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- Herausgeber: Myriad Editions
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Remember, Remember, this second book in the DC Nina Foster series (now optioned for a major TV drama) is a taut and gripping police procedural crime novel. Returning to work after recovering from a serious injury, the feisty and determined policewoman is initially assigned to a desk job to keep her out of harm's way. But as she re-visits the investigation of the infamous 1964 Wickerstead Valley train crash, she finds new evidence that might link that fatal accident to a current spate of heroin-related deaths. Tracking down witnesses, she comes face to face with the notorious Rumbly family and uncovers a network of drug dealers who will stop at nothing to protect their criminal empire. With danger mounting at work, Nina's mental and physical capacities are tested to their limits; her home life begins to suffer and she struggles to make time for the new man in her life, Bill Harrison. Brilliantly plotted and fast-paced, Remember, Remember confirms Nina Foster as a heroine for our times and cements Lisa Cutts' reputation as an author of gripping fiction straight from the frontline of modern policing.
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Praise for Never Forget
WINNER OF THE WRITER’S RETREAT COMPETITION
LONGLISTED FOR THE WAVERTON
GOOD READ AWARD
‘Lisa Cutts is the real thing; a novelist who knows the police inside out but who can also create complex, multi-layered plots full of interesting characters. I look forward to reading more of her books.’
Elly Griffiths
‘Never Forget does what crime fiction has never managed to do before – to take the reader directly to the fast-beating heart of a police investigation. Lisa Cutts has a unique voice, one that resonates with the knowledge of years of police work – and in DC Nina Foster she has created a character so genuine and honest that she feels like your best friend. This is a complex, chilling and brilliantly clever debut that keeps you guessing to the final, thrilling sentence.’
Elizabeth Haynes
‘An impressive debut.’
Euro Crime
‘Lisa Cutts delivers a good story that stays true to the way that it really happens. Very pacy: short chapters and rapid changes of scene keep you on your toes. It is a book you’ll read again – you might know the name of the villain, but you’ll read for the pleasure of seeing how it was all done.’
Bookbag
‘It is wonderful to find a new series with an interesting and realistic protagonist, a well-written story and a complex and well-executed mystery. I’m going to keep an eye out for future Nina Foster mysteries. If this debut is anything to go by, the world is one very talented mystery author richer.’
More Than a Reading Journal
‘A thrilling new detective series from a British author who is an experienced and serving police officer. The action is fast and well-paced, the characters interesting and believable and the storytelling is gripping. Lisa Cutts is a talented writer and brings to life the reality of the Major Incident Room, the witty banter, the relentless paperwork and the genuine hard graft of real policing. DC Nina Foster is a great character – fond of drink and often a disaster on the romance front, she proves herself a worthy heroine… Will appeal to fans who want to know more about the reality of crime investigation. Perfect for fans of Cath Staincliffe and Elizabeth Haynes.’
We Love This Book: Hot Book Selection
‘A fantastic debut.’ BBC Radio Kent, The Pat Marsh Show
‘This is a great achievement for a first novel and moves along at a cracking pace, written with humour and an understanding of team work.’
Hive
‘Lisa Cutts is one talented lady – combining her day job as a police officer with writing an action-packed crime novel. And boy, has she done it well. A gripping tale that’ll keep you guessing to the end.’
Peterborough Telegraph
‘Nina is flawed, but this makes her interesting as a result. She feels like a real person, with her bad relationships, her liking for a glass, or two, or more of wine and her interesting approach to the men in her life and in her job. A really interesting debut novel… I look forward to reading more from Lisa Cutts.’
Lizzie Hayes, Promoting Crime Fiction
For my dad
For many things, but including the Metropolitan Police stories, the fruit and veg and Borough Market stories, the 1960s London bus routes, cafés and pie and mash stories, and the Dave Brown stories…
Contents
Chilhampton Chronicle
20 June 1964
Seven killed in train crossing disaster
At 9.35am yesterday, an express train hit a lorry on the automatic crossing at Wickerstead Valley. The coastbound Chilhampton Express train had travelled from London, running at 70 miles per hour, carrying some 200 passengers and weighing over 400 tons.
