by Paul Finch
Gail sat at an empty table, while Heck went to get them some tea.
As he waited to get served, he glanced back at her, sitting alone, lost in thought. Despite everything, the partnership was working out OK thus far. Gail had been co-operative and observant, and had asked only intelligent questions. She was clearly a long way from the go-it-alone rebel she’d once been. It was understandable that she’d query him on this; that was only what any responsible person would do. In due course though, experience would teach her to read people and situations more subtly, to look a little further down the road, to know which corners to cut and which gambles to take. If she managed all that successfully, and maintained her other skill sets, she likely had a great career ahead of her.
She still looked doubtful when he returned. ‘Isn’t it a bit irregular to have no back-up?’
He sat down. ‘We’re only obbing the woman. We won’t be challenging anyone.’
‘We’ll still be short-handed … and in the depths of enemy territory.’
‘Course.’ He pushed a mug across the table towards her. ‘Welcome to SCU.’
Chapter 13
For the first few days of Operation Sledgehammer, Heck and Gail hadn’t left their desks.
Instead, they’d rummaged through the life and crimes of Edward Jason Creeley via the online intelligence files of all those relevant police and prison agencies in England and Wales. They’d also spoken on the phone, and at some length, to various police officers and legal representatives who’d had dealings with him. The general consensus seemed to be that, while Creeley had been admired for his undoubted proficiency as a career criminal, his popularity had gradually waned among his own kind due to his ever-increasing propensity for extreme violence.
This was confirmed for Heck and Gail in the middle of that first week, when they went to interview John Fowler, one of Creeley’s fellow blaggers, who’d worked with him on the Newark job. He was now doing twenty-five years in Wormwood Scrubs, and he wasn’t best pleased about it.
‘Good luck finding the fucking lunatic!’ he’d ranted at them. ‘But if you do, try and get him sent here, eh? The law wouldn’t have come down on the rest of us so heavy if he hadn’t got his jollies hurting people.’
The other thing that most of those who knew Creeley personally were quick to point out was how efficiently he could go to ground. That was another reason why his fellow blaggers were no longer so affectionate towards him. While other participants in his various bank raids had eventually been arrested, he’d simply vanished, leaving everyone else to their fate.
Ultimately, this was why Heck and Gail were now on Humberside, Creeley’s home patch and presumably the place he was most familiar with and where he felt most secure.
As agreed, they met in the lobby of the Premier Inn they were staying in at 8 p.m. that evening. Also as agreed, they’d dressed down, though Gail had gone to more trouble than Heck. Whereas he wore jeans, trainers, a T-shirt and a scruffy Wrangler jacket, Gail emerged from the hotel lift wearing a black leather miniskirt, black tights, black spike-heel boots, a black vest and black leather jacket with tassels. She’d frizzed her hair and added green extensions, affecting the ‘punkette’ look. With green eyeshadow and a slash of vermilion on her lips, she looked every inch a wild-hearted babe on the prowl for a good night out.
‘Well?’ she said, as they strode to his Megane.
‘Not bad,’ he responded. ‘I’m not sure they get too many girls looking like you in The Crewman, but at least you don’t look like a copper.’
‘If it’s any consolation, you look a right yob.’
‘Yeah, but I get that when I wear a suit too.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ They climbed into the car. ‘It’s part of your charm.’
‘I’d hope you wouldn’t treat a real girlfriend to a night out in a place like this,’ Gail said quietly, as they selected a table with a clear view of the bar.
‘One thing about this job,’ Heck replied, peeling off his jacket, ‘it makes you a connoisseur of the world’s crappest pubs.’
‘Well … we’re not really here for the beer, are we?’
‘Nevertheless, we’re drinking. Got to make it look right.’
While Gail sat down, he walked to the bar.
If, from the outside, The Crewman had looked like the forlorn remnant of a demolished neighbourhood, inside it consisted of a single room with lino on the floor, benches around the edges and a few tables and chairs in the middle. There was a blackened fireplace, which clearly hadn’t been lit since last winter, and red flock wallpaper, some parts of it frayed and loose, others tinged brown. To be fair to the place, it wasn’t completely odious. The tables were clean, the beer mats fresh and only a very slight whiff of stale beer tainted the air. Two or three locals were present and had struck up a low hubbub of conversation. One old boy leaned against the bar, nursing a pint of Guinness, and chatted amicably with the tattooed barmaid they’d seen earlier that day.
Heck bought a pint of bitter for himself and a white wine for Gail.
He settled alongside her, furtively scanning the other occupants of the room. No one looked especially tense or edgy. And aside from a couple of admiring looks thrown in the direction of the sexy rock-chick who’d unexpectedly turned up, no one was paying much attention to the newcomers, so their disguises were holding out.
‘Be just our luck if she doesn’t come in tonight,’ Gail murmured, noting the clock behind the bar, which was approaching 8:30 p.m.
‘If so, we come back tomorrow.’
‘And in the meantime, what? A whole day gets wasted. That wouldn’t be music to Silver Command’s ears.’
‘Silver Command mean well, Gail, but the schedule they’ve set is impossible.’
