by Ted Tayler
“A van, with glazier or something similar on the side will pull in here in the next ten minutes. Don’t panic; he’s coming to fix a panel in my back door.”
“Thanks, Sir. I’m being relieved at ten this evening. Are any other visitors expected later?”
Cheeky sod, Gus thought. Whoever was on duty last night didn’t waste any time spreading that little titbit of gossip.
“If you spot any unfamiliar faces in the lane under cover of darkness, I hope you or your replacement will be alert enough to take the necessary action. I would hate to be taking a bullet indoors while you’re out here struggling with 15 Down.”
The driver folded his newspaper and sat up straighter in his seat. Gus walked back inside the bungalow. Almost as soon as he closed the front door, he heard the gravel crunch under the wheels of a new arrival.
It was the glazier and his bottle-green van. Gus hoped the driver could still read the small print on the back door that fixing windows was their speciality.
Gus would have loved to wander along to his allotment. The weather was still warm and sunny, but he had to stay until the glazier had fixed that back door panel. He looked at his watch; he realised it was a few minutes before seven. How long did it take to fit a piece of glass, anyway?
At a quarter past seven, he had the answer.
Gordon the glazier proudly showed him his completed handiwork, and Gus handed over the agreed sum. Gordon laughed when Gus commented that it seemed a lot for forty minutes work. He laughed even louder when Gus reminded him to put it through the books. Gus wondered whether he would have been so cheery if he knew his client was still associated with the police. After all, tax evasion had been the downfall of Al Capone. Daylight robbery appeared to be alive and well and working out of Devizes.
The green minivan soon made its way into the lane, and Gus was alone. As he closed the front door, he spotted his bodyguard noting the number plate on Gordon’s van. Gus had just made it into the lounge when the phone rang.
“Hi there, how has your day been?” Suzie asked.
“Oh, you know, notes to be read, and cameras to source. Then there are glaziers to haggle with; in other words, a typical Tuesday.”
“I have news,” she said, “do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“Will I be able to tell the difference?” he asked.
Suzie sighed.
“I wish I could get over there. You sound as if you need cheering up. Alas, there isn’t any particularly good news. I met with the ACC this morning. He wants to see you in the morning, first thing. That’s ten o’clock for Kenneth Truelove. So, you get a lie-in.”
“You’re right, that’s not good news. If you could have come over, of course…”
“My staying last night seemed the right thing to do. The odd comment I’ve heard today suggests people think there was more to it. I didn’t mean to tarnish your reputation.”
“It was your reputation I was more concerned about when my escort asked whether I expected late-night visitors tonight. He seemed miffed when I said no.”
“I should have had the courage of my convictions last night. They would have something to gossip about.”
“Don’t let the bastards get at you. Now, tell me what Truelove thought of my break-in and who was behind it.”
“The ACC confirmed it’s Organised Crime Task Force watching the shed above Cambrai Terrace. As for who Monty Jennings got mixed up with, well, they’re Albanians.”
“Shit, they’re a nasty bunch. The message makes more sense if you speak it with an Eastern European accent.”
“That’s not funny, Gus,” said Suzie, sounding concerned. “I’ve impressed upon the ACC that the OCTF needs to answer for Frank North’s death. He’s not keen to rock the boat as you can imagine. I hope you can put pressure on him tomorrow to make the right decision.”
“Will it be just me and the ACC?” Gus asked.
“No, Geoff Mercer and I will be there. Truelove was waiting to hear from the OCTF to learn if they will send a representative to update us on their progress.”
“We don’t want to hear what they’ve done so far; we need to see this business brought to a swift conclusion,” said Gus.
“See you in the morning,” said Suzie, “what have you got planned this evening?”
“I thought of spending an hour on my allotment. To check what Bert’s managed to do today. I could read for a while and enjoy this lovely weather. It will be sunset by eight, though, and if I’m wandering in the lane in the semi-darkness, I might stumble upon an Albanian.”
“You had better stay indoors. I’m off out tonight. I can’t ride to your rescue this time.”
