Long Shadows Read online

  He rang Olsen’s mobile and heard a bar room serenade, including an accordion struggling for airplay amongst raucous voices.

  “I’ll come out to you.”

  She looked different out of hours, her biker jacket and jeans seeming exotic compared to the eager, studious copper he’d been working with. Now she was the one in the know.

  “Are you hungry, Skip?”

  “Craig, or Wild,” he corrected her. He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him so he fell back on certainties. “Yeah, I’m famished. My treat.”

  They went inside. The décor made it a proper pub, the sort of place rarely seen in London any more. Not unless it was a designer’s fantasy of what a real pub ought to look like. A pair of antlers jutted out from a wooden beam, as if they’d been an afterthought, and a scythe adorned one of the walls, out of reach to tiny hands but accessible to everyone else — a health and safety nightmare.

  A few steps in Wild noticed the temperature had dropped. As they walked through to the back bar someone wolf whistled. Olsen killed that with a glance. Wild closed the door behind them, muffling most of the noise. The back bar was completely deserted. Wild called out, “Shop!” and they heard footsteps.

  The landlady appeared behind the bar. “What can I get you? Another cider is it, Miss, now your, er, friend is here?”

  Olsen nudged Wild towards the chalked-up menu, where three items were on offer: Country Pie, Fruit Crumble, and Mixed Ice Cream. This was a pub that kept things simple.

  Wild took his cue. “Country pie sounds good. Is it homemade?” He caught Olsen’s smirk.

  The landlady blossomed with pride. “All local produce, made locally exclusively for us. ’Ere, you’re not one o’ them vegetarians, are you?”

  Wild raised a hand. “Nah. The only thing I won’t eat is octopus. I’ll give anything else a go.”

  “Well, you won’t find no octopus in our pies. A bit of rabbit maybe, and some pheasant.”

  He nodded. Maybe. Bloody hell. They didn’t believe in committing themselves. He ordered a cider for Olsen and picked something local, mostly to curry favour with the landlady, and took the drinks over to the table.

  Olsen raised her glass. “Cheers, Craig.” She took a gulp. “I have a confession to make — I looked you up. The whole station has. No one can quite work out what you’re doing here. So don’t be surprised if people start asking about DCI Hutcheson.”

  He sat back and considered his options. In the end, the police was one big family and people talked. What was the point in letting people get it wrong? “Alright, Marnie, three questions each while we wait for dinner.”

  She cut straight in. “Are you still married?” She stalled and raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh God, I’m not . . . you know . . . I’m not interested in you. No offence.”

  He settled back to enjoy her discomfort. “Still married but rest assured, a civilised divorce is being worked out as we speak. No doubt with a non-disclosure clause attached. And what about you?”

  Olsen forced a smile. “There’s plenty of time for that when my career’s on track.”

  He didn’t believe her, but now wasn’t the time. “University?”

  “Computer Science and Psychology. You?”

  “School of hard knocks, graduating in the university of life.” The look on her face told Wild she’d come up against this attitude before, so he backtracked. “What made you pick those subjects?”

  Her frustration was palpable. “Because I want to get on. Modern policing is all about information and people, see?”

  “And you reckon you’ll get on staying around here?” The words rolled around his mouth like gravel.

  She looked crestfallen, as though he’d just told her that her career prospects were screwed. He got it now. No further questions, your honour.

  A door swung behind the bar and the landlady reappeared, carrying two plates in tea towels. “Here are your country pies. I’ll leave you to it.” She smiled at Wild, as if to tell him he was punching well above his weight. He decided not to disenchant her.

  “What do you think?” Olsen thrust her knife into piecrust, squeezing the filling out the sides.

  “I’m wondering why Porter came here and who he met.”

  Olsen swallowed a mouthful of food. “Ask the landlady.”

  Wild took another bite. She had a point.

