I remembered the sergeant I was under when I first went on the beat. We visited this old lady who’d been burgled, and I removed my hat when she invited us inside. Afterwards he told me off about it. Apparently, if there’d been an altercation, holding the hat would have impeded me. ‘Keep it on your head, lad, where it belongs,’ he told me. It was the only advice he ever gave me, and totally useless.
‘Have a word with Mr Adey about a snatch squad for tomorrow morning,’ I told George. ‘If we get a name we’ll hit him early, catch him in his jim-jams. I’ll come with you this morning and if she coughs I’ll organise a warrant.’
George went off as happy as a wasp in a bun shop window and I went upstairs. Dave had already returned from the errand I’d given him and I wanted to see what he’d found.
Not much. It was a digital camera, thank goodness, and he’d already mastered how to display the pictures on the little screen at the back of the camera. One of the advantages of having children is that you learn things like that. The woman had spent a few days visiting her daughter in Berkshire, so there were photos of the grandchildren playing with the dog, of the dog begging, scratching its ear and doing all the other things dogs do. Well, not all of them. The photos were taken in a big garden with lots of roses, a pergola and a water feature depicting a watering can apparently supported on nothing more than the column of water pouring out of its spout. Eventually, straight after a fetching shot of the dog rogering the son-in-law’s leg, there was Sonia standing next to the camera’s owner.
Two cars were behind them. One was a Ford Mondeo with the number plate clearly visible, but only the offside front wheel arch of the other one could be seen at the edge of the photograph. Dave fiddled with the tiny buttons on the back of the camera, adjusting the position of the cars on the screen, and zoomed in on the Mondeo’s number until it was readable.
‘That looks familiar,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know,’ I snapped. ‘It’s mine. What about the other one?’
He zoomed out, brought it across and zoomed in again. All I’d caught was the front headlight and tyre. ‘Sorry, Chas,’ he said. ‘That’s the best we can do. It’s obviously red, and one of the petrol heads will identify the make and model. It’s a start.’
‘Bugger!’ I snorted.
‘Exactly. What are you?’
‘A useless prat. Take it to photographic, please, and ask them to run it off. Run a few of the others off for her, too, if they’ll do them. And keep tomorrow morning free if you fancy coming on a bust.’
It had been a long shot, and sometimes they come off. We were narrowing the field down, but had a long way to go.
Jessica Ripley had two children: one espresso and one latte. I didn’t enquire about their surnames. They were beautiful, with all the advantages that genetic diversity brings, and if the toys scattered around the house were anything to go by they weren’t deprived. Except they had no dad and shortage of money was a constant problem for their mother. The DSS pays for the necessities, but where do you turn when the washing machine floods the kitchen?
We sat on hard chairs and Jessica sent the kids to watch a video in the front room. She was blonde, but not natural, and twenty years old, looking fifteen. She offered us coffee but we declined.
‘How long had you known Jermaine?’ I asked.
‘About six years,’ she replied.
‘So you met him while you were at school?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Did he hang around the school?’
‘Not really. I met him at the youth club. We didn’t go – it was crap – but we used to hang about outside, near the pavilion. A gang of us. He was there.’
‘Did he offer you drugs?’
‘Not me, but he did some of the others, I think. Except pot. He always had some pot. We used that, a bit, now and again. It gave me a headache, so I didn’t bother.’
I thought of Richard Burton. He said that if God had given him headaches he wouldn’t have become an alcoholic. The burnt-out pavilion stands at the edge of Heckley recreation field, or the rec., as it’s known. The walls are covered in graffiti, the surroundings littered with empty cans, broken glass and takeaway rubbish. The council workers refuse to clean up because their union’s risk assessment procedure gives it a red flag due to the danger of needle-stick injuries or diseases from condoms. We send regular patrols there, but the denizens simply fade away across the playing field.
‘Did you live with him?’ George asked.
‘For a bit, until I was pregnant with Jasmine. He couldn’t deal with it.’
Despair gnawed at my bones like a hungry rat. It always does when I try to talk to someone like Jessica. Where did the 1944 Education Act go wrong? She was pregnant; she was scared and on her own; he couldn’t deal with it. So that was OK. Why do they perform contortions to protect wasters of oxygen like Lapetite? He couldn’t deal with it because he’d found somewhere else to gratify his appetites. Having a pregnant girlfriend was inconvenient, so he moved on. I wondered if she knew about his several other children but decided not to mention them, just yet.
‘When did you last see him, Jessica?’
‘Two days before he died. We’d been trying to get back together.’
Or to put it another way, he’d been nipping round for his nooky again. And I thought Sonia was naïve.
‘Do you blame his death on his drug dealer friends?’ I asked.
‘Who else?’ she replied. ‘Everybody liked him. He was good fun. I think he must have owed them some money. He said he did. Asked me if I had any. Wanted me to get a credit card. I got a form from the bank.’ She was quiet for a few moments, then she asked, ‘Is it true about…you know…’
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s not true. The newspaper made that up.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘To sell more papers. Did you loan him any money, Jessica?’ There was £1,200 from under his floorboards in the safe at the nick, looking for a good home.
