Deep Cover

by Peter Turnbull

  Job done.

  Penny Yewdall left the underground train at East Ham and walked to the booking hall and to the ticket counter therein. Able to see only the blue shirt and tie of the ticket vendor she asked him the directions to Chaucer Road, East Ham.

  ‘Chaucer,’ the man spoke with a warm East London accent, ‘that’s among the poets, sweetheart . . . all the poets, Shelley, Byron. Turn right as you leave the station, up the old High Street . . . Chaucer is between Wordsworth and Tennyson.’

  Penny Yewdall, having thanked the torso, left the underground station and turned right as directed and into a cold, windy, rainy night. She crossed Plashet Grove and carried on up High Street North, and turned left beyond a low-rise block of inter-war flats and into Chaucer Road, which revealed itself to be a tree-lined late-Victorian terraced development. She went to number twenty-two, conveniently close to High Street North. She walked from the pavement the few feet to the front door, and seeing only a black metal knocker rather than a doorbell, she took hold of it and rapped twice. The door was opened quickly and aggressively by a large West Indian male of, she guessed, about thirty-five years. He eyed her with hostility.

  ‘I have to deliver this package,’ she said, holding her ground.

  ‘From? Who from, girl?’ The man’s attitude was hostile, aggressive, forceful.

  ‘Gail . . . a woman called Gail Bowling.’

  The man’s face softened into a brief smile. ‘Where did she give it to you?’

  ‘At her home in Virginia Water.’

  ‘Anyone else there?’

  ‘A man called Curtis, Curtis Yates.’

  ‘OK. Who drove you from her house to the tube station?’

  ‘A geezer called Rusher – don’t know any other name for him.’

  ‘Rusher.’ The man smiled broadly. ‘Alright, girl, you can give me the parcel.’ He extended a meaty paw, took it from her and shut the door without a further word.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Yewdall said to the closed door. She turned and retraced her steps to the East Ham underground station and bought a ticket to Kilburn. The errand she had run was clearly a test, but the address was one that could be fed to her handler when it was safe for her to do so – she had to assume she was being watched. She passed a vacant telephone kiosk – it would, she thought, be utter folly, crass stupidity, to enter it and phone her handler. What gofer does that? As she walked she began to glimpse the appeal of undercover work. Penny Yewdall had never seen herself as being an adrenalin junkie, but, but . . . life seemed suddenly so much more real, more immediate somehow – the I-know-something-that-you-do-not mentality provided her with an unexpected sense of power and a sense of control, so different from the strange detached attitude of mind she had found herself developing when she had been sitting on the steps at Piccadilly underground station begging for spare change. Throughout the rocking, rattling journey home, she had the strange and unsettling sense of being watched. She was definitely a gofer on a trial run, so no phone calls, no postcards sent to the photographic studio in Finchley. But the address, 22 Chaucer Road, East Ham, she committed to memory; that, and the fact that it was Gail Bowling who seemed to wear the trousers in the firm, not Curtis Yates.

  ‘You got my prints by false pretences.’ Gail Bowling glared at Vicary. Her indignation was manifest.

  ‘No . . . no I didn’t, I just asked you to look at an E-FIT.’

  ‘So as to get my fingerprints.’

  Harry Vicary shrugged. ‘We can’t use them to prosecute you.’

  ‘Good, because I am going straight. I did a few stupid things when I was younger but those days are over. I’ve turned the corner . . . put all that behind me.’

  ‘So, working for Curtis Yates is putting all that behind you is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She sniffed. ‘I work for a removal company.’

  ‘A removal company which is owned by one of the biggest and slipperiest crooks in the metropolitan area . . . and you are working for him, so perhaps you can see our interest?’

  ‘Frankly, I can’t.’

  ‘Well, whether or not you can, we’ve only brought you in for a little chat . . . just you . . . off the record; in case you want to talk to us.’

  ‘About what? The weather . . . damn miserable this rain but it’s still mild for the time of year don’t you think?’

