Deep Cover

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Ah . . . I need a drink . . . how I need a drink.’

  ‘We got a second result while you were out.’ Yewdall patted her notepad.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘South Wales Police contacted us. They suggested the ID of the murdered girl in Michael Dalkeith’s room in the house in Claremont Road, Kilburn.’

  ‘Oh?’ Brunnie repeated.

  ‘A fifteen-year-old runaway from a children’s home in Pontypool; they’re sending her prints to us.’

  ‘Prints?’

  ‘Yes, she has priors for shoplifting. She is confirmed as being one Gaynor Davies; couldn’t get more Welsh than that. Older than John Shaftoe thought. She must have been a waif of a lassie. So where does she fit into the mix, I wonder?’

  ‘If she does fit in anywhere, or at all; her murder might be incidental.’

  ‘Or fitting Dalkeith up?’ Yewdall added.

  ‘Who knows?’ Brunnie stood. ‘But since Harry’s not here, I’m going for that beer. I need it.’

  Tom Ainsclough alighted from the train at Clapham and walked across Clapham Road, using the pelican crossing, and into Landar Road. Walking on the right-hand pavement, he passed the newly rebuilt Lambeth Hospital and turned right into Hargwyne Street, which he found, as always, to be a pleasingly homely road of nineteenth-century terraced housing, though many, like his, had been converted into two, or sometimes three, separate flats. He stepped up to the front door, opened it with his key and entered the communal hall. He checked the tabletop for mail, and walked to the right-hand door of two internal doors, both of which were secured by mortise locks. He unlocked the door, which opened on to a narrow staircase that led to the upper two storeys of the house; the other, left-hand, door opened on to the ground floor and the cellar, which had been turned into a comfortable bedroom area of three separate rooms. Tom Ainsclough considered himself lucky to have the downstairs neighbour he had. The Watsons both worked in the health-care field – he was a pharmacist at the hospital and she a nurse at the clinic attached to the hospital. Ainsclough lived upstairs with his wife, Sara, a nurse, although she was a staff nurse at the hospital itself. Each family entertained the other for drinks at Christmas time, but otherwise kept themselves to themselves, and made certain to keep any noise they might generate to a minimum. When they met in the communal hall or passed in the street, the greetings were warm and convivial. Tom Ainsclough often envied the Watsons’ short walk to the hospital, and his wife’s also. But he had more of a sense of being ‘at home’, because, unlike them, he did not have to look at his place of work each time he glanced out of the rear window of his flat. He entered the kitchen, and he and his wife greeted each other with a brief hug. Ainsclough changed out of his suit and into jeans and a rugby shirt, and relaxed in front of the television, sipping a chilled lager which had been pressed into his hand by a smiling Sara Ainsclough. Later they shared a meal in relaxed silence, punctuated by an occasional comment or two. At nine p.m., Sara excused herself and changed into her nurse’s uniform, and after kissing her husband goodbye, she left the house to walk to the hospital in good time to start the night shift at ten p.m. Ainsclough glanced at the framed photograph of himself and Sara taken for them by a stranger whilst on their honeymoon in Crete. The photograph had become a favourite, capturing, he thought, the bliss of those two weeks, and Ainsclough often wondered whether it was the nature of their marriage – the passing each other at the door, and spending the night together only when their shifts allowed them to do so – that was the reason why they remained so content.

  Penny Yewdall left the train at Maze Hill Station and turned right into Maze Hill, over the railway bridge, and walked slowly down towards Trafalgar Road, which, at that time of the evening, was log jammed with traffic. She walked down Woodland Crescent and into Tusker Road. She let herself into a small terraced house, just one room downstairs, which served as a sitting room and dining area, with a guest bed under the stairs, and a small yard enclosed by a high fence to the rear of the house. She went upstairs and undressed, and soaked in a bath, as was her wont – unless she felt dangerously sleepy – so as to wash the day off her. She dined at mid-evening and later went for a stroll along the side of Greenwich Park. That she was a policewoman and trained in self-defence made her feel more unafraid than most women would be in such circumstances, but Greenwich being Greenwich, she never had to put her training to use. She returned to her modest house, made a cup of cocoa and had an early night. Her house was small, but it was hers. She liked it like that, and she liked it like that in Greenwich. She felt that no other part of London would work for her the way Greenwich worked for her.