The lorry driver, Malcom Bring, was unhurt in the crash, telling police he had been lost and the lorry had stalled on the level crossing. Unaware of the imminent arrival of the train, he had left his lorry and attempted to use the telephone in the half-barrier apparatus to warn the signalman of the lorry’s location.
Mr Bring was alerted to the train’s approach by the 24-second warning.
Five passengers and two railway workers were killed and 34 people injured in the derailment.
1
Bill stood in the kitchen doorway, tiredness showing on his face. He leaned against the frame.
Instinctively, I moved towards him with my arms out. I needed a hug.
He stepped back into the hallway away from me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘Nina, I’d rather you didn’t kiss me. I’ve just got back from a shooting. The bloke’s stomach was all over the tarmac. I’ve got blood on my shirt.’
I scrutinised the front of his police uniform, paying particular attention to the collar. Some wives and girlfriends might check for lipstick; I looked for entrails.
‘A shooting? That’s unusual. There’s something on the side of your face, just by your right ear. I hope it’s not body tissue. I was about to have a bagel,’ I said, wandering back towards the toaster. ‘Do you want one?’
‘No, thanks. I’m off to have a shower and then go to bed; I’m shattered. Tell you all about it tonight, but right now I need sleep. They only let me leave ’cos I’m at court this afternoon. What time’s Wingsy picking you up?’
As I set about making myself some breakfast, I replied over my shoulder, ‘About eight-thirty. They said there’s no rush but I’m keen to get back to normal.’
‘Well, have a good day, Nin. I’ll call you when I get up.’ He blew me a kiss. I hoped he’d washed his hands.
I listened to Bill trudge upstairs to wash the night shift’s trauma from his skin before catching a few hours’ sleep. I’d never been able to adjust to nights. My whole body clock rebelled against it. One of the reasons a police officer’s life expectancy was so low, I supposed. I thought about calling up the stairs to tell him not to put the bloodstained black T-shirt in with the white wash, but thought better of it: he’d managed well enough for all those years on his own, before I came to stay a few months ago.
The half-hour before Wingsy was due to arrive was filled with thoughts of how I was going to find my first day back at work and how people were going to treat me. My emotions were mixed: I’d been very well looked after by both official work colleagues and friends offering unlimited support, but I was worried about going back to the police station. The Serious Crime Directorate’s Murder Investigation team, with which I had been working before my time off, had made no move to get me back. I couldn’t blame them. I was more trouble than I was worth.
The arrival of the postman snapped me back to full attention. Most of the post was bills and mailshots, but a postcard of two dragons on a bridge caught my attention. I smiled as I turned it over and read the back. Stan had taken the trouble to write to me. The postcard didn’t say much, just the usual about the weather being great, how I’d love the cheap wine and the cruise was very pleasant. My old friend was currently in Ljubljana, clearly enjoying his retirement. But the places were beginning to merge into one. I thought that Slovenia was a landlocked country so I wasn’t sure how he’d got there on a cruise, but I wasn’t going to overthink it. I had enough on my mind.
Catching sight of myself in Bill’s hallway mirror, I saw myself frowning. Something about the postcard bothered me. Stan had sent it to me at Bill’s home address. He’d known I’d still be here. He’d set off on his cruise two weeks ago, and clearly didn’t think that I might be back in my own house by now. Bill’s place was in a quieter area than my own, and that wasn’t the only reason I’d been taking refuge here: I didn’t fancy being at home at the moment. But I couldn’t stay here forever. Perhaps it was time to regrow my backbone and face being alone again.
I gathered up my coat and bag and took a seat by the bay window, waiting for Wingsy to arrive. After months of staying at home, or, more precisely, at Bill’s home, watching daytime television, trying to work out if ‘I gave birth to my brother’s lover’ really could be true, I was ready to get cracking. Just listening to the wailing and moaning of those prepared to air their dirty linen in public was making me stupider by the day. I needed to be back earning a living, dealing in person with the types of people I’d been watching on TV.
