The truth, p.7
The Truth, page 7
‘As in…?’
It seemed a rather vague sort of question.
Diver said, ‘Your approach to an investigation. How much of it is based on established procedures? Do you use protocols?’
Ah, protocols. That’s why he’d thought about DCS Allen a few minutes ago. Smith said, ‘Protocols are wonderful things. I’m all in favour of them.’
Diver said, ‘Good…’ but warily. He seemed to be a quick learner.
Smith went on, ‘They only have one weakness, protocols.’
‘And that is?’
‘People. They will get in the way of the protocols.’
Diver nodded as if he understood exactly what was meant here, but he wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
‘But in an interview, like the one you’re planning today, do you have a list of questions in advance?’
Smith thought about Anthony Hills, and about the Alwych in his jacket pocket. He had written something on the top line of the first page. In answer, he said to Jason Diver, ‘As it happens, I do have one question prepared.’
There was a pause that was almost dramatic before, ‘Just one? What is it?’
Smith said, ‘I’m going to ask the young man whether he’s guilty.’
Chapter Eight
‘A bacon sandwich with brown sauce, and a cup of your blackest coffee, please.’
Micky Lemon looked up in surprise because he’d recognised the voice straight away, even though it was a long time since he’d last heard it.
‘Sergeant Smith? Blimey! Thought you’d died and gone to ’eaven.’
‘Not quite, Micky. I stayed alive but I did get as far as Marston, which is sort of heavenly compared to most of Kings Lake. How’s business?’
The café’s owner was wiping his hands on a tea towel and then he held the right one out. Smith shook it warmly.
Micky said, ‘Can’t complain. Scraping by. ’Sgood to see you out and about, sergeant.’
‘Thank you. But it’s just plain Mr these days. I’m a civilian again.’
Micky Lemon looked dubious, as if Smith might have that wrong.
He said, ‘Retired then? On the old police pension?’
As of this morning, of course, that wasn’t entirely accurate but Smith himself hadn’t got used to the idea yet, and so he wasn’t willing to inflict his new status on anyone he knew from his previous employment.
‘Yes, Micky, bus pass, the works. You haven’t put your prices up, have you? Is there any discount for old coppers on their uppers?’
Micky had said this one was on the house, and Smith had politely declined the offer, paying in full before he sat at the window table. The old window table. This was something he’d have to get used to – the memories – but being here was no accident. He had chosen to come to Micky’s as a way of facing the matter head on; the past might be a far country but if you do choose to go back there, there’s no point in hiding.
After the interview with Anthony Hills, the young couple had offered him some lunch. He had declined, every instinct telling him he needed to keep a little distance from them. He had asked some difficult questions, prodding away in search of the inflamed nerve, the hidden abscess, and when you’ve been through that as a patient, you don’t usually invite the dentist to supper. Especially when it’s clear there might be more such treatment to come.
Smith took out the notebook and a silver propelling pencil. The first half a page was covered now, things he had written as Anthony answered and a couple added after Smith had returned to the Volvo parked in their drive. Charlie’s son had not over-reacted to that first question – he had taken a moment, looked directly at Smith and said, ‘No, I’m not guilty. Except maybe of being a mug.’
Fair enough, Smith had said. Another question soon after that one had caused more surprise – Smith had asked Anthony Hills how much he earned. The first response had been ‘Why?’
Smith said, ‘It’s pertinent. The prosecution will use it, especially if they think your lifestyle is inconsistent with your income. It’s motivation to commit offences.’
While Anthony considered that, Smith said, ‘And you realise the Serious Crimes people will already be going over your bank accounts. So if there is anything iffy, now’s the time to say.’
When the young man had been told his father was putting someone onto the case to prove his innocence, this would not be how he imagined them going about it – Smith was fully aware of that. He had effectively just asked again whether Anthony Hills had knowingly smuggled cocaine.
‘As sales director, my basic salary is forty thousand a year. In a typical year, with bonuses and commission I can usually double that. So I’m doing all right.’
