In Vino Veritas

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘There wouldn’t be,’ Frankie Brunnie commented, ‘not if the end of the gun barrel was pressed on her flesh. There’d be very little sound. But carry on.’

  ‘Then he shot her in the chest. Again, he put the gun right on to her skin … no sound to speak of,’ Cragg continued. ‘Well, then I am told to pick up the body of the girl and carry it outside and dump it in the back of the van – our van – which had been driven to the lock-up. Then we drove to New Cross and the allotments. At the allotments I carried the body from the van into the allotments where a couple of geezers were waiting for us. They were standing by a hole which had been dug in the ground. I put her in the hole like I was told to do then went back to the van and we drove away, leaving the geezers who were waiting for us to fill the hole up … and that’s what happened.’

  ‘No one saw you?’ Brunnie asked.

  ‘No one. It was a wet, dark night … raining vertically.’ Cragg drew his finger downwards through the air to the table top. ‘No one in the street, no one looking out on a night like that. Anyway, I was bunged a good wedge for that and then I went back home to my little drum and I carried on crookin’. You know the sketch – small stuff, just magistrates’ court stuff. It was then that I got to thinking that I’m in deep … like deep, deep … I’m part of a murder, burying a body … and I know where they put her, and they know that I know, and who was I? Just a gofer, I wasn’t anything special … I wasn’t needed … I could disappear. I was … what’s that word?’ Cragg appealed to Brunnie.

  ‘Expendable?’ Brunnie suggested. ‘Is that the word you are thinking of?’

  ‘Sounds like it.’ Cragg nodded. ‘So I left my drum and I moved north of the Old Father. I vanished before I was made to vanish. No one knows me north of the river.’

  ‘All right … this is good. You’re doing well, Andy.’ Brunnie smiled. It was another little tug on the line … bring him in … slowly does it. ‘Keep it up, Andy. So, names, Andy. Give me some names.’

  ‘Names!’ Cragg gasped.

  ‘Yes, Andy, names … we need names.’ Brunnie spoke softly yet forcefully. ‘We’ll start with the easy ones first. You said “we” drove out to the East End and “we” drove to the allotments. So who is “we”? You and who else?’

  After a moment’s pause, Cragg said, ‘Me and a geezer who hired me sometimes and he hired me for that job. A geezer called “Chinese Geordie Davy”. He’s like a half-caste guy from Newcastle.’

  ‘Mixed race?’

  ‘Whatever the term is. I’m too old for all this political correctness mumbo jumbo. He’s from up Newcastle way. He speaks with a weird accent; at least he did back then. I don’t know what he is doing these days. I lost contact with him when I moved north of the river, but to be right, it was me that carried the girl’s body in the van and “Chinese Geordie Davy” drove.’

  ‘I see.’ Frankie Brunnie nodded. ‘But he drove you to the lock-up and he was there when the girl was shot?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Cragg grunted. ‘He was standing next to me.’

  ‘All right.’ Brunnie scratched the back of his left hand. ‘So who hired you?’

  ‘“Chinese Geordie Davy”, like I said,’ Cragg replied. ‘It was him who offered me the wedge to do some tidying up. Somebody else had hired him and his van but he couldn’t do it on his Jack Jones. He needed another pair of hands, but me, when I saw the job I reckoned he could have done it easily on his own. She was such a small woman … I mean, I’ve seen bigger schoolgirls.’

  ‘And “Chinese Geordie Davy” said all he wanted you for was to help with some tidying up?’ Brunnie clarified.

  ‘Yes. Exactly what I wasn’t told. I knew it would be something iffy, like shifting stolen goods, but I didn’t think it would be what it was. Never thought that.’

  ‘So you got to the lock-up and you and Davy found this girl on the floor, then what?’

  ‘Then this geezer just stepped out of the shadows, like I told you, walked right up to her, put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Twice. Then once in her chest. Then he walked back into the shadows. I don’t know why he waited until we got there before he shot her. He could have done it before just as easily. And he wouldn’t have had witnesses to worry about.’

