Sandman

by David Hodges

  Hayden’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘No one I know. Local guy been using his inflatable twice a day to ferry people and stuff to and from Lowmoor, but I hear he got engine trouble last trip back, so his boat’s laid up for repair in a yard near Burrowbridge.’

  Sam smirked, staring past him into the dusk. ‘So you’ll just have to swim to Lowmoor, won’t you?’

  Tommy Couchman had been a villain all his life. First, small-time hits as a teenager on other school kids, armed with a flick-knife, then to bigger things, like blaggings on petrol stations and convenience stores, tooled up with a nice shooter. He’d done time, of course – got seven years for one armed robbery, but only because the stupid arse of a bookie had tried to tackle him and got a bullet in his thigh for his trouble.

  When he’d come out of stir, though, he’d turned over a new leaf. Blaggings were for dipsticks – there were easier ways of making money and he’d found one of them acting as an enforcer for the syndicate. It was easier because you were preying on your own kind, knocking off or maiming those in the same line of business, and no one was going to worry too much about what happened to other villains, were they? Only thing you had to be sure of was that you were on the winning side, and the syndicate he worked for now – and the Sandman in particular – had no real competitors. That was because they had all been eliminated, just like he had stiffed Leroy. And he grinned as he ran his fingers over the garrotte in his pocket and pushed through the toilet door on the ground floor of the big Victorian house, promising himself that that little turd of a journalist would end up the same way when he found him – and whoever had sprung him from the attic in the first place.

  He stared around the toilet and saw the open window immediately. Another grin. He’d guessed as much. He’d known about that dodgy window in the bog for a while; it was important to know everything about your environment if you were to survive. He checked the sill and, with the aid of his torch, saw the scrapes in the paintwork. They hadn’t been there before, he was sure of it. He stuck his head through the window and studied the misty yard outside. It seemed to be deserted. He frowned. They were somewhere in the grounds then. All he had to do was find them. And once again he ran his fingers over the loop of the garrotte in his pocket.

  Kate grabbed Lessing none too gently by the arm and pushed him up against the wall of the building. As far as she could tell, the thug in the archway hadn’t seen them yet and she breathed a sigh of relief for the increasing gloom of the winter’s afternoon, which might now be their ally.

  ‘Keep quiet and stick close to me,’ she whispered into Lessing’s ear, conscious of his trembles and the little whimpers he kept making, which could easily be picked up on the still air.

  Almost dragging him, she edged her way along the wall to the basement laboratory and pulled him down the steps with her, pressing him against the wall at the bottom, with one hand cupped around his mouth as footsteps rang on the stone slabs above, then stopped at the top of the steps. She visualized sharp eyes peering down at the lighted laboratory windows and held her breath, watching white-coated figures moving about within the lab and praying that one of them wouldn’t approach the window and peer out. Lessing quivered against her and emitted a soft terrified moan. She gripped his throat with her other hand and squeezed tightly, cutting off his air supply. Silence as he tried to claw the hand away. She tightened her grip and felt his body sag against her.

  There was a scraping sound from above and then the footsteps moved on. She released her grip on Lessing’s throat, then slowly removed her hand cupped over his mouth. He exhaled in a long trembling gasp and sank down on to his knees, making rasping choking noises.

  ‘Shut it!’ she whispered in a hoarse voice. ‘He’ll hear you.’

  In the laboratory one of the white coats crossed the room to the window and she ducked down beside the agency man, squeezing his shoulder tightly in warning as a shadow was projected on the wall beside them. She heard the faint clink of bottles and water spurted out of a pipe by her feet and into a small grating. The shadow vanished.

  ‘Come on – quickly!’ she breathed into Lessing’s ear, then hauled him roughly to his feet and dragged him back up the steps.

  ‘You nearly suffocated me,’ he wheezed.

  ‘That’s nothing to what they’ll do to you if they catch us,’ she retorted. ‘Now come on!’

