Deep Waters

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kate asked, surprised at this generous offer.

  ‘You’ll return them safely, won’t you?’ Garside said.

  ‘I promise to let you have them back in a couple of days. In case you need to contact me …’ She handed him one of the cards that the agency provided for their photographers. ‘But I should be able to ring you tomorrow. Thanks very much for your help.’

  And she left, aware that in the notebook tucked away in her bag the News had provided Harry Barnard with rather more help than it realized.

  Kate came out of the newspaper office and for a moment stood in a chilly breeze from the east to take stock. It was still too early in the year for the town to have attracted many visitors on a cold Monday morning and she glanced longingly at a sign pointing to the railway station and the option of a warm – or at least warmer – ride back to London. But she reckoned that at least some of the information she had garnered at the News on Barnard’s behalf might be worth following up straight away. She made her way down to the pier and was surprised to see one of the little trains that took passengers to the end – more than a mile out into the estuary – trundling out of the station, though there didn’t seem to be more than a handful of intrepid visitors bundled up in winter coats on board.

  Close by stood the other main attraction on the seafront, the funfair, but that looked almost completely deserted and silent, with many of the stalls shuttered, the rides not moving, and fish-and-chip papers and other rubbish being tossed around in the wind. Even so, she walked towards the rides and stalls, wondering if Bert Flanagan, the ‘showman’ who was acquitted at the trial of the post office robbers, had left any sort of trail from ten years ago. What sort of a showman was Flanagan, she wondered, and had he worked right here on the seafront where, so the ex-copper Les Greenwood had said, the gang was also suspected of carrying out a robbery, although that had not been on the charge sheet at the crown court? But perhaps ten years on Flanagan had decamped to New Brighton or Blackpool, or some other resort where the show families would look after their own.

  She walked slowly down the path into the fairground, which was dominated by the roller coaster that swooped high above the other rides. In a couple of months, she thought, the place would be filled with screaming overexcited children and teenagers enjoying the thrills and spills and the cheap food and fizzy drinks. Now, at the end of the winter, the place looked faded and neglected and there was nobody to be seen. But she stopped suddenly as she looked at the dodgem cars parked silently on their gloomy unlit rink, autumn leaves still rustling where they had been blown into dark corners. Over the top was a banner flapping forlornly in the wind advertising Flanagan’s Dodgems for Bumper Fun. Her heart jumped uncomfortably in her chest as she took on board the fact that just possibly the man who seemed as if he had got away with it all those years ago was still here, plying his trade in the same place as he and his family probably always had.

  Uneasily she stood close to the steps up to the dodgems, not sure what to do next, and she only gradually became aware that she was being watched. A woman in what looked like a boiler suit, over a dark sweater, was standing half-concealed by the pay booth at the far side of the rink smoking. It was the thin stream of smoke from her cigarette that had revealed her hiding place.

  ‘Hello,’ Kate said, almost shouting above the wind, which flung her words back in her face. ‘When does the fairground open again?’ The woman shrugged and walked slowly across the shiny floor towards her. She was not tall and wore sturdy boots beneath her stained boiler suit. She wore no make-up and her dark hair was tied back from her face in an unflattering pony tail. There was nothing to conceal the fact that she looked careworn and tired out.

  ‘At the weekend,’ she said. ‘We don’t bother during the week at this time of the year. More often than not it’s bloody raining, isn’t it?’ She didn’t come close, but instead stopped by one of the cars and stepped on to the bumper with one hand on the upright with the ease of someone used to collecting the fares. She looked hard at Kate’s bulging briefcase and seemed to realize straight away that this was not a casual inquiry. There was no way that Kate looked as if she was desperate for a bumper fun ride.

  ‘Actually I need to speak to a man called Bert Flanagan and I saw that this was Flanagan’s dodgems. Does he still run it?’ The woman’s face visibly hardened. She stubbed out her cigarette on the mottled paintwork of the car she was leaning on and flung the butt in Kate’s direction, where it fell on to the muddy ground.

