Death's Privilege (4 page)

‘Never mind the space, how about that woman on reception? She allowed to talk to an officer like that?’ Leilani brought her back from the warm, fresh smells wafting from the patisseries of Paris to room three’s claustrophobic stale air.

‘It’s pretty standard. Dealing with the wide range of characters we get coming in here hardens a person, I guess. You should meet the custody sergeants.’

‘Some kid was screaming his lungs off in there whilst his mother was on the phone. Listening to that all day would make anyone pretty blunt.’

Mavenswood Police Station was a beacon for the dregs of the county. Crime reports could be made online, or even by text message, leading to fewer people visiting police stations. It was cited as a reason for closing so many and reducing the opening hours of the remaining few. The new initiative revolved around putting police back into the community by having the beat bobbies work from police boxes based at supermarkets and shopping centres. Sarah had loved her time in uniform, but was glad Dales’ offer to tutor her kept her away from working out of her local Tesco. There was no danger of anyone suggesting the CID office moved anywhere near that amount of alcohol.

Sarah smiled. ‘My name’s Sarah, I’m a DC with CID upstairs. You work at the Oxlaine, right? My colleague mentioned you had something you’d like to report.’

Sarah knocked her elbow on the wall as she opened her notebook. The chairs were nailed down and the desk was a thick plank of lacquered wood that jutted out from the wall. Someone had deemed that safer than having movable furniture as, should some disgruntled ne’er-do-well decide to kick off, there’d be no danger of having a table thrown in your face. Nice in principle, but for the rest of the time, it was incredibly uncomfortable. Leilani looked at Sarah’s notebook. Sarah casually covered it with her hand.

‘Sorry, just being nosey. Your job fascinates me.’

‘It’s okay. It’s all confidential, so I can’t really let anyone see it,’ said Sarah, not about to admit she’d only hidden today’s bland to-do list written in a series of wavy, unintelligible scribbles that a graphologist would struggle to decipher, and be thoroughly disappointed by once they’d done so. The fact it was her round to clear out the forensic drying room was far less exciting than whatever was running through Leilani’s mind.

‘It’s silly really. It’s my boyfriend. The other week, he hit me. Not hard or anything. I originally didn’t want to do anything about it, but when I told my sister, she said I should at least report it. I wasn’t going to, but when your colleague spoke to me at the Oxlaine, I figured I'd forced myself to mention it.’

‘There’s nothing silly about it. That’s very serious. It doesn’t matter how hard it was, laying a hand on you in any way is a step too far.’ Women excusing their partners for acts of violence was something Sarah encountered all too often.

‘I know. I know. There’s a little more. He’s been taking money from my account. A few hundred here and there. I only want it logged, in case it goes too far.’

‘It’s already gone too far. It’s entirely your decision, but these kinds of things often start small and only get worse. If you want to make a statement and tell me what happened, I can arrest and interview him. At the very least you should be looking to get out of the situation. Do you live together?’

‘No.’

‘Any kids?’

‘No, we’ve not been together that long. I’m absolutely sure I don’t want it taken any further just yet. He’s not likely to do it again. He’ll stop taking the money, too, he’s just a little short at the moment.’

‘Don’t make excuses for his behaviour. Listen, I can’t force you. But I’d like you to strongly consider it. If you feel in danger again, call 999 straight away. If he’s taking money from you there are other evidential avenues we can follow, depending on how he’s been doing it. CCTV at cashpoints, tracing bank transfers, that kind of thing. Whenever you feel ready, we can talk about the best way to proceed.’ Too much of the hard sell was likely to leave Leilani less inclined to return if she needed help. It sometimes took years for domestic violence victims to find the strength to come forward and, despite Sarah’s desire to help as soon as possible, she didn’t want to risk alienating her.

‘I will, I promise.’ Leilani’s harassed tone suggested she’d already had this conversation with family and friends prior to drumming up the courage to talk to a complete stranger about it. It took courage to do, and Sarah wondered had they not been at the Oxlaine yesterday whether she’d have come forward at all. ‘It’s been a busy two weeks. It’s like I’ve been at work twenty-four seven.’

‘I know that feeling.’

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t moan. You must have a crazy schedule.’

‘Sometimes the hours aren’t so bad, money’s tight and the overtime sweetens it all at the end of the month.’ Sarah wanted to earn Leilani's trust, and if there were two things almost everyone could bond over, they were not having enough money and not having enough time.