‘If she doesn’t show tonight, why don’t we come back tomorrow during the day, and sequester the pub’s security videos? They should have two or three days’ worth. Let’s see if we catch anything that way.’
‘Yeah, and by the day after tomorrow, the entire neighbourhood will know … and Nan Creeley will have cancelled whatever plans she’s making with her brother.’
Gail tutted. ‘There’s a lot of supposition there.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Heck, I …’ Her words broke off and she grabbed his wrist.
Nanette Creeley had entered the pub.
They knew her instantly from the surveillance photos in Eddie Creeley’s file: a small, thin woman, with short, dark hair greying at the edges, carrying a large handbag and wearing a beige, zip-up waterproof which came down to her thighs. According to the file, she was only forty-eight, but she looked a good ten years older; her face wizened and colourless, emaciated to the point where her eyes seemed to bug. She shuffled straight to the bar and purchased, as they’d been told, a half a bitter, before moving along the counter to its farthest end, close to the Ladies’, where she took up her normal post. There were plenty of chairs and tables free in the pub, but she made no attempt to go to any of those.
Heck wondered if it was a protection issue. With the bar-top to her left, and the wall next to the Ladies’ behind her, that meant she only had two directions to keep an eye on; if anyone approached her, she’d see them in good time. In addition, there were no chairs or stools at that end of the bar, so no one could plonk themselves down in a position that she might feel crowded her.
‘Perfect place to write a letter she wants no one else to read,’ he muttered.
Gail sipped her wine as she covertly watched.
A minute passed, during which the woman took occasional pecks at her drink. Then, abruptly, she opened the handbag at her hip, taking out what looked like writing materials. It was difficult to be absolutely sure, because though they had an open view of her position, she was in the opposite corner of the pub, a good twenty-five yards away. It looked as if she had a pen in hand, and had laid at least one small, squarish piece of paper on the bar-top. She now bent over this, partially shielding what she was doing, a
nd began to write.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy paying a visit?’ Heck said quietly.
Gail took another sip of wine, stood up and sauntered across the room. Making a beeline for the Ladies’, she veered closely past the woman, who, in a very unsubtle gesture, leaned right over what she was writing. The same thing happened when Gail re-emerged from the toilets and crossed back towards their table.
‘Well,’ she said, as she sat, ‘that was instructive.’
‘Yeah? Do tell.’
‘She made sure to cover what she was actually writing. But she must have written out the envelope, and stamped it, beforehand. Because that was lying on the bar-top next to her.’
‘And?’
‘It’s addressed to Maggie Stoke of 27, Hellington Court.’
‘Isn’t that …?’
‘Yep.’ Gail glanced round at him. ‘Heck … why is Nan Creeley writing a letter to the old lady who lives next door to her? The same one she goes to visit every morning.’
Heck thought long and hard. ‘The only explanation … is that she isn’t doing that.’
‘I don’t need my eyes checking. I assure you that was the address …’
‘I believe you.’
Again, he pondered the conundrum, still watching their target, who now seemed to have finished writing, because she was in the process of licking the envelope, sealing it and slipping it into her coat pocket.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ he said. ‘Seems Nan Creeley isn’t as dim as our pal, Vic Mortimer, thinks. She probably isn’t as dim as Vic himself.’ He leaned into Gail’s personal space. ‘Suppose what you’ve just seen over there is a diversion?’
‘What you mean?’
‘Nan’s not sure if anyone’s watching … but just in case they are, she wants them to think she’s written a letter.’
‘She has written a letter. We just saw—’
‘No.’ He caught her hand under the table and squeezed it. ‘No … we saw her write something.’
‘Yeah, and then she sealed the envelope and put it in her pocket.’
‘That’s the clever part.’
Gail still watched the woman but was looking and sounding tetchy. ‘I still don’t follow.’
‘Listen … as far as the world knows, Nan Creeley’s just written an everyday letter, which she will soon go off and innocently post. Yes?’
‘OK …’
‘But suppose she’s not written an everyday letter, and that envelope is in fact empty?’
‘How’d you get that?’
‘Something weird’s obviously going on. Like you say, why bother writing a letter to a neighbour she sees all the time? Even if she’s fallen out with that neighbour and will only now communicate in writing, why not save the price of a stamp and shove it through the letter box? Anyway, we know she’s already written several of these letters.’
‘Yeah, but …’ Gail shook her head, ‘why bother sending empty envelopes?’
‘Because they’re dummies, designed to distract people like us.’ He paused to think. ‘Though I suppose that begs the question why not send them to her own house?’
‘Now you’ve totally lost me,’ Gail said.
‘Most likely, it’s down to our clodhopping friends, Hodges and Mortimer, who’ve been all over this neighbourhood like a rash.’
‘You mean she’s clocked them?’
‘Totally. They might as well have walked around Orchard Park with megaphones. Nan Creeley probably already knew who Hodges was when he tailed her into this pub.’
‘Now I get it,’ Gail said. ‘She knew he’d see her posting letters, and was worried that he might get a warrant to open the post box?’
‘Exactly. Which is what he did. But none of the letters or packages in that pillar box were of interest, were they? All the names got checked … and none of them rang any alarms.’
