Dark Side

by Margaret Duffy

  Campbell said, ‘As I’ve reminded everyone more than once it’s important to act professionally and stick to the evidence. We have a murder weapon with the DCI’s fingerprints on it. He was found at the crime scene. And, yesterday, a pair of leather gloves was discovered on top of a pile of garden waste at the recycling site that Carrick has identified as his. They have the name of a Glasgow mens’ outfitters on a label inside. There are traces of the same grease on them, or motor oil as we now know it is, as we found on the steering wheel of his car. The forensic people think the wheel was wiped with them, not just worn while driving. He can’t explain that although he remembers putting some oil in his wife’s car recently.’

  ‘Wearing his leather gloves?’ Patrick queried. ‘Really? It’s been very warm lately.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.’

  ‘Oh, come on! What man would do that to decent gloves?’

  ‘They’re by no means new,’ Campbell responded urbanely.

  ‘Let’s try to re-create this,’ Patrick persisted. ‘He gets in his car in the station car park and absent-mindedly puts on the greasy gloves but takes them off and then wipes the wheel with them. That makes no sense at all.’

  ‘But he was ill. I’m not saying for one moment that the man did any of this while being in what I’ll describe as his right mind.’

  ‘I suggest to you that someone else put on the gloves because he didn’t want his fingerprints to be found inside the vehicle. His hands were greasy as he had been fiddling around with his car and without thinking he had tried to clean them on the gloves as he got behind the wheel, then realized that he ought to wear them. Before he threw them on the tip he wiped the wheel with them just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘That could be one theory,’ the DI agreed.

  ‘Have you found the weapon with which Cooper was struck on the head before his throat was cut?’

  Campbell shook his head. ‘No. It’s likely to be some kind of heavy, blunt object, possibly metal, as it did a lot of damage to his skull.’

  ‘Just the one blow?’

  ‘Yes. And delivered to the top of his head, so whoever did it must have been quite tall.’

  Carrick happens to be quite tall. I could see where he was leading with this. So, too, could Patrick. ‘Or Cooper was on his knees having already been knocked over.’

  ‘Carrick’s just over six feet in height,’ Campbell persisted.

  ‘Kev,’ I said to Patrick, ignoring the remark.

  ‘The bouncer at the club,’ Patrick explained to the DI. ‘Outgrew his intellect before he was born.’

  ‘Who you say you came across at the club.’

  ‘We came across quite a few of Hamsworth’s retinue. They must have all been living there.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t arrest him.’

  I held my breath, waiting for Patrick to boil over but he merely said, ‘Would you have given me a search warrant? Backup?’ Into the subsequent silence, he added, ‘Thought not. Can we go now?’

  ‘You’ve both made statements?’

  ‘We have. Are you going to arrest Carrick?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to discuss it with you, and would prefer it if you stayed away from him until he’s well enough to be interviewed.’

  Patrick’s response to this was unrepeatable.

  ‘Right now Campbell has to get through me in order to talk to James,’ Joanna stated robustly. ‘And as far as I’m concerned he’s not well enough yet. Does the wretched man have any other lines of enquiry?’

  Patrick said, ‘All I know is that as many people as possible are working on it. And, as you’ve probably realized, nothing’s gone out to the media other than the finding of a body at the council tip. The biggest problem as far as we’re concerned – that is, Ingrid and I – is that he resents what he regards as SOCA’s interference. I can understand his point of view but seeing as both cases, his and mine, seriously overlap …’ He stopped speaking with an angry shrug.

  ‘Did I hear friendly voices?’ said James Carrick, descending the stairs into the hallway where we were standing.

  There followed, in the adjoining living room, a detailed de-briefing, both men – and here Joanna and I exchanged little smiles – demonstrating exactly how good they are at what they do, covering everything that was, officially and otherwise, currently existing or missing.

  ‘If he doesn’t arrest me I shall go back to work,’ Carrick said after Patrick had related what had been said at the police station earlier. ‘Not that I shall be able to work on the case, of course.’

  ‘How the hell can he arrest you?’ Joanna demanded to know. ‘Any fool can see that you’ve been set up.’

  ‘But you’ve told me that Hamsworth denied that he’d been involved in Cooper’s death,’ Carrick said.

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ replied his wife furiously.

  ‘And that he wasn’t involved with the murder of the café bar owner in London, which may well be true,’ Carrick added. ‘I’m only making the point that, although, Patrick, you were duty-bound to report as closely as possible everything that was said in the club the other night, it does give Campbell more leverage in writing that mobster out of the equation.’

  ‘Yes, and it’ll look good on his report into the case even when you’ve either been found not guilty or the case never comes to court due to new evidence,’ Patrick said contemptuously. ‘He’s covering his back and, as I originally thought, is right out of his depth. His thinking is that he has Suspect A, and B might follow. If not …’

  ‘Perhaps I did kill him.’

  ‘I’d stake my entire reputation on your not having done so. You’ve never cut anyone’s throat.’

  ‘Perhaps I battered him over the head and someone else finished the job.’

  ‘OK, what with? They haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Any hammers, mauls or medieval bludgeons normally kept in the boot of your car?’

