Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Some misunderstanding. The whole thing with O’Connor stinks. Also, Ryland was writing the draft of the second instalment of his memoirs.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve been told he was using the opportunity to blow the whistle on the government’s interference in the JRC. It’s supposed to be an independent body, but crippling restrictions have been placed on the cases they can review. The Home Office is virtually running the show. Did you know that?’

  ‘How the hell did you find all of this out? No, no, that’s okay, it can wait. What is it you’re trying to say?’

  ‘That the JRC is fast becoming a sham,’ said Mariner. ‘Don’t you think it would be damaging to the government if that truth got out?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do them much good,’ Flynn conceded.

  ‘So it would be in their interests to keep Ryland quiet, wouldn’t it? The day after he died they took the hard drive from his computer at the JRC.’

  ‘That’s routine procedure. He’d have been handling some sensitive data as a matter of course. No one would want it getting into the wrong hands.’ Flynn sat back. ‘So, let me get this straight. What you’re implying here is that somehow the government arranged to have Ryland killed and now, because you’re onto it, they’re after you too?’ He made it sound like a cheap melodrama. ‘I think your imagination is running away with you, mate. Government officials involved in a sordid back street mugging? In the real world it doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Look at what happened to David Kelly.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tom. Kelly committed suicide, as well you know.’ Flynn took a weary breath. ‘Okay. Supposing you’re right. Let’s imagine that somebody did set you up and arranged for a mugger to see you off. Isn’t it much more likely to be someone related to Joseph O’Connor? The people he mixed with wouldn’t want you poking around after the shooting, would they? And they’re far more likely to employ those kinds of tactics.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Remember a George Hollis?’ asked Mariner, watching Flynn carefully.

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s he? No, don’t tell me — he’s a secret government agent.’ But he knew the name, Mariner could tell.

  ‘He was the copper who got O’Connor wrongfully convicted, and was subsequently indicted in his appeal.’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Must have been a habit with George Hollis. Sir Geoffrey Ryland was taking quite an interest in him. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know of him. He worked out of Harlesden just before I did, but then, you obviously already know that, don’t you?’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘He had a certain reputation as a tough officer who got results.’

  ‘Regardless of the methods?’

  ‘Hollis was from a different era, don’t forget. The way he did things may not always have been universally popular but he had his following.’

  Mariner could imagine that following. There were always a few young guys who came into the job planning on being vigilantes and George Hollis sounded just the kind of role model they loved. Jack Coleman was from a different era, too, Mariner thought. It hadn’t made him corrupt.

  ‘So now we’ve gone from government scheming to bent coppers,’ Flynn observed. ‘I’m impressed. You’re covering all the bases. Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’m just saying that your colleagues seem to have been quick to jump to conclusions without necessarily considering all the possibilities.’

  ‘You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Who knows what they’re considering? Where did you dig Hollis up?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘I’ve spoken to people at the JRC—’

  ‘Yes, let’s come back to that. What the fuck were you even doing there?’

  ‘I just stopped by,’ Mariner said. ‘I was interested to know where my old man used to work. They invited me in.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘And I got talking to people.’

  Flynn held his gaze. They both knew what he was saying was nonsense but Flynn wasn’t interested in the technicalities right now. ‘Who did you “get talking to?”’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘A couple of staffers,’ Mariner brushed him off. ‘It doesn’t really matter. I’m just saying that Hollis had a good reason for wanting both Ryland and O’Connor to back off. Is anyone looking into his whereabouts on the night Ryland was killed?’

  Flynn sighed. ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be in the interests of the Home Office to have them dragged into this either, would it? Whatever is at the root of this, it looks to me as if it’ll all be neatly swept under the carpet.’

  Flynn was beginning to get annoyed. ‘You should hear yourself, Tom,’ he said. ‘If it’s a legitimate line of enquiry, someone will be following it up. As I’ve told you before, it’s just not my remit.’

