by David Evans
He drove back up towards the pub and parked a little way beyond on the opposite side. He crossed over and decided to have a quick look at the beach. The sun was still warm and he wondered if Beryl had been exaggerating. A small unmade road ran between two houses where steps led up to a wide footpath. The concrete sea wall separated the pathway from the beach. When he could finally see over the wall, he realised the old girl was right. You could go a long way to see a better beach in Britain. The contrast between where he’d just enjoyed some pleasant hospitality and the glorious sandy beach could not be more marked. What an incongruous place this is, he thought. Carol was right, this is unique.
Outside the pub, a few couples with young children running around were enjoying the evening sun at several picnic tables in the small forecourt. The remnants of pub meals, overflowing ashtrays and half empty glasses covered them. Inside, a hubbub of conversation, jukebox music and cigarette fug enveloped him. As he made his way to the bar and ordered a pint, he casually took in the other customers. He had to identify Baker, Chapman and the cousin as inconspicuously as possible. It was as he took the first sip of his fizzy lager that he realised he didn’t actually know what they looked like. He had some rough idea yes, but he’d never seen photos of any of them. Unless, of course, you counted the grainy image of the driver of the white van he got from Jezza.
A group of four lads in their twenties were engrossed around the pool table, two middle-aged couples were in deep conversation at one table and four men in their forties were at another. There were two possibilities, as far as Souter could ascertain. Three men were standing at the far end of the bar talking to two women and a further three men were sitting silently at a table near the rear door. Both groups featured one who might fit the vague description of Gary Baker. He would have to get close enough to catch the accents. Since coming south, he hadn’t heard another northerner talk. There were two other pairs of men standing around chatting and smoking but none of them appeared to fit Baker’s profile.
Pulling out a packet of cigarettes, Souter patted his pockets and looked round the pub before heading over to the three men by the back door.
“Excuse me lads,” he said, “but could I cadge a light?”
“No, sorry mate, we don’t smoke,” the one with the buzzed head said in a southern accent.
“Thanks anyway.” Souter shrugged and walked over to the group at the far end of the bar.
“Sure,” one said in response to his request before offering his lighter.
“You on holiday here?” the blonde women asked.
“I’m just down for a couple of days, staying with a friend in Clacton,” Souter answered.
“From Yorkshire?” the dark-haired woman joined in.
“Er, yes,” he replied.
“We love it up there, don’t we Jeff?” She looked at the balding man next to her. “North Yorkshire, we’ve had a few holidays in Pickering and Scarborough.”
Definitely southerners, Souter decided. “It is nice,” he agreed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a man in his twenties with very short hair returning from the gents to join two others standing around a column in the middle of the room.
“Thanks,” Souter said to the man who’d lit his cigarette, “I’m just going to get some crisps.”
He took a slow wide berth around two older men, trying to pass close enough to the trio around the column to pick up some of what they were saying.
“Who? Veronica? Naw, last few times I tried to ring, there was no answer. I think she’ll have pissed off. Anyway, cheers Barry,” the young man with dark hair said to the oldest one as Souter drifted by, “you can get us another in.”
No mistaking the Yorkshire accent. In fact, he was sure it belonged to the voice on Susan Brown’s answer service. He’d found them. This was Steve Chapman talking to his cousin Barry Whitefield.
He stood at the bar and observed. Now he was here, he wasn’t sure what his next move should be.
Chapman drained his glass but Baker’s was still half full. Judging by his body language, Baker didn’t seem too comfortable. He’d obviously refused another drink and Whitefield was asking him again. Another refusal and Whitefield picked up Chapman’s glass and his own and strode up to the bar. Souter turned away as Whitefield approached and ordered two more pints. He returned with the drinks and Baker hung around for a further five minutes whilst he finished his lager. He took his leave alone and, hands in his jeans pockets, disappeared outside.
Thirty seconds later, Souter left the pub. Baker was heading down the road in the direction of Jaguar Avenue. Walking, it would take him a good ten minutes to get back to where he was staying. Souter got back to his car, started the engine and turned around to follow him. About three hundred yards from the pub, the road split to form a one-way system, fortunately, the shortest route was the one he had to follow. Souter pulled alongside Baker and dropped the passenger window.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for Jaguar Avenue.”
“It’s down here, mate, about half a mile on t’ right.” He chuckled, “Mindst if you turn t’ left you’d be in t’ sea.”
“You from up north?”
“Aye. Wakefield,” Baker answered.
“Thought I recognised the accent. I’m from Leeds myself,” Souter said. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Aw thanks, I’m actually stopping on Jaguar Avenue.”
Baker opened the passenger door and got in. As Souter pulled away, he coughed loudly to disguise the clunk as he switched the central locking on.
“Been down here long?” Souter asked.
“Not really. We’re just stayin’ with my mate’s cousin for a bit. What about you?”
“I’ve come down to help you, Gary.” He pulled off to the right and on to some waste ground. “I think you’re in a bit of trouble.”