  ‘He probably waited until you and “Chinese Geordie Davy” arrived so as to implicate you,’ Brunnie explained. ‘That was probably his reasoning. It means you could be charged with conspiracy to murder. That carries a life sentence and that possibility hanging over you … well, that buys your silence. If he had shot her before you and Davy arrived, and if you and him got rid of the body, you would only have committed the offence of accessory after the fact … up to five years in prison. Like I said, he was buying your silence; your silence and Davy’s silence. He was pulling you into his boat. If he goes down for a life-stretch, then you go down with him.’

  ‘So why am I telling you this?’ Cragg appealed to Brunnie. ‘I’m just working against myself.’

  ‘You’re telling me because you spilled the beans to an off-duty copper. The cat’s out of the bag and it won’t be going back in, and you’re telling me because you’re doing the sensible thing and working for yourself,’ Brunnie explained patiently. ‘The more you tell me, the more you are working towards a reduced sentence. You know you could even turn Queen’s Evidence, go into witness protection; do that and you’d avoid prison completely.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Cragg’s voice trembled. ‘I have heard of that, but is it possible?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frankie Brunnie’s eyes watered in reaction to the industrial-grade disinfectant which had been used to clean the floor of the interview room. ‘So, let’s press on, see where we get to. Tell me about the gunman. What was his name?’

  ‘That I don’t know, honest,’ Andrew Cragg replied. ‘Davy only told me that we were doing a “tidying-up” job; he didn’t say who for.’

  ‘All right, so what did this guy look like?’

  ‘Dunno that either. When he came out of the shadows he was wearing a mask, a pig’s face mask. He shot the girl then takes the mask off, hides his face with his forearm then he’s back in the shadows. After that I never got a good look at him. All I can tell you is that he was a white geezer and quite short. The girl was short and the geezer who killed her was short, and I confess that I didn’t want to see him. When I saw what sort of turn was going down, I thought the less I knew the better, so I didn’t want the geezer to know I had clocked his old boat race. He sat in the front of the van with Davy; I sat in the rear with the girl’s body. At the allotments I put her in the hole and me and Davy walked back to the van and drove away but the shooter stayed. Davy said the shooter was making sure she was covered up and the other guys would run him back to the East End.’

  ‘Good.’ Brunnie smiled. ‘You’re doing well, Andy.’

  ‘So when we get back to where I live Davy hands me a wedge for two hundred sovs … and this is ten years ago … not bad for a night’s work. Then within a few weeks I realize I am into something heavy and that I need to put the river between me and Davy. So I give up my drum and move to Notting Hill and I forget what I have done. For years I forget it, then I start to remember it, bit by bit.’

  ‘And you tell an undercover police officer, and now we are here.’ Brunnie stood. ‘Look, Andy, try to remember anything you can … any detail. I perhaps shouldn’t be telling you this but you’ve scratched our back so I’ll scratch yours: when you come to give a written statement you must say you didn’t know you were going to witness a murder and lift a dead body,’ Brunnie advised.

  ‘But that’s the truth,’ Cragg persisted. ‘That is how it was.’

  ‘Say that they threatened to shoot you if you didn’t cooperate.’ Brunnie pressed the bell beside the door of the interview room. ‘That’s not true but say it anyway. It will be better for you if you claim you acted under duress. You’ll get a much lighter sentence. It’s worth a punt,’ Brunnie emphasized. ‘It’s what I’d do.’

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p; ‘That’s a good idea.’ Cragg’s face brightened up. ‘I’ll do that; I’ll say that … Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Turning Queen’s Evidence will be even better,’ Brunnie smiled, ‘but you’ve made an excellent start. Keep it up.’

  The door of the interview room opened and the uniformed officer said, ‘All finished, sir?’

  ‘Yes, all finished, thank you,’ Brunnie replied cheerfully. He then turned to Cragg. ‘You’re up before the magistrates in a few minutes, Andy. You’ll be remanded. I’ll come and see you in prison. So remember what you can. Next time I’ll be bringing another officer with me and we’ll be taking a statement. So think carefully about what I said.’

