The Sweeney 01

by Ian Kennedy-Martin

  They went into the dining room and Ewing pushed the door shut. He moved thoughtfully over to the window and looked out over the trees. ‘What the fuck are we doing?’

  Regan had been waiting for some such question. He had sensed that Ewing was disturbed about something.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’re doing. We’re into something, the Mavor case. You know, we could spend the next ten years checking out the last twelve months of a small criminal.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The Mavor case produces Carlyle Buildings, produces this black girl. Maybe you’re solving the Mavor case. I’m not solving the Purcell case.’

  ‘They’re the same.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the mistake.’ The American thoughtful, concentrating. ‘I’m beginning to believe they’re not the same case — the connection’s remote. Purcell is in England as a draftsman to plan some kind of robbery. What robbery, why Purcell? That’s my investigation. Now, if you can definitely link Mavor, the black broad, Carlyle Buildings and here, to Purcell, fine. Otherwise we have to go our separate ways, right?’

  Regan didn’t have to say anything. He was an experienced cop — he didn’t even have to nod his agreement.

  Carter found the letter. He and the other detective sergeant had moved on from the living room into the bathroom. The cabinets were empty; the girl’s basic make-up was still packed in a travelling case. There was a paperback on top of a laundry basket by the lavatory. It was an Agatha Christie The 4.15from Paddington, Carter had opened it and the letter had fallen out.

  It was one page and a photograph. The page was unsigned, but it had a date on it. It had been written a week before. The photograph was of a tall, good-looking, forty-year-old man in Bermuda shorts and a floral shirt, standing in the sun outside a large building that looked like a hotel. Carter took it to Regan. Regan studied the photo and handed it to Ewing. Ewing shook his head. It wasn’t Purcell.

  ‘ “Dear Martha, I have to stay away for a bit — say two months until things cool down. Don’t go screwing around. Wait for me. It’s sunny here in France and I need the rest. Two months is not a long time to wait.” ‘ Regan quoted aloud from the letter, held it up in front of Martha. ‘Who?’ he asked.

  She turned her head aside.

  ‘If he’s nobody we won’t bother him. If he’s someone important we’ll identify the photo soon enough.’

  No answer.

  ‘Where was the letter posted from?’ Regan pushing the photograph up in front of her nose.

  Ewing’s hand came out and took the photograph. He studied it. ‘That looks a helluva lot like the Hotel Negresco, Nice. There’s bound to be a photo of it somewhere in a travel brochure...’

  ‘Except the photograph doesn’t mean he’s staying at the hotel,’ Regan returned.

  ‘Maybe the girl knows that.’

  Regan shrugged. The girl wasn’t going to talk, yet. She was frightened, confused, and all that would come of a state like that would be a stack of lies. ‘Carter, see Detective Inspector McCarthy, Bomb Squad. He’s in charge of a photo file on IRA. Take this.’

  Carter took the photo of the man and went. Regan, Ewing and the other sergeant continued the search. Ewing going through a cupboard of clothes, duplicating Regan’s search of the same cupboard and the same clothes, men’s clothes. There were a couple of suits, two drawers of laundered shirts, a drawer of socks and ties. The bloke’s clothes hung up tidily. Martha’s clothes laid out, hung up behind doors, as if she had never moved in, Martha sitting there, alternating silence with quiet weeping.

  After an hour Carter phoned back. The man in the photograph had been positively identified by the Bomb Squad as John Declan Murray, Operations Chief of the Provisional IRA in England, now believed to be abroad.

  At six-thirty pm, the Secretary of the Maudsley Hospital allowed Regan, with Ewing in tow, an interview with Joe Arthur Harold Edward Thomas Lear. ‘Not more than five minutes, and the Matron will be present and will signal you to leave if she thinks your questions upset the man unduly.’

  Lear looked well on the way to recovery — both his health and composure. Regan took less than five minutes. He held the photo of John Declan Murray, Operations Chief of the Provisional IRA in England, up to Lear’s nose. ‘If you identify the man in this picture as the man who gave you the passport photographs of Purcell, and asked you to forge the Irish passport, you’re no longer on a murder charge. Is this the man who gave you the passport photos of Purcell?’

  Regan didn’t want an actual admission, he wanted the knowledge; Ewing wanted a direct link between the draftsman Mavor, and the draftsman Purcell to the IRA Provos.

  The look in Lear’s eyes told them the answer was affirmative: Murray had brought him Purcell’s photo. Then, after a pause, Lear nodded his head, looked frightened again, and turned his face to the wall. Regan and Ewing walked out.

  Two o’clock in the morning the phone rang in Regan’s flat. He was in a half sleep. He considered the alternatives of answering it or not. It couldn’t be anything else but Squad Office at the Yard with either a real or imagined crisis. If the news was really crisis news then the night switchboard sergeant would be instructed to ring his number every quarter of an hour until it was answered. But he’d kept them waiting on previous occasions. If the phone rang off and then rang back in fifteen minutes from now when he would have had the chance to wake up properly, then he’d know it was Squad Office. He groaned — he was now awake from debating with himself the possibilities. He picked up the phone.

