The camera man, p.9
The Camera Man, page 9
This was a lot to process. Smith took another mouthful of his coffee and chewed it a little – funny how different flavours appear as it cools down… Then he said, ‘Hm. I didn’t know about the GP. Useful. And it doesn’t sound like I’ll be treading on any toes if I take a proper look.’
Waters leaned forward then, placing his elbows on the table – Smith gave a wary glance around the alcove. Not put off by the amateur dramatics, Waters said, ‘Talking of which… Did something happen between you and DCI Freeman?’
Smith had no doubt that she, Cara Freeman, had been instrumental in having the charges against Anthony Hills dropped: when Smith had pointed out to her that proceeding with the charges would result in the exposure of an undercover officer, she must have taken it to Regional Serious Crimes. They would have concluded that convicting Anthony Hills would prejudice years of work investigating the supply of various illegal drugs into East Anglian ports. Hills had been very lucky but Smith took the view that he himself had suffered a considerable misfortune – his own investigative efforts had put Cara Freeman into a difficult position and he fully understood why she had, unofficially, let him know there had been a good case against Charlie Hills’ son. Although it was obvious Waters didn’t know any of the details, something must have been said in Central.
Smith said, ‘Ms Freeman and I have had our moments, as you well know.’
Waters wasn’t so easily put off. He said, ‘Something recently? Since you left?’
Smith’s frown was genuine – he was certain Freeman would have kept very quiet about their conversation that day in The Tuck Stop. He said to Waters, ‘Any particular reason for asking?’
Waters said, ‘Believe it or not, your name still crops up occasionally. She never responds to or comments on that. She gets a look on her face… It was Serena who noticed.’
Yes, it would be. Smith could dissimulate with the best, it’s an essential part of the job, but there are some people with whom one wishes to be honest, and Waters was one of those. Telling him the whole story, though, would be irresponsible.
Smith said, ‘We had a conversation about Anthony Hills,’ and hoped Waters would understand.
There was a nod of the head and no look of surprise – ‘I guessed it must have been that. Did she do the full-on scary ice-maiden?’
Smith said no – they had come to an agreement of sorts, and Waters didn’t pursue the matter further. He’s developing good instincts, thought Smith. And he’s getting through that second cup of coffee; there must be a case and he’s keen to get back to it. It’s impossible not to wonder what it might be.
But then Waters said, tapping the iPhone that still lay on the table, ‘Don’t forget, the battery might be dead. If it is, I can’t slot the card into Kiosk for you.’
It was a simple but fair reminder that the police have capabilities private investigators do not, as if Smith needed telling. Still, young Jason had a few tricks up his technological sleeve, so there might be possibilities. And it was Waters who then said, ‘Gerald Fitch seems to have your attention, DC.’
Waters had recognised it, naturally – the active attention that marks out the good detective minds from the ordinary ones. Smith made a judgement call, then: he owed Waters something for this meeting, not just for the charging lead but the snippet of information about Fitch’s visit to his doctor. That wasn’t all – the piece of information he was about to share might – and it was only the most tentative of mights at this point in time – lead to some sort of police involvement later on. Why not plant a little seed now?
He said, ‘Remember a few years ago when we took down the Routh boys? When their brother Cameron and his girlfriend, Tina Fellowes, had been taken hostage by their eastern European partners to make sure they followed through on a deal?’
Waters said, ‘That’s a case no-one will ever forget. It’s when John was shot. Why?’
Smith said, ‘They both got a good stretch. Are they still inside?’
Waters answered, ‘Malcolm must be. Stuart could be out by now. They both did a lot of remand before trial and sentence, and I know one got less than the other.’
Like all good officers, Waters had learned the value of knowing which operators were inside and when they were likely to reappear on the patch. He was watching Smith now.
Smith said, ‘Yesterday afternoon, my assistant, DI Evison, did a bit of background on Mrs Fitch, Mrs Amanda Fitch. She found their wedding on Facebook eight years ago, and I recognised a couple of faces.’
Smith lifted up the cup and finished the coffee. Waters said, ‘Go on.’
‘Before she married, Mrs Fitch was Amanda Routh. She’s their little sister.’
This time Waters’ nod was one of understanding rather than affirmation. He said after a moment or two, ‘Oh.’
And Smith said, ‘Oh, indeed.’
Chapter Nine
If active attention is the first necessary quality in the mind of a successful detective, the second might be something one could call informed expectation. An expert birdwatcher walking with a friend through a wood he or she knows well can perform seemingly miraculous feats – birds will be predicted before they give any sign of their presence, the merest flicker of a wing in the undergrowth adds another species to a growing list for the morning, a single distant note is confidently identified. It’s easily explained – he or she knows their patch very well and they know what to expect, and where. In a similar way, once a detective has conducted a number of investigations, and particularly if they have specialised in certain types of cases, he or she has developed a sense for the patterns of behaviour involved, both of the victims and the perpetrators. The investigator begins to find that some conclusions have almost drawn themselves in advance of his arrival on the scene.
