“C’mon, talk to me, Phil. I’m not carrying you into the house, d’you hear me?” I pulled the car back onto the road. “I ruddy hope you’ve got your keys,” I muttered.
I’d almost given up on my plan to get Phil talking by the time he seemed to wake up a little. I’d been focusing on driving, simultaneously thinking about how I could drop round to his house in the morning and try to talk to him then. A man with a hangover was like a bear with a sore paw, though, and certainly not likely to be amenable to answering a bunch of questions from me.
“Look, I got ‘em,” Phil slurred, and I glanced over at him, startled by a jangling noise.
He was holding up his keys with a proud expression, and I had to laugh.
“Good to see it. Don’t drop them now, okay?”
“You’re bossy,” he complained, flopping against the headrest with a groan.
“Aye, sure am. Hey, tell me more about the business, Phil.” There was no response, so I gritted my teeth. “You want to be like my dad, right?”
As I’d both hoped and dreaded, he livened up at the mention of my father.
“You could do it, Dee,” he said, his voice clearer but his words making no sense to me.
“Do what?” I asked but was met with silence. When I looked over, I saw Phil staring blankly forwards out of the front windscreen. “Do what? What could I do, Phil?” I repeated, firmer.
“Your dad… you could, y’know…” He trailed off, and I waited, trying to make myself be patient. “I ‘ppreciate the beers tonight. Next night on me, yeah?”
“Forget about the beers,” I said, my frustration showing through in my tone. I took a breath and reminded myself that Phil might remember this in the morning, though from the way he was acting right now, I doubted it. “What were you going to say about my dad? What could I do, Phil?”
“Y’know, Dee,” he waved his hand vaguely, “you could be like him.”
I don’t want to be like him, I thought immediately but bit it back. Tiredness was getting more to me now than the small amount of alcohol, and I couldn’t afford to make mistakes right now.
“How could I be like him? Do you mean I could do business like him?” I said, taking a risk by suggesting an answer for him. I didn’t really want him to just blindly agree with me, possibly giving me false intelligence in the process, but I thought he did need a small nudge to get him going.
“Yeah, that. Yer my best mate… Dee and Phil, that’s how it was, like. Y’know? You and me… the garage.” He was silent for a long pause. “I got big plans, bro.”
I had already turned the sound off on my SatNav in advance so that it wouldn’t interfere with the wire’s recording of our conversation, so it didn’t make a peep when I purposefully made a wrong turn. We were getting too close to Phil’s house too fast, and I needed to get everything I could out of him while I had the chance.
“What plans?” I asked when he grew quiet.
“Yer dad, he knew people, like. That’s gonna be me, right? I’ve got plans. And you… you could too, Dee. Like yer dad.”
His accent thickened when he was drunk, and I knew mine did too because Stephen had teased the hell out of me for it afterwards. My accent was relatively neutral right now, though, and I’d never felt soberer.
“Is this about what my dad was involved in?” I said, trying hard to guide Phil into talking about the dogfighting like I wanted him to. “What kind of business do you want to do? You know you can trust me, mate.”
It was a gamble to add that because it could have had the opposite effect that I’d been after, reminding Phil that he really shouldn’t be trusting me with this so soon after our reunion. But the risk paid off because Phil just gave a wobbly yet solemn nod.
“Yer my best mate, you can get us in there… y’know what I mean, right?”
“Get us in where?” I pressed. I needed him to say it out loud, clear and plain for the microphone.
“C’mon, don’t be dense,” he grumbled before breaking into coughing. I worried that he was either choking on the water I’d given him or that he was about to throw up, but he sat back before I could pull over and seemed to get himself together. “The dogs, man, the dogs.”
He sighed after he’d said that and rested his head back like it’d taken a lot of effort for him to keep up the conversation with me, which it probably had for him.
“How can I get in, Phil?” I asked urgently, guessing that I didn’t have much more time left with him being lucent. “Tell me about the dogs.”
“I feel sick,” he mumbled.
Keeping my eyes on the road as I took us around a turn, I reached over to nudge the sick bag I’d given him closer to his mouth.
“Don’t mess up my car.”
He snorted. “Call this a car? Thought an acc- accon- y’know, yer numbers job earns a mint, right? Y’still need a watch.”
It took me a minute to try to make sense of that, but I gathered that he was talking about money again. We hadn’t grown up with a lot of money in our families, and I’d known even back then that he wanted to be rich, to live in luxury and be able to afford everything he wanted, and that he’d take cash from wherever he could get it.
“Aye, that’s it, mate,” I encouraged him. “I want in on the big leagues, okay? How do I do that?”
“Y’can do it. You can. Yer dad…” He trailed off, and I bit my tongue hard enough to sting to keep a lid on my frustration. I was tempted to pull over and shake him hard until the answers fell out of the drunk little weasel, but that wasn’t an option.
“What are you talking about? What about my dad?”
Phil twisted in his seat to face me, his expression earnest even though it was clear that he wasn’t really with it.
“He can get us in, Dee. He’ll help us.”
