by Nick Louth
‘That’s fine by me.’ He folded his arms behind his head and leaned back, a picture of relaxation.
‘I believe you have seen the listing details of your new home?’ she said.
‘It looks good. It’s a long way away from my old stamping ground, which suits me just fine. No one will recognise me.’
Leticia ran through the minutiae of the release plan, but realised he was barely listening. Finally, she tried a bit of small talk to spark some re-engagement. ‘So what’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re out?’
‘Well, I could murder a pint of proper English hand-pulled bitter. It’s been a few years since I tasted any, I can tell you. Someone told me that you can pay a fiver for a pint down here. Five pounds! When I went away, well, up in Newcastle it was only just over 75p.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Before you were born, pet,’ he replied, with a wink. ‘Long before you were born.’
‘I just have to remind you of a few things,’ she said, having got his attention back. ‘On the morning of your release you will be given a package, which will contain a phone, your discharge cash and the keys to your new home. Look after them. There are no spares.’
‘I’m not a child, pet.’
‘There will also be a map showing the bus route to get to Staines. It’s quite long and involves several changes. You should be able to get there by ten thirty a.m. I will meet you at the house by eleven thirty so that we can review your release plan and see which initial objectives have been met. You must be there punctually. That’s very important.’
‘Okay. I’ll be there, don’t worry.’
She looked down at her papers. ‘There will be another meeting after four days to set further rehabilitation targets, and then it will be once a week for the first year. You also have to attend a weekly therapy course.’ She looked up at him.
‘That’s fine, pet.’ He leaned the chair back so it was balanced on just the two rear legs. He seemed perfectly relaxed. ‘But if I’m in therapy under my bogus name, I presumably have to talk about bogus crimes.’
‘I’ll have to ask my manager about that,’ Leticia conceded, then referred again to her papers. ‘If you form any kind of relationship, a girlfriend or anyone else, you must tell them about your background, and you must inform us. You understand?’
‘I understand that right enough.’ He was looking at the ceiling.
‘We would have to do a risk assessment, if this person had children.’
He nodded.
‘You must not under any circumstances contact either directly or indirectly any members of the families of your victims, nor go to within five miles of any of their homes.’
‘I wouldn’t want to do that, anyway.’ He was still studying the ceiling tiles.
‘Now, about your own adult children.’ She looked through the document in front of her.
‘I haven’t had any direct contact with them since their mother died.’
Leticia read a little further. ‘They were brought up by your sister-in-law.’
‘That’s what I heard,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t spoken to me either.’
‘Now, since you’ve asked if you can make contact with them, we’ve tried to find out whether they are agreeable. As far as your daughter Susan is concerned the answer is no, I’m afraid. We weren’t able to find out where your son is living.’
‘Right.’
‘It would show considerable maturity on your part if you respected her wishes. It would look good on your rehabilitation plan.’
‘Right.’ He was inspecting his fingernails now.
‘There are some additional conditions here about the use of the Internet, which I want you to read. I can’t stress enough the fact that if you breach any of these regulations, even once, you will be called back to prison immediately. There will be no second chances.’
He leaned forward. ‘So what about these death threats? Vigilantes threatening to kill me. I need twenty-four-hour protection.’
Leticia had expected this question. ‘I think you’ve been told that won’t happen.’
‘So you’ll just let them murder me?’
She stared at him and choked back a retort. It would be no more than you deserve. She took a deep breath and said: ‘Look, you should get this in perspective. You are not a gangland supergrass and the vigilantes are hardly professionals. Besides, we’ve gone to enormous trouble to give you a new identity, and put you into a new location. Keeping your identity secret is mainly down to you. The evidence is clear that in most cases where a new identity was broken it was because of carelessness or boasting by the offender. My advice is, be cautious. However tempting it is, don’t get drunk or stoned. Stay off the spice.’
‘Are you finished?’ He folded his arms.
‘We’ll never be finished,’ Leticia said. ‘You were sentenced to life imprisonment, and you are released now only under strict licence. That means we can call you back even twenty years from now. We’ll be watching you, every step of the way.’
