, jack. But I had to check. Stand back, Neil, I’ll need photos.’
She snapped off a few frames, and stepped back, thinking. Was there anything more to be done?
‘That it then?’ asked Neil.
‘I’m not finished yet.’ she said evenly. ‘I’ll let you know when.’ She went back to the van, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up her crowbar again. Leaning through one of the Cavalier’s back windows, she stirred through the sodden black ashes.
Something caught on the crowbar: she pulled it out gently. A few lengths of bent wire – perhaps the framework of a bag of some sort? She scraped at another solid lump, and thought that it might have been a roll of gaffer tape.
Aware of Neil’s impatient stare on her back, Marcie transferred her attention to the front of the car, but here it was nearly all melted plastic from the dashboard. Any other items were permanently entombed in the shapeless grey mass.
For the sake of completeness, and to piss Neil off thoroughly, Marcie went round to the other side. There was some glass left in the driver’s window: she eyed it warily, and gave the door an experimental tug.
To her mild surprise, it creaked open. As it did so something shifted in the door pocket. Peering in Marcie saw something lighter than the surrounding ashes.
Dropping the crowbar, she felt cautiously down with gloved fingers: brushed through a layer of char and pulled out a thick wad of tissues. Scorched brown on the outside, the inner layers were still white. She sniffed cautiously: the faintly acrid chemical smell was familiar… windscreen wipes? The outer plastic cover had mostly burnt off, but the dampened tissues had survived surprisingly well.
Interesting, but not very exciting. No forensic value. Marcie dropped them back in the door pocket, and as she did so, she saw something else: a small, dark regular shape. Something that had been underneath the wipes. She reached in again, gave the object a tug.
It resisted at first, but then, with a firmer pull, it came free, shedding ash and melted plastic as it did. She lifted it into the watery daylight, cautiously wiped off the residual soot.
A flash card. Marcie felt a thrill of excitement. A digital camera storage card. Which might or might not have anything interesting on it: but it was, as Doug would have said, ‘better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.’
She slipped it into an evidence bag, and got out the mobile.
‘Technical Forensic Unit, Sam Goodwin.’
The TFU was up at HQ, the clever part of Scenes Of Crime, which dealt with things like computers, mobile phones, and – she hoped – flash cards. ‘Hi – Sam. Marcie – City Division Scenes of Crime. Listen, I’ve just recovered a Compact Flash card from a burnt out car. Will you be able to get anything off it?’
There was a pause. ‘Perhaps – depends how bad it is. Does the case look melted?’
‘No. Just very dirty. It was in a heap of ash, but underneath some wet windscreen wipes, which seem to have protected it from the worst of the fire.’
‘OK, might be possible then. If it’s just smoke damage, we can clean it up and try to download anything it might have. But if the chips themselves are damaged, forget it. Send it up, we’ll have a look.’
‘Great – thanks, Sam.’
‘No problem. But – one thing, Marcie – could it be the legitimate owners? No point it going to a lot of trouble just to recover the family’s happy holiday snaps!’
‘Good point. I’ll check it out. Thanks again.’
Marcie hung up, and gave Neil a big smile. ‘See? Persistence pays.’
‘You’re finished now?’
‘Oh, not just yet. I’d better take some more photos – and then write up the scene report…’
In the end, it was another half hour before Marcie pulled the van out of Callahan’s. Neil hastily slammed the gates shut before she could change her mind.
Marcie still hadn’t decided what to do about the flash card. Ringing the owners number from the incident log had connected her to an answering machine, but she wanted to know now, so the card could be submitted today. She could just go ahead and send it anyhow, but if it did turn out to be legitimate, Sam would be pissed off with her, and she’d rather keep him friendly: he was too useful to antagonise.
She looked at the log again. The registered keeper’s address wasn’t far away, in Old Northdale – and in fact – yes – she had a burglary to attend just a few streets away. OK, then, she’d drop by, and see if anyone was in. Then at least she could say she’d done her best with it.
She thumbed her radio. ‘X-ray Mike Two Seven to Control.’
‘Go ahead, Two Seven.’
‘Show me resumed from Callahan’s, please, and travelling to – ah – 34 Cyrus Street, for related enquires.’
