Roxanne

Book 11: A DC Smith/Kings Lake Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Life, as DC Smith used to say, is just one thing after another. As one investigation ends, a new one begins. But for reasons unknown to the rest of her team, DCI Cara Freeman will be haunted by the next case for the Kings Lake Central murder squad. They find themselves delving into the seamy side of life in the town, and one of their number will have departed before this new investigation is over. Perhaps Detective Sergeant Chris Waters should have seen it coming but he has a lot more than work on his mind these days. 

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 352

Sample

Even when the judge had called the jury back into the Crown Court for the second time, he seemed to be a kindly and a patient man. The forewoman reported that they could not agree a unanimous verdict despite the three hours they had spent in further deliberation, and despite the fact there was only a single charge to consider against a single defendant. The judge invited her to sit and explained to the court that this was a part of the system of justice, a necessary part, and they, the twelve men and women representing their fellow citizens, were not to feel they had failed in any way whatsoever. ‘Far from it,’ he said; ‘No one can be in any doubt that you are doing your work thoroughly and impartially.’

The judge had paused there and looked at the table where the two lawyers for the defence were sitting. Then his gaze travelled to the space at the back of the court where the accused man sat behind a Perspex screen and between two uniformed security guards. The courtroom was absolutely silent – it seemed that no one wanted to argue with his assessment of the predicament in which they all found themselves.

‘We have reached the point at which I can give you, the jury, further instruction,’ the judge had said. ‘All my previous words about how you are to proceed still apply but I will now accept a majority verdict upon which at least ten of you are agreed. You are under no pressure to reach a verdict today. Retire to the room once more and continue your work. The clerk to the court will monitor your progress at a quarter to four. If necessary, this court will re-convene tomorrow morning at half past nine.’

Those words had been spoken at twenty minutes past twelve. When the jury left the courtroom, there was a sort of exhalation and quiet conversations began again. The judge retired to his chambers, lawyers wandered off and the accused was talking to one of his guards. Detective Chief Inspector Cara Freeman said she would go outside the building first and check in with Lake Central on her phone, and so Detective Sergeant Christopher Waters went only as far as the corridor. At any moment, a message could come from the jury asking for some clarification of the evidence in the prosecution’s case and he might even find himself on the stand.

The Crown Court in Cambridge is a circular, modern building, capable of holding four trials simultaneously. Other people stood along the first-floor corridor, some alone, some talking in twos and threes. Waters turned towards one of the large windows and looked down at the busy road that ran close to the building. There was a steady stream of inner-city traffic in both directions, the ordinary, everyday flow of existences giving no thought to this strange social eddy until some event in their lives draws them into it, and they find themselves circling around in its arcane processes, sometimes for months on end. People here wear wigs and funny clothes, and talk in strange languages, and time can seem to stand still, even to be going backwards. The wheels of justice turn slowly, like the mills of God. One can only hope, Waters thought, that in this particular case, like those same mills, they also grind exceeding small.

When he looked along the corridor again, he could see Freeman returning. She was wearing a dark grey, pin-striped jacket and matching skirt, a formal business suit – a contrast to her usual office attire. She often gave the impression of not being quite certain what to wear on a day-to-day basis, as if she had too many things on her mind when she dressed for work, but court days were different. Waters had already learned this and was dressed in his own best suit. He also knew that none of this was because the detective chief inspector had an exaggerated respect for the workings of the present justice system. If anything, the reverse was the case, but she knew that verdicts can turn on the tiniest of details; if one old dear thought the police were not very smartly dressed these days and was therefore inclined to vote not guilty, months of work could be wasted.

As it happened, neither of them had been called to the stand in this case, but Freeman had clarified some questions about the CCTV footage from her seat behind the prosecutor’s desk in the courtroom. Waters had no doubt that in doing so she had made an excellent impression on the jury, which consisted of seven women and five men.

When she reached Waters, Freeman said, ‘Go and stretch your legs, get a coffee,’ but he declined the suggestion, and she didn’t try to persuade him. In most things with Freeman, you got just the one opportunity.

She leaned back against the railing in front of the window that overlooked the road and said, ‘What d’you think? How’s it going?’

He said, ‘It’s what we anticipated. A lot of circumstantial evidence and not enough of the other sort.’

