They did not know.
‘Shall I ask James?’ I offered, picking up my mobile again.
Words seemed to have failed them just then so I hit buttons.
‘He’s grumpy too,’ I said, after a couple of minutes’ conversation. ‘There’s a bloke Gill knocks around with who James describes as being a spavined idiot who he really, really wants to get his hands on to help with several inquiries, but like nearly everyone else he needs to find in connection with this case he’s gone to ground. He sometimes drives the car as Gill’s banned.’
Silence.
‘I suppose . . .’ Greenway began and then stopped speaking.
‘I’d have to get Carrick on board,’ Patrick observed.
‘Yes, you can’t act behind his back,’ I said.
‘That could be our first move then,’ Greenway murmured. ‘Then what? Surely at least one of the Jessop brothers should be fit for interview soon.’ He gave me a Patrick shark-style grin. ‘Perhaps we ought to have you in on that, Ingrid, to help sharpen up Derek Jessop’s memory.’
‘Well, officially, I’m still standing in for Carrick’s sergeant,’ I said. ‘So if I haven’t been replaced that will be normal casework progress.’
‘Good. Now, one bit of intelligence you might not be aware of is that Uncle and co. have adopted various Mafia practices, one of which is a kind of money laundering-cum-protection racket – it can only be described as a small offshoot – that involves a lot of small businesses. It’s how they deal with some of the loot from drug dealing and robberies and at the same time drag people, by intimidation or brute force, into their sphere of operations. Outfits like independent cafés, bistros, bars, independent drug stores and upmarket fashion boutiques are the favourite targets: not places you’d first look for involvement in crime.’
‘Cooperate or your premises will be firebombed?’ Patrick said.
‘Yes, apparently that’s the most common initial approach. But, far more difficult to trace, they also barter stuff – force the proprietors to accept goods, originally bought from cash and carries by people who appear to be running a perfectly normal business and then head for their prey and demand in exchange stuff like food, wine, pharmaceuticals and clothing. They always choose what they want and take better goods than they’re leaving behind. So the money goes round and round – some of the stuff they consume themselves – and they finally sell top-of-the-range stuff for a profit. Then it starts all over again.’
‘Using vans with bogus company names on them?’ Patrick hazarded.
‘That’s right. It’s also used as a method of getting rid of stolen property that’s not particularly valuable, in other words stuff that’s perishable, like food, or not sufficiently interesting to a fence. This might sound as though it’s only peanuts’ – he smiled at his own pun – ‘but multiplied by over a hundred businesses that are thought to be involved, mostly in the south of England, it adds up to a lot of money. And of course it’s only one small layer in their scheme of dealing with illegal funds.’
‘And I suppose with regard to slightly larger concerns which would be difficult or impossible to take over, gang members could apply for jobs such as managers or supervisors and operate a scam on the inside.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that angle in connection with this case,’ Greenway admitted. ‘But, yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ He made a note on a jotter pad, threw down the pen and continued, ‘Another thing is that in my view small sometimes means weak. The not-so-bright guys get given this job and that might be a way to get to those at the top. So that’s two avenues of investigation you can put to Carrick.’
We duly brainstormed for another hour or so and failed to come up with any more useful ideas. It was reluctantly concluded that further lines of inquiry might be opened up after Derek Jessop, and possibly his brother, were questioned but until that happened nothing would be gained by sitting around talking.
Patrick phoned Carrick, who immediately vetoed my idea of approaching Charlie Gill on the grounds that the man was hard-headed, by no means stupid, had originated in London and would go into any business agreement with both eyes wide open. He was fairly dismissive about making discreet enquiries at small businesses in the area too.
Stalemate?
FIVE
We went home for the weekend, Patrick with the avowed intention of making Carrick change his mind, starting by cunningly inviting him and his wife Joanna to dinner on Saturday night. But the pair had already accepted another invitation so regretfully had to refuse. This meant that Patrick focused on activities with the children in between lone brainstorming while, in the afternoon, I helped Elspeth with a village jumble sale. Predictably, I always get landed with the book stall.
At some stage in the minor warfare being conducted over bargains Elspeth brought me a cup of tea and a cake.
‘That’s her,’ she said, jerking her head over to her left. ‘Carol Trelonic, Adam Trelonic’s widow. Betty Williams has just told me that the woman brought in what must have been most of her husband’s clothes this morning. I call that a bit soon, don’t you? I mean, the funeral hasn’t taken place yet.’
I happened to know that the delay had been caused by the body having not yet been released by the police.
‘How can I get to talk to her?’ I asked.
‘I’ll introduce you – that’s a perfectly normal thing to do.’ She gave me a very straight look and said quietly, ‘You and Patrick do work together sometimes, don’t you?’
I nodded.
She patted my arm. ‘John thinks so too. But if anyone asks of course we know nothing about it.’ Again I was subjected to her searching gaze. ‘Guns too?’
‘I’m a pretty good shot,’ I told her. ‘We watch each other’s backs.’
