Blind Jack’s attracted attention. Mainly from drunken locals staggering home from other pubs. Despite being below his paygrade, DI Phil Rice took on the task of waving on the rubberneckers with relish; he always enjoyed the opportunity to demonstrate his power.
The residents of Knaresborough knew Rice as a no-nonsense copper. He genuinely believed that being part of law enforcement meant that you were on one side of a great war. Although Rice would never admit to it, he believed war needed a healthy dose of testosterone, and a complete absence of modern-day bureaucracy and political correctness.
As a result, Gardner worked hard to keep him in check. She could chalk it up as a success to date. Frequently, he’d proven his hidden efficiencies.
And to be fair, the way he waved on the rubberneckers with perfect ease was commendable.
There was, of course, a notable exception. A group of off-the-rails local kids watching intently from the sides of the Christmas tree. Rice’s evil eye had no impact on the new gen, of course. They knew a more rigorous system protected them than their predecessors and didn’t know what Rice’s desired 1970s approach to policing looked like.
As Rice wielded his axe, Gardner hopped from foot to foot to keep warm, while forensics went about their business indoors. It was a small public house, after all. The fewer trampling around in there, the better.
They’d already confirmed and recorded the identity of every person in the public house this evening, and after being warned that they may be contacted over the next couple of days, they’d long since made their journeys home.
‘Are you pissed, boss?’ Rice asked, approaching Gardner.
‘I’m certainly pissed off that you just asked me that.’
‘Fair question; you were in the pub…’
She held up three fingers. ‘Three pints of ale, Phil.’ It was four, but she preferred to keep ammunition from a cut-throat soldier like Rice.
‘Ale? Really?’ He looked intrigued.
She scowled. ‘You really are from the Dark Ages.’
‘You just didn’t strike me as the ale type.’
‘This is 2024. It’s a fact that women can acquire the taste for hops too.’
He held up his hands. ‘Don’t know where you get these ideas from, boss. I just saw you as sophisticated, more of a prosecco drinker.’
‘Prosecco… sophisticated… Jesus wept. The kids bloody drink it these days!’
‘Did someone say prosecco?’ Ray Barnett said, coming up alongside his two colleagues.
‘You like prosecco?’ Rice asked.
Barnett, a tall, black DS, was a fourth dan in jujitsu, who threw weights around for fun; she imagined protein shakes were more his thing.
‘Partial to a glass… or two on a Friday,’ Barnett said and winked. ‘Why?’
Rice shook his head, looking disgusted.
Gardner snorted. ‘You’ve just shattered one of his many stereotypes. Sophisticated middle-aged women drink prosecco. Not men. And certainly not strong ones.’
‘Bollocks,’ Rice said, frowning. ‘I don’t think that. And I never said Ray was strong.’
‘Let’s not forget Phil also thinks three pints of ale is a lot for a wee lassie,’ Gardner continued, glancing at Ray.
‘Did I say that?’ Rice asked. ‘How did you work all this out? By the way I walk? Sherlock Holmes you aren’t, boss.’
Gardner kept her eyes on Barnett and raised her eyebrow.
‘No comment,’ Barnett said. ‘But I’ve requested the CCTV footage from behind the library.’
Robert and Cassandra had already informed them that someone had broken into their car behind the library while they’d been indulging in pre-show drinks at another local pub called Six Poor Folk. This, Robert believed, was the only way the skull could have ended up inside the fake treasure chest. ‘When I packed earlier,’ Robert had said to Gardner, ‘it was a plastic skull in there. Someone must have planted it after smashing the car window.’
Barnett looked at his notes. ‘And I’ve got more information on Robert and Cassandra Thwaites.’
Gardner listened as Barnett went through the extra information on Robert, who she’d only briefly questioned. He’d been rather stunned by the experience, so Gardner was planning to follow up back at his house in a short while.
Rice stopped him mid-flow. ‘He’s a commercial solicitor?’
Barnett nodded. ‘Was… yes… retired a good while back, when he was fifty-five. He’s been doing this show lark for over ten years!’
‘The man is a bloody ageing hippy!’ Rice said.
Gardner rolled her eyes. ‘He’s a storyteller.’
‘Storyteller, thespian, hippy…’
‘Being arty doesn’t make you a hippy.’