  The man and the woman held hands and stood up in the hushed room. The man spoke. He said, ‘Hello, we are Harry and Kathleen and we are alcoholics.’

  The people in the room answered, ‘Hello Harry and Kathleen.’

  FOUR

  DS Victor Swannell eased his bulk gently into Harry Vicary’s office and sat with controlled ease in the vacant chair between Ainsclough and Yewdall, and, looking to his left and right, said, ‘Hello, nice to be back.’

  Vicary smiled. ‘Nice to have you back, and how you are needed. Things have been developing whilst you’ve been away.’

  ‘I’m all ears, sir.’ Swannell sipped his tea.

  Vicary briefed him on the case so far and then moved on to more recent developments.

  ‘Now, Frank came to see me this morning and there is an issue which may come to something: we have ascertained Pilcher is aka Curtis Yates.’

  Vicary held eye contact with Swannell.

  ‘Not the Curtis Yates,’ Swannell gasped.

  ‘Yes, the very same.’

  ‘The Metropolitan Police have been after him for years . . . murder . . . money laundering . . . drug smuggling. He’s been quiet for a long time. Didn’t he go down? He collected a ten stretch for manslaughter.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vicary raised his mug of tea to his lips. ‘Came out in five and seemed to have dropped off the radar.’

  ‘Well, if I know Curtis Yates, that just means he has been getting someone else to do his dirty for him. He has his enforcers.’

  ‘Seems so, because the employee of WLM Rents who permitted an item to be removed from the premises of the offices of WLM Rents was rolled the other night . . . fatally so. Not just a random attack, because we apparently have a witness who claims she heard one of the attackers address the other as “Rusher”, and who also heard Rusher say “the boss wants him dead”.’

  ‘Rusher,’ Swannell repeated the name, ‘that handle rings bells.’

  ‘You know Curtis Yates?’

  ‘Yes, I investigated the death of a woman called Charlotte Varney . . . I was on that team, anyway.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, murdered . . . some connection with Yates. We came up against a wall of silence and the case went cold. I would like to think it is going to be warmed up again. We’ll have to dig the file out, but if Yates is involved, he’ll be getting his crew to do his dirty, like I said, and they’ll all be too frightened to grass him up.’

  ‘Always the same,’ Ainsclough groaned. ‘The big fish make themselves untouchable unless they slip in some way.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Vicary took up his ballpoint pen and held it poised over his notebook. ‘We have three murders now, possibly a fourth if we include Charlotte Varney. We have the murder of Rosemary Halkier, Gaynor Davies, J.J. Dunwoodie . . . and Charlotte Varney. We’ll call it four, and Curtis Yates is in the background of all but Rosemary Halkier’s, and he may be there yet. Michael Dalkeith was known to be frightened at the time he died – of what or of whom we don’t know – but was his death suicide? Did he take us to the grave of Rosemary Halkier, then lie down on top of it waiting for death to take him? But whatever happened, Curtis Yates is in the background there also – he was Dalkeith’s landlord and used him for a gofer . . . so we believe.’

  ‘So, job sheet time.’ Yewdall smiled. ‘I sense a job sheet time coming on
.’

  ‘It isn’t coming on – it’s already arrived. So, who’s for some action?’

  ‘I’d like a crack at the Dunwoodie murder.’ Brunnie sat forwards in his chair.

  ‘I bet you would,’ Vicary replied coldly, ‘but the answer is no. We don’t know what the repercussions of your trick with the watering can will be. If A-Ten take the hardest line possible you could be suspended pending disciplinary action.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘But apart from that, I want professional detachment, no personal agendas . . . allowing that always muddies the water and turns cops into zealots.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So I want you to team up with DC Yewdall – pick up the Rosemary Halkier case from where I left it yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘The next step there is to interview her best mate who now lives in Mill Hill. She contacted me this morning following my visiting her mother yesterday. She’s very happy to talk to us about Rosemary. We need to know what was happening in her life when she disappeared, and especially who the man she was seeing was.’

