DS Stuart Carter exhaled deeply as he closed the door of the Chief Super’s office behind him, the tension of the months of deliberation that had led to this point slowly melting away. He’d been expecting it, the boss had said, thirty-five years on the Force takes its toll, but he’ll be sorely missed. He thanked him for waiting for the dust to settle after the Parker case. A year’s notice was appreciated, plenty of time to recruit and settle in a replacement. and he reluctantly supported Stuart’s caveat as compensation for this.
As he entered the shiny lift on the top floor of the newly opened out-of-town investigative hub, the white and chrome a far cry from the tired, mildewy dilapidation of the old headquarters in the city centre, he hesitated. Should he go back to his desk and inform the team? No need, he thought, as soon as Carl, the Chief’s Assistant, had seen him go into his office with an official-looking brown envelope, the rumour mill would’ve gone into overdrive. He pressed the button for the basement.
***
“Remember, tidiness and meticulousness, layers and a good book are the key to success in this job,” Janice reiterated, looking despairingly at the heaps of paper, scribbled sticky notes, three dirty coffee mugs and collection of multicoloured Gonks on Mel’s desk.
She’ll be gone in less than a month, Janice thought as she carefully buttoned up her tan-coloured trench coat over her neatly pressed uniform and picked up a small box of personal belongings, wistfully wondering if they’d ask her to come back.
So few things to show for a lifetime of a career, Mel thought with a tinge of sadness, as she accompanied Janice up in the lift to reception.
“It’s all yours now, Mel,” said Janice as she surrendered her badge and signed over the keys. “Good luck.”
Mel watched as her mentor disappeared through the revolving doors, the butterflies dancing in her stomach as the enormity of her new responsibilities began to dawn on her.
***
Stuart stood at the counter of the evidence store, rows upon rows of racks full of neatly stacked and numbered boxes. He understood, more than most, the value of well-preserved evidence, but he had never quite fathomed why it had to be kept behind bars. It’s not like it was going to run off on its own, was it, and it would be pretty ironic if it got pinched.
“Shop,” he shouted, blatantly ignoring the bell provided to ring for attention. “Shake a leg, Janice, some of us have got work to do.”
Before he could shout again, Stuart spotted a young woman PC with unruly black hair, hurrying towards him.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were there,” said the woman awkwardly, flushed from running, a splash of colour amidst the bright strip lighting and grey uniformity of the store.
“I shouted,” replied Stuart.
“That explains it,” said the woman, “you’re supposed to ring the bell. It’s linked to my phone. I’m not allowed a radio blaring, but they told me I could listen to music using headphones, as it can get quite lonely down here when it’s quiet. Sorry, I’m babbling.”
“Where’s Janice?” Stuart asked.
“She retired. Don’t worry that you didn’t know; she didn’t want any fuss. No do or anything, just a bunch of flowers and a John Lewis voucher from the Chief, and she was gone.”
“Shame, I’ll miss her calm efficiency,” Stuart said to himself. Another one of the old guard gone, he thought, not many of us left, and his time would come soon, once he’d put to rest some unfinished business.
“I’m her replacement, Mel.”
“Nice to meet you, Mel,” said Stuart, shaking Mel’s hand formally, wondering how this haphazard-looking young woman in front of him could ever replace Janice. “I’m DS Stuart Carter, but just call me Stuart.”
“How can I help you, Stuart?” asked Mel, smiling. “You’re my first customer.”
“First, but certainly not the last,” said Stuart. “Now, to business. I’d like to look at everything we’ve got from the Drummond case, 1989, case number 090789A3, if you could oblige, Mel.”
“Wow, that’s an old one; it might take me a bit to locate it. Do you want to wait, or shall I give you a call when it’s ready?”
“A call would be great, thank you. There’s no big rush; it’s been unresolved for over thirty years, so an extra hour or so won’t make much of a difference.”
As soon as Stuart left, Mel typed the case number into the computer, locating the rack number and quantity of boxes she needed to look for, just one for this case. The rack was at the far end of the store; she’d have no problem reaching her target number of steps for today; the force’s budget hadn’t been able to stretch to the automation seen in Amazon warehouses.
Positioning the mobile platform ladder in front of the rack, she found the correct box and took it back to her desk. As she opened it to check that the contents were all present and correct compared to the inventory on file, the smell of perfume mingled with exhilaration and excitement hit her. It was the same smell that she had noticed just before her mother left, and she took a few deep breaths to calm the familiar, empty rage that had started to bubble up inside her. She’d come home from school when she was ten to find her gone. No explanation, just gone. After a few days, a letter arrived. She loved her, she told her, but she’d fallen out of love with Dad. She needed some time to herself and would be in touch again when she was settled. Five years later, she called. You have a new baby sister, she announced excitedly. You must come and meet her; you’ll adore her. Mel hung up. She never heard from her again.
***
“What was the Drummond case?” asked Mel as she handed over the box to Stuart.
“Suspected kidnap,” Stuart replied. “Lily Drummond, middle-class housewife, disappeared from her home. The husband arrived home from work to find signs of a violent struggle. A ransom note was received in the post the next morning. The fool paid it without telling us, but she was never released. We never found her. I suspect she’s long dead, probably died when they took her; there was blood at the scene. It was one of my first cases in CID, and it’s bugged me ever since. I keep in contact with Brian, her husband. I’d like to give him closure.”
“I don’t think she died at the scene,” said Mel cautiously.
“What makes you say that?” Stuart asked, slightly taken aback. How could she know about this case? It was way before her time in the Force.
“There’s no smell of death.”
Stuart looked at Mel as if she had three heads.
“Let me explain,” she said calmly, well-practised at giving this explanation. “I’m not mad, honestly, it’s just, I’m a super smeller. I was born with it. It’s called hyperosmia. I’m like a human bloodhound.”
“Interesting,” said Stuart, “but I still don’t see how that means you know she didn’t die at the scene.”
“I can detect odours that nobody else can, and, believe me, I know what death smells like from visiting my grandma in the hospice before she died,” continued Mel. “I don’t smell death in the Drummond evidence box, but I do smell exhilaration and excitement. Lily Drummond didn’t die at the scene, and she wasn’t afraid.”
“Interesting,” Stuart said again, after a few moments trying to take in everything Mel had said. “That certainly would put a new angle on things. We always believed it was a kidnapping gone wrong as the evidence of a struggle was clear-cut, and we found Lily’s blood. The one thing we never found, though, was a clear motive, and the ransom demanded wasn’t extortionate. What if she staged it? Then that begs the questions, why and where did she go?”
Mel could see Stuart’s brain firing on all cylinders as he considered this new possibility.
“Are you busy down here?” he asked after a while
“Not particularly.”
“How would you like to help me solve this case and, maybe, some others?”
“You’re on,” she replied, raising her hand to give him a high five before realising that that probably wasn’t appropriate and sheepishly returning it to her side, reddening with embarrassment.
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