It wasn’t long before Wingsy’s Honda turned into the cul-de-sac. I watched him turn one large circle in the road, the sunshine flashing across his balding head. I smiled to myself. By the time he’d stopped the car at the top of the driveway I was leaving the house, handbag over my shoulder, coat over my arm and a large grin on my face.
‘What are you looking so chuffed about?’ Wingsy asked as I got into the car.
I leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m glad to be here.’
‘Make sure you don’t overdo it. I take it Bill’s been looking after you?’ He glanced across at me as I put my seatbelt on.
‘Course he has. He’s just finished a night shift and gone to bed. He had a bit of someone’s stomach on his shirt from a shooting last night.’
‘It’s good to see that after six months of you two being together the romance is still very much alive. What are you doing for Christmas, a pantomime of Death in Custody Through the Ages?’
‘Just drive the car, Baldy.’
‘Nin, it’s great to have you back.’
I winked at him, and we went to work.
2
‘Nina, welcome back,’ said Ian Hammond. ‘We’re glad to see you here. Do take it easy for the next couple of days… but can you read through this file?’ Detective Inspector Hammond picked up a buff-coloured file about four inches thick and slid it across to me.
He adjusted his cuffs for the second time in two minutes. That was going to get on my nerves, but perhaps I needed to warm to him.
‘What’s it about, sir?’ I asked, mustering as much interest as I could on my first day back.
‘Well, as you already know, you’re going to be working with the Cold Case team. They come under the Serious Crime Directorate where you were working before your time off, but it’s only a temporary arrangement. The idea is to allow you to settle back in after your – er – incident.’ He smiled an empty smile and gave me a sympathetic head-tilt. I’d got used to them over the last few months, ever since someone had entered my house and tried to kill me.
‘Since I was stabbed,’ I said, watching him wince at my words, ‘I’ve gone from resting to wanting to get back to work. I am really pleased to be working with the Cold Case team. I only hope I’m up to it.’
He nodded, happier to discuss the topic now that it no longer made him feel uncomfortable. ‘You can go along in a minute to meet the rest of the team, but I think you know most of them anyway. The file we want you to work on relates to a train crash in 1964.’ He tapped the front of the worn cover. The light caught his shiny cufflinks. A dandy DI, how quaint. ‘It’s being reviewed because it’s fifty years since it happened and information has come to light that makes it look as though it may not have been a terrible accident after all. It may have been murder. Seven people died that day, and scores more were injured. There’s a reason that you’re being put to work on this and not anything else, but I’ll let your sergeant tell you about that when you go along to your new office. Once he’s got you up to speed, you’re to read the file and review it for any lines of enquiry.’ He hesitated for a second, before adding, ‘You won’t be handling the new information. Your role will be mostly office-bound.’ Another smile attacked his mouth.
We’ll see about that, I thought.
As DI Dandy had said, I knew most of the Cold Case team. By fantastic luck, Harry Powell was to be my detective sergeant again. He had been some time ago, when dinosaurs roamed the land. My not so good luck was that the team’s other DS was Kim Cotton. We’d met when I’d had my stay on the Murder Squad. I thought that she was a great big miserable individual. Wingsy had moved over to the Cold Case team too. And yes, he might have put in a good word for me. It was what friends did for each other. At least I had him and, even luckier, Kim was currently on annual leave.
Once I’d left my new DI, I made my way back to the tiny office that catered for eight of us. It coped fine for most of the week, but on Wednesdays the shifts meant that the whole office was on duty at the same time. This forced some of us to sit on chairs in the corridor. Hardly the stuff of Jack Bauer’s dreams, but never mind. The superintendent had recently returned from a three-month exchange visit to Australia to see if they had any crime, and I was to be wheeled out into the corridor once a week. Life wasn’t fair, but if you couldn’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined.
Approaching the office door, I slowed down: the hefty file I’d been given was in danger of slipping out of my hands. I didn’t want to be chasing the best part of fifty years of paperwork along the corridor, so I paused to tuck the sheets back into the buff file. As I did so, I heard Harry say, ‘I’ve known Nina a long time and I know she’ll do it if we ask. But I don’t think we should be putting her in that situation.’