  ‘But you said it. Right from the start, the focus of this investigation has been O’Connor, not Ryland.’

  ‘Because that’s where the evidence is!’ Flynn raised his voice and a couple of people turned to stare.

  ‘What evidence?’ Mariner countered. ‘There’s hardly any and what exists is purely circumstantial.’

  ‘Just because you and I don’t have access to it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. My colleagues on the squad are a smart bunch, and they’re professionals, like us. They’ll have good reasons for reaching the conclusions they have.’

  ‘Yes, mainly that it’s too uncomfortable to consider anything else. Either that or they’re being directed from above.’

  This time Flynn was laughing. ‘Get a grip, mate. There is no conspiracy. Isn’t that what you told Special Branch about the St Martin’s explosion?’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  But Flynn wasn’t going to tell him. ‘This is not your case, Tom. You’re on a hiding to nothing. Leave it and go back to Birmingham.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  But as they parted company both men knew that the chances of that happening were minimal.

  * * *

  Mariner considered what Flynn had said. He couldn’t really deny that he’d been edgy since the explosion, and it was possible that he had overreacted to the incident in the tube station. But the phone call had been a clear-cut ploy. There was no doubt in his mind that somebody was out to warn him off at the very least. He was certain of it. Had Flynn known Hollis better than he was prepared to admit?

  On the way back to the hotel Mariner called in at an all-night pharmacy that stocked basic first-aid kits. Back in his hotel room he squirted a liquid plaster over the wound. It hurt like fuck but at least it stopped the bleeding. When the pain eased off he bound the hand with gauze and tied it as best he could with his left hand and teeth. Then swallowing a couple of paracetamols, he went to bed.

  * * *

  Mariner slept badly, the pain in his hand waking him every time he turned over and making it impossible to lie comfortably. A couple of times he rolled all his weight onto it and yelped out loud. In the morning his whole hand looked swollen and the area around the dressing was an angry red. He took a couple more painkillers.

  After breakfast Mariner successfully obtained the phone number for JMB Investigation Services from directory enquiries. But private detectives being generally nocturnal creatures, an answering machine message informed him that the office wouldn’t reopen until 10:30 a.m. On the positive side, it allowed plenty of time to get there, calling in at Euston Station. Back to his informal look today, he retrieved the left luggage key from the pocket of his suit jacket.

  Of the many puzzling aspects of Ryland’s covert gambling, the left luggage locker was the biggest enigma. For one thing, Mariner hadn’t realised that lockers could be rented long-term, or that duplicate keys could be had. The location also seemed strange, almost arbitrary. Sandie would have had to make a special journey on th
e tube to make the drop. The obvious explanation was that whoever collected Ryland’s stake — if that’s what it was — worked around this area or travelled in from elsewhere. Mariner wondered if any of the other lockers were part of it. He found number one-four-three and opened it. It was, as he had expected, clean and completely empty with not a hint of the contents or those who had used it. In other circumstances he’d have been tempted to get it dusted for fingerprints, but if there was no criminal activity going on where would that get him? Suddenly weary, he leaned his forehead against the top of the locker. What was he doing here and what had he expected to find? Perhaps Flynn was right and he was starting to lose it. He returned the key to the desk.

  The journey out to Hammersmith was going to be a short two-leg tube ride that would still get him there way too early for Mike Baxter, and having overindulged on the fried food again, Mariner’s throat was parched and he needed to take more painkillers. Station cafeterias were the kind of fast-food operation that he detested. Wanting a decent cup of tea, he left the station and went out onto the main road in search of somewhere less frenetic. He hadn’t walked far when a sign on an opposite street corner caught his eye: Pearl’s Café. Shit, was it the same one?

  Walking up to the door, Mariner could see that, though modernised, it had remained the kind of retro place that he could imagine Ryland might have liked: tables with checked table cloths, waitress service and a line of stools for customers who preferred to sit at the counter; all in the original 1950s style. What a find; a place that both Ryland and his mother had known.

