The camera man, p.8
The Camera Man, page 8
Ever since Amanda Fitch had mentioned the police from Kings Lake – someone wearing glasses – Smith had been thinking about Chris Waters. That young man did not wear them but he would know, or he could easily find out, who had spoken to Gerald’s wife five years ago – there would be a record. When the possibility of working for – or was it with? – Diver and Diver had first arisen, Smith had made it very clear to the Divers and to himself that under no circumstances would he use his former colleagues and present friends in the force to advance an investigation, and so he was in at least two minds about making this phone call. He stared at his mobile for some minutes, long enough for the screen to go dark at least three times. Even though this was about avoiding a conflict of interests and not stepping on anyone’s toes at Lake Central, he did not want to open a conversation with a request for information, putting Waters into an awkward situation.
On the other hand, the young man was the fount of all knowledge when it came to iPhones, wasn’t he? Smith glanced at his watch and speculated about what might be happening in Lake Central at that very moment – an entirely pointless distraction – and then he pressed dial.
‘DC? To what do we owe this pleasure?’
“We” – he’s in the office and other people are now aware who is on the line – Murray, Serena but probably not the boss. Smith said, ‘You owe it to boredom. I’m sitting here in my rocking chair phoning up people who used to call themselves my friends to prove to myself that I still exist. That’s enough for me now – I don’t need to believe I matter anymore. Say hello to John and Serena for me.’
He heard Waters saying something and then her voice – ‘Tell him he’s useless at pathetic and no, we don’t have any vacancies.’
Waters asked whether he heard that but Smith was remembering Serena Butler the day she arrived and was put into his team; she could be trouble, Alison Reeve had said, but he had decided to back her and been proved right time and again. She ought to be pushing for detective sergeant – that was long overdue.
He said to Waters, ‘Yes. And the sin of her ingratitude will lie heavily upon her one day. How is everyone? How is Miriam?’
They talked for a few minutes, catching up; it was at least a couple of months since Waters and Miriam had brought Ben up to Drift’s End for a walk through the saltmarshes. It was Smith who ended that part of the conversation, aware that while his time was his own, Waters’ was not. He said, ‘I’m calling you as my mobile phone consultant, Chris. I’ve got a problem.’
He received back in that patiently condescending tone, ‘Right. Have you tried switching it off and then back on again?’
‘Yes. As amusing as ever… No, this isn’t mine. I’ve got an old one, an iPhone 6, I think. I need to charge it. Where can I get an old-style cable, a USB thingy?’
Waters said, ‘You could try Googling USB thingy but I wouldn’t advise it. More to the point, when most people upgrade, they get a newer model, DC. Have you decided to downgrade?’
‘Repeat – it’s not mine. I thought you people were trained to listen.’
He could sense the younger man smiling – how confident he’d become in the job and in himself since Smith first saw him standing with Charlie Hills in the old reception area of Lake Central. What had Smith said? If you’ve lost your tricycle, sonny, shouldn’t you be this side of the counter? Tempus fugit…
Waters said, ‘You’ll find plenty online. Ebay, and other suppliers are available. But I’m pretty certain I’ll have one at home. There’s a box full of old leads and chargers in the spare room. I can check tonight. Is it urgent?’
No, he said, but thought to himself that he really would have liked to get into that phone’s memory today – and then came the realisation that the job he had agreed to do had already developed its own gravitational pull. He needed to know what had happened on that June night five years ago.
As if reading his thoughts, Waters said, ‘Is it for a case, DC? Something for D and D?’
Is that how they talked about their business among themselves, the young Turks of the Kings Lake investigations businesses? D and D? It sounds, Smith thought, rather like an uncomfortable medical procedure.
He said, ‘Yes. And now you’ve brought that up, I hope you’re not going to wish you hadn’t. Are you in a position to receive a work-related question?’