‘Is that right, pet?’ The murderer turned his gaze on her. Now she felt the coldness of those small dark goblin eyes. A momentary shiver ran down her spine, as if someone had just walked on her grave. The evil was there, all right, well-hidden but unreformed, disguised with the aid of the public purse. Suddenly repulsed, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. What on earth were she and her colleagues doing, letting this man loose on British streets?
Chapter Fifteen
The Red Lion Inn had been bypassed by the gastropub revolution, just as it was bypassed by the M3. Deep within the Surrey countryside, the brick-built tavern was a mouldering relic of 1960s modernisation and needed serious money spending on it. The bar as usual was bustling. But on this occasion two of the regulars were sitting at the back of the lounge, where the lights were dim and the tables still sticky from lunchtime. Terry Dalton, self-employed air-conditioning engineer, and Nigel Chivers, one-time nightclub bouncer, were excited about a secret project they had been working on for a while. Now they were waiting for the man who could make it all happen.
‘We’ll get one chance at this, and we’ll have to go in hard,’ Chivers said, examining the heavily bitten nails on his giant fists. ‘We ain’t going to film this one, and we ain’t going to post nothing online, right?’
‘Yeah, we should keep it low-key,’ Dalton replied. ‘I’d say zero publicity. Just the three of us. I’m not gonna tell the others, particularly the women. Careless talk costs wives.’
Chivers sniggered. ‘Just give me five minutes with that bastard. Five minutes, that’s all.’ He ground one fist into his open hand.
‘Save some for me,’ Dalton said, eyeing the doorway. ‘My cricket bat’s getting itchy.’
‘Fuck that,’ Chivers said. ‘I’m not wasting my time with injuries. We’ve got to sort him for good.’
Dalton turned back to his mate. ‘You better keep quiet about that when his nibs arrives. I said it was just gonna be a going-over. Andy might get cold feet if we kill him. And we need him on our side.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Chivers said.
‘Nige, he’s the only one who can get the address. You’ve got to be on the inside.’
‘What about Len? You remember, the screw at Wakefield.’
‘I told you. Len says Rollason was ghosted to a category D more than a week ago. They’re keeping a lid on where. So Len’s no use to us no more.’
They both turned to the window at the sound of a car pulling into the car park, and waited for the crunch of boots on gravel. The man who walked in was wearing a scruffy donkey jacket and a baseball cap. More used to being here in uniform, Andrew Wickens scrutinised those at the bar carefully before making his way through to the back of the lounge.
‘Hiya guys, sorry I’m late. Only just got off duty.’
‘Got what we need, Andy?’ Chivers asked.
‘Not yet. It wasn’t on the local database that I have access to, nor the Police Nation
al Computer. They’re being very careful with this. Special Branch is running it, and I think I know which officer.’
‘Bastards!’ Chivers banged the table with his fist. ‘Why are they wasting public money protecting people like that?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Wickens said. ‘I’m already taking a huge risk. Don’t go getting gobby on me, all right?’
Chivers nodded in contrition. ‘Sorry.’
‘There’s another avenue I could pursue,’ he said. ‘I know Morgan has been working with probation in Staines. I may be able to find out who the case officer allocated to Rollason is. My feeling is that it’s going to be a woman called Verity Winter.’
‘Why’s that then?’ Chivers said.
‘Because she’s the most experienced. Here’s her car details.’ Wickens passed across a scrap of paper. ‘If you follow her, she may lead you to him, or at least the place where he’ll be staying.’
‘Can’t you do it?’ Dalton asked.
‘Well, I’m on duty most of the time, aren’t I? And half the probation team know me.’
‘That gives you cover doesn’t it?’ Dalton persisted.
‘It gives me cover for being in the office with them, but I’d look a bit suspicious if I was spotted following her car, in uniform as well.’ He looked at Dalton as if he was an idiot.
‘Fair point,’ Dalton conceded.
