Barry was on his soapbox and in full flow, chattering excitedly, recounting the fight. He paused as he finished the story, took a swill of beer and wiped the froth and saliva from his hairy upper lip and then leaned forward facing Paul Goodright.
“Now then young Paul, the reason why we’re all here.” He took a sideways glance towards Hunter’s dad. “Jock, we have some quite dodgy business to discuss. Not that we don’t like your company but it might be a good time to get the beers in.” Barry tapped his nose as a signal of secrecy.
Hunter could see the disappointment and yet acceptance on his father’s face as he collected the empty glasses and moved from the table. “Need some help dad?” he felt it necessary to ask.
“No son. You get your business done. It’s okay” his dad replied and winked as he loped off towards the bar.
Barry dragged a bulky supermarket carrier bag from beneath the table, which he had been gripping tightly between his legs. Hunter had seen him tugging it from the boot of the car after they had pulled into the pub car park and had wondered what was in it.
“In my early CID days it was always acknowledged that somewhere along the line you were always going to drop a bollock. Whether it was a small one or a big one was not in question, but how you were going to get out of it was another matter.” Barry began. “So each office had their own contingency plans. Before the days of numbering pocket books or other admin items we kept spares for the inevitable ‘faux pas’ usually in a locked drawer or cupboard. I also had my own spares just for back up.” He dropped the bag onto the table and pulled it open. “Ta dah.” he announced. He slid out its contents just like a poker dealer would do a pack of cards. There were two old Police ‘property other than found’ books, which Hunter and Paul could recall using early on in their careers to record seized items of property which would be required as evidence.
“I forgot I’d kept these, and it’s fortunate for you young Paul that I did. You’ll find one of these books is from the nineteen eighties and the other, which you will need, is from the nineties. All you have to do is fill out one of the carbon exhibit labels, date it the day you seized that cardigan and put it into the bag with it.”
“Barry, you’re a Godsend,” Paul responded excitedly and then paused. “Just one thing though, how am I going to get it submitted properly as evidence without having to admit I’ve kept it in my locker and then my garage for all these years’. The last thing we need is for some smart arsed barrister to knock it back especially if it has good forensic on it.”
“I don’t know. Have I got to wet-nurse you as well? I’ve even thought of that. These days’ civilian admin staff have taken over the role of looking after property and my guess is none of them will have been around in the nineties when the cardigan was seized. All you have to do is go to the station with the bagged and labelled cardigan inside your coat. Tell one of the admin staff you need to get some property from one of the stores, and when you go into them, pretend to have a rummage amongst the shelves, distract the admin person and Bob’s your uncle, or in this case Barry’s your saviour. When they try to check out the number on the card they’ll just think that the relevant property book has been destroyed after all these years.”
Hunter had sat transfixed throughout this, and now that Barry had finished he leaned back in his seat in reflective mood. On the one hand he knew that what he had been a party to was completely unorthodox, and yet on the other, if this would help catch their killer he knew it was something he could live with.
Then as he slid the books back into the carrier bag Barry glanced at both of them and spoke slowly. What he said was as if he had read Hunter’s mind.
“Something my old Sergeant once said to me when I was a young CID officer and the words remained with me throughout my service. Sometimes we have to use as much trickery as the villains do. You match lie for lie and make sure yours are better than theirs. At the end of the day you’ve got to protect the public and pay back the bad guys. Always remember the pen is mightier than the sword. And one last piece of advice. When you’ve worked them one, don’t get a conscience about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DAY TWENTY-ONE: 26th July
Grace Marshall had arrived early at the tea room, ordered a strong black coffee and sat down as close to the rear of the shop as she could. She was uneasy and experiencing butterflies in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t every day that a possible main witness had links to the police authority, even if it was only through marriage. This was going to be an uncomfortable meeting and needed a delicate approach. Grace had rehearsed over and over in her head what she was going to say and deep down she wished now she hadn’t suggested this to Hunter.
If this goes wrong she thought to herself, and the gaffer got to hear of it I’m going to get a right dressing down. She stared at the glassed front entrance wondering what Mrs Gardner looked like. It was just after ten-thirty am and the world outside the glass was bathed in strong sunlight. For a second she tried to recall the women’s soft tones without a hint of local dialect when she had called her yesterday afternoon. The voice had been very calming, very reassuring, and yet quite concerned about why there was a need to meet in such secrecy.
Whilst she waited for the coffee her eyes strayed around the room. It was the first time she had taken notice of the contemporary décor despite having used this tea room as a place to meet friends on many an occasion whilst out shopping. There were only another couple of people in there; a young mum with a toddler in a buggy and an older woman whom she guessed was the child’s grandmother.
When she had agreed the arrangements over the phone she knew from her previous visits that generally very few people would be in at this time. The other customers were just out of earshot; their conversation was just a muted jumble of words. That also meant they would not be able to overhear her speaking with Karen Gardner.
Five minutes after ordering the waitress appeared with her coffee. Grace thanked her with a smile and picked up the cup, holding it in front of her with both hands and turning her attention back to the entrance. The coffee was stronger and hotter than she had anticipated and caused her to jolt. It also wasn’t the best she had, but it would do; after all she wasn’t here to do a coffee morning.
The door opened with a pinging noise as it caught the bell fastened to the lintel. The slim, attractive, faired-haired woman in a dark, well-tailored suit met her own gaze, smiled, raised a hand and moved towards her.
“Detective Marshall — Grace?” she asked standing before her.
Grace nodded and pointed out a chair opposite. It was a natural reaction, for she knew Mrs Gardner was going to sit anyway.
Within seconds the same young waitress returned, pen poised over a small notepad.
Karen glanced at Grace’s drink. “Another coffee please,” she said softly. “Cappuccino.”
As the waitress walked away Grace leaned forward holding out her hand, carefully clasping the slender hand of Karen Gardner. Grace couldn’t help but spot the well-manicured French-polished nails. “Grace Marshall,” she introduced herself.”
“Karen Gardner,” replied Karen, taking back her hand.
The voice sounded nervous.
“Sorry I was so vague on the phone, but I didn’t want to give too much away.”
“I gathered that,” Karen replied.
Grace saw her swallow hard. She had visually examined Mrs Gardner as soon as she walked through the door and she could instantly see why Paul Goodright had visited her all those years ago. At forty-eight, she was still a very attractive woman and very tastefully made-up and dressed. She guessed she was a woman who could afford to spend lots of time at the gym judging by her slim figure and sunbed tan. Grace waited a few minutes whilst Karen’s coffee order came, making small talk about the weather and asking questions about Mrs Gardner’s fundraising events, hoping to put her more at ease. The cappuccino soon arrived. Grace waited whilst Karen took a sip, and then continued. “Mrs Gardner — do you mind if I call you Karen?”