I kept my attention on the road, glancing over at Phil with a disconcerting feeling in my stomach.
“Phil, he’s dead. You remember that, right? My dad’s dead.”
But Phil just rolled his eyes at me. “O’course, I know that. But his name, Dee. He was big. He’ll get us in, you’ll see.”
“Get us into what?” I pressed, knowing exactly what he meant but wanting him to say it. He sent me a disappointed look through half-lidded eyes.
“Come on, you know.” He dropped his voice to a dramatic, raspy whisper. “Dogfighting.”
Finally, I thought wearily.
“And then what? If we can get in, what happens then?” I said, pressing my advantage.
“You’ll see… it’s the start of it all. Y’can… what d’they call it?” He mumbled to himself, and I tried to be patient as I waited. “Talk to people, right? Network, that’s it. It’s all,” He gestured widely with his hand. “Jus’ a cover, you hear me?”
My heart was beating faster as I said, “A cover for what?”
He turned towards me and gave a wide, unfocused grin. For the first time since I’d reconnected with him, I felt truly unnerved.
“Everything,” he said, his voice quiet but fervent. “You’ll see.”
“What’s everything? What’s the fighting a cover for?”
“The normal things, duh,” he muttered, his voice low enough that it was hard to hear him, and I wasn’t sure the microphone would’ve picked it up. He had his head resting back and was slumped in his seat like he was seconds from falling asleep.
“Tell me, Phil, what things?” I demanded, determined to get everything I could from this before the night ended. I wouldn’t have this opportunity again.
When he didn’t reply, I reached out and squeezed his shoulder, shaking him.
“We there?” he said sluggishly.
“Nah, you were talking, mate. What things happen at the dog fights, huh?”
“You’ll see, you’ll see.”
He wouldn’t talk anymore after that, and I blew out a breath, finally turning the car back towards Phil’s house. I’d been driving round in loops, mostly ignoring the SatNav, but we weren’t too far from his pla
ce. Still, Phil was solidly asleep by the time we got there, and it took a good couple of minutes of shaking to stir him.
Dragging a half-unconscious, drunk guy up the garden path to his house was a challenge in itself, especially since Phil was heavier than me.
“Could really have done with Steph’s help right now,” I muttered to myself, breathing heavily as I pulled Phil up the last step to his door.
His house keys were thankfully in his pocket, and I managed to get him inside. I couldn’t face practically carrying him upstairs, so I got him settled on his side on the couch and found a blanket to throw over him.
Slipping out in the freezing night air was a relief afterwards, and I made my way back to my car with my feet dragging. I was tired enough that I really had to force myself to focus as I drove the short way back to my place since it was now getting near three am, and I was dead on my feet.
I fell into bed fully clothed, barely managing to kick my shoes off and send a quick text to Stephen before I was passed out on the pillows.
What was supposed to be a quick trip in and out of the station on Saturday turned into me spending most of the day there, uploading the recording from the wire, sending an update to Rashford about what I’d found out and replaying what Phil had said in the car. With Stephen and Rashford not there and no news yet from LACS about the dogfight, I took Sunday off and waited impatiently for Monday.
Stephen rolled up at the office a half-an-hour after I’d run in, and it didn’t take too long for me to fill him in on what he’d missed on Friday.
“So he basically admitted that he wants to be involved, not that he already is,” Stephen summed up.
“Aye. I’m not as convinced as he is that my dad’s name will be enough, but he seemed sold on it.”
“Though he was completely drunk at the time,” Stephen pointed out.
“True, but I think he’s been planning this for a while.”
“So, where does that leave us? You wanted Phil to help you get in, right? But it seems like he can’t do that at all now.”
I sighed. “I hear what you’re saying. I’m not ready to give up just yet, but maybe I should’ve focused more of my attention on Matt Hartley, my dad’s friend. I really think that he’s much more involved.”
As I was trying to construct a plan of action, Rashford called us over to her office. She had a neutral expression on her face as we stepped inside that I couldn’t read, and she waited for us to get seated before she got started.
“There’s been some unfortunate news from LACS,” she said, and my shoulders slumped. “The dogfight was called off at the last minute, perhaps because of a tip-off, leaving us high and dry.”
“Dammit,” I muttered. At least no one had been hurt, I thought, which would’ve been the worst-case scenario, but this was discouraging too.
“Has the farm where it was going to happen been abandoned, ma’am?” Stephen asked.
“We’re not sure. Ross informed me that they were staying away from the site for now in the hopes that the location might be used again in the future. The hardest part of cracking down on these fights is finding out where they take place.”
“But if it had been called off already, surely the organisers knew the location was busted, ma’am?” I argued.
“I defer to Ross’s expertise on this matter,” Rashford said.
“But there could be evidence there, stragglers who haven’t left yet. If we don’t-”
“Mitchell, this isn’t your operation. It’s Ross’s. If you want to discuss her methods, and note that I said ‘discuss’ not ‘argue with’, you can speak to her about it, understood?” she said firmly,
“Yes, ma’am.” I unclenched my hands and rubbed my palms on my trousers.