‘Look, I know how the probation team works. They’ll want a face-to-face meeting with him on the day he gets out. But you can take your time. Do a bit of surveillance. You don’t have to grab him on day one.’
‘I suppose not,’ Dalton said, looking at Chivers.
‘The big question is where we take him,’ Wickens said. ‘You haven’t told me what the plan is. I take it there is a plan?’
‘We’ve got a plan. But we’ve got to be very careful,’ Chivers said. ‘Sworn to secrecy on this. It’s best if you don’t know.’
‘I do have to know that it isn’t something stupid,’ Wickens replied. ‘Something that is gonna come back and bite me on the arse.’
‘Anaconda has it all arranged,’ Chivers said. ‘You just get us the bastard, we’ll sort the rest.’
‘Who the fuck is Anaconda?’ Wickens asked.
Dalton rolled his eyes and inclined his head towards Chivers. ‘The code name was his idea. Anaconda is the backer, the guy who has got somewhere to keep him sorted.’
Wickens realised immediately who it might be. ‘It’s Gus van Steenis, isn’t it?’
Dalton let his head fall into his hands. ‘See, Nige?’ he said to Chivers. ‘Didn’t I say it was a stupid name?’
Wickens rubbed his forehead. ‘It’s not just the fact that he’s the only bloke in the area who might own a fucking anaconda. Van Steenis was gobbing off to me and Cottesloe about what an outrage it was that Rollason was being released.’ He looked around the pub, checking that nobody was listening to them. ‘I mean, can’t anyone keep their mouth shut? Am I surrounded by idiots?’
‘You mind what you say to me,’ Chivers said, pointing a fat finger at the cop.
Dalton grasped Chivers’ hand and eased it down to the table, unclenching the fingers one at a time. ‘Look, we’ve got a plan. Andy, you let us know who the probation officer is. We’ll follow, find out where Rollason lives, and nab him. Your involvement ends there. All right?’
‘You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?’ Wickens asked.
‘No, no, no,’ Dalton said. ‘Just rough him up a bit.’ He turned to Chivers. ‘Aren’t we?’
Wickens shook his head. ‘I can’t be part of murder. If you kill him they’ll only get fucking Gillard onto the case, or maybe even someone more senior. Then we’re all screwed. Keep it low-key, right? Not too many visible injuries. Warn him not to report it. Keep it off the radar. Think smart.’
‘Right,’ Chivers said, and gave a quick wink to Dalton.
Wickens looked at his watch and said: ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’ Without waiting for a reply, he made his way out to the door.
‘I don’t know what he is worried about,’ Chivers said, as he watched Wickens get in his car. ‘There won’t be a body. All those hungry crocodiles.’ He laughed.
* * *
Even in normal times Sam Gillard had only rarely been able to go out to dinner with Craig during the week. His shifts often spilled over into hours of unplanned overtime. So she had made other evening arrangements: badminton, a book club, and every other week a girls’ night out with her colleagues from the police control room. But since her kidnap ordeal, she hadn’t been out of the house much at all. She had been diagnosed with PTSD and had two months left of sick leave. Her most regular outings had been to the twice-weekly therapy sessions. But now she was beginning to feel a little stronger, and chafed at her domestic confinement, even though it was medically recommended. She missed the busy camaraderie of the control room, the buzz and the excitement, the fact that every day was different.
At home, every day seemed the same. For the first time in decades she had completed a jigsaw. It was four p.m. and she had just fitted the last piece of sky when her husband rang to ask if she wanted to accompany him, tonight, to J’adore Ça, one of the trendiest restaurants in the area. He had managed to secure a nine p.m. booking that evening. Even though it was quasi-official business, Sam could not quite believe it.
‘You do know it’s a very upmarket place, don’t you?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, I looked at the website. A lot of Cajun and Creole food, but supposedly with a French twist. Which I guess means the portions will be small, even if the bill isn’t.’ He laughed.
‘What exactly are you hoping to find out?’
