Beefy’s eyes track over Dip’s face. He’s seen that flat look on Beefy’s face once before. Just before he glassed a bloke in a pub.
‘Show him.’ The boss stands aside so Dip has a good view of the computer.
The screen changes. The orange tint of the car park footage is replaced by a greenish glow which Dip recognizes as an infrared image. They’re inside the van.
But that’s impossible. Dip’s brain tells him it’s impossible, it can’t be real, even though he knows he did all of the things he can see himself doing on the screen.
‘Trust is all very well, but safeguards are better,’ the boss says. ‘We put some surveillance of our own in place, see. Police found it, of course. Took a while to get a copy from their evidence store – annoying I had to pay for it twice, but worth the cover price.’
Oh, shit. He knows. Oh, Jesus, he knows.
His boss looks from the screen to Dip. He bursts out laughing, claps his hands. ‘Your face – I swear, I want a picture of that.’
‘Here’s the bit you wanted, Boss,’ Beefy says.
The boss turns again to the computer, folds his arms. On the screen, Dip takes out a knife and cuts a small slit in the duct tape seal on one of the bags, catches the powder in a baccy tin.
‘Oh,’ the boss says, like he’s never seen it before. ‘Oh. Look at that – that isn’t just a little taster, a finger-dab of sherbet. That’s gotta be ten grams. What’s that worth, Beefy?’
Beefy says, ‘Seven, eight hundred?’
‘Seven or eight hundred.’ He looks at Dip. ‘How d’you explain this one? Don’t tell me – it was a quality assurance check, wasn’t it, Dip?’ He rams his face to within a hair of Dip’s. ‘Is that why you were pilfering nearly a grand’s worth of my property?’
‘Boss, I—’
‘Shut up.’ He moves back to the monitor. ‘We’re just coming to the best bit.’
On the monitor, Dip takes a roll of silver duct tape out of his jacket pocket, cuts off a strip and reseals the bag. The boss turns 180 degrees and wags a finger at Dip. ‘You went tooled up, Dip – that’s premeditated, that is. That’s going equipped.’
‘I’m sorry, Boss. I’m really, really sorry. I never did nothing like that before.’
‘I know. ’Cos we’ve been watching every vanload for the past eight months. Just after we lost 30 kilos of the stuff last summer – three mill of drugs. Of course the cops inflated that to four and a half, but that’s cops for you. Anyway, that’s beside the point – the point is, this one time, you decide to steal from me.’
‘No, no, honest to God, I’m telling the truth.’
‘The problem is, Dip, I can’t believe a word you say. You’ve lied and lied and lied.’
Dip shakes his head, tears coursing down his face again. Because now he knows he’s going to die.
‘Now, I’d be willing to believe this was a one-off, except you didn’t get arrested. Now why is that?’
‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know.’
‘I’ll tell you why: because you were useful to them. You’d just done them a big fat favour – helped them out with their performance targets. You sold us out.’
‘No, Boss, no.’ He’s so sick with fright he can’t even say it like he means it.
‘Except we know they’re watching. So we watch them watch the van for ten days, and then we watch them drive it away and impound it – ’cos even GMP Drugs Squad’ve got the brains to know when they’ve been sussed. You, however, are a different story. You carry on like nothing’s happened. Did you think I wouldn’t find out who grassed me up? Find them and their families and punish them till nothing’s left but bones and scraps of meat for the rats to gnaw on?’
Dip’s eyes widen. No, not his family – they didn’t deserve this. Not Julie, not Daniel. ‘Boss, I swear I never—’ The world is white fire. His skin is melting. It stops for a second, and he slumps forward, gasping. His nose, his mouth, his eyes should be gouting blood. He doesn’t know why he isn’t dead. He wishes he was.
‘Thirty K.’
Electricity rips through him, tearing a scream out of him.
‘What percentage is that of three million?’
Dip gulps air.
The boss lifts his chin. ‘Dip, I asked you a question: what percentage of three million is thirty thousand?’
Why is he asking this? Dip tries to think past the fire in his groin, the torn muscles in his abdomen. Tears squeeze out from under his closed lids. He can’t control the muscles of his face.