‘Ten Four.’ The operator didn’t sound very excited: but Marcie was feeling quite cheerful: today was getting interesting.
Chapter 2
Cyrus Street was lined with dark, cold trees and red brick Victorian mansions. They had a gothic look to them, with a tendency to break out in odd little towers and elaborate balconies. Cue organ music in the background, thought Marcie.
No. 34 appeared typical, apart from the very new steel fencing that cut off the view of all but the upper storey. The industrial strength gate was a match with the fence, and to complete the set a pair of CCTV cameras stood guard. Clearly, these were people who took their security seriously. Apart from getting their car nicked.
A speaker grill was set into the gate post. Marcie pressed the button. A long pause. She pressed it again, and one of the CCTV cameras swivelled to stare down at her. She gave it what she hoped was a confident smile, rather than a nervous grimace.
‘Yes?’ said the speaker, curtly.
Not about to waste time on formal greetings, Marcie noted. ‘Marcia Kelshaw. Police – Scenes of Crime.’ She waved her I.D. card at the camera. ‘Are you Mr. Maddox?’
‘What do you want?’ the voice demanded.
‘I want to speak to Mr. Maddox, in connection with your vehicle that was stolen. The Cavalier.’
There was a pause. ‘Wait.’ The voice snapped. What for? Marcie wondered. Probably not ‘wait while I get the kettle on and we’ll talk about it over a cuppa.’
There was an electric buzz, and the gates began to swing smoothly open, inwards, gradually revealing a poorly kept gravelled area, an overgrown garden, and the front of the house, almost choked with laburnums. A white Transit van and a middle aged Mercedes saloon in silver were parked on the drive.
The front door opened, and a man strode briskly out. Thirty – something, Marcie thought. Dark hair and beard, padded black coat, hands thrust into the pockets, leaning forward slightly as he walked towards her. There was something aggressive, almost threatening in his manner: Marcie had been about to walk forward to meet him, but then changed her mind. Instead, she gave an involuntary glance around. The street was deserted. She fingered her radio for reassurance, and held up her ID again.
‘Well? What is it?’ Marcie wasn’t good at accents: she thought it might be a touch London.
‘Are you Mr. Maddox? The owner of the Cavalier?’
‘Yes! Of course! I was told it was burnt out – a wreck.’
‘That’s right. It was, but we were able to carry out a forensic examination, and this was recovered – do you recognise it?’ She held up the flash card, in its clear plastic evidence bag.
Maddox looked at it, and for a fraction of a second, an expression flashed across his face. Shock? Horror? Fury? It was gone too quickly for Marcie to identify. But the intent gaze he turned on her was definitely threatening. She took a step back.
‘Where did you find this?’ He wasn’t quite shouting, but it sounded as if he wanted to: and he took a step towards her. A long step, cancelling out her retreat so that he was almost in her face. Marcie moved back again, uncomfortably aware that another step would put her up against the van.
‘It was in the drivers side door pocket. We need to know if it was left by the offenders, or if it’s yours.’
Maddox’s face now showed indecision. He half reached for the bag with his left hand – his right was still deep in his pocket. Since Marcie had it in her left hand, he was having to reach across, and Marcie was able to pull it back out of his reach.
He glared at her with such concentrated fury that she felt her legs weaken. ‘I – I can’t let you have it.’ she gasped out ‘Unless it’s yours of course, and you can have it if it’s yours, if you can identify it, you’ll have to sign for it, but we have to be sure you understand, because it could be evidence, of – of a crime – and it has been in a fire so it may be useless, probably is of course, but we want to be sure and of course if you’re claiming it is your property that’s not a problem…’ she was aware that she was gabbling, that fear had sent her tongue into overdrive, but she was finding it hard to stop. ‘Only, if it was left by the offender it might have come from another crime and if so we’ll want to try and match it up even if it’s completely ruined because it was in a fire, and the car’s completely gutted but if it’s any use to you you can have it back if it’s yours of course….’ Somehow, she managed to regain oral control and stuttered to a halt ‘I, I just need, need to kn-know if it’s yours. That’s all.’
For another moment he stared at her, a cold, unrelenting anger in his eyes. If he tries to take it again, thought Marcie, he can have it, and forget getting a signature.
