The Dentist, page 4
Chapter 7
As they walked across the open area in the MCU Mackenzie got up from her desk. She wasn’t going to let her chance slip away again. She knocked on Cross’ office door and walked in.
‘Hi.’
Not this again. Cross waited for her to tell him what she needed. She seemed to have no understanding of the efficacy of just saying what it was she had to say.
‘I’m Alice. The new trainee PSI.’ This he already knew, so he just looked at her, still waiting. She looked over at Ottey who wasn’t in the mood to help either her, or Cross, in this situation. Whatever she said wasn’t going to change the way he behaved and so this girl had better get used to it. She also couldn’t be bothered justifying any helpful interjection she may have tried to make on the girl’s behalf, to an indignant Cross, after the girl had left the office.
‘Police Staff Investigator.’
‘I know what a PSI is,’ Cross finally said.
‘Of course,’ she waited, expecting him to ask her what she wanted. But he didn’t. He just looked at her. She felt he was putting her in her place - which was completely unnecessary as the fact that everyone had gone out of their way to ignore her for the past few days had indicated to her in no uncertain way exactly where her place was.
‘I’ve been tracking down all weddings in the area on the date inside the ring with surnames beginning with H L or C.’
There was a pause as Cross took this in. Ottey sighed, she knew what was coming, she’d had to sit through this enough times, but there was no point in interrupting.
‘I see, and who told you to do that?’
‘No-one.’
‘I thought that might be the case, and do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘There’s no need to answer rhetorical questions. The reason I knew that is that I decide on all the actions to be taken in a case. We have a process here. I put a plan of action together which is then assigned to people working the case. This means no two people are duplicating each other’s work because they didn’t check with each other. It saves time and man-hours which, in the current climate, we’re ridiculously short of. So please don’t take it upon yourself to undertake an action or course of actions without my authorisation.’
‘I see. That makes sense.’
‘Make the search nationwide.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Of course, but for future reference there’s no need to ask.’
‘What?’
Ottey couldn’t help but smile at this point. He was at times unintentionally funny.
‘To be excused.’
‘No, I meant ‘nationwide’. That’ll take hours.’ she said.
‘Possibly a couple of days. Bring it to me when it’s done.’
Mackenzie waited for a moment then remembered his rank, the fact that she’d only been there a few days and was still learning the way things work and left. Cross went back to his lists. Ottey watched her go. She’d seen this so many times. On one occasion someone took bets in the office, on how many days the new staff would last working for him. But there was something about Alice - the way she had just got on with it and then didn’t exactly moan - that ticked a box with Ottey. She turned to Cross.
‘Alice...’
‘Alice?’ for a second he hadn’t got a clue who Ottey is talking about. There was no Alice involved in the case. Then he remembered.
‘Oh, Alice.’
‘She’s new.’
Cross thought for a moment, leafing mentally through all the comments Ottey had made to him in the past about the way he conducted himself at work, and remembered – make allowances for staff members, especially when they were new.
‘Oh right.’
‘At least she showed initiative.’
‘Yes. I suppose she did.’ She sat.
‘So. We have a name, which could be a pseudonym, we have rare contact lenses and now we have a suspect.’
‘Potential suspect.’
‘Potential suspect,’ Ottey corrected herself. ‘Okay, so we need to speak to Lenny’s friend.’
‘A bearded, homeless, middle-aged man wearing a beanie.’
‘Exactly. Well, we know he’s on the streets.’
‘Which makes him virtually invisible. He’s also on the run,’ Cross observed.
‘How do we know that?’
‘Because of the cider. He ran. He knew he’d hurt Lenny badly. He knows he’s in trouble. He’ll be keeping out of sight.’
‘He needs to eat and we know he has no money,’ she said.
‘We don’t actually know that,’ he replied.
‘But it’s a fairly safe assumption.’ She regretted it as soon as she’d said it and so went on to prevent the forthcoming lecture even beginning. ‘Alright, I know no such thing exists. So he could have money. Begging? People see regimental tattoos on his arms, the medals, someone who has served his country and is now on the streets. People won’t like it.’
Cross looked at her.
‘What? Oh come on those aren’t assumptions. That’s common sense,’ she said.
‘Another myth. So you know all that for a fact?’ he asked.
‘Give me a break. The problem remains the same. How do you find a homeless person, living on the streets, who doesn’t want to be found?’ she said.
He didn’t reply as he was actually thinking this puzzle through. Ottey got up, bored with his pedantry. No wonder she always got home exhausted. What she didn’t know was that this exchange had actually been useful for her colleague. It was the mention of regimental tattoos.
Cross didn’t attend the daily meeting. He was the only one of the team afforded this privilege much to the chagrin of one or two officers, who thought it implied that his work was more valuable than theirs. That morning he was delving into Badger’s military background. Whitby, or “Badger” as he became known – there must be a story behind that – had a distinguished military record before being discharged on medical grounds. He’d served in both the Afghan and Iraq wars. Cross enjoyed this kind of research. He loved gaining more detail about subjects he only had a vague general knowledge of. He was a fact gatherer, storing them away for future use. Carson had tried for years to get him to take part in the force’s annual charity quiz night – he’d make mincemeat of the opposition, but he’d always declined. It was a campaign that Carson was still actively pursuing. But more importantly this kind of research often provided Cross with insights into the suspect’s character, attitudes, which would otherwise have been overlooked and were sometimes influential.
