Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

‘Maybe you have the wrong stereotype of a policeman. Maybe you’re reading the wrong crime fiction.’

‘Is that what these are?’ she waved at the bookcases. ‘Crime novels?’

He shook his head.

‘I’m not a great fiction reader.’

‘You have some thrillers here, though. Victor Tempest.’

She pointed.

‘They’re my father’s, actually.’

He handed her a glass of pale white wine and sat down beside her. It was a two-seat sofa and awkwardly intimate. He didn’t seem to notice.

‘About this project-’

‘About the money?’

‘It’s local radio…’

‘So no money.’

She flushed.

‘But being on the radio…’

He looked into his wine. She flushed again. He had done so much national radio and TV that there was nothing at all in it for him. She was aware she was out of her depth.

‘What’s the case?’ he said in a kindly voice.

‘The Brighton Trunk Murder of 1934. The unsolved one.’

He put down his glass.

‘I don’t think so.’

Kate put her glass down too.

‘I think you were a scapegoat.’ He seemed startled by the sudden change of topic. ‘And I assume my father railroaded you.’

‘That’s not over yet.’

‘Why won’t you help me?’ she said, leaning forward over her knees.

‘It’s not what I’m good at.’

She knew she wasn’t hiding her disappointment. Her face always showed her emotions, however much she tried to mask them. But if he noticed, he didn’t respond.

‘Do you miss being a policeman?’

He nodded slowly.

‘It’s what I always wanted to be.’

‘Family tradition?’

He hesitated, she assumed because he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to share personal things with her.

‘Crime is.’ He smiled faintly at her bemused expression. ‘My father wrote crime novels. Still writes them, though his type is rather out of fashion now. No serial killers or pathologists in them.’

‘I think my grandfather was in the police.’

‘He was. He made chief constable, like me.’

‘I never knew him – he’d died long before I was born.’

Watts nodded.

‘Does your father live round here?’ Kate asked.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was just wondering if he might want to get involved with this – I was going to get a crime writer – and a father and son working on the case together…’

He shook his head and took another sip of his wine.

‘He lives in London, but we wouldn’t work well together. Even supposing he were interested – which I know he wouldn’t be.’

‘I’ve got all these files that were thought lost or destroyed. I’ve photocopied a set. Please say you’ll help.’

He stood and walked to the window, looked out at the back of the Elizabethan house across the courtyard.

‘Aren’t they police property?’

‘Apparently the police aren’t interested in them.’

‘Drop the documents off and I’ll have a look. I’m making no promises, though.’

‘The photocopies are in my car – shall I get them now?’

I watched Kate Simpson drive off, then hefted the box of photocopied documents back into the bungalow. Sarah was standing in my bedroom doorway.

‘I didn’t realize you were going to invite her in.’ There was irritation in her tone. ‘I felt weird skulking in your bedroom’

‘Sorry – I recognized her. A family friend. Kind of. It was strange seeing her again.’

I looked down at the box I was holding.

‘Could you hear what we were talking about?’

‘Those files – somebody phoned me about them the other day.’

‘You’re the one who wasn’t interested?’

‘It was a misunderstanding.’

She indicated her half-empty wine glass.

‘Do you think she noticed the presence of a third glass?’

I shrugged.

‘She’s a radio journalist, not Sherlock Holmes. Bright, though.’

I put the box down.

‘Do you want to help with this?’

‘I think that’s what I was supposed to do when the call came through to me. I was out of line responding as I did.’ She shrugged. ‘My first cold case. Sure. As if I haven’t enough else on my plate.’

There was a tension between us and we both knew why. We’d enjoyed our night together all those months ago. And not just the sex. We’d enjoyed talking, joking. It had been hard to leave it at that one night. For both of us, I suspected.

And now, here she’d been, hiding in my bedroom. We were alone and my circumstances had changed. Except that I was hoping Molly and I could find a way to get back together.

I suddenly got embarrassed, wondering if I’d left dirty clothes lying around. I put the box on my desk and turned back to her. She’d resumed her seat on the sofa.

‘But what about Finch?’ I said. ‘If he has been murdered, then he must have been involved in some kind of set-up. What do you know about him?’

‘Only that he was an asshole.’

‘Did he have a girlfriend? A close friend we should talk to?’

Gilchrist shrugged.

‘I don’t know and we can’t talk to them anyway. I’m not on this case.’

‘I need to talk to Munro, see where he’s got to in his investigation.’

‘I wasn’t impressed by his officers when they interviewed me.’

‘He’s a good man,’ I said.

She looked at the floor.

‘I thought at first that night in Milldean was shades of Operation Rambo.’

I must have looked puzzled.

‘Before your time, sir… Bob. It was part of a high-profile drugs operation. Seven officers smashed their way into a listed cottage and ransacked it. Overturned furniture, emptied cupboards, poured the contents of bathroom and kitchen cabinets into sinks and baths.’

‘Looking for drugs.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately we’d got the wrong house.’

I groaned.

‘We’ve done it before?’

‘Dozens of times, I’m sure. On that occasion we should have been battering our way into the house next door. ACC Macklin handled the house-owner’s claim for compensation. He decided the man was taking the piss, the amount of compensation he was asking for. Ten grand, I think. Replacement front door in a listed building, damage to antique furniture in the house. The distress caused: the raid had taken place in broad daylight in full view of passers-by and neighbours. The local press described it as a successful drug raid. The man lost his job.

‘Macklin offered two grand. The man went to court. He spent ten grand on legal fees then came up against an unsympathetic judge. He warned him to settle or risk paying police costs as well. Macklin reduced his offer to five hundred pounds.’

I shook my head.

‘No wonder we get a bad press for being arrogant and out of touch.’

Sarah spread her hands.

‘Look, there’s something I’m not happy about,’ she said. ‘That night in Milldean.’

‘The thing in the man’s hand?’

‘Nobody is interested. Command has gone to shit since you resigned. All the senior people are desperately trying to cover their backs, so nobody is doing any proper managing or policing. The crime rate is rising…’

She was getting heated.

‘What was in his hand? A weapon?’

‘I thought it might be when I first saw him. But I don’t think so.’

‘What, then?’

‘I think it was a mobile phone.’

‘And it never made it to the evidence box?’

‘I think either Finch or one of those blokes from Haywards Heath took it. Which was odd, but I thought it would be entered into evidence. It wasn’t.’

‘Did you ask them about it?’

‘Yes. Except for Finch. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. The Haywards Heath men denied removing anything.’