Dark Side

by Margaret Duffy

  I said, ‘There’s a titled one-time senior army officer who used to be closely involved with MI5 who ostensibly retired to his castle in Sussex to grow roses. He was brought in as an adviser when SOCA was first set up and now not only has his hands firmly on the reins but is regarded by those in the know as being the tender of all grapevines. I have an idea you’re like that, only more modestly.’

  ‘That would be Richard Daws,’ was the immediate response.

  ‘Touché,’ I said.

  He held up his glass in silent acknowledgement. ‘I started in the Met and during a long career built up quite a network of people, mostly on the wrong side of the law. It seemed a pity to chuck it all away when I could carry on being useful.’

  Carrick would probably not have had the nerve to ask my next question but curiosity has always been a weakness of mine. ‘So what do they get out of it?’

  ‘The same. Information. I trade in it.’

  ‘Couldn’t that be construed as giving assistance to criminals?’

  He did not become angry with me. ‘Oh, I’m careful what I pass on. Sometimes people get a warning that some rival mobster or other’s going to move in on them or their family. Things like that. And everything I get to hear is sent to various investigating officers first.’ A big smile. ‘I’m a radar set, really.’

  ‘Hamsworth’s on your screen?’ Carrick said.

  ‘I gave Hough the only details I know about him. He said you knew that already.’

  ‘Only recently. Someone’s been asking around,’ I said.

  ‘That someone being one of your operatives.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I didn’t want to go into any more details, not altogether sure I trusted him. ‘Does Hamsworth live at the club in Woodford?’

  ‘It’s likely, but I can’t deny or confirm it,’ Masters answered. ‘And I have to tell you that he cultivates an atmosphere of fear around himself. People are terrified of crossing him or breathing a word about his movements. As it is, the man goes everywhere in cars with tinted windows so it’s impossible to spot him in the ordinary way of things. He also employs ex-army personnel as bodyguards and hit men, a few of whom are always with him.’

  ‘We’ve both had experience, directly and indirectly, of that,’ Carrick put in.

  ‘Well then, folk won’t talk because the risks are too great. Your man needs to exercise great care. Has he come face-to-face with him in the past?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But he’s working undercover this time.’

  ‘I think you should pull him out. That criminal knows things he shouldn’t know and hears things he shouldn’t hear. But the Met’ll arrest him eventually when he gets too clever and makes a mistake. They always do in the end, you know.’

  ‘I’ve no authority to give orders,’ I told him. ‘But when he makes contact I’ll pass on your concerns.’

  What use were concerns? Patrick was fully aware of the dangers. I was thinking that we would end up having to change tactics and arrange that all vehicles leaving the club with tinted windows were tailed. I was also made even more aware of our failure in not arresting Hamsworth in Bath. My greatest fear now was that, in desperation, Patrick would do something completely crazy. He had said himself that in order to get results he would have to forget that he was a policeman.

  ‘Well, thank you for your advice, sir,’ Carrick was saying.

  ‘Your loyalty to the Met is natural and highly commendable,’ I said to Masters. ‘But I don’t entirely believe you.’

  Did I imagine James drawing in his breath through his teeth in horror? Possibly not.

  I continued, ‘SOCA, as you must know, is shortly to be absorbed into the new National Crime Agency. We now deal with serious crime of this kind. Commander Greenway is already liaising closely with the Met over this and there’s no competition, no prizes, no round of drinks to those who arrest Hamsworth first. If you have any information that might lead to this man that so far you’ve only given to some crony who might not even be in one of the Met teams investigating what I’ll call associated crimes then it’s your duty to share it with us as well. Time moves on!’

  ‘You don’t mince your words, do you?’ was Masters’ only reaction for a few moments. Then he said, ‘There’s one small detail but it’s useless by now as it’s already been investigated and nothing was found. It’s rumoured that Hamsworth trains his people and takes them to an old warehouse he may or may not own somewhere in Thameside, east London. Word has it that he actually rehearses crimes like bank robberies and occasionally they seem to have what I’ll call exercises using live ammunition. You must understand that this might be hearsay – all kinds of crackpot stories swill around the criminal underworld and most of them are just that – stories.’

  ‘But surely people living nearby would report the sound of gunfire,’ Carrick said.

  ‘This isn’t a built-up area,’ Masters replied. ‘It was once, now everything’s mostly demolished prior to redevelopment – in a word, dereliction. People don’t go there as there’s no reason to.’ And to me, ‘I suppose you could always take a look at the place. But for God’s sake, don’t go there alone.’

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked.

  ‘All I know is that it’s supposed to be near a rubbish incinerator. But don’t be surprised if you can’t find it as the rumour’s not a new one and the building’s probably been flattened by now. Personally, I think it’s an alcohol-fuelled myth.’

  We chatted for a little longer, Carrick bought him another drink and then we left. I thanked him sincerely as I was feeling a little guilty about the way I had spoken to him in one of my occasional bloody-minded stand-by-your-man moments. Once in the car I sent Patrick a text, outwardly vague, but using code words that would tell him I had something to say that might be important. Then I had second thoughts and sent him another, giving him the information I had just received.