But something in her flood of verbal incontinence had made it through to him. Abruptly, he stepped back.
‘It’s not mine’ he said, brusquely. ‘Never saw it before.’ Without another word, he turned sharply and strode back to the house. The gates swung silently shut behind him.
Marcie found herself leaning back on her van, legs quivering. ‘Th-thank you.’ She whispered. ‘Thank you very much.’
It was a good ten minutes before she could climb shakily into the van, another five before she managed to start the engine and drive away. She felt the CCTV camera’s staring at her the whole time.
Back at the office, at the end of the shift, Doug was incensed. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? he asked. ‘He could have been done for assault!’
Marcie shook her head wearily. ‘He didn’t do anything, Doug. I couldn’t even say he was abusive – didn’t swear, didn’t shout. It was just the way he looked at me!’
Mac laughed. ‘A man looks at you and you go weak in the knees, eh, Marcie?’
Doug glared at him. ‘Piss off, Mac. Can’t you see she’s been scared shitless?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was that bad.’ Marcie put in hastily, overlooking the fact that she had been scared shitless. How she’d got through the day she wasn’t sure: fortunately all her other jobs had been routine burglaries, with no unusual problems. ‘It was just – he seemed – dangerous.’
Mac gave a sort of shrug. ‘Well, I suppose after what happened, we’re all a bit jumpy.’ He caught Doug’s eye. ‘So, ah, sorry.’
‘It’s OK, Mac. Perhaps I did over-react a bit.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t me.’ said Ali. ‘I’d have just given it to him.’
‘But he said it wasn’t his.’ Doug pointed out.
‘He was lying.’ They all turned to look at Marcie. ‘Well, I think so. It was the way he reacted when he saw it. I’m sure he recognised it.’
Mac scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘If that’s so, then there could be something dodgy on that card. Something he doesn’t want to be connected with. But now he’s denied ownership, it could be difficult to tie him in with it.’
‘Do you think it could be connected to Ben?’ asked Ali. Which was exactly what Marcie had been wondering.
‘I don’t see how.’ said Doug. ‘Ben hadn’t even got to examine it.’
‘Hmm – actually…’ Marcie began, and told them about the blood, and the way the Cavalier had been moved. ‘I suppose I’d better run it by Mick, hadn’t I?’
‘You should tell somebody’ Doug agreed. ‘I think Mick’s at court, but Jim’s around.’
‘Better Jim than Mick.’ said Ali. Marcie nodded. Picking up a copy of her report on the Cavalier, she headed for the Senior’s office.
Whereas Mick was tall, slender, with thinning blonde hair and watery blue eyes, Jim was chunky, dark-eyed, with curly brown hair. Mick was slippery, reserved and up-tight: Jim was open, approachable and so laid back he was almost horizontal. Mick fancied himself as God’s gift to women: Jim might have been God’s gift to women, if he hadn’t been gay. He was on the phone when Marcie knocked on the open door: he smiled, waved her in and moved his feet off the spare seat, without breaking his flow.
From the end of the conversation she could hear, Marcie gathered that he was bullshitting an officer about the probable results of an examination. Apparently, he’d made promises that forensic science couldn’t deliver and was now blagging his way out of it. Since he was very talented in that area, it didn’t take him more than a few minutes: he hung up and looked expectantly at Marcie.
‘Jim – let me run something by you…’
She proceeded to tell him the full story, including her suspicions about Maddox – but downplaying her fear, and emphasising his reaction to the flash card. Jim listened without interruption, but he quickly lost his usual expression of lazy good humour and began to look more serious than she’d ever seen him before. When she’d finished, he sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk while he thought about it.
‘Well – yes. Thanks for coming to me with this, Marcie. Good work, especially finding that flash card. Thing is though, there’s some – ah, issues here which you may not be aware off.’ Jim paused, ran a hand through his hair.
‘When it happened – Ben getting shot – well, it was a bit of a cock-up right from the start. Ben’s, really. You know how bad he was at following any sort of procedure?’
Marcie nodded. Ben had been notorious for not following any rules but his own.