She nodded and said, ‘I’ve known cases with more of that get nodded through in a couple of hours. But if we’ve got a know-all in there… I’m guessing that’s why we won’t get a unanimous verdict.’

‘A know-all, ma’am?’

Freeman crossed her arms. ‘Someone who spends his or her leisure time watching “CSI” or endless re-runs of “Silent Witness”. I’d say three or four of this jury are retired, so the probability is quite high.’

Waters frowned as he thought this over.

‘Retired people are more likely to be know-alls?’

‘Yes. They have too much time on their hands. They watch these programmes and believe they’ve become experts in forensics and the law. Armchair detectives.’

Waters said, ‘What about reading crime fiction? I expect lots of retired people do that as well.’

It was almost a year since Chris Waters had first worked with Cara Freeman but he still found her face difficult to read at times. She seemed to be giving his question serious consideration.

She said, ‘Yes, I see your point. That probably doesn’t help with jury service either, but it’s not so bad. At least we know those people can read. I think there should be basic literacy tests before you can serve on a jury.’

A little group of people had gathered outside Court 3 where their case was being held, including one of the ushers. Both detectives watched and listened but there was no sign of a significant development.

Waters said, ‘Anything at Central?’

‘Not much. The CPS have said the hit-and-run is a manslaughter charge but we’ll see it through – the squad, I mean. I must say, I’m a little disappointed with West Norfolk as far as the murder rate goes. Three cases of our own in, what, nine months? In the not-too-distant future, I’m going to find myself justifying our existence.’

And this was true, he knew. The murder squad’s work would be reviewed after its first year. He said, ‘We’ve provided some good assistance to East Norfolk and Cambridgeshire. We haven’t been idle, ma’am.’

Freeman pushed herself off the railing and gazed up and down the corridor. Such places have a higher than usual frequency of villains, for obvious reasons, and the DCI was perhaps on the look-out for an opportunity. Patience was not one of her strongest qualities.

In answer to Waters, she said, ‘True. But it’s not the same as having your own – a bit like looking after other people’s kids, I suppose. Not that I know much about that…’

She looked at her watch, making Waters do the same thing.

Then Freeman said, ‘I’ll hang around until two o’clock, and then I’ll leave you to it. I don’t think they’ll need any more from us, but if they do, you’ll handle it. Someone needs to be representing us. Get a taxi to the train station when the day’s over and someone will pick you up in Lake.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The group of people had all re-entered the courtroom, and it was time for them to do the same. Freeman said, ‘The only other thing at Central was a missing girl. Or woman. She’s twenty-two. Is she a girl or a woman?’

‘Both? It depends on the context.’

‘Did you ever consider a career in the diplomatic service?’

‘No, ma’am.’

She began to walk towards the doors of Court 3 and Waters did the same.

‘Anyway, a missing female person, reported yesterday.’

‘Nothing very unusual so far, ma’am.’

This was the reason for the two o’clock decision – he knew it, and she knew that he knew. She stopped just outside the court and said, ‘According to Serena, she’s an escort. So there’s an alarm bell already ringing somewhere. Ever since Ipswich…’

Steven Wright, the Suffolk Strangler, had murdered five call girls in as many weeks, and there had been accusations the police had been slow off the mark, not least because of the suggestion that if women wander the streets after dark selling sex, they must know the risks. It was only a matter of weeks since DCI Freeman had told her squad, in conversation one afternoon, that she had been a young detective constable taking part in that very investigation, fourteen years ago.

When they entered the courtroom, every face turned to them, and every other seat was filled. The judge smiled but watched them until they too were seated, and then he began to address the proceedings. The jury had informed him they had reached a verdict, and he has sent for them.

The deliberations of juries in the British legal system remain one of the very last aspects of our lives free from the intrusions of the media. Think about it. Have you ever read or heard anything which describes how this or that juror argued for or against a verdict? After the event, a juror may tell family and friends the nature of the cases he or she has tried but they must not reveal, ever, who said what or how others were persuaded to come to a majority. Before the process begins, the judge explains the importance of all this, and he explains the consequences of a failure to abide by the rules, but, by and large, the ordinary men and women who are given such responsibilities carry them out to the letter.