  ‘Tell me when you find the bastard,’ she said. ‘I’m his wife and I’ve not seen him for months. And I’ve got three kids to keep.’

  ‘Ah,’ Kate said. ‘You have no idea where he is?’

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ Mrs Flanagan asked sharply. ‘You don’t look like a copper. So what? A lawyer? What do you want Bert for?’

  Kate hesitated.

  ‘I work for an agency in London,’ she said. ‘I’m doing some research about fortunes that seem to have gone missing, and one of them was the proceeds of the robbery of which your husband was acquitted. I wondered if he had any idea what happened to the money when the two guilty men went to jail. He did know them, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he knew them. Of course he did, and more’s the pity. But none of the money came our way. It wouldn’t, would it? Bert wasn’t involved. We wouldn’t still be scraping a living here if we’d made anything out of it.’ She came to the edge of the rink and sat down wearily on the top step.

  ‘Connie,’ she said, lighting another cigarette and drawing deeply.

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Was Bert really not involved?’ she asked cautiously. Connie Flanagan looked away and did not answer.

  ‘You can’t be tried twice for the same offence,’ Kate said, a bit of legal information she had picked up from Barnard.

  ‘It’s not the law he’s worried about,’ Connie said. ‘It’s Dexter and Barrett. Those two nutters are out now and Bert wants to stay as far away from them as he can. He didn’t tell me when he was going or where he was going, but it was easy enough to work out why.’

  ‘So he’s not as innocent as the jury thought?’ Kate said quietly. Connie Flanagan shrugged, her face bleak.

  ‘Sam Dexter’s his brother-in-law,’ she said. ‘Married to his sister Delia. He never told me what he got up to with Sam, but he’s easily led, is Bert. He’s a bit of a fool and I can imagine he’d follow where Sam led. He spent months in jail on remand but they never found anyone who could identify him as having been there at the post office. So he got off, didn’t he? He was happy enough with that, but the other two didn’t look too happy when the verdict came in. Barrett went raving mad, shouting at the jury. They had to take him back to the cells …’

  She stopped and drew deeply on her cigarette again. ‘I’ll have to give up this place if Bert doesn’t come back for the start of the season at Easter,’ she said. ‘There’s no way I can run it on my own.’

  Kate was conscious of the fear that lay behind Connie Flanagan’s eyes.

  ‘There was another robbery, wasn’t there? Here at the fairground. Was Bert involved in that?’

  Connie shook her head violently.

  ‘We were all hit by that robbery,’ she said angrily. ‘The takings – everyone’s takings – were on the way to the bank, so we all lost out. Bert wouldn’t have got involved with that, would he? We all ended up losers. It was our rent money.’

  Kate said nothing for a moment, thinking that the family connection might have been convenient for the robbers. They could easily have persuaded or perhaps forced Flanagan to tell them what they needed to know. She sighed.

  ‘If it wasn’t Bert who told them about the takings, who was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Bert always thought it was his sister Delia. The Flanagans were all brought up here, and she’d have known that the money was taken to the bank once a week. I don’t think the silly beggars had changed their routine for years, so in theory anyone with a pair
of eyes in their head could have worked it out. But Bert thought it was Delia. He wouldn’t shop her, would he, but he’s kept well clear of her ever since. Like everyone else, he’s scared of Sam Dexter and that madman he was sent down with – Bomber Barrett.’

  ‘Why Bomber?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I think he was in bombers during the war. I don’t know really. That’s just what people call him.’

  ‘Do you think Dexter and Barrett will come looking for Bert? Seriously?’ she asked.

  ‘I only know that Bert’s gone and I don’t know where. He must have had a reason for going, mustn’t he? He must have been scared of someone or something. I’ve tried to contact his sister out on Foulness but she never seems to be there. Not that she’d tell me anything, I don’t suppose. She’s stuck by Sam Dexter all these years. Maybe she’s sitting on a pile of cash. Who knows? All I know is that we certainly aren’t.’

