Catalyst (49 page)

The following morning, Shaney arrived promptly at 10.00 am and knocked on the door of the farmhouse. She noticed a different police vehicle, this time occupied by two women officers, both of whom gave her a rather over-enthusiastic wave of welcome.

The door was opened by Ben's morning carer, who had found him in low spirits but at least up and dressed and ready for his breakfast. Twenty minutes later all parties left the house, Ben finding his lawyer's mode of transport even more cramped for his bulky and less flexible frame than she did. The short convoy of vehicles – the carer's small 4x4, the Yaris and, lastly, the police car – bumped through the farmyard gate and up the rutted track to Settlement Lane, turning right and leaving the village.

Ben pleaded guilty to the charge of murder and was remanded on bail pending an appearance at Stansbury Crown Court in six months' time. By 11.30 am he was back at the farm; Shaney left at 11.50, ignoring the occupants of the police car.

Jo Cottrell walked unannounced and unexpected into the Parkside MIT room exactly three weeks to the day from when DC Catherine Baxter had taken her home. She was greeted with three seconds of absolute silence followed by half-a-minute of sustained applause. All the composure she had carefully constructed before entering was washed away on the wave of sound and she slumped onto a chair, tears flowing above the widest of smiles.

David sprang from behind his desk and raced out of the office to embrace her, finding himself about seventh in line in an enthusiastic queue for the same privilege. It was worth the wait; she clung to him as his turn came and gradually retrieved her poise and dignity. There were friendly cries of “Speech! Speech!” followed by laughter as Jo waved her arms in a gesture declining the invitation.

“Well,
I'll
make a speech,” shouted Omar above the rabble, climbing onto a chair. “Jo – ahem, I mean, Detective Sergeant, ma'am,” – more laughter – “we are
so
pleased to see you back, and if I may be so bold, you look absolutely
gorgeous
!”

There were cheers and whooping all round. Jo pointed to her wet face, striped by lines of still-running mascara.

“I always suspected as much, DC Shakhir, but now I know for certain. You're a bloody liar!”

They suddenly noticed Detective Superintendent Pickford in the doorway and the noise abated. Omar dropped down off the chair; Jo turned away briefly and wiped her face with a tissue hastily taken from her shoulder bag. Allan stepped forward as she turned back to him and shook her hand, holding on to it as he spoke.

“Great to see you again, Jo. Welcome home. And just for the record” – he addressed the whole gathering – “suspending protocol for a moment, I totally agree with DC Shakhir.”

He reached forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. There were more cheers and whoops, suggestive ones this time. Allan stepped back and raised his hands.

“Right, that's enough!” he growled. “Protocol back on again.”

The mood was perfect. Her appearance had lifted the whole group; top to bottom.

The round-the-clock watch on the farm continued for a week, after which it was reviewed in the light of there being no interest shown by anyone near the property, except for a stream of well-wishing visitors, all of whom were required to identify themselves until they became familiar to the police. A decision was taken to stop the continuous surveillance and replace it with regular drive-bys every four or five hours. This was just about sustainable up to Ben's court appearance; 24/7 was definitely not.

Ben had not yet been told of this change as the last of the two-person shifts parked up just inside the farm gate to relieve the overnight pair at a few minutes before 8.00 am on the final morning of the watch. So – it was later concluded – what followed was simply a coincidence with respect to timing.

The officers – one male, one female – got out of the car to conduct their inspection of the grounds around the property – a task which each team was required to do a couple of times during their shift. As they set off across the yard they heard a shot from inside the house. They raced to the front door. It was locked.

“Mr Neville!” Police Constable Lisa Milner shouted as she pushed hard against the door. She was a tall, powerfully-built woman, but could make no impression on it. Her companion, PC Aidan Connor, peered in through the window next to the door, hands held above his eyes to reduce the reflection from outside. He could not see anybody in the kitchen and ran to the next window – the main living room. There was no-one there either. Lisa was still throwing her shoulder against the big oak door and shouting frantically. “Ben! Ben, open up!”

Aidan raced round the back. The rear door to the house was also locked but presented no problem. An elbow through a pain of glass and a turn of the key – still in the lock – gained him access. He checked the two rooms at the rear of the ground floor – dining room and large utility room – no-one there either – and then went to the front door to let Lisa in. The morning carer was just pulling into the yard.

They both shouted from the hallway.

“Ben! Ben! Where are you?”

“Are you okay?”