  ‘About turning Queen’s evidence against Curtis Yates.’

  ‘What!’ Gail Bowling gasped. ‘And you really think that I am in a position to do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think I would do that.’

  ‘We talked to Clive Sherwin yesterday.’

  Gail Bowling scowled but remained silent.

  ‘We made him the same offer.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Well, to say he was uncooperative would be putting it mildly. He told us what we could do with our offer.’

  Gail Bowling smiled.

  ‘But the offer was made and it stands, and we make the same offer to you – turn Queen’s evidence . . . and we’ll be making it to others in your little outfit . . . Put Curtis Yates away, go into witness protection, start a new life in a new town somewhere north of the River Trent.’

  ‘North of the Trent!’ Gail Bowling sat back in her chair, seemingly amazed at the suggestion. ‘I am . . . I have never lived anywhere but London. For me the world stops at High Barnet.’

  ‘Well . . . elsewhere – Cornwall, Devon, if you like the beautiful south so much.’

  ‘You know what London is like, a collection of little villages – if I moved from Whitechapel to Notting Hill, I’d be just as far from my mates as if I did go north of the Trent.’

  ‘Not as safe though.’

  ‘Anyway . . . thanks for the offer. But not interested.’

  ‘Well, think about it, a lot of people want to bring Curtis Yates down . . . ourselves . . . the Drug Squad . . . Internal Revenue and if he falls—’

  ‘If!’

  ‘When he falls, a lot of folk will fall with him. The first two or three to squeal will be doing themselves a huge favour – something for you to think about.’

  Gail Bowling stood. ‘Just see me to the door.’

  Penny Yewdall slept late, then rose nervously, living the part as she had been advised. She left the room wrapped in her coat over her underwear, and padded barefoot along the hallway and into the kitchen. She found Josie Pinder sitting at the table in a short yellow towelling robe, smoking a thin roll-up cigarette and sipping a mug of milkless tea. Her right eye was black and was bruising to the orbit.

  ‘Nice shiner you got there, darlin’.’ Yewdall sat in a vacant chair at the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Who punched you?’

  ‘No one punched me. It was a slap, and I don’t mean a push, I mean a slap – flat hand, side of my head, blood flows into the old eye socket; makes it look like a punch but it was a slap.’

  ‘That true?’ Yewdall sounded surprised, though she had seen the like many times before, usually upon women slapped by an angered partner, but once upon a man, and which had been inflicted by a powerfully built woman whom he had taken as his wife. ‘So who hit you?’

  Josie Pinder drew on the cigarette and inclined her head upwards, indicating the rooms on the first floor. Specifically, Yewdall realized, the room she shared with Sonya Clements.

  ‘So why stay with her?’

  Josie Pinder shrugged. ‘Why does anyone stay with someone who knocks them about? It was my fault . . . a sense of loyalty – misplaced, I know – lack of self-respect . . . it wears you down so you get to accept it as a way of life.’

  ‘You seem bright, like smart in the head, worth more than this.’

  ‘Oh, I am smart, Manchester University would you believe? But I was too working class and I was too close to home. I came from Salford, next door to Manchester. One bus from the U
ni to the city centre, but only if it was raining, other times I’d walk it in twenty minutes. One bus to Salford, then I could walk home. If I had gone further away, like to Swansea or Canterbury, then I might have battled against the snobbery working-class students meet at university . . . but I met her at a dykes’ club in Manchester – thought I’d met my soul mate, so I jacked in civil engineering and came south with ’er.’

  ‘Civil engineering?’

  ‘Yes, that was another thing, as well as the snobbery, as well as being little working-class Nellie from the Dellie among these privately educated types, I was penetrating a male bastion. It’s getting better but engineering is still a male preserve . . . largely . . . no matter what university. So this is the south – hardly what it’s cracked up to be. A room in a house like this and a black eye for touching her. She can touch me all she likes but I can’t touch her. I’m the female . . . she does . . . I am done to, I need to remember my place.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Still think that you should leave.’