‘Whereas, if she’d addressed the dummy envelope to herself, that might have aroused at least some suspicion,’ Gail said.
‘Exactly. That’s why she addressed it to a completely innocent party, nice old Maggie Stoke who lives next door.’ Heck sat back. ‘So, there you go – dead end.’
‘But what would Maggie Stoke think, receiving empty envelopes through the post?’
‘She won’t think anything. She’s infirm, or so we’ve been told.’
‘Heck, we don’t know how badly …’
‘She doesn’t get around easily. That’s what Hodges said. OK, doesn’t mean she’s completely immobile … but Nan Creeley has a key to her flat, provided by Maggie herself, because she needs quite a bit of assistance. Is it such a stretch to assume that bedridden Maggie can’t get down the hall easily to pick her mail up?’
‘There’s a lot of assuming going on here.’
‘But it’s logical. Nan Creeley goes next door every day, first thing in the morning. Ostensibly, to help Maggie out. But maybe to recover the empty envelope too.’
Gail still looked doubtful. ‘That’s going to an awful lot of trouble.’
‘Yeah, but it worked.’ Heck never took his eyes from the near-stationary figure in the corner, fascinated to know what the next move might be. ‘It certainly threw Hodges and Mortimer off the trail. We can check anyway. They’ll have kept a record of all the letters that search warrant turned up in the pillar box.’
‘Sounds vaguely plausible, but …’ Gail shook her head, ‘the real question is, if whatever she wrote over there hasn’t gone into that envelope, where is it now?’
‘Probably still over there. On the bar.’
Gail tried not to look as puzzled as she clearly felt. She couldn’t see if there was any paperwork still on the bar-top and said as much.
Heck shrugged. ‘To be fair, Gail, you yourself admitted that you couldn’t see what she was actually writing, or what she was writing it on. Could have been the back of a bus ticket, for all we know.’
‘Heck … let’s be realistic.’
‘OK, but it doesn’t have to be a sheet of foolscap, or something we’d see easily.’
Gail pondered. ‘If all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is real, and not pure imagination, that suggests she’s writing to her brother, doesn’t it?’
‘It also suggests she’s meeting someone here who knows where he is,’ Heck said.
‘Again, that seems like a stretch.’
‘Just eliminate the other possibilities. If she still intends to post that note, whatever it is, why not just write it at home, where no one can see and no one will be suspicious? No … she’s here because she’s meeting someone, and she wants to put it into their hand personally.’
‘So why not just pass it to someone out on the street? You know, she’s walking one way, he’s walking another … seemingly accidental contact.’
‘That doesn’t work if you’re as conscious that you’re being watched as Nan Creeley is. She knows the cops are onto her. So, coming in here serves two purposes, firstly to create the diversion, secondly to somehow pass the real message on.’
‘So, the next person she talks to …?’
‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head, as though suddenly doubting his own thesis. ‘Can’t be that obvious, even with the diversion.’
‘So, how the hell is she going to do it?’
‘I don’t know. We just need to keep obbing her. But don’t make it too obvious. She doesn’t know us from Adam … but this is a locals’ pub, so that alone may cause her to be suspicious.’
In response, Gail took a compact from her bag, and though she continued to keep watch, made a show of fixing her make-up. Heck, meanwhile, sank some more beer. Not that Nan Creeley seemed in any way suspicious. She wasn’t looking back at them, and in fact barely seemed to have registered their presence. Now that her letter was written, she stared into space, a worried and preoccupied look on her face.
‘She doesn’t look too happy,’ Gail observed.
‘No,’ Heck agreed. For the first time, he wondered why it was that the woman might be attempting t
o contact her estranged brother.
Gail stood up. ‘Shall I get us another round?’
‘No. She’s already had a gander at you. I’ll go this time.’
He strolled over to the bar. The hour was getting on, and the pub filling up. The licensee had now appeared alongside the barmaid. He was an older man with a squat build and square shoulders. Despite his shirt and tie, he possessed a thuggish aura. His grey hair was thinning, but sideburns adorned both his cheeks, and he had a snarly, hangdog face. Because there were now two staff on, Heck was served quickly and didn’t get much of a chance to survey the lone figure at the end of the bar, or the bar-top alongside her. It also struck him that time was running out. Hodges had told them that Nan Creeley normally stayed in The Crewman for an hour – she’d arrived at 8:30 p.m. and it was now 9:25.
‘We’re not getting anywhere here,’ Gail said, when he sat down again. ‘Sod this, Heck … we need to know what we’re looking for. I’m paying another visit.’
Heck said nothing as she stood up and crossed the pub. This time, a couple of loutish individuals stopped her, both semi-inebriated and passing ribald comments on her sexy attire. The Gail Honeyford of their previous association would have bristled with outrage, but tonight she stayed in character, exchanging a few flirty quips with them. She even managed to put on an amateur-dramatics-standard northern accent.
Heck continued to watch Nan Creeley, who, in somewhat desultory fashion, sipped away the last suds of her bitter and commenced buttoning her coat. Gail also noticed this and broke away from the two men with a comment about desperately needing to pee.
