LOOT & I'M WITH THE BAND: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series by B.L.Faulkner. Cases 5 & 6 (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad cases Book 3)

by Barry Faulkner

  ‘Not bring him in for questioning? Mrs Fenn did name him.’

  ‘Maybe later, but let him run for the time being and see what we can find out. No doubt Harry will have told him who we are, so he’ll keep his head down for a while. If he is connected to the two murders he’s going to distance himself from Mooney and Hilton as far as he can if they are in it with him.’

  He thought for a few moments.

  ‘Tell you what we can do – get a photographer out to quietly take a picture of Mr Finlay Robson so we can run it past Mrs Fenn. If we can get a positive from her then we can reel him in anytime we like. I reckon the bloke with Finlay when he visited Fenn’s house was Plant. It’s got to be. So why didn’t she pick him out from the photos, eh? There is definitely something funny going on there. In the meantime, I think we’ll pay Mooney and Hilton a visit at their homes; hopefully before Robson tips them off, but I expect he’s on the blower to them right now.’

  Sergeant Singh plugged the USB into her laptop and pulled up the City Concrete staff records from it. Mooney was the nearest in Hillingdon, just off the Western Avenue. The driver put the post code into the sat nav and twenty minutes later they stood outside the door to a first floor maisonette in a quiet suburban street.

  There was no answer to the bell or knocker, or Palmer’s fist thumping the door. The pensioner from the ground floor part of the maisonette poked his head out and told them Mooney had left about fifteen minutes earlier on his ‘damn noisy motorbike’, the one that woke him and his wife up every morning at six am when Mooney came home from his night shifts.

  They did get a response at Hilton’s council house in Acton, though not the one they wanted as his mother answered the door; obviously it was her council house that he shared. No, he wasn’t in; he’d had a phone call about an hour ago and had an urgent job to go to. City Concrete? He didn’t say.

  ‘Funny that. Both of them work nights and both are suddenly going out during the day.’

  Palmer settled back into the squad car.

  ‘As you thought guv, somebody warned them a visit was in the offing.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Harry or Finlay though? I’d like to know which one.’

  Chapter 9

  Harry Robson’s kindly smile left his face in a hurry when Palmer and Singh were safely off the premises.

  ‘Take an early lunch, Cherry dear. I have a few things to sort out with Finlay.’

  The false smile he threw at Cherry said ‘don’t argue, just go’. Cherry had been asked to take ‘early lunches’, ‘long coffee breaks’, ‘half days’ and similar requests from Mr Robson before, usually when people she didn’t know in the concrete business came in out of the blue without an appointment. She obeyed straight away, and taking her coat and handbag she was gone. Only once in the past had she protested, when asked to take a break five minutes after finishing her lunch hour when a pair of young Rastafarians had arrived without an appointment, and obviously not to discuss building work; but the strength and language of Mr Robson’s rebuke for arguing and not just doing as she was told had left her near to tears. She did need her job, and it was well paid – very well paid. As Robson had told her a few weeks into the employment: ‘For this money you see nothing, you hear nothing, and you say nothing.’ So she did just that.

  As the door closed behind her, Robson pushed Finlay down into a chair and thrust his face close to Finlay’s.

  ‘Are you fucking stupid or what?’

  Finlay didn’t know what Robson was on about.

  ‘What, what’s happened? What are you on about?’

  ‘That was Chief Superintendent Justin Palmer of the Serial Murder Squad and his sergeant. That’s what’s happened.’

  Finlay smiled.

  ‘She can arrest me anytime. Good looker for a copper.’

  ‘Listen, you stupid arsehole. If she’s on Palmer’s squad she’s not there for her looks – she’s there because she’s top notch at what she does. And what she does is put dickheads like you inside.’

  Finlay was getting the picture and getting worried.

  ‘What’s happened then?’

  Robson took a deep breath.