  ‘So, Swannell and Ainsclough, I want you on J.J. Dunwoodie’s murder. That is recent. Very recent. Give it priority, but also dig the case about Charlotte Varney’s murder out of the void, press some buttons on that one when you can.’

  ‘Got it, sir.’ Ainsclough glanced at Swannell.

  ‘Yewdall.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m also putting your name alongside the murder of Gaynor Davies.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We need to know about her, and you’ll have to represent the police when her parents view her body. That’s a single-hander. But don’t go near the address in Kilburn.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ The phone on Vicary’s desk rang and he picked it up. ‘DI Vicary.’ He paused and listened, and then said, ‘Alright, thank you,’ and replaced the phone. ‘That’s A-Ten to see you, Frankie.’

  Brunnie nodded.

  ‘They’ll just take a statement in the first instance.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘After that, pick up the Rosemary Halkier enquiry.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘For myself, I am going to read files and pick brains. I want to know all I can about Mr Curtis Yates. Right . . . meeting closed.’

  Detective Sergeants Swannell and Ainsclough sat in DC Meadows’ unmarked car that was parked at the kerb in Kilburn High Road, close to the junction with Messina Avenue, and close to the alley in which J.J. Dunwoodie was beaten to death. It was a cold day with intermittent showers that fell from the low grey cloud which hung over all London. The pedestrians on the greasy pavements huddled in overcoats, and many women had plastic covers over their heads. Occasionally an aircraft was heard, but not seen, flying overhead on its final approach to Heathrow airport.

  The police officers sat in a calm, relaxed silence with Meadows in the driving seat, Swannell beside him and Ainsclough in the offside rear seat. A traffic warden approached and tapped on the front nearside window. Swannell wound down the window and, without speaking, showed the traffic warden his ID. The traffic warden nodded and walked on.

  ‘That sort of thing could blow a surveillance operation,’ Meadows commented.

  ‘We’d allow for it.’ Swannell replaced his ID. ‘It just wouldn’t happen. We wouldn’t park like this, three geezers in a car on a yellow line. Any boy scout could figure us for the law, let alone the nasties.’

  ‘Suppose,’ Meadows replied and glanced at his wristwatch, which showed the time to be mid-morning. ‘She’ll be arriving any time now; she’ll be wanting her breakfast. The supermarket took all the sell-by date expired stuff off the shelves last thing before they closed, and they take it to the skip mid-morning. So that’s when they arrive.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The skip-divers . . . like these three.’ Meadows indicated three pale, sickly, ill-clad youths weaving through the foot passengers and making their way to the alley. ‘Early birds,’ he explained, ‘out to get the worm. It might help them, it might not.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well, they don’t look hard enough to fight their corner . . . three delicate waifs . . . some heavier boys will be able to muscle them aside, especially if they are hungry. But I dare say it’s worth taking the shot. You can live out of skips if you have a mind to do so. You can get some nice bits of meat, and salad, fruit . . . all still wrapped in cellophane . . . nothing wrong with it at all. Eat out of skips, work for cash in hand at night – it makes the dole money liveable on. In India they talk about the “slum dogs” in cities. You don’t think we have that here? Not to the same extent or same extreme . . . but . . .’ He paused as a red London Transport double-decker whirred and hissed past them, by which time the three youths were standing against a wall taking what shelter they could.

  Minutes passed in silence, broken only when Meadows said, ‘Here we go . . .’ and Swannell and Ainsclough saw two young men in supermarket smocks carrying armfuls of food from the supermarket towards the alley in which stood the refuse skips. The supermarket workers then stopped by the youths and, looking round nervously, allowed the youths to help themselves to what food they wanted. The youths took food and then melted into the crowd, and the supermarket workers carried on to the alley, carrying what food they still held, and put it into the skip.