  The yard seemed deserted, but in the thickening mist it was difficult to be sure. Kate peered into the shadows. Where had the hulk gone? Back into the house via another door into an outbuilding or over to the parked horse boxes? She took a chance. ‘Come on!’ she said again and, grabbing Lessing by his shirt collar, all but jerked him off his feet.

  They made the archway without mishap – there was no sign of anyone – and they had a clear run to the shrubbery at the front of the house. Concealed among the dripping bushes, however, Kate studied the firmly closed electronic front gate with a mounting sense of frustration. As she’d noted earlier, there didn’t appear to be any surveillance cameras in the grounds and she hadn’t heard the sound of any dogs, but getting clear of the house without detection seemed to be impossible.

  The only way they would get through the gate was if someone decided to go out, or the house received another visitor, which might give them a slim opportunity to slip away before the gate closed again. But in her heart of hearts she knew that the odds on that happening were about a hundred to one against. So what did they do? They couldn’t hide in the shrubbery for ever and once daylight dawned, it wouldn’t be long before they were found. No, they had to get out while it was dark – scale the wall if necessary – and she made a rueful grimace at the thought.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Lessing suddenly whimpered beside her. ‘How can we get out?’

  ‘Good point!’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m glad you raised it.’

  ‘But – but we can’t stay here all night. I’m cold and wet and I need my inhaler.’

  As if to reinforce the fact, he went into a fit of raucous coughing.

  She grabbed his arm tightly. ‘Stop that!’ she grated. ‘They’ll hear you.’

  Now he was crying again, sobbing like a small child between rending coughs. ‘I can’t help it, I’m ill.’

  Spinning him round on his haunches, she grabbed his face with both hands. ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll leave you to them. Then you won’t need a bloody inhaler because you won’t be breathing anymore.’

  He was shaking violently now and for a moment she thought she might have gone too far. He was obviously terrified and maybe shock tactics only made things worse.

  ‘Look,’ she said with forced patience. ‘You stay here and keep very quiet. I’m going to take a look around to see if I can find another way out—’

  ‘You can’t!’ His hands were clutching at her coat in a panic. ‘What if you don’t come back?’

  Gently, but firmly, she pulled his hands away. ‘I won’t leave you, I promise, but one of us has to do a recce. Do you want to do it?’

  He shook his head quickly and she stood up. ‘Just stay right here so I know where to find you – and for heaven’s sake keep quiet.’

  Before he could protest further she was gone, pushing her way through the shrubbery in the other direction, away from the gate.

  The rain had stopped completely now, but the mist swirled around her like a live thing, cold, dank and smelling of stagnant water and decay.

  Within a few yards, the shrubbery gave way to more lawn, stretching away between the front of the house, with its gravel forecourt, and the huge sheer wall encircling the property. Striking off to her left through the bushes, she kept her back to the house, skirting the lawn until the shrubbery ended and she found herself on the edge of a gravel path, which seemed to follow the line of the wall as it curved away from her towards the far side of the building. Darting across the path, she pressed herself against the wall and followed it along, all the time casting anxious g
lances across the lawn towards the fuzzy outline of the house. But nothing stirred and shortly afterwards the lawn gave way to more shrubbery effectively masking her from view.

  She made faster progress after that, but she didn’t get far. Within twenty or thirty yards the path ended again in a small paved area, with a small stone outhouse – a gardener’s hut perhaps – backing on to the wall to her left and half-a-dozen refuse bins lined up against what was obviously the end wall of the house on her right. In front of her was an open archway and, checking it out, she found herself staring into the same paved yard she and Lessing had only just left. Her spirits sank. She had completed almost a full circuit of the house and all that she had managed to establish was that there seemed to be no way out of the grounds except via the main gate – or was there?