A clumsy phrase but a simple enough point – he meant, can anyone else hear this conversation? He could tell that Waters was moving away from wherever he had first taken the call, and then, ‘No, it’s OK. Go ahead.’
Smith said, ‘Does the name Gerald Fitch mean anything to you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know why. Who is he?’
A good question, said Smith, but more to the point might be, where is he? Or is he at all? He gave the background quickly enough and then got to his reason for mentioning this – he, Smith, had no wish to tread on anyone’s toes at Lake Central, especially after the business with Charlie Hills’s son. He had been assured by Jason Diver and by Frances Dunhill of Axon Life that there was no police interest in the matter, but he wanted to be doubly sure that the police themselves took the same view. Waters would be able to find out easily enough whether there was any ongoing investigation, whether the case – if there had ever been one – had been left open or had been closed. He said, ‘I’d rather pull out now than get in anyone’s way, Chris.’
Smith had complete trust in Waters’ judgement on such a matter – he, Waters, would not take any risks that might compromise himself professionally. They had talked at their last meeting on the marshes about beginning an application for his next promotion, and Detective Inspector Christopher Waters had a ring to it, didn’t it?
Waters said, ‘I can take a look, in the interests of maintaining good relations with the licensed private investigations businesses in the town. I’m certain no one is currently working on it but I’ll check. It wouldn’t be our team. Maybe someone in Terek’s looked over it…’
He paused but Smith did not react. Then Waters said, ‘I’ll let you know tonight about the charging lead. I finish at six.’
When he went back inside the cottage, Jo was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop, and he didn’t need to ask why; she spent months at a time buried in notorious and disturbing cases from the past, and working on something that was live came as a sort of light relief to her. She said, ‘Got your notebook?’
It was a standing joke, his Alwych, because every note she made was on her phone or an iPad. He sat opposite her and asked what she’d found.
‘Right. First, the house. Woodlands was last sold nearly nine years ago, so that must have been to Gerald Fitch. It went for a little over nine hundred thousand, according to the online details. It has more than three acres of land with it but obviously being where it is, there’s no chance of selling any for building. However,’ – pause for dramatic effect – ‘it was sold with outline planning permission for an annexe to provide additional living or working space. Woodlands is massive and I can’t see why anyone ever needed the extra space but that’s not the point – the planning consent was renewed by the current occupant earlier this year.’
Smith said, ‘By Amanda Fitch?’
‘Has to be unless someone else lives there as well.’
He shook his head at that, before he said, ‘She said herself the place was much too big for her – it was one of the reasons she said she needed to move, so…’
Holding up a forefinger, Jo said, ‘Hang on. You know what’s happened to property prices in the past nine years, especially near the coast. The planning permission adds another level of value. These property websites allow you to see an estimated current market value. Any guesses?’
Smith thought he was probably the worst guesser in North Norfolk, and that was being a little modest, but you have to humour some of the people some of the time. He said, ‘One million and… A half?’
She shook her head, and said because she knew he would not guess again, ‘Two million four hundred thousand. It’s an ideal place for London money – two hours away in a Porsche, country retreat plus investment opportunity.’
Smith said, ‘What we don’t know is how he paid for it. If there’s a mortgage, how has Mrs F kept up the payments?’
Jo looked at the screen and said, ‘Doesn’t tell you that here.’
‘Pity. But that’s useful. I think she has plans for that money when it goes on the market. I told you, didn’t I? She had property brochures for the Greek islands, and I don’t think they were out of date ones.’
Jo said, ‘Good for her. I’ll stick with Marston,’ and they shared a private smile – the magic of the place hadn’t worn off for either of them yet. As he turned away to fill the kettle, she said, ‘Don’t you want to see their wedding?’
Smith turned back, and she said, ‘Amanda used to be a regular Facebooker. She’s gone very quiet over the past year but she put the wedding on and it’s all still there. She went for it – the whole princess and perfect day routine.’