He feels a slap and he screams.
‘Open your eyes.’
He does.
‘Now answer me.’
‘I dunno, Boss! I swear.’
He turns to the other two, grinning. ‘He swears – like he needs to convince me he’s a dumb fuck.’ He looks at Dip. ‘Thirty thousand is one per cent of three million. Chickenfeed, compared with what we lost last summer. But worth it to catch the bastard who grassed us up for that one.’
Dip’s eyes open wide. ‘Nooo-oooo!’
‘You know what we do to grasses, Dip?’
‘But I’m not I’m not I’m not.’ They’ll rape his wife in front of his son and they’ll force his boy to watch while they cut pieces off her.
‘I’ll bring them here,’ the boss says. ‘I’ll kill Julie and Daniel, and then I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out so it’s the last thing you see on this earth.’
He shocks him again. And again. And again.
Dip swears on his mother’s life. On his wife’s, on his son’s. He stole, but he’s no grass. He begs them not to touch his wife, his son. They shock him until he feels like his lower half has turned to liquid and he begs to be allowed to die. He passes out a dozen times, but they revive him and shock him again. He swears he is a grass, that he told the police everything he knows. He gives them names, and he is so fevered with shock and pain he doesn’t even know if they’re real or made up. He tells them where to find the spare key to his house, hidden under a rock in his front garden, gives them the code for the alarm, so they can take his wife, his son, if only they will make the pain stop.
‘I think we’re finished here.’
The boss’s voice comes from far away. It’s getting light, and they’ve turned off the car headlights to conserve the battery.
‘So, is he a grass?’ Beefy asks.
‘Nah. He didn’t sell us out, did you, Dip?’
Dip is past speaking, but he groans because a failure to respond will be punished.
The boss slaps his cheek affectionately. ‘He’s a thief, but he’s not a grass.’
‘All that screaming, there’s not a mark on him.’ Beefy seems to find it a marvel.
‘Well, that’s no frigging good.’
Dip responds to the anger, tries to lift his head, but it’s too heavy. He wonders how he will ever be able to hold his head up and look a man in the eye again.
‘I mean,’ the boss says. ‘How’m I supposed to make an example of him if you can’t see nothing wrong with him?’
Beefy shuffles a bit, and Jackal says, ‘Dunno, Boss.’
For half a minute all Dip can hear is his own breath stuttering and catching in his throat.
The boss clicks his fingers and Dip jerks so violently that Beefy has to steady the chair so it doesn’t topple. ‘Look at me, Dip.’
Dip tries, fails.
‘Lift his head. I want him to see this.’
Beefy moves behind him, grabs him by the ears and pulls his head up.
The boss picks up the soldering iron. ‘Cordless,’ he says.
Dip forces himself back into the chair, as if he could merge with the plastic, come out the other side. In his mind he’s already running, five miles down the road.
‘Four double-A batteries, over a thousand degrees of heat. Bloody miracle of science.’
‘No. No, no – you stay the fuck AWAY from me.’ In his head, his voice is a roar of rage, but his voice is ruined by screaming; he can hardly even hear himself.
‘Hold him steady,’ the boss says. ‘I’m about to get creative.’
9
Kate Simms stared at the tall man in the Gieves and Hawkes suit reading her whiteboard notes. Something in the set of his broad shoulders was definitely familiar.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
He swung to face her, and she recognized him instantly: Detective Superintendent Tanford. For a lot of men she knew on the force, good posture was a function of the combined restraint and buttressing effects of uniform. Put them in a suit and they slumped. But not Tanford: he held himself well.
‘Ah.’ Tanford spread his arms wide. ‘DCI Simms!’
He offered her his hand and she took it. His grip was firm, his hand warm; she sensed strength in it, though he didn’t seem to feel the need to prove that to her.
‘Did you want something in particular, sir?’
‘Let’s call it professional interest.’ He nodded to a map on the wall; coloured pins marked the location of every drug death on her list. ‘I heard you’ve been digging up bodies all over Cheetham Hill.’
