Cross had successfully avoided DCI Carson the night before, so knew his boss would be hot on his heels the moment he set foot in the open-plan area of the department on the way to his own office. Cross was the only one who had a separate office, not because of any seniority – he didn’t have any – but because he couldn’t function with all the attendant noise of others at work, making calls, tapping on their keyboards, talking. The open area was much busier during an investigation, even with budgets being slashed the way they were. It would be populated by at least fifteen people, from other detectives to police staff. The scientific team were housed in another building but often dropped in for meetings or discussions about their findings, or lack of, over a cup of coffee. For Cross the most important members of any investigating team were the office manager and the exhibits officer. But he had a chequered career with office managers. They were not, as their name might suggest, in charge of desks and pencil sharpeners. They were themselves detectives who ran the incident room. This involved issuing and staying on top of all the actions an investigation required. These actions were written in a duplicate book with detachable pages. A little archaic, maybe, but incredibly efficient. A copy was then given to the relevant team member and would be checked off in the book when the action was completed or no longer deemed necessary. The problem was that Cross loved this system so much that if the manager wasn’t around, he would put actions in the book himself and hand out the dockets. This inevitably caused friction. One attempt to solve the problem had been to make Cross the office manager himself on a case. He actually quite enjoyed this, despite the number of people he seemed to upset in the process. But the team was far less successful in solving cases with him back in the office and not applying his prodigious detecting skills in the field. An exception was then made for him – another in an ever-increasing list of allowances some detectives thought – he was allowed access to the actions book. Cross being made a special case again caused yet more resentment to which he was oblivious.
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the open area when he heard the familiar sound of Carson’s door opening and his name being called. Cross just continued to his office, opened the door and waited for the DCI to follow him. This wasn’t before Carson had bellowed his name again. Ottey, who was watching from her desk, wondered why Carson hadn’t learnt by now that Cross didn’t respond to people shouting at him. He would always ignore them, thinking that shouting was unpleasant and unnecessary, and that whatever the shouter wanted to impart would soon be divulged in closer proximity without the need for a raised voice.
Cross also applied this rule to himself. He never shouted to get someone’s attention or to ask for something to be done. He would go over to the person he wanted something from and talk to them in a normal way. His view was that shouting was warranted only occasionally in their job; for example, in a chase or if they were trying to prevent something happening from a distance. He waited for Carson to come into his office as he put down his backpack and took off his bike gear, putting everything in its habitual, proper place.
‘Would you mind telling me why you invited Sandra Wilson back into the building yesterday?’ Carson began.
‘She is convinced her daughter was murdered and that the coroner’s verdict is wrong,’ Cross said.
Ottey had now joined them from her desk.
‘The poor woman is beside herself with grief and can’t accept the facts,’ Carson went on. ‘This is tragic, but none of our concern, which is why she was asked to leave the premises yesterday.’
‘Unless of course she’s right,’ said Cross.
‘It is not our job to uncover crime, George.’ There was a silence as the three of them tried to process what Carson had just said. ‘What I meant was, where there is none. Crime, that is,’ he said awkwardly.
‘No, but it is our job to uncover crime nonetheless,’ Ottey pointed out.
‘I have reason to believe that this woman was murdered,’ Cross said.
‘That’s a bit of a stretch, even for you. You’re saying that the original investigating officer, the medical examiner and the coroner were all wrong in this case?’ Carson asked.
‘That’s a very precise summation of my position, except for the fact that the original investigating officer seemed to do very little,’ he said, then added for clarification, ‘“investigating”.’
‘Who was the original SIO?’ Carson asked.
‘Campbell,’ said Ottey.
‘Oh, you’re joking. Is that why you’re doing this?’ sighed Carson. The fact was that DI Johnny Campbell disliked Cross, not because of the way he was, but because he had an uncanny knack of uncovering deficiencies in Campbell’s investigations.
‘I don’t understand the question,’ said Cross.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think your time would be better spent on crimes that have actually been committed. For example, the body in the river. Let’s get to the bottom of that murder before we indulge bereaved and, most likely, unhinged mothers,’ said Carson.
Mackenzie arrived in the open area for the start of her day and saw Carson and Ottey in Cross’s office. She wandered over to listen, not out of nosiness, but from the need to be ahead of whatever she might be asked to do. Also, going over there reminded them that she existed and was there to be asked to do things.
‘Josh Trent, aged twenty-three, had been on a drinking binge with two of his friends the night of his death in a pub half a mile upriver from where his body was found,’ Cross said. ‘They were fairly inebriated, according to the manager of the first pub they were drinking in, the King William IV. He’d had to eject them after Trent became involved in a fight. Hence the bruising to his face, which had not occurred at the time of his going into the river, but at least three hours prior. On leaving the second pub he went to the side of the river to urinate into it and fell. His friends noticed he’d gone but were so drunk themselves they thought nothing of it – assuming that he’d simply wandered off. It wasn’t till they heard the news the following morning that they realised what had happened and came forward.’ Cross paused for a moment to make sure he’d left nothing out.
