He placed the DVD box to one side. Chantelle, with her blue-starred covered groin and her squeezed cleavage, looked back at them both.
CHAPTER 7
“You probably think I’m from the 1960s, right? That I belong on the set of a Carry On movie. Sid James’s sidekick, or something.”
Pereira had her arms folded. It struck her that the question had been largely rhetorical, so she chose not to answer. If she didn’t say anything, the conversation would hopefully be over more quickly, and they could actually get to Cumbernauld.
“I was through in Alloa for a while,” Cooper continued. They were standing in the covered smoking area outside the building, an open terrace looking out onto the river, with a meagre roof that was useless against sheeting rain, but was fine for the dreich, cold drizzle that was currently falling. “There was this inspector in the office. I mean, he was a decent lad, knew what he was doing, don’t get me wrong. But he was deaf. Now the guy could lip read, and he could sign, but of course, the rest of us couldn’t use sign language, could we? So what this guy had was a lip speaker. You ever heard of that? A lip speaker?”
“Of course,” said Pereira, unable to keep the tone from her voice. He seemed to ignore it anyway.
“A lip speaker is a lip reader and signer who basically translates what the deaf person wants to say, and then helps the deaf person understand whoever’s talking, if their lips, you know, if they can’t read their lips properly.”
“I know.”
“But the deaf person doesn’t just have one lip speaker. I mean, why the lip speaker can’t just come into work, stay with them the entire time, and then leave when they do? But apparently, it’s harder for them, some shit like that. He had three on rotation. And you know how much that cost? ‘Cause think about it, the Police Service doesn’t have its own lip speakers. These women were contractors, so how much was that? You see where I’m going with this?”
Pereira didn’t answer.
“I’m not saying he wasn’t a decent copper. You know, he did his job. But we all know he got the job in the first place because he was disabled. Now that’s great, I get it, diversity and all that. Except, diversity costs money, doesn’t it? I mean, those lip speakers cost the Police Service more than the officer. So, look at it another way. If we hadn’t had the deaf guy, we could have two officers, plus change. In a time of plenty, then fine, go for it, get the deaf guy and the cripple and the, I don’t know, the whatever …”
“The divorced Indian mother?”
Her voice was cold, and Cooper was stopped in his tracks, seemingly surprised that he’d been called out. He held her gaze, trying to gauge the state of the conversation.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he said, then added, “not exactly.”
The words what are you saying came and went in her head without her speaking them, as did the thought to protest that she did not cost the department any more money just because of the colour of her skin. That would have been cheap, and would have given his argument some justification.
“There’s a drive,” he said. “You see it everywhere. A drive to hire people because of this or that. Ability be damned, cost be damned. Let’s be seen to do the right thing. Pisses me off.”
Pereira was aware she was biting her bottom lip, that she was crossing her arms ever more tightly. Deep breath, straightened her arms, relaxed her mouth.
“Sir?” she said.
“Look, I’m just being straight with you. There’s nothing wrong with being straight, right? I mean, straight talking. If more people were straight talking … Look, I’m not saying … I have no idea how you got to be where you are, Inspector, and I look forward to finding out. I know you’re thinking I’m a racist or a bigot or a whatever, but really … really? I’m just a guy. Just an ordinary copper who wants the best for the Force, so don’t get all, you know …”
Hysterical? she thought.
Calm, Inspector, it’s hardly the first time.
“Thank you, sir, I hope I can prove your fears unfounded. Now, we really need to get back out to Cumbernauld.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if surprised that she was trying to bring the conversation to a close, then twitched slightly, said, “Yes, of course, I didn’t mean … Where are we with that, by the way? You said something about Packaged Meat Ltd.? Really? That just sounds like, I don’t know, some kind of made-up bullshit.”
“That’s exactly what it is, sir,” she said. “Packaged Meat? Yes, it’s bullshit, sir, but the porn business is hardly something to take itself too seriously. That’s just the kind of joke you’d expect.”
“And you’re seeing a link between this girl, Chantelle, being in one of these videos, the company being called Packaged Meat, and the guy who just happened to own a copy of this video being cut up into lunch meat?”
Pereira didn’t answer.
“As in, women just think men treat them like meat?”
“Yes, sir,” she said this time.
“And you think Chantelle might have cut up this Moyes character because he owned a video by a particular production company? Because, I mean, I’ve got to say, Inspector, as a bloke who’s bought the odd porn video in the past myself, that’s the first thing I’m looking at. I’m not interested in the sex, or the women, or the tits, it’s all about the business executives.”
She wasn’t rising to it. Moyes had money, and that money was coming from somewhere, and it wasn’t too much of a stretch — given that they’d found fifteen Packaged Meat videos in the room, something she’d already informed Cooper of — to think that the money was coming from his share of the porn business. It was certainly worth their time trying to find out.
“Nothing to add?” said Cooper.
“Like I said, sir, we need to get back out to speak to MPP.”
“I don’t want you bringing in the porn star.”