I took a breath and pushed the door open with the file. ‘What’s that, Harry?’
He was sitting motionless in the centre of the room, the others at the banks of desks around the walls and windows of the crowded crevice. Harry had been centre stage with, no doubt, all eyes on him. They were now all on me. Me and my fifty-year-old file.
Fair play to Harry, he didn’t falter. He didn’t even blush, and that was no mean feat for a man with a head of red hair and pale, freckled skin to match. He held my gaze while I heard a couple of others rustling paperwork and the only person in the room I didn’t know picked up a phone that I was sure hadn’t been ringing and said, ‘Hello, DC Sullivan speaking. How can I help you?’
I’d been warned about Jim Sullivan by Wingsy. Slimy creature, he’d said.
‘Nin, I was just saying,’ said Harry, getting up and pushing a chair towards me, ‘that you’re likely to say yes to the challenge even though it’s a really bad idea and the DI said you’re to be office-bound for at least the next few days.’
I said nothing.
He perched on the edge of the desk in front of Sullivan, blocking my view of him. It didn’t bother me or him: he carried on his fake call. Harry twisted to his left and hit the loudspeaker button. The sound of the dialling tone came across loud and clear.
‘You’re such a tosser, Jim. Make yourself useful, put the kettle on,’ said Harry.
Harsh but fair. Jim nipped through the open office door to the sound of sniggers.
‘As I was saying,’ said Harry, ‘you don’t have to give me an answer now and you can say no, but we’ve had a request from Pensworth prison via Winstanley solicitors for you to do a prison visit and speak to burglar and drug addict Joe Bring.’
I hadn’t expected my DS to mention Joe’s name. None of the problems over the last few months had been Joe’s fault – quite the opposite. He’d saved my life, tackled a serial killer and, for his trouble, got arrested for attempting to burgle my home when the police officers he’d summoned to my door had arrived. Nevertheless, it gave me a jolt. I hated feeling as though people were avoiding talking about my stabbing, but then I wasn’t always prepared for it when they did. No pleasing some people, was there?
I liked to think that I sat, impassive, taking in the information. It probably didn’t happen that way. Harry seemed to take my silence as a cue for him to continue. Chattering and laughing from two of the typists walking past the doorway on their way to a break filled the room. Harry leaned to his right and, so small was the room, he pushed the door shut without getting up.
‘Jim clearly lives in a barn,’ he commented. ‘Nina, Joe asked for you. He wants to talk about the train crash in ’64. He has some information but will only talk to you. We’ve told the solicitors that Bring can’t demand who visits him – ’
‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I’d had about ten seconds to weigh up whether I wanted to see Joe, assess how I’d feel about it and wonder why he wanted to see me. ‘Any idea what he wants to tell me?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, leaning back, and crossing his arms across his rugby player’s chest, just above his rugby drinker’s beer belly. ‘And we’re gonna need a statement.’
‘Don’t we always?’ I answered, tapping my foot.
‘Definitely in this case, since Joe wants to tell us how seven people were murdered that day.’
3
Whatever anyone’s political views and affiliations, I always told them that, whoever was in government, they would never stop the endless stream of documentation needing to be completed by police officers. To visit a prison required paperwork, and quite rightly so. Those inside had committed crimes and were serving custodial sentences. The governor of the prison had the last say. If they wanted paperwork, paperwork they would have.
I wrote a letter of explanation to get me into the prison. It was a fairly short request on my part – it was, after all, Joe who had asked to see me. I gave my name, rank, force number and the date and time I wanted to see him. Even getting the visit authorised by DI Dandy was relatively painless.
The quickest I could set up my meeting with Joe was Wednesday. It was to be me and Joe. No solicitor, no one else. That suited me. I wanted to thank him but didn’t really want to do so in front of another police officer. Even Wingsy being there would have felt strange, and I trusted him implicitly.
The rest of the morning went by without much of great interest happening. I took a dislike to Jim Sullivan such as I’d never experienced at work before, except for when dealing with a prisoner. He was a despicable specimen. I made an effort to tolerate him which I knew would turn into avoidance. That would be difficult with eight DCs crammed into one room and a passing DS thrown in for good measure.