After checking out the two front rooms again, and, satisfying themselves they were empty, they ran upstairs, Aidan leading, his long legs taking the stairs three at a time. The smell from the gunshot took them straight into the largest bedroom at the rear of the house. They both reeled back and spun out through the door onto the landing, hands covering their mouths. There was not much left of Ben above his chest. He was lying on his back on the bed with his legs over the edge just reaching the floor. The shotgun lay at his feet. The force of the blast had thrown him backwards from his sitting position on the side of the bed.

Aidan slumped to the floor on the landing, his back against the wall. Lisa unhitched the radio from her belt and called in, her free hand clutching the banister at the top of the stairs for support. The carer appeared white-faced at the bedroom door and then fell forward in a dead faint without uttering a word. One of the oak panels on the bedroom wall had been pulled away, revealing an empty cavity behind it.

The following morning, David Gerrard was sitting with his head in his hands when Allan walked into his office.

“You alright, David?” he asked.

“No,” said his Detective Chief Inspector, looking up. “Most definitely not.”

“Look, it's not anybody's fault,” said Allan. “We couldn't have expected the search team to start taking the walls apart. Remember, they'd found and removed two shotguns and two rifles; that's six guns altogether counting the two that were used on the night. There was absolutely no reason to suspect he would have another stuck behind a wall. So don't start beating yourself up – or beating anyone else up, either.”

David sighed. “You're right, sir, but so soon after the Enderbys… ”

“Don't even think of making that link, David. Not now we've got Jo fully back on board. Don't let's risk her slipping back. This is completely different anyway. It wasn't up to us to decide whether he was fit to be on his own. I'm not throwing bricks at anyone else, by the way, but it's most definitely not
our
fault. So let's not try to takest away the sins of the world. That's someone else's job.”

David managed a smile at the irreverent quote as Allan left the room. Jo slipped in after he had gone and sat on one of the chairs in front of the DCI's desk.

“You alright, sir?” she asked.

“Everyone's very concerned about my well-being,” he replied. “I think I'll have to issue a bulletin or something.”

“Well, speaking for myself, what with all that's gone on, I've still not had my appraisal; so my asking is just plain creeping.”

David gave a little laugh.

“Well, to be honest,” he said, “I wasn't feeling all that great until a few minutes ago. But my two closest colleagues have just made me feel a whole lot better.”

“It wasn't anybody's fault, you know,” said Jo. “You could hardly expect the search team to start ripping down walls and… ”

“Hey, just a minute!” put in David. “Those are the exact words I've just heard from the Super. Have you two been rehearsing this?”

“Discussing, not rehearsing,” said Jo, sheepishly. “We were just concerned you might react like I did with the Enderbys. You know, ‘God, it's all my fault', when – like you told me – if it hadn't been the gun it would likely have been something else. Please, don't be a victim, sir. We don't need any more victims… ” She paused, staring into space as if deep in thought and tapping her chin with her forefinger. “Now where have I heard that before?”

“Might I just remind you, young lady, that even when you get your promotion –
if
you get your promotion – I'll still outrank you. So let's have a bit more respect, if you don't mind.”

“Sorry, sir, but I've been working hard on my sarcasm lately. I wouldn't want the lack of such a basic requirement blocking my career path.”

“Okay, we'll cover that in your appraisal, but if you want a sneak preview, I can tell you you're doing just fine.”

They laughed again, before David became serious.

“I hope this is the last bloody chapter though, Jo. That village has taken a pasting, hasn't it? I was talking to Jed Smithers yesterday. He was telling me that five years ago, both Ben and Alistair were doing really well; farms flourishing and getting involved in a bit of land development – you know, selling a few acres for more houses. And since then, both spouses have died, and now both brothers. God knows what will happen to the farms now. I guess that's nobody's problem any more.”

“I can't see that there are any more likely victims,” said Jo, “so let's hope this is an end to it. Nine in all now, from that one attack a month ago.”

“I don't want to tempt providence,” said David, “but I'm still worried about George Holland. They tried to get him once; why not again? He's not exactly backed off, has he? In fact he seems to have taken over from Deverall. He'll be wearing a black baseball cap next and packing a Glock.”

He was interrupted in mid-sigh by the appearance of an excited Allan Pickford in the doorway.

“I've just got in some great news for both of you, and I'd like to share it while you're together.” He closed the door. “I'll do this formally afterwards, but very briefly – David, I can confirm you're application for retirement at age fifty-five has been accepted.” He gave David a wide smile and then swung it round on to the Detective Sergeant, like the beam of a torch. “And, Jo, I am delighted to be the one to tell
you
that, effective from the 1
^st
of September – that's two weeks on Tuesday – you will be promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector. And you will be transferred with immediate effect… ” he paused dramatically “… to right here.” He pointed to David's desk.