Rat Poison

by Margaret Duffy

  ‘I know what this is all about,’ Patrick said in a deadly whisper, his face inches from the other man’s, the hand still in a tight grip. ‘You and that overgrown brat brother of yours played a much bigger part in the shootings than we have so far thought.’ He added, for the benefit of the tape, that the suspect had just attempted to strike him.

  There was a short silence during which Jessop obviously wished fervently he was somewhere else. Finally, he was released.

  ‘Let’s think what that might be,’ Patrick went on. ‘We have these two men who we think are of mid-European extraction who were cornered in Abbey Churchyard, easily shot because they had run out of ammunition and who were then, possibly while still alive, knifed to the extent of being disembowelled. No one’s a lousy shot at point-blank range, Jessop, and that’s what we’re talking about here. I reckon that was you and Billy boy and then Murphy did the fancy knife-work. It was after this, when you were running through the Stall Street area blasting at everyone who moved that the pair of you were wounded. Did you pick off the waitress going home from work and the stage hand whose body was found in a skip? And then when you’d been taken out Murphy relieved you of one of the weapons they’d given you and your money just to tidy things up a little.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing to people just goin’ home!’ Jessop shouted, visibly trembling.

  ‘But you killed the other two, didn’t you? Quite safe targets too, no risk to you at all. Perfect for beginners to try their hand on, eh?’

  ‘I want a solicitor,’ Jessop said, barely audibly.

  ‘Is that a confession?’

  ‘They . . . they was armed though, wasn’t they? We didn’t know they’d run out of ammo. All I saw was two nasty little gypsy types. It was them or us. Besides, she made us do it.’

  ‘You’re going to need your solicitor.’

  ‘It’s all falling into place,’ I said over coffee in the canteen.

  ‘Too slowly,’ Patrick said, pulling a face after draining the polystyrene cup.

  ‘Have you had time to look into the info you wrote down in the pub last night?’

  ‘No. But I did look up the registration of the car. It was Carol Trelonic’s. In her name, not her husband’s.’

  ‘So she and Andrews . . .’ Words failed me for a moment.

  ‘Unless she lent the vehicle to someone.’

  Adam Trelonic had used the name Brian Law, a false identity acquired from ‘a bloke in a pub’ from whom he had bought stolen credit cards, a passport and a cheque book. For this Trelonic had served a six-month jail sentence.

  But when asked about this, Jessop, awaiting the arrival of someone to represent him who we gathered was on her way, refused to answer. When interviewed later he still refused to give the names of anyone with whom he and Billy had been involved. Patrick had to resign himself to this for now as he could not utilize the methods he once did when working for MI5 in order to get to the truth.

  ‘Trelonic’s dead but I still want to drop him right in it,’ he admitted.

  ‘Please don’t let it become personal,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure that wife of his knows all about what he got up to and is even involved herself.’

  ‘There must have been a PM. Usually there are chemical residues if someone’s fired a gun.’

  ‘Yes, lead, barium, antimony and soot. I’ve already looked up the PM findings and there were no residues found on the body or clothing. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t fire a weapon as there only has to be a breeze or crosswind that blows any traces away for the test to show a negative result. He’d been killed by two shots in the back from fairly close range.’

  ‘Therefore, in law, there’s still uncertainty with regards to his participation.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Were there any weddings last weekend?’ Patrick asked his father that evening.

  ‘Not at this church,’ was the reply. ‘And not to my certain knowledge at Wellow.’

  We had invited Elspeth and John in for pre-dinner drinks.

  ‘You don’t happen to know if there was a reception over at the pub following, say, a civil ceremony?’

  ‘It could only have been a very small one if there was,’ Elspeth replied. ‘The place simply isn’t large enough so they normally have to hire a marquee and have it erected at the front on the green. After applying for permission, of course. I can’t remember that happening since the early spring. It poured down with rain all day and I felt so sorry for everyone. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Oh, local research. So you don’t think there’s been any kind of big bash over there for four or five months?’

  ‘Nothing of the size you seem to be talking about,’ said John. ‘We can’t help but notice really due to the loud pop music that people can’t seem to live without these days.’

  ‘Do they have many coach parties?’

  The couple exchanged looks and John shook his head.

  ‘They must sometimes but we really can’t say,’ Elspeth said. ‘I’d probably notice if I was here as they’d have to leave it in full view – there’s only a small car park with that big oak tree overhanging the entrance.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen anything like that lately?’

  ‘No.’

  Patrick changed the subject.

  ‘I can’t imagine they do much in the way of outside catering either,’ he reflected later, his mind still obviously on the pub.

  ‘Were there records of lots of bookings?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, dates in connection with discos, wedding receptions, office outings – but I realize the latter could probably be accommodated inside – birthday parties; one, like the weddings, with a marquee booked plus oceans of champagne, and Christmas bashes, only those are quite likely genuine. It adds up to a lot more events than it would appear have actually taken place. And according to Andrews’ records there’s a big customer in a service industry, an insurance company based in Bristol to which he provides catering for meetings and training sessions, etc. That’s the only thing I’ve had a chance to check up on. The company doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What’s it all about then?’

