Friday
Had he known about Dorothy’s phone-call to Nigel, Gary would
have been thankful that she had chosen to ring Nigel instead of him. One reason
for disliking phone-calls with Dorothy was that he usually found himself
embroiled in some discussion or other.
Cleo told him he was imagining things. That did not strike
the right note with Gary, either.
As it was, Nigel’s phone-call to his boss – and he hated
phoning Gary at home because Gary was invariably busy with the family and did
not like being interrupted, especially at breakfast-time – was delayed by
Dorothy’s anxious phone-call and the necessity of telling her most of what he
knew about the priory case.
***
Gary was not happy about anything that morning. He was
keeping Dorothy out of a case he thought distasteful and unsuited to amateur
sleuthing, and Dorothy was pressing to be part of it all.
Gary loved Dorothy, but not when she was being a private
eye. That in turn annoyed Cleo, who defended Dorothy’s enthusiasm, reminding
Gary that he had been thankful for her interventions on several occasions and
lapped up the brain-stormings at which Dorothy excelled.
“If it’s business, please use our cell phones, Nigel. We are
not bugged here, but the office is.”
Nigel rang off and phoned Gary as instructed.
“Do you want to know what I think?” he said, peeved that
Gary had made him feel foolish, since he knew the rule about cell phones for
business.
“Sorry I was short, Nigel. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up, Gary. I just wanted to tell you my theory of
the identity of that corpse.”
“Theory or probability?”
“Judge for yourself, Boss!”
Being called “Boss” was a warning that Nigel was irate, but
the lord-and-master cliché was not something Gary tolerated, either.
“Carry on, Son.”
“The farm behind Paddy Kelly’s belongs to the writer R D Day
alias Bailey.”
“So it does.”
“Quite apart from wondering if this Bailey has anything to
do with the Bailey of the driving school, I heard yesterday at the gym that
Farmer Bailey’s son Brad has been missing for a long time.”
“So you went to the gym, did you?”
“To exercise. Do you have a problem with that, Gary?”
“No, and people go missing every day because they want to.”
“Not this one. He apparently turned up a drug-addict after
donkey’s years of no contact with his father. He’d been taken up north as a kid
by his mother after the parents divorced.”
“That happens all the time.”
”So his father got him off drugs and pepped him up.”
“Good for him.”
“That does not sound like indifference. So why didn’t Bailey
report his son’s disappearance years ago?” said Nigel.
“The boy probably left a message that he was going back to
mother. Father decided it was nobody’s business, so he did not talk about it.”
“The boy was a grown man.”
“But Bailey was probably asked about the son’s whereabouts
by people who knew him, on whatever terms, and told to mind their own
business,” said Gary. “It doesn’t pay to investigate on hearsay years after,
Nigel!”
“Do I have your permission to look into it, Gary?”
“You have my blessing, but if it’s a case of someone going
missing and the case not being on the books after a couple of years, we have no
resources for extensive sleuthing.”
“Anway, when I’d finished at the gym, I went to that funny
Rock Café in Lower Grumpsfield. After all, we still don’t know the identity of
those priory bones and there is a possibility that….”
“… that they belong to Bailey junior?”
“Your own advice is not to leave a stone unturned, Gary.”
Gary pulled himself together.
“You’re right, Nigel. That is interesting. What does local
gossip now think?”
“The son was a nasty piece of work.”
“But the gym had not been opened then, Nigel, so it can’t be
responsible for the disappearance of that guy.”
“But it’s still weird, Gary. We don’t know if the cannibal
theory has any basis. That prodigal son was so intensely disliked that the
people I talked to said it was good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“So that’s the direction you’re going, is it? A villager
could be a killer who then celebrated a strange burial ritual.”
“Or not…”
Cleo heard Gary’s side of the dialogue as she passed came
into the living-room. Gary put the cell phone onto room volume.
“I’m sure that the cannibal theme is fantasy, Gary,” said
Cleo.
“You thought it up, Cleo,” said Gary.
“SS,” said Cleo. “Spontaneous Speculation.”
“Did you hear that,
Nigel?”
“SS? Sounds sociological to me,” said Nigel. “So in that
case it was a straightforward murder with a brutal post mortem tag.”
“Why not?” said Cleo.
“You‘ll have to contact Greg. I’m out of homicide except as
an advisor,” said Gary.
“I could be working for the Hartley Agency, Gary. Then it’s
not butting into Greg’s department.”
“I’ll buy that, Nigel,” said Gary.
“So will I,” said Cleo.
“OK. I’ll talk to the missing son’s mother.”
“To what end?” said Cleo.
“If he turned up there and is still alive, he isn’t missing,
is he?”