‘How can you be so sure he went for a piss and that no one else was involved?’ asked Carson.
‘The protuberance of the deceased’s penis from his open fly,’ said Cross neutrally, causing Mackenzie to stifle a giggle. Ottey would normally have shot her a warning look, but she was too busy trying not to laugh herself. ‘I also walked half a mile upriver and found marks in the mud where he’d slid into the river. He was wearing a large overcoat and boots, which would have impeded his efforts to swim. Though those efforts would have been fairly fruitless.’
‘And why is that?’ Carson asked.
‘Because Josh Trent could not swim. All of this is in my report, which you presumably haven’t had a chance to read. Frankly, had uniform done their job properly, there would have been no reason for us to be involved.’
‘And where is this report?’ Carson asked.
‘I put it on your desk yesterday afternoon,’ said Mackenzie.
Carson didn’t have a ready rejoinder for this, so when Cross’s phone started to buzz he suggested the detective answer it, hoping it might distract from his embarrassment. It was Clare, the pathologist.
‘I’ve looked over the report and it all seems fairly straightforward to me. Overdose,’ she said.
‘You’re missing something,’ Cross replied.
‘Well, I can only go on what I’m reading,’ she said, smiling to herself at his bluntness.
‘Excellent point. I can rectify that,’ Cross replied.
‘How so?’ she asked.
‘I’ll send you Felicity’s body,’ he replied.
Carson now realised what was going on. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘Clare, the pathologist. I asked her to go over the coroner’s report.’
‘And what is her conclusion?’
‘She can’t find anything wrong,’ Cross replied.
‘Well then, there you are. Point proven. A tragic occurrence which the mother needs to come to terms with. Please leave well alone.’
‘Clare would like to examine the body,’ Cross went on.
‘I said no such thing!’ protested Clare on the other end of the phone, laughing, despite herself, at the man’s gall.
‘Her mother had the prescience not to have a funeral, so the body is still available to us.’ Cross looked at Carson expectantly. ‘But of course Clare will need your authority to go ahead.’
Carson hated situations like this with Cross. If it had been anyone else, he would simply have ordered them to move on and leave it. But no one else would have put him in such a position. He wasn’t sure what was worse: having to immediately climb down from his order for Cross to desist and suffer the – admittedly quite small – humiliation that came with that, or stick to his guns and repeat his instruction. The problem with the latter was that Cross would never give up, particularly when he was told to. He was like a terrier snapping at your heels; once he’d got hold of your trouser leg, he would stubbornly refuse to let go, even if you spun him round in circles. He would just grimly hold on with his teeth, flying through the air.
Cross also had an extraordinary capacity, bearing in mind his outwardly awkward manner, to persuade people like Clare to do things under the radar. When he did so, he was invariably proved right, which was even more humiliating for Carson, although if the case was successful and came to the attention of ‘upstairs’ he would ensure that he, Carson, took full credit.
‘Fine. Do it, but you’d better be right,’ said Carson.
‘Oh, I hope not. Or do you think that would be better for her mother? To find out that her daughter had been murdered?’ Cross asked.
Carson couldn’t figure out whether Cross was being sarcastic, although of course he should’ve known he wasn’t, so just stared at him.
‘Oh, I think so,’ volunteered Mackenzie. There was a pause. She felt like a child at an adults’ cocktail party, giving an opinion which was neither expected nor welcome. ‘I mean, don’t you think it would be better to be proved right and know that your daughter hadn’t killed herself, intentionally or otherwise?’
Cross thought for a moment. ‘She may well be right,’ he said.
Carson left the room quickly, shaking his head as if he was exasperated that he had to work with such a bunch of fools.
‘Can your department make arrangements for Felicity’s transport?’ Cross asked Clare who was still on the phone.
‘Of course. I’ll come back to you as soon as I have something.’
‘Don’t you mean “if” you have something?’ Cross asked.
‘Something tells me your instincts are right on this one,’ she said.
‘It has nothing to do with instincts,’ he replied. ‘The child being in the room next door is an incontrovertible and denotative fact.’ He cut off the call.
*
‘I love him when he’s like this,’ said Mackenzie, as she and Ottey returned to their desks.
‘Like what?’ Ottey asked.
‘When his autistic dander is up,’ Mackenzie replied. Ottey shot her a look. ‘Brother’s autistic, remember? Gives me special privileges,’ she went on. Then, sensing Ottey’s continued disapproval, she added, ‘Point taken. I will be careful in future.’