  Victor Swannell and Tom Ainsclough approached the door and what saddened both men, though neither man commented, was the long concrete ramp with handrails at either side which rose up from the pavement at a gentle angle to the front door. The vertical metal grab poles protruded from the bricks – one at either side of the blue painted door, which had a low keyhole and handle. The threshold of the door was level with the top of the inclined ramp. Eventually Swannell said what both men were thinking. ‘Wheelchair,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes,’ Ainsclough sighed in reply, ‘but the murder was ten years ago; a lot can happen in that sort of time. We’re still in with a chance. We might yet get a result.’

  ‘We might,’ Swannell began to walk up the ramp, ‘but somehow I doubt it.’

  ‘I doubt it too,’ Ainsclough walked behind Swannell, ‘but we’ll see what we see and find what we find.’

  Swannell reached the top of the ramp, extended his hand and pressed the doorbell, which action caused the sound of the Westminster chimes to echo inside the hallway of the flat.

  The door, when it was opened, was done so by a middle-aged man who occupied a wheelchair. The man smiled warmly at his unexpected visitors, as if hungry for company. ‘Yes?’ he asked of Swannell and Ainsclough.

  ‘Police.’ Swannell showed his ID. ‘I am Detective Sergeant Swannell and my colleague here is Detective Constable Ainsclough. We’re from the Murder and Serious Crime Squad of New Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Oh, really. How can I help you?’ He glanced at Swannell’s ID and nodded.

  Swannell replaced his ID in his jacket pocket. ‘You are Mr Hill? Mr Patrick Hill?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes … yes, I am he.’ Hill looked puzzled. ‘Well …’ Swannell began, ‘I’m sorry if this is a bit indelicate, but can we ask you if you rented an allotment in the Malpas Road allotments about eight or ten years ago?’

  ‘Oh … that’s hardly the sort of thing I can do.’ Hill tapped the wheels of his wheelchair and forced a smile. ‘I came into this world fifty-four years ago this coming November. I was told it was a particularly cold and windy day … and seventeen years later I came off my motorbike at great speed. I’ve been in a wheelchair ever since.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Swannell offered. ‘We noticed the ramp and knew what it implied, but as my colleague said, a lot can happen in ten years … so we rang your doorbell anyway.’

  ‘No … no need to be sorry, squire.’ Hill clasped his hands together in front of him. ‘It was hardly your fault. You were probably not even alive then, thirty-seven years ago, and if you were alive, you wouldn’t have reached adulthood and I have made the adjustment. You go through all the anger and the reproach and self-reproach and the sense of unfairness and injustice, in my case because the accident wasn’t my fault, and then you accept there are things you can do and things you can’t do and digging an allotment is on the “can’t do” list.’

  ‘Were you living here, at this address, about ten years ago, sir?’

  ‘Yes … good heavens, yes, this little one-bedroom flat adapted for the needs of the physically challenged – low toilet, hoist over the bed and bath – this little palace has been my home since I was twenty-two years of age. It’s been my little private space for the last thirty-two years. I thought, “life’s a bitch, then you die”, then I thought I’m going to be in the clay soon enough anyway and we’re all a long time dead, so I may as well keep walking the dog. So I put the plastic bag away.’

  Swannell smiled. ‘That’s a good attitude. Good for you.’

  ‘It’s the only attitude.’ Hill was thin of face, had grey straggly hair and wore a baggy yellow T-shirt and faded denims. His feet were encased in a pair of white running shoes. ‘I’ve filled my life by taking an interest in current affairs, reading and watching films and drama and documentaries on TV. I live in a little quarter square mile of London. I have a post office, a library and a wheelchair-friendly supermarket, but I have never turned a wheel on the Malpas Road allotments. That’s why I assume you are here … the body that was found there or found to have been buried there the other day?’

  ‘You know about that?’ Swannell raised his left eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, it’s the talk of the post office and the library,’ Hill explained. ‘It’s caused quite a bit of local interest.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Swannell nodded. ‘We are here about that but we can’t tell you what we found.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Hill replied in a contented tone of voice. ‘So why knock on my door?’

  ‘Because the person who rented the allotment at the time we are interested in, about ten years ago, rented it under the name of Patrick Hill and gave this house – your flat – as being his address.’