‘Maybe not,’ Rice conceded. ‘But it doesn’t really make you a commercial solicitor either. How many artistic lawyers do you know?’
‘None that I know of,’ Gardner said. ‘But I don’t have a large sample of lawyers in my friendship group, and those I have, have never disclosed their artistic interests to me.’
Rice grinned. ‘Because they don’t have any.’
‘Hmm,’ Barnett said, ‘I’ve met several lawyers who could spin a good yarn to be fair.’
‘True enough,’ Gardner said.
Ignoring the irritation on Rice’s face, Gardner requested Barnett continue.
‘Sixty-five, and Robert shows no sign of slowing down. He’s built himself up quite a name as a storyteller, employed by festivals and events. He’s branched out into making audiobooks for authors.’
‘These artistic types keep themselves busy,’ Gardner said, unable to resist baiting Rice a little. This was out of character for her; maybe, she was spreading irritation around because of how she currently felt regarding the Riddick and O’Brien situations.
She wouldn’t be sharing the revelation that Riddick was alive with these two men around her. Rice, for a start, despised Riddick. And that feeling was very mutual. Rice and Riddick had come to blows on the roof of Harrogate hospital shortly before Riddick’s disappearance. Rice was adamant he’d been there to help Riddick, who was reasoning with a murderer and flirting with danger. Riddick had held Rice responsible for the murderer’s subsequent suicide and had rained fury down on him. The murderer had been a vulnerable young man with learning difficulties who Riddick had befriended and been trying desperately to save.
Barnett had always liked Riddick, more so than Rice, anyway, although that really said little. Most people liked Chief Constable Rebecca ‘Harsh’ Marsh more than Rice and that was bloody saying something! Rumour had it that Marsh kept a box hidden in her office, which contained countless police IDs – memorabilia from all the careers she’d ended.
‘Like a serial killer’s trophy cabinet,’ Riddick had said to her when they’d first met.
Utter bullshit, of course, but it gave you the flavour of her popularity.
So, even though Rice was less popular than Marsh, which beggared belief, Gardner persisted. She just couldn’t let go of the feeling that there was a decent officer in there waiting to break free from the chains of his masculinity and shackles of narrow-mindedness.
There’d been glimpses.
Although, when it was cold, and the snow was coming down hard, as it was doing now, positivity and optimism often took a back seat…
After Barnett had given a potted background on Cassandra Thwaites, which included the illustrious career path with Avon, Gardner heard her name being called. She turned to see Robin Morton, the forensic pathologist, coming towards her from the front of Blind Jack’s. The swirling snow immediately went to work on her paper suit, and she was shivering by the time she got to them. She’d obviously peeled off her outdoor jacket and left it indoors.
Gardner unzipped her jacket, intending to offer it, but Barnett had already beaten her to it and was draping his own over Robin’s shoulders. Robin smiled up at Barnett. ‘Thanks.’
Gardner glanced at Rice, who’d certainly not unzipped his own jacket. He’d a sneer on his face. No doubt considering Barnett’s act of kindness an act of flirtation.
It was rather concerning to Gardner how well she could read him now, and yet, even though she knew what she was up against, she persisted in trying to chisel something out of him.
‘Good news, Robin?’ Gardner asked, knowing already that there wouldn’t be. Earlier, Robin had informed her about this. Old remains were fiddly and often took a long time.
‘I can’t confirm much without a forensic anthropologist,’ Robin said. ‘Only that it’s adult.’
‘We work well with gut feelings,’ Barnett said and smiled.
She grinned up at Barnett.
God… they were bloody flirting!
Well, at least it may loosen her lips…
‘Probably male,’ Robin said, and touched the back of her head. ‘The external occipital protuberance is very large.’
‘The what?’ Rice asked.
‘That bump at the lower rear of your head. It tends to be more prominent in males. There are other markers like that – the angled forehead, the lower cheekbones… but please… I can’t offer a guarantee.’
‘Age?’ Rice asked.
Barnett flashed Rice a look which clearly said: did you not just hear what she said?
Don’t start defending her, Ray… Gardner thought. You must know that Rice wouldn’t have any hesitation in calling you out on a crush. Could be very embarrassing.