I took myself off to lunch in the canteen with a sense of dread. The food was always awful, and overpriced, and the staff’s lethargy sapped your energy to the point of making you feel too tired to lift the burnt offerings to your mouth. Still, any port in a storm. I was hungry and couldn’t face the walk into town today. When I got back to the office afterwards, Harry, Jim and Wingsy were switching off terminals and gathering their stuff to leave the office.
‘Where are you off to, fellas?’ I asked.
‘Been a shooting the other side of town,’ Harry said. ‘Victim isn’t looking so good. Main CID office is short so, until the Murder Investigation team get here from Headquarters, we’re off to fill the gap.’
‘That must be the same one Bill went to last night. They took their time sending you to it. Need me to come?’ I found myself asking this without really thinking it through. A terrible habit of mine. As soon as I’d said the words, I wondered if I was being a bit rash.
Harry lifted his hand to scratch at an already stubbly chin. While he pondered my question, I marvelled at the speed of his advancing facial hair. He’d been clean-shaven that morning on my arrival in the office. Halfway through the day and he already had five o’clock shadow.
‘Best not, Nin. You’re supposed to be taking it easy. I’ll give you a call later. We’ve been on duty four hours. It happened ten hours ago. Don’t know why they couldn’t get their fingers out of their arses and sort this out earlier.’ He started walking away to catch up with Wingsy and Jim, then called back in my direction, ‘Take a job car home tonight. I doubt Wingsy is going to be back to run you home.’
I didn’t even need to appear disappointed, as he was no longer looking at me but talking into his mobile phone. I made out the words, ‘On our way, Ian.’
I went into the office, shut the door and logged on to a computer to check my email. I cast an eye over the ‘Question the Boss’ section on the intranet, where staff were able to ask practical and procedural questions of the force’s chief constable. I was in the office on my own; a shooting meant that no one else would be coming back before I went home. I felt exhausted and couldn’t really settle.
Motivation was missing from my day. I made an effort, albeit a small one, to get started on the buff file to prepare for my meeting with Joe Bring in two days’ time, but I was in the wrong frame of mind. Tomorrow was bound to be better. I wanted my shift to end so that I could go home to Bill and find out how Crown Court had gone. I’d also be finding out about the shooting that had got itself into the weave of his uniform and sent my new office scurrying off to the area’s latest major incident.
4
In the car, I put my handbag behind the driver’s seat, telling myself that it gave me more room in the front. But I couldn’t recall one single time I had checked the back seat or boot of my car since I’d been living with Bill. I didn’t know what horrified me more – that I’d been so careless, or that I’d come to rely on someone else so much.
I drove the borrowed Astra out of the car park, feeling unhappy with myself. Something felt wrong. It had taken me several months of hiding at Bill’s house to realise it. Perhaps it was going back to work that had jolted me awake, stopped me being such a pathetic individual, but I shook off my hesitation and decided to go to my own home.
The route I took was a familiar one but one I hadn’t done either alone or in the dusk for some time. There weren’t many other vehicles on the road and within fifteen minutes of leaving Riverstone police station I found myself outside my house. As I sat outside, steeling myself to go in, my phone rang. It was Bill.
‘Hi, lovely,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just left work,’ I said. Well, it was true. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Fancy going out tonight? Thought we could try the new Thai place in Riverstone.’
Nothing was less appealing right at that minute. ‘That sounds great,’ I lied. He’d just finished five night duties. I’d languished in his home. It was the least I could do. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’
I hung up and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, breathing slowly until I had the energy to turn the key in the ignition. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said to no one in particular, before driving back towards my boyfriend’s home.
As I pulled up at Bill’s house, I felt a surge of pleasure at being back here. That annoyed me too. I was getting far too comfortable chez Bill. It wouldn’t do.
I got to the front door just as Bill opened it.
‘Hi,’ he said, reaching out to touch the side of my face. ‘You look tired.’
Listen, you thoughtful bastard… I wanted to say, but realised how unreasonable this made me. I smiled, moving my face to nestle into the gesture.
