“It’s still very early days, Joyce,” she remarked when the reporter complained she was not getting any wiser. “Our current hypothesis is that Mr Devos has become the victim of petty crime.”
She thought by saying that she was not lying really. After all, they only had very few substantial elements to go on. And her intuition that this may very well be something altogether different.
Joyce was not really buying it though.
“You know as well as I do, detective inspector, that the first couple of days are crucial in an investigation. So, you are telling me either that your investigation has come up with nothing whatsoever, or you are not telling me everything you know.”
“All I can say is that it feels like there is more to it than meets the eye, Joyce. Honestly, we are pursuing several leads, but none that we are able to communicate about right now, as we don’t know yet if they are meaningful at all. I promise to keep you posted on any real development though. You do know there a press conference has been organized for tomorrow morning, right?”
Joyce huffed and hummed a little more, totally unsatisfied with Ianthe’s evasion, but had to give up in the end.
Ianthe returned to join her team in the intel suite to do her part in the CCTV analysis. Three hours later she decided to call it a day and instructed her team to do the same as they needed to be wide awake for the search tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER 11
Ianthe drove home in silence. She often switched off or muted her car radio when she wanted to think. This was a strange case. Nothing in what they had discovered so far in the life of Bert Devos pointed in the direction of criminal activity. And although they had found cocaine traces on Polaris, drug smuggling seemed so out of character for Bert Devos. At least the Bert Devos that his family, neighbours, acquaintances and colleagues appeared to know. Ianthe felt quite certain that him having been made redundant by Nokia two years ago must have had something to do with the turn of events. After all, as a 54-year old engineer who had never been unemployed in his life, that must have had a significant impact. And him being the main breadwinner for the family, too. Ianthe had heard before of cases where people had been let go and had acted towards their families and friends as if nothing had happened at all. They kept scrupulously to their routine of rising in the morning at their habitual time. They had breakfast with their families, kissed their wife good-bye and continued to leave on time as if they were still going to the office. With no one the wiser among their families or best friends. Some of them were found out only after their death, whether naturally or chosen. Ianthe assumed this was caused by the social stigma of joblessness. She remembered a paper she had read in college stating that unemployment was associated with a lot of adverse consequences. There is evidence in psychological literature that being without a job can lead to social exclusion, isolation, divorce, ill-health and reduced happiness, even after re-employment. Social stigma, how someone without a job is perceived by society, is supposed to be one of the central mechanisms of these consequences. She could understand that people preferred to keep up appearances rather than experience these consequences. Even going to the extremity of maintaining a façade for their loved ones. But she had never come across a link to the origin of criminal activity. Jobless people who wanted to escape social dishonour rather appeared to try twice as hard to find a new job. And nothing in the past of Bert Devos pointed to anything criminal. She knew from his file he had been married for twenty years or so to his wife Josephine and they had come to live in Lewes at the time of their marriage. There was an important but not exceptional age gap between them. He had been a long-time employee of Nokia before he had been made redundant. And all that time he appeared to have been a law-abiding citizen with nothing more than a few parking or speeding tickets to his name. And suddenly this upstanding member of society would have become a criminal? Hard to believe, she thought. Unless of course Bert Devos had been cheating all along and had been able to escape everyone’s notice. Including his wife’s. Except if she was a fantastic liar, too.
From her car, Ianthe decided to call her best friend Jocelyn, who worked in recruitment.
“Well, hello, what a nice surprise, detective inspector,” the eternally cheerful voice of her friend greeted her. “It’s only nine PM. Don’t tell me you’re off work already and up for drinks!”
“It’s nine oh four already, Joss, and I wish. No rest or drinks for the wicked, I’m afraid. I just have a question for you. Related to a case of mine. Can’t tell you the details obviously. In your professional opinion, how likely is a fifty-four-year-old male of foreign descent with an engineering degree going to find a new job when he has been made redundant?”
She listened to Jocelyn’s long response, interrupting her once in a while to ask additional questions. The probabilities were not good, so much was clear. As soon as you are over forty-four, the odds definitely turn against you. Over fifty, it becomes nigh impossible to find something good. You might find some sort of job, but it would be unlikely it would be in the same paygrade. Your salary level would most definitely get hit.
“James and I are planning to check out The Walrus, tonight, if you fancy a drink. We’re going soon. Do come along. Don’t bring Tony!”
Ianthe grimaced, told Joss to get lost and ended the call. Joss’ down-under origins always made her very direct. Which Ianthe appreciated a lot. But Joss simply could not hide her dislike of Tony. Which annoyed Ianthe no end. She turned her car into Belvedere Terrace and started looking for a parking space. Tony’s bimmer sat in front of their apartment. He was home.