They entered the courtroom from their own separate doorway in the rear left-hand corner, one by one, returning to the seats allocated to them at the beginning of the trial. Waters felt a movement, someone lightly touching his left arm, and when he looked at Freeman, she said in a whisper, without looking back at him, ‘Got him.’

He didn’t have a chance to ask her – things were happening. The two security guards were on their feet. One of them told the defendant he should get up too, and he did so. The judge looked at the clerk to the court expectantly, and the clerk managed to get the attention of the forewoman of the jury. He made a barely noticeable gesture to her with his right hand, palm upwards, indicating she should stand before they could proceed. She did so, looking a little embarrassed because she’d forgotten – a tall, thin, bespectacled woman in late middle age who had never expected anything like this would happen to her. The judge asked her whether they had reached a verdict upon which at least ten of them were agreed, and she said they had done so. He asked her to remain standing in that case, and instructed the clerk to read out the charge for a final time.

The clerk was a wizened little man of indeterminate years and lethal wit – Waters had met him before. It did no harm at all to become a familiar face to such people, and it was certain no one knew more about the workings of this Crown Court than the person who was now standing and addressing it in his black robe.

‘… that Ryan Shepherd, in Kings Lake in the county of Norfolk, on the 9th of September 2018, in the company of persons unknown, did murder Neville Barry Murfitt. Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

From the public gallery, a woman’s voice said ‘No!’ but even in that single sound Waters detected disappointment rather than shock. Since the beginning of the trial, the three of them had sat there, and he thought the older one must be Shepherd’s mother. The others were younger – maybe sisters or perhaps even a girlfriend. The people who commit these crimes have lives that in some ways resemble our own. They have families and birthdays and Christmases and holidays, but something went wrong, and it was usually a long time ago. Waters’ gaze went from them to Shepherd. His expression had barely altered during the four days of the trial. He was staring at the jury now but without surprise, his head virtually shaven, his short, powerful, weightlifter’s body, one imagined, more than a handful for the two security guards if he decided to kick off, but there was no sign of him doing so.

The judge said that sentencing would be deferred for reports, as it always is now, and then the final words ‘Take him down’ before Shepherd was escorted out of the courtroom and the free world.

There is rarely an air of celebration. The two representatives of the local media were already on their feet and leaving. The defence lawyers didn’t look unduly worried as they put their papers away and the young woman who had led the case for the prosecution – rather well, thought Waters – was looking at her mobile phone. He turned to Freeman and said, ‘How did you know, when the jurors returned?’

She said, ‘They didn’t even glance in his direction, not one of them. An old boss of mine used to look for that, and it’s usually a sign. They know they’ve just handed someone a mandatory life sentence. I have to say I haven’t met many people who more thoroughly deserved one.’

Freeman had led the interviewing of Ryan Shepherd after he was brought to Kings Lake from Norwich last November. Waters had seen some of the recordings and been told there was no point in watching the rest; Shepherd had been ‘No comment’ from the beginning, issuing a series of short, prepared statements through his solicitor as further evidence was disclosed. At no point had he protested his innocence or even been unpleasant – he understood the law and the nature of the case against him. If they could make it stick, he’d do the time.

Waters said, ‘Most of the jury weren’t bothered by the circumstantial evidence in the end.’

Freeman stood up, and Waters could see she intended to speak to the prosecutor before leaving the courtroom. She said, ‘Shepherd was done for as soon as the judge ruled disclosure of his previous convictions admissible. By the time Miss Nowak had worked her way through that, everyone was wondering why it took so long for him to appear somewhere on a murder charge. We should go and say our thank yous. She helped us put away a monster.’

They did so. Freeman had met her before during case preparation but Waters also made himself known to her now. Officially it should make no difference – the evidence is the evidence and any Crown Prosecution Service lawyer should be able to present it. Unofficially, these are important relationships. Lawyers have excellent memories, and they begin to recognise the names of investigating officers as the briefs are prepared; in their turn, the detectives who provide the evidence, some of it hard-earned indeed, learn to trust certain prosecuting lawyers more than others.

Miss Nowak was charming, and Waters shook hands with her twice before Freeman led the way out of Courtroom 3. In the corridor, she said, ‘One to watch out for. I’d ask for her again if anything similar turns up.’