‘I didn’t really think my idea through about going out,’ he said, moving back to let me inside the hallway. ‘It’s your first day back at work and you’re bound to want to stay in tonight. How about a takeaway?’
‘I could do with a drink,’ I said, kicking my shoes off. I was turning away so that he wouldn’t see how annoyed I was with him. Now he was trying to say I was weak and couldn’t handle being stabbed and going back to work! Coat, shoes and bag deposited, I went scouting for Rioja. As I picked up the bottle, my eyes halted on a white cardboard box sitting on the counter, the words ‘DC Nina Foster’ handwritten in black marker on the side.
‘Pierre Rainer dropped that round about a minute after I called you,’ said Bill, seeing me eye it.
‘I know what this is,’ I said, grinning at him. I put my hand out to open the box.
Bill put one of his hands on top of mine.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit much?’ he said, glaring at the delivery.
I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a celebration of a crime, it’s a memento for a job well done – an offender caught and charged.’
Bill removed his hand with a sigh. I teased the lid open and removed a crystal wine glass engraved with the words ‘Operation Guard 2013 DC Nina Foster’. Underneath was an engraving of a knife. Bill left the kitchen as I poured a healthy glug of red wine into my new glass and savoured every sip.
5
Most of the next morning was dominated by getting the borrowed Astra back to work and going for a hospital check-up at Wickerstead Valley hospital. Bill offered to come with me but I knew that he didn’t really want to spend his only day off hanging around the hospital. He’d be doing enough of that once he was back on duty.
Finding a parking space was tricky, but the beauty of having no money was that I drove the kind of car I was happy to park in the tightest of spaces and not worry about other drivers scratching the paintwork. Having found a space about two inches bigger than my old BMW, I made my way to the entrance, passing several marked police vehicles in the Accident and Emergency bay. I’d heard on the news that the victim of the previous day’s shooting was still alive. Little about the investigation had reached me through the nick, as I’d been knocking back Rioja at home by the time Wingsy and the others had got back to the office. Bill hadn’t had much to add: he hadn’t been the first on the scene, so had ended up helping with first aid until paramedics arrived, and then with scene preservation – which involved standing by the cordon. I’d got up to speed from the local media, which was usually accurate, if scant on detail.
Going over to the hospital map, I located the department I wanted and headed to the lifts. Getting out on the first floor, I turned left when I should have turned right. A familiar face was coming towards me from the antenatal unit: Belinda Cook. I’d met her carrying out enquiries on Operation Guard last year. She’d sworn a lot on our previous meeting. I regretted not taking the correct turn.
Her face softened as she saw me. This was a good sign.
‘Nina,’ Belinda said. ‘It is Nina, isn’t it?’ She put her hand out as if to take my arm but then seemed to think better of it as she dropped it back to her side.
‘Hello, Belinda,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘Really good. Just had my first scan. The next six months are bound to fly by.’ She was smiling the whole time she spoke.
‘Well, that’s great,’ I said, while wondering if it was possible to tactfully ask someone you’ve only been associated with because their boyfriend was a murder suspect whether that same boyfriend was the father of their unborn child. On the other hand, half an hour on daytime television was looking likely for Belinda. I decided I couldn’t be tactful, so chose to say nothing.
‘Good to see you, Nina,’ she said, heading towards the lifts. ‘And good luck with your baby,’ she added, glancing down at my stomach.
Now I was depressed. Several months of eating, drinking and sitting on the sofa, not to mention being knifed in the stomach, and Belinda thought I was pregnant. Chance would be a fine thing. With heavy heart – and apparently stomach – I stomped off in the direction of my appointment.
Forty-five minutes later, I made my way back out of the hospital, curiosity taking me past A&E in case there was anyone in there I knew from work. I saw two uniform PCs I vaguely recognised, talking to the receptionist, and two firearms officers I didn’t know going to wherever the shooting victim was being kept. I presumed that they were the shift change.
