The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  ‘Trust me, Christine,’ Paul said next, adding, ‘it’ll be a scoop.’

  She wished he hadn’t used that word, but she was in.

  Chapter Twenty

  This wasn’t how he liked to spend his Sunday mornings, but once the work was over Quintel planned to disappear somewhere warm and not work again. That said, this current job would be very good on his CV. He had renewed faith in Jason’s abilities and he could see other high profile, and high paying jobs, coming his way. At least he’d be able to pick and choose. After all, you couldn’t just go onto the Dark Web and search for assassins; well, you could, but you were increasingly likely to attract a cop if you did.

  He shouldn’t complain though, he’d just finished a late full English breakfast, whereas Jason had been out since early on. In fact, he’d awoken Quintel on his way out, should have got separate rooms. He was about to head back to his when his phone rang. It was Jason. He noted the time was noon as he took the call. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No, I’ve got the perfect place,’ Jason said, before giving Quintel the local address and instructions from where he should walk to after a short cab ride.

  ‘I sort of meant with the package?’ Quintel said.

  ‘None.’

  Quintel ended the call, and rang down to reception to arrange a taxi.

  Twenty minutes later, he’d been dropped off at the edge of a local rundown housing estate on the outskirts of Leyland, which was a small industrial-come-market town a few miles south of Preston, but the whole area just seemed to be one big urban expanse to Quintel, with nothing to discern where Preston the city ended, and the surrounding towns began.

  He checked the instructions he’d written down before ripping them up and pushing the paper down the nearest grid. After a hundred metres he turned down a wide rear entry which led to a large concreted area big enough for vehicles to enter and turn around. To one side were a row of seven or eight disused garages, with a field behind. All the doors were either missing or rusted and broken open showing that the contents were nothing but rubbish. Two had discarded sofas in, and one had a grim looking stain-covered mattress in it. The last one was the only one which still had a door on it, or a pair of doors to be exact, old wooden ones with paint peeling from them, but intact nonetheless.

  Quintel noted grass growing in front of the garage through the cracked concrete; no vehicles had been round here for a long time. He knocked three times on one of the doors and then waited before doing it again.

  Seconds later, one of the doors opened a couple of inches and Quintel could see Jason’s face. He grinned, before opening the door wider so that he could quickly enter. ‘How did you find this place?’

  ‘An old mate of mine used to use it to store stuff, he just wasn’t sure if the padlock would still be on it, or if it was, whether the key would still be where he’d left it.’

  ‘And was it?’ Quintel asked, as Jason quickly closed the door.

  ‘No probs at all, took me a couple of minutes to loosen the lock, but its free now, so at least we can secure the place and come and go as we please.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘There’s even an old paraffin lamp, as you can see, that still works.’

  As Quintel let his eyes adjust from the changing from daylight to paraffin light, he looked into the darker recesses at the rear of the windowless garage, and saw an old kitchen chair propped up by the rear wall. Sat on it bound and gagged was their guest - his uncovered eyes bright with fear in the wavering light.

  *

  It took Vinnie ages to park his Volvo anywhere near the address, which was a resident’s only parking place. Even on a Sunday the centre of Manchester was a nightmare. He eventually gave up and parked it where he could, and put the two-penny coin on his dashboard again, hoping for the best. He hadn’t seen a parking attendant but he knew they would be here somewhere.

  The flat was modern and looked spacious from outside, situated in one of these new, urban trendy locations. It had obviously once been an old mill or factory of some kind, with exposed rustic brickwork to give it that new but old look. There were four floors and number twenty-one was on the top. He banged on the door three or four times but received no response. He checked his watch, 12.15; he could be out for lunch. Vinnie then realised he was getting peckish himself. He tried again, and this time he heard noises from within.

  Jim Reedly looked quite shocked when he opened the door to see Vinnie stood there.

  ‘Inspector, I thought I told Delany—’ Reedly started.