Waters said, ‘I didn’t think we could do that – ask the CPS for a specific prosecutor.’

‘Of course we can. I think you mean we’re not supposed to. But you’re an idiot if you don’t sometimes. Not all lawyers are equal. And besides, it makes them feel wanted. People who feel wanted do a better job.’

The walk to the car was going to be a brisk one. Waters made one stride to Freeman’s two, more or less, but it still required a little effort to keep up. Even with an hour’s fast driving north from Cambridge to Kings Lake, it would be late afternoon before they were back in the office. Plenty of senior officers would tacitly accept that the day – and it had been a very good, productive day – was over as far as work was concerned. Freeman, however, wasn’t one of them.

She said, ‘As soon as we’re moving, call the office and give them the good news. Tell them we’ll do drinks later in the week.’

They were still forty yards from her red Mazda CX-30 when she pressed the key and the car acknowledged her approach with a flash of lights. Waters had worked with her for long enough now, and so winning bets with himself was hardly worth the self-congratulation. He simply nodded when she added, ‘And see if there’s any news about the missing girl.’

It was almost five thirty that same afternoon before Commander Harry Alexander returned Freeman’s phone call. Because he was her boss, she didn’t put it on the speaker but they all heard him raise his voice as he congratulated them on their first full conviction as a new squad. Denise Sterling and Maya Kumar were at the prison in Norwich, just a few hundred yards from the commander’s office, but the rest of the squad were in the room in Kings Lake Central. As Waters watched and joined in the nodding and smiling, he saw Detective Inspector Greene make a note in a file – quite possibly he had recorded the date and time at which Commander Alexander, head of the Regional Serious Crimes Unit, had been informed of the verdict in the Neville Murfitt case.

Cara Freeman lowered her voice then and half-swivelled her chair away from them, but Waters heard her ask about Michael Wortley. It was a long answer, and Freeman didn’t interrupt it – she just thanked the very senior detective at the other end of the line before ending the call. She did not re-engage with the rest of them straight away but stared a little at nothing in particular – something Waters thought he had rarely seen her do. Greene was filing papers and folders away in his desk, and that usually signalled the end of the day’s work as long as there was no active investigation underway, but no one else was making any move to leave the room.

Eventually Freeman said, ‘OK. You all heard what Harry had to say, no need to repeat any of that. He’s in a good mood. Shepherd’s trial doesn’t seem to have impacted on Regional’s own case. I don’t know any details but I’m guessing they have someone on the inside. The fact that Murfitt was killed in Lake and that Shepherd was stupid enough to get caught on CCTV seems to have convinced his employers that it hasn’t led back to them. And obviously, Regional have made sure that it didn’t. Some promises will have been made to Shepherd by people a lot higher up the food-chain than he is, as well as some threats, but we never asked any serious questions about his motives, for the same reason. Shepherd’s defence wanted to open that up but the judge cut it short. No doubt someone had had a word. Shepherd’s record of unprovoked violence shows he doesn’t need a motive. In short – we got some justice for Neville Murfitt without trashing Regional’s ongoing investigations. Quite a neat job, really.’

Waters said, ‘What about Michael Wortley? Have we heard anything, ma’am?’

The look the DCI gave him said, you know we have, you heard me asking, but she didn’t look annoyed. Why would she? Either you want people good at finding things out or you don’t. Without the name Wortley had written on a piece of paper in her office seven months ago, Ryan Shepherd would still be walking the streets of Norwich, and without Detective Sergeant Christopher Waters, Michael Wortley would not have been in her office to write down that name; she still wasn’t clear what had occurred between the two men but something had, something she hadn’t been told about. It was a sleeping dog, and one that Freeman was prepared to let lie for now.

She said, ‘I did ask the commander about him. All I got was that he’s somewhere safe. I don’t think he’s gone into full witness protection, and from what I learned about Michael Wortley, I doubt if he’d have accepted that anyway. But Regional have helped him to disappear, I think. Until they need him. At some point, he might be asked to testify about what he was involved in, and what he saw in the house in Norwich. If he does so, he’ll need to disappear again.’

