by Conrad Jones
Toni had drifted through her teens in a daze. Her aunt tried hard to make life as normal as she could but normal didn’t happen. They moved three times before she was sixteen; each time involved moving schools and losing a set of friends. It was difficult to slot into school when her peers had been associated with each other from primary school onwards. Emotional bonds, strong friendships and dislikes were already well established. Being the strange face in the playground wasn’t easy. Curiosity drove some to befriend her, asking where she was from and why she had left her old school, most looked upon her as an intruder. She was the weird girl with no parents. Her teachers were always supportive and sympathetic to her plight but moving so frequently severed any bonds that she made.
She never wanted for anything. Her aunt made sure that she always had nice clothes to wear, new shoes, designer coats in the winter; money wasn’t an issue. She was given a decent amount of pocket money every month to buy the latest albums, makeup and the odd milkshake and burger in town on a Saturday. Her aunt loved her. She could never deny that but she wasn’t her parents. The burning sense of loss never left her, not for a moment. There was always something missing. At seventeen, Toni was at college listening to her English teacher rattling on about literary classics inspired by Word War One when her headmistress called her from the class. There was a policewoman there, who explained that her aunt had been killed in a road accident. That left her truly alone. Toni didn’t have a breakdown; she didn’t collapse or become hysterical. It was as if she had been expecting it to happen. Everyone that she loved left eventually.
CHAPTER 28
Toni was mesmerised by the sequence of recent events that had all started with a phone call the previous night. If she had missed it, none of the knock-on events would have happened. Kayla would be safe in her shop counting her money and polishing her gold and Toni would be at home by now, cooking a meal for them, uncorking a bottle of Shiraz to allow it to breath. They would have talked about their holiday plans and what they wanted to see the most. Kayla yearned to see Cambodia and the Far East, while Toni fancied Mexico. They had talked about it every night for a week but in a short period of time, their lives had changed dramatically. Everything had gone wrong because of one, thirty second phone call.
“Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?” Toni heard the voice but it didn’t register that the question was aimed at her. She was sitting on a swivel chair although she had no recollection of how she had arrived there. Annie Jones leaned towards her and waved her hand in front of her eyes. “Toni!” She clicked her fingers loudly. Maxwell closed the office door and the volume level went down a few decibels. “Are you okay?”
“Clearly not, Inspector,” Toni said adjusting her weight in the chair. “I’m not feeling myself.”
“You have had a nasty shock.”
“That’s the understatement of the week if ever I heard one,” Toni frowned as reality returned to her. “How is Kayla?” She made to stand up. “When can I see Kayla?”
Annie put her hands gently on her shoulders. “She is in surgery. They won’t let you see her until they have finished. As soon the doctors are happy, we’ll take you to see her.”
“What is wrong with her?”
“I’m not a hundred percent certain yet,” Annie lied. “My detectives are at the hospital. They will call me as soon as there is any news. Do you want some tea? It will help with the shock.”
“Yes please.”
“White?”
“White with one sugar please.”
Annie gestured to Maxwell and he went to order their drinks. When he closed the door, she turned back to Toni. “Things have become a little out of hand haven’t they?”
“You could say that.”
“The message that they left at your house,” Annie watched her every move. “What photographs do they want you to delete?”
Toni reddened and looked at Annie sheepishly. The image of the eyeballs floating in a bag returned. “Mike must have taken some pictures at the mill. My camera automatically uploads to my Dropbox account. They obviously know that the camera uploads and they’re assuming that I have them.”
“Do you have them?”
“I haven’t looked yet but if he took them, they’ll be in my account.”
“Can you access them from my laptop?”
“Yes.”
“Do it,” Annie turned her laptop to face her. “Let’s see what it is that they’re worried about.”
Toni typed the site’s name into the search bar and then clicked on the link. After entering her email and password, her account appeared on the screen. There were seven unopened files in the ‘pictures’ box. “They’re here.” Toni said over her shoulder. “Shall I open them?”
“Yes,” Annie nodded, “and save them onto this please.” She added as she handed a memory stick to Toni. Toni opened the files and they looked at the images. All seven showed the mules disembarking from the rib and they had clearly captured the face of the man who sailed it. Annie silently contemplated the mystery of the burnt remains off the coast of North Wales. His employers were taking no chances. He hadn’t worn a mask and because of that they had turned him into cinders. “These are very useful. Does anyone else have access to these files?”
“Only my editor at the Post.”
“And does she know anything about what has happened?”
“I haven’t spoken to her but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t know. There are plenty of people in this building who are willing to talk to her for the right price.”
“I don’t suppose you want to corroborate that with some names do you?”