‘Well, Ben hadn’t called his location in to Control. They had no idea that we had anyone at Callahan’s that day. The first report they got – from those dickheads down there – was that someone had collapsed. Control got the idea that there had been some sort of industrial accident, and they sent the nearest spare copper – who turned out to be a young lad still on probation. Shouldn’t even have been on his own, but there was a bit of trouble kicking off in the city centre, and they’d sent most of their resources over there.’
‘Anyhow, this lad walked straight into a murder scene, without knowing what it was. He’d been told ‘industrial accident’ so that’s what he assumed. His first thought was to get everyone out to safety – including Ben. Callahan’s staff had already moved Ben once, and when the ambulance crew arrived the PC had taken him out of the shed and was busy trying to revive him. Already long past that, of course. Hell of a shock for him, when they told him that Ben was dead, and shot dead at that. Even so, it wasn’t until CID arrived and someone noticed the SOCO van over in the corner that they started putting two and two together. Good at that sort of thing, CID.’
‘Well, anyhow, by the time me and Mick arrived the crime scene was totally compromised – by Callahan’s and the PC. Poor old Ben had been moved at least twice and there was blood everywhere, so it was hard to say exactly where the shooting had taken place. That older bloke ….’
‘Pete?’ suggested Marcie.
‘Yeah, him – he’d got himself taken off to hospital, suffering from shock. The other one, Neil – none too bright at the best of times, and by this time he’d been asked questions by the PC, the ambulance crew, CID – he was having trouble remembering his name, let alone what cars he’d moved where. Even if anyone thought to ask him. Which is why no one knew about that Cavalier until now.’
‘But now you do know.’ Marcie pointed out.
‘Yes, of course.’ Jim leaned forward earnestly. ‘And you did exactly the right thing, Marcie. Technically speaking, I suppose Mick should really have come out to the car when you called him. But – as he said – this doesn’t actually change much as regards Ben’s murder. We’ve got the drugs connection, we know why Ben was shot – exactly where was always a bit iffy, like I said, but it’s not the main concern now. The investigation is looking at tracing the drugs. And Marcie – this is a big thing, you know?’
‘Er – yes, sure – big in what way?’
‘Well, as far as I know it’s the first time that a SOCO’s been murdered in the course of his duty. I’m sure you’ve seen that it made the national headlines. What you may not know is the amount of interest at high level – government level, Marcie: the Home Secretary’s been phoning the Chief Constable about it. There’s a lot of pressure coming down the line to get this sorted, and quickly. Introducing this Cavalier won’t help anyone. It would confuse the investigation, cause a lot of problems, without actually changing anything significant. We don’t want to open a can of worms. You see what I mean?’
Marcie nodded. She saw what he meant, alright. She didn’t like it, but she got the point. ‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Just put in your report. Don’t submit the blood. We’re ninety percent certain it’s Ben’s, anyhow. Keep it in the freezer. Send the film up, but we don’t need to request prints.’
‘What about the flash card. And Maddox?’
Jim shrugged. ‘What the hell? Submit the card. It might give us a clue about the TWOC’er. If it’s not completely wrecked by the fire. Not much we can do about Maddox, if he’s denied knowledge of it. Have to let that go. OK Marcie?’
She nodded, a little dubiously: Jim picked up on it.
‘Marcie – you’ve done everything right. You came across some information, you’ve reported it, it’s out of your hands. If it hits the fan, you’re in the clear, OK?’
‘Yes, sure – it’s not that though. It’s just that I’d hate to think we’re missing something. It would be like letting Ben down, somehow.’
Jim smiled reassuringly. ‘Trust me, Marcie – it’s not connected. No way.’
‘OK then. Thanks, Jim.’
‘Any time.’
Marcie left feeling happier, but not entirely comfortable with the feeling. Knowing Jim’s reputation for expert bullshitting, she wondered if she could trust his reassurances. Not that she had much choice.
In any case, she had to put it out of her mind when she got back to the SOC office and found it empty. The late shift had got their jobs and were out and about: her shift had gone home. Which meant she was running late, and on her first day back from leave as well…. She hurriedly filled out the paperwork and tossed the flash card into the submissions box. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.