Pereira didn’t say anything. She hadn’t got that far yet, and she didn’t think she was going to go looking for her if she hadn’t been at home, but she certainly intended going back to her house that evening. Last thing on the list before calling it a night. Well, one of the last things.
“You’ve already spoken to her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t go harassing her. I don’t want you to speak to her again until you’ve got something positive to go on.”
“We have her on the front of a–”
“She might not even be in the damn video, Inspector. Jesus, they stick any old picture on the front of these things, doesn’t mean the girl with the tits is actually in the film.”
“Sir,” said Pereira.
She seemed to have got herself into an argument, despite her best efforts to not get into an argument. Time to go.
He waited a moment, and when she didn’t say anything, he gestured towards the door, with an open palm.
“Thank you, sir,” said Pereira.
She turned and walked quickly back inside. Cooper watched her for a moment, and then turned away, took out another cigarette, lit it, looked up to the damp sky, and once more leant on the railing.
CHAPTER 8
More of the test results had come in. Sometimes she thought it was like election night. You had your assumptions before the start, then you would wait for the steady flow of results, which would ultimately either confirm or confound your original expectations.
On this occasion, they were confounding them, as a third call came in to Pereira as they approached the gates of MPP. Wherever the meat butchering and packaging had taken place, it wasn’t here.
The atmosphere at the plant had completely changed from earlier. Having been full of life in the daylight of early morning, with an almost full workforce on duty and the motors running all over the building, followed later by the great gaggle of the press crops at the front gate, in late-afternoon darkness the building looked deserted. Even the press had given up, either for the day, or because the truth had already come out and this place was no longer of any
interest.
At the gate there was one police officer, and still no plant-hired security. Pereira slowed as she hung up the phone, stopped beside the officer on duty and showed her card.
“There’s still someone here, right?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the duty constable. “Mrs. Whittaker, ma’am. She hasn’t left the building yet, although she did send out a decoy in order to cheat the press. They bought it, as you can see, en masse, and they haven’t come back. Not sure why, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” said Pereira, nodding, and they drove on into the car park in front of the building, parking by the front door, beside the only remaining car, a blue Aston Martin DB9.
“Three ma’ams in under fifteen seconds,” said Bain, smiling. “Reckon he thought you might be the Queen.”
Pereira, still feeling the sting of Cooper’s words, did not smile. Having experienced it plenty of times before, she’d known as soon as she’d met him that that was how he would think. It was just how some people were, and there was little to be done about it other than doing a decent job and proving them wrong.
In their own minds, of course, they would never be proved wrong.
“Born fifty years too early,” Parker had once said to her, as they lamented some of his colleagues’ attitudes towards her.
“Fifty? Two thousand more like,” she’d said.
They got out the car, the night dank and bleak, and hurried the few yards to the door that led to the stairs up to the small suite of offices at this end of the building. The door was open, at least, and they would not have to stand in the cold rain, waiting.
The stairs were dark, the corridor that ran the length of the office suite was dark and Bain, in front, lit the way with his phone. They entered Whittaker’s office without knocking, and in here was the only light that seemed to be on in the entire building, a small lamp, casting a dim glow across the leather pad in the middle of the desk.
Whittaker had her back to them, standing at the window, looking out over the deserted car park. She would have seen, and then heard, them coming, but did not turn to greet them.
They walked into the middle of the office, Bain pocketing his phone, and once they’d stopped moving the silence in the small room was complete. The factory was shut down, no machinery, not even the low hum of electrical output. The rain made no sound against the window.
In the dim light of the desk lamp, Pereira caught Whittaker’s eye in the window. The Chief Executive of Meat & Poultry Products Ltd. looked back at her, her eyes dead, her face expressionless.
“Hear that, Inspector?” she said. “The sound of a company that has breathed its last breath. As dead as the man whose remains are currently ultra-packed for long-lasting freshness.”
“We’ve got most of our test results back. It doesn’t look like the butchering, cooking and packaging work was done here, on site,” said Pereira.
No change in Whittaker’s expression for a moment, and then slowly she turned.
“What did you say?”
“Like you heard. The factory, for the moment, is cleared.”
“What d’you mean for the moment?”
“The meat may not have been processed here,” said Pereira, “but this is the starting point for the delivery of the meat, and it was on those trucks by the time it got to MeatLux, so somehow it got in there, in amongst the boxes. And those orders were not over-filled, were they? MeatLux, and then the shops who received their orders, did not get too many packets. They got what they asked for, which means that someone, at some point, retrieved the packages that were supposed to be there, and substituted Kevin Moyes. That’s unlikely to have happened when the truck was stopped at a set of lights. Which means, Mrs. Whittaker, that it was most likely done here, at the factory, in the loading process.”
“Really? I’m glad you think so, because all I just heard was that the meat wasn’t processed here. Which means you have so far found absolutely no evidence against this company. Which means that you have closed us down, and got that fucking circus, that cancerous mob of media to turn up on our doorstep, to traduce us, to put malignant bullshit online about us, and no doubt in tomorrow’s papers, and you have nothing. Nothing! Shit sticks, Inspector, and you have spent the day covering us in it. We’ll be lucky if we ever get another order again. Jesus!”