“I don’t know them. She keeps her informants a secret too,” Toni half smiled. “She hasn’t opened the files yet. They were unread but if she thinks to check the Dropbox, she’ll find them. Shall I delete them?” Annie nodded to the affirmative. Toni clicked delete without hesitation. She could retrieve them from the recently deleted box later. “I guess that solves one problem doesn’t it?”
“It’s far from over, Toni and people are dying,” Annie warned her, “these people won’t stop until they have answers and you have the answers.”
“You’re making it sound as if it is my fault.”
“I make no apologies if that is how it sounds,” Annie shrugged. “We’re looking for members of a Latvian crime syndicate. They’re wanted here, in the Czech Republic and their own country for drugs, people trafficking and murder. They in turn are looking for the leak in their organisation and they’re prepared to kill for it. We can only assume that Mike Jameson is dead. Lord only knows what he went through before he died. Kayla was beaten and stuffed into her safe.” Annie paused as Maxwell returned with a tray of drinks. She waited patiently as he placed the cups on the desk. “This syndicate has some particularly dangerous men working for them. You can see that can’t you?”
“Yes,” Toni took a sip of tea with a shaking hand.
“They will not stop until they find the leak and they will leave no hiding places unchecked until they find you. They want to know who it is and we can’t help to protect you or Kayla unless you help yourself. We need to know who told you about the mill.”
Toni took a deep breath and blew the air through puffed cheeks. She couldn’t hold out any longer. There was nothing to gain and much to lose. “There is no way that you can tell anyone that I gave you this information. I will not testify to it in court, understand?”
“I understand.”
“I have a number of informers on the payroll. Some are more useful than others. This particular source was one of my less useful informers. His information was always vague and usually incorrect,” she stopped to wet her lips. “To be honest, he was a bloody nuisance, always asking for stupid amounts of money for crappy titbits of information. I got the distinct impression that everything he sold me was second hand or overheard. I can give you his name but I have no idea where he would have heard it from in the first place.”
“We’ll dea
l with that,” Annie replied irritably. “What is his name?”
“He is called Rick.” Toni began. “He’s a small time crook with a huge ego. If he did half of what he tells me that he does then he wouldn’t need my money. He seems to be a wannabe gangster rather than an affiliate. Do you know what I mean?”
“I meet his type every day, Toni,” Annie nodded, “what is his full name?”
“His second name is Grainger. Richard Grainger but everyone calls him Rick.”
“Rick Grainger,” Annie said. His name rang a bell. He was the man that called the Fletcher Bros garage to arrange the vehicle switch. She checked her delegation sheet. Jim Stirling and Sykes from DS had gone to arrest the same man, Rick Grainger. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
CHAPTER 29
Rick Grainger was a worried man. He was a small time dealer who snorted more of his stock than he sold, which left him with severe cash flow issues. In his world, cash was the root of all evil, not drugs. Cocaine had been his poison since his teenage years. He loved the highs and despised the lows that followed. The highs became increasingly harder to hit and the lows became deeper, darker and full of paranoia and depression. That would not be a problem if he had had enough cash to maintain the highs on a permanent basis. He could make a few grand a week selling his stock but he needed double that amount to pay his bills and fund his habit. He often bought stolen goods to sell on but it still didn’t put a dent in his outgoings. His suppliers had identified his failing years ago and they utilised his weaknesses. They manipulated him to their own advantage. Rick did work for them and many others to make up the shortfall in his earnings, exchanging his services for drugs and money.
As the years went by, his tasks had become increasingly more dangerous. At first, he was asked to move a kilo here and there, picking up money and delivering it wherever he was told to. He became a familiar face about town, a link between people who would normally be deadly rivals. Doing business with the opposition was a necessary evil on occasions and could be made more bearable if an intermediary was employed. Rick was the intermediary of choice. Most of the city’s organised gangs knew him or knew of him. He was useful and he was easy to manipulate because he was always in need of money or cocaine or both. In the early days, he enjoyed being a face around town. His friends were in awe of him when well known gangsters said hello and chatted to him in pubs and clubs. He had minor celebrity status in the underworld and his minions were easily impressed by it. The flipside was that it caused jealousy and resentment and when push came to shove, no one really trusted him completely because they could never be sure who he was actually working for at any one time. He was a pawn in a dangerous game. The result was that he remained in the lower echelon of the drug world, living from one day to the next, always chasing the next ounce of sniff and wondering how he was going to pay the mortgage. He watched his associates grow richer and richer while he waited for that one opportunity that would change his life and elevate him to being a player. Life had passed him by. His associates asked him to do increasingly risky jobs. Jobs that no one else would consider doing for a pittance. The law of averages meant that it was only a matter of time before he got caught.
