by Bill Kitson
‘Is there anything else you need to ask?’ Wellings glanced across at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s just that I help the missus prepare the guests’ evening meals. This time of the year is our busiest.’
‘I’ve just one more thing. Both files are fairly detailed but neither of them gives much clue as to what sort of criminal activity the Perry organization was involved with.’
‘Pretty much anything that made a profit, I’d say. Their power base was built around the scrapyard and the chain of casinos, discos and nightclubs. That’s where Ray met Frankie. Around that time there was a string of bank robberies and bullion hold-ups round the south of England. In those days bank branch security was archaic, making them easy pickings. We heard Max did all the planning, whilst Ray recruited and controlled the muscle. Nothing was ever proved, but it’s surely not coincidence that the robberies stopped after Max was killed and Ray was put inside. Max was bloody clever. He was without doubt the brains behind the heists. We knew it, but he was so careful we could never prove anything. We didn’t even have enough on him to pull him in for questioning. Meticulous, that was Mad Max; into everything from robbery to prostitution and protection.’ Wellings paused and stressed his next point, ‘Everything but drugs. That was one thing they never got involved in. I heard Ray wouldn’t stand for it.’
Wellings paused, as if undecided whether to say what was on his mind. ‘There is one more thing – the mention of diamonds made me think of it. Around that time, we were contacted by Dutch police, asking for help to trace two men reported missing by their wives. They were known to act as diamond couriers from time to time and their car had been logged boarding a ferry for the UK, and coming off at Harwich. We did the usual searches, but as far as I know, no trace of them or the car was ever found. It was a while later, long after Max was killed, that we heard another whisper. It concerned blood diamonds. Do you know what those are?’
Both Nash and Mironova nodded.
‘Years ago, there was a big, highly illegal trade in them, which the authorities were keen to stamp out because of their connection to war crimes and genocide in places such as Sierra Leone.’
‘And you think Max was involved in that trade?’
‘That was what we heard, and it was also rumoured that the two men who vanished were carrying blood diamonds, which was why the theft of them couldn’t be reported.’ Wellings then added, ‘There was also talk that Max’s murder might have been a hit ordered in revenge for the diamond theft, but that’s all it was, bar room gossip.’
‘Are you hungry?’ Nash asked.
‘Too right, it must be the sea air.’
‘Then I reckon we should get some fish and chips before we set off back. Sit on the prom and eat them.’
‘What do you reckon about what we heard this morning?’ Clara asked between mouthfuls.
Nash watched a small fishing boat chugging slowly out of the harbour. ‘The first thing Wellings did was strengthen my doubt about Ray Perry’s guilt.’
‘I’d have thought it was the other way round. Surely, if Perry thought Callaghan had killed his uncle and was having an affair with his girl, and was about to run off with her, that would give him a strong motive for killing Callaghan?’
‘There’s only one flaw in that argument, a flaw that a lot of other people missed, too. Either missed or deliberately overlooked.’
‘What are you thinking of, the anonymous tip-off?’
‘Yes, somebody fed that information to the police. But they overdid it, gave too much detail.’
‘I see what you mean. In order to know as much as he did, the caller had to be the killer. And Ray Perry wouldn’t have shopped himself.’
‘Exactly, and when you set out the motives just now, you prefaced your argument with the word “if”. And that’s the other weakness in your case. Everything seems to be based on supposition, hearsay and “information received”. Let me put an alternative scenario to you. It’s a case of “what if”, but no more so than yours.’
‘Go on, try me, this is fascinating.’
‘Right, let’s start with Max Perry’s murder. Everyone seemed to take it for granted that Callaghan ordered it. Why? Because that was the rumour. Don’t get me wrong. The way the system works in London, underworld rumour’s more often right than wrong. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be manipulated. Max was tortured before he was killed, presumably to reveal where this alleged fortune in diamonds was stashed. I accept that could have been Callaghan. I also accept that Callaghan and Frankie Da Silva could have been lovers. What doesn’t sound right is this supposed plan for Callaghan and Frankie to take off for a new life somewhere and walk into the sunset holding hands. Very Mills & Boon,’ Nash added dryly.