“You can save your ire for later, Mrs. Whittaker,” said Pereira, not taking the bait. “We need to sit down now and go through again the process that takes place between the meat being produced, and the packages being loaded onto the–”
“No, we don’t,” said Whittaker, walking towards her desk. “I’m going home, and I’m locking the door on the way out. Tonight I’m going to drink gin, make some attempt to at least get something from the day, and in the morning I’m going to start the process of recovering this God-awful situation. And that process, Inspector, will begin with me calling my lawyer, and by lunchtime she will be so far up your arse, you won’t be able to walk, and every damn penny I’ve lost because of this will be recovered from your fucking wage, no matter how many decades it takes.”
Car keys in hand, she stood for another moment on the other side of the desk, holding Pereira’s eye the entire time.
“I’m leaving now. If you two want to be locked in, then have a lovely evening. There’s water in the fridge and the toilet’s third door on the left.”
She switched the light off, and walked around the desk, the room now dimly illuminated by the security lights outside.
As she walked past Pereira, she didn’t shoulder bump her in the manner of a teenage thug, but her look said she wanted to and was only just stopping herself.
And with a glance at Bain, Pereira followed Whittaker from the office, and no further words were exchanged.
*
“Who’s going through the CCTV footage?” asked Pereira.
“Beth,” said Bain.
“Right. You haven’t heard anything from her?”
“You want me to give her a call? She said she’d shout if she saw anything.”
“Hmm,” said Pereira. “There’s no reason why, at that point, the infiltrator need look out of place. If they were acting suspiciously, looking over their shoulder, doing whatever, well you’re going to notice. But if they had balls about them, and they were doing nothing skittish, why wouldn’t they blend right in? Have a chat with her, make sure she’s on it.”
“Boss.”
“And we’ve got Dirk’s address, right?”
“We don’t know if he’s back,” said Bain, as Pereira started the engine.
“Let’s go and find out.”
CHAPTER 9
Rowena Abernethy was sitting at the kitchen table with a tumbler of clear liquid. Impossible to tell from where Bain and Pereira were sitting on the other side of the table whether it was gin, vodka, rum or water. Pereira had gin in mind, but perhaps that was just because Whittaker had said she was going to have gin.
Abernethy had the look about her. She wasn’t a person who waited until six p.m., or any other time, to have her first drink of the day.
It was a large kitchen, a breakfast bar island in the middle, and a kitchen table, big enough to seat eight, at the far end. A large space that had been expensively redesigned and fitted. The floor, great slabs of irregular stone, the lighting soft, the fascia of the cabinets, dark wood.
“Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” she said.
“And he’s due back about now?” asked Pereira.
“Thought he’d be back about two hours ago,” she said, “though he usually goes to the office first. So, yes, he should’ve been home by now, stinking of women and booze, but as you can see, he ain’t.”
“He wasn’t at the office. We’ve just been,” said Bain.
“No?” said Abernethy. “I’m shocked.”
Clearly, from her tone, she wasn’t.
“Mrs. Whittaker says he travels around the country with regular overnight stays.”
&nbs
p; Pereira expected that to be greeted with a barked, bitter laugh, but Abernethy just smiled cruelly as she lifted her glass and took a long drink. There was nothing about her expression, thought Pereira, to indicate she was drinking neat 40% alcohol.
“That’s certainly what he says he does,” said Abernethy.
“And what does he really do?”
“I don’t know. I’m just the wife. You’ll have to ask him.”
“He’s not here,” said Pereira. “I’m asking you.”
She drained the glass, then held it before her face as she studied the light glinting off the sides, the dregs in the bottom. She seemed to become distracted in the moment, then finally said, “There goes another one,” and placed the glass down on the table. “I’m going to have one more, but maybe I’ll be polite and wait for you two to go.”
“What do you think he does if he isn’t travelling around the country selling pre-packaged cold meat?”
“Oh, I don’t know, officer,” said Abernethy, a hand waved dismissively. “Was he in Aberdeen when he said he was in Aberdeen? Probably. Did he meet business partners and did he cut deals to sell their crappy meat? Probably did that too. And did he get drunk and fuck prostitutes and fuck anyone he could get his hands on, male, female or whatever? Yes, he did that too. What do I know? Like I said at the start, I’m just the wife. And excuse me, but I think I’m just going to refill my glass.”
She got up, turned her back on them, and moved to the cupboard behind her.
“When was the last time you spoke to Dirk?” asked Pereira, as Abernethy reached for the vodka bottle.
“I suppose he said goodbye when he left yesterday morning. I was still in bed.”
“You suppose? You saw him yesterday morning?”
“Yes,” she said, as she turned. The glass was half full, the vodka bottle left out on the worktop. “I guess you could say that. I saw him through a hungover blur, but it was definitely him. He tried to fuck me when he came to bed the night before, but ha! Like that was going to happen. Fucking extraordinary, I mean, really, that he even wanted to. Look at me. Look at me!”
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