Smith had thought, that’s a lot more than I ever earned… But then, I never lived in a detached, four-bedroomed executive home in Bishops Green. We’ll discount the motor which in your business is probably an undeclared benefit in kind – even so, the mortgage must be eye-watering. Two youngsters and a wife not earning but you could still find ten thousand to buy a share in a luxury yacht? Smith had asked about that, too.
Anthony said, ‘Milton told me one day that his boat was in Lake. We had a business lunch and he took me down to the harbour to see it. I told him I’d always been involved in inshore sailing and boats generally, and not long after that he made me the offer. He said it would be useful to have someone living locally with an interest. I didn’t just hand over ten grand.’
He had sounded defensive, which was understandable, but it didn’t discourage Smith.
‘Oh. You didn’t? How did it work, then?’
Anthony gave the answer with some reluctance, because he knew, in the light of subsequent events, how it was going to sound to a former detective sergeant.
‘Milton said, if I was interested, I could pay instalments. He suggested a thousand a month.’
Smith had written this into the notebook, written it slowly before, ‘He gave you an interest-free loan of ten thousand pounds…’
‘Effectively, yes.’
‘Any paperwork involved in that?’
‘No.’
Smith said, ‘Tell me you didn’t give him cash. It was bank transfers or something, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Bank transfers, usually on the day my salary went in.’
That was noted, too. Then Smith said, ‘Good. That ties him down a little. How much did you pay him? All of it?’
‘Not quite. The last instalment would be this month.’
‘If I were you,’ Smith said, ‘I wouldn’t bother with that one.’
There had been an uncomfortable pause after that. Eventually Smith said, ‘You see, prosecutors are a funny lot. They look at the world differently to most people. I wouldn’t be surprised – if it gets that far – that one of them suggests your ten thousand wasn’t intended for a share in the boat at all. They’ll say, he’s a sales director. He knows all about contracts and the legal sides of a business deal but he never asked this Milton for a document to show he was part owner of the boat. Because, members of the jury, the money wasn’t for that. The ten thousand pounds was a very different sort of investment. And Mr Hills was on the boat that weekend protecting his very different sort of investment.’
The bacon sandwich was a thing of beauty. Smith spent a few seconds admiring it on the white china plate. Micky wouldn’t allow margarine through the door of his establishment, and so that was yellow butter seeping out and congealing with the bacon fat, ready to be wiped up with the final crust of wholemeal bread. Smith always had the wholemeal option – Micky didn’t need to ask – because it was important to eat healthily these days.
He took the first bite, half-closed his eyes and chewed it slowly. Then he checked out the coffee. Not a lot of places know that it’s when you make coffee too weak it becomes bitter, not the other way around. Micky made strong coffee, with its own texture in the mouth and a rich after-taste, like a fine merlot. When he looked across, Micky was at the counter watching, and Smith gave the single nod of approval, all that was required.
Two street girls walked by on the other side of the glass, and one of them waved to Micky. She had taken off her jacket because of the sunshine which had returned on this May morning, and her pink T shirt had printed on the front the two words Texas Rose. Why? He’d bet a pound to a penny her name wasn’t Rose and all of the fees Jason Diver thought he was going to pay him that she had never been to Texas. People wear the oddest things. Just say no to the logo – Smith was certain he had never knowingly acted as a walking billboard in his life. You couldn’t count that discreet label on a pair of 501s, obviously.
The girl saw him looking at her, and said something to her companion, who also glanced back as they continued on their way. Smith didn’t recognise them, but it was possible they thought they knew him. This was all rather strange. As if he was playing himself in a film about his own life, starring in his own biopic. Perhaps he should get a T shirt printed – Detective Sergeant, Retired. He felt somehow fraudulent, as if he was performing the role badly.
But, sandwich eaten and a second coffee ordered, he returned to the task in hand, which was reviewing the morning and planning the next step. There had been an awkward moment when he called Charlie and said he was on his way to see Anthony. ‘Meet you there, then,’ Charlie had said, and Smith had responded with a definite ‘No, Charlie. Let me talk to him on my own.’ There hadn’t been a need for a lengthy explanation, but he felt Charlie’s pain, nonetheless. As a compensation, Smith had agreed to call Charlie that evening with his first report, but it wasn’t looking too promising. That business with the money? If I was still in the office at Central, he told himself, I’d be saying that interest-free loan was nothing of the sort.
And then there was Milton Othonos, one of the brothers who ran the company which had bought a small fleet of cars from Prestige Motors over the past year. Smith had said they would need to come back to him and his relationship with the sales director, but he already had something to be going on with – foreign names, proud of their Greek descent but according to Anthony they speak English like natives of Essex. They have a business empire based in Enfield. Their car-supplier didn’t know the ins and outs of this but it includes finance, property and executive vehicle leasing; Smith had said that’s a heady mix, isn’t it, but Anthony hadn’t really understood because he hadn’t been a copper for twenty-five years.
The old harbour lies on the eastern side of the estuary, in the south-eastern corner of The Wash, the vast area of sandflats and shallows formed by the waters of the rivers Great Ouse and Nene as they empty into the North Sea. Beyond the old harbour, to the north-east, are the commercial docks and all the associated, unexpected small businesses that grow like barnacles alongside them – suppliers of chains and ropes, of radars and short-wave radios, of rivets for repairs and special paints for places that landlubbers wouldn’t even know the names of if they were ever to crawl inside them.
Work had brought Smith here often enough in the past. He parked and stood for a moment enjoying the smell of the estuary on a rising tide. The breeze was a moderate south-westerly – moderate as in the proper, nautical sense of the word – and as he had become something of a seafarer himself since launching the Rebecca Louise from the little wooden jetty outside Drift’s End, he took an additional moment to study the sky and forecast whether there might be a chance to sail her over the weekend. The afternoon tides would make catching a few dabs or flounders for tea more than possible.
The building he was making for was the old Harbour Master’s Office; there was once a sign to that effect, but this had been replaced by another, announcing it was now the property of the Kings Lake Conservancy Board. This august body appeared to have its own flag fluttering up on the white pole above the roof, but as he neared, Smith could see underneath that flag another – a tattered, wind-torn remnant of a White Ensign. Half of the red cross of St George had been lost but the Union Jack remained in the upper left canton. The old, ex-Royal Navy boy would be long gone of course, but still Smith tried to recall his name – Ridgeway, Ridgeman, something like that – an old salt who had never actually held the title of Harbour Master but woe betide any man who thought of him otherwise. A title does not bestow authority any more than the lack of one prevents a man from having it.
The office seemed smaller than Smith remembered it, as did the man himself, but there he was, still at his post, still on the bridge. He must, thought Smith, be eighty if he’s a day. The watery eyes squinted at the visitor as if Smith had just appeared on a distant horizon, and then opened in some sort of recognition.
‘Hallo. Thought we’d seen the last of you lot for a while. You’re from the Kings Lake crew, though, aren’t you?’
Smith said good afternoon and then another version of yes and no – it seemed to be a phrase he was destined to be using for a while. Then, before things became any more complicated, he took out that DDA card and placed it on the wooden counter between himself and the harbour master. The old man came forward to look at it and Smith could see the name badge – “J Ridgeworth, KLCB”.
Satisfied, J Ridgeworth pushed the card back towards Smith and said, ‘What happened? Retired or court-martialled?’
‘Retired, sir, but it was a close-run thing.’
‘I’ve retired twice meself but they can’t find anyone else daft enough to sit here all day. When I’m gone, they’ll knock the place down.’
He came further forward and rested both elbows on the counter, a sign that he was willing enough to chat. Smith said, ‘That’ll be another bit of history gone, then.’
‘It will. Someone should write a book but they won’t. Nobody gives a stuff about history these days. Not real history.’
Mr Ridgeworth pointed at the card which still lay in front of him and continued, ‘So, what you inquiring into then? Anything to do with all the excitement last weekend?’
As it happens, said Smith… He asked for the harbour master’s version of the story, having sensed the old boy was more than willing to tell it.
‘It all kicked off on Sunday evening, about eight. I was at home but the security guard rang me, so I came down. What a bloody circus! Lights flashing – they even had a powerboat with a floodlight. I walked over and they stopped me, wouldn’t let me anywhere near it.’
Smith shook his head in sympathetic disbelief and asked who had been running this circus.
‘Customs and bloody Excise. Arrogant buggers as always. Whenever they boarded a ship I was on, you’d think they’d just bought it as well. So I just stood and watched for a while with two or three of our security blokes. But it was obviously a drugs thing going on.’
Smith said, ‘Why was it obviously drugs?’
‘They had a dog on the cruiser. If it had been explosives, they wouldn’t have let us stand where we were. So you’d think, anyway. The cruiser’s still down there but it’s impounded. You won’t get within fifty yards of it.’
Smith said, ‘I don’t need to board it. I’m just representing one of the owners. I don’t think they had any idea what was on it.’
J Ridgeworth nodded and said, ‘It’s nothing new. All sorts has always slipped in through docks, anywhere in the world. Drugs, though, that’s the thing these days. Nasty business, always said so…’
Smith said, ‘I’m told it was a big haul, too.’
‘Million quids’ worth, they reckon.’
That’s inflation for you, thought Smith. By the time this gets to a trial, if it does, it’ll be at least five times that. He said to the harbour master that was a lot of stuff to hide in a boat, and struck lucky – Mr Ridgeworth had had the details from their head of security who’d been lumbered with writing a report for the Board.
‘It was all hidden behind panels. Proper professional job, they reckon. That’s why they needed the dog, see? Never been found just giving it the once over.’
Smith was duly impressed and wondered whether the boat was often moored here in the harbour. Was it a local boat?
The head of security had done a thorough job with that report. No, said Ridgeworth, not a local boat. This was only its second visit. It’s all done with dataloggers and transponders now. In his day, you know, they had a book, a proper old log, handwritten records of every craft that came and went. But anyway, this boat had arrived on the Sunday afternoon tide, sailed up the central channel past the number 26 buoy and had been directed into the visitor pontoons. That’s where it was when they raided it that night. Nobody on it, of course, no arrests.
Smith thanked him and said he would go and take a look anyway, just to say he had seen the thing he was inquiring about. Ridgeworth said he might as well leave his car where it was and walk – the visitor pontoons were about four hundred yards away, and he gave clear directions.
In the doorway, Smith turned and said, ‘I expect I’ll recognise it from the police tapes but what type is it? The owner never gave me any details – just the name.’
Ridgeworth said, ‘Very nice boat. Your boss must have a few readies. It’s a Beneteau Oceanis, and in good order from what I could see.’
‘Oceanis? A proper sea-going vessel, then?’
The de facto harbour master took a little time before answering that one.
‘Built for the Med really but good for inshore anywhere round the UK. You wouldn’t want be in the middle in a force 8 for too long.’
Smith said, ‘What about crossing the English channel, that sort of thing?’
‘The channel and the southern North Sea, not a problem as long as you pick your day. But if you’re thinking of buying the wife one for her birthday, you’d better start saving up. You won’t get any change out of a hundred grand.’
He reminded himself that he’d given five hundred pounds for Rebecca Louise, so he was looking at something worth two hundred times as much. Although he wouldn’t have swapped them – and this thing would look ridiculous moored in the creek – the Galene was an awful lot of boat. It couldn’t be much less than fifteen metres in length. It was sleek and streamlined, the long bows tapered into an arrow to cut through the water. The cabin was set low, designed for minimal resistance and top speed, and the entire boat was white save for the tasteful touches of dark blue trim and the metal rails that gleamed in the sunshine.