*
It was a few minutes after nine when Ben walked into The George Inn on West Street, a slightly seedy public house, reputed to be the Inn where King Charles II stayed the night before his escape to France in 1651. The place looked even more tired than its actual age. The burgundy upholstery of the chairs was cracked everywhere, the simple wooden tables scratched, with lighting that was so low it was close to complete darkness. Only the bar was well lit with its quite amazing number of gin brands. Yet this was not a pub where the distinguishing gin connoisseur would sample his gin and tonic, but where men who could not be called gentle would have it straight or on the rocks. Whisky, too. Vodka was frowned upon, as being foreign. This was the place where King Charles would have been introduced to Captain Tattersham of Shoreham and where his courtiers would have concluded the transaction with the good captain to smuggle the King to France aboard his 60-ton collier, adequately named The Surprise. After the Restoration, not having received due recognition, the captain sailed his ship around to the Thames to complain. He then received an annual stipend which allowed him to buy The Old Ship Inn on the Brighton waterfront. Ever since, Brighton had been known for smuggling literally all sorts of things to and from the Continent. And for every other mischief under the sun imaginable. And no better place to execute seedy transactions than the bowels of The George. Tourists infrequently wandered in by mistake, but only the most insensitive of those, or most drunk, would be seen venturing to the counter to place an order, which more often than not would be ignored, until the visitor got the message and left.
The unremarkable bar wench, a black woman of undefined age sporting a platina blonde wig, nodded at Ben. He ordered two double Navy Strength Plymouth Gins on the rocks, dropped a twenty pound note on the counter, waiving the change, which had not been offered anyway, and took the glasses down to the table furthest away from the door, where a single customer was nursing a pint of bitter.
“Evening, Dutchy.”
Dutchy, real name Martin Feensma, nodded warily. He was a notorious dealer in the Brighton underworld catering mainly for the upper classes. Quality cocaine, XTC and crystal meth were on the menu. He steered clear of the heavier stuff like heroine or crack as he hated the violence that came with those. In his previous life as a volleyball pro, Ben had been present at numerous parties sometimes attended by famous people from the sporting world, where “sweets” from Dutch
y had been available to all. Hell, he had developed a little taste for cocaine himself, but managed to keep it under control, so it had not become a real habit. He had no issues passing the mandatory drug tests. Dutchy, true to his name, was of Dutch descent. It was said he acquired his merchandise directly from Rotterdam. Crystal Meth was made in Holland these days and his cocaine came straight from Colombia to the huge Port of Rotterdam, or sometimes to Antwerp.
“What can I do for you, Ben? A little snow perhaps?” he grinned.
Ben smiled back at him.
“Are you trying to corrupt me, Dutchy? Nope. Just a chat between old friends, that’s all. I need your advice, actually.”
“Advice, huh,” Dutchy sighed.
“I think us solving this particular case is probably something you will be interested in yourself. We have a dead Dutchman on our hands.”
“In the marina. I heard.”
Ben was not surprised. Dutchy heard a lot of things. That’s why he had come to see him after all.
“Name of Bert Devos. Ever heard of him?”
“Fellow out of Lewes, I understand. Married to an English lass. Upstanding citizen is the word.”
“We found a little snow on his boat.”
Dutchy looked up.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said cautiously. “There’s a lot of that stuff going around. And boat owners are the right market for that. At least that’s what I hear,” he added with a smile.
“The interesting thing is we found it in the bilges. Not exactly the most comfortable place to use it.”
At that he was silent. He considered this information a little.
“Word is that there may be a new player in Brighton. Some snow of unknown origins has appeared on the market. Excellent quality. Ricky is getting a wee bit nervous about it, I know. He sent someone around the other day to ask me about it. If I knew anything that is.”
Ricky Rowlands was the current kingpin of the South England narcotics trade.
“Better be careful, Dutchy. Mistakes are easily made, with his name and your name and all.
Dutchy nodded.
“That’s exactly what Ricky’s guy told me, too. He’d heard the new player had links to Holland. Which is a pretty vague statement to make. Just about everyone in the business has links to Holland. Definitely not me though. And you know Brighton is quite the international city these days. Plenty of people of Dutch descent around.”
His middle finger started to dance a tune on the table indicating he was uneasy about it all right.
“You guys have kept this information under wraps for sure. When are you planning to make this public?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Who’s the senior officer in charge?”
“DI Ianthe Seymour.”
“That’s good.”
“Why?”
“As you said, I think Ricky will want to have this solved soon. And she’s good.”
*
DC John Ryan was annoyed with himself. He had spent hours watching the CCTV without anything noteworthy. He had seen some familiar faces of course. His own face for one, as he was a regular visitor of the marina, too. He had always enjoyed the nautical atmosphere and liked browsing the chandlery. He had noticed Ianthe’s boyfriend Tony as well a couple of times on the CCTV, but he had not been doing anything in particular, just walking alone along the boardwalk, or chatting to some people he did not recognize. Definitely not Bert Devos. He had thought of mentioning it to Ianthe, but it had not appeared to be important enough. After all, half of Brighton & Hove seemed to be in the marina on a sunny day.
