‘Got any proof to back up that slander, Foster?’ Maitland asked.
He saw the first flash of anger in Rickman’s eyes, but you wouldn’t have known it from his tone. ‘He’s right — I bet there isn’t a single account, property or business in his own name. But your accountant is missing . . .’
Maitland stared at Rickman thinking, I’ll pop Tommy Eames’s eyeballs with my own two thumbs when I catch the fat fucker.
‘What’s the bet Carter has the cheque books, title deeds, account details, passbooks and passwords — official and unofficial?’ Rickman wondered aloud.
There was enough truth in what he’d said to sour the champagne in Maitland’s gut. Maitland had accounts in a dozen different names, as well as access to businesses nominally owned by a score more who would pay him eighty percent of their profits. The only other living person who had access to all of it was Bernie Carter.
‘You’re street-smart, Maitland.’ Rickman leaned in. ‘But Carter — he’s clever.’
We’ll see, Maitland thought. We’ll see who’s clever when Carter is naked and bleeding on the floor, begging me for mercy or death, and unable to tell the difference.
‘You finished?’ He was trying not to grind his molars, but the muscle in his jaw was at a jangle, sending out a Morse code of distress, and he thought Rickman was the sort of man who might pick up on it.
‘Not by a long way,’ Rickman said.
The sexy student waitress stopped to offer him a fresh glass of fizz as the lift appeared. The outrage in her eyes was a gratifying distraction. He forced his muscles to relax, tried to stay cool, even gave her a smile as he reached for a glass.
‘Mr Maitland won’t be wanting another,’ Rickman said, steering her away with the effortless assurance of a man used to being obeyed. ‘He’s going down.’
Funny, Maitland thought. Very funny. For now, he’d let Rickman have the last word. But there wouldn’t always be witnesses around, and one way or another, he would make Rickman regret gatecrashing his party.
Chapter 39
Larry Dwight was talking on the phone when Rickman knocked at his office door. It was eight thirty p.m., and Dwight wasn’t known for putting in long office hours. He eyed Rickman nervously as he continued speaking, and Rickman took a seat in the chair opposite. Dwight’s hair was as neatly cropped, his skin as smoothly shaved as before, but his eyes looked shadowed from lack of sleep, and his office looked less polished, more cluttered with paper than the last time. Rickman guessed that Michael Aldiss’s death had impinged on the DI’s ordered life in ways he could not have anticipated.
From the tone of the conversation, it sounded like he was trying to reassure one of the local interest groups about the police presence in their area.
Dwight seemed to take Rickman’s patient silence as a veiled threat. He cut short his call, staring at Rickman with a mixture of resentment and distrust.
‘What’s this all about?’ he demanded, the bluster, as ever, less than convincing.
‘Rob Maitland,’ Rickman said.
‘What about him?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ Rickman watched him closely but saw nothing more sinister than confusion in his face.
Dwight smiled. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me some clue.’
‘How closely are you watching him?’
‘We’re tailing him.’
‘Twenty-four-seven?’ Rickman knew that lack of funding and personnel could mean that suspects were only under surveillance at key moments during the day.
‘Twenty-four-seven,’ Dwight confirmed. ‘And we have a phone tap on him.’
‘So you’d know that DS Foster and I spoke to him at his apartment, half an hour ago.’
‘What?’ Dwight half rose out of his seat. ‘What the hell for?’
Rickman maintained his comfortable position in his chair. ‘I take it, then, that you haven’t been informed. You’re here, you’re available and yet . . .’ He left the rest unsaid.
Dwight subsided as he fully understood what Rickman was saying. ‘DS Cass is dealing with that side of things.’ He winced, realising that he’d just underlined the fundamental weakness of his leadership.
Rickman waited a few seconds to add his own emphasis. ‘Maitland has a contract out on his accountant, Bernie Carter.’
Dwight stared at him. ‘Why wasn’t I—’ He stopped himself just in time to avoid another admission of administrative failure and began again with a more guarded question. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Later,’ Rickman said. ‘The question you should be asking is why I got to know before you did.’