The question of marriage had not been broached in Drift’s End since Smith had brought it up, as a gentleman ought at some point, and had been told she believed far too many people rushed into it and she was on the angels’ side on this one. He was happy to leave it there until further notice.
Jo turned the screen so they could both see it. She said, ‘There are scores of pictures,’ and began to press a key to advance through them. There had been no exaggeration on Jo’s part: the wedding had been at some sort of castle by the look of it, and there were pictures of the happy couple standing on battlements and holding champagne glasses. For a reason he could not fathom, there had been a bagpipes player as well as a jazz band at the reception. Smith studied the images of the missing man – tall and thin, half-smiling in some pictures, looking a little overwhelmed in others. And there were the customary photos of children running around, bridesmaids giggling, family groups…
‘Hold it,’ he said, and then, ‘Go back one. No, and another one.’
Jo returned to a picture of the bride – and she was attractive on the day, no getting away from that – standing with a group of men in their wedding suits, pink carnations in the lapels, grins on their faces.
Smith said, ‘Are these labelled? Are there any names?’
‘No. Why?’
‘OK. What was her maiden name? It must say on here somewhere.’
Jo found it on a close-up of the fancy wedding invitations and told him; after reading it himself, his eyes went back to the image.
He said, ‘And I wondered why she looked familiar. Dear oh dear oh dear.’
Chapter Eight
The door to the café had been wedged open because of the warm weather. When Detective Sergeant Chris Waters stepped in from the street, Micky Lemon looked over from the counter and smiled, but not in surprise. He said, ‘Gordon Bennet, s’like a bloody reunion. Don’t hang about too long – half my regulars’ll be eating somewhere else today…’
But when Waters reached the counter, a hand came over and shook his own. Micky said, ‘He’s round the corner. Obviously wants a private word this morning.’
Waters said, ‘Thanks, Micky. I’ll have-’
‘Order’s already in and paid for. One flat white – I’ll bring it round.’
Smith was seated in the alcove where a couple of tables could not be seen from the rest of the café or the street; usually he took a window seat. Waters guessed this was out of respect to his own situation rather than because of any great need for secrecy – a passing uniformed patrol might see them talking, and in all innocence mention it to another party, setting off the Chinese whispers.
Smith stood up with that unconscious, unfailing politeness which members of the opposite sex seemed to find so appealing, even the younger, more politically correct ones, Waters thought, and then they sat down together. Smith said, ‘I’ve ordered you a coffee.’
‘Yes, Micky told me.’
Smith said, ‘I’ve been sitting here wondering… Why is it called a “flat” white?’
‘I’ve no idea, DC.’
Smith looked genuinely surprised. He said, ‘So you’ve been ordering them for years and never thought to ask why?’
‘Yes.’
The little silence brought the memories flooding back – Waters said, ‘I feel completely inadequate now. I’ll find out and send you an email.’
And then the hand waving it away, and, ‘Don’t be daft, it’s not important.’
Waters took out the cable from his trouser pocket and placed it on the table.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
Smith had brought the phone, just to be sure, and took it out of his jacket pocket – belt and braces. Looking at it, he said, ‘I think, so isn’t it? I’m sure it’ll be more useful than a lot of leads I’ve had…’ but he didn’t have a clue and wasn’t seriously pretending that he did. Waters took the phone, examined it cursorily and said, ‘It’s a 6S. This lead should charge it. But it’s getting on a bit, the phone I mean. The battery might not be up to much.’
He handed it back and Smith said, ‘How old do you think it is, then?’
‘I don’t think, I know. Seven years.’
Smith re-examined the phone, peering at it as if there might be some clue – a date he’d missed or something like the rings in a trunk that give away the age of a tree. Waters said, ‘The 6 came out in 2014. The 6S was an update one year later. Pretty well all the 6S phones would have been sold in 2015, maybe early 2016.’
It was plain that Smith found this information of interest – it was equally plain that Waters would have to ask why if he wanted to know. And so he did.
