In the Absence of Iles (9 page)

‘Yes.’

The judge stirred again. Longmuir’s strutting, woozy word, ‘philosophical’, may have irritated. ‘These questions are very general, Mr Longmuir. Shall we return soon to the case before us?’

‘Your Honour, we shall. I wanted to establish a context,’ Longmuir said.

‘Context is very well, I suppose – the, as it were, hinterland. But I’d rather not get bogged down in it – would like to press on and into essentials, please.’

‘I will demonstrate, Your Honour, that the accused was motivated in both ways cited by the witness, the practical and the philosophical.’

‘Well, we shall be listening, Mr Longmuir,’ she said, ‘or, as I believe the Americans say, “listening up”. They’re ever ready to improve our language.’

‘Finking’, ‘listening up’: she must want to show she could do slang – especially US, gangs-of-New York slang – and wasn’t liable like Longmuir to the ponciness of ‘philosophical’ and such flab. Dean Martlew’s father sat not far from Esther in the public seats, square-faced, square-bodied, grey hair in a pony-tail, around sixty, with rimless glasses. He owned a couple of landscaping firms and was clearly able to take time off when he wanted. As a courtesy, she’d been to see him and the rest of the family soon after discovery of Dean’s body at Pastel Head beach, and instantly sensed the hostility and blame. Although at that time the family could only have been guessing at the nature of Dean’s special duties, this was enough. In their view, Esther had put him into extreme risk. Well, in her view, too. She’d met no open accusation, no rudeness, but no friendliness either.

Perhaps the father attended all day every day: always when she came he was here. And, although the judge might consider some of Longmuir QC’s questions far out, Martlew obviously didn’t. He sat forward, jaw tight, eyes hard, very focused on every answer. He, at least, could see the link between Dean’s death and the lawyer’s court strategy. Perhaps this was the first time the father had heard in detail about Dean’s assignment, and the dangers: ‘the context’, as Longmuir called it. Dean Martlew would have been repeatedly instructed by Channing, and at Hilston, to tell nobody, including kin, that he had volunteered for Out-loc. Esther wondered how Iles and his empathy store had got on with the family. In the court room, Martlew would give her a slight, civil, smile and nod, and nothing beyond, no words.

‘I would like now, Superintendent Channing, to take you to what in Her Honour’s word would be one of the “essentials” – the discovery of Dean Martlew’s body. You were present shortly after the discovery, were you not?’

‘I received a message that the body of a young man, at that stage not officially identified, had been found by early morning fishermen on the beach below Pastel Head. I went there at once.’

‘Would the call come to you because you had been managing the undercover officer?’

‘Surely not, surely not,’ the judge said. ‘As I understand it, this was a secret operation.’

‘That’s correct, Your Honour,’ Channing said.

‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ Longmuir said.

‘There had been no positive identification at that stage,’ Channing said, ‘and, in any case, it would not be known to any officers other than my immediate superiors that I was running the Out-location programme, or, in fact, that the programme existed. I received the call as deputy head of CID. All major incidents of this kind are routinely reported to me in the first instance. If they are serious enough I would then, of course, inform the head of CID, Mr Tesler, and the Assistant Chief Constable, Operations, Mrs Davidson.’

‘And will you tell the court what you found on the beach?’

Dean’s mother never came to the trial, or not when Esther was present. Perhaps Mrs Martlew didn’t want to be told in public how her son had willingly let himself in for blatant peril, and so for disfigurement and death. Esther knew Dean’s family circumstances well: father, mother, a married sister, a younger brother. No wife. No partner. Esther felt glad Mrs Martlew was not here today. She might read the proceedings in the Press, but that would lack at least a little of the terrible immediacy and thoroughness in Channing’s words.

He said: ‘I saw the body of a man on the pebbles just below high water mark, fully dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, collar and tie, black shoes.’

‘Did you know at once that he was Dean Martlew?’

‘Almost at once. The formal clothes gave an indication. Members of some organizations tend to dress in that style and I knew he had adopted it as part of his role.’

‘And, of course, you would recognize him as one of your departmental men and from the selection procedures and subsequent contact?’