He watched Dwight struggle with that one.
‘Trust,’ Rickman said. ‘Or lack of it. The informant doesn’t trust your squad.’
Dwight tried for nonchalance. ‘Is that surprising? We’ve pissed off a lot of lowlifes.’
‘Now, why didn’t I think of that?’ Rickman said. ‘It’s because you’re just too damned effective. But wait — didn’t you fail to arrest Maitland at the drugs drop? Please,’ he said, forestalling Dwight’s protestations, ‘don’t tell me he wasn’t there, because we both know that Maitland wouldn’t trust a deal on that scale to menials.
‘You have an escalating drugs war. Now, you say you came come down hard on that, yet the beatings and machete attacks have actually increased. And now an innocent bystander has been murdered. Got to hand it to you, Larry — you’re really cramping their style.’
Faced with the facts, Dwight couldn’t brazen it out. ‘I’ll take Carter into protective custody,’ he said meekly. ‘Find out what this is about.’
‘Too late,’ Rickman said.
‘What?’
‘Seems you let another one slip by you,’ Rickman said. ‘Carter’s disappeared.’
Dwight’s eyes widened. Another failure of intelligence within his team. The man was a pompous prick, but Rickman couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘You didn’t know? Why didn’t you have him under surveillance?’
‘Jesus, I didn’t think . . .’ Dwight ran his hands over his face. ‘He’s just an accountant.’
‘Not according to the informant.’ Rickman remembered an earlier conversation with Foster. ‘In fact, it’s not what your own team is saying. DS Cass told Lee Foster that Carter is responsible for building Maitland’s legitimate business interests.’
Dwight stared at his hands. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said. ‘How could I?’
‘You need to stay in touch with your own investigation. For God’s sake, Larry — DC Hart practically handed it to you on a plate when she said that Michael Aldiss’s murder struck at the heart of Maitland’s management.’
Dwight retreated into pomposity. ‘Of course, with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight—’
‘What “hindsight”?’ Rickman interrupted. ‘Hart was just floating ideas based on the rather sketchy information you put forward at the joint briefing.’
Dwight ran one hand through the tight mass of curls at the side of his head, finishing with his hand clamped to the back of his neck. ‘But I didn’t know he was such a central figure.’
‘You damn well should have,’ Rickman said. ‘Cass is keeping crucial intelligence from you.’
‘No.’ Dwight’s eyes darted right and left, as though trying to replay events in his head. ‘That’s preposterous!’
‘Is it? Did you know that DS Cass interviewed Carter the day after Operation Snowplough went down?’ This was another nugget of information Foster had provided over their pint at the Glegg Arms.
‘I—’ Dwight glanced at the pile of unread reports in his in-tray.
‘Don’t bother,’ Rickman said, ‘it’s not there. He didn’t even log it.’
‘It’s been hectic,’ Dwight said. ‘He probably forgot.’
‘He lied about Maitland’s relationship with Mark Davis.’
‘No . . .’
‘He said Mark was no more than a gofer — and we both know that’s not
true.’
Dwight licked his lips like a kicked dog. ‘I’m sure he—’
‘A lie that was later backed up by Maitland himself.’
‘Coincidence,’ Dwight said.
‘And I believe Cass is working unregistered informants.’
Dwight stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘How the hell d’you work that one out?’
‘Canteen gossip. And a consultation with the joint investigations liaison officer — you should try it.’
‘Foster,’ Dwight said his name like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Well, he’s way off the mark. Snowplough was a major inter-agency operation — Dutch and British Customs, two police forces — big bucks. They wouldn’t act on the say-so of an unregistered informant.’
‘I take it you don’t know who the informant is.’
He looked defensive. ‘It was strictly need-to-know.’
‘Your detective sergeant knows. You should know.’
Dwight rallied. ‘Look — is this about Cass’s lapse of concentration at the smack house this afternoon? Because I’ve already spoken to him.’
‘That “lapse in concentration” nearly got an officer killed,’ Rickman said.