  ‘That pair of tossers Mooney and Hilton who disposed of Mr Fenn for us put on a lovely CCTV display as they did it. Only a pair of fucking morons would tip the body in after the bloody cement and not before it! Lucky they weren’t actually recorded with it, or we’d have had the whole fucking armed murder squad down on us like a ton of bricks and we’d both be in cells and the whole business would be fucked! What the fuck were you thinking of giving the job to Mooney and Hilton? We use outside people for that sort of work don’t we, professionals – you know that. Not fucking amateurs. And I still don’t know why you had to whack Fenn in the first place. He was okay; did a good job, shifted plenty of the stuff for us through his sales.’

  ‘I told you before, he wanted a bigger cut – said he’d grass if he wasn’t equal partner on the cash, plus his commission. Greedy bastard, I wasn’t going to give him equal shares, no way. Don’t worry, I’ll get another auctioneer –plenty of bent ones about. Anyway, the boys did alright on the Brighton job.’

  Robson lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.

  ‘They did what?’

  ‘They did okay with the Brighton job, didn’t they? Got rid of Plant okay. I told you he was skimming a few grand off the top.’

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding me. Tell me you didn’t have them do that job too!’

  Robson held his hands out as though pleading for alms.

  ‘Jesus, I gave you a number to ring for that! A pro!’

  ‘They did it, no problems.’

  Finlay seemed quite at ease until Robson kicked him hard in the shin.

  ‘Ouch! What’s the fucking matter with you? Calm down.’

  ‘You get on the phone to them two dicks and get them out of the picture. And do it now, ‘cause Palmer won’t wait for them to turn up for their shift. He’s a fucking Chief Superintendent – old school, outsmart you and your fucking amateur idiots in no time. Get them out of the picture now.’

  ‘Out of the picture? What do you mean out of the picture?’

  ‘Exactly that – get those two idiots out of the picture for good. Get my meaning? For good. I don’t want anything left that ties us to any bodies.’

  He paced the room and thought hard for a few moments.

  ‘Right, only one thing to do. I’m going to use the pro whose number I gave you that you didn’t use. I’m going to get the job done properly.’

  He took a small diary from his pocket and looked up a page. Crossing to Cherry’s desk, he dialled a number on the phone and waited for an answer.

  ‘Dennis? Dennis, old mate. Harry Robson… Alive and kicking, my old fruit – and you? Good, glad to hear it. Tell me, are you still a magician? Good man – can you do an urgent double show? Later today… Good man. Names of Mooney and Hilton. I’ll get them along to you in a couple of hours, okay? How much? Cash, of course… That’s fine. My nephew Finlay will be doing the delivery… You are a star, Dennis. Gotta go, I’ll be in touch.’

  He put the phone down and smiled .

  ‘That’s sorted then. You go and get Mooney and Hilton now, take them to Staverton Airport, Gloucester and deliver them to Dennis at South Western Air Taxis. And you deliver twelve grand in cash at the same time. Twelve grand of your cash – you got us into this, so you pay to get us out. If you’d rung Dennis when I told you to and passed the job to him, this wouldn’t have happened. You do what I say from now on, okay?’

  Finlay was not happy.

  ‘You are joking! I’m not coughing up twelve grand on those two to some bloke I don’t know.’

  ‘You are. And the bloke you don’t know is the best magician in the business.’

  ‘Magician?’

  ‘Yes, magician. He makes things disappear. Like Mooney and Hilton. Now get on the blower and get them worried. Tell them they were spotted at the Cross Rail drop and the police are after
them. Tell them you’ve arranged a safe place for them to use while we sort it out and to pack a bag of clothes and get round here pronto. When they arrive, get them straight into your motor and down to Dennis at Staverton. Make sure they get onto his plane and when it returns that they don’t get off it. Understand?’

  ‘Twelve grand?’

  Robson was getting fed up with Finlay’s questions. He stubbed a finger into his nephew’s chest.

  ‘Listen, stupid. If Palmer ever gets Mooney and Hilton in his clutches, they’ll be looking at life for murder. He’ll offer a deal and they’ll sing like Pavarotti, and then it will be you that’s looking at life. Now make the calls and then go get the twelve grand from wherever you stash your money, and get back here before they do.’