‘Yes, but there were initial difficulties.’ Channing hesitated, then continued slowly. ‘He had been shot in the head from the front, twice. And he had a number of wounds to his face and neck, seemingly made by a knife or knives. His appearance had been altered to a degree by these injuries and by possible buffeting in the sea and against rocks along the shore.’

Esther thought that to be as considerately put as it could be. Channing spoke with a kind of fatalistic plod, as if he had always expected something like this must end any Out-loc project, and now, here on the beach below Pastel Head, it had happened. She would agree with Channing’s description. Of course, he had called her as soon as he knew this to be Dean Martlew on the beach and she followed him out there. No, Dean was not easy to recognize that morning. Both the fishermen who found him needed counselling for weeks afterwards. As Esther recalled, in life he had been strong-featured and alert-looking, very nearly handsome. In fact, at selection time, she had found it hard to accept that someone so presentable was not into a relationship. Recalling the Fieldfare recommendation, she’d hoped to recruit someone free of involvement. Although she never made it an absolute condition, she had let Channing know she would much prefer this if possible.

Channing had carried out his scour of the domain looking for suitable people and, as he slowly built a shortlist, put the full, personal records of each in front of Esther. She had read them over so often and with such concentration before making her choice that she could have recited the background facts of each of the five even now. Fieldfare hadn’t given definite advice to exclude married or partnered officers from undercover duties, though there’d been those big hints. Esther considered this a bad lapse. She had wanted orders, not pointers; rules, not mere guidance. But she did see this might be unfeasible. Out-loc security demanded that the officer should not be already well known through detective work, and this probably meant he or she would be young. The majority of young officers did tend to be hormonal and have sexual links. To exclude everyone married or shacked-up was impractical.

Naturally, the argument would apply even more to older detectives – that is, supposing one not familiar to the villain firms could be found. Although there might be some still single, or widowed or divorced, the bulk would be cohabiting and have children. Because of such liabilities, these officers were unlikely to volunteer for Out-loc, anyway, and only volunteers did undercover.

Esther tried to see from the corner of her eye how Mr Martlew took Channing’s bleak evidence. She felt it would be an intrusion to turn and openly watch him, a kind of cruelty. He seemed to be still crouched forward in that settled position, still measuring every word. Although she’d managed to find in Dean someone with no partnership ties or responsibilities, it would be impossible to go further, of course – to look for a detective with no ties at all: no living parents who might be hurt by any disaster, no brothers or sisters. Perhaps her fussiness had been a token only, a slight and silly gesture to show she did genuinely worry about the risks to one of her people.

She’d read somewhere that panels selecting astronauts for space missions actually
favoured
candidates in established, steady relationships because this might indicate balanced, durable personalities. Well, Out-loc, too, needed balanced, durable men and women because their period under vast stress might be long, so Esther saw there could have been a case for actually
preferring
officers in long-term relationships. And although her own marriage would never be regarded as a thing of balance and steadiness, she’d admit some like that might exist. Just the same, she had decided that for the Cormax Turton Guild project, she wanted a total singleton. Dean Martlew had claimed to be that. They did additional research on him and this seemed to be true: no regular woman in the background.

It struck Esther later, including sometimes now, as she followed the trial off-and-on, that maybe she had let this celibacy requirement get too absolute, too inflexible. Might one of the other shortlisted people have done the Guild assignment better, despite a solid, ongoing relationship? Might he/she still be alive and undefaced? That’s what ‘better’ meant to Esther now: unmurdered, unmutilated.

There’d been a woman detective constable, Amy Dill, on the list whom Esther had thought from her records the most promising, although due then to be married fairly soon. Channing considered her brilliant, also – in fact, made her his preferred candidate, with Martlew next, but not a real challenge. Esther had even driven over to the outlying nick at East Stead where Dill worked to take a look without her knowledge and without commitment. In fact, at the end of that trip there
had
been commitment – negative commitment. Dill was too lovely. If Out-located she’d be stalked by every straight, fit man in the Cormax Turton Guild. It would not be fair to her, not right by her, even if she volunteered.

‘How eventually was the body of Dean Martlew definitively identified?’ Longmuir asked.

