The Devil’s Trade

Frank, Hope and Charity

“I don’t care who made the decision, the answer is still, no!” Frank slapped his hand down hard onto Chief Inspector Timothy Fitzclarke’s desk. A pile of papers fluttered to the floor. The two men’s eyes were locked, the half metre of space between them hissing with tension.

    “I think, Inspector Vine, it would be good for you to remember exactly who you are talking to.” Fitzclarke pulled his uniform jacket straight and smoothed his short, white hair across his head. Frank pulled a stray piece of his shoulder-length, grey hair from his mouth, but then left it stuck to the stubble on his cheek. He rose slowly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on those of his boss.

    “I’m sorry, sir; sorry for the outburst that is. However, it doesn’t alter how I feel for even one second. This is a high profile case, and a sensitive subject too, I know. Anything relating to kids always is, and if you would rather I put someone like Sergeant Edwards or Constable Harris forward as press liaison officer, then that would be fine by me. They have both put in a tremendous amount of effort on this job and I understand that my appearance can sometimes be problematic, as far as public relations go, but I will not have that idle, slimy, corrupt piece of shit of an officer, Cheeseman, taking credit for any progress we may make.”

    “Frank…”

    “I mean it, sir. If you involve him, then I’m walking.”

    “Are you threatening me, Inspector?”

    “No, sir, I am not. I’m stating a fact. I will not be associated with that man. And if that means taking retirement a little earlier than I expected, so be it. I stay here because I think I do some good. As soon as that ceases to be the case, I will cease to be the obvious nuisance that I am to you. Now, you go and tell whoever it is who needs to be told, either your boss or some dumpling at the lodge, that Detective Inspector Nigel Cheeseman will not be working on the same case as Detective Inspector Frank Vine. Not now, not ever.”

    Frank turned and marched out of the office leaving his immediate boss red in the face and lost for words. Fitzclarke reflected on how much simpler life would be if Frank did retire: no more arguments over his decisions; no more pressure from his boss about the Inspector’s long hair and scruffy clothes; no more embarrassing headlines in the local press: “Hippy Cop in Highlander Arrest,” was one of the most recent, or even, “DI Scruff Defies Disembowelling Attempt.” He could feel his blood pressure rising just thinking about them. But then, of course, if Frank did go, there would always be the downside to it. True enough, Inspector Cheeseman kept the station’s figures up where they should be (in order to maintain his own performance targets) but it was Frank who always sorted out the trail of destruction that inevitably followed in Cheeseman’s wake. Better to be shut of both of them. Now that would make life easier.

*    *    *

    Frank sat near the corner of the main office, by the tea-making cabinet. He sometimes wondered why he bothered to come to work anymore. He clearly wasn’t appreciated. Still, feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to help the missing kids case he was working on.

Constable Charity Harris came in a put on the kettle. Frank smiled. Charity was gorgeous – in his opinion, of course, but he had no designs on the young Constable; he was happily married to Margaret – well, as happily married as you could be after all the years that they’d been together. Obviously, there had been the inevitable hiccoughs that all relationships suffer, only in their case they were more like seizures than hiccoughs. But even so, there was something about Charity Harris. Five seven, athletic; almost black, shiny, thick, straight hair, always neatly tied back in a pony tail; and a beauty that was rarely admired nowadays, at least not in what passed as modern day media. Charity had a classical beauty about her, something not recognised by the bubble-gum, glitzy-titzy MTV society that dogged the video airwaves nowadays. It grieved Frank the way that modern music seemed to have been hijacked by the ministry of bad taste. He loved music, had always loved music, especially rock music, and spent hours of frustration flipping through satellite channels looking for something of value rather than the watereddown, soft porn that was mostly on offer. It depressed him. Still, maybe all was not lost. He thought of the CD that sat in the car stereo at that moment. There was, maybe, just a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. He’d driven to work that morning singing, “Ain’t no tits on the Radio,” at the top of his voice; window down, disapproving stares following him into the station car park. If the Scissor Sisters could see through the crap, then, hopefully, others could too.

    “Penny for them, Inspector.”

    “What…? Oh, nothing. I was miles away.”