  ‘What happens when Palmer comes looking for them again’

  ‘We don’t know anything about it, okay? Mooney and Hilton must have been doing this as a money-making sideline. We will act very surprised when Palmer comes back looking for them; and he will, you can bet your life on it.’

  He jabbed Finlay in the chest again to underline his point.

  'And if Palmer thinks we were involved, he’ll be like a dog with a bone. Now get off your arse and sort it.’

  Finlay stood and made for the phone.

  ‘What about the business, shall we shelve it for a while?’

  ‘No, no reason to do that – we aren’t in the frame for anything. Just carry on with that. You get a new auction sorted out fast.’

  ‘Okay. Got a couple in mind, but nothing definite.’

  ‘Right, piss off and make sure your two morons get to that fucking airport.’

  Finlay left and Robson flopped onto the customer sofa and loosened his tie.

  Palmer. It would be Palmer, the bastard. Took seven years out of my life in that prison –seven fucking years and a marriage. Bastard… I should have topped him when I come out. Said I would but never did. Could have had the job done for a few grand. Bastard… Maybe I can get even now; maybe this is the opportunity –especially if I can put it in Finlay’s lap; he’s a prick, just like his dad was – grade one tosser. Be nice to see the back of him and Palmer…

  Chapter10

  Needless to say, Mooney and Hilton didn’t check in for their night shift that evening; Palmer never expected that they would. But to keep the ball in play, and try to give the impression that it was still just an enquiry into a body found at the Cross Rail site and not to spook Finlay, he had a couple of uniformed lads from the local station pay City Concrete a visit to take statements from the pair. They weren’t party to the real scenario and sent through a report that they were unable to make any contact with the two men who didn’t show up for their shift. Palmer read the report the next morning and binned it.

  He was in the team room on the opposite side of the corridor to his office at the Yard. Sergeant Singh and Claire were busy at two of the many terminals searching for anything to link Fenn, Plant and Finlay Robson. Palmer was not so old school that he couldn’t realise the potential of the latest technology in crime solving and gave Sergeant Singh her head to adapt or add whatever programmes she thought would assist in that. Most she had written herself.

  ‘This Finlay bloke hasn’t got any previous guv, which is a bit surprising knowing his family background.’

  Gheeta was surprised that the HOLMES programme gave out nothing on him, nor did her own hacks into the Interpol database. Palmer nodded.

  ‘Just means he’s never been caught; doesn’t mean he’s as clean as a whistle. They only got Al Capone on tax evasion.’

  ‘Talking about tax evasion,’ said Claire as she sat back in her chair. ‘This Fenn bloke, the auctioneer, he didn’t pay any tax for the last four years; but according to the Companies House returns, his business turnover was growing fast but not the profits.’

  ‘Explain that in layman’s terms.’

  Palmer was not a figures man.

  ‘His sales through the auctions were growing substantially, but his personal take – the commission he charged on each sale, in his case 18 per cent – wasn’t growing, which it should have been to correspond with the growing sales.’

  Gheeta offered the answer before Palmer asked for one.

  ‘So he’s selling a load of stuff for no commission. Not a way to run a successful business.’

  ‘Unless he’s on a cut from those sales in some other form, like a cash backhander afterwards,’ Palmer suggested. ‘Have we got his bank statements? They’d make interesting reading.’

  ‘Need a warrant from above for that, guv. How’s your relationship with Bateman?’

  Gheeta raised her eyebrows, knowing there was no need to ask. Assistant Commissioner Bateman was not on Palmer’s favourite people list; quite the opposite. A product of the university, then into the police force at management level, Bateman had now reached the heady atmosphere of the top floor of the Yard as Assistant Commissioner; folically challenged by hereditary DNA, and always challenged on anything he could, whenever possible, by Palmer, who hadn’t time for any of the top floor ‘suits’ as he called them.