‘Bank cards in his jacket pocket, dental records, an appendectomy scar and finally, when most doubts had been removed, we informed the family. His father, Mr James Martlew, and another of his sons came to view the body and confirmed it was Dean Martlew.’

Esther thought she heard Mr Martlew mutter something, but something unintelligible, perhaps just Dean’s name. He still made no movement in his seat. She wished she could go to him after the hearing today and say: ‘Mr Martlew, I’m all the time conscious of your distress, of the family’s distress, but will you believe Dean
wanted
to do it, virtually insisted? He hated the idea that we might settle on someone else. We couldn’t. He was outstanding, far and away the most suitable.’ That would have been defensive, though. Selfish? It might help console Esther, suggesting there’d been no option, but would it make things any easier to bear for Mr Martlew and the family? They might argue Dean was a youngster, a kid, and that Esther had let him follow the foolhardy impulses of a youngster, a kid, excited by the prospect of cloak and dagger work; had cashed in on them. Most probably no conversation would take place between her and Mr Martlew, anyway. That could only occur if he began it. She would not force herself on him. He and the family had built a wall.

And was it true Dean had been outstanding and far and away the most suitable volunteer? Did Esther’s determination to get someone with no active love life distort her judgement? Did the information he provided in those four months through secret contacts with Channing add up to much? Might someone else have been more effective
and
still alive and unabused, with Cormax Turton destroyed by information he or she came up with?

But, as to Amy Dill, Esther had also worried about that possible trouble she’d heard of at Fieldfare – the Stockholm Syndrome. Suppose isolated, under stress, Out-located Amy Dill forgot her loyalties to the job and her fiancé, fell for one of the men chasing her and went over. Esther had realized she might be doing Dill an unpardonable injustice by thinking of her as potentially weak and a wanderer. But, in fact, Esther did pardon herself: the Stockholm Syndrome existed and was common enough to get itself a title and inspire serious learned studies. Finally, Esther took Amy Dill off the list. On the same day, she approved Dean Martlew and authorized his application for Out-loc training at Hilston Manor. Then, a fortnight ago Dill’s scheduled marriage took place, and this did help comfort Esther: something good was saved from the mess-up. She knew her thinking to be stupid and evasive. She sent a wedding present bought with her own cash. In the job, Amy kept her own surname.

Of course, on top of all her other concerns, Esther had wondered about Channing’s enthusiasm for Dill. Perhaps he fancied working with the gorgeous female DC in the kind of very close and confidential style bound to exist between an Out-loc and the senior officer managing her. There would be many secret, interdependent get-togethers. Though Esther had plenty of faith in Channing, and some in marriage and engagements, there could be limits. She’d wanted to keep the Guild project uncomplicated and clear of possible emotional pressures. And, yes, in the long run she’d got that, hadn’t she: death
was
uncomplicated, just someone in a mimic suit washed up on the beach?

Channing’s evidence-in-chief finished. Not bad, Esther thought. It came as answers to the helpful, chummy, complicit questions of Longmuir QC for the Prosecution, and did bring her bits of comfort. Yes, bits. Now, though, she knew she should attend at least some of the cross-examination sessions when the other side’s QC would get to uninhibited crash-ball work on Channing. She had to show him, and show the jury and the court in general, didn’t she, that he had total, continuing, official support? That’s what she was, wasn’t she, seated with the rest of the spectators – total, continuing, official support?

Of course, such total, continuing, official support meant not much here. Less. She couldn’t say anything, do anything except listen and wish Channing didn’t sound so fucking feeble. He stood in the witness box solo and had to deal solo with everything flung at him. Esther offered a presence, but a presence no more significant than Mr Martlew’s or anyone else’s in the visitors’ corral. Occasionally, Channing glanced her way. She couldn’t read his eyes. Did they say, ‘Thanks so much for turning up to offer total, continuing, official support, ma’am?’ Or, ‘Thanks for landing me in this shit pit, Davidson’: after all, (a) he’d opposed Out-loc; and (b), if they did do it, he’d wanted someone else, Amy Dill, for whatever reason: maybe she’d have coped better, survived inside the Guild, or at least been quick enough to read the warning signs, use the exit drill and get out in time.