“Awesome. But where is she?”
“I could ask Bailey, though he might be on the defensive if
I turn up there on my own.”
“OK. I’ll go along as
your assistant,” said Gary.
“That’s not exactly what I was going to suggest.”
“OK. Colleague.”
“You have the blessing of the Hartley Agency,” said Cleo.
“I’ll square it with
Gisela,” said Nigel.
“We’ve baby-sat her job often enough, Nigel. But you’d
better tell Greg and invite him to go along. He’s a bit touchy at the moment.”
“Because of Josie? I know. He wants her back and then again he
doesn’t. He can’t decide.”
“I don’t suppose she wants him if Bailey lets her queen it
in his driving school,” said Gary. The cash flow is also bound to be more to
her liking.”
“I’ll be at the cottage for 10. Is that too early?”
“Not for me.”
“Ciao!”
***
Cleo could not find any record of an author named R D Day.
She suspected that the guy was into vanity publishing.
“I’ll have to get his internet connection hacked,” said
Gary.
“And Sloane’s. He’s probably also good at forging genuine
handwriting. I don’t think he’s involved in anything more illegal than selling
forged signatures, but you never know,” said Cleo.
“As if that were an innocent game,” said Gary. “It’s time I
turned my job in, Cleo. I don’t seem to be in the picture anymore.”
“I’m not stopping you, Sweetheart. It explains why you are
in such a foul mood this morning.”
“Disgruntled, Cleo. I’ll do it….when this case is out of the
way.”
“Can I have that in writing, Mr Hurley?”
***
Having squared Gary’s and his own absence with Gisela at HQ
that morning, Nigel stopped only to look through the usual spate of emails waiting
for Gary’s urgent attention, before driving to the Hurley cottage to collect him.
At HQ, Gisela was unhappy and smarting from the condemnation
after using the official security van to transport furniture she had sold on
behalf of her mother. She was anxious to cooperate if Nigel could promise to be
back for lunch as she had a private appointment that afternoon. Gary was not
mentioned. His appointment as superintendent almost a year ago had resulted in
numerous changes on the management floor, none of which had been to her liking.
***
Nigel drove himself and Gary to the Bailey farm, parked some
yards away and walked to the gate that was guarded by two examples of what Nigel
later described as hounds of the Baskervilles, though they did not look starved
and luminous. They did, however, fletch their teeth hungrily and issue low,
warning growls. Fortunately, their owner, presumably the Bailey Gary and Nigel
were about to visit, appeared out of the house and called off the beasts saying
there was nothing to be afraid of as they were under control. The dogs went
fawning to him. He fed them with biscuits and shut them into what had
presumably once been a stable.
“I don’t know what you want, but you’d better come in. I
don’t like this cold weather,” said Bailey.
“It is Connor Bailey, I assume,” said Gary, who was rapidly
coming to the conclusion that the questioning should not be left to Nigel. The guy was unpleasant.
“We’re looking for your son, Mr Bailey,” Nigel started.
“My name is Day, and Brad has left,” said Bailey.
“You’re known as Bailey round here,” said Nigel, “so I will
have to call you that – for my report, you understand.”
“What does your mentor think about that?” said Bailey,
looking hard at Gary.
“I agree with my … colleague,” said Gary, realising that the
ruse of Nigel being at the forefront had not been bought.
“I know you,” said Bailey to Gary. “You knock around with
that coloured woman and her tribe.”
“Miss Hartley is my wife and the children are mine,” said
Gary, who was becoming angrier by the minute at the farmer’s supercilious art
towards them, arrogance towards Cleo, and insult about the family..
“You certainly chose a fertile one,” said Bailey.
“I’d thank you to keep your foul remarks to yourself and
concentrate on the business in hand,” said Gary.
“What business?”
Nigel took over.
“Where is your son, Mr Bailey?”
“I told you. He left.”
“Where did he go?”
“What the hell has that to do with you,” said Bailey,
lighting a cigarette. The ashtray – a paper dish that had presumably been part
of a takeaway – was already full of half-smoked cigarettes. Nigel used a few
moments to remove some and pocket them while Bailey went to a drawer and took
out a document.
“You don’t need to believe me,” he said. “This is the note
he left.”
“Typed on your computer and printed on your printer, I
assume. Very thoughtful,” said Gary.
The document did indeed announce that ‘Brad’ was leaving for
the north and would forward his new address later.
“So the rumours that he did not leave this farm alive are malicious
lies, are they?” said Nigel.
“The decadent village people want me out of here and will go
to any lengths to achieve that object,” said Bailey. “If you’ve asked enough
questions, I’d like you to leave now.”
“We’re leaving,” said Gary. “Thank you for your
cooperation.”
