by David Hodges
She glimpsed the khaki-coated figure as she was about to turn back towards her car. He was practically buried in a chest-high forest of tall yellow-plumed grass on the other side of the rhyne, close to the river’s edge. Just his shoulders and the woolly hat he was wearing showing above it. It had started to rain – heavy drops that suggested an imminent downpour – and reason told her that her man was probably just fishing or bird-watching, but she was curious and decided to investigate; after all, it was also possible that he had been here before – the day Ellie Landy had drowned, for example.
A few yards behind the pumping station a narrow iron foot-bridge had been constructed across the rhyne and another barely discernible track struck out on the other side of it for a few yards before dwindling to nothing among the reeds and the flooded fields beyond. She used extreme care crossing the bridge, conscious of the dark water lapping the underside as she made her way down the slope towards the grass plumes, acutely conscious of the fact that, in her patent leather sling-backs, she was not exactly ‘shod’ for a tramp along a muddy river bank.
In fact, as it turned out, she didn’t have that far to go, for her quarry emerged from the grass after she had only covered about two to three yards and he froze in the middle of the track, staring at her in astonishment.
She was equally surprised. ‘Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here, as they say,’ she commented drily. ‘Doing a spot of fishing, are you, sir?’
Gabriel Lessing gave a nervous little laugh, playing with the lens of the camera slung over one shoulder. ‘Just thought I’d – ah – take a look at the – ah – crime scene,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘What makes you think it is a crime scene?’ she snapped.
He shrugged. ‘Pretty obvious, isn’t it? Fit young girl found drowned in a local river with a load of dodgy injuries. Has to be a murder.’
‘Who says she had injuries?’
He tapped his nose, then abruptly went into a bout of familiar loose coughing. ‘I have my sources,’ he wheezed. ‘Didn’t do them herself, did she? And, according to her old man, it wasn’t as though she couldn’t swim either.’
‘You’ve spoken to her father? How did you know where to find him?’
‘Easy. I ain’t a journalist for nothing.’ Another grin. ‘And seeing him was a story in itself. Knew who he was straightaway.’
‘You have been busy,’ she breathed.
He grinned. ‘Someone has to be – and I intend being a lot more so too, since the police don’t seem to be getting anywhere with the case.’
‘There isn’t a case,’ she retorted, repeating what Roscoe had said to her. ‘Ellie drowned. End of story.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Sergeant. I reckon she was on to something big and someone took exception to it and wasted her.’
‘And what would be this “big thing” be when it’s at home?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I intend finding out.’ He looked to be enjoying himself now. ‘Drugs would be my guess. The slapper who ran out on you at the Toliver factory was obviously a junkie and what else would take you to the Sapphire Club, all dolled up in disco gear, but drugs?’
She froze. ‘The Sapph—? Have you been following me?’
He chuckled. ‘Didn’t have a clue, did you, love? I just tailed you at a distance from the nick, then sat somewhere quiet like and watched. Very profitable bit of surveillance it was too.’
She made the connection suddenly and snapped her fingers. ‘That was you at Toliver’s, wasn’t it? The loud noise that spooked her? You were trying to eavesdrop?’
He made a face. ‘Yeah, bit careless there. Stepped on a sheet of asbestos. Couldn’t get close enough before she scarpered. Pity.’ He broke off, then said, ‘So who was the big guy you had the argument with in the van at the club?’
She didn’t volunteer a reply but took a step towards him. ‘You sell any of this stuff for print and you’re in big trouble, you piece of garbage.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ooh,’ he mocked, ‘that was a bit rude for a public servant – and I’m so scared.’
‘You will be. You’re in well over your head.’
He brushed past her towards the pumping station. ‘Good hunting, Sarge,’ he threw back at her over his shoulder. ‘Be seeing you again.’
