Bex Wynter Box Set 2

by Elleby Harper

  “That’s the sound of desperation I hear walking out my door.” He smirked, very sure that they were leaving empty-handed.

  Quinn fixed him with a stony look. Totally deadpan, he said, “We’re leaving before the stink of corruption taints our pores. It’s so bad I can barely breath in here.” He paused to give his words time to sink in, then added, “Don’t get too complacent. Some information’s come to light that means I need to speak with your father and your son down at the station. A purely voluntary police interview. Today would be good.”

  Beside Jack, Hudson bared his teeth in a snarl, like a wild dog restrained by the leash in his master’s hand. The sharp planes of Jack’s face sank inwards as he sucked in a deep breath, before spitting out his next threat.

  “Oh, you’ll see the Loughboroughs at the cop shop alright, because we want answers over Griffin’s shooting. And if you won’t talk, then we will. Straight to the media about the lack of transparency in the London Met.”

  * * *

  New Scotland Yard

  Bex faced a long and difficult conversation with Marty Beeston before she could convince the senior officer in charge of Griffin’s witness protection scheme to allow her to talk with Griffin. He denied her a face-to-face meeting but she was able to speak over the phone on a secure line set up by the NCA.

  “Griffin, I need to know how involved you were with your father’s drug activities.”

  “Last year was the first time he allowed me out on the street to oversee the distribution. But I was really only a figurehead that night. Bannerjee and Kaufman handled distribution to the dealers. I was there to learn the ropes. Dad said it was time I got my hands dirty.”

  “Are you telling me that you never had the drugs in your possession that night? Or at any other time?”

  Bex tensed at the silence. Before it became almost palpable, Griffin spoke.

  “I may have had access to the coke.”

  “Griffin, I need to know, did you steal drugs from Jack?”

  A sigh whistled down the line.

  “I may have slipped a few baggies out of the pile.”

  “Is that the first time you’ve stolen from him?”

  “No. I’ve been able to nab a bag or two here and there before that.”

  “What do you do with the drugs? Are you using?”

  “God, no!” Griffin spat the words out. “Dad always kept Drake and me clean by dragging us through crack houses and showing us how druggies end up. I don’t ever want to go down that path!”

  “Then why were you stealing drugs?”

  “For the money. I know it sounds crazy, but I thought if I could stash away enough dosh, I could escape to some place where he couldn’t find me. I don’t want to end up living on the streets. That’s just trading one bad life for another. I wasn’t trying to rip Dad off, I just want enough money so I can paint.”

  “Didn’t you think that pocketing profits from a man like your father was dangerous?”

  Another heavy sigh.

  “I didn’t think he suspected me. I never took more than a couple of baggies at a time until that night. I used a bitcoin account so the money couldn’t be tracked. I thought I’d got away with it.”

  “So no one else knew about the thefts?”

  Another pause in the conversation.

  “My brother Drake might’ve suspected. He caught me with a baggie once, but I fobbed him off by saying I just wanted to try some weed. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, so I’m pretty sure he bought my cover story. But he hates my guts so much I could be wrong about him keeping quiet. Maybe he grassed to Dad. Maybe putting me in charge of the haul that night was Dad’s way of testing my honesty. I’d never had such easy access to the drugs before. I guess I got a little greedy that night.”

  “Griffin, do you think this is enough reason for him to want to kill you?”

  Griffin gave a harsh laugh.

  “If it wasn’t him, my brother could’ve ordered the hit on me. He’s always been jealous that I was the oldest and destined to head the family. He argued with Dad because he wanted to be the one heading the drug cartel that night. With me out the way Dad’ll have no option but to handover the reins to Drake.”

  “How old is Drake?”

  “He’s just turned seventeen. There’s only eleven months between us. We’re known as Irish twins. Drake hasn’t got a brain in his head, but he’s hell bent on being kingpin one day. Sooner rather than later. I wouldn’t put anything past Drake.”

