Читать книгу No One Is Sacrosanct - David Balaam - Страница 5

2002

Chief Superintendent James Jarvis should have retired five years previously, but he was driven by greed, power and ambition. Few, if any of his subordinates could tolerate him, so when his death was announced a collective sigh of relief was apparent to even the casual observer. During the days following his death, two of the CID team at Bell Street were assigned to collect Jarvis’s belongings and personal effects from his office and box them up and deliver them to his wife. “I'll drop these into Mrs Jarvis, Mike. It’s on my way home.”

. . .

2004

The news of Mandy Silver’s death was a particular blow to Christine Ling. They had been friends for many years and it was Mandy who had, in a way, helped Christine to acclimatise to the metropolis which was Newcastle.

When Christine moved south to Slough and been promoted to DCI, they had vowed to meet at least once a year, no matter what, but that promise has now been annulled by her tragic and untimely death.

St Matthew’s is a typical 1950’s brick-built church which lacked history. The walls were white and clean, and Christine felt the atmosphere too sterile for her liking. Although she was raised a Christian she did not have any religious convictions of her own. She was also a little surprised to find that Mandy was to have a church funeral, as she knew very well that Mandy was not one to seek spiritual assistance, unless it was in a glass. It transpired that her parents had insisted on the local church, despite their daughter’s lapse of faith. It was probably a good decision, as over a hundred mourners filled the church pews – friends and family, work colleagues, old school friends and people she had helped over the years as a reporter.

A local hotel had been hired for the wake, and Christine was keen to mix and mingle with Mandy’s colleagues to see if anything was worrying them about Mandy’s accident. Holding a glass of white wine she slowly mingled with the subdued mourners, nodding politely here and there, until she spied a small group who seemed more jovial than others. Christine stopped and introduced herself.

“Hello, I’m Christine Ling. What was your connection with Mandy?” She asked politely. The taller and senior of the group nodded and offered his hand.

“I’m Lionel Lancaster, editor of the weekly Guardian. We were just recalling some silly antidotes about Mandy.” Lionel was over six feet tall and Christine suspected he was a jovial and congenial man at any other time, and from what she remembered Mandy telling her, a great boss.

“That’s what should happen at funerals; remembering the good times about a person,” Christine said, looking at each of the others in turn.

“Sorry,” Lionel said. Let me introduce you.” And he promptly reeled off everyone's names. “This is even sadder for most of us. It’s the second funeral we have been to this year, and its only May.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said, somewhat surprised. “Was it for a work colleague?”

“Yes,” Lionel answered gravely. “Not sure if you knew him . . . Graham King, our crossword wizard.” Christine thought deeply. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, was he ill?”

“Heart attack, apparently,” Lionel replied.

“Why apparently? Was he not ill? Christine inquired.

“Fitter than anyone I know. Did the Marathon every year. Cycled to work every day, regardless of the weather. Never had a day off sick in all the time I knew him, then suddenly, wham, he keels over.”

“It's not unheard of,” Christine ventured.

“True, but now this sad event with Mandy; it hit us all very hard. By the way, is there any news on the driver – did they get anywhere in finding the bastard?” He asked bitterly.

“I am sorry, Lionel, it's not my province any more, but I will look into it if I can. Can I come to the office before I leave tomorrow to talk some more?”

Lionel beamed. “It will be a pleasure to see you again. Anytime, but around lunchtime is always good.”

Christine excused herself and searched out Mr and Mrs Silver to say goodbye and pass on her sympathies, when she saw someone standing in the doorway, looking in her direction. At least she assumed he was looking at her.

Seeing Mr Silver not far from where the man was standing, she walked slowly over to him. “Mr Silver, I’m Christine Ling. I am so sorry . . ” but was interrupted by Mrs Silver who had joined them. “We know who you are. What we what to know is what are the police doing about catching the drunk driver that killed my darling Mandy . . .” and wept uncontrollably on her husband's shoulder.

“I’m sorry Christine. Its been very hard for her, for us both. Thank you for coming.” Mr Silver said, and walked slowly away with his wife clinging to his shoulder. Christine sneaked a casual glance to where the man had been standing, but he was not there. Looking around the room she could not see him anywhere. Letting her curiosity take the better of her, she left the room and looked around the reception area and even the carpark on her way out, but she saw no one. Accepting she was being slightly paranoid, she took a taxi back to her city centre hotel.

The lights of the city were too bright so she closed the curtains; darkness was more conducive to her mood. She slipped off her coat letting it fall and fell backwards onto the bed. She lay staring at the white ceiling, her memory playing movies of the fun times she and Mandy had had over the years - ice skating at Whitley Bay Ice Rink – Mandy telling her off for being late, again, at the wine bar – feeding the penguins at the zoo – their last Easter weekend away at Edinburgh – getting tipsy at a friend’s wedding and having to leave early because they could not stop laughing . . . Christine turned over and buried her head in the pillow, and let everything she had been bottling up come out. Sleep eventually came to her in the early hours of the morning, but she was in no hurry to wake up.

Loud knocking on the bedroom door eventually roused her. It was the maid, who she sent away, and ordered breakfast in her room. Having showered and devoured some tea and toast she plugged in her mobile, which had been left on all night so the battery was now flat. Checking it, she had three missed calls from Clive, her husband. “Hi, love. Sorry, but I was clean exhausted by the time I got back from the wake. How are the girls.?”

“They are fine and missing you, as am I.” Neither spoke for a few moments. “I know funerals are shitty, love, especially when it’s a friend . . .”

“But that’s the strange part, Clive. It was like I was a stranger among so many people. I considered myself her best friend, but no one knew me and I knew no one. How could that be?”

“Hey, don’t start reading into something that’s not there. Remember you’re retired now, and we need you.”

“I know, but several people, including Mr and Mrs Silver, asked me about the hit and run driver, and if any progress had been made in finding him, so I thought I would look by the office before I catch the flight home, just to put their mind at rest.” Christine could hear him smiling.

“Considering you know what I do for a living, you could have made up a better excuse, but hey, it's good. You may be able to give them some closure.”

They finished with kisses for him and the girls. She had never been away from them before, and she was feeling the strain. She packed what little she had brought with her and checked out of the hotel. “Someone left a message for you, madam.” The receptionist said, handing her an envelope.

Christine opened it thinking it was maybe from the Guardian newspaper cancelling their meeting, or from Mr Silver about his wife's outburst, but Christine stared at the typed note and read it twice;

Mandy knew the answer

She told an old friend by the sea. MH

“Are you OK, miss?” The receptionist asked, seeing Christine was about to faint.

“It can’t be him . . . it can’t be . . . he's dead.”