  ‘Ha!’ Patrick Hill scoffed. ‘That is quite clever: find a guy who lives locally who is not going to want to rent an allotment, follow him home, obtain his name from the electoral roll in the public library … very clever.’

  ‘Yes,’ Swannell glanced to his left, ‘it’s fairly obvious that that was what happened – that’s how it was done. We are sorry to have been of bother.’

  ‘No bother at all.’ Patrick Hill smiled. ‘Hardly anyone knocks on my door and I appreciate all the company I can get. I get cabin fever within my little four walls, what with the days blending and merging as they do.’

  ‘Well.’ Swannell turned to go, as did Ainsclough. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Take care,’ Ainsclough added.

  ‘So all we know about the geezer who rented the allotment was that he was in his forties at the time. He had a boxer’s bashed-in nose and a tattoo of a spider on his left hand.’ Vicary reclined in his chair.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Swannell replied. ‘We’ll trace him if we can using that description – age, distinguishing features … we might get a result. I’ll do that directly.’

  ‘Thank you, Victor.’ Vicary pyramided his hands in front of his face. ‘We do know the name of the felon who hired Andrew Cragg. What was his name?’

  ‘“Chinese Geordie Davy”,’ Brunnie advised.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Vicary smiled. ‘He will be a real-live felon; a name like that springs from a culture. You couldn’t invent a name like that. If I was a betting man I’d wager large sums of money that there was once a felon in this fair city called the Artful Dodger who Charles Dickens would have met. Dickens grew up in poverty and later in life he was a prison visitor. I am quite happy that Dickens invented the name Gradgrind for a schoolteacher. I think we can all recall Mr or Miss Gradgrinds from our school days. Usually they taught maths. But the Artful Dodger existed all right and his name has become immortalized, and in the same way, “Chinese Geordie Davy” exists … so let’s find him. All right, can you and Frankie team up on that please?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Swannell replied for him and Frankie Brunnie.

  ‘So … Penny, I think you’ve got a possible result for us?’ Vicary looked at Penny Yewdall.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Penny Yewdall sat forward and consulted a computer printout which she held in her hands. ‘It’s feedback from the missing persons database. We have a possible identity of the person whose remains we found at the allotment. She is one Victoria Keynes, spelled with an “e” but pronounced “Kaynes”. She was twenty-six years of age when she was reported missing by her parents – right age, right height, just fi
ve feet one inch tall, reported missing ten years ago, last March. Another girl was reported missing at the same time but she had an address in Croydon, and although not a million miles away from Victoria Keynes’s home she was nearly six feet tall with the ironic surname of “Short”. So I think that Victoria Keynes is our girl.’

  ‘All right, Penny, you and Tom team up – find out what you can about Victoria Keynes. The investigation into the Cornwall Crescent Gang now takes second place. The importation of cocaine is a serious crime, but it’s trumped by murder.’

  It was Thursday, 12.33 hours.

  FOUR

  Thursday, 13.40 hours – 22.40 hours

  Tom Ainsclough and Penny Yewdall stood side by side in front of the outside door of a bungalow on Devonshire Way, Addington, south-east London. Ainsclough tapped loudly but also reverently on the door using the time-honoured police officers’ knock … tap, tap … tap. As the two officers waited for a response from within the house they looked curiously around them. The house itself, they noted, was a bungalow and occupied a corner plot. It was of modest size with a garden which the officers both thought was close to the state of being fairly described as ‘overgrown’. A long-past-its-prime wooden shed stood in the corner of the front lawn. Further away, the garden of the neighbouring houses provided a plethora of rich foliage. The air was filled with birdsong.

  The door was opened, slowly and silently, by a tall, middle-aged woman with angular facial features, which suggested to Tom Ainsclough a woman, who, when in her prime, would most likely have been considered something of a beauty. She wore her hair close cut and was dressed in a white blouse with a calf-length green skirt. She wore black shoes with a modest, sensible heel. She had a brooch at the collar of the blouse, a watch on her left wrist and a wedding ring and engagement ring but no other jewellery. She wore no make-up that neither Yewdall nor Ainsclough could detect, except for a trace of very pale lipstick. ‘Yes?’ she said in a haughty manner as she looked down at the officers from the elevated position of her doorstep.