‘True, I’ve had to pick up a second job to make ends meet. Old Mr Semples doesn’t pay quite as much as I’d like.’

‘He seems like a nice guy to work for, though.’

‘Have you met Valerie?’

‘Yes, briefly.’

Leilani shuddered. ‘If you could, could you keep this away from work?’

‘Of course, everything you tell me is absolutely confidential.’

‘Thanks so much, and thanks for listening. You have no idea how good it feels to get it off my chest.’

‘Remember what I said, anything else happens, make sure you call it in. And if you change your mind about making a full complaint, come back and ask for me.’

‘Thanks. I will. Pinky promise.’ She raised the little finger on her right hand and stood up. ‘Well, in the nicest possible way, I hope I never see you again.’

They both smiled and Sarah walked her out.

‘I doubt we’ll be seeing her again.’ Dales sat on half of Sarah’s desk. Taking the job as her tutor had cost him a lot of the creature comforts he’d been used to at the Major Crime Team. Due to the refit, there weren’t enough desks for the incumbent staff, meaning both Dales and Hayward had to snuggle up on the end of their tutees’ workspaces, for the time being at least.

‘I’ll log it on the system in case of a recurrence.’ Sarah moved two tea-stained coffee mugs from her side of the desk back to his and put her notebook down. They’d agreed to be civil about the desk situation, but if Dales didn’t start washing up more often, they’d soon come to blows.

‘She wouldn’t have any trouble finding another boyfriend.’ Dales perved out of the window whilst Sarah sat down and swivelled in her chair, making use of the space while she could.

‘She a looker, is she?’ Hayward tried to peer over his taller colleague’s shoulders.

‘Escaping abusive relationships has nothing to do with looks. There’s a lot more to it than that.’ Sarah underlined the notes in her book.

‘There’s never more to it than that.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell Mrs Dales.’

Dales came away from the window. ‘She won’t listen. Too. Busy. Shopping. Matt, where’s that tutee of yours?’

‘Keeping a mirror company somewhere I imagine.’ Hayward shuffled some paper in front of him. ‘Smart lad. He’s just the kind of hoop-jumper the bosses seem to want these days. Fast track detective programmes, management schemes. Next they’ll be skipping their early careers entirely and taking them straight in at chief inspector.’

‘That’ll never happen.' said Dales.

Sarah had one ear on their conversation whilst she logged into her archaically slow computer. Dales and Hayward were from a different generation of policing. Hailed as legends by some and berated as dinosaurs by others, officers like Dales and Hayward had trouble adapting to modern methods. The sharper modern lens had revealed smudges on an era once seen as a golden age of policing.

‘Our day is over, Dales. Look around the room. It’s mid-morning and there’s a full fleet of car keys on the wall and a DC sat at every computer, frantically completing paperwork in fear that at some point a crime will come in and they’ll have to leave their comfortable, health and safety approved desks. All sharply turned out, of course, clean shaven and polished shoes. They’d make an excellent impression on the public, if they ever got to see them.’

Dales laughed at his old friend. ‘You need that holiday you’ve been talking about. And be careful who hears you. One day one of these overworked, form-filling automatons may be the one saving your life.’ He winked at Sarah, who smiled and typed quietly.

Sarah wondered if Dales regretted sticking his neck out for her over the events at Sunbury. He hadn’t given much away about her performance on the fast track so far. He’d been moved from the Major Crime Team over on the other side of the county. She estimated the distance added at least an hour each way to his daily commute in good traffic. They’d had a meeting in the first week where he’d outlined the programme, explained how to record her evidence in her portfolio and the range of targets she had to meet. The format was similar to the initial training programme, requiring her to complete a series of observed tasks as part of investigations into serious and complex crime. Broken windows and drunken abuse wouldn’t cut it anymore. They scheduled meetings every two weeks to discuss her current cases, but Dales had postponed the first one to the end of the month, saying they hadn’t done enough worth talking about.

‘The holiday will have to wait, but I’d love a cuppa.’ Hayward swung on his chair to face Sarah, with his hands resting on his belly.

‘Yeah, love one.’ Dales squeezed past Sarah, sat down and started flicking through her notebook. ‘No extensive note-taking this time?’

‘She didn’t really say—’

Hayward cut her off. ‘Put the kettle on love. Two sugars for me. Come on, Dales, you not got this one trained yet?’