Smith said, ‘So by 2017, this would have been a relatively old model?’
‘Yes. The iPhone 8 came out that year, and in phone-nerd terms it was a great leap forward. Bigger, a higher spec and much more eye-catching. Why?’
Smith said, ‘Well, this is Gerald Fitch’s phone. He left it behind when he disappeared, and you have to wonder about that, don’t you? Another thing I’m wondering is why he didn’t upgrade like the rest of you, every year? He was managing director of Fitch Marine – you know, down in the riverside industrial area. Admittedly they weren’t doing too well by then but I don’t think he was short of a bob or two.’
Waters said, ‘Not everyone’s into their phones, DC. I mean, look at…’
‘Yes, very droll. I can remember when a cynical word never passed your lips.’
Waters smiled and then the coffee arrived. Micky put down the perfectly executed beverage in one of his new, clear, heat-retaining cups. He asked Smith whether they would be partaking of a sandwich and Smith said he would let him know shortly. As Micky walked away, Smith’s gaze settled again on the newly-arrived cup of coffee. Waters stared at it too, and eventually said, ‘Maybe “flat” means it doesn’t have any bubbles. Like flat lemonade.’
Smith said, ‘Canons are good cameras, aren’t they?’
It was coming back to Waters now – that he would learn more by listening and waiting instead of asking obvious questions. He said, ‘Yes. Among the best. Not that there’s much of an alternative – it’s either Canon or Nikon. I’d say Canon have won the argument as far as professional photographers are concerned.’
Smith took a sip of his own coffee – as black as it ever was – before he said, ‘Our Gerald was very keen, judging by the boxes in his office at West Wootton. 5D? Is that a good one?’
Waters nodded and told Smith it was, and in answer to a further question said you wouldn’t have got much change out of two thousand pounds just for the body – the lenses were extra, and could cost as much again, or more. Each new piece of information was being evaluated and slotted into place like a component on a motherboard – Smith looked older, more tanned, fitter and perhaps happier but the brain was still functioning exactly as before.
Smith said, ‘You still keeping up your interest? I always thought you could take a good snap.’
The acknowledged master of faint praise, too. Waters said yes, he still did some but living with Miriam…
Smith asked what difference that made but before Waters could respond, two fingers had been pointed at his interlocutor’s temple, and he apologised, forgetting for that moment that Miriam was blind. Smith asked for a more detailed account of how she was doing than he had been given on the phone yesterday.
Waters said, ‘She’s doing well. Do you remember me telling you about Patsy who works with her at the florist’s? She’s made Miriam an offer to buy her out, and she’s thinking about that. I think she will sell it. She has a waiting list for music lessons. I’ve told her she could double her charges and I could retire.’
Smith said, ‘You won the lottery there. And I’m still waiting to hear her play… Look, I don’t want to take up your whole morning. But if you fancy an early lunch, I’m buying.’
Waters said he didn’t think he would this time, but he wouldn’t say no to another coffee.
Smith said, ‘Another flat white?’ – a question which somehow managed to have two question marks after it instead of the usual one. When Smith returned, Waters said, ‘You asked whether Central still has any interest in Gerald Fitch.’
‘I did, and I probably shouldn’t have.’
When Waters stayed quiet, Smith said, ‘Do they?’
‘No. Just so you know, it was DI Terek himself who spoke to Mrs Fitch. They sent a DI because of who he was, I suppose. Gerald Fitch is on the system as missing, that’s all – it’s left open but there hasn’t been any action on it for two years, and that was just a tick-box review.’
Smith said, ‘What did they do at the time? Anything?’
Waters said, ‘Routine, as far as the record shows. It mentions business worries and that he had been to the GP about not sleeping. But he didn’t fall into any risk categories – you know all about those. Someone looked at public transport CCTV and spoke to the local taxi firms. There’s a note that Mrs Fitch was given information about how to contact the usual voluntary agencies – Missing People, the Samaritans, the usual leaflets.’
