by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I LEFT THE EVANS gang stewing in their own juices and drove away. I didn’t want to have to explain to Howard how I’d tracked Evans down, and I certainly didn’t want him suspecting any involvement from me in the money-laundering scam. If the police found them, it would be without my help.
I drove home the long way, directly north through the Welsh countryside, rather than heading east for the clogged motorways. I drove up towards Carmarthen on the A40, then through Llandovery and Builth Wells, and stopped for elevenses in the grandiose surroundings of an old hotel in the centre of Llandridrod Wells. Once seated in its vast lounge, my coffee poised on a small table alongside a tray of biscuits, I phoned Laura, who answered immediately.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, her voice sounding both impatient and tired in the earpiece of my mobile phone.
‘I don’t think Evans is coming back,’ I said.
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Don’t ask me that question. It might get you in trouble. But take his name off his office door.’
‘Do you always talk in riddles?’
‘Professional obligation.’
‘You’ll need to talk plainly if you want paying.’
‘Meet me tonight and I’ll say more.’
‘I don’t respond well to being bribed,’ she said crossly.
‘Then think of it as an incentive. Something to look forward to.’
Personally, I was looking forward to seeing the leather trousers again.
She met me at a restaurant near the railway station. Unlike most restaurants near railway stations, it was upmarket and glamorous, with two large rooms decorated in a pale cream, waiting staff like trainee undertakers all in black, and offering a curious mixture of French and Mexican cuisine. As usual, the clientele was young and wealthy. There seemed to be no one in Waverley over the age of twenty-five and with a less than six figure income.
‘You have something to report,’ Laura said, slipping into the space next to me at the bar. The leather trousers had been replaced by a pencil-skirt in navy blue, with a beige halter top revealing her slender arms and prominent collar bone. Her face shone in the half-light and her make-up was subtle but well-defined. I signalled to a barman and Laura asked for a Perrier with ice and a slice.
I hadn’t given much thought to what I was going to say about Evans’ scam, but I reasoned that as a client she deserved to hear something. It was also good for my professional reputation to have had a success, however small.
‘Evans was ripping Brands off,’ I said.
She went very still. ‘How?’
‘His son had a company through which they sold computer gear bought cheaply and marked up before it was sold on to you.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘We’ve spent something like six hundred grand on IT in the last two years. Networks, servers, PCs and continual software upgrades.’
‘You paid about a third more than you should have done. He was walking off with two hundred grand under his arm.’
‘What have you done with him?’
‘I’m not martial law, you know. I haven’t “done” anything with him. If Howard asks me nicely I might tell him, but as Evans isn’t involved in Rory’s murder I’ve got nothing to say.’
She turned on her swivel stool to face me more directly. ‘I hardly think that’s your call,’ she said. Her eyes were glittering in the reflected light from the bottles and mirror behind the bar, as though full of a dark intense fire. ‘What if you’re wrong and Evans is involved somehow in Rory’s death and Tara’s disappearance?’
‘He’s not.’
‘How can you be sure? You’re suddenly an expert on Derek Evans and what goes on in his head?’
I took a hit from my beer, turning away from her gaze. ‘I didn’t come here to argue,’ I said. ‘Evans is a creep but he’s a scared creep. He doesn’t have the ambition or the guts to kill Rory. White collar theft, where he doesn’t have to put anything personal on the line—that’s his strength.’
We were both silent for a while, like surfers waiting for the waves to arrive and burst overhead before paddling through them, arms flailing. She broke first. ‘If I’m paying for your time, I want you to put this stuff about Evans into a report. That money belongs to Brands, anyway.’
I conceded she might be right. ‘I’ll mention it when I write my report. You can show it to whomever you like.’
A smile touched her lips. ‘Whomever?’
‘All the best detectives are literate,’ I said. ‘We have to take courses in business writing to get our badge.’
A group of women came into the room, hooting and talking loudly to each other and wearing paper hats. A birthday party. I wondered where Tara was and what she was going through, if she was still alive. I felt momentarily guilty for being here with Laura, flirting a little, drinking, feeling good that I’d solved a problem and generally having a good time. Surely I owed it to Tara to be taking things more seriously?
‘Deep thoughts,’ Laura said quietly. I snapped back into the room.
I said, ‘Did you know Eddie Hampshire had been booted out by Rory?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Evans tell you that?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I had suspicions but Rory hadn’t said anything. So he’s working out his notice, I guess.’
‘Seems pretty happy about it, doesn’t he? Or is he the kind of guy that nothing puts a crimp in his tie?’
‘Nobody likes to lose their job,’ she said. ‘Unless he’s got something else to go to.’
A waiter told us our table was ready and led us to a dark corner. A long-stemmed rose erupted proudly from a slim vase placed in the centre of the table.
I looked at the other diners sitting at round tables and having a good time. There was a glitter and sparkle in the air from the healthy skin and bright jewellery of the élite band eating here tonight. I continued to let my gaze drift around the room. Through the dark windows, edged with silver in anticipation of more serious Christmas decoration, I saw the blue flash of a police car’s roof light. There seemed to be no escape for me these days—everywhere I turned I fell across a policeman. Another blue flashing light joined the first and went past the window. Waverley was obviously enjoying a mini crime-wave tonight.
Laura patted my hand. ‘So do you have a plan, dude? Want to share?’
‘Sharing is for softies. Is Waverley a hotbed of crime?’
‘Not that I know. Why?’
‘Building a picture. Context is all.’
‘First you threaten some colleagues of mine with physical violence, now philosophy. You have a wide range.’
The blue flashing lights stopped outside the restaurant. I turned and saw Laura looking at me. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just experiencing déjà vu.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
‘You seem to be in a good mood tonight.’
‘Given everything that’s happened? Well, I can do moody, but not for long. That’s why they’re called moods. After all, what’s going to happen now, tonight, that could be worse than what’s happened in the last couple of weeks?’
I started to say something to her, when a movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned towards it—and saw Inspector Howard edging sideways between tables. Two uniforms trailed behind him, looking embarrassed in these glamorous surroundings, their cheeks pink and their eyes fixed straight ahead. Howard arrived at our table, and looked down at Laura. He had the stern look of a disappointed father etched into the lines of his face. The two uniforms came and stood either side of him and also looked down at her.
‘Hello, Miss Marshall,’ Howard said. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Well I am disturbed, actually.’
‘I realise that,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us to the station.’
Her mouth opened slightly and she looked at me, her eyes round and com
pletely shocked. I started to rise, but Howard put out a hand to keep me seated.
‘What’s all this about?’ Laura said.
Then Howard turned slowly and looked at me. He spoke deliberately, savouring each word. He said, ‘I’m arresting Mr Dyke, and we’d like you to come with us in order to make a statement.’
