Destruction of Evidence (7 page)

‘And on what inside information have you based this opinion?’ Bill demanded.

‘Instinct and a nose for trouble,’ Peter replied.

‘Ah, the scientific approach,’ Dan teased.

‘You’re ordering us to walk into a lion’s den and I don’t like it.’ Peter refused to see any humour in the situation.

‘Keep your warped opinions and sense of humour to yourself, don’t provoke any lions or upset any locals, and do your job, Sergeant Collins. That’s an order.’ Bill opened the door of Trevor’s office.

‘Any idea how long this secondment is likely to take, sir?’ Trevor asked.

‘Too long to suit Peter.’ Bill almost smiled. ‘Best pack a fortnight’s clothes. If you have to stay longer you may strike lucky and find a laundrette or laundry in the town. It’ll take you about five hours to drive there. Dump the open case files you’re working on, into someone else’s in-tray.’

‘And if we need help when we’re there?’ Trevor persisted.

Bill eyed Trevor, ‘Use the locals. If you run into trouble with them contact me and I’ll see what I can do.’ He closed the door behind him.

‘Ah-ha, see, Bill knows the locals are trouble and we won’t be able to use them.’ Peter kicked his chair in annoyance when he rose to his feet. He went to the window, sat on the sill and continued to glower at Trevor and Dan.

‘Good luck with coping with Peter, Trevor. If you need help with him, don’t call me.’

‘Very funny,’ Peter made a face at Dan’s back as he left.

Trevor returned to his desk and sifted through the files he was working on, stacking the ones he could pass on to one side.

‘Damn it!’ Peter exploded. ‘This couldn’t have come at a worse time, Daisy’s pregnant…’

‘Four months; and if you’re worrying about her getting enough rest she’ll have more peace and quiet without you around to bother her.’

‘Rubbish! I do all the housework.’ Peter countered.

‘Not according to Daisy.’

‘Working the hours she does, she doesn’t know the half of what I do. Just takes it for granted.’

Trevor glanced at his watch. ‘Seven. Can you clear your in tray by half past?’

‘As if it’s not bad enough having to come in at six in the morning…’

‘Can you, or can’t you?’ Trevor cut in.

‘If I must,’ Peter muttered mutinously.

‘It’ll take us about half an hour to get home and pack. We’ll leave as close to eight as we can make it, to give ourselves extra traffic time in case we need it. I’ll drive.’

‘The hell you will. I’m about to become a father. We’ll take my car and that’s not up for discussion.’

Trevor didn’t waste his breath protesting. He and Peter had joined the force together. Their friendship went back more years than he cared to remember. He had long since learned that the only way to deal with his friend when he was in one of his moods was to leave him alone until he snapped out of it.

Trevor carried the last half a dozen files he hadn’t managed to pass on into Bill’s office.

Bill looked up as he tapped on the open door. ‘You leaving now?’

‘Home to pack, then we’ll be on our way.’

Bill beckoned him in. ‘Close the door and take a seat, there’s a few things you need to know.’

‘Not Peter?’

‘I’d prefer to forgo the delight of speaking to Peter direct and delegate his briefings to you.’

Trevor suppressed a smile. He was one of the few people who knew the Peter Collins, behind the confrontational mask. ‘Peter’s bark is worse than his bite.’

‘I discovered that years ago, but I’d still prefer not to listen to the noise he makes.’ Bill sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve just had upstairs on the phone. The case is complex, the town’s full of rumours.’

‘As Peter said, small towns are always rife with rumour.’

‘These are spreading like wildfire. Some people believe the local force is involved.’

‘In the murders?’ Trevor looked up in surprise.

‘Murders and or cover-up. Initial reports suggest the killer or killers have done a first-class job of destroying all the forensic evidence, which means a certain amount of professional know-how.’

‘Everyone who watches TV crime shows these days knows about forensic evidence and how to destroy it,’ Trevor commented.

‘A suspect was formally charged with arson half an hour ago.’

‘Then we’re not needed.’

