Kith and Kill (8 page)

“Sir Robert would like to see you,” David said blithely. “Better nip up there smartish while you’re still in the good books,” he added with a theatrical wink.

Amos suspected a trap but that would be far too subtle for David. In any case, it was better to face whatever music there was, whether it turned out to be the
Funeral
March
or
Ode
to
Joy
, and get back to the case in hand.

At least Fletcher’s latest public relations craze, tackling drug taking among teenagers, was still running its course before he inevitably tired of it and moved onto another social issue. He was always at his most irritable when a new campaign was approaching its launch.

As Amos entered the Chief Constable’s office through the already open door, he was greeted with an enthusiastic: “Ah, Paul, there you are. Come in, come in, have a seat.”

So it was to be Beethoven with his
Ode
to
Joy
rather than Chopin, composer of the
Marche Funébre
, giving the musical direction. The use of a first name was indeed a cast iron indication that all was well; a seat was an almost unheard of approbation.

Only as he entered did he realise that Fletcher was not alone. A rather stunning blond woman, at least 25 years younger than Amos, was standing by the bookshelves that the Chief Constable kept stocked with impressive but unused political and sociological tomes.

“This is Jennifer,” Sir Robert announced. “I felt that in view of your excellent performance of late you deserved some administrative back-up. Jennifer will be assigned to your team. I’m sure you will be able to find a desk for her.”

Amos was hardly listening. The vision of loveliness had made him go weak at the knees, a feeling he had not had since his first ill-fated love affair as a teenager. It distracted him from the feeling of intense resentment he felt at having an administrator foisted on him when the money would have been better spent on another detective.

Fletcher seemed nonplussed at Amos’s lack of gratitude but showed no signs of holding the slight against the inspector.

“Sit down, both of you,” he said, taking his own seat behind the desk.

They did as they were bid. This brought Amos uncomfortably close to Jennifer, who smiled at him warmly and sweetly. He managed a weak smile back.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve managed to keep this drug – whatever its name is – out of the papers,” Fletcher began. “It would hardly have gone down well with my latest campaign against drug abuse. The last thing we want is for teenagers to discover a new social drug.”

Amos sat up. How on earth had the Chief Constable found out about the ketamine?

“I do wish you’d told me yourself, though, so I could have been on alert given the sensitivity of the issue,” Fletcher continued, more in a tone of mild reproof than scolding.

Sir Robert was rarely interested in cases and Amos never wished to involve the Chief Constable in anything he was doing. There had not been the slightest reason for mentioning the case.

“We haven’t had the drug confirmed yet, Sir,” Amos said in a diplomatic tone. “Naturally I would have informed you immediately,” he lied.

The Chief Constable beamed.

“As you see, Jennifer, we have a happy team where cooperation is the key,” he said expansively. Then turning to Amos he went on: “I’m also pleased to see that you have given Detective Constable Susan Smith a chance to shine. I always like to see senior officers offering their junior colleagues the benefit of their experience.”

Amos was struggling desperately not to raise his eyebrows at this newly found concern for junior colleagues. He was surprised that Fletcher could actually name one. This surely had to be to impress Jennifer. And that meant she was being planted as a spy. Was she related – a niece perhaps? Amos edged slightly away from her.

“As a matter of fact,” Fletcher continued, “it was Susan – or should I say DC Smith in front of a civilian? – who told me about the drug business.”

He paused briefly in mid-sentence to prompt, unsuccessfully, a titter at his little joke.

“Still, if it has not been confirmed, let’s hope we’re worrying unduly. But if a drug – any drug – is involved, discretion is paramount – and that goes for you too, Jennifer, now you are part of the team.”

Fletcher broke off; Jennifer sat there smiling sweetly. Amos also seated but unsmiling, was unsure whether the interview was over or not. He was quite sure that ketamine could not possibly have been confirmed yet.

After a few moments of silence, the Chief Constable waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal and said genially: “Off you go then. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.”