‘Good . . . lovely,’ she said, gazing around a little distractedly as though we were discussing the time of the next Mothers’ Union meeting. ‘Let’s grab her before she scuttles off.’
Finding the choice of words fascinating I put my tea and cake on a window ledge and followed her through the throng to where a woman was ferreting around with others on one end of the bric-a-brac stall. A certain amount of elbowing and dirty looks exchanging seemed to be taking place.
‘Mrs Trelonic, I’d like you to meet my daughter-in-law, Ingrid,’ Elspeth said quite loudly on account of the hubbub. ‘As you probably know she and my son bought the rectory when the diocese was going to sell it.’
‘Scuttles’ suddenly made sense when the woman turned towards me. Her tongue flickered across thin lips nervously and she gave me a brief and wary smile. She was younger than I had for some reason imagined and I could not picture her partnered with the unshaven and taciturn individual who had delivered our logs.
‘I’m very sorry about your husband,’ I said.
Her face became expressionless and, woodenly, she thanked me.
‘Ghastly to be caught in crossfire like that,’ I went on. ‘Just an innocent passer-by.’
‘He was always a loser,’ she snapped and turned away from us.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Elspeth said when we had returned to the bookstall.
‘You told James that she set your teeth on edge. Why?’
‘There was a time . . .’
I waited.
‘When I thought she’d set her sights on John.’
‘Surely not!’
‘All smiles and volunteering to do things. Staying behind after the services, sort of . . . hovering.’ Determinedly, she added, ‘Yes, I know the man’s in his early seventies but he doesn’t look it since he had his heart op; he’s quite charismatic really.’
Like his son.
I sold a couple of books and then said, ‘Look, you don’t have anything to worry about. John loves you to bits.’
‘I suppose she’s quite attractive in a funny sort of way and there have been rumours that she’s had affairs with several men in the village. But . . .’
‘Is this still going on as f
ar as John’s concerned?’
‘I thought not, but now I come to think of it . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I must go and help with the teas. See you later.’
Patrick appeared carrying Vicky and with Justin, and the trio went over to the toys where the latter immediately pounced on a large plastic water pistol. No, I willed his father to tell him, you already have a large water pistol. They bought it. Then parental control had immediately to be exercised when Justin wanted it filled right there and then. He was safely diverted by a rather flabby football that I knew would go straight in the bin that night by which time it would have fully deflated.
‘Busy?’ Patrick asked when they arrived, Justin with his armful, and I had presented Vicky with a couple of little picture books I had chosen for her. ‘Any of yours here?’ he went on to ask before I could reply, peering at the titles.
‘No,’ I replied evenly.
‘Just trying to wind you up.’
‘I know. That woman over there in the queue for teas wearing the red jacket is Mrs Trelonic. I tried to talk to her but she was having none of it.’
‘What did you make of her, though?’
‘Furtive.’
‘She could have been involved if he was.’
‘All she said was that her husband had always been a loser.’
‘I wonder if he took up the offer of that recruiting officer. I really need to find out who that was.’
‘Then question her. You have the authority.’
‘She’s refused to talk to the police any more.’
‘You could try charm.’
My advice has never actually been catastrophic before.
He went later that afternoon on his own, as I knew my presence would not be remotely useful. When he returned I was in the garden carrying Mark, who seems to love looking at trees waving in the breeze. I walked over to where Patrick was parking the car.
‘I take it you didn’t hoist in the fact that she was a grade one troublemaker,’ was Patrick’s opening remark as he slammed the driver’s door with more force than was necessary.
‘I only spoke to her for a matter of seconds,’ I said.
‘Pity.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘She said she’d already put in a formal complaint to the police about what she called “continuous harassment” – Carrick didn’t quite mention that, did he? – and then told me that she’d sort me out by telling the village that she and Dad are having an affair.’
I swore under my breath. Then I said, ‘Sorry, Elspeth did say that she thought the woman had been giving him sheep’s eyes.’
‘Ingrid, you should have told me that before I went!’
He strode away towards the house and I hurried to catch up.
Patrick rounded on me. ‘For God’s sake don’t run with him!’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ve apologized, haven’t I? I can’t always get everything right!’
But he went off without another word.
If oracles had boxes I had definitely been shoved back in mine. For when you do something, wittingly or not, to threaten the stability of a man’s family, in his eyes it is unforgivable. I could hardly tell Elspeth and John what the problem was although I knew the former, although upset, would probably inform her son that he deserved to be shaken until his teeth rattled for blaming me.
On Sunday Patrick helped his father with the morning communion service, singing in the choir and acting as server, and then retired to the dining room in the afternoon to catch up on household accounts and more work-related brainstorming. I never write on Sundays unless I have a rapidly approaching publisher’s deadline so I carried on devoting my time to the children, having given Carrie the day off. Early on Monday Patrick left, in the car and presumably for London, without telling me what he intended to do. This was against our working rules but hardly surprising as we had barely spoken for twenty-four hours.
Would this wretched Trelonic woman carry out her threat? In my view the fact that she had made it proved not only that she was a complete bitch but had something to hide. I borrowed Elspeth’s car and drove into Bath.