As I was about to give up on finding anything out, Wingsy came out of the triage nurse’s office, followed by a very attractive nurse. For a minute or two I watched him flirting with her. When it got to the stage where I felt embarrassed for him, I walked over to them. She smiled, perfect white teeth dazzling me. Wingsy looked guilty. A streak of red ran to the tips of his oversized ears.
‘Nina,’ said Wingsy. ‘Forgot you were up here this morning. How did it go?’
I glanced from Wingsy to the nurse and back again. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Feeling that he’d suffered enough discomfort, I said, ‘It went fine. Do you have a couple of minutes when you’re finished here?’ I gestured towards the car park with my head.
‘Sure,’ he replied to me before turning his attention back to the nurse. ‘Thank you for your time, Elspeth. You have my number if there’s anything else I can help you with.’
We walked through the automatic glass doors back into fresh air. The crispness of the day pinched me after being inside in the stale hospital air.
‘Does your mate Elspeth know that you’re a happily married baldy?’ I asked as we made our way out of earshot of the patients in wheelchairs smoking cigarettes outside the entrance.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Wingsy, as we parted ways to walk either side of a man attached to a drip trying to roll tobacco into a cigarette paper with his free hand. To get his voice to carry across the gap between us, Wingsy increased his volume. ‘Does Bill know that you were going to ask the doctor at your appointment this morning if it’s safe for you and him to have sex yet?’
The man on the drip looked startled at this remark. Some of his tobacco drifted to the floor from his Rizla. As he looked up from his task, I saw how jaundiced he was.
‘That’s the last time I confide in you, Wingnut.’ We were now clear of the smokers and I was back by his side. ‘What’s the story up here at the hospital, then?’
‘It’s a bit of a strange one,’ said Wingsy, leading me by the elbow into a more remote part of the car park. He made a cursory sweep of the area to make sure no one was about, checking the parked cars too. Satisfied that we couldn’t be overheard, he leaned towards me and said, ‘Very unlikely to have been a robbery, and, besides, nothing seems to have been taken. The victim’s alive, but he’s been unconscious since someone called 999 and the paramedics arrived on the scene. We know a bit about him. He’s not long been released from prison for a serious domestic incident, apparently. I don’t know much else at the moment, until I do a bit of digging later. We’d missed the briefing by the time we got called out today. Someone’s clearly displeased with him, ’cos he was shot a number of times. Whoever dialled three nines did it from an unregistered mobile phone. The interesting thing is, though, that one of the shots was heard by the operator.’
‘So whoever made the call was very close to the scene at the time of the shooting.’
6
Having been prodded and poked at the hospital, I didn’t feel like hanging around with Wingsy. I hadn’t even asked him the victim’s name. I was tired and not back on track yet. I went back to Riverstone police station and spent much of the remainder of the day reading through the Cold Case file.
I had to admit, I was bored. My mind kept going back to what Wingsy had said about the anonymous caller still being present when the shots were fired. Why would you call the police but not wait around, unless you were in some way involved?
Curiosity won at the end of the day. The file I was supposed to be reading was older than me and not doing much to set my world on fire. I looked up the original log of the call to the police for the previous day’s shooting but could find very little. A man who didn’t give his name said that someone had been shot twice and was lying outside Screwfix on the industrial estate off London Road, Kilnchester. The operator then typed on the log that a gunshot was heard before the caller cleared the line. The operator tried to call the number back but the phone was switched off. I read from the log, ‘Firearms officers arrived at the scene – an area search for the male caller was negative.’ They did, however, find an unconscious man bleeding from chest and leg injuries.
I knew that I should be concentrating on the railway accident from 1964, especially as I was due to see Joe Bring the following day and he was going to tell me all about it. I turned my attention back to the paperwork in front of me.
The rest of Cold Case who weren’t called in to help on the shooting were at Crown Court for a rape trial, for an offence in 2002. A woman had been attacked walking home from her friend’s house just past midnight after she missed her last bus. That part of the team’s working day had begun in the office and before I’d left for the hospital I’d eavesdropped on their run-down of the previous day’s evidence. Several months ago, about the time I was working on my first murder enquiry, Barry Oakes, rapist and waste of a skin, decided that the time was right for him to punch his wife in the face. He was arrested, and his DNA taken and loaded into the database. We then had a match against our unsolved crime from 2002. Not to mention a rape victim who could stop peering at every man she met and wondering if it was him.