  ‘Money laundering. To explain high profits. But the money’s mostly coming in through the door in cardboard boxes disguised as something along the lines of food ordered for the kitchen. It’s likely there are other scams involving stolen goods. It’s the kind of thing Greenway was talking about.’

  I went cold. ‘Matthew could have been killed.’

  We gazed soberly at one another.

  ‘D’you think he’s safe here?’ I wondered. ‘Andrews must know you work for SOCA.’

  ‘I shall have to involve Greenway and Carrick.’

  ‘He could have been made just to disappear without trace if they thought he’d been nosing around in the office. He still could be.’

  ‘I’m staggered Andrews hasn’t dropped the charges in an effort to draw attention away from the place. That’s poor judgement.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s very intelligent – as well as being spiteful.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Patrick, what are we going to do about this?’

  ‘The biggest problem is lack of formal evidence. I’m already going to get it in the neck over what we’ve discovered already.’

  ‘Look, I’m talking about Matthew. We ought to send him away somewhere safe.’

  My mobile rang.

  ‘It’s a girl!’ James Carrick said jubilantly.

  ‘A daughter and both doing fine,’ I reported to Patrick after conveying all due congratulations.

  ‘Yes, I’m talking about Matthew too,’ he said, as though the call had not occurred. Then, ‘Do we have a bottle of fizz in the house?’

  ‘We usually do.’

  ‘I’ll take it over when Carrick’s home and talk to him about it.’

  ‘His brain’ll be blown from lack of sleep and becoming a father.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Patrick said absentl
y. He went from the room to rummage in the kitchen.

  Whatever the reason, Patrick could raise no one at the Carrick’s old farmhouse when he drove over later, even though the DCI’s car was parked outside.

  Anxiety gnawed, like rats, at me. All the last of the tests and exams were over at school and the children were due to break up for the summer holiday in around a week’s time. I felt I could not raise my concerns with the Youth Offending Team as to explain my worries would involve giving details of an ongoing police investigation. So there was the choice of either taking Matthew out of school and spiriting him away somewhere, possibly to my sister in Surrey, or not allowing him out of our sight. No, we had to talk to Carrick.

  ‘He’s having a few days paternity leave,’ Patrick reported early the following morning. ‘He’s concerned about Matthew, of course, but not really interested in the reasons for our worries, even though I’d stepped out of line to get what is potentially new evidence. As you said, brain a bit blown. But he will contact the relevant Youth Offending bod and tell her we’re taking the boy away for a while for his own safety. He doesn’t have to go into details apparently as he’s the officer in charge of the case.’

  Relief washed over me.

  ‘Where does Matthew go then?’ Patrick went on to ask. ‘It’s a bit difficult with your sister in the States.’

  I had forgotten all about their holiday in Florida. Sending him to his other grandmother was absolutely out of the question as she would doubtless forget to feed him and send him out to buy her cigarettes and booze. I do not get on with my mother – she has never forgiven me for marrying Patrick – and has always made herself so obnoxious to everyone, even those trying to help her, that I am afraid, one day, she is going to end up one of those elderly people who are discovered in their homes very, very dead.

  ‘DS Keen is running Carrick’s cases, keeping in contact with him by phone,’ Patrick went on. ‘I shall have to go in and assist.’ He groaned. ‘Confession time again – to Mike.’

  I did not learn of any consequences, if any, of that conversation until later when the pre-school chaos was over, leaving Matthew, puzzled as to why he had been told to stay at home, having a more leisurely than normal breakfast in the kitchen.

  ‘I’m missing the trip to Cheddar Gorge,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We’ll take you another time,’ I promised.

  ‘Will someone phone in and say why I’m not there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why aren’t I going?’

  Patrick had come in and heard the last question.

  ‘Because you’re going to stay with someone in Berkshire who has a very large garden and wants you to help him with it as he hurt his shoulder a while back,’ he said. ‘How are the muscles?’

  Matthew looked down at his wiry arms. ‘I don’t think I’ve got any. Do I have to go?’

  ‘I was only joking about the gardening. So cheer up – Mike has a lad about your age. But to answer the question properly – yes, you do.’

  ‘When are we going then?’

  ‘This afternoon. Now then . . .’ Patrick drew a chair up to the table. ‘I’d like you to tell me everything you saw when you had your second little snoop around the Ring o’ Bells.’

  Matthew’s face fell. ‘Am I in more trouble?’

  ‘There’s no need to look like a policeman,’ I said quietly to Patrick.

  ‘No, my apologies and to be sure we’re all in this together now,’ Patrick responded in a strong Irish accent. Then in his own voice, ‘But this is work. Cast your mind back to that night. You climbed out of your bedroom window. What then?’

  Matthew frowned. ‘I walked through the garden into the churchyard. It was quite light still so I could see where I was going. I went through the gate and crossed the road a bit farther down so I wouldn’t have to walk across the middle of the village green where people might see me.’