  * * *

  Bridesmead

  Just after eleven that morning, the narrow, buff-colored reception area of Bridesmead Criminal Investigation Department, became crammed with the arrival of Mortimer, Jack and Drake Loughborough, their lawyer, the still scowling Hudson and four younger, well-muscled henchmen. The lawyer was a recognizable, top-notch Queen’s Counsel.

  Sir Aird Pomphrey, QC must be charging a pretty penny for his appearance, Quinn thought. He was more likely to be “m’ludding” it in court for his upper crust clients than slumming it at a police station. His attendance at their interview was a ploy on Jack’s behalf to show how much clout he could throw around.

  Dressed in matching black topcoats, the three Loughboroughs and their minions knotted together like a clump of phlegm in a smoker’s throat, while Pomphrey attacked Quinn.

  “I want complete disclosure of information about any allegations or investigation you’re thinking of bringing against my clients.”

  “I stressed to your clients that this is a voluntary interview. You know very well that in this regard there’s no strict entitlement for their legal representatives to receive any disclosure.”

  After a ten-minute monologue tirade demanding to know the status of Griffin Loughborough, Quinn offered Pomphrey a complacent smile.

  “I understand your concerns on behalf of your clients.” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “My heart positively bleeds for the Loughboroughs not knowing whether their boy is dead or alive.”

  “If Griffin’s dead, the body should be released to the family!” Pomphrey hissed, his cheeks almost puce at Quinn’s offhanded response. “And if your witness in next week’s trial is a no-show, then you need to disclose that information to Jack Loughborough’s defense!”

  Quinn risked a sneer since Pomphrey was throwing his weight in Quinn’s direction. “You’ve defended enough crims in your career to know these matters take time. While nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help the Loughboroughs, I’m only a lowly cog in the wheel of justice. If you’ve got any complaints take them up with my superintendent at New Scotland Yard. Rebecca Wynter. W-Y-N-T-E-R.” It gave Quinn great pleasure to dump Bex onto the receiving end of any more of Pomphrey’s invective. “Now, we’re ready to talk to Mortimer Loughborough. I’ll see you in interview room two.”

  The Loughboroughs were as infamous as the Krays or the Richardsons and much was suspected, if not proved, about their criminal operations. They were associated with a major drug cartel, running crack houses as well as legitimate businesses from sex shops to dry cleaners to launder their illicit profits. They hung onto their power and reputation through acts of violence and threats of more. Mortimer had handed over the reins of the family business to his son Jack after a stroke left him partially paralyzed on his right side. Jack had inherited Jerimiah Hudson from his father and retained him as his loyal right hand man. No one had ever spoken out about the Loughboroughs’ activities, until Griffin provided his testimony.

  Five minutes later Mortimer walked inside with a cane that deliberately whacked against chair and table legs as he maneuvered his way into the interview room. Hudson helped him out of his topcoat and assisted him onto the plastic chair, fussing over him until Mortimer brushed him away.

  Hudson took up a position behind his employer. His heavy-lidded eyes focused on Quinn and he cracked his knuckles loudly before folding biceps over his chest. Quinn spared a quick glance in his direction, noting a face raddled with pockma
rks and hair mowed into a flat top.

  Pomphrey fastidiously flicked his seat free of any dirt before settling himself beside his client.

  Mortimer was a crusty ex-crim in his early seventies with a face in need of extensive renovation, sloping downwards on the right due to his stroke, a nose like a rocky outcrop and a belly that battled against the buttons of the vest on his three-piece suit. He was dressed to attend a funeral and his constant refrain during the interview was, “You devils killed my grandson in jail! How dare you!”

  Quinn took control of the interrogation because that was the way he liked it. He knew Mortimer wouldn’t answer any straight questions so he began the interview with some hard-nosed observations.

  “Must be tough letting go of something that you built from scratch. Are you happy with the way Jack’s running the show? If you’d still been in charge, your grandson wouldn’t have ended up in jail, would he?” Quinn taunted. “Jack must be a disappointment to you.”

