Catalyst (14 page)

“We've received a tip-off, Mr Croft,” she lied, “about a serial vandal in this area who is targeting graveyards. There seems to be a pattern which would put yours as the likely next site for his attention.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mr Croft, “I'm surprised I haven't heard about it at the area meetings. How strange no-one mentioned it… ”

“Yes, well, perhaps you can ask why at the next meeting. In the meantime, we would like to set up a round-the-clock watch. Is there anywhere you could accommodate two officers without them getting in your way and attracting too much attention?”

He thought for a moment.

“Well, there's an office we could free up, I suppose. Let me show you.”

They walked back to the foyer and he indicated a small room off it close to the outer door.

“This would be perfect, Mr Croft,” said Jo. “Thank you, so much. We'll try not to be a nuisance.”

She would do Mr Croft the courtesy of telling him the truth at a later date, she decided, when it was all over. For the time being it was better for him to have a much less alarming explanation for his staff as to why the building was to be occupied by police until further notice.

“On our way, sir. ETA in fifty minutes.”

Omar Shakhir spoke into the hands-free from the unmarked police car.

“Good who have we got?” asked David.

“Baxter, Drury, Wheeler and, last but not least… ”

“Yes, thank you DC Shakhir. Stop trying to build up your part. See you soon.”

Twenty people stood round a grave in the corner of the cemetery grounds furthest away from the chapel buildings, heads bowed like a group of mourners. They comprised David and Jo, the four detective constables from Parkside, and fourteen officers from the Special Firearms Unit.

“So, briefly, one last time,” said David. “Two teams of nine each working twelve hour shifts. Each team comprising two DCs stationed in the chapel, working as spotters; and seven SFOs in two vehicles, one on the main road near the gates and one on the street down the side of the grounds. We've got the length of railing removed, Jo?”

“Yes, sir, and tape across the gap to look like it's in the process of being replaced. We might have to rethink that if it goes on any length of time.”

“Okay. That's for cemetery working hours, of course. I'll leave you to decide if you want to move one or more SFOs into the chapel after the staff leave. And remember – as if you wouldn't – if this is the guy we're looking for, based on what he did, he's extremely dangerous. No heroics, please. Any questions?”

No one had.

“Another thing, and this is for the DCs. Remember, you are here as spotters only and in the event of a strike, you stay out of sight until the suspect is immobilised. Understood? I'm looking at you, Calamity Jane,” he said, addressing DC Baxter. “You do understand the expression ‘no heroics' I assume?”

“Sure do, Sheriff,” said Catherine, making everyone laugh and easing the tension. David smiled and continued.

“You will, of course, need to exercise maximum discretion if he turns up in daylight when there are a lot of people around. In that situation the on-site pair in the chapel will need to advise the unit of the situation and let them decide. Needless to say, optimum caution. Police Complaints have enough work to be going on with already.”

The first surveillance shift was in place by 6.00 pm. The office – from which two DCs would maintain their watch – was perfectly sited so that both the headstone and the cemetery gates, which were permanently open, were clearly visible. The entrance to the cemetery was from a semi-residential road which also hosted a few restaurants and small bars, and which had been widened to incorporate parking spaces for both residents and customers. The Chapel of Rest and other buildings formed a small complex about fifty yards inside the gates at the end of a gravel drive.

Detective Constables Catherine Baxter and Geoff Drury settled to wait. They knew this could be a complete waste of time; and, even if it wasn't, it could be days or weeks before the man might show again. Or they could be very lucky…

The Dog and Duck public house dated back to when Meadow Village was first established over 250 years ago. The double front doors opened directly into the main bar which was the extent of the original hostelry. Since then it had been tastefully and aesthetically extended, with the addition of a smaller bar at the rear and a large dining room to the right. The main bar now incorporated a ‘snug' which was generally kept empty for meetings and small parties and which Jed Smithers, the landlord, referred to grandly as his Corporate Entertaining Suite. There were open fireplaces in both bars and the dining room and the place retained its late eighteenth century feel throughout.

That evening the main bar was buzzing with anticipation.

“Much better than no interest at all,” said George. “Just run through the list again, Fred, slowly this time so we can actually absorb it.”