  ‘So what do you think you can do?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Pack up the kids and move out,’ Connie said. ‘But I haven’t a clue where to go. I’m living in one of the vans here at the moment, but it’s too small. My eldest boy is eleven and needs some space. We did have a house for a few years on Canvey Island, just me and Bert, but it got washed out by the flood and we never went back. I was pregnant by then and I thought it was too risky to stay. Kiddies died in that flood.’

  She glanced over Kate’s shoulder and suddenly seemed to stiffen, her eyes wide. She took Kate’s arm in a tight grip and pulled her on to the rink and into the shadows on the far side.

  ‘Two blokes getting out of that green car over there,’ she whispered. ‘One of them’s Sam Dexter and I guess the other’s his mate – Barrett. Come with me. Quick!’

  She half pulled Kate over to the far side of the dodgem rink and behind the pay booth. And then, constantly glancing over her shoulder, into the fenced-off area almost under the pier where the showmen’s caravans were parked.

  ‘Luke and Sally are at school,’ she said. ‘And Liam, the little one, is old enough for nursery now, so they’re all safe. We’ll go to my van and I’ll get some of the men to see them off. No one’s supposed to come in here. We should be safe.’ She dragged Kate behind her as she led the way through the parked caravans, where there was almost no sign of life, until she stopped close to a covered area where a group of men, muffled up against the cold, were sitting or standing around a wooden table playing cards.

  ‘Stay here,’ Connie said, and she left Kate on the edge of the small crowd while she approached a burly man in a sheepskin jerkin, no shirt but an array of blue-and-white tattoos on every exposed bit of flesh and a pork-pie hat pushed back on his head, with whom she had a brief conversation. At a sign from the man in the hat, he and half a dozen of the others got up and strode off together in the direction the two women had come from.

  ‘They’ll see them off,’ Connie said. ‘That’s my uncle, Jasper Dowd. We have to look after ourselves down here. There’s no love lost between us and the townies. Half the time we get the blame for stuff we had nothing to do with. And the police don’t want to know.’

  ‘Is that why they arrested Bert?’ Kate asked quietly.

  Connie looked away.

  ‘Bert got in too deep with those bastards,’ she said eventually. ‘My family won’t let anyone near me and my kids, but I’m not sure they’d lift a finger for Bert. He’s a Flanagan, not a Dowd, and there’s no love lost. It didn’t go down well when I married him.’

  Kate got home before Barnard that evening. To her relief, she’d got a better reception from Ken Fellows when she showed him the pictures she’d taken on Canvey Island in pale sunshine, plus the ones she’d culled from the files of the local paper.

  ‘That’s good,’ he had said flicking through the prints. ‘I can see a sensible before-and-after scenario now. All we’ll need to complete it are some photos of the grand opening of the new buildings. I think the Evening Standard might go for it, or one of the colour magazines. Give your mate at the News a call in the morning and ask him to give us permission to use these six. I think they will meet the bill.’

  Pleased that her efforts had met with approval this time, Kate pushed the cuttings she had acquired for Harry into her case and left early, hoping to avoid the worst of the crush on the Northern Line. When she arrived at the flats, she was not too surprised to find his car was not outside. After taking off her coat and making herself a cup of tea, she unloaded her collection of cuttings on to the dining table and sat down to sort through them. In the light of what Connie Flanagan had told her, she was pleased she had taken the time to collect together reports of the robbery at the fairground as well as the post office robbery, although these had petered out quite quickly as the crime remained unsolved and police interest seemed to have declined quite fast. There were only rough estimates of how much the robbers had got away with, but it was a relatively small amount compared to what had disappeared in Dexter and Barrett’s getaway car, which Rod Miller may or might not have driven after the post office raid. And perhaps Connie Flanagan was not exaggerating when she suggested that the local community might not make much effort on behalf of the showground families. But nothing Kate had discovered in chilly Southend seemed to throw much light on the murder at the gym that was bothering Barnard more than ten years later.