‘I’m sorry for that. But this whole scenario with Davis seems a bit — well, far-fetched.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I mean, this is Liverpool, not Las Vegas.’
‘You really are out of the loop, aren’t you?’ Rickman kept his tone even, despite his rising anger. ‘Cass just feeds you any old line and you trot along behind him, bleating it like you thought of it yourself.’
Dwight flushed angrily, and Rickman wondered if he knew his team called him Larry the Lamb.
‘I follow the evidence,’ Dwight said, raising his voice. ‘Mark Davis was a hopeless junkie — isn’t it more likely he just killed his tart and topped himself?’
‘Mark Davis didn’t “top himself”, he was murdered,’ Rickman said. ‘His “tart” — and trust me on this, the gutter talk does not sit well with you — was a young woman who, against all odds, had cleaned up, delivered her baby free from drugs, and was making a home and a new life for the two of them. She was raped and tortured. The torturer cut her, beat her and stabbed her before he finally ended her life. Her name was Jasmine Elliott.’
Dwight’s gaze slid away from him. In the seconds that followed, the only sound Rickman could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. Dwight stared at a point midway between himself and Rickman but seemed unable to raise his eyes to Rickman’s face, and it was a moment or two longer before Rickman realised that he had begun to speak.
‘I didn’t mean any disrespect,’ he said. ‘It’s just — I’m working under pressure here.’
The whine in the man’s voice sickened Rickman. ‘Find Carter,’ he said. ‘He’s the key.’ He stood, ready to leave. ‘It’s your investigation. But I’d get permission for phone taps as well as direct surveillance of Carter’s wife. And you should ping his phone — it might just give you his location, if he hasn’t switched it off or ditched it.’
‘Of course,’ Dwight said. ‘I was going to—’
Rickman turned away, not in the mood to pander to the man’s bruised ego.
‘Jeff.’
When Rickman turned back, Dwight was fiddling with the paraphernalia on his desk as though rearranging them would untangle the mess he had got himself into.
Here it comes, Rickman thought.
‘How do you know that Maitland has a contract out on Carter?’
‘Let’s just call it a reliable source.’
A look of petulant frustration passed over Dwight’s face. ‘What happened to working together?’ he demanded. ‘Sharing intelligence?’
‘Sort out the problems on your team — then we’ll share,’ Rickman said.
Dwight’s face darkened. Rickman could see he wasn’t about to let this go. ‘You’re asking me to go to my team with nothing but hearsay.’
Rickman stood over him. ‘You have my word. And until you can prove to me that you’ve brought Cass to heel, that’s all you get.’
Dwight switched from bombast to wheedling. ‘Have a heart, Jeff — I’m trying to be counsellor, politician and police officer here.’
‘Maybe you’re trying to achieve too much,’ Rickman said, relenting a little.
‘Meaning?’
‘You should spend less time smoothing ruffled feathers in the community and more time managing your team.’
Dwight leaned on his desk and levered himself out of his chair. ‘The Crime and Disorder Act requires full consultation with interested groups in the community. We ignore that at our peril.’
Rickman looked at Dwight’s broad, stubby fingers splayed on the desk. ‘I know the requirements of the act, Larry,’ he said. ‘But you can’t run an investigation like this one if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
Rickman suspected that most of the heat in Dwight’s reply was because he knew exactly what it meant, but he spelled it out anyway. ‘You’re neglecting the practicalities of leading your team.’
Dwight took a breath, ready to launch an attack.
Rickman raised a finger to stop him. ‘Sort it, or I will.’
Chapter 40
‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ Though Foster’s mentor, Father Matthew, had tried hard to persuade him to read the great man’s works, Foster had never got around to it, and this was the only quote from Robert Frost that had ever stayed with him.
Home for Foster was Black Wood. But he couldn’t go there, not anymore. Foster had a one-bedroom flat in a divided Victorian property. It echoed for lack of the small touches that would have transformed cave into comfortable retreat. He called it his ‘place’ and occasionally — in self-parody — ‘the love shack’. But he never really thought of it as home.