He had left the Major Incident Room just after Ianthe had called it a day as well and was hurrying down to his Harley when he was accosted by Vik. That was odd, as Vik was not known to keep late hours, in particular with his young child and all. But Vik had wanted to know everything about Operation Blackbird. If it was moving forward, if they had any suspects or leads at all, if Ianthe seemed to be in control, what was going to be the next step, etc etc. John had objected at first, sensing DI Ianthe Seymour would not be too pleased if he shared those details. But Vik insisted he was entitled to that information as a fellow police officer, told him he might be able to be of assistance to the operation and outranked him anyway. John, who was intimidated by the superior rank, then did his best to answer all his questions. But when he was finally on his bike and on his way home, the conversation had left a bit of a sour aftertaste. He just knew Ianthe would not be thrilled he had shared all that information with DI Gorti. Perhaps he would do better to give her a call to let her know what had happened, he thought. He could use the excuse he had spotted Tony in the marina a couple of days before the murder and while Tony had not been doing anything particularly noteworthy, he thought she might want to know. And then he could tell her about Vik as a sort of afterthought. Yeah, sounded like a good idea to him now. He parked his Harley in front of their apartment and took his mobile from his pocket. Ouch, nine thirty-five already. He could not really disturb her at this late hour. It was not an emergency after all. He hesitated, then decided to mention it in the morning. They would have plenty of time on their hands during the search of the Devos residence anyway.
*
DC Ajanta Ghani was annoyed with herself. Ianthe had assigned the task of investigating Bert Devos’s finances to her during the briefing. She had been quite happy that job had been given to her as it seemed to demonstrate Ianthe’s faith in her. But when she had approached the superintendent to get the necessary warrant for the relevant banks, he told her Ianthe had already asked him and it was being taken care of. The data should be delivered to Ajanta tomorrow for analysis. That meant she would of course still be responsible for evaluating the contents, but she felt part of the end to end responsibility had been taken away from her again by the DI. That woman was so frustrating! Ajanta admired Ianthe for her keen intellect and no-nonsense attitude that got things done. Ianthe always appeared to be completely in control of everything, on top of the ball wherever it was on the playing field. Obviously, she also felt entirely at ease with the brass, addressed them and spoke about them as her equals, questioning decisions if necessary, in a mild but forthright way. She saw her target and went straight at it. No diversions. No need for frills, no window dressing, no façade. What you saw is what you got impersonated. Not at all hampered by her rather diminutive size. And the person who got in her way better beware. She was simply intimidating. Ianthe had no need to hide behind nice clothes or expensive trinkets like Ajanta. That woman’s posture oozed confidence. Ajanta sighed. She had always felt insecure. Victim of her pretty strict childhood in a Bengali community in Birmingham. She had been reared by uncles and aunts more than by her actual parents, her dad having passed away quite early and her mother having moved back to Bangladesh when Ajanta was only ten years old.
They were Muslim, of course, and Ajanta had always enjoyed the social dimension of Islam. The togetherness experienced during Ramadan, in particular at the many iftars they attended in the extended family, was something that did not really have an equivalent in Western society she found. Nor did the celebrations at Eid al Fitr, the festival at the end of the holy month of Ramadan, or at Eid Al Hadha, the other main celebration marking the pilgrimage to Mecca. When she had become an adolescent, she had continued to follow many of the rules imposed on her although she often had doubted them. But she had continued to believe in the basics of her faith.
Her decision to join the force had met with scepticism. For a young Bengali with a good head on her, the approved options were either to become a doctor, a lawyer or an accountant. But she was not interested in these. She liked the outdoors and the action too much. After many palavers, tea drinking sessions, skype calls with her mother and extended Bengali family, even tears and supplications, her family had grudgingly approved of her new life and she had embarked on the three-year undergraduate professional policing degree at the university of Birmingham. However, their approval had changed
dramatically when she had met Sean.
Sean Flaherty was a very white boy originally from Galway, Ireland, from a very Catholic family. He had been baptized and confirmed and had been an altar boy at the cathedral in Galway until he had turned sixteen or so. He attended mass with his parents, his brother and two sisters on Sundays. Unlike a lot of Irish dads, his father did not go to the pub after, but they went home to 46 Sylvan Avenue and had their weekly Sunday roast that his mother prepared following a recipe passed down from her gran. When he had turned eighteen, he had enrolled for his Bachelor of Science (Honours) Computer Science and Information Technology at the National University of Ireland in Galway. Sean was an excellent student who had always passed his exams with flying colours. After three years in Galway, he had opted to do a semester abroad under the European Union’s Erasmus scheme and had selected to go to the University of Birmingham. In the first week of his stay he had attended the High Vis Street Culture Festival, where he had met Ajanta. She had been helping out manning a stall offering Bengali street food. They had started to chat and after her shift they both had gone to listen to some of the performers. She had allowed him to invite her for a final quick drink together in the King’s Arms. And that quick drink had become an exceptionally long drink. He had been smitten by that Asian quick-witted girl who had been hiding behind a façade of make-up and trinkets. She had allowed herself to be swept off her feet by that totally laid-back lad from Ireland. They had been mutually attracted by how the other one was different. Sean had never really spoken to well-educated Asian girls, of which there were but few in Ireland anyway, and Ajanta had been charmed by his innocence and his typical Irish lack of class awareness that was still all too common in England. Her family had been less impressed.
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