  ‘I woke you up?’ That was the question, but Ewing didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I got to talk to you. Out loud,’ he added, ‘you understand?’

  ‘Talk,’ Regan grunted. He didn’t understand.

  ‘I went to bed midnight. I usually sleep well,’ Ewing’s voice contemplative, as if he was settling into some long story. ‘But I got to thinking about things, you know?’

  Regan didn’t know.

  ‘Something happened today. And it was at that black girl’s apartment in Notting Hill Gate. Something wasn’t right.’ Ewing lapsed into silence.

  Regan could almost hear Ewing’s mind calculating some unidentified imponderable. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘You know what I mean by hunch, gut feeling?’

  ‘I know ‘em. What d’you mean?’

  ‘Something happened at that apartment while we were there today and I don’t know what, but I have to go back to that apartment now, and see over it again.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘And that’s why I haven’t slept.’

  ‘Now?’ Regan’s voice sceptical. At the same time he was interested. He knew that if Ewing had a hunch or an instinct about something, it would be worth following up.

  ‘How do I get in there? Do I need a search warrant?’

  ‘That’s academic as Martha’s in our custody. But I don’t think we ask her for the front door key.’

  ‘Okay. Who picks who up?’ Ewing asked.

  ‘You pick me up. I have to wake up.’

  Twenty minutes later Ewing arrived. ‘I’m awake,’ Regan announced, climbing into the Jaguar, and pointing out the way east to Campden Hill.

  ‘And you want an explanation and I haven’t got it. I saw something at that apartment this afternoon… I don’t know what I saw. That’s it.’

  Regan studied the American’s face in the half-light reflections from street lamps. Two-thirty now in the morning – still some traffic motoring in isolation on Kensington High Street. Ewing’s face a mask. Regan wondered how much of Ewing’s talent as a detective was based on instinct. He’d assumed the guy was a textbook cop, like his own immediate superior, Haskins, like too many of them. Regan thought about that, worked on it, and realized that he knew as much now about Ewing as he knew four days ago when he met him at London Airport, and that was nothing.

  At 15 Blenhurst Mansions, Campden Hill, Ewing rang the doorbell several times. No answer. John Declan Murray, Operations Chief of the IRA Provos and William
s’ hump, was not answering or not there. Regan picked the lock. He’d brought along his little leather pouch which some burglar had left behind after fleeing the scene of a crime years ago.

  ‘What d’you think we’re looking for? What do I do?’ He stood with Ewing in the centre of the living room. Ewing didn’t answer. Eyes vague, he wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘Why don’t you make us some coffee. Jack?’

  Regan annoyed. ‘You brought me along to make coffee?’

  ‘Make coffee, don’t make coffee…’

  Regan made coffee, set a cup down for Ewing on top of a portable television, then followed him round, sipping on his own cup. Ewing was going over the apartment systematically again, stripping the beds, searching drawers, checking out the bathroom cabinet, Martha’s unpacked bag of make-up, the man’s clothes, presumably John Declan Murray’s. Ewing even studied the tins of food in the kitchen cupboard. He completed his search. He hadn’t found the mysterious something he was looking for. He started again. He got about half-way into the search. Then he turned to Regan. ‘You took the letter and the photograph that came from Murray in the South of France? Where is it?’

  Regan took out his wallet and opened it and handed over the photograph and the single sheet of airmail paper.

  ‘You keep evidence like this in your wallet?’ Ewing asked. It was a criticism.

  ‘Sometimes I keep evidence in my jock-strap; frequently I lose it. You ask around. They’ll tell you dear old Jack, always losing key documents.’ Regan sat down, now suddenly tired, knowing the American had failed to deliver the goods. By the time he got home to Hammersmith he’d have lost most of a night’s sleep. He didn’t mind losing a night’s sleep provided there was a good reason. Ewing had obviously drawn a blank.

  Ewing read the letter aloud. ‘ “Dear Martha, I have to stay away for a bit — say two months until things cool down. Don’t go screwing around, wait for me. It’s sunny here…” ‘

  Regan looked at his watch. ‘You need me? Why don’t we continue this tomorrow?’

  Ewing ignored him. Regan could see his eyes scanning the letter, the photograph, re-reading the letter, studying the photograph again; and then Ewing’s eyes stopped on the photograph, and his head swung round to the bedroom. And he was off — pacing into the bedroom. Regan was on his feet and following him.

  ‘Jesus, we’re blind bastards.’ Ewing pulled open the cupboard that housed Declan Murray’s clothes. He pulled out the drawer which was packed with Murray’s shirts in cellophane laundry bags, and up-ended it on to the bed. The shirts spilled over the bed. ‘How could we miss it?’

  ‘Miss what?’ Regan clueless, getting annoyed with Ewing.