***
“Did we achieve anything, Nigel?”
“Cigarette ends,” said Nigel, patting his lapel pocket.
“I saw that. Chris will be pleased,” said Gary.
“We didn’t ask Bailey where his wife is,” said Nigel.
“We didn’t ask him what he feeds his dogs on, either,” said
Gary. “What if the dogs ripped Brad apart? Rottweilers are on record for such
misdeeds.”
“So if Bailey and Brad had an argument, they fought, and
Bailey knocked his son over and left him lying unconscious in the yard, the
dogs might have finished him off,” said Nigel.
“Not a pretty thought. Let’s get back to HQ and think
through before taking more steps,” said Gary. “Chris needs the cigarette ends
and I want to talk to Gisela and Henry about future organization on our
management floor.”
“I’m curious. Am I to be fired?”
“On the contrary. Something Cleo said the other day…”
“I’m not into guessing. Surprise me,” said Nigel.
“Cleo thinks Henry’s an alcoholic, Nigel. Can you write the
report on this morning’s outing and send a copy to her?”
“I’m, not sure it matters what Henry’s like,” said Nigel.
“He’s retiring soon, then you can sort his department out.”
“I’m not a mathematician, Nigel.”
“He isn’t either.”
“But you are..”
“I’m a dabbler.”
“Charlie doesn’t think so. You tutored her once and she’s
top of the class now.”
“Maths is all about logic, Gary.”
“And sobriety, Nigel.”
***
Nigel dashed down to the forensic lab while Gary visited his
colleagues. Gisela was sure she could do with official help with her business
contacts. Henry was sitting at his desk slouched over a mug of dubious coffee
and barely visible over a pile of documents on his in-tray. The out-tray was
empty. I could not have timed it better, thought Gary.
***
“Want help with all this, Henry?”
“Can you do accountancy, Gary?”
“No, but I know someone who can.”
“Get him in,” said Henry.
“At a price,” said Gary.
“How much an hour?”
“A month.”
“There’s no job going, Gary.”
“But you could rename one, couldn’t you?”
“That’s probably within my jurisdiction,” said Henry.
“Nigel, my assistant, could be everyone’s assistant up
here.”
“Hasn’t he got enough to do chasing after you?”
“He already chases after Gisela and doesn’t get a penny
extra.”
“Then he can stop chasing after that silly woman.”
“Try telling her that, Henry. Her in-tray is empty. Yours
isn’t.”
“So what do you propose?” said Henry.
“Make him our Managerial Assistant and pay him a respectable
salary.”
“He’s only a sergeant, Gary.”
“I’ll make him an inspector.”
Henry looked woefully at his in-tray. He would be retiring
in a couple of years and the accounts could support an assistant now Joe
(Gary’s journalist brother) was attracting lucrative advertising to his Cop’s
Corner rag.
“Would 30% more for all the extra work be enough?”
Gary thought Henry must be desperate if he offered so much
recompense.
“He’ll agree, Henry, and your in-tray will be empty in no
time.”
“Send him in this afternoon,” said Henry. “It was all my
idea, of course, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. You pull the financial strings here.”
“When no one interferes, like the mayor wanting to divert
police funds to get himself new chairs for his office.”
Mr Cobblethwaite was known for his frequent ego trips.
“He can’t do that, can he?” said Gary.
“He can try.”
“Nigel will find a way of putting him in his place,” said
Gary.
“You set a lot by him, don’t you?”
“I do.”
***
Nigel had thought ahead. Gary would not waste much time on
Gisela and Henry would be too embroiled in some sort of calculation to want a
heart-to-heart with Gary, so he ordered the usual pizzas from Romano for half
an hour hence and chatted to Colin Peck in the archives about the possibility
of finding someone among the myriad of Baileys dotted around the country.
***
Gary was delighted that his gastronomic preference had been
taken into account. He was very hungry, but also eager to tell Nigel about his
good fortune, though Nigel would have to listen to it all over again in Henry’s
office and be made to believe that it was Henry who had thought up the new plan
for the management floor.
Romano brought the pizzas personally, which was a sign that
he needed to talk, meaning that he needed to talk to Gary about his
mother-in-law. Gloria was Romano’s perennial fiancée.
To preface the pizza lunch, Romano had thoughtfully brought
a bottle of very light white wine along that was to be tasted for flavour.
Protests by Nigel and Gary that they did not drink on duty were greeted by
sonorous laughter as Romano revealed that the wine was alcohol-free.
“Brilliant, Romano. What has my mother-in-law done now?”
“Moved in. That’s what,” said Romano.
“Isn’t that what you wanted all along?” said Gary.