  ‘It’s detective inspector, but you can call me Vinnie. And I know what you told Harry Delany, which is why I’m here at Brian Darlington’s behest.’

  ‘That’s Chief Constable Brian Darlington to you,’ Reedly said.

  Vinnie knew this wasn’t the best start to the conversation, but he hadn’t expected Reedly to be gushing in hospitality regardless, and Darlington had given him backing to be as however he saw fit. It wasn’t every day one got to be rude to a deputy chief constable. He walked into the flat uninvited, and turned to face a shocked Reedly and said, ‘This way to the lounge, is it?’ pointing at the only interior doorway.

  In the front room Vinnie chose a red leather armchair and sat down opposite a two-seater settee of the same suite. Reedly sat on it and turned to face him, and was unexpectedly quiet. Vinnie had assumed he’d explode. But after a brief stand-off he spoke.

  ‘I am still your DCC; even if you are on this regional unit – which, make no mistake about – you can be recalled from.’

  That’s better, Vinnie thought before speaking next. He ignored Reedly’s comment, ‘Look Mr Reedly, it’s abundantly clear that you have not told the truth. If not telling us the truth has in any way led to, or been a contributing factor in either Charlie’s death or that of your old mate Reggie Carstair, then Laurel leaves and pips or no laurel leaves and pips, I’ll shove your rank up your arse, just before I arrest you and throw you in a cell.’ That should do it, he thought, as he sat back into the comfy chair. He hoped the “your mate” bit might jar Reedly.

  Vinnie kept his expression plain as he waited. Reedly looked at him with a mixture of shock and horror. This was replaced with a regained composure as he felt Reedly assessing what had really happened. The deadlock extended into an uncomfortable standoff. But years of doing interviews with criminals had taught him never to be dragged into the void. Let the other person speak first. Reedly did.

  ‘How much do you know, or should I say, how much do you think you know?’

  Clever; Reedly was trying to illicit information from Vinnie now, rate what he had, so he knew how much to give. ‘Enough to suspect you of being in the wrong uniform.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Perhaps yours should have “Inmate of Her Majesty’s Prison Service” written on it.’

  Now Reedly did explode. Vinnie just sat there and let him rant, not so much about his impertinence but the suggestion that Reedly was bent. When he eventually calmed a little and Vinnie had refused several orders to leave, Vinnie held his courage until Reedly had fallen fully silent.

  ‘We need to know why you and Carstair were targeted. We need to know who you upset when you worked for Carstair. I’m sorry for accusing you of corruption, but I had to get a steer on you, had to open you up, sir,’ Vinnie said, trying to kiss and make up a little. ‘We don’t know who else is on this hit list.’

  ‘I can assure you Palmer, I am not bent, and in any other circumstances I would have your badge for the way you’ve just spoken to me, just wait until I speak to Darlington.’

  ‘He won’t take you calls, sir. Try if you don’t believe me. I’m it, and I’m not officially on “it”.’

  Reedly sat in obvious contemplation for what seemed like an age before he next spoke.

  ‘I’ve worked on several top secret initiatives as a senior officer, but if the threat is linked to Carstair, then we are going back to the nineties or into the early zeros.’
<
br />   ‘Can you be any more specific?’

  ‘I can’t, but now I know Carstair is dead, I can focus my thoughts a little.’

  Vinnie wasn’t sure whether Reedly was becoming intentionally vague again with some renewed composure, but at least the strategy seemed to be working. Before he could ask, Reedly carried on.

  ‘Look, I’m not messing you about now, I genuinely don’t know, but I will be doing my damnedest to find out. I had just hoped you’d find this Quintel and the other one before now.’

  Vinnie decided he’d pushed his luck enough for now; at least he’d been able to cut through Reedly’s default bullshit position, and apparently had him onside now, so he apologised for his direct approach and wrote down his mobile number for Reedly before getting up to leave.

  ‘How wide is this? Reedly asked, as he followed Vinnie towards the front door.