  Spinning round, she focused on the stone outhouse. It had actually been constructed against the perimeter wall and she could just see that the top of the wall was only about three feet above the outhouse roof. If she could get up on to that roof – maybe using the sill of the single window for the purpose – she could reach the top of the wall and lay her anorak over the barbed wire before climbing over. She had no idea what was on the other side, but it was worth the gamble – after all, what other option was there? First, though, she had to get back to Lessing and persuade him to follow her.

  But she never got the chance. She didn’t hear the soft footfalls behind her until the last minute and when she whirled round, the tall dark figure was just feet away, standing close to the wall of the house, staring at her.

  For a moment she found herself incapable of movement, every muscle and sinew locking in a form of temporary paralysis and an icy worm burrowing deep into her gut. But then the figure stepped directly in front of her and she released a loud gasp in which both surprise and relief were equally mixed.

  ‘Horse?’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank God! How the hell did you get here?’

  The NCA man gave a hard laugh. ‘Well, if it isn’t the meddling plod,’ he said. ‘You never give up, do you?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘We have to get out of here,’ she said. ‘They were holding a newsman, Gabriel Lessing, in the house. I managed to get him out and have him hidden near here.’

  ‘Very resourceful of you.’

  ‘Yes, well I need to go back for him. Then we can get over the wall from the roof of this outhouse.’

  He nodded. ‘Ellie Landy came to the same conclusion,’ he replied.

  Kate frowned. ‘Ellie Landy? But how—’

  ‘Did I know?’ he finished for her. ‘But I know everything.’

  And he produced a small automatic pistol from somewhere, which he levelled at her stomach. ‘You should have listened to me at the start,’ he said. ‘Now it’s all too late!’

  CHAPTER 16

  The ashtray on DI Roscoe’s desk was full and he had already started on another filter-tip. He had heard nothing from Hayden and it was now over four hours since Kate Lewis had last been seen. His duodenal ulcer was playing up, he had run out of chewing gum and, to make a bad situation even worse, the DCI was still refusing to allow a full-blown search because of the resource implications and the risk of being accused by the headquarters hierarchy of crying wolf.

  Roscoe could have tried to go over his head, but he doubted whether that would have received a sympathetic response in the relevant quarters or achieved anything in the long run – especially if Kate Lewis had then turned up safe and well. The trouble was, whichever way he chose to jump – to await the result of Hayden’s house to house inquiries a while longer, or to try and send the balloon up now and initiate a full-blown search – he was likely to be criticized by the top level brass and dumped on by his career-obsessed boss, whose chameleon-like qualities had become almost legendary.

  He didn’t hear the knock on his office door at first, but when the wizened detective constable knocked again, he jerked out of his reverie with a grunt. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a DCI from the NCA on his way to see you, sir,’ the DC announced cheerfully. ‘Sounded a bit pissed off on his mobile.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Roscoe responded gloomily. ‘Any more good news for me?’

  The DC was right about the visitor’s mood – Detective Chief Inspector Justin Hart was certainly not very happy.

  ‘My department has a problem,’ he said, after introducing himself, and he flashed a gold Rolex watch on his wrist as he shook hands with the DI before dropping into a chair in front of his desk.

  Roscoe studied Hart’s tanned complexion and the sleek, styled black hair that just covered his ears and scowled, reading high-flying golden boy in every crease of the expensive-looking designer suit and black Italian shoes. ‘You have a problem?’ he echoed drily. ‘Try mine for size.’

  Hart grimaced, unimpressed by the DI’s cynical witticism. ‘I gather you have been in touch with one of my DIs about an operation we’re running on your manor?’ he queried.

  Roscoe nodded, elbows on the table and eyes narrowed over steepled fingertips. ‘The drugs thing?’ he said.

  Hart gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘The drugs thing,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s a bit more than just a “drugs thing”.’ We are dealing with a powerful international syndicate run by—’

  ‘The so-called Sandman,’ Roscoe finished for him.

  ‘The Sandman, yes. You’re obviously well-briefed.’

  Roscoe grunted. ‘Yeah, but not well enough.’