  I drove us back to London – the quickest route for James to get home by train – and then booked into the usual hotel. He had been reluctant to leave me on my own, worried that I might be tempted to head off looking for Patrick, but as I made clear to him, there was little point in my seeking out Salvation Army hostels, defunct canals or disappearing warehouses. Not only that, if I did, we, Patrick and I, would both be hazarding ourselves, breaking our working rule that, once we got split up, one of us should always stay in a reasonably safe place for the children’s sake.

  It had been a long day.

  At eight-thirty the following morning Commander Greenway rang me. ‘I contacted James Carrick to see how things fared with him and was delighted to hear that he’s definitely off the hook as you found the murder suspect. Congratulations. Where are you now?’

  I told him.

  ‘Oh, come in to the office. I have some news that’ll interest you.’

  The grey clouds and rain had been blown away and the sun shone brightly, the pavements steaming in the warmth. I decided to walk to HQ as it would only take around fifteen minutes. There was a spring in my step and the journey seemed to take no time at all. First James, now good news of Patrick?

  Greenway was in buoyant mood as well, this explained when he presented me with coffee and a piece of iced fruit cake, saying it was his birthday and he and Erin were going out that night to celebrate. I wondered if things had been patched up between them and that was the real reason for his obvious happiness.

  ‘The good news is that we’ve struck lucky with Jonno Smithson,’ Greenway began.

  When I’m writing I avoid the expression ‘my heart sank’ as it’s very hackneyed but the sensation is nevertheless real and horrible.

  ‘He’s been interviewed and admitted, when told about the discovery of his mobile phone, that he had done a couple of jobs for a man called Nick who liked to be called Raptor. Initially, he denied that it was anything to do with his father but, under questioning, admitted that he had been put under great pressure to give details of DS Paul Smithson’s movements, the registration number of
his car and his address as he and his wife had separated. Jonno was quite well paid for even the smallest amount of information, apparently – money that he hid in his bedroom where we knew his mother found it. Don’t worry, nobody said that she’d come across it. The ten-pound note she gave Patrick did have traces of an illegal substance on it, by the way, but the email I received didn’t say exactly what.’

  ‘Jonno was very nervous,’ I recalled. ‘Was he made to listen to the recorded messages?’

  ‘He was, and had obviously forgotten about the one that actually referred to “your old man”. First of all, apparently, he shouted and raved that the police were framing him and that the message was a fake. Then he burst into tears and said he’d been told that his mother would have acid thrown over her if he didn’t do exactly as he was told. At that point the man became beside himself, incoherent, and they had to stop the interview, but it would appear that his father was rendered unconscious and they – we don’t know exactly who “they” were yet – somehow forced whisky and sleeping pills down his throat using a funnel.’

  We both fell silent for a few moments at these ghastly revelations.

  ‘The man was cremated so there’s no chance of a second PM to try to spot any damage to the throat that was missed at the first,’ Greenway went on. ‘God, I can hardly bear to think about this. But I have to. When Patrick surfaces, with or without the location of that mobster, he can question him.’

  ‘You want him to question Kev, the doorman at the Bath night club as well if there’s no real progress with the case,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I really wish you’d pull Patrick out of this job. I have a very bad feeling about what he’s doing.’ I then went on to tell him of our conversation with Jack Masters, including the rumours about Hamsworth’s occasional use of a warehouse as a training ground.

  My ‘feelings’, or ‘cat’s whiskers’ as my father used to call them, have earned a certain amount of respect since I began working for SOCA.

  ‘I have learned to leave him alone and trust his judgement,’ Greenway responded.

  A gentle reproof from the boss, perhaps?

  ‘I think the ball’s definitely in his court, don’t you?’ Greenway continued.

  ‘Well, as usual then, I’d better sod off,’ I said with a big bright smile.

  ‘Ingrid …’ he began.

  I went, or rather stormed out, while he was sitting there failing to think of something useful to say.

  I found myself unable to bear going home. It seemed pathetic – a betrayal even though that was what Patrick had asked me to do. There was little point in looking for the warehouse as the chances of anyone being there were as good as zero and, for another, I had an idea that Masters, one of the old school, had encouraged me, with all due cautions, in that direction as he thought I ought to be got out of the way of ‘the professionals’ working in other directions on the case, or even, may his dentures turn green, that I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it.

  ‘Bugger everything,’ I said as I got back in the car.

  I returned to the hotel, deferring any decision, every part of me desperate to stay in London, to be near Patrick. Once there, I rang Elspeth, who informed me that everything was well and that the children had had no further traumas.

  Restless, I went out again and strolled aimlessly until I came across a small park and sat in the sun for a while. This pleasant open space was busy with young mothers pushing prams and buggies – some perhaps nannies and au pairs – the toddlers doing the usual things: playing with balls and chasing pigeons. One, just like Justin at that age, was having a tantrum.

  ‘You ought to be doing that,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Taking Mark out for a little walk with Vicky. Being normal, not some misfit who can’t write books all of a sudden either. What was a good idea while you were young is not now you aren’t. And it’s no use moaning to Greenway when Patrick’s given a desk job and then panic when he’s assigned to something more potentially dangerous.’

  I would go home.