‘Are you gonna?’ Sarah looked at Dales.

‘No. It’s more fun watching you do it.’

As she stood up, she saw Detective Inspector Manford leave his office and walk towards her, raising his hand as if stopping traffic. Launching a verbal pot of hot coffee at Hayward’s face would have to wait.

‘Matt, where’s Joel?’ asked DI Manford.

‘No idea, Charles.’

‘It’s DI Manford, Sir or Gov.’ Hayward was nearly twice Manford’s age and had identified the DI as a good sport on day one. Management fast trackers were an insecure bunch. Manford had become an inspector within his first five years of service. He’d previously been an area manager for a camping store, which someone important seemed to think gave him the required experience to tell people of Hayward’s service what to do. ‘You should know where your tutee is. You’re supposed to be observing everything he does.’

‘He’s in the shitter, Gov. Probably best we don’t observe what goes on in there.’ Dales couldn’t help himself.

‘Right, well, we’ve had another suicide and, as your programme dictates, you’re the first port of call.’ Manford rolled the sleeves up on his white pinstripe shirt, the lines as perfectly straight as the razor-sharp seams on his black trousers. Rolling up the sleeves tended either to mean that someone meant business, or that a fight is about to kick off. In this case, it meant Manford was nervous around these two old-timers. He pushed his curtains back from his forehead with a move that made him look like a child movie star from the 1980s. ‘Whoever has the smallest workload should turn out.’

‘Nah. We’ve ticked that box with the Amblin Park hanging.’ Hayward wanted to push Manford, just to see what he was made of. An old-fashioned inspector wouldn’t string out a request with little justifications; they’d just tell it straight. ‘You’re doing it’ was all they needed to say. The new breed sugar-coated everything until it was as soft as candy floss, and just as robust. Manford looked over at Dales, asking with a glance rather than risking being rebuked.

‘We’ll go,’ said Sarah. She couldn’t bear to watch Manford’s in-house management communication course fail him in the face of Hayward’s brazen lack of interest. ‘I need one for my ticky-box sheet.’

‘Thanks.’ Manford passed her the log with all the details. ‘Sheila Hargreaves, forty-four years old, found in Room 334 of the Oxlaine Hotel around 11:30. She hadn’t checked out, so the porter went to her room and found her on the floor with white powder on the bedside table. Uniform are there; the scene guard is on. Give me a call once you know a little more.’

‘Oxlaine? They’ll start charging us room and board soon. Gov, when are we getting our own desks?’ asked Sarah.

‘You’ve not got your own desk?’

‘No, coming up for a month now.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s a pain with the refit going on. There’s far too much of things we don’t need and far too few of things we do. How about you, Hayward? Got a desk?’

‘Sharing with Joel, Gov.’

‘That’ll explain why he’s never here. Between your girth and his muscles, I can’t imagine there’s enough space for the pair of you to be sitting down at once.’ Hayward was taken aback; Sarah and Dales smiled. ‘Find your DC, Matt.’ Manford strode back to his office with a very different swagger to how he’d left it.

‘No respect, some people.’ Hayward leaned back in his chair.

‘He clearly doesn’t like being called Charles. Sarah, grab your stuff, we’ll talk about the Hayes situation on the way.’ Dales picked the Hyundai keys from the wall.

‘You know the Getz has the turning circle of a small tank, right?’ Hayward was particular with the vehicles he took out.

‘It’s the only one with a working radio. I take it you’ve pocketed the Focus keys as usual.’

‘Yes indeed.’ Hayward tapped his trouser pocket.

Dales looked at his watch, then at Sarah. ‘Standard drugs overdose. Two hours max.’

‘That’ll make it two fifteen. Sounds like a challenge. Sarge, stick the kettle on at ten past and we’ll be back before the tea hits the table.’ Sarah's request left Hayward with a very blank look. ‘Two mugs of rooibos.’

‘I’m not making anyone herbal bloody tea.’

Six

The only space in the Oxlaine hotel car park was between a silver Rolls Royce and a black Bentley. Both luxury vehicles were parked over the lines and it was the first time Sarah had struggled to park a vehicle as small as a Hyundai Getz. She edged it in as Dales looked out of both windows and winced. Michael Bolton played on the radio and Sarah became increasingly frustrated by Dales’ lack of faith in her driving skills.