“Nah, course not.” Jack did his thinking aloud. “Janey wouldn’t do that to me — she’s loyal.”
Thomas said nothing; not every problem was his to solve.
“Greg, eh?” Jack sucked at his teeth. “Well, that’s for another time. Who’d he sell it to?”
“Charlie Stokes.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Thomas swallowed. “Natalie said Ray thinks there’s a reasonable chance of buying it back.”
“Right.” Jack changed demeanour, bringing his arms forward to rest on the table. “Offer him fifteen K then. It’s worth more because of the purity, but Charlie won’t want any bad blood between us again.”
The word ‘again’ pinged on Thomas’s radar. Talk turned to Mrs Langton, which threw him off balance.
“She’s a good girl, is Natalie. And Ray will look after you. You can trust him.”
Maybe, Thomas thought, but you can’t.
“So what’s your next move — with the boy?”
He could tell Jack was enjoying this. Maybe the telly wasn’t up to much. He trod carefully.
“Well, I’ve ruled out any connection to Andrea Harrison. I also met your artist mate from Spain, RT. He’s clean too.”
Jack cracked a broad smile. “Bit of a poser, eh? Dependable though. I couldn’t see him biting the hand that feeds him — I’d break his jaw. But that’s good to know.”
“Of course, you have to check these things out.” There was a lull in the conversation, so he made good use of it. “Jack . . .” He strung the word out to suggest subservience. “What do you know about Charlie Stokes? Anything we can use?”
“Lemme see now.” Jack rubbed his hands together slowly. “Ex-army; some fancy regiment — don’t ask me what. Marines or something. His patch borders mine and we have an understanding; we keep out of one another’s way. His delivery service is mostly a side line.” Jack’s voice, low anyway, now sounded like an ad for throat lozenges.
“Do you know the Dolans?”
Jack stretched back and sniffed. “Kevin Dolan used to do some work for me, until Ray showed up. Last I heard Kevin had gone up north — apparently he got into some bother with a skirt. He was like that. Why d’you ask?”
He shrugged. “No reason. One of the twins does deliveries for the pizza place.”
Jack’s pupils enlarged; this was new information to him. “Yeah, I’ll bet he does!” He cracked a smile. “That’ll be Roland. Charlie took the place over a year or so ago. It sounds like you’ve taken an interest in Mr Stokes?”
“I’m just following all lines of inquiry like you asked me to.” He could feel his pulse jumping in his throat.
Jack smiled again; a gold tooth gleamed under the strip lights. “Good.” He folded his massive arms. “You’ve got your head screwed on. What’s your dad do for a living?”
He didn’t have time to make up a lie. “He was a miner; drives a minicab now.”
“A grafter. Like father like son, eh? My ol’ man worked down the docks. Long hours and shit conditions. He used to see all sorts coming in under the table and he wised up in the end. Taught me a lot, my dad.”
Debrief over, the talk became more casual. Jack did a nifty line in the lives of those around him. “Geezer two tables back, over my left shoulder?” Jack didn’t even bother to look round. “What do you see?”
Thomas glanced over. “Bloke talking to his mum?”
“She’s there cos his wife refuses to come . . .” Jack winked and then dished the dirt on half a dozen fellow inmates.
Thomas breathed a little easier when one of the prison staff called out, “Five more minutes!” He asked Jack what he planned to do when he got out, seeing as they were mates now, and all.
Jack was clearly a man full of ideas. “. . . And I thought I’d take Natalie and the kids away somewhere — Marseille maybe, or Gambia. The bloke I share a cell with was talking about it this week. Course, she’ll probably wanna bring her mother along. Then again, she can look after the kids, like now.”
Jack found his own musings hilarious, so Thomas let him get on with it. Like his French teacher at school used to say: ‘It’s your own time you’re wasting.’
They shook hands at leaving time and to Thomas it seemed they were both prisoners now.
“Listen, how’d you like to earn a few extra quid?”