  ‘The photo. We’re supposed to believe the photo was taken recently in the South of France, and we’re to believe the letter that says he ain’t coming back to England till two months from now. The photograph wasn’t taken recently — maybe it was taken years ago. Or maybe it was taken recently but the guy flew back immediately. But I don’t think his girl knows. I reckon she’s decided he’s abroad for two months.’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘This beach shirt.’ Ewing picked it up off the bed. Now he’d drawn attention to it, Regan suddenly understood.

  The beach shirt in the laundry cellophane was a neutral grey print on a light yellow background. What was printed on the material were the letters of the alphabet, but small print. It took close inspection to see the little print alphabet. It was the same shirt that Declan Murray was wearing in the photo outside the French hotel.

  ‘He could have two of the same shirt?’

  ‘No. You buy identical formal shirts. You don’t buy identical beach shirts. You buy different kinds, different fun patterns.’ Ewing went out of the room, and came back with the coffee, now nearly cold. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took a sip. ‘My proposition is that this guy Declan Murray, who relates to Mavor, whose occupation relates to Purcell, was not in France a week ago posing for this snap — and then staying on for two more months, meanwhile sending his shirt back airmail to be laundered and stuck in that drawer.’

  ‘What’s your proposition?’

  ‘He’s told his girlfriend he’s gone missing for two months. He’s arranged for an old photograph to be sent from the South of France, to her, and to anybody who might pick her up — us.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know what Purcell thinks he’s got himself into — I’d say organizing this photo and letter to be sent, these arrangements, smell too elaborate a groundwork for a simple bank robbery...’

  Regan walked into Flying Squad Office at nine am. Ewing was already there. Detective Sergeant Carter walked in a second afterwards and said that Haskins had been in at eight and would be back at ten and wanted a charge, something to stick on her, otherwise Martha Williams must be released.

  ‘Then find something.’ Regan addressed his Sergeant sharply. He’d had three hours’ sleep and he was irritable.

  Sergeant Carter had spent six hours last night, and two hours this morning, trying to find something. Anything — a parking ticket summons unanswered, a hire purchase debt. ‘There is nothing on Martha Williams,’ Carter said, and he walked out.

  Ewing turned. He had been standing looking out of the window. ‘What the hell do you want her in custody for? We want her out of custody when we question her.’

  Regan’s expression showed that he didn’t follow the reasoning.

  ‘That girl is a tough broad. She isn’t going to talk unless she’s persuaded. And that’s better done in privacy.’

  Regan’s eyes hard on Ewing’s. ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant Ewing, you’ll have to spell that out for me...’

  Ewing didn’t answer immediately. The silence got heavier in the room. ‘Martha Williams has to talk. Your Sergeant Carter says there’s no holding charge. So she gets released from West End Central. I’ll be there. Give me a few hours.’

  Regan sat down behind his desk. The logic was infallible. Martha Williams was a stripper with a background in crime. Under normal interrogation she’d take days, maybe weeks, to come across. He doubted Ewing would have to put too much pressure on the girl. Just walking into her apartment, and a couple of shoves and threats would do it.

  Ewing didn’t give him time to think about it. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  The tall American walked to the door. ‘By the way, I got to tell you something. You’re going to find out. It should be from me. I was with Tanya last night...’

  Regan’s jaw dropped. There was a full twenty seconds of astonished silence. ‘What the fuck d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean I don’t believe in deception. I am telling you I screwed your girl. And if you want to do something about it, you’ll do it to me, and not to her.’

  Regan couldn’t believe it, the suddenness of it. Apart from anything else it didn’t add up. ‘You were with me in Williams’ flat most of the night.’

  ‘I said I couldn’t sleep. I lay and stared at the goddam flower wallpaper on Tanya’s ceiling, and I phoned you at two and I left her and went to your place.’

  There was nothing that Regan could think of to say.

  The tall American’s untroubled eyes were on him. Then he turned and paced out of the room.

  They walked in Hyde Park. It was the kind of morning that London weather can only conjure up half a dozen days in any spring. Eleven am, warm, almost hot. And bright sunlight charging around the park, touching up all the colours, and breaking open the buds of wild primroses under the trees.

  The warmth in the air was kind of mockery. Regan studied her. Her expression as cold as her words. But he wasn’t blaming her. He also wasn’t blaming himself — he was blaming no one. And he cared about her and Ewing, and yet didn’t care. And he certainly didn’t want to know the details. But she had told him, as if it was an explanation, that the guy had taken her home the night Regan got drunk. He’d phoned her the next day, had come round at about eight and taken her ou
t for an hour’s dinner in some lousy local restaurant — so bad that they hadn’t stayed for coffee. And so she’d suggested back to her flat for coffee.

  She hadn’t heard from Ewing today. Obviously she had assumed that Ewing would tell Regan what had happened at some point, but not within hours.

  And Regan listened to her trying to make little bits of excuses knit together, and sounding so obvious and honest as she talked on, but his thoughts were ranging elsewhere. It had been the most serious affair since his marriage broke up. Some of the phrases she was using now were the same pay-off lines that Kate had used six years ago to pull the curtains on that second-rate drama.