‘No,’ she said. Naïve again. Why is it that when pensioners are mugged they usually have about £800 in their handbags? Ah well, I thought, it’s not my job to tell her to modify her story.
‘Do you know the name of the man you think Jermaine owed money to, Jessica?’
She nodded.
‘Are you going to tell us his name?’
She nodded again.
Chapter Ten
Lapetite’s sponsor in the drugs industry was called Jason Coombs and he lived in a fine Victorian mansion on the main drag from the motorway into town. The houses along that stretch are sturdy examples of the architecture of the time, when ornamentation was back in style and the wealthy merchants of Heckley were keen to outdo each other. Entrances like proscenium arches, with classical columns, fluting and ornate entablatures were the favoured look, whilst others went for the Egyptian touch, with enigmatic sphinxes, prowling cats, and plain, angular columns. It’s an eclectic stew of styles, a crash course in design, and I’ve heard it said that bus trips come all the way from Florence to admire.
Unfortunately, they planted trees, too. Trees are a good idea at the time, but they have this habit of growing. Now, the absentee landlords won’t pay for their removal, and the itinerant tenants don’t care at all, so most of the houses are in perpetual shade and invisible from the road.
Coombs’ house was one of the few still tenanted by the owner, but he hadn’t chopped the trees down. He had, however, installed high metal gates and surrounded the property with spike-topped railings. I parked a few yards away and George went for a casual walk past. It was all a bit grander than I expected.
‘He’s got security lights and CCTV,’ George reported as he climbed back into the car. ‘It’ll be like getting into Fort Knox. Do we have enough for a search warrant?’
I shook my head. ‘Probably not. He wouldn’t let us in so we’d have to force our way, and we’ve only Jessica’s word to go on. I was expecting a doss house in the project, not a mansion.’ What I was say
ing was that I could have bullied my way into a project house, but this tenant might have friends in high places, and he’d most certainly have a sharp-suited lawyer on call. There was also the possibility, God help us, that we were in the wrong place completely.
‘Plan B,’ I said. ‘Back to the nick.’
I arranged 24-hour surveillance of the house. It costs money, is not taken on lightly, but this was a murder case. We had two vans parked at either side of Coombs’ gateway: a scruffy Transit and a shiny new gas board lookalike, both fitted with CCTV cameras. The operators don’t have to peer through the windows any more, or through a peephole cut in the side, trying not to be seen themselves. Now, they sit on easy chairs in the back, drinking coffee and watching the screen. It’s a bobby’s job.
‘Do we have an operation name, boss?’ one of them asked when I set it up.
I was standing in the office, looking down on the street with the phone to my ear. A long line of schoolchildren were crossing the road, two by two, on their way to the municipal swimming pool.
‘Yes: operation crocodile.’ I gave them my mobile number and left them to it.
I took Sonia to the golf club in the evening and she did four laps of the course, missing out the woods. I managed two circuits without being lapped by her. It was her first run since the attack, and it went well. She’d made a good recovery.
The man with shiny shoes parked in the multi-storey and clicked through the car’s computer display. He’d done 126.3 miles at an average of 41.9 miles per hour and 37.2 miles per gallon. Not bad, he thought. He parked on the third floor and followed the covered walkway that led into the shopping mall. He was wearing his poplin jacket, with a flat cap and sunglasses, and didn’t bother trying to avoid any CCTV cameras that were around. He was on a mission, but wouldn’t be coming back for a while and wasn’t doing anything illegal. His step was carefree, almost jaunty. He’d done the research, was ready to act, and this time would be special, really special. But he couldn’t use the pay phone in the bus station again. Surveillance had been stepped up there, higher definition cameras installed, which was why he was here, now. In five minutes he’d found the shop he was looking for and went inside.
If inside was the word. It was open-fronted, a carpet delineating where the mall outside ended and the shop inside began. The walls were hung with every imaginable accessory for the mobile phone user, plus a few hundred others that a normal person would never imagine. Most of the colourful goodies seemed to be false fronts. Why would anyone want a false front on their phone, he wondered? Behind the counter the expensive stuff was on display. Most people regarded a phone as a convenient way of talking to someone miles away, and wouldn’t pay £150 for something that would only do the same as a similar item costing £50, but the man with shiny shoes didn’t think like that. He enjoyed the technology. To him, the mobile phone was more than a means of conversation. It was a lifestyle indicator. He looked more closely at what was on offer.
There were phones that took pictures, phones with video screens so you could see the person you were addressing (providing they had the suitable equipment, of course), phones that connected to the Internet. Some had receivers that fitted around your ear, so you could hold a conversation and microwave your brain at the same time. They had flashing lights on them, in case you fell into the river whilst deep in conversation. He smiled with satisfaction. The phone he carried in the pouch on his belt was six months old, but it was still at the cutting edge, where he liked to be.