Cross was intrigued to discover that Badger was once mentioned in dispatches, shortly before his discharge in fact. To his great satisfaction, a footnote in the newspaper article he found told him that the London Gazette still published mentions in dispatches, something he was unaware of. He quickly found the website and through the search engine found Whitby. It made interesting reading. But what grabbed his attention was the date of the battle in which Whitby distinguished himself so bravely. Its fifteenth anniversary was in two days. On Sunday. Cross decided to dig a little further - it might turn up nothing but his instincts told him the chances were it might.
‘Why isn’t George with us?’ asked Carson, out of curiosity more than irritation.
‘He’s researching the suspect’s, I’m sorry, potential suspect’s military history,’ said Ottey.
‘Why on earth is he doing that?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t feel the need to share,’ she was determined not to let a single chance of informing Carson of exactly how difficult it was to work with Cross every time one surfaced.
‘So where are we up to?’ he went on.
‘Terence James Whitby, aka Badger, is someone we’d like to speak to. He was the last person to have seen our victim alive. He’s in the system with a number of convictions, ABH, public disorder,’ said Ottey.
‘What else?’
‘Ex-army, divorced, two children. Restraining order taken out by his ex-wife.’
‘Is he local?’
‘No, Leeds. His wife hasn’t had any contact from him all year.’
But Carson wasn’t listening. He’d seen a detective he needed to talk to about another case walk down the corridor. He called after him. ‘Shepherd?’
Shepherd didn’t answer, so Carson left the room and followed him down the corridor.
‘We’ve alerted Transport police and are checking CCTV of Temple Meads and the bus terminal over the last 48 hours.’ But Ottey’s voice trailed off as she remembered everyone else in the room was aware of this information. They were gathered just so that Carson could look like he was doing his job and be got up to speed. If he read his progress emails like everyone else, half of these meetings wouldn’t be necessary and time would be saved. His exit also confirmed the belief this team all held individually – that they were working on a far less important case than anyone else in the MCU.
Chapter 8
Cross often refused to share his train of thought, or potential leads, with others. Experience had taught him that his frustration in his colleagues’ lack of understanding, lack of faith in his unorthodox workings even when - no, particularly when - he had explained them in exhaustive detail, was exacerbated to an almost unbearable level. So, best just get on with it and deal with their annoyance after the fact.
Having said that, there was no doubt that Cross liked and needed the occasional metaphorical pat on the back when something good came out of his left field. This was not uncommon of people with Asperger’s. They had a need for approval. It was perhaps their way of ascertaining that their behaviour was at that moment acceptable, appreciated even.
In such situations Ottey had a choice, either to ignore him and let him get on with it or to say nothing and literally go along with it and him. She invariably did the latter out of curiosity. Which was how she found herself sitting next to Cross, in her car, on a Saturday morning beside the small cemetery of St Andrew’s church, overlooking the grey Bristol Channel just outside Clevedon. They were waiting for Badger who, for some reason known only to Cross, would make an appearance at some point. She hadn’t asked him why on this particular occasion, because she had a sense that he wanted her to, and so she was being bloody-minded about it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. So they sat there in silence. She had also decided to make no attempt at conversation which, annoyingly, she was finding much more difficult than he undoubtedly was.
Finally she cracked.
‘This is an awful long time to wait on a hunch.’
‘It isn’t a hunch. It’s an informed calculation.’
A text appeared on Ottey’s phone,
‘WHAT’S FOR LUNCH?’
It was one of her two daughters, Carla, a thirteen-year-old who could easily pass off as twenty-one in both looks and attitude, which was why her propensity to buy fake id off the internet was a source of constant concern to her mother. Ottey looked at her watch and sighed. She’d promised she would be home by now. Another excuse for Carla to be self-righteously indignant with her mother. Another broken promise added to an ever-increasing list.
‘ORDER PIZZA FOR YOU BOTH. THERE’S MONEY ON THE MANTELPIECE’
‘OKAY.’
‘KEEP THE DOOR ON THE CHAIN WHEN IT ARRIVES.’
‘SERIOUSLY?’
‘VERY SERIOUSLY.’
‘BUT THE TOPPINGS SLIDE OFF THE TOP IN THE BOX!’
‘CHAIN. OR. NO. PIZZA.’
Various emojis followed, none of which she understood but the sheer number would suggest her teenage progeny was, in her terms, rightfully indignant about her mother treating her like a dumb child every day of her life.
Ottey looked round as she heard a car pulling up. A soldier in full dress uniform got out. He walked round to the boot and opened it, taking out a wreath. The other doors opened and a young woman carrying some flowers with two boys in their late teens, both dressed in suits, also carrying small bouquets, emerged. They walked up the church path together, talking, the mood not at all sombre.