  “Seems to me that Alexander Porter had a reason for being here, unless it was his usual haunt. Only he hadn’t taken his car.” She considered her own words. “Oh, hang on.” She wielded her fork over her plate, stabbing a boiled potato. “What if Porter did come by car and the killer took his car home afterwards and that’s when they broke into his gun cabinet?”

  Wild let her talk on, adding a word or two while she spouted outlandish theories and some entirely plausible assumptions. He got the distinct impression she didn’t often get the chance to display her intelligence.

  “Craig, could we DNA test his car key, steering wheel and the door?”

  He could almost hear Marsh’s voice uttering a one-word answer: budget. The more enthusiastic Marnie Olsen became, the faster she ate. Wild realised he’d been so engrossed that he’d only eaten half his dinner. He decided against taking a pie sample for analysis when he thought about the ridicule he might have to endure. He’d probably live out the rest of his days at the station as Bunny. Besides, what did rabbit in a pie prove?

  His teeth jarred. “Bloody hell.” He skipped politeness and fished about in his mouth with his fingers, extracting a dark object that clattered to the plate. “A piece of shot. Do you think they might have been lamping rabbits over the fields that night?”

  Olsen fought the urge to laugh. “What, and he tripped? For one thing, you wouldn’t use a shotgun at night — you’d scare everything away. And for another, you don’t need the cover of night for rabbiting if you know where to find them. I mean, you could use a shotgun but a ferret and a net is a cleaner way of doing it.”

  Wild wrapped the piece of shot in a serviette and placed it in his inside pocket.

  “. . . And so I was wondering if you’d put in a good word for me with Detective Inspector Marsh.”

  Wild blinked at her and realised his attention had wandered. He pieced together her last sentence and delivered the bad news. “I think today was a one-off, sorry. I will mention you, though, if an opportunity arises.”

  She cast him a look that would make angels weep. Poor soul. He understood. He remembered the hard graft to make DC — Steph had already made DS before then, naturally.

  They ran out of things to say and spent a few minutes in silence, interrupted by the occasional raucous cheer from next door as the accordion stopped. When the door swung behind the bar and the landlady emerged, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Alright, my dears? Everything to your satisfaction?” She smiled to the unhappy couple, who did their best to show willing. “Anything else I can get you?”

  Lost for an answer, Wild flashed his warrant card and did the introductions. “Actually, there is.”

  The landlady crossed her arms. “It’s all above board here, officers.”

  Olsen gestured to a nearby seat. Wild figured this was psychology in action and let her get on with it.

  “We’re investigating the death of one Alexander Porter.”

  “You mean the old fella in the field. Dreadful accident.” As she made the statement her eyes searched both their faces.

  Olsen leapt straight in. “How often did he drink here?”

  “Here?” the landlady flustered, wringing a tea towel in her hands. “Oh, I couldn’t really say. He comes in from time to time. Never says much — not to me, anyway.”

  Wild didn’t bother correcting her use of the present tense. He left Olsen to take details and went off to find the gents. The singing continued in the main bar but a sea of eyes watched him wander through. After he’d peed, he stepped outside to the car park, turning slowly to see a face at the window, silhouetted ag
ainst the orange light inside. He strolled past the cars, wondering whether to take down every number plate, and arrived at the tractor. He took out his mobile phone and took a flash picture of the tyre tread, just because it was there. He had no plan.

  Re-entering the bar, he swung the door in too hard and it collided with a metal umbrella stand. Looking closer he saw it was trench art — fashioned from an artillery shell and engraved with a cross and the year 1916. A collection of walking sticks poked above the rim.

  One of the younger customers got up, straightened his sweatshirt and twisted his lip. “Something I can help you with?”

  Wild sized him up and thought better of it. Firstly because he was still settling in. And secondly because he was shit at scrapping. Making an arrest, no problem. But a straight-out pub fight? No, he wasn’t the brawling kind. He flashed his warrant card again, like a get-out-of-fight-free card.