She frowned slightly. ‘I don’t recall asking for an exhumation, sir.’
‘Sense of humour.’ He chuckled softly. ‘I like that. But I was speaking metaphorically, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve got the pathologists jumping, with your requests for tox screens and full PM reports and samples …’ He looked at her, his head cocked on one side, waiting for an explanation.
She gave none.
‘You did a stint at the National Crime Faculty – when it was still called that. Five years ago – that’d make you Nick Fennimore’s protégée, wouldn’t it?’
She tensed. Every new post she had taken up since the Crime Faculty she’d had at least one visit like this from the higher ranks. She knew the routine by heart: they told Simms her own history, as if she didn’t know it well enough, implied that it was her own flagrant disregard for the rules that had made her fit only for the shit jobs nobody else wanted, and finished with a warning that she had better do as she was told.
‘Fennimore’s wife and child went missing,’ Tanford said, bang on cue. ‘Rachel and …’ He tapped his hand against his thigh, trying to force the name. ‘Nicky … Becky …’
‘Suzie,’ she said, her throat tightening.
‘Suzie, that’s it! Wife turned up dead five or six months later, as I recall. Was he ever in the frame for that?’
‘No, sir.’ It felt like a betrayal even saying that much.
‘No, course not.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry – crass of me – some other case … Did they ever find the daughter?’
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
‘Still, they say Fennimore was the best – some of it must’ve rubbed off. So I’d love to know what you’re thinking.’
She controlled her breathing, thinking, No, you fucking don’t. ‘I’m just here to review the evidence, sir,’ she said, saving him the trouble of saying it.
‘Well, your review is playing havoc with my performance stats,’ he said.
No department head liked anyone messing with their stats. Especially not a disgraced cop who had compromised a major investigation. Simms and Fennimore had burned through tens of thousands worth of NCF resources in the ten days after they found his wife’s body. Rachel’s car was found in a National Trust car park in Cumbria, a hundred miles from where her body was discovered. Simms had allowed Fennimore access to the car and forensic evidence recovered from the deposition site, compromising both as potential crime scenes. She had let him near aspects of the investigation he had no business being near – because like it or not, as the husband, Fennimore was a suspect. And because of Simms, he was all over the evidence; Gifford had never forgiven her for that.
Tanford frowned down at her.
Here it comes, she thought, steadying herself for the onslaught.
But he broke into a grin. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ he said, ‘the street’s buzzing with it.’
Simms stared at him in wonder; she didn’t know how to respond. This was the point in the conversation where he was supposed to remind her that she was only here under sufferance, and he was praising her?
‘I suppose StayC’s mum going off on one like that has made things even worse for you?’ he said, apparently oblivious to her confusion.
She gathered her wits enough to say, ‘Hasn’t made it any easier, sir.’
He took a step closer. He smelled of expensive cologne and peppermint breath fresheners. ‘It’s a knockabout game this,’ he said. ‘And sometimes the wrong person gets elected as punch bag.’
‘Sir,’ she said neutrally.
They stood apart for a moment, each reappraising the other.
He gave her a searching look, suddenly earnest, serious. ‘Have you got what you need, Chief Inspector?’
‘Sir?’
‘The Assistant Chief Constable has a reputation for … um … efficiency.’ He said the word like it had inverted commas around it for ironic emphasis, wrapped it up in a sneer for good measure. ‘Likes to squeeze every last penny from his budgetary pound, our Stuart.’ He looked around at the CID office, busy with detectives working other cases. ‘I’m guessing the best he could rustle up for you is a corner of this CID office, a whiteboard and a couple of clerks.’
She avoided his eye; he wasn’t far wrong.
He puffed air between his lips. ‘That’s Stu for you,’ he said, taking her silence for acknowledgement. ‘Thinks he’s done a good job if he hands money back to Whitehall at the end of the financial year.’
She didn’t contradict him, but she had the sense not to be heard agreeing with him in front of an office full of cops. A Detective Superintendent with an impressive conviction rate and twenty years on the force might get away with implying that the Assistant Chief Constable was an arsehole; a recently promoted DCI with a dodgy history would not.