She watched his retreating figure with an angry scowl as he crossed the bridge and momentarily disappeared behind the pumping station before emerging a short distance beyond it, heading up the main track towards the road. Then she lost sight of him round a sharp bend and, as she headed back herself, she heard a vehicle start up and pull away. The pressman must have parked his car somewhere close by but she hadn’t noticed it on the way in – probably hidden in a field behind a hedge. Pity he hadn’t picked one that had been flooded, she thought vindictively as she looked around her at the submerged fields beyond the pumping station site. But one thing was certain; if the little jerk decided to file the story he had, Roscoe would be even less happy when he read his newspaper the following morning than he was at the moment. Suddenly the thought of the fortifying bottle of red wine nestling in the cupboard of the thatched cottage in Burtle village she and Hayden called home seemed much too good to ignore.
CHAPTER 9
One of the advantages of living within a relatively short distance of the job was that Kate and Hayden could unofficially nip home for lunch when they were not tied up on something, rather than use the small police station canteen, with its limited and normally pretty indigestible offerings. Doubly angry after her row with the DI and her bruising encounter with Gabriel Lessing, Kate bolted to the little thatched cottage in Burtle village straight after her confrontation with the newsman – and found Hayden already there, slouched in an armchair in the living room with an uncorked bottle of red wine on the coffee table in front of him and a plate of doorstep cheese sandwiches on his lap.
He seemed to have got over his anger of the previous night and he beamed at her as she stepped through the front door.
‘Hi, Kate,’ he said breezily. ‘How did the meeting go?’
‘Don’t ask,’ she snapped, dropping the ignition keys of her Mazda MX5 on the coffee table beside him. ‘Saw the pool car parked outside. Bit of a sauce using a CID car to come home for lunch, wasn’t it?’
He made a face. ‘My Jag drinks too much petrol,’ he said, as if that was a perfectly legitimate reason.
She grunted and went through to the kitchen to make some sandwiches for herself. ‘Just don’t let Roscoe catch you,’ she said. ‘He’ll flay you alive.’
Hayden chuckled. ‘Put him in a bad mood, did you, old girl?’
The response from the kitchen was sharp. ‘Don’t wind me up anymore.’
‘You shouldn’t have been such a naughty girl last night – your undercover man from NCA there, was he?’
‘You bet he was and he certainly got Roscoe all hot and bothered.’
‘That must have been worth seeing.’
There was silence for a couple of minutes and then she reappeared with a much thinner double sandwich and an empty wine glass. ‘The long and the short of it is we’re banned from going anywhere near the Sapphire Club in future and the DI’s now decided to cuff the bloody drowning as well,’ she said, taking his bottle and pouring herself a large measure. ‘Wants it wrapped up as an accident – like yesterday.’
Hayden nodded, waving half a sandwich in one hand as he spoke through a mouthful of bread and cheese. ‘I could see that coming from day one with everything that’s going on at the moment,’ he replied. ‘There are only four of us left in the department now and he wouldn’t be flavour of the month if he called for another major crime investigation to be set up.’
She nibbled a corner of her sandwich, then set the plate down on the arm of the settee, suddenly no longer hungry. ‘So we just bury a murder then and that’s OK, is it?’
He stared at her. ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Poor old Ted Roscoe is between a rock and a hard p
lace on this one. If he says “accident”, someone like you will shout “foul” and if he says “murder”, the powers that be will scream “where’s your evidence?” He can’t win.’
‘Sounds like you’re on his side? You forget the pathologist’s findings and the girl, Polly.’
He shrugged. ‘One so-called expert’s opinion, coupled with the word of a junkie who has only been seen by you and has now disappeared—’
‘You are on Roscoe’s side.’
He spat crumbs across the coffee table. ‘Oh come on, Kate, get real. We’ve got a sus death, I’ll give you that, but we haven’t enough to positively label it a murder. And, don’t forget, we’re still waiting on the pathologist’s other tests – toxicology and so forth.’
‘Even a sus death should be fully investigated, as you well know, and just because we are short on troops, does that justify cuffing the whole thing?’
How Hayden would have got out of that one, it is impossible to say, for he didn’t even get to open his mouth before the house phone shrilled. Frowning, Kate lifted it from its cradle on the shelf behind her.