  ‘I always keep a few tools in a vehicle as you never know when you might need them.’

  ‘So do I. But a hammer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Patrick found his mobile and dialled Lynn Outhwaite’s work number. She promised to look out the list of contents of the car in the case file and, a couple of minutes later, rang him back.

  ‘Several tools in a polythene carrier bag but no hammer,’ Patrick reported.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Carrick muttered.

  ‘Right,’ I said briskly. ‘I suggest we work on the theory that, under orders, Kev struck Cooper down. A thicko like him might have chucked the weapon as far as possible before anyone could stop him. It’s likely that Cooper was taken to the tip with a view to killing him, as perhaps for some reason or other he’d become a nuisance to them. Or they might just have felt like murdering someone as a jolly thing to do. The tip area’s been searched but what about adjoining properties and gardens?’

  Patrick contacted Lynn again and it emerged that, once knowing the full PM findings, she had taken the initiative in extending the search, which was still ongoing. Complicated by the existence of surrounding warehouses with extensive yards, one of which had been partly demolished and the rubble left lying there, even examining an area within what might be regarded as the distance a man might throw something small and heavy would take at least another two days.

  ‘She’ll make DI, easily,’ Carrick said quietly.

  ‘You mustn’t forget Paul Mallory,’ I reminded them. ‘Has he done a runner thinking he might be a suspect? Is he a suspect, in fact?’

  This last remark of mine became academic because, the following morning, James called in to the police station at Manvers Street with a view to talking to Campbell and agreed to be officially interviewed. Again the men had a serious argument, really serious according to Lynn, which ended with the DI arresting Carrick for Cooper’s murder and releasing him on police bail pending further enquiries.

  ‘Greenway says it’s none of
our business unless it gets in the way of my brief,’ Patrick told me, having called the commander to keep him up to date. ‘That’s what he has to say, of course, but I thought he might have been a bit more helpful under the counter in view of the fact that he knows Carrick quite well. But he’s under huge pressures at work due to the merging of SOCA into the National Crime Agency.’

  Restlessly, he paced the room, trying to excuse his boss, act in a cool professional manner and keep his promise to Carrick, not to mention being a good, as in responsible, husband and family man.

  And failing utterly.

  ‘Ingrid …’ he began.

  ‘I know,’ I said when he stopped speaking.

  ‘I shall have to forget that I’m a cop in order to sort this out.’

  ‘Please be careful,’ I implored.

  He left the room, perhaps not having heard me, already working on tactics.

  The dark side.

  I was praying that Patrick would not embark on anything just yet as he was distinctly unwell. The cracked ribs would take a few weeks to heal properly but he would not wait that long and as soon as he felt better he would proceed. None of this had been discussed and I have known him long enough now for such a conversation to be unnecessary. Therefore, with difficulty, the oracle shut up shop and waited.

  This was not to say that I was excluded, for while it was true that, over the next couple of days, a weekend, he spent quite a lot of time at the Carricks’ home, the pair of us worked during the evenings going over the case files, looking for more weak links. It went without saying that the DCI would be excluded from whatever Patrick intended to do as, physical fitness apart, he would severely risk his career if he was involved. As far as weak links went there was already one: Hamsworth’s conceit; his being the all-powerful Raptor. The files were courtesy of Lynn Outhwaite, perhaps going against Campbell’s instructions, although nothing was said. She seemed to be prepared to risk her own future prospects in order to get to the truth.

  They – Lynn’s team – had also examined the copies of the contents of the file we had found at Jingles: staff rotas, salary records and time sheets, but there were no personal details or addresses listed. Not a lot of use, then.

  We were thus brainstorming on the second evening, having decided to target Hamsworth’s oafish retinue who had ambushed us at the night club – if they were the mobster’s ex-services retinue Patrick swore to eat every hat in the house – and had written down as detailed descriptions of them as we could remember when Patrick’s work mobile rang. It immediately became clear to me that the person on the other end of the line was Susan Smithson, the widow of the Met CID officer who had, supposedly, committed suicide.

  ‘She wants to talk,’ Patrick said at the end of the call, having promised to ring her straight back. ‘As soon as possible. A trip to London would fit in nicely. I’m sure that’s where Hamsworth and Co. have gone. Coming?’

  ‘You’re not fit enough yet,’ I told him.

  ‘This is only about talking to Mrs Smithson and looking at mugshots at HQ.’

  We both knew it would not end there.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Mrs Smithson had asked us to meet her at the Black Horse in Ilford, the public house where she worked five nights a week, and it had been arranged that we would be there at twelve-thirty the following day. We decided to drive as the Range Rover, otherwise referred to as the battle bus for good reason, is very useful as a miniature HQ. Firearms can be kept in a secret compartment only accessible by us, the security code needed to open it changed every month, and we keep spare clothing, overnight bags and other equipment in the car at all times. There is also the added advantage of a designated space in SOCA’s underground car park together with an official pass exempting the vehicle from the city’s congestion charge.