The young man in a turban behind the counter said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the man with shiny shoes replied. ‘I’d like to buy a phone.’
The phone call I was waiting for came next morning, during my second tea break. It was from the boys in the gas board van.
‘Crocodile two here, boss,’ they reported. ‘They must have had visitors staying over. A blue Merc SLK 320 convertible left three minutes ago with a man and a woman in it. We’ve run it and it belongs to a chap in Eastbourne. Do you want the details?’
I grabbed my notebook and scrambled through the pages. Sometimes, Lady Luck deals us the aces. ‘Eastbourne, did you say?’
‘That’s right.’
I read a number out to them. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yep.’
‘OK. The car’s a ringer. It’s Coombs and his wife. It came to our attention about three weeks ago. Here’s what you do. Park the Transit across their gateway so they can’t get in and all sit in your van. I’ll send back-up. I want them both arrested as soon as they get back, but he could be dangerous. Leave it to the back-up. Don’t you accost them. Understood?’
‘Right, boss.’
‘And keep me informed. I’m in the office. Which way did they go?’
‘Towards town, so they may have just gone shopping or something.’
It went like a dream. Coombs and his lady friend came back an hour later and stood around, indignant, wondering who had the effrontery to obstruct their driveway. The answer came in the form of the cavalry, charging down the road and blocking it from both directions. They were trapped. Guns were pointed, orders barked, arms raised. I’d instructed that they be immediately separated and she taken to Halifax, he brought to Heckley. Crocodile one gave me a running commentary of the whole thing. Sometimes, now and again, this job is a load of fun.
The arresting officers had the authority to enter and search Coombs’ house, but I told them just to make sure the place was safe and nobody was inside destroying evidence. When they returned to the station that authority passed to me, but first I wanted to interview him.
The clock was running so we gave him twenty minutes with his solicitor while we looked into his background and set up a formal interview. It was a waste of time. He just sat there, throughout, with a silly grin on his face. Nowadays, silence is not acceptable, but we still have to have a case. The caution makes it clear that if he refuses to answer our questions he can’t come up with the answers at a later date to defend himself, but the burden of proof is still with us.
With one big exception.
‘OK,’ I said to him. ‘Play it your way, but you’re not helping yourself and I’m not convinced you are receiving the best advice.’ It’s just a little quirk I employ: make them wonder if their brief is any good. ‘We now intend to search your house from top to bottom. Is there anything there that you wish to tell us about?’
He spoke for the first time: ‘I want to see your search warrant.’
‘I don’t need one. The process will be videoed but your legal representative is entitled to be there and I’m happy for you to come along, too, in handcuffs. I’m asking you, once again, is there anything at the house that you wish to tell me about?’
‘Yes. There’s some valuable stuff there, and you’ll pay for any damage you do.’
We collected the keys from the custody sergeant and we all decamped to chez Coombs, accompanied by the ARV and a couple of pandas containing our house search experts. I unlocked the gates and the front door and they went to work.
Coombs and I sat in a neat sitting room, with a big comfortable settee and easy chairs covered in a bold floral print, while his brief went off with the search team. The furniture looked antique. It had bowed legs and marquetry, if that means anything. A modest chandelier hung in the middle of the ceiling and a TV peeked out of a reproduction sideboard. A painting of what might have been Coombs himself, standing alongside a Tiger Moth aeroplane, hung over the fireplace and another portrait, not as expertly done, hung on the end wall, this time of his lady friend or wife. It was the room of a man who liked good things, and knew how to get them.
‘If there’s anything here you want us to know about you ought to declare it now,’ I advised him for the third time, but he didn’t reply. He just gave me the superior grin. It said he knew something I didn’t and we’d be off his premises just as soon as he decided. He was in control.
‘Keeping silent isn’t helping your case,’ I said.
‘The murder of Jermaine Lapetite,’ I said. ‘We explained at the station.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Perhaps he had a street name.’
‘What if he did?’
‘I’m told he owed you money. Did he?’
‘How do I know if I don’t know who he is?’
‘So some people do owe you money?’
‘It’s what I do. I run a credit agency. It’s a legitimate business.’
‘What rate of interest do you charge?’
‘That’s a commercial secret.’
‘I bet it is. How much did Lapetite owe you?’
‘How much did you find?’
‘What do you mean how much did we find?’
‘You heard.’ He switched the grin on again.
‘Where were you on the night of Friday, 28th May?’
‘Wincanton, for the races. We stayed the weekend. Now will you take these off please, and leave me alone.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us that at the station?’
‘Why should I? I haven’t done anything wrong. The onus of proof is on you. Will you unlock these and go, now?’
‘No. There’s still the little matter of the Mercedes.’
‘I bought it in good faith. I was done. Why aren’t you looking for them?’
‘How much did you pay for it?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Or is that another commercial secret? About ten per cent of its market value is the usual rate, I’m told.’
‘Listen,’ he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Priest.’
Shooting Elvis Page 20