‘I’m not sure who I’m working for this morning,’ I said, putting my head around James Carrick’s office door.
‘For me until tomorrow unless you’ve pressing SOCA stuff,’ he answered. ‘I’m getting one DS Keen. I just hope he is.’ A file he had been reading was tossed into a wire tray on his desk. ‘We can go and talk to Derek Jessop. Coming?’
‘Of course.’
We were making our way across the car park when Carrick said, ‘I was expecting to be given the full treatment by that man of yours to make me change my mind about the best way to carry the case forward.’
‘He would have tried,’ I said.
‘Is he not around?’
‘No. He went off to London this morning. I don’t know why. We had words over the weekend.’ As I felt it affected the case with which we were all involved I related what had happened.
‘She’s done nothing of the kind!’ the DCI said, referring to the complaint. ‘Or, at least, hadn’t done at the end of last week. And nobody’s been harassing the woman. You know, all she’s succeeded in doing is making me suspicious that she was involved in some kind of scam her husband was in, mobsters or whatever.’
‘Patrick’s livid with me for not warning him about her apparent attraction to his father.’
‘Och, why would you normally bother him with it? It’s exactly the kind of thing that men dismiss as women’s gossip.’
Coming from a man, I reckoned this to be a noble remark.
‘But Mrs Trelonic could do damage if she put a rumour about,’ he added. ‘This is nothing to do with me really but you might have to warn your in-laws.’
When we moved to Somerset I really thought everything would settle down into an interesting but fairly quiet routine.
Billy Jessop was still very ill, although improving. His elder brother was due to be discharged the following day, freeing him from his police ‘minders’ and into the care of a remand centre.
‘I don’t know how you have the brass neck to come here,’ he shouted at me when he saw me.
‘You’re disturbing the peace again,’ I admonished, not in a mood to take any nonsense from him. ‘And I would like to remind you that but for me you might be on a murder, rather than attempted murder, charge right now.’
We drew up chairs around where he was sitting, his shoulder bandaged, arm in a sling, in a patients’ lounge. A television in one corner was being gloomily watched by three elderly men, the programme some kind of shopping channel.
‘You’re not being interviewed under caution as the docs don’t think you’re well enough,’ Carrick began by saying in conversational tones. ‘We’re just here for a chat.’
Jessop grunted.
‘You don’t normally carry firearms,’ the DCI continued. ‘How did that come about?’
‘I found it,’ Jessop replied, picking up a newspaper and pretending to read it.
‘Was that before or after it was used in the shoot-out in Bath?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You deny you were wounded during the night when rival gangs clashed in the city centre?’
‘Billy and I were just coming back from a bar and we got caught up in it. We’re victims.’
Carrick snatched the paper away from him. ‘I have a reliable witness who saw you and your brother, has identified the pair of you from mugshots and is prepared to swear on oath that he saw you firing weapons. At least one of these was removed by other people when you were injured. Who were the others, Derek?’
‘Sod off.’
‘Who was the person who recruited you? We know someone went round pubs hiring men like you.’
‘Like me?’ Jessop said angrily. ‘You mean thick, I suppose.’
‘No, expendable,’ I said before Carrick could reply. ‘You know, cannon fodder, people they regard as nobodies hired for n
o money to make the crime bosses look big – what law enforcement agencies refer to as disposable associates. But it all went wrong, didn’t it? And two of those involved were literally gutted. That wasn’t quite the plan, was it?’
‘Gutted?’ Jessop repeated.
‘Yes, they were shot and then knifed around, mutilated.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘We don’t actually know yet whose side they were on. Eastern European sort of men; Romanians probably. They might have had quite thick accents or not spoken much English at all. Ring any bells with you?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Men like that weren’t working with you?’
‘No.’
‘You know what that means, don’t you? It was people from your lot who did it. That makes you some kind of accessory to disembowelling. I understand their guts were strewn all over the pavement.’ Actually, I understood no such thing but as our American friends say, it figured.
‘I didn’t do it!’ Jessop bawled, making the old men in the corner almost jump out of their pyjamas.
‘If you were drunk you might have done. Was a man called Adam Trelonic hired as well?’
‘I don’t know the name.’
‘Tell us who paid you rubbish money to spend most of the rest of your life in prison.’
Jessop, white-faced, carried on shaking his head.
‘How much?’ I persevered. ‘Fifty quid? A hundred? How he must have laughed telling the boss man how cheaply idiots in the sticks could be hired. Yes, I’ve changed my mind now. The DCI’s right: he was looking for the really stupid. He was there, you know, one of the chief mobsters. Sitting in his big car down near the station watching it all happen. Seeing you writhing around in agony with young Billy and—’
‘The bastard sent someone over to take our money off us!’
Jessop then looked as though he wished he could bite his tongue off.
‘Who? The man you were working for?’
After a long silence Jessop muttered, ‘Him.’
‘You’ve no proof, though.’
‘Billy’s gun and both our wallets was grabbed.’
Rat Poison Page 6