  She took her cup into the kitchen and was wondering whether to start cooking supper when the phone rang. She hesitated for a moment, knowing that it was very unlikely to be for her, but finally picked up. For a couple of seconds there was silence at the other end, then a voice that was low and tentative, as if the caller didn’t want to be overheard. It sounded familiar.

  ‘Is that the lovely Katie?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, almost but not quite sure who the caller was.

  ‘It’s your Uncle Ray. Is Flash Harry there?’

  ‘Ray!’ she breathed. ‘Harry’s been looking for you everywhere.’

  ‘Has he now?’ Robertson said. ‘Or is it that poker-up-the-arse Scotch DCI of his? I know what he’ll be thinking.’

  ‘Harry’s not back yet,’ she said, not answering his question. This was a web she did not want to stray into, let alone try to untangle. ‘Can I get him to ring you later when he comes in?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, sweetheart,’ Robertson said. ‘That wouldn’t do. Tell him I’ll call him later this evening, unless you’ve got plans …’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Kate said, her mouth dry and as she waited for a response she realized the line had gone dead. Feeling slightly shaken, she went back into the living room and slumped into Barnard’s revolving chair, spinning slowly round as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. From what he had said, there was no doubt that Robertson didn’t want to talk to the police officially or give any clue as to where he might be. So what did he want Barnard for? She hardly dared think. Whatever it was, she guessed it was unlikely to be anything legal.

  She was still in the revolving chair when she heard Barnard’s car draw up outside and then his key in the lock. He was whistling faintly as he came into the living room, but when he saw her his cheerful expression quickly turned anxious.

  ‘What’s wrong sweetie? You look as if you’ve lost a tenner and picked up a brass farthing. What’s happened?’

  So she told him.

  SEVEN

  Harry stalked around the flat all evening like a caged lion, waiting for Ray Robertson to call back as promised. While Kate cooked a quick meal, he glanced with little apparent interest at the cuttings she had collected for him in Southend. When she put it in front of him, he just picked at his pasta and poured himself a generous Scotch. He had said very little since Kate finished her story, apart from asking her if Ray had said anything at all about Rod Miller’s death.

  ‘I told you, he didn’t say much about anything. It wasn’t me he wanted to talk to, was it? But yes, I think he knew. He said something rude about your boss being the one who’d be looking for him anyway.’
>
  ‘But he didn’t give you any idea where he might be?’ he asked for what must have been the sixth time. And for the sixth time Kate said no, Robertson had not given any clue.

  ‘He was only on the line for a minute or so at most,’ she said.

  ‘Did you ask him where he was?’ Barnard persisted.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Kate said, getting more edgy by the minute. ‘There was obviously no way he was going to tell me that. I told you, it wasn’t me he wanted to speak to, it was you. He sounded worried but he didn’t give anything away.’

  ‘With Miller dead, he must be worried. He must think he might be next. Maybe we could arrange a meet—’

  ‘But if you do that, how can you avoid telling the DCI what’s going on? You can’t cover for him. You’ll lose your job, if not worse.’

  Barnard drained his glass and got up to pour himself another. Kate watched him anxiously. She had never known Barnard so uncertain and felt her own stomach clench with tension.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked angrily. ‘Leave the phone off the hook?’

  ‘Probably,’ Kate said. ‘It’s one thing going to Essex and trying to track down Miller’s connections there. I’ve been doing most of the legwork anyway. But it’s something else to interfere in the DCI’s murder investigation when you’ve been warned off. You can’t do that. I’m not even sure you should speak to Ray at all. Leave him alone. You’re in too deep with him already. You’re officially off the case and you shouldn’t get involved with one of the suspects. You know that. You shouldn’t need me to tell you.’ Kate’s face was flushed and Barnard pulled her on to the sofa and put an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But the Robertson brothers have haunted me since I was a kid.’

  ‘Well, maybe this is the moment to break the link completely,’ Kate insisted. ‘Ray may be involved in the murder or he may not, but you can’t interfere because if he turns out to be guilty he’ll take you down with him. And if he’s not, you’ll still be in trouble for disobeying orders.’