  Mariner stepped into warmth and the soothing aroma of hot toast. He took one of the unoccupied tables. The laminated menu propped between the salt and pepper pots was simple — none of your cappuccinos or lattes here, just straight tea or coffee, a mug or a pot with scones, teacakes or toast. The waitress, a substantial black woman, came over almost immediately. ‘What can I get you?’

  Looking up Mariner was transfixed by the embroidered name on her overall. ‘You’re Pearl?’ he said in astonishment. ‘As in, Pearl’s Café?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pearl, smiling to expose big white teeth, widely spaced. ‘As in, why wouldn’t I be?’

  She only looked about thirty and as she gazed at him Mariner felt suddenly disorientated. ‘This café’s named after you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my place,’ she shrugged. ‘So it seemed like a good idea.’

  ‘How long have you been open?’

  ‘Three years next March. Did all the renovations myself.’

  ‘What was it before that?’

  Pearl was exercising extraordinary patience. ‘Used to be a tobacconist’s, but it had been closed for years.’

  ‘I see. I’ll have a mug of tea, thanks.’

  Replacing the menu, Mariner spotted another small card tucked into the cruet, a postcard advertising New Year lunchtime specials: buy one snack and get another free. Except for the season, it was exactly like the card that had he and Flynn had found in that packet of photographs, and now Mariner saw how ridiculous he’d been. They had jumped to completely the wrong conclusion. That postcard didn’t belong with his mother’s letters or the 1959 programme from the Albert Hall. It was a more recent addition. But how and why was it there? It was pretty certainly an indication that Ryland had visited Pearl’s Café, but what could have brought him here? He wouldn’t normally have any reason to come to this part of London. It wasn’t near his house or the JRC. The only thing close by was the left luggage locker, but most of the trips to the locker had been made by Sandie. All except that final one, just before Christmas.

  Pearl brought across his tea, a good strong brew in a hefty mug. Mariner showed her the postcard. ‘Did you have a similar offer before Christmas?’

  ‘Yeah, and it worked so well that I’m doing it again. Next time you should bring a friend.’ She let rip a raucous peal of laughter. ‘If you’ve got any.’

  Sandie had described Ryland’s excitement about placing his last bet and his subsequent dejection. It would confirm his notion that Ryland was meeting with someone, perhaps to end the arrangement, or to pull out. But the meeting had gone badly, badly enough that Ryland needed a ‘celebratory’ drink when he got back to the office.

  The meeting could have occurred in this very place. A venue close to the left luggage locker would presumably have been convenient for both parties. Ryland disliked fast-food joints and this café would be less public than any of those on the station concourse. But how had that postcard got in with the photos? Flynn said that Ryland had accessed his security box in November. It could have been on the same day that he placed his last bet, which begged the next question: were those two events connected?

  Ryland was writing his memoirs. Was he sitting looking at the photographs as a way of passing the time while he waited for his fellow gambler to turn up? Or was there more to it? Did Ryland actually bring all the photographs to that meeting as proof that he had a son who was a police officer? It could have been to counteract a threat that was being made against him. It seemed crucial now to find out exactly when and why Ryland went to his safety deposit box.

  Chapter Eighteen

  JMB Services worked out of an office over a dry cleaners, the door straight out of a film noir: discreet, frosted glass with black lettering. Mariner buzzed to gain entry, ascending a narrow staircase that led directly into a cramped two-desk office. Mariner took a guess that the lad behind one of the desks, scruffily dressed in T-shirt and rumpled combats, his hair gelled into a sculptured masterpiece, was too young to be Baxter.

  ‘Jason,’ he introduced himself. ‘But everyone calls me Jayce. How can I help?’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to Mr Baxter,’ Mariner said.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Baxter’s indisposed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Came off his motorbike a couple of weeks back.’

  Mariner’s antennae twitched. ‘How?’

  Jayce shrugged. ‘Taking a bend too fast.’