Smith had been puzzled by the nature of Gerald Fitch’s disappearance almost from the very beginning – there were too many circumstances that didn’t fit the usual framework of expectations in such cases. He had listed these mentally again and again, and now they were written down in ink in his notes: each one had a bullet point and two lines in between where further notes could be added, in pencil. The discovery of Amanda Fitch’s maiden name and the sight of those two brothers, one either side of her in the wedding photograph, their arms around her, had altered almost everything: in the wood, the birdwatcher senses there is something odd this morning, something has disturbed the usual routines and behaviours. Thanks to his experience, much reflected upon, he knows what it is – there is an unfamiliar predator here, or another human being in the place where he is usually alone. In investigative terms, the detective knows now that something is wrong.
Smith’s meeting with Waters had lasted longer than expected, and he’d forgotten about Jo’s annual optician’s appointment in Hunston. She left almost immediately but said in passing, ‘We’re going to need that other car!’
He apologised but she wasn’t annoyed – she said only that tonight they should talk this over and decide what they would be looking for. He watched as she drove away along the track and knew she was right – if this case picked up momentum, if he received a call this morning that needed him to go and speak to someone, he would be stuck here until Jo returned. They could get something sensible, small engine, low tax… Or maybe even something electric, if the wiring in the old place was up to it.
Waters had been almost entirely right about the phone. When the lead was plugged into it for the first time, nothing happened. Then, after a few minutes, a red battery symbol appeared on the screen, and Smith thought it probably just needed warming up like the old Peugeot used to – he had cars on his mind now. After a quarter of an hour, the battery read 4 per cent and then it didn’t go any higher despite waiting for another quarter of an hour. When he pulled out the lead, everything went dark – plugging it back in led to the same sequence of events. This time he left the lead in place and discovered to his considerable relief that he was able to navigate to and open the contacts folder. There was no security, no code required, which seemed unusual in itself.
There were few names in it. Smith scrolled to the end and back again – it wasn’t at all the contacts folder of a busy and successful managing director. But then, Gerald, he thought, you weren’t, were you? I knew that already. A Lauren was present, and the chances were good this was his daughter’s mobile number, or it had been at the time. It was copied down onto the notepad, a fresh page for everything to do with this phone. In view of what Mrs Fitch had said, that call could well be an awkward one – it would not be the first he made, therefore.
He found Andy M – surely the works manager or whatever his title had been. But all this was five years out of date at least. People change their phones, people lose them, people die, for heaven’s sake. If Andrew McGuire had been getting on, he might be pushing up daisies.
Smith’s own mobile contained the number of his GP’s surgery but he couldn’t find the equivalent in Gerald’s. Waters had mentioned that the police were aware Gerald had visited his doctor. The chances that Smith could get any information about that were infinitesimal but every line must be followed to the end, and so he decided his first call would be to someone who surely knew all about her husband’s ailments and concerns. It will be interesting, he thought as he pressed the keys, to see how Amanda reacts to hearing from me again – she’s probably not expecting it.
He had to remind her who he was but he thought this was a pretence on her part, an attempt to undermine him in some way – not a very good effort, really. He carried on in the doggedly patient way that seemed to aggravate certain sorts more than any all-out onslaught, explaining that he was hoping she would be able to tell him the name of her husband’s general practitioner.
She said, ‘Why d’you want that? I can tell you he hasn’t seen anyone for at least five years.’
‘Yes, Mrs Fitch. I’m wondering about the time leading up to his disappearance. I understand he had been seeing his doctor before that.’
Smith hadn’t intended to put it quite in that way but felt the possibilities as soon as he did; he sensed her mind working quickly before she said, ‘Oh, really? Who’s told you that then?’
He weighed it up – the effect upon her of hearing him say, the police, Mrs Fitch. She wouldn’t, perhaps, be pleased to hear such a thing. On the other hand, he could not in even the slightest way expose Waters to any risk, and so he answered her with, ‘It’s just something that has come up in the course of my inquiries. I doubt whether it’s of any significance but as I think I said to you, I’m clutching at straws on this one. Do you happen to know the name of his GP, Mrs Fitch?’
No, she did not, but then he asked whether she at least knew which practice Gerald had been registered at, and in the following hesitation he guessed she was wondering just how obstructive she could be. Hadn’t the insurance company advised her to be, or at least to seem, as cooperative as possible? Eventually he was told she thought it was the one in Eastwood, Kings Lake, but she couldn’t be sure. Smith thanked her and said he hoped she didn’t mind him calling like this – no, she said, not at all, but added, ‘So, you’re really looking into it all, then?’
He said, ‘Well, yes, Mrs Fitch. Just doing my job. As I said to you, I’m not expecting to uncover anything new but I’ve got to show that I’ve tried.’
And because they were getting on a little better now, he thought about asking her how the family was these days, but not seriously. That was a card which would remain lodged in his sleeve, to be played, if at all, near the end of the game.
