In Vino Veritas

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Protected persons?’ Danby appealed.

  ‘Used to be known as witness protection,’ Brunnie explained. ‘It’s the same animal with a new name.’

  ‘It helps give the illusion of progress,’ Swannell added. ‘The top floor like doing things like that – thinking up new names for old tricks. It gives them something to do. Anyway, “Big Andy” Cragg is going in the witness box to tell the jury all about you … and your van … and the refuse collection service you provide to felons with shooters. Will the jury sit up and listen? You can bet your life they will. They’ll lap up every detail, listening to Cragg and eyeing you in the dock.’

  ‘So what do you want to know?’ Danby whispered with a strong note of resignation in his voice.

  ‘Good man.’ Frankie Brunnie smiled. ‘You’re being very sensible. You can start by telling us the name of the old lag who approached you in the Scrubs who offered you a job as a bag man. He’ll do for a start.’

  ‘Don’t ever grass anybody up.’ Danby sighed. ‘It’s the first lesson you learn. You don’t ever grass anybody up; it’s the old honour among thieves number … It’s not just one of the rules … it’s the first rule.’

  ‘Yes, we know all about the rules, Davy,’ Brunnie replied calmly. ‘We know them all: don’t grass on anyone, only steal from those that can stand the loss, burgle a house as neatly as you can … straight in and straight out, don’t hang around and wreck the property, that’s for chavs. An honourable thief doesn’t do vandalism or violence – not against the person anyway. We know the code of honour amongst thieves, but there comes a time – there comes a time, Davy, when you have to look after number one because nobody else will. There comes a time when the code of honour has to go out of the window.’

  ‘And that time,’ Swannell added, ‘well, for you, that time is now. So talk to us, Davy.’

  ‘All right.’ Danby kept his eyes downcast as he replied softly, ‘You need to talk to an old geezer called “Milkie”. “Milkie” Raysin.’

  ‘How are you spelling that name?’ Swannell picked up his pen.

  ‘R-A-Y-S-I-N,’ Danby explained, ‘and “Milkie”, that comes from his first names, Malcolm Christopher … and Raysin, his name, rhymes with raisin the dried fruit, so milk chocolate raisin, shortened to “Milkie”. It’s been “Milkie” for as long as anyone can remember. He doesn’t like it but he’s only a gofer himself. He’s not a big man, but he’s known, so he came up to me and offered me the job.’

  ‘But you’re also known, Davy.’ Swannell tapped his pen on his notepad. ‘The very fact that you were in the Scrubs means you have a police record.’

  ‘Yes, as a thief, but not as a bag man, and I wasn’t known to the landlord, the guy who owns the lock-ups. I told him I was a plumber, but the geezer in the Scrubs – he was both. He was known as a bag man and also known to the bloke who rents out the lock-ups. So I took the job. It was easy money. It wasn’t much but I had no other irons in the fire.’ Danby sat back in his chair. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, we can guess.’ Swannell also leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Look, governor, a geezer has to eat.’ Danby opened both palms in a gesture of protest. ‘I mean, what do I do … starve? You want me to starve?’

  ‘Let’s just get on with it.’ Brunnie scratched the back of his left hand. ‘So where do we find the unfortunately named “Milkie” Raysin?’

  ‘He’s around. He’s got a record, as you know, but he moves from one drum to another quite often. I reckon he’s got a bit of Romany in him has old “Milkie”. He doesn’t like to stay in one place for too long, but he never leaves old London Town; he never sets foot outside the Smoke.’

  ‘So he’ll be in London?’ Swannell confirmed.

  ‘Yes.’ Danby nodded. ‘Anywhere outside the Smoke – well, that might as well be on another planet. “Milkie”s’ never been out of London in his life. Even when he’s been tucked up it’s always been in a London slammer. He’s an East End boy though, so if he’s not tucked up right now he’ll be in some old drum or battle cruiser down the East End.’

  ‘Good man … now we need to get this in the form of a statement for you to sign.’ Frankie Brunnie reached into his briefcase and extracted a statement form. ‘I’ll write it down then you can read it and sign it.’

  ‘I need to think about that.’ Danby buried his head in his fleshy hands.