  ‘Good thinking. Then what?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone except old Mrs Taylor taking her little dog for a walk and when I got there a man was sitting smoking outside the pub.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I couldn’t really see his face as I wasn’t that close but he had red hair.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘OK, go on.’

  ‘I didn’t dare go near the front of the place at all and tried to look as though I was going to see someone in one of the houses up the lane at the back. But I went in through the gates behind the pub. There wasn’t anyone around.’

  ‘No, it was almost closing time. Any cars parked there?’

  ‘Only the big four-by-four that belongs to Mr Andrews. I couldn’t see the car park from where I was but there were several cars out the front.’

  ‘One of which could have belonged to the man with red hair.’

  ‘He was sitting quite close to a nice green sports car.’

  ‘D’you know what it was?’

  ‘No, but it was old. An MG or something like that.’

  ‘Then you went in the rear door?’

  ‘After I’d stood quietly for a little while in case someone came. I went straight back to the office where the computer was and—’

  ‘There was a computer?’

  ‘Yes, a Dell.’

  Patrick turned to me. ‘Did you notice it when you were called there?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I was too worried about the kids to notice much at all.’

  ‘I’d started playing around with it when Katie and I were there earlier,’ Matthew continued. ‘People use the stupidest obvious passwords. I’d already got into it just by keying in ROB and had just managed to shut it down when we’d heard Andrews coming and ran back into the storeroom. That’s why I went back, to try to find out more.’

  ‘Please try to remember anything that might be useful.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly remember all of it. It was mostly loads of names and figures.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Patrick said with a sympathetic smile.

  ‘So I sent that file and a couple of others to my computer here. Then the dog found me.’ Ruefully Matthew added, ‘I kept quiet about what I’d done in case I got into even more trouble.’

  Sometimes, moments of pure pleasure have to be prolonged and there was an appropriate silence.

  ‘Do you still have all this stuff?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May SOCA have it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Matthew answered with a grin.

  Patrick took a deep breath and let it go on a delighted sigh. ‘You know, Ingrid, sometimes adults can be really thick. If someone had enquired of this young man a little further before now . . .’ And then to Matthew, ‘What everyone’s been telling you about trespassing still applies. Don’t do it. You’ll still probably get some kind of official telling off but my reprimand will be in the form of a hundred quid spending money for your holiday provided you don’t ask any more questions about this, whatever happens, and keep it all very much to yourself. Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ Matthew said.

  NINE

  Moments later DS Keen rang in a state of some excitement with the news that Gilly Darke had been arrested the night before for being drunk and disorderly. Despite diligent searching she had not been located since the night when Lynn Outhwaite had spotted her in the restaurant and was now, having been put in a cell overnight to sober up, spitting mad at being further detained.

  The answer to his question to Patrick as to whether he would like to question her was predictable.

  I had thought Lynn’s summing up of the woman’s outward appearance to be the product of boredom, resentment and a leg in plaster but on following Patrick into interview room one I had to give the girl her due. In fact, to describe Darke, who was probably in her late forties, as resembling anything to do with that most clean of animals was an unkindness to pigs. In short, she was filthy. Spending the night in a p
olice cell notwithstanding it was not so much the musty-smelling clothing, muzzed-up dyed black hair and smeared make-up as the obvious fact that the latter had been applied over grime. Her fingernails beneath chipped bright red polish were full of dirt, the black high-heeled shoes scuffed – this last fact perfectly obvious because as we entered she snatched off one of them and wildly threw it at Patrick. He caught it.

  ‘I’ll have the other one too, if you don’t mind,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the woman mouthed at him.

  ‘Otherwise we’ll upend you on the floor and remove it ourselves.’

  ‘I know my rights,’ she whispered with a triumphant smirk.

  Patrick looked at me. ‘OK?’

  We moved in on her.

  ‘OK, OK, keep your soddin’ hair on!’ Darke whinnied, pulling the remaining shoe off and throwing that too, at me this time, but Patrick still fielded it. No doubt relieved at not having to touch her, he took them outside.

  The formalities over, Patrick said, ‘You’ll shortly be charged with being drunk and disorderly last night but as far as this little chat’s concerned you’re not actually under arrest in connection with the recent shootings in the city; I just want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Shootings!’ the woman blared. ‘I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that!’

  ‘It’ll save a lot of bother and wasted time if you cooperate,’ Patrick went on as inexorably as a combine harvester. ‘You were seen in a Bath restaurant just after it happened by a police officer, in the company of any number of hoodlums, local and otherwise. It’s a waste of breath to deny it.’

  Darke tossed her head but could not hide her dismay.

  ‘Charlie Gill’s been murdered. Did you know that?’

  ‘Who’s Charlie Gill?’

  ‘You were with him, in the restaurant.’

  ‘Oh, the fat greasy sod, you mean. He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘You agree that you were there then?’

  ‘Er – yes, I’ve just remembered, haven’t I? It was some geezer’s birthday and my boyfriend had an invite and took me along.’

  ‘The man with red hair?’