“You’re paying me plenty.” Thomas shrank back into his chair; it was starting to feel like a hostile takeover.
Jack nodded. Thomas wasn’t sure whether he’d passed a loyalty test or dodged a bullet.
“Keep an eye on Natalie for me, will you? I’d like to be kept informed.” Jack held his gaze in a chokehold.
* * *
The grey skies of Acton were a welcome relief from Jack’s spidery lair. He walked quickly to put some distance between him and the Scrubs. Karl was quick to pick up the call.
“How goes it, Tommo?”
“Let’s just say if you are ever banged up in prison, I won’t be visiting you very often. Incidentally, Natalie’s mum came up in conversation. How was your morning?”
“Productive and disturbing, in equal measure. I met with our friend and he explained a few more things. Not on the phone — I’ll tell you when I see you.” The call tailed off, although he could still hear Karl breathing. “I’ll pick you up at Dalston Junction, soon as.”
* * *
The Dalston pick-up was short-lived. He wondered whether Natalie’s mother should join the list and Karl had an interesting take on it.
“Get someone else to do it; it’s just background. Learn to delegate.”
He was about to ask for suggestions when the penny dropped. They were in Dalston, home to a bona fide private investigator by the name of Thurston Leon. Perfect, if the bloke could get over the beating he got on the last job Thomas had given him.
“Mr Leon has never let me down yet.” Karl was reaching into his jacket.
No, Thomas thought, and thanks to mugs like me he’s never even met you.
“You’ll be needing this.” Karl pulled out an unsealed envelope filled with notes. “£200, to be going on with.”
“So you knew about Natalie Langton’s mother?”
“Much as I would like to claim omniscience, Tommo, I was thinking more about Charlie Stokes, but let’s work our way up the food chain. You go and charm Leon; I’m going shopping.”
The receptionist was new, or filling in. Her blonde hair looked like an explosion in a Clairol factory. The earrings and lipstick was 100% celebrity magazine. If she were waiting to be discovered, she’d made it as difficult as possible by hiding in Dalston. She looked like she had somewhere better to be and, simultaneously, had no chance of getting there.
“Can I help you?” Her clipped attempt at culture had the opposite effect.
“I’d like to see Mr Leon.”
“I’ll check if he’s free.”
He drifted off to the waiting area, glancing between the lettering on the window, and set himself down in a cane chair. The magazines on the table were an eclectic mix — old editions of Caribbean Times, The New Yorker and some computing mag with the cover missing. Someone had made a trip to the charity shop.
He heard half a conversation. Celebrity Girl’s accent seemed to have slipped a couple of notches.
“Woz he like? I dunno; he’s a bloke. See for yourself.”
The office door opened a crack. Thomas looked up and the door widened.
“Well, brudder; I never expected to see your face again. The only reason I’m not throwing you out on the street is because of the bonus you sent me after our last . . . adventure.”
Thomas smiled, realising that Karl must have sent the cash. The last time Thurston Leon had kept tabs on Jack Langton he had suffered a beating; while Thomas had fared little better, with his car getting crowbarred while he was still in it.
“So what ye want?”
“I have some business — if you’re interested?”
Leon let go of
his door and it creaked open.
“You better come inside.”
It wasn’t exactly the espionage job of the century, and even then Thomas played it down. Just a simple case of keeping an eye on Natalie Langton’s mum for a few days, albeit with a few conditions. He picked up Leon’s business card.
“I want everything by email. I’ll be in touch with my email address.”
That is, once he’d created one. It was all done and dusted in ten minutes, and he left there £200 lighter. Karl wasn’t around when he got back to the car, so he checked his mobile. There was a text from his sister and an update on the Yorkshire bairn — happy families everywhere he looked.
Karl finally put in an appearance with two carrier bags.
“Sorry, too good a chance to miss. I thought I’d treat myself to something special tonight. Fancy joining me for dinner?”
“Your place is tiny.”
“I know; that’s why I thought we could use your kitchen.”