  ‘Just Darlington, Harry and me.’

  ‘Ok, I can live with that,’ Reedly said, before opening the door for Vinnie.

  Vinnie blew out a huge sigh of relief as he walked down the stairs. His approach had been high-risk but seemed to have worked, though he’d reserve judgement on Reedly’s culpability until he actually knew why, and who, was behind all of it.

  He left the front of the building more upbeat than he’d approached it. He’d been bricking himself if he was honest, but his renewed enthusiasm disappeared as he reached the Volvo and saw the parking violation envelope stuck under the windscreen wiper.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Has he said much? Quintel asked.

  ‘Not a lot apart from the expected denials, though I’ve not had too long with him.’

  Quintel could hear the man making muffled noises from behind the gaffer tape across his mouth, and looked at him as Jason gave him a severe backhand which nearly knocked him to the floor.

  ‘Shut up until you are spoken to,’ Jason said.

  Quintel told Jason to remove the tape from his mouth, which he did in one fluid movement. The man stifled any exclamation of pain into a sort of squeak. ‘Good, now if you make any more noise, other than to answer our questions, then you will feel pain, and trust me, Jason is an expert. If you lie to us, you will feel pain, and believe me, pain when you are gagged is worse. I’ve often wondered why, but it is. The act of being able to let out a scream somehow reduces the agony, a little anyway. Do you understand?

  If the man looked terrified before, he appeared near petrified now as he stuttered an answer.

  ‘Yes, yes, sir.’

  ‘First question, Dempster; why did you blow us out to the filth?’

  ‘I promise I never did that, I promise sir, I wouldn’t,’ Dempster answered.

  ‘Gag,’ Quintel ordered, and enjoyed seeing Dempster’s eyes register even greater fear, as Jason re-attached fresh gaffer tape. ‘Left ear,’ he said.

  He watched as Jason then took a firm hold of Dempster’s left ear and in one mighty downward action, he ripped the top half of Dempster’s ear clean off his head. Dempster let out a stifled scream, which sounded as if he was under water, as blood poured from the wound down his cheek. Quintel waited a couple of minutes for Dempster to calm a little before telling Jason to remove the tape, which he did after throwing the severed cartilage in Dempster’s lap.

  ‘I believe this is yours, and I suggest you keep your ears out for the next question,’ Jason said.

  ‘I would add that you need to be all ears, but you’ve only got one left,’ Quintel said, joining in Jason’s attempt at black humour.

  ‘Honest, I’m telling you the truth,’ Dempster gasped. ‘I’m no hero, I can’t stand pain, I’m telling you the truth. It must be either Charlie who went to the filth, or he told someone else who did.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘‘bout a year, maybe longer. He started coming into our boozer, The Fox and Shovel way back. He’s always in there.’

  ‘How do you know he’s to be trusted?’ Quintel asked.

  ‘Well, he was always telling tales about the jobs he’d done, and he often brought dodgy gear in to sell. Don’t take my word, ask anyone in the Shovel.’

  Quintel didn’t answer but looked at Jason, who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Said he’d done time for murder in Birmingham, but didn’t get lifed-up as he got it reduced to manslaughter on appeal. Said he only did six for it.’

  Quintel beckoned Jason to follow him to the door of the garage, where he spoke quietly, ‘That the same script Charlie gave you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jason said, ‘I even rang a mate in the Midlands who made some calls and Charlie was known down there as a bit of a handful, but on reflection my mate didn’t know of anyone who’d actually worked with him.’

  ‘What about anyone who’d served time with him?’

  Jason shook his head, before adding, ‘But that’s not too easy sometimes; as a Cat A prisoner he’d have been shipped from nick to nick.’

  Quintel knew this would have been true at the start of Charlie’s sentence, but at some stage towards the end of his time he would have been downgraded, and more likely to have been left in the same jail, unless he’d kicked off or something. He could see a look in Jason’s eyes, a sort of apology, but he didn’t blame Jason. It was as much his fault for trusting an outsider.