    “Make you a drink?”

    “What is there?” Frank got up and moved closer. He sat on the edge of his Sergeant’s desk, a shrine to the great god of order. Sergeant Edwards’ desk looked like something out of an IKEA catalogue. A work of almost infinite minimalism.

    “Normal rubbishy tea and coffee, plus Chamomile and some Elderflower and Raspberry tea bags.”

    “Elderflower and Raspberry please. Chamomile tastes of slurry.”

    DC Charity Harris made the drinks and then came and sat down in Sergeant Edwards’ chair. “Any news, sir?”

    Frank sipped at the chipped mug and put it down, happy to see the wood darken around the base. It would leave a ring stain. “Half past ten and I’ve already had a row with the boss. Things are looking good. I could be retired by lunch-time.”

    “Don’t put yourself down, sir. I’ve been working here long enough now to know that most police officers are hardly paragons of virtue. But you’re different.”

    “You’re not going to accuse me of something I can’t live up to, are you?”

    “No, of course not. But you, and people like you, are what give the future of the force hope.”

“Charity, for God’s sake. You’ll have me vomiting in Sergeant Edwards’ designer waste bucket in a minute.”

“I mean it, sir. If you go, then I go too. Cash-out at Tesco, that’d do me. It seems a friendly enough shop, and far less pressure than working here. Anyway, I meant, is there any news about the kids?”

    Frank put his head down and breathed deeply. He had been enjoying the crack with Harris and now she’d forced a change of subject. He shouldn’t blame her. She was a bright girl, no nonsense. He felt an intellectual affinity with her that he hadn’t felt with anyone else on the force before – except maybe his old boss, George Gilmour. George had that instinctive way about him that was so important to getting things done. Sure, Sergeant Edwards would always get there through logical, sensible, safe steps, but he would never make the huge leaps that he, George and, increasingly, Charity Harris could make. It was a gift, he was sure, and one that he simply accepted and never examined for fear of losing it.

    “The kids,” he said to his chest. “Yeah, nothing. Simon, Ellie, and Joe. I don’t like it, Harris. They’ve been gone too long now.”

    “Five days for Joe. Three for Simon and Ellie.” 

“Exactly, Harris. And we’re getting nowhere fast. We know that Joe definitely went from Meadowhall, and Simon and Ellie were both on the Devonshire Green in town at the same time, watching jugglers and clowns in that big tent they have down there. But other than that, not a scrap of evidence left behind.”

    “We’ve managed to double the numbers on the search teams, sir. The public have been terrific. We may have to start turning them away.”

    Frank had avoided the search teams. He couldn’t stomach the grim reality of looking through long grass and nettles for kids bodies. But then that was hardly the issue, was it? “I think they’re wasting their time to be honest.”

    “What do you mean, sir?”

    “I don’t think trawling through the undergrowth for bodies is going to bring us any results. I have a horrible feeling that something terrible has happened here.”

    Charity Harris put her mug down and looked up at the Inspector. “What could be worse than finding three kids’ bodies, sir?”

    “Oh, there’s plenty of things worse than being murdered, Harris. Plenty of things.”

    “But… if you don’t think that they’re dead, then… well, at least that means that there’s some hope, doesn’t it, sir?”

    “Hope. Yes, Harris. There’s always hope.”

    The office door burst open and Sergeant Edwards, six two, immaculate grey suit, and perfectly tidy, short, blonde hair, strode into the room. “Sir, there’s two more.”

    “Two more what?” Frank needn’t have asked. His Sergeant’s body language and his own instant nausea told him all he needed to know.

    “Two more kids, sir. Mark and Lucy Wild. Seven and Eight. Looks like they were snatched outside the local newsagents. Witnesses report seeing a battered white van around the time they went missing. Apparently, it’s been hanging around for the last few days. No-one knows anything about it, other than it has been blocking off access to the rear of the shops.”

    Frank listened to all this with his head in his hands. He looked up and rubbed life back into his face. “Battered white van, eh? Well, me and Constable Harris were just talking about hope. Not many battered white vans on the streets of Sheffield, are there?”

    “Oh, I think you’ll find that there are quite a number, sir.”