‘Thought I’d find you there,‘ Roscoe rapped. ‘Fish and chips at home with hubby, is it?’
‘Cheese sandwiches actually, Guv,’ Kate responded coldly. ‘We’re allowed a meal break—’
‘Never mind that,’ the DI cut in. ‘Get your arses down to the hospital. They’ve got a DOA – believed OD on heroin. And by the way, doc says it is definitely an OD – nothing suspicious, right? So try not to see this as yet another murder, Lewis!’
On arrival at the hospital mortuary, however, Kate couldn’t help herself, for the emaciated girl lying on the gurney in front of one of the fridges was none other than her junkie informant, Polly!
Hayden was losing patience. ‘Kate, it was an overdose,’ he exclaimed, his exasperation showing. ‘She had tramlines on both arms and both legs and a dirty syringe still in her arm, for goodness’ sake!’
Kate rounded on her husband in the hospital car park, shock still evident on her face. ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Hayd?’ she shouted. ‘None of you do. You saw the name in the book at Ellie Landy’s lodgings – Sandman? He’s a real person, not some figment of my imagination. Polly told me he killed Ellie and she herself was running from one of his thugs. Now she’s dead too. OD? Yeah, maybe, but not by her hand, I’ll bet my career on it.’
He sighed. ‘You might have to, old thing,’ he said quietly, ‘if Roscoe hears you come out with any of this.’
‘This is not about Roscoe,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s Ricketts – the DCI – looking for a bloody quiet life. Roscoe’s being leaned on – it’s all sodding politics – you know that. I just can’t believe that tough, old, no-nonsense bastard is going along with it.’
Kate turned her back on him and marched to the CID car he was driving, slamming into the front passenger seat in a cold frustrated rage as he slipped behind the wheel.
‘So, where to now?’ he queried gently.
Kate glared at him. ‘You know where to, Hayd,’ she grated, ‘or weren’t you bloody listening? Paramedic said she was found in an old canal boat moored on the Bridgwater Canal, so that’s where to. OK? All we have to do is look for a flashing blue light on the sodding towpath. Think you can manage that?’
But Hayden knew better than to answer when she was in this kind of mood and simply started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay, heading for the exit.
There was no blue light flashing. The driver of the patrol car had no doubt switched it off to save the battery, but the police car wasn’t difficult to pick out. A middle-aged policewoman walked over to them when they pulled up behind it and nodded unnecessarily towards the solitary green and black houseboat moored close to the canal bank just feet away.
‘Need to be careful,’ the policewoman warned. ‘The boat’s pretty low in the water and some of the decking is rotten. Apparently it was condemned over three months ago.’
Kate grunted. ‘Poor little cow,’ she murmured. ‘How was she found?’
‘Dog walker,’ the constable replied. ‘Saw her sprawled on the deck and did a three nines on his mobile. She was still alive – just – but apparently snuffed it on the way to hospital.’
Hayden – ever the gentleman – preceded Kate on to the boat’s creaking for’ard deck to test its strength before reaching down to help her over the gap between the bank and the hull. She ignored his proffered hand and pushed past him to a flight of wooden steps leading below.
The place stank. Body odour mixed with the dank smell of the canal, which was only just visible through dirty cracked windows. Clothes were piled everywhere in untidy heaps and an unfinished ready-meal in a foil tray stood on the pull-out table amid a litter of needles, joints and dirty paper tissues.
‘Poor little cow,’ Kate said again.
‘Where do we start looking?’ Hayden queried cheerfully, though the disagreeable look on his face was at a complete variance with his tone.
Kate shrugged. ‘You do the cupboards to the right and I’ll do those on the left,’ she said, indicating the rows of small sliding doors close to the floor.
‘Starboard for me and port for you then?’ Hayden drawled in his most superior voice. ‘What are we looking for?’
Kate gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I haven’t the faintest,’ she retorted and crouched down to start the search on her side, sliding each door back with the care of someone expecting something unpleasant – like a poisonous spider – to leap out at her.