“Another time, perhaps?”
“Goodnight, Gus.”
Suzie had gone. Gus was thankful for one thing; she hadn’t wished him sweet dreams.
Gus wondered what Terry Davis was doing; it was early in the evening in Marbella.
If only he had his number. He’d warned Neil not to get in touch with his father, but there were things the team needed to know. Not just what went on in 2003, but why.
He rang the Davis landline. Melody answered.
“Is Neil there?” Gus asked.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Gus Freeman, his boss.”
“Oh, hello. No, Neil’s gone out to watch the football on the big screen in a pub in town.”
“Do you know Terry’s number? I must have misplaced it.”
Gus waited while Melody searched for the number.
“I avoid using it if I can,” she said, when she picked up the phone again, “he’s not a nice man.”
Gus took note of the phone number Melody relayed to him.
“Did you ever fly out to Spain to stay with him?” he asked.
“Terry couldn’t put us up at his place. It’s only a bedsit. Him and Neil’s Mum split up years ago. We flew over on a package holiday and stayed in a hotel.”
“Terry’s not living the high life, then?”
“Far from it,” she scoffed. “Terry works as a bouncer on the door at a nightclub in Marbella to make ends meet.”
“Has he ever come back to see his family or old friends in the force?”
“I don’t know what Neil has told you, Mr Freeman, but Terry has kept quiet in Spain for the past six years for a reason.”
“We realise the wrong man went to prison for murder, Melody. It was headline news for a few days back in 2013. No one can condone what he did, but it’s five years since the truth came out. If he landed at Bristol airport with a weekend bag, I can’t imagine they’d arrest him as soon as his feet touched the tarmac. They didn’t charge him at the time.”
“I told you he wasn’t a nice man, Mr Freeman. He spent years as a Detective Sergeant. Terry Davis was a bitter man. He got passed over so many times for promotion. Maybe he found other ways to line his pockets. Neil will always stand up for his Dad. But Terry turned a blind eye to bad stuff going on while he worked at that police station where you’re based.”
“Do me a favour, Melody, don’t mention to Neil that I rang. He’ll think I’m senile if he learns I’d lost Terry’s number.”
“Neil won’t be home until I’ve gone to bed, and I’ll forget you called by the morning,” said Melody.
“That’s my girl. Take care, Melody. Thanks for your help.”
Gus ended the call and dialled the number she’d given him.
“Davis,” came the gruff reply.
“Terry Davis,” said Gus, “my name is Gus Freeman. I was a DI in Salisbury while you worked in West Wiltshire. Our paths never crossed. I recently came out of retirement to work with a Crime Review Team to revisit cold cases.”
“I heard,” said Davis.
“So, you know your son Neil works with my unit. He had to have impressed the top brass.”
“I ain’t spoken to Neil in weeks, mate. Friends keep me informed. I’ve heard you’ve got yourself a spot of bother.”
Gus wondered who
might tell Terry Davis about the Cambrai Terrace business. That was worth knowing. Even if Terry wasn’t forthcoming on the case the team was working on, at least the phone call threw up one little gem of knowledge. There was someone in the area keeping watch.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” said Gus. “It was another matter I wanted to discuss. The Trudi Villiers case from 2003. What can you tell me?”
“Not my finest moment.”
“Was there nobody you fancied for the murder before the series of attacks by Lewington appeared on your radar?”
“It’s a long time ago.”
“There’s still time to review your handling of the case. Look at Operation Yewtree. They dug back forty years to find dirt. The Lewington business was only fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t like threats, Freeman, and I doubt that you did either. Those Albanians don’t mess around. You could be six feet under before they could extradite me to the UK.”
“I’m not a bloke who enjoys people pushing me around. Give me something to work with, Terry,”
“Culverhouse knew Trudi Villiers,” said Terry, “but you never heard that from me. I know you earned a reputation as a straight arrow. I don’t think you would follow through on a threat of dragging my name into this business. Dominic Culverhouse would though, in a heartbeat; he’s got more to lose.”