As the car drew to a halt, Baker grabbed the door handle but it wouldn’t release. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing. Let me out, you crazy bastard.”
“Calm down. I know you’re scared and I know why.” Souter turned to face the young man. “But I’m not out to get you. I want to help.”
“Help? Help? What d’you know?”
“I know your brother was murdered and I think you know who did it and you’re shitting yourself they’re going to find you and Steve.”
“Wha..” Baker stopped mid word, his face a mixture of bewilderment and alarm. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name’s Souter. I’m a journalist. But don’t let that put you off,” he added quickly. “I really am here to help you.”
“How? How can you help me? How do you know I need help?”
“Look, I know what Chris was into and that he was involved with some heavy people and I know you were with him the night he died.”
“But… how? I mean, how can you know that?”
“I’ve got some good connections.” Again, Souter saw the expression on Baker’s face. “No, not with the people who’re after you.”
“Oh, no. Not the police?”
“You see, Gary, they’re struggling to pin down those responsible. You do know who was responsible, don’t you?”
Once more the terror returned to Baker’s face. “I can’t. I just can’t. They’ll kill us too.”
“Not if they’re sent down.”
“They’d know it was me.”
“But they’re free to walk about and you’re scared shitless now. How do you know they’ll not find you anyway?”
“But we’ve got a plan. Steve and me, we’re gonna lie low for a bit. We’ll get a job. A proper job. We can do up cars. We’ll get something down here.”
“But I found you. And you’ll always be looking over your shoulders.”
“I’m no grass.”
“That’s a pity, Gary.” Souter pulled out a packet of cigarettes. This was only his second one since leaving Wakefield. He was almost ready to give up completely, but he felt it was a
timely distraction. He offered one to Baker who took it, produced a lighter from his shirt pocket and lit up. “You see, they’ve got some evidence, mostly circumstantial, but they need something concrete.”
“I don’t know nothing.”
Souter lit his own cigarette, then dropped his window a touch. “That Saturday night, when you had that Merc sports car up at the farm…”
“How do you know about that?”
“I also know what was found in the boot when they opened it in the container at Felixstowe docks. Now that’s not so very far from here, is it?”
“Me and Steve … and Chris, we’d got nothing to do with that.”
“So you do know what was in the boot?”
Baker went quiet and examined his fingers, then began to nibble his nails. “He’ll kill me,” he said quietly.
“Who will?”
“That big bad bastard. He’s crazy.”
“Who?”
“Some foreign bastard. Mirczack. Even his sidekick, some Polish guy, Szymanski, he’s scared of him.”
“This Mirczack, did he kill Chris?”
“I think so.” Baker nodded, transferring his attention to the other hand.
“Did they put the girl’s body in the boot?”
“Him and Szymanski. We didn’t want anything to do with it.” He looked at Souter, pure terror on his face. “We’re not into violence. He told us we had to get it into the container and it would be shipped out on the Monday. And then Chris called me to say he was getting the last payment – for the cars I mean. That’s why I put my hands up to the police for lifting the cars. I thought they’d been shipped out of the country by then.” Baker was talking quickly, as though a boil had been lanced and he was desperate to squeeze all the poison out. “We got to the meet, in that layby and then I had to go for a piss and … when I got back … he was … I mean … if I hadn’t needed to go…” Baker looked intently at Souter. “It could have been me too.” The tears were flowing down his cheeks.
“Did you see who did it?”
Baker drew long and hard on his cigarette. “No. There was just a car driving away from the layby when I got back over the fence.”
“You see, Gary, that’s why you’ve got to tell the police.”
“No. No, I can’t.”
Souter let the conversation stall for a few seconds. “Is that because of the other thing?”
Baker wiped his face with the back of his hand. “What other thing?”
“What happened to Maria?”
Puzzlement appeared on Baker’s face once more. “Maria? Who the fuck’s Maria?”
“About twenty, five foot six, dark hair, short light coloured skirt and a dark top.”
Baker began to colour.
“You picked her up in Wakefield’s market square on a Sunday night about two weeks ago.”
Baker’s mouth opened and closed like a freshly caught fish.
“Have a look in the glovebox,” Souter said.
Baker did as asked and took out the photographs.
“That is your van, isn’t it Gary? I mean, the rust along the bottom of the passenger door is a bit of a giveaway.”
“I… I… You can’t tell that,” Baker stumbled.
“No, you’re right. You can’t see it too clearly on those copies but with all this new technology, they can enhance these, no problem. In fact, that one of you driving, they can probably see the blackheads on your nose,” Souter lied.
Baker had flushed. “I didn’t … I don’t … I mean, I’ve no idea.”
“Come on, don’t give me that shit. You were the last person seen with her. That’s you driving her away in that van of yours. Where did you go? What did you do?”
“Nothing. We didn’t do nothing.”
“Bollocks. You’ve just picked up a young prostitute, driven her away in your van and you didn’t do ‘nothing’?”