She clattered down the stairs to the car park with coat, bag and keys, whilst simultaneously trying to call the child minder on her mobile. Fortunately, a friendly copper happened along at the right time to hold the door open.
‘Julie – it’s Marcie – sorry, I’m running late again.’ She reached her car, dropped her keys, and knelt to scrabble for them whilst carrying on the conversation. ‘I’ll be about half an hour – maybe a bit longer, traffic’s building up. Kids alright? Good. Thanks – see you soon?’ She found her keys, dropped her bag, opened the door, dropped her phone, swore, picked everything up in a heap and dumped it inside. As she went round to the drivers side, the phone rang: she swore again, dived into the pile and managed to retrieve it.
‘Hello – Marcie Kelshaw.’ Trying not to sound out of breath.
‘Marcie – it’s me. Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you at home, just got the answering machine. Thought you’d be there by now.’
Marcie’s husband John was accustomed to working long hours himself, but he didn’t much like Marcie doing the same. He didn’t like Marcie working for Scenes Of Crime. He didn’t like Marcie working.
‘Hello, love. Been a busy day – I’m on my way now.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They’re fine, John. I’ve just spoken to Julie. No problem.’
‘Well – anyhow, the reason I’m ringing is that we’ve run into a bit of a problem with the SuperScan launch. They’ve called a crisis meeting: I’m just going there now. I can’t say when I’ll be home, could go on a bit.’
Pause, while Marcie took a deep breath. ‘OK, love. I understand. Do you want me to keep some dinner for you?’
‘No – you go ahead and eat with the kids. I expect we’ll get something sent in. Got to go. Love you!’
‘Love you too.’ Marcie tossed the phone back in the front seat pile, and drove off, concentrating very hard on the traffic.
Marcie and John had first set up home in a comfortable but unpretentious semi in South Herrick. Julie Cregg had been their next-door neighbour: when John decided that increasing prosperity meant a move out of town to the village of Ashford, Marcie had practically begged her to take Roy and Kady on. It added a significant distance to her journey, but she considered it more than worth while to have the kids in a familiar environment that she and they felt secure with. John had been bewildered by this. ‘There’s a perfectly good nursery in Ashford.’ he pointed out. But Marcie, none too enthusiastic about the move, had made it a condition of her compliance.
A bus had broken down on the main southbound dual-carriageway through Herrick, making the traffic congestion even worse than she’d feared. By the time she pulled up outside Julie’s house, she was scared to look at her watch. Roy and Kady (officially Katy, but at two and a half Roy hadn’t been able to get his tongue round it. Now she was two and a half and wouldn’t answer to anything but ‘Kady’) were running out of the front door before she could switch the engine off.
“You’re very late.” Roy announced judgementally as he reached the car.
“And you’re getting far too much like your Dad.” Marcie replied, a little sharper than she’d intended. Actually, people always said how much like her he looked, with his unruly brown hair and the expression of wide- eyed innocence. But he was showing more and more of John’s traits as his character developed: imaginative, intelligent, with the ability to shut out the rest of the world almost completely in order to concentrate on whatever had captured his attention.
He also had John’s irritation with anything from the real world that intruded: as now. “We’re going to miss Ninja Knights!” he complained with a five-year olds passion for the really important things in life as he clambered onto his booster-seat.”
“Sorry about that.” Marcie said, half to Roy and half to Julie, who gave her a weary shrug. Kady sat patiently as she was strapped into her chair. Marcie wondered, as she often did, just where the genes had come from for that pale blonde hair – not to mention the calm and gentle disposition. Neither had any obvious connection with her or John.
“I’m hungry, Mummy.” she stated matter-of-factly. Not complaining, just making sure Marcie knew.
“Mummy’s been busy!” Roy informed his sister before Marcie could speak. “She was finding fingy-prints to catch robbers.”
“Fingerprints, Roy.” Marcie corrected. One way in which he did differ from his father was in his wholehearted enthusiasm for her job: he considered that he had the coolest Mum in the world, which did a lot for her self-esteem. “Yes, darling, I’ve been busy.” She clipped the final buckle into place, apologised again to Julie, and got back behind the wheel.