He knew the doctors’ practice in Eastwood – if you’ve worked a local patch as a police officer for more than twenty-five years, you know where all such places are. It was also the practice where he and Waters had interviewed the GP who had attended the scene of Joan Riley’s death at Rosemary House. He remembered her – young and rather earnest, she had assumed they were there because of her affiliation to some sort of pressure group for changes to the law concerning assisted suicide. She had all but held out her wrists to be handcuffed in the name of the cause and seemed a little disappointed to learn that the detectives’ main concern was whether she had noticed the empty glass by the side of Joan Riley’s body.
As he dialled the number, Smith was certain that if the same doctor was still at the same practice, she would have been Gerald Fitch’s GP – that’s just the way things go sometimes, and already in this investigation, though it was less than a week old, he had come across the Routh brothers from one of his police cases, and knew that if he visited the old Fitch Marine Engineering works on the riverside, it was adjacent to the premises where he and Waters had arrested Philip Wood for the murder of Jimmy Bell in another case. It’s a small world which seems to be getting smaller, he reflected, as he listened to the automated menu and then waited for the receptionist to pick up the call. This lady was remarkably easy to dodge – he said Gerald Fitch’s name and the woman for some reason assumed that this was Mr Fitch asking to speak to his doctor, Doctor Tremewan.
Yes, as he had guessed, one and the same, and by some extraordinary stroke of luck she was able to take his call. As they waited, the receptionist said to Smith, ‘I’ve opened your appointment record for the doctor, Mr Fitch – we don’t see you very often, do we?’
Smith said, ‘No, you don’t. Thank you for your help this morning. I must say I-’ and then the doctor herself came onto the line.
It would have been most unwise to allow this case of accidental mistaken identity to continue, of course. Smith revealed himself immediately, and began to explain the reason for his call, but the woman interrupted him.
‘David Smith?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Detective Sergeant David Smith?’
What a remarkable memory this young woman possessed, even for a highly-trained professional. Now, to suggest that the thought didn’t cross his mind would be untrue: despite, or perhaps even because of, her behaviour in their last encounter some years ago, there was a chance this GP would give him the information he was after if she believed him to be a still-serving police detective. However, in his last meeting with DCI Freeman she had made it plain that any further instances of retired officers misleadingly presenting themselves as current ones – as had apparently happened in Schiphol airport earlier in the year – would be taken very seriously. And so he made it plain that although he was the very same David Smith, he was no longer a member of the Norfolk constabulary.
She said, ‘I see. How can I help you, Mr Smith? Are you in need of medical attention? Are you registered with this practice? And why do I have someone else’s file open on my screen?’
Perhaps he was imagining it but she seemed rather to enjoy calling him Mr Smith. He outlined the reason for contacting her and again she interrupted him.
‘Have I understood you correctly? You are now some sort of private detective and you are asking me to give you information from one of my patients’ private files?’
He said, ‘Yes and no, doctor. I’m not asking for detailed confidential medical information. I was simply wondering-’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘- whether Mr Fitch had-’
‘It’s absurd! You must know it would be completely unethical for me to accede to such a request.’
‘- spoken to you just before he disappeared.’
There was a silence on the line before Smith said, ‘So I’ll record that on this occasion you did not feel you could help with the investigation.’
Doctor Tremewan said tartly, ‘You can record whatever you like.’
Smith said, ‘Well, I would just like to thank you for…’ but then realised that the only person who could hear this was himself – she had put down the phone. This had gone about as well as he could have expected but it had not, he reflected been a complete waste of time. He knew the name of Gerald’s GP – if the need ever came to pass on this information to a higher authority, he had saved someone a few minutes’ work.
If they are doing the job properly, detectives log every phone call they make, however insignificant they might seem, and Smith duly completed his record of this one. Ideally all incoming calls are also logged but when his phone began to ring he saw it was Jason Diver, and there seemed little point in writing that one down.
Jason said good morning, just a routine call, and Smith thought about the implications of that – this could be something that needed nipping in the bud. He asked how he could be of assistance.
Jason said, ‘I’ve had a chat with Frances Dunhill this morning. She was asking whether there has been any progress, so I said I’d find out as I haven’t heard from you.’
Smith had switched his phone to speaker; he propped it up against his copy of the year’s tide charts, crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow in Jason Diver’s direction. He said, ‘Before I can answer that, we’ll need to agree a definition of “progress”, won’t we?’
In his most jocular fashion, Jason said, ‘I take it you haven’t found him yet then?’
No, said Smith – and that wouldn’t be progress, it would be a conclusion, wouldn’t it?
Jason said, ‘Have you found any…’ and then must have reconsidered the possible consequences of using the word “clues”. He tried again with, ‘Do you have any theories?’
Smith said he did not. He explained what he had done in a minimal fashion, and then continued, ‘As I understood it, the job was to find out what might have happened to Gerald Fitch, and that’s not the same thing as finding him. Not in my book, anyway. For what it’s worth, I’d say the chances of finding him are infinitesimal.’
Jason said, ‘I see… Well, I will pass that on. I expect the insurance industry has different ideas of progress to those we have in the investigations business. If I can help in any way, give me a call. We’re part of a team, aren’t we?’