  ‘I reckon Charlie was either a cop or a snout. Or perhaps not, but the filth caught wind and gripped him, giving him only one way out.’

  ‘Hence the mock execution,’ Quintel said.

  ‘What about Dumpster here?’

  ‘I’m tending to believe him, what about you?’

  ‘Yeah, I agree. Do we need him again?’ Jason said.

  ‘Might do, but can we trust him?’

  ‘I think he’s properly shit scared now, but I can knock a couple of teeth out if you want me to, to reinforce things,’ Jason offered.

  Quintel considered things. They couldn’t afford to make another mistake, but Dempster had his uses. It was a case of weighing the uses up against the drama that might follow if they offed him. He walked back over to the end of the garage. ‘Ok, let’s say we believe you, that it was all down to Charlie, though we can’t really ask him now, can we?’

  ‘Honest, Boss, I’m not shitting you, and I’ll do any other stuff you need me to do. I’ve not let you down before, have I?’ Dempster said, aiming his last remark at Jason, who was now stood next to Quintel.

  ‘Ok, but if you breathe a word about this to anyone, or any of our business dealings with you for that matter; it’ll be more than your other ear that you’ll lose,’ Quintel said.

  Dempster nodded enthusiastically, and Quintel nodded for Jason to follow him outside. Once in the fresh air, he told Jason to clean Dempster up and drop him off with a bung, then to set fire to the garage, just in case, and see him back at the hotel. It was a lovely spring day, so he’d enjoy a walk into the town centre, where he’d grab a cab. Jason nodded and Quintel set off without turning around.

  *

  Vinnie had rung Harry first to update him on his chat with Reedly, and though Vinnie hadn’t known Harry for too long, he really liked the guy, and when he roared with laughter on hearing of Vinnie’s direct approach, he made himself even more endearing. Harry told him to stay on Reedly, as he was sure he would “remember more” at some stage. But the fact that he’d not thrown Vinnie out and had not reached straight for the phone to make a complaint, suggested that they were on the right track. Their suspicions seemed to be right, but just how right, only time would tell.

  Secondly, he’d rang Christine, and they’d met at four at the same pub they’d had a nightcap in. They’d both just finished a late lunch, or early tea, when they sat back and started to chat.

  ‘So, what was your appointment then?’ Christine asked.

  Vinnie brought her up to speed and enjoyed it when she rocked with laughter; he enjoyed her approval even more than Harry’s.

  ‘And you’re still in a job? Amazing.’

  �
��Not a hundred percent sure on him yet?’

  ‘What, you mean corrupt?’

  ‘Could be. Until he fully opens up, or “remembers” why someone is trying to kill him, I’ll keep an open mind.’

  ‘I’ve worked with many editors over the years that I’d love to have spoken to like that. TV editors are a different breed from other media editorial. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Anyway, what have you been up to?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Out meeting a source, regarding the exposé I’m working on.’

  ‘You sound like a cop.’

  ‘I’m starting to feel like one. I guess there are a lot of similarities between investigative journalism and detective work.’

  ‘Can’t you give me a hint about what you’re doing? It sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Ok, but only a taste. I’m looking at things in Northern Ireland since the peace process, in particular how an advancement of Catholics into prominent public positions might perversely be creating a reverse discrimination against the Protestant majority.’

  ‘That sounds like one documentary I’d like to watch. But isn’t such an in-depth look fraught with danger?’

  ‘There are still tensions on both sides, and it is difficult trying to navigate through it while ensuring impartiality.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  ‘Whenever I speak to someone of one particular view or religious persuasion, they automatically assume I am either on their side, or against them.’

  ‘Tricky. What has your “source” told you today?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s very high profile, and has certainly added ink to my pen.’

  ‘Come on, Christine, you know all my secrets; give. I promise I won’t tell.’

  Vinnie could see Christine wrestling with her decision, before finally speaking.