  “The Loughboroughs are nothing but a well-knit family running a family business,” Pomphrey said. “Police had nothing to charge Griffin with and that’s why he was given a suspended sentence.”

  “We all know how Griffin earned himself a suspended sentence,” Quinn countered. “What do you do with your time now your son’s put you out to pasture, Mr Loughborough? Have you taken up knitting?”

  One side of the old man’s mouth twitched.

  “My client is enjoying his retirement years, but he’s still active with the business. He’s the head of a number of companies the family runs,” Pomphrey blustered.

  “When was the last time you visited the Old Canning Town Turkish Baths?” Idris asked.

  The old man shook his head.

  “Do you confirm that you attend the premises regularly on Wednesday nights? Did you attend the steam baths on Wednesday, March 7 this year?” Idris pressed.

  “I don’t remember exactly.” Mortimer’s words were slurred, making them difficult to decipher.

  “My client’s not obligated to confirm anything,” Pomphrey said.

  “Actually he is because we have a warrant to seize Mr Loughborough’s phone. We already have an eye witness who can confirm his presence there that evening.”

  Quinn pushed the search warrant across the metal surface in Pomphrey’s direction while the lawyer’s face purpled with chagrin.

  * * *

  “The only reason I’ve agreed to come down to your bleeding cop shop to talk to you is to get information on my son’s death,” Jack stated coldly.

  He was built in the same mold as Mortimer, with thirty-five years less wear and tear. His face was constructed out of granite blocks, all ninety-degree angles and straight lines. His skin was blotchy and he reeked of expensive cologne.

  “Do you care that your son is the victim of a crime, Mr Loughborough? Police are doing everything we can to resolve that crime and discover who’s behind the shooting of your son. Can I assume you want the crimes against Griffin investigated and that’s the reason you’re here, Mr Loughborough?” Quinn said.

  Jack squinted, making his black eyes mean and vicious-looking.

  “It’s my right as his father to know what you’ve done with my son! You’ve no right to withhold information from me.”

  “Don’t go talking too loudly about your rights because at the moment you’re one of our main suspects in your son’s shooting,” Quinn retorted.

  “Wait! Are you charging my client?” Pomphrey’s voice got snotty.

  Jack shifted in his seat so he leaned closer to the table.

  “If I don’t get a straight answer as to where my son is, I’m walking out of here to talk to the media.” His voice sounded cold and deadly, as though he was holding a weapon to Quinn’s temple.

  Quinn fielded anxious looks from Idris and Eli. He rolled his tense shoulders and leaned back on his chair, trying for nonchalance.

  “As I informed your lawyer, any questions about your son’s health need to be directed to Superintendent Wynter. Don’t get too comfortable, Mr Loughborough. While we’re not laying any charges right now, we’re looking into all avenues at the moment and you’re not exempt from our list of suspects.”

  “If you’re not laying charges and you’re not prepared to divulge any information on Griffin’s state, then my client is done here,” Pomphrey stated.

  Annoyed, but helpless, Quinn watched Jack Loughborough stalk out of the room.

  * * *

  Drake Loughborough erupted into the interview room like a hand grenade, kicking a trashcan inside and slamming it into a corner as he stalked past the three officers.

  “Oi! No need for that kind of behavior!” Eli rebuked.

  “Remember you don’t have to say anything, Drake,” Pomphrey cautioned the young man before anyone even asked a question.

  Giving the young man a severe look, Eli commenced the recording, reminding him of his rights and obligations.

  “Do you miss your brother?” Idris asked. “You haven’t seen him in nearly a year. That must be tough.”

  Drake slouched in the hard backed chair, his tangled hair flopping over a pimpled forehead. His eyes were more deadpan than his father’s, his mouth a cruel, thin slash. Drake snorted and looked like he wanted to spit in Idris’s face to show his disgust.

  “Why would I miss that total pansy? Griffin’s too artsy fartsy to ever take over the family business.”

  “Drake, you don’t have to say anything,” Pomphrey cautioned again.