  In Palmer’s book, you didn’t have the right to be called a policeman or policewoman if you hadn’t done the three years on the beat and seen from the front line what was involved – and none of the top floor had, no matter how many degrees in various ‘ologies’ they had that came with them from their universities. Palmer had more respect for the latest cadet to come out of Hendon. In Assistant Commissioner Bateman’s book, you weren’t a good officer if you didn’t stick to the rules, fill in all the reports in triplicate, keep your records and expenses up to date daily and get permission for just about everything while keeping him in the loop at all times; so Palmer was his nemesis. He’d offered the Chief Superintendent early retirement more than once, but he wouldn’t go. Bateman wouldn’t promote Sergeant Singh to take over the Serial Murder Squad if Palmer did go; he’d replace him with one of his ‘yes sir- no sir’ officers, or indeed, as was his favourite scenario in the current context of government budget cuts, close the Squad and let local CID units do the work in unison. He dearly wanted Sergeant Singh and her technical expertise to transfer to the Cyber Crime Unit, and had on more than one occasion had heated arguments with Palmer when he had tried to prise her away from him, a move that neither Palmer nor Singh wanted.

  Being cooped up in his top floor turret all day, Bateman didn’t realise that none of the local CID units liked him or respected him, and most of their officers shared Palmer’s negative view of him. The very idea of different station CID units working ‘together’ was a total non-starter; their patch was their patch and that was it, budget cuts or not.

  Palmer sat and thought for a while on the Fenn bank statement issue. Then he smiled broadly at Gheeta, reached for an internal phone on its wall hanger and punched in some numbers. Reg Frome answered at the other end of the line.

  ‘Reg, it’s Justin… Good, and you? Good… Look, I need a favour mate. We seem to be making progress on this asbestos bag case with a few names in the frame now, but I really need to get a look at a chap’s bank statements and cheque stubs to follow the money trail – and you know what that means, a bloody warrant. And you know what that means… yes, Bateman. And if he gets a request from me, he’ll try everything in the book to slow it down, and want copies of everything and daily meetings to brief him and all that crap. So I thought that if you could get one of your forensic accountant pals to do the warrant request through their AC, it would keep Bateman out of the loop and we’d be able to press on quicker with the case. Could you do that, or am I asking the impossible? Thanks Reg, I’ll get Claire to get the details ready and phone them through. Thanks again Reg, I owe you one.’

  He hung the phone back on the wall.

  ‘Sorted.’

  Gheeta looked at Claire.

  ‘I always say it’s not what you know, but who you know.’

  Palmer laughed.

  ‘That certainly helps. Right then.’
>
  He crossed to the far wall, to which was screwed a large white Formica ‘write on – wipe off’ board, twelve foot by four foo,t on which the team plotted the case as it progressed, adding names and situations. Palmer spoke as he wrote.

  ‘Plant, dead. Fenn, dead. Asbestos bags. Robson and Finlay employ Mooney and Hilton.’

  He drew lines between each with arrow heads.

  ‘ Finlay knows Fenn. Mrs Fenn knows Finlay. Money starts at Fenn… and goes where? Don’t know yet – and where does it come from? Plant? Don’t know yet. Why are Plant and Fenn killed? Knew too much? Want too much? Hmm...’

  He sat down on a nearby chair and surveyed his work.

  ‘Right, we need Mrs Fenn to ID Finlay, then we can work on him. It has to be the Finlay that her late husband brought home a couple of times ‘cause her description fits, doesn’t it: jet black hair, pencil moustache. So we know there’s a tie up there.’

  He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got two officers at Brighton poking around, haven’t we? Have a word with personnel and get another three of our usual chaps into the team and have them tail Finlay. Let’s get a profile going on him – who is he really, what’s his game, who does he do business with, all that sort of stuff. He’s a bit of an unknown quantity at the moment. And get a plainclothes photographer to get a few pictures of him that we can show Mrs Fenn.’

  ‘Talking about Brighton sir,’ Claire interrupted. ‘We just got the first report in from the team down there. Seems Plant was a secretive type; no known friends, and the neighbours hardly knew he was there. His shop was hardly ever open. Could have had a lady friend about the same age whom he was seen around with a few times, but nothing known about her, not a local. The shop opened very occasionally, and no social life known; but he had a small smelter in a large shed behind the property and spent a lot of time in it. And that’s it. No paperwork in the premises, shop’s empty, as is the flat above. Our chaps say it looks like a good cleaning job’s been done on it.’