“Listen, kids,” she announced with as much cheerful authority as she could muster. “There’s a lot of traffic, so it’s going to be a bit longer getting home tonight. Please behave yourself in the back and let Mummy concentrate on her driving, or you’ll make us have an accident.” Having thus passed all responsibility to her children, Marcie got her Focus back in the commuter stream heading out of Faringham. Which immediately slowed to a crawl. Despite her efforts to concentrate on the traffic, she found her thoughts wandering back to the days events.
Could that Cavalier be connected with Ben? Jim had been very keen to reassure her otherwise – but what made him so certain? If all Ben’s paperwork had been stolen, it was only speculation that he hadn’t examined it: and he had been standing right next to it when he was shot.
There was a bit of a queue over the South Herrick bridge. ‘Roy hit me!’ wailed Kady. Calm and gentle she was, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t stand up for herself.
‘Don’t hit your sister, Roy.’ Marcie admonished.
‘She poked me!’ Roy complained.
‘Didn’t poke!’ said Kady with righteous indignation.
‘Settle down, both of you!’ Marcie answered, with what she hoped was loving parental firmness, and not tired parental irritability.
The traffic was moving again: once over the river Marcie turned off into the maze of country lanes that ran up behind River Heights.
Of course, if Ben had examined the Cavalier, he hadn’t found the flash card. If he had, would that have been taken as well? But it was unlikely it would have been found. A straightforward examination of a TWOC’ed and burnt-out car wouldn’t merit the degree of examination Marcie had given it: she wouldn’t have bothered herself if Neil hadn’t told her about the blood.
In fact, Mick had told her to give it a negative report. He was going to be pissed with her tomorrow.
They finally pulled into the driveway of Mill Cottage. It was a picturesque little place, all warm red brick and glossy white wood. Not so little, either – it extended a long way back, right to the river which had once powered the mill. John had loved it from first sight: Marcie couldn’t deny it’s attractiveness, but worried about the long-term maintenance of wood frames and old brickwork.
She also questioned the value of a beautiful house that she never had time to admire: arrival home meant the end of independent thought for a while, as she plunged into the routine of teatime, bath-time, story-time and bedtime. She missed John: it was hard enough with two to share the load. By the time the last request for another bedtime drink had been denied, she felt ready to drop herself. Instead, she put a glass of wine by the bath, and settled down for a long soak.
She woke up in a cold bath, with tyres crunching on the gravel outside. Dragging herself upright, she wrapped a towel round herself and crossing to the bedroom, peeked out through the curtains. Johns BMW had indeed pulled in: but John was still at work: briefcase open on the bonnet, he was talking earnestly into his mobile while he sorted paperwork.
Marcie stood and watched him for a few moments. It occurred to her that she hardly ever did that anymore.
There was a time, in the early days of their relationship when she couldn’t look at him enough. She had wanted to fill her eyes with him, fill her mind with his image. She had wanted to capture every subtle nuance of his lean face, every wry smile, every little furrow in his forehead when he was concentrating on some problem. She’d even stared at his hands sometimes, admiring the strength and sensitivity in his long fingers. When she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at photographs of him.
She tried to recapture that now, looking down on him, to put aside her own annoyance to see him as he was now. Not so very different, if she was objective. The sandy hair was perhaps a touch thinner, the face a bit more lined, the tall lanky body perhaps a bit softer at the middle and more stooped at the shoulders. The differences she perceived were more subtle: the way he smiled less and frowned more.
Or was that just her own perception, born of frustration?
She turned away and looked at herself in the full length wardrobe mirror. How much had she changed she wondered? Nondescript brown hair, cut short nowadays because she couldn’t be bothered with the time for long hair. Light hazel eyes, a little wide apart – in good moments she thought they gave her an innocent look. Or naïve and permanently surprised by life. Sharp nose, good bones, reasonable skin tone… as for the rest, not bad, considering two pregnancies.
The door slammed. She pulled on a comfortable old track suit and went down stairs.
Seen close up and in the light, John looked tired and a little grey – skin and hair both, Marcie thought. ‘How did the meeting go?’ she asked brightly.
‘We’ve got something together.’ he answered with a half smile. ‘An action plan… don’t worry, it’ll come together.’
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No – a glass of wine?’