  ‘Never seen that before,’ Meadows commented, ‘taking pity on feral youth. Good for them in a sense but they’re dropping the supermarket in the soup, legally speaking.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Yes, my understanding is that the supermarket is legally obliged to ensure that all food past its sell-by date is properly disposed of, and that means putting it in a skip. The supermarket is not then liable in the eyes of the law for any food poisoning that might occur if someone then removed the food from the skip, but giving it to hungry people is not disposing of it – that is a public health issue, no matter how charitable it might be and no matter how safe.’

  ‘I see,’ Swannell growled.

  ‘Don’t know what to do.’ Meadows sighed. ‘Part of me likes the supermarket employees for doing that, but it’s the sack for them if they’re seen, and, like I said, there is the public health issue.’

  ‘Quiet word with the supermarket manager,’ Ainsclough suggested, ‘on the q.t., no names . . . possibly just a phone call. Leave it for a day or two so the manager won’t be able to identify the workers concerned.’

  ‘Yes.’ Meadows half-turned to Ainsclough. ‘Yes, I’ll do that, that will be the best thing to do. The ferals can still get good food from the skip, they’ll just have to scavenge for it and the workers will keep their jobs. Ah . . . here she is. See her . . . black girl in the green waterproof?’

  The officers watched as the girl approached the alley and then, instead of going to the alley and searching the skips as the officers had expected her to do, stood contentedly waiting on the pavement.

  ‘Strange,’ Meadows whispered.

  ‘That she isn’t skip-diving, you mean?’ Swannell watched the girl.

  ‘Yes . . . as if . . . as if . . .’

  ‘Anyway, let’s pull her, we can’t wait all day.’ Swannell made to open the car door.

  ‘No!’ Meadows laid a hand on Swannell’s arm. ‘Let’s wait, see what she’s doing. My old copper’s mind is working now. Appreciate you’re investigating a murder but you can afford to wait a minute or two.’

  ‘A scam?’ Ainsclough commented from the rear seat.

  ‘Possibly. Those two supermarket workers may not be so charitable after all.’

  The three officers continued to sit in the car, and then soon after the black girl had positioned herself at the entrance to the alley the same two supermarket workers appeared – two young men; one with distinct fiery red hair, the other overweight and prematurely balding, but both carrying boxes of food. When the two workers reached the girl, the re
d-headed one stopped and handed her the food, whilst the other carried on and put the food he was carrying into the skip.

  ‘Dare say something has to be seen to be thrown away.’ Meadows spoke softly as the girl put the food into a hemp shopping bag and then walked, conveniently, towards the car in which the officers sat. As she approached, Swannell got out of the car, grabbed the girl by the arm and showed her his ID. He opened the rear door of the car and bundled her on to the back seat next to Ainsclough. The girl tried to open the car door but could not do so.

  ‘Childproof locks,’ Meadows explained as Swannell sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Been shopping, darling?’

  The girl glanced at the shopping bag. ‘It’s all out of date. You can check.’

  ‘We will,’ Meadows replied. ‘Nice bit of meat you have there . . . leg of lamb . . . very nice.’ He turned and sifted through the contents: steak, bacon, milk, cheese . . .

  ‘It’s all out of date, so why lift me? The boys in the supermarket just help us out, saves us from having to poke around the skip . . .’

  ‘You saw a geezer getting tanked a few nights ago.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, we want to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl relaxed. ‘I already told them everything.’

  ‘Possibly, we need to go over a few details,’ Swannell explained.

  Meadows started the car.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Kilburn nick,’ Meadows replied.

  ‘It’s more comfortable there.’ Ainsclough reached over and picked up an item of food from the shopping bag, and read the sell-by date. ‘Ah . . . you have a time machine, I see.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning this packet of lovely Danish bacon, smoked back, won’t reach its sell-by date until the day after tomorrow. Meaning you’re either forty-eight hours ahead of the rest of the world or you have just received a bag load of stolen gear.’

  ‘So, my old copper’s mind was right.’ Meadows pulled into the traffic lane. ‘Neat, this will help my conviction rate; it’s been a bit low of late.’