  ‘Any other vehicles involved?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Broken ribs, bruising. Anyway, I’m his partner. Can I help?’

  There didn’t seem to be much choice. ‘I’m looking into the death of Sir Geoffrey Ryland,’ Mariner said, wondering if Jayce would even know who the man was. Happily he did.

  ‘Mike was gutted about that,’ he said. ‘They were friends. Mr Ryland often sent a bit of work our way.’

  ‘Did you know what kind of work?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘The kind of work we do; investigations. Sometimes Mr Ryland wanted a bit of background on people.’

  ‘Like George Hollis and Steve Jaeger.’

  Jayce was suddenly guarded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘Have you any idea what he found out?’ Judging by look on Jayce’s face, some reassurance was called for. ‘I’m not on their side,’ Mariner said. ‘I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Ryland.’ Mariner eyed the row of steel filing cabinets over Jayce’s shoulder. ‘You keep files on your—’ Mariner hesitated, not knowing what the correct word was, ‘—clients,’ he settled for eventually, though that didn’t sound right.

  ‘Of course,’ said Jayce, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘We keep meticulous records. We have to keep track—’ Jayce broke off. He was a bright lad and had just seen the next question appear on the horizon. ‘And they’re confidential,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the matter? Hollis and Jaeger friends of Mr Baxter, is that it?’ Mariner asked. ‘I’ll bet he’s an ex-copper, isn’t he?’ It was more than a shot in the dark. Most PIs were ex-police or military. ‘Were they tight?’

  ‘You know nothing,’ Jayce blurted out. ‘Mike got out because of the corruption. One thing gets right up Mike’s nose, it’s bent coppers.’

  ‘And Hollis and Jaeger are bent?’

  ‘They were on the Special Incident Squad.’ Jayce spoke as if that said it all, and perhaps it did.

 
Mariner had been a bit slow. He hadn’t made that link with Harlesden, and Flynn hadn’t thought to mention it either. The SIS was the equivalent of the West Midlands Serious Crime squad, but had survived longer, theoretically because it didn’t have the same inherent problems with corruption. But that was the whole point. Squads like that were snug and people took care of each other. Uncovering any wrong doing was like trying to prise open an old tin of paint. Exposing Hollis and Jaeger’s less savoury activities would have caused massive fallout, giving them and their followers a nice fat juicy motive for wanting Ryland and O’Connor dealt with.

  Not that Mariner thought for a moment that the two officers would have been directly involved. Their prints wouldn’t be on the trigger. According to Flynn, Hollis had a following and it was bound to be the case. Career coppers like Hollis built up contacts, not all of them on the law-abiding side of the fence, and for the right money they were the sort of contacts who could be bought. Fitting O’Connor up with the drugs would be simple. Just a question of finding the right person to do it. And the vengeance is mine cliché? A crude, unnecessary, flourish from the assassin.

  In addition Hollis and Jaeger would have enough friends in the Met to influence the way in which the investigation into the shootings was being conducted. Flynn had said that, from the outset, there had seemed to be a steer away from Ryland and towards the drugs angle. For a horrible moment Mariner considered the position of Flynn himself. He’d played down any connection with Hollis, but then if he was involved, that’s exactly what he would do. As for the attempts on Mariner’s life, if that was what they were . . . someone had known his movements and had his mobile number. Christ, would Flynn—? He’d spilled his guts to the man and if Flynn was embroiled in this . . . something in Mariner’s gut plummeted. He needed to know what Hollis and Jaeger were up to now. ‘You sure there’s nothing you can tell me?’ he asked Jayce.

  ‘That’s for Mike to decide. I don’t know you from Adam, do I?’ The lad stood his ground admirably.

  Mariner badly wanted to distinguish himself from Adam but somehow he didn’t have the same confidence in Jayce’s discretion as he’d had in Helena James’. And Jayce was unyielding. It was probably the first time he’d been left minding the shop and he was determined to demonstrate his authority. Mariner would have to find out through other means.