Marcie poured him one, and another half-glass for herself, to be sociable. They sat together in the living room. Her favourite place at the end of the day, it was at the back of the house where the mill machinery had once been. Somehow, it managed to be spacious and cosy both at the same time, with solid comfortable furniture tucked away in the odd angles that history had left in the architecture. A real fire would have been nice: the living flame came close enough and was easier to light.
All in all, a good place for relaxing and talking at the end of the day, with News 24 on to catch the headlines.
‘Um – how was your day?’ asked John. He sounded as tired as he looked, but at least he was making the effort to be interested.
‘OK – not bad, for a first day back at work, you know!’ Marcie answered, thinking it better not to share any details.
‘Anything happened about that colleague of yours – the one who got murdered?’
Oh, don’t bring that up! Marcie thought – though it was a natural enough question, considering. ‘Ben Drummond. Yes, they’ve found drugs in one of the cars he examined. So it’s probably drugs related. Keep that to yourself, though, John – it’s not public knowledge yet.’
Probably best not to mention that she’d spent the morning recovering swabs of Ben’s blood.
John nodded, and sat thinking for a moment. ‘Marcie…’ he began.
Oh, no, here we go again, she thought.
‘In view of all this’ John continued ‘I really wish you’d think again about this job.’
Marcie gave him her best smile. ‘John – I know you’re concerned, and I appreciate it – but I was talking to one of our Seniors today, and he told me that this is the only case on record of a SOCO being murdered in the course of duty. I’ve got more chance being run over by Elvis in a UFO than of being shot!’
He managed a laugh. ‘But there’s really no need for you to work at all.’
She sighed. So predictable. ‘We’ve been over this before.’
‘You could have more time for Roy and Kady.’
Marcie winced. That was below the belt. She suppressed her first inclination, which was to lash out with ‘So could you!’ Instead she kept her tone even. ‘Roy and Kady are doing fine. Julie’s a brilliant childminder.’
‘Yes, but I really don’t think…’
Time to change tack – she most definitely did not want a full scale fight tonight.
‘John, do you remember what I was doing when we met?’
He laughed properly then. ‘You were up to you knees in shit!’
She laughed with him. ‘You exaggerate. It was only calf-deep!’
‘Norrington Sewage depot. How more romantic can you get!’ They laughed together then: she felt the tension easing. ‘I was trouble shooting their software – those days, we took any work we could get to get the company up and running! Last thing I expected to see was a vision of loveliness wading through the muck!’
‘Admit it – it was my perfume that really attracted you!’ Still laughing, they hugged.
‘So what attracted you to me?’ John asked, his arm warm around her.
‘Oh – well, let’s see.. good looking, intelligent, - better dressed than most people round a sewage farm..’
‘No wellies, you mean! But do go on!’
‘You were intense, and energetic and enthusiastic – you chatted me up with a detailed account of sewage control software….’
‘Over a plastic cup of coffee in the canteen…’
‘Not that I understood one word in ten, but I loved the way your eyes sparkled when you got to the really clever bits!’
That was before you got into the management side, and got prosperous, and tired, Marcie thought with an unexpected pang of loss.
‘So anything else?’
‘Well – what girl could resist the man who gave her a hand up out of the shit!’
They laughed again. John finished his wine, then gave her a quizzical look. ‘Was this just a change of subject, or is it going somewhere?’
She sat back, met his gaze. ‘My job then wasn’t just wading in shit waiting for a tall handsome stranger to rescue me. I went all over the county’s water system, doing chemical analysis of the purification process at every stage. It was busy, varied, with a lot of travelling around. Lot of working on my own. Quite a responsible job, for my age. I was lucky to get it, and I loved it. Apart from the smell, but you get used to that. John – I gave that up to marry you. And I’ve never regretted it. But...’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m that sort of person, John. The sort of person who likes a job with some shit in it. And I like this job, Scenes of Crime. Different sort of shit, but a lot of other things are similar. Do you see?’
He looked at her for a long moment, with a half-smile on his face. ‘I don’t think I do, entirely, but I take your point. Sort of.’
She smiled back, relieved. ‘That’ll do then.’
‘Only – be careful, Marcie. Please.’
‘Always.’