  ‘Well, the beans are spilled now, Davy. You may as well sign the statement.’ Swannell leaned forward. ‘I mean, we’ll be letting “Milkie” know how we found him. We’ll tell him that you mentioned his name.’

  ‘You wouldn’t …’ Danby’s voice cracked. ‘You won’t tell him I grassed him up?’

  ‘We might not have to … the old East End telegraph being what it is, it’ll be common knowledge that you and Andy Cragg have been lifted. It’ll be common knowledge that the lock-ups have been searched. We’ll lift “Milkie” Raysin and we won’t have to tell anyone that you grassed him up and told us about the lock-ups.’ Swannell spoke softly.

  ‘And one gunsmith is going to be very angry indeed,’ Brunnie added in a menacing tone. ‘He’ll be looking for blood. Much blood. Plenty of claret.’

  ‘We know how you got recruited,’ Swannell continued, ‘so do tell us about the annual rent increase. He’s another contact we have to talk to.’

  David Danby glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, this is not happening to me. Tell me it’s all a bad dream.’

  ‘No dream, Davy,’ Brunnie growled. ‘It’s all too real. So who do you or Milkie tell about the rent increase? He’s always on the outside; he is always where you know you can find him. Name a name … name the boozer where you meet.’

  ‘That’s more than my life’s worth, Mr Brunnie,’ Danby whined. ‘He’ll lead you to the Big Man more quickly than “Milkie” Raysin will.’

  ‘So help yourself,’ Swannell insisted, ‘it’s called the Protected Persons Unit.’

  ‘Dunno … dunno …’ Danby once again buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Look, Davy,’ Brunnie pressed, ‘like we have just said, the East End telegraph will have let all the villainy in London know that you and “Big Andy” Cragg have been lifted in connection with the murder of Victoria Keynes and the villainy is always worried when a gofer gets lifted because they’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain by helping the police.’ Swannell paused. ‘Gofers are kept in the dark for that very reason. Never let a gofer know too much, but occasionally a gofer gets to know more than he should and if he’s a clever one he always keeps what he knows to himself.’

  ‘Especially if he knows that he is not supposed to know whatever it is he knows,’ Brunnie added with a wry smile. ‘And so it is the case that top villains, the big men, are never sure exactly what each one of the lowly gofers knows. It’s always a guessing game.’

  ‘So when a lowly gofer like you gets his old collar felt and is remanded in custody, then the major players, well, they get well worried, really panicky. They get to thinking just what the little old gofer might tell the law to save his old skin.’

  ‘I’m not safe nowhere if “Milkie” finds out I fingered him,’ Danby whined. ‘There’s no place they can’t get me … I mean no place, no place at all.’

  ‘We know.’ Brunnie smiled. ‘We know what it’s like. You’ll get carved up in the showers … well sliced up … all that crimson flowing down the drain. So we’ll lift “Milkie” Raysin and we’ll tell him about your public-spirited nature. He’ll get word out about you being a grass and the crime lord will get word back in here that “Chinese Geordie Davy” is squealing not unlike a stuck pig … and you’ll go into the showers with a group of other geezers and they’ll come back out but you won’t.’

  ‘And then,’ Swannell added, ‘Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘They might let you live,’ Brunnie continued. ‘It all depends on what the crime lord orders … but you’ll live without an eye, or an ear … or a tongue. Grasses tend to lose their to
ngues; it all depends on what the Big Man wants.’

  ‘Or how ruthless he is,’ Swannell said. ‘The really sensible ones, well, they don’t have no “ruth” at all. None whatsoever. They are totally ruthless.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Danby once again buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Sign the statement and tell us the name of the geezer you or Milkie notify about the rent increases … We need his name. Just the truth, we won’t write fiction and get you to sign it so as to get a conviction. We won’t do that, and then you step into the witness box and turn Queen’s Evidence.’

  ‘Because it isn’t true that you’re not safe anywhere.’ Swannell spoke calmly but firmly. ‘You’ll be safe as a protected person … new name, new identity, new city to live in … a whole new fresh start, and if you want to you can visit London from time to time, walk your roots. You can disguise yourself by growing a long beard before you visit London and your old streets, and if you do that, don’t look at people because if you do they’ll look at you and eventually, you’ll be recognized … And don’t visit too often. Once or twice a year – any more than that and it won’t be healthy for you.’