  “Maybe you can.” He raised his voice. “I’d like to speak with anyone who remembers seeing Alexander Porter here or speaking to him on the day he died.”

  A wall of silence confronted him. He picked up the umbrella stand, contents and all, and started across the room to a chorus of disapproval.

  “I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

  He put his head through to the other bar. “Time to knock it on the head.” Then he realised he hadn’t paid for the meal, and lugged the umbrella stand to the bar. “Potential evidence,” he said for Olsen’s benefit, as the landlady scurried away for the bill.

  He unlocked his car and turned to see several faces at the window. “Marnie, do you need a lift?”

  She jangled her motorbike keys. “No thanks. What’s your plan with tonight’s bounty?”

  “I’m gonna take the sticks home and check them against that photograph we found on Porter’s wall. Just in case.”

  “But why take the stand?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Easier and quicker, I s’pose.” He stashed the goods and opened his driver’s side door.

  Olsen took a deep breath. “Can I come too?”

  “You really are keen. You’d better follow me back, then.”

  Chapter 7

  Wild kept to a steady speed, checking periodically for Olsen’s headlamp. Farmland became villages, and then the outskirts of town, where a small terraced street had become home. London could have swallowed his neighbourhood whole in one of its postal districts. Then again, London had spat him out.

  Olsen was only seconds behind him. She parked up and locked her bike helmet away while he heaved the umbrella stand and its contents out of his car boot. He faltered in the porch, wondering what she’d make of his slippers routine.

  Her first words through the doorway reassured him. “Boots off?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She paused for a moment at the sound of voices, and then cottoned on that it was the radio.

  “Come through.” He lugged the umbrella stand to the living room, placing it beside the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

  Olsen turned about the room slowly, taking in clues about his life. Plenty of books grouped by author, although not alphabetically, thank God. She picked out Tolkien’s works in the bookcase — no surprises there — and then her eyes drifted to ground level where a Dorothy Parker biography looked like it had seen better days. Her curiosity piqued, she was about to take it out and see if, as she’d surmised, it had been a gift from someone else, when he called out that tea was on its way.

  The other large piece of furniture was a wall cabinet almost equal to the bookcase, housing a collection of DVDs that would have seen out a nuclear winter. Strange tastes, she concluded, spotting sci-fi and football best-ofs sitting cheek by jowl with French cinema and war films. Lots of war films.

  She heard a spoon rattling against a cup behind her. “Do you take sugar?”

  “No thanks. I’ll take a biscuit though, if you have any going.”

  He passed her the mug of tea and then reached to his pocket, where a chocolate bar protruded like a cowboy’s six-shooter.

  “Oh, hang on a second.”

  She figured he had dashed off in search of coasters — he seemed the type — but he soon returned with a bed sheet. She raised an eyebrow as he gestured for her to stand clear while he spread it out on the carpet. Next, he laid the umbrella stand down in the centre before collecting his own tea from the kitchen.

  He knelt down beside the artillery shell. “Right, we’re good to go.”

  She joined him on the floor as he searched through his phone, swiping pictures until he found the one he wanted. Taking the fact that his hands were full as a hint, Olsen carefully tilted the umbrella stand to slide out the walking sticks, along with old cigarette butts, beetle carcasses and a couple of empty crisp packets.

  “So we’re looking for a match to the photo?” She held out her hand for a refresher.

  “Oh yeah, sorry.” He passed the phone over.

  There were nearly a dozen sticks, some coated in enough grime and fluff to suggest they’d been discarded a long time ago. One likely contender fitted the bill, its bony handle a fair match for the one in the poorly lit phone image.

  Olsen asked for the phone again. “Not sure about the stick though. See that ridge in the wood there?”

  “Yeah, he could’ve had it repaired though. You know, if it was of sentimental value.”

  She reached to one side and took a sip of tea. “Am I missing something here, Craig? We could have checked the sticks at the pub. Why bother taking them away?”