‘According to upstairs you’ll be needed more than you were before he was charged. Reggie Moore’s holding off on a murder charge. I suggest you take a good look at the evidence for arson when you get there.’ He faced Trevor. ‘You’re thorough, Trevor, but a word of caution. Be doubly certain of the facts on this one. The last thing upstairs, Superintendent Moore, the locals or you and Collins need, is a balls-up.’

‘We’ll do our best.’ Trevor opened the door.

‘I know you will. It’s Collins I’m not too sure about,’ Bill added loudly for Peter’s benefit when he caught sight of him in the corridor.

‘Sorry, my love, but it can’t be helped.’ Trevor opened a drawer, lifted out a dozen pairs of boxer shorts and tossed them into the open case on the bed.

‘It’s what you get for being good at your job.’ Lyn set their six month old son down on the pillows and refolded Trevor’s underwear neatly in the case.

‘Shovelling shit,’ Trevor murmured.

‘Babies present.’ Lyn reprimanded him.

‘I’ll be more careful when Marty starts talking.’

‘He’s learning and you’re anything but careful,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all the harder to keep your conversations clean if you don’t start watching what you say now.’

‘Blame Peter. He complained that shovelling other people’s… ordure… was our reward for being good at our job.’

Lyn laughed. ‘He’s probably right. Bet he’s pissed off at having to leave Daisy. They’re going through an unusually good patch at the moment.’

‘Now who’s swearing?’ Trevor dropped a stack of freshly laundered shirts into his case and picked up his son who immediately started pulling his hair and nose. ‘You’ll look after Mummy while I’m away, won’t you, Marty?’

‘Of course he will.’ Lyn went into the en suite and filled a toilet bag with soap, toothpaste, Trevor’s cologne and after shave.

‘Most coppers’ wives play hell with them when they have to work away.’

‘I’m not most coppers’ wives.’ She took Marty from him and handed him the toilet bag.

‘Thank heavens.’ He packed the bag on top of his socks, casual trousers and sweaters, closed the case, zipped it and hugged her. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too. I’ll invite Daisy in for a curry tonight. We might even open a bottle of wine.’

‘Daisy can’t drink.’

‘I know.’ Her smile broadened. ‘But don’t worry I won’t have more than two glasses. Not when you’re not here to see to Marty.’

‘I’ll phone you when I know what’s happening.’ He lifted the case from the bed. ‘How do you fancy a trip to Wales? We’ll probably be working all hours but there might be a holiday cottage there that I can rent for a week or two.’

‘If we can see you for an hour or two in the evening it might be fun exploring a new place.’

‘It’s the nights I’m thinking about.’

‘I know. But Marty might not settle in a strange place and if he doesn’t, you won’t be in a fit state to work.’ Lyn handed him his suit carrier. ‘Don’t forget this.’

‘It’s at least a five-hour drive with breaks…’

‘I can drive for five hours,’ she interrupted.

‘It won’t be easy for you with Marty to look after. But if I get a day off I could come down and get you.’

‘I can drive myself and Marty, thank you very much.’

He sat on the bed and pulled her and Marty on his lap. Then kissed her, long and lovingly. The doorbell rang.

‘That’s Peter.’

‘You will drive carefully, won’t you?’

‘I’m not driving.’ Trevor took his case and suit carrier and ran down the stairs. He opened the front door, handed them to Peter and picked up his laptop and briefcase.

‘Drive carefully, Peter,’ Lyn shouted down. ‘That’s my husband you’re chauffeuring.’

‘No more than thirty miles an hour all the way,’ Peter called back.

‘That a promise?’

Peter looked up the stairs and grinned at her. ‘Would I lie to you and my godson?’

‘No more than thirty miles an hour, my backside.’ Trevor gripped the handle on the passenger door when Peter pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The speedometer hit eighty. Peter overtook a tractor and only just managed to avoid an oncoming milk tanker.

‘We’ve been doing five miles an hour behind that tractor.’

‘It was ten and you can drop back to thirty now,’ Trevor ordered.