Fred sighed and read from the sheet in front of him. He was unusually tall for someone in his mid-seventies, slim and upright and strikingly handsome in his way. He was a great favourite within the group, with a permanent twinkle in his eye and usually a joke for every occasion. But he was showing clear signs of anxiety over the escalation of the event.

“Forty-seven at the library; three at the leisure centre; seventeen at the supermarket; twenty-eight actual signatories at the college plus the Head of Sociology is bringing all his final year students along. That's another twenty-three including himself.”

“So,” said Clive, who was adding up the numbers on his mobile's calculator, “if we assume all ninety-seven of us attend, that's over two hundred already.”

“But this isn't what we wanted,” said Fred. “We've got ourselves in this situation by accident. It was just an idea for a different 3AF meeting, not a national referendum. Where are we going to hold it? Do we get a marquee?”

“I suggest we contact the council office and ask if they have anything available that can accommodate, say, three hundred people,” said George. “They must have some big conference rooms or lecture theatres we could use.”

“What about Wembley Stadium?” said Clive. “We might be being optimistic thinking we're only going to get three hundred. Or should that be pessimistic?”

“OK,” said George, “let's say five hundred. If we get more than that and some people can't get in, I think we can justifiably say we did our best. That will be over five times our usual attendance.”

“Do you still want me to chair it?” asked Fred. “Only I thought it would just be the usual crowd.”

“Really?” said George, with a knowing smile. “Can anybody remember who it was who suggested we invite people from the estate? All together… ” He raised his arms to conduct the collective response.

“Fred Dawson!” they said in unison, laughing.

“Fair point,” said Fred, and the twinkle returned. “I'll do it.”

Tom scored a few welcome points with Mags by opting out of a function at Westminster to attend Katey's parents' evening. Bishop Adcock High was a small independent school set in large, well-tended gardens just over a mile's walk from Etherington Place through a leafy lane and along a paved pathway, crossing a couple of wild flower meadows. It was the perfect evening for such a walk; warm and still, with the sinking sun picking out the colours amidst the lush green.

He took Mags's hand as they walked home and although she did not exactly reciprocate his grip, she made no effort to pull away. They were joined by one of Katey's school friends, a tall, good-looking Kenyan boy, and the two of them walked behind, laughing and talking conspiratorially in low voices. Tom was a little agitated by this intrusion into what he regarded as a family affair.

“Listen,” said Mags, “the only reason she didn't insist we drove here tonight was so that she could walk back with him. She can't ignore her friends, just because she's with us.”

“No, of course not,” Tom nodded and smiled at her. They walked on in silence for a couple of minutes. “How old is he, anyway?”

“Sixteen,” answered Mags.

“Sixteen!” said Tom, a little too loudly and then whispered, “In the same year as Jack?”

“No, the year below, but Jack knows him; says he's a really good kid.”

“Even so, he's a bit old for her, isn't he?”

“He's just a friend,” said Mags. “She's not mentioned anything about marrying him yet.”

Tom turned to her wide-eyed.

“Just a joke,” said Mags, smiling quite warmly now. “Don't worry. It's only the same age difference as you and me, after all.”

“Yes, but that's different,” said Tom.

“Oh, of course, it would be,” replied Mags, now grinning broadly. The boy left them just before they reached home, shouting, “Good night, Mr Brown! Good night, Mrs T!”

“Goodnight, Jason,” said Mags.

“Jason, eh? Mrs T?” said Tom. “Is he a regular visitor, then?”

“He quite often walks home with Katey, and he's popped in for a chat a couple of times,” said Mags. “Don't worry,” she said again, still smiling, “they're just school friends.”

And this time she squeezed his hand.

“Right, who fancies a coffee?” asked Tom when they arrived home.

“I'll do it,” said Katey. “Three coffees?” She went through to the kitchen. Tom looked at Mags wide-eyed in amazement.

“You've got Jason to thank for that,” she said. “He always puts her in a good mood.” Katey followed them through into the huge rear living room a few minutes later with three steaming mugs on a tray. Their daughter, at fourteen, was tall and slim and already had the face and figure of a young woman – a beautiful young woman – although she had managed to retain her teenager's scowl. Her hair was almost white blonde, long and straight.

“Well,” said Mags, “we're really pleased you're doing well, Katey. If you want to make us feel absolutely ecstatic, it seems you just have to concentrate more and work harder, according to Mrs Metcalfe… ”