In releasing the immigrant women from the house where they had been kept as sex-workers, Wortley had annoyed the people running that operation, but if he went on to give evidence against them in a trial, he would earn their undying hatred. He might never be able to sleep easily again, however far he travelled and however many years passed by. Wortley had never been a criminal as such, but the code would be applied to him, nonetheless. As “a grass”, he would always and forever be a target for their revenge. Smith had an old saying for every occasion, and Waters thought this one might be covered by “He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon.” The matter had come up briefly during the long conversation he’d had with Wortley in the flat that Thursday evening. Wortley had shrugged and accepted it as a fact – Waters suspected that having to look over his shoulder was a penance Wortley was prepared to pay for having allowed himself to become involved with such unpleasant people.

Freeman said, ‘Now the trial’s over, there’s some paperwork to be done. An appeal isn’t likely but just in case… So, Tom will be taking care of that from tomorrow morning, with as much uncomplaining assistance as he needs. Denise should have tidied up the re-interviewing after the manslaughter charge this afternoon. What else have I missed today?’

Much of the past few weeks had been spent trying to breathe life back into two cold cases, both murders on the east coast of the county; one was five and the other seven years old. Detective Sergeant Denise Sterling had been working in Great Yarmouth at the time of both, though not directly on those cases, and so she had taken an unofficial lead on this but neither showed any signs of imminent resuscitation. Tom Greene would know the figures if you asked him – more than a quarter of murders result in no charges five years after the event. But Waters knew perfectly well that DCI Freeman had not just asked to be told anything like that about those cold cases.

And it was Freeman who brought the silence to an end.

‘Serena, when I called in earlier, you mentioned a missing girl.’

‘Ma’am. After your call, I did follow it up. I spoke to DI Terek, but…’

Serena was very good at this sort of thing. Waters caught Murray’s eye but the big man had already spotted where it was going.

Freeman said, ‘But what?’

‘Well, he wasn’t very forthcoming, ma’am. He said CID had been made aware of it by uniform, and they were keeping a watching brief – I think that’s how he put it. He said it’s basically just a missing persons case. Not something important enough for us to bother with, ma’am.’

Freeman’s eyes met all the others in the room before she said, ‘And by “us”, he meant?’

‘The squad, ma’am. At least I think that’s what he meant.’

‘You mentioned that it was me who had asked for more info? You mentioned my name?’

Serena said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Freeman looked at Murray and said, ‘John, you’ve been here all day. In my absence, did DCI Reeve bring her extended leave of absence to an end? Has she returned to Central and taken back control of all detectives not in this room?’

Murray said, ‘Not to my knowledge, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, John – I just needed to check that I am still in charge. I’m going downstairs now. I’ll be a few minutes. You can all go home.’

When she had left the room, only Detective Inspector Greene seemed to be taking her at her word. He stood up and pulled on his suit jacket in no particular hurry as he said to them, ‘If in the next few minutes there is an incident that requires writing up, take notes and let me have them in the morning. Presumably, if one member of the Kings Lake detective force murders another, it would be an external investigation. We’ll all be material witnesses, so get your stories straight.’

It would be difficult to imagine a police officer less interested in or impressed by office politics and internal power struggles than DI Thomas Greene, and you didn’t need to know him long before you realised that. As a result, no one attempted to involve him in those matters at all, leaving him free to work with anyone in the building without fear or favour. Some viewed him as oddly quiet and others as quietly odd, but his reputation for efficiently getting the job done was now well established at Lake Central.

When he’d left the room, further looks were exchanged but nobody else showed any signs of leaving. Clive Betts said, ‘Wouldn’t mind being a fly on Terek’s wall just about now.’

Serena shrugged – ‘Someone’ll be listening in. Fordy or Mike will tell us the grisly details.’

Waters said to her, ‘I’m assuming your conversation with DI Terek went just as you said.’

That was not a question but she understood his implication, and pretended to resent it.

‘Word for word! He was basically telling me to keep my nose out of it. Telling us to keep our noses out of it. To mind our own business.’

One of the skills a manager needs is to be able to plot the middle course between the clashing rocks of powerful personalities, and it was one Chris Waters was acquiring. He said to her then, ‘Maybe Terek has a point. Missing persons . . .