‘Take my word for it – the tabloids will soon get bored with StayC and the ODs.’ Another dry chuckle. ‘Now wouldn’t that make a great concept album?’
She offered him the ghost of a smile and he seemed to regret his levity.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I loan you a couple of my lads – they know the Manchester drugs scene, and they’ve got the muscle to deal with the local scumbags.’
‘That’s a generous offer, sir,’ she said, the ambitious, selfish part of her thinking that the presence of two of his hand-picked ‘lads’ would make it easier for Tanford to take the credit if she solved the case.
‘So what d’you say? I can have them here in an hour,’ he said.
Was she just being stubborn? She could certainly use the manpower; but she smiled and said, ‘We’re doing okay, thanks.’
She braced herself: if he took offence, she could chalk up another powerful enemy on a growing list. But the superintendent didn’t seem to take it at all amiss. He peered at her with a quizzical smile on his face.
‘Triumph and disaster,’ he said at last. ‘Imposters, both. And I should think whichever it is at the end of this, you’d rather meet either one on your own terms.’ He regarded her seriously. ‘I respect that. Here.’ He handed her his card, then held out his hand again and it swallowed hers. He stopped mid-shake and looked into her face, his dark eyes locked with hers. ‘Anything you need, Kate. Anything at all.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, hearing the wariness in her own voice.
‘You can call me Tanno. Will you take a bit of advice from an old soldier, Kate?’
He still had her hand and she was half convinced he wouldn’t give it up until she agreed to hear him. ‘Always glad to learn from others’ experience, sir.’
‘Tanno,’ he said. ‘C’mon, Kate, you can call me Tanno, can’t you?’
‘Yes, Tanno,’ she said.
He nodded, satisfied, but still didn’t release her hand. ‘It’s true what they say about life on the high crags of management,’ he said.
‘It’s lonely and bloody cold. Policing at this level, nine-tenths of the game is about being able to manage the politics.’
She raised her chin, ready to nod, but not sure where he was taking this.
‘I’ve got a nose for these things,’ he said. ‘The highups on the job are taking flak from all the press interest, getting a bit twitchy, which – don’t get me wrong – is not a bad thing per se. But you might be on the point of kicking up a real shit-storm with those dainty size sevens of yours.’
He released her hand and took a step back. ‘Kick up a shit-storm, you’re bound to get some on your shoes. So – mind you don’t tread it into the carpet.’
Kate thought she caught a sharp glimmer in his eyes, then it softened to something like concern, and she wondered again if she should accept his offer. But half a decade of senior-level disapproval had made for uneasy professional relationships, and a habit of isolation and distrust in Kate Simms. So she let him go and hoped she wouldn’t regret it.
10
The corridor is full of people in no particular hurry. Marta pushes through to her locker. She has a change of clothes in a Next bag, but she’s running very late, so she stashes her rucksack, padlocks the door and shoulders her handbag, then she’s off at a run, dodging and squeezing through the press of bodies. She feels a guilty thrill that she has sat with these good, honest people all morning with a brick of heroin hidden in her bag.
A minute later, she’s out on wide, windswept Oxford Road. A friend sees her and waves. Marta points to her watch, shrugs, mimes ‘call me’, then heads for the city centre at a trot. Sol is waiting in his bronze Lexus near the corner of Whitworth and Princess Street.
She slides in beside him and he turns to tell her she’s late. The surprise on his face almost makes her laugh.
‘When did you start dressing like a student?’
She’s wearing denim jeans, trainers, a grey funnelneck jacket done up to the neck and a coral pink scarf knotted at the throat.
‘Is disguise,’ she says. ‘You don’t like?’
He grins. ‘You kill me, Marta, I swear.’
Sol turns the wheel one-handed, accelerating effortlessly into the traffic and, in minutes, they are on Cheetham Hill Road. He’s taking Marta to drop off an urgent delivery of goods; Frank didn’t want him to go, but Sol said he needed to see for himself how bad things were.
Everyone Lies Page 8