He glanced at the bags. “That looks like a lot of food.”
“Yeah, about that. I thought it might do Ken good to get away from his usual patch. And without alcohol on tap he might open up a bit. What do you reckon?”
It all sounded like a done deal. “Okay, you better let him know.”
Karl shifted from foot to foot. So that had already been taken care of then.
“Any more surprises?”
“Er, well, I took the liberty of inviting Miranda as well.”
“Fuck me, Karl; why not make it a party and have done with it?” He smiled a little, to let Karl know he was kidding, but Karl’s face was hard as marble.
“Thing is, Thomas, I might need her help.”
Chapter 38
They were en route to the Dolans’ place when Karl took a call on his mobile.
“Right; I see. No, we can come in now — absolutely, no problem at all. We’re on our way.” He switched off his mobile and kept it in front of him. “Dawn Yeates wants us to go straight to the office.”
“Which reminds me, how did your meeting go? Did she turn up?”
“Cheeky bastard; of course she did. It was all above board. Listen; more importantly there’s been some movement on the Monica Kinley front. It seems they’ve called her in for an interview. Dawn wants us to make statements.”
“How’s that, exactly?”
“I dunno. No doubt she’ll explain everything when we get there.”
Dawn met them at reception and took them through to a back office on the ground floor. Thomas could see something had changed — maybe Karl’s dating technique had put her back up.
The office was big enough for one large table and four seats; no windows and no sign that a cleaner had been anywhere near for a while. The bin, squeezed into one corner of the room, was already choked with plastic cups; all in all, a classic interrogation room. It didn’t help that Dawn directed the two of them to the seats furthest from the door. She sat opposite, her mobile resting on the table in front of her.
“When did Monica Kinley come in?” Karl’s voice had an edge to it.
“She’s here now. The preliminary discussion raised sufficient concerns that I’ve asked a social worker to do an emergency visit with the police.”
Thomas was starting to feel a little side lined. “So what has she said?” The word ‘entrapment’ loomed large in his head.
“She said that you knocked on her door . . .” Dawn folded her arms and waited.
“. . . After I helped her aunt home — she had a fall.”
“Yes, Monica said that too.”
Thomas had a sense of something unspoken in the air.
“Look, Dawn.” Karl slapped his fingertips down on the table. “It’s unorthodox, I grant you. But we could hardly leave the old lady lying in the street. Thomas wanted to make sure Dorothy was okay. We did offer to call a doctor, but Monica wouldn’t have it.”
He watched the two of them play a watered down version of the ‘angry silence’ game — first person to speak is the loser. They were amateurs, compared to his parents.
Dawn’s mobile trilled into life. She was out the door, mid-greeting.
Thomas turned to Karl. “What is going on?”
Karl fiddled with an imaginary Stan Laurel tie. “Beats me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas had explored the tiny room in detail and concluded that there were no cameras or listening devices. He’d even checked the bin to be on the safe side. The room was exactly what it seemed — an eyesore. He sat beside Karl, facing forward: exam conditions. Though God only knew what they were being tested for.
Dawn Yeates returned in a flourish, almost smashing the door against the back of an empty chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you.” She loitered by the door, as if guarding an escape route. “There’s been a development. I need you to wait a bit longer. I’ll organise some hot drinks and a biscuit.”
When she returned again she wasn’t alone. One of the boys in blue was behind her, notebook in hand.
“Karl, could you come outside please. I need to separate the two of you to give statements.” Dawn stared down at him. “The police forced entry to the property and Dorothy Kinley was found dead. “Looks like she’s been dead for some time.”
“Weeks. Months, probably.” The copper couldn’t hide his glee. “And to think you boys are supposed to be the observant ones.”
Two separate statements, a review of their evidence sheets and a difficult conference call with Christine Gerrard sucked the life out of the day.
“Come on, Karl,” Thomas muttered, as they eased their way past a line of grinning bastards, “we can hardly blame ourselves.”