A few minutes later they were standing at a graveside with a parish priest who was reading from a bible. After he’d finished, the soldier stepped forward and placed his wreath on the grave, resting it against the headstone. The woman and the boys moved forward and placed their flowers on the grave. The boys then knelt down and started clearing leaves and mud which had gathered on the marble plinth. As a mother, this touched Ottey.
‘I wonder if they even remember him? It must be their father, right?’
But Cross wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even watching. He was scanning the area surrounding the graveyard. Nothing. Then he saw movement in some trees at the north end of it. He didn’t answer Ottey, got out quietly out of the car and walked away. She stayed where she was. She now had some inkling of why they are here and thought Cross would be better off alone.
He made a wide arc round the graveyard towards the back of the trees, thereby cutting his quarry off, in case he tried to run. He walked as quietly as he could through the trees. The rain had dampened the fallen leaves lying on the ground, releasing that damp autumnal smell which he had always found strangely comforting. He wondered why. Maybe it evoked some deeply embedded childhood memory. This would’ve been impossible a couple of weeks ago he thought. It would’ve been like walking over crisp packets. The man was wearing a beanie and a filthy overcoat. He drank from a can of strong lager, watching the family and soldier at the grave.
‘Hard to believe it was fifteen years ago to the day.’
The man didn’t turn, it wasn’t clear whether he had heard Cross or not.
‘When you’ve finished here, Corporal Whitby, might we have a word?’ he showed the man his warrant card, but he wasn’t interested. His eyes remained fixed on the scene in front of him. His mind, thousands of miles away in a hot and dusty conflict, many years before.
As they drove back to Bristol, Badger slept in the back of the car. Despite the cold, Ottey and Cross had opened the windows fully to dilute the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. She looked at Cross momentarily. This was one of those times she appreciated his talent. Today was the anniversary of a battle for which Whitby was decorated and in which his best friend had died. Smart. She would never have gone there. For his part Cross gleaned no satisfaction from the outcome. It wasn’t that clever a calculation. What he found hard to accept was the situation the man on the back seat found himself in. Why did he join the army he wondered? A corporal, did he join straight from school? Was it an informed choice or just the best of what was on offer? Maybe his father was in the army before him. Was it expected of him? Whatever, here he was. A social outcast, living on the street, an alcoholic in all probability. War had messed with his head. Not at all surprising to Cross. To what extent though, was what he was thinking. Had war inured him so much to the notion of violence that killing meant nothing to him?
Back at the station Badger was furnished with a duty solicitor, a tired-looking young Asian man who gave the impression he’d much rather be somewhere else. Cross was happy with a system which provided legal representation for those without the means and wherewithal to pay for it themselves. He was less happy, though, with a system which allowed these solicitors to hamper and hinder his enquiries. He could hold someone for twenty-four hours before needing to apply for an extension. This twenty-four hour period didn’t, however, take into account visits to the doctor, conferences with the solicitor, or simply when the solicitor had more than one client in the holding cells, and divided his time between them - which happened all too often. He once witnessed a solicitor who had six clients in the holding cells and the police’s time to question each person of interest was reduced accordingly. He had not come across this particular lawyer before, but the fact that he had insisted on a conference before they even had a chance to get Badger out of his clothes, didn’t bode well. Cross sat down, although he already knew this first interview would be brief.
‘So Mr Whitby. How would you like to be addressed? Terence? Badger?’
The man opposite didn’t answer. He was looking down at the table. It was possible he was asleep. Cross lowered his head to have a look, then having satisfied himself that the man was indeed awake, if barely so, continued.
‘What’s that stain on the left side of your hat?’ Again no answer.
‘Is it dried blood…? Could you please take your hat off?’
He was unsure at this point whether Badger was not answering because his lawyer had told him not to answer anything at this juncture - until they knew what evidence the police actually had - or whether he simply didn’t understand what was going on.
‘I need you to take your hat off. You’re going to have to at some point as we’re going to need all your clothes for examination.’ Cross turned to the solicitor. ‘Could you please ask your client to remove his hat.’
‘Please do as the detective asks.’ This was a mark against this particular solicitor as far as Cross’ appraisal of him went. He was only going to help when asked.
Badger moved after a couple of moments, almost as if waiting a couple of seconds was his way of maintaining his dignity, then carefully removed his hat. It was difficult and painful as it was stuck to his hair. It pulled against the hair and also the gash, which was visible below. The hair was a mess of dried blood and dirt. Cross looked at it carefully. The solicitor spoke first.
‘My client needs medical attention,’ he said.
‘It certainly seems so,’ Cross agreed.
‘As you can see he has a large gash on the side of his head.’
‘And scratches on his neck which is why I’ve already called the medical examiner.’
‘Then we should continue this after the doctor has seen him,’ said the solicitor.
‘Oh, without question. I wouldn’t want anything he said now to be challenged in court because of an untreated blow to the head,’ said Cross.