‘Can I now?’ Peter compromised and the accelerator hovered between forty and fifty.

Trevor tried to distract him. ‘Did you manage to get through to Daisy before you left?’

‘She was incommunicado in theatre.’ Peter’s partner was a surgeon in the burns unit of the local hospital. ‘I left a voicemail and told her I’ll phone her later, when I get a chance.’

‘If you don’t get an answer this evening, try our house. Lyn said she was going to invite Daisy in for a curry.’

‘Know something? I wasn’t happy when Daisy told me she’d bought a house a couple of doors from yours, but it’s working well.’

‘Because our wives can console one another when we’re up to our neck in work?’ Trevor asked.

‘Because I can borrow your beer when I run short. Is this it?’ Peter read the road sign on the outskirts of a town.

‘It is.’ Trevor checked his watch. ‘Quarter past one.’

‘Made it in five hours five minutes, despite the tractors and herds of cows blocking the road.’

‘One herd and I’d rather arrive in one piece than break records.’ Trevor relaxed his hold on the door handle. ‘You drive like an idiot. I don’t mind you killing yourself, but please, don’t take me with you.’

‘I gained enough time for us to have a pub lunch, didn’t I?’ Peter slowed when they entered Main Street.

Trevor looked out of the window. ‘This is it.’

‘“This is it what”?’ Peter dropped to crawling speed.

‘The crime scene. Number eight.’ Trevor studied the smoke-damaged blackened facade. The pavement in front of the house was sealed off with scene-of-crime tape. The windows had been boarded over and two men were replacing the front door under the watchful eye of a uniformed constable. An enormous mound of flowers rose outside the police tape, from ground level to the tops of the windows.

‘Work can wait until we’re due to meet the Great Welsh Chief,’ Peter said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘When are you not?’

Peter ignored the question. ‘There’s an interesting old pub two doors down with a food sign, and a parking space in front of it. The gods are smiling on us. Ready to pick up some gossip?’

‘Be careful what you say,’ Trevor warned after Peter parked the car.

‘It’s me, you’re talking to.’

‘That’s why I’m concerned.’

‘Moan, moan, nothing but moans.’ Peter climbed out of the car, locked it and followed Trevor into the cramped hallway of the pub. Both had to duck their heads below the lintel when they walked through the doorway into the main bar. They were greeted by stares and absolute silence.

Ignoring the people watching them, Trevor glanced around the bar. It was long, wide and low-ceilinged with small, deep-set windows that overlooked an old stone wall at the back. An alcove set into the right-hand side opened into a dining room with tables set with silverware, napkins and glasses. The walls had been stripped back to the original grey stone, the floor was flagged but there were none of the fake antiques or olde worlde ornaments Trevor had come to expect in renovated coaching inns. Just simple pinewood tables and chairs, and Victorian and Edwardian photographs on the walls. Closer inspection of the photographs revealed them to be all of weddings with the happy couples emerging from what appeared to be the same church porch.

‘Can I help you?’ An attractive blue-eyed, dark-haired barmaid in a black mini-skirt and low-cut, strappy red top moved along the bar and flashed her breasts and a smile at Peter. Trevor reflected that although his colleague was living with Daisy, it hadn’t stopped women from homing in on him.

‘You certainly can,’ Peter returned her smile with an empty one. ‘What you serving that’s tasty?’

‘Menu’s on the blackboard. I recommend the roast lamb with spinach, carrots and sweet potatoes.’ She licked her lips.

Peter read the board. ‘The lamb is tempting but we’re in a hurry. How quickly can you serve up burger, chips, onion rings and a diet coke?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘That’s me sorted.’

‘Nice to see you eating healthily away from Daisy’s influence,’ Trevor quipped.

‘Daisy likes well-built men of substance, not skinny runts like you.’

‘I’ll have a ham salad sandwich and diet coke, please.’ Trevor had put on weight since he’d married Lyn because she insisted he eat regular meals. But it was no more than four or five pounds and, although he and Peter were roughly the same height, at a few inches above six feet, he was three stone lighter.