  Drake was a loose cannon and Pomphrey knew it. Quinn leaned forward, eager to push the right buttons to see if Drake could give them something to pin this case on.

  “With your brother out of the picture, does that leave you as heir to your father’s business?”

  Drake smirked but kept silent.

  “Your father seems very upset about that fact. He really wants us to get to the bottom of Griffin’s shooting.”

  “Griffin grassed on us. Rats are never going to be welcomed home.”

  “Did you make sure of that by ordering the hit on Griffin?” Quinn said softly. From Bex, he knew of Griffin’s distrust of his brother and the drone control in Drake’s room added to the suspicion against him. It was already being examined by Chesney in Forensics.

  A cunning look crossed Drake’s face.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he sneered. “I heard it was some prisoner inside the nick.”

  “The prisoner may have pulled the trigger but we’re going after who planned the shooting. We’re looking at who had the most to gain from Griffin’s death.”

  Pomphrey placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder, shaking his head to discourage him from speaking. Drake shrugged him off.

  “No one’s going to pin this on me! I’ve waited my whole life to be rid of Griffin! I’m not going to blow it by doing something stupid. Besides no one’s happier than Dad that I’ve taken Griffin’s place. Like I said, he was a pansy. Dad always said Griffin hated to get his hands dirty.”

  “That’s enough, Drake,” Pomphrey urged. “Officers, I think we’re finished in here.”

  Drake looked surly at Pomphrey’s bossiness. Quinn felt confident that if he pressed, Drake would continue talking. This was his moment in the limelight and he was relishing it.

  “So you’re saying there was tension between Griffin and his father?”

  “Maybe if Griffin had had the balls to stand up to Dad there might have been tension. Griffin used to run into his room and hide and hope Dad wouldn’t find him and beat the living daylights out—”

  “I said this interview was finished.” Pomphrey didn’t raise his voice, but his tone scooped the defiance out of Drake like a melon baller, leaving the deflated teen to follow him out of the room.

  * * *

  Quinn scraped his chair back to stride restlessly around the interview room.

  “Today certainly riled Jack Loughborough up,” Eli said. “First the search warrant and then coming into Bridesmead to speak to us. S
hould we advise Bex that he might be hot on her tail? That’s if he doesn’t play the bleeding heart card to the media first.”

  “Bex can handle herself.” Quinn dismissed Eli’s suggestion offhandedly.

  “That was a bleeding waste of time,” Idris remarked, “Bex would’ve waited until we had some decent evidence before we interrogated the family.”

  His face registering annoyance, Quinn returned to perch on the table, his eyes taking in Idris’s measured movements as he helped Eli pack up the tape recordings from their interviews.

  Their association went back several years to when they had both been sergeants at Hackney CID. Privately Quinn thought of Idris as “Mr Plod”, the tortoise who believed that slow and steady won the race. That wasn’t Quinn’s way and this wouldn’t be the first time they had butted heads over how to handle a case. Quinn wasn’t about to take Idris’s judgmental words lying down.

  “Today’s interview may have been preemptive, but I think the Loughboroughs are showing some cracks in their tightknit and tidy ship. They may not get involved in the dirty work themselves, but I swear one of them is behind the shooting.

  “Jack and Mortimer are facing charges next week and only the finessing of Queen’s Counsel Sir Pompous Pomphrey has managed to keep them out of jail this long. The prosecution’s only substantial weapon against them is Griffin’s testimony. If that sways the jury to a guilty verdict they’re facing some serious prison time.

  “Until we spoke to Drake I would’ve bet a pound to a penny it was one or both of them. But that interview with Drake was an eye opener. He’s a nasty piece of work if ever I saw one. Drake has the balls, but does he have the nous to arrange a hit on his own brother?”

  Idris shook his head. “You’ve said nothing that we didn’t already know, Quinn. If we’d waited till the evidence was in we’d know which Loughborough to arrest. All today has likely done is provide one massive headache for Bex.”

  Quinn straightened and gave Idris a tight, irritated smile.