‘Why do you find that so hard to believe?’
‘You’ve to understand the world occupied by characters like Callaghan and Perry – and having worked in the Met, I’ve met a few. Callaghan had a highly successful criminal organization working for him, probably earning as much in a year as Max Perry, and a much worse background than Ray Perry’s. He wouldn’t have walked away from that because a good-looking female fluttered her eyelids at him.
‘What if someone else killed Max, making sure everybody “knew” that Callaghan ordered it. Then murdered Callaghan, making sure they framed Ray; the one person who had two reasons for wanting him dead. The only questions that leaves are: who was the target – was it Tony Callaghan, Max or Ray Perry – and who actually was the killer?’
Clara sat thinking this over for a while. ‘That is some theory,’ she said eventually, ‘and I can see the sense of it. But proving it after all this time is going to be well nigh impossible.’
Nash picked up their empty fish and chip cartons and deposited them in the nearest litter bin, to the dismay of a pair of screeching, hopeful seagulls. He walked back to the bench and glanced across at the sea. ‘If you don’t fancy a paddle, we might as well set off back.’
Nash had just got into the car when his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. ‘Yes, Viv?’
‘I thought you’d want to know that Raymond Perry recovered consciousness early this morning. It was only brief, barely a moment. Apparently he’s now in a deeper coma than before. The surgeon in charge of the ICU wants to have a word with you. I’m not sure, but I wondered if they’re considering switching the life-support machines off.’
‘Did Perry say anything?’
‘Yes, one word, apparently, but nothing anybody can make sense of. Lianne was on duty at the time, she told me about it.’
‘OK, I’ll talk to the surgeon tomorrow.’
‘How did the meeting with Wellings go?’
‘It was highly informative. More so than he realized, I reckon. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’
Nash put his mobile back in his pocket and looked across to where Clara was watching him.
‘What is it, something wrong?’ she asked.
‘Raymond Perry came round briefly; then relapsed. Viv thinks they want to switch the machines off. If they do that, it means we’ll have lost our best potential source of information as to who might be behind this.’
‘It’s far too soon, surely; unless his condition is worse than we think.’
The following morning, Nash and Mironova listened as Pearce explained what had happened at the hospital. ‘It was just after I’d dropped Lianne off to start her shift in the ICU. I thought whilst I was there I ought to check with the uniformed man we have guarding Perry and the hospital reception, to see if Raymond’s had any visitors, or anyone asking after him.’
Nash nodded approval and Viv continued, ‘All I can tell you is what Lianne told me. Apparently, Perry woke up briefly. She went to his bedside immediately. He looked at her, muttered something and that was it. Before she could respond he was out like a light.’
‘Did she catch what he said?’
‘She wasn’t sure; said it might have been a name. But she was too busy summoning the rest of the ICU te
am, checking his vital signs or whatever they do, to take too much notice. I saw all the flap going on and kept well out of the way.’
‘I’ll need to have a word with her. If Perry dies, she’ll probably be the last one to have had any contact with him, so we’ll need a formal statement. That might as well be done now. If you’re right about the reason the head of the ICU wants to talk to me, and they have decided to switch the machines off, Perry will become a murder victim, and Lianne’s evidence might be needed in court, if it ever comes to that. Particularly as he regained consciousness.’
‘I think she’s expecting that. I’ll give her a call. Will later this afternoon be OK? She’s on early shifts all this week.’
‘No problem.’