  He stirred his tea. “Honestly? I wanted to piss them off. Someone saw Porter there — guaranteed. A little cooperation wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

  “Well, you won’t get any now.” She sipped tea to break eye contact.

  He frowned — fair point. “What about CCTV, inside or out?”

  Olsen laughed and snorkelled her tea. “At the George? I don’t think so.” She went to break off some chocolate, noticed the panic in his eyes, and only took a modest amount. “Did you notice the tractor in the car park?”

  “Hard to miss. I photographed the tread — you never know, we might get lucky.” Except he knew no one was that lucky. It occurred to him that she was the first visitor to set foot in the house since he’d moved in. And to his surprise he was enjoying the experience. “I’ll bag up Porter’s stick and get it forensically examined.”

  “In what?”

  He thought for a moment. “I dunno, a bin bag?”

  Olsen laughed. “Is that what they do in London?” She took more chocolate, mainly to watch his reaction, and then carefully got to her feet. “Well, thanks for the tea and including me in your investigation.”

  He set his cup down. “I couldn’t have done this without you — I’ll be sure to tell DI Marsh.”

  She was still smiling at the door.

  Wild replaced the other sticks in the umbrella stand and then manoeuvred the sheet so he could tip all the crap back in as well. In an ideal world he’d get a DNA swab from every stick but he couldn’t see Marsh wearing that, especially with the high probability of cross-contamination. Still, a pub meal with another human being and some evidence gathering wasn’t a bad evening at all.

  Once he’d cleared everything away he stared at the screensaver on his computer, pondering his next move. He hit the return button and accessed Skype, so sure Jackie wouldn’t be online now that he didn’t even bother sitting down. A voice message waited for him.

  “If you’ve got more important things to do than listen to me, maybe I shouldn’t be helping you. I’m taking a big risk with Tony — you know that.” Her voice slowed. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk again. I don’t want to hear from you till then.”

  “No,” Wild said to the screen as he closed Skype and opened PayPal. “But you’re quite happy to take my money.”

  * * *

  Wild woke early with the dawn chorus and what sounded like seagulls. He felt excite
d, aglow, like Christmas for coppers come early. A suspicious death, a growing collection of evidence, and maybe — maybe — a colleague he could depend upon. A bit of a looker too, in a funny sort of way. Not that he’d go foraging in that direction. He scratched absentmindedly at his bare wedding finger. Never again.

  He made it to the George around eight o’clock, the milk delivery already stacked by the side door. Mist rose from the surrounding fields. It could have been the setting for a low-budget horror film, and he knew just the locals to put in it. He rapped on the door a second time and reflected on the previous evening. Were they all scared to talk to him or indifferent? Or maybe Porter had enemies?

  A light shone through the glass and came closer until the landlady’s face pressed against it. “You again.” She unlocked and then unbolted the door. “What do you want?”

  He hoisted the umbrella stand in the air. “One set of walking sticks returned. Hopefully everyone got home safely.”

  “No thanks to you if they did.”

  Chapter 8

  Wild pushed the swing door to the open-plan office and the detective team turned in unison towards him. DI Marsh leaned forward from the edge of the desk she’d perched on. “Detective Sergeant Wild. Good of you to join us.” Laughter echoed round the space.

  He considered his options and went with, “I was unavoidably detained, ma’am. Collecting evidence that I’ve just delivered to the forensics team.” He felt the divide in the room, that collective intake because he’d marked himself out by choosing explanation over apology. He sat across the room from DI Marsh deliberately and copied her stance on the edge of a desk. “Could somebody recap for me?” He blinked slowly. That somebody being the DI herself.

  DI Marsh approached the whiteboard where photographs and conjecture mixed company with facts.

  “Okay.” She rapped a knuckle against the board. “Alexander Porter, aged sixty-eight. Body was found on his land — two fields are rented out for farming and the third one . . .” She looked over at DC Galloway.