  ‘If I don’t …’ Danby probed. ‘If I don’t sign the damn statement?’

  ‘We have told you.’ Brunnie spoke coldly. ‘In a few days’ time you’ll walk into the showers and not all of you will come out. It will be messy, oh so very messy, very messy indeed.’

  ‘You might even end your life in there.’ Swannell pointed at Danby with his index finger. ‘It all depends on how lacking in “ruth” the man’s man is. I’d sign if I were you.’

  ‘I need to think,’ Danby pleaded.

  ‘Well, don’t take too long about it.’ Swannell stood and pressed the button at the side of the door to summon one of the prison warders.

  ‘Your life’s on the line.’ Brunnie stood. ‘You know where to contact us once you have decided to do the sensible thing.’

  The short, broad-chested man took aim amid a small, hushed crowd of onlookers. He then sent the dart thudding neatly into the ‘double top’ slot. One man said, ‘Good enough’ and another man said, ‘Good arrow’, causing the short, broad-chested dart player to grin broadly as he was tapped on the back by his teammates, who proceeded to empty the kitty jar.

  ‘So, drinks all round,’ announced the grinning man who had thrown the winning arrow. He looked over at the table opposite to where the dartboard hung, and a woman sitting in front of a schooner of sherry smiled approvingly at him and gave the thumbs up gesture. The man and the woman, both in their middle years, were in the tap room of The World Turned Upside Down on the Old Kent Road in Deptford. An observer would see the couple as exactly what they were, and what they wanted to be seen as: a working-class pair, relaxing with their own kind – the man with his beer, the woman with her sherry. If he was close enough, the observer might hear the man and the woman speak and he would note that their speech set them apart from their friends because they spoke with short, clipped vowel sounds, not the elongated vowel sounds of south-east London. And instead of using expressions like the just heard ‘good enough’, they would rather use expressions like ‘champion, just champion’, and they would refer to each other as ‘pet’ or ‘love’ rather than ‘china’ or ‘darlin’’. The couple were in fact from the north of England, both the issue of coalminers and who had grown up in Thurscoe, pronounced ‘Thursku’, in South Yorkshire. The couple were in fact John Shaftoe MD, MRCP, FRCPath – forensic pathologist who had earlier that week complained of the attitude of Professor Dykk at the Royal London Hospital towards working-class entrants to the medical profession, and his wife Linda Shaftoe, neé Arkwright. John and Linda Shaftoe lived in prestigious Brookman’s Park in Hertfordshire amongst other senior professionals and captains of industry, but once every few weeks they sought to ‘touch base’ and mix with the people of the working class, have a few laughs, sink a few pints or a couple of schooners of sherry and throw an arrow or two, always keeping their full identity and occupation a secret so as to ensure acceptance.

  Penny Yewdall lay in bed, naked under a thin summer duvet, and glanced up at the sight sky through the window of her bedroom in her small terraced house in Tusker Road, Greenwich. As she lay there her thoughts drifted to her home in the Potteries in Staffordshire, and to her parents, now retired and living on the coast, and then her thoughts turned to her work – to the murder of Victoria Keynes, so young when she lost her life, or had it taken from her, a young woman so clearly troubled about something when she was shot twice in the head and once in the chest. Penny Yewdall thought about the revelations to come from Dafne Zipes and whatever they would be when she was interviewed the next working day. But tomorrow, tomorrow, she reminded herself, was Sunday, and for once she would not be working on the Lord’s Day. She would sleep late, enjoy a leisurely breakfast, take a stroll in the park later on, climb Observatory Hill and enjoy the vista of North London from the vantage point on the south side of the river. Penny Yewdall was not a native Londoner but she wouldn’t live anywhere else.

  It was Saturday, 23.40 hours.

  SEVEN

  Monday, 10.40 – 14.40 hours

  ‘Leonard McLaverty … well, well, well. Who would have thought it?’ Detective Sergeant Brendan Escritt leaned back in the chair and closed two very clean, perfectly manicured, meaty hands behind his head and smiled broadly. ‘He has been on our most-wanted list for many years. My boss will be delighted that he has been tracked down at last. Where is he?’