Amos led Jennifer down to CID. There was indeed a spare desk and chair, one reserved for the detective constable that Amos had hoped to add to his team, or perhaps even another sergeant promoted from the outer regions of England’s second largest county, as he had once been himself.

He allocated the desk and chair to her with a sigh, looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk and emitted another sigh, then his eyes lighted on Susan Smith.

“Let’s take a stroll in the car park, Susan. I need somewhere private to talk.”

Amos led the way out of the back door. Smith followed sheepishly. Amos said nothing until they were a good 20 yards from the building.

“Excuse me if I’m getting paranoid,” he finally said, “but it drives me crackers when the Chief Constable takes an interest in what I’m doing. I don’t know if this new girl – Jennifer she’s called – has been put in to report back.”

Smith was downcast, unable to look Amos in the eye. She knew something was wrong but was not sure what. She did, however, assume correctly that it was something to do with her conversation with the Chief Constable a little earlier that morning and Amos’s summons to Fletcher’s office.

“You’d better tell me what transpired between you and the Chief Constable,” Amos said simply.

“He saw me coming into HQ and asked what I was working on,” Smith replied cautiously. “I told him it was the Wilson murder and I’d been talking to the younger members of the family. He said how important it was to keep youngsters off drugs, which seemed odd because there had been no mention of drugs, but then he said that was why he was so keen on his anti-drugs campaign.”

“And you mentioned the ketamine?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. It sort of slipped out. I suppose I was flattered that the Chief Constable was taking an interest in what I was doing.”

“Susan,” Amos said gently but firmly, “on the whole, it’s best to tell the Chief Constable as little as possible about current cases. And don’t tell him I said that. He’s not usually interested anyway. I doubt if he even knew about the Wilson case until you told him.”

“It won’t happen again” Smith blurted out.

“That’s all right, Susan,” Amos reassured her. “Tell me how you got on with the young Wilsons.”

“I managed to talk to them all, Sir, but I’m afraid they all denied seeing anything. They only stayed in the wake for about a quarter of an hour then they all slipped out and congregated in the car park.”

“Did you talk to Enid, Luke’s daughter? Did she say she was in the car park all the time? When I spoke to her mother, Enid seemed to know what was going on in the room.”

“I doubt it, Sir. They all agreed they stayed outside. It was Enid who hinted heavily that they were smoking pot – and no, I didn’t tell Sir Robert, not after his lecture on teenage drug taking.

“The others denied it but in a smirking sort of way that seemed to me to indicate it was true. Esther’s son was the only one who seemed to have heard of ketamine. He knew his mother used it on horses and cattle.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t amount to very much, Sir. I’m really sorry I’ve screwed up. Will you be taking me off the team?”

Smith looked close to tears. Amos avoided looking her straight in the face and was turning to walk back to the CID room as he assured her: “No Susan, I’m not taking you off the team. You’re doing fine.”

Amos strode back into CID anxious to get the investigation moving. If Detective Constable Smith had mentioned ketamine to Wilson’s grandchildren there was every chance it would be in the newspapers before long.

David, the Chief Constable’s press secretary, would immediately report back to Sir Robert. It was just possible to contact the Lincolnshire Echo, regional TV and local radio and give them enough to keep them happy. David would be cross when he inevitably found out but that was too bad.

Amos shut himself in his room, which he rarely did, so he could talk in peace. His desk looked strangely tidier, with fewer papers piled on it. The inspector looked through the window and into the CID room. It was empty, the occupants presumably being in the canteen for lunch, except for Jennifer beavering away with the missing papers.

She smiled warmly as she spotted his gaze but received only a grimace in response. If she was a Fletcher spy, it was too late to stop her now.

With a sigh, Amos picked up the phone on his desk and dialled Sheila Burns at the Echo. She answered on the first ring.

“Inspector,” Burns said with enthusiasm as Amos identified himself. “Are you on the Wilson case? Is it murder? What’s happening?”

“Yes, I’m on the Wilson case, Sheila. Just wanted to make sure you were up to speed.”

He’d played ball with Burns in the past so he hoped she would not be suspicious.

“I’ve got the press release from the press officer but it doesn’t say a right lot. Any developments?”