‘Not old, but I’m guessing some way past middle age. There’s been some teeth loss, and some resorption of the jawbone, but again, this is purely conjecture right now. You’re only likely to get an age range from the forensic anthropologist. Best guess on my limited expertise would be fifty-plus, male. The post-mortem interval is a nightmare from skulls, though. It’s better with the rest of the body. Even with the best in the business, this one is going to be frustrating.’
Gardner nodded.
‘Fiona would like to speak to you,’ Robin said, smiling.
Gardner looked up at the entrance to Blind Jack’s. She’d already greeted Chief Forensic Officer Fiona Lane tonight, but their last meeting two weeks ago had been awkward.
Fiona and Gardner had become friends in the eighteen months following Gardner’s secondment up north. Gardner had, under the influence of red wine, confided in Fiona about her growing affection towards O’Brien, hoping for some light advice. What she’d received had verged on outrage and a firm warning that this couldn’t possibly end well for Gardner.
Over the weeks since, Gardner, feeling irritated, had avoided Fiona like the plague. She was only now realising that she was being grossly unfair. Fiona had been right and had simply fallen victim to a projection of Gardner’s own messed-up emotions.
Still, Gardner was in no mood for it right now. ‘What’s it about?’ Gardner asked, hoping she could bypass the awkwardness.
‘I found a folded note in the skull’s jaw…’
‘A what?’ Gardner said, stunned she was only just learning about this. This wasn’t something that was going to be bypassed. ‘What did it say?’
Robin shrugged; Barnett’s large coat slipped from one shoulder. Barnett, himself, reached over to slip it back up for her. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t open it. Fiona took it and told me to get you.’
Bloody hell. In I go then.
Gardner looked between her colleagues’ intrigued faces. ‘Wait here.’
Rice groaned in disappointment.
‘Phil, I need you to get the car ready to drive us to the Thwaites’. Robert has had enough time to settle his nerves.’
She looked back at Barnett who, despite looking disappointed, at least didn’t groan. ‘Ray, please press on with the CCTV.’
She went back into Blind Jack’s and over to O’Brien. She’d volunteered to log everyone in. Unnecessary, because someone of lower rank could have taken the job, but she’d been first on the scene, literally, and felt some responsibility for it. Professionally, but coldly, O’Brien logged Gardner in and handed her a suit.
‘Are you okay?’ Gardner asked.
‘Yes, boss, of course,’ O’Brien said, without looking up from the logbook and meeting her eyes.
Gardner looked both ways, checking she could whisper without it entering someone’s earshot. She leaned in. ‘We need to talk. Properly. I think there have been… some… well… some misunderstandings?’
‘Everything seems clear enough,’ O’Brien said, looking up now.
Shit. If this was a bowling alley, she’d just missed the pins for the umpteenth time.
It always surprised Gardner that for someone who ran an incident room so effectively, she could turn her own personal life into such a circus.
Maybe she should try to be open and honest for a change. ‘I was shocked before, when I got that message because… he’s been found.’ Gardner shook her head.
‘Who?’
‘Paul.’
O’Brien’s eyes widened. ‘Alive?’
‘Yes.’
O’Brien reached out and took Gardner’s arm. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
The physical contact immediately brought a tear to the DCI’s eye. ‘I still don’t know enough about it.’
‘Are you okay, Emma?’ O’Brien said, all attitude gone. ‘Do you need me—’
‘DCI Gardner?’
Gardner slipped her arm away from O’Brien who, fortunately, had already loosened her grip. She turned to look at her estranged close friend, Fiona Lane. She could tell from her darkened expression that the intimate moment between a superior and a younger officer hadn’t gone unnoticed. ‘Yes… sorry, Fiona. I believe there’s a note?’
Fiona looked at O’Brien and then back at Gardner. Gardner wasn’t sure if she was making a point that she needed some privacy or was simply reinforcing her view that this whole scenario was ludicrous and a train about to go off the rails.
‘Lucy is okay to hear. What did the note say, please?’
‘It was a printed note. It said: Why don’t you tell a true story, Robert?’
Gardner took a deep breath.
‘We’ll get the note tested for DNA,’ Fiona added.
‘Thanks.’
‘What do you think it means, boss?’ O’Brien asked.
Gardner looked between her two colleagues, thinking. ‘Well, the true story is not Valentina’s curse… so, we’d best ask the great storyteller himself, hadn’t we?’