“Are you saying Culverhouse told you to off-load the murder onto Lewington to avoid any chance his liaison with Trudi Villiers got out?”
“Trudi was a slapper,” said Terry, “why he got mixed up with her, heaven knows. Perhaps she offered something he couldn’t get at home. It wasn’t still going on, mind you, when she died. The liaison started when he was a young DC. Someone keeled over up at the care home, and we investigated it because the relatives suspected foul play. That happened a couple of years after the Beverley Allitt case; for a while, the media thought everyone employed psychopaths. Trudi was sixteen, straight from school. She’d started young, so Culverhouse wasn’t her first. Fifty-first, maybe.”
“Their relationship started in 1993, or thereabouts?”
“That sounds right. I got partnered with Culverhouse back then. We never found anything incriminating at the care home. The bloke who died was in his late eighties, and pneumonia took him off to dreamland. We found a lot of things wrong with the place, but no serial killers making the beds.”
“How long did they see one another, any idea?”
“They never went out as boyfriend and girlfriend. Culverhouse was too precious over his career for that. He picked her up in his car from wherever she worked at the time. That stopped when she began working at the Ring O’Bells. Too many people in town knew Culverhouse. They would recognise the car. I can’t prove it, but one week when he was in Majorca, I reckon she flew out to be with him. That might have been the last time. Trudi had only been working in the pub for a month then.”
“Krystal Warner started not long after that.”
“Exactly. Krystal and Trudi hunted in pairs then. Culverhouse was out of his league. I realised she had given him his marching orders when he changed his car.”
Terry Davis gave a dry laugh.
“Go on,” said Gus, “why was that significant?”
“Culverhouse always drove saloon cars with roomy back seats. He traded the latest one in for a two-seater MG because it suited him better. He was moving up the ladder. I stuck at DS level, and he passed me like a sports car passes a milk float.”
“Can you give me anything on the witnesses we’ve got? Did anyone strike you as having the potential to be a killer?”
“I told you. It was a long time ago. Culverhouse told me who to interview. I followed orders. It was hard graft trying to come up with names of people with a motive. I remember that. As soon as a name cropped up, they produced an alibi. I wanted to dig deeper because there’s always something you don’t see on the first pass. Culverhouse heard a whisper on the Mason’s grapevine about Minehead. I went off to Portishead with instructions to bring the case back to Wiltshire. He told me to use any means necessary. You know the rest.”
Gus got the impression there was little more that Terry Davis wished to add.
“Some of what you told me could prove useful, Terry. Thanks for that. Sorry to take up so much of your time.”
“I hope you won’t make a habit of calling, Freeman. I’m retired, and so should you be. If you keep sticking your nose in other people’s business, you’ll be retired permanently. A little advice. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll walk away, get back to your gardening, live a little.”
Gus heard the sound that told him Terry Davis had ended the call.
Melody had been right. He wasn’t a nice man, but he’d given him a loose thread he could tug on to see what was on the other end.
Wednesday, 18th April 2018
Gus took advantage of the extra half an hour in bed. A leisurely breakfast. Two minutes extra in the shower. When he walked outside, and the warmth of the sun hit him, he smiled. Days such as this made you glad to be alive.
Before he got into the Ford Focus, he checked for his security blanket. It appeared the officer who came on shift at ten last night was the same one who had accompanied him into town yesterday morning. Gus gave him a friendly wave. He got no response, and they drove into Devizes in convoy.
Today, Gus confused his escort by turning right and heading for the London Road HQ. Gus could see the cogs turning as consternation spread over the young face he saw in his rear-view mirror.
As his companion drove on to the pool car compound, Gus found a space in front of the main building. A glance along the line showed Geoff Mercer, Suzie Ferris and Vera Jennings were already hard at work.
Gus couldn’t recall what the ACC drove at present. It had to be something big and shiny, as bright as the medals on his uniform. The registration on the car at the end appeared to be from somewhere further east of this rural patch.