He told her about Leroy Ceejay. ‘He is one of the partners in the business, and it could be a money-laundering outfit.’
‘How will you be able to tell just by eating the food?’
He laughed. ‘That’s a good question. Clearly, if the place is full of disreputable-looking types that will be a clue. It would be a good opportunity to speak to the owner if he is there, too.’
‘Well, I’m getting dressed up for this. I hope you will too.’
‘Suit and tie is all I’ve got to offer. I’ve got permission from Alison Rigby to expense my meal, and I’ll pay for yours. No wine for me.’
* * *
J’adore Ça had famously taken over a car showroom on one of the smartest streets in Kingston-upon-Thames. Its Grade II listed Art Deco features, including curved metallic windows, gave the dining area a spaciousness and a light that made diners feel like they were on a film set. Anton St Jeanne had hung the place with iridescent kingfisher-blue silk curtains, which absorbed the echo of the wood-panelled floor and the usual crockery and kitchen sounds. The Gillards were shown to a secluded table a little way back from the windows, and Craig sat so that he could see the entire sweep of the dining room.
A stunningly attractive black waitress with a shaven head brought their menus. Sam ordered a Kir Royale as an aperitif, while her husband settled for a mocktail of fruit juices. It didn’t arrive as Sam expected, as some great confection with a paper parasol stuck in it, but in a tall slender glass, more like a vase, with rainbow colours visible through the side. Earlier research online had prepared them for the prices, and Sam craned her neck to see what was being served on other tables. She had spotted a fillet of blackened catfish, and a seafood concoction crowned by a crayfish. When they ordered she chose a remoulade of shrimp with horseradish celery and a mild mustard sauce. Craig chose the Creole oxtail with okra and was complimented by the waitress on his choice. ‘That’s my favourite. It’s a long, slow cook, which brings the richest flavours from the bone to the gravy.’ Sam chose a glass of Chardonnay to accompany her dish.
While they waited for the food to be served, Gillard eyed the other diners. Middle-class white well-to-do, for the most part, as befitted the prices. No one there seemed to be overly familiar with the staff. The detective had famili
arised himself with the appearance of Anton St Jeanne. It wasn’t until after ten o’clock, when the Gillards had finished their delicious main courses, that he emerged briefly from the kitchen, to talk to the small Asian woman at the front of house. He was dressed as if he was doing the cooking, and the beads of sweat on his forehead seemed to prove it.
A few minutes later, a large black guy in a tightly fitting suit and wearing braids rolled in from the street. Gillard watched carefully as the front-of-house woman greeted him deferentially and picked up a phone. The man oozed physical capability, shoulders never quite still, jaw high and to the front. Two minutes later Anton emerged from the kitchen. The body language between the two was fascinating. The big guy was largely impassive, while Anton was expressive. His face animated in a rapid succession of smiles, and he gripped the large man’s hand between the two of his. It was easy to see who was in charge. A glass of wine was produced by a waitress, while the visitor carefully ran his cold dark eyes over the diners.
His gaze stopped on Gillard’s table. The two made brief eye contact, which the detective broke. ‘I’ve been recognised,’ he told Sam.
‘Is it okay?’ she asked. ‘Do we have to go?’
‘It’s fine. I think the guy who saw me is Leroy Ceejay, the guy I told you about.’
She started to look over her shoulder, but Gillard held her hand and said: ‘Not now, wait till you go to the ladies’.’
‘Have you ever crossed swords with him?’
He chuckled. ‘I was once in an unsuccessful drugs raid targeting him and his then boss. Neither were there when we kicked the door down. But that was quite a few years ago, and Ceejay has struck out on his own. Still, I’m a little surprised he knows me.’
Leroy Ceejay’s approach to their table was slow, deliberate and a little intimidating. His huge shadow fell across the dessert menus that they were studying. Gillard looked up, to see a slow but restrained smile. ‘Detective Inspector Gillard, what an honour.’ He extended a meaty paw that swallowed the detective’s own up to the wrist. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your meal.’