His eyes were wet when he looked across at Souter. “Honest. We didn’t actually do anything.” Another drag on his cigarette. “Look, this is the truth, right? She took me to this old warehouse place. There was a door that had been forced. She led the way inside. There was this room where the street light shone in through the broken window.” A big drag then a sharp exhale. “I thought she was going to do … well, the business, you know. The next thing, she starts shaking like some loony. Her eyes are in the back of her head, half closed, she’s frothing at the mouth and then she’s on the floor trembling like she’s havin’ some almighty fucking orgasm. I thought to myself, she’s on drugs.”
“So what did you do?”
“Do? I fucked off quick. I mean, I hadn’t paid her any money or anything. I thought, fuck that, I’m not getting involved with no junkie.”
“And you left her there?”
“Yeah. I thought she’d come round and have to make her own way back.”
Souter looked hard at the man. “Where was this warehouse? I mean exactly.”
“We went down Thornes Lane. Down by the side of the river. Just before The Jolly Sailor. On the opposite side, there was a gateway. We pulled in there and went through a small door in the gate into the old yard. There was a door to the right into the building.”
“You didn’t touch her at all?”
“No.”
“And she just collapsed?”
“Honest.”
He held Souter’s gaze for a few moments.
“Okay, Gary, I believe you. But,” he held up a finger. “For me to sort this for you and keep you out of it, I’ll need you to give me something on this Mirczack character.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, they’re struggling for evidence. The gun would be good. That Saturday, they turned up in a Mercedes didn’t they?”
“Yeah, Mirczack’s.”
“And was the girl’s body in that. Is that what they brought her in?”
Baker nodded.
“If he wasn’t using it, where would he keep it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not outside his flat in Leeds, so it must be somewhere, unless he got rid of it.”
“I don’t think so. He loves that car.”
“So where might it be?”
Baker looked down into the floorpan.
“Come on, Gary, if you know something …”
“Okay. He has a lockup under the arches near the station.”
Souter took out a notepad and jotted down the details Baker gave him.
* * *
“We’ve got nothing on the bastard, and he knows it, sir.” Strong was standing in front of DCS Flynn’s desk in his second floor office in Wood Street police station.
The boss was sitting with his elbows on the desk, fingers entwined and chin resting on his upward pointing forefingers. “I know it goes against the grain, Colin,” he finally said, “but unless we have something more solid, we’re going to have to let him go.”
Strong looked out of the window and across to the Town Hall. He imagined the office staff sitting at their computer terminals or walking to the photocopier, totally oblivious to the nasty specimens of humanity they had to deal with on this side of the street. At the same time, he was turning everything over in his mind to see if he’d missed something vital. It was true, he needed a bit more than the circumstantial evidence he had against Mirczack. With Szymanski’s statement, it would be his word against Mirczack. Although, judging by his reaction in the cell, he wouldn’t be surprised if he withdrew that. The girls’ statements all helped but, in isolation, were nowhere near enough. And he wasn’t about to use them without something more substantial. That would expose them and their families to great risk.
“Right, I’d best get it over with,” he said.
On the stairs down to the Incident Room, Strong ran into Luke Ormerod.
“What did the boss say?” Ormerod asked.
“What we expected. Got to let him go.”
Ormerod sighed and shook his head. “I’ll fetch him down then
.”
“Thanks, Luke.”
Five minutes later, Mirczack and Atherton, Strong and Ormerod were finalising the release process with Sidebotham, the custody sergeant, when a text message announced itself on Strong’s phone. Opening it up, he read, ‘Don’t ignore next call – IMPORTANT INFO’. It was from Souter.
There was a smirk on Mirczack’s face as he gathered up his personal belongings from the desk and followed Strong through to the public area. “Thank you for wasting my time,” he said.
Strong ignored the jibe and his phone rang.
“This had better be good,” Strong said to Souter, whose name came up on the display once again.
“I’ve got something on Mirczack. Are you still looking for more evidence?” Souter asked.
Strong turned away to speak in a low voice. “We’re just releasing him,” he said, “so anything you’ve got, let’s hear it quick.”
Souter related what Gary Baker had just told him about Mirczack’s Mercedes, the sighting of the gun in the glovebox and the location of the lock-up in Leeds. “You might find nothing, but it’s worth a try,” he concluded.
“Thanks,” Strong said, ending the call. He turned as Mirczack and Atherton were halfway through the door into the street. “Oh, Mr Mirczack,” he said, stepping towards the two. “One last thing. Can you tell me what I might find in a certain lock-up in Brussels Street in Leeds?”
The colour drained from the big man’s face. “You know nothing,” he said, taking a stride nearer.
Strong held his stare for a moment. “About number 23A, you mean?”
Strong didn’t get a response, at least not one that he heard. His lights went out suddenly as Mirczack threw a fist into his jaw and dashed out into the street, bustling past a bewildered Atherton. There was a moment of disbelief before Ormerod made sense of what he’d just seen and bounded out after the Yugoslav.
Outside, Mirczack turned left, leapt down the steps, bundled two men out of the way and ran off down Wood Street towards the traffic lights opposite The Black Rock pub. About half way down he dived off to the left into Cross Street.