Impatient with himself, he scrolled down the contacts list on his mobile, each one with a photograph next to the number. He called a few, but at eight thirty on a Friday night, everyone was out or just leaving, and he wasn’t in the party mood. He caught Sally from Calls and Response as she was on her way out the door.
‘Hiya, Lee!’
Promising start — at least she seemed pleased to hear from him.
‘Look, hon,’ she said. ‘I’m just getting in the taxi — late as usual.’
‘Where you off to?’ he asked.
‘Pacific Road.’ She said it loud enough for the taxi driver, and he heard the rattle of the hackney cab as it pulled away.
‘Pacific Road?’ Foster thought he knew every street in Liverpool, just about.
‘The arts centre over the water.’ No Scouser ever said ‘across the Mersey’. When you crossed the strip of water from Liverpool to Birkenhead, you always said you were going ‘over the water’.
‘What takes you to foreign lands, girl?’ Foster asked.
‘Tony Kofi. Man can he blow that horn.’
‘What is it with you and saxophones?’
‘Come with me, I’ll give you a demo after the show.’ She gave a throaty laugh, dirty and raunchy — an invitation — sex without complications.
He recalled the hangover he’d had after their previous date and felt slightly queasy. ‘I had something more like a quiet drink and a chat in mind.’
‘A chat?’ she said. ‘What about?’
‘I dunno — the weather, footie.’
‘Ar ’ey, Lee,’ she said. ‘I been talking all day on the phone. I wanna chill out and fill my head with something more than words.’ Proper little philosopher, was Sally.
‘Enjoy your coffee,’ he said.
‘Kofi,’ she corrected, giggling.
‘That’s what I said. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She hesitated. ‘You all right, Lee?’
I’m bruised and sore, and my faith in human nature has taken a battering. ‘I’m fine. Have a blast.’
He ended the call and slid the phone int
o his pocket.
‘Get real, Foster,’ he said to the empty flat. The only two people he could ever talk to about this kind of stuff were Jeff Rickman and Naomi Hart. Jeff had enough on his plate without Foster piling it with seconds, and Hart — well, Hart wasn’t likely to be a sympathetic ear, just now.
So, he went to the kitchen, took down the cheap whisky and filled a tumbler a third full. Placing the bottle back, he caught sight of the faded silver biscuit tin that held all his childhood treasures. He never wondered why he kept the two together — the whisky and the memory box — would never have admitted that perhaps the one gave him permission to indulge in the nostalgia of the other. It just seemed to him that they belonged together. He took a sip of the whisky and opened the lid, breathing in the smells of his childhood. Bubble gum and loose tobacco, and the sad smell of old paper.
Foster had seen enough government climb-downs and strategic planning turnarounds in his years as a Royal Marine to think he had seen every kind of betrayal. He didn’t take them personally — political board games were about money and power bases, not people. As an NCO in the Royal Marines he’d had more brushes with death than a road sweeper on the M6, but he had trusted the men under his command with his life, and they had honoured him in turn with their trust.
His mother’s betrayals were another matter. She had attempted suicide five times during his childhood, each new attempt resulting in a new care order, and another trip to Black Wood. On every occasion, Ed and Hilary Shepherd had welcomed him like he was coming home. Like they were real family. He was looking at a picture now, taken from his small cache: him with Ed and Hil, looking like proud parents.
Ed had once said, ‘Forgive your mother, Lee. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to live with you — she just doesn’t know how to live with herself.’
Now he knew that his mother had had less to be ashamed of than either Ed or Hilary. Theirs was the worst betrayal of all. They had betrayed him and every child they’d ever had in their care.
He buried the photograph at the bottom of the box and his fingers brushed against an envelope his mother had given him when she knew she was dying. ‘Don’t open it till after I’m gone,’ she’d said. It was still unopened, over half a decade after her death. He hadn’t yet found it in him to forgive her. He shoved the envelope into the tin and snapped the lid closed, then took an angry swallow of whisky, relishing the punishing burn of it at the back of his throat.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 29