  ‘Where?’ She dragged deeply on the cigarette. ‘Like where?’

  ‘Shelters . . . ? Back to Salford?’

  ‘Can’t go home – not like this . . . half-starved, dressed in rags – such an admission of failure. If I go to a shelter I’ll get dragged back here.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Yates. Who do you think?’ She lowered her voice and glanced around her. ‘These walls have ears . . . seems like it anyway.’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’

  ‘Believe me, there must be hidden microphones . . . Mary, is it?’

  ‘Penny.’

  ‘I’m Josie. That accent, Stoke-on-Trent?’

  ‘Yes, that way . . . the Potteries.’

  ‘Been in London long?’

  ‘Just less than two years. Can’t go back for the same reason as you . . . too proud to admit defeat.’

  ‘It traps you like that, London does. That’s what Gaynor’s problem was.’

  ‘Gaynor?’

  ‘The Welsh girl, she had the room you’re in. She was murdered in there . . . remember . . . we told you . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Best not to ask too many questions, but like we said, she was brought home by the guy whose room it really was – brought her in off the street, just to keep her safe. He was going to send her home and he also wanted away from Yates. They both made the wrong sort of noises . . . so follow my drift?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Am I in danger?’

  ‘We all are – that’s why her majesty upstairs is on edge. She runs this house for Yates; she tells him everything that goes on here.’ Josie Pinder’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She would have told him about Mickey Dalkeith and Gaynor planning to leave.’

  ‘Why didn’t he want them to leave?’ Yewdall paused. ‘Sorry, questions . . . I shouldn’t ask . . . you’re right . . . that’s good advice.’

  ‘Best remember it, but Mickey was a long-time member of Yates’s firm, more than a gofer . . . not real high up but high up enough to know where all the bodies is buried, makes him a liability. Yates had Gaynor strangled in Mickey Dalkeith’s room so Mickey would get fingered for it if he ran, but Mickey does not come home as expected . . . turns out he went to sleep on Hampstead Heath instead. He told Sonya where he was going, and Yates and one of his heavies went after him . . . followed a set of footprints on the off chance and came across Mickey Dalkeith lying there. So I was told, anyway.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘In the snow . . . hypothermia . . . suicide, I reckon. He must have thought it was his only exit.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So the police came here investigating Mickey’s death and found Gaynor’s body, put two and two together – Mickey’s slain Gaynor and then topped himself by lying down in the snow rather than do life. So Yates is well pleased. He’s off the hook and Mickey’s not a threat to him no more. But things have not gone away for some reason I don’t know about. The filth is still sniffing around Yates and Bowling.’

  ‘Bowling?’

  ‘His female oppo. Watch her if you run into her; they say she’s worse than him.’

  ‘OK, thanks for the warning.’

  ‘So that’s why she’s on edge.’ Josie Pinder pointed to the room she shared with Sonya Clements. ‘She came back from the garage yesterday. She had to watch one of Yates’s heavies get a kicking.’

  ‘The garage?’

  ‘Yes, a lock-up really, under the railway arches, down the East End somewhere. I’ve never been there myself. He’d been lifted by the filth who took him in for a chat. He says he didn’t say anything to the filth but he got a kicking anyway as a warning. He was one of the heavies who iced Dunwoodie, so he can damage Yates if he wants to do so. You know, turn Queen’s evidence, go into witness protection. This guy, Clive someone, he swore blind he didn’t tell the filth anything, but he got a kicking anyway . . . like just a gentle – a very, very gentle – reminder not to ever say anything . . . not ever.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘So she came back shaking like a leaf ’cos she’d seen a kicking before, but not like that, she says. Went on all day, it did. They stopped for lunch and carried on in the afternoon. They left him on the pavement a mile or so away. Let him be found and taken to hospital. He’ll still be bruised in six months’ time and every waking movement for him will be agony. But you’ll see a kicking.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘Yes. You’re a gofer aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Have you done an errand, delivered a message or a parcel?’

