Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘It’s an official visit,’ she said hastily. ‘I have to take a further statement about that burning car you came across.’

I wondered whose tactful idea that had been. I stepped aside.

‘Come in,’ I said, acutely conscious of my rumpled appearance, in chinos and unironed linen shirt.

Gilchrist was not in uniform, but from the little I knew of her, this was her unofficial uniform: jeans and white T-shirt. She was big on the hips but long-legged and tall enough to carry it off.

I ushered her into my cramped sitting room.

‘You know I’ve already given a statement to Ronnie?’

Gilchrist was standing in the middle of the room. The space seemed unnaturally confined. She nodded.

‘Just a follow-up.’

‘They’re giving you the shit jobs, then,’ I said.

‘At least I’m back on duty.’ She laughed. ‘Although the thought of investigating the disappearance of a cat this morning did test my patience.’

‘A cat?’

She told me of her visit to Beachy Head. I unscrewed the top on an expensive bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and poured us both a glass. I laughed when she came to the end of her story.

‘But you know there’s this whole thing about cats being stolen around here, either to make into fur rugs and stuff or for black magic purposes,’ I said.

‘Black magic – the Lewes loonies, you mean?’

Whereas Brighton was everything wacky and New Age, Lewes, the market town four miles inland, was more superstition and Old Religion. Its residents still burnt the Pope in effigy every Bonfire Night because some Protestants were martyred in the town five hundred years earlier.

‘Who knows?’ I handed her the glass of wine. I told her my theory about burning cars as a sign that big city corruption was creeping into the pristine countryside.

‘Hardly pristine, sir,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You know how many white collar crooks live out here. I don’t think anyone can be a millionaire without cutting a few corners.’

‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘The burning car reminded me of that burnt-out car up at the Ditchling Beacon just about the time the roof fell in.’

‘The roof fell in? I’m not following.’

‘On my career.’ I shrugged. ‘Might be worth seeing if there’s any link.’

Gilchrist frowned.

‘Doesn’t seem likely, sir.’

‘Call me Bob,’ I said gently. ‘Please.’

She held my look, gave a little nod.

‘So have they identified who was in last night’s car yet?’

She shook her head. ‘Folsom is working on the human remains, such as they are. We may never identify the person.’

‘Dentition should help.’

‘That’s always a bit hit and miss.’

I nodded.

‘What do you need from me?’

‘Just the usual. What you saw, what you did, where you’d been. Did you pass any other vehicles or anybody acting suspiciously?’

‘I saw no other vehicles on the lane. I may have passed a couple of cars coming across the Downs. I didn’t really notice.’

I described what had happened with the deer and how I’d walked across the field.

‘And why were you passing that way at that time of night?’ She saw my look. ‘I have to ask.’

‘I was on my way back from a meeting in Brighton.’

‘What kind of meeting?’

‘The private kind.’

She flushed again and seemed to tense.

‘I have to know, I’m sorry.’

‘Not that kind,’ I said, smiling. ‘I had a drink with Sheena Hewitt.’

‘Oh,’ Gilchrist said, not sure whether she should be writing that down or not.

‘About the Milldean investigation.’ I looked at her intently. ‘I thought our successful professional relationship whilst I was Chief Constable might count for something.’

Gilchrist looked down at her pad but didn’t say anything.

‘I’m going to find out exactly what happened,’ I continued. ‘I can’t believe the investigation so far has been so badly handled. Foster’s suicide, Finch and Edwards disappearing without trace, nobody knowing who the grass was. And not a single victim identified.’

Gilchrist met my stare.

‘I wish I knew what happened,’ she said. ‘Because it has fucked my career.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I said shortly.

She looked embarrassed again. Closing her pad, she started to rise.

‘Please, stay a little longer. You haven’t touched your drink.’

She looked embarrassed.

‘I’m on duty.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling foolish.

Gilchrist’s mobile phone rang. She glanced at the number. Excusing herself, she walked over to the window. She listened but scarcely spoke. She finished the call and looked off into space for a moment.

‘You OK?’ I said.

‘Reg Williamson just phoned. The body on the beach has been identified.’

‘That was bloody quick.’

‘It was Detective Constable Finch.’

‘Christ – another suicide? But where’s he been – he can’t have been in the water all this time.’

She shook her head.

‘Apparently, he’s only been in the water a few days. And they don’t think it was suicide.’ She looked up at me with her clear blue eyes. ‘They think he was murdered.’

K ate Simpson drove carefully over the series of speed bumps on the long drive that circled the big mansion. She parked in a small car park at the edge of the cluster of houses at the back of the mansion and walked across to ring the bell on the bright blue door of the bungalow.

She was nervous. Just as she was about to ring again, the door swung open. She looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway. He had a broken nose, generous mouth and bags under his eyes. His blond hair was swept straight back from his forehead.

‘Mr Watts, I’m from Southern City Radio. I wondered if you might like to help with a review of an old murder case.’

‘You doorstep me for that?’

She flushed.

‘I wasn’t really doorstepping you,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve been telephoning but there was no answer and you don’t seem to have an answering machine.’ She showed him an envelope addressed to him.

‘I was going to leave you a note.’

Watts peered at her.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘I was at the press conferences you gave at the time of the Milldean incident.’

‘And you were there the night it happened. Yes, I know that.’ He sounded impatient.

She held his look. Had he been the kind of boss who didn’t suffer fools gladly? How had his staff regarded him?

‘I mean you’re familiar to me aside from that,’ he said.

‘My name’s Kate Simpson.’

It only took him a moment.

‘William’s daughter.’ Watts smiled. ‘My God – I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you straight away.’

‘That’s OK – you haven’t seen me for a couple of years.’

Watts smiled.

‘Local radio is a bit small beer, isn’t it? Couldn’t he get you a better job?’

Anger flared in her eyes. Tight-lipped, she said:

‘I didn’t want and don’t need his help.’

He studied her for a moment then stepped aside.

‘I’m sorry – I’m a bit distracted by some news I’ve just received. Do you drink wine?’

She followed him down a narrow corridor made narrower by piles of boxes neatly stacked along one wall.

‘Books,’ he said over his shoulder as he turned left into a small sitting room. ‘Nowhere else to put them.’

The sitting room had a sofa and a desk. Bookshelves lined every wall, filling any available space, making the room even smaller.

She sat sideways on the sofa as he collected wine and glasses from the kitchen. She gestured at the books.

‘I didn’t expect you to be such a reader.’