  Hart picked up the hostile vibes immediately and treated him to a brief rueful smile. ‘I realize you should have been told about the op at the start, and I apologize for that, but unfortunately secrecy was vital, because we had an undercover officer on the ground and we couldn’t afford to jeopardize his safety.’

  ‘Larry Gittings,’ Roscoe responded. ‘Otherwise known as Horse.’

  ‘Exactly, Larry Gittings – whom I believe you have already met?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes – not that he told us a lot, apart from insulting one of my detective sergeants, that is.’

  Hart winced. ‘Sorry about that and I’m afraid it is him that I am here about.’

  ‘Go on.’

  The DCI squirmed a little in his chair. ‘Our operation started in the Met – Pimlico to be precise – about four months ago when info came to our notice through a reliable snout that a powerful new criminal syndicate had moved into the area and was taking over the manufacture and supply of a whole variety of Class A and B narcotics from other key players. A number of drug-related murders took place and several known premises were fire-bombed during the turf war that followed. Accordingly, we set up a specialist crime unit to deal with the threat posed by the syndicate – adopting zero tolerance tactics to lean on suspected gang members, raiding clubs and known haunts and also employing sophisticated information gathering and surveillance techniques—’

  Roscoe waved a hand irritably. ‘OK, ok, spare me the crap. You don’t need to teach Grandma to suck eggs – I’ve been in the job long enough to know the process – and I guess you made the Smoke too hot for the new boys, so the Sandman moved everyone out to the sticks, where it was quieter.’

  ‘Er – yes, precisely, and he set up the Sapphire Club as the street contact point for the buyers representing the country’s big dealers, arranging for the order and supply of bulk supplies of narcotics through their representatives, paid for by way of sophisticated money-laundering transfers.’

  ‘Why not just use the Dark Web? It’s all the rage now, according to the news.’

  ‘Not enough potential as yet, we suspect. He’s a major player and prefers the traditional methods of trafficking.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, the fact is our operation finally got a breakthrough. One of our highly experienced undercover officers—’

  ‘Larry Gittings?’

  ‘Larry Gittings – reported to us that he was on the verge of infiltrating the organization through his association with one of their front men—’

  ‘Leroy Joseph?’r />
  Hart was clearly caught on the back foot. ‘You are well briefed, Mr Roscoe. But yes, you are exactly right. Joseph had no idea who Gittings was, of course, but he came to trust him as another dealer who wanted an “in” with the syndicate and he made quite a bit of money on the side by supplying Gittings with whatever he claimed to need—’

  ‘Which, hopefully, Gittings then passed to a secure police depository.’

  Hart was squirming again. ‘That’s what happened initially, yes, and Gittings sent regular reports on his progress to a handler we had installed in a house in Glastonbury.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the reports he submitted gradually started to become vaguer and the deposits of illegal material which we expected him to obtain in order to maintain his cover then dried up. We got the impression he was stalling for some reason.’

  ‘But your DI said nothing about this when we made contact with your unit to verify his bona fides?’

  Hart made a face and examined a crease in his trousers with two manicured fingers. ‘Er – no, but we couldn’t. At that stage, we assumed Gittings had encountered a problem, which, for professional reasons, he didn’t want to admit to, and would ultimately find a solution and deliver the goods.’

  ‘So you said nothing?’

  ‘We – er – decided on a policy of wait and see.’

  ‘You could have pulled him out?’

  ‘Yes, but that would have compromised the whole operation and wasted months of effort – not to mention the loss of a key target villain.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’

  Hart seemed unwilling to meet Roscoe’s belligerent stare. ‘It – it was felt that the local force should be made aware of our concerns.’

  But Roscoe was well ahead of him and he leaned forward in his chair, his big hairy hands clenched on the desk top and his eyes practically lazering his perspiring colleague. ‘He’s gone AWOL, hasn’t he?’ he accused. ‘You think he’s been turned and you’ve lost him?’

  Hart swallowed hard again. ‘We think it is possible, yes.’