There were no poisonous spiders, however, and she found nothing else out of the ordinary either – just a few tins of food, mainly baked beans, a few empty wine bottles and some stained underclothes, and it was actually Hayden who came up with ‘the goods’ in the end, bringing her to her feet in a rush when he exclaimed, ‘What’s this then?’
The A4 size piece of stiff, once glossy paper had been folded into four and was torn and dirty but the printing, superimposed on a coloured picture of a dance in full swing, was clear enough to read and Kate snatched what was plainly an advertisement poster from his hand before he could comment further.
‘The Sapphire Club,’ she said aloud, scanning the invitation to attend one of its gigs for the ‘bargain price’ of fifteen pounds. ‘Couple of months ago, going by the date.’
Hayden nodded. ‘But that isn’t the interesting bit,’ he said. ‘Turn it over.’
She did so and started. Someone, presumably the dead girl, had used the back of one folded section of the poster to write down a name and what appeared to be a mobile telephone number in a felt tip pen – and the name jumped right out at her. ‘ “Leroy”,’ she breathed.
‘Otherwise known as the Spliff,’ he finished for her.
‘At last we have a definite link,’ she said, and her eyes were shining.
‘For all the good it will do us,’ he replied, ‘since we can’t go anywhere near the club anyway.’
‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, producing her mobile phone, ‘but there’s nothing to stop us dialling a telephone number is there?’
At first Kate thought there was no one at home when she rang, but then the mobile at the other end rasped and a gruff voice said, ‘Yeah?’
‘Leroy?’ Kate queried, keeping her voice low.
‘Who wanna’ know?’
Kate took a chance. ‘Sally – friend of a friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘Polly.’
There was silence for a moment. Then the voice grunted, ‘Don’t know no Polly.’
‘Polly said you could help me with some stuff.’
‘Stuff? Don’t know what yo’ mean.’
‘Said you had some good jenny.’
‘Jenny? What yo’ talkin’ about – yo’ mad person?’
She manufactured a gasp. ‘Listen, I’m really jonesing for some stuff. Polly said to call you.’
‘Hey, you got wrong number, girl. Can’t help you with noffink.’
‘I�
�ve got fifty says you would like to.’
There was a disparaging snort, but then greed overruled caution. ‘Need more’n fifty – less you is a jolly pop?’
‘I ain’t no jolly pop, but fifty’s all I got.’
Leroy thought about that a bit longer. Kate could practically hear the cogs in his brain turning. ‘Why yo’ come to me now? Ain’t never heard of no Sally before neiv’er.’
‘Just got in from the Smoke. Used to live around here.’
He gave a non-committal grunt. ‘Yo’ better be legit or I cut yo’ bad.’ Kate didn’t answer and he belched. ‘Yo know ol’ Toliver factory near Street?’
She remembered her meeting with Polly and her mouth tightened.
‘Yeah, I know it.’
‘Be there at four. What you look like?’
‘Ginger hair, black leather coat.’
‘Cool.’
‘How will I know you?’
But there was no answer and Kate swore as the line abruptly went dead. Then she looked up to see Hayden staring at her.
‘What the devil was all that about?’ he exclaimed. ‘And where did you learn all that gibberish? Jenny, jonesing, jolly pop – it was as if you were on another planet.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Ah, but there you are, my man, I have hidden depths, you see.’ Then she was serious again. ‘Nine months attached to Drug Squad actually.’
He frowned. ‘Oh yes, I remember – that big operation in Bristol. So what did it all mean, Miss Clever Dick?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, jenny is heroin, jonesing means I need it really badly and jolly pop is someone who is not really an addict, but just a casual user, who wouldn’t need much of a score.’
He grunted. ‘I’m impressed. But you’re not meeting with a creep like him on your own and that’s final! It’s much too dangerous.’
She cast him a mischievous sideways glance. ‘I wasn’t intending to. I thought you’d be coming with me.’