Pearce hesitated. ‘There’s something else you should know. I’m not sure how significant this is, but Perry had a visitor, or at least someone asking about him. I’d left instructions that if anyone inquired about Perry someone should contact me immediately, or if I wasn’t there, the uniformed man on duty. Just before I left, reception buzzed through to the ward to say there was someone asking for Perry. I went straight down, but he’d disappeared. I checked the CCTV, but the picture’s so hazy you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. System’s been like that for weeks, actually, but they can’t get it repaired. That’s how strapped for cash they are. I asked for a description, but to be honest it’s not much use. It could fit millions of men. Medium height and build, grey hair and casually dressed.’ Pearce paused. ‘However, the receptionist did tell me the man spoke with a very distinct accent.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. A cockney accent?’
‘Wrong! Way wrong. She said his accent was from Belfast. I asked her how she could be sure. Apparently her husband’s from there. She said Perry’s visitor had an accent that was “pure Falls Road”.’
Nash shook his head in bewilderment. How many more surprises was this case going to bring?
It was lunch time before Clara asked Nash, ‘Did you ring Perry’s surgeon?’
‘I did, but he’s in theatre all day. I’ll try again later.’
Later that afternoon, Pearce ushered Lianne into Nash’s office, which, with Clara and Viv in as well, was a little crowded.
‘Thanks for coming in, Lianne,’ Nash smiled, ‘I won’t keep you long, you must be keen to get home and put your feet up and let Viv cook your tea for you.’
‘That’ll be the day.’ Lianne smiled and raised her eyebrows.
‘So can you tell us exactly what happened this morning?’
‘Mr Perry’s monitors started showing increased activity, so I went over to his bedside. His eyes opened momentarily and he stared at me. Then he spoke, but his voice was so weak I hardly caught what he said. I thought it was someone’s name, but I couldn’t swear to it. Now I’ve had more time to think it over, I’m more than ever convinced that’s what it was, but I don’t seem to be able to recall it. Before I’d time to think about what he’d said, he was unconscious again. I got busy, and afterwards I seem to have blocked it out.’
She turned her head slightly, averting her gaze from Nash’s. Obviously her failure to remember was irritating her.
Clara had a stroke of intuitive genius. ‘Lianne,’ she said softly, ‘that name, how many syllables did it have?’
‘One, I think; no, possibly two.’ Lianne starred at some point in the distance, trying to recall.
‘Did it sound like “Frank”?’
She stared at Clara. ‘Yes, it could have sounded like Frank. Although that’s not quite right.’ She thought about it, repeating the word in a low mutter. ‘Frank, Frank, no, Frankie, yes, I think that’s it. Now you’ve said it, I’m sure that’s what he said. How did you guess?’
‘Something we found in his file,’ Clara said ambiguously.
‘Lianne,’ Nash said, ‘I need you to go with Viv and make a statement.’ He turned to Pearce. ‘Get Jack Binns to take it, given your personal involvement.’
He stood up and shook hands with Lianne. ‘Thank you for coming in. Your information has been most helpful.’
‘Well, at least we know what was on Ray Perry’s mind,’ Clara said when they were alone.
‘Mmm, makes you wonder if that was the reason he came to Yorkshire, though, doesn’t it? Looking for Frankie Da Silva, I mean. By the way, that was clever thinking on your part.’
Clara bowed. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’
Chapter Eight
Nash’s phone call with the doctor was brief and to the point. ‘We’ve done everything we can for Mr Perry,’ the medic told him. ‘He needs specialist treatment, which we’re not able to provide here.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘The nearest centre capable of handling a case like this is the Freeman Hospital in Newcastle. I’ve spoken to my colleagues there and they’re trying to organize the transfer for as soon as possible. Because of your involvement, I wanted to be sure that you were kept in the loop before we move him.’
Nash gave the doctor his mobile number. ‘I’d like to be informed as soon as it’s done. I’ll need to get the local police to sort out protection. Have you any idea when he might be conscious and able to answer questions?’
‘That’s impossible to say. I’ll phone you when the transfer has been done.’