  ‘Not so fast, Sergeant.’ Vicary held his palm upwards facing Escritt and returned the smile. ‘He’s a number one suspect in a murder inquiry, now we know he is living under an alias. He was visited in respect of the murder by two of my team, and he proved himself very willing to talk and provided an alibi. He stuck to the same alibi he gave ten years ago when the victim vanished. Indeed, it does appear to be a very strong alibi, and he may be completely innocent. That is still to be seen, but my officers were more than a little suspicious of his lifestyle. He seems very well-to-do, living in the sort of area we are paid to patrol and protect, rather than search for felons.’

  ‘I see.’ Brendan Escritt folded his arms in front of him. He wore a neatly ironed white shirt and a tie with silver stripes on a green background. Vicary thought it a university tie, and he noted that Escritt, young to hold a detective sergeant rank, did indeed have the air of being a graduate entrant to the Metropolitan Police about him, having alert-looking eyes and being softly spoken. ‘So he’s been hiding in plain sight but in an area we would not look for him. Very clever. That is McLaverty all over.’

  ‘That’s about it.’ Vicary looked to his left as his eye was caught by a tug towing a laden barge making its way down the River Thames.

  ‘We knew he’d be living the good life somewhere,’ Escritt continued. ‘You don’t make the sort of ill-gotten gains he is making and live in a council flat in East London or up in Luton or somewhere like that. We just didn’t know where he was … So, do we get to pay him a visit?’

  ‘Nope.’ Vicary smiled again. ‘Not yet, anyway … so not so fast, please. He is still a suspect in a murder enquiry and that takes precedence over anything the Economic Crime Unit might want to talk to him about.’

  ‘Yes.’ Escritt inclined his head to one side. ‘I have to accept that … that is the rule – cannot and must not upset the apple cart. But do tell me how you found him – we can know that.’

  ‘Yes, you can know that.’ Vicary nodded. ‘It was the case that two of my officers visited him in connection with the murder I mentioned and they felt that his standard of living was suspiciously high. At that stage they knew him only as Elliot Woodhuyse and he gave his occupation as being “something in the city”, but it was mid-week and he was lounging about his house instead of shouting down a phone in some brokerage or other. My officers took a statement from him and then asked him to read and sign it, and so obtained his fingerprints, and then he doubly obliged them by putting
the top of the pen in his mouth as he read the statement.’

  ‘Thus providing you with his DNA?’ Escritt grinned.

  ‘In one.’ Vicary joined in the grinning. ‘Upon their return to the Yard the officers sent the paper and the pen to the forensic science lab, who checked with Criminal Records and got a result, known as Leonard McLaverty, for a few minor offences, so we broadcast it in case any department was interested.’

  ‘And here I am.’ Escritt glanced out of the window of Vicary’s office. ‘I confess I like the view you have from up here – better than us on the lowly second floor – but we appreciate your team’s “nose” for a felon.’

  ‘Yes, my officers were on the ball there – they intuitively thought that he might be aka and so showed no interest in any alias he might have because they feared that he might have a bolthole ready to slither down.’

  ‘He will do.’ Escritt breathed deeply and then exhaled slowly. ‘He definitely will have an escape route … as almost all white-collar criminals do. He’ll have numbered accounts in Swiss banks; he’ll have offshore accounts. Elliot Woodhuyse won’t be his only alias and he’ll also have property abroad. So thanks to your officers … as you say, they were well on the ball there all right, and especially for being discreet … If he got the slightest whiff that he was suspected of being an “also known as”, we would have lost him for good. We don’t even know what he looks like. He is totally cagey.’

  ‘But he’s been in prison,’ Vicary protested. ‘You’ll have his photograph on file.’

  ‘Oh, we do … a very clear image … long hair, beard and about twenty years old now.’

  ‘Ah.’ Vicary nodded. ‘Point taken. So you don’t know what he looks like now …’

  ‘Exactly. He also has no known tattoos or birthmarks, no scars or healed fractures … he has no distinct identifying marks of any kind, only his fingerprints and his DNA. Quite frankly, I am surprised he touched the pen and the statement pad.’