Tell Tale: Short Stories

“I did,” said Francesca, snuggling closer.

Antonio laughed. “And how did you kill him, my darling?”

“I poisoned him. Two drops of cyanide in his coffee just before he went to bed,” Francesca said as she turned out the bedside light.

Antonio froze.

VIEW OF AUVERS-SUR-OISE

“IT’S LIKE MAKING love for the first time,” said the chief inspector. “A copper never forgets his first arrest.”

While all his chums at school wanted to be Han Solo or James Bond, Guy Stanford saw himself more as Sherlock Holmes. So when the careers master asked him what he wanted to do when he left school, no one was surprised when he replied, “I’m going to be a detective.”

Guy’s only problem was his father, who assumed that like him, he would train to be a barrister and later join him in chambers. Being English, they agreed on a compromise. And as with parents who are unsure their son is marrying the right girl, Guy agreed to a trial separation; if he still felt the same way about it after three years, his father would put up no objection to him joining the police force.

Guy spent the next three years at Exeter University studying the history of art—the second love of his life. He graduated with a good enough honors degree for his tutor to suggest he might consider returning to do a Ph.D. thesis on Sorolla, the Spanish impressionist. Guy thanked his tutor, took the next train back to Coventry, and after a two-week holiday, joined the local police force.

Guy didn’t take advantage of the graduate entry scheme that guaranteed accelerated promotion because, as he told his father, he preferred to win his spurs on the battlefield. His four years on the beat before he became a detective turned out to be full of challenges. For example … no. This is not a story about the recently promoted Chief Superintendent Guy Stanford, but a tale about PC Stanford’s first arrest.

It had been a particularly grueling week for Guy, which had ended on Saturday afternoon with his having to accompany the visiting Cardiff City football supporters back to the station, after they’d lost to Coventry, 3–0.

Once the last train had departed, Guy decided not to join his mates at the pub that evening, but to curl up in bed with a good book. But he was so exhausted that he only managed a couple of chapters of Duveen by S. N. Behrman before he fell into a deep sleep.

Twenty minutes later his dreams were interrupted by an insistent ringing. But it was still some time before he managed to pick up the phone.

“Stanford,” said a voice that wasn’t used to being disobeyed. “Report to the station immediately. And immediately means you’re already late.”

“Yes, sarge,” said Guy, suddenly wide awake. He leaped out of bed, took a two-minute shower, didn’t shave, and threw on his uniform. He ran downstairs and out onto the street, jumped on his bike and didn’t stop pedaling until he reached the station.

Once he’d dumped the bike, he joined several of his colleagues who were charging up the steps into the nick.

“Downstairs, lads,” said the desk sergeant. An order Guy obeyed without stopping.

When he entered the large situations room in the basement, he joined thirty or forty of his colleagues who had clearly all been drafted in at short notice. Although none of them had any idea what they were doing there, they didn’t have to wait long to find out.

When Chief Superintendent Dexter (crime) walked in, Guy realized it had to be serious, and when the chief constable followed only a pace behind, the whole room fell silent.

“OK, listen up, lads,” said the super, as he placed his hands on his hips, “because I don’t have time to repeat myself. A small inner group of senior police officers have been working for several weeks on a particularly sensitive investigation. However, I was unwilling to give the go-ahead until we were confident every piece of the jigsaw was in place. An hour ago, we received information from a reliable source that we wouldn’t get a better opportunity than tonight to bang up Bernie Manners, along with a few other well-known villains.”

Several of the officers began to cheer and applaud. Although Guy hadn’t come in contact with Manners, he knew only too well who he was. His photograph had become a dartboard in the crime room long before Guy had joined the force. He knew Manners was the local drug baron, who controlled a territory that stretched from Watford to Birmingham, and anyone who strayed onto his patch went missing. But far worse were the number of young lives he had ruined with the distribution of heroin and crack cocaine by his army of dealers. Thanks to a cadre of expensive lawyers, Manners had never been convicted or seen the inside of a prison cell. Even when they’d found a shotgun in the boot of his Mercedes, Manners was able to prove he was on the way to a pheasant shoot, and that the gun was registered. The jury didn’t seem to understand the difference between a shotgun and a rifle.

“My informant tells me,” continued the super, “that Manners is holding a party in his home tonight to celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and among his guests will be some of the biggest rogues in Christendom, so we’ll never get a better opportunity to give him an unexpected birthday present.”

This time the cheer was even louder.

“All of you will now be divided into three groups with a senior officer in charge of each section. Group one will be under my orders and will act as the lead unit. Group two will consist of twenty-one officers under Chief Inspector Wallis, who will surround the house, and if you find as much as a half-smoked joint on anyone trying to beat a hasty retreat, arrest them, bring them back to the nick, and lock ’em up. Group three, you’re the search party and will be led by Chief Inspector Hendry. Once you get the signal from me, you will enter the house, where you will each be allocated a room, and then I expect you to take the place apart. Any drugs you find must be listed, bagged, and handed over to Inspector Hendry.”

Guy looked around to see that most of his colleagues couldn’t wait to get going. This was the reason they’d joined the police.

“And don’t forget. Every ounce of heroin or coke you find is another year in jail for Manners, and it’s a life sentence if we can prove he’s a dealer. Right, report to your group commanders who will brief you more fully.”

There was almost a stampede toward a large noticeboard where every officer was listed in alphabetical order, showing which group they had been allocated to.

Guy knew he wasn’t senior enough to be a member of the command unit, but he still wanted to be in the search party, and not left standing outside the house hoping someone would try to do a runner.

He let out a muted “Yes!,” when he saw the number 3 by his name, and quickly made his way back upstairs and out of the nick. He climbed into a black patrol van, marked only with the number 3, and took a seat near the front. Once the door of the van slid shut, Chief Inspector Hendry began to brief his group.

“Right, pay attention. Like the chief, I’m only going to say this once. Our job will be to search the house from top to bottom, making sure we don’t miss anything, and I mean anything. If you come across any drugs, even marijuana or poppers, bag them up and bring them straight to me. Don’t expect to find everything stacked and labeled neatly on shelves. Manners will have stashed them in places you won’t even have thought of, so make sure you do a thorough job, because we’re not going to get a second chance.”