    Frank and Charity exchanged discreet smiles. “There hasn’t been any reports of white vans around the disappearances of the other kids, has there, Harris?”

    “Well, considering that the locations they went missing from, sir, Meadowhall and the middle of the City, no-one is really going to notice.”

    “No, you’re right, of course. Still, it gives us something else to work on. You and me will go and visit the parents, Harris. Think you’re up to it?”

    “Yes, I do, sir.” She didn’t manage to hide the irritation in her voice.

    “I didn’t mean intellectually, Harris, I meant emotionally. It can be tough meeting parents under these conditions.”

    “I’m used to giving bad news, sir. I have been trained, you know?”

    “I know that. But this is worse than telling someone that a loved one is dead, believe me, it’s a lot worse. People react in very different ways. With a death, it’s usually shock and disbelief. Lots of tears and anguish. With missing kids, there’s often anger. You get dragged into the relationship.”

    “I’ll be fine, sir. Anyway, speaking of relationships,” she turned to Sergeant Edwards. “How are things at home?”

    “Oh, I er… well, you know – quiet.”

    “What’s that then?” said Frank. “You haven’t any problems, have you, Edwards?”

    “Well…” Sergeant Edwards went a lovely shade of pink.

    “Oh dear,” said Charity. “I didn’t realise. You haven’t told Inspector…?”

    Edwards regained his composure. “No, that’s quite alright. It’s no secret.” He turned to Frank. “Me and Siobhon are having a trial separation.”

    “A what?”

    “A trial separation.”

    “And if it’s successful?” said Frank.

    “Sorry, sir?”

    “Well, usually, a trial is to test something out. I just wondered; if your trial separation is successful, what happens next?”

    Charity gave Frank a withering look. “I think, sir, you could be a little more sympathetic.”

    “No, that’s alright,” said Edwards. “It does seem a bit odd, I have to say.”

    “I didn’t mean to be insensitive, Edwards, it’s just that, well, it’s all a bit seventies, isn’t it? Whose idea was this anyway?”

    Edwards sat on the edge of his desk. “It was Siobhon’s. I didn’t really see it coming or anything. We’d been having a few arguments, mainly about kids.”

    “But you don’t have any kids,” said Frank.

    “Exactly. And I would quite like some and Siobhon thinks that the world is too bad a place to bring children into. She thinks it would be irresponsible.”

    “It’s a point of view, I suppose. Good job everyone doesn’t feel like that though, we’d be stuffed then. Where is she living then?”

    “Oh, she’s still at home. I’ve moved out into a little flat, down by Abbeydale Industrial Hamlet.”

    “She seems to have it all planned,” said Frank. “So, you’re footloose and fancy free now, eh?” He couldn’t help but notice the faint trace of a smile spread across Charity’s face.

    “Well, I’m not taking advantage, or anything like that.”

    Frank patted his Sergeant on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Edwards. I shouldn’t take the piss. Emotional upheaval is difficult. I’ve had enough of it myself. I hope everything sorts itself out. And if you need any help, you know, fighting off say, the occasional Detective Constable, you know where to come for help.”

    “Sir!” said Charity, “I hardly think that…”

    “Just kidding,” said Frank, laughing.

    “We’ve only been for a couple of drinks, sir,” said Edwards. Charity looked daggers at the Sergeant who immediately dropped his face towards the floor.

    “Oh,” he said, snapping his head back up. “I nearly forgot. There’s something else I had to tell you, sir.”

    “Go on, Edwards. Surprise me.”

    “There’s a press conference scheduled for two thirty today.”

    “Christ Almighty! Are you sure?” 

    “Well, yes.”

    “ I can’t believe it. I can’t bloody well believe it.” Frank slid off his Sergeant’s desk and marched over towards his own office. “I wonder whose bright idea that was?” he called over his shoulder. “Not the bloody officer in charge of the case, I know that for sure. I’m just going to have a quiet word with my boss.”

    The door slammed shut behind him. Sergeant Edwards and Constable Harris saw the red light flash on the phone as Frank chose an internal extension. They sat in total silence, able to hear every single word that their boss bawled at the Chief Inspector.