Once inside the building, he signed in and made his way upstairs. On the landing, he looked for a familiar face. Kassie Trotter gave a wave from her desk but did not attempt to speak. That was a first.
Gus heard voices. Geoff Mercer and Suzie Ferris appeared from the gloomy corridor at the rear of the building. They both wore their Sunday-best uniforms. This meeting must be important. Thank goodness he’d worn a clean shirt. Gus shone his shoes on the back of his trousers. A little can often go a long way.
“Is the ACC ready for us?” asked Gus.
“Truelove has company,” Geoff replied, “a senior guy from the Organised Crime Task Force is here to tell us what we can and can’t do.”
That explained the unfamiliar car registration, Gus thought.
Geoff Mercer knocked on the ACC’s door and led the way inside when the ACC called “Enter.”
Gus knew where the ACC would be, so he ignored the window and studied the other man. Mid-fifties, distinguished-looking, wearing a suit that cost a month’s wages and handmade shoes. The tie belonged to a club Gus would never be allowed to join, nor had any wish to visit. This encounter promised to be riveting.
“Good morning,” said the ACC, “Brendan Curran is from OCTF. He’s here to bring us up to speed on the background to the operation they’ve been carrying out. We inadvertently stumbled upon one of the components of that operation. We’ve agreed to step away.”
Gus wondered whether Wiltshire Police received a choice in the matter. Also, what rank did this guy hold? Curran looked to be high up the food chain by his appearance. He wasn’t in a rush to give much away on that score — no introductions; straight to business. As soon as the ACC’s bottom hit his chair, Brendan Curran, the mystery man, stood and addressed the four seated officers from the side of the ACC’s desk.
“Thousands of Albanians arrived in the UK from the late 1990s onwards during a refugee crisis. Many claimed to be from Kosovo, particularly a group of war-hardened criminals keen to make their mark. They did that in the capital; starting as door staff in Soho, the
heart of the sex and vice trade. They had soon taken over the prostitution rackets. It wasn’t long before they came to the notice of the authorities. The violence and brutality against women they had trafficked shook police officers on the ground. Over the years, officers became accustomed to seeing how pimps beat their women. The bruises confined to areas of the body covered by clothing or stockings. The Albanians handed out beatings over the body and face. This hardened band of men weren’t on a power trip; they were testing the method out to see if they could replicate it in other areas of crime. Their next move was into narcotics. The gangs traded on their reputation as veterans of the Balkans Wars and moved from smuggling women into the UK to trading in both weapons and drugs. Across the Channel, they joined with the Turks and the Italians. They operated as enforcers for gangs trafficking heroin from Afghanistan. Then they began dealing cannabis by growing potent strains of the drug, using slave labour.”
None of this was news to either of the officers he was speaking to, Gus thought. They were in a one-way conversation. More akin to a history lesson. So far, this brand of menace hadn’t threatened the Shires in the same way it had blighted many areas of the major cities since the turn of the century. The free movement of citizens throughout mainland Europe heralded a new dawn by creating an inclusive community. Nobody had bothered to calculate what advantages that new dawn offered criminals.
Gus Freeman wasn’t against immigration. He’d enjoyed the influx of new cuisine, new music and fashion in the Sixties and Seventies. The UK was a brighter and better place for it. Although integration had taken longer than hoped, things had mellowed by the Nineties. It was far from perfect, but nothing as grim as the mess they faced today.
A bright spark opened the floodgates and didn’t think what the extra numbers would do to the delicate balance achieved through several decades of strife. Austerity cuts only made matters worse. Border control personnel didn’t have the resources to check who they allowed through; an honest bloke with a skill required in the country, or a vicious thug who would slit your throat for the price of a good meal.
The police had lost control of crime in the capital well before the clock struck midnight on December the thirty-first, 1999. It wasn’t only the Albanians who set up or strengthened their criminal networks in the past twenty years. The Turks, Vietnamese, Bangladeshis, Greeks, Serbs, Jews, Russians, Pakistanis, Tamils came here in numbers. Not to mention the Cosa Nostra, Yardies, Triads and the IRA.