  The woman had arrived before us and was sitting in a corner of the saloon bar. This, she immediately explained, was because she did not want to have to get into conversation with the regulars who usually patronized the public bar. She seemed ill at ease and not just, I thought, because of this. If my memory was as good as everyone keeps telling me it is, she was wearing exactly the same outfit as when we had first met her.

  ‘Hope I haven’t dragged you here for nothing,’ she continued. ‘The traffic’s horrible round here on Monday mornings.’

  Patrick’s natural caution – when interviewing anyone with even the most tenuous connection with crime never allow them to get a glimpse of your private transport – had, as before, caused him to park at least a quarter of a mile away and we had walked from there. Although the M4 had been very quiet when we had left at just after four-thirty that morning she was quite correct: the road outside the pub was gridlocked.

  Patrick bought a round of drinks, having to forego the East Anglian bitter on offer on account of his medication and suffering fruit juice instead.

  ‘You know when we last spoke I hinted that I sometimes wondered what Jonno got up to?’ Mrs Smithson went on hesitantly.

  We both obediently nodded.

  ‘Well, this is terrible seeing I’m his mother and all that, but I’m beginning to think he really is up to no good. It made me furious, and quite upset actually, when he came out as bold as brass that he’d been seeing his dad like that. And without telling me! I mean, I’d have given him a message to take to him, saying that I wished he’d come back and how sorry I was and how much I missed him. But the little toad didn’t and I’d like to know why. The problem – my problem – is that Jonno has money, quite a lot of it. I found it in the wardrobe when I was cleaning his room and putting stuff away the other day – he chucks his clothes all over the floor. There it was on a shelf right in front of my eyes: a wad of notes, more money than I’ve ever had in my entire life. And he never—’ Here she broke off, struggling with tears.

  ‘But with no job?’ I asked quietly, aware that I should be the one to speak here.

  ‘Nothing that I know of,’ she replied after wiping her eyes and taking a sip of her half of shandy. ‘But he goes out more now and comes in at all hours, drunk sometimes by the way he bangs about. I don’t ask – I don’t dare to now as he’s recently changed from the Jonno he used to be. Treats me as though I’m just his landlady. Wants his meals at times to suit him even when I’m working. It’s actually very upsetting.’

  And here she did burst into tears, sobbing silently into a paper handkerchief.

  ‘D’you know where he is now?’ Patrick enquired when the worst was over.

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry, no, he went out at around ten this morning.’

  ‘Does he have any kind of routine?’

  ‘No, just comes and goes. He seems to just use the back way now, sneaky-fashion. I suppose I should have expected something like this as he bunked off school whenever he could and didn’t do any good at exams. I did warn him but he still seemed to spend most of his time hanging around on street corners with the kind of yobbos who make me want to scream.’

  ‘Is there anything else in connection with this that’s adding to your fears? Strangers calling for him? Phone calls that he’s secretive about?’

  ‘He spends a lot of time in his room talking on his mobile now and if it rings when I’m around he takes it somewhere else. Haven’t had any odd bods calling round, though.’

  ‘Can he drive?’ I asked.

  ‘No, he’s never had the money for lessons – not until now, anyway – and neither have I since Paul and I split up. After he died his car was only fit for scrap.’

  ‘Has he ever dealt in drugs, do you know?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Not that I know of. But I was just coming to that as it crossed my mind when I saw the money and I remembered from police programmes on the telly that notes can be tested for drugs. So I pinched one of the tenners to give you. He won’t miss it out of that lot.’

  She took out her purse, removed it from a compartment that appeared to have nothing else in it and gave it to him. It was folded into four an
d Patrick, holding it by one corner, dropped it into a small plastic evidence envelope, a few of which I always have in the pockets of my ‘working’ jacket, together with plastic gloves.

  Patrick thanked her and said, ‘This alone probably couldn’t be used in court as evidence as it’s been handled too much, but if there are traces of drugs on it then it might act as a pointer while we’re working on a couple of cases. It goes without saying, of course, that there’s absolutely no evidence that your son is involved in crime.’

  ‘But he’s keeping it very secret, isn’t he?’ Sue protested. ‘Surely if he’d won the lottery or done well on a horse he’d tell his mum and share some of it with her.’ Again, tears threatened.

  ‘Strictly speaking, I should give you a receipt for this,’ Patrick continued. ‘But under the circumstances I think it will be safer if I don’t. You’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘Oh, I trust you all right. Paul was a cop too, wasn’t he?’

  Had we travelled over a hundred miles merely to learn that a lazy and uncouth man who was beastly to his mother had money stashed away in his wardrobe?

  THIRTEEN

  We had checked into the rather good hotel we often use when in town, the thinking being that there is no harm in projecting a tourist image when engaged in undercover crime-fighting. After dinner, Patrick went out. Continuing to play the successful novelist living the high life – hey, it meant I could wear my long black dress with glittery bits – and waiting for my husband to return, I sat in the lobby, flicking through magazines and making a glass of Chablis last a long time. As writers do, I find people-watching entertaining as well as valuable and was able to store away a few details for future use, including a woman having either a very bad hair day or whose wig was askew, who arrived so drunk that she required two others to keep her more or less upright. They, grim of visage, steered their squirm-factor fifty companion towards the lifts.