  ‘A parcel.’

  ‘OK, so you’re a gofer, you’re in the firm. You’ll be collected to witness a kicking if someone gets out of order, and they tell you that’s what’ll happen to you if you get left field. Being a girl makes no difference.’

  There was the sound of movement from upstairs.

  ‘She’s getting up.’ Josie Pinder grimaced. ‘She’ll want her tea.’ She stood and partly filled the battered aluminium kettle with water, then ignited a gas ring on the oven and placed the kettle on the flames.

  ‘How do I get out?’ Yewdall asked plaintively. ‘This is getting too much for me.’

  ‘You don’t, sweetheart. Feet first possibly. Other than that you don’t get out.’ Josie Pinder reached for a clean mug and placed a little milk into it. ‘You’re in . . . and believe me . . . you’d better keep your pretty little nose clean, as clean as a whistle. Cleaner.’

  Vicary sat down in the chair in front of the desk in the interview suite at New Scotland Yard. ‘We meet again, Mr Yates.’

  ‘Seems so.’ Curtis Yates was dressed casually in closely fitting casual clothes that showed off his muscular build. ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘A chat.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Just a chat.’

  ‘Then why has my client been arrested?’ The middle-aged man wearing a pinstripe suit who sat next to Yates spoke with a soft voice, which Vicary thought could be disarming if he let it. It seemed to Vicary that he was the embodiment of Teddy Roosevelt’s advice to ‘speak softly and carry a big stick’, a man, thought Vicary, not be underestimated.

  ‘Because I am doing him a favour.’ Vicary smiled at the lawyer, one Kieran Worth, of Worth, Lockwood and Company. The Rolex on his left wrist spoke clearly of the level of fees he commanded. ‘If he’ll let me.’

  ‘You want to do me a favour?’ Yates sneered. ‘Don’t go putting yourself out for nothing.’

  ‘Well, you scratch my back,’ Vicary replied calmly. ‘But we’ve been investigating you.’

  ‘I know you have. Don’t got nowhere, do you?’

  ‘Closer than you think. You know we can link you to the murder of Rosemary Halkier. Remember her? Ten years ago now she was your girl. We can link you to Michael Dalkeith’s death, and you’re there in the background of Gaynor Davies’ murder. You see our interest, Curtis? You don’t mind if I call you Curtis?’

  ‘Don’t mind.’

/>   ‘We really want to talk to Rusher. Can’t remember his name but it’s in the file. It’s quite thick now . . . the file . . . our witness gave a good description of him. Quite close when Rusher was battering Mr Dunwoodie to death in the alley. The geezer with Rusher said, “That’s enough, Rusher”, but Rusher kept on battering away saying, “The boss wants him dead”. So, if we can find Rusher . . . and he tells us you’re the boss in question . . . well, then, then you go down, for a long stretch. All this smoke that surrounds you, Curtis, this odour of suspicion, it smells like Billingsgate Market at the end of a long summer’s day. Have you ever smelled rotten fish, Curtis? Got a distinct smell all its own it has, like fear. You must have smelled fear from someone . . . quite often I imagine.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  Vicary leaned forward. ‘You see, Curtis, it’s time to think . . . now . . . off the record – off the record, you won’t be prosecuted for all the men and women you’ve chilled or had chilled. So in a sense you’ll get away with those murders.’

  Yates smiled.

  Vicary held up a finger. ‘Don’t get cocky, Curtis, because we don’t have to prosecute you for all of them.’ He paused. ‘Just think about that. You’ve only got one life, so all we need is one conviction, and right now we’re looking at three murders which are covered in your dabs.’

  ‘You can’t link me to them.’

  ‘Yet.’ Vicary smiled briefly. ‘Not yet. Just needs one of your firm to do a deal for themselves. Like I said, just one conviction will get you a life stretch. I tell you, if I was one of your firm, and I thought you were going to topple, then I’d be squealing very loudly, very, very loudly. You can forget getting out in five years; career crims like you don’t get past the parole board.’