Nash received the phone call before he set off to Netherdale headquarters next morning. ‘Inspector,’ the surgeon told him, ‘Raymond Perry was moved in the early hours. I’ll send you all the details through if you wish.’
‘Please, if you would, and thank you for letting me know.’
Nash called Mironova into his office, and told her what had happened. ‘Accepting the fact that the attack on Perry wasn’t the random act of a psychopath, I think we should try to give whoever was responsible the impression that we don’t realize it was done deliberately.’
‘How do we do that? If we’ve no idea who did it we can hardly send them a message, can we?’
‘Oh, yes we can.’ Nash outlined his idea.
‘Mike, has anyone ever mentioned that you have a very Machiavellian streak to your personality?’
‘I believe something akin to that may have cropped up in conversation somewhere along the line.’
As he was speaking, his phone rang. Nash glanced at the caller display. ‘The chief’s back,’ he told Clara before picking up the handset.
‘Mike,’ Chief Constable Gloria O’Donnell began, ‘I’ve just been looking through the paperwork on my desk. What’s been going on in Helmsdale? I go on a well-earned holiday, leaving everything peaceful and serene. When I get back, what do I find? Axe murderers and gangsters running amok.’
Nash grinned. ‘Actually, we believe it was a sledgehammer, not an axe, but I take your point, ma’am. And I wish I knew.’ He explained what little they knew about the two events.
‘Any idea what’s behind it?’
‘A couple, thanks to an ex-DCI from London. But who might be responsible is another matter entirely.’ He told her of his interview with Wellings. ‘Fortunately, Netherdale’s been relatively quiet, so I’ve been able to concentrate on what’s been happening here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I have to make an urgent phone call.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Yes, I’m going to ask the Netherdale Gazette to print an article for me.’
Phil Miller was reading the morning paper. The item he’d been looking for was on the front page. The article told him all he needed to know. He picked up his mobile. ‘Here, listen to this. “Police are appealing for witnesses following the discovery of a seriously injured man on the Helmsdale to Kirk Bolton road, close to Drover’s Halt. The man, described as being in his late forties, has since been identified as Raymond Perry, recently released from Durham Prison having served a life sentence for murder. Police are anxious to interview anyone who was travelling along that stretch of road last Thursday night, particularly if they saw the victim, who was wearing white trainers, blue jeans a
nd a maroon sweatshirt, and was believed to be walking towards Drover’s Halt. A police spokesperson commented that the injuries sustained by Perry are consistent with some form of collision, but until further tests have been carried out, they refused to speculate on the cause.” That means they haven’t a fucking clue. Dim set of bastards. So, Perry’s on his way out. That will be one less problem. I was worried when he was headed this way, at the thought he might find out about you know what. I went to the hospital, did I tell you? I wanted to finish the job, but I was panicking over nothing, I guess. Now we can get on with the next bit. When do you think you can get away?’
He listened. ‘Can’t you make it sooner?’ Had to accept the reality, ‘No, I suppose not.’
He rang off and glanced around the cottage. His thoughts made him edgy. He hated this place. Couldn’t understand how people could actually enjoy coming here on holiday. He’d hated it all those years ago. Remembered how glad he’d been at the thought that he’d never have to return. Now, here he was and hating it all the more. He was used to the hustle and bustle of the city. He hated the silence. Hated the people; their weird accents and way of talking. Hated the countryside. Couldn’t sleep here. Too quiet. Just as he was getting used to it, some creature would screech or yelp, or whatever they did.
He wanted to be back on home ground. Even when Corinna had been here, he’d wanted to be away as fast as he could. He missed her, not simply because they were two of a kind, her and him: survivors. And they would survive again. Survive and prosper. But first, they’d got work to do. And mooning about wasn’t going to get it done.
Shortly after lunch, Tom Pratt popped into Nash’s office with a query regarding a case that he was getting ready to send to CPS. It was a question, Nash knew, none of the others would have thought to ask. As they were talking, Clara and Pearce joined them.