“It’s still early days. Did David mention it was poisoning?”

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

“Poisoning? No, it just said that the death was suspicious.”

“We’re treating it as murder. Poisoning is only a suspicion at the moment so don’t play it too hard. And don’t quote it as coming from me for God’s sake or it’s the last tip you get from me.”

“Have I got it to myself?”

Amos thought for a moment. If David had succeeded in averting the suspicions of such a capable and hard-bitten reporter as Sheila Burns it was unlikely that anyone else was doing much on the story.

“You’ve got it to yourself, Sheila. Just as long as it didn’t come from me.”

There was no need to ring the local BBC offices. Somewhat relieved that ketamine would be kept out of the media for another day at least, Amos opened his office door. Jennifer glanced up and smiled again. A few more sheets had been transferred into a wire tray. Amos smiled back, his knees again feeling as if they would buckle under him.

Chapter 17

“Sir,” Detective Sergeant Swift called as she put down the phone and opened his door.

Amos blushed slightly but not, he hoped noticeably. Swift didn’t seem to cotton on or, if she did, she was too discrete to look at him directly. Jennifer was back to the paperwork.

“Yes, Juliet,” Amos said, moving over to his deputy’s desk.

“The team dug out Joseph Wilson’s bank statements while we were out this morning as you told them to do,” Swift said. “There were several cash withdrawals and some large cheques written after his wife died. The account had looked quite healthy when Mrs Wilson was around but it has since been virtually wiped out.

“I’ve just rung the bank manager. He didn’t take much persuading to see us. He’s sounded quite troubled about it.”

Amos and Swift drove into the city centre, parked on a bit of spare land awaiting redevelopment and walked into the branch where the late Joseph Wilson had banked for fifty years. Martin Gibson, the manager, was flitting around the lobby nervously, waiting for them.

The bank was quite full, with clients nipping in during their lunch breaks. Gibson quickly steered the police officers into his inner sanctum.

“I recognised you right away, inspector,” Gibson uttered nervously, “Your photograph was in the paper recently.”

“Mr Gibson,” Amos replied reassuringly. “I quite understand that you don’t want police officers hanging round the bank lobby. You can rely on our discretion and I’m sure we can rely on yours. This is almost certainly a murder inquiry.”

Gibson looked suitably flattered and was about to start preening himself.

“Yes, yes, inspector, you can count on me. Discretion is my middle name.”

But not too discreet, Amos hoped.

“You understand that there are absolutely no suspicions regarding the death of Mr Joseph Wilson, who I believe had an account or accounts here. Our concerns are over the death of his eldest son, Matthew.”

Gibson was thrown a little by this.

“Oh dear,” he said, his face falling. “Then I don’t see how I can help you. Matthew Gibson didn’t bank here. His father did but Matthew didn’t. I thought you were interested in Joseph Wilson’s finances.”

“Indeed we are, Mr Gibson,” Amos assured him.

Gibson looked confused.

“We have to build a full picture of the family,” Amos said. “We understand from bank records we have acquired in the course of our investigation that Mr Wilson senior made several payments to his son Matthew in the months prior to his death. It could have a bearing on the case.”

Gibson brightened up.

“Ah that’s a relief,” he said. “I was a bit worried – well, very worried as a matter of fact – about client confidentiality but as long as you can assure me that this is all relevant to a murder inquiry then I feel a lot happier about things. As a matter of fact I was very concerned about Mr Joseph Wilson and did in fact consider involving the police.”

“Did you?” Swift asked a little too eagerly. “Involve the police, I mean.”

Gibson, who had concentrated his gaze on Amos thus far, turned a patronising eye on Swift.

“No,” he said coldly. “It’s not something I would do lightly.”

“Why were you so concerned?” Amos intervened. “As far as possible, this will be strictly between the three of us.”

Gibson gave one more glance at Swift then decided to trust Amos with information he was anxious to get off his conscience.

The bank manager leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment with a sigh. Then he leaned forward over his desk, clasped his hands in front of him and looked Amos squarely in the eyes.