“Now tell me more about this meeting with Berry on Friday,” she instructed.
I winced slightly, wishing that I had more information for her, but told her what had happened, regardless. She asked questions and wanted the details, so it took a half-hour before we were done, and she dismissed us.
“That was an interrogation and a half,” Stephen muttered once we were back at our desks.
I blew out a breath. “Aye. I don’t think she’s very happy with my focus on this case. She probably wants me working on something else.”
“I don’t know if I’m starting to agree, mate,” he said, then held up his hands in a pacifying gesture when I shot him a hurt look. “I’m just saying that LACS are the professionals in all this, and if they can’t handle it or make any progress, what chance have we got?”
“My connections to Hartley and Phil, that’s what we’ve got that they don’t!”
“Yeah, but after your chat with him on Friday, it doesn’t sound like your link to Phil is gonna help you get in, after all, does it?”
“Just because he’s not in the dogfighters' circle yet doesn’t mean he won’t help me with getting in,” I said stubbornly, meaning what I said. Phil was known around the place for what he did, and my association with him would paint me as being of the same cloth.
“Earlier, you were saying that Hartley might’ve been a better bet,” Stephen said steadily.
“Aye, and he might’ve been because I think he’s already in the dogfighters' circle. But that doesn’t mean that the case is done with. We’ve still got opportunities to follow up, okay?”
“Okay,” he sighed.
I rubbed a hand over my face and wished that Stephen could see the importance of this in the same way I could. Just because we were running into difficulties didn’t mean we should give up now.
“Don’t you want justice for Freddie Snell?” I said. He sent me an unimpressed look, as I’d guessed he would.
“You know I do.”
“Then I’ve got a plan,” I said as I stood up, picking up my coat and slinging it over my arm, “but we’re not telling Rashford about it for the moment, okay?”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Stephen muttered, but he followed me to his feet and walked beside me as I headed downstairs.
“What’s the plan, Mitch? Where are we going?” he insisted as we climbed into the car, and I got us on the road.
“I thought it was a nice day for a walk in the hills.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s colder than a freezer out there and raining like there’s no tomorrow.”
I huffed a laugh. “Aye, I know. Hopefully, it’ll be worth it, though.” I glanced over at him meaningfully as I said that, and he frowned at me.
“No way, Mitch. You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“That was a lot of thinking. Did it tire you out?”
Stephen sent me a look that said that this wasn’t the time for humour.
“Seriously, Darren. Tell me you’re not planning to go and walk all over that farm. LACS said-”
“They’re wrong, though! And, well, even if they do have a point, which they don’t, then it’s totally different for two hikers to walk past, compared to a dozen police or LACS people crawling over the place,” I protested.
“Rashford said-”
“I know what Rashford said, which is why she maybe doesn’t need to hear about this. Unless we find something useful, of course.”
“Are you done interrupting me?” Stephen said. I gave him a sheepish look.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Look, I acknowledge that you’ve got a point. The location is probably burned anyway, and the dogfighters have most likely all cleared out. Evidence might be degrading on the farm in the time LACS spends dithering.”
I’d nodded encouragingly as he spoke, but he put up a finger now.
“But on the other hand, LACS may have information that we don’t, giving them a reason to believe that the place hasn’t been ruled out. Plus, if we go in there, we could be disturbing any evidence that is there. And on top of that, if there are people still at the farm, we could end up with a repeat of what happened last time you went sneaking around when you weren’t supposed to,
that is, with a shotgun getting fired at us. And this time, they might not miss. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“I’m getting the impression that you’re not keen,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s the sum of it.”
“You make good points,” I sighed. “I really do think that two hikers just walking past, maybe having got lost, won’t cause much trouble.”
Stephen made a noise in his throat, sounding entirely unconvinced.
“We could compromise? Give Ross a call and see if there is any reason to believe that there are still dogfighters there, and if there are, we won’t do it. How’s that?”
“I take it you don’t want to tell her your little plan, though?”
“Well, no,” I said, shifting in my driver’s seat. “She wouldn’t agree, would she? And then she’d tell Rashford.”
“That’s the part I like least; lying to the Superintendent.”
“You can blame it on me?” I offered.
Honestly, I wasn’t feeling good about that either. Rashford usually gave us a fairly long leash rather than micromanaging our every move, asking only to be kept up-to-date afterwards. But I was fully aware that she very likely wouldn’t agree to this little excursion and that she would be angry when she found out, which she no doubt would. The last time I got into trouble by going onto a farm in my running gear and getting shot at, I’d genuinely not known that I was interfering with LACS, but this time I wouldn’t have that excuse.
“Goddammit,” I muttered, pulling the car over once it was safe to do so. “Let’s call Ross. If we can talk her into agreeing that this isn’t a terrible idea, hopefully she can influence Rashford, right?”
Stephen looked relieved that I wasn’t suggesting keeping it from them any longer, but his expression made clear how likely he thought it was that Ross would back my somewhat slapdash plan.
Moving Target (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 6) Page 22
