Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

He hadn’t known how she would react, but she surprised him with her calm. ‘It’s not a problem. You didn’t want to upset me, to put me off after I’d set my heart on the cottage. That was sweet of you. Just like your trust in your old friend.’

‘Barrie may have seemed odd, but he was a gentle soul.’

‘You and he were only kids. Time passes. People change.’

‘Not that much. There wasn’t a violent bone in his body. My father knew Barrie, he entertained him one wet afternoon with the card tricks he used to amuse Louise and me with. Barrie lapped it up, the two of them got along famously. That should have counted for something with the old man.’

‘You discussed it with him?’

‘Not for a long time. I was too furious. It seemed to me that they’d found a convenient scapegoat. But eventually I made the call. He’d retired by then and he nearly had a seizure when he realised it was me on the line. He wasn’t good at articulating his feelings, but that was what I suppose I wanted. When it didn’t happen, I felt frustrated. I’d had a couple of beers, I said a few harsh things. When I rang again to apologise, he said he’d done a lot of thinking. He wanted to call my mother and apologise for the hurt he’d caused her. Louise too.’

‘And did he?’

Daniel kept his eyes fixed on the line of cars ahead. ‘No, but it wasn’t his fault. I–I didn’t encourage him. I said they were both still bitter, even after so many years. Knowing them as I did, I couldn’t imagine them letting bygones be bygones. They were too proud.’

‘Did you discuss Barrie Gilpin?’

‘It was a one-sided conversation. He clammed up on me. I had the feeling that there was plenty he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it. Not long after that, while I was speaking at a conference in Philadelphia, he died. Killed one night in a hit and run accident. They never found the driver, I suppose it was some idiot who was way over the limit. I didn’t even find out he was dead until after the funeral. My mother had a stroke a month later and never regained consciousness.’

‘What did you think he’d wanted to tell you?’

He hesitated. ‘It’s probably wishful thinking.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something in his manner made me believe that he agreed with me. He didn’t believe Barrie Gilpin was a murderer.’

‘Think of it as an opportunity, a new start.’ The Assistant Chief Constable had spent six months on a management training programme in the United States and she’d come back with the tooth-whitened smile and relentless self-confidence of a seasoned television evangelist. ‘A fresh challenge.’

Hannah Scarlett said through gritted teeth, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You’re not happy, Hannah,’ the ACC said gently.

Not a question, but a statement with a sub-text: the difficulty lay with Hannah and not with the job she’d been offered. Lauren Self liked to think of herself as adept at psychology. Her rapid rise to high office was proof, so far as the dinosaurs in the Cumbria Constabulary were concerned, that in the modern police force, people management skills mattered more than mere detective work — what mattered was whether you could talk a good game.

‘Not really, ma’am.’

The ACC topped up their tumblers of sparkling water. ‘Shall we chat about it?’

They were both sitting on the same low, semi-circular leather sofa. The faintest tang of citrus hung in the air. Abstract oil paintings, splashes of blue and gold, decorated the walls. It was so cosy not even the most sceptical diehard in the Police Federation could complain about a confrontational management style. The ACC simply didn’t do confrontation, it wasn’t in her vocabulary. She was a passionate believer in talking through problems, in seeking consensus. Faced with a complaint, she preferred to kill it with kindness. If the worst came to the worst, she might resort to mediation.

Hannah took a breath. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’

‘Hannah, I do understand.’

The ACC spoke as though soothing a juvenile martyr to period pains. She had three children and their bright-eyed pictures stood on top of a bookcase crammed with tomes covering every aspect of staff relations and the measurement of key performance indicators in the modern police service. Raising children was, Hannah thought, ideal training for a woman who had to deal with rebellious or intransigent police officers. Hannah didn’t have any kids herself, although occasionally she wondered if she’d spent the last seven years sleeping with one.

She took a sip of water. ‘This is all about the collapse of the Patel trial, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Hannah.’

You might not say it, Hannah thought. But it’s true. When a murder prosecution falls apart in such spectacular fashion, someone has to take the blame. Where there’s a PR disaster, there must be a scapegoat. This time, it’s me.

‘I know you had reservations, ma’am.’ Somehow she managed to resist the urge to say: you sat on the fence, waiting to see if we’d drop lucky. ‘But the case was sound enough to take to court.’

‘Mmmmm.’ The ACC could pack a wealth of meaning into the simplest sound. A mere clearing of the throat could express a gamut of emotions and a reproving cough sufficed where others would rant and swear.

‘Sudhakar Rao was murdered ten years ago. It’s a long time. Sometimes it just isn’t possible to find corroboration.’

‘Well…’ The ACC looked disappointed that Hannah couldn’t come up with a better excuse.

‘Of course there was risk.’ Hannah hated herself for sounding defensive, but the ACC had that effect upon people; it was another of the qualities that had secured her high office. ‘There’s always risk when you rely on a criminal’s word. But Golac was adamant that Patel hired him. The cuckolded husband, wanting his wife’s lover dead. Golac’s story fitted the facts. We couldn’t find a single hole in his statement.’

‘Or a single piece of evidence to support it.’

‘Ivan Golac is an old man, his heart’s weak. He faces spending the rest of his life in prison. He’d kept his mouth shut for long enough. Like he said to me, now he has nothing to lose by telling the truth. And nothing to gain by lying.’

‘Fifteen minutes of fame,’ the ACC suggested. ‘He liked being the centre of attention, it gave him something to fill his days. Being seen as hard. He’s spent all his life as a second-rate villain. He’d be walking the streets now if the security guard he clubbed had a thicker skull. But — a hitman? That’s very different. Dangerous, someone that nobody in their right mind messes with. A Premier League killer.’

The ACC liked to throw the occasional soccer metaphor into her conversations, just to show that she was really one of the lads. It made no difference if she were speaking to a female subordinate like Hannah who didn’t have a clue what she meant.

Hannah said, ‘You think it was just a robbery gone wrong? That Golac simply panicked and Sudhakar Rao was in the wrong corner shop at the wrong time?’

The ACC frowned. ‘I really can’t say, Hannah. The judge may have been caustic, but I rather go along with his old-fashioned idea that before a man’s convicted of murder, it helps for the court to see his guilt proved beyond reasonable doubt.’

She had to be taking the piss — surely? Hannah counted to ten, then to fifteen just to be on the safe side, before saying, ‘You’ve seen Golac’s witness statement. It had the ring of truth.’

‘You heard the judge,’ the ACC said. ‘Once Golac refused to testify, the statement couldn’t be read in place of sworn evidence. Sandeep Patel walked away without a stain on his character. The way he’s talking to the Press, he’s another victim.’