“How could we not have spotted there was something amiss with the sprightly Mrs Kinley?”
The conversation continued in the car, on the way over to Liverpool Street.
“Wrapped in plastic sheeting, apparently. Grim, but hygienic.” Karl waded through the details.
Clearly, he’d gotten more out of his copper than Thomas had. The lass he’d given a statement to had only said, at regular intervals, “and you really had no idea?”
He drove to the underground car park, still conjuring with the implications. “So why dress up as her aunt to collect the pension in person when she could have had it paid straight into an account?”
“I suppose, when it comes down to it, she’s not a criminal mastermind. She must have thought it was a good way to show Aunt Dorothy was still alive.”
“This won’t look good in the papers.”
“Rest assured, the SSU won’t get a mention. Christine will see to that.”
“Well, that might be difficult in a murder investigation.”
“Who said anything about murder? A fiver says it’s natural causes.”
“Bollocks. Unless you’ve seen a police report . . . Have you?”
Karl drew a thumb and index finger across his lips.
The chances of Karl revealing a hidden alliance were infinitesimal to nil, but it was worth the accusation to see the look on his face.
“I’ll be off now to get Christine to authorise a car for the night. I’ll see you at your place in about an hour.”
“What about the food in the car?”
“Take it with you; I’ll bring the fish — and Ken.”
* * *
Maybe Thomas should have expected Miranda on his doorstep. She’d waited outside this time, parked in his usual spot.
“Table for four?”
“Apparently so. Karl’s doing the cooking, if he turns up in time.”
“I’m sure we can give him a helping hand. What are friends for?”
That was a very good question.
* * *
Sober, Ken was a very different proposition. He arrived in a shirt and tie, spick and span like some of the blokes Thomas had seen at the military pub. Those trousers looked like they could cut paper. He’d even brought along chocolates, bless ’im.
Karl settled him in the front room and th
en made himself scarce, leaving it to Miranda to drum up conversation. Thomas loved watching Miranda in action; she had the gift of the gab, just like her mum and dad. Ken asked if the Mini was hers and soon they were talking about cars. Ken liked a bit of Grand Prix and Miranda had picked up enough gen from her Dad and the boys to maintain the flow.
He sat with them for a while and then judged it was safe to check on the kitchen. Karl stood at the eye of the storm with all his ingredients chopped in separate piles. Thomas recognised the plantain from Walthamstow Market.
“It won’t be authentic Salt Fish and Ackee, but you’ll love it.” Karl dropped a wooden spoon on the counter.
Thomas put it on a stand and wiped up the mark. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on and why you’ve dragged Miranda into this?” He pulled the kitchen door closed. “Does she know about Ken?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?”
“Right now? I’m not even sure. Where did you learn to cook like this, anyway?”
“To be sure, sir,” Karl parodied his own Northern Irish accent. “Did you think we only cooked potatoes?”
“Listen . . .” The word caught in Thomas’s throat. “. . . Don’t put her at risk, okay?”
The kitchen suddenly felt claustrophobic. He left Karl to it.
Dinner was served with great occasion. Karl did everything but ring a bell. Thomas forgave him that because the food smelled fantastic. Maybe Karl had done a spell in the Catering Corps.
“Okay, Ken.” Karl cut through the chatter. “Permission to speak freely?’
“Granted.” Ken played along.
To Thomas’s eye, while Karl’s army oppo didn’t exactly look at ease, it was the most relaxed he’d seen him without singing.
“You get your money by cash card, correct?” Karl picked out a fishbone.
“That’s right — a £300 a day limit.”
“Hmm. Not much time to stockpile cash before you need to be away. You know why they gave you a card?”
“So I can’t empty the account in one go?”
“Well, there’s that. But also . . .” Karl looked to Thomas, inviting him in.
“They can see where and when you make each withdrawal.”
Ken carried on eating. “That’s clever, but how does that help me?”
CAUSE & EFFECT Page 18