He nodded, and they shared a kiss and a hug, somewhat spoilt by his jaw-breaking yawn. ‘I’d better get to bed. Early start in the morning!’
‘What – after you’ve worked so late? I thought you might want to sleep in, and maybe take the kids over to Julies?’
‘Sorry, no chance. We’ve figured out what to do, but it’s going to take a lot of pushing and shoving to get it working – and we’re on a tight schedule, launch is just a few weeks away!’
For a moment, a flash of the old John showed through the tired business man – the computer wizz-kid who saw problems as challenges and challenges as victories waiting to be claimed. Marcie felt a surge of relief to see that, deep down, it was still the same John Kelshaw who had helped her out of the sewage tank ten years ago.
‘Anyhow – shower and bed, for me. ‘Night, Marcie.’
‘Night, love.’ Marcie busied herself with some tidying up, then caught the news headlines. Ben’s murder had already dropped off the top slot, she noticed.
She turned everything off, checked everything was locked up (much more careful about that since she’d been in the job) went up to bed, and slipped in beside John, who was already snoring gently.
Tired though she was, thinking about Callahan’s had brought to mind the other events of the day. She went over her examination: had she missed anything? Had she done anything - or failed to do anything – that Mick might pick up on?
Nothing sprang to mind. Drifting now, she thought about Cyrus Street. No. 34. Maddox. She shuddered slightly as she remembered the cold, intense fury of his eyes, as he reached for the flash card and she held it away…
There was something strange about that… He’d reached with his left hand – reaching across his body, because Marcie had held it in her left hand – while his right hand was kept firmly in his pocket.
Deep in his pocket.
Marcie was suddenly wide awake again. If Maddox had reached with his right hand, he might easily have grabbed the flash card off her.
‘Perhaps he was left handed?’ she whispered to herself. John grunted in his sleep.
Perhaps he was, but that wouldn’t stop him using his right hand. But he’d kept it in his pocket. As if he was holding on to something. Something he didn’t want to let go of, and didn’t want to bring out either.
She shook her head. ‘Shut up Marcie. Stop speculating. Go to sleep.’
Eventually, she did.
John I always had the idea that the longer two people were together, the better they’d understand each other. It must have been two other people: because there’s no sign of that happening with me and Marcie. I realise that she wants to work, and that she wants to do something interesting. But joining the Police – OK, Scenes Of Crime – that I’ve had trouble with. Last nights discussion helped a bit. I think I can see her point of view better. But I don’t think she understands mine. I’ve always wanted to excel as a provider for my family. To make sure they had everything, and more. To do that, I’ve made sacrifices. I’ve moved into areas of work that – to be honest – I’m not totally comfortable with. I’m not sure that Marcie really appreciates that, and I’m not sure how to explain it to her. When I try, it sounds like I’m boasting about my success, or whinging about hers. Hopefully, this won’t go on much longer. SuperScan is almost ready for launch, and I’m really excited about it! It’s going to move us into the big league! The AI filtering programme alone… OK, maybe I do tend to get a bit obsessive about it. I know Marcie thinks so. But I’ve invested a lot of time into this. If it comes off, then I’ve made it, big time. After that, I’ll be able to choose my own projects, run them my way… I’ll be able to follow up some interesting ideas of my own, do what I really want to do. But for now, I need Marcie’s support. There’s a few last hurdles to cross, and I’m not sure if we’ve cracked all the problems. That crisis meeting asked some questions I couldn’t answer, and it didn’t look good. I need to find time to go back over some of the basic programming. Something’s not quite right, and I’ve spent too long on the management side of things. If this goes bad, I could be in deeper shit than Marcie ever saw at the sewage farm. I need her to be 100% behind me on this. The problem’s not just picking up the kids when she’s on a late shift. That sort of thing I can cover. Nobody could say I’m not flexible! But I get this feeling that her focus is somewhere else. And this colleague of hers being murdered hasn’t helped. I hope it doesn’t sound callous, but my concern is for Marcie. What would me and the kids do if something happened to her? She gets impatient with me when I worry, but I can’t help it. I don’t think she appreciates how much I care about her – or how much I need her. I suppose I always knew she was a bit of a free spirit. It was one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place. Pity I didn’t realise the implications.
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