When he saw a black man with a look of Mike Tyson walking up his path with another man who was built like an oak tree, he knew that they were detectives. This time he had bitten off far more than he could chew. They knocked on the door in a manner that indicated that if he didn’t open it, they would come through it. Rick sighed and swore loudly. He debated running out of the back door but swiftly ruled it out. None of his associates would thank him for bringing the police to their door. There was simply nowhere to run to. He swallowed hard and opened the door.
“Richard Grainger?” Stirling said, thrusting his ID into his face. “DS Stirling and DS Sykes, we’re part of the Major Investigation Team.”
“What do you want?” Rick asked as he stepped back. He nervously stroked his manicured beard with his tattooed left hand.
“We need to talk to you about an incident that took place at the Fletchers’ garage.” Stirling pushed the door open and stepped inside, forcing Rick backwards. “Can we come in?” His stare communicated that the answer was yes.
“Help yourself, why don’t you,” Rick protested. He turned and walked into his living room. “Do I need to call my solicitor?”
“Have you got a solicitor?” Sykes asked sarcastically.
“Yes.”
“Who has a solicitor these days?” Stirling turned to Sykes. “Do you have a solicitor?”
“Only when I’m getting divorced.”
“Fair point. Mind you you’re not a drug dealing scumbag,” Stirling looked back at Rick with a frown. “I don’t know the answer. Do you think you need your solicitor?”
“You two are comical aren’t you? What do you want?” Rick snapped. He looked from one detective to the other. They looked like they could be front-row forwards for Big Bastard United. “I’m in a rush so make it quick.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Sit down,” Sykes pointed to an armchair. Behind his glasses his expression had become more Tyson-like than before. Rick figured that Sykes could knock him through the wall with a left jab so he sat down without any argument. Sykes looked around the room. It had the trappings of money and poor taste spotted around it. A large screen plasma television was mounted to the wall and an expensive long leather corner suite was draped in fake animal furs. Zebra, leopard and tiger adorned the suite. “You do a bit of big game hunting in your spare time do you?”
“Fuck you,” Rick smiled sourly. He sounded less rattled than he felt. “What do you want?”
“You’re familiar with Paul and Peter Fletcher?” Stirling intervened. “They run a garage unit near Runcorn Bridge.”
“Yes, I know them. They service and MOT my cars.” Rick knew that there was no point in lying at this stage. They would have checked all the paperwork at the garage before they knocked on his door.
“Cars plural?”
“I buy and sell. They service a couple of cars a month for me.” The fact that most of them were insurance scams and chopped and welded stolen vehicles wasn’t to be divulged right now. He sold them for his associates for a small split of the profits. He had never seen half of the vehicles that he ‘owned’ briefly. “What is the problem, has one of my MOTs run out? I would have thought that you better things to do.”
“Funny,” Sykes said without smiling.
“Do you think he’s funny?” Sykes asked Stirling.
“About as funny as a burst haemorrhoid.”
“How are they by the way,” Sykes asked politely.
“On the mend,” Stirling shrugged. “Good days and bad.”
“Are you two for real?” Rick interrupted.
Sykes raised his index finger, “Oh yes, I was saying. Paul Fletcher has informed us that you brokered a deal with them that involved them dismantling a Volkswagen van.”
“He’s mistaken.” Rick’s eyes indicated that he was lying.
“I don’t think that he was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What time was it he made a statement?”
“About two hours ago,” Stirling said staring at Rick. “You made the call and set up the switch. We know that you did.”
“I set up a lot of deals with the Fletchers. I can’t remember.”
“Really?” Sykes had a crooked grin. “There was an incident involving the Volkswagen van that resulted in the seizure of a large amount of class A drugs, people trafficking and the death of two men, probably three by the end of today.”
“And anyone involved in the deal is implicated. Murder, trafficking, distribution of class A’s...”
“What?” Rick went pale. “I think you’ve been on class A’s, mate.” He had a stab at bravado but failed miserably. The two detectives towered above him; their stares seemed to penetrate inside his skull searching for lies. “Isn’t one of you supposed to be the go
od cop?”
“He is consistently funny, isn’t he?” Sykes said to Stirling.
“Hilarious. I’m in danger of wetting my pants here.”
“They’ll love you in jail.”
“I’m not going to jail because I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Paul Fletcher says that you have. He’s very pissed off with you, isn’t he?” Sykes said shaking his head.
“Very pissed off,” Stirling agreed. “His brother Pete is even more pissed off. He is in hospital with a fractured skull. I think they’ll want to have a word with you when he’s better.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“So you didn’t ring the garage this morning and ask them to clear their workload for the day, dismantle a Volkswagen and sell a Mercedes Sprinter?” Stirling asked gruffly. “Because Paul Fletcher has made a statement saying that that is exactly what you did.”