  And be a fantastic mother who writes, nay, dashes off, bestsellers.

  Bugger everything.

  I struck away a tear from my cheek and got to my feet. As I did so my phone rang.

  ‘Just making contact,’ said Patrick.

  To my utter shame I burst into tears of relief, sobbing helplessly.

  ‘Greenway’s told me to come off the job,’ said his voice quietly in my ear. ‘I got the impression he took some serious reservations of yours to heart.’

  ‘Have I messed up anything?’ I gulped, my first reaction.

  ‘No, and I’m not going to.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I need to know where you are.’

  ‘In a little square not far from HQ.’

  ‘Go back to the hotel. Please. I really don’t want you wandering around like this. Please, Ingrid!’

  I did not argue and, heavy-hearted, set off. Once there and aware that someone would probably be cleaning my room now, I sat in a coffee bar in the cavernous marble-floored reception area bar, consuming an Americano and a muffin I did not really want.

  An hour went by and staying in a public place seemed to be a good idea.

  Finally, after another thirty minutes had leadenly ticked by and I had actually risen to my feet with a view to going to my room, I glanced in that direction just as a man, one of a steady stream of people coming and going, pushed through the revolving doors. Three other people were immediately on his heels but they went their different ways. After looking around and about to move off, his gaze came to rest on me. He came over and my first thought was relief that I was in an exceedingly public place. This time the Smith and Wesson was in my pocket, not my handbag. My right hand curled around it snugly.

  ‘Miss Langley?’ said the man.

  ‘Who wants her?’ I asked.

  This threw him a bit as he’d obviously been expecting a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer. Then, despite being well over six feet in height, probably in his late forties and looking as tough as slowly roasted leather, he stammered, ‘I was – er – told to say that it’s a message from your – er – ever-loving Patrick. Patrick Gillard.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said. ‘How did you know what I look like?’

  ‘He said you were dark-haired, slim and glamorous. So perhaps I’ve struck lucky and don’t have to ask someone to phone your room to see if you’re there.’

  Still being very, very cautious, no code or pass words given, I said, ‘What is this message?’

  ‘He wants you to come with me to a safe place.’

  ‘I feel perfectly safe here, thank you.’

  My reply created no hint of aggression, just, eyes heavenwards for a moment, a rather fetching impression of tried patience. Then he said, ‘If you didn’t believe me he said to say that Graham said it’s OK.’

  ‘It’s OK, then,’ I responded, the mention of my father’s name no kind of password either but nevertheless telling. Perhaps I would have to trust this man.

  My cat’s whiskers were frantically indicating otherwise. Patrick wouldn’t use my father’s name in such cavalier fashion. I said, ‘Did he speak to you personally or phone you with his request?’

  ‘He spoke to me personally.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About half an hour ago. I got a taxi.’

  ‘And who are you, exactly?’

  ‘An old chum.’

  ‘Name?’

  The butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth demeanour vanished. ‘Just do as he asks, all right?’

  No, sunshine, it wasn’t all right. I took a firmer hold of the handgun.

  One of the other people who had arrived through the revolving doors at the same time, on whom I only now focussed my attention, had been standing by a display case containing leaflets advertising London attractions directly ahead of me across the foyer.

  I eyed my visitor and said quite loud
ly, ‘No, sorry, I’m not going with you.’

  The other man turned and then strolled over.

  ‘No luck then?’ he said when still several yards away.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked the first man.

  ‘He knew you’d screw it up. So he sent me. And it’s Paddy.’

  ‘I haven’t screwed anything up!’

  ‘Screwed,’ whispered Paddy right in the other’s face, Irish to the core by the sound of him. ‘I heard what she said. She’s not fallen for it and going with you, is she? Not today, tomorrow or even bloody next year!’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life!’

  ‘Keep your voice down. No, you won’t have done. You don’t know even a fraction of our friend Raptor’s empire. I’m one of those who stays in the background, part of what some not at all late-lamented Bath newspaper hack referred to recently as his private army. And he finished up in a skip with his throat cut.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ the man said a little hoarsely.

  Paddy turned his gaze, sub-zero, state-of-the-art pitiless, to me. ‘There’s two of us now.’ Then, to the man, ‘Your name?’

  ‘Lane.’

  Paddy, stubbly beard, the rest fairly presentable, returned his attention to me. ‘And, after last time, Raptor doesn’t care too much if you arrive alive or a little, shall we say, damaged. You won’t get away this time. Shall we go?’

  ‘I shall just have to start screaming,’ I said through my teeth.

  The knife must have been in his hand all the time and now was right in front of my face, the blade springing with that ghastly slicing click. No one else saw, no one noticed, no one came to my rescue. Good old London.

  ‘Take care,’ Lane muttered, only to be completely ignored.

  ‘Or I could just leave you dead right here,’ Paddy said to me with a big smile that told Lane of his personal preference to do just that as it was an awful lot less bother.

  He never knew how much self-control it took not to rat everything up by giving him a big kiss. Instead, despondently, I said, ‘Then I have no choice.’

  The knife disappeared and Lane was asked, ‘Do my orders countermand yours? Do we take her to the club in South Woodford?’