“Not with me. With Giacomo! But I’m glad she did. Life with
Gloria was too complicated.”
“Who’s Giacomo?”
“My new cook.”
“So she’s actually moved out, has she?” said Nigel.
“No. Giacomo lives upstairs and Gloria never moved in with
me.”
“I think you’ve had a lucky escape,” said Nigel.
“Another,” said Gary. “Gloria is a law unto herself, Romano.
Be thankful.”
“I could throw Giacomo out,” said Romano.
“Did he make these pizzas?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t fire him!” said Gary. “Fire Gloria!”
“But she is the soul of the restaurant.”
“Did she tell you that, Romano?” said Gary.
Romano nodded. He was trying to put a brave face on the
situation, but failing miserably.
“The wine’s OK,” said Nigel.
“Ciao bene!” said Romano as he backed his way out of the
office.
“What was that about?” Nigel asked.
“Search me,” said Gary. “I thought we were rid of Gloria.
Seemingly not.”
***
The episode with Romano was typical of what the
restauranteur had gone through with Cleo’s mother. Before leaving, he whispered
to Gary to intercede for him. As usually, Gary told him he would talk to Cleo
and Cleo would decide what to do. No one had any influence on Gloria, so it was
a waste of time trying to convince her of anything, Gary knew. But he did not
tell Romano that.
***
Nigel’s next task was to be another visit to Bailey’s
driving school. Perhaps Bailey really was related to the guy in Lower
Grumpsfield.
“I can arrange that driving lesson,” he said. “I’ll be
casual about my questioning.”
“Don’t forget to call yourself ‘Inspector’.”
“Meaning I should talk to Henry before going?”
“He won’t know I’ve told you about your promotion. I more or
less had to agree that it was all his idea.”
“Sly old bastard,” said Nigel. ”He hasn’t had an idea for 20
years.”
“Take him a mug of our coffee. The stuff he was drinking when
I was there looked unmentionable and was in a paper cup.”
***
Nigel was not sure if Henry had been expecting him. He was
grateful for the coffee, but the fiery spots on Henry’s cheeks and the unmistakeable
smell of whisky gave the game away. Whatever was bothering him had driven him
to drink, Nigel decided. It was high time to step in.
“Nice of you to come, my boy,” Henry garbled. “I’ve had an
idea.”
“Gary said you’d like a coffee out of our espresso machine,”
Nigel replied, mindful of Henry’s determination to be the great mind behind the
promotion plan.
“That too,” said Henry, and proceeded to read off the list
he had made for himself during his talk with Gary.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” said Nigel, quoting one of Cleo’s
Americanisms.
“It is, isn’t it?” said Henry. “If you could just start with
my in-tray. Gary said you can cope.”
“Sure,” said Nigel. “I’ll take it to my office and start
now.”
“You’ll have to come back for the rest.”
“The rest?”
“There’s some under my desk.”
The pile of in-tray documents already reached from Nigel’s
carrying arms to under his chin. Henry staggered rather than walked to the door
and opened it. Nigel returned in double quick time hoping Henry had not fallen
into a coma.
“I forgot to offer you a dram to seal our contract,” said
Henry, brightening up at the thought of permissible tot of his favourite drink.
“I don’t drink when I’m on duty,” Nigel retorted.
“Ah yes, of course. You’re a policeman, aren’t you? I’m an
accountant, so that rule doesn’t apply.”
While Nigel looked on, Henry drank both drams ex hop.
Following that and at his behest, Nigel dragged from under the carved oak desk a
large cardboard box full of documents, most of them in brown, unopened official
A4 envelopes, much as the first collection had been. Nigel nodded wordlessly to
Henry and pushed them with his foot down the corridor to his office. The box
looked too flimsy to lift.
“There’s more in the cupboard, Inspector!” Henry shouted.
“I’ll go through this lot first,” said Nigel, thinking that
another tot of whisky would do the trick. But Henry was still standing.
***
“He’s as drunk as a lord,” Nigel reported to Gary when he
had kicked the box into his much smaller office and pushed it under his much
smaller desk.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He offered me a dram and scoffed when I said I don’t drink
on duty.”
“Nasty. What are you planning to do?”
“Read all the documents and scrap the rubbish, but not
before compiling a comprehensive data list. I expect Henry will want me to deal
with it all under the circumstances.”
“I can’t say I envy you,” said Gary, “but the driving school
is first on the agenda.”
“Can you take a look at Henry?”
“Of course. Any reason.”
“He’s drinking himself under table. You could control if he’s
got there.”
Nigel left and Gary went down the corridor to Henry’s
office. You can’t get a colleague hospitalized for falling into a drunken coma,
he decided. But he would have a heart-to-heart chat with him when he came
round.
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