It would appear that the defendant was a low-life lying bastard and the jury were openly sneering at everything he said. It was to be expected: we had his DNA. It might have taken twelve years, but we’d never stopped looking.
I wasn’t concentrating on the train crash. The words weren’t sinking in. I found myself reading about how the lorry that had caused the train to derail had been one used for carrying fruit and vegetables and marvelling at how, in 1964, no one would have heard of internet shopping. Back then, my Great-Aunt Lou’s head would have exploded if someone had told her that one day she would be able to tap on a keyboard and a van would deliver whatever groceries she wanted, straight to her door.
Interrupting my daydream, the door burst open, revealing a white-faced Jim, red-faced Harry, and Wingsy, whose expression I couldn’t fathom.
Harry kicked the door shut. The force of the kick caused it to ricochet against the frame, catching Wingsy’s arm. He rubbed the back of his upper arm. ‘It’s lucky the door hit me and not him, Harry,’ he said, closing the door again with a little more restraint. ‘If it had been this grass here, you’d be getting nicked for assault.’
‘Fucking pack it in, you two,’ said Harry, cheeks still red. Then, lowering his voice to a rumble and pointing at Wingsy, he said, ‘You, John, I expected better from.’ The use of his first name rather than his nickname was a sign that this was serious. He turned his attention to Jim. I watched Harry’s facial muscles contract and his mouth tighten as if he was about to yell something abusive at him. The three-second pause led me to believe that he was holding himself back for some reason. Wingsy was looking like the guilty party. I hoped it was something funny.
All Harry could manage to say to Jim was, ‘I’ll speak to you in a minute. Go and put the kettle on while I speak to this tosser.’
Jim skulked out of the room. For the first time, Wingsy and Harry turned to acknowledge me.
‘Do I dare ask?’ I risked.
‘It would seem that Jim left his terminal logged on yesterday before we all went out to the shooting,’ said Harry. ‘Wingnut here accessed the “Question the Boss” forum on Jim’s log-in and asked the chief constable if he was any good in a fight.’
I laughed really loud at that. Wingsy was keeping his eyes on the ground but I saw a smile on Harry’s face. ‘I’m your sergeant, so don’t think for one minute that I’m taking this lightly. Chief Inspector Halliday’s going to be speaking to you about your behaviour, too.’ The smile was gone by the time he said this part.
‘Hang on, though, Harry,’ I said. He looked at me. ‘What about Jim – he may have had no choice but to grass Wingsy up, but he shouldn’t have left his terminal unlocked either.’
‘She’s got a point, Harry,’ said Wingsy. ‘What about him?’
‘Just be grateful it’s me dealing with you and that Kim Cotton’s on leave for a couple of weeks,’ said Harry, before finding a free computer to log on to.
I went back to my file, flicking through the crash scene photos and wondering what had happened to all the fruit and veg.
7
On Wednesday morning I got to Pensworth prison early to see Joe. I queued up with the families and friends of loved ones locked up in prison, along with the legal representatives. It was easy to tell them apart: the legal reps tended to have bags and files of paperwork and weren’t standing around in groups looking as if their world had come to an end.
Inside the entrance for visitors, I walked over to the prison officer behind the glass partition. I dropped my acceptance letter approving my visit, along with my warrant card, into the box below the counter.
‘Do you have a mobile phone or any recording equipment?’ he asked through the glass, bending slightly to get closer to the slotted part for speaking through.
‘No,’ I said, automatically also stooping slightly even though I was on a level with it. I’d left my mobile phones in the car; it made life easier.
‘Go on through the doors when they open,’ he said, checking my ID. He pushed the paperwork back to me and I went over to the doors where three other people were waiting.
Having gone through the security procedures, and been searched by a female prison officer, then beckoned forward by another officer, I was led to a desk where a third officer took my photograph. I had to admit, I wasn